Fuck the library. Fuck the new boss. Fuck the old boss for being so cool and setting me up for disappointment. Fuck passive aggression and cowardice; just tell me if I have a job or not. Fuck the first job I had a positive emotional attachment to. Fuck working with women. Fuck working for women. Fuck my former co-workers. Better yet, don't. May the men avoid them as though their twats had teeth. Fuck them for wanting to fuck over MY kids. Fuck the people who think lying to kids is better than being honest with them. Fuck them for not listening to kids. Fuck that community, overripe with stagnation; a perfect example of a cold death universe; frozen in social entropy; the town that time forgot. Fuck my kids for being so great that I will miss them every day I am not working with them.
Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.
Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.
Fuck hope.
-Fuck Zeepdoggie
24 July 2007
12 July 2007
Random Musings from Hell
On Sunday, during the floorset, I suffered what I think is a unique injury. While doing a rather complicated push-up involving an escalator and a steel bar, I do believe I strained my taint.
People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.
I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.
-Zeepdoggie
People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.
I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.
-Zeepdoggie
11 July 2007
A Possible Beginning
“This isn’t over; don’t think it is. It won’t end until I’m drinking from your heart.”
He sat before me as he said this, his long legs in front of him, hooked together at the ankles, the smooth black leather of his boots matching his poppy-black eyes.
The threat flowed from his mouth so incidentally that I didn’t even hear it. I’m a good listener, especially when I’m with someone I hate, but he was so relaxed, his demeanor flowed like oil from him. His arms were resting on the back of the bench, so I could see the emptiness of his short sleeves in that ugly, oversized brown bowling shirt. One button too many were undone, so I could see the border of tanned flesh and blue-veined chicken skin.
We had a history, long, dark and ugly, going back to Basic. But I figured, after last year, after what he took and who I killed, we were even. Or at least done.
It’s not like I’ve never been wrong before.
“So no truce?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I get annoyed. It drove me nuts when someone would answer a question with a question. Be truthful, lie, be a smartass, whatever; just answer the fucking question!
“Did you hear me?” he asked, still just as casual as a Sunday out of church.
I hate it when it gets personal. It bodes poorly for business. And feelings get hurt, at the very least.
-Zeepdoggie
He sat before me as he said this, his long legs in front of him, hooked together at the ankles, the smooth black leather of his boots matching his poppy-black eyes.
The threat flowed from his mouth so incidentally that I didn’t even hear it. I’m a good listener, especially when I’m with someone I hate, but he was so relaxed, his demeanor flowed like oil from him. His arms were resting on the back of the bench, so I could see the emptiness of his short sleeves in that ugly, oversized brown bowling shirt. One button too many were undone, so I could see the border of tanned flesh and blue-veined chicken skin.
We had a history, long, dark and ugly, going back to Basic. But I figured, after last year, after what he took and who I killed, we were even. Or at least done.
It’s not like I’ve never been wrong before.
“So no truce?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I get annoyed. It drove me nuts when someone would answer a question with a question. Be truthful, lie, be a smartass, whatever; just answer the fucking question!
“Did you hear me?” he asked, still just as casual as a Sunday out of church.
I hate it when it gets personal. It bodes poorly for business. And feelings get hurt, at the very least.
-Zeepdoggie
10 July 2007
I am so tired, I can't feel my teeth. I did a floor set at Hell, which was fun, but it has to be done when the store is closed. We worked from 1800-0300, and I didn't get home until 0430, and barely fell asleep at five. I haven't actually recovered yet; I played hooky, didn't go to class, and basically sat around, tuning some little things on Sylvie, researching a new bike for the winter, and fighting hard to not take a nap or fall asleep. Now, I am at the point where I am overtired. I keep missing the shift key, which makes me want to go at this all e. e. cummings style. no caps, just let the writing flow.
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
05 July 2007
What Train?
Asshole and I went to the 3rd of July fireworks, a long-standing tradition of ours that stretches back to when we were in high school, around the time that Marco Polo first brought gunpowder back to the western world. Sometimes, that’s how old I feel.
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
21 June 2007
A Line in the Sand
Hello, World! How are you? I bet you’re awfully sexy, even the ladies under the burkhas! Hey, I’m an American (that’s pronounced ‘Mur-kin,’ right, W?) and if the hot dog proves anything, it’s that we in this nation love mystery meat; if ever there was an equivalent in women’s fashion, it’s the burkha!
The burkha is what brings me here tonight, or rather the region of our tiny little orb that’s in the hands (mostly) of the folks who enforce the burkha on their women: the Middle East.
The more I read about what’s going on over there, the more I am convinced of two things: we should never have gone in and should get the hell out and never, ever, EVER look back; and that I think it’s about time that we stopped looking at what is happening as a Middle East crisis and just start thinking about it as Middle East culture.
Historically, this is the region that birthed ‘civilization,’ so it stands to reason that it is also the region that has had nearly ceaseless warfare and violence. Seriously, I don’t know how the Tigris and Euphrates aren’t just red with blood by this point. The periods of peace in this particular region of the globe are measured in decades, when its presence in history is measured in millennia. This does not suggest a good ratio of hugs to choke holds.
I am not smart enough to offer a solution, but I am lazy enough to suggest a cop-out. Let’s think of the Middle East like Sparta, or even better, Barter-Town. Yeah! You can have Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as Auntie Entity, and Ali Khameni as Master Blaster. “Who run Barter Town?” Would that make the kids Mad Max finds in the desert Israel? Wow, but there is a lot of allegory to be found in “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.”
Let's just leave, and figure out how to make fuel out of algae.
BTW, this is not the subject I had envisioned, and that I promptly forgot. That’s still lost in the incredibly dark, murky, sporadically active recesses of my memory. I just wanted to share this with you. Why? Cuz you, like me, believe furries to be EVIL.
-Zeepdoggie
The burkha is what brings me here tonight, or rather the region of our tiny little orb that’s in the hands (mostly) of the folks who enforce the burkha on their women: the Middle East.
The more I read about what’s going on over there, the more I am convinced of two things: we should never have gone in and should get the hell out and never, ever, EVER look back; and that I think it’s about time that we stopped looking at what is happening as a Middle East crisis and just start thinking about it as Middle East culture.
Historically, this is the region that birthed ‘civilization,’ so it stands to reason that it is also the region that has had nearly ceaseless warfare and violence. Seriously, I don’t know how the Tigris and Euphrates aren’t just red with blood by this point. The periods of peace in this particular region of the globe are measured in decades, when its presence in history is measured in millennia. This does not suggest a good ratio of hugs to choke holds.
I am not smart enough to offer a solution, but I am lazy enough to suggest a cop-out. Let’s think of the Middle East like Sparta, or even better, Barter-Town. Yeah! You can have Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as Auntie Entity, and Ali Khameni as Master Blaster. “Who run Barter Town?” Would that make the kids Mad Max finds in the desert Israel? Wow, but there is a lot of allegory to be found in “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.”
Let's just leave, and figure out how to make fuel out of algae.
BTW, this is not the subject I had envisioned, and that I promptly forgot. That’s still lost in the incredibly dark, murky, sporadically active recesses of my memory. I just wanted to share this with you. Why? Cuz you, like me, believe furries to be EVIL.
-Zeepdoggie
20 June 2007
What was that again?
I was going to blog about something, but I forgot what. I was on the train, and I thought of something, and I said to myself, “That is a great blog subject! I can really expand on that, go on and riff about that for a while!” I sat on the train, thinking of tangents, and the fun in exploring them.
But now, I sit here, and I have forgotten what the subject was. I can remember being excited about writing about it, but not what was worth all the excitement. That’s weird…
If I remember, I’ll write about it, I promise.
Sorry about the letdown. Maybe next time.
-Zeepdoggie
But now, I sit here, and I have forgotten what the subject was. I can remember being excited about writing about it, but not what was worth all the excitement. That’s weird…
If I remember, I’ll write about it, I promise.
Sorry about the letdown. Maybe next time.
-Zeepdoggie
07 June 2007
Where the hell am I?
Hello, everybody. It has been quite a while since I have posted, and I have several reasons for that. The first is that the last semester was awkward; I never found that nice, steady rhythm of work and learning that I fall into. So I was all manner of discombobulated and uncomfortable; writing about uncomfortable stuff is usually gold for me, but I can't write when I am not feeling any kind of flow.
Another reason I didn't write was because of something a lot more disturbing to me. Writing wasn't fun. It had lost its charm and energy that I usually associate with it. I don't think school had anything to do with it, since I wrote something creative for a class that was well received and I really liked a lot. But the act and art of writing just fell out of me, and I don't like that. The two stories I had been working on, one that had been in my head since I was fifteen and the other that I was working on with GringO, lost any joy in their respective creative processes, and as such I lost a lot of ground with them. It feels less like writer's block and more like "print is dead." Since writing creatively is my main source of stress relief, I am not happy about this. Any cures for ennui?
But I will be posting soon about my continuing search for the greatest song I have heard, and another post about my participation in Bike the Drive '07. If anybody has any suggestions as to topics or memes or anything, let me know. I could use the help.
Oh, and something I would like to share, overheard by me: "Let's '86 the pussy-spank, shall we?" Thinking about that one will cause an embolism.
Another reason I didn't write was because of something a lot more disturbing to me. Writing wasn't fun. It had lost its charm and energy that I usually associate with it. I don't think school had anything to do with it, since I wrote something creative for a class that was well received and I really liked a lot. But the act and art of writing just fell out of me, and I don't like that. The two stories I had been working on, one that had been in my head since I was fifteen and the other that I was working on with GringO, lost any joy in their respective creative processes, and as such I lost a lot of ground with them. It feels less like writer's block and more like "print is dead." Since writing creatively is my main source of stress relief, I am not happy about this. Any cures for ennui?
But I will be posting soon about my continuing search for the greatest song I have heard, and another post about my participation in Bike the Drive '07. If anybody has any suggestions as to topics or memes or anything, let me know. I could use the help.
Oh, and something I would like to share, overheard by me: "Let's '86 the pussy-spank, shall we?" Thinking about that one will cause an embolism.
19 March 2007
Job Desciption
The other week one of the managers of Hell was walking around asking employees what they were going to do to help the store that day. I suppose discussing the various stages of drying paint or whatever it is the managers talk about all day had run its course. My answer was honest, which is never a good thing at work:
"I'm going to focus on ringing."
She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.
Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.
I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.
"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"
Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.
::GringO::
"I'm going to focus on ringing."
She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.
Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.
I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.
"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"
Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.
::GringO::
21 February 2007
052
Today is my birthday! Yay! My mum woke me at 0442 to let me know just what was going on at that time 32 years ago. She doesn’t skimp on the details, either. I don’t think bacon and eggs will go down so smoothly now. Best stick with cereal. Cheerios, since they don't turn the milk any weird colors.
So, thirty-two… For those that can, what do/did you dig about thirty-two? It’s a cool number, all rounded and soft-looking. Cool facts about 32 are also welcome.
I’m feeling pretty good so far. 31 was bad; you’ve read some of the crap that got posted last year, you know about it. But it’s not 31 anymore! I am one better than Baskin-Robbins!
My birthday is the only day of the year where I try to think of myself in a 100% positive light. I don't feel selfish for buying myself something; I don't reflect on all the bad shit that has happened, is happening, or will potentially happen; and I try to forget all the times I was a jerk. It's a reminder of the possibility that we all start with of being good people. On my birthday, I bring that to the front of my brain.
“So what are you doing for your birthday?” I am going to my German class, then coming home. I’ll have lunch with the world’s greatest photographer, then go to work with the kiddies. After that, it’s off to Borders for my birthday shopping spree and free dessert! Then home to put the finishing touches on any homework assignments, make a phone call or two, grab one of my new books and hit the sheets.
Yeah, I know how to party.
There will be a celebration later; the Cock-Sucking Mohican is hosting a party for D and me, since our birthdays are a day (well, two years and a day) apart. It will be a good time. Hey, you wanna come?
-Zeepdoggie
So, thirty-two… For those that can, what do/did you dig about thirty-two? It’s a cool number, all rounded and soft-looking. Cool facts about 32 are also welcome.
I’m feeling pretty good so far. 31 was bad; you’ve read some of the crap that got posted last year, you know about it. But it’s not 31 anymore! I am one better than Baskin-Robbins!
My birthday is the only day of the year where I try to think of myself in a 100% positive light. I don't feel selfish for buying myself something; I don't reflect on all the bad shit that has happened, is happening, or will potentially happen; and I try to forget all the times I was a jerk. It's a reminder of the possibility that we all start with of being good people. On my birthday, I bring that to the front of my brain.
“So what are you doing for your birthday?” I am going to my German class, then coming home. I’ll have lunch with the world’s greatest photographer, then go to work with the kiddies. After that, it’s off to Borders for my birthday shopping spree and free dessert! Then home to put the finishing touches on any homework assignments, make a phone call or two, grab one of my new books and hit the sheets.
Yeah, I know how to party.
There will be a celebration later; the Cock-Sucking Mohican is hosting a party for D and me, since our birthdays are a day (well, two years and a day) apart. It will be a good time. Hey, you wanna come?
-Zeepdoggie
19 February 2007
For Your Consideration
- Since I find Maggie Gyllenhaal exceptionally beautiful, does that mean that I would settle for Jake?
- My brother Zeepjoey has as much self respect as a crack whore. On second thought, maybe less; at least a crack whore has a job.
- It always bothers me when talentless hacks are famous. I have no talents; where are my millions?
- Some people are famous now because there wasn't a whole lot going on at the time that they came out. I call this "the Van Morrison Effect." Zeepmomma says I could've called it "the Steve and Edie Effect," but I don't know who the fuck they are. I would probably prefer them to Van, however.
- Do winos still drink wine exclusively? if they don't, shouldn't we call them something else?
- Music is a faith; karaoke is a cult.
- The Beatles are like walking hand in hand in the park on a lovely spring day. The Rolling Stones are like drunkenly fucking in an alley during a full moon.
- There need to be more midget cover bands. I can see it now: Weetallica; 3'11"; Lovin' Teaspoonful. I could go on and on...
- I really must stop with the crushes on my professors.
- I really hope 32 doesn't suck.
-Zeepdoggie
14 February 2007
Happy Valentine's Day
I want your sweat
Staining my skin
Marking my sin.
I want to be drenched
In your
-warm
-soft
-wet
rain.
Make my heart
Bruise against my bones.
Deafen me with your moans.
Burn me in your embrace.
Suffocate me deep inside you.
Kill me, just a little.
Make me a fallen angel;
Rend my back;
Scar me;
Tear out my wings.
-Zeepdoggie
Staining my skin
Marking my sin.
I want to be drenched
In your
-warm
-soft
-wet
rain.
Make my heart
Bruise against my bones.
Deafen me with your moans.
Burn me in your embrace.
Suffocate me deep inside you.
Kill me, just a little.
Make me a fallen angel;
Rend my back;
Scar me;
Tear out my wings.
-Zeepdoggie
12 February 2007
Happy VD! Part 1
In the spirit of the holiday, and GringO’s inspiring story of doc-on-patient love, I have decided to share a story of medical intrigue and supreme embarrassment on my part. Plus, my balls have the starring role, which I know you all love! In a more figurative sense, of course.
This was just under two years back. I was going to the VA doc to get my annual check-up, to be sure that I was still the specimen of physical perfection that I am known to be. Every man out there knows about the joys of the hernia check, but once you get to a certain age, there comes along a new torture: the testicular cancer check. When this was first demonstrated to me by a Navy doc, I thought, shit, I’ve could’ve been using that as an excuse all that time! “No ma, I’m palpating the region and checking for abnormal growth!” There was plenty of normal growth already!
So doc is palpating the region, I’ve turned my head and coughed, and he says that he’s going to go ahead and check for anything abnormal. He asks if I’ve been checking myself regularly. I say, “Doc, you could time a soufflé with my checks!”
It is then that he stops palpating and says, “Hello…”
When a doc has his balls in your hands, you’re hoping for silence, or at least some medical jargon, not a greeting. So I say, “Uh, hi?”
He then says, “I found something!”
I come to on the examining table, and he’s looking at me and he says, “Yeah, I probably could’ve put that better…”
Why God, do I always get the doc with a sense of humor?
So he tells me he found something, and that I should go to dermatology.
I go to my dermatology appointment, and they tell me to strip. You all know me; I am so very shy. JK, LOL!!
The doc walks in, and it’s this incredibly gorgeous intern from UIC. She’s tall, brunette, slightly Asian…she reminded me of Asia Carrera. Yeah, definitely not a bad thing. And she says she needs to examine me, and check and see what it is on my schnuts. So I lift up the gown, and she does the cruelest thing ever done to me by a woman I haven’t slept with.
She drops to her knees, grabs my thunder, and then, in order to let light into her view, she tosses her head sharply to the right, flicking her hair out of the way.
For the women that don’t know, to a guy that is the signal for, “I am going to suck your cock, and I want you to watch.”
The rest of the examination was very, very difficult for me. When she finished, I wanted to stop her and say, “About your bedside manner…”
It turned out to be nothing more than an infected ingrown hair, and a lancing took care of it. A lancing performed by a very unsexy doc with short hair, and balls of his own. No hair flip there, thank God.
-Zeepdoggie
This was just under two years back. I was going to the VA doc to get my annual check-up, to be sure that I was still the specimen of physical perfection that I am known to be. Every man out there knows about the joys of the hernia check, but once you get to a certain age, there comes along a new torture: the testicular cancer check. When this was first demonstrated to me by a Navy doc, I thought, shit, I’ve could’ve been using that as an excuse all that time! “No ma, I’m palpating the region and checking for abnormal growth!” There was plenty of normal growth already!
So doc is palpating the region, I’ve turned my head and coughed, and he says that he’s going to go ahead and check for anything abnormal. He asks if I’ve been checking myself regularly. I say, “Doc, you could time a soufflé with my checks!”
It is then that he stops palpating and says, “Hello…”
When a doc has his balls in your hands, you’re hoping for silence, or at least some medical jargon, not a greeting. So I say, “Uh, hi?”
He then says, “I found something!”
I come to on the examining table, and he’s looking at me and he says, “Yeah, I probably could’ve put that better…”
Why God, do I always get the doc with a sense of humor?
So he tells me he found something, and that I should go to dermatology.
I go to my dermatology appointment, and they tell me to strip. You all know me; I am so very shy. JK, LOL!!
The doc walks in, and it’s this incredibly gorgeous intern from UIC. She’s tall, brunette, slightly Asian…she reminded me of Asia Carrera. Yeah, definitely not a bad thing. And she says she needs to examine me, and check and see what it is on my schnuts. So I lift up the gown, and she does the cruelest thing ever done to me by a woman I haven’t slept with.
She drops to her knees, grabs my thunder, and then, in order to let light into her view, she tosses her head sharply to the right, flicking her hair out of the way.
For the women that don’t know, to a guy that is the signal for, “I am going to suck your cock, and I want you to watch.”
The rest of the examination was very, very difficult for me. When she finished, I wanted to stop her and say, “About your bedside manner…”
It turned out to be nothing more than an infected ingrown hair, and a lancing took care of it. A lancing performed by a very unsexy doc with short hair, and balls of his own. No hair flip there, thank God.
-Zeepdoggie
09 February 2007
'Tis the Season
Retail during the holidays. Yay.
All of our customers have one thing on their minds: size. Size of bags, boxes, and other stuff.
“You could fit four small children in this bag. Sounds good for Christmas!”
Customer: “Are your boxes big?”
Me: “Oh, yeah! Our boxes are really deep!”
And as we all know, selling is all about sexy!
Hot Wheels, to attractive female customer and whether she should buy an ivory coat:
“It depends on the person. It depends on, uh…well, how dirty you get.” (smiles lecherously).
Watching a customer walk away, with the Cock-Sucking Mohican:
“Her legs are thinner than my dick. Which is pretty thin for a leg but pretty thick for…hey, where are you going?
“My breath is kicking like a drowning whore.”
“No exchanges in Hell. This isn’t Wall Street!”
There’s your random blather concerning the holidays in Hell. Are you happy now?
::GringO::
All of our customers have one thing on their minds: size. Size of bags, boxes, and other stuff.
“You could fit four small children in this bag. Sounds good for Christmas!”
Customer: “Are your boxes big?”
Me: “Oh, yeah! Our boxes are really deep!”
And as we all know, selling is all about sexy!
Hot Wheels, to attractive female customer and whether she should buy an ivory coat:
“It depends on the person. It depends on, uh…well, how dirty you get.” (smiles lecherously).
Watching a customer walk away, with the Cock-Sucking Mohican:
“Her legs are thinner than my dick. Which is pretty thin for a leg but pretty thick for…hey, where are you going?
“My breath is kicking like a drowning whore.”
“No exchanges in Hell. This isn’t Wall Street!”
There’s your random blather concerning the holidays in Hell. Are you happy now?
::GringO::
08 February 2007
03 February 2007
Heart Burn
Just recently, Wendy posted a blog that really hit home with me. You should read it, because it deals with a phenomenon that we all know, and that I fear and enjoy just a little bit.
I fear it because it makes me feel weak. It makes me think that there is something broken (unlike my normal broken) and I get frustrated because I can’t fix it. After a while, I do get weak physically, like I’ve just been exposed to my own personal Kryptonite. And I don’t like things being unexplained. Why did she come up today, right now? I wasn’t listening to our song, I didn’t go to any of our places; hell, I wasn’t even daydreaming about any of the stuff that I daydreamed about when we were what we were. But there she is, a phoenix rising from the dead fires that she burned me in.
And I think about calling her. I still have her number; I never delete numbers from my phone, since the only thing that ever encourages me to throw anything away is there’s no room for it. Or it smells funny, or doesn’t fit anymore; but that doesn’t apply to phone numbers. Anyone I have ever called, I have their number somewhere. So you better believe that I have her number. Especially if she’s a her.
Maybe I’m thinking about her for a reason. I forget how much bullshit I think fate is and maybe that this sudden intrusion in my life is actually some kind of intervention, an inspiration to act, to call. Maybe…
But I am not going to, because it’s wrong on too many levels. It’s stalker-creepy for one. And it’s wrong for all the reasons that she and I are no longer we.
And do I really want to risk hearing a guy answer her phone?
But I also like it when it happens, a little bit. It brings me back to those times when things were good with us, and I was making her happy. When we had our thing that only we did. Before acrimony, before defeat: when everything was warm and red-gold; and sunrises were sweet because of the promise of a day with her in it; and sunsets were even sweeter for the new memories we created and the promise of another sunrise bringing a tomorrow that may be even better than this perfect day.
It’s a reminder of just how awesome and real and powerful that particular happiness is, and that nothing else matters but loving and being loved. It reminds me that you can live a dream.
It also reminds me that you have to wake up.
-Zeepdoggie
I fear it because it makes me feel weak. It makes me think that there is something broken (unlike my normal broken) and I get frustrated because I can’t fix it. After a while, I do get weak physically, like I’ve just been exposed to my own personal Kryptonite. And I don’t like things being unexplained. Why did she come up today, right now? I wasn’t listening to our song, I didn’t go to any of our places; hell, I wasn’t even daydreaming about any of the stuff that I daydreamed about when we were what we were. But there she is, a phoenix rising from the dead fires that she burned me in.
And I think about calling her. I still have her number; I never delete numbers from my phone, since the only thing that ever encourages me to throw anything away is there’s no room for it. Or it smells funny, or doesn’t fit anymore; but that doesn’t apply to phone numbers. Anyone I have ever called, I have their number somewhere. So you better believe that I have her number. Especially if she’s a her.
Maybe I’m thinking about her for a reason. I forget how much bullshit I think fate is and maybe that this sudden intrusion in my life is actually some kind of intervention, an inspiration to act, to call. Maybe…
But I am not going to, because it’s wrong on too many levels. It’s stalker-creepy for one. And it’s wrong for all the reasons that she and I are no longer we.
And do I really want to risk hearing a guy answer her phone?
*
But I also like it when it happens, a little bit. It brings me back to those times when things were good with us, and I was making her happy. When we had our thing that only we did. Before acrimony, before defeat: when everything was warm and red-gold; and sunrises were sweet because of the promise of a day with her in it; and sunsets were even sweeter for the new memories we created and the promise of another sunrise bringing a tomorrow that may be even better than this perfect day.
It’s a reminder of just how awesome and real and powerful that particular happiness is, and that nothing else matters but loving and being loved. It reminds me that you can live a dream.
It also reminds me that you have to wake up.
-Zeepdoggie
27 January 2007
24 January 2007
Google Is My Bitch
This is too cool. I am way too psyched about this.
1. Enter the world's greatest photographer into the Google searchbar. Quotation marks are not required.
2. Look at who's site is NUMBER ONE ON THE LIST!
3. Know that the only reason why it is so is because I made it so!
It's amazing to me to think about it, but apparently I possess the power to fuck with the internet. I am a god of electrons!
Now that I am a god, when do I get to start smiting shit? Cuz I have a list here, all ready to go...
"I fuck you!" in a German nihilistic voice, "I fuck you, internet!"
I'm going to smile about this all week...
-Zeepdoggie
1. Enter the world's greatest photographer into the Google searchbar. Quotation marks are not required.
2. Look at who's site is NUMBER ONE ON THE LIST!
3. Know that the only reason why it is so is because I made it so!
It's amazing to me to think about it, but apparently I possess the power to fuck with the internet. I am a god of electrons!
Now that I am a god, when do I get to start smiting shit? Cuz I have a list here, all ready to go...
"I fuck you!" in a German nihilistic voice, "I fuck you, internet!"
I'm going to smile about this all week...
-Zeepdoggie
You Scurvy Zeepdogg, You!
Just so we are clear, we are now seven years into the 21st century. I wanted everyone to clear out of whatever haze they may be in and know this for what I am about to say.
A few weeks ago, I noticed that my energy was really low. I was lethargic and sluggish, some mornings I was incapable of getting out of bed. Now, for those in the know, Zeepdoggie is a pretty energetic li’l monkey. I like to move it-move it, as we say here in Z-town. And I am a morning person, much to the chagrin of anyone who has ever slept over.
Then I started to get these aches in my joints and muscles. Not just sore aches, but really dull pains that would last for hours. It would hurt to type, or to hold a book. A little bit after that, I started to get pains in my mouth and my gums were bleeding a lot.
When blood is gushing out of my mouth without the presence of a fist, Zeepdoggie hightails it to the doc, toot sweet.
So I go to the health center at College, and wait for a while and see the doc. I tell him what’s going on, and he looks at me, and asks me if I’ve lost weight. I said that I didn’t know, since I don’t own a scale (sometimes it’s awesome not living with a woman); he says I look like I have, so I get weighed.
The last time I checked my weight, I was at 167, which is a little underweight for a man my age, but I don’t mind, since America just got fatter around me. I am at 145. I’m roughly 25 lbs underweight.
Doc looks at me and says, “You have scurvy.”
I replied, in the only way I know how, “Yar?”
He informs me that one in three college students on our campus are malnourished, usually from poor diet choices or simple lack of food (I figured I was down to about five meals a week at this point). My symptoms are in line with scurvy, which he says he sees, “all the time.”
So he tells me to get a lot of vitamin C, since my scurvy is pretty advanced. He says I should be concerned, since scurvy will kill you dead, without fail. He gave me some vitamin C tablets and some homeopathic remedies and sent me on my way.
I still am not fully recovered, because scurvy wipes you out pretty good, but I am feeling much better; my energy is up, and I no longer feel the need to shout “Avast!” and have a parrot poop on my shoulder. It’s embarrassing to have a disease that was essentially cured by the 19th century, but in a way I am proud of it. I mean, how many people do you know with scurvy? See… And now I feel like a real old salt sailor, thanks to my ailment. It’s like now I’ve earned the right to say, “Yar!” since I am a scurvy dog!
-Scurvdoggie
For more info, click here. It could save your life. Or you could just eat an orange every once in awhile.
A few weeks ago, I noticed that my energy was really low. I was lethargic and sluggish, some mornings I was incapable of getting out of bed. Now, for those in the know, Zeepdoggie is a pretty energetic li’l monkey. I like to move it-move it, as we say here in Z-town. And I am a morning person, much to the chagrin of anyone who has ever slept over.
Then I started to get these aches in my joints and muscles. Not just sore aches, but really dull pains that would last for hours. It would hurt to type, or to hold a book. A little bit after that, I started to get pains in my mouth and my gums were bleeding a lot.
When blood is gushing out of my mouth without the presence of a fist, Zeepdoggie hightails it to the doc, toot sweet.
So I go to the health center at College, and wait for a while and see the doc. I tell him what’s going on, and he looks at me, and asks me if I’ve lost weight. I said that I didn’t know, since I don’t own a scale (sometimes it’s awesome not living with a woman); he says I look like I have, so I get weighed.
The last time I checked my weight, I was at 167, which is a little underweight for a man my age, but I don’t mind, since America just got fatter around me. I am at 145. I’m roughly 25 lbs underweight.
Doc looks at me and says, “You have scurvy.”
I replied, in the only way I know how, “Yar?”
He informs me that one in three college students on our campus are malnourished, usually from poor diet choices or simple lack of food (I figured I was down to about five meals a week at this point). My symptoms are in line with scurvy, which he says he sees, “all the time.”
So he tells me to get a lot of vitamin C, since my scurvy is pretty advanced. He says I should be concerned, since scurvy will kill you dead, without fail. He gave me some vitamin C tablets and some homeopathic remedies and sent me on my way.
I still am not fully recovered, because scurvy wipes you out pretty good, but I am feeling much better; my energy is up, and I no longer feel the need to shout “Avast!” and have a parrot poop on my shoulder. It’s embarrassing to have a disease that was essentially cured by the 19th century, but in a way I am proud of it. I mean, how many people do you know with scurvy? See… And now I feel like a real old salt sailor, thanks to my ailment. It’s like now I’ve earned the right to say, “Yar!” since I am a scurvy dog!
-Scurvdoggie
For more info, click here. It could save your life. Or you could just eat an orange every once in awhile.
22 January 2007
What I Can vs. Who I Am
I can be a jerk. I can be an asshole. I can do horrible things. I can say things and can do things that upset and frustrate people. I can be rude and selfish. I can tell lies to get myself out of trouble. I can be crude and crass and can be very opinionated. I can yell and scream and pout to get my way. I have hurt people’s feelings, and will likely do so in the future.
But that’s not what I do all the time. And it is not who I am.
If you know me, then you know that. If you don’t, then you probably won’t stick around long enough to find out. I wish you would, because I like having friends and I like knowing new people and making them happy; but if my bad behavior is too much for you, then it’s best that you don’t stick around. Some folks don’t think I am worth the time and effort that it may take to get to know me. That makes me sad, even though it’s happened a hundred times if it has happened once. It makes me sad because no one thinks they’re a son of a bitch, even in the face of apparently overwhelming evidence. Eichmann thought he was an all right guy; I’m sure Custer thought he was the bee’s knees. I’d like to think of myself as being better than those two, at least on a karmic level, but like them my bad behavior is often unnoticed by me, until I have had some time for introspection.
And I can be a son of a bitch (with all respect to Zeepmomma, of course). But I am not a son of a bitch. In the great consideration of my personality, I’m not even an asshole. I am more than what I do; I am better than what I share with most people.
For those that jump ship, I’ll miss you. For those that stay with me, I thank you, and apologize in advance, for doing what I can, and not always being who I am.
-Zeepdoggie
But that’s not what I do all the time. And it is not who I am.
If you know me, then you know that. If you don’t, then you probably won’t stick around long enough to find out. I wish you would, because I like having friends and I like knowing new people and making them happy; but if my bad behavior is too much for you, then it’s best that you don’t stick around. Some folks don’t think I am worth the time and effort that it may take to get to know me. That makes me sad, even though it’s happened a hundred times if it has happened once. It makes me sad because no one thinks they’re a son of a bitch, even in the face of apparently overwhelming evidence. Eichmann thought he was an all right guy; I’m sure Custer thought he was the bee’s knees. I’d like to think of myself as being better than those two, at least on a karmic level, but like them my bad behavior is often unnoticed by me, until I have had some time for introspection.
And I can be a son of a bitch (with all respect to Zeepmomma, of course). But I am not a son of a bitch. In the great consideration of my personality, I’m not even an asshole. I am more than what I do; I am better than what I share with most people.
For those that jump ship, I’ll miss you. For those that stay with me, I thank you, and apologize in advance, for doing what I can, and not always being who I am.
-Zeepdoggie
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