February 2010



Vegas knows how to treat the ladies.

For this reason, even at the risk of spoiling the wife, I went to Wal-Mart on February 14th to get her a little something.  And by “little something,” I mean a card.  Normally, I avoid Wal-Mart at all costs, because I have an inherent fear of roving bands of razor-wielding Latinas.  But on this particular occasion, it couldn’t be avoided.  Not because of the greeting card search, but because of their selection of Buffalo Rock products.  The most delicious soda available to the public consumer is Rasberry Ginger Ale.  It’s so tasty that I don’t mind subjecting myself to public ridicule and justifiable questions about my sexuality in order to obtain it.  Unfortunately, it’s difficult to find and pretty expensive.  But sometimes no other soft drink will get the job done.  It’s like the  “A-Team” of carbonated beverages.

Arriving at Wal-Mart, I was unable to park within approximately 2.4 miles of the entrance.  I waited in vain for about fifteen minutes for the shuttle to arrive, but none did.  I even asked a few passersby if they knew the shuttle schedule, but I guess they couldn’t hear me.  Undaunted and driven by my quest for the holy grail of all Buffalo Rock products, I began my trek and finally entered this monstrosity about an hour later.  I could’ve done it quicker but I had to leave a trail of breadcrumbs in case my compass failed on the return journey.  “Always be prepared,” that’s my motto.

I head first to the greeting card section, and so far so good.  The Latin Kings are obviously perceptive enough to see that they don’t want any, and I don’t blame them.   It’s apparent that I look like a man who has a rape siren, and isn’t afraid to use it.  Unmolested, I am initially disappointed to see that the Valentine’s Day section of the greeting cards is decimated.  Utterly decimated.  I mean, locusts left more behind in Old Testament days.  There are two cards left.  The first one is a “singing card” that plays a Jewel song when you open it.  I would identify the song but since they all sound identical that seems frivolous.  I immediately smash this card under my foot in the name of all that is right with this world.  Just over my left shoulder an angry lady wearing a “Jewel World Tour” shirt is saying something passive aggressive.  I respond with, “I guess that card wasn’t ‘Meant for You,’ eh?”  Because Jewel fans have no sense of humor, she does not laugh.

Then, as if fated by powers I do not understand, the last card calls out to me.  (Figuratively).  I open the card, and it says, “If our love were a garden, You would be my hoe.”  BOOM.  Perfection!  If that card doesn’t get me some Valentine ass tonight, nothing will!  If you’re reading this right now, I want this story to illustrate a maxim that will carry you far in life and will never, ever fail you.  That maxim is this: Always, always, always wait until the very last minute to do something you must do or buy something you must buy.  See, if you buy something earlier then when you have to, you might come across something even better, and where does that leave you?  I’ll tell you where…springing for another 65 cents on a better Valentine’s Day card, that’s where.   Not on my watch!

So far on this little journey, I’ve avoided being cut by a cholo, crushed the hopes and dreams of a Jewel fan, AND found the perfect greeting card for Mrs. Vegas.  Would things keep going my way?

Nope…..


I’m tired of unrealistic hyperbole used as the yardstick by which true love is measured.  “I’d swim the farthest ocean, I’d climb the highest mountain,” etc.  In addition to the impossibility of these feats, it is unrealistic that you’d have to go to such lengths to prove your love.  Unless you’re in love with a Sherpa, you aren’t likely to be challenged with reaching the summit of Mt. Everest.   (If you ARE in love with a Sherpa, congratulations on a statistical rarity). So, I’ve taken the liberty of constructing a more pragmatic standard of relationship testing.  I call it, “the Drive-Thru Paradigm.”   Let’s say your girlfriend calls you on your way home from work, and asks you to pick up something from the only fast food restaurant on the way.  How many cars have to be in the drive-thru before you say, “Fuck this, I’m not waiting a half hour so my too-lazy-to-fix-her-ass-some-hamburger-helper girlfriend can enjoy a Crispy Chicken Sandwich”?  How many cars before the fallout from getting home without that Frostee weighs less in a cost/benefit analysis than waiting in line behind minivanfulls of  potential ‘Biggest Loser’  contestants?  And this, my friends, is the practical measure of love.  Unfortunately, I can’t use the Drive-Thru Paradigm (or DTP for short when you explain this bulletproof plan to all of your family and friends).  I expressly forbid my wife from making extravagant dining requests, because I take her to IHOP every single Saturday and I don’t want her to get spoiled.  (Author’s note:  If you do roll home without the bag of McWhatevers, don’t attempt to diffuse the heat you’ll take by telling her, “It’s not like you really NEEDED it, anyway.”)

I’m really, really happy for the Saints and the city of New Orleans.  Now “Who Dat” can take its rightful place next to “Show Me the Money,” and “How YOU doin'”  in the lexicon of justifiable junk-punch catch phrases.

David Guetta needs to work on his game.  “Excuse, me, Miss, but I’m trying to find a way to say this without being disrespectful toward you.  You see, you’re nothing I could compare to the local neighborhood whore.  Also, the way you’re shaking that ass, I really just can’t take any more.”   I mean, if you’re trying  not to be disrespectful, you want to consider not coming right back with the word “whore” in any context.  The guys from Jersey Shore had better skills than that.  Almost.

I’m 31, so I’m just conceding that I’ll never,ever  get to re-create the bike dancing scene in RAD to Real Life’s “Send Me an Angel.”  And this makes me sad.  (Yep, I know the band name.  I might have the soundtrack.  Don’t make this a big deal.)

Since I’m in between jobs, I thought I’d look for a little volunteer work.  You know, give a little something back.  Because that’s just the type of guy I am.  So I called my local Senior Hunger office (selected because the name elicited visions of famished geriatrics answering  phones) to see what I could do.  Disappointingly, this organization seeks to end senior hunger, but has little or no starving seniors actually working there.  For my money, if grandpa really wanted a meal, the least he could do would be to get on his Rascal and answer a couple of phones.  But I’m not running things, so whatever.  I’m just saying that you shouldn’t get a free ride because you’re a 93 year-old shut in.  It isn’t a good example.  This office is perpetuating the idea that once you get to be a certain age, you don’t have to do shit.  Geriatric laziness is a real epidemic in this country, and until we take a stand, it’s just going to get worse.  And if you think I’m bitter just because Senior Hunger told me they couldn’t use my help because they don’t trust alcoholics and drug addicts in recovery not to steal narcotics from the seniors to whom they deliver, you’re absolutely wrong.  Haven’t even given it a second thought. I don’t need their Meals OR their Wheels.  Let the lazy old motherfuckers starve, for all I care.

If you’re a smoker, and your wife repeatedly tells you that you stink of cigarette smoke, don’t crack back with, “Well at least I can shower.  You smell like bitch, and that’s the kind of stank that don’t wash off.”

“Hello…is this 107.7 FM?  No, no, I don’t know the phrase that pays.  I was just giving you guys a little  jingle to tell you if you play that Kings of Leon song one more time, I’m going to BLOW MY FUCKING BRAINS OUT.  Have a great day.”

These are the things that keep me awake at night.