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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 had a couple incidents today on the road that made me realize the world is full of idiots (okay, maybe I didn’t learn that today–but I needed something to open this topic). I went to a gas station for a fill up. The gas station was pretty busy and most terminals were full. Two spots opened on the same side of one island. I was behind a woman who pulled into the first spot…and stopped her car. Because she didn’t pull all the way up to the first pump, I had to drive all the way around the station and attempt to back into the spot. This whole thing coulda been avoided if she just pulled all the way up.
I know she had to see me behind her–she had to…otherwise she was completely clueless to her surroundings. Either she saw me or she forgot the whole looking-in-rearview-mirrors-thing they teach in driver’s ed. If she didn’t see me, I don’t wanna be anywhere near this dame when she makes a lane change.
I’m leaning towards she did see me–which means one of two things.
1) She saw me and didn’t think to pull up to the first pump.2) She . . . . .
I was at Disneyland with The Girlfriend trying to recuperate from the 451 degree temperature outside. We noticed a kid run by us, screaming with tears in his eyes. He was a tiny lad–The Girlfriend said he looked to be about three-years old but I’m never good at that sorta assessment. What I am good at is recognizing other people’s misery. The kid was bawling hysterically and my immediate assumption was the kid was lost. But then I saw a pack of 12-year old girls flock to his aid and figured one of them had to be his sister. The girls’ behavior struck me a particular. They kept their distance from the boy; trying to engage in conversation but were intentionally avoiding contact. A sister would pick up or hug her crying little brother. Something seemed amiss and that’s when I intervened.
“Is he lost,” I asked the girls.
They said yes and he started screaming “I want my mommy!”
“Where did you last see her?” He pointed in the direction he came from–completely far from where we were.
“We need to find a cast member.” With Disneyland routinely welcoming more than 40,000 guests a day, a lost child . . . . .
Been kind of a slow week–two weeks. Nothing interesting happened to me. nothing to complain about. Despite the drought, I still feel compelled to post something. Instead of resorting to reruns, I’ll dig up something I wrote a few months back but never posted. Just ’cause it didn’t happen yesterday doesn’t mean it isn’t interesting.
Who am I kidding? None of this is interesting.
Last night some idiot parked in my driveway. I was angered because it’s a total sign of disrespect. I’m not talking about a designated parking spot with a “reserved” sign. I don’t mean parked in front of my house. I don’t even mean parked in an area that all of my neighbors and I have come to accept as ‘my spot.’ I mean he literally parked in my driveway. There’s no grey area. It’s the spot right in front of my house separated from the street. It has my personal property in front and to the side of it. This arsehole knew exactly what he was doing when he parked in my driveway–it’s not the sorta mistake one can accidentally make.
Imagine the frustration one feels when coming home from work to find a stranger’s . . . . .
I’m thinking of abandoning the iRANT on MySpace. I don’t see the need for it anymore and I really don’t have the time to deal with it. I write for me–not for an audience. Friends, family, and loved ones often peek in to see what I’ve written. I’ve also managed to build up a small audience of strangers on MySpace. But I don’t need MySpace anymore–not when I have a fully-functionally website (yes, even to Mac users). I’d get more hits at MySpace, but I’m not doing this for the hits. I write for me. If anyone cares to read it, they’re more than welcomed to (unless you’re a coworker). My regular readers would still be free to find the iRANT on my website. I just feel like MySpace isn’t worth the aggravation of trying to post the iRANT–not when I really don’t give a damn if anyone reads it or not. We’ll see…
I was late picking up The Girlfriend for lunch. After profusely and repeatedly apologizing, she let me off fairly easy. “I got to see a really funny car accident while waiting,” she said. She then proceeded to tell me how she watched a guy step into . . . . .
Friday afternoon I was driving through a parking lot when it happened: some idiot backed his car into me. They say during traumatic experiences, things slow down for people. I remember sitting in my car watching it slowly happen–but I think the slowing effect was due to him going about three miles per hour. There was a green Lexus in front of me, also circling the lot for a spot. For reasons unknown to me, he stopped his vehicle and the reverse lights came on. The car started slowly backing towards me. I’m not sure why I didn’t honk the horn–probably because I didn’t believe what was happening before me. Dude had to have seen me–I was right behind him and it’s not like I came out of nowhere. Besides, what kinda idiot drives in reverse without looking behind him? Review mirror. Looking around. I figured he had to see me. Alas, he was as blind as I was wrong: even when he bumped me, I still couldn’t believe it was happening.
I didn’t know what to say or do, so I sat in my car contemplating my options. The guy was obviously an idiot but I wasn’t sure if . . . . .
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 . . . . .
It bugs the hell out of my how über-sensitive people can be. I was talking to this chik online and I made one little prostitute joke and she ended the conversation. I’ll show you the tail-end of our talk:
siknerd: so what sorta sales are you in?stuckupbitchygrl93: I am in real estatesiknerd: now that’s not too badsiknerd: i used to work sales in retails stores and i hated itstuckupbitchygrl93: yeah i did that toosiknerd: or in my current line of work, i gotta deal with vendors wanting me to buy their crapsiknerd: i can’t stand pushy peoplesiknerd: a true salesman is pushysiknerd: i’d hate myself if i ever did that.stuckupbitchygrl93: hasiknerd: but real estate is far more presigous than salesstuckupbitchygrl93: r u saying im pushy?stuckupbitchygrl93: its okaysiknerd: not if you’re a realitorsiknerd: but if you make cold phone calls wanting me to come buy your house,then yes: you’re pushystuckupbitchygrl93: but you would come?siknerd: probably not: i’d be wasting your time and mine–i can’t afford a house yetsiknerd: i would to come meet a cute chik–but i just can’t afford what you’re sellingsiknerd: why does that sound like somehting one would tell a prostitute?*** stuckupbitchygrl93’s IC window is closed
Granted, that’s . . . . .
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