Sunday, July 17, 2011
It ain't easy having pals.
They rib you, insult you, exploit your insecurities and foibles. Generally giving you the gears. Like a living diary written in indelible marker they never let you live down the embarrassing goofy stuff you have done in your life, like the skin tight leather pants or the drunken dance-floor makeout session with a 300 pound cougar who left her cheap ruby red lipstick all over your face like you'd been bobbing for pistachios.
But all that really means is they know you, and accept you for who you are. Regardless.
My blood relatives put the func in dysfunctional, so over the years I have invested in my small circle of friends in lieu, and consider them my family. They are a good bunch, albeit somewhat damaged, each in their own special way. Like a Super Team, each member with their own unique ability, thankfully minus the spandex....except Josh, but what happens behind closed doors is his business.
I have a milestone birthday rapidly approaching, and this merry band of miscreants helped me celebrate the other night by partaking in the time honored tradition of getting me shitfaced. This is the gift that keeps giving as it is still making itself known today, like a house-guest that sleeps until noon and uses all of your toilet paper, and although I feel as though a pig has shat in my brain, I'm smiling. I've got good pals.
In addition to plying me with copious amounts of alcohol, mi amigos also presented me with gifts. Anyone that scoffs at the idea of grown men purchasing gifts for each other as being gay only does so because they don't have anyone in their lives that cares enough about them to buy them cool shit. Now if my pals had purchased and signed a birthday card, that would have been totally gay.
The group gathered was a good mix of childhood, highschool, and newer friends, and the gifts were representative of the mix. All the geek staples were covered: comicbooks, Star Wars, Lego, Thundercats, rockabilly, and t-shirts a-plenty! Including the painstakingly crafted handmade 100% cotton masterpiece featured above. This tee is the equivalent of the birthday card a parent receives from their kid that is crafted out of macaroni, glitter and Elmer's paste, and as it's proudly mounted on the refrigerator you can't help but fleetingly wonder if the child might be a tad slow.
Future frackin' awesome Shirts of the Day also gifted included Deadpool, Charlie Brown, Robo Cop, and Han Solo! What makes this drenched in awesome sauce is that this group of friends don't speak geek, well at least not fluently. They don't get an obsession with pop culture rooted in the realm of sci-fi and superheroes, comics and cartoons. But they do get me. And that's what makes them pals.
I think William H. Bonney summarized it best when he said "
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Well gang, we are only 45 Tees into Shirt of the Day and I have already received a mixed bag of comments and questions, as well as 1 marriage proposal (Suzi, "No" to the marriage, "Yes" to the tattoo) and a smattering of death threats from you, the esteemed readers. I thought I'd take this opportunity to address some of the commonly themed queries that have been posed thus far.
Q: Shawn from Ireland wanted to know "Exactly how many freakin' t-shirts do you have?!"
A: This is actually one of the most frequently asked questions. The answer: I'm not entirely sure, but enough to warrant an intervention. Probably enough to wear a different one every day for a year, and then some. Will I showcase them all? No, just the good, the bad, and the geeky. Huzzah!
Q: Saeed from the United Arab Emirates writes "أحب القمصان الخاصة بك والقصص السخيفة. أنها تبقي لي الشركة ويعطيني ابتسامات كثيرة. ليس من السهل أن يبتسم هنا. لقد حاولت من أي وقت مضى لجعل شطيرة في بولونيا كهف مظلم؟ هناك على الرمال في كل لدغة. لو كنت هنا أود أن أشكر لك من قبل قاسم ابنتي والماعز معكم لصنع الجنس."
A: First off Saeed, your grammar is atrocious (LOL-hugs), and thank you for your kind words. I can't say I do, because I don't like bologna. As for your gracious offer, tempting, but I couldn't. Now if you had said your daughter and a dugong...haha
A: This covers a broad array of questions from all over. Why t-shirts, why stories, why bother? The answer is simple: I have a collection of tees and a catalog of tales. I like t-shirts, I have t-shirts, I also like to tell stories, I have stories to tell. A fellow t-shirt aficionado told me he reckons I'm a t-shirt wearin' front porch raconteur. Why the blog? To preserve both the shirts and the stories, before age and beer increase my girth and diminish my ability to recall and relate the yarns.
Q: Señor b00bie$ is a childhood friend who I am both embarrassed for and by, someone who has been a constant in my life and has born witness and been party to many of my youthful shenanigans. If I am Id, the Señor is my Mecha-Id. In a booze and Ativan fueled email he demanded to know "Where's all the fuckin' good stuff you hobo humpin' slobo bitch?! The sex, drugs, and rock and roll stories, dickweed!? I know you have 'em to tell, I was there! Well not for the sex stories, except that one time but we agreed to never speak of that again. But I've heard 'em, seen 'em, and unfortunately even smelled 'em...so spill it douchebag!".
A: Ah Señor b00bie$, your flattering pet names warm the cockles. Yes, I do have R and even X rated tales, but not for this forum. Some of my stories may have illicit elements, or be set against a backdrop of debauchery, but out of respect for my wife and to preserve the continuity of the lies I have told her about my puritanical past, I will leave the sordid tales of hedonistic decadence to the professionals like Tucker Max.
Q: Speaking of my enchanting bride, WaxMyMonkey69 wanted to know if "we'd be seeing any more of her".
A: Due to the graphic nature of the subsequent verbification of the email, and the accompanying photographs, I will choose the wording of my response carefully: Although my wife has begrudgingly agreed to model the occasional guest Shirt of the Day, no you will not be seeing MORE of her Mr. WaxMyMonkey69.
Q: Several readers have inquired "Did that really happen / Are these stories true?"
A: Absolutely, 100% grade a true, with a healthy dose of creative license.
Q: "Are you really that big of a geek?"
A: Whereas I do not own a clock or watch that displays all the world time zones, I do measure time in how many episodes of Buffy I could have watched. Greedo did not shoot first. I know what TARDIS stands for, but don't care what HTML means. I have no interest in Xbox, but still play Atari. I have read Lord of the Rings more than once, and comicbooks hold my interest more than the news. I have met Bruce Campbell, but not William Shatner. So you decide, but if you are already here then you may want to ask yourself the same question.
Q: "When did you first realize you were a geek?"
A: Stardate one-eight-seven-one point seven.
Until next time dear reader...Excelsior!
Friday, July 1, 2011
(Related post: Day 31)
I was at a BBQ, enjoying a cold beer and engaging in friendly discussion on how time dilation when applied to the concepts of general relativity could allow for time travel into the future. The general consensus was that it is unlikely that travel into the past is possible, but playing the Devil's Advocate I postulated its plausibility. The term "Paradox" was being thrown around like so many "I Love You's" in the backseat of a Chevy Nova on Prom Night. I was proposing that the application of quantum mechanics into the equation mitigates the paradoxical conundrum created by the laws of causality by allowing for historical divergences, aka Multiverses. It was a congenial enough conversation until some clown broke out Hawkings' Chronology Protection Conjecture. Hello...Party over!
It was at that moment that I became distracted by a new arrival blustering through the back gate. He was a greasy rotund fellow, the type of guy who is always sweaty in winter. He was wearing a shirt that read "My PERL script is smarter than your Java code". There was something oddly familiar about him. I vaguely registered that he made me uncomfortable but I couldn't remember why. I also recalled that he smelled funny. Like pickled eggs and taxidermy.
His beady eyes furtively darted around the guests, and when they settled on me he hastily made a stumbling beeline for my position. I gingerly placed my beer on the patio table, adjusted my footing, and got ready to rumble!
Then I noticed the other guests were not at all alarmed by this rampaging unctuous behemoth. Some were even casually greeting him as he charged past. I relaxed my ninja fighting stance, but only slightly.
As he huffed and puffed right up to me the first thing I noticed were the crescents of perspiration framing his breasts. The second thing was the stench. They say that smell is a powerful memory trigger, and this particular assault on my olfactory senses was setting my Spider Senses a-tingling!
By way of greeting he heralded himself by blurting "