Six Flags? I take my hat off to them...not
My poor son is stuck with me this weekend, which means I must be furtive in my attempts to sneak cigarettes and drink whisky. The cigarettes occur outside on the deck while he's busy watching Tom & Jerry on Boomerang; the whisky occurs in a coffee mug. He asked me, "Dad, you really drink a lot of coffee, won't you be up all night?" and I said, "Son, I haven't been up for 12 years." He had no idea what I meant by that, but you, you loyal shlubbies, you know, dontcha?
So yesterday comes the
news of the kid decapitated at Six Flags in Atlanta. He apparently jumped some security fences and had this terrrible thing happen to him while trying to retrieve a cap he lost on the Batman ride.
With that in mind, last night Nigel Jr. and I are watching George Lopez on Nick Jr. and
on comes an ad for....Six Flags! Not only that, it was an ad for some crazy summer promotion they're doing, and the copy actually had this line in it:
"So much fun, you'll lose your mind!" First time I heard it, I went, "no way"...but sure enough, it was repeated again before the ad ended.
Back in my radio days, airlines had a contingency plan for whenever a commercial airliner crashed, anywhere in the US--that was, stations were required to
immediately suspend all play of any of their airline ads until further notice. Not a bad policy, I suppose. But I can't believe the Six Flags people didn't have the smarts enough to contact their own ad agency and order the immediate suspension of all advertising...especially one that mentions
"losing your mind" when some poor kid just lost his head.
I smell old people
Tonight I, along with my son, had dinner with my mother and her husband at the
old folks home where they're currently....existing.
While this place is a step up from most elder warehouses, I've gotta say that apparently there's just only so much the maintenance people can do. It's difficult to describe the sensations experienced whilst munching on
cold swordfish salad and being simultenously assaulted with the
odor of wee wee plus that "grandma smell"...know that smell? I'm not referring to dear ol' mom, here; she's pretty bloody fastidious about body reek and if anything overdoes it with the Chanel # 753. No, it was the overall aroma of the place. It's tough to enjoy dinner with
urine ammonia/old lady bloomers stench wafting through the bistro.
Combine this with the least attentive wait staff in the history of the universe, and you've got a recipe for "well, we've really enjoyed the last 15 minutes, but sorry we have to go now." The
wait staff is 100% exclusively surly youngsters who must not have the social skills to get a wait job in a restaurant where developing a clientele is important...a place where you're trying to build up a group of regulars who ask for you when they enter the front door. Since the only thing these
shitstains can count on is that the rich old people in this place are a) captive b) immobile for the most part c) toothless d) will likely die soon, there's not much in the way of working hard for tips that seems to matter. And it's reflected in the service one receives.
For dessert, I requested one of those blue urinal cakes, covered in chocolate. I figured, let's have something to help get rid of the stink. Plus I've tried them before, and they're oh so minty.
Above left, two participants in the home's
"Mercy Killing Mondays!" event, held weekly in the parking lot (golf cart transportation provided but you gotta sign up the week before at the activities desk, goddammit).
I don't know about this...but....
So I'm into ordering and wearing weird t-shirts, but this one, I dunno. I'm thinking of ordering it for my mother to wear. She's 73. Won't her new 84 year old husband be happy?
An update soon...sorry
I'm at a conference with near-zero time to be remotely thinking about the blog, but that'll change soon.
It's 10am Thursday and I'm shacked up in the Ritz Carlton Lake Oconee, Georgia. Whoops, here comes the room service with my bloody mary's. Gotta go.
Read the headline. Laugh. Rinse, repeat.
52 year old woman in a thong
See this one?
Woman, 52, sues Victoria's Secret, claims injury from defective thong.The particulars are: this woman was trying on a thong and some
piece of decorative bling popped off the thong and hit her in the eye.
I don't care about the particulars. What worries me is the idea that a 52 year old woman is trying on a thong. Look, I'm a 50 year old man, and photos of my body are used regularly in the "before" shots in Nutri-System ads.
My fat rolls have fat rolls. Seriously, taking a shower is an exercise in patience, as I literally have to lift up the tummy and abdomen bloat in order to clean out the crevices contained therein.
And therein lies the disgust generated by this story. Here's a woman, born in 1956, and unless
she looks like the stunningly gorgeous
Renee Russo (right), who's 54, for real, but looks all of 27, for God's sake, well, fuggedaboudit. This woman should be paying Victoria's Secret for devising a means by which 52 year old fatties can conjure up the cojones to try on a thong, for God's sake, and think they'd look...appetizing.
Chance are good that in reality,
this is what this 52 year old woman looks like (at left). She's lucky the only thing that hit her was the bling; then again, she's used to getting hit, having been smacked hard by the ugly stick at birth, and then repeatedly throughout adoloscence. Beaten about the head. Cracked across the buttocks (wouldn't need much aiming, given the size of said buttocks). You get the idea...
Bumper Stickers = Road Rage?
News from the "We've Got Too Much Time On Our Hands" division of the Nashville-based Hand Wringers Corporation: if you've got
bumper stickers on your car, you're more prone to experience
"road rage". Who knew?
I'm a serene and calm driver, goddammit, yet I have bumper stickers on my AMC Pacer. Here are 3 of them; I'll let you be the judge as to whether or not I have "issues".
Here's the first, one of my faves, baby:
And the second. I get lots of looks from other drivers. Wonder why?
And finally. These colors don't run! Ok, well, it's a bit faded; time for a new one maybe?
The car won't start at the Pink Pony...
"There's no sex in the VIP Room"--this from Chris Rock. He's partially right.
Friday night, I find myself alone (as usual) while sitting in the stage area of a local "gentleman's club" (unusual...really. Well, sort of...). I avail myself of the services of one of the entertainers, she being all of
21, nubile and fabulous looking, and hied away to the deep dark confines of the VIP area, where I proceeded to spend way too much money. But, what the hell.
So she's on the floor
in front of me, legs akimbo, pleasuring herself (in our town, they're fully nude, no touching or contact allowed on the floor, but in the VIP Rooms, all bets are off), and I'm thinking: "wouldn't it be great it it was like this all the time?"
As to the "no sex in the VIP Room" thing, there was certainly none for me, but the girl I was paying a million dollars an hour got off more than once, using her own, um, devices. Good for her.
Subsequent to me wasting a lot of cash and also
despoiling my underwear, out to the parking lot your Nigel goes, where
the car refuses to not not only start, but allow access via either the electronic fob or the actual car keys. Fun.
So here we are, midnight, crappy part of town, no one to call for help and nowhere to go to get the car fixed.
After staying the night at the conveniently located
shitbag Microtel hotel next door, I'm back up again Saturday morning, trying to figure out my options. Should I blow my head off with a shotgun? Too...intense. Maybe call the local car dealer and get the bloody thing towed? Less intense, so that's what I did.
$384 later, and then it's noon Saturday, and my first day off in 6 weeks....sigh. It's back to the VIP Room for me, dontcha know, to drink away my sorrows.
WalMart, 4:30am. Why, for the love of God, why?
I was in my local WalMart Giganto store this morning at 4:30, and I had to wait in line at checkout. At 4:30am. Why? Because there was an entire family of people in front of me, little kids and all, buying a TV set.
Who buys a TV set with little kids at 4:30am? Someone desperate to see Ernest Angley's "Jesus World Outreach" at 5:00am on UHF channel 69? "Hurry, honey, Ernest's coming on. He's going to heal his own hair!"
Me, I buy breakfast there. Boysenberry yogurt, Fritos, Marlboro Lights, and chiterlings (hey, I live in the South, and nothing says "South" like a pig intestine chitlins breakfast). Plus lots of Fresca. It's a complete balanced nutritional breakfast, yummy scrum dummy, here it comes tummy.
Have a thrilling weekend, and by all means stay the fuck out of WalMart at 4:30am, 'cause if you're there and I'm behind you and I have to wait because you're buying home appliances, you silly twit, I'll have two words to say to you. And they won't be "Happy Birthday"!
Uncontrollable, in the Crown Room
I love the
Delta Crown Room.
Populated mostly by upper middle class self-important Blackberry toting first class upgrade hunting
shlemiels and posers, it's a place where you can get free drinks while relaxing
en passant in the Crate and Barrel style post-modern cushy furniture. Invariably
yabbering loudly into their goddamm Bluetooth devices, oblivious to the fact that the rest of us
don't fucking care about their oily heap of shit business dealings, these smegma suckers squat sumo-like, busily working their fucking Dell laptops while sucking down the free Sweetwater on tap.
Assholes.Cost for all this? A few hundred a year. Me, I get around it by using an AMEX Platinum Card, which gets you into these hallowed halls for free, dontcha know.
I like to fuck with 'em.
I act like I've got Tourette's...and also Restless Leg Syndrome. The combination of me swearing quietly to myself (but loud enough for digballs business guy on the couch next to me to hear) while bouncing my right knee up and down, up and down, up and down...well, it gets me the attention I crave. When confronted by the middle aged hag ex-flight attendant who was hot before they invented radio but who now handles check-ins at the Crownie (as I affectionately call the Crown Room), and it's invariable that I get confronted, I respond hissing thusly: "Listen you fucking disgusting twat, sorry I have Tourette's, you whore, sorry I have Tourette's, ouch my leg is bouncing, sorry I have Restless Leg Syndrome, you bitch, sorry I have Tourette's, my legs, ow, they hurt, sorry I have Restless Leg Syndrome, go fuck yourself and you'd be lucky to get
that action, sorry I have Tourette's....
You get the idea.
Traveling with your Nigel is fun. You should try it sometime. OOOPS, the just called le flight du moi, seat 4C, darlings, and it's on to the double vodka and orange juices all the way home.
Oh, and, sorry I have Tourette's. You fucking asshole.
Orlando, after the week from hell
Jeez,
what a week.Personal crapola reared its ugly head again; I'm sick of letting this get to me and am determined to
avoid all personal crapola in the future. I managed to not have anything like this happen to me for 12 years (no dating, no going out, no quickies, no hookers, no NOTHING), and you know what? You get used to it, and eventually it's not so bad. I got to the point where I shrugged my shoulders at the whole bloody mess, writing off ever again having a woman around me who cared for me and vice versa. But then like the dummy I am, opened myself up one last time.
Never, never, ever again. DONE.Whoever said that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all was a
complete dipshit/idiot/slagheap/douchenozzle. All the bad things in my life, every single goddamm one of them, have been caused by me getting involved with a woman. Truly now, I'm working really hard to not end up being the
spokesman for Misogynists Anonymous, but at the same time, hell, what's an ugly 50 year old guy to think?
You may well wonder what the photo of the mosquito has to do with any of this. Two reasons. There's the bloodsucking nature of my charming experiences as described above--then, also, I'm
back in beautiful Orlando. Located in temperate Orange County, which up till 1845 was named "Mosquito County", Orlando is a swampy steaming mess. So the photo kills two birds with one stone, the way I see it.
I have presentations to do at a convention. I will not be visiting theme parks. I will be going to a gentleman's club or two (see? No misogyny there!).
I will be back mid-next week, full of
vim, vigor, and vodka. Not necessarily in that order.
Wherein your Nigel screws it up, again
Goddamit all to fucking hell! Once again, your Nigel, last night and late, and
via drunk texting, puts foot (A) in mouth (B) and screws up what was feeling like some sort of reconciliation with a friend of mine, who might've actually at one point or another taken pity on me and my skin tags, and
put out. With her marvelous body: what a fabulous ass she has. But I digress.
She's furious with me and I think for good reason.
Wants me "out of her life", forthwith, and I'll comply absent other alternatives. If I counted up all the women who wanted me out of their lives, I'd be a professor of fucking quantum physics.
Today I actually prayed: "Dear God, please help me understand
why I'm so fricking unloveable, so I can take corrective steps which will allow me some
degree of sexual satisfaction." No answer yet, but the lines are OPEN!
Well, I guess that ship's sailed,
right into the bloody Bermuda Triangle, apparently, and now I'm sleepless and hopeless and very, very, sad. But what else is new.
Shit.
Randomosity
I have
lost a shitload of weight, mums and dads, and am ready to parade myself amongst the hoi polloi, all jazzed up and jizzed up. Maybe 50 pounds so far. At this point, I've gone from looking like Jabba The Hut (me, at left, three months ago) to
Sidney Greenstreet (he of the "Maltese Falcon", pictured at right). Yes, I'm damn sexy, if you consider Drew Carey hot. And he's better looking than me. So, it's onward and upward for your loyal Nigel, and I hope to
regale you with nasty, erotic-type stories of my exploits with willing nubility in the days to come.
Or, more realistically,
my wanking schedule. But yiz takes what yiz can git, right, boyo? If I could just find an attractive, sexy, willing woman interested in bondage and Russian literature, then by gum I'd be set for life. There I'd be, regularly providing her the most disappointing 25 seconds of her life while screaming "oh, baby, baby, was it as good for you as it was for me?" and of course she'd be snorting.
Like a horse.
Speaking of horses, isn't that
Sex And The City movie out now, with what's her
equine face in the lead? I always thought she was hot, in a barnyard threshing hay kinda way. Her husband, that homo (and not that there's anything wrong with that} Matthew Broderick Crawford, is about 100 years old and was a movie & TV star back in 1955 ("Highway Patrol"...remember?). What's up with that?
Speaking of
Broderick Crawford (above left), I'm no longer doing so, and instead am thinking about Robert Mitchum. Now, THERE was a man. Simultaneously banging Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield while smoking weed at 3am in 1948, shit man, this guy was the BOMB. I liked how he glided across the screen.
Speaking of
gliding, what's the deal with Tom Cruise, that homo Scientologist whack job?
Speaking of Scientologists, what would make them believe in a religion that was created out of whole cloth by some fiction writer 45 years ago? On second thought,
I'd become a Scientologist if it got me "where it counts" with that half-Iranian chick who was on Jag. Catherine Ahmadinejad? Was that her name? Wait, no: Catherine Bell. There she is at right. She has a loverly bunch of coconuts.
I'm off to my ADD support group now. Can ya tell?
See ya, shlubbies.
So yesterday comes the news of the kid decapitated at Six Flags in Atlanta. He apparently jumped some security fences and had this terrrible thing happen to him while trying to retrieve a cap he lost on the Batman ride.
