12 December 2005

Random Garbage

My friend and intellectual superior Mickey McKee once said, "Yeah, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving: start of the traditional Holiday Drinking Season!"

This year our seasonal bacchanalia started way early with the arrival of The Twisted Lizard. On leave from the sandbox we spent his two weeks drinking to excess and sneaking up behind the SF psycho screaming "Incoming!" I think he was ready to get back to urban patrol and dodging IEDs, you know; to get a little rest. Insurgent Haji and the Mullahs (that sounds like a band - a really shitty band. I'll bet they play Toby Keith's place soon) can't be as irritating as we were. We got him drunk, we kept him up all night, we made jokes at his expense, we mocked his fashion sense and grooming habits, we chastised him for being bundled up in 70-degree weather, and we did nothing to recognize his contributions to our national defense. Basically we re-acclimated him to civil society - at least our version of it - then we sent him back to the Sandbox. Probably not the best idea we've ever had.

Good to see the skinny little bitch while he was here. Seems the only thing to eat on the FOB is the same thing you eat every freaking day. And the only thing to see is the same sandy shit you see every day. And the only people to talk to ... You get the idea. Repetitive monotonous cycles of boredom. You know, like marriage.

Hey, I like to start a blog with some straight-from-the-heart evil bitterness. Get it out of the way right off the bat. Hate and discontent. The kids love it.

Honestly, though, having our own Metrosexual Soldier back in town for a couple weeks put things into perspective. Like how fat I'm getting. And how I take for granted the fact I can roll over on a Sunday morning, harass the bride for some action, shower, beat the children, go for a motorsickle ride, meet my friends in some dive for a cold beer, and return home to grilled steaks and The Simpsons before crashing in a comfy bed and negotiating for the carnal treats I was denied earlier in the day. All this because brave men with automatic weapons are willing to travel any distance to kill any assbag who threatens my way of life.

Kicks a bunch of ass, huh?

Also makes my everyday decisions seem small and petty as compared to those made by the folks who operate in harm's way. By the time I'm getting my hungover bitter ass out of a nice warm shower and trying to decide which pair of ratty levi's would go best with my stained work shirt half a world away my friends have spent the day taking fire and doing the grass roots work of instilling freedom's core values in what could be a budding democracy. Makes my choice of Cheerio's or a fat-laden greasy box of shit from McDonald's look pretty petty.

So if I may offer a suggestion. Instead of a yellow ribbon printed in God Knows Where to show your support do something for a soldier, or their family, this Christmas. There are plenty of opportunities:
Blue Star Mothers send much-appreciated care packages and have no overhead.
The USO still does good work out there, it's not just a Bob Hope footnote.
Adopt A Platoon was started to ensure everyone saw mail call.

Ask around. Look around. Someone somewhere near you is most definitely offering a chance to show your support in some way much more satisfying and tangible than magnetic cutouts.

Besides, it's almost Christmas. And their families are still here. There are kids who'd like barbies and bikes, and moms who'd appreciate some babysitting and a hand. Their dads/husbands/children do the work today to keep the evil bastards out of our country. They deserve our support.

Speaking of, while I know it's still waaaayyy too early for most men to shop I wanted to make sure all three of the drunken jackasses who read this garbage know there is absolutely NO reason to go the malls and do battle with those Feliz Navinazis prowling about. The same glowing screen that brings you porn and stupid jokes can provide presents as well. Legitimate presents that will make you look like something other than a slobbering beer-soaked selfish prick.

Aerostich / Rider Warehouse has by far the coolest selection of motorsickle goodies ever. Nothing here for the bike night posers who never leave town on their over-polished barely-warmed up phallic trophies, but folks who actually ride can always find something they need in their pages. On top of quality motogoods they have the best editorial staff anywhere, and the catalog fits nicely on the back of the shitter. A gift certificate is a sure bet from the cats out of Duluth.

If you can't find something for your dad, brother, friend, or whatever at Cabela's, Cheaper Than Dirt, Cycle Gadgets.com, Dennis Kirk, or Crutchfield you are hopeless and so are they. Period.

Women ... well, that's a pain in the ass. Lingerie too small, you never get to see it used but are considered sweetly ignorant. Too big, you're pounding your fist for a while. Besides, lingerie is an obvious self-serving gift. Overstock.com has chick stuff. Or books. What am I, Dr. Phil? I don't know what women want, neither do you.

Get her a damned gift certificate. Do not buy her soap. Even that stinky shit from Bath & Body Works. It'll be the wrong shit, and she'll infer all sorts of awful nonsense from it. "Do I stink? Is he trying to tell me something? Is that why he never goes down on me?" Steer clear. Soap = bad idea. Gift certificate for day spa = good idea. Go figure. They both seem equally useless to me.

Buying your chick a gift says a lot more than you intended it to. The book on sexual techniques you thought would be fun to thumb through together hits the twisted, estrogen-poisoned mind as, "I'm not good enough! I don't do that thing his last girlfriend did! He's comparing me to other women! That bastard!"

Play it safe with your date. Gift certificates, cards a female friend approved, promises to do some menial chore. Basically just look at whatever you're buying her, imagine the most ridiculous leap of reasoning which would lead from that gift to you being an inconsiderate bastard, and decide if you can adequately defend your decision against such reasoning.

Me? I'm giving my ol' lady a dose of the tickle pickle. Sure she'll be disappointed. But she's too polite to say so. My fragile ego and all ...

I bought most of the plastic crap and shiny noisy consumer baubles necessary to properly illustrate the deep spiritual significance of the birth of Jesus Christ to small children on either Amazon.com or eBay. (Except for this.) Everyone knows all about the two megabastards of the online world, so there's really no reason to sing their praises. Like anything that gets too big there are reasons to desire everyone involved with their operation dies a horrible painful death. But I always seem to go back and buy again. Because I hate wal-mart.

Which brings up an excellent point; before heading off to Sam Walton's frankenstore run amuck to buy the same mass produced shit everyone else is giving this year look around. If you live in a town of more than 5,000 people there is sure to be a locally-owned shop itching to serve you a better product than those catatonic shmucks in the blue smocks. The same folks wal-mart has damned near ruined via predatory pricing and tactics for the sheeple are still in many small towns. Mom and Pop stores, like independent motorsickle shops, are still the best place to buy.

I stumbled into one locally completely by accident. C.M. Miller gift store here in Enid is one of those high-end very nice bridal registry places with Waterford crystal and place setting no mom ever lets a child use. I did the basic testosterone gig and blazed by there a few years ago on my lunch hour, on Christmas Eve, to get the wife a present. Not only were they actually pleased to see a customer and friendly as hell - they pretended not to notice I was more out of place than if I'd stumbled into a United Negro College Fund awards banquet. Additionally, they have a toy selection in the back with those kick-ass educational and just plain different toys you don't find in the big-ass retail monstrosities. I left with a saddlebag full of gift-wrapped packages containing goodies I wouldn't have found in the superstore. But the real bonus; I didn't have to scream obscenities at some inconsiderate fatassed mom of 12 when her barefoot urchins wouldn't make way for me to push a cart around them and her huge posterior. Again.

Ditto for The Bike Shop across the street. A person could go to wal-hell and buy a piece of shit bike from a barely literate salesgeek then assemble the piece of shit Christmas Eve, drunk, when it's too late to head to the store and get that left-handed metric half-sized black powder coated acorn nut they shorted you. Or you could stumble into Micah's bike shop, spend maybe 10% more, and walk away with a higher quality item professionally assembled and warranted by a guy who remembers what you bought. Think it over, Steinmetz.

All right ... I'm preaching to the choir here I know. The point is: buy locally, fuck the french. No idea what those rifle-dropping surrender monkey cowards have to do with it, but I haven't been on their ass in a while and it felt right.

If, by chance, you're wondering what to get me for Christmas - here's my list:

  • A Ducati Monster. I don't care which one.
  • CRF250R Not so much for me, but to follow the MonkeyBoy ...
  • A Piper J3-Cub. Or an Aviat Husky. Either, I'm not picky ...
  • A motorsickle tour of Europe - excepting france, of course.
  • Lunch with Mr. James Buffett
  • Some new boots
  • Paul Sr.'s head on a stick
  • A Colt Commander Gold Cup
  • Bryant Gumbel's head on a platter
  • Head.
  • Ruger M77 MkII in .300 win mag
  • accommodations for Baja or Sturgis, preferably both.
  • Dinner and Drinks with the Pussycat Dolls
  • Dr. Phil to shut the hell up.
  • Some wings.
  • Sunshine, blue skies, safe rides, and all my friends collected from their far-flung locales for cold beer and two-wheeled tales in a familiar pub ... Soon.

My Christmas shopping is done. Easy ... I got married so I wouldn't have to shop for my own maternal unit. That's simply not my job anymore. The daughter: a little tougher. Girls toys are really boring. Pastel frilly fragile shit ... So she's getting a bike. Jake ... He's almost too easy.

"So, Jake, what do you want for Christmas?"
"A surprise."
"Really? Okay."
... pause as he thinks it over and envisions getting clothes for Christmas ...
"How about an airplane?"
"That'd be cool."
"A TOY plane, not a real one."
"Oh ... no problem, MonkeyMan."

Apparently when you're 6 and all your grandfather's friends have airplanes you have to make these distinctions. I assured him there was little risk of a new RV8 showing up under the tree.

Later he drops this on me;

"I think I might need a tool box, too. Now that I have a motorsickle ..."
Sometimes I think he says things just to see my head swell with pride.

Merry Christmas, Kids.
Happy Hanukkah, Hyman.
Seasons Greetings, Sinners.

*kwanzaa is not a legitimate holiday, and I could give a shit less what the muslims worship/celebrate/shit on yada yada yada ...


Blogger Tits McGee said...

lot to digest. thanks for the help with the gifts. i'm going to get a gift certificate to wal-mart for all the people i can't fucking stand...

i guess the only thing on your list that i am physically capable of providing is the head, though, and that means that you are shit out of luck for Christmas.


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Dude, you're a way better writer than you oughta be. Funny as hell.

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