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The Thanksgiving That Didn't Suck
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11/28/2006
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This year The Skirt and I and our friends Zoltar and Shortcake decided to abandon our families and go to the beach for Thanksgiving. Although we all get along with our families, we were surprised at how relaxing it was to hang out with the distinct lack of family obligations.
Since none of us have kids, we spent the time from Wednesday to Sunday pretty much eating, drinking and sleeping. I think it was Friday night that three of the four of us were asleep on the couch by 8:36 pm. Yeah, we're lightweights, so suck it. You know you would have fallen asleep that early too if you didn't have Aunt Eunice cackling in your ear and a bunch of rugrats screeching for no good reason.
Not a single one of us had ever cooked a turkey, but we ended up doing a surprisingly good job of it. In fact, the whole dinner was great, and only partly because we were all drunk and sitting outside on a balcony overlooking the water in 72 degree weather. And because Shortcake and The Skirt did all of the hard stuff.
Out of Frame: Shortcake messes with timer function on camera
At one point they tried to teach me a card game called yuker and I don't know or care if that is the right spelling. Imagine someone coming up to you and saying "let's play Chinese Calculus in Braille" and everyone being all excited about it and dealing you in. That's how I feel when someone busts out a deck of cards. I have successfully flown a twin engine aircraft to the correct runway using only the instruments on the panel and landed it in the dark, but cards baffle me. I've never been able to play card games other than the simplest ones, and yuker is not simple.
Here's a breakdown of what I remember of the rules-
Everybody gets five cards, but I didn't see any cards below a 9, and one of them is called a Jack Bauer and it doesn't even go around fighting terror. Diamonds trump something, but sometimes a diamond is a heart, even when you hold it up and angrily point to the diamond shape on the card. You start by flipping over a card and then everybody goes around the table and says "pass" or another word, and then you have to pick up a card or put one down and then everything is a blur until someone says they won.
Zoltar had the severe misfortune of being my partner, and he was peppered with idiotic questions. He gave answers like "You want to throw off-suit low on this hand" which sounded a lot like "You cookie fish racecar niner hand" for all the sense it made. In dealing with financing for the new house, I have been having an increasing number of these types of conversations, so fuck libor indices, yuker and the confusing horses they rode in on.
Basically every time it was my turn I put a card on the table. I then either got a high five, or the girls laughed and Zoltar buried his face in his hands. So that part was fun like reaching into a bag of tarantulas and chocolate and having to eat whatever you grabbed.
I guess our team won, but I was as instrumental in that victory as my cat is in the future of aerospace engineering, so we'll call it a win for Zoltar.
In the heat of battle. It looks like a beer bottle is sticking out of my nose.
That night we went into the "village" part of this delightful little planned beach community for dinner and 876,000 reminders of exactly why we are childless. Sandestin Village is the kind of collection of shops and restaurants that would cause a heterosexual man to use words like "quaint" and "charming" to describe it. I don't know if it was just because it was a holiday weekend, but I have never seen so many damn kids running around, nor have I ever seen so many adults doing things they really didn't want to do; wiping snot off of chins, waiting two hours in line to see a jolly old elf in whom they don't believe, or picking up a half dozen ketchup-soaked chicken nuggets off the floor while consoling a child who went completely insane because she got the wrong color straw.
We walked cautiously around, huddled together with our arms interlocked (kids will try to separate you from the herd and then they'll swarm on you and cover you with germs) and we had very specific instructions to try to make it back to the car if we should become separated. There we would wait for thirty minutes, after which we would presume the others dead. We made a pact to come back for the bodies the next day if any of us survived.
The first few restaurants we went into were like walking into the engine room of a World War 2 battleship under full steam. A generally hostile and dangerous environment, and an assault on senses you didn't even know you had. Mercifully, we soon discovered the oasis that is the 21 and up bar called Skipjack's Groghouse or some equally adorable name.
Quote me on this one- The over 21 establishment is the best thing to happen to kids since the choking hazard.
We were able to have dinner like grown ups and watch the South Dakota Marmots kick the crap out of the Nepal State Molesters in the latest football match. Luckily we found an escape hatch that led us safely back to the car, so you can thank Skipjack for keeping me alive long enough to bring you this tale of thanksgiving, cards, and terror. I only hope your holiday was as rad.
 Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 12:34 PM |
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KKKramer
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11/21/2006
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So the latest in racism is Kramer's anti-black rage-a-thon as heard originally in a West Hollywood comedy club. The story is that some Negro men were heckling him and he got a case of the Jew Rage and went off like a drunk Puerto-Rican with a fist full of Jap fur.
No, as a matter of fact I don't know what any of that means, but thanks for asking.
Seriously. Let me try and explain my feelings on this. I get sort of tired of hearing everybody tell me how it "Sickens them" or how "horrified" they are about it. Michael Richards's actions may have been insanely out of line, but as horrified and collectively sickened as all of the outspoken offendeds are, no amount of self-righteous outrage can possibly eclipse the sheer stupidity of the act. The beauty of stupidity is that even though it's not generally punishable by jail time, it is one of the few things left that can still be entirely the fault and responsibility of the offender.
Let's can the drama of overstating how shocked we are by his comments, okay? He called them a name. Unfortunately he chose a name that is universally associated with a kind of hatred that most people can't imagine (and that will get a guy killed), and he used it about 400 times. So I'm not trying to minimize that. The stupidity is the important part, because he overcame astounding statistical odds to get to where he is in his career, and then promptly pissed it away when the mean black men wouldn't stop making fun of him. If he never gets another job as long as he lives, then that's what he gets. That is why we are told to think before we act.
Now is the part where we collectively sigh and thank God for personal responsibility as the last line of defense against more of this kind of thing.
I happen to be able to admit that I differentiate between people who squirt out a slur in the heat of the moment and those who actively preach it. In my heart of hearts I know that everybody differentiates between the two- but very few have the stones to admit it. I know this because I have called people motherfuckers, whores, and retarded midgets when I was angry. That doesn't make it right, but it doesn't mean I think they are actual prostitutes or people who sleep with their mothers, either. Except the retarded midget - he really was a retarded midget.
That being said, I have to say that Mr. Richards (at least in my eyes) falls in the former category even after seeing the unedited full three minutes of his short bus adventure in crazytown. I'm not apologizing for him or saying that what he did was a good idea by any means. Hear me out- he's a professional comedian- he's supposed to be able to shred any heckler he comes across with his superior wit. It really is a beautiful thing when it is done well. This was the opposite of being done well.
Even if (and I'm taking a big chance by saying this to those of you who live in a world of pure ideals, righteousness, and magical flying monkeys with rainbows shooting out of their asses) he had slung a slur at them in a blind reaction to their heckling I might have been able to say "well, it had its roots in startling humor, so I guess he just lost his mud for a minute and made a bad move." I think most people could have called it a part of the act and let it go, as evidenced by the fact that people actually laughed when he first started the tirade. I'm not lying - it's on the video. Of course, it is human nature to laugh when uncomfortable situations arise, so I'm probably wrong in assuming they thought it was funny, but to a comedian on stage, sometimes a laugh is a laugh.
Instead, he screamed something about "He's a fucking nigger", and "Get the nigger out of here," over and over until half of the audience walked out. Even seeing those words typed out on the screen elicits a weird anxiety in me, and I'm about the least sensitive person you'll ever meet. His actions catapulted him into a swamp of dumb so deep that the most insincere groveling won't get him out. Even when he was apologizing he used the term "Afro-American", which I don't think is patently offensive, but is almost as outdated as "colored."
So while I don't personally think that Mr. Richards actually believes deep down that black people are genetically inferior to other races, he did show a level of judgment that puts him squarely in competition with people who do think that way for the biggest idiot award. When you pare it all down, stupidity is the common element.
Now let's get out there and try to act like white people, okay?
I'm KIDDING. Jesus.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 6:40 PM |
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At Least You Aren't Drowning in Pee
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11/14/2006
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Until this month, this has been a somewhat unremarkable year. Usually I get a little nervous if the end of the year approaches and I don't feel like I have made the necessary improvements in my life. Since I am a very fulfilled person, this gets more difficult every year.
Due to the alignment of planets or some other universal force, everything that would normally be spread out over a twelve month period has pretty much come down on me in two weeks.
I decided to put my house on the market. I figured, "What the hey? Everybody knows The Skirt and I are total sinners, and we both hate commuting to each others' houses, so how 'bout we pool our resources and buy ourselves a homestead?" She agreed, and now it's a flurry of loan agreements, legal documents, pre-approvals, appraisals, and so on. You may ask "Why don't you make an honest woman out of her?" And I will answer in one of two ways, depending on my mood - "She's already honest." Or "Mind your own goddamn business."
We started looking for houses, which is fun and not fun at the same time. One person says, "You need to move to this transitional neighborhood because it is really a great investment" and I have to answer "So as I bleed to death after having been robbed, stabbed, and raped in my own driveway, at least I can take solace in the ever increasing market value of my house." No thanks. I'll take my chances in an established neighborhood. Another says "Hey, you should move to Alpharetta (because misery loves company). The Traffic in Atlanta is so bad; I don't see how you can live down there." I typically respond with a quick lesson in logic. "We all agree that we'd rather be fisted by a pirate than spend time in Atlanta's famed traffic, correct? And you live just north of Canada, correct? I live four miles from where I work. So your daily commute is 600 miles, and mine is 8, and you somehow spend less time in traffic than I do? Lying makes the baby Jesus gassy." Fortunately, The Skirt and I are on the same page as far as where we are going to live. Neither of us wants to get murdered or spend much time driving.
Then like a flaming turd from the heavens, I finally got a job offer I liked. I've been at the same job for six years, and I am ready to get yelled at by new people. Luckily, these new people also happen to occupy a building that is way closer to my house and are also willing to give me more money. Changing jobs is a touchy business. For the most part you have to be careful who you talk to and what you say, as the professional community is a close-knit group of folks. There is also the whole "burning bridges" thing to avoid if at all possible. So for two or three weeks of negotiations and paperwork and stuff, everything is scary, secretive, and stressful. That has been mostly handled, and I start my new gig after Thanksgiving. Go me.
As I was sitting in that famous Atlanta traffic on my way home, pondering all of these things and planning my next move, I heard some screeching and looked up to see a guy in a jeep headed right toward the back end of my car. His car was twisted at an angle that can only be achieved through simultaneous braking and steering, his entire body attempting to help slow the car by pulling mightily on his steering wheel...and he smacked into the new Honda. Yes, the car I bought three months ago. The impact knocked my sunglasses off and made some papers cascade comically from the visor into my lap, but I couldn't even enjoy the moment, for I had to use that precious second to avoid hitting the car in front of me and incurring responsibility and expense. So I guess that makes number 4 a big fun insurance claim and leaving the car at the shop for a while.
I arrived home with a stress headache and a bit of a self-pity thing going on, only to find a roach drowning in my toilet. This struck me as very "Things could be much worse, mister asshole with a new job and a new car and a girlfriend who you are pretty sure loves you and a new house." Seriously - as if being a two inch long roach isn't bad enough, he goes for a drink and ends up floating in toilet water for an entire day. Oh, he wasn't dead - roaches aren't dead until they are a pile of paste and exoskeleton. I have seen a roach lying motionless on its back for a week (I didn't clean up much in college), and when I went to grab it with a paper towel, it began to scurry, leading to a very unpleasant death for both the roach and an unfortunate roommate who was in the path of the mini-fridge I threw at it.
So I'm looking at this vile creature bobbing on the surface, wondering when he gave up swimming for the edge and just decided to float for a while. He looked dead, but I'm not stupid, plus I had no plans to save his gross ass anyway, so I peed on him. I tried to fathom how sucky it must be to be a roach - not only did I not feel sorry for what is by all accounts one of God's creatures, I actually made a game out of keeping him submerged for as long as possible with a steady stream of urine. I had a brief moment of terror as I imagined him evolving crazy leg-flippers that allowed him to scamper upstream and burrow into my pee hole, eventually laying eggs in my spine.
I have flushed lots of insects down the toilet, and almost without exception I root for them for a fleeting moment before they go down. This was definitely an exception. He valiantly grabbed onto the side of the bowl and I thought he was going to get out, pin me to the ground and pee on me, so I grabbed the toilet brush and prepared for battle. I deftly jabbed at him and mistakenly assumed that he had been sucked down. Then a movement caught my eye. The little bastard had grabbed the toilet brush, now held above the toilet, and was bent on destroying me.
I slammed the brush against the rim of the toilet so hard I thought the porcelain would crack, and the flex of the brush handle sent the cockroach zinging upward (yes, upward) and he missed my face by a few inches.
This part is a blur, but try to stay with me here - as I recoiled, the piss-soaked diseasebag was arcing through the air, so I spun on one foot and used the brush as some sort of faggy flailing implement. Missing said roach entirely I cleared everything off of the glass shelf behind the toilet and sent it all hurtling into the bathtub. Okay, The Skirt's toothbrush landed in the toilet, but don't say anything because you know how girls freak out about that shit.
I jumped into the tub and began stomping on anything that looked like a cockroach. The Skirt lost a small tube of brownish goop and a hair clip (their fault for looking like roaches and being profiled), and I am happy to report that the cockroach was reduced to a glob of grayish stuff with a leg sticking out.
I guess even the little things that make you think (for me it is peeing on bugs, for you probably something more normal) should be considered with caution, as a simple moment of reflection can get violently out of control in seconds. At least it can if you are me.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 6:54 PM |
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