Can you imagine?!

You want a rolling depiction of misery?  Please see state’s evidence 1A (below). 

I pass this car at least once a week on the morning drive to Nashville.  In case you can’t read it… Yes this license plate reads; “AIRSPLY”.  Every time I pass her, I imagine her grooving to “All Outta Love” as she imagines what prom would have been like if Billy Jackson had asked her instead of Sarah! 

Anyway, long story slightly longer, I passed this chickie today and see her just letting some poor guy have it!  I don’t know what he did but he must have done a lot of it!  Poor guy.  Whoever you are, you are allowed to punch your boss, co-workers, the lunch counter lady, toddlers, and anyone else you come across right in the face.  I can’t imagine what that drive was like for you this morning.  Listening to this broad scream about socks on the living room floor while “Making Love Out of Nothing at All” is rocking the CD player.  This makes me laugh and cry at the same time.  What forms of suicide went through this guys head?

Ask the Bug

I usually eat lunch with a buddy from work.  I’ll call him “Denton”.  Denton has a habit of picking up the free daily rag here in Nashville, “The City Paper”.  You have one in your town.  We always wind up at “Ask Amy”.  She writes for the Tribune and is syndicated here.  Pretty amazing stuff.  I’m going to do Amy a favor.  Take a look at the actual letter below.

DEAR AMY: Please explain why my husband would choose to drink and party over being with his family. We are at the point of divorce because of his drinking and all that comes with it. He chooses to drink with friends every weekend and at various times during the week. I have begged and pleaded with him to spend more time with his family. 

Please help. – Confused in Ohio

What?  I’ll take this one, A. 

Dear Confused,

On first glance, you seem like kind of a bitch.  You started this letter with “please explain why”.  That sentence alone sounds like a few hundred fingernails on a chalkboard.  Then I have begged and pleaded with him to spend more time with his family.  I’ll interpret this for America.  “I’ve bitched and nagged every moment he is in the house from the time he gets home from work all the way out to his truck to go drink and he still doesn’t want to stay at home.”

Confused, I have spent time in Ohio.  Long enough to receive mail in Ohio.  I know Ohio.  This man doesn’t respect you.  You need to grab him firmly by the mullet and explain to him why you want him home.  Take him across the Ohio River to the Dub Vee.  Show him West Virginia’s vast array of tar paper shacks.  Then back home for the good life.  Let him know it could be (somewhat) worse.

Or just develop a drinking problem and have ’em cold when gets home.  Either way.    

Sincerely, thefullbug

Next?  Send ‘em my way, Amy.  I’ll help you out. 

 

 

two and a half hours with 5 and no college football mentioned?!

Met 5 for lunch then across the way to Starbucks for some coffee and conversation. Snapped this pic of the fireplace while 5 hit the bathroom. The following is the list of categories on this blog. I’ve scratched through the ones we didn’t hit on. Great day!  *Bold type indicates when we spent the most time.  (not listed story of me almost killing myself with a gasoline fire in my backyard from the day before)   

“News stories”
Book Shelf
Church
College Football
I’ll take that punch in the face now
Music
Politics?
social
Spare time
Sports
Stabbing deaths
Stuff
Stupid complaint letters
The Mick
These made the man
TV
Web brilliance
Wha had happened was…
What the…
What would you do?

Happy Thanksgiving!

I just watched this year’s hysteria from Moonanum James (Co-Leader of United American Indians of New England).  He was working up the the crowd of tens of people that are going to march tomorrow to disrupt the festivities at Plymouth Rock.  These people are interesting.  He was wearing bifocals (invented by Ben Franklin), talking into equipment (invented by Marconi and Edison), wearing Lands End and NIKE clothes, and had just climbed out of a car made in Detroit.  Tomorrow when he goes home and complains that Dallas got a bad call in the football game on his plasma, I hope he saves some of that bitterness for the refs.

I was going to write a hunk about the sacrifice the pilgrims made when they left religious persecution in Europe to come to the new world. It would have probably included the part where they arrived, weathered the harsh New England Winter of 1620, and went on to create a civilization that would start out with a handful of pilgrims and 250 years later dominate the world economy. 

There are people at my church, office, on TV, and all over print media that proclaim daily the tyranny of having to live in America.  They champion the lifestyles of those in 3rd world countries that have a more relaxed and stress free life.  They pitch most of the European economies as superior with their palatable socialism and mandatory 3 months of vacation time.  All while shopping in stores crammed full of any product you could imagine and the daily bombardment of evidence of God’s grace on this land. 

You bet I’m thankful this Thanksgiving.  Thankful to those that risked their lives to make the trip.  I am thankful to the men that forcefully broke ties when the colonies became too much to handle from a throne in England.  But these days I am most thankful for the handful in this country that still have the courage to stand and say; “your welcomed” to all those that have been given a platform and jobs that depend on tearing down and decrying the horribleness of this land. 

Bookmark this site.  When it becomes so bad that you just can’t take it, come on back and follow the links below.  Flights are leaving every hour.

Try here here here and here.  Shop around for the best rates.  Maybe try one of those travel sites.  Good luck and God bless, Pilgrim!

Suck it, Burger King

Last night, (after getting home from dinner with some friends) I’m outside under the dashboard of my poorly lit SUV around 9:00.  Stupid satellite radio cord is tangled and there’s not enough wire to nevermind… it was real mechanical stuff.  You wouldn’t understand.  Anyway… there’s some dude walking down the street and there’s no light.  I want to go inside but I can’t get the $^%ing thing unstuck!  Just then, I hear “call me!“.  So, I do what most men would do.  I jump, hit my head on the handle thing on the passenger side of the truck, and spin around looking for the creepy dude.  He’s gone (probably back in his house looking through the window at the guy cussing a radio and smashing his head).  It was right around then that I found this guy (below).  Burger King gave bribed kids with these a few weeks back during the Simpson’s Movie hub bub.  Seems “Barney” says “call me” when the button is pressed with the handle of a phillips head screw driver.  Or… Hoot’s finger when I brought this in from the truck.  “There he is!  I haven’t seen that yellow boy in a long time.”  “Call me”  “Call me”  “Call me” etc…

Thefullbug does math or… excuses for the profoundly anti-social

I hate parties. Why stand in a room full of people I don’t know with nothing I can think of to say to any of them (or even a room full of people I know but see all the time anyway), when I can stay at home with loud rock n roll on the stereo or a baseball game on the tube or a nice quiet book to read?

A common ploy used by friends in attempts to get me to attend their parties is to inform me that there will be free beer. For instance, a friend of a friend recently invited me to his wife’s baby shower this coming weekend by saying that the men would be in the basement drinking free beer. Aside from the fact that one of the privileges afforded the single male is that he is not required to attend bridal or baby showers, I felt it was my duty to expose Free Booze at Parties for the shite that it is.

Take the friend with the baby shower. Is it truly free to drink his beer? Well, there is no cover charge and he won’t be charging for each bottle of Molson, but what about the cost of getting to his free beer? He lives across town, so I would drive to his house. The round-trip mileage comes out to 9.4 miles. If we take the standard IRS 2006 mileage rate (based on an annual study that calculates the fixed and variable cost of operating an automobile) of $0.36 per mile, we come up with the following calculation: 9.4 miles x $0.36/mile = $3.39 

So if I go to my friend’s party and drink one beer or ten beers, it will still cost me $3.39. But let’s assume I’m a responsible citizen and have three beers so that I am able to drive home safely.

Now let’s look at how much it costs to drink purchased beer at home. Let’s say I follow a general pattern and have on stock some tasty Pete’s bottles. I purchased them for $15.32 a case including tax. The cost breaks out to $0.64 per bottle. (Note: the mileage cost associated with purchasing this beer does not enter the calculation as it is part of my ordinary mileage. Mileage to a party is extraordinary and is hence treated as a cost.) If I have the same amount of three beers that I would have had at my friend’s party, the cost is as follows: 3 beers x $0.64/beer = $1.92

Hmmm it actually costs less to stay home and drink beer I paid for myself than it is to go to my friend’s and drink “free” beer. In fact, I could stay home, drink two more beers (5 beers = $3.20 total cost), it would still cost me less and I’d get a nice beer buzz before I went out to mow.

Booooore!

Is this you?  

In the break room at work, you were the Ugly American – you made fun of soccer to “Ryan” who was (for some reason) talking to you about soccer because he knows you like sports. You pointed out that it looks like a big game of keep away. When he pointed out that the rest of the world loves soccer, you didn’t feel guilted or shamed into agreeing that you like something you find boring. After pointing out that Canada isn’t big on soccer either (thereby refuting the “rest of the world” argument on a technicality), you said the most American thing you could think of: “I don’t care about the rest of the world.” At least you didn’t share your theory that soccer is what American children do until they are old enough to play sports.

In the 80’s, when you were a kid and you played football in the Moore, OK city league. The guy at Twids Sporting Goods in Mid West City told you that in the future, soccer would be the most popular sport in your country. They also told you that your country would be using the metric system by the time you would be an adult. 5 had moved to some indian town in the Northeast Oklahoma Indian Territory to go to school so, you kept the faith alone.  You never cared about soccer anyway. You haven’t yet seen a kilometer distance sign on the highway.

You read online where English soccer fans celebrated in the streets of France after a World Cup victory. They told the French that if it wasn’t for them, the French would be all be eating worse food, driving better cars, and generally being German. You sure are thankful that England was twice able to protect France from Germany in the past 100 years. But instead of watching England’s proud import, David Beckham play his first game in the U.S. on ESPN, you watched some Glidden latex dry faster than the comparable Sherwin-Williams brand. You’re happy, because you like Glidden paint. You decide to call some friends up with the suggestion of starting a post-drying riot, but no one is home.

They must know each other.

I got an e-mail at work last week from a woman that wanted a notebook computer carrying case. A case for a computer she has not ordered yet. I asked her if she needed the computers that I quoted. She said that she was afraid that the cases may not be available when she’s ready to order. Okay then. Fine with me. Kind of reminded me of a call I once took at American Paging from a woman that works at a nudist colony in Tacoma. She wanted to order another belt clip for her pager. I asked her where a nudist would clip a pager. She asked of it comes in blue.

Psychiatric help 5 cents

Julie Lopez was in my art class in high school.  She was as good looking as her name sounds.  She told me that her boyfriend (that went to the new cross-town high school) was her “soul mate”.  ”I am him and he, me”; she’d say.  I saw them at a party where he cheated on her.  She was upset and decided to cry on my shoulder that Monday during a watercolors lecture.  I told her that it was okay.  I actually knew him before.  He was in my 3rd grade class at Apple Creek elem.  My biggest memory of him was that he was the kid that sh** himself in the lunch line one day.  So, if “you are him and he you”… I figure you saved yourself alot of baggage there.

We could run in Jesus’ house

When I was a kid, I had a friend named Jesus Elezando.  This was a friendship built solidly on the fact that (while he was a little candy ass) he did have a HOT Mom, a race car driving Dad, and was the only kid I knew with an Atari system.  One day, Jesus took out some dolls.  He called them “action figures” but they were dolls.  He had a cop, a construction worker, an army guy, and one other… I forget.  Besides the fact they were all tanned muscular dolls.  They looked like the fargin Village People!  I can take only so much.  Hot Mom or not, I had to draw a line.  I saw Jesus at OU when I was 22 years old.  He was a French lit major.  There goes the nature/nurture argument.

Rocky Mountain High (probably). Colorado

You’re standing in a crowd of hundreds of other Mile-High concert-goers (having just stomached The Smashing Pumpkins) when The Red Hot Chili Peppers hit the stage. Lead singer, Anthony Kedis yells; “Hellooooo, Salt Lake City! I, I mean …Denvahhhhh!” Noting the fact that he corrected himself in that obnoxious rock and roll guy voice voice, you still boo with the rest of the crowd. Not because you were mad that some stoned SoCal’er didn’t know one cold-ass, snow covered Rocky Mountain town from the other… but because The Smashing Pumpkins sucked and you were pretty sure that they were going to as well. 

One day at my parents house, I discovered that their phone number is one digit off from a local pizza joint

So this chick calls up. Cindy Beavers was her name.  She sounded like she was in a hurry so, when she followed my pleasant “hello?” with (sigh) “Do you think you guys can deliver in less than an hour this time?” I said; “Sure!” She ordered 2 pies (one with pepperoni and one with sausage and onions). I tried to up sell her some bread sticks. She said something about thinking it was called “Crazy Bread” and “no”. I tells her; “Look, sister, I work hard. I don’t need some soccer mom calling me up and telling me how to do my job. I don’t call you up at the PTA meetings and hassle you.” Guess it was a bad day or something at the Beavers’ because she came unglued. The only thing I understood was “I will have your job, you smartass!” At this point, the vision of Ms. Beavers of a slightly older ”Mrs. 5″ turned into a woman that looked a little like Nancy Culp. So, I tell her what anyone would. “Good, you can have it. Be  here at 7. That’s when my break is over and I want to leave early.” She hung up. Some people, man.