Of Accountability and Satchels

My debit card was one of a trailer-load that MAY have been compromised when somebody left their IM open at a bank and threw most of King County into terror.

I got a new card a week ago, but no PIN number, as something went to, then back from, my old address. The one thing that I needed, that PIN, was returned. I have a shiny new card, money in the bank, and no access to it without, gulp, filling out a withdrawal slip.

I had no idea the revolution was going to happen so soon. I had it penciled in for early October, but I've been really busy, so...

In the event somebody DID steal my identity, I'm only gonna say this once:
You do so much as ONE hacky joke, and I'll personally Horse you Enumclaw-style.
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In response to the tragedies of the London transportation bombings, New York City's police and/or Port Authority officials are going to start conducting random bag searches.

"WHAT?!" somebody exclaims. "INFRINGE ON MY FREEDOM?!?!" No. Infringe on Privacy. Big diff. And if you're trying to hit the subway and tell a badged person to "put (their) head in (their) ass and a bag and search THAT for a sign of intelligence, DoucheNozzle!" or something to that effect, well gosh, you just ain't gettin' on the train.
People don't want to trade privacy for security. The invasive searches step all over privacy, and by privacy I mean the right to hide embarrassing things in a bag or sack. These Peeky Petes are looking for bombs, explosives, hazardous materials such as guns or children. It's a measure to keep things safe.

Take a deep breath. It's not illegal to carry a bag. Nor is it illegal to carry, in that bag, something that makes the search-party question why they even took the assignment. In their search for boombooms, they may come across a pickle jar filled with a gooey, brown substance interlaced with Romaine lettuce, the jar be-labled "July 5, '05." They don't have to know it's only brownie batter. It's a hassle, it's annoying, it's invasive, and until people stop acting batshit-crazy in the name of their false god, it's 100% necessary. I don't think that ALL Muslims are psychotic suicide bombers. I don't even think .001% of them are.

Don't worry, if they do it right, only the shifty Middle-easterners are going to get searched, every friggin' time. Profiling? Yep. The extremists who are blowing things up and killing innocent, hourly workers, 99% of the time, have the same complexion, hairline, and belief system. YES, white people blow shit up, too, but the subway staircases are too narrow for "Something Ray Something-kins" to get the rental van down it. Eventually, if done correctly, the searches will take place in our homes, where we'll be surprised and stripped down, then made to dance like a tiny ballerina, dooty doo ballerina DANCE FOR FREEDOM.

OR, we can fast forward 10 years and say "These bombings could have been avoided if they'd just started checking people's bags, I mean, who wouldn't stop for 2 seconds just to, hold on... yes, please fill my StarBucks Bag with 1/2-caff and one Sugar pill, I'll turn the drip on later." Win or lose, I need to stop carrying the alarm clock and road flares HA HA HA HA HA thank you Open Mic skills!

I speak from experience when I say that these added security measures are inconvenient. Each time I fly somewhere, I get stopped and wand-searched because I have a rod in my leg as a result of an accident that the government said was due to terrorists. The guy piloting the motorcycle that caused me to have a really shitty Thursday morning was high on heroin, which probably came from Yakima or Kabul.
His decisions back THEN caused me to get searched each time NOW, and therefore Terrorism affects us all, so sayeth the Gubment. I guess they have to be careful.

Whatever, I'm tired. Put weird shit in your bag so they can search away, don't wipe your ass for two days before flying, and you'll be fidgety enough to get strip searched. F*ck You Right Back, Patriot Act. Look into my ass-eye.

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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

The Kid Stays In The Picture, His Dad Can Eat It

President Bush 2: Son Of Ridicula, nominated John G. Roberts, Jr. for Supreme Court justice sometime in the past few weeks. I don't watch much news unless I'm on it. So John G. Roberts, Jr., who may be even whiter than his name belies, brings his family to the White House for the announcement by W. of John G. Roberts, Jr.'s nomination.

The nation that kind of cares watches as the Prez recites what is written for him on a Kid's Menu from Air Force One (re-named Air Force Fun on Saturdays). And as John G. Roberts, Jr. stands near the 6th Most Powerful Man in the Nation (behind Jordan, Dr. Phil, and the alien controlling Cheney's pacemaker -tie- Tom Cruise, and whomever has Lance Armstrong's preserved jingler), Robert's son starts GOING FOR IT!

YOU WANT A HERO, YOU F*CKING GOT A HERO




Let's go over this picture, clockwise.

Left to right, dad's trying to keep his composure. He's realizing that he can't do the normal beating of the boy on TV, even if the President would be cheering him on, but he's planning a good guilt trip the boy will take with him into his career as a GloryHole. Daddy John's got a sort of sick pride in the boy, and likes that he's rambunctious enough to off-set the queer saddle shoes.

W., well, he may be oblivious. It's not uncommon for him to blank out when kids fidget, if you remember story-time on that fateful September morning. The script doesn't say anything about acknowledging child-like, gleeful seizures, so words words words "say, I sure could go for a twirl myself right now."

Wifey's mortified. That boy would be stifling sobs right now if it weren't for the 3 Xanax she chewed down with the mimosa. She can't even look at what her loins have produced. She's either counting backwards from 10, or trying to remember the name of that homeless man she gave a dollar to in hopes of plotting a child abuction. "the code word is... damn him... the code word is FootLoose."

The daughter's got a death-grip on mom, trying to kill little John with her thoughts, knowing that if she so much as sighed she'd get a Richter-scale shaking. This is one moment that will be replayed when she's found at a party with a joint and 4 hickeys, two from her gym teacher, Ms. Danskin.

And finally, our Protagonist, Little John. Crunkin' the conference up like it ain't got nothin' to do with nothin' but sugar and a Little Titans marathon. He's a mascara smudge and tear-drop away from the first-ever televised Honky Krumpin'. And that soundtrack that kids have when they are in the flow, oh man:
"My dad, is the KING and my sister is a FART, and my mom is a BRAT, and I can DANCE like a ROBOT and a ROBOT goes like THIS and I FART and my sister SMELLS it because she is a FART BRAT and I go pee on the CAT that my sister cannot HAVE because Daddy ran it OVER in the car that Mom THREW UP inside, after all that JUICE at Uncle DAN's party farty farty fart fart BUTT BOOBS..." (to the bridge)

Unhinged, unsolicited, unconscious. The kid's got style. Rock on, little weirdo. You may never be able to drive a car or understand why your first family left you at a Toys R Us, but I'm in your corner. I hope your dad gets the appointment, and I hope you dance so well that someday you get Britney Spears' sister pregnant.

I hope you dance.
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the preceding blog is a challenge to other Seattle comic bloggers to Krump my Blog. Whatchoo got?
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Shopping list: Sponge on a stick, Spray Deodorant, Apology Cards

Last night I went to the home of A-Bomb, Moses In JamShorts, and The Ghost Of Warranty Past. The Ghost done sliced up her hand this past weekend, her right hand. It's giving her troubles, to say the least. I'm happy she's okay.

That being said, the weather's been warm, unkind to the mammals of the planet who perspirate. Let's just leave it at this:

When your right hand is bandaged and needs to stay dry, sometimes, just sometimes, your left armpit can pack quite a wallop. Compared to that, my nose has been more delicately punched.

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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Customary Disservice

I'm-a gonna update this later with a problem anybody who has stepped into a mall, grocery store, and/or other-than-7'11 can attest to...

The Aggressively Friendly Store Representative

I'm starting a movement. It's either to get store workers to back the truck off a bit, or yesterday's sushi.

I'll drop it later.
Which is NOW:
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I took last Friday off of work to do a little bit of everything. I organized some of my new life in the new pad, wrote a few jokes, read a bit, balanced my budget, and then headed off to see my dad for a bit.
On the way to the joint my dad is at, I swung by a low-high-end clothing retailer that is in the midst of its Anniversary Sale. It's not an event you can truly capitalize on unless you are a man with extra time and $500 on hand to buy some clothes you kind of like, if you can find your size, which you can't, because you've always been on the big side, but thanks to the epidemic known as American Fatass, seems everyone's an XL. SoI'm losing weight just to comfortably wear just the L.

So I'm looking for my sizes in jeans and sweaters and pants and what-not, as I have plenty of clothes I've donated and can't keep wearing two pairs of jeans all the time. My peasant legs and hips and ass can wear out pants like a glory hole in a Ketchikan tavern. Anyway… in the span of 5 minutes in about 50 square feet of retail space, I was approached 11 times by 4 different "Sales Associates" or whatever they call them instead of "wondering what career to choose with a quarter of community college under their studded white belts." 16 times. 5 SaAsses.

This is a growing deal, thing, issue, problem, hot-button in the marketplace: Aggro-Friendly employees. Can they help you find something? Are you finding everything alright? How are you today? What's on your shirt? Are your boobs real? I meant no offense, Ma'am, I was… SIR, I meant Sir, and yes I see the beard… and no I guess I didn't HAVE to use quotation fingers when I said beard, but it's really not…
You get the picture. It's too much. Constant interruption of a single quiet moment trying to mate two ideas in my head as a combo that is worthy of my getting out of bed for 27 minutes.

Thinking to myself, Hey, nice shirt, it would look good wi
"Hi, can I help you find something?" I think I found it, thanks. But I'll make sure to tell the Lindsey with the green shirt that the Lindsey with the white shirt helped me! 22 times. 19 people.

Okay, this shirt and these jea
"How's it goin'? Findin' everything okay?" Uh, yeah, just trying to match a shirt up with some jeans. "Oh wow, have you seen like these jeans? They're really awesome, and like look good with like everylikethilikeng." I'm holding a pair right here in fact. (silent head bobbing, interrupted by me, farting). "Okay, well if you need help my name's LindsAy." Charmed. 39 times, 900 people. And a muskrat.

Okay so this ball-peen hammer… no, these jeans and this ski-mask with a bite plate, SHIT, no… THIS SHIRT, and the jeans I got yester
"Hey, finding everything you're looking for? Can I start you a room?"
742 times, 2 people in a rapid customer revolution ball like those motorcycle cages.
Yes, please yes, start me a room with a bed and some piano concertos playing and no windows and just a bed with the piano tinkering and give me 5 minutes in there in the dark, please? Then I can make it the rest of the day while having a complete thought and not feel like "consumerism" is actually a movement that hates consumers and creates animosity towards entities such as Nordstr

"Mass like awesome. I'll get room 3 started for you."

I came-to about an hour later in the car, behind a convenience store with my wallet in my teeth and a photocopy of my face. The back read "You're to fat too shop here." The transposed "too" and "to" in bubbly letters cemented the legitimacy of it for me. I didn't even get what I went in there for. And in my rage I realized that those girls and the one really happy guy needed jobs, too. They needed extra dough, and I wanted to help them out, but it just wasn't happening that day. I'll try again, I'm sure, sometime. I guess I could shop on-line, but it's just so impersonal.


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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad