Friday, November 14, 2008

The Urban Dictionary ( defines alcohol the following ways (and this is a very limited selection of their definitions).
The cause of, and solution to all life's problems. To ALCOHOL: The cause of, and solution to all life's problems.
A substance found in beer (except American beer) and several other beverages that makes you excessively happy, sad, belligerent or horny. It allows white men to dance and ugly men to get laid (when given to their victim). You wanna get with that hottie? You're gonna need lots of alcohol!
Liquid Panty Remover
"Man alcohol is like liquid panty remover, you see that hot drunk chick over there, she's gonna get boned tonight."
The antidote to reality. reality is for people that can't handle drugs and alcohol.
My district at work won a contest back in August/September for the Back to School Season, and my company just recently got around to giving us our prize money. We had several options as to what to do with it. One was go to Knotts Berry Farm and toss our cookies. Another was a bowling party. 24 Managers in our district decided on Dave and Busters to practice bending the elbows.
I learned something (again) tonight.
24 Managers can drink our DM into bankruptcy.
The above pictures are just a little blurry because that's how I was (am) when I took them with my cell phone. It was a good time, and yes, our bar tab was over $1800. Unlike the last time we did this, I wasn't the last one out this time.
Have a good weekend.
I am off to have another beer or sober up.
Or both.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

We've Got Big Balls

The crazy people are all over the place.

BossLady and I went bowling tonight, and while I am beating the living crap outta her, two mothers and four boys (the oldest being MAYBE 10 years old) start playing on the lanes next to us.


BossLady knows I am not a big fan of kids. Some can be fantastic, well behaved and a great sign of the things to come. Others? C'mon people, invest in some birth control or parenting classes, please.

BossLady was enjoying a rare time when she was beating me (barely). About this time, the boys (all four of them) decide that the lanes they are on are not enough. They started running down their lanes (onto the playing surface!) and the youngest (maybe 5 years old) started break dancing on the approaches, right into where we were playing. A couple of times, I almost kicked them during my turns. Another time, each of us came close to hitting the boys with our back swings with our balls.

To make matters worse, each of the mothers was taking flash photos during the games.

Think about this. People throwing big balls being suddenly blinded. I was seriously tempted to "accidentally" throw the ball the wrong way... say... towards the photographer. Sounds like fair play to me.

BossLady did the smart thing. She told one of the mothers to control her kids or that I was likely to do my best Rambo impersonation on her boys.

The bowling alley finally agreed to our request to change lanes for the safety of the boys.

Some of you may laugh at BossLady and I for bowling, but too fucking bad. We took it up earlier this year as something for us to do together outside the home. We got so into it that we broke down and got balls of our own, shoes, etc. Eventually, we will find time after all the wedding planning and whatnot to join a league.

I routinely beat her ass.

So we have started a new scoring method now. We both still go for our personal bests, but now the winner is the one who gets the highest over their average. I'm still gonna smoke her.

I used to bowl on leagues growing up. When I lived in Antioch, CA, a friend got me into a bowling league. I loved it. When we moved to Kansas City, their was a bowling alley on Richards-Gebaur AFB where we lived, so I bowled there as well. I got involved in theatre in high school, so I dropped it for a while. When Mom got transferred to Marine Corps HQ in Washington, DC, I joined her Marine Corps intramural league. I loved it.

Throughout college, I bowled for kicks with friends whenever the mood struck us. But I stopped after graduating college.

BossLady's idea to go play last spring really struck a good cord with me.

And people wonder why I dropped the Big Q on her?

Monday, November 10, 2008

Baby Bombs

Baby Bomb: (n)-- The loaded diaper of an infant. Usually falling in the 1o-15 pound fully-loaded range. It's nothing short of toxic waste, and just as hard to dispose of. Pampers ain't kidding folks.

Kids in stores are a bad mix.

Infants in stores are scary.

Bad parents and the above should just be criminal.

Today started like any other Monday in my store. Quiet. A few people from the shopping complex bounce in and talk about the economy for a few before heading off to their jobs. A couple of yuppie parents come in shopping with their preschool kids. Nothing glamorous, nothing shocking.

Somewhere mid-morning, a mother comes in with her infant (I can't guess the boys' age. He isn't talking yet, and barely walking) in a stroller. The first thing she does is take the boy out of the stroller and lets him walk around.

Then it gets scary.

The mother wanders off to shop for herself in the aisle with her size, leaving the infant boy to play by the front door, completely ignoring him!

That isn't a misprint.

The child starts trying to push the door open. Another parent in the store takes the child back to the mother. She turns him loose immediately.

The child now starts pulling items off the bottom shelves and chews (teethes?) on them, ruining over $200 worth of merchandise.

I take the twit back to her and ask her to please watch her child as she could be liable for the damaged product.

She doesn't speak English (conveniently).

I walk away, with child firmly in mother's grasp.

Not more than two minutes later, the boy is behind my counter chewing on the extra cordless phone and trying to fry his measly little gonads on the power cables hidden under the counter. Mother is nowhere to be found.

I finally convince young Tokyo Jones to leave the counter (and give me my phone back) and find his mother, mostly by smiling and saying "find mommy" with little result.

Out with the Windex to clean all the baby slobber off my store. As I start cleaning the counter where Little Mr. Slobber Fest has been, I notice a rather pungent aroma. I don't like it. The kid bunny'd under my counter?!?! Damn little fart broke wind like a rabid hurricane! Now I need to go buy some Febreeze!

I look up to see that the Slobber Bomb has tried to walk out the store again. This time, I tell his mother to please put the child back in the stroller and keep an eye on the brat or I will call the police for child endangerment. She stares at me blankly. Real winner here.

I go up to the front of my store to ring a purchase for another customer. They ask me if I would like them to call child protective services. I thank them, and tell them that I have it under control, all the while wishing I could drop this kid like a three foot putt.

By now, Junior has planted himself by the accessory items by my front register. The aroma I noticed earlier is getting very strong. (I mean, it was killing the fake plants type strong.) The little Beelzebub was sitting there putting anything he could into his mouth. Shoe laces, spray cans... you name it. I quickly grab everything I can and move it out of his reach (or so I think).

By now, the mother has finally realized that her darling little angel is creating hell, and she is about to get the bill. This is after half an hour. And I thought I was slow on the uptake with kids.

Mother finally comes over and picks up her boy. As she lifts him into his stroller, I discover that the smell is indeed him. His diaper is full. And by full, I mean it LITERALLY was overflowing the top of his diaper and down his pants.

That, my friends, is a nuclear baby bomb first class.

On a side note, I am looking for to post stories for Black Friday. Send me your horror stories. I have a few of my own, but would love to get other people in the action!