The past weekend was somewhat eventful, participating in the surprise anniversary party for Brad & Lindze, and getting back to the great outdoors, and rafting down to the Chattooga River up in the sticks of North Georgia. Both activities were fun ones, and very welcome distractions to the mundane woes of every day unemployed life.
And yeah, I kind of do look like T-1000 with the white helmet and mirrored aviators.
Earlier today, I returned home from the Braves’ afternoon game that I was able to attend because I’m not working, irritated that despite the stellar record the Braves have at home, they still managed to put up a stinker and lose to a poor Nationals team that made me wish I hadn’t come out to the park to witness. Compounded with the fact that I was irritated with the spontaneous traffic jam that occurred on my way home, the sheer lack of a conveniently located Chic-Fil-A to satiate the irritating hunger that descended upon me that caused an irritating headache, mostly stemming from zero caffeine prior to.
I returned home from trivia after yet another disappointing 4th place finish, irritated that no matter how well we think we’re doing, we’re just not quite good enough. As I was driving home, I thought to myself that I should probably get to bed as soon as possible, so I could wake up early for my morning jog. But what after that? I’m not working, so essentially, there’s absolutely little motive for me to sleep at a normal time, to wake up early. On top of that, I’ve had about four Diet Cokes in the last eight hours, and now I’m a little caffeinated; but at least the headache is gone.
I need to get myself some real fucking work.
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Imagine coming home one day, and the power went out, so the electronic garage door opener isn’t working. Because you’re accustomed to entering through the garage, you typically don’t carry keys to the front door. Now that the garage has been incapacitated, how do you get into your house? No problem. Squirt a little omni-gel onto the locks, and voila – shit pops unlocked, you’re free to enter.
Imagine one day, your dad kicks the bucket, and among his estate is a locked safe, that nobody has the combination to. Smear a little omni-gel on it, and the mystery is solved.
Imagine playing against me in Left 4 Dead, and get so frustrated at repeatedly getting beaten to death by me, that you throw your Xbox controller on the ground, and break it. Instead of going out to Wal-Mart and dropping $40 on a new controller, coat it in omni-gel, and be back on the horse to pwnage in no time.
Imagine driving down I-285 through Forest Park, and spontaneously getting caught in the middle of a gang fight, and your car takes massive gun fire, catches fire, and begins to reach critical mass. As soon as you can reach safety, pull off on the shoulder, and have your tech-specialist start pouring some omni-gel all over the car, and in no time, you’ll be back on the road to the next relay exit.
I can’t believe that omni-gel really exists!
Of all the things that people would want to steal, someone in Zombieland has stolen Jen and I’s trash receptacle. It happened some time on Saturday afternoon, because I threw some garbage away in the morning, and in the evening it was just plain gone. Not quite sure why someone would steal a garbage can, maybe they really needed one, or maybe it’s just some ziglets playing a stupid prank, but the fact of the matter is that it is still an inconvenience to Jen and I, since now we have no outdoor receptacle to throw our trash.
I suspect that it is the squatters two houses down, since they could very easily stash it in their garage until Friday mornings and then put it out on the curb for pickup and then bring it back in, but I don’t want to be rash here. I can wait until Friday, and then catalog who in the neighborhood has a trash can that looks like ours, and then put one and one together.
It’s easier than it sounds, because out of the 200+ properties in Zombieland, there are four different waste management companies that servicing garbage pickup. So that cuts the search field into fourths, but then there are also two types of trash can designs, with our trash can falling into that minority. Furthermore, being long-time residents of Zombieland, our trash can still has remnants of the previous company’s sticker visible underneath the new sticker, crudely stamped on top of the old one.
As if all the aforementioned parameters didn’t make this eventual search somewhat more narrowed down, here’s the grand kicker – in the midst of the great trash can heist, the thieves were sloppy, and a small piece of the can itself broke off; a small plastic bumper on the bottom of the can to level it out on flat surfaces, as well as kind of means to brake while rolling. Granted, this could be some lame teenage prank, and my trash can is at the bottom of the drainage ditch full of copperheads by now, OR, there is a trash can that looks like mine that is missing a noticeable piece of plastic from it somewhere in my neighborhood, and if someone is intending on using it, I’m going to find out.
This morning, there was a newspaper that I haven’t seen before in my driveway. As I tend to do with a lot of the local rags, I simply pick them up, and throw them promptly away into the trash can, since it’s on my way back into the house. But this one, had something visible on the front page through the plastic sleeve that caught my eye. Before I knew it, I released it from its plastic confines, and was bringing it into the house.
Should America Pay Reparations?
Oh, I knew this had to be good.
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Unfortunately, some of the residents of the the real-life Zombieland still have the actual intelligence of the walking dead. As amusing as this is to me, it’s really a lot more saddening than anything else; and not because someone LOSS their dog.