Saturday, August 13, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Friday, December 17, 2010
What does every new house need? A third dog. (note the sarcasm) March 2010: enter Roddick, the destroyer of all things domestic. You wouldn’t think that anything this suave and adorable could grow up to be so tirelessly mischievous.
B: He’s got your bra.
You see, Roddick keeps it classy. I had learned this lesson many times over in prior months, when he began dragging my undergarments from the bathroom to god-knows-where while I was showering. This was the first time though that a guest was the target. Embarrassing as it was to realize that he had clawed his way into the guest room and pilfered through Fortunator’s bag like a nosy maid, his complete nonchalance over the matter was mortifying further. He just sat there with a dopy expression, brazier in mouth, looking at Fortunator as if he was saying, This is yours. Did you lose it? I found it. I brought it to you. Did you need it? Cause I have it now. Do you want it? Here it is. Yes, I was the mother in Wal-Mart with the child who is completely deficient in tact and volume control, blessing others with his observations, LOOK MOM!!!!... SHE HAS SUPER-ABSORBENCY TAMPONS IN HER CART TOO!!!! (I wasn't sure about the feminine hygiene lingo, but that last sentence sounded right. No need to correct me, ladies... I just couldn't bring myself to Google a product for accuracy. I just can't. I am perfectly happy being oblivious.)
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
|From Fortune Favors the Bald|
A bigger person would have taken the high road and ignored the taunt. But I wasn't about to be cyber-bullied (and clearly this kid was just trying to elicit a response); I'd like to think that I barked back for all of you who have previously been victim to a random act of stank. So here is the entire email string, in all its unedited, colloquial glory. It's not pretty, and I make no apologies (except, sorry Mom).
Thehardcorethug: bullshit you can get it for 15 new on amazon you ass clown
Marklebald: Maybe if you buy used from amazon. Or from some Indonesian merchant. Or from an Iraqi DVD black market. But from one of Amazon's domestic warehouses? $40-fuckin-dollars and 99 cents. Sorry to deflate your presumptuous and ill-researched call-out session, but you should probably save your emails for craigslist posts you're actually interested in buying. Do the world a favor, "hard core thug" (who somehow still has an AOL address), and "keep it real" so the rest of us don't have to endure your douchebaggery. This has clearly been a productive Sunday evening for you.
Thehardcorethug: hey dont be using big words they hurt my ummm my whatever is in the head brain that's it they hurt my brain oh yea i fucked your mom bye
Marklebald: Considering the anonymity [nobody knows you] of Craigslist, odds are you wouldn't know if my mother was dead or alive. But for someone as urbane [classy like horseshit] as you, that's probably not a deal-breaker either way.
I'm sorry our public education system [school] failed you. Actually, I feel more sorry for the teachers you more than likely tortured [hurt] with your asinine [shit for brains] contributions to human existence. It's never too late to pick up a dictionary [book] and actually make something of yourself. But that would mean you'd have to be productive [get stuff done], which would require you to remove the thumb from your ass.
Thehardcorethug: hey your smart wanna be friends
Marklebald: So you're either 13 years old or an inmate with computer access. Or both. In which case, I don't do the tutoring thing. And this whole dialogue (if you can call it that) has seriously made me question any opinions I had on the social reintegration of prisoners. Best of luck developing a new skill set while you're behind bars. I hear telemarketers are in high demand in this economy. But you clearly have the personality befitting those pain-in-the-ass calls around dinnertime.
Thehardcorethug: give me a bj
Marklebald: I called it. Prisoner.
You'll notice, also, the not-too-subtle change in FFTB's URL. It's not that I have an issue with anonymity. Let's be honest... I don't check the hit counter on this blog for a reason. I also haven't pissed off a coworker or a local barista. Clearly, there is no shortage of cautionary tales about unemployed bloggers who, at one time, felt the need to vent about a boss. Also, if my boss is reading... I love my job and the opportunity to work under your attentive tutelage. Nor am I venturing into WikiLeaks territory. For one, it sounds like a VD. (I pray, too, that the mere mention of WikiLeaks in this blog doesn't bring the DOD to my doorstep.)
Maybe it's the hermit in me rising to the surface. I am both amused and repulsed by people who lose themselves in the net (Sandra Bullock, anyone?). For every self-absorbed autobiographical blogger, I'll show you a World of Warcraft devotee. You're a level 14 Mage, leader of your guild; you raided all the dungeons of the Eastern and Western kingdoms, and you're still a virgin?? For too many people, the actual living of life takes a backseat to their mission to develop an online persona. Everybody wants to be the next Dooce or Danny Evans, which in my humble opinion are blogging at its best. But not everyone needs to know what I had for dinner, what I thought about Inception, or how bad it sucked to have to go to the laundromat the other day.
In trying to avoid the boilerplate meanderings of much of America, I still recognize the continual need to divulge. To share. To congress with other players in life (not Life™, which is actually as boring as boardgames go). To disclose the minutia of our day-to-day, while avoiding the pitfalls of the oversharer. I swear, you will never hear about any routine, colorectal procedures of mine in the future. But my story to tell is that fortune does favor the bald. Good fortune. Misfortune. Not to mention Ms. Gina Fortune, a best friend of 5+ years now. Brandi Carlile sang it best:
All of these lines across my face / Tell you the story of who I am / So many stories of where I've been / And how I got to where I am / But these stories don't mean anything / When you've got no one to tell them to
Sunday, July 25, 2010
But I had to return, for one, to try something new. With my new HTC EVO (shameless Android plug), I had to try my hand at mobile blogging. FYI, for all its power, this OS' auto-correct feature is making typing take twice as long as normal. Secondly, I had to petition the online masses to see if anyone knows if some obscure arachnid deity exists, because it appears I have angered he/she/it. His royal legginess has apparently unleashed his hoards on my casa of ten months. In just the past few summer months, I've seen wolf spiders big enough to tackle my schnauzers, a tarantula taking residence in the garage, and a black widow chillaxing on the back patio like she's waiting for me to bring her a cosmo. I can only surmise that new construction is the Sandals resorts equivalent for spider-kind. They've even seen fit to invite their cousin scorpions to squat on the premises (read: NOT OK).
Accordingly, I've stocked up on Home Defense and all other anti-critter Ortho products, as well as recruited the professional arachnid assassins. Overkill? Not hardly. There's only so many times that I can explain away my very emasculating discoveries of those "fuzzy bugs". (Brian Fellows, anyone?... No?) My reactions look something akin to an effeminate and epileptic Lindy Hop. And before you judge too harshly, ask yourselves how you would react to seeing these monstrocities. No, I did not lift them from the Clash of the Titans official movie website.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Here’s to you, mister doesn’t know how to eat chocolate and simultaneously maintain his dignity.
Look, I have a sweet tooth just as badly as the next person. But some people seem to lose their minds when indulging in their favorite confections. The slurred speech, the sultry demeanor, the euphoric eye-twitching… There’s no reason eating chocolate should transform someone into an orgasmic stroke victim. And why do people feel the need to converse with you while they’re unnecessarily prolonging each bite?
AMMMHMMAHMM… Ohmagaw… yu dunno how good thi ith…
Umm, pretty sure I do know. It’s chocolate, not some rare Nepalese delicacy. And we live in America. Pretty sure if you cut one of Uncle Sam’s varicose veins, it will bleed Hershey’s. Seriously, how can you still be surprised at how good chocolate tastes? Please cease and desist with all your When Harry Met Sally moments, because I’m just not convinced.
Here’s to you, mister unnecessarily loud Harley revving in public.
Nothing evokes masculinity like a middle-aged, leather-clad rebel without a cause. I’m still confused as to how you got your family of four to Taco Bueno, but regardless… Is it really necessary to rev your bike in public 7-8 times? I mean, once you turn the key, you should have all the confirmation you need that your engine is in fact running. You made it next to impossible to order from the drive-through the other day.
Yes, I’d like the #3 MexiDip and Chips with a Dr.N-N-N-N-NA-NYUH-NYUH!!!! Umm, sorry, that was a number 3, add a chicken MuchacN-N-NYUH-NA-NEGINA-NYUH-NYUH-NA-NYUH!!!!!!! Forget it, just give me tacos, burritos and a couple driNYUH!!NA-NA-NEGINA-NEGINA-NYUH-NA-NA-NYUH!!!!!!!!
Admittedly, I’ve never been a fan of the crotch rockets, and now I think I know why. I don’t think I could ever ride anything that sounds like a flatulent Greek god.
Here’s to you, mister and mistress inexplicably drawn to bald heads.
Let it be known that baldness does not come with a membership card. There are no secret societies, nor is there frequent fraternization of the follicularly challenged (to my knowledge). So why, tell me why, sir do you feel the need to solicit the chrome-dome camaraderie of me, a stranger? Understandably, it is New Years, and there have been many libations… Just because you are bald and I too am bald does not mean that we have some inherent bond or brotherhood. Therefore, it is unnecessary for us to discuss head shape and shaving technique, because we are not of the same tribe or clan. (Note: you may actually be affiliated with a certain Klan, in which case, we truly have nothing in common. I cannot help you prepare Molotov cocktails, nor am I skilled in etching Confederate flag prison tats.)
Likewise, ma’am… contrary to popular belief, bald heads do not yearn to be rubbed. It’s no crystal ball, no genie’s lamp. I don’t wake up every day secretly hoping my noggin will be fondled by strangely amorous women. Honestly, a simple handshake will do. A bald head is not a helpless, adorable puppy that demands to be doted upon. Awwww, loogadit! Loogada cute wittle bawld headsy-kins! Again, there is usually a certain level of imbibing that has taken place before a cranium grope, but not even lowered inhibitions are enough to excuse this strange infatuation.
Here’s to you, mister grievously deficient in phone etiquette.
While it has been of no consequence to me, sir, you have made it obvious that this telephone interview has been exclusively for your convenience. Over the course of our hour-long conversation, I have had the privilege of overhearing you chew gum, wake the baby with a chorus of clanging pots and pans, yell at the dogs to stop barking, flick your lighter at the first of what would be eight smoke breaks, the squawking of what I'm sure is a malnourished tropical bird, you now yelling at the children, the flushing of a toilet, and the crunching of something with the texture and timbre of Cornnuts. I must say, it has been an utter delight.
Your groggy response when you answered the phone raised the question as to whether you knew the day started before 1:30 PM. After having to compete with Bob Barker for your attention, I am certain that whereas I will carry out my workday in slacks and a button-up shirt, you will more than likely ride out the remaining daylight on your sectional in sweats. Let me assure you that the rest of civilization heretofore has been abuzz with all the telltale signs of life and productivity that consciousness affords.