Happy Halloween Kiddies!

My Little Cereal Killer

Merry Happy Kwanzchrist...aww whatever.

As our holy moly-ist holiday shows up in red slacks on a ramshackle wooden sled with feral flying beasts and a wispy white beard, I really thought it appropriate to throw a few words toward the menace, malice and majesty that is our mis-celebration of your lord and savior.

Yes, a mis-celebration because even if Jesus was really born, he was most likely birthed around April or March and some argue around six months after Passover. The early adopters of the Christian gunk thought it would be a peachy idea to piggyback our Pagan brethren and absorb a few of their super sweet sinful ideas about celebrations.

Back when Babylon wasn’t a horrifying, constantly exploding little nugget known as Iraq, the denizens of that area would willingly enjoyed the feast of the Son of Isis (Goddess of Nature) and just happened to celebrate this debauched occasion on ... you guessed it — Dec. 25! Since then, vomitous partying, irresponsible eating and mindless gift-giving have been a winter tradition.

As I tap these words on my laptop in the wee hours of my birthday, I can only imagine that Santa is throwing S’Nick points my way toward a new Android Tablet (on general principle, if you have an iPad, kick yourself in the face) or something else technologically fancy on which I can beep-boop-bop my way toward pointless celebrity gossip satisfaction and online zombie killing.

Perhaps an Xbox 360 Kinect so I can forgo any restricting controllers and flail around my living room as only Jesus would have done in his tiny, dirt-floored carpenter’s shack.

How do I accept gifts on the most religious of holidays when I am a very vocal and vociferous agnostic/atheist you ask?

Tradition.

Though my daughter Samantha sometimes occupies a place in my heart I hold dear only for televangelists and smooshbags, I don’t feel the need to rob her of the pure joy that I had when I would sneak out of bed in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, much to the chagrin of my poor beleaguered parents. It was common knowledge that I liked to get a 3 a.m. preview of what gift Santa had brought and what fantastic little knick-knacks he’d left in my stocking.

None of that had anything to do with Jeebus or pointless religious overtones. It was about my family being together and enjoying a day of giving to each other.

Until my brother Chris touched my Star Wars figurines, to which I felt a swift death was the only appropriate solution.

In a time of ever-increasing separation of our populace, gather your friends and relatives and just enjoy the time you have to spend together. Our holidays are less and less about some archaic event that may or may not have happened. They are about choosing to celebrate our time with one another.

But seriously, I want an Xbox. And if Chris touches my Boba Fett figurine one more time, I am seriously going to cut his head off with the soup ladle.

Rejoice!

Dreams

Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.
- William Dement

I have this recurring dream where I’m hardly wearing any clothing and for some reason I’m walking around in around in public. I try to come to grips with the fact that I’m only wearing a pair of Sponge Bob Square Pants boxers. Which, strangely enough, wouldn’t really bother me in real life.

Dreams to me are usually just a tiny window into our thought process for a brief moment in time. The dreams can vary from common realistic situations, to far-fetched fantasy scenarios.

Just like bad breath and choking snores, everyone has dreams that they feel are important to blather to the rest of us.

A word of caution: Don’t be that person that always feels the need to share their demented dreams with other people.

If you’re having sex with Big Bird on the set of Gone With the Wind and your third grade teacher is filming the whole thing on a Speak-And-Spell, please do all of us a favor and report to your nearest psychiatrist. It’s best to seek the proper medication because you’ve passed nutty quite some time ago.

One of the more comical situations I’ve dealt with is when someone you know wakes up from a crappy dream they’ve just had in which I’ve had a starring role. They’re instantly pissed off, even though I’m completely innocent. I’ve even had my wife Shannon wake me up after having one of these dreams and give me the stink eye as if I had a fugue-state affair with someone she works with.

And speaking of bad dream experiences, we’ve all had to deal nightmares at some point in our lives. I remember one of the first real night terrors I had was when I first watched “Nightmare of Elm Street”.

Now that I think back, I have no clue as to why Tom and Annette were letting their ten-year-old son watch a horror movie about a cackling roasted-faced child killer with knife blades for fingers.

I recall waking up and not being able to differentiate between what was real and what was dream. So, I just lay petrified in my bed, occasionally peering out from underneath the safety of my sheets.

And we all know that no monster, killer, or nocturnal evil can get past a pair cotton San Diego Padre sheets. Apparently it holds some form of magical protection for kids, something akin to kryptonite for all things that go bump in the night.

Another part of nightmares that can be equally frustrating is when you’re in a situation that requires either running from or defending yourself in a fight.

What type of intense gravitational pull is exerted on my body as soon as I enter dreamland? I can remember having a dream where I was pitching in a baseball game in college, only to have it seamlessly revert to a game of wiffleball in a walk-in closet.

Please spare me your Freudian evaluation…

I also tend to sleep walk. Well, not really walking. More like jumping out of bed and ranting nonsense and freaking my wife out to the point where she’s relegated to being a nighttime bouncer. Most of my antics revolve around keeping my daughter Samantha safe, so at this point, I’m safe in my freakery.

To me, dreaming is a healthy process that we should all embrace and explore. There’s even ongoing studies regarding something called lucid dreaming, which is where you train yourself to realize you’re in a dream so that you can delve deeper into why you’re actually having that dream.

I guess in the long run, just try and accept what they are. Dreams are just fantastical home movies set within our own mind. Write them down, remember them, study them, just don’t take it too seriously.

I just have to figure out why I have a tendency to sleep walk though. It sure makes my family’s life interesting...and my staircase a insurance liability.

    As I awoke this morning to my daughter's siren's serenade of "dadaaaa", my tired smile turned to horror as I caught a whiff of what I thought had been month old roadkill. 

Alas, it was not. 

    With my daughter Samantha turning two recently, I thought I might share small bits of wisdom that I've gleaned over the years that might help her out in her young little life. 

    

    Or she'll most likely read this in ten years and tell me I'm lame and should get a life. Yes, I'm sure of the latter...and I'm not sure I disagree. 

    Do...as I say, not as I do. 

    Do not...eat M&M's with beef jerky with hot sauce for breakfast. 

    Do...eat those disgusting Pop Tarts I put on your plate. Or jam them in your ear. I'm sure they have the same nutritional content either way. 

    Do...continue to use the cute words that make me want to squish you into a pile of lavender smelling blond curls. And eat those Pop Tarts...they're not cheap. 

    Do not...mimic the words that Dad uses when he's fixing just about anything around the house. Its bad enough when you say the word "truck" in public and people glare at me like I'm the devil, let's not hone your ability to enunciate. 

    Do...read every single book you can get your hands on. This includes the Bible because it's funny, sad, and scary at the same time. 

    Do not...read tabloids. Fake boobs, money, and shiny cars seem to be the sum total of what they're pushing. It's like Del Mar. Except in Del Mar, you don't have to be literate to be sucessful. 

    Do...watch as much Fox News as possible.

    Do not...stop laughing as you watch those silly sycophants try to make their silly doctrine make sense to anyone who's under the age of 60. 

    Do...pretend that children's statue across from Leucadia Pizza isn't frighteningly creepy. 

    Do not...GO NEAR IT. Ever. If you are the lunatic that designed that bronze monstrosity.. go away. It's awful and passersby cringe and wonder why you hate kids. 

    Do...remember that going to college is an important right of passage and a logical step upon high school graduation. 

    Do not...think that every person with a college degree is intelligent. It only means they stayed within a certain discipline and finished what they started. They are by no means smarter than anyone else. 

    Do...go to bars and restaurants. Enjoy yourself and don't forget that waiters, waitresses, servers, bartenders, and hosts aren't slaves to cater to your every whim. If you think that, you're most likely brain dead and beyond help. 

    Do not...forget that the waitstaff will kill you where you stand. Seriously, we will kill you. Know the rules and don't be rude or your service will be non-existent. 

    Do...remember that your Dad is and always will be vehemently overprotective. 

    Do not...take everything he says as gospel. He's scared and cautious when it comes to his daughter and just wants you to avoid all the problems he had to deal with. 

    Fine...you can have beef jerky for breakfast. Just don't tell Mom.

    

    

 

    As June peeks its gloomy head around the clouds and begins the blistering pace towards the August finale, I wanted to discuss a sport that is severely lacking national attention. 

    Or any attention for that matter. 

    Throwing horseshoes, or "pitching" to those privy to the appropriate lexicon, has been a Waterhouse extravaganza dating back to the days of pretending that El Cajon was a viable real estate choice. 

    My Dad and uncles would gather most of their truck-driving brethren and do their best to not crush knees, smash shins, or crank ankles of those involved in the backyard shenanigans. This was a big event around the neighborhood, and nary a chucker of bended steel missed one of these events. 

    Though Coors Original did not help the festivities, I'm sure that the participating athletes in the East County Horseshoe Olympics felt that those golden circles of hopped delight were indeed a performance-enhancing substance. 

    Children were strictly forbidden to play horseshoes and yet played a role in every tournament. We were usually relegated to gofers and neophyte bartenders yet we eagerly grabbed those mangled steel shoes at any given chance always wondering what type of mammoth horse these shoes actually fit. 

    A quick note to purists: my brother Chris throws left-handed and pitches his horseshoes overhand. Is he the devil? I wanted to run it by my fellow pitchers. He is, isn't he? I knew it. 

 

    Over the years, my love for the game never wavered but finding appropriate venues and viable opponents seemed to cleave away my time in the pits. I'd get a beach game here, or the occasional family tournament there, but they never really reached within and grabbed a hold of me like it had in my youth. 

    This lull lasted until a breezy conversation with my fellow co-worker Kenny Buckner. Though his last name brings dread among  Red Sox faithful, he's excellent behind the bar and a person I've found has a keen respect for the fine art of the ringer.  

    KB and I thought it appropriate to test each other's clanging skills at Glen Park on a blindingly bright day where the sun sears your eyelids shut when you don't bring sunglasses or a low brimmed hat. Which I did. 

    Though I was victorious that day (YES!), I felt a certain camaraderie and kinship with my fellow employee. We chatted as we finished our requisite innings and concocted a plan to continue practicing until we elevated our game with a very specific goal in mind. 

    We were going to barnstorm the NHPA (National Horseshoe Pitching Association) and make our way to fame and glory as the oh-so-inventively nicknamed "Dead Ringers". Don't worry, the t-shirts will be available for sale on our website. When we get a website. 

    So the next time you hear the clang of metal on metal or a flurry of foul language by men trying not to curse in a public park, take heed: We've thrown the gauntlet. You know where to find us and we're taking on all challengers. 

    Dead Ringers...coming to a pit near you. 

Yeah, we do hate you...

http://www.generation-awesome.com/bartender/

There's a season two of "The Bartender Hates You" also. Please watch them. Learn.

Sartorial choices...

I've just recently come to the conclusion that I'm the type of person whose wardrobe choices are often dictated by which pair of jeans already has a belt in them....

Children at play....

It was me.

I was that little jerk that pounded on your door as the moon shone white with my young group of marauding miscreant cohorts. Those stifled giggles weren’t coming from your fence or a feverishly sentient raccoon that patrolled your front yard.

No, that was just us laughing at you. Because we were bored and had nothing better to do with our time than waste yours and steal precious hours of sleep that you desperately needed.

I do recall having to branch out to other areas, or make new friends so we didn’t have to keep doorbell ditching the same handful of people who actually got up and answered the door. That would mean my parents could have found out, which would put me on lockdown for a couple of weeks.

At some point we’d get caught and have to apologize, which was worse than running in scattered directions when the old guy threatened to shoot us with rock salt. I don’t know if that’s even possible but to this day I fear the lawns of white haired men in flannel.

Playing hide and seek was another way for us to run around the neighborhood unsupervised, albeit with less chance of getting beaten or having vicious canines sicced on us.

There was always something oddly exhilarating about playing a block-wide game of hide and seek with thirty five kids, doing your best to climb under cars, in trees, or stay stationary just long enough to find that perfect hiding spot...only to have it spoiled by having to pee as soon as your in it.

I had the hide and seek bladder of a small infant. I would keep moving from spot to spot because I left whiz tracks wherever I went.

Then there was the curious schoolyard game of Butts Up. A group of kids throwing a ball against the wall in hopes of one of them muffing it. Then, someone within the group pounces on it and rushes to chuck the tennis ball against the wall before the muff-ee touches said wall.
If that person drops the balls three times, then he or she is forced to face the wall and take a firing squad of one throw per Butt’s Up participant. There’s something to be said for simplicity.

Another simple game concocted by seemingly homophobic children is the ever popular, and always schoolyard banned, Smear the Queer. Poetic, no?

Anyway, this one revolved less on rules, and more on brutality to maintain it’s dominance throughout the decades. One person has a ball. Everyone else does their best to smear his or her face into the ground until everyone is roughed up to the point of bloodied submission.

Oh, how the games we play in our youth rarely translate to adult life. Or do they? You screw up, your Butt’s on the line. When you’re on the ball, everyone wants to Smear you into the dirt. Hiding from the masses is usually good for the soul on occasion.

And doorbell ditching? Well, okay, not all games translate. But you have to admit, you still want to. But not at my house.

I have rock salt...

Imoway...

In casual conversations with my two-year-old nephew Zach, he's fairly
liberal with his usage of the English language.

At this point, he's got a rudimentary understanding of verbal
communication and giggles his way through discussions about food,
baseball, motorcycles, and constantly reminding me about the F bomb I
accidentally muttered. Again.

There are words he likes to share with the rest of the world that he
knows aren't appropriate to utter. So instead of singing it out loud
and letting everyone know about it, he quietly saddles up next to your
ear to share these words with you.

There's something about a curly-haired little blond kid whispering
curse words to you with a sly Cheshire grin that makes it really
difficult to chastise him.

But there's another word that he utters. A word I don't understand,
yet I've become acutely fascinated with it. Perplexed and infatuated
with a term I can't possibly comprehend and with the thousands of
words I've pounded into my keyboard, this one utterance still haunts
me.

Imoway.

Six innocent little letters spoken from the mouth of grinning little
towhead. With his eyes quietly laughing at me, as if I should know
what he means. He taunts me with vocabulary I can't possibly decipher.

I've even tried every permutation to figure out what he's trying to
say. I've Googled it. I'm beginning to think it's not even English and
might be some type of global infant conspiracy.

It usually starts with me simply saying the word to him. I'm a glutton
for punishment and I can't help myself. A typical conversation is as
follows:

"Hey Zach…Imoway."

This simple sentence usually resets his demeanor, and he'll sit down
next to me and look me straight in the eye and tell me:

"No Cowey…Imoway",

He says this with a stern face as if warning me of my foolish adult
transgression. If I repeated the word imoway, he'd become more
insistent and sit on my lap to remind me, that he himself was…imoway.

I thought this was just a fun game for him and me to play until recently…

I was having lunch a few weeks ago and a young lad had freed himself
from his parents and was walking around greeting people waiting in
line. Jokingly, I shook his chubby little hand and instead of hello, I
said "imoway".

As he walked past me, he stopped dead in his tracks, turned and looked
me straight in the eye. He knew what I was saying. Realizing I knew,
he promptly walked in the direction of his parents.

Just to test my theory, I had my wife say the same thing to a
kid at Island's last week. He glared at us and sat down while the
whole time sneaking sideways glances at us. He whispered something to
his younger sister, and I swear they spoke into their wrist like
secret service agents.

As I write this, I feel like every child I see looks at me like I'm on
to them. I know conspiracies are for the mentally unstable but they're
after me. Seriously. The Imoway Society knows my every move.

Try it for yourself. The next time you're around a little rug monster,
mention the word imoway. Watch their reaction. Then kiss your ass
goodbye. They're on to us. You've been warned…

Imoway…

People watching...

People watching is a wonderful activity, but you people are freaks.


I was lucky enough to sit at the Coast News booth during the Encinitas Street Fair. I sat there with the intrepid Jean Gillette of "Small Talk" fame and a couple other fine scholars that the Coast News employs. We all spent a few hours trying to get passers by to fill out surveys about our local papered blog.

What started out as a simple grass roots fact finding mission for the newspaper became a people watching event of mythic proportions. And that was only after two hours.

My attention was initially sparked with the amount of grubby people that were walking around without shoes on. Shabby hippies that reeked of patchouli and parental disappointment. I was starting to think that a small percentage of people living in Encinitas were born in a barn.

I’ll admit, I wear my slippers in public, but the thought of walking around without shoes on is just repulsive. Dodging spilled drinks, toppled funnel cake swirlies, and roughly ten million stinky dog bombs dropped on the 101 is not the proper arena to shed your shoes. Nasty...

Then a nice lady was talking with us about some local piece of news that she liked (we’re much more patient when given compliments) when I noticed that she had a large slash of chocolate across the right side of her chin. Apparently the idea of having to eat chocolate-covered strawberries and talk was too tough a task. I didn’t bother telling her either because she was on a roll, and like I said...we like compliments.

Even though the weather was overcast and a tad on the chilly side, there were clearly muffin tops as far as my sad eyes could see. A vast ocean of belly and back fat cascading over the top of jeans that wouldn’t have fit these women in high school.

Please, stop wearing tight jeans and cropped shirts. We don’t want to see your Grateful Dead tattoo anymore. After fifteen years, it looks like someone set those poor stoned bears on fire and used a baseball bat to douse the flames.

I’m so tired of seeing Mom’s dressed like their daughters and daughter’s dressed like their for sale. Have a little self-respect. There were children present. And I have eyes.

Speaking of children, I was curious... when are people not related to a child allowed to punt them? I’m not sure of the legalities just yet, but I’m pretty sure if a kid is a whiny little twit and the parents don’t attempt to rectify said brattiness, we as a society are allowed to drop kick them into the ocean. Just a thought.


Then to top it all off, there was a bright orange electrical cord near our booth that seem to attract those with three left feet. Instead of just leaving the little orange wire, they put a large black plastic piece over it as a "safety" precaution. I wish I was a lawyer...

I was sitting there with another employee marking down how many people tripped over the black plastic precautionary device.

Final tally: 60+ in less than three hours.

Another street fair comes to a close in our little hamlet, and Encinitas has once again been proven to be the eclectic dwelling of ethnic, cultural, and socio-political melting pot that it’s known for.

Now if only we could get deep fried Twinkies like those rich bastards in Del Mar...

                    
    

    We've all had one of those nights that started innocuously enough, just intending to have a few measly cocktails and chatter about topics of little consequence like sports or current travel. A Coors Light here, a jigger of Jager there and the path to obscured memories becomes clearer. 

    Yet we also know that these nocturnal excursions also take a u-turn for the absurd when we accept "just one more drink" into the night's liquid lexicon. 

   Let's follow the clues to revealing just how drunk you "really" were, Sherlock...

    Arguing with a stranger for an hour and a half how the designated hitter is necessary for the survival of major league baseball. 

    Waking up with a phone number illegibly scrawled on each hand...and they're both your own. 

    The car in the driveway is not your own. More pertinent information: the bed and clothes you're in also do not belong to you. And yet your shoes are your own.

    New tattoos: Multiple, misspelled and some scripted in a language recognized as possibly not earthbound. 

    Wedding band made primarily of braided animal hair. Discuss. 

    Passport stamp on forehead and impossibly-tan buttocks. From Thailand. Three weeks ago. 

    You have 127 text messages on your cell phone in a four hour time period. All sent. 

    Drinking enough Patron to realize that it really is that bad...and a sudden interest in cliche auto-tuned hip hop songs. 

    Drinking enough Jack Daniel's to realize that it really is that good...and a sudden interest in family reunions. 

    Arguing with your "new" best friend that the designated hitter will eventually ruin major league baseball forever.     

    Seeing the idiom, "Dance like no one's watching" vibrantly come to life on youtube and playing the role...fumble funking your way around a dance floor. 

    Receiving 127 text messages back, all with the short reply: "Take a cab."

    Scribbled notes on "it all being Hurley's Twinkie-induced dreams..."

    Waking up with a nicotine patch on your eye, a Marlboro bandana on your head, and a "I Was Puffy the Pirate Smoker for Halloween" t-shirt on. It's March. 

    So when you find yourself at the drink.drank.drunk stage of the night...use a dash of caution and a splash of common sense or nightmares and nicotine fits are in your immediate future. 

    A shower and a good attorney on retainer can't hurt either. 

    

    

Zombieland

If you haven't seen it, you should.

If you've seen it and don't like it...then you're a putz.

That is all...

Windy Wonderland

The winds of change they are a blowin'...down my back fence. Which therefore set into motion a flurry of events that to this day continues to baffle and bewilder my fragile and exceptionally simple brain. Lemme explain...

During our most recent STORMWATCH 2009, the tan and spoiled denizens of southern California had the pleasure of enjoying a little bit of weather. A dash of wind and a pinch of precipitation to wash away the sins of our indulgence and blithe expectation of perfect weather that we enjoy daily.

The Event:
About ten minutes before I'm set to leave for work, I notice that my back fence seems to enjoy the weather so much that it's dancing back and forth, twisting at the will of its windy partner. At which point I do the homeownerly thing and brace the fence with boards I find lying about in my garage. Where did I get the boards you ask? Not important to the story, pay attention...

A couple of wistful to and fro's, and my back fence decides to belly flop backwards towards the street. I watch in mock TV horror...mouth agape..as I simultaneously drop a long, drawn out F bomb in front of my not yet two-year-old daughter. She looks up at me with a disapproving smirk that I'm afraid I'll see for the rest of my life.

Then I'm forced to engage in a roundabout jousting of insurance company, HOA and hungry holiday contractors who all want to royally screw me for the holidays. Here's how it breaks down...

Homeownerly Logistics:
So I called USAA and let them know that the almighty Flying Spaghetti Monster has since decided that I should have a better view of Hope Elementary school by flattening my back fence. They told me to get off my lazy arse and get a few quotes to fix my fence. Apparently, homeowner's insurance does work! Minus a painful kick-to-the-groin deductible that is.

The next step is calling every fence company in the local vicinity to come out and pretend like I'm going to pay them to fix my fence. I feel they all know I'm only courting one fence fixer, and they each do the minimum amount of work to produce a quote. Eff you customer service!


HOA (Hypocritically Objectionable Assholes):
I've been succinctly clear about my feelings towards Homeowner's Associations. In my obviously one-sided opinion, they're all scum of the earth lowlifes who take money to do nothing positive for a community. I appreciate that they don't let my neighbors paint their house orange with purple trim but do they really need authoritative control over my choice to put a white vinyl fence in my backyard as opposed to a wood fence? How exactly does that dilemma fall to a group of people that don't live in my neighborhood? If it was my choice, I'd make every single person employed by an HOA viciously fired and then forced to get a real job and stop leeching off of people who own a home or condo. And yes, I'll take my soapbox with me when I go...

Denouement?:
As much as I'd like to say there's a conclusion to this sad windy affair, alas, there is not. I'm still waiting on the five different fencing companies to share their property bordering insights with me and my homeowner's insurance. Then I have to beg and plead with my worthless HOA for permission to fix my fence the way I want to.

Hopefully then I can submit said paperwork to my insurance company and then...finally then, I can have a back fence up again...just in time for next winter's storm.

    Thanksgiving has now passed, Tubby. You can put the turkey leg down and pretend like you're only eating like this because "it's the holidays" and "you're just putting on your winter weight" and not actually "just developing diabetes" and "super-sizing yourself out of last years clothing". Piggy please... 

    After Halloween, Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays because it's revolves around a wonderful little invention called sin. Then again, so is every major holiday that I can think of. 

    The seven deadly sins are deftly represented in the days we choose to celebrate and delve into unabashed revelry of our dark side. 

    The sins will be noted with their initials. If you can't figure out GL, or GR..than put this newspaper down and go play on the yellow dotted line on the freeway.

    Let's explore this socially endorsed frivolity, in no particular order...except chronologically. 

    Thanksgiving (GL,S): Turkey day just screams gluttony and sloth. Some day the genius think tanks at Kraft or Butterball will just invent a intravenous gobbletastic dinner and we can then melt into gelatinous blobs on the couch watching the Detroit Lions get eviscerated like that tasty bird sitting spread turkey on the table next to you. 

    Black Friday (GR,E,A,GL,P): Yes ladies! Debilitating debt is only a few blocks away! Quickly and with pre-approved credit cared in hand...run away from your families on Thanksgiving so you can buy buy buy their love and affection! 

    

    Christmas (GR,GL,E,P,possible icky L) The mother of all the pointless holidays...I'd say Xmas shows true signs of impending Armageddon. If there was a Jesus, he would probably turn the other cheek and vomit at what "His" birthday celebration has become. Greed, Anger, Gluttony, Pride, Envy, and Lust if you count women with a beard fetish. Nothing says love and family tradition quite like children crying on the lap of a drunk mall Santa...

    New Year's(GL,L,A): DUI and drug induced delirium. What a wonderful way to embrace the new year...with a renewed sense of hope and the delight of a $10,000 fine and a seven year itch on your DMV record. There will be checkpoints. If you think you might be tipsy, you are. If you think you're Elvis. You're drunk. Take a cab. 

    Groundhog's Day(huh?): This is a baffling observance. Other than a good Bill Murray movie and a way for people to misspell the word Punxatawny, I have no clue or use for a rat telling me about the weather. That's what fat guys in checkered blazers are for. 

    Valentine's Day(GR,GL,L,P): The dumbest of Hallmark holidays and yet we continue to pretend like February 14th means something. This "holiday" should mean something only to ad execs and cherubs with archery gear. Adults with half a brain should just laugh it off and buy her flowers for no reason. Trust me on this one. 

    St. Patrick's Day(GL,P,L): This is another asinine holiday that really only pertains to people in Boston who drink green beer and then beat each other up, only to then cry, hug, and profess their undrying love and devotion to Tom Brady and Big Papi. Schmucks. 

    Women's Equality Day(P): What?!? When the hell did this happen?? Next thing you know they'll want to vote...

    Columbus Day(P,GL,GR) Celebrates the first European explorer to set foot on north American soil. Where he then murdered everyone he met. 

    So the next time you feel pressure from an ad pointing out how inadequate you are if you don't hand over your rent money so that your family or loved ones will know how much they mean to you...then let's just start celebrating one holiday a year: Exterminate Advertising Executives Day. It's every day. 

Let's start tomorrow....

 

    

 

I saw this posting on a website about 1st Street...and remembered the situation immediately. So...I couldn't help but respond to this particular patron....

"I was very disappointed in your bartender - "I don't want to name him". He not only disrespected and embarrassed me in front of my wife, but actually threatened me and would not give me the name of the manager or the owner. I definitely felt violated tonight. I am a 37 year married man and could not believe what happened to me tonight. I actually tried to contact you the owner, but would not give me your name or number. He told me that he new who I was and where I lived because I paid with my credit card. I am now contacting my attorney as I have filmed the most of the confrontation."

and my response..

“Dear Shawn...”

To Whom It May Concern... I'm the bartender that you're speaking of in your review of 1st Street Bar. Let me take this opportunity to respond to the allegations you made against myself and the establishment.

The entire situation can be summed up with my choice to stop serving you because I felt it was unsafe to do so. I was neither rude nor confrontational, and as I do with any customer I stop serving, I told you quietly and to the side so as not to embarrass you in front of other customers. I even gave you the option to stay and continue playing pool, if you so chose. 

Instead, you decided to attempt to coerce another customer into unknowingly buy you another cocktail. At that point, I politely reminded you that you'd been cut off, at which point you became belligerent, so I offered to get you a taxi cab and told you calmly and quietly that it was in everyone's best interest that you leave the establishment. 

Cut to 15 minutes later with you calling the bar no less than 14 times to file complaints against myself and the doorman working that night. With each call, you made another false claim against myself and the security professional working the door. 

At one point, you claimed that I kicked you out of the bar because you were dating my ex-girlfriend. Which is strange because you're married and my ex-girlfriend lives on the east coast. The SD Sheriff's department was called (by you) because you made a claim that the doorman and I were threatening you with violence and that we planned on "beating you the next time we see you out in the surf", which was an odd thing to fabricate seeing as how neither of us surf. 

As for embarrassing you in front of your wife...that must have been done at your home because you were by yourself in the bar, and also alone when you came back with a video and digital camera to "document the harassment" you faced at the bar. 

To the claim about not giving you the owner's contact information, yes, I absolutely did not do that. It's against protocol and isn't something they deal with on that level. I did however give you the name of my manager and his contact information. 

As to knowing where you live...no I have no clue other than your claim of being a "local" and living up the street. Yes, we do know your name because you paid with your credit card and the fact that you called 14 times and your name was stored in the caller ID. 

I hope this addresses some of the concerns you have and I also hope this illuminates what actually happened that night and doesn't sway other people from coming in and enjoying themselves at the bar. Unfortunately, this is just another byproduct of dealing with certain patrons who can't control themselves nor accept responsibility for their actions.

 Thank you...

    I have a sneaking suspicion that Curious George's owner, The Man With the Yellow Hat, is a drug dealer. 

    Or at the very least, he's probably a pimp because I don't know any other person that would wear a canary yellow suit, yellow tie, and a big brimmed yellow hat if he wasn't peddling something illegal. 

    Since some of you don't have children, you might not quite understand the following words, terms, and spectacular frustration that I internalize on a daily basis(usually thrice daily, to be exact).  If it doesn't make sense now, it might later on...so feel free to laminate this column and just keep it on your person. But I digress....

    Back to the eerily calm(I.E. prescription drug abuser) The Man With the Yellow Hat. What I have a hard time believing is that he hasn't beaten George with a baseball bat and thrown that furry little jerk off a bridge yet. If my daughter, Samantha, had caused even a small portion of the enormously exorbitant "accidents" that chimps been guilty of, I would have sold her off on the black market a long time ago. 

    With Google's tentacles slithering through the inter webs, it seems I've pierced TMWTYH's seemingly innocuous alias to find out that his name is really Ted Shackleford. Which sounds like another alias to me. How many layers does Yella Hat have?  

    Maybe he works for the CIA. I don't have a clue what he does. I've seen him walk around a museum like he owns it. He's even been an astronaut, a chef, and a bird watcher. But he owns two homes and lives a fairly extravagant lifestyle for a guy without a day job. 

    He sure as hell seems to have a lot of access for a guy that dresses like a banana and has a monkey for a best friend. Then again, maybe that why George sticks around. He's waiting for his chance to gobble that big banana. God, that sounded bad. Moving on...

    Dora the Explorer (is that really supposed to rhyme?)is another one of the cartooned propaganda programs that seemingly breeds inside my Tivo and is able to bore its way into my skull where it remains entrenched for weeks without any relief in sight. 

    Oddly enough, Dora's best friend is also a monkey but his name is Boots because...yep, he wears boots. She's also real chummy with a Map from her backpack that has the stupidest theme song I've ever heard. Just say, "I'm the Map" five times, and you've now memorized that musical gem. Fred Flintstone is rolling over in his bedrock coffin...

    Now that I think about it, Dora's entire existence seems like a really freaky acid trip. She talks to a lot of animals and inanimate objects and is constantly afraid of a masked bandit-fox whom is aptly named Swiper. Swiper is even more inept than fan favorite and uber-violent Wile E. Coyote because the children ward Swiper off simply by saying, "Swiper, no swiping" numerous times. Then they cut to Swiper snapping his fingers and saying, "Awwww man!" 

    More like, awww man, will you stab me in the ears and eyes so I don't have to watch this show anymore? 

    I guess this is just a way of me saying I miss all those violent, misogynistic, racist, and stereotypically offensive cartoons of my youth. At least those were fun and our parents could quietly chuckle at all the adult humor that was flying over our innocent little heads. 

    Well, at least Barney's dead and those daffy gullible Christian's killed off The Teletubbies. So we've got that going for us, which is nice...

Dell Can Kiss My Ass

Here's a little bit of advice if you buy a Dell laptop.

While you're logging on, buying all the accoutrements and gushing about how wonderful they are...make sure that you buy six or seven battery chargers for said laptop...because that is the greatest scam that I've ever seen. I'm on my THIRD charger now and I've had my Dell laptop for about three years.

So...yeah. I'm buying a Mac. Dell can go fuck itself.

Let me just start out by saying that if you've liked reading my column in the past, then you most likely won't like this one.

Though I'm not a bitchy liberal or brain-dead conservative, you might think I'm the devil incarnate for voicing the things I'm about to press on with. That being said, proceed with caution...

I'm going to start off by saying that this column isn't going to make anyone smile. It's not going to be funny, or pithy or sarcastic. It might make you think, but it's also going to paint me into a corner that I'm still not sure I want to stand in. But writing a column means expressing your opinion, regardless of how unpopular that opinion is.

Though I hate conservative Republicans with a seething devotion, I have to say...with a grim apologia mind you... I think I agree with some of the things they have to say about immigration.

Here's where your mouth drops open and you can't believe I'm siding with disgusting, close-minded brainless assholes.

Those sprightly portions of thought going through your head right now are mostly right. I'm not sure where I joined the fold either, but I know the thoughts I have are definitely my own.

Don't get me wrong, when it comes to religion or their idiotic hatred towards science, I think they're a bunch of old men who've closed their eyes towards rational thought and just prayed to get reelected.

But pretending I feel otherwise would be lying to myself...

Okay, in a nutshell...here's the issue: If you want to be an American citizen, then do it legally. Simple, right? Go through the appropriate process, respect the necessary course of action and appreciate the procedures that we've put in place to make sure you're here for the right reasons.

"But what about all the people who are struggling to make a better life for themselves?"

Here's what they won't tell you...we all want a better life. It's how the world works. But our society is governed by rules, and I don't rob banks, steal from work or put myself above the law just because I feel it would make a better life for myself or my family.

Here are another set of rules: If you want to be an American, then you have to follow the same laws as every other single immigrant to the United States and not listen to opportunistic attorney's looking to make a name for themselves by making a case for illegal immigration.

Here is the infuriating, I'm-annoyed-for-having-to-include- this-caveat-in-my-column: NO. I don't care what color you are. If you're from Sweden. Tough shit...enter legally. If you're from England. Tough shit...enter legally. Canada? I couldn't care less about how much poutine you try to bribe me with. Your skin color means less to me than the disgusting politicians who're pretending they care about you obtaining citizenship.

Procedure is there for a reason. Walking through airport security in a suit and holding a briefcase is the same to me as jumping a fence and hoping I.C.E doesn't catch you gliding illegally into our country.

When it comes down to it, I have a simple homework assignment for you. Try to legally, without a student visa, find a job in another country without bringing either boatloads of money or a very specific (I.E needed) skill that the country needs to further its infrastructure. Trust me, I tried. They shut you down without cause, care or compunction...completely.

Though it's popular meme to utter and it feels like the right thing to say in our political climate...illegal immigration is still just that: illegal.

I know I sound like an evil, cold-hearted troll for actually writing what I feel, but that's exactly what my column affords me...the ability to freely speak my mind, regardless of what your opinions are.

So I'm asking you to think about the words you've just read. Some of you will agree, and some of you won't. I'm fine with that.

But ask yourself...if your first act as an American is breaking the law, do you really deserve to hold that title?

    With all the panic about the economy lately, it sure is nice of Mexico to help divert the attention away from our sickly bank accounts with something that could potentially remove the upright, two legged swine from the planet.



    Finally!



    The more television I watch or newspapers I read about the subject, it seems like they're just trying to sell more ad space. When the loopy folks that rely on Fox News start trying to understand terms like pandemic, zoonotic, H1N1, people tend to get paranoid and stock up on canned goods, water and shotgun shells to eventually fend off the oinking zombies that are sure to shuffle across the countryside.



    The media only recently began calling it the H1N1 influenza because the pork industry was upset and felt like it was getting a double helping of bad publicity. Really? I'm not a pig farmer or nutritionist, but I'm fairly certain that any product that comes from Babe the Pig isn't going to be good for me.



    Isn't that part of the deal we have with our curly tailed brethren? We look past the sleeping-in-their-own-poop, and they let us enjoy parts of their body with scrambled eggs and toast.



    Is this their version of a P-I-Jihad against the humans for cannibalizing them for centuries? Pigs and jihad. How ironic...who knew Muslims had a legitimate reason for hating ham? They somehow knew around 622 A.D. that the hogs would someday weaponize their flu bug and spread it to the planet via pig farmers. Yeah, when pig's fly...        



    Wait..pig's flying...swine flu...flew?!?! I knew it!



    But seriously, when it comes down to dealing with this sort of scary bogey man media blitz, it's always a pretty safe bet to take a step back and review the situation with a clear head before making any impulsive decisions regarding holing up in a bunker, stocking  up on canned goods and waiting for the Miss Piggy epidemic to eradicate a third of the world's population.



    Science and rational thought have gotten us through more that a few health issues over the years. Let's trust the doctors and scientists to do their jobs while we remain calm and take appropriate precautionary measures.



    Plus, bacon comes from pigs and everyone loves bacon, right? So how bad could this be?