How does the saying go? “All clowns are pedophiles, but not all pedophiles are clowns.”? Yeah, I think that’s it.

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on August 21, 2008 @ 10:22 am
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I totally forgot I had taken this picture a while ago and never uploaded it to the site.

bridege

That word that you don’t recognize? Yeah, that’s supposed to be “bridge”. You might think that it would be important to check your spelling when you, for example, completely rearrange how people get from a parking garage to the FUCKING HOSPITAL. In this case, I guess it wasn’t a very high priority.

Also, I took this picture while in Ocean City:

August 2008 009

Somebody put tape over the third finger so that every time the hand came up, it showed “The Shocker” (Is anyone else not surprised that wikipedia had a page for the shocker? I know I wasn’t.) It’s like that red, glowing had was getting ready to take the white walking guy on a magic carpet ride of sexual awkwardness and discomfort. For that little walk-sign guy, every minute and a half or so he gets to relive all the cramped, sweaty, uncomfortable fondling of two high-schoolers in the backseat of a crappy car… and he never gets any that’s better than that. What a sad, sad life for him.

Maybe these scary fucking clowns will make him feel better:

August 2008 061

Jesus Christ! I took the fucking picture and it still scares the shit out of me. And I don’t even really find clowns to be scary. But these clowns… great merciful shit… these clowns are surely the leavings of a craftsman whose hands were controlled by demons, and whose mind was perverted and then slowly broken by Satan himself. Just look at this fucking thing!

August 2008 062

Agggh! Terrifying! I keep feeling like two giant clown arms are going to materialize out of a fog creeping up from the floor and pull me down into some horrifying basement in the center of the earth, fondling the entire way down.

Geez. I’m still so fucking terrified that I can’t even come up with anything funny to say about this Nazi mouse:

August 2008 043

Or this Hippo/Trashcan that acts as a metaphor for the morbid obesity of Americans and how we eat:

August 2008 038

Better now? Yeah, me too. Let’s move on to the nex

August 2008 062

Augh! Jesus Fucking Microwaves! Who fucking thought that was a good idea to put that scary ass clown face back up?! Fucking shitballs it’s terrifying.

What the hell am I supposed to say about Spongebob and Clamface now? That my pants are full of shit? That I don’t even know those people in the picture which makes me sort of weird Nickelodeon sex pervert?

August 2008 037

I don’t even know what’s creepier: the pants on the Spongebob costume, or the penis with arms standing next to him. Wait, I know what’s creepier. That fucking clown.

Continue reading ‘How does the saying go? “All clowns are pedophiles, but not all pedophiles are clowns.”? Yeah, I think that’s it.’

But I took pictures of them, which is still pretty crazy

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on August 20, 2008 @ 11:36 am
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I’m a little bit OCD. I don’t need to turn light switches on and off a million times. I don’t have to wash my hands two-hundred times. I do compulsively collect things. If I’m ever at a party with you, and you see me by the drink table, and I’ve been hovering there for a while, chances are good I’m having a roaring internal debate about whether or not I should pocket the corks from the wine bottles. What? I said I was a little OCD. I didn’t say I wasn’t a lot crazy.

Anyway, one of my other OCD peccadilloes is that I like to see things completed, or used to completion. For example, I derive perverse joy in sitting down with an almost completely empty jar of peanut-butter and using a knife to scrape every last peanut-molecule from the inside of the jar. Or, as another example, were I to find a bottle of milk that had expired, I couldn’t just throw it away. I’d have to rinse it first until any water going into the carton of milk came out as clear when I emptied it into the sink. Then I’d throw it away. Yeah, I’m fully crazy.

Here’s the perfect example: my flip flops.

August 2008 248

Yeah yeah yeah. They’re filthy. I just got back from a week in Ocean City. What do you expect? Anyway, you might notice the tiny little hole in the left flop. Here’s a more detailed photo of the bottom:

August 2008 266

See those rings? I had to wear through a layer of blue, a layer of black, and another layer of blue to get the hole in the shoe. It took about three years, but I was finally able to do it. You can see here how thinly it was worn:

August 2008 267

I was actually walking up to the boardwalk when it happened. I felt the wood under my feet, kicked off my flop, saw the hole, and immediately had a little freakout.

“I wore through! I busted through! I made a hole in my flip-flop!” I squealed with all the manliness and reserve of a 5-year-old girl. I was holding my flip-flop in my hand and holding it up to my companions so they could also share in my excitement.

“Great,” they said. “Can we go drink beer now?” So I had to keep my excitement to myself. All the way down the boardwalk I thought about how I said I wasn’t going to throw away these cheap $5 flip-flops until after I had worn through them. But now, I thought, weren’t they a badge of honor? A proud achievement for me to collect and store in my closet so I can admire the result of my determination whenever I want?

Then I realized that if I went to the bathroom it was if I was walking in there with bare feet, and I’d be damned if I’d wear flip-flops that facilitated pee-touching, so I threw them away once I got home.

What can I say? I love sausage.

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on August 19, 2008 @ 1:27 pm
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Have you ever decided to treat your body as a toilet rather than a temple? What am I talking about? Of course you have, you’re reading about someone else’s life on the internet. In fact, you’re reading about MY life on the internet. It’s no big leap of logic to see that you must treat your body as a toilet when you so obviously treat your mind as some sort of horrendous septic tank.

Anyway, I went down to Ocean City with the intent of not ruining myself with horrible food and copious amounts of beer, but things backfired somewhere in the middle of the week, and on Sunday morning I found myself slovenly perched over two giant biscuits that had been slathered in a gelatinous ooze of sausage gravy and surround by slowly drowning sausage patties. It was delightful, but I was happy to leave that lifestyle at the beach, or at least I thought I had until last night.

Mrs. ACW and I enjoyed a dinner of potato chips and french onion dip, tortilla chips and nacho cheese dip, fried chicken, cornbread, biscuits, and pizza. We also bought french fries, but filled up before we could cook them.

And you might think, “Oh, you’re a disgusting ball of filth of a human. Remind me never to touch you lest I draw back greasy sebum-covered fingers.” And you’d be right. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that I was wallowing in my own crapulence and trying to figure out how to make the food I was eating even worse for me. I never could figure out a way to get it all together into one hand-held food-stuff, but I came close when I loaded a slice of pizza with dip, chips, cheese dip, tortillas, and a crunchy hunk of fried chicken skin.

That sour feeling you just got in the pit of your stomach just then? That wasn’t nausea. That was jealousy.

I would have just pretended it was bacon

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on August 18, 2008 @ 9:22 pm
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Well aren’t I just a big mountain of dicks? “Oh, I’m busy now but I’ll write something later today.” Or tomorrow. What an asshole I am.

Anyway, after going through all my “urgent” emails and not finding a single one to actually be urgent, I had just enough time to pack up all my shit and try to make it home before the washing-machine repair guy made it to my house. If you’re totally confused as to why our washing machine needed to be repaired you can go back a few posts, or I can summarize it for you here- Mrs. ACW had been using the washing machine as an on-again off-again death-pit for unsanctioned viper-fights and one unfortunate afternoon ran the washer with live vipers inside it when she thought she was being raided by a Justice-Squad like conglomerate of PETA, Animal Cops, and ophiophilists that turned out to misguided furries looking for a place to yiff.*

So the guy is already waiting for me when I get there and I think, “Oh, well good. I already have the washer taken halfway apart, so he shouldn’t be too upset for waiting.” And the first thing he says is, “Did you take this apart? Never take anything apart if you want us to fix it. Most techs would just walk away from this thing right now.”

But the guy had fixed my microwave and my trash compactor, so he went ahead and started putting my washer back together so he could take it apart again. As he was working he explained that it needed to be put together so he could diagnose the problem from the ground up, and then he told me a story so harrowing that I vowed to him I’d never disassemble an appliance I wasn’t sure I could fix.

He told me that a coworker had gone out on a stove-repair job a few years ago and found a somewhat disassembled electric stove when he arrived. He replaced the few screws and small panels that were still off and plugged the stove back in to test it. He had his hand resting on the back of the stove and and turned on one of the burners so he could try and determine what the problem was. He was immediately electrocuted because someone had reassembled the stove without first reconnecting the right wires to the right places. Apparently the wires from the wall or the stove itself were resting against the frame of the stove rather than connected to the burner, and the repair guy’s hand quickly became one with the stove. According to the guy fixing my washer the heat or electric current was so intense that it melted the guy’s wedding ring and fused his fingertips to the top and back of the stove before the circuit breaker blew and the power to the stove was cut.

The family ditched the stove and bought a new one shortly thereafter because everyone in the house became nauseous at the sight of seared flesh still burned onto the stove.

So yeah, my washer is completely fucking busted, but at least I got a good story out of it.

*Don’t look that up at work.

The titles are still on vacation

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on August 18, 2008 @ 9:16 am
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Alright, I have about 150 emails that are all marked, “URGENT- RESPOND IMMEDIATELY!!!!” and then the message is something like, “Hey, has anybody seen my blue pen? Oh wait, here it is. Ignore this email.” so I don’t have much for right now, but hope to put up something later on today.

Besides work I have a crap-ton of stuff to do this week: getting my washer fixed, buying a new car, trying to fix Mrs. ACW’s car, and a number of other things that I’ve forgotten but will surely remember once they come back and bite me in the ass. This means that this last week should be heady with nonsense and tirades.

And speaking of tirades, there’s Mike. Mike writes, “Jesus H Christ…grow a pair or shut the fuck up. I’ve been reading your site for about two years now and you complain constantly about inconsiderate people (which I enjoy) but there is a difference between you and I: I call people out on their bullshit while you think it’s better to just blog about about it. Also, complaining about some idiots on a Ocean City vacation is like complaining about screaming children while dining at the Olive Garden. Dollar up and go on a real vacation or comes to terms with the fact that you are actually slumming it.”

Okay Mike, I’ll go ahead and grow a pair: if you don’t like the blog, fuck off and read something else.

Oh, hey. That felt pretty good calling someone on their bullshit. Thanks for giving me the opportunity, Mike.

The Worst Family in America

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on August 14, 2008 @ 11:17 am
in atheism!, bitches, jesus is fo' shizzle, people are idiots, suhmuhmuh bitch and travel
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I’m on vacation, so I don’t have a bunch of time for a meandering, pointless intro. Let’s just get down to it, shall we?

A few days ago I was sitting on the beach reading a book* and listening to the ambient sounds of the area. Waves crashing on the shore, seagulls squawking for food, and ethereal whispers of bits of conversation from up and down the beach.

Also, there was a baby screaming for about thirty minutes. About 5 feet away. And her family pretended not to notice. When one of her siblings eventually grabbed her from her crib and comforted her in her lap, the baby stopped screaming and actually seemed pretty happy.

Then all Hell broke loose.

The baby’s mother lurched up from the ocean and immediately began screaming at her older daughter.

“Why’d you git her outta th’ crib for?! Now she’s gonna be awl sandy! I don’ wanna clean ‘at up!”

I’m sure you’re already ready to declare them the worst family in America, but it gets worse, if you can believe it.

Resigned to the fact that she might have to actually clean and/or care for her baby, she picked up the child and held her on her lap while she screamed at her other two children: the daughter from before, and a son a little older than that daughter.

“What are you doin’? Where are you goin’? Don’t do that. Come over here. Put that down.” On and on like that for another 45 minutes until finally she got tired of yelling, I guess, and decided to go home.

“Get up, lazy,” she said to what I had assumed to be a pile of towels, but actually turned out to be the worthless father of this idiotic brood. Apparently he had been laying there awake the entire time his children were screaming and his wife was inefficient.

“What?”

“Help me put all dis stuff away. We’re leavin’.”

“Here, gimme dat baby. I’ll hold’er while you puttin’ all dat stuff away.”

And so he stood there with the baby while his wife began to pack everything up, and his other two children chased each other with furious hateful vengeance, trying to cover the other’s head with sand in a silicon arms race whose origins escaped me. Then, a cell phone rang.

“Oh, who’s dat now?”

“I don’ know but I got th’ baby so youse gotta answer it.”

She fumbled with the phone for a few seconds, and then answered, “Yeah? … Uh-huh… Can I call you back? We’re tryin’ to pack up the beach… Yeah, bye.”

“Who’s ‘at?”

“Your mother.”

“Oh, real nice! Next time your mother calls I’m ‘onna tell ‘er ‘Yeah we’re busy I’ll call you back’ and then hang up on her.”

“I didn’t hang up on her!” Blah blah blah circular argument ad nauseum.

It was quiet for a while as they packed, with the exception of the fighting children. I imagine they were hoping one would kill the other, or, heaven’s be praised, each other, so they wouldn’t have to feed or clothe them anymore. Then the dad couldn’t find his hat.

“Where’s my hat at?”

“I don’ know. You had it.”

“No I dinnint. You had it.”

“No I gave it to you yesterday.”

“No I gave it to you yesterday.”

“No you dinnint.”

“Yes I did you idiot.”

“No you dinnint you stupid moron.”

“Shut up dummy.”

If you think I accidentally transcribed an argument between the children, you’d be wrong. This is, apparently, how they talked to each other. I’d continue transcribing, but it just goes on like that with the childlike insults for about ten minutes. It’s really kindergarten-level stuff, and I was embarrassed to be even watching it.

Eventually, and with much whining on everyone’s part, they got everything packed up, and then they dropped a final cultural bomb that made me think, “You. You are the reason the rest of the world hates America. You.”

The father turned to his family and said, “Hey, let’s go somepace special for dinner danight insteada McDonald’s.”

*I was either reading “The God Delusion” or the Bible. I can’t remember which, but I think I’m the only person in the country who goes to the beach and reads two books on the existence of God, or the lack thereof.

Apparently

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on August 13, 2008 @ 8:19 pm
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Apparently the beach has tons of drink specials.

Apparently 2 hours of 95 cent beers makes me obnoxious.

Apparently I’ve finally gotten the hang of this vacation thing.

(Tomorrow: Stay tuned for the story of the worst family in America.)

It’s been two days and my ass still hurts

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on August 12, 2008 @ 11:21 am
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I used to maintain an idea of what a vacation was, and I didn’t think my idea was very far removed from what other people considered a vacation. Apparently I was drastically, stupidly wrong.

Upon arriving at the beach, the first thing Mrs. ACW did was find a schedule for a local gym and pick out a few classes to attend. Then she looked at me with a pout and doleful eyes and asked if I would be going to the gym with her.

“Sure,” I thought to myself, “we can ditch the beach in the middle of the day when it’s too hot to sit out there anyway, and maybe take a nap in a recumbent bike at the gym. Sounds great.” Then I made the stupid mistake of saying, “Yeah” out loud.

So Sunday morning, having been at the beach for less than 20 hours, I was awoken at 7am to drive to the gym and participate in a spinning class. Now, I realize that you’re all from the internet, so I probably lost you at “gym”, but try to stay with me. Despite what I imagined, spinning does not involve rapid self-rotation until equilibrium is obliterated and face-to-floor contact is achieved, bonus points being awarded for an internal evacuation via the oral cavity. No, spinning involves sitting on a stationary bike and pedaling as an instructor tells you to pedal faster or slower, and increase or decrease resistance.

It also involves punishing your ass with a bike seat forged in the fires of Hell by Satan himself. But, I was trying to support my wife’s endeavors, so I soldiered on. The bike instructor started the class with music that I’ve had trouble describing up until this point. It was a bit like Irish music at first. Very simple pipes and flutes and Leprechauns swearing. Then came the techno. Yes, techno. And not the sometimes acceptable American techno, or even the occasionally listenable British techno, but horrible super-pulsing musically deficient Euro-trash techno. After a few minutes of that, the music became… gay. I’m not sure how else to describe it. I’ve thought about it, and tried to come up with some other way to explain, but I can’t. Suddenly the music just became a bit more… mincing. It’s like the beat developed a lisp or something. I really can’t explain it better than that. Whereas before I was picturing Michael Flatley gyrating on an empty dance floor, I was suddenly picturing 300 sweaty Michael Flatley’s gyrating shirtless on a packed dance floor. Though, in retrospect, this might reveal more about me than about the music.

Anyway, back to the bike. The music eventually ended and we moved on to some other terrible music, biking along and tolerating horrendous ass-pain as best we could. Which wasn’t very well, because every time I looked in the mirrors around the room I saw nothing but grimaces.

Lucky for me, being able to look around the room was short-lived because the instructor declared the room a “sweat box” and turned off the air conditioning. And the lights. And the overhead fans. So within 10 minutes we were biking in the dark, with no moving air, and the 16 foot mirrors around the room on the walls were completely fogged. This is, apparently, his idea of fun.

And then it suddenly dawned on me. I was listening to gay Irish techno, my ass was in horrible pain, I was sweating my balls off, and I was enveloped in a fog of human sweat. I wasn’t on vacation. I was in Hell. And my wife was the Devil.

To the beach, bitches!

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on August 8, 2008 @ 3:39 pm
in Glen Burnie, Mrs. ACW, awesome, driving, food and people are idiots
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I’m going on vacation tomorrow to Ocean City. If the whimsy strikes, and if the whimsy strikes while I have computer access, and if the whimsy strikes while I have computer access and while I have internet access, I might blog. I’ll be back on the 18th fo’ show, in an attempt to give you a rip-roaring nine days worth of awesome, going-down-in-flames blogging.

In the meantime, there’s this:

Caroline writes, “Lookit, if you’re going to desert the blogosphere, you have a duty to go out in a blaze of glory, coining new portmanteau curse words involving male body parts and old-English-derived epithets. Gimme something about Glen Burnie. Or your cats. Or your coworkers. But this? Is not up to your usual. It’s the Olympic season, you’re supposed to be inspired!”

So here’s Glen Burnie in a nutshell:

The other day Mrs. ACW requested pizza, and because I’m a good husband and because I would hate for Mrs. ACW to ever soil her hands cooking (or cleaning, or really doing anything this summer besides laying on the couch clack-jawed, eyes glazed over watching hour after interminable hour of Paulie Shore movies standing only occaisionally to play Guitar Hero and subsisting entirely on whatever food I drop into her open, squawking, bird-like mouth) I decided to order Ledo’s and go pick it up for her since they don’t deliver.

Fifteen minutes later I was trying to pull into the Ledo’s parking lot, but my progress was stymied by what could be considered a typical Glen Burnie family.

The father, white-trash and all of 20 years old, was screaming at his daughter while his wife, girlfriend, or cousin looked on their other child occaisionally while focusing most of her attention on the cigarette she was smoking and not the car behind them.

As I slowly crept through the parking lot, unable to get by, I was able to watch the family more. The father continued to scream at his daughter, who was wearing only diapers, was completely barefoot, and seemed to be just learning how to walk on her own, but the father never made any attempt to go after her, or even try to hold her hand while she walked.

The other child, the son I assume, was meandering on the other side of the “parents” oblivious to the fact that no one in his family seemed to even care he was around.

I was finally able to park, get my pizza, and leave, and in my rear view mirror I saw them leaving the gas station next to the Ledo’s with an armful of sodas and cigarettes, the son carrying the daughter like a flopping fish in his arms while the mother continued to smoke and the father screamed until his face turned red.

Then I saw the same scene played out 200 more times on my way home.

That is Glen Burnie.

Well, shit

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on August 7, 2008 @ 8:31 am
in house, money and suhmuhmuh bitch
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You know what’s awesome? Watching your washer and dryer take a massive shit on your bank account just a few days before you go on vacation. And you can’t postpone buying a new car, because you just sold your old one, and the very next day the washer and dryer decided to go tits up and ruin everything.

Hooray. Hooray for fucking poverty.

Fuck.

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