Wayne Ordinary American

2006-06-21T18:54:00.000Z

ALL DONE

2006-06-21T18:43:00.000Z

Well folks, it's official.

I hate Blogger.com and I won't be coming back (unless...well...ya never know).

I'm going to keep this site live but only to direct you to my new, more expansive and welcoming home at www.waynorama.wordpress.com

Thanks for visiting but bookmark my new home, would ya?

I'll see ya there!

I'm Sorry...

2006-06-21T18:36:00.000Z

I'm sorry bloooooger.com.

It just isn't working out.

Oh, I know we've both tried but...well...it's not me, it's you.

Really? You're surprised by this? You didn't see it coming? Well, it all boils down to the fact that you're never there when I need you. I'm even in a different time zone than you when you claim you're being "updated". It should be convienent for me to work to your schedule, being all the way over here in Ireland...but yet... you're always busy.

You don't have time for me.

You never want to hear what I say.

So, I guess what I want to say is, "Goodbye".

No, there's no chance that it'll work out. I'm fed up and I'm moving on. Cry all you want. Boo-hoo! It means nothing to me.

Farewell.

(and good riddance.)

It Might Be Time For Something New

2006-06-20T21:12:00.000Z

Hey everyone,

As you know, I've been increasing pissed off and underwhelmed by Blogger.com's performance. I've lost posts, been unable to log in and when I do, it won't upload pics. They layout is for shit (mostly due to my lack of patience with HTML) and everytime I want to change the template I lose all my links.

So, for the rest of this week, I'm moonlighting over here! CLICK HERE! CLICK HERE! CLICK HERE!

At this point, it's not a permanent move (though it's looking more and more that way).

Let me know what you think of the new site and we'll take it from there.

Blogger Blows

2006-06-19T18:57:00.000Z

OK.

Blogger officially blows. I gotta sort this out. I've been trying for the last half hour to upload a pic and nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Bumpkiss.

I'm really annoyed.

Rome If You Want To (Part IV)

2006-06-17T22:35:00.000Z

Just a few quick pics to kill of the remainder of my lackluster attempt to capture the splendor of one of the most beautiful cities in the world (despite the graffiti that is everywhere--everywhere, that is, I was pleased to discover, except on important ancient ruins. Also, I lie... I'll probably post more Rome pics later on this week).

These are random, non-essential shots but they'll hopefully give you a taste of what touring around Rome is like (not like the boring, staged postcard type crap...we'll see...)

This is where you would sit if you wanted the Pope to shout at you and tell you that you were going to Hell. Thankfully, while we were here he was in Prague telling the locals that they were going to Hell. Luck break for us!
This is what you can and cannot wear into the inner Holy Sanctuary.
No, I don't quite get it either...Does the Pope hate purple and orange??? Or does he only hate purple and orange swimming suits? Your guess is as good as mine.

Man! I'm deep in thought! And at the top of St. Peter's! High and deep at the same time! It's like Holy Drugs!

If you want to make yourself sick, I suggest you climb ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP of St. Peter's. When you get to the steps around the dome it totally screws with your mind and sense of balance. And the lighting makes your head look bald. It's so totally weird!This is the view from the top--after you've pushed aside the crazy tourists, that is. The second after I took this pic I was shoved to the side and kicked severely in the groin. That's the price you pay for adventure tourism...that and 4 Euro.

This is the toilet on the top of Vatican. (There's a 'Holy Crap' joke here somewhere...)

Everybody's Stupid Except Me

2006-06-16T18:25:00.000Z

This week I've learned that everybody is stupid.

This shouldn't have come as a surprise to me but it did. I've suspected it, I've exposed it but yet I've let it pass for some reason.

This massive stupidity check came--well, I can't disclose the circumstances because...well, just because.

From now on when my Stupid Alarm trips I'm going to say the following:

"That's fucking genius!"

I'll know what I mean but others won't (and will probably get a quaint, smug buzz from it) and I'll feel better and maybe not want to slit my wrists and jump in front of a train.

I'll sleep easy knowing that everyone is stupid except me.

Now that's fucking genius.

Ceiling Cat Caught!

2006-06-13T18:29:00.000Z

This will come as a great relief to many, if not all, of you.

It seems that the infidel 'Ceiling Cat' has been caught and apprehended.

You may all go about your business as usual.

(Perverts)

Feedback

2006-06-13T08:21:00.000Z

Hey everyone,

I've gotten some comments and emails from readers saying they're having trouble with my pics loading.

Not being a very tech-y type of guy, I don't know what to tell you. I use Firefox at home and IE at work and I'm not having any problems but please let me know if the problem hasn't resolved itself and I'll try to find somebody who knows what they're doing to help me sort it out. (I will also add that I've just about had my fill of bloooger. com-- lots of issues recently-- and I'm looking into a new service. Any suggestions?)

I'm Probably Going to Jail

2006-06-11T21:07:00.000Z

'Dear IRS, please find enclosed my pathetic return. You owe me $79. If I owed you, you'd be charging me a 10% fine but it seems the same doesn't hold true for you because you owe me. Double standards... but I guess that's how you work. Send that pittance to us soon. I'm craving Chinese.'

This is my tax return that should have been mailed off a couple of weeks ago.

Probably.

I read somewhere that if you live outside the States that you have an extra two months to file so fingers crossed...(no, I'm probably screwed).

I'm gonna mail this (or 'post it' as they say over here) soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

Hopefully tomorrow.

Better be tomorrow.

Ah, jeez... I'm screwed.

Rome If You Want To (Part III)

2006-06-10T19:34:00.000Z

ITALIAN TELEVISION

After each and every incredibly long day spent traipsing through the vast city of Rome, it was my want to come back to the hotel room and see what kind of 'televisual' entertainment was at my beck and call on Italian cable TV.

30 some odd channels to choose from and here are the most enlightening examples I could find (sorry, I couldn't get my camera out fast enough to photograph the topless woman promoting (presumably) plastic surgery and breast enhancement. Maybe she was advertising milk...I honestly don't know.).

This was from a show that took place entirely in front of a fish-eye lens...the camera never moved. I think it was supposed to be something about 'water-cooler talk' . There was no laugh track so I'm only assuming that it was a comedy. It sure didn't seem funny to me.

Who want's to be a millionaire? SHE DOES!

Evidently, the Italians are big into Sprite Zero... or cross-dressing...

Rome If You Want Too (Part II)

2006-06-08T19:46:00.000Z

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

Behold the beauty of digital snapshots taken of postcards! I call them the Digi-Dead.

I found it suprising how we weren't allowed to take photos of the crumbling corpses but the caretakers/patrons/oogie-boogie people that run the place let themselves not only harass you on entry ("Donations...Donations...DONATIONS!!!!") but ultimately demand that you purchase creepy photographs professionally taken and produced before you leave the creepatorium. (By this I mean you should buy the postcards before you leave-- not that some guy rushes ahead of you and takes the pictures and develops them before you're done. That would be creepy.)

I found the experience quite enlightening if not somewhat weird smelling. For the rest of the day I was convinced I could detect the smell of bone dust wherever we went.

"I smell death," I said to my wife.

"No, you don't," she said.

Anyway, enjoy this absurd voyeuristic journey via the magic of crappy postcards photographed with an even crappier camera:

I particularly enjoyed the 'Grim Reaper' plastered to the ceiling in this shot. It kind of gave the whole atmosphere a certain dignity that I felt was lacking. I mean thousands of bones from thousands of monks? Come on! Show me the money!

Ah, death. Ain't it grand?

Signs of the Apocolypse

2006-06-06T08:56:00.000Z

It is now early morning here in Belfast and the first signs of the end of the world are all around me.

The temperature today is forecasted to be 25 Celcius -that's about 80 or so in real temperature- with approximately 347% humidity.

I feel that I am already in HELL! (The temperature is the same anyway.)

Just in case

2006-06-05T14:55:00.000Z

I know many of you are probably concerned that the world is going to end tomorrow, what with the date being 666 and all.

Well click here and find out how you can take part in the "violent worship and praise" being planned by my distant Dutch relatives over in the Netherlands. I'm not sure what violent worship and praise entails exactly but since this is taking place in the land of legalized drugs I'm sure it will involve horrific retching and mass pizza consumption.

Groovy man.

Rome If You Want To...(Part I)

2006-06-03T20:24:00.000Z

I'm having trouble beginning.

Begin at the beginning, they say.

OK. Here goes then...

Bare with me for a moment here...
*ahem*

(clearing of throat)

strumming of fingers

(...gotta pour myself a stiff drink...)

thinking. thinking. thinking. thinking. thinking...

COMMERCIAL BREAK

The thing most people warned me about when I told them that I was going to Rome was that the people there would try to rip us off.

This did not surprise me-- not because I have some inherent bigotry toward the Italians. I got nothin' against the Italians (they look like they can take care of themselves in a brawl). It didn't surprise me because every single tourist trap I have ever been to (which is many) is full of people wanting to dip a little deeper into your glorious tourist pocket and shower themselves in the disposable income you've scrounged together through whatever means necessary. In our case we fell victim to the Olde Cabbie Bait 'N' Switch.

It happened innocently enough. We landed at the Ciampino (no, I don't think that's how you spell it but I don't really care) Airport and mumbled our way through the interrogation process of finding out how much it was going to cost us to take a cab to the hotel we had booked online. The general consensus was that since we had booked a hotel outside the city limits the fare would be unregulated and would therefore be fairly pricey. The quote we got was 15 Euros each for a journey of 2.5 kilometers (approximately 1 to 37 million miles as far as we knew).

"Bullshit!" I exclaimed.

"Surely we can find a cheaper way! Join me, sweet wife, as we extract some Monopoly Money from the unfound ATM machine and barter our way to a sweeter deal!"

The problem here was that there was no ATM machine anywhere near the Arrival Lounge (which was roughly the size of a postage stamp. There wasn't even a toilet handy as far as I could tell.). So we dragged our luggage to the Departure Terminal where we finally found a "Hole in the Wall" and I took out 100 Euros (which is about 60 Pounds or $110).

On our way out we were practically tackled by cabbies who would have you believe that they were on the verge of starvation and if we didn't enlist their services they would soon be shrivelling up in the street clutching their bellies and fading into oblivion as their mortgages went unpaid and their children volunteered for scientific testing just to keep a stale loaf of crusty bread on the table.

Finally, we agreed to Alphonzo or Vito or whoever the fuck that we would let him take us to our hotel.

"Itsa longa waya," he said. "Mighta be-a kinda pricey!"

"Just go," I said.

Vito drove us through the streets sweet talking my wife and I and telling us humbly how he wasn't so good with English and whatnot but making it VERY clear that our hotel was a LONG ways away but that he would do his DAMNDEST to get us there quickly via the shortest route humanly possible.

(INSERT YOUR FAVORITE 'NATIONAL LAMPOON EUROPEAN VACATION MOMENT')

To make a long story short, we finally arrived at the hotel, paid the guy (he tried to charge us 70 Euros even though the meter clearly said 59 (the "5" looked like a "6" he claimed)), checked in, went to our room and discovered this:This is the view from our balcony.

Look closely.

Yes, that's a yellow airplane sitting on the runway of an airport in the not so distant distance. Our airport. Less than 2 miles away. $80 for a cab ride a distance we could have walked semi -comfortably in shitty shoes with large stones chained to our necks...

SHAFTED!!!!

Anyway, we took this in stride, wrote it off as a "learning experience" and tried to laugh it off. Which we found impossible to do. We did, however, manage to make our way to the city center (roughly 12 miles away) free of charge for the next 4 days, so it's all good.

Join me now as I lay off the bullshit exposition and dazzle you with my low-res photographic stylings:

Here ya go, folks! My first view of Rome when coming out of the train station.
McDonalds!
I have sooooo many phrases to describe my feeling about this but I'll leave it to your imagination (they rhyme with "Cheese and rice" and "Duck Me" and "My Little Pony")...

It was election day in Rome.
The crown on Guy Number One is a classy touch and I hope he did well...however, I do feel the gal in the wheelchair demands special attention. It is unfortunate that her lackeys decided to paste her posters, literally, on the streets... (Unfortunately, I didn't get a pic of the guy holding a spot-colored rose between his teeth. It was spectacular, in every sense of the word...)

Everyone loves the Da Vinci Code!

Home again, home again, jiggity jig...

2006-06-02T21:37:00.000Z

Hey folks,
I'm back from Rome (or Roma as the locals call it--freaking foreigners). Oh, I'm gonna come up with some KILLER postings in the days to come but for now I leave you with this:

Dunno what exactly a "mass intention" is but rest assured that our trip was outstanding and uber cool.

I'm sad that we're back in Belfast (not that Belfast is a bad place, mind you) and not still grabbing free train rides into the city where "Christianity" was "supposedly born". (OK, we broke the law but I'll explain all that later...)

Oh man, it was a trip to remember (no sarcasm...seriously) and I promise I'll try to do some justice to it.

Our trip was awesome and great and fun.

Time for sleep now....so tired....

The BEST Airport

2006-05-28T17:39:00.001Z

I'm having trouble tonight with blooger.com or bloger.com or whatever. The formatting has gone to shit and I don't have the patience to deal with it cuz I'm in the middle of packing for our trip to Rome tomorrow morning. (If this turns out legible it's a complete accident...you have been warned.)

Part of me is thinking that if family members see this blog and find out we're going to Italy for a week they're going to think to themselves, "Self, how come Wayne and Ruth can afford a trip to Italy and not a trip to Wayne's dusty, windy, shitty hometown to visit his family?"

The answer is quite simple: for the two of us it's only costing around $700--that's flights, room and breakfast. To fly back to the States would cost us around $1000 each--just for the goddamn plane tickets. We simply do NOT have that kind of money and if we did, we'd be using the extra money to choke competing house buyers by jamming small bills down their throats so that we can get ourselves a nice run-down house for less than 3 Billion dollars.

Anyway, I'm getting the death stare from my wife that says, "If you don't pack your own bag you're going to be running around naked for the next 5 days." However, I have just countered with my, "Oh, yeah? Maybe I will run around naked for the next 5 days," look.

She knows I'm not bluffing--I have won.

To make her feel better I'm going to make dinner. That's just the kind of guy I am.

(Oh, yeah... I mentioned in this week's podcast at Letter To America that I would post a pic of the new splediferous George Best Belfast City Airport... well, here it is.

(Ain't this one fucking glorious sight? I still think it looks like a fast food restaurant chain.)

Unfortunately, we're not flying out of the 'Best Airport' tomorrow. We're flying out of Belfast International in Aldergrove... I guess that makes it the second best airport-- I just don't know. (Or Care! Whooo--hooo! I'm outta here!)

(SEE YA ON FRIDAY!)
(Update: It appears that Blogger has posted this in a legible format. Thank goodness for small favors. Talk to you all on Friday. Hopefully, I'll have some decent photos to share when I get back and I promise I won't make them too boring and make you feel like second hand friends/family sitting through a lame slide show. Post many, many comments so that I feel missed. I'm quite needy that way.)

My Secret is Out

2006-05-26T14:08:00.000Z

Many of you have suggested that since I work in advertising that my salary must be right up there with the real "movers and shakers" of the world. You would not be wrong. I'm sure my monthly income compares quite respectably with furniture movers and people who shake dirt out of carpets. (Buh-dum-duh! Thank you very much.)

However, it is true that my weekends are spent "hob-nobbing" and "pressing the flesh" with people who are only mentioned in "elite" circles with "quotes" around their activities.

But sometimes the lifestyle proves to be a bit much for a simple, dare I say Ordinary guy, and I find myself striving to keep up with the Jones's. And that's why I decided to splash out a little cash on doing some work to my trusty Fiat Punto.

The results are simply fabulous as you can see:

(not only do my new wheels suit my exotic new lifestyle but the registration plates (licence plates to my fellow Americans) conveys a secret message known only to a handful of people. Those in the know will have no doubt that this is indeed my vehicle. The rest of you will just have to guess what the connection is.)

Yuk!

2006-05-24T19:55:00.000Z

Recently, I've become obsessed with nose hair.

Now, I'm not talking about the normal nose hair that grows out of your nostrils. That shit is normal, as far as I'm concerned. I figure that hair serves a purpose, especially if you're walking through a sandstorm or if large bugs are trying to crawl up your sinus cavities and into your brain. I applaud that nose hair. I embrace it. I hope to grow more of it. And thankfully, I have plenty of defence in that regard.

However, over the last year or so my genetic coding has decided that the time is ripe for me to grow nose hair on the outside of my nose.

Am I alone in this? Is there something wrong with me?

Thankfully, there is not.

Tonight as I was walking down the train platform I noticed that one of the Northern Ireland Railway workers had not one, not two, but a whole corn-row of exterior nose hairs comfortably lying across the bridge of his schnozz.

But this worried me. Will I eventually get to the point where I stop obsessing about these stray, mutant hairs and just let them propagate without a second thought? Will I groom them into a strange comb-over of sorts?

It's just too much for me to think about right now. I have a trip to Rome to prepare for.

But I'm packing the tweezers just in case.

We're All Going on a Roman Holiday

2006-05-22T10:13:00.000Z

Some updates:

We finally sold our Blazer which has been sitting in a used car lot in Lynden, Washington for the last year or so. We found out we sold it about 2 weeks ago but I haven’t said anything because I was waiting for the check to clear. What happens now regarding the Title, who bought it, etc., whatever…

I

Don’t

Care

The loan is gone and I no longer have to shovel good money toward something I can’t use. (Oh, but it is a sweet machine. No, really!)

I mentioned last week that my wife and I were ‘House Hunting’. Unfortunately, like novices, we stupidly announced to the people selling the house that we were interested in buying it. This triggered a chain of events so disastrous that we were left staring in wide-eyed wonderment at how a house can go on sale at £89,000 and suddenly spiral into the region of £120,000 (that’s about $200,000 Yankee dollars for an 800 sq. ft. house).

Next time I’m going to treat it like a true manly sporting event and sneak up on the house in the dead of night and shot-gun it with £100 notes until it drops bleeding to the ground. After we skin, gut and mount it we’ll hopefully have a place to live where it won’t matter so much if I wipe the odd booger underneath the couch. Because it’ll be my couch (and I just realized I have scared off any friends who might have offered to help me move furniture…).

And finally…

Since we sold the Blazer and buying a house seems like a near impossibility in the next to near future we decided to buy some tickets somewhere, anywhere…and we stumbled on some cheap flights to Rome which, according to the extended forecast should be a nice comfy 30 degree (about 90 or so Fahrenheit) which beats the hell outta the balmy 11 with gusty winds we’re forecasted to have in Belfast for the next week or so.

Part of me wants to be the Loud American Tourist and go wondering the streets all google-eyed asking where the Dan Brown tour starts. However, since my wife will be with me, I imagine one severe eye-roll from her will shut me up rightly. Also, being an American is not exactly a badge of honor to wear these days in Europe and I can’t fake a decent Northern Ireland accent so I’m going to spend the next couple of days practicing my Canadian accent and developing a taste for Moosehead Beer.

Beauty, eh?

You Said What Now?

2006-05-19T11:48:00.000Z

I took today off because I thought I was dying from the flu.

I was wrong.

Turns out it was allergies. I took a Benydril (or however you spell it... I can't be bothered to look it up right now) and a half glass of wine and suddenly, I feel terrific!

Anyway, since I was feeling better I thought I'd head out and get a Garage Burger. When I drove back into the parking lot of the apartment there were a couple of guys hanging around speaking what I thought was either Polish or Pig Latin. I stood there for a minute trying to guess which language it was that they were speaking. Turns out that even though I've been here in Northern Ireland for almost a year that I still can't pick up the subtleties of the local accent...because it turns out they were speaking "English"... or at least some variant of.

Again, it was another day of learning for poor Mr. Ordinary American.

Just because I work with some English people and West Belfast and Northern Northern Ireland people I still have to come to grasp with some of the weirdo linguistic acrobatics that I'm gonna come across.

Having said that, I am now going to lie down and sleep off the effects of the allergy medicine.

(P.S. If you're bored try this: myheritage.com.

Apparently I look like like Lionel Ritchie and my wife is a close clone of Rick James. I HATE this site....)

(Apologies: I just realized that I forgot to mention that I found this site from my friend Annie . Thanks Annie.)

Well if what's his face says it's true, it MUST be true

2006-05-18T12:58:00.000Z

It's people like this jerk-wad, shit-head, fuck-faced, ass-ranger, hump-rumper, dildo twat that makes me think I will NEVER step foot in a church again. I honestly can't believe that people look up to this guy AND send him money. He's a fake, a jerk, and he's got more money than you (not that he will admit it) and yet you STILL support him (well, not YOU specifically but somebody is).

Rant over.

It's like L. Ron Hubbard said (he of Scientology fame): 'If you want to make real money, you should start a religion.'

Therefore, I'm starting the Official Church of Wayne. Send all donations, tithes, guilt payments for having cheated on your spouse, to me. I will surely save your soul... or at the very least, save your payments in a high interest off-shore account of some kind. Either way, we all win. (Except for you dumb-asses who still think Pat Robertson is a good person...)

Oh, and Seattle, watch out for that Tsunami, you coffee drinking, herion addicted heathens...

Because It's Tuesday

2006-05-16T12:46:00.000Z

I was thinking this morning about how President Bush’s approval ratings have fallen below the 30% mark. Well, not really THINKING cuz that’s a lot to ask of me when I’m trying to avoid eye contact with the ogres and smelly old women on the morning train, but it was a thought that crossed my mind.

I wondered, ‘What other job in the world, aside from politics and owning your own business, can you piss off the people at work and still keep cashing your checks?’

Lord knows if my job approval rating fell below, say 50%, I’d be hoofing it to the nearest temp agency to find something…anything…to keep from joining the local homeless population.

At the very least, I’d have to earn roughly £5 a day to keep me in delicious, sparkling, high-alcohol content cider to make the pavement slightly more comfortable at night. I’d also have to work on my patchy beard growing abilities and sport an attractive balding mullet-style coif. Both of these style requirements take time and because I’m too busy trying to keep my co-workers happy, I simply can’t wedge them (the styles that is) into my current schedule (I ALWAYS have time for you, dear co-workers!). (Also, in Northern Ireland a lot of people pronounce ‘schedule’ as ‘shedge-ool’. Therefore, I expect you to read it that way.)

I thought there might be a lot of meat to this bone but I think I’ve pretty much summed up my feelings in the matter already. You’re elected, you piss people off, you still got two years of slouching and internet surfing (or whatever Bush does) plus a six-figure book deal waiting for you on the other end.

Unfortunately, my current contract doesn’t allow for such slackerhood. So I leave you with these ominous photos stolen from the interweb:

I typically find visions of Jesus in tortillas and trunks of willow trees amusing but the root of an asparagus plant? Well, I never! (If you look closely, you'll notice He's giving you the raspberry. Not me...YOU. You'd better shape up, Mister!)

And stop doing You-Know-What, because Ceiling Cat is watching you.

Another Day in the Life

2006-05-15T19:34:00.000Z

Tonight, my wife and I went house hunting.

I used to be afraid of buying a house but then I finally wised up to the fact that we've been pissing away a shitload of money over the years on rent (yes, I understand the fact that 'pissing away' a 'shitload' is a bit contradictory). Now, I just want to buy a house before the cost goes crazy buck-shit stupid.

Buying a house is going to cause a huge disruption in the short term: there will be no trips ANYWHERE (OK, a weekend trip to Paris might fit the budget) and we'll probably spend a good portion of Saturday afternoons eating grapes in the produce section to fill our bellies. But that's a small price to pay to buy into a booming housing market that will inevitably crash in the next year or two.

So that's what I've been up to so far this week. I'll let you know what happens.

Tired...but getting rested

2006-05-13T20:02:00.000Z

We got our new bed a couple of nights ago. I'm still tired but I feel better. I should have a new post tomorrow but until then feel free to add some more jokes to my earlier post (below). I like jokes, don't you?

Why? Because I like you...

2006-05-10T18:50:00.000Z

Since nobody bothered to guess which jokes I was referring to on Monday (or cared) I might as well tell you what they are. Keep in mind, me and the guys at work have been putting in some pretty unsociable hours so at the time (roughly 2 am) these knee-slappers seemed extra...uhm...knee slappy.

So without further ado, I give you...

JOKE #1:

Two midgets win the lottery and each decides to hire a prostitute to celebrate their new found wealth.

The first midget takes his prostitute into his hotel room and with lots of fuss and bother he finds that he can't get an erection. Dissappointed, he sends his prostitute home. After she leaves he puts his ear against the wall where his midget friend is entertaining his own lady of the evening. He hears his friend shouting, "One! Two! Three! Hummmph! One! Two! Three! Hummmph!"

The next morning the second midget asks his friend how his evening went.

"Well, to be honest, no matter what I did I just couldn't get an erection."

The second midget considers this for a minute and then says, "Well, you think that's bad. I couldn't even get on the bed."

Get it? "One! Two! Three! Hummph!" That's what the midget was saying when he was trying to get on the bed. Get it?

JOKE #2

Two nuns are driving down the road when a vampire lands on the hood of the car. One nun turns to the other and exclaims, "What should we do?"

The second nun says, "I know! Show him your cross!"

So the first nun jumps out of the car, flips off the vampire and shouts, "Get lost you wee twat!"

Over here in Ireland "cross" means "angry". The first nun misunderstood the second nun and thought she wanted her to show her how angry she was that the vampire landed on the hood of their car because he probably scratched the paint. Nuns are poor, you see. They can't afford fancy new paint jobs every time a vampire screws up the finish on their Fiat Punto. By the way, "twat" means the same thing in Ireland as it does in the States. It means the same thing as "fanny". I mean the meaning of "fanny" over here in Ireland, which means "twat". In the States "fanny" means "arse" which really means "butt". Either way, if you come to the UK don't ask where your "fanny pack" is or people will laugh and you won't know why. Unless you've read this...which isn't likely.)

BONUS JOKE:

A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar.

The bartender says, "What is this? Some kind of joke?"

BONUS BONUS JOKE:

A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Why the long face?"

Yeah, so what if I did...

2006-05-08T19:14:00.000Z

I promised yesterday that I would have something good today.

I lied.

I've tried working over the posting I wanted to do but, for the life of me, I just couldn't get it to work the way I wanted. So instead, I'm going to try to explain what I wanted to do. If it makes sense, it makes sense... If it doesn't, well... no matter.

Anyhoo....

Somebody sent me one of those 'uplifting' creepy Christian web links concerning...well... I'll let the link speak for itself. You'll find it HERE.

Now, I have nothing against this kind of malarky. My original idea was to combine this unapologetic guilt wrencher into the template of your standard dirty joke. When you think about it they have the same format:

1. There's a setup.

2. Something miraculous/strange/abnormal happens.

3. There's a big pay-off.

There were two jokes I tried to meld with this and both had superb openings (both are old standards that I hadn't heard in a long time so I found them funny again).

The first begins thusly:

Two midgets win the lottery...

The second starts like this:

Two nuns are driving down the road when a vampire lands on the hood of their car...

The thing about jokes and religious propaganda is that they both invoke key emotive responses by the use of simple yet descriptive language like, "a single tear glistened on his cheek" and "I couldn't even get on the bed."

The pay offs are essentially the same: you either laugh or want to slit your own throat.

Anyway, I couldn't quite get the two formats to mix the way that I wanted. But that's not to say I'm giving up. I'm gonna work on it for another day or so.

(Bonus points if you can tell me what jokes I'm referring to.)

Tune in tomorrow....

2006-05-07T19:09:00.000Z

Jett and I recorded the new Chapter of Letter to America this afternoon (Sunday).

I think we found our fun time again (or should I say, I found my fun time again?). Either way, it looks like the show will be up tomorrow (Monday) so stay tuned.

I'm working on a new entry for this blog but I'm not sure it works...I'm gonna sleep on it and look at it again tomorrow and see if I think it's funny or not. If it's not I'll come up with something else and you'll never know the difference.

I'm crazy that way. (You never know if I'm gonna 'Zig' or 'Zag'. Whoo-hoo...CRAZY!!!)

I said what???

2006-05-04T19:04:00.000Z

Today I said something I never thought I'd say (and I say a LOT of stupid things):

"Oh come on! I've had cowshit in my mouth. I'm E-coli resistant!"

Easy out

2006-05-03T18:42:00.000Z

I've already worked 40 hours this week and it's only Wednesday.

I'm not going to rant or try to be clever or funny.

I'm tired and people are getting on my nerves.

Live with it.

There are some things you just don't want to know

2006-04-30T15:42:00.000Z

Some of you may have noticed that I've become a grumpy old man lately.

I've criticized the U.S. tax system which is pretty embarrassing (ANYONE and EVERYONE has made fun of the I.R.S. That was completely lame of me and I do apologize...), I've claimed to have lost my sanity (Thanks Jama...I tried both the St. John's Wort and vodka. Both worked equally well in different capacities) and I've ignored pretty much everyone in my life.

But there is a reason: Our bed is killing us.

Imagine sleeping on a hammock made of chain-link fence. That is what our bed is like. I haven't slept through the night in about a year. I'm not joking. (I'm typing in short sentences because I keep falling asleep in this oh-so comfortable upright faux leather crappy desk chair...oh man, it's comfy!)

We've been saving up for a house or maybe a surprise trip back to the States to visit family, but since both of our jobs pay what I like to call "peanuts" none of these options are likely to happen this year. So we decided that if the two of us were actually sleeping through the night that maybe, just maybe we'd become successful and rich. To do that, we figured we'd better pony up and buy a new mattress.

(A fun fact for you: Did you know that the average person sweats out 1/3 of a pint of fluid each and every night? That means every 9 days each individual sleeping in the bed is leaking out 3 full pints of yummy sweat. If you're married that's 6 pints every 10 days or 18 pints a month! That's 216 pints a year! Is this making you sick yet? It should!)

Anyway, the new mattress has been ordered and should be here in a week or so. Personally, I can't wait. I really, truly, desperately need a good night's sleep.

(Also, Jett pointed out to me during the last recording of LTA that I don't pronounce the word "both" correctly. I say "Bolth" with an "L". I feel very self-conscious of this at the moment but I'm not gonna blame it on my hillbilly upbringing...I'm blaming it on not sleeping properly. But if I'm still saying it after May 10 (when our mattress is due to arrive) I'm gonna blame it on all that nasty sweat I've slept in over the years.)

(Seriously, does anybody else say 'Bolth' or is it just me? I honest to god never noticed that I said it that way until this weekend. I'm a bit freaked out.)
This is a shot from Newsomethingortheother Monestary (or Nendrum Monestary if you're into specifics...We drove out here today because the weather was a bit dreary and we didn't feel like going on a full-on hike. I gotta say, there's a lot to be discovered in Northern Ireland and it truly is one of the most beautiful places I have ever lived. I'm glad I'm here...Even if I'm crazy....)

Resistance is Futile.

2006-04-28T18:24:00.000Z

You know you want it. Find it here.

Cuckoo!

2006-04-27T19:05:00.000Z

This week I have mostly been trying to regain my sanity.

I'll let you all know how that goes.

My train of thought...

2006-04-25T11:07:00.000Z

As I was riding the train this morning I noticed that I have secretly named most of the regular commuters and I’ve compiled a pretty healthy list over the last 10 months or so.

The early commute tends to have the more colourful characters. (Dammit, Spell Checker and your British Dictionary setting! I said colourful….ARGGGGGGHHHH! It did it again!). I realize that very few people are at their best first thing in the morning and I should cut them some slack. But then again, that's their baggage, not mine. I’m the very picture of happiness and good will all friggin day.

I’m inclined to think that a certain part of my brain gets unduly bored watching the stops come and go each and every morning and each and every night and each and every morning and each and every night and has to entertain itself somehow when the battery on my Nintendo goes dead. Unfortunately, my ID or Super ID or Super Duper ID is a bit antisocial and that I might be a good candidate for anti-psychotic drugs.

(Pop Quiz: How many of you, when you’re walking down the street, look at passing people and rate them according to a “Punch” or “Trip” category? Is it just me? Really?)

Or maybe I secretly (or not so secretly) despise most everyone on the planet and I feel it is my duty to pigeonhole them into inferior sub-classes NOW so I know who will be best suited for future psychological enslavement and torture when I fully evolve and take over the universe. (I have BIG plans, people. It’s best you get on my good side now. You have been warned.)

Maybe, and I’m going out on limb here, I’m just an asshole.

Either way, the list begins with:

Jitterbug.

Jitterbug irritates me the most because her problem is the most easily solved.

Every morning, she stands too close to me. (It’s a big platform. There’s plenty of room about 50 yards away where she could hover to her heart’s content, for Pete’s sake.) But this subconscious violation of my personal space doesn’t irk me as much as her constant shuddering.

No matter what the temperature is—no matter how cold/wet/hot/humid it is—she wears the same damn cotton overcoat. And every time a train passes or a mouse farts somewhere in Bartlesville, Oklahoma she shivers like a hypothermic epileptic bowl of jell-o.

She’s a professional looking woman. She dresses smart and, from what I can tell, she isn’t sacrificing buying a new, warmer coat so that her 18 special needs children won’t go hungry. (Just a guess...) Is this petty of me? (Be careful now. Your answer may be held against you.)

All I can say is, "Buy a fucking heavier coat!"

Problem solved.

Well, it seems I won’t get to the rest of my list today. There simply isn’t time to tell you all about:

Napolean Shithead
Marilyn
Gag Bag
Tidy Doffer
The Stern Lesbo
Napolean Angst (no relation)
The Ogre Twins
Dr. Valium
Nurse Ta-Ta
Joan Rivers Fashion Disaster
Stupid Head
Blind Bang Bangs
Mullet Mistress
Princess Yoo-Hoo
Stompy
or
The Chav Chumps

SO YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO TUNE IN NEXT TIME!!! (I'LL BET YOU CAN'T WAIT!)

Audit this...Assholes.

2006-04-23T15:19:00.000Z

Sorry folks, I'm in the process of completing my U.S. tax return (yes, I KNOW they were supposed to be sent off about a week ago...what? Do you work for those sick I.R.S. bastards? Too damn bad! They'll be finished when they're finished!)

Besides, if I mis-read my tax forms correctly I have an extra two months to file before I'm penalized for not filing on time, even though I'm do a refund (we're poor, apparently). Isn't the American tax system special? You get penalized for not filing on time even though the shitheads in the U.S. Government are making interest on the money they owe ME.

Imagine, for a moment, if I hadn't paid any taxes all year long. I just took my paycheck and deposited the whole thing into a checking/savings account. Well, I'd be earning money on the money I didn't pay to the assholes in D.C. And then, let's say, that at the end of the year I just paid the taxes that I owed but kept the interest that I had earned. That would be ok, wouldn't it? Except for the fact that those shitheads ('Shithead' is my favorite word at the moment. It rolls quite pleasantly off the tongue) charge me taxes on my fucking interest!!!!

I'm pretty wound up at the moment so I'm going to stop.

Suffice it to say that I have yet to find a government/tax system that works. I will say that the U.K. tax system works a little bit better than the U.S. and doesn't screw you over with bullshit paperwork at the end of each fiscal year. (They just screw you silently all year long on a soft bed of ignorance while plying you with heavily taxed boozed to get you in the mood.)

All this is enough to drive a poor guy crazy. I'm going for a bike ride to clear my head and inflame my hemmorhoids. I think that's quite fitting for what the U.S. tax system does to so many....

Ulster Folk Museum Part III

2006-04-20T18:22:00.000Z

OK, a quick refesher: We (my wife and I) were at the Ulster Folk AND Transport Museum. These pics are obviously from the Transport part. We (my wife and I. Are you keeping up, people?) spent the better part of the day at the 'Folk' part and only had time for a quick walk through the 'Transport' area. All in all, it was a great day and I highly recommend this museum to anyone who visits Northern Ireland.

(Ignore the man behind the reflective glass...no not the guy screaming and pointing his finger...I'm talking about me...Oh, you know what I mean...)

(I HATE nuns. They've scared me ever since I was a child... Stupid Penguins.)

(I show you this only because I fear the nuns had something to do with the iconography of most Northern Ireland facilities(because they're evil). My understanding of this sign above the 'loo' is: 1. Man and Woman Enter Toilet. 2. They Snap a Child's Neck. 3. Child is Destined to a Life in a Wheelchair.)
(Some people think Delorean's are cool --they were built in Belfast after all...)

(But those people would be the French...and they are sooooo NOT cool.)

Ulster Folk Part II

2006-04-18T17:19:00.000Z

Doors are VERY small over here...

An Easter Adventure

2006-04-17T13:56:00.000Z

As you can see from the beautiful dot-matrix printed ticket above, my wife and I decided to visit the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum this past Saturday. We had been to the museum 8 years ago--just a couple of days before our wedding (Wow. Time flies).

Anyway, we went out for a drive Saturday morning and we were trying to think of a cool place to walk when we suddenly exclaimed, 'What the hell? We're a couple-a-crazy kids! Why not spend part of our long Easter Holiday at a museum?!?! And it has nothing to do with the fact that we're driving past the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum in Cultra! Which is only 5 minutes away from the centre of Belfast! Ulster Folk and Transport Museum..they show you old shit and it's perfect for us!'

So that's what we did.

Enjoy. (Sorry! I accidently uploaded a completely different photo than I thought I was uploading but, you know what? I still think this pic is funny so I'm gonna leave it in. In fact, I'm going to go minimalist on the rest of this posting and not interject any dumb ass comments. I'll let the photos speak for themselves. If you have any questions, I will gladly answer them but otherwise I'm just gonna let this one ride...)

(This is enough for today. I wouldn't want to overstimulate you all at once. Part II is on it's way...)

Fun with Google

2006-04-11T10:07:00.000Z

Today, I am conducting a little experiment. I’m going to tell a short story, translate it to German and then translate it back to English to see how accurately Google Language Tools can handle the task. I’m going to make the story as simple as possible (as soon as I think of one)…

Ok, here we go.

One morning, our hero Wayne (extra) Ordinary American, woke and rubbed the sleepy-crunch-globs from his bloodshot little eyes.

“Ah, morning! My most favourite time of day!” said our hero. “Each day is like a little gift from the Thetan warlords who will me to do their bidding. I can’t wait to see what crazy misadventures are in store for this brisk, rainy Tuesday! Well, I’ll be! Isn’t that freezing rain and sleet mixed? Why, it is! Hooray! Walking to the train station will be a slippery challenge!”

Then our hero stumbled to the kitchen, flipped the switch for the hot water, brushed his teeth, took a shower, caught the train and went to work where he accomplished many a splendid thing.

Then he went home and fell asleep on the sofa watching “Pop Idol” or maybe it was “Beauty and the Geeks” or some such shit.

THE END

And now in German:

Ein Morgen, unser (Extra) gewöhnlicher Amerikaner HeroWayne, weckte auf und rieb das Sleepyknirschen-globs von seinen kleinen Augen des bloodshot. "Amperestunde, Morgen! Die meine meiste Lieblingszeit!", besagt unser Hero. "jeder Tag ist wie ein kleines Geschenk von den warlords Thetan, die ich ihr Bieten tun. Ich kann nicht warten, um zu sehen, was verrückte misadventures im Speicher für diesen lebhaften, regnerischen Dienstag sind! Gut bin ich! Wird nicht dieser das Einfrieren Regen und Sleet gemischt? Warum, es ist! Hooray! Das Gehen zur Zugstation ist eine glatte Herausforderung!", Dann stolperte unser Hero zur Küche, schlug den Schalter für das Heißwasser, gebürstet seinen Zähnen leicht, nahm eine Dusche, verfangen dem Zug und ging, zu bearbeiten, wo er viele eine herrliche Sache vollendete. Dann ging er nach Hause und fiel schlafend auf dem Sofaaufpassen "Knall Idol", oder möglicherweise war es "Schönheit und das Geeks" oder etwas solche Scheiße.

DAS ENDE

And now back to English:

Today I lead a small experiment. I will explain, translate a short history her to the German and translate her then back to English, in order to see, how exactly tools Google Sprachdie task can touch. I will as simply form history, as possible (as soon as I think of one)..., here we go to o.k..

One morning, our (extra) usual American HeroWayne, woke up and rubbed Sleepyknirschen globs from its small eyes bloodshot.

"ampere-hour, mornings! My most favourite time!", means our Hero. "each day is like a small gift of the being lords Thetan, which I their offering do. I cannot wait, in order to see, what crazy misadventures in the memory for this lively, rainy Tuesday are! I am good! Isn't this mixed freezing rain and Sleet? Why, it is! Hooray! Going to the course station is a smooth challenge!"

Then our Hero stolperte to the kitchen, struck the switch for the hot water, brushed its teeth easily, took a shower, gets caught the course and went working on where it completed many a wonderful thing. Then it went home and fell sleeping on the sofa watching out "bang Idol", or possibly it was "beauty and the Geeks" or something such shit.

THE END

Wasn't that fun, boys and girls? Weee!

Nicht daß waren Spaßjungen und -mädchen? Weee!

A Day in the Life

2006-04-09T17:26:00.000Z

I'm not going to tie this posting into the most recent Letter to America podcast.

I'm going to let Chapter 30 of LTA speak for itself.

This posting is all about my totally relaxing, super Sunday. It was so nice it almost makes you believe that there is a God.

Today, we went to Castle Ward.

This is the road/walkway to where the servants and the people who did the actual work used to toil away their days. There's a mill of some sort or another down here. I don't like to think about it because if I had lived in that day and age I would've been the kid that kept the grindstone moist--probably with my own sweat and/or blood.

Here's the gateway to the sea. This is where I would have drowned if I had enough blood in my veins to crawl this far in an attempt to escape. Had I lived in that day and age, that is...

Believe it or not, Castle Ward is a building of two halves...literally. The front half (seen here) is built in the "Classic Style"...

While the back half is built in the Gothic style. (And if you peek in one of the windows you will see two stuffed boxing squirrels (honestly). I would have taken a picture of said squirrels but...well... I didn't.)

I felt compelled to take a picture of the sky for a couple of reasons:

I'm sick to death of a-holes and nay-sayers crying about how it ALWAYS rains in Ireland. This is authentic photographic proof that today was absolutely brilliant and lovely and gorgeous and cloud free. So Bpllllffooooooooop, Mr. A-hole Nay-sayer!

I only include this photograph because I don't really understand it. Obviously, it's some god like Zeus or Michael Caine but I don't understand why he's got what looks like a miniature baseball bat clutched in his hands. And why is there some sea creature arm grabbing his crotch? And why does he seem so unconcerned about it?

Ah, questions my friends. I've got nothing but questions.

Anyway, I hope you all had a good weekend and check out Chapter 30 of Letter to America and let me know what you think now that you can actually hear my voice on the recording.

(UPDATE: The blue sky was a passing thing. By the time we got home this afternoon, which was somewhere around 2 p.m. the sky clouded over and it began to rain like you wouldn't believe...that's Ireland.)

It's All True

2006-04-05T18:18:00.000Z

The problem with being on Letter to America is that there is a tendency for the layperson to think that Jett and I make shit up.

We don't.

Every nuance, every intonation, every syllable is simply dripping with God's Own Truth. And, if I may be blunt for a moment, it kinda ticks me off when people think otherwise. Regardless, I've received a virtual mountain of emails asking me to back up my recent story about the the Clinton/Presidential Suite. If you haven't listened to the podcast do so NOW...I'll wait. Are you finished? Good.

Anyway, I remember it like this...(insert your own mental BWOOP BWOOP BWOOP! or WEENAH WEENAH WEENAH! music that indicates that someone is telling you a story in flashback... Wow! That's what it sounds like in your head? Oh, well...whatever...)

I was minding my own business with my co-worker Allyson one day in the Europa. Belfast isn't exactly known as a "Hotspot" for international movers and shakers (though the occasional stoned pizza delivery boy does stop by and stare at the floral arrangements on the desk) so we certainly weren't expecting what was about to happen.

OH SHIT!

It's former President Clinton and he's demanding that he sleep the night away in the uber comfy Presidential Suite! But somebody else, somebody very important with steely gray hair and an enigmatic smile has already moved in! I tried to explain but it was for nothing.

"I don't give a good gal-darn who's in the Presidential Suite," he said. "I'm the former president of the United States of America (Hock! Spit!)! And what I says goes."

"I'm sorry Mr. Former President," I said, "I just can't go and kick this worldwide celebrity out on his tooshy. It just wouldn't be right!"

"Fuck 'right' I'm Bill Clinton."

Well, what could I do? I walked slowly up the stairs, breathing deeply and collecting my thoughts.

"This ain't gonna be easy, but how do you say 'No' to The Man?"

I knocked on the door...

"Hello? Are you in there? I was just wondering if, by chance, I mean ya don't have-ta or nothin' but would you mind giving up your room for the President of the United States?"

"Who's there?" Elliot Gould shouted. "Which President? Bush? Reagan? Nixon?"

"Um...no sir. Someone just as popular and savvy, however. Do you remember President Bill Clinton?"

"Clinton! Did you say CLINTON??!! That bastard slept with my ex-wife of almost 20 years ago. You might know her better as Barbara Striesand, International Songbird! As far as I know she was the love of my life and he bonked her like a bumper car at a cheap county fair! Tell him to go to the Days Inn across the road! Or better yet, Jett Loe says any weirdo stranger fan can sleep on his couch. Begone, insignificant bellhop! Begone, I say!

Well, what could I do? Nothing, is what. So I slunk down the stairs and told Clinton what happened.

"Oh yeah, Babs!" he said, "I did the Humpty Dance with her all night long. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Bill was so nice about the whole situation he even agreed to take a crappy single room as long as I renamed it the "Clinton Suite" in his honor, which I did.

And it had nothing to do with his secret service men threatening me with large scary weapons.

And that's the true story of the Clinton Suite at the Europa.

Really.

(special thanks to Phil)

Getting better all the time

2006-04-03T14:06:00.000Z

Authors Note: Those of you with sharp eyes will recognize my red and gray flannel shirt in this pic. This was taken from a very special video that Jett shot during our latest LTA recording. It's not exactly relevant to what I'm about to say...yet it's not exactly NOT relevant, if you follow. Hit the link at the bottom and you will see one of the saddest, most truly tragic moments ever caught on video. God bless YouTube.

At the risk of unwittingly disclosing any as-of-yet undiagnosed Manic-Depressive behavior (see yesterday's post--or better yet, don't) I gotta say that I'm feeling much better today. The sky is a richer shade of blue, my flowing locks seem more lustrous than ever before and there's a certain je ne c'est quoi to the odor emminating from the lunchroom fridge.

I hate suffering the moods like the one that blindsided me yesterday. I hate it even more when I get a feverish pulsing vein in my forehead and I say things to myself like:

"The world blows! I'm gonna write an incoprehensible rant on my blog! That'll learn 'em!"

Learn who, exactly? Well, nobody but myself, apparently.

Normally, I adhere to a strict rule of blatant lies, half truths and bullshit on my posts. I tend to shy away from anything that truly affects me because:

A: I'm a private person.

B: I don't really want/need/or care to have people thinking they know the real me (exceptions apply)

C: Deep down, I'm pretty superficial.

My other rule is that after I post something (usually late at night) and it reads like the drool splattered scribblings of a semi-literate maniac in the morning, I delete it and pretend that nothing happened. It's like the perfect one night stand. Only I know it happened.

Only today, I wasn't the only one who knew. When I checked my email this morning I realized in horror that two people had already commented on my dementia (Puppies? Karma? Rants about John Calvin and Martin Luther??? WTF???) .

Oh shit.

You could say that I rode the proverbial scooter. It was fun at the time but I didn't really think people would see me. But people did. And it was worse than being caught in bed with a fat chick at a frat party.

Which, come to think of it, that actually happened to me too.

Sort of.

First of all, she wasn't fat and, second, it wasn't a frat party--it was a themed "Beach Party". It was great in a "We're in Iowa in January" kind of way. We turned the heat up to 90 and filled the bathtub with sand. This was back in the day of the Coor's Party Ball and as soon as the first one was empty we hung up some string and started a lively, if somewhat deadly, game of volleyball.

Anyway, what happened was this: my bedroom at the time lead out onto a semi-balcony overlooking an Evergreen tree. The house rule was such that if the other two bathrooms were occupied the bladder in question was allowed to relieve itself on the roof but ONLY if they aimed at the Evergreen (I believe there was a reason for this but it escapes me at the moment. I think it had something to do with not peeing in the sink.). This rule was protested by me initially until I realized the benefit to myself. I would no longer have to make the arduous journey all 11 feet to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I could just climb out my window and wee while standing on loose shingles.

By the time the party got to the Excessive-Amount-of-Bladders-in-Dire-Straits stage I had suckered some poor girl up to my bedroom for a little Beach Blanket Bingo (if you get my drift. Of course you do.).

Well! Imagine her surprise when three of my housemates came strolling through my bedroom.

Here is an exact transcript of the moment:

HOUSEMATES: Hey Wayne. Hey (NAME DELETED).

ME: Hey guys.

NAME DELETED: Fuckers...

EVERYONE: HA! HA! HA!

(*SIGH* Those were the good old days.)

I have no idea where, if anywhere, I was going with this. It seems I'm out to prove that I have no recognizable signs of shame. So what the hell... let's just add some fuel to the fire.

Witness: WHITEY CAN'T DANCE!

(Oh, and stay in school.)

Karma...Your name is Charlie

2006-04-02T18:32:00.000Z

I'm not big on superstition.

OK, that's a big fat lie.

I'll believe any written word/radio broadcast/beggar on the street that says I'm destined for a good day. This is why I don't go to church or read the horoscopes. Better safe than sorry.

Hold on...I don't know what that means.

How am I "safe" rather than "sorry" if somebody tells me I'm going to have a good day? I don't know. Let's just leave this topic now, shall we?

Anyway, what I was going to talk about today was how I had a huge guilt complex over returning a very expensive remote control back to the store because it had served its purpose and was just sitting on my coffee table reminding me that I spent roughly 20 pounds (about $35 American) on a remote control that I only needed to use once.

Regular readers will know that I bought a new Sony DVD player in the hopes that it would be "Region Free" which means that we could play our DVD's from America as well as the ones we bought over here (Northern Ireland...keep up people).

Long story short... the remote was needed to "hack" the DVD player so that it would be region free. It worked. There was no need to keep it. However, I'm the worst at returning products to the store. I always feel guilty.

For example, as a male (me, that is) say I inadvertently bought a box of tampons. I have no use for said blood plugs. As a consumer, I have every right to return them at their full retail price because it was obviously some innocent error/fetish that I bought the damn things in the first place.

BUT!

No matter how much I would be in the "right" on this, I would blush and stutter and probably trip on my way to the Customer Service counter because for some reason or the other I would feel it was my responsibility (which it probably was) and that I fucked up and the store owes me nothing and in fact I should pay them again for wasting their time. Is this is wrong. Is it? I don't know. Is it? Should I keep them? Pay them again? Maybe I should. You never know...

See? This is how my mind works. I'm convinced it's out to kill me. (Today, my wife actually said to me, and I quote: "If you didn't have a brain, you'd be twice as smart as you are now.")

OK. Let's tie this up before I embarrass myself any further:

I returned the remote AND I also returned a PC game that didn't work on my computer. (Yep, I know this came out of nowhere. I'm a crazy guy. Two returns in one day! Rock on!)

I gave the guy at the video game store a very sad and pathetic story and even though his store doesn't normally buy PC games (due to licensing laws), and aside from the fact that I didn't even buy the damn game in HIS store he actually gave me full price on the return as long as I bought ANOTHER game to take it's place. Which I did. I bought Animal Crossing for my Nintendo DS.

So, basically, I have nothing new to offer you people. I have had a shit on graham cracker type couple of weeks. I'm fed up, tired as all hell and I can't believe that tomorrow is Monday AGAIN, GODDAMN IT! And I give you returning shit to the store stories...sorry about that.

To be 100% honest, I'm not sure what it is I'm doing here (on this blog, that is). I'm pissed off, fed up and disgusted with everything around me. I feel guilty for asserting my rights and behaving like everyone else. (Special Thank You to Martin Luther and John Calvin for making guilt such a very personal mind fuck every time I step out the door.)

So why is Karma's name Charlie (as the title suggests)? I have no idea. They're just cute little puppies and I wish I had one now because people suck and puppies are always, ALWAYS cute.

Capricorn: Horoscope for Monday-- Life is grand. Take a chill pill and things will work out fine. And remember to tell your wife how lucky you are to have her. At the end of the day, we're all dead. Make sure the time until then matters.

Sweet Fancy Moses

2006-03-29T20:05:00.000Z

Wow, have I got blogging for you!

Big, incredible, unbelievable stories that'll make your toenails fall off and your hair turn white. Say 'Goodbye' to your computer monitor cuz it's gonna take one look at you and self destruct out of sheer pity of your pathetic existence!

Shield your eyes!

Yes, my friends, my life is that amazing!

I mean it! Whoo-eeee!

Such tales of adventure and glory!

Dragons slayed!

Princesses saved!

Coupons redeemed!

And that's not even the good parts! That's what I did before breakfast!

But you know what? I'm going to have to save the juicey details for another day (Sorry!) because it's well past my normal bedtime and I still haven't had any dinner! I just got home! And it's midnight! There's no time for appetite when you're livin' the vida loco!

SHAZAAM!

Man, my week has been exciting. I can hardly believe it! It's amazing that I ever find time to leave the office. I'm too busy having fun!

WHOO-HOOO!

See ya, wouldn't want to be ya!

(Note to self: Nobody believes a fucking word you say. Now go to bed.)

Hunter or Gathererer..ererer...

2006-03-26T15:00:00.000Z

In these modern times it's easy to forget that by nature each of us, genetically and socially speaking, once belonged to a specific tribe. Some of our ancestors were Hunters while others were Gatherers. I have no idea which tribe I would have belonged to--probably the Thieving tribe.

I say this because I have no real skill set. I would starve to death almost immediately were I left to my own devices--even if one of those devices were a machine gun. As for gathering? Just look at the pile of dirty laundry that sits in the spare bedroom. I can't even bring myself to compile it and bring it the whole 20 feet into the kitchen where the washing machine is. Therefore, my entire existence is based on my ability to steal shit and this weekend was a perfect example.

Witness our Entertainment Center:

There's nothing fancy about this. It's just a wide screen TV with a DVD player, Freeview Box and Surround Sound speakers connected together. The problem is, we had a shitty Bush brand DVD Player that was supposedly "Region Free" out of the box, which meant (in theory) that we could play the movies we bought in the States (Region 1 NTSC versions) as well as the flicks we purchased over here (Region 2 PAL versions).

Well, in theory that did work in respect to our American DVD's which played fine. However, when we put in the Region 2 DVD's, which should have played perfectly on a system bought in this country, there was a screen focus issue that made me want to vomit about 10 minutes into the movie.

To make a long story short, I ditched the Bush DVD player and bought a new Sony DVP-Ns29. I thought of buying this player a couple of weeks ago but was put off by the salesman at the Sony Centre:

HIM: This DVD player is region free... for a price.

ME: I assume that price is the one marked on the tag... 39.99.

HIM: No, what I mean is, that's the price you'll pay to the store.

ME: I know.

HIM: The price you'll pay on record.

ME: DUH.

HIM: But you'll pay ME another 20 pounds to make it work. See where I'm going with this?

ME: Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an internet connection at home that will solve this problem for me. Without you. See where I'm going with this? That's right. Home.

So I bought the DVD player at Argos then I looked up the hack on the web, went and bought the necessary remote--again from Argos-- which looks like this:

You'll notice that this thing is huge. It weighs approximately 3 pounds and actually has a built in modem--for what, I have no idea but that's what the instruction books say and I never argue with instruction books.

For once, the Internet didn't lie to me. It took a little screwing around but I managed to set up the codes and hack the DVD player so that everything works just hunky-dory.

I now have a totally Region Free DVD player which would mean a LOT more to me if I was into importing lots of weirdo foreign films, but I'm not. I'm just happy that my copy of "This is Spinal Tap" works without me going into epileptic fits.

And I'm pretty damn proud of myself. The remote only cost me 19.99 which means I saved an entire penny from what the jerk at the Sony Centre was going to charge me.

It's the principle of the thing.

Time stands still for no man

2006-03-23T19:08:00.000Z

This week has been absolutely insane.

First the gardeners sliced the tires of the moving van and then went on a rampage amongst the alzaleas...alzeloaus...umm, fuck it--the flowers. Elfish or not (the gardeners), they're a huge pain in my ass and I've been chasing them around the grounds for the past week. They're a full time job I tell you.

And when I haven't been stalking the little bastards, I've been sampling the leaves of the protective maze which Phil from Playaz Ball sagely pointed out was constructed of 100% marijuana. I'd re-post a picture but that would make you even lazier than me (scroll down for god's sake!).

Throw in a couple of major pitches and 17 hour days at the ad agency and that's my week in a nutshell. It's been a learning experience to say the least. I really don't need sleep. It's just wasted time after all. and that's why aim asil oimmind tisht taskct red adn yellwo basket. stop.

Thank You W.O.W.!

2006-03-19T19:37:00.000Z

Due to the overwhelming response to my new frangrance line, "W.O.W." ("Weird Old Woman") Perfume my wife and I decided to invest a small portion of the profits in a new house. Normally, we're quite conservative when it comes to spending cash because our reasoning is: you can't spend what you don't have. But with the money suddenly rolling in we felt we should put it somewhere safer than tucked into the sweat sock hidden inside the cookie jar.

Unlike most couples our age we have yet to invest in real estate for two reasons:

1. We are some of the most unsettled and unsettling people I know. We either freak out after living two whole consecutive years in one place and run to a new town/city/state/country or we're chased out because of my propensity to answer the door to missionaries whilst nude.

2. I've unwisely been investing in "reality estate" and the market has taken a very nasty downturn in the last couple of months.

Hopefully, our new home will allow us to feel like we finally belong in a community worthy of our humble stature:

I felt that our new house should be conservative yet large enough for us to "grow into". I have no desire to pull up stakes and move anytime soon and I think we've finally found the perfect place. (Special thanks to all five original members of Guns 'n' Roses for helping us move. I'm sure you'll get that chocolate mousse off the curtains of the tour bus. Sorry about that!)

These are the Rampaging Murderous Elfish Gardeners unique to the region and left by the previous owner.

The special protective garments ensure that they spend the winter months in relative comfort and safety. When they emerge in early spring (as they were today) it's kind of scary--especially the gasping for air and the swinging of hedge clippers. (I promised my wife we would get rid of them (the hedge clippers) as soon as the rhodedendrons are trimmed and the tulips are transplanted. (I'm keeping the gardeners.)

This hideous garden will be the first to be leveled to make way for the BBQ pit.

This is the view from the balcony of the master bedroom. The protective maze was originally constructed to trap and confuse trespassers and provide much needed sport for gentleman archers. I will be releasing the murderous gardeners in here shortly.

Stop by and say "Hi!"

Random Thoughts on St. Patrick's Day

2006-03-17T21:35:00.000Z

Song That Fools Most People Into Thinking They Can Harmonize: Bohemian Rhapsody (Queen)

Most Thinly Veiled Song About Slipping the Big One: Longfellow Serenade (Neil Diamond)

Job I Would NEVER Want to Have: Cleaning the toilets of Belfast's Great Victoria Street on St. Patrick's Day (Oh, man! You sooooo don't want that job!)

Car Most Likely to Explode on Impact: Fiat Punto

Scariest Place to be on St. Patrick's Day: Belfast City Hall

Average Age of Drunk Belfast People on St. Patrick's Day: 17

Time That I'll Most Likely Be Going to Bed Tonight: 10:00 p.m.

Chance of Hangover Tomorrow Morning: 30%

A Star is Born

2006-03-16T19:54:00.000Z

Yesterday, as I was standing on the platform waiting for my train to work, I had an odd experience.

A young man, maybe 18--maybe 20 years old-- kept staring at me. In itself, that's not so unusual. I'm a decent looking guy and I'd never be one to hold that against anyone (except my wife...buh-dum-dum-duh!). What I mean is, I realize that I look different from your normal Northern Ireland chap. I'm 6 foot 2 for one thing. I'm blond (or was blond at one time). I wear a baseball cap properly (note to the chavs and spides: you guys couldn't wear a cap to save your lives. You look like 60 year old fishermen (bend the goddamn brim you fucknuts!!!) But since you're constantly drunk on cider and glue fumes, I suppose that doesn't really matter to you one way or the other.)

Anyway, I was standing on the platform and this guy kept staring at me. Finally, just as the train was approaching, he said, "Aren't you Wayne Ordinary American?"

Well! That was a surprise! I can't remember the last time my morning train showed up on schedule! Also, some strange person recognized me from a podcast.

I turned to him and admitted that, yes, that was me.

"Your show rocks!" he smiled.

I thanked him but before I had a chance to explain that my primary role on Letter to America is to basically show up on time and try not to talk when Jett is talking, the train came to a stop and my iPod buds shot instictively into my ear canals and I couldn't hear another word he might have said.

I told this story to a couple of people at work and they were totally psyched for me. "Wow," they said, "you're like a celebrity or something! You're actually a celebrity!"

By nature I'm a humble guy and I really don't know what to think about my current situation but I do think it's kinda cool in a "I'm a minor geek celebrity in Northern Ireland" kind of way.

So I'll take my glory where I can find it. Beside, unless this celebrity thing starts paying some beans, I still have to show up for my day job.

(Stardom really is over-rated.)

Sick Days

2006-03-14T11:30:00.000Z

I'm very disappointed in myself.

I've gone and gotten sick.

Again.

This is like the third time this year that I've been caught out with a bad cough/sneeze, headache, runny nose, and general poor disposition. I blame it on being a stranger in a strange land. In America, I hardly ever got sick. Maybe once every couple of years I'd get a small sniffle or two but nothing like the crap I've been suffering over here. In fact, the last time I had a fever was when I was in the fourth grade which was....um....carry the one, divide by eight... Holy shit! About 30 years ago! (Mrs. Mooney sent me home because I started hallucinating in the middle of Bible class. I said Moses was a pussy and if he had any guts at all he would've smashed the first set of Commandments into Noah's face and burned the ark on his way back to Vegas because you need Jesus for that shit.)

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I'm not feeling too great and I'm really tired of posting that I'm not feeling too great. For entertainment I've been searching the YouTube site and stumbled across this. If you love the Spice Girls (and who doesn't?) and you love wierd still photography set to the Spice Girls you're in for a real treat!

And, whatever you do, don't watch the Allan Ray's Gruesome Eye Injury clip.

It'll make YOU sick.

Also, never forget that I love you.

Everyone Loves a Slideshow

2006-03-13T12:09:00.000Z

For pics of the Irish Blog Awards click here.

LTA All the WAY!

2006-03-12T15:26:00.000Z

This was how my Saturday began:

I woke shaking with laughter from a joke I had created in my sleep. In my dream it was the world's cleverest joke and it made me instantly famous. I was invited on the Conan O'Brien Show where I sat next to Katie Holmes (who was promoting a new line of Kellogg's wholegrain jockstraps). My task was to wait for her to inevitably start blabbing about Scientology and then interrupt with this gut buster:

ME: You know, Conan. Driving out Thetans reminds me of an old joke. How do you get rid of a Breath-Kebab?

CONAN: I don't know Wayne. How do you get rid of a Breath-Kebab?

(LONG, IMPECCABLY TIMED COMEDIC PAUSE)

ME: It lingers!

STUDIO AUDIENCE (Throwing underwear onstage and laughing hysterically): We love you, Wayne!

See, it's "jokes" like this (no, I don't know what it means either) that keep me humble and poor as a simple blogger while the real movers and shakers like Jett from Letter to America dress in fancy duds and go to award shows.

I picked Jett up around noon to drive him down to Dublin for the Irish Blogger Awards. (He was nominated in three different categories--Arts and Culture, Best Photography, and Best Blog).

I was surprised to see him looking this way.

Suddenly, the blue jeans, Reeboks, baseball cap and denim shirt I was wearing when I picked him up in my Fiat Punto seemed a little out of place. I felt I should go out and rent a Mercedes or Land Rover-- anything that would better suit such a sharp dressed man. But there simply wasn't time to worry about myself. This was Jett's night.

Anyway, here's a short photo journey of our day.

Enjoy:

We drove straight into the city center to this parking lot with no map. I instructed Jett to photograph our spot--just in case we got lost later on and had to bribe someone to guide us back.

Amazingly, we found the car with no problem after the ceremony but it doesn't change the fact that my legs look short and stumpy.

Here's Jett being escorted through the streets of Dublin on his way to the ceremony.

I stayed behind and swept the celebrity rose petals off the sidewalk. It was a great opportunity to capture Jett in his element.

Jett comparing something or the other with his friend Markus Valentine.

Jett and I waiting for the awards to start.

This was the one and only part of the evening that I wasn't answering the question that was on EVERYONE'S lips. YES, Jett is really like this ALL the time.

The gang from Fustar.

I really enjoyed meeting them but for some reason I can't remember their individual names (I'm bad that way. Sorry guys! I'm gonna link to you to make up for this.)

They are some of the nicest, most laid back bloggers I have ever met-- and I've met at least 15 bloggers in my lifetime--most of them on Saturday night.

I look forward to working with them on our quest to find Aine in Sligo.

(No, Fustar. We weren't joking. You'll hear from us. I promise!!!

Bwahahahahahahahaha!)

And how did our day end? Did Letter to America win any awards? Well, you'll just have to tune in and find out. It's not like me to ruin the surprise.

Authors note: Thanks to everyone at the Irish Blogger Awards for making the night so much fun. You've inspired me to pull my finger out and work a little harder. There's a lot of good work out there and, hopefully, I'll be a nominee myself in 2007.)

Hopefully, Jett gets lucky

2006-03-10T19:30:00.000Z

I'm writing this Friday night at 7:30 p.m. GMT.

Tomorrow morning Jett and I are heading down to Dublin for the Irish Blogger awards.

As you all know Letter to America is Jett's site so, basically, I'm just going along for moral support (and, more importantly, because Jett doesn't have a car of his own and I do.). It should be a very exciting day.

Wish him luck. (And send the poor guy a wee note of support. He's such a Nervous Nelly!)

Wish I Woulda Thunk It...

2006-03-07T11:34:00.000Z

As a Simpson's fan this is something that never occurred to me.

Click here

UPDATE: Unfortunately, this was too good to be true. I thought somebody was trying to be creative but, in fact, it turns out that UTV is behind this and it was intended to be a viral campaign.

Fuck.

Maybe there ain't nothin' new under the sun after all... Sorry about this.

Don't Kill the Messenger

2006-03-06T15:27:00.000Z

The following is a transcript of a recent MSN Instant Messenger conversation I had with a family member (who will remain anonymous).

This was my attempt to gather more information about a semi-serious fall my grandma took last week without ponying up for a long distance phone call.

In the end it wasn't worth it.

This conversation took almost an hour. About 10 minutes in I realized it was easier for me to walk away from my keyboard and get a drink, go to the bathroom, replace my car’s transmission, etc. than to try to interrupt the agonizing key-pecking I knew was occurring on the other end.

(Whenever you see "cut off..." in parenthesis this is where my attempts to interject any questions/comments were abandoned and I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.)

TRANSMISSION BEGINS:

Never give out your password or credit card number in an instant message conversation.

Wayne says:
hello?
XXXX says:
good morning!
Wayne says:
how're things?
XXXX says:
going quite well i think
really nice weather and how about there
Wayne says:
cold and crappy and snowy. so anyway, how's grand...(cut off)
XXXX says:
and we need that how is work?
Wayne says:
good. busy.
XXXX says:
and it is still looking good here as well even with the drought lurking about
XXXX says:
we are and looking for work in other places
XXXX says:
tourism is looking like it may grow with the train running out of Alamosa and the sand dunes
XXXX says:
did you read about the train going over to La Veta?
Wayne says:
Um… (cut off)
XXXX says:
we are hoping that will be a draw for some

(Hi, Wayne here. At this point “Mr. X” really begins to lose focus. His intense staring at the keyboard might have brought on a migraine.)

XXXX says:
the trai will be going to Antonito as well this summer and conect with the narrow goosee
Wayne says:
sounds painful
XXXX says:
they will be charging $40 for the round trip to La Veta and i have nto heard yet on the ant0nito run
XXXX says:
we go to mas transit then all fo that will have to change
XXXX says:
and there is talk of that starting here as well
Wayne says:
What… (cut off)
XXXX says:
there is a monumunt for commercail solar here and that may take off in the next year and is fart more excoting
Wayne says:
sounds like…(cut off)
XXXX says:
taht would employ seveeral engineers and many jobs moose
XXXX says:
us mens mandated to have something in place in the coming years that require renoowable energy
Wayne says:
oh
XXXX says:
and the valley is set for solar for curtain for solar
Wayne says:
that would…(cut off)
XXXX says:
they have only 2 more years to get it started that is the power company
XXXX says:
and biodiesel is in this mix as well
Wayne says:
I see.
XXXX says:
so maybe we will see something happen here for a change
XXXX says:
i have been asked to take a position as contractor to look for businesses to move to the valley and all of this will make it much easier
XXXX says:
we will see as this unfolds.
XXXX says:
there should be decision on this in a few weeks and we will go from there
Wayne says:
(Cutting in) mom said grandma fell. is she ok?

(Long Pause. “XXXX is typing a message.” Longer Pause.)

XXXX says:
she is doing much better. we need to impress on her that a cane will make her safer and that is now task at hand
XXXX says:
she is just getting weaker that is the porblem she stay inside during the winter
XXXX says:
and blowing she has hard time standing up.
XXXX says:
I need go. buhy

TRANSMISSION ENDS.

You Know You Want It...

2006-03-04T17:36:00.000Z

SEXY FEMALE VOICE OVER:

You want her, but how do you...

(SEXY PAUSE)

tell her?

(YUMMY, LIP-WETTING PAUSE)

You envy her...Secretly, you want to be her.

(BIG, BIG, BIG TIME SEXY PAUSE( IT MAKES YOU HOT JUST THINKING ABOUT IT!))

You want to touch her...

(OH, MAN! THIS IS DRIVING YOU CRAZY!!)

But would you ever?

Would you?

Would you DARE...?

This time...the answer is...YES... You can...and you will...

AGGRESSIVE MALE VOICE OVER:
This week only (or for however long this financial rock hangs from my neck) you can have this beautiful 2000 Chevy Blazer for only $6,999!

That's right! Only $6,999!

It's the deal you've been waiting for at a price you can afford!

And it's right here at Choice Cars and Trucks Inc.! 6946 Guide Meridian, Lynden, Washington!

Stop in or call us at (360) 398-0209! That's (360) 398-0209!

Check us out!

(AND BUY WAYNE'S GODDAMN BLAZER, ALREADY!)

Dream a Little Dream for Me

2006-03-03T10:37:00.000Z

For some reason I found this funny. (I wouldn't go so far as to say "hilarious" but funny, nonetheless.)

Forecast for today...? Meh...

2006-03-01T20:54:00.000Z

To summarize the last 24 hours:

Last night I got a guilt infused phone call from my mom (as a jumping off point, let me explain that though I'm not necessarily estranged from my parents, we don't speak on a regular basis. Once every 5-6 months is about average for us. It is what it is.). Mom started off the conversation with this:

Mom: Before I forget, Grandma hurt herself today. She was walking out to the car and fell and hit her head against the garage door. She had to crawl back into her condo and then she called me and we took her to the hospital. She's OK though, so don't worry. I guess that's what we (meaning her and my dad) have to look forward to now that she's getting old.

Me: Jesus Christ.

Mom: So she told me that you guys weren't coming back for our 40th wedding anniversary in June...

Me: Jesus Christ.

Mom: Is it the money? We could help you. Is it the money?

Me: Jesus Christ. (etc...This conversation went on for an entire 6 minutes and 34 seconds. Yes. I timed it.)

Anyway, this picture pretty much sums up my attitude for the moment:

You'll notice the obvious pain and discomfort on my face normally associated with constipation or, perhaps, Scurvy. I feel the highlighted Colorado liscense plate in the background symbolizes so many, many things. What, I don't know. But I'm sure it's many, many things. (Also, I have incredibly large pores on my nose.)

Letter to America is Cocked and Loaded...

2006-02-26T14:54:00.000Z

Find Chapter 24 here

This is the paper where I read all about the "Reptile Smugglers in Link to Big Cat Trade" for this week's podcast of Letter to America. (It was the cool picture of the cobra that caught my eye. (Also note the professional looking mic that I get to use while co-hosting. Sweet!)) The saga continues here.

I don't know about you, but the thought of running across a puma while out on a nice little outing frightens me because I don't know where Ballymoney is. It could be on my way to work for all I know.

Anyway, this seems to be a very important topic that tens of people are talking about. I'll keep you all posted on any further developments.

UPDATE: The guys over at the Playaz Ball are having a tough time today, what with Don Knotts passing away into the death and everything. Go here to wish them well during this very difficult time.

Be strong, Playaz. Be strong.

Style--The WOA Way

2006-02-22T20:17:00.000Z

Wayne Ordinary American, would like to bid you a hearty welcome to our fashion digest: “A Gentleman’s Guide to Spiffiness”.

Contained within this celestial treasure trove of style and flair are tips, advice and factual nuggets aimed at making the modern discerning gentleman a beacon of hope throughout the land. An inspiration as it were, to those whose sense of style seems to be mandated by the sniffing of glue and bathing in pig ruts.

BEHOLD!

Certainly bolstering one’s social standing is the aim of the modern class of sophisticate! It is with this in mind that we have created this essential guide allowing one to sidestep embarrassing fashion dilemmas as one would avoid carelessly discarded gum on the pavement.

We understand that the truly modern gentleman should be fully equipped to handle the delicate business of mixing and matching patterns and solid colours between shirts, suits, ties and accessories. This simple fashion act should be as natural to his character as the scent of sweet vermouth and the smokey smoothness of Dunhills. If you feel at all uncomfortable or discombobulated by this our guide will certainly steer you in the right direction. We are (as always) at your service!

Man, through fashion, has the ability to conjure a differing feel and style, a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’, quite unique from the lady gender of our species. It is the magic that creates society as we know it! And one must never dabble in that which we do not understand.

Fear not! Wayne will aid Sir unerringly!

(And by "aid", we mean of course "mock." And by "mock", good sir, we suggest that you are a "tosser.")

Tip the First: One should never wager that the more homogenous in shape or design a style is the more attention one will garner from the fair femmes. Alas, one slip--one minute faux pas and one's bed will continue to lack any hint of lavender or erotic lotion transfered to one's sheets through the sweat of passion. Instead you will grow forever more familiar with your own repugnant musk:

Such fashion abuse only confirms that you are unworthy of membership at the most indiscreet of gentleman’s club, and thus you shall remain clinging for life on the bottom most rung of society.

We hope that by now we have made our case clear.

The modern gentleman needs their own carefully crafted sense of individuality, they must be fully aware of the correct dress codes for their many social events and should have the ease and confidence to stand out from the masses, to stand up on their own and proclaim, through fashion, “I am a Gentleman! Refill my tumbler, poste haste!"

This, my friends, is what we do. Wayne’s Gentleman’s Guide to Spiffiness caters to these needs and with it, one simply cannot fail to impress!

Look Closely...

2006-02-20T19:48:00.000Z

As I was cleaning out the memory card on the digital camera this evening, I came across this:

(Insert lame phallic joke here)

A Little Life Lesson

2006-02-16T20:09:00.000Z

Working in advertising definitely has its' ups and downs.

Take today for instance-- I was called out of the office for an important photo shoot.

"Wayne, you mustn't dally. We desperately need you to model. Join us post-haste. It's a truly spledid opportunity," said the Creative Director.

On a couple of occasions I have managed to make a few extra "squids" by volunteering various parts of my body to the better advertising good. My busted up, mangled hand (I broke it punching a cow about a year ago...true story) was absolutely perfect for a Halloween promotion. My ear was used for an airport poster advertising a local radio station and my hair (what there is of it) was Photoshopped onto a nice soft pillow for some damn thing or another. The point is, it's easy money.

(I would like to interrupt myself for a moment and let you in on a very important life lesson: Saying "Yes" to new opportunities is a good thing. Through them we grow and learn and become better people. But, and I say this out of love--out of a deep heart-felt comittment to all my loyal readers-- please, for the love of Pete, find out what the fuck you're saying "Yes" to.)

I won't tell you who the client is or what they sell. All I know is that some of the money is going toward a nice big fat bottle.

It's Valentine's...Show Her You Care

2006-02-14T19:36:00.000Z

INTRODUCING: WEIRD OLD WOMAN PERFUME!

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HUG SMALL CHILDREN! BRUSH AGAINST TOTAL STRANGERS! WITH W.O.W YOUR SMELL CAN NOW BE THEIR SMELL! PASS IT ON!

NEVER BE SUBTLE WHEN YOU CAN W.O.W. THEM!

AVAILABLE AT HABADASHARIES AND FINE GOSSIPY HAIRSALONS EVERYWHERE!

NOW WITH OPTIONAL PRESSURE PUMP ATTACHMENT FOR EASY APPLICATION!

Tally-HO!

2006-02-12T15:31:00.000Z

For those of you who have listened to Chapter 22 of Letter to America here is undeniable proof of my claim that I am indeed missing a tooth and that is why I occasionally "listhpsed" during my co-hosting duties. The toothless gap--and not the emasculating lack of sunshine in Ireland-- is the sole reason why I sounded less studly than most of you had imagined.

Observe:

This photo was taken just moments after I returned from my weekly foxhunt (every Sunday 2 pm SHARP!). The hunt was unsucessful but still a good time was had by all.

Liar. Liar.

2006-02-09T11:48:00.000Z

I feel like I should explain about the photo I posted earlier this week which was this:

I lied.

It is not actually a photo of my long lost brother (Lord knows what I was thinking that day. I think I was thinking about being clever or some such nonesense--a whole wouldn't-it-be-fun-if-I-had-an-evil-twin-brother saga.).

No, this handsome rogue is actually me—circa 1992—back in my college newspaper editing days. Some smart ass (I’m not sure who, but I have my suspicions) must have done a Google on my name and found this pic on my old college website. I was not aware that this photo was still in existence, let alone published for the entire world to see. Damn internet.

Moments before this flattering pose was snapped the new exchange student cum staff photographer had just spilled Wild Turkey all over the advice column my then ex-girlfriend was laying out. (If I remember correctly the headline was, “Looking for Sympathy? Look in the dictionary between ‘Shit’ and ‘Syphilis” or something similar.)

“Straumanis!” I shouted. “I don’t know how you people do things in Latvia but here at the Central College Ray when we spill somebody's drink we refill the editor’s tumbler! And that, dear boy, would be mine. Hop to it!”

Obviously he didn’t understand proper Iowa etiquette because he attempted to fill my glass with Schnapps.

“Puh-leez!” I protested. “Do I look like I play on the girl’s volleyball team? I’m an editor for chrissake!”

The frightened Straumanis babbled,“I hab madgeek peek-churr box! Some smile for me, heh-yesss?”

“Hummm... No. Now get the hell outta my face!”

What followed after that isn’t important; suffice it to say that it ended in tears, a black eye and me reluctantly agreeing to have my photo taken with the “madgeek peek-churr box.” (Apparently, Latvians are trained in kickboxing from their second birthday. That's a tip kids. Write it down.) But as you can see, I was not happy about it.

So Straumanis, if you sent this to me all I can say is “Ha. Ha. Boy, you sure burned me bad, you ginormous A-hole.”

(If it’s not you, how the hell are ya, anyway?)

I'm HOT!!!

2006-02-04T19:44:00.000Z

Apparently the word is out: I'm a hot manly beefcake. It's no surprise to me or my wife but now the rest of the world is in on the secret. Here's the proof:

hi, i have seen your profile on line you are...very very hotlets gettogether andhave some fun addme to msn,messenger ,my is hottielookingforfunlethave fun

These emails come to me almost every day and I feel bad for the lonely, lonely women who yearn for me so. I'm sorry, ladies. I'm off the market but here's a pic for you to hang on your walls. Sleep well, my dears. Sleep well.

Love,

Your Hotlets

A Day in the Life

2006-02-03T19:11:00.000Z

Today, the new girl at work asked me, "What does a copywriter do?" (This is a very common question, not from the general public but from people who work upstairs in my office, believe it or not). Surprisingly, I had no answer for her and I was tempted to lob the I-don't-feel-like-talking-to-you-so-I'm-gonna-say-write-copy response. But tonight, for some reason, I actually tried to explain my job to her. The answer, after 10 minutes of Umming and Awwing was shockingly dull and I realized that I get paid to do...well, not much really.

For example, yesterday I billed 2 hours to a Mother's Day campaign for an Irish Cream Liqueur. My contribution? "mmmmmmmother's Day!". That's it. Two hours for two words which was billed out at about $1500, of which I will see about $30. (The client loved it, by the way.)

It's Good (Sort of) to be Back!

2006-01-29T20:00:00.000Z

Despite my best efforts, I lost the First Ever International Internet Stare-Down with the Playaz.

Those of you who have listened to the Letter to America podcast (find it here under Chapter 20) will know that Jett and I recorded the show something like 5 hours before the contest was supposed to begin but he edited it in such a way as to blow your simple minds.

"Whoa!" you said. How'd they do that? It's like they're all there in the same room and stuff! And how'd they travel to the future and then back again without knowing who won?" Well, believe me when I say this--I'm too lazy to explain it to you.

Anyway, both Jett and I assumed that I would WIN the contest so I decided to take a victory climb up the crane outside Jett's apartment.

I found the January air exhilarating. Climbing in my pajamas gives me freedom and a "breathe-ability" not found in lycra.

Oh, how shall I explain the wonders of this Belfast view from the top!?! It's just too beautiful! (But there is an awful lot of gum on your street, Jett!)

Of course, all of this took place before I knew that I had actually LOST. Always the thinker, Jett decided he'd better go forward into the future again and find out who won before I tried something really stupid.

Too late!

I slipped on 3-in-one motor oil and some loose ball bearings that were carelessly left on top of the crane! I was doomed!

(Author's Note: From this point on all characters involved will be represented by cuddly toys. It protects the identity of the innocent and gives a warm, cuddly feel to potentially tragic events. Did I mention that they're cuddly? Cuz they are!)

(Continue on...IF YOU DARE!)

(Meanwhile, in an Intergalactic Time Loop, Phil was staring into the future--his minions at his side cheering him on and refreshing his drink which he claimed "re-hydrated the tear ducts". Whatever. Phil had nothing to do with my AMAZING rescue. He just sat around and watched.

Finally, through a long and tedious turn of events my life was miraculously saved and I celebrated the precious gift of life with an old friend.

Whew! That was some adventure! I think I've learned several important lessons that I would like to share with you:

1. Don't mess with The Playaz.

2. Never climb buildings in your pajamas.

3. Don't post a blog that requires Photoshop unless you're POSITIVE your wife will finish the job for you and you don't have to resort to snapping quick pics of stuffed animals to come up with a lame ass conclusion.

Oh, I almost forgot. Phil has graciously allowed me to use my real name of 'Wayne' again. In return, I will pay The Playaz royalties every time my name is spoken, written or shouted in fits of passion.

That is all.

The Final Countdown

2006-01-27T16:34:00.000Z

The Playaz are in over their heads.

Oh sure, they’ve stopped missile attacks, met with heads of state, killed a whale or two, etc. but where’s the actual proof of their capering? Photos? You got to be kidding me! (Between you and me, I’ve heard of a computer program apparently called ‘PhotoShop’ that allows you to manipulate your pictures so that theoretically anything could be forged. Me, I think ‘PhotoShop’ is nothing more than an Orwellian dream concocted by bloggers who have nothing better to do with their spare time than sit and create superfluous skirmishes while…well, you can see where I’m going with this.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes—The Playaz are going down in just a couple of hours in the first ever on-line staring contest. If I am correct, I believe it will be Phil (if that IS his real name) gazing hawk-like on the other end of the Skype line. Judging by the look of the Playaz, Phil is the weakest of the five. His love of Jack Daniels will, I believe, be the ultimate cause of his downfall. Surely the stress of facing me one on one will force him into an early afternoon binge. I give him 5 seconds into the match before he nods off.

But just in case he proves to be a more worthy opponent I’ve pre-moistened my eyes with thorough viewings of ‘The Way We Were’, ‘Sophie’s Choice’ and ‘Forrest Gump’ (not that FG is all that sad but the part about Tom Hanks downward career spiral gets me every time. I’m weeping like a small girl scout lost in K-Mart even as I type this.)

You’ve been warned Playaz! Oh, how I’d hate to be you right now.

You are sooooo going down!

Game on!

2006-01-25T20:01:00.000Z

At the age of 5 Mozart composed his first piece of music. Dead by 35, he left behind some of the most important masterpieces in the history of mankind.

By the age of 33 Jesus Christ had managed to save the souls of the world.

Wayne Ordinary American (AKA Frank and his pet rat Beans): Age 36, about to compete in the first documented on-line staring contest.

Playaz, beware the glare!

Today is Frank and Bean's Day!

2006-01-23T15:48:00.000Z

In light of the recent LTA pod cast I have decided to not make things any worse than they already are and rename my pet rat as a pre-emptive measure. The Playaz might get me but they won’t, I repeat WON’T get my fuzzy little friend. Instead of ‘Phil’ I have taken to calling him ‘Beans’. Somehow I find it comforting. Frank and Beans they’ll call us. Good ol’ Frank and Beans, I love those guys! Going on a picnic? Let’s take Frank and Beans! And so on…

So an internet stare-down is in the cards? Sounds good to me, though my life of near darkness has made me very sensitive to light and I worry that the LCD of my laptop will blind me permanently. It’s worth the risk, however, whatever the price.

Also, it has come to my attention that the story of Mr. and Mrs. Bear (see below) has somehow been twisted and skewed and this classic children’s tale has now become an over-sexed, overly-violent cautionary tale of modern society. Bah! That’s all I can say. BAH!

In fact, I hear rumours that another happy little adventure is coming soon…

Hooray for Mr. Bear!!

2006-01-20T15:48:00.000Z

Despite what you might think, life in solitary confinement isn't so great.

Oh sure, you say to yourself, "Myself, I think I'll commit a hideous crime and spend the rest of my life alone with my thoughts and take up yoga or Buddism and find my 'true' self.'"

Or:

"Myself, living a life of solitude away from the jackasses and busybodies of this screwy ride we call existence would be a dream come true. I could write the Great Novel, solve the problems of the universe and/or Wank myself silly."

And though that may be true (especially the wanking part), this is what else you might be thinking, "Fuck the rest of y'all. This blows."

Keeping this in mind, I have to say that I am anxious to hear what the Playaz have to offer because my sanity rests solidly upon it. If I can regain my name and go about my daily life I would surely do whatever they ask. This is not a point of weakness on my behalf. The Playaz, as most of you should know, never lose. That's a fact.

Anyway, Jett has/will set up some sort of competition and we (the Playaz and I) will have to follow wherever the chips may fall.

In the meantime, Phil, my pet rat, has delivered a Palm Pilot. With it, I have discovered an unsecured Wi-Fi connection in my vacinity. I am using it now to type this in with my thumbs (my other fingers being rendered useless by my constant scratching at the cement walls). Also, with my new accessory I have been able to download a cute little story making the rounds around (and around) the cell block. It's a good story (Me likes stories!)

Enjoy...

This is Mrs. Bear. Mr. Bear has been neglecting his lovely wife. Mr. Bear spends his time at the pub. Can you say "Pub" boys and girls? Mrs. Bear spends many, many nights all alone in a GREAT BIG BED. All alone, is Mrs. Bear. Poor Mrs. Bear!

What's this? Why, it's Cuddle Monkey! He feels bad for Mrs. Bear and it looks like he's come to keep her company. Yay! Mrs. Bear won't be alone anymore!

MMMM! Cuddle Monkey's breath taste like cinnamon!

Well, it looks like tasting cinnamon all night makes you VERY happy and VERY tired.

Oh NO! Mr. Bear is home from the pub. He doesn't like cinnamon AT ALL! It makes him all bloated and cross.

But what's this? It looks like Mr. Bear has had a change of heart! He DOES like cinnamon! In fact, he LOVES it! What a happy ending!

Countdown.

2006-01-17T12:42:00.000Z

Phil the rat, has made only sporadic appearances lately—and then only for a few moments at a time. He seems to fear for his life but I can’t quite put my finger on why that might be so…

Anyway, I have good news! LTA has heard my pleas and passed my cry for help and mercy onto the Playaz. Details are sketchy but some sort of competition is being discussed. My release can’t come a moment too soon.

I HAVE TO GET OUT!!!

2006-01-12T19:19:00.000Z

I've spent the last day (or is it a month? I have no idea.) thinking of a resolution to this insane controversy. I understand that Wayne from Playaz Ball is, or claims to be, the original all encompassing Wayne, but good God, man can't you let sleeping dogs lie (in fact, aren't you dead, for crying out loud!?! Talk about sleeping dogs!)? What about the rest of us Wayne's? We can't help what our overly-sedated, bow-legged Mammys named us. IT'S NOT OUR FAULT!

Anyway, here are some ideas that will hopefully get me out of this chip/pish-scented dungeon of hell and back to my real job of copywriting:

1. I live by a conglomeration of the names "Frank" and "Wayne" (no, that won't do... I could NOT live my life named "Wank"... either in the U.K. OR America.)

2. I indebt myself to eternal servitude to the Playaz. (Not bloody likely, thank you very much... I'm already married.)

3. I listen to their indubitably irrational demands and do my best to comply. (Probably the best option... they are the Playaz afterall.)

Anyway, I send this via Phil the Rat through the sewers and hope and hope and hope that my pleas will be heard by somebody on the outside. I HAVE to get out of here! My rent is overdue!

Until that day, dear reader, I remain forever "Wank".

All my prayers are for Phil

2006-01-10T16:30:00.000Z

Day 2 (or is it 3?)

Cold...so very, very cold...

I have lost count of the hours since my incarceration. The guards deemed my crime of flogging unacceptable advertising space so blasphemous that I have been sent into solitary confinement. My only companion is a lone sewer rat I’ve named “Phil” for purely aggressive reasons. All day he scuttles in and out of the hole government contractors chipped into the floor for inmates to dispose of bodily fluids.

To pass the time I have trained Phil to act as courier between myself and the outside world. This message, written in excrement on a decomposing Chicklet box and tied to the wee bastard’s tail, will hopefully be delivered to Jett at Letter to America—as he is the only one privy to my blogger username and password.

This is how my day transpires:

Breakfast: Cold malleable porridge served with goat’s milk and pine shavings.

Countless hours of singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” and its Northern Ireland equivalent “99 Cellar Temperature Pints of Refreshing Guinness on the Back Garden Fencepost.”

Lunch: Algae licked from rusty bottle caps.

Spinning endlessly in circles to attain a “natural high.”

Dinner: Charred acne scabs served on a bed of lipids.

Ah, here’s comes Phil now. I kiss this parchment for luck (and vital nutrients) and hope that my message will be heard. Godspeed little Phil. Godspeed.

I need you Playaz...

2006-01-08T19:14:00.000Z

I write this from the cold cell that has become my home--a message scribbled onto coarse linen scraps I traded my body and dignity to attain. (Ben in laundry is expecting his "payment" soon so I shant dally. Time is of the essence.)

As many of you know the Playaz demanded that I change my name from Wayne to "Frank". At first I was fine with this arrangement. After all, what good has the name "Wayne" ever brought to anyone? Not counting Wayne Gretsky, Wayne Newton, John Wayne, Bruce Wayne and Wayne "Scrumpy Jack" the used car salesman on the corner of Colfax and Meridian, I'd say the name is more or less jinxed. Therefore, the chance to become new again was too much to resist. Of course I played the tough guy, threatening the Playaz (meaning none of it! I mean it!) and pushing their buttons purely out of badness until their only recourse was to take legal action and demand on the worldwide podcast of Letter to America that I "cease and desist" from using my Christian name.

So I did. I became Frank.

Unfortunately, I became Frank "Lazy Media Buyer" O'Malley, wanted in all six (or is it seven?) counties of Northern Ireland for selling poorly placed billboard space with limited visability to shopping mall tycoons.

So this was the scene (captured on poor quality CCTV) this morning as the Police Service Northern Ireland bull-rushed the agency in the small hours of the morning and found me rolling in piles of ill-gotten bank notes and snorting instant coffee granules. I fear that life, as I know it, has ended unless the Playaz lift their name embargo and let me become me again.

I only hope that this message will be heard before the damp excerbates the tuberculosis and Ben from Laundry finds me hiding beneath this pee-pee-stained mattress. That is all.

You Win Playaz

2006-01-06T22:42:00.000Z

I've officially been served notice to quit my own name.

Bummer.

I've informed my parents of the circumstances surrounding this necessity and they understand but that doesn't dampen their desire to spank Phil and the rest of the Playaz and send them to their room without dinner (are you into that sort of thing, Playaz? Spanking? You like that? Do you?) By the way, my mom makes killer chocolate pudding cake and her toasted cheese sandwiches are to die for (she uses English Muffin Bread. MMMMM!) so your punishment will be much worse than losing your complete identity like I have. Her culinary expertise will have you drooling pools of saliva in no time so I feel that it's only a matter of time before you guys wise up and drop your frivolous lawsuit.

Meanwhile, I'm stuck with the name Frank (I have a Blazer to sell. I can't afford legal representation). It IS a manly name and franks are quite delicious... Especially around July 4 or when you're starving in the back alleys of D.C.--not that I would know. (Unfortunately, here in Belfast the closest thing we have to nitrate infused wieners is a pickled "frankfurter" type thingy-ma-bobby. It's just not the same.)

Make a move Playaz. I dare ya.

Until next time, I remain forever Frank. I plump when ya cook me!

The Dog's Bollocks

2006-01-06T16:37:00.000Z

I noticed a huge whoopsie (or ‘Fuck up’ as the French would say) on my last entry. It was one of those forehead-slapping moments that nearly lead to tears, like when you realize too late that you’ve set out in a sea of milk in a boat made of graham crackers (No, I don’t know what that means either. It’s Friday. Cut me some slack why doncha?)

I constructed my affirmations in such a way that I felt was clear to everyone—including the laws of the universe. Well this just goes to show why I am not hoeing a deeper row in the evolutionary field.

My goal- I thought- was simple: “I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.”

Now who can tell me the ENORMOUS flaw in the logic of this? That’s right, if I say, type or curse into my pillow late at night these exact words, I am prolonging the deadline into infinity since everyday I repeat it I am essentially saying I will sell it ten days from TODAY. The solution, I suppose, would have been to set an exact date but as many of you know, I am a very, very lazy man.

Here I was, so desperate to sell a hunk of devaluing Chevy workmanship that I fell to the charms of unproven Shirley MacLaine psycho babble. Secretly, I had even hoped that if enough people took the time to read the affirmation that they would be doing the work for me—unless of course all my readers also have Blazers, which could lead to problems-especially if theirs wasn’t for sale in the first place. This, my friends, is why magic- in all shapes and sizes- is better left to the professional faith healers and grandpas with too many quarters and grandchildren with ears.

Well thank god for Phil from the Playaz who has offered a solution. For one hundred dollars he promises to gladly “take it off my hands.”

My question is this: how so? For a mere 100 American clams is Phil suggesting, figuratively, that he knows someone who knows someone who might perchance leap at the opportunity to indulge in a 4X4 “adventure” in the wilds of Lynden, Washington (where, for reasons I won't go into at the moment said Blazer is being kept), therefore granting me access to a tax-free insurance claim? (Notice I didn’t mention the words “steal” or “car-jack".) On the other hand, perhaps Phil was simply offering to take the Blazer literally off my hands when the credit union from Hell parks it on them when I miss another payment...I'm not sure.

Either way, I feel that this experiment is a complete failure and I think it’s fair to say that I’ve learned my lesson. (I hope your happy Mr. Universe...whoever you are.)

(To myself:
I will no longer dabble in unproven theories. I will no longer dabble in unproven theories. I will no longer dabble…)

By the way Phil, either option is fine. You know where to find me. (Wink. Wink.)

Blinding you with (sorta) science!

2006-01-04T11:41:00.000Z

Ah…the NEW YEAR.

Despite my somewhat negative/sarcastic tough talk on Letter to America, I am actually looking forward to starting off 2006 on the right foot.

Recently, I’ve been toying (again) with the concept of Affirmations. (OK, this is a rather La-Dee-Dah take on the subject. I'm going by the last chapter of The Dilbert Future by Scott Adams. His explanation on the subject is supported by actual physics and/or theories therein. It's too long for me to explain. Check it out if you're interested.)

Being an icy rationalist, I usually like to tear down concepts such as this and mock those who sing their praises. However, I have tried this in the past with some success so I’m compiling a list of things I want to accomplish and see if I can bend the waves of space and time and actually take part in forming the future. Crazy, I know but it’s a new year, goddamn it and I’m tired of waiting for the bus rather than phoning a cab, if you know what I mean.

In a nutshell, this is how the process is supposed to work:
Everyday I write down something I want to accomplish 15 times. I do this until I either get bored or it actually happens.

I’m not going to share any goal that I deem too personal but this time I will because I’m really friggin’ pissed off over the fact that we still have a perfectly good Chevy Blazer rotting at a car lot in Washington that we’re still making payments on (the car, not the lot... oh, you know what I mean). This thing needs to be sold because it’s $325 a month that I could really use at the moment and I’m sick of dealing with the fucking morons at our credit union back in the States. (Avoid these people like the plague. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

So here goes…

I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.
I will sell my Blazer in the next ten days.

In the past, I have resorted to just chanting these affirmations but I thought for the sake of science (pseudo or not) I’d actually, physically type them out.
Here’s hoping…

Oh dear... here we go again.

2005-12-30T11:35:00.000Z

Hey kids.

I just knew that Brokeback Mountain was going to cause a stir with the weirdo right-wingers back in the States but this quote is totally awesome and here it is..."twisted, laughable, frustrating and boring neo-Marxist homosexual propaganda." This quote is from the Christian Film & Television Commission.

Now, I don't really know who these guys are (but, boy! Do they have an AWESOME website!) but apparently they are trying their darn-diddly-arndest to NOT publicize the film because they have learned from past experience that when they condemn a movie more people are likely to go and see it. And given that approximately 3 people read my blog, I figure that that is 3 more people to enlighten. I'm not against religion but I AM against assholes in general.

Personally, I have nothing against gays. Some of my family are gay. I have a cousin dying of AIDS. I have several good friends who are a bit lavender (in fact, I'm going to a gay bar in the next couple of weeks for my wife's friend's Goodbye Party). My brother married a lesbian. I slept with a lesbian in college. You don't decide who you love but society somehow figures they have the right to tell you whether that love is "right" or not. Fuck society. (By the way, what the hell is "neo-Marxist homosexual propaganda"? Are neo-Marxists into this sort of thing? Since when?)

I'm going to go see this for several reasons which include:

1. E. Annie Proulx is a fantastic writer and The Shipping News is one of my favorite books.

2. Westerns are cool.

3. Most westerns are about 10,000% gay anyway... Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So there.

And as a side note, I've decided NOT to see the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe for the very fact that Walden Media produced this. I'm too lazy to look up which Walden this is but I know he's a "Christian" who is a billionaire-- just the kind the Bible loves (it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to go to Heaven...etc...).

Anyhoo, rant over.

Have a great New Year everyone! (And if you feel like it, let me know your thoughts on this. For some reason this has really got my bile up. Maybe it's the stress of my birthday coming up...dunno.)

Dublin Ahoy!!!

2005-12-22T20:00:00.000Z

Well, I've been ditching work again (mandated by the powers that be-- i.e. the scary office manager that gets migraines if you don't take ALL of your paid holidays by the end of the year) and so decided to take a little meader down south to Dublin to see the Foo Fighters in action (Yes, they were awesome. Thanks for asking.) Tho' I didn't take any pics of the actual concert I did manage to snap a few shots of Dublin while we were there.

This is a scary stuffed badger that lurked over me while I drank a pre-concert Guinness Vat 39 or something. It's the Dublin version of "seasonal" brews that are fairly popular in the States. Apparently this was the first time they've offered it to the pubic, so by default, I'm one of the first humans to drink it. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it! (MMMM... delicious!)

This is Christ Church. At first, my wife didn't think that it was but she was POSITIVE it wasn't the alternative that I offered--which was Satan's Church.

Here we are drinking our respective alcoholic drinkee-poohs. Despite the fact that my glass says Amstel it was pure Guinness of the finest Dublin variety. The goatee was in honor of Dave Grohl. I think I look quite fetching in a balding-goatee-sporting type of way. Apparently it was quite terrifying to the 12 year old brats surrounding me at the concert. They were no match for my glower-power. BACK OFF BITCH!

What's a vacation without the purchase of a samuria sword? NOT a vacation, that's what. I believe this offer was for five swords for only 99 Euro (about $120 bucks, roughly). And they think Americans are weird because we can buy guns and ammo at Wal-Mart. Oh, the irony! (Well, maybe "irony" is too stronge of a word...but still.)

This is a building outside of Dublin Castle. I sleep better at night knowing that there's a place for me when I become sick and indecent... which may not be so far away.

And here's Dublin Castle which I'm sure is rich in history. I know absolutely nothing about it except that it is in Dublin and not far from Burger King.

And finally, a picture that my wife labeled "Butt Window." I think that says it all.

Merry Christmas! See ya, wouldn't want to be ya!

Christmas and Letter to America

2005-12-18T20:11:00.000Z

11:00 a.m. Saturday, December 17, 2005

This is how my Saturday started out--with a kind, welcoming gesture from Jett Loe as we sat down early Saturday morning to plot out our day--specifically what we were going to record for Letter to America Chapter 14. I say "we" but I really mean "he". Jett IS Letter to America. I was invited along for the day, as far as I could tell, to carry his coffee.

Speaking of coffee-- Jett guzzles the black stuff like a true champion. I'm not an expert on addictive personalities but just look at the guy. This was him before cup number one. Notice the aggitation and the baggage under the eyes. This is not what I would call a "Happy Camper".

(When I saw this plaque on the ground in front of City Hall I couldn't tell if this was a warning of some kind or a familiar, "Hey there, Good Buddy! We can see ya!" type message. Best not to think about it.)

Finally, after a good four or five lattes, Jett and I managed to hammer out an agenda for the day. Jett wanted to try a different format for the show--a day in the life--as it were. Well, when there's a day in the life needing to be lived then Wayne Ordinary American is your man! It just so happened that I had a blouse that needed to be returned to some crap teeny-bopper insane asylum, or Mango. But first we took a walk to Belfast City Hall and the International food fest! YUMMERS!

So this is Belfast City Hall. (But more importantly, this is an example of how craptacular the layout laying out abilities of Blogger truly are.)

(Hmmm. For some reason I'm now able to type on this side of the photo whereas thirty seconds ago I could only type above it. I have NO idea how this is going to look when I publish it. This is fun!)

If you look closely you can see the white tents where we found an array of International Flavours Extradinaire. Including, but not limited to: Boar Balls, baguettes, ostrich, kangaroo, crocodile and venison burgers (they loves thems burgers thems Irish!), toffee, fudge and countless other treats I can no longer recall or care to because Jett bought me 3 beers and a double shot of whiskey and the world transformed into a much happier place. Thanks buddy!

Tomorrow (Or Whenever): The Saga of the Returned Blouse!

Whoa

2005-12-11T17:22:00.000Z

Just when you're on the tail of a really bad week and you're hoping things will get better something like this inevitably happens. (OK. So, the world doesn't revolve around me--but it should.)

The days just fly by

2005-12-05T11:21:00.000Z

I don't know about you, but I was absolutely SHOCKED to discover this morning that it was not only no longer November but somehow it managed to be the FIFTH of December. Granted I have had a couple of days off and I don't pay attention to the date on the best of occasions. (I told you people, you get in serious trouble over here if you don't take your law-given 20 days paid vacation. True story: I actually got in an argument with the office manager last week when I told her I didn't really care if I took my last 9 nine days for this year or not. The look of disgust she gave me... *SHUDDER*. A grown man shouldn't have to live like this.)

Anyway, so it's the FIFTH of December and I realized that I hadn't washed the car in something like four months. So today, I sauntered casually out the door to have a little look-see on the state of Gopher our Fiat Punto. Now, I don't know about you, but in Colorado when you neglect your car washing duties, at worst you'll find a car coated in concrete-like dust particles. When your car reaches this state you're best driving it into a lake and letting it soak for a day or two to loosen up the muck and crud and then scrubbing it down with steel wool. Not here, baby. I was horrified to find that Gopher had actually grown MOSS. Yep, it was everywhere. Door handles, gaps around the blinkers and headlight. I was thouroughly ashamed.

So that's what I did for my day off. Washed the car and did some laundry. And now I'm gonna try to figure out my wireless router and maybe take a nap. The excitement is electric, I tells ya!

(In an effort to not publish Google Image only photos, here's one I took on Saturday on the way to the George Best Funeral with Jett. People sometimes ask, "What does Belfast offer that would make me want to visit?" Well, if public, electric piss holes don't do it for ya than I don't know what will. The UK is notorious for it's lack of public toilets. This is what I call progress.)

Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life...

2005-12-04T21:25:00.000Z

Well, I'm still recovering from the somber soul wringing experience that was George Best's funeral yesterday morning. The day was dark and colorless. Misty and forelorn. Wet and Fucking Cold.

In case you missed it, check out LTA for Jett's (and my) adventures throughout the fair city (Belfast) that we call home for the time being. Though you wouldn't know it from the final cut of the podcast, Jett and I actually spent the better part of 4 hours walking through Belfast, smelling the smells, sighing the sighs, and weeping the weeps... all to bring his Dear Listeners a taste of what it's like when one of the 'Great Ones' kicks it through the big goal posts in the sky and heads to the locker room WITHOUT a red card. I can tell you it was a day I will not soon forget-- mainly because I was sober.

To bring the point home with a sledgehammer that I myself am not immortal, I sat behind THIS guy on the train ride home. My hairline ain't much better. It was a meloncholy journey to say the least.

I'm desperate...

2005-12-02T12:36:00.000Z

OK. I don't like to use this blog as a forum for tech issues but I'm pulling my hair out today.

Quick and to the point:
I have a Nintendo DS.
I have a Thomson Speedtouch 576 wireless router.
AND I CAN'T CONNECT TO THE FRIGGIN INTERNET WITH MY DS!!!

Any advice/help would be appreciated.

Thankin' you.

--Wayne

I'm still here...

2005-12-01T10:42:00.000Z

Hey folks, just so ya know I'm still amongst the living here in Belfast.

I think I may have mentioned earlier (I mentioned it to someone, anyway. Probably not you.) that I've been suffering from a HUGE media/holiday overload the last couple of weeks and therefore my blogging hasn't been up to it's normal hilarious standards. (If I even SMELL anything remotely Christmasy I'm going to start taking names and kicking ass.)

In the meantime you can stare adoringly at the turkey my brother-in-law cooked up for me in an effort to give me a "Traditional Thanksgiving". I don't know about the rest of you, but my traditional turkey day usually includes dry meat, family gossip, tears and accusing, angry fingers flying recklessly over Who-Drank-the-Last-of-the-Jack Daniels, Goddammit!

This year was nothing like that. Everyone got along, the turkey was as moist as the concrete mixing bucket we soaked it in to finish thawing it out (see for yourself) and there were even two labradors in attendance that I could go play with when the conversation inevitably turned to how cute the cousin/nephew/grandchild was when he rubbed gravy into the electrical socket.

So that was nice.

There's more to life than soccer...or is there?

2005-11-28T10:42:00.000Z

Force of habit is forcing me to come up with something today.

I’m having a bit of a reprieve from the media hell that is Christmas. For the last three or four weeks I have done nothing but live, eat, sleep and shit all that is the HO! HO! Holiday spirit and because it’s only November I’m a bit worried about how I’ll feel when the big day actually arrives. Best not to think about it.

Speaking of “Best” I’m sure all eleven soccer fans in America are expressing their profound loss of “the Best soccer/football player of all time,” George Best, by drinking until their livers explode. He surely was the Best! (See how much you can do with that name? It’s the Best! And it never EVER gets old! Even three days after he died!)

I, on the other hand, was more affected by the loss of poor Mr. Miyagy. (Insert your own “Wax on! Wax OFF!” jokes here.) Though I never really saw what the big deal was about the movie, I do have to thank Elisabeth Shue for wearing THAT sweater at the waterslide park when I was at such an impressionable age.

Wax off indeed.

Yup

2005-11-24T19:49:00.000Z

Yeah...so...Happy Thanksgiving and all that. Even tho' I'm over here I DID have a Thanksgiving Dinner, which was nice. I promise to update soon. This week has been something out of a bad sci-fi flick where each day is like the other only different. Me need sleep soon.

New look...New identity

2005-11-23T18:58:00.000Z

For the hell of it, I've changed my template. I got bored. So it's gonna look like this for awhile until I get bored again...which might just be tomorrow. Stay tuned.....

This is your density...

2005-11-21T10:48:00.000Z

Recently, someone sent me an email asking how I became a copywriter in Northern Ireland.

Normally, this would be an honest question-- if I had an honest answer, that is. Unfortunately, the only reply I can give without breaking into a cold liar’s sweat is: Luck.

So, for your educational pleasure I will now publish the least embellished work history that I have ever owned up to. I’m not embarrassed by my past, it is what it is, but it’s also not something I boast about when I’m looking for employment in the same way one wouldn’t confess to picking one’s nose before one shakes the president’s hand.

Will it give you an idea of how to become a copywriter? Hell no. Will it give you insight and inspire you to do the same? Lord, I hope not. But here it is anyway, in no particular order. Have fun. (And I won’t be putting any particulars in about who knew who and who sent me where to talk to whomever. Life is mostly coincidence. Accept that and you’ll go far.)

Cleaning out the bulk tank on a dairy.
General Labor for the veterinarian down the road (including sweeping out rabbit cages, painting his office building, scraping out the bull pens, bagging up dead doggies and evil cats and tossing them into an incinerator, etc.)
Mowing lawns.
Construction cleanup.
Washing cars at a Chevy dealership.
Disc Jockey at the college radio station.
Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Reception desk at a hotel.
Selling T-shirts in Galveston Texas (I was a bit disappointed to see that the store survived the latest hurricane season.)
Bartender (If you mix 'em strong, you get better tips.)
Reporter for hometown paper.
Carpet cleaning.
Milking cows.
Some pipe outfitters or something (I honestly can’t remember the name of the company or what it was I did. I remember putting things in the mail.)
Bakery.
Washing windows.
Warehouse Manager.
Telemarketer.
Bean picker.
Cold storage.
Chopping wood in New Zealand.
Production Lead for company that made extra squishy beds.
Carpet Cleaning.
Milking cows.
Copywriter.

As you can see there is some repetition in the above list—mainly cleaning carpets and milking cows—so maybe those are the best fields to study if you got a hankerin’ for wordsmithing. It hasn’t seemed to hurt me so far.

(Looking over this list has made me realize that not only am I “Ordinary” I might actually be a little more, dare I say, EXTRAORDINARY? Maybe I should change my header for the day. I think I will!)

Doing my part...

2005-11-18T19:21:00.000Z

Go to this link.

Download "God's Debris". Read it.

Whether you agree or not with what it says, it's good (short) reading and will get your brain churning. And that, my friends, is what it's all about. You stop thinking, you stop living. (If the link doesn't work, go to Dilbert.com click on the Dilbert blog, and look for the entry about the book. It's free so you're not investing anything except about an hour of your time to read it. READ IT!)

My nominee for Religious Celebrity Deathmatch

2005-11-16T16:05:00.000Z

Ian Paisley. I won't say more until I've got some time to think about it. Just wanted to post this link to wet your appetite (is it 'wet' or 'whet'?) for what may or may not come next.

The apocolypse, probably.

This is the post I meant to post before I posted the other post...

2005-11-15T12:08:00.000Z

(Just a quick note-- this is more or less the entry I wanted to make last week before my headache got the better of me and I went off to Rambling Wayne World. I say this only so you don’t think I’m capitalizing on an easy target and posting again just because I got actual comments on the previous and, by default, original entry. Not that this one is better (Heavens, no!). Anyway, here it is. Have a nice day.)

Today’s conspiracy Theory

The Theory:
Pat Robertson DOES have a direct link to God.

Scenario Numero Uno:
President Bush is friends with Pat Robertson. Jett (of LTA fame) is a KNOWN Bush detractor. Jett suffers a mysterious illness that causes him to spend the night at the slightly scary looking Belfast City Hospital where he eats porridge. Porridge is a popular food in orphanages. Pat Robertson LOVES orphans (eating them is the source of his secret powers). Jett is mysteriously “cured.”

Possible Conclusion:
The porridge is so full of the Love of God bestowed upon it by Robertson that Jett is able to miraculously walk out of the hospital under his own power less than 24 hours later.

Scenario Numero Dos:
Robertson calls for the assassination of the Venezuelan president. I write a blog condemning Robertson and ask for an “eye for an eye” response (Wink! Wink!) (See what I did there? Two jokes for the price of one!). Within minutes of posting I am struck down by one of the worst colds/flues that I have experienced in a long, long time. My chest tightens and it feels as if someone (the Devil?) is reaching down my throat and going WWF on my lungs. I “pray” as I bow in reverence over the toilet trying to expunge the demon within me. Pat Robertson uses a toilet to discard the by-products of orphan eating. I am mysteriously “cured” after drinking copious amounts of Meltus and meditating for 14 hours in total silence under the covers.

Possible Conclusion:
Armitage Shanks are stylish portals to the Almighty Power (i.e. Shit) that Pat Robertson preaches, and I am made whole again simply by puking all my evil-ness into the holy of holies.

So, as you can see from these two very convincing cases I have presented, Pat Robertson is NOT a man to be toyed with.

Unless of course he’s just your normal asshole and the rest is just coincidence.

If there is a God...

2005-11-11T10:03:00.000Z

Why hasn't somebody gotten rid of Pat Robertson ?(Al Queida, I'm looking in your direction...) He calls for assassinations, claims hurricanes are caused by lesbians and now this. Can't somebody call for his assassination? Should I? (Shit! I think I just did! Am I now going to hell? What should I do?)

Actually, I think I have already taken the first tentative steps towards eternal damnation by (oh man, I feel dirty even admitting this) actually viewing Bab's web site and, oh-god-oh-god-oh-god-oh-god, almost-sorta-kinda agreeing with her about having Bush impeached.

I'm not very political in real life. Well I suppose I am political (the proof's right in front of me, for crying out loud) but I outgrew openly voicing my opinion in public when I was about 22 after a girl I was trying to date bashed my face in with a beer mug for having written a "humor" column about abortion. Apparently she didn't agree with whatever stance I had taken on that particular day.

I've never actually had a strong opinion one way or the other on abortion since my "inny" became an "outty" somewhere around the 1st or 2nd trimester. (I'm referring, of course, to how all babies are essentially female until something or the other triggers another something or other and your "Yoo-Hoo" becomes a "Ding-Dong".) As far as I'm concerned a man's view on abortion is as valuable as a woman having an opinion about circumcision.

Jeez. I'm having a hard time staying on topic today and in the process I'm invoking all kinds of evil political, religious and cultural spirits. (You'll have to excuse me. I'm suffering from a blinding migraine at the moment. Writing this is a good distraction away from the pain and the incredible desire to puke my lungs out.)

Where was I?

Oh right. I was talking some crap about something.

To summarize:

Pat Robertson? Bad. Definitely, Definitely, DEFINITELY BAD!
Barbra Streisand? Just kinda icky.
Bush impeachment? Good or Bad? Dunno.

What I do know is that codeine is a legal, over the counter drug here in Northern Ireland and I'm gonna go dope myself up nice and rightly.

Anyway, have a nice day because I know when the drugs kick in that I most certainly will.

I LOVE Wasabi...

2005-11-10T10:05:00.000Z

If it's about puppies, I'm all over it. I don't care if it's real or not... I want it. (It would save money on hair dye on St. Patrick's Day.)

I Have No One to Blame but Myself

2005-11-07T14:45:00.000Z

I will spare you the normal Monday morning bitch session (yes, I’m tired. No, I didn’t get any damn sleep. Leave me alone!) and cut right to the chase. I’m sleepy because I stayed up late last night watching the last episode of Six Feet Under which didn’t finish until 12:30.

My review in a nutshell: Crap-tacular.

The only redeeming moment was when Future Brenda’s head lolled back while her insipid brother yakked away. He literally bored her to death, which I thought was nice. It was a small payoff for a show that ran for six years, but I can live with it (do I have a choice?). So maybe Crap-tacular is a bit harsh. I’m just annoyed that I stayed up so late viewing familiar characters getting knocked off one by one while wearing bad wigs.

It’s just another reminder of why I’m avoiding that shit-pool that is Lost (because of the bad drama that is, not the bad wigs. The hair on Lost is immaculate. They're just bad actors). I watched the first episode last year and was completely unimpressed but I told myself that most shows take four or five instalments to find their feet but my interest steadily declined. It’s a bit, uhmm, pish*, shall I say, for my taste. It doesn’t exactly reek of high adventure as the hype would have you believe. It does reek of something, but god knows of what.

Speaking of reeking death (see what I did there?) I’ve just been horribly reminded of yesterday afternoon when my wife and I boldly went where no human under the age of 80 (judging by the shuffling hazards wielding dangerous looking umbrellas and toxic amounts of old women perfume) has gone for a very, very long time—Marks and Spencer. It’s a shame that the bra gods of the UK have allowed themselves to fall so far behind the times (apparently they have the best and most comfortable bra selection around. I’ve yet to try them for myself…yet).

Anyway, where was I? I got a bit distracted when an image of some of them old coots trying on the Granny Boulder Holders…Oh, yeah, yesterday was kinda crappy.

And I watch too much TV.

*Pish is Northern Irish for Pissy. But you probably knew that.

Shout out to my PEEPS!

2005-11-04T20:22:00.000Z

I've just been informed via email from a dear friend of mine back in my ol stompin' grounds of Colorado (Hi Annie!) that I might, perchance, maybe have a bit of cult following growing in her ol stomping grounds of Washington, Kansas. So let me just take a moment to say "Hi" to the folks in Kansas that have found my lovely little blog. (BTW I actually LOVE Kansas and the Midwest in general. You folks are some... no I take that back... you ARE the nicest people I have ever met (I went to school in Iowa, so I know.). It's a good topic for another blog.)

So anyhew, spread the word and write in sometime and let me know what you think about my Ordinary-ness. I'm all about spreadin' the love. And if you find something interesting, send it to me and I'll post it for ya... or maybe not. (I'm kind of a fickle son of a bitch sometimes. You have been warned.)

Meet lovely Lulu

2005-11-03T13:39:00.000Z

Today, after a rushed start (Wow! Copy for a poster! Lines for a whiskey company Direct Mailer! 67 whole words!), I finally found time to settle into creating my artistic masterpiece for the day.

Witness the Ben & Jerry Action Toy Cow! (No, I'm not going to show you the finished project. That would ruin it for you. Maybe someday...)

I’ll admit right up front that I found it harder to cut out the pieces than I originally thought it would be. I’m a grown man, for god’s sake. A four year old with safety scissors would have made less of a pig’s ear out of this project than I ultimately did--which ended with me hunched over the cutting board with an X-acto Knife, sweat dripping from my brow. (It was high drama, people. Not for the faint of heart.) But I enjoyed it nonetheless. In fact, I’m enjoying looking at it so much I wonder why I didn’t get around to this project sooner.

The aesthetically pleasing black and white bovine-ness is adding a certain vibe to the office environment I didn’t think possible. I’m feeling pretty tranquil, like I could burp up part of my pork pie and chew dreamily on it for the rest of the day. (I’m really tempted right now to do Ye Olde Blog Bait and Switch and ask you to post your lamest time wasting tricks. But I can’t do it. I JUST CAN’T!)

But alas, no chewing of cud for Wayne. Duty calls and I must dart to the recording studio for more glamorous, star-studded VO direction.

I hope Lulu will be OK.

Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays

2005-10-31T15:19:00.000Z

Having a little trouble today (Monday…fuck!).

My brain is definitely not wired to hum to the buzzing of a brand new week filled with potential. As early as 11 this morning I was casting drowsy glances toward the corner placed clock cast by Windows XP and sighing into my mid-morning tea. Admittedly, the office vibe today is slightly lower than muted desperation licking the balls of frustration. It’s Monday. Christmas campaigns are in full swing (5 radio ads scripted and sent out for approval) things should be Happening and for the life of me I couldn’t care less.

I’m not depressed. Just B-O-R-E-D. The weather is shit and I spent 20 minutes outside in the lashing rain and gusting wind in front of the recording studio at 10 this morning waiting for a cab. And once I was picked up, I spent the next 15 minutes drowning in the following conversation:

Cabbie: So what’s the craic with you this weather?
Me: Guh? (I equipped my Northern Ireland Babel Fish and realized not a moment too soon that he was giving me the local version of, “What’s shakin’, daddy-oh?”
Me: Oh, yeah. Good. Good. I’m good. Weather’s a bit shite…”
Cabbie: Och! Aye! Nerfumble bollocks crack-schnapps.”
Me: I hear ya. ‘Spose it’s that time of year tho…”
Cabbie: Arck! Yer a wee cheeky gobshite! (Uproarious laughter). Cracker!”

Somewhere, hidden within this exchange was something to do with this winter being forecasted as one of the worst Britain will see in decades and how nobody over here knows how to drive in snow. Fascinating stuff and not made any better by quaint regional accents. I think after five months over here I’m getting a quick dousing of culture shock. But there you go.

When we pulled into the company parking lot I managed a weak smile and a wave to the cabbie.

I’ve spent the rest of the day typing out amends and trying to come up with a clever line for the company Christmas card.

So far I’ve come up with:

Season’s Greetings!

It's a phrase that's sure to be all the rage this season. I just know it.