|Posted on Friday, July 26, 2002 - 9:15 pm: |
Hell, "Scooby Doo" was originally envisioned as a cartoon version of "Dobie Gillis", with Shaggy as Maynard J. Crebs.
|Posted on Friday, July 26, 2002 - 1:15 pm: |
It was the Great Gazoo, animated tongue-puppet of the great Harvey Korman.
|Posted on Monday, July 22, 2002 - 3:40 pm: |
And truth be told, I always hated the Flintstones, even as a kid... c'mon, a cartoon version of "The Honeymooners?" Maybe they knew this... maybe that's why we were all so enticed...
|Posted on Monday, July 22, 2002 - 9:17 am: |
OK, at least I'm not the only one who tried to OD on Flintstones vitamins. I wonder if there s a connection....
|Posted on Monday, July 22, 2002 - 7:10 am: |
A tasty death beats a tasteless life.
|Posted on Monday, July 22, 2002 - 12:11 am: |
Death can be quite yummy I think!
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 11:18 pm: |
How many more lives must be snuffed out at the murderous, vitamin-rich hands of Barney, Betty, Fred and Wilma?
Will Dino's snout ever be washed clean of the blood of our young???
Who would have ever thought that such loveable Hanna Barbera characters would, in fact, turn out to be ruthless, merciless butchers, poisoning innocent youth?
The Flintstones must be stopped!
THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 10:28 pm: |
I did the Flintstones bit, too. Climbed up on the kitchen table and downed the whole bottle. Went outside, found my mom, and told her what I did. She rushed me to the ER and had my stomach pumped. I was falling asleep on the way there. Our doctor said afterwards, "Well, little guy, you had us pretty scared there for a while. I bet you'll never do that again." To which I replied, "I *will* do that again."
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 4:22 pm: |
It's more boozier...
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 3:32 pm: |
Who stole the pickle from the pikkle jar?
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 8:22 am: |
Yeah Pikkler, if this is the result of drinking out of Mason jars, switch to gallon Frank's Hot Sauce jugs so you'll write even more of this tasty shit.
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 8:01 am: |
Do you think Mother Theresa ever worried about identity theft?
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 7:58 am: |
I think for most people, it's pretty easy to leave the job behind everyday. I can't. It's in the blood whether I like it or not. This place, this inhuman hellhole I call work has been a family affair since my grandfather was first punching the card, pulling the levers and pushing the iron. And those silly notions I ever had of breaking the tradition, hah. Dad always said that none of those jobs would be there when I got old enough to work. The seventies weren't so great for the auto industry and in turn even less sweet for steel. Bottom of the food chain baby. When times get bad for too long, you think they're never gonna get better. I wish they hadn't.
I had not a clue what I wanted to be when I grew up since I can remember, even more so since following in dad's footsteps was now out of the question (according to him.) Mere existance was quite fine with me. Then years out of high school, umpteen dead end jobs later, no money and no discernible future at hand, voila! The gates of hell open back up. Yer hired. Funny how quickly we sell our souls just to get the taste of ramen out of our mouths.
Gramps was there on the overpass, the infamous "battle," up there thugging it out with Harry Bennett's men to bring a better life to his family and those of his coworker's families. Then he went off to Europe, fought the good fight, came home with seven holes in his stomach to a son he'd never met. That son would have a future, as would all sons at the time because the country was humming along, making "things" because people were making people and needed people to make those things. And like that, dad was in.
So now you've got this steady job and a great paycheck, what next? Meet mom and make me. And there I was, bald and chubby, shitting all over myself and thinking of the best way to get out of the crib and into that delicious bottle of Flintstones vitamins mom slipped me once every day. (Dear mom would later tell me if they'd been the Flinstone's with iron, I might have died. If I'd only been so luck.)
For a time, life's all groovy. You don't know shit, it's just all new all the time. Your biggest aspiration in life is to be able to see over the counter at McDonald's or to get to next Christmas without Santa Claus finding out about your having wasted a whole box of Crayola's on the new Jungle Book wallpaper mom just put up in your bedroom.
Dad? Hell, you never even noticed the guy. He was big and had a beard, it's all you knew. That you never missed him was probably because he was almost never there. The phone rings in the middle of the night. A double. And another double. And another double. You didn't know what a double meant, you just knew he wasn't going to be there. The times he was it was sitting in front of that thirteen inch color tv chucking it up not with your family but with Archie's or Dick's or Andy's. When he did talk, it was about work. This asshole or that, who was getting the better jobs and which boss was letting them get away with it or that the company just had a safety meeting and some dumb schmuck promptly walked out, fell into a pit and died that very same day. It was all an alien language to me at the time. Hell, when you're four years old, all the pine cones in the backyard are just as stimulating.
I remember the first day walking in the place like it was yesterday, the old man proudly guiding me to my fate. The murky stagnant air, the billowing stacks, giant gray rolls of toilet paper metal as far as the eye could see. It seemed like we walked for miles before we even came to the building I'd end up calling work for the next seven years. Through a creaky metal door, down a corridor made of rusted sheet metal, into a hallway covered in grime and up to a mint green room that lead to some lockers and we weren't there yet. On the wall in front of me was scrawled some graffiti in yellow paint that read "cold and evil." Someone had it right. We walked further, into the giant expanse of yet another coil storage area, the floor an ocean of fine brown dust. I heard a rumble coming from beyond the many rows of steel and a sense of forboding overtook me. As we made our way closer and closer to the ever punishing noise I came to a realization that the reason my father hadn't so much as grunted at me for all those years was because he couldn't. He was stone deaf.
The next two years, hell yeah, I did it all. I uncoiled, sheared, welded, milled, side trimmed, recoiled. I pickled goddammit and I was good. For two years, I bounced around like a retard at a Black Flag show. I worked every crummy shift, every crummy bit of crummy overtime and showed up every crummy day to work. I was your dream employee, something I'd never been able to accomplish no matter where I'd flung my useless self. Somewhere along the way though, that other sensibility thing crept up inside of me and before long I just couldn't take it anymore. How in the hell my father and his father sat on these same noisy, smelly, dirty, uncaring lines for all these years, watching miles and miles of ugly gray steel whizzing by day in and day out was beyond my comprehension. Then again, so was another bite of ramen.
When I took the two tests in the summer of '97, I had no clue which job I'd take if I passed.
There was skilled trades which would have allowed me to obviously learn a skill I could take with me anywhere, a skill I'd learn at the company's expense while getting paid, a skill that would afford me a higher rate of pay down the road and more interesting work or supervision which...
One shitty summer day a floppy haired guy named Bill walzted into my office. He said he was looking for me and if I knew who I was. I said yes, I am me. He said that I was up for the apprenticeship on the trade I'd selected and if I was still interested? Yeah, I told him, I was interested... TWO FUCKING YEARS AGO BEFORE I BOUGHT A HOUSE, A NEW TRUCK AND A GAZILLION FUCKING TOYS I NEVER GET TO USE ANYWAY BECAUSE INSTEAD OF WAITING FOR YOU BOZOS I DECIDED TO BECOME A FUCKING SUPERVISOR RIGHT AWAY EVEN THOUGH I WAS THIRD HIGHEST ON THE APPRENTICESHIP TEST OUT OF ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-EIGHT PEOPLE AND YOU'RE JUST COMING TO ME NOW TELLING ME I'D HAVE TO TAKE A TEN DOLLAR AN HOUR PAY CUT WITH NO OVERTIME BECAUSE YOU HAVE YOUR HEAD SO FAR UP YOUR FUCKING ASS I'M TALKING TO YOU THROUGH YOUR NECK TWICE!
Needless to say, I've got to quit drinking absinthe out of mason jars after I get off work in the morning...
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 2:12 am: |
Apparently you only get to apply to Harvard 3 times in your entire life.
(Right now Harvard is my #4 choice. U of Chicago, Princeton and UVa are 1-3. UVa is actually the #6 religion department in the country, but it costs $20,000 less than the others, and I could move in with my mom...)
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 2:11 am: |
Yeah, but just think of the cheerleaders...
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 1:58 am: |
go for it.
I've been thinking about going back to school. I just don't know how the high school kids would deal with it.
|Posted on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 1:53 am: |
I've decided to go to graduate school. I figure I should be out of debt just in time for fall 2003, and what better way to celebrate than taking out another student loan?!
Gotta track down some recommendations, tho. My religion professor from Sarah Lawrence died, unfortunately. Al Sadler. Very cool guy. A REAL zen master, the kind that would smack you up-side the head for enlightenment kind of way.
Oh, and I've got to re-take the GRE's. Apparently, I may have gotten dumber in the last 7 years.