Saturday, October 22, 2011
You have to understand something. I hate everyone on Facebook. Seriously. If you're on Facebook, the odds are stacked against you that I like you.
I'm already spotting the flaw in my logic. Sure, if I hated everyone on Facebook, then I wouldn't be on Facebook at all. Exceptions include: Anyone in my family, my friends' kids' photos that are few and far between and not shoving every breath of your fucking child down the throat of my social media pipeline. Some people, because they're genuinely, well, genuine, show the occasional photos of their children doing things like carving pumpkins or going off to their first day of school. I like this. I have "friends" on Facebook that I don't know who the fuck they are. Yet, inexplicably, I love seeing the milestones their children surmount.
Others think that every fucking toddler sneeze, cough, and bowel movement needs to be documented on the interweb. Fuck you and fuck you for projecting your narcissism on your children. You're merely setting them up for a life of self absorbed douchiness.
And, speaking of douchiness: The fact that you take pictures doesn't automatically make you a professional photographer. Seriously... Every shithead with a 6MP camera that takes a picture of a tree in black and white thinks they're a motherfucking Ansel Adams. You're a schmuck with a consumer grade camera. Get over yourself.
Oh, and the rest of you: If you're taking multiple photos of yourself a day doing different routine activities because you genuinely think that the general public (your 2000 "friends") will find those photos of you drinking coffee and looking into a computer interesting... I hate you. I may be your Facebook "Friend," but I literally hate you and I observe your posts the way a teenager smells his own farts. I know it will be gross, but I somehow feed on your absurdity.
I almost posted pictures of examples of those I hold such vitriol towards. I refrained, not because I'm a humanitarian. But rather, simply, I'm not shitfaced enough.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
1) I can't believe I left my cell phone at home today.
2) I let myself and others down by leaving my cell phone at home today.
3) I'm very upset that I left my cell phone at home and would change my life for the better if it would somehow make the phone appear on my desk.
4) I miss having my cell phone with me.
5) You know... I might be okay without my cell phone.
6) I can work around this... my phone's contacts/phone numbers are accessible on my laptop and I can use an office phone to make calls.
7) I've accepted the fact that I don't have my cell phone with me and I concede that my day will never be the same, but I'll find a way to move forward.
(Originally posted on Facebook 10/15/2011)
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
What have I done lately:
After a successful (read: I didn't hock my plane ticket for some gambling scratch and road coke) trip to Vegas, I slipped back into Portland obscurity. I prefer Vegas obscurity to Portland obscurity because, well, it's Vegas.
I like Vegas for reasons other than most. I mean, I like clubs, gambling, good food and soaking the front of my shirt with vodka and stripper glitter. Sure, I like swimming pools with live DJs and drink specials at 1pm. But there's more to it than that.
I mean, not much more. We (girlfriend and I) stayed in New York New York where, once we stepped out of the elevator, a world of food and retail awaited us. We never had to leave the climate controlled confines of our hotel. Ben and Jerry's, Haagen Dazs, gourmet pretzels, a Nathan's Hot Dog restaurant, an arcade, a roller coaster... they can even put your picture in three dimensions inside a crystal cube. HOW THE FUCK DO THEY DO THAT? New York New York is a magical place. Word the hotel has started construction on a themed rollercoaster using two miniature fiberglass747s passing through miniature buildings has proven untrue. In a related story, plans for a similarly themed nearby hotel called "Iraq Iraq" have been scrapped. That sucks, because I was looking forward to getting my drink on at the Allah Ack-Bar and Grill.
Wakka wakka... indeed.
And I love Starbucks. I know that their coffee grounds are the largest example of profitable mediocrity to ever have hot water run through it. I know that the food is only good due to its convenience and pairing with coffee. Truth be told, I love watching Starbucks employees pretend like they're genuinely concerned about my day and overall well being. I have a lot of friends... none of them can match the sincerity (albeit feigned) of a barista's inquiries into how my work day is. I reciprocate, and of course I'm informed every day is a great day at Starbucks. It should be. Water filtered through dirt at the same price-per-ounce as black tar heroin should make any corporation and their employees just fucking ecstatic.
Speaking of work, I need to feed my own little S-Corp some billable hours. Off to the races. Peace in.
2:50pm I've edited this post at least four times now.
Saturday, September 03, 2011
I haven't watched the porn in a while. Can someone explain to me what the hell happened to Carmella Bing? Oh, and if you give me any of that "real women have curves" bullshit about the atrocity pictured above I will throw you out the fucking window. Or, if you say that and you look like the picture on the right, I'll get four of my friends to help me throw you out the fucking window. And I'll get a bigger window.
Something was getting funky with the old Blogger profile, so I picked this earthy layout. It's kind of nice/refreshing. It looks like the establishing shot of a douche commercial. How apropos.
I fixed the tweet gadget to the right. Seriously, I love tweeting. I like the entire process of thinking of something that I find amusing and editing the hell out of it to fit 140 characters. It's my crossword puzzle... my sudoku. I sit there, changing words, cutting out unnecessary parts, and trying to make sure that what I think was funny still comes out of the final edit/tweet. Also, the tweets (most of which I do from my phone while driving on the freeway) simulcast to both this page and my Facebook. This means that I reach around 1000 people, which is more than I would reach when I wrote for print media a while back.
Which reminds me: I wanted to write for print media per my New Year resolutions. There used to be so many print publications. I remember going to a restaurant downtown and you'd grab four or five different rags to peruse while you ate your Speedo Burrito (RIP Macheesmo Mouse). Now it's Portland Tribune, Willamette Week, the Mercury, and that's about it. No Oregon Cycling, no Oregon Comic News, no Jam Magazine. Read: No one that would publish me. I do have a line on one publication, but I have to plan thoroughly before I approach.
I'm going for a run this morning. I don't run as much as I should, considering I have a 5K to run in the next month or so. I should be running three times a week and as of late I've run about three times in August. I'm in trouble.
I'm getting very crotchety as I approach forty. I need to stay off of the Facebook. I'm finding a lot of stuff annoys me when it shouldn't. One thing that I find a lot of in real life and on social media is the [REDACTED]. Had a bunch of stuff typed but found that it may be personally inflammatory to some people. I may be crotchety, but I also have some discretion.
I gotta run...
Saturday, August 20, 2011
God does, in fact, have a sick sense of humor.
I mean, to have the last name of "Cheek" when you have a full facial birthmark on the side of your face is fucked up. It's like a fat kid with the last name of "Tubb," or me if I had the name "Smallpenis" (which I'm pretty sure is what "Gallucci" translates to in Italian). For Chrissakes... I have a smaller (albeit hairier, I'm assuming) birth mark on my shoulder and I was tormented as a kid for having that. Sarah Lynn Cheek, 34 (pictured above), was arrested for leaving a five-year-old in her care outside of a bar while she had a few drinks. Anyone else should get the book (and a brick) thrown at them. This woman should just get a warning. I would have a vodka I.V. just to deal with the adolescent torment that she certainly endured. As it stands, I simply inject myself with Jack Daniels once every morning with a diabetes kit I probably should be using for, you know, insulin.
Full Story: HERE