28 November 2006

Don't Ever Ask That Question

So, Zeepmomma is in the hospital, again. This time the docs are 95% sure it's pneumonia. Good for them; something they can diagnose and treat. But it's a pretty bad case, and since they still don't know exactly why she lost use of her legs for a few days, they are taking her case as "exceptional."
This is what I get for asking, "What next?"
They aren't sure when she'll be home, since this is her fifth bout with pneumonia in four years. I remember trying to explain to her that she has all of these lung-related issues, and that there is most likely a link to her smoking for roughly fifty years of her life. She thinks it's coincidence. Yeah, just like all those times she'd come home to me, eyebrows smoldering, holding a scorched screwdriver in one very twitchy hand, giggling idiotically and big burn marks on the wall above the socket and me being able to hold a lightbulb in my mouth and make it glow are just coincidences.
But her being in a hosopital affords me many opportunities to flirt with nurses, doctors, orderlies and candy-stripers; life hands me a lemon, I'll see if it can get me laid.


14 November 2006

It's all their fault!

Zeepmomma is in the hospital. On Sunday she tried to get up from the couch, and her legs couldn’t support her. She couldn’t walk. So they took her to the ER, where they then took her to Elmhurst Hospital (yes, that is quite far from where she and Zeepdaddy live, but that’s where the doc is, so there is where she goes), where they have done an MRI and blood work and some motor tests to determine that they don’t know what the hell is wrong.

She had a stroke last year, so it might be that. But her blood work shows some kind of issue that might suggest diabetes. Still, in the hospital three days now and the all they can do is the MD equivalent of shuffling their feet and saying, “I dunno…”

She’s in high spirits, and her legs can move. She took some steps today with her physical therapist (put a space in there and “therapist” becomes “the rapist”…I just noticed that…English can be kinda funny, can’t it?), so there is good stuff coming along. We played a joke on my sister that I’ll share with you all later, which made her laugh. She said it was “the highlight of the year.”

I’m like a lot of folks out there. When I feel lazy and irresponsible, I blame my folks for my troubles. “If they did a better job raising me, then I would (or not) have done/said/been that way about…” You get the picture. But, if that’s the case, if we are going to give up responsibility of our decisions to our parents, then we should most definitely give a big, screaming, TRL-style shout-out for all the cool shit we did!

Thanks Mum & Dad, for:
o All that creative mischief I pulled in which almost no one got hurt (sorry again about the arm, Scotty-2-Hotty)!
o All those lovely ladies that I convinced I was good enough for sex! Actually, double thanks for that!
o Every time I did something smart! Both of them!
o For the insane work ethic, which I also curse you for!
o For teaching me that funny hurts!
Und so weiter!

So, that’s my thing. If you blame your folks, thank them too. Because, if they fucked you up so badly, then there’s no way you can take credit for all that cool shit you pulled, you suck-ass, namby-pamby, irresponsible jerk-off!

I’m out like the Kansas ass flash pants.


08 November 2006

Point: I Want to be a Ninja!

I want to be a ninja. How cool would that be? I’d get to run around in black PJ’s hiding my face, and assassinating evil shogun and ruthless samurai. I’d have those cool climbing claws for my hands and feet, and I would be able to scale the walls like a pre-Venom black-costumed Spider-Man!

Ninja are all about stealth. If a ninja were after you, you wouldn’t know it until five minutes after you’re dead.

And the ninja didn’t live by some silly warrior’s code. They did the dirty work. You think that your daimyo is going over-the–top with the taxes? Call a ninja. Your rival in the Imperial court is getting a little uppity? Call a ninja. In fact, any of the scenarios broached by AC/DC in the song “Dirty Deed Done Dirt Cheap” would totally apply for hiring a ninja.

My number one concern with being a ninja is the Inverse Ninja Law. I have to be mindful of how many ninja are with me when I go out ninjing. I don’t know about you, but being a killing machine is much more satisfying than being cannon fodder.

And the swords! Oh, man the katana so kicks the ass of any cutlass or other sword out there. Making a katana is more of a religious rite than a tool-making process. And the folds! It was a super strong blade that you could use as a bridge, if you had to cross a very short, very deep river, or crevasse, or something.

Ninja have no catch phrases. No avasting or ahoying for a ninja. And you know what they say about a life at sea…

Ninja bathe, pirates don’t. Women throw themselves at the silent, clean-smelling ninja. Pirates pay for sex, at least with women; if they want it for free, well, that's what cabin boys are for.

Who the hell would wear the frilly shirt from "Seinfeld" by choice? And shoes with buckles? What's wrong, matey? Shoelaces kicking your ass? Oh, yeah, nice patch. Bet that comes in handy when you're trying to determine distance...oh, wait, you can't do that with ONE EYE!

So, the comfy outfits, the stealthy nature, the kick-ass swords, the soap and the nookie all add up to a ninja being the real ultimate power.


Counter-Point: A Pirate's Life for Me!

I want to be a pirate. As a pirate you are outside of the law in that you don't care about it. You also don't have to rely on anyone else for means of support. Need money? Take it. Wanna drink some alcohol? Take it. Want a cheaply acquired DVD collection? Hell, I stole this computer I'm using. Piracy is the way!

Unlike the silent cowardly tactics of ninjas pirates will give you the courtesy of a monologue and there is no mistaking a cannon ball trailing a tail of smoke hitting you in the stomach and taking you overboard into the briny depths. Ninjas are the silent yet deadly farts in elevators of crime while Pirates are the raucous raspberries of tomfoolery and mirth. Providing a little pizazz to spice up your untimely demise, Pirates put the "balls" in ballistics.

Ninjas are the goth-kids-hiding-in-basements of the criminal world with their ridiculous all black pajamas rule whereas Pirates are the glamorous leather boot, frilly yet stylish shirt wearing rock stars. This helps for the ladies. Ninjas are bound to attract women who like the strong silent type and probably want commitment and babies and all that dither. Pirates appeal to the rich heiresses of nobility who are in for some adventure or just some simple slumming. No need to buy them gifts, put up with emotions, or meet the parents, no responsibility. Nail and bail, that's the Pirate way. In other words, complete freedom!

How many ninjas do you know? None if they are real ninjas. In this world of relative anonymity Pirates have catchy names and go down in history and live on as legends unlike countless ninjas who have left about as much personal renown as as stray dog. With their quirky phrases, outlandish behavior and awe inspiring fighting tactics, pirates get the most fun out of life.

-Sneaky Pete


01 November 2006

Four Ways to Save Your Spot In Hell

1) Random conversation while closing:

Gringo: I get all my muscles by carrying old ladies across the street.
Jazz master: Whatever.
Gringo: ...then down an alley and into the back of a van.
D: Gasp!
Jazz master: Oh my God.
Gringo: Oh come on, they don't care, they don't have any memory.
D: OK, you've been reading too much Catcher in the Rye.

2) In reference to the Star Wars' Christmas Special

Gringo: They might as well show a competition where people throw Downs Syndrome kids.

3) Fun with a customer signing up for a free program:

Customer: Does it cost anything?
Gringo: Two pints of cat blood.

4) In response to coworker Crazy Lady's comments about the inferiority of eau de toilette as compared to perfume:

Gringo: That is why I only wear scent made of sweat from the breasts and thighs of 17 virgins.
Cock-sucking Mohican: You straight people are disgusting.