Saturday, December 31, 2011
Just a quick message to the villain who broke into my car on the day after Christmas and stole several items, notably my wife's new coat:
No seriously, thank you. You reminded me of the true meaning of Christmas, how it is better to give than receive, and to help the less fortunate.
Obviously you are an incredibly unfortunate individual, presumably stricken with a debilitating mental malady that renders you about as useful as your lace-up shoes when you're unsupervised, someone so intellectually crippled that you can't even maintain a job collecting the trays and scraping spackled feces from the toilets at the local Taco Hut.
Judging from the stench of apathy and cigarettes you left in my car I have extrapolated a profile that portrays you as a someone that has given up on themselves, someone who is ok with wearing trackpants in public and their clothes have the telltale lonely existence ammonia fragrance of calcified semen from many a dateless Saturday night. Obviously your visage is nothing less than that of a nicotine stained puckered sphincter, otherwise you would have been spending your weekend cuddling with your sister instead of relieving citizens of their hard earned belongings, rummaging and foraging like a malnourished raccoon, alone. Always alone.
I can only presume you are the same desperate individual who opened the jar of Jif in the supermarket and scooped out a few finger-fulls of extra-creamy peanut butter and placed the jar back on the shelf for me to discover when I actually foolishly purchased it. With actual money! From a job!
So thank you intrepid hoodlum, for reminding me of the dregs of humanity, the stains of the world, those completely devoid of offering anything to society, those so monumentally pathetic that you have validated and strengthened my conviction in my misanthropic ways. I had almost foolishly bought into the whole Christmas cheer nonsense until you selflessly brought me to my senses.
P.S. Enjoy the coat, it can only be returned for an in-store credit at a woman's clothing store. In the Christmas tradition, don thee now your gay apparel, for a pashmina and jeggings can only improve your worthless existence.
Merry Christmas, Peace on Earth, and Goodwill towards Human Trash and Asshats.
Friday, December 23, 2011
From all of us here at Shirt of the Day, aka: me,
Thank you for a great year and your show of support!
Wishing you a SUPER Christmas, Hanukkah, Rohatsu (sorry I'm late), Ramadan, Kwanzaa, Yule, and....whatever....
Have a great holiday and time off work!
I hope to see you all in the New Year, with more Tees, Tales, and My Life In 100% Cotton!
Monday, December 12, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
The other day I was forced out into public to rub shoulders with the unwashed masses. This unplanned and unpleasant sojourn had been necessitated by the commerce driven ritual know as Christmas Shopping <shudder>.
Normally I would ensure that all of my shopping had been completed no later than Halloween because, according to my therapist, my temperament is not conducive at the best of times to be dealing with throngs of shuffling lollygaggers. However, I had been tasked with securing a specific festive item: The Christmas Pickle.
For the solecistic in the class, the Christmas Pickle is not a fermented cucumber, but an ornament hidden within the foliage of the Christmas tree. On Christmas Day the children take turns searching for the pickle, and the child who finds it gets an extra present, a prize for being diligent and observant. Kind of like Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. Except green. And phallic.
It was during this perilous quest that I overheard an exchange between two inappropriately dressed middle aged mothers. It appeared as if they had actually Dressed Up to go shopping, but had become discombobulated at some point and had stumbled into their sixteen year old daughters closet, by way of a Bootlegger change-room.
Hipster Mom #1 had selected the sensible shoe of choice when walking the length of the mall for extended periods of time: the stiletto-heeled knee-high boot. To ensure one could witness the full glory of these podiatrists nightmare, the cuffs on her jeans had been rolled up several feet, like some Dominatrix Captain Kirk.
Hipster Mom #2 was head to toe in Lululemon. As advertised, this did indeed, and unfortunately, accentuate her buttocks, as well as her lovehandles, and her stretch-marks. It looked like a Breakfast-To-Go bag of cottage cheese, a muffintop, and strip bacon. The hood of her yoga top, which had apparently never seen the interior of a Power Yoga studio, was lined with fur which at first glance I took for a nesting ferret.
I wasn't eavesdropping. My mama didn't raise no Nosey Rosey. I was a hostage, a captive audience. The aisle was barricaded, my flight from the inane dialogue that followed barred by Lulu Lemon's stroller that had the approximate dimensions of a Sherman Tank. And they were LOUD. These attention whoring bubbleheads actually WANTED people to hear their boastful chatter.
Captain Kirk was griping that little Aiden's teachers didn't realize that he was smarter than them and they weren't capable of dealing with his Specialness. She postulated aloud that they were jealous of him. The tyke in question stood sullen at her side, head down, focussed on his Blackberry. She then referred to him as her "Special Little Man" and reached out a veiny and bejeweled hand to tousle the dour moppets fop coifed mane, but stopped herself short, a glimmer of fear flickering in her eyes. I found this last "Special Little Man" statement kind of creepy. He was 11.
Lulu Lemon countered with how she totally understood because her Aiden was also Very Special and Destined for Greatness, why just the other night she was pretty sure that the precocious little sprite had used the word "Klangfarbenmelodie" when putting the finishing touches on his first symphony, and that his use of Deceptive Cadence on the 2 litre saucepan was intentional. He was the one in the Sherman Tank.
This competitive praise heaping was the equivalent of schoolyard "oh yeah, well my dad can beat up your dad" banter, where prowess and success is attributed not to oneself but a third party, in a feeble attempt to deflect away from ones own inadequacies and lack of accomplishments, living vicariously through the achievements of others.
Kids, I'm gonna give it to you straight: If your parents have told you that you are special, they lied to you. You are as unique as everybody else.
Unless of course you have retractable metal alloy adamantium claws.
Or can shoot lasers out of your eyes.
Or you find the Christmas Pickle.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Seven. Fricking. Billion.
That just seems to be a tad...unecessary. Serious overkill. Do we really need that many people?
And why is the population of countries that can't sustain their current numbers continuing to expand?
Mother Nature's built in population control, the world shrugs its mighty shoulders every now and then in an effort to cull the herd. Plagues, disease, pandemics, and (fingers crossed) .
Although the chocolate conundrum may be the key. It has been scientifically proven that chocolate possesses qualities known to placate and sooth the fairer sex, quelling volatile situations, staving off Possible Murder-Suicides.
Without it civilization as we know it may devolve into roving packs of hysterical weeping women, drinking wine out of screw-top bottles and fighting gladiator style over the last Butterfinger, the male populace dwindling into extinction without the protection of Misters Big and Goodbar.
The rapid depletion of chocolate may actually be the next answer to population control.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Have you ever passionately disliked someone because they are so frickin' awesome?
The sight of their perfectly full head of fashionably coifed hair sets your teeth on edge, your teeth that are nowhere near as straight and blindingly white as those contained within their easy smile.
The way their incredibly stylish clothes cling to their chiseled musculature makes your blood boil. And they don't work out, it's "natural".
The mere thought of them with their equally beautiful partner and their cool high-paying job fills you with an anger that burns with the intensity of a thousand suns.
And then you get to know the real them, and you were maliciously hoping and praying that they were inflicted with the same neurosis and dysfunction as yourself, relishing in the assumption that a housing so flawless must be vacuous and ugly on the inside.
They are bright and witty and can speak intelligently on any number of subjects, and when they do it is engaging and in a voice so mellifluous and on a tongue so silver that it makes the angels weep. They are possessed with the natural ease and charisma of Elvis Presley, and a compassion and kindness that shames Jesus.
They bowl 300 and can effortlessly use chopsticks.
They turn out to be a really cool person and are into the same interests as you. The type of person that would give the shirt off their sculptured back, someone you can go for a beer with. You are drawn to them, as is everyone, and instead of camaraderie this arouses a black invidiousness within you that you didn't even know you were capable of.
Its as though the gods imbued them with the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the stamina of Atlas, the power of Zeus, the courage of Achilles, and the speed of Mercury....and they have awesome taste in music!
Have you ever met someone you irrationally hated just for being more awesome than you?
What is that like?
Sunday, October 30, 2011
'Tis the season boils and ghouls! That most wonderful and magical time is upon us: All Hallows Eve, Samhain, HALLOWEEN! Whatever name you celebrate by its the one day of the year that's as awesome as me.
When we were kids, Halloween was the night that you got to turn the tables on the adults. Previous restrictions were renounced; you were allowed to binge and become deliriously intoxicated on sugar and chocolate, to roam the streets. At night. Incognito. You had the power, the control, reversing the roles on The Authority Figures by being given license to openly threaten them, holding them hostage with the simple Ultimatum of "Trick...or Treat", your actions and identity protected by a fiendish albeit ill-fitting guise.
Even though you were restricted to your own neighborhood, on that night, creeping along the dimly lit streets once the sun went down, the once familiar houses took on an ominous vibe. Every hedgerow potentially concealed a waiting lunatic bearing a machete, and eerie music, shrieks, and moans wafted on the chill October wind from hidden speakers. Flickering Jack O'Lanterns and crudely stuffed Scarecrows took up residence on creaking darkened porches, both warning off and daring you to approach. Wait....did that one just move?
Yup, Halloween was the one night that everyone was entitled to One Good Scare.
But then something happened. As each year passed the world...softened. Leaning tombstones were replaced with wacky smily Broom-Hilda witches who had clumsily crashed their broomstick into the ground, the Dracula in the window was cross-eyed and fangless, and shuffling bloody zombie costumes gave way to cute and fuzzy lion cubs and Pooh Bears. Casper had usurped The Pumpkin King's crown and The Monster Mash was his theme song.
So every October I wage war on Ray Parker Jr.
As a traditionalist, it is my my duty to ensure this new generation gets their one good scare. I get absolute delight watching the bravado young Jedi's and Fairy Princesses display as they skip away from the safe brightly lit neighboring homes crumble to uncertainty and then transform to absolute dread as they tentatively inch towards my Halloween House to the darkly dulcet strains of Tubular Bells. A bloody axe and severed limbs strewn across the lawn, bats swoop and skeletons drop unexpectedly, skulls cackle and that tattered lump on the porch may just actually be me sitting very very still until you lean in for a closer look. Sure every now and then there are tears, but for the most part the kids love it once they get past their initial fright, and their screams turn to the delighted giggles of one who has faced their fears and survived. Their parents, on the other hand, seem less than impressed.
What do they know, for them Halloween is just an excuse to dress up in something slutty and get drunk. At my house we call that a Tuesday.
I still wait for October 31st every year with the same giddy excitement an inmate has the night before a conjugal visit. When I was a kid I loved that for an entire month the world I lived within my mind spilled out onto the streets and stores and I was surrounded by comforting imagery and old friends. Ghosts and vampires peered from shop and residential windows, their baleful red eyes mischieviously looking out at me, imploringly, like children waiting for the rain to subside. All 13 TV channels aired 31 glorious days of back to back Creature Features and Slasher Cinema, hosted by the likes of Zacherle and Vampira. I was home.
I was enthralled by these glorious gory macabre monster movie offerings, even though they were heavily edited for television. I was well versed in all things horror, from the classics like "Night of the Living Dead" to the not so classic but awesomely named "Satan's School For Girls". Mutant cannibalistic hillbillies to mutant cannibalistic worms, I thought I'd seen it all.
That all changed the Night He Came Home--- 1981, John Carpenter's "Halloween" made its inaugural television broadcast.
My parents were across the road at a Halloween wine and cheese party where apparently everyone had forgotten to bring the cheese. My brother and I were trick or treating with the kids from across the street, Steve and Donny, the 4 of us dressed as KISS. I had called dibs on Gene 'The Demon' Simmons, and my brother was supposed to go as Peter Criss, but at the 11th hour he demanded we switch as he had decided that The Cat motif was 'too gay'. Because ya know, putting on wigs and makeup and slipping into leather vests wasn't already gayer than Rip Taylor with a dick in each hand.
The plan was to reconvene back at my house under the supervision of my brother and we would all watch "Halloween" together, however Donny was not one for self restraint and ate all of his candy as it was doled out, resulting in him having to be taken home by his brother to vomit profusely and slip into a bloated diabetic coma. My brother decided that babysitting his 10 year old brother was also 'too gay' and went with Steve and Donny, promising to kill me in my sleep if I told my parents of his abandonment.
This was perfect! I'd get to enjoy the movie in peace without having to listen to my brother wheeze and pick caramel out of his braces. I looked at the caked on white and black makeup in the mirror and suddenly felt cheap, but I didn't have time to wash it off. I changed into my Darth Vader PJs, and hastily sorted my evenings haul unceremoniously dumped from its pillowcase housing, keeping in mind an unpleasant incident from the previous Halloween involving an Allan's Halloween Kiss and a filling (Molasses wrapped in wax, the ultimate Charlie Brown rock). I ran to each room in the house, turning off all the lights, the only illumination coming from the tv in the basement. Alone in a darkened room, a carefully selected assortment of snacks laid before me, the conditions were perfect. I settled in.
10 minutes into the movie I regretted being alone.
20 minutes in I really really regretted turning all the lights out, but was too terrified to get up and fumble in the dark, fearing that as I reached for the lightswitch my hand might connect with some...thing.
30 minutes in I realized being in the basement was a bad call, as I knew without looking that the door to the spooky laundry room at my back was slightly ajar. Every time I looked over my shoulder I could swear it was slightly more open than the last time I looked.
Had I locked the front door when I came home?
My snacks went untouched, my guts full with fear. I had never been more terrified in my entire life, and I loved it! I prayed it would end soon, but at the same time I didn't want it to be over. But by the time the movie came to its "oh fuck me" conclusion I couldn't take any more. I sat there in the dark knowing that if I turned around He would be right there, so I stared straight ahead and held my breath.
Suddenly there came a tapping, as of one gently rapping, rapping at the basement window. I let out a sharp piercing squeal like a castrated pig and looked up to see my brothers leering moon-pie visage framed in the darkened window. I'd never been happier to see that fat bastard.
I waited for him to come in and turn on the lights, and then I rushed to tell him all about the movie. He could tell from my excitement that it was something that I had really liked, so his knee-jerk reaction was to crush my joy by calling me an idiot and telling me to "wash that shit off your face before I smack it off", and not to come into his room no matter what.
The now iconic Theme from Halloween echoed in my mind as I scrubbed off Peter Criss' whiskers. For once my brother was right, The Cat motif was pretty gay. When I came out of the bathroom my brother's bedroom door was already closed, my parents still not home from their soiree. I was still shit scared as I crawled into bed, but I had the defense of my Star Wars sheets pulled up to my nose. I stared intently into the corners of my tiny room, trying to pierce the darkness of the shadows, keeping one eye focussed at all times on the closed closet door, making sure it remained that way. Minutes passed, and as my adrenaline subsided I started to become drowsy.
My eyes snapped open, fully awake. What was that? What the living hell was that? Was that...breathing? Heavy motherfucking breathing? In my room? Yes, in my room. Fuck. Where was it coming from? Oh god.
I wanted to sit up, but I couldn't, so I lay there paralyzed with fear. More time passed, what seemed like an hour but probably only 5 minutes. The slow heavy breathing had stopped. Had I imagined it? I was going to make a break for the hallway just in case. I slowly swung my legs over the side of my bed, mentally willing the springs not to creak. I paused just as I was about to leap. Something was wrong. The bed bucked violently once, launching me onto the floor, and suddenly my ankle was grabbed in a vice like grip by a hand reaching from the nightmare world beneath my bed!
I had thankfully emptied my bladder prior to retiring for the evening. The prolonged scream that decimated my larynx was drowned out by the roar of evil mirth that emanated from under my boxspring. I stood there, dumbly blinking the tears out of my panicked eyes, not finding the words as my brother wriggled out from his hiding place, his own tears rolling down his overly round cheeks. The only word I could muster was "Why?"
Why had a guy his size painfully wedged himself into a tiny uncomfortable claustrophobic space and patiently waited nearly half an hour for the sole purpose of terrorizing his little brother?
"How?" may have been an equally appropriate question.
In response he gave me a Charlie Horse and waddled off to bed.
I thought of the end of the movie I had endured and smiled a vengeful smile. There is always room for a sequel.
Family is forever, and EVERYONE is entitled to One Good Scare.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
My blushing bride loves the art of negotiating. She also loves my chivalrous willingness to compromise. Unfortunately neither of us are very good at these things.
For example, when she tried to renege on her agreement to occasionally be featured as a Guest Wearer here on Shirt Of The Day I patiently explained that breaking a promise to a devoted spouse was akin to convincing a baby seal to commit suicide, thus condemning it's big wet eyed soul to baby seal hell where it would be clubbed over and over and over again for all eternity.
And anyway, if she refused I would just post the picture I have of her drooling in her sleep in lieu. She scoffed and accused me of bluffing. I showed her said picture that I have safely stored in my phone. She pouted and naively stated that I wouldn't dare. I showed her the next photo of her on the potty. She made me promise never to tell anyone about this. I agreed.
She guilefully changed her tack and fell back on her considerable feminine wiles. Her eyelashes fluttered like an epileptic butterfly as she gently caressed my smirking countenance, her lip jutting in sensual petulance. Oh she was good, effortlessly exploiting the antediluvian chink in my manly armor. She artfully tilted her head and breathed "Maybe we can hammer out a deal". Cunning, dare I say shrewd.
"Are you suggesting that we...dicker?" I countered, my eyebrows furtively popping up and down like a demented Groucho Marx.
Knowing when to quit is also not one of my strong points. Her folded arms and icy stare put to rest any notions I may have had of dickering. There was wheedling, palaver, pleading, and confabulation, but nary a dicker.
In the end my soulmate begrudgingly agreed that she would pick the shirt and I could write the text, on the condition that I not embarrass her or be rude.