Tuesday, July 31, 2007

zombie....meme....continues

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Sham no goood at image posting type stuff. Hope this worked. Oh, and check out that site. It is teh funny.

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Sunday, July 29, 2007

Heh

My fave quote tonight occured while talking to LB.

"Apparently blogger's spellcheck doesn't recognize 'cuntlicking pigfucker'!"

A prize will be awarded to the first person to show me an unmodified spellcheck that doesn't reject that phrase.

Rhymes with orange jumpsuit

OK. I'm going to fucking kill somebody. A little while ago O left a comment on here with a link to a reddit link about the best scifi writers of this decade. AKA, something a wee bit up my alley (O knows my addictions well).

So I print out that page and do a Borders (or B&N, truly I can't tell them apart and give false directions based on that) run. I grab a few novels by authors that I had not yet sampled (and the new Richard Morgan piece Thirteen that was fucking excellent) and think I'm set.

Fast forward a couple weeks. I read what was extant on my current list and Thirteen then jump into the new stuff. First on the list is Peter F. Hamilton's Pandora's Star. Don't get me wrong, it is good. It is so fucking good that I'm so fucking pissed I have to buy the sequel. I've been reading this motherfucker for over a week and checking out how few pages I have left lately and saying "yeah, I can see a way to wrap this up in 100 (then 70, then 40, then 20) pages."

So imagine my fucking surprise today when I finally finish the fucker to find out I have to buy another book! I know I will enjoy the fucking goddamn cuntlicking pigfucker of a book but am pissed.

Why? I am sooooo glad you asked. First off, I prefer my books that are part of a series to state so on the cover. If you put "Bestselling Author of......." please also drop "Part Motherfucking I" on the shit.

Segundo, it is 0145. I'm into this fucking story and there is no legal way for me to continue reading it. There is no way for me to get closure. BTW, don't get me started on that great bloody gurgling queef James Clavell. I love his books (W00T King Rat is teh fucking shit) but the way he ends a story makes me want to go Federal (two steps above postal).

Quick side note. Another of the new SF authors (China Mieville) can't close a story worth a damn. Dude writes pretty well but can't close. I joked earlier today that he would be better off going Clavell on his stories. More fun facts: he also wrote a novel entitled King Rat and that is how I discovered his work.

Whatever. I'm done now. On to the props....

Thanks to everybody who made it out my place tonight. It was good to have a game here. Hopefully we will have enough people to do it again in the future. Maybe next time it will not be a last minute affair and I can coax George and Brian into the city for some hammer dropping.

For those who did make it, I can promise in the future to have more delicious snacks and Jager. Hell, I might even get some Red Bull for bombs again. Shit, if I think ahead enough I will make some venison stew for eatage.

Until then I will leave you with the words of my dear, departed Granny "later bitches!"

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Living it up when I'm going down

Well, my dumb ass made myself sick. I finally turned on the AC in my apartment this past Saturday and the climate change gave me a head cold. I turned on the AC right before heading to IKEA with Kuro to grab some items. I needed to pick some things up and he needed somebody with an SUV. Note to only person in a group of friends with an SUV/pickup truck: You will be called upon to help transport large objects. Get used to it. Now quit your bitching, you will get free shit (I got Swedish meatballs!) out of it.

I turned on the AC because my apartment is finally clean and well enough stocked with chairs to host a game. Unfortunately not enough people were down for a game so The Limey and I watched the exhibition between the Galaxy and Chelsea. As much as I love soccer, I don't see Beckham popularizing the game in the states. Hell, even Pele couldn't do that! And don't feed me that "he's married to a Spice Girl" shit. The Spice Girls haven't been relevant since my freshman year in college, and not even that relevant then (for fucks sake, posh was the only one that was attractive).

Anyhoo, after a month and change hiatus from online poker I restarted playing on the same day (no, I doubt there is a correlation between that and my sickness, bitches). I just had not been feeling the urge to play and felt there was no reason to push it. I had donked off three buy ins in a row and just needed to take some time off.

The time off did me some good, but I'm still trying to adjust my game to these low limit NL donks. I just need to remember not to get drunk enough to play like them. I have to remember not to go on tilt when they keep calling PF raises with J4s and hitting a backdoored river flush calling every street. I have to remember that they are telling me exactly what they have when they raise. I have to remember that you can never push a calling station off a hand. I have to remember that C-bets are not for every situation. I have to remember to value bet the river. Basically, I have to remember how to fucking play poker.

But the most important thing I have to remember is to play poker when the Braves are on. Studies have shown that they start losing if I am at home and not playing. Yesterday, I started playing in the first inning and kept on playing through the sixth, when I left home to grab dinner and a beer at Manny's (and finish watching the game, duh). Smoltzy shut the fuckers down and even the bullpen, which had been struggling of late, showed up for the eighth and ninth. Best of all, no homers for Senor Steroid.

Tonight Kuro calls to see if I would like to head up to Manny's for the game and of course I say yes. Huddy is fucking pitching a masterpiece and they close down the back room (the non smoking section) after the seventh. Kuro finishes his run back home and I jog the 25 meters up to my apartment to catch the rest of the game. I'm sitting on the couch hoping for the first complete game of the Braves season and disaster strikes!

Flashback to earlier this year when Huddy pitched into the ninth and just couldn't get an out. He walks two. Next thing I know the Gigantes have scored and Huddy is pulled for Wicky. I can't fucking watch. It is agony watching these bitches tie the game up. Oh, I'm fucking sick. Extra bitchtastic innings. Recent extra innings games come welling up in my memory. Oh, this can't be good.

I agonize through the tenth and I know what I must do. I fire up Bodog and find a couple of NL10 tables. I tread water for a while then go up a little on both tables that I'm playing. I get up about half a buy in on both as Edgar puts the Braves up in the top of the thirteenth.

Then comes the bottom. I'm not exactly sure how I misplay AK vs Q3 from the button, but somehow I manage to do so. It was sooooooooted (even though I lost to two pair). This corresponds directly to the GD Gigantes scoring. It is looking ugly, but I have faith in Yates. I promise myself that if somehow I get back above positive I'm done for the night pokerwise. Yates gets crucial final out and my top set holds up about a minute and a half later from the button. This puts me up a whopping .78 for the session and I shut it down.

For those of you who did not stay up to 0230 (Eastern) to watch this game missed a gem. I especially enjoyed watching the bleachers empty out after every time Bonds failed to homer late in the game. He got a lot more ABs than those seventh or ninth inning early leaving bitches thought. This game looked like a slam dunk for the Braves more than once, but somehow they snatched victory from the jaws of defeat (who had previously stolen it from the jaws of victory).

Two more things:

1. Congrats, Gnome! (You know why) [Quick trivia: Who knew that Surly Poker Gnome was actually my nickname? You're a stealing ass bitch! I want my two dollars!]

2. Game Saturday? Anyone? Fine, be that way. I'll have more fun on my own. Bitches.

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Wednesday, July 18, 2007

PSA

I normally wouldn't do a restaurant review, but Jesus fucking Christ on a flaming crutch this place was bad. OK, if you find yourself in Decatur craving brunch some weekend do not, I repeat, DO NOT go to Viola Cafe and Marketplace. Here is my tale, a tale of a fateful trip....

Through a general fuckup on my part I was unable to meet up with Lito to try out a new place to get dim sum. So, after a trip to Trader Joe's I ring up LB and suggest we go to the Deck (Decatur, for those who are not down) and hit up the Noodle Bowl.

We get down there and it turns out they don't open until 1530 and it was around 1400. LB suggests we roll across the street to Watershed instead and I am amicable. Viola shares the building with Watershed and we check the menu before going to Watershed. Apparently, even though it is half empty, Watershed has a 40 minute wait.

Fuck that! I'll wait for Ria's but not for this fucking place. We walk back to Viola and take a table. Our waitress comes over and we order some beignets as an appetizer. Apparently this is some sort of Cajun/Creole/SomefuckingFrenchderivation style restaurant (I see a board that lists etouffee and gumbo as dinner specials). We get a carafe of water, but the waitress doesn't come back for us to order our entrees.

It is not like it is busy. We are the only table she has. The other waitress has two tables. Maybe that should have been a sign. Anyway, LB gets the other waitress to bring us another carafe of water. Then the beignets come and we tell the waitress that we are ready to order.

A quick note on the beignets. They were like fried wontons. I thought beignets were like deep fried doughnuts. They shouldn't be crunchy as far as I know.

So LB orders the shrimp and grits and I say I want an omelet with andouille, bacon, and cheddar. The waitress couldn't seem to understand what I said. She repeated back that I wanted by omelet "on wheat" and I was floored (it took a couple repetitions before I understood her as she was a low talker). I then explain that andouille is a type of sausage.

She comes back to the table after a minute to repeat the order. She still gets it wrong. I ponder the situation and decide it is hard to fuck up and omelet and let her roll with it. Besides, it would be interesting to see how they plan to put home fries in an omelet on wheat. LB is a little less forgiving and speaks to the other waitress.

The other waitress talks to the "chef" and then comes back to tell us the order is in correctly. It is the first day for our waitress it seems. Still, this is a fucking cajunesque restaurant. How do you not fucking know what andouille is? I'm sure if I asked for etoufee she would respond that she didn't know how many feet of hay they had.

We then wait 45 minutes. By this point we have been there well over an hour. The waitress comes to ask if I want a side. I make a stab and say home fries. I'm then told that now we are waiting on the shrimp and grits.

At long last the food comes. My omelet is very small. The portion of home fries is larger than what looks like a 1.5 egg omelet. It is overcooked to boot (and dry as a boot). The home fries look good, but are soft and squishy. The warmest thing on my plate is my grapes, which are nuclear. I guess my plate sat under a heating lamp while the "chef" figured out how to make shrimp and grits.

LB takes about two bites of the shrimp and grits. The shrimp are too fishy, and the grits are very bland. The menu listed them as spicy shrimp and grits and these are not that by a long shot. LB plays with the dish for a minute and then pushes it forward declaring "I'm not eating this."

I eat most of my omelet, but it is so small it is hard not to. I have two bites of the home fries and eat my nuclear grapes. The biscuit the menu advertised came with the dish did not arrive. After about 20 minutes the server comes by and does the usual question "how is everything?" LB replies truthfully that the food was not up to par.

After a few minutes the owner comes by. LB explains the problems with the dish and asks that it not be reflected on the bill. No, she would not like something else because the food so far has been bad and we really don't want to be here for another hour.

The owner goes back and talks to the chef and then returns to apologize again. Well, it turns out the "chef" had never made this dish before! I guess it was everybody's first goddamn day! We are not to be charged for either meal and just ask that the owner pass on the $7 we are to our server. This is more than she would have made if we had gotten a bill because of the piss poor service. Hell, the bill would have been about $25 for a really shitty meal with shitty service and there was no way she was getting a tip over 15%.

So, long story short DON'T FUCKING GO TO VIOLA. At least we didn't have to pay for the food, but I'll never get that two hours of my life back. Shit, now we know why there was a wait at Watershed. We could have fucking just waited for the Noodle Bowl to open and at least had a good meal.

Viola, and my bitching is done.

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Friday, July 13, 2007

Psych 101

Really, why does USA seem to have a lock on the best new shows? The new season of Psych starts soon, and I can't wait. Psych and Burn Notice are the best shows of the past two seasons and I will defend that statement, especially if you are mouthbreathing American Idol fan.

So, in honor of Psych's new season here is a psychology link about the Ten Politically Incorrect Truths About Human Nature. I know Psych is about a fake psychic but I really liked the article.

--

Now, on to politics (don't worry, I'll tackle religion soon). From my last post you might get the erroneous idea that I don't like the gays. Insert funny "but what would we know was fashionable/who would design our interiors/more chicks for me" comment here.

I support gay marriage. But there are a lot of people out there are afraid that it would sully the term "marriage." The whole marriage-is-defined-as-the-union-between-a-man-and-a-woman crowd. Therefore a propose adding a word to the parlance of our times. Gayrriage. Gay + marriage = gayrriage. Gay people could get gayrried (especially if Gary is gayrrying Gary) and enjoy the right to be chained to somebody in the eyes of the state and the word marriage doesn't get touched.

Everybody wins with my proposal. Welcome to the modern era ladies and gentlemen. Gay people exist and deserve the same rights as everybody else. I guess what brought this gayrried thing back up was talking to my mother last night.

I mentioned how Lito's parents were not completely approving of his new girlfriend because she was Asian. It prevented their dreams of grandbabies with blond hair and blue eyes (which is funny, because Lito plans on never having kids). I asked my mother what she would do if I brought a black girl home and the response was not in tune with current enlightened attitudes.

It pains me to say it, but the world may be a better place with my generation at the helm. The video game and cable TV generation is more tolerant. Perhaps because we are too lazy to get off the couch and work at being outright bigots. This is not to say we aren't prejudiced. Hell, I've said many a thing in traffic I would never say at work.

Of course, I cherish my ability to prejudge others. I will never give up on my blind hatred for the French and all things Gallic. I think vegetarians are overzealous duck squeezers and need to eat the delicious pork and shrimp dumplings I make.

--

While entering the restroom at work today a nickel on the floor caught my eye. It actually crossed my mind for a split second to pick it up. It brought up an interesting question. How large a denomination would it have to be to actually touch and pocket bathroom floor money? Need to lay down some ground rules here. It has to be within a foot radius of the bowl itself. If we progress to paper money how much to pick up a bill with noticeable wetness (just enough to stick a little to the floor on a corner, not sopping wet).

Basically, what is your price to touch the floor of a public bathroom and the attendant nastiness? The person with the lowest price will receive a prize from me next time I see them.

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Thursday, July 12, 2007

There can be only one!

Gnome and I were chatting yesterday and it came up that our old friend Kenny was now married. So it turns out that Kenny and O have already taken the plunge and with MD's recent shenanigans we will be the last of the old crew unshackled. Naturally, this leads to the introduction of a need for money lines. Of course, the only third party qualified to do so is Kuro.

Fast forward to Fellini's later that evening. As Kuro and I are enjoying slices of delicious 'za he lays out the following line:

Sham: -4000
Gnome: +350

Really, does anyone actually think that a woman would put up with my bullshit long enough to get married? I'm starting to doubt his ability to lay good lines, only to bet on ones provided by others.

Then today he expands the bet:

When will Sham be married?

In 9.5 years or later -120
Less than 9.5 years +200

Even though the terms don't make sense, I'm taking the over on both bets. $10 max bets, contact him to see if he will seriously take a bet, but be prepared to pay the juice.

--

During the course of the conversation between Gnome and I he states that I should take my place as the rightful king of the ladies men. My only thought is that I'm not sure the beltway outsider strategy would work there. Wouldn't they want to elect one of their own as king? I didn't even get a sword, and even then Dennis would tell us "Oh, but you can't expect to wield supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you."

Really, shouldn't a ladies man be able to pick up women? Hell, even living in the Poncey Highlands it has been two years since a man tried to pick me up. My ability to exude raw sexuality just isn't there anymore (no, really. What you're smelling is not musk, but rather a quite beguiling combination of sweat, fear, and the legacy of a rather large and spicy burrito). At least now I can blame it on having thirty staring down a much shorter barrel at me.


--


It has come to my attention that some people out there have not heard this story yet so here goes.


Now it is time to hearken back to an earlier age, as some of you have not heard this story yet. It is a time of optimism and hope for the future. It is about 4 or 5 years ago and the world was a great place. Now to be recorded for the annals of history is the greatest story ever told (especially because the fog of a few years allows me to embellish).....

"I love the smell of ass"

It was a beautiful spring (or autumn) day and I had a hankering for some pizza. Naturally I went over to Fellini's for a slice. I place my order and take a corner table while waiting for my slices to appear. My Diet Coke and Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead are all the company I need.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice the fellow who had been in line ahead of me walk past my table a couple of times. He then touches my back and remarks about my TMBG Dial-a-song shirt "They're a pretty good band."
Me "Ummm, yeah I like them."
Him, pointing to my book "So, what's her deal?"
Me, 20 pages in "Not sure, man. Just started it."
Him "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

Now, let me throw this little tidbit out there. I'm very non confrontational. I don't like making waves and getting in arguments. Well, unless I'm drunk. And I wasn't, more is the pity.

So, I'm a little uncomfortable but say "Umm, OK." He walks over to his table and brings over his drink and food marker. Then he goes and gets the magazine he was reading and puts it on the table and goes to the bathroom. While he was off performing his ablutions I look at the cover of the magazine and notice (with very little surprise) that the word "Gay" was predominately featured.

He returns from the bathroom and makes smalltalk. Apparently he is 19 and up from Jacksonville for the weekend. He really likes music. He then taps the magazine and asks "Are you a member of the community?"
Me "Nope, sorry"
Him "That's too bad. You would make a great bear. You're really cute."

I think that would be the end of it and I could just finish my meal with only the current level of palpable awkwardness. But alas this is not to be. He goes on about how often he gets laid and starts listing reasons that I should go to The Eagle with him. He keeps talking about his dalliances and how good of a bear I would be. I really don't care how well the gay lifestyle is treating him and just want to finish my slice of pepperoni. And I want him to stop trying to manufacture ways to try and touch me.

Now, I've never been such a clod as to intrude upon an unfamiliar woman's time and personal space in such a manner. But if I had, I would like to think after being shot down once I would not continue to blatantly hit on her. I mean, at least we have the same sexual orientation, but that doesn't mean she will sleep with me if I keep trying to wear down her defenses. In the same vein, just because I am a beefy dude with a full beard doesn't mean I am a bear and will succumb to his advances.

I don't know what dude heard about Atlanta and especially my neighborhood. Not everybody there is gay. Hell, I would say the majority of people are not homosexual. It would have been different if it was Pride weekend and I was hanging out in Outwrite bookstore. The odds would have been more in his favor. But no, I'm just some dude trying to eat my slice as fast as I can and escape.

Then he says IT. A few words that will never leave my brain no longer how I try and kill my braincells. And he just throws it out there as I'm raising my fork to my mouth (yes, I'm one of those people who eat pizza with utensils).

Him "I love the smell of ass."
Me "........"
Him "Well, not shit and stuff."
Me "......."
Him "It's just the pheromones and stuff down there!"
Me "......."
Him "There is just something about the musk of a man's ass that I love. The funk and manly smell."
Me "......."

The fork had stopped halfway to my mouth and hung there. Not only am I surprised that he would reveal this to a complete stranger, but I am more than a little revolted (understandably so, I feel). I put the fork down. I cannot finish my meal. I sit there for a moment dazed. I gather my book and mumble some sort of leave-taking. He entreats me once more to come to The Eagle with him. I beat a hasty retreat while restraining peals of laughter.

Immediately I call my girlfriend. This is a story that must be shared. It is a poignant tale of lust lost and pizza. It's one of those defining stories. Like a certain friend's $94 blowjob story. Like HRW's hot buttered roll story. I am to be the "I love the smell of ass" guy. And now I've shared it with you, gentle reader.

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