Lots of stuff going on now, what with New Years, the new iPod, and a bunch of Christmas pics on my digital camera that I need to upload. However, I'm going to ignore all of it and ask a question that's plagued me the past few days: does anyone know if there's wifi access in the Las Vegas airport? If there's not, I'm going to have to knock down the door to a showgirl's apartment and commandeer her NetZero connection. I'd do this not so I can catch up on my Anne Geddes message boards, but because I refuse to let my gambling addiction get in the way of my education.
As I mentioned a while back, I'm going back to school part-time this spring at UT as a non-degree seeking student. Right before school starts, I am taking a little trip up to Las Vegas with the Goulash Celebrity Roulette/Alcoholism Team. I'm going on this trip for two reasons: to kibitz with Big Elvis and to TAKE THOSE CASINOS DOWN. (Note: I will not be TAKING THOSE CASINOS DOWN through violence or chicanery, but through the systematic application of crazy ass betting on games I never bothered to learn.) Cutting to the chase, it appears that UT doesn't give a crap about the vacations of its incoming students, as it has me scheduled to register when I'll be in the Vegas airport, waiting to come home. Mark my words, UT, you don't want to anger me before I've even registered; I'll pay my tuition in dog biscuits and show up to class dressed like one of the Country Bears.
Another crappy fact related to registration is the fact that I'm literally the last person in the entire university to register. The way it looks right now, the only class I'll be getting into is Advanced Japanese Grammar, taught in a dungeon at 4 in the morning. I didn't spend 4 years in college to let a bunch of freshmen take my spot in all of the Appreciation of Hot Pockets and Video Games classes. Of course, registration itself will be a moot issue when I pawn my ticket home for another chance at the nickel slots, but I like to think positively.
Lately, a couple of kind-hearted folks have pointed out to me a few websites out there trying to pass my work off as their own. Yes, I recognize just how absurd that idea is. You guys realize that no one reads this website, right? At this point, the only ones left are me and the Propecia comment spammers. Unless these people have a burning desire to own a website that actively repels family members, romantic interests, and potential employers, I have no idea what's going on here. Nevertheless, I don't think it's a good thing. It'd be one thing if I were one of those fatcat bloggers with a stately mansion protected by an army of albino panda bears, but I'm not; I do all of the stuff here by myself for free. If you're going to use some of my stuff, please give credit where it's due. Whether it's a big bag of money or just a simple marble monument in my likeness, some consideration is appreciated.
Has it occurred to anyone that I've yet to complete my run-down of my favorite music of 2004? Probably not, but that's never stopped me before. And so, whether you like it or not, I present my favorite release of the year.
1. The Features, "Exhibit A".
If it were up to me, I'd have pot pies for every meal, Corey Feldman would be Secretary of State, and the Features would rule the pop charts. Since I'm still working on the omnipotence thing, I've only been able to manage the pot pie thing. Luckily, the Features' rise to prominence should take care of itself, as soon as Clay Aiken's deal with the devil runs out. If I had to classify it, I'd say that the Features play a rocking, infectious brand of New Wave. And in case anyone doubts my ability to recognize that which is infectious, I've had both the shingles and the chicken pocks, so brother man knows a thing or two. I probably played their song "Blow It Out" more than any other, and I did this for a reason: it makes me happy. That's pretty novel for a new release. The Features serve as a useful reminder that there's still music being made worth singing and dancing to, and for that, they are my #1 selection for this year. Whether my impromptu breakdancing is worthy of appreciation is another question entirely.
First, I'd like to send out my condolences to everyone affected by the earthquake/tsunami in Asia. It's almost impossible to comprehend a tragedy on that large of a scale; here's hoping for happier days soon.
On a more pleasant note, Santa left me one final present today. Last night, I checked my work email and saw a message from my boss, saying he had something for me when I got back into the office. My initial thought was that he was referring to a law suit. I didn't remember being particularly offensive before I left for Christmas, but I do experience a fair number of black outs so it wasn't out of the question. If not a lawsuit, then maybe he just wanted me to stop by so he could test out the new trap door in his office. Last night, my mind was a veritable theater of doom and misfortune as I played out grim scenario after grim scenario.
Today, when I got into the office, I spotted a little box wrapped in plastic sitting on my desk. "Ahh, so he opted for a landmine," I thought. Taking it like a man, I prayed silently for a moment and then unwrapped the box, only to discover that it wasn't a box full of piranhas or a smallpox infected blanket; it was an iPod. Before I could get on the intercom and inform everyone that I had found an iPod in my office and I definitely hadn't stolen it but I'd appreciate any info on a reward, I spied an engraved message for me on the back. It read, "To Cody Powell With Thanks from AI". Way too cool.
What a great Christmas. If I don't say it enough, I am a lucky guy. I have a great job, where I work with a bunch of great people. I have a bunch of great friends. I have a great family, even if some members fail to appreciate my Bob Dylan impersonation. My cat, while not great, excels at placing all bodily waste in the litter box. And in return for all of this, the world gets me, my refusal to properly dispose of my trash, and this website. Not exactly an even trade, but I'll take it.
Wooooo Christmas! I don't want to say how large of a haul I made, but I can now wear a different pair of tube socks every weekend of the year. Let me tell you, it's nice to live like a millionaire with an insatiable appetite for athletic footwear. However, the gift bonanza was draining, so no big fancy entry tonight. I guess that implies I do lots of big, fancy entries, and no one believes that but my mom. Tomorrow, we back to the usual monkey business.
I finished my Christmas shopping today at lunch. I got so terrified when I drove by the mall parking lot, I ended up just stopping at a dumpster and grabbing a bunch of stuff out there for gifts. I hope someone asked Santa for a broken rake and lots of expired cream cheese! Actually, that's probably better than what I was going to buy. What child doesn't dream of waking up on a majestic winter morn and finding, under the tree, a cream cheese stick ball set of his very own, waiting just for him? It's straight out of Dickens!
I don't know what my posting schedule will be like during the holidays. If a while goes by without anything here, assume I've been kidnapped by a gang of ruthless snowmen and initiate some negotiations. If their demands are outrageous, round up an army of Turkish mercenaries and take their compound by force. Out of my respect for my wishes not to die, please shy away from using bullets during the liberation, and instead shoot hot tea at the enemy.
Allright sir, it's time to continue my neverending feature on my favorite music of 2004.
2. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, "Shake the Sheets"
For the past couple of years, I've liked Ted Leo a lot, but I haven't trusted him. That is to say, with each new release, I expected equal parts bizarre sea shanties/korean doowop and rock-out masterpieces. With "Shake the Sheets", he finally got the consistency thing down. Not to brag, but I did help out a little bit. How? Well, first I infiltrated the recording studio where they were recording this CD; I disguised myself as a Cockney porridge vendor. Then, after each take, I would commandeer the intercom and say, "Shoot for the stars, Teddy Bear!" No amount of pepper spray could discourage me from my mission. Did my plan work? You tell me. By you, I mean myself, and so I answer in the affirmative.
Christmas rapidly approaches. The older I get, the trickier the whole gift-giving thing becomes. When you're 5, not only are you not responsible for giving gifts to anyone, but you are legally entitled to get pissed off at people who don't give you enough stuff. That's amazing. Now, 18 years later, I feel like I should fall to my knees and weep should someone get me so much as a chewed up biscuit from KFC. Not only that, but I find myself giving increasingly elaborate gifts to more and more people. At this pace, by the time I hit 40, I'll be giving handmade HDTVs to every person in Africa and receiving, in exchange, tuberculosis. And you know, that doesn't sound that bad.
I'm old enough now to purchase pretty much every piece of crap I want. However, I don't think I'll ever reach the age where I tire of seeing someone unwrap something from me, then furrow their brows as they attempt to compute what it is I've purchased for them and why. Not only must they determine what it is, but they have to quickly decide whether to be insulted or delighted. I expect that by the time I'm 80, my gifts will be so inscrutable, the receiver of the gift's head will explode immediately when they open the box. It's fun to be confusing, and it's fun to be confused. Christmas does change as you get older, but it stays just as good.
Okay, it's becoming increasingly clear just what a bad idea it was to share my list of favorite music from 2004 during the week of Christmas. However, as anyone who's seen me at Jazzercise class can attest, a bad idea alone isn't enough to stop me.
3. A tie between The Legendary Shackshakers, "Believe" and Nikola Sarcevic, "Lock Sport Krock"
The selection of these two should illustrate that the only music I like is either really weird or really embarrassing. The Legendary Shackshakers are a cajun/ragtime/polka/punk band; I wouldn't be surprised to learn they're the side band for a burlesque show that features only bearded ladies. Great, raw, crunchy stuff. Nikola Sarcevic is the lead singer of Millencolin, a Swedish punk band. His solo album is surprisingly melodic and douche baggy, the perfect soundtrack to stack sweaters at Banana Republic, and yet I listened to it constantly. These two are the perfect combo when one half of the group wants to do some origami, while the other half wants to shoot some rats down at the dump.
Is there a hierarchy of Santa Claus impersonators? Maybe the really, really good ones get to appear in commercials and tv shows. The decent ones work in the nicer shopping malls across the country. And the kinda creepy ones find themselves getting peed on by a parade of basset hounds and siamese cats down at the Petsmart. Today, Octopussy got to experience that little slice of winter majesty; her combined with drunk Santa formed the least excited pairing to grace Mr. Claus's chair since the birth of baby Jesus. I don't blame the cat, though. If I had been forced to sit in that guy's lap, I would've bit his ear off and then dove into one of those carpeted cat gyms. I swear he was working there just to get a discount on flea powder. You KNOW I got pictures to commemorate the occasion/identify the perpetrator. They will be posted at a later date.
I mentioned last time that I'd be doing a run down of the best music of 2004. Now, this isn't a universal list that all should regard as law; I am, after all, the man who paid good money for Wrex n Effect's Rumpshaker. Nevertheless, this year featured some catchy little ditties, and I'd be laying down on the job if I didn't share it with you, the anonymous perverts of the Internet.
4. David Dondero, "The Transient"
I think I read about David Dondero in the Onion AV Club. He plays music I'd expect to hear right outside the bus station, strummed maniacally by some hobo trying to scare up enough money to get home. However, instead of a jug to pee in, David Dondero carries with him a collection of crazy, anxiety-ridden, white boy blues songs. Usually, white guys who play the blues have long perms or wear leather pants or insist that others refer to them as Watermelon; Dondero should be congratulated just for avoiding that. But his songs are good, sort of chaotic and catchy. For him, I wish nothing but the finest cheese sandwiches from the bus station vending machine.
I've been operating in slow motion all day long because of some cold medication. We had a developers' meeting this morning, and I raised my hand to ask a question. By the time I finished speaking the question, the lights on the room were out, they'd impounded my car in the parking lot, and the robots had taken over our civilization. Medication, like parachutes and piranha repellant, shouldn't be chosen on the basis of price alone.
Since we're essentially at the end of the year, I feel obligated to share with you, my humble army of elderly Chinese women and prison inmates, the music I enjoyed the most in 2004. While reading this list, please keep in mind that I wouldn't know cool if it served me a stack of of poisoned flapjacks. We'll start at the bottom of the list.
5. Dogs Die in Hot Cars, "Please Describe Yourself"
What the hell kind of band chooses 'Dogs Die in Hot Cars' for its name? Every time I start playing this CD, I feel like I need to make a contribution to the Humane Society. Nevertheless, the music is insanely catchy so I can't help but like it. I'm not sure if that's a good thing. Just imagine you're in the kitchen, making up a special feast for some of your favorite people. "Please Describe Yourself" is playing in the background, and slowly, you start to get into it. After a few minutes, you're nodding your head and doing a little shimmy. You start to listen a little closer. By the end of the CD, you're moonwalking across the kitchen floor while singing into a spoon. And all the while, your cake is burning up. You think Dogs Die in Hot Cars is going to dispose of that mess? Think again, buster. Best song on the CD: Celebrity Sanctum.
Well, it appears that I was a little hasty last night when I bought a portable defibrulator because I feel better today. Actually, that brings up a question: what's the return policy on black market medical technology? I'll be a little embarrassed if I'm the one who has to educate Icepick Slim and his homies on the basics of customer service. Anywhozzle, it's good that I'm recuperating; I have a catered social affair on Friday. Nothing says "Get this chump out of here" like me vomiting and then passing out on the dance floor. You think they'll care that this time it's legitimate, and not the result of an excess of raw sausage and champange? It'll be a cold day in hell before I meet a security guard who has any of the Christmas spirit.
As I hinted, the office Christmas partay takes place on Friday night. It'll be a pretty swank affair, with all of the dudes in ties. I assume by that, they mean neck ties, and not a homemade suit made from twist ties and railroad ties. I don't like my chances of making one of those in the next three days that's fit for public viewing. It ought to be a good time, if only because it combines three potent elements: booze + customer geeks + a dj. I don't know what the end result of that is, but I'm going to guess that someone strips down to their undies and dances the robot. I will do everything in my power to ensure that someone isn't me. (Vegas puts the odds at even money.)
This may surprise you, but I don't get invited to a lot of these fancy grown-up parties. If I want to rock out with adults, I have to go down to the train yards and kick it with the hobos. How different can those two gatherings be? The hobos have catered meals, they all just happen to be roasted possum with a side of caulk. They also have a dance floor down there. Yes, I am probably the only one who uses it, and that's usually because Crazy Steve is brandishing a shiv and demanding entertainment. And just like at the hobo parties, I'll gladly offer to dump out the coffee can into which we've all been relieving ourselves. I'm looking forward to a classy time.
Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits, I've finally returned to Austin. The conventional notions of time show me that I was only away for a few days. However, in my own mind, I feel like I've been gone for years, off fighting in the Crusades. It got particularly bad this morning when a gentleman cut in front of me at McDonald's; I called him an infidel and attempted to fire a catapult full of burning manure at him. Well, I succeeded in firing the catapult, but I missed my target and instead coated the playground with my ammo. Let us hope that the parents of the kids and their lawyers all buy my explanation that it was actually a shower of flaming reindeer droppings from Santa's sleigh.
I believe I'm getting a little sick. I felt it creeping up a few weeks ago, and so I've spent most of my free time lately in the hospital, demanding a complete blood transfusion. Each time I go, I get the same question: "Have you considered medication, Mr. Powell?" I respond, "This is no time for half measures. Either swap it all out entirely, or I'm driving to a swamp and looking for some leeches." At this point, I usually get tasered, which certainly doesn't help the immune system.
Tonight, I'm going to stay in, rest up, and hopefully be ready to rock in the morning. If, by some freak occurrence, I don't feel better by tomorrow, I'll be making a little trip with a mason jar, a flashlight, and the directions to the nearest swamp. Hopefully the gator bites will rest uneasily on the consciences of those "medical professionals".
Well, we went and did the funeral thing today for my grandfather. It was a really nice service, aside from the fact that it apparently took place in Antarctica. I could've been delusional from the hypothermia, but I swear the Abominable Snowman played Taps at the end.
A cold front blew into Dallas last night, so I had every expectation of a chilly, blustery day up at the cemetary. I thought I could handle it, though. I mean, I wore pants and a jacket and everything; I didn't show up in a thong and a vest. Nevertheless, I had to check several times throughout the service to make sure that I hadn't inadvertently shown up naked, as all of my appendages slowly froze and then shattered into little places, like Robert Patrick in Terminator 2. Yes, it was cold out there, but I blame a frosted posterior for all of the agony.
Being part of the family, I had to sit up front with my mom and dad on these little concrete benches. I didn't know this, but apparently concrete is the world's greatest preserver of coldness. I don't see why I'm spending all of this money on an air conditioner when I could just install a concrete bench in my living room. I would also invest in a snow shovel, to clear away the blizzards caused by my concrete bench. To offset those expenses, I could probably set up some sort of caribou/polar bear habitat for which I could charge a hefty admission fee. As soon as I can find some resources on training polar bears to use a litter box, I'm taking a one way trip down to Easy Street.
Anyway, like I said, the funeral was nice, as much as one can be. One neat thing that's come from all of this is the discovery of a great aunt in Austin who lives essentially right down the street from me. The rest of her family lives in Austin, too. I can only hope this discovery will lead to the formation of a Powell family football team. If they're anything like me, I predict a vicious fistfight to determine who gets to be scorekeeper.
As soon as I get fired from my job for inappropriate use of the hole puncher, I'm going to become a professional party planner. Here are a few party ideas you may use, free of charge, in an attempt to get my name out on the scene.
1. Street Fighter II Party. Most would agree that Street Fighter II for the Super Nintendo is the best video game in the history of the world. Why not channel this love by throwing a party where all attendees must dress as their favorite Street Fighter II character? Can you imagine how wild it would get when Ryu and Ken, bitter enemies, are selected as partners for Cranium? Yowza! In addition to the costumes, the host (dressed as M. Bison) could pick any two attendees to fight whenever he wants. The individuals chosen to fight better stick to the special moves for their characters, because if they accidentally use a move belong to someone else, the other guests are well within their rights to kill them.
2. ZZ Top Beard Party. One of the cooler parties I heard about in college was a Mustache Party, where the only people allowed in were those with mustaches. The organizers gave notice of the party several weeks in advance, so everyone interested had time to grow a mustache. Now, wouldn't it be interesting to take this concept to its logical conclusion and throw a party where the only people admitted are those who have super long, ZZ Top style beards? You'd have to notify everyone a few years in advance, but that just serves to heighten the anticipation. (You get bonus points if you actually get the dudes from ZZ Top to attend.)
3. Dewey Decimal Party. This one will be a hit with the nerd crowd, where each attendee must dress as his favorite number from the Dewey Decimal system. If anyone decides to be a wiseguy and shows up as the entire card catalogue, throw his stupid ass out. Be ready to mediate some disputes when multiple people show up as 737, which represents numismatics and sigillography.
If you're feeling particularly brassy, combine the three. Just don't come crying to me when E. Honda gets his beard stuck in the blender.
For reasons I can't pinpoint, I can never interact with the person who cuts my hair. I like getting my hair cut and it seems like the people who do that job are pretty reasonable, but I just can't keep a conversation going. I think this is because, when I was an infant, my parents insisted on having me circumcised at a Supercuts. For the love of pete, some things are worth spending a few dollars!
Anyway, I realized yesterday I was getting a little shaggy, and so I opted to face my fear. I sat down in the chair, and the jibber-jabbery little lady asked what I wanted. "Just a general trim," I said. A few chairs down, there was a guy who had just finished getting his hair cut. As he walked past us, the lady said to me, "You want to look like him?" Inspiration suddenly flashed, and I realized I had a really good response to that question. Upon delivering it, my fear of hair stylists would soon be a distant memory, thus raising chimney sweep to the occupation that scares me the most.
"Yeah," I said, "but I want to look exactly like him. Hair, clothes, face, the whole deal."
He was a schlubby sort of guy like me, so I thought everyone would get a hearty laugh from it. Oh no. The entire room room was silent for a few seconds while I smiled crazily, expecting the others to start laughing with me at any moment. But no, they all turned away, while the lady cutting my hair quietly whispered, "Oookay..." The guy to whom I referred shot me a look of absolute terror, like he'd mentally fast-forwarded through some nightmare of his where I dress up like him and attempt to move into his house. If I didn't look like a total goober with half of my hair cut, I would've screamed, "I am a funny guy!" and run out into the parking lot. Instead, I had to sit there in silence until she finished, while the rest of the place tried to size up whether I'd be a crier or a fighter when I went to pieces.
Anyway, in light of this entire experience, I'd like to amend my Christmas list. Instead of all the crap I asked for, just get me a Flobee and a pair of scissors. And, if possible, an outfit exactly like that guy was wearing.
If you haven't noticed, things have been bleak here lately as I've dealt with a death in the family. As a result of all of this, I'm coming up with some ideas for my own funeral.
First, and this is very important, make sure I'm really dead; I could be faking my own demise to hide from creditors or something. If I'm lying there with my tongue sticking out and my eyes closed but I continue to breathe and get up to go to the bathroom, I'm probably faking it. Don't blow my cover.
If I'm actually dead, find the gator that killed me. Don't listen to him if he says I wet myself when he attacked; alligators are notorious liars. Retrieve any of my body parts still in his belly, and reconnect these parts to my body. If it's too mangled, you may supplement with play-doh and papier mache. If you have to do this, I ask you please don't give me great, big man bosoms.
Now that I'm all back in one piece, the funeral may be held. For this, rent out the city of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico for the day. This should cost around $80. The money for this can be found in Chuck E. Cheese tokens in a false compartment on my cat (hint: her second head is hollow). Arrange for the citizens to carry my coffin down the streets of their fair city. Even if it sounds funny, please restrain these people from using my body as a pinata. They will carry me to the two story bar, where at the exact moment of our arrival, Fat Elvis will arrive via helicopter to do a memorial performance.
When Fat Elvis finishes, stuff me in a cannon and shoot me at the nearest hot air balloon. I don't what it will accomplish, but it's a good way to go out. All of these steps must be performed in exactly this order, or else I'll haunt all of you, by sneaking around your house at night and letting out ghost farts. You've all been warned.
I never went to a funeral until I was 16. It was my grandmother's, and the funeral home was located right next to a day care. I didn't attend another one until I was 22, for my other grandfather. Now, a year and a half later, there's a third funeral to visit. I hope all of my friends and family realize the pattern here, and act accordingly. I'm sure someone near you has an old bomb shelter from the 60s, full of vienna sausages and tang. Move there, lock the door, and pray that my reign of terror comes to an end soon.
As I said yesterday, my grandfather died over the weekend and I'm feeling ill-at-ease trying to deal with the whole thing. He passed his last name down to me and contributed 1/4 of my genes, but I never knew him. It's not like he was off on a battleship in the Indian Ocean for all of that; he was twenty minutes away the entire time. That's what makes this difficult to reconcile. If I had to summarize it, what I'm experiencing right now is a combination of frustration, sadness, and relief. Frustrated he didn't want to know me, saddened that this is the ending it came to, and relieved that, at the very least, I won't have this hanging over my head anymore. He had his reasons, I suppose. Others have more of a right to be upset with him than I do, but I hope he knows that tonight, he is on my mind. It's the closest we'll be getting for a while.
Back to slightly less depressing matters tomorrow.
No Goulash today. My grandfather died over the weekend, and it doesn't seem like a good day to write about boogers.
First, make sure you saw yesterday's Goulash, which didn't get uploaded until this morning, due to complications with this infernal contraption. Once Claude's lawyer okays the contract (and I can get enough aroma therapy candles with which to pay him), Claude's Corner will probably become a regular feature around these parts.
Man, search engines are weird. One month, you're the washed-up former top result for goulash, and the next, you're the best source for Jaleel White sexuality rumors on the Internet. Luckily, his career is at a high point, so it's not completely ridiculous or anything like that. Anyway, because of this perplexing turn of events, it seems like it'd be a good time to do another installment of Top Search Terms Investigated, where I look through my referrer logs and alienate everyone reads the site. More than I usually do, I mean.
The top three search terms people used to get here in November were: goulash, jaleel white gay, jaleel white 2004. The first one, I understand. I've been dishing out the quality goods for 18 months now and the people still yearn for more. Okay, I may not be number one any more, but I've had people come up to me in the supermarket and say, "Forget Google; you are number one in my heart!" Yes, it was my grandmother and it did raise quite a ruckus in the produce aisle, but she said it with real passion. Number two is a little more confusing, but I've covered it in such depth, it's taking my life over. I'm like Nicholas Cage in that movie 8mm, where I'm getting sucked into the seamy underbelly of the sitcom star universe. I've got to get out while I still can, before I start sending lewd emails to John Stamos. And I don't know anything about Jaleel White in 2004, except that 768 looked to me determine if he's gay.
The next three terms are britney spears sex stories, jaleel white homosexual, and hand turkeys. If those three things grouped together doesn't make you want to weep from happiness, you need to check your tear ducts. I like to imagine all three at the same time. Jaleel White is out on a romantic evening with a swarthy looking Latino man. He gazes into his companion's eyes longingly and begins to reach over the table for a smoocheroo, when Britney Spears bursts through the door, nude and looking for love. "Jaleel, I want you!" she cries. Bewildered and uncomfortable, Jaleel holds up his napkin and says, "Uhh, how about we make some hand turkeys?"
Sorry guys, I have too much going on today to do 'lash it. As a substitute, I asked my neighbor from down the hall, Mr. Pappademetrios, if he'd fill in. He graciously accepted. Enjoy.
by Claude Pappademetrios
First, let me put something right out in the open here. My wife, Clarissa, does not support this. I told her I was going to be writing on a website for our neighbor Cody last night, and she blew up on me like a Korean boombox.
"What the hell do you know about writing a web site? And who in the hell is Cody?" she demanded, her arm cocked back, ready to throw a can of peaches at me if my answer didn't meet her approval.
"What do you think I am, some sort of pants-wearing monkey?" I yelled. "I hate to lord my success over you, but for over 30 years, I was the SOLE WRITER for the annual newsletter we sent out from Lamar's Tire and Battery to all of our corporate customers. Do you even know that I got compliments about that newsletter? That every December, I'd get phone calls from CLIENTS asking when Claude's Christmas what-have-you was coming out? So yes, I do know a little something about the delicate art of the english language, Clarissa. Unlike you, who practically clucked a chicken with your Spanish jibber jabber when we first met."
"You didn't even answer my question," she said.
"Ahh, the hell with you, I'm taking a bubble bath!"
Thank God for that seaweed and peony body scrub my grandkids gave to Clarissa for Christmas last year. At least one of us in this dump should have some skin that feels nice! But hey, that's women for you. You can't live with em, and you can't turn em in to INS after you've already married them. I don't think you can, at least. Maybe someone who's more Internet literate can check that for me. I don't know a BRB from a PCP (stay off the drugs!).
Why doesn't anyone know how to write in cursive anymore? At the grocery store last night, the fella in front of me was printing his check out and I asked him, "What, don't you know how to write?" I chuckled when I said it; I wasn't being mean. Boy, did he take it the wrong way. He knocked my basket of vitamins to the floor and told me my overalls were stupid. Learning cursive is pointless and functional clothing is stupid; I give up with the younger generation!
Well, I better call it quits for this time. Clarissa wants us to practice on some Christmas carols that we can perform at our big family get-together here in a few weeks. When Clarissa sings, it sounds like a donkey getting castrated. "Why don't you just play the maracas while I sing?" I asked her. She didn't say anything, but she gave me a look that said, "Watch out, buster!" I thought Hispanics were rhythmic? Maybe someone could check that out on the Internet too. I'll meet you back next time at Claude's Corner!