As depressing and desolate as the imagery of Waffle House on a dreary, rainy Christmas afternoon is, believe it or not, it’s one of the things I most looked forward to doing on this day. Two years in a row now.
I got a Keurig coffee maker today. I’m on my second cup of coffee now. Weekends and non-working days will never be the same again, but for the better. No more no-coffee headaches, as long as I have K-cups.
What a great movie. Raul Julia declaring moon money with his likeness on it as significantly stronger than the British pound, and then fighting with Jean-Claude Van Damme. And in the end where Sagat steals all these chests of money only to find out that they’re Bison dollars – classic stuff there.
Today, I slept in until 11 a.m. and it felt magnificent. I guess this is where I should wish people Happy Kwanzaas and all that holiday shit, so there you have it. Happy Boxing Day, and whatever else is recognized this time of year, seeing as how I have no idea if the compulsion to write will come back with all the off and down time I’m about to have throughout the next week or so.
Atlanta parents face a $1,000 fine and up to 60 days in jail when their students skip school under a 2009 ordinance city officials say they now plan to enforce.
Long story short: Parents, be responsible, and be aware of where your kids are, and if they’re skipping school, YOU’RE the one who’s going to be at fault. So do what you got to do to make sure yo’ kids don’t WANT to skip school. If you know what I’m sayin’.
Parents are the de facto lords of their children, and have the obligation to pass on acceptable behavior and raise their children to be capable citizens of the world. Far too long has the degradation of society been stemmed back to shit parenting, by parents who are degenerates in their own right, or are people who are simply just shitty parents and have no idea how to be a parent, let alone a role model, or example setter. Kids today that are pieces of shit typically have parents who are pieces of shit, it really is that simple. Good parents don’t let their children become pieces of shit, without an earnest effort.
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Firstly, I’m old. It’s no longer “I feel old,” it most certainly is “I am old.”
Because I sure as shit don’t want to be considered young, and be lumped into the bullshit mess of humanity that today’s youths are finding acceptable to be growing up with.
Holiday shopping is a depressing endeavor that seems to get worse every year in regards to as it’s a great time to expose one’s self to the legions of mainstream shit floating around in today’s trends and commerce. I hardly go into shopping malls anymore these days, favoring to inhumanly shop for things online and have things delivered straight to me, but this time of year, it’s sometimes unavoidable to not go places, in order to instantly acquire gifts and wares. That being said, I found myself in a Spencer’s Gifts, a store I reminisce about having neon lights, and selling stuff more to the Hooter’s restaurants credo: delightfully tacky, yet unrefined. Now, I’d imagine Spencer’s Gifts probably more operating on a credo of “internet memes, vulgarity, and tasteless shit; if it hooks it, makes money.”
There’s an old saying that goes: “It doesn’t matter how much you polish a turd, because in the end it’s still a turd.”
Well, to update such a wise and clever saying, if you polish a turd, it’s no longer a turd – it becomes this.
An airsoft shotgun. But not just any airsoft shotgun, but a Chinese knockoff airsoft shotgun. That surprisingly, did not work at all as soon as I opened it up and gave it a go.
It was 50% off, so in the end it was $26. Now I can think of several other ways to drop $26, but I couldn’t resist having a cool looking toy shotgun that didn’t look like the kind of crap they sell at the Halloween stores. I kind of knew it was going to be a piece of shit when I bought it; it was obviously a Chinese knockoff, being sold by Chinese guys, at the sad shell of what was once a Borders, but even I didn’t think it was literally going to break, or was already broken when I took it out of the box. Another subconscious reminder was the obvious declining of plastic BBs for the gun; I had little belief that I was actually going to use it for shooting of physical matter, but it’s like I knew that this was going to be a piece of shit, and couldn’t justify the necessity for 5,000 pellets.
In the end, despite it breaking as soon as I opened it up, and taking about almost two hours to fix it back up, it’s still a cool looking prop, which would go great with the Gay Chris Redfield costume if I ever decide to bust it out again in the future. But man, does shit like this really sour me to even the most counterfeit of Chinese knockoff merchandise.
Now I’ve been assumed to be many different races in my life; Hispanic, French, black (yes, seriously), but this morning was a new one. Chinese or Japanese I can sort of get, but why black people don’t ever assume Korean as one of the first three options is completely beyond me. Stereotypically, Koreans are the ones who do all the grunt work of modern commerce – dry cleaning, manning the liquor stores, convenience stores, gas stations, delis; where they happen to serve black people on a regular basis! Chinese people seemingly solely work at Chinese restaurants or their respective areas’ Chinese regions. Japanese people are fewer and further but are a lot like the Chinese, except there are lot more doing pretty high-tech, high-importance stuff, because the rest of the world seems to think the Japanese can do no wrong and blows their culture like its shit don’t stink.
But I’m getting off the point. This morning, on a sunny beautiful Saturday afternoon, there’s a ring at the doorbell. Since I now assume all doorbell rings as a sign of casing the joint, I answer immediately. It’s two pleasant black women who are trying to spread the good word of Jesus Christ. I listen to their spiel for a few minutes, but then respectfully decline their literature, because I’m a soulless human being who doesn’t particularly care for organized religion. But before they leave, they ask me “where I’m from.” Since I know this is a pointless question, I tell them the truth – Virginia.
“Oh, well you look like my son in law. He’s half Laotian.“
So now, I look like a cross between Dikembe Mutombo and Kahn Souphanousinphone. Wonderful.
Secondly, I’m ashamed of these religious zealous. The ninth commandment states thou shalt not lie, but it seems like every single black person I meet who wishes to relate to me seems to have an Asian in-law, or they know an Asian closely, that they feel the need to tell me, as if I’ll suddenly allow them into my home or accept them more for disclosing this tidbit of information, which is as useful to me as an asshole on my elbow. I don’t go around bragging about the black friends I have in my life, why others feel the need to share their stories of the Asians they know is completely beyond me. Fuck that.
