Burning Stickman

Uhhh...yeah...Restarting the Fire?!

2014-03-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

Right, so getting back to blogging is proving a logistical nightmare. I am going to be looking into creating a website. We'll see how much I can fuck that up soon.

Cheers!

Companies that Care

2009-11-12T09:32:00.000-08:00

I’m so glad that big companies have looking out for the health of us American here lately. It gives me a warm, snuggly feeling inside (gnawing hunger) to know that being health conscious is easier when large food conglomerates are watching our backs when it comes to the choices we make when eating. I came to this conclusion today through personal experience with a soft drink company we will refer to as Peppy.

Peppy has recently taken control of two of the machines in our break room at work and has been very aware of the needs and desires of the State workers. See, as State workers in an office we (I) spend 86% of our time sitting, and the combination of not getting enough exercise during the day and eating food from a vending machine makes a lot of us (me) feel like they are behaving in an unhealthy way at work. Using keen intuition (brain scanners in our desk lights), Peppy has sensed these worries and has sprang into action to help us make healthy decisions while in the work place. I’ll give some examples…

1) Last week I was feeling kind of tired near the end of the day and wanted a small jolt of caffeine from a soft drink so I went to our break room to grab a soda. I noticed that the drink machine, which had previously had a generic “Soda” sign slapped across it and offered both Choke and Peppy products, now had a picture of an ice cold can (you could tell by the condensation on it) and the name “Peppy” in big letters across it. My tired, information laden, caffeine deprived brain took a minute to process what had changed and then I grumbled because I prefer Choke products over Peppy products. “Well,” I thought. “Maybe I’ll have a sugar filled pastry from the vending machine instead and siphon my will to get through the rest of the day from that. I stepped to the machine beside the drink machine and quickly noticed two things…the prices had gone up on everything and a small sign beside the coin slot declared that Peppy now owned the machine (I’m sure the two couldn’t be related). So, I decided to suck it up and get a Peppy drink, but after the machine accepted my dollar it wouldn’t “vend” my drink order. I pushed every button on the machine and finally hit the one that spat my dollar back out. I then noticed the blinking message, “Please Use Exact Change.” It seemed Peppy knew that I didn’t have exact change, there-by looking out for my health and not allowing me to get a soda. I poured a glass of water instead and fell asleep at my desk 15 minutes later.

2) A few days after the soda and vending machine switch I walked into the break room to notice that we had a new vending machine across the room. I looked it over and noted that it was not owned by Peppy (or at least didn’t have a sticker on it telling me they did) and the prices were waaaaaaay cheaper than the other machine. I bought a pack of crackers from it and went back to my desk. Later in the day I once again had that tired feeling and decided to go to break room (armed with some quarters) and grab a soda. After purchasing my yellow soft drink I decided that I also wanted a snack and looked to the vending machine in front of me. 12 varieties of chips, two pastries, some bags of peanuts, and a row of gum stared back at me. Nothing looked good. I took a tentative glance over my shoulder at the machine across the room and the soft lights that seductively highlighted the bevy of low priced choices. I turned to walked across the room (adjusting my suddenly tighter pants) and realized that Peppy had once again engineered a masterful ploy to get us office workers healthy because anyone who wanted a drink and snack would be a fool to choose the machine standing right beside drink machine over the cheaper, better stocked machine across the room. Peppy has intentionally made the choices dull and the prices high to encourage us to not choose from their vending machine. Thus, we walk an extra seven steps every time we go to the break room, bringing us ever closer to the healthy daily lifestyle we all crave.

3) Today I was faced with wanting a soda in the morning to combat the effects of having a mid-week day off (my body was fooled into thinking today was Monday) and went into the break room prepared with some quarters…but alas…Peppy had outsmarted me in their attempt to keep me healthy. Knowing I would use correct change, they just shut their machine off entirely. I checked the back and it was plugged up so the only explanation is that Peppy remotely disabled it so that I could not buy a soda and ruin my future health. Coupled with the calories I burned walking to the break room in the back of our building the inability to obtain a soda has shown me that Peppy is truly a company that cares.

I have come to believe that companies like Peppy are there to serve us….a slice of love and protection. I wasn’t because the company is inept and not customer orientated that I was unable to get my soft drinks…but because Peppy was just looking out for my best interest and wanted to do their part to keep me healthy. The next time you wait 20 minutes in the drive-thru at your local fast food restaurant and then drive away in a fit of frustration ask your self this…are the workers inside really a bunch of uneducated, careless morons, or are they a group of caring individuals who love you and would rather see you drive off in hatred than have you risk your health with their food?

Arby's and KFC must love us very much.

The Singing Dead

2009-04-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else know that Ronnie Milsap was alive? I seriously thought he had died, like, five years ago. But, there I was last night sitting on my couch enjoying a(n) (insert name of baked cheese-ish product here) and up pops a commercial for his new “gospel” CD with Ronnie smiling on the cover of the album like he had just received a reach around by Jesus himself. At that point I aspirated an entire handful of baked-in cheddar flavor and was only saved when Ari, seeing my bulging eyes and excited demeanor, thought we were suddenly playing and jumped up to plant both paws directly onto my junkbox… causing me to exhale forcefully and cover her and the coffee table in a fine orange mist.

This small episode of choking caused me to miss the flashing phone number where I might get some answers, and Brandy was laughing too hard at me to pay attention to Mr. Milsap discuss with the audience why he had decided to remain alive despite all natural laws. So my shocked brain was forced to collect itself, assimilate facts, and accept that Ronnie Milsap was indeed still alive and selling out to the Christians. I mean, he should only be in his sixties right? And just because no one has really heard from him since like 2000 doesn’t mean that he’s dead right?

But, the more I thought about it the more couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just not right. So I got on my D.A.B. (Digital Answer Box….the computer smart guy) and started searching for information about ol’ Ronnie Milsap. According to some experts (conspiracy theorists) Mr. Milsap, in fact, died in 1994 and has been kept alive through the use of black arts and secret incantations. Much of what I read on this may be construed by some people as actually talking about his music career, but I can read between the lines and I know that Ronnie Milsap is in fact……........a zombie.

Singing zombies are not all that surprising. Remember Thriller? Well that……..what? What do you mean you’ve never seen Thriller? It was one of the most influential music videos of this century. Do you even know who Ronnie Milsap is? You don’t?! Then why the hell have you been reading this? Are you that bored at work? I can’t even warn you about the singing dead because you don’t know who the singing dead is!

“Lost in the 50’s Tonight” anyone? No? Damn it all!

New Life and the Passing of a Great Man

2008-11-06T17:01:00.001-08:00

Some moments in life conflict with each other. Never have I had a better example than then last two days. Forgive me if I ramble.

On Tuesday I witness two of the proudest moments in my life. My sister gave birth to my new niece, Cheyne Annalise, was born bringing a new light into this world, and I watched as the first African American President was nominated. Both of these occurrences give me hope for the future.

That night my father went to sleep filled with joy at seeing his first grandchild and kissing her head. Yesterday I found out that he never woke up. He died peacefully in his bed. Anyone who knew Danny Thomas knows that he died exactly how he wanted to, happy at home with the feel of his new baby girl still on his lips. Needless to say no one expected him to die with no warning, but, once again, if you knew my father you know that he hardly ever did what anyone expected.

My father was one of the greatest men I have ever known. He often said exactly what was on his mind, whether it was the right thing to say or not, and he would have done anything to help someone out. Our loss is Heaven’s gain. God needed him for one of His angels.

For anyone interested in the service you can find details in his obituary. It will be in tomorrow’s (Friday Nov. 7^th) edition of the Paris Post Intelligencer.

I want to thank everyone for their prayers and condolences.

Robert Daniel "Danny" Thomas
Aug 24th, 1946 - Nov 5th, 2008

Stickman ’08…Breaking News!!!!

2008-10-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

Since October of 2005 this site has been covering a candidate for the upcoming 2008 Presidential election who was virtually unknown until yesterday…when he officially became completely unknown. This dark horse Independent candidate started his campaign 3 years early to help spread his message of change, but lack of funds and political experience (coupled with the fact that no one knew who the hell he was) caused him to remain in the proverbial shadows despite follow-up reports on him in December of 2005 and January of 2007.

This candidate’s name…is Burning Stickman.

After the final Presidential debate last night Burning Stickman announced that he would be dropping out of the running for President and switching his endorsement over to the Democratic nominee, Barack Obama. We caught up with Burning Stickman after the debate and he agreed to an in-depth interview with our political correspondent Haye Whatsizname. After the loss of several reporters and interns following the Burning Stickman (B.S.) campaign trail it took some persuasion (and threatening) to get Haye to finally agree to conduct the face-to-face interview with B.S. Here is the interview that Haye gave…from behind a 2 foot thick blast shield of Plexiglas.

Haye: “Good to see you Burning Stickman. You look well.”
Stickman: “AAAAAARRRGGG!!!”
Haye: “Thank you, it’s a new tie. And a new fire retardant suit. So…the question on everyone in America’s mind right now is ‘Who will be the best President?’ With your flawless strategy and clear answers to the troubling questions facing America today you were a sure winner when you started your campaign in 2005. What happened between then and now to make drop out of the race this close to Election Day?”
Stickman: “AAARRRGG!! AARRRRRGGGGGG!!! AAAAAAAAAAAARG!!! ARG!”
Haye: “Really? They didn’t send you an invitation to any of the debates?”
Stickman: “AAAARRRGGG!!! AAAAARRRGG!!”
Haye: “Yeah, my feelings would have been hurt too. But, it seems you are the perfect candidate and that you were running on a strong platform of change and economic reform. Why do you think that you were unable to gain a following?”
Stickman: “ARG, ARRGG, AAAAAARRRGGG!! AAAAARRGGG!!! AAAAARRRGGGG!!!”
Haye: “But it should have been obvious that they both stole your campaign slogan late in the race.”
Stickman: “AAAAAARRRRGGGGGG!!!!
Haye: “Exactly. So let’s talk about the other candidates’ races. What do you think of the race and gender cards that seems to be factors? Do you think, as a stickman on constant fire, that your minority status hurt your campaign?
Stickman: “AAAAARRGG!! AAAARRGG!!! AAAAARRRRRGGG!! ARG! ARRGG!”
Haye: “Ha, ha, ha. Very witty Mr. Stickman. I can see how that would have been an advantage for you. You can be either black or white depending on how hot you burn, and if the voters are swayed by a pretty woman Vice President then they should have loved you because you are much ‘hotter’ than her.”
Stickman: “AAAARRGG!! AAARRRRGGGGG!!! AAAAARRRGGGGGGGGGG!!!”
Haye: “And speaking of Vice Presidents, do you think that your choice of running mates hurt your campaign?”
Stickman: “AAARRRGGG!!!?”
Haye: “Well…your running mate was The Fonze.”
Stickman: “AAAAAAAARRRRGGG!! AARRGG!! AAAARRRGGG!!”
Haye: “Yes, I realize that he is ‘cool to the max,’ but he is also a fictional character.”
Stickman: “AAARRGG!!?”
Haye: “Yeah. Happy Days was a show, not a documentary.”
Stickman: “AARRGGGG!! AAAAARRRGG!!!”
Haye: “That makes sense. Henry Winkler hasn’t got anything better to do these days. Let’s switch topics. What do you think about the other two candidates spending outlandish amounts of money on their campaigns when your total campaign spending for the last three years totaled $64.37?”
Stickman: “AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGG!!!! AAARRRGG!! AAAAARRRRGGG!!!!! AAAAAARRRRRGGGGG!!”
Haye: “No, I’m not criticizing you. I understand that coffee is an important tool in maintaining any campaign.”
Stickman: “AAAAARRRGGG!! AAAAARRRRGGG!! AAAAAARRRRGGGGG!!”
Haye: “I agree. It does seem to send a wrong message in this time of our country’s financial troubles to spend millions of dollars on attack ads.”
Stickman: “AAAARRRGGG!!”
Haye: “So, to wrap this up…why did you choose to endorse Obama over McCain? His ideas and plans for our nation seem to more closely resemble yours…but what are the other reasons?”
Stickman: “AAAAAAARRRRRGGGG!!! AAAARRRRGGGG!! AAAAAAAAARRRRGGGG!!! AARRGG!! AAAARRRRGGGG!! AAAAAARRRRGGGG!!! AAARRGG!! AAAAAAARRRRGGGG!!! AARRGG!!! ARG! AAAAAAARRRRGGGGG!!!!!! AAAAAAAARRRGGG!! AAAAAARG!!! AAAAAARRRRRRGGGG!!! AARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!”
Haye: “Wow! You know, I was one the fence about who to vote for…but after that speech I realize that Obama it the clear choice to heal our country. That was the most eloquent and poignant explanation I have ever heard, and after America hears what you just said I am sure that Obama will win in a landslide. Do you plan to vote early or go on election day?”
Stickman: “AAARRGGG!! AAAARRGGGGG!!! AAARRGGG!!”
Haye: “What do you mean you’re not an American citizen?”
Stickman: “AARRGG!! AAAARRRGGG!! AAARRRGGG!!!”
Haye: “Yeah, I understand that you’re a stickman…but…you were running for President!”
Stickman: “AAARRRGGG!!?”
Haye: “You have to be an American citizen to…hell, you have to have been born here to run…you know what? Screw it! I’m out of here.”

At this point, ace reporter Haye Whatsizname turned off his microphone and stormed out of the bunker where the interview was being held. To date, he is the only reporter to survive an interview with Burning Stickman without being incinerated beyond recognition.

UPDATE…
Before this report aired we received word from our producers that reporter Haye Whatsizname is apparently dead after being involved in a tragic accident. It appears that he was taking his flame retardant jumpsuit off in his trailer when he tripped and fell, causing his new tie to somehow be caught in the ceiling fan. After cutting himself free he then apparently jumped around his trailer causing massive damage to his belongings, reached his hand into his Cuisinart food processor while it was on, and somehow broke his knees on a baseball bat that was lying around. While passed out on the floor it appears that a pillow from the couch fell on his face and smothered him.

To date, no foul play is suspected.

He will be missed by his accountant.

Holy Crap...and Other Religious Artifacts

2008-10-09T15:35:00.000-07:00

I have been contemplating the creation of my own religion. I believe that I would center it around irony (which, despite popular belief, is not the Medieval process of making iron) and would be comprised of all the necessary components like guilt, shame, and disillusionment. Now all I need is a catchy name…

The name of a religion is usually much more important than the actual doctrine. Gone are the days when a religion’s name actually indicated what the religion involved: Christianity followed the teachings of Jesus Christ, Buddhism followed the teachings of Siddhartha “Buddha” Gautama, and Confucianism followed the teachings of K'ung-fu-tzu (Confucius). Now the names of “Christian”churches are picked because of their appeal to the masses using length to signify their importance. Here are some of the names of churches that I have seen lately and what their name might signify if we were going by the old system.

Church of the Living God (we worship a zombie)

Church of the True Living God of Holiness (those other zombies are fakes)

Church of God of Prophecy (we know the future)

Open Doors Community Church (we take the people no one else wants)

Community Church of the Living God of Prophecy (our zombie tells the future)

Church of the God of Rocks and Plants and Birds and Junk and Stuff (just covering all the bases)

McLafferty’s Pub (Irish Catholic)

Starting a religion is not as hard as it used to be. Once upon a time someone had to have ideas that other people thought were good, thus creating a following. Now to start a religion you just take an idea that already exists (Christianity seems the most malleable) and change small things to suit your needs (see: Calvinism, Methodism, Baptism, Episcopalians, Lutherans, and Mormons). It seems like starting a religion is much like starting a band these days. Here are the steps that have to be followed for both:

1) You begin with one person who wants to be really important and popular (religious leader/band leader).

2) You take already popular idea (religion/music style) and change one small aspect (“We’re like Methodists, except we ‘speak in tongues’”/“We sound like every other emo band, except we wear these matching ties with no shirt”).

3) You get a name (Church of Risen Dead Guy/Sunday Night Drinking Party)

4) You get some kind of icon or relic to symbolize the religion/band (guy with a halo eating a brain/black eyeliner, black nail polish, no musical talent).

5) You gather a following by giving people what they think they want (“We know people are different and love and accept you even if you rape koalas”/“We sing about teen angst and how parents don’t understand how hard life is at the age of 14”).

One of the popular trends is Individualized Religions. These religions do not rely on a heavy amount of followers for validation (the congregation usually consists of one person), but still provides the comfort of “rightness” that having a religion brings. A good example of Individual Religion is my friend John. He started his own religion which helps him to deal with slings and arrows of daily life. The religion is called Johnsbonedism (John’s-boned-ism). Here’s how he explained it to me…

Instead of the normal chants like The Lord’s Prayer, Johnsbonedism chants all center around the fact that no matter what happens…John is boned. Another thing that sets his religion apart is the constant proof and disproof of God’s existence.

Example 1

John: I can prove that there is no God.

Me: How?

John: If God exists, then a beautiful woman will walk through the door any minute and marry me.

We both look in the direction of the door…

Five minutes pass…

John: There is no God.

Example 2

John: If there’s a God then this traffic light will change soon.

Traffic light changes

John: Sometimes you get lucky Yahweh.

It’s a give and take system.

The reason that I have searched the possibilities of a starting a religion is because yesterday I received a sign from a higher power. Yesterday was one of the worst days that I have had yet in my entire working experience. Nothing went right yesterday while I was at work. First, I woke up late and had to rush to work. Next, I had a guy yell at me and call me a stuck-up prick because I wouldn’t shake his hand due to the fact that I watched him emerge from the bathroom zipping up his fly and I knew that he had not washed his hands. The next has to be told delicately so that the full impact on my day can be appreciated.

A man weighing in at about four hundred pounds walks into my cubicle and plops down on the chair opposite me like a whale sitting down to afternoon tea. He is carrying a very large mug of, what I assume is, coffee and a folder with papers threatening to throw themselves in every direction. He is out of breath from the thirty-two steps it took to get to my office from the lobby and is now sitting across from me with a sound coming from his throat like someone is strangling a baby seal. I wait for him to either gather his senses or pass out. Finally he gives me his paper and I begin to type, keeping my eyes on the computer screen so that I won’t have to look at the milky whiteness of his belly that is hanging out of his Van Halen t-shirt. As I am pretending to type something important I hear a bubbling sound from his stomach like he swallowed a live duck with scuba gear on. I pretend not to notice as it continues because it happens to all of us now and then and I didn't want him to be embarrassed. Then I hear a tiny squeak from his direction that lasts for a couple of seconds, like he is trying to hold the air in a balloon by stretching it. This, I also pretend I didn’t hear so that he might be able to save some dignity. Then, I hear the scuba duck and the balloon in unison and the smell of a thousand dead raccoons hits me. I can’t ignore this fart, due in part to my now watering eyes and the look of anguish that is on my face, and I turn to him. He has a look of surprise and embarrassment on his face which I quickly realize is not from a mere fart. The only words that were exchanged since he had been in the office were now traded.

Bio-Toxic Waste Factory: I have to go.

Me: I understand.

He had shit his pants right there in my office.

The bad thing was that this coffee-fueled sludge had leaked just enough out of his massive plumber’s crack to stain the chair in my office. Even after he had gone the smell of dead animal carcasses and, for some odd reason, bananas remained behind in my office. I removed the chair to the loading dock behind our building and grabbed an identical chair and a can of Lysol from our store room and tried to eradicate his lingering presence from my cubicle.

What really got me thinking about starting my own religion was being accosted by Mormons in the parking lot on my way to the mailbox later that day. They followed me all the way from the front door to the street asking me about whether they could come over to my house and talk to me about Joseph Smith. I politely yelled at the them that I had read the Book of Mormon and asked them if they would enjoy me coming to their house to talk to them about Cthulhu. After this incident I went out to the loading dock to calm my nerves and smoke a cigarette.

Across the loading dock the Crap Chair stared at me through a haze of smoke. As I started walking across the dock toward it the sun came out of the clouds and shot through a hole in the tin roof to illuminate the chair in an ethereal light.

That’s when it hit me (the smell and an idea). What if Mr. Load in My Pants had really been the second incarnation of Jesus? That would mean that the black streak now eating away the fabric of the chair was really “holy crap.” The irony was astounding. This could be my icon…my religious symbol. Now all I have to do is come up with a name for my religion and I am a step closer to getting federal tax credits. I’m leaning toward Christ’s Community Church of the Living God of Prophecy, Rocks, Plants, and Stinky Chairs. Not long enough? I’ll work on it.

And, truth be told, what better symbol for a new religion than a load of crap?

Small Town American Idol

2008-09-22T11:57:00.000-07:00

Do you enjoy listening to the wail of three fire trucks for 30 minutes? Do you love following a rotund woman in a green and purple floral pattern moo-moo around a circle for over an hour in hopes of winning a chocolate pie with a lake of meringue on top of it? Have you ever wanted to ram a deliciously grilled hot dog up your nose and into your brainpan? Maybe you should attend more local festivals in the South.

To the outside observer it would seem that the people in Tennessee will make a festival around just about anything. Mostly we enjoy celebrating food like soybeans, strawberries, tomatoes, and ramps (little green onions) but sometimes we like to branch out by hosting actual events like the World’s Biggest Fish Fry or the World’s Largest Coon Hunt. Nearly every town in Tennessee has some sort of annual festival/jamboree/gathering whose proceeds go to their local firefighters/community center/corrupt politician.

Some of you readers might be thinking to yourself Why do I really give a crap about a Tiny Green Onion Festival or How large is the World’s Largest Coon or What has this got to do with my fetish for putting meat products up my nose.

I attended a festival on Saturday in my hometown of Henry,TN called Pioneer Days (even though there is no pioneer theme what-so-ever since they stopped holding the faux gun fights and it is only a one day event) to participate in the karaoke contest that my mother signed me up for. Having plenty of experience singing karaoke in seedy bars and underground Yakuza nightclubs I believed that I had a pretty good shot of winning the $300 pot. That was before I got to the event and discovered that one of the judges was the owner of a local bar where the karaoke DJ works and where most of my fellow contestants (who sing the same three songs every Friday night at said bar) are regulars. The other two judges were a woman country singer that I’ve never heard of and a ‘gayish’ male country singer that had to kill seven moose to get his hair to the correct degree of cool pointiness.

(The difference between ‘gayish’ and ‘metrosexual’ is that a metrosexual is someone who is straight but takes as much time in front of a mirror as a woman getting ready in the mornings and a gayish person is someone who may be straight but is trying really hard to act gay by saying things like “Oh, my gosh” seven times in ten minutes and commenting on how “fabulous” the women crowded around him are dressed.)

Now, I’m going to stop for a moment to point out two things that did not register with my brain at the time when I agreed to this venture. One…I am at a town festival in the South. Two…I am usually drinking when I sing karaoke. These have a bearing because as I sit down to wait for my name to drawn out of a box I realize that I am about to listen to a lot of bad singers butcher country songs and that I wouldn’t be able to drown out this experience with copious amounts of booze. Here’s the progression of the afternoon…

1:15- Find my sister (who my mother also signed up) and head to the registration tent.
1:17- Meet the judges and realize that I am wasting my mother’s $5 entry fee.
1:45- Notice that a lot of the contestants are regulars at the bar that the judge owns and realize that I am wasting my mother’s $5 entry fee.
2:00- Competition starts off with “Okie from Muskogee” and I think that maybe it won’t be so bad.
2:33- Four more country songs and I realize that beer was invented for these types of social gatherings.
2:55- Three more country songs have been “sung” and I am thinking about wandering into traffic.
3:07- My sister, April, is called to stage and she performs the first non-country song of the day, an excellent rendition of Melissa Etheridge’s “Come to My Window.”
3:15- It starts to sprinkle rain as the girl after my sister finishes the second Patsy Cline song of the day. The karaoke equipment is quickly covered and the competition comes to a halt.
3:18- The rain stops and the competition continues. The sky stays overcast so I occupy my mind by envisioning death by electrocution for every one who gets up and sings country.
3:27- It starts raining again right in the middle of an adolescent’s squeaky version of a Rascal Flatts song (which is pretty close to the original) and competition is put on hold again.
3:42- Some people decide to put a tent over the stage so that competition can commence. My dreams of watching a fellow contestant juiced with electricity withers.3:47- Competition begins again (with the squeaky kid getting a mulligan) as the rain slows.
3:51- Another country song…
3:56- Another country song…
4:01- Please God, bring the lightening.
4:06- Okay…I’ll take a stroke. Send me a stroke.
4:11- The rain stops and the sun comes out. Out of need for movement I get up and walk to the concession stand to get my dad a hot dog. On the way back I hear the fourth Judds song begin and start pondering the mechanics of the force and angle needed to get a cooked tube of meat all the way up my nostril passage and through my cerebral cortex.
4:12- I see the stage and realize that the woman singing (who is not doing too bad) has been lied to by someone. Apparently somebody told her that this was American Idol because she is wearing a tight rhinestone shirt, shorts that have a mailing address in her colon, and powder blue cowboy boots. Things are shaking that shouldn’t shake. People in the crowd are averting their eyes for fear of spontaneous oral and rectal leakage. I look to the sky to keep from becoming permanently flaccid. There is no God.
4:14- The most horrible thing I have ever witnessed steps off the stage and dad finishes his hot dog, oblivious to the fact that John Carpenter’s pièce de résistance just took a year off the lives of everyone in the crowd who, like a massive 87 car pile-up on the freeway, couldn’t look away.
4:22- The DJ calls my name.
4:23- The opening cords to “Roadhouse Blues” blasts the crowd out of the “country lull” that they have been. I pretend to manipulate the harmonica along to the song. People are smiling and the judges look like they are awake again.
4:27- The last guitar ditty of The Doors’ song dies away. I have used the gravel-wrapped-in-velvet singing style of Morrison to bring the crowd back to life.
4:28- Another country song…
4:32- I give up.
5:04- The last contestant is finished. I have somehow mentally checked out and missed the last of the contestants. All I remember is staring at a cloud that resembled Peter Boyle and singing “Puttin’ on the Ritz” in my head.
5:15- The five finalists are chosen and sent to the stage to sing one more song. I am not one of them. All five of the finalists are women. Who sang a country song. My faith in humanity is now nil when someone picks an okay version of Carrie Underwood over a good (I was sober so it wasn’t spectacular) version of The Doors.
5:19- I am in my truck heading for home.

Maybe I am biased about my performance. Four of the finalists did really good…for singing country songs (the last got in on cuteness alone). In my mind, country is the easiest of all the musical genres to sing. The melodies are never really complex, there is hardly ever any variation in the actual music, and the range really doesn’t matter as long as you put “twang” in your voice. There are some exceptions to prove the rule…but you never see those exceptions performed at karaoke. I wish my friend Rob had been there to channel Bon Scott or my other friend John to woo the crowd with a little Paul Simon. But alas, variety was not the order of the day.

I didn’t stay for the finals because it would have basically been five women trying to out-Wynona each other.

And the concession stand had run out of hot dogs.

Burning Stickman's Day Off

2008-09-02T15:15:00.000-07:00

Man…I just checked out today.

So many people have sat across from me today with blank looks that, in order to save my own sanity, I just drained my mind of questions and worries. This transaction has given me the ability to just smile and nod my head and punch numbers on the keyboard.

I’m serious. I let my cognitive senses juts bleed out through my ears until the only thing I had in my brain for about six hours was a dancing money and calliope music. It was bliss.

The end result was that my mind, now free from the shackles of giving a crap, was able to wander the ether in search of truth and enlightenment. I found out that Wint-o-Green Lifesavers are really, really addictive and that it you eat about thirty-five of the individually wrapped ones in about five minutes that they induce an inebriated-like state much akin to being “hopped up on goof balls,” and that people spent less time in my cubicle due to the overwhelming mint smell and the glassy-eyed behemoth crunching happily on candy and humming “Iko Iko” to himself.

I also stared in my own movie in my mind, complete with a chorus line and a big dance number at the end, while transients came and went from my cubicle complaining about their inability to find a job with no high school degree and a felony on their record. I now know how Farris Bueller felt as he pretended to be Abe Froman and escaped for a little while from the trials of life.

And in keeping with the spirit of the day…no great epiphany and no witty ending to this blog. Just imagine a dancing monkey with a little hat. It worked for me.

Civilized Man

2008-08-28T21:06:00.000-07:00

“What is best in life?”
“To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women!”
“That is good.”

I just finished building a bookcase and I have come to the conclusion…I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!!! Okay, so maybe that is a little dramatic, but it is how I feel. The process of taking wood, cleaved from the majestic poplar tree, and transforming it into a bookcase through the physical efforts of sawing, staining, sanding, sealing, sanding, sanding, sanding, drilling and nailing has given me sense of accomplishment akin to besting an opponent in mortal combat. It makes me feel…well…like a man.

It was once thought (by women) that the average male brain was a mish-mash of Playboy pictorials, useless sports trivia, and incorrect driving directions held together loosely by malted hops and Twinkie filling, but it has recently been discovered by scientists (who study such things as Playboy pictorials and sports) that the male brain is actually a ham sandwich wrapped around a compressed fruit cake from the Christmas of 1963. Those scientists were all ceremoniously sacked when it was discovered that they wasted research grant money on Pabst Blue Ribbon and Cubs tickets.

The simple fact is that men have certain needs (no, not sex) that reach all the way back into history to connect modern, civilized men with our caveman ancestors, and these needs must be met in order for the average man to function properly. These needs may seem very simple upon first glance, but the true evolutionary genius is the way that man has adapted to the changing world and still meets these needs.

*Caution* Some secrets are about to be revealed that men might not want their significant other to know. Guys, now is the time to nonchalantly lay a wad of cash on the coffee table and wonder aloud if you remember seeing a sale on shoes earlier in the week.

Need to Build
The “need to build” actually encompasses three odd male behaviors. The Need to…
Fix Things: It is an insult to men at a deep ancestral level to have to call someone to fix “simple” things around the house. There is a code in the Y chromosome that tells men that they should be able to reshingle a roof and fix the pipes under the kitchen sink regardless of that trip to the hospital the last time he tried to power-sand the front deck.

Buy Tools: Ever wonder why men have tons of tools that they never use? When was the last time you saw your neighbor Bill actually use that engine hoist in his garage besides that time he hung a cooler on it at the Memorial Day BBQ? Has he ever actually lifted an engine out of a car with it? Does it matter? No…because he bought it with the knowledge that one day he might have to pull an engine out of a car. Ever need to ratchet something at a 45 degree angle? Bill’s got the tool for that. Ever need a portable hydraulic jack the size of a shoe with the capability of lifting a Sherman tank…and doubles as an AM/FM radio? Bill’s got two of those. This is the “got it if I need it” clause in men’s brains. This clause also applies to large, fully automatic guns and that collection of “battle ready” Medieval sword replicas (just in case the zombies come).

Build Stuff: There comes a time in every man’s life when an ache grows deep down inside of him to take everyday materials, such as wood or stone and either combine them or shape them to form some sort of “usable” object. This ache is centuries old and has produced such life changing inventions as the wheel, fire (unintentional), the Pear of Anguish (ouch), and the Ronco food dehydrator. Some believe that the Wall of China was built to keep Mongols out…but, in fact, it was really some guy named Geoff (which is Chinese for Jeff) who felt the need to build something. The need to build is the reason for the exorbitant amount of birdhouses across the globe.

The Need to Hunt and Gather
This need is the most primitive in existence, and often the most overlooked. The reason that it is overlooked is because it has evolved into some pretty odd behaviors. The obvious evolution still involves hunting. Despite the abundance of pre-packaged meats women often wonder why men (and some women) get up before the sun rises to sit in an uncomfortable chair high above the ground to shoot Bambi’s dad. The answer…the need to hunt. The need to stalk a deer through the forest, using tracking skills passed down from father to son, and slay it with your bare hands so that your family could eat that week has been replaced by the need to sit quietly, with your iPod on low volume, on a pre-fabricated metal tree stand and shoot your prey from 75 yards with hollow-tipped bullets and a powerful scope. Even though meat is readily available at Wal-Mart we still have the urge to kill wild animals with our metaphorical bare hands.

Branching off from this need to hunt is the need for fire. There is something very primitive and very satisfying about dropping a steak on an open flame, even if it is in your driveway while wearing a “Wanna Taste My Meat?” grilling apron. Some women have wondered why it is that a man would go outside in three inches of snow to cook hamburgers on a charcoal grill. Why take all that time to prepare, season, and slow cook delicious animals when you can pay people at a restaurant to do it for you? The answer is…because we have to. There is a sense of accomplishment that comes from serving up food that was prepared by your hands over Prometheus’ stolen treasure that links us to the time when our ancestors stood on an open plain with the smell of buffalo or elk drifting off to the empty horizon.

Give me a moment……..

I’m weeping……

And salivating……..

The last need stemming from hunting and gathering is the need for freedom. Every wonder why people ride motorcycles when cars are available? The answer is freedom. Think about it, we spend most of our lives in boxes. Houses are boxes, the buildings where we work are boxes, and even cars are boxes (convertibles are opened boxes). But on motorcycles we can feel the wind rushing all around us and be transported back to the open range where men rode horses across the expansive landscape (and look cool doing it). Men need this sense of freedom from their everyday lives of working in cubicles and dealing with the pressures of a failing economy and the looming war with Russia.

This need for freedom is also the reason that men find such satisfaction in peeing outside. Men, given the choice between using a toilet or urinal and walking into their back yard to relieve themselves, will always choose to drain the snake under the stars (this usually happens at night to avoid the neighbors leering stares). The reason? No aiming. It’s as simple as that. You can just release and lean your head back to watch for possible UFOs. No worrying about hitting the toilet or putting the seat back down. This is the favorite mode of relieving oneself after a college party when your motor skills have been drastically reduced by Jagermeister and Corona. This no aiming policy is also the reason why all men have pissed in the shower at least a dozen times in their life. It’s true. If a man tells you that he has never peed in the shower then he is lying to you. Stop looking at me like that. It goes right down the drain. We all do it.

So, I hope this helped to clear up the reasons why the simple act of building a bookcase has reaffirmed, in my mind, the feeling of being a real man. It may not be the Pyramids or the Eiffel Tower, but I put a lot of work into my humble bookcase and it stands strong and proud as a testament to my manhood for a long time to come. And when people come over and see my sturdy, well-built masterpiece of wood and stain they will…..well, shit.

I have to go now. My bookcase has just collapsed into a heap of wood and stain.

And for some reason has spontaneously burst into flames.

One Good Shot

2008-08-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

Golf.

What can I say about his wonderful sport? Well, some believe that it was invented by the Scottish to forever take revenge on Englishmen (and the rest of the world by association) for all the terrible things that the English did while Scotland was under its control. Some even say that William Wallace himself was working on a rudimentary version of the game when he was captured and tortured. These believers in “wallf ” (Wallace’s name for the sport) also believe that his famous last word was not “freedom” as portrayed in history and on film. Instead, they believe that Wallace suddenly had an epiphany during torture about what would confound the English for hundreds of years to come and screamed out “three par.” It only sounded like “freedom” because he was gargling his own blood at the time. These people also believe that Picard was better than Kirk…so some might say that their coconut has rolled right off the table.

Anyone who has read my work knows that I have an ongoing love/hate relationship with this majestic/sadistic sport of gentlemen (and guys like me). It seems that at certain times of the year my brain blocks out all of the past frustrations of this demon game and find myself with the desire to step out onto the golf course to face the space/time continuum holes and raging, mutated squirrels. My friend John was in town a couple of weeks ago and we had made plans to play a round of golf while he was here. The last time I played golf with John, earlier in the year, I only lost two balls and hit most of my shots relatively straight (none of them went more than 50 yards into the wilderness) so golf’s past indiscretions against me seemed a distant memory. I’m such a fool.

There are really two types of golfers…Pros and Schmos. The Pros category consists mainly of people who make money playing golf (professional golfers on tours, club professionals, people who win money in tournaments) with the exception of that guy (and everyone knows one of these guys) that constantly makes bets on friendly outings. If you are one of these “betting golfers” then I urge you to stop now, this is not a road you want to go down. At first it is friendly and everyone is having fun betting on ridiculous shots through the trees and who can sink the longest put. But soon you start trying harder to get better so that you can beat your friends. You think it is a matter of pride, but it is really the beginning of a downhill spiral. After a while you find yourself hanging around outside the clubhouses, waiting for someone who needs a fourth player so that you play crappy until the third hole (the par five with the dog-leg right and the sand trap) and then start betting on distance drives and gimmick chips. The next phase is put-put courses, where you wander around like a mendicant betting on shots past dragons and through windmills. From there comes the public phase, where you stop random people in the street and ask them if they want to see you ricochet a golf ball off a statue and hit that bike messenger in the head for five bucks. Finally you find yourself at home, alone, masturbating to the Golf Channel (using your own tears as lubrication) and making bets with yourself on whether you can sink the put under your coffee table and into the water glass. So, for your own sake (and the sake of that bike messenger) please stop making bets on the links. Making money while gambling on the golf course does not qualify you as a professional.

The Schmos are broken down into two categories (Amateurs and Weekend Warriors) which in turn are broken down into sub-categories.

Amateurs
Private Amateurs: These are the guys who join private clubs and have enough money to play three times a week during the season. Many Private Amateurs play in local and regional tournaments just are just not good enough to win prize money or excel to the next level. These are the guys who buy the special “swing enhancing” double hinged driver in order to straighten their drives and have the club pro on speed dial in their cell phones in case they accidentally chip a shot into the taller herbage. These guys will often be seen walking instead of driving a cart.

Public Amateurs: These are the guys who frequent public courses more than twice in a week. Most of the time these guys are older gentlemen who play in the mornings, but in the early afternoon the guys who don’t work (yet somehow have money for golf) wake-up and come stumbling in. Most of the time you will find these Public Amateurs traveling in foursomes: one guy who keeps score, one guy who can hits long tee shots but sucks on the short game, one guy who hits good chip shots, and the last guy is the sporadic guy who has brief moments of genius coupled with moments of complete ineptitude. Public Amateurs can be assholes a lot of times because they actually think that they are “mini-Pros” because they play a lot. They often make up the majority of the roster at local company tournaments and charity scrambles. This sub-category is where most of the “betting golfers” come from.

Weekend Warriors*
Kull the Conquerors: Do you know the guys that you see throwing up behind a tree on the 15^th fairway? Or maybe you’ve witnessed the guys that crest a hill at the cart’s top speed of 7 and spill empty beer cans from the back? These are the guys that give weekend golfers a bad name because most people think of these guys when they think about golfers who can only manage to get out on the course three or four times a year. You can spot these guys off the course by searching for certain clues like golf ball shaped dents in their foreheads that resulted from teeing off and turning around to find their equally drunk buddy also teeing off without waiting or warning. Other Kulls can be weeded out during conversation because their praise of the game of golf often starts like this… “I love golf. There’s nothing like grabbing a case of beer and heading out for a game with buddies.” Did you catch that? When the first thing they think about when thinking about golf is that it gives them an excuse to drink with friends then they are defiantly a Kull.

Conan the Barbarians: These are the guys who just enjoy the game of golf in general and like getting out as much as they can...which is usually only two or three times a year. They don’t worry if the clubs they use are a few years old or if the balls they are hitting with are not the best. Conans are often critical of their performance on the course (and may even write a blog or two about them) but often have fun even when their game sucks goat balls. Most Conans play a round of golf just for the enjoyment of the game without the pressures of being really good. More often than not Conans don’t care if they beat the others they are playing with because they realize that the game was invented to test oneself. Conans realize that the only person you are playing against is yourself. As my friend John explained it… “Guys like us play for that one shot.” That one shot that you hit and think to yourself ‘Damn, that’s one of the best shots I have ever hit.’ I fall into this last category.

So, when John and I went out to play a couple of weeks ago I was only playing for that one good shot. The morning was already getting thick with humidity as John and I parked our cart beside the 10^th tee box (we were starting on the back 9). John had the honors of the first tee and, uncharacteristically, did not hit it to the right. Instead it looped to the left and almost hit some groundskeepers. It was a good tone for improvement. Then it was my turn. I set my feet, took a puff off of the cigarette clenched in my teeth, checked my direction, and just let loose with a nice easy swing to open the day. Yet, during that nice easy swing I felt the black holes in the distant galaxy of Poog 6 align and create a vortex that caused my body to follow the correct motion for a golf swing resulting in a distinctive ping that signaled my club striking the ball in the perfect spot. I lifted my head on the follow through and saw my ball racing away, straight and true. A tear rolled from the corner of my eye as I watched the ball land on the fairway at around the 215 yard mark, not because I had just witnessed the best drive of my life…but because I realized that I had just blown my wad.

Yes…I had in fact hit “that one shot” and thus, having wasted it on my first shot, I was ruined for the rest of the day. Every drive after that was an effort to regain the majesty of my opening swing, and eventually I watched helplessly as ball after ball was condemned to the Magical Land of Oz Country Club (which is just a slice to the right and over the trees away). John, on the other hand, progressively got better and had several excellent shots that he could be proud of. Everything seemed bleak until the last hole where I realized that in the past my game had been hindered by such things as “magic tees.” So I broke the tee that I had been using all day and made a pact with (threatened the existence of) my equipment.

Me: (talking to my new tee) See that? See what happens? Why do you make me do that? Why do you make me hurt you? How about you help me out with this drive so that you don’t spontaneously break like that last tee.
Tee:..............

Apparently this worked because my drive was straight (only the second of the day). Upon reaching my ball and preparing for my chip I decided that my current strategy was working. Thus, my conversation with my four iron went like this…

Me: Now it’s up to you. I’ll make the same deal with you as I did the tee. Don’t shank it to the right and you can continue not being wrapped around that tree.
Four Iron: How about you do it yourself. I’m just an inanimate object that you are talking to in the middle of a golf course.
(It had me there, so I responded maturely to lessen my current image of a loon)
Me: Shut up stupid club!

John was laughing by this point so, with no other choice, I chipped a nice shot to land on the edge of the green. We won’t go into the conversation that I had with my putter, but let’s just say that putters know a lot about logic, metaphysics, and atomic equations.

I finished the day with a bogey.

*Note: The names for the Weekend Warriors, Kull the Conqueror and Conan the Barbarian, were used because they are essentially the same guy (they were both characters by Robert E. Howard), but Kull was a dim, poorly executed version of Conan.

Me Against the World....Skullduggery Ensues

2008-07-21T14:17:00.000-07:00

So…apparently I used to torture small bunnies in one of my former lives. Or desecrate graves, or raped nuns. My wife and I have discussed it, and something in our distant past is causing our misfortunes now. We must have once been baby seal smugglers who peed on sacred monuments for fun.

It was a shit weekend…if you couldn’t tell. I was supposed to attend my 10 year high school reunion this weekend, but never made it. I was originally going to go to the free picnic (because I cringe at paying fifty bucks for my wife and I to mingle among people who I didn’t even know I was around in high school) but events transpired that kept me from a painfully awkward Saturday. Out of the two people that I really wanted to see; one disappeared a while back (Chas) and all my failed attempts to contact him has pretty much cemented the fact that he doesn’t want anything to do with people from his past, and the other is my friend Rob who has better things to do (like plan a wedding and live 6,800 miles from here in South Korea) than to go to a picnic. So, I went about my daily Saturday chores and when I realized that I surpassed the time to be at the picnic I wasn’t at all worried. At first I thought that missing the picnic was somewhat of a blessing. Instead of a crowd of people I didn’t hang out with in high school (most of them I either see at Wal-Mart or at my office for unemployment anyway) I was going to spend a relaxing day swimming. It was after swimming that the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan…a couple of times.

When I woke up Saturday morning my right eye was red and irritated from sleeping in my contacts (yeah, I know…slap my hand), and after swimming for a couple of hours (and getting chlorine in it) it was virtually on fire. This redness and burning has persisted all the way up through today, which leads me to believe that I either have a weird alien fungus on my eye or my eye is actually plotting its escape by make itself so irritating that I literally pop it out of its socket, leaving it free to roll and play until I ceremoniously step on it while blindly stumbling around. But it didn’t end there.

After I had taken out my contacts and put on my glasses, my wife and I got a late lunch in town and headed home. When we arrived at the house I turned my truck off and heard a very peculiar sound…like nickels falling on asphalt. I had not parked in my usual spot, so when I noticed three large stains where my truck usually sits I got worried. Sure enough, when I looked under my truck I could see my preciously expensive gas dripping slowly from a crack in the tank cover. So I asked myself…

Me: How could this have happened?
Self: Maybe you ran over something and it scraped the tank.
Me: How the blue fuck am I going to run over something big enough to scrape the tank of a truck?
Self: It’s not a very big truck.
Me: It’s tall enough for me to know that I could safely pass over a skunk or opossum and not scrape the tank.
Self: Maybe you hit a sasquatch.
Me: I believe that I would have felt it if I had hit a sasquatch!
Self: Not if you were asleep.
Me: What the fu…
Self: You might want to get a bucket.

So I got a bucket to catch the life juices of my vehicle. I had about $1.75 in it when I went home for lunch today.

So to top the rest of the weekend off, Sunday was a day for pain. First, I woke up with my back hurting (which it hasn’t done since a month after my surgery) and my back tooth hurting (the one opposite the back tooth that I just had a root canal on). So by early afternoon I come to the conclusion that Fate has decided to slap it to me…but it wasn’t done yet. Not content to just attack me, Fate also steered its sites toward my wife. Brandy woke up with a sharp pain in her lower back on one side, and by late afternoon the pain was enough for us to check WebMD and discover that she probably has a kidney stone. Super! Fate has decided that both of us need a good rogering, so I have come to the conclusion that if the world is gonna be against me then I’m gonna be against the world.

Thus…I have decided to become a super-villain. Being good hasn’t been going in my favor so I have decided to wreak havoc among the rich, swear vendettas against the medical profession and pharmaceutical companies, plan large “heists” of unjust corporations, and other manner of evil plots. BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!! I’ll call my evil organization Skullduggery Inc and begin world domination from the place that people suspect the least….Paris, Tennessee!

I’ll have to start reading up on gene splicing and mutations, because my first evil plot will be to unleash…war kittens!!!! That’s right, war kittens. Cute, loveable kittens with razor sharp claws that are sharp as razors, the viciousness of a mongoose, and the sanity of Charles Manson.

But, first things first…I need minions and theme music. I wonder if there is an online site where evil villains can get the things they need. Like Villain’s Paradise.com or something. If anyone is interested in a minion position with a growing company in the world domination market then you can contact me through this site. You must be strong, lithe, expendable, and able to wear spandex (only I get the Kevlar). I am also looking for musicians to play in my theme music band. For this job you will follow me everywhere, playing pre-arranged pieces that change depending on my mood and the situation, and also act as a first line shield in case of spontaneous gunfire. Must be strong, lithe, expendable, and be able to play an instrument. All minion applicants that can play music will be considered for this position as well.

I can feel the world shaking at the coming of (pre-recorded fanfare plays)….Skullduggery Inc!!!

Bring on the WAR KITTENS!!!!!!!!!!

Better, Stronger, Faster

2008-07-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed that there is always that one guy in every small town/suburban neighborhood/community that is constantly working on a car? The car is usually a “classic” muscle car (Chevelle, Cuda, Road Runner, Mustang) that has great paint job but never runs. When asked why it has taken seven years to rebuild the motor the guy will often use phrases like “I’m using all original parts” or “I can only work on it on Saturdays” or “Where are your pants” or “Oh my God, you’re on fire”…but we all know that original parts don’t mean squat to about 90% of most guys, working on the car every other weekend would at least produce a functioning engine over the course of a few years, and never mind where my pants are.

The truth is that the guy working on the car has no idea what he is doing. Seriously. He’s probably just staring at the engine and occasionally pulling dip-sticks to observe unchanged fluid levels, hoping that the engine will somehow heal itself and come alive if he gives it enough time and checks the windshield wiper reservoir enough. Some people might say that he is too proud to ask for help, but I have found that usually the guys with buddies who know about engines are the guys that are driving cool muscle cars and not just waxing the hood in the driveway (Most guys are willing to ask for help if it accomplishes what they want in a timely fashion). The problem is that he suffers from Average Guy Syndrome and so must learn thing by gleaning correct methods from hundreds (sometimes thousands) of failed attempts.

Studies conducted by some Above Average Guys have shown that over 117% of all men will eventually suffer from Average Guy Syndrome in one or more “typical guy areas” such as auto mechanics, sports knowledge, beer drinking, computers, and picking up women. These statistics were gathered and analyzed in a 1970 Hemi Cuda while listening to a re-airing of Super Bowl XIII and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Some have questioned the validity of their findings.

The reason that I broach this subject is because I am, myself, dealing with Average Guy Syndrome in the area of computers due to the fact that my desktop computer is dying and I am trying to Frankenstein it back to life through a series of unimportant checks and virus scans. I have decided to wipe the computer clean to get rid of all the cyber STDs and clear the memory so that I can install my music program on it and record my own album (this in itself is a comedy of errors that I have debated filming for its pure comedic value). Yet one thing stands in my way…..me. I am not computer inclined. I know a lot about running programs (Microsoft Office, Quicken, Spider Solitaire) but when it comes to the actual internal dynamics of my computer I quickly recuse myself from the situation and curl into the fetal position under the table.

My desktop sits in the corner of my office/library making sounds like an asthmatic troll, is slower than the coming of Cthulhu, and refuses to shut down when I tell it to. The internet card in the back was fried last year during a lightening strike so I have no way to update my virus software and I have discovered that running the same scan dozens of times will produce the same tiny laughter from the modem (the sound of lots of viruses mocking my inability to destroy them).

At first I believed that my inability to repair a computer was not really a big deal and that most people don’t know how to fix glitches and such (this is why computer guys run successful repair shops), but then when mentioning my problems to my brother-in-law he looked at me like I had just asked him if he knew how to wipe his ass. I knew that he was very knowledgeable about computers (this is why I asked him) but I did not know that I would insult his intelligence by asking him if he could erase my computer for me while at the same time saving my music files. Apparently I had failed as a man by not spending copious amounts of time in front of a computer to the point of being able to erase and reprogram a modem with ease. I was further shamed when my wife fixed a glitch on my laptop that I had been fidgeting with for a week. I guess I should start wearing pink polo shirts and drinking foamy coffee-like beverages.

So I have come to terms with my Average Guy Syndrome in certain areas such as computers, sports history, and auto-body repair because I feel I make up for it by being an Above Average Guy in certain areas like movie knowledge, general plumbing, and mixing alcoholic beverages. I felt a little better when my friend John (who I know for a fact can write some pretty complicated programs from scratch) told me just to take it in and get it done by someone who does things like that all the time (Computer Guys). If they can rebuild Steve Austin then I know that these guys have the knowledge required to resurrect my desktop into a functioning machine and probably make it an advanced form of itself in the process.

Burning Stickman: This is my computer, a machine barely alive.
Computer Guy: Sir, I can rebuild it. I have the technology.
Burning Stickman: Will it be better than it was before?
Computer Guy: Better, stronger, faster.
Burning Stickman: Will it make the cool bionic sound when it does something cool and amazing like working when I tell it to?
Computer Guy: Where are your pants?

Guns Ablazin'

2008-07-03T09:14:00.000-07:00

I’m gonna make it a landmark year for Burning Stickman by weighing in on not one…but two hot issues in America. I know that you are used to me discussing such important topics as mutant squirrels on the golf course, energy drinks, and tattoos, but for some reason I have felt an urge to tackle more important topics (it’s either my friend Rob’s comment about how he believes that I could write better stuff or all the B vitamins that I am currently taking). With the Supreme Court making a very influential ruling in D.C. this year and a controversial law passing in Georgia this week I have decided to discuss the issue of guns and gun control.

Gun policy is a very tough issue to discuss rationally in the United States. With zealots on both sides we sometimes find it hard to plow that middle ground to look for the answers. Far to one side you have the Gun Zealots: people who not only want to own guns but want no restrictions whatsoever on what they can do. Most of these people belong to the NRA. Far on the other side you have the No-Gun Zealots: People who don’t even want police to have guns, let alone pedestrians. These are the people who don’t believe in war and wear shirts with slogans like “Uzis Are For Floozies.” Then there are people like myself who believe in both the right to own and carry guns and also in gun control and the laws that help to police what we do with guns. I’ve had plenty of conversations with my friend Dave (who is a closet Republican and very right wing) on this subject when we were working together and have realized that I am considered by both sides of zealots to be the worst kind of person…the free-thinker who aligns himself with neither side and has problems with both. So, to make it an even race, I am going to play devil’s advocate and explore often heard arguments from both sides of the issue.

Gun Zealots: “We have the right to protect ourselves!”
I agree. Everyone has a right to protect themselves and their loved one. What does this have to do with carrying concealed weapons? Do you really believe that having a gun strapped to your side or in your purse at a crowded restaurant is going to solve anything should an emergency happen? Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that when a situation arises (like a bank/store robbery or being held hostage) that the person who freaks and pulls out their concealed gun usually ends up the dead one. Protecting yourself in your home is one thing…trying to be a police officer will only get you deeper into shit. You’ll see what I mean when someone gets sued for shooting a bystander or a kid with a toy gun.

Anti-Gun Zealots: “Guns kill innocent bystanders!”
I’m gonna fall back on a cliché here…guns don’t kill people, people kill do. Guns are just a tool, like a hammer or a shovel, and it is the people who wield those tools who are the killers. Hammers and shovels have also been used to kill people in the past…do we start digging with our hands and pounding nails with our foreheads? Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that when a situation arises (like rescuing a hostage from drug lords or a zombie uprising) that the person who stays calm and uses their gun effectively can save lives. As long as there are laws in place to keep ordinary Joes with guns from bringing them to possibly stressful situations (like a bar where a drunken fight over a girl can erupt or a mass transit system like a bus or subway where people are just generally pissed all the time) then owning a gun and carrying a gun is marginally safe.

Gun Zealot: “2nd Amendment says I can have guns!”
No it doesn’t. It says you have the right to keep and bear arms, it says nothing about guns.( “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”) I don’t have time to get into the argument here about what Madison meant when he wrote the Amendment, I just know that it says nothing about guns…although that was surely the implied intent. It also says nothing to insure the right to carry concealed weapons in public. The main thing that I get tired of is gun advocates continually spouting the 2nd Amendment like a mantra and never actually producing new ideas or arguments to support their claim to have guns. Just because you can say the words “second amendment” does not make a point for you. Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that when a situation arises (like a two hour car ride with your slightly balding, shit-for-brains co-worker who dips) where a subject like gun control is discussed, the guy who keeps spouting “2nd Amendment” as their defense usually loses the argument (or gets tossed from a moving vehicle down a back road in Palmersville).

Anti-Gun Zealot: “Guns are dangerous and can go off anytime and hurt an innocent person!”
I love this one. The old notion that guns have a will and a consciousness of their own. Once again I must bring out the cliché…guns don’t kill people, Robert Blake does. A gun is an inanimate object, a tool, that does nothing unless it is…wait for it…here it comes…used. A gun doesn’t go off by itself just sitting in a closet, there has to be some outside force acting on it (like someone picking it up and firing it). Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that most accidental shootings are actually on purpose (“I didn’t mean to shoot my bitch of a wife, the gun went off while I was cleaning it”), and that even if it is an accident there is still usually human involvement (i.e. cleaning a gun, looking at a gun, playing with a gun).

If movies and television have taught us anything it’s that guns are great for being trapped in the Nakatomi Plaza or for a mass zombie attack, but not so great to take to a bar or on subway. If you want the privilege of taking a gun everywhere you go then become a law enforcement person. Don’t think that a two day class and a test puts you on the same level as a police officer who has gone through months of training (mentally and physically) just because you get a piece of paper at the end of the weekend saying “concealed weapon permit.” If you want to be able to protect yourself and others in public settings then take a martial arts course. If you do carry a gun into public then please use tact and intelligence as your guides. Don’t be the guy who pulls his piece to show off in a crowded bank. And please, please, please stop quoting the 2nd Amendment around me unless you are ready to engage yourself in an intelligent discussion complete with full ideas and examples. And remember, guns are just lifeless objects (unless a voodoo priestess imbues one with an evil spirit). It takes a person to pick up a gun and use it against someone else in either malice or self defense, and it takes human interaction to cause gun related accidents as well. Don’t bitch about guns, bitch about the people who don’t know how to use guns responsibly. Gun laws are not there to limit the freedoms of responsible people, they are put into place to limit the interaction of stupid people with guns and the public. Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that there is always at least one set of drunks arguing in a bar, so next time you are complaining about not being able to bring your gun into a restaurant or bar look over at those guys across the room and be thankful that they weren’t able to bring one as well.

It's a Celebration Bitches!

2008-06-30T15:41:00.000-07:00

After looking around my office I have come to the realization that with rising gas prices, higher unemployment, and an overall flailing economy that there is a lack of morale among the workforce that should be addressed. Even the lucky ones of us that have jobs right now seem to be disheartened in the workplace. I did a little research and (using my amazing ability to draw vague parallels between two unrelated objects) discovered that the root of our depression in the workplace stems from the lack of national holidays that are celebrated on a large scale. We need holidays for people to rally around like Independence Day. Who really gives a crap about Columbus Day except that it inconveniences you due to the banks being closed? So what we need is some new holidays that can be enjoyed even if you don’t get off from work because of them…nay, I go further and say that we should invent holidays that you can enjoy especially at work.

I am making a push all over the nation to have to have Congress declare today Point Out an Annoying Co-Worker and Expound Upon Their Horrible Faults Day. I believe this will be big in government offices, like the one I work in, due to the “flattery” (ass-kissing) that goes on daily. In government offices (or most corporate offices) you can’t just come right out and tell a co-worker that they have the IQ of a raisin, or has no sense of humor, or has a funny smell (old whiskey and despair) emanating from them. Most of the time you have to just bear the brunt and wait until after work so that you can spill all of your grievances out to a spouse/best friend/total stranger, or you can write a blog about it. This is why we need to have one day where we can discuss, candidly, with co-workers all the reasons that they suck without fear of retribution.

Okay…so take a hyena and breed it with a chimpanzee, then give it a cold, then boil it in hot bacon fat while beating it about the head and shoulders with a tube sock full of chocolate covered peanuts. The sound it would make it coming from the office across the hall. At first I thought Maybe a large water mammal is dying, and then I thought Maybe I’m dead and this is my personal hell, and then I realized that the sound hovering above all of our cubicles was actually a form of laughter.

Yes, laughter. Not the tinkling laughter of children playing in summer creeks, or the full bellowing laugh from a great joke that starts in your lower abdomen and continues to roll in waves through your body. Think of nails against chalkboard, Wicked Witch of the West laughter. The kind of laughter that floats through the air and gently alights on your ear, only to then perform a flying roundhouse jump kick, in the style of Steven Segal, to the back of your eyeballs from inside your skull. So I popped my head around the edge of my cubicle and fully expected to see an arm sticking out of a cauldron and a green-faced harpy reading Dave Barry. Instead I see my boss on the phone looking very pleased with herself.

Like the careful observer of humankind and its traits that I am I studied my new subject with rapt interest. How could a woman in her 60’s (or maybe 70’s…or myabe80’s…hell, I don’t know) get the lung capacity to bring this out-of-tune bagpipes of a laugh to bear and send it to hover in space somewhere around the equator? Was she previously the lead singer in a Death Metal band? What the hell is so funny and why can’t be in on the joke? What is that on my shoe? How much hardwood do I need to redo my living room? I wonder what’s for dinner?

Sorry, I got sidetracked. So, as I observed (and tried to staunch the flow of blood from my ears) I realized that she was laughing at her own jokes. Possibly it could be that no one on the other end of the line was laughing (they were probably dead due to their cerebral cortex suddenly revolting and escaping through the ear to beat them senseless with a cricket bat) so she decided, in the interest of keeping the one-sided conversation going, that she should laugh at what she was saying to show everyone in our office (and most of the Northern Hemisphere) that she was funny and effervescent and people liked her. The problem is that no one could hear her after approximately 37 seconds because our eardrums had burst in attempt to save our sanity.

So a holiday in which I could discuss with her why my bleeding innards (caused by the crushing sound waves of her laughter) would be a concern to me and the steps to place her head firmly up the rear orifice of a yak to stop her siren screeching would be a welcome addition to our national repertoire in my book. I believe that Point Out an Annoying Co-Worker and Expound Upon Their Horrible Faults Day (or POACEUTHF Day) will be a smashing success in telling co-workers and bosses like this exactly what it is that peeves you off about them and how they can “take a trunkie in the tradesman’s entrance” for all you care (I find it best to use British slang when belittling people you work with). We should all push our local Representatives in Washington DC that this new holiday would benefit everyone, pointing out the possible uses that they themselves could enjoy putting down their higher-ups in a certain house that is painted the opposite of black.

Even if Congress fails to make POACEUTHF Day a national holiday we can still enjoy the fruits this implied holiday by participating in it anyway. Go ahead, tell that co-worker that his mustache looks like a walrus is humping his face! Tell the person in the next cubicle that constantly asking you pointless questions and then answering them themselves while you are trying to finish the expenditure report makes you want to throttle them with wet noodles. Let your co-worker know that his inability to perform even the most menial of work-related tasks makes you wish daily for his lower intestine to explode. It could be fun…at the least it would be enlightening to those who have gained your ire. Good luck everyone!

Becoming the Enemy

2008-06-17T10:57:00.000-07:00

During the gay marriage debates I have had many discussions among friends and family about the subject. Some were for it and some were against it. We said our peace about it and continued to complain about gas prices. Yet, on a national stage these problems seem to mount. I have publicly kept quiet about such issues but after hearing this segment about gay marriage on NPR I feel it is my time to sound off.

First let me get this out of the way…I, in no way, have any problems with the gay community or their lifestyle choices. One of the reasons that America is such a great country is that we have the freedom to choose how we should live. I have known and know homosexual people and to me they are just that…people. I don’t classify them as gay. I don’t say, “That’s my gay friend Bill,” I just say “That’s my friend Bill.” People should not be classified by their ethnicity or their sexual preference.

With that out in the open I can now begin my rant…

First off, gay marriage advocates, shut the fuck up. You are slowly getting what you want. Stop pushing or else you are going to make people hate you…not for your sexual preference but for the fact that you are now becoming the ones who are shoving your ideals down other people’s throats. You are becoming just like the religious groups that you have fought against. Being proud that you are gay does not mean that you have to take up the sword in every small battle. I’m proud that I am from the South and of my heritage, but that does not mean that I side with racists and Confederates in their fights.

I want to use two of the examples from the NPR program as sounding boards to drive this rant. If you didn't hear the program or haven’t read the article then please do so now. I’ll give you a moment.

Done? Okay here goes.

First, the pavilion issue. My thoughts are that the lesbian couple was in the wrong. Flat wrong. This was the equivalent of throwing a tantrum because you didn’t get what you want. The fact is that the Methodist organization that owned the pavilion had the right to choose who could use it and who could not. Everyone has the right to marry the person that they love, not everyone has the right to marry where they want. The lesbians argued that the pavilion was a public place to be used even though it was built by the church, owned by the church, maintained by the church, and on church land. The fact that they let other people use it somehow made it public property. This is the equivalent on me letting neighborhood people whom I know and like use my basketball goal and then getting sued by someone whom I didn’t see eye to eye with for not letting them use it.

They use the word discrimination, but is it really? Would it be discrimination if the church had refused to let Satanists use the pavilion? Is it discrimination if a Muslim refuses to let a Catholic use their mosque for a wedding? Do Jews discriminate against pigs because they don’t eat pork at their family dinners? The point is that the gay couple who wanted to get married should have respected the church’s wishes instead of pushing their view and lifestyle onto those whose religious beliefs conflict with their own. Everyone has the right to choose who they are (Methodist, homosexual, Republican) but that does not mean that everyone else has to like or accept your choice. That is the definition of freedom.

The next issue that I want to touch on is the couple who sued the photographer. First off, let me say that no where in the Constitution or its Amendments does it provide for protection against discrimination due to sexual orientation. The reason that this Amendment will never pass is because it would make it okay for people to fuck sheep. The Constitution only provides protection against discrimination when it comes to religion, race (ethnicity), and sex (male or female not homosexual or heterosexual). So discrimination against a homosexual person is still constitutionally legal. I am not saying that it is right, I am just saying that it is legal. Individual state constitutions are responsible for providing those rights.

Secondly, the court’s decision was a major faux pas in my book because it effectively persecuted someone for their religious beliefs. The couple used the argument that since the photographers provided a public, commercial service that they had to extend this service to everyone. Does this mean that I can walk into McDonald’s with no shirt and no shoes and sue when they refuse me service? Does this mean that the photographers now have to take pictures at a three person Mormon wedding even though their religion believes that you can only have one spouse? Or take pictures of a sheep fucker and his “lady” even though most religions condemn this practice? The simple fact is that gay marriage versus religion is a hot topic right now and the court chose to “fight” against discrimination while at the same time upholding it. Man, I love irony.

Once again, I do not endorse the discrimination of homosexuals because we are all people, but I also do not endorse someone telling you that you have to accept their choices and way of life. This is why the couple was in the wrong in this case. Besides…why would you want someone who doesn’t share your views taking pictures on a special day like your wedding? You are going to get shitty pictures. This was the photographers’ defense as well. I would think that in the homosexual community, where openness in such a valued issue, that they would have accepted the fact that the photographers did not share their views and move on to someone who did so that they would get quality work. Instead they chose to “make an example” and defend their views and why they believe that homosexuality is acceptable. But didn’t religious groups do the same thing when they publicly tried to write homosexuality off and were ridiculed by gay rights groups for being close-minded?

Listen…I don’t care where your sexual orientation lies except for pedophiles and rapists. Taking people against their will (both children and adults) is never acceptable. I’m not bitching about these people because they are gay…I’m bitching about them because they are acting like pricks. They are endorsing a double standard (“You have to accept our ideals but we don’t have to accept yours”). This is what rubbed me wrong when I heard this broadcast. You can’t shout for equality and then bitch about someone else having the right to an opinion. By doing that you become the enemy that you fight against, intolerance

(And for those who think that as a white male I have never had to face discrimination then think again. Explain to me why I graduated high school with a 3.95 cumulative average, was four points away from a perfect score on my ACT test, and still had to pay for my college tuition and work 50 hours a week the entire time I was in school. I looked in Matthew Lesko’s book of scholarships and realized that none of them applied to a healthy, Caucasian, male with good intelligence.)

I guess what gay advocates are trying to teach everyone in the public, commercial sector is to lie. Instead of telling someone that you do not share their views and thank them for the consideration that they gave you, you have to tell them that you are busy and can not accommodate their function. You are previously tied up with the wedding of a sheep fucker and his bride.

Rubber Balloons and Fond Farewells

2008-06-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

Picture it…

A balmy ocean breeze floating over the still summer day. A white sand beach that evaporates into turquoise blue water which stretches to meet the azure sky on the horizon. Mexican air filling your lungs with the sweet smells of roasted corn, and cumin, and flowers that you can’t name. Does this all sound inviting to you? Are you unemployed and looking for work. Are you willing to do “anything?” Then we have the job for you!

So…how does it sound? It’s my new pitch for a job that I have found for the Anything People. Lately I have become severely aggravated at the people that come in looking for a job and telling me that they will do anything (previous blog). I have spent weeks fuming and complaining to fellow co-workers, my wife, my friend John, my dog, and the surprised looking people in the men’s room at the local Taco Bell. Then I realized that I shouldn’t be mad at those people, I should pity those people and go out of my way to help them. Thus, I have done some brainstorming and come up with some possible careers for these persecuted job seekers.

The following are my pitches for the careers beginning at the point where they tell me that they can do anything…

Pitch #1

Me: So, what kind of work are you looking for?
Guy with Droopy Eyes: Oh, just about anything.
Me: Really? (My eye ticks as I restrain myself from assaulting him with a stapler) Well…we have some labor positions at a factory.
Lazy Bastard: Yeah, probably not.
Me: Okay. How about retail?
Boil on the Ass of Humanity: (waggles his hand in either the universal symbol for “so-so” or telling me he likes pornography involving baboons) Maybe…
Me: Right…I have to perfect opportunity for you. Do you like excitement in your job? New experiences every day? Really good pay for little or no work?
Guy with Mind Already on Sixth Beer: Sure.
Me: Good. Hold on one second…(I connect to the internet and begin typing)…..(still typing)….(still typing)….(shut up, I’m slow)….(I finish and look up at him) Alright. I just got you a job.
Impressed: What am I doing?
Me: Pharmaceutical testing.
Soon to Have a Third Nipple: What? What do you mean?
Me: You know when medicines list side effects like soar throat, asthma, and anal explosions?
And a Third Ball: Yeah?
Me: Well, you’ll be the one finding out what the side effects are. I signed a contract for you for a year.
And a No Hair: What? How could you?
Me: You said you would do anything. Don’t worry…everyone wants a second pair of arms. Right?

Pitch #2

Me: What can I do for you today?
Ten Pounds of Monkey Crap in a Five Pound Bag: I need a job.
Me: Really? How odd. You’re the first person today to come in looking for one.
Oblivious Guy: (unaware that he has sarcasm all over his shirt) Cool.
Me: What can you do?
Jack of All Trades: A little bit of anything.
Me: Alright, let me think a moment. (here I begin slamming my head against the desk)… (I stop) I’ve got it. Go to the bar on East Washington St and ask for Sugar Balls. Tell him you want a job in the male escort service.
Soon to Be Molested: Who’s Sugar Balls?
Me: Don’t worry about it. You willing to do anything?
MENSA Candidate: I guess…
Me: (shuffling him out of the office) Okay. Good luck. Hope you like Turtle Wax.

Pitch #3

Me: Anything? You are willing to do anything?
Four Minutes Before Lunch Guy: Yup.
Me: Want to make ten bucks right now?
Thinking About a Whopper: Sure
Me: Okay. (I fish out a ten dollar bill and give it to him) Now just sit there.
About to Have Amnesia: That’s all I d…..
(here I commence beating him with a flat screen computer monitor)

Pitch #4

Me: What kind of work are you looking for?
Him and Me: (in unison) Anything.
Me: Thought so. Do you like traveling?
Marco Polo: Sure.
Me: What about tropical locations?
Panama Bob: I guess…
Me: What do you think about rubber balloons?
Ex-Birthday Clown: I’m not sure what you…
Me: Do you get nervous around Custom’s agents?
Slowly Getting the Hint: I’ve never met one but…
Me: Could you walk normally with something in your ass?
Feigning Disgust: What!? What would be in my ass?
Me: About 30 grams.
Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius: Of what?
Me: You would have to ask Javier about that.
Soon to Invest in Laxatives: What kind of job is this?
Me: You would be a “liaison” to Mexico.
Human Luggage: Are you talking about smuggling?
Me: Listen…I’ve looked at your resume. I believe this is your only option.
Hugh Testicular Fortitude: Could you sign this?

The Adventures of Naked Dog!!

2008-06-05T13:36:00.001-07:00

These are the adventures of Naked Dog, a super hero gifted with the ability of superb aim which she uses to hurdle, feet first, into her father’s junk-box before bounding away merrily and wondering why daddy is coughing up blood. With the speed of a monorail, the agility of an obese yak, and the grace of a 900 pound sack of wet diapers she sets into motion the moment she hears dad’s tires touch the drive-way and jumps just in time to catch him mid-“Hello” in the doorway. Yet, as all good super heroes, she has a weakness. Her superb aim extends only to the area of crotch soccer and not into other, more mundane things such as catching food from mid-air and finding the stick (which is right in front of her) during the game of fetch. Disguised, with her blue collar, as a mild mannered house dog named Ari in suburban West Tennessee, our heroine spends most of her day looking for things in dire need of chewing and causing mommy great distress. Yet, when she is needed…actually she is never really needed.

In this episode…

We find Naked Dog trapped in the Dungeon of the Bath by the dreaded Parents. These evil imposters look like mommy and dad, but show up often to do battle with our super hero. First, there is dad’s imposter…Tasty Hands, who will wrestle with our heroine instead of letting her chew on his fingers and who yells at her when she is trying to destroy an evil piece of paper she found lurking in the plastic container in the kitchen. Second, is mommy’s imposter…The Jailer, who will take our super hero on a seemingly innocent ride in the big metal machine to the Lair of the White Coated Shot Givers and who locks her up in the “crate” when she is trying to vanquish the dreaded Cat Brothers by chewing on their heads.

Thus, the Parents have discovered Naked Dog’s secret identity by removing her disguise/collar and are now torturing her in the Bath, either for pure maniacal enjoyment or for information about where she has hidden the sacred vial of Eye Drops. She struggles helplessly as Tasty Hands pours water on her and The Jailer scrubs some horrible, vanilla smelling gel all over her. She had just started smelling like mud, a favorite scent only superceded by dead bird, and now here they were making her smell like…like…them! “Oh, this evil plot, she thinks. I’ll never talk! Never!

But wait…what is this? It seems the door to the dungeon is slowly opening. Fu Manchu of the Cat Brothers pokes his head through the opening to see what is going on. I knew it! Naked Dog thinks to herself. My arch enemies, the Cat Brothers, are behind this whole scheme to make me smell like a human. The Parents have not yet seen the breach in security and Naked Dog sees this as her chance. She suddenly goes into massive convulsions and shakes sending water and vanilla suds everywhere. Tasty Hands lets go of her to shield his eyes and she makes her break for it.

In a speeding ball of white fluff and water Naked Dog shoots from the tub and out the door, leaving only shouts and wafting vanilla behind her. Free of the constraints of a collar, in only her birthday suit, she runs pell-mell through the house in all her naked glory. Bounding off walls and doorways she runs with abandon and searches out the Cat Brothers so that she can take her revenge for their plot against her. She stops at the sound of her secret identity and turns around. It’s dad! she thinks. He loves it when I jump between his legs to show my excitement and love. She makes a long turn to build speed, bullets toward her father, and makes the leap.

With a groan and some curse words, that even Naked Dog knows are bad, dad goes down to his knees so that our heroine can lick his face in affection. Moments later The Jailer grabs her and she sees that it was really the imposter Tasty Hands that led her into a trap by pretending to be dad. Very tricky of him to sacrifice his private bits to recapture her.

Back in the Dungeon of the Bath our super hero allows the imposters to finish taking her hard-earned mud smell away, but, showing great resilience, she never tells them a thing about her secret stash of pens, stuffed animal parts, and other chewables. When the torture is finally over and she is set free, she shakes and rolls as hard as she can, but the human smell remains. Her secret identity/collar is put back on and she once again become Ari, the household pet.

Yet, our hero knows that there will be a time when mom or dad will take her into the back yard again. When they do, she has but to wait for the right time. When they turn their heads and stop paying attention then she will find the mud hole beside the big metal air box (air conditioner) and then she will ultimately be shed of her secret identity and be transformed once again into…..

NAKED DOG!!!!!!

The Daily Grind

2008-05-29T18:47:00.000-07:00

As I have stated in a previous blog, the workplace is an ideal atmosphere to observe the human condition. After changing jobs a couple of months ago I have found that my new job is no different. Let me give you a little bit of background on my job. I work for the state government, which automatically earns points on the Evil Servitude meter, as a Career Specialist. This is a glorified title for someone who spends most of his day trying to find work for people. There are four types of people who come in to see me:

1) Constantly Returning People
These are the people who have become real victims of a shitty economy and massive layoffs. Most people who come to see me are actually looking for gainful employment in this craphole of a job market and go off to be hired by a decent company. Yet, there are others who believe that if they come in day after day that we will eventually hand them a job. Like I might say to them one day: “Listen, Gunther. I see how hard you work looking for a job, coming in day after day and asking about jobs, and us giving you the information on them. It doesn’t matter that we checked and found out that you are not actually following up on any of the leads that we give you or put your applications in at any of the places that we know are hiring. We know that you think it is enough for you make this one stop every day and that it is unfair that employers don’t magically contact you for a super easy, high paying job. So, here’s my job. You’ve earned it with your persistence. I’m not worried. You’ll probably quit tomorrow because the job is too demanding and taking away from your X-Box (that you somehow afforded) and I will be back at work. Have an awesomely great day.”

2) Paper People
These are the people who come in with some type of paper from another party (parole office, unemployment office, child support office, etc) that they want you to sign to prove that they are not employed but are looking for work. How they look for work is that they come in and inquire about several jobs that they are not remotely qualified for. I’ll give an example: A man sits down across from me wearing jogging pants, a Rolling Stones t-shirt, Velcro shoes, and a tweed dress jacket (no shit). He gives me five jobs that he wants information about (which is the maximum number we allow so as to cut down the time spent on situations like this). Here is the conversation that ensues…

Doofus in Tweed Jacket: I would like to look at these jobs please.
Me: Sure. The first one requires sales experience and a Bachelor’s Degree. Do you have a degree?
Uneducated Goober: No.
Me: Okay…well sometimes experience can substitute for education. Have you had sales experience?
Fast Food Veteran: I’ve mainly worked in fast food. Does that count?
Me: Right. Okay, this next one is at a pawn shop….
Robber McStealy: I can’t work there. I have a felony and can’t be around guns.
Me: Well, two of these other jobs require degrees and the third is for a brain surgeon.
Asshole Wasting My Time: Could you sign this?

3) Pompous People
These are the people who believe that they should be getting paid a lot more than they are worth. Normally the people in the higher paying job brackets deserve their pay (surgeons, cancer researchers, engineers, Morgan Freeman), but then you also get the people that believe that they should be making more than they are worth (human resource managers, district attorneys in rural West Tennessee, sitcom writers, Dr. Phil). These are the people that really piss me off. They come in and look offended when you suggest that they should take another job for less money. What they don’t understand is that being a film critic for $45,000 a year is a good job in New York but not a realistic prospect here in the heartland. Here’s an example:

Me: How can we help you today?
Dude: I was in the Army and I drove trucks. (I am guessing at most of his conversation due to the 63 rings in his lips and nose. Most of what I heard was a mumbled wheeze) I’m looking for a job.
Me: We have this job… (I explain job to him and qualifications)
Dude: I don’t have the two years over the road experience required.
Me: Any long haul experience.
Dude: No. I drove locally around the base.
Me: Have you looked at short haul driving jobs and local routes?
Dude: They don’t pay enough. I have to be making at least $15 an hour.
Me: To drive a truck? (He nods and jingles) There’s no way.
Dude: (looking offended) You serious? No one is going to pay that much?
Me: Not unless you have a HAZMAT endorsement and are hauling volatile chemicals or explosives. You are looking at nine bucks an hour at most to start out as a short hauler. You’re dreaming if you think you can make $15 and hour with no long haul experience, Army or no Army.

At this he gave me the meanest look he could conjure (being that his ears comically touched his shoulders because some asshole had gone and stuck small European cars through his lobes), stood up and jangled his way out of my cubicle.

4) Anything People
These are the people who think that if they answer “anything” to the questions “What kind of work are you looking for?” and “What can you do?” that they will instantly get a job and the questions will stop (much like some people believe that if you put “fast learner” and “hard worker” in the special skills section of an application that all their other flaws, like shoddy work history and lack of legibility, will be overlooked). Here is how the scenario plays out in their head: I ask them one of these questions and they answer “anything.” I am so impressed that they can or are willing to do anything that I immediately give them a wad of cash and tell them that they are clever and handsome. Anyone who knows me will know that this scenario would play out differently.

Me: What can you do?
Bob: Oh, pretty much anything?
Me: Really? When was the last time you gave a lecture on Nanotechnology at Cornell?
Bob: What?
Me: Never mind. What kind of work are you looking for?
Bob: I’ll do anything.
Me: Really? I have a guy who needs people to work on his tobacco farm…
Bob: Naw. I worked tobacco when I was young and it’s hard work.
Me: I thought you said you would do anything.
Bob: Well, almost anything.
Me: I think I have a sawmill job somewhere here….
Bob: Can you sign this

It's Alive!!!!!

2008-05-23T10:48:00.000-07:00

I want to discuss a serious subject with you today. Not too long ago I was given a sort of intervention. Like most people who warrant an intervention I did not know that I had a problem, and so I was shocked when I was confronted by two beautiful, smart women (my wife Brandy and her best friend Angela) and told that it was time for me to get my hair cut. They informed me that I posses the phenomenon known as “80’s Hair.”

First, let me clarify what “80’s Hair” is exactly. “80’s Hair” can best be described as a being a “puffy mullet” (examples follow). It usually starts with the puffy factor. By puffy I mean hair that doesn’t need mousse or hairspray (both wildly popular in the 80’s) to achieve the desired height, body, and bounce of a large, house-concealing shrub.

Of course I was in denial about having this horrible affliction and brushed it off as being the imagination of my wife and her friend. I mean, how could I have let myself fall into this gruesome fashion trap? I was a child of the 80’s to be sure, but as I got older and more mature I shed the skin of parachute pants (which I did own I’m sorry to say) and pop music (which I periodically flog myself for listening to) when I discovered the music of the early 90’s. I had left that life of synchronized dance moves and Wayfarer sunglasses behind.

But lately I have seen signs that have started to bother me. Little things that alone prove nothing, but taken together seem to indicate something sinister. First, there was the fact that last week I caught myself bobbing to background music by Styx and Wham. Second, I noticed raised levels of testosterone resulting in the desire to watch movies such as Roadhouse, First Blood, Predator, or any movie in the “Mad Max” trilogy. My wife is not happy about this phase since I can usually catch one of these movies on television and my insistence on her stopping on that channel interferes with her path toward Food Network or TRU TV. Third, I started looking at my pants and wondering whatever happened to elastic bottoms.

The last two indicators came a couple days ago and this morning, and they both actually involved my hair. The first hair related incident occurred thusly. After work I completed some badly needed yard projects and ended up taking a shower at about 11:00 at night when dinner was finished and Top Chef had gone off television. I wanted my hair to be dry before I went to bed so I blow dried it. I found myself enjoying the warm air on my scalp and the way my hair got increasingly larger and more voluptuous. I didn’t think anything about it until I caught my wife staring at my hair a few minutes after I had sat down next to her. By the look on her face she was waiting for it to crack open and spill out the band members of Warrant. “You have the worst case of 80’s hair that I have ever seen,” she said to me. “You have to get a hair cut.” This made me a little self conscious. I found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror later, as I sat in bed and smoked the last cigarette of the day, and had to admit to myself that my wife (who is smarter than me, by the way) might in fact be correct.

The last conformation came this morning. I roused myself at the usual time, trudged through the house, put on my sandals, and took my dog, Ari, out for her morning bathroom duties. When I stepped through the door I noticed that all the birds stopped singing at once, like they were afraid to alert something horrible to their presence. While in the front yard my next door neighbor came out of her house, took a look at me, opened her mouth in a silent scream, and fainted. Something was going on here.

Back inside the house I stood staring in the mirror in my bathroom. My hair seemed to have doubled in size over-night, taking on the size and shape of a St. Bernard. And its bounce seemed to be a little too rhythmic, like the slow steady breathing of a sleeping beast. I was studying this new occurrence when two things happened consecutively. First, I poked the being that was my hair…and it yawned! It fucking yawned at me! Then realization hit me. My hair had taken on a life of its own.

And that’s when I shit myself.

Somehow I managed to not faint and quickly beat the, now growling, entity that was on top of my head into submission with the handle of the plunger and dove into the shower. With the hot water streaming over my scalp I felt my hair whimper and slowly die away. When I was done I let my hair naturally dry as I cleaned up my bathroom floor. By the time I was finished and ready to get dressed for work I dared to look in the mirror once more and found my hair had taken on the natural waviness that had earned me comparisons to Elvis. (Hey…quit laughing. I have been compared to Elvis)

I light of these events I have decided to get my hair cut very soon. Although…as I sit at my desk and sing Journey in my head I realize that having 80’s hair wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I mean think about all of the celebrities that have made it big that had 80’s hair at one time.

Patrick Swayze

John Stamos

Mel Gibson

George Clooney

Corey Haim

MacGyver

Help Me!!!!!!!!

*Author's Note: Jouney is a great band that you are allowed to listen to without fear of 80's Hair.

My Third Second Wind

2008-05-22T12:35:00.000-07:00

Burning Stickman lives!

Let the rants begin once more.

So, some of you (okay, three of you) may have noticed that I have taken a long hiatus. This has been for several reasons, some good and some bad. One…I got married (great). Two…my wife got sick (bad). Three…I injured my back and had to have surgery (bad). Four…I got a new puppy (good…sometimes). Five…I got a new job for the State of Tennessee (indifferent). Six…I am sometimes lazy (good). Yet, lately I have had these itching, burning sensations (that were later cleared up with topical cream) and I realized that I had to get back to writing my blogs.

This proved to be more difficult than I expected. There is a difference between creative writing (poetry and fiction) and a personal format such as blogs and editorials because there are no barriers to hide behind. With creative writing you can use plots and characters to get your point across, but with article writing you have to use wit and intelligence to get your point across (and me having either is a widely debated subject).

So I slacked off. Yes, I am indeed a phenomenal slacker when it comes to writing (even though I chose this as my profession). Okay, maybe slacker is not the best word. Maybe…uber-procrastinator. That sounds more intelligent and witty.

SOOOOOO…I’ll see you in the next blog (I promise it will not take me over a year, John). Right now I am procrastinating at work. Ha, take that State Government!

A Slipping Down Life

2007-02-08T12:39:00.000-08:00

Okay...for anybody familiar with indy films you will recognize that I stole my title from a Guy Pearce movie. I will probably be sued, so if Burning Stickman sends out a request for money I hope that all you good readers will see fit to send a dollar. That will give me about three dollars to use toward the lawsuit. I used this title for several reason. One: I love that movie. Two: I love that soundtrack. Three: Guy Pearce is the shit. Four: It seemed appropriate for the theme of today's blog.

I realized today that I had neglected to post for the last two weeks. There are reasons behind this that make my absence plausible. Since around the middle of December Brandy was down with feminine problems. After several visits to the OB-GYN, we found out exactly nothing that she didn't already know or suspect to begin with. We suspected a possible tubal pregnancy, which can have very bad consequences if not taken care of, but the 80 year old doctor (I use this word with a large helping of Sarcasm Squishee) just kept prescribing pills and suggested that we wait until it all worked itself out naturally. In my mind this was not a very good plan at all, since the end result of waiting could have spelled a ruptured fallopian tube for my fiancee.

The next big result was that my dad had to be put into immediate surgery to unblock a clot in his left leg. There was a chance that he would lose his leg from the knee down. Thanks to great surgeons, he came through alright, but another event transpired while we were in the waiting room. Brandy, who had been in deep pain for the better part of a month, suddenly felt something give way. Luckily it was not a burst fallopian tube. Unluckily it had been a tubal pregnancy and had miscarried itself.

Needless to say, it was a very tough time for Brandy and myself. We both retreated into ourselves to escape from discussing the obvious. We finally pulled ourselves out of the deep funk that we had elapsed into, only to have Brandy get the flu this week. There are times in our lives when we feel like we are giving so much of ourselves; whether to a job, or to a relationship, or to other people that we feel like we are slipping away. Whenever I felt this way I would always get a text from Brandy telling me she loved me, or a call from John to make me laugh. These little things helped me to have the strength to give more of myself to help others recover. Now Brandy is recovering, dad is recovering, and my friend Chuck (who I forgot to talk about but was in a wreck) is recovering.

And now I look back and see how much time I actually lost while I was taking care of, and comforting my family. I have spent the better part of this new year going from one family crisis to the next and bolstering my loved ones in their time of need. Time can slip by very fast if you are not looking and concentrating on important things. But I realized that it's not the slipping down of life that we should turn our attention to, but the pulling back up that is important. Everyone slips. Into depression. Into debt. Into ill health. It's our ability to help pull the people that we love out of these slips that make our lives more meaningful and rich. It has made me aware that the next time that I feel like I am living a slipping down life, and that I don't have the strength or resources to make it through, that there will always be someone to lend a shoulder or hand to help me. And as long as I can I will do the same for others.

Note: Sorry this wasn't a humorous blog. I'll be back in the swing soon.

Wake Up Little Snoozy

2007-01-18T17:08:00.000-08:00

As I walk through the door, Justin looks at me like he is watching the Anti-Christ coming into the room to announce the ending of days. I know how I look. My shirt is untucked. My eyes are bloodshot with little crusts still in the corners. My hair is trying very urgently to emphatically point in every direction at once, making me look like a cross between Sideshow Bob and Einstein. And, with my lower back currently in pain from a chronic problem, I am walking like Qausimodo trying to do the Electric Slide.

The smell of coffee brewing. The feel of the Eastern sunrise filtering through the window to warm you cheek. The sound of birds singing sweetly in the trees. These are all wonderful ways to shed the bonds of slumber and bring yourself gently awake in the morning. I, on the other hand, rolled over to look at my clock and realize that work had started twenty minutes ago. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will bring you out of a dead sleep faster than realizing that you are late. There could be an axe wielding murder in your house breaking furniture and screaming for blood and you would wake up groggy and asking yourself “What is that noise in the other room?” But if you partially open your eyes and see that you are late, then groggy goes right out the window and panic makes your legs work even before you can feel your toes.

Waking up in this fashion is always a bad sign for the forthcoming day. So I was not surprised as I emerged from the office bathroom, hair freshly slicked back with copious amounts of water, to hear Justin say, “Man you have got hear this crazy message that a crazy lady left on the machine last night.” Let me relate this message to you.

“This is Mrs. ________ . I have one of your rental cars. I got in it tonight and there is an oil smell. I want you to bring me a car in the morning. I know you open at 7:30, and I need to be at an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00."

This is not a typo. She really repeated the statement four times. Now, since I woke up at 7:50 and walked into the office at 7:59, a feat that I accomplished by forgoing any type of morning preparation such as showering or brushing my teeth and breaking untold speed laws, I knew that there was no way that we were going to get her a car by 8:00. But, in the spirit of trying to give good customer service, we made a valiant effort and showed up at her house at 8:06 with a new car. Our car was still sitting in the driveway, and she was no where to be found. We checked the car for oil leaks and found nothing. We checked the house and found nothing. So either she got a ride with a friend or neighbor or we will find her in the midst of rigor mortis tomorrow when we go to get the car. This is just what I need on my mind to make the rest of the day slide by smoothly. (sarcasm dripping on the keyboard)

I did come to the conclusion that we, as humans, do posses the ability to accomplish things that in normal circumstances would be deemed impossible or improbable. It usually takes me about fifteen minutes to prepare myself in the morning and my car ride to work usually takes seven minutes. I’ll let you do the math. This seems like untapped potential that, if cultivated, could allow us to complete an entire 24 hour day in like…87 minutes. If we could bypass social norms like hygiene, stop trying our best to look good for the benefit or others, and disregard all speed limits without fear of repercussions then I believe that we could get anywhere in a third of the time that it normally takes. This is very exciting news for pizza delivery drivers. (Though I’m pretty sure that most disregard the first two anyway)

Another thing that I realized was that I wasn’t tired or wore down all day. I didn’t need any caffeine to keep me at my peak level of half-assedness. This revelation, however, is very detrimental news to both Juan Valdez and to the makers of the llama-piss-tasting energy drinks that package pluck in cans with names like Catapult, Volt, Crimson Male Bovine, and Donkey Punch Lemonade. This is why I am even now getting a knock on the door from some man in a business suit who is accompanied by another guy wearing shorts who keeps yelling “Extreme!!!!” at the top of his lungs and continuously downing can after can of a liquid called Crunk.

I have to go and hide now.

Low Expectations and Ancient Chinese Wisdom

2007-01-07T15:39:00.000-08:00

So, I believe that I have discovered what my future occupation as a writer might turn out to be. As much as I would like to write novels, or poetry, or screenplays, or songs I have come to realize that the world is filled with artists who are of the same mind as myself and are trying to make it in one of these fields as well. So I started looking down the untraveled road of my chosen profession at some of the overlooked, yet necessary, jobs for creative writers.

My epiphany came to me over dinner the other night. Brandy and I were sitting down to enjoy Orange Chicken, Mongolian Beef, Vegetable Lo Mien and some of Hollywood’s latest DVD releases. After the Black Dahlia I cracked open my fortune cookie to receive some ancient, Chinese wisdom. This is what I got. You are a fun and interesting person. What the fuck?!

Now I have been through many phases of fortune cookies, each one involving games that were played that centered around the fortunes locked away in the stale, orange flavored crescent. One game that I used to play when you had a group of four or more was a question game. Here’s how it went. You each take a cookie and then pick someone in the group and ask them a question. Supposedly the answer to your question was in that person’s fortune.
Example: John asks me whether the Lions will be in the Super Bowl this year. I open my fortune and it says The answer you get is not always the one you want. This is a good fortune and, in theory, tells John that he can expect the Lions to do just as good as the Raiders next year.

This game became ineffective when the fortunes started getting shitty. You can’t answer questions about life or the Lions with fortunes that say You are an inspiration to those you meet. Thus my old roommates Joe and Dave adopted the “in bed” method of fortune cookie reading. The basic principle is that after every fortune you add the words “in bed” to the end of it. The result being…You are the master of your skills…in bed. Granted, this concept also works for non-crappy fortune cookies as well. You will get a great surprise soon…in bed. A great college tradition, but one that props up the failings of modern fortune cookies instead of demanding more out of, what is supposed to be, your ancient Chinese wisdom.

Fortunes these days have all the wisdom of a Pet Rock, except at least a Pet Rock can sit on command. I’m tired of all these large fortune cookie manufacturers trying to be politically correct and making the reader feel good. That is not what fortune cookies are about. When I was young fortunes were exciting and real. A great surprise will come your way soon. Sure it’s generic and vague, but at least it gave you something to speculate about and look forward to. Some would say, “Well then if anything came along, say your Pet Rock running away, then it could be considered a ‘great surprise.’” That’s exactly my point. But instead we now have to read fortunes that tell us how nice we are, or tell us something that we already know.

This is why I am pondering devoting myself to becoming the best fortune cookie writer ever. I envision a line of fortune cookies that you would almost be afraid to open, because they might hold some great and personal fortune that you might not want to know. These are the fortunes for which I have pined. No more Your friends think you are a good person crap. I want people to open a fortune and shudder at the implied possibilities. Tomorrow will be the day of your undoing!

My fortunes would have great wisdoms also. Sayings from greats such as Sun Tzu, or Miyamoto Musashi, or Alf. Things that make you stop and think. I would still strive to deliver uplifting or inspirational sayings, but out of every hundred or so fortunes I would have to throw in a really depressing one like You will screw up your life very soon, or It will be your fault that he loses his leg, or She will leave you in the near future. You know, give some random person a reason to get up out of bed in the morning and be afraid. Because what is life if you can’t have expectations. Even if they are of the worst.

Return of the Burn

2007-01-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

Yes it is official…Burning Stickman is back burning again.

Many people have been asking such questions as; “Where has Burning Stickman been?” “What happened to Burning Stickman?” “Who is this Burning Stickman fellow?” “What is the depth of the Caspian Sea?” “Was there mayo on that sandwich?” and “What the hell is that stuck to my shoe?”

To answer some of these questions we sent a very nervous reporter into the field to discover the whereabouts of Burning Stickman and the reason for his disappearance. This was the report that was found next to our incinerated intern.

It has become apparent that Burning Stickman has been “burning up” the campaign trail in attempts to let his bid for President in 2008 be known. August was a busy month for Stickman with stops in Southern California and Idaho. September saw Stickman once again in Southern California spreading his influence, and in late October Stickman was campaigning in the desert regions of California around Palm Springs.

The months of November and December were idle months for this 2008 presidential hopeful as he enjoyed the holidays with his family and rested for his big push back into the public eye in 2007.

We caught up with Burning Stickman near his home in Western Tennessee to ask him what he had planned for the new year.

Reporter: "Mr. Stickman, where have you been?"
Stickman: "AAAAARRRRRRGGG!"
Reporter: "I see. So what happened to you?"
Stickman: "AAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGG!"
Reporter: "What are your plans for the upcoming year?"
Stickman: "AAAAAAARRRRGG! AARRGGG! AAAAAAAAARRRRGGGG!"
Reporter: "So you are definitely back on the web and planning to post a blog every week? That’s very ambitious of you given your track record of missing weeks in the past and leaving your readers wondering where you are and leaving them wanting for more."
Stickman: "AAARRRGG!"
Reporter: "I see. Your pledge to do better is noble. What the hell is stuck to my shoe?"
Stickman: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGG!!!!!"
*STATIC*

We will miss you Kenny.

Where's Burning Stickman?

2006-12-26T10:21:00.000-08:00