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Thursday, June 30, 2011
MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!
MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!MY iPHONE'S BACK!!!
I know...I need help...
I know...I need help...
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Pulp Friction
This was an email sent to me from a good buddy who received it from a friend of a friend of the author. To my knowledge, it's fuh'reals. And REEEdiculous. Enjoy.
*****************************************************************
From: XXX
Date: Mon, Jun 13, 2011 at 11:24 PM
Subject: I meet Quentin Tarantino, hilarity ensues
To: XXX
Friendsicles,
You are either getting this e-mail because I've promised I would tell you this story and haven't yet, you're besties with someone I used to hook up with, or because my need for attention and adulation has reached such an all time high that I decided to pick 15 of you at random to listen to this story (most likely explanation), but all the same, below is the (in)famous but true story of how I met Quentin Tarantino...Adam and Ethan, I'll be expecting your short film script of this in my inbox in the next couple of weeks...
Wednesday, June 1st, 2011:
Get a BBM at 8 in the morning from my friend Nicki telling me we're going to a party in "the Hills" that night because the Yankees were in town. But this party now presents a conundrum as a) I didn't know people partied on Wednesdays because I'm uncool and b) I had just run out of clean underwear and hadn't shaved my legs in three days, so I wasn't really in a "party" sort of place. (what's that you say? You're surprised I'm single?) However, after being told to grow a pair, I decided to join the girls after work for this fiesta.
Party time rolls around that evening and despite being a Wednesday, and based on how many trashy girls in short dresses there are, it looks like the inside of any club in Las Vegas has vomited inside this music producer's home. Minus all the hordes of Asians you get in real Las Vegas. I spend my first hour at this party irritated at having to even be there, and then telling the Yankees picture Joba Chamberlain how he'll never be as great as my beloved Brian Wilson. I think he may have called me a lesbian as I was walking away, but I guess you can't blame him since I did choose to wear pants. Anyways, I digress.
Heading back inside, bored out of mind, I look over and notice Jamie Foxx and Quentin Tarantino have joined the melee. Joy. Two more people at this party who could not give a shit about who I am. I go back to texting in the corner while stuffing my face with a hot dog. About an hour later I'm making a drink and realize the pasty tall fellow pouring orange juice into my glass is the man himself, QT. Realizing I kind of have to go for at it this point, in all my nerd glory blurt out: "I'm sure everyone tells you this but I fucking loved Reservoir Dogs. I watched it when I was 11 for my school newspaper, and it's badass." He starts laughing, thanks me, pleasantries are exchanged about how I was clearly a fucked up 11 year old for watching Reservoir Dogs, and we start what appears it might be a delightful little chat about film. Until this happens:
Quentin: Wow so you really loved Reservoir Dogs, huh? Which of my other films do you like?
(this blatant arrogance is the type of douchebaggery that really gets my gourd about Hollywood, so now my film boner has turned to film hate fuck, and I feel the need to cheekily undermine Quentin.)
Me: Oh wow. You know, I really didn't like Kill Bill...
Quentin: What? What do you mean? 1 or 2?
Me: Ehh, a little bit of both. I just didn't care for them.
Quentin: Wow...I don't think anyone has said that to my face about my seminal films.
Me: Perhaps it's because you call them your seminal films. Shouldn't you wait for someone else to say that?
Quentin: You know, you've got a mouth on you. I like that.
At this point, QT puts an arm around me and I'm acutely aware that Quentin Tarantino has an arm around me. As are my four friends, who are all looking at me as if I have grown a second head. To be fair, I am easily the most uncool out of all my friends (I go to Q's in Brentwood four nights a week), so the fact that anyone even mildly famous wants to speak to me is pretty shocking. He's chatting with my friends and I like it's no big deal, I am pretending like this happens every night of my life, and out of nowhere he leans in for the makeout. Yes. True story. I am pulling a frat move and making out in a crowded kitchen with Quentin Fucking Tarantino. I cannot stop laughing AS this is happening, mainly because I see my friends Nicki and Jen literally gag behind Quentin's head, and I really am doing this for the story at this point. We make out some more, take a walk, keep making out, get more drinks, lather, rinse, repeat. Believe me when I say I'm not bragging, because..well...have you looked at a photo of Quentin Tarantino recently? (Please refer to: http://bit.ly/jL4ORR)
At some point in our public makeout, Jamie Foxx comes over and without acknowledging me goes, "Yo QT, ready to roll?" Quentin looks at me and says "Want to come to my house?" Ummmmmm...fuck yes? We get in an SUV and off we go. As I'm in the car though, I realize two things: 1) Making out with Quentin Tarantino is a great story, but there is no way I plan on putting out, and 2) This is a director who makes up fucked up films for a living, there is a 23% chance he could Phil Spektor me, and I'm definitely not ready to die. But alas, I'm already in the car and we're off.
We get to the house, which is gorgeous, and Jamie Foxx takes off with his lady friend (I try to say bye to him and he doesn't even look at me. Jamie Foxx could not have given 2 shits who I was. This is probably karma because I snuck into a screening of Ray in 2004 with my black boyfriend who worked at AMC at the time, instead of buying a ticket). Which leaves me and QT alone in his bar. I spot a photo booth and immediately realize that we must take photos, if for nothing else, proof that this story even happened. (Because I know at least 7 of you right now think I'm still lying, and are pissed you had to read this much. It gets even better, I promise!!) We get a few good photo strips, which I immediately buried at the bottom of my purse lest he take them from me, and go on talking about film. (For you film geeks, this was a great conversation that led to QT cutting me a trailer of my five favorite bad movies, but for sake of some semblance of brevity, I will leave that aside for another day)
After a lengthy film discussion, Quentin suggests we head to bed, which is the point where I really start panicking. I have stalled for a good long time but the makeouts were really losing their appeal because you can only be sweated on so much, and we were getting closer to the moment of truth on whether I'd have to put out or not. The makeout continues for a while longer, and I'm really getting nervous about where the night may lead, kicking myself over not pretending to be more drunk and "passing out", and wishing he'd turn the damn lights off so that he won't notice that I'm wearing Hanes Her Way underwear the size of Canada that I bought at CVS that morning because my life is really just that sad and pathetic. We make out some more, there's a little below the belt action that I try to avoid, as QT has the most unattractive penis I have ever seen (short. fat. nub-like. The chode of all chodes. Boys, those junior high pamphlets are lying when they say that all shapes and sizes are normal. Lying.) Just as I'm about to hyperventilate over the fact that he may try to put that horrific bodily implement anywhere near my Britney, he leans over and goes "Hey..."
I know this "Hey." This is the "Hey, should I get a condom?" hey that accompanies 20 minutes of ungratifying sex. As I'm trying to rapidly think of ways I can agent myself out of this deal, I hear what is without a doubt, the strangest question in the history of my life. Quentin Tarantino asks, "Can I suck on your toes while I jerk off?" What. The. Fuck.
Many of you may have seen this coming, as his foot fetish is WELL documented, but for some of us who spend more time watching Kate Hudson than we do Quentin Tarantino, this was a huge shock. On top of that, I don't even like weird sex habits! A saucy hookup for me is on the foot of the bed, instead of on a pillow. Someone tried to talk me into a threesome once and I cried for an hour. Having someone ask to fellate my feet while rubbing one out was a world I was not prepared for.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I realized this just might be my get out of jail free card on the whole chode in vag issue. After some negotiations about how I would not partake in any of the hand job action were nailed down, I begrudgingly acquiesced. (And by begrudgingly, I realized I didn't have to shtup the dude and said sure why not in about 0.03 seconds) And thus began the weirdest ten minutes of my life - having my feet made out with by an Oscar winning filmmaker while he pleasured himself. Truth be told, it wasn't so bad. I didn't have to do anything (a nice bonus, since I am undoubtedly the laziest person in bed, which some of you can attest to), no bodily secretions were ejected anywhere near me or my feet (thank god, because I imagine it would feel like walking in sand with wet I fucking hate that), and just as I hoped, we went to bed right after.
In the morning, I snooped through Quentin's belongings while he was in the bathroom and now know his e-mail address. He fooled around with my feet one more time (this time without asking, which I found rude), and then drove me back to Nicki's apartment in Weho and that was that.
Most insane experience of my life, and without a doubt, probably the best story I will ever get to tell. Those of you who know me well know of my love of hyperbole, so I'm actually rather sad that I won't get to use "best story ever!!!" when talking about how I scored a free topping at Yogurtland anymore, but I suppose for Quentin I can make an exception. I'll try not to forget all of you little people when my feet and I make our meteoric race (foot pun intended) to the top of the A-List soon.
Till then, I've attached our photo booth photos for those of you who think I still just have a vivid imagination...and yes, he does look like Frankenstein.
Love,
XXX
*****************************************************************
From: XXX
Date: Mon, Jun 13, 2011 at 11:24 PM
Subject: I meet Quentin Tarantino, hilarity ensues
To: XXX
Friendsicles,
You are either getting this e-mail because I've promised I would tell you this story and haven't yet, you're besties with someone I used to hook up with, or because my need for attention and adulation has reached such an all time high that I decided to pick 15 of you at random to listen to this story (most likely explanation), but all the same, below is the (in)famous but true story of how I met Quentin Tarantino...Adam and Ethan, I'll be expecting your short film script of this in my inbox in the next couple of weeks...
Wednesday, June 1st, 2011:
Get a BBM at 8 in the morning from my friend Nicki telling me we're going to a party in "the Hills" that night because the Yankees were in town. But this party now presents a conundrum as a) I didn't know people partied on Wednesdays because I'm uncool and b) I had just run out of clean underwear and hadn't shaved my legs in three days, so I wasn't really in a "party" sort of place. (what's that you say? You're surprised I'm single?) However, after being told to grow a pair, I decided to join the girls after work for this fiesta.
Party time rolls around that evening and despite being a Wednesday, and based on how many trashy girls in short dresses there are, it looks like the inside of any club in Las Vegas has vomited inside this music producer's home. Minus all the hordes of Asians you get in real Las Vegas. I spend my first hour at this party irritated at having to even be there, and then telling the Yankees picture Joba Chamberlain how he'll never be as great as my beloved Brian Wilson. I think he may have called me a lesbian as I was walking away, but I guess you can't blame him since I did choose to wear pants. Anyways, I digress.
Heading back inside, bored out of mind, I look over and notice Jamie Foxx and Quentin Tarantino have joined the melee. Joy. Two more people at this party who could not give a shit about who I am. I go back to texting in the corner while stuffing my face with a hot dog. About an hour later I'm making a drink and realize the pasty tall fellow pouring orange juice into my glass is the man himself, QT. Realizing I kind of have to go for at it this point, in all my nerd glory blurt out: "I'm sure everyone tells you this but I fucking loved Reservoir Dogs. I watched it when I was 11 for my school newspaper, and it's badass." He starts laughing, thanks me, pleasantries are exchanged about how I was clearly a fucked up 11 year old for watching Reservoir Dogs, and we start what appears it might be a delightful little chat about film. Until this happens:
Quentin: Wow so you really loved Reservoir Dogs, huh? Which of my other films do you like?
(this blatant arrogance is the type of douchebaggery that really gets my gourd about Hollywood, so now my film boner has turned to film hate fuck, and I feel the need to cheekily undermine Quentin.)
Me: Oh wow. You know, I really didn't like Kill Bill...
Quentin: What? What do you mean? 1 or 2?
Me: Ehh, a little bit of both. I just didn't care for them.
Quentin: Wow...I don't think anyone has said that to my face about my seminal films.
Me: Perhaps it's because you call them your seminal films. Shouldn't you wait for someone else to say that?
Quentin: You know, you've got a mouth on you. I like that.
At this point, QT puts an arm around me and I'm acutely aware that Quentin Tarantino has an arm around me. As are my four friends, who are all looking at me as if I have grown a second head. To be fair, I am easily the most uncool out of all my friends (I go to Q's in Brentwood four nights a week), so the fact that anyone even mildly famous wants to speak to me is pretty shocking. He's chatting with my friends and I like it's no big deal, I am pretending like this happens every night of my life, and out of nowhere he leans in for the makeout. Yes. True story. I am pulling a frat move and making out in a crowded kitchen with Quentin Fucking Tarantino. I cannot stop laughing AS this is happening, mainly because I see my friends Nicki and Jen literally gag behind Quentin's head, and I really am doing this for the story at this point. We make out some more, take a walk, keep making out, get more drinks, lather, rinse, repeat. Believe me when I say I'm not bragging, because..well...have you looked at a photo of Quentin Tarantino recently? (Please refer to: http://bit.ly/jL4ORR)
At some point in our public makeout, Jamie Foxx comes over and without acknowledging me goes, "Yo QT, ready to roll?" Quentin looks at me and says "Want to come to my house?" Ummmmmm...fuck yes? We get in an SUV and off we go. As I'm in the car though, I realize two things: 1) Making out with Quentin Tarantino is a great story, but there is no way I plan on putting out, and 2) This is a director who makes up fucked up films for a living, there is a 23% chance he could Phil Spektor me, and I'm definitely not ready to die. But alas, I'm already in the car and we're off.
We get to the house, which is gorgeous, and Jamie Foxx takes off with his lady friend (I try to say bye to him and he doesn't even look at me. Jamie Foxx could not have given 2 shits who I was. This is probably karma because I snuck into a screening of Ray in 2004 with my black boyfriend who worked at AMC at the time, instead of buying a ticket). Which leaves me and QT alone in his bar. I spot a photo booth and immediately realize that we must take photos, if for nothing else, proof that this story even happened. (Because I know at least 7 of you right now think I'm still lying, and are pissed you had to read this much. It gets even better, I promise!!) We get a few good photo strips, which I immediately buried at the bottom of my purse lest he take them from me, and go on talking about film. (For you film geeks, this was a great conversation that led to QT cutting me a trailer of my five favorite bad movies, but for sake of some semblance of brevity, I will leave that aside for another day)
After a lengthy film discussion, Quentin suggests we head to bed, which is the point where I really start panicking. I have stalled for a good long time but the makeouts were really losing their appeal because you can only be sweated on so much, and we were getting closer to the moment of truth on whether I'd have to put out or not. The makeout continues for a while longer, and I'm really getting nervous about where the night may lead, kicking myself over not pretending to be more drunk and "passing out", and wishing he'd turn the damn lights off so that he won't notice that I'm wearing Hanes Her Way underwear the size of Canada that I bought at CVS that morning because my life is really just that sad and pathetic. We make out some more, there's a little below the belt action that I try to avoid, as QT has the most unattractive penis I have ever seen (short. fat. nub-like. The chode of all chodes. Boys, those junior high pamphlets are lying when they say that all shapes and sizes are normal. Lying.) Just as I'm about to hyperventilate over the fact that he may try to put that horrific bodily implement anywhere near my Britney, he leans over and goes "Hey..."
I know this "Hey." This is the "Hey, should I get a condom?" hey that accompanies 20 minutes of ungratifying sex. As I'm trying to rapidly think of ways I can agent myself out of this deal, I hear what is without a doubt, the strangest question in the history of my life. Quentin Tarantino asks, "Can I suck on your toes while I jerk off?" What. The. Fuck.
Many of you may have seen this coming, as his foot fetish is WELL documented, but for some of us who spend more time watching Kate Hudson than we do Quentin Tarantino, this was a huge shock. On top of that, I don't even like weird sex habits! A saucy hookup for me is on the foot of the bed, instead of on a pillow. Someone tried to talk me into a threesome once and I cried for an hour. Having someone ask to fellate my feet while rubbing one out was a world I was not prepared for.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I realized this just might be my get out of jail free card on the whole chode in vag issue. After some negotiations about how I would not partake in any of the hand job action were nailed down, I begrudgingly acquiesced. (And by begrudgingly, I realized I didn't have to shtup the dude and said sure why not in about 0.03 seconds) And thus began the weirdest ten minutes of my life - having my feet made out with by an Oscar winning filmmaker while he pleasured himself. Truth be told, it wasn't so bad. I didn't have to do anything (a nice bonus, since I am undoubtedly the laziest person in bed, which some of you can attest to), no bodily secretions were ejected anywhere near me or my feet (thank god, because I imagine it would feel like walking in sand with wet I fucking hate that), and just as I hoped, we went to bed right after.
In the morning, I snooped through Quentin's belongings while he was in the bathroom and now know his e-mail address. He fooled around with my feet one more time (this time without asking, which I found rude), and then drove me back to Nicki's apartment in Weho and that was that.
Most insane experience of my life, and without a doubt, probably the best story I will ever get to tell. Those of you who know me well know of my love of hyperbole, so I'm actually rather sad that I won't get to use "best story ever!!!" when talking about how I scored a free topping at Yogurtland anymore, but I suppose for Quentin I can make an exception. I'll try not to forget all of you little people when my feet and I make our meteoric race (foot pun intended) to the top of the A-List soon.
Till then, I've attached our photo booth photos for those of you who think I still just have a vivid imagination...and yes, he does look like Frankenstein.
Love,
XXX
Monday, June 27, 2011
MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!
MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!MY iPHONE DIED!!!!!!!!
Sunday, June 26, 2011
MoCo Safe Speed is a Big, Giant, F'ing SCAM
Had a wonderful time getting my teeth drilled at the dentist a few weeks ago. Jumped in the car and drove north on Georgia Ave toward 495 to get to work--it was about 11am'ish and there was no traffic, so I was moving at a nice steady pace, no faster or slower than the rest of the few cars on the road. Little did I know I was posing a direct threat to the lives of those around me, and probably my own as well.
Or at least that's what I'm lead to believe having since received a $40 speeding ticket. Not from a human being, mind you, but from a speed trap camera posted at the 9000 block of Georgia Avenue in Silver Spring, MD. I was going 48 in a 35. YES, I know that's over the limit. But...COME. ON. I wasn't street racing. I wasn't weaving in and out of traffic. I was driving WITH the flow of those around me...isn't that the safest kind of driving? Isn't that what we're taught to do???
If I was driving four measly miles per hour slower, the camera wouldn't have tripped; they are designed to take a picture not at every car that exceeds the speed limit, but every car that exceeds the posted speed limit by 10+mph. Now, I realize this is actually to the benefit of Average Joe Driver. However, if you're trying to promote law-abidance...why not promote abidance of the ACTUAL LAW!!! "So, the LAW is 35...but I can drive 44 and that's cool...BUT I can't drive 45 or I'm gettin' my picture taken??" It seems to me that if the people behind these Big Brother machines are so concerned with our safety (which, btw, they aren't, as evidenced by the fact that these tickets don't ever result in points on your record...so really anyone with a little bit of expendable cash doesn't have to give a steaming donkey turd about burning down the road at whatever speed they feel like on that given day), they would have designed these machines to...I don't know...keep us focused on obeying the speed limit imposed by our lawmakers that, we are lead to believe, is based upon criteria meant to ensure maximum safety for those on and around that road???
....sigh....
OPTIONS
Fight the power, my friends! http://www.stopbigbrothermd.org/
Or at least that's what I'm lead to believe having since received a $40 speeding ticket. Not from a human being, mind you, but from a speed trap camera posted at the 9000 block of Georgia Avenue in Silver Spring, MD. I was going 48 in a 35. YES, I know that's over the limit. But...COME. ON. I wasn't street racing. I wasn't weaving in and out of traffic. I was driving WITH the flow of those around me...isn't that the safest kind of driving? Isn't that what we're taught to do???
If I was driving four measly miles per hour slower, the camera wouldn't have tripped; they are designed to take a picture not at every car that exceeds the speed limit, but every car that exceeds the posted speed limit by 10+mph. Now, I realize this is actually to the benefit of Average Joe Driver. However, if you're trying to promote law-abidance...why not promote abidance of the ACTUAL LAW!!! "So, the LAW is 35...but I can drive 44 and that's cool...BUT I can't drive 45 or I'm gettin' my picture taken??" It seems to me that if the people behind these Big Brother machines are so concerned with our safety (which, btw, they aren't, as evidenced by the fact that these tickets don't ever result in points on your record...so really anyone with a little bit of expendable cash doesn't have to give a steaming donkey turd about burning down the road at whatever speed they feel like on that given day), they would have designed these machines to...I don't know...keep us focused on obeying the speed limit imposed by our lawmakers that, we are lead to believe, is based upon criteria meant to ensure maximum safety for those on and around that road???
....sigh....
OPTIONS
- Fight it: Spend a wasted PTO day in court only to have a judge slam his gavel down on my guilty-before-innocent ass, forcing me to pay the $40 AND court costs.
- Pay it: Pay the fee and feel the pit in my stomach harden into stone knowing there's no damn recourse that will satisfy my frustration with this whole ridiculous mess.
Fight the power, my friends! http://www.stopbigbrothermd.org/
Man v. Rock
Just a few pics from Sedona, Arizona--one of my new favorites places on this planet. Crazy awesome.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Add 2 dashes insult to injury...
Was at the pool today here in sunny (skin-scorchingly-molten-nuclear hot) Arizona when my sis and I decided to get our water volleyball on. Whilst preparing the net, a couple of lil' tykes came over and expressed interest in playing with us. Naturally, being the ex-camp counselors we are, we happily obliged.
It was then that one of the pesky ankle-biters offered that we should play "kids versus parents." It took me a second before I realized that the "parents" to whom he was referring might include ME. Eyebrows arched, I incredulously asked the hairless runt, "Who, here, do you think is a parent??!" This, of course, was a stupid question, and I was promptly informed of my new status. Set on pleading my case, I followed up with, "[Aha, you silly bastard...] but I don't HAVE any kids!" and rested my hands on my hips, basking in the glow that only accompanies intellectually besting a 7-year-old. His response, immediate and assured, was, "Well then you're a childless parent!" and sent me on my way to the other side of the net.
.....
........
"Parents vs. Kids," huh? Whatever otherworldly being that arranged for this interaction to take place but a week after my 30th birthday is just plain cruel.
It was then that one of the pesky ankle-biters offered that we should play "kids versus parents." It took me a second before I realized that the "parents" to whom he was referring might include ME. Eyebrows arched, I incredulously asked the hairless runt, "Who, here, do you think is a parent??!" This, of course, was a stupid question, and I was promptly informed of my new status. Set on pleading my case, I followed up with, "[Aha, you silly bastard...] but I don't HAVE any kids!" and rested my hands on my hips, basking in the glow that only accompanies intellectually besting a 7-year-old. His response, immediate and assured, was, "Well then you're a childless parent!" and sent me on my way to the other side of the net.
.....
........
"Parents vs. Kids," huh? Whatever otherworldly being that arranged for this interaction to take place but a week after my 30th birthday is just plain cruel.
Friday, June 17, 2011
I Must Break You
Rocky IV: The Musical...
How has this NOT won a Tony???
And a little Ivan Drago bonus feature:
How has this NOT won a Tony???
And a little Ivan Drago bonus feature:
Like father like son...like Manbaby
Holy Disturbing Fathers' Day-related website, Batman!!
(appreciation to Neiman...the studliest stud west of Pittsburgh)
http://www.manbabies.com/
(appreciation to Neiman...the studliest stud west of Pittsburgh)
http://www.manbabies.com/
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Pity laugh-worthy, apparently
The Dalai Lama walks into a pizza shop. Asks the guy at the counter, "Can you make me one with everything?"
Get it?
Get it??
**awkward turtle**
Get it?
Get it??
**awkward turtle**
Happy Hot Dog Man!!
It's Hump Day...and you know what that means!!!
http://www.happyhotdogman.com/
(Yeah, nothing to do with Wednesday at all)
http://www.happyhotdogman.com/
(Yeah, nothing to do with Wednesday at all)
Friday, June 10, 2011
Dirk Nowitzki...German craftsmanship at its finest
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| It's probably good this picture cuts off mid-torso... |
Clap! Clap! Clap Clap Clap!
DIRK! NO! WIT! ZKI!
Clap! Clap! Clap Clap Clap!
DIRK! NO! WIT! ZKI!
Clap! Clap! Clap Clap Clap!If you asked me 3 weeks ago whether it was a possibility for me to cheer for a Dallas team, I would have laughed in your funny face. Being a die-hard Redskins fan (yeah, no need to make fun...our record and reputation speak for themselves), it is in our BLOOD to hate Dallas teams. Like, if you caught me off guard and jumped in front of me as I was rounding a corner and really quickly screamed out, "What do you hate???!" I would instinctively yell back "DALLAS!!!" like a reflexive, knee-jerk response before actually realizing what was going on.
So it came as quite a surprise that I woke up one morning and found I had a man-crush on Dirk Nowitzki of the Dallas Mavericks. But, c'mon, is it really hard to see why? The guy's awesome. He plays fearless ball, makes shots that just should NOT go in (I mean, his style can only be categorized as "ugly" most of the time), and seems like an all-around nice guy. Admittedly, I don't know anything about his history in the NBA...I really just jumped aboard the Dirk Wagon right before the finals started. But I'm in for good. He's a great player that definitely deserves all the accolades coming his way. And when they win the championship over the Heat--oh, how sweet would that be, King James? huh? HUH??--I'll be doing my Dirk chant from couch (probably to the chagrin of my Wife and Mom, seeing how they care as much about the NBA finals as they do about the controversy over Pluto's downgrade from "regular planet" to "dwarf planet").
And with that, I leave you with one final thought:
DIRK! NO! WIT! ZKI!
Clap! Clap! Clap Clap Clap!
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Killer Veggies?
Felt the need to post this one...I trust the guy who wrote it and it seems like something of which we should be aware.
Plus, "Killer Veggies" was too good a subject line to pass up.
http://natural.getprograde.com/plastic-meal-containers.html?advert_id=steamers
Plus, "Killer Veggies" was too good a subject line to pass up.
http://natural.getprograde.com/plastic-meal-containers.html?advert_id=steamers
Friday, June 3, 2011
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
I. HAAAAATE. COMCAST!!!!
Jag hatar Comcast!!!
Odio Comcast!!!
Ich hasse Comcast!!!
!!!Comcast אני שונא
Я ненавіджу Comcast!!!
Ik haat Comcast!!!
我恨康卡斯特!!!!!!
**hyperventilating.....calming......calming.....deeeep cleansing breath...**
I'm currently on hold with Comcast. I've been dealing with this same problem for the past 6 months. I'll spare you the details; I'll say only that it's a recurring problem that shouldn't be and I've had to call up customer service rep after customer service rep every month to fix their mistakes. And I have to re-explain the whole freakin' story each damn time! AND IT'S GETTING A LITTLE OLD! WHERE ARE THE NOTES???? THEY SAID THERE'D BE NOTES IN MY ACCOUNT!!! WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF PROVIDING MY ACCOUNT NUMBER SO YOU CAN PULL UP MY ACCOUNT IF, ULTIMATELY, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WRITE ANYTHING ABOUT MY PROBLEM--WHICH I INFORMED YOU WAS RECURRING--IN MY ACCOUNT??!?!?!?!?!
**hyperventilating.....calming......calming.....deeeep cleansing breath...**
The part that really gets my goat is there's no recourse. No accountability. I sit here like a little BITCH reaching for the phone month after month--a combined look of melancholy and despair on my face as I contemplate the futile journey on which I'm about to embark--only to wait on hold for 15 minutes until some incompetent customer service rep who doesn't give a rat's ass about my frustration gets on the phone and, in a tone that can only be described as "I honestly care more about what happened last night on So You Think You Can Dance than your problem", tells me they emailed their supervisor--THE ONLY PERSON IN THE GOD LOVING WORLD WHO CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING, APPARENTLY--and I should wait to hear back from them when they read the email TOMORROW because THEY'VE ALREADY LEFT FOR THE DAY!!!!!!!!!
**hyperventilating.....calming......calming.....deeeep cleansing breath...**
You know what this is? This is a civil rights violation. It's a freakin' violation of our civil rights! To have to go through this process every time we need assistance with the oft-busted services Comcast provides?? We should not have to suffer through this indignity--we're Americans! Land of the Free! Home of the Brave! Country of choices and liberties and more channels than, at which, we can shake a stick!! It is not ours to be subject to fierce and uncompromising incompetency and frustration in order to maintain a right for which we pay!!!!
...did I mention I'm still on hold?
Yes, I could leave Comcast. And I very well might, one of these days. But for now, I'm going to fight. I'm going to fight b/c I am a paying customer and HUMAN BEING that is owed a certain level of satisfaction and have come too far to bow out now. I was promised something, and I want them to make good on that promise. It's only just. And justice is non-negotiable.
And, btw, Comcast...your hold music SUCKS.
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
OMG, I HATE COMCAST!!!
I. HAAAAATE. COMCAST!!!!
Jag hatar Comcast!!!
Odio Comcast!!!
Ich hasse Comcast!!!
!!!Comcast אני שונא
Я ненавіджу Comcast!!!
Ik haat Comcast!!!
我恨康卡斯特!!!!!!
**hyperventilating.....calming......calming.....deeeep cleansing breath...**
I'm currently on hold with Comcast. I've been dealing with this same problem for the past 6 months. I'll spare you the details; I'll say only that it's a recurring problem that shouldn't be and I've had to call up customer service rep after customer service rep every month to fix their mistakes. And I have to re-explain the whole freakin' story each damn time! AND IT'S GETTING A LITTLE OLD! WHERE ARE THE NOTES???? THEY SAID THERE'D BE NOTES IN MY ACCOUNT!!! WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF PROVIDING MY ACCOUNT NUMBER SO YOU CAN PULL UP MY ACCOUNT IF, ULTIMATELY, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WRITE ANYTHING ABOUT MY PROBLEM--WHICH I INFORMED YOU WAS RECURRING--IN MY ACCOUNT??!?!?!?!?!
**hyperventilating.....calming......calming.....deeeep cleansing breath...**
The part that really gets my goat is there's no recourse. No accountability. I sit here like a little BITCH reaching for the phone month after month--a combined look of melancholy and despair on my face as I contemplate the futile journey on which I'm about to embark--only to wait on hold for 15 minutes until some incompetent customer service rep who doesn't give a rat's ass about my frustration gets on the phone and, in a tone that can only be described as "I honestly care more about what happened last night on So You Think You Can Dance than your problem", tells me they emailed their supervisor--THE ONLY PERSON IN THE GOD LOVING WORLD WHO CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING, APPARENTLY--and I should wait to hear back from them when they read the email TOMORROW because THEY'VE ALREADY LEFT FOR THE DAY!!!!!!!!!
**hyperventilating.....calming......calming.....deeeep cleansing breath...**
You know what this is? This is a civil rights violation. It's a freakin' violation of our civil rights! To have to go through this process every time we need assistance with the oft-busted services Comcast provides?? We should not have to suffer through this indignity--we're Americans! Land of the Free! Home of the Brave! Country of choices and liberties and more channels than, at which, we can shake a stick!! It is not ours to be subject to fierce and uncompromising incompetency and frustration in order to maintain a right for which we pay!!!!
...did I mention I'm still on hold?
Yes, I could leave Comcast. And I very well might, one of these days. But for now, I'm going to fight. I'm going to fight b/c I am a paying customer and HUMAN BEING that is owed a certain level of satisfaction and have come too far to bow out now. I was promised something, and I want them to make good on that promise. It's only just. And justice is non-negotiable.
And, btw, Comcast...your hold music SUCKS.
Big Willie Style
This. Is. Awesome.
All you a cappella haters out there...this might just convert you.
All you a cappella haters out there...this might just convert you.
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