© 2008 Stan Spire
Check my new email and there it is, waiting. Worse than any spam. A “friend” from my past is trying to contact me.
It’s happened a couple of times. A backstabber I knew in college. Then another asshat I tolerated in high school. Each acts like he’s my Best Buddy.
Each Best Buddy – high school and college - wants to know how I’m doing. True concern or is the competition continuing?
There’s always some competition between friends; it’s human nature. But I had realized with each Best Buddy that competition was a key part of the so-called friendship.
High School Best Buddy would practice, practice, practice his tennis game. Then he would invite me over for a “friendly” set. I wasn’t into winning a contest. I just wanted to enjoy a sport for its own sake, fun and exercise. I didn’t make jokes about his ability: I wasn’t into ball-busting. Without trying I ended up winning. High School Best Buddy got mad, throwing his racket off into the distance.
College Best Buddy was into a different kind of game playing. Mind games. He would make up stories about me to ruin my dates. He would poison the well by pissing in it. One time a date was nervous during the entire evening. She acted like I was a psychopath, waiting for the right opportunity to attack and kill her.
But that wasn’t College Best Buddy’s only dirty play. He told me that a girl I knew thought I was an asshole, even though she never made any such statement. He was a pathological lying prick, a manipulator jealous of everyone around him.
The email inquiries from the Best Buddies arrived at different times but both used the same approach. Each one wrote that he wasn’t sure that I was the same person he knew many years ago. A normal person would dash a quick email and just ask if I’m the same guy he “palled around” with in school without going into great details.
But each of these Best Buddy pissants had to tell me about his successful life. College BB noted that he was getting married while pursuing a great artistic career. High School BB mentioned that he was a family man, has three kids, a good job. All the details I avoid learning by not attending any school reunions.
So I didn’t reply. I’m not ashamed that, materially or socially speaking, I don’t have that much compared to either one. Psychologically, I’m way ahead.
I don’t talk with ghosts.
The past is dead.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Millionaire Newsreader Fakes Sympathy
© Copyright 2008 Stan Spire
Recently on the CBS Evening News anchordoll Katie Couric uttered something along this line:
You put a few food items on the conveyor belt at the supermarket and your eyes bug out when the total is run up on the checkout register.
As if Katie Couric shops at a common supermarket with the hoi polloi, trying to stretch her budget. It’s said she pulls in 15 million dollars a year for reading the news on TeeVee. It’s more likely that her eyes would bug out from too much Botox.
There’s an anecdote about a politician running for office who said he understood how hard it was for the average family to put food on the table. So a reporter asked him: What does a quart of milk cost? How much for a loaf of bread?
The politician had glib answers to all sorts of questions – except those two.
Hey, Katie -- What are you paying for milk and bread?
15 million dollars a year. Using my calculator from the dollar store, I estimate that what I’m living on is less than .06% of Katie’s modest income. Not 6%. Not .6%. Just .06%.
I love it when one of these wealthy TeeVee journalists go on about the poor, especially when they mention that a small percentage of Americans control over 90 percent of the wealth. These journalists pretend to care, going through the motions without complaining too loudly or forcefully. After all, their corporate masters wouldn’t be happy.
Another phony concern by overpaid TeeVee newsreaders is the high cost of medical insurance for the average American.
Gee, I hope Katie is covered. After all, those treatments to keep her looking young can’t be cheap (even though the results look that way).
Recently on the CBS Evening News anchordoll Katie Couric uttered something along this line:
You put a few food items on the conveyor belt at the supermarket and your eyes bug out when the total is run up on the checkout register.
As if Katie Couric shops at a common supermarket with the hoi polloi, trying to stretch her budget. It’s said she pulls in 15 million dollars a year for reading the news on TeeVee. It’s more likely that her eyes would bug out from too much Botox.
There’s an anecdote about a politician running for office who said he understood how hard it was for the average family to put food on the table. So a reporter asked him: What does a quart of milk cost? How much for a loaf of bread?
The politician had glib answers to all sorts of questions – except those two.
Hey, Katie -- What are you paying for milk and bread?
15 million dollars a year. Using my calculator from the dollar store, I estimate that what I’m living on is less than .06% of Katie’s modest income. Not 6%. Not .6%. Just .06%.
I love it when one of these wealthy TeeVee journalists go on about the poor, especially when they mention that a small percentage of Americans control over 90 percent of the wealth. These journalists pretend to care, going through the motions without complaining too loudly or forcefully. After all, their corporate masters wouldn’t be happy.
Another phony concern by overpaid TeeVee newsreaders is the high cost of medical insurance for the average American.
Gee, I hope Katie is covered. After all, those treatments to keep her looking young can’t be cheap (even though the results look that way).
May Day Is My Day
© Copyright 2008 Stan Spire
It’s appropriate that my birthday falls on the first day of May. Mayday is the international radio codeword used by planes and ships in distress to request help.
But lately I’m not crashing or sinking – thanks to self-help. I’m treading water while more people also fall in around me. High gas and food prices. The screwed up housing market. Jobs being lost. Welcome to the sea of piss.
Since I’m near bottom – no job, car, or home – I have nothing much to lose.
A birthday can be a time for reflection. Me, I’ve got jackshit to reflect on.
Of course, over the last 12 months, some things have irked me. One in particular was a newspaper profile of a woman discussing her professional and family life. Divorced, she was looking for a special man to date. Ironically, I asked her out on a date some time ago, but after accepting she suddenly decided to cancel. Apparently I’m not special enough.
But for someone like her, no man is. So I cross that annoyance off the list.
For some getting older means being less driven, not as critical, accepting things as they are. It’s called senility.
I accept nothing as it is. But I’ve learned what is worth pursuing and what isn’t worth a leak in the woods. The social scene around here is bleak. Tried a dating club one time. What a joke. A few of the women I met should’ve skipped the dating club and went straight to group therapy. Talk about unreality and unattraction. The best way for a guy to approach dating in this neck of the woods is to combine LSD with Viagra.
It’s appropriate that my birthday falls on the first day of May. Mayday is the international radio codeword used by planes and ships in distress to request help.
But lately I’m not crashing or sinking – thanks to self-help. I’m treading water while more people also fall in around me. High gas and food prices. The screwed up housing market. Jobs being lost. Welcome to the sea of piss.
Since I’m near bottom – no job, car, or home – I have nothing much to lose.
A birthday can be a time for reflection. Me, I’ve got jackshit to reflect on.
Of course, over the last 12 months, some things have irked me. One in particular was a newspaper profile of a woman discussing her professional and family life. Divorced, she was looking for a special man to date. Ironically, I asked her out on a date some time ago, but after accepting she suddenly decided to cancel. Apparently I’m not special enough.
But for someone like her, no man is. So I cross that annoyance off the list.
For some getting older means being less driven, not as critical, accepting things as they are. It’s called senility.
I accept nothing as it is. But I’ve learned what is worth pursuing and what isn’t worth a leak in the woods. The social scene around here is bleak. Tried a dating club one time. What a joke. A few of the women I met should’ve skipped the dating club and went straight to group therapy. Talk about unreality and unattraction. The best way for a guy to approach dating in this neck of the woods is to combine LSD with Viagra.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Golden Age of Cradle Robbing
© 2008 Stan Spire
Teachers shouldn’t be dating students. At least, that’s become a big taboo over the years since I was in high school.
My school was rural, centralized. Back in the day it wasn’t uncommon for a male teacher, fresh out of college, to date one of the babes in the senior class.
One girl in my graduating class was all smiles on the last day of school, wearing a sparkling engagement ring. She had been stepping out with a science teacher. I guess she got special tutoring in biology.
There were at least three cases of male teachers bagging babes from various senior classes at Cowflop Central around the time of my imprisonment.
One day I was sitting in study hall. The desks were shoved together, side by side, to squeeze in the maximum amount of cabbages in neat rows. I was in the front row, near the teacher’s desk.
A senior babe was to my right, lost in her thought. (I do mean thought, not thoughts; she was a stereotypical blonde.)
I noticed the absentee list on the teacher’s desk. I reached over, only cutting across a small corner of the desk on my right. I glanced at the list, ascertained one of my friends wasn’t around that day, and then placed the sheet back on the teacher’s desk.
The study hall teacher noticed my action, thinking it was inappropriate.
“You know,” he said, “you supposed to excuse yourself when you reach in front of someone.”
“Really,” I replied. I glanced at the babe next to me. “Sorry, she blends into the woodwork so well, I didn’t see her.”
The teacher’s face became red –- not with embarrassment, but with rage. He sat there and boiled.
I found out later the pretty blonde senior next to me was his girlfriend.
Tough luck, ya pedophile.
Teachers shouldn’t be dating students. At least, that’s become a big taboo over the years since I was in high school.
My school was rural, centralized. Back in the day it wasn’t uncommon for a male teacher, fresh out of college, to date one of the babes in the senior class.
One girl in my graduating class was all smiles on the last day of school, wearing a sparkling engagement ring. She had been stepping out with a science teacher. I guess she got special tutoring in biology.
There were at least three cases of male teachers bagging babes from various senior classes at Cowflop Central around the time of my imprisonment.
One day I was sitting in study hall. The desks were shoved together, side by side, to squeeze in the maximum amount of cabbages in neat rows. I was in the front row, near the teacher’s desk.
A senior babe was to my right, lost in her thought. (I do mean thought, not thoughts; she was a stereotypical blonde.)
I noticed the absentee list on the teacher’s desk. I reached over, only cutting across a small corner of the desk on my right. I glanced at the list, ascertained one of my friends wasn’t around that day, and then placed the sheet back on the teacher’s desk.
The study hall teacher noticed my action, thinking it was inappropriate.
“You know,” he said, “you supposed to excuse yourself when you reach in front of someone.”
“Really,” I replied. I glanced at the babe next to me. “Sorry, she blends into the woodwork so well, I didn’t see her.”
The teacher’s face became red –- not with embarrassment, but with rage. He sat there and boiled.
I found out later the pretty blonde senior next to me was his girlfriend.
Tough luck, ya pedophile.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Stories. I Hear Stories.
© Copyright 2008 Stan Spire
“They’re a bunch of crooks. They erased part of the videotape of the last town meeting.”
Indeed. Well, instead of telling everyone about it one afternoon at the barbershop, why don’t you contact the proper authorities?
I would be more than happy to see crooked politicians get theirs. But stories – rumors – mean nothing unless backed up with some solid info or leads.
A while ago someone emailed me about a local politician who used taxpayer funds to deck out a city vehicle with a custom leather interior and paint job. The vehicle was for his personal use while he supposedly served the voters. The pol in question has been the subject of other stories about misusing funds, so this one might be true. Is it? The emailer claimed to have inside knowledge. But that person never followed up with more details.
Maybe the emailer was on the level. But, sorry, I ain’t falling for rovean (Karl Rove) tactics.
If you want to nail a crook, provide evidence. And don’t mention it to me – pass it along to the right enforcement agency. Contact the media if there’s a cover-up and the authorities are in on it. Then, if all official and mainstream channels prove to be dead ends, it’s time to try a loose cannon blogger. But you still have to come across with some proof.
Telling stories at the barbershop or in an email won't bring about justice.
“They’re a bunch of crooks. They erased part of the videotape of the last town meeting.”
Indeed. Well, instead of telling everyone about it one afternoon at the barbershop, why don’t you contact the proper authorities?
I would be more than happy to see crooked politicians get theirs. But stories – rumors – mean nothing unless backed up with some solid info or leads.
A while ago someone emailed me about a local politician who used taxpayer funds to deck out a city vehicle with a custom leather interior and paint job. The vehicle was for his personal use while he supposedly served the voters. The pol in question has been the subject of other stories about misusing funds, so this one might be true. Is it? The emailer claimed to have inside knowledge. But that person never followed up with more details.
Maybe the emailer was on the level. But, sorry, I ain’t falling for rovean (Karl Rove) tactics.
If you want to nail a crook, provide evidence. And don’t mention it to me – pass it along to the right enforcement agency. Contact the media if there’s a cover-up and the authorities are in on it. Then, if all official and mainstream channels prove to be dead ends, it’s time to try a loose cannon blogger. But you still have to come across with some proof.
Telling stories at the barbershop or in an email won't bring about justice.
Officially Spring
© 2008 Stan Spire
Spring is “officially” here, so declared the local TeeVee weatherman. Arrived on March 20th, 2008 – the spring equinox.
Maybe it’s spring in your neck of the woods but here in NENYland winter ain’t over until late April. And even then it might snow in May. One year it snowed on the last weekend in May – Memorial Day weekend, the “official” start of summer vacation season.
It doesn’t matter which local TeeVee news you watch; they all whine about the weather. Where have these idiots been? Winters usually drag on around here; this ain’t down south where the flowers are blooming.
Since when does the vernal equinox mean that spring is supposed to suddenly break out all over? There’s this thing called CLIMATE. And the climate around here means it’s more like the arctic tundra than Florida.
Of course, all the winter yahoos are happy with snow on the ground. They’re stupidly happy with their toys, snowmobiles and skis – until they bash their brains into trees.
So there is an advantage to six months of winter: such a long season weeds out the weak minded from the herd.
Spring is “officially” here, so declared the local TeeVee weatherman. Arrived on March 20th, 2008 – the spring equinox.
Maybe it’s spring in your neck of the woods but here in NENYland winter ain’t over until late April. And even then it might snow in May. One year it snowed on the last weekend in May – Memorial Day weekend, the “official” start of summer vacation season.
It doesn’t matter which local TeeVee news you watch; they all whine about the weather. Where have these idiots been? Winters usually drag on around here; this ain’t down south where the flowers are blooming.
Since when does the vernal equinox mean that spring is supposed to suddenly break out all over? There’s this thing called CLIMATE. And the climate around here means it’s more like the arctic tundra than Florida.
Of course, all the winter yahoos are happy with snow on the ground. They’re stupidly happy with their toys, snowmobiles and skis – until they bash their brains into trees.
So there is an advantage to six months of winter: such a long season weeds out the weak minded from the herd.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Shmmoms & Shmucks
© 2008 Stan Spire
With the dismal economy - particularly rising gasoline prices - one car dealer is so desperate to move gas guzzlers off his lot that he’s using a bit of sleaze to gain attention.
Sex sells in a 30 second TeeVee spot featuring a high school student named Andy and his mother who has an unusual nickname.
The ad opens with Andy standing by his hallway locker, talking with a friend. He’s a very popular guy at his high school. Other guys keep walking by, asking him for rides after school.
After Andy leaves, a girl asks: “What’s that all about?”
A dopily grinning guy answers: “Andy’s mother is a shmmom.”
“A shmmom?”
Dopey Grin explains: “A smoking hot minivan mom.”
Then we see a red minivan pull into a driveway. Two guys get out and thank Mrs. Thompson for a ride. Andy, obviously embarrassed, walks quietly into his house while his mother – a hot-looking older blonde – turns around and says good-bye to the guys.
As they walk away, one guy says to the other: “What a shmmom!”
(Video Link)
Apparently both guys suffer from arthritis aggravated by their tight jeans. That’s why they walk away so stiffly.
Yup, this ad is a mistake – a boner, if you will.
This ad evinces such porn potential but at least the sponsor plays it a bit coy. At the same time there’s a fine line between a shmmom and a MILF. (If you’re not familiar with the term MILF, Google it on your own. This a family blog, ya sweaty pervert.)
If you go to the car dealer’s site, you’ll see how he takes the edge off the teenage boy sex fantasy angle by displaying a pseudo-dictionary entry for shmmom:
SHMMOM (SHMMOM) n. 1. A female parent who indulges her inner beauty by purchasing (specifically at Goss Dodge) a Dodge Grand Caravan for the purpose of letting that inner beauty out. 2. Also known as Smokin Hot Minivan Mom. ed. 1. The selfless act of having purchased a Grand Caravan from Goss Dodge to have let her inner beauty out. ing. 1. The selfless act of indulging (purchasing) in a Grand Caravan from Goss Dodge to let her inner beauty out. (Link)
The dealer uses the term “inner beauty” instead of sex. Like hiding behind the euphemism erotica when it’s still porn.
Apparently the TeeVee ad was created for a Vermont car dealer. If you’ve ever been to Vermont, you would know that any high school boys usually encounter shwmoms: sleazy hefty welfare moms.
With the dismal economy - particularly rising gasoline prices - one car dealer is so desperate to move gas guzzlers off his lot that he’s using a bit of sleaze to gain attention.
Sex sells in a 30 second TeeVee spot featuring a high school student named Andy and his mother who has an unusual nickname.
The ad opens with Andy standing by his hallway locker, talking with a friend. He’s a very popular guy at his high school. Other guys keep walking by, asking him for rides after school.
After Andy leaves, a girl asks: “What’s that all about?”
A dopily grinning guy answers: “Andy’s mother is a shmmom.”
“A shmmom?”
Dopey Grin explains: “A smoking hot minivan mom.”
Then we see a red minivan pull into a driveway. Two guys get out and thank Mrs. Thompson for a ride. Andy, obviously embarrassed, walks quietly into his house while his mother – a hot-looking older blonde – turns around and says good-bye to the guys.
As they walk away, one guy says to the other: “What a shmmom!”
(Video Link)
Apparently both guys suffer from arthritis aggravated by their tight jeans. That’s why they walk away so stiffly.
Yup, this ad is a mistake – a boner, if you will.
This ad evinces such porn potential but at least the sponsor plays it a bit coy. At the same time there’s a fine line between a shmmom and a MILF. (If you’re not familiar with the term MILF, Google it on your own. This a family blog, ya sweaty pervert.)
If you go to the car dealer’s site, you’ll see how he takes the edge off the teenage boy sex fantasy angle by displaying a pseudo-dictionary entry for shmmom:
SHMMOM (SHMMOM) n. 1. A female parent who indulges her inner beauty by purchasing (specifically at Goss Dodge) a Dodge Grand Caravan for the purpose of letting that inner beauty out. 2. Also known as Smokin Hot Minivan Mom. ed. 1. The selfless act of having purchased a Grand Caravan from Goss Dodge to have let her inner beauty out. ing. 1. The selfless act of indulging (purchasing) in a Grand Caravan from Goss Dodge to let her inner beauty out. (Link)
The dealer uses the term “inner beauty” instead of sex. Like hiding behind the euphemism erotica when it’s still porn.
Apparently the TeeVee ad was created for a Vermont car dealer. If you’ve ever been to Vermont, you would know that any high school boys usually encounter shwmoms: sleazy hefty welfare moms.
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