The moment anyone's mouth opens, I automatically expect to believe only 40% of what comes out of it.  That's just me. However, there are people who can take the little white lie, or the overexageration, to levels so far from reality that it's almost intolerable to listen to.

I work with a guy we call Pirate (because he looks like a little pirate). The Pirate's one of those guys who never had a truth escape from his lips. At one time it was funny, only because he's the type of storyteller who doesn't even take the time to get his facts in order before spewing off at the mouth. For example:

Hey, Pirate. What happened to your leg?

Oh, that. It's an old war wound. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was 1992, the war of 1812. I was fighting the japs in Iraq when an alligator snuck up behind me and bit my ear off. I still managed to kill the entire tribe before passing out in a cactus patch. And that's how I hurt my leg.

The funniest part was that he actually expects us to believe these fairy tales. Unfortunately, I stopped finding humor in it a long time ago. Now, it's just really annoying... especially considering that he never shuts the hell up. It also doesn't help that he's always yapping away at you with a sliver of crusty booger hanging from his nostril. Speculation still exists about whether that crusty booger lives at the end of his nose, or if the end of his nose is just the cool place for all crusty boogers to visit while passing through town. Either way, it never seems to go away. And it's disgusting.

I told this dude today to stay the fuck away from me. I really hope he listens too, because I've been kind of moody lately... mean moody... the kind of moody that might cause me to rip out his tongue and mail it to his mama. I'd hate to have to do something like that on a Tuesday. It's really more of a Friday activity, don't ya think?



 

My Valentine's Day was everything that I hoped it would be and so much more.

First, I took the ol' lady to The Roadhouse for dinner where we filled up on their free peanuts before sneaking out with some silverware and a lovely set of salt and pepper shakers. 

From there we stopped by Walgreen's where I picked out a really nice card, and made her read it in the store so I could put it back on the shelf. Seriously, why buy a card when it's just gonna end up in a shoe box filled with every other card from holidays past? I hate that shoe box. It's the memory lane less traveled as no one ever really looks through it, or even remembers that it's there half the time. It's just taking space away from my porn collection, and that ain't cool.

We ended the evening with sex. Sex is good. I like sex. It helps me to sleep better. Unfortunately, St. Valentine was apparently a cuddler because Stupid insists that this is the one day out of the year when I have to hold her afterward. So, I farted... and she left the room.

Happy late Valentine's to all the ladies on my Friends List. You're a lovely bunch. Just don't ask me to cuddle when I've got 5 pounds of peanuts working their way through my system. It could be disastrous.  
 

Cracking open my wallet just to do something special for Valentine's Day is like hiring a mime to entertain a bunch of blind kids. It's a waste of money. But if I totally ignore the upcoming "holiday?", I'll end up one dick short of having a dick when my ol' lady chops it off in my sleep.

I can probably get away without spending too much money as long as I come up with something interesting and unusual to do. I was thinking about taking her wheelchair tipping (which is like cow tipping except a little more strategic and alot more fun). Unfortunately, she has a bit of a soft spot for the handicapped and, therefore, probably wouldn't enjoy it as much as I do. Other than that, I have no other really good ideas. Maybe I can just make a couple of sandwiches and pretend like I put together an intimate picnic on our dining room table. I don't know.

Regardless of what I come up with, it won't be good enough anyway. Stupid's already scheduled me for surgery so that I can have a romantic bone implanted in my body (I wonder if my insurance covers that). So her expectations are probably pretty low as it is which, hopefully, will work in my favor.  

No house is a home until you add your own personal touch to it. Right now, me and Stupid are settling in to our new house and adding HER own personal touch to it. Apparently, everything mine... sucks.

Her Stupidness picked out a multi-colored couch because she says it'll match well with anything. I say, it will match well with nothing. You can't toss up a set of blue window curtains just because your sofa has a few specks of blue in it. It just doesn't work that way. And I'll be damned if I'm ever gonna trade in my favorite black recliner for a flower patched version simply because it better compliments the look of her Disney Land, rainbow bright, glow in the dark, seizure inducing love seat.

The Queen of Blonds also purchased a few pictures to decorate our walls with. One of them being a painting of a shelf with various jars and fruits on it. We already have a shelf. I don't need anybody to draw one for me. Meanwhile, I own the most amazing picture of a water buffalo wearing a top hat, and she refuses to let me take it out of the closet. This whole thing just boggles my mind. 

And then there's her figurines... everywhere. She's got angels holding flowers, little country folk carrying baskets of apples, and some fucking indian chick that looks like she's putting a curse on me everytime I walk in the front door. But where's my dancing sumo wrestler, you ask? Well, it's in the closet of course... right next to my top hat wearing water buffalo.

Sometimes I think that me and my ol' lady would be better off as neighbors. 

I spent a little time in Las Vegas. Saw Cher... she has a penis now. I never did run into Elvis though, which really kind of sucked considering that you can usually see at least one on every block in that town. He was probably too busy overseeing another Britney Spears wedding, this time to the guy who squigees her windshield outside of the In And Out Burger. So I forgive him. We also went to Red Rock, looked at the mountains and took pictures... until I realized that I could probably pull up the same photos on Google, so why waste my time.

Of course there was also some gambling involved. It is Las Vegas after-all. I almost had to change my ol' lady's name to Lucky. She won $1600 playing video poker. Then she lost $1800 in the airport while waiting for our flight to board. So she's still Stupid. As for myself... I stood in front of the slot machines screaming "Daddy needs a new pair of shoes!". The slot machine looked back at me and said "Go to Wal-Mart, bitch." So that should give you some idea of how the casinos treated me during my brief stay there. Too bad for me, I guess.

It's been so long that I almost didn't think I'd even remember how to use a Live Journal. I did notice that there's now some weird Adult Content option thing. So if anyone wants to tell me what that's all about and what settings I should probably be using, that'd be nice. I just don't feel like looking into it myself. The mood icon says I'm lazy. The mood icon is right.   

 

The plan is for me to leave again on Sunday night. For how long? I don't know. Hopefully, not long at all.

Parts Unknown is a nice place to drive through on your way to somewhere better, but I wouldn't want to stop there. Unfortunately, I have to... again. The mayor owes me some money. I helped finance their new luxury outhouses after a homeless kid stole the town's entire budget right out of the coffee can, which the mayor keeps hidden behind a pencil on his desk. It was tragic.

One good thing did happen during my first visit to the land of unknown parts. Me and Stupid had an intersection named after us. We won that privilege after sticking a quarter in a vending machine outside of the grocery store. I was actually hoping for a Super Ball, but having our names immortalized on a couple of street signs is just as good. Even if it is in Parts Unknown. So, if you ever venture down that way, look for the corner of Don Drive and Fuckface Lane... that's where we'll be.

Until next time, this is Don Syndrome running out of things to say.

Don't be too happy to see me, as it will only lead to more heartbreak once I disappear again in ten days or so. Sadly, not only will my return be short-lived, but the time that I do have while being back is also quite limited.

Where I've been is a mystery, even to me. The sign said "Parts Unknown" which I always thought was located somewhere in Idaho, but apparently not. It was a strange place with strange people. I had coffee with a masked wrestler, and then rode a Yeti to the grocery store where they only sold meat in white containers with nothing but the word "MEAT" written on the label in big black letters. "Generic" is what I think I heard one of the natives call it. It was weird.

My days were filled with exciting adventures while my nights I spent alone (I made Stupid sleep in another room). I found a three headed quarter which I threw out after realizing that it wouldn't fit in any of the soda machines. Looking back, I probably should've kept the quarter... it might actually be considered a rare and valuable find in other more "known" parts of the world. Yeah well.

There is so much to tell, but so little time to type. I'll do my best to piece together my story, little by little, through various updates. Unfortunately, I can't promise you anything as I'm not really sure how much 'net time my schedule will allow. I can offer you this little tidbit of information, however... Parts Unknown holds the answers to all of life's greatest mysteries, and as a sign of good faith, I will share with you one of the many truths that I have learned during my stay there. The chicken came before the egg. Use that knowledge wisely.

Until next time, this is Don Syndrome reminding you to eat your vegetables... all of them. Even the green ones.

Why is it that every time I get my haircut the ladies always try to rape my head with hair gel? By now they should know that I won't let that crap touch my scalp. If I were to use common sense, I'd conclude that these women are idiots, but my ego tells a different story. According to Igor (that's my ego's name. I had to name him, my ego demanded it)... anyway, my ego believes that the girls at Overpriced Haircuts are trying to turn me gay as a way of justifying why I won't sleep with any of them. They obviously want my bod, I can tell by the way their nipples clean out my ears as they hover about me. But I never show any interest, and they can't handle it. Rather than simply accepting that I might not desire them, they'd instead prefer to fag me all up with hair goo until I had no choice but to suck a cock, just so they could feel better about being rejected. That's my ego's theory, and I tend to believe it. Am I a sexy hunk of man? Yes. Do men who use hair gel eventually become homosexuals? Yes. Is it easier for a woman to say "He's gay" than it is for them to say "He thinks I look like a baby seal.... after the clubbing."? Yes. All the pieces fit. End of story.

Now, for something sad.

Those of you who have known me for a long time, know that I sort of have a reputation for disappearing. Well, I'm about to do it again. This will be my last entry until January, as I'm set to embark on a 6 month journey into the unknown. I leave tomorrow. I'd like to fill you in on all the details, but unfortunately, my hair gel story was more important and now I'm in a bit of a rush. I will return, however. And when I do, I'll be sure to have many interesting tales to tell. If you are on my Friends List, you're there for a reason. So don't dump me, because I'm gonna want to catch up when I get back.

Until January, this is Don Syndrome reminding you not to squeeze the Charmin.

With nothing of particular interest going on lately, I've decided to simply clear my head of the random thoughts currently floating around in there.

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