Friday, April 15, 2005

Just Passing Through

Fucking Taxes. Killing me over here. No time for new material.

Many of you who come here to burn away some work minutes, are not personally acquainted with me. Your basis for building any kind of concept for who I am, or what I stand for, comes from the words I choose to type. By reading this little blog thing, you may have come under the impression that I am little more than a booze-fueled idiot who takes great joy in exposing his wind-bagged idiocy out on the interweb. He pees on his own shoes. He flies overseas covered in latrine run-off. He gets electrocuted by a she-male in Mexico. You may believe that my morals, abilities, and base-level human intelligence are easily compromised by the presence of liquid spirits.

Actually, I have no real argument against that. It is what it is. I am what I am.

But there are a couple of stories here which are not based solely on lunatic juice. Some are just… strange.

Weird discussions of the mundane trappings of my everyday doings.

Some are explanations, to one degree or another, for my own edification, how I got to where I am.

Some are just mildly embarrassing.

Or they focus on the aftermath.

Some are multi-cultural.

But my favorites remain true to my core.

Yes. You guessed it. This is my cheap way of saying, ‘hey, read this! Good times!’

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get more lube for my ass. These taxes are starting to chafe.


Truecraig said...

I'll be in H-town this weekend for some things. I haven't called anyone yet. If you read this, are in H-town this weekend, and you got a brutha's digits... then pop a colla and holla.

Or whatever. Word.

Debbie said...

I'll read the stories, yo.

In my brain you wear big pants, and a ball cap.

Where is H-Town? Is it 'Hog Town' - which actually means Toronto. Probably not.

Truecraig said...

Deb-e- In my brain, I am six-foot nine, two hundred pounds of chiseled muscle, and a star-Power Forward for the San Antonio Spurs. But whenever I show up for practice, they call security. Assholes. When will they recognize my deep, inner talent?

H-town is actually Houston. Austin is A-tiwn. But that’s hard to pronounce, so we say A-town instead.

I have baseball caps, but my head is quite bulbous. About the dimension and form of a baby walrus. So I don’t wear them terribly often.

Devil in a red dress named liz said...

Some nerve you have! You complain about not having any time then you post something that references about 6 additional stories to read and will take me about the next two days to read and comprehend. OK, if I wasn't so loaded tonight I would do just that cause every word you write is such a gem, and therefore, it's worth the investment.

But I think instead I'll write you a really long comment in return (to show my admiration, of course, not in retaliation). It is actually a summary of that obituary article I told you about the other day. I found it just for you. It's by Barbara Guggenheim. It says that the obituary is the resume that will go down in history, your last change to burnish your image so it's never too late to do something to make your obit stand out. The key to a good obit is:

1. Get a gimmick: "Monte Pupnick ate nothing but pizza for seven years"

2. Embrace a cause or a charity, preferably one named after you, no matter how obscure. "Lorraine Whittington, longtime chairperson of Save the Smelt"

3. Do something exotic. "Paul Rebus floated down the Yangtze River in an inner tube." "Ran the NY Marathon" is not bad, even if you ran for only one hour.

4. Join prestigious clubs, especially foreign or obscure ones. "Martin Muldoon, past president of the Anteater's Club and founding member of the Bangkock Sports Club."

5. Write and publish something--anything. Nothng beats "Best selling author"

6. Make sure you have a flattering photograph, preferably one taken in your prime, regardless of your present age. Give it to someone you trust to deliver it to The NY Times and the wire services at the moment of your death. In how many obits have you seen pictures of young men and women who look in their teens but the obituary says that they died at 97?

7. Be mysterious about your final illness or die of some previously unknown malady, even if you have to make one up. "Suzanne Chambers died quietly at home of Schacht-Rattner's Syndrome."

(There's more but I'll spare you).

Edward said...

This post reminds me of a sitcom clip show. ;-) Good luck on the taxes!

Marge: How many times can you laugh at that cat getting hit by the moon?
Bart: It's a _new_ episode.
Lisa: Not exactly...they pieced it together from old shows, but it seems new to the trusting eyes of impressionable youth.

Truecraig said...


If impressionable youth ever drop by here, and read any of this... I hope their parents never find me.

I know, I know. I was a bit lazy on this post. It happens.

Truecraig said...


Your blog is all kinds of broken right now. Under construction? You know, when people's blogs break, I am forced to work. You don't want me to work, do you?

I like the obit list. I think I shall try and find it out on the interweb.

Devil in a red dress named liz said...

Craig, my blogs not broken, it's dead. it died with a broken heart. :(

Truecraig said...

How exactly does that happen? I don't get it.

Devil in a red dress named liz said...

i killed it. it was pre-meditated. i couldn't bare listening to myself any more. i'd rather listen to you.

Truecraig said...

Well, that is most bitter sweet. I am flattered, but I really enjoyed your writing. So, thank you for the compliment, and let the rest of us know whenever you choose to pick up the pen again.