Archive for November, 2009

I Want My Racecar Bed

November 30, 2009

Last Thursday, I went to my aunt and uncle’s house for a Thanksgiving dinner.  As we waited to stuff ourselves, my uncle and I started having a conversation about Christmas, specifically Christmas presents.  I started telling him about all the presents I either never got or forgot to ask for throughout my childhood.  How did I go so many years without ever putting Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots on my list?  Why did no one take me seriously when I told them how bad I wanted a drum set and Tinker Toys?  And why the hell did I never ask for a racecar bed?

As I ran down the list of 1980’s “could’ve been” Christmas gifts, my uncle stopped me in the middle of my rant and said…

“I can build you one of those.”

“Build me what,” I asked.

“That bed,” he replied.

“You can build me a queen-sized racecar bed” I asked, as an innocent whimsy began to take over.

“Yeah, sure.  Just draw it up for me.”

The conversation ended and I turned to my fiancée Jackie, who saw the overwhelming happiness in my eyes.  For some reason, she agreed to not only let this happen, but also help me draw up an idea.  Good thing considering my art skills are like that of an arthritic monkey with down syndrome.

I went home that night and began to think about what this bed could look like.  Like a bisexual in a crowded room, the possibilities are endless.  Though I have no problem settling for a racecar bed, I’d ideally like this thing to look more like a ’57 Chevy.  Other than that, my imagination is the limit.

Well, apparently a decade’s worth of Jameson turns childlike wonderment into a blank catatonic stare, because I can’t think of a goddamn thing.  This, valued reader, is where you come in.

I’m not sure if this bed will ever truly come to fruition, but lets not take any chances. Outside of maybe a radio, I can’t think of any cool accessories, nuances, or other ideas to make this the most bestest racecar bed ever (it’ll probably one of the only queen-sized beds of its kind).  So if you can think of any ways to make an awesome bed even awesomer, leave me a comment and let me know.  Be as ridiculous as you want.  If it’s moderately cheap, I just might use it.


If I Didn’t Have A Day Job

November 23, 2009

If I didn’t have a day job

I’d need no good luck charm

I’d wake up every morning

Without that fucking alarm

I’d live a life of leisure

Feeling like the richest man

I’d get on out and see the world

And maybe finally get a tan


If I didn’t have a day job

Time would be of no concern

Spending hours with my fiancée

With nothing but hours to burn

More time for conversation

And more time to reflect

And, of course, most importantly

Perhaps more time for sex


If I didn’t have a day job

I’d write more everyday

Honing any skill I have

And maybe getting paid

Penning lines of poetry

And penning lines of prose

Penning the wonders of this world

And how much Twilight blows


If I didn’t have day job

I’d sit strumming my guitar

Realizing any song I write

Eclipses 30 Seconds To Mars

Yes, if I didn’t have a day job

My disposition would be so sunny

But I have a fucking day job

So here’s a gross dead bunny

Cough It Up

November 19, 2009

Everyone has their own take on Mr. Pink’s tipping policy in Reservoir Dogs.  If you’re one of the few people who has not seen it, here’s the scene:

If you’ve ever worked as a server, I’ll bet you can’t make it through that scene without shaking your head at Mr. Buscemi.  Well, before you unleash your anger on a fictional character; get a load of these two assholes.

To those of you who still scoff at “tipping automatically,” please allow me to school you.  First of all, one big part of Mr. Pink’s argument is false, at least it is here in Milwaukee: Most waiters and waitresses do NOT make minimum wage.  In fact, their hourly rate is well below it.  These people depend on tips to get to minimum wage, not just for extra cash.

As for those two retards in the second video, they should’ve known that gratuity would be added to their check.  It’s common knowledge that most restaurants slap you with an automatic gratuity charge (usually 15 to 20 percent) for all parties of six or more.  If you’re not prepared to pay it, stay home and stop ruining other people’s lives.

In case you couldn’t tell, I know a lot of people who work in the service industry, and I have the utmost respect for their jobs; mainly because I fucking hate dealing with people and would probably lose my shit after an hour in their work shoes.  And it’s because of this that I typically over-tip.  Well, that and to offset the actions of Mr. Pink, Douchey McCollege, and his “soon-to-be-overbearing-pageant-mom” girlfriend from the aforementioned videos.

So the next time you’re thinking of going out for a bite, remember…

If you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to go.