I Wholeheartedly Apologize

1. “Towards”? No. “Toward”. Some would argue “samey same no takebacks, fucker”, but to them I say: “How the fuck can you pluralize a preposition?” Aboves? No. Arounds? No. See how this works?

2. “Any” means one of many. E.g., “pick any card” or “press any key”. One. Singular. Therefore, selecting one of many different ways results in: Any way. Or, more colloquially: Anyway. It’s never “anyways”. Never ever ever ever. Ever. Infinity. Fucking stop it!

3. When you realize you’ve made a mistake, and wish to deliver an indicative utterance: It’s spelled “oops” which rhymes with “poops”. It is not spelled “opps” which rhymes with “drops”. Unless you’re actually trying to convey that you’d normally say something that rhymes with “plops”, in which case you’re fucking retarded because nobody says “opps”; everyone says “oops”.

Cheap Inauguration Accommodations

I found this article titled “$40,000 Inauguration Hotel Packages” over on Fark.

Guess what!

We will have 2 bedrooms available come Obamarama time, and we’re about 25 road miles from the White House.

The basement room with the queen bed, private bathroom w/ shower, family room with couch, chair, Internet access, mini-fridge, elliptical and FIOS television? You can have it for $750 per night, no minimum. BARGAIN!

The upstairs room with the full-size bed? $500 per night.

You’ll have to share the bathroom with me & the Beanlet (Erin has her own). DEEP DEEP DISCOUNT!

Potential candidates must rent their own car (guest parking available).

Contact me at your earliest convenience, hippies.

Questions I Cannot Answer

Situation: Someone you know (not a close friend) claims to be an artist, but they suck.

That’s the label they adopt. “Artist” is what they write on the “Hi, My Name is…” name tag stickers at mixers. But they suck. They say, “I’m really going to just pull back from everything and get into my shit, man.” They’re really really trying. They wholeheartedly want to be an artist. They truly want to be successful as such. They honestly think they have a chance.

But they fucking suck. It’s not a “but, really, what IS art?” situation. It’s not hippy-dippy “how do you define ART, man?”

It’s universal suck. It’s garbage. In England, it’s rubbish.

Questions: Do you tell them? If so, how?

Situation: A friend expresses political opinions completely obverse to yours in a public forum (okay, it’s on Facebook).

They’re completely batshit insane. You wonder how in the ever-loving-fuck you could associate with someone like this. How could you ever overestimate this person? You thought they were cool and, by default, shared the same world views & opinions as you.

Wrong!

Questions: Do you cut them off like a necrotic appendage? Do you un-friend them on Facebook? Do you shudder silently and rationalize the friendship?

Ow! My Arm!

Back in college, I took a course in religion to fulfill a Social Sciences requirement for the Honors College at USF. It was there I met one of my best friends of all time, Joe Darin, and this other guy (let’s call him “A.V.”), who happened to be homosexual. The three of us hung out a lot.

During the course of our time together… well… it was inevitable. One of us would say something or relate a story that failed to meet the “interesting banter” requirements of our mutual & collective friendship. Then, either Joe or I would say, “that’s gay” or “that’s so gay” or “dude, that’s fucking gay”.

A.V. would then instantly punch the perpetrator in the arm. Hard. Yeah, he liked the dick, but A.V. could sock a motherfucker right in the spot where the deltoid hits between the biceps and triceps.

Invariably:
Joe or Me: FUCK!
A.V.: Stop saying that.
Joe or Me: (rubbing arm) Fuck you. Ow. You gay fucker.
A.V.: I told you before.

Well, Mister A.V. 13.5 years after the fact, the BBC explains how the word “gay” became colloquial, and means something completely unrelated to sexuality. Some would argue that “gay” in its pejorative use is demeaning… just as if you called a Hispanic person a “spic” or “beaner”. Other ethnic or racial epithets undoubtedly also apply, as far as they’re concerned.

Big difference: The homosexual community at-large actively adopted the term. Nobody called them “gay” before they pinned the word to their chests as a badge. Regardless of whether or not today’s gays (or those in 1995) were part of the secret society that voted to use “gay” in lieu of “fancy” or other candidate terms back in the 70s: A.V.’s sensitivity to the word was completely unjustified.

Joe and I never meant it contemptuously.

You overly sensitive faggot.

Oh, now it’s on!

Camping Results

Manly Camping Weekend was fun.

I was told there would be Arby’s.

We arrived at the Elizabeth Furnace “family campground” early in the afternoon on Friday. We set shit up, walked around a bit, then hung out at the campsite. Gregg made a fire with wood he brought from home, and some foraged (already fallen and dead) logs. At one point I mentioned I had a miniature saw on my Leatherman, and was resoundingly mocked. A bit later the miniature saw was needed, and I felt somewhat vindicated. We roasted some Nathan’s, and 30 beers were collectively consumed before bedtime.

Saturday morning after breakfast, we made a beer and ice run to a local “convenience” store. Due to our desire for a towering inferno later that night, we also picked up some extra firewood. On the way back, we stopped at the parking lot for the Signal Knob trailhead.

It was time for “The Hike”.

I was under the impression that we were going to do a 5-mile round-trip kinda’ thing. You know… a mostly flat trail wandering leisurely through the woods… shuffling through fallen pine needles… small birds landing on my shoulder as I petted Bambi with Thumper scurrying about under foot.

What I got was the Signal Knob Deathmarch: A 10.6 mile circuit featuring two trips up a mountain walking on a shitload of pointy rocks and scree. You have to understand that I’m a short, fat man who enjoys his cigarettes. Further, I’ve never travelled 10.6 miles by any means of conveyance other than an automobile.

Bitch & moan. Whatever. I did it, and you’re damn right if you think I’m proud of myself. I wasn’t necessarily having a great time navigating all that ankle-twisting, foot-stabbing loose rock after the first 6 miles (do not wear sneakers should you attempt the Deathmarch), but I completed the loop without becoming dangerously dehydrated, crippled, or branded a huge pussy (as far as I know).

Here’s the map. [source]

We did the route colored red, starting from the parking lot, traveling in a counter-clockwise direction in the diagram. Note that the colors have nothing to do with the trail blazes involved.

A valuable tip: If Deathmarching, once you reach the Signal Knob overlook, DO NOT proceed down the fire road for 1.3 miles. The 0.8 mile ascent getting back up to the ridgeline (between the 2 black arrows) will likely snap your femurs in half. I had to use a clever contraption fashioned from duct tape, paper clips and black magic to keep my quads from spurting forth through my thighs during this ascent. Instead, you should double back and take the trail along the ridge (here it’s blue) until it meets the trail that’ll take you back to the parking lot.

After we returned to the campsite, Gregg cooked dinner. It ended up that we carb loaded AFTER the hike. Oh, well… who knew? Gregg built the aforementioned towering inferno, and we set to task in effort to kill more beers than the previous night. We failed. 26 dead soldiers. I blame exhaustion.

Sunday morning we packed up all our shit, and hit the road.

Would I do it all again? Definitely. Even the Deathmarch? Yeah… probably even that, but I’d train up to that shit. Fortunately, it was agreed upon that the next Manly Camping Weekend will feature floating down a river.

Photos: Mine (only 8), Gregg’s (102), Graeme’s Hike (76) and Other (22).

The Arby’s was a lie.

Questions of the Day

Q: How does a very large, very dead, very fly-ridden mouse end up on the 2nd floor deck?

A: I have no idea, but that shit was gross.

Q: How does one properly dispose of said corpse?

A: It’s a trade secret, but the items you’ll need include: a stick, an empty shoe box, and lots of duct tape.

Note to wife: DO NOT open the pink shoe box with duct tape on it!