How crazy is Easter? I mean, besides the fact that Jesus rose from the dead (a.k.a. as a zombie), but that there's a bunny rabbit that lays fucking eggs. Colored eggs even. I can understand Santa, because he's got elves building toys for him and he's got a list that he checks twice and reindeer that fly. So we've got the whole backstory to that, but the fucking Easter Bunny?
Is he some strange Government project gone wrong? Is he a freak accident when a chicken and a bunny breed? Oh yeah, while you got me on that, we all assume that the Easter Bunny is a guy but yet, chickens are females, so is he a hermaphrodite of the chicken/bunny breed? Why are the eggs colored? Is it due to a poor diet or does he have some type of internal bleeding?
These are all valid questions. I'm not overthinking things. Someone today said that I'd be bad if I had kids because I over thought things, but she was way wrong. These are the right questions to ask because when kids talk about the Easter Bunny they should all be talking about the same thing, or the Easter Bunny "story."
"Well my dad told me that the Easter Bunny comes at night time."
"You're dad is a fucking liar. In fact, you don't even have a dad."
Do you see the problems that the inconsistency of a story could cause a young, impressionable child? Especially of something like the Easter Bunny. All I'm saying is that we should get the story straight, it may not be believable, but at least have the backstory set up, or else next time I see you Easter Bunny...instead of eating ham...I'm going to eat you.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Monday, March 14, 2005
The First Ever Contest Winning Blog
Well the contest is over. I was happy to see the turn out for this wonderful contest. So here are the winners...
Third Place goes to cowboys with sad songs. I would have actually given this one the first place prize if it was November but since it's March, I just didn't feel like I could touch on the subject.
Second Place goes to miami mike. I know he likes to be slapped around and.
And here it is, the moment we've all been waiting for...
First Place goes christine. I read this and I thought of a story as a child. As you read further I'm sure you will think that I over reacted but it really fucked me up as a child. So enjoy this Contest Winning Post.
I love movies. If you know me, you know that I have seen just about any type of movie made. There are even times when I know the studio that distributed the movie.
I'm the youngest in a family of four children. The age difference between my brother's and my sister is between five and ten years. When I was growing up, I was always too young to hang out. Too young to know any better. Needless to say I spent a lot of time by myself. As the years went on I'd say I developed something called the "Only Child Syndrome." You get it when your age difference is so great that you literally feel like an only child. My imagination grew. It started off small until it became a huge blob in my brain.
I watched a lot of movies dealing with aliens as a child. Hell, The Last Starfighter is one of my all time favorite movies, but the day finally came when I saw this awesome, kid friendly movie made by Steven Speilberg called Close Encounters of the Third Kind. In my eyes, this was neither awesome nor kid friendly. It freaked me the fuck out. The scene that disturbed me the most was when the aliens took the kid away from his mother. I can still invision it. How scared shitless I was when I saw that. Knowing that if it could happen to that kid, it could happen to me.
After seeing that movie, I couldn't sleep alone for about a year. I would stare at my closet, waiting, anticipating for the aliens to come and take me away. I know my brother Brian, who shared a room with me, got annoyed with me at times. I would stay awake until he went to bed. There was a Friday when he wasn't going to bed. I went downstairs and sat on them watching the t.v. through the windows in the door that led to the living room. Almost falling asleep, but staying awake knowing that if I got caught up past my bed time I would be in trouble. When the show he was watching was done, I ran upstairs and pretended I was there the whole time.
I know what you are thinking, "Dan, those aliens weren't evil." The thing is, nobody told me that. So I just assumed that sooner or later they would come for me, since I believed they were real.
A year went by and eventually I just said fuck it. If they come for me, they come for me. What's a blanket covering my head going to do? It's not like it would make me invisible and if they flew billions of light years just for me, they aren't going to be fooled by a kid hiding under the sheets.
Needless to say I was way over this until Speilberg fucked with my head again. I saw E.T. with my two older brothers and my mom at the movie theater. I didn't realize that my brother's wanted to sit in a different place then us, so when the movie was done I looked over to see my mom. My brother's were gone. I had flashbacks, bad ones, from the earlier alien conspiracies. I ran up and down the movie aisle, crying because I knew that E.T. took them away. This of course was not true. Brian and Mike got up from their seats and started walked towards the exit door when the credits began to roll. I stopped, and saw them. It was at that point in time that I would never fall for Speilberg's evil tricks again.
To this day though I sometimes look in the closet and see things moving. I don't know what it is, or who it is, but I now just raise my middle finger and roll over to my side, and go to sleep, knowing that one day it might happen, and if it does, I'll be ready.
Third Place goes to cowboys with sad songs. I would have actually given this one the first place prize if it was November but since it's March, I just didn't feel like I could touch on the subject.
Second Place goes to miami mike. I know he likes to be slapped around and.
And here it is, the moment we've all been waiting for...
First Place goes christine. I read this and I thought of a story as a child. As you read further I'm sure you will think that I over reacted but it really fucked me up as a child. So enjoy this Contest Winning Post.
I love movies. If you know me, you know that I have seen just about any type of movie made. There are even times when I know the studio that distributed the movie.
I'm the youngest in a family of four children. The age difference between my brother's and my sister is between five and ten years. When I was growing up, I was always too young to hang out. Too young to know any better. Needless to say I spent a lot of time by myself. As the years went on I'd say I developed something called the "Only Child Syndrome." You get it when your age difference is so great that you literally feel like an only child. My imagination grew. It started off small until it became a huge blob in my brain.
I watched a lot of movies dealing with aliens as a child. Hell, The Last Starfighter is one of my all time favorite movies, but the day finally came when I saw this awesome, kid friendly movie made by Steven Speilberg called Close Encounters of the Third Kind. In my eyes, this was neither awesome nor kid friendly. It freaked me the fuck out. The scene that disturbed me the most was when the aliens took the kid away from his mother. I can still invision it. How scared shitless I was when I saw that. Knowing that if it could happen to that kid, it could happen to me.
After seeing that movie, I couldn't sleep alone for about a year. I would stare at my closet, waiting, anticipating for the aliens to come and take me away. I know my brother Brian, who shared a room with me, got annoyed with me at times. I would stay awake until he went to bed. There was a Friday when he wasn't going to bed. I went downstairs and sat on them watching the t.v. through the windows in the door that led to the living room. Almost falling asleep, but staying awake knowing that if I got caught up past my bed time I would be in trouble. When the show he was watching was done, I ran upstairs and pretended I was there the whole time.
I know what you are thinking, "Dan, those aliens weren't evil." The thing is, nobody told me that. So I just assumed that sooner or later they would come for me, since I believed they were real.
A year went by and eventually I just said fuck it. If they come for me, they come for me. What's a blanket covering my head going to do? It's not like it would make me invisible and if they flew billions of light years just for me, they aren't going to be fooled by a kid hiding under the sheets.
Needless to say I was way over this until Speilberg fucked with my head again. I saw E.T. with my two older brothers and my mom at the movie theater. I didn't realize that my brother's wanted to sit in a different place then us, so when the movie was done I looked over to see my mom. My brother's were gone. I had flashbacks, bad ones, from the earlier alien conspiracies. I ran up and down the movie aisle, crying because I knew that E.T. took them away. This of course was not true. Brian and Mike got up from their seats and started walked towards the exit door when the credits began to roll. I stopped, and saw them. It was at that point in time that I would never fall for Speilberg's evil tricks again.
To this day though I sometimes look in the closet and see things moving. I don't know what it is, or who it is, but I now just raise my middle finger and roll over to my side, and go to sleep, knowing that one day it might happen, and if it does, I'll be ready.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
The People Shall Choose...
At the Corner Bar is looking for a good topic to write about. This is where you, the people, have a chance to win the "You Pick the Topic" contest. Third place winner gets shit. Second place winner gets a slap in the face. First place winner gets the chance for me to write about your topic. So wipe off your dusty, original ideas and post them down below. Winner will be announced on March 12, 2005. Good luck assholes.
Friday, March 04, 2005
How Much Damage Could I Do With A Pen?
"A lot of people ask me stupid fucking questions. A lot of people think that what I say on record, or what I talk about on a record that I actually do in real life, or I believe in it. Or if I say that I want to kill somebody that I'm actually going to do it or that I believe in it. Well shit, if you believe that then I'll kill you. You know why? Cause I'm a criminal."
Eminem
I've been feeling a lot of heat from people the last three days. When they post it, or even when they don't post it, I've been under attack. At work, at home, on my phone, on a boat, on a goat. Luckily I have a bomb shelter built into my brain so I can go hide in it until the fire has ceased. But fuck it. Why do I need to hide? It's not my style.
People, people, people, listen the fuck up because I'm only going to say this once. This is my place. I go here to write. I'm not writing for the New Yorker, L.A. Times, U.S.A. Today or Mad Libs. I'm writing for myself because I'm easily entertained. Do you think that everything I write I stand behind? Fuck no. This is supposed to be fun. Do you really think that I sit around all day and dwell about the things I write about? That I really think that pet names are the equivalent to slave names? That the lady who corrected me is a shitty English teacher, who had no friends growing up? That I'm really arrogant and lazy and that I'm all high and mighty? That all personalized license plates are fucking stupid? (Bad example because they really are stupid) NO!!! It's a character I get into when I write, because if I wrote like "Dan" then it'd be sugar coated goodness and if you really wanted that then you'd go and watch an episode of Davey and Goliath.
You are supposed to read it and laugh because we are "At The Corner Bar." So you can either be someone who comes here, sits back in your chair, have a drink (non-alcoholic if you choose) with some friends and talk about your day or you can be that guy who comes here looking for a one night stand and to start a fight just because you are "in the mood." Which one are you? Think about it, get back to me, but until then...next rounds on you so buy me a fucking drink.
Eminem
I've been feeling a lot of heat from people the last three days. When they post it, or even when they don't post it, I've been under attack. At work, at home, on my phone, on a boat, on a goat. Luckily I have a bomb shelter built into my brain so I can go hide in it until the fire has ceased. But fuck it. Why do I need to hide? It's not my style.
People, people, people, listen the fuck up because I'm only going to say this once. This is my place. I go here to write. I'm not writing for the New Yorker, L.A. Times, U.S.A. Today or Mad Libs. I'm writing for myself because I'm easily entertained. Do you think that everything I write I stand behind? Fuck no. This is supposed to be fun. Do you really think that I sit around all day and dwell about the things I write about? That I really think that pet names are the equivalent to slave names? That the lady who corrected me is a shitty English teacher, who had no friends growing up? That I'm really arrogant and lazy and that I'm all high and mighty? That all personalized license plates are fucking stupid? (Bad example because they really are stupid) NO!!! It's a character I get into when I write, because if I wrote like "Dan" then it'd be sugar coated goodness and if you really wanted that then you'd go and watch an episode of Davey and Goliath.
You are supposed to read it and laugh because we are "At The Corner Bar." So you can either be someone who comes here, sits back in your chair, have a drink (non-alcoholic if you choose) with some friends and talk about your day or you can be that guy who comes here looking for a one night stand and to start a fight just because you are "in the mood." Which one are you? Think about it, get back to me, but until then...next rounds on you so buy me a fucking drink.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
To Be Or Not To Be, Don't Correct My Question.
At times I find it tough working in retail again. Nobody loves working in retail and if they say they do, they are a fucking liar. One of the benefits of working where I do is that I work in a mall on the Vegas strip. For the most part, I talk to people from all over the world. The other day when I was ringing up a customer, I found that I was having problems talking with her. You see she was a dud when it came to talking and so I was forcing my way into her small little world. I eventually found out that she was from Arizona and the reason why she was down here was that her husband was participating in a skeet shooting competition.
"How long has your husband been doing that for?" I asked in the nicest way.
"You know you shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition. You should say, 'How long has your husband been doing that?' I'm an English teacher, I should know."
Now, this of course pissed me off. Ok, first of all she was so boring that I've had better conversations with myself. Second, she thought she had some type of power outside of her class. The nerve of her.
"I'll remember that the next time I write a paper for you," I said in the most sarcastic way possible. In a way where I was standing at the customer service line of good manners with a middle finger in the air, but yet, still not crossing it. Lets just say we stopped talking after that.
So I did end it with a preposition, but do I really fucking care? Fuck no.
Yes, I'm an English major but do I always talk proper? No. I said I was an English major, not English.
I'm sure when she was younger she had no friends. She was an only child that would stare outside of her window, looking down at the other kids laughing and playing, swearing to herself that one day she will make them all pay. She swore to become a crappy English teacher who would always correct you every chance she got.
It's those teachers that really make students not want to write. That make them dread going to class. I understand the need for structure because if we didn't have it, people would be talking "all crazy n' shit." But lets worry about getting those creative juices out first. Lets worry about having interesting conversations with strangers. Lets worry about the nature of the flow and not having it blocked by a "damn" of rules. Bend the rules. Bend them, don't break them. Oh fuck it. You got my panties all up in a bunch. Next thing you know it, I'll be up on stage with a man behind me playing the bongos. I'm done writing now. If you don't like it, what else do I have to write for?
"How long has your husband been doing that for?" I asked in the nicest way.
"You know you shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition. You should say, 'How long has your husband been doing that?' I'm an English teacher, I should know."
Now, this of course pissed me off. Ok, first of all she was so boring that I've had better conversations with myself. Second, she thought she had some type of power outside of her class. The nerve of her.
"I'll remember that the next time I write a paper for you," I said in the most sarcastic way possible. In a way where I was standing at the customer service line of good manners with a middle finger in the air, but yet, still not crossing it. Lets just say we stopped talking after that.
So I did end it with a preposition, but do I really fucking care? Fuck no.
Yes, I'm an English major but do I always talk proper? No. I said I was an English major, not English.
I'm sure when she was younger she had no friends. She was an only child that would stare outside of her window, looking down at the other kids laughing and playing, swearing to herself that one day she will make them all pay. She swore to become a crappy English teacher who would always correct you every chance she got.
It's those teachers that really make students not want to write. That make them dread going to class. I understand the need for structure because if we didn't have it, people would be talking "all crazy n' shit." But lets worry about getting those creative juices out first. Lets worry about having interesting conversations with strangers. Lets worry about the nature of the flow and not having it blocked by a "damn" of rules. Bend the rules. Bend them, don't break them. Oh fuck it. You got my panties all up in a bunch. Next thing you know it, I'll be up on stage with a man behind me playing the bongos. I'm done writing now. If you don't like it, what else do I have to write for?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
