Christmas Horror House

There is a house that I walk by each day on my route to work that still has all it’s tacky Christmas decorations and ornaments out front of the house. These decorations have been either ignored or forgotten about for the past three months now and have seemingly been left dangling from the eaves and poised in the front yard in anticipation of the next Christmas season only a mere 10 months away I guess.

Now that we are at the end of February, and these decorations have experienced an extra three months of winter wear and tear from the elements, these once happy and festive seasonal statuettes and decorations do not evoke the same sense of holiday magic that they did back in December. Now standing in the thawing snow and slush looking more weathered, they don’t look so cute and endearing without the usual Winter Wonderland around them to enhance their purpose. Instead, these Christmas character decorations have taken on a more ominous air about them, as they now seem to more closely resemble vagrants in the process of sieging the house as opposed to being just popular cutesy Christmas characters in the process of delivering presents and spreading Holiday cheer.

The wooden Santa Claus in particular that they had on the roof searching for the chimney in which to deliver his presents now looks like some unsavory burglar crawling across the roof looking for easy access to the building, or perhaps maybe, if you squint your eyes enough, an incoherent looking Nick Nolte threatening to leap from the roof in some pathetic drunken suicide attempt. Likewise, the reindeers in the yard who were originally dancing and rejoicing together in seasonal splendor now look like drunken brutes staggering over the remaining piles of graying snow and ice in the flower beds.

This house may have been all the envy of the neighborhood back during the Christmas season, but now practically in March, it has more in common with the local crack house that people would cross the street before passing by. I bet even the mailman and the Avon lady by-pass this house now for fear of these same sinister and beaten looking decorations left standing at attention in the yard.

I expect that soon maybe, these Christmas decorations will be taken down replaced with more apprpriate duckies and Easter Bunny’s in anticipation of the approaching Easter Holiday, and then will probably be left up in the house until, say, July.

Video Renter Retards

I found another kind of ordinary personality type that commonly walks among us that I would also like to hereby add to my ever-growing list of “People Who Deserve to be Bludgeoned Where They Stand”.

This new breed of lowland imbecile is the type of person who holds up lines at video store checkouts as he drills the poor terminal jockey on the exact location of particular videos within the store, their availability, as well as a complete summary of the movies entire plotline including cast, technical merits, and formulated sub plotlines that may only later serve to confuse this unique species of moron.

Hey, jackass! For all your stupid questions, how about just renting the damn thing so that the rest of us behind you, still waiting, can rent our videos and go home? I don’t particularly enjoy standing here all day while you occupy the only store clerk’s time by having them explain the director’s complex character development in ‘Harold & Kumar Go To Whitecastle”.

I don’t have time for this! I have popcorn to pop, couches to lay on, and precious weekend to waste away! JUST RENT THE FUCKING MOVIE, DOUCHEBAG!

“Excuse me. I wonder if you could take a moment to point out which one of these two movies, that you think would best define me as a video renter.”

Congratulations on being added to the list, dipshit!

"I Don't Give a Shit Fridays"

I would like to hereby declare that this Friday, as well as the last Friday of every month, shall for evermore, be hailed as official “I Don’t Give a Shit Friday”.

Now that’s a Human Resource moral booster campaign that I can get behind and look forward to! Fuck scooping jellybeans with a plastic spoon like some stupid Summer Camp relay event, or even coming to work in your pj’s for “Pajama Party Day” or some other friggin’ ridiculously retarded excuse for a corporate sponsored Employee Appreciation day!

On “I Don’t Give a Shit Friday”, employees will have one guaranteed day a month in order to express themselves freely and openly, and without fear of automatic reprieve from those nested in the upper echelons of management. They can come to work hammered or stoned, and dressed in skid-marked flannel pants and wife-beater t-shirts, and blasting Kenny G on their CD walkmans while attending Team Meetings. We can air our half-assed grievances loudly with our co-workers and feel free to treat our more stupid of customers with the contempt and droll sarcasm that they deserve. No stupid question will go without having it’s stupid answer given in turn.

It will be a glorious day indeed! Who wouldn’t be in a better, happier frame of mind at work come the beginning of the month, after they’ve just been given an opportunity to vent an entire months worth of work-related stress during one whole 81/2 hour shift on “I Don’t Give a Shit Friday”?

Not only would employee moral vastly improve, but the entire workplace itself, come the first of every month, would be transformed into the happiest fucking place on earth! It would make Neverland Ranch seem like Cannery Row in comparison!

One Drove Over the Cuckoo's Nest

What’s with the current trend of having those monstrous Humvee vehicles as being the preferred mode of transport by society’s most elite and wealthy? How did these enormous, powerful metallic beasts ever become such a popular status symbol among the rich and stupid in the first place? A fancy stretch limousine, Lear jet, Italian sports car, hell, even riding around piggyback on a midget I would be able to easier understand, sure, but a military vehicle? WTF?

Are they expecting to use it in order to roll over other slower, less financially secure drivers on the Interstate or something? Why not just kit out a WWII Sherman tank and take that baby out for a joyride on the highway commuter lanes instead?

Why would anybody, except maybe the environmental Anti-Christ*, ever need such an extreme rough terrain vehicle when they’re more than likely already living in the lap of urban luxury while Summering at their villa in the rolling hills of white rich Suburbia? I mean, I seriously doubt that there are any obnoxiously fashionable billionaires living in any war zones, are there?

One other thought: what crazy Commander coined the hip term “Hummer” for these macho machines exactly, and was he on Ecstasy at the time? I don’t think I could ever be too comfortable in discussing “Hummers” of any sort in the company of any of my male friends; call me old fashioned. Couldn’t they have come with something more, well, macho? Or even something even a little less gay sounding at least. You would think that with the topics of homosexuals and sexual promiscuity being sore spots in the military these days already, you’d think that they would have been a little more selective and conservative in naming their machines of war, as opposed to something that may cost you only $20 bucks in some back alley somewhere!

* Or a Texan.

Dopplegangers and Dumbwads

I am getting increasingly pissed off that my workmates seem to have this intrinsic need to label and identify me with somebody else. Whether it be Rupert from Survivor, Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons, Jack black, or some other fucktard WWE wrestler or other who also apparently happens to reminds people of me as well. Every day, it's the same thing: "Hey, you look like Rupert!" "Hey, you could pass for Sideshow Bob!" Oh yeah, and you look like a donkeys ass, whats it to ya?

Why? Just because I have big hair and wear the odd tie-dyed t-shirt to work? I’m just plain ‘ol fucking Terry for fuck sakes! I don't need to be constantly labeled and relabeled, thank you!

Each time some boner comments out loud for the amusement of our other co-workers in the general vicinity of who I may resemble or remind them of, I just want to slap the chapstick off their lips. I don’t walk around telling people what annoyingly famous celebrity or personality that they remind me of…particularly unflattering ones! So, why should they feel the need to do share this information with me? Is there something that says “Ridicule Me” stapled to my forehead that I’m not aware of?

I wonder what the repercussions from the Human Resource department would be if I were to go pointing out to my co-workers how I viewed them after they’ve finished given me their own opinionated and unasked for evaluation of me?

“Hey thanks for the compliment! Do you know what YOU look like to me? A huge fucking donkey's dick with ears! That’s pretty funny too, eh dipshit?”

The Birth of a New Psychosis

A co-worker, whom I had happened to bump into at the grocery store this weekend, commented to me today that I looked much better than I did on the weekend and that he was happy I was feeling better. To quote: “You looked like death.” Huh?

Holy fuck, I had no idea I looked so wretched and sickly on my days off to warrant such concern and compassion from the people and acquaintances around me! Considering that I was feeling fine over the weekend and was even in an unusually chipper mood, or so I thought, I’m a little taken a back at his rather daunting perception of me. Do other people think that I look like shit warmed over as well? I mean, I realize that I don't exactly get all gussied up to go to the Supermarket on Sunday afternoons or anything...but do I really look THAT bad?

To make matters even more disconcerting for me is that this co-worker is the kind of person who wears a trench coat in July and dies his fingernails black. Shit, even his Death Metal t-shirts look as if they could have been designed by Satan himself for all the gory, gruesome, demonic disfigurements emblazoned across the fronts. He considers this “business casual”, and I'm the one that looks SICK? Christ, if I hadn’t known him already from work, I may have thought he’d fit the stereotypical profile of a public sex offender.

WTF?

“Hey, thanks for the great compliment and for laying the foundation for yet another personal insecurity. Why don’t you just trundle off and go piss on somebody else’s day before I club you to death with my keyboard, you cock-knocker.”

Luftnasty

I received a package in the mail today from Germany that contained for reasons not worth mentioning, a ripped portion of packaging for an ordinary German frozen dinner product.

“KASSLER SHCULTERBRATEN – mit Kartoffelpuree und herzhaftem Sauerkraut”

I have no idea what this exactly, but judging by the picture on the front of the package, it must be the reminents of a meal that would have been served at any Nazi concentration camp back during WWII. It was even far nastier than anything pictured on our own North American brands of frozen dinners!

The listing of ingredients that make up the ‘Nutritional Value’ information on the back of the package reads:

“Wasser, 18% Kassler Schulter (mit Antioxidationsmittel Natriumisoascrbat), Sauerkraut, Kartoffeln, pflanzliches Fett, Zucker, Tomatenmark, pflanzliches Ol, Aroma (renthalt milch und Sellerie), durchwachsener Rauchspeck, Weizenmehl, modifizierte Starke, Jodsalz, Stabilisator Guarkernmehl, Johannisbrotkernmehl und Xanthan, Geschmacksverstarker Mononatriumglutamat, Gewurzaromasalz, Hfeextrakt, Sauerungsmiten, Gewurzaromasalz, Natriumhydrogensulfit…”

WTF? That even reads as pure evil! This sounds like it could be the same formula as that used in the Auschwitz gas chambers, that has just been repackaged and remarketed for the humble people of the Fatherland. “Grow up big and strong, eat your Kassler Schulterbraten!”

I wonder how many mad Nazi scientists were employed to design, taste, and perfect this prepared Satan's Slop? I wonder if they belonged to some more ‘Healthy Lifestyles’ branch of Hitler’s notorious and feared ‘Third Raunch’ Regime; known only as the ‘Luftnasty’.

Cell Phonies

Okay…

Everybody sit back, take a deep breath, and take hold of something firmly imbedded into the terra firma around you; as the ‘Rabbitman has yet one more pet peeve to get off his chest!

Now, it’s already an established fact that I feel that cellular phones themselves are the very tools of Satan, but furthermore, I will now state here for the record that perhaps it’s not the actual cell phones themselves that are so evil and stupid, but instead the complete and utter fucknuts that depend on and use them!

Don’t you love when some idiot calls you from a moving subway, so that on your end at home, the reception sounds like an atomic blast going off in the distance, and they have the Gaul to ask YOU to talk louder and more clearly so that they can hear!

Huh?

Hey dipshit, here’s a newsflash for you: YOU CALLED ME, ASSHOLE!

Perhaps maybe, you could just think enough of me to call at a more appropriate time when things will be a little more relaxed for you and inductive of effective communication between us, as opposed to waiting until you are out on the street, in your car, on the bus, or otherwise occupied with about a zillion other activities that only serve to distract YOUR attention from ME…fuckhead!

And since I’m off and running here already, jerkwad; how dare you imply that *I* could be doing something more to make our shit-ass conversation more easy for you! Lets get one thing straight, I talk at normal acceptable volumes and paces, and I’m not altering anything from this set code of polite conduct to accommodate your stupid ass!

Fuck off and call back later when your phone reception doesn't suck ass!

Dumbass.

Candy Crux

You know what I can’t stand; those bags of Valentine’s Day cinnamon hearts. If there is anything more disgusting on this planet, then I haven’t found it. I’d rather eat a frozen Swanson dinner off a lepers toilet seat than consume just one of these vile cinnamon devils!

Who eats this shit anyways; much less an entire bag of them? Only a complete sadist would ever consider scooping a handful of these cinnamon motherfuckers into their mouth at one time. I think my head would probably implode in on itself with the sheer burn of the overpowering cinnamon flavor. My tongue probably wouldn’t be able to taste anything properly again until maybe Easter!

Furthermore, I have a theory that NOBODY actually DOES eat these things. Radical, I know…but hear me out. Each year, since nobody actually ever purchases them, the stores are in fact restocking their store shelves with the same unsold Valentine’s Day stock from previous years in yet another desperate attempt to unload these foul devil candies on an unsuspecting, and unreciprocating consumers market.

Likewise, these are exactly the same kinds of things that are regularly “re-gifted” to other people each year since nobody actually east this shit. That means, that that bag of special Valentine’s Day cinnamon hearts that you may have received this year from your sweetheart, is probably in fact the same bag of cinnamon hearts was given to them by their mother back in 1997 when at that time, it had already had another 6 other previous owners already!

I’d be afraid to eat any of these cinnamon hearts now lest I should come down with polio, small pox, Bubonic plague, scurvy, or some other now obsolete disease or infection still in existance within that bag of cinnamon candy from other previous generations of Valentine's "re-gifters".

The Hi's and Low's of Hi-five's

I've endured such trendy gestures as the "Peace Out", the "Hang Loose", the "Sign of the Beast", and even the 'ol "One Finger Salute" from time to time over the years. They come and go in vogue fashion like Cher's Oscar Dresses.

But since when have “Hi-five’s” come back into fashion exactly? The ‘ol noncommittal “I have to acknowledge your presence, but I don’t really want to embrace you in any fashion because you might be carrying something” gesture of the contagious 80’s era?

“Hi-five’s” are for gym class locker rooms and Little League coaches, not for any self-respecting, civilized member of the adult world. Certainly not in the presence of professionals! Maybe I’m just being a bit indignant, but I think it should be made illegal to offer such any such pussy-ass hand gesture as either a greeting, an approval, a congratulations, or even in praise. An offense punishable by having the offender’s pectoral muscles severed so that they are no longer able to raise their arms.

More than I hate “Hi-five’s” are the people who give out “Hi-five’s”. What iceberg did these people melt out of? I can't stand these uber-enthusiastic morons who use every situation as the perfect excuse to exude their machismo. "Hey, way to score that sale. Hi-Five!", or "Hey, I heard you are up for that promotion, Hi-Five!"...even "Hey, thanks for lending me your pen, Hi-Five!"

Enough already! How about:

“Hey buddy, I’m just returning from taking a shit in the bathroom, not rounding third after hitting a Grand Slam, okay? So you can save the “Hi-five’s” for the other limp-wrists down at the lodge there, partner. Who are you anyways, Tony Danza or something? Come back into the 21st century, you retard!"

Shit, with my luck I’d probably go one step too far while still caught in the moment and end up playfully slapping the ass of one of my female superiors at work and end up hosing out the dumpsters behind Zeher’s for minimum wage.

The Electric Cat's Asshole

It happened so quickly. One minute, we were sharing in an intimate moment that can only be experienced by a single man and his cat, and next thing we know there’s an arc of blue light, the faint whiff of burnt hair, and my cat is hanging from the ceiling by his claws and yowling like it was the end of the world…WTF?

Well, considering it’s been more than a little dry in my apartment lately (as most normally tend to be in the wintertime), my cat has become a walking ball of static electricity...it's a cats Occupational Hazard, what can I say? But seriously, the total amount of static electricity that this cat gives off would be enough to power a forty-watt light bulb! Sometimes when he immerges from under my bed after a particularly busy day of napping and licking, he will have missing stray socks clinging to his furry body so that he could easily pass for Tutankhamun’s kitty cat.

Anyways, there we were, master and pet enjoying each others company when it happened: the blue arc of light from my fingertip to his poor little unsuspecting kitty ass!

At the time, we were in the midst of performing what is known in the Cat Groomer’s world as the “Single-Handed Stroke n’ Twirl” when, for a split nano-second only, my fingertips passed in near proximity to his exposed pucker, and SHAZAM! A bolt of electricity shoots out from my index finger and jolts his asshole like a police issue taser gun!

ZAP!

It was a completely innocent grooming maneuver...I SWEAR! Like with the Tacoma Narrows Bridge or the Three Gorges Dam disasters, there was simply no way of knowing or predicting that this would happen. It's a low impact activity for pet owners and an enjoyable one for the pet...until tragedy strikes, of course.

Hopefully, we will be able to put this unpleasantness behind us and move forward towards total recovery. And to ensure as complete a recovery as possible, I am buying a video camera tomarrow and restaging the whole tragic event for Bob Saget in the hopes that I may have a stab at the next $10,000 cash prize.

Los Lonely Homo's

I have developed a new pet peeve recently…well, more of a pet loathing actually; and this being the ‘Los Lonely Boys’.

Just the sight of these guys is enough to push me over the edge towards going on a mass murder spree. They look like extras off the set of ‘La Bamba’ or something. Just hearing the first few chords from their popular FM anthem ‘Heaven’ is enough to trigger even the most homicidal tendencies within my subconscious so that nobody within rifle range will be safe.

Honestly, I’d rather circumcise myself with a circular saw than be subjected to listening to this guitar piffle. Not since the recently past ‘Darkness’ phenomenon have I developed such an intense and immediate loathing of any musical band.

At least Brittany Spears and those of her ilk are pleasing to look at, where these three ‘Los Lonely Homo's’ look like they just crawled out of some Tijuana Donkey Show.

In Hell waiting for me, there will be the Los Lonely Boys playing Queen tunes while Gilbert Godfried vacuums the cookie crumbs out of Pierce Brosnan's chest hair while dressed in fishnet stockings and a pink tutu.

Sad Inflections

Usually, I never attempt to capture anything overtly “real” in my journal entries. It’s always been about the escape for me. Outside those pages, I live out the kind of life that would make any pious monk seem like Robert Kennedy on two hits of ecstacy. My every day is as clockwork as Wilfred Brimley bowls after a Metamusil shake.

The one thing I thrive on is disciplined structure:

• Wake up
• Feed cat
• Smoke bowl
• Spank one out
• Shit, Shower, and trudge off to work
• Stare mindless at computer monitor for 8 ½ hours
• Return home
• Feed cat
• Smoke bowl
• Spank one out
• Go to bed
• Repeat

There is no deviating from the set path!

It's not much of a life, but it pays the utility bills, keeps a roof over my head, and provides for my spoiled cat's appetite of primo Kitty Kibble and ‘Yum-Yum Treats’. Perhaps I can now see why my journal entries (many of which are posted either here, or in my other blog) are becoming increasingly bizarre and perversely fantastical…at the very least, more embittered.

Without regular cerebral stimulation, my brain begins to liquify. The only change to my routine that I have experienced in the past few years working here in Corporate Hell, is the girth that I carry around in my ass. I swear that I am growing proportionately with each and every additional program I work at this particular call center.

In the future when I expire off this mortal world, they will be able to shave a section off my ass so that future scientists will be able to identify by the layered rings of ass fat how many successive programs I have worked over the span of my pathetic miserable life.

Alcohole Lightweights

I overheard some male workmates of mine today bragging to each other on their break about the maximum number of beers that they have each consumed at some point during the height of their juvenile binging days.

What complete and utter morons.

I simply cannot buy these kinds of pointless macho pissing contests. Why not just flop out their penises on the table to see who is the biggest and therefore the most manly when it comes to alcohole consumption? Anyone who ever take pride in announcing “once, I drank 63 beers in one night and still managed to party to dawn” is just completely full of horseshit (not to mention themselves).

The kind of person who drinks to such excess in one sitting, especially enough to be even considered worthy of being mentioned to your buddies, would certainly be in no fucking condition to recall the next morning how many drinks they did in fact manage to down during the previous evenings debauchery.

What kind of mutant can wake up with a hangover of such monstrous proportions that the throbbing in their head can be read on the Richter Scale, and still be instantly capable of quantum mathematics in order to accurately calculate the total consumed beverages the night before? Slip a few ‘Alabama Slammers’ into Steven Hawking and I doubt he’d even be able to add 2 + 2 together.

In my humble experience (as a bartender of 14 years), these braggarts are usually the low-tolerance (not to mention low-browed), frat house moolyaks who get shit-faced on the first 3 beers, dance around like an uninhibited pansy-ass to Michael Jackson's ‘Thriller’ with a lampshade on their head, then in an alcohole-induced state of inebriated brotherhood proceed give away the rest of his case of beers to complete strangers until he realizes he only has one beer left that he clutches to his chest like a quarterback protecting the game ball as he passes out on the floor with a banana lodged up his ass.

Bravo, jackass!

Blueberry Monkey

I have found my newest addiction in this life. Another reason to get out of bed in the morning, a definite purpose for my very existence in this world: ‘President’s Choice Blueberry Cheesecake Crunch’ cookies!

If there is an easier and quicker way to experience Heaven, I haven’t found it! These cookies are like rock cocaine, you can’t simply have just one! I bet half the population of regular President’s Choice consumers and cookie aficionado’s alike, may also helplessly be hooked on these delicious morsels of pure ecstasy as well.

Soon, there will be sickly, jonsing cookie junkies outside Tim Horton’s begging for spare change in order to secure their next fix of Blueberry Cheesecake Crunch cookies. Prior addictions to Oreo’s, Chips Ahoy!, Nutter Butter’s, and even Animal Crackers were all just merely serving as “Gateway Cookies” for the granddaddy of them all.

Rehab Clinics will soon also be providing specialized methadone programs in order to help ween the growing numbers of desperately hooked, sugar-crazed cookie addicts off their beloved Blueberry Cheesecake Crunches and quell their agonizing withdrawal fits in the process.

“My name is Terry, and I’m a ‘Blueberry Cheesecake Crunch’ addict. Over the years, I lost my job, my home, my family, my pride, my self-respect, and even my livelihood to these demonic, sweet-tasting ‘Blueberry Cheesecake Crunch’ cookies. I need help."

*sob*

Stupid Commericals

Last night on television I saw a commercial for ‘Selsun Blue’ shampoo featuring some fuckwit in a black turtleneck running his fingers through his hard and proudly declaring for all us out there on the couch in the real world that “I wear black…A LOT! So I need a shampoo that really prevents flakes.”

Well, DUH! Earth to dipshit; wear something fucking else besides black, numbnuts!

What, are you like Zorro or Johnny Cash or someone else who’s very livelihood solely depends on being recognized for wearing your black wardrobe? Wear WHITE you depressing, vitamin-C deficient, tragically hip moolyak!

Sheesh! How hard was that to figure out?