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January 31, 2008

You're Welcome Here For As Long As You Like.

Ever heard the saying, "You mess with the bull, you get the horns?" Well how about "You mess with the elephant, you get the foot." That's what you get for chaining up wild animals, kids.

The latest rage on all of the celebrity blogs is of course, celebrity bashing. Which I'm sure is all well and good, but if you'll give me a minute let's talk about the bangability factor of Britney Spears. Recent events: Yes, I know she's recently been committed to a nuthouse for what the third time this year? And granted she's let her appearance go and recent pictures of her are far from flattering. But conside this: A scant ten months ago, she looked like this. And eh's only 26 years old, so really all it would take is a good pep talk and a few months at the gym to restore some of her former physical glory. And the kids? You just give K-Fed a $10 million to take them and get lost, then tell Britney they went on an Antarctic safari. Then with the help of one of those bipolar medications I see advertised on television all the time... poof you've got yourself a hot, single, rich babe again. Viola! Think about it. it just might work.

Hi Ernie Hope you are having a good one's a couple of pics I took on the way from the bar. Increase the Peace, Bill the Brit. Luzern Switzerland

Oh and shit, I almost forgot Q-Light Force. The first person to complete all 22 levels was Nathan followed an hour later by Drew.

It seems everyone loves Tom Brady except me. Well, me and Peyton. So with two days left and -- I can't believe I'm saying this -- go Eli.

various complaints to the fcc about television shows which are destroying the moral fiber of society. you know, like the simpsons.

January 30, 2008

They Say Laughter Is The Best Medicine.

I saw a billboard that read: "Need help? Call Jesus. 1-800-555-3787" So out of curiosity I did. Twenty minutes later a Mexican showed up with a lawnmower.

So this guy goes into a whorehouse. Once in the room with the prostitute, he puts $50 on the table and drops his pants. The hooker almost faints, the guy has a 18 inch cock. She says," Hold on pal, I'll lick it, I'll suck it, but you're not sticking that in me." The man pulls up his pants and picks up his $50 and says, " Screw that, I can do that myself !"

What do spinach and anal sex have in common? If you were forced to have it as a kid, you'll hate it as an adult.

Vinnie and Hank are drinking, when Vinnie leans over and starts stroking Hank's beard. Vinnie says, "Your face feels just like my wife's pussy." Hank strokes it himself and says, "You're right."

I parked in a disabled space today and a traffic cop shouted to me, "Oi whats your disability?" I said "Tourettes, you fucking cunt!"

I went for a job interview as a blacksmith yesterday, he said "Have you ever shoed a horse?" I said "No, but I've told a donkey to fuck off."

A lady says to the psychiatrist, "I think I might be a nymphomaniac." He says, "I'll see what I can do to help you. My fee is eighty dollars an hour." She says, "How much for all night?"

Women eh! Boob jobs, nose jobs, teeth bleaching, tummy tucks, liposuction, colonic irrigation, botox, pierced ears, nipples, bellys and clits, eyebrows plucked, bikini wax, armpits shaved, lips tattooed, legs waxed, diets, exercise and they wont take it up the ass cause it 'hurts'.

"Take a bunch of flowers home for your wife, sir," urged the street vendor. "I haven't got a wife," replied the young man. "Then buy a bunch for your sweetheart." "I don't have a sweetheart, either." "Well then, buy a couple of bunches to celebrate your luck."

What's the difference between Heath Ledger and Heath Ledger jokes? Heath Ledger jokes will get old.

Zebo, a half blind 5 year old African orphan has to ride 7 miles a day to school with only one leg on a bicycle with buckled wheels and no brakes. Please give just a small donation and we will send you the video it's fucking hilarious!

I was at a cash machine when an old lady came up to me and asked to check her balance. So I pushed her over.

Statistically... 9 out of 10 people enjoy gang rape.

A guy gets pulled over by a cop for speeding. As the copper is writing up the ticket, the guy asks, "Can you arrest me for calling you a filthy name?" "Yes" replies the cop. He then asks, "Can you arrest me for thinking something?" "No" replies the cop. "Well then," says the man, "I think you're an asshole!"

I bumped into my ex-girlfriend in a bar. "I had sex with another woman last night," I told her. "But I was thinking of you the whole time." "You miss me that much?" she asked. "No," I said. "But it kept me from coming too fast."

informationguy - shockandawe2 - spankmefor2dollars - theagonyofdefeat - wintergasprices

a look at what president bush said in his final state of the union address delivered monday night

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reenactment of the german siege of st petersburg during world war ii. i can't read shit, but the german guys are fat.

January 29, 2008

John Mother Fucking Rambo.

I ducked out early on Friday afternoon and caught the first showing of Sylvester Stallone's latest flick, Rambo, and I'm really glad I did. On a scale of 1 to 10, I would rate this movie a 14. Seriously. There is more ass kickery in the first half an hour than there are in the other three Rambo movies, combined. The first one, where he sews up his arm? Bah, go watch Narnia you fucking wimp. The second one, where he launches the explosive arrow at the guy at the waterfall? You might as well go play with puppies. The third one, where he plays a brutal game of Buzkashi? Go play with kittens. Because this fourth installment is everything it's been built up to be; and quite honestly I'm amazed it wasn't number one at the box office this past weekend.

But setting my disappointment aside, I am now going to tell you all about this fucking awesome movie. So if you plan on going to see Rambo in the next few days, you might want to skip today's post, because there's going to be spoilers up the wazzoo.

Go on, it's okay, come back tomorrow.

Go on.


There, now that all the fucking pussies are gone, let's get down to business. The movie sets the tone by opening as follows: The back gate of a military truck drops opens and a handful of civilians are herded out by soldiers of the Burmese military. Two of the soldiers hurl land mines into a nearby rice paddy and with a burst of gunfire, force the civilians to run through the paddy towards the land mines. The soldiers when whoop and holler, betting on which civilian will be the first to go. After a few tense seconds of these poor bastards clawing their way through the mud, an explosion accompanied by a red geyser of blood and water signals an end to the game. The soldier laugh and mow down the rest of the civilians with gunfire.

Cut to Rambo, who is also stalking something in the jungles of Burma. A snake. He and two of his comrades are hunting a cobra which they obviously catch, because there's no way a puny little snake is a match for Rambo. On the way back from their hunt, they stop the boat so Rambo can do a little bow fishing. Again, fish being no match for Rambo, Rambo hunts and kills three of them, one of which he gives to a couple of monks on a skiff. From this, we learn that the wild war dog from past movies -- John Mother Fucking Rambo -- has now found a life of peace and is just mild mannered John Rambo. We learn the snake he was hunting is used by the locals in a snake-charming show put on for tourists, and as Rambo is doing a little maintenance around the snake pens, he's approached by Michael, a Bible-thumping peace-loving pussybag (BTPLPB). The BTPLPB would like to hire Rambo to take him and his hippie friends upriver to Burma, so they can build a bonfire, hold hands, and sing Kum Ba Yah with the war refugees. Rambo tells the BTPLPB to go fuck himself. BTPLPB's female companion Sarah decides she might have better luck at convincing Rambo, and to cut through five minutes of dialog, he finally agrees. I would like to point out that the dialogue between Rambo and Sarah is the longest period of the movie without someone being killed or something blown up. From here on out it's balls to the wall.

So upriver they go, and on the way the BTPLPB is preaching his, "We're all God's children," bullshit and taking careful attention to exclude Rambo from the conversation. Night time falls and they come across a Burmese military patrol boat docked in the side of the river. Knowing things would end poor for them if they are discovered, Rambo tells them all to shut the fuck up and coasts the boat past the soldier's campsite. And just when you think they've made it, the patrol boat comes roaring up with their floodlights on and pulls up alongside Rambo's beat up little river boat. Rambo tells all the hippies to look at the floor - don't look any of the soldiers in the eye or else they'll be killed. So of course, the dumb whore looks up. She's then spotted as a female and the Burmese soldier want to take her on board to be the 'center of attention for all the guys'. Rambo tries negotiating, he really does. And when that fails he even tries bribery. And when that fails, well, you know theres only one thing left in Rambo's bag of tricks. Killing. And before you can say 3:10 to Yuma, John Rambo draws a hidden pistol and pops all five of the Burmese soldiers before any of them can get off a shot. It is this point where he ceases to be John Rambo, and returns to being John Mother Fucking Rambo (JMFR).

So now all the missionaries are going ape shit and the BTPLPB makes a specific note to grandstand how it's, "Never okay to take a human life, no matter what the circumstances." JMFR smacks him around a bit, but in the end the missionaries still want to continue upriver so they can be help the refugees. So JMFR dumps them off without anything else going wrong and the two parties part ways. BTPLPB and his hippie friends marching inland, and JMFR heading back, stopping to pour gasoline all over the patrol boat and its dead crew, setting off a nice explosion. It doesn't contribute to the story line at all, but what's a Rambo flick without explosions, right?

So the hippies make it to the local Burmese village, where they immediately set up shop bandaging appendages, performing dental work and of course, preaching the Bible. Then the mortar rounds start. Followed by the gunfire. Followed by the machetes. That's right, there's no rest for the wicked. Bang, bang, bang, explosion, explosion, gunfire, gunfire, machete, machete... the town is attacked by the Burmese military. Most if not all of the villagers are killed, but four of the missionaries are taken as hostages: BTPLPB, Sarah, and two other nameless redshirts. We all know what happens to Sarah - she's turned into a party girl.

Cut back to JMFR, who's in mid-dream filled with flashbacks from his first three movies...errr... adventures. He's awakened by a guy who identifies himself as the head of the ministry that the hippies came from. They're ten days overdue, he's arranged for some mercenaries to go look for them, but he needs JMFR to take them upriver and drop said mercenaries off at the same point he dropped off the hippies. JMFR agrees, but forges himself a big fucking homemade jungle machete first.

On the boat we get our first look at the mercenaries; two of which are important to the story. The first is the team's sniper, nicknamed Schoolboy, and he happens to be the youngest of the group. The other is the leader of the group, a loudmouthed British asshole named Lewis (LMBA). He actually challenges JMFR a couple of times, going so far as to even pick a fight with him, and while you half expect JMFR to smack him around like a little bitch, for some reason he doesn't. JMFR lets LMBA go on thinking he is nothing more than a local boat man. So at the drop off point JMFR pulls a long leather satchel out from his boat -- and you just fucking know what's inside -- and starts to follow the mercenaries. LMBA tells JMFR to fuck off. JMFR returns to the boat. Mercenaries head off into the jungle, led by two local rebels. Along the way they pass a big fucking 2,000lb that's been sitting there in the jungle since World War II. We'll revisit this bomb later. Anyway, the mercenaries come upon the ruins of the attacked village, and it's like the fucking apocalypse. Dead rotting bodies everywhere, burned out huts, flies up the ass. I will say this, they did a great fucking job of making the place look like the end of the world.

So as the mercenaries are looking the remains over, a Burmese military truck pulls up sending the mercenaries scattering for cover. And in a nice rhetorical hook, we see some civilians herded out from the back and some soldier start tossing land mines into the rice paddy at the foot of the burned out village. Only this time the civilians make it all the way across without anyone getting blown up, so the soldiers begin to herd them back for a second run. Meanwhile our mercenaries are trying to decide among themselves if they should intervene and give away their presence, or remain hidden and just let things play out. They decide to remain hidden, which of course will spell doom for the civilians who will be soon facing a second run through the land mine laden rice paddy. And just as one of the soldier is leveling his AK-47 to fire the burst and get the civilians running again, and enormous arrow suddenly punches its way through his neck.

That's right, JMFR is here. Twack! Twack! Twack! Twack! All the Burmese soldiers are dead. LMBA is all like, "You blew our cover! Who the fuck are you man?" JMFR explains that who he is, is not important but what is important, is that they rescue the hostages. LMBA tells JMFR to fuck off again, and says they're packing up their Snoopy lunchboxes and going home because they've just learned the hostages are held at a local military compound garrisoned by 100 enemy soldiers. JMFR appeals to LMBA's inner spirit and convinces him to push on with the rescue operation. And by, "appeals to" I mean, "points an arrow at" and by, "inner spirit" I mean, "right eye".

So JMFR and the mercenaries hop in the back of the truck and speed off towards the military compound. They arrive at night time and since it's pouring rain, are waved into the camp without being challenged. Schoolboy is posted up high and knocks out all the guards. Some of the other mercenaries rescue BTPLPB and another guy; the third guy having been fed to pigs. JMFR rescues Sarah, but is slow to make it back because he has to stop and tear a guy's throat out with his bare fucking hands. I'm not kidding. The other mercenaries take BTPLPB and the other guy and start heading for the boat, not waiting for JMFR and Sarah. Schoolboy chooses to stay back, and it's a good thing he does because he shoots two guards who are about to discover JMFR and raise the camp alarm. So now the good guys are heading back towards the boat, only in two separate groups. Oh, and the Burmese military commander fucks little boys. I will henceforth refer to him as Captain Kid Fucker (CKF).

Cut to daybreak and the camp is in a buzz after the night time infiltration is discovered. LMBA is leading the first group back to the boat when he steps on a land mine, shredding his lower leg. Luckily BTPLPB is a God fearing doctor and manages to save his leg while his comrades build a stretcher. They continue on for the boat, only at a slower pace. Somewhere else in the jungle, the mighty jungle, a lion sleeps tonight. Sleeping right next to JMFR, who is leading Sarah and Schoolboy back to the boat when they hear the baying of dogs the Burmese army is using to track them. Rambo tears off a piece of Sarah clothes and after tying it around his boot, tells Schoolboy to continue taking Sarah to the boat, as he's got some killing to attend to. So off they go in one direction, while JMFR heads back to lead the dog handlers on a cross country obstacle course. Now, remember that 2,000lb bomb? JMFR leads the dogs right to it. Only he was kind enough to place a Claymore mine before they got there, so when the dogs sniff around it and the handlers investigate... ka-fucking boom. Yep, that's right. JMFR hates dogs. Anyway, while the enormous fucking explosion puts a damper on things for the Burmese soldiers immediately surrpunding the bomb, it also alerts all the other Burmese soldiers in the area, including CKF.

Now back to Schoolboy and Sarah. They're almost back to the boat when Schoolboy takes a peep through his scope and sees that not only did his mercenary friends make back it back to the boat, but so did some Burmese soldiers. LMBA opens his big mouth again, only this time you're actually rooting for him. Said soldier have said mercenaries on the ground and after putting foot to ass for a few minutes, are ready to start executing them. Schoolboy is about to pop a cap in CKF, who is about to give the command to execute the mercenaries, when he notices more soldiers off in the distance. These new soldiers are manning a pickup truck mounted .50 cal machine gun, overlooking the execution. So now Schoolboy doesn't know what to do. If he shoots the soldiers about to execute his friends, the .50 will open up and kill him. If he shoots the .50 gunner, he won't be able to stop the execution. The camera pans back and forth between the two and it's apparent that left to his own devices, Schoolboy will do nothing.

And then we learn you should not forget about JMFR any more than you should forget about Dre. From the tangle of vines, JMFR appears behind the .50 gunner and at the encouragement of his homemade machete, convinces the gunner's head to exit stage right. JMFR then takes over the .50 and proceeds to Kick Ass and Chew Bubblegum. He runs out of Bubblegum very quickly. The ensuing blood orgy has been highlighted before on several of those thirty second highlights I've previously posted. Just suffice to say JMFR brings the pain. Oh, and down at the boat, BTPLPB watches a Burmese soldier point a gun at his other surviving hippie buddy and after doing nothing to stop him, the hippie gets blown away. A few seconds later, BTPLPB sees another soldier point a gun at LMBA and is about to shoot, when BTPLPB bashes the soldier's head in with a rock. The circle of life is complete. He Layeth The Smack Down.

JMFR cleans up with the .50 and as the smoke clears, sees CKF running away. And like a scene out of Friday the 13th where the victim is running for the life in the exact opposite direction of their pursuer, said pursuer steps out from behind a tree and sticks the homemade machete in their stomach. JMFR stares into CKF's eyes for a minute and then gives the machete a flick, opening up CKF's stomach like a burst Hefty bag. It's pretty cool. So covered in blood and gore, and nursing a bullet wound in his shoulder, JMFR stand atop a hill and looks down upon the Ass Kicking that he has administered. Dead Burmese soldiers are everywhere. Sarah hugs BTPLPB. Like the Hulk returning to David Banner, we see JMFR melt back into being just John Rambo.

The final scene of the movie -- and presumably of all Rambo movies -- is John walking down the road in Arizona pausing only to read a mailbox, "R. Rambo." before continuing on towards his father's farmhouse. The motherfucking end. Seriously, if you haven't seen it yet, do it. And preorder the DVD now, you're going to want it.

all the other rambo pics from the gallery i was using

rambo trailer 1 - general movie overview - rambo trailer 2 - some mercenaries and some .50 cal action

January 28, 2007

Wow, This Chicken Fucker Thing Just Won't Die.

If I were to say parkour stunts, would you know what I'm talking about? It's become quite popular over the past couple of years. Parkous is when an athlete sort of turns the world around him into an obstacle course; leaping from the topof one building to another, or vaulting off a staircases to land on an adjascent banister. All while trying to avoid injury, of course. The delicate mixture of gynmastics and lunacy. When it's done right, it's actually very cool to watch. It's like seeing a real life Jackie Chan.

Ernie: I'm walking on the bridge over the street at the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada. This is what I see. I gave him five bucks for creativity and the picture. Joe

Sorry, short one today, I've got a doc's appointment this morning and I have to get going. So don't forget to check in and see how EHOWA City is doing. Ladies beware, I have this guy guarding the citizenship building.

you have got to be fucking kidding me. $1,313 for a heath ledger autographed photo.

for 30 pounds (about $60) this palestinian will spraypaint your message on the wall

January 26, 2007

Inert Your Favorite RAMBO KICKED FUCKING ASS Joke Here.

so if china were to pull a pearl harbor'esque attack on the us, it might look like this...

i live my life like there's no tomorrow.... diamond dave's isolated voice track to runnin with the devil...

January 25, 2007

Overflowing With Optimism.

Here's a bit of trivia for you... can you guess what day today is! That's right, it's Rambo Day! I know you guys are excited, and the chicks are wondering what all the fuss is about. I'll be there at 12:15 first showing baby.

So I've got a question. What ever happened to that French whore, Alizee? The one that used to shake her ass like this when she sang? I can find tons of pictures on her but nothing seems to be current. She drop off the face of the Earth or what?

Hey Ernie, had a return email from that ad you posted last week... check the date! made my fucking day...

From: James xxxxx
Subject: Cinderblocks
Date: Fri, 17 Aug 2007 12:56:03 -0700 (PDT)
Hi, I saw your add for the cinder blocks. What color are the cinder blocks? My wife wants a retaining wall built, but I think she wants it to look natural. Would these cinder blocks be suitable for a natural stone wall? I was also wondering how they are constructed, as I am looking for the best blocks I can get, do you know how they are manufactured? I imagine there are probably different ways of manufacturing the blocks for different looks/grade of quality etc. Would they be strong enough to support the weight of a couple other blocks on top? I don't think the wall will be more than 3-4 blocks high, but I don't want the bottom one to split... lol, ever see that john claude vandamn movie where he breaks that brick? I just got a vision of that happening to the bottom row of blocks just as I got finished building the wall, wouldn't that figure...James.

From: "matt"
Subject: RE: Cinder blocks
Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2007 13:36:56 -0400
Yeah man, these cinderblocks look totally fucking natural. Your wife will fucking love them! Literally. I think they might even be those fucking organic cinderblocks you hear so much about. Women love that all-natural shit. Now, as far as construction; After conducting some pretty intensive motherfucking tests, NASA and I have both concluded that these blocks are sturdy as fuck. Even though Van Damm is one bad-ass motherfucking Frenchie, even he couldn't break these fucking blocks. So, if you want to build a wall, go fucking crazy and do it! You only live once, and if you never get your hands on my all-natural sturdy-as-fuck cinderblocks, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering "Why the fuck didn't I buy those motherfuckers?" --Matt

New game challenge. It's a puzzle where you have to get the little balls in the little holes. Only now there's mutliple colors to work with and sometimes you have to play one ball off another. For example, you can't solve the first level if you put the pink ball in first; you need the pink ball to line up the blue one. The second level has three colors and from there it just gets stupid. Yes, this is level 3 for those of you concerned. It's harder than it fucking looks.

let's say you're lame and want to complain about someone but aren't creative enough to do it yourself...

the top ten blonde celebrity topless scenes. nsfw, duh...

January 24, 2007

Ten Cent Martinis.

Four old retired guys are walking down a street in Miami. They turned a corner and read a sign that says, "Old Timers Bar - all drinks 10 cents." They look at each other with disbelief, then go in thinking this is too good to be true. The old bartender says in a voice that carries across the room, "Come on in and let me pour one for you! What'll it be, Gentlemen?" There seemed to be a fully-stocked bar, so each of the men ask for a martini. In short order, the bartender serves up four iced martinis... Shaken, not stirred, and says, "That'll be 10 cents each, please." The four men stare at the bartender for a moment, then look at each other... they can't believe their good luck. They pay the 40 cents, finish their martinis, and order another round.

Again, four excellent martinis are produced with the bartender saying, "That's 40 cents, please" They pay the 40 cents, but their curiosity is more than they can stand. They have each had two martinis, and so far they've spent less than a dollar. Finally one of the men says, "How can you afford to serve martinis as good as these, for only a dime apiece?" "I'm a retired tailor from New York," the bartender said, "and I always wanted to own a bar. Last year I hit the lottery for $25 million and decided to open this place. Every drink costs a dime - wine, liquor, beer, it's all the same."

The four of them sipped at their martinis and couldn't help but notice two bald guys at the end of the bar who didn't have drinks in front of them. One man gestures at the two at the end of the bar and asks the bartender, "What's with them?" The bartender says, "Oh, they're retired Air Force pilots. They're waiting for happy hour when drinks are half price."

Hey Ernie, Long time reader first time writer, love your stuff. The pics I sent happend at my base about a year and a half ago. The first pic as you can see is a Harrier hovering, but what I would like to point out no landing gear, plus the mattresses below. The pilot told us he couldn't get his gear down so this was their last resort to save the plane. In the second pic you can clearly see the mattress getting sucked through the intake. Needless to say that engine was fucked. Thought you would like the pics. Michael

Hi Ernie, My uncle worked in Alaska Fish and Game for 30 years. Someone sent him these photos. He says he's seen wolves fish (and clam dig!) before, but these photos look a little contrived. What do you think ...photoshopped? Cheers, Charley. Los Angeles

Nope, they look genuine to me. Genuine salmon snacky cakes. And speaking of genuine, as much as I'd love to give Omal credit for Filler, I can't for obvious reasons. Sorry dude. On the up side, I got you a fish if that makes you feel any better. So the highest verifiable final score goes to Eric with 201k.

And a thought occured to me after yesterday's mention of Tom Cruise's Scientology rant. A lot of people shit on Scientology for being far out there, and just the hocus-pocus of a delisional Trekkie, but remember this: Tom Cruise is one sucessful motherfucker. So is John Travolta. And Will Smith. And a whole lot of other very rich and sucessful people. So if Scientology helped lead them to multi-million dollar paychecks and banging chicks like Katie Holmes, Catherine Bell, and Kirstie Alley? Then man where the fuck do I sign up? Plus, I'm actually kind of bummed about this whole Heath Ledger thing. Now that he's dead, Mel Gibson has to go run a bayonet through someone's neck. Here's a preview of Heath as The Joker from the upcoming Dark Knight. Oh, and I was only kidding about the the Kirtie Alley part.

method #12,854 how to not defuse a 155mm round used as an ied - pry it up with the barrel of your ak-47...

a video tribute to breasts. feeding hungry children worldwide. that's not to say breasts aren't for show, too...

January 23, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part X. Stupid Is As Stupid Does.

Yesterday I received a flood of reader feedback to the reader feedback featured in yesterday's post. And like the original reader feedback, the vast majority of this new reader feedback on the original reader feedback was positive. This of course means there were some sour apples and thus some of the new reader feedback on the aforementioned reader feedback was negative. I would like to share some of this new reader feedback with you now. But breaking tradition to how I posted the reader feedback yesterday, this new reader feedback will be indented so as to not confuse my feedback to the reader feedback with the reader feedback itself. Reader feedback.

Ernie. I can't believe the negative emails you received about your Grand Larceny post. I was like a kid waiting on next months comic book to come out, I couldn't wait for the next days post. As many commented you have very good writing skills. The one thing that I haven't seen anyone comment on is this isn't fiction this is Ernie bearing his soul for all of us to see. I think that took a LOT of guts. Thanks for sharing this part of your life with us. Later Mike

Hey Ernie, This is YOUR site, and you can do whatever you want to do with it. If you want to do nothing but post chicken porn all week long, you have every right to do it! I really appreciated the Grand Larceny story, and I was one of the majority who couldn't wait to read the next section of your story. You have led an interesting life, either that or you just have such a way with words that you make it look interesting. :) In any case, thank you for not caving to the whiners who think you owe them nothing but little posts with lots of T&A. Hey people, if all you want is a little drivel with a lot of T&A, get your own website! If you think you can do a better job at this than Ernie, then nut up and do it. You're getting this for free and still you bitch. Keep up the great work, Ernie!! Loyal reader and non-whiner, Benjie

Ernie, I enjoyed the larceny series. You have a great talent for writing. I'd tell you about mine but I can't write for crap. Thoughts all disconnected, sentence formulation, normal writing issues for those of us more interested in anything but grammar class. Anyway, those door knobs that are all bent out of shape about your stealing article and claim to detest thieves might not realize examples that are also considered "stealing." 1. Taking a pen home from work and not bringing it back to work. 2. Taking more catsup from McDonalds than you need for fries. 3. Surfing the internet when you should be working. etc... You have a great site. Keep it up! Morgan

You know, Benjie, pat yourself on the back. You sent me out on a mission to find some good chicken fucking references, and I came up with this and this. Bakaaaaaaaw!

I learned a very very valuable life lesson many years ago. Some things cannot be unsaid. Prime example is- Tell your girlfriend or wife (sig other) that they are fat. Fat is a good one to use. After you say those words, they can never be erased. Doesn’t matter how much or deep you kiss her ass, that’s it……you will have to suffer that little slip of the tongue forever. She won’t kill you, cause that would be too easy for you. Well, you did it. Way to go. What’s sad is that you didn’t have the savy to know that. Reminds all us old guys how much of a punk ass you really are, (not that we couldn’t figure it out by your extremely juvenile approach to women). Anyway, you are now on the other side. I’ll forever view you a bit differently. By that I mean I’ll probably NOT view you. I can’t figure out if you want a medal, or just a chest to pin it on. This is perhaps some sort of cleansing, or soul bearing episode that was necessary for your survival, or something like that. Guess what? You’re not worth surviving, if you’re the type of person that requires a national forum to air dirty laundry. What you’ve done is say it’s OK to do what I did. I’m OK, you’re OK. It’s not OK. Some things are best left in the closet, (at least the let’s confess to an audience of young punk asses that worship every word I say closet. Great judgment! Way to go. Because of your public image, you are judged on a different scale. Should have understood that, and eased off. Maybe you abused some kids, or raped a girl, and want to speak a little about that too? Try that one on, instead of your “I really didn’t hurt anyone except the big ole rich guy and he deserved it” approach. It’s all the same thing. Tell it to a priest or therapist, not to the world. You’re hearing from someone who’s got anything but clean hands. Make no mistake. Other that what you just managed to do yourself all by yourself, I have enjoyed your site. I’ll miss it, you dick. Robert Pickard

Which brings us back to the old adage, "If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself."

Dear Ernie. Many years ago, I learned a very, very valuable life lesson and I would like to share it with you today. The lesson is that words can be very dangerous weapon in the sense that the wounds they create do not heal like an ordinary cut or scrape. A prime example would be if you were to tell your wife or girlfriend, that she is too fat. Yes, I believe that being called too fat is a good example in this case, because once heard you could understand how it would be so very difficult to forget. And at that point, it doesn't matter how feverish your attempts to apologize with sticky sweet flattery; the echoes of this one transgression will reverberate out and influence your relationship with this person for years to come. Now I'm not suggesting any physical harm will come to you; quite the contrary. She will see death as too quick and painless an exit for you! Ernie, I'm here today to tell you that you have accomplished such a thing with me. And perhaps the most painful facet of this, is your ignorance to that fact. Events such as these serve to remind those of us from a slightly different vintage that you are indeed a "punk ass". Not that one could not already draw such conclusions based upon such things from your puerile references to the opposite sex. Your misconduct has forced me to rethink whether or not I shall continue to visit your website any further.

At this point, I am still unsure if you were simply seeking the praise of your peers, or merely their acknowledgement. Part of me believes your bout of introspection was an act you committed out of sheer humility; that by admitting for your past sins you would somehow be forgiven for them. I do not believe the latter to be the case, and feel quite strongly that you not worthy of such absolution. Especially for one who chooses such a public forum as the stage for his confession. The message you are sending is that it's okay for others to repeat the same mistakes that you have. That since you are okay, the consequences of your actions are negligible. I'm here to tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. This was a matter much better treated with an self-reflective approach; or if they must be expressed outwardly, to have done so to a much smaller and less impressionable audience. Your choice to do otherwise was a serious lapse in judgement and I sarcastically applaud you for it! Your notoriety holds you to a higher moral and social standard. I'm sure you are aware of this and should have restrained your reaction accordingly.

Would you be so willing to publicly admit other social inequities so easily? What if you had physically abused some children under your care? Or sexually assaulted a girl? Would you bear your soul to those injustices as well? Perhaps you should reflect upon your answer to that question and seek a different alternative than the, "I really didn’t hurt anyone except the big ole rich guy and he deserved it" approach that you have shown before us until now. As a person of the utmost highest moral fiber I can tell you all of these acts are one in the same before God's eyes; so perhaps you should seek absolution before Him or someone of the medical profession for true forgiveness. Because the mistake was yours to make. And having done it, you have left me no choice but to no longer visit your website and subject myself to your morally questionable, yet highly entertaining content. My heart shall weep in an effort to fill your void with tears, and for that I shall forever bear you malice! Rob 'The Dick' Pickard.

See, that's why I run a blog and you don't. I can polish a turd and make dogshit taste like Beef Wellington. But seriously, with some of these reactions you'd think I'm in the KKK or something. How about we draw a little distinction between [the past] and [the present] eh? And in the end, neither Robert or Tomm or any of the other guys are going to stop visiting. Because they, like everyone else read with trembling hands, every fucking word of my story. Because as much as you hate me, you were rooting for me just like you were Keyser Söze. So yeah, they'll be back to read every word of my next story too, just like you will. So don't be ashamed, because I'm not just a regular everyday normal mother fucker.

Being a veteran of several such ATV crashes, I can certainly relate to Dale's reaction immediately following his ATV crash. That, "Eeelllhhhh, Eeelllhhh, Eeelllhhhh"" sound he makes as he's laying there on the ground? Only someone who's done that knows exactly what he's feeling at that moment. It's not really pain, but more shock. It's your body not responding to the signals your brain is sending. Instead of trying to sit up or at least pat yourself down like his brain is telling him to, his body says, "No, I'll just sit here and twitch for a while, thanks." And instead of, "I think I'm okay," what comes out is that guttural "Eeelllhhhh" sound. All from too much throttle on the launch and too much front brake on the landing. Although like Dale suggests, if the cameraman had been a little further away he wouldn't had to hit the brake so hard. But that's what you get for dressing like a Red Power Ranger.

I'll post Filler scores tomorrow, I haven't had the chance to go through all of yet, sorry.

kurt cobain's suicide note paired with google adsense keywording = good clean fun

the top ten animal related deaths. yes the horse fucker is in there. bakaaaaaaaw!

January 22, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part IX. Public Opinion.

I really enjoyed your Grand Larceny story. It reminded me of my brush with the law back in 1983. When I was 13, I stole about $1600 worth of crap from the local mall, over Christmas break. Stupidly, I stored it in a locker at the mall until I was ready to cart it out of the place. I probably stole from 20 different stores over the 4 days I was doing it. I got really stupid on the 5th day when I invited my brother and his friend to come along and help. They got busted in a store and squealed on me and my hiding place. My undoing was when I came out of a music store with about $200 worth of “Christmas presents.” I went to my locker, instead of leaving the mall like a smart thief would have. I started to open my locker when, all of a sudden, 3 security guards showed up from the nearby restrooms. They had been staking out my locker since my brother and his friend gave me up. Needless to say, I spent the night in juvenile detention and was in court the next morning. To my recollection, I never stole again from anyone or anyplace. David. [Ernie Says: Pick your friends carefully.]

Ernie, Long time reader, first time writer. I am so glad you shared your story. Kleptomania is no joke, it is a serous mental problem that people make fun of and blow off as something people can control. I say its a mental issue because any addiction is a mental issue. I used to work for a major drug store chain and knew where every camera in the store was. I was never ballsy enough to take money, but I cleaned up real nice on digital cameras, CD walkmans, blank cd's and batteries, hell I'd even steal makeup and expensive perfume from behind the cosmetics counter. I was there for about 5 years, stealing away as much as would fit in my purse, when I was robbed at knife point one night. I was emptying the registers of their tills (about 4 registers, each with at least $150 in them) when the guy got right on my back and forced me into the office. The whole ordeal was scary and awful, but thankfully they caught him. It took someone stealing from me to change my life, I'm glad you found a way to change yours. All my love, Jenny in KY [Ernie Says: Awesome story, I look forward to one day meeting you in person.]


Ernie, I have been reading your site for close to ten years now, and I have occasionally dropped you a line to tell you how much I enjoy it. Now, once again, I must drop you a line to tell you how much I admire the dedication and craftsmanship you put into telling a story. The Grand Larceny episodes have been greatly amusing. You have such a colorful and entertaining way of writing - I would even go so far as to suggest you pursue a professional career as a writer. There are some people who the internet was simply made for, you are one of those people. Thank you for sharing your talent. Best regards, Charlie

I swear, I couldn't wait for the next page. Been there myself and recognized a lot of the feelings. Well written. Hoping for more stories... Russ/Islander

The 99.9% of viewers of this site can most attest to the fucking thieving cunt waitress. Met up with my wife to have dinner at the Outback, got up after dinner, she left her expensive gloves on the bench, wifey calls me on her ride home to turn around from Christmas shopping and go get the gloves. I state to the hostess that she left a pair of gloves in "that" booth. "Were they black?" "why yes they were".. the cow grazes over to the booth talks to the bussing crew of two young peeps, one guy one girl, waddles her ass back... "I'm sorry they didnt find any gloves" .. my instant reply to the lying staff..." How the hell did you know they were black gloves and funny how they disappear? Tell the bussing crew thanks for stealing my wife's gloves! ".. I leave.. Payback thought of the day: Should I order take out for a few times equal to the cost of the gloves to make up for the loss? Wifey thinks that is childish.. I think it's an idea but not the Outback's responsibility to cover a $125 pair of gloves that a shithead employee stole. Anyhow.. it would be nice if Verizon actually gets someone to walk into their store trying to activate it. Worse yet, is the fucking cunt is 99.9% selling it on Ebay right now for sure. Some one like one of your faithful EHOWA visitors may end up bidding on the stolen phone and win it! Who knows.. hope you get a little retribution some how some way. Thanks for a great site as always. Hope your Dodge is looking good as we saw some body work being done on it recently. Take care. Pete Pembroke MA. [Ernie Says: I kept watch over Craigslist and ebay hoping to snatch it back up but no luck.]

So let me get this straight. You spend a rather large part of your childhood stealing anything that's not bolted down. You may or may not have realised that part of what you stole may have been important or vital to the owners life, business, children etc. And now your are crying like a wounded mother over your phone and accessories.... chin up slugger Karma is a bitch. tough shit Ernie and I hope more people steal from you. I cant stand little shit thieving cunts, you used to be one now the world evens out. Get over it. Garth [Ernie Says: So by your logic, anyone who didn't steal when they were a child is entitled to do so as an adult? Interesting. And I hope more people steal from me, too. It'll give me more things to write about, dickface.]

Dude, that fucking sucks about your phone. I know I would be livid too if someone stole mine and all I have is a basic LG mostly used for talking on the phone and occasional texting. Still, I feel naked when I leave the house without it! That bitch stole your phone, straight up. She'll just be a typical teenager about it too and lie her way out of it. Luckily she can't even use the damn thing. If anything, she'll possibly test the vibration and use it for, um, I'll let you use your imagination. Sucks even more you've gotta pay a ton to get a replacement. Sympathies for ya man and hopefully you won't have to go through this again! Mike in Denver

I have read your site for many years, and the theft story was the best ever. A classic! You got "mad skillz" in the writing department. Jay

Sorry to hear about your phone, I feel your pain. Maybe you can punch that girl in the puss! I worked as a paramedic in the Children’s Hospital ER in Chattanooga, Tennessee. One day the ambulance brought us a kid in severe respiratory distress. I put my phone down on the counter directly across from the trauma room and helped with the kid. The child’s family was immediately outside the trauma room as we worked feverishly to save its life. When we finally stabilized the kid and sent him up to the ICU, I went back out to the counter to get my phone. The family was sitting all around the counter area. I looked all over but no phone. I asked the family if they had “inadvertently” picked up my phone that was sitting right on their table but of course no one ever saw a thing. Sorry reggin bastards. I kicked ass saving their kid and all they could do is steal my phone as payback. I couldn’t prove that they took it but the nurse also saw me set the phone down, so I had a witness. The family still denied taking the phone. Not one of those undeserving bastards said thanks to anyone of us for what we did. It was my fault for leaving it out. The kid lived but for the family, Karma is definately a bitch. Keep kicking Ass! Joey

Do it middle eastern style. Go back, sit in her section, put anthrax on the tip money. Easy finish. Corbin.

Jesus Ernie...I dig your website and as a veteran appreciate all that you do for us. But all of us have skeletons in our closet that we'd like to acknowledge sometime down the road. But your whole "I did a bad thing when I was a kid" novel going on part 493 is really over the top. I could have seen it as a lengthy one-day posting, but we're going on a week now and nothing you did that I've seen warrants five paragraphs a day, going on a week now. Seriously. As readers we for the most part just lead normal, average, every-day very boring lives. So we tune into websites like yours for a little humor, political satire and some T&A. Not to read your multiple chapters of soul bearing because you "found Jesus" yesterday or something. Seriously - save that for the bar flies at your local tavern like the rest of us. Stick to your roots (like many rock bands should have) and we'll all get along just fine. Thanks again for the great website and as a casual contributor I will continue to do so. Your bud in Seattle, Tomm [Ernie Says: Actually the way this works is you'll read whatever the fuck I decide to post, whenever the fuck I decide to post it. Besides, you're quick to point out you're a veteran yet I don't see any LBEH donations from you since its inception. Nice try, dickface.]

forty facts about sleep you probably didn't know... (or were too tired to think about)

supermodel julie ordon at trhe beach. and she sorts doesn't really have any clothes on

January 21, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part VIII. Redemption.

While my kleptomania never approached Chase-Pitkin scale again, let's just say that the computers I built as a little side job might have run hotter than most. So what, pray tell, did finally bring my one man crime spree to an end? No I didn't find God, and as I previously hinted, punishment and shame didn't do it either. It was a hard drive, if you can believe it. A 400Mb hard drive that someone else stole, and before you ask, no it wasn't mine.

It was stolen from Frederick Computers Plus, my first real employer. I had been there only two or three months when it happened. The hard drive in question had been sitting on the shelving of a vacant cubicle ever since I had been hired; I know this because I walked past it every day on the way to my little home away from home. Its presence there always struck me as a little out of place because what the hell was the inner guts of a computer doing as the lone occupant of a cube, but like I said, I was new so what the hell did I know? And one morning, it just wasn't there anymore. I didn't pay it any mind honestly. For all I knew someone came and put it in it's proper place.

And then the questions started. "Have you seen the hard drive that was on the shelf in that cube?" And, "You don't happen to know where that hard drive went, do you?" It began to occur to me that this hard drive was probably not back in its rightful place, and as the FNG I feared attention might focus on me. And what both amused and baffled me the most was... I didn't take it. Usually, whenever something turned up missing I was the one to blame. I was prepared for these, "Have you seen...," type questions. But I was unprepared this time because I had no idea something was missing. My heart raced. My palms grew clammy. And just like there was a little James T. Kirk in my head, ("Mr. Sulu, shields up!") I began to mentally account for my whereabouts; the wheels in my heard churning to see what lie would fit the facts and give me a good alibi.

That's when "It" hit me. "It" was the realization I made when I stepped back for a moment and said, "Whoa. I don't have to think of any lies here, because the truth will work just fine. I'm not the guy who boosted this hard drive. I don't have to concoct any kind of a story and don't have to worry about remembering the details of it later. I don't have to worry about answering the same question the same way when it's asked a different way. I can just sit back on my ass with a big grin on my face, and not have to worry one bit about anything they want to ask me, because I DIDN'T DO IT. There's going to be some other poor son of a bitch squirming on the hot seat for this one. This is fucking awesome!"

I don't think this was any huge leap of morality, but more of a understanding of which path had the least resistance. I'm serious when I say this, stealing something and then having to lie about it is mentally exhausting. Assuming you get away with the act itself, you then have to worry each and every night that Person-A is talking to Person-B -- "Yeah I think he took something from me too, but I haven't been able to catch him" -- and wondering if they're going to outsmart you the next time. But if I hadn't stolen anything to begin with, there would be no conspiracies to worry about.

This was the first time in my life when I finally understood that being able to sit back completely worry free in any given situation, was more valuable than whatever it was I was contemplating stealing. I think that's the key that eludes a lot of people, like the waitress that boosted my phone. You should have seen the look on her face when she got called up to the front where the restaurant's owner and I were waiting to talk to her. She didn't know whether to shit or go blind. And as pissed off as I was and as much as I wanted to reach over and strangle the little cunt, I kind of felt sorry for her too. Because now for the rest of the time she works where, she's going to look over her shoulder and wonder if she's being watched. When raises come out and she gets a little less than everyone else, she'll be left to wonder if that's because of actual merit or if 'they're on to her'. And when she glances over and happens to catch the daytime manager looking in her direction, she'll be forced to wonder if he's been told to keep an eye on her or not. All that doubt. All that suspicion. All that energy wasted looking over her shoulder. And for what? A fucking cellphone? Bah, not worth it.

Just buy the fucking thing and treat yourself to a good night's sleep. It's what I finally learned to do.

So on the beach you're strollin'... real high-rollin'
Everything you have is your's and not stolen
A girl runs up with somethin to prove
So don't just stand there, bust a move.

Oh, and one note on the Chase-Pitkin thing. It took me years before I had the courage to go back in there. And when I did I half expected someone to recognize me and start chastising me like the old beggar lady in The Princess Bride. But no one did. And if anyone did recognize me, they sure didn't show it. I was just another anonymous customer. But when I was checking out I noticed how all the power tools had been moved up to the front of the store and secured in a steel cage locked with double padlocks. I have to admit, I was a little proud. Because when you've stolen enough to influence the day to day operations of how a chain of store does business, brother you've stolen a lot of shit.

So long Chase-Pitkin, ye hardly knew me. Today: New game challenge. Beat my score of 6,552 in Filler. Tomorrow: Reader reactions to my shady past.

would you eat your buddies in a blizzard? i have a 54% chance of doing so

seventy-five tips to keep your car in top-notch condition

January 19, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part VII.

On any given weekday, there are around 700-750 people reading the various pages of EHOWA at any given time. Every since I started my grand larceny saga, that number has hovered around 900. Like Alan Shore says; Schadenfreude.

In grade school, I used to be in the Boy Scouts. My Troop Leader was a man named Jack Cook. Jack was not the janitor at #43 school on Lyell Avenue, which as I mentioned earlier, was the school I attended for grades 4 (Mr. Gorman), 5 (Mrs. Mahar) and 6 (Mr. Gerber). I was still close friend's with Jack's son Tim, so Jack came to know about my little soiree with Johnny Law. At this he suggested I might be able to complete my 48 hours of community service working under him, volunteering at the school with janitorial stuff. And since well, that sure as fuck beat picking up trash on the side of the road, I suggested that solution to Mr. Caseworker, who thought it was an acceptable solution.

And so one Monday afternoon at 6pm, I knocked off early from my new job at the hardware store and drove to the old brick school that was both very strange and yet very familiar, all at the same time. In truth, if I wasn't there under the circumstances I was, it was almost kind of cool. My various duties required me to have access to all the places I was curious about as a kid; that padlocked door in the basement across from the cafeteria, that trapdoor at the top of the ladder in the main stairwell, fuck I even got to climb behind the big fucking bronze Teddy Roosevelt statue that stood in the main foyer. Doing that as a student would have equaled instant detention and a phone call home so my father could beat my ass. One evening was entirely filled by setting up some 300+ chairs in the gymnasium for an assembly the next day. As a kid, I always wondered how these chairs got set up; now I know. Guys doing community service.

One evening I was running a floor buffer on the second floor, on the very same hallway that my little feet used to pitter patter. A short black woman wearing these big fucking frying pan sized glasses came walking my way. I had seen that walk before. It was my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Mahar. I kept my head down, feigning determined concentration on the floor buffer I was running. Which if you've ever run one of those things before, you really do need to pay attention otherwise you're looking at a couple of cracked ribs when that fucker come a spinnin. But anyway, my clever face down disguise wasn't anywhere near enough to fool the keen eye of Mrs. Mahar. Her pace slowed as she grew close. Look down. Look down. "Ernie? Ernie Stewart?" Fuck. SO year I ended up seeing one of my old teachers while doing community service in the grade school I used to attend. if that didn't put your life in perspective, not many things would. We talked for a bit and I explained about the little 'misunderstanding' I had with my recent employer. She chastised me and then offered some words of encouragement, as she had done no less than a thousand times in the past.

And for eight days, that was how I rolled. Paying off my debt to The Man six hours at a time. I swept, I mopped, I buffed. I emptied trash and set up chairs. I carried boxes and scrubbed graffiti. But even that fun came to an end. At the end of the eighth day, Jack filled out my compliance forms and gave them to me so I could pass them along to the case worker. He added his name to the growing list of people who told me, "And keep your nose clean for now on." And I did, at least for a little while. But old habits die hard.

cinder blocks for sale, $1. and don't ask any fucking questions, because the seller gets real fucking upset

everythjing you ever wanted to know about dog bites, but were afraid to ask

January 18, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part VI.

The remainder of that evening was pretty uneventful. My parents thanked the cop for bringing me home, and ironically enough, he had to give me a ride back to Chase-Pitkin to pick up my car. Needless to say I took the long way home. Not much was said around the house that night, and the evening capped off with everyone going to bed reallllly early.

The next week was Pins-And-Needles Week. The latest official word from Chase-Pitkin was they weren't going to press charges since they believed we hadn't actually taken anything. Since they was recently proven false (thanks, you fucking Rat), but not hearing anything to the contrary, I didn't know what was going to happen. At my mother's insistence I had to call up the police station every day and ask if I was going to face charges. And each day it was the same, "We haven't heard back from Chase-Pitkin yet." Since we all know I was eventually charged, you know how this part of the story is going to end. And I have to say looking back, that the week of not knowing what was coming, was actually worse than after I knew what was going to happen. The uncertainty was a killer. It's like you don't dare plan for anything because you don't know if you're going to be around. I imagine I must have felt a little like how a death row inmate feels when he's waiting to hear back on his final appeal.

Anyway, it was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving -- late on that Wednesday actually -- that a definitive answer came back. Yes, I was going to be charged. And what was I going to be charged with? Well, since the total value of the items I returned had just crept past $1,000, in the State of New York that makes it Grand Larceny in the Fourth degree which is a Class E Felony. I had hit the big time. But here's the fucking corker: The Rat and Marc each stole just as much shit as I did, but they didn't return as much. In fact, they returned a whole lot less.... enough to keep them well under the $1,000 limit and hence they were each charged with Petit Larceny, which is only a misdemeanor. And the corker to the corker? When The Rat drives to school after the Thanksgiving break? Yeah the fucking RoadRunner Beep Beep mudflaps are still on his fucking car. No shit. But I've got the felony charge. Right.

A few weeks later, just before Christmas, was the first appearance before the Judge. I forget his name too (but I'll be damned if I can forget Doug Cole...). And you could tell from his demeanor that while yes I was facing a big situation, he's also seen a lot worse. He runs through all of the, "Do you realize the consequences of what you've done?" and, "Do you have any remorse?" questions, and I reply with all the right answers. Okay, next court date is sometime in late January, but right after the first of the year I have to meet with a case worker who will evaluate me and provide some recommendation to the judge as for sentencing.

But in the meantime, there's something else I have to take care of. You see I was in the Delayed Enlistment Program (DEP) for the Air Force, and now I had to let my recruiter know what happened. So I mosey on down the Federal Building and call SSgt Berardi out into the hallway so I can talk in private. He was playing a recruitment video for some noobs and I didn't want them to hear what was going on. Yes, admitting you've been arrested can be somewhat embarrassing, thank you very much. So I hit him with it, "Uh yeah, I sort of got arrested." And his response was something that I've always found profoundly stupid, "What did you do that for?" Oh, because I was fucking bored. Like I woke up the other morning and said 'you know my life sure can use some excitement. And nothing says excitement like handcuffs, so let's rock.' Blah-Blah_blah, he lets me know my guaranteed job in my guaranteed career field is safe, just so long as I get this all taken care of before I'm scheduled to leave in May of that following year. That gave me five months to get this buttoned up, which I thought was plenty of time. I leave feeling relieved that at least this little indiscretion wouldn't spoil my plans for the Air Force. Then a week later I got a letter from the local recruiting branch telling me I had been kicked out of DEP and my job forfeited. Awesome.

So I ventured into the new year unemployed, with a felony charge hanging over my head, and having been shunned by Uncle Sam. It was not a very good new year.

The meeting with the case worked went better than I had imagined it would. It was at the City Government building downtown and like most city buildings at the time, looked more like a bomb shelter than a place of business. Cinderblock walls painted a pale green. A floor made up of linoleum squares in a checkerboard pattern. Florescent lights buzzing angrily overhead. My case worker was a skinny black guy, I remember that. And he like the judge, gave off the impression that he'd seen much more shady characters than me come across his desk; not that either was going to let me off the hook. One of the first issues he wanted to address was the fact that the other two guys insinuated I was the 'ring leader' of our little crime spree. Of course this was true, if for no other reason that the other two guys weren't bright enough to start a fire with two sticks, even if one of them was a match. I wanted to explain how if one of my compatriots had the brains of a curly asshair, then I wouldn't even be sitting in his office having this conversation. But I couldn't very well say that, now could I. My mom, bless her heart, maintained that I was a very good kid who had just fallen in with the wrong crowd. Which, aside from having very sticky fingers, I really was a good kid. The case worker spoke to me both with and without my parents in the room. After mom and dad were sent out for a cup of coffee, the case worker asked me things like, "How is your home life? How's your relationship with your parents? Is anyone abusing you?" Very touchy-feely type questions. After ten minutes or so of that, he had gotten all the information he needed to make a recommendation to the judge. I explained my situation with the Air Force to him, and he asked a few more questions and took a few more notes. We parted ways with a handshake and out the door I went.

It was about this time that I got another job, too. Right across the street from Chase-Pitkin was a small hardware store. The owner's name was Jack and when I applied for the job, I spilled the beans to him. How I was arrested and facing charges for stealing from the store across the street. And bless his heart, Jack gave me a chance. Even gave me time off work when I had to leave early to do my community service, which I'll talk about tomorrow. And I worked my ass off for Jack. Showed up early. Stayed late. Unbelievable kind and helpful to customers. But eventually, I stole from him too. Yep. But like I said when I started this whole story, I was a fucking klepto when I was a kid. No amount of shame or punishment or fear or pain or anything could stop it. I couldn't not steal. I don't know why, but I did. But I'm getting ahead of myself here. My January court date rolls around and here's what the Judge spelled out for me. Since I was just a tender little tyke of only seventeen years, I was going to be given the status of Youthful Offender. That means that assuming I satisfy all the requirements the court sets down for me, my record would be expunged on my eighteenth birthday. The requirements were as follows:

(1) Don't get in any more trouble for the next six months. If I do, I face the punishment for not only that new offense, but this Judge would open up another can of WhoopAss on me for this Chase-Pitkin thing plus I'd lose my Youthful Offender status.

(2) Pay my father back the $1,500 he spent on an attorney for me.

(3) Perform 48 hours of community service, to be coordinated and monitored by the case worker I met before.

And just a small bright spot here. As I said, I was sentenced to 48 hours of community service, which I completed at the very same school where I went to grades 4-6. Met my 5th grade teacher while I was running a floor buffer. Yeah, that was awesome. More on that tomorrow. And my accomplice Marc, he got 32 hours. And The Rat? Yep, The Rat got 64 fucking hours of community service. Fuck him.

So if you're a guy and you're being described as being as pretty as Lindsay Lohan, perhaps it's time to rethink your look.

test your sensitivity to disgust and take part in a real science experiment.

wow womeone holds a grudge - "look at me. i lied under oath. i fucked my brothers wife. i am the father of my brothers son."

January 15, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part V.

In Stephen King's novel Dolores Claiborne, the title character is being interviewed by police regarding the death of her husband Joe. In her mind, Dolores likens the police interview to walking through a field laden with traps and pits and rocks on which one could become entangled. So every time the inspector asks her a question, Dolores would count off in her mind, "One my pretty pony. Two my pretty pony. Three my pretty pony," before answering. This allowed her both time to think out her response and not fall into any of the inspector's traps, and yet not seem too eager to answer, either.

And I had just spent the last two hours My-Pretty-Ponying our way through the Pitfall of Pitfalls. I had spent great care and effort covering up our complex and inconceivable truth, with a simple and utterly believable lie. Only to feel myself drug back into the pit of despair by a blithering idiot. When the officer confronted me with all of these details of our escapades -- very specific details which in no way shape or form could have been a guess -- I knew I couldn't react how I wanted to. Because what I wanted to do was throw his coffee cup against the wall, and tear off my shirt, stand up on my chair and scream down at him, "Aw C'mon! I mean what the fuck! We knew we were going to be questioned, and that's why I specifically laid out a very simple story so that these two fucking idiots would be able to stick to it without cracking under pressure. I had already done all the heavy lifting; I was the first fucking interview! All Jim had to do was stick to the motherfucking story and he evidently couldn't even do that!" I wanted to lean over to the officer and say, "No that can't be right. We had the concocted the perfect lie last night and even rehearsed it over some Nick Tahoe's cheeseburgers. Nowhere in our lie was anything about the Shop-Vac or the CB Radios which I had these two fucking balloonheads get. So do me a favor, maybe go back and check your facts again?"

But of course I couldn't do that. No, I couldn't do that any more than I could continue denying having actually stolen before, thanks to Jim, whom I shall henceforth refer to as The Rat. And what the cops had expected to be a simple ten minute routine interview just to confirm the story I had told them, turned into a full blown, "Hey get a cup of coffee and go to interview room seven, there's some neat shit going on in there," fiasco. And The Rat had laid it all out for them, starting with the mudflaps and running all the way up to the fire sales I used to throw in the school parking lot on Friday mornings. How we asked to borrow the keys to go outside, making copies of the ones we needed from time to time. How we checked the security bubbles and found them to be empty (that's right, empty!). How I escalated everything by discovering the back door route and made the two of them get CB radios so we wouldn't be surprised while gathering up the night's take. And the coup de gras: how the night before I had worked out our cover story at Nick's after realizing Flipper had stumbled onto our little operation. About the only thing he didn't tell them was my fucking employee number. Marc, who was the third interview, didn't have a chance. he was ambushed with every detail The Rat had just spilled out, so all he could do was nod his head and agree with everything.

So of course now the investigation moves from the discovery phase, which had almost winded down to a closing to this little dirty affair, to the asset recovery phase. Yeah that's not so much fun. That's where the cops load you in their patrol car (no cuffs this time) and take you home to retrieve all the neat shit you've been stealing. And as my heart thumped in my throat as we turned down the corner of Marlow street and pulled up to my house, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Not my parent's car, that's what. They weren't home. I glanced around and waited for the neighbor's curtains to be pushed back so they could get a better look at the TWO Gates police cruisers sitting in front of my house, but that didn't happen either. It's like the entire street was sleeping. There was -- no shit -- a light dusting of fresh snow on the ground. It was like a little pre-Christmas miracle just for me.

And so into the house and up to my bedroom we go. Myself, the uniformed officer who was with me from the beginning (fucked if I can remember his name), and two detectives form a semicircle around my closet. And when I open it and pull back the blanket I had been using to cover up my "Christmas presents that I didn't want anyone to peek at," all you saw were Chase-Pitkin price tags. (Why not take the tags off, you might wonder? Well how the hell else would I know what to charge people?) And just like you see in news footage whenever a flood hits the midwest, the four of us formed a line from my closet to my bed. Only instead of passing sandbags to build a levee, we were passing cordless drills, and cordless ratchets, and extra batteries, and programmable thermostats, and radar detectors, and cordless phones, and multi-line speakerphones, and paint sprayers, and laser levels, and wrench sets. And when we were done, a pile that came up to eye height had grown on my bed. It took the four of us three trips each to bring everything out to the police cruisers. And when we were done, one of them happened to ask in amazement, "Did we get everything?" And me -- for some unGodly reason choosing now of all times to suddenly find the path of truth -- reply, "Nope, now we go up to the attic." And up to the attic I led them to another pile not quite as big as the first, but still sizeable none the less. "Now did we get everything?" And me, keeping right on trucking towards Truthville, lead them over to our CHRISTMAS TREE. Where yes, I unwrapped a few choice gifts revealing more power tools (tags removed this time).

When we were done, we had filled the trunks and back seats of two cruisers, with a few items riding shotgun in the front seat of one. It was quite the, uh, take. And in a far off kind of way, I sat back and for the first time was really able to look over and admire what I had accomplished. I mean sure I was getting busted, but man I stole a lot of shit. Seriously. I came in and these two thimbledicks were sneaking mudflaps out by the lumber yard. Now I had a Chase-Pitkin outlet store in my fucking closet. Well, at least I did. And as we were sitting back and looking at the two fully stocked cars -- I swear to God the cops ever had a hint of admiration on their faces too -- a set of very familiar headlights began to cut their way down Marlow street. Yes, those headlights. It was that moment that I realized any chance I had of making some sort of clean getway was gone. I was now going to be in this for the long fucking haul, baby.

I'm not quite sure what goes through a parents head when they come home to find police cars from another town parked outside of their house. I was standing there with them, so obviously I wasn't hurt and that ruled out any sort of accident. Plus why would there be detectives in an unmarked car? No, to this day I still don't know exactly what my parents were thinking, but from the looks on their faces, it wasn't good. The two detectives in the unmarked car had already gotten inside and were ready tomake their way back to their headquarters to start a stolen goods report. The officer however would obvious want to speak with dear old Mom and Dad and answer a flurry of questions. So now he, my befuddled parents and I made our way back into the house where my parents took a seat at the kitchen table. The officer was standing in the archyway, near that door that led down to the outside door we had just come from. I chose to stand, with my legs up against the heat register, trying to ward off the chill from standing outside with no jacket on.

My parents were obviously very eager to know what the fuck was going on. And I will never to the day I die, ever forget how I told them. I realized it was such a serious and grave situation that I was grasping at any straw to lighten the mood. Anything. And deep down I knew it wasn't the right time for a joke, but still it came out anyway. "Well," I began, "remember when you asked me where I was getting some of these tools from, and I told you I was getting them at a discount?" "Yes," my mom responded, still clueless with disbelief with what I was about to hit her with even though she knew what was coming. "Well, that discount was sort of... 100%"

And then there was a very long, and very awkward pause in the Stewart household. A pause that seemed as overpowering as the silence that accompanied it. No one's face moved. The ticking of the clock seemed deafening. The metal grate that covered the heat vent started to burn my fingers but I didn't move. Not even the fucking dog lifted his head. I mean a fucking eternity of stillness and silence, like we had been imprisoned into some bizarre Normal Rockwell painting.

My father was the first to move. And much to my surprise, it wasn't to leap up out of his chair and beat my ass as I had fully expected him to do, cop standing there or not. Instead he just lowered his head and sighed. My mother, on the other hand, has a more visceral reaction. As she looked up at me her face started to crumble. A muscle twitch in the chin. An eye slowly started to squinch down. Her mouth slowly closed from its seat of shock and curl downwards. And before I knew it, she was weeping.

I think that was probably the lowest I have ever felt in my entire life. At that moment, I would have been delighted to have my father jumped up and smack me around. Or to have my mother throw a frying pan at my head, as I had seen her do to my brothers on occasions when they got into serious trouble. But I had crossed the line. And to have them sit there and just be broken people, man that was fucking horrible.

Tomorrow is a day off for me, visiting Puddy in Orlando. But I shall continue my grand theft saga on Thursday.

Oh shit, and before I forget, the winner in Autobahn is Adam with 14,612. Adam, you driving fool. New game challenge on Thursday, too.

eighteen things you didn't know about your bellybutton

well i guess blu-ray has won. watch hitler comes to terms with the downfall of hd-dvd.

January 14, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part ... Well, Four.

Just stick to the plan and you'll be okay. Just stick to the plan...

"Do you have any idea what I'd like to talk about?"

Well, there's the $64,000 question, isn't it. And I'd love to tell you my response was the result of watching The Usual Suspects or Goodfellas, where the bad guy always forces the cops to show their hand while giving nothing up in return. Yes, I'd like to tell you that my response was all part of the three golden rules; Deny. Deny. Deny. But it wasn't. And when I mumbled, "No, I don't," with a weak voice and a dry mouth it was only because in some fantastic way I was hoping all three of these men would exchange puzzled glances with each other, shrug their shoulders and say, "You don't huh? Well, okay then, our mistake. Sorry to have bothered you and enjoy the rest of your day." But of course they didn't. In fact, the police officer seemed very prepared for my response and had began to reply before I even finished the word "don't".

As I'm writing this, I've sat here for a few minutes and tried to remember the exact specifics of the conversation, but it's been a long time. So while I can't spew off exact quotes anymore, I do remember the framework of the ensuing interrogation, and it went like this...

The evening before, Flipper realized he had stumbled onto something very out of place and suspecting we might be behind the 300% spike in losses over the past few months, called Doug into the store. When he got there, Doug called Mike in as well. For the next few hours the three of them went through the store, focusing on the back room, and found all the neat shit we had stockpiled to steal. I of course denied this as not knowing anything about what they were talking about. Doug then says they captured video of us on the security cameras. I asked to see the tapes. Doug reports they've already been sent off to Chase Pitkin security headquarters for review. At this news, I paused and considered something.

The security cameras he's speaking of would have been housed in the new mirrored globes that were just installed in various points around the store. One of the advantages of working in the lumber department is we were always being hoisted up on forklifts, or climbing around on the big 30' tall racks, giving us good vantage to see that the aforementioned mirrored globes were in fact EMPTY. As in void of cameras. As in just for show. At least all the ones we looked at were empty. But there were a few we couldn't examine since they were located out of our department and out of view. So for a good ten seconds I sat there and tried to calculate the chances that I was really on film stealing a whole bunch of shit. Were they bluffing? Or were there really tapes? I wondered if halfway across the city, there were engineers in lab coats examining this footage like it was the U2 surveillance photos of Cuba. Fuck.

In the end, I caved. I'm not proud to admit that, not that I'm proud for having stolen a bunch of shit from an employer that treated me pretty well, but looking back I just hate to have been beaten at my own game. There were no fucking tapes. But being a scared teenager, I believed them. Their bluff worked. And so, I told them everything. I told them how we were planning to steal some stuff and how we just wanted to be able to give away some really good Christmas presents, and how the more we thought about it we didn't want to get caught and arrested, and how after chickening out we stashed the stuff in the back hoping someone would just think it's out of place stock and simply put it back on the shelves. And oh my God, we had never done anything like this before, and oh my God were we sorry and the last thing we wanted was to get in trouble, and oh my God here I was sitting here talking to the police, and oh my God my father was going to kill me, and oh my God I'd do anything to take it back.

The police officer seemed indifferent to it all, he just kept writing down what I was saying. I mean the guy has probably been to murder crime scenes, so what's a little petit theft to him, right? Doug Cole on the other hand sat back and with a look of satisfaction on his face, obviously please that his little security camera rouse worked. Michael on the other hand, was a different matter. So permit me a quick tangent if I may. Doug Cole, as the store's general manager, was a tall, good looking and charismatic man. Like our friend E.F. Hutton, when Doug Cole talked, people listened. He was an attention getter. The same was not true for his assistant manager, Michael. He was a short man, somewhere just above the five foot mark as I recall. When he spoke, people looked around with a confused look on their face, only to glance downwards and go, "Oh hey Mike, I didn't see you there. Did you say something?" He had somewhat of a Napoleon complex. As I was concluding my Oh-Woe-Is-Me act, Mike seemed to realize that the situation was unfolding without any contribution on his part, so he piped up with, "So who tried to take all the tools from the contractor's office?"

That of course would be me. You see I had suddenly gotten the urge to assemble myself a toolbox. God knows what for, since my brother was the mechanic in the family and the number of nuts and bolts I have turned in my life can probably be counted on two hands. But for whatever reason, I wanted to have a nicely equipped toolbox and like everything else, I decided to steal it. But being a purveyor of nice things I was not satisfied with the retail grade crap; I wanted the good stuff. I wanted the contractor grade tools. And so, during one of the trips out to my car with Flipper's borrowed key set, I stopped by the hardware department and made myself a copy of the key to the special Contractor Supply Office. During the previous night's looting, I let myself in and much like Peter and Stephen in Dawn of the Dead, did a little shopping. These tools, devoid of their packaging, were in one of the boxes discovered by Flipper, Doug and Mike during their early morning scavenger hunt. But since unwrapped tools would not fit into my Oh-Woe-Is-Me mantra, getting pinched for this simply wouldn't do. "Because I am going to find out who tried to take them, that I can guarantee you." Mike quipped, making sure Doug overheard how determined and authoritative he sounded. And I remember this. I remember being tremendously offended at his arrogance. You guarantee? You guarantee? You guarantee you're going to catch me? I sat there, stung and insulted. The fucking audacity! So I made up my mind about one thing. I wasn't sure how this whole situation was going to play out as a whole, it was too early to tell. But one that I was going to guarantee, was that Mike's guarantee was going to fall on its face. And it did. Throughout all the questioning and interrogations, throughout all the interviews and standing before judges and signing of affidavits.... they never found out it was me. No matter how much Mike pressed the issue with the cops and the lawyers, I gave him nothing. Why? Because fuck him, that's why. Arrogant fuck.

Anyway, back to my confession. I spelled out for them what we were going to take and how we were going to do it. How that maybe someone might be able to stash some stuff out back, and how one of the hardware display cases was left unlocked, which is why we had so much stuff from behind locked cabinets. In complete and utter falsehood, threw myself at their mercy. And when I was done, the police officer informed me of the crime I had committed, and I could face fines and jail time, and have a criminal record, and how much money an attorney would cost, and did I really think it was worth it. Of course I played the part of the remorseful fool, all the while going over my story in my head and trying to make sure I didn't give them too much information. You see, lying on such a large scale is a very dangerous thing. When you're asked the same question two different ways and ten minutes apart, you have to make sure all of your answers jived. One slip up... if three Eastwing hammers and two mahogany levels turns into two Eastwing hammers and three mahogany levels, and you're fucked.

But I evidently played the part convincingly, because the police officer informed me that per a previous conversation he had with the store manager (Doug), they wouldn't press charges if nothing had been taken. And nothing had been, I assured them, going into my we-chickened-out speech again. The three of us would however be fired (duh), banned from the store (duh again) and would have to sign an affadvit detailing what we did and how we did it. I agreed. The officer stood up and reached back on his belt, and came out with his handcuffs. Fuck. Any color that had returned to my face made a hasty retreat again. Were those really necessary, I asked. They were he said, standard procedure and there were no exceptions. Although he would cuff my hands in front since he was sure I posed no threat to him. I told him I understood, but is there any way they could take me out of the back, so I didn't have to walk through the store in handcuffs? The officer said he had no problem with that if Doug didn't. And that's when Doug Cole, the man I had completely fucked over for the last three months, extended one last act of mercy to me. He not only agreed to let me be taken out via the back door, but asked us to wait a minute while he cleared all of the other employees from the back stock area so I could salvage a little pride. Bless his heart, he really was a nice guy. My father would have stripped me down naked and beat me with a belt as he marched me around the store.

And while Doug was shoo'ing everyone out from the back and the cop was going to get his cruiser to drive it around back to pick me up, Mike was left to guard me. He took this opportunity to again grilled me on the person responsible for trying to take the contractor tools. And you know what, if he was a nice guy like Doug, I might have thrown myself on the sword as one last gesture to say I really was sorry. But he wasn't. He was an asshole. So instead I gave him stugots.

When the back room had been cleared and the officer had returned to pick up his new prisoner, I flopped my jacket over my wrists to hide my handcuffs, and was escorted through the very back door I had used to steal a lot of shit. The cruiser hadn't warmed up yet and the vinyl seats were cold on my legs and back. After the officer had shut the door behind me and was walking around to let himself in, I had the first moment of complete privacy in the two hours since this ordeal began. "Oh fuck," I said out loud but to no one in particular. But in that despair, there was also some hope. I had gotten all three of us off with a mere slap on the wrist. Just fired and banned from the store? For all the shit we had actually gotten away with? That was the teenager's equivalent to slitting your ex wife's neck, being chased in a white Bronco, and then being acquitted because of some cheap gloves. I had faced off with the store manager and the police, and had come out on top! I certainly wasn't pleased at the fact that I was sitting in the back of a police cruiser and had handcuffs on, but all things considered, did a fucking awesome job at damage control. I know this sounds horrible, but I was actually kind of proud of that fact. And best of all, with no charges being filed, there was no way my father was going to find out. That my friends, was the real score.

And so off to the Gates Police Headquarters I went. And in a tiny interrogation room with white walls and while ceiling, seated on a metal chair and writing on a metal desk, I once again regurgitated my web of lies. How we were planning to steal some stuff and how we just wanted to be able to give away some really good Christmas presents, and blah-blah-blah.

As I would finish one page and move on to the next, the officer would look over what I had just written. He would remind me that I should leave out emotions and expressions of remorse, since these documents were used to express only hard facts. "It's going to be okay," he assured me," I had made a mistake but it wasn't the end of the world." I courageously agreed he was right and somehow managed to find the strength to continue my affidavit. A few times, I accidently snuck in an, "I'm so sorry" or, "I was so scared" because I was still playing the game. I wanted anyyone and everyone to see that I was super duper sorry, and that they should do everything they could to let me go as soon as possible because I sure did learn my lesson. I steeled myself with the thought that this whole unfortunate event would probably be over in an hour, and all because I had the God given sense to just stick to my fucking story.

And I want to say that I was on page three or so, when another detective came in and asked to speak to the officer outside. I continued writing because there was a big ass mirror in there and presumed I was still under the watchful eye of someone. I had just gotten to the part where I had been called back into work the next day, when the officer returned. His face looked stern and some how disappointed. He told me there was a problem with my affidavit and I remember thinking, "Wow they really take this no emotion thing pretty seriously." And that's when he told me that Jim was in another interrogation room, and he was telling a very different story from the one I had told. Jim's story dated back about three months and included such juicy tidbits as leaning pallets used to hide stolen goods and Shop-vacs and CB radios and dividing up loot in Nick Tahoe's parking lot.

Coming tomorrow: an affidavit redux, the attic walk though, and my joke falls flat.

Oh, and by the way, this whole Chase-Pitkin story is going somewhere; it's leading up to the event that forever cured me of stealing. And no, it wasn't getting arrested for grand larceny, either.

one of the golden rules of scambaiting is 'make your scammer do all the work'...

January 12, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part III.

Normally, I don't write on the weekend post but I figured eh what the fuck. Why not break the law for a story about breaking the law...

One thing I forgot to mention before ending yesterday's post is this. After I had gotten home that night I was laying there in bed replaying the night's events in my head. Were things as bad as they had first seemed? What lie could I tell to perhaps explain the out of place merchandise? And then... oh fuck, I left the coffee pot on! Tonight was my night to have turned the coffee pot off, and in the confusion of getting semi-busted, fuck I forgot to turn it off. I picked up the phone and called into work, fully expecting to get the stores voice messaging system. Once it beeped, I'd leave Derrick a message to check the pot a.s.a.p. Besides, this was a good way for me to show that yes I was a good little company man after all! (See previous comment about guilty people always trying to prove themselves). But much to my surprise the voicemail didn't answer. Doug Cole did. At 1am on a Friday morning. I explained about leaving the coffee pot on, and after letting me finish he curtly thanked me and hung up. Huh.

I think I mentioned before, that these little excursions all happened on Thursday nights. Since we were there late, the four of us had Fridays off. I went to school just like normal and some time after I got home, the phone rang. It was Derrick, my lumber manager, and he asked if I could come into work wince they're short handed. The holidays were fast approaching so I knew things were busy at work, plus hey, the extra face time might let me do a little recon and see if anyone was able to piece things togather from last night. I grabbed my bright blue Chase-Pitkin smock and headed out the door. I arrived at work about fifteen minutes later and at first appearance everything seemed normal. The same people smiled and said hello to me. Derrick asked me to hurry up and punch in because they were swamped. Maybe things weren't going to be so bad after all.

Back in the break room, there were about a dozen or so employees gathered around a sandwich platter that management had sent down in sort of an impromptu Thanksgiving party. You know the drill; a few dozen small rolls, folds of turkey and roast beef, some tomato slices that were starting to gel up, slices of cheese and a community pot of mayonnaise. There was also a metal bin of Coke and Diet Coke stocked up with ice. Everyone's hands were buzzing like mad, everyone trying to stuff as much free food in their mouths as they could before the clock ticked off 4:00pm and we had to punch in. Since I had already eaten the food didn't interest me that much, and I set about finding an open locker to store my stuff. The lockers were at one end of the long break room table. At the other end sat a man. It was Doug Cole. This struck me as odd since management had their own break room and this one was for the 'little people'. But hey it was the holidays, so maybe he was trying to mingle. Only he wasn't talking to anyone. He wasn't grabbing for a sandwich. He wasn't supping a Coke. He was just sitting there. He was staring. At me. When I knelt down to stuff my shoes into one of the floor height lockers, I could feel his stare burning through me. As I stood up, his eyes never moved. In between us was a small flurry of people reaching and grabbing and laughing. He and I paid no mind, our stares locked on each other. I soon looked away like a submissive puppy.

Tick! The clock struck four and the crowd of people moved from the table over to the timeclock. They filed through one at a time and out the door, each laughing as they stuffed stale bread and room temperature cheese into their mouths. I secretly yearned to switch places with them. I was the last one to punch in, not because I was lazy, but because I was hiding behind the crowd of people hoping that when it thinned I would find Doug Cole had mysteriously disappeared. He hadn't. He was still there. Like Max Von Sydow in some 50's horror film. And still, he stared. As I nestled my timecard back into its slot and began to work my way towards the door, Doug took a step and blocked it. "Can I speak to you for a minute, Ernie?" Oh bollocks.

I followed him the dozen or so steps to his office and when Doug swung open the door, my vision fell upon a uniformed Police Officer from the Town of Gates, sitting behind Doug's desk. My tiny seventeen year old testicles shriveled up, dropped off my body, ran down my pants leg, and made a break for it. I would find them three weeks later at a bus stop in Toledo but that's a story for another time. Also in the room, sitting over to the right, was the store's assistant manager names Mike SomethingOrOther. I'll be damned if I can remember his name. I keep wanting to say Michael Knight, but obviously that's not right. His last name did start with a K, though. Anyway, Doug took a seat next to Mike, leaving one lone single seat vacant. It sat directly across from Doug's desk. Directly across from the cop. It didn't take much for my knees to come unhinged and I fell into the seat with a flop. I think if that seat wasn't there, I'd have gone right down to the floor, through it, only to emerge in China a few days later. I did my best to maintain my composure, I really did, but I'm sure they could all see and smell the fear on me. There were a few minutes of very awkward silence but I'll be damned if I was going to speak first. As far as I'm concerned, if one of them didn't speak, we'd still be sitting there today.

But the golden silence didn't last. The police officer spoke first. He leaned forward in his chair, opened a black binder where I could see he had already written several things, and inquired, "Do you have any idea what I'd like to talk about?"

This Texas DOT Vehicle (which turned out to be a fake) was stopped by an alert DPS Trooper on I-10 between San Antonio and Seguin, Texas [photos]- Shumpy

dear internet porn...

the most somprehensive drug comparison chart you've ever seen

January 11, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part II.

So let's see where we left off.... ahhh. Here it is. Riding high on my own little crime wave...

So anyway, things continued in this Henry Hill Goodfellas lifestyle for quite awhile. You'd be amazed at how popular you get once you're recognized as the guy who can 'get things'. It gives you a whole new appreciation for Morgan Freeman in Shawshank Redemption. Only I wasn't dealing with rock hammers, I was dealing with roofing hammers. And all of that changed exactly one week before Thanksgiving.

It was a typical Thursday night for us. We had stacked one metric assload of stuff back by the rear door, ready to go outside as soon as we got the key. But there were still a few more things on the 'shopping list' so we weren't ready to ask for the keys just yet. Our shelf stocking duties brought us not only to lumber department, but to all the other departments in the store; electronics, plumbing, hardware, gardening, you name it. I had just gathered up a nice stack of business phones from our good friends in electronics, had made my way back through the store and about halfway through the back stockroom towards our stack of stuff. Just by chance, I had just walked behind a stack of boxes when I heard the swinging double doors to the stockroom push open, followed by the voices of Flipper and Jim. They were on their way to the breakroom to grab a cup of coffee, a candybar, whatever. Flipper was talking to Jim so his head was turned to face him thus preventing him from seeing me. I made eye contact with Jim and motioned that he need to get Flipper out of there, and in a fucking hurry. Here I was in the back room holding a stack of phone in my arms when I'm supposed to be in the front sales area stocking light bulbs. That's going to be tough to explain if I get caught. I needed a super huge major hardcore all the bells and whistles distraction so that I could make my way back up front right fucking now, and Jim knew it. He gave me the nod. So even as Flipper's footsteps drew closer, I had a sense of relief, because I knew Jim was going to help me out.

And then, standing there with these phones in my hand, heart racing, seconds away from being caught, I bore witness to one of the greatest acts in human stupidity that I have ever witnessed. The kind of distraction I was hoping for was for Jim to fall on the ground, clutching his ankle and screaming in pain. Or to accidently knock over an enormous pile of boxes sending them cascading onto the floor. Or to drop $5.00 in spare change on the floor and explode into laughter as the coins danced their little dance. No, instead of these things -- which would have kept Flipper from walking back and finding me -- Jim's brainstorm of a distraction was to casually call out, "Hey Dan."

Flipper (Dan) casts a look over his shoulder and says, "Hey," and continues his march around the boxes where I am. I have only seconds to react. Since the skills of teleportation and invisibility still escaped me at the time, I set the stack of phones down and grab a nearby broom. What the fuck else could I do? "What are you doing back here?" Flipper inquired. "I, uh, needed a broom." Flipper looks at the very out of place stack of phones, and up at me, then back at the phones. "Leave that here and get back up front." "You got it." I mumble as a beat feet back up front. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and see Flipper starting to look around more. He would undoubtedly find our stash of ready to go goodies. Fuck.

The rest of the evening occurred as uneventfully as you might expect. There's wasn't much conversation as Jim, Marc and I exchanged very worried glances when Flipper wasn't looking. When we had finished putting away all the stock, all of us made our way back into the break room to punch out and gather up our coats and such. Flipper didn't say much and didn't look any of us in the face. As he led us to the front door, he didn't follow his normal routine of setting the alarm before following us through the door and locking it behind him. No, this time Flipper didn't set the alarm as he opened the door for us and allowing us through. "Good night," he said quietly as he shut the door behind us. I stood there and watched as he turned around and walked towards the back into the belly of the store. A cold shill ran down my spine, and it wasn't the cold Rochester air.

That Thursday evening, the same as countless others before, we drove over to Nick Tahoes. Only this time the jovial mood that usually accompanied us was markedly absent. We went inside, ordered burgers and took in a booth in the far back so we could talk among ourselves. That pending sense of doom that hung in the air like death made us each realize the jig was up. Me being Kid Klepto was used to getting the third degree about missing stuff, so I wasn't quite as frazzled as the other two were. And so we crafted ourselves a story. It was a simple story, making it impossible to foul up when asked. The story was this: we had never stolen anything before, this night was our first attempt at doing so, and we chickened out because we didn't want to get caught. That was it. No fluff. No sparklers and fanfare. Just a very simple story. Stick to the story and we'd be alright. An idiot could do it.

The next day I would learn a very valuable lesson: if you're going to get into trouble, don't do it with stupid people.

Ernie , with the playoffs in high gear thought your fans would like a little pregame warmup. Again thanks for another cool site. Patriots' Jack

Ernie, Just a little note to let you know that the "guy" driving the M6 at 194+ mph in the video is a man by the name of Hans Stuck. He is a legendary race driver for Audi, BMW, Porsche, and Mercedes. The full list of racing achievements would take up many pages; he has won such notable races as: the 24 Hours of LeMans, the Rolex 24 Hours of Daytona, the 12 Hours of Sebring, along with the SCCA TransAm Championship, the DTM (German Touring Car) Championship, and finally the the IMSA GTP World Prototype Championship. As a loyal reader, I know that you wouldn't probably know him by sight, but wanted you to know that he wasn't just some crazy German guy in an M6. Tom D.

ah yes, an update on Autobahn. At first I thought Cruz was going to take the lead at the first posting, but alas, Robin has nudged him out.

the truth about jail. And its not what you see on tv - you meet the nicest people in prison

foreign affairs - the top ten foreign chick topless movie scenes. guess what? nsfw.

January 10, 2007

Grand Larceny In The Fourth Degree, Part I.

Much like the crabs story I posted two years ago, this is a tale I've always wanted to tell but never quite found the right time to do so. With the demise of the store chain in question having been recently completed, and the untimely departure of my phone, I figured it was now or never. So the first time every told in its entirety... here goes.

I begged Doug Cole to hire me. Begged him. My father always told me the best way to make sure you are hired for a job is to be the person who calls back first. So I did. And second. And third. I haunted this man for two weeks straight to give me a job. And when Doug the store's general manager finally called me back to tell me he was bringing me on in the Lyell Avenue Chase-Pitkin's lumber department, he also told me they really didn't need the help but he was so impressed by my tenacity that he had to give me a shot. I was genuinely grateful.

And for the next six months I worked my fucking ass off for him and the lumber manager, Derrick. I learned the fastest, carried the most, waited on the most customers, man I was a little seventeen year old lumber god. And then something happened that would ultimately change my life: I watched a fellow employee steal something. His name was Jim, and he went to the same school I did. And I watched him steal a set of four 'Road Runner' mudflaps with the trademark 'Beep-Beep! for his car. We were the only two people outside in the lumber/gardening yard and I asked him why he was carrying these things since they obviously belonged over in automotive. Just then, a car pulled into the lot and provided Jim with a receipt to load one 2x4. Jim went and grabbed the board and loaded threaded it through the car's windows, punched the man's receipt to show the item was picked up, and tossed the mudflaps into the back seat. The man then drove off. I was dumbfounded. The whole process looked pretty painless to me. At this time of night there was nobody else out here, so we pretty much had the run of the place. And for the next few weeks, that's how it went. Whatever items we could get to the outside lumber area, were pretty much ours for the taking. There was the occasional close call if another employee or customer happened to wander outside right at the moment of 'the drop' but they wouldn't know what they were looking at anyway, so it wasn't a big deal.

And then came the opportunity to ratchet things up a notch. The store closed at 9pm and on Thursday evenings, there was a crew of four employees that came in at 8:30 and worked until midnight, stocking shelves. That four man crew consisted of a manager Dan (whom everyone called Flipper because he was born with a broken arm which never healed correctly, leaving it more or less useless), Jim, Marc, and another guy. The other guy was leaving, so they needed to fill his place. I enthusiastically jumped at this chance; you get to wear regular street clothes, you can crank up the radio, there are no customers to both you, plus it was overtime pay. So with Jim and Flipper's recommendation, I was in.

Needless to say the entire store is locked up during these late night marathons so if you needed to run outside for anything - say to grab something from your car - you had to ask Flipper for the store keys. Need your contacts solution? Get the keys. Forget your sandwich? Get the keys. Want to grab that CD you promised to loan to Jim? Get the keys. And during one of these trips from the back of the store where lumber was, I realized I'm holding the store keys in my hand and I'm walking past all of this 'good stuff'. What kind of stuff? Well just go down to your local Home Depot or Lowes; what you see is what I was seeing. And it was all just begging to be taken. I started off with benign stuff just to test the waters. A pack of batteries, a mini Mag light, a pack of razor blades. All crap that I could claim I was grabbing for store use, in case I got busted. Which I wasn't. Neither was Jim and neither was Marc, who was now in on things as well. So batteries gave way to a little higher end stuff; phones (regular house phones, sorry), electronic stud finders, cordless drills, wrench sets, that sort of thing. Every Thursday it was the same thing. The three of us would gather up a handful of stuff and stack it by the front door. Then one of us would innocently ask Flipper for the door keys so we could run out to our car and [insert excuse here]. Flipper would hand them over and we'd nonchalantly disappear down the aisles, up to the front and carry an armload of loot out to our car. We'd return the keys to Flipper a few minutes later and nobody was none the wiser. Later after work, we'd head over to the Nick Tahoe's parking lot to divide up the stuff. It wasn't ever much, but it was something. And it was such a fucking rush.

But ever the perfectionist, I was constantly searching out ways to improve our little operation. And one day, Flipper inadvertently showed me how to do just that. He asked me to help him carry some broken down boxes out to the back dumpster. So he disabled the back door alarm, put his key in the lock and when that back door opened up to the blackness of the alley that ran behind the entire length of the story, I about blew a load in my pants. We walked down the four concrete steps, past the abandoned tractor trailer with two flat tires, past the stack of old pallets and over to the dumpster. All the pieces of the puzzle for the perfect heist were sitting here waiting for me. My heart raced just at the thought of what we could rail out of there.

That night, we did a test run. I grabbed something that we couldn't previously grab before due to its size, a big fucking Shop-Vac. And after forgetting my contacts case in my car, out the back door I went, ducking down under the back wheels of the trailer, leaning a dirty old pallet in front of it to block any prying eyes, and back up and in. Later after work I drove around to the back of the store and sure enough, untouched like virgin snow was my new Shop-Vac. Don't ask me what the fuck a seventeen year old was going to do with a Shop-Vac, that didn't matter. I stole it fair and square and that's all I was worried about.

And with this new avenue of egress available to us, the sky was the fucking limit. All through summer and into the fall, about the only thing we didn't get out that back door were the fucking ride on lawnmowers and that's only because they wouldn't make the stairs. We even stole CB radios and used them to coordinate grabbing the goods after the end of the shift; Jim and me in our cars each posted at one end of the alley watching for cops and Marc in his blazer grabbing the stuff behind the trailer. Chase-Pitkin had their own rent-a-cops who were supposed to be making roving patrols around the building but they were a fucking joke. Both security and management were completely clueless; Marc was even awarded Employee of the Month during the peak of things. When management finally did notice their losses piling each month, they put the power tools behind locked display cabinets, so made copies of the keys. When they built huge wooden cabinets in the back stock room to house excess stock, we just unbolted the hinges. And Flipper, bless his heart he really was a nice guy, was oblivious to it all.

It got to the point of we were actually taking orders from people. I'd have friends go 'shopping' at 5pm and hand me a list of what they wanted, and I'd deliver the goods to them at school that Friday. When I'd pull into the school parking lot before classes started, within five minutes I'd have a small crowd around the hatchback of my Ford EXP and everyone shoving money in my hands. We had life by the ass and I loved it. To us those goody-good students who worked shitty minimum wage jobs for bum paychecks, and took the bus to work and worried about buying gas, were dead. They were suckers. They had no balls. If we wanted something, we just took it.

Tomorrow: The stack of phones, the coffee pot, and cop cars in front of your house is never a good thing.

hypothesis: celine dion is fucking amazing. you are good. she is awesome she wins.

top fifteen most expensive divorces of all time - 1.7 billion. ouch.

January 09, 2007

News From Around The World.

So a mayor over in Oregon is in hot water after racy photos of her in blank lingerie have made it onto the internet. Uh, if you'll take a quick second to look at this broad, the pic is safe for work, I think you'll agree that she has nothing to be ashamed of. Her face is a little long, but this 41 year old is in better shape than most 21 year olds I see. I'm guessing this cougar is no stranger to the gym. Hubba hubba. I tried and failed to find the rest of the photos so if anyone can track down the entire set, lemme know.

The first Game Challenge of 2008! First to get you in the mood, take a look at this video of a guy hitting 194 mph on the autobahn in a BMW M6. I think if that truck hadn't gotten in the way, he'd have made it over 200. But he makes it look easy and not crashing into people is a lot harder than it looks. And I'll give you the chance to prove just what I mean as you try to beat my score of 2145 in the game of Autobahn.

If anyone has ever questioned why alcohol is the greatest invention in the histord of the world, may these photos end that debate for good. Amen.

So I'm kind of sort of maybe looking forward to Cloverfield, but I'm not entirely sure. It's either going to kick major ass, or suck major ass, I'm not sure which, but it's definitely going to fall into one of those two categories. There's some slo-mo footage of the trailer out that makes me think Godzilla fucked a tyrannasaurus rex, yielding this, but that's not necessarily the kiss of doom. Lots of potential. Lots of potential to flop, too.

Tomorrow I post about something very near and dear to my heart; how I got myself arrested for grand larceny at the tender age of seventeen. Yeah, mom and dad sure were proud. Anyway, I'm out of here... maybe I'll go listen to a little Marilyn Manson to put me in the writing mood.

the night I saw a man get his head blown off... a historical essay

January 8, 2007

Kleptomania and Karma.

As a kid I was a huge kleptomaniac. I mean huge. Huuuge. Starting around the age of ten and all through my teens, I stole anything that didn't steal me first. Nothing was safe with me around. Dungeons and Dragons dice. Cassette tapes. Radar detectors. Computer parts. Money. Books. CB radios. Shot glasses. Office supplies. Fish (yes, fish). Knives. Food. Power tools. With the exception of cars, you name it, I stole it. If it could be covered, carried or eaten, chances are I aquired at least one of them via the old Five Finger Discount. I'm not excatly proud of this fact, but hey, kids do dumb shit, right. I only confess this little tidbit of my childhood, because yesterday, karma decided it was time to start collecting on that long overdue debt.

On December 10th of last year, a scant twenty nine days ago, I decided to treat myself and splurge on a spiffy new LG Voyager. Normally fancy shit like this really doesn't catch my attention, but it made communicating with website people so much easier, I couldn't pass it up. A lot of people say this is Verizon's response to the iPhone and I don't know about all that, but I will say it's a pretty sweet little motherfucker. I also bought a six gigabyte microSD card to go along with it, so I had plenty of room for photos and music. It's money I could have spent on other things but every once in awhile it's nice to treat yourself. Anyway, blah-blah-blah, it was good.

So here we are yesterday, and I go out to dinner at one of my favorite places to eat, a little Italian place only two miles from my house. I used to be good friends with the previous owner, but he died last year of a heart attack and the restaurant was sold. And while I don't know the new owner all that well, over the past couple of years I've gotten to know most of the regular employees. But as with any restaurant they have turnover so there's always a new face. Last night I was waited on by some blonde chick I hadn't seen before, whom I shall henceforth refer to as THIEVING WHORE. After ordering (lasagna if you must know) I'm texting back and forth with Evan from Stupidnakedpeople about some website traffic. I know, kind of nerdy but when you're self employed, the world is your office. And besides, texting with your phone on vibrate is much less intrusive than yapping on the phone outright. I hate people who talk on their cellphone in restaurants. Rude fuckers. Moving on, I finish my little texting 'conversation' just as THIEVING WHORE brings out dinner. I set my phone on the booth next to me, so it would be out of the way yet I would still be able to see the screen light up if he messaged me back. Dinner comes and goes, I pay the bill, tip THIEVING WHORE well because like I said it's a local place, and head home. I pull in my driveway two minutes later, go to unload my wallet and phone and >gasp!< - no phone. Check the car, no phone. Dammit, I know where it is. I left it sitting on the booth back at the restaurant. That pisses me off because I usually keep a very close watch on my phone, because of how important it is in my day to day life. No problem, it's right up the road, so I shoot back. The restaurant was just how I left it, which is to say pretty empty. No other customers have been seated, let alone any in the booth I was at. Although I am a bit surprised at how fast the table has been cleared and reset.

I check the booth. No phone. I check under the booth. No phone. I check the two booths next to it. No phone. Look around on the ground in the pathway from the door to where I was sitting. No phone. I have the owner call my number so we can listen for the 'brrrrrr' of the vibration. He dials my phone but it immediately kicks to voicemail. I find this strikingly odd because that means the phone is turned off and I am 1000% sure it was on. Just like I'm 1000% sure I left it sitting on the booth, right in the crevice where two cushions meet. We spend another two or three minutes looking for a phone that obviously isn't there. Hell, wee even pulled out the fucking table. The entire time, the THIEVING WHORE that served us -- and cleared and reset the table -- is nowhere to be found. Everyone else has come over to enjoy the show, but not her. Okay, I'll check back tomorrow to see if it turns up, blah-blah, blah. Who knows, maybe I blacked out for a minute and carried the phone into the car with me. I know I didn't, but just for the sake of argument.

Back in the parking lot, I check where I had previously parked. Recheck the car. Drive home, recheck my driveway. Still no phone. Call it again, still turned off. Now I know what you're thinking. "Ernie if your phone fell and the battery popped out, it'd be out of service." True. But there's two things to consider. One, the Voyager is not a dainty phone. In fact, it's kind of a big motherfucker clipped into a big fucking plastic holster. If this fucking thing falls, which I did drop it once, trust me you know it. I mean one of these things hitting the ground measures on the fucking Richter scale... Tsunami warnings go out in Thailand when you drop these phones. Secondly, nobody has carpet in Florida including this restaurant. Everything is tile so nothing drops quietly. It is physically impossible to drop a phone (especially the Voyager) on either concrete or tile, and not hear it. This is just one of those things, you have to trust me when I say I did not drop the fucking phone. I left this fucking phone powered on and fully functional, nestled right in the safety of the bench seat just to the right of my ass. I can see it plain as day. And when I returned to get it five minutes later -- literally five minutes, none of this figurative five minute shit I'm talking 300 seconds -- the fucking thing was gone and turned off.

Now one might suspect that another customer might have scarfed it. Okay, except the only other customers were a pair of old people on the other side of the restaurant. Besides, I was sitting in a corner booth and with the tablecloth draping down, the phone wouldn't be visible to anyone unless you were leaning overtop of me. You can't steal what you don't know is there. So if the only way to know the phone was there is to sit in the booth (no, I didn't steal my own phone) or lean over it (say... as you're clearing a table) that narrows the field down a touch, doesn't it. And before you ask, I have no booze because of the 90 day thing, so I know me being hammered wasn't part of this whole equation.

The more I think about it, the angrier I get. I depend on this phone. I stew. Now I'm fucking livid. I drive back. I ask owner if he can bring THIEVING WHORE out, as perhaps 'she has seen it'. He does. And when she sees me, I instantly knew she took it simply because of the look on her face. It was the exact same look that adorned my face dozens of times before. It was the expression that says, "Fuck maybe I'm not going to get away with this." It's when the thief is running things over and over in their head and trying to calculate the chances of getting caught. Trying to remember if they've said or done anything that might link them to the missing goods. Their pulse quickens and the breathing grows shallow as they try to figure out which lie to tell. Trying to decide if they'll still be able to walk out with what they stole, or if they'll have to abandon it in the trash so they don't get caught. My eyes met with THIEVING WHORE's. In all of my life, never before have I experienced so much communication without using words. Her eyes told me she took it. My eyes told her I knew she took it. But both of us knew I couldn't prove it.

A guy I used to work with, Bob Tiernan once told me, "Guilty people will always try to prove themselves," and nothing could be more true. I know I did it when I stole. And THIEVING WHORE did it last night. Amidst her assurances that she was the only person to go over there, clearing and restting the table herself, so she was positive nobody could have taken it... she makes a specific note to nonchalantly pull out her (very old and beat up) cell phone as we were talking. In this way she voicelessly suggests, "now why would I take your phone, see I have one of my own." She then offers to go over and check the booth for me, even though two minutes before she watched her boss and me do just that. She then ever offers to bravely go into the men's bathroom for me, just to see if I left it in there. Very kind of you THIEVING WHORE, but I didn't use the restroom at all. Nice try. It took everything I had to not reach over and grab this little THIEVING WHORE right by her fucking throat and scream, "GIVE ME BACK MY PHONE OR I'LL SNAP YOUR FUCKING NECK!" at the top of my lungs for all to see. She didn't seem to have the phone in her apron - did I really hope to get that lucky -- she could have stashed it in any number of places to grab before she headed out at the end of her shift. I knew I was fucked before it even began. My phone is gone.

I'm sure some of you have a very difficult time understanding why I am so adamant this THIEVING WHORE stole my phone. How could I be so sure with just one look. I have no proof. I did not see her take it. You will reason perhaps it could be another employee, or maybe a customer, or hell I somehow dropped it without noticing. A dozen other explanations other than this sweet blonde haired girl of maybe nineteen years stole from me. If this is what you're thinking, my bet is you've never stolen anything before. Because as the old saying goes, it takes a thief to catch a thief. And if you've stolen such a wide variety of things I have, I can't explain it, you just know. It's as if time was turned back and the things that used to come from my mouth when I was being questioned, were now coming from hers. Each of us depending on our innocent 'who me?' look to weasel out from under the microscope. This ladies and gentlemen, was Karma at it's best. So I don't make this accusation lightly, nor would I make it if I were only 99.99% positive. But I'm not. I'm 100% positive. This THIEVING WHORE stole my phone. I would bet EHOWA on it.

So after a phonecall to Verizon, the phone is disabled and put on their naughty-list so it can't be reactivated. Thankfully I have the insurance, but I'll still have to pay the $50 to replace it. Plus another $80 for the 6Gb microSD card. Plus another $20 for the case. And even then all the photos from my trip home last week? Gone forever. So I sit here the next day wondering where my phone is right now. Is it home on her dresser, waiting for her to work up enough courage to turn it on? Did she give it to her boyfriend? Did she get spooked and throw it out with the trash and as we speak there's a nice marinara sauce congealing over my nice new touch screen? If I were to drive down there right now and rummage through their dumpster, would I find it? Would it even work? Who the fuck knows. So long LG Voyager, I hardly knew ye.

Thieving cunt.

the u.s. and mexican border. the u.s. is on the left side of the photo.

i'll see you around and around and around and around and around and around.

January 7, 2007

A Very Shitty Story.

There's an old joke that goes, "Q. Why are turds tapered at the end? A. So your asshole doesn't slam shut when you're done."

This joke came flooding back to me at a truck stop in South Carolina. You see, I was northbound on I-79 when I felt this overwhelming urge to defecate. It wasn't urgent, or "critical" as I sometimes say, but there was no telling when it would be. On one hand, who wants to shit at some redneck truck stop? And on the other, I didn't want to pass up this opportunity to use a bathroom only to get ten miles down the road and have my sphincter give way during a lane change. And so with great reluctance, I moseyed on into the bathroom stall on the end, a handicapped one because I have a wide stance, and began my business.

Normally in a situation like this, I'd lay down what I like to call The Barrier, when is when I line the toilet seat with approximately 8,192 pieces of toilet paper before allowing the tender flesh of my ass to come anywhere near it. But time was of the essence here -- when I'm on the road it's gas-and-go-baby, so having to take the time out for a bowel movement was already putting me on edge. So given my tight schedule, instead of The Barrier, I chose to implement The Hover. You know the move I'm talking about. That's where you pull your pants down and lower your asshole over the bowl, but don't actually make contact. There's a greater chance of bowl water splashing up and making your asshole pucker, but that's a small price to pay for the peace of mind knowing you're not going to catch the cooties from the toilet seat. It's a position designed for speed and is not recommended in bowel movements that require stamina, as I would soon be reminded.

So among the buzz of activity in a truck stop bathroom somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, my tiny brown starfish sat glaring at a fresh bowl of the purest h2o that South Carolina had to offer. I applied a gentle amount of pressure to get things moving and to my angst nothing seemed to be happening. A deep breath and some more stomach flexing and still, no poo. Obviously my ass was just experiencing stage fright since I was in a new place. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my bathroom at home; the white tile floor, my handheld game of Battleship, my stack of MAXIM and Car And Driver at the ready. Still nothing.

This made me very uncomfortable for two reasons. First, I had a schedule to keep and every minute I was sitting here trying to get rid of my number three extra value meal was a minute I wasn't on the road. Second, I realized that for a good two or three minutes, I was just a man standing in a truckstop with his pants around his ankles with his ass hanging out. Okay, time to get my game face on. I broke The Hover and stood up. Catch my breath. Stretch my neck from side to side a few times. Do a little jogging in place. Do a few windmills with my shoulders. "It's okay," I assured myself, "this I what I do baby, I go poo. I am a poo man. A poo monster. A poo machine. A poo god. So let's go poo now."

I again returned to The Hover and much to my relief felt something stir in my lower intestines. See, that's all I needed, a little pep talk to get things going! But again as time was short, I applied a little stomach action to get things moving. And that's when I realized that my asshole was about to stretch itself beyond its design limits. No buildup, no warning, no chance to warm up. Just right from 0 to 60. From normal one minute, to James J. Bullock the next. Something was wrong. It didn't take me wrong to realize that I was essentially about to shit a cone. Only instead of the pointy end coming out first to allow my asshole to stretch out slowly, the big round flat end wanted to take the lead. Oh dear God no... it was a breech birth.

I tried my best to control my fear and think back to all those episodes of E.R. - the emergency procedure at this point would be Dr. Green reaching his hand up into the mother's womb to turn the baby around. But I wasn't in an emergency room, I was in a truckstop. And since I noticed that the soap dispensers were almost empty when I walked in, there was no way I was going to let one of these slack jawed locals reach their unwashed hand into my asshole. No, I was on my own for this one. So now I'm stuck mid Hover, and have this terrible choice to make. It was a question of time versus damage. I could take advantage of the fact that I was already in a bathroom to allow this backwards leviathan to force its way into the world, but doing so would completely destroy my asshole in the process. Or I could abort, continue on down the road and hope that this monster turns itself around for proper delivery, but at the same time risk shitting my pants in the left lane of I-79 some twenty minutes later. What to do. What to do?

Sir Winston Churchill once said, "I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat." And I guess the deciding factor for me was I wasn't driving alone, I had another soul to think about. Surely a copilot might lose confidence in their pilot, if said pilot shit himself mid journey, right? Dammit man, I had people's lives in my hands; people counting on me! I decided to 'push' forward with the delivery and suffer the consequences like a man. I swear I could feel Churchill's hand on my shoulder as I gritted my teeth and pushed. My asshole groaned and flexed. My fingers dug into my thighs; thighs which were already burning from holding The Hover for much longer than it was ever designed to be. The pain radiating from my sphincter grew from tiny white speckles of light, to a stalwart New England lighthouse; it's bright searchlight calling in all local vessels to come deliver their cargo of pain and discomfort.

Allowing your asshole to be slowly manhandled open is one thing. But to have the blunt end of a freight train come steaming its way through without so much as a warning, is quite another. And it wasn't like I could let some of it out and then pinch it off, thus nibbling this movement down bite by bite. No, it was all or nothing right from the get go. I winced. I bit my cheek. Stars danced around the outer ring of my vision. Sweat began to bead up on my forehead. My legs trembled. My vision grew dim. And still this Thing forced my ass to stretch further and further to accommodate it. How wide was this fucking thing? Would my asshole split in half? Would I be discovered an hour later, dead on the floor, anus ripped open for the whole truckstop to see? And then, just as I was considering all these things I wanted to accomplish in this lifetime but would never have the chance to do, the punchline of the joke came to me. The searchlights of pain radiating from my ass began to quiet. There was movement now, yes I could feel it. The breech birth was almost over. I had made it through the worst of it.

Normally I would recoil when the splash of toilet bowl makes its inevitable appearance; this time I relished it. It was cleansing. Soothing. Like when you save the last few swallows of icewater to dump over the back of your head after working outside on a hot summer afternoon. Still lightheaded, reached over to the huge rolls and half expected another bolt of pain when the truckstop toilet paper made contact with my poor abused asshole. Thankfully, No such pain came as my asshole was still mercifully numb. Tiny specs of blood dotted the white paper. I was wounded, but I would survive.

The next few hours were filled with me in the drivers seat, uncomfortably shifting my weight from one ass cheek to the other as the feeling slowly came back. While the beads of seat were gone, the finger shaped bruises on my thighs would serve to remind me of the day I had a breech birth at a truckstop in South Carolina. I can guarantee you, there's no way the south shall rise again with that Thing weighing them down. Cheers!

soldier killed in iraq voiced no regrets - army major's blog was filled with humor and logic.

final post. so long major andrew olmstead, we hardly knew ye.

a sign on the door to a wounded SEAL's room at walter reed hospital

January 4, 2008

Roadtrip Version 2.0

And hey look, my cameraphone script isn't Y2K8 complaint. Have to fix that when I get back tomorrow. Ha!

January 1, 2008

Happy Motherfucking New Year!

Now, how about a Fresca? Mmmm? Mmmm? Mmmmmmm?

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