As George Bernard Shaw said, “Youth is wasted on the young punks who live in my neighbourhood.” These are the idiots that steal booze and then walk the streets proclaiming how young and alive they are by shouting out “WOOOO!” at three in the morning, while decent people are loading their shotguns and waiting for them to place one Sketchered toe on their lawn. Fortunately for them, decent people are sympathetic to their emotional plights so the odds of teenage fatalities decrease because shortly after the three A.M WOOO fest, one of the girls will have a screaming fight with one of her BFF’s because of her indiscretions with Dylan or Dallas or Xerxes or whatever the fuck these kids are being named nowadays. Decent folk don’t have the heart to put an abrupt 12 gauge end to teenage angst.
I know that kids have problems like overdeveloped texting thumbs or emotional plights centered around TV shows on the CW network. So I understand that they have to let off some steam by attending rock and roll parties and engaging in unprotected open mouth kissing. That’s why I don’t despise the bitches and the corresponding sons of bitches. I believe in peace between the generations. That’s why I’ve decided to be nicer to old people.
When some crotchety old bastard tells me about the good ole days, no more will I daydream of hot fudge sundaes while he drones on and on. Now I will actually…well, not quite listen, but maybe daydream about something related to one minor point that he mentioned. Which is basically what everyone does anyway. Like my friend John. I would tell him this story: “So I was going to get my car washed and all of a sudden this dog ran into the road and I had to swerve out of the way so I didn’t hit him and while I was careening out of control, I went over the center line, crashed into a telephone pole and woke up 3 weeks later in the hospital. The doctor told me that I had been clinically dead for over 2 minutes. I knew that during those 2 minutes, I had seen God and found out that my destiny is to help mankind through…” at that point John would interrupt and say, “Yeah, I really need to wash my car too.”
Since I’m aware that nobody really listens or cares, once I get old enough to lecture young people, I intend to be brutally honest with them. Also, I’m going to keep it short and to the point. That way, at least I can rest assured that they got a quick dose of truth, even if they aren’t listening. Like:
“When I was your age, I was a lot better looking than you are now.”
or
“When I was your age, I had sex with your mom.”
I probably never had sex with their mom but I’ll say it anyway… because young people need to know that their mothers were skanks too. It gives them perspective and stuff. WOOOOOOOOO!
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Suffering in Style
Spring is in the air and that means we only have 16 more weeks of winter to look forward to. As sure as Kristen Stewart is going to cry in any movie she stars in, we in Edmonton can rest assured that while the rest of the world swelters in tropical heat thanks to global warming, we will shiver through snowy days and bone chilling nights. A wise man said, “It’s kind of pointless complaining about the weather because there’s nothing you can do about it.” And I agree, it’s much more beneficial to complain about so called wise men and their pithy little observations.
But this doesn’t quite apply to me, because my observations, while almost always wise and sometimes pithy, are exactly what are needed in this cold world. My most recent observation concerns men’s jeans. Before you make some smarty assy comment about me observing men in their jeans, let me say that I’ve limited my observation to my own vast array of jeans, none of which fit me correctly. You may wonder if the reason they do not fit me is because I’ve lost weight and I’m quite svelte now, and that may be partially true, but the real reason is because men’s jeans are no longer comfortable.
Nowadays, men’s jeans are designed to ride a centimetre above the pubis in the front and halfway down the ass in the back. And why? Because some fashion designer decided that this is the “new look” and obviously hates men. If the fashion designer in question is a man, I would like to meet him personally and punch him in the dick.
I can sense you getting ready to make some crack about my age and how the older a man gets, the higher his pants sit, but you can just keep your mean spirited comments to yourself because the fact is, I agree! I’m no longer a young man and perhaps jeans are meant for younger men but I’ve grown up in jeans and I’m not ready to give them up yet. But damned if I can continue wearing jeans that I’m constantly forced to hike up every time I move an inch in any direction. Jeans are meant to be worn at the waist. They aren’t meant to be cinched up like the working end of a balloon, strapped seven inches below the belly button. God forbid I have to carry something and I don’t have a free hand to hike up the pants because in four steps or less, those jeans are around my knees, fully done up and buckled. It’s infuriating, but what’s the alternative? Wearing Wrangler jeans that are so tight that the casual observer can tell what my religion is? No, I cannot do that, because: 1. I’m not a cowboy. 2. I’m not a gay cowboy.
I have to admit that I loved the days when pants were worn a little loose, because let’s face it, a little loose is comfortable, but you just can’t find pants that are a little loose in my size. And I honestly have no clue what my size is anymore! If I want to buy a pair of pants that are a little loose, I would go up a size but one size up means that the jeans are still vise-like at the crotch but big enough at the waist to fit a toaster oven in there. What I’m trying to say is, no man should be forced to wear jeans that resemble a funnel with two spouts.
Of course the problem is that I don’t have a bubble butt, which I’m guessing is what is required to keep those jeans on. I have a man’s ass, which means that when I’m standing up, I can’t place something on top of it, like a glass, and expect it to sit there. But enough about my perfect ass… the point is, I don’t know why these jeans were invented. Are they meant to be worn without a shirt? Is the whole point to see what brand my underwear is? If that information is so damn important, just ask me!
I’ve only got a few more years to go before my jean wearing days are over and I have to resort to pants that are worn just under the arm pits, so I’d like to make those years count. Can we please pass a moratorium on these god awful jeans so we can get back to moving around without running the risk of mooning the world? Not that the world doesn’t deserve it…
But this doesn’t quite apply to me, because my observations, while almost always wise and sometimes pithy, are exactly what are needed in this cold world. My most recent observation concerns men’s jeans. Before you make some smarty assy comment about me observing men in their jeans, let me say that I’ve limited my observation to my own vast array of jeans, none of which fit me correctly. You may wonder if the reason they do not fit me is because I’ve lost weight and I’m quite svelte now, and that may be partially true, but the real reason is because men’s jeans are no longer comfortable.
Nowadays, men’s jeans are designed to ride a centimetre above the pubis in the front and halfway down the ass in the back. And why? Because some fashion designer decided that this is the “new look” and obviously hates men. If the fashion designer in question is a man, I would like to meet him personally and punch him in the dick.
I can sense you getting ready to make some crack about my age and how the older a man gets, the higher his pants sit, but you can just keep your mean spirited comments to yourself because the fact is, I agree! I’m no longer a young man and perhaps jeans are meant for younger men but I’ve grown up in jeans and I’m not ready to give them up yet. But damned if I can continue wearing jeans that I’m constantly forced to hike up every time I move an inch in any direction. Jeans are meant to be worn at the waist. They aren’t meant to be cinched up like the working end of a balloon, strapped seven inches below the belly button. God forbid I have to carry something and I don’t have a free hand to hike up the pants because in four steps or less, those jeans are around my knees, fully done up and buckled. It’s infuriating, but what’s the alternative? Wearing Wrangler jeans that are so tight that the casual observer can tell what my religion is? No, I cannot do that, because: 1. I’m not a cowboy. 2. I’m not a gay cowboy.
I have to admit that I loved the days when pants were worn a little loose, because let’s face it, a little loose is comfortable, but you just can’t find pants that are a little loose in my size. And I honestly have no clue what my size is anymore! If I want to buy a pair of pants that are a little loose, I would go up a size but one size up means that the jeans are still vise-like at the crotch but big enough at the waist to fit a toaster oven in there. What I’m trying to say is, no man should be forced to wear jeans that resemble a funnel with two spouts.
Of course the problem is that I don’t have a bubble butt, which I’m guessing is what is required to keep those jeans on. I have a man’s ass, which means that when I’m standing up, I can’t place something on top of it, like a glass, and expect it to sit there. But enough about my perfect ass… the point is, I don’t know why these jeans were invented. Are they meant to be worn without a shirt? Is the whole point to see what brand my underwear is? If that information is so damn important, just ask me!
I’ve only got a few more years to go before my jean wearing days are over and I have to resort to pants that are worn just under the arm pits, so I’d like to make those years count. Can we please pass a moratorium on these god awful jeans so we can get back to moving around without running the risk of mooning the world? Not that the world doesn’t deserve it…
Thursday, February 10, 2011
you NEED a new vehicle!
Any good mechanic will tell you the most important thing to look for when buying a new vehicle is the color. Of course, sometimes you have to take other things into consideration, like making sure it has a steering wheel. As a very wise and taller than average consumer, I took it upon myself to shop for a new vehicle, one that would fit my needs as a commuter and as a masculine man.
You might suppose that being a man has nothing to do with shopping for a new vehicle but that is where you are wrong and completely idiotic. Of course being a man comes into play when buying a car, or in my case, a big truck. You see, us men have to maintain our image when it comes to vehicles, or anything that has an engine, a motor or even an electrical cord sticking out of it. Even if, like me, you know next to nothing about cars, as a man, you have a reputation to uphold and that means one thing: Never show weakness.
The first step in buying a vehicle, aside from knowing what color you want, is to know what KIND of vehicle you want. If you want something that has good gas mileage, you’re obviously a boring twit. However, if you want something that makes a lot of noise and comes in black, then you’re probably pretty cool, with great hair and a fantastic physique and members of the opposite sex want to get with you. Since that description pretty much sums me up to a frickin T, I went off one rainy Saturday to buy a loud black truck.
I saw the ad for the truck I wanted in the paper and so early in the morning I drove way down to the south side of the city. Normally, I try not to go beyond a 12 block radius of my house if I need to buy anything because I believe in keeping it local, but that day I was prepared to make the long drive to the dealership in order to buy my truck. I was determined, even going out in the rain, sleet and snow (it was a dreary day, my friends) but after wandering around the lot, getting soaked and feeling like a drowned rat, it was clear that the truck from the ad wasn’t there. I should have been prudent and left right then and there, but suddenly, as if from a dream, a salesman appeared, demanding that he assist me. He was a tiny East Indian man who came up to my waist. I was firm and told him “No, the truck I want isn’t here.” But then he said, “Why don’t you come inside. We have hot coffee.” I’m not a coffee drinker but when he added, “There’s also hot chocolate.” I couldn’t resist, because I knew it would be free and dammit, I’m a shrewd consumer.
As we walked toward the office, I spotted another big black truck and went over to it but it was more expensive than the one I wanted and there was a sold sign on it. My persistent little salesperson insisted that he would sell me that truck or die trying. He would track down his sales manager and force him to sell me the truck. Suddenly, he ran off into the rain, dodging cars and leaping over puddles in a breathtaking display of energy and wherewithal. I watched him for a few seconds and then I remembered the hot chocolate so I went inside the dealership and stood around, sipping my beverage. I was only approached by 74 different salespeople during the half hour that I stood there, watch the tiny salesman run laps around the building outside. When he re-appeared, wearing a huge smile and looking like a soaking wet kitten (kind of sad, but kind of funny too) he said that because of his efforts, the truck was now available. My theory is that he ran around the building at supersonic speed, like Superman did in Superman II, and managed to reverse time, back to a point where the person who wanted to buy the truck opted for the fuel efficient Prius instead.
So the process of me buying the truck began. First we discussed trade in value for my SUV – they were prepared to make a generous offer of $42.00 but again, I was very shrewd (remember the free hot chocolate) and declined. Then we haggled over the price of the new truck. They wanted $27,000.00 but I managed to talk them down to $29,000.00. The deal was done, hands were shaken, celebratory free hot chocolate was shared and then for some reason they stuck me in an office while they prepared the paperwork. I only had to wait a half an hour before the effects of being soaking wet began to sink in. I began to shiver and make snorting noises with my nose every few seconds. I was feeling miserable but fortunately another salesman appeared, holding a bunch of papers the size of a New York phone book.
The flurry of pages being signed began and I was desperate to get out of there and get myself some chicken soup. But then he began to tell me about vital options that had to be purchased or someone very close to me might have an “accident”. I refused the undercoating option and the salesman looked very shocked and hurt – as if someone refusing that necessary service was either retarded or very retarded. After 10 minutes of pitching the service and me refusing, he left me alone to think about it for another 20 minutes. Then he reappeared with a brochure offering the exact same service that I had refused. He went through each picture and caption in slow, mesmerizing detail and when I refused again, he left me alone. That time for half an hour.
Then a scary looking woman came in and told me she was the supervisor and that some people might think I was borderline insane if I didn’t get the truck undercoated. I refused and then she asked if I saw the brochures. I said I had, then asked me again if I would reconsider purchasing them. I said no. Then she looked very sad, mumbled something about her terminally ill mother needing an operation and the only way to pay for it was by me buying the undercoating. When I refused again, she burst into tears ran out of the room crying, “Oh mommy, I’m sorry I let you down!”
Half an hour later the second salesperson came back, said something about the scary looking woman committing suicide because I wouldn’t buy the undercoating, and then spread more brochures out in front of me. He looked at me with imploring eyes, “Frank, can I call you Frank?” I said no. Then he showed me pictures of starving children in Africa who didn’t buy the undercoating package. I felt bad for them, but still refused. So he left me alone in the office again, presumably giving me a chance to commit ritual suicide to salvage my honour over refusing the option.
After another half hour a group of salespeople gathered outside the window, pointing at me and shaking their heads. I can’t read lips, but I’m pretty sure I could make out “undercoating” being brought up a few times. When the very first salesman appeared again, he reminded me how he got me hot chocolate and ran around the building in the rain. I told him I really appreciated his efforts and then he said, “But yet you spit in our faces when we offer you undercoating, which will not only prevent rust, but will act as a guardian angel, protecting you from evil.” When I said no, he narrowed his eyes as if he were contemplating spitting on me. He left the room.
I stared out the window, wiping my nose on my sleeve, sniffling and shivering, missing my home and my loved ones. Then the saleswoman appeared again, looking refreshed, presumably because while I spent the last 2 hours sitting in Interrogation Room 2, she had sold someone some undercoating. She smiled a chilling smile and looked down at the paperwork in front of us, checking to see what my name is. “Frank, may I call you Leonhardt?” I said no, because that was my middle name. She didn’t appear to hear because she wrote some numbers down on a piece of paper and turned it toward me. “Leonhardt, that is half price on undercoating.” When I didn’t respond because of the pneumonia that had set in, she said, “Leonhardt, I’m going to keep calling you that until you sign off on that goddamn undercoating.” Her voice sank down to a menacing whisper, “Because if you don’t, I will go to your house and kill your dog. I will call your boss at work and tell him that you steal. I will never, ever let you out of this room until you buy that undercoating. Leonhardt, I will make your life a living hell if you don’t…”
I got the fucking undercoating.
You might suppose that being a man has nothing to do with shopping for a new vehicle but that is where you are wrong and completely idiotic. Of course being a man comes into play when buying a car, or in my case, a big truck. You see, us men have to maintain our image when it comes to vehicles, or anything that has an engine, a motor or even an electrical cord sticking out of it. Even if, like me, you know next to nothing about cars, as a man, you have a reputation to uphold and that means one thing: Never show weakness.
The first step in buying a vehicle, aside from knowing what color you want, is to know what KIND of vehicle you want. If you want something that has good gas mileage, you’re obviously a boring twit. However, if you want something that makes a lot of noise and comes in black, then you’re probably pretty cool, with great hair and a fantastic physique and members of the opposite sex want to get with you. Since that description pretty much sums me up to a frickin T, I went off one rainy Saturday to buy a loud black truck.
I saw the ad for the truck I wanted in the paper and so early in the morning I drove way down to the south side of the city. Normally, I try not to go beyond a 12 block radius of my house if I need to buy anything because I believe in keeping it local, but that day I was prepared to make the long drive to the dealership in order to buy my truck. I was determined, even going out in the rain, sleet and snow (it was a dreary day, my friends) but after wandering around the lot, getting soaked and feeling like a drowned rat, it was clear that the truck from the ad wasn’t there. I should have been prudent and left right then and there, but suddenly, as if from a dream, a salesman appeared, demanding that he assist me. He was a tiny East Indian man who came up to my waist. I was firm and told him “No, the truck I want isn’t here.” But then he said, “Why don’t you come inside. We have hot coffee.” I’m not a coffee drinker but when he added, “There’s also hot chocolate.” I couldn’t resist, because I knew it would be free and dammit, I’m a shrewd consumer.
As we walked toward the office, I spotted another big black truck and went over to it but it was more expensive than the one I wanted and there was a sold sign on it. My persistent little salesperson insisted that he would sell me that truck or die trying. He would track down his sales manager and force him to sell me the truck. Suddenly, he ran off into the rain, dodging cars and leaping over puddles in a breathtaking display of energy and wherewithal. I watched him for a few seconds and then I remembered the hot chocolate so I went inside the dealership and stood around, sipping my beverage. I was only approached by 74 different salespeople during the half hour that I stood there, watch the tiny salesman run laps around the building outside. When he re-appeared, wearing a huge smile and looking like a soaking wet kitten (kind of sad, but kind of funny too) he said that because of his efforts, the truck was now available. My theory is that he ran around the building at supersonic speed, like Superman did in Superman II, and managed to reverse time, back to a point where the person who wanted to buy the truck opted for the fuel efficient Prius instead.
So the process of me buying the truck began. First we discussed trade in value for my SUV – they were prepared to make a generous offer of $42.00 but again, I was very shrewd (remember the free hot chocolate) and declined. Then we haggled over the price of the new truck. They wanted $27,000.00 but I managed to talk them down to $29,000.00. The deal was done, hands were shaken, celebratory free hot chocolate was shared and then for some reason they stuck me in an office while they prepared the paperwork. I only had to wait a half an hour before the effects of being soaking wet began to sink in. I began to shiver and make snorting noises with my nose every few seconds. I was feeling miserable but fortunately another salesman appeared, holding a bunch of papers the size of a New York phone book.
The flurry of pages being signed began and I was desperate to get out of there and get myself some chicken soup. But then he began to tell me about vital options that had to be purchased or someone very close to me might have an “accident”. I refused the undercoating option and the salesman looked very shocked and hurt – as if someone refusing that necessary service was either retarded or very retarded. After 10 minutes of pitching the service and me refusing, he left me alone to think about it for another 20 minutes. Then he reappeared with a brochure offering the exact same service that I had refused. He went through each picture and caption in slow, mesmerizing detail and when I refused again, he left me alone. That time for half an hour.
Then a scary looking woman came in and told me she was the supervisor and that some people might think I was borderline insane if I didn’t get the truck undercoated. I refused and then she asked if I saw the brochures. I said I had, then asked me again if I would reconsider purchasing them. I said no. Then she looked very sad, mumbled something about her terminally ill mother needing an operation and the only way to pay for it was by me buying the undercoating. When I refused again, she burst into tears ran out of the room crying, “Oh mommy, I’m sorry I let you down!”
Half an hour later the second salesperson came back, said something about the scary looking woman committing suicide because I wouldn’t buy the undercoating, and then spread more brochures out in front of me. He looked at me with imploring eyes, “Frank, can I call you Frank?” I said no. Then he showed me pictures of starving children in Africa who didn’t buy the undercoating package. I felt bad for them, but still refused. So he left me alone in the office again, presumably giving me a chance to commit ritual suicide to salvage my honour over refusing the option.
After another half hour a group of salespeople gathered outside the window, pointing at me and shaking their heads. I can’t read lips, but I’m pretty sure I could make out “undercoating” being brought up a few times. When the very first salesman appeared again, he reminded me how he got me hot chocolate and ran around the building in the rain. I told him I really appreciated his efforts and then he said, “But yet you spit in our faces when we offer you undercoating, which will not only prevent rust, but will act as a guardian angel, protecting you from evil.” When I said no, he narrowed his eyes as if he were contemplating spitting on me. He left the room.
I stared out the window, wiping my nose on my sleeve, sniffling and shivering, missing my home and my loved ones. Then the saleswoman appeared again, looking refreshed, presumably because while I spent the last 2 hours sitting in Interrogation Room 2, she had sold someone some undercoating. She smiled a chilling smile and looked down at the paperwork in front of us, checking to see what my name is. “Frank, may I call you Leonhardt?” I said no, because that was my middle name. She didn’t appear to hear because she wrote some numbers down on a piece of paper and turned it toward me. “Leonhardt, that is half price on undercoating.” When I didn’t respond because of the pneumonia that had set in, she said, “Leonhardt, I’m going to keep calling you that until you sign off on that goddamn undercoating.” Her voice sank down to a menacing whisper, “Because if you don’t, I will go to your house and kill your dog. I will call your boss at work and tell him that you steal. I will never, ever let you out of this room until you buy that undercoating. Leonhardt, I will make your life a living hell if you don’t…”
I got the fucking undercoating.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Trust no one
When it comes to believing information furnished by the media, I think I fall somewhere in between “healthy sceptic” and “ruggedly handsome”. You can’t be too trusting when it comes to things like scientific studies. You may think that because they stick the word “scientific” in there that it has to be true, unbiased and based on impartial observation and data gathering. I was shocked to learn that the “Institute for Hating Puerto Ricans” released a scientific study finding that over 98% of Puerto Rican’s were “a bunch of jerks.” This was followed by another report by the group “Scottish Terrier Lovers” who discovered through scientific studies that “Scottish Terriers are great dogs.”
Of course the above is a fictional account, because obviously everyone loves Puerto Ricans and hates Scottish Terriers, but in reality, many think tanks and groups aren’t all that unbiased when they release their reports. Even so, in a rare show of scepticism, the scientific community was up in arms a few years ago when my mother reported that “Frank Kress is a wonderful, talented young man.”
But not everyone is as honest and forthright as my mom. When confronted with information released by anyone, you have to ask the question, “cui bono?” which is Latin for “Who the hell is that Irish Pop Star?” Actually, it means “Who benefits?” For example, when a large group of scientists get a gazillion dollars in funding for their research on climate change, they will probably release some studies that support not only what they believe, but also make it quite clear that the truth can only be found with some more funding. Not much funding goes to other groups of scientists who say, “There’s nothing going on with climate change – history has shown that the climate changes, so what?” People who say, “Everything is all right” don’t get any dough. There’s no money in things being just fine. Thus the debate goes on and who are you going to believe? Personally, I believe in the first group, the ones that say bad things are going on, because they’re obviously smarter. The second group must be idiots because they aren’t bright enough to get that sweet moolah they hand out for environmental studies. How can you trust someone that dumb?
The point that I’m trying to get across is that you should always be a little bit sceptical, because that’s healthy, but only a little bit of scepticism is good, otherwise you won’t believe everything I say, no matter how crazy it may sound. Me you can trust, the other guys… ehhh, not so much. Being too sceptical may lead to ulcers and paranoia and being too trusting leads to purchasing time share condominiums. Personally, as sceptical as I can be, I’m actually quite naïve, like when someone says, “Frank, you look good in that shirt” but they say it with a nasty little smirk and roll their eyes, I still believe them, because let’s face it, that shirt suits me.
The important thing in life is to find that happy medium or medium rare depending on the cut of beef.
Of course the above is a fictional account, because obviously everyone loves Puerto Ricans and hates Scottish Terriers, but in reality, many think tanks and groups aren’t all that unbiased when they release their reports. Even so, in a rare show of scepticism, the scientific community was up in arms a few years ago when my mother reported that “Frank Kress is a wonderful, talented young man.”
But not everyone is as honest and forthright as my mom. When confronted with information released by anyone, you have to ask the question, “cui bono?” which is Latin for “Who the hell is that Irish Pop Star?” Actually, it means “Who benefits?” For example, when a large group of scientists get a gazillion dollars in funding for their research on climate change, they will probably release some studies that support not only what they believe, but also make it quite clear that the truth can only be found with some more funding. Not much funding goes to other groups of scientists who say, “There’s nothing going on with climate change – history has shown that the climate changes, so what?” People who say, “Everything is all right” don’t get any dough. There’s no money in things being just fine. Thus the debate goes on and who are you going to believe? Personally, I believe in the first group, the ones that say bad things are going on, because they’re obviously smarter. The second group must be idiots because they aren’t bright enough to get that sweet moolah they hand out for environmental studies. How can you trust someone that dumb?
The point that I’m trying to get across is that you should always be a little bit sceptical, because that’s healthy, but only a little bit of scepticism is good, otherwise you won’t believe everything I say, no matter how crazy it may sound. Me you can trust, the other guys… ehhh, not so much. Being too sceptical may lead to ulcers and paranoia and being too trusting leads to purchasing time share condominiums. Personally, as sceptical as I can be, I’m actually quite naïve, like when someone says, “Frank, you look good in that shirt” but they say it with a nasty little smirk and roll their eyes, I still believe them, because let’s face it, that shirt suits me.
The important thing in life is to find that happy medium or medium rare depending on the cut of beef.
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