Staring at the vending machine

I’m dieting. Dieting, for the most part, truly sucks, though this effort hasn’t been as bad because Momma Pug and I haven’t had time to go get bad shit. I’m sure that, if I didn’t work on the far side of the world and Momma Pug hadn’t been having late-night classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the temptation would be greater.

Anyway, I’m losing weight. Slowly but surely, I am. I’m at the lowest I’ve been in…well, fuck, I don’t know. A long time. In embarrassingly long time. But still, not being a disgusting moron eating everything in sight and working out (not as much as I should) is working. By July, when we go to Las Vegas, I intend to be looking fucking smooth.

(Note: You have to italicize fucking smooth because, if you don’t, fucking smooth doesn’t look fucking smooth. But I digress.)

Of course, none of this stopped me from going to the vending machine about an hour ago. That one dollar was burning a whole in my pocket, just like that first-round draft pick the Redskins have is setting Dan Snyder’s toosh aflame. I’ve been good this week, so I figured, why not?

So, off to the vending machine. I took a look at what was there: candy bars, which I wasn’t going to get anyway, were there in vast quantities. But I was looking at the other stuff. Here’s what I found:
Nacho Cheese Doritos: Or, as I like to call them, Mexican-themed chips for pussies. Come on. No heat, no deal. If you’re going to try to market something Mexican, bring something with some zing!
Of course, I hear these pieces of crap are very popular in places like Illinois and Wisconsin. Pussies.
Chili flavored Fritos: Ok, I know what you’re going for here, the Frito Pie angle. But do you have hot chili, with real hamburger in it? No. Real cheese? Nyet. We all know what it is: artificial dust on a Frito. Whoop-de-do. And Fritos suck anyway.
By the way, we all know what Frito Pie looks like. So I won’t go there.
Mini Chips Ahoy: Big Chips Ahoy qualify as residents of crapdom. They’re stale, tasteless and, essentially, the snack version of toxic waste. So that’s just what I want: the mini version of garbage! How appealing!
Plain potato chips: I mean, solid grease. Feels so good coming and going out. Pass.
Granola bars and trail mix: What the fuck is this? Have I moved to Oregon? Do I suddenly like butt sex and hugging trees? Look, I’m already regular. I need no assistance from the fucking vending machine.

So I stared at the machine for a few minutes, then turned around and left. I still have “points” to use today, so lunch may be something evil.

It sure as hell won’t be Frito Pie, though.

Our new upstairs

The Missus has been kind enough, over the course of the past two and a half years, to indulge me in the collection of some autographed baseball and football jerseys (as you've seen below). After much frustration, delays, and holes in the wall, we've completed our quest to get them framed and up on the walls (though the George Brett jersey has replaced the Stan Musial jersey, as we look for a shadowbox that'll fit it).

Here's how it looks (if something looks tilted, it's the picture, not how it's hanging):



(NFL Hall of Famer John Riggins, Washington Redskins)




(NFL Hall of Famer Sammy Baugh, QB for the Redskins BEFORE WORLD WAR II)




(1957 Heisman Trophy Winner John David Crow, Texas A&M)



(Some guy named Nolan Ryan)



(Kansas City Royals Hall of Famer George Brett)



(Baltimore Orioles Hall of Fame pitcher Jim Palmer--yeah, the guy who did the underwear ads)



(Orioles hall of famer Brooks Robinson, also known as the best third baseman EVER)

And, of course, the crown jewel...



Yeah, the guy who's named after my dog. At least, that's what Rippy says.

So Riggo, Baugh and Cal are in the main TV room; the rest are in the computer room. They're a major portion of my collection, which I'm very proud of--and very greatful to Momma Pug that I could get them, much less take up all the upstairs wall space to hang 'em.