Month: August 2013

I had to run to the post office, which is always a great time.  There was a line (surprise) full of old women and non-English speakers.  Oh, and the A/C was off or broken, so the smell was great.  One old lady in front of me had sat in what appeared to be cat shit.  To top it off, only one man was working and the lady in line, who was at least 112, was writing a check for stamps, which one can buy anywhere in the country.  Especially at the automatic stamp machine, which was without a line and six feet behind me.  I hate this place.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I heard a middle aged lady on her cell phone.  I would say she was engaged in a conversation, but that’s assuming the other person could actually speak, because she was nearly screaming into the phone and not stopping long enough to elicit a response.  “It’s hot in here!  It’s like a sauna!  Why is it so hot in here?  I think the A/C is off!  Man, this is warm!”  Thanks, no one else noticed until you said something, stupid.  Plus, we got it after the first two references you made to the heat.  I actually wish it was hotter, then you might leave or die or something more pleasant than piercing my ears with your general and dull observations.

This went on for fifteen minutes, the topic being her son/hatchling picking out a dorm.  She made sure the person on the other line, and by default us, knew he was an honor student.  In case it wasn’t clear, she mentioned it about seven times.  As I was leaving (I paid cash – pay attention Granny), I heard her put down the phone and ask the one, sweaty and almost lifeless worker why it was so hot in there.  He looked at her and said, “A/C quit.”  “Are they going to fix it?”  He stared at her for five seconds, rage building, and said, “Can I help you?”  I walked out, but I like to think he did something cool, like flag her mail as full of explosives.  Or filled it with explosives and marked return to sender.

Predictions for the near future –

Kris Jenner is caught selling drugs to children when she backs out of her deal with Satan to make her family famous for doing nothing useful for society.  Ironically, the deal should have voided because anyone that worthless clearly has no soul.

Lindsay Lohan is so depressed from her latest Hollywood bomb that she starts doing drugs and goes to jail for a repeat offense.  Due to the harshness of California’s laws, she has to spend FOUR DAYS in jail.  She is released and amazingly makes an even worse movie than Canyons.  She is so depressed she starts doing drugs and…

Flo from Progressive starts a turf war with the guitar duo from Geico which ends in the violent death of all three.  America declares a national holiday.  There is much celebrating.

Justin Bieber almost runs out of ways to be a horribly annoying douche, but converts to Scientology.  Tom Cruise then marries him, driving thousands of women to suicide.

Fox comes out with another animated series.  It is so unfunny, that the ink used to make it goes on strike and the show is cancelled.

Weed.  Weed.  Weed.  This movie and the whole series was clearly written by potheads.  No wonder they picked James Franco for this movie.  Actually, I take that back, I’m thinking acid or something harder.

The plot is that Oz is a circus magician, gets caught in a tornado and he winds up in Oz – yes, Oz goes to Oz.  Not to be confused with the prison show from HBO, that one was a little less family friendly, with all the shanking and man on man action.  Somewhere, a lunatic is running into a funnel cloud naked hoping he goes to magic world, then he gets ripped to pieces.  Anyways, he hits on a witch, then she gets mad when he doesn’t instantly marry her and turns green.  Reminds me of an ex-girlfriend.

Oz is just a con artist, but uses his tricks to convince everyone he’s legit.  In other words, he’s a congressman.  As this movie goes on, I don’t know how the word midget is offensive, but munchkin is fine.  Seems a little off.  He uses his BS skills and saves the day.  In total, I give it a five out of ten if you’re coherent and an eight if you’re under the influence.  To be fair, just about everything gets an eight if you’re under the influence.  I have fun at Target after nine beers.

After the wedding I went to, which used so much incense I thought I was at a Phish concert, we had some down time.  I went to a bar with two of the bridesmaids’ husbands.  Turns out, they were both motorcycle enthusiasts, which is great because I used to own a motorcycle.  Of course, I rode it twice and wrecked it twice.  I think my longest run without an accident was 97 feet.  I began to drift out of the conversation and flashed back to getting cinders scraped out of my arm in an emergency room with a wire brush.  I don’t ride motorcycles anymore.

The reception was a lot of fun.  Actually, I didn’t really notice because they had a open bar and family style mashed potatoes.  I’m pretty easy to please.  At one point, they did the Cleveland Shuffle, which is some kind of localized line dance, much like the Cha Cha Slide, but more depressing because it’s Cleveland.  The Cha Cha Slide has more lasting power than any other song, thanks to weddings.  Take that, Personal Jesus and Macarena.  I personally don’t care what song is playing, I’m not dancing until my combination of beers and shots hits double digits.  Then about three or four after that, I’m Michael Flatley.  With an untucked shirt.  And beer stains on my exposed wife beater.  Maybe I should avoid weddings.

It wasn’t my Serbian wedding, I’m not Serbian or married yet, but I heard that title all weekend.  I never saw the Greek wedding movie actually, mostly because I’m not Greek and have testicles, thus the not seeing it.  I knew nothing about Serbian culture before my trip, now I know they drink plum brandy/whiskey.  Holy shit does that burn like fire.  I still drank it, because I’m a trooper (alkie) and I respect other cultures (not really, just an alkie).

The wedding ceremony I attended was performed by a fresh off the boat Serbian Orthodox priest.  A lot of chanting, and “sensors” which is what incense sounds like when pronounced by a fresh off the boat Serbian priest.  My favorite moment was when he said, “At theeese moment these two beavers become one beaver.”  I was trying trying to figure out what in the hell beavers had to do with matrimony.  The beaver is rather industrious…resourceful…but it’s a damn beaver, what in hell is he talking about?  Then I realized he said “reeevers” which is actually rivers.  That makes more sense.

The close ties to their homeland and tradition have inspired me to harken back to my traditional roots.  Not Germany, England, Scotland or even my 1/32 Native American roots (every white person acts like they’re part Native American despite the fact there are about seven Native Americans in the Midwest.  Indians either banged everyone’s great grandma or white guilt is pretty strong around here).  No, I have decided to have an all-American wedding.  I will eschew the tux for a hand sewn Uncle Sam or Captain America suit, replace the flowers with sparklers stuck in empty Budweiser bottles, and get a Hummer limo with bald eagle decals.  Now if only I can get another fiancee when mine leaves after finding out I want a white trash ‘Merica wedding.

Last week, I went out of town for a wedding that my lady was the maid of honor in.  I knew it would be an interesting visit, as we were staying with the bride and groom.  About a week before we showed up, the “rules” were posted on Facebook for all to see, like what towels we could use… our hostess, in turns out, has rather intense OCD.

I arrived and was immediately shown the fridge, which was full of beer.  Not like a case, completely full to the gills.  The freezer was stocked with liquor.  I began to do a happy dance in my head and suddenly all was right with the world.  Soon after, however, I took my bag inside.  I was told which trash can I wasn’t allowed to use (the one was for decoration, the other was hidden away for actual use – decorative trash cans?  You put TRASH in them), the rules of footwear and even instructed not to use bleach.  In no scenario ever could I envision ever using bleach as a guest at someone’s house, unless perhaps I was held at gunpoint and told to clean or got the desire to lighten the color of my balloon knot.

I was expecting by week’s end to have to crap with one leg extended or sit on the floor in front of the couch because someone spilled a sippy cup on it once, but then I remembered the magic fridge of beer.  I also realized, thanks to the nearly unlimited supply of booze, I was less likely to care about the dictates issued to me.  Was this deal with the devil worth the price of my soul?  Yes, yes it was.  Now excuse me, I have to shop for customized towels…I couldn’t find the toilet paper.