MADE ....to make people like me

Has anyone seen this ridiculous show on MTV? I know everyone has but wants to pretend they haven't, so in order to keep up appearances I'll give you a quick synopsis- Fat and/or ugly and/or handicapped and/or impoverished kid wants to do one thing: Make people like them through the cunning use of the "oh shit, there's a camera- be nice to the weirdo" tactic. It sucks. I've seen maybe 30 collective minutes of it, and all of them made me want to vomit all over the VP of Programming at MTV. I would, of course, video tape the entire ordeal and then sell it to MTV as a new show called "Vomitin' on the Veep"

On one show, a homely Minnesotan girl wanted to be a champion wakeboarder. She was overweight, had a seering crush on some kid at her school, had never been out on a lake, and was about as coordinated as me two hours into a beer pong game. Could they do it? Could MTV make her a star? Short answer, yes. Long answer, no. You figure it out.

The show contained all the requisite shots, you see. There are the "ohmigod, look at her" shots from the popular girls in the beginning, the "Rocky" montage, and the "wow, you've come so far in life in the past month- want to come to our neat kegger?" shots at the end. I like to call this Dante's Trifecta, cuz someone's going to hell for subjecting humanity to it.

I'm pretty sure this is what the passed script and shooting schedule looks like for an episode of this show.

MADE
Air date 3/12/06
Written by Satan & Minions

Narrative: "Tiffany is a poor, ugly lesbian from Nebraska. She wants nothing more than to be a cheerleader and get porked by graduation." -scratch the last part about porking. too transparent.

Let's get some stock footage of skinny girls pointing at fat girls and insert it here. Get one of those cool shots where we follow her down the hall and people pretend she doesn't exist, those are always fun. Find and interview the school's resident anti-lesbian chick. I know, I know, who doesn't like lesbians, but just get some chick with too much dark eye makeup.

Interview Clip: Focus the interview on how hard it is to be a "plus sized" girl in today's world. Try not to mention that she has bad acne, too. If we can, we should probably have her cry a little. Not a big cry, but one of those delayed cries where she talks about something heartfelt and then has to... take a break... and... cry... a little. You know? The whole "it's like we're not filming it because it's so real, but we are filming it" moments. God I love those.

Narrative: "Well, Tiffany. You got your chance. MTV wrangled up the best and the brightest of the cheerleading world to help you make your dream come true!"

btw, we need to try to find some losers who cheerlead for a living. Tell them we'll pay them extra to be seen with this chick.

Interview Clip: Get said losers to talk about how hard it is to be a cheerleader (hah) and that her BMI is too high or something. Give some sort of goal you can get 90% of the way to in 30 days... make sure she can't totally reach it, though. If it's a weight loss thing, we can always toss cheeseburgers at her during the last week of filming if she gets too close to success. Lists are good. If there's a list published on some teacher's door at the end (cast for a play, people who made the team, etc.) we can always get that 'disappointed, yet triumphant' shot at the end when she's not on it. I mean, I'm not trying to be negative, but have you seen this chick?

Shots of her training to be a cheerleader. Make sure she tries really hard stuff on her first day and falls flat on her face. Classic. Oh, and put her on a seaweed diet... yeah, that'd be funny. Get shots of her drinking seaweed. Someone gets a bonus if we catch her puking on film.

Interview Clip: Standard "I hate my trainer", "this is hard", "I miss my friends" stuff. Keep this going for about 30 minutes.

Insert the clips of people starting to notice she's lost weight, has a cleared-up complexion, is really cool, blah blah in here. Don't actually ask them to speak, just make sure you get good tight shots of them staring at her ass. Oh, and THIS IS PARAMOUNT: Make sure they know there's a camera on them!! If they don't know, they'll just be normal and blow her off. Pay the head cheerleader to tell her she shouldn't give up. Arrange for a party at our expense, make sure some cute guy invites her, preferably the one she has a crush on. Oh wait, she's a lesbian.. make it a cute girl. See if we can get them to kiss. No tongue or we'll have to show it after 10pm.

Interview Clip: "Wow, she's working so hard! I totally respect her now!" etc. Grab some stock footage if there isn't enough fresh crap.

Film the try-outs for whatever she's doing. It was cheerleading, right? Cool. Get some, uh, good angles. Pensive shots of judges are always key, as is making sure we show the entire routine of the one chick that's actually good. Get the fatty to look intimidated. I dunno, tell her if she fails someone will shoot Ronald McDonald.

Narrative: "...and now the waiting game begins. Tiffany has worked so hard for the past 30 days, but was it enough? She almost reached her goal weight, almost pulled off a back-handspring, and almost won her battle with psoriasis. But was it enough?"

NO! Hahahah. Man, people are suckers. Okay, um, there should be the list I talked about somewhere. See if you can get the coach posting it, then the girls running up to it the next day. PLEASE get me a close-up of the tear coming out of the corner of her eye when she sees she's not on it. Last time we had to settle for that shot of the back of that retarded kid's head when he realized he wasn't cast in Pippin. I'm not pointing any fingers, TODD, but maybe we should get a good director of photography for this one.

Interview Clip: Technically I'm not supposed to script this since that whole Laguna Beach fiasco, but I wouldn't cry if someone maybe fed her the idea for this line: "My best may not be good enough for them, but it's good enough for me." I tried getting that one-armed wanna-be gymnast to say it, but his best literally wasn't good enough for anybody-HAH... speaking of which, how creepy is it that his mom invited us to the wake? Anyway, make sure she's upbeat about being a failure. One of these days we should let a kid succeed. Nah.

Slow-mo clips of people cheering for the cheerleader, maybe get them to allow her to do one cheer during a game. God forbid she's the top of the pyramid, but she'd make a good base. Make sure we get an official cheerleading outfit for her, and have the coach present it as some sort of 'great spirit' award or something. Do they make those in XXL? Fade in random clips of her family and some of her weird goth/emo friends smiling. Have anti-lesbian chick from the first segment come up, cry about how enlightened she is, and hug her. Bonuses all around if she gives her a quick feel-up.

On second thought, this one needs a little more depth. Maybe some tragedy? Can we shoot her dog right before filming?

50 Ways to Bring Down a Commercial Aircraft (read up, Osama)

Cruising unconsciously at 38,000 feet yesterday, I heard a sound that shook me to the core of my being. It ripped me out of my sleep and made my heart race like that of a hummingbird on crack. A gunshot. And another.

I was sitting in the bulkhead, and it came from the galley of the 757. Right by the door to the cockpit. Once my eyes had once again acclimated to the light, I saw what had made the noise... the stewardess. She was throwing giant bags of ice on the floor to break them up so she could serve drinks. Is there NO better way to do this? Are you telling me that on a seventy-five million dollar aircraft, they couldn't find a way to break up chunky ice for the flight crew?

The damn machine can melt one-inch-thick ice caps off the leading edges of wings travelling at 450kts and 50,000 feet... but it can't break two cubes apart without scaring the living shit out of me.

And that brings me to my point: I hate jerks. That's right, jerks. Jerks are the reason we're throwing bags of ice on the floor. Why? No ice picks. Because of jerks with utility knives, the flight crew is only aloud to break ice with instruments that posess all the rigidity of osteoporotic femurs.

The first time I flew post-9/11, I asked for a lime with my club soda. "How do you think we're supposed to cut limes now?" was the response I got. I'm pretty sure my saying, "On the ground before they get to the plane?" wasn't helpful, but it should've been. I got upgraded to first class on a flight and was stuck using plastic silverware. Even the carrots in the dish had been dulled at the tip so as to pose no threat. This is ridiculous. I can think of fifty ways to take down a damn plane, none of them involving sharp objects. Are we going to start banning asthma inhalers? Pieces of fishing line? Cameras? Hats? Very small rocks? Not a chance.

All it takes is one guy to go all McGyver on an airplane, and we'll find ourselves in straight jackets sucking on endotracheal tubes. It's bad enough that I have to sit there eating my dull carrots with a spoon as I sip on a lime-free club soda, but general anesthesia I will not allow!

This post, much like my carrots, has no point.

Sage

I know I'm on vacation and shouldn't be posting, but my dad said something today that I had to jot down for posterity. Where else but the blog?

The scene: My nose is bleeding. Again. I am, if nothing else, a product of such screwed up genetics that I ended up with my dad's sinuses and my mom's feet (tiny pinky toe, too wide). As I shoved tissues up my nostril to stem the red tide, I made a comment to my dad that resulted in the following conversation.

"Of all things I could inherit, it had to be your nose"
"I'm sorry"
"...I guess it comes along with the rapier wit, right?"
"I'll take credit for that too."

He started to walk away, then turned around and said, "If you're going to be blessed with the ability to make people bleed, you should probably bleed a little yourself."

I had to write this down. Not sure why.

Time out

I'm headed to Indy for the next week and a half, so the odds of me updating this are slim. Of course, knowing the crowd I spend Thanksgiving with, I'll return with plenty to blog about.

One quick note: I requested my car pick me up at 6am. I was told "We'll be there anywhere from 5:45 to 6:15". You know, there's a BIG difference between 5:45 and 6:15, people. For example, one is in the "5AM" hour- which is typically known as the "Holy mother of God I want to go back to sleep" hour. 6AM isn't so bad. It is currently 5:13. Boo.

George

Justice

Karma police, arrest this man.

At the behest of Jon, I am making this post. I believe that given my last post, this one is appropriately named. Warning: This entry is somewhat crude.

Given the subject matter and tone of my previous entries, one could assume that my life out here boarders a bit on the unhealthy and hedonistic side, but that's only about 5% of my life in Las Vegas. Nobody wants to read about the day-to-day rituals of picking up dry cleaning, working, getting the mail, and paying my bills. See? Even that list was boring. I do, however, take care of myself while living here. If you don't count the three-week stint last February during which I had an emergency appendectomy, was diagnosed with strep, and caught the flu, I'm actually pretty healthy.

Each morning, I take a bottle of water and cram into it about 75% of my "needed for healthy living" vitamins, minerals, etc. This includes psyllium fiber, which I have been assured by the two doctors in the family is never a bad thing to ingest on a daily basis. I eat a healthy breakfast, drink my healthy-ass water, and start my day. Considering most of my friends start theirs with a Red Bull and a cigarette, I think this is a pretty healthy alternative.

Last night, I went to the store to stock up on my powdered goodness. I was a little distracted at the time and was pretty much on auto-pilot. Just pick up the fruits and vegetables for the week, grab the supplements, get two cases of water, and I'm on my merry way. Yes, I used self-checkout. I put everything away when I got home, again on auto-pilot.

After getting out of bed this morning, I started warming up my shower and trudged to the kitchen. Considering I am functionally retarded in the morning if I've not had my shower, this will always be the way things go down-- take note, ladies. You can't change me! Anyway... I grabbed an ice-cold bottle of water, poured in my little vitamin packets, and mixed in three heaping spoonfulls of fiber. It's about five times as much as I would normally ingest, but considering my day's plans included a lunch at a steakhouse and dinner at a BBQ joint, I wasn't planning on getting my fill naturally. Like I said before, you can never have too much of a good thing. As I scooped everything into the bottle, I thought to myself, "Self, that's a lot of fiber. Man, your system's getting detoxed today." After the last two weeks, it needed it anyway.

I chugged my Health in a Bottle and took my shower.

*grumble*

What the hell was that? My stomach's grumbling... odd. Oh well, off I go to get dressed and go to wor-

*grumble*

Okay, not cool.

I went to the kitchen to grab some Tums from the cabinet. Just FYI, apparently I'm genetically predisposed to getting an ulcer or GERD, so I chew a couple Tums each day. So far I'm the only one in the family that hasn't had either of the stomach acid-induced curses. Regardless... I opened the cabinet and grabbed the bottle of Tums and started to tap some out of the bottle when something caught my eye. The label of the fiber powder I use had been recently redesigned, apparently. Oh wait, that's not my normal brand. In fact, that's not fiber...

I had purchased and consumed three giant spoonfulls of laxative. Thanks Sean, you jackass.

[Insert 'shit really hit the fan' joke here. While you're at it, think of a witty ending to this post. I need to use the restroom.]

I am going to hell.

I've pretty much cemented this fact by merely living in Las Vegas, but I just had to post my confession to get something off my chest. Here goes.

During my Freshman year, Vanderbilt had a mandatory Community Service program for my major. You had to complete 1-200 hours of community service in the first semester, and write a reflection paper about the experience. My community service activities were pretty meager (built a wheelchair ramp, did dance marathon, some other activities, etc.) and I really had nothing on which to reflect. What do you learn from cutting 2x4s? I never met the woman for whom we built the ramp, so there wasn't much emotional attachment, and Dance Marathon at Vandy wasn't exactly something I would consider community service.

Anyway, since my offerings were somewhat banal, I decided to throw something into my reflection paper to tug a few heart-strings, and thus cement an A in the class. I threw in Sean. Sean, the blind 13 year-old from New York who came out to ski in Breckenridge while I was there on Spring Break. In my paper, I taught Sean to ski and "feel" the beauty of the mountains that he had only previously heard about. Sean said some pretty prophetic things, and was a great kid with the heart of a lion. Sean went to a "regular" school in New York, yet found ways to overcome his handicap. Sean taught me a lot about myself, and that the simple joys in life are the ones we should treasure most. Sean was a great kid.

Sean, of course, did not exist. I mean, I'm sure there are plenty of blind kids from NY named Sean, but I'm pretty sure I didn't teach any of them how to ski.

As our professor handed our papers back after grading them, he turned to me and asked if I would mind sharing my experience. I had to read the paper to the class. A few of the girls in the class almost cried, and the teacher gave me the "slow clap" at the end, telling everyone they could learn from an experience like this. One of my friends in the class knew there was no Sean, and she had to leave the class because tears had formed in her eyes from supressing the laughter. As I said, I'm going to hell.

I had a solid A- in the class until this point (slept through a test), and I didn't claim the service as part of the course requirement. I didn't count the hours, I just threw it in for the story. In a world of wheelchair ramps and dancing for babies, Sean was more the icing on the cake.

So, that's the deal. I made up a handicapped kid and taught him how to ski. Sean, I'm sorry.

America, meet Darwin. Darwin, America.

Okay, so the real point of this post/blog/vent isn't necessarily one of life or death, but it should be. That's right, we're going to discuss self-checkout kiosks at the grocery store, or more appropriately, those who use them.

This entry was sparked by a comment made to me by the nice little woman who works at my local grocery store. "You are so proficient at these," she said "I'll make sure to let you go to the head of the line in the future." How kind. My sheer ability to be adequate has landed me a position ahead of what I can only guess is a steaming pile of mediocracy! Sweet! Why would she tell me this, you ask? Well, you probably didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway. That's the point of a blog.

The use of these machines is fairly simple in theory ("In theory. Everything works in theory. Communism works in theory").

Step 1: Walk up to the little stand with your basket. If you need a cart to haul around your crap, you have too much and should just go stand in line with all the other consumer whores.

Step 2: Scan your shit, put it in the bag. Make sure you put it in the bag, as the machine needs to register that you did, in fact, place it in the bagging area.

a) If it something like a case of coke, just press "Skip bagging" and place it back in your cart.
b) For unmarked produce, place it on the scanner, choose the name of the product, press enter, and place it in your bag.

Step 3: Pay.

Step 4: Leave.

Somehow, we have ended up with additional steps. I don't know how this happened, but it did. The following is based EXACTLY on what I experienced last night. Again for your convenience, I have outlined the new steps below:

Step 1: Bring your cart up the stand. Yeah, you have a cart-load, but you're super-smart and are fully capable of doing this yourself! I mean, if a low-level minimum-wage-earning tard can scan and bag, so can you!

Step 2: Stare at the screen. This could be more complicated than you thought. Do you want English or Spanish? Hmm.

Step 3: Ponder Step 2, choose option.

Step 4: Find a way to start over. You chose Spanish.

Step 5: Scan your bananas. Oh wait, no little barcode on them? Hm.

Step 6: Vacant expression with a hint of exasperation. Stupid technology.

Step 7: Press the "No barcode" button.

Step 8: Contemplate the meaning of the term PLU, ignoring that the screen tells you what it is. Search your bananas for this "PLU" thing. Don't find it.

Step 9: See Step 6.

Step 10: Choose "No PLU". You're so clever.

Step 11: Try to remember the alphabet song to figure out where on the list your "bananas" are. Feel stupid when you realize it's the second letter.

Step 12: Choose "plantanes", because the little picture looks like a banana.

Step 13: Wait. Why didn't it register anything? I have the bananas- they're right here in my hand! Why doesn't it know how much they weigh??

Step 14: Slam bananas down in exasperation. Notice it weighs them. Feel stupid, move on.

Step 15: Hear the voice from the computer say, "Please place your item in a bag". Put bananas back in your cart, triggering "Please put item in bag" dialogue again.

Step 16: See Step 6.

Step 17: On a lark, put bananas in bag. It worked! Okay, this will be easy.

Step 18: Scan items and place them in the bagging area, but not in bags. You're too busy for that, and your time is much too valuable. You'll do it at the end.

Step 19: Drag case of bottled water over scanner.

Step 20: Try to find a way to place the case in the bagging area.

Step 21: Succeed, but you're going to need new bananas.

Step 22: Notice "Skip bagging" option that pops up and lets you put the case in your cart. Sweet!

Step 23: Finish scanning items, begin to bag them.

Step 24: When you lift items to put them in a bag, that nagging "Unexpected Item Removed from Bagging Area" dialogue pops up.

Step 25: Press "Item removed", thereby letting the computer know you don't intend to put it in a bag.

Step 26: Place it in a bag.

Step 27: "Unexpected item in bagging area"

Step 28: See Step 6.

Step 29: Call over attendant.

Step 30: Look behind you, giving the "Gosh, computers are so stupid" expression to everyone behind you.

Step 31: Notice me glaring at you.

Step 32: Get the attendant to scan all of your things, pressing appropriate buttons when required, like a normal intelligent human being.

Step 33: "Aw crap, I forgot my credit card"

Step 34: See Step 6

Step 35: Walk away, leaving your crap.

So what we've essentially done is not remove the middle-man cashier, but we've added a step to the entire 'checking out' process. That step is called "retardation".

I politely informed the attendant last night that they should keep a lane open for those who are capable and show some sort of licensure to use the machines. She agreed, but giggled it off. Stupid bint. If I had my way, you'd get one minute to complete your transaction. If you exceed your time limit, you go back to the end of the line. You're welcome to try as many times as you'd like, but I'm fairly certain that most people will either give up or become marvelously fast after the one-minute time frame is established.

Also, those who exceed twenty seconds for more than one item will be rounded up and shot en masse. If you can't do this, I'd hate to see how you plan on functioning in the real world. This task is so simple and elegant. It was designed to save people time and reward them for being forward-thinking and competent. Instead, it's punishing those of us who "get it". Screw you, hippies, they don't sell Tofurkey Jerky here.

Yours truly,
The Grocery Store Nazi

How could I have forgotten...?

Very easily.

I've been informed that I left out some rather major events from this past weekend (See the entry two below this one), so to atone, I will make you read about them in a new post. All together now: WOOHOO

The first of a handful of glaring omissions would be Tom's impromptu decoration of the Imperial Palace sign. Though I wasn't present for the event, I later saw a picture that was described by Tom as today's "Moment of Zen". Cheeks full of bile, bent over the balcony, Tom let loose on the 'M' of the sign. To anyone standing below, this must have seemed like quite a surprise, though I can assure you it's no the first time it's happened. See the M on the sign to the left? That's the magic spot. It's about twenty feet tall, ten if them in serious need of cleaning.

I would say that the second glaring emission, er, omission would be what Jimmy later did to it, but we'll not rub out that story quite yet.

Since we're not counting that last blurb, official Omission #2 would have to be a snippet from a conversation had at the Forum Shops. In public. I must stress this.

A little background: Tom is a master of the hypotheticals. eg If you had to give up sex, or meat, which would you do? One of those questions attempts to discover if one would prefer giving up oral pleasure, or cheese. Though I am prone to giving these questions a little thought, Jimmy didn't need much before he fired off his answer:

"Cheese. I love me a good BJ".

This might seem like normal conversational banter for the typical college-buddy crowd, and it is, but it is typically reserved for times when said crowd isn't standing next to a FREAKIN' ELEVEN YEAR OLD GIRL. Jimmy thinks she was eleven, and I'm inclined to trust his instinct and experience in this area. We are all at fault for not realizing we were in a very public, very crowded area, but even this verbal ejaculation was perhaps not timed to perfection.

Omission #3: How long can man survive on edible panties alone? We never found out, but I'll be damned if we didn't think it to death. Again, I believe this was a public conversation. The question itself is not all that hard to answer, but the questions that followed gave the conversation a little more depth. My personal favorite discussion was flavors ("Aw honey, you bought tuna again?"), but we also discussed sizes, material composition, etc. I'm not sure if we ever resolved this issue. Jimmy? Tom? Comments?

Omission #4: An in-depth look at SEMA. We're not going to go very deep, but I'll give you some snippets. The first would be Merv's name badge, which if I'm not mistaken said "Marlene" or "Darlene"... something along those lines. Regardless, stocky jewish men don't typically take on monikers of Roseanne characters.

Next would be the amazing Toyota we saw outside. The thing had more bling than Chingy, a Louis Vuitton print, and had sequins glued to every exposed surface. I noticed the sultry Solara and stated that it, "looked like it was raped by a Bedazzler". Overhearing this comment and the subsequent laughter, Coolio got in the car and drove/bumped it away. Nice suspension, too bad you're only parking in two dimensions.

Second-to-last of the SEMA observations would be that Jon turns into a nervous little school girl around women signing autographs and taking hooker-esque pictures. You know, the whole 'wander around, kicking the carpet, half-glance' thing? The one guy I know who is never at a loss for confidence actually looked intimidated by them. That's probably because he's not used to paying for sex, so broaching the subject could've been potentially awkward.

Finally, there was the Saturn. Ah yes, t'was a warm yellow, like the twinkle of dew on marigolds in the morning... plus about two hundred feet of plasma screens. Have you ever watched Finding Nemo on the hood of a Saturn? No, not you, the movie. You should do it some time- it's great. This car epitomizes what cracks me up about car modification- $50,000 worth of crap on a $10 car. It used to be confined to the performance mods, but thanks to rappers, we now have TVs embedded in headlamps.

That should cover it for this installment, but rest assured I will keep you updated as new and interesting events come to light.

Waltzing with Neuroses

My friend Malida had a great experience today and wished to somehow 'blog' it. Since she's wholly inept when it comes to all things technology, I've been given permission to take up her torch and carry it to the finish line. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the tale of Creepy One-Date Psycho Inducing Extreme Cellphone Evasion, or as I shall refer to him from now on, CODPIECE.

Malida and CODPIECE went out for drinks a few months ago. Though I have no insider knowledge of what transpired, I can guess it went something like the following:

Malida: Hi, I'm Malida
CODPIECE: Hi, I'm creepy.

And it pretty much went downhill from there. Suffice it to say that the evening ended up with the old "Check out the cool scar I got when I was bitten by a pit bull as I served a Default Payment notice" routine that we guys are prone to telling when conversation gets slow. Of course, it was actually from a now infamous sporking incident at T-bell, but that's neither here nor there.

After sharing a drink, a laugh, and possibly some rohypnol, Malida and CODPIECE parted ways, exchanging cell phone numbers as they drew the evening to a close. CODPIECE thought he'd scored some hot ass. CODPIECE was wrong. Malida is a busy little bee, and neglected to call CODPIECE for a while, and by 'a while', I mean 'ever'. CODPIECE, however, did not give up hope.

Weeks went by as he left voicemail after voicemail, imploring her to call so they could again share drinks, laughs, and rufies. Unfortunately for CODPIECE, he would call to give 5 minutes notice of his potential dates, and that just didn't work for Malida. Who doesn't make plans for the evening these days... says the guy writing in his blog at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.

Finally, CODPIECE broke down our little Cantonese Cutie (Yeah, "cutie" was my first choice for a word starting with C) and she answered the phone. This was their conversation, word-for-word.

CODPIECE: Hey, want to grab some dinner later?
Malida: I can't, I have to pack for Sacramento.
CP: *cue insane voice* You're always busy when I call you. You're always doing your girls night out ...or you're in Vegas, when are you going to make time for me?
M: I'm a busy girl. I work a lot and I party hard. I'm not going drop my plans or my girls when you call and want to do something. If you want to spend time with me, you need to make plans in advance.
CP: I'm calling you at 7pm. Let's go to dinner at 9. That's two hours notice.
(Editorial note: You can almost see the psychotic glare in his eyes at these words)
M: Um... maybe you didn't hear me, but I can't go out tonight. I've got to pack for my trip tomorrow.
CP: Are... are you saying your trip is more important than me?
M: Do you really want me to answer that?

Cue hysterical laughter from Malida

CP: Well, when you get back, let's go to dinner.
M: I don't get back til next Wednesday, then I work on Thursday and Friday, and I'm leaving for Vegas on Friday.
CP: What?? Vegas again? See this is what I mean... you're always busy. And you never call me back. And when you do, you never leave a message. If you keep this up, I'm going to stop calling you
(Editorial note: This would be a perfect time to whip out the "is that a promise?" line, but alas)

Malida could not, at this point, contain her laughter. The 'ol "I'll stop calling you" trick apparently didn't work. His response:
CP: I haven't seen you since that one day we went out for drink. That was like 2 months ago. I invite you over and you never come. You have to put some effort in. If you dont' start making time for me, I'm going to DELETE you off my list!
M: Well I can't tell you what to do, I'm a busy girl. I'm not going to drop everything for you, so you do what you gotta do.
CP: I didn't ask for your opinion- I'm telling you what I'm going to do if you don't call me. I'm not going to talk to you on YOUR time, you have to make time to talk on my time.

Cue uprorious laughter from Malida.

At this point, CODPIECE wished Malida a safe trip. "Don't get too wild. I don't like wild girls." were his parting words. Well, they were going to be until Malida told him she's "nobody's girl". This illicted the death blow from CP, "I can see why. You're never around long enough to date".

Ooooh, burn.

Conversation over, right? Yeeeah, no. Here comes the text message!

"Since you like being single, I hope your[sic] single for life so you know how it feels to want someone and not have them. Goodbye."

Poor Malida. She was text-dumped by a guy she didn't even date. That has to hurt. Of course, me being the jackass that I am, I dared her (triple-dog dared her, actually) to text him back with a line I've always wanted to use- "Cool. See ya never". I know, I know, sophomoric at best, but it's the simplicity that makes it so effective. It's the 2nd grader's way of ending a relationship, and is not used nearly enough in today's society.

Malida has been deleted.

Sore

I'm going to dispense with the, "wow, it's been a while since I've updated my blog!" crap and get right to the point: I am sore. Mentally and physically. This post is going to be long, so don't start if you don't want to become emotionally invested.

This past weekend saw possibly the rowdiest crew I've had in Vegas, and I'm not sure if it would've been possible for me to have more fun. From Spearmint Rhino the first night (hi, mom) to a 6 mile hike through canyons on Sunday, it was overall a success in my eyes.

I'm just writing this as some sort of way to freeze fun in time, so my apologies if it doesn't necessarily flow too well. Take this as a journey into my journal, rather than a blog entry.

On Thursday night, I ventured to the airport to pick up Jon and Tom. After a few margaritas at Typical Airport Mexican Bar with Random Name, we headed to the Imperial Palace to drop off their stuff. Did that happen? No. Did we pick up Clint as he stood outside, swaying with a glass of bourbon in his hand? Yes. For the record, this is one of the first times I've ever let someone carry an open container of a liquid darker than water in my car. Sometimes you've gotta take a hit for the team.

We proceded to Nine Fine Irishmen at New York, New York (the stutterers' favorite casino). A check on the rollercoaster proved fruitless, as it had closed an hour earlier, but I was still able to steal the key from locker #21. Long story. At Nine Fine, we secured a table outside and began to drink what I like to call Real Beer. Smithwicks. Bass. Guiness. Black & Tan's. None of this namby-pamby Corona/Bud Light shit that people in this town seem to be obsessing over. The waitress was cool, I forget her name, but now have her number. Long story.

We met up with Jimmy, Jon's friend from Dartmouth, at Nine Fine, as well. Wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase tends to set you apart from the crowd there. Couldn't have fit in more with the personality, though.

Around one or two in the morning, we thought it would be a great idea to go to Spearmint Rhino. After cashing in our life insurance to get in, we wandered til a table could be found. This is no small accomplishment when half of Japan's aftermarket automotive industry is sucking up all of the leapord-print valour money can buy. As we later found out, it's also hard to get the hot blond to come over to you when Mr.Miyagi's waving $1,000,000 bills in her face. Damnit, we have personality!

Around sunrise, we parted ways and I went home. This is the first night of the weekend I went to bed when the sun had full-on risen. Apparently Tom and Clint thought it would be wise to go gamble til 7am. I'll admit there's nothing wrong with that.

On Friday morning, around 9:30am (after an hour and a half of sleep), I received a few calls from fellow G35ers in town, and from Jon. Oh yeah, there's that whole SEMA thing I need to do. Damn. I got to SEMA at around noon... no pass. I walked to the Media Registration in the North building, only to find it had been moved to the South building. To give you a little perspective, the North building is in Nevada, while the South building is located somewhere around Guadalajara. I flashed my snazzy photoshopped business card, my snazzy photoshopped tax license, and got my Media pass. Oooooh, all access.

Meeting up with the PT crew, I learned that Jon had agreed to have his head shaved with a tire-tread pattern. Why would you do that?? Oh yeah, he won $800 in free tires. Lucky bastard. I can't say I would've done it, but then again I'm Whitey McConservative. Point value awarded to Jon will be determined when I see what tires he gets for the Saab.

Post-SEMA, it was determined that a nap was in order. I concurred. We went to the IP where this plan was quickly thrown out. While we flipped through the 'hooker baseball cards' that the nice little illegals hand out on the strip, a few stood out: One which suggested a game called 'titty buster', and another which guarenteed you sophisticated ladies... in their 60s. This is when Merv ordered an Asian Lettuce Wrap from room service and Tom replied, "sounds kinky".

When the elders (This includes Jon and Matt) were down for the count, Tom, Jimmy and I decided to go gamble. Who else do you know, after all, who can both teach you how to play craps AND turn the table ice cold with just his mere presence? George, baby. We played at O'Shea's for a while, cramped into our tiny corner because the lady next to us had no depth perception. Fantastic. I kept praying that we'd establish a point and crap out just so she'd go broke and we could have her space. I've never seen someone last so long on $5.

I was done playing Tyhpoid Mary of the craps table, so we grabbed some grub and hit up... another craps table. Imperial Palace. I should have taken it as a dark omen when I almost lost an eye to a die thrown by a very aggresive player, but I try not to learn from history. One man at the table stood out a bit, but for entirely sketchtastic reasons. Jimmy made the estout observation that he would rub his nipple through his shirt before he threw the dice. I'd noticed that the dice hit the back wall before the felt (this means he threw them really, really hard), but I'm not one to stare at old men's nipples too often. I believe he was cristened "Sketchy McNipples" or something along those lines, and we made no bones about calling him that publically. The dealers at the craps table would actually move their hands in the air when he threw, as they didn't want to get hit. The pit boss came over and told him to tone it down, as he'd thrown a handfull off the table already, and hit a dealer and killed her. I may have made that last part up. This I did not, though: One of the dealers asked if I would kindly throw the dice so hard as to ricochet off of her boss's head. Nice.

Throughout our craps play, Jimmy and Tom inquired about the qualities one must posess to be a "Dealertainer". A Dealertainer is a blackjack dealer who dresses like a celebrity, and occasionally lip-syncs to a song while standing on a stage in the middle of the "Dealertainer Pit". Apparently you must be an entertainer first, then you will be trained as a dealer. They lip-sync, so I'm not 100% sure about what we're putting under the "entertainer" heading, but I'm sure it's something more substantial than shoving your dress full of kleenex to look like Dolly Parton. Tom decided he could do a great Madonna, and we all agreed.

After one incredibly hot streak where I rolled more 6s and 8s than you could shake a croupier's stick at (har har), I went as cold as ice. This will only make sense if you know how to play craps, but I rolled: 3, 12, 8, 7. Nice.

Back to the room with a belly full of beer, thanks to our waitress who was a little heavy on the eye shadow and a little short on the vocabulary. "Honey", "Baby", and "Sweetie" were the mots du jour.

Jon joined our haggard crew, and we were off to the Monte Carlo. We walked in, through, and back out to the car. It's that exciting. Our next stop was Fat Burger to get Jon some grub. As we sat there and Jimmy began to recall his rickshaw story, I started laughing hysterically. I'm not sure why. I think it was the combination of the hilarity of the story, and the fact that we were all sitting in Fat Bruger with a "Cletus" receipt on the table, and "I'm Every Woman" came on the jukebox next to us. This was the most insane case of the church-giggles I've had in a while, and while I wish I could tell you where it came from, all I know is that I was crying from laughing for no apparent reason. Sweet.

Around this time, Tom asked about gay marriage in Nevada. It might have been at some other time, but the time is not important here, people- it's the sentiment. I informed him that no, even Nevada doesn't allow that stuff. When asked why he posed the question, he said "because I would totally marry one of you guys right now". This concerned me until I heard the rationale: The story. Think about it. You would have THE end-all-be-all story for any party. Someone tells you about how they got drunk and fell on a cactus? Psh. "One time, I got drunk off Wild Turkey in Vegas and married a dude". That, my friends, is a story. This leads to a hilariously disturbing moment later in the evening, but that's for another time.

Procuring 40s was next on the To Do list, and that was done with relative ease. Of course, mine was Heineken and was really only about 30oz, but it's the thought that counts. Fo-dees in hand, we entered the Bellagio parking lot. We checked out the conservatory and Chihuly ceiling, all the while sipping our uber-classy beverages. Jimmy's was still in the paper bag.

Of course, what trip to the Bellagio would be complete without the obligatory fountain viewing? Merv, Matt, and Doc Kling were outside waiting for us, and after a couple shows they headed inside to catch "O". This is where our trails parted for a couple hours.

I left and met Malida at the Rio. We were supposed to party it up in a suite at the Wynn or Venetian, but everyone decided they wanted to go to PURE. Bad call, people. Bad. Malida and I instead headed back to my place in Henderson where I promptly did two things: Chugged a redbull, and tried to take a nap. In that order. Bad call, George. Bad.

An hour or so later, we were haded back to the Strip, where we parked at the Bellagio and met up with the guys. A friend out here had set up a line-skip, free admission, and free drinks all night at Coyote Ugly, so we ambled/sauntered/perambulated in that direction. The monorail/tram in the back of the Bellagio got us there relatively quickly, and we found ourselves passing the line and being led through employee- only areas to our private bar pretty quickly. What was step 1? Round of Jaeger bombs, s'il vous plait. Oh what the hell, let's have another round. And another.

From this point on, all reports are somewhat spotty, but I know I had a blast. Malida was a good sport and took the necessary compromising pictures with us (chinese fingercuffs, anyone?), and we decided to take some stupid pictures of our own. You'll see them some day during a political campaign I'm sure, so I needn't bother you with details *cough*

Jon, Matt, Doc Kling, and Mervis left us early on in the evening, as they were going climbing at Red Rock in the morning. Tom, Jimmy, Malida, and I however, were not. We pretty much cemented that fact when Tom ordered us a round of Wild Turkey shots. Michelle, our bartender, was fantastic. Quick to the draw with triple-pours, and she even warned us "You guys are going to be sick tomorrow with all this mixing". Jimmy's response to this statement was to order a Hypnotiq & Hennessey. My reaction to that will be described later. I was kindly told that our tab had reached an excess of $800. We didn't have to pay it, but at least we broke a good number. Not bad for 4 people, as 4 of them had left pretty early, and two of them don't drink.

We went to dance for a while, and Malida has reminded me that at one point her legs were wrapped around my torso as a guy behind me cheered and yelled, "Break her!" Tom, Jimmy, and I then got into a game of grab-ass with Malida. Apparently I slapped her juicy bee-hind and then implored my friends to follow suit. They did. Technically it's not harassment, as she grabbed us right back. I think she got her money's worth. That's all for my memories of dancing.

Finding our way to the tram was fun. Jimmy insisted, "I don't wanna ride the tram, I want to go HOME!". Calm down there, Cochise. Malida and I did some fancy footwork (albeit not much of it with our feet) while waiting for the our ride, then Tom and Malida showed off their stripper-pole skills on the tram. Pictures to follow.

We got Malida home, then went to the Imperial Palace. Did you know there's a breathalyzer built into their parking garage? Uh huh. We took that as a contest, and decided to try it out. Of course, we kept feeding nickels into the machine which clearly took quarters, so that should've been an instant failing grade. Seeing three twenty-something guys standing in a hallway blowing frantically into a wall-mounted machine would normally trigger some sort of physical or social alarm, but hey, this is Vegas. Up to the room, where I passed out for a good stint so I could get my car and drive home. By the time that happened, it was again sunlight.

Cumulative hours of sleep: 3.2

I returned to the strip around noon the next day, toting a bag of In-N-Out burgers and a Bud Light. Before I got there, Jimmy was dancing to the easy-listening that they pipe into the area outside the Forum Shops. I wish I had seen this, but alas I had to settle for pictures. A quick wander through the mall and attached Exotic Car dealership (Where they don't carry McLaren wife-beaters, as Tom found out after asking the sales rep) and we were off again.

Mandalay Bay is a must-see here, so we checked out The Hotel and Tom won some dosh at a slot machine. $32.50 off of a $2 investment doesn't hurt around these parts. The stomachs were grumbling, so we grabbed a seat at Georgio, a semi-posh Italian eatery in Mandalay. Sitting at the bar and looking like hell, we swapped war stories from the preceding evening and drank from the carafes of water that the bartender determined each of us needed. Somewhere around this point, Tom decided to go ask a sleezy man and his wife (or hooker) why they were pointing at us. Little did we know it was all an elaborate plot on his part. Sneaky Tom. Within ten minutes, there were shots of Wild Turkey on the bar in front of us, compliments of The Sleeze from Belize. After we had dispensed with them, Tom honed in on the next target: the hard-up, middle-aged female sales reps from the mid west who were drinking themselves to death at the bar.

I'll take this time to mention that I described the Hyp & Hennessey concoction as "poo warmed poo on poo, served with a side of poo". I also discovered that there had been a proposal the previous evening. Names of offending parties withheld for dignity and security purposes.

I wrote "free shots from old chicks" on my arm to remember this later, however the C and H fused oddly together, and I forgot to dot the I. I subsequently walked around with "Free drinks from old ducks" tattooed on me for the rest of the day. Jimmy had "poo warmed poo" written on his arm, so I didn't feel so bad.

After we had finished our food and Tom was still chatting up the Illinois division of Desperate Housewives, we joined him. I'm all well and good for twenty minutes of chatting up middle-aged ladies, but I want my booze if I am going to do it, so we steered the conversation in the direction of Jimmy 'needing a shot'. Of course the women were all-too keen to buy a round, so we graciously accepted. Let me tell ya, Solo Tequila- fantastic. Trying to hide your arm for half an hour because you've written something about old ducks on it, not fantastic.

Liza/Lisa/Wheezey, the lady who bought the shots, told us that her daughter would just looove us. And by 'us', she meant Jimmy. He flashed her Blue Steel from across the room earlier, and she had a dimple fetish. She gave her daughter's cell # to us, and Jimmy promptly called and left her a message. It should be noted that the woman, in describing her daughter, neglected to mention any mental acuity Stephanie (daughter of said ho) might possess. She did, however, let us know that her daughter was 5'2" (Tom had to correct the height at which she held her hand when she described this, as it was about 6 inches over his head), blond, and had a great body. Way to go, Pimp Mom. Jimmy gave her his card, which he'd been pawning off on unsuspecting porn-wranglers all weekend. It lists his profession as "Arbitrageur". She seemed to think this was normal.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this is about the time her sister offered us drugs out of an Rx bottle, because she was a "freelance nurse" or something of the sort. I'm not in the habit of taking vicodin from kind ladies, I guess it's some weird thing my parents must have taught me. At least she wasn't making any bones about trying to get us impaired for purposes of molestation. It's not like she gave us an X-laced Jolly Rancher and said "here, little boy". It was a bottle of pills.

The realization that she wasn't buying another round set in, and we left. Since we were under a time crunch, we raced to the Bellagio by way of every casino we could stop in, only to find our party was no longer meeting us there. The time was 5:50, and we had dinner reservations at 6:30. So here I stand in shorts and a "Hope happens... one screw at a time!" shirt, and I realize I'm probably not in the appropriate attire for Smith & Wollenksy's.

Cut to me racing down I-15, getting home, changing, and being back on the strip within 30 minutes. I still beat the guys to the restaurant. Don't know how.

Our waiter was obviously going for the gold medal in the Schmuck category, but the food was pretty good. One dessert was described as coming with a wafer that was, "worth the dessert alone". I attempted to mention that he should have said, "the wafer alone was worth the dessert", but instead of correcting him I belched out, "Way to dangle your modifier". Only this group would laugh at that.

We had a fantastic dinner for Clint's b-day, courtesy of Mr. Parker, and then set sail for the Wynn. As everyone piled in the limo, I took Jimmy back to the IP and the airport. Did you know you can't get from the self-parking garage at Imperial Palace to the front door? I do now. It also took me about ten minutes to make this realization. Also, JetBlue flies out of Terminal 1, not 2. Sorry, Jimmy.

At the Wynn, we watched their water show, which I can only classify as "craptastic", and some of the guys played blackjack while I rested in the lounge with Malida and Ty. Noticing how soft and long the pillows were (8 inches wide or so, three feet long), I mentioned that it might be wise for me to saw off my leg and smuggle a pillow out of the lounge down my trousers. Three seconds later, a man whose leg had been amputated waltzed by. Well, he wasn't really waltzing, but you get the picture. I felt like a real winner.

2am. Tired. I left the Wynn and crashed into my bed so hard the neighbors thought I had fallen into the wall, which technically I had, but I bounced off of it into my bed.

The next day I met up with Matt and Jon to go hiking in the hot springs in Arizona. Hindsight being 20-20 and all, we thought the 6 mile round-trip trek, with hot spring soaking, would leave us enough time to get Jon to the airport at 8. It was 5. The drive to the airport is an hour. You do the math.

We ended up jogging down 90% of the trail. I had to call a halt to jogging activities when I rolled my ankle one too many times and determined that running downhill through a sand-and-shale-filled canyon with barely enough natural light to see three feet in front of me was not in my best interest. The view was worth it alone (ha ha), and the hot springs were amazing. Yes, it was night. Yes, we were blind for all intents and purposes. Yes, we were scrambling up and down rockslides. Yes, the Japanese tourist group we ran into thought we were insane. Yes, it was fun.

And yes, Jon made his flight, even with me playing Senor Drag-ass on the hike back out of the canyon. Matt actually crawled up the wall and jumped down next to me, screaming as I walked by. Beacause my heartrate needed that.

Over all, it was one of the most memorable weekends I've had. This Fall has been fantastic- my Nashville trip was too awesome for words, as was this one. I've really come to understand that there are some poeple in your life that will always just be real. No matter how much time changes our circumstances, it doesn't change who we are. Weekends like this make me wonder why I didn't dedicate more of my formative years to not being a douchebagel, but that's all water under the bridge.

And now for the kudos:

Hats off to the elder Burneys for having two sons that not only put up with my shit, but manage to be some of the most well-rounded people I've ever met in my life. Jon, of course, will always be the crazy influence in my life. We've determined that around every four years we get together and get stupid, I'll be happy to continue that trend, if not make it more often. Clint's definitely turned into exactly the guy I thought he would. That's a good thing. Anyone that can always find humor in sticking quarters up his nose, yet pull off the suspender/suit combo is bound for unbridled success in life. Though I've known James/Jimmy/Slappy for all of two days or so, I can honestly say I'm glad I can put him in the 'friend' category, and I've never met someone with a sense of humor so parallel to my own. Not sure if that's a good thing, but I feel like I spent a weekend with brothers I never had, and as Tom mused at Fat Burger, I'd be content to freeze moments like that in time.

Seacrest out.

Rain in the Desert

Here's a quick rant since I've not updated recently.

There was a monsoon in Vegas today. You know what the definition of "monsoon" is?

mon·soon ( P ) Pronunciation Key (mn-sn)
n.

1. A wind system that influences large climatic regions and reverses direction seasonally.
2. 1. A wind from the southwest or south that brings heavy rainfall to southern Asia in the summer.
   2. The rain that accompanies this wind.

My ass. First of all, I'm in Las Vegas, not Asia. Second of all-- rainfall? What the hell is that? It piddled at best today, and everyone went a-runnin' for the bread and milk. I think we had a total rainfall of about two ounces. It doesn't rain in the desert- it plops little drops of water every 6 feet or so. The back of my car is still dry, and I just drove four miles.

Riots. Stupidity. Maddness.

Have you ever seen it snow in Nashville? Ten times worse. I found a car parked on the street about a mile away from where I live, and there was a note on the windshield: "Please do not tow- had to walk home. Too much rain." So apparently WALKING in a 'torrential downpour' is better than driving at, oh, a safe speed.

Now I know where they got the idea for the name Rain Man.

11 Days

I seem to have hit a dry spell when it comes to inspiration for topics. That's not to say that I don't have a million things swimming in my mind that I'll gladly discuss with anyone passing, it's just that... well, I suppose they aren't as easily put to paper as I'd hoped.

Blogging is hard.

Actually, that's a bold-faced lie. Blogging is simple. Hell, political blogging is easier than breathing, and that's why I'll avoid it. For now.

I'd considered putting all of my personal, religious, and political beliefs in my blog. Not because I want to preach (that would imply caring), but just to simplify the scores of conversations I have about this crap with new friends. Okay, we get it, you're a hard-core republican/democrat/socialist/retard. Wait, I'm fairly sure those last two overlap a bit (Well, I guess the second and fourth do as well, but I'm not currently standing on my soap box, so you won't get a diatribe out of me!).

Imagine the situation: "So George, what do you think about a woman's right to choose?" Instead of an articulated response, I could just respond with, "Read page two, paragraph three. The last sentence is particularly moving. Get back to me when you've checked my sources." Tada. I'd ask, "and your opinion?" but then we end up at that old chestnut of "caring" again.

I'll write out my entire personal beliefs system, put my own spin on it, and make sure people always keep in mind MY feelings when making decisions around me. I'll separate it into books. Then chapters. Maybe even verses. It's new and it's bold, but I think I can get a few blind followers. I could be like David Koresh! Give me a gaggle of mentally questionable Texans, and I'm SET.

Or not. People in Vegas don't really understand half of "them SAT wurds" anyway, so I'm guessing a long-winded assessment of transubstantiation would be lost on them. Pity, because they're so pretty. Side note: I've actually lowered my standards since I've moved out here, as I've come to the conclusion that Vanderbilt was my last shot at being surrounded by throngs of intelligent, beautiful women. I was spoiled. I didn't know people in the real world scored lower than 1300 on their SATs and weren't fluent in a second language.

Anyway, I've rambled enough for the day. There really is absolutely no point to this entry whatsoever, and I'm about to go down to The Strip and drink margaritas out of a giant plastic football. Don't knock it til you've tried it!

Garbage State

Pt. 3 (Scroll to the bottom to read Pt.1, 2)

Well, guess where I still am? Uh huh, New York's ugly second cousin.

Mercifully, their wifi system is up and running now (it was down all day), so I don't need to use my cell phone as a wireless modem anymore. I feel bad using up a perfectly good electrical outlet in this pub while businessmen and Crackberry users go wanting, but hey- I've been stuck in frickin' New Jersey for almost 6 hours, I think I deserve a little slack here. If I want to use it, eff them. Oh god, I'm starting to talk like them. Next thing you know, I'll start dating my cousin and burying bodies in my back yard...

Kidding, kidding... There's not nearly enough nitrogen in human flesh to make an effective fertilizer.

Two quick observations about Newark- did you know that everyone in New Jersey has the same haircut? It's true. I think it's the oil refineries' residue stuck in the air or something. Even the pilots share the coiffe d'etate... which is odd. I guess when they see the lush, verdant fields of Newark on the horizon, they dip their heads in vats of oil as a show of respect. Damn drunks.

Since I said I'd make two observations, I feel compelled to add that people here have more indiscriminant moles than I've ever seen. Usually on the face. It's like God's way of putting a "Discounted for Manufacturer Defect" sticker on people from the city. Oh, and overbites. They all have overbites. Make that three observations.

Bass is good beer.

There are two French guys sitting about 5 feet from me, and for some inexplicable reason I want to punch them. It's not that they're rude, I speak French and they're perfectly genial, but I think it's the fact that they're both wearing blue-and-white checked shirts that are almost too identical. It looks like a really bad (or really good) Picasso. I just tried to take a surreptitious picture of them with my camera phone. The 'ol Yawn-Stretch-Snap technique. It was going quite well until I realized that my phone made an ungodly shutter sound and has a flash that rival's the Luxor's beam. Luckily they didn't notice. They're French.

There is now a very hostile-looking family glaring at me. I'm sitting at a table, at which I've been situated for quite some time, and they're pulling the "there are three of us at this little table, you greedy bastard" look. Ever get that? No? Ever give it? I know I do. But I've been sitting at this table since dawn, and I'll be damned if I give it up to peple who don' thave the common courtesy to a) ask if they can borrow a chair, b) ask if they can borrow the table, c) wear deoderant.

Guiness is really good, too. And no, I'm not typing slowly... I'm drinking quickly.

More to come, I'm sure, as my flight is "officially" delayed til 8:30pm; I got a text message and a voicemail from Continental. That slut.

Okay, even though I like the way I was going to end this post, a huge guy just sat down at my table and started eating nachos. I really wish I had a video diary of this day for everyone, because it's fan-freakin'-tastic. Oh, and he has an overbite and a mole. Wonder where he's from. As soon as he sat down, my WiFi signal disappeared. Does flesh absorb this stuff? My cell phone also wouldn't log on. What do you say in this situation? "Pardon me, you're sucking up all my connectivity?" I guess I'll just have to post this when I get a signal.

Damn. He just dropped a nacho down his shirt. 10 points.

Corona's bad beer.

You've Got Voicemail

I'm currently sitting at my gate thinking, "I should be on a plane right now". Ahh, delays. Lovely. I've luckily scored a window seat at the gate next to an outlet, so I can chronicle the epic journey of the small woman outside trying to pull a luggage cart by hand. She must be a buck and a quarter, and she's trying to use every little bit of physics-defying gusto she's got. Guess what? She failed. Hurrah!

Delayed AGAIN. Within 5 minutes, I've been delayed three times. Go Continental, you magnificant bastard, you!

So since I'm just pouring out thoughts on, uh, screen, I need to mention a little qualm with their "flyer alert" system. I mean, I like that they'll give me a call to let me know we've been delayed-- that's actually very sweet of them. Unfortunately, they don't really have a semi-intelligent system here: I got a call telling me I was delayed 10 minutes... cool. Then I got one saying I was now delayed 11 minutes. Okay. Now 12 minutes. Um.... how long will this be going on? I turned off my cell phone for a few minutes, when I turned it back on I had EIGHT voicemail messages from them. I feel like I'm trying unsuccessfully to break up with an airline.

Then there's the text message/voicemail that I get when I land.

"Congratulations, you have landed!"

....was this not expected? And how in unholy hell could I not have figured this part out on my own? Stop eating up my minutes, Continental, I already told you you're being too needy! I don't need this in my life right now, and I've... well, I've been seeing United on the side. I'm sorry, I know, but their seats are just so much comfier, and the snacks are better. Please don't be mad. Let's move on.

Oh mother of God, I have another voicemail.

Air Travel: Dante's Secret 10th ring of Hell

Posted from Terminal C, Newark Int'l: Newark, NJ

Seeing as commentating on flying is one of the most abused, hackneyed subjects of the lowest comic minds, I feel I must conribute.

I have grown a keen hate for airports. I assumed this would be slightly obvious given the title of this posting, but just to reiterate for the 'slow' among us: I hate airports.

Especially ones in New Jersey.

The state's basically one giant landfill with an airstrip, and the smell doesn't stop at the airport doors, buddy. Why did Continental decide this place should be a hub? Someone in the board room was drunk for this one. One other thing I don't quite realize is why I'm being routed THROUGH New Jersey to go to Vegas. From Indianapolis. My travel time goes from 4:45 flight time direct, to 15 hours with the layover. I mean, it was marginally cheaper than the other flights, but what about this scenario doesn't make sense? The direct flights from IND->LAS were far from booked, yet as some sort of cosmic punishment for wanting to save a buck, I'm routed through satan's anus, and I get to stay there for three hours. My only consolation is that I got the stewardess on the way out here to empathize and pour me an unending glass of Chivas. That ALMOST makes up for it... but it doesn't.

But that's the airport. Now comes the fun part.

Indianapolis to Newark, NJ. 11:00am

I find that my impression of the flight is primarily defined by the person next to whom I am sitting. Anorexic Ukrainian gymnast who sleeps the entire time and folds into a ball that takes up 3/4in^3 of space? Excellent. Lumbering, overweight assmonkey that reeks of Dr.Scholl's and beef tips? No thank you. Guess who I get to sit next to? Not only does Chuck the Travelling PVC Salesman take up more than his fair share of shoulder and hip room, but he crosses his arms and expands himself exponentially. Thanks, Chuck. To add insult to chiropractic injury, he made sure he showed up just as they were closing the jetway door. You know what I'm talking about; You're sitting in the aisle seat with some perfectly chatty nymph stationed at the window, and no one between you. You casually joke about how you seem to have "lucked out" since no one is sitting between you. She giggles. You beam.

Then the plane lurches to the left like a semi's been dropped in the cockpit. Chuck. He galumphs on with his way-too-big carry-on, his "personal item" (usually a bag of garlic Cheetos), and his short-sleeved collared shirt with pit stains the size of Honduras. He pours himself down the aisle, constantly looking from his ticket stub to the seat markings as he smacks unsuspecting passangers with not only his carry-on, but his odor. Why are you looking at that ticket, Chuck? We ALL know where you're headed-- come on down! Sit between me and Nadia, please. Hope, it would seem, is officially dashed.

I attempted to carry on your conversation with Nadia, but Chuck's rotund figure keept me from even being able to see if she was still alive- it was tantamount to conversing with someone on the other side of a 400lb bubble of lard. Chuck, you suck. Dirty fu-- nevermind.

On a more humorous note, I just asked the waitress here (some shit-hole in the Newark airport) if their bar had WiFi.

"I'll ask the bartender, but I think we only carry Budweiser products"

No shit.