Today in History.

Since I have been doing this for 5 years now, I figured I could pull off this bullshit on my off days. You know, when I have nothing else to say.

So lets take a trip down memory lane and see what I was up to 5 years ago today.

DECEMBER 29, 2002 - With a friend like you, you need nerves of steel.

Show us what you were doing 5 years ago today.

Give me a freakin' break.

Not a direct quote, I was listening but not really listening to a newscast.

"Exposing a child to smoke in a car for one hour is like giving them a pack of cigarettes?"

What retard said this? Apparently someone from the Lung Association.

I don't' know about you, but I can only smoke 4 cigarettes in an hour, but that would be one right after another.

So, supporters of this little bylaw are not so much concerned with the science of this whole thing, they just want a nice 'retarded' sound bite to feed the media.

Artists are just plain fucked up!

The Turner Prize. Some of them are of course interesting, but some are completely lazy and stupid

Nathan Coley - Threshold sculpture, a 2 by 4 accross the entrance. "...designed to make you aware you are entering..." Are you fucking kidding me? More like designed to trip you on the way in or out. That has to be a fire hazzard or something.

Mark Wallinger - "...he dressed in a bear suit and wandered aimlessly around an art gallery in Berlin..." I kid you not. A video of him doing this was his entry. And he actually won, not for the bear suit thing but for this. Which is sort of interesting

About freakin' time!

Pedestrian to be charged in accident

"A 65-year-old woman will be charged for not using a crosswalk after being hit by a car while crossing a Halifax street.

Halifax Regional Police say the incident occurred at about 9:30 p.m. Tuesday in the 3100 block of Joseph Howe Drive.

The woman, who was allegedly jaywalking when she was hit, was taken to hospital with non-life-threatening injuries, police said."

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...




Twelve drummers drumming.

There used to be 13 but one guy left to take up air guitar.

Hope your holiday was great no matter what you celebrate.

Merry Christmas.

Day Eleven...almost there.

Eleven Pipers Piping.



Ok, technically, a hookah. But if you ask me that's just a glorified bong anyway.

On the tenth day of Christmas...

Ten lords a-leaping.



Exhausted from the double duty (ie dancing lady gig) but always the consummate professional. The show must go on.

On the ninth day of Christmas...

Nine ladies dancing.



Like troupers, the eight out-of-work milk maids recruited one of the leaping lords and became dancing ladies....the lord is in drag, but he rather enjoys it.

On the eighth day of Christmas...

Times are tough and you can't find a milk maid to save your life. Most likely because of this.



These cows milk themselves. I kid you not. When they feel like they need to get milked, they just walk into the stall and the machine hooks up to them automatically. No human is involved.

The milkmaids are going to have to learn to type.

Day Seven.

And welcome to day seven. Over half way there.

Unfortunately, I had the swans since day one and, well, they drowned around day five.

Leave it to me to find the only swans that couldn't swim.

They are still good eatin'. Moist.

On the sixth day of Christmas...

Six geezer's sleighing.



And one chick.

FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!


Ok, so they are onion rings.

And who can eat just five?

On the fourth day of Christmas...



And welcome to day four.

On the third day of Christmas...

As it happens, I was only able to find one Frenchen. Not a real popular name.

However, it does say on his myspace that he is a parent. So, we will assume he was married at some point, so that makes at least 3.

Enjoy day three.

On the second day of Christmas...

Two turtles dove.

Ok, they aren't diving right this minute, but they were earlier.

I might have read that wrong.

Damned homonyms!

On the first day of Christmas...

Ok, I realize that the 12 days of Christmas are supposed to start on Christmas day and continue until the Feast of the Epiphany (I am not a heathen) but this is my blog and I am going to use it as a countdown. Excommunicate Sue me. Besides, once Christmas day arrives, no one wants to hear another word about it.

So, here we go.

On the first day of Christmas...

My true love gave to me...

A Partridge in a pear tree.

Ok, so he is not exactly in a pear tree.

But he is being treed by a bear.

Close enough. Carry on.

It's the little things that drive you batshit.

Ever hear something familiar and for the life of you just can't remember where you heard it? Ever since this US presidential election thing started invading every single news cast, I hear this guys name and it has been driving me crazy.

Mike Huckabee... hmmmm... Mike Huckabee? Where have I heard that name before?



Oh ya.....now I remember. Guess I didn't recognize him, since he lost all that weight.

You don't know how close you came.

I figured I would get a jump on my Christmas shopping, I used the lay away at Walmart. You know, a few weeks ago, when it was slow. Figured I would pop in and take it out, a quick trip.

Ya, right.

First I have to tell you that this is a pretty big Walmart. Secondly, you have to understand how much I hate going to Walmart. I start a slow burn as soon as I walk through the entrance. This day was no exception.


I make my way to the back of this huge store to find the layaway department. Ah, the line is only 3 people. Looks good so far. As I am standing there, feeling good, the lady in front of me looks at me as if to wipe the smile off my face. "That woman at the front has been there for twenty five minutes."

Didn't sound very promising. Turns out the 'lay away' department doesn't actually house the lay away merchandise. The checkout girl has to take your money and then schlep all the way to the garden center, where they keep all the stuff we lay away. Very efficient, eh? And, as luck would have it, there was only one girl working the lay away.

I figured mine might go a little faster since there were a couple of items I actually didn't need anymore. A coffee maker and a doll for my niece. I was informed that I couldn't just remove it from my lay away. I had to purchase the entire thing and then return the things I didn't want.

"Ok, fine. Not a problem." Or so I thought. Then she informs me that she cannot take returns, I would have to take them to the returns department. "And where might that be?" Clear across to the other side of the store. That's just great. So far this 'quick trip' was taking over an hour. Not much I can do, I want to get out of there before Christmas, so I make my way to the returns.

My heart sank as I saw a longer line than in layaway. My back is aching, my feet are aching, I am in a foul mood. I finally get my returns taken care of, thank fuck I can leave this hell hole.

As I make my way to the Exit/Entrance I see him, the greeter. Under my breath, "No fucking way!"

In my head I am rehearsing my flip out. I have had it up to my eyeballs with Walmart. Every fucking time I go in there, they frisk me at the door. Like a criminal. Why? I am not sure. After all they have those alarms that go off if you walk through them with something you didn't pay for. So why does this moron have to 'check' my bags?

"Can I check you receipt, Mamme?" My face is purple.

I prepare myself to say, "You need to get your fuckin manager, cuz if you look into that bag, I will take every fucking item back and never set foot in this fucking store again! I am sick and fuckin' tired of being treated like a criminal! I might just get myself a sandwich board and pace back and forth outside. If you have a problem with your cashiers, you think they aren't doing their job, then take it up with them. Unless I set off that alarm, you may not look in my fucking bag."

Just as I open my mouth I hear, in a sing-song little blond chick voice, "Oh hello, Evel." It's The Boy's, big brother's wife. Cute as a button, a social worker or therapist of some kind I think. In a split second I rethink the flip out in front of a person that might possibly have the authority to have me committed.

As the 'greeter' pretends he can read and looks over my receipt, the little blond chick is chirping away happily 'catching up' and all I can do is look at the greeter and think, "You don't know how close you came to witnessing my wrath."

Next time. I promise.

A product who's time has come. Sadly.

What I want to know is...what took them so long?



In an age of couch potatoes and video game addicts, you would have thought that they would have come up with this sooner. Maybe they already had but it's the first I have seen this.

And so it begins.

The Nova Scotian Christmas season officially begins with the lighting of the Christmas tree in Boston.

Sound like an odd statement?

Well, for over 30 years, each year, Nova Scotia donates a huge Christmas tree to the people of Boston as a thank you for their assistance following the 1917 Halifax Explosion. This year it was a a 45-foot white spruce, donated by Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Hamilton of Granville Center, Annapolis County, Nova Scotia

I was happy to hear Mayor Menino say 'Christmas' tree, instead of that 'Holiday' bullshit of 2005. Tree-huggin', politically correct, assholes decided that the tree should be called a 'Holiday' tree. The logger that cut it down said he wouldn't have cut it down had he known and if they didn't want it they could bring it back. People were pissed.

If someone sends you a gift, you don't PC the fucking thing, either accept it or decline it. It's just rude.

I blame Oprah.

The math just doesn't seem right.

How much would you pay for a three-legged dog?

Can you say 'KICK-BACK'?

My mother is in 'the home'. You may remember that she almost died in May. Since then she has been doing quite well. So well that she has been walking more. If you know anyone who is 75+, you know that this is important.

So, she has been walking more but this has wreaked havoc on her feet. Dr. GodQuack, referred her to 'orthotics'. We were not sure what that meant, so we asked our sister-in-law (we will call her Darling), who is a nurse to take my mother for this 'orthotics' appointment.

Turns out orthotics means she needs something for her feet. I understand this, I have flat feet and have to wear arch supports. I figure it is pretty much the same thing, from the information I got, although my mothers problems would be bunions.

Darling takes our mother to this orthotics appointment. The first thing she notices, is that it is not at the hospital. It is in fact a glorified shoe store on the main drag in town. The sign outside says something like, "CAN'T STAND? COME ON IN" or something equally as retarded. You will also notice, its a two story building.

The next thing Darling notices is that there is no wheelchair access. Surprising, since this place is supposed to cater to people who have problems walking. She gets my mother through the door without the wheelchair and is confronted with not one but two (albeit short) flights of stairs and that is just to access the first floor. I kid you not. Dr. GodQuack sent my mother here knowing full well she could barely walk without a walker.

Here is where it gets even better. They inform Darling that it will be ninety bucks just to look at my mother's feet and when they are finished it will cost $400. What? None of this is covered under the health plan. My mother lives in a home. The home takes all her pension and gives her $100 per month as comfort money. My mother is expected to pay for this out of that.

Clearly she cannot do this. But she has 6 kids, we will work it out. She needs it, we will find a way to get it. The kicker is, the $400 is just for the inserts. No shoes, just these stupid inserts.

My question. What part of this shit is $400 dollars? The placing of the feet in shoe boxes full of foam. By, I am sure, trained professionals? The pouring of the rubber/plastic into this mold. Teamsters? The fancy stitch work. Sweatshop? Are they hand stitching this shit with silver thread? These fucking things better be pretty damned impressive is all I can say. I paid fifty bucks for my arches and they are not that impressive looking.

It will be interesting to see what four hundred bucks gets ya. And how much does Dr. GodQuack get kicked back to him?

Brain-dead bylaws.

Recently a local constituency added a bylaw making it illegal to smoke in your car with a person under the age of 18. Score one for the tree huggers? Nope, sorry. It's a pointless law, created to appease high profile anti-smoking groups. Lip service if you will.

Just like the law they passed making it illegal to sell cigarettes to persons under the age of 19. Businesses who are caught (and by the way they have lots of 17 year olds on the payroll that do nothing but try and entrap local smoke store owners) face huge fines. (Payable to the government) It is not, however, illegal for persons under the age of 18 to smoke. It's just illegal for someone to sell the cigarettes to them.

Look, if you don't want to smoke, don't smoke. If it bothers you I won't smoke around you. But don't tell me I can't smoke. I am a grown woman. The government is not on your side, if they were, they would ban tobacco, but they are not and they never will. The only thing you have on your side is propaganda, junk science and general bullshit! Get a life, or just fuck off somewhere.

Don't get me wrong. I realize that smoking is bad for me. I am not an idiot. I am breathing in a burning substance directly into my lungs. But they are my lungs, fuck off. I am also breathing in the exhaust from your car, the smoke from your chimney and your ghastly perfume. Drop dead. Just don't get me started on second hand smoke.

Oh but they are trying to protect the estimated 400,000 people who die prematurely each year in smoking related deaths. Bullshit! There is no credible data that says second hand smoke really does hurt people. There are, however, dozens of studies that say they couldn't prove it has any effect.

Smoking-Attributable Mortality, Morbidity, and Economic Costs Software, Release II (SAMMEC II) has been developed for the Office on Smoking and Health, Public Health Service, to permit rapid calculation of deaths, years of potential life lost, direct health-care costs, indirect mortality costs, and disability costs associated with cigarette smoking.

Sounds impressive, don't it? If you are going to quote this piece of software, you should really find out how they come up with their numbers.

Some interesting articles on the subject:

Blowing Smoke About Tobacco-Related Deaths Just look at the chart on this one. How is dying at 85+ years premature?
The Facts About Second Hand Smoke
The Blunders of SAMMEC (1) 400,000 Killed by Smoking!? This article is written by a retired mathematician, its a little dry but you can't dispute the numbers.
The BIG LIE That Smoking is an Economic Burden to Society
Name Three James Repace did supply three names. However, of the three he named, One could not be verified. One had been ruled against by a jury. One was rejected by a jury.
The EPA Report

Governments keep passing laws banning smoking here and banning smoking there, but if they were truly concerned with it, they would just ban tobacco.

Oh wait! They can't ban tobacco, they make too much money on it.

And I paid for the privilege.

We went out tonight so I could show The Boy how to put air in the tires. A useful skill considering that every one of my tires has a slow leak.

As we pulled up to my regular gas station I saw that the air filler thingy was otherwise occupied. This sucked because this is the only station I have found that actually has free air. I kid you not, you have to pay for air now.

Oh, they do have one of those pay machines but if you ask them they will flip a switch and turn it on for you free of charge. This is good for me because of the aforementioned slow leaks, otherwise I would have to take out a second job to pay for air.

So, since that station was out of the question I decided for this outing I would go to one of the others and pay. It's 50 cents, The Boy needed to learn and I was interested in just how much air 50 cents buys you. In the interest of science, we pull into the Esso and are greeted by this.



The first thing I noticed was the hose. It is retractable. Interesting. I start to pull on it and it seems to be pulling back. I must have to pull it out all the way, like a vacuum cord? I try this. Nope, I have to hold it while The Boy puts the air in the tire otherwise it will yank him back off his feet. Exactly how do you get this done without a buddy?

We manage to get two tires to the correct psi and wrangle the hose around to the other side of the car. I am holding the hose while The Boy takes off the valve cap. Just as he applies the tip to the valve stem the air stops.

The Boy then lets go of his end of the hose. It starts to retract faster than I can grab it. So fast that it is literally burning my hands. I look up to see the nozzle coming at me at a pretty good clip. I have to tighten my grip on the hose, burning my hands further, to avoid having my head cracked open by the fucking thing.

WTF?

I have to fight with the hose, pay for fucking air and it doesn't even stay on long enough for all four tires? What a racket. I am at a slow burn as I enter the station. I tell The Boy it is to get rolaids for him, but I just have to voice my opinion to the attendant.

My hands stinging, I enter the station. "I can't believe I just paid 50 cents to fight with your fucking machine only to get cut off before I actually got air in all my tires."

"You had to fight with it?" He is maybe 16 and clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.

"How else do you keep from getting dragged across the parking lot on your ass?"

"Uh, I just step on it." Not something they printed on the instructions. They were more concerned that I only put quarters in the machine. Not enough space to put actual helpful information on the signage.

"How much money did you feed it before you came up with that brilliant solution?"

Blank stare.

"Well, my solution is to never frequent this gas station again. Period."

Queen of Canada.

During the rebroadcast of the April 2007 re-dedication ceremony of the newly restored memorial at Vimy Ridge, I hear the old girl introduced as the Queen of Canada. Like that is all she is. Can't believe this is the first time I am hearing about it. Usually the the queen will express her displeasure over shit like that. Like the time some Australian politician actually touched her, you would think they punched her in the throat or something.

But I digress. If you haven't seen this monument in France, it is quite impressive.

The Canadian National Vimy Memorial is one of Canada's most important overseas war memorials for those Canadians who gave their lives in the First World War. It was constructed as the national memorial for Canada's 66,000 war dead and is located in France, on the site of the Battle of Vimy Ridge. The memorial stands atop Hill 145, near the towns of Vimy and Givenchy-en-Gohelle, in the Pas-de-Calais département of northern France. In 1922, the Government of France granted "freely, and for all time, to the Government of Canada the free use of the land exempt from all taxes," as an expression of gratitude. It is ceremonially considered Canadian land, but unlike an embassy, it is subject to the laws of France.[1] The entrance to the park bears a sign that reads, "The free gift in perpetuity of the French nation to the people of Canada."

She mentions that there were 4 Victoria Crosses awarded to Canadian soldiers for conspicuous bravery during this battle. Very impressive considering there remains only about 100 awarded to date.

Most impressive was the actions of Captain Thaine MacDowell. Something to keep in mind today.

Same shit, different day.

"Thank you for calling the Undisclosed Internet Service Provider™ my name is blah blah blah..."

No hello, just starts right in, flipping out.

"I don't think that I should have to pay for this shit if it doesn't work!"

"I agree, what's the problem."

"Well I try and get on the internet and everything is sideways. It's been like that for a month."

"I see that you do have connection to the internet, so the modem is online and working fine. Do you mean all the web pages are sideways or everything on the computer screen is sideways?"

"Everything! I am not paying for this! Your internet does not work!"

"Can you do something for me? Can you hold down the Control key, then hold down the Alt key and hit the right arrow key?"

"You mean I have to do this every time? This is ridiculous! I want my money back for this computer."

"Sir, we did not sell you the computer, we only provide the internet connection."

"Fine, I will call the phone company, that is who I bought it from."

It's a DELL.

"Thank you for calling the Undisclosed Internet Service Provider™ my name is blah blah blah..."

"When I start up my computer it says 'connecting to Lindsay' but my name is Leanne."

"Where is it saying that?"

"On the little picture at the bottom."

"Are you sure it says Lindsay?"

"Let me check.....I guess it says Linky. But I don't know anyone named Linky either, I think someone is hacking me!"

"Could you look a little closer, does it say L-I-N-K-S-Y-S?"

"Ya, it does. Who is that?"

That, my friends, is job security.

Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything.

According to Google and the The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy I should be the answer. (I might just try and watch that again tonight. I was never able to sit through the entire thing, either I was too stoned or not stoned enough each time I tried.)

How does 42 make me fee? I feel good, maybe not the best I have felt but do I wish I was 24? No.

When I was 24 it was 1989. Not a great year for either me or Ted Bundy. That was the year my father died and it wrecked me.

Others had a great year, Colin Powel for instance and George Bush Sr. for another. And of course those people who had to stare at that retarded wall in Berlin for years on end wondering what was on the other side.

Then I start thinking, what was a good year for me? If there was one I could go back to, what would it be? I don't mean be a teenager now (you couldn't pay me to do that) I mean literally go back to a specific year in my life. I will have to think about that one.

Do you have a year in your life you would like to visit if you could? Tell us all about it.

And another thing...

Tracey and Andrew were here for my birthday and brought me a cake.

Death By Chocolate!

So glad I split from the office scene.

Time well spent.

I spent the weekend transferring my old VHS tapes to DVD. I didn't realize how easy it would be, but Yvette was right. Even I could not screw it up. Well, not completely anyway. Still can't figure out how to get the picture bigger. Could be how I converted it. But I will worry about that later.

So, for your viewing pleasure, here is a bit of video from my stay at a luxurious hotel in Bridgewater, circa 1988. The Boy's Father took me to all the best places. There is some narration, although you might blow your speakers trying to hear it.



They had a couple girls staying there who rented by the hour. That says it all.

Oh, looks like there is a shot of TBF at the end of this, I thought I had cut that. He is in the process of shaving his mustache. Anyone know of an easier program to edit video than Windows Movie Maker?

Suggestions welcome.

First Day.

A photo journal of the bunnies and me, our first day on the job.

Had to wake up at the crack of nine. Not bad since training forced me up at 5am. In case you are wondering, yes I showered and yes I did shave my legs. Although these pictures do not make it look as if I did. But you older folk out there will recognize poor circulation when you see it.

This is us, working hard.


And here we are, taking a coffee break. This required us to swivel in our chair about 14 degrees. It was an exhausting trip through mid-morning traffic.



Most of the day, however, the bunnies stayed under the desk. They like it there, they play pinochle and chat quietly. And of course keep my tootsies warm.



Then a bit of lunch.



I will let you know how I manage this hectic schedule.

And another thing...

Just an update. Got my pension papers in on Wednesday (built up pension contributions from Undisclosed Customer Service Center™) and they deposited the money in my account this morning. They had told me 3-5 days and it was exactly 3 which blew me away.

I went out tonight to get an obnoxiously comfy chair for my office. I wasn't able to find the chair I could really be happy in, so I ended up getting this one.

Karma.



I had absolutely nothing to do with this.

Scotia Recycling depot destroyed.

or this

RECYCLING FIRE KEEPS RETURNING

I swear.

It's NOT a tumor!

The boy and I watched Kindergarten Cop tonight. This part cracks me up!



The boy thinks I am retarded. He says he can't wait til he is old and the stupidest things will amuse him as well.

Fastest thing on no legs.

This is awesome.

Give me strength.

I am not an animal person. That being said, animals love me.

Fifty people in a room, all vying for the dogs attention, and the fuckin' thing will come and drool on my fuckin' leg. Not so bad with other animals, cats you can get to fuck off with a well placed (covert) pinch, but dogs are just too much.

I try and politely shoo the dog away, it thinks it is a game. Until finally I have to say, "Can you get your fuckin' dog away from me?"

And that starts a whole other conversation, "Don't you like my dog?" At which point they always start talking to the dog in that retarded baby voice, "Mommy wuvs her widdle doggie wogggie!"

I close my eyes so they don't see them rolling into the back of my head. "Nothing personal against your dog, I don't like animals in general." They always take offense, followed by more retarded shit like covering the dogs ears like he can understand English or something. How could anyone not be madly in love with this wonderful creature that is part of their family.

Here's how:

1. They are obnoxious. They sniff you in places that you don't want to be sniffed and they sit and lick their balls/snatch in front of you.

2. They stink. Their breath stinks, their hair stinks. I don't care that you shampoo their beautiful coat with fifty dollar shampoo, they still stink.

3. They are not part of your family. They will eat your face when you are dead. The only reason they care whether you live or die is the fact that you feed them. Oh, there are reports, you say? Ya, consider it for a moment. "He barked and woke us all up, saved us from burning in a fire." Fuck off, if he could open the door himself he would have bailed without so much as a 'by your leave'. He could have cared less how you got out.

4. Drooling. 'Nuff said.

5. Stories of how you justify spending half the food budget on Fido makes my teeth ache. "Oh, he won't eat anything but porterhouse steak." Excuse me? Did he say that? Cuz if he did, we need to get him on Oprah. With that dog whisperer, just so we can hear him say, on national television that that idiot he is full of shit. The dog licks his balls, he destroys the garbage and drinks from the toilet. He will eat whatever you put in front of him. Eventually.

I understand that you love it. I am happy for you. Spend all your money on it, go broke treating its Rapid-Onset Dystonia Parkinsonism. Hell, let it sleep in your bed and eat at the table, I don't give a shit. But why do I have to play a role in your dementia?

Why is it so horrible that I believe it is just an animal. Fluffy might be cute and you might love Fluffy but Fluffy is not getting a liver transplant.

About time.

Bunny slippers arrived last night.

Shhhhh....they are sleeping.

UPDATE: New start date, October 25th.

Why do I have cats?

I am bored.

Bored, bored, bored. Bored.

As if reading my mind, my cat (not Sammy this time) decides to help me.

Because I am so bored, I head to the can. Its not even 7am. Too early for anything.

As I get to the entry way, I look down. No real reason, I don't usually watch where I am going, as Sammy can tell you, but for whatever reason I looked down. And that is the reason Milo still lives and breathes.

Barf, from one end of the entryway to the other. I would have taken a picture but at this hour I would have ended up chucking last nights dinner.

He lives today because I didn't step in it. I hate cats.

Four More Years! Two more weeks!

Looks like there will be two more weeks of traveling back and forth. Bad for me, but excellent as far as fodder for the blog is concerned.

Bunny slippers have still not arrived yet, so I am not as pissed as I will be when they arrive and I am not equipped to wear them.

Install of necessary infrastructure is the 24th or 25th.

Beat to a snot!

I really can't wait til all this traveling is done with. Today we have to travel another 2 hours to tour the plant.

There will be walking.

I will be cranky.

Pablo was in rare form.

After the 'alien' incident, Pablo was surprisingly quiet. I figured I should keep my mouth shut, since teasing him kept his shut. Where is the fun in that?

So today, after a week of silence, Pablo decides to regale us with a story.

"When I was in high school, me and the boys built a sugar shack in the woods. When along came a coyote. We thought, holy shit, where did this come from? Then I punched it in the snout and broke the f'ing thing. You should have seen it, it stuck straight up."

Silence.....

"At least I think it was a coyote."

I had absolutely no comment. I was waiting to see what Jackie Chan was doing while the coyote was getting its ass kicked.

I should be ashamed?

Celebrities are always on about the senseless killing of trees. The plight of the ozone, blah blah blah. I recycle only because I am forced to, not because I give a shit.

Anyone who knows me personally will tell you, I purposely fuck up every single bag I have to lug to the curb. The cans always have something in the bag that someone will eventually have to dig out or will make that bag unusable by 'the man'. Something putrid and rotten. Just before I close up that cardboard/paper blue bag I throw in a glass jar, just for good measure. It is my silent protest against recycling. I think its Bullshit.

And if they catch it (they rarely do) they just don't take the bag. They leave me a nice florescent sticker telling me that I fucked up on the sorting. Can anyone guess why? It is because they no longer pay a guy to sort the bags. They don't even open the bags, they pick them up take them back to their storage area where they sell them as raw materials to manufacturers.

So, not only are they making money on this shit, my shit, but I am expected to work my ass off so they don't have to pay someone to sort it first. Don't even get me started on the fact that it now takes 3 trucks to pick up the garbage that one used to handle just fine and that my taxes pay for these idiots to come around and fuck me up the ass.

I have worked it out though. The compost people are even lazier. They don't even look in the bin. They roll it to the truck and hook it on, the truck does the rest. So if the recyclers put a sticker on the bag, I just toss it in the compost bin.

Anyway, on to my point. I did have one. The media paints me as an asshole for not recycling. Tree Killer! Landfill Filler! Like I am single handedly punching a hole in the ozone. FUCK RIGHT OFF! Ya, that giant hole has nothing to do with the two extra trucks rolling down the street.

Explain this. I just picked up a prescription.


The box is 2" by 4" and a half inch deep.


The actual medication is housed in not even a half inch of the entire box.


Keep in mind that this shit is not 'displayed' anywhere. The only person that sees this is the pharmacist (who knows what the hell it is) and me who doesn't give a shit what the box looks like.

Does anyone say anything to the manufacturer about the obvious over packaging?

No. They do not.

But I get a scarlet letter florescent green sticker for mixing my glass with my plastics.

I blame Oprah.

I'm ready for my close-up.

I have a bunch of old VHS home videos that I have been planning forever to transfer to DVD. I was reminded today to get off my ass and 'gitter dun'.

They are all from when the kids (the boy and his cousins) were little, so you can imagine they are living on borrowed time. I would really hate to lose them.

So, question to all A/V geeks out there. Anyone ever do it and if you did, what hardware/software do I need?

Ponder this.

You can only find one clean sock in the entire house.

Do you:

A: Utilize the one clean sock and supplement it with the cleanest of the dirty to make up a somewhat decent pair?

or

B: Go with your cleanest pair of dirty socks and save the clean one on the off chance you find its mate? (assuming the mate is clean as well)

Talk amongst yourselves.

Home of the Whopper!

Pablo tells a pretty tall tale. I am sure that some of these things sort of happened to him, but, like any good fish story, it gets bigger over time.

Like the time he and his brother were coming home from a night of heavy drinking and saw a horse running along the side of the road. His brother, of course, just happened to have 16 feet of rope on him and leaned out the window, lassoed the horse and rode it home. Or the time he beat the shit out of the Extreme Mountain Dew guy as Jackie Chan (apparently Mountain Dew guy's friend) sat back and watched.

After a week of traveling together we have heard pretty much everything.

So, we are 15 minutes into our commute when Pablo starts to tell a story. I let him get about three words out.

I grab his arm and ask, excitedly, "OOOOO...is this the one about the aliens?"

He looks at me, quizzically, "Uh, no." He tries to continue his story and again I interrupt him.

"Wait! Are there aliens in this story?"

Now he looks at me like I have two heads, but still is not catching on. You can see Lenny's shoulders start to shake. "No! Anyway..." and attempts to continue.

I interrupt one last time, "But you do have a story with aliens in it, right?" The other two guys are busting a gut, but Pablo is just irritated that I am stopping him from telling his story.

Then again yesterday we are 25 minutes into our commute home when Pablo starts to tell us about the time his friend pulled the pin from a grenade, tossed the pin and dropped the grenade at his feet. Lenny, Wayne and I are getting pretty punchy after spending all day at the trade show. We are tired, so we are just letting Pablo go.

At one point in the story, Pablo pauses for effect and I couldn't help myself. I am gazing out the window, deep in thought, "I shot a man once, just to watch him die."

Silence. Then Pablo says, "Really?"

"Ya, in Reno." Lenny loses it and Wayne almost goes off the road. "I ended up in Folsom prison and that prick, Johnny Cash stole my story. The rest, as the say..."