Friday, December 16, 2011

Observations From The Treadmill



F*ck I hate running on the treadmill. I mean REALLY hate it. I’d rather do ANY other cardio exercise besides the treadmill, but since they’ve over-sold this place like a Mexican timeshare, it’s the only machine currently unoccupied by a wide body. Damn it.

As long as I’m stuck here running in place going absolutely nowhere, I might as well see what’s new on Facebook: Oh look one of my “friend’s” just made an insightful post about the precarious nature of life, and how important it is to live every day to the fullest, blah blah blah. And there’s another “friend” bragging on and on about their prized offspring, God’s gift to education and sports and macaroni wall art, blah blah blah. Then there’s that “friend” who I allegedly went to high school with (but don’t even remotely remember) getting all religious again – give it a rest, Jesus. Maybe I should write a post about the 10 most annoying things people do on Facebook? Wait, I already did that (January 28, 2011).

Hold on, is this dude in front of me f*cking serious with those shorts? I wish I could snap a picture so you could see what I’m seeing right now. But given that this place is as crowded as Walmart on Black Friday, the risk of getting caught is too high. I shit you not - they’re so damn short I think I can see one of his balls hanging out the bottom. Dude – you’re disgusting. Cover that shit up. There are so many freaks in this place, maybe I should write a post about the creepiest adult behaviors. Shit, I already did that too (May 31, 2011).

If I can’t come up with any new material perhaps that means I’ve been writing this blog for too long… Nah, I’m just getting warmed up.

I recently found out that my Dad’s biological father was not the man he called Dad. Apparently his Mom was involved in a scandalous extramarital affair which resulted in the birth of my Pops. The man she was involved with happened to be Jewish. Which would make that man’s biological grandson (me)… a 1/4 Jew (the secret’s out). It’s funny, I had quite a few Jewish friends growing up and attended more than my fair share of Bar and Bat Mitzvah’s. I always felt like I was one of their favorite Gentiles and now I know why – I was one of you the whole time! Ever since I received this news I’ve been especially sensitive to the plight of the Jews and in particular negative Jewish stereotypes. The most prevalent of these stereotypes, as everyone knows, is that Jews are greedy, nit-picky, stingy misers. Allow me to set the record straight once and for all. Having been 1/4 Jewish for 38 years now (albeit unknowingly) I feel completely comfortable making this statement on behalf of Jews everywhere: We are not cheap. It’s just that we have more money than you and would like to keep it that way. See the difference? Shalom.



Hey, there’s Quinton “Rampage” Jackson and his entourage. I see that dude here all the time and he’s always rolling with at least 3 or 4 other scary looking dudes. Note to self: avoid making eye contact with these cats at all times. Reminds me of my days back at Emerald Junior High in the El Cajon valley: keep your head down and stay off the radar and hopefully they’ll kick someone else’s ass (chubby white kids have no business going to junior high in the hood) - I digress. Looking at Rampage and his freshly blackened eye (sparring accident?), I can’t help but wonder why on God’s green earth anyone would want to participate in UFC fighting. I’ve been hit in the face before and it f*cking hurts. Here’s another question. Two of the dudes in Jackson’s posse are built like washing machines. Why do most really short guys (f*ck you – I’m 5’9” AND a ¼ - I’m not talking about me) feel the need to overcompensate by getting all buffed out? You’re only exacerbating the problem, tattoo. God he was adorable.



Sorry I’m jumping around here but I have the attention span of a gnat. Let’s see what’s on Sportscenter. What a surprise, another story on Tim Tebow. What the f*ck? Allow me to let you all in on a little secret: Tebow SUCKS! And if I hear one more person compare him to John Elway I’m coming over the table a la Chris errr Jim Everett on the Jim Rome show (remember that gem?).



Seriously though, on passes of 10 or more yards downfield Tebow’s career completion percentage is less than 25%. What do you call a quarterback who completes just 1 out of every 4 passes to his wide receivers? That would be a running back. I’m not saying the guy’s not a great athlete because he is. And he should absolutely be on the field. Just put him at halfback, or put him in the slot, shit - put him ANYWHERE but under center. Because what he’s doing out there right now is an abomination of the quarterback position. And by the way, “the Lord works in mysterious ways,” does NOT apply to Tebow and the Broncos squeaking out wins against shit teams every week. So please stop making religious references. Stop. I’ll tell you what, if the Broncos aren’t one and done in the playoffs (if they even make the playoffs that is), I’ll put a picture of myself “Tebowing” on this blog.



Wait, a recumbent bike just opened up – I’m outta here. Happy Friday everyone.

The Quinsey Blog

Thursday, December 8, 2011

A Christmas Story



I spend an awful lot of time making fun of other people on this blog. It’s not because I’m mean spirited or feel somehow superior, it’s just that people do so much stupid shit that deserves to be made fun of. That said I am not above the law myself. And since the theme of this blog has always been full disclosure, I thought I’d share a recent story from my life where I experienced a severe case of the stupids. Enjoy and please try not to think less of me after reading this.

It’s the first Saturday in December, and as tradition goes it’s time to venture out and get the Quinsey family Christmas tree. For the past few years we’ve picked it up at a local tree lot down the street sponsored by the Boy Scouts of America. The service was pretty crappy: had to carry the tree to the car myself and tie it down (hint: to avoid tying doors shut and trapping self in car, open doors PRIOR to tying tree on roof – done it more times than I’d care to admit), had to saw / straighten out the trunk myself, and had to drill my own hole for the stand when I got home. But I was helping out the Boy Scouts (those kids won’t get laid until their thirties – they need all the help they can get) so I didn’t mind the self service. This year however they moved the lot about 5 miles away so I said screw the Boy Scouts, we’re going to Home Depot. Much to my chagrin the trees at Home Depot were bigger and cheaper than at the Boy Scout lot, the workers chain-sawed the trunk and straightened it out for me, and they carried the tree to my car and tied it down while I stood there and watched. When I tried to tip the guy he wouldn’t even accept it (company policy). This was too good to be true. The only thing they wouldn’t do was drill a hole for the stand, which seems odd since they’re the Home Depot and they sell drills. Oh well I thought, I’ll just drill it myself. Which brings us to the catalyst of this unfortunate holiday tale.

Let me preface this next part by stating a handy man I am not. My tools are an eclectic and pathetic collection of hand-me-down crap: rusty hammers, crooked screw drivers, wrenches that never seem to fit anything, a socket set straight out of K-Mart, pliers that won’t close all the way, an electric saw still in the box, a bunch of other random shit whose function I know not of, and a beautiful drill which I bought for the sole purpose of drilling a hole in the bottom of my Christmas tree. The only problem was the bits it came with were all too short to drill a deep enough hole in the tree (there’s a joke in there somewhere), so every year I struggled to get it on the stand. This year would be different however, as I proactively purchased an extra large bit that was easily long enough to drill a stand-sized hole in my tree. Why hadn’t I given in and bought a longer bit years earlier? Pure, unfiltered laziness and the fact that I almost never go to the hardware store (I know – man card violations are piling up here). Anyway I arrived home excited to use the new bit. I plugged in my drill, created a small pilot hole with a smaller bit, and then broke out the big dog. At first it went in easy, too easy. Within seconds I was a third of the way in, and then two thirds, and then… oh shit the bit’s stuck. I switched the drill to reverse mode and gave it a squeeze… nothing. Back in forward mode… nothing. What the f*ck? After about 90 seconds of toggling back and forth between modes, and turning and pushing as hard as a I could, and polluting the night air with a litany of cuss words, dark smoke started to pour out the back of my drill (not good). Followed by strange grinding sounds and a bunch of blue sparks inside the motor. After a few more choice cuss words I gathered my composure, detached the drill from the lodged bit, and gently set it down on the ground (by gently set it down I mean hurled it against the side of my house).

I walked inside dejected. “Honey, I need a new drill,” I stated matter-of-factly.

And my wife gave me that look like, “What did you do this time, genius?” (I hate that look)

“I didn’t do anything,” I responded defensively even though she hadn’t said a word. “The damn drill just stopped working.”

“You only use that drill like once a year. There’s no way it just died on its own. You must have been using it wrong,” she replied in a judgmental tone.

“I’m not a f*cking moron. I know how to use a drill,” I snapped back.

“I’m just saying it wouldn’t be the first time you broke a tool by using it wrong,” she returned with a wry smile (I hate that smile).

“Whatever, I’m going to Home Depot to buy a new drill,” I said defiantly as I walked out the door.

Just before I was out of ear shot she added, “Make sure you ask somebody for help." The implication being that I don’t know what the f*ck I’m doing (I hate that implication).

I arrived at Home Depot still pissed off. “Give me the strongest drill you’ve got,” I told the dude in the drill section. He went on to explain the inner workings of drills and why one brand was better than another given its superior design and longer useful life, blah blah blah. “I’ll take the red one,” I said cutting him off. $200 later I was back in the car heading home to finish what I had started. While at the cash register I couldn’t help but notice tree stands that didn’t require drilling a hole in your tree. They were 25 bucks. I suppose I could have just purchased one of those stands instead of the new drill and saved $175, but that so wasn’t the point. I was already in too deep on this project and there was no turning back now. I arrived home invigorated by the untapped strength of my new toy. I tore open the box, plugged in the drill, attached it to the bit still lodged in my tree, braced myself for the impact, forcefully squeezed the trigger, and… nothing. That f*cking bit didn’t budge a single centimeter. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse, until a plummet of thick, black smoke came pouring out the back of my shiny, new drill. Followed by strange grinding sounds and a bunch of blue sparks inside the motor. At this point I temporarily lost my mind. Neighbors started to come out of their houses to see what all the commotion was about. Children stood frozen in disbelief and babies cried as they watched a maniacal man attack his Christmas tree in a profanity-laced tirade. After a good 5 minutes of crazy I finally exhausted myself. As I stood hunched over in the driveway attempting to catch my breath, I noticed my wife out of the corner of my eye. She was standing in the garage with a judgmental look on her face.

“Are you done?” she finally asked.

“That f*cking drill’s a piece of shit,” I responded defiantly.

“Did you ask somebody at the store for help?” she asked (her calm tone pissed me off even more).

“Yes, I asked somebody for help. It’s the strongest f*cking drill they sell. I’m going out to get a new tree,” I replied. “This one’s f*cked.”

“The tree’s fine. You just need to figure out a way to get the bit out,” she responded in the same annoyingly calm tone.

“You think?” I retorted sarcastically.

She proceeded to retrieve a rusty hammer and a crooked screwdriver from my toolbox, and then attempted to loosen the bit by gently hammering in the screwdriver around it. This was a direct assault on my manhood. So I immediately stepped in and took over.

“This is not going to work,” I said. “The bit is in too deep.”

“Calm down and keep trying. The only way to get it out is to loosen it up around the edges,” she instructed. “Have you tried turning the bit with a pair of pliers?”

I retrieved the semi-functioning pliers from my toolbox and attempted to turn the bit with all my might until my hand slipped and I cut it on the bit, which sparked off another profanity-laced tirade. I went back to the hammer and screwdriver and pounded away in a futile effort to loosen the bit.

“Don’t hammer the screwdriver in too deep or it will get stuck too,” advised my wife.

Too late. The screwdriver was now stuck in the trunk alongside the bit. I tried to muscle it out and the handle broke off in my hand. This situation was quickly deteriorating into a full blown shit show. Frustration took over and I found myself hammering away at the trunk with reckless abandon. I could hear my wife in the background telling me to calm down but the train had already left the station. I hammered away at the bit and the broken screwdriver over and over, sweat dripping off my brow, until the screwdriver finally dislodged and the bit snapped in half at the base. I set the tree down on the driveway and stepped back to assess the situation.

“F*ck it,” I finally said. Without thinking I grabbed the tree stand and shoved it in the hole where the bit had broken off. With brute force I hammered away at the bottom of the stand, sparks flying in all directions, until it finally penetrated the trunk to the side of the broken bit. When I placed the tree and the stand upright on the driveway to test out my handy work, the tree tilted at about a 60 degree angle (surprise, surprise). To compensate for the tilt I grabbed some rope from the garage and tied one end to the middle of the tree and the other end to the foot of the stand opposite the side it was leaning toward. I then carried the entire hot mess into the family room, slammed it down on the floor, and walked away.

“Done,” I muttered as I grabbed a beer from the fridge. I was so pissed off that I didn’t even help decorate the tree with my wife and kids. I spent the rest of the night sulking and watching TV, not even remotely in the Christmas spirit.

The next morning the bitterness had passed. My wife joked that she hoped the rope had held. When we walked downstairs the tree was still amazingly upright and straight. “It looks great. No one would ever guess there’s half a drill bit stuck in the trunk,” I laughed.

It was at that exact moment I noticed a sharp pain on the surface of my stomach, a pain I had never experienced before. I lifted up my shirt to identify the source of my discomfort and there it was: a TICK. Apparently while I was wrestling with the tree the night before, the little bugger had jumped off the tree and attached itself to my stomach, and then burrowed into my skin overnight. I immediately panicked and screamed like a little girl (it was about the 5th unmanly thing I’d done in the past 12 hours).

“Get it off! Get it off!” I screamed in terror.

My wife, forever the calming voice of reason, told me to take a deep breath and relax. She got a pair of tweezers and removed the tick, then placed it in a zip-lock bag and put it in the freezer. “You’re supposed to save the tick in case you get sick,” she said. (Oh good, something to look forward to - lyme disease)

I now have a large sore on my stomach where the tick was attached, my hands are all cut up from my altercation with the tree, and my wife is more convinced than ever that she married a high functioning retard. Merry freaking Christmas. We are so getting a fake tree next year.

Monday, December 5, 2011

The Participation Trophy Generation



A buddy sent me a link to a YouTube video last week. It contained Adam Carolla’s 9+ minute rant on the OWS Generation. He used some offensive language and off color analogies (sound familiar?) but his point was spot on. About twenty years ago we as a society f*cked up, and only now are we seeing the consequences of our actions. The exact cause or catalyst of this vicious cycle of events is not clear, but what is clear are the results. Twenty years of coddling, and pampering, and falsely inflated egos and what have we got? An entire generation of lazy, self-entitled pussies, that’s what (or ass douches as Adam Carolla likes to call them). Seriously, when did we as parents make a conscious decision to start ruining our children?

Example #1: Oh, you struck out and cost your team the game little Johnny? That’s okay, it wasn’t your fault. That umpire’s an idiot, no chance that was a strike – it’s his fault. And your coach shouldn’t have been hitting you last, everyone knows you’re a leadoff hitter – it’s his fault too. Here’s a cookie and a trophy champ – good job. As long as you gave it YOUR best you’re always a winner in my book.

Translation: Johnny never works hard at anything because his mediocre accomplishments are enough to make his parents proud. When he is measured up against others and deemed inferior it’s not his fault, it’s society’s. Johnny can’t get a job because he sucks. Instead of working hard to improve his station in life he camps out in the park with the other losers and blames the 1%.

Example #2: My son has a severe peanut allergy. I need verification that this school has a strict “no peanut” policy. If he even so much as breathes in peanut dust he could die.

Translation: If I can’t have peanuts then NO ONE can have peanuts. It’s all about me, me, me. Johnny has a low paying job and drives a piece of shit beater. Instead of busting his ass to get promoted so he can make more money and buy a better car, he instead chooses to vandalize the cars of the 1%. That’ll show em.

Example #3: You’re not fat son, you’re just big boned. Don’t listen to those other kids who are teasing you, they’re just jealous because they’re not as handsome and smart as you are. Have another doughnut, it’ll make you feel better.

Translation: Johnny is a fat sack of shit with major health problems. Nobody wants to hire a fat sack of shit and Johnny can’t afford private health coverage. Instead of losing weight so he can get a job with health coverage (which he wouldn’t even need if he was thin), he pickets in the park about how the 1% are driving up the cost of healthcare and sending all the good jobs overseas.

It’s time to stop the f*cking insanity people. Life isn’t easy and it isn’t fair. The sooner our children learn this, the better off they’ll be. Stop blowing smoke up their ass about how great they are, and instead give them the tools and the work ethic necessary to achieve greatness. Life is a zero sum game as I see it. For every winner there’s a loser. If you give your kid a trophy for simply participating, you’ve pretty much already sealed their fate.