Help the Homeless

Now that I have such a huge following I feel a sense of responsibility to use it for the greater good of humanity, so here is a little human interest piece for you. Below you will find a post on a bulletin board for my work:

Seeking work boots & athletic shoes donations
Community Action of Ventura County, formerly Commission on Human Concerns, has a free Clothing Closet for homeless individuals. They are currently seeking work boots and athletic shoes. To donate items, please contact the Clothing Closet Coordinator, Katie ______, 482-____.

If you can help out please feel free to contact me. If you feel like I feel, come on down with me to where they are handing these items out and help me ask these homeless the following questions:

1. Why do you think you need these work boots? Who do you think you are taking these boots from people who actually contribute to society and use these items for their intended purpose?

2. Why do you need athletic shoes? Are you training for hobolympics?

Please join me in my mission to reaffirm the place of homeless in our society, a class of society that has no need for WORK boots nor ATHLETIC shoes.

He-Capri

OMG it's he-capris!!!!!! Here is another disturbing trend in the wonderful world of fashion. First of all when you google image "men capri pants" all I found was this lovely picture. Not a single picture of men in capris comes up, which I guess is appropriate because these things are mutually exclusive. I could have googled metro capris, or significantly effeminate capris and probably come up with a fabulous picture, but this was all I found. The picture is also fitting because I feel that if a man has the chutzpah to wear clothing meant for women, they should also be confident enough to wear shoes made for women and get beautiful pedicures as women will do. Dollface has also brought to my attention that she has seen a number of males of a certain fashionable ethnicity wearing Roxy sandals (we can't very well call them flip-flops, that's too butch) with their he-capris. The only thing worse than this is when the Venn diagram of douchiness intersects and the "he-capri" circle overlaps with the "croc" circle, to create the unholiest of beasts. The only thing that would make it more unholy would be a 5 circle Venn diagram with the following circles:

1. Crocs

2. He-capris

3. Fanny pack

4. Matching (with "partner") 50th Anniversary Disneyland hoodie

5. Neon yellow Oakley Razors

Slidebar and Strips

So the day starts out fairly normally. I get off work at 7am and go home to nap because I have been up since 1am. I wake up around 1pm and enjoy a lovely lunch with my sweet baby on the deck of El Gringo. I take a drive out to Rizz's in Fullerton to do some serious Euro-trip planning, and the fun begins....warm Captain shots with The Taiwanese Tease, litres of beer, speed pong, our usually productive "planning session." Spork (a combo of S.peed P.ong and this subject's name) and I owned the speed pong table until Gay-L and Rizz spill enough beer on the table, because they can't possibly drink all that icky beer, to declare themselves winners. After exhausting our glucose stores on the most intense of speed pong sessions we decide to saunter on down to the world-famous Slide Bar. Now, I grew up in Orange County, SOUTH Orange County to be precise, and I know what cool is, and the Slide Bar is the closest thing to cool you're going to find to cool in north OC. I stop in the game room to play the obligatory game of Tron, then procede to join the rest of the group at our lovely corner table. It is at this point that I realize that I have once again become slave to the Master Control Program and forked over my last quarter to him. Doing the MCP's bidding I excuse myself and get on my light-cycle (human feet, for the layman), fleeing for the closest ATM. Only after 15 minutes of wandering the back alleys of Fullerton do I realize that there are no close ATMs, only facades of banks with no external ATM's. Only when fill my wallet and start walking back do I realize that I have no idea where I am, and I have to interface with those who are cool enough to have iphones to guide me back. Little did I know that path the iphone would provide would lead me past one of the most frightening sights, or sites would also be appropriate, that I have ever seen, the Red Hat Society Store. You're asking yourself, "What is this Red Hat Society you speak of?" Let me tell you, it is the most sinister sisterhood of slooty septagenarian spinsters you would ever want to know. I have heard that this herd of clucking hens have been known to put back no less than 2 boxes of white zin aaaand 2 jugs of Carlo Rossi merlot at one sitting and then go on to ravage men 1/3 their age. There are rumours that during one bender these dizzy blue-haired broads can fill half a dozen 55-gallon drums with Depends!!! I was fortunate enough to walk by the store when they happened to be on their tri-weekly trek to IHOP, so I wasn't subjected to one of their tirades on why gum jobs, or GJs, are better than BJs, or why a woman with Parkinsons gives a better HJ, or why strawberry ensure is better than chocolate.

I must move on now, being the responsible blogger that I am, as I understand any further mention of the RHS would warrant an entirely separate post. Soooooooo, I make my way back to slide bar and have one of the best cold cheese burgers I have had in recent times, as it has been waiting for the last 45+ minutes I have been gone. Drink some absurd amounts of gin and scooby snacks and Jaeger bombs etc., when out of the blue a certain friend's blind date speaks up about how she would like to go to a strip club to see some strips! Most of us were like, sure, but we don't know where any are, or how late they are open. No need to fear because this blind date, Blindie McStripsalot, is familiar with all the local strip clubs, and some in my neck of the woods (think Spearmint Hippo). So off we go to a li'l place called Fritz Too, where we are welcomed with open arms by all the lovely ladies of the night that know Blindie and by our buddy HB's brother. Brother is not happy to be caught with his pants down and is visibly shaken. No need to worry though, I call HB up on my cell and give the phone to Brother for some reassuring words, which seem to be kept short and sweet, and why not, there are strips to throw money at. This is when the shadiness is increased by a factor of 10. This is no ordinary strip club, this is one of those silly California "topless" clubs where they have to keep their bottoms on, but you can drink to your heart's content. We walk in and the red carpet is rolled out for blindy, she's hobnobbing with Krystal and Cheri, and greasing the bouncers, waving to the locals. This chick is like the Nina Hartley of Fritz Too. We are wisked away to a highly visible booth with a waitress that, get this, brings you drinks if you order them. The booth was perfect, directly behind Brother so we could watch him squirm when LoQuacious was making her rounds on the regulars, yet far enough back from the stage so we didn't have to feel obligated to tip the strips. One always feels the need to tip when you are close enough to see the "thousand yard stare" in their eyes. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thousand-yard_stare

(As you can see I am learning to incorporate new and exciting technologies into my blog, such as the "link" above to a whole nother website)

The booth was also far enough to avoid the shennanigans of Gay-L, who became a source of much chicanery over the ensuing hours. So we close Fritz down and go outside to find a mode of transportation, another taxi van for the ages and the real fun begins. I think it might have been Tawainese Tease, maybe Rizz who was telling me that they wanted to see a fight before the night was over when their wish was almost granted. Gay-L, being the shady drunk bastard he was, is doing the most conspicuous sneaky walk out of the strip club I have ever seen, holding the beer he is trying to take out of Fritz's on the OPPOSITE side of where the bouncer is. The bouncer, being the consummate professional he is, has played this game of cat and mouse before and will not stand for Gay-L's head fakes. Somoa Joe waddles as fast as possible through the crowd of unruly 20-somethings and catches up with Gay-L just as he steps into the taxi van, pulling him by the back of his shirt to the asphalt where it all went down. Somoa Joe stretches his alligator arms to the limits of his 24" wing span and attempts to strip the bottle from Gay-L's hot little hands. Gay-L puts up a bit of resistance until he sees the froth caught in Somoa Joe's goatie and realizes his defeat. Not only does Somoa Joe take his beer, but in a show of strength on the order of Lou Ferrigno, he pours it out in front of all of Gay-L's bros in the parking lot. Gay-L hops into the taxi with is ovaries thouroughly battered and attempts to shut the door behind him, when the 2nd altercation of the night almost ensues. 2 Abercrombie wearing, midori sour drinking, skewed hat donning, d-bags, grab the doors to our taxi attempting to gain access to the smoking hot she meat we have inside. At first when they saw Dollface and the Taiwanese Tease they were stoked, but when they saw that we were keestering Blindie McStripsalot in the back it became obvious that they were fans of her work. Gay-L and I, in our only bit of team work that night, proceded to close our respective doors simultaneously whilst they shouted, "you bitches are hot," and "show us your pastrami curtains (whatever the hell that means)." I, being of sound mind and impervious to groupthink was left unaffected by the comments of these people. Unfortunately for Gay-L his mind was slightly more malleable that evening and the words of the 2 d-bags infected his mind like the syphilis he got from the lap of Chesty Laroo earlier that evening. Unbeknownst to me Gay-L had mistaken Dollface, who was in the unfortunate position in front of him, for a 4th grade girl and started pulling her hair. I knew that Gay-L was having a rough night, what with having his beer poured out in front of his face, and was trying to be patient and tolerant, so I casually placed my hand on Dollface's head in an attempt to thwart further attempts to pull her hair out of her head. This did little to deter Gay-L and harder and harder swats of his hand were necessary. Fortunately it was a much shorter taxi ride back to Slidebar because we didn't get mother-f-ed by a shyster cabbie. For some reason the ride home cost about $10 less and was about as many minutes shorter, but that is a subject for another blog. I figured Dollface had weathered the storm but upon exiting the taxi I found her holding her ma'ammaries with a concerned look on her face. Having my hightened sense of mantuition, I immediately recognized there was a problem. Seems that while I was busy getting out of the taxi, Gay-L was busy untying not one, but both of the pieces of string that were holding Dollface's top on. Having respect for his ability to covertly disrobe other's girlfriends and his audacity, I was secretly a little impressed. Having more respect for Dollface's right to remain clothed and unmolested by the busy hands of Gay-L or prying eyes of the hundred-some-odd people in the parking lot and patios of the bars, I helped her put her top back on.

Alas, the night was not finished yet. The clock was about to strike 2am and in a scene out of Striperella, Blindie McStripsalot runs off waving good bye as she disappears into the parking structure, leaving behind a shoe of red patent leather, with 6" transparent heels, and a broken Spork on the sidewalk of the Slidebar. That's it for another fairy tale knight in Fullerton.

Croc Blockers

Well here they are folks, the Tevas of the twenty-first century, Crocs. I was totally unaware that these things existed outside the hospital operating room until my recent trip to Disneyland, which I now considered the gayest place on earth.

It was my fashion forward girlfriend who brought the spectacle to my attention yesterday upon entrance to the park. She questioned, "How could any parent in their right mind force their children to wear such awful shoes and subject them to such embarassment?" This is when I began to take notice of the massive quantity of people at Disneyland that come from the places that we fly over between L.A. and New York, who woulda thunk it. It was like watching the carnage of a car accident. It was ugly, one of the worst things you will see, but you can't look away. What is even worse is that Disney caters to these sea cows by making Crocs with Mickey head-shaped holes. I had become obsessed with how many people I could find wearing these abortions. Rather than let it ruin our day we decided that the best thing to do was have a competition. It went something like this:

1 point for a pair of crocs

2 points for crocs that were adorned with some sort of trinket or bedazzled. They actually have crap you can put in the holes of the crocs, although I would rather put the crocs in the holes that wear them.

3 points for colored crocs. These are the crocs with sundry tacky objects painted on them. We saw flowers, family crests, nick-names, and I even saw a poor young girl whose crocs had been vomitted on by Rainbow Bright.

4 points for crocs with socks, think flip flops or Tevas with socks, only about %20-35% more lame.

5 points awarded for what we liked to call a croc crew, consisting of no less than 3 people. Which was a point of contention between Jess and I because I insisted that it would take 6 individuals to make a crew, as I only count people who where crocs as 1/2 of a person. These are the same type of people you see at an amusement park like this wearing the same Mickey or Disney sweater with fanny packs and keys hung from shoelaces around their necks. God knows they have massive surpluses of shoe laces in their double-wides since they aren't being used to tie a normal pair of shoes.

So here's the game. The person with the most points accumulated before vomiting wins a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. One can also play a variation where every 50 points accumulated entitles the person to a drink of their choosing, on the other athlete(s) who are playing the game. It's the only thing that makes these people tolerable.

These people even have a website called crocfans.com!!!! Do you know why I know this? You guessed it, someone had it printed on a pair of their crocs. That's almost as sweet as my tatoo. So go check it out if you dare, just don't let anybody you care about (boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/family/friends) catch you checking out the website. If they do catch you and seem interested in crocs, make sure that you break up, divorce, disown, or disinherit them for said crime.

Benji BBQ

For those of you who know me here is some of the madness I deal with on a day to day basis. This is verbatim and certain parts of the conversation have been omitted so as to not identify people involved.

J=Jordo
Q=Qwazy

J-How can I help you?
Q-I have a question.
J-What can I help you with.
Q-My dog just died. I have a big metal can and tried to cremate the dog in a fire pit, and a police looked over the wall and said that it was illegal, and that I had to bury the dog, and I said okay and asked if he wanted me to put the fire out and he did. I just want to know the legality of this.
J-Soooo, you were trying to cremate your dog in your back yard and a police officer looked over your wall and told you to put it out and that what you were doing was illegal, right?
Q-Yes.
J-And you want the number of _____ because you want to make an inquiry into the legality of cremating your dog in your back yard.
Q-Yes.
J-I'm going to give you the phone of _____ but I'm pretty sure they will tell you the same thing since the police officer told you it was illegal, right?
Q-The police told me it was illegal, yeah. There was some smoke coming out.
J-Well I'm pretty sure _______ is not going to say anything different.
Q-I think i'll just bury the dog. He looked over the wall cause he smelled it and saw smoke. The dog died the other day, he's 17 and I want to creamate him where he has lived for the past 17 years. Bye.


I totally understand having an animal that is part of your life cremated and placed in an urn for posterity. I've known a number of people who have done such things. What I don't understand is, hasn't this chick ever BBQed? Hasn't she seen what a burger looks like when you leave the meat unattended for too long whilst getting a T.D.M. facial? It leaves a charred hocky puck, not a pile of ash. She would either need a 55 gallon metal drum to put the dog in, or she would have to carve it up like a turkey and put it in a meat grinder to fit it in her large metal can. She really didn't think this out very well. From the likes her I would assume she was anticipating putting the dog in an old Juan Valdez coffee container so he could spend eternity with her owner's menthol cigarettes. He always did like squeezing his muzzle into her can and eating mommy's butt.

Poacher Patttttt

Having been around the blogosphere block a time or two I can tell you that there is no crime more serious than poaching of fellow blogger's material. So here is a little something that I found on patttttt's blog, from an email he received from me. It now resides in its proper home. Let the Blogoff begin.

Jordache doesn't email too often, but when he does, he comes strong. I told Jordan he could take over my blog when I finally quit, and this was his response:"I was thinking about starting a blog, but I'm afraid if it becomes more popular than Patttttt's, it would affect our friendship. I mean, who wants to read the blog of a married man.......Woke up today at 6am. Betsy woke me up 4 times in the middle of the night because I was sleeping in the wrong position and we had to switch spots. Had egg beaters, the equivalent of eggs for you non-married folks, as well as a glass of grapefruit juice. Read the NY Times because the LA Times is much less internationally acclaimed. Hopped in my new "sled" and drove to work listening to NPR. Pulled up and told Juan to change my oil today and detail my new "sled." I'm pretty sure he didn't understand my idiosyncratic speech pattern because when I picked my "sled" up at 5pm it wreaked of buche. Did some comercial real estate business. Met up with Jason for our 4 drink minimum happy hour before heading to Trader Joes for some fair trade, low carb brown rice and skinless chicken breast. Snuck in a couple bottles of wine and some tequila with ginger ale (shhhhhhh, don't tell the Zet), since Jordan puked my remaining booze up in our garbage disposal. Was harassed and harangued by Hollywood DK for no less than 2 hours on no more than 2 subjects. Came home and watched Golden Girls and went to bed.I mean really, who wants to read that bullshit in a blog."As much as I want to turn this right around in Basics' face, I can only concede defeat.

Innie or Outie

Well, I've taken the plunge thanks in no small part to Des and numerous other people suggesting I start my own blog because they are becoming weary reading the same old tired blog. So here is the first of what I assume will be many "entries."
The following is a real clip from a string of emails regarding emails, but mostly regarding the the importance of the in box in relation to email. I did remove the portions about out boxes because I don't know my audience yet and wouldn't want to offend anybody, knowing just how much the out box can be abused by this group.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
if only you had a blog, this would be a great entry.
pun intended!


"Jordo"
06/11/2007 05:12 PM
To
"Roark"Des
"AnnY"
cc
"CCap" , "Boo"
Subject
RE: Prost

The morning in box fill is overlooked a good deal of time. I feel it is
the most important box filling of the day.

>>> "AnnY"

i can't wait for you to fill my in box for the morning jordan.


-----Original Message-----
From: Jordo
Sent: Monday, June 11, 2007 4:56 PM
To: Roark, Des
Cc: CCap; AnnY; Boo
Subject: RE: Prost

Oh bother. I was catching up and then I got a lame call. I shall read
these post haste and fill your in boxes for the morning.

>>> 6/11/2007 3:54 PM >>>
yeah, that's the weak stomach kicking in.
where's jordo at? when did he leave?