Month: September 2012

I just sold a dresser and night stand on Facebook in 20 minutes and I had three others interested before the transaction was final.  This will go down as the greatest online business deal in my life since I got the Secret Wars Captain America action figure for $4.  Yes, women love me.

It hasn’t always been roses.  I once sold a piece of crap 48″ big screen projection TV on Craiglist.  I had 12 people interested, three called me, two no showed for the supposed purchase (in which I sat around for hours waiting) and the lucky winner showed up with only $40 – which was interesting, because he agreed to pay me $50.  Oh and I had to carry down the stairs alone, because he had a “back problem.”  I spit in the back of his van when he wasn’t looking.  Have fun scraping that loog off the side in two years when you find it, Dr. Sweatpants.

The worst, though, was this young lady.  She called about the TV and asked where I lived.  I told her…for six painful minutes.  She lived 20 minutes away, but she had the directional sense of a toddler on a sit n’ spin.  It’s kind of hard to explain directions when someone who lives two miles from a major highway has no idea how to there, let alone to my condo, which to her was El Dorado, the lost city of gold.

What made her the worst, though, was the fact she called me back.  Four more times.  Amazingly, she never remembered that she had called me before and asked every time where I lived.  On the fifth call, I lost my mind.  “Where do you live?  I want to see the TV.”  “No.  You live on the north end by the mall.  You don’t know how to get to 270 and we’ve had this same conversation five times now.”  “What?  You’re kind of rude!”  “Yes, I get that way when people sniff gas and forget they’ve called me five times in six days.  Don’t ever call again, I set the TV on fire.”  “What?  Fuck you!”  Yes, fuck me.  For ever answering your call the last four times.

I saw a story about Madonna’s recent concert in D.C.  She took a break between songs to announce if Obama won the election, she would take her clothes off onstage.  This would be nice if it was 1989, but sadly, Madonna now looks like Wendy the methwhore from Breaking Bad.  Somewhere, Mitt Romney is doing backflips.

She then said Obama was a black Muslim (which is what his opponents say sometimes) and he supported gay rights.  Funny, I didn’t know being Muslim was a ringing endorsement these days, what with the whole 9/11…and Fort Hood…and underwear Detroit bomb attempt…and U.S. ambassador assassination…you get the point.

Also, since when do Muslims (which Obama is, according to his words, not a Muslim) support gay rights?  Last check in America we debate gay marriage vs. civil unions vs. no gay marriage.  In Iran, they debate whether to behead the gays before or after the whole throwing rocks thing.  I’m Ahmed and my opponent is against beheading after stoning!  Four more decades!  Four more decades!  In other news, Romney just hired Madonna to campaign for Obama with Hank Williams Jr. and Karl Rove.  I don’t care what side you’re on, but hey Madonna – your crowd is 87% gay men.  I think your side is covered.  Shut up and lip sync “La Isla Bonita” like they paid $150 a head to see.  I’d rather be beheaded than listen to either your tunes or your opinions, but that’s for another time.

I was a little late to game, but this show is just fantastic.  It has also told me some important lessons in case life goes south and I need to cook meth!

– People that don’t talk much are psycho killers.  People that talk a lot are lawyers and ghetto white methheads.

– Your wife may be upset if she finds out you’re a drug dealer.  Keep it on the DL.

– Hydrofluoric acid helps clean up messes.  Just make sure you have the right container.

– Regularly maintain and upkeep your roving meth lab.  It’s a hassle when your drug filled RV breaks down in the desert.

– Brush your teeth, kids.  Or just don’t do meth.

– Don’t be a hassle to your drug kingpin boss…or anyone involved in drugs.  If you break this rule, hide all box cutters, sledges, guns, ATM machines and/or Pontiacs.  Or run like the dickens…forever.

I saw a story last week about a man/idiot who jumped a railing at the Bronx Zoo to “be one with the tiger.”  Amazingly, the tiger mauled him when he tried to pet it.  The hell, you say.  Unfortunately, the tiger must have been full, because it didn’t eat him and they actually had to save this asshole.

What’s amazing is the reporter covering the story found this maniac’s Facebook page saying how he wanted to be one with nature.  After the mauling, he said he was happy because he got to pet the tiger.  I feel like he needs some help.  Everyone knows tigers are more friendly if you cover yourself in a meat suit, like Lady Gaga.  Oh, and make sure you poke it with a sharp stick first!  Then all will be well and the world has one less moron.

I don’t get dancing.  I have no desire to dance, yet I can tell it’s something in people – just go to a wedding and watch kids dance until they collapse.  There’s 20 dancing shows on TV that millions of people watch.  In fact, I would probably never ever dance…sober.

In college, I had quite a few beers one night and decided, for some bizarre reason, to tear up the dance floor…by myself.  What followed was a spinning, knee-dipping back and forth mini-disaster my buddy Jason called the “Heel-toe”, due to the heel to toe shifts.  I actually got an audience of people, which for me, is the worst thing possible.  So, whenever the moon was full and I drank a lot, the heel-toe would resurface much to the delight of my pals.

Well, I had pretty much put that move to rest for all times, after all, I have a girlfriend now and it’s really not fair to unleash all the sexy of the heel-toe on the ladies of the world.  With great power comes great responsibility.  Last weekend, with a couple requests at a wedding (and more importantly, quite a few beers), the heel-toe made its return, much like a Mr. Hyde coming back to ruin the quiet life of Dr. Jekyll.  Everyone on the dance floor was quite amazed at the variety of amazing I unleashed…or they were stunned I was actually doing whatever in the hell I was doing.  My only saving grace was the fact that some chick was dancing like Elaine at the office party on Seinfeld.  I can’t even bad dance better than everyone…well, better stick with my even more well-known dance move – drinking in the dark corner of the bar.

1) Comments on internet posts.  I will probably work on this more, but I dare you to find three internet stories in which no one comments on politics or religion.  It could be a story about pandas and within three posts two morons have a bullet point debate online.

2) Bartenders that give me attitude for not knowing what their microbrew bullshit is.  Do you have something in the Bud Light tree?  No?  Oh, you’re now condescending towards me.  Guess I’ll have the Autumn Wood Barnacle Pale Ale.  Ah yes, nothing but hops and moss in every drink.

3) I hate when people say stupid things and no one calls them out.  I was sitting around a card table once and a guy said, “You know, we haven’t had a good president since Jimmy Carter!”  That’s your go to president?  He might as well have said, “That Nixon was a hell of stand up guy.”  I was so dumbfounded, I just sat there and no one said a word.  What other revelations do you have for us?  “You know, I thought New Coke didn’t get a fair shake.  While we’re at it, I heard people are using bags to pick up dog shit these days.  What’s wrong with a bare hand?”

4) The old husband/wife combo phone call.  “What kind of deals do you have going on?”  Well, actually, I have “TELL HIM WE HAVE A SENIOR DISCOUNT!!!”  Wow, that was loud.  So, what can I “SHE SAID WE HAVE A SENIOR DISCOUNT!”  Yeah, thanks.  I heard that earlier.  So, can I “MAKE SURE HE HEARD YOU!!!”  Oh no!  You’re breaking up!  Click.

5) Dry wedding receptions.  Are you kidding me?  I’m taking back the gift I regifted for this affront!