Thursday, July 13

Better Than You. (Post #400 - Part IV.)

Post #400 - Part IV.

In honor of the CDP's 400th post, here's yet another batch of quote goodness.

(Part IV contains quotes collected from February 2006 to March 2006.)

On the first day of February in 1982, I was born in Neenah, Wisconsin, to a mother of an undetermined age and ethnicity. I was raised by this mother, along with an equally mysterious father, for the remainder of the 80's. – February 2006

From your 21st year until your departure from this earth, you are free to drive, drink, smoke, vote and watch pornography with a stripper, all at the same time. While I have not experienced all of these joys in one fell swoop, most of my friends will tell you that it's far more interesting in theory. – February 2006

Don't you appreciate all the things that I do for you? Countless hours of free entertainment, up to 6 days a week, with limited filler? I ask for nothing in return but a kind word and harmless comment section banter, and yet you betray me. I will not forget this. – February 2006

Today's post is more of a 'Post Loaf,' consisting of real post parts, but not necessarily considered an actual post. Enjoy. – February 2006

I was leafing through the law library at my place of employment, and I saw a book entitled ‘Fire Protection Handbook.’ This book was hardcover and about 1000 pages thick. Honestly, how long can you talk about water? Do we really need 1000 pages on how to put out a fire? The only way this makes sense to me is if the book were actually made of water, or the book could be used to beat the flames into submission. Maybe the font is really huge; I didn't bother to check. – February 2006

I watched the State of the Union speech on Tuesday. Like many of you, I was screaming at the television with a beer in my hand for the better part of an hour, cringing and cursing the majority of the 2004 voting public. – February 2006

The Superbowl XL halftime festivities were an abomination as always, but I think we've come to expect that in this post-nippular world. – February 2006

How Low Can You Go? - This will be a game show that pits two contestants against each other. An awful task is put on a big board (ex. push an elderly woman down a flight of stairs, hit a kitten with a Mack truck), and the players will take turns betting and undercutting each other with the lowest price they would do it for. This is not only a social experiment into the human mind, but a good excuse to make bad people do bad things. FOX will jump at this in a heartbeat. – February 2006

On any given morning before 8am, I’m so tired I can barely walk to the phone to call in sick, and you two have already consummated your love twice. You have got to be kidding me. You're like the sexual version of the Marines. – February 2006

Speaking frankly, you are very loud people. I’ve never seen you and I don’t know what you look like, but you’re both probably huge. I image that you’re both a shade over 7 feet tall, weigh a combined metric ton and are genetically attracted to beds with rusty springs. – February 2006

Looking back just to the start of 2006, I've laid down over 30 good-sized posts in a little under 40 days. Not only is that a huge amount of life-changing, hilarious and absolutely free entertainment, it also equals a lot of time and effort on my part. I put a lot into this page, strictly because I like to write and be creative and current. Luckily for me, it doesn't keep me from my hobbies, because it encompasses everything that occupies my spare time regardless, with the exception of killing the homeless and grifting the blind. – February 2006

It was December of 1999. The electric buzz of the 21st century was tingling the private areas of every red-blooded American. President Clinton was still leading the nation through a time of amazing prosperity, surplus, and an abundance of neon fanny packs and jogging suits. The song '1999,' by an up-and-coming artist known as 'Prince' was rocketing up the charts and uniting people of all races and creeds on the dance floor. It was a magical time to be alive, and if you weren't yet alive for it, chances are that you're unable to read anything I've just written. – February 2006

I was 17 years old, full of wide-eyed wonder and Surge soda. – February 2006

Luckily for me, the Missus showed up and set me straight. She washed my hair, tore my braces off and wiped the crust out of my eyes. She threw a tiny shirt on my back and indie frames on my green eyes. Without her gentle nudging and almost tyrannical standards, I'd still be a turd. I really dodged a bullet, there. – February 2006

For most of my life, people have told me I should do stand-up comedy. This is due in part to the fact that not only am I good looking, but also insanely funny. So funny, in fact, that I should be allowed to talk into a microphone on an illuminated stage, thus proving that my jokes are more important and thought out than yours. It's the only real way to separate the contenders from the pretenders. I'm pretty pale, however, so when those stage lights hit me, I disappear completely from sight. To those in attendance, it would look as if a radiant, heavenly glow was standing behind a microphone, talking at length about airplane food and fanny packs.– February 2006

I'm about as productive as Duke in a 'don't suck' contest. – February 2006

A lot of couples try to get pregnant right after the wedding, as a way to instantly ruin their lives in one fell swoop. – February 2006

I love sub sandwiches about as much as legally possible. Believe me, the law is not flexible on these things. – February 2006

Every single time I walk into a Subway, I'm instantly reminded of why I should never go there again, and feel like I'm about to be shot in the back of the head. – February 2006

That's another thing I can't stand about Subway. The 'Sandwich Artist' buttons those employees have to wear. It's not an art form to put edible things in between bread for the purpose of consumption. Besides, I have never been handed a sub that made me want to place it behind a velvet rope for viewing. At least, not one from Subway. – February 2006

It is at this point where she wraps my sandwich up in paper, but realizes that she put way too much lettuce in it to close properly. Instead of rectifying the situation, she just flattens the sandwich temporarily and wraps it up as quickly as possible, essentially spring-loading the damn thing to surprise me later. When I take it back to the office to enjoy, I notice that the sub package is all but vibrating with pressure, waiting to explode all over me. All it takes is for me to put a slight tear into the side of the paper for the entire sandwich to come sproinging out like a worm-filled can of novelty peanuts. Lettuce and mayo covers my important documents and newspaper. Thanks, Subway. – February 2006

Former inmates make good sandwiches because they don't want to go back to jail. They put far more pride into their work than teenagers, and understand efficiency and assembly-line ethic from their prison and factory experience. They were tailor-made to make sandwiches for a living. – February 2006

The Sandwich Artist then pulls a bottle of mayo from the holster in his side-pocket, twirls it three times and splorts it liberally onto my Garlic Herb bread before twirling it again and placing it back in its chamber. It's usually at this point when I place a dollar or two in the tip jar. It's worth it, because I didn't just get a sub, I got a show! – February 2006

If you're just catching up on the ongoing, wide-awake nightmare that is my loud neighbors, let me get you all squared away. I have neighbors who like to get loud in the bedroom, and I don't mean by playing Scattergories, yo. Exceedingly loud. FAA citation loud. – February 2006

Wisconsin is for lovers. Lovers of cheese, scotch and fireworks mainly, but lovers of all kinds are welcome. Your money spends the same regardless, and our taxes are quite reasonable. – February 2006

I always forget to take pictures of my food, as I'm usually too busy sneaking large handfuls of it into the Missus' purse. – February 2006

Instead of instantly walking out like I wanted to, I slowly nodded and became damp in the pant area. – February 2006

It's a love/hate relationship; much like the one I have with Ryan Seacrest. – February 2006

I bought nothing at the Gap, because their pants suck and they never have anything nice in a small but t-shirts that I already own. They need an original idea, or at least do better at the one they've been milking all this time. I can't believe how gay I sound right now. – February 2006

A Truffle store, to me, is much like what a porn store is to most other men. I walk around, looking shady and amazed at the new products and arrivals. "Wow, they've got them in Peanut Butter now? Can they do that?" – February 2006

I decided to do something very kind for myself and pick up a new watch. The one I've been wearing for the past year and a half has treated me well, but my left wrist was in the mood for a change in style. Besides, I bought my right wrist a DVD player for Christmas, and I didn't want them thinking I played favorites. – February 2006

Smart, smart, smart-ity smart-smart. Smarty, smarty smattie-smittie. Shimma-shamma whoppa-doo. – March 2006

I consider myself to be a lot like Rambo. He makes decent split-second decisions, lets his fists do the talking when he's too hung over to think, and has killed literally thousands of Viet Cong. Watching First Blood is like looking into a slightly less muscular mirror. – March 2006

I'm only telling you all of this should I be arrested and sent to trial. Anything that happens to the neighbors from this point forward will be hereby considered temporary insanity. In fact, I'm the only thing standing between them and my wife's boot in both their asses. They should be thanking me constantly for my patience and resolve, and having unnecessarily loud sex in my name and honor. My wife wanted to settle this with a brutal double-murder weeks ago. – March 2006

The mere thought of being recorded while intimate would cause most folks to shut down faster than a Vespa with a gas tank full of Go-Gurt. In reality, that lack of sexual shame is the only edge that Scott Stapp has over me. – March 2006

Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's take all the joys of High School clique' life, deplorable mall culture, terrible grammar and punctuation, sluts, man-whores, crappy bands, jackasses and loners, and throw them all into a big online popularity contest, where they can slug it out and stay irrelevant for eternity. – March 2006

I keep a web page because I like to write, not because I want to stay in touch with people I stopped calling on purpose. – March 2006

Most every MySpace page I've seen is like a house I never want to go back to again. Unfriendly, disgusting, ugly and void of all intelligent and humorous conversation. It's like when you went over to your friend's house when you were younger, and there were spiders and cockroaches everywhere, and their family liked to eat cereal for dinner in their underwear. That's someone I'm scratching out of the address book. – March 2006

The only reason to have any friends whatsoever is for profit. I only keep people around nowadays if they donate to my charitable organization, or buy me dinner and Cosmopolitans. Everyone else can go straight to hell. – March 2006

MySpace is a direct representation of those who inhabit and frequent it. Cookie-cutter, shapeless lumps of tired fashion and dried-up rhetoric. It's so unoriginal, NBC just signed it to a 3-season deal. – March 2006

Sometimes after taking in an hour or two of American Idol, I need to watch a viral video of a guy being shot in the pants with paintballs just to reaffirm my masculinity. – March 2006

Katharine McPhee, if you're reading this, I have a degree in music, recording and sound engineering. If you don't win, look me up and I can make things happen for you. I have some new songs that would be perfect for you, or at least the crude likeness of you that I fashioned out of tin foil and hair. – March 2006

As you can probably imagine by looking at photos or recklessly fantasizing, I smell great. – March 2006

While I don't recommend attempting to turn good female friends into possible mating partners, sometimes you just gotta go for it, and let the Old Spice do all the heavy lifting. – March 2006

Me and Margaret talked about school and whatnot, getting closer with each break in the conversation. My braces and oily T-zone glistened off of the floodlights as I pulled out every joke and 1970's celebrity impression I could think of. At the exact same time I made my move to hold her hand, the almost toxic scent of Old Spice wafted into her nostrils like an unleashed chemical weapon. I could tell she was investigating what the odor was, and it was only a matter of time before she became drunk off the fumes and passed out into my lap, begging me to take her to the backseat of her mom's Chrysler LeBaron. – March 2006

Off came the giant plaid shirt, down came the painted-on pants. There I stood, in front of Margaret and about 500 of my new best friends, making sure everyone knew that I could handle rejection and teenage defeat with amazing bravado and charm. Bare feet freezing to the bleachers, my nipples rock-hard and blue with frost, I made a stand. – March 2006

For all the 'facets' that Roger seems to have, something tells me that they all end up the same way. Sweating through yet another jumpsuit in the dressing room of a smoky disco, cutting up a rock of coke so big I could set my television on it. – March 2006

Something tells me that 'By Request Only' means his set list consists of about half a song before he's quickly escorted back to his customized barstool, where he's fed vodka tonics for the remainder of the night. Then at 2am, he'll stumble back into the ballroom, fart into the mike and fall off the stage. - March 2006

I was stumbling around well before 6pm. Each trip back to the bar got me closer and closer to realizing my dream of seeing someone fall in the pool, although the person in question would have been me. – March 2006

Watching all these middle-aged folks dance, sway and make fools of themselves moved me. At first, I was annoyed. After all, I didn't pay to watch them stand on chairs and scream 'Ringo!' over and over. Then it started to make sense to me. This is how normal people have fun, and I had to respect that, even if it didn't agree with me. I looked around and saw a lot of people doing a lot of different things, wearing ugly clothes and drinking ugly beer, but everyone was happy. If I wanted to sulk and piss my night away, I certainly could have (I've done it many times before), but a lot of things made sense to me at that point. Beatles music and, to a far greater extent, alcohol, are the great uniters, and for three hours it mattered not what you were on the other side of the ballroom door. That's neat to me. – March 2006

We had to actually drive to the next city over just to find a place to eat. Worse still, it was an Applebee's. I'd rather eat drywall. – March 2006

Maybe I'm getting older. Maybe I'm an idiot; I don't know. It's probably the company I keep. Frankly, I could go to a kick-me-in-the-balls-with-a-steel-toe-boot convention and have a good time as long as the Missus is around. – March 2006

I'll be honest with you; lay it all out on the table for my loyal and wonderful readers. When the sketch of the Hatch Map popped up on the blast door, I whizzed myself. Not a little bit, either. A full-out, balls-to-the-wall, Great Flood whiz of epic proportions. There wasn't a dry seat on the couch. – March 2006

Sound off in the comments section, and praise me for creating 400 little slices of joy.

TOMORROW: POST #400 - PART V.

Comments:
For the record, I was the greatest Sandwich Artist to ever walk this earth. I am the Alpha and the Omega of Sandwich Artists. They truly should have retired that title when I hung up my visor and apron for the last time back in 1999.
 
I'd have to see it to believe it. I demand a sandwich artist battle royale.
 
I really respect the art of making a mean sandwich, and it's good to see that you took so much pride in it.

I felt the same way about bagging things when I used to work at a hardware store. Sure, we were each probably making six bucks an hour, but they couldn't take away our pride!

(cue triumphant music.)
 
The true Sandwich artist creates not for his own joy, but for the joy they bring to others. (and bragging rights)
Seriously, I make much better sandwiches for my friends than I ever would for myself. Something about when they bite into it and you can see in their face that they like it. Their eye brows shoot up in surprise and delight, quite involuntary, and you think tro yourself "You weren't expecting bean sprouts and the gournet mustard I bought at the farm stand were you buddy! Yes, there are 11 grains in that bread, slightly toasted? you bet! Chew it and feel inferior YEAH!" Then you can bask in their praise and go about your afternoon a little bit taller.
 
Maybe it's just me, but I have a certain fondness for my Sandwich Artist rolling their eyes at me as I indecisively make my order and then smashing my bread angrily as they stuff my sub into a bag. I guess that's just me, though. Reminds me of making dinner for my hubby.
 
That's a good point, BluStaCon (and welcome back, by the way). On the rare occasion I prepare food for others, I'll toil much more than I ever would on myself. There's a huge sense of pride when it comes to food. It's really one of the better ways to judge someone, if such a thing exists.

For the record, I love and enjoy everything the Missus cooks for me. Yup.
 
My wife has always said salads taste better when someone else makes them. It stands to reason the same goes for sandwiches.
 
You're wife is right. I'm never happy with things that I make for myself, but when I'm making them for someone else, I know I have to get serious.

It's such an important part of how people judge you. Have you ever been invited to a friend's house for dinner, and they make something horrid? What do you do?

That is the single worst moment in the life of a human being.
 

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