BLAH BLAH BLOG

The American Dream

2005-08-30T13:49:00.000-05:00

I am going to sum this up in a couple of short lines. The American dream is being squandered in the sands of Iraq. The common man's pocket book is being devoured by the educated inferences of speculators regarding the substance that drives the economy due to conflict in a land saturated in it. Oil is becoming a common evil globally. Will we ever recover as long as the coffers of the elite are being lined with the hard earned dollars of the plebians? We are funding our own collapse. That's pretty ironic if you ask me.

Me No Comprende!

2005-08-02T13:10:00.000-05:00

Mexican food. This simple two word phrase encompasses one of the true enigmas of our society. It is seemingly available within one mile intervals all across the country, is cooked by any race, and encourages people to act like idiots by causing them to strain for recollections of high school Spanish class. The true enigmatic property, and object of this post, is the varying degree of quality when pertaining to the after effect. The after effect is best described as the shockwave and fallout after the Mexicanuclear blast to the stomach. I have instituted my own scale of measurement based on my own encounters, and it seems to encompass the realm of the after effect while neglecting taste (I will literally eat anything set in front of me regardless of taste). The scale relies on three points that pertain to the different digestive reaction to volatile mixture of all vegetables and other food stuffs used in Mexican food that is caustic and or corrosive to the gastrointestinal system. I have found many who agree with the scale with small variances due to personal experience. Coincidentally, there is not a truly positive point on the scale since all Mexican food causes some manner of distress. The scale is as follows (I have discovered no majors deviations from this simple form of the scale):

3.) Mild discomfort and Excessive Gas

2.) Discomfort, Excessive Gas, Mild Heartburn, and impending Toilet visit

1.)Extreme Discomfort, Excessive Heartburn, Unreleasable gas, Drive like hell, Run like hell, Slam the door, and Let it rip (Also known as the "Mary Mother of God I'm dying," "Courtesy Flushes Abound," ,"Las Mierdas Demonic Propulsadas Jet (better known as The Jet Propelled Demonic Shivies) " or the "I need stock in Charmin" stage).

The odd part of the whole thing is that the only place that I've experienced number three on the scale is in Old Mexico. You would think that it would be the other way around. It seems that they have learned from the trials of the ages that milder is better. God forgive them for their water, but bless them for their edible food. The food in Ciudad Acuna, Mexico was really good and at no point did I feel as if my face was on fire. This may also be due to the fact that Acuna, which has a fragile and outdated sewage system burns all accumulated toilet paper every Thursday. The paper is not flushed, so the more people suffering from the cuisine the bigger the pile of crap paper to burn. Their understanding of this made for the most pleasant dining I have ever experienced. True, Mexicans really use peppers, but not to the degree of their American counterparts. Of course, the onion is still the predominant culprit in the matter. There have been points where I was eating Mexican food that when I wiped my brow I was sure there would be some soot or ash from the remnants of my face on the napkin. Their counterparts, the people in the U.S. purporting to serve "authentic" Mexican food are over zealous and end up hurting their patrons intestinally in the process. This occurs either by the seemingly near flammable characteristics of the food that is hotter in composition than by preparation (In addition to this, the hot plate is truly one of the extreme hazards of our time), or the service which often by misunderstanding of language makes a customer a victim by forcing them into gastrointestinally uncharted territory. If, say San Antonio, were the victim of fragile sewer systems, the pile of paper would be so large that it would be visible from space. A little restaurant on the south side of the city gave me my most extreme number one. Today for instance, I have found a certain degree of comfort in eating the Chicken Fajita taco salad at a local restaurant. In reaction to this fragile comfort I always order it to ensure a level two at the most. Today due to the 5 alarm chemical composition of the pico that is served on top, I nearly experienced a level one. The toilet visit, represented by the let it rip stage, is still on the impending side of the scale, but the others due to internal feelings of gastric dread were still in order. Sure this scale may not be accurate because of the overlap of the points, but it is semi accurate regardless. I was just glad that I was spared the horror of a full level one.

A Related Item

Now I'll discuss the service in these fine dining establishments by discussing a common occurrence. I promise it will be a serious critique....NOT! It deals with a hilarious turn of events in an authentic Mexican food establishment where the waiters are straight from south of the border. This is the same place that brought about the post for today that nearly placed me on the porcelain. A group of friends and I went there to eat and they came to take the order. Bear in mind that the order is almost always incorrect when brought from the kitchen because of the language barrier. In fact today we ordered cheese dip three times and never received it. Anyway, we set down and the waiter came to take our order. We each ordered in turn and when it was my friend's turn he ordered his meal and asked for 12 grilled shrimp. The food came out about 15 minutes later and it was correct except for the absence of the shrimp in question. My friend says, "I ordered twelve grilled shrimp." The waiter stares in a confused manner for a few seconds then says with his index finger trusted upward in realization, "Ches." My friend shrugged thinking that perhaps it was Spanish for shrimp and five minutes later the waiter emerged with what amounted to a pound of grated Monterey Jack Cheese. My friend says, "No, I ordered twelve grilled shrimp." The waiter replies, "Oh, OK, Ches," and disappears back into the kitchen. He reemerged with a huge bowl of the cheese dip that was so elusive today. My friend subsequently gave up on his hope of the grilled shrimp and we began to clog ourselves up by consuming the massive amount of cheese in front of us. Well, there I lie, it actually served as a counter measure to the toilet. About a week ago I went to pick up an order for my fellow employees and myself and prepared for the occasion. When I arrived I asked, "Cuanto para el perro legged tres con un ojo? (How much for the three legged dog with one eye?)." He displayed a wide smile as he replied, "Five Dollar."

Paranoia and the Unseen Flame

2005-07-29T10:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning as I was driving to work, I passed a sign on the highway that immediately caused a swell of fear and paranoia to overcome me. The statement on the sign was not complex, it did not pertain to any complex conspiracy, or foretell any significant change. The sign said in a plain fragment of thought, "Be Careful, Fire Danger." Now seeing that it was in the parking lot of a fire department, my first reaction should have been a recognition of dry conditions after last weeks intrusive and oppressive temperatures, but my imagination being of the sort that it is, did not allow this simple elementary notion. No, I was bombarded with numerous outlandish thoughts of what it could foretell. Maybe it was the time of morning and the insufficient amount of sleep, or some deep brooding; doom-mongering portion of my subconscious that brought the first possibility to mind. I wondered, "Is there a blazing fire ahead set to devour me and my car?" I laughed at the first notion, but then these ideas cascaded forward in rapid succession. Was there highway men set to "open fire," and rob me of my five dollars and thirty-three cents and CD player? Or could it have been a prophecy of some intense pillar of flame that would descend and reduce me to soot and ash? I could not think of any great sin, to speak of, and I hoped that the Lord was in good humor at that moment. The paranoia increased over the span of the next five minutes. Would I drop a cigarette in my lap, not notice, and catch myself on fire? Understand this (some explanation is due), I was not freaking out. The paranoia did not make me drop my foot to the floor in search of sanctuary. I was not screaming uncontrollably, shedding tears, pulling out my hair, or banging my head against the stearing will. I would relate the reaction to Chicken Little's thought that the sky was falling, without the Paul Revere like anouncement. It was a deep subconscious scream for deeper understanding of something so plainly simple that a three year old could compute given that they had the ability to read. At this notion I began to settle a bit, and started wondering in a deep philosophical manner if this is what man's mind, over time, has been reduced to. Perhaps the heavy use of intoxicants in my early adulthood is to blame. In a display of self recognition, I'll stick to the descent of man.

Update 2

Don Pepper drank anti-freeze yesterday and survived. It seems my brother in law was changing fluids and left it on the ground. He drank some and in a miraculous turn of events, or in a true display of his demonic character he never displayed any illness. I had the overwhelming urge to pull the blankets to my chin with the thought of true black curly-haired evil lurking in my front room.

The Illustrious Boo-Boo Hat

2005-07-28T08:47:00.000-05:00

Children are funny little creatures. My daughter will be four in just over two weeks and last night I thought about some of the funny little things she has said. When she was about two, I was overly amused by the lack of contractions in her speech. For instance, when I would call her a barnacle head (something we learned together from Spongebob Squarepants), she would reply, "No, I not a barnacle head. Later it was her inability to articulate a "Y" if it was followed by a double "L." The yellow bird became "The lello bird." The case was the same for the sun, bananas, cars, lemons, birds, and anything else of the color. This was also the case if my wife or I raised our voice to her when she was being bad. I could say, for example, "Marissa do not stand on the couch," and she would immediately run to her mother and appeal for her to "Make daddy stop lellin at me." It was pretty humorous to say the least. Another funny mispronunciation was the word yogurt. When she would ask for some, she would say, "Momma, can I have some ogurt." This immediately brought to mind a huge ogre processing plant where ogres, like Shrek, are pureed and poured into little cups for consumption. In light of his diet in the films, I'm sure it would not be appealing at all. As she has gotten older, it is more in the misconception and misuse of words where the humor is born. Just a few weeks ago when we told her that she was going to start preschool, we told her about all of the wonders of glorified daycare. Upon her tour of the classroom, she was amazed at all of the neat things provided for her enjoyment (I dared not to mention the other 25 screaming children that will undoubtedly compete with her for the use of each delightful item). She was really amazed by the cafeteria. I'm sure this amazement will be short lived after runny powdered eggs for breakfast, and the mysterious extremely flat square pieces of pizza, but for the moment she was intrigued. The humor of this amazement came later when she got home and told me that she was going to school and that she was going to get to eat in the, get this, "bacateria." I almost fell down I was laughing so hard. Children are really awesome, one usually has to buy a twenty dollar ticket to the local comedy club for humor like that. She caught on to the "For Shizzle" heard so often in hip hop and used it for a while too. One day as we were getting ready to go to my mom's my daughter smiled big and said, "Are we going to grandmizzle's?" It took a second to comprehend and then my wife and I had a pleasant laugh. Anyway, recently we were watching news footage of the Middle East and it showed Arabic people wearing their robes and turbans as they were walking down a road. My daughter got a sort of confused yet curious look. She then turned to her mother and asked, "Momma, why are those people wearing boo-boo hats." My wife shared her confusion for a second, and then realized that she was referring to a head wrap when someone is injured. We've all seen photos of injured people with gauze bandages wrapped around their head wounds. A child's sense of association is really amazing. As for the turbans, they would be the most prolific boo-boo hats ever; only used for the most massive of head wounds. Perhaps this is why radicals wear them (To mask the dementia causing wound underneath). I'll keep my eyes open for more of these. They're good humor.

UPDATE

It seems that Don Pepper, in all of his French fury, was not pleased with the article about him yesterday and in retaliation, he bit my daughter and tried to bite my son in the span of about 10 minutes. He has consequently been banished from the house for the time being and is awaiting punishment by neutering. Ha Ha!

The Trouble with Demons

2005-07-27T10:10:00.000-05:00

This post does not necessarily pertain to demons literally, but to someting that I akin them to. Last December my wife decided that she wanted to buy a poodle puppy that was advertised for sale in an area sale paper. Being a fan of larger dogs, I was at first a bit skeptical about a small ankle nipping dog running around the house; I later found the source of my skepticism. Poodles are different than you average every day mutt of full size pure bread dog. First of all,I need to discuss the benefits of owning a poodle such as the fact that poodles do not shed. That may be the only advantage. This was the point that my wife used to sell me on the idea.
My initial thoughts were, "Wow, I can wear a black shirt and not worry about massive amounts of clinging dog hair getting on it just because I set on the couch." Anyway, we bought him at 5 weeks old. This is a little earlier than normal, but my wife was excited about having him grow up with the kids. I was overjoyed that she was so happy at getting the puppy until the first morning I walked across the rug in my socks to find the concealed puddle from the previous night. Oh well, I thought, a small sacrifice, and I have many pairs of socks. As the puppy grew though I noticed something peculiar about the dog's nature. He was prone to getting under walking feet and then crying as if he was on the verge of death as the feet in question shuffled for balance; perhaps kicking him in the process. Adjustments were made, and everything seemed to improve.
Now to the point. I am not sure where poodles originated, but surely it must have been a place that is seeped in ego such as France for instance. Pepper, as we affectionately call him, is very proud and prone to mood swings. Not only this, he is a wuss, gets beat up by other dogs (and cats I suspect), and cries at the drop of a hat. If he is outside after dark and hears any out of the ordinary noise, he falls into such a fit of yelping and crying that one would think that he was being horrifically dismembered by a shadowy boogie man.
The following is an example of his moody behavior: One moment he will play fetch, bringing the toy back upon retrieval, and then happily waiting for another toss. Then out of the dark recesses of his little black head he decides that when you grab at the toy he is obliged to get a bit pissy and try to bite. This results in any number of reprimands for his behavior which usually results in him sulking and staring for a few minutes or hours before he returns to normal. I have no doubts after nearly eight months in the house with this black curly haired demon that he is smart. He acts a lot like a small child. I know this because I have two, but his propensity for revenge far outweighs that of any religious radical or organized crime member.
Until just recently, punishment of Don Pepper resulted in clandestine attacks on shoes or anything else left in peeing, pooping, or chewing distance. After months of this, he just all of the sudden stopped. He still gets moody, as many French people do, but the attacks on personal belongings has ceased. As a member of a Christian home, I hope he found God. Sometimes, I think that the hundred bucks we spent on him may have been better spent on a DVD player, perhaps some booze, any number of things from a pawn shop; basically anything without attitude or temper. I guess since my family loves this hellian so much, I am going to have to accept that Pepper wears the pants around my house.

Addict Transportation

2005-07-26T13:57:00.000-05:00

I have recently began to take note of the peculiar phenomena of fiend mobility. I do not live in an urban area, so public transport is not an accessible mode of transportation. I wonder if inner city fiends also display such a diverse array of mobility such as riding lawnmowers, bicycles, mini bikes, razor scooters, and obviously late 70's mopeds. Where do they get them? A friend of mine reported just last week that a meth freak on a riding lawmower was seen in the drivethrough at a local restaurant. Don't get me wrong, transportation is important, but if you are using a substance that is known to boost energy why not run like Flash to your nearest Taco stand. The only thing I can figure is that the resulting loss of brain cells and excessive twitching makes the grip of this impossible to tweakers, or those who have tried unexpectedly fell victim to cardiac arrest. Throughout my observation, It seems that addiction somehow breeds the reasoning of alternative vehicle use except for those who chose to lumber in an induced stupor as a result of burnout. This has really become a semi-morbid fascination of mine. I wondered if non-users displayed the same interest in alternate forms of transportation in the place of autos and found that they are more prone to bum a ride or borrow wheels. The exception is the addict to porn who you may see on any number of the devices listed above. Some do use the bikes, lawn mowers and such and quit only after they are notified of their resemblance to fiends. The resulting paranoia that their porn addiction will be revealed temporarily brings them back from their dreams of small Asians in school uniforms. In the town where I'm from another common user of the riding lawnmower is old alcoholics who make their daily trek 1 mile across town to get a twelve pack of Natural Light, Sky Dancer cigarettes, and a gallon of gas. The recent increase in gas prices has had its effect on this daily pilgrimage, and the said person was seen just yesterday with the paper bag containing the beer resting on one leg while struggling to keep control of the bike with the other.