Deranged Mind

September 27, 2007

What do you think about that?

Filed under: Politics,Society — The Deranged One @ 3:06 am

Unless you’ve been living in a cave for the past month or so, I’m sure you’re heard about Senator Larry Craig and his shenanigans. For you cave dwellers, here’s the Reader’s Digest version. He got popped in an airport bathroom for soliciting sex from an undercover police officer. During the arrest, he threw down his business card and asked, “What do you think about that?” Then, he pled guilty to disorderly conduct. But when the whole affair was publicized, he said pleading guilty was a mistake – he was just trying to make the whole thing go away. He resigned from office, then took it back, then said he’d resign by the end of September if his case wasn’t resolved and set about trying to withdraw his guilty plea. How’s that for the condensed version? If you want to unabridged version, please feel free to peruse the arrest report.

So, the Honorable (ha!) Senator allegedly tried to engage in anonymous bathroom man sex? Hey, whatever floats your boat. Not my thing and if the Honorable Senator solicited me for some anonymous bathroom man sex, he’d probably find his prized business card inserted in his anus in less than three taps of a shoe on a men’s room floor. Still, if that’s your thing, knock yourself out. Until you get caught with your pants down.

My problem with the Honorable Senator’s actions is that he refuses to take responsibility for anything. First, he says his actions were misconstrued, that when he sits on the pot, he spreads his feet wide and accidentally bumped the officer’s foot. Next up, he was simply reaching for toilet paper on the floor. Why in the hell would any sane man accidentally bump another man’s foot whilst in the bathroom? You don’t say “hey” to another dude in the bathroom let alone bump feet. Second, are you really going to pick up TP from a public bathroom floor? I think not. Next, the Honorable Senator returned to the airport to bitch that the officers had mistreated him. Why? Because they didn’t quake in their boots when he dropped his business card? Can I get a big “whatever?” Not to be left out, this was all the fault of the Idaho Statesman, the Boise newspaper. I guess they shouldn’t have reported the news. And lastly, the good Senator claims he didn’t understand what he was doing when he entered his guilty plea.

I would assume that Senator Craig is an educated man. Typically, you don’t spend a lifetime in politics if your education consisted of dropping out of the 5th grade. He didn’t understand? Come on, get real. He knew damn well what he was doing. He said himself he was simply trying to make it go away. And when it backfired on him, he suddenly didn’t understand what he was doing? Right. Allow me to interpret the Honorable Senator’s statements into plain English: I screwed up and when I tried to make it go away, it didn’t work. So I want a do-over.

Senator Craig, you disgust me. Your desire to have anonymous bathroom man sex doesn’t disgust me as much as your refusal to stand up and be a man. (I guess getting bent over a toilet doesn’t go very far toward being manly, but I’m sure you understand my point.) You are a disgrace to the country, your office and more importantly, to the voters who elected you to represent them. It’s not everybody else’s fault. It’s your fault. Take responsibility. Stop the shenanigans.

And that, Senator Craig is what infuriates me. Like it or not, you’re one of those grown ups who is supposed to set an example. Even though politicians are probably about as crooked as the mafia, you’re supposed to be held to a higher standard. I don’t want to hear my kids trying to shuck and jive when they’re in trouble because that’s what Senator Craig does.

I have no doubt that September 30th with pass without this sorry excuse of a Senator resigning from office. He’ll come up with yet another excuse or blame somebody else. There will be yet another reason why this is somebody else’s fault. Senator Craig, you need to do the right thing – you need to resign immediately and apologize to your constituents. And rest assured that if you represented me, I’d take a couple of weeks’ vacation and follow you into every public bathroom carrying the largest sign you’ve ever seen telling you what a disgrace you are.

So what do you think about that?

P.S. Senator Craig, if, after you do the right thing and slink back to Idaho, you happen to find yourself in the stall next to mine at some random public bathroom, please try to refrain from playing footsies with me. My boot up your ass isn’t going to be what you expected.

September 26, 2007

Genital Origami

Filed under: Humor,internet,website — The Deranged One @ 10:57 am

A friend (you know who you are, you sick bastard) emailed me a link to an interesting site. Dick Tricks. For whatever reason, I clicked on the link. It’s a bunch of drawings of people contorting up their genitals into random shit. I’m sure somewhere, there’s somebody who would be offended by it. My personal favorite is the torch. Anyway, it made me wonder what the hell is wrong with people.

How did somebody find the time to devote to this project? (Dick Tricks, not this blog, you smart ass.) Is their life really that boring that they sit around contorting themselves into an odd shapes? Hell with the television, I’m going to see if I can wrap my tallywacker up into a new and exciting shape, then draw a picture of it, name it something cool and post it on the internet for the world to see. Dude, you need to get out of your mom’s basement more often.

Then I found something on the site which really disturbed me – there’s going to be a book. Dear God. Worse yet, I found a little blurb on the Amazon page that it’s a rip off. There’s another already published book called Puppetry of the Penis: The Ancient Art of Genital Origami. Hell, there’s even a DVD. Props for the creative title.

The whole thing makes me a little squeamish. If you have so much time on your hands (so to speak) that you can spend hours bending yourself into unnatural positions, you need to get out of the house more often. Go for a walk, wash the car, seek help! And please wash your hands after performing your genital origami. God knows, I’m going to worry the next time I shake somebody’s hand that they’ve been twisting their tool up into the Loch Ness Monster. And that’s all I have to say about that.

September 23, 2007

My morning paper and the stress it brings

Filed under: Shopping — The Deranged One @ 12:27 am

so·lic·i·tor

n.

  1. One that solicits, especially one that seeks trade or contributions.

The above is from an online dictionary – can somebody tell me where it mentions that solicitors have approval to stalk?

I have an ongoing battle with my newspaper carrier. I wish him (or her) ill will. I used to have a good carrier. He would bank the newspaper off the garage door and land it under the eaves where it would stay dry and was easy to find. He delivered my paper for about two years. Then he followed his dreams to the City of Angels to become an actor. No shit, that’s really why he moved. He’s probably pimping himself in West Hollywood while waiting for his big “break.” Poor guy.

Anyway, his replacement sucks. I usually have to search for the paper and I had to change my watering schedule or the sprinklers were guaranteed to ruin it. And heaven forbid I should try to suspend delivery whilst on vacation. The assclown will continue to deliver the paper then after I return, I’ll stop getting it. Best yet, he consistently delivers my paper to my next door neighbor and we get hers. Calls to the paper have been unproductive, to say the least. And it’s not like I can subscribe to another paper. Well, I could, but the same idiot would deliver it. As near as I can tell, he delivers for both local papers and the Wall Street Journal. And before anybody gets outraged that I would call my newspaper guy an asshole, chew on this: We have a couple of neighbors down the street who are OG’s – they’re in their 80′s and have lived here since our subdivision was new. They were having the same problems with their paper ending up wherever and when Connie called to complain about the paper landing on their roof, the next morning their house was egged. The following week when they called to complain about the paper sitting in the gutter, the next day the house was egged. Coincidence? I doubt it – they’re nice people and they’re too old to have the ability to piss off anybody other than the newspaper jerk.

And what happened to the days of old when the newspaper boy was about 10 years old, wore a canvas bag (were they called satchels?) and rode his bike delivering the papers before school? I guess your friendly neighborhood kidnapper/molester/murderer came along. So now the newspaper boys have been replaced by an adult in a car who in my case, could care less if I get the paper because he’s not going to come to my door with those 2 ring receipt books (remember those?) hoping that I give him a tip when I pay for the next month because I pay online. No, if he came to my door, I’d stick my boot up his ass.

I know, what the hell does any of this have to do with solicitors? Patience, friends and neighbors, I’m getting to it.

I went to the store first thing this morning for groceries. I was planning to cook chili and cornbread for dinner. I walked out to get in my truck and there sat my paper in the gutter. Under 2 inches of water. It’s been raining for the past 2 days. Could asshole wrap the newspaper? No. Could he try to at least make it under one of the cars? No. And now I’ll have to let the damn thing dry out for a few days before I can even throw it in the recycle bin. So I throw my soaked newspaper into the bed of my truck and head for the store. I get there early enough that the usual pack of morons isn’t there yet. I go inside, fill a basket full of junk, head back to the front of the store to get shoe phone reception to see what the missus is calling for (paper towels), finish my shopping and hand my hard earned money over.

And then it happens.

Nothing irritates me more than the damn solicitors who line up outside the doors. They hit you up on the way in, then hit you up again on the way out. I don’t want to buy their wares on the way in because God knows how much I’m going to have to send on food and I usually don’t have anything left on the way out. Plus, I don’t need Girl Scout cookies, I don’t want to donate to Catholic Charities and I don’t want to buy a candy bar to get a kid out of the ghetto. I once broke into a nervous sweat when I saw a Hare Krishna bus sitting in the parking lot, but I was somewhat disappointed when I found no devotees flocked outside the door.

So this morning, as I walked outside after forking over way too much cash, I cursed the gods starting the rain just as I’m about to make my way out. Then I saw them. Three of them. Twenty-somethings who looked like they’d spent the past few nights sleeping under an overpass. What are they selling, I wonder. I didn’t really need to wonder since about .000359 milliseconds after setting foot outside, I was set upon my one of the jackasses. And it went a lil something like this:

Solicitor: Hey man, you interested in subscribing to the Times?

Me: No.

Solicitor: It’s less than a dollar a week.

Me: So.

Solicitor: That’s less than the price of just the Sunday paper.

Me: No, I’m not interested.

At this point, I’d made it halfway to my truck, it’s pouring and jackass is following me. I can feel my patience starting to ebb.

Solicitor: If you subscribe for 2 weeks, you’ll get 2 weeks free.

And at that point, I’d made it to my truck. I glanced into the bed and saw my waterlogged paper from the gutter. And I unleashed.

Me: What the fuck part of “no” don’t you understand? I don’t want your paper. It’s a piece of shit. The writing sucks. The editors are illiterate. And my carrier is a slacked jaw retard. I wouldn’t use that paper to wipe my ass. Now get the fuck away from me.

Solicitor (scurrying away): You don’t have to be an asshole.

Me: And you don’t have to be a fucking stalker.

Man, everything about my newspaper sucks.

September 18, 2007

Memorable Motels

Filed under: Arizona,California,travel,Utah — The Deranged One @ 1:10 am

The Mrs. turned me onto this place – one of her coworkers is looking into a vacation there next year. It’s called the Ice Hotel and it’s located in Jukkasjärvi, Sweden. So I took a whirl around their website. Pretty nice place, but looks a tad chilly. I love to travel, but the Arctic Circle in winter isn’t my first choice. From their website:

Are the bedrooms at below zero temperature?
Absolutely! Around -5 degrees Celsius is the indoor temperature in ICEHOTEL. If outdoor temperature falls below -30, then it may be -8 inside, but not colder!

It got me to thinking about some of the other notable places I’ve stayed. Notable doesn’t necessarily mean nice. First on the list would be La Posada in Winslow, AZ.

La Posada is the gem of Winslow. Winslow itself has certainly seen better times. I-40 bypassed the town and from outward appearances, the old downtown along Route 66 is slowing dying. Rather sad. However La Posada is one of the nicest places I’ve stayed. It was originally a Mary Coulter hotel built for the Santa Fe railroad and no expense was spared. Even though the front of the hotel faces the railroad tracks a short distance away, the massive walls block out the passing trains. The place is simply incredible. It was only operated for 27 years as a hotel until 1957 when it was closed and used as offices by the railroad. In 1994, it was in danger of being demolished when the current owners bought it and began restoration. I first stopped in shortly after it opened in 1998ish. Staying at La Posada is indescribable.

Imperial 400, Needles, CA. Nothing too special about this place – I stopped for the night after hiking for several days in the mountains outside of Lukeville, AZ. I’m sure I looked like a crazed nomad when I walked through the door. Must be why they wanted me to pay cash. But for $17, I couldn’t complain. I expected vermin to run from under the bed when I opened the door, but much to my surprise, it was one of the cleanest rooms I’ve stayed in. A bit worn, but spotless. Alas, the motel is for sale and I suspect it will turn into yet another McMotel along our vast Interstate system.

Silver Queen, Kingman, AZ. I stayed here for several days after my clutch went out in my truck as I crossed the Mojave Desert. Not sure if I was there on an off week or what, but the place was less than desirable (see I told you notable didn’t mean nice.) I was solicited in the parking lot and the next morning was awoken by the police beating down the door next to me. I moved to a nearby McMotel following the early morning wake up call.

Cliff Dwellers Lodge, Marble Canyon, AZ. I’ll stray here a bit off of I-40 and old Route 66. Stopped here on a long day of driving from Taos, NM to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon in 1997. At the time, I understood that it was closing for some remodeling. Looking at their website, it’s apparently been updated since the rooms now sport satellite television. When I stayed there, the rooms didn’t have phones, much less TV’s. The kids didn’t like it, but I was pretty happy about the lack of modernity. In any event, the scenery is amazing here.

The San Juan Inn & Trading Post, Mexican Hat, UT. We’ve stayed here several times over the years. This place consists of a motel, store, and restaurant/bar built on a bluff perched (literally) above the San Juan River. The rooms are clean, the scenery is incredible, but in recent years, the service has begun to slide and it’s not what it used to be. But, you’re at the center of the “Southwest” – Monument Valley, Cedar Mesa, Grande Gulch, etc are all nearby. And the Moki Dugway isn’t to be missed. It’s a dirt road to the top of Cedar Mesa and Muley Point. Muley Point affords views to last a lifetime.

Walker River Lodge, Bridgeport, CA. A beautiful place – half the rooms have decks that allow you to walk about 50′ to the Walker River. We stay here whenever we go to Bodie. Very relaxing place, great staff and the Hays Street Cafe is across the street and has the best breakfasts you’ll ever eat.

And though I’m sure I’m forgetting some, these are some of the most memorable. And they’ll always beat the franchises along the interstates where the sterile (not necessarily a bad thing when it comes to lodging) rooms don’t vary from place to place.

September 17, 2007

About this site

Filed under: internet,Uncategorized,website — The Deranged One @ 9:59 pm

Before I get a flood of comments and/or email from all of the closed minded, politically correct, patchouli oil wearing (does anybody still wear that vile smelling garbage?) whiners, I’d like to set the record straight. A lot of the things I think, say and write are not politically correct. A lot are probably offensive to most of the population. That’s fair. You’re entitled to your opinion and can cry as much as you’d like. However, I’m entitled to mine as well and I’m really not interested in hearing your cries of protest. So, before you come crying because my writings are the literary equivalent of sand in your vagina, let me assure you that I don’t give two shits how upset they make you. This is meant to be humorous (sorry if it isn’t your slapstick-Hollywood-brain dead humor) and fun. Besides, nobody forced you to click on that link.

Neighborhood Children

Filed under: children,neighbors — The Deranged One @ 9:25 pm

So there I was, a lazy Sunday afternoon. The wife and kids were out shopping spending God knows how much of my money. A small price to pay for a bit of peace and quiet. Well, I hope a small price. I went upstairs and laid down to rest my aching back with a copy of Jeremy Siegel’s The Future for Investors. Excellent book, if you haven’t seen it.

Anyway, I started reading, the sun shining through the window and before I knew it, I was becoming increasingly drowsy. Ah, this is the life. Just as I closed my eyes, BANG! I jumped up to see what was going on and there were those damn neighbor children with their Razor scooters. They had a bottle in front of the neighbors driveway and were using a scooter to try to smash it. Screw it, it’s not my driveway. I laid back down and there was some more banging. So I got up again and yelled at them to knock it off. They did. For a while. Then they got out the football.

I have nothing against football. God knows I played enough of it when I was a kid. Although baseball was my pastime. Still, nothing wrong with a little football. Until the idiots started arguing.

Jeremiah: I want to be the QB.

Lance: You’re not good enough to be the QB.

Jeremiah: I’ve been a QB for the last 5 years.

At that point, I was thoroughly disgusted. Jeremiah is all of 9 or 10 years old. And he’s been a quarterback for 5 years. Yeah, right. I got up again to shut the window so I wouldn’t have to listen to those scrawny little assholes. Just as I walked over to the window, I watched the football bounce off the hood of my Jeep. Okay, that’s where I draw the line. I yell down at them to keep the football away from my stable of vehicles. They ignore me. I yell again, this time a little more insistent. Lance waves. Good enough for me, that’s an acknowledgment that they heard me and if the ball bounces off my Jeep again, I’m entitled to go outside and kick some ass.

Now a bit about the neighborhood kiddies. The names have all been changed to protect the not-so-innocent (okay, I’ll admit, on the off-chance their idiot parents are literate enough to fire up a computer and somehow stumble across this, I don’t want a bunch of torch wielding neighbors beating on my door wanting to know why I don’t like their children. I do like children. Just not my neighbors’.) Jeremiah is a little asshole who lives up the street. There’s no father figure in his life and as near as I can tell, his grandmother is raising him. Her style of child-rearing is to stand in the driveway and scream at him. He’s a punk with no future other than short stints in county jail. Next up are brothers David and John. John is retarded in some way. Perhaps he was dropped on his head when he popped out. Maybe his mom smoked too much rock whilst she was knocked up. It doesn’t really matter. He’s a pain in the ass with a squeaky voice and he yells everything that he says. Well, he also apparently is deaf because I can’t tell you how many times a day I hear his parents yelling at him to stop doing something over and over. David, his brother, will end up being Jeremiah’s cellmate. And that leaves Lance.

Lance is the ringleader. His family just moved in. He’s about 10. He has a brother who might be 5 or 6. His wonderful father has Lance babysit his little brother after school. Lance is a little asshole who deserves to have all of his fingers broken. In the 3 weeks since he’s moved in, he’s broken one of the other neighbor’s tricycles, spraypainted 3 scooters (leaving spraypainted outlines of the scooters in the street and sidewalk,) knocked over our garbage cans on garbage day and generally is a pain in the ass. Wonderful person to entrust your 5 year old with. And if David and Jeremiah are going to be doing county time, Lance will be in state prison.

There’s some more back and forth about who is going to QB (there’s 3 of you little fuckers out there – does it truly matter who is QB) and then they quiet down. My pulse begins to return to normal, my blood pressure returns to somewhere around normal and I start to get drowsy again. Until John makes his appearance.

I hear John’s approach, he’s yelling something that the best government linguist would be unable to decipher. He chants whatever it is he’s yelling until his brother tells him to shut up. He must’ve been yelling something about wanting to play because they include him in the game. That or they wanted to have some fun and bounce the ball off of his head. They play catch until the ball whacks him in the face and he runs off screaming. I slowly feel my blood pressure begin to elevate.

About then, I hear Lance’s father arrive on the scene. He’s apparently incapable of speaking in normal tones. Perhaps he too is deaf like John. Or maybe he’s just a fucking idiot. Probably the latter. Either way, next thing I know, I hear him yelling, “Get the fuck out of the street! What the fuck is the matter with you?”

What the fuck is the matter with your son? I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you leave him and his brother to do whatever the hell they want, that you speak that way to him or that you’re a complete asshole who shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as me.

Lance says sorry to Father of the Year and they resume play.

Now, I have another neighbor who has provided me with hours of entertainment. The wife has some sort of phobia that prevents her from being normal. She is the most outgoing person in the world if she’s inside of her car. She’ll wave and say hi like you’re her best friend. But get her outside of the car or house and she nuts up. That must be why she rarely sets foot outside unless she absolutely must. If you try to talk to her while she’s taking out the trash or picking up the newspaper and you can literally watch her face melt. It begins with the twitching around the eyes. Then her lips begin to quiver. She clutches her arms to her chest in a protective gesture. The sweat begins to bead on her forehead before she breaks into a run and makes a dash for the house. And I’ve always wondered where she drives to since she goes apeshit when she’s outside.

So once again, I start to drift off to sleep in the warm sun only to be interrupted by the nutjob phobia-woman asking Lance to get his scooter off of her freshly planted lawn. He tells her he didn’t put it there. She says it doesn’t matter, please get it off the lawn. He says he’ll move it when they’re finished. Her voice begins to waver and she asks him to please move it. He says no.

At this point, all thoughts of sleep are gone. Fucking little assholes have pissed me off one too many times. I bound down the stairs and out the door. Nutjob phobia-woman is near tears. Defiant Lance is standing his ground and has no intention of moving his damn scooter. I do what comes naturally and tell Lance that if he doesn’t move his scooter, I’m going to take it and throw it off a freeway overpass. He sullenly drags his scooter home. Nutjob phobia woman runs inside and I head back upstairs.

I lay back down and hear the little assholes resume their game arguing about god knows what. John comes running back out yelling whatever it is he yells, Father of the Year comes back out yelling about the scooter on the porch and I begin to fantasize out taking potshots with the Bushmaster at those little shits. Too bad the trajectories would trace straight back to my window. And with visions of those little fuckers diving for cover amidst a barrage of gunfire, I drift off to sleep. A deep restful sleep. And I cannot help but think that I had a smile on my face.

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