|
ghostdude
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Sean
Country: United States
State: Oklahoma
Metro: Tulsa
Birthday: 12/30/1986
Gender: Male
Interests: Gaming and writing.
Expertise: At some point in the future, I will write for a living. I may write game reviews for a magazine (dream job number one). I may write a humor column for a newspaper (dream job number two). Or I may copy recipes for a Betty Crocker Cookbook (first sign that my life has been a waste of epic proportions). But with the miniscule amount of talent I've been granted, and the near schitzophrenic way in which that talent manifests itself, there is a large margin of error in determining what will be the pinnacle of my career. I may end up well known among a small group of people, as Robert Coffey--editor for Computer Gaming World--has. I may become relatively rich and famous, just as renowned humor columnist Dave Barry has. Or I may be just another schmuck, producing roughly enough articles every month for the tiny, reader-bereft newspaper for which he works to keep a roof on the cramped shack he lives in. Or, you know, I may just work for Wal-Mart instead. Whichever pays best.
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  CptnAlbino
MSN: the_ghostdude@hotmail.com
Member Since:
9/30/2003
|
|
| I've come to the conclusion that if, at any point in your life, you find yourself lying awake in bed at night wondering, "Is that smell sour milk, or did I leave my dirty socks under the pillow again?" there may--may--be a problem.
Ok, I admit it: I'm a slob. I can't help it. I don't really know WHY I'm a slob, either. All I really know is that when left to my own means, I naturally attract empty chip bags and cups covered in a crusty white substance that I'm hoping used to be milk. (At this time of year egg nog is also a possibility, but when egg nog goes sour, it smells much less like dirty socks, and much more like the rotting carcass of an 800 lb. moose that's been marinading in a vat of vinegar for a week. And cinnamon.)
Living as a slob sort of means living a double life. In one life, I live easy, knowing that whatever I do, I don't have to clean up after myself. After all, if God had wanted me to throw away my own trash, he wouldn't have invented floors to catch it all for me. In the other life, I'm horribly ashamed by my filth mongering ways, and frantically clean up my living area anytime I think there's even a remote possibility that someone not associated with my less than adequate housekeeping skills might be dropping by. I'm like a secret agent, except without all the cool gadgets, and guns, and killing, and women, and cars, and money, and explosions, and British accents. James Bond has a pen that turns into a grenade. I have a cup of tea that turns into a sort of brownish sludge after about two weeks.
Actually, I'm nothing like a secret agent. But at least I can grow my own cheese.
It's mostly the area around my bed that looks like crap right now. It's where I sleep. It's where I lay when I'm watching tv. And seeing as how that's pretty much all I do whenever I'm home, I end up spending a lot of time on that bed, eating or drinking something that will probably kill me in twenty years. That's why all my trash just sort of congregates on the floor there, having a big party that I'm never invited to. Which, you know, is cool. Candy wrappers throw crappy parties anyways. (Or so I've been told.)
I'm thinking, though, that the reason I'm a slob is because I have to keep the area around myself at work looking as clean as possible. Cause it's either that, or I'm just a lazy bastard, and since I'm the one writing this, I'm going with answer A. Or Whoopi Goldberg for the win, Tom. Either/or.
I'd also like to buy a vowel.
But all game show parodies aside, my natural aversion to cleaning is really starting to scare me now. I can count no fewer than four half empty gallon jugs of tea, clearly visible from where I'm sitting at the moment. There's also a half a bag of chips that metamorphosed into a trash can after the chips went stale, close to a dozen empty or half empty cups, and a large pile of clothes on the floor--not all of which are dirty--that could easily be used as some sort of cave dwelling were the insides to be carved out and the outer walls reinforced somehow. I would like to point out that this scenario also requires that gravity and several other key laws of physics no longer be in effect. You know, just in case you wanna try it some day.
Honestly, I think that there really isn’t any reason why I’m a slob, other than the fact that I’m pretty much just lazy. I may not want to admit it, but like a fat girl wearing a shirt that says “Hotty”, the truth will set in and I will, eventually, have to own up to it.
And on a quick tangent, I would like to say to all those fat girls wearing shirts that say “Hotty” or “Cutie” or “Just because I’m 3 foot 7 and weigh 400 pounds doesn’t mean I can’t be sexy” that if you have to TELL me you’re hot......you’re not. And if the shirt you’re wearing has fat rolls hanging out of the bottom of it......and the top of it......and a little bit under the armpits......and that one part in the back where your bra is too tight....it really doesn’t matter WHAT your shirt says, because I’m gonna do my best to spend as little time looking at it–and you–as possible.
And just so I don’t sound sexist, I’d like to say that fat guys piss me off too, just usually not as much, because they generally don’t like they’re the sexiest thing on the planet. The main thing with fat guys is the large, flapping man tits. It may just be because I almost had my eye put out by a fat guy and his large, greasy nipple, but still, I think it’s a problem that needs to be addressed, perhaps by Congress.
And I guess that’s pretty much it. Now you know that I’m a slob, I dislike fat chicks who use their clothes for false advertising, and that I’ve been far too close to man teets than I’d really like to admit. My life is an open book to you. More like a booklet, at this point. Or maybe a flip book, with a little guy whose head explodes, and then reappears again at the beginning. I don’t really know what I’m saying anymore.
I should probably leave before this becomes even more chaotic. So goodbye. And also, watch out for fat guys when they jog.
| | |
| I’ve had a lot of people tell me lately that I need to write again. My only problem is figuring out what to write about. It’s not yet time for another bitter diatribe about women and all of the various and subtle–yet extremely effective–forms of torture they inflict upon male-kind. (Now, reread that sentence and try telling me that bitter wasn’t the right word to use there.) But at the same time, I don’t want to just fall back on my old stand by of stupid people, regardless of what form it would take. (I.E. Know-it-all’s and people who shouldn’t be allowed to dress themselves or morons and people who literally can’t dress themselves.) So what do I do?
I guess I may just write about people in general. Because, and let’s be honest here, people, as a widely generalized whole, suck. Of course, there are moments where something gives you a glimmer of hope, sort of like seeing a piece of gold shining in a giant pile of dog turds. But eventually you realize that what you thought was a nugget of gold was actually just the tip of a very large piece of glass, and you just spent the last hour and a half digging through dog crap with nothing to show for it but a large pool of your own blood on the ground and a lingering stench that will have people giving you weird looks for at least the next week.
Case in point: In my quick Google search for cases at which to point, I came across this little blurb.
“I worked in retail for over thirty years, most of it in management. I once had a lady bring in a men's dress shirt still in the package, and she had her receipt but I couldn't give her a refund. I told her that the shirt was purchased at another store in the mall we were in and suggested she take it to them for a refund. She insisted that she had bought the shirt from us despite the fact that the price tag on the shirt and the receipt both had the other store's name printed on them. We ended up sending one of our employees with the shirt and receipt to the other store, getting the refund and giving her the money.”
Now, one of the reasons that this makes me cry blood–A LOT, of blood–is that I work in retail too. In fact, I AM the guy giving out refunds. And I’ve had this sort of thing happen before.
If your receipt says Dollar General, then go to the frickin’ Dollar General to get your refund. Furthermore, if I say “This receipt isn’t from here, it’s from Dollar General” and then point at the words “Dollar General” printed in big, bold letters at the top, and you STILL don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you, I get to shoot you. And for every additional second of my time that you waste trying to convince me that the receipt is from my store, or that my store IS Dollar General, I get to kick you in the throat. Five times.
And now that my motor has been started by the woes of working retail, let’s focus on that for a moment longer. Other things to keep in mind when you’re a customer:
If you’re giving me dirty looks because my cashiers are checking and I am not, then when I DO start checking, and yell three consecutive times that I am open and can help someone, you’d better run to my register. If you waddle your 450 pound butt up to my register so I can give you your two packets of gravy, that’s fine, so long as I see you’re actually making an effort to get there. But if you just stand there and stare at me as though the idea of leaving the incredibly long line you’re in and being the first person out the door is completely foreign and possibly painful to think about, then I will stab you in the face with an ice pick until one or both of us dies. I give you this warning, so that you may avoid a painful bludgeoning, and that I may avoid having to get your blood out of my clothes.
It’s not my fault your check was declined, so stop yelling at me and either find some other way to pay, or get out of my store.
If you managed to lose your money in my store, do not call me looking for it and start off by accusing my employees of taking it. At this point, not only do I no longer care if you lost your money, but I hope they DID take it, and plan to buy something extravagant and completely useless with it. It’s not my fault that YOU lost YOUR money out of YOUR pocket, so if you try to act like it is, all you’ll get outta me is a forced “Good luck,” and my most sincere desire that you die a painful, flaming death.
If you’re going to switch the prices on things, be subtle about it. Don’t try to get a 200 dollar table set for 23 bucks. Furthermore, don’t act stupid when I catch you, especially when everything else in your cart is the exact same way. You did not go through the store and just happen to pick up every item that somebody else had previously put a different price on. I know you did it, you know you did it, and if I really wanted to, I could probably rewind the tape and SHOW you that you did it. Just because you’re an inbred moron doesn’t mean that I am, so drop the act and at least TRY to act like there are a few functioning brain cells left in that great big noggin of yours.
Please, for the love of all that is holy, know what you’re doing before you get to my register. Do not bring five pillows up if you only plan on getting three. Furthermore, do not stand at my register and glare, painstakingly, at each completely identical pillow, trying to figure out which one may perhaps possibly by some remote chance have a single stray fiber somewhere. There are other people behind you waiting to get checked out, and you’re holding up the line. If you don’t want it, don’t put it in your frickin’ basket.
Do not threaten to “take this outside” if I’m not giving you the answer you want. Chances are I’ve had a very long day, and have already had to deal with ten other morons like you, so I’d be more than happy to clock out and knock you on your happy little head. Do not push me, douchebag.
Now, don’t get me wrong here. My job isn’t any worse than anyone else’s. Everybody has some sort of douchebagery to deal with on the job, and I’m no different. It’s simply that working in retail has pretty much killed any hope I may have had for mankind, due to the fact that as the number of people I deal with on a regular basis increases, so does the number of douchebags. The ratio of douchebags to regular people may remain constant, but after you have so many idiots crap all over your work (both literally and metaphorically), everybody else just seems to fade into the background as your life becomes little more than a very intricately woven tapestry of rage filled with barely differentiated morons.
And I suppose that that’s pretty much it for now. What started as “Uncle Ghosty’s ‘Some people are stupid’” turned into “Uncle Ghosty’s ‘*Brain Esplode*.’” But I’m ok with that. Because you see kiddies, Uncle Ghosty sometimes has anger problems, though not usually, and telling all of you about them keeps Uncle Ghosty out of a very bad place filled with very bad men who would like to do very bad things to Uncle Ghosty’s no-no parts. And seeing as how Uncle Ghosty would much rather keep his no-no parts in their current condition of “untouched,” he sees that as a very good thing. Also, the court appointed anger management said that I had to write this crap out, and if I don’t do what they say, I’m going to that very bad place anyways, so shut up and listen, mmkay?
| | |
| Imagine, if you would, a wildebeast. Now imagine that wildebeast in hot pants.
Some of you are probably laughing your butts off at the mental
image I just gave you. Some of you are probably cleaning up
stains from the projectile vomit that left your mouths at a
frighteningly high rate of speed. And if I know my readers as
well as I think I do, then I'm sure that at least two of you are
committing upon yourselves the sort of unspeakable acts that would've
gotten you burned at the stake in the 1500's. But regardless of
which category your reaction fell in, (with those categories being, in
case you forgot, "Holy crap. *laughs heartily*," "Holy
crap. *projectile vomits*," and "Holy crap. *violates one's
self mercilessly*") I want you to feel lucky. Whatever you saw,
it was a contrived mental image that ceased too exist the moment your
mind moved elsewhere. I, on the other hand, actually had to see a
forty year old woman wearing an article of clothing meant for someone
half her age and size, stroll around my store on legs that reminded me
of what I can only imagine that two incredibly large sausage skins
filled with Jell-O would look like. I'm pretty sure this woman
could crush a small animal between her thighs and not know it until the
carcass began to stink.
What do you think caused this woman to think that it was ok for her to
dress like an obese hooker? My guess is self esteem. Don't
get me wrong here, self esteem is a wonderful, wonderful thing.
But only in proper amounts. This woman had a lethal amount of the
stuff, and I just don't think that's safe for the rest of us.
That's something that's kinda been pissing me off lately,
actually. As long time readers should know, my opinion of myself
has never exactly been what one would characterize as "healthy."
But I've been trying to change that lately, and have actually managed
to get myself up to a level that I think is somewhere around
normal. Most of the time. Ever since I started working on
my self esteem, though, I've noticed that some people have a highly
inflated sense of self worth. Which is fine. As long as you
have a reason.
But most of the people who think they're the greatest thing
ever...aren't. I'm glad you feel good about yourself, bro, but
you make 5.50 an hour bringing in shopping carts, and you drive a
mo-ped to work. Lets be realistic here. You, my friend, are
not the lady getting machine you think you are--a truth supported by
the fact that you haven't...actually...gotten...a lady. Or even a
hooker, for that matter. Please keep that in mind the next time
you start thinking you rock hardcore.
People who are good at things--the few people who actually have a
reason to feel good about themselves--are annoying enough when they go
overboard with it. But then you have the people who have
absolutely no reason whatsoever to be so friggin' cocky. These
people make me want to shoot them. One of these people goes
to my tech center. He's not in my class, thankfully, but I still
see him every day. This sucks for me, because even though I have
a great deal of self control, even I have a hard time not slapping the
living crap outta this douche bag. I'm not even particularly sure
just what it is that makes this guy so cocky, but for whatever reason,
he thinks he knows everything, when in fact, he knows slightly less
about any given subject than my dog does about quantum physics.
And for those of you who are having trouble keeping up, MY DOG
KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT QUANTUM PHYSICS.
But, I suppose that self esteem can’t be blamed for everything like
this. Sometimes, it’s just stupidity. Take, for instance,
the old woman who comes into one of my stores on a regular basis.
She’s probably at least 70 years old, and as senile as can be.
And I’m guessing that it’s that senility that is responsible for her
wearing enormously low cut shirts every time she leaves the
house. Every time I see her, I get the overwhelming desire to
wash my eyes out with bleach.
Now, I’ve proposed licenses and restrictions on a lot of things.
I’ve proposed, of course, the mandatory license to reproduce that every
comedian must mention at least once in their lifetime. I’ve
proposed an IQ based system wherein those with lower IQs, would have
their vote count as, for example, a half a vote. Or, worse yet,
we just change it to whatever unknown candidate the Green party is
running. (I think they actually ran a potato in the last
Presidential election.) But I’m going to propose what I think is
probably a first here, for anyone: A license to dress yourself.
It goes like this: If you can’t walk into a public area without making
people vomit, or, as is more common, just feel really uncomfortable,
then you may no longer pick out what you wear. If you can’t walk
by a day care without making babies, no more clothes shopping for
you. And for the love of crap, Spandex? Do I even need to
go there?
I guess what I really want, and what I’ve been trying to get across in
at least part of this meandering ramble of a rant, is that people need
to feel good about themselves, but not too good. I don’t want
anyone to feel bad about who they are as a person. I’ve been
there, and it kinda sucks. But by that same token, I also don’t
want people to feel that they are, as the saying goes, the best thing
in the history of ever. Because then they start to be douche
bags, and it kinda sucks to be around those people. Unless you
have a stun gun. THEN having douche bags around can get kinda fun. | | |
| I'm not gonna put an article in right now, but I did wanna say
that I found a Big Lots blogring. I want all of my Big Lots
peeps, both past and present, to join. If you do not, I will kill
you. ;)
LINKY CLICK ME CLICK ME CLICK ME | | |
| I'd like to speak with you about a few things today. First, I'd
like to talk about things that don't exist, but should—like chicken
McNuggets made with actual chicken. Then I'd like to speak
about things that do exist, but shouldn't, like Ru Paul.
I mentioned something a little bit like this last time when I started
talking about a Magic 8 Ball with realistic phrases. Things
like "You did WHAT with WHO?!?!?!" or "Dude, it's a rash.
Seriously, you should get that checked out." But there are plenty
of other things that exist only in my imagination, and deserve to make
the leap from the scary, scary place that is my head, into the real
world, which is almost as scary, but not quite as bad because there are
fewer clowns.
For instance, I think that if someone were to invent a device which
would allow you to stab people in the face over the internet, there
would probably be a lot less general stupidity in the world, or at
least, a lot less general stupidity on the internet. At a bare
minimum, THESE guys would no longer be alive. And I think we can
all agree that would be a good thing.
Another thing that should exist but doesn’t would have to be something
that would allow you to decide whether or not you wanted to talk to
somebody, before you actually had to talk to them. Granted, for
many people, this already exists (case in point: The Mullet), but
still, I’d like some sort of sign when the person walking my direction
is to be avoided at all costs. Perhaps a tattoo system of some
sort. For instance, if you have a tendency to never stop talking,
we tattoo a giant mouth on your forehead. If you smell, we tattoo
a picture of a stick of deodorant. And if you’re an annoying,
insipid waste of flesh who is actually of less use to the world than
perhaps the rotting carcass of that dog you had that got by the semi
when you were in third grade, we tattoo a picture of Carrot Top on your
noggin and call it good. Simple, right?
Of course, there are also things that DO exist, but shouldn’t.
Take, for example, vegetarians. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t
have a problem with people who decide that they want to be a vegetarian
for diet purposes, or even just because they personally can’t stand the
idea of eating a living animal. The vegetarians that I DO have a
problem with, are the militant, PETA type ones who have taken it upon
themselves to proselytize every person they meet. The ones who
hand you fliers as you’re entering KFC, and yell at you if you still
walk out with a bucket of extra crispy. And so it is to these
people that I would like to direct this next comment.
IF GOD HAD NOT INTENDED FOR ME TO EAT ANIMALS, HE WOULDN’T HAVE MADE THEM OUT OF MEAT.
You can argue with me all you want, but there’s just no arguing with God. He like, always wins and stuff.
Ben Affleck. If you need me to explain it to you, you’ll never understand it.
I wish that there were some way to make people around you keep their
promises. Not just because of the obvious reasons (“Dude, you
said that you’d buy me a house if you won the lottery. You never
specified how much you had to win before you’d do it.”), but because if
such a device were to exist, we’d have our friggin’ flying cars by now.
What the crap happened to the flying car, anyways? Weren’t we
supposed to have that by like 1995 or something? And here it is
over a decade later, and we STILL don’t have a vehicle with anything
more advanced than that little compass thingy in the rear view
mirror. All I want is my flying car, guys. And a jet
pack. And a robot slave. And maybe a taquito, cause
I’m pretty hungry right now. Really, is that too much?
But imagine how different things would be if these devices really did
exist. Politics would be so much simpler, because politicians
would have no choice but to tell us exactly what they intended to do in
office. (“If you elect me, I promise to do as little as possible,
while taking credit for things that I had nothing to do with.
I’ll spend your money on stupid things that you’ve never even heard of,
and hire my closest friends and family to high paying jobs that could
probably be done by an alcoholic monkey. Also, my mistress and I
will have sex on my mahogany desk, which will be purchased with tax
payer money.”) You’d never have to spend time talking to someone that
you didn’t want to talk to, because you’d know as soon as you saw them
that you should turn around and run for your friggin’ life.
Morons would die of stab wounds to the face while sitting in front of
their computers. Car crashes would be that much more spectacular,
because they’d be in mid air, and the amount of gas required to keep a
two ton piece of flying steel in flight would provide fuel for quite an
explosion. And best of all? Ben Affleck would no longer
exist.
Actually, on second thought, screw all of that. As long as Ben
Affleck died a horrible, painful death that somehow involves a mole, a
wombat, and a metric ton on peanut butter, I’m pretty sure I’d be
happy. But it absolutely HAS to have the peanut butter.
Don’t ask why. | | |
|
|
