Bet Your Bottom Dollar That Tomorrow

By Tardsie
POLLYANNA (N): 1. An Excessively Or Blindly Optimistic Person.

POLLYANNA (N): 1. An Excessively Or Blindly Optimistic Person.

 

Through no fault of my own, my brain is hardwired for optimism. I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. I tend to believe that things in my life will generally play out favorably, and that bad situations will soon be resolved. My mom was like that, and my grandma, too. I married an optimistic gal, and she gave me optimistic kids.

More often than not life proves my outlook correct. I can only speak anecdotally, looking exclusively through the lens of my own experience, but so far there have been a lot more joys than sorrows, and it hasn’t even been close. For sure, there are dark tears massing on the horizon, but even more laughs.

Now, for some reason I’ve never understood, not everyone appreciates this disposition. It seems to provoke a reaction in some people–even make them angry. Often, they seek to disabuse me of my foolishness. “You can’t go through life believing everything is going to turn out all right,” they tell me, “Because life isn’t like that. It doesn’t always turn out the way you’d like.” And then they ask, “What happen then? What happens when all your well-laid plans unravel like a cheap rug; when the thing you wanted is denied you, and at last you’re brought low?”

Well, then I’m disappointed.

Aww, Cheer Up, Suzie So-Sad! As Long As Humanity Needs Someone To Sell It Insurance, There Will Be A Place For You.

Aww, Cheer Up, Suzie So-Sad! As Long As Humanity Still Needs Folks Who Worry About Stuff, It Will Always Need You.

 

Posted in Philosophy | Tagged , , , , , | 13 Comments

Mea Culpa: 55 Cent

By Tardsie

In which amends cannot be made.

Note: Any comments about my headwear will rightly taken as an insult to my proud cultural heritage and an affront to the land of my fathers. And you should know that, historically, those people don’t take perceived threats well at all.
Posted in Stupidity, True-Ass Tales | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Goat Mayo

By Tardsie

Or why I’m such a good time to be around.

Posted in Entertainment, Philosophy, True-Ass Tales | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Headlines: More News We Don’t Understand

By Smaktakula

“HEAD Lines.” Get It? Do You Get It? We’re In A Very Literal Place Right Now.

***

Ass-Talking!

Ignorance!

Intellectual Laziness!

In which we respond to real headlines without first bothering to read the articles.

***

Why nobody calls when you apply for a job ~ Because–and I mean this in the nicest way possible–you fucking suck.

7 Crippling Parenting Behaviors That Keep Children From Growing Into Leaders ~ Well, actually crippling them is one, obviously.

Neil Patrick Harris is happy to host the Emmys ~ ‘Happy’ is obviously code for gay. Think about it: who would actually enjoy hosting the Emmys?

‘Ghost baby’ born w/o blood in Orange County ~ That’s a ‘vampire baby’ you nitwit.

Police sting prostitutes after recent attacks on sex workers ~ “We’re protecting these women by aggressively prosecuting them for selling something they’d be perfectly within their rights to just give away.”

They Must Care An Awful Lot About You And Your Kids To Throw You In Jail Like That. By The Way, Where’s The Dude?

Why ‘war on poverty’ not over ~ ‘Cause there are still poor people left alive?

Grandpa Saves Himself, Leaves 3 Young Grandkids Behind… ~Gramps didn’t get as old as he has by taking a lot of unnecessary risks.

8 College Degrees with the Worst Return on Investment ~ Smaktakula has two of them!

JFK and FDR had 1 weird trick that can let you retire 100% tax-free. ~ And yet they both were forced to work right up until the time of their deaths. Sounds like a great trick.

Why Biden won’t win ~ Because, say what you will, America hasn’t completely lost its fucking mind.

If You Can’t Choose Between The Country Of Your Birth And America’s Age-Old Enemy, Canada, Then You Don’t Deserve To Be President.

Could you pass a US citizenship test? ~ Of course I can. I am neither stupid nor a foreigner.

3 Ways Guys Can Drop 20lbs Quickly ~ One is to hack off your own leg with a wood ax. You should probably check out the other two first, though.

Skiing in My Own Backyard ~ Is what poor people do.

What is a father supposed to call his daughter’s minky moo? ~ Ewww! Not that! Never that.

The Crisis in Contemporary Ballet ~ Well, for one thing, it’s completely gay–and not just in the homosexual way.

Right Off The Bat We Can Identify Like Four Different Kinds Of Gay.

Would you tell your kids you got high? ~ Oh man, I am so not looking forward to that conversation.

How Much Money Should Moms Be Paid? ~ Assuming Mom has a job outside the home, she should be paid approximately 70% of that job’s salary.

Why more Puerto Ricans are living in mainland U.S. than in Puerto Rico ~ Esto es “no-brainer.”

When my daughter ran into a burning car: to save her doll ~ We became childless.

Why You Should Color Your Gray At Home ~ Because nobody needs to see that grim Brillo-Pad of yours out in public.

If You Intend To Live Your Life Looking Like A Steel Wool Q-Tip, Be Sure To Devote Some Attention To Developing ‘Inner Beauty.’

 

***

Posted in Celebrity, Culture, Entertainment, Headlines, History, News, Philosophy, Politics, Science, Sport | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

The Aging Gunslinger

By Tardsie

The Gunslinger Sleeps With One Eye Open, Forever Waiting For The Younger Man With A Faster Gun He Knows Must Someday Come For Him.

I drank a lot when I was younger. Too much, I guess. I enjoyed the consciousness-altering aspect of  booze, and for a while, there was a novelty to getting fucked-up. When, as is the nature of novelty, it wore off, I found I didn’t drink so much anymore.

Some years later, it turned out that a co-worker of mine, John, was acquainted with some of my old college friends. My college friends regaled John with only the most debauched and asinine of my collegiate exploits. It was a somewhat incomplete picture of the person I had been as a youngster, and about a million miles from the reality of my life at that moment. Based largely on this erroneous image, John challenged me to a drinking contest at an upcoming office party.

A drinking contest? The idea was a loser from the get-go. I had largely put my boozing behind me, but John had kept himself in fighting trim.  This was a bet I was almost certain to lose.

It’s Hard To Pinpoint Any One Particular Reason I Stopped Drinking So Much.

Faced with this challenge today, I would have no problem begging off, using my lameness and general decrepitude as an excuse. But at twenty-five or so, I was still very much in the throes of a delayed adolescence, and my carefully crafted self-image would not allow me to ignore this challenge from a younger, stronger, faster predator. Moreover, I would have to go beyond merely showing up for John’s challenge; I could not simply shuffle complacently to my own ass-whipping. Not only did I have no choice but to accept, I had to win.

To assist me in this endeavor, I had a card up my sleeve worth a dozen battle-hardened livers, an advantage so pronounced as to change the course of battle even before the sound of the first shot: my exemplary cunning. John believed that the drinking contest would begin–and thus be won or lost–when we first took up our glasses. He was wrong.

“All right,” I said, showing him my game face, “Let’s do it. But I don’t want to pussy around, dude–if we’re gonna do this, let’s do it right: we’ll drink Jäger.”

Jäger Has Made My Life Immeasurably Richer Simply By Being In It, And I Don’t Care Who Knows It.

For those unfamiliar with the cough syrup-meets-black licorice charm of Jägermeister, the iconic kraut tipple is made from a variety of spices and despite being only 70 proof, has fostered a reputation for fucking your shit up. People spoke of Jäger in the breathless, quasi-mystic tones normally reserved for absinthe and peyote. Some people said it contained traces of deer blood, others opium. For whatever reason, I’ve never had a problem with Jäger, and consider its fearsome reputation to be entirely overblown.

But that reputation had precisely the effect I’d intended. Having proposed the wager, John could hardly refuse. He agreed, but with markedly less enthusiasm than when he first suggested it.  Jägermeister it would be.

I Heard About A Dude Who Named His Child–HIS CHILD!–“Jäger Meier.” Some People Should Not Be Allowed To Have Children.

The party was at a co-worker’s house, and being a work-related party, both John and I agreed not to start our competition until later in the evening when the more reputable guests had left. John and I went to the keg together and filled our cups. Although John and I both returned to the keg several times that evening, I was nursing my beer and “filling” it when it was already nearly full. John, however, appeared to be drinking with abandon.

When it was time to throw down in our liquor-based contest of manhood—well, I guess you already know that I kicked his ass. It wasn’t even close. When I left the party, John was on hands & knees in the front lawn, heaving a black and hideous mess into the grass. I gave his shoulder a squeeze and said some comforting but ultimately condescending words as I passed. I kept my dignity all the while, and waited at least until I was in the car before I began convulsively to spew, coating the door and good portion of the seat. Happily for everyone, it was my girlfriend’s car.

***

Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.

Sun Tzu

***

Posted in Stupidity, True-Ass Tales | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Hungarian Fone Kard

By Tardsie

In which we are told we can have anything we want.*

*Certain conditions may apply.

Posted in History, True-Ass Tales | Tagged , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Fresh Socks For Homeless Walter

By Tardsie

And There’s No Better Friend To Have! Unless, Of Course, He’s Not Your Friend.

My encounters with police officers have largely been, if not pleasant, then at least hassle-free. It helps that I’m friendly, polite, and never in my life more caucasian than when I talk to a cop. I think most cops are pretty decent dudes.

Sadly, the cops I remember most clearly aren’t the officers who’ve helped me when I was in a jam, or even those who had to deal with me when I’d done wrong and had it coming, but rather the jerks who wore their authority like a crown and acted like thugs for no reason other than that they could, the bullies and punks getting off on the power of their station.

It was my displeasure to meet a particularly shitty cop on November 5th, 2002.¹ I’d left my job and apartment in Beaverton, Oregon to bum around the country by rail, and now found myself in Chicago’s historic Union Station, notable for the “baby carriage” scene in The Untouchables.

Tardsie Poses For A Photo On The Steps At Union Station.

Tardsie Poses For A Photo On The Steps Of Union Station.

***

Filthy and bedraggled, I wander into the men’s restroom to clean up. Union Station is an Amtrak hub, so the bathroom is busy, but I manage to find sink space next to a wretched-looking homeless dude–a black guy with wild, unkempt hair and an eye-watering aroma. His emaciated hands and head jut twig-like from an artificially bulky frame, created by layer upon layer of filthy clothing. He yammers ceaselessly as he washes what appears to be several pairs of socks.

Yes. Completely, Totally, 100% Just Like This.

When the guy says “Can I have those socks?” I think at first that it’s just another facet of his apparently unending dialogue with God. But when he says it again, I realize he’s talking to me. He’s looking down at the open travel bag at my feet, atop which lie several pairs of clean socks.

After a span of time that seems longer than it probably is, I reach down to grab a pair socks, and hand it to him. “Here you go.” “Thanks, Brother” he says, and his ongoing conversation–which fortunately, no longer includes me–begins again. Not long after that, he gathers up his things, including his new socks, and wanders off to a stall.

My Unforgettable Act Of Charity Puts Me In Some Pretty Rare Company.

I have just about forgotten about him when the cop comes rumbling in, his black and yellow police windbreaker flashing in the mirror just before our eyes meet.  His small shaven head, bullet-shaped, with its tiny piggish eyes and ridiculously oversized mustache is poorly matched to his expansive, well-fleshed body.

“Whaddaya doin’?” he asks, and not at all nicely. My stomach tightens as I turn to face him. There is a uniformed cop behind him.

“Shaving,” I tell him.

“Shaving.” He spits the word back at me like an accusation. Then: “You sure you weren’t washing your feet?”

I tell him I wasn’t, and because this situation is so intense and because the cop is still smirking under his mustache and because I don’t know what else to say, I say “Jeez.” It is the wrong thing to say.

“JEEZ?” he says, seeming to swell as he steps toward me, either side of his mustache punctuated by the edges of a feral smile, and just like that I am fucking terrified.

“Only One Of Us Is Gonna Enjoy This, But That One Guy’s Gonna Enjoy It An Awful Lot.”

Then the uniformed cop says something and points down to the stalls. I do not have to know what he said to know where he is pointing, and at whom. As they both charge off in that direction, the bald cop’s little head swivels to face me and, not stopping, he says, “Sorry.” It is a reflex, a word completely devoid of meaning, and he cares not a bit whether I know it. Then he is gone, carried along on a wave of black anger.

“WALTER!” he bellows at the homeless man in the stall, “Get your fuckin’ ass out here, you goof! You’re goofy, you know that?”

Suddenly awash in a rush of relief that feels an awful lot like shame, I slink out of the bathroom, but not quickly enough to miss the firecracker bang of a locked stall door shattering under the force of a boot.

You Got It, Bro.

***

¹The reason I’m able to recall the date so specifically–as well as the dialogue in the story–is because I wrote the details down minutes after the event. ∞ T.
Posted in Crime, Culture, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 34 Comments