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The Election Results Are In

But nobody's gonna hear crap about them until we get an impacted ass full of the Britney Spears announcement that she, having listened to everyone, finally, CANNOT SUSTAIN ANYTHING MEANINGFUL OVER A GIVEN PERIOD OF TIME.

Britney, who believes we should follow the President right now no matter whut (her word), is getting divorced from Kevin "Sperm For Sweat" Federline (his word). They have two young sons together, not to mention years of total screwed up-edness to look forward to with the OTHER kids Kevin made with another woman I can't remember, but whom does not bother me in the least, and therefore is my favorite of the Kevin Federline Baby-mommas.

I, as a man soon to be married (her word), cannot tell you how important it is to give marriage not ONLY a solid two-year run, but also to just pop out kids and make a circus of it and do everything you can to focus on your marriage being focused on, instead of focusing on the Marriage. It's much like putting chrome 18-inch rims on a tractor. Then using that tractor to pull a VW Corrado to a Chuck E. Cheese, before the Corrado tells the Tractor to be careful with the tokens, "them games is like gambling, I sway-ur to Pat Sajak (my words)."

I wish I could say more, but I am off to revel in victory of Votes! Money doesn't buy class, just everything else that matters to classless people.



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Duhmocracy In Action

Each registered voter has a duty to perform next Tuesday: Use the turn signal and get in the flow of traffic. On the other end of that jaunt, at some point, there is a voting ballot with your name on it. That makes it easier to track your movements from the cabal headquarters, which isn’t where you may think it is. (You didn’t hear it from me, and you didn’t hear the words “time-share in Estacada.")

The past few elections and opportunities to vote have raised a lot of questions in our society. Who controls voting procedure? Why is it different from place to place? What would generate a larger voter turn-out? Why isn’t there any free food at voting sites? Does question 4 answer question 3? Why vote when I rarely seem to win, no matter how many ballots I complete?

Democracy is a form of government For the People, Of the People, and By the People. The common thread to all of those tenets is “People.” The common flaw to those tenets is “People.” By the People? Have you seen The People? Bad drivers, cell-phone wireless earpiece yappers, 15 items in the 10-Or-Less line, and their vote counts just as much as yours and mine. But I am not deluded by our Democratic Voting Procedure. I am encouraged by it. Without The People, the computers will take over and control the voting, and luckily we are hundreds of minutes away from that happening. Eventually the computers will take over the voting, too, and it’s going to be terrible! Computers will be voting based on logic and numbers, instead of feelings and politics.

Oh no.
The horror.

I am an American. A tax-payer. A homeowner. I have a Bachelors Degree. I read. I bathe regularly, whether I need it or not. I vote. I vote so that a victory of one of my favorite initiatives will crush the dreams of its opponents. I vote to get one of those “I Voted!” stickers that remind other people to feel guilty for abstaining. I vote, even though there is no veggie platter or meat tray available. And I know that when I make my marks on my mail-in ballot and send it in if I can find a stamp, my vote will arrive safe and sound to a highly trained volunteer. And then my ballot, my VOTE, will OFFICIALLY not count.

As stewards of our environments it is a very small, yet very important effort to partake in something many people have died to defend: Our freedom to let our neighbors screw things up because we didn’t go vote. Be American. Vote Like It Matters.

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The Post Office = P.O.

Couple weeks back I go to the Post Office to send some stuff to a buddy of mine, a couple of comedy promos, headshots (ones I stole), and a brownie wrapped in toilet paper. Went for a padded mailer envelope, runs about $2 at the P'Office. The line is 9 deep, running about 4 minutes/transaction, listening to every old MF shuffle their feet to the counter before asking 5 questions about stamps. I can't wait to be that old and just completely throw people's lives off-skej (schedule) with my pre-planned "folksiness." Then again, maybe these oldsters don't have any friends still alive or family around to help them, which makes me think "Wow, your family won't help you? What a pile of crap you must've been."

I grab the mailer, 10th now in line, and it's just taking fo-rever. I say quietly, "Oh my, this is most unpleasant, this wait. I have so much to accomplish that I simply can NOT wait any longer. 'Tis best now to excuse myself." So I f*ck-off to the self-serve kiosk where I can weigh my package... AND what I'm sending to my buddy... buy the postage for it and get on with my day.

I bag my goods in the envelope, deftly and gorgeously scrawl the address on the front of it, seal it with a mucous-laden loogie though it had the adhesive on it already, and weigh it up. $4-ish bucks for 3 day, fine, hit it. I slap the thing on it, drop it in the thing, and get the F outta there. TOTALLY FORGETTING TO PAY FOR THE ENVELOPE.

I guess you could say I "stole" it, since I procured its use without the proper exchange of currency for the sundry good. I decided that my life and time was too valuable to wait in line for that $2, so I'd return soon when it wasn't so busy and drop the $2 on the mailer without a big explanation. It’s the right thing to do, and it’s got an air of neighborliness not seen since Eddie Haskell commented on the Beauty of the Beaver’s Mom’s pearl necklace.

So I head back to the P’Office and do the math… what I make per hour = X, and the cost of the envelope = Y, and Karma = Z. So (X/Y) = Z, or X*Y/Z = Public Education In Math. After about 7 minutes in line, with no hope for moving any faster (who the hell are the elderly sending everything to? Are they willing off their figurines early?), I say quietly, “THIS NONSENSE IS NONSENSE AND I’M GONNA LEAVE.” I turned on my heels and headed right out to the door, and the F to my life.

Then I realized, hey, how about a quick explanation on a piece of paper about the situation? I could tuck a couple of dollars into an envelope, or a check! I could write a check and drop that in and throw it in a processing bin and they’d see it and run it up front. Well, that may actually screw up the whole process, slowing it down EVEN MORE (call Steven Hawking, his wormhole is in Bellevue) while they take the envelope up to get rung in. That is assuming that they didn’t just rip it open and take the cash, or hell, even the check and then assume my identity and write blogs and end up in my car some morning swearing at people in Pig Latin. I’d cut in line and just drop it on the counter, in hopes they didn’t think I was trying to rob the place, if they could put F & CK together and figure the deal out. Nope, too risky.

You can’t trust people to do the right thing, I guess.

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I Need Your Opinion

Thanks for swinging by here.

I'm at the point where I need to leap and know that the net will catch me, or keep eyeing the cliff. Let's not get into where the cliff is or what it offers vs. the exhiliration of the leaping. I need your ideas...

To the right of this blog are some truly outstanding works of literary stuff.

WHICH ONES ARE YOU FAVORITES? Let me know. Because, see, I have to leap, eventually, and it can be a controlled leap with a harness that I can secure to the cliff and let out more rope each time I leap, but the effort to climb back up can tire you out. I need to find what my best writing was and is, and take it to the next level, which means I gotta step up, which means I need to get booked for about 10 gigs at a high rate so I can not worry about this bullshit day job.

Email me, lemme know!

Love,
Geoff

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Bursting The Dam

My recent trip to Utah started the way most short flights do: scanning the gate area for unruly children (see previous blog, “You Can’t Afford NOT To”). There was one kid who was nuts, doing the screaming that only kids can scream when they want to see how loud they can be. A well-dressed older man on a mobile phone (cell = cellular = old technology) nearby said into that phone, “One sec…” hit his mute button, then yelled “AAAAAAAAAAH!” His outburst was unexpected, but necessary, and effective.

The kid stopped dead in his tracks, wide-eyed staring at the man who had just interrupted his yelling. The look on the kid’s face can be best described as “I lose.” EVERYONE turned suddenly, and the gentleman put his hands up to his mouth and said “Oh dear, I thought it was yelling time! Sorry fella!” His jovial tone made everyone giggle a bit, and I’m pretty sure I chuckled as I sent his aura a metaphysical Starbucks card. The kid did not peep the rest of the afternoon. This yelling trick is now in my repertoire.

Let’s reverse field a bit. I got through security in my usual “extra 5 minutes because of the rod in my leg” situation (see previous blog, “How I Got This Scar...”). I always get pulled aside because the rod in my leg sets off the machine. Every time. I’ve been through without the rod, nothing. I went through with it, DEET DEET. Then I get to sit in the little Plexiglas corral while they wave the wand over me to make sure I’m not getting on the plane with any extra dignity or expediency. Security is of the utmost importance, until some of these wussies get on board with my Vigilante Justice movement. Then I gather my shoes… SHOES!... book bag crammed with belt, phone, watch, and my clown nose and I’m off to pay $8 for a Balance bar.

This time through I needed water like Courtney Love needs water. I paid $2 for a 20oz bottle at the little shop, and moved on to my gate. As we boarded I held it in my hand, walking past the gate agent, a flight attendant, another attendant, and then one more attendant. It was in plain view. Nobody said anything about it, seeing as there IS a restriction on liquids being brought through security. I understand the gels, because people who wear hair gel shouldn’t be allowed to fly.

I made my way to my seat, an aisle seat across from two people whom the field of medicine would label “mastodon.” They wore matching shirts… SHIRTS!... as if they would not be able to find one another in the event they became separated. Just look for the sweaty head. Immediately upon sitting I hear a voice that is laden with the echoes of needing to have some sort of control in life. The tattle-tale. The one who got left out because she complained, and then proceeded to complain because she got left out. A World-Class Nag.

“Excuse me. Where did you get that water?”, she asked, emphasizing water like it were a stack of Valrhona 70% cocoa bars. (I really like those)

“At the news stand,” I replied, very nicely for someone who was on his way to Utah.

“Well they said I couldn’t bring water on the plane and I’m diabetic and I have the kind that I need a lot of water because I get thirsty,” frumped she.

“Oh.”, I exclaimed.

“Yeah, I need water for my…” she trailed off looking for something in the distance. I was a little flummoxed because in all my travels I had never had this encounter. I understand that she wasn’t asking me for my water, but it suddenly seemed that water was the great equalizer! I was in POWER because I had a bottle of water, and how could I be so callous as to just flaunt it? HOW DARE I! Everyone knows that diabetes can only be cured by Dasani! (made by Coca Cola, also a cause of diabetes!)

As she continued railing against the gods and flight attendants keeping all water out of her body, a man, a woman, and a tiny baby being held by the woman approached. They looked at their tickets, at the empty seat to my right, and the man said “Well mine is back there.” I said “Hey, I can move back to your seat and you two can sit next to each other,” which is a really nice thing to do, unless the guy was looking forward to time away from his wife and baby. Life isn’t perfect, stop groaning.

They say “Sure,” I stood, grabbed THE WATER BOTTLE OF DESTINY!, and moved back two rows to a middle seat between a guy wearing a NorthFace parka and some other guy wondering who wears a NorthFace park in the Summer on a plane. (man named Craig, that’s who) They weren’t any happier to see me than I was to smell the unwashed parka, but there I was. And it wasn’t very good camouflage.

Five minutes later a flight attendant of the female persuasion was stopped by Diane Betes (of earlier Water Fiasco fame) who started pointing and yammering on. Flight Attendant (FA) came back to ask me if I had a bottle with me, and I said Yes. FA then mentioned with a sigh that she had to take it, I understand, but she’d BRING ME TWO MORE BOTTLES. Of Dasani, mind you.

Mrs. Betes TOLD ON ME instead of just asking for a couple bottles of water. Her problem would be solved by simply asking for water, but instead she had to bring me into it as though her disease were my fault. As stated earlier, I walked past a number of FA’s who saw the bottle and didn’t say a word. And now I’m getting tattled-on at the age of 32 by a woman wearing a man’s polo shirt from “Extra Room Clothiers & Fudge.” I wish I were kidding.

Throughout the flight to Salt Lake City it was mentioned to me by a number of FA’s how much trouble my bottle had caused. They had all heard about it. The only threat my bottle of water posed to anyone was to the tattler’s piehole. I could only shake my head. They got their message across loud & clear: Some people, ya know? This wasn’t a patriotic move by the complainer; she was concerned only about the fact that she was put-out by not getting her share of water, and therefore, someone needed to suffer. For the record, when the drink cart came through 30 minutes later, The Betes Twins ordered Cokes.

When returning through Salt Lake City’s security, planning on grabbing a seat for the leg wanding, Latter Day Saint style, I pushed my bucket of goods into the scanner and set to walking. There is some very high-tech stuff at Salt Lake’s airport in the security section, mind you. X-ray scans, a water-sniffing turtle, etc. So I was surely going to trigger 1,000 times the number of alarms my leg usually sets-off.

But I didn’t. When you think you’re going to set off someone’s alarms, yet you don’t, it’s best to not blurt out “It’s about time I got through with this thing!” Just shut up and move on with it. It works, sometimes.

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An Argument For Robots Everywhere

Customer service, dead websites, people who speak English but don't understand logic, and people who DO speak English but can't figure out the difference between "helpful" and "pointless yammering."

I swear, I woke up in a nearly good mood today, too.


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