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Last week, The Girlfriend and I opted to spend a three-day weekend in San Diego. Not that San Diego is attractive to an Orange County resident as a tourist attraction. The weather is identical to home and they don’t have a basketball team (although we don’t have a football team). But with the wedding to plan, work to complain about, and baseball season being a month away, we just needed to get the hell out of dodge for a few days.
I generally don’t like the idea of paying for hotel rooms–not when I’m paying for rent at home. But luckily, I got a guy. A dear friend of mine works in the hotel business and he’s able to hook me up with cheap hotel rooms. He’s the manger of a national hotel chain and through him; I’m able to get rooms at this very prominent chain at the employee discount price. My buddy simply books the room for me and fills out the official, proper paperwork that states I–siknerd–am an employee of the hotel. Everything is legit since he is a manager…everything except for the part that says I work for the hotel.
The process is pretty routine. He . . . . .
According to CBS, an FBI agent accidentally shot herself this week when her gun discharged in her pocket. This is exactly what happens when you allow women to be cops. Last time I checked, John McClane only gets shot by terrorists.
A few years ago, El Diablo and I were eating late-night tacos. We had no place to sit and eat, so we went inside a 24-coin laundry mat. I couldn’t help but be fascinated with the business. At first, I questioned the profitability of a coin laundry–after all, most are fairly empty and the average customer spends only two or three bucks. But then I got to thinking, there has to be a reason people own coin laundry mats–no one is in business to lose money. As far as I could tell, running a laundry mat is pretty easy. It’s fairly self-automated. There are no labor expenses because the place is never manned. After startup, only expenses are rent, water, and electricity. Meanwhile, customers pump quarters into a machine that cost relatively nothing to run.
That’s when I realized if I was to open my own business, coin laundry would be it (if the Hooters plan fails). I don’t . . . . .
I want to start an activist campaign to abolish and outlaw all activist groups. I’m so sick of organizations grandstanding for their cause–no matter how ridiculous their demands may be. I’m tired of PETA feuding with KFC. I’m fed up with watching Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton protest the imprisonment of obviously guilty black men. I know I can be the only one. Enough is enough.
The latest is some autism group protesting “Big Brother.” I don’t watch the show so I can’t tellya what happened firsthand, but supposedly one contestant called someone else retarded. Immediately on the show he was lambasted for his insensitivity by other housemates and I would imagine the show didn’t paint him in a positive light.
Nevertheless, Autism United has decided to exploit this situation for its own benefit (and raise more money in the process). They’re demanding that CBS cancel the show immediately. Autism United is also encouraging advertisers to withdraw from sponsoring the show.
And to that, I say fat chance.
Like CBS is gonna cancel a highly-rated program at a time when few networks have original content. “Big Brother” has been on for eight years–and CBS is gonna pull it now because . . . . .
I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize last month. I answered the phone to a person who asked me if I speak Spanish.
“No,” I told him.
He asked me again. I’m not sure why (I’m pretty sure the Spanish translation of ‘no’ is ‘no’). Perhaps he though my answer might’ve change in the past two second.
“Why would I speak Spanish,” I asked him. “This is America–we speak English in America.”
“Hablas espanol?”
“Who is this,” I demanded. The guy must not’ve understood the question because he stuttered. I didn’t wait for him to respond. “Why are you calling me and asking me if I speak Spanish? I’m an American in America and I speak English–I don’t appreciate strangers calling me up and asking me if I speak Spanish.”
After a long pause (probably because he was using his pocket dictionary to translate what I said), he hung up the phone, ending the most unwanted phone conversation in the history of the world (no, I don’t think I’m overstating it).
My take on this isn’t exactly unique, but that won’t stop me from complaining. It really makes me mad how many people I come across . . . . .
I saw someone using a pay phone last week. That was an odd sight–I didn’t even know pay phones existed anymore. Who needs them–doesn’t everyone have a cell phone nowadays (I have two)?
The thing is, pay phones are actually everywhere–I noticed this after I started thinking about pay phones. They’re still out there. With everyone having cells, pay phones can’t be making any money–I wonder if there’s some sorta government subsidiary to keep ’em around (like a safety issue or sumhin’). Even in a great location, how does a pay phone average more than a call a day? At 25 cents a call, that’s only like 28 bucks a month. It might be more than I make, but certainly not an endeavored worth investing in.
Unlike most guys in the country, I’m not dreading February 14th. I don’t hafta deal with teddy bears and heart-shaped chocolates because The Girlfriend doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. The Girlfriend realizes that I treat her like a goddess year round and there’s no need to do anything special mid-February because Hallmark says so.
I am a long-time VD-hater–and not just because my horrific adventures in singlehood. I believe Valentine’s Day is an insignificant, . . . . .
I don’t know what it is about my giant head–I swear, it must have its own gravitational pull. I was throwing the softball around with a buddy when he threw a ball way out of my reach. I jumped for it, but had no chance. The ball hit a pole six feet behind me–and ricocheted into the back of my head. Immediately, all my friends started laughing because such a thing could only happen to me–or Jose Canseco.
What are the odds? The pole had maybe–maybe–an eight-inch circumference. What are the odds of the ball hitting it? And even less likely–what are the odds of a round ball hitting a round pole and bouncing directly back in the direction it came from? Not to mention, if I didn’t jump for the ball, it would’ve missed my head. The only way that ball bounces directly back and hits me in the head is if my cranium has its own gravitational field. The ball was drawn to my melon like a meteorite to the earth. It had no choice due to an uncontrollable, powerful force–gravity.
My head gets banged on more often than Ricky Ricardo’s bongos. I’m not sure if this is . . . . .
I’d love to open and own my own Hooters restaurant. Breasts and hot chiks have nothing to do with it–I think the they’re just pure moneymakers. A few years ago, I had some friends who were obsessed with Hooters–they would go two or three times a week. Occasionally, I would go with them…only to be appalled by the ‘restaurant.’ The food was extremely overpriced; nothing came with French fries. A hot dog was like six bucks–and that was just the wiener. Sodas were like three bucks. Fries, cheese, or any additional toppings would cost you even more. Plus, the restaurant had a shady tactic to squeeze even more money out of you. If you ordered a plate of wings, the waitress would ask you “Would you like ranch, blue cheese, or barbeque sauce with that?” What she didn’t tell you is that dipping sauces cost 75 cents each.
Not even factoring busy crowds or big drinkers, the restaurant made significant money based on the food alone. Everything was ungawdly expensive yet no better in quality than anything you’d find at Denny’s (even the infamous wings are fatty and tough). The cost of food was a fraction of the price Hooters . . . . .
I think I’m going to go back to calling my sweetie The Girlfriend. This is not indicative of her status. She hasn’t been demoted and there’s nothing wrong with our relationship. it’s just that fiancée is a difficult world to say–and even harder to spell. It doesn’t roll off the tongue and it’s anywhere near as powerful as ‘The Girlfriend.’
And now for something completely inappropriate, I’d like to discuss my feet (yeah, that’ll be good for the ratings). I have extremely thick, extremely dry, and extremely tough skin on the bottom of my feet. The Girlfriend likes to refer to my peds as Fred Flintstone feet because they resemble something out of cavemen times (probably because all the time I walk around barefoot). Sure it’s gross to look at or write about, but they’re my feet and I’m the one who has to live with them.
I’ve always considered my thick-skinned feet to be more of an asset than a hindrance because it’s like having a pair of shoes on when I’m barefoot. The skin on the bottom of my feet is so thick and so dry I can’t feel anything. Trust me. When I was a kid, I . . . . .
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