Mea Dogeza

 

I have big plans for this blog…and others. Thanks for checking in, and hopefully it will be worth the wait.

Thanks and sorry,
Matt

Snapshot

I am working late tonight, but before I ordered food, I decided to be responsible and check my balance(s). Didn't want to eat a $73 pizza. Again.

As of 6:35 EST my financial snapshot is like the gauntlet of big balls Wipeout.

Almost made it.

10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!

Wow, 2010 2.0? Can you believe it? Holy shit. It seems just like yesterday that we were celebrating 2010 1.0 when some of us made unrealistic resolutions. It's been a while so let me bring everyone up to speed.

First, I wrote this:

"Although I quite literally limped into 2010 (more on that later) I resolve to write every single day. Should I live to see the year 2011 I anticipate looking back at 365 posts. Not all of them good, but I will write, and hopefully you will comment. I am not looking at you foreign investors. You can stay on the sidelines. Smartphone, however, you are family. Post all you want fella."

Then, I wrote this:

Never have I failed so publicly. Well, that's not true, but never have I failed so publicly and felt this much shame. That's not true either. OK, I fucked up. I posted 9 posts so far in 2010, and all within the first 13 days. But that was so 1.0. Thankfully, Nowruz, the Iranian New Year has given me a renewed sense of purpose.

I'm back.

For now.

So first a bit of housecleaning. Let me welcome all the new folks who have left some incredibly encouraging comments. You helped me through these dark times. And I am pleased as punch to know that I was able to help you through your college assignments, and a tough break-up with your girlfriend who, unfortunately for you, spread her legs, but fortunately for us, because we now have pictures. Which you spread. Like her legs. Oh and to our new Japanese friends let me say Konnichiwa. All are welcome. Have you met SmartPhone?

It's been a tough stretch over here at Insufficient Headquarters. I won't bore you with the details, but it wasn't pretty.

There was a lot of:

And not enough of:

And that's why I look like:

But all of this is changing. No mas. Stay tuned.

CAR KEYS or KHAKIS

A Masshole's tribute to the now defunct BACON or BEER CAN internet sensation that brilliantly showcased a Rastaman and two buttons 1) Bacon or 2) Beer Can.

Of course, there was only one sound clip.

Baaauuycun

Genius in it's simplicity, it reminded those of us in the "biz" to stop over-engineering simple ideas.

My friends at work joked about creating a Masshole version using my fat mug and thick Boston accent as the "talent." Thirty minutes later we bought the domain name and were off and running.

CAR KEYS or KHAKIS

Thanks Adam HH, Andy, TBO, Raoul, Gib, Jillian, Tyler and Julia (despite not being in the Powerhouse or creating a sweet deck.)

I am going to post every single day

Updated 3:11 PM

Perhaps, this is a more accurate metaphor?

Updated 3:15 PM

We are like TMZ here at the Funds with our breaking news updates.

How cute are these boots?

I bumped into a female co-worker this morning while getting coffee. From a distance, I greeted her with a warm hello and a bright smile. Then as she walked around a counter I looked down and saw her foot protected by a walking boot. The ones you see after someone shatters their ankle.

Oh no?! What happened to your foot?

And that's when I saw her other foot. And cast. Whoops.

I tried to mumble something to repair the damage, but it was too late. She was crushed. But she shouldn't be. I am no fashion bug. I mean I shop at Fashion Bug, but that alone doesn't make me so. What do I know about fashion?

In fact, it was just last night that I was reminded how little fashion sense I do have. I was walking into the elevator when I heard two female colleagues say:

Hey Craig you look really nice today. That is a great outfit.

Recognizing their voices, I decided to hold the door for them. As they entered the elevator, I asked the ladies why they liked his outfit. They responded, but I didn't really listen. I think they said something about his shirt.

The doors closed and I could feel them looking me up and down. They weren't checking me out, but it was only natural for them to compare me to Craig. Especially since I had asked.

I asked what they thought about my outfit, and they gave me the "who farted?" face.

You're in Creative. You can get away with looking like you do.

Gooooooooooooooooood Morning Vietnaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!

I woke up this morning on my back. I don't sleep on my back. I blinked a few times to clear the cobwebs from my eyes. Something felt unnatural. As I gained consciousness, I looked down and saw Scraps licking my balls.

Sort of like this Frosty Paw™ back in the summer.

I'm up! I'm up!

Shabu Shabu

My friend at work sent me this link. You are required to watch this until the end, and we will discuss this further in the comments section. I've watched it five times already. Keep in mind, this is SCALDING hot water they are being plunged into. Brings a whole new meaning to the dunk tank.

Another example of how the Japanese take a good American idea and perfect it.

Bravo.

Walmart: Save Money. Buy More Cigarettes.

Thankfully, I had the day off from work today. I was unfit for duty, and thanks to a new benefits package I scored extra holiday time including the first business day after New Year's Day. Only four days into the year, and it couldn't have come sooner. The thought of going back into "that building" makes my skin crawl. In fact, I will probably stand outside "that building" tomorrow morning looking at the revolving door spin around a few thousand times before I have no choice but to step into the class 5 rapids.

(Right now I have both index fingers in my ears and I am doing the lalalalalalalalalala mantra trying to shake the thought of going into "that building" again out of my mind. Der, I am typing with my penis, and because of God's special little gift to me I am able to do so with impressive speed and surgical precision.)

Because the condition of my elephant man leg has been downgraded from "sheer agony" to "very painful" I decided to venture out of the house to get some fresh air on my last day of freedom. Watching another episode of The Smoking Gun's: World's Dumbest Hillbillies threatened to make me as stupid as the felon who thought it was a good idea to sign the waiver form allowing his face to be shown while being carted off to jail. You're a genius.

I didn't have much on my plate aside from a couple of errands and a vet appointment at 3:20 in Weymouth. Plenty of time to jerk it up. I figured most people would be at work, and I could zip into Walmart to pickup the new George Forman 360 Grill I've had my eye on lately. Time to be the lean mean grilling machine. Gotta have the right tools to build the cathedral.

When I pulled into the parking lot I shit my pants. I kid. I kid. Not literally, but figuratively of course. Who shits their pants? In this day and age? Yeah, so I was taken aback by how many other people were shopping on a Monday afternoon. I mean, didn't they have to work?

Then it hit me. Oh right, I am at Walmart, the death of hope.

I've been to Walmarts from Brunswick, Maine to Kahului, Hawaii and everywhere in between. Each store has the following commonalities:

1. Wandering children who are trying to find their mother/auntie/grammy/uncle with a DVD clutched in their sticky little hands.
2. Overt child abuse both physically and mentally. Put down the fucking DVD. We ain't gettin' it no matter what you do. Don't make me. Put it down. (The DVD is carelessly discarded in the underwear aisle for someone else to deal with) *SLAP*
   
3. Pungent and overwhelming odor of cigarette smoke. And not just the kind where someone just had a butt on the way in, and it's still sort of lingering on their clothes. No, this is like from 3 days ago. Fishbowling heaters in the car and the filthy apartment while watching hours of the The Smoking Gun's: World's Dumbest Hillbillies marathon.
   
4. FUCKING four cashiers on-duty. Always. And don't get me started on who these four people are manning these checkout counters. Don't get me started.
   

This particular Walmart, located in Quincy Point, skews more sketchy than the average store. Knowing what I was in for, I put my headphones on and blared Led Zeppelin's Presence drowning out the soundtrack of despair. I bobbed my head on my way to the Kitchen & Dining section while one malnourished cretin after another carelessly maneuvered their beyond-capacity shopping carts though the crowded aisles with the same entitled determination as ambulances racing through rush hour traffic.

Oh to ride the wind, To tread the air above the din Oh to laugh aloud, With dancing eyes we caught the crowds, yeah

I found the exact grill I was looking for in record time. Yup, Tres Platas. I fired the box on my shoulder and made my way to the front of the store. I scanned the crowd from whence I came looking for the express lane. Fortunately, I wouldn't be standing behind anyone with 4 bags of JAX, a carton of Mountain Dew, 7 DVDs, a TiVo, surround sound, a neck pillow, fish tank with eleven gold fish requiring individual price checks, strawberry flavored Slim-Fast milkshake mix, a fishing rod, twin bed fitted sheets, a dozen socks, 5 packages of razor blades, a ConAir foot bath, three 24 packs of Charmin, Spiderman pen/lolipop, Madden NFL 10 for the Wii, motor oil, an EPSON color printer, a set of ivory hidden bracket shelves which are impossible to hang unless you are a master carpenter, tupperware, 9 more DVDs, a bag of Three Muskateer mini candy bars, a 40 lb. bag of Purina puppy chow, cat litter, bird seed, pink lemonade mix, a plant, Dentyne gum, a diet doctor pepper from the sucker fridge at the beginning of the qeue, baby wipes, an emory board, EPT pregnancy test, Sour Cream and Chive Pringles, 4 more DVDs, Bisquick pancake mix, an iron, bicycle pump, 3 pack of sports bras, a BRITA water filter, children's boxing gloves, marbles, and finally an UltraHD Flip video camera.

Oh wait, here's another family member rushing to the cash register with more precious necessities. Thank goodness we didn't forget the frozen sausage breakfast sandwiches, the hair dryer, nail polish, 2 more DVDs, Funions, a PSP Go with 3 games, onion bagels, a beige short-brimmed hat with a dark brown flourish silk screened at an aggressive angle, Fun Dip, and a slice of pizza from the in-house pizza shop. Already paid for that though.

Cash or credit? Do you really need to ask?

Yeah, I would be dealing with none of that horseshit today. I would be making my way right over to the short express lin…no fucking way.

Oh The mighty arms of Atlas, Hold the heavens from the earth From the earth... Earth…

Speedy checkout? Fuck you speedy checkout sign. Don't fucking mock me.

And she said "Don'tcha want, a-don'tcha want go get, go get cocaine" Hadn't planned to, could not stand'a try it, fry it, ow Now, now, now, now, yeah

The lady in front of me kept looking back at me while I counted the items in her shopping cart. Because she had containers I continued to find smaller merchandise tucked away. Pretty sneaky sis. She was DEFINITELY over the 12 item limit, but at this point I was trying to determine by exactly how much.

Personally, I won't go into the express line if I have 13 items. Out of principle. And when I do have 12 items exactly, I find myself counting them out so those behind me can hear me.

The lady realized I had a pretty accurate count on her, and she kept glaring at me. I held her stare while smirking at her and then glancing down at her cart. Not to be a bully, but rather to let her know that I thought she sucked. And she did, because my count was now at a solid 17. In my book, totally unacceptable.


Oh would you please come on? For Christ's sake old lady you've had the manager come to assist you on every transaction. Twenty minutes passed, and I only moved three feet. 1.5 of that was because the dude in front of the hoarder decided to stuff his merchandise in the candy shelf and walk out of the store in a huff. Can't say that I blame him, but I have a cathedral to build.

Nobody's fault but mine
Nobody's fault but mine
Trying to save my soul tonight
It's nobody's fault but mine

Gotcha! Twenty one items—it's official. You know you suck. I know you suck. The smelly guy behind me knows you suck, but more importantly, the kind yet incompetent fossil working the cash register knows you suck. And that hurts you doesn't it? Look at the disgust on her face. It takes her on average about 90 seconds per item and here you come in with 21 items.

I was burned in the heat of the moment,
Though it couldn't have been the heat of the day
When I learned how my time had been wasted,
(And a) tear fell as I turned away

I finally got to the register and greeted the cashier with a smile. It wasn't her fault. It was my fault. I never should have stepped foot into this building. It's not worth it. I could have picked up the same God Damned grilling machine for a $1.43 more at the mall and would have been in and out in 10 minutes. It's like my old man who will travel .75 miles out of the way to get gas for $2.53 versus $2.59. And then wait in line because 23 other a-holes are privy to this great deal in town and think they are putting the screws to the "man". Great, so you have an 18 gallon tank with probably 2 gallons left. You saved yourself about a buck. I am 14 miles ahead of you and will get the better parking spot.

Which brings me to my point (Quick, think of a point. It's getting fucking late and I am tired and I am not sure how to wrap up this rant and I'll have yet another deadline to hit tomorrow night. Shit, I have 361 more deadlines to hit. Boy, am I going to fall on my face.) which is time is the single most important thing we have in this world, and just like the old cashier can't give me back my 25 minutes nor can I give you back this 25 minutes. Spend it wisely kids. Spend it wisely.

You are welcome.

Only Day 3 and I am beginning to resent all of you fuckers

So this is what it's like to have a daily deadline, eh? Sorry, I mean sohhrrreee, I just watched a documentary aboat pond hockey and I am wishing I spoke like a Canadian.

Alas, I don't. The classy Quincy accent must suffice, but I will honor that dialect with my poor grammar, guy. Fahkin'.

So yeah, here we are. I made a promise to myself, and you, about posting something every day. I am glad I mentioned that not all posts would be good, but now I am wondering if any will be good.

Fuck it.

I know you have options when you turn on the internets and I am happy, and honored, that you fly with us. I will do my best to keep your interest. In the meantime, let me describe to you what I am wearing while I type this utterly pointless post.

Upstairs, I am sporting a white v-neck wife beater. No stains. Downstairs, I am wearing black spandex-like Under Armour underwear(s) that look like biker shorts. The only reason I am wearing these things is because Allie laid out my clothes for me today since I was running late for my niece's Christening. Congratulations Maeve, you did great sweetheart.

I don't know how to say this, so I will just come right out with it.

I just shit my pants.

Yeah, yeah Matt. Whatever. Just a couple of paragraphs ago you were whining about not having any content. Likely story pal. You tried that same gimmick last year during sweeps.

Well. I don't know what to say. About 45 minutes ago, as I typed a period after my nieces name, shit suddenly came out of my asshole. Also, I was not on the toilet so it went into my underwear(s). Like where the vagina would be if I had a vagina. That part of the underwear(s).

I'm not proud of this. I certainly didn't shit myself, again, for the sake of this blog. It just happened. I was about to say how my knee was still really fucked up because of The Gout attack, and I was slow on the uptake this morning getting ready for the Christening because I was hobbling around like Kirk Gibson. Minus the glory and satisfaction of hitting a clutch home run—in a World Series. No, my morning didn't resemble anything remotely athletic, or heroic like that.

But now none of that really matters, does it?

Incredible.


Don't believe me? OK, but this is the real McCoy. Should you click on this link you will see shit, my shit, in this photo—so don't tell me I didn't warn you.

OK, so we are there. Well, some of us. Line crossed. Obliterated.

I promise to explain why I have toddler shit, like my little niece who did so great at her Christening today, in my adult underwear in an upcoming post. It's part of The Gout of the Closet series and I don't want to spoil (too late?) any of the juicy details of my rehabilitation into a normal person again.

See you tomorrow. Here we go, Publish Post.