Neighborhood Spittoon

12/28/06

Smoking is a fairly unpleasant habit. For those who do not engage in it, anyway. Even for those of us who are addicted to the magical little coffin nails some of the less delightful aspects of the practice can become annoying. Even a consummate smoker doesn’t like second-hand smoke blown in his face. But that’s not what I wish to speak about today. No, I think the most disgusting part of smoking is the small circle of individuals who seem to believe they have to discharge saliva while exhaling blue smoke. “Chewing” is decidedly grosser than smoking in my opinion, but these wonderful zeros have apparently decided to combine the worst of both habits and squirt a huge dollop of spit out of their mouths after every drag. I can only assume it’s because smoking does dry out the mouth, and with a little working of the tongue you can encourage the salivary gland to aid the situation, so perhaps they have yet to hit the correct ratio and feel instead of swallowing the excess like, I dunno, a human fucking being, they should just share their bodily fluids for the rest of us to trod in. It’s not phlegm, mind you, just spit, but still…

Smokers without even a modicum of smoking etiquette make my asshole twitch for the same reason normal black people wince whenever hearing a story on the news about some African American retard shooting up a movie screen; it gives the rest of us a bad name. My upstairs neighbor is such an oaf when it comes to smoking. He’s either on the third or forth floor (we reside on the bottom) and I suppose I could figure it out if I took the time to calculate the lag time between hearing him make a “P-thoo!” noise and when his expectorant care package makes a huge, wet splat on the concrete directly in front of my porch. Now I am not a squeamish fellow, but the worst part about this whole thing is that we have a sunken porch, and so the sidewalk is chest-high and I just know I’m getting foreign, microscopic neighbor-spit containing God-knows-what horrific diseases all over me whenever our trips to smoke happen to coincide. If his requirements for choosing a sexual partner are anything like his smoking habits Upstairs Spitter probably has enough STDs swimming in his human bacterial frappe to bring down an occupying army.

Worse still, he’s one of these adolescent morons who has yet to grasp the idea of an ashtray, and just casually pitches his cigarette butt off the balcony as if throwing fish to hungry seals. A wonderful shower of sparks ensues and I’m just waiting for the day when I have to show my landlord the ashtray I keep on my porch to prove I smoke white-filtered cancer sticks instead of his orange-filtered ones. Upstairs Spitter’s friends seem of a similar caliber, as a few weekends ago I came out one Sunday morning to find the area in front of my porch resembling the floor of a saloon shortly after closing time. There was even a half-smoked cigar down there, for shit’s sake! In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, “we’re trying to have a society, here…”

Leaving aside how rude and just stupid this behavior, there’s the fact that somebody has to pick this crap up, but what the hell would Upstairs Spitter care about some lowly maintenance worker? Not to even mention the fact that some of these stray butts are probably making their way into the surrounding soil of the apartment complex, carefully not biodegrading for 10-12 years. Yet another incentive for smoking non-filters; they only take upwards of 3-5 months.

Could all of this be solved by a short trip up the stairs to face him man-to-man and ask, very politely, if he could please not treat the sidewalk like his personal garbage can? Perhaps. But more likely it would just cause some worse manner of passive-aggressive hell to be visited upon our doorstep. Plus, I don’t talk to people. Maybe I’ll just pee on his doorknob. That would make me feel a lot better.





Random Thought for the Day:


It’s very difficult to be a mean drunk when sipping anything out of a coconut. Doubly so if it also has one of those little paper umbrellas and a pineapple slice.

Light a Match

12/22/06


Hanni bought some chips made with Olestra the other day. So…you know…this Christmas we're going to be pooping machines afflicted with Rickets.

(For those of you who don't know why that's funny, click the link.)


Biggest Lie I Heard Today

Female Employee: I'm glad I wasn't much in the looks department in high school so I didn't get nominated for queen.



Most Boring Thing I Heard Today

"I saw they had new sugar-free Lifesavers, so I bought some and thought I'd see if I like 'em."


Quackity-Quack, Fuck You



I am baffled, baffled I say, by the number of people who think those damn stuffed toys that dance and sing some twisted, alternate version of a popular song are funny and cute. They're not. They're stupid. And annoying. And playing them in the office makes me imagine what it would be like to shove venomous frogs inside you.

How many times can a duck in a Santa hat singing "Quackity-quack, don't talk back" really be funny? Then again, people seem to like racist rednecks who tell bad jokes, too. People are morons. Holy shit and where's the Tylenol?

Hallmark of the Beast

12/15/06


I don't get holiday cards. I don't mean that I don't receive them; I mean I don't precisely understand the sort of mass mental illness which causes people to send them to me. What are people thinking when they send these things out? And are there any humans out there so terminally starved for whatever minimal contact a thin piece of cardboard can impart that they actually like getting holiday cards? Or cards in general, for that matter. It never fails that whenever the high holidays roll around I hear twelve or thirteen (usually unwed, middle-aged) women in my office maligning over the fact that they're "so behind on Christmas cards this year, and oh it's just going to take me all weekend to finish writing them," or some such nonsense. I mean, hey, there are people who have no place to live and nothing to eat this year, but yeah, you climb up on that cross because you have to affix a few stamps, Delores.

Just what the devil am I supposed to do with this marginally coherent paper greeting? Anyone who lives with fewer than five animals always thinks the same thing when they get a card: "Hmm…I wonder how long I have to hold onto this before I can just throw it away." Is there something that a cartoon snowman/Santa/Christmas tree/Jesus can impart about your feelings to me that a six minute phone call would not? Okay, honestly it'll probably be more like a twenty-second message you leave on my voicemail because I don't like to answer the phone, but still; less work for you, you ink-stained lunatic! If you're going to force me to open and pretend to read your card, at least consider affixing a photo showing, at minimum, a little nipple.


And why in the name of sweet, dancing Moses am I getting these from coworkers? Hey, we've spoken a total of eight sentences to each other this year; here's a slab of wood pulp with some malarkey about sledding and forgiveness! Take some Prozac, would you Phyllis? Greeting cards are like one step above mailing someone a fortune cookie. But at least with those I have something to eat while I read poorly constructed aphorisms. Let's stop all the madness, shall we? Oh, unless you're sending money or something else which can be exchanged for goods and services; that is a legitimate use of a greeting card. Otherwise, please save me the trouble and just throw the card away yourself.

Thank you for your kind attention.

A Shower I Can Get Behind

12/13/06


For any of you interested out there, I just thought I’d give you a heads-up on some interesting astral activity this evening. Tonight the Geminid meteor shower is going to be the heaviest of the year, with an average of one or two meteors per minute. These bodies are slower moving and brighter than most, as well as being observable just about everywhere in the sky.

The shower will last all night, but the heaviest of the shooting stars will come rocketing in at 80,000 mph between 10 p.m. and midnight. It’s best to observe them from the secluded dark of the countryside where you could see as many as 100 per hour, but should you be frightened of monsters and rapists those of us in the city might get a few peeks at the brightest ones.


Just thought I’d give you a “heads up.” Gods, what a terrible pun. Should you be interested in finding out more, your friendly, neighborhood reporter is here with the following links:

Top 10 Geminid Viewing Tips
Where the Meteors Come From

K. Tarin: Feebleminded Apple-John

12/8/06

Yesterday we touched on a particular Amazon.com reviewer who, I feel, represents the curious madness of those who seem to have nothing better to do than heap criticism upon popular culture with barely the slightest provocation. People like me, I suppose. But hey, at least I have the courtesy to possess the literary ability above the common tree frog, whereas K. Tarin treats the English language as his own personal colostomy bag. Since there’s something slightly pathetic about doing a 2-day post on the mild annoyance of someone else’s opinions, idiotic as they are, I’ll keep this short and sweet.

I suppose what I find most curious about K. Tarin’s reviews are that he seems to purchase things he knows he’s going to hate, presumably for the sole purpose of ragging on them through Amazon reviews. His negative (one star) admonitions outweigh his positives by something like 10 to 1, with concert DVDs or videos being the largest source of his ire. Check out this laundry list of concert shows that didn’t make the grade:


Live at the Montreux Jazz Festival 1978

“Getting tired of tarded camera work, someone start a school for these
people?... pure and simple. stop blowing it!!!!! TARDED!”

Metallica – The Videos 1989-2004

“No Closed Captioned, or subtitles, for this DVD Some of my music DVD's
from almost 10 years ago have it. Flat no more excuses anymore, its 2007 now!!
“F+ on this DVD just for this”

Ted Nugent – Full Bluntal Nugity Live

so many good reviews, you people must be young, and or never seen Ted in the
70's. I am talking about he does not use a Gibson Birdland guitar anymore.
Why? is it to hard to play nightly? takes to much out of you? or what?

Styx – Return to Paradise

“before I bounce this thing, "listening" to styx has always been one of my fav
listens. Studio work is killer. live, I guess I am glad I missed them live.
POSERS”

I fail to understand why someone with the worst taste in music ever would continue to purchase metric tons of concert videos which he clearly hates. I don’t think it’s the movies that are “tarded,” you deranged monkey.

You may have noticed that K. Tarin rails against there not being closed captioning on the Metallica videos; this is a common complaint and he lists it in many reviews of DVDs. Uhm…what precisely is enjoyable about reading a music video? If you can’t hear the goddamn music all you’re watching is barely coherent 3-minute stories about angst and women, aren’t you? I just…sweet Christmas I just don’t get this guy. Hey, did it occur to you that maybe the reason you’re deaf is all the concert speakers you sat three inches from back in the 70s?


One more point and then I’ll let you go. K. Tarin did post a favorable review (4 out of 5 stars!) for the movie Wild at Heart; a very odd film by David Lynch which is definitely one of his more tepid ventures. K. Tarin just drops off the fucking side of the earth when he says:

“why they release movies in todays age without this option on it to turn
off the sex and or dirty words, I just don’t get it. So 4 stars not 5 just for
that.”

And there’s really nothing else I can say to make that statement funnier. What an angry, weird little man.

K. Tarin: Nincompoop

12/7/06

I was searching reviews for a book I’m currently reading by Frans de Waal entitled Our Inner Ape, when I came across a post on Amazon.com by K. Tarin “2hard2please”.

I think I might accidentally touch-off a negative feedback loop by amateurishly criticizing the already amateur criticism of K. Tarin, who, it appears, spends the bulk of his/her time vomiting insanity all over Amazon.com reviews. But sometimes the Universe just throws something at me that’s so bizarre and hilariously irritating, I have to vent my frustration or just start chucking live ordinance at people on the street.

Our Inner Ape is a book by a leading primatologist contrasting and comparing the habits of our closest living relatives, chimps and bonobos, with our own social and political proclivities. It’s quite an interesting read, although K. Tarin begs to differ. Here’s and excerpt from his review:

“We share over 98% of DNA and many behaviors [sic] Why then, has never a Chimp
or a Bonobo ever been filmed praying? or making an Idol out of a stick? They use
tools right?
“Why haven't any animals been recorded sitting around having any
conversations? They yell and make plenty of noises, the world over, but none
have ever been recorded sitting around and have any conversations.”

I’ll give you some time to let the heaping craziness sink in there. It’s hard to even criticize this kind of thing, because the statement is just so out-and-out loony. Proposing a rational argument to the above is somewhat akin to trying to explain how you’d really rather keep your legs, thanks, to a marauding shark who has just sheared you off at the torso. I fail to understand the sideways leap in logic that leads K. Tarin to surmise that because we are similar in DNA and some social aspects, chimps should be kneeling in front of deities sculpted from poo or whatever. And as for “having conversations,” what exactly is he expecting to see? It’s clear that apes communicate, sorry if they don’t use the Queen’s English and wear smoking jackets while doing it, you freak.

And yeah, so maybe it’s only a crappy Amazon review, but the trend of refusing to capitalize properly or take the time to put an apostrophe into contractions is just disgusting. Not to mention K. Tarin’s private war on the readability of one’s writing. His sentences read like something written by a sixth-grader, then translated into several different, dead languages and back into English.

Here’s another good one, where K. Tarin reviews A Terrible Love of War by James Hillman. I haven’t read the book, but it appears to be a hotly contested book concerning why we make war, including a rather scathing and possibly misguided assertion that Christians are the worst offenders of all. K. Tarin, as in other reviews, proclaims that “abortion kills more than all wars combined,” and goes on to say:

“This book doesn't address the condition of man and mans condition as its been
forever, as in thousands of years. and to single out Christianity as war mongers
is tarded, the whole world is and has been into wars. Name ONE century in
history, yes all of history, where there has been no wars? ( hint, its zero )”

Oh the sheer, unadulterated glee K. Tarin must experience when trotting out his favorite criticism; that something is “tarded.” My gray matter quivers. I won’t bother to point out that “man’s condition” has been going on for far longer than a few thousand years, but I think his argument might have had a little more punch had our friendly neighborhood psycho said “name on year” where there was no war instead of “one century,” since that’s just the stupidest request in our apparently short history.

But take heart! K. Tarin does appear to like some things. Here in his review of People of God: The History of Catholic Christianity, K. Tarin gives the book 5 stars! I haven’t read this book either, but I can only assume he’s missing some massive point when he writes:

“Points out many great "things" “How about, you never meet people that ( have
read the bible for themselves, as in on their own ) convert from Christianity to
Catholic? Meaning I have never meet a Catholic that used to be a Christian.
However I have met, and numerous numbers at that, Christians that used to be
Catholics. This is taking into account those who read the bible on their own
free will, alone, away from study and or structured organized religion of any
kind.”

K. Tarin is using something popular with most people who don’t know what they’re talking about; the “if I haven’t encountered it, it must be bullshit” argument. And, this isn’t my area of expertise, but I think Catholics are Christians. Yeah, pretty sure. It’s right there in the title of the book, you drooling ninny.

I’ve gone on about some douche-bag reviewer for long enough today, but tune in tomorrow when we examine why K. Turin seems to spend every penny on things from Amazon he knows he hates, and just how empty a shell of a human he must be.

Bathroom Wars

12/5/06


It is definitely a good thing that Hanni and I have separate bathrooms. I’ve mentioned before that the most significant difference between men and women is the amount of dirt and semen they’re willing to comfortably ignore, and the bathroom is a prime example of this. Whenever I go into my bathroom I see just your run-of-the-mill lavatory; a necessary evil where I go to excrete certain unmentionables and occasionally run a comb through my hair so I don’t look like the Elephant Man whenever I’m forced to go into the outside world. Hanni’s bathroom is more like a shrine to the cosmetic industry. I’m pretty sure there’s a toilet in there because often I hear it flush, but finding it would require a machete and native guide. The place is flush with all manner of tubes and bottles full of human maintenance equipment, all carefully placed on the counter within easy reach so they don’t clutter up the inside of the drawers or cabinets. It’s like a medieval apothecary shop in there; I’m pretty sure I saw a copy of the Necronomicon whenever I foolishly went in search of a bar of soap.


Don’t get me wrong; I am fantastically pleased with the results of all those creams and conditioners and…whatever; my fiancé is quite a fetching woman. No, what baffles me is how she can peer into that huge den of sorcery and see animated sparkles dancing off every surface, yet looking into my bathroom an expression comes over her face which can only be equaled by one watching the manual masturbation of farm animals. It’s clear that whenever viewing my water closet Hanni is seeing Ebola virus just smeared over every surface. And my bathroom is totally clean. Okay, so yeah, sometimes there is a tiny amount of dried urine on the floor next to the toilet, but it’s dry and unless you’re licking the floor beneath the toilet, I fail to see the trauma. It’s not like I’m painting the walls with my poo. The sink’s clean, the mirror’s clean and a little stray pee is just the unfortunate payoff of having to urinate through a hose attached to my pelvis.

You know, I think I just figured something out. I think the general female skittishness with floor-pee can be traced to how differently the sexes vacate their bladders. Women hover and blot whereas men stand and shake. I’ll wager the fact that, as children, men are going to get piss all over their hands (and dribbles in their pants, let’s face it) leads to an overall casualness with pee that women just never get to experience. Not that I want the guy at the urinal next to me treating the bathroom as his own personal water park, but a little stray micturate isn’t going to bother me. (Micturate is your vocab word for the day, ladies and gentlemen; try to work it into conversation!)


For reasons which will forever elude me, Hanni thinks I’m kind of dirty. Since the two of us got together she has been preoccupied with making sure I take a shower once a day, silly as that is, I know. Almost always we shower together, which I like. On the rare instance that we bathe apart, it seems inevitable that whoever is not in the shower will mess with the other. Our apartment is too new for simple games like flushing the toilet to make the water run hot and cold, so we have to get creative. Last night we didn’t shower together because I was doing dishes whenever Hanni went to clean her body. I went into the bathroom after she’d gotten in and she touched off the shenanigans by flinging water over the top of the shower at me. The games were afoot.

I retaliated by throwing a gallon pitcher full of ice cold water over the stall; nothing too fancy, and then pitched the container over too for good measure. I foolishly thought that would be enough for the night. The games always involve throwing something annoying onto the other person; sometimes it’s dishwashing liquid, but the best one is baby powder. It forms this odd, cloyingly fragrant paste upon contact with a wet body. At any rate, Hanni gets out of the shower and I’m quietly minding my own business in the kitchen when she comes up behind me and I feel something poured onto the top of my head. For a moment I think it’s water until I realize that whatever it is isn’t dripping off my cranium. Not water. A huge pile of baby powder had just been deposited unto my melon, shortly followed by the sound of maniacal laughter as wet footfalls padded away into the bedroom.


I looked like a very annoyed Founding Father. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to get baby powder out of your hair without water, but it’s nigh impossible. This seemed a nice addition to Hanni’s diabolical plot, because, as she put it, “now you have to shower tonight.” If I didn’t feel that I would suffocate in the night from the powder coating my lungs I would have slept in it just to prove her wrong. But don’t worry; I will get my revenge. Tonight I poop in her pillowcase.

Jesus, this is another bathroom post, isn’t it? There’s something very wrong with me.