The Bee

May 29, 2009

I’m so upset that I missed the spelling bee. Not on TV, because I did watch some of it. I meant to gamble on.

Each year for the past few seasons, some of my old co-workers and I have gambled on The Bee. We pick five little nerds and the last person with a pick standing wins.

One year, we were out at a bar and our friend was a no show. We called him to find out where he was, and he refused to leave his home before the end of the Bee. Naturally, we assured him it wasn’t a problem, since we commandeered the bar’s big screen TV to watch the end.

The other great memory of the Bee was last year, when I did my research, picked five little MENSA’s to win, and got absolutely crushed in the pool.

By 2 p.m., I was down to one left. My strategy of picking home schooled kids might have backfired as they crumbled under the pressure of being around people who were not their parents.

Distraught, I went to my co-workers office, to lament about my misfortune. I fired off a rant about how home-schooled kids are not mentally tough, sheltered little losers without a competitive edge doomed for a life of loneliness and social retardation.

The smirk on my coworker’s face was obvious, but evil. His wife was sitting there — she already knew I’m kind of a jerk.
And she replied “I was home schooled.”

That was awesome. Luckily, she admitted most of those traits were accurate for home schooled kids and the ones she felt did not apply to her could certainly apply to spelling bee kids. So I’m lucky she’s a cool person and one of this site’s most loyal followers.


Look But Don’t Touch

May 27, 2009

The tradition in hockey in which you don’t touch the conference trophy is a great one.

Right.

Right.

I hate that too few teams adhere to it. Statistically speaking there’s zero correlation to touching it, not touching it, winning and losing. But it’s an awesome quirk if everyone would just leave the thing alone. Unlike Tuesday night:

Wrong

Wrong

Too bad I’m rooting for Sidney Crosby’s team now. Although the last Penguin captain who touched it DID win the Cup. Then again, he also got cancer.


Indy Day

May 25, 2009

Ah, Indy 500 Day. One of the greatest days of the year.

My rooms and I reconfigured the living room, moving the couch to within six feet of the TV. We ordered pizza and crushed beer and enjoyed rum and coke, crown and water, gin and tonics.

The chalkboard in the kitchen was relocated to the floor next to the TV with cliff notes.

It reads:
AGR
7 – Patrick
26- Marco
11- TK
27- Mutoh
—-
43 – J Andretti

Penske
3- Castro
6- Briscoe

Target
9 – Dixon
10- Dario

Out
5, 26, 21, 02, 44, 11, 18, 6, 00, 2

Both my roommate and I grew up rooting for the Andretti’s. Both of us yelled “Arrrghh.. Noooooooo!” on lap one as Mario Moraes hit Marco Andretti and killed his race chances. And we did it again when TK crashed.

I’m more of a Patrick fan than my Rooms, who reluctantly rooted for Danica based on the fact that she was the only AGR driver left.

Helio just dominated down the stretch. We watched the splits of IndyCar.com’s live scoring and remarked that it was over with 10 laps to go.

All in all, a good day, even if the race didn’t go our way. We’re used to it not going our way: We root for Andrettis.


Excruciating Sandwich

May 21, 2009

I just spent 10 minutes of hell in line at a Quiznos. The girl in front of me had never been to a Quiznos before, and is asking every stupid question there is.

I’ve never been to a Quiznos before… what is it like?
Quiznos guy: What other sub shops have you been to?
Oh, is it like a Subway?

Uh, in the sense that you pay them for a sandwich, yes, yes it is.

I don’t know what you have, what can I get?

My answer would have been either:
“uh, Subs”  OR “(points to the gigantic menu on the wall over his head that’s six feet from this very stupid girl)”

If I wanted a sandwich with turkey, cheese, lettuce, mustard and pickles, could I get that here?

Yeah, probably in about two minutes if you stopped asking stupid questions and just said “Gimme a turkey with cheese, lettuce,  mustard and pickles.”

What sizes are there?
It’s a freaking sub shop! Nevermind that the gigantic menu shows three prices for each sub, with the prefixes  SM, REG and LG… at ANY sub shop, there are four options:
#1 is a large, that’s the biggest. Every sub shop has this.
#2 is the small, that’s the smallest. Every sub shop has this.
#3 is the medium, which would be in the middle if they have a medium. Sometimes this is called a regular. Only dicks care about the semantics of the name.
#4 is the small you get when they tell you they don’t have a medium. This would be true of places with “Whole” or “Half”

The guy holds up two loaves of bread, one small white bread, one regular wheat to display size.

Oh, can I get that one in that one?

What? It takes three minutes to determine she wants a small on wheat bread.

And things weren’t actually annoying me at this point.  What set me into Frustrationland was the cheese discussion.

Do you have shredded cheese?
We have shredded cheddar.
Ok, I’ll have that.
Ok.
Wait. What other cheeses do you have?
Provalone.. Swiss… American…
Are they shredded?
No.
I wanted shredded mozzarella.
We have mozzarella, it’s just not shredded.
Oh, ok. No shredded cheese then.
Ok, you want the mozzarella?
No. No cheese. I don’t want any cheese.

I nearly jumped through their oven to stop the pain.


Stream of Consciousness VI: A New Beginning

May 20, 2009

More random thoughts

I think I’ve been working in photoshop too much when my response to a friend who has to paint the walls inside his house is “Just use the paint bucket, it’ll take like 12 seconds.”

Ever slack so much in a week at work that one day you have like three things you need to do and it seems like you worked all day? Yeah, me neither.

The idea of labeling these updates like movie sequels was fantastic. Well, until the viewers start thinking “Again? Can’t this guy just stay dead?” Don’t worry, I’m not going to pull “The Final Consciousness” only to comeback a while later with “KevFu Lives.” But I’m definitely not ruling out “KevFu goes to Hell” and “KevFu Takes Manhattan.”

I had no idea how much working baseball games completely sucked away my ability to have interesting things happen to me, but here we are. End of an eight-game home stand, and I realize I’ve written nothing in the past week.

This might be blasphemy, but the finale of Fringe was much better than the finale of 24. I think it’s time to freshen up 24 by putting a Director of Common Sense in the writer’s room. And also to go for broke. No new fans are coming in unless the old fans recruit them. So give us what we want. I think I’d make an entire episode of one interrogation by Jack Bauer, with torture escalating and escalating until the viewer is mildly uncomfortable. Speaking of season finale’s, did the My Boys season just start? What is this, a six-episode season? And no, watching that doesn’t make me gay.

Maybe I should play the lottery. My friend is getting married, she picked Nov. 28 as the date. I figured “no F’ing chance” of me not having games to work. But, lo and behold, we have no women’s hoops and no volleyball. Have football on the road, might have men’s hoops, but that’s only a three-person commitment, so I should be free!

You’d think that having a vast arsonel of free, cheap liquor would be awesome (and short-lived), but there’s just no way to get rid of this stuff.


More Classics, Ruined.

May 13, 2009

Hindsight is an amazing thing.

At the ballpark, we play Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond in between innings, blatantly ripping off the Boston Red Sox, who did it first (as you may remember if you suffered through Fever Pitch).

I used to like the song. But then in a 2007 interview, Diamond revealed the inspiration for “Sweet Caroline” was President John F. Kennedy’s daughter, Caroline Kennedy… who was eleven years old at the time.

That just makes the song downright creepy. Who feels so good touching an 11-year old girl? Perverts. People who drive windowless vans, that’s who.

I just had another song ruined for me, ironically enough on my way home from the ballpark. I was listening to a cover of Elton John’s Rocket Man.

And it hit me… “this song is just a metaphor for being gay.”

And I think it’s gonna be a long long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think i am at home
Oh no no no i’m a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone

He goes out into a crazy world of music stardom only few people venture into (like Astronauts). And isn’t that “I’m not the man they think I am at home” part just a line about not being able to tell his parents about his alternative lifestyle?

Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids
(Gay men don’t produce kids)

In fact it’s cold as hell
(Well, yeah, despite any flamboyancy, there’s still no maternal presence providing “warmth”)

And there’s no one there to raise them if you did
(Women being the traditional child raisers. No women in a gay male relationship)

And all this science i don’t understand
(Pretty self explanatory)

I feel the need for an obligatory statement asserting my heterosexuality now. But drats, another classic ruined. What’s next? I find out Summer of ’69 isn’t about a guitar but oral sex? Nah, that’s ridiculous.


Fortress of Showertude

May 9, 2009

All moved into my new place, but some things take some getting used to. Like Friday, when I woke up and realized my roommate was in the shower. So I hit the snooze button. But the snooze button doesn’t work after you’ve already hit the off button. So I fell back asleep and didn’t wake up again until 10:30. Not awesome.

Speaking of the shower, though, we don’t have a bathtub with a shower head and curtain. We have a shower stall. It’s in the corner, on an elevated platform three inches higher than the rest of the bathroom floor. And it’s a got a clear, frosted plastic semicircle enclosure with two doors that slide in towards the middle.

Basically, it feels like the isolation chamber in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Every time I step in it, I feel like I’m stealing the powers of everyone else in the house. Which means I now have my roommate’s ability to do laundry.