Thursday, July 28, 2011

My Greatest Enemy

    I always wondered who my greatest enemy in life would turn out to be.  Someone that I screwed over in a business deal, or maybe someone who ran me down with his car while I was crossing the street, or maybe Baby Doll when she drugs me and tattoos a tramp stamp on me in the middle of the night.  As it turns out, I was always looking in the wrong direction, because my worst enemy in the world is not a who, it turns out to be a what.  It is a thing.  And that thing is the snooze alarm on my alarm clock.
Look at how big that thing is!
     It gets me in all sorts of trouble, mostly because I am powerless to resist it.  It is just so easy and convenient, and those bastards who made and designed my alarm clock knew just how to get me.  First of all, it is right on the front of the clock.  Secondly, it is the biggest button on the entire clock.  It is the width of the thing and like an inch deep.  It used to say "SNOOZ" in raised white letters but I have had the alarm clock for like twenty years now, and the white has rubbed off.  Holy shit I have had the same alarm clock for almost 20 years. 20 YEARS!  It is sort of like an old friend then.  Except the snooze alarm, that part is my greatest enemy.
     It allows me to be late for all sorts of functions - most recently work at an alarming rate.  Now I know, a lot of you are going to be out there talking about how it is a matter of self control and that no one is forcing me to use the snooze alarm, and it is as simple as just not using it.  But it's not that easy; not that easy at all.  I have absolutely no self control at 6:45 am, so about the only thing that I can do when I am mostly asleep like that is to roll over and flail wildly at the button on the top of the clock.  There is a latent evil in the snooze alarm, one that only comes to the surface when the alarm goes off.  And it just cannot be defeated.  That is why it is my biggest - nay my greatest - enemy.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

The Captain

    Somewhere along the way we came up with this sort of romantic idea - which is still alive and well today - of the sea captain going down with his ship, or at least being the last person stepping off of it as it goes down in bubbles and sinks forever out of sight.  I guess I always sort of thought of that as bullshit, because I am sure that a lot of sea captains are the first ones into the lifeboat.  But then again maybe not, because you have to be at sea for a lot of years before you can become a sea captain.  But I digress.  The noble sea captain being the last off his ship as it is sinking was the image that I had running through my head as I watched some poor guy's boat sink out from under him the other night.
     It was not a particularly spectacular boat.  And he was the only person aboard, but it was still his boat and he was The Captain.  The boat was as follows: a 14 foot aluminum rowboat with a late 70s era 7.5 hp Mercury outboard motor.  Sweet ride, I know.  My Baby Doll and I saw the guy out fishing somewhere on the lake and all seemed to be well.  We were on the way out for a day of sun and fun and whatever else and he was doing just fine.  When we came putting back through to the boat landing he was still out there tooling around somewhere.  but when Baby Doll took the boat out a second time it was a totally different story.
     She saw The Captain in his boat in some major trouble.  He was sinking in some pretty deep water.  Sinking from the back.  He was being towed by and supported by another boat containing three fishermen.  They were leaning over the side of their boat and holding The Captain's boat out of the water and dragging it slowly along.  So at least he had someone coming to his aid.  I mean, I sure as hell wasn't.

Imagine this on a much, much smaller scale.
      I was able to see The Captain a short time later at the pivotal moment, the captain's moment like you always see on TV.  The little rescue flotilla had reached the boat landing and The Captain's boat was manoeuvered alongside the dock.  The Fishermen Three were in their boat, The Captain was in his, and I watched as he stepped from his boat into the rescue boat.
    At that moment, The Captain's boat finally went under.  He stepped off and the stern sank under with the stately bow raised high in the air, and then it slowly rolled over to port.  Or to the left if you aren't the seafaring type.  It was a sad, sad scene but it was what brought all that "captain last man standing" business into my head.  So I did what any bona-fide American male would have done while watching that scene: I peeled out in my giant, V8-powered, four-wheel drive truck and sped off.  I had places to go.
     We did, however, cruise back through the landing a little while later and The Captain had his boat up on the trailer.  And he was walking around and doing okay so I guess that all's well that ends well.  Except that his boat sank.  And it was probably from some sort of catastrophic failure of his vessel - like the rivets on a seem popped or he hit a stump at cruising speed.  Oh, and when he tries to start that motor again it probably won't be well since there is water everywhere in that thing.  But that is for another thim.  This captain - The Captain - lived up to the romantic idea of the chivalrous seafarer.  And for that I salute him.  Someone should buy him a new boat...

Saturday, July 23, 2011

An Open Letter to the Chick Walking Down the Highway

Dear Chick Walking Down the Highway,

    What's going on?  Where...uh...where are you going?  I guess that I ask because you basically make no sense.  First of all, you are literally from anything useful - any cell phone tower, any continually occupied home, anywhere with electricity - in a place where one sees no one walking.  Unless of course their car broke down.  I didn't see any broken down cars around unless it happened on one of the side roads.  But then again, you aren't looking like someone who isn't from around here who has just broken down in the middle of the forest five miles from everything.
     Oh that's right, you aren't from around here.  I can tell because a.) you don't look like you are from around here and b.) you aren't acting like you are from around here.  I am going to go ahead and throw this one out there: you look like a tourist.  You are pretty attractive, you are dressed like someone who is on vacation, and you are walking down the road like you are trying to get somewhere.  You aren't trying to flag down any of the cars going either way to help you or give you a ride.  You are actually kind of walking like you are doing it on purpose.  Maybe you walked away from your parents' camper or resort cottage on the lake and are in a little deeper than you thought you would be.  Or maybe you got out of your boyfriend's car because he pissed you off and you didn't realize how far from town you really are.  And you are not carrying a purse or anything, which I suppose is okay.  But you are definitely not right. 
     Not that you are mentally unbalanced or anything, but you just don't fit the scene.  Like, if this whole area were a bowl of apples, you would be a big, fat, juicy Valencia orange stuck right in the middle.  I don't know who you are, where you are from, how you got there, or what you are exactly doing, but I like to speculate and I can think of a million billion different scenarios.  If I were a betting man, however, I would probably pick one of the scenarios that I have just laid out.
      In any event, I hope you got wherever you were going somehow, and were able to at least enjoy part of your day.  i know I enjoyed my day.  And I didn't have to walk miles along a lonely highway watching car after car after car go whizzing by.  I suppose that it isn't such a lonely highway then, is it?  But it still sucks to be you.


- Big Dave

Friday, July 22, 2011

Bottoms Up for Justice

   Have you ever seen the adminstrative rules of the United States Food and Drug Administration?  It is un-be-fucking-lieveable.  They are thick like a set of encyclopedias.  Part of the reason that they are so think is that we have this idea that we have to define everything - and when it comes down to food, drugs, and drinks there is an awful lot to define.  And they define things in the most boring and mundane ways: diet cola must have less than .02 parts per million blah, blah, blah.  In light of all this paper buraucracy, it is sometimes nice to see that in some places they do things the old fashioned way.  Like Switzerland, where recently some judges and some of their cohorts got together and had some drinks as a way to solve their court case.
    That is right.  They were judging a dispute about whether the drinks made by a particular company should be classified as alcopops, which sounds vaguely like Lithuania's entry into the 2008 Eurovision Song Contest (Editor's Note: The real 2008 Eurovision Song Contest Entrant was someone named Jeronimas Milius and he was eliminated in the second night semi-final) but is really what they call sweetened alcoholic beverages in Europe. Alcopops.  Okay.  Alcoholic pops I suppose.  Anyway, there was apparently a lawsuit regarding this important economic issue, and a couple of months ago two judges from the Fedral Administrative Court got together in Bern to settle it by drinking the alcoholic beverages.
     All five of them.  That's right, there were five different beverages that they decided they needed to sample in order to decide if the drinks were alcopops.  So that is automatically five glasses of booze.  Sweet, girly booze.  Oh but wait, that's no enough.  No sir.  They - for whatever reason - decided that they needed to sample them both with and without ice, which I suppose could alter the sweetness of the drinks.  So now they are up to ten drinks each, which unless you are a true heavyweight or maybe unless they are some sort of wine cooler, is usually enough to at least get you feeling a little happy.
    And who wants to be happy without friends?  Drinking alone is such a drag, isn't it?  So the judges - in their infinite judicial wisdom (jugdes are just lawyers in robes, remember) - decided to invite a few frieds and co-workers.  Like the court clerk.  Well why not, it is usually fun to toss a few back with the people you spend eight hours of the day with.  And you don't want a pissed off court clerk who is sitting around and watching the judges have all the fun, and who will probably have to go out and get them all Taco Bell at 3 am and drive them all home.  That just wouldn't be good.  So no big deal, invite 'em along!  They also invited some members of the Swiss Alcohol Board along too - because they would regulate it and also because they are pretty fun guys to party with - but they don't specify the number.  I am sure every member of the board plus the alternates and an attractive secretary or two were there.  And of course some representatives of Zurich drinks importer Bevis were there, because they have the hookup to get the booze.  Like having an older brother who is 21.  That is what the Bevis guys were there for.  No word yet on whether or not the Butt-head representatives were there as well.
     So all these guys got together and the drinking began, but since it was done in robes in a room with the walls lined with books it was okay.  The tasting took place on April 14th, and the court affirmed on July 20 that the drinks were indeed aclopops.  Wow.  Four months.  That must have been one hell of a hangover - to be keeled over in the corner booth of the local Big Boy sucking down burgers and fountain Coke for four months until you could remember what happened and make a decision.  And it is good that the beverages were found to be alcopops because now they can freeze them and eat them like popsicles, and they will be cool and refreshing and a little bit of hair of the dog to help calm down that raging hangover.  And they are going to need it, because just recently a forklift in Australia dropped a bunch of cases of high-dollar insured red wine, and I am sure the insurance company isn't going to pay out without a lawsuit of some kind.  Time for a little wine tasting.  What a party that case is going to be.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

YouTube Redicovered

     So, I kind of forgot about YouTube until just earlier this evening.  Yeah, I bet you didn't see that one coming.
     I haven't gone on YouTube in about, oh, seven and a half months.  And that is no lie.  I know that sometimes I purposefully exaggerate time and amount in order to get a laugh, but in this care that is an honest and possibly correct assessment. Seven and a half months.  That is amazing since there is so much cool shit on there just waiting to be watched, including about six hundred things that have gone viral and then faded away into nothing (see, there goes the exaggerating thing again, but you smiled, didn't you?) that I probably should have seen just so that I could be part of the crowd.  But I didn't see them because - to be honest - it had never crossed my mind that I could just pop over to YouTube and watch it.  Son of a bitch.
     I even have an account on YouTube.  Yeah, that's right.  I have all sorts of favorites stored all over the place, but I forgot about them so they were no better to me than that box of VHS tapes that is gathering dust up in the attic.  And there is some good stuff.  There might even be a video of a guy getting hit in the sack with something.  Now that's classic.  America's Funniest Home Videos classic.  And it is in there.
    So don't worry, Company; and don't worry YouTube.  I have remembered and even surfed around a little bit to see what was out there.  I am back.  Or maybe you are back.  I am not sure which, but someone is back somewhere doing something.  And we are reunited.  I would like to say that I will not do it again, but I might.  I am just being honest.  But then we can always get reunited again, in all your video glory.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

The Self Checkout

    In my time, I have come to believe that the self checkout machine down at your friendly local grocery store is indeed the most diabolical machine ever devised by man.  It serves very little purpose in my mind.  In order to avoid having to pay the wages of like four bottom-of-the-rung employees, stores are putting these things in that just drive customers mad.  Have you ever walked through the store and seen big long lines at the normal checkouts but the self-checkouts are all empty?  There's a reason for that.  Well, a bunch of reasons.

It just looks like something from an evil doctor's office.
      First of all, for unmanned checkouts they still need to be manned.  There is usually some sort of customer service representative floating around to help people and solve problems, because invariably there will be someone who needs help or has a problem through no fault of their own.  I was one of those people the other day, because I am always one of the problem people.  The self-checkout was yelling at me the other day because I didn't want to put my items into bags.  Actually, I did want to put my items into bags, but for whatever reason I had already removed the bag from the machine's "bagging area" where it senses stuff and set it on the floor, so as my Baby Doll was scanning the items I was sticking them in the bags on the floor.  For each item, the machine freaked out and told us to put it in the bag or select the "I don't want to bag this item" option.  The last two items were drinks - a Powerade and a sparkling water.  We wanted those to drink in the car on the way home so we wouldn't want to put them in the bag, but apparently that is not cool in the mind of the machine.  And apprently once you've chosen the "I don't want to bag this item" option a few too many times in a row the machine gets pissed.
     So it locked itself up, and told me I had to have a security code to unlock it.  Well, this may surprise you Company, but even though I am a media mogul I don't have the security code to every grocery store computer system in the known world.  So I needed the caretaker to...oh...I don't know...take care of my problem.  The issue with that was that she was busy with one of the other kind of people.
      That's right, on the machine behind mine and to the left (back, and to the left; back, and to the left; back, and to the left; thanks Oliver Stone) there was a lady trying to use the self-checkout who did not know how.  And she was, for whatever reason, unable to read the fairly easy step-by-step onscreen directions.  Therefore, the lady that I needed to help me so that the machine WOULD ALLOW ME TO PAY FOR MY SHIT couldn't help me because she was busy helping another person who couldn't think.  That, as you can imagine, pissed me off a little bit.  No, scratch that, it pissed me off a lot.  So once the lame brain was all finished, I was able to flag down the store lady, who unlocked the machine.  The point is that the machine shouldn't have locked up on me.  It is devious and diabolical.  It is actually making it more difficult for me to pay for the things that I want.  I should have just taken the drinks and blamed the machine.
        So it is my contention that the self-checkout offers false usefulness, because it looks like it is going to get you out to the car and on your way home faster, but it just serves to bog you down, anger, and upset you.  Therefore, I believe that it is a good candidate for the most diabolical machine ever devised by man.  Because it makes it more of a pain in the ass for you to lose money.  That is just plain dumb.  And so is the machine.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

An Open Letter To The Guy Driving With No Shirt On

Dear Guy Who Is Driving With No Shirt On,

      Let me start off by telling you that you are fucking gross, okay?  I thought long and hard about a lot of ways that I could tell you that you are fucking gross without being so in your face about, maybe dancing around the issue somehow or putting it in super nice terms, but instead I decided that the best and most direct approach would be to just tell you that you are fucking gross.  Because odds are that you are.  I am saying that I am gay and like to look at shirtless dudes or anything, but what I WILL say is that the guys that one wouldn't mind seeing driving around shirtless in a Jeep Wrangler or something aren't the guys doing it.  Nope, it is always a toothless old man with scraggly gray hair in a 1985 Ford Club Wagon XLT featuring brown over brown two-toned paint scheme with rusted out step bumper or a middle aged beer gut with a balding head tooling around in a '92 Dodge Spirit with a bumper sticker that says "Virginia is for Lovers."  It's never an 18-year-old football player in an old S-10 or something.  Not that I would want to see that.
What the fuck is up with this shit? WRONG!
      And what is so important that you have to get to that you didn't have time to put on a shirt?  And where is it that you are going that shirtlessness is acceptable.  Because if you are running out for a pack of smokes or something you can't even get into the store.  No shirt, no shoes, no service.  Ever heard that one before, retarded asshole?  Huh?  I mean it is catchy, it is like a little triplet which is supposed to make it even more memorable.  But you obviously haven't remembered it if you are off in your 1995 Ford Windstar to get a pack of Newports or whatever.  Maybe you are just going to go through the drive through or something, and I suppose that you could get away with that but it is still gross and doubly creepy.  You shouldn't be doing that either.
     I guess that the thing that really set me off about you, Guy Driving With No Shirt On, is that when I saw you driving today you had the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on.  WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT?  I always sort of gave you the benefit of the doubt that the true reason you were driving shirtless was that it was hot outside, because I never saw you do it any other time.  It isn't like you were driving around on a 28° day in March, it is only when it is piss-ass hot in the middle of July or August.  So I always sort of assumed that it was because of the hot, hot heat.  Once you get into the cool comfort of your air conditioned vehicle you sort of negate any reason to drive around with no shirt on other than that you are a fucking dumbass useless tool-mo-tron who has no idea about what is considered decent in society.  You lack a fundamental understanding of the meaning of the word appropriate.  Either that or you just don't care which ups your asshole douche factor by like ten and a half.  The reason is that other than the heat there is no reasonable reason for not wearing a shirt while driving.
     So put a fucking shirt on before I sideswipe your 1984 Subaru GL into a bridge abutment.  Oh don't give me that look, I'll do it.  I am not afraid, because when the cops come around to pry your body out of the mangled carcass of your Subaru and they ask my what happened I will just say "He was driving without a shirt on so I sideswiped him into a bridge abutment." and they will be like "Yep, I hate it when there is a totally random accident and a shirtless man perishes" and that will be that.  That is what you get when you are riding around with no shirt on.  And that is what you will get if you don't put a fucking shirt on.  Or at least an undershirt with a beer or sloppy joe stain, since that is what I assume you have lying on the floor to put on.  Get bent.


- Big Dave

Friday, July 15, 2011

Goodbye Harry

   So, apparently there is another one of the those Harry Potter movies out and it is the last one, and I just wanted everyone to know that I am happy as hell about that.
     Somewhere along the way I went to see a Harry Potter movie and as I remember it wasn't all so bad.  But that was about 914 movies ago.  Somewhere between then and now J.K. Rowling and whomever she is in league with decided that they were going to try and break the Star Wars record for most movies made in a series (and I am not counting porn here because every porn film is automatically at least number 8 in a series - it's never "Hose Me Down With Semen" it's always "Hose Me Down With Semen 27" and no one can ever track down the first film in the series so porn will always win this competition) and just kept going, long after the girl grew breasts and Harry became an alcoholic.  And so here we are, with roughly eleventy billion people standing in approximately 570,000 lines around the world to see a movie that is apparently numbered the same way that software updates are: 7.2.
     Let me suggest a title for you, since there is always a dumbass title to go with it: "Harry Potter and the I Don't Fucking Give A Shit Anymore."  I feel that is a good title for whatever movie this is in the series.  Because I think that is how most of us in the world feel about this sort of thing, with the obvious exception of those eleventy billion people.  All those eleventy billion people.  I am sure that those are the same eleventy billion people who complain about all the sports that I like so well.  And that is fair.  They can be just as passionately annoyed by my interests as I am by theirs.  It is such a wonderful thing this life, isn't it?
      So anyway, long story short I am glad that Harry Potter is going away.  Far, far away, since the nearest video store is probably not located nearby any longer.  That is because there aren't many video stores left anymore, get it?  Anyway, Harry Potter will be gone once everyone sees the last installment sixteen or seventeen times and then this long national nightmare will be over.  At least until the Twilight folks decide that they are going to take a shot at the record and we end up with 40-year-old vampires and lines for that.  I can't fucking wait.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Paying Attention

     So Company, I had to go to a meeting tonight.  Check that, I had to go to watch a meeting, since it wasn't really a meeting in which I had an opportunity to participate.  It was scheduled to be the most boring meeting in the history of ever.  I believe that they actually put that on the agenda.  Anyway, I was prepared for boredom.  I had an entire note pad and a brand new pen, and my plan was sort of situate myself in a dark corner so I could write out a blog post the old fashioned way but make it seem as if I were actually taking notes or something.  I thought it was a lot more appropriate than the woman who was just there and openly knitting while the meeting was going on.
     As it was, I ended up seated next to the guy from the newspaper, so I sort of had to pay attention, mostly because he was working hard to take notes and the people holding the meeting kept looking over at him since he was 50% of the media in attendance.  So anyway, the point here is that I had to pay attention, and what I learned was that it was actually sort of interesting. 
     Yep, that's right kids, you can actually have fun doing the things that you are supposed to be doing.  I know, it seems like a bit of a stretch, but it can be done.  All you sort of have to do is pay attention and sort of care about what's going on, and suddenly your parent-teacher convention or farm subsidy allocation meeting isn't so boring.  Okay, maybe those aren't the best examples.  Suddenly your child's fourth grade play isn't so bad.  That's better.  Because those other things will still be shitty.  But most stuff you will find isn't all that bad.
     So just go with it and try.  It worked for me, and it can work for you too.  Just pay attention and do what you are supposed to do.  And do it today!

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Is it Bad...?

Is it bad...

...that I want to buy a creepy white van with no windows, cruise by the friendly local elementary school, say "Hey kids, want some candy?" but then actually give them some candy and not do anything bad to them at all?

...if I am too lazy to dry off my legs after I get out of the shower so I just let that part of me air dry?

...that there are two hairs that grow on the top of my head longer and thicker than the rest of them?

...for me to constantly lie spread eagle in front of the air conditioner in my bedroom?

...that sometimes I want to go sit in a lawn chair right on the edge of the road in front of the Worldwide Headquarters and watch people go by then just randomly jump up an clothesline someone going by?

...if this looks infected? ask random people on the street if they know where my car keys are?

...that I get violently angry when people ask for the crusts to be cut off of their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

...that I couldn't think of anything better to write today?

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Junk in My Trunk

     So I was sitting in the trunk the other day thinking about riding around in the trunk.  Okay, that sounds a little bit strange.  Let me go ahead and try again.  The trunk was open and I was sitting in it with my legs dangling out waiting for my Baby Doll to show up with her bike.  And while I was waiting and sitting on the edge of my trunk, I got to thinking about trunks.  I had a sort of automobile trunk train of thought.  First I wondered if I could fit in my trunk.  I am a pretty big guy and I was seriously wondering about whether or not I could fit in the trunk of my car.  But then again, I have a pretty good trunk.  The final decision is that I probably could, but I don't think I would be comfortable.
This is a picture of a trunk exactly like mine.  Big, isn't it?
     Then I got to thinking about Dexter, the guy who is the main character in the show Dexter.  Funny coincidence, isn't it?  I got to thinking about him because just the other day I saw him get thrown into the trunk of a Cadillac - which was also a large automobile trunk - and he had all sorts of room to flail around and get his hands untied and the whole nine yards.  He was in there doing all sorts of flippy-dos while they drove him around; all stuff that I wouldn't have been able to do had my life depended on it, and if I were tied up in a trunk I assume that my life would have depended upon it.  But the point here is that Dexter is a pretty average built guy, and he seemed to be fitting comfortably, for whatever that is worth.
This guy is down to party.
     Then like a flash I was on to high school, thinking about the times that we put someone in the trunk of a car and drove them around.  We weren't always the brightest back in those days, and we did some dumbass shit.  One of those things was riding around in trunks.  Whenever we had more people than seat space, we would always throw someone in the trunk if we were just cruising across the neighborhood.  And the thing about it was that everyone was always quick to volunteer.  Like it was something special; a rare treat.  And I suppose that it was.  I mean, how often goes one get to ride in the trunk of the car?  Not often.  I was just something that most people never got a chance or never had the guts to do.  And we did it.  Or at least some of us did.
      So I was sitting on the rim of my open car trunk and all that went through my mind.  That is what I thought of.  A car went by or person came out of the restaurant whose parking lot I was parked in, or something happened that snapped me back to life.  But for a little bit I was seeing it all in front of my eyes so vividly.  It was great.  There was a lot of junk in my trunk, except that it was all in my mind. 

Monday, July 11, 2011

Right in the Left Eye

    So Company, you may have noticed that we have been strangely silent for the last couple of days.  Basically, all of the weekend.  Now it wasn't because I was off cavorting around doing stupid shit - even though I was off cavorting around doing stupid shit - that I wasn't around.  It was because I managed to give myself what was an ultimately minor eye injury.  Let me tell you all about it.
     I was at a friend's house, and I had a problem with the contact lens in my left eye.  My left eye as I would call it, if you were looking me directly in my face you would call it my right eye.  But we are going to call it my left eye for our purposes today.  So anyway, I had something disturbing my left contact - like an eyelash or something - so I went to take care of it.  I popped the contact out on my way to the bathroom, and since I knew that someone in the house had contacts I figured I would just kife a little bit of saline solution in order to put my contact back in my eye.  So I went in there with contact in hand, blind in one eye, and I reached for what I assumed was the saline solution.
     In my defense, it looked like a bottle of saline solution.  And it was in the location where I would keep saline solution if that had been my house.  So I grabbed it and didn't think twice and just poured it on my contact and stuck the lens in my eye.
My eye was a billion times worse than this.
      Except it wasn't saline solution.  It was that soak-for-six-hours cleaning enzyme solution that explicitly says on the bottle "Do not squirt directly into eye" and "Do not rinse contact immediately before putting in eye."  And I squirted it directly into my eye and rinsed my contact lens in it immediately before putting it in my eye.  It was the worst pain I could remember having.  It burned in ways that made me feel like parts of my eye were burning away.  My eye immediately clamped shut and began to water.  And when I mean water, I mean pour tears all over my face.  I mean that my eye was creating so many tears that it caused me to drool into the sink.  I had to pry my eyelid open to extract the lens, and even then it didn't want to come out. I rinsed twice with saline (once I got my hands on some) and that didn't even help.  It was brutal, and I looked like I had been up for 27 hours straight, but only half of me, and the other half looked well rested.
      So needless to say that I was in glasses for a couple of days, and that I was on a strict self-prescribed regimen of over the counter eye drops, and that seems to have done the trick.  But the combination of bad eye and glasses have made a computer-unfriendly situation around me the last few days.  Such is life.  I hope you survived.  I was going to assign some writing to the Unpaid Interns but they suck, so I decided just to post nothing instead.  No big deal.  But that was my ordeal, and I am pretty much all better now, so we can get on with business.  How does that sound?  I thought so too.  Happy Monday, Company!

Thursday, July 07, 2011

By the Seat of My Pants

     By the seat of my pants.  That is how I do a lot of things.  By the seat of my pants, and I am not speaking metaphorically.  I am speaking literally: whenever I do something sitting down I am doing it by the seat of my pants.  The one thing that I have been doing a little bit more lately by the seat of my pants is bicycling.  That is until the seat that the seat of my pants sits on went bust.
      I don't know if I have ever told you about this before, Company, but my bike is sort of a piece of shit.  I got it for free from Mike-a-licious when my other one got stolen, and it looks a little bit odd since it is bright yellow with neon pink quick connections for the tires and seat and handlebars, and really worn and leaky tires.  It is not great but it is big, which is good for me since I am Big Dave.  Anyway, I was riding around on a hot July night - when there were people and cars everywhere - and I was really enjoying it.  But I kept hearing this creaking sound and I was wondering what was breaking on my bike now.  I was sort of thinking pedals in some way, shape, or form.  But nope.  We stopped, and I was a little saddle sore, so I got off.  That's when I noticed that my seat was not where it was supposed to be.
      It was a little cock-eye folded over askew to the left, and a quick check enabled me to ascertain that the supports under the once high end seat had broken.  Well, one had broken and one had sort of just been bent the shit out of.  So that was that.  Now I am in the market for a bicycle seat, and man are those things expensive.
     Heavy duty seats run like a hundred bucks.  I was told that the friendly local bicycle store has them for fifty.  I am sure that the Wal-Mart has them for like twenty, but they will fold like a nervous guy playing poker.  They just won't do, and I can't ride my bike without a seat.  That being said, I believe that I have found a hip and elegant solution:
BANANA SEAT.  That's right.  This one has flames on it.  I am just going to go all Marsha Brady and mount a fucking banana seat to the old bright yellow Brazos.  I will most likely be comfortable.  It will most likely be broken again in like ten minutes because the bike isn't designed for it.  It will definitely be super cool at all times.   Then people will really know me when I am going around town, although I don't suppose that they will know me in a good way.  They will know me in the sort of way that makes them want to run me down with their cars.
     But I don't care.  I just don't.  Banana seat is the answer.  Then the seat of my pants will always be seated in style.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

A Day With Annie McGoo

Herein lies the story of Annie McGoo.
An everyday girl
Just like me, just like you

Annie McGoo went off on her way
To skip to the store
Just like day after day.

She skipped off to the corner
Of Third Street and Knox
And saw with her eyes
Some boys playing with rocks.

So in for the steal went Annie McGoo
To make a day's haul
She's a thief that is true.

But the boys with the stones,
Diamonds stolen by thieves,
Were not to be thrown.

And down to their blows,
Went McGoo in disgrace
A thief done in by theives,
Who put her down in her place.

Monday, July 04, 2011

Breaking the Chains on Independence Day

      Well happy Independence Day, everyone.  You might know it a little better as the Fourth of July, which is what everyone seems to be calling it.  I tend to not call it the Fourth of July - at least officially - because it is the fourth day of July everywhere, it just doesn't mean anything to people in say, Cameroon or Indonesia.  But here it is Independence Day and that means we are celebrating the day that our nation was born.  Or at least the day that its birth certificate was signed.  And by that I mean the Declaration of Independence.
     Now, before we get to the meat of the issue, let's take a minute to say a couple of thank you's.  First of all, to any troops: active or discharged, who have served to keep this country great.  No matter what war or conflict you have served in, and whether you served at the front lines in the Ardennes or behind a deck in Omaha, you deserve some recognition and thanks for what you have done.  Also, let's take a minute to thank another group of people: all of those who work on this Independence Day.  I know they usually don't get any recognition, but I was one of those people for years and I know that it sucks.  So thank you to everyone who is helping to make the world go around while the bulk of us just good off and watch parades and shoot off fireworks.  So thank you to all of them, and I sincerely hope that 1.) you get some holiday pay and b.) you have the chance to celebrate a little on your own.
     All that being said, it is Independence Day, and while it is important to note the birth of our nation, Independence Day is also sort of useful as a marker to note the middle of the year, even if it is not exactly in the middle.  We are just a touch over six full months past when we all made those New Year's resolutions, and if you are anything like me they have fallen by the wayside long, long ago.  And if not, then more power to you; I am truly impressed.  But anyway, if you have fallen off the proverbial wagon, now is the time to renew your commitment to whatever it was that was so important in the dark days of winter.  If that is not your bag, celebrate a little bit of independence of your own.  Declare you independence from whatever is bugging you, whatever it is that you are dependent on and don't want to be, or anything that seems to be having undue influence over you.  Just declare your independence.  Be done with it.  Now is the time.  The spirit of independence and rebellion against tyranny is in the air.  Go with it.  And most of all, have a safe and happy Independence Day.  Hopefully we can celebrate more than one Declaration of Independence.

Saturday, July 02, 2011

Failure to Launch

     So my Baby Doll and I went out to a party today with the Ice Queen and a bunch of her friends and family, and there was a shrimp boil and fun times, but in our eyes the main attraction was a man-made pond with a bigass water trampoline situated right in the middle of it.  That is where the fun began.
      There are, attached to the trampoline, several attachments.  That should not be surprising.  One of them was a sort of round, air-filled log that led to a little triangle thing, which sort of reminded me of something that you would see people running across on Wipeout.  Directly across on the other side, like the east side if we were going to assign the sides points of the compass and the first one was on the west side, is a little ladder-like thing to help you get up.  On the south side is a long, air-filled platform that is actually much easier to get on, and on what would be the north side, is something all together different.
      It is a giant bag, half-filled with air, with two handles on the one end, and two big circles on the top of it.  One says "sit here" and is on the side with the handles, and the other says "jump here."  The premise is pretty simple: Someone sits on the "sit here" circle and all the air goes to the other side, and then someone jumps off the trampoline onto the now-inflated "jump here" side and launches the person into the water.  Or so it should go.
     First of all, it is not terribly easy to get yourself onto the "sit here" circle.  The thing is half filled with air, which means it gives you minimal support as you try to climb over it or to hoist yourself up from the water onto it.  So you sort of have to worm your way onto it, unless of course you have superhuman strength or you can fly.  So once you get on there and pick your swimming suit out of your asscrack, you are ready to go.  You are ready to go.  The jumper has a little bit different of a task.  Johnny Jumper has to find a way to hit the "jump here" circle and send the sitter flying.  Up, up and away.  Days and days of research before our arrival had determined that the best and safest way to do this task was to stand on the blown-up part of the trampoline (not the jumpy part) and jump onto the "jump here" circle, landing astride it.  That was determined to be the best way.
It was supposed to go something like this.  It didn't.
      So we tried.  Baby Doll was a champ getting out to her position.  On the first leap, I sort of tried to make some sort of weird leap, and failed in my part miserably.  My left foot didn't land firm on the top of the trampoline and sort of slipped off the side, and I actually think I turned it and injured it.  Well, maybe not injured it, but it certainly hurts like a bitch.  So I sort of slip, but I still manage to land in the "jump here" circle.  I didn't see what kind of height or distance Baby Doll got on that jump because I face planted in the circle, and all I could see was trampoline attachment and underwater.
     So I got some advice from the aforementioned researchers and we decided to try a second time.  She got herself back up, I got myself back up, and we went for a second try.  This time, no misstep, it all went according to plan, and I landed in the "jump here" circle.  Sort of.  I hit the general area, I hit it straddling like I was supposed to, but I just didn't hit it straight on.  I was a little off to the right.  I saw her start to go flying as I slipped underwater.  But she sort of flew straight out.  I, however, felt like I had ripped my groin into two massive pieces in the process.  Turns out that while landing straddling the "jump here" circle creates the largest bang for your proverbial buck, it is also painful on the groin.  And the garment clothing the groin, because I managed to tear the seam of my swimming suit asunder.  Groin, swimsuit, ankle, and face plant.  So let's try one more time.
     Third time was sort of a charm.  We both got back into position, and I made a good jump, again at the expense of my crotch.  Baby Doll went into the water, which was good, except she went a little more horizontally than vertically, which isn't the best but hey, it worked.  So she was never really "launched" that much into the air.  She was just shot putted into the water in some sort of way.  Failure to launch.  Get it?  But we had fun trying, despite all the collateral damage.  My ankle will heal.  The swimsuit will be fixed.  My face and groin are both no worse for the wear.  Besides, it's all in the fun.  And we had fun.

Friday, July 01, 2011

Big Dave: Mayor of Losertown

    Soooooo, I almost didn't write a post for you today, Company.  Yesterday, after I failed once again to win the Daihatsu Motors Presents the Fourth Annual Big Dave and Company Xerox Blog of the Year Award Brought to You by Taco Bell I slipped deeper into the depths of despair and self loathing.  I am not exactly sure what I have to do in order to win the damn award, but four people have figured out what they are supposed to do.  Four different bloggers have figured out the trick.  I have never, EVER seen a contest in which the winner could be from the company that is putting the contest on.  That NEVER happens, yet I left that particular rule out for a reason.  That reason is, of course, because I want to win my own award more than anything in the history of ever.
     But I didn't win it, and now I am not sure how I ever could.  I am suffering an epidemic of self-doubt.  Scratch that, it is a pandemic of self-doubt.  Add to this latest loss the fact that I had one of my best posts in the history of posts the other day about how I hate the container that biscuits come in, but Blogger had a misfire and it just sort of went away.  Which is fine, shit happens, but then it was gone forever and ever.  And that makes me a little sad.  Especially because I was counting on this award to buoy my spirits and make feel whole again.  I was also going to award myself a substantial cash prize if I won, which would have been sweet as well.
     So I can't win my award, I am not a Blog of Note and I am starting to think that I never will be, and I am just not sure what to do about myself.  I might never write a post again.  HA!  You'd like that, wouldn't you?  Well that is not going to happen.  I am going to get back on the horse starting tomorrow.  I can't win my own award - or any award for that matter - if I don't write some stuff.  Right?  Or should I say write?