Terrible Analogies

Through a delicate, subtile combination of psychology and extreme violence, I’ve managed to wrangle the next five days off from work.  In my head I had planned out a few days of long trail runs and hill work in preparation for my attack on Mt. Whitney, but as luck would have it, it appears that one of those “storms of the century” type deals is going to start rolling into San Diego starting Friday evening, and I’m told it will linger around through at least Monday.  Great.

But at least I won’t be sitting in front of my laptop coding some abstract program, administrating Sharepoint or our Project 2007 environment, installing an iffy change control for a developer who can’t write a coherent sentence to save his life, or resurrecting a dying server that houses a database which contains the true name of God or some other business critical app.

But hey, I guess I should be grateful that I’m employed.  I mean, that’s what the news tells me, right?  In this current economy I should just acquiesce, fall on my knees, and grovel eastwards in reverence that a nameless corporation sees fit to take advantage of my talents, milking me for all I’m worth, draining me of my soul and slowly wringing out by carefully measured increments my will to live.  

And to think, I used to be such an upbeat guy…  ;-)

If it’s Friday, and you’re sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup in front of your corporate computer dreading what the day is about to wrought all over your shocked face, take comfort in the fact that I’ll be at Disneyland with the wife, eating a big stack of pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse, zipping down Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, and deftly maneuvering the claw machine at the Disney arcade in a desperate attempt to pluck a stuffed fish or teddy bear for the birthday girl Karin.  

Yes….her birthday does fall on Friday the 13th.  Heap that fact on the teetering pile of innumerable reasons why I love her.  Heh…

My wife’s birthday happens to fall on the day before Valentine’s day, which makes for a delicate gift-giving juggling act. I guess I should be thankful that her birthday doesn’t fall right before Christmas. I always thought that, as a kid, the cruelest thing that could happen to you was to have your birthday fall on the same day as Christmas. You would totally get screwed on the gifts because your parents would simply merge the two days together gypping you out of an entire days worth of presents.

At least when I was a kid the gifts were pretty cool. I remember getting an Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle, Aurora Monster Models, a Green Machine, a Speak & Spell, and a Big Trak.  Admittedly, I didn’t get many toys as a kid, but the ones that I did get were nothing short of awesome.  

As an adult I wonder what kind of toys I’ll be buying for my future kids.  Slinking through the isles of the toy stores, I found one line of products that I certainly won’t buy simply because of the high creepiness factor:

Please tell me I’m not the only one…

Go outside during a sunny day and close you left eye. Look around.

Okay, now open your left eye and close your right. Look around again.

Left.  Right.  Left.  Right. Rinse. Repeat.

Now tell me, do you notice a slight tint of blue when looking through your left eye, and a slight tint of brown when looking through your right eye?  I’ve noticed this phenomena for I don’t know how many years now, and have often wondered if I’m the only one who’s experienced it.

…Speaking of seeing things slightly askew, try to imagine the tenth dimension:

Now try to imagine the tenth dimension as being ruled entirely by kittens riding a Roomba:

I’m sure you’ve all seen David After Dentist:

Well…here’s Chad Vader After Dentist:

Seattle weather in southern California.  It’s amazing how quick (the royal) we are to complain about the rain, but when your life revolves around outdoor activities, when it rains your weekend trail running plans are completely shot to hell.  Driving becomes impossible because Californians simply can not drive in the rain.  It’s like an “idiot chemical” messes with our synapses at the slightest hint of inclement weather.  Our rods and cones get jacked up.  Electrical impulses between our brain and our appendages become interrupted and incomprehensible.  We deserve the jokes.

It’s as if we’re hardwired to do stupid.  In fact, I firmly believe that there’s a complex underground, secretive cottage industry that revolves around anticipating what stupid thing we’ll do next, then attempts to warn us not to do what we’re thinking of doing.  Like, oh….I dunno, playing in traffic, running with scissors, or lighting a camp fire and pitching a tent in a parking lot of the local dollar store.  We have to be told that this sort of activity is unacceptable.

Then you have the times where we’re too sly for our own good.  Like a monkey farking a football we’re often left scratching our heads trying to make sense of our surroundings.  For example, I wanted to give my San Marcos GNC on Auto Parkway a few hundred dollars for items I needed, but I was unsure if they were going to open back up five minutes from now, or five minutes from then…  Needless to say I simply left, unable to comprehend exactly when they intended to return, opting instead to order online from a different company.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to believe the wicked string of bad luck I had encountered within the span of a few hours.  Taking the easy way out I decided to just give up on life.  Stripping off my clothes and tossing them into the parking lot I quickly realized that I was not cut out to endure cold, windy, and wet climes whilst naked.  Hoping against hope that I would stumble across a store that specialized in togas, imagine my surprise when, in a fit of delirium brought about by exposure to the freezing elements I blindly shoved my way through the glass doors of a random store and found myself here:

Finally, my luck was turning.  Warmed again by a bolt of newly-acquired bleached, albeit scratchy material majestically bound about my glorious naked torso and cinched tight with a strand of stately golden rope, I confidently strode outdoors like a victorious god into the embrace of a dimming sun as it strained warm rays through stifling dark clouds.  My restored belief in the kindness and dignity of mankind was, alas, shot down in a ball of fiery demonic flames when I caught sight of this travesty:

I firmly believe that there’s a special place in Hades for self-important bastards like this.  Mental defects such as this “person”, who can’t park straight because they believe that the world revolves around them, deserve to be the target of divine wrath and swift holy vengeance.

I have a reoccurring dream.  This dream is to purchase a fleet of beater cars.  Obtuse, heavy, and ugly.  And with these vehicles I’d hunt down and park inches away from jerks like this.  I’d park one on each side of these jokers, making it impossible for offenders of common decency, such as this individual, to get into their cars.  And I’d sit there, in my royal robes and sun-god smile, and laugh.  I’d point with a sharp, judgmental finger, and laugh.

…And so, this is how I spent fours hours of my life this past Saturday.  Ya know….just in case you were curious.

A friend of mine called me up late Saturday evening and invited me to the Del Mar gun show early Sunday morning.  I’ve never been to a gun show, and so on my one day off this week I got up at the ungodly hour of 9am, slammed down a bowl of Trix, jumped into my car and met the guys at the Del Mar Racetrack.  It was only after we were forced to navigate our way though a maze of San Diego p.d.’s finest did I think that this was going to be no ordinary outing.

Everywhere, signs warned that the selling of guns without a license was illegal, boldly claiming that undercover police would be tempting random patrons into participating in illicit weapons transactions, and those seduced would then be punished to the fullest extent of the law.  And, under no exceptions, would photography be allowed on the trading room floor.

This, my friends, was a survivalist’s heaven.  Never before had I seen so many crewcuts, handle-bar mustaches, ex-military, and white supremacists gathered together in one location in my life.  This was the equivalent to a comic book convention for the heavily armed set.

Everywhere I turned I was surrounded by desperate looking, large-gutted, out of shape antagonists of every shade on the hunt for cheap firearms and swift, sharp cutting implements.  Intermingling with the armed hardcore civilian populace were narrow-eyed moonlighting law enforcement officers listening intently to their in-ear coms for any signs of verboten activity.

Inside, the hanger was humid with the stink of good citizens desperate to take full advantage of our second amendment.  Money in sweaty, fleshy hands was eagerly traded away for second hand Beretta Storms, Remington Express 12 gauge shotguns, and imported Volkstrum rifles.  They languished under unwieldy palates of fresh ammunition, blowguns, and atlatl spears.  Straining from the weight of their purchases and their own heavy frames, this ragged army of loyal Americans,  tejido country singers, and shadowy figures from indeterminate countries of origins trudged though the rain-soaked parking lot with their deadly munitions in tow, hoping to live though whatever unavoidable in-country skirmish was, in their minds, brewing on the eventual horizon.

As for me, I was happy to escape this spastic showcase of American freedom with my individualistic soul in tact, angling my way towards the exit with not but a 2.5 million volt stun gun in hand.  This bad boy sounds so positively evil that any home intruder would beat feet out their nearest point of entry in hopes of avoiding an encounter with the business end of such a beastly device.

The entrance to the American dream, complete with an NRA booth.

Shooting from the hip to avoid the heavy security and their "no cameras" policy

My new Cheetah taser gun in action, making a sickening noise.