Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Pants on fire!

Years ago you said you had a "thyroid problem", and that in a year or two the medication would clear it up. Perhaps, your thyroid is out of control, they have not developed medication strong enough to take care of it. You are a medical anomaly; scientists are working around the clock to find a cure for the excess weight. You are so brave, your resolve so strong; no mention or complaining of your "problem". Don't worry, others may have forgotten your plight, I have not.

Years ago, you and your husband announced you would be running for office soon, that we should make sure there were no skeletons in our closets. Well, my closet is only messy, how's yours? Or maybe someone beat you, in a narrow race, to become the Mayor of Liarville.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Gentle Enough for Daily Peruse

Get the hint! Leave the creatures of the sea alone; stop inviting yourself into their homes or face the consequences:

http://sports.espn.go.com/outdoors/general/news/story?id=2666064

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15964896/

Rogue sea lion? No, rogue humans invading the sea lion's space. Did you swimmers get an invitation? No, the bay is a private party; get your brisk morning swim in a swimming pool, party crashers.

As for "Kasatka", she is no goddamned Shamu, who'll take a dive for a song. "Kasatka" swims and "performs" on her own terms, and by the way, her REAL her name is Betty.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

O! Someone's got a case of the Mondays!

I trudged up to Starbuck's before I headed to work. Christ, I feel like such an asshole when I go to get "coffee"; I'm like a character in "LA Story":

"I'll have a grande, decaf, nonfat, peppermint white mocha with whipped." I already look like a tool placing the order, but whatever happened to small, medium, large? Starbucks is from Seattle, not Siena.

I wait in the line of shame for my barista, Mike, to make my drink.

"Have a great day.", Mike barks out, as he puts down my grande, decaf, nonfat, peppermint white mocha with whipped. He doesn't mean it, he doesn't even look at me. Nice.

I leave Starbucks and cross the street, past the grand entrance to Chinatown; a huge, ornate archway on Grant Avenue where many pose for pictures before moving on to shop for gifts.

"Good morning!", a pleasant looking Asian woman calls to me. She is smiling at me. She means it.

"Good morning!", I call back.

"Spare a quarter!?", the woman sniffs at me.

Ugh! No!

"Sorry", I say as I pass by her. No, I'm not sorry.

The old woman snorts and hawks a loogey right behind me. Yum.

I continue on, past the "Antique" store. Fine antiquities fresh from the factory for San Francisco tourists.

Finally I get to work, say a quick hello to everyone at the front desk, and drop my stuff in my office. Just as I'm about to sit down at my desk, I notice a bum taking a piss in the alley behind my office. What a perfect start to the day; it can only get better.

From the desk of...

Hi!

Several years ago I received a newsletter called "Knead to Know". Do you send out brochures about bread, baking, etc.? I would love to have them. I only use Fleischmann's yeast.

Thanking you in advance,

Regards,
Betty T. Bartlett

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Gentle Enough for Daily Peruse

Glamour Girl

...or so proclaimed a Macy's ad of Paris Hilton in the paper today. Well, hmmm, let's see....

-Ms. Hilton can currently be seen in straight-to-dvd "Bottom's Up".

-was seen cackling when her bilionaire friend Brandon Davis caled Lindsay Lohan "fire crotch".

-soaped up herself and a car while eating a cheeseburger in a Carl's Junior ad.

-and let's not forget her sexcapades in "One Night in Paris" (ok that was not her choice, but letting the camera roll with Rick Solomon?)

American Heritage Dictionary:

glam·our also glam·or (glmr) Pronunciation Key n.
An air of compelling charm, romance, and excitement, especially when delusively alluring.
Archaic. A magic spell; enchantment.

You make the call.

-

Sunday, October 29, 2006

For One, For All

For One, For All

Fabrice rummaged through his Tumi messenger bag for a cigarette. He had finished his last Gauloise this morning, and didn’t have time to run down the street to pick up another pack at Len’s Liquors. He was desperate; he needed a smoke to get him through this godamned photo shoot. He frantically rooted around until his fingers came upon something that felt like a cigarette. He quickly pulled it out; a little crushed but perfectly smokeable. He straightened it out as best he could, jammed it in his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke slowly billow out of his nostrils; the cigarette tasted old but so satisfying. He was running late so he flicked it away half-smoked, ran his fingers through his wavy bobbed hair and walked into the studio.

Fabrice was beyond annoyed. Today’s shoot was a print ad for CK One, “A Fragrance for All”, the ads would proclaim. Calvin Klein himself was there overseeing the shoot. Christ he looks good, Fabrice thought. Tall, tanned, trim, tastefully attired, all-around tasty. He is well preserved, Christ; he’s like 60 years old. Is he wearing mascara, Fabrice wondered, and the skin on his face looks a little too taught.

“Okay, everyone!,” Calvin clapped, “I want this shoot to evoke a dreamland of sensuality and sublimity. Boys look at boys, girls stare longingly at girls, just let the love creep up and flow over you, let it heat you and then cool you down. Bathe yourself in the philosophy of the fragrance. Now let’s have a fabulous shoot!”, Calvin clapped again. A lot of the models clapped as well. What the fuck are Lili-Belle and Trent clapping for?, Fabrice sniffed. And what the fuck was Calvin talking about?

“Okay, everyone! Take your usual positions!” Bruce, the photographer, called out. All the models lay down and the stylists rushed in to adjust and pose them. “C’ MON, EVERYBODY!” bellowed a red-faced Calvin, “INTERTWINE YOUR LEGS!” “I wanna see looking at each other bored and indifferent.” Bruce chimed in. “NO! Bruce, they are in a sort of trance-like state; they are dreaming, not bored!” Calvin screamed at Bruce.
“So the same old thing”, Bruce muttered under his breath.

“Oh Christ, do I have to do everything?” Calvin shouted and stomped over to the models. He stepped around and through the models laying together on the studio floor. He pulled Fifi’s arm so it draped over Lili-belle’s stomach. He grabbed Gino’s foot and was pulling it over the girls. With his back to Trent, he didn’t notice that he was shoving Gino’s booted foot into Trent’s crotch.
“OOOOOH!”, Trent screamed out.
“Sorry”, Calvin yelled out off-handedly.

He stepped on Chantal’s hair trying to shove Lili-belle’s head onto Francoise’s shoulder.
Calvin was flushed and a little sweaty, Fabrice noticed, in fact, he’s looking kind of withered, his clothes seem a little big. He is kind of fragile looking…old. Is Calvin dying his hair, Fabrice wondered. There didn’t appear to be any highlights or lowlights; Rob, Fabrice’s ex, did hair, and he said natural hair is never one uniform color. While we’re on the subject of color, isn’t Calvin’s “tan” a little to orange to be sun-kissed? For that matter, was he covering up his thinning air by putting all kinds of product in it and spiking it? And speaking of covering up, isn’t Calvin living a lie by marrying a woman? Okay they divorced, but still. And while we’re on the subject of a “fabulous shoot”, would mean Calvin Klein receiving a nice, clean bullet to his tiny, little head. Fabrice laughed as he draped his arm around Lance.

Crab Legs (A fictionalized account)


As a kid, he dreamt of being a ballplayer. He was so sure that he was going to be the next Willie Mays or Barry Bonds that he never bothered much with school or other activities. He didn’t have time for friends, figuring they would just weigh him down once he hit the big time. His dreams were in black and orange; he could smell the grass, hear the crack of the bat, and even taste the champagne being poured all over him in the locker room. Yes, his future was at Candlestick Park. Definitely.

And it was. Only not the way he planned it. A fastball, a curve ball, a sinker, he couldn’t hit for shit; he still made it to the big leagues, and for San Francisco no less. He was the Crazy Crab, the San Francisco Giants mascot. The Giants marketing execs thought it would be a great idea to have a wacky character that represents San Francisco; why not a crab?

From the very start he was loved; fans loved to hate him, to boo and hiss him. He was sure that it was because no one thought crabs were particularly cuddly, positive it had nothing to do with his performance. He had the moves down! His dance to “Baby Elephant Walk” was brilliant, the choreography sublime.

People just threw hot dogs at him because they didn’t like seafood. Assholes.

Update: In 1997, Lou Seal was introduced as the San Francisco Giants mascot after a thirteen year drought, replacing long forgotten, despised Crazy Crab. Wayne Doba, the actor who portrayed Crazy Crab, reportedly told a Giants executive, "I hope there's nobody up there with a gun."

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

It's Showtime!

When I go to the movies, I like to get there early. I can get my candy, use the restroom, and scout out the perfect seats, all at a leisurely pace.

Five minutes before show time, however, things invariably get ugly; the morons arrive.
They stare at the full auditorium in wonderment; you know they are thinking, “Where did all these people come from?” They continue to stare, as if the longer they look, the likelihood of getting six seats together gets greater and greater. When they finally realize that they have no shot at getting six seats together, they split up and sit at lone seats in rows. Of course they have to wave and signal to each other, “Hey, I’m here!” Then they roll their eyes; they could’ve been together if it hadn’t have been for us idiots screwing their shit up by ARRIVING EARLY!
Even worse are the “Excuse me, can you do me a favor?” morons. You know them; it’s usually a couple, where the man is trying to secure seats for himself and his lady. He usually puffs himself up before launching into, “hey man, can I ask you to move down a seat?”, or, “Miss, please move down for my girlfriend.” You cringe should you see him approaching your row; you know he’s going to say, “I noticed that there are two separate, single seats available in this row; can I ask you seven people to move down a seat?” You would love to summon up the nerve to say, “Well, I notice that you arrived to the theatre late. Surely it would impress your lady more if you planned a little better? So, sure you can ask away, and I’ll answer NO! I got here early for THIS seat, I have no plans to move, pal!” But of course I’m a gutless chump, and all of us move over a seat. You know that the moron who moved us over is smirking in his newfound seat; yeah, he sure knows how to handle us!

Okay, so now everyone is settled in. Once the previews begin, the yammering starts. A cacophony of “Oh, this movie will suck! She’s a terrible actress! He looks hot, but I can’t bear to see that movie! I forgot to get the damn drycleaning! Sue called! Where are we going for dinner?” ensues. Does anyone give a rat’s ass that some people in the audience would like to see the previews? These morons who blather away during the movie previews are the same morons that blather way during a movie about how bad it sucks. Well, if they had shut the fuck up in the first place, they could have made a more informed decision during the preview, rather than subjecting the rest of us to their stupid opinions.
Invariably, these special people are usually the same ones who ruin the movie for everyone. There’s the guy whose cell phone goes off in the middle of the movie. No, he doesn’t sheepishly turn off his phone and slink down in his seat from embarrassment and shame because he forgot to turn off his phone. He doesn’t run to the lobby to take the call because it is of vital importance that he listens to the caller who has a medical emergency, a bomb threat, or the answer to the meaning of life, and if the rest of the audience knew why he had to receive that call we would sigh with relief that he had the foresight to keep his cell phone on. But no, this clown takes his call, “What up, Dawg? I’m seeing a movie right now. Nah, I ain’t seein’ that, but dude, she is hot! Mmm-mmm, she looks good!” And should someone in the audience shush him, we all get, “YOU SHUSH, BITCH! WATCH YOUR DAMN MOVIE.” If we really get lucky, when the guy gets up to leave midway through the movie, and yells out to no one in particular, “This movie fuckin’ sucks!” and slams the theater’s swinging door shut.

I want to be Hugh Hefner, and not for what you think. Sorry, I’m heterosexual, I like men. Nor do I want his money, power, or mansion; I want his screening room and all the first-run movies he gets to watch. He chooses his audience, and if they get unruly and annoying, he’d kick them out. “Candy, Tina, Misty with a “y”, and Misti with an “i”, shut the fuck up! I’m trying to watch “Saw 3”! If you don’t quiet down, I’m gonna pull you all from your centerfold spreads. I mean it, Candy, now stop giving me that sullen look. Now go fetch me some Milk Duds, sweetie. In fact, why don’t ALL of you go? ”

Leave me alone.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

I'll tell you, hope you'll do the same...

- a big booger in your nose.
- bird poop in your hair.
-smudge on face
-toilet seat cover peeping out of pants.
-toilet paper stuck on shoes and trailing behind you.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Silent Night

They laughed, and they called him names. They did this for the last time. He was unstable from the start, but the taunts and jeers from his deer peers was more than he could handle this time. Psychiatrists had warned Santa that Rudolph was not fit to work sleigh duty but, sadly, Santa poo-pooed them and shoed them all away. Everyone dismissed Rudolph as off beat, eccentric. He has a red nose, so of course he’s different, everyone reasoned. What do you expect?

Santa had fair warning, but he just wouldn’t believe it; Rudolph is a sociopath. All the others didn’t see warning signs, too.

Rudolph snapped. Because America treasures and holds sacred the right to bare arms and has lax gun control laws, Rudolph got his hoofs on a high-powered semi-automatic rifle

He sure didn’t have the Christmas spirit…

I am invincible...I am strong...

As the mother in "Sixteen Candles" said, " She just got her monthly bill", I too, have to pay the piper. Once again I’m not pregnant. And five days from now I turn 35, the point when a pregnancy gets a little dicier. I am a barren woman. Hear me roar.

A billion thoughts keep crowding my head. I am going to be that crazy Lauren. The crazy cat lady. The get-off-my-lawn-damned-kids lady. The “why do we always have to visit crazy Aunt Lauren? Her house smells of cat poopy!” lady. “You kids be nice! WE visit because she doesn’t have anyone else” lady. I am the movie of the week: Her private pain, a very special Lifetime movie starring Yasmine Bleeth. Patty Duke or Meredith Baxter will play my mother.

Monday, October 16, 2006

I'm gonna stop the car.

I remember the family trips we took when my brother and I were kids. Whether my family flew or drove to wherever we were going to vacation, inevitably ended up driving around in a rental car. My brother, Matty, and I would always end up fighting with each other in the back seat of the four-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme or a Chevy Lumina. Yelling at each other usually ended up with us hitting each other and pulling each other’s hair. My brother, Matty, fought dirty. It was an unspoken code that you did not hit each other in the face. Really it was not an unspoken code, it wasn’t a code at all, and it was something that I held to. Unbeknownst to Matty, you did not hit in the face.

“You weirdo. Ugh, you have a mole on your foot. MOLE FOOT. MOLE FOOT. MOLEFOOOOOOOOT!”

And with that my brother hit me in the face.

“Matty hit me! He hit me hard!” I wailed.
Matty yelled, “Mom, she’s calling me names!”
I scream back, “Well, now I will, you dirty, pregnant wildebeast.”

My dad roared, “Goddamnit! I’m gonna stop the car-“
My mother interjected with, “You’re getting hysterical!”

I don’t think any of us knew who she was talking about, who was getting hysterical, because she didn’t look up from the Datebook section of the paper she was busy reading with her reading glasses that had the stem broken off while flossing her teeth. When she finished flossing, she opened her window to throw out her floss.

“Lauren, stop baiting your brother”, my mother said dismissively as she dropped her floss out the window, which the wind caused to fly into the backseat and right into my brother’s smirking face. My brother responded by punching me in the arm.

“Why are you hitting me? Mom did it! She did it on purpose because she doesn’t love you. You are adopted; they felt sorry for you!”, I called out.

Mom lifted her head from her paper to look back at us, “Lauren, stop. Matty, that’s not true. We love you very much.”

Saturday, October 14, 2006

Postcard from scenic San Francisco...


Niki thinks the pyramid was built specifically to look like a giant penis. She's always complaining about male conspiracies here and male conspiracies there; personally I think it looks more like 500 feet of steely, pulsating power. My legs quiver just thinking about it.

-Matt

Please don't stare at the red spot on Matt's face. I had to slap him to make him stop quivering. It annoys the shit out of me when he quivers. Fuckin' pansy.

-Niki

Friday, October 13, 2006

Get out of my life!


Should I know who Mischa Barton is? I don't, but I see her pictured at every opening, every premier, every fashion show. Her picture is posted almost as much as Paris Hilton. I know all about the schlock Paris Hilton is hawking, the crap she "stars" in and the "music" she makes, and her voluminous sexcapades, but who the hell is Mischa Barton? There's the Hilton fortune, but I don't think there is old Barton money.

Paris has money and is making money; what about you, Mischa? Your finances are dwindling at record pace, I can see from the clothes you wear and your vacant expression. Get a job. Please go away.
"Sport Utility Vehicle"? Please. These Shitty modes of transportation should be Unequivically abolished. I'm so tired of idiots taking up two parking spaces, or even worse parking their behemoth Vessel in a "small car only" space! These gas-guzzling monstrosities are usually not carrying camping equipment, construction tools, or furniture. No, they are carrying shopping bags, groceries, dry-cleaning and/or children. What happened to using one's own craftiness to fit many items into a four-door CAR? Caring about the environment and one's own wallet?

Since they are not taking steps, let's do it for them. Let's take a stand; let's shame them into getting out of their look-at-me- i-don't-care-how-much-gas-costs-I-am-all-man-I'll-show-you vehicles. Don't damage property or use violence, just embarrassment. I propose there is a standard sign that should be placed on to ALL parked S.U.V's windshield wipers.; a 3"x5" laminated card, stating in bold letters, "I AM A NINCUMPOOP", no expletives are necessary. Should you see one of these offensive drivers on the road, don't scream at them or incite road rage, just nod at them and give them a knowing look.

And as for the owners of Hummers...... well, this is the closest the dickless will get to a blowjob. Let them be. They're in their own private hell.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Street Cred: This is Where the Healing Begins

My therapist’s office is in a snooty part of San Francisco, Pacific Heights. I was reading the newspaper yesterday and I saw that Sacramento Street, where his office is, is having a little street fair of sorts. Saturday and Sunday all the retail businesses will line the street with tables and racks of high-end clothes and products at a discount, although the prices are still ridiculous.

Last night I was trying to go to sleep when an idea hit me; why not have a therapy table on Sacramento Street as well? Why can’t the psychiatrists and psychologists sell their wares as well? No, it’s not clothes, toys, or shampoos- it’s mental help for those who want or need it, and fast!

But this is not a fly-by-night-operation; rather, this is a well thought out clinic run by trained professionals in the mental medicine world eager to help those in need, while forging a lasting bond with the community through caring and compassion. The neighborhood will learn that help is only steps away; therapy can be helpful and whole lot of fun!

My therapist told me that these street fairs happen in the summer and right before the holidays. This is perfect; the summertime will be great and the holidays even better. In the summer, people can stroll by the therapy tables as they shop for “bargains”; they might be shopped out, or just stressed out that there is nothing decent to buy. The psychologists and psychiatrists are taking it to the streets, but therapy is not a brief stop; talking to someone who actually listens can bring problems to light. Holiday time is infamous for being a lonely, terrible time for some people, while others are celebrating. . Not only can these poor souls pour out their problems to the caring professionals, but they can also get their holiday shopping done! And for everyone else, it’s just a nice break during all the hectic holiday shopping, offering a nice break during all the holiday shopping, some special time to relax, regroup, and gather their thoughts with a therapist. Multitasking at its finest.

I am getting ahead of myself; there must be some ground rules laid out before this kind of sensitive operation can begin. Any therapies are to be paid beforehand at a separate table; the therapists do not handle monetary transactions. A cashier accepts, with proper I.D., cash and checks. No credit cards accepted.

The attire of the therapists plays an important role in setting the tone of the street therapy. As this is a street fair, casual clothes are encouraged for the therapists. Casual wear also helps to make the doctors more approachable for the hesitant or first-time patient, helping them to realize that facing one’s fears and feelings are not so scary. It is acceptable for the doctors to wear flip-flops and shorts. Tank tops are not allowed, as back hair and unshaved armpits can get in the way of therapy as some patients may find it objectionable and distasteful, causing them to fixate on this rather than tackling their own problems.

The therapy table itself should be explained as it has exact specifications. The table will be six feet long, big enough to comfortably seat two therapists- one female and one male. The table will have one partition dividing the two doctors, thus giving a sense of privacy to the patients. Each doctor has on their side of the table: a small clock facing away from the patient, a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses; a flip sign to alert passersby, “IN SESSION”, is also supplied so there are no awkward intrusions.

Therapy sessions are to be ten minutes, or for more consultation and a higher fee, twenty minutes. Advice is dispensed, problems are listened to, and appointments are made for in-office visits. Sidewalk therapy is for small problems; this kind of therapy is not intended for deep depression and cases of molestation, which requires years of intense therapy and sometimes medication.

Special private consultations can be arranged, i.e. a leisurely walk around the block, or a chat on a quiet side street. As the doctors will be busy trying to help a lot of people, there will be a thirty-minute time limit. A back-up doctor will be available to “pinch hit” if one of the doctors is away on an around-the-block call.

To open each therapy session, the doctor will ask each patient, “Would you like a glass of refreshing glass of fresh squeezed lemonade?”, and pour into glasses as needed. This opening will really loosen things up so they can get down to business, tackle tough issues, and quench thirst.

Sacramento Street is full of psychiatrist and psychologist offices, and only a few of the doctors will be able to cover the therapy table. So to heighten the feelings of camaraderie, warm feelings, and good will along the street, the rest of the mental care professionals will be working a dunking booth. Everyone can take out their aggressions on the gamely doctors; for $2, which benefits Drew Prep’s Lacrosse team, they have a chance at hitting the bull’s eye. By hitting the target, the therapist is dropped from the chair have been sitting on into a huge tub of water at the “Shrink a Shrink” booth.

Everyone wins; whether it’s discounted Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, an adorable dress for your daughter at Dottie Doolittle’s, a Stieff teddy bear, or some enlightenment, the Cheap Chic ‘n’ Shrink Street Fair is worth a visit. Clear out your closets for new clothes, clear your mind for peace.

Freebound

I’m tired of being the shoulder you cry on, the person to lean on until someone else fills the void. You want a doormat to wipe your shit on, someone to clean you up and prepare you for the next perp? Okay, I’ll do it; I’ll do it so you feel good again, you can conquer your next conquest. But this it’s gonna cost you; you drain me, now I’ll drain you of your finances. We will both be refreshed and rejuvenated because some guy made you feel empty inside; I came in to save you and I lined my pockets. Thanks friend.

LoveMatch.com

lovematch.com


SWSM, 38, searching for a special lady for a meaningful relationship, and, hopefully, marriage and a family.

Me- Misunderstood white supremacist. There's a sensitive teddy bear hiding underneath this gruff exterior and tattoos, will you be the one to reveal it? Caring, financially secure gentleman who prefers the whiter side of life. Love to hike, strum my guitar, play with my two Pit Bulls, Juniper and Wesley, and share a bottle of Merlot with YOU while we watch the sun go down then snuggle under the stars.
You- A white, fertile young lady, 16-21, who loves to live, love, laugh, and share. Old fashioned girl who wants a good man to give emotional support to, white children, and a nice home life.

Must share a common goal of continuing the purebred white race, and a love of "Three's Company" reruns.

Here is my picture. Why not give me yours, and give me a try? If not, best of luck, and happy hunting! #82099

What if...

What if…


There was no voter fraud in the election of the 43rd President of the United States?

Marty Maraschino saw one her scented sheets of stationary being wasted by Sandy in her feeble attempt to erase a vision of Danny in a plastic pool, following an even more feeble song, “Hopelessly Devoted to You”?

Barry Bonds was white?

Contrary to George Michael’s belief, guilty feet do HAVE rhythm?

Hmmmm…

Monday, October 09, 2006

Letter to Peter Magowan...

You ask what we, your faithful season ticket holders, the one we thing we might do to improve our experience at AT&T Ball Park. One thing? Not possible. I am not talking about the team, I wouldn't presume to think I can offer good advice concerning baseball. Here's my list of proposed improvements:

1.) Keeping the aisles clear of people, the ushers should be far more helpful in getting these people seated so the rest of us can watch the game!
2.) Stressing the importance of not interfering with a ball in play. Perhaps it should be explained why they are ruining the game. Punishment might include publc ridicule on the jumbotron or flogging. Perhaps Lou Seal could beat these "fans" as entertainment for the kids?
3.) Ranelle needs to town her voice down- we don't need her YELLING to get excited!
4.) Way too many vendors clogging the aisles- with the same items. And the vendors are kinda sad- no hustle; you're not going to see them carrying boxes of food and beverages on their heads. No, they're moseying down the aisles, some wearing back support belts to carry licorice ropes and Cracker Jacks!
5.) Ball Dudes. Let's patronize the elderly as they trip, fall, boggle, and just plain embarrass themselves. And when they finally get to the baseball, why does some snot-nosed kid ALWAYS get the ball?

To sum up, some of us are there to see baseball, not to run up before they stop selling beer, wave at friends across the park while we blather on our cell phones, constantly get up for MORE beer, and stand in the aisles trying to figure out where we're sitting, oblivious to the fact that we are BLOCKING THE GAME! No matter how they are playing, WE ARE THERE FOR THE GIANTS!

It is my world and you are lucky to live in it...

This "blog" is in no way organized, has no central thought or idea; it is just a place to post rants, raves, and kooky writing. The theme is.... BRIEF.