Recently I was lucky enough to find a hidden surprise in my mail that has somehow allowed the ads to return to this little blog, which is nice and so, I am doing my best to update and keep things relevant, except I was just waltzing though this mess and noticed on one of the ads, a link to King Mitt Romneys site, which is cool, since I am a registered republican and all, but I am not one of those inbed republicans who votes republicans down the line because I think republicans are better Americans.
No, I am not one of those. So, it is strange to see my ads asking people to support this moronic mormon candidate that I could never imagine myself supporting. That said, this is America and maybe you should click on over and see what the Mittster has to say today about what he said yesterday, because on almost an hourly basis, he flips, then he flops and soon enough, he flips right back again.
It's fun and sad. All at the same time. Enjoy.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Stick it
Have you ordered some stickers from the unrelated site that is somewhat related to this site? You should. Want to know why? You could win yourself one of those new fangled Ipads. That much is true.
All you have to do is order some stickers, stick them, email or text in some amazing sort of photos of well placed stickers, like the one at the White House, and then you too could win an Ipad. The contest continues and everyone is welcome to compete.
Below is a perfect example of how easy it is to take a picture and start the ball rolling. This is a sticker added to a gas pump at some unknown Costco in, well, I don't know, probably Kansas or Cuba or someplace. See, the great thing about people sending in these pictures is they come from all over the place, Dubai and Portland and every other god forbidden backwater.
So click on over and start the ball rolling.
All you have to do is order some stickers, stick them, email or text in some amazing sort of photos of well placed stickers, like the one at the White House, and then you too could win an Ipad. The contest continues and everyone is welcome to compete.
Below is a perfect example of how easy it is to take a picture and start the ball rolling. This is a sticker added to a gas pump at some unknown Costco in, well, I don't know, probably Kansas or Cuba or someplace. See, the great thing about people sending in these pictures is they come from all over the place, Dubai and Portland and every other god forbidden backwater.
So click on over and start the ball rolling.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Blind drunk
I no longer drive a car and the world thanks for me for that. Lately to attend my daughters soccer games I have been riding my fat tired Cannondale to the high school. A few days ago I was riding home from the game and while the cars waited patiently in line at a red light, I rode to the right of them and illegally passed and rode up the hill.
Last night I was again on my way home from a game and approached the same red light and cars were again backed up, but instead of passing on the right, this time I pulled behind the last car and waited my turn. I had my light on in front and a blinking red light on the back. The light turned green and the cars moved forward, as did I. As they cleared the intersection I began to make the right turn and at that instant the driver who had been waiting to make a left proceeded to do so, as if I never existed.
Of course, I had the right of way. I have every legal right to be on that road. I was wearing a bright white shirt and my bike shorts have fibers that glow when lights hit them. My front light is a halogen and it was blinking obnoxiously. You would have to be blind or drunk to miss me as badly as that driver did.
I was two inches from having a blind drunk pull my front tire under his Jeep. Two inches. I made it up onto the sidewalk. He never slowed or acknowledged that I was even there or yelling every obscene word ever known.
Then I rode home and sat in the living room for a while and thought about those two inches. I’ve been listening to the Avett Brothers lately.
“And when the black dress drags upon the ground
I’ll be ready to surrender
And remember we’re all in this together
If I live the life I’m given I won’t be scared to die”
Last night I was again on my way home from a game and approached the same red light and cars were again backed up, but instead of passing on the right, this time I pulled behind the last car and waited my turn. I had my light on in front and a blinking red light on the back. The light turned green and the cars moved forward, as did I. As they cleared the intersection I began to make the right turn and at that instant the driver who had been waiting to make a left proceeded to do so, as if I never existed.
Of course, I had the right of way. I have every legal right to be on that road. I was wearing a bright white shirt and my bike shorts have fibers that glow when lights hit them. My front light is a halogen and it was blinking obnoxiously. You would have to be blind or drunk to miss me as badly as that driver did.
I was two inches from having a blind drunk pull my front tire under his Jeep. Two inches. I made it up onto the sidewalk. He never slowed or acknowledged that I was even there or yelling every obscene word ever known.
Then I rode home and sat in the living room for a while and thought about those two inches. I’ve been listening to the Avett Brothers lately.
“And when the black dress drags upon the ground
I’ll be ready to surrender
And remember we’re all in this together
If I live the life I’m given I won’t be scared to die”
Gay marriage
Since I am secretly getting all married and eloping and stuff and I support everyones right to marry in basically any form they want to marry the love of their life, I wanted to share this video and ask you to go ahead and click away and support love too.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Thinking of adopting a pirate?
As I think everyone knows by now I recently adopted a Somali pirate for no real good reason other than I was bored. Seriously, if you think about it, what good is a pirate in a land locked area like Pittsburgh? Although, there was some interest by the local somewhat professional baseball team, ironically enough nicknamed the Pirates, but once they found out my real pirate both enjoyed raping, pillaging and murdering, they lost all interest in hiring him as a mascot.
So now it’s just me and Tim. To be clear, Tim is not the pirates real name, but out of respect to his family and the fact that I can’t for the life of me begin to spell his real name, I call him Tim.
I am neither a complainer or a democrat, so my tolerance for the great differences of other cultures is limited, to say the least, so when the giant FedEx box arrived a few weeks ago from Somali carrying Tim and his super cool pirate flag I was both excited and dismayed because I thought, “oh a pirate, how fun,” until I realized that a real life pirate is not only not a lot of fun, but is, in reality, a pain in the ass.
First off, Tim barely speaks English, or at least he pretends to not speak English, which is fine with me. That much became clear as I opened the box and he said, “gets me fuck out of here bloke.” I mean, seriously, that sort of language is really reserved for, oh I don’t know, a drunken flight attendant on a JetBlue red eye?
Anyway, the point was, I paid 35 bucks for my pirate and the least he could do was show up with a friendly attitude. That was what I thought the least he could do, but I was dead wrong.
Pirates don’t like to play catch. I guess that should go without saying, but it’s true. The first afternoon with our family, Tim and my oldest son Biff were out in the field playing what I thought was catch, until Biff came into the kitchen with a knife stuck in his shoulder claiming that Tim had stuck him and laughed until he gave up his wallet.
Pirates pee outside. I guess it should go without saying, but pirates are not really housebroken, and let your mind focus on that while I continue.
Finally, the return policy for unwanted pirates sucks, big time. First off, the phone calls to the Somali adopt-a-pirate gang almost always go unanswered and believe you me, customer service is the key to all good business nowadays. You want a happy customer, answer your damn phone. Even then, I am pretty sure that I would not want to keep Tim as my own pirate. If not for the stabbings, the thieving and the thefts, Tim is not a nice pirate.
Pirates spit and cuss. If you watch fun little pirate movies and think to yourself that you might want a pirate or two living in your home, think again. See, in most movies, you can not smell what the living conditions are like on those boats, or homes or wherever it is that the pirates are living. Now, after a week or two of having a pirate actually living with you, I can tell you that the only thing worse is having an ostrich family living in your master bedroom, which I am also trying to get rid of, but the own-an-ostrich hotline completely refuses to return my calls.
So now it’s just me and Tim. To be clear, Tim is not the pirates real name, but out of respect to his family and the fact that I can’t for the life of me begin to spell his real name, I call him Tim.
I am neither a complainer or a democrat, so my tolerance for the great differences of other cultures is limited, to say the least, so when the giant FedEx box arrived a few weeks ago from Somali carrying Tim and his super cool pirate flag I was both excited and dismayed because I thought, “oh a pirate, how fun,” until I realized that a real life pirate is not only not a lot of fun, but is, in reality, a pain in the ass.
First off, Tim barely speaks English, or at least he pretends to not speak English, which is fine with me. That much became clear as I opened the box and he said, “gets me fuck out of here bloke.” I mean, seriously, that sort of language is really reserved for, oh I don’t know, a drunken flight attendant on a JetBlue red eye?
Anyway, the point was, I paid 35 bucks for my pirate and the least he could do was show up with a friendly attitude. That was what I thought the least he could do, but I was dead wrong.
Pirates don’t like to play catch. I guess that should go without saying, but it’s true. The first afternoon with our family, Tim and my oldest son Biff were out in the field playing what I thought was catch, until Biff came into the kitchen with a knife stuck in his shoulder claiming that Tim had stuck him and laughed until he gave up his wallet.
Pirates pee outside. I guess it should go without saying, but pirates are not really housebroken, and let your mind focus on that while I continue.
Finally, the return policy for unwanted pirates sucks, big time. First off, the phone calls to the Somali adopt-a-pirate gang almost always go unanswered and believe you me, customer service is the key to all good business nowadays. You want a happy customer, answer your damn phone. Even then, I am pretty sure that I would not want to keep Tim as my own pirate. If not for the stabbings, the thieving and the thefts, Tim is not a nice pirate.
Pirates spit and cuss. If you watch fun little pirate movies and think to yourself that you might want a pirate or two living in your home, think again. See, in most movies, you can not smell what the living conditions are like on those boats, or homes or wherever it is that the pirates are living. Now, after a week or two of having a pirate actually living with you, I can tell you that the only thing worse is having an ostrich family living in your master bedroom, which I am also trying to get rid of, but the own-an-ostrich hotline completely refuses to return my calls.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
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