R.I.P. Angus Goldfish

For those of you who don't read Rev's blog...
1.) Shame on you!
B.)You didn't hear the tragic news...

My best friend in the whole wide world, Angus, recently passed away.
Angus Goldfish, died on September 7, 2009 at 7: 23PM.
He was born to a one finned goldfish named Lucky and grew up in Russian pet shop till he was sold to a midget stripper in Bolivia who wanted fish in her stilettos.
The midget Bolivian stripper was drawn to the United Stated in hopes to make it big.
However, fish in a shoe isn't really what strip joint folk want (who knew) and Angus (then known as "the fish in my left shoe") was quickly discarded.
One rarely misses a chance to see a midget stripper, and luckily, I was there.

Angus, so named for Angus Young from AC/DC (and because I REALLY wanted a cow), came to me with athletes foot and the gout, but after 26 trips to the vet, 3 years of physical therapy, and a visit by John Madden, Angus made a full recovery.

Sadly, after 9 years, 5 months, 27 days, 16 hours, 32 seconds, and 55 milliseconds, Angus died of Swim Bladder Disorder.

I was called at work by my crying mother (he was like a son to her) and tried to escape a little early to have a service all our (Angus and my) friends could attend, but that prick, Lt. Rogaine, wouldn't let me go, even though we had 3 full housing units.

So, because I got home SO late... I held the bowl side service, for a Goldfish among fish, that no one could attend.

Angus was survived by his two sons Bon and Brian, and his BFF (Best Friend Forever) Vinnie.
He was a proud member of The Fishtian Church of Bob, and a volunteer for the Boy Scouts of America's "First Look at Fish" Program.

He will be dearly missed.


Don't let 'em catch ya.

V.V.

I Need Some Space!

Really here, folks.
I could fill a small apartment with my big stuff, and a big apartment with my small stuff. (which I'm not suppose to sweat on)(not sure I get that...)
Of course, if I tried to get everything in my head into a building, I ah, need to rent some space.

On a more less serious note, my closet is full and the floor is getting close.
I have a walkway, from the door to the bed, and the chair...

I'm like a teenage girl with shoes.
More than 5 pair.
Black, brown, boots, tennis shoes, sandals, Chuck Taylors, work boots... few more.

Four or so "junk drawers."
It's all stuff I need, eventually.

I could get a storage building, but then I wouldn't have all the stuff I need, eventually.

More organization really isn't an option either.
Ya know, OCD and all.

Maybe I should just buy a couple of houses...

S'all I got.


V.V.

The Anomalies of Man

Confidence is a strange thing, isn't it Ms. Freud?
One may not have the confidence to make assumptions, in a conversation on the phone, or through text message, or Instant Message.
However, face to face is a different thing.
Text and IM are viable means of communication, though, much is left to interpretation.
Neither can be hear, so voice inflictions and body language are lost.
The phone is a bit better, one can hear laughter or patterns of speech.

However, one can not beat the absolute wonders of face to face conversation.
It compiles all means of communication into one, very interpretable form.
The words are all there, like text and IM.
The sound of a laugh, a smile, or even uneasiness is ever at the ready.
The pure visual effect of body language, which can be understood when there is but silence, on point.

So while a woman may be radiating pure joy and happiness through written word, it is the unspoken language, that brings it all together.

So, Ms. Freud, while slightly unsure through computer and phone chat, a man is much more himself when he can hear, see, and feel, that he is truly wooing his lady.
To not only see her face smile, but her body open up in a smile all its own.
To look deeply into her eyes and know that she's hiding her true feelings.
To see not only her tears, but to feel her pain when her body closes.

So while I may have my doubts through the week, I know, when I see your face and body smile, I am exactly what you want.


At the beginning of each new meeting, we start out somewhat nervous and tense, it takes only a short time for us both to know what was said without sound, is felt when seen.

Of course I'm confident when I'm with you... That alone is a sign I'm doing something right.


And while "The Notebook" plays in the background, and my thoughts drift to you, it takes but one look into your eyes to know... what we both know, but won't say.

Tonight, again, The Beatles.



Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

Yard Sale Day

I didn't do much yesterday, but today I got out and drove around a bit.
Yesterday was get the scooter fixed day.
The ex drove it with a flat tire for about a week and ruined the tire.
So yesterday it got fixed, and today was ride the scooter day.
Until I got out and rode the scooter...
Then I realized it wasn't ride the scooter day.
I saw at least 2o yard sale and garage sale signs.
I thought about counting, but decided against it.
I don't like driving barefoot, and I only have 10 fingers... well, 9 & 7/8 thanks to my door incident.

Did spring cleaning come late or something?
It's almost fall and we're just now having yard sales?
I was completely unaware today was the day.
I could have gotten a basket, and $50 cash and bought everybody else's junk.
Then again, I'd have to have a yard sale of my own to make room for all my new stuff.

So, I decided, after 20+ yard sales it was time to get the heck out of town.

Out this road I've never been down, down this road I've never seen, repeat, repeat.
Since I got this bugger I've been trying to get lost, but I haven't done it yet.
Today was no exception.
I didn't know where I was, or where I was going, but eventually I figured out where I was and got home.

Good thing too, after 60 miles on a moped, my butt started to hurt.
It's gotten used to my cushy car seat.

Tomorrow will be ride to work day.
Monday maybe, try new songs at choir practice before the real choir practice, and Tuesday is new fast Internet day.
I'm getting tired of all the old Internet problems.

I wonder if I can play YoVille on the Wii?

Maybe I'll recycle Midtown Miscreants Fast Eddie Friday, since he gave up blogging.

Stay tuned for Conan O'Brien with special musical guest "One Night Stand!"

Don't et 'em getcha.

V.V.

The People I Work With

Patrol car people are an odd sort.
Kind of like Circus People, or Carnival Folk.
It takes a special breed to do what they do.
It's not for everyone. (That's for sure.)
There used to be a guy, slow southern drawl, [think Johnny Cash on qualudes or Val Kilmer playing Doc Holiday in Tombstone (last 10-15 minutes)] who would report, "Zone 5 is two little kitty cats a-playin in the fence."
While humorous, it's not really appropriate, or professional.
Even kinda looked down upon.
But it's occasionally acceptable by newbies, to an extent.
Luckily.
Last night, however, we had the joy of birds from a girl who's been here a minute...
"Zone 5 is clear but the birds."
Hmm, that's interesting.
I say, "10-9?" ("Come again?")
"Zone 5 is clear, except, I mean, there's nothing there, but there's some birds."...
"10-4."
Phones ring off the hook.
I answer one, (Usual patrol car guy asking if HE can talk about the birds.)
Sarge answers another, jokes galore.
"Should I bring my gun?"
"Can you play something by The Byrds?"
"Zone 4 is birds and squirrels wearing ninja suits in a fight to the death!"
The list goes on and on.
She'll probably get a talking to.
Maybe a stern one.
She probably WON'T get pulled from the car.
And she probably WILL be in it again sometime this week.
Maybe this time we can hear about the monkey running wild in Zone 10, or the mongoose at Zone 2.

Maybe she'll recite parts from "One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest".
Or the part in "Dumb and Dumber" where they talk about Petey.
...
Maybe not.

"More on this story as it develops."

Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

Fragile and Insignificant?

At some point or another we all feel fragile.
Something or someone touches our heart as they pass by in this life and it strikes us just so.
And we've all felt insignificant a time or two.
Especially in my line of work where they make you think all you have to be is breathing.
Well, between that and the inmates never change, they're always the same and every time we lose one, we get a bus full to replace them.

We are all fragile beings.
And in our professional setting, we may feel insignificant, but personally, we're not.

Example: A man starts dating a girl, who, because she has problems showing emotion, starts doing something illegal. From there she gets arrested and put on probation. He breaks up with her, for whatever reason, and she goes back to the bad stuff to cope. She gets arrested again and goes to prison. Her kids grow up with their wife-beating father, not knowing their mother, and turn out to get both the wife-beating, and the illegal activity, because that's what they know from their parents. Eventually, they will both, ultimately end up in prison, and I will have to supervise them.

Now it stands to reason that these kids would have never gone to prison had the man never dated this woman.

Lets take it a step farther, since the kids grew up in an abusive home, one of them flips out and beats the hell out of me on the yard.
NOW it stands to reason I wouldn't have gotten a (probably well deserved for some of the things I've done) beat down, had the man and woman never met.

The consequences of ones actions can be monumental, and stretch far beyond the here and now.


On July 4th, a friend that I went to high school with died in an auto accident.
Someone had taken the keys and he, somehow, got them back.
I didn't even know.
On one hand, I haven't gone to a puking rally in a REALLY long time, so of course, I wasn't invited to this one.
I guess that's part of growing up and maturing faster than other people, you don't get invited out much.
So not being invited, I didn't make him go, I didn't put the cup to his lips and make him drink, I didn't give his keys back to him, and I didn't watch as he drove away inebriated that night.
But when I heard about it (the day of the funeral)(that's how much I'm out of the loop with the high school guys) and went to the funeral, as I stood there with my dark sunglasses on, looking more like a meat head among a crowd full of them, I heard them laugh and tell stories, but I wept.

I didn't get him drunk, didn't make him drive, but maybe I did.
Maybe, if I would have been more neanderthal in my younger years, I would have been invited, could have been much more sober, and drove him home if he wanted to go that bad.

In a roundabout way, I could have saved him.

Then again, he could have saved himself.
He could have skipped the party, or passed out there, or someone else could have stopped him.


No matter what, it's amazing how fragile life is, but how insignificant it's not, and how one thing different might change it all.

So be careful of your choices.
The life you save, could be your own.


We're gonna have Brandon S. and Ozzy Osbourne play us out of here.
Give both of these a listen.

Especially Brandon S., I'm really diggin this song right now.

V.V.

It's Been A While

It's been a while, so I figured, with all my new free time [read: single] I'd write a bit.
Thursday started off well enough.
Left early to pick up TB, as implied by our coworker GS, and drove to work.
Arrive early, new for me, and chat.
Learn the Head Poobas already know I'm hiding brains.
Beaver Dam!
Assume duties for the day.
Day shift burns out.
Cool.

Then the tide comes in and, apparently, a sewer main has busted, because this water is not fit to swim in.
First thing out of the gate, the main radio goes down.

Most of the camp can hear us, but we can't hear them, and they can't hear each other.
This happens at a great time!
Transfers on site and IPs to be done.

The beginning of the day is a very busy time.
Staff in, staff out, paperwork, work crews, transfers. (If it's transfer day the paperwork doubles, if not triples.)
And when the feces rains down (metaphorically speaking) we get flooded with Captains and/or Lieutenants.
Sometimes a Warden, Investigator.
Could be anyone.

A few weeks ago we had Bob Hope!

If it's not enough to have whatever the problem is, that adds the King Butt Chewers looking over your shoulder.

Sometimes, however, it's not a problem.
Capt. Stretch is a harmless sort, but on a good day, Capt. Spit might tell you to, "Shut the f*ck up!"
Just for fun.

Why anyone lets the stress of this job get to them is beyond me.
The stress, or action, as I like to call it, is my MO at this job.
That's why I went to the Hive, why I went to Shipping and Receiving, and why I'll probably live out my life at one or the other, or the yard.
High traffic, high action, (high attention) big fun.
And when the action dies down, and all is calm and, dare I say, ("Dare, dare!") quiet, you can sit back and relax a well deserved rest.

Because the sweet is never as sweet without the sour.
And believe me, I know sour.

Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

In the event that you haven't seen this movie, go out and rent it.
Buy it.
Buy two and give one to a friend.
It's a really good movie on it's own, but what really makes it is the fact that it highlights how we should all live.

Benjamin is born old.
Cataracts, arthritis, most of the things that the elderly face everyday.
But as time goes by, Benjamin grows younger.

Wouldn't it be nice if we all lived like that?
What most people fear now is growing old.

We're born young and spend all our best years working towards retirement that, once achieved, most of us are to worn down by the grind to enjoy.

This man, however, starts out old and almost crippled, and works all his older years growing younger.
By the time he can retire, he's only 2o-3o years old.
Everything I wanted at 2o, got it.
Nice house, nice car, wife, children, junk and stuff, everything.

In the end though, it's still the same.
Born unable to take care of ourselves, in diapers, confused, and always in need...
And that's how we usually die.
It's just the middle that changes.
4o in your 4o's no matter what.
But think, your mid life crisis you'd be able to enjoy that sports car you end up buying.


The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Give it a look.

Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

If You're in a Happy Relationship, Thank an Ex

I was just thinking about all the things I do that get on my (future) wife's nerves.
How I've grown up from my first girlfriend and how little by little, I am becoming the man I want to be.

But it didn't happen overnight.

Actually, this began with me reading over all my previous posts and seeing how I've grown just here.

Then, as often happens, one thought led to another and I thought of people who have influenced my life.
An ex that, when we were together, told me something is wrong with boots and shorts.
One that taught me what it meant to be responsible.
One that taught me what "through better or worse" really meant.

And I thought about Bella.

We've both had rough pasts and talked about meeting each other before.
What would be different?
Would it be better or worse?

In the end I think if it hadn't been for everyone we met before, we wouldn't have the person we have now.

It's been said, and everyone has heard, there;s someone for everyone.

Some people believe in "The One."
That fabled one perfect person made just for them.
And some may think, "From the billions of people, how will I ever find that one?"
There's some truth to the old saying, though it isn't exactly like it seems.

Through all the mistakes of our previous relationships, we find what we like, and don't like, about the opposite sex.
At the same time learning to better ourselves, and be better, for the next.


Sometime, throughout the day, or week, or anytime really, take a minute and think about an ex, and what you learned from them.
Something that helped you get from them to now.

For me, maybe it was one that taught me what it meant to give without expecting anything in return, maybe it was the one that taught me laughing will ease stress from the tightest places, but if I had to pick only one, it would be the one that taught me to love like a child.

Mind always open, heart always new and fresh, like it's never been broken, and like it's never seen pain.
Ready for the new, mindful of the old, and strong.
Love like you've never loved before.

Everyday.


V.V.

Talking in Code or This Isn't Going to Work Anymore

I just want to touch on something briefly.

Well, a few things.



I got back with my running partner Chuck a few days ago, and I wanted to know if he'd found out any information about something I didn't want to talk about right then.

BUT, if I didn't say something about it, since it wasn't really important, I'd forget all about it.

So I pose the question, in a room full of people...

"Have you heard anything about the thing with the deal?" (Note: There is no deal, thing and deal substitute a person place or thing.)

And he replies, "No. He I haven't talked to him since then."



To the average person, this isn't enough information to know anything at all about anything, but when you're close to the people you work with, you pick up on things.



I've heard that women, when living together for a while, eventually begin their monthly cycle together.

I guess it's kinda like that.

After working in close proximity to a person for a while, you pick up on what they're doing.

At certain periods of the day, in The Hive, I can say, "I'm gonna go do the thing with the stuff."

Everyone knows what I'm gonna do,

Pass or kick trays, pass diet bags, smoke, potty break, wing walk, check the self-harm guys.

It could be almost anything, but they know what it is.



It extends past the Hive though.

We (and maybe everyone) can say something to that affect and be understood by others.

To an extent I don't understand.





I've been back since Wednesday.

I've spent 2 days at my assigned post.

If I count tomorrow, I'll be back 6 days, and in someone elses spot 4.

1/3 of my time spent away from my new job, at my old job.



I wouldn't mind this, but the higher-ups, in their infinite wisdom have told me to learn this new job before next week, because I'm gonna be the lead man really soon.

Wait...

Learn your job quick, in the day I leave you there, because even though it can't be learned in 6 months, we need you to have it down to an art and able to train others by next week.



But we're not gonna let you work there, you'll just have to learn it my osmosis.

You're on the camp, you should know it by now.



I've spent as much time on my new post as I did in the year and a half I spent on utility, roving the camp everyday.



Something is definitely wrong here.



But all I can do is sit around and complain.

What could I do more than bend over and take it up the tailpipe?



I could get formal, and throw some paper around, and I may...

But all it's really going to do is...


I have to be honest.
I started writing this, then the Internet went down on me (grin) and I don't know what I'm talking about anymore.

I wrote it all, but it didn't autosave it all.

So, whatever.

I'm basically alone on the desk tomorrow.
It's gonna be something.


Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

The First Day Back or No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

The day started out great.
Went to the doctor.
Got released back to full duty.
Spent some time with Bella.
Took a nice long shower alone.
That wasn't so great, but it's the first time I haven't needed help washing my armpits.
Went to work.
A little late but, I was there.
Anyway, when I get there, they tell me I'm going to the hospital.
Inmate #23752378 (random number) had a diabetic problem and needed help out.

So myself, the ass clown I wrote about in "Assistance is Futile," and another officer are watching over this guy while a nurse takes some blood and he says "I've gotta pee."
No big deal until...
The nurse gives him a plastic pee pot and he won't go.
It takes this nurse about less than 5 minutes to get tired of this and threaten (and use!) a catheter.
I thought there would be a slight downtime to get supplies ready.
Little did I know that they come pre-packaged now.
Pull this tab empty contents, clean and insert.
I'm already close because he's been less than helpful thus far.
Now I'm calling over the fellas to grab a hand (because I know he's not gonna want this) and maybe a shoulder.
Upon insertion, his hands move, he tries to sit up, and tries to pull his legs up to get away from "the tube."
Awesome.

Really the only eventful thing that happened with Inmate # 52987325.


Only a little while later, however, there's a little commotion outside the room.
A nurse calls for security.
I poke my head out the door.
She points down the hall.
I look, and wait.
No security.
She calls on the radio.
I look, and wait.
No security.

I can't wait anymore.
I gave security a chance.
I shouldn't go, I'm not covered by anyone if something happens.
But something is already happening.
Someone may be getting hurt.
You never know in a hospital.
My brain has already heard 10-5 (staff needs immediate assistance) twice.
Back on the ranch, if you're in a spot that needs someone, you have to stay.
But we're not on my ranch, and there's two other guys to watch Inmate VanWinkle (read: sleeping)

I grab the nearest phone booth, change into my blue tights, I can't find my cape though.
What to do, what to do...

The suit really doesn't pop without the cape but gosh, I think I left it back at the BatCave.
Oh, wait.
It's tangled up in the back of the pants.

OK.
On my way.
Officer 2 sees me moving and sends Officer 3 (the fake dog turd guy) to assist.
(I'd like to take this time to point out that O2 doesn't trust O3 enough to sit with a sleeping inmate, so he HAS to be sent with me.)
When I arrive on the scene, it's just a drunk pill popper, and he doesn't want help from the nurses trying to save his overdosing self.
So instead of cracking a skull (Which I really wanted to do.) all I got to do was talk this guy down, calm him, and explain the joys of life to him.
At some point in time a burly (read: useless) security guard shows up to watch me handle things.

Finally I gave Secure E. Guard the reins to the drunk and went back to my own little world.

It was only a 5.5/6 hour day, but for my first day back in 2 months, it was rather exciting.

After work, we (Bella and I) went to a friends house, came home, and went to sleep.

That's it.

Don't let 'em getcha.
V.V.

As Dumb as a Brick Stick or As Queer as a Football Bat

I was dreaming a little dream last night.

For some reason my mind has accepted things that don't make sense and just when I'm dreaming something great, my mind says, "This is too good to be true." and I wake up.

This was not the case last night.

I don't know what I dreamt this.

Turning of the season maybe.

Or maybe it was watching Little Shop of Horrors (1986 remake) last night.

Though I don't know what that would have to do with it.

Anyway I dreamt about football.

And football fanatics.

What woke me up from this travesty of a dream, was NOT the thought, "This is too good to be true."

Instead it was the thought of these idiot fanatics that talk about their "ball club" like there's a suit and tie dress code at some club house where they can go and sip caviar and eat martinis with their testicles hanging out for comparison.

"I belong to the local ball club."

What really gets me though is the way these people talk about it with each other, and have done so to the point that the local kids pick up on it and do radio interviews talking about their testicle taverns.

"We got a pretty good ball club. I think we could go all the way. Couple guys with real good hands and I really like the towel boy."

At dirty as this statement seems, it's all been said at some point or another.

What really gets to me though, is that fact that kids can't tie their own shoes yet and they're talking about how they've got a good ball club but just couldn't bring home the win tonight.

Texas is real bad for that.

Watch Varsity Blues, which is fiction, but also Friday Night Lights which is based on true events.

Both reputed to be in the top football movies of all time.

Both are high school level.

Both set in Texas.

Calm down Texas.

It's only a game.

How many kids have you brain washed into thinking football = life, then sent on to be plumbers or butt wipers, or some other non football related horse shit.

"Play football all your childhood, but you'll never be good enough to play professionally, then go clean up puke for a living the rest of your life."

I'm not concerned with the guys that play for fun.

Play just to play.

But these fanatics that only live to play a game that 9 times out of 10 won't get them anywhere.

Calm down.

That's why it's called a football GAME.

Yes, it's something to get excited about.

Yes, it's something to keep kids off drugs. (sometimes)

Yes, it's the only thing to do in a small town on Friday night.

But it's only a game.

Watch, I'll get hate mail for this too.

Jackass.

Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

Giving It to the Man

I try to keep the bitching and moaning to a minimum here, but I'm a little fed up with my family.
Some time ago, my mother had a house.
She married and we moved into my step dad's place.
He wanted to sell the house because we didn't need it.
She signed it over to my brother (8 years the senior) to keep it in the family. (Our childhood house.)
He gets back from the army and moves in.
He gets on his feet and starts working.
Even fixes the place up a bit.

Fast forward a few years.
I've been in and out of moms more than 3 times.
They let me come back when I get short on cash and need a place.

But I'll talk about wanting to get out to my brother Paul and his wife Mary and it always turns out the same.
"Why don't you just get an apartment Vince? Or go buy a house? I don't understand how you're having such a hard time."
Well Mary, it's because I have things called bills, and was given a f**king house, MARY!!

The house you live in should be (at least) half mine.
But I wasn't old enough to have anything signed over to me at the time so Paul got it.
And moved in, and changed things, and still lives there.

But there was only one house, not two.

We can't all have a house given to us.
So while everyone might have bills (like I do) and be doing so poorly, at least you have a place!!

The response...
"We've got a house payment Vince."

You jackass!
You have a house payment because your husband mortgaged it to buy a four-wheeler and a brand new truck and pay some bills of his own.
So while you're wondering why I don't own a house because it was so easy for the man you married, eat a flaccid penis, MARY, you'd be in an apartment or trailer or whatever if I had been given the house.

I'm not usually the guy to stir crap in the family, but my parents save their aluminum cans and give them to Paul to recycle when the price of aluminum goes back up, so they can have extra money.

Granted when I live at moms I don't pay bills, however, if I had, oh I don't know, been given a house perhaps...
Maybe I wouldn't been in this spot either.

Give me the house and your extra cans and see if I can make bills then.


I'm just pissed I suppose.

Don't let 'em give ya, away.
V.V.

Ode to Joy

Dear Joy,

Ode.


Love,

Vince

Lets Do the Time Warp Again

I was looking at the old Stat Counter and noticed (during my times of trial and tribulation) that for about a week, visitors came by the Clown Car (I didn't want to do this, but it got me giggling so much I couldn't help myself) load.
But when things settled back down, it was back to the same old Yugo (read #1 & #4) load.

I'm not complaining, I'm surprised anyone reads this "filth."
Heck, I've got subscribers!
A few people actually follow this thing everyday!
And as Rev pointed out, I'm not putting out enough.

I am in one of those moods today, I tell ya.
Look out Bella Donna, ol' Vince is gonna try for a little catch and release tonight!

(That's gonna lose me a few readers.)

What I'm trying to say is, I miss you.
Come back and read.
Re-read if you'd like.
Tell a friend, tell a relative, tell someone you don't know.

Tell a Disk Jockey who'll tell everyone.

If you write for a newspaper (in San Jose, maybe) write an article.
It can be a short one.
Slip in the web address on an unrelated story.

I've become addicted to the numbers.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I was on my way to work yesterday when the hog took a turn for the worse.
I live about 15 miles from work, so this little baby is paying for itself in gas.
(100 mpg to my cars 30 mpg)
It has oil and gas, routine maintenance, but it sounds to me like the engine seized up.
Still under warranty though, so I'm covered.
I remember, when I first got it, downloading Danger Zone, putting on my bomber jacket, and driving around town.
Mid August.
It was pretty warm, but everyone got a good laugh.
But that was the point.
If you can't laugh at yourself, you've got a poor sense of humor.
The Good Humor Man, you are not.
Or as Rev says, "Joke 'em if they can't take a f*ck!"

Anyway, took it to the shop to be fixed and I should get it back in a few days.
Until then, however, I'll have to drive the backup car, which only gets about 3 mpg (btw).
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On tomorrow (or tonight's) post I'll update everyone about the finger.
(I want to get some pictures and stuff.)

Stay tuned for Andy Rooney, and musical guest The Dynamo.


Don't let 'em getcha.
V.V.

I Missed You, But My Aim Is Getting Better

Now, I'm still a little flustered about this fool in Missouri that tried to bluff me into retracting my statement about some of the funding going into the Shawn Hornbeck Foundation.
So I'd like to give my readers a little background on this heavenly of haven of Hillbillery.
(If this offends you, tough!)
I did a little research on this state (The Show-Me State) of sexual harassment ("Show me your titties!") or idiocy. ("Hey ya'll watch this!")
Here's a list of some of Missouri's proudest, with date to show how some folks never change.

Missouri State Somethings
Animal - Missouri Mule - 1995 (Hmm, interesting start.)
Mineral - Galena - 1967 [Major source of lead ore. (State of the Leadbelt)]
Rock - Mozarkite - 1967 [M(Missouri) + Ozark (the Missouri Ozarks) + ite]
Aquatic Animal - Paddlefish - 1997 (No Carp?)
Song - Missouri Waltz - 1949 (Redneckery? Hillbillery? Yes, but look at the date.)
American Folk Dance - (FOLK DANCE?! Really?!) Square Dance (saw that one coming) - 1995
Musical Instrument - Fiddle - 1987 (The better to square dance with.)(Saving the banjo for Tennessee?)
Fish - Catfish - 1997 (Did you leave ANYTHING for Arkansas?!)
Amphibian - Bullfrog - 2005 (Nope! Took em all.)
Grape - (GRAPE?) Norton/Cynthiana (Why not, lets get drunk, play the fiddle, and square dance.)
Missouri Day - March 22 - 1915 [Celebrating Trout Season? (March 1st)]

I also heard (a few years ago on MJ In The Morning) that Missouri is ranked #6 highest in the country for people having dentures.
That doesn't even count toothless uncle Ed!

So, after careful review of this new information (brought to you by the State of Missouri website) I completely understand how such an ass-hat could get ruffled feathers.


Well, that's all I've got.
I just wanted to poke a bit.
Maybe I'll bring back the controversy.

Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

1 + 1 = Still One or I'm Smarter Than Two 5th Graders Because I'm in 10th Grade

Bella Donna got a job as a local movie jocky.
That's cool.
I can cancel my subscription to LackLuster Online.
I could quit this physical laboring at the factory and get on at the gas station up the hill.
Then we'd be like Clerks!
Maybe I could get Midtown Miscreant and Rev to be Jay & Silent Bob. (respectively)
Rev has a little downtime here and there.
Midtown has the additude for it, and I saw he's closing the blog, so maybe he's free.

While at grandmas this weekend, Bella Donna's son... our son said there was a 5 foot bird with 2 heads and a huge beak that pecked him on the head, and a 12 foot invisible scorpion in grandmas yard.
He's of the age where that's a kid being a kid.
I can't front him for that.
Like my friend ED's son saying I look like John Cena. --->

However, Bella Donna and I went to JC Penny this Saturday and bought some clothes.
They had a "Buy One Get the Second for $o.99" sale.
We find 2 pair of pants easily enough, but just one shirt.
So while checking out, the (Junior or Senior in High School) girl at the counter says, "These are, um, buy one and... you can get the second one for... only a dollar."

(I love me a woman who struggles to speak a simple sentence. )
Any intelligence is purely accidental or coincidental.

If she said, "Hey!... that rag smells just like, uh, chloroform!"
You can bet she's bitten that rag a time or two before.
Chances are, she's NOT a double agent.

Anyway, Bella Donna explains there wasn't another shirt like this, in this size and/or color (needed for work) and we'd be fine with just one.
It's the only one of it's kind. (At the store.)
Another girl approaches, asks the size and color, and offers to look in the back.
Great!
Someone is actually helpful.
While she's gone, our Young Einstein looks at us, straight faced, and says, "Yeah. ... Buy one get one... is only good if you're... gonna get two. Otherwise... it's not... helpful."

Hmm.
It's a good thing I thought I'd get... one cashier, but got two... cuz you're really... not helpful!

Somebody, somewhere, heard my mental cries for help and delivered unto us a shirt.
Right color, right size.

We pay and leave.

Now, I'm no Billy Shakenbake, or whatever that guys name is that writ the movie about Hamhocks, but I'd like to think I talk good.
Maybe I DO have a little grey matter in my cranium.
But if you go to a BOGO sale for one of anything (and they have more than one of what you need/want) you, and this awesomely knowledgeable clerk, should get the luxurious I.D.-1o-T. award for honesty and bravery.
If the little guy said this, it would be cute, but this is from a 16 or 17 year old ditz that should know better...

This is the future of out country here folks!

Ask what the color of the Presidents house is.
She might say, "President of what?"
...
Maybe she's really book smart.
And maybe I'm Mike Angelo and I colored on the roof of the Sixteenth Chaplin while looking at the Leaning Tower of Pizza in France.


Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

The Princess and the Pea or Don't Ladder Get to You

I think I've given 'people who don't know what they're saying' ample time to reply, and he/she/they haven't so we're moving on.
About a week ago I was asked if I wanted to trade my bed to a family member for a bigger one.
Sure.
I was told there was a mattress and box spring in the garage at my parents house if I needed it (I do) and I could get it whenever.
Cool.
I make the trip after doctors appointment yesterday (more on that later) and get the bed frame. Then to the folks to get what turns out to be a set of springs from 19 Hundred and, oh, I'd say 64 or so, and the "mattress" from a year or so later.
The mattress, as luck would have it, is not a mattress at all.
It's a 2 inch thick foam mat.

(It's like an inmate mattress!)

Now I'm smurfed.

My mother swears there was a mattress up there (garage loft) but I'm guessing she's entering early stages of Alzheimer's, or dementia, I'm not sure which.

Get everything near the house.
Take the old bed apart, take it to the garage, put it in the loft.
(Keep in mind here, folks, my finger is still broken w/ pin and splinted.)
Put the frame together, 1964 spring, mat, and a air mattress I bought for camping some 4 years ago and only used once.


Bed frame off ground - 10 inches
Springs - 8 inches
(What do you call a guy with no arms or legs laying in front of the door?) Mat - 2 inches
Air Mattress - 2 FEET
Needing a ladder to climb into bed - ANNOYING

Now I'm REALLY smurfed.
I'm smurfing smurfed.
Smurf this smurf, I'm out.

IDEA: We'll let the air out of the mattress, take the whole thing apart and move it, then set up the air mattress and sleep on that till we procure a new mattress and BOX spring.

But first...

Tell Bella Donna, "It's a nice night, lets go for a ride."
She agrees.
I'm so smurfed I'm turning blue, apparently.

So we decide to take the old back country roads to a neighboring town and cruise thorough the park then country road on back home.
A nice relaxing ride to finish off the day.
It really was a nice idea, until the roads were dark and we were the only light out.
And that's when IT happened.

BUGS!

Beatles raining from the sky like... well, almost like rain.
Hitting me in the chest with paintball like force. (which was fine)
But when one went down Bella Donna's shirt, an easy task given her ample cleavage, she panicked and almost bailed off the scooter.
I stopped, she freaked, got it out, and we turned around and headed back for the lights of town.

Still made it to the park, still managed to relax.

Got home and she decided to bake a cake whilst I deflated the mattress and figured a place to put the antique bed frame given the impending storm.
I deflate and move the air mattress to the laundry room, then go and sit on my spring and mat.

It's comfortable.
"Bella Donna! Come in here."
"What?"
"Lay down on this, it's like a springy mattress with a big ol pillow top!"
"Wow, that is nice."

So we decide to put the air mattress up and give the pillow top a try.
Slept great.
I was so relaxed I woke up sometime in the night and felt my back pop about 3 times.

We're gonna keep it.




Isn't THAT sexy?
That's the finger, out of it's wrapping paper.
Got the dressing changed and told the doctor I'm ready to go back to work.

Three weeks ago he said it's not healing, so I accept the fact that we may be cutting the tip off.
I accept it so well that I told him, "Lets just cut the tip off, doc."
He informs me it's taking a turn for the better and starting to show signs of healing.
Give it 2 more weeks he says, and we'll do some rehab on it, a little exercise, and see if we can get it moving.
If it falls apart, we may have to remove it, but lets give that sucker a fighting chance.

I don't wanna.
I want to get back to work.
Get some overtime.
Maybe even learn my new job.

But he's persistent.

So in another 2 weeks, maybe I'll try to get the tip cut off again.
But, that's the update.


Until next time...

"That's the news, goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow."


Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

Deja Vu

I considered skipping this and doing a very informative blog about "The G-Spot" but instead I decided to talk about the anus.

Now, at first, I was ecstatic about my new reader and the hate mail.
But now it's a little irritating.
Returning to the same past, to read the same person, spit empty words and threats about slander, which is spoken by the way, and libel.
Both of which are only applicable if the statement is thought to be fact.
(I thought this was cleared up on the last post...)
(Sorry. It's MY OPINION that this was cleared up on the last post.)
(No, wait, I was right. It's fact.)
(Someone isn't clicking links here, folks.)
(And doesn't know a thing about law.)
Where was I?
...
Oh yeah... spit empty threats about libel and me getting sued.

First, you don't know who I am.
I could be Bill Weldon for all anyone knows.

On the flip side, I don't know who YOU are "Someone Who Knows"
You could be the Mayor of New Quahog for all I know.



Here's what I got as a(nother) comment on a post about the effect of the media as pertaining to the justice system.
I think I'm gonna answer these as they come, so people who know don't get confused reading it.


Anonymous Wrote:

You have no idea what you're talking about. Fallacies in your argument:

1. We didn't hear about the missing Ben Ownby (note spelling) for months, he was only missing 4 days.

1. (A.) Ben Ownby was not the point of the post, nor does he account for 1/4 (or 25%) of the sentence that Devlin received.
(Thanks for being my spellchecker though, need a job?)

2. The only reason that we heard about Shawn Hornbeck for years is that the money raised WAS used for their foundation and to keep the case in the public eye via billboards, flyers, benches etc. How do you think all of that was paid for, not just for months but for years?

2. (A.) Are you trying to say the Ownby parents weren't willing to put up billboards, flyers, benches, etc.?
You seem much more partial to Hornbeck than Ownby, why is that?
You're correct.
The money WAS used for the foundation.

3. got money for their losses (and bettered themselves instead of spending it to look for their son; but i digress) --- sounds libelous/slanderous to me - better get your facts straight or else I'd imagine a lawyer might do it for you. Obviously you haven't bothered to get your facts straight if you don't even know where the charges came from. It wasn't just videotapes, or interviews with the victims - it was also Devlin's confession - he pled guilty. There were over 70 charges in total - state counts in three different counties and federal counts as well.

3. (A.) Slander is spoken.
Both libel and slander are only applicable when the statement is considered to be true.
Get your facts straight.

On a interesting side note, I'm getting a little tired of you throwing around some lawyer/lawsuit garble so you can sound threatening.
Some no name mystery on a web blog that got the fuse on his/her tampon lit by a man who is in the line of fire keeping dangerous criminals off the streets everyday.
Number 1 if you don't like what you've read, stop reading.
Number 2 why don't you get what it takes to at least make up a fake name instead of trying to frighten people with this "Someone Who Knows" feces.
Someone who actually knows (and cares) would have filed a formal complaint instead of throwing the word suit, sue, and lawyer around like 15 quid.

Also, it wouldn't have mattered who said what, or what was found, Devlin would have gotten a lot of time regardless.

You only hurt your argument if what you're comparing it to isn't even the case. but back to the point - yes it would be best if EVERY child molester got consecutive sentences instead of concurrent, but it's not the fault of these boys or their families, so let them heal in peace. If you don't like the sentencing, get involved! Talk to your legislator, write letters to the editor, start a Facebook group, pass out flyers - get the word out PRIOR to sentencing.

Why did it take you 3 (excruciatingly long) comments to finally see the point?

You were so wrapped up in your own dander that you missed the point of the whole post.
I don't care who they are, where they're from, or how the money was used.
THE POINT IS no one person should get more time than any other person for the same crime based solely upon media exposure.

I applaud Mr. Hornbecks' family for doing everything that they did.
A lot of families don't.

Also, the comment was made "If you don't like the sentencing, get involved!"
I am involved (thank you) but it makes me feel as though you're happy Devlin got what he got (aren't we all?) and don't really care about anyone else.
I saw you clicked the Michael Devlin link, but not the Missing Kids link at the bottom.

Of course, I also noticed you had beef with what I said about about (in my opinion) a poor white family who was suddenly a little more wealthy, but had nothing to say on behalf of the African-Americans whom I spoke of a few posts down.

And now I've dedicated two (2) posts to something that isn't the point, thus nearly negating the actual point.

MEDIA EXPOSURE SHOULD NOT DETERMINE THE SENTENCING LENGTH OF A CRIMINAL!

I also urge those of you with children to search your state and/or area for felons convicted of ANYTHING to do with children and/or kidnapping.

Or leave a comment with your e-mail address, or city and state and I'll send you a link myself.

That's right, I'll do the footwork, all you have to do is become more aware of your surroundings.



Don't let 'em get your kids.

V.V.

Comments!

It seems as though I've ruffled a feather.
It happens sometimes.

If you're not a comment reader, I'm prepared to accommodate you.

Anonymous wrote:
Your statement "got money for their losses (and bettered themselves instead of spending it to look for their son;...)" is a load of pure crap! Do you have anything that backs up that statement? Perhaps a libel suit would wake you up to the fact that you can't just spout filth like that without substantiation, and there simply isn't any.
Someone Who Knows

So, you have to approve the blog entries before they appear. I'm sure the world won't see my previous post, but be assured your libel will be seen by many. Wonder how many attorneys you will need to try to keep your meager worldly possessions...

Anonymous:
Thank you for your comments.
As you can see I've let them both through.
I appreciate you taking the time of day to read such filth.
You may be right about my statement.
I have no fact to base this statement upon.
I do have a right to my opinion, which is what I stated.
As you have the right to yours.
However, it WAS NOT plainly expressed that EVERYTHING I SAY HERE IS MY OPINION.
If I have a fact, I will cite sources.
Or at least Wikipedia, which isn't a reliable source (at times) but can be accepted as true in most things.

Please understand, I am not mocking you or attempting to talk down to you.
I do appreciate you're reading this blog.
It's simply mindless drivel to myself and I'm rather surprised anyone reads it.

If you feel that my stating of opinion is wrong, I would be more than happy to erase the parenthesized comment in that sentence and post an apology.

However, MY SOLE OPINION IS: I remember back in the beginning, when it first happened, a family (on Television) didn't look like the kind of people that could buy a new vehicle for someone.
IT LOOKED TO ME AS THOUGH: They might have come across that money by some means other than whatever they were doing before the incident.

But I DON'T know for a fact that happened.


And honestly, if you (or anyone else) take me for a credible source, especially without citation, I'm sorry to disappoint you in stating I AM NOT.


As far a the law is concerned, I'm a little rusty, I'm pretty sure a formal (I'd even take an informal) Cease & Desist has to be issued before charges can be brought up against me.
Formal Cease and Desist and the opportunity to right my wrong and formally apologize.
But I could be wrong.



From: me
To: everyone ~

Thanks for reading and let the good times roll.


Peace.

V.V.

The People Want More!

And I'm going to give it to them!

First of all, if anyone has some suggestions to make this blog a bit better, or easier to read, or anything, let me know.
I'm happy like it is, but I don't read it, I just write it.
Well, actually, I DO read it the next day and giggle like a school girl at the things I previously said with a straight face.

I'm also considering placing images and videos instead of linking to everything, then again, if I did that, I'd need to cite my sources.
Let me know what you think...

COMMENT!! (Thanks to those of you that do.)

Back to business.

Panic! At the Disco has a song called "The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is the Press Coverage."

In the taco business (see previous post: big boss man) it seems about the same way.
I know for a fact! (Because Rev says so.)there are people sitting in prison right now with 16 counts of something bad involving children and they are serving concurrent sentences of 7 years per conviction.

CONCURRENT!

All 16! of his 7 year charges are happening at the same time.
ONCE HE HAS DONE HIS 7 YEARS, HE IS OUT!!!
Served his time.
"He's even with the house now, and you will keep your hands off him."

But you've never heard of him.
And probably never will.

You have, however, heard of my next disgusting bag of rhinoceros filth.

Michael Devlin given four (4) life sentences (about 25 years each) and an additional 170 years for the kidnapping and... other things of two (2) [read: one] boys.
Granted, there are a few more charges, and some things are presumably different.

While jackass #1 was charged for playing in the sandbox a few times, jackass #2 was charged, I'd say, as many times as could be proved via video tape.

I'm not on the side of Mikey here, I'm on the side of justice.
What he got was justice, what the other fool got was nothing.

But we heard about the missing Shawn Hornbeck and Ben Ownsby for years and months, parents offered rewards, got money for their losses (and bettered themselves instead of spending it to look for their son; but i digress) and it was televised and broadcast to the far corners of the U.S.
And when Mikey was caught, we heard about that, and the trial, and the conviction, and the sentencing, for months on end.

Once again, the other fella, got a slap on the wrist for what he did with his own grandson.

...

The only difference between the first little angel and Devlin was the press coverage.


Help 'em get caught.

V.V.

For more information on how you can help, click here.

Stirring The Pot

So, since the incident I've been on light doodie.
Basically I'm reviewing the rules and regulations of this wonderful place I work, and letting them know if I find something wrong.
About three days in, I did.
Not so much a discrepancy, but a concern.
We sell items that people aren't supposed to have.
A good two page report to the upper-crust and the next day I'm called into the bosses office to get chewed out about "reviewing" rules and regs "...not stating [my] opinion on what [I] think is wrong with them!"
Okay.
I took THAT well.
I'll just do what I do and not let anyone know when I think something is wrong.
Seems like this is a case for T-Shirt Hell.

Anyway, today I'm flipping thought the R&R and find something very disturbing.
Bettering yourself is not required, but definitely encouraged.
However, it seems as though, where I work, we have a little rule where if you choose to better yourself, and you fail, you will be fired.
Not you can, not you may, you will be subject to disciplinary actions (found via R&R) which are termination.

Let me break this down to you.
Not because I feel that you're dumb and need the explanation, but for those of you who follow along already know, this is the kind of thing I do.

Bob works at Disneyland (a respected name in Disney Entertainment) as Pluto.
Bob wants to be a main character such as Mickey Mouse.
(On a side note, if you sing through, M.I.C.-K.E.Y. but replace mouse with moose, it still sounds the same, only funnier... M.O.O.S.E. Mickey Moose, Mickey Moose...)
Now Bob goes through Mouse training and does just fine, but fails his mouse test.
To be fair, Disneyland gives Bob another chance at his mouse test anytime within 90 days of his original mouse testing, but he fails that too.
Now Disneyland fires Bob.
Not keeps him at Pluto status, not gives him more time to work on his mouse test.
FIRES him.
However, if Bob would have gone through, and failed, the duck [Donald] test, Bob could still be Pluto.

There is no difference in pay for being Pluto, or Donald, or Mickey, just an extra notch in the cap.

The only real difference is if Bob wants to be a greeter.
But once again, Bob can be a greeter as Donald, and not get fired for failing.
Mickey is a different story though.

We're punishing people for trying to better themselves, if they shoot to high and fail.

Anyway, I got my big wooden spoon and decided to address this with the higher echelon with my handy dandy letter writing skills.

So tomorrow, I figure I'll be making yet another trip in to see the big boss.
(Showing you where I work will have to do, I can't find a name tag.)


Don't let 'em getcha!
V.V.

My Most Humble Appologise

I know some of you have gotten used to coming here and reading a little something something, But you haven't been able to do that.

Since that accident, I haven't written much.
I blame it on the meds.
By the time I get home, after my light doodie, I'm so medicated up that I can't think straight enough to speak, let alone type.
I stare at the wall waiting for the right word to pop into my head.
But I'm Route 66 and all the words I need are on the Freeway, cruising by my lonely brain, completely unaware that it's even there for them to be serviced.

Anyway, I'll do better soon.

Until then, don't let em' getcha.

V.V.

Check Out This Sheeightt!!

I've been out for a minute, as most of you know.
I was injured in the line of doodie.
In the event that you would be interested, you can copy this x-ray and enlarge it.
You'll find the tip of my finger to be broken off and "severely misplaced."
Actually, this is after they put the pin in (obviously) so it isn't misplaced anymore.
I don't really know what they said misplaced anyway, I knew where it was the whole time.
Still in my finger.
Trying to come out where my fingernail should be.
The tip is actually what pushed the nail up in the first place.
It was pretty disgusting looking, and a bled like a, well...
*What has two legs and bleeds profusely? Half a cat.*
... I guess like a stuck pig. (No pun intended.)

Anyway, so this happened on day one(1), and by day three (3) I saw a "specialist" and had this nifty pin in my finger.

On a slightly related note, one day two (2) I got a different kind of nifty new pin.
This wicked-cool Zebra pen (Zebra F-701) that has a grip similar to a socket wrench.
(Maybe that's why I like it so much.)

So my "specialist" turns out to be a plastic surgeon/hand specialist.
He informs me he would have put the nail back on (coulda told me THAT sooner) and I might be able to return to work as a hand model for QVC, but it'll take about a year.
Since I injured myself not at QVC (on a renegade 9 carat topaz two finger pimp ring) but at my regular job, I don't have to pay for this hand and breasticle doctor, which makes me happy.
Of course, I can't really go to work, even when I go to work, and I can't model anymore genuine artificial emerald colored pea-gravel stones in an aluminum foil wrap gently and gracefully placed around the wrist (Much like a bracelet.) but it's still like having time off.

It's been giving me plenty of time to think about other things, like posts that need to be written, and other neat-o things.

Tonight, however, it's 545 a.m. and I'm going to bed.
I have many rules and regulations to go over tomorrow

Don't let me getcha. : )

V.V.

The Setback of Modern Civilization

(This is for my (black) friend Courtney "C.J." Jones, who laughs at black jokes not because they're funny, but because white people have actually taken the effort to hate a race enough to waste their time making up crude jokes. The same C.J. that I had lunch with at Convergy's the entire time I worked there and would ask "lame white-guy" questions to. And the very same C.J. that, after work, put his gold grille back in his mouth and went home to talk about the "crackers at work" then told us about the "fellas at home.")
(And the same C.J. that car-jacked my friend Bill with a water pistol after Bill said we were going to "Start Punk'd-ing each other." C.J. - "You been Punk'd motha f--ka!!")


I can't call myself a racist, by any definition of the word.
I can, however, say that we ALL have our prejudices.

Though today, an African-American male called me, "boy."

For those of you who are missing it, I'll try to explain.

Blacks and whites...
Wait, scratch that.
Caucasians and African-Americans (read: whites and blacks) have always had this little rivalry.
~Note: This does not apply to every black or white person, just a small group that make the rest of us look bad.~

When an African-American person pulls the slavery card and is demanding reparations for his people whom the white man made into slaves, here's a thought:
1. When the white man pulled up to Africa and saw the native peoples we thought, "I wonder if they're friendly." And we asked them, "Do you have any slaves?"
Our reply was a quick and hasty one when the native (black) people ran into the woods and began capturing opposing tribesmen (and women) and rushing them to us.
(This does not excuse white people from buying slaves, or the poor treatment, or the duration of said treatment, it only states we bought black people FROM black people.)
2. I did not personally own a slave. No living member of my family owned a slave. I'm willing to bet you can't find not one single solitary living person that ever even f'ing SEEN a slave! I didn't even grow up with a maid, or butler. We had a paperboy that we had to share with all the neighbors, and he was white.
While I agree, the treatment of said slaves was extremely very poor, and THEY (or the next of kin) did deserve reparations for all of the mistreatment, I think that day is done.

I don't hear about reparations for the Jews, and they don't ask.
Yet every once in a while, someone will tell me the white man is keeping them down.
The white man is keeping them locked up for "some bullshit."
They only shot four (4) people in the head on a drug deal gone bad, but it's MY fault they got sent to jail.

Now we're starting to get to the point.
I can be called everything under the sun, and I'm not supposed to care.
None of it is derogatory.
But a black man can call another black man "nigga" or "boy" and it's ok.
If I call anyone but my son, "boy" it's a class action lawsuit.

Yet today, an African-American male called me "boy."
I replied "Congratulations, you've just set "your people" back at least 1oo years."

Martin Luther King was looking for reparations for slavery, he was just trying to be recognized as an equal.
Civil rights.
And ladies and gentleman if you want to talk about slavery, look closely at MLK's name tag.
It says DOCTOR (Dr.) before it says Martin Luther King.
I, personally, can get credit for enslaving all of Africa, and imprisoning every gang banger behind bars, but it's nary the man who takes the time to think Dr. King got himself educated, President Obama is an educated man.
While you were "bangin" for some dope, or some "hos" or a little beer, some people are getting an education.
Some of "your people" are becoming CEO's of companies, movie stars, musicians, VERY wealthy businessmen, athletes, doctors, president.

I work side by side with a black man every day.
He does the exact same job I do, and gets paid the exact same amount.
And while the racist white trash might call him "the N word" (A variation of the Spanish/Portuguese noun negro, a descendant of the Latin adjective niger, meaning "black") the black people he encounters call him much worse and ridicule him for getting an education and making something of himself.

It's really ridiculous.


Back to the point.
A black man called me boy.
A name/phrase that is degrading and derogatory to black people, and he used it against me, like I've ever said it in my life.
The only time I call someone boy is in addressing them in sentence. (i.e. Boy, I could really use a drink after the day I've had.)
I have never, in the history of inhaling life giving air into my very lungs said to anyone (EVER) "Get out that mop and get to cleaning, BOY."

And I really don't appreciate ANY-F'ING-BODY treating me like I was the Grand F'ing Pooba of the entire Rebel F'ing Army.

I sincerely apologize to each and every African-American person because those of you who are bettering yourself (as all of human-kind should be doing) will almost always be drug down by the people who don't care.
(Then again, whites will always be drug down by NASCAR and "wife-beater" shirts.)
(And serial killers.)
(And domestic abuse.)
(And the French.)

Just kidding France!

On the plus side... there's always THIS GUY!


Don't let 'em getcha... down.
V.V.

I'll Do Better or The Magic of Words

I know it's been a minute or two, but the truth is, I've been working on my parents house.
They went on vacation for a week and I've been fixing up the place while they're gone.
Walls and floors and such.

I've been thinking it's time to move on.
Maybe I need a new job.
Maybe a night with some tail would relieve my stress.
Sweden, I'm talking to YOU here!
Or Germany. (I see you Berlin.)
London, you too.
I'm not picky, I'm just overly sure of what I want. (Picky.)

Anyway, I was thinking of switching jobs, maybe a nice desk job, or even one where a little more physical labor is required.
I've been where I am for a minute and it's getting to me a little bit.
So I thought about a change of scenery.

But right when I'm ready to put in my resignation, the boss tells me what he "really" thinks about me.
From what I've heard I'm not that great an employee.
Of course, I know better, as do most people, but good luck convincing some people of that.

Anyway, I figure I'll finish out the week, take my weekend, and see how I feel on Monday.
Maybe by then I'll have the decision of whether I'll change what I'm doing or not.

I know, you were hoping for something better than me bitching about work, and usually I deliver just that, but this is something that's been on my noodle for a while now, and it's finally taking enough of my attention that I couldn't deny it it's own time in the spotlight.

Keep an eye out, folks.
I hope they don't get me!
V.V.

Assistance is Futile

There are times at work when someone from your sector doesn't make an appearance.
And sometimes a few people don't.
This is a case of the latter.
When people from you're sector don't come to work, they send people from other sectors.
Sometimes this is fine, a few people are trained on everything.
But on rare occasions (and by rare I mean almost all the time) the person they send knows nothing about the job, and can barely find their way to the boiler room to get to my sector.
This presents a problem for the other people.
Instead of working hard, I now have to work my ass off.
And when the new guy gets sent to my sector, and I have to train him on how to do the job, as well as actually get my job done too, it's a bit harder day.

Now it gets interesting.
The new guy hits my sector, ("E" Sector) I've already ask about him, the response isn't good.
A friend of a friend, the Good-Ol-Boy system hard at work again!
So not only do I have to get my job done, and train him, but I also have to see that this ass clown doesn't put the whoopee cushion in the wrong chair all night.
This trick only works with proper set-up and I've got to make sure he doesn't eat the fake dog turds.

Prime example of someone Rev talks about.
The guy you expect to make a poop army, play Risk with himself, and devour the losing team as punishment for their insolence and war crimes.

Lemme tell ya here folks (and folkettes) if you're dropping off your child at the babysitters house, and before you leave you hear your little darling tell the sitter "I told you you'd hurt yourself." are you really gonna have that night out?

E Sector is the most difficult one on the whole compound.
It's busy, it smells funny, and you have to keep a look out, making sure the machines don't revolt. (They're revolting enough already.)

I guess I'm just an old fuddy-duddy when it comes to people F-ing up my work station.


Hire the handicapped! They're fun to watch.
Don't let 'em getcha.

Like Giant Radioactive Rubber Pants!

A special select chosen few people from each camp are chosen for the Emergency Squad. (E-Squad)
The E-Squad goes to other camps and searches for stuff.
I don't know what they search for.
I know they've found some amazing things.

Actually, I do know what they search for, but I'm not telling.
They search for all the stuff that normal people search for, but they figure with enough of them doing it, they'll find what a single team (of two) will miss.

Anyway, it's not about them as a team, or the job that they do.
It's actually about the select few of them, and not just the E-Squad guys, but there are a lot on it, that have entirely too much testosterone.
That amazing little thing that runs through their veins and makes them scream and yell and go berserker over every little thing that goes wrong (or right) in their day to day.
It powers through them like G.I. Joe in the Barbie section at Toys-R-Us on a three day pass.
Or like, oh I don't know, like giant radioactive rubber pants.
"The pants command ME!"

On a side note, that phrase comes from Invader Zim.
In it's entirety being "But... invader's blood marches through my veins, like giant RADIOACTIVE RUBBER PANTS! The pants command me. Do not ignore my veins!"

Nonetheless, I'm sure most of you know at least one person like this.
Some of you know many more.
They're basically harmless, unless they're not, and then they aren't.

But what I can't figure out is what makes these select few so overzealous about every little thing.
My soup is boiling over. OH, NO!!
My son dresses like a girl. OH, NO!!
I'm only an hour early for work instead of an hour and five minutes. AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
I have to actually get off my lazy ass and do a little work for a change. Where's the poison?!!? I'M TOO YOUNG TO WORK!!

So, captive audience...
You sat through knowing what people are doing at the other end of the phone.
You dared to take the Folic Acid challenge. (At least, I hope you did.)
Now, I'm asking for all the input you can muster...
How do these people live more than 3o years without their heart exploding??

I really want to know.
To get so worked up, or such little, tiny, petty, bologna, how do they deal with life and not have a massive coronary by their 12th birthday.
If you're one of these people, or know one quite well, let me in on the secret.

Calm down out there, friends.
Don't let THEM getcha.

The Wagon

I'm not going to say I was on the wagon for anything, but I did NOT drink for about a week.
I finished off my $10 gallon of vodka and decided (by way of being broke) not to buy anything more.
I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed for a few days.
It was ok, but by the time Thursday rolled around I was ready for a cold one.
I had one...
Actually, I had two.
Long Island Iced Tea.
My favorite.
Tonight though, I had a martini.
Well, I would have had one, but I ordered it so dry by the time it got to me it had blown away.
Anyway, in leau of St. Patrick's Day I wore my "I'm A Drinker, Not A Fighter" shirt and went out dancing.
Since I have not two left feet but a whole millipedes worth of them, I didn't dance much.
I did sing some karaoke, though.
The point is, um... well, I don't really know.
The wagon is a dark and dreary place to be.
It's lonely at the top, but you eat better.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't drink and drive, you might spill some.

And if you see me out, take me home.
I shouldn't be driving on my own.
Sober or not.

Checked my StatCounter today and saw I'm bringing in some stuff from Park Hills, MO., KC, MO., Plano, TX., Somewhere in Michigan, London, England, and somewhere in Sweden.
I just want you to know, if you're from Sweden, I'm single, and I'm looking for a girl to talk to me in language I'll never understand.


I've got nothing else.
But I figured had to say something.
Diareah of the mouth I guess.
Rev would know what Professor Plum would call it.
I could look it up, even watch Clue to find out, but not tonight.
Tonight I think I'll just sleep.

Maybe tomorrow I'll get it all fixed.
But, alas, tonight I'm off like a prom dress.
My most humble apologies to all the prom dresses reading this.

Don't let 'em getcha.
(Like someone got me!)

For Those of You Following Along

Unless you don't pay attention, you should know by now that I'm friends with Rev.
As you may also know, he was a mister grumpy pants a few days ago.
I used to be the same way.
I know, I know.
You're all in shock and awe.
But, alas, it's true.
I went to the doc and was given something to help the problem, which it did.
It also gave me energy, and made me sleepy (yes, at the same time) and had other odd effects as well.
Then someone turned me on to Folic Acid.

The way it was spun to me is the lack of serotonin is not the only cause but one of the causes of depression.
Lack of sunlight.
People who work evenings or nights and don't see much of the sun, or people who live in foggy or usually rainy/cloudy places suffer from a loss of serotonin, thus, being very unhappy. (And you thought you hated rainy days because you couldn't get anything done.)

Anyway, Folic Acid contains some of the things that are found in everyday items (food) that, I'm willing to bet, most of us don't get enough of.
I, for one, haven't eaten a single thing today.
I usually don't get hungry until I smell food.
But I also smoke (which keeps my mind off of it) and take folic acid (which also boosts metabolism) so maybe that's why.

Back to my original story... (Sometimes I get sidetracked... sometimes.)

I got turned on to folic acid as a more natural way to boost my serotonin without a Rx and with less side effects.
The person who told me about it gave me a weeks worth to try and if I saw improvement, I could buy my own.
I did the same for Rev.
A weeks worth for him (and the little lady) to try.
I can't say it worked immediately, like the Rx drugs did, but about day 3, everyone saw improvement.

I challenge you ALL (that's right, you three in the very back) to got to your local Wal-Mart (boy, are they gonna be pissed about this one) and buy a bottle of folic acid.
Try it for a week, and if you feel improved (as we all should) give a friend or family member a weeks worth to try.

Note: NO. I do not have stock in folic acid, or any company herein.

Also, for those of you (2) who already know, and the new cat that doesn't, the links are where it's at.
Check out the folic acid link and see what else it helps with, then come back and try to give me a legitimate reason NOT to try the Purina Challenge.


Stay healthy out there,
And don't let 'em getcha.
V.V.

Fun With Others

I've got plenty to gripe about, but Rev's blog tomorrow it'll probably get covered.
He could talk about the pissing contest with Medical, or a fat ass nurse that causes problem, or the ditsy dame that started the whole thing, but maybe he's got something else in store.

I've decided, instead, to talk about stuff that makes the day go by, and things to think about the next time you call.

I worked for an outsourcing company, one of the finest...
For credentials check the Urban Dictionary.
Anyway, it was a call center for, uh... well hell, I'm not opposed to name dropping...
I was outsourced to Cingular Wireless.
Six call centers in the country, and about 2oo people per center.
There was (roughly) a 1 in 12oo chance of talking to me.
Of course, there were a good 12 of us (or more) so it was a 1 in 100 shot of getting someone like me.
(This is where it gets interesting.)

Note: Calls MAY be recorded for quality assurance. (Team Leaders record 2 calls per agent per week and a monitoring company records roughly 2 calls per agent per month. 1o calls recorded per month per agent. Estimated 2o calls per day, or 1oo calls per month.) 1/1o of calls are recorded. Plenty of time to have fun.

I only worked there a year but in the year that I was there, we pulled some pretty colorful stuff.
Of course, if you were on the phone it might not have been so funny.

You may have heard this, if calling: (note: this is acceptable) "Thank you for calling Cingular Wireless, where the rate plans rock and the minutes roll over. My name is XXX, and who am I speaking with?"

However, you may have gotten a hold of me.
"Thank you for calling Swingular Walrus, home of the rollover midgets. My name is Mike Hunt, how can I be of assistance to you today?"
Not every call, but some.
This started with the "meow" bit from Super Troopers but progressed to something much worse.
You may have also heard the phrase (and this came outta the gal's mouths too!) "Sir/Ma'am can I place you on hold for just one ("hot" was added at times) second? My computer just went down on me."
And sometimes it may have sounded like your entire call was fielded by a celebrity.
Johnny Carson was fun, but you needed a friend to be Ed McMahon.

TagTeam: Happens when 2 people are on the same phone and at undetermined intervals tap each other for the hand off.
This usually happens in the middle of a sentence.
Also when your partner isn't paying attention. (KC was bad for this.)
MH: Okay ma'am, thanks so much for holding. We're just gonna go over what we talked about, make sure we've got everything right okay?
CUST: Okay.
MH: Great. Now the plan that we're gonna go ahead and set you up with *tap* is the...
KC: Uh, 7oo minute plan.
CUST: I thought we talked about the 45o minute plan?
KC: That's right, we did. *MUTE* Asshole! *UNMUTE* I glanced at the clock and got confused.
Of course, it didn't always go down like this.
There were plenty of calls that a TagTeam was successfully executed and no one was the wiser.
Sales were made and people had fun.
(Note: Both participants tapped back and forth throughout the call.)

Switch Hit: Is like TagTeam in the fact that customers talk to 2 different agents. The difference being the agents do not keep switching back, once switched, the call is finished.

The point of both of these is to neither confirm nor deny the switch, no matter how obvious.

Call to Talk: Was usually a good time. The customer calls for whatever reason (i.e. service, sales, questions, billing) and we get to know a little about the and chat like old pals for about 45 minutes to an hour.
This is great if you were taking to many calls and need to slow down the flow for better conversion.
Usually you made a customer pretty happy too.
Especially if you actually helped them in the process.

Of course, some things we did for fun that you couldn't hear, and would never know.

Putting: We all had cubicles and the top caps came off in nice 3 foot pieces.
Roll a wad of paper for a long enough time and it gets pretty round.
Flatten the lip of a coffee cup and square a side.
Stick+ball+hole=putting practice.
I don't even play golf and I invented this one!

Flirting With Accounts Reviewable (AR): On occasion, when a person called, they might have a deposit to set up service.
$5oo or $75o was always a no-go.
$15o was sometimes something we could work with.
Get a $15o and call AR to speak with, in my hopes, a female.
Find out where she's from (usually Plano, Texas) and tell her she's beautiful.
Tell her you'd love to take her out and you'll be there in 14 hours to pick her up.
Tell you're going to e-mail her a dozen roses.
Or that you've got 12 of something else to give her...
Warm the right heart and that deposit disappears.
This was helpful in many ways.
I make a gal feel good about herself, I get a sale, and YOU get a phone.

Many agents also played on the Internet, sent text messages, and made cell phone calls.
All 3 were unauthorized, but so were hang-ups, and those happened quite a bit too.

MUTE: This is the greatest key ever to grace an agents phone.
I really don't need to say why.
It's usage was already demonstrated.


Once again, none of this was used to make customers feel bad, or unwanted, or even to show how absolutely stupid we sometimes were, it was all in good fun.
And much fun was had by all.

Have fun,
Don't let 'em getcha.

The Wonder of Parents

I was thinking, which I do from time to time, actually, more accurately, I was reviewing some events of the day.
When I got to work I discovered some co-workers had left a few things on the floor.
The truck was unloaded, but not everything was shelved... so to speak.
While the Manager and I discussed the issue, I made mention that, "I'd rather 'em just get the Fuck out. When I get here I'll take over. There's no need for them to be here and in my way!"

I told you that story to tell you this story.
It really is a wonder what your parents told you, and the silly b.s. you believed.
Remember, guys and gals, when you were youngsters out in dad's car with your very best guy or gal, curfew at 11oo.
They told you that curfew was to make sure you were home safe, and put in place as a disciplinary measure.
If you're on time you can go out next week, if not you can go out when you're 40.
That was their story.
How does this relate to the first story, you ask.
Time limits.
You have this amount of time to get done and get out.
That's what the folks were trying to tell you!
They knew what you were doing in the back seat of dad's Buick.
But if you're not on the field by 11oo, the coach isn't gonna put you in tonight and it's time to switch fields.


Dad and mom knew, they did the same thing.
They also knew if you couldn't get the job done in the allotted amount of time, it wasn't going to get done tonight.
Try again tomorrow, or leave it for the next shift.


Personally, I'd rather get my job, and my very best gal, done in a timely fashion.
Not leaving either one for anyone else to take care of.
If I can't get the shelves stocked before I leave I should start sooner.
If I can't get-r-done on time, I didn't get her warmed up soon enough.
But with dad's Buick, as well as some jobs, and the game of life...
(I hate to cliche) there is no overtime.

Get your job done or don't.
But when I arrive on the scene with a dozen roses and MY dad's Chevrolet, step aside son, I'm finishing your girl.

Once again, can you believe we actually thought they cared about what time the car got home!?



Hey pal,
Don't let 'em getcha. ; )