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Christmas is a time to tell people you’re better than them

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People who write the Christmas update

People who hate the Christmas update, but read them anyhow, out of curiosity

Every year, I get more Christmas cards than I have friends.  When we send Christmas cards out, we usually go to Target, pick up a card that looks festive, and send them off to people who would not ask the question, “Honey, do we know this person?”  I think that’s a pretty sensible approach to pretty much all correspondence.  If a sender anticipates that a recipient may not know them, save the postage.

But of course, we all know that getting cards from people we hardly know isn’t the real crime of the Christmas season.  The real agony is in getting those “here’s what’s going on in our lives” letters that either accompany the card or replace it altogether.  You know, the 14-page account of every time the baby giggled, how the dog’s hips are feeling, and how the husband got lost trying to speak French to some shop owner in Bordeaux.  These updates exist for one reason only: to make you jealous.  During Christmastime, everyone is the Joneses.

Sorry it’s short this year, folks.  We’re just finished refueling the jet and we have to hurry off to Aspen.  To think, it was just 10 days ago we were in Hawaii for our short 7 month vacation.  Little Bobby just graduated Harvard and has started a hedge fund that has doubled every month since he began.  He’s going to sell it to the Japanese and use the proceeds to bring Mother Theresa back from the dead.  Hope all is well with your families, because we’re GREAT!  And as bad as it gets, we’re always better than you!

I am pretty sure that the precise number of people in this world that give a shit what is going on in someone else’s life is exactly equal to the number of women Richard Simmons has made love to.  Despite this, we all sit down with a nice warm glass of “I can’t stand these people” and read every page; every word.  We’re curious.  Has there been any failure in their life since their Shit-zoo learned how to tightrope walk last year?  Has their 15 year old who made the varsity football team last year turned to cocaine?  What about that little Korean girl they adopted – the one who won the state chess tournament when she was 5, and again at 17?  I thought I heard something about her and the tennis coach. . .

But no.  These essays of envy are not honest.  They don’t talk about when mom had too much chardonnay and told her children that daddy had erectile dysfunction.  They don’t talk about how everyone that was there on that family trip hated every minute of their time together.  That every second that passed between shots with the $4,000 digital SLR camera that stays in “Easy Mode” was spent yelling, complaining, and moaning about everything conceivable.  No, these are the Kodak moment essays that represent the true story through a rose lens:

“We refinished the basement”
- Tom spent 4 weekends cussing at the contractor while I wondered if I could trust these Mexicans in my house.

“Tina is adjusting well to college life”
- We haven’t been able to reach Tina in 4 months.  Her roommate said that she’s being released from rehab in a week or so.  We hope it’s a joke, but really aren’t sure.

“We’re loving our matching BMW convertibles”
- Suck it, my friends.  We’ve got it made, and you do not.

So I realize that it’s too late to change things this year, but for the love, give it a break next year.  Just go to Target and get a festive card, send it to people who know who you are, and let us all rest.  Then you’ll have two years to rub in our face when you sit down to figure out how to rhyme your entire Christmas card.

“Honey . . . what rhymes with learjet?”

December 23, 2008 | Filed Under Uncategorized, in general, my life | 6 Comments 

I support wildlife with my AK-47

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People who have “Support Wildlife” license plates

People who do not regularly hunt wildlife with assault rifles

I’ve been working really hard lately on reducing road rage, per my wife’s orders.  I used to see other cars as the enemy: a chaotic moving obstacle fueled by Atlantans’ self-loathing and lost dreams, but now I’ve become less aggressive.  Bruce Lee once said, “Be like the river. Flow.”  I liked to say, “Be like the river.  Crush and annihilate vehicles that stand in your path.  Deliver toxic waste from thousands of miles away.  Look serene, but be home to deadly fish that will eat a man down to the bone.”  

But my quote was too long, so it didn’t stick even though it was far more inspiring.

At any rate, I have toned it down a bit.  Now, I am more Bruce: taking it a little bit slower in traffic, letting it come to me, taking it all in.  And one thing that I’ve taken in, in particular, is the correlation of license plates, vehicles, and drivers.  There is a very interesting relationship between vehicles, their owners, and the choice of license plate.

Growing up in Florida, you learn this early.  Florida is the Baskin Robbins of license plate states.  We had more license plates than we had ethnicities, and that’s saying something.  We had Save the Birds, Save the Panther, Save the Whales, Save the Children, Save Music, Save Gymnastics, Save Trees, Support Firemen, Support Police, Support Breasts, Send All The Cubans Home, “Florida…The New Northeast”, and everything else you could imagine.  And as funny or interesting the plates ever got, the owners that went with them were that much better.

So fast forward to present day Georgia (let’s not forget that Atlanta is in Georgia: a lone Van Gogh in a gallery of Kinkade), where a regular occurrence is seeing a white Chevy Tahoe with those big lights mounted on top and a “Support Wildlife” license plate on the back.  If it’s a Monday, there might still be some deer blood on the hatchback handle.

In trying to “Support Wildlife”, a wooden wall is best.  Drywall is rarely sturdy enough to support wildlife.  Wildlife is simply too heavy.

The Support Wildlife license plate translates a little non-traditionally for those unfamiliar with it.  Georgians use the word “support” in “support wildlife” a lot like Rwandans use the word “cleansing” in “ethnic cleansing.”  While it may seem a little backwards at first, you’ll soon realize that by wiping animals off of the face of the earth, we’re actually helping them.  You know, just like wiping humans off the face of the earth is helpful…right?

But in all fairness, I don’t really think that my fellow Georgians are that ridiculous.  What it probably really comes down to is that these guys wanted a license plate with a picture of a deer on it, and when they went to the DMV, the 400 lb woman named Tameesha told them that the only option was the plate that said “support wildlife”.  Hoping the words would rub off, the hunters bought the tag and took their chances.  Sadly, the letters never did wear off, and they’re stuck with the most self-contradictory vehicle accessory available, but at least they got that deer picture.

They should have just moved to Florida and gotten the “Kill Wildlife and Immigrants” plate.

December 22, 2008 | Filed Under in general | 17 Comments 

Pontiacs are Ugly. Period.

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People who would buy a Pontiac

People who would not buy a Pontiac, even if subjected to various forms of torture and / or Britney Spears music

We live in a time of uncertainty.  When will the terrorists strike again?  What is going on with this economy?  Am I going to have a job next week?  Will my children grow up to hate me?  Is butter or margarine better?

In these times, it is nice to know that there is one truth in the world.  One truth that will never change, no matter what forces are at play.  This truth, we all know, is that all Pontiacs are ugly as shit.

I was in front of a duo of Bonnevilles today on the way to work.  In the battle of ugly, they both won.

 

Where the saying, “polishing a turd” came from.

 

Going after the the highly sought after “I want a car that looks like my mom’s 8 year old winter slippers” market.

 

The second most ridiculous thing ever made by humans, after George Michael.

I just hope that Jess doesn’t own a Pontiac, after that blast from the Christmas tree post.

December 17, 2008 | Filed Under in cars | 7 Comments 

Rain melts brains

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People who drive more carefully in inclement weather

People who make the police say, “How the hell did this happen?” when they get to the scene

Today in Atlanta, the gods are relieving themselves after a long night of drinking, and it’s a mess out there.  Usually a rainy day will bring up all sorts of pleasant thoughts about fireplaces, blankets, drinking hot chocolate and all of that crap, but on a workday, rain just means one thing: look the hell out, because here comes the idiot brigade.

Filming the pilot for CSI: Rainy Day Atlanta.

People in Atlanta, we’ve established, are evolutionarily equivalent to sea monkeys, and it’s my experience that a good, rainy day brings out the worst in us.  With our proliferation of successful gangstas driving fast cars and a healthy population of soccer moms heavily dosed on medication and $9 Chardonnay, a rain day in Atlanta is a living metaphor for the bloodbath that will ensue throughout the day.

Now, Atlanta isn’t alone.  It seems like any city that isn’t used to crappy weather is filled with citizens who are completely prepared to submit themselves to science as soon as the skies go dark.  I was in Dallas about 6 years ago when they had that big freeze: ice covering the streets, huge snow banks, etc.  Every time a traffic light would turn red, it was like watching an ice ballet – only the failed Olympians were replaced with deadly Fords and Pontiacs twirling about at 40 mph.  Minus the massive injuries that resulted, it was poetry.

We had a similar experience when Nashville got dumped on in 2003.  The snows came, the streets froze, and the city was utterly unprepared for any of it.  Someone hinted that salt would help, and people literally went to the grocery stores and bought iodized salt to put on their streets, bewildered that there was no effect.  People would cruise down West End Ave. at 50 mph, a speed no longer controlled by gas and brake pedals, but by hills, telephone poles, and buildings.  Mayhem.

So to all 4 people out there reading this today: please slow down.  Save yourselves.  Let’s make it through this day and we can continue to enjoy the rest of our 55 degree, sunny December.  Good luck and godspeed.

December 10, 2008 | Filed Under in cars | 6 Comments 

Fake Christmas trees are for fake families

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People who buy real Christmas trees

People who buy fake Christmas trees

We live in a day where everything real has a fake counterpart – for our comfort and convenience, of course.  Are you a lazy turd with little sunlight in your home?  Buy a fake plant.  Want to keep up with the Joneses, but you’re more of a Jefferson?  Buy a fake Gucci purse.  Not sure if she’s really the one?  Cubic z to the rescue.

We have been living in a fake world for a while now.  We are surrounded by countless ways we can improve our lives, our homes, our bodies, and pretty much everything but our minds.  How many times have you heard, “it looks like real wood, doesn’t it?” when your friend shows you around their new home?  How about, “feel them!”?  Zero?  Bummer.

But when it comes to the Christmas tree, fake just doesn’t cut it.

I was walking around Target over the weekend getting lights for our tree when I rounded the corner and stumbled upon the fake tree wonderland.  Now, the first thing that strikes me as odd are these bright pink trees, the silver ones, the ones colored like the American flag, etc.  And there’s always that little Charlie Brown tree with like 7 branches and a single ornament that everyone reaches out to and says “aww, that’s so cute”.  No, that’s not cute.  That’s a dead sapling piece of crap, and on top of that, it’s a FAKE dead sapling piece of crap.  Putting a real one of those in your home says, “I’m broke as hell and my kids are going to cry on Christmas day.”  And putting a fake little POS sapling in your house is just plain stupid.

But the king of kings among the fake Christmas trees was just past the sad little twiggie and the bright silver monstrosity that looks like a sex toy for the Terminator.  It was a plain, regular 6′ tall Christmas tree, but with one detail that just seemed a little off to me.  And I noticed that this was the case with almost all of the fake trees: the trunk has needles on it.

Look at the very bottom – at the trunk.  Yeah, the trunk with needles.  That one.

So I can just picture this now.  Someone makes a call over to the slave labor camps in China and says, “Hey Chen-Suey, this is Earl over in Alabamer.  We need ten zillion of them Christmas trees.  You know, they’re like trees with the prickly leaves all over ‘em.”  And Chen goes to work, making “trees with prickly leaves all over them”, just as he’s been instructed.  Having never seen a Frasier Fir, they’re doing the best they can.  A few months later, Earl opens up the boxes and he’s had too much Evan Williams (fake Jack Daniels) to notice that the tree trunk has bristles, and ships them off to Target for my viewing pleasure.

Folks, it’s time to do “real”.  Stop eating your breakfast bar and sit down with your family.  Stop with the genetically-altered hydroponic pork chops, the KFC that comes from chickens who don’t have feathers or beaks, stop drinking milk that comes from cows pumped full of more hormones than a 13 year old girl at a Timberlake concert.  Stop buying backpacks that have a handle and wheels, put it on your back, and burn 9 calories.  Buy a real damn tree.  Light it your lazy ass self.

December 9, 2008 | Filed Under in general | 17 Comments 

I have won the Rwandan lottery 18 times this year

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People who are drawn in to trash emails

Those people’s children

I think I’m starting to see a seasonality to chain emails / SPAM / generally ridiculous nonsense.  Lately, the volume has gone up dramatically vs. the summer, and while I’m not sure why this is, if anyone out there needs Viagra, business cards, or a device that will make your penis bigger than a telephone booth, my inbox seems to be the place to go.

One wonders if these emails really work.  I really can’t imagine ordering pharmaceuticals from some company who can’t even spell correctly in their email to me.  I can’t imagine a sweet little mother of 3 sitting down to her computer and saying, “you know, some horny sluts being nasty would really hit the spot right now.  The Petersons’ Williams Sonoma registry is just going to have to wait.”

But they must work.  These people are undoubtedly spending some money to send this stuff out, so they’re obviously in it for some sort of profit.  If it wasn’t working, it would end, right?

One of my all-time favorite scams is this thing that’s been going on for a while where you’ve either won the lottery or some African royalty needs to launder some money through the US and you’re going to get to keep a cut.  You know, they go sort of like this:

I am prince of Zimbabwe.  My family have many too many money and need urgent to give many money to someone else.  We have lottery that you not enter, but still win!  Miracle Happy!

Seriously?  But the email goes on to ask for bank information, addresses, etc.  And it works, apparently.  They had something on Dateline or one of those other alarmist news shows (”Is your refrigerator killing you? Find out after our segment on marshmallow-related deaths and a montage of plane crashes, tonight at 9″) that was telling people about these scams and to not give their bank information to anyone.  

So, tell me.  Who has nibbled on the fruit of SPAM?  Anyone?  You can fess up here anonymously.  Did you buy some orange tic-tacs with “Cialis” written delicately in toxic ink?  Did you get to keep the million?  Are you happy with the new size of your … you know?

December 4, 2008 | Filed Under in general | Leave a Comment 

Thanksgiving rubbed me the wrong way

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People who buy luxury toilet paper

People who like to wipe their butt with recycled thumbtacks and glass shards

Well I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving.  I really mean that, with few exceptions.

Thanksgiving is a time for family, a time to gain 5 lbs., and a time to go to someone else’s home for several days and and be tethered to their preferences instead than your own.  And nowhere in a strange home is preference more apparent than toilet paper.  When it comes to stocking the bathroom, there really are two types of people in the world: those who prefer comfort and those who feel that “cowboy walking” is a small price to pay to save $0.04 every 6 months by buying cheap toilet paper.

I was going to try to find a picture of a cowboy on Google, but figured pictures don’t get much better than this.  God bless you if you spend the holidays with a family who does this.

So now I sit here in my office recovering from a moderate case of Rudolph ass, just trying to make it through the day, but I can’t help but reflect on my experience.  During the trip, I actually considered changing my diet to minimize the number of episodes I would have to endure, but decided that was a little bit ridiculous.  I could make it through.

Well, I did make it through, and now I feel like cartwheeling everywhere I go to avoid the friction of walking, but it’s over and I’m back home to the stuff that the bears cuddle with in the commercials.  Which actually brings me to another question: why do Americans need bears cuddling with toilet paper?  Why can’t we just tell it like it is, like in the old “great taste, less filling” commercials?  Can we handle “superior absorbtion, less chaffing”?  Too much for our puritan sensibilities?

December 2, 2008 | Filed Under my life, travel | 3 Comments 

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