Stag Pool Party.

(A Farmer’s Insurance commercial that literally makes me laugh so hard I nearly hyper-ventilate, every time).

NOTE: Between the second and third scenes with the lights coming on, the diving board in the background…omfg…

 

“Mad Skillz”.

As a lover of Terminal Velocity in Free Fall (although admittedly, I am no swooper by the stretch of anyone’s imagination – but I know a few record title holders in skydiving’s kindred “suicidal sport”), I am not alone in finding this particular parody absolutely hilarious. I have included the original scene of ‘Downfall’ (out of which ‘Mad Skillz’ was created) – followed by the Skydiver Twist in regard to the sport of Swooping. The story behind the original joke is a long story but in short, was about a comment made by an amateur swooper in regard to his own ability to swoop before having the proper canopy or enough hours of training. Enjoy!

The Original Scene:

 

“Mad Skillz” Scene:

 

 

 

Raylan Said it Best When He Said:

I think Raylan Givens from the Justified TV series said it best when he said:

“You need a cleanup on isle whatever…”

tim and raylan

An Ode to Cutty Sark.

A “Modernista” “Millionaire” heiress,
by the name of “Amber Moon”,
traveled the Americas far and wide,
drank scotch in every whiskey room.

From her “Horse’s Neck” hung a “Crowbar”,
its handle of wood stained in “Hangman’s Blood”,
to remind her of “Suburban” “Brooklyn”,
when her days were their’ furthest from good.

Her “Irish Coffee” from “Glasgow” posse,
included legends like the pair “Jack and Coke”,
Mr. “Beam and Seven” – the “Brain Duster” Eleven,
and many other famous scotch whiskey blokes.

With “Old Pals” like “Rob Roy” and “Farnell”,
and the “Four Horsemen” from “San Martin”,
Raymond Massey” and the “Prince of Wales”,
Remember “Bobby Burns” and good ol’ “Rusty Nail”?

Stengah”, “Benka” and the ancient “Chancellor”,
Mizuwari”, “Fanciulli” and the ever-reliable Assassin,
Whiskey Mac” followed by a classic “Sazerac”,
tracked “Blood and Sand” back from “Manhattan”.

Happy Animals #1 – Bamboo the Skateboarding Dog.

I have TWO favorite things about this video clip:

1) The smiling and happy dog fucking pumps her leg for momentum!!!

2) She is undeniably stoked as Hell to be skating the beach parking lot.

Notes to Self – Note # 41

Dear Self,
• How old are you, again?…
• Really, I mean c’mon…you:

a) behave like a two-year-old at an after-school daycare birthday party
b) be a bigger pothead than Spicoli ever was – and forget important shit
c) insist on impossible things – rendering yourself impossible to please

• If a guy has been in your company for 48 hours and only then says something along the lines of

“You know…? You’re fuckin’ hot…”

Time to go ahead and take another inventory of things
• If the same guy makes the seemingly random suggestion of “painting your bedroom” or “gardening” the instant he comes over for the first time, take another inventory of things
• If someone posing as a “poet” seems UNABLE to leave the topic of themselves for very long, they are likely full of horse shit
• When a man believes that he needs lifelong reaffirmation and/or reassurances as a result of being let down a few times by a parent, or being cheated on by his ex-wife – GAME OVER. GET OUT.
• The above described situation is what I refer to as a “Conflict of Reality”…nobody wins
• It’s really too bad it isn’t physically painful to be a fucking sniveler – I think there would be far fewer crybabies in the world, if it hurt
• Plotting to kill someone while you are doing yoga or jogging or swimming still totally counts as plotting to kill somebody; doing it while engaging in healthy activities DOES NOT change anything about that

Notes to Self #191

Dear Self,

  • Just let your almost eighteen year old daughter keep on thinking it is “cool” that she has “a totally super young Mom” in comparison to all of her peers; and enjoy it as long as you can.
  • Taking your daughter skydiving on her eighteenth birthday DOES indeed render you the Rebel of Motherhood, but only if you both land safely.

Triple Gear Checks all the way around on that day!

  • Behaving like an Corsican Air Traffic Controller on the curb every weekday out of sheer disgust for the parents who refuse to pick up their children in the designated elementary school parking lot is likely not very becoming of you, especially when you holler obscenities and spit on windshields sometimes. They have meetings for people like you – Google that shit!

  • Your cardio routine is lacking; try some uphill activities in the Mojave during the month of August this year.

Refeed.

IMG_20110430_154522-1

“Whatever floats your boat”, so they say;
go on, pick a direction and float it away –
there’s nothing that gets me more enraged,
than to be forced to read –
your lust-dusted refeeds
different name, same face of greed;
such a painfully obvious approach,
to see which bidder pays the most;
all while bumping gum,
unsuccessfully playing dumb,
over the cracks and the crumbs
spun with your own identity.

“Whatever sinks your pickle”, goes the word;
One of the most warped statements I’ve ever heard –
go ahead and sink, while I fly like a bird,
such a fitting thought –
considering how you are not
a thing that you claimed you were;
Such a quick-handed draw,
to salt the wounds that you saw;
all while carrying on,
talking shit all day long,
but what have you got?
besides an arsenal of rotten sugar.

“Face-Down, Frog Modified”.

“And, Always Watch the Horizon, Okay?

On a super funny note:

If you have ever been skydiving, then you’ll know how true to life this clip is in regard to instruction…and if you don’t skydive – now ya know just about as much as those of us that do! :-)”

Hynosis.

My Hypnotist.

My Hypnotist.

It cannot possibly be,
That there
would ONLY,
be…
Lil’ Ol’ Me,
In love with
my hypnotist:
one Benjamin Bonetti;
It was just
a matter of time,
before
his hypnotic lines,
chugga chugga
train of thoughts
that he implants
subliminally;
took hold,
in a brain so foggy,
so cold,
out of control;
please Mr. Bonetti,
hypnotize me?
I may notice
my body feeling lighter,
your grip –
becoming tighter…
the depths becoming deeper,
my brain
is getting
sleepier…
the past moves,
to the forefront,
I’m on a head-hunt
for what haunts me;
It cannot be
that I am alone
in what the sound
does to me.
I think I’m in love…
With my hypnotist;
the ways that he
talks straight into me,
do not wake me
Mr. Bonetti;
five, four, three…

Notes to Self – Note #99

REPEATED CHALKBOARD SCRIBBLING OF THE DAY:

I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.
I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.
I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.

 

 Dear Self,

Yes, you’re still an idiot.

We’ve gone over this before, Self – you need to master self-control a little – No, a lot – better in the days to come.

Your lack of any “Holiday Spirit” DOES NOT entitle you to destroy public (or private) property and get yourself arrested for a brief time, afterward.

Yes, you’re still an idiot.

Just because you have some mutant-esque allergy to alcohol (rendering you 110% unable to physically stomach the shit) doesn’t automatically slap you on top of some tall horse that stands over anyone else; telling one of your Mom’s sloppy, drunken, bartender ex-boyfriends that he “missed his calling in life” was probably a little much.

Yes, you’re still a mouthy bitch.

Creep.

So…as most of my (both engaged and NON-engaged) readers might know, I am an EA by “trade” – a total paradox in and of itself, being first, and foremost: a half-bred Native American…but here I am.
Generally speaking, the disposition of an EA can be easily interchanged with that of a CPA, MBA, tax preparer from the Old School, and most notoriously – the internal auditor. An EA wears the face of the proverbial “Bookkeeper”: a math brain, with little sense of social awareness or functionality; the average Enrolled Agent is the absolute opposite of the artistic writer…but here I am.
I have always been a walking contradiction, I guess…going all the way back to pre-school, where I was regularly in trouble for beating up various little boys (wearing a tie-shoulder sundress, might I add) that I had witnessed bullying someone smaller than they were…and, here I am.
With these things being said first, it’s no surprise then that my brain automatically creates math equations out of my statistics page here at my blog, is it? Of course it isn’t.
Now, I most certainly understand, and can also relate to the notion of being shy or timid, bashful or even just plain anti-social when it comes to interactions with others – especially strangers – that’s truly not my issue with the deductions that I continue to draw from these basic equations regarding my blog’s traffic. My issue is with TROLLS who feel some disturbing need to “watch” me without ever bothering to engage one time with the Human who writes the shit they can’t seem to unglue themselves from…that’s creepy as fuck, I’m sorry…no, I’m not. YOU should be sorry, if YOU are one of these silent and creepy trolls that make up the 5.0424194815/ 6 viewers who lurk around (and have since day 1 almost a year ago, now) without even a “fuck you – you suck!”
I’m just saying….that’s some fuckin’ BAD MATH if I ever saw it…ya fuckin’ creeps.

Bah Humbugz!

Bah Humbugz

Bah Humbugz

Hang Up and Survive!!! – A Concession of First/Last “Dates” with “Young-Bucks”.

...LOVE ME SOME OLDER GUYS...

…LOVE ME SOME OLDER GUYS…

 

Tonight’s “I’m a Loser Blogging on a Friday Night” post is about my infatuation with older dudes; and the recent – and long overdue – understanding of why I indulge in it, to begin with.

My “thing” for grown men started when I was embarrassingly young: approximately sixteen years old. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was during that time that I became a regular on the “Cradle Robber’s” scene; and I never looked back in terms of the age range defining any love affair that I tangle myself up in (yes, the Ripper was eleven years my senior, too). For years, this has been an element of me that has been difficult to explain to others (ANY ONE of my brothers have an opinion about my “twisted taste in tails to chase” worth special mention on this particular subject), and it also subconsciously has always sort of alarmed (?) me, too… to some degree.

I mean, let’s face it: young, good-looking chicks who are popular with their peers and date older dudes typically are a few sandwiches short on that picnic, if you know what I mean…

It’s only been in the past year and a half or so, since my nephews have grown into little “men” and I hang out with my guy friends from school and stuff again more often, that the answer has finally come to me surrounding WHY ANY IDEA THAT I MIGHT ENTERTAIN REGARDING ROMANCE OR LOVE INCLUDES A MAN AT LEAST A DECADE OLDER THAN ME:

Because, his fucking “Smartphone” NEVER becomes my competition for this older gentleman’s full attention.

Notes to Self # 924

Dear Self,

Firstly, YES…You ARE indeed, a “bitch”.

Secondly, your efforts at being patient continue to be pathetically made in vain; the need to tackle this shortcoming of yours grows stronger everyday.

Next, you should look into a new type of daily human interaction, as you are currently in a perpetual board meeting in a stale conference room with Doom and Gloom, as of late.

Also, just because you are from a place where they don’t add fluoride to the tap water (due to communal poverty), don’t think that somehow gives you an upper hand these days – when fluoride in your tap water isn’t so “special” anymore, after all.

Your own combustible temper (in the context of the courtroom) does you the most severe of all injustices, every time without fail.

Last but NOT least: Lately, your face looks like a tired , scurvy-ridden and soiled pirate’s, after a long decade with the sharks. Moisturize. Moisturize. Moisturize.

 

Text Convos with My Mother #1

My mom has ALWAYS struggled with technology – more so than the average well, whatever she is – she once literally screamed out loud after having the desktop appear upon start-up; she’s a technological train wreck, may the Gods bless her soul…

stress reduction kit

 

This is going to be new thing of mine in my blog: Text Convos with My Mother, I think you will see why…

#1

(In reference to my niece Kay Kay, who just turned two and got a new bike from my Mom)

“We’re gonna take her to the dick park by the house to let her try it out. If you pick me up, I’ll buy gas!”

(She meant “Duck park”, but of course she doesn’t proof read)

“Does Nate know about this?”

(I’m referencing my brother, Kay Kay’s father, and trying to get my Mom to see what she wrote by accident, but it’s lost on her completely…)

“of course! He’s the one who told me when her birthday was, I forgot all about it!…”

At this point, all I could do was shake my head and send back the following message:

“Okay, I’ll be there at 8:30 to pick you up. See you tomorrow!”…

 

The “Cat Fud” Saga…

OK, so I admittedly labeled my ex-boyfriend’s cat food bin this way…
He says he’ll never forget me no matter how much time goes by because he still has to feed his cat…

My Insufferable Compatriots

In a place in which my average fellow American was “offended” by a Coco-Cola Super Bowl commercial depicting a multi-lingual version of America the Beautiful, (see video here http://youtu.be/9MEsOzzunPQ) a patriotic song that should theoretically inspire the heart and soul of the American Spirit in a positive and uplifting way, I am somehow still appalled by my what seems to be the vast majority of my compatriots’ collective sense of entitlement.  

Hmmmm…..Really? I thought we were finally getting past such retardation in our species ability to grow on a socio-economic level…damn…

Personally, in all reality, I wanted to spin around in my seat on the plush, overstuffed Ethan Allen couch and spit fireballs into the laps of the (and I hate to admit this) handful of people who were booing and hissing at the screen when this commercial played the first time. I wanted to hiss and boo at them and check their heads by reminding them each separately that I am half Native Shawnee; that it strikes close to my heart to be in a room with people from varying cultural backgrounds and ethnic bloodlines, that they have been openly proud of at times in the past when it served them well, despicably spew such mind-blowing bigotry in the face of a heart-warming chorus of various children’s singing voices. The language was irrelevant; that was supposed to have been the point of the commercial being performed in different languages, dumb-asses…geezImage.

Note # 29

Dear Self,

NEVER: (Continued)

  • Opt to be executor of a family member’s estate; it’s futile.
  • Underestimate the power of being misunderstood.
  • Forget how far from “your side” Lady Luck lives.
  • Entertain the idea of “justice” when there’s a lawyer, a courthouse, or a judge involved.
  • Suddenly decide that you’re ambidextrous and start using your “bad hand” to do everything.
  • Try to make your kid sister feel better about her lazy eye and the resulting eye patch by successfully enlisting the entire tribe to wear one also.
  • Tell the female Indian clerk at the front desk of your hotel that you’re half Indian too, but “with feather, not dot”; the rest of your stay will suck.
  •  Try to improvise while baking by replacing vegetable oil with some foreign, imported bottle that kinda resembled vegetable oil in a pinch.
  • Carry your keys in your pocket when you take your dogs to the vast, plush grassy field to play in the dark.
  • Reach in your passenger side window and pull the door open by the inside handle when you can’t locate your keys.
  • Run around with a loaded .44 in a panicked frenzy screaming, “Fire! Fire!” after somehow managing to ignite the paper target with your shot from 20 yards away.
  • Send your ex boyfriend a trashy selfie meant for your ex girlfriend.
  • Try and trick your kid into thinking that Santa is real by going up onto the roof around 1am on December 25 and jingling bells as loud as you possibly can, especially during a freeze.

 

 

Note #6

Dear Self,

Women aren’t supposed to smoke and cuss; people always seem so shocked to learn about my extensively compartmentalized, high-dollar tool collection, too…it’s annoying. But having .00 gauged micro for every set I own is a little too much. Don’t expect for the guy you’re dating to feel secure with the fact that you out-tool him, by a landslide.

Time to sell some tools…

Guys like cheerleaders in terms of football + women; they don’t want to see a female head coach or listen to woman sports announcer. 

So it’s not okay, after all, for you to watch football and love the Niners. the ladies look down on it, and the guys apparently become enraged and overtaken by a child-like, poor sport’s persona when you can recite stats more accurately than they can.

(Shivers) Geez…..

When your longtime and well-respected boss is ready to retire after 35 years in the tax business, and you can only remain consumed by the ways in which such a change is going to ruin your whole gig, that kinda might make you a bad person. Chew on that one, Self…