Aerial Assclowns

I spent the Thanksgiving holiday in the Midwest, which was pleasantly uneventful. There were few notable intances of Assclownism, other than the fact that I had to remind them that the that the Pilgrims didn't actually invite the Indians to their double-wide to cook meth and that stuffing the turkey requires trousers at all times. (I have emphasized the last concept because I have grave doubts about some of you.)

No, the trouble began yesterday. Before I left, my employer realized that I was going to be within 100 miles of a customer that was having problems. Consequently, I agreed to stay an extra day to help the customer. On paper, this seemed like a clever move. I'd not only make my employer/customer happy, but I could expense part of my vacation. The service trip went like clockwork; the customer had a brain and I was in and out in 4 hours. As they say in the Midwest: I was happier than a three-peckered man in a doughnut stacking race. (I don't comprehend the mechanics of it either, but it makes a solid case for avoiding rural Krispy Kremes.)

My elation was to be transient, at best, because I was doomed to battle one of the sinister most forces of Assclownism: _______ Airlines. In order to limit my exposure to legal liability, I have omitted their actual name. From here on, I will simply refer to them alternatively as: Delta or CrackAddledAssclownsSportingFreshLobotomyScars. As you may know, Delta is undergoing massive restructuring in an effort to return to profitability. As part of the restructuring settlement, they have agreed to lose billions of dollars annually and to change their corporate motto from, "Oh, Shit. Where Did The Ground Go?" to "We Kiss You First."

My first inkling that I was screwed was when I changed my ticket to return on Monday instead of Sunday. After getting past the onerous automated menu system and an outsourced Indian screener, I found myself talking to someone with a distinctly southern accent. She was the model of politeness while informing me that the new fare and change fee would be an additional $376. The original ticket was less than $350 and it included a return to BWI on one of the busiest travel days of the year. The new ticket had me returning on a less travelled day and it allowed them to sell my old seats for an outrageous sum or use them for standby passengers, whose connections Delta had screwed up. In other words, they should have paid me for the change and, maybe even, let me fly the plane for a little while. Instead, the new restructured Delta had me over a barrel and decided to profit from it. It wasn't even the CSR's fault. Delta has programmed their pricing software to exploit such situations and I had tripped the PassengerGouge() algorithm. Had it actually been my $376, I'd probably be mighty bent right about now.

My second clue came when I arrived in Atlanta to connect with a flight to BWI. The gate I arrived at was packed with people. When I stopped to check my boarding pass for the flight number, I happened to spot a Delta pilot waiting with the passengers. There is nothing extraordinairy about this except for the fact that he was passing his time by solving a book of Word Search puzzles. The puzzles consisted of circling adjacent letters in a grid of random letters to form hidden words and are typically geared towards 8 year olds. I had a disturbing vision of this guy, in the cockpit of my plane, poring over a navigational map:

Pilot 1: "Hey! I found a B."
Pilot 1: "Woohoo, there's a W and an I!"
Pilot 2: "Good work, Pilot 1. Now we can land."

My next clue came when I checked the departure board. Most of the flights on were shown as late. Earlier in the day, there had been thunderstorms in Atlanta and the airport had been temporarily closed. At this point, it was about 4:30 P.M so these delays were understandable. My flight was scheduled to leave at 9:15 P.M, so I figured there was plenty of time for Delta to catch up. I thought I might even be able to fly standby on an earlier flight. Wrong. As the day went on and the weather improved, the delays got longer and more frequent. My flight wasn't even listed on the departure board until 8:15PM and it had an estimated departure time of 10:45PM. This was irrational exuberance on Delta's part, because we left at midnight and arrived at BWI at 1:30AM. I left BWI at 2:10AM and after retrieving my car, I arrived home around 3AM. In other words, I could have driven home in the same time and for 1/3 of the cost of flying home.

I was talking to a woman, in Atlanta, who happened to be a travel agent. She explained the situation with perfect clarity. She told me that under Delta's Contract of Carriage , the airline is not liable for compensating anybody who has their flight cancelled due to weather. So Delta uses a thunderstorm at 2PM as an excuse to cancel underbooked (nonprofitable) flights all day long, without repercussions. If you get stranded, too bad. Delta doesn't have to provide you lodging, meals, or ground transportation. She said that "Delta is the worst of the worst," and I'm inclined to agree.

I Am R-Daddy's Bitch

For anyone who has ever seen the show Intervention, you know that addiction is an all encompassing force that destroys everything that it encounters. People spend years and even lifetimes trying to unshackle themselves from various destructive dependencies. Recovery is a difficult, if not excruciating, path on which an addict will find many seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Addiction experts agree that the first step in the recovery process is that the addict recognize and admit that they have a problem that is beyond their control.

As they say in the counseling field, "Denial is a river in Egypt." Thus, I have decided to accept the fact that I have a chemical dependency problem. Every morning, while most people are sleeping or sending their kids to school, I head off to a seedy South Baltimore neighborhood to get my fix. There, amongst street prostitutes and the homeless, I seek out my dealer, R-Daddy. He always greets me with a wave and a smirk that seems to say, "I knew you'd be back, sucka." He has his lower-level dealers employ devious marketing tactics that are designed to increase dependency:
Lower Level Dealer: "Welcome to McDonald's. Would you like to try a McGriddle today?"
Me: Taking the bait. "What's a McGriddle?"
LLD: "It's two griddle cakes with the taste of maple syrup baked right in. You can get bacon, egg, and cheese or sausage, egg and cheese."
Me: "Sounds disgusting."
LLD: "So do you want one?"
Me: "No. You'd better make it two."
LLD: "That's what I thought."

Like all addicts, I started small and told myself that I could quit anytime I wanted too. R-Daddy knew better. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the small coffees that I was dabbling in would escalate into Big Breakfasts. He'd seen it all before. He was well aware that his poison would take everything and he had prepared accordingly:

LLD: "Your order will be $3.86, sir."
Me: Looking in wallet. "Crap, I don't have any cash on me."
LLD: Pushing the card swipe machine towards me. "That's OK, sir. We take Visa, MC, and Discover."
Me: "I feel weird using credit at McDonald's. "
LLD: "They all do at first. You'll get used to it. We know you're good for it."

I know that my only chance is to surrender to my powerlessness over this addiction. Quitting cold-turkey is a difficult proposition for even the most disciplined. I think I am going to have to wean myself off of it slowly. I know that I can't do it alone. I may even resort to scoring off of this guy's crew:

Why I Will Never Be A Radio Traffic Reporter

"Thanks, DJ_Dingleberry. This traffic report is brought to you by Malaka's One-Stop Pharmacy on 23rd and Greenmount.

Holy Mother of God! Do we have some Assclowns out here this morning. First, 83 is jammed up in both directions from Shawan Road all the way to the Beltway, due to a raindrop. Next, you'll find gridlock on the Outer Loop from 795 down to 70. This is due to a collision between two SUV Assclowns who were talking to each other on their cell phones and collided head on.

After 70, you'll find it slow going until you reach the work zone near 95, where traffic is at a standstill. There is a workman at the construction zone and people are stopping to take pictures because this has never been seen before.

On northbound 97 you will find the right lane closed due to a vehicle fire with injuries. It looks like an elderly driver's head exploded into flames when he exceeded 35 mph.

The Transportation Authority has closed the Key Bridge, in both directions, because it's fun to close things. Use 95/895 as your alternate, but be prepared for long delays. 95 southbound is jammed up from White Marsh to the 895 split due to excessive mascara application. Past the split, 895 is stop and go due to police activity on the shoulder. The MDTA Police have written their 1 millionth frivolous speeding ticket and the officers are celebrating by shooting into traffic. If you can get past this you will find a 30 minute delay through the Harbor Tunnel because tunnels are dark and scary.

Remember Malaka's One-Stop Pharmacy, where you get a free torniquet with every $20 purchase. Back to you DJ_Dingleberry."

100 Things About Me

Since I have seen these done on countless blogs, I'd figure I'd give it a try.

Item 1. I love commas. A long time ago, I realized that nobody actually knows how commas are supposed to work. Consequently, when people read comma laden text, they assume that the author actually does understand proper comma usage. Thus, they, conclude that, the comma, user is some kind, of, grammatical genius. I, try, to, use,,this to, my, advantage, whene,ver p,o,s,s,i,b,l,e.

Item 2. I have always had difficulty completing tasks that I do not enjoy. This is especially true of activities that are repetetive or that I think are pointless. In fact, the probability of me completing a project is directly proportio

Winnebagos

I like to read. A lot. In fact, in some months, my book bill exceeds my Asian Midget Porn bill, which typically rivals the GDP of Uganda. Having said that, I believe that many of the blogs that I read are better than most of the books I buy. Of course, my literary tastes tend to run towards selections such as "Living With Your Lobotomy" and "Getting The Most For Your Adult Diaper Dollar," so make of this what you will.

Clever title goes here

If the guy, whose picture I swiped for my profile, ever finds out, he is likely to kill me with the electric cattle prod that he is brandishing. This would be very ironic. I love irony, so I'll leave it.

Going To Take An Excremental Journey...

Sweet Jesus. Although I am new to blogging, I never realized how many bloggers have a problem managing their own or their dependent's bodily functions. For instance on Nov 9, Karla gives us Karla, Poop Detective and today we get, His bowels move in mysterious ways, which imparts a vivid description of gravity defying dung. She also provides a Scratch-N-Sniff picture, to quash all doubters. Next, I went to the Common Wombat's blog only to find Toilet Humor, Part One, in which he details scatological observations made while baptizing the Baby Ruth in public restrooms. Of course, had Wombat read Ms. Froggy's blog, he could have used some of the proper terminolgy in his classification scheme. At Dating With A Vengeance, we learn of more bodily functions gone horribly awry and gain a little insight on why she's still single. (Desperation and poop are both turnoffs, most single women wisely deny knowledge of either.)

Clearly, we are dealing with an excremental epidemic on par in seriousness with the Asian Bird Flu or even silicon implants. By my estimation, if immediate action is not taken, the problem will expand exponentially until all blog entries will consist solely of the word poop. Fortunately, I have made a technological breakthrough in the field of Ass Management: The PoopMiser 3000.

As you can see, the PM3000 is a sleek masterpiece in fluid mechanics. It features the latest in rugged slide-gate technology to provide unparalleled protection from even the most heinous of fecal fusillades. Yet, with all of its raw stopping power, valve actuation is suprisingly effortless, making the PS3000 the perfect gift for the elderly or special needs customer. A stylish pressure gauge is also included to remove any ambiguity that is commonly associated with the process. For the technophile, the gauge can be replaced with an Analog Transducer Option that allows real-time pressure/flow data logging and allows complex statistical analysis. Be the first guy on your block to be able to compute the standard deviation of your defecation.

Superior design makes the installation of the PM3000 a snap. Our patented BumHugger® technology provides significant surface area to which you can apply Velcro or an adhesive of your choosing. The large diameter of the inlet pipe ensures that you won't have to deal any embarassing seal leaks. In fact, a larger inlet pipe diameter can be specified upon ordering, allowing the accomodation of even the gayest of customers. With very minor modifications of clothing and furniture, you'll never even know the PM3000 is there. So order your PM3000 today. It is an investment that is guaranteed to pay off in the end.

Christmas Preparations

For me, the worst part of the Christmas season, aside from the annual tradition of having Santa relieve himself in my stocking, is Christmas shopping. This is because it combines some of my least favorite activities; shopping and dealing with crowds. I have never liked crowds, mainly because they consist primarily of people. I have never liked people, mainly because they consist primarily of idiocy. On my list of fun things do, a trip to TowsonTowne Center is right above getting cavity searched by Shaquille O'Neal.

For years, I have felt that my shopping experience would be greatly enhanced if I could bring one of these: a Hot Shot HS36 Electric Cattle Prod. According to the ad, this is the "top of the line" in prod technologies. It has a "sealed, transistorized" internal ckt that provides 9000 Volts of inspired civility, while limiting the current, in order to cut down on those pesky manslaughter charges. (For those of you scoring at home, this is approximately 75 times the jolt you would receive if you stuck your finger in a light socket.) I can also envision great potential for the HS36 when dealing with Jehova's Witnesses, Mormons, neighbors, and other assorted kooks who feel the need to knock on my door:

Witness: "Hello. We'd like to introduce you to the Church of Aaarghhhh! Oh my God! Stop! Aaarghhhh!"
Me: "Wow! What a coincidence. I've been thinking of turning to Jesus for help with my anger management issues. Do you think he can help?"
Witness: " Jesus is the answer to Aaarghhh! Please! Aarghhh! I'm leaving! I'm leaving!"

Now I am not so insensitive as to not think that prospect of random, public electrocution might disturb some of you. So, as a bonus for reading my blog, I will post a picture of myself. This way, if you see me in your local mall you will know to be polite, courteous, and to remove all conductive jewelry.

Sometimes adulthood sucks

Yesterday morning, I stopped at a gas station in Cockeysville to get something to drink on my way to work. There was a contractor in front of me trying to buy cigarettes but he was $0.16 short. He turns to me and asks if I had the $0.16 to which I responded that I didn't. I had the exact amount of my purchase. The clerk told him that he would let him slide and gave him the cigarettes. The guy pockets his purchase takes a step past me and says, "If I had $0.16 I would have given it to you." I replied, "OK" and turned to pay for my drink. The guy gets to the door and says,"You're all jewish up here. You suck, you fucking jew bastard. I hate all you fucking jews." I'm not a morning person so, even though I'm not jewish, I am less than amused with this assclown. Nevertheless, I ignore him, pay for my item, and leave.

I get out to the parking lot and see that he has another assclown with him and they are standing beside their work truck. Both look like heavy drug users, so as long as I don't see a gun, I'm not too concerned. As I walk past them to go to my car, his buddy says, "You got a fucking problem?" I replied, "Not yet" and got into my car. As soon as I get in, I hear the other one start yelling about "jewish cocksuckers" and "jewish whoring bitches." At this point, I'm livid and want nothing more than to grab the tire iron from my rear floorboard and deliver the asskicking that these assclowns are desperately in need of. Then, visions of lockups, felonies, lawsuits, and medical expenses danced through my head. I relented, started the car, waved goodbye to my new friends, and drove off to what I knew was going to be a marvelous day.

Stocking Stuffers

There is a certain satisfaction that can only be realized from doing a job yourself. A rewarding sense of accomplishment is provided by using your own two hands and the proper tools to complete a task. That's why I wasn't terribly suprised when I found this picture of a pair of Do-It-Yourselfers in the 11/2/05 edition of the Baltimore City Paper. (Pay particular attention to the purple "coffee table" in the bottom, right corner.

To be accurate, the article was extolling the reader to ignore the subject and focus on the artistic qualities of the photography in Sex Machines by Timothy Archibald. I've never been one to allow cultural considerations to impede as I wax sophomoric and I doubt I'll start today.

I was at work when I saw the article. After careful consideration, I rounded up several coworkers to provide an engineering critique:

Engineer1: "We could definitely do this. But what's up with that handle? That's got to go."

Engineer2: "We'll leave the handle as an option so we can crack the Amish market. Otherwise, we ought to replace the handle with a Variable Frequency Drive and an eccentric rotor.

Engineer 3: "Yeah, we'll control the VFD with a PLC that can also run the robotic spanker."

Engineer 1: "And if we couple two of them side-by-side, we can also target the gay...Oh, shit. It's lunchtime."

Engineer 3: "Who's driving?"

Engineer2: " I don't know but no more Panera Bread, it gives Engineer 1 gas. The kind that no cubicle can contain.

Thus, a concept that most likely would have evolved into the first Sex Machine capable of lunar landing was discarded for a discussion of flatulence. Leave it to a bunch of engineers to screw up a sure thing.

It turns out that the industry is undergoing unprecedented growth, as confirmed by the Belle of Baltimore . For those too lazy to click, I will summarize, if not plagiarize. She recently attended a "slumber party" which is girlspeak for a Tupperware party with sex toys, provided by a "consultant". At the party, an assortment of items, not all phallic in nature, are presented and made available for purchase. She describes creams, whips, and even a swing which she, unfortunately, doesn't elaborate on. (However, if you happen to have one and want it modified for robotic spanking, we might be able to work something out.) She goes on to say that a consultant can earn 6 figures in the 50 B/year industry.

Although the record will clearly indicate that I am a staunch supporter of female self-indulgence, this is the part that I find objectionable. Belle doesn't discuss pricing, but I get the impression that "slumber parties" are geared towards the upscale consumer. That's why I am forming a charity that will collect and refurbish unwanted sex toys. I encourage you to do your part to help underprivileged masturbators in your community by making a sizable contribution to Toys For Twats. What can I say, I'm a Giver.

The Cosmopolitan

In August, I decided to expand my cultural horizons. As a result, I enrolled in Spanish 101 at a local community college. I am making satisfactory progress with the workload and even received a high B on my last exam. Nevertheless, there is a problem. Though I have faithfully attended every class, the only Spanish that I actually know is: Hola! ¿Dónde están las damas peludas esta noche? This phrase translates roughly into english as: Hello, Where are the hairy ladies tonight?

I'm not going to pretend that this won't fulfill 98% of my spanish speaking needs, but somehow after 2 months, I feel I should know more. This feeling is reinforced when I think back to the days when I was taking elementary german. For instance, at this point in the curriculum, I could already express complex concepts like: Dies ist gutes Penizillin! (This is good penicillin!) and Ich habe viele, große Rülpser für Sie (I have many, large burps for you.) and Möchten Sie die Wurst der Liebe schmecken? (Would you like to taste the sausage of love?). It is abundantly clear to me that I am being shortchanged in my education. If the situation continues unabated, I may have to resort to extreme tactics, such as studying. Perhaps I should start here.

The importance of the pre-trip vehicle inspection

Where I work, we play hardball.