Someone Buy This Lady a Beer...

"We have received your request to license footage on Dimebag Darrell Abbott for your upcoming production of, "25 Most Chilling Hollywood Murders."

While we realize the average E! audience most likely has the IQ of an umbrella, they collectively are a smarter bunch than the lot of you. Your programming creativity falls somewhere to the bottom of the middle at best, and that's saying a lot.

I ask that you all please take a moment from your busy days and close your eyes. Live out the fantasy of playing your favorite instrument onstage. Your closest friends in the world surround you, either in the band or in your crew. From one side of the stage, a man approaches. Thinking he's a security guy or a drunk fan who¹s just a bit out a line, you continue to perform. Two seconds later, he lifts his arms, aims a rifle at your brother, your best friend, your buddy and blows his brains out, not three feet from where you are. In the nanosecond it takes you to comprehend the magnitude of what just happened, he does it again ...and again ...and again ...and again ...and again ...and again before taking aim and murdering additional members of your extended family as well as fans that have come to see you play. Two of your crew are shot but survive, but of course, will never be the same gain.

Now imagine it's a few years later and you turn on the TV set. Just in case you may be having at least a five minute respite from that scene that plays over and over in your head, just in case .....you flip through the channels and there it is. Again. Only with some two bit actor who thinks this is his big Hollywood break.

And please, if you don't like that scenario, make believe it¹s your child who got his brains splattered all over a stage in Ohio. And then you turn on E! Oh, the magic of television!

In case none of this appears clear enough and you need a definitive answer to your request...no. The answer if no, and on behalf of everyone that was there that night and everyone that misses him every day, you can take that no and shove it up your collective asses.

And, for your second request, yes, you can quote me on that.

Sincerely,
Jane Hoffman"

Sound of Silence...

Was checking out Wonko's Corner today and chuckled quite a bit. I listed a few other times when I do not care to be talked to, but decided to reprint my response here as well...

Times not to talk to me:

* While in the restroom.

Not to be crass by listing this, but nothing ticks me off (or frightens me) more than conversations that begin during the most private of situations. Do your business and leave. If at home, whatever important discussion that someone would like to have with me CAN indeed wait just a few minutes until my business is completed.

* While I'm heavily involved in cooking or a project.

I cannot emphasize enough how much "multi-tasking" has been a detriment to many avenues in my life. It's bad enough that I'm having to devote 20% of my attention to the pasta, 25% to the chicken, 15% to the sauce, 20% to the baking of bread, 15% to cleaning utensils and preparing the table for dinner & 5% to keeping the ravenous golden retriever at bay (she doesn't eat until after I do, hoping for a few crumbs to fall her way), without having to listen to mindless chatter that would be better left being shared during the meal when I can devote a higher percentage of attention.

Also, unless the conversation is in reference to the project that I am working on, bother me not. I have enough concentration issues as it is without having to stop what I'm doing, listen to blathering, respond to said blathering, and then try to figure out where I was in the first place.

* When I'm talking to someone else.

Wait your gorram turn, Chatty. Unless I'm on fire, you're having a heart attack, or a giant meteorite is about to pulverize me (so that I have time to run about screaming, naturally I do appreciate that kind of interruption), it can wait.

If it is a matter of national importance, please use the proper protocol to interrupt. For example, "Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt..." works wonders, especially when utilized during an appropriate pause in conversation.

* If you require something done, yet are too lazy to either do it yourself or are seemingly unable to use polite words like, "please" and "thank you."

I am not your personal porter. I can understand if you have had a tough day and just need a favor or two. Within reason.

By using "please" and "thank you," I am more likely to assist you with a more cheerful disposition than I otherwise would. I'm bossed around all day as it is by people who don't have to say "please" or "thank you" merely because they sign my paychecks.

That means that when I'm not at work, I am a human being, worthy of being treated as an equal, not as your personal butler/maid/cook. Using polite language is appreciated by myself, especially since I live in a society that has replaced such words with more unkind ones like "NOW!" and "Get me."

My mom had a knack for having sudden catastrophic hearing loss whenever we'd forget to say 'please' and 'thank you.' Must be genetic because I seem to suffer from the same affliction.

No One Is Blinder Than He Who Will Not See...

The other day, I was stopped by a man who asked me for money.

It's a common occurance that happens in cities across the country. I usually am stopped by no less than four people a week and their stories are almost always variations on the same theme.

Down on their luck vet, car broke down, lost their job and/or their way. It usually starts with a "warm open" sales pitch of sorts, where the person attempts to set the mark at ease with a friendly introduction of themselves followed by an observation of the weather or they will notice something about the mark or the mark's car that will elicit a compliment of sorts.

The goal is to set the mark at ease, possibly engage them in some brief chitchat before delivering the pitch. Sometimes, the person will show their ID card or driver's license because everyone knows that credentials always set someone's mind at ease, right?

"Hey, I'm just a guy like you. See? I have a driver's license. I just fell on hard times, you see and..."

This guy followed the formula and if it was any other day, I may have tossed him a little coin. I'm not a big believer in karma, but I don't mind giving a little just in case someone actually does need the help.

Today, however, I didn't have any cash. Not one penny, nickel or dime. It depressed me beyond belief to realize that the guy who was asking me for change probably had more in his pocket than I did in my bank account.

This morning, I was flat broke.

Beans Are An Excellent Source of Protein...

So, the Texas Governor walks into work the other day...

No, I'm being serious, he actually did. Ramblin' Rick Perry himself. The big cheese of the second biggest state in the Union, which deserves a "HA! HA!" graphic of it's own since no matter how big the sense of state pride gets in this state, Texas will always be number two in size.

Texas has an interesting governmental system, mostly due to the fact that the Lt. Governor actually wields greater power in his/her role of President of the Senate than does the Governor him/herself, with a few notable exceptions. The state legislature only meets for 140 days every other year, unless called into special session by the Governor, so it is safe to assume that the Governor does indeed have some downtime if he wants it.

The thing about Perry is that he likes to blend in with The People whenever he can. Since Austin is the state capitol, it is not unusual for the Gov to be spotted from time to time eating a burger or tearing ass around the Hill Country on his motorcycle.

I didn't believe that he was in the building when one of my co-workers charged into my office and announced his presence but sure enough, there he was talking with another of my co-workers. I stood there and kept watch, attempting to pick up any bits of conversation to no avail.

Finally, his business concluded and he made his way towards the exit. He shook a few of our hands with the customary farewells that he had probably uttered a couple hundred thousand times during his career, "good to see ya!" and "nice to meet ya!"

I didn't realize it at first after he shook my hand, but my hands subconsciously moved into the pose of the Buddy Christ (a curious gesture that I had adopted after watching the Kevin Smith movie, Dogma, earlier in the week) and my mouth uttered the phrase, "see ya later, Guvnah!" It was strange to reply in that fashion, like we went bowling last week or something.

It would be the equivalent of unleashing a mighty fajita-burrito-fueled fart in the presence of royalty, but I don't really care. The man's been recently pushing a major regional toll road project that I'm not at all happy about, so I can fart if I want to.

Not that he noticed. He was pretty much out the door at that point. My co-workers did notice and have been chuckling over it for the past few days. Overall, it was a rather odd experience that was capped off by having to go back and edit some guy's wedding footage and finish transferring some 8mm film that was in a box titled "Muffins Of Doom."

I can't say that my job lacks randomness.

I am August, Destroyer of Worlds...

Hail and well met, fair reader!

Hark now to the tale of the Unprepared Heathen and the Line of Devastation...

The journey to the supermarket was much like any other had been in the past. A list of necessary provisions was written, containing everything that a bachelor and his faithful canine sidekick would need. From the selection of meat to dog food to the ever important suitcase of beer, I loaded the cart with a speed not witnessed in many a day.

After all, the grocery store is a place of commerce that does not rank high on my personal list of entertaining things to do after work. Navigating through the throngs of families, blue-haired grandmothers and the odd assortment of people who go shopping in their pajamas - at seven o'clock in the evening.

Still, the grocery store is a necessary evil. One cannot live on Arby's alone, at least that's what they tell me at McDonalds.

I surged ahead through the aisles, chucking food items and other merchandise into the cart's gaping maw. As I rounded the last corner I reviewed the list one last time. Woe to me if I had forgotten anything and had to make another trip.

Meat? Check.
Rice? Check.
Pasta? Dr. Pepper? Frozen Pizzas? Check, check and check.

My next task was to choose a line. From my experience, the shorter lines are usually short for a very good reason.

Usually a short line means a slow cashier or that the person at the head of the line is a troublemaker. Troublemakers mean waits for the customer service manager. Troublemakers mean coupons or screaming children who are beyond pissed because Mom or Dad failed to buy them the candy or treat of their choice.

Frankly, who could blame the parents? It's not like the kid deserves it by behaving like a total jackass. Let them eat apples, I say.

But I digress.

I passed checkout line after checkout line, much like a snipe hunter stalking his quarry. Whichever line I chose was bound to take a long time and while my search may once again prove fruitless I would at least be comforted by the fact that I had tried.

I chose a line that only had two people in it. The customer at the front was finishing their transaction, which was a good sign. The customer right before me was a youngish guy, with brownish hair stuffed beneath a hat that had a silhouette of a lounging girl. The kind of lounging girl that reminded me of some of the mudflaps that I've seen on several eighteen wheelers.

Most young guys, especially those who are the type to wear silhouettes of lounging females, usually don't put up much of a fuss at the grocery store. The number one goal of such guys was to get in and out of there as quickly and with as little fuss as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, this was not one of these guys.

I stared blankly at the rows and rows of chewing gum as the cashier uttered a friendly word of greeting. The guy muttered an unintelligible reply and began to stare closely at the register's monitor as the cashier began to drag items across the barcode scanner.

Eggs *beep*
Bacon *beep*
Toilet Paper *beep*
Condoms *beep*
Swiffer Pads *beep*

"Now wait just a minute!" he protested suddenly, "those things were only $4.95 a box over there, not $4.99!"

I looked over briefly at the guy to see if what was going on was what I thought it was and quickly lost interest as I began to seethe in silence. 'Shit, here we go,' I thought to myself as I returned to staring at the assortment of candy and gum, 'another time-consuming haggle over $0.04. Fantastic.'

The cashier cleared her throat slightly. "You sure, sir?" she asked, with a look of discomfort on her face. That was odd. Usually you didn't see cashiers get a look of discomfort on their faces whenever a customer disputes the scanned price. Usually, they adopt a look of polite loathing.

Then I looked up to see what item that the fuss was about. It may be just me but usually one tends to be a little more discrete about purchasing "protection." Needless to say, I was floored at the guy's rather cavalier attitude. One usually looked away or adopted an innocent look on ones' face as the box of Trojans slides across the conveyor belt, not to go on an all-out hissy fit over $0.04.

The guy set his jaw in a stern look that had a vague resemblance to someone who had just eaten a rather large stick that was bound to eventually lodge itself firmly inside their arse.

"Yeah, I'm quite sure, maaaa'mm" he replied gruffly, sarcastically stretching out the honorific for effect, "I bought the same box for the four cents cheaper yesterday."

Well, I was impressed. Impressed at how much of a jackass that this particular jackass was. 'Just pay the four cents and leave, dude,' I prayed to myself. I felt sorry for whatever girl saddled up with this star.

On second thought, he probably just bought them because he was a psychotic clown murderer at night. That thought frightened me, so I directed my pity towards the cashier who was obviously not impressed.

"Whatever," she muttered as she punched the keypad, deducting the four cents. Her hands seemed to have doubled in speed, flying across the scanner as quickly as she grabbed another item. She wanted this guy out of her line as quickly as possible.

She flipped her hair and glared at the guy. "That'll be $140.38, sir," she said flatly, all business now.

"Oh, wait, I've got coupons!" he chirruped as he jammed his hand in his right pocket and produced a thick wad of ragged coupons from within. 'Of course you do,' I sighed quietly as I shook my head slightly in disgust.

Another few minutes passed as the cashier silently scanned her way through the pile. By this time, the line behind us had grown by another four people. I suffered in silence as the neighboring lines moved along with speedy precision. I had all the luck.

"WAIT!" he protested, "I thought that coupon was 'buy two get one free' on those pot pies!"

An audible sigh came from behind me as the other customers began to grow restless. We would all benefit if this guy was suddenly whisked away by a band of trained ninjas. If only the grocery chains of the world would employ such personnel for times just like these.

The cashier began to sort through the pile before pulling the coupon out that was in question. "No, sir, the coupon only says one dollar off any pot pie. See?"

She passed the coupon over for inspection. The guy studied it as if it were an ancient text of cultural significance. "Yep, you're right. My bad."

The cashier finished the pile and stabbed the 'enter' key on her keypad. "That'll be $136.59," she said flatly.

"Oh, wait! I need a book of stamps!" he growled, "and a pack of Marlboro Reds, if you've got any."

She retrieved the cigarettes and stamps and scanned them as well. "$146.23," was all she said as she stabbed the 'enter' key a little more aggressively than before.

The guy fished in his pocket again. He was looking for something and couldn't find it. He mashed his hands into his other pockets, also without success. "Um," he sighed, "I left my checkbook in the car."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" spat a rather annoyed voice from behind me. Good to know I wasn't the only one considering violence at this point.

"I'll be back in a minute, I swear!" he barked as he began to sprint towards the door, "it's in the car!"

We stood in silence. The cashier offered us a look that said, "Sorry, but you see what I have to put up with?"

She glanced at the time again. At precisely one minute, she turned to me and grinned devilishly, "Well, a minute has come and gone. He swore he'd be back in a minute and, well, he didn't keep his promise now did he?"

"I find no fault with that logic," I grinned back, "for someone as precise as that you'd think he'd be a little more timely."

A few muted chuckles rose from the rest of the line. She casually moved his purchases to the side and began to scan mine as quickly as she could. What had taken the guy ahead of me a total of twelve minutes only took me three.

As I loaded up my car, I could see that the guy had returned and was apparently not amused. I could see through the window that he was informing the manager that it would be a cold day in Hell before he ever shopped at THIS store again.

Ah, if only that was true.