Coming off Hiatus

Hey there everyone. It's been months since I've made a post here, mainly because the world happened, and I had a ton of other things that needed my attention. In the time that I've been gone, I've written a bunch of stuff for Cracked, including six of their new article format, "Quick Fixes." They also made me a workshop moderator, which is great fun. I've also started writing for a site called Ranker, and my profile there should be linked to in my sidebar shortly.

That's basically all I have for you guys right now, but don't worry. Expect new and big things to be happening soon. Very soon.

Let's Get Serious: A Batmanabonanza

Okay everyone, I'd like to talk to you all about a very serious subject for a change: Batman.

So, before you all ask "why so serious?" and lapse into a giggle fit about how clever you are, let me remind you that the third installment in Christopher Nolan's beautifully dark Batman series is coming out very, very soon. And that shit is serious.

I know what you're all wondering, because as an avid fan of all things Batman, I'm wondering it myself: How is this series going to end? Or even more importantly, how in the hell is Anne Hathaway going to play a convincing Catwoman?

Look at your future Catwoman. Look her in the eyes and despair.

There are a million questions that The Dark Knight Rises  is going to have to answer. Chief among them: What is going to happen to Bruce Wayne? Does he keep on being Batman? And when the hell is Alfred going to be institutionalized?

"We burned the forest down." ~ No sane person, ever.

I'm sure that whatever Nolan churns out will be fantastic, but there's a way that I want the series to end. A way that I would end it if I were writing it. It's also a way that definitely won't happen, because Chris Nolan said so.

You see, in the first movie, we got the origin story. The start of Batman. Then, in The Dark Knight, we saw him falter and question if being Batman was really doing the right thing, and at the end, he regains confidence in himself and his actions. In the third movie, I think we should see the end of Batman. 

And there's only one character from the Batman universe that can do that:

That's right. Robin. I said it.

Think about it for a second. You could even keep Bane as the main villain. In the comics, Bane was the first villain to ever seriously injure Batman (by breaking his back). What if Batman and Bane fight at the very beginning of the movie, and Bane seriously injures Batman, who needs to take serious time to recuperate. 

This would shake his faith in himself a bit. I mean, he's Batman. He doesn't get hurt. But more importantly, it would make him realize that his body physically will not allow him to be Batman forever. One day, he's going to have to hang up the cape and bat ears. And then what? Who will protect Gotham?

"Master Wayne, I'll burn the villains down."

Shortly after he heals from his injuries, Bruce could attend a large circus that has come to the city. He's a philanthropist, so maybe the circus could be raising money for one of his charities. Anyway, during one of the acts, there is a terrible accident and two of the trapeze artists are killed-- and accident that their son, Dick Grayson miraculously survives. But Bruce is Batman. He sees that it was no accident and that the act was sabotaged. (A mob boss was trying to extort money from the circus by killing off it's performers. Hell, maybe that's why Bruce is there: to catch him in the act.)

So the mob boss sends his henchmen after Dick outside the circus tent to finish the job, and BAM! He gets saved by Batman. Bruce, who can relate to this boy losing his parents at a young age, takes him in.

The eyes of  a man that cares.

So, the rest of the movie would consist of Bruce training Dick to be Robin and the two of them eventually defeating Bane together. Then the movie could close on the idea that, yes, Batman can't be Batman forever, but now there is someone to take his place when he his gone. All of a sudden, the series doesn't end with "Batman saves the day again, and will continue to do so indefinitely. Possibly until the end of time." Instead, this movie has closure.

And that, my friends, is a movie that I would watch. 

The Spencer's Chronicles: The Final Chronicle

This will be the final entry in my short-lived series: The Spencer's Chronicles. Why? Because my job there was seasonal, and now that the holidays are over, they don't need as many workers any more-- which sucks, since this is the only job I've ever had that registered lower on the "Things I'd Hate To Do" meter than sticking my hand in a reciprocating saw.

I just hope I can find another job before I need to resort to making my own clothing and eating only what I can kill. You don't want to see me chasing a rabbit around my front yard with a golf club.... naked. Trust me, there are better ways to damage your retinas.

Like staring into the sun for instance.

                                                            cybercauldron.co.uk

The most beautiful way to liquify your eyeballs.

Getting back to Spencer's, do any of you know what a plasma ball is? And before you say it, I know that you just looked at a picture of the sun, which is literally a ball of plasma. Way to be a smart ass.

No, a plasma ball is a product that we sell at Spencer's. You've certainly seen one before:

It's a glass ball that uses electricity and noble gases to make you feel like Emperor Palpatine for a couple seconds. You can't really harness the energy to smite your enemies, but science is trying.

I can't tell you how to do anything dangerous with a plasma ball. That would be irresponsible.  So I'm not going to tell you that if you place a penny on top of one and hold a pointy, metal object close to it you will cause the electricity to arc through the air. I won't tell you, but I'll certainly show you.

Putting myself in harm's way-- for science!

But I digress. Just before Christmas, two women were in Spencer's looking at our plasma balls. We have three kinds: the one you see above, one where the orb in the very center is a peace sign, and one where that orb is a marijuana leaf. I overheard a very small portion of their conversation and it went like this:

Woman #1: "Should we get him the peace sign one?"

Woman #2: "I think he would like it, but I don't know if his parents are into all that hippie stuff. What will they think when he opens it on Christmas morning?"

Woman #1: Yeah, you're right. Ooooh! I know! Let's get him the snowflake one!

Woman #2: Yeah! That's a good idea.

Now, my level-minded readers, go back and re-read the three types of plasma ball that we sell. Did I say "snowflake?"

Pictured: Not a snowflake.

They bought it. I can only imagine what that house was like on Christmas morning when little Johnny opened his present from grandma and shrieked: "Oh boy! A snowflake!"

And I love to think about the mortified look on his parents' faces: his father staring with a mixture of anger and horror at his grandmother, and his mother attempting to appear like nothing was wrong saying: "Yes, Johnny. A snowflake. Say thank you to your grandmother."

But they never returned it, which means there's only one way it could've actually played out: Johnny's father smashed it over his grandmother's head in a fit of rage. Regardless of grandma's fate, the shattered plasma ball could never be returned.

I'm An Internet Writer? When The Hell Did That Happen?

So, a lot of you that are reading this were probably linked here from one of my recent Cracked articles. If that's the case, thanks. You didn't have to take the time to do that. That's really sweet, and I didn't get you anything in return. You should've told me sooner.

To be honest, when I pitched my first article to Cracked about a year ago, I never thought it had a chance-- and I was right. That article idea was terrible and it wasn't anywhere near the sort of thing that Cracked runs. But what I didn't expect was to learn enough through the mountain of failed pitches that followed to actually get one through.A literal mountain. Some evil guy forged a ring there. And it's a problem.

And my second article is on the front page today (co-authored by my friend Karl Smallwood, check out his blog "Internet Adventures" on the right) so it seems that I'm a comedy writer on the internet all of a sudden. And I still don't know how it happened so fast. One day, I was an aspiring writer with nothing in my portfolio and zero publications. Now, I've got two articles on the most popular comedy website on the internet. Holy crap!

Don't get me wrong, if I were to attempt to live solely off of my writing, I'd have to adapt to a different lifestyle:

 

Namely the "this is my house" lifestyle.

But it's a start. Before I wrote anything for Cracked, being a published author was only a fantasy; something to be yearned for but probably never attained. Now I've actually got some publications to my name and some clout to throw around when I pitch ideas to new places.

And let's be honest here, two million page views on a prolific comedy site is certainly better than a notebook filled with novel ideas that I read aloud to my cat. But at least she doesn't judge.... much. 

Don't talk to me until you improve that characterization.

So, I'm going to wrap up this short, less funny than usual blog post (expect a normal post later tonight) with some advice. It doesn't matter how big and out of reach your dreams may seem, never give up. You never know when you're going to have that first, little bit of success that sets everything into motion.

Trust Issues (A Rant)

Before I start ranting, something has been brought to my attention: since I started this blog, there has been something slowly corroding its insides, turning them to a viscous, jelly-like substance and making a general mess of things. I am of course referring to the one pixel wide red dot that has been hovering over the letter m in "Coma" up above.

You bastard.

It's gone now, but the terrible memory will remain and forever haunt the darkest recesses of my mind. Good riddance I say.

Now the rant: Let's talk about trust. I have a small, tight-knit group of friends that I would trust with my life. In the last month, that group has decreased by two. Strangely enough, my band, Sinistry, also broke up in the last month. I wonder if those two events are related?

Up until November, things were going great. We were touring a small, three-county-wide area, vanquishing the foes of rock, and generally kicking ass in every direction. But most importantly, we were getting paid to do something we loved doing. Not a lot mind you, but we would've done it for free. 

Now, this is where it gets dicey, and to protect the names of the accused those involved, I'm going to use their band nicknames: America Jane, and The Norwegian Jackhammer.

Mine was Falcon. And I was graceful!

These two band members moved roughly an hour away in late October. That was all fine and dandy though. We still found time to practice and weren't hindered very much by it. Until they started insisting that I and our bass player (let's call him The Bassman) drive an hour to practice there. Every. Single. Time. 

I'm the drummer. He's the bass player, and he also owned the PA system. Everything: the PA, my drum set, his bass and amp, all of it was at Bassman's house-- only five minutes from me. The only thing America and the Norwegian Jackwagon had at their place was the guitar and amp. So Bassman and I were forced to haul 80% of our equipment in my tiny ass car to every single practice. If that wasn't okay with us, that was cool: we just didn't practice. And they didn't even offer to give us gas money for a little compensation.

Plus, I don't think you realize just how awkward it is to transport all that equipment and two people in my car.

About this awkward.

This was irritating, but Bassman and I dealt with it because, hey, we love making music. But then we found out that America had been taking all of the band money and spending it on God knows what. All we know is that it disappeared. This was a problem, since that money was supposed to be spent on band things like replacement drum heads, guitar strings, or I don't know.... transporting band equipment.

But that's all trumped by the Craigslist ad that I found in December. America and The Norwegian Douche-Hammer placed an ad looking for a new drummer. I only found out about it because they were stupid enough to link the band email that I had access to with the Craigslist ad. Hell, maybe they wanted me to find out that way. Maybe that was easier for them than confrontation. 

But here's the shittiest part of it. They weren't going to tell me until they found someone else. I waited a couple days, and the band kept gigging and practicing like usual-- and scheduling even more gigs. All without telling me they weren't planning on having me in the band any more (which is bullshit since I was around longer than two of the other members).

I talked to Bassman about it and we both abruptly concluded "Fuck this," and quit. America "I'm A Huge Cunt" Jane and The Norwegian Cockhammer (my anger isn't showing-- is it?) even had to cancel a gig that they had lined up, which felt fantastic.  I won't even try to deny that their pain brought me pleasure at that point.

Pictured: Me immediately after finding out about their evil plans.

I'm just glad that period of my life is over now. I had some great times in Sinistry, but now it's all tainted by that shit that went down at the end. Bassman and I are working on some new stuff with another friend of ours, and Dr. Cocktopuss and the Anal Jackhammer are presumably working on their own thing as well. Whatever. I don't care.

But whatever they do, they had better name their new band Dr. Cocktopuss and the Anal Jackhammer. It definitely suits them.

A Peculiar Cemetery

For those of you that have read my recent Cracked article The Most Mindblowing Things That Can Be Found Underwater, you'll be pleased to know that there is a little bit more where that came from. I present to you the entry that was cut from the final list, in all its glory (pictures courtesy of neptunesociety.com):

A Cemetery

The "official" reason for creating the Neptune Memorial Reef is to promote the local marine life, but here at Cracked, our first thought at the idea of building an underwater cemetery is: "Thank God someone is taking precautions to make sure our dead stay dead." And if those precautions include the ever so slight risk of creating zombie sharks-- well, scuba diving was never for us anyways.

The reef is the largest man-made reef in the world,  and the cemetery thing all started when questions about funding arose. Then someone had an idea: people paying to be buried there. And the rest is history. We hear it's to dive for.

The layout is remeniscent of a traditional cemetery, complete with benches so that you can take a load off when those fins get tired.

Just don't sit on uncle Ted.

There's a bunch of choices for after your cremated remains have been mixed into the cement: you can be cast as arches, columns, and other marine life statues.  According to Stephen Ziadie, the Chief Operating Officer, "The most popular are the marine placements. Everyone wants to be a shellfish or a starfish or a brain coral.”

That's right: any type of marine life. Also lions.

The Neptune Society website even has a video tour. A tour that is narrated by someone who is way too happy. It's creepy:

Apparently burial at sea is a hot commodity because it currently has enough space for 850 bodies, but the Neptune Society wants to expand to 125,000. The reef aspect of the project has also been a huge success. Marine life in the area has gone from almost zero to thousands in the span of two years! Thousands of confused fish, mind you.

"Do you smell humans?"

Christmas and Everything After

It's been a month since I've posted. Sorry about that. Christmas, writing for Cracked, and work have all been vying for my time, and far too little was left to work on my blog. But the desire remained, festering deep within until it grew too large to contain. Then it burst out. Or to explain it in Alien terms:

                                                            via tvtropes.org

Everything should be explained in Alien terms.

In other news, the New Year is here: the last year, if you believe that Mayan voodoo mambo-jumbo. I haven't made any New Year's resolutions-- not because I can't better myself in any way, but because, hey, when do those EVER pan out? I'd much rather just take life as it comes, and if that means my teeth rot out of my head because I practically inhale Mountain Dew, so be it. I could try and stop drinking so much, make it a New Year's resolution if you will, and revert back to my old habits in a month or two. So why not just skip all the hassle and keep right at my bad habits?

Let's rewind a bit. Christmas went well for me. We got a television so big that when I watch the Walking Dead, I can see every last skin cell on Daryl's wonderful, wonderful face.... I mean, every single drop of blood with forensic precision. Yes. That.

                                             via www.series-stars.info

He's even dreamier than he was in the Boondock Saints.

(I'm not gay. I swear.)

As for the other things I got for Christmas: a veritable mountain of candy, several video games that I wanted, socks and underwear (gotta love the classics), and a 32 inch television for my bedroom. I would have gladly traded the television for a new laptop. Typing 2, 5, o, p, k, and using backspace is hard for me. But whatever. The TV has it's advantages, and I don't use -k that much anyways.

 

This is the actual keyboard for my laptop. Note the missing keys.

I've also stared watching a new TV show recently: Dexter. For those of you that don't know, it's about a serial killer that works for the police as a forensic blood spatter expert. He isn't a madman though. He only kills people that actually deserve it-- which is seen as wrong by some and vigilante justice by others.

A lot of people have opposed this show because it "glorifies murder" and blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening at "will make young people think murder is ok." I'm sorry. Bullshit.

To these people, I say: "I know where you live. And Dexter has trained me so well. Maybe you'd best keep quiet."

TV's chief exports are violence, boobs, sex, and Dora the Explorer-- though not necessarily in that order. Anyway, for those of you that realize that television is television and has one main purpose: entertainment, give Dexter a watch. It was surprisingly good. I promise it has no ulterior motives, such as corrupting and brainwashing our youth. It's just good TV.

                                                    via screenrant.com

TV with.... murder. 

Turkey Day and Black Friday: The Aftermath

I know, I know. I'm up during normal hours. But don't fret. The zombie apocalypse hasn't come yet, and I'm not being forced to stay awake and on the move-- lest the undead devour my succulent flesh. Yet.

Instead, I'm awake because Thanksgiving and Black Friday have seriously done a number on my sleep schedule. You see, since I work at Spencer's, I had some odd working hours on Black Friday: 3 a.m. to 8 a.m. Normally this wouldn't have affected me. I'd have just slept in until five p.m. the night before, and I would've been fine. The problem was: I couldn't do that since had Thanksgiving dinner that evening, so I had to be up by at least noon.

                                           via igourmet.com

Plenty of tryptophan  for your late-night drive to work.

I still would've been fine if this was it. I'd have come home and gone to bed at nine in the morning, woken up at three or four, and all would've been well. But no. My friends and I had an all-day video game party planned for Friday. I went straight from work to there and didn't wind up at home until two in the morning. For those of you keeping score, that's 38 hours straight with no sleep, and five of them were work hours.

I don't even remember much of the gaming party. It's one giant blur of animated blood and violence, people shouting the word "noob," and me dying a lot because I was too tired to play. I eventually got my second wind and woke up enough to play an RPG (Eternal Sonata) for a few hours. That game, despite it's cutesy-wutesy appearance, is actually incredible. I highly recommend it to any fan of RPG games.

                                                           via wikipedia

Yes, there's a rainbow on the cover. It's a good game. I promise.

My sleep schedule still hasn't returned to normal. You see, I went to bed on Friday night and had to get up at 6 a.m. for work the next day. And when I got home, I still couldn't go to bed because we had people over at the house for my brother's birthday. Then, my brother insisted that we spend the night at my cousin's house as part of his birthday celebration. We got to playing video games, and I didn't get to go to bed until 6 a.m. 

Let's stop and check the score again. That's 38 hours with no sleep, then 4 hours of sleep, then another 24 with none. That's almost three days with only 4 hours of sleep. To say that I was exhausted was an understatement. My brother went home that night, but my cousin asked me to stay another night. Another whirlwind of pixilated death and destruction later, and my head hit the pillow at nine in the morning.

This brought the grand total to 9 hours of sleep in 4 1/2 days until I could finally get a decent night's rest.

To my surprise, I woke up at ten in the morning the next day and couldn't sleep any more. Even stranger, I got tired around ten or eleven at night, like a normal person. I've gone on like this for a couple days, and I hate it. After eleven, it becomes difficult to concentrate on even the most menial tasks without nodding off.

                                              via HolyTaco.com

I decided to put my new-found, wakeful morning hours to the most productive use imaginable: watching movies. I don't know if I was still groggy or if the morning sun had baked my brain with its devil rays, but Snakes on a Plane actually seemed like a decent movie. Perhaps it was so bad that it was good. 

The greatest line in that movie, as I'm sure many of you know is when the TV version tries to dub over Samuel L. Jackson's "motherfuckings" with other word's that begin with -m and -f. For example, "Enough is enough! I've had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane," becomes:

"I've had it with these monkey-fighting snakes on this Monday to Friday plane!"

Seriously, who would ever think that's what he's actually saying? Did they just get lazy from all the dubbing they had to do (Samuel Jackson swears A LOT) and say, "Screw it. Just pick words that start with those letters. That'll work."

But above all, the funniest thing about that movie is seeing Samuel Jackson hold a snake up by it's neck and try to identify it to a biologist over the phone. What an immense amount of snake knowledge he possesses.

                                                                   via howstuffworks.com
It appears to have murder-fending scales on its mostly-fuchsia body.

The Spencer's Chronicles 2: Laser Lights, Tiger Blood, and Salvia

First, I apologize for not writing for a little while. I got caught up in working on that article for Cracked four days ago, and I just realized it was Tuesday. Also, who's Sapphire, and why is her name tattooed on my ass?

Anyway, I was working at Spencer's the other day when my friend Wes and I noticed something rather peculiar: one of the laser lights has a warning on it not to look directly into the laser... but that's not the weird part. It's the placement. Let me show you a picture I took of the warning label:

Warning: Do not look directly into the-- AAAHH! MY RETINAS!!

I can't tell if the person who decided on this location for the label was playing a sick joke or assumed that people would enough sense to not look at the front of the laser device when the lasers are on. But, if that was the case, why put the warning there at all?

Saturday was also the day that our supply of tiger blood energy potions expired. I'm sure you all remember the Charlie Sheen debacle-- right? Well energy drink companies decided to cash in on that by making tiger blood energy drinks, and putting them in IV-pouch shaped containers.

                                                   via candyhero.com

To be perfectly honest, I prefer the Adonis DNA.

So, Wes did what he always does when things like that expire: taste it and dump the rest down the break room toilet  when he confirms that it tastes horrible. The only problem about doing that with this particular product was the effect it had on the toilet: the appearance that someone had explosive, bloody diarrhea  and forgot to flush.

It stained the toilet for three days.

Shortly thereafter, the phone rang and another guy who works there, Chris, answered. from what he told Wes and I later, the conversation went like this:

Caller: Do you sell salvia?

Chris: Salvia? Is that some sort of clothing line or something?

Caller: No. It's a plant. You smoke it.

Chris: No. We don't sell that here. *Abrupt hangup*

Afterward, when the three of us were talking about it (and done making fun of Chris for not knowing what salvia was) we were unanimously stumped as to why someone would think they could buy it at Spencer's.

Pictured: Definitely not clothing.

And now I must bid you adieu, for the sun is coming up, and if I don't retreat to my cavern, I will burst into a ball of flame. Or the sun will damage my retinas or something. God knows that laser damaged them enough.

Writing is Hard. Not Writing is Harder.

Ladies and gentlemen, this may surprise you, but I am a writer. I know, I know. You were under the impression that I just beamed my thoughts straight from my head to the computer, but unfortunately, I write them down. I compose them into tangible and logical trains of thought, with sentence structure, nouns, verbs, and adjectives. Sometimes I throw in the occasional semi-colon; sometimes I don't. Nonetheless, I am a writer, and I hope you can forgive me.

Today, I lounged around the house with one purpose in mind: churning out an article for cracked.com. This often leads to a lot of stress. The editors for Cracked push their writers and can be quite picky. This is a good thing, since it ensures that the content they publish is always of the highest quality. It may prove to also be a bad thing though because after so much banging my head against the wall, I'll either have to shell out a lot of money to repair my walls or induce severe cerebral hemorrhaging.

                                                                               via wall designs.net

And the cost of repairs to my walls will be extensive.

Despite all of that, writing for Cracked is a pleasure. It's one of the most friendly environments for a writer to learn in, and I learn every day. If you submit your work to a writing journal or magazine, you could wait three to six months just to receive a fill in the blank rejection notice. At Cracked, you receive personal feedback from the editors on a weekly basis. Sometimes more often. Plus, rather than be sodomized when submitting work to writing journals,  the Cracked editors only verbally sodomize you. (David Wong, please don't vaporize me for that joke He can do that you know. With his mind). In all seriousness though, the editors are fantastic. And comedy wizards. My fellow writers are the nicest people in the world. And everyone in the community wants everyone else to succeed.

A wise writer once told me "You've got to cut yourself open and bleed on the page. That will give your words power." I tried this once, but I couldn't tell how powerful my words were. It was hard to read through all of the blood. Did I not say the right chant to Sithis or something? But he was right. Sometimes the words just pour out of you like blood from an open wound, or to be less morbid, like water from a river. Other day's there's a drought, or you have a clotting problem (You should really see a doctor about that. It's nasty business).

Earlier today, the words just kept coming. I was a finely-tuned writing machine. I punched those words out of my head like Liu Kang punches hearts out of his enemies.

 

                                                            via GamingBolt.com

Pictured: The writing process.

But then, when I sat down to work on my blog, the words stopped coming. I'm having trouble formulating this very sentence. Seriously, I revised that sentence three times. If I didn't flapjack, revise my sentence bacon, they would be almost water-buffalo to understand. I'm going to stop now before I hurt somebody with the wildly irresponsible way I'm flinging these words around. Someone could put an eye out is what I'm saying.

Let me close by saying what you've already read in the title: writing is hard, but not writing is harder. It's one of the only things that make my life worth living. The sense of fulfillment I get when I complete something... not to mention when someone actually likes it... That feeling is indescribable. And I hope you can all feel it someday- in whatever it is that gives you purpose. Find that something and strive toward it. Punch hearts out of people's chests-- figuratively of course, and never lose sight of what you love and the people who helped you along the way.

And just one last thing: a tip for the aspiring writers out there. Caffeine is your friend.

                                                                               via msn.com

The nectar of the Gods.

The Spencer's Chronicles: Lying About Dildos

For those of you who don't already know, I work at Spencer's. In my opinion, it's the coolest part-time job ever, and the only one that involves selling both penis-shaped lollipops and a remote controlled helicopter shaped like the word "fuck."

                                        via Spencersonline.com

Do I look like I give a flying fuck?

But there is something about my workplace that perplexes me. We have an entire section devoted to the more promiscuous part of human nature: sex toys, lubes, and other things that I'm not even certain on the usage of. I don't have a problem with this because people have to buy it somewhere. Why not Spencer's? But the thing that gets me is: why do they have to be so goddamn embarrassed about it?

Let me give you an example. The vibrators that we sell are battery operated. Because of this, we're supposed to ask someone who buys one if they want to buy batteries too. The most common response to this question is: "No thanks. It's not for me."

First of all, it's for you.

Second, I don't care if it's for you or not. Everyone who walks into the store knows that we sell them and isn't going to be surprised to see someone buying one. They aren't going to give you the evil eye as you shamefully shuffle past them and back out into the mall. Hell, they probably aren't even looking at you in the first place.

And third (but I believe most important), even if it isn't for you (and it is) doesn't it seem like a dick move to buy something for someone that requires batteries and not get them batteries too? I remember being ten years old and getting a remote-controlled car for my birthday without batteries. I had a special name for the people who did this to me: assholes. And I was ten. I think, no hope, that the person (you) that you're buying this vibrator for (again, you) is older than ten, and if they are, they'll probably think you're an asshole for not shelling out an extra 2 bucks for some AA's.

                                                    via Spencersonline.com

Where the flying fuck are my batteries?!?

One time, I was ringing a woman up who was purchasing one of the objects in question, and the second I scanned the bar code, she swept it off the counter into another one of her bags. There wasn't even anyone else in the store, so I don't know who she was trying to hide it from or why it needed to be done quicker than it would take me to reach under the counter and grab a bag. Does the Spencer's logo carry that much social stigma that people who pass her in the mall and see the bag will whisper in disgust? Was she embarrassed by the mere fact that it was laying on the counter, in plain view? If that's the case, there's an entire rack of clitoral massagers on the counter. She's not embarrassed that those are right there? Sure, she's not buying them, but no one's even looking, remember?

Even more baffling is the woman who denied that she was trying to buy a vibrator. I told her "that particular vibrator needs batteries, would you like a pack of those as well?" and she said "Vibrator? I didn't know this was a vibrator." She promptly returned it to its shelf and left the store.

                                       via Spencersonline.com

Vibrator!?! I thought this was a back scratcher!

Let's be clear here. This wasn't an innocent misunderstanding. She knew it was a vibrator. That box has the phrase "g-spot vibe" on every face, plus an image of the vibrator:

                                        via Spencersonline.com

The only conclusion that I can come to is that my mere mention of the word "vibrator" embarrassed her so much that she just had to get out of there. Immediately.

But the strangest vibrator-related thing I've had to deal with at Spencer's is the time a woman asked me what vibrators were best. Because I've obviously tried every one of them at least once and can give in-depth reviews about their individual performance. Seriously girls, why would you ever ask a guy that question? More importantly, what kind of answer are you expecting?

The Boredom Affliction

Today was boring. Really boring. It was so dreadfully boring that if you sat down and watched professional golf on TV, you still wouldn't be as bored as I was today. This probably has something to do with the fact that I was nice and decided to let my brother play Skyrim today. Now I'm suffering withdrawal.

Yesterday, I was Arcus, the necromacer scourge of Tamriel. I could raise the dead with one hand and conjure a blade of pure magic with the other. People would explode in a cloud of red vapor at the mere sight of how awesome I was.

Today, I'm Kier, the pasty, white scourge of no one. I have a cat named Cuddles, and she loves me... sometimes. I also have an imaginary pet seahorse who lives at the park. He lets me ride him.

Sometimes.

Yesterday, people ran screaming in fear, hoping against hope that I would spare them. Today, people still run, but for different reasons.

But I digress. I needed to find a way to pass the time, so I returned to an older game that I've spent a lot of quality time with: League of Legends. It actually helped ease my boredom, but I was interrupted after my first match by a loud whining noise. It was my cat, demanding that she be given food.

Who can say no to that face? Not me.

After I filled her bowl, she rewarded me by rubbing up against my leg and informing me that I was allowed to pet her now. Then, the second I started petting her, she scratched the hell out of my arm. But I couldn't stay mad at her. An open wound is the only way her love particles can enter my bloodstream.

I picked her up, very much against her will, and went back to playing my game with her on my lap. I sat there, with my eyes transfixed on the computer-box for a couple hours, until I realized that dinner was ready. Dinner was tacos.

After eating so many tacos that I spontaneously learned Spanish, me senté a ver algunos televisión. Uh... I mean... I sat down to watch some TV, but after fifteen minutes, I decided that TV wasn't doing it for me either. Then I decided to watch the second Paranormal Activity. That movie was scarier than that one time that I had to carpool with a monster.

Plus, he smoked in my car, and that was not cool.

My mediocre day came to an end with this week's episode of The Walking Dead. Any show with some good ole' fashioned zombie killin' is all right in my book, but this one has something more. Maybe it's because it's a weekly show instead of a movie. There's a lot more time to show what's going on, so it seems more of an accurate representation of how a zombie outbreak would work in real life. Perhaps it's the character Daryl. If I've ever had a man-crush on anyone, it's that guy. Or maybe it's the necklace of ears that Daryl wore tonight. That was pretty special.

                                                          via "The Walking Dead"

© 2011 Kier Harris

The Glow Bowling Excursion (A Photo Documentary)

I drug a few of my family/friends kicking and screaming to go glow bowling with me earlier tonight. For those of you that don't know what glow bowling is, it's like normal bowling but with the normal lights off, black lights on, lasers, and loud music.

Like this, but with more Katy Perry.

People don't usually want to go bowling with me because of how good I am. I've been bowling for seventeen years (since I was three) and my friends have this thing about not liking to be shown up. When I finally guilt enough of them into coming along, a night of fun always ensues. Fun for me at least. 

Let me introduce you to the stars of this saga:

 My Friend, Cody

My sister, Briana (front) and my girlfriend, Emily (back)

And me.

The four of us bowled a couple games together, but my companions soon tired of seeing a repetition of this:

Hey, I never claimed it was good music.

Cody in particular was getting really frustrated. He'd made such good friends with the right gutter that it probably bought him drinks later that night. He'd throw gutter-balls over--

And over---

Cody and Emily kept shooting me dirty looks every time I threw a good shot, and after two games, they threw in the towel and went to play pool.

"Screw those guys and their bowling."

My sister and I kept bowling in spite of our party-pooping friends. We played a couple more games and both did fairly well. Then, as the night drew to a close, the owner turned the lights back on, and Cody returned for a rematch.:

Hey, I never said it was a good rematch.

At one point, I even wound up with a split that looked pretty difficult to make, and I'm pretty sure Cody had to restrain himself from throttling me when I picked it up:

I drove my friends home, grinning from ear to ear, as they fumed in the back seat. I said things like "Did you see it when I......" and "Remember those five strikes in a row?"

Maybe I'm starting to see why my friends never want to go bowling with me. I can be an ass sometimes.

© 2011 Kier Harris