Name of the day

The other day, I ran across the name of Pearland's City Secretary. The guy's name was Young Lorfing.

That is an awesome name. YOUNG LORFING. The guy is missing out on a tremendous opportunity to be a Norse God. ODIN! THOR! YOUNG LORFING!

Can you imagine what his commercials could be like if he ran for office?

"I'm Young Lorfing and I approved this message. Vote for me OR I WILL SMITE YOU WITH FIRE!"

Don't screw with Young, man.

This is not how I remembered single life

Ok, so Momma Pug is out of town, visiting the fam in Mississippi. Actually, she may not even be there yet -- her flight left about an hour ago.

Still, in that time, it's already been an orgasmic experience. I have learned that some people are meant to be hitched, and that I'm one of them.

So Momma Pug's flight left at 7:25, which meant it boarded at 6:45, which meant we had to be up at 0-dark-hundred. After a furious sprint from Pearland to Bush Intercontinental Airport, on the other side of Houston (note: you CAN make this trip in 25 minutes, in proper traffic), it was back home.

That was also a furious sprint, because I really, REALLY had to go to the bathroom. It was a squirm-a-thon all the way home. But I made it.

Only to walk in and see that Ripken had unloaded by the back door and someone had shredded it. Nice.

After taking care of my bodily needs, I cleaned up his. Then I heard a thud -- Sonny the Pug falling down in the kitchen. That, I suppose, I should have predicted; after all, somehow a bottle of vegetable oil fell out of the pantry during the night and shattered. I tried cleaning it up before we left, and failed, so I tried again. Yeah, still as slick as an ice skating rink.

So I did what all good people should do when frustrated -- GO TO WAL-MART.

Amazingly, as you can tell from the fact that I've posted this, I was not arrested for killing a Mexican who cut in line. This was impossible, as there were no Mexicans in Wal-Mart.

Let me repeat that: THERE WERE NO MEXICANS IN WAL-MART. In fact, there was hardly anybody there! It was great! It was clean, the floors were nicely buffed, the smells from the bakery were tremendous. I'm sure that by 1 p.m. it will smell like a Bombay flea market, but hey, at 7 in the morning, Wal-Mart's the shit.

But, this does not solve the problem back home. I get back and the boys are sliding all over the floor. So I started looking through our household supplies and came up with a solution -- the high-powered Dawn soap that you pump out and use on the dishes. After all, it cuts 10 times more grease!

So I dump a bunch of water on the floor, pump the dawn out and get on my knees and start scrubbing. Half way through, I realized that I am on bachelor status with three dogs, a cat, a hangover, four hours of sleep and I'm on my knees scrubbing up vegetable oil.

What happened to the Hugh Hefner-esque stag parties? Where did I go wrong?

Momma Pug, come home.

ESPN: East Coast Sports Network

Hi.

I live in Texas.

I am dead to ESPN.

If you're not in the following states, you are too: New York, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania and California.

Honestly? If you don't live in New York or Boston, screw you. ESPN has no need for your viewership or your eyes on their Web site.

I doubt that I am alone in this, but I am fed the fuck up with ESPN. There are a multitude of reasons for this, but I will mention but a few:
* They love Steven A. Smith. They think he's trite and hilarious. HOWEVA, every other employer that Steven A. has ever had thinks he's a dumbass and has fired him. He was actually a very good newspaper writer; he is, however, a horrible TV person. For instance: he gets assigned to the NBA draft to interview newly drafted idiots--err, players. Then he proves himself to be the biggest idiot on the set by NOT KNOWING WHICH POSITION THE GUY HE'S TALKING TO PLAYS. It's not real hard. Do your homework. Minus 5 points.

* Stewart Scott. BOOYAH! You suck. Don't act like you're a jock when we know you can't catch a football (that's why he had the screwed up eye). Minus 50 points.

* Dick Vitale. Shut up already, BABY!

* The basic overuse of catchphrases and underuse of any legitimate information.

* Rachel Nichols scares me.

* Dana Jacobson scares me worse. I think she came in fourth in the Preakness, behind Big Brown, Sara Jessica Parker and Princess Camilla.

* Emmitt Smiff still has a job covering the NFL.

* So does Chris Berman, the ultimate TV blowhard. Wait...oh, sorry, Keith. Rephrased -- the ultimate TV blowhard not named Keith Olbermann.

But here's the big thing: THEY DON'T COVER ANYTHING BUT BOSTON AND NEW YORK!

The Patriots had their own show for six months. It was called SportsCenter. Oddly, it was transferred to the Celtics in February. The Red Sox are forced to share a show with the Yankees; it's called "Baseball Tonight."

The Cubs are in position to win their first title in a century. The Rays are good. The Orioles are back from the dead. The Twins are on fire and the Tigers are coming back to life. Doesn't matter. Here are your ESPN baseball headlines:

"Schilling's wonderful arm recovering"
"Ortiz's return to greatness imminent"
"THREE DAYS UNTIL JOBA STARTS AGAIN! WOOHOO!"

Ok, this is a slight overstatement. Not much of one. Joba Chamberlain's first win as a starter outranked Shawn Chacon's ATTACK ON HIS GENERAL MANAGER on ESPN.com as a matter of importance.

What?

Then you have this dumbass known as Bill Simmons, who calls himself "The Sports Guy." Actually, he should rename himself "I'm from Bahstan and that's all I'm ever going to write about, the 18-0 Patriots, the World Champion Sawks and the Wahld Champion Celtics. I love myself."

Hey Bill: F you. You're not funny. You're just another Beantowner with a superiority complex. The only people more annoying than you are New Yawkahs with the same complex.

Oh, wait. That's the rest of ESPN. Now, forgive me for interrupting your pimping of the Red Sox-Yankees series next week.

A hard wind blowin' (in a circular fashion)

I’m sure that most of you have already gone to my wife’s site (Mommapug.com) and looked at the footage of the tornadoes that nearly touched down in our fair town this past weekend, but I’m going to give my take on things too. For one, I don’t think my bride is being quite fair to yours truly when she says me and Sonny T. Pug could sleep through a 747 taking off.

In fact, I heard at least one of the tornadoes. It woke me up. But, since I am NOT FAMILIAR WITH TORNADOES, I…well, went back to sleep.

When we came home from fixture getting (that’s another story) Saturday afternoon, we noticed that, as it had the previous three days, the skies were getting pretty darned dark. Indeed, by the time we got home it was starting to rain fairly hard.

At this point, yours truly was a bit tuckered out, as I had been up since 7:30 after having gone to bed after midnight the evening before (it sucks getting old). So, with the nice sound of the rain pouring down, I went and took a nap.

After about 25 minutes, I heard a whooshing noise. I had always heard that a tornado sounded like a train, so it didn’t bother me that much after I noticed that the fence outside wasn’t getting knocked down and the big tree in the back yard was still standing (which is a good thing, because if it had fallen, I would have been quite DEAD).

Well, apparently this whooshing noise was tornado number one. And it freaked out Ripken, who immediately ran to try to get hims mommy to stop watching stupid Japanese game shows and preserve her existence. Note: She didn’t, so I don’t feel nearly as stupid.

When I woke up again, it was still raining really hard. When I went into the bathroom, I DID hear the distinctive train noise, which was enough to give me pause (and scare the shit out of me). But, after two or three seconds, it went away. I guess that was tornado number two.

At this point, I went upstairs and checked the weather. I looked and called down to the Missus and said, “Hey, we’re under a tornado warning!”

Now, I can safely say, “no shit?”

Screwing with the scammers

Ok, we all hate the scam E-mailers, the guys who try to tell you they need your help because they're dying, or their client's dead, or they've been kicked out of power or (a new one) U.S. Banks won't except their checks because they're located in Canada. After all, you just have to respond to their E-mail and give them your bank account number and boom-you're rich!

Riiight.

Well, it's easy to either delete these or just respond and say "fuck off." But these jackholes are so annoying it's fun to toy with them some. That's what I did this morning, after I received this wonderful note:

Dear Sir/Ma, (I love this; what the fuck is "Ma?" are we in Alabammy in the thirties or something?)

Please permit me to write you irrespective of the fact we have not met before. I got your contact through network online hence I decided to write you. I would be very interested in offering you a part-time paying job in which you could earn a lot. Getting an accountant in the states or opening an account would have been my best choice but I have a deadline to meet and taking any of those choices would cost me time and a whole lot of other requirements,which I am not ready to deal with. That is where i need your assistant and service. APPLICATION FORM is added to this email which you will complete and send back to us to enable us register your application. Below are the details of the job and your application form.

STOCK DIVISION ARTS & GIFT run an arts gallery in the Canada and we need some one to work for the company as a representative/Account Officer in United States. The company deals in the sale of Art and Craft works, sculptures and carvings, antique and produces various fabrics materials, batiks, assorted fabrics and various traditional costumes from all over the world and we have clients we supply weekly in the United States.

ADVANTAGES
You do not have to go out as you will work as an independent contractor right from your home office. Your job is absolutely legal.
You can earn up to $3000-4000 monthly.
You do no need any capital to start.
You can do the Work easily without leaving or affecting your present Job.
You have a strong possibility to become managers if you are Honest and hard working.

WHY WE NEED YOU
The reason why we need you is mainly owing to the fact that when we supply samples or large quantities of Products and payments are issued out in the form of Certified Official US Checks, it takes a minimum of 25 banking days for the payments to clear into our accounts here in the Canada; this greatly slows down our working capital and incentives, It also slow down our full financial capacity, because we also have to make payments to the sources of the materials.

JOB DESCRIPTION
(A) Receive Payments on our Behalf from our American Customers; such payments shall come in the form of Certified US Official Checks
(B) Cash such payments at your local Bank
(c) Deduct the money that accrues to you.(10% Of the Money)
(D) Transfer the balance to the company via Money gram Or Western Union International Money Transfer.
Below is the form for you to complete and email it back to me for processing. You will be contacted back as soon as your application is successful.
I hope to receive your completed application form today.

My response:

Dear Mr. James (or should I call you Oliver? Ollie?):

Thank you for your letter. I am interested in your job, but I have a few questions for you before I send the application form back to you.

First, I must say that I am very disappointed in your attempt to use multi-syllabic words to sound more intelligent. I’ve got to say, Ollie, that it makes you look a little silly. Professional writers like myself can spot a fraud easily, and if it wasn’t for your plainly honest approach, I would consider you one. I guess that you probably had a few too many cold ones before you wrote this, eh? I know that Labatt’s is some powerful stuff.

Also, why are you having so much trouble opening an account in the United States? Thanks to the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), a Canadian address works just as good as an American one. I think you need to talk to your bank, because those hosers are giving you a hard time.

I’m very interested in helping you out, because I am an artist myself. I will admit this with some hesitance, since we haven’t met, but I do have a background in music (that’s why I consider myself a professional writer – only a pro could write lyrics like mine, where I “rock the mike like a vandal.”). My real name is Robert Van Winkle – pay no attention to the name attached to this E-mail; it’s just a pseudonym. You can call me RVW or “Ice” for short.

In any case, Ollie, art is a hobby, nay, an obsession with me. Helping someone spread this glorious form of expression is something I’d be happy to do. What kinds of arts and crafts are you selling? Where are the sculptures and carvings from? I personally enjoy the works of the Byzantine period; their mosaics are dazzling.

Tell me, Ollie, how can we do this without it affecting my present job? I see that you mentioned that, but I’d really like to hear your plan. By the way, where in Canada do you live? I know a guy named Geoff Cain from British Columbia; you might know him.

Now that hockey’s over, what are you doing up there? Sucks that an American team won the cup again, eh?

Anyway, I must be off. They’re calling my name on A1A—Beachfront Boulevard. Write back with this necessary information quickly so we may stop, collaborate and listen. I look forward to working with you.


God Bless,
RVW

I'll let you know if he bothers to write back.

A dumb approach to cleanliness

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well, if that’s the case, what happens to ideas that sounded good at the time? Are they paving a road outside of Mosul or something? I’d really like to know, because I have another brick or piece of concrete or whatever to add to it:

Doing things you usually do in the morning the night before.

Last night, after watching the A&M-Rice baseball debacle (whose outcome I predicted, to the way it would end, right after the first pitch), I noticed it was getting sort of late. Well, that gave me two options: go to bed right then or shower up and everything and sleep a little bit later this morning. Considering that I looked like a mountain man and probably smelled as good by the time last night rolled around (sort of forgot that showering thing since Friday), I figured that I wouldn’t foul up the sheets or ruin the wife’s sinuses any worse than they already are and would shower up. After all, I sort of hate feeling long facial hair anyway.

So I took out my contacts – a BIG MISTAKE – and got to it. I showered, washed my hair and all that good stuff. Got out and shaved.

Ok, I’ve seen my dad do this and he’s none the worse for ware in the morning – or, for that, matter, the evening. Of course, he also doesn’t have lousy eyes like I do. Soon, it became a game of “guess where the last razor stroke was”.

(Note: that game sucks. Don’t play it.)

Anyway, with slightly damp hair and a cleanly shaven face, I went to bed.

When I got up this morning, I went the top of my hair, put my contacts in and checked the shaving job. It looked ok. Success!

So I get to work and start hacking away, not paying much attention to the occasional query about whether or not I had a rough weekend. I did; the Aggies lost twice, the Astros sucked royal dick and I had to gas up the Trailblazer. Add in almost getting shanked by a Charlie Manson wanna-be on the Galveston sea wall and you’ve got an el shitto weekend, you feel me?

It wasn’t until about 1 this afternoon that I figured out why I was getting asked the questions. I went to the bathroom and checked my reflection in the mirror and nearly puked.

The top of my hair is ok. The left side is ok. The right side, on the other hand, is sticking out like it wants to be a competitor in a Don King hairdo competition. Then, I checked the sideburns—one is probably a half inch higher than the other, which is missing a huge chunk so it looks like I’ve just got a clop of rapidly growing hair sitting on the side of my face for no particular reason.

In all, I look embarrassingly bad. If I gave a damn, I’d be upset. As it is, I’m just hiding and praying for 5 to get here. After all, I’m an 8 to 5 guy.

That which does not kill you...still hurts a lot

So the diet continues. I guess it's working, even though the scale says otherwise (I haven't gained, but haven't lost either). I can see a difference for the better, in spite of three really bad weekends in a row (two with out-of-town visitors, one just being Fing lazy).

The difference comes from actually working out. I've put together a small spot in the garage with a Nordic Trac, an ab roller and the perfect pushup thingy. A friend of mine calls it "the Sauna," even though he's never seen it, because he can imagine how hot it can get in there when it's 90-something outside, the door is down and I don't turn the fan on. But it works, and I digress.

Another digression--what kind of music do you work out to? I've got some pretty decent metal songs that I listen to, but I don't know how long that'll last before I get tired of them. And it would seem embarrassing to sweating to Abba or Bananarama or Bach (either the composer or the dude from Skid Row). So I'm open to suggestions.

Anyway, getting on the Nordic Trac for between 15 and 20 minutes is becoming easier, especially when I have my crackberry and can read as I go. If my left calf, which has been a mess since I was in high school, doesn't tighten up, it's ok and works up a good sweat.

It's the other stuff that suck.

When I get done on the Nordic Trac, I go to the ab roller and do crunches. I had been doing them before, but I found that my technique wasn't quite right (yeah, get your mind out of the gutter) and made a change. There has been an immediate result.

THESE DAMNED THINGS HURT!

With the defective method (stop it, perv), I could do 150 of them without stopping. With the new method, I can do 50 and it feels like someone either kicked me in the gut or that t.u. won the national championship in a meaningful sport (again). 100 and I'm ready to puke. Actually, one time I did, but that was probably because I was dumb enough to actually eat something before going outside to work out. It was worse than when I had to sit through a Val Kilmer marathon.

Then there's the perfect pushup (well, when the laundry isn't in the way. This is, after all, the garage).

No matter how out of shape I got, I could always drop and hit a quick 50. Yeah, well, not with this puppy. If I get to 25, it's a good day. It'll also make me scream like a 3-year-old who just had his birthday cake taken away from him.

So why do I do this to myself? Because I'm both a fatass and an idiot and this is the price to pay for that lovely combination.

Oh, that and walking like Mickey Rooney the next day.