tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16410972965084163132024-03-13T16:38:14.139-07:00Asshats and the Failure of Darwinism:the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-21125577567591652792011-06-27T21:23:00.000-07:002011-06-27T21:26:14.546-07:00Mr. Mayor, you suck.To the Honorable Michael Bloomberg, Mayor of New York - Asshat of the Day. <br /><br />Congratulations, sir. You've gotten one step closer to making the LES uninhabitable by the working poor of the neighborhood. I'm sure it'll be grand when all the "dirty poor people" are gone and replaced by Wall Streeters looking for an easy commute.<br /><br />Gone will be the former tenements that provide living history lessons for the last unique neighborhood in Manhattan. Those buildings will be replaced by slick glass and steel. <br /><br />You, dear sir, have drawn my ire this day for the dislocation of a rightly proud man and a neighborhood icon. Jeffery's Meats closed a for good a few days ago. It seems Jeff couldn't swing the 30% increase in his rent. <br /><br />It's not unusual for businesses to get priced out of their neighborhoods. The new twist for me, is watching the City of New York play the role of greedy landlord. <br /><br />Councilwoman Chin spoke up for Jeff, reminding the bureaucrats & your flying monkeys of the fact that his family has been an occupant of the Essex Market since it's inception in the 40's. She also pointed out he felt he had to keep his prices as low as possible to service the denizens of Delancey. She told how he taught classes for free to anyone that would attend techniques that would make lesser cuts of meat more tender and flavorful. For that, I give the Councilwoman a big thumbs up for actually trying to do right by her constituency. To the uncaring douchebags at City Hall that lick the boots of the Emperor, I offer my contempt. <br /><br />I will admit I may be biased. I consider Jeff my friend. But so do the hundreds, if not thousands of people that would seek him out to learn to better provide for their families, to be regaled with stories and be treated not as a customer, but a cherished family member. <br /><br />Your lackeys say all the tenants rents must be raised due to the financial hardships the city faces. God forbid the Mayors vanity projects such as the Highline be put on hold. Yes, it's nice. I don't think it will provide provide free Thanksgiving dinners for neighbors that would otherwise do without, though. I don't think the ill-fated 2nd Ave line will help feed hungry families on a nightly basis, either, since I'm doubtful it will even be completed in my lifetime. <br /><br />With Jeff's departure, the neighborhood got a little less livable for the people that kept it alive during the bad times of the 70s, 80s & early 90s. The city has lost an institution...a raconteur extraordinaire...an icon...a friend <br /><br />I understand you dont care about the people in Manhattan that can't afford Whole Foods. We all know the goal is to save the island for the "haves" while the "have nots" are shuffled out on the J train. It's a much brighter city for you when "the help" departs for their "new" barrios in the outer boroughs. I get where you're coming from, Mr. Mayor, and it sickens me. <br /><br />I'm assuming the rent increases will force out all the current tenants, eventually. The seafood stall, the muffin men, the barbers, the grocer will, I predict, become an endangered species fairly swiftly. When that comes to pass, your cronies can continue the glass and steel debacle you've already started. <br /><br />If there's any irony in the world, you'll be squashed like a bug under an improperly secured crane when you attend the ground-breaking of one of the monstrosities you so dearly love. If there's any justice in the world, you'll be buried in a public lot so I can drink a shot to your demise, smoke a cigarette and stub it on your headstone, then piss on your grave, you heartless son of a bitch. <br /><br />I occasionally joke about hoping an asshat "dies in a fire". I'm not going to make that joke today, because I can't...aw, to hell with it. I hope you die in a fire, you piece of shit. <br /><br />With all due respect, of course.the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-63499945926754957812010-07-23T23:43:00.000-07:002010-07-24T00:43:46.773-07:00At Least Banks Appreciate My Business Now...huh?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/TEqX5pVO1XI/AAAAAAAAAGE/0AFe3354eNQ/s1600/bank-of-america-sucks.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497373311762355570" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/TEqX5pVO1XI/AAAAAAAAAGE/0AFe3354eNQ/s320/bank-of-america-sucks.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I've been banking with a certain large bank for several years. For the sake of this story, let's call the bank "Bank of America". I chose them, primarily, because of location and convenience. There was a branch near the two bars I was running, and they had one of the few "big bank" branches in the slowly gentrifying neighborhood I was residing in at the time. Upon my relocation to Atlanta last year, I was informed I'd need to close my NY account and open an account locally. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I made a little time, like a good sheep, and went in to the local Branch. I closed the "old" account and opened a "new" account. Even though I had been banking with them for years, they still charged me for the whole Magilla: new checks, same maintenance fees, blah, blah, blah. As I said earlier, I stayed w/ them for years out of convenience (even though I was overpaying in maintenance fees). At that point, I stayed because I was lazy and...well...I was there.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Last Friday, I checked my bank balance on my iPhone. To my surprise, rather than the one checking and one savings accounts I had maintained for over a year, I had another checking account...and it was over-drawn. Ummmm...what? I had never had access to this account before on my phone, but the last four digits matched my "closed for over a year" account. Closer scrutiny showed 11 withdrawals of $12.00 for monthly service leaving a negative balance of $33 and some change. Ummm...WTF???</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This past Monday, I went to the branch in the morning and spoke with a gent (for the sake of this blog, let's call him Donald) about identifying and correcting the problem. Donald examined the entries on his screen at his little kiosk and finally asked "Why did you leave this money in the account?" I told him, to the best of my memory, I had not. I was under the impression the account had been emptied into the new account. "Hmmm," said Donald. "Great", thought I.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I explained that I had not been able to even see this information until a few days prior, and had received no statements regarding the old account. Donald corrected me by stating "Oh, you've been receiving statements. It says so here".</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Donald, I'm sure you don't mean to sound arrogant, but I promise you I haven't received any mailings. </div><br /><div><strong>Donny Douchebag:</strong> Well, it says so here.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Don, I first found the account on Friday. I'm here on the following Monday. Does that strike you as the action of someone that's been dragging his ass for a year?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> It says it was mailed.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Well, Donny, since I'm the one that's out a hundred plus bucks, and I'm the one here complaining, perhaps we should let the mailing issue go for now and address one of the aspects of the scenario that will make me go away.</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> Let me do a little more looking...</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Hey Don-boy, how about at least acknowledging that I made a statement, please. After all, even if I'm not as well versed in banking as you, I can certainly complain to your superiors about sub-par treatment, and I'm certainly capable of making you cry like a little girl. So let's try to keep this professional before it gets shitty for both of us. Whatta ya say?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> Yes Mr. Martin</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> (sigh)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> (after a few moments) Good news! I can refund you $35!</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Why is that good news? The bank owes me over $100.</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> Well, I can only access the last 6 months.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> OK. What about the rest?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> Don't forget, you weren't actually charged the overdrawn $33.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Right. What's 11 x $12?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> $132</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Right. That's the gross. What's 132 - 33?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> 99.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Right. That's the net. Give me $99 and I'll leave happy. Most importantly, I'll leave your kiosk.</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> I'll have to turn it over to security for investigation.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> What, they're the only ones that can deal in returning more than $35 when it's stolen from a customer?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> It's my only option.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Fine. How long will this take?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> (sigh) A few days, probably.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> (heavier sigh) I guess that'll have to do. If I haven't heard from someone by Thursday, I'll be back to talk to someone that isn't you. I assume one of the rats in the glass cages against the back wall answers when you call "Boss", right?</div><br /><div><strong>DD:</strong> Well, technically, they're all my bosses.</div><br /><div><strong>Me:</strong> Cool. I'll be waiting for that phone call.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The phone call came on Wednesday. Donny-boy, himself, called to give the good news. Security had approved returning $110 to yours truly. I told Donald I'd be in later in the week to close out the account...and this time it needed to stay closed.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Before you back up the page, you're right. I had only been seeking $99. When the extra $11 was offered I classified it as, what some in the bar business refer to as, Asshole tax. If Donny had been a tad less of a douchebag, I would have done the right thing and pointed it out. Since he was a total sphincter-monkey, however, he could now buy me lunch...Asshat.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>There are a couple of truly crappy aspects to this story for me. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>1) I shouldn't have been so lazy to begin with. I have to drive by a rival financial institution with better rates just to get to this branch. I was just too lazy to go in and close the account then go to the new bank and open the new account. This will be remedied next week.</div><br /><div>2) How can any business that relies on customer relations treat a customer like that when they are clearly in the wrong on so many levels? </div><br /><div>2A: They didn't close the account properly when asked. </div><br /><div>2B: Something is clearly fishy in that no statements were received for over a year.</div><br /><div>2C: When the problem was reported, did this crusty short sniffer think he was gonna bully me into going away? Not friggin' likely. Also, why was there no mea culpa from this walking stain? I'm not saying it was his fault, but he is the rep for the bank. What a wanker.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Just goes to show...you can find asshats in all walks of life. Drunks in a bar, or banker guys in ties at their little kiosks. We owe it to ourselves and each other to make adjustments where we can and administer a (sometimes verbal) neckpunch when called for. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I saw my duty and I did it. Hopefully Wachovia will do better.</div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-17270137282301736342010-06-08T04:00:00.000-07:002010-06-08T05:26:32.740-07:00Thumbs up & Pokes in the Eye<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/TA4tMjS_5hI/AAAAAAAAAF8/g7JJB6nY0xI/s1600/muppets.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 227px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480367490213078546" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/TA4tMjS_5hI/AAAAAAAAAF8/g7JJB6nY0xI/s320/muppets.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Today, My VooDoo Love Children, I'll throw out a few accolades to people and companies that are doing things right. Then, of course, I'll beat down the asshats, douchebags and funcktards that make me want to become the first serial junkpuncher.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Kudos to: </div><br /><div>The good folks at Schick. Their newest product, the Hydro 5 is fucking awesome. Made to compete w/ the Gillette Mach 3 (a fine razor, but not terribly resilient) and it's ilk. It blows the competition away. The shaves are ridiculously close. The price is 15-20% less than the Mach 3 and is easily 4 times as durable. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>My Oncology Team @ Northwest GA Oncology: Getting cancer sucks. But if you gotta have it, Dr. Hahm and her staff are the people to have in your corner. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The Center for Puppetry Arts: If you're into puppets, you REALLY need to check out the exhibits. It's heavy into Jim Henson (as it should be, given his contributions to TV and Film), but also explains and demonstrates many types of puppets popular throughout history and has several interactive displays that will keep kids AND adults mesmerized (making a giant locust do the Humpty Dance is freakin' AWESOME!!!).</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Pokes in the Eyes:</div><br /><div>BP: Duh. What else can I say that hasn't already been said?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Haliburton: Quietly billing millions (soon to be billions) of dollars in the gulf debacle w/out an ounce of progress. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Joran Van der Sloot: Didn't make the list for being a lying, scumbag serial killer...which he is. He made the list for trying to extort $250,000 from the Holloway family to supply info to the whereabouts of their daughters remains. What a fucking scumbag.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The guy in front of me at the drive thru ATM: If you have more than 3 transactions and people are behind you, don't use the drive thru. Go inside or at least use the walk up. Additionally, if you're using 3 different cards to complete multiple transactions while the line just gets longer, and longer, and longer...you're a fucking asshat that needs a punch in the neck.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Heather Henson: That's right, the youngest of the Jim Henson. She's also into puppets. Not muppets, mind you, she "doesn't like them" and would rather you didn't submit anything "too muppetty" to her film company for consideration. Evidently, she forgets that Elmo pays her rent, and her orthodontics and education were made possible by grants from the denizens of Sesame Street. Additionally, even though she had a whole row reserved for her at Puppet Slam @ Dad's Garage, she didn't bother to show up until it was over (it ran from midnight to 1:30 a.m.) to make sure as much attention as possible was devoted to her. UGH. As the delicate flower, known as FFGirly, waxed so poetically..."she needs a kick in the taco". Truer words may never have been spoken.</div><div></div><div> </div><div>Thumbs UP: </div><div>Puppet Slam @ Dad's Garage Theatre: witness moments of pure comic genius while surrounded by the oddest collection of escapees from a Dragon/Comic Con ever assembled. A great time!</div><div></div><div> </div><div>The Dispostion: AKA The DIS. Saw a preview of this new (pending) web/blog site. It shows lots of promise to be freakin' awesome. When it's officially up, I'll share the link.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div>Other Blogs: Some Blogs I like to follow for various reasons. Check them out, if you get a chance.</div><div></div><div><a href="http://formerfattyconfessions.blogspot.com/">http://formerfattyconfessions.blogspot.com/</a>, <a href="http://mommywantsvodka.com/">http://mommywantsvodka.com/</a>, <a href="http://subwaydouchery.com/">http://subwaydouchery.com/</a>, h<a href="http://thejohnblog.com/">tp://thejohnblog.com</a>, <a href="http://justkramer.net/">http://justkramer.net/</a>, <a href="http://sundrymourning.com/">http://sundrymourning.com/</a>, <a href="http://thebloggess.com/">http://thebloggess.com/</a></div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div>Gonna end on this high note, my VooDoo Love Children. Whether they be aimed at neck or junk, keep your punches straight.</div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-76028163152395133852010-05-12T13:55:00.000-07:002010-05-12T17:33:10.531-07:00The Matty vs. the Uber-Douche...penpal style. Pt 1<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/S-tF8t3c8sI/AAAAAAAAAFs/nB7LrFaSZtE/s1600/douchebag.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470543081778246338" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/S-tF8t3c8sI/AAAAAAAAAFs/nB7LrFaSZtE/s320/douchebag.jpg" /></a><em><strong>Got a long one today, friends. Actually, it's gonna be a series of long ones. </strong></em><br /><em><strong></strong></em><br /><em><strong>Over the last few days, I received several emails from a guy I used to know that has made some..questionable decisions in his pursuit of love, attention, or whatever it is that floats his boat. I reached out to him at the request of a young lady friend that he had become enamored with when he saw her picture on my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">fb</span> page. She had asked me to intervene on her behalf, as she was turned off by his behavior and manic tendencies. She had asked him to quit contacting her, and he continued. As I had foolishly vouched for him based on our previously knowing each other 20-odd years earlier, I felt obligated to try to clear things up. I contacted him directly and, as diplomatically as I knew how, suggested he needed to find another pursuit. He promptly <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">de</span>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">friended</span> me and bombarded her w/ double digit emails and phone calls over the next few days. Bear in mind, he had never even been in the same state as the girl, 18 yr.s his junior, much less in the same room. They had merely contacted each other via <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">fb</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">im</span> and later, phone calls over a two week period. I mentioned the situation in a blog over a year ago. He wasn't mentioned by name but now, a year later, he has crawled out from whatever rock he's been hiding under and is suddenly offended by the post. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Phhhhhttttt</span>!</strong></em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Chapter 1<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"If you're 40-plus years old, and instantly fall in love with a 24 year old girl on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">facebook</span> or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">myspace</span> after seeing her picture, you're sad. If, after a few online chats, you get jealous because she works late, you're a loser. If, after being advised to let it go and get on with your life, you continue to inundate the girl with dozens of emails, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">fb</span> or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">myspace</span> messages, AIM messages, etc over the next 72 hours, you're instantly elevated to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Uber</span>-Douche."<br /><br />OK, first of all you've been terribly misled, but I'll get to that in just one second. For now let me just say I found this quite amusing and have definitely been called a lot worse by a lot better people. <em><strong>I'm sure you have. Your behavior, as will be documented, makes it seem unlikely that you haven't had a great litany of adjectives attached to your name. It's nice you're so well (or is it <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">mal</span>) adjusted that you're <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span> w/ it.</strong></em><br /><br />Actually I don't mind being considered an "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">uber</span>-douche," but I just cannot stand the awful karma that goes with being one. <em><strong>The karma's on you, dude. Nobody to blame but yourself</strong></em>. Although I must say I'd rather be an "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">uber</span>-douche" who's free of any hematological malignancies than the really super-cool guy who isn't. <em><strong>This is a reference to my being diagnosed w/ Multiple <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Myeloma</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ohhhh</span>, that hurt. You're right. It must be better to be a bully of girls than to have cancer. Given the choice, I'll take the cancer. Enjoy your decision, cock-hole. That's what generates your karma. I do appreciate the compliment of being a "super-cool guy", though.</strong></em> Besides, not everyone thinks I'm a "U-D." Such as, the people who actually know me or take time to find out the truth about things before displaying the kind of integrity it takes to write that kind of thing about someone without even saying their name or, I don't know, saying it directly TO them, ever. <strong><em>Well, obviously you're suffering from selective amnesia. If you recall, I did reach out to you at the very beginning of all this. You immediately <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">de</span>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">friended</span> me, removing any avenue that I had to reach you again. I left all names out of the post as a courtesy to both you and your victim. I thought I was being pretty considerate. If you feel differently, feel free to respond in the comment section giving me the authority to use your name and I'll be more than happy to use it.</em></strong> Besides, everyone knows only real <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">uber</span>-douches use such terms as "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">uber</span>-douche." <em><strong>And by that logic, you are now an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">uber</span>-douche. I'm rubber, you're glue...infinity. So suck it, you <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">asshat</span>.</strong></em><br /><br />Now, without wasting much more of my time slumming here, perhaps it would be fun to, just for a minute, let you in on some surprising facts. And by the way, I don't just pour gravy on opinions or positions and label them "facts." I identify them as facts and then prove them indisputably in any number of ways. <strong><em>I'm sorry you're out of your element here in my slum, but I didn't invite your <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">fusillade</span> of emails (7 in 3 days) that drew this, the first of several chapters of your little manifesto. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mmmm</span>, gravy.</em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br />Fact 1: I'm guessing you didn't know the ONLY person who even uttered the word "love," was not I, it was "L". And she didn't just utter it, she professed hers for me in writing, several times, even after being told to quit kidding around. Let me guess ... "The Matty" wasn't told that bit of information, was he. <strong><em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hmmm</span>. I'll gladly accept any missives that verify your claim. "L"s version differs wildly. Of course, it's no surprise that your delusional mind sees things that others can't. Instead of "I see dead people", it's "I see whatever I need to see to validate myself".<br /></em></strong><br />Fact 2: More of a question, really, but of what was I supposedly "jealous," based on someone working late? I was jealous of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">chex</span> mix because it got to sit in a bowl there and I couldn't? I'm going to guess you got this second-hand too, and not from anything you saw written by me or actually heard me say. <em><strong>No, I didn't actually hear you say anything. But then again, you were a thousand miles away at the time. I was working at the bar w/ "L" the night you sent her the malicious missive (like the alliteration?) berating her for not being available at the time the two of you had set to chat on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">IM</span>. It appeared from your aforementioned email that you were convinced she was back w/ an ex-boyfriend, which she was not. Additionally, we didn't serve <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chex</span> mix, it was too expensive. We just used pretzels.<br /></strong></em><br />Fact 3: If you had done something as brutally disrespectful and malicious to me as "L" did, I would've without a sound just taken out one of your knees and then put you to sleep in a way you wouldn't be able to remember when you woke up. <strong><em>That I'd like to see, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">numbnuts</span>.</em></strong> And that would've been that, as they say. I'm not going to sit here and explain or justify anything to you, however, or explain why my actions had you done anything equally as brutal and intentional to me would've been so much different than what they ended up being with her.<strong> If you have no desire to explain or justify anything, fine. I had forgotten you even existed until you started your manic rambling campaign a few days ago. Once again, you've proven the not so old adage: a jackass doesn't know when to shut the hell up.<br /></strong><br />And finally, MATT, <strong><em>(See, he thinks by using Matt rather than Matty I'll be offended, hence the capitalization. God, what a douche)</em></strong> I sure do hope you'll announce it to the world when you've become an expert on and mastered the dynamics between men and women, which I expect should be quite soon. <strong><em>It's no great stretch. Don't try to bully women into behaving the way you want. Take them at face value when they say they don't want anything else to do with you. Don't create multiple email accounts when your email is blocked. Don't set up ficticious fb accounts to try to spy on people. At best it's just creepy, at worst... </em></strong>First, if I ever had "instantly fall(en) in love with a 24 year old girl on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">facebook</span> or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">myspace</span> after seeing her picture," I would've considered myself one of the most fortunate people alive. <strong><em>Then you are the most fortunate Fruit Loop you know. When you first contacted me about her, you were a gushing '<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">tard</span>. Even when I told you she used to be a man (just joking at the time) you continued the gush. It was more than a tad <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">embarrassing</span> for me at the time.</em></strong> Because of course I am not required to observe or employ whatever your definition of "love" is, and if/when the time comes that I do fall in love with someone, I promise you I am not going to give a rat's ass whether or not you find it "sad," or anything else you could possibly opine. <strong><em>40something man chasing 20something girl after merely seeing her picture is, in fact, pretty <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">friggin</span>' sad. Live with it.</em></strong> And second, I honestly thought you were intelligent enough to know all that bullshit you regurgitated can quickly and easily be rendered totally meaningless with one simple, factual observation I pose to you now as a question: WERE YOU THERE? 'Cause I damn sure don't remember you being anywhere around, ever, much less every single second. <strong><em>No, I wasn't there. And neither were you, moron. You were several states away. I was privy to many, and I mean many, emails as they rolled in on her phone, however. Is that close enough for you, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">dipshit</span>?<br /></em></strong><br />Aside from the fact the girl probably isn't even legal to begin with, you know damn well she's confrontational, a bully, and really just kinda fucked in the head - for starters - and I don't suffer fools lightly, male or female. <em><strong>Amazing how her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">immigration</span> status didn't factor into your equation when you were seeking a paramour. Only after being rebuffed did you come up w/ this ridiculous accusation. You keep referring to how close you got to her and how well you know her, but you don't even know she was born in this country? Dude, you are 32 flavors of fucked up.</strong></em> So in summary, not only is your opinion meaningless to the point of amusing to me, the simple truth is you don't know shit and thus have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. Which I only tell you now of course just in case you had the slightest bit of integrity and actually cared whether or not the things you write are even valid or have merit. <strong><em>Blah, blah, blah, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">asshat</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">douchebag</span>, ramblings of a massive tool.<br /></em></strong><br />At least now we can be glad to know where we both stand on things. And any time you're interested and I feel like taking the time, maybe I'll send a jolt or two through you and show/tell you the kinds of things that could motivate a person to switch their douche into <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">uber</span>-drive. <strong><em>Once again, the post that you now find so offensive you have known about for over a year. It makes my stance on things pretty clear...I think <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-error">youre</span> an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">uber</span>-douche. I'm sure things are lonely for you, dancing around in front of the mirrors in a ladies robe you lifted from the dressing room at Lane Bryant, but bro, get a hobby. Get a life. As I stated earlier, I had moved on. The only reason I even got involved in the first place was because I had foolishly vouched for this <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-error">asshat</span> based on knowing him when we were MUCH younger. Even after the first two emails, I was going to let it go. After the next few, it became game on. Hopefully my gentle readers won't be too bored w/ your bullshit (after all, we're already up to 7 chapters), but I'm sure the payoff at the end will be worth it to them.</em></strong>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-44095196223891371402010-04-24T08:15:00.000-07:002010-04-24T10:21:21.716-07:00Slices of Life from a Cancerous Pie<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/S9MjI2ZIp0I/AAAAAAAAAFk/ZDStRiLQciI/s1600/yard+sale+photo.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463749407877408578" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/S9MjI2ZIp0I/AAAAAAAAAFk/ZDStRiLQciI/s320/yard+sale+photo.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>While I was searching for a reason for my anemia (which obviously was later attributed to Multipe Myeloma), I wound up at the Cardiologist. After some tests and x-rays...</div><br /><div>Dr. Sunshine: It's not overly concerning, but you're heart is slightly enlarged.</div><br /><div>Me: That's a relief!<br /></div><div>DS: (confused) How is that a relief?</div><br /><div>Me: Well, there was that time I was in Whoville at Christmas when my heart swelled three times its normal size.</div><br /><div>(uncomfortable silence)</div><br /><div>Me: It's a joke. It's a reference to "How the Grinch Stole Christmas".</div><br /><div>DS: (very dryly) I get the reference.</div><br /><div>Me: Wow. If you ever decide not to be a heart specialist, you've got a great future as a funny bone specialist.</div><br /><div>(tumbleweeds blowing through the exam room)</div><br /><br /><div>After I was diagnosed w/ Myeloma, I was in need of a smoke to calm the nerves. I left the Cancer Building and walked down to the designated smoking area near the parking deck. While there, I noticed a middle-aged woman crossing the street headed in my direction. When she got to me...</div><br /><div>Bitchy Chick: You know you're smoking outside the cancer building, right?</div><br /><div>Me: Than God. I'd hate to think the wrong people just had their hands up my ass.</div><br /><div>BC: You should put that out! People here have cancer!</div><br /><div>Me: (taking a long drag) Newsflash, bitch, I have cancer, so how about stepping off my dick? (blowing the smoke at her)<br /></div><div>The baffled silence that followed was priceless as she slunk away.<br /></div><br /><div></div><div>Scenes From the Sticks...<br /></div><div>If you're wondering about the picture attached to this post, look very closely. It's a yardsale...a very tacky yardsale...outside of a "by the week/by the hour" motel of questionable repute. The lady running the sale lives there. She has a beer cozy adorned w/ black feathers. Her dental work resembles Michael Spinks (she has no front teeth). The vast majority of her items seem to fall into the "Mardi Gras" or "trashy stripper" category. Imagining this wrinkled sasquatch utilizing any of the stripper gear was enough to make my junk shrivel and crawl up into my belly in fear. </div><br /><br /><div>Random Thoughts...</div><br /><div>I've been watching a lot of shows w/ the fam that feature midgets/dwarves/little people and find most of them are pretty damned bitchy (does short of stature equal short of patience?) or fairly worthless spouses/workers/humans (did they just give up on excelling in life beccause they couldn't get a job at Santa's Workshop?). The shows would be much more palatable if they were more like their stars...shorter. I really don't need an hour of whiny/angry midgets. </div><br /><div>Prediction - Completely broke by the end of the year, Jon (from Jon and Kate plus 8) will make a porno enititled, I'm sure you've guessed it, Jon plus 8. Basically, he'll jump in a pile w/ eight porn sluts and show the world his beanie-weenie and lack of prowess. Kate will be outraged, and do a spread for Hustler in protest. </div><div> </div><div><br /> </div><div> </div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-57720735123676173762010-03-31T05:54:00.001-07:002010-03-31T07:38:54.931-07:00A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Suburban BlissIt's been more than a few months since our hero (me, of course) posted. Sorry, I've been busy. New job, expanded connections w/ the new <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">fam</span>, time w/ the existing <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">fam</span> and, oh yeah, I got cancer.<br /><br />Some of you already know this, some don't. Regardless, it is what it is. What it is, specifically, is Multiple <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Myeloma</span>. It's a cancer of the blood. Ironically, it's generally not believed to be related to smoking, so I guess the two pack a day habit I had been working the previous 20-odd years wasn't so bad after all. The good news is, I'm told, due to being caught in very early stages, it should be very treatable. The bad news is, well obviously, it's still cancer which means eventually it'll probably come back. Oh well, what can you do. The saga runs a little something like this...<br /><br />Early January, 2010: For the first time in forever, I find myself working for a corporate bar. Con - corporate <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">bs</span>, Pro - insurance. When my insurance kicks in, I keep my promise to Rita and go for a check up. After being poked, prodded, probed, tapped, flicked, fingered and generally manhandled, I'm told I'm severely anemic. Over the next few weeks, I see several specialists to determine the cause of this anemia. For reasons unknown to me, it seems the entire medical community could not <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">suppress</span> their urges to shove their fingers/hands/arms up my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">pooper</span>. Not to sound like a prude, but I'm not a fan of this procedure. It makes Mr. Starfish VERY unhappy. But enough about my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sphincter</span>.<br /><br />My <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">hematologist</span>/oncologist diagnosed me in about two minutes. She's a very sharp lady. Smart and aggressive, I liked her immediately. Her "take no prisoners" attitude won me over out of the gate. I started <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Revlemid</span> immediately, as well as assorted other <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">meds</span> to combat pain, infection, constipation and any of another dozen afflictions. Things were cool for a couple of weeks, but then took a turn for the worse.<br /><br />Late February: Deterioration of mass in the femur and the quadriceps (thigh bones and muscles) led to a pretty painful condition and made walking nearly impossible. This landed me in the hospital. While the good people were trying to figure out how to deal w/ it, I wound up stoned as a bat for two weeks and some change. I'm not talking a little stoned. I'm talking <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">gooney</span>-goo-goo, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">mumbo</span> dog-face, banana patch stoned. I have absolutely no recollection of my stay from about an hour after I hit the emergency room until I "blinked back in" two and a half weeks later. The bad news, I lost two weeks. The good news, I quit smoking. Who knew you just had to get really high on two different kinds of morphine, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">oxycodone</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">oxycontin</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">vicadin</span> and various other pain killers to get the monkey off your back?<br /><br />Mid-March: After waking up from my med-fueled stupor, my legs were in rough shape. Though they'd achieved the right mix for a cocktail to deal w/ the pain, my legs had deteriorated further, and now I could add two weeks of atrophy to the list of problems. The lower quads wouldn't quite fire correctly anymore. I was gonna have to learn to walk again. Two weeks of physical therapy got me up in a walker and motoring around pretty well. My first day, I was only good for a very painful 20 ft or so. 4 days later, a moderately painful 75 ft. 9 days, 300 ft. 12 days, 600 ft and change and I was tired before I felt any residual pain. the Matty rocks!!!<br /><br />Now and the Future: I've set up a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">fb</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">fanpage</span> to keep my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">homeys</span> apprised of what's going on titled "The Matty vs. Multiple <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Myeloma</span>". Look it up if you like, join if you like. I appreciate the feedback and it feeds my ego to see the numbers climb.<br /><br />In the (hopefully) near future, I'll be putting together fundraisers for several Cancer funds that have stepped up to help during my time of need. Since all I really know how to do is throw a party, I'm sure it'll devolve into some type of drunk-fest, but I'll already have the cash in hand, so screw it, just don't drink and drive. The work in progress is a tour of several cities (Atlanta, New York, Chicago and L.A. are the working cities, thus far) to raise money for local as well as national charities.<br /><br />I'm also setting up a shop page on Cafe Press for T-shirts, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">hoodies</span>, steins and stuff to help keep the bills paid (not working sucks). If you see something you like, by all means buy it. I'll post the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sites on</span> the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Myeloma</span> and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">Asshats</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">fanpages</span>, so there's no excuse to miss it.<br /><br />Hopefully, this answers all the questions my pals have been afraid to ask for the last couple of months. Yes, it sucks. No, I'm not scared. Yes, I'm annoyed at the timing (Jeez I finally hook up w/ the greatest gal in the world after 40-something years, and now this). No, I'm not ready to run the white flag.<br /><br />With a little help and support from family and friends, I'll beat this by the end of the year. No doubt...no fear...no problem.<br /><br />Big Love to all.the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-54450743870150093212009-09-12T07:55:00.000-07:002009-09-12T09:29:48.978-07:00The Archives<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SqvLxJwgSOI/AAAAAAAAAFY/pug_6MWyCNM/s1600-h/Another+satisfied+customer+St+Pattys+2009+2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380618225117579490" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SqvLxJwgSOI/AAAAAAAAAFY/pug_6MWyCNM/s320/Another+satisfied+customer+St+Pattys+2009+2.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SqvLw5Kfz5I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/GxtH82P_ksY/s1600-h/Another+satisfied+customer+St+Pattys+2009.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380618220663197586" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SqvLw5Kfz5I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/GxtH82P_ksY/s320/Another+satisfied+customer+St+Pattys+2009.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>Talking with a guy in a restaurant the other day, I was reminded of a few stories/exchanges from the last several years...</div><br /><div><strong>Randomness -</strong> </div><br /><div>Snotty NYU bitch: "I'm never coming back to this bar. It stinks like vomit!!!"</div><br /><div>As she turned away, the source of the odor she was complaining of was evident. The back of her skirt was covered in barf. I'm guessing someone lost their Chicken a la King on her. Oh, well.</div><br /><div><strong>St. Patricks Day -</strong><br /><br /></div><div>A young lady staggered from the bar, leaned over the A-frame sign, and blew chunks in front of God and everyone. After her purge, she lurched over to the wall of the next building and proceeded to dry heave for several minutes. During this time, her dutiful boyfriend exited the bar to be supportive, hold her hair and do the "good boyfriend shit".</div><br /><div>When she finished expunging the devil liquor from her system, she rewarded him in classic style. With a a hug and a kiss. He tried to pull away, but wasn't quick enough. When they separated, he had a nice racing stripe of barf running from the middle of his chest to his belt. Ah, young love.</div><br /><div><strong>Randomness II -</strong> </div><br /><div>As I was escorting a young gent to the door for acting like an asshat, he stopped abruptly and announced "I don't wanna be here anyway! This bar SUCKS!!!"</div><br /><div>Me: "You know, you're right. Let me fix that"</div><br /><div>I took him by the shoulders and moved him out the door onto the sidewalk.</div><br /><div>"There, now the bar doesn't suck anymore. Thanks for pointing out the problem, douche."</div><br /><div><strong>You're Parents Must Be Proud -</strong> </div><br /><div>I entered the bar from a smoke break and saw one of the regulars flagging me relentlessly.</div><br /><div>Ed: "That guy...PEE!"</div><br /><div>Me: (looking at a guy at a table by the door sitting with his back to the wall) "That guy? What? When?"</div><br /><div>Ed: "Now!!!"</div><br /><div>(leaning over, I saw the monkey-fuck was, in fact peeing on the floor at that exact moment in time)</div><br /><div>I casually walked towards the door. As I approached the failure in Darwinism, I grabbed the table and jerked it away. He was like a deer caught in the headlights...with his johnson hanging out. He tried to run by me, but I grabbed him by the arm and shoulder.</div><br /><div>I presume he was fearful of catching a beating, so he collapsed on the floor and curled up in a ball. I quickly made an executive decision. Since he couldn't have weighed more than 150, I decided to allow him live, but endure a different kind of "walk of shame". </div><br /><div>I grabbed one leg and his hair and began sliding him back and forth on the floor. I was, in fact, mopping up the pee with the little douchebag.</div><br /><div>He screamed, and protested that I was "getting pee" on him. Well no shit, rocket scientist.</div><br /><div>After several swipes through the puddle, I let him go. He was drenched on his back and side from his hair to his shoes in his own urine. Ah, sweet satisfaction. He left, crying, never to return.</div><br /><div>He never bothered to put his tool away, even as he left. What a butt-munch.</div><br /><div><strong>Words of advice for when you go to the bar - </strong></div><br /><div>Have an idea of what you want. If you say "Oh, just make me something good." I'll respond "Oh, I'm sorry, I only know how to make drinks that taste like flop sweat."</div><br /><div>It's more than a little silly to complain that a bar is crowded on a weekend night. If a bar isn't busy on a weekend night, they'll soon be out of business. Find something else to bitch about.</div><br /><div>If you really think it's acceptable to recycle random drinks (ie pick up discarded drinks and consume them as if they were your own), please find the nearest national park, cover yourself in a blanket of raw meat and wait for wild animals to come consume you. You're too dumb to live in my world.</div><div> </div></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-25598406902705731772009-09-11T13:29:00.000-07:002009-09-11T16:59:03.302-07:00My 9/11<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgntv1hqWjXnPLy0Uykyxc5nUDDK4-s1FAX51c9ht13O9iYsLKvRKeH3fpTyOl72VFQBB7tOS_IVoDzKIkPdDP6z4yqcmo0WPpfck325kFbFgRGXUrOgJmL_4PaQzf5q-phpuU2-ILgmBSa/s1600-h/Willis+Reed,+Mike+Moran+%26+Walt+Frazier.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 238px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380337736865322866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgntv1hqWjXnPLy0Uykyxc5nUDDK4-s1FAX51c9ht13O9iYsLKvRKeH3fpTyOl72VFQBB7tOS_IVoDzKIkPdDP6z4yqcmo0WPpfck325kFbFgRGXUrOgJmL_4PaQzf5q-phpuU2-ILgmBSa/s320/Willis+Reed,+Mike+Moran+%26+Walt+Frazier.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveLYwSpYoaXUiQG1UwizSMzTcLOs-AlIVacnHuSaRHoPybi4GtYmNblclaL5saUpvUNG6wWSweEXeIRChA2f-ewbqr0HWu82ENB23NUwSzBN0R5Ekj6FoWgZrLWysclAyYbg_XPkDv2li/s1600-h/3+house.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380337731898349298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveLYwSpYoaXUiQG1UwizSMzTcLOs-AlIVacnHuSaRHoPybi4GtYmNblclaL5saUpvUNG6wWSweEXeIRChA2f-ewbqr0HWu82ENB23NUwSzBN0R5Ekj6FoWgZrLWysclAyYbg_XPkDv2li/s320/3+house.jpg" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>My day, 09/11/01</div><div><br /></div><div>Shortly before 9:00 a.m., my roommate entered my room. She said "they blew up one of the twin towers". As I had been in the bar until 4:00 a.m. throwing darts the night before, I was not in the mood for her "stupid shit" and told her as much. "How could anyone blow up the whole building? You're overreacting". Several minutes later, she came back and told me the other tower was now ablaze. Infuriated at the interruption of my sweet slumber, I went upstairs and looked out the window, as our view of lower Manhattan was excellent. The towers were, in fact, burning.</div><div><br /></div><div>I grabbed my phone and turned on the television. They were talking about terrorists. They were talking about possible attacks in the subways. They were talking about some seriously scary shit. About 9:20, all bridges and tunnels to Manhattan were closed.</div><div><br /></div><div>About 9:45 a plane hit the pentagon.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was trying hard not to freak out. Not only did I have friends working in and near the WTC, many of my co-workers at the bar worked as flight attendants for American Airlines. I had no idea where anyone was, and with the phone lines overloaded, no way to find where they were.</div><div><br /></div><div>10:05 - the south tower collapses. A few minutes later, still another plane goes down in Pennsylvania<br /></div><div>I'm able to get signal on my cel phone sporadically, and get through to my cousin in Atlanta, and tell her to let the family know I'm ok. </div><div><br /></div><div>10:28 - the north tower comes down.</div><div><br /></div><div>I kept trying desperately to reach friends. My boss and friend Gina was traveling to the Bahamas that day (on American) and I had no idea at that point where she was. I was bordering on frantic, but trying hard to keep it together. I knew, with limited phone service, staff and friends would eventually go to, or call, the bar to check in. No trains were running, though, so I was boned. The point was moot. Mayor Rudy told everyone to stay out of lower Manhattan about 30 minutes later.</div><div><br /></div><div>I finally got ahold of Gina, and she had checked on the girls from the bar. To her knowledge, no one had been in the air. Now I just had to worry about where everyone was that morning. Partially relieved, I still felt I needed to get into the city. A few minutes before 3:00 p.m., Mayor Rudy said the trains would be back up shortly. If nothing else, I knew to take it to the bank that the trains would be up...Rudy said so.</div><div><br /></div><div>I threw some things in a bag and hauled ass to the "L" train. I got there a few minutes after 3, and damned if there wasn't a train waiting on me. Providence. I was in the city 12 minutes later.</div><div><br /></div><div>I came out of the subway to a surreal sight. No traffic. Just people. Dirty people. Crying people. People so obviously in shock I have no idea how they kept going. There was smoke and debris in the air...and a stench I can't describe. People were walking, running, doing whatever they could to get as far away as possible from what is now called Ground Zero. The Mayor had closed the city below Canal St, about 13 blocks away. The only way these people were getting out was on foot. </div><div><br /></div><div>I went to the bar and found a regular sitting on the steps. He was, apparently, well into his 2nd 40 oz. "I'm sorry Matty, but I didn't know where else to go." Then he wept. I comforted him the best I could, then let him inside. We were followed shortly by my friend and coworker Ryan, who heard the same news about the trains and came running.</div><div><br /></div><div>Throughout the day, regulars, neighbors, friends, and coworkers stopped in or called to check in and check on each other. I had been right. The bar was a second home to these people. We were family. Today, we were one.<br /></div><div>Fortunately, the staff was accounted for and all were safe. A few regulars were not so lucky, and perished in the buildings near Broadway, though I wouldn't know it for a few days. As night approached, the horrors continued, however.<br /></div><div>One of the guys from Ladder 3/Recon 3 (3 house of the FDNY serves the East Village and is located around the corner from the bar) was passing on his way to the house and I stopped him. He told me the attack had come at shift change. This meant 12 guys from our company had responded. None survived. A dozen friends, regulars, heroes had fallen from our block.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to break down, but I couldn't. My people needed me. The people in the bar weren't there to drink. They were there for comfort. I did my best to accommodate. I'd have to mourn my friends a little later on my own time.<br /><br /></div><div>The streets were deserted, except for locals, by 9:00 p.m. (no traffic was being allowed below 14th st. at this point). As the regulars began filing out, headed for their homes, Ryan and I closed up shop around 11:00 p.m. and went for a drink at another bar. We talked about what had happened with friends and tried to absorb what had happened. I thought of the boys from 3 house.<br /></div><div>We didn't stay late. Ryan went north towards Queens, I went east towards Brooklyn. I stopped for a smoke before getting on the train. The streets were littered with debris. Assorted garbage, tons of soot and grime, random papers and debris from the towers were everywhere. That damned smell wouldn't leave for weeks. I saw a cane, the kind a blind person uses, in the street. "That's odd" I thought to myself. "How could a blind guy lose his cane on a day like this?" Ah. Question answered. A little further up the street, I saw a shoe. A little girl's shoe. One of those patent leather jobbies w/ the buckle.<br /></div><div>That was it. I was done. It was my turn. I sat down on the sidewalk by the subway and cried. I had had enough.<br /><br />I had seen pain and the worst humanity can offer. The days that followed would show me some of the best. New Yorkers were standing by each other as I had never seen them. It was "us" against "them".</div><div> </div><div>Then I started seeing fire and rescue trucks from other cities and states. Then I started seeing benefits and relief efforts from other cities and states and even countries. "Us" had just gotten a whole lot bigger. People offered support, love and hope from every corner of the country and around the world. It was reaffirming.</div><div> </div><div>Epilogue</div><div><br /></div><div>Mike Moran gave a speech at the Concert for New York City the following month you might have seen. It went a little something like this...</div><div><br /></div><div>...our friends, our brothers, our fathers are not gone, because they are not forgotten...</div><div><br /></div><div>and Osama Bin Laden, you can kiss my royal Irish ass.<br /></div><div></div><div>Mike was off the day of the attack. His father and brother, weren't. He lost them both. He never missed a day of work after the attack, and he spent every off day for months down in the pit. He never missed a beat and he never stopped being a stand up guy. He's a hero, too.</div><div><br /> </div><div>The Parting Shots:</div><div> </div><div>For the record, I only thought I knew what hate was until that day. It grew several days later when they pulled the 3 rig from the rubble. This is what they found. <a href="http://www.mefeedia.com/entry/fdny-ladder-3/18252613">www.mefeedia.com/entry/fdny-ladder-3/18252613</a><br /><br />I still hate Bin Laden and his thugs...and I can't forget and won't ever forgive what they did to my city, and my friends. The rest of the country, and New Yorkers in particular, gave me hope for the future, though. That hope is what lets me carry on.</div><div> </div><div>And one more thing I learned...never wait until it's too late to tell people you love how you feel. You never really know when you'll be out of chances.</div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-64781064848016219572009-09-05T23:52:00.000-07:002009-09-06T00:41:26.610-07:00Exile in Kennesaw<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SqNmycTlIXI/AAAAAAAAAE4/0F4Nk0Kztxk/s1600-h/dean-smiling.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 318px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378255396788314482" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SqNmycTlIXI/AAAAAAAAAE4/0F4Nk0Kztxk/s320/dean-smiling.jpg" /></a><br /><div>It's not quite how it sounds. I've intentionally stayed in/near the house for two weeks, now. The reason? I put down the cigarettes. </div><br /><div>Now before you start being congratulatory and supportive, and all that crap, let me be perfectly straight...I would feed you into a woodchipper for a Marlboro Light right now.</div><br /><div>Don't get me wrong, I'm not jonesing so bad I'd smoke a menthol, but I see that day in the not too distant future.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I'm pretty annoyed about the whole thing, actually. For years, every do-gooder and "concerned" friend and family member has been riding my ass to quit. Finally, I gave in, due to my current domestic situation. A couple things I have found to be true...non-smokers generally have no clue what quitting smoking is all about, and I now want to punch the majority of everyone that told me to quit right square in his/her junk.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Allow me to elaborate. While no one ever said quitting would be easy, not one of my "quit buddies" ever told me about the following reactions that, evidently, come with putting down the smokes:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>1) Insane headaches - not just headaches, these super-gripping ultra mau-mau numbers that grab you by the back of the head and treat you like a prison bitch on OZ.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>2) Rolling pain in the legs - I don't even know what to do with this one. From my upper thighs down to the middle of my shins, I've had twitches, tremors, convulsions and general muscular revolutions for about a week, now. I had to Google this symptom, because I was convinced I had scurvy or SARS or some such delightful malady. It turned out, of course, it's just one of those side effects no one told me might happen...fuckers.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>3) Sense of Smell - totally misleading. Everyone told me my sense of taste and smell would improve and I'd experience old sensations for the first time in years. Kiss my big country ass. The only new smell I've encountered is this sickly, moldy stink that I smell everywhere I go. Nothing good, just the rough equivalent of a bums foot that is suffering from rot. Oh, joy!!!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>4) Blood Sugar - huh? I don't know too much about this, other than apparently, I'm compelled to eat more frequently due to it taking longer for sugar to be delivered to my system, or some such crap. Or I have an oral fixation. Or I'm just a hog. It depends on what pseudo-scientific monkey-fuck you ask. The vast majority of them, apparently, have never smoked so they're really just guessing. Bite me. As a result, my weight shot up quickly. Yay. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>5) Just taking a break here to thank all the "quit buddies" that pushed for this over the years. I feel so much better now that my weight is up, my patience (which was never really strong) is gone, and of course there's the whole woodchipper thing. sigh</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>6) Bleeding gums - WTF? I'm told that my improved circulation is the culprit here. Huh??? I quit smoking, now I'm gonna bleed to death as a result? At least my breath will be minty fresh, right? Geez.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>7) Chest pains - yep, chest pains. I'm 41 years old, my blood pressure pre-quit was so low, people were actually envious of my big ass. Now, I'm having chest pains and shortness of breath because I'm "getting healthier"...WHAT THE FUCK??? How in the hell is that supposed to work?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>To summarize: Evil cigarettes are out of the picture, but now I'll most likely have a brain aneurysm while running for help for my scurvy/SARS affliction, assuming I don't pass out from low blood-sugar while smelling the unwashed ass that seems to be following me around and bleed to death via my gums just a little before my heart attack finishes me off.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>At least my clothes will smell fresh. Bite me, you do-gooder asshats.</div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-78844032184449976332009-07-23T12:08:00.000-07:002009-07-23T14:34:46.323-07:00The State of the Union<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SmjXOSg0RzI/AAAAAAAAAEI/d1I2bUmHRbk/s1600-h/Stewie+in+elevator.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 210px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 158px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361771996872197938" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SmjXOSg0RzI/AAAAAAAAAEI/d1I2bUmHRbk/s320/Stewie+in+elevator.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I'm a little over a month into my suburban relocation experience and I thought it time for my <strong>"State of the Union Address...Asshat edition".</strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>For those of you that missed it, I recently took the State of Georgia Driving Exam. As a result, the rules mentioned in the Drivers Manual are pretty fresh in my mind. I even researched questions that might not have been listed in the Manual. I discovered the following:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>1) There is no state requirement for you to leave your turn signal on for three miles after you turn/change lanes...pull your head out of your ass, moron.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>2) Similarly, there is no rule or law that I can find that forbids you from actually using the turn signal to announce a turn and/or lane change...I know it's tough to walk and chew gum at the same time, but a little effort might help those around you.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>3) It's not mandated that you change lanes to the left and immediately slow down. It's actually encouraged to maintain speed (or actually increase speed) if you enter the "fast" or "passing" lane. Travelling in aforementioned lanes at or near the speed limit while traffic in the lanes to your right speed by you does, in fact, make you a motorized asshat.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>WTF????</strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I pulled in to meet a friend at a local watering hole the other day and parked next to a guy in an older Jeep Cherokee. His doors were missing, as was his tailgate.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me: "Aw, that happened to a couple of buddies of mine up in Brooklyn. Sorry about that, bro."</div><br /><div>Kentucky Fried Motorist: "Whuu-uutt?"</div><br /><div>Me: "Your doors. I'm assuming they were stolen."</div><br /><div>KFM: "Hell no, I took 'em off. It's summer!!!"</div><br /><div>Me: "Ummmm, you realize it's been raining off and on all day, right? That's why the inside is wet."</div><br /><div>KFM: (looking amazed that I didn't understand) "You ain't from around here, are you?"</div><br /><div>Me: "Actually, born and raised. I did something like that when I was about 17. I stopped when I realized how tough it was to get everything reattached properly and I got tired of being wet." (translation - I stopped being a dumbass)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I was told later by my dear betrothed that this was not an uncommon occurrence among the denizens of North Cobb near the lake. To this phenomenon and the participants, I have but a single question... "What the hell is wrong with you people?"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>General Rants</strong></div><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div>1) If you are truly confused by the drive-thru menu at any fast food establishment, and can't order your burger and two happy meals in less than 7 minutes...you may be too dumb to breathe the air I might otherwise destroy with a cigarette.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>2) I'm a fan of maximizing your consumption of "the good stuff" at the Golden Corral. I absolutely understand the theory of not filling up on bread, or salad, or other items of less expense so you can cram as much meat, desert, and more expensive items so you get the most for your $9. That being said...Really? Dude, you have gravy on the side of your head by your friggin' ear. Really?? Hmmm, you have pizza on your plate,,,topped w/ a slab of roast beef,,,partially concealed by two pieces of chicken,,,complemented by a dousing of white gravy,,,w/ a mountain of ice cream w/ chocolate sauce on the side,,,all on the same friggin' plate. Did you think they were going to run out of anything, or were you just too lazy to use multiple plates, or were you afraid carrying two plates might make you look like a pig? News Flash...If you have gravy and chocolate sauce on the same plate, it's time to consider stepping away from the trough...Really.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>3) If you really can't manage to turn your phone off while dining in a nice restaurant, can you at least take the earpiece out of your ear? It's not a status symbol anymore. On a similar note, if you absolutely must take a call in said restaurant, or on a crowded bus, or other crowded public area, please let me know ahead of time. I'd like to meet you there to punch you in the neck as a bit of relief to the people around you.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>3a) If you're using your phone as mentioned above in an elevator...YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE RECEPTION YOU FRIGGIN' MOUTHBREATHER!!! SHOUTING WON'T HELP!!!! Please exit the building, drive up into the hills and allow yourself to be dragged away by the first mountain lion available. Sometimes even Darwinism needs a kickstart, and there's no reason an asshat like yourself can't do his/her part.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>The New Family</strong></div><br /><div>For those of you entering into new living arrangements with members of the opposite sex, this is for you. There are also a few points dealing with the instances of moving into a home with pre-existing children.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Day 1: </div><br /><div>Me: "Honey, I'm gonna grab a shower. Where's the soap?"</div><br /><div>Her: "In the shower." (pointing) "Right there."</div><br /><div>Me: "Ummm, this isn't soap. It appears to be a bottle of rejuvenating body wash w/ moisture beads and ancient sea widgets to exfoliate, cleanse and propagate the degeneration of testosterone within the species."</div><br /><div>Her: (rolling her eyes) "It's soap."</div><br /><div>Me: "Does that mean we don't have any soap?"</div><br /><div>Her: (reaching into the closet and producing a bar of Irish Spring - Yay) "Here you go, sweety. I wouldn't want you to feel emasculated by the soap."</div><br /><div>Me: "It's not soap. Where are the wash cloths?"</div><br /><div>Her: "There's a couple in the shower."</div><br /><div>Me: "There's a couple of things on strings that look kind of like a cross between a flower and a tumbleweed."</div><br /><div>Her: "There you go."</div><br /><div>Me: "So, we have no wash cloths?"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Lesson learned? Men have men stuff, women have women stuff. Never the two shall meet</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Confession</strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In an effort to maintain fair reporting and the integrity of this blog, I do hereby offer the following:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Many years ago, a roomie extolled the virtues of babywipes for that extra little oomph of freshness, particularly after dropping a particularly gnarly deuce. The other day I chose to partake in this refreshing practice, as the deposit I had just made would, if made in a combat zone, been classified a war crime.</div><br /><div>Only after removing the wipe and drawing it perilously close to the soiled area (the tainted taint, if you will) did I glance again at the box.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Authors note: Though they look similar, baby wipes are NOT interchangeable with Clorox Sani-wipes. Unless you're looking for a scented bleach enema, read the label. Here endeth the lesson.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Question of the day:</div><br /><div>Bigger loser/stalker/manipulator/douchebag...Peyton Wellesly or Lanier Thames? </div><br /><div>Discuss amongst yourselves.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-84345569786220097992009-07-03T05:16:00.000-07:002009-07-03T07:25:49.093-07:00Fear and Loathing at the DMV<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sk4U559DcfI/AAAAAAAAAEA/pGAqFLSNu3Q/s1600-h/dmv.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354239992032096754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 211px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sk4U559DcfI/AAAAAAAAAEA/pGAqFLSNu3Q/s320/dmv.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Upon my recent return to the land of my birth, I found myself venturing into that 7th circle of hell that all suburbanites must deal with...the DMV.<br /><br />Having lived in the City for a decade, and therefore having no need of the use of an automobile, I had let my license lapse several years earlier. Now living in suburbia, I girded up my loins and trudged into the new and improved Division of Driver Services (known as the DDS). Evidently, they were seeking to avoid the negative connotations of the previous name - the dreaded DMV, and changed it.<br /><br />Upon arrival, I was surprised to find an open, well lit expanse with 21 windows for service, most of which were manned. This was a far cry from the tiny, dimly lit DMV I had previously dealt with in my previous suburban life. Might they have actually improved things?<br /><br />I entered shortly after 4 p.m. and presented myself to the Gatekeeper (the old gal at the reception desk) and explained what I was there for. She promptly issued me a numbered ticket and paperwork to fill out. I took a seat and began filling out said paperwork. Before I could complete the line marked "address" my number had been called. I was a tad dumbfounded.<br /><br />Approaching the assigned window with great trepidation, I spoke with a friendly older gent. After explaining my situation, he directed me to finish filling out the form and wait for my number to be called for the written test (since my license had expired, I would need to take both the written and road tests). As I was walking back to my previous seat, my number was called at a different window. Wha?????<br /><br />I scurried to the next window, scribbling furiously. Another kindly old gent spoke with me while I completed my paperwork. After punching information into his terminal, he assigned me to a terminal where I took the written test for the next 20 minutes or so. Once the test was completed, I returned to the window. He told me it was too late to get a road test in, but if I came early the next day, they could have me taken care of in short order.<br /><br />Total time in DDS approximately 40 minutes. Total time waiting approximately 20 seconds. Could this be?<br /><br />The next morning, I was third in line at the door when they opened the office. I waited about 15 minutes and was called to take the road test. After completing the test, I waited a little less than 10 minutes to be called to another window, ostensibly to pay my fee and have my picture taken. Once my number was called, however, things took a decidedly DMVish turn.<br /><br />The lady at this window told me my license had a "hold" on it for unpaid tickets in Atlanta. I was stunned that it was even possible for tickets to stay in the system for over a decade. I'd have to contact the City of Atlanta and straighten things out with them and get a letter of clearance before receiving my license. After that, they would hook me right up, I was assured. Fine.<br /><br />As it was Saturday, I had to wait til Monday to begin the next leg of my Odyssey. After spending the better part of an hour on hold, the gent helping me told me I didn't exist. After further explaining when these tickets were issued (11 and 12 years earlier), he transferred me to another office. I then spoke with a nice lady that said I did, indeed, have tickets on my license. She told me the tickets had been dismissed years earlier, though. *sigh*<br /><br />Me: "So, what do I need to do?"<br />Nice Lady: "Just come down and I'll give you a clearance letter."<br />Me: "Oh, so no fines?"<br />NL: "No, just come get the letter."<br />Me: "Oh, well can you fax it to the DDS, by any chance?"<br />NL: "No, we don't do that, sorry."<br />Me: "No problem"<br /><br />The next day, I went down to the Atlanta Municipal Building w/ a spring in my step. Sure, it was inconvenient to go all the way downtown, but it could be worse...right??? Oh, yes. It could surely be worse...and it would be.<br /><br />I approached the window, explained the situation to the man working. After being met with a blank stare for several moments, he pushed a form through the slot in the window.<br />Lazy City Employee: "Fill this out and bring it back to me. You can pick up the letter in four days or so."<br />Me:"Ummmm, four days?"<br />LCE: "Yep. We'll call if it's earlier."<br />Me: "Are you fucking insane? How can it possibly take that long? The lady I spoke with yesterday said it was basically walk in and walk out."<br />LCE: He shrugged "Don't know what to tell you."<br />Me: "You can tell me it's not gonna take a week to get this done. That's absurd. I'm gonna need to talk to a supervisor, this is totally unacceptable."<br />Sighing deeply, he removed his ass from the vinyl of his chair and trudged out of sight for several minutes. Upon returning, I was told I could pick it up after lunch. Recognizing it would do me no good to attempt a neck punch through the security window, I retreated.<br /><br />After killing several hours with the friend that had driven me downtown, I returned and retrieved the letter. Armed with the document, I hauled my butt back to the DDS to spend some more time with my new cadre of friends.<br /><br />Upon arrival, I explained everything that was going on to the lady at the reception desk, who assigned me another number. Things didn't move as quickly as the previous two trips. An hour later, my number was called. The guy at this window told me I would now have to pay reinstatement fees for each individual ticket.<br />Me: "But I didn't even owe fines."<br />Surprise Guy: "Still have to be paid."<br />Me: "You guys can't even tell me what the tickets are for. How could they all have resulted in suspensions, simultaneously?"<br />SG: "Can't say."<br />Me: "Ummm, if you can't say, how can you charge?"<br />SG: "It's how it works."<br /><br />THIS is the DMV I remember. All rules, no logic or interpretation.<br /><br />I stopped trying to rationalize and handed over my credit card. After running it, the guy looked at me and asked "What about South Carolina?"<br /><br />"What about South Carolina?" I returned.<br /><br />"You've got a hold in South Carolina."<br /><br />"One - I haven't been in South Carolina in 20 years. Two - It's after 5, couldn't someone have told me I had a problem earlier today, or the last time I was here? I could have it squared away, by now."<br /><br />"Don't know what to tell you."<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />The next morning, I called the SC DMV and got things squared away. They were looking for a shakedown from literally 20 years earlier that I had no idea was even on my record. Ugh.<br /><br />The following morning, I was back at the DDS (the artists formerly known as the DMV).<br /><br />"Please. Please don't hit me with any more surprises" I said to the guy at the window.<br /><br />"Well Mr. Martin, I have good news and bad news."<br /><br />I began scanning the immediate vicinity for blunt objects.<br /><br />"The bad news is you won't have to come back anymore."<br /><br />Were they banning me from the office, now that they had extracted all the money they had asked for?<br /><br />"The good news is, you can go to the window and get your picture taken and get your license."<br /><br />Oh, Happy Fricken' Day!!!!<br /><br />Total time spent - 6 days<br />Total time spent on the phone with various agencies - 3 hours<br />Money spent - Don't ask<br /><br />Old DMV slogan - "Don't know what to tell you."<br />New DDS slogan - "Don't know what to tell you...but open your wallet and bend over."</div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-30665023012055434612009-06-22T14:57:00.000-07:002009-06-22T20:10:42.589-07:00Let Me Smack One More Asshat...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1Ci3QIJeOjr5l7AbcEHzKxUVxlnuAma_chlb08ltYmKCw0e-U_zEi0_P2DlzPKH112inx45djQRFYN04FCbUGgpPNygpmiEs4ZwliW9_Q5a2Q-g8q9KDFrPBPZ3dBQb2nzQg1rPVQWzy/s1600-h/subway+stairs.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350353835426231154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1Ci3QIJeOjr5l7AbcEHzKxUVxlnuAma_chlb08ltYmKCw0e-U_zEi0_P2DlzPKH112inx45djQRFYN04FCbUGgpPNygpmiEs4ZwliW9_Q5a2Q-g8q9KDFrPBPZ3dBQb2nzQg1rPVQWzy/s320/subway+stairs.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It's been a month since the last blog. Quite a bit has been transpired. For those of you not in the know, I packed up the circus tents and left the city that used to never sleep. My last week or so in the City went a little something like this...</div><br /><div>Going down the stairs for the 3rd ave "L" train to head for Brooklyn, a young lady was blocking the stairs with herself and several bags, chatting on her cel phone. People were walking up on the other side of the stairwell, so obviously I was unable to proceed w/out a little help from her, and a log jam of several people quickly formed behind me.</div><br /><div>Me: Excuse me, hon.</div><div></div><br /><div>Phone Skank: (looking at me like I'd stuck something slimy on her face) Ummm, I'm on the phone!</div><br /><div>Me: I can see that, hon, I'm just trying to get by.</div><br /><div>PS: (finger comes up telling me to wait a second as she turns her back to me and continues with her call) I don't know, some guy. I know! He can see I'm on the phone!</div><br /><div>Me: (tapping her on the shoulder) Your shit will be at the top of the stairs. (Two bags are picked up and tossed to the top of the stairs)</div><br /><div>PS: OMG!!! What are you doing!?!?!</div><br /><div></div><div>Me: Getting to the train, thanks. (proceeding down the stairs as she rushed up the half-flight to gather her crap). And on behalf of the people behind me that you were slowing down with your phone call...kiss my big sweaty ass, you phone skank.</div><br /><div>Getting on the train, a hipster couple that had been behind me on the stairs approached me.</div><br /><div>Him: Dude, I've always wanted to do that.</div><br /><div>Her: I wanted to clap...what a bitch.</div><br /><div></div><div>I know, it wasn't poetic. It was simply the culmination of a decade of douche-baggery. </div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>I'm not really complaining, mind you. I've had a great run in the City. </div><div>I've met a lot of truly wonderful people. </div><div>I've seen the sublime and the ridiculous.<br />I've seen the absolute best and the worst humanity can offer. </div><br /><br /><div>I'd say I wouldn't have traded the times for anything, but that wouldn't be quite true. While I greatly appreciate my experiences, I'd gladly trade them all for an extra decade with Rita. </div><br /><div></div><div>Since that kind of trade isn't going to happen, I'll gladly pack the memories into boxes and move the show back to the ATL. There are plenty of Asshats down south, after all. They're just a little more polite.</div><br /><div></div><div>With my departure, I would like to single out a few people...</div><br /><div></div><div>Erik: My childhood friend that made my early existence in the city possible. He took me in when I was dead broke and just off the train.</div><br /><div>Gina: Gave me a job when I needed it and became a dear friend.</div><br /><div>Autumn, Dieter, Marisa and Cameron: and the rest of the staff from the old Finnerty's that made it a joy to go to work every day and proved what friendship and loyalty are all about.</div><br /><div>Garcia-ville and Mr. & Mrs. Ish: Showed me you can have fun with "grown ups". Well, sorta grown ups.</div><br /><div>Ricky: One of my best friends in the city, I could always count on him to come with me to each new bar I took a gig at...and take coffee/smoke breaks that could make Teamsters say "Damn, you take long breaks".</div><br /><div>Nick K: The Poet Laureate of 14th st and the Ambassador of Keeping it Real. Quite possibly possessing the dirtiest mind in the western hemisphere, Nick showed me you can be a caring father, still be filthy, and keep your kids from being asshats all at the same time. Kudos Nicky.</div><br /><div></div><div>Frank: for keeping me on board after turbulent head-butting with his partners and giving me the opportunity to succeed, especially at Boss Tweed's.</div><br /><div>Renee: I can't say a whole lot. Probably my best friend in the world besides my fiancee.</div><br /><div></div><div>I'll miss you all.</div><br /><div></div><div>Departing the city (for the last time?), I took the same car service I had used dozens of time before. The new driver tried to gouge me on the price, however. I explained to him I had been using the service for years and knew the price as I handed the correct amount over the seat. He attempted to argue. I suggested he call his dispatcher to verify the price, if he truly felt he was being underpaid, which of course he refused. I explained to him that I was leaving town for good. I told him to think about it for a moment, and that if he really wanted the extra $10 I would wait on the sidewalk to pay him in shoe leather delivered to the fleshy part of his ass. I suggested if he reconsidered his position, I would bear him no ill will and wish him a good day and a happy life.</div><br /><div></div><div>He drove away, and I got on my plane.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I'll save the anti-Bloomberg rant for another day, as it would easily fill multiple blogs. I'll also save the rant of the softening up and dumbing down of what was formerly my island. The City long ago traded the seedy movie houses and dirty underbelly for Disney and Applebee's. I'm not saying it's better or worse (actually, it's a travesty), but it's definitely different. Similarly, the Community Boards are trying their damnedest to turn the best urban area in the world into a giant suburb. All rant-worthy, so stay tuned.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Good, bad, or indifferent, I'll miss a lot.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Goodbye, New York.</div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-68265417610480927812009-05-24T03:06:00.000-07:002009-05-24T20:08:46.543-07:00Gabba Gabba WTF?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcin3hDGN2c3CjoVQIW3o7EY7VBB1qhEwV2QpQzZvte-ir7qco5gJisLecBCP9WUNKUZnpwoOPfRW7eJfJGfI8km_h4JkC-oiy2VMUXWTIzEYk4G7yWlTjHWvqdOBQs3YBA9zBZeakoW0q/s1600-h/TheRamonesLarge.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339585199122843346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 239px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcin3hDGN2c3CjoVQIW3o7EY7VBB1qhEwV2QpQzZvte-ir7qco5gJisLecBCP9WUNKUZnpwoOPfRW7eJfJGfI8km_h4JkC-oiy2VMUXWTIzEYk4G7yWlTjHWvqdOBQs3YBA9zBZeakoW0q/s320/TheRamonesLarge.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Random Scenes of Asshattery and Douchiness...</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">ON THE SIDEWALK:</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">During a conversation outside the bar w/ a friend, recently, we were approached by a random young lady...</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Asshat Chick: Hey guys, I hate to interrupt, but...</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: ...but you will anyway, because anything we might be discussing obviously pales in comparison to what you have to say.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">AC: Wha?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Never mind. What can I do for you, hon? (knowing full well what was coming).</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">AC: (batting eyes) Do either of you have a spare cigarette?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Friend: I don't smoke.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Sorry, this pack didn't come with any spares.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">AC: (confused look)</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Seriously, I'm stuck here for a couple of hours, and don't have enough to share...but there's a store right down the block.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">AC: (pouty) I'd go buy a pack, but they're so expensive here.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: (annoyed) So it makes more sense for me to subsidize your habit. I'll pass, thanks.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">AC: (amazed) You're really not going to give me one?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: No, hon, I've only got a few left, and they are, as you said, really expensive here.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">AC: (in a huff) I can't believe you won't give me one. You're such a dick.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Well, opinions vary. For example, my opinion of you is that you're a selfish, self-entitled brat whose parents didn't use the word "no" nearly enough.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">AC: (furious) What a dick! Fuck You!!!</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: (walking towards the door) You said that already. Good luck w/ grubbing smokes from people that don't owe you a thing, though.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I stopped and spoke with the doorman before heading back inside, where I took a table near the window and front door. A few minutes later, after successfully grubbing a smoke from someone else, the Asshat Chick attempted to enter the bar, only to be refused by the doorman. She looked positively amazed. After pleading her case, he motioned to me at my table. I waved, removed a cigarette from the pack and broke it open on the table, mouthing the words "I'm a dick, remember?" and blowing her a kiss. She stalked off into the night.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Conclusions:</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">1) It's rude to interrupt people</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">2) It's dumb to use "I'm cheap" as a reason to bum anything off people, especially when the person you're bumming from has actually paid for the item(s) you're trying to get for free.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">3) It's even dumber to insult people that choose not to acquiesce and give you something just because you think you're cute/hot/smart/charming/blah, blah, blah. Please believe me when I tell you you're not/not/not/not.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Additionally, any combination of these three points not only make you an asshat, it can get you 86'ed from the bar if you do it to the wrong person...in this case, me. </span></div><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">STYLE UPDATE:</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Wearing sunglasses at night does NOT make you look cool. It gives you the appearance of a complete asshat. Combine it w/ a polo shirt w/ a popped collar, and you start looking douchey.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">(secret tip) The previously mentioned dark glasses are NOT camouflage for the fact that you are higher than the national debt. If you seriously think you're fooling anyone with the shades, you're dreaming.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">(to the tune of Billy Ocean's "Get Out of My Dreams")</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">"...Get out of your dreams,</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Get out of my bar..."</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Also, get out of the 80's. The 80's died a horribly painful death 2 1/2 decades ago...friggin' douchebags.<br /></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">FREE ADVICE:</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">If you have a drunken compulsion to pet every dog you see without checking with the dogs owner, you run a high risk of being growled at, snapped at or bitten.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">If, after a dog shies from you and turns away, you smack him/her on the hind quarter, grab the tail, or do some other rough shit, you not only deserve the growl/snap/bite, I'm hoping it actually happens. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Not so long ago, Darwinism would have claimed you for trying to pet a mountain lion and subsequently being dragged into the woods, you fucktard.<br /></p></span><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">INTERNATIONAL FAILURES IN DARWINISM:</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">My friend Jennifer took her daughter to the matinee performance given by the Broadway road company of Annie in Ontario, recently. Needless to say, there were hundreds of kids and their parents. Jennifer and Maia were fortunate to be seated behind the only two ladies slamming beers at the 3 o'clock show. The two Miss Hannigan wannabe's proceeded to get shit-boxed and bellow along with the songs. Oh, it's a hard knock life, indeed!</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm a barman. My job is to sell people booze. Tha being said, if you're getting soused by mid-day and going to a show like this, a ballet, a museum, or anything along these lines, I have three words for you: IT's NOT NASCAR!!!</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm not knocking drinking or NASCAR. I'm a fan of both. I won't wear my beer helmet to the theatre, however, because...well, because I'm not a douche.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">THE DEATH of MUSIC:</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Earlier in the week, I got sucked in to a conversation with a young lady that insisted Avril Lavigne was not only "punk", but "hardcore". WTF?</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">I tried to explain, that while I didn't feel the need to shove an icepick in my ear when her music started playing, she was in no way, shape, manner or form, punk or hardcore. She didn't get it.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Shifting gears, I attempted to give a punk rock history lesson. I gave up when she couldn't name any of the Ramones...more accurately, she couldn't name them by first OR last name. (sigh - I feel old).</span></p>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-35870734130597695482009-05-20T13:00:00.000-07:002009-05-20T10:47:15.512-07:00Raise your children well...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WCwmS2eAO-_yEYrIFIyC5MQibKqnJ-hbNmvWMHXiI9j4ABqoFBZs96CSEL6fpj41tNIczEv_Gs67rAgKIi464QnfjHL3BAws27W-cV6GTtkLOWNC_LF_1NFn11U92cuEItbikh0sEZvp/s1600-h/Jesus+Asshat.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337938991505463122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WCwmS2eAO-_yEYrIFIyC5MQibKqnJ-hbNmvWMHXiI9j4ABqoFBZs96CSEL6fpj41tNIczEv_Gs67rAgKIi464QnfjHL3BAws27W-cV6GTtkLOWNC_LF_1NFn11U92cuEItbikh0sEZvp/s320/Jesus+Asshat.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">In honor of Graduation season (High School and College), I offer the following:</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm told it takes a village to raise a child. Evidently, there are villages across this nation screaming for me to go on a rampage and burn them all down, because they are producing a new breed of douchebags of a stunning magnitude at an alarming rate. As a resident of the global village, and since I can't find my lighter fluid at the moment, I submit the following for your graduating children. Clean it up, if you feel they are too sensitive or frail, but share it with them. Their status as douchebag hangs in the balance. Be advised, though, if you really do feel you have to clean it up for a person of graduating age, they're probably already spoiled douchebags rapidly winding down the road to being an uber-douchebag...and that blame rests predominately on the parent.<br /></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">1) You don't know the law: </span></p><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"What do you mean I can't come in? My i.d.'s good, you have to let me in/serve me! This is a public place, you have no right to keep me out!! I know the law!!!" If any of these words ever come (or have come) from your mouth, you're a douche. And you obviously don't, in fact, know anything about the law as it pertains to establishments that serve alcohol. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Establishments have the right to refuse you for virtually anything, save race, sex, religion, etc. If your i.d. has been questioned, throwing a tantrum really will not help. Similarly, if a bar/club has rules re. hats, sneakers, or argyle sweaters, you have nothing to say about it. Your recourse is to take your business elsewhere<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">When/if you use the old "public place" argument, you show true ignorance. I've worked in bars over half my life. Never has one nickel of taxpayer money gone into opening or running one of them. A public place is a park, or a library, or any other place provided for the public good by your community. A bar ain't one of those...douche.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">If you try to pass yourself off as an attorney knowledgeable in liquor law, it makes it worse. If you say your daddy is an attorney, walk away from this blog. It's much too late for you...you're an uber-douche. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">2) Short and sweet, your parents lied to you. You're not the smartest/prettiest/most charming person in the world. You're just another in an endless parade of youthful dumbasses that think they can get over because their parents told them they're special.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">2a) Men - All women do not find you desirable. Don't be a douche when you get shot down in a bar. Yes, I know, your mother says you're the most handsome guy in blah, blah, blah. Get over it and move on.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">2b) Ladies - You're not hot enough to act bitchy and men with an iota of experience will know when you're trying to get over by flirting. The only guys that fall for, or are attracted to that are the douchebags mentioned above. If you procreate with them, you'll get what you deserve...asshat babies.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">3) Also short and sweet. No one cares who your daddy is. If name dropping is your thing, save it for the other douchebags. If your daddy is the most impressive name you know, though, even douchebags will think you're douche-y. Nuff said.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">4) If you regularly think you're the smartest/funniest/richest person in the room, odds are you really aren't. In fact, odds are you're just a monumentally pretentious douche in need of a neck punch. Additionally, even if you <strong>are</strong> the smartest/funniest/richest, the fact that you even take time to consider such things makes you an asshat.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">5) When you show up to pick up a friend/date/whatever at their house, go to the friggin' door. Sitting outside honking the horn is disrespectful to the party you're picking up and the neighbors don't want to hear it. Yes, your Mama told you anyone would be lucky to have a boyfriend/girlfriend/friend like you, but it's another lie.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">5a) If a neighbor asks you to stop honking and go to the door in an even remotely polite way, especially due to the early or late hour, do it. If you yell or curse at, or berate the neighbor, you deserve a neck punch. If I'm the neighbor, I'll beat you til your Mama cries.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">6) If you're smoking outside an open door or window of a non-smoking establishment and are asked to step away from said opening to prevent your smoke from blowing in, just do it. It's generally called being considerate, or "getting along". The "you can't make me" crap may have worked with your parents, but I promise, it won't work with others...certainly not me.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">6a) If you're outside, or in an area where smoking is permitted, and someones smoke is bothering you, ask them politely to put it out or change hands, etc. to alter the flow of the smoke. Making demands, being bitchy, getting preachy or citing shady statistics only make me want to chain smoke and/or shove my cigarette butt up your butt.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">7) If someone gets up from the bar, but leaves his/her jacket on the chair and/or has a drink in front of the chair, he/she is NOT leaving. Only a mouth-breathing moron would make that assumption. Only a complete douchebag would argue when the person returns from the bathroom/smoking/whatever to reclaim his/her spot.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">8) Pull up your pants!!! You look like a jackass!!! If you're over 21, the phase is over. Buy pants that fit and invest in a belt. Nobody wants to see your boxers or, God forbid, your plumbers crack.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">9) If you BYOB to a bar and are caught with it, it will be confiscated, you will be charged a corking fee, or you will be asked to leave. At my place, I'll take the booze AND run your cheap ass out. I'm one of the most frugal guys I know, but give me a friggin' break with this. Call Daddy and have him put some money in the account...dumbass.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">10) This is a big one, kiddies. No one owes you respect. No one owes me respect. Respect is earned. Courtesy should be a fact of life in a civilized society, but you can't act like an idiot and expect respect. I want to pimp slap every 21 year old douche that tries to demand respect. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Example: After finding an uber-douche trashing the bathroom at the bar (literally dumping trash from the can on the floor), I took him by the arm and escorted him to the door. There was no incident until we got to the door and I released him. His friends saw he was getting tossed, so they went outside to wait for him. He jerked away, now that he had an audience.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Uber-Douche: You better respect me!</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: What?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">UD: You better show me some respect!!!</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: I should respect you for dumping trash on the floor? Dude, you're an idiot.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">UD: (glancing over his shoulder at his pals, then back to me) You better respect me!!! You don't know who I am!!!</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">ME: (taking out a small note pad and pen, writing a quick note) Why don't you just interpret not getting smacked as a sign of respect, then? (handing him note) Here. Give this to your parents.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">UD: (glances at the note, then looks up to say something, but I'm already back inside)</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><em>the note: </em></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><em>Dear Parent, </em></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><em>Your son is an idiot. Please don't have any more children. Consider sterilization, if necessary. </em></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><em>thx, </em></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><em>Matty</em></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Please don't make me send a note home to your parents. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The only people that love you unconditionally are your parents and Jesus. If you're an asshat (or worse), believe me, I'll tell you.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-26022063308420737602009-05-13T11:31:00.000-07:002009-05-14T19:15:44.000-07:00and now for something completely different...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SgzOX4D6zWI/AAAAAAAAACI/wuW11dO5wlY/s1600-h/PeterPan_promostill.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335866568108330338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 194px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SgzOX4D6zWI/AAAAAAAAACI/wuW11dO5wlY/s320/PeterPan_promostill.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The asshat/douchebag documentation was on hiatus this week. It'll be back soon, but this needed to be said...</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I've spent the last several days knocking around the city and county of my youth. Those of you that know me best know I spent most of the first twenty-odd years of my life plotting my escape from the suburbs. I couldn't fathom the desire of people to grow up, get married, raise a family and settle down in the same town/area they grew up in. I couldn't get out fast enough. I moved to downtown Atlanta and various points around town. When that wasn't enough, I packed up and ran away and joined the circus...I moved to NYC. I loved it.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The City was where I belonged. The nightlife, the arts, the food, the people, the general excess filled me with an indescribable energy. Everyday brought something new. Though I had been dealing w/ asshats and their ilk for years, I found steady entertainment (and annoyance) by the increased numbers of aforementioned failures in Darwinism.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I began to write in earnest, and began acting. I found new ways to express myself and new people to share with. I witnessed the devastation and heartbreak of the 9/11 attacks. The pulling together of the entire city (and country) in the aftermath showed me that love and kindness were still possible in my fellow man. It was inconceivable that I belonged anywhere else.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Then my life changed. I met her. She showed me love I didn't believe existed. My heart filled with love for her and her children. This beautiful family was willing to open their doors and their hearts to an aging Peter Pan, previously convinced that he couldn't live anywhere w/out 24 hour food delivery. Could this cynical boy have been wrong, all this time? </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I find myself in new, uncharted waters. Peter Pan doesn't have doubts...right? Perhaps it's time to put the shadow in a box. Tell Tinkerbell it was a blast, and the lost boys to find their own way for a bit. I'll be in the burbs if they need me...but I still don't/won't do out of state bail.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I've found more love here in a week than I have in the previous 20 years. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Maybe, the burbs ain't so bad after all?</span></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-7461788795931635412009-05-08T02:10:00.000-07:002009-05-08T03:04:20.109-07:00It's only Thursday, for the love of God<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SgQDlwvV8FI/AAAAAAAAACA/g3mtqbmjC8g/s1600-h/wet+pants.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333391805987024978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SgQDlwvV8FI/AAAAAAAAACA/g3mtqbmjC8g/s320/wet+pants.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">As the crowd began to thin, around 2:30 a.m., I took a seat at a booth near the door. I was checking my emails from my phone when my new friend joined me. He was a gent of Spanish origin, though I can't specify his nationality. He plopped down next to me while staring intently into his beer. His head abruptly popped up and turned to me with the old "stink eye". Evidently he was under the impression I had encroached on his space, even though I was in the booth close to the wall, while he was on the same bench at the other end, obviously there first.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Drunk Guy: Homina placenta mowli fee.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: I'm sorry, bro, I don't understand.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">DG: Homina dooby goo placenta mowli fee!</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Sorry, bro, but I really can't understand you.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">DG: Dooby goo coochella sibby mo quesadilla...Texas!</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: I think I got Texas and maybe quesadilla, but I have no idea what you're talking about.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Obviously disgruntled, he turned back to his beer. He shifted his body so his back was to me and he was facing the bar. It appeared, from my vantage point, that he was contemplating his beverage. After several moments, I grew bored and restless and attempted to excuse myself. He would need to let me out of the booth, of course. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I nudged his shoulder and asked him to let me out. He grunted and nodded. After waiting a few seconds, I repeated my request and tapped more firmly. He just nodded. I leaned on the table to make sure he was conscious, and lo and behold he was in a state of perma-drool. The drunken asshat was in the early stage of full-blown dry heaves. Great.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Flagging one of the bouncers to assist, my new amigo was escorted to the door. The air seemed to do him some good, as he appeared to become more coherent and wandered off into the night. A few minutes later, however, my new friend returned. Now sitting on a chair at the door, I engaged Senor Sloppy.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: No more tonight, my friend. Call it a night.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">DG: Mumbo dogface banana patch.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: (sigh) No more tonight. Go home.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">DG: (in a clear and remarkably articulate voice) It's OK, I'm cool.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: No more tonight. Go home.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">DG: Homina rondlestat moo shoo pork.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">He stumbled over to the parking meter and leaned against it...or attempted to lean. He bounced off the meter, double-shuffled his feet, then executed a pirouette...before crumpling off the curb, into the street, right on his drunken ass. He remained there for several moments, looking quite confused that gravity had betrayed him. Eventually, a good Samaritan helped him up. As Mr. Helper was trying to check on the walking mess, he jumped back and exclaimed "Dude, you're pissing all over!"</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Yes, gentle reader, he was dousing his dungarees...pissing in his pocket...urinating his underoos...making onesies in his big boy pants. Mr. Helper had received a liberal piss-rub as thanks for his help, and was not happy about it as he stormed away.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">My new buddy pulled himself together long enough to wave goodbye as he shuffled off into the night again.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Another satisfied customer.</span></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-67202125966341387702009-05-03T17:31:00.000-07:002009-05-03T19:24:56.246-07:00A Random Episode in Rock and Roll<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sf5Qx5Q3mqI/AAAAAAAAAB4/x4g75vN12UE/s1600-h/Iggy+Pop+Road%2BRecovery%2BBenefit%2BConcert%2B2009%2B1qMVGtP8R3Xl.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331787826968631970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sf5Qx5Q3mqI/AAAAAAAAAB4/x4g75vN12UE/s320/Iggy+Pop+Road%2BRecovery%2BBenefit%2BConcert%2B2009%2B1qMVGtP8R3Xl.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Road Recovery Benefit Concert 2009 was this weekend. In addition to Perry Farrell, Tom Morello, Gilby Clarke and others, there was a particularly delicious episode that should go into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Godfather of Punk, Iggy Pop, was in the middle of song, when he was joined by "surprise guest" and shameless television asshat... former Poison guitarist </span><span style="font-size:130%;">C.C. DeVille. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Ummmm, WTF? </span><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Apparently, Iggy still don't take too much crap. C.C. evidently didn't get the memo not to step on Iggy's groove. As Iggy was singing/dancing/doing his thing, C.C. began dancing around him, restricting his moves. The agitated Godfather reacted as only a true rock and roll icon could when a human cartoon tries to steal the spotlight...he kicked the big haired hack in the stomach. When that didn't achieve the desired result, damned if he didn't kick him again, bringing the escapee from Dr. Drew's freak show to his knees.</span></p><span style="font-size:130%;">As C.C. drug his sorry ass off stage, crying, Iggy could be heard issuing the edict to the rest of the band "Stop playing for that freak and I'll kill you." </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">As my buddy Scott was quoted after the show "...awesome". Awesome indeed, Scott. Iggy still lives the dream and drops the hammer on an asshat in front of thousands of people. It gives me hope for tomorrow.</span>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-49495220483887990332009-04-30T07:32:00.000-07:002009-04-30T12:56:01.493-07:00Asshats Beget Asshats<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SfoBFWVHPXI/AAAAAAAAABw/Y7YR6aB_n5Q/s1600-h/screaming+child.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330574300351511922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SfoBFWVHPXI/AAAAAAAAABw/Y7YR6aB_n5Q/s320/screaming+child.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I was on the L train the other day, headed into the city. It was mid-afternoon, so it wasn't very crowded. Besides myself, there were probably a dozen people, including a relatively young couple and their child (I'm guessing around 5 years of age). The little boy was obviously bored...wandering a few steps from his parents, then running back, vying for a little attention. The "adults" kept yammering between themselves.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">After the next stop, the little boy became a little more restless, singing/screaming to himself and wandering halfway down the car, then back to his starting point. I had settled in and was leafing through the Daily News. A glance towards the parents confirmed that they were, in fact, paying the lad no attention whatsoever. He was getting louder, and more rambunctious as the train progressed. He stopped momentarily at the next stop, as he inspected the passengers boarding, but resumed as soon as we were underway. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Now running the full length of the car and back, the boy began squealing/screaming every step of the way. He repeated this process 3 or 4 times. On the last pass, he slapped the newspaper from my hand, tearing it. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: (holding the torn paper up) Hey! You think you can handle your kid, guys?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Male Parent": Eh, he's a kid, what can I do?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Really? You can't handle a 5 year old for a 15 minute train ride? How are you gonna handle him for the next 15 years?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Male Parent": Hey, don't you worry about me raising my kid. You mind your own business.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: You're kidding, right? (holding up my paper a little higher) When your kid runs wild and tears up my stuff, it becomes my business, don't you think? Look, I'm not trying to break your balls, bro, but if you don't lay down some rules now, he's headed for a rude awakening when he gets older.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Male Parent": Don't worry about my kid. You just read your paper and mind your business.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: (once again, holding my torn paper up for him to see) Dude, if your kid's running wild, banging into people and messing up their stuff, it becomes other peoples business. Take a little responsibility before you turn him loose into the world. If he doesn't learn about rules and consequences early, he's gonna wind up beat down or in jail later. If you're OK with that, shame on you.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">After pulling in to the 1st ave stop the couple gathered up the child and exited, Both "parents" flashed dirty looks, the woman scolding me "We never spank our child."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">WTF? I never said a word about spanking, only bringing the kid under control...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">FLASHBACK - circa 1974</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">While shopping with my Grandmother back in the "old country "(the old country, of course, being Smyrna). We ventured into Zayre. Being 5 or 6 years of age at the time, I began doing what any red-blooded child would do...I ran amok. After teaming with a random child in the store, we began a spirited game of tag, or some such nonsense. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Granny called to me to behave. Phhhhfffttt. Good luck with that Granny. I continued dodging in and out of the racks, laughing and cavorting without a care in the world.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Granny called me by my full name, signifying she was getting serious. My pursuer, my unknown playmate, was closing in on me. I grabbed a double-handful of clothing from a bargain-bin and threw the garments at him to facilitate my escape. In the back of my mind, I heard my Grandmother clapping her hands and making this "hoot" sound she used to do when she was trying to get the attention of the children in the family without screaming/losing her mind. Phhhfffttt. Whatever, I was having fun!!!!</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I never saw the hand reach for my shoulder. I only felt the vise-like pressure from her fingers and knuckles, as she clamped down with the kind of grip that would have sent Mr. Spock screaming from the room. I knew I was in trouble.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Leaning in, she spoke, not with the loving kindness of that nice old lady that bought me ice cream on weekends, but with the authority of an adult that was absolutely in charge. Gasp! How did this transformation take place??? And where the hell was I when it happened???</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">She told me, in a voice barely more than a whisper, "Go outside and get me a switch".</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"What?" I thought to myself. She couldn't possibly want to "switch me", and certainly not in the store...right?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Granny: Go out to the parking lot and pick me a switch, NOW!</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: (HOLY CRAP! - or whatever the 5 year old equivalent was)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I trudged slowly out of the store. Looking over the lot, I was elated to see not a single bush anywhere. Turning, there was Granny, right behind me, pointing. "There's a bush in the planter over there." </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">After examining the bush, I picked a branch that I knew was suitable to bring my impending demise. Surely this insane impostor posing as my beloved Granny would attempt to kill me by means of an ass-whoopin'. After presenting the branch to her for inspection, she had me go to the curb and strip the leaves and nubs from it. I was positively bugging out.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We walked back into the store together, me carrying the instrument of my destruction. As we passed the checkout area, I felt the gaze of all the cashiers turn to us (specifically me and my switch). One gave a look of pity. Another flashed a smug look that said I was getting what I deserved. I'm fairly certain, in retrospect, that I heard the last call out "DEAD MAN WALKING".</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We went back to my former play area. Until a few minutes earlier, it had been the site of unbridled childhood joy...now it was to be the place where I would be sacrificed to the retail Gods for my crimes against humanity and American consumerism. Granny proceeded to pick up the mess I had made and place the garments back on their respective racks and in their proper bins. When she was done, she continued with her shopping. I thought I could be slick and leave the switch on a table. Needless to say, this evil woman was all over it like a fat kid on a cupcake. "Oh, don't you dare put that switch down. I'll deal with you later, and you better have that switch ready when I'm ready for it." Gulp.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Having finished her shopping, we returned to the front of the store. While completing her transaction with the cashier, she asked if there was something I wanted to say to the cashier.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I apologized without making eye contact. I was totally focused on this unholy stick now clutched in two hands in front of me.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Cashier: It's OK, sweety. You know you're not supposed to act like that in public, though, right?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Yes, ma'am.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Cashier: And you're not gonna make any more trouble for your Grandmama, are you?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - (thinking to myself - "You fool! This isn't my Granny! She's obviously a pod-person!!! Or an escaped lunatic waiting to get me alone to beat me!!!! Can't you see?!!??!?) What came out of my mouth, of course, was "Oh, no ma'am!"</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We left the store without further incident. Continuing on with Granny's errands, we went to 84 Lumber. I'm not sure that she even purchased anything. I get the impression, looking back, it may have been just to drive me around town with the switch.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">84 Lumber Guy: You misbehavin' boy?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: I was, sir.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">84: Why'd you do that?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: (shrug) I don't know.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">84: Your family's good people, you know. They don't deserve you to be acting dumb in public, ya know.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Yes sir.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Back into the car and on to the next stop, Dairy Cream for a chili dog to take back to my Grandfather (yes, I mean the Dairy Queen, of course, but for some reason, Granny always did, and still does call it by the wrong name...bless her heart). In the drive-thru, I declined anything for myself. I realized at that moment that a condemned man can take no joy in his last meal. Needless to say, Granny had to explain to the lady at the drive-thru window my misdeeds, which drew clucking and tsk-tsks from her. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">On to the church of my youth to drop off or pick something up. Upon arrival, the Pastor and his family were working in the parking lot and lawn with the handyman. Granny had me exit the car. The Rev. looked very disappointed. The children looked horrified.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Back in the car and back to Granny's house. Why hadn't she done the deed, yet? It made no sense, in my mind. Then, as we pulled into the driveway and I saw my Grandfather at the door, it hit me. She was bringing me back to let the old man do it. IT'S A CONSPIRACY!!! She hopped out of the car while I slowly drug my soon to be mutilated carcass from the passenger side. I slowly plod behind her, vaguely hearing my Grandfather grouse about her taking so long with his lunch and the fact it was cold from our stop at the church. "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, DON'T ANTAGONIZE HIM!!! DO YOU WANT HIM TO KILL ME IN HIS COLD CHILI DOG RAGE????" I thought to myself. I was sweating like Patty Hearst in a closet.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Papa took the bag and returned inside. Granny turned and gently took the switch from me. I had absolutely no idea what was going on.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Granny - "I'll take this, shug, before your Papa sees it and I have to explain."</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - (face consumed by confusion)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Granny - (breaking the switch into pieces) "I love you, shug, and I don't want to see you grow into the wrong kind of man. It'll hurt me awful to have to spank you, but I will if you ever act like that out in public again."</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">BACK TO THE PRESENT</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">She never laid a hand on me, I never again acted like a jackass in public as a child (though I did some monumentally stupid things later in life), and I learned that there are, in fact, repercussions for my actions. I've never been kicked out of or asked to leave a restaurant, bar, or place of public gathering. I've never been accused of being disrespectful of my elders or authority figures. I've never been the cause of my Mother or Grandmother being talked about for raising a shitty kid, to my knowledge. When I did the aforementioned stupid things later in life, I didn't cry, blame society, or look for a scapegoat. I owned it. That's what men do, I was taught.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I owe my Grandmother a debt I can't ever repay for that day. That was the day she started building a man from a little boy. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">That's all I was saying on the train...make the boy a man, not just another asshat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Just saying.</span>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-32533673396679124482009-04-22T21:57:00.001-07:002009-04-22T22:27:35.019-07:00I Only Need a Dollar!!!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Se_7dqDNZQI/AAAAAAAAABo/JgLuhDMqVY8/s1600-h/SuperStock_1433R-114031.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327753371125114114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 259px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Se_7dqDNZQI/AAAAAAAAABo/JgLuhDMqVY8/s320/SuperStock_1433R-114031.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">Working at a bar on the Lower East Side, I grew accustomed to encountering the new breed of urban street entrepreneur (translation: bum). There was one gent, in particular, that stands out in my memory.</span><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">He was generally pretty straight forwarded. "I'm a hungry, bro, can you help me out?", "I need to get lit, my man. Help a brother out?", "I wanna check out the peep show next door. Can you spare a buck?" are prime examples. I never gave him money, but he frequently entertained me with his rap. Or at least what I thought was his rap.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">One pleasant fall evening, I had gone outside for a smoke. Two doors down, was a "video store". I list it as such because they sell just enough regular videos to be able to sell adult videos and toys, as well as operate video booths under NY law. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the video booth, it basically works like this...you go into a room w/ a chair, a coin or token operated tv and a box of Kleenex. You feed the coin box and watch a porno for a fixed amount of time or until you're...done. Yes, you're initial reaction is/was correct - ewwwwww.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">So I was enjoying the fall weather, when the "honest bum" came bursting out of the store, drawing the attention of myself, other bar patrons that were outside smoking and random passers by.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"Can somebody PLEASE give me a dollar!" cried the obviously frustrated, financially challenged, chicken choker.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"Please, I ONLY need a dollar...I'm almost done!!!"</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">He turned towards the bar and I realized his hand was inside his sweat pants, apparently attempting to keep his boner going.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"I'll be done in like a minute! I'll come back and tell you all about the movie!!! I ONLY need a DOLLAR!!!"</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">A random chick gave him a dollar to go away. He sprinted back in to the store to finish his business.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">He emerged approximately 3 minutes later, seeming much more relaxed.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"I need a cigarette! Can somebody please help me with a cigarette!!!"</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">You can't make this shit up.</span></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-46805290219887542162009-04-22T20:17:00.000-07:002009-04-22T21:47:32.208-07:00Random Thoughts<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Se_yF5t1fgI/AAAAAAAAABg/Seg2SzXKUI0/s1600-h/charles_darwin_l.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327743067408924162" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 242px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Se_yF5t1fgI/AAAAAAAAABg/Seg2SzXKUI0/s320/charles_darwin_l.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Dear Charles,</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I need your help. Your theories are being sorely tested, and possibly proven. In fact, I fear the next stage of evolution is happening as I write this. Homosapiens are being replaced by Asshats, Douches and Uber-Douches. Allow me to point a few of these new breeds of "men" out to you:</span></div><div> </div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Excuse me, can I please get off the train before you try to cram into the car? If that's too much to ask, how about stepping on the train sliding out of the doorway so I can still get off without having to squeeze by you? (Asshat)</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">When you sit on the train, do you think you could not sit with your legs spread ridiculously far apart? You're not fooling anyone. Your junk AIN'T that big. You're just trying to take up as much room as possible so the poor old lady getting on at the next stop doesn't try to sit next to you. (Douche)</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">If you've picked up take-out for dinner, in the name of all that is holy, do NOT dine on the train. I don't want to smell your meal, watch the grease accumulate on your chin and shirt, or see the food being ground down in your open mouth because Mommy and Daddy never taught you how to chew with your mouth closed. I also don't want to see you throw the refuse (wrappers, chicken bones, etc.) on the floor of the subway. (Douche)</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">If you've ever been denied entry to a bar because you were too intoxicated, it's OK. People get drunk. It's not a big deal. If you proceeded to argue with the bouncer/bartender/whatever, you're a Douche.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">No one that has ever been denied entry to a drinking establishment, or asked to leave an establishment, has ever been able to successfully fight their way into being allowed to enter/stay. No one, in the history of drinking, has ever gotten a free bar tab for "whoopin' the bouncers ass". If you've ever suffered this delusion, you're a dill-hole and a Douche. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">If, after you've picked a fight for the above mentioned reasons and gotten your ass handed to you, you subsequently called the cops to file a complaint, you're an Uber-Douche. You're also probably gonna spend the night in jail (if you drop the soap, let it go).</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Urinating on a subway/bus, in a bar (in a place other than the restroom), on the door of an apartment or anywhere near a church or school...earns you the status, without reservation or exception, of Uber-Douche.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">If you're 40-plus years old, and instantly fall in love with a 24 year old girl on facebook or myspace after seeing her picture, you're sad. If, after a few online chats, you get jealous because she works late, you're a loser. If, after being advised to let it go and get on with your life, you continue to inundate the girl with dozens of emails, fb or myspace messages, AIM messages, etc over the next 72 hours, you're instantly elevated to Uber-Douche.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"what do you mean my id is no good", "do you know who I am/my father is", "you can't keep me out, I know the law/it's a public place"...Asshat, Douche, Douche.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The following institutions deserve a little attention...</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The MTA - After getting caught cooking the books just a few years ago, they've subsequently demanded fare increases EVERY YEAR SINCE. Institutional Douchebaggery</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">*honorable mention* - the citizens of NYC that haven't demanded to see the books every single year since the year of the cooked books. I love this city, but there are too many absolute fucking mouth-breathers.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">ConEd and the NY Water Authority - Conservation is working. Usage of both electricity and water has been greatly reduced. The reward? Rate increases of 14% and 7% respectively. The logic? They've still got to meet their budget, so they're gonna get the money one way or another. WTF??? When I finally leave NY, I'm leaving all the lights on, turning on all the faucets, and nailing the front door shut. Institutional Uber-Douche.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">All utilities mentioned can kiss my big country ass.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Civilian group mention...</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The Critical Mass group - If you're not familiar with these fucktards, they meet up, ride through the streets of Manhattan, blocking traffic and breaking traffic laws to promote the need for mass transit. WTF??? These asshats are protesting too many cars in the city with the most extensive train system in the friggin' hemisphere, if not the world. Every month, these dipshits use the transportation ruse to interfere with life just because they're douchebags. When the NYPD attempted to organize them, so at least emergency vehicles could travel without interference, they sued on "freedom of speech" grounds. Still in the courts, this group has been elevated to hippie-wannabe Uber-Douche.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Please, Charles, I need you now more than ever. Tell me it's gonna be OK before I run amok and start punching these ass-clowns in the neck.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Love,</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Matty</span></div><br /><div></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-65232320934721134662009-04-15T22:10:00.000-07:002009-04-15T23:05:13.801-07:00K-mart, where America shops for...WTF???<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbF6qtwkmw3qTr6leeIf7ZXKHVfcPbCGt47ucia0wxekrud8KKkhR0EngIGwKiZ5prHupACpKsl-3TD5XEE90ElVoKF69OsfUdxKf-E2PqP7UcYWkgcG7fk__-6nHQxyVh7jd56Gz73bCW/s1600-h/homelessrm2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325164452525477490" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 273px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 288px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbF6qtwkmw3qTr6leeIf7ZXKHVfcPbCGt47ucia0wxekrud8KKkhR0EngIGwKiZ5prHupACpKsl-3TD5XEE90ElVoKF69OsfUdxKf-E2PqP7UcYWkgcG7fk__-6nHQxyVh7jd56Gz73bCW/s320/homelessrm2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SebI2iM0LsI/AAAAAAAAABQ/ajISEN-Hwsk/s1600-h/kmart_logo_1990-2004.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325164448631238338" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 175px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 140px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SebI2iM0LsI/AAAAAAAAABQ/ajISEN-Hwsk/s320/kmart_logo_1990-2004.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">On the way to the bar from the cellular store, I noticed an oddity. There was a man, virtually upside down on the sidewalk up against the wall outside K-mart, with a small crowd gathering nearby. As I crossed the street, the gent was being helped to his feet. Once righted, he shook off his assistance and launched into a tirade worthy of authentic frontier gibberish, waving his arms wildly and repeatedly extending his middle fingers towards the building. This closer investigation showed me that the gent was, in fact, a wino.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">As I passed, I noticed several men standing just inside the revolving door. As they were all dressed the same, I came to the conclusion they were K-mart employees...or the nerdiest street gang ever. My curiosity piqued, I stopped to enjoy the street theater next to a guy in a suit.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Did he get thrown out?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Suit: Looks that way.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: What the hell do you have to do to get bounced from K-mart?</span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Suit: No idea. I bet he knows, though. (gestures towards the bum)</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The crusty hobo continued his rant for several moments. When he ran out of breath, he charged back into the revolving door. The employees grabbed the door and held fast to prevent his re-entry into the store. I pointed out to my new friend, the suit, that their formation resembled the raising of the flag on Iwo Jima.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">As the K-martians were determinedly preventing the bum's entry, they were approached by what I assume was a store manager (he was wearing a slightly nicer crappy shirt). He spoke to them quickly. The looked at him like he was as crazy as the would-be invader. Simultaneously, however, they released the door, allowing the door to spin freely. When the now quickly spinning door opened for the bum to enter the store, the manager simply pushed him back into the revolving door (with a noticeable amount of force) and allowed the door to keep spinning until the correct opening was back on the street side. At this point, the employees grabbed the door again, effectively putting the brakes on the demented merry-go-round. The abrupt stop caused the bum to rattle off the panes of the door, then spill back out onto the sidewalk. Brilliance.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">After gathering himself, the now twice ejected asshat launched into another tirade for about a minute. He stopped rather suddenly, when he realized something that everyone watching already knew. He was cold. The reason for this apparent chill? His pants had fallen down. To add insult to injury...he was going commando.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Thoroughly defeated, he drew his pants back up, and drifted off into the now considerable crowd. I learned a few things from this slice of New York life.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">1) If you fuck up bad enough, the good people of K-mart will put a whole different kind of Blue Light Special on your ass.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">2) The manager at the place where America Shops for Value might just be smarter than I ever gave him/her credit for.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">3) If you're not gonna wear a belt, never, EVER go commando.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">4) If you should be both beltless and commando, at least make sure you're clean. It's just plain embarrassing to have everyone see your junk when it's that kinda dirty. Much worse than getting in an accident with dirty underwear. Go to Starbucks and wash it in the sink if you have to (enjoy your latte tomorrow).</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">and lastly</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"> 5) I seem to be a magnet for half-naked and/0r crazed bums, for some reason...how the hell did that happen?</span></div></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-19287824891412022492009-04-13T22:32:00.000-07:002009-04-13T23:26:28.245-07:00Self-love on the A train<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SeQq4dqOYxI/AAAAAAAAABI/jAUxZJ-iWuo/s1600-h/a_train.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324427808981541650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SeQq4dqOYxI/AAAAAAAAABI/jAUxZJ-iWuo/s320/a_train.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">After moving to the city many years ago, I found myself waiting on a crowded 14th street subway platform waiting for the uptown A train. My destination was Hell's Kitchen, and I was looking for work. I was flipping through the Daily News when the train pulled in. I was still flipping through the paper when I stepped into the subway car. When I looked up, I was confused. Everyone that had entered before me was crammed to the the front of the car, leaving the rear virtually empty...save for one guy. </span><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Sitting in the small seat by the door, was an urban outdoorsman (translation: bum). Ordinarily, I maintain a "live and let live" philosophy. That tenet was sorely test, however, as the crusty gent had made himself comfortable...VERY comfortable. His pants were down to his knees, and he was, to put it delicately, rubbing one out (stroking the bishop, flogging the log, spanking the monkey, choking the chicken, etc). Amazingly, the other occupants of the car were trying hard to pretend not to notice. I, on the other hand, lost my friggin' mind.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"Are you people fucking kidding? " (I started handing parts of the paper out to people to shield themselves from any possible release of bum seed) "Jeez, at least protect yourselves!" No one refused this small offering of protection. In fact, it seemed to both ease their fears and stimulate their disgust at the same time. "Dude, you're a fucking animal!" said one strap hanger. "That's gross, man. Get off the train!!!" said another. A small, elderly woman, apparently of Eastern European descent (complete with babushka) stepped forward and, using the soothing tones of a grandmother offered, "I hope you die, you bastard!!!" before spitting on the floor at his feet.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The guy was now trying diligently to ignore the crowd as we travelled through the underbelly of the city. He had kicked it into overdrive and was pumping his fist like a man possessed, but to no avail. The car was on the verge of riot. Something metallic flew over the crowd and hit the wall by his head. It was quickly followed by coins, keys, pens, batteries and what I believe was a half-eaten slice of cheese pizza. It was like "bat day" at Yankee stadium in the 70's. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">This broke the mood of self-gratification as the train rumbled into the station, apparently. When we came to a stop, he stood up and shuffled off onto the platform, shocking the riders waiting there. And no, he didn't even bother to pull his pants up. He merely held the waist band and went off in search of a quieter place...with his junk still dangling. "This city sucks" said the unsatisfied gent, "ya can't get any privacy."</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">True dat, my friend, you can never find a quiet subway train on which to beat your meat anymore. The city ain't what it used to be...WTF???</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">epilogue: I didn't realize it til I got off the train at the next stop, but I never got any of my newspaper back from the people on the train. I learned a lesson that day. From now on, I'll save the 50 cents and let the rest of the train get Hep C...bunch of ungrateful ass-clowns.</span></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-41491793319204422092009-04-13T18:43:00.000-07:002009-04-13T18:46:18.314-07:00Treat All God's Chilluns Equal<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SePqntjjrwI/AAAAAAAAABA/8sKwIv3MFyw/s1600-h/Timmy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324357152446590722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/SePqntjjrwI/AAAAAAAAABA/8sKwIv3MFyw/s320/Timmy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">So, I'm working the door one Friday night, when a gentleman rolls up in a wheelchair. I nod and greet him politely. The gent looks down into the bar (it's four steps below sidewalk level to the door).</span></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche on Wheels: How the hell am I supposed to get in?<br />Me: I can help you, brother. Do you prefer the stairs, or the ramp? (I point to the ramp normally used for beer deliveries at the side door).<br />DoW: I don't need your help! I just need appropriate access! You've heard of the American Disabilities Act?<br />Me: Sure. But I offered you access to the ramp, or to help you down the stairs, so I'm confused by your attitude?<br />DoW: MY attitude? Go fuck yourself! I have a right to come into this bar!!!<br />Me: No, you have the right to access this bar. Even if we were at street level, I wouldn't let you in, now, because you're a douche.<br />DoW: Oh, you're so getting sued! I can't believe you're operating in flagrant disregard of the Disabilities Act! I'm gonna own this bar!!!<br />Me: Good to know. Can I have a raise?<br />DoW: Go ahead and laugh it up. You'll see...unless your boss wants to make some kind of settlement?<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">(rolling my eyes)<br />Me: Wow, you're fucked again. I am the boss, and I'd rather lick a bum's ass than give you a nickel in a half-assed shakedown. This can't possibly ever work, can it?<br />DoW: Your loss, I'm gonna sue, then!!!<br />Me: Fine see you in court.<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Rolling thunder launched into a rant. I let him go for several minutes before finally asking him to just go away. I told him he was absolutely not going to get a nickel from the establishment, so he might as well call it a night and roll his happy ass home. I also informed him that since the business had been in constant operation since 1942, we were exempt from the local rules regarding handicap access. This new information perplexed him at first, then sent him into another rage.<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Me: Look, this is the first time I've ever even been tempted to smack a guy in a wheelchair. Why don't we just go our separate ways?<br />DoW: (actually rolls his chair into me) I'm not afraid of you! Bring it on, I dare you!<br />Before I could stop myself, I pulled his hoody over his head and kicked his chair, causing it to roll across the sidewalk towards the street. I attempted to grab it, but it was like a damned Sam Peckinpah movie. Everything kinda went into slow motion. One of the resident liberal chicks came running from the bar, screaming.<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">At that moment, the chair rolled off the curb and dumped the guy into the street. The girl began cursing and poking me in the arm and chest, but I was more interested in the guy. He was also cursing me...as he stood up and collected his stuff, and began pushing his chair away. Didn't even have the courtesy to limp.<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The girl also saw this, and stopped her verbal assault. I calmly advised her that it was a bad idea to get involved in an altercation in a bar, and it was a very bad idea to initiate physical contact with staff. She tried to get indignant, so I booted her ass too.<br />Hate 'em all, let God sort 'em out.</span></div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-57611720553526376092009-04-08T23:32:00.001-07:002009-04-09T00:36:35.445-07:00Wait...rain isn't yellow, is it?<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sd2i1p0qpMI/AAAAAAAAAAk/eGULaaRmC2U/s1600-h/shoe.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322589377265312962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sd2i1p0qpMI/AAAAAAAAAAk/eGULaaRmC2U/s320/shoe.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">Upon closing the bar one evening, the bartender (Autumn), the barback (Rick) and I were having a quiet drink together recounting the general fuckery of the evening. It was about 5 a.m. Sunday morning, and the clientele Saturday evening had made me worry that a little yellow bus had crashed in the neighborhood, and the riders had wandered into the bar. While we were chatting, I heard the gentle sound of water running.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Did you guys leave the water running in the sink?"</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">They both responded that they had not. I leaned up on the bar to verify this, as I was sure I heard water running. As my butt came back to rest on the stool, I glanced over to the door. The interior doors were still open, but the gate was down, to prevent the drunken fucktards still on the streets from stumbling into the bar. It was at this time, I noticed the water running under the gate, puddling just inside the door. "When did it start raining?" I asked no one in particular. It wasn't raining.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Walking to the door, I heard voices. Yes, gentle readers, a pair of asshats were peeing onto the security gates of the bar. Gravity and slope bringing said pee INSIDE the bar.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Hey guys, you're peeing into the bar."</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 1 - "I think somebody's in there." (rocket scientist)</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 2 - "Well, he better stay in there, if he knows what's good for him." (sigh)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I threw the gate up as the two of them were finishing their stream.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "OK, which one of you hard asses wants to show me what's good for me?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 2 - "Uhhhh....homina-homina...errrr...mumbo, dogface, banana patch."</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 1 - (points to Douche 2)</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Son, did you not understand when I yelled you were peeing into the bar?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 2 - (pickle still in hand) "Hey, the door should be able to keep water out, don't blame me." (sigh)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The annoyed punch in the chest sent him tumbling backwards across the sidewalk, where he came to rest on the curb. Douche 1 ran to his side to help him up, apologizing profusely for their unwise choice of urination stations. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Don't sweat it. Just take your friend home before he gets himself in trouble. Explain to him tomorrow that he wouldn't have a bruise on his chest if he just would have apologized, or even kept his mouth shut."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 2 - (beanie weenie STILL hanging in the breeze) "Hey, fuck you man! You can't do that!! You don't know who my father is!!!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - (sigh) "I'm assuming he's the limpdick that didn't teach you not to piss into someones place of business? Or that using a line like that makes you an uber-douche? If you tell me he's a lawyer, I'm gonna wanna know his address so I can go pinch a loaf in his ficus tree tomorrow."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 2 - (thoroughly confused, being led away by Douche 1) "I'll be back. You watch your back!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - (waving) "Bring pie. I like pie."</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">With the departure of God's Special People, I went back to the bar to finish my now warm beer. Rick had mopped the mess and re-secured the door behind me.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Rick - "Uh, bro?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Yeah, man?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Rick - "Is this yours?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(turning, I focus on what would be the house trophy for the evening)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Is that a shoe?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Rick - "Yeah. He came out of it when you popped him". (I had noticed the dipshit limping, but assumed it was from the roll)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I admit, I felt more than a smidgen of machismo at having knocked the turd, literally, out of his shoe. So much so, that after a dousing in the sanitizer, the shoe was hung on the back bar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">After pouring a smaller glass of beer to finish off the night, a gentle rapping came from the gate. It was Douche 1.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 1 - "Umm. I think my friend lost his shoe"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "You're kidding right?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 1 - "Well, we gotta go back to Westchester, and he'd like to get it back."</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Did he finally put his cock away?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 1 - "Yeah. We're looking for his shoe, though."</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "And?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Douche 1 - "Can I have it?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Me - "Haven't seen it. Tell him to enjoy the train ride...and to say hi to his dad for me...and don't forget the pie when he comes back...I like pie."</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The freshly minted uber-douche never did come back like he said he would...so I had to get my own pie...fucker.</span>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1641097296508416313.post-31693582671056134892009-04-08T16:19:00.000-07:002009-04-08T19:54:14.451-07:00The Dangers of Laundry & Self-Medication<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sd1iaZzSuDI/AAAAAAAAAAc/1XY4NM1fjwA/s1600-h/motorhead+shirt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322518540363937842" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HQsh2h3x-cA/Sd1iaZzSuDI/AAAAAAAAAAc/1XY4NM1fjwA/s320/motorhead+shirt.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It happens to us all, eventually. That momentary, but nonetheless monumental act of stupidity that haunts us for years. This is one of those acts...<br /><br />Suffering through a bout of the flu that I equated to a mild form of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">SARS</span>, I soldiered on to work. The misery of the next several hours was astounding. The coughing, the watery eyes, the aching muscles, the production of absurd amounts of snot would have brought a lesser man to his knees...I was well on my way to that position.<br /><br />I finally drew my remaining energy forth, and trudged the normally short block to the drug store for relief. It was during this hazy shopping spree that I concocted the ultimate flu remedy/horse tranquilizer. After purchasing my goods, I returned to the bar.<br /><br />Spilling the contests of my bag onto the bar, the bartender looked on with great <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">confusion</span> and fear for what was about to happen. She was kind enough to heat three fingers of Jameson, which was used to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">dissolve</span> a packet of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Thera</span>-flu. A double-shot of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Nyquil</span> was introduced to the cocktail. After the mixture was complete, it chased down a dosage of Tylenol PM. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Whoooo</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ooaaaaa</span>, that's good squishy!!!<br /><br />With an hour til closing, I was almost instantly feeling the embrace of sweet slumber. Little did I know that the Sandman was about to lure me into a dark alley and make me his prison bitch.<br /><br />At closing, I shouldered my laundry bag (which I had picked up on the way to work that afternoon) and began the journey home. That single avenue was the longest 750 feet of my life. By the time I arrived at my building, I was swimming in my own sweat. Unlocking the front door was the closest thing to a Rubik's Cube I had encountered in two decades. Resting at the bottom of the stairs, I came to the king of rationalizations. "Just leave the laundry here and get it in the morning". It made perfect sense.<br /><br />Now, obviously, there are many flaws in the thought processes I used that evening. Not the least of which was that I would be functional "in the morning". I virtually crawled up the four flights, leaving my bag by the foot of the stairs. Upon entering the apartment I began a slumber that legends are built around. 12 hours of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">uninterrupted</span> "sweat out". I emerged from my hibernation feeling almost, though not quite, my normal self (I had no idea you could get a hangover from cold <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">meds</span>, but believe me when I say it...oh yeah, you can).<br /><br />I traipsed downstairs to retrieve my bag before work, and lo and behold, the bag was not to be found. Only mildly concerned, I assumed the super had found it and stashed it in a closet. With nothing else to do about it that night, I headed to work.<br /><br />Upon arrival, one of the regulars checked to make sure I was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">OK</span>, as she was sure I was on death's door the previous evening (that walking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">SARS</span> is tough). I assured her that I was fine, and the only problem was not being able to find my laundry. At this point, my friend Lew (Jewish Lew, not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Dominican</span> Lou) smirked and chuckled.<br />Me - (closing my eyes) "What?"<br />Lew - I'm pretty sure I saw a bum wearing your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Motorhead</span> t-shirt. It was way too big for him. So now that I think about it, it was probably yours."<br />Me - (sigh) "Maybe not, there's gotta be plenty of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Motorhead</span> shirts in the city, right?"<br />Lew - "Absolutely. They hand out 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">xl</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Motorhead</span> shirts at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">DMV</span> with your new license." (laughing out loud)<br />Me - (ugh)<br /><br />One of the regulars approached at this point. "Are you guys talking about the bum fight?" (what?) "I saw two bums fighting over the biggest pair of jeans I ever saw. It was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">hilarious</span>!!!!"<br /><br />Lew clued him in that they were, in fact, mine. It took earnest threats of neck punches for both of them to stop the laughter and get the pertinent information I needed to try to find any remnants of my clothes. Checking the streets around my apartment, and the block of the bum fight proved fruitless.<br /><br />I learned many valuable lessons from this. Don't over medicate. When they say don't mix things, they fucking mean it. And when they say don't operate heavy machinery, that includes washing machines.<br /><br />And I never got any of my clothes back. To this day, I have to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">suppress</span> the urge to attack any fat kid in a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Motorhead</span> shirt and take the shirt. sigh</div>the Mattyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02887906954791256967noreply@blogger.com0