Monday, April 30, 2007

This story is part of the roommate story countdown.

The defining moment of my residence with Brad occurred late one night on my way in from work. Brad was having trouble getting his new universal remote to operate on his stolen TV he purchased remote-less. He asked me to fiddle with it, and while I was doing this, he, I, and the dude from jail had a nice little chat. I actually enjoyed it. I can't remember the topic, which I'm sure Brad felt similarly three minutes after the moment. But as we broke to retire Brad demands that we all get high, not a situation I'm comfortable with.

Brad smoked a lot of dope. That's it for this paragraph. Excellent character development Rory.

The man would repeat stuff over and over again, each time in a fresh and exciting way, as if he was enlightening me to something, but he was stupid as hell and I feared that if he realized I was an intelligent person he would start asking me for help with things. This would build a relationship, ultimately leading in him offering me more drugs. So my goal was to give him the impression that I was dumber then he was, which was also my only source of amusement. He goes on vacation for a week and he wants me to feed his gigantic fish. His fish eats meatballs - I'll repeat this cause it's awesome - it doesn't eat fish food, it eats balls of prepared meat. For four days he tells me what I have to do, and each time I have to ask the same stupid questions to insure he believes I'm an idiot.

This came to a front; borderline disabled was about how dumb I was acting. With the only topic of conversation between Brad and I being football, he felt the need to mention during each discussion that he had attended every Raiders home games since he was eight, "even the ones in LA." One Sunday afternoon I caught him at home during a game. Out loud I wonder why he's not at the game: "Does it look like I'm at the fucking game?" I guess there goes that streak. His reaction wasn't a big deal though, except short of "where's my keys?" this is the last thing he ever said to me.

My theory is that I crushed him. I pounded him with so much imbecility for a college educated man teaching the neighborhood children that I was depleting his will and a seemingly innocuous comment, "you're not at the game" was the straw that broke the camel's back. I relished that victory.

  Sunday, April 29, 2007

I haven't quite figured out how to make this funny yet.

  Saturday, April 28, 2007

The first time I lived in the world supporting myself, I had a roommate, Brad. Of the people in the 'rent's under $500 a month club' Brad seemed the least creepy and had a cool fish tank. What I didn't know was that Brad was a drug addict with a memory problem. I had two other roommates during that time. The first a girl, kept to herself and only was there a few months. The second was fresh out of prison. I moved out shortly thereafter.

There's a lot of little stories that paint a picture Brad being a terrible person to live with. He was messy and smelly, immature, and inept. Some of the creatures he brought home after dates were interesting, the way he treated them was too. I have a lot of unfinished writing about Brad. It just wasn't self-sustaining prose, and I never had much of a reason to get it out there.

The problem with Brad was not the illicit drug use, the debauchery of women, or the gross incompetence, but that I thought of him less of a roommate whom I share with, and more of a captor. It was my responsibility to stay in the room, keep quiet, and not upset him. Like I didn't feel privileged enough to use the kitchen because I might clean something wrong or not put something back in the right place, and that would be an inconvenience for him. It better served both of our purposes to just stay out of the way, I kept to myself. I paid for a room, that's all. I didn't use the living room. I didn't make a sound. And even though now my roommate is neither a drug addict or a slob, and actually a really cool guy. Our place isn't mine, I just have a room, and its no different. I avoid using the kitchen, I won't do laundry if he's home, If there are guests I'm shut in my room like a pet that isn't people trained.

Trying to be as insignificant as possible is no way to live a life. A while ago I resolved to move and I will be doing that this week. I need to be on equal footing with those I live with and I'm not ready for that, so I'm going out on my own. I have to believe that independence will lead to me more thoroughly exploring some of my interests.

Like Brad, I have a lot of untold stories about my current roommate, whom many of you know. This week, while I'm busy moving, I'm going to use those untold stories to count down the top roommate moments of the last two years, and then I'll fill you guys in on my new place.

#5 - Leftover Brad Stories
#4 - Brownie Points
#3 - People Who Live in Glass Houses
#2 - Madden, Money, and Meat-Lovers
#1 - Dollar, Dollar Bill Y'All

  Friday, April 27, 2007

On the awesome scale:

An unconquerable canker sour < trying to figure out what to blog on a Friday night < listening to an Celine Dion Album.

  Thursday, April 26, 2007

In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police who investigate crime and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. This is not their story, but there are cops and attorneys and I totally dominate them.

I got a ticket for, as stated in the violation section of said ticket, "SMC 11.50.320 - STOP SIGN" and "SMC 11.20.340 - INSURANCE, NO PROOF OF." I write it out all legally like that because I'm fighting this thing. The issuing officer followed me through five blocks and three turns, may have even ran over a few pedestrians (blogger picks up my misspelling here, originally 'pedestrains', which sounds like a train you step on to get the flour off of the top shelf, or a guy who molests trains), waiting for me to mess up because I cut him off. He was flying down the street 20 miles over the speed limit, 100 feet from a red light, and around a bus blocking our view of each other, but damn if I'm not hell on wheels. When he observes what he interprets as me plowing through a stop sign, he pulls me over; having my insurance in an envelope back home is just gravy.

Stop sign violations, being in the category of a traffic infraction, would probably raise insurance rates. Married-to-lawyer-work-guy convinces me of a foolproof strategy to fight it. He gets speeding tickets all the time; he gets speeding tickets on the way to fight speeding tickets and he's gotten out of every single one. We game plan, and I send back the ticket requesting a contested hearing. It's on.

Two weeks later I get a letter in the mail from the Municipal Court of Seattle with the date and time of my Pre-Hearing Settlement Conference. I have no idea what this is and I read this piece of paper a hundred times. Lawyer for a Wife has no clue either, his usefulness in this whole story is debatable. According to the letter, its a meeting with a magistrate to settle out of court, but if unsettled a hearing can still be scheduled, so we conclude that it can't hurt.

The magistrate is this scary ass beast of a woman, and she takes me back to her lair so we can discuss my malfeasance. She asks me to explain my situation and I told her I didn't run the stop sign. "Well, why are you here?" she asks. What do you mean why am I here? I'm here cause you sent me a letter that said this is when you're scheduled to be here and I didn't know that was an invitation to go deep sea fishing. "Oh, I guess someone didn't read the form." No she didn't. Please enlighten me, where on the form amongst the repeated notices of scheduled hearing times and requirements to show up does it say, don't show up. Who are you to judge me... other then a judge. I could recite this form, I even let a dude who has sex with a lawyer look at it.

Before leaving for this thing, everyone told me to keep my cool, don't argue, and say as little as possible; meanwhile the over/under on how much I'm going to have to pay is higher then my original fine amount. Heading their advice I said none of what I was just thinking. I left and they scheduled my hearing. Trying to go all legal drama, I flirted with the cute scheduler girl for information to find out if having the officer present would hurt or help my case, though my definitions of 'flirt' and 'pester' are practically interchangeable.

STAY TUNED FOR A THRILLING CONCLUSION

  Wednesday, April 25, 2007

My expert level Minesweeper score is consistently under 300, which is good. I could go pro; it's easily enough to get me drafted. If there were a Heisman Trophy of Minesweeper, I would totally be the favorite.

  Tuesday, April 24, 2007

My boss has been sending emails to our entire group that are obviously directed at me: "Attendance at the Daily Meeting is Mandatory," "Please Justify Your Overtime Hours," "Coming in After 10 AM is Unacceptable," "Clipboard Tennis is No Longer Allowed in the Office," "You Are Expected to Wear Pants Throughout the Day."

This is a fun game.

"Photocopying Your Nuggets is Against the Company Code of Conduct"
"Urinating During Orgasm is a Serious Health Concern"
"My Whiteboard is not a Haven for Hate Speech"
"I Do Not Have Mange"
"It's Inappropriate to Ask Coworkers to Remove Things From Your Pants"

What a hoot.

Anyway, I'm becoming obsessed about this kind of think. Everything is talking to me. At the supermarket, there's a discount on non-fat dairy creamer, and I'm annoyed because I wouldn't want that and you're just wasting my time telling me. "Speed Limit 65," thanks sign. Someone carved “STYX RULEZ!!!” on the bathroom stall door. How do they know I think Styx sucks, and is this really the best way to convince me otherwise, in the bathroom for everyone to see? Start a conversation, I’ll give more credence to the point you’re making.

  Monday, April 23, 2007

Why do they sell luggage at the airport? Are people typically coming in carrying all their clothes for the week in a mound piled up over their face when, "Sweet, a luggage store! Perfect!"

  Sunday, April 22, 2007

This is another committing myself to do stuff posts. Sunday's are typically boring; there's reason to suspect that they will soon not be so much, but that's queued up for another story. Next Sunday I'm going to outline the specific criteria, and the motives behind this, then on ensuing Sunday's I'm going to start going to different church's and writing church reviews.

Can you feel the excitement!!!

I'm putting off the actual going to church for a couple weeks for what you'll have to believe are legitimate logistical reasons, but also, I need to figure out how I'm going to make this funny.

  Saturday, April 21, 2007

I just finished the last of the Easter candy: the Starburst Jelly Beans, the Robin Eggs, and now the Hershey's with Caramel, or as I like to call them - following the progression from Hershey's Kisses, to Hershey's Hugs, and now these - Hershey's Third Base.

  Friday, April 20, 2007

I slicked it back before I put my hat on for the day, and now I have rooster hair. Stay back ladies. I'm still working on my wattles.

  Thursday, April 19, 2007

So last year it was, "It's those bitches own fault if they don't want to take advantage of me being around."

I need a new slogan; something to express things to come. It can't be cliche or inspirational, it needs to be original and derisive to be truly reflective of myself. Something that implies a great undertaking. And, if this even needs said, it absolutely must use the word 'bitches.'

So far the best I got: If you're on your ass, the bitches have already won.

I don't think that quite does it.

  Wednesday, April 18, 2007

The cafeteria is always playing lame oldie, popish music while serving me undercooked vegetables, but today a familiar tune caught my attention

I want a girl to call my own
I want a dream lover, so I don't have to dream alone

It's Dream Lover, by Bobby Darin. Every one's heard it. I was already thinking about erections (when am I not!) and I had a revelation: This is totally a masturbation song.

There are plenty of songs about churning one out: Green Day's Longview, Blister in the Sun, or the obvious, I Touch Myself. This is a song written in 1959 though, and since I'm not doing any research on this, I'm can proclaim the earliest musical account of pud pounding ever.

Read the song and replace every instance of "dream alone" with "masturbate" or whatever term you want to use, and the song still makes perfect sense. That's not just it; throughout the song his references to his "dream lover" imply that he's content with her just performing the same operation:

And know the magic of her charms - like a snake charmer, charms.

And the hand that I can hold - with my wang.

And I've never even taken a single class on music interpretation.

  Tuesday, April 17, 2007

I can remember a day when the post-office would stay open until midnight on tax day. The news those nights were filled with footage of people in a line out the door and down the street, like they're trying to buy concert tickets, only their crouched on the sidewalk frantically trying to add their wages to their taxable interest.

I never saw the point, you could do your taxes in the comfort of your own home and just drop it in the mailbox before midnight. I assume now that its like in the movie Independence Day, when all the people are partying up on the roofs of the buildings that get blown away first. If you're going out, you accept it and go out in the most spectacular way possible. So if you are going to not finish your taxes, you want to be there with a bunch of other procrastinators in a tax night party.

Living one block away from the Post Office now, I go down to check it out, and the bitch isn't even open. Where's the Adjusted Gross Income drinking game, or the girl who can't add up her exemptions right, but will blow anyone in the 33% tax bracket. Then there's the dorky guy who nobody real likes, but he gets invited to the party anyway because he knows how to fill out a Form 4868. Gone. All gone. It's that blasted Internet and their damned e-shit.

  Monday, April 16, 2007

I've been telling myself I'm going to go to perform at an open mic for some time now. I have the material, just not the patience to organize and practice it. Nor the testicles to get up there without complete confidence it will go over well. I will need these things, but most importantly I need to commit to doing it. That's what this is. Before these 100 days are over, I will perform at an open mic.

This is a cop out in lieu of me having something insightful to say about some topic. Not all these posts will be cop outs, but I promise, that like this one, any of them that are will add more to my plate.

  Sunday, April 15, 2007

Keacher brings forth the idea to write 100 blogposts in 100 days. This is wholly unpossible, but I came up with a good little aphorism not too long ago to motivate myself to do shit, "Do something just to see if you can do it." So before I can think more reasonably about this, I'm doing it. The only exception being Keacher's rule that states 100 words or less. That's a bitch since the first paragraph alone is already at least 227 words. Unless all my posts resemble this one that rule's getting booted.

I'll hack away for a while on some crap in the funny file. It'll be unrefined, but I'll get better. There may be some shit no one cares about. I'm a lazy ass, so my journey starts tonight with this post. 99 to go.