Patience is a virtue, but sitting around waiting for shit to happen makes you a bitch.

Just an update to the last posting. I decided to take my phone apart the other day to see if I could find any water anywhere inside and to hopefully let it air dry more fully. I plugged the husk into the charger and let it set for a while, hoping to at some point walk past and see the green charging LED winking at me, quietly telling me everything was going to be okay. That never happened.
I took it upon myself to start screwing with it again, and put it back together enough to make the battery stay in place without me holding it. Initially nothing happened, but after a few minutes of button pushing the screen came alive and the phone began to boot up, making it to the start page of sorts before beginning to flash off and on. The menus were navigable, more or less, but every other flash would force the menus to close, making it impossible to copy my shit to the sd card. A few minutes later it quit flashing, but it wouldn't recognize my card, so, shit. Or so it seemed.
One of the reasons I hadn't backed my stuff up sooner was because the desktop manager would never recognize my phone. It would always error out and say it wasn't working but was instead causing exception errors and failing to initialize. The past having given me little to hope for, I wasn't expecting much when I plugged the phone into my pc a few minutes ago, but I was pleasantly the fuck surprised to see it begin copying all my contacts and calendar data over. I'm bored with writing now.

If hope floats, my cell phone must be forged of despair

I'll preface this by saying that for the last two years I have been using the same cell phone, a Treo 700p (for those who give a shit), in the hopes of replacing it whenever a new model with GPS comes out. Finally, after a wait and a half, the new one comes out on Sunday, a few days from now.
Anyway, two days ago as I was walking across the pool I dropped my phone in. I made it all the way from the deeps to the shallows without incident, but when I went to lay it down it slipped, bouncing off the ridge of the pool and into the water. Fuck that shit. In the A. Getting pissed really wasn't an option at that point, so I put it in the sun to dry out while I continued to drink whiskey and orange crush. Why whiskey and orange crush? Your mom, that's why. The phone must have been having some nice dreams, because that bastard stayed wet for hours. Shitty.
Also shitty, the phone had everything in it I need to survive if not thrive, things like phone numbers of hot girls, passwords, user names, account numbers, my work schedule, confirmation numbers, etc, etc. You get the idea I think, tons of important shit that I of course had never written down anywhere. Making matters worse, I hadn't synced it to the desktop in ages because the USB adapter was shit, so little if any useful data was ever moved to my computer. I'm fairly certain I had copied my contact info to my SD card, but the new phone will take micro sd and my USB card reader went the way of my self-respect and hasn't been seen or used in months. Balls. Now I have to start from scratch, which is a total busch league play and complete crock of shit. Ass.
As time passed that day and I became more and more intoxicated, necessity forced me to give up on the old phone coming back to life and sent me off to snag a new one. Luckily, the store was dead and it only took about 30 minutes from leave time to return time to get everything taken care of, so the damage to sunny pool action pooly sun drink time was minimal. On Sunday, I'll just return this one and get the one I really want.
That being said, I'm going to go eat a sandwich and watch tv.

All of my friends suck cocks asses and balls

Well, today is a sad day, not just because I woke up (again), but because today I am canceling my trip to Oktoberfest in Munich and bobsledding in Riga. I have ballin-ass flights and ballin-ass hotels lined up and paid for, thanks to my mountain of frequent flier and frequent guest points, but everyone I know who had expressed interest has backed out. I've got a fucking suite in the Sheraton directly across from the fairgrounds and nobody is willing to pony up a few hundred bucks for a flight over. What the fuck? Weak. So, rather than go alone and all that shit, I'm just going to call it off and save my stuff for a different trip. I do want to go to Riga sometime though, so if anyone is down just holla at yo folk.
Anyway, I'm not sure if it was the Bible or the group Semisonic that said "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end", but either way in this case it's true. In November I'm going to Tokyo for a day, then Thailand for about 10, then to Hong Kong for 4 before coming back to the festering shit that is my job. Fuck. My job. My job is kind of like my ass; I need it, and ultimately having it pays off, but nothing good ever really comes out of it. Back on topic, Rori if you're reading this, make sure you're down for going out Nov 5th and hitting Indian buffet on the 6th for lunch. The canceling of the lone beerparty 5000 in Germany is being supplanted by a few weeks in the land without crackers. And by crackers I mean white people. You racist fucks.
Other than that nothing much has happened in the last few days, I'm mainly writing this so Lori has something to do for a few minutes. I did decide a couple weeks ago to quit shaving, and I'm not sure how it's working out. What little shit grows on my face seems to be some kind of reddish blonde color, and while I'd like to think it makes me look like Tom Sellick, the reality is it looks more like Glenn Hughes on a heroin binge. Having never let it grow before, I'm curious to see how this will play out; I mean, it can't cause me to be more pathetically single or have fewer girls spending the night, can it? As Thomas Jane in the Punisher said when asked what makes him different than other people who do bad (and in my case ugly dirt squirrel) stuff: "They have something to lose." As far as this is concerned, I don't.
Lately I've been considering writing a book. I have tons of ideas for stuff I think would be hilarious if worked into a larger story, like a movie or book, but so far I haven't put it all together. Something I thought of the other day that absolutely kills me takes place in the gym. Lets say these two dudes are working out, and one of them is having some sort of sexuality issues because he saw his stepfather getting out of the shower and is worried that means he's gay, and now all he sees is cocks everywhere. While he's working out, they move to the dumbbell press, and while this dude is lifting, he keeps imagining that instead of dumbbells he's grasping a dude's cock in each hand, and these dudes are just standing there talking about the weather to each other while he's all freaking out and shit. It then of course snaps back to reality where he's all freaked out and leaves, but walks through the locker room where there are naked dudes all around and he's trying not to look at their junk and shit but can't help it. That would be just one scene in my book/ movie, but the other 400 pages would be more of the same, though with fewer penii. That just seems hilarious to me. There would also be a lot of knocking down small children and old people and acting as if it were a normal part of life and no big deal. Not on purpose, but just as a result of the main character having no regard for others. Say if he were in line at Kroger to pay, and at the last second decided he wanted some Skittles, and then just pushed the cart of the old lady behind him out of the way, causing her to fall. As he turns back around he then accidentally knocks a couple Pepsi two liters onto her face as she lays in the floor unable to get up. Comedy gold. Shit.
It's my bedtime. Peace out.

Doing laundry sucks worse than your mother's X chromosomes.

As you may have gleamed from the title, I have neither clean underwear nor respect for you mom. Sitting here at work, I am currently wearing the last clean pair of boxers I own; these are the back-up pair for the back-up pair. Truly today is a sad day.

I think I now know how homeless people must feel when they look back at their lives, trying to figure out when it all went wrong and hoping to answer the question "how could this happen to me?" When I look back, as they so often must (as they probably don't have anything better to do, what with no homes and all) I see a slow progression in my life from clean clothes to dirty. I can remember a time when my cabinets were overflowing with a bounty of fresh textiles of all shapes, sizes, and colors; socks and shirts three drawers wide and as many deep, all manner of garment and leather wear hanging in the closet, and a seemingly endless supply of undershirts and boxers, just waiting to be worn. Those were the glory days: days without worry, when nary a second thought was given to the availability of unsoiled items, days when the idea of doing laundry was but the twinkling of a distant star, days of a building hubris, the rising action leading ultimately to the story's climax. But those days were not to last, and in this tale clean shit was not long for this world.
Continuing to think on the matters of days past, I can recall my filthy linens hamper filling at precisely the same rate at which clean drawers were being depleted, and with each passing day the prior continued to fill as the latter steadily emptied. Running ever lower on staple garments, I told myself each night before drifting off to sleep that tomorrow I must end this. I had to cut off the tributaries to this ever-deepening pool of clothing, lest it's tide swell wash over me in a wave sleeves, consuming both me and my bed in a flood of zippers and buttons. The damn was ready to break. Despite my nightly oath to trim back the vines of cotton and wool that threatened to choke the light from my floor and desk, each morning was met with procrastination and indifference, my desire to do other things time and again overriding my need to clean. The sword to my Damacles would remain hovering overhead for yet another day.
The climax of this story came today, as I was forced, for the second time in as many mornings (and not unlike the aforementioned homeless people) , to wear unmatched socks. Luckily for me and my dignity, the socks in question are both grey, and differ only in the brand logo on the side. The casual observer would hardly notice the difference, but still, the very notion is kind of shitty and not above derision. If I saw someone wearing unmatched socks I would think him or her foolish and/or a fucking idiot. I don't want to be that guy.
Anyway, now it's dénouement time, and armed with a metric ass/shit/dick/fuck load of quarters, some liquid detergent, and the knowledge that I'll never get laid with my room looking like Baghdad, I am finally ready to confront my demons and perform a Springtime Fresh Tide laundry exorcism up in this bitch.
Word
Also, I have included a picture of some dude's locker at work. Magnets are fun.

Lead-acid bullshit.

After spending the last decade or so resisting the doucheosity that is blogging, reading Rori's blog has inspired me to finally take up the pen so to speak and begin chronicling the daily sailings of the garbage scow that is life. What follows is the most interesting thing that has happened recently, but please bear in mind that interesting is a relative term and more than a little subjective.

So about a week ago as I was leaving Kroger around midnight I was confronted by someone who could only be described as a crazy bum. A literally crazy bum. Initially brushing him off I kept walking, making a more or less straight line to my car, dodging the crowd of illegals blasting Spanish rap out of their Hondas during their smoke break and trying not to step in what looked like chunder but was probably just a watermelon that had been dropped and left for dead.
Being the nice guy that I am, I felt bad about being such a complete dick. I looked back and saw that the guy was still stammering around in the same place as before, kind of listing back and forth trying to maintain something resembling an upright posture, but failing miserably to do so. This guy was clearly fucked up in the head. I could overhear him asking people for a jump, and I thought "hey, I'm nice as shit, I can at least give him a jump," so I went over and told him I'd help. At that moment his filthy dirtbag Caucasian friend showed up and pointed me to their car. His friend, an oil-smudged flannel-wearing stinky bastard, clearly the poor-man's Billy Ray Cyrus type, seemed nice enough, in that shitbag kind of way. Good people.
I popped my hood, and while I was moving my wallet, phone, coke rock, spoon, and anything else of value from my pocket to my console, Filthy McShitlife hooked up the jumper cables. When I walked around I saw that he had put all four clamps on the battery terminals, rather than using the engine block as a ground. I knew this was wrong and that he was either an idiot or a moron, but by then his car had started, so I just said 'fuck it' to myself and closed the hood. As I did so, Cletus (the white guy friend) had the audacity to ask me for gas money, and at this point I looked at him and drove away. What a worthless piece of shit.
Over the next few days my battery grew weaker and weaker, but it would gain strength when driven around for a while, so I reasoned that my alternator must be okay. Flash forward to Saturday morning when I (try to) leave work and find that my car is completely dead. Somewhere up there in heaven Anna Nicole is probably using my battery to start her car. At least in a perfect world that's what I'd like to think.
Anyway, being that it's 730 am on a Saturday and there are no buses, no taxis, and I have nobody's number (had just bought a new phone), I was fucked. I walked almost 5 miles home, thinking I would use my roommate's car to go buy a battery. He was out of town with work, so again I said 'fuck it' and I went to sleep. Adding insult to injury, I was completely out of food at home. I had jelly and an empty jar of peanut butter. Cereal and no milk. Cheese but no ham. Beer but no pretzels. Shit!! I had rice in the cabinet, but fuck a whole lot of rice boiling. Homey don't play dat (kids still say that, right? Rad). I ate a fun-sized bag of sunchips for lunch, and another for dinner, and let me assure you the name turned out to be more than a little misleading. Apparently fun doesn't mean what it used to.
That night I rode my bike to work, then had the VandyCops give me a jump the next morning, and from there I went to Wal-Mart to buy a battery. Hours later I'm back home at the pool drinking a few beers and just in general being a bad ass. Not a bad day.
This morning I get up and decide to ride my bike to the Y, but as luck would have it the motherfucker is still at work where I left it. So I ran back to work (which I have to say is a long-ass way away when you can't run for shit) then rode back home. I went to bed again. The Y, like intercourse with a girl, gainful employment, and world peace, will have to wait.