Seriously. Dude. GTFO!

This post is for you, dude. You, the gork wearing stone-washed jeans and a Lords of Acid t-shirt, struttin' around HEB looking to score. If you insist on using the super market to pull your mad moves of studdom, why not maintain some sense of normalcy and troll the produce or wine sections? Because most people, possessing even a modicum of social grace, would deem places of food and alcohol as slightly more appropriate grounds to engage complete strangers. Oh, but not you. You came down the feminine hygiene aisle with a wink and a swagger and a "Hey, ladies, how's it going?" like it was a fucking mardi gras celebration.

Hmmm. Do you see what we're shopping for here, Skippy? Because if you noticed the goddamn box of Tampax in my hands, then you'd realize that the answer to that question involves the words "my", "crotch", and "bleeding". Seriously, dude...what the hell is wrong with you? When a woman is shopping for tampons it automatically, indisputably means she has absolutely no interest in anything you have to say. Those tampons are Nature's way of saying "Stay away."

No, I take that back. It's Nature's way of saying "GET THE FUCK OUT!!!"

You got off easy this time, my friend. Next time you decide to cruise the heart of darkness that is Aisle 8, we girls just might play a little game of "Orpheus meets the Maenads".

Le Weekend Round-Up: Cake, soccer, & hamsters

This post is brought to you by the word Awesome:

I had a fairly awesome weekend. At least I think I did, because I did a lot of drinking, which is usually the best indicator that awesomeness ensued. Plus I think I saved the world a little, which is also quite awesome. On Saturday, Pal Tim, our own little Cinco de Mayo baby, turned the big 3-0. Woot! And I must say that Tim handled turning over that particular mileage pretty damn well. I mean, look at him. All that enthusiam, that eagerness, all that general awesomeness (actually, he looks a wee bit terrified of his cake, but I will vouch as a witness that he was happy as toast). I can't say my attitude was nearly that healthy, because I reacted to thirty like my name was Logan and I had a smoking Timex jammed in the palm of my hand. Oh, and the cake? Oreo. Awesome.

Awesome weekend continued into Sunday, where I got up at the crack of dawn...errr, 8:30, to go watch the Arsenal vs. Chelsea match over at Fado with some of my Peeps. Getting up after four hours sleep was not so awesome, but drinking beer at 10:00 a.m. was booyah awesome, so the universe balanced out. By the way, did you know that Peter Jackson daylights at Fado's? Seriously, he was serving us drinks and food and shit. Despite his vast post-LOTR millions, he stays in touch with the common folk. Damn Pete, that's pretty awesome. As for the game...well, neither awesomeness nor lameness...because draws are anticlimatic that way. Though Chelsea got a red card, which was kind of awesome, and Arsenal nearly scored an upsetting goal in the overtime, which would have been totally awesome, but it hit the rim...thus it was lameness. But I had another beer by that time, so lameness forgotten. Speaking of lameness, I didn't document this event like I should, despite having my camera on me, so we'll have to make do with this not-so-awesome mock-up, (and unfortunately that is a fairly accurate representation of what my hair looked like in the morning...sooooo not awesome).

We closed out the Sunday with rest, relaxation, drink, ...oh, and saving the world from what ultimately proved to be the underwhelming evil that is Yig. We were awesome, partly because Yig is a total pussy, who was beat up by an army of Ham-Hams, though it still took about four hours to defeat this monstrosity of the netherworlds...which was mostly due to us having to consult the Big Rule Book of Warfare until we knew what the fuck we were doing (The B-man was awesome). Normally this is where I would insert an awesome little political rant comic of Dubya and Maliki bitching about faulty die rolls and who has more tokens to tap a combat initiative card...but battling Yig wore me out, so here is a picture of some sleepy chibi battle hamsters, who shall arise again to defend the town of Arkham. Teh Wootzer Awesome.

By the way, can I get one of those awesome re-do cards for Real Life? I'd totally tap that shit at least three times a week.

The Magazine Meme

So Pal Tarv tagged me a meme. As far as memes go, this one's not so bad, especially since I have nothing better to post at the moment.

What magazines do you subscribe to?

I use to subscribe to a shit-load of magazines, to the point where I had the equivolent of a small sequoia forest piled high in my bathroom. I mostly stuck to the classics: Entertainment Weekley, National Geographic, Discovery, and Newsweek. I also indulged in the occasional American Theatre, Match, and American Anthropological Annuals. But over the years I decided to simplify and reduce my monthly fix of periodicals to the essentials, the ones that most reflect the essence and influences of my life.

Epilogue...

So here it is. The duvet cover that nearly cost me my eternal soul.

It's blue. Really blue. Kind of a karate chop to the throat BLUE! But it matches the curtains. And as a bonus goes quite well with that lovely yonic painting above the bed. Not bad for $29.99.

In all likelihood, I will venture back to Ikea. You'll notice that rather smart looking rolltop desk in the corner (or as Peep Ian suggested I call it, an escritoire...but I don't think I need to give people yet another reason to pop me in the mouth). Shamed as I am to admit it, I sort of like having matching furniture. It makes me feel like a grown-up, which is certainly appropriate now that I'm 30. Replacing a perfectly functional bookcase and nightstand on the grounds of aesthetics is, in truth, a bit silly and comes with the risk of turning into one of those poser yuppie types. But you know what? Bite me.

So, in conclusion, the adventure of "Romancing the Duvet" was an overall success. A few trips through the washing machine, and it'll be as soft and pliable as George Bush's brain.

There is just one problem, however. A little technicality that hadn't crossed my mind upon purchase. There exists a cardinal rule regarding cat "ownership" and the procurement of home furnishings. In fact, growing up in a house full of cats, the most important question to address when buying a new sofa or replacing the carpet was "Will it show cat hair?" A point of contention I failed to consider. Observe:

Ah Dammit. Well, at least I have an in-house washing machine to cure hirsute linens. But you know, it's this kind of shit that makes me terrified that one day I'm going to meet a totally awesome dark-skinned man, and I'll have to dump him because he "shows too much cat hair".