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tantrum_dan
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Name: Tantrum
Gender: Male
Interests: Boredom, tedium and other non-interesting things.
Expertise: Profanity. No, seriously. I can create a symphony of swear words when caught in the right mood.
Occupation: Pawn in The Man's game!
Industry: Import/export
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
5/25/2007
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| Six Things About Me:
1) I hate the vending machine guy.
If I get my hands on him, I may have to give him a firm talking-to. Last week, during a particularly busy time at work, I went to the break room to grab a Mountain Dew. When I get to the vending machine, there are none. 5 rows of Mountain Dew... all gone.
Now I have a decision to make.
OK.
I like Coke and/or Pepsi, but I'm looking for that combination sugar/caffeine boost. Wait a minute... what's this? "Vault Citrus Soda"? Isn't that the soft drink that's advertised as "the soda with kick"? Oooh. That looks promising.
...and it's green, so it MUST be good!
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle (<- the sound of change being inserted into a vending machine)
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle (Um, yeah... so I happen to carry a lot of dimes and nickles. WHAT OF IT?!)
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Cha-ching, rattle-rattle-rattle
Beep, beep beep (<- entereing the selection number on the key pad)
Whirrrrrrrr... ka-chunk. (<- sound of the soda bottle being dispensed)
Creak, grab, twist, snap, gulp. (<- sound of me opening the door to reach inside the delivery recepticle, grabbing the bottle and twisting the cap [yeah, yeah... I know. "grab" and "twist" aren't sounds, but you get the picture!], the plastic top snapping off and taking a drink)
Ugh.
"Vault"? More like "Cold Cat Urine".
Ok, Vending Maching Guy. There's a reason you have to constantly re-stock the Mountain Dews and haven't touched the Vault Citrus Soda. Because NO ONE LIKES THAT VAULT SHIT! Much like a dog and a rolled-up newspaper, you only have to hit me on the nose once with that horrible-tasting concoction for me to learn to never buy it again.
Which explains why the Vault row in the soda machine hasn't been stocked in years. I mean, the bottles are covered with dust. I swear you can see where someone wrote "wash me" in the dirt on the side of one of the bottles fer Chrissakes.
So VMG, here's a novel idea: why not remove the stuff that doesn't sell and fill the space with stuff that does?
2) My favorite word in the english language is "cacophony".
Not because it's one of those antiquated terms you seldom hear anymore. Not because it brings to mind a kind of loud "disharmonious" disturbance. Not because it's difficult to spell.... but because that one innocuous term contains THREE dirty words within it.
Cock.
Caca.
Fanny... (giggle)
The only thing that could possibly be better would be something that contained FOUR dirty words.
... "fuckuntitshit".
3) I've pretty much resolved myself to the fact that everything President Obama does will be widely and savagely criticized by the Right... no matter what.
"Obama recycles his cans and jars? Why, that's practically stealing from the landfill workers. How dare he!"
"Obama rescued a dog from the pound? How is the dog-executioner supposed to feed his family... and what about the pharmaceutical company that produces the canine death serum... huh? What about them?!"
"Obama DOESN'T cheat on his wife? He might as well sign an executive order outlawing flower shops, greeting card companies and motels that rent rooms by the hour. Cheating husbands are the backbone of our economy!!"
Fucking Republicans.
4) I'm a little worried about the end of the world.
I mean, yeah, 9/9/09 was a close one, but luckily we survived it. I imagine we'll be safe through 10/10/10 and 11/11/11... but Dec. 21, 2012 is supposed to be it. The end. Finito.
I don't know all the details, but apparently Nostradamus and The Mayans got together (I'm sure the Jews are mixed up in this somewhere too... they control everything, you know!) and decided the end of the world would be on 12/21/12.
Like all good survivalists, I'm getting ready... just in case. I'm downloading as much porn as possible. That way if the end really does come, and the internet is down, I'll still be set.
5) I am thankful for small miracles.
I mean, when you think about it, hot, running water is as close to a miracle as we have. Because of it's thermic properties, water is difficult to heat anyway. But to design a system that delivers clean water to millions of individuals, heats it to roughly 50 degrees above room temperature, and allows us to use it for showers, baths, laundry and dishes is truly a miracle.
... I just wonder why miracles like that don't happen withtin the walls of my apartment.
6) Sometimes, I just don't get it.
"ButterFinger"?
OK. I get the "butter" part... the candy supposedly has peanut butter in there somewhere. There IS a slight "buttery" taste when you bite into it. But what's up with the "finger"?
Why not call it "ButterSweet"?
"ButterCrisp"?
"ButterCrunchThatSticksToYourFuckingTeethForEver"?
Who came up with the name "ButterFINGER"?
"Gentlemen, the guys in R&D have produced this great new candy bar. It's a chocolate-coated, peanut butter crisp candy. We need a name that is both eye-catching AND marketable."
"ButterCrisp?"
"No. Too generic."
"ButterFinger?"
"Hmmm. I like it, but still not flashy enough."
"Pubes 'n' Lice?"
"BRILLIANT!!" | | |
| ** So, what makes these modern Asian Horror movies so great? I mean, ever since The Ring and The Grudge, it seems like every other horror film released these days is either a remake or a direct ripoff of some spooky Asian movie.
I’m watching TV the other day and there’s an Asian Horror flick on the Sundance Channel. Well, I wasn’t really “WATCHING” TV... but I had it on... with the volume down... reading the subtitles... while I was listening to music... and editing photos on the laptop. So, I wasn’t 100% engrossed in what was going on, but I was kinda following the story.
I don’t know the name of the movie, but the basic storyline is this: a photographer dude and his girlfriend run over a chick in the road one night. They take off instead of checking to see if she needs help. Then weird shit starts happening to them. There were ghostly images appearing on the negatives of the photographer’s film. There were fleeting reflections of corpse-looking faces. There were an inordinate number of people flung (flinged?) off of balconies and landing as twisted figures on the concrete below. There were a lot of full frame closeups in dark rooms and I’m sure there were loud, screech-like shock-moments on the soundtrack to make you jump in your seat (but with the volume down, I didn’t hear them) as well.
After the accident, the couple and their friends are haunted by the ghost of a girl. Upon investigating, they find out that the girl was actually the dudes’ old college girlfriend. Creepy, huh? And not only that, but on top of the ghostly images and generally weird stuff, the photographer dude is having issues. Weight gain, bad posture, sore neck, but the doctor can’t find anything wrong.
Now, I would never to give away the ending to a good movie...
... so here’s the ending:
The chick finds photos proving that photo-guy and his friends raped the ghost girl. She leaves all disgusted and whatnot. Photoguy throws his camera in anger and it snaps a picture of him. He looks at the photo and sees the ghost image of his ex-girlfriend sitting on his shoulders. He is flung (Flinged? Flanged?!) off the balcony but doesn’t die. When his disgusted girlfriend visits him in the hospital, he’s a messed up, broken down, shell of a man sitting on his cot staring at the floor. As the door to his room closes, we see a reflection of him in the window... with the girl ghost still sitting on his shoulders.
C’mon.
First, it was long haired chicks crawling out of dark, dank wells. Then it was pasty-faced children meowing at you from the dark corner of the room. Now this? A ghost on your shoulder? Seriously? That’s the big scary payoff? A fucking paranormal piggy back ride?!
I hereby denounce all Asian Horror as crap.
Call me the “Ugly American” (go ahead... I’ve been called much worse), but give me wise-cracking, mask wearing axe-murders, slow, rambling zombies, or Mila Jovovich in a tank top battling mutants any day.
** Speaking of film, I would like to take a second to personally thank the fans of those shitty parody movies that come out every year like the Scary Movie franchise and the soon to be released Dance Flick. If it wasn’t for you folks, the entire Wayans family would probably be on government assistance. And quite honestly, I would rather your $9 tickets pay their way than my taxes. I mean, if the entire Wayans family were to drop out of show business and apply for welfare, the GNP would plummet and the national debt would double.
Not because they have any talent, mind you. It’s just because there are so damn many of them.
Which is exactly why we need all of you fans of bad comedy to flock to the theaters and see Dance Flick? According to the credits listed at imdb.com, there are seven Wayans involved in this film.
SEVEN!!
[[ Dance Flick is a perfect example of why I love to read through the “Full Credits” pages at imdb.com. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t know that Richard Vane is one of the Executive Producers on the film.
No.
Seriously.
Dick Vane.
... apparently Mike Hunt and Peter Gazinya weren’t available. ]]
The crazy thing of it is, that’s only HALF of the Wayans’ (Wayanses? Wayanii? What is the plural of “Wayans”, anyway?). According to Wikipedia, there are 14 Wayans in the industry. That means that if the Baldwins (4) and the Culkins (9) were to somehow join forces in a street fight against the Wayans, they would still be short-handed.
With so many Wayanseses drawing a paycheck from this one project, I certainly hope it’s a hit. I mean, how else is the family supposed to afford sparkly, satiny clothes and rhinestoney sunglasses? That shit don't grow on trees, ya know?!
So, if you thought Little Man was hilarious and White Chicks was an uproarious movie with a message, please go to see Dance Flick. Hey, while you’re at it, try to convince your Blue Collar Comedy buddies to go too. I mean, bad comedy is bad comedy... it shouldn’t matter what color it is.
** Finally, since this blog seems to be about film, I would like to close with a huge THUMBS UP to director Ron Howard for his new release, Angels and Demons. This is the highly anticipated sequel to the 2006 mega-hit, The Da Vinci Code.
Now, I’ve tried to watch Da Vinci Code on a few occasions, but I only get through about a half hour before being bored and changing the channel. So, I’m not a big fan of the flick. And as such, I couldn’t care less about the sequel.
But THANK GOD they did something about Tom Hank’s hair.
I mean, look at that mess he has on his head during Da Vinci Code:
And judging by the photos of the new flick, it appears as if they’ve vastly improved his look.
Congratulations, Ron. Even if the new movie sucks as hard as the last one, at least you got the hair right... and that’s the important thing, right?
| | |
| Lux Interior. Founding member, lead singer and song writer for the great punk band The Cramps, died last Wednesday of heart failure at 62 years old.
Lux Interior wasn't just A man... he was THE man. While I never found out if his full name was "Luxurious Interior", or if he was just named after a mediocre bath soap, I DO know that he was one crazy, fucked up, genius of a man.
From the Cramps song, "Drug Train":
I'm gonna tell you how
To get on board
You put one foot up
You put another foot up
You put ANOTHER foot up
And you're on board
The Drug Train
That's some crazy, fucked up genius, right there.
They say Heaven has the best rock band ever. And Lux Interior is now there... in the crowd heckling them, yelling at them to play louder.
| | |
| ... And speaking of vacation, let me tell you what I hate about vacation: Going to the fucking grocery store.
Well, OK. My hate of the grocery store isn’t relegated to vacation time. It’s a year-round thing.
I usually tend to do my shopping on Friday afternoons after work. The store is always crowded and the shelves are always bare. It’s not fun.
So, with this vacation, I had the freedom to try other shopping times. And since I didn’t have the kids for a lot of the week (making it a “VACATION!” Instead of just “time off from work”) I was able to live like a bachelor and only get what I want, when I want.
“Hmm. It’s 1:00 in the afternoon and I’m in the mood for pork chops and cornbread stuffing. I think I’ll throw some cargo shorts on and go to the store.”
“It’s 10:30 at night and you know what would be good right now? A bowl of Lucky Charms MIXED with Cocoa Pebbles. I need to run to the store.”
“Oops. No milk for the cereal... gotta go back.”
Well, you know what I learned last week?
1) Verbally debating with yourself about going to the grocery store is sad and pathetic.
2) While Lucky Charms and Cocoa Pebbles are awesome in and of themselves... they are not so awesome when combined. I mean, if the Good Lord wanted chocolate and Lucky Charms to be mixed, he would have CREATED Chocolate Lucky Charms.
WHAT?!
... and the leprechaun mascot would be a black dude.
No. Way.
[[ P.S and BTW: He’s not named “Lucky” because of his luck... it’s because that’s the brand of cigarettes he smokes. ]]
3) It doesn’t matter WHEN you go to the grocery store. It ALWAYS sucks.
When I go to the store, I do it when I have nothing else going on. I don’t have to be anywhere at any particular time, so I’m in no hurry. But you inconsiderate fucks that do nothing but get in my way and waste my time make me want to strangle someone.
First and foremost, if you’re going to stop to look at an item, MOVE YOUR FUCKING CART TO THE SIDE!!
I’ll tell you what. I think it’s time for some Grocery Store Rules. And here’s the first one – I call it the “MOVE YOUR FUCKING CART TO THE SIDE!!” rule:
It always happens – without fail – at least 10 times per visit – some moron leaves their cart in the middle of the aisle while they inspect something on the shelves. When I come across such an idiot, I stand there, stare at them and wait. Usually, it only takes a few seconds for them to realize their faux pas and they grab their cart to move it to the side so others can pass. Sometimes they’ll even say something like, “Excuse me.” or “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah... sorry for being a DOUCHE!” Is my usual response.
Well... inside my head, that’s what I’m saying to them.
Which leads to my next rule - I call it the “Move It or I’LL Move It!” rule:
If it takes more than a few seconds for you to realize you’re inconveniencing me, I have no problem moving your cart for you. Except, I don’t roll it gently out of the way, I slide it sideways, so the wheels make a loud rattling sound as they skid across the floor. And instead of moving your cart closer to you, I move it further away.
And if I’m in a REAL bad mood, I’ll wipe my boogers on your shopping cart handle. (Which is addendum 1.0 to the “Move It or I’ll Move It!” rule.)
Here’s another new rule - I call it the “C’mon... is it REALLY that Important?” rule:
Seriously, what’s up with you nit-pickers? I mean, if there’s a huge sale on Dawn dish detergent compared to Ajax dish detergent, then it should only take a couple seconds to recognize that... right? But you persnickety fucks who stand there and try to do decide between the 99 cent Libby’s peas and the $1.05 Green Giant peas really kinda piss me off.
IT’S SIX FUCKING CENTS! Does it really mandate a congressional committee to make that decision?! If it takes you more than 5 seconds to choose between the loaf of Wonder Bread or the loaf of Whitewheat, you’re really putting too much effort into this. So, stop trying to save the world six cents at a time, grab your shit and keep moving.
And another thing – I call it the “Too Late” rule:
If you’re in line at the register and you forget something... TOO FUCKING LATE! DO NOT RUN BACK TO GET IT!
Either live without it or take your booger-stained cart with you and get back in line. There are no “Savesies” in line at the grocery store. And there damn sure ain’t no patience for the shit-heel who holds up the rest of the line so they can run back to get that family-sized bag of Cheetos.
Here’s another rule. It’s called the “Cheap Fuck Calculator” rule:
If you’re on a budget and can only spend X amount of dollars, BRING A FUCKING CALCULATOR WITH YOU, YOU CHEAP FUCK!
Don’t go through the aisles, fill your cart, run everything through the register, realize you’re short on cash, THEN ask the cashier to start deleting items off your list. If you only have $30 to work with, why would you throw $50 worth of crap into the cart? Bring a calculator with you so you have an idea how much stuff you’re buying BEFORE you take up all MY time in the cashier line.
While we’re at it, here’s ANOTHER new rule. It’s called the “Stay Home You Slow Fucking Old People!” rule:
Listen, I don’t mind helping you reach items on the top shelf. And I don’t mind assisting you with lifting that industrial sized bag of cat food into your cart, but I REFUSE to stand and wait quietly while you hold up the rest of the line counting out pennies from your change purse. I mean, if you’re so old that you actually remember back when the penny was a valid monetary unit, you should probably just stay home. Because all you’re doing is wasting my time with your slow money counting and your mis-reading of coupons for Bumble Bee Chunk Light Tuna and your shaky hand while you try to write a check and the way the cashier has to do everything for you if you try to use a debit card because all this modern technology makes you dizzy and incessant visiting with anyone who is too polite to tell you to shut the fuck up and move along and your atrocious driving habits.
Did I forget anything?
Oh, wait. It’s just called a “pen”... not an “ink pen”. And they are “jeans”, not “dungarees”... and it’s fucking “butter” or “margarine”, not “oleo”.
There. I think that covers it... but I reserve the right to add to the “Old People!” rule if I come up with more.
And the final rule – I call it the “Use Your Food Stamps for What They Were Meant to do... Buy Crack” rule:
Listen. I sympathize with those of you who are having trouble making ends meet in this rough economy, but not when you take an extra 20 minutes of my time to purchase juice, cereal and baby formula with your fucking food stamps.
“OK. I have these items as one transaction... And these are covered under this... And I’ll be paying for these with cash... and the rest will be on my debit card.”
No fucking way. One person, one transaction.
Jesus, H! Why do I have to get stuck behind the ONE family who actually uses food stamps for FOOD?! Aren’t you supposed to take them to the corner and trade them at 20 cents on the dollar for crack or coke or weed?
And it’s not just the customers at the store that set me off. Oh no. I’m none too pleased with the store management either.
You know what pisses me off? The magazines at the checkout line. It’s like those grocery store bastards don’t realize that GUYS go shopping too.
I mean, if I’m standing in line, waiting for some old lady to use a shitload of coupons to save 35 cents, and some guy to run back and grab a 6-pack of PBR’s, and some teenager try to keep her 4 kids in line while attempting to complete some major transaction containing food stamps, cheese and Welch’s Frozen Grape Juice Concentrate, I would like to have something to read, you know?
But is there anything for me to read while waiting in line? FUCK NO! Sure, there are a shitload of gossip magazines, women’s health and diet magazines, fashion magazines, even those fucking Spanish Language soap opera magazines... but no guy-friendly reading material.
C’mon Mr. Store Manager, would it hurt you too much to save a little space for “Titties and Guns Magazine”? What about “Stock Cars, Cigarettes and Centerfolds Monthly”? Or my personal favorite, “Extreme Fighting Bikini Babes with the Latest Electronic Gadgets”.
I mean, I can learn all about which celebrities had plastic surgery this week, and which Hollywood Hunks have the most “Beach-tacular” body, and how to keep a man interested in the bedroom, but Heaven forbid I want to see a buxom brunette firing a Remington 12 gauge 1100 in a string bikini while smoking a big cigar.
... while driving a rebuilt ‘68 Chevy II Nova SS.
... while watching the game on the latest Hitachi 64-inch plasma.
... and telling dirty knock-knock jokes.
I mean, is THAT too much to ask? It’s almost like you don’t even care about the men who shop at your stores.
I know, I know. I hear you. “Well, Tantrum, it’s easy to bitch and moan about what's broken... but what about a solution? Do you propose any answers to the issues you raise?"
Why yes I do, wiseass. I’m glad you asked.
What we need are men-only grocery stores. You women can keep the ones we already have since they are organized for you anyway. We men will create our OWN chain of grocery stores...
The Guy-rocery Store!
When you enter the store, you walk up to a computer terminal and punch in the items from your shopping list. The computer spits out a “suggested time” and your order number. Then, when you get to the shopping cart you enter your order number in the mounted timer/computer. Press “GO” on the computer and the clock starts running. You’re now racing against the clock to get your shopping done.
As a Guy-rocery Store, there would be no need for women’s items. So the tampon, makeup and Lean Cuisine shelves would be eliminated. This opens more space for the aisles allowing carts to race at 3 or 4 wide.
And these aren’t ordinary push carts. Oh HELL no. They are powered by fuel injected two-stroke engines with the ability to reach a top speed of 12 mph. And once you’ve gone through the store, grabbed everything on your list, and made it to the checkout line, the clock stops and you are graded on your time.
Of course, all cashiers and customer service personnel would either be hot, scantily-clad chicks or retired sports stars.
And then, after grabbing $127 worth of stuff in 8minutes, 43 seconds - scoring a 98% on my shopping run (lost 2 points in that eight-cart pileup in the Pop Tart aisle) (Um. Yes. Pop Tarts have their OWN aisle at the Guy-rocery Store”) - and I’m in line for Barbi to cash me out and Dan Marino to bag my groceries, I reach over to the magazine rack and start thumbing though the latest edition of “Hot Honeys and Remote Controlled Airplanes” magazine while I wait.
And you know what?
Waiting in line for old dudes counting out change or some guy to run back and grab the DiGiorno frozen pizza with the cheese INSIDE the crust, doesn’t seem like such a chore anymore.
I LOVE the Guy-rocery Store!
| | |
| No need to ask, I’ll tell you why.
So, I just took a week off from work and I’m EXHAUSTED. I’ve decided that a full week is too much for me. I get all decompressed and my schedule gets all discombobulated. Then I have to snap everything back together to return to work on Monday morning.
Feh!
You know what? The worst thing about that first Monday after a vacation isn’t the lack of sleep.
It isn’t the backlog of work that’s waiting for you when you get there.
It isn’t even all the fuckups from when you were gone that have to be corrected.
It’s fruit.
No, wait. Bear with me.
I always buy fruit at the grocery store - you know; apples, oranges, grapes, watermelon - but I rarely eat it at home. I usually bring the fruit with me and eat it at work. When I don’t go to work, I don’t eat the fruit. So, by the end of my vacation I usually have a fridge full of soft, mushy fruit... and I’m usually pretty jaundiced and battling a touch of the Scurvy.
Which is odd, because it’s not like I spend my off-time on 17th century explorer’s ships searching for a new path to the Orient, ya know?
So, Monday morning, I’m grabbing stuff to bring with me for lunch and I grab an apple out of the fridge. Come lunch time, after polishing up the apple so it’s a nice, shiny red – I take a bite. And it’s like biting into a sack of apple-flavored pudding.
OK. It wasn’t THAT bad. But it was definitely mushy. Enough so that I actually had to bite all the way through the apple to get a mouthful. A fresh apple breaks off with a crisp, loud SNAP when you crunch into it. But not this one. No break, no snap. Barely even a crunch. What a disappointment.
There is one benefit to bringing fruit to work: Peeling an orange in your office fills the room with a pleasant, citrus-ey smell... which gives you about a 20-minute window where you can fart in your office and no one will notice.
No. Wait. The WORST thing about that first Monday after a vacation is "Annoying Greeting Guy".
You know who I’m talking about. We all work with someone like this (well, except me. Because I have nothing but fondness and respect for all my fellow co-workers... especially if any of them happen to stumble across this blog). He’s the guy who always greets you the same way every day:
FICTIONAL CO-WORKER I’LL NAME ‘LOU’ WHO IS NOT BASED ON ANYONE IN PARTICULAR: “Good morning.”
ME: “Hey Lou. What’s up man?”
LOU: “Eh... it’s Monday.”
Or
LOU: “Good morning.”
ME: “Hey Lou. How’s it going?”
LOU: “Eh... it’s Monday.”
Thanks for the update, Calendar Girl. No SHIT it’s Monday. Could you possibly be more obvious? Do you have any more pearls of wisdom to pass along?
“Eh… water’s wet.”
Sometimes he adds emphasis to his performance by shrugging his shoulders and putting his palms up in that exaggerated “question” pantomime while raising his voice on the second syllable of “Monday” sounding like a tired, old Jewish man.
But this isn’t just a one-time thing with him. And it’s not just Mondays. It’s every fucking time and EVERY FUCKING DAY.
“What? It’s Tuesday? No kidding.”
“Is it Wednesday? ALREADY?! I could have sworn it was some other day of the week. Thank you for setting me straight.”
“Thursday? Whew! Now we can synchronize our watches. Set it for ‘Thursday’ on my mark.
aaannnd...
MARK!”
Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s my own fault for asking him a question in the first place. If I could just remember to answer him with something non-questioning like,
“G’morning.”
or
“Hey.”
or
“Hrmmmph.”
But no. I have gotten into the bad habit of pretending to care about others, so I just instinctively say dumb shit like,
“What’s up?”
“How’s it going?”
“What’s new with you?”
... which is just INVITING a dialogue.
So instead, next time I’ll be ready.
LOU: “Good morning.”
ME: “Hey Lou. So remind me again... which day did you want me to punch you in the nose?”
LOU: “Eh... it’s Monday.”
CRRAAACK!
No. Wait. The ABSOLUTE WORST thing about that first Monday after a vacation is having to wear pants.
From 4PM LAST Friday until 7AM on Monday I went pants-less. That’s over 9 days... like about 231 hours of pants-free bliss. That’s right... I hate pants.
There. I said it. The elephant in the room is now out of the closet.
For the last week and a half, I’ve been out and about in a pair of cargo shorts or puttering around the house in my boxer-briefs. No. It’s not because of the weather. Even though the summers here in Florida are ungodly hot and shorts are preferred, I will wear them in the winter when it gets into the 30’s and 40’s as well. As a native northerner, my legs are impervious to cold.
And I’m not trying to show off at all – even though my legs are FABULOUS. I mean, I have the legs of a power lifter... all long and thick and muscle-ey. If it wasn’t for the fact that I can’t tan (being of Northern European stock, I am severely melanin deficient. I’m either pale or pink – no in between), I would have PERFECT legs. And no, I’m not being vain... I’m just sayin’.
It all just boils down to comfort. Shorts are more comfortable than pants. Period.
So, this past week when I went to the grocery store, I wore cargo shorts (that way I can carry my keys, wallet, cell phone, mp3 player and grocery list each in its’ own pocket). When I went hiking through tall grass and thorny weeds to photograph old abandoned houses, I wore cargo shorts (sure, my legs were all scratched and bitten up, but I had room for my keys, wallet, cell phone, extra lenses and a flashlight). When I went to The Back Booth or The Social or The Peacock Room to see bands play, I wore cargo shorts (which allows for extra pockets to hold my beer bottle when I’m taking pictures AND extra maneuverability when I’m cracking skulls in the mosh pit!).
And when the vacation is done, Monday morning rolls around. After taking a shower and brushing my teeth, I actually had to put on pants for the first time in a long time. It was horrible. My legs were revolting against their confinement. All day at work I was itchy and uncomfortable. And, I have no idea why this is, but if you wear shorts and pants that are exactly the same size, the shorts seem “roomier”... you know... “where it counts”... ifyouknowwhutImean.
So, not only were my legs all itchy and uncomfortable, but the package needed to be re-arranged and re-racked CONSTANTLY. I must have looked like some sort of gonorrheal freak with all the crotch grabbing going on. Sure, sometimes I try to sneak an unnoticed adjustment by putting my hand in my front pocket and working the hips a bit, but it still looks unnatural to be digging elbow-deep into your pocket and most of the time you STILL can’t get everything in the correct position.
I might have to consider wearing a cup just so my junk has room to breathe and isn’t being suppressed by the pants. Which, now that I think of it, might not be a bad idea. Added protection, less constriction of the goods, and I could make extra money charging co-workers a buck kick me in the balls as hard as they can.
Aw hell. Maybe I just need to bite the bullet and find another job. One that doesn’t require pants. That way I'll be more comfortable and I won’t be all pissed off at work grabbing my crotch, throwing bad fruit and punching co-workers.
Like maybe a lifeguard.
... or an Animal Planet TV show host
... or a Senate Page. | | |
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