Just Off Center

When I was in English Lit class my Junior year in high school, my teacher was Brother John. He loved English Lit. He’d mastered the art of Celtic calligraphy, listened to ancient Anglo instrument music, etc. One day, he decided to get his class interested in Shakespeare by showing us the St. Crispin’s Day speech and the following English victory at the Battle of Agincourt from Henry V.

It was my first time hearing the great motivational speech with its focus on the immortality and legacy that would be left by the fallen English heroes who were so greatly outnumbered. I have read this play a dozen times and felt the surge inside me when I read this speech. So here it is; the St. Crispin’s Day speech from Shakespeare’s Henry V.

To set the scene. The English have run a bloody campaign through France in their attempt to claim the throne of France for the King of England. They are hungry, sick, tired, and worn. They come to the field near the castle Agincourt where the French trap the English and give them their one last chance to surrender before they are demolished. They are outnumbered by the French five to one, and the French are all fresh and well armed, well armored, and with cavalry. The English are in despair before their overthrow the morning of the battle, the day called St. Crispin’s Day. The king’s cousin, upon hearing the odds against them, says “Oh, that we now had here but one ten-thousand of those men in England that do no work today”. It is at this moment in their desperation when King Henry greets his throng with these inspirational words:

What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow

To do our country loss, and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor do I care who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if my men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:

God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more, methinks, would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one man more!

Rather, proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man’s company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian:”

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day: then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother, be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day!

So the doc says I need to stay off my foot for a while. Damn. And then she hits me with a prescription for fucking crutches. It's a sprained ankle. I can hobble just fine. I suppose they're just doing their jobs. So I go to the pharmacy to pick them up, and I find that they are only rentig me the crutches. I have to buy the underarm pads and hand grips. After getting everything home and taking out the pads, I realized that crutches fucking rule!

Check out the underarm pads. Thoughts?

Since I'm going to be spending the weekend with some of my blogger buddies I wanted to use the remaining days in the week to go out and make sure I get all the physical activity I can. I don't want to spend the weekend getting shitfaced and eating snacks and gain seven pounds of fat back on my ass. Plus I'm in training to kick my father's ass on Superstition this January. I'll explain that later

I decided yesterday that I was going to run up and down my usual stomping grounds, a mountain called Pass Mountain in the northeast corner of the East Valley in Phoenix. I've done it half a dozen times at least. The run up was frustrating at best. As soon as the terrain took a tough slope I had to resort to hiking instead of jogging. This was the case all the way to the cove near the summit called Wind Cave. I decided that I wanted to summit the mountain. As you continue beyond Wind Cave, the trail is not maintained. It is much steeper and full of cacti and skree. However, some nice hikers were human enough to put little white spray painted arrows on a few rocks to guide me. At one point you reach a fork going up. Either way leads to the summit. I always went left

Two paths diverged on a mountain. And I.... I took the one less traveled by. And my ankle's the size of a melon.

As I made my way through the unknown path to the top, I noticed there was a considerably greater amount of cactus and brush in my way. Oh I forgot to mention that it was getting dark and rainy. It was still early, but the cool breeze did more than just cool my heaving body. It blew plants all over the place. And in Arizona, if it's green, it's thorny. Ouch. Then I approached this part of the climb that was akin to a set of rocky stairs. It was between two large, flat boulders, shaded and cool. I thought to myself as I stepped on the first stone, "This would be a good place for..."

bzzzzzz bzzzzzzz bzzzzz

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK I'M OUTTA HERE! FUCKING BEES, AAAAAHHHHH!!!! I looked down and there's dozens of these little black furry fucks buzzing around my feet and I had just accidentally kicked some pebbles into their little world. I turned tail and started hopping the fuck out of there. The problem was that I was no longer on a trail. I was literally just scaling the side of this fucking mountain going through cactus and other prickly things, all the while these assholes are buzzing right behind me, following me. One put its stinger right in my back. AAHHHH!!! You little bastard! I kept hobbling around until I finally got to a nice fifteen foot drop off on which I was lucky enough to find footholds and climb down. I made it back to the original trail that I used to climb to the summit on and continued on.

The summit was especially beautiful. It was raining in parts all over the valley. There was a rainbow off to the east. Thunder was all around. Lightning peppered the north valley. It was so cool and breezy and I was standing on the highest rock, above all civilization. I decided that I had been bold enough and I should climb down before a strong gust knocked me over the side. Besides, it was about to rain and I had a little bit of scaling to do.

The trip back down was fun and a great workout. I decided to put my reflexes and foot/eye coordination to the test by jogging the entire trip down. I was bounding from rock to rock. I nearly took a bad spill a couple of times. But that risk is part of it. Besides, almost falling ain't falling. I made it to the foothill of the mountain and was making a great pace. I ran right past this older couple that I had met at Wind Cave who said that they were scared to summit. I leapt on a rock right between them and tossed off an "excuse me" as I left them behind.

About 100 yards later, my poor ankle just gave out. It was raining and slippery. But that's not what got me. My right ankle has been my weakest part for a long time. It used to give out by itself when I was heavier. Now, I try to work it to stretch the tendons and strengthen the muscles. I guess I just worked it too hard. I took a long stride and when I landed... Crunch right, pop left, crunch right, and I'm cussing. It took me ten more strides to stop. It was pouring now. So I stumbled back to my car and began driving home. By then it was swollen and hurting. I didn't break it. But when I got up last night to get a snack, I had to jump back into bed on my left foot and cover up because apart from the intense pain, I was now inexplicably freezing cold.

Nina brought me a couple of her Rx Ibuprofin and propped my leg up with ice. I'll be fine, but I might not be able to go for that beach run I was looking forward to this weekend. And the pony might be put away. Sorry friends. If I don't heal soon, I'll have to make a total ass of myself some other time.

Best Song To Do the White Boy Shuffle To: Usher - Yeah
Best Song To Get Pumped Up Before A Fight To: Slipknot - New Abortion
Best Song To Fuck To: Moby - Thousand
Best Song To Fantasize About Fucking To: Chris Isaak - Wicked Game
Best Song To Sample: Cure - Fascination Street
Best Song To Remember the 80's to: Tarzan Boys - Jungle Life
Best Song To Remember the 90's to: Nine Inch Nails - Head Like A Hole
Best Song To Get Your Girlfriend In The Mood: Sade - Ordinary Love
Best Song To Make A Grown Man Cry: Johnny Cash - Hurt
Best Song To Exercise To: Eminem - 'Til I Collapse
Best Song To Drive To: Phil Collins - In The Air Tonight
Best Song To Start A Riot To: Rage Against The Machine - Testify
Best Song To Remove All Faith In Humanity: David Allen Coe - Nigger Hatin' Me
Best Song To Restore All Faith In Humanity: Louis B. Armstrong - Wonderful World

Some of you might have noticed the somewhat erratic and abrupt comments left by a new reader calling himself Jamed the Eunuch. This is a local fella who is a rep at the telemarketing job I just quit. I'd take a lot of time describing him, but I doubt anybody's really all that interested. He's that guy that comes to mind when you're sitting around with friends and someone says "Does anybody know a guy that can score us some pot?" Let's leave it at that. Cool, funny, off-color. He's got that whole "I hate everybody, but still get angry at society for not being nice to each other" thing going on.

Well James is something of an artist. And by something, I mean that he sits at work drawing pictures of very strange and unlikely scenarios, usually involving blood and something getting stabbed or eaten. In my efforts to get to know all the reps in the room and help them feel comfortable I started giving him drawing assignments. I'd just hink of the craziest and most arbitrary things I could and spit them out. He took to drawing every scene I gave him with zeal. I promised that I'd include his drawings here on my blog. So here are the rough sketches of James the Eunuch.

"A Legless Giraffe With Polio and His Crack-smoking Pet Monkey Healer"



















"Johnny Bowlingballhead Has A Sudden Growth Spurt Of Rubber Tubing (with fangs)















The Urinals Strike Back





















Much more to come. I gave the guy a list with about eight more scenes. He told me that he was trying to get his work to be accepted into the portfolio of a tattoo artist friend. So if there's anyone out there who wants to get a picture of the deciding battle between the armies of Nazi hard boiled eggs and the Mr. Peanut Militia, just let me know. I've got the hookup.

And with that, the drunk is gone. He came home last night a few hours after I did. He knew what he was doing. It's easier if he faces me with Nina present. Anyway, upon his arrival I'd had a couple pints and a shot and was coming down from my high of getting ready to beat him senseless. When I saw him I ordered him to "get that piece of shit out of my driveway". When he came back in I told him that I want my house and mailbox keys... NOW!!! What a pussy.

Nina wanted him to sit down and explain to her why he'd spent the past nine months lying and using us. Why, Sam, why? Oh why and how could you do this to us? Please explain it to me. I wasn't in the mood to wait to hear his next lie so I ansewred for him.

"Because I'm a drunken loser and I dont' care about anyone or anything but myself."

After this I threatened his life and called him faggot enough times that he almost got a glint of fight in his eye. Oh how I wished he'd stood up. Oh well, maybe next time. Wait. That's right. There won't be a next time, because I threw him out of the house and told him I never want to see him again.

And the house is mine. Mine again. I'm naked right now. That's right. I'm sitting at my computer butt naked! Yeah, baby! Nina's in bed wishing she could feel close with me. I think that means she's horny. I can't be sure. But it can wait while I tell everyone how I'm both typing, and looking squarely at my dong. Boo-yah.

Yesterday might have turned out to be the perfect cap on a productive week. I quit my second job on Friday. I rested nearly all day Saturday on account of this fucking cold that managed to find me. But yesterday. Yesterday was the big one.

Nina and I got up before dawn and hit the road to hike the Pass Mountain Trail. It was long and hard on Nina, who hadn’t been hiking yet this season. But she trooped it out, literally. I was marching in front of her with a heavy foot to give her a cadence to trance to while she finished the last mile. After that we had breakfast at Paradise Café and bought some bruschetta, cheese, wine, and some yummy Erdinger wheat beers. When we got home it was damn near 2:00 PM and Sam was still in fucking bed.

For those who are just now tuning in, I’ll give you the lowdown on Sam. Sam was an old high school acquaintance who became a friend when Nina and I moved into our first apartment. When I joined the Air Force, he moved into the basement apartment we’d been renting from this old man who really liked us. And that was all we’d heard from Sam for years. Then last December, Sam called us to tell us that he has a problem with alcohol and basically asked us for help. We encouraged him to move into our new home with us. Our first home. Our pride and joy. He accepted.

It was almost two months before he actually got a job. And that was because I had to find one for him. He kept getting drunk and passing out. We yelled at him, but it did no good. Eventually I had to kick him out for a week about three months ago. Since June he’s been sober. He’s been going to AA meetings and got his little sobriety coins which he showed us with such pride. He is still an unbelievable slob. He surrounds himself with his own filth. And it’s been nine months since he moved in.

Sam made a deal with us on Saturday. Saturday would be his day of rest because he had worked soooo hard the past week that he was just exhausted. And he laid there and slept almost all day too. But the deal was that Sunday he would clean his room and the bathroom… all the way clean, not just picked up. At four I woke him up and asked him why he disrespects me like this. He got up and started crying and whining and whatever. I had a long heart to heart with him about how I was so proud of him for all his success and that he’s so very close to being ready to move out and make it as a productive member of society. We hugged and he wept and thanked me for my candor. I told him that since he had an AA meting to get to, he should go to it and then come home and do as much cleaning as he can before he goes to sleep. He was gone for just over an hour, not nearly enough time to have attended a meeting. He came home, went to his room, and got ready for bed.

Nina had sensed he was acting funny. Since I’ve come to respect her instincts in this matter, I took a flashlight out to his car and the trashcan to look inside. And there right behinfd the drivers seat were two bottles that appeared to be booze. I couldn’t be sure so I went to his room and told him to open his car for me. He opened the door and I got in, reached behind the seat and there they were, a fifth of tequila barely touched, and an empty fifth of rotgut whiskey. I just asked him why. Why, Sam? His response was the usual self-deprecating crap about how he’s scared and a coward, and weak, blah blah blah. I asked him how long he’d been drinking. His response?

“I never stopped”

It turns out that his longest stint of sobriety was for two weeks when I kicked him out three months ago. Ever since then, he’d work, stop for crap liquor, chug the whole bottle on the way home, and then come in the house whining about how exhausted he was and how work was just killing him and he couldn’t do anything because of how tired he was.

I took him into my bedroom, where Nina and I yelled at him and started to feel the weight of this betrayal. Nine months. I took on a second job to cover the financial losses incurred since he couldn’t afford to pay rent. I cut him slack day after day, week after week for all his effort. I even had a talk with Nina during our hike about how she’s been kind of a bitch to him lately and should probably give him a break. Nina gave him one month to clear out. I don’t feel so generous. I’ll probably kick him out on his ass this week. But I want him there for a couple days to suffer through me.

I extended myself out for this friend in ways that I never had for anyone. I truly believed in him. I believed him when he bragged about being sober since June. I was so proud of how hard he was pushing himself that he was so exhausted every day. I opened myself up. And I have been used since day one.

I am the biggest fucking sap and sucker I’ve ever met.

Yes, that's right, I am posting a question about a purely business related topic. I need help creating a function for Excel 2003. Here's the scenario:

I need to take a value in a cell from one spreadsheet (A) and compare it to a column on a second spreadsheet (B) to see if one of the cells in that column is a match.

If a match is found, I need the function to then access a value of a cell in another column in spreadsheet B and copy the value of that cell to a blank cell in spreadsheet A. If no match is found, I need the blank cell in spreadsheet A to read "No Match".

C'mon geeks, help a yuppie out.

One of the things that have been occupying so much of my time and preventing me from doing any blogging lately is that I’ve been training a new hire here at my job. This is the fourth new hire I’ve trained to be my replacement before I move on. This one will be replacing me here in Gilbert, AZ so that I can be freed up to implement our contract in Rochester, NY. Rochester… in winter. I’m a dead man.

Anyway, apart from the fact that these guys tend to shadow me so that I can’t have any completely non-work related fun, this one is pretty decent… so far. His name is Brent. He’s my age, and just a little bit less advanced professionally. He’s just out of the Marines. There’s a strike against him right there. But he said he’s not one of “those” Marines. He referred to himself as “in the rear with the gear”. Aren’t military men just so cute with their little rhyming phrases?

Brent is married and has two children, both adopted from previous foster care. I didn’t ask if reproductive problems had prevented him from making his own, but I assume so. Both of his children came from bad places. They were too young to remember, but one of them at least has behavioral issues from being exposed to substances. What a fucking way to come into the world, huh? He keeps telling me to write things down to remind myself that I don’t want children of my own. Those hikes I go on? Gone. Weekend batting cages and bars? Gone. Thanks, Brent.

So his wife seems to be a stay at home mom. And she just can’t get enough of having new children coming to live with her. Brent feels that the two children they have are enough. But his wife wants to foster care just one more. Her selection? A fifteen year-old girl in an all girl group home.

Am I the only one who sees the problem in this? First of all, Brent doesn’t even want another kid around, let alone a grown one. I suspect this is the point when a man has to put his foot down and make a declaration of this one thing that either will or will not be allowed in his house. His wife would have to take care of most of the work, and she accepts that. But her husband doesn’t want it. Now if he never actually forbade this from happening, then it’s his problem and he needs to grow the cojones required to remind a housewife of her role.

Second issue is the obvious one. This is a fifteen year-old girl. Sure that’s young. Hell, she’s still a kid. But there are a few things to remember here.

• She’s already had some life experience. She grew up in foster care and group homes. This isn’t some coddled, innocent little girly girl. She’s probably known the back of a man’s hand. She’s probably felt unwelcome advances in her own bed. She’s probably started and finished fistfights. And as a result, she probably not only feels that she is already an adult, but has gained some manipulative skills to increase her advantage.

• She’s been without a proper male role model. Odds are that she has learned that her little body is proper reward for affection already. And any man who would take her in, feed her, teach her, help raise her, and give her badly needed structure surely would expect some entitlement to at least a blowjob, right? It’s a sad state of affairs, but is it not a truism?

• She ain’t gonna be fifteen for long. Next comes sixteen. Then comes seventeen. And with every passing month, this girl is going to come more and more into her womanhood, into her own. She’ll have friends her age. They probably will be less fortunate children like her, and her foster parents’ crib is likely the best pad to chill in.

• His wife is no spring chicken. I don’t know her and I have no idea what she looks like. But if she’s a stay at home mom working on two children, I’d bet good money that she’s not exactly in peak physical condition. Nor is it likely that she’s taking ten minutes or so before her husband gets home to freshen up and look appealing to her bacon-bringing hubby every day. But the new girl? Well… turn on MTV. You’ll get the point.

So yesterday after getting off the phone with his wife he told me that he’s meeting her tomorrow at the group home. And he told me that he’s a little creeped out about the whole thing. Not being a guy who likes to exacerbate a situation, I told him, “Dude, this IS fucking creepy. I mean I know she’s 15 and everything, but a man’s a man. And the fact that your wife is bringing her in is even creepier. I hope she realizes what she’s doing.”

And before we left I offered him some advice. And for once in a long time, I think he might actually consider it. The simple fact is that she wants to bring in this girl, and he doesn’t. Someone’s not going to get their way. Someone’s going to be uncomfortable. So I told him to go to the meeting and start taking a very close interest in everything about this girl. Ask her about her life. Ask her personal questions. Wiggle around in your seat. Fidget with your hands. Your wife will notice this stuff, and she’ll eliminate the potential competition quickly.

Of course this leaves a young girl without a place to live outside the group home. But hey, who said life is fair? Knowing what I know of women, most of you would rather this bitch freeze in some back alley then be warm in your bed.

Thanks again for all your patience. Except all of you who took the time to bitch about my absence. You can all eat a pound of my cock.

One of the things that’s really been getting me cheesed off lately is that I’ve been getting comment spam. I just noticed it a couple days ago. They’re all MILF related it seems. I have no problems with MILFs at all. Wait, does it need to be capitalized? How about just milf? And how does one determine the milfness of a milf? I mean, we can’t have every skanky mom in town running around saying she’s a milf just because hubby hasn’t knocked the dust off her pussy in six months. I think there should be a prequalifying list of… qualifiers. And we should probably make these criteria weighted too. So how do we gauge the milfness of a candidate?

PHYSICAL ATTRACTIVENESS – For starters, she has to be put together well. And this doesn’t mean thin either. She just has to have some measure of proportion to her. I’ve walked around too many Wal-Marts and seen these moms walking around who at one time were probably fairly proportional, but now have an ass that takes up the whole isle. Where do these women find jeans? When my wife was heavier, it was damn near impossible to find her a pair of pants that she liked. And she wasn’t even that big to begin with. Anyway, I can go on and on about these bohemoths, but I have other criteria to cover. Physical attractiveness is worth up to ten points

FUCKABILITY – You might think this is very similar to physical attractiveness. The difference is that fuckability is that intangible feature about a woman that makes men stop what they’re doing, stare a woman down, and try not to let her see they’re checking her out and thinking about how much she’d benefit from a good hard pounding. It could be the way the hair falls over her face or the stride in her step. It could be the glint in her eyes. Or it could be the way she sits on the park bench with knees apart and no panties. Regardless, this is an important one. A guy isn’t going to try to nail a milf is she isn’t at least moderately fuckable. In this decade, fucking an older woman with children is okay as long as she has sex appeal. Otherwise it’s just sad. Fuckability is worth 15 points.

DESPERATION – You’re not the youngest chicken in the henhouse anymore, honey. There are plenty of young, nubile things out there who have no idea that we weren’t serious when we told them we’d take them to Cabo next month. Sure you have more experience and are probably much better in bed. But these girls just seem to constantly be shaking their asses. It’s like a fucking pendulum. We need something to snap us out of it. And that’s where you come in with straight, hardcore, depraved, undignified desperation. How easily can you walk up to us and stick your tongue in our ears? Are you willing to pay for cabfare back to your place and then for me to back to the bar when I leave 45 minutes later? Can you tolerate being called Julie… if your name isn’t Julie? The more you can make a guy say, “Jesus, this bitch is fucking begging for it!” the higher you score… with us and in this aspect of milfness. It’s worth 20 points.

CHILDREN – You can’t be a milf unless you have children. Otherwise it would just be ilf. And that sounds far less sexy. So kids will be worth a maximum of 25 points. This should be further broken down.

• Five points for each child up to two. After that, lose five points each
• One point for every year between children. I’ll explain later.
• Two points if one is still sleeping in a crib.
• Five points if you still lactate. Score!
• One point for every behavioral medication your children are on as a result of your neglect since you are so busy trolling for cock.

AGE – It’s milf, not gilf. And it damn sure ain’t g-gilf. So let’s keep the age somewhere between thirty and forty-five. I’ve had to make a cutoff at thirty because younger than that is still too fresh and new to be a real milf. There are too many options open to girls in their twenties, even the ones married with children. No, it’s just not going to fly. And anyone above 45 will have to submit for a special dispensation from the committee. Oh, and I’m the committee. Age is pass/fail and it’s worth ten points

CUNNY CONDITIONS – I don’t have children. But I have seen plenty of babies in my time and not one of them has been smaller than my dick. It’s hard to imagine how birthing doesn’t turn a woman’s genitals into some sort of cavernous abyss. However, I have heard that shape and elasticity can all return to normal with effort. So that’s what this one is all about. How much time have you spent doing that clenching thing? Are you maintaining the proper trim and cleanliness? Are you… not so fresh? Do you still treat it like the prize? This is worth zero positive points because by the time we get to check it out we’ve already deemed you worthy of milfery. However, this category will cause you to lose up to 178 points based on the extreme nature of the situation.

Okay, after doing the math I realized that total points achievable is only 80. So, like any good man would do when the outcome doesn’t fit the intention, I’m going to change the intention. 80 is now the maximum allowable point score. Anything under 50, and you are NOT a milf. Oh hell, let’s go ahead and issue the grades like a Seventeen quiz.

-178 to 49 – You are a horrid and putrid excuse for womanhood, and should start living vicariously through your children full time. Oh, and your husband is cheating on you. Sorry.

50 to 59 – You meet the minimum specifications for a milf. You may now wear conservative sexy attire and go for strolls through parks with your kids. You may accept being called a milf as a compliment. However, you are not milf enough to proclaim your milfness in public, and you should definitely enroll in that spin class. Oh, and your husband is cheating on you with a better milf in the neighborhood. Try harder and get him back.

60 to 69 – You are a fine example of the modern milf. You probably own Juicy sweatpants and Uggs. Men watch you out of the corners of their eyes and wish that their wives looked like you. Women probably think you’re a dirty slut… because they know that their husbands wish they were you.

70 to 80 – You are the quintessential milf, and you should be damned proud of it. Men want you. Women want to be you. Boys come into their manhood a few months early thanks to you. Girls… well girls are just too wrapped up in their own lives to notice you. But fuck them. You’re smoking hot and you know how to use it. Here’s to you, milf!

Women - What is the absolute filthiest thing a guy has ever said to you during sex?

Men - What is the dirtiest thing you've ever wanted to say, but didn't want to get kicked out of bed for saying?

Others - Pick one and fuck off.

It’s been far too long, but I’m still here and still stomping ass in all directions. I’ve just been moving faster than a Klansman at the Million Man March. So rather than give a great long rundown of what’s kept me away I’ll just sum up and go right on to complaining about my spoiled life and poking fun at the less fortunate.

WORK – Straight, hardcore, unadulterated, full blown motherfucker. I haven’t busted ass like this since those two weeks I temped out to a stamping plant. Basically my company has sent me to a new company to implement our services in a short term contract with the hopes that perceived value of those services will be so clear and high that a new etended and expanded contract will be signed. So I’m trying my hardest to get this done by myself while ten to fifteen senior managers in both my company and their have fucking meeting to discuss the work that I do. Something’s backwards here.

MORE WORK – I finally put in my two weeks at the second job. Last Friday Nina and I met for drinks and when it was time for me to go to work, I was pretty buzzed. I walked in and took a minute of my manager’s time to tell him. No hard feelings. No burned bridges. He understood. So now I feel like shit because I just have this thought that I’m a quitter and that a strong man would just keep working without letting it get to him like this. But then I think of how tired I am all the time and how I will finally be able to have my evenings to do what I wish. I’m there.

HOME – Where? What’s that? Oh, that dark place where I keep my work clothes and shave my face three times a week. The house is fine. I took on a little painting project several weeks ago where I painted one of our closet shelves and added more shelves to make a perfume display area for Nina. That went well. Sam is still a fucking slob who lies and spends every off hour he can sleeping and just generally being disgusting. He’s working long hours now, lots of overtime. That means he’s making money. And THAT means his ass is about to be out the door.

So one interesting thing that took place the other week was I got to witness a crash scene being processed. I was driving up this long stretch of two-lane road that gets me to the Interstate, just like everyone else in the state. Well there had been another head-on collision toward the last few miles of the drive. When that happens, they close off the road and make everyone turn around and take an alternate route. The last time this happened it took me almost two hours to get to work. So when I saw all the cop cars coming behind me and the traffic backing up way before it should have been, I knew. But I figured if I could just wait it out, even if it took 45 minutes to reopen the road, I’d still get there sooner.

Everyone started turning around and headed back, and I just kept taking their spot. Until eventually the last car behind me turned around and I was all that was left, about 200 yards from the crash site. It was nasty too. Two pickups off the sides of the road and both looked like the driver’s side was smashed in. I pulled onto the shoulder and threw it in park. A Deputy walked around the wreck and motioned for me to turn around. I ignored him. I just sat there for several minutes while the fire truck and EMTs showed up.

After a few more minutes, one of the firemen motioned me to pull onto the grass and drive up. I thought “Sweet! That only took ten minutes”. Well it was only abot twenty feet closer I got when a Sheriff came up and started yelling at me. “Where do you think you’re going?! You’re not driving through our scene, are you crazy!?!”

“Yes, I’m crazy, not get back to your scene!” I shouted back. I don’t think he heard me. Besides, I was told to move up. What was his problem? Then when he went to the fireman to see why I was there, he came up to me and yelled “Pull over there! There’s a Med-evac on the way. You’ve really bought yourself into it now!”

I was feeling a bit isolated and outnumbered, but there was nothing more I could do. I was stuck. Fine. A few minutes later the helicopter showed up. It was so cool. The thing just flew right over me. Nobody was paying any attention to me. And when they rolled out the injured man, I had to look. He didn’t look so bad actually. He was banged up and in the full head support on. But he might have just been bruised up. Then the helicopter left. And it occurred to me. Two trucks. Two drivers. Only one person moved. Ewwww… somewhere up there were fucking parts for hauling off.

When the chopper left I was told to turn around. Fuck. After all that, I still had to turn around and it took me over two hours to get to work that day. When I got to work, my supervisor told me “You didn’t tell me you’d be late getting in this morning.” To this I replied “Neither did the poor fuck whose dead body got hauled off in pieces after he got in a head-on collision, closing up the only road to the I-60 and causing me to take 2:15 to get to work!” That shut that situation down pretty quick.

More to come. Lots fucking more.