Okay, Balthazar, I think I’ve enabled comments for new posts, but I’m not sure what I need to do to enable them for old ones. Apparently I have to run a command on the DB, but I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, so bear with me. If I fuck it up, there’s no guarantee I can fix it. 🙂
There you go, fishy-face. It appears to have worked and now you can comment to your patchouli-scented heart’s content. 😉
Hey, stinkpig–I didn’t give you the fuckin’ speaker system so I could listen to your shite lilith femusic at top volume. Turn it down, or better yet, turn it the fuck off, and while you’re at it, isn’t there a train passing through town pretty soon?
Jesus H. Christ. Is anyone HOME in there? If you must rescue fish, then by all means, rescue them–guilty of that enough times myself–but don’t expect them to chug along, hale and hearty as any to ever leave the clean, well-kept tank of a reputable hobby breeder. I’ve explained and explained, and I don’t know any other way to tell you–IT JUST AIN’T GONNA FUCKING HAPPEN. Farmed fish are bred for numbers, not quality. Wal-Mart’s fish department is one of the more thoroughly disgusting places on the face of the planet. So are most Petsmart/Petco fish departments. What part of “poor quality stock, stressed to their limits” are you not getting? What else do I have to say? I don’t give a rat’s arse if you kept fish in 1970-something–dude, that was thirty years ago, and a lot has changed since then. Aquarium fish are big business now, and when corporations get involved, you can bet that quality is sacrificed for profit. That’s just the way of the world in this brave new millenium. Deal with it, move on and quit fucking whining.
P.S. Unrelated by subject, but same idea…
Dear MS Lover,
It is not 1996 anymore, you can no longer kindly offer to share your copy of Office with a computer-illiterate buddy who doesn’t use it enough to warrant its $200-$500 price tag, and your beloved MS is not your friend. Your “friend” treats its customers (or are they consumers now?) like thieves and forces them to prove they are not at every possible opportunity. Your “friend” requires products to be activated and tied to the hardware and checks via the internet to make sure that it has had the chance to gouge every possible cent out of anyone using its products, even if that person wouldn’t create or even open more than half a dozen Office documents in a year. OpenOffice rules!
I cannot possibly stay married to P, knowing that somewhere out there is Devastatin’ Dave the Turntable Slave. I’m absolutely overwhelmed by his sex godliness! The mullet, the molestache, lightning bolt (?) earring, red plastic sunglasses, sleeves torn off his shirt so lots of air gets to his hairy masculine armpits, fingerless gloves, leather pants, double wrap belt. The hot pink “ZAP” across his crotch is mildly disturbing, but I can ignore it in the face of all this manly musk.
Devastatin’ Dave is a musical genius with a message–say “no” to drugs. I have no fucking idea what exactly he’s saying, but I understand his message. Zip, zap, chibby-something, cocaine is bad for you, something, ha-che-che-cha, live in the projects, dip de wap something, scooby doo, cha-che-cha, stay in school, something, something. Bottom line, don’t do drugs or you’ll never be as sexy as Devastatin’ Dave….and you wouldn’t want that to happen.
Judging from the fashion statement, this album was released (WHY?) sometime in the early 80s. Incidentally, Dave-O, I wouldn’t have dated you even in 1984, and I owned one of those double wrap belts. Okay, let’s guess ol’ Dave in his early 20s then, which puts him in his 40s now. If no one beat him to death for his wardrobe and music, he’s probably married, balding and has a paunch. His kids have to live with the fact that their father is Devastatin’ Dave the Turntable Slave. They’re all in therapy.
P.S. The fishies got me an iPod Shuffle for Mother’s Day. I can’t wait to load some Zip Zap Rap onto it!
Please, Christ, somebody kill me. As if the Americana wasn’t a foot deep over there already, yesterday he piled on even more in the form of….an Uncle Sam windsock. He’s got flags (four) hanging off the posts, another one or two stuck in a container of something or other, bunting on one side of the railing, that stupid plastic eagle, a container of red, white and blue plastic flowers, and now an Uncle Sam windsock. This shit is just beyond all reason, and if it looks like this in May, I’ll be doing the Haldol shuffle in a fucking insane asylum by the time the Fourth of July rolls around. Jeezus, man, get an identity of your OWN–we get that you live in the US and appear to be proud of that, so stop ramming it onto our retinas. Gaaaaahhh!
Later….
Oh my fuckin’ nerves. He wasn’t finished. He replaced the Uncle Sam windsock with some kind of pinwheel looking windsock (red, white and blue, of course), and moved ol’ Unc over to the side. I thought that was bad, but then I peeked out the front door to discover that he’s done the same thing on both sides of the house, so now we have not one, not two, but FOUR windsocks. I truly don’t want to be here; I can’t look out any window or go outside anywhere on the west side of the house without seeing some evidence of this white trash asshat, and it makes me angry just to look. There’s bad taste, and there’s shoving it in everyone else’s face. You are not a patriot, you’re an idiot.
Shot from my bathroom window because dumbfuck was on his front porch (must be getting close to naptime).
Geez, I’m just full of blog today, aren’t I? Anyway…. I got the mail this afternoon, and there was a letter from the city (well, they say “city”, but if you ask me, it’s a town). I thought, WTF, but opened it because my name was on it as well as P’s. Well Christ in a sidecar, imagine my surprise to see a notice for having violated a city code! Which one, you may ask…the lawn was too long. Now, truth be known, it was (because I fucking hate mowing and P would rather be disc golfing), BUT that was last week, we mowed it to golf course beautiful-ness last weekend, and this goddamn piece of paper is dated 09 May, also known as this past Tuesday. I thought, “Excuse me? The grass is two inches long. What exactly would you assholes have me MOW?” I was going to just ignore it, but then I looked a little closer and saw the enforcement officer had capitalised every word in his instructions. I have no idea why–perhaps he thinks that’s how one places emphasis on words–but I didn’t care. I decided, “Okay, you officious, illiterate little fool, I’m going to call that number, and I’m going to tear you a brand new asshole. I eat low level city government employees like you for breakfast.” I took another look outside to make sure that no blade of grass was out of place, grabbed the phone, and dialed. I got a secretary, who asked me what name was on the bottom of the paper and transferred me to the guy who’d issued the citation. I expected some limp-dicked little micromanaging wannabe with a stick up his arse (like the water commission guy), but instead, I got….a very pleasant, polite man who told me that he’d listed a bunch of places last week, but he’s so busy at this time of year that they don’t always get sent out right away, so that was probably why we’d got one even though we’d done the lawn last weekend. He apologised for my inconvenience, and explained that there are just the two of them doing code enforcement (all codes), and there’s a lot of territory to cover. Bitch though I certainly can be, how am I to argue with someone who’s polite and even friendly, overworked, and has issued an apology? Bitch is one thing, rude is quite another. 😉 I was sort of disappointed; I was really expecting something more like the two fuckwads who work in the water commission. Anyway, this is proof in black and white that P and I are both desperate criminals (edited to remove names and addresses, of course).
PDF here if you want full size.
I live fifteen feet away from Yankee Doodle Fuckin’ Dandy. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. I like daylight, and I’m in here, entertaining the Ironing Fairy, so I noticed Yard Sale House man out by the AIM/WOq flag (that’s what his flag reads when viewed from the street), straightening his creepy flag hangers (most of us would call them “handcuffs”). He wore a bright red baseball cap, and I took a second look because I figured it was going to be one of two things–either NASCAR (about his level of intellect) or some American Pride crap. My second guess was on the money. Jeezus! ENOUGH already! You’re American–we fuckin’ GET IT.
I couldn’t get a good picture because I couldn’t exactly open the window (only 52F outside and raining, so it was closed) and pull out the screen, plus I had to sort of duck down behind a box of Kleenex (not kleenex, the real thing ;)) on the dresser but…whatever. You get the point. Red hat, blue and white trim, big-ass eagle in flight, says “Team America”. White trash haute couture. Vomit.
P.S. Stopped raining, so I’m gonna open up the window and give him a blast of Verdi here in just a moment. Muahahaha!
Post–go ahead. I’m here to help, I’ll read what you write, and I’ll answer if I can. Hell, I’ll even be polite and helpful, but FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, STOP REPLYING TO YOUR OWN POSTS BEFORE ANYONE (okay, I mean me) HAS A FUCKING CHANCE TO READ THEM! What the thundering jaysus do you think the pretty little button with “Edit” written on it is for? When I log in, I check each of the forums for which I’m responsible, and even some for which I’m not because…hey, I’m a nice guy. I do note which threads have new replies and check most of them unless it’s something kind of lame in which I’ve already put my obligatory reply, but those with no replies get priority because for all I know, they could be emergencies (whether the poster knows it or not), or new members whom I want to make feel welcome straight away. If the thread doesn’t look like an emergency and isn’t one in which I know a sick fish is being discussed, I might very well leave it until later–perhaps much later–when I have more time to sit here and hammer on the keys. It’s possible I’ll forget all about it; I’m (mostly) human, I get computer neck on a daily basis, and if my head’s pounding, I’m doing well to tell you how not to kill your poor fish. Anyway, if you cannot possibly wait a few hours for someone to reply to your posts, then by all fucking means, do it yourself, but don’t expect me to kill myself to get in there and offer my sage advice (bahaha) because IF I do, I’m going to take my sweet fucking time about it. Don’t worry, you’ll still get lots of replies…your own.
P.S. I fuckin’ hate the way edit works on the new version of WP. Stop hiding the goddamn tags from me, forcing me to disable Javascript if I want to actually…oh, EDIT something. I KNOW what the tags look like and I don’t need a cutesy little button to figure out how to insert a picture or italicise text. Dicks.
P.P.S. My web host gets the Shit Service Award for highest number of erratic, inexplicable short-term outages. Good job, guys–thank God I don’t have a DB of any size or you’d really choke.
Never fall asleep on your back after having consumed a bowl of cheese popcorn and a big glass of orange pop. Why? Well, because you’ll have a very fucking weird dream and it’ll make you doubt yourself. 😆 I fell asleep late last night, on the couch, watching Se7en on DVD (good movie even if I don’t like Brad Pitt, saw it when it was released too), but when SP got in this morning, the sound of the door woke me up and I couldn’t go back to sleep. Anyway, I was tired today, so I finished most of the work I had to do and decided to take a nap. Freudians, stop reading here, or just STFU because I don’t want to know what you think.
I was at some kind of party; V and B had had a “thank you” party at someone else’s house, and now had their own house, so they offered to let someone (maybe me?) have a party at theirs (or was it mine?). Anyway, the alcohol was flowing freely and everyone was having a good time. I recall jumping down from a loft (?) hand in hand with a friend whose name I think was Ricky. He was there with his g/f and I was with someone, so we hadn’t been doing anything we oughtn’t have been, it was just a fun party atmosphere. Next thing I know, I’m hitting on (remember what I said, Freudians?) my old high school principal, and…it’s working. I was my own age now, but he was whatever his age when I was seventeen. Actually, he was 42 in the dream and I know that because he said it, right before someone at the party (Ricky? He had honey blond hair that was dark underneath, and he was wearing a yellow T-shirt) got into a huge argument with a neighbor about the noise. I remember he shouted, “I don’t give a FUCK about your fucking tree-planting party!” (I don’t make this stuff up). Also, there was that tiny incident where V punched the prostitute someone had tried to bring in as a date (she wore a pink tank top with a glittery butterfly on the front), and although she was very upset, all I said was, “You’ll have to leave. No pros in my house” and shove her out the door. Then, I went back to where Peter was sitting on a beige pillowback sofa, leaning on a crimson cushion. He was looking at a catalogue of hockey gear (though it was summer), and when he finished his Bacardi Breezer (very masculine drink, and he had it in a wine glass :lol:), he and I decided to leave and go to his place. I sort of draped myself over him and said, “Okay, sure–let’s go before the cops get here. Are you still in Grand Pré?” He gave me a slightly surprised look, then replied, “Well, yes. How did you know I was there in the first place?” I told him “I used to live there myself” (true, though long after I was out of school). Thankfully, it was at that point that I woke up. I don’t want to know what this dream means, I didn’t even like my principal in high school (he tossed me out of Grade 12 three times for my abysmal attendance), much less have any kind of crush on him or want to sleep with him, and although I do now recall that he did live in Grande Pré, I have no idea how I found that out, and if you’d asked me yesterday, I’m 99.99% sure I would not have remembered. It was the cheese popcorn, I know it. 😉
As I was checking my fan mail yesterday….. What? You didn’t know my blog has a fan club? Well, of course it does–it’s a very popular destination on the web, and I most certainly do have a fan club (Hi, Michelle!) Anyway, my fan…s wrote yesterday and inquired as to whether POW/MIA flag man was the same one who has the living room on his front porch, and sleeps out there like some old homeless guy. He is, indeed, but the “living room” has grown to a cross between a yard sale and a train wreck, and I realised that complain as I have, I’ve never posted a picture. Not that any picture (particularly one surreptitiously taken as I pretend to be shooting my own house) could possibly capture the ambience of this decor, but I did my best. So, adoring fan….s, may I present….Yard Sale House!
I took this from across the street, and although it fails to capture the gory details, you can get a good idea of the amount of clutter here. There’s a sofa on the left (complete with mismatched blankets and pillows) and on the right, a table and chairs, plus a gas barbeque (which would be fine on its own). I like the little flower border along the walk, but a few little flowers can’t atone for all of that junk, clutter and plastic. Overall, the effect is a yard sale gone very, very wrong. Do bear in mind that our houses are close to the street, no fences, and that NOBODY ELSE IN THE ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD HAS A MESS LIKE THIS. Hey, fuckwad–this is your front, PUBLIC porch, it’s not your living room and we don’t want to see the crap you bought at Wal-Mart. Our neighbors are, for the most part, elderly people who keep their property neat and don’t bother anyone. If you drove down our street and saw this, you’d immediately think of Sesame Street, as in “one of these things is not like the others”. We understand that you’re probably just over-enthusiastic because you couldn’t decorate the blocked-up 1979 Trans-Am where you used to live, but back it off a little, willya! The black rectangle on the left of the door isn’t really there, that’s where I blanked out the house number to protect the innocent (me, since this goddamn mess is next door).
Here’s a shot taken from my front porch. It’s a bit dark, and the railing somewhat obscures the true effect, but you can see that there’s hardly an inch of space that isn’t cluttered by SOMETHING, and there’s shit hanging all over the place. One more tacky grapevine wreath and I’m not responsible for anything I do. The bicycle is fine (it’d probably get stolen if it were in the back yard), and okay, I can see a barbeque if there’s nowhere else to put it, but who the FUCK has a dining room set, a collection of mismatched folding chairs and a sofa ON THE FRONT FUCKING PORCH? I particularly like the plastic eagle, wicker basket of yellow plastic flowers and (beside it) the plastic Yorkshire terrier. The three-foot plastic palm tree with the lights on it is on the other side, so you’re spared the agony. The flags, the flags, oh Christ, the flags. Yes, dickface, we get it–you’re American, and you’re patriotic. Now could you do it with a little more style and class so I don’t have to LOOK AT THIS SHIT?
On a brighter note, SP just opened the door and the stench of the room is better than usual. Only the stale urine smell today, not the raw sewage. Yay.