the week in phone pics

April 2, 2012

Week that was in pictures



1.  Swiss chard and sweet potato gratin made by the wifebot.
2.  Starbucks Refresher: Raspberry Pomegranate. Made w/ green coffee bean extract.
3.  The wifey in her newly made doily hoodie.
4.  Soccer ball bank. Columbus Crew ticket seed money?
5.  Glitter Easter egg that a coworker gave me. I’m not sure why.
6.  Heart shaped bird poo.
7.  Godzilla at Big Fun.
8.  Note to self on left over Animal Frites from Greenhouse Tavern 
9.  Bombshell Blonde Ale at Greenhouse Tavern
10. Coventry Arch


The one with change

March 30, 2011

Monday I had a job interview. It went pretty smoothly. I’m in line for a 2nd interview. This post is not about that though. No this post is what happened on my way to the interview. It let me know that the interview would be a success.

As I walked up Coventry to where I had to catch the number 32 bus a man approached me. I’d seen him before and knew what would be asked. I was not in a hurry but you know tense about making the interview on time.

Dude: Hey my man!
Me: Sorry homes I don’t got anything for ya today.
Dude: I just need a dollar or so.
Me: Sorry only got money that’ll get me a bus pass.
Dude: Got nothing you can help a brother with?
Me: No.
Dude: I just need some change.
Me: You don’t need to change I like you just the way you are?
Dude: ….
Me (As I walked away): Have a great day.
Dude: It’s like that?

Based on the awesomeness of my “You don’t need to change line.” I knew the rest of the day would work out nicely.


Now this guy would get change from me. Though I hope he just means to buy the material for it because I’m pretty sure a Jedi needs to construct their light saber.

The one with Vodka and hate

October 18, 2010

The night progressed as every other night fueled by free vodka would. This is to say much quicker than normal. It started with me not going and then somehow ending up on a bar stool drinking Finlandia next to the two people I’m always drinking with.

On my left there was an open seat and the bar was occupied by my star wars bag which I instinctively held anytime someone, not refilling my empty glass came near. The bartenders were nice, attentive and generous with the vodka. I made two new friends that evening.

Finlandia Tangerine and Finlandia Mango.

Mr. Grapefruit wasn’t too bad either. We only met through other acquaintances though.

There were shots. Plenty of them actually. I know that the number of shots I had was plenty because the guy in the bathroom told me so. Me and the nice warmth slowly filling my head made our way to the bathroom. I pushed the door open with what felt an inappropriate amount of surrealism. It swung open too easily and with a force that bolstered my ego. The music the DJ refused to let die faded just a bit. My thoughts were once again free.

“I am superman” I thought! Shook my head strongly no, not superman he is a douche nozzle.

“Why would you choose Superman?” damn you thoughts and your warm blanket of vodka. First you choose my arch enemy and then you try to overthrow my mind and accuse me of the horrible crime you in fact committed.

“Did I ask that out loud?” Damn.

Oh man did I ask the Superman question out loud? No I couldn’t have, because surely if I had there would be someone in here to hear it. Of course there was nobody in there with me. It was just me, my rebellious thoughts, the Finlandia and the sticker of someone’s face inside the urinal.

The room was one step from the bathrooms with one weak light bulb swinging from a chain you see in horror movies. The walls sported the typical bar restroom graffiti. What would we do if there weren’t any drunken sentences scrawled on the walls? The thing that always gives me pause (and did yet again that night) is the words carved into the mirrors. This act would involve effort. Said “artist” would have to crawl up in some instances and at the very least leaning over an endlessly wet sink. Plus the work it has to take to cut into it.
I stood in there soaking the entire room up. Not that there was much. Said mirror with all sorts of meaningless things etched into it. A pink flyer leaned on the side wall like a drunk. I kicked open the stall door and I’m still not sure why.

Nothing of note.

Just a bit of toilet paper looped lovingly over the handle. Suddenly the stall was filled with sex. I could see the shoed foot pushing up against where the stall and its door connected. It pumped. The leg bent and lengthened. Her dress pulled up and tucked with a neatness not matching what was happening.
I was writing a poem starring into the stall at bar on Coventry. Was this actually happening? My notebook was out and I was scribbling away. I heard the music start to get loud and turned. The poem would have to wait. I stepped up to the sink and slid my notebook into my bag. It thumped in against my leg and a line screamed out.

“Hey buddy nice night huh?” That was the dumbest line I ever heard.

“Deep in thought?” the intruder continued. He was wearing skinny jeans and a “Killers” shirt. Over this he wore a button up shirt, unbuttoned and yet somehow still tucked in. I explained off that I was lost in a poem. He nodded and grunted an approving-esque sound.

“Hey we shared a shot together didn’t we?”As I dried my hands he made his way over. His eyes were brown and he wore beat up Adidas. I knew he’d be the guy banging the girl in my poem. He’d let her pay for the shots and then fuck her talentlessly in the one dirty bathroom stall of a men’s room. She’d have to finish herself in the parking lot after the two minute warrior was long gone. I hated him. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted out of here. I wanted my glass refilled, and the warmth in my head to burn brightly instead.
The free vodka hour was over though.

“Uhm yeah I think the whole bar got shots.” I said.

“Right. Who was the girl that did it?” He shifted. I really hoped he wasn’t getting any that night.

“The bartender?”

“She bought them?” It was a gargley voice. It was as if each letter poured out of his throat. Did he whisper wet nothings into her ear as he used her? Surely she’d vomit all over his checkered shirt?

“Well the bar bought them.” I hate you. “The girls on the other side of the bar asked for them and the bartender included us all.” I hope yours was poisoned!

“Oh.” He washed his hands with a violence that was almost pretty. Water splashed the floor, the mirror and him. “I only got one shot. What about you?”

“4.” I felt the warmth being taken over by the coldness in my chest. I would not write the poem if he was portrayed in a good light. Muse be damned.

“That’s plenty.” He wiped his fucking hands on his jeans. “Don’t you think?”

“I could always use more.”

I pulled my ninja turtle stocking cap down tight around my head. I’d trap the disdain inside there if I could.

The one where I’m the gimp

July 14, 2010

We’ve all been there before. You know sitting in a chair and hurting. In the middle of having a heated discussion with someone and then you hear a simple sentence: Bring out the gimp.

Someone leaves. There is a whole bunch of noise. Chains can be heard.

(“What the hell?” you think.) Then you see this:


And you just know that the throbbing in your foot is the least of your worries because you know you’re going to get bleeped in your butt. And believe me there ain’t no sword wielding Bruce Willis to save you either.

Okay woah! Timeout here people. What is the matter with you? How long were you going to let me go on with that? Sick people some of you are. Okay so I’m pretty sure none of you can relate to that. If you can then all I can say is sorry some men tied you up and butt raped you like the scene from Pulp Fiction. Also that I hope your butt feels better. I couldn’t resist putting that in here because well the next in the cult movie series at the Cedar Lee is Pulp Fiction. You’ll see the other reason soon. I didn’t do it because butt rape is funny or did I? No I didn’t why would you even ask that?

Anybuttrape on to the real story. This is the true story… of seven strangers… picked to live in a house…work together and have their lives taped… to find out what happens… when people stop being polite… and start getting real…The Real World.

Scratch all of that. If I can be serious for a moment. (Yeah! Late 90s early 2000’s wrestling reference! Lance Storm High Five) Truth is I woke up the other day and the right heel of my right foot hurt like a mofo! Like my foot was a new porn star and its butt (heel) was being slammed by an angry Ron Jeremy.
Just like that you all bring butt sex back into this.

Anylongdong I think there was a point to this. Ah yes my foot hurts like a mofo (but I already said that) and I don’t like it. It appears to be Gout but forget the self diagnosis jive you want some fun stuff.

Butt sex

So this morning I was faced with a real problem. I needed to go get the kitties some food. You know like walk somewhere. I had to because if they chose to revolt and eat me it’d be a lot easier to with my gimpy leg. Off I trudged (you know across the street) to the little Coventry convenience store. I was too far away (and too gimpy) to make it to the cross walk so at the red light I crossed mid street. As I limped lamely across a red truck turned. I suppose the driver had known how many points hitting a long haired dude with a limp was. I should have asked him how many. I know from The Toxic Avenger that it’s 28 points if you get the kid and the bike! He sped up and hit his horn at the same time.

“Move it gimp”

Yeah he actually yelled that at me. Bummed by the fact that my foot hurts, I got pwned by a douche in a chevy from like 1980 I limped sadly in to the store. I picked up the kitty food and some various other things and checked out. This helped cheer me up:

(A young kid points at a magazine where a woman sits on a car with a big butt and a tiny bathing suit on)
Kid: Daddy mommy has a butt like that.

And then when I limped up to the counter this happened.

Lady: You hurt your foot sweetie?
Me: Oh yeah. The heel.
Lady: Oh sweetie how?
Me: You know the running of the bulls?
Lady: Yeah!
Me: Well we do the running of the chickens. It’s in Lakewood.*
Lady: Oh seriously?
Guy behind counter: I think he’s pulling your leg.
Lady: That’s not funny.
Me: Have a good day.

*this is not true I clearly made it all up (some asked)

See sometimes you have to get through the butt sex pain to get to the funny.

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