Author Archives: hvtresckow
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
For decades, hell, for centuries adults have uttered the same phrase over and over again. For the Greeks it was Εκείνοι δεκάρα παιδιά κάθαρμα! For the Vikings it went a little like Þeir sem fjandinn börn fantur! The Germans, the planet’s nation of Hallmark card poets gutturally spitting out their words use the phrase Jene verdammten Bastardkinder! We English speakers just say: Those damn bastard kids!
I hated it when “old” people told me to do shit. “Don’t run.” “Don’t play in the street.” “Don’t smash a land line telephone junction box.” And my favorite, “Don’t gouge obscene messages on someone’s car,” even though you assumed it was a gesture of trust and understanding.
But, then I grew older. I’ve matured. More or less. OK, I still think it’s hilarious when I shove someone’s [read: Ren] camera into a mini bar fridge and lock it. I still giggle like a 5-year-old when I watch Adult Swim. And, as you read this, my latest mission in life is to see a movie about a supernatural, mass murdering tire.
A complete and utter conspiracy that this movie wasn’t even nominated for that piece of shit farce that is the Academy Awards. It’s because Robert the Tire is black, isn’t it? Fucking racists.
But, I am fully aware that in the eyes of the US federal government that I’m an adult. I’ve got a mortgage, car payment, gym membership, and all that good shit grown ups have to shell out money for in order to sit comfortably with society. Hell, even if you wanted to start your own militia in the middle of Montana somewhere you would still have to cover your initial expenses. You work hard to set up a state-of-the-art security fence with sensor flood lights and barbwire. That bunker isn’t going to dig itself. Next thing you know, some jackass is going to charge you $50 a gallon to haul all the necessary armor and collapsible guard towers to your Bartertown that will surely be a feature story on CNN one day (if you play it right).
Apartment or estate, condo or compound in the middle of Idaho; there is one common denominator. Everyone is protective over what they have. Stuff breaks. Sometimes it’s shit that can wait a few years until it REALLY has to be fixed or replaced (screen doors, toilet seats, starter motor). Other times it’s shit that needs to be repaired ASAP. We’ve worked hard on our hovels and already have two strikes against us. With all the snow storms, heat waves, floods, and Yeti attacks, the last thing any of us needs is to have some snot nosed little bastard breaking our shit, because he’s bored.
One fine morning in the Tresckow home (read: way too fucking early) I was woken up out of my normal drunken stupor after a night of mixing whiskey and vanilla extract. Apparently, our kitchen window was broken. OK. Fine. I’ll do something Roode never does and take a deep breath. I won’t jump to the worst conclusion. There was one hell of a windstorm the night before. Shit was flying everywhere.
It was completely reasonable that the wind from hell slammed something into our window just so Mother Nature could have a good laugh. Suck a dick, Mother Nature. I had hope that was the case and I wouldn’t have to start hating so early in the morning. I mean, if I start hating before 10 AM I get burned out by 3. It throws me off kilter. But, I should have known better.
I went outside to find the branch or squirrel, or whatever that the wind sent smashing into our window. My plan was to set it on fire and damn it to hell. Sifting around through the rubble of broken glass and morning sleep, I saw it there. Staring at me. Mocking me. It was a big ass rock. Not just any rock. It was a throw’in rock.
Let me clue you in on some of the mouth-breathing fucktarded children that roam around the neighborhood. They do not deserve to exist. They walk in the middle of the street, laugh at on-coming cars (surely 2 tons of SUV can’t hurt them), and break shit when they’re bored. You know those big boxes Verizon uses to carry land phone lines and the internet? Those shit grinning dicks demolish them on a weekly basis. Writing racial epithets on the side of someone’s house? We’ve got that too. Throwing rocks through car windows? We fucking have that! In fact, the first week we moved into this little paradise, one of those snot flinging dipshits broke the rear window of our truck. And, before you smartasses say something about my winning personality being a magnet for rocks, keep in mind that we were in the house for less than THREE DAYS when this happened. Trust me, three days isn’t enough time for the Inner Tresckow to shine. Mother f’in Theresa could have just moved in. Those shit stains didn’t know either way.
I know what you’re thinking. No, I don’t live in downtown Beirut or somewhere along the Gaza Strip. It’s your average neighborhood filled with a mixture of hard-working people, retirees, assclowns, and bored groups of free-range children. These ape shits wander around the neighborhood like it’s their job. Their parents don’t seem to give a shit. Ma and Pa are nowhere to be found when little Jimmy is taking a nap in the middle of the street or when Leroy is playing a rousing game of “dump the trash cans.” Nice parental guidance, cornholes. Prepare for the day when the only time you get to talk to your delinquent is through a sheet of plexiglass while he’s sporting an orange jumper.
The rock still sit there. I’m not sure why. Maybe as a reminder that the next generation is full of assholes. Maybe I’ll use it as a weapon. It’s quite possible that I’m too lazy to pick it up. If I knew how Voo Doo worked, I’d stick it with pins or something on the off-chance the jackass who threw it end up in blinding, mind crippling pain.
It’s not just the damage to the window that put chocolate pudding in my trousers. It’s the fact that I had to call all God’s creation to report it. I’m not paying for this shit. You have to call your homeowner’s association, insurance company, the police… Oh, yeah. The police. Maybe, if they applied themselves and really worked hard, they could give even less of a shit. Here’s a hint that the police have no interest in your little vandalism problem: they take your report over the phone. You don’t know what the hell is really happening on the other end. For all I know, the desk jockey was washing his taint while occasionally saying, “Uh-huh.”
I, suppose, the lesson I learned is that today’s kids can roam free and do whatever they want without any consequences. And, I’m still not allowed to shoot them. How is this fair?
Lest we forget:
FWTC Amnesia Lane: A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday
P.S. We are obliged to publish Ren’s emergency article in case we don’t see her again after this year’s Saint Patrick Day’s shenanigans.
Step in the way-back machine for this classic that actually tells you more about us than it does about the Weather Channel.
I’m in debt just like the vast majority of Americans. Unlike a lot of people, I don’t pay attention when the government tells me to spend more in order to improve the US economy. Spending more means I’ll have to deepen my already chin-high shit pool of credit card debt. It’s the difference between getting kicked in the balls when you’re awake and getting kicked in the balls while you’re asleep.
After trying the “ignore it and see if it goes away” approach with my bills, I decided I should probably pay them. Being that I’ve been unemployed for over a year (Whooo hooo! Economy!) that’s easier said than done. So, I did what any other red-blooded American with a family and a stint in the poor house looking him in the face would do; I cashed in my retirement. Who cares about the future when you can’t feed yourself now, right? Who gives a shit? That’s something for Future Tresckow to worry about. Present Tresckow wants to stop eating saltines and shoe leather.
I’ve unleashed a Blitzkrieg of bill payments when I took money away from Future Tresckow. I carpet bombed the ever-loving shit out of those credit card bastards. Hell, some of those balances went right down to zero. Fuck you, whitey! Wow. Where did that come from? Can a whitey say “fuck you, whitey” and not sound completely fuck-stupid? Probably not.
Things went according to plan, for the most part. The only weird backlash was when one of my creditors rewarded me with paying off my balance with a severely reduced credit limit. So, let me get this straight: teeter on the brink of maxing out my credit card balance for three years and they don’t say word one. Pay off the balance and they react by slashing my credit limit like Jack the Ripper (which, I guess, makes me a British prostitute). Yeah, that sounds completely logical.
But, I’m not here to bitch about that. It sort of makes sense, if you think about it. Without a “Charlie Sheen high” balance, the money-grubbing fuckers can’t nickel and dime me with interest. Fine. Eat me you Ebeneezer Scrooge motherfuckers. I plan on wiping my ass with your credit card and sending it back in. Have fun with that handful of e-coli and resentment. But, I digress. What really chapped my ass is the outright fatwah one service provider issued for being short-changed 48 cents. Yes, 48 cents. $0.48. We’re not even talking about enough to buy a soda here.
Look, it isn’t the fact that I don’t want to pay the 48 cents. I do. I have that much in my pocket right now. I think I can scrounge 48 pennies around the house. I could even go so far as to use a 5¢ check to pay them their 48 cents. Paying the balance isn’t the issue here. Going after me like I committed a Hans Gruber-esq heist is.
A totally unprecedented campaign is being waged against your truly to get the owed 48% of a dollar. The first time I got a nasty gram I felt embarrassed. How could I have underpaid a bill by 48 cents? Damn, I’m bad at math. OK, I’ll put the bill in the pile and send them their money.
The second time I got a nasty gram I was a little confused. Surely, they recognized the irony of sending me two bills for 48¢ when US postage stamps cost 44¢ each. Shit, they’re 40¢ in the hole now. Maybe what was starting to move me from embarrassed to slightly annoyed is that both notices came within the same week. Two days apart.
I was quickly making the transfer from feeling stupid to getting pissed off. The rational part of me said to just pay the 48 cents and get it over with. The sooner it’s paid the sooner these people will shut their cake holes. But, the irrational and petty part of me (which is substantially larger than the rational part) said, “NO!” These assclowns were crossing the line. Two fucking bills for 48-shit eating-cents in the same week is ridiculous. I’ve owed hundreds before and haven’t been hunted down like this. For fuck’s sake, my student loans don’t give me this much shit. Still, it would just make more sense to take a deep breath, down a shot of whiskey, and send them a check. A check for 48¢. I even toyed with the idea of driving to their office and tossing two quarters on the counter and walking away. The point is, even at this point, I still felt obligated to pay my outstanding balance of 48-bullshit-cents.
Before the week ended, I received a THIRD bill for the same 48¢! A third! In the same goddamned week! These sweaty taints were now 84 cents in the hole pursuing their 48¢. Does this amount really require three shit-eating nasty grams in one week? Will my 48¢ make or break their business? Holy shit, will my 48¢ cost someone their job? What the hell is wrong with you people?!
Now, any semblance or rational thinking has been put in a headlock and strangled by my ever-growing irrational side. I know, in reality, I have a bill to pay. 48¢ or not, a bill is a bill. But, my God in heaven, three friggin bills in one week all worded like I raped every one of their daughters and took a dump on their sons’ faces. This shit is too much. I’ve had it! Now, I’m going out of my way NOT to pay this bill. Or, at the very least, not to pay until it costs the company an absurd amount of cash to collect their 48¢. I have had enough! No one is in a hurry when they owe me money. I’m still waiting for my cut of a class action lawsuit that ended four years ago!
It’s on now! I’ll see you in hell for your 48¢!
As we’ve pointed out before, Hell’s Kitchen has become, to us, a necessary evil. I stated watching since season 4. I don’t remember why. Some combination of being drunk, bored, and… well, that’s really it.
Whatever the case, I was drawn in. Maybe, it’s because I enjoy seeing dumbasses getting their chocolate chutes stuffed with Gordon Ramsey‘s shoe. Maybe, it’s because of the occasional cute female contestant.
One thing I’ve noticed, over the seasons, is that there are a few enduring contestant personality types. No matter how many seasons the show has aired, these fuckers don’t learn. It’s like they go on the show without ever have actually seeing it. I’m not even sure how that shit is possible. Doesn’t it make sense to do a little research on the company that’s about to interview you? You want to know everything there is to know; especially who their ideal candidate is. Above all, you don’t want to make the same mistakes previous applicants have made. But, fuck that. If you’re going to crash and burn, do it Hindenburg style.
The Over Confident Douche
Confidence is important in many avenues of life. It shows that you know what you’re doing and, at least, have half of your shit under control. However, when you don’t have any of your shit under control, it’s down right ridiculous. If you consistently and constantly fuck up there is no reason to be full of yourself. OK, I’ll concede that (most of) the chefs wouldn’t be on the show if they at least didn’t know their ass from a stock pot. Even so, their ass-chappingly outrageous hubris smothers their talents like a fat man on a scooter.
One second they’re on the “confessional” cam talking up their mad skills and referring to themselves with bat-shit retarded nicknames (See: K-Greese from season 2 above). Sure, they have the world by the balls, until it’s go time. Then see how fast they go from “I can rock this shit!” to crying in the fetal position.
The Pretentious Asshat
Over confidence is one thing. Being an outright fuck-tastic asshole about your skills is another. Fine, you’re a good chef. Maybe you’re even one of the best ones in the contestant pool. Stop being a condescending bastard about it. Take the chuckle head above, Benjamin from season 7. This guy ended up with a god complex Bill Gates would envy. When not belittling the skills and ideas of others, the little turd actually tried to usurp control from sous chef, Scott. That’s sort of like making a grab for R. Lee Ermy’s bullhorn.
The other thing that irked the piss out of me was his incessant use of the word, “Oui.” Fucking say YES like every other human being in LA! That, alone, justifies a colonoscopy with a rusty pipe.
The Clueless Wonder
As good old Bonnie from season 2 shows us, Hell’s Kitchen is chocked full of clueless dipshits. They wander around from station to station in the kitchen with a perpetual “Huh?” look stamped to their faces. These people can’t tell time, remember what they’re cooking, and consistently confuse Chef Ramsey with someone who gives an ape shit.
Think back to high school (assuming you graduated/attended). If you’ve ever taken a science class with a lab assignment there’s a good chance you were saddled with a clusterfuck partner with a perma-duh expression. Maybe YOU were that kid. Hey, I’m not judging here. In any case, these dopes are less than dead weight. In the event of a nuclear attack, we can cram ourselves into their thick skulls to stave off radiation.
Oh, and there is NO way I’m not mentioning the waste of precious oxygen and space, Lacey from season 5. The pant load shuffled from station to station, hoping no one would notice that everything she did turned into a steaming pile of suck.
The Delusional Dipshit
This dillhole refuses to accept reality. No matter how many times they get a verbal beatdown or a vocal raping, they honestly believe that Chef Ramsey wouldn’t have done so if he didn’t “see potential.” OK, so you set fire to the kitchen, accidentally ground Ramsey’s dog into pate, and took a dump on the fish station. You’re only getting yelled at, because he BELIEVES IN YOU!
“Chef Ramsey wouldn’t take the time to read me the riot act, call me a donkey, then throw my raw fish in the air where he proceeded to shoot it like a clay duck with a .45 pistol he conveniently on him, because I’m a walking fuck nut. I KNOW he see something in me. He wouldn’t have shot my raw fish if he didn’t care.”
While we’re at it, let’s kick over a few corpses and look at each season’s clusterfuck who has destroyed everything he’s touched. I’m talking; everything was raw, except for the things that were SUPPOSED to be. He sneaks undercooked meat into the microwave with fingers crossed to fool the chefs into thinking it came out of the oven that way. Oh, my personal favorite, absolutely knowing what he’s doing is wrong but attempts to make some sort of Vegas casino Harry Blackstone shit to slide his monstrosity across the hot plate. Then, during their confessional sessions, they tell the audience how he rocked the service or challenge. He’s going to be the winner hands down! Christ, people! You fuckers as supposed to be chefs. The third time you bring a piece of meat to the hot plate, still cold and horrifyingly under cooked you need to get the fuck out of Hell’s Kitchen and never walk into any kitchen again. March straight to a doctor and get tested for autism or cholera or something. There has to be a physical reason for that much stupid.
This fucker is a combination of the delusional dipshit and pretentious asshat. On one hand, he knows he’s a cooking abortionist. On the other, their ego won’t allow them to admit it. So, in order to succeed, this slap happy fart knocker has to throw a monkey wrench or two into the works.
This joker has thrown so many people under the bus he might as well be charged with serial homicide. It’s not just that he Bill Clintons his way around the rules, it’s that this sick bastard actually gloats about it on camera. Hey, numb nuts, you think you’re super cleaver, right? Has it ever occurred to you that Chef Ramsey could be watching the dailies of the show recording?
The Near Dead
For the love of all that is holy, if your ass can’t walk up a flight of stairs without needing to camp out midway and finish the trip the next day DON’T FUCKING WORK ON A REALITY SHOW! Hell’s Kitchen has been a sad parade of the morbidly obese, infirmed, and plaque ridden. Many a season has had a contestant that needed to go to the emergency room for some sort of debilitating issue. Robert had to drop out of the finals in season 5, because he was two steps away from a full on heart explosion. In season 6, this portly summabitch almost passed out when peddling some sort of bicycle contraption. Season 2’s Larry didn’t even make it to the first dinner service before his ass was bounced to the hospital.
Don’t get me started on Tom from season 5. This hapless turd had to have come from 15th century England, because he had a constant and inexplicable case of sweating sickness. Let’s just say he put a little bit of himself in every meal.
*Side note: Being sweaty is perfectly forgivable in certain cases.
This sexless wonder-tard unleashes a never-ending barrage of sexist comments, but doesn’t understand why women think he’s a pig. Take Jason up there from season 4; this whiny, snail-like, Humpty Dumpty motherfucker had enough problems cooking Spam and not shitting on the floor. The sexism is really the only quality the series could showcase. Take a look for yourself to see this train wreck of a ball sack at the 1:55 mark.
In an effort not to be a one hit wonder, Tom from season 5 joined the “I hate bitches” train. Sweaty got all pissy when he was chosen to be on Virginia’s team in the finale. But, what did he care? That handsome son-of-a-gun could get any woman he wanted.
Finally, we’re at the most entertaining, albeit banana sandwich nuts, Hell’s Kitchen personality. Whether this window licker is talking to the voices in his head, getting into a karate fight with imaginary friends, or just plain losing his shit one thing is clear– they’re all making sandwiches without bread.
Let’s take Matt from Season 4. There were more than a few times when it was completely conceivable this fucker could have gone completely ballistic and wore someone’s pancreas as a hat.
In, not surprisingly, his last appearance as a contestant, this simple bastard started what can only be described as a nuclear grade meltdown. Check the video, below. At the 3:07 mark he starts smacking himself on the head and whimpering. Not crazy enough? At 3:39 he makes an oh so subtle death threat to Christina. NO? You fuckers want blood. Alright, how about at 3:05 mark where he can be seen going through a range of pants-shitting emotions, all of them insane?
Then, there’s Raj from the current season (8). It became quite evident after his third karate fight with the refrigerator that he was destined for the laughing academy.
But, the elite of the giggling shit-flingers is most definitely Joseph from season 7. This chuckle head went through too many obstacle courses without a helmet. Not only does he seem completely incapable of answering a question without going completely John Rambo, he decides that this whole Hell’s Kitchen thing is bullshit. It’s time for motherfuckers to throw down!
Hey, I’m all about throwing a dash of UFC into Hell’s Kitchen. That’s appointment TV! But, Joey comes off as a slightly retarded steroid popper. This whole scene was so goofy-stupid, yet enthralling. I’m still not sure it wasn’t completely rigged.
As long as this damn show is on, I’ll watch. It’s a long spiral to hell. I don’t want to watch it. I’m an educated man. I know better. But, it’s like a traffic accident on the interstate; no matter how gruesome it is, I simply cannot look away.
I’m just going to come right out and say it. I am out of work. Got a problem with that? Conservatives would say I’m just too lazy and spoiled by unemployment. Liberals would say I can’t fend for myself. I say eat shit.
Roode alluded to this situation late last year. The difference is that Roode found a position that allows him to carry firearms and wield the law as his own, personal nightstick. You got it right, he’s a guard at one of the many strip clubs in Western Montana.
As “Chief Editor/Head Writer,” this whole situation is particularly aggravating. I am supposed to set the standard for the FWTC writing staff. You know, lead by example and shit. Sorry, I had problems keeping a straight face on that one. As long as Ren is on staff, I could live in a cardboard box while eating day old donuts slamming Thunderbird and I would STILL be the normal one.
Personally, I abhore the welfare state. I hate the nanny state, too. There are some horrific ham-fisted deals going on behind the scenes (if Cracked.com can be believed). Too many people take advantage of the system and take what they didn’t earn. But, I can’t bring down my household because of my ideals. Besides, it’s insurance. I paid for it. Fuck if I’m not going to use it. Still, getting less than half your old salary is a nutshot to the ego and severely limits your ability to buy and stockpile weapons for a Red Dawn-esq scenario..
But, your state’s department of labor is there to help you! Help you feel worse, I mean. What? Does your state actually help without inducing mind shattering shit-pissed rage? Then, you’re living in a fantasy land! Name one thing that government involvement has streamlined? The department of motor vehicles? Building permits? Highway construction? How about paperwork to eliminate the need for paperwork? It’s pretty much a given that government intervention designed to make your life “easier” is about as useful as an overflowing toilet without the charm.
Earlier this month, our president signed the unemployment extension legislation into law (I’m not here to debate that, because I really don’t care what you think). OK, great. It doesn’t look like it really impacts me. But, what the hell? Every little bit helps. Every state took the extension and ran with it. Not only were there thousands of thousands of people already in the system that had to refile, there were thousands that needed to file for the first time. Something this serious and complicated needs to be thought out. A proper plan needs to be drawn up so the state can wade through the throngs of citizens who were career raped. So, LET’S SQUEEZE IT ALL INTO ONE WEEK! It’s a raffle. Everyone gets their ticket and has to show up on their designated day. It’s sort of like jury duty, but less organized.
So, I did what I was told. I need, at least, some income. Christ knows this website doesn’t pay dick and I’m not pretty enough to whore the streets. I stupidly figured that the state had a plan. Come on, with that many people in the system, they surely had some sort of efficient process in place. It was as efficient as carrying water in a bottomless bucket. I decided that I needed to play this well. It’s like Christmas shopping on Black Friday. Get there before the doors open and you’re golden. WRONG! The 400 people before me had the same idea. There was a line leading all the way to the parking lot and little shanty towns set up under the trees. Fine, whatever. I’ll wait in the waiting area that smells like the steerage section on a 19th century steamer. I was number 88. They were on number 40. It’s not ideal, but it’s doable.
What the staff failed to tell me and everybody else, is that they ran out of tickets. They had to break into new rolls to have enough for the ever-growing crowd. So, there were blue tickets, green tickets, pink tickets, yellow tickets… it was a rainbow of pain. That’s the sort of thing you want to keep a secret. Instead of being number 88, I was 388 (pink ticket 88). That number 40 on the little display screen? Well, that was another color. There were roughly 348 pissed off people in front of me. Good times!
True to form, every chair had a sweaty ass in it. So, I stood. I’m a big boy. Sometimes you just have to stand. There were four staff members on duty attempting to process 500 people by 4:30. I’m no math wizard, but something about that shit doesn’t add up. Especially if you consider they were only processing less than 26 people an hour. Good thinking state bureaucrats!
After about two hours of this shit, I decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I did some quick math and figured that I could leave, go back to my house, eat lunch, watch some Futurama, and be back roughly two hours later and my number still wouldn’t have been called. By the time I returned, the crack staff at the Department of Labor should have gotten through enough mouth breathers to close the gap. Why, I bet I’ll be back with 20 people still in front of me. Weighing the odds and tired of standing in a strangely un-air conditioned building (it was only 98 degrees that day. That’s window opening weather) I beat cheeks like BP dodging real blame.
My plan was perfect. I laughed to myself as I pictured all those suckers in the state run cattle car. I’m the smart one! The amount of time I had to spend with a room full of “colorful” people from around the state was drastically reduced. I’m a fucking genius! I drive back to bureaucratic hell a little more energized. I’ve been gone almost two hours. They had to have made some serious progress during my absence.
Somehow, they seemed to have gone BACKWARDS while I was out. There were still over 100 people in front of me. How is that possible? Oh, right. They reduced the amount of staff on duty. It seemed like the right thing to do. It’s not like you need more than a few people to process a few hundred sweaty, annoyed, and smelly applicants.
At least this time around I found a chair. Hoo-hah! I get to sit down. Now, do you really think it would be that easy or painless? Not only do I have the worst luck with airline seating, my ass chaping misfortune seems to extend to seats of all kinds. To my right: an impossibly fat man that smelled like spoiled milk. To my left: an extra from the Road Warrior. In the middle of that mess was me, trying like hell not to physically touch either ass clown. I sucked in my extremities and got into what can only be described as a sitting fetal position.
What’s a long line leading to the mouth of hell without some dill weed throwing a monkey wrench in the gears? It never fails, whether in line for the movies or in the bank, there is ALWAYS someone who has to argue with the ticket monkey behind the counter. There we are, a shit ton of people waiting for our glorious turn. Then the brakes slam and the car comes to a screeching halt.
Following the rules the state sets for unemployment paperwork doesn’t require a rocket scientist, believe me. Literally, it’s:
- Fill out form
- Wait in line for as long as it takes for the earth to make one revolution around the sun
- Show your driver’s license and social security card (or something official with your name and the ssn on it)
- Say “yes” to a bunch of questions.
But, noooooooo! An old fiber muncher was having a debate with one of the clerks. I was close enough t o hear what was going on (so much for privacy). The hag was quibbling over something that was written in black and white in front of her friggin eyes! You know the type of person that just doesn’t get what you’re saying no matter how many different ways you try to explain it? This crone was the queen of that tribe of retards. It took three clerks to tell her that she needed her social security card. Not satisfied, the blue hair demanded to ask for the person in charge. So, not only was this jackhole tying up FOUR clerks, she wanted to sit there and argue with a fifth. The crowd behind her started to collect pitchforks and torches to get this bitch out of the way.
As the clocked wound down and the staff slogged through the numbers, all I could do was send SOS messages through my cell. I normally keep to myself in situations like these. I don’t want to talk to people and I sure as hell don’t want people starting random conversations with me. Just because we’re waiting in the same line doesn’t mean we’re buddies. Unfortunately, not everyone shares my cardinal rule. The fat bastard to the right of me was yucking it up with an old bitty behind him. It was like being a fly on the wall in a retirement home. Ceaseless discussions on how the “new” generation doesn’t work as hard as they did and their baseless feeling of entitlement. I wasn’t quite sure which generation they were talking about. Both were old enough to be referring to the baby boomers, gen x, gen y, and whatever the hell the subsequent generations are called. I managed to suppress my urge to slap both of them across the face, Three Stooges style. I’m not saying I totally disagree with what they were saying (every generation has their group of whiny little bitches). I had an issue with something else coming out of the rotund dude’s mouth.
Each stale word he pushed out of his mouth was accompanied by new levels of ass breath. At first, I wasn’t sure what the hell it was. Did someone leave a sandwich in the sun? Did a dog take a dump in the waiting room? Wait a minute, the putrid odor gets stronger whenever this dude speaks. Son-of-a-bitch! Really? Who’s messing with me? The smell was a cross between spoiled milk and dog ass. How couldn’t he know? This shit made my eyes water. I’ve been near paper plants with more pleasant smells. Good Christ, pop a Mentos!
As the funeral procession of the damned waned on, they were slowly getting closer to my number. I was hot, sweaty, and pissed off about the carnival of errors unfolding before my very eyes. Twenty numbers away from mine, I got up stand by the counter. I wanted to be ready to spring into action as soon as they called sweet number 88. Some people gave up over the course of the day and left. At this point, they were sailing through numbers, skipping over the no shows.
A new crop of fucktards populated the waiting area. As soon as I saw the douche wearing a wife beater, I KNEW he was going to fuck something up. With the captivating scent of Marlboro and Wild Turkey, he stood there jawing with another member of God’s forsaken. He was loud. He was smelly. He was a dick. His voice boomed throughout the room, obscuring the voices of the clerks. Number 85 rolled around. This was it! I’m three numbers away from ending this bullshit. 85 was no where to be found. Neither was 86. Well, wife beater douche thought it was hilarious that the clerks were skipping numbers. So, in the classiest of styles, he started shouting out the next numbers. For no fucking reason. He was so loud and obnoxious, he drowned out numbers being called by the clerks and proceeded to yell out, “87, 88, 89!” The problem was that either the clerks weren’t paying attention or they we confused by this tool bag. Whatever it was, those assholes picked up where he left off and started from 90. Wait? What the hell!? They skipped my fucking number completely!
To this day, I’m surprised I didn’t completely lose my shit. I went to the chick handing out the forms and told her what happened. The security guard reassured me and said he would take care of it. Why the security guard was involved in the first place, I don’t know. He was the only employee there that actually gave a shit. The man actually handed water out to people earlier. Somehow, the state hadn’t crushed his soul.
So, there I was, waiting. Again. At least I knew I was next. There was an opening at the counter and the guard waved me to it. OK, great. Finally, someone was helpful. he told me to sit tight and the clerk would be right there. Oh she was right there, alright. Right there and bitchy.
With the eye of Satan and the attitude of a state worker on crack, she asked me what I was doing there. I told her my sob story about being skipped. Oh no, that wasn’t good enough. She couldn’t believe that such a thing happened. I must not have been paying attention. I’m the asshole. Who said I could sit in front of her desk, anyway? She has important papers there. I could have rooted through them and stolen social security numbers. This shit was really happening?
Trying to be the good guy, I explained myself for a fourth time. I told her the guard sat me here and told me to stay. Oh, that unleashed a shit storm of cataclysmic proportions. She then launched into this tirade about how the guard isn’t in charge. He doesn’t call the shots. Who does he think he is? Why would I do what he said? This turbo-bitch was on a Sherman’s March to the Sea type roll.
To show me who was REALLY in charge, she called the guard over and gave him a load of demeaning shit. This took five minutes. Five pain filled minutes. For a person who goes all out not to be noticed, this was hell for me. This shit was drawing attention. After the spirited debate [read: pissing contest], the security guard won a hollow victory. I say hollow, because she was mumbling about putting him in his place. Being that I was involved in the guard’s insubordination, I quickly became the focal point of her wet pants pissiness.
I waited in line (more or less) for seven hours, braved harsh odors, and sweaty numbnuts just to be cock blocked at the very end. The only way I can describe this is by using the phrase, “paperwork rape.” Don’t bitch that I’m making light of actual rape. It’s the only term that comes close to doing justice to the sorry experience this colon puncher put me through. She violently threw form after form at me while snarling, “Sign this!’ There was nothing I could do. I was guilty by association. All that time invested for five minutes of a Doctor Mengele– style review.
I felt like the lone survivor of an A-Bomb attack. I staggered to exit with a mix of Irish car bomb rage and car accident victim. I had to go to, yet, ANOTHER office to wait in line. This branch of the department of labor is responsible for making sure I am properly oriented to my jobless situation. Properly oriented? Assholes, I’m already in the program and have been sitting with my unemployed thumb up my ass for MONTHS. None of this shit was new. Alas, I had to go through the motions just to go through the motions. I was ordered to create an account on the state’s job site, even though I already had one open. That one didn’t count. I had to open another one, because those were the rules. I wasted my time and tax payer money to re-do everything I did eons ago. WTF?
As if to make sure the sting from the state’s ball tagging was felt long after I left, there was a mandatory orientation to sit though. Why in the hell were they putting me through a “welcome to unemployment” presentation so far after the fact? I asked, but the only answers I got sounded a lot like the responses at the Nuremberg Trials.
We filed in the small room with no light and a running PowerPoint presentation. Alright, it’s always possible that there is something to learn. Maybe, I’ll be able to get some useful information. I’ve had the luck of a one-armed paper hanger in the job market. Perhaps, there is a nugget of information waiting to be mined.
It was 15 minutes of a job hunter special ed class. Ten of those bile filled minutes were spent on explaining the technological innovation that is the computer. I’m dead serious. Most of the presentation revolved around basic computer skills. It was designed for people who have never graduated to audio CDs, let alone realized that punch cards were phased out.
This is what our tax dollars are paying for; hours of wasted time, useless resources, and state employee blood feuds. As I said, I believe the majority of unemployment is going to the career-fuckedified. These people don’t want to be on it, they were shit canned due to no fault of their own, and have the sad privilege of being a statistic for pro and anti government spending advocates. Sure, I was up to my eyeballs in the vo-tech class at every high school. I was also in the mix with former high ranking execs that were bounced out of their companies after 20 years of service. Despite all our difference- wife beaters, misspelled tattoos, the smell of homemade alcohol- we all shared one thing. We are are being boned by the recession/not a recession/kind of a recession/recession- rebound/ boarder line 1930’s depression. It’s awesome being used as a data point in a debate! Rest assured this whole thing is going to be written about and philosophized to death in future history books.
Not that our kids are going to be able to attend college to read them. I’ll still be paying off my ridiculous student loans ten years after they put me in the ground. I seriously questioned the quality of my education and its expense when my alma mater decided it was better to pass a clusterfuck tragedy of a student, because they didn’t want to deal with him anymore.
OK. I get it. The Wii is here to stay. Fine. Whatever. The little SOB is everywhere; at the mall, on television, at conventions, and even in my house. IN MY HOUSE! Mother of God!
At first, I thought this was a fad like ColecoVision or the government caring about unemployment. No such luck. Almost everyone has been caught in the wii’s mighty motion capture grasp. For shit’s sake, kids start waving the Wii controller around as soon as they escape the womb. Old people, who have long been inept at everything technological, can suddenly play a quick nine on the virtual golf course.
I’m guilty of playing a few games on this infernal thing, myself. But, I lose interest quickly. Other than the fact that you look like a friggin epileptic train wreck while playing, I find it generally screwed up when the games being played are replicating shit you can do for real. Outside! With… people. You know, interaction? Sure, some smart ass will be the first to point out that I don’t do shit outside. That’s true. But, I sure as hell don’t simulate the shit I refuse to do in real time in my living room. How the hell is any of this sane?
Society is the late Roman Empire and the Wii is the barbarian horde climbing over the walls. You dig? Try this shit on for size:
Increased shut-in population:
Once upon a time, there was a gamer. The gamer, in his (let’s face it, it’s almost always a guy) natural habitat is pretty harmless. Sitting in his parents’ basement covered in two weeks worth of body odor, the gamer doesn’t venture outside in reality. First off, the sun is just too damn bright and will literally set his near translucent skin on fire. Second of all, whatever social skills they had as high school outcasts have vanished as they crossed the line into social outcasts.
But, that’s not enough for the insatiable appetite of Nintendo. Hell no! EVERYONE must spend every moment of their spare time in front of the TV! People who used to unleash hurtful (but accurate) barrage after barrage of ball kicking insults at the gamer are now one of them. Oh, they look like regular people. Most of them have a job and are cleaner… oh so much cleaner. But Wii is slowly turning them into compulsive couch weights bent on playing “just one more game of Mario Kart.”
Playing on nostalgia to control your mind
People love nostalgia. Yeah, I remember playing minutes and minutes worth of the original Mario Brothers and Duck Hunt. So, being the corporate juggernauts that they are, Nintendo decided to mind rape the sentimental fools by re-issuing old school games through Wii. The memories of your childhood will blind you to the fact that the Wii version of Super Mario Brothers is complete shit and nothing like the original. It’s the goddamn equivalent of what George Lucas did and might do to the Star Wars franchise.
Catering to and creating the super-lazy
OK, I’m a lazy bastard. Everyone at the FWTC is. If Roode could, he would have one of those recliner/toilet deals with a built in mini fridge so he would never have to leave his TV.
The Wii, however, is breeding a new generation of super-lazy and re-programming the current generation of regular lazy. If you have a wireless system in your home, you can connect your Wii to the outside world. Your little Wii mii bullshit avatar can interact with other bullshit miis and “expand” your digital recreation world. Well, not expand it to the point where you actually have to leave your house. That would be insane.
Netflix now has a partnership with Nintendo. You can now download movies straight to the Wii. OK, that’s sort of awesome. Think about it, though. First it’s movies then pizza. Eventually, you’ll be able to order groceries with this thing. Where does it end? Prostitutes? Puppies? Surplus Polaris warheads? Yes, you can do this shit online too (I’m sure some douche has put one or two cold war era missiles on eBay), but that usually involves getting off your ass and walking to the computer. The need to move will be virtually eliminated.
Simulated in-door activities supplanting their real life counterparts:
Perhaps the most colon fisting thing about the Wii is that much of the games simulate shit mankind never really thought of or had the need to fake. Who the hell wants to fake walk? You got up this morning and went to the bathroom to take a dump. That’s walking. Want to bowl a quick set? There’s no need to go to the trouble of going outside and interacting with people. Just pop Wii bowling into the contraption and fake bowl your ass off. Does Wii simulate the smell of stale beer and cigarettes you’d get at a real bowling alley? Hell no! What’s the point in bowling if the smell of three day old urine isn’t in the air?
We’ve compiled a Nobel Prize winning analysis of a select group of activities comparing and contrasting the respective Wii and real life experiences. The “winner” of each has been decided using a complicated system of ones and zeros. Nevermind, it’s too difficult to explain. Just go with us on this….
- Wii cost: Retail price of $30 plus needed accessories.
- Real life activity cost: Racket, shoes, balls; $200. for no thrills.
- Richness of experience-Wii: You’re just waving around a controller in your living room hitting a ball that isn’t really there to a opponent who doesn’t exist
- Richness of experience– Real Time: Who the hell knows. You run around, grunt like an ape, and sweat like a fat man climbing the stairs.
- Winner: No one. Wii tennis simulates a sport that’s boring enough in real time.
- Wild Card: Ball girls. These are two words most men enjoy together.
- Wii cost: About $20 depending on what version you get. In spite of popular conjecture, the new Tiger Woods game will not be NC-17. We kind of wish it would be only with Eliza Dushku and Summer Glau.
- Real life activity cost: This also depends on the “version” you get. Cheap public courses run around $25 and you get to keep any used condoms or heroin needles you find. Private courses could run as high as $200 and the used condoms are extra. Clubs? We’re still trying to figure out why anyone needs more than one.
- Richness of experience– Wii: As with Wii tennis, you’re pretty much waving your arms around like an epileptic shit-tard. But, you don’t have to put on pants.
- Richness of experience– Real life: As with most (all) Scottish recreational sports (there are at least two, right?) golf is just another excuse to get shit faced in public.
- Winner: We’re going with real life golf only because, drinking in public is being social. Drinking by yourself in front of the television is sad.
- Wild Card: Golf carts make for great battering rams. Also, we’re pretty sure it’s not technically “drinking and driving” in the eyes of the state.
- Wii cost: $10, depending on which brand you opt for. If you want to look slightly less bat-shit nuts, you’ll want to get a Wii hockey stick which most places don’t sell individually. In order to make the retail rape a little more memorable, you’ll have to buy the entire “sports pack.” That’s anywhere between $20 and $40 depending on the store and brand.
- Real life activity cost: They typical cost for equipment is usually covered with the overall cost of joining a team. Hockey stick, pads, helmet, blah, blah, blah… something around a shit load (scientifically speaking). The true cost, however, is the amount of head trauma and brain damage you’ll rack up over the years.
- Richness of experience– Wii: It’s a lot cheaper, but a lot less satisfying. You can’t really body check the coffee table, nor can you punch your spouse in the face when the ref makes a bad call. Of course, punching your spouse in the face is mandatory in some southern states whether or not you’re playing hockey.
- Richness of experience– Real life: Absorbing and inflicting pelvis crunching pain is what makes hockey great. When you get wheeled into the emergency room you can rest assured that the guy you kicked in the spleen will keep you company.
- Winner: Real life hockey for all the reasons mentioned above and so many more.
- Wild Card: Fist fights on the ice are considered sport. Fist fights in your home over Wii hockey will get you on Springer.
4. Mario Kart
- Wii cost: $30 to $50. If you want to opt for the Wii wheel it will be closer to $50. The wheel really only exists to make it a little less goofy looking pretending to drive your couch.
- Real life activity cost: That really depends on several factors. Since Mario Kart is, essentially, racing around, side-swiping other cars, and throwing random things at your fellow motorists, it compares to driving anywhere in New Jersey, Philadelphia, Richmond, Seattle, Los Angeles, or Dallas. The only major difference being that Mario Kart isn’t nearly as violent.
The costs are directly related to your state’s/province’s traffic fines and insurance coverage. We’re not factoring in the actual car cost, because some states don’t have inspection and, therefore, don’t care if you put your vehicle together with duct tape and string.
- Richness of experience– Wii: Eh, I guess seeing all the Mario World characters putting aside their respective grudges to race each other in bloody death is entertaining enough. Except for Toad. That little shit stain is annoying in any incarnation. Eat shit, Toad!
- Richness of experience– Real life: Hard to say. It’s a friggin miracle if you can work up enough speed to approach 20 MPH on Jersey 42 let alone run someone off the road while braining them with a turtle shell. However, the I-90 from Northwest Idaho through Western Montana is a real life Carmageddon. If you careen off a mountain in Mario Kart, you end up reappearing at last place. Do the same on the Montana 90 and the state police will find your charred corpse during the next thaw.
- Winner: Montana.
- Wild Card: No one gives a shit if you speed in either Mario Kart or on Montana I-90. In one, you are racing as a character that doesn’t really exist. In the other you simply cease to exist.