Job Hunt

Lately I have been doing a lot of soul searching.  Walks on the beach, pensive thinking, that kind of shit.  Mostly the kind of activities that get you in trouble for "alleged" cruising.  The point is,  I've been trying to figure out what my next career move should be. You don't build a resume like mine by not thinking things through.  I am one strategic move away from screaming checkmate or Yatzy.   I'm lazy, never finish anything, and most importantly hate everyone, but does that mean I don't deserve to make three figures?  Exactly.  That's why I've decided to play up my strengths.  I placed the following ad on craigslist today:

My Ad

I should be rich by the weekend.  

Get me a coffin, honky

A little while ago I wrote a post about how George Jefferson had passed on to the great dry cleaner in the sky.  I think he fell into a giant washing machine or something like that.  It was a sad time for our nation.  After months of grieving, I still have a hard time dropping my shirts to be pressed.  Many people might not know this, but George was only buried two weeks ago.  Apparently there was a fight over his $50,000 estate which included his remains.  Yes you read that right, $50,000.  His half brother and some lady he lived with were fighting over the body like the $50,000 was inside it like a giant black pinata.  Thankfully it has all been settled now, and George has been laid to rest and is finally able to rejoin Weezie in the hereafter.

I'm not trying to be a racist*, but I do wonder, why when a famous black person dies, does their family always fight over the body?  James Brown, Michael Jackson, George Jefferson, Larry Hagman, all these famous black people end up sitting in a refrigerator somewhere while their families argue over the corpse.  Am I missing something?  Toss the body in the closest dumpster and clear out the back account with an ATM card.  I mean if it's good enough for my parents it's good enough for Bernie Mac.

*Seriously, not a racist.

Douchebag Advertising

I think in polite society it is best to meet a person face to face before you hate them.  Fine, I'm lying.  I can hate someone just by the shirt they're wearing.  With that in mind, why do people make it so easy for me to show my true feelings.  In the course of a morning, I passed the following idiots:

 

Until I figure out a way to fit NAZI HUNTER on a plate, I just don't see the point.

Rat does cheese

I have vivid memories of my youth.  My parents were deeply in love, New Jersey winters never got below 60 degrees, and Chuck E Cheese next to Bradlees in Hackensack was the shit.  I remember insisting on having my birthday there, year after year, even the year my birthday fell on Yom Kippur (Oct 6th, 1984). I'm Reform so it's ok.

Everything about my childhood might be a lie but this is how I remember it.  Chuck E Cheese was this dark cavernous place that had miles of video games (Zaxon, Star Wars), and a ball pit 8 feet deep.  It was a place where my ADHD was embraced.  Sure, I was yelled at for punching an animatronic rat in the face and for jumping out of a helicopter ride when it was five feet off the ground, but that doesn't mean it wasn't awesome.  It was a time when hand sanitizing consisted of wiping pizza grease on your dad's leg while trying to avoid being ashed on.  Yup, you could smoke there.  There were no bracelets, to identify whose kid was whose.  Hell, if your parents came home with the same group of kids they brought, the party was considered lame.  It was a simpler time.  A time when buying weed off a twelve year old was normal.

With all that in mind, you can see why I would be happy when my three year old asked me to go to Chuck E Cheese the other day.  I finally could settle that score I had with Jasper T. Jowls, while my daughter  learned to swim in a ball pit that surely hadn't been cleaned since the Reagan administration.  Sadly though, neither dream could be realized.  The rabid rat has become nothing more than timid mouse.  Where once stood Donkey Kong lies Mario Cart.  Where once was a ball pit, there is a slide. Where once was a greasy Italian making fresh pizza is a microwave serving stouffer's.  Where there once was darkness, there are lightbulbs.  Sure the animatronic rat is still there, but my daughter felt a wave was better than punch.  What has the world come to?  They stamped our hands when we walked in and asked my daughter who I was when we left to ensure I wasn't stealing her. Come on people, we were the only white ones there.

This really is making me rethink where to have my 38th birthday.



*I just realized, it might have been Showbiz Pizza where I had all my birthdays growing up.  I can't remember anything correctly.

House Keeping

No turndown service.  No mint on your pillow.   Just a couple of quick notes before the real house keeper comes and starts to question why your toothbrush is in my ass.

Due to my lack of posting,  I thought about closing shop, firing all the employees and starting anew in Argentina.  Then of course I remembered, no employees, no shop, hell I'm not even wearing pants. And don't get me started on Argentina.  If for some reason you are still reading, may God have mercy on your soul.

If you really do care, I will let you know a couple of things:

1. I plan to blog more. (lies)
2. Mitt Romney won the popular vote. (no clue)
3. I plan to combine this blog with Barry Ride part douche.  (maybe)
4. Due to the above this blog is going to become even douchier. (true)
5. Steak-umms are amazing. (definitely)