. . . was a helluva year. God Almighty, what a year. A year of opposites, to be sure. Examples? Oh I got plenty.
There was quite a lot of fun. There was quite a lot of terror. QUITE a lot.
I laughed like a madman. I cried like a bitch.
I got to do things that I'd always wanted to do. I had to do things that I'd never wanted to do. Really.
I lost family - and through the loss, gained more family than I even know what to do with (in a good way!).
I got closer to some peeps. I fell out of touch with some peeps.
There were points where I liked the person I was. There were points where I didn't.
But at the end of the day (or year), I'm still standing. I've got my health, my sense of humor, my lovely lady, my homeboys, and (what's left of) my sanity.
One of the things I'm most excited about? I'm going to get published in a major anthology that is slated to be distributed widely in Barnes and Noble and Borders. I'm going to make a name for myself in a field dominated by fifty-plus-year-olds who've been at it since before I was even a glimmer in my mother's eye, and be successful. That sounds like a win to me.
So, in retrospect, as many have been saying, fuck 2009, but do it gently. While 2009 was a screaming terror ride through most of it, it taught me a LOT.
Seems like college is actually teaching me shit about life. Who'da thunk it.
Here I come 2010. Let's do it big.
Stay classy
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Get off the Phone, Bad Guys!
Readership, I've noticed something through my scrupulous watching of movies over this winter break (when I should have been working kgb_ shifts, reading, or writing): whenever the movie is about some kind of organized crime bad guy that organizations like the FBI and people affiliated with such organizations want to capture or kill, there's usually a process to the whole thing. First off, we get the guy/gal's name, then someone (usually the superior) gives the FBI agent or FBI-affiliated a large-ish manila folder with a dossier and a bunch of pictures of this bad guy, and, inevitably, in every single picture, this evildoer is ALWAYS ON THE PHONE.
Really, bad guy?
Let's look at this logically - when do you want to be the MOST incognito? When you're talking to your evildoer cohorts, that's when! How is it that they don't catch you doing regular people shit, like jogging, or coaching your kid's soccer team, or running to the store for a gallon of milk, but they're able to catch you - without fail - planning your next diabolical scheme over the telephone?
Here's a free tip for you dumbasses: whatever it is you're doing when you're NOT on the phone, do that when you ARE on the phone. Because it almost seems like you're freakin' INVISIBLE to the people that would gain intel on you to try and stop you, UNTIL you put that phone up to your ear.
Shit. And then you wonder how they catch you in the end.
If you're a criminal mastermind trying to do some epic criminal shit with your evil underground criminal organization, STAY OFF THE PHONE IN PUBLIC.
And whatever you do.
Stay classy
Really, bad guy?
Let's look at this logically - when do you want to be the MOST incognito? When you're talking to your evildoer cohorts, that's when! How is it that they don't catch you doing regular people shit, like jogging, or coaching your kid's soccer team, or running to the store for a gallon of milk, but they're able to catch you - without fail - planning your next diabolical scheme over the telephone?
Here's a free tip for you dumbasses: whatever it is you're doing when you're NOT on the phone, do that when you ARE on the phone. Because it almost seems like you're freakin' INVISIBLE to the people that would gain intel on you to try and stop you, UNTIL you put that phone up to your ear.
Shit. And then you wonder how they catch you in the end.
If you're a criminal mastermind trying to do some epic criminal shit with your evil underground criminal organization, STAY OFF THE PHONE IN PUBLIC.
And whatever you do.
Stay classy
Friday, December 25, 2009
Hey Assholes!
Merry Christmas, from all of us at Legally Blind Observations.
In case you don't know, that's just me. Cletus died of beard cancer. We'll do a Dan Fogelberg and drink a toast to the old guy's innocence/soul/memory.
But yeah. Get drunk, be merry, get laid, but above all, be safe.
Stay classy
-Fred the Observer
In case you don't know, that's just me. Cletus died of beard cancer. We'll do a Dan Fogelberg and drink a toast to the old guy's innocence/soul/memory.
But yeah. Get drunk, be merry, get laid, but above all, be safe.
Stay classy
-Fred the Observer
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 4
Once again, readership, I've come back with yet another installment of what seems to be the only thing that regularly pisses me right the hell off, that being how people tend to say the stupidest shit and make me sad on the inside.
As an aside, I might actually make this a "Feature" if I can get enough stupid shit that people say. Shouldn't be too hard.
Anyway.
The first one comes from a question someone (most likely a Communist) asked of Rebecca aka R n' R: "Did you know that Thanksgiving was on a Thursday this year?"
NO WAY SERIOUSLY? If you hadn't told me, I would've celebrated it on Wednesday, like I did last year. Oh no, wait a second . . . I'm pretty sure I celebrated it on Thursday last year . . . and the year before . . . and the year before that.
ARE YOU SENSING A TREND HERE, DUMBASS? It's ALWAYS on a Thursday. If you'd eat turkey instead of STUPID, maybe you'd be a little better off, asshole.
Another favorite: "What have I done!?" Usually it's drawn out, and sounds really REALLY confused, so it's more like "WHAT have I doooooooone!?"
Hey asshole - WHAT DID YOU JUST DO? Assuming you don't have extreme-short-term-memory amnesia (or whatever the technical term for that shit is), then you SHOULD remember what you just did, and thus SHOULDN'T have to ask, ESPECIALLY not in an "I'm not asking anyone in particular" rhetorical manner.
And the best one, by far - usually uttered by parental units when they're trying to make a point. Ironically enough, however, instead of making a point, they make me MAD.
But I digress.
You as a five-year-old: "But Jimmy told me to do it!"
Parents: "So if Jimmy told you to jump off a building, you'd just do it without a second thought too?"
NO, DUMBASS.
I might be young, Mommy, but I wasn't born yesterday. There is a HUGE difference between what Jimmy told me to do and PLUMMETING TO MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD DOOM OFF A BUILDING. And to be quite frank, Mommy, if you can't grasp the distinction between childhood shenanigans and five-year-old DOOM OFF A BUILDING, then perhaps you should put me up for adoption. Because raising retards is hard, but being raised BY a retard . . . is retarded.
Stop saying such stupid shit!
Actually wait. I find myself at an interesting internal struggle here. If people were to stop saying such stupid shit, while it would make my life a lot less stressful, it would also deprive me of something to bitch about here, and writing these Observations DOES make me happy.
Hmm. Carry on, idiots. Give me something to write about.
And whatever you do, for God's sake.
Stay classy
As an aside, I might actually make this a "Feature" if I can get enough stupid shit that people say. Shouldn't be too hard.
Anyway.
The first one comes from a question someone (most likely a Communist) asked of Rebecca aka R n' R: "Did you know that Thanksgiving was on a Thursday this year?"
NO WAY SERIOUSLY? If you hadn't told me, I would've celebrated it on Wednesday, like I did last year. Oh no, wait a second . . . I'm pretty sure I celebrated it on Thursday last year . . . and the year before . . . and the year before that.
ARE YOU SENSING A TREND HERE, DUMBASS? It's ALWAYS on a Thursday. If you'd eat turkey instead of STUPID, maybe you'd be a little better off, asshole.
Another favorite: "What have I done!?" Usually it's drawn out, and sounds really REALLY confused, so it's more like "WHAT have I doooooooone!?"
Hey asshole - WHAT DID YOU JUST DO? Assuming you don't have extreme-short-term-memory amnesia (or whatever the technical term for that shit is), then you SHOULD remember what you just did, and thus SHOULDN'T have to ask, ESPECIALLY not in an "I'm not asking anyone in particular" rhetorical manner.
And the best one, by far - usually uttered by parental units when they're trying to make a point. Ironically enough, however, instead of making a point, they make me MAD.
But I digress.
You as a five-year-old: "But Jimmy told me to do it!"
Parents: "So if Jimmy told you to jump off a building, you'd just do it without a second thought too?"
NO, DUMBASS.
I might be young, Mommy, but I wasn't born yesterday. There is a HUGE difference between what Jimmy told me to do and PLUMMETING TO MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD DOOM OFF A BUILDING. And to be quite frank, Mommy, if you can't grasp the distinction between childhood shenanigans and five-year-old DOOM OFF A BUILDING, then perhaps you should put me up for adoption. Because raising retards is hard, but being raised BY a retard . . . is retarded.
Stop saying such stupid shit!
Actually wait. I find myself at an interesting internal struggle here. If people were to stop saying such stupid shit, while it would make my life a lot less stressful, it would also deprive me of something to bitch about here, and writing these Observations DOES make me happy.
Hmm. Carry on, idiots. Give me something to write about.
And whatever you do, for God's sake.
Stay classy
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Heat Surge
Readership, I know I've been a little on the low side with the Observations lately. There is a reason - I went through a few of my more recent ones, and realized that there wasn't too much quality in them. I'll say it plainly: after Blame Elevators for Obesity, the next "good" Observation (in my mind) was Pigeons. This saddens me, so now I'm going to opt for a more "quality over quantity" approach. This means that you might have to wait a little longer for Observations, but each one will be a winner.
Like this one.
There's this new product out there called the Heat Surge. It's made by Amish craftsmen, costs around $300, and as you can see, it's basically a portable space heater made up to look like a fireplace, complete with fake coals and a fake roaring fire behind them up against a screen. The cool thing about it is that the "fire" emits heat, but as it's not actually real fire, it doesn't burn when touched. How does it work? From the website's Frequently Asked Questions:
Like this one.
There's this new product out there called the Heat Surge. It's made by Amish craftsmen, costs around $300, and as you can see, it's basically a portable space heater made up to look like a fireplace, complete with fake coals and a fake roaring fire behind them up against a screen. The cool thing about it is that the "fire" emits heat, but as it's not actually real fire, it doesn't burn when touched. How does it work? From the website's Frequently Asked Questions:
"Virtually silent fan forced technology, 24 blade Air-O dynamic fan draws cool air through the back into the wind tunnel heat chamber, and disperses out into your home the bone soothing heat."
Have you spotted the one little snag here yet? Read it again. Go on, I'll wait.
Still no?
Okay, I'll tell you.
When in the hell have Amish people EVER used "virtually silent fan forced TECHNOLOGY," or ANY TECHNOLOGY AT ALL!? They almost have to go to confession for wearing a damn wristwatch, for God's sake, but a fucking silent forced fan that draws cool air back into a wind tunnel heat chamber and disperses it out into your home, and has a nifty little fake fire and coals to put the image of a cozy fireplace in mind? I mean, shit, might as well just start shopping online and watching TV too, cuz you're Amish-cred is shot to shit after that.
For $300 (more, after shipping), I'll buy a sweater and an Xbox 360 and be warm and entertained.
Sheesh.
Stay classy
Have you spotted the one little snag here yet? Read it again. Go on, I'll wait.
Still no?
Okay, I'll tell you.
When in the hell have Amish people EVER used "virtually silent fan forced TECHNOLOGY," or ANY TECHNOLOGY AT ALL!? They almost have to go to confession for wearing a damn wristwatch, for God's sake, but a fucking silent forced fan that draws cool air back into a wind tunnel heat chamber and disperses it out into your home, and has a nifty little fake fire and coals to put the image of a cozy fireplace in mind? I mean, shit, might as well just start shopping online and watching TV too, cuz you're Amish-cred is shot to shit after that.
For $300 (more, after shipping), I'll buy a sweater and an Xbox 360 and be warm and entertained.
Sheesh.
Stay classy
Friday, December 11, 2009
Blame Elevators for Obesity
Unintentionally, it seems that I've done back-to-back "Blame X for Y" posts. While this is a complete coincidence, readership, the issue that I'm bringing up in this Observation is quite a serious one.
The following is a true story.
It will sound mean. It is mean.
It will sound exaggerated. It is the truth.
Today, I was going to see my girlfriend Jordan on the fourth floor. I live on the ground floor, which, due to some retard's design decision, is called the "basement." So technically, she lives on the fifth floor, but whatever.
Anyway, I got into the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth (aka fifth) floor, and stood back. As the door began to slide shut, a strange sound reached my ears. It was almost as if a mute elephant had been airlifted to the top of one of those amazingly high and steep staircases that the Mayans seemed to love to put on the sides of their temples, and then dropped down the entire staircase. Except with like fourteen elephants that were three times as large as they would usually be in the wild.
At this point, I'm like "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?" The ground's shaking, and whatever the hell is making this noise is getting closer - and fast. I start to mash the "door close" button, hoping beyond hope that whatever fucking super-tiger-dinosaur creature that's coming towards me gets assed out of eating me because the elevator door closes on it.
No such luck, however. A large, morbidly obese arm - notice how I said ARM, not PERSON - hooked itself around the door and basically forced it back open again. And what followed was the biggest, morbidestly obesest person I'd ever seen, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf after an asthma attack. It (because I honestly couldn't tell if this was a dude or a chick) stepped into the elevator with me - and the elevator dropped an inch or two - and I stepped back as far as I could, giving this creature room.
The chubbiest of fingers reached out towards the row of buttons, and pressed . . .
1.
WHAT THE FUCK!?
What you're saying is, you could run at nearly SIXTY MILES PER HOUR so you could finja your way into the elevator and fucking SMOOSH me into the CORNER, but you couldn't climb TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS!? And then have the nerve to be like "hurry up . . fucking elevator . . . " under your breath!?
GET SOME EXERCISE ASSHOLE.
And for God's sake, whatever you do.
Stay classy
The following is a true story.
It will sound mean. It is mean.
It will sound exaggerated. It is the truth.
Today, I was going to see my girlfriend Jordan on the fourth floor. I live on the ground floor, which, due to some retard's design decision, is called the "basement." So technically, she lives on the fifth floor, but whatever.
Anyway, I got into the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth (aka fifth) floor, and stood back. As the door began to slide shut, a strange sound reached my ears. It was almost as if a mute elephant had been airlifted to the top of one of those amazingly high and steep staircases that the Mayans seemed to love to put on the sides of their temples, and then dropped down the entire staircase. Except with like fourteen elephants that were three times as large as they would usually be in the wild.
At this point, I'm like "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?" The ground's shaking, and whatever the hell is making this noise is getting closer - and fast. I start to mash the "door close" button, hoping beyond hope that whatever fucking super-tiger-dinosaur creature that's coming towards me gets assed out of eating me because the elevator door closes on it.
No such luck, however. A large, morbidly obese arm - notice how I said ARM, not PERSON - hooked itself around the door and basically forced it back open again. And what followed was the biggest, morbidestly obesest person I'd ever seen, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf after an asthma attack. It (because I honestly couldn't tell if this was a dude or a chick) stepped into the elevator with me - and the elevator dropped an inch or two - and I stepped back as far as I could, giving this creature room.
The chubbiest of fingers reached out towards the row of buttons, and pressed . . .
1.
WHAT THE FUCK!?
What you're saying is, you could run at nearly SIXTY MILES PER HOUR so you could finja your way into the elevator and fucking SMOOSH me into the CORNER, but you couldn't climb TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS!? And then have the nerve to be like "hurry up . . fucking elevator . . . " under your breath!?
GET SOME EXERCISE ASSHOLE.
And for God's sake, whatever you do.
Stay classy
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Blame Darwin for Porn
And anything else people do that you don't like. But I'm gonna stick with porn for this Observation.
Anyway.
Humans are obviously very special, unique members of the animal kingdom, for many reasons. Our opposable thumbs, for example, make us very different from many animals, except for our monkey ancestors.
But there's something else, something so rare in the animal kingdom that we only share it with one other animal (the dolphin). What is it?
We get pleasure from sex.
Now you all see the porn connection. But what about Darwin? Glad you asked.
Darwin's theory of natural selection basically states that traits that will help an organism survive and reproduce - or are basically "desirable" - are passed on to the next generation, and those which will not, or aren't desirable, die with the last carriers of them. For example, most animals that exist today have the right side of their bodies controlled by the left side of their brains, and vice-versa. Why, you ask? Imagine being attacked from the right side, and someone smashing the right side of your head. Now, if the right side of your body was controlled by the right side of your brain, the right side of your body would be pretty nonfunctional right now - not good for you in this situation, because your right side is the side closest to your attacker. However, seeing as in actuality the right side of your body is controlled by the left side of your brain, if you were to be smashed in the right side of the head, you'd still be able to raise your right arm and defend yourself. A desirable trait? Fo sho.
But back to porn.
Since humans are one of the two known species that gain pleasure from sex, with regards to Darwin's theory of Natural Selection, there had to be a reason why this trait - gaining pleasure from sex - had to be more desirable than the alternative. The reason why? Years in the future, a business called "the porn industry" would make untold millions - even perhaps billions! - of dollars, exploiting the fact that human beings get pleasure from sex (even if it's with Jackie or Palmela instead of with a significant other).
So yeah. Hate porn? Blame Darwin.
But whatever you do
Stay classy
Anyway.
Humans are obviously very special, unique members of the animal kingdom, for many reasons. Our opposable thumbs, for example, make us very different from many animals, except for our monkey ancestors.
But there's something else, something so rare in the animal kingdom that we only share it with one other animal (the dolphin). What is it?
We get pleasure from sex.
Now you all see the porn connection. But what about Darwin? Glad you asked.
Darwin's theory of natural selection basically states that traits that will help an organism survive and reproduce - or are basically "desirable" - are passed on to the next generation, and those which will not, or aren't desirable, die with the last carriers of them. For example, most animals that exist today have the right side of their bodies controlled by the left side of their brains, and vice-versa. Why, you ask? Imagine being attacked from the right side, and someone smashing the right side of your head. Now, if the right side of your body was controlled by the right side of your brain, the right side of your body would be pretty nonfunctional right now - not good for you in this situation, because your right side is the side closest to your attacker. However, seeing as in actuality the right side of your body is controlled by the left side of your brain, if you were to be smashed in the right side of the head, you'd still be able to raise your right arm and defend yourself. A desirable trait? Fo sho.
But back to porn.
Since humans are one of the two known species that gain pleasure from sex, with regards to Darwin's theory of Natural Selection, there had to be a reason why this trait - gaining pleasure from sex - had to be more desirable than the alternative. The reason why? Years in the future, a business called "the porn industry" would make untold millions - even perhaps billions! - of dollars, exploiting the fact that human beings get pleasure from sex (even if it's with Jackie or Palmela instead of with a significant other).
So yeah. Hate porn? Blame Darwin.
But whatever you do
Stay classy
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Wives of Ninjas
Readership, half-asleep in a stupor borne of having to write a 5-page history paper that I didn't know about until yesterday, due today (which I finished), I had a revelation. Ninjas, while awesome, would have made absolutely terrible husbands. Stick with me here.
I'd have to think that a ninja wouldn't tell his wife that he was a ninja at first, which I imagine would lead to some shit.
"Where were you last night, Isao? And what is this stain on your collar? Hmm!?"
"Uhhh. . ."
"Ohhhhh I knew it, you're cheating!"
"Okay, listen. I assassinated a visiting dignitary last night. The stain on my collar is the blood of a traitor."
Yeah that shit wouldn't go over too well.
And also, in Feudal Japan, the wife was basically the servant to the husband. She cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, planted crops, etc. etc.
Ninjas had to have OD high metabolisms (because of all the running, climbing, and fighting they did), so they would always be eating, meaning his wife would be always at the stove cooking some grub up for him to assassinate- er, eat.
Also, ninjas stay slayin' muthafuckas, so there would be a lot of blood splatters on their clothes and whatnot. I dunno about you, but every time I've tried getting blood out of fabric, it's been pretty difficult, especially if it's set in - and you know ninjas did NOT have that Tide To-Go Pen shit handy after they sliced some dishonorable bitch open and got all his blood on his jacket, so that shit's set in by the time he gets home.
From what I understand of women, "I'm gonna sneak around all the time, murdering people and getting my clothes all bloodied and maybe ripped, but you better wash and mend my clothes and make me dinner cuz I'm HUNGRY!" don't fly. I guess for ninjas back in the day, it was less about finding a wife and more about finding a hooker.
Stay classy
I'd have to think that a ninja wouldn't tell his wife that he was a ninja at first, which I imagine would lead to some shit.
"Where were you last night, Isao? And what is this stain on your collar? Hmm!?"
"Uhhh. . ."
"Ohhhhh I knew it, you're cheating!"
"Okay, listen. I assassinated a visiting dignitary last night. The stain on my collar is the blood of a traitor."
Yeah that shit wouldn't go over too well.
And also, in Feudal Japan, the wife was basically the servant to the husband. She cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, planted crops, etc. etc.
Ninjas had to have OD high metabolisms (because of all the running, climbing, and fighting they did), so they would always be eating, meaning his wife would be always at the stove cooking some grub up for him to assassinate- er, eat.
Also, ninjas stay slayin' muthafuckas, so there would be a lot of blood splatters on their clothes and whatnot. I dunno about you, but every time I've tried getting blood out of fabric, it's been pretty difficult, especially if it's set in - and you know ninjas did NOT have that Tide To-Go Pen shit handy after they sliced some dishonorable bitch open and got all his blood on his jacket, so that shit's set in by the time he gets home.
From what I understand of women, "I'm gonna sneak around all the time, murdering people and getting my clothes all bloodied and maybe ripped, but you better wash and mend my clothes and make me dinner cuz I'm HUNGRY!" don't fly. I guess for ninjas back in the day, it was less about finding a wife and more about finding a hooker.
Stay classy
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