It's no longer simply a funny line from "Billy Madison." The new house came fully equipped with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a cute little garage, and a river of human shit flowing through the backyard.
The news that feces is piling up on your back porch is never what you want to hear when you just came home from your combined 11 hour day of work and school. Nevertheless, as soon as I opened the front door the other day I got three horrified versions of that disgusting revelation. Jonalyn (being the lady of the house) wasn't quite as vulgar as her penis-toting counterparts, but the message was clear in all cases: Our dung is not where it's supposed to be. Instead of calmly working its way through the pipe that runs underneath our rear lawn, it made a sharp detour at the patio and erupted out of a small drain just outside our sliding glass door. There were bits of stool and T.P. everywhere.
Turns out this house we're renting uses a sewer main that's so old there are fucking cave paintings on it. The pipe just collapsed like paper, causing all of our crap to get backed up after hitting a subterranean dam of solid earth. Now we have a level 3 bio hazard where our herb garden was supposed to go. Cool, huh? At least it gives me a good excuse to get one of those wicked radiation suits without having to admit to people that I'm really preparing for the near future when the dead rise and begin to feast on the living. The Zombiepocalypse is nigh. . .
It's really not as bad as you would think once you've gotten over the disgust of having a pile of human waste in lieu of a pretty birdbath. We had a plumber come out and set us up temporarily so that we don't have to make dookie in the shed, and after the landlord plops down $2,700 bucks we should have a fresh sewer main that's fit enough even for the shit of kings. Until then, no ping-pong unless you want to fish the ball out of the big brown puddle.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
The Moving Process
I'm finally getting my latest move squared away. I'm leaving the comfort of living with a clean, quiet, nice-smelling girl to live with another girl, her boyfriend and my best friend David (of whom the latter two seem to be suffering from perpetual irritable bowel syndrome.) The new place is in east Sacramento on 60th St. within walking distance of my two most frequented bars and two of my preferred eateries.
Why would I ever want to give up my simple life in Renee's condo for rowdy nights and stinky living rooms? Because it's cheaper. When you cram four people into a three-bedroom house the savings on rent alone are enormous, not to mention splitting cable, Internet and utilities four ways. I'll miss living with Renee and those two bastard cats who thought my box spring was their personal playground, but I've gotta make rational decisions about my finances. Cutting almost $250 from my monthly nut is nothing to sneeze at. The only hard part has been the actual physical act of moving all of my shit.
Heavy lifting has never really been a hobby of mine. Whenever I have to lug a box full of crap or a T.V., I get so annoyed that I almost start thinking slavery might have practical uses in the modern era. Call me old-fashioned, but there just never seems to be a shackled, shirtless negro when you really need one (unless you live in San Francisco, in which case you've probably had to tell a bare-chested black guy wearing chains to get off your stoop on more than one occasion.) Maybe that's just me being lazy.
Then there's that period of limbo between the time when your stuff is all at the new house but it's just in boxes or big piles that you have to sort out. Fuck that! If it were my destiny to be an interior designer I would have been given better fashion sense and a love of receiving anal sex. I don't want to have to worry if my feng shui is proper or if my bed should be placed such that I can enjoy the splendor of morning's first light as it slowly creeps in through my venetian blinds. I guess this time I'm not looking for a slave specifically, but a faggy Chinaman that can shimmy a bookshelf without my assistance would probably come in pretty handy.
It's all coming together, though. Another couple of days and it'll feel like my new home officially. We've already got the ping pong table out back and the poker table on order. All we need now is an official housewarming bash so that I can get wasted and throw up in my new roommate's hamper. Be it ever so humble. . .
Why would I ever want to give up my simple life in Renee's condo for rowdy nights and stinky living rooms? Because it's cheaper. When you cram four people into a three-bedroom house the savings on rent alone are enormous, not to mention splitting cable, Internet and utilities four ways. I'll miss living with Renee and those two bastard cats who thought my box spring was their personal playground, but I've gotta make rational decisions about my finances. Cutting almost $250 from my monthly nut is nothing to sneeze at. The only hard part has been the actual physical act of moving all of my shit.
Heavy lifting has never really been a hobby of mine. Whenever I have to lug a box full of crap or a T.V., I get so annoyed that I almost start thinking slavery might have practical uses in the modern era. Call me old-fashioned, but there just never seems to be a shackled, shirtless negro when you really need one (unless you live in San Francisco, in which case you've probably had to tell a bare-chested black guy wearing chains to get off your stoop on more than one occasion.) Maybe that's just me being lazy.
Then there's that period of limbo between the time when your stuff is all at the new house but it's just in boxes or big piles that you have to sort out. Fuck that! If it were my destiny to be an interior designer I would have been given better fashion sense and a love of receiving anal sex. I don't want to have to worry if my feng shui is proper or if my bed should be placed such that I can enjoy the splendor of morning's first light as it slowly creeps in through my venetian blinds. I guess this time I'm not looking for a slave specifically, but a faggy Chinaman that can shimmy a bookshelf without my assistance would probably come in pretty handy.
It's all coming together, though. Another couple of days and it'll feel like my new home officially. We've already got the ping pong table out back and the poker table on order. All we need now is an official housewarming bash so that I can get wasted and throw up in my new roommate's hamper. Be it ever so humble. . .
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
People I Hate
Everyone hates someone. I don't care if you're the most caring person on the planet, there's someone that you can't stand to be around.
For example, I hate the people who say "cool beans" every time they hear any kind of news.
"Here's your paycheck."
"Cool beans!."
"You left your coffee in the break room."
"Cool beans."
"I just backed over your daughter."
"Cool beans?"
This idiocy also applies to variations on this theme, such as "cool bananas" and "coolio." These assholes need to realize that what they're saying is complete nonsense and that their reflexive use of the phrase indicates severe head trauma in their past.
I also hate people who claim to like Journey now that they've seen Peter and Quagmire sing "Don't Stop Believing" on Family Guy. Here's the scoop, chief: you don't really like Journey. You don't even know the lyrics past "born and raised in south Detroit." You're 19 years old, meaning any nostalgia you have for '80s music in general is 90% imaginary. Why don't you just straighten out your intentionally frayed American Eagle cap and put on your expensive looking Bose headphones so that you can privately enjoy Hinder or Blue October or whatever other shitty bands are getting paid to warble about how depressed and angst-filled their lead singer is. Lips of an Angel my ass. . . And P.S., this goes double for anyone who thinks they're being hip by playing "Ring of Fire" or "Boy Named Sue" on a jukebox since the movie "Walk the Line" came out. You don't like Johnny Cash. You think you do because Joaquin Phoenix is such a dreamboat, but the truth is you hope it's a total pantie-peeler if those chicks at the corner table see that you know the opening lines to "Folsom Prison Blues." If I ever "hear that train a-comin'" I hope you're tied to the fucking tracks.
Finally, I definitely hate people who give you way more medical information about themselves than is necessary. Do you really have pre-printed handouts on the proper procedure to follow if you start having a seizure? Guess what, sugar tits, if you're having a seizure my first thought is gonna be how much distance I need from you to avoid getting any froth spattered on me. After that I'll see if there's a phone around that I don't have to strain too much to reach and I may end up calling for help. Other than that, I guess you'd better be a bit more diligent with your meds, huh? I also don't need you telling me about the six brain surgeries you've had, or the sexual abuse you endured as a child. It's my first day at this office and I'm not a fucking therapist. I don't even know how to turn on my computer yet but I'm already certain that you're the creepiest bitch I've ever met.
For example, I hate the people who say "cool beans" every time they hear any kind of news.
"Here's your paycheck."
"Cool beans!."
"You left your coffee in the break room."
"Cool beans."
"I just backed over your daughter."
"Cool beans?"
This idiocy also applies to variations on this theme, such as "cool bananas" and "coolio." These assholes need to realize that what they're saying is complete nonsense and that their reflexive use of the phrase indicates severe head trauma in their past.
I also hate people who claim to like Journey now that they've seen Peter and Quagmire sing "Don't Stop Believing" on Family Guy. Here's the scoop, chief: you don't really like Journey. You don't even know the lyrics past "born and raised in south Detroit." You're 19 years old, meaning any nostalgia you have for '80s music in general is 90% imaginary. Why don't you just straighten out your intentionally frayed American Eagle cap and put on your expensive looking Bose headphones so that you can privately enjoy Hinder or Blue October or whatever other shitty bands are getting paid to warble about how depressed and angst-filled their lead singer is. Lips of an Angel my ass. . . And P.S., this goes double for anyone who thinks they're being hip by playing "Ring of Fire" or "Boy Named Sue" on a jukebox since the movie "Walk the Line" came out. You don't like Johnny Cash. You think you do because Joaquin Phoenix is such a dreamboat, but the truth is you hope it's a total pantie-peeler if those chicks at the corner table see that you know the opening lines to "Folsom Prison Blues." If I ever "hear that train a-comin'" I hope you're tied to the fucking tracks.
Finally, I definitely hate people who give you way more medical information about themselves than is necessary. Do you really have pre-printed handouts on the proper procedure to follow if you start having a seizure? Guess what, sugar tits, if you're having a seizure my first thought is gonna be how much distance I need from you to avoid getting any froth spattered on me. After that I'll see if there's a phone around that I don't have to strain too much to reach and I may end up calling for help. Other than that, I guess you'd better be a bit more diligent with your meds, huh? I also don't need you telling me about the six brain surgeries you've had, or the sexual abuse you endured as a child. It's my first day at this office and I'm not a fucking therapist. I don't even know how to turn on my computer yet but I'm already certain that you're the creepiest bitch I've ever met.
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Alpha. . .
Introductions should always come first. Before you can begin to appreciate me or my experiences, it helps to know who I am and where I'm coming from, right? As you wish. . .
My name's Todd and I live in northern California, USA. I'm a journalism student working full-time as a bill collector for a subscription software company. I'm currently single and "looking" but having a hard time "finding" because most girls seem to have an aversion to giants with poor self-esteem and acne scars. Also, the cat that I live with just sprayed in the dryer so I constantly smell like I just fucked a cluster of horny mackerel tabbys.
I've decided to expand my blogging to beyond just a MySpace page for a couple of reasons. Reason the first: I'd like more people to start reading what I'm writing. That's a very scary notion for someone like me who attempts to avoid attention at all costs, but I'm taking baby steps into becoming a more well-adjusted person. I wish me luck.
Reason number two: I can have advertising on my blog that can earn me a passive income. This in turn gives me motivation to generate useful, entertaining content in the hopes that I can get some of you to click me into a new car. Seriously, it's the American Dream to be able to sit on your duff and just have money come rolling in, so if you find yourself with five seconds to kill then please click on an ad. I'm not asking you to buy anything. It's more like I'm panhandling. You can be more comfortable knowing that I won't buy booze with the money (at first) and I'm not a filthy criminal like most homeless people. I'm just lazy.
What you'll get here is not anything revolutionary. I'm just a regular dude for the most part. What I'm offering are my observations and opinions about whatever retarded stuff is happening around me, whether it's public record or just in my personal life. Maybe you'll like it. Maybe you'll despise me. Maybe you'll click on an ad or four. I'm not a mind-reader.
My name's Todd and I live in northern California, USA. I'm a journalism student working full-time as a bill collector for a subscription software company. I'm currently single and "looking" but having a hard time "finding" because most girls seem to have an aversion to giants with poor self-esteem and acne scars. Also, the cat that I live with just sprayed in the dryer so I constantly smell like I just fucked a cluster of horny mackerel tabbys.
I've decided to expand my blogging to beyond just a MySpace page for a couple of reasons. Reason the first: I'd like more people to start reading what I'm writing. That's a very scary notion for someone like me who attempts to avoid attention at all costs, but I'm taking baby steps into becoming a more well-adjusted person. I wish me luck.
Reason number two: I can have advertising on my blog that can earn me a passive income. This in turn gives me motivation to generate useful, entertaining content in the hopes that I can get some of you to click me into a new car. Seriously, it's the American Dream to be able to sit on your duff and just have money come rolling in, so if you find yourself with five seconds to kill then please click on an ad. I'm not asking you to buy anything. It's more like I'm panhandling. You can be more comfortable knowing that I won't buy booze with the money (at first) and I'm not a filthy criminal like most homeless people. I'm just lazy.
What you'll get here is not anything revolutionary. I'm just a regular dude for the most part. What I'm offering are my observations and opinions about whatever retarded stuff is happening around me, whether it's public record or just in my personal life. Maybe you'll like it. Maybe you'll despise me. Maybe you'll click on an ad or four. I'm not a mind-reader.
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