Irritable Male Syndrome

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Forgive me father, it's been over two weeks since my last blogfession.

And dad? Can you tell mom to get off my back for not calling? Just because I don't return her calls doesn't mean I've died a horrible drunken death(but it does sound rather romantic, huh?), it just means I know she'll ask me to clean her computer mouse for her again, and it's about time she learns to do that by herself. That's what she gets for not going optical. And having an ashtray for a mousepad.

Begin rambly-pambly bullshit.

To drown out the inane chatter of my coworkers, I have two options during my work day; put on my headphones and listen to music, or jam toilet paper balls so far into my ear canals that I have smell the ghost of Mr. Whipple in my nasal cavity.

As appealing as the latter may be, I'd rather listen to music. I'm so different, such a refreshing breath of fresh air, that I could probably fart lilacs if I tried hard enough. And I'm consistently and without fail redundant.

But there's still a problem with that. Since I'm totally against buying those new-fangled compact discs, and my off-brand MP3 player has a battery life akin to that of the staying power of a 19 year old, my only option is to listen to internet radio. All two stations that are able spooge through our company firewall.

I just listened Relient K "rock out", followed by New Found Glory "ripping shit up". Hellogoodbye is currently raping my ears--in a less than ideal way-- and threating to make my penis turn into an innie.

Still, it's better than the jejune office cacophony, even if it does threaten my manhood.


Fuck you, perspective. Honestly, balls deep, right in the ass.

For the past week or so I've been battling a severe (read: mild) case of achy back. (Not to be confused with acne back). The pain comes and goes--or ebbs and flows, if you swing like that--but it's definitely worse when I'm sitting at my desk, or in my car. It starts on the left side of my lower back, makes a beef jerky and Jolt pit-stop in my left ass cheek, then continues down the highway of nerves in my left leg.

If I sit just so it's barely even noticeable. I'm sure it's nothing more than years worth of bad posture and poor sleeping position--on my stomach, arms and legs akimbo, like a swastika-- coming back to fuck with me, but that doesn't mean I've not done my fair share of bitching about it. I've referenced getting a backyotomy more than once, and I'm sure the girlfriend has done all that she can to refrain from telling me to put a stitch in my gash, God bless her little heart.

But after last night, I highly doubt I'll be bitching much more about my relative problems.

While sitting at my 2nd job with Rachel, I was mentally debating that the reason behind an obese America is because people valet their cars(it's amazing how jaded one can get while doing nothing more than parking cars for money, it really is), when we got our first car of the night. The guy couldn't have been more than 40 years old, thin, a little graying near the temples, but he definitely wasn't what one would considered healthy. The cane, that he had to lift his left leg out of the car to plant it on the ground, and that it took him 5 minutes to get to the front door all drive that point home.

We didn't know what he was suffering from, and we weren't drunk enough to ask*, but whatever it was, it made him downright miserable. But he still smiled when he pulled up, and again when we brought his car around.

And it made me want to kick myself in the balls for prickishly lacking any of perspective in regards to my back ache. Pansy.

As my mom would say "There are children starving in Africa..."


* That reminds me of a story about my buddy, Jon. One night we were all out at the bar(back when that was the cool thing to do--8 years ago), and we came across a group of girls, one of which that had an upper arm that was much, much thinner than the other.

Jon, being ever-so-smooth, (and drunk, not that I had to tell you that) pointed to her from across our group to get her attention, pointed to his arm and made the "your arm, it's so teeny" gesture with his thumb and forefinger. I've never seen an entire group of girls get so disgusted, so quickly, and this coming from a guy that knows a thing or two about turning women off.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that he found out that she'd had cancer in that arm a few years back, and not because the anorexia had aggresively whittled the muscle away to nothing, like he'd previously suspected.

Friday, July 13, 2007

Last night on the way to my soccer game, I got a call from my mom. She told that there had been a process server at her place earlier in the day, looking for me. You know, serving me papers because I'm such a huge deadbeat dad/criminal/harmer of other people's property. I knew immediately why they were there, though. (But let's not talk about why they tried to serve them to me at an address I haven't lived at for 14 years, or why the very professional process server let my mom partially read the papers. The words "severe emotional anguish" were included.)

4 years ago I was involved in a small accident outside of my apartment. I was parked and planned to u-turn and head south to drop off a friend at her car that we left at the bar the previous night(but didn't find out until right after the accident that her car was parked two up from mine. Whoops!).

The street I lived on was super quiet, and for some reason I didn't even think to look over my shoulder to see what might be coming. I just didn't think there would be anyone coming.

My car was two feet into the u-turn, when my left front bumper collided with an engaged couple in a Jeep Cherokee traveling north. Collided is such a strong word, though. I didn't get far enough out in the street for him to collide with me. His front right tire popped, and my bumper left a scrape mark down the right side of his vehicle. There wasn't even a dent if I remember correctly, just that scrape. I was able to reattach my bumper with a swift kick and some spit.

We spent the next 1/2 hour on the phone with both of our insurance providers(I think he had Geico, too), filed a police report, changed their tire(he even helped), and they were on their way, probably to try to con some other unexpecting shlub out of their hard-earned money.

Since that time, I'd occasionally get a call from the lady at Geico handling my case, saying that the couple was still making claims from the accident for injuries, but that they were taking care of it. Oh come the fuck on! There was absolutely no way they had any injuries. Well, unless they had brittle eggshell bones(covered by paper mache skin), of course. Other than that, they were absolutely fine.

I'm not a tough guy by any stretch of the imagination, but for crying out loud, rub some dirt in it, people, and stop bothering me with your enormous gashy-ness. My accident wasn't the cause of whatever problems you claim to be ailing from.

Then why am I being hunted down by a process server? Because Geico refuses to pay what they're requesting. They know a hustle when they see one.

Get this; The lady has been to the chiropractor 113 times since, and to a back specialist about 30 times. She had an MRI, which came back negative. She probably told the MRI Tech to do it again, because that's what a-holes do. She was asking for $40,000 in medical bills and "damages". Geico offered $4,000 and she didn't take that offer.

The man, well, there was a lapse of 18 months in his treatment, and he just recently filed another claim, stating my accident as the cause. Not sure what condition(s) he had that decided to take a year and a half siesta, but I'm not a doctor, either. I consulted a doctor friend, he told me that the guy likely suffers from assholery.

Anyhow, he was asking for $13,000, Geico offered him $1,000 basically to get him to go away. He refused that, too. So now they're coming after me, obviously because I'm big pimpin' here in the city, because I have so much money that I can just throw it towards some swishy, lawsuit-happy couple that are too lazy to make money by, oh I don't know, working at a job. Or earning it. That's crazy talk, I know.

When I got off the phone with my mom, I was pissed. Justifiably so, too. I mean, here are two people that I know are lying, and they're trying to cheat me out of money. It's one thing when they're nickel and dime-ing a huge corporation, but me? The seat belt in my car is broken; how would I be able to afford this? How in the hell would I be able to afford a lawyer? Where would I even find a lawyer? And am I going to have to take a day off of work to sit in a courtroom with these people? Is a cockpunch a felony or a misdemeanor?

I'm a little calmer this morning after getting off the phone with someone at Geico. She told me-- not in these exact terms, but close--that they're pretty much going down flailing, hoping the hit something on the way down. Geico doesn't believe their outrageous claims, so now they're coming after me. But, if that poor process server (that drove 40 miles out of the city to an address I lived at in high school. Idiot) finally catches up with me, my insurance company will deal with it. Lawyer and court fees are covered by my premium, so that's good. I'm safe here.

Bu why do people do shit like this? Why does it seem to be de rigeur to blame somebody other than ourselves for our own problems. For all I know, these people do have legitimate health problems, but they definitely weren't caused by me. It's probably all due to their fat-ass laziness, but what do I know? It's also very possible that they have no health issues whatsoever, but they saw an opportunity to pounce on what they thought was a wealthy person, or one with wealthy parents(the house I lived at was a $600k+ house in a wealthy neighborhood, but I rented a 3rd floor apartment with two other guys) and ran with it.

Whatever their deal is, it still amazes me that people like them do a) attempt something like this, b)that someone just like them will get away with it. Pisses me off a little, too.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Hi there.

Can any of you lawyers out there provide me with some advice? It seems that somebody is trying to serve me papers(they tried to serve them to my parent's place, where I haven't lived for 13 years) from a 4 year-old accident, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do next. There's no way I'm paying this ass for his "great emotional stress", when all that happened was that my left front quarter popped his right front tire and left a small scrape down the right side of his Jeep Cherokee.

(If you haven't guessed, this fucker has been milking my insurance for the last 4 years, that capped, and now he's trying to go after me for bullshit injuries and, yes, "great emotional stress"

Complete and utter bullshit.

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Tuesday, July 10, 2007

This is one of the few recent color pictures of me...

This is one of the few recent color pictures of me where I don't look 9 kinds of retarded. Here I'm only a 5th level retard, though, which is something I'll take whenever I can.

This picture was take at Kenwood Park on the 4th, and there's a rumor that I was drinking a 3.2 Miller Lite, but those liars need to shut the fuck up and mind their own bees wax. (It was 3.2 Leinenkugel's Original and that was, like, a whole hour earlier, thank you very much)

Sigh. That's the abv limit the park department allows, which is pretty stupid considering that a full alcohol Lite is only 4.2 abv. But, we didn't want to have to pay an open container ticket should a prick of a park police officer happen upon our little shindig and decide that we were getting a little too crazy with our bocce ball, our eating of thoroughly and safely cooked meat products, and our lack of concern for the well-being of all 11 other people in the enormous park by not using our inside voices. Yes, I hang out with a bunch of party manimals.

One question before I go on; has anyone suffered from the "3.2 flu"? Is it a real thing, or are people just making it up? I ask because I felt fine the next day. Granted, I did take one of the biggest dumps of my adult life on the 5th(there was one when I was 2 that my mom still talks about to this day, that's how massive it was. Not that I remember it, I was only 2. I claim infantile amnesia), but I wouldn't necessarily call it a bad thing. In fact, that's just cool.

(You see, the great thing about that last paragraph is that you don't know if I'm giving slightly too much information, or if I'm just making shit up, literally.)

We'd originally planned on having a little picnic at Thomas Lowry(aka Seven Pools Park) up behind the Walker, but that was quickly nixed when we couldn't find anywhere to pee. True, there was always the man-made pools, but the sign clearly said "No Wading", and I usually heed a sign's advice over nature's calling. It also explains all my urinary tract infections, too.

If you'll notice for just one second, the shirt is clearly misspelled. It should say "Amsterdamn!", as in, "Damn, look at my chest in that shirt!". You'll also notice that I tend to buy my shirts in the Target boys department, but I'm not made of money, damn it, and sometimes you just have to make due with whatever $6.99 will buy. In this case, it's a medium.

Granted, my chest looks, well, like I'd just finished lifting, which I had(but it's not like that makes any difference), but would it kill me do some calve exercise every now and then? For fuck's sake. Or is it "For fucks sake."? I never know this type of shit. Regardless, for fucketh saketh, my legs are scrawny.

There was a time that I took a lot of pictures, but now? Not at all. I find my 2 year old camera cumbersome, and it's a pain in the ass to lug around with me wherever I go. Sure, I'll carry it around in my man-purse--errrr, backpack-- but taking it out and snapping pictures, that's a different story. And it's just slightly too big to fit in my pocket.

That last paragraph doesn't belong in this post.

I don't work this Friday night, and Molly is going to NYC (NYC? Get a rope.) which means that I am a free--yes, free!--man. But only for one night. When she gets back, I'm sure she'll put the kibosh on anything related to fun from here until Jesus comes back from the dead. Again.

Anyhow, my plan is to hit up the Macy's Day of Music at Peavey Plaza for The Hopefuls(whom I've never seen before, even though I've planned on going to each and every one of their last 15 shows, only to have the plans fall through every fucking time. Now that I say that, it'll rain, just you watch), maybe even stroll down to the festival formerly known as the Hennepin Ave Block Party. I don't know. Anything is possible for a free man in Minneapolis, right?

And by anything, I mean that I'll probably get super loaded during happy hour with Dawn, then drunkenly plod my way back to my apartment to sleep it off. At 9:15pm. Completely forgetting to see The Hopefuls yet again.