Modest Mouse STILL playing/Filler Post

I still haven't stopped listening to my new Modest Mouse album. Such an eclectic, randomish, yet well put together album.

Anyway, here's the filler part, from TuckerMax.com (copywrite tuckermax.com etc.)


The Famous "Sushi Pants" story

by Tucker Max
I used to think that Red Bull was the most destructive invention of the past 50 years. I was wrong. Red Bull has been usurped by the portable alcohol breathalyzer.
The same device that cops have been using for 10 years to conduct field sobriety tests is now offered by the Sharper Image for $99. It is the size and shape of a small cell phone with a clear round tube sticking up from the top, almost like an antenna. One blows into the tube, and a few seconds later a Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) reading is given. Though not as accurate as a blood test, they are accurate to within .01, which is good enough for my purposes.
I was living in Boca Raton, Florida, when I bought one to take out with me on a Saturday night. This is the story:

9:00pm: Arrive at the restaurant. I am the first one of the group there, even though our reservations are for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded full of the abysmal type of people that infest South Florida. Already depressed, I order a vodka and club soda.

9:08: No one else has arrived. I order another vodka and club. I consider checking my BAC, but doubt that it would show anything thus far.

9:10: Two 30+ year-old Jewish women on my left keep eyeing me. Both have fake breasts. One has exceptionally large fake breasts. They are beckoning me from her shirt. She is not highly attractive. I begin drinking faster.

9:15: No one else has arrived. I order my third vodka and club. While I wait for it, I try out my portable breathalyzer. I blow a .02. This is the greatest invention ever made. I am giddy. I show the breathalyzer to the fake-breasted Jewish women next to me. We begin a conversation.

9:16: They both have thick Long Island accents. I summon the bartender over and change my order to a tall double vodka on the rocks, splash of club.

9:23: Four people at the bar have tried my breathalyzer, both of the fake-breasted women included. Everyone wants to know their BAC. I am the center of attention. I am happy.

9:25: The first member of my group arrives. I show him the breathalyzer. He is enthralled. He buys a round. The fake-breasted women loudly inform us they would like drinks. My friend buys them drinks. I order a double vodka on the rocks. No splash.

9:29: I blow again, a .04. I've been drinking for half an hour, and am on my forth drink. My wheels of intellect begin grinding through the vodka haze that is already forming…four drinks…a .04…that must mean that each drink only adds .01 to my BAC. I begin to think that I can drink a lot. I tell one of the fake-breasted women that she is very interesting.

9:38: Six of the eight are here. I lie to the hostesses, and they seat our incomplete party. Everyone is talking about my breathalyzer. I am the focus of adulation. I forgive everyone for sucking so bad. I think this night may go OK after all.

9:40: I blow again, a .05. This confuses me. I haven’t ordered another drink since I blew a .04. I have a vague memory from a long distant D.A.R.E. class about the rate of alcohol absorption being constant, regardless of speed of drinking. This memory quickly fades when two hot girls at the table next to me inquire about my portable breathalyzer.

9:42: Hot girl #2 is into me. She begins telling me a story about how she got pulled over once for DUI, and had to blow into something like this, and the cop let her off. She tells me that she always wanted to be a cop, but couldn’t pass the entrance exam to the police academy, even though she took it twice. I tell her that she must be really smart. She stops paying attention to me. Hot girl #2 is apparently smart enough to detect thinly veiled sarcasm.

10:04: The novelty of the portable breathalyzer has passed. The table has moved on. I am no longer the center of attention. I am not happy with my table.

10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing. Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class in it. I tell them that energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudo-science. They think energy healing is a real science because the instructor of the girl’s class went to Harvard. One guy calls it a “legitimate, certifiable science,” while making air quotes with his fingers. I tell them that they are all (while imitating his air quotes) “legitimate, certifiable idiots” because they believe in horse-shit like energy healing. Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out. They all glare at me with disapproval. I hate everyone at my table.

10:08: I have completely tuned out their inane conversation. I am slamming down straight vodka as fast as the low-rent wanna-be Ethan Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my BAC slowly creep up.

10:10: .07

10:17: .08. I am no longer legally eligible to drive in the state of Florida. I announce this fact to no one in particular.

10:26: .09

10:27: I decide that I am going to see how drunk I can get and still be functional. I know that .35 BAC kills most people. I think that .20 is a good goal.
10:28: I get up, saying nothing to the seven sophists at my table, and go back to the bar. I don’t leave money for my drinks.

10:29: The fake-breasted women are still at the bar. They want drinks. Upset that I’m only at .09 after a good hour and a half of aggressive drinking, I decide to do a round of shots. I let the women pick the shots, with the explicit instruction that it cannot be whiskey, cannot smell like whiskey, cannot even resemble whiskey.

10:30: The shots arrive. Tequila. Judging by the bill, very good tequila. It is smooth. We order another round.

11:14: I blow a .15. I have passed a milestone. Only .05 away from my goal. My pride swells. I show everyone my .15. The bar crowd is impressed. I am their idol. Someone buys me a shot.

11:28: I feel queasy. I realize that I didn’t even stick around the table for dinner. Not wanting to either go back to my table or eat at the bar, I walk across the street to a sushi restaurant.

11:29: There is a lingerie party at the sushi restaurant. Half of the people are in some form of pajamas or other bedtime clothing. Everyone here sucks as bad as the last place, except they are in their underwear.

11:30: I am confused. I only want sushi. I stand at the door, mesmerized by the shifting masses of near nakedness. A mildly attractive girl who apparently works at the restaurant wants me to put on lingerie. I tell her I don’t have any. I just want some sushi. She says I should at least take off my pants. I ask her if this will get me sushi. She says it will. I take off my pants.

11:30: I pause while unzipping my pants, wondering what type of underwear, if any, I have on. I consider not taking my pants off. I realize that getting food quickly is more crucial than my dignity.

11:31: I take off my pants. I have on pink and white striped Gap boxers. They are too tight. I make sure my package is tucked in. People watch me do this.

11:32: I order sushi by pointing at the pictures and grunting.

11:33: I show a guy at the sushi bar my breathalyzer. He is impressed. He shows it to everyone. People begin congregating around me. I am a star again.

11:41: I blow a .17. I tell everyone my goal. Someone orders me a shot.

11:42: I do the shot. Something that has a familiar taste, makes me feel warm inside. I ask what it is. “Cognac and Alize.” There is a God, and he hates me.

11:47: My sushi arrives. I slosh soy sauce over it and shovel it into my mouth as quickly as my hands will get it there.

11:49: My sushi is finished. No one is paying attention to my table manners, as everyone is crowded around the breathalyzer, waiting their turn to find out their BAC.

12:18: I blow a .20. I AM A GOD. The sushi bar erupts. Men are applauding me. Girls are pining for me. Everyone wants to talk to me. I forgive them their flaws, as they are all paying attention to me.

12:31: My deity status is lost. Someone blows a .22. This is a challenge to my manhood. I order a depth charge with a Bacardi 151 shot. And a beer back. The crowd is in awe.

12:33: I finish the depth charge, and the beer. I talk shit to my challenger, “Who runs this bar now, BITCH??” The crowd erupts. Momentum has swung back in my direction. I am Maximus. I am winning the crowd. I will rule the sushi bar.

12:36: I take a better look at my challenger. He is a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscular man. His natural facial expression is not one of happiness. He quietly watches me, then orders a shot, throws it back without noticeable effect, and smiles at me. I consider that talking shit to him was a bad idea. At this point I also realize that my stomach is very upset with me. I ignore it. I still have a public that needs to adore me.

12:54: I blow a .22. Only mild cheers this time. Everyone is waiting for the challenger to blow.

12:56: He blows a .24. He smiles condescendingly at me. I order two more shots.

12:59: I do the first shot. It doesn’t go down well. I decide to take a short break from drinking. The crowd is not impressed.

1:10: Reality sets in. I am going to vomit. A LOT. I try to discreetly make it outside.

1:11: I knock a girl over as I sprint through the door.

1:11: I trip over a bush, stumble into it, and begin throwing up. Out of my mouth. And nose. It is not pleasant.

1:14: I can’t figure out why my legs hurt so much. I look down at them in between heaves. I have no pants on. Thorns and branches are embedded in my shins.

1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to “get that fucking light out of my face.” The owner of the light identifies himself as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. “Son, where are your pants?” Remembering past encounters with the law, and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lock-up, I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to share my sushi with the bush. He doesn’t laugh. Another long pause. “You’re not driving tonight are you?”, “Oh, NO, NO, NO…no sir, I don’t even have a valid driver’s license.”

1:20: He tells me to go back inside, put on my pants, and call a cab.

1:21: I go back into the sushi restaurant. A few people stare at me in a peculiar manner. I look down, and then tuck my partially exposed sack back into my boxers. I don’t know what to do about my bleeding legs. I look around for my pants.

1:24: I can’t find my pants. My breathalyzer is in clear sight. I blow. A .23. Someone informs me that my challenger just blew a .26. They add that he hasn’t thrown up yet. I tell them to “kiss my fucking ass.” My last clear memory.

8:15am: I wake up. I don’t know where I am. It is very hot. I am sweating horribly. It smells like rotting flesh.

8:16: I am in my car. With the windows up. The sun is beating down directly on me. It is at least 125 degrees in my car. I open the door and try to get out, but instead I fall onto the pavement. The scabs that cover my legs tear and reopen as I move. My penis falls out of my pink Gap boxers and lands, along with the rest of me, in a dirty puddle on the asphalt.

8:19: The fetid standing water finally propels me into full consciousness. I can’t find my pants. Or cell phone. Or wallet. But I do have my breathalyzer. I blow. A .09. I am still not eligible to drive in the state of Florida.

8:22: I drive home anyway.Let me be clear about this night: it was in my top 5 drunkest nights ever. I was completely shit-housed. I threw up multiple times, some of them through my nose. JESUS CHRIST, I WOKE UP blowing a .09. That's fucking ridiculous.
That thing is awful. All you do is drink in order to increase your BAC. That device is the devil dressed in a transistor.

My advice to you: avoid it at all costs.

Modest Mouse.

I've gone on about this album before (Good News For People Who Love Bad News), but I just can't stop listening to it. It's such a great, eclectic album, full of odd, randomish sounds, that still manage to fit together perfectly.

Various Reviews.

Just went to see The Interpretor (Nicole Kidman, Sean Penn).

Not a particularly bad movie, but the plot takes a lot of concentrating to follow without being confused. It's not a movie that you can sit back and just watch.Having said that, I enjoyed it well enough, though it wasn't what I was expecting from a movie with Nicole in it.
Its not her usual movie (though I haven't really watched any of her stuff....).

I also bought the album 'Good News for People Who Love Bad News' By Modest Mouse today.

I never thought I'd get into 'emo' type music, even as close back as 3 years ago, but these guys have some very upbeat, cruisy, well put together songs.

How things change....

EDIT: the modest mouse album just keeps getting better and better....

And in other news, we have a new pope. Being not really religious, I don't care, but it is news...

Bah.

Nothing happened at work last night again (I love when its 'normal'-which is rare...which makes it different...anyway.)

So to fill the space, heres some stories from Acts of Gord(http://www.actsofgord.com)
Not that anyone reads this. (and if you do, comment away!)



The Sign


New project. I'm hanging up a sign similiar to "Now serving #" or "# of accident free days", and it will have a spot where I hang numbers. Only, it will say "# of days where management hasn't had to deal with an idiot." And when I have to deal with an idiot, I'll sigh, reach over, and take down all the numbers leaving a "0".If I'm lucky, the person who is the idiot will be so offended they will never return...



Mod Chips


"Do you sell mod chips for the PlayStation?"
"The door is to your left. Try not to let it hit you on the way out."
"What?"
"I'm politely saying get the hell out."
"All I'm asking for is a mod chip."
"All you're asking for is to steal games, and you're in a game store. Your mother must be so proud."
"You're an asshole."
"You're a wannabe thief."
"You better watch what you say! Things might happen to you!"
"Why? You have a friend who protects you and makes people be friendly to you?"
"I'm never coming back!"
"If I sold you a mod chip, you would never come back anyway. You won't be missed."


Fear the Gord!


Guy walks in who is about 19."Do you give cash for PlayStation games?"
"Yes, but we give less for cash than credit."
"Ok. Well I've got nearly 50 of them" and he sets his sports bag on the counter and opens it. He then begins to unload the games onto the counter.
"Do you have any games that aren't copies of games?"
"You said you paid cash for games!"
"I see. So what you're saying here is you're fucking retarded?"
"How about $5 a game?"
"How about you just get the hell out and stop wasting my time?"
"You said!"
"Let's see… so you expect me to pay more for copied games than what it cost you to make them?"
"It's how I make money."
"Fine… fine. "
"What are you doing?!??"
"Isn't it obvious?"
Guy starts tossing what games he can back into his bag to save that he can."I'm never coming back!"
"Don't forget to tell your mom about me!"And he left, never to return.

What happens when, No. 1

I worked this arfternoon till 10pm, which was good.

Until the guy that was supposed to replace me didn't show. This guy is usually pretty reliable, so I thought he might just be late. After 5 minutes, I put his till in, counted mine, and then called him.

Nothing. No answer.

So I tried to get someone else to come in and cover his shift.

Nope. What I expected.

Tried ringing my manager. No answer. No one ever answers a call from work.

Stayed back an hour and did the most necessary jobs of night shift.

Would have stayed for the whole shift, but I had to get home, so I could feed the dog....

....or so I thought. Turns out dad did it before he left.


Now I feel like an asshole, because I left the girl in the kitchen by herself. At night.

Plus, had I known, I would have stayed. I need the overtime.

EDIT: He turned up about half an hour after I had left. Apparently he didn't hear the alarm, as he was in a different room.

And thus spoke the Aye-Aye

The Aye-Aye is an amazing beast isn't it?



So yeah, I'm the newest contributor, I'm Canadian, so that means I'm awesome.

Aye-Aye's will one day rule the world, and Koala's will be their steed leading them to victory!


EDIT: I knew I should have been quicker, and set up a 'No Aye-aye pics' rule....
Too late now....
Excuse me while I scratch my eyes out.
Mike.

Not much happened today....

So here's a Tucker Max story for anyone who reads this.



Day Two: The Texas State Fair and The Embassy Suites Story
The next day we woke up scattered across our hotel room, still clothed and reeking of hairspray and bar smoke. We pack up and head to Austin. On the way there, we see a huge sign on the road:
“This way to the Texas State Fair!”
El Bingeroso nearly has a fucking aneurysm, “OH OH OH OH!!! WE HAVE TO GO, WE HAVE TO GO! Guys, The TEXAS-STATE-FAIR!!!”
It is the most insane morass of trucks and rednecks and cheap carnival trinkets I have ever seen. SlingBlade gets a funnel cake, I get a Slushee, PWJ falls in love with the “classic” (read: penis) cars, but it was El Bingeroso who really tapped into the essence of the Texas State Fair. He made friends with a fat, brown-toothed teenage redneck wearing a WWF Mankind t-shirt covered in mustard stains. The poor kid looked like he had the cultural I.Q. of someone who just staggered out of a sheep orgy. We see them standing over by some video game thing, and he waves us over.
El Bing “Guys, you see this thing? [pointing to the game] It is called ‘The Shocker.’ You hold these metal handles here, and it sends an ever increasing charge of electricity through you. As the wattage increases, so does your score, and if you can hold it all the way to the end, you win...something. And this guy, [Jethro], thinks he can do it.”
Tucker “What do you win?”
SlingBlade “A free electroshock treatment, apparently.”
PWJ “You can’t hold that for more than a few seconds.”
Jethro “Fuck dat; ike’an doit.”
El Bing “OK man, give it your best shot. Here, we’ll even put the money in.”
As PWJ put the dollar in the machine and the redneck rubbed his hands together and mentally prepared himself, I pulled El Bingeroso aside. He was giggling like a Japanese school girl in a Hello Kitty store.
Tucker “Dude, who is this kid? What the hell is going on?”
El Bing “I saw him staring at this thing and I bet him he couldn’t do it. He got all worked up. Dude—I’ve seen this thing knock out 250 pound guys before. They were outlawed in Nebraska! THIS IS AWESOME!”
The youthful redneck firmly planted his feet, rubbed his face, spit into his hands and then rubbed them together and then wiped them on his shirt. We started cheering him on,
Tucker “Eye of the tiger!”
PWJ “What does not kill you makes you stronger!”
SlingBlade “There is no spoon!”
El Bingeroso “YEAAAAHHHH!”
He muttered some inspirational phrases to himself, pressed the start button and grabbed the two metal handles. For the first few seconds he was fine…
Then his arms started shaking.Then his shoulders.Then his torso.Then his head.Then his mouth began frothing and spitting saliva everywhere.Then this strange, guttural, animalistic groan emerged from him. Still gripping the handles, his whole body was in violent convulsions when an older woman pulled him off of the machine. He fell to the ground and she yelled at him,
“Jethro, git away from that’n thang. Thar makin funna YEW!”
I don’t know if I have ever laughed so hard in my life. I was laying on the hot asphalt of the Texas State Fair, curled up in a ball, tears streaming out of my face as I held my stomach muscles and convulsed in laughter. I was able to look up and see the confused, blank look on Jethro’s face as his mother led him off, wiping the spit off of his face, his arms still twitching slightly.
I really hope that God has the capacity for forgiveness that Christians claim, because I am going to test the absolute outer limits.

The Meeting.

Apparently, people have discovered a way to get 'free' fuel from us. (or so the boss says...)

It works like this.

They put fuel in their car/motorbike/kayak whatever.
We then get them to fill out a form that asks for address, phone no. etc, their license no, car make, number plates and so forth.

We inform them that they have 24 hours to pay.

If they are 'scamming' either the number, address or both are fake, and the car isn't theirs, stolen, borrowed, whatever.

Apparently, and this is the first thing that suprised me, the police won't do anything, unless we inform them straight away, because we let the person leave.
(and its only queensland that this happens - all the other states will go after the person.)

So, because of this, we now have to give them the following three options.

1) They ring someone who can come and pay the amount of fuel. If they have no phone, they park the car and walk to the nearest phone/friends house. If they drive away instead of park? We inform the police.

2) We inform them that we will ring the police. Apparently this will scare them into "finding" enough to pay. Once again, if they try to leave, we instantly inform the police.

3) We syphon the amount of fuel back out of the car/bike's tank.
How we are meant to get the right amount of fuel out I have no idea.


If it comes to option three, I'll either get them to do it, or ring the police. No way am I going to poison myself just so the boss gets his fuel back....

Damn drunks....

Last night, about midnight, two slightly drunk guys came in, who are regular-ish customers. They are usually pretty cool, but they must have been drinking the wrong stuff this time round, because they acted like they owned the place, pouring the salt packets onto the tables, and tossing the containers around. this is one of my pet hates, and one day I'll find out where the people who do it alot (not these guys) work, and go do it to them.

Anyway, when I asked (politely...) them to clean it up, they just ignored me.

Now, I deal with drunk people a lot, so I know how much I can get away with by looking at them.

I told them this time around, "Clean up the mess you just made, or your order guys? It'll be mine."

No one ever expects me to stick up for myself...might be that they see a uniform, not a face.

Confusing Work Practices 1.

When I got to work, a 'letter' had been printed out by the manager, asking that people cook less food during the 'quiet' times, as far too much food had been wasted on saturday and sunday night.

Makes sense, right? On its own, yes.

But the manager has constantly said that we are to keep the hotbox fairly well stocked at all times.

This is only the first.....I garantee that he will say something contrary to one (or both) of the above. Within a month. He may even contradict himself with different things to a few staff members.

Insan-o the Cabbie.

There's this one cab driver that I get from time to time when I go to town (we have what you'd call a bus service, but with cabs instead of buses-our bus service sucks), that I'm pretty sure is
A) Pure Evil
B) Insane and Nerotic
Or C) On crack/speed.

She drives like she wants to get arrested, talks nonstop about...well, whatever pops into her head, regardless of the current and previous conversations.

And she sounds like a witch when she laughs.....

Music in Niteclubs.

Sucks, and is generally a tad too loud. And usually not music I like overly much.

But one of my favourite bands , The Cat Empire, was in town two nights ago, so I went.
It was one of the best live performances I've seen (though i may be a little biased, being that I was more than slightly drunk.)

I had a blast, but to be honest, I don't think the band had a very good time. I know they've been touring pretty much non stop, but hey, thats what bands are meant to do isnt it?'

Well, I had fun. I even jumped up and down with complete strangers.

Damn Smokers....

Basically, I work in a petrol station, which should give you a hint where the title is heading.
For some reason, the revheads in my town have chosen where I work as the nighttime hangout, (as opposed to, oh, I don't know...a park? or a parking lot?) which means that they get drunk and play loud music till 3 in the morning even on a sunday.... I'm pretty sure they just choose us, because we sell food and have a toilet.

Anyway, there was one guy who I saw smoking the other night, right next to a fuel bowser.
First thing I wanted to do? Pour fuel on him. (So I'm an asshole....Eat me.) I told him basically to move away from the pumps. (Sometimes I want to get all punchy...)

Big deal you say?

He did it a second time, 10 minutes later. That time I did get slightly loud(while still fantasising about him and flames....). I was hoping he'd do it one more time, so I could ring the cops and get them to leave.