Hans Strudel. Sort of like a German version of Lucky the Leprechaun.
Being of Anglo-Saxon ancestry, I can’t help but find this commercial to be in really bad taste. Racial stereotyping anyone?
It has to be the whitebread equivalent to all those Afro-Sheen commercials on Soul Train back in the day. Really. It’s worse than all those commercials for Lucky Charms.
It’s almost as bad as the image of the “Thrifty Scotsman.”
Just had to throw something funny out there today.
Nobody likes change. Even when it’s change for the better, and especially if it short circuits their own personal power trip.
I am conservative by nature, so if I see a need to make a change or to be innovative, most of the time it’s well justified, and to me, at least, a no-brainer. Unfortunately in life one has to deal with those who are more concerned about getting their own way and controlling others than they are about anything else- including getting things done more efficiently, being profitable, and other such practical things. Some people only care about getting their own way and trashing other people to build themselves up in their own minds. It’s even worse when they have a gullible audience in high places.
This is what happened yesterday, and that pretty much made me blow a gasket and go to the zoo for a minute. I take what I do seriously, and I don’t abide unjustified criticism, especially from a rude young punk, well. There are few things I loathe more than a.) someone nosing about in my business, and b.) demanding that I change a more efficient way of doing things to feed his personal ego and score brownie points. The worst part of this is that person did get his way (nepotism has its perks) and I just had my status as his personal shit box reinforced.
I can go into a plethora of details on that and how much it pisses me off, but suffice to say the man is probably so pussy whipped at home that I’m the only woman he can safely attack. I don’t know whether I should have pity on that situation or not. Right now, I think he deserves what he got- a controlling wife and her Italian family- in spades. That is not going to be a fun divorce when it happens. And it will.
I refuse to play the power game. I know power is addicting and I understand the mindset all too well. I was a ruthless bitch in business and in life for many years and it took a health crisis and an episode of major depression to get it through my head that power tripping is no way to live, and that manipulating others doesn’t really give me much of the jollies.
The only person who I have to compete with is myself. It doesn’t harm me when other people do well, but when other people simply tear me down to make themselves look good, (and the powers that be either can’t or won’t see through that game) that pisses me off. Throwing other people under the bus just because you can is the hallmark of insecurity, and I know it all too well- because in my insecure youth, I used to play that game too.
I don’t expect other people to do everything exactly the same way I do. It would be awkward for them, just as it is awkward and frustrating for me to accommodate frivolous bullshit to feed some jackwagon’s power trip. But I don’t make those sorts of demands on others, because they serve no practical purpose.
The more I think about it, the more I am determined not to let the stupidity of others aggravate me any more than is absolutely necessary.
And Einstein once said that insanity is repeating the same things over and over and expecting different results.
I’m not going to let stupidity win out. Yes, I get pissed and I get despondent, but I also know how easy it is for me to overreact when certain buttons go off. That’s why before I actually do anything I have to vent, think things through and plan a course of action. I’m not an impulsive type, after all.
I need something good to happen to me. I need someone to say or do something nice or barring that, at least for the surrounding assholes to leave me the hell alone. I’d settle for the second choice.
Then it hits me- I never had any faith in human nature to begin with, so why should other people’s assholery piss me off so much?
Optimism is a lost cause and I don’t need to be taking it up at this point in my life.
The observation that optimism is a lost cause is actually a bit freeing. I know better than to expect nothing but assholery from other specimens of the human race, so I shouldn’t let it get me down when I become the community shit box for surrounding humanity. It does wear me out when I am the object of misuse and derision, but the bad behavior of others, and being treated unfairly by others should never surprise me. It’s the ongoing narrative of my life as far back as I can remember. Why do I think that’s going to change now?
If I suck so bad, then why am I still taking up valuable oxygen?
If I didn’t still have that vestigial old-school Catholic fear of suicide being a mortal sin, and a very real fear of screwing it up and failing to get the job done, I’d seriously consider blowing my head off.
I’m really trying to believe that I have some purpose and value in this life but I’m sick as hell of being the community cat box. I’m tired of living with a drunken obnoxious old goat with a limp dick who constantly bitches up one side and down the other at me and my shortcomings both real and imagined, but doesn’t lift a finger to help himself.
I’m simply tired of living. It just sucks too much.
I want to believe that God has a purpose for my life but it’s getting really hard to believe it’s anything good. I guess someone has to take other people’s shit, because that seems to be the only purpose I serve. Smile and take it.
I’ve said it before- there are people out there with things to live for. Why can’t God do an exchange and let them have the time I don’t want? Why can’t I just go to sleep and not wake up?
Although I have recently expressed my disdain of TV news, even I can be reeled in by gratuitous displays of the macabre. Especially at 5:45 AM. Though details are sketchy, the scuttlebutt has it that several vehicles ran over this poor woman’s corpse before cops could stop traffic and retrieve what remained of the remains. What I’m wondering, is how does a dead body end up in the middle of the Interstate at 5AM? Was it foul play or perhaps a more grandiose version of the phenomenon where socks, shoes, clothing and furniture mysteriously end up on the side of the road? Who (excepting toddlers and possibly teenage boys) just randomly tosses a shoe out on the freeway?
The appearance of a dead body in the middle of I-71 is far more unusual than the normal trucker bombs, occasional shoe, or piece of furniture commonly observed on the berm. I am sure there are a plethora of details yet to be unearthed from this rather grisly occurrence right here in beautiful central Ohio.
I am also sure that commuters coming into Columbus on I-71 northbound were not terribly happy about being rerouted around the outer belt. That could add 20 miles to some commutes depending on where you’re coming from, your knowledge of the city, (there are ways much shorter than official detours) and where you need to end up. I used to be a parts driver years ago. I know the short cuts, back ways and plenty of alternate routes to get just about anywhere in the greater central Ohio area. I had to learn them long before the days of GPS, though I will say GPS can make back road traveling more interesting. Just a week ago Saturday I discovered a nice little back road route to get from Lancaster to Reynoldsburg without having to go all the way to I-270 and then having to head back east again.
One thing that is universal about metro areas is the stop and gawk effect. Whenever there’s an accident in the road it seems as if everyone has to slow down and stop and gawk at it. As much as I really get pissed when other people do it I find myself doing the same thing, only worse, because I’m the weirdo trying to assess the damage to the cars.
That Grand Am was totaled.
There’s a sort of karmic justice in this one though. This is just another reason to avoid those regions too far north for human habitation.
On a more serious note I have to wonder why it seems so compelling to observe the misfortune of others. What is the allure of human pathos- ranging from scandal to physical damage to death itself?
I’m also wondering, though I’m not surprised, why there is such a lack of compassion and public outcry for the murder of Christopher Lane from the self-appointed “leaders”- Al Sharpton and Obama most conspicuously- in the black community. Jesse Jackson did offer some pap about “living in peace” with each other, and how he “frowned” on this incident, which was something more than nothing. It was better than him officially condoning “killing whitey,” for whatever that’s worth.
Apparently the murder of an unarmed white guy by three black thugs just doesn’t carry the moral outrage of a black thug getting killed by a white guy defending himself.
When will we as a country and a culture get past the race baiting and the sensationalism attached to racial issues?
Why can’t we see past Obama’s race and impeach him for his blatant incompetence?!
Obama isn’t entirely to blame for the racial unease in this country. He is partially a result of it- white liberals voted for a black guy to appease their own guilt over how black people were treated in the past, and he got overwhelming support from black people, many of whom wrongfully think anyone who keeps the government handouts coming and/or is black (or claims to be black) themselves is “on their side.” Of course there was a heaping helping of voter fraud in there as well. He may have won in 2008 somewhat honestly- but certainly NOT in 2012.
So more than half the country loathes this impostor president currently squatting in the White House. But Obama knows he can get away with anything up to and including murder (remember Benghazi…) because he can always instill the fear of race riots should “his majesty” be deposed.
If only there were racial equality in this country- then it would not be a problem impeaching and more importantly, removing the Worst President in American History. It would have happened long ago – in fact he’d never have been elected to begin with- if he had been white. Had Obama been (or claimed to be) white, his woeful lack of qualifications and experience would have made him unviable as a candidate. “Not enough gravitas,” the naysayers would bleat, had Obama been or claimed to be white, but the affirmative action candidate gets a pass.
When will this train wreck end? And why am I compelled to stop and gawk at it?
More importantly when will we judge people on the content of their character rather than giving them a pass because of the color of their skin? I’d really like to know.
And people wonder why I don’t trust the media.
The more I read in the news, or worse, the more TV news I’m subjected to, the more I discover that most of it is not only insanely trite and boring, but also not very applicable to me.
Unless that volcano is erupting in my back yard, or my bed is above that 500 foot-across sink hole, I’m inclined not to give a rat’s ass. I really don’t need to know about it, either.
I will be so glad when the Y pool is opened back up again (this is week 2 of 2 weeks of scheduled maintenance) for two very good reasons.
I hate TV news. I’m starting to get Don Henley’s point. Even if I am listening to my headphones, the various news networks are plastered on the TV screens in the machine room, and they’re captioned. That wouldn’t be so bad, except I am compelled to read anything in print. (This is one of the things about hyperlexia that can really suck- that compulsion to read everything that’s in print.) For me, visual always trumps auditory. What I hear never drowns out what I see.
I am coming very close to hitting my personal vapidity overload threshold. I could care less whose school is on delay, what cologne my dogs should be wearing this season, and the less I know about Obama’s vacations and Obama’s flagrant violations of the Constitution, the more sane I can try to remain.
Obama is thoroughly corrupt and loathsome. I don’t need to keep on observing the media’s attempts to make him look good.
There really isn’t much in the morning news that has any sort of relevance in my life. Now I know why I don’t watch it voluntarily. I know most of the normals watch TV news- which is why it’s on during the morning workout hours- but the way I’m wired there are certain things I can only take in tiny doses, such as the Kardashians, gay men who try to tell me how I should dress, and natural disasters in divers parts of the world. I get what news I really have to have on a need to know basis, usually online. That minimalist strategy helps me turn down the mental noise. Why should I get my undies in a bunch over things I have no control over?
No self respecting straight man would be seen dressed like these two- not even on Halloween.
Even though I have my coping strategies, being on the spectrum makes it easy for me to overload and get overwhelmed and depressed, so I have to make a conscious effort to try to be somewhat careful what I load up in my head. It either has to be practical, or at least funny.
The other thing I sort of dislike about working out on the elliptical machine vs. swimming laps in the pool is I hate sweating and I hate being hot. After 40 minutes on that machine, my clothes are completely soaked and one can actually wring the sweat out of them which is absolutely disgusting. Even though my morning workouts are always followed by a thorough, insanely soapy, and ultimately freezing cold shower, that icky sticky sweaty feeling is nasty while it lasts. Not to mention my clothes- they go directly in the wash when I get home.
I see people wearing workout clothes for more than one day at a time and I sincerely hope that either a.) they don’t sweat like I do, or b.) they’re washing that stuff out every night. I’m not OCD or a germophobe- at least not to extremes- but my workout clothes are absolutely unwearable after one workout until they’re washed again.
40 minutes of exercise is 40 minutes of exercise, but it’s a lot more pleasant in the pool. At least then all I have to wash off is the chlorine.
I am thankful to be able to have a Y membership, don’t get me wrong, but it can be frustrating when I have to shift to a different plan. I don’t mind doing the elliptical now and then as a change of pace, but every day, and in the summer- not so much. In the middle of winter it might not be so bloody hot.
At least I’m working out. I don’t look like the buff chick on the machine up there but at least I don’t look like this:
I gotta love this Plastic Jesus guy for this particular prank.
I have to wonder how many people tried to buy the Useless Plastic Box. I can just imagine the look on the Best Buy Team Member‘s face when he/she got questions on that one. Then again, where I live, I’d be happy to find any retail store with a Team Member who a.) speaks English as a first language, and b.) actually gives a rat’s ass about the poor suckers who buy their crap.
The greater question would be, “Who would want to?”
I also have to wonder about the WalMart creatures. I know it’s not polite to make fun of other people’s poor clothing choices especially when those choices appear to be motivated by extreme drug abuse and/or profound brain damage, but it is funny. I freely admit that I don’t score high in “ability to empathize with others” at times. Appearing in public looking like a stoned and deranged circus clown (no offense intended to actual circus clowns) should invite derision as far as I’m concerned, not only from me, but from society at large.
These two could use a rear view mirror.
Speaking of society at large, we seem to have grown a substantial “Emperor’s New Clothes” mentality. When you know what you’re seeing all around you is completely ridiculous, uncalled for, trite, and without substance, but you’re afraid to speak out about it and call it for what it is, you end up with wannabe vapid figureheads in lieu of leaders.
My question is, how deep do you have to be mired in denial to fail to see that the gutless wonders in government and in the public sphere at large are devoid of substance and incapable of leadership?
Need I say more?
How long does it take to understand that there are moral absolutes just as there are physical and material absolutes?
I’d also like to know, while I’m at it, why it’s OK for black thugs to victimize and kill other black people, which happens hundreds of times a day, and that gets a pass from the media, law enforcement and the “leaders” of the black community, but it’s positively offensive for a white (or Hispanic) guy to defend himself against a black thug when he fears for his life? Where’s Al Sharpton and/or Jesse Jackson speaking out against black on black violence?
Don’t get me wrong, violence and thuggery are equally wrong and I don’t give a rat’s ass what race the perpetrator happens to be. How about looking at the crime and not the color of the perpetrator’s skin? Why is there some kind of crazy “affirmative action” that gives black perpetrators a pass?
You want true equality, then stop giving anyone of any race preferential treatment because of race!
It amazes me still as well that the most adamant critics of capital punishment are the staunchest supporters of abortion on demand. I don’t get this “logic:” Kill and brutally dismember the innocent for being inconvenient, but let’s all shed some crocodile tears for some unrepentant jackwagon axe murderer who slaughtered eighteen shoppers in a convenience store in a fit of drug-fueled rage. Let’s give the axe murderer three hots and a cot, cable TV, and a free education for his trouble. Give me a break. Public execution was a deterrent against violent crime and swift public execution for those convicted of egregious capital crimes needs to make a comeback.
And murderers and child molesters too! In public!
When I was growing up there were Things You Just Don’t Do. Those things were forbidden not because they were dangerous things, but because they were disrespectful. Walking on people’s graves, for instance. It wasn’t cool to be trampling all over someone’s Aunt Sadie’s final resting place. Eating or drinking stuff in the store before you pay for it, (still a pet peeve of mine when someone is letting their rug rat eat out of a box of not-yet-paid-for-snacks,) or failing to clean your plate at dinner if you had been invited to someone’s house to eat as a guest. Even if what was being served was positively vile and/or would make you violently ill.
Yep. The metal ring too.
Many of the Things You Just Don’t Do had to do with behavior in church. As Mom is and was a very strict old-school Catholic, if you missed any part of the Catholic calisthenics during Mass you were wide open for swift retribution ranging from a relatively subtle Vulcan Death Grip to being yanked out of church by the hair and getting a good whacking on the stairs. You did not forget to bless yourself with the holy water. You did not forget to genuflect in front of the altar before sitting down. You said all the responses at the proper times. You sang all the hymns. You sat quietly during the homily and did not occupy oneself by doodling on the missal. You did not get a pass on any of these things even at age two or three. The Catholics (ironically enough) don’t believe in having an nursery where you can take infants and toddlers during worship. A good Catholic mother takes those rug rats to Mass from day one and makes them mind in church during Mass no matter what. Up to and including flogging their offspring to get the point across.
I don’t condone praying to saints- but I would have to have added: “That Mom doesn’t go over the deep end when she beats us!”
I can sort of understand Mom’s obsessive detail to our behavior in church because it taught me that God is watching- but He’s not just watching to make sure a scared little kid is doing the Catholic calisthenics the right way. I learned about the wrath of God long before I discovered His mercy. There’s something to be said for that in a way, but it makes it a bit more difficult later in life to be merciful, to be forgiving, and to try to see the other side. I’m not very good at it.
It’s going to drop. Murphy’s Law says so.
It has been said, “ignorance is bliss.” Perhaps in the short term that’s true. It’s sort of hard to have fun when one can see the Sword of Damocles hanging over one’s head.
I remember the most miserable vacation I’d ever had. When I was in seventh grade I had a rather difficult time with math, and I didn’t particularly like the math teacher to boot. She was one of the teachers that assumed that since I had aptitude for and achieved in every other subject that I should excel in math as well. Yeah. Right.
In those days you got a report card every six weeks, that your parent/guardian/resident adult had to sign and return to the teacher. In my family it was worse than that- DAD had to sign it, as his signature is rather ornate and hard to copy. He always perused my report cards with particular scrutiny before signing them. Anything less than straight A’s usually got me grounded, and usually the only subject that was difficult for me to get an A in was, of course, math.
That six weeks before Thanksgiving break I’d barely ended up with a C- in math class, as well as the teacher had included a nasty note on the report card that implied that I was a horrible slacker because I didn’t do well in her class.
The signed report cards were due back the Monday after Thanksgiving. Joy.
Dad wasn’t particularly worried about report cards that Thanksgiving break as he was preoccupied with a long-planned trip to my grandmother’s in St. Louis. Normally I would be thrilled about getting to see my grandmother (Mom’s Mom) who I only got to see once or twice a year and, if I was lucky, for a week or two in summer, but this was a miserable trip.
I’d rather have been stranded with the Griswalds.
I kept wondering when Dad was going to ask about report cards, and/or when my oldest sister would remind him. She was normally quite anxious to get hers signed. She usually got mostly A’s and a B now and then. Dad didn’t usually give her any trouble unless she got below a B in anything. But even my sadistic oldest sister wasn’t in any real hurry to show off her report card this go-round. I would discover later that she had gotten 3 B’s and a bad conduct comment from the gym teacher, which wasn’t quite normal for her either. Her conduct usually was bad- no surprise there- but she was generally very good at hiding her sadism from adults. It was unusual for her to get caught.
My other sister always got crappy grades (Dad usually didn’t get on her if she at least got C’s)- but she had mostly C’s and one D- so she wasn’t in any hurry to have Dad sign her report card either. None of us had the courage to hit Dad up for signatures until the last minute- mostly because nobody wanted to spend an eight hour road trip (one way) listening to Dad seethe and fume on about how bad our grades were. I know I didn’t want to be around Dad in close proximity for four days when he’s pissed. Let him be pissed on Monday when he’s at work and I don’t have to deal with it.
Even so, all I could think about the entire trip was a.) the inevitable browbeating I would get over Mrs. Vitriol’s (not her real name) catty comments, and Dad’s predictable volatility and malaise for the next six weeks. I wouldn’t be going anywhere besides school and the library for a long time.
Mrs. Vitriol’s note was NOT this nice.
I actually tried to find an example of a “nasty note from school” online, and uncovered nothing more than vapid entreaties to parents that they should encourage Suzie or Jimmy to be his or her “best self” tomorrow or similar tripe. My note was to the effect of, “Your daughter is lazy and doesn’t care if she achieves in my class or not.” A little something to make Dad go medieval on my sorry ass. Which he did- with extreme prejudice. Nothing got Dad hot faster than having any teacher accuse me of slacking in school, warranted or not.
The sad irony is that math was the only class I ever really did study for. It just didn’t make sense to me, and still doesn’t once I get beyond what I call “accounting math-” the basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division one needs to navigate in daily life. I can balance a checkbook, I can figure out what kind of mileage I get, and so forth, but that’s about the extent of my mathematical ability. It was a real struggle for me to get to the point of having that much understanding. I have about as much aptitude for things mathematical as I do for sports.
I would have had a lot more fun on that trip to my grandmother’s if I hadn’t gotten that report card until after vacation. In that instance maybe ignorance would have afforded a little bit of bliss.
Perhaps, but intellect has its advantages.
The Grateful Dead said, “I may be goin’ to hell in a bucket, baby, but at least I’m enjoyin’ the ride.” Apparently that’s how the ignorant go through life.
Biker Wisdom 101
One thing I can say for that philosophy is it probably cuts down on stress. After all, most stress comes from worrying about things that never happen anyway. Unfortunately I find myself taking the Murphy’s Law approach most of the time. I figure everything’s going to go wrong anyway.
In all seriousness, though, worrying about things that a.) will happen anyway, and b.) I can’t change, really is a waste of time.
I have feelings. Sort of. When I choose to acknowledge them.
I am not a warm and fuzzy individual. I never was, and probably never will be. If I live to be my great-grandmother’s age (she was 94 when she passed) I will probably end up like the old battle-ax that lived across the street from my parents’ house who was dead and decomposing for months before the water meter reader had the bad fortune of being downwind.
By that time it was high summer, and the coroner opined that she’d expired some time in February. Nobody missed her for that long. Thankfully she hated animals as much as she did humans, otherwise some little ankle biter (I couldn’t imagine this woman as a dog lover at all, but I really can’t imagine her having a real full size dog) would likely have developed a taste for human flesh.
Dogs are not gourmets, nor are they picky. (note: this incident of “dog eats humans” happened in the UK.) Mom had one dog (of the ankle biter persuasion) who would dine on soiled feminine hygiene items, and another that would eat entire pairs of underwear. Decomposing, rotten old fossil would probably be a step up from those culinary delights.
I think I just found my next Halloween costume.
Mom’s dog really did eat these things though. Another reason for my disdain of ankle biters.
Even considering my fear and loathing of most social interaction, for some bizarre reason, I end up being everyone’s twisted Ann Landers. Perhaps my carefully crafted outer façade is too good. I’m trying to blend in and navigate through the sea of humanity with all its complex nuances and petty flourishes, but I’m not asking to get pulled into the fray. Most of the time I just want to be left the hell alone.
An iron skillet is a multipurpose tool.
I considered the collection of iron skillets in the kitchen for a brief moment last night. Yes, they are excellent for making fried chicken and/or cornbread (ironically, two foods I no longer indulge in) but I have to admit I was not amused by Jerry’s drunken forays into my room at 9:30 and again at 11:00.
I’m generally out by 8:30 or 9PM. I don’t do late nights very well, especially when it’s a Tuesday night and I have to work the next day. I have no idea how he can party like a rock star during the week and not fall asleep (or worse) at work. I know I’m a long, long way from the days when I could party all night and go all day long too. 44 is a long way from 17- but 56 is even longer. I don’t know how he can remain vertical the next day, especially after both swilling Natty Lites and staying up until all hours of the night. I can’t do it even with coffee and Monster.
I figure if I were going to die from caffeine overload, it would have happened back in the day.
Ah, the good old days- when “nutrition” for me meant the Four Food Groups: nicotine, caffeine, sugar and grease. I gave up the cigs and generally avoid both sugar and grease whenever possible, but I don’t see me giving up the caffeine entirely. I’m one of those people who likes coffee “thick,” and I’m not referring to loading it up with extraneous crap. I like my coffee black and thick, almost like espresso. I like espresso too, come to think of it, with nothing in it but coffee.
No liquor. No sugar. No cream. Just coffee. Concentrated. Mmmmmm.
I could use a double shot right about now, come to think of it. I like iced coffee too, as long as the coffee is super strong and there’s nothing in it other than ice and coffee, unless I don’t have anywhere to go, then I don’t mind adding a couple of shots of Bailey’s. I don’t drink often, but I actually like the taste of Bailey’s and coffee- iced or hot.
A shot or two of this in some iced coffee would be a beautiful thing right now.
ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL: 