Garage Sale

August 2006

Are you out of your high-priced mind? Have you ever heard of the Dollar Store? You watch me, eagle-eyed, fearing that I may want to abscond with your lovely “Once You’re Over The Hill, You Pick Up Speed” coffee mug, rather than pay the oh-so-reasonable sum of two dollars. Again: have you been to a Dollar Store? Ever?

Are you aware of the bust? Nobody wants your Crockpot, priced handsomely at ten smackers. Here’s a hint: I have already seen seven CrockPots in my journeys today; you aren’t getting rid of that thing unless you pay someone to make it disappear. People who have the time to meander down serpentine suburban tracts in search of a house with a garage door open and balloons on the mailbox do not need to slow-cook their turkey chili all day long. Oh, I guess a few may want to; It all feels so trendy and housewifily efficient, but they already have two CrockPots, then. They don’t need your old avocado green model, circa 1972.

Those of you with a husband home to help sell your overpriced crap: send him back to work! He makes me nervous, trying to convince me of the usefulness of all that Windows95 compatible software that he’s pushing. Garage sales are chiefly the territory of old women, young mothers, middle-aged mothers, Russian immigrants, Vietnamese immigrants, nameless Eastern European country immigrants, and creepy guys of an undetermined age who haunt the sales looking for camera equipment and the possibility of cheating someone out of valuable antiques. Your young ambitious fathers and husbands try to run garage sales like a Fortune 500 company, what with the computer-generated price tags and all. I hate you.

Furthermore, where is all the good stuff? Did it go to those damned retiree early birders? The slackjaw yokels in the truck jam-packed with three rooms’ worth of oak furniture? Why continue your enterprise when all that is left is musty camping equipment and your son’s hockey paraphernalia, scent included? You could at least put a warning flag out for those of us who wish to not waste our time!

Finally, those of you selling “All Baby Crap, Nothing but Baby Crap”, please just stop. I have no more babies to clothe or lavish with toys. I don’t need you putting an enticing ad in the local Penny Saver, drawing me fourteen miles out into the wilderness, only to be met by liquor box after liquor box filled with Onsides and baby socks. You make my blood boil. And no, I don’t want to purchase a cup of questionably-prepared liquid from your crumb-covered little darling. If I were the Health Inspector, I’d shut down your damn kitchen.

Thank you,

A Concerned Shopper


McDonald Exposed!

We grew up knowing Ronald McDonald as this happy go – lucky successful clown. Always happy, chillin with Mayor McCheese and the Hamburgler. How times have changed! Recently a “new” ad has come out with a more health conscious Ronald. But it is not the same clown. It is an imposter!

What is this world coming to when you have to replace “Ronald McDonald”? Well we have the story. It seems the real Ronald after years of cheeseburgers and fries along with the strip clubs and booze could no longer deliver that happy go – lucky clown image. In fact, it is rumored that Ronald has a crack addiction. Our investigation has revealed that Ronald has several health problems along with many STD’s. Friends close to Ronald say that he has recently been dealing with genital warts. Can Ronald turn his life around? Was the Jareed pitch too much for him to swallow? We recently caught up with Ronald, but he declined to comment.

Truth or Dare

It was a pretty fun game we used to play on the old site. Here is an example of a lovely young lady that played along..


Lawn Jocky

October, 2005

“Can I ask a favor” she said? I have been interested in this girl for sometime but I kept getting the “lets be friends” signal. So today when she asked if I could go help out her grandmother with her yard I jumped at the opportunity to score some brownie points and maybe do a little showing off while I was at it.

I took off early and met her there. Granny was cool and I caught a glance of her giving Monica a “wink”. This was a good sign I thought as I headed out to tackle the leaves then mow the lawn. The leaves were all collected up as Monica and Granny watched from the patio. I went to the garage to get the mower, which was one of those ride on kind. How much easier could it get? I mount the thing (I said mount) and checked out all of the contraptions. For the record, I have never in my life operated one of these ride on mowers, but hey, I am a guy it should be a breeze.

It had a steering wheel and pedals; any moron could understand what was going on. I quickly read the starting instructions and turned the key. The engine roared to life (as much as a lawn engine can roar) and I idled out onto the lawn and into view of my audience. Concentrating on the performance rather than the lawn I decided to take off my shirt. I did it in my best Patrick Swayze and felt the eyes staring.


I put the thing in gear, and assuming it was like a push mower I punch the accelerator to full throttle. If you have never ridden one of these they go pretty fast. The thing takes off like a bat out of hell. I am holding on for dear life. I panic and decide to steer it like a car as I am racing along the yard. Me taking the wheel sent it teetering all about. I believe that I was shrieking at this point as it picked up speed. I notice out of the corner of my eye that neighbors are gathering and now pointing. I look down and see it, a brake pedal. Maybe there was still time to save face.

I pull my leg around and STOMP on the brake pedal. What I did not realize at the time was that it was actually the emergency stop. Stop it did, instantly. Off the seat I went, up and over the hood of this thing. As if I were in slow motion I saw the ground coming. I hit, bounced and plowed face first into Granny’s lawn.

Dazed, I gather myself up. I felt road rash, or rather grass rash along the side of my face. My chest was all green as if I slide into an imaginary grassy home plate. My pants were torn over my right knee and my head now throbbed. Up onto all fours, then straight up, I look around at what seemed liked a hundred people looking at me trying their best not to laugh. As I stood there dumbfounded and embarrassed, Monica and Granny walk towards me. Granny, with disgust on her face mounts the lawn monster, cranks it up and proceeds to tend to the lawn. I look towards Monica for some sign of understanding. “Thanks a lot” she says and walks past me. At that moment the crowd that had gathered all began to clap in unison.

I learned a valuable lesson today.

But as I sit here sipping a cocktail bruised, battered and feeling sorry for myself, I could not tell you what that lesson was.

Back from the ER

Nov, 2005

For those of you that know me, or have read this blog you know that I like to share with you my bowels and the movement of said bowels. You will also know that I do not like “Away Games”, meaning I like to crap exclusively on my own toilet unless it is absolutely an emergency. Well this was and turned out to be a bigger emergency than I had planned for.
{Disclaimer – I know that I some times tend to take the liberty of stretching the facts in some of my posts. For the record, this is 100% an accurate account of such events}

I left work and headed over to a friend’s house. We were to go out and catch a movie and a bite to eat. We both arrived at said friend’s house from work about the same time. Said friend wanted to take a shower and change before we headed out. No problem. While said friend was showering, I had the urge, the one that you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you can not ignore. The eye watering, gut wrenching, gas bubble of a shit in the works. I knew we were on the road, but this game would have to be played. Luckily, said friend had a guest bathroom. I figured that I could get in and out without being noticed. I get into the guest bathroom, undo the belt, release the button, and drop trou. Before my ass can hit the seat the rush of release came. As uncommon as it is for me to be in this position, the relief I felt was beyond words. It was an almost orgasmic feeling as I purged the poisons within my bowels. Once the quivering subsided and I knew the mission had been accomplished, I was proud that this time I was victorious at the away game. In my haste however, I hadn’t the time to do the usual 10 point inspection of the surroundings insuring that it was safe to unload.


MISTAKE NUMBER ONE. In my haste to complete the deposit and get outta there before said friend realized I was taking a huge dump in their guest bathroom, I failed to notice that there was no clean up material. Not even an empty roll. I quickly went through the cabinets searching for something that I could use. Nothing! There I sat unclothed in the most undignified position with out anything to wipe my ass with.


MISTAKE NUMBER TWO. I picked up the container and was relieved. Said friend had seemed to move into the modern age and instead of the old boring ass wipeage, said friend had the latest and greatest tool for ass wiping. “Clean up Wipes” the container said. “Lemon scented and quilted”. It sounded very refreshing!
On our way to the movie, I got a burning sensation that words can not describe. My ass was literally on fire. Over what seemed like seconds, it spread to my whole crotch area, too include the twins. Said friend asked what was wrong. I barely could catch my breath to explain the events in my nether regions. I explained to said friend that I must be having an allergic reaction to the toilet wipes. I quickly explained the away game to said friend in which, said friend began laughing hysterically. Said friend suggested that we make our way to the closest ER. Said friend explained that the “Clean up wipes” that I had used on my ass and nether region were actually bathroom cleaning supplies.
I write to you, back from the ER, humiliated as each and every person there tried unsuccessfully not to bust out laughing. My anus is swollen to the size of a tennis ball (probably more like the size of a golf ball, but it feels much worse) and I have a chemical burn across my ass and other “Important” areas.
Just thought that I would share that.

Have I fallen for the “Geek Squad” Girl

July, 2006

After several attempts and much frustration, it had gotten the better of me. I am not a patient person by nature, and it is a wonder that the thing isn’t in a million little pieces, but after the fifth attempt of reloading and yet crashing once again, I knew that this would call for an expert if I were to rid the demons from my Dell. I am convinced at this point that Microslop and Dell are in cahoots together to provide shady products they no longer make mega profits on so that they can rake in the cash from service items and repairs. I needed an expert. I was not going to call “Sangie” again in India for him to tell me to “reboot”. I have rebooted the fucker hundreds of times. I needed a plan. I took the advice of the blog world and as much as it killed me, I called the “Geek Squad”. The same little fuckers that I once tormented, harassed and cheated from in school, I would now call upon and rely on to fix my problem, to make things right. What irony.

I perused the yellow pages and found the number. I dialed the number, hoping that they would not recognize my voice (you never know). “Walter” answered the phone and I explained my problem. I inquired about pricing and that set him off on a geek tangent. He began talking hard drives, ram, gigs, boards and cards. My head was spinning. He continued on with trojans, exe files, worms and BLAH, fucking BLAH. I stopped Walter mid sentence with “How much to just check the thing out”. There was a pause. I heard the flipping of pages and finally Walter tells me the price for them to come to my house to check it verses the price of me taking it in. FYI, Mike is a cheap bastard and I told Walter that I would be in.

I carried the Dell into the “Geek Squad” location and up to the “Geek Squad” counter. I was greeted by an odd sort of girl. Her hair was dyed pitch black and although she sported the “Geek Squad” buttoned down shirt, the rest of her get up was comprised of a plaid skirt with black stockings and big ass chunky shoes. The ones with the 8 inch slab of rubber for a heel. Although she was odd looking and defiantly a “Geek Squader” I found her rather pleasant to look at. I explained my situation and frustration and how my exorcism had failed. We carried the Dell into the operating room and she opened it up. She stared loading discs and crap into it and connected it to the life support unit and went to work. I watched her work and noticed that this “Geek” had quite the rack on her, “The Guns of The Navarone”. She hid it well under the “Goth”, “pippylongstocking” look, but they were there. I was my usual self, cracking jokes and such and over the half hour I was there with her, we connected. She said that my mother thingie was something or another and a card was needed and so on. She said it would take about a week to get all of the parts and warranty stuff in, but would be no problem. I asked her jokingly if she could deliver it back to me in one of the “Geek Bugs”. Our eyes locked for what seemed an eternity and she smiled and said “Sure”. What day and time should I come by? Floored, with both feet in my mouth, never expecting that reaction, I stammered and stuttered and told her any time the following week. I gave her my number and told her to give me at least a 24 hour notice. As I handed the sheet over to her our skin grazed and again, time stopped as we stared at one another.

 The entire way home I had visions of “Geek Squad Sex”. Hundreds of scenarios played out in my head. By the time that I got home I had convinced myself that I had made more of it than what had really happened. I got home and noticed I had a voice message. It was her “Geekiness”. She confirmed the delivery of the parts and called and left me a day and time she would be over. She ended it with “Looking forward to seeing you again”. Can it be

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