Archive for the 'Sleep Deprived, Alcohol Filled' Category


In my head

Every now and then, I hit a wall, and become punch drunk. This became evident today in a Twitter conversation with my long time friend, Purplecar.

It always starts off innocently enough…

But then…

Naturally, I know I have caused confusion, and at this point, am giggling stupidly.

See, because I know Purplecar, I can just envision her blinking her eyes, a confused look of “WTF?!” on her face because she’s knows that it’s something obscure and stupid, and it’s vaguely familiar … and that makes me laugh even harder. So, I have to let her in on it …

(Gary is her husband, and one of my old fraternity brothers.)

For those who are still confused, this is what I’m quoting:

And then there are other conversations that I start innocently enough, because stupid notions come into my head (names removed to protect the innocent) …

The response?

Oh, watch as I completely whiff on Tim’s joke … yeah, I’m out of it.

So if I leave you an obscure sounding tweet or comment, believe it or not, it does actually make some sort of sense … to me … and even then, it’s iffy.


Grammar Nazi moment

I edit for a living. It’s what I do. Not really by choice, mind you, but sometimes you’re desperate enough for a job that you’ll do just about anything. That basically describes my entire work history.

Grammar uber alles
My current position is what most people call a “grammar nazi” — meaning I edit things to ensure that they are at least in the ballpark of being readable. (And to answer the FAQs, yes, if you send me an e-mail, I’ll edit it as I read it. Yes, if I pick up a menu, I’m edit it as I read it. Yes, I edit anything and everything that I read. And yes, sometimes it sucks gigantic ass.)

Some call me anal, but really, I’m fairly easy going about this stuff compared to some. For example, I don’t get bent out of shape over common usage errors, such as your and you’re, or there, their and they’re — it’s fairly easy to fuck up and use the wrong one. And typos don’t freak me out, either. We all make them, so no sense getting worked up about them.

Too good not to use.

Too good not to use.

But there are some things that irk me to no end. Geekhand is one (“NE1 there?” Seriously? You have a keyboard, right? How many more keystrokes is it to spell out “anyone?”), but I can at least understand its use when texting. However, other errors make me want to go running, screaming into the night:

  • Preregister. Oh dear God, I cringe every time I hear or see this word. There is no such thing as “preregistering” for something. If you had to preregister, that would mean you have to register in order to register. Make sense? You just register for stuff. That’s it. No “pre-” needed.
  • I simply call them delicious.

    I simply call them "delicious."

    Donut: There is no such beast as a “donut.” There is a thing called a doughnut, though — and they tend to be very tasty.  Homer Simpson eats them by the truckload. But “donut” is basically part of a brand name — Dunkin Donuts, Donut Connection, whatever. If you mean what I posted to the right — that, my friends, is a “doughnut.”

  • Entitled: Did you ever see that “Three Stooges” episode in which Curly would go nuts and beat the crap out of everyone when Larry would play “Pop Goes The Weasel”? Well, that happens to me when I hear “entitled” used incorrectly. Books, plays, CDs, pieces of artwork or whatever else that is named is not “entitled.” It is simply “titled.” Entitled means that someone is owed something. For example, “The artist who created the painting titled ‘Killed My Landlord’ is entitled to $50,00o from the painting’s sale.”
    (And for you Stooges fans, the fun begins around the 4:20 mark)
  • The apostrophe: I can’t understand why people can’t seem to grasp the proper use of the apostrophe. Instead of trying to explain when it is used, I’ll make it easy: An apostrophe doesn’t make a noun plural. Ever. For example, a friend of mine said she saw a warning sign on a park bench that read “Bee’s.” When used like this, it means that one bee owns the bench. If there is more than one bee lurking about (and they don’t own the bench), then it should read “bees.” Seriously, folks — this shit ain’t hard. I mean, grammarians have already been browbeat into accepting the use of “s’s” (so the “Hoss’s” sign is now allegedly correct), so just slap an ‘s on to anything possessive, and you’re good to go. And the worst part about this particular error is that I see it spreading into titles of stuff — meaning it’s happening so often that editors are missing it.
  • 12 noon. OK, let’s take a quick look here: What’s the definition of noon? 12p.m. Can you have a 3 p.m. noon? No.  Can you have an 11am noon? No. Can you have a 12:01 noon? No. And if you try and be smart and say that you can have 12 nooners, I can only salute you.
  • Quotes: Be “courteous” — use quotes “correctly.” OK, this sentence makes me want to punch babies. Quotes shouldn’t be used for emphasis — just titles and quotes. (And yes, I know I’m being hypocritical since I used them for emphasis throughout this blog entry.)

Friends also pointed some of their irritations:

  • Forewarn: To warn means to give advanced notice. Fore- means “before.” So, like preregister, you’re essentially warning someone about an impending warning.
  • ATM machine, PIN number: Do you know what each stands for? ATM = “Automatic Teller Machine.” PIN = “Personal Identification Number.” So, “machine” and “number” are redundant. Just say ATM or PIN. That’s all that’s needed.

There’s no way to talk about these things and not have grammatical errors in whatever you write, so don’t bother pointing out my mistakes. I know I make them. However, I know you won’t see the ones that I pointed out here, because basically, they cause me pain.

In the end, most people will agree with the following sentiment:

But if you find yourself communicating through the written word, being able to express yourself appropriately through proper grammar is vital. There’s nothing worse that someone who has a great idea, but can’t write well enough to fully express it.


Protests…Just Ducky

One of the things I love about the G-20 is the ridiculousness of some of the protests. Each group has their own agenda, and some have much more valid goals than others.

For example, we have these festive youths, who are, I think,  trying to make a point about coal and its harmful effects on the Earth and/or environment.

They will know pain!

Take that, Big Coal!

Notice their energy levels! FEVER. PITCH.

Next came The Battle To End All Battles.

Finish him!


The crowd is on their feet, cheering for Windpower! Go Windpower, go!

And then came the climax of the protest!

Her nipples stopped traffic.

She has nipples, and she's not afraid to use them.

(Photos: Justin Merriman/Tribune-Review)

YES! They took their protest (as such) and interfered with a Just Ducky tour! That will strike fear into the heart of the Imperialist coal industry! The earlier interpretative dance/Mortal Kombat session proved that alternative energy sources such as windpower will kill coal, and therefore the coal workers on the tour will be rendered jobless and should just start protesting for “real jobs” with them NOW!

All joking aside, the one thing I heard repeatedly from protesters leading up to this week was that “We don’t want to interfere with the people of Pittsburgh.” And yet, here’s 10 dorks “taking a stand” by blocking a Just Ducky tour. Yes, we Capitalists are shaking in our boots on that one. Princess Nipplehausen should be happy that I wasn’t driving, cause I would’ve run her over and hosed her remains out of the treads of my vehicle. I have no patience for this kind of crap.

If you’re going to protest against coal, make it a dramatic one, like by going to Coalfest in Fayette County. Oh wait, people there wouldn’t tolerate their shenanigans. Meeting with real coal miners instead of the paper pushers could produce much different results … in fact, if the protesters weren’t hospitalized for getting uppity with them, they may have found out why these people have such pride and such a proud heritage in Western Pennsylvania. And while there, they could have snacked on some funnel cake and listened to some smooth stylings from this guy:

You know this man rocks.

Aloha shirt. Trombone. You know this man rocks.

Eric Schmadel/Tribune-Review

Really. Having a girl rage against the Just Ducky tour after some interpretive dance is the epitome of rebellion. Zach De La Rocha would be so proud. Fight the power. Literally.

(Shameless plug: Justin Merriman is a kick-ass photographer, and has won many, many awards. If you like photography, check out his stuff.)


It occurs to me …

iPod playlists are nothing more than gigantic ’80s mix-tapes.

And for no reason other than pure randomness, here’s Trogdor.
Check out all his majesty.


Breakfast of champions

You know, this screwy schedule is starting to get to me.
Here was my breakfast this morning:

  • 16 oz. glass of juiced pineapple/cantaloupe.
  • 2-3 strips of beef jerky.
  • 16 oz. protein shake.
  • Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pie.

One day, I will get some sleep. I swears.


I hate your fauxdog

Maybe this is a sign of my age.

Maybe this is a sign that I’m a stodgy, crusty bastard.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m a flat-out jackhole.

But every time I see pictures or hear people talking about their dog that happens to be a “Puggle” or a “Labradoodle” or a “Golden Doodle” like it’s a real breed of dog, I want to vomit. On the person talking. On the merchandise bearing its name. On anyone that I think is even thinking about buying said merchandise or dog. Move over, Mr. Creosote, I’m taking over.

You know what we called these dogs in my day? Mutts, Mixes or “Beats the fuck out of me.” And we were happy that way. The dog was happy that way, too. All the other dogs didn’t feel the need to pee on them as they walked by.

And you know, in my day, old ladies sat around making cookies and pies, knit afghans and yelled at neighborhood kids. They didn’t have time to sit around thinking “We should breed a beagle and a pug together and call it a puggle! How cute!” and then start excitedly clapping because it’s the first idea that they had that didn’t involve a new way to insert prunes into their diet.

No, in my day, some smart-assed guy who had a couple of beers would’ve bred the two and called it a Bug, a Beg or a Beap, and it would have worked for obvious reasons. And he would have grinned afterward because he knew it would be funny, and it was the first creative idea he’s had that didn’t involve his trashy sister-in-law, pizza, beer, small propellors and a $5 admission fee.

And I hate to say this, but the average fauxdog is pretty ugly. See, for every model-esque fauxdog (like, lets say, an especially fluffy, proud Golden Doodle *blaaaaaargh*), there are about 8 brothers and sisters that are one stage from wincingly ugly. There is no standard. When you say any one of these fauxdog names, you don’t get a picture in your mind of what it is, because it can be anything. It could very well be cute — but chances are it looks like it escaped from a circus sideshow.

I know all breeds basically started out this way, and it’s just a matter of time before there is a standard for these fauxdogs. But you know, when breeds were first being “made,” the owners gave them names we could all be proud of. Some were even named after towns and regions that they originated in. That’s pride, man, PRIDE. Does mixing in an “-oodle” to the end of a traditional breed elicit that same feeling? Let me answer that for you: NO. It does NOT. I mean, if some jackhole from the ‘burgh started breeding Pit Bulls and Poodles and started calling them Pittboodles, would we yinzers be clamoring for one? Would we feel as lovingly toward it as we do about the Steelers, Primanti’s and Iron City? No. Likely, someone would track down the guy and call him a jagoff, and then watch his trashy sister-in-law do her thing with the propellors after the pizza and beer.

Now, I’m not saying that these dogs are bad dogs. I love all kinds of dogs, and I would probably befriend or help any of these fauxdogs as I would any other dog that I would run across. But don’t expect me to call it by their fauxdog name — I’ll look you dead in the eye and call it a mutt or a mix or “Whatever the fuck kind of dog that is.”

Dogs are man’s best friend. They are unconditional love personified. They bring happiness, they will defend us, they work to please us. They deserve better than what they’re getting — especially the fauxdogs.

Boxers ... now theres a REAL dog ...

Boxers ... now there's a REAL dog ...


Police arrest cereal icon

In an incident that shocked the Kellogg’s community, Tony the Tiger was arrested after allegedly eating his young. His cubs, Anthony Jr. and Antonia, have not been seen since last Thursday.

According to sources close to the legendary cereal spokeman, Tony has been depressed and was seeking treatment for relapsing into his addiction to sugar. It wouldn’t be his first bout with the substance — Tony has been battling his sugar addiction for more than 30 years.

When asked how his children were, cereal spokesman Tony the Tiger responded, Theyre grrrreat!

When asked how his children were, cereal spokesman Tony the Tiger allegedly responded, "They're grrrreat!

A Kellogg’s spokesman had no comment.

Tony’s scrapes with the media are well known. In 1982, a very wound-up Tony was caught on film savaging reporter Sally Wiggleschuff outside of a posh L.A. nightclub where he had been partying all night with the Trix Rabbit and Fruit Brute.

“His eyes were very wide, and you could tell anything would set him off,” said cameraman Jose Smith. “Why Sally even bothered to approach him was beyond me. He’s still a fricken tiger, for Pete’s sake.”

Because of his natural charm and wild beast status, he was acquitted of all charges. However, in an effort to console Wiggleschuff’s family, he sought out treatment for his sugar problem.

He was later married to Priscilla the Tiger, an aspiring actress who he met while undergoing treatment for the fifth time. They had 2 cubs; Anthony Jr. in 1995  and Antonia in 1998. Priscilla died while on vacation in the African savannah in 2005 after choking on an antelope bone.

While the school cited privacy concerns about the cubs’ records, an anonymous source said that the two have been discipline problems, and have repeatedly bitten and scratched classmates. The source said that they were both on the verge of being expelled. “While discussing possible options for his children, I heard that Tony was biting the hair off of his tail and asking, ‘What the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t take this shit much more,'” the source said.

Police reports indicate that patches of fur were missing from Tony’s tail. Veterinarians confirm that the chewing off of fur could be a symptom of extreme anxiety.

Another source close to Tony said that he likely was back on sugar. “Those damn kids … they never listened to him. They were always demanding something. And when they weren’t demanding stuff, they were jumping on him and biting his ears. He was a wreck — he just couldn’t keep up or deal with them unless he was sugared up,” the source said. “When I’d see him, he would either be very excited and happy or very irritable and lethargic. I’d always ask him how his family was, and he’d say, ‘They’re grrrrrrreeat!’

“It’s so sad, really. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat ‘Frosted Flakes’ again,” the source said. “I guess I’ll have to start eating ‘Lucky Charms’ or something — but I keep hearing rumors about Lucky and the Quaker Oats guy — like they’ve been seen propositioning guys in the park. I don’t know — we keep hearing more and more about the cereal icons being just royally messed up. What’s a parent supposed to feed his kids anymore?”

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