Sunday, August 7, 2011

joke of the day #10

Q: Why do bowling balls hang out with their friends until the wee hours of the morning, doing tequila shots and going to strip clubs and stuff like that, then get that dozen taco deal at Taco Bell and eat all of them, and then go home and end up puking in the sink while their wives look on with concern from the bathroom door? And all the previous time, their wives were also wondering what the hell they were up to, because the bowling balls never bothered to call home or anything like that?

A: Because that's the way they roll.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

justin bieber, part I

Hey u justin bieber why u be wiggin' kid? Ur hair looks stoopid. My gen had better teen idols like d lee roth & adam ant so suck on that.

(137 characters. I'm on a roll, babies!)

the golden arches, part I

Hey, why doesn't McDonald's sell corn on the cob? Come to think of it, they don't have corn on their menu at all! That's just ludicrous.

(136 characters, including spaces ...)

takin' it to the tweet

Hey, I've got a new idea for this tired old blog: limiting myself to 140 characters or less. Such a limit should ease the pressure on me to fill this space with prose and beauty, which in turn would I think lead to more frequent entries. And that's what everybody wants, isn't it? Instant gratification? "What have you done for me lately?" Etc.

Frankly, I'm tired of all the bitching and moaning about how there's not enough Mad City in you people's lives. (Did I do that right, by the way? You people's? That seems a little off to me, for some reason ...) I mean, it's nice to be wanted, but I've also just a real life to lead, not just this virtual existence. So you're going to end up with just what you wanted: quantity over quality. The monkey's paw.

So let's see how that turned out ... 757 characters? 143 words? Is it 140 words or characters that you're limited to on Twitter? Jesus, this is impossible! How do the kids do it these days?!? Those poor bastards. I never realized how tough it was to be part of Generation Y. Guess I've got my work cut out for me ...

Monday, June 20, 2011

toast is the most

I'm not gonna lie to you people: I really like toast. I eat it just about every day. And not just for breakfast! It's one of my favorite nighttime snacks, with lemon curd or a good raspberry jam and my daily protein shake.

And here's something else: when I make a sandwich, I make it on toast. Ordinary bread just doesn't "cut it" for me, ha ha. It's gotta be toast.

Two reasons for the toast post: a public acknowledgement of my love for toast was long overdue. Also, I haven't blogged for about a month, and I just had to bang something out. And when you're in a situation like that, you usually end up turning to something close to your heart.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

stale pbj

Sometimes I get CD's from the library. I'll just browse through the CD section, grab a few that I've heard about, and then listen to 'em at home. The problem is that sometimes I listen to something once, put it aside, and then forget exactly what I thought of it before returning it to the library. So, before I forget, just a quick reminder to myself: Peter, Bjorn and John, you totally suck.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

T-Bone's spa therapy

I've never had a professional massage. I'm not shitting you; I shit you not. There are some people out there who get a massage every week, you know? Hell, you can get a massage at the airport, for christ's sake. But I'm just not a self-pamperin' sort of guy. Except ...

Every 6 months, I schedule an appointment and go to a local place for my own little special therapy. I get to sit in a comfy chair, put some shades on, kick back, watch a little TV on the ceiling, and let someone else take care of me for a while. And where is this magical haven, you ask? Why, it's my dental hygienist's office!

Seriously, for me, getting my teeth cleaned is the closest I get to a sort of man-spa session. And if you think carefully about it, the comparison is apt. In addition to the chair, and the sunglasses, and the comforting elevator music, you're also getting your teeth cleaned. When I leave that office, my smile is looking like a million bucks, and it stays that way until I eat a burrito or something like that and get a bunch of chicken shreds caught in my teeth. But even then, I know that in another 6 months, the dental hygienist is going to pull those shreds out.

What about the discomfort, you also ask? Ah, let's face it: it's not that bad. OK, getting the mini-water jet on an exposed nerve is bad, and I guess I don't like that thing that makes the high-pitched whine. And spit sinks. Why did they ever do away with spit sinks? They had 'em when I was a kid; and back then, going to the dentist for me was like spending the day at an amusement park. Suction sucks! If I can find a dentist around here who still has a spit sink, I'll be happier than a pig in pig heaven.

So there you have it. That's how I roll. I bet most of you Mad City fans never saw this one coming.