You are currently browsing the monthly archive for November 2008.
True crime fascinates me (after all, I wrote a book about two serial killers), so when I get close to a bit of morbid history I go and check it out.
Tonight was one such example.
The Target my girlfriend Kathy and I shop at is about a mile or so away from the spot where a mystery killer dumped the body of Elizabeth Short (The Black Dahlia) back in 1947. I knew this, and took a short detour on our trip to the store tonight.
So we go and check out Norton Street (the location of the drop spot), and on our way back we see a stray dog walking across Rodeo Road, which is a busy street. Cars are stopping, the dog is freaking out and Kathy is instantly like, “We have to get him.”
Kathy jumps out of the car with a leash in her hands as I circle the block. Finally, she manages to get the leash attached to his collar and we pull off onto a side street to figure out what to do next.
How is it that we go from morbid murder scene enthusiasts to pet-loving good Samaritans? I have no clue. But we did.
We call our friend Jocco back in Milwaukee to get the number for L.A. animal control, and call to have them come pick him up.
Animal Control: “Well, it’s after 5PM, so we won’t be able to come and get him tonight. You can take him home with you tonight, and then call us in the morning and we might be able to come get him then.”
We asked for alternatives, and they explained that if we were willing to drive him there and drop him off, that they’d be more than willing to take him in.
And so, after a few minutes of us doing the very job that animal control should have been doing, our caring and concern paid off:
So if this is your dog, please visit: http://www.laanimalservices.com
If this is your dog and you’re an asshole, please don’t visit that site. We’ll take him. I’ve already got a name picked out: Black Dahlia.
It was either that or Notorious Murder Scene, but that’s just too long to put on a tag.
When it comes to shitty service or a crappy company, I can hold a grudge FOREVER.
For example, I will never own another MasterCard credit card or eat a Martino’s hot dog because of a few general ass-fuckings I received from these shitball companies over a decade ago.
And don’t even get me started on “The Other Paper” in Columbus, Ohio… which I hope someday burns to the ground.
But I digress….
That’s just to put it all in perspective for you: When a company wrongs me, they will never, ever get another dime of my money again. And now that I have this nifty little blog, I can encourage others to do the same.
There are two new companies at the top of my corporate shit list, and I thought I’d share them with you.
First up is Greatland, which is actually a subsidiary of the Target brand. Greatland is responsible for filling Target’s shelves with a lot of outdoorsy crap, like lanterns and stoves and air mattresses.
Or at least cheaply-made plastic pieces of shit that they try and pass off as being air mattresses.
When we first got out to L.A. about a month ago, we had to buy an air mattress because we were squatting at a friend’s place until we could get our own apartment.
We bought our Greatland mattress (which cost almost $80) on November 4th. It held okay through the night, but was noticeably more squishy by morning. Finally, after ten days, I noticed a tiny hole in the air mattress.
Now, yeah, this was a pain in the ass and unfortunate, but this shit happens. No big deal. So I bundled it up, threw it back in the box and brought it back to the store with the receipt to get a replacement.
Got another one, brought it home, filled it up and, by morning, it also was noticeably squishy. So I searched and searched for something, anything that would be causing this thing to deflate. After all, it was JUST OUT OF THE BOX! We hadn’t even owned it for twelve whole hours, so it had to have a reasonable explanation.
Maybe I wasn’t tightening the valve enough. Maybe I hadn’t filled it up correctly, or enough. Right?
Wrong. Once again I found a tiny hole that had been leaking throughout the night.
LESSON LEARNED: Buy Coleman products. They’re made better, sturdier and CHEAPER, oddly enough.
Next up, UPS.
You know what? I don’t even have the ENERGY to tell you all the details of this nightmare, so I’ll just break down the facts:
1. UPS attempted to deliver a package to me while I was HOME and, despite there being a handwritten letter from me stuck on the door with my cell number on it, they STILL left me a notice of “attempted delivery.” Yeah, if by “attempted delivery” you mean “we came by and stuck a Post-It note on your fucking mailbox.”
2. I needed the package the next day, so I called to see if there was any way I could come and pick it up. They said yes, but that I had to be there between 7:30 PM and 8:30 PM, otherwise the window of my opportunity would close and I would have to wait until the following Monday before they attempted delivery again. And it was 7:15 PM when they were telling me this on the phone. Fine. I hopped in the car and drove the twenty-five minutes it takes to get to their downtown hub.
3. Wait in line for twenty minutes with the rest of the customers they’ve chosen to dick over, only to get to the front window around eight o’clock and have them tell me, “Oh… your truck isn’t even in yet. It will probably get in around 8:30. But if it comes in after that you’re just going to have to wait until Monday to get your package because we close the pick-up window.”
5. Finally, at 8:30 PM on the money they announce, “This will be the last call of the night: Shady.” I have to admit I was happy to finally get my package, but I felt bad for the sad sacks who had waited around that entire time with me only to get bent over by UPS in the end. You should have seen how they were looking at me: Like we were all dying of the same horrific disease, but I was the person who received the last dose of antidote.
LESSON LEARNED: Use FedEx. Or DHL. Or USPS. Or Pony Express or fucking carrier pigeon, for all that matters. Just whatever you do, don’t use UPS.
Need a helpful reminder? Every time you see their brown logo, remember always that the color signifies the shitty service you’ll receive if you give them a dime of your money.
So those are my two cents, folks. And that’s two more cents than I ever plan on giving to Greatland and UPS in the future.
So I’ve already got three tattoos and (it’s true what they say, they’re addictive) I’m ready for another.
I’d like to get a fourth tattoo in 2009, and have finally decided what the art for it will be.
I plan on getting this image tattooed just above my ass crack:
Pretty cool, right?
And then I figured I’d try and convince my girlfriend to get this image tattooed on her stomach, just above her crotch:
I figure with these tattoos adorning our naked bodies it’ll make for some really freakish mutant sex.
Not like we don’t have that already.
Is oral from Walrus Man actually anal?
Okay, it’s sad that I fucking know this, but if you’ve been online anytime in the past… well, EVER, you probably know about being RickRolled.
If not, you’re lucky. Still, I’ll sum it up for you: Someone (usually a person you trust) sends you a link to a video (usually on YouTube). Then, just as the video is getting started, you’re forced into hearing Rick Astley’s hit from the Eighties, “Never Gonna Give You Up.”
When (and if) that happens to you, you’ve just been RickRolled.
Here is a video example of being RickRolled:
So this morning I got up early to get the house and turkey ready for visiting guests. I turned on the TV and flipped over to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade because… well, honestly, I’m not sure why. But I did.
They had the usual shit on: Marching bands, Al Roker and a bunch of equally gay crap. But then they went ahead and mentioned how the characters from “Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends” was going to have a float coming up, so I stayed tuned.
Finally, after a bunch of shitty puns and a lot of crappy commercials, the “Foster’s” float rolled down the street. And this, dear reader, is what aired on live television:
RickRolled on live TV on a national holiday. Fucking awesome.
Not really. Actually, it’s a….
Wait a minute. Let me back up here a second.
First, you have to know that I don’t buy anything. I mean it: ANYTHING.
I don’t buy CDs or DVDs or books. I don’t buy clothes or art or… well, anything. I buy food, booze, laundry detergent and booze. I know I said “booze” already, but that’s the one thing I buy the most of.
But I digress….
So it’s unheard of for me to go shopping and buy something that I don’t absolutely need. Even moreso, it’s COMPLETELY out of my range of comprehension or common sense to purchase something that has an infomercial attached to it.
I don’t own a Shamwow or OxiClean or Oxi Osbourne. I own none of this shit, and can’t understand for the life of me why dumb Americans would litter their homes with this useless, mass-produced garbage.
Until I saw the commercial for Pedi Paws.
Now, my dog, Mr. Fabulous, doesn’t mind getting her nails trimmed. She doesn’t LIKE IT, of course, but she doesn’t mind it. Yeah, she may lay there and stare at me with a snarky “you cocksucker” look on her face the entire time, but she won’t freak out or pull away.
No, the main problem I have with trimming Fabulous’ nails is that I hate doing it. Sometimes I get too close to her quick and she bleeds all over the place. Other times I end up nicking a tender spot on her and she’ll yelp.
I hate it. HATE IT.
But when I first saw the commercial for Pedi Paws, which is essentially a belt sander for your dog’s nails, two words spilled directly from my brain and out of my lips: “Fuck” and “Yeah.”
So I bought it. I bought the goddamn $20 piece of plastic and sandpaper. And you know what? It works. It goddamn works. I love it.
Well, “but” a couple of things.
First, it takes forever. Fabulous had ESPECIALLY long nails, of course, but it still takes a good fifteen to twenty minutes per paw, because it’s essentially just taking it down a little bit at a time instead of hacking off a whole chunk of the Velociraptor talon.
Second, it STINKS. Imagine if Bigfoot caught on fire and then ran through an abandoned wig factory, setting fire to every smelly and dusty wig in his path. It’s kinda like that. Only fartier.
Third, it has this “nail trapper” device that is supposed to capture all of the shavings. But it doesn’t work that well, and by the end of your pet’s trim you look like you’re covered in the ash from the explosion of a volcano. A NAIL volcano. A nailcano.
And lastly, it looks like a fucking dildo. So much, in fact, that when we had people over for dinner one night I thought I’d see what their reaction would be when I slammed it down in the middle of the dining room table.
I didn’t even preface it. I just said, “Wanna see what I bought today?”
Eyes wide open. Mouth agape with an “Ahhh…” on the edge of their lips. Until finally–
“It’s a nail trimmer for Mr. Fabulous.”
“Oh!” they sighed with relief. “I see it now!”
So yeah, my only complaint is that they should start printing all of these facts on the box:
- Trim your dog’s nails in the same amount of time it takes NASA’s astronauts to get to Mars!
- Now in TWO scents: Burning Taint Hair and Charred Goat Cock!
- Reenact 9/11 as your body gets covered in the ashes of your dog’s burned nails!
- And when you’re done, go fuck your wife with it!
Yeah… something tells me that’s not going to happen. Still, I give it eight out of ten stars.
As seen on TV,
My mom, my dad and my sister.
My entire childhood was spent at 1703 W. Bolivar Avenue in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. At the age of seventeen I left Milwaukee for college, and soon after my mom moved out of the three-bedroom duplex I had grown up in.
Fast-forward fifteen years.
I’m now 32 years old and living in Los Angeles with my girlfriend Kathy and our dog, Mr. Fabulous. Three weeks ago we moved into a one-bedroom apartment in a Jewish neighborhood near Beverly Hills.
It’s a nice place, an affordable place (at least for the size), but doesn’t have a whole lot of charm.
One thing it does have, however, is a tiny part of my childhood.
I recognized it immediately when we were first checking out the place. It was the exact same shade of pink (or “salmon,” if you want to get fancy), the exact same Seventies pattern.
There, just above the sink, it sat: The same wall tile that had decorated the bathroom I was potty-trained in.
Talk about reminiscing.
Maybe this place will have a dead hooker buried under the basement floorboards, too.
Ah… home, sweet home.