|
|
I came home and found a car parked in my driveway. Instead of flying off the handle–like every instinct wanted me to do–I reported it to my complex’s office and they promised to called a tow truck. I tried to get on with my life but kept peering out the window to make sure the car was still there. Some nitwit parks in my driveway and he thinks that’s the end of it…but it’s not–not for me. I wanted the jerk to feel the consequences of his actions…and what better way to suffer than having to free an impounded car. As much as I didn’t want that car in my driveway, I desperately didn’t want the owner to move it before the tow truck truck arrived. I tried making a snack to eat, but couldn’t concentrate on my food. I tried watching TV but found myself distracted. It was too much and I was obsessing. I couldn’t stop thinking about the car and became extremely angry. If the owner appeared in my presence, I’d end up ripping him a new one for being an arsehole. If the tow truck came, I’d be tempted to help him break a window.
I . . . . .
The Girlfriend informed me there’s a . . . . .
I broke the law today. The Girlfriend thinks I’m evil person and continuous lawbreaker–but it’s not something I do every day (unless keeping a dead hooker buried in your basement is illegal). I should probably hire a lawyer and only confess my wrongdoings to a priest but I’m so damn emotional about the topic I can’t keep my mouth shut.
I was stuck in yet another freeway traffic jam. This one was nowhere near as bad as previous timewasters–but frustrating nonetheless. My friends and coworkers tell me I should take solace in that at least I’m getting paid to sit in traffic but it’s just not enough for me. Getting outside is great and being in a cubicle sucks: but sitting in traffic isn’t much better. I suppose technically I’m outside. But with all the exhaust from other cars, you can’t roll the window down. The car feels like a plush prison cell, equipped with a radio and air conditioning.
As I was parked on the freeway, I watched the vehicles in the carpool lane brisk past me. I was moving a swift ten miles per hour; they were driving about six times faster than that. And even though they . . . . .
When The Girlfriend I went to San Diego last month, we stayed at a hotel that just open. And by just opened, I mean two days prior. The place was brand spanking new–so new that the address couldn’t be found on Mapquest.
There’s a difference between a national hotel chain opening up and a lavish grand opening on the Las Vegas strip. Instead of celebrities and glitzy, that San Diego hotel opened to empty rooms and hallways that reeked of glue. Las Vegas hotels work out all their kinks beforehand; smalltime San Diego hotels lock their guests outside at night because the door near the pool doesn’t work (thank goodness I managed to flag down an employee; otherwise, I would’ve had to spend the evening sleeping on a pool cot).
I’ve stayed at an Unidentified National Hotel Chain many times before and one of the reasons I do so is because the free breakfast they offer in the morning. I’m not talking a continental breakfast composed of generic cereal and day-old bagels. No, no–Unidentified National Hotel Chains have wonderful fresh, hot breakfasts. Eggs, waffles, bacon–a true, real breakfast with the quality of Denny’s–sans the smell of old people on the . . . . .
I read an article online that said the earth has four billion phone lines and one billion computers. That ratio doesn’t seem right. Four to one? I have one phone line and about a dozen computers–I must be throwing the scale off.
This story is a little old, but it took me a while to gather all the facts before I attempted my spin on it (whaddya know: I can do research). A while back, the LA Times reported that an LA judge named Alex Kozinski had a pornographic website. I’m giving you the gist of the story because there’s no need for me to reiterate the whole LA Times piece. The highlights include “a video described as a half-dressed man cavorting with a sexually aroused farm animal” and “the judge acknowledged maintaining his own publicly accessible website featuring sexually explicit photos and videos.”
Once the story ended up on wire services, it took off. Why wouldn’t it? It was sleazy and involved a prominent judge…who just so happened to be presiding over a trial about porn. This story was as juicy as they come. For almost a week, Judge Kozinski got ripped in national media. He was considered a . . . . .
I know I’m not exactly the foremost expert on hipness and what’s in. I might still have t-shirts I wore in high school and drive a car built when “Saved By The Bell” was on the air. But I don’t go out of my way to prove how dated I am. There’s something that has caught my eye this election season. A lot of folks have presidential bumper stickers on their cars–and their certainly entitled to do so. I applaud folks who are actively aware in politics and don’t make their decisions based on an ad campaign. What I don’t understand are the folks sporting older bumper stickers.
At least once a month, I see a car with a Kerry/Edwards sticker on the back. There are folks out there who want people to vote “Dole ’96.” That’s all fine and good…if you want to the world to know you support losers. What’s the point in having a political bumper sticker from an election that’s already over? I know pretty much everyone hates George Bush–but campaigning for Al Gore in 2008 won’t really help.
Let it go people. Peel off those ancient bumper stickers. It’s not like we’re talking about catch . . . . .
I’ve been having a toenail problem lately. My whole life, I cut my toenails once a month–maybe even every six weeks. But lately it seems like my toenails are growing with a fury. I hafta cut ’em once every two weeks or they grow disgustingly long. Making this situation even messier, somehow the left foot and right foot got off cycle. I don’t know how, but at one point I must’ve trimmed one foot and forgot to do the other. So now one set of toenails is much longer than the other. I’ll trim the left toenails but can’t cut the right because they’re too short. A week later, the right nails hafta be cut and I can’t cut the left because I just trimmed ’em the week before. This is totally throwing my grooming habits off…and I’m sure you didn’t wanna hear this.
Speaking of unpleasant, I’ve been having some pharmaceutical problems lately (boy, I’m just full of problems). I’m not sure if I blame the idiots at the pharmacy or the numbskulls at the doctor’s office, but there’s been a major fussup regarding a prescription I have.
I used to be on a drug called Ahneedapill. But last . . . . .
About two week ago I bought a GPS navigation device for my car. I had been thinking about it for a while now so it wasn’t entirely an impulse buy. That being said, I didn’t walk into Fry’s to buy a GPS. Fry’s was in the middle of a massive anniversary sale. Most electronic store “sales” don’t really provide much of a discount (nine times outta ten the price is predetermined by the manufacture). But when Fry’s has a sale, it’s usually legit.
I wandered over to the GPSs and was immediately helped by a salesman. I was there strictly for information because I was still in the preliminary shopping stages. I knew little about the differences between GPSs. Why are some $200 and some $400? It’s not like a computer where you pay more for bigger and fast–a GPS doesn’t need bigger and faster. The salesman pointed out the various features and showed me a device that was on-sale that day (and that day only) for $200.
Like I said, normally I scoff at sales. But I noticed that Fry’s was also offering a significantly lesser GPS made by the same manufacture for the same exact price. Was this . . . . .
I never understood the joy of fishing. You sit there and nothing happens. As far as I can tell, it’s all luck. You give two guys the same bare, pole, and lake, there’s nothing either one of ’em can do to catch more fish. They throw their lines and hope something is dumb enough to bite.
Gas prices are skyrocketing and I have little sympathy for those who complain at the pump. America is a society where people really couldn’t care less about the price of gas. Sure, they’ll bitch and complain about how much it cost to fill-up. The evening news will cover numerous stories regarding the hardships people experience. You might even catch a person or two suggest they’ll drive less.
But the truth is actions speak louder than words. If Americans really wanted to do something about the price of gas, they’d take action against it. Look at the roads today–the streets are jam-packed with SVUs and other non-economical vehicles. American’s are obsessed with big cars and powerful engines. There’s a reason there’s more Suburbans on the road than Focuses–Americans love their big cars.
Rising fuel costs isn’t anything new. A decade ago, I remember when gas . . . . .
I hate traffic. It’s probably because I’m an impatient person. Disneyland is my worst nightmare because the lines and a traffic jam is nothing but a line with cars. My job, my girl, my family–they all live within ten minutes because if I had to drive 11 minutes, I probably wouldn’t see any of them again.
Last month I caught in the mother of all traffic jams. I know there have been 80-car pile-ups in the Midwest, but since that hasn’t happened to me I’m gonna pretend they never happened. I was sitting on the 210 freeway–completely not moving–for reasons unknown. I know this is SoCal and folks sit in traffic jams everyday–but not me. The idiots who work in LA and live in OC brought that upon themselves. If they wanna sit in traffic for an hour each way, that’s their business–the lifestyle they chose. But not me. I hate traffic more Kevin Costner movies and people who vote for the Green Party. You’re forced to do nothing but sit and wait. I’m not an important person–but I have more important things to do than sit around twiddling my thumbs.
I called The Girlfriend up. She said according to . . . . .
|
|
