It's About Sports...Tune in if you like

As I was looking through my jerseys today, trying to figure out what to wear, I thought of an interesting question, which I will share with you.

If you could have any six game-worn jerseys, which would they be?

1. Stan Mikita's jersey from the 1961 Stanley Cup final game.
2. You know that shot of Walter Payton jumping eight feet in the air for the touchdown? That jersey.
3. The jersey Patrick Roy wore when he winked at Tomas Sandstrom in the 1993 Stanley Cup finals.
4. Dick Butkus's first game jersey.
5. The Golden Jet's jersey when he broke the 50-goal barrier. FYI, it was March 12, 1966, against the Rangers. The 'Hawks won 4-2.
   
6. The jersey Dikta wore during that incredible touchdown run where he breaks seventy-four tackles. Seriously, it's like everybody who ever played for the other team got two shots at him.

What about you?

-Zeepdoggie

Depression, Uninterrupted

I needed an awesome weekend. Wednesday is when justice failed me; Friday was a double whammy in that Derek Fucking Bastard’s insurance company said that they would not pay for the damage done to my bike, or to me. On the way home from work, on a brand new route that I hadn’t ridden before, I ran over some piece of accident shrapnel and got a flat on my rear wheel. Front wheel flats I can fix in five minutes, but rear wheel flats take at least an hour. Fucking deraileurs. Anyway, so my week was a good small window onto my month, which reflected the year to date; it was pure poo.

But there was a wedding or this weekend! Friends united in matrimony! Good food! Open bar! Let the healing begin!

Of course, there is the fact that I don’t really know the groom that well, and had met the bride once before, and that it was going to be hotel food, and that I had just gotten into all that broo-ha-ha with my brother about his alcoholism (when I find it funny, I’ll tell you about it), so I wasn’t in the mood to drink. Honestly, the only thing that sounded like a good idea was to step in front of at least one of the Metra trains taking me to the wedding. Painless, messy and loud; what can I say, it’s how I want to go out.

But I reined in those thoughts and proceeded. And you know what? It was…okay. I like it when a couple is enthused about getting married, and these two were. I attended the ceremony because my ride/host & hostess attended, and it was a quick and painless little thing. Had a cute moment where the groom and bride weren’t too sure about who should give a flower to the groom’s mom. It got a chuckle.

Then there was a brief hotel drinking fest, where I had two glasses of vino and started to feel a little queasy.

The reception was not at all like “Wedding Crashers,” which was disappointing because I really wanted to take advantage of a drunken bridesmaid. But no woman there was single that was also not someone I have known for ten years or more, or not what I would go running for. So I tried to be wingman for a young fella, a promising rookie with a lot of potential, but won’t step his game up to the big leagues. Kinda like Ryan Leaf, but without the petulant whining. Which would make him better than Ryan Leaf.

Then I find out that I can’t go home because the info on train schedules was misconstrued. So I crash at the home of Ren and co. and wind up feeling as intrusive as prison rape. No Benner, either. But Cash and I wound up being cuddle-buddies on the floor, so that was pretty sweet. Seriously, the highlight of my week was getting the chance to cuddle with something alive on a friend’s basement floor.

I thank Dave and Ren for putting me up, and I feel like shit that I forced myself into their house while she’s not feeling well and he was exhausted from being best man. It might be time for me to get a car.

What stopped me from stepping in front of the Metra at 0835 on Sunday? Several things: a long-standing fear of death; inside knowledge of how much that fucks with train conductors; leaving my mom with the two excuses she has for sons; a curiosity as to what the future holds; and that I was not about to waste the $3.80 cup of whatever fancy-schmancy cinnamon-flavored beverage I purchased from Caribou Coffee.

-Zeepdoggie

Loser

I cannot win. A guy hits me with his car as I am riding my bicycle, and he gets out of a ticket and his insurance won't pay, because he lied in his statement and I told the truth. I get dumped by the best girl I've ever been with because, instead of going with my plan about lying concerning my former marriage, I told her the truth. She wanted to be the first and not the best, so she split.

The number of times telling the truth has bitten me in the ass is starting to slide into the range of numbers we call "astronomical."

Everything about this American "culture" promotes lying. If you lie in court, you win. If you lie while running for office, you win. If you lie about anything, people are more apt to believe it because the truth doesn't sell shit. The Great Gatsby is considered one of the greatest works of American literature and it's about a man who lies about who he is to get money and fame to get the girl. He may have gotten killed in the end, but that was because of someone else's lie. And he still got laid, remember. Ben Franklin is thought of as the greatest American, and he was all about putting on a front for people, so that they will see you in a certain light, regardless of whether that view is true or not. Jefferson was a slave-owning, philandering hypocrite.

If there was a contest for huge suckass loser, I would lose that. I am tired of my honesty being what holds me back. The way I see it, if I followed the examples set by our American predecessors and current statesmen and powerful people, then lying is the only thing to do to get ahead. If I lied to the cops and the judge, Derek Fucking Bastard would have a ticket, his insurance company would be paying my rent for the next three months and I wouldn't feel so FUCKING IMPOTENT thanks to this shit. It's time to lie.

But since fucking up is the only thing I do better than losing, I would just screw it up too. And lying would take a lot of work; I'd have to remember everything I ever said to anyone. And since my memory is as faulty as that little strip of land outsie San Andreas, I'd have to take notes on my conversations. That just smacks of effort, and keeping myself in some state of upright already takes up way too much energy for me to devote to any other pursuit.

So fuck it, I just lose. Maybe I should just go the way of abject self-destruction. Utter ruin. See how that goes. Maybe, since I suck so badly, I might just improve myself.

Right now, I can't scream loud enough.

-Zeepdoggie

All Work and No Play Makes for a Loco Gringo

I Appreciate Irony

ME: "I'm the king of apathy."

GIRLY: "No you aren't."

ME: "YES I AM! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT!"*



* All caps represent outburst of emotion



-------------------------------------------------------------------------



Customer Relations for a Sleep Deprived Gringo



1) A customer interaction concerning loss prevention sensors on product.

Customer: "Needle nose pliers will take care of it."
Me: "Needle nose pliers are pretty much my favorite tool for anything. Except for when I need to hammer something. In which case I use my palms. I'm that good.



2) A customer and an associate (Jazzmaster) noticing me writing notes while at the work place.
Customer: "He's writing notes."
Jazzmaster: "Are you plotting Gringo?"
Me: "Yeah."
Jazzmaster: "Against who?"
Me: "The man. [The founder of this company]. I will find his site, exhume, and punish severely."

3) Jane Blow, a random customer fills out an address field in a short form and the following situation ensues.
Me: "I'm sorry, I'm unfamiliar with the area. What does "DP"* stand for [as a city in Kansas]?"**

*DP is an abbreviation for the term "double penetration" and how it applies to the pornography industry. I used this purposely.
**It turned out it didn't say DP, and Jane Blow seemingly did not know the definition found in asterisk one (though she could just have been oblivious).



4) On shoving several items into Hell's smallest offered bag.

Customer: " I don't know if it will fit."
Me: "Well I'll just grease it up a bit and see if I can't shove it in there."

Gringo's Note: All of these are real life interaction with customers in Hell, while working. When I don't get my sleep several reactions are possible, but namely annoyance, inhibition of spoken thoughts, and delirious giddiness.
Also I must wonder if people are honestly this obtuse, if I am that subtle, or if the general public doesn't expect someone to be that offensive while at work? Oh if they only knew the assorted mental ruminations of the average retail jockey.

::GringO::

A Little Slip

Walking down the street on the way to Eric’s, with Gary depressed and Dani feeling for him, as she always did when he got like this, they were hoping for a cup of coffee and an empty diner.
“I don’t know what I did wrong, Dani. I really tried this time, y’know? I was as perfect as I can be with her.”
Gary was one of Dani’s best friends. They had known each other for well over ten years now and she was his favorite person to talk to. They agreed that she was the smarter of the two of them, and seemed to be good at taking in a lot and saying just the right thing at the right time.
“I can’t think of a girl who made me happier than her, Dani-mal. She’s just so…everything!”
Dani tripped on a broken bit of sidewalk. She had tripped at this spot quite often, and chastised herself every time. “Stupid,” she said.
“What did I say?” he asked.
“Not you, me. The sidewalk, again.”
“I never did get around to putting up that sign for you.”
“That’s okay. I probably wouldn’t see it anyway.” Dani walked head down a lot.
At Eric’s, it was not busy. They got a booth in the corner furthest from the door. There was a nice view of the main drag of town. Setting down their coffees, he said, “You know where we should go one of these days?”
“Where?” Dani asked, feeling better to see him enthused about something.
“Remember that little greasy spoon by Morrie Mage’s? On Halsted, I think, or near Ontario, something like that.” He was almost smiling.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“When was the last time we hung out downtown?”
“We doubled that one time,” she said, knowing it was the wrong thing to say. She could see him falling into memories of the beginnings of his relationship with Melanie, when the world was sunshine auburn-gold and perfect breezes pushed him down the street to his love. For her, it was the end of that last relationship; nothing seemed to last too long for her. Stupid, she thought.
“What?” he asked. Sometimes he was in her head.
“What?”
“You said, ‘Stupid.’”
“That was out loud?”
“Uh- huh.” He looked like a thundercloud.
“Not you, me.”
They sat in silence. After a few minutes, Dani got up and bought a chocolate brownie and got a carafe of coffee. She sat back down and handed him the brownie. He smiled immediately. “How’d you know?”
“Best friend’s sense plus a good dose of women’s intuition.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“I hate it when you call me that, you know.”
“And that is the root of why I call you that.”
“Give me back the brownie!”
“No! I’m sorry, I won’t do it again!”
“Yes you will.”
“Yeah,” and he smirked in that scoundrel’s way.
Four hours and not a few beers later, at Healy’s (the old Healy’s, not the new, shiny pretender to the throne), she was embroiled in selling him on Melanie’s lesser points, while Alanis Morisssette fell head over feet out of the jukebox.
“And she was not perfect, Gary. Even you know that. Didn’t she kick you out of the house one day because you talked to her father for too long?”
“I was ignoring her!”
“No, you were enjoying someone else’s company other than hers. She was always like that.”
“Really?”
“Why wouldn’t she come and hang out with us? Because she was too good for us, that’s why. She couldn’t share you with anybody or anything.”
“We’re not the easiest group to get into, Dani. The conversations we have are years old. Hell, you and Pete have been having that argument about the Citation for seven years now!”
“Still, she didn’t make the effort to try. She hung out twice and never came back out.”
“I guess.”
“She wasn’t good enough for you, Gary.”
Perplexed as only someone inebriated could be, he asked, “What do you mean?”
Sighing, then taking a deep breath before continuing, Dani said, “She never bothered to learn about you, Gar. It was all about her; you had to know about her, and yet she never asked anything about you.
“You could sit here all night and half the next day and tell me about every facet of her life, but she couldn’t tell you the name of your first dog, or your most hated movie, or the first time you swore. She never learned you Gary; she never studied you. She was with you during the easy part, and then when she thought it got hard, she left.”
“So she wasn’t good enough?”
“Nope.”
“And that’s why?”
“That, and other stuff.”
“So, Dani, who would be good enough for me?”
“I don’t know if I will ever think anyone’s good enough for you, Gary.” And she felt herself slip in her chair.
“What does that mean?” He looked so stupid right now, confused like a puppy that just heard it’s bark for the first time. She felt the flush in her skin as her beers encouraged her further despite the glow of suspicion she saw in Gary’s eyes.
“Because you’re a great guy! You’re a poet and a musician, you’re well read, responsible, punctual and a really good listener. You like to be romantic and do little things for people. You’re polite, damn near chivalrous. You’re smart and funny and you have a thing about you that makes people smile when you talk to them and everyone feels special when you’re around. You’re respectful and sweet and have a great smile and you’re strong in every way.”
She didn’t want to stop, even though she knew she should. She decided to ignore herself this one time. “Every girl should love you, Gary. You are as close to perfect as any man not Jesus has a right to be.”
Looking up at him, she said with a trembling voice, “You’re the best.”
He couldn’t respond, she saw. She was wrong; the first voice was right; she should have just shut up, she should run from the bar, from him, never looking back, forget he and his little smirk and hazel eyes that glow gold in the sunshine ever existed.
Looking down, she said, “Stupid.”
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and gently lifted her eyes to his, and said, “Not you, me.”

-Zeepdoggie

A Shout-Out to the Big Guy

Thank you God, for:

• my life, which is perfect, even when it's not;
• my pain, because it means that where it now hurts there was once something wonderful;
• my optimism, which hides in my pessimism;
• the people I know, and the ones I meet;
• swear words;
  
• the incredible sunrises and sunsets over the last two weeks (they've been faboo!);
• every little kid who's smiled at me;
• all the opportunities I've been given (I've tried to use them all!);
• the blessings that I can now call memories;
• listening to all of my whining (that goes double for you folks!);
• not giving up on me, even after I did;
• physics;

and last but not least...
Thank you, God, for all of the beauty that's been crammed on this paradise we call Earth. Especially the ladies! Great job on the looks, but do they all have to be nuckin' futs?

Just, playin' ladies; you know I love you.

-Zeepdoggie

Outnumbered and Outgunned

All right, I gotta bitch. Sorry guys, but funny isn’t really in my skull right now. I need to get this out, and I figure that we all know each other (and if we don’t then I don’t care) then I can just dump this out. If I don’t talk about it I will make the Earth blow up. But not before we send Ren’s new bundle of joy off in a ship so that s/he may become a superhero on a planet orbiting a blue sun.

At work I am the man. I don’t mean this in a good way. I am the sole “guy” on the job. Sure, there’s M, but he’s a real librarian for God’s sake. He can’t do the “boy work.” That is for me. I’m the fuckin’ lackey. I pick up the heavy stuff and put it down somewhere. I arrange the furniture whenever it is required. I put the crap together that needs to be built. I change the light bulbs. I replace the toilet paper; I clean the vomit up from the bathrooms. I take care of any dead birds or other post-life animals around the building. I occasionally refill the tampon machines. How did that become boy work?

I learned today that Zeepdoggie has a new task. I am now responsible for the leaves that may clog our drain and cause the library to flood. At the time the drain was installed out back by the garbage cans, all the builders did was dig a shallow hole to take the rain in. It doesn’t drain to shit. And some leaves gummed it up, and somehow a garbage can was on top of it. So the meeting room and the Children’s section got quite damp. So now, from what I understand, I am to “check the status of the drain.” I was too upset to ask as to when I should do this. Once a month? Daily? Or should I just wait until it’s raining, ride my bike over, and clear it then? Surely, this is something anybody in the library can do? It starts to rain, and one of the librarians pops her head out the door and takes a status check on the drain. Why is it on me?

Old Zeepdoggie has to do all the boy work on a job that is staffed 99% by women, and not a one of them is single. God may find this funny, but I sure don't.

I learned something very important on this job; polygamists are idiots. I don’t care how good the sex is; putting up with more than one woman’s bullshit is masochistic.


-Zeepdoggie

The Greatest Word I Have Ever Heard

"Schnuts."

-Zeepdoggie

Sucking Chest Wound

Cleveland died today. Well he actually died two weeks ago but I just wanted to steal and alter Camus' famous opening line because its one of my favorites.

Death is a natural and regular occurrence in life but this doesn't make it any less a cause for sadness. Cleveland was proof that I am becoming a real man and his passing is marked by a feeling of loss. I was always a late bloomer. Reaching 5' tall in eighth grade was a milestone, even though everyone else it seemed had achieved this a year or two previously. Hell, I don't think I even started growing armpit and pubic hair until I was close to 15.

My beautiful and flawless existence has always been dogged, or besmirched if you like dirty images, by my body's inability to catch up to my age. Then finally, against all belief, I grew my first chest hair this year. On the barren white plane that is my chest a hair dared to grow and flourish, and so it was only natural to name the hair, the Atlas supporting the weight of my masculinity, Cleveland.

Oh did we have good times! We saw movies together, drank together, made love in one another's presence, were even comfortable enough to provide each other company on the toilet. Cleveland became a constant companion, and not just because he was physically attached to me. But I took my bronze wire-like friend for granted. I stopped shampooing him, combing him, applying various thickening tonics, or spiking gel for those "punk" days. Then two weeks ago I looked down to give a silent howdy to him, and he was gone. Sure I now have Mitch and Bob (right pectoral and upper chest respectively) and they are great, but Cleveland was my first, and I suppose in many ways my only.

To eulogize him, I give you this, my only poem written of my own volition*:

"Ode to Cleveland"

You were a lone sprig of hope in a fallow field of nakedness
A bronzed ringlet nestled against cream made solid
A constant companion you were, silent, intimate
I took you for granted
You, my hope, my reassurance, my one, my man-hair, my Cleveland
I knew that "all things must pass" and you are no exception
This hollowed soul you leave behind my never mend
Though you may be usurped, you will never be replaced
You, my hope, my reassurance, my one, my man-hair...
My Cleveland**

* I don't write poetry
** This is written in free verse because we are talking about a damn chest hair. A meter and rhyme scheme would be excessive to say the least.

::GringO::

Potbelly Crush

I've always prided myself on my ability to no be shallow. When it comes to attraction, I keep my mind wide open. Speech impediments, oversized or exaggerated facial features, excessive body fat, abnormal height, missing appendages, crooked teeth; I can see past such things so long as I see that they lead directly to a bedroom.

But, and this feels horrible, I seem to have found a real challenge. There is a girl who works at Potbelly right near Hell, and I go quite often. There is a young lady there who seems to fancy me (unless she reads this blog and can figure out who I am; then the jig will probably be up). She remembers the time she misheard my request for a "wreck" and made turkey instead. I was on my lunch break, a generous 30 minutes, and didn't have time to wait for another sandwich so I went with the turkey. The next time I went in she brought it up, a blush reddening her face.
Awww....
Every time I go there and she is working, she greets me even if she is doing something that doesn't involve speaking to customers. Being nice by nature and having a proper upbringing rarely seen anymore, I say hello and chat pleasantly when occasion calls. She is probably nineteen or twenty, which is too young for me anyway, but there is another reason why I can't find attraction there. This is what makes me feel terrible. She has an astigmatism, or what I generally refer to as a "wonky eye."

When I talk to her I don't know where to look or which eye to focus on, so I settle for the nose or her forehead. Give me a girl with half an arm that ends in two mobile digits, fine; but one wonky eye and it's over. It makes no sense I guess, and it makes me feel like a right bastard, but there it is.

::GringO::

Ahhh...

That last post was a little negative don't you think?

I really don't have anything to say, but I feel like I should do something to lighten the mood. But I'm not feeling very funny, so, as a group, let us marvel at the peerless and ethereal perfection of one of my long-standing crushes.






*sigh*

I'm feeling better already. And even if this woman is not your cup o' tea, at least I'm not whining. Everybody wins!

-Zeepdoggie

Feelin' Like a Skidmark

So I’m down one less brother. Joe lost his fucking mind and is not a member of the family anymore. I don’t know if it sucks that it happened, or that it didn’t happen sooner. Since I was the official Boot In The Ass, I guess I could just say that the time had come.

I am trying to tell myself that it’s okay that I don’t have Joe as a brother anymore, and in a lot of ways it’s really good. I don’t have to worry about him stopping by drunk and asking me for more money. I don’t have to answer phone calls from Barb or Mom about how Joe is at it again. My dad and I have lost a subject to talk about, but it’s not a subject either of us liked to talk about anyway, so no big deal there.

But that means I’m down to Larry. And that is as bad as it sounds.

The asshole that hit me got out of getting a ticket. Thank you, smug bastard judge that won’t receive my vote. I hope he chokes on his fucking gavel. Or a dick. Or, even better, he’s just killed a bicyclist with his car, and he gets to enjoy daily anal rape from King Dong Bundy for the next five to ten.

I tacked on an extra semester to my scholarly career, because the concept of finishing on time from an educational institution is just a bit too tough for me.

Barring unforeseen miracles, the next relationship I will be in won’t happen until I’m 33. Alexander the Great had conquered all of the known people on the planet by that age, and I am hoping for the possibility of a woman finding me decent enough to waste a year of two of her life with me, only to be unceremoniously dumped on the Ides of March. Oh, wait, that’s already happened. But no worries, I am sure I can be humiliated in love in some other soul-drowning way. We’ll just have to wait and see! Stay tuned!

I hate both of my jobs. The kids are terrifyingly spoiled, the retail thing blows in every direction but up, and I have both jobs because of Mary, so I never get a real chance to get away from her. Awesome.

And hey, how about this weather?

Family sucks. School sucks. Love life sucks. Work sucks.

I haven’t had more than five hours of sleep on any night in the last four weeks.

I’m begging you all to give me something to be happy about. It’s getting bad here in the Zeepdoggie Den. Cute Overload didn’t cheer me up today; it’s getting critical. C’mon, somebody cheer me up!

Please?

-Zeepdoggie

Ten Things To Not Do

Don't get hit by a car.

Don't read The Great Gatsby.

Don't operate the hand-sprayer-thingy on the sink.

Don't work where you're the only guy.

Don't waste a hard-on.

Don't put off grocery shopping for a month or more.

Don't drink alone.

Don't listen to "Simple Together."

Don't trust a fart.

Don't believe anything is what it says it is, or "supposed to be" (whatever that means), or what it looks/sounds/feels like, or that it can last in any way. The Pyramids are losing against time. Fuckin' Mona Lisa's falling apart...

-Zeepdoggie

I seek opinions!

In my LitCrit class, we have been having an ongoing discussion that deals with defining literature. So, since you are all obviously intelligent (you read me, don't you ;p), you tell me: what is literature? Be specific or vague, give examples or not. Let us discuss!

Pope On a Rope

The Pope apologized. Pussy. What did he say anyway? He was QUOTING (that means that he didn’t make it up; somebody else said or wrote it first and he’s saying it sometime later) a dialogue between two men dead since the fourteenth century about how Islam is a violent religion. And the Muslim world’s response to the quote? Burn churches, write legislation to ban the Pope from various countries borders, and kill a nun in a hospital. Wow. At this point, I don’t know which quip to go with, so I will give you both. Pick the one you like best.
a)Way to support the quote, idiots.
b)Was that 14th century guy off-base with his argument!
I’m not a theologist, and I’m not unbiased either. But I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that, as a whole, Islam needs to just chill out a little. I’m a Christian, and I don’t flip out every time I see a piece of wood with a nail in it. Being raised Catholic, I get to hear all the wonderful jokes about priests and altar boys. Am I going out and killing the comedians making the jokes? No! If I don’t find it funny, I don’t laugh. If I don’t like it, I don’t need to listen.

Islamic leaders need to do two things: start promoting dialogue with other faiths and cultures and stop the silent acceptance of extremism.

No doubt I will receive a fatwah for this. See you in the pit, infidels!

-Zeepdoggie

Always Wear Clean Underwear...

A car hit me yesterday. I was on my way home from work, and as I was cruising down Lake Street, not going too fast since there was a red light at Oak Park Avenue, some guy from Missouri who really needed to get into the parking lot of the US Bank cut me off and I hit his rear passenger quarter panel. Here's the graceful bit: as I go down, I hit my shoulder on his car, which stops me from getting my hands down to slow my impact, and my feet won't come out of the stirrups. I splat pretty hard on my left side; my elbow got all bloody and scraped, my knee was all wonky, and my shoulder was not in a happy place. So I get up to go and talk to the guy, and he just drives around the parking lot, and starts to head toward the exit! WTF, is he fleeing the scene of an accident? I step in front of his car, and one of the better exchanges I had for the day went like this:
"Hi. Did you know you just hit me?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You cut me off and I fell."
"Oh..."
"..."
"You okay?"
My left forearm is covered in blood, and I am standing on one leg, my knee swollen to the size of a grapefruit: "I don't know. I just got hit by a car."
"Uh, yeah."
"I think there might be something wrong with my knee."
"How's your bike?"
"I don't know. I just got hit by a car."
"Okay." BTW, he's still sitting in his car, the engine running, and his seatbelt is on. "Well, are you okay?"
"I don't know; I just got hit by a car!" At this point, I see a man in the car next to us get out, and he's wearing a Police Sergeant's uniform. I point and say, "I think this guy is going to want to talk to you."
The look on the driver's face is fucking priceless.
It turns out that I have two witnesses: the cop and an off-duty ambulance driver! More cops come, along with an ambulance that bandages me up, and Zeepdaddy comes and picks me up because I am not sure as to what might me wrong with my bike, or me, and I don't want to take the chance.
What became hilarious is when the cop finishes her accident report, I’m sitting on the sidewalk with an icepack and Mr. Careful in his car mentally calculating the rising interest rates for his automobile, she then has to explain to him why it's his fault.
"The witnesses both said that he (me) was in the far right lane of the street, as he should be. When you cut him off, you left him no room to stop and he hit you. So it's your fault.”
"But you said he hit me."
"Yeah, with a bike."
"But he still hit me." The way she stares at him made me fall in love with her.
"Sir, he's on a bicycle, and he was obeying the rules of the road that cyclists have. Two creditable, unbiased witnesses saw the accident, and their descriptions are very similar.”
“But he hit me, right here,” he says, pointing to the driver’s side left quarter-panel, where there is significant scraping.
“No I didn’t!” I chime in. “You were turning right; I hit you here!” I am pointing to the little bit of skin left on his car, which I wipe away when he tries to claim it is paint damage. He says, “That wasn’t there before.” I wipe; “And it’s not there now.”
The cop then explains to the guy that I don’t have a seat belt, safety glass, airbags or an enclosed frame. I have a helmet and gloves and brakes. His Chrysler Concorde weighs well over 800 pounds; my bike and me don’t even break 180. “Clearly,” she says, “caution should be on your side.”
He tries to say something else and she says, “If you hit a cyclist who has two witnesses, one of them a police officer stating that he was obeying the rules of the road at the time of the accident, then it’s your fault. Be at the courthouse on your date, and if he (me) doesn’t show up, you won’t get a ticket. If he does, or if you don’t, then you get a ticket.” She hands me her card with the court date on it and says to him, “This guy could’ve stayed at the emergency room, but didn’t, because he was being honest. He saved you a lot of trouble, so just be thankful that the most that will happen will be a ticket for failure to show proper care.”
If she were just a little bit hotter, I so would’ve asked her out right there. She tells me after he leaves, "You better show up!" Don't worry, my hot cop, I will.

So the rest of the night is fairly uneventful; I don't have to work because of my jacked-up knee, so that's nice. I'm taking the bike to Dan's and have them give it a check-up. I'm sure that the front wheel will need truing and my pedals got jacked up. Also, my cell phone doesn't work, so I will need a new one.
Now comes the pertinent question: anyone know the way I get this stuff replaced by Mr. Careful's insurance company?

-Zeepdoggie

Summing it up

Thanks to despair.com.

Long Time, No... whatever

I haven't posted in a while, and for that I am not sorry, because I have spared you, my faithful, beautiful, loyal readers the agony of me going from sad to diarrhea-inducing pathetic, with occasional bouts of “burn the whole FUCKING world” angry. Usually there was little transition between the two, but if there was, it was slack-muscled boredom. Wow, I am the master of adjectives today!

Back when I was stupid (read: high school) I thought it would be awesome to have nothing but language classes. I really enjoyed my German class, and English was my favorite subject. I figured if all you had to do was really cool stuff like English and German, life would be ultra-mega super keen.

We’ve all heard the expression that one should be careful what one wishes for, and it is true. While I am enjoying my classes so far, I am dreading the appearance of the many-headed hydra of several papers due at once. Granted, one of the classes is the writing fiction class, for which I have all the homework done already. But the other three are going to be rough; I can just feel it in my water.

More good stuff followed when I went to my counselor for English Ed. She’s S, and she’s new. So we had the discussion I had with Wendy about why I am rushing through the EngEd program, and S was quite adamant about me having an extra semester tacked onto my college career. I call it a career because it’s starting to feel like one, one I regret being interviewed for. I know that last statement is in direct contrast to the well-documented fact that I love school; I don’t care. I want it over so I can have a REAL job with a REAL paycheck and REAL vacation and REAL insurance and potentially REAL women to date. But S may have a point, one that I am reluctant to admit, but it’s still there. So I am considering tacking on an extra semester to my schooling. Just like in high school. Shit.

Being single is starting to take its toll as well. I won’t get into it beyond that the dates that I went on with one woman felt like dates, smelled like dates, looked like dates and were, in fact, not dates as she saw it. We still talk, because I am a fucking sucker for dark hair and light eyes, and also because she is really cool and may have hot friends. And who knows, she may change her mind. Fool that I am, I actually believe that.

I jerk off so much I think I’m developing a callous.

I went karaoke-ing again, and developed another crush or three; one really sticks in my head. She is C, and she is just adorable. She was super-excited about art, and told me her #1 favorite painting. She has a lisp, which I find just too cute. Zeepdoggie used to stutter (and sometimes still does), so speech impediments are a sign of cutesy to me. Yeah yeah yeah all fucked up, I don’t care. But nothing will come of it, because I have only seen her once, will most likely never see her again, and if I should, I would be too chicken-shit to ask for her number or anything.

Let’s talk about work shall we? I started the new position at the other job, and it’s going well, with the exception that I have to work with Mary’s mom and her sister now. Yeah, that’s a lot of fun. Her mom I have no problem with, but her sister…well, she told Mary it would be a great idea for her to be single and be rid of me. Is there more to it than that? Yeah, there always is. But the “more to it” just makes it worse, and I am not into going that room painted with boiling rage right now.

The other job is still Hell, and I don’t get to work with GringO or Japes or the other really fun folks as much as I used to. I feel like now would be the opportune time for the place to just blow the fuck up. If I'm in it when it happens, that's not sounding like it would be too unfortunate right now.

So, you are now all caught up without all the despair and depression, and a little of the anger. I really, truly hope that your time has been spent doing better and more meaningful things, enjoyable things that make you as happy as a bunny that has escaped the clutches of an evil five-year old girl.

Until inspiration hits me squarely, have a good time.

-Zeepdoggie

White Wall

This semester I am taking ENGL 212, a.k.a. the intro to writing fiction. My prof is big on us writing really short stories, and suggested that we think about a song as a good example. So i listened to a song called "White Wall" by Lights of Eurphoria and came up with this. It turns out that it takes as long to listen to the song as it does to read this bad boy fairly carefully.

Enjoy!

The night was cool, but the club was hot. The guest DJ from Germany never let up, the crowd continuously pulsing and in motion like blood cells in the veins of a predator. They had come to witness his spinning, hear his magic of weaving new music from old. She and he were no exception.
She made it to the bar first, because women always make it to the bar first. She ordered their waters. They were both good and buzzed, sweating from exertion much like anyone in the club. The time for shots and beers had past; hydration was her goal and she didn’t want him getting tired or sick. He roared like a lion when he vomited.
There would be none of that tonight. This night, tonight, was the night.
Weeks before, she saw him opening up the record store on her way to work. She had made passes, looked in, but never entered before she saw him open up the store. After work, she bought a CD and he rang her up. It was his favorite DJ. Hers, too!
The got coffee. They had dinners. They had drinks. They watched movies, and swapped books and music, and they shared their first kiss, and kissed more. They had gone out, and they had stayed in. Once, she cried, and as he held her she smiled through her tears.
The DJ was coming to town, and he knew the club owner. They were going.
He had never danced, not really, until he danced with her. Responding to her body awoke in him a new rhythm, a strong coordination to her eyes, hips, hands and feet. He felt like hers, and he wasn’t frightened.
Finishing their second waters, they heard the odd staccato guitar, and before the bass thump began, she grabbed his hand, eyes wide with joyful recognition. They screamed “White Wall!” in unison. The CD she bought that first day, their day, in his store.
Rushing to the middle of the floor, with every body jumping, gyrating, jostling, around them, they found their way below three mirrored globes; this was the center.
Knowing intimately every beat to the song, they moved as if a perfect string tied every joint, every ounce of blood pumped by their hearts (beating in simpatico), every gaze, together. They moved closer and closer, the strings shortening, becoming nonessential when they finally touched. The bass stopped, and lush, synthesized strings float up, and they are so close that she knows the tremble of the muscles under his skin under her hands and he can smell nothing but her sweat and shampoo and that she blushes wherever he touches.
When the bass returns and drives the dancers into a fresh frenzy, they stand and sway, holding each other. She hears of the dark room, and the white wall, and she feels the helping hands on her hips as she starts to fall.


-Zeepdoggie

Icky Laundry

I’m getting dressed, it’s 0930 and my sister who lives with my folks, Zeepsissy, calls. She wants to know when I’m coming over to do laundry. I tell her in a few minutes. She says, “Oh, I thought you were coming by later.” To which I reply, no, that I had planned on coming over earlier, but I was a little sleepy having not gone to bed until 0400.

*I didn’t tell her about the 0400 part, because she doesn’t need to know that I had an awesome time hanging out with GringO and the Girly last night, they having taken pity on an old man and letting me tag along with them for pizzas and wy-un-nuh (pompous French accent).*

So Sissy says that she just put a load in, since she thought I would be there later. Now, if she knew me better, she would know that I am a morning person. I like to get everything I need to get done before 1200 strikes. But she doesn’t know me any better than any casual acquaintance I see more than once a month. She may know me less, now that I think about it.. So I ask how long her laundry will take, and she tells me that she actually has two loads to do, and if I could wait until later. I say that I will be there at 1130, she says okay and hangs up.

She calls me back four minutes later and asks if I can come over after noon. I say that kinda sucks for me, because I don’t want to break my day up into two distinct pieces of no work being done. She says please, and since she lives there and can lock me out, I don’t have much of a choice.

I’m sitting here, thinking to myself, why didn’t you do laundry this weekend? You had the whole place to yourself, you could have done it at any time you wanted. But then I remember that her boyfriend was over there on Saturday, and most likely Sunday. If he’s the guy I think he is, then he’s probably still there, eating my folks’ food and being a jackass. Sissy picks winners. And I start to think about why Sissy might need to do an emergency two loads of laundry, and promptly pass out.

So I’ve recovered (kinda; at least the shakes have stopped) and am now sharing yet another intimate moment with you, my wonderful, loyal, jaded readers who clamor for my continuing embarrassment. I am your private monkey/a monkey for funny/I do what you want me to do…*


-Zeepdoggie

*all apologies to Tina Turner.