Dressing oneself is a bitch

When you distill everything down to its most simple components, you find ways of complicating even the most mundane of tasks. For example, getting myself dressed every morning is an absolute pain in the hoop. When all one ever wears is jeans and t-shirts, even such a seemingly uncomplicated selection as that can become a full-on brain tease. There is actually a calculus involved in putting together even so simple an outfit, because within the t-shirt category there is a LOT of variation. V-necks, crew necks, short-sleeved, long-sleeved, black, gray, loose-fitting, tight-fitting...and does that color/fit clash with that day's choice of jeans? What's the weather like and what will be more comfortable given the temperature outside and in my office? Did I wear a crew or v-neck yesterday? Was it black or some other color? Which jeans did I wear - you can't wear the same color and/or wash two days in a row, people will think you're unclean or crazy, like that biology teacher you had in high school who seemed to wear the exact same doubleknit trousers every day, paired with one of two different shirts on alternate days. And then there's the boots? Which ones? Doc Martens, Timberlands, Frye or ...the other Timberlands?

But anyway, that's not the reason I'm posting today.

The reason I'm posting today is to say this:

Neighbors who have a postage-stamp-sized lawn, who nevertheless feel the need to hire landscapers who show up at 6:45am, with large trucks with back-up beeping signals, leaf blowers and lawn mowers...need to be horse-whipped. And yes, salted.

That may be all. Don't know yet.

Litmus test

If you drive an Escalade, you may be a douchebag.

If you drive a white Escalade, you probably are a douchebag.

If you drive an Escalade with vanity plates, chances you're a douchebag are near 90%.

If you drive an Escalade, with vanity plates, playing your stereo at deafening volume and shouting at bicyclists, Congratulations. You are KING OF THE DOUCHEBAGS.

That is all.




...No, wait.

Forgot to put up the kilted man photo. Running out of celebrities, but here's an oldie but goodie. Despite the mullett.

HOOCH AND HOCKEY!

After a long winter of going straight home every day after work, eating dinner with the SPOUSE, then getting in my PJ's to spend the evening on the couch, quiet and alone by 6:30PM (Yes, alone - and it's a good thing. He goes to the man-cave to watch whatever other sports are on, and I have been only interested in hockey and whatever Netflix selections are in the house - thank Salma for multiple televisions) ...tonight, I am actually going out. Out to socialize, watch the Bruins start the Eastern Conference Playoffs against Montreal (boooo), have some drinks, play pub trivia, and speak to other human beings.

Live.

That is a SHITLOAD of activity for someone who hasn't said 7 words after 7PM to any living soul since October.

I suspect my head will explode.

In fact, if my lower alcohol tolerance is anything to go by, it'll keep exploding into tomorrow morning.

I'm thinking the Bruins take this series in 5 games. Don't argue with me. Five. Shut it.

That is all.

Happy Easter.

Blurt.

I think that when the authorities find the computer virus- and worm- creating hackers, they should publish their names and addresses so that people like myself, with violent dispositions, armed and pissed off, can go over to their houses and beat the snot out of them.

Remember when my home computer shat the bed? I suspect it was a virus. And this week, yy-eahhhh, my computer at work fell victim to a worm. I don't think it was conficker, but it was pretty fucking vicious and required our IT department a whole day to fix it. What did I do in my office for a day without my computer? Well, my office has never BEEN so clean, for one thing. And I got some reading done.

What the hell did people DO in offices before the computer and e-mail? I imagine they scribbled on paper with these archaic instruments I've heard tell of, things called pens and pencils, or ...christ, how awful...I can't even think of it without squirming...spoke to people on the telephone. Ugh.

Okay, so I'm back up and running now. I'm fine. Really. Again, I didn't have a temper tantrum - just indulged in a bit of whimpering and a low growl or two.

And it's Friday. And the bi-monthly kilted man of the week is...........

Hamish Clark, everybody. Woot! Woot! Woot! The only reason I ever watched "Monarch of the Glen." It aired at 11:30 on Sunday nights, so many is the Monday I would arrive at work with the old dark circles under the bloodshot eyes (you cannot watch MOTG without a few Scottish beers in you) and half a working brain cell. Worth it. Totally.