How To Build A Homemade Turkey Shrapnel Bomb:

1. Wait till your sister and her husband cook a whole turkey in a glass pan.
2. Wait will your sister and her husband place the cooked turkey on the stove top and leave.
3. Decide to heat up water on the stove top in order to cook some cup of noodles.
4. Screw up and turn on the wrong burner. (The one directly under the turkey.)
5. KABOOM! The glass pan shatters in an outward direction before you can react and remove it from the heated burner.
6. Turkey and glass go flying end every direction.
7. TaDa! You have created a Turkey Shrapnel Bomb.
(Yes… I made the mistake of doing this a few nights ago. I was showered in a spray of turkey and glass in an instant.)

ULCERIFIC!

And that’s how I can describe my life at the moment. Both financially and physically.
Seems as though my wallet/bank account just can’t stop bleeding money out. Bills, gas, food, emergency matters; I just can’t staunch the flow. But that’s life I guess.
And with that said we now head into the best of this post.

Friday March 20th 2009 I woke up at 9:30 AM to get ready for work. I was bright and bushy tailed. Ready to take the world on and do my best at my place of employment. And that is a lie. I woke up at 9:30 AM vomiting blood. Over and over again I orally ejected a mixture of bile, stomach acid, and blood. At some point I began throwing up so hard that my nose began bleeding non-stop. It went something like this:
Spray of blood from the mouth
Gush of blood from the nose
Spray of blood from the mouth
Gush of blood from the nose
Spray of blood from the mouth
Gush of blood from the nose

It was an exciting time, boys and girls. At around 10:50 AM I finally called my manager to tell her that I wasn’t making it in to work. The conversation went something like this:

Susan: This is Susan speaking. How may I help you.
Me: Hi Susan. This is Stan. I’m not going to make it in to work today. I’m about to head out to the hospital. I’ve been throwing up blood and my nose has been bleeding for the past hour. I’m trying to get someone to cover my shift.
Susan: Would you like me to help?
Me: If possible… please.
Susan: Ok. But please call me after you get out of the hospital.

With that I was treated to hearing my manager worriedly saying, “Oh my god!”, as she hung up the phone. With that done I managed to drag my bloody puking self to the hospital. Waiting in the emergency room was a real chore. As per the norm the nurse was extremely indifferent towards the blood spattered on my face, shirt, and pants. With a pen and forms pushed in front of me her job was done for the moment.

Once I finally got to see the doctor it was then that my atrocious appearance garnered an actual “human” response. With a start the doctor immediately ushered me to sit. I could tell he was thinking, “What the fuck happened to this guy?!”. Blood was drawn, test were done, questions asked, and finally after hours the doctor let me know what was my ailment. “Mr. Walker,” he said plainly while staring me in the eye. His dead eyed stare sent me into a spiral of apprehension. My head swam with a myriad of ideas of what could be wrong. Of course the worse of the ideas sat on the top of the thick stew of thoughts. Much like large globules of grease and fat. “Mr. Walker you have an ulcer,” he finally stated. With that I was given a prescription and released. Afterwards paid my co-pay. (Look! My wallet is hemorrhaging again!) Before I left the doctor told me that I had to be very careful with my diet. No spicy foods, no alcohol, and no coffee. It was the coffee thing that hurt the most. I work in a damn coffee shop! Telling me not to drink coffee is like throwing a chastity belt on a nymphomaniac who works in a brothel.

So that’s what I’ve been up to lately. And now I leave you with this:

So I guess it’s about time for an update, eh?

I apologize for not having posted anything in a while…. actually…. No. No I’m not. I do what I want!

I’d like to tell you all that I’ve been on a hiatus, a vacation, or some fantastic soul searching trek around the world. But I haven’t. I’ve been working and sleeping. I mainly work at Caribou Coffee from 5 AM to 12 PM. Meaning I’ve been getting up at 3:30 every morning. And now you may be wondering why I don’t get online and at least blog or chat a bit at work.

After work I sometimes take a nap. But I mostly lay on the couch and watch daytime television. By that I mean that I watch non-cable television. (Cable be expensive when you be poor.) Don’t worry. I don’t watch just anything that pops on the tube. I’m very selective in the trash I rot my brain on. My viewing selection is that of The Maury Show, Jerry Springer, and The Steve Wilkos Show. That’s right. It’s the cream of the crop in the realm of trash TV for me. It’s actually become a bit of an addiction. Now I know you’re asking yourself, “Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?!”. Please understand that there’s a reason for this. I really can’t say that it’s a good reason.

You see, every time I watch those shows and their “guests”; I feel a little better about myself and my life as down in the dumps as it is. Four hours (because Maury plays two shows back to back) of watching some of the most disgusting, degenerate, criminal, and useless human beings walking the earth…. and I feel AMAZING afterwards. I can proudly strut around because I know that I AM NOT THE FATHER, I’m not living in a trailer park jobless cheating on my one toothed ecliptic hooker girlfriend with her mom, and I don’t have a bald guy yelling at me telling me that I am unfit to sit on his stage. Sometimes it’s a relief to see how the creepier half lives. Other times it’s damn amusing.

MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY!!
Monday night was quite interesting for me. My sister Brittany summoned me from the dark dwellings of my basement. (That’s where my computer is.) Once I ascended to the stark blinding lights of the living room she dropped surprise on me. Here’s a little back story. Just a little…

When I was 18 my mother informed me that I had a younger half sister the same age as Brittany. I was also told that she lived in Maryland. Her name is Megan. My mother told me that the reason we didn’t know of her was because my father made a deal with Megan’s mother not to contact her. And thus I came across the assumption that I would never meet her.

On Monday my father received a call at work. On the line was a young woman who told him that she was his daughter Megan. She had been searching for him since she was 15 years old. Once my father got her information and got off the phone with her he immediately contacted Brittany. You see, Brittany had been searching for our half sister for a while. Once she got the news she informed me that night. And there was much happiness and dances of joy.

(I will not demonstrate this dance for you due to the fact that most of you are unworthy of seeing my moves. But if you happen to be a hot chick over the age of 21 I might do my “Dance of Seduction”. Let me know if you are.)

We became even more excited when Megan told us that she planned to come to Maryland, and wanted to meet all of us.


Wednesday
Wednesday was of the suck.
Monday my manager went on and on about how it was going to snow on Tuesday and how much she loved snow. I reminded her that I don’t work on Tuesday. Her reply was, “Good. Now you can sit by your window and watch the pretty snow fall.” And to that I informed her that:
1. Guys usually don’t do that.
2. Dark Overlords definitely don’t do that!
3. I HATE SNOW!

Well, Tuesday rolled around and there was snow. I stood by the window for a quick second and cursed the snow in all of its cold fluffiness. After a bit of channel surfing and more cursing of the snow I came across the news. The weather forecast explained that there would be freezing rain Tuesday night and it wouldn’t let up until Wednesday afternoon. Again I cursed the snow.

3:30 AM on Wednesday I rolled out of bed, got ready for work, opened the front door, and viewed a winter wasteland. Everything was iced over with a compacted layer of snow beneath. The ice in the streets was so thick it wouldn’t give way beneath the weight of cars and trucks. If it did, it just compressed it more, and the freezing rain made sure to fill in the gaps. I thought to myself as how best to get to work. My brain plotted a course that seemed sane and safe. “Why the hell were you trying to go to work in that weather?!” you may ask. Because I’m poor. And when you’re poor you will go to work when it’s raining hellfire. You need that paycheck to be as full as it can be.

It was slow going making my way out of parking lot. I got a good ways away and was making progress towards a main street that I knew would be free and clear. I nearly made it to Liberty Road when my car slows and I hear the wheels spinning. When the car came to a complete stop I let off the gas. You see the street I was driving up was a side street with a hill. Hooray for hills! I threw the car in reverse and let it drift back while steering to the side of the street. With sigh I put it in park, put on the parking break, turned the wheel to angle the car towards the grass if it started to drift, lit a cigarette, got out, and walked 30 minutes in the freezing rain back to my house. I called the shift supervisor who was to open with me and informed him that my car was stuck. He told me that he couldn’t make it in either. His court was covered in ice.

I managed to make it into work today but my parking lot is still a slushy icy mess. No salt trucks or plows came through. I can’t really blame the state of Maryland for this. They actually did their job and made sure all the main and public roads were clear. The problem here is that the community I live in is a private community. The so called “Housing Committee” here is supposed to take care of salting, plowing, and street maintenance. We pay them money for a mandatory membership. And they’re oh so quick to jump on your ass if they think your grass is too long or you can’t paint your house a certain color. But in dire situations they’re dead-sloth-slow to do what they’re supposed to do. And to that I’d like to give the super special “F-U” award to my housing committee. I’d also like to give that award to the morons who walk on the icy streets with vehicular traffic around because they don’t want to get their shoes wet in the snow on the grass.


People are stupid assholes.

"With great power comes great responsability"

And with no power comes Stan blogging on his cel phone. That's right, there is no power on my block at the moment. I am currently sitting here in the dark, blogging on my Blackberry Curve, wondering why it's going to take BGE (Baltimore Gas and Electric) till 10 pm to get everything running again, and listening through the walls to my neighbor yell at his kids. BTW, I'd like to mention that I hate MD and BGE with passion. Hopefully the power comes on soon so that I can make a proper blog post.

Last night

Last night’s post was brought to you by the lovely and generous “PINT OF RUM!”.
I’ll have something a bit better in a few……. Maybe.

What is up with Stan right now........

It’s been a long hard road out of hell. And I’m not even sure if I’ve crossed the border out of the infamous hot zone. What I do know is that things are a bit easier going lately. Not as smooth sailing as a year ago but much smoother than a few months ago.

For those who don’t know I was unemployed for three months. “Feh! Three months is nothing.”, you may say. Yeah well, I was unemployed for three months with whopping 300 dollars in pocket, debt collectors screaming for my blood, and the all too human need to eat…. sleep…. have a home…. blah blah blah. In the end it was just horrid timing and bad planning on my part.

So, during that time I sold all my gaming consoles, sold all my games, and sold a massive chunk of my movie collection. This allowed me to float until I found a job. And find a job I did. In fact I found two. I now work part time at Caribou Coffee and GameStop. I absolutely love working at Caribou, but it’s hit or miss each day with GameStop.

I have lurked, loomed, slunk, and hung out at the Caribou in Owings Mills since it first opened. Due to that I have come to meet many of the company’s locals. And come to love them. In fact I dated one of the managers. During the first three years I would offer my help during closing. Such as, mopping the floors, cleaning counters… so on and so forth. During my stint of unemployment it really didn’t surprise me that I landed a job there. What really surprised me was I got a job at GameStop beforehand. I really hadn’t expected that. The GameStop job came first with the promise of $6.55 and hour and then two days later came Caribou with the promise of a bit more.

So I work both jobs right now. I won’t say which job “nets” me more money. But I will say that Caribou is my most fave job right now.

BTW!..... Even though I’m new to the “Coffee Server” scene…. I’m already bitter to those who insist on ordering the super-elaborate-extravagant-complicated-psychotic coffee drinks. So if you’re the super crazed “Half Calf-more decaf than caff- half soy mixed with half 2%- with a touch of 2%- and maybe a dash of fat free chocolate” lady….. I am so ready to beat your face in!!! ORDER A REGULAR FUCKING DRINK!

That’s it for tonight. Maybe I’ll have something sober and sane for you tomorrow.

I'm still alive.

Life has taken a stressful turn.
I was unemployed for about a month and a half. It's taken me a while to find a new job (actually it's just two part time jobs). So basically I devoted my time to sleeping, eating, and job searching.
(I actually got a lot of really good sleep in.)

Currently I work for both GameStop and Caribou Coffee.

I'll go in depth about the rigors of me being unemployed in a later post.

America has got to be bored

Did you know that there is a sport called Speed Stacking?
It's a sport that involves stacking cups. No really I'm serious... cup... stacking.. in high speed.
While watching it it seems amazing, but at the same time I have to wonder how fucking bored America must be.
Well we have football, basketball, baseball, hockey, lacrosse, blah blah blah... Oh I know.. Lets see how fast someone can stack cups!
Don't believe me? Well here it is!



Oh keep watching and you'll see the next epic Olympic event!

Webcomic

Seems that I created a semi sorta kinda maybe almost webcomic/blog. I'm not sure what the hell I'm going to do with it, but there's content at least.
Check it out and tell me what you think.

Herniated Sanity

Now back to your irregularly scheduled programming.

The post titled "Coasting" has been moved.
Not like anyone reads this thing.

Crank Cases and The Right Of Way

One of these little guys would really come in handy at work.

So here I am in my second week of the new job.

Currently my job title is Utility Engineer. Which is a very nice way of saying, “High Priced Janitor”. But the truth is that I do a myriad of things. I sweep, mop, clean, do the yard work, and I even get to help the guys in the compression building while they work on the epic sized engines. The compression building has its name because it houses 12 GIANT engines which compress natural gas and send it on its way up the pipeline along the east coast.

So far here is what I’ve learned while on the job.

1. There are many machines that start automatically without warning. It’s best not to have your hands on or near the moving parts when they kick on. In fact… don’t touch a damn thing.

2. No matter what you do you will get dirty. No, really. You can sit in an office all day and somehow end up with engine spooge on you.

3. Everyone and their freaking mother will get in your way and drive 10 under the speed limit when you’re trying to drive to work.

4. The gas powered lawn trimmer is not toy. It is a weapon. (insert evil laughter here.)

5. The leaf blower is safe. WRONG! It too is a wonderful weapon.

6. There are large fans in the roof over the compression building. There are also stupid birds that nest near them. This will result in headless birds from time to time.

7. No one bothers you when you’re wielding gas powered lawn tools.

8. The brooms and mops do not start automatically.

9. When you work with old guys you’re going to have to hear “advice” and stories of their family. Whether you want it or not.

10. There are warning signs for a reason. Don’t touch them. They may start automatically without warning.

11. Sometimes in order to repair a machine you’ll need a very large wrench. And in order to operate that very large wrench you’ll need another machine to lift and operate it. Don’t touch that machine! Please see #1 for reference.

And all that was learned on my first day.

Friday they decided to throw me a loop and made me “take a walk”. This meant that they were going to make me walk the “Right of Way” for a flame ionization test. This required a group of us walking the pipeline for a while with machines meant to detect if there are gas leaks in the pipeline. This means that we get to walk VERY long strip of land through people’s back yards. The area we walked Friday was through the neighborhoods and lawns of the rich. I’m sure it’s very unsettling to mow your lawn and find 4 men in yellow hazard vests waiving detection wands as they stroll through your yard. Here’s a nice conversation that I had on my walk.

Me: Morning sir.

Guy: Good morning. What are you doing on my property?

Me: I’m doing a flame ionization test. There is a pipeline of natural gas that runs from the gulf of Mexico up the east coast. We periodically check the pipeline to make sure there aren’t any leaks.

Guy: There’s a pipeline of gas under my back yard?

Me: Actually this area we’re searching belongs to the pipeline company. This little stretch isn’t part of your land.

Guy: Well shit! I guess I can stop mowing your lawn then.

Walking the pipeline isn’t as leisurely as you’d think it would be. There’s many obstacles to overcome as you stroll. Fences, hills, unyielding traffic, dogs, ponds, and marshes. There’s also the expectable unexpected things. Such as stepping on the leg of a deer corpse or into a groundhog hole. And then there’s the shit. After a while of walking I began to keep track of the different piles my foot fell into. It was if my boots became a crap magnet.

Dog: That’s a given. Walking through yards you’re bound to hit a steaming fresh pile of 20.

Cat: It happens from time to time. Walking the pipeline means you’ll hit areas that feral cats frequent.

Deer: You’ll hit a few wooded areas. And where there are woods there might be deer… and deer shit… and deer ticks. (we’ll go into the ticks later.)

Duck: And um gross.

Goose: Goose droppings are extremely nasty. And it seems to be EVERYWHERE.

Rabbit: You don’t really step in it but on it. No harm no foul.

Unknown: There were a few lumps that I just couldn’t match. Perhaps a bear? Or a squirrel with IBS?

You also learn that you should be wearing rubber boots. Sloshing about in mud and muck there’s no way to keep your shoes or pant legs clean and dry without the protective powers of rubber. Needless to say, I was ill equipped and the crew didn’t think to key the new guy in.

So far the new job has been interesting and surprisingly fun.

I leave you now with…..

Yes... That is cheese. CHEESE!

The End of Days

Well here we are at the last day. The end of days.

For those of you who don’t know. This is my last day working as a sales rep for a games distributor. I’d like to say that I made the decision to move on to greener pastures or something like that. But no. I was actually canned. Fired. Terminated. Asked to get the hell out. But they did it in a nice manner in which they asked for my two weeks. In turn I managed to finagle till the 30^th of June. The stipulation was that if I found employment elsewhere before that date I would submit my notice.

That elsewhere employment I found was working for Williams Pipeline. We’ll go into that on another day in another post.

Yes. Here we are on the last day as a sales rep at a desk job.

I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that there’s a surreal feeling that comes over an employee on their last day. A feeling of odd empowerment in which you can do anything.

I started the day with a check list of things I wanted to get done before the end of my last day. It started out with noble intentions. But with all things I put my mind to it became a bit warped. I’ve managed to complete all the tasks on my list and have begun doing other things which I haven’t added to the list yet. So far here is what we have:

Action	Status	Outcome
Clean out the office:	DONE	Clean office
Give unwanted items as gifts to coworkers:	DONE	Bewildered coworkers
Read over all the funny emails:	DONE	Maniacal laughter
Stroll aimlessly through the offices:	DONE	n/a
Call all customers and let them know you're leaving:	DONE	Many well wishes from people who hate you
Send out a mass email to everyone in the company:	DONE	Many well wishes from people who hate you
Dance up and down the hallways:	DONE	Instant 30 min. dance party
Laugh maniacally at random:	DONE	Scared coworkers
Grind crotch on office chairs and desks:	DONE	People afraid to touch things
Punch a coworker:	DONE	Laughter of many. Hurt chest of one.
Use the term "Fuck your face" continuously:	DONE	Riotous laughter and some bewilderment.
Loom over people as they work:	DONE	Wary coworkers
Glare at anyone who makes eye contact:	DONE	Scared coworkers
Hiss at anyone who talks to you:	DONE	Scared coworkers
Make lewd comments to coworkers:	DONE	Giggles
Proposition people for sexual acts:	DONE	No takers. (Thank goodness)

I need a smoke… and a towel.

Kansas... my birth state.... home of the WTF!

By no means will I defend the state of Kansas or its inhabitants. And even though I have just admitted that I was born in Kansas I will adamantly deny it if you confront me about it.

Well, I guess Kansas can actually be a nice place despite the tornadoes, crappy winters, lack of anything interesting to do, and various other things. I mean if you’re the type of person who wants to sit on the shitter for 2 years straight without someone hassling you, then Kansas is the place for you.

A little too far maybe?

Jeez! They went all sorts of ballistic on this kid. It was a bag of candy!

I wonder if there were headlines in the school news paper about a young vice president caught in the illicit act of contraband candy purchasing.

“Skittles was quoted in saying that it had to take the ‘bus’ to meet up with ‘Student 9’ in class.”

Really.. School authorities need to calm the hell down!

And this part gets me too – “The New Haven school system banned candy sales in 2003 as part of a districtwide school wellness policy, school spokeswoman Catherine Sullivan-DeCarlo said.”

What the hell?! Yes I know Americans are becoming notoriously unhealthy and obese. But damn! It almost seems like one step closer towards ditching that whole “land of the free” part.

Listen up kiddies! You eat what we tell you eat!

When humans can’t… an animal will.

This doesn’t really surprise me all that much. Humans seem notoriously inept at aiding wildlife. I’m betting it went something like this.

Dolphin: Hey, how’s it going? You guys alright?

Whales: Oh hey! I’m sure glad to see you. We’re a bit lost. The humans seem to be trying to help but they’re just screwing us up. You know what they say, road to hell… good intentions and all that.

Dolphin: Heh, yeah. The humans are a bit “slow”. Just follow me.

Whales: Thanks! Oh look. The stupid humans are watching and waving.

Dolphin: Ugh. Humans are retarded.

Whales: Heh. Stupid humans.

And that is how a dolphin would “Free Willy”. (Sorry. You had to have seen that one coming.)

What?! No jail for fat people?!

Well would you look at that!

It seems that as the average size for humans is increasing, the average size for prison cells is not. You have no idea how happy this makes me. Morbid obesity seems to be a get out of jail card! I can commit atrocities against mankind and not do jail time so long as I manage to become ecliptic by the time they find and arrest me.

Police: Well damn! That’s one fat bastard! I don’t even think we can transport him without a forklift. Eh… just leave him at home.

I can has prostitute?

I know you’ve already heard about this. You’re most likely tired of hearing and reading about it. But I’d like to take the time talk about this.

Honestly, I don’t blame the guy. I mean look at her! She’s freaking hot! Hell I’d pay for that. I’d probably kill one of my family members for some of that. I’d definitely kill one of your family members for that.

And it says that she had a MySpace account too. I have a MySpace account! If I had known that I would have sent her so many friend invites! We would have become great friends in no time. And next thing you know I’m getting discounted rates on services. But no.

Maybe I should I go into politics.

Remember:

Politics = Hookers!.... or candy.

Now if you don’t mind I need a smoke… and a towel.

Look out! It's Random Man!

This is mainly randomness here.

Today sports guy comes to me and tells me that he keeps hearing a knocking at his window and doesn’t know what it is. My first assumption was, “It’s probably a bird attacking its reflection. Birds are dumb like that”. And I would be right. Moments later sports guy returns raving about how it’s a cardinal. Again and again sports guy returns to tell me about the knocking cardinal. I believe it was a total of 5 times he told me about it. And if I count the times he’s told each and ever coworker individually I’ve heard the story a total of 14 times. So sports guy gets the bright idea of doing something to make sure the cardinal doesn’t return. He recalled how his parents would put plastic owl statues in their windows to keep birds away. His magnificent idea is to put an action figure on the window sill outside. I’ve heard this part of the story a total of 6 times now. He’s even pulled me into his office to show me his achievement. I haven’t the heart to tell him that I couldn’t care less about the damn bird knocking or the action figure deterrent. But at least he’s not talking to me about sports today. Small favors I guess.

I think that the bird wasn’t actually attacking its reflection. I believe it was actually trying to get to sports guy. But being that birds are notoriously dumb it was going the hard way about it, through the glass. Eventually the killer cardinal will catch on to sports guy’s plan. One day sports guy will find his action figure pooped on and when he steps outside the cardinal will carry out its insidious assassination plot. Look out sports guy! Cardinals are red for a reason!

And now I will entertain you with pictures of my car accident from years back. (I was speeding down a road called Red Run Blvd. And now I know why it’s called that.) I don’t really remember much from it but I do remember how simple my thought processes became during the ordeal.

“Oh man! I’m headed for the curb. It’ll be alright. It might mess the car up a little.”

“World go spinning?” (this was when the car hit the curb and began to roll like a log. I was told that it rolled 4 times before coming to rest on its top.)

“I need a nap. Here good.” (This is when I woke up upside down, undid my seatbelt, crawled half way out of the car, and settled in for a nice nap in the grass.)

I woke up as people were rushing about asking me questions. There was a man with the thickest mustache I have ever seen cradling my head and smiling down on me. It was comforting and creepy all at the same time. So I learned that people hit you with a barrage of questions that seem simple to answer normally but after an accident you end up stumbling like a one legged mentally disabled kid in a dark room filled with awkwardly placed furniture with the promise of pudding at the end. I also learned that after you answer their questions they won’t answer yours. I don’t know how many times I asked “what happened?” and got silence as a reply. That just makes everything worse. Especially when you try to get up and they instantly freak and keep you pinned. For an hour or so I thought maybe I had lost a leg or I was horribly mutilated from the waist down. My mother and sister arrived shortly after I was loaded into a helicopter to be air lifted to a hospital. (How awesome is that?!) Mom discovered that she could outrun my sister if she needed to. The roads had been blocked off a ways away from the scene and without hesitation my mother broke into a crazed sprint. My sister confessed later that she had a hard time keeping up with my mother. (I’d like to state that at the time my sister was in high school and playing soccer. She was and is a very physically fit person. Mom was in her late 40’s and not very physically fit. Adrenaline does wonderful things.)

You can find some of the hospital incident here. It’s located in the rant about hospitals, doctors, and underwear.

So anyway… here’s the few photos we have from the incident.

But wait! There's more random stuff!

This is a picture of my rabbit Skitters when she was just a wee baby.
I'm actually just putting this hear so someone can look at it and say, "Awwww so cute!".
Skitters is a little sweetheart who seems to have developed an identity crisis. She believes that she's a puppy. The little fuzz-bit gets terribly excited when people are around, follows you through a room, and licks hands. Yes, you read that correctly. She licks hands to show affection.

Want to see my oubliette?

(The title of this post is not a sexual advance.... unless you're female..... and it worked.)

Sometimes I don’t have anything funny to rant about.

Sometimes all I have is trough of murky depression. I’d ignore or forget about these things but unfortunately they won’t ignore or forget me. They follow me, plague me, hound me, call out my name endlessly like obnoxious children, and poke me while I try to sleep. These wearisome moments weigh on me. The easiest way for me to dispel or deal with them is to write them down. Share them with the world. Like a small child pointing at his first “big kid” poop in the potty. Except no one is smiling and we’re all thinking the same thing, “shit!”.

But rather than clutter up this blog with sad sack prattling and miserablities, I’ve decided to toss them somewhere else. I’ve created an oubliette for my ennui. A veritable glory hole for when my cup runneth over. A mass grave for my failings, self depredations, and self deprivations. Sure I could post them on Overlord Complex with a comical twist to them. But sometimes the effort to make something so depressing into something funny is just too much. And the easiest way to say “I’m miserable” is to say “A coma sounds nice right now”. Life isn’t always funshine. And when it’s not I have….. (drum roll or some such silliness)………

An Oubliette for my Ennui

Don't worry kiddies. Overlord Complex is my main blog which I will be posting on most of the time. The other is well... a dump...

With great power comes great “reeshponsuhbiluhtay”

I was once asked why I only read the odd and bizarre news.

The reason is because the standard news is nothing but politics and things that make me want to eat a brick.

There’s no real blog today. Just random ranting. (most of it unfounded because I couldn’t be arsed to actually research and backup my opinions. Deal with it!)

I can has alty-mate-ums?.....

Honestly I believe that this is a great tool/idea that could go horribly wrong.

In the words of a good friend, “sites like MySpace and Facebook are nothing but places to whore yourself out”. And I believe him. Because I have a MySpace page… and I’m a whore. I should probably go touch up my MySpace photos with a few fresh “shirtless in the bathroom” pics.

Ok, I’m not really a whore, but for the right price… and you’re a hot chick….. (What?! I’m in need of the cash and I could use a little play too.)

While this addition to Facebook would be a great addition for activists and people looking to do some good in the world, I think it will ultimately be wasted. Lets face it. The majority of the people on Facebook (and MySpace) are of the “lolcats” variety, children, morons, or webcam wenches. (I’m probably one of those…. Or all of them. I’m not sure. And I’m whore also.) Think about it. Their main motivators for having these accounts are to whore themselves out, regurgitate the latest internet meme, and try to get laid. Now imagine giving them this potentially useful tool. Sure some of you out there (probably not me) would use this nifty “Ultimatum” tool for the betterment of the world. Or at least you’d use it intelligently (once again… not me). But then there’s the drooling masses. Place this tool in their grimy hands and you know it will only be used for drama and lolcats. With ultimatums like, “if enough people sway in my favor then the action is that all the hot chicks on my friend list have hot steamy sex with me. If they sway in the other direction then the action is that three of them get with me”. (That’s actually not a bad idea. But how to implement it? I know! I’ll start a Facebook account and use that Ultimatum thingie!)

Just remember kiddies. With great power comes great “reeshponsuhbiluhtay”.

Proof that the past will haunt you….

Holy crap! It’s like the Butterfly Effect in real life!

But really folks, the guy is 71. There’s not much you’re going to get out of him at this point. Now I have to make sure that the chicken nugget I threw away at lunch time doesn’t somehow land me in jail fifty years from now. (by the way, there’s a sequel to the aforementioned movie that I’m avoiding like the plague. If you’ve seen it let me know how it is.)

How freaking big are the poop chutes in India?!....

Ok, I may not be a doctor… but my dad is an ObGyn, which makes me an expert by proxy. All I have to say is, “What the hell happened to the umbilical chord?!”.

This will turn into one of those odd baby stories the parents tell the boyfriend or fiancé. “Yeah, we found her on the train tracks… after she fell in the toilet.”

I can’t really fault the mother though. The baby was 3 months premature. That and every time I have Indian food things slide right out of me too.

Japan is so freaking cool… and scary at the same time…

I don’t have much to say about this one. You can laugh if you want to but think about your mom. Think about the times when you were a kid where she seemed like an unstoppable force of your impending doom. Think about the times where sweet lovable mom scared the shit out of you. Now put boxing gloves on that.

Yeah, moms are scary.

SAY MY NAME!!

Heh!.. I drew this
I thought it was funny.
Therefore it is here.

First some strange news!

Hey kids! We screwed up… and you’re going to eat it. EAT IT ALL!

Well damn! I wish my elementary school had done a “traditional school lunch week”. But nooo! The best I got was what we unlovingly referred to as “roadkill pizza”. Rectangle slabs of cheese, pepperoni shavings, and sauce on top of crust that had a patterning beneath that strangely resembled tire treads.

By the way... can anyone tell me why the school lunch gravy always had that vague greenish tinge to it?

I’s in yo yard! Eatenz all ur dawgz!

I’ll have to admit that I laughed while reading this. By no means am I dog hater. Well except for Chihuahuas. I can’t stand the yappy little ankle nippers. They’re the physical embodiment of Napoleonic Syndrome. Anyway… Read through this and you’ll see many things that I laughed at. The majority of them are cases of human stupidity.

Large beastie stalking your pet for days and you do nothing…. STUPID

You find the big bastard in your pet’s bed and do nothing…. STUPID

Flinging plastic chairs at 110 lbs. of crushing death…. STUPID

Owning a tiny yapping rat of a dog…. STUPID (but that’s just my personal view there.)

But really, I do feel bad for that pup. Well actually only half of it. The terrier half. The other half can rot in Chihuahua hell for all I care.

I also feel bad for the kids that saw it happen. That’s going to screw them up for a while. What a really messed up way to see the beloved family pet go out. Although if you play it right it could be something absolutely bad ass! It’s all in the way you retell the story later on in life. A little embellishment here and there and next thing you know Mr. Scampers is a freaking hero sacrificing himself in order to defend you and your family from a rampaging python. Hells yes!

Adults are morons…..

I don’t have much to say on this one.

Parent = MORON

School Administrator = MORON

It mentions that the child’s choice in hairstyle was a distraction to his classmates. Well duh! They’re in kindergarten! Everything is a freaking distraction to little kids.

I really feel bad for this kid. All he wants to do is rock a Mohawk but all the adults around him are morons.

Sorry kid. Maybe if you wait till highschool where you’re under the delusion that you can do what you want. Fight the power, damn the man, blah blah blah….

I’ve just noticed that not too long ago I had made some sort of promise to deliver a movie “review” for every blog post. (WTF is up with that? I must have been drunk or something.) And it seems I have not been living up to that promise. To this all I have to say is, “Shut Up!.. in fact.. STFU!”.

Yes I still have no life. Yes I still watch at least one movie a night. Yes if I so felt like it I could write up some sort of review. But you know what? This is my damn blog. I will do what I want when I want. I’ll tell you what I want when I want. YOU’LL READ WHAT I WANT YOU TO READ! (A translation of that would be, “I was too lazy to type up a review.”)

It’s occurred to me that a number of people I have known for years believe me to be a Jr. (junior). Granted my name does have the suffix of “II” at the end of it. But this in no way makes me “junior”. I asked my father about that years ago and his reply was, “because I didn’t want people calling you Junior. I hate that. So I purposefully put a roman numeral 2 on your birth certificate.”. And to that I thank my father. I’ve known many a “Junior” who tend to dislike being called by that moniker. (By the way, if you ever want to piss my father off, call me Junior in front of him. It’s hilarious.)

It doesn’t really anger me when people refer to me as Junior, but I will correct them on the spot. What angers me is when they reply with, “yeah! That means Junior”.

No! No you dimwit! By no means does a roman numeral 2 mean Junior. It’s the 2^nd! THE 2^nd! Jr. means Junior! And I am not a junior because nowhere in my damn name does it say “jr.”! You’re fired! Clean off your desk, go home, and shoot yourself in the face!

And this brings us to my name in use at the workplace. It was brought to my attention a while back that people I’ve been working with closely for the past 6 years still don’t know my name. Please take a moment to look on the right side of the screen. There you should see my name. Yeah there you go… right there… under the “About Me” section. See it? That’s right, my name is Stanford. Just like the university, and just like my dad. (because I was named after him… duh.)

So for 6 years three particular coworkers insisted on calling me Stanley. To which I promptly verbally corrected them. I even gave them options other than my full formal first name. Six years of saying, “It’s Stanford. Just call me Stan,” every morning is pretty aggravating. One in particular would be a fellow sales rep who felt the need to announce my presence every time I passed by his office. In a shout he would call out “Stanley!”. He would even go so far as to put emphasis on the “ley” by pronouncing it in a higher shrill octave. It was a triple insult. Wrong name screamed in a shrill painful tone with an emphasis on the part of the name that makes it wrong. I was always torn between correcting him or running away before he could produce that obnoxious noise again.

After a while I decided to implement “Project: Say My Name!”. This project was designed to get my three coworkers acclimated to my actual name. It went a little something like this:

Stage1: Signing interoffice documents.

I began signing all interoffice documents and emails with my full name. (Complete with roman numeral 2 suffix.) It soon turned out that no one reads an email further than the body. They don’t care about your signature at the bottom.

Stage 2: Wear a name tag.

This one died the day it was implemented. Coworkers have an aversion to reading any text located on the body. This is due to fear of sexual harassment charges or having another coworker think that you harbor feelings for them. For the whole day people would refuse to look lower than my neck. A whole day of having people look me in the eyes when they talked. (And I swear if they had smiled at the same time I would have taken it as an act of aggression and probably attacked them.) It was a really bizarre feeling. I kept thinking, “I’m a guy! I don’t have breasts. It’s alright for you to look at my chest. I really don’t mind. I even wore a name tag welcoming you to look”. All in all at the end of the day I felt it was a failed attempt. (That and everyone’s refusal to look at anything other than my face made me feel very unattractive.)

Stage 3: Do unto others!

This one lasted a whopping 3 days. I spent three days responding to these three people by calling them by random names. It resulted in them thinking that I was crazy. (Which in itself has its benefits…. but not many.)

Stage 4: Resignation.

That’s right, I gave in. I’m sorry dad, but my new name is Stanley Junior. And I guess by default your name is Stanley Senior.

It’s easier this way. People will think what they want and call you what they want. Even if they’re wrong. There’s no use in correcting them because the wrong info has ingrained itself and will never fade. Your name will forever be Stanley.

Stage 5: (Work In Progress)

This stage is still in the planning process. It involves a lead pipe, bricks, and a bit of pain. I figure that it’ll be hard for someone to call you anything at all if they no longer posses the ability to form words. I just have to find a way to implement it without the police showing up. They tend to ruin everything… with their guns and batons……

I’ll be mulling this over while I eat my “traditional dinner” tonight.

Yes I drew this one too.

Can I have a blanket?

I spent my whole work day being productive!...... reading odd news articles. Because that’s my job. Really I swear. Oh just shut up and keep reading.

This has got to be one of the most drastic and interesting breakups I’ve ever heard about.

We smokers may be silly for killing ourselves ever so slowly, but some non smokers are just psychotically crazed.

The future is watching you.

This thing is hella cool and creepy at the same time. I want one. (Mainly so that I’ll have someone/something that will pay attention to me.)

I wonder if it’s a one size fits all type deal.

Sweden is so freaking awesome, their hospitals give you underwear to wear! My stays in US hospitals have always been sans underwear and wrapped in that flimsy napkin they call a hospital gown. It’s always disturbing how you suddenly end up naked whenever you go into a hospital. It has to be some strange medicinal voodoo they learn while in medical school.

Doc: What seems to be the problem Mr. Walker?

Me: My throat has been bothering me lately.

Doc: Lets take a look.

Me: Ok.

Doc: Abra-ca-nudie I sees yo booty!

Me: GAH! Where the hell are my clothes?!

And then there’s the time I rolled my car 4 times and ended up in shock trauma. There was at least some forewarning in that one. But even still, I ended up on a table with my goods exposed to the elements. Good thing they had me doped up. That just made everything alright… for the time being.

Doc: Ok Stan. We’re going to have to cut your clothes off.

Me: huh? Ok… but I just bought these jeans.

Doc: *snippity snip*

Me: Am I naked now?

Doc: Yes you are. (he was stifling a chuckle at this point. I was told later that I was quite comical while doped up and suffering from a concussion.)

Me: Can I have a blanket?

Doc: No, not yet.

Me: I don’t like this.

Doc: Now we have to roll you onto your side to check you for internal bleeding.

Me: I don’t like you now!

My recent experience was just before my hernia operation. I was standing in the post op area with my mother, once again garbed in the flimsy napkin, and staring at my surgeon as he went over the notes just before putting me under and cutting me open. Without warning the doctor whipped up my gown to take a look at the areas he needed to fix. I’m not going to go into great detail of the incident. But I will say, if it hadn’t been for my mother’s lightning fast ninja reflexes she would have gotten an eye full of my junk. And that’s something I don’t want to live with. Imagine sitting at family dinners staring across the table at your mother in silence and thinking, “You’ve seen my goods… and that’s not good.”. (Yes I know she changed my diapers and whatnot when I was a baby. I know that she has seen me nude before. But that was back when I was a small child. A lot of things have changed since then, and some of them a mother should not be privy too.) I do love how the doctor maintained an apathetic stare as he poked at my stomach. Meanwhile the nurses and my mother have heads turned away almost to the point of breaking their own neck, and I proved that a black man can blush.

US hospitals are sinister and full of nude people. I have a feeling it’s some sort of incognito porn recruitment center. I’m sure there’s some sort of manual the doctors refer to. I’ll ask my dad.

He’s a doctor you know….

Probably why I have so many siblings…..

I think I’m going to go into the medical field…..

To help people……. Really…..

So in short (which wasn’t so short because I talk too much and will go off on rants, tangents, and run on sentences.) if I don’t make it in the medical field I’m going to pack up and move to Sweden. Because their hospitals give you underwear to wear. And that’s just freaking awesome beyond belief. Don’t believe me? Go have an extended stay in a hospital and see how much you beg for undies. If not for you, then for the creepy old lady who shuffles down the hall past your doorway.

Shake it grandma, shake it. Just somewhere else.