Archive for February, 2009

February 28, 2009

Ok here’s the real reason I’m back.  And I’m serious.  It’s this stupid.

My favorite sport has always been soccer, much moreso than any other sport (baseball is second, if you’re keeping score in  your diary).  There is a broad spectrum of characters in this very global game.  But tonight, rather serendipitously and unconsicously, it finally came to me which player is the very douche-iest in the game.  And you know, whether you watch soccer or not, that being the douche-iest of that scene is saying a fair bit.

Before I reveal his identity, I’ll reveal that he crowns my douche-iest heap purely by so astoundingly and roundingly fitting out the caricature, or rather the ediface, the walking embodiment of the dickhead european doctor I have for so many years been trying to paint the picture of.  I have nothing against Europeans (they talk pretty) or doctors (they fix people), but my vitriolic disdain for European doctors knows no bounds.  And I can describe in full detail, until I’m breathless, the haircut, the turtleneck, the sport coat draping over the shoulders, the oppresive choking of ego in the air, the offensively luxurious butter pecan colored Italian loafers the Standard European Doctor stiffs a bellman to shine (on a free shine), the goose down parka with baby seal fur hoodlining, the rigorously straight leg Levi’s (copyright United States of Yankee American Cowboy Apple Pie Can’t Find For Shit In Europe), etc., of the Typical European Doctor.

I present to you: Javier Zanetti.  And the disturbing part – he’s not even EUROPEAN.  Well not technically.  He’s Argentinean, but plays his club football in Milan for Inter.  Being an Argentinean who plays football in Milan only makes you “technically” not European. Argentina is Emilia-Romagna-West, and once you see this D bag’s pictures you’ll want to brand “EURODICK” on his forehead.  Which is only partially obscured by his Garnier Fructise hair shield. Without further ado……. JZ.

(By the way, if anyone reading this actually watches soccer, thank you, first of all for already hating Javier Zanetti. You are wise.   Second, Australian League Soccer is what is being offered up to me as I write this on my local soccer cable provider.  Why don’t we just sit down for some womens U-17 Hula Hoop Championships while we’re here.  I can’t afford the channel to get Liverpool v. Real Madrid in the Champions League.  OK fine.  But don’t punish me with the FULL AND COMPLETE broadcast of an Australian League Soccer match REPLETE WITH NATIONAL ANTHEM.  This is the sort of thing that drives people to watch womens soccer.)


OK Motherfuckers. I’m back.
February 28, 2009

Due to popular demand (and by popular I mean 3 or 4 people), and 3 really stiff homemade vodka/sprites, I’m back to write about my really interesting life in the hospitality industry.  Thanks for coming.  Whether this is your first time reading my horseshit, or you’ve heretofore wallowed in my bog of self pity, read these few caveats to make sure you’re not here wasting your time:

1. Is it shitty to write a blog about what could be perceived to be whining about one’s job in a time when people are lucky to have jobs?  You betcha.  That paradox will never be lost on me.  I felt bad about bitching about work long before the economy shit the bed.  I think about it everyday.  I do not take my job for granted, and while I am prone to pissing and moaning ad nauseum about it, i am glad I am gainfully employed.

2. I have no intention of damning nor denigrating my place of employ, nor my co-workers.  This is my take on life in the service industry, which is to say my take on the vagaries of life in a job which provides totally random mindfucks on a daily, sometimes hourly basis.  My employers are for the most part swell people, as are my co-workers, whose company has done nothing but continually broaden my horizons.

3. There’s lots of swear words here.  I never fully realized, until I quit writing a blog for a while, how many people read my writing that I would never swear in front of in person.  Ever.  And once I heard them say the words that they read my blog, the first thing that popped into my head was always the excessive, needless, and childish amount of swearing I employed in my posts.  I have continually been horrified by who is reading my potty mouth.  And to those of you in this group, I humbly say……go fuck yourselves.  No wait!  Ha!  Just kidding.  I meant sorry.  I truly am sorry if the swear words offend thee.  But the truth is, while I’m an unquestionably crap writer, I really do like the patter, pace, and timbre of swear words, so why not make language more colorful, and while we’re at it, why not with wide brushes?

4. I do not actually believe anyone reads this poppycock.  I really don’t.  That’s mostly the reason I stopped writing for so long.  Contrary to what most seem to think, writing is not necessarily therapeutic.  For whatever reason I tend to find it self-indulgent, and fear it could only stoke ego stroking or, well, self indulgence.  But then there’s the magic of a stiff pour or finely crafted German beer.  And I come home all too often having experienced some transcendental epiphany vis-a-vis Susan-from-Toledo’s hankering for cheesecake or some shit.  So here’s this stupid blog.