12.3.2kXII
Here is yet another reason to detest the TSA:
The story starts with my trusty backpack. It's likely 12 years old or so. I carried it to work every day (when I commuted to work). I took it on countless airline trips - to and from Chicago, Florida, SF, Spring Training ... even to Europe and S. America.
I recently decided that it was lookin' kinda scuzzy (dirty) so I took everything I could find in its myriad zippered pockets and chucked it in our "high tech" washing machine on its "delicate" setting w/ low spin. It came out nice and clean and BLACK.
I was turning it over, inspecting it and preparing to hang it on our clothesline when out of it dropped the faceplate to my car stereo!
I NEARLY filled my shorts.
As I stood there - slack-jawed- staring at the faceplate on the ground, I thought about it: I listened to the car stereo the day before while my backpack sat on my bedroom floor, waiting to be laundered. WTF? I got my car keys and went out to Jailbreak the Jeep. The faceplate was just where it should be. Things got curiouser.
A foggy, grey memory started to come into focus. Way way back in the bean I remember losing the thing and replacing it. I think I blamed my sister for losing it while it and its in-dash unit were in Piggy the Saab 900.
But the STOOPID thing is that I carried it around with me the whole time. It's been in my backpack for 10 years. And here's why this is another reason to hate TSA: They knew it was in there. They saw it every time it went through their xray machines. Fuckers never told me.
Tonight - Homestead.
Wishing the entire TNSC family a Merry Xmas and very happy New Year. In accordance of Thursday Night Social Club bylaws, next week's meeting is officially cancelled. See you all in 2013!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Korea (redux)
12.1.2kXII
I'm not sure if I told you about the exchange student I've been hosting. Cute kid. Nice, bright and doesn't drink all my booze while I'm away to exotic ports-of-call, like when I went to Lubbock last weekend. His name is Zadeh and he's from one them former Soviet Republics with -istan in the name that ya never hear about 'cept come the Olympics and even then only if yr paying close attention to the "fringe events." Bezuckistan - or whatever - runs the table in the Standing Broad Jump. Zadeh's older brother took Silver at Barcelona in '92 and Gold at Atlanta in '96. Zadeh proudly displays a wonderful photo that graced the cover of Sports Illustrated of his brother jumping some broad in what would be his Gold performance. Zadeh's father and his father's father before him have been jumping broads to national glory since the '30's. I asked him why he wasn't a world-class broad jumper and he said it was because of a Nintendo-related injury he suffered as a child. I asked if it was repetitive-stress or a Tetris-stupor and he said no, that his injury was sustained while stealing a Nintendo off the back of a truck in some frozen boder outpost. He tumbled almost 100 meters (his words) down a rocky hill and had to be rescued by a yak. The little rascal!
Tonight: The Orbit Room.
A fine establishment to celebrate Mr. Sinatra's BDay (which was yesterday). JD optio al.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I'm not sure if I told you about the exchange student I've been hosting. Cute kid. Nice, bright and doesn't drink all my booze while I'm away to exotic ports-of-call, like when I went to Lubbock last weekend. His name is Zadeh and he's from one them former Soviet Republics with -istan in the name that ya never hear about 'cept come the Olympics and even then only if yr paying close attention to the "fringe events." Bezuckistan - or whatever - runs the table in the Standing Broad Jump. Zadeh's older brother took Silver at Barcelona in '92 and Gold at Atlanta in '96. Zadeh proudly displays a wonderful photo that graced the cover of Sports Illustrated of his brother jumping some broad in what would be his Gold performance. Zadeh's father and his father's father before him have been jumping broads to national glory since the '30's. I asked him why he wasn't a world-class broad jumper and he said it was because of a Nintendo-related injury he suffered as a child. I asked if it was repetitive-stress or a Tetris-stupor and he said no, that his injury was sustained while stealing a Nintendo off the back of a truck in some frozen boder outpost. He tumbled almost 100 meters (his words) down a rocky hill and had to be rescued by a yak. The little rascal!
Tonight: The Orbit Room.
A fine establishment to celebrate Mr. Sinatra's BDay (which was yesterday). JD optio al.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, December 06, 2012
Sex in a Canoe, Pt. 2 (redux)
12.1.2kXI
Last week's rant left you with me sitting on my couch, watching Monday Night Football, eating cheesy Triscuts and drinking Miller Lite beer, having jettisoned Coors Light for political reasons. The first thing I did outta the gate with my new domestic light beer of choice was to royally fuck myself over: I sat there and drank, oh, 18 or so. Got rather shit-housed. Stayed up really late laughing and crying at the TV, cranking the iPod up to ten, smoking a pack of ciggys and generally having a one-man party.
The next morning I felt generally okay but I was in the dog house, cold-busted by my grrrrl for being an idiot and getting wasted all by myself (loser) and waking her up many times throughout the night (jerk). And you know? She was right. I got carried away and I had to deal with the consequences.
One way I delt with the consequences was that I invoked the "Refuse to Booze" option. It is what it sounds like: No Drinking. This did afford me, however, the opportunity to test the age-old expression about light beer: It's Fucking Close To Water. I drank water. Arrowhead bottled water. A lot of it. All day and long into the night. My conclusion? The adage is wrong. Light beer is only close to water in that it's a liquid and drinking lots of it makes you pee a lot. After drinking what roughly amounted to an 18-pack of water I didn't feel a goddamn thing.
Tonight - stay classy at Lone Palm
(it's a euphemism AND a bar!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Last week's rant left you with me sitting on my couch, watching Monday Night Football, eating cheesy Triscuts and drinking Miller Lite beer, having jettisoned Coors Light for political reasons. The first thing I did outta the gate with my new domestic light beer of choice was to royally fuck myself over: I sat there and drank, oh, 18 or so. Got rather shit-housed. Stayed up really late laughing and crying at the TV, cranking the iPod up to ten, smoking a pack of ciggys and generally having a one-man party.
The next morning I felt generally okay but I was in the dog house, cold-busted by my grrrrl for being an idiot and getting wasted all by myself (loser) and waking her up many times throughout the night (jerk). And you know? She was right. I got carried away and I had to deal with the consequences.
One way I delt with the consequences was that I invoked the "Refuse to Booze" option. It is what it sounds like: No Drinking. This did afford me, however, the opportunity to test the age-old expression about light beer: It's Fucking Close To Water. I drank water. Arrowhead bottled water. A lot of it. All day and long into the night. My conclusion? The adage is wrong. Light beer is only close to water in that it's a liquid and drinking lots of it makes you pee a lot. After drinking what roughly amounted to an 18-pack of water I didn't feel a goddamn thing.
Tonight - stay classy at Lone Palm
(it's a euphemism AND a bar!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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