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Archive through August 03, 2002

Sepulchritude Forum » The Absinthe Forum Archive thru January 2003 » The Monkey Hole » Can you tell I'm bored? » Archive through August 03, 2002 « Previous Next »

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Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 10:04 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

I love it when they can film "any town" and make it really feel like "any town."
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 10:02 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Don't be dissin on Steve Jobs muhfuh, I'll upchuck that freckly white ass so fast!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 10:00 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

You sure it aint one of those "wearable Macs"?
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:58 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

I'm here... honest honey!!!!!!!!!!
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:55 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Someone's knockin' on the door...

Some motherfucker's ringin' my bell.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:54 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:45 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Fucking YUM! (Not Tom Yum though... )


* 6 cups water
* 1 cup Thai tea (cha Thai)
* 1 cup sugar
* 1 can evaporated milk


Bring the water to a boil in a large saucepan.  Add the tea and remove the pan from heat.  Stir to submerge all the tea leaves in the water.  Steep for about 5 minutes.  Pour the brew through a coffee filter or a fine-mesh strainer into a large pitcher.  Add the sugar to the hot tea and stir to dissolve.  Cool to room temperature.  Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.

To serve:  Fill tall glasses with crushed ice.  Add enough of the tea to fill the glasses to within 1 inch from the top.  Then float 3 to 4 tablespoons of evaporated milk over the ice in each glass.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:42 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

I'd fix another drink, just haven't had enough yet.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:37 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Dammit... how dare you all go out and live your lives! Am I to be forsaken to this vicarious electronic realm? Yes... more Eelsinthe gargoyle! Bwaahaaahaaa!!!!

Luisa? Save me...
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:32 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Funny how things change...
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:09 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Boredom is all relative. How on a Saturday night could anyone possibly be bored? How on a Saturday night could anyone possibly come home from 12 hours of square free frustration at the institutional level and want to just sit solitarily and block out life all together? I hope someone is having fun somewhere... or I'm just wasting my time.
Popcorn parmesan and Un Emile Koho... I will return.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 3:05 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

I want paprika schnitzel...
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 11:40 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

don´t tease ...

So, you read the book ... good one huh?
Since you´re so handy around the house ... I kind´a trust you .... pick one: blue or orange.

And now I´ll cook something for you ... what do you want?
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 11:29 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

Luisa... I love eating and drinking. What are you doing for the next fifty years?
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 11:23 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

Well... here's how it happened the first time around.
First 3 days, utter misery. Unable to think of anything else but smoking. In a total haze, equilibrium all fucked up, sound is in a vacuum, irritability factor: sky fucking high.. I stayed very drunk those first three days. Reason? Because all the while when I was smoking, I'd get so drunk that cigarettes tasted horrid and would make me puke.
Next 7 days. Cravings ease off. Under false impression that I can "just have one" and I'll be able to continue my cessation. Cannot give in though, will be down fall and I know it. Still a cranky motherfucker.
Next month. Cravings minimal. Starting to cheer up. Thinking less and less about the smoke, more about... food? Have to excersize or suffer from morbid obesity. Hacking up all sorts of black gooey shit. This is a good thing.
Next six months. Only rare craving for cancer stick. Running and going to gym regularly. Eating better. Cough subsides all together. Barely thinking of smoking anymore... then come the nightmares.
Beyond six months... like I never smoked. Can't imagine putting one back in my mouth. Don't even want "just one." Feel good. Then six more years go by...
Work in steel mill. Supervise in steel mill. Give up hope for any kind of life. Don't care what day it is let alone what year. Say fuck it, pick up an errant pack of Canuck smokes "for old time's sake." Never put them down again. The end.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 10:57 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

I´m sorry Pikkle, I dind´t mean to be insensitive ... I just thought you were being weird.

I have quit many times. I´m 28, and have been smoking for 12 years... But I am weak. I cave.... I can´t be at home reading and not smoke. And I can´t stop reading. I love to cook, but I am always drinking and smoking. And I can´t stop either drinking or cooking.

Ah, I guess I could stop smoking. Not today though.

Can you get silver sulfites (Idon´t even know how to spell that, you know chemical symbol ArS something) ... we use that for burns. It works PIkkle.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 10:56 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

The trick is not to quit smoking altogether but to only smoke when drinking. Then you end up smoking a packet of 20 in an evening when you're out for a few beers, then 20 becomes 10, then 5 and then you end up being someone who scrounges the odd fag off your smoking friends when you're drunk. When you reach this stage you've done it. It took me 3 years to reach this stage but it worked (that was 7 yaers ago) and I still enjoy the odd smoke when I'm drunk.

In my opinion weaning yourself off cigarettes is a lot better than throwing your cigarettes in the bin then yearning for a cigarette for the next 6 months until you crack and go back to smoking as much as you did before.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 10:03 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

The first time I quit, after the first year, I had absolutely no desire in me to ever smoke again... I'd have anxiety nightmares where I'd break down and start smoking again. Then, one fateful night, here I was at the mill, there they were laying on a table, deserted, no one to ignite them but me and I said to myself "aw, just one puff after all these years won't hurt... " And we know the rest of that story by heart.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 9:53 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

You are a stronger person than I am. The quitting in the middle of all that? Na-ah. I haven't smoked in many years, but, I still crave it. And when I watch my friends spark up a RED, my mouth waters. It's sad really.
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 6:49 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

Wow... 7:52 am and I'm awake. I felt an overwhelming guilt about taking yesterday off work when I burned my hand to fuck all so at the behest of my all too good natured manager Marty (how can you say no to a Marty?) I was preparing to drag my sorry wounded ass in this morning for another 16 hour adventure in steel making so the Horse wouldn't have to. If another tear had fallen, I'd have had to grab my snorkel. At 7:52 am on a Saturday, what the hell could be going wrong in the world?
My roommate is on the couch, a position she is all too familiar with but this time with a companion. I start to worry sometimes. Usually, she wakes up whenever (this usually means by 3 pm,) immediately and simultaneously grabs the remote, cigarettes and a book of cross word puzzles and for the next eight hours will not so much as move save for turning her head between repeats of "Friends" and the fifteenth Wonderword puzzle of the day. Yes, this worries me. At 24, one should have little more accomplished than being able to recite verbatim the dialogue of the entire last season of "Seventh Heaven" while concurrently deciphering the Word Scramble on page 72, most likely the same one that was in the March, 1999 edition on page 24. Oh, I quit smoking yesterday too.
How annoying is it supposed to be not having a working doorbell when it's even more annoying having people ringing it? I don't know but I felt an overwhelming urge to repair the one I had that no longer sounded that two tone "I'm here" anouncement, even though more than likely the person that ends up standing at the door has an idiot's grin and religious literature hanging out of their claws like religious literature. I just did not feel complete as a homeowner. And unlike the piles of garbage stacked up at the back of the fence, the garage that was about to topple over or the dining room whose primary function was storage space for wayword flea market furniture, this bothered me. So I tore it all apart: the buttons, the striker, the wires and finally, the transformer. Yes, I did not know but a doorbell such as mine can operate on as little as 10 volts. Whuduya know?
There's no such thing as "Doorbell Outlet" but there is both a "Lowes" and a "Home Depot" strategically placed within a half mile of each other on Carpenter Road in the greater Ann Arbor area, both a few miles from my doorbell-less abode. I knew exactly what part I needed for once too so this particular exploit shouldn't have been nearly as harrowing as the time I went for tomatoe stakes and a light bulb and ended up pouring a ton and a half o concrete in my garage by the end of that particular day. Something about the music I think.
How did I know it was the transformer? There's something about electricity that scares the hell out of me. Despite it's restriction to mostly 16 or 14 gauge white and gray wiring that connects to paint splattered wall outlets where nary a plug can fit let alone one's genitals, it just plain freaks me out. That's why I'm so careful. I've got my 110 voltage meter, a flash light and a work stool I stand on because it's no longer safe to sit on, door to the breaker box wide open and a dewy Miller Lite sitting on the beam overhead teasing the gnarly drips of asbestos covering leaking from absentee duct tape on a hot water pipe. I trace down circa 1926 wires with fabric insulation that may or may not be that of the doorbell and I start poking and prodding with the black and red probes that came equipped with the 12.99 Radio Shack voltage meter at two leads on a rusty looking thing the wires terminate into. Must be it, says "Transformer" on it. I'm good. Within minutes, I've everything isolated and start to disassemble the corroded beige box. Two heavier wires are connected somewhere inside, the 110 wires coming from the breaker box most likely. Good thing I flipped the breaker...
No, that's not where I got burned. Yes, I did take apart a completely live piece of electrical equipment. How does this happen? Well, when you place the black lead on a rusted part of the house's beam and the needle on the meter fails to so much as shiver you think hey, it's power free. Thankfully, the transformer was even more rusty and despite my clumsy handling of said evil electrical contraption all the while having been under the severely false assumption that I was "home electrical master," I never felt so much as tingle. Upstairs, most of the clocks were blinking "12:00," not in unison either.
The transformer sat in it's box at my side for the next several weeks, a victim of fear and neglect. That I'd blatantly failed in even the most menial of electrical skills gave proof to the notion that I really wasn't "home electrical master" and that perhaps I'd better think through the installation of this 110 volt to 16 volt transformer or whether I really needed a doorbell in the first place. There weren't too many people I knew that were important enough to justify my possible electrocution so that they could in classic two-tone style be formally announced as callers to Pikklesburgh Estates. Yes, I had now had a transformer but no, it wouldn't be placed into service any time soon.
Yesterday was like one of those "new beginning" days. I arose early, too early, having the night before taken (at the ill-conceived urging of my work partner in crime) a sleeping pill which was supposed to propel one into a state of "utter gumbiness" as long as you fought it, similar to the infamous "Soma coma." It's difficult enough for me getting to sleep and fighting off much welcomed slumber is not my idea of a good time but in a show of faith, I did my best. Within ten minutes of swallowing the benign looking little white pill, I was out like a light. And up again at the crack of dawn. On my night stand sat the last of my nicotine hobby, seven Marlboro Reds and the Zippo I got at the Hard Rock in Las Vegas. This, I said to myself, is going to suck. I had planned on going out in grand style, sucking to the filter the very last of the last of my smokes, making myself so sick of tobacco I'd wake up the next day begging to never have to light another one up. Instead, I got four hours of power sleep and awoke to lots of light and a hell of a hangover. What's the first thing a stressed out body like mine needs? Nicotine.
Okay, I didn't do it. Ten years ago, I quit the habit for six and half years. Cold turkey. The first thing I learned when I quit before was that you can't do the things you used to do when you smoked. If you like to wake up and have coffee and a smoke, you can't have coffee now. You drive down the street and have a smoke, you can't drive now. You go to the bar and smoke, you can't drink anymore. All of a sudden, your options of the world have dwindled to nothing, a choice between counting all the little holes in the drop ceiling panels at the dentist's office forever or suicide.
The first time I quit it was suicide. I got back into ice hockey after five years. I took up mountain biking and rugby for the first time. One does not just start doing these things at 23 and expect to live. I was unlucky. I had to be more creative this time, engage in something that would without a doubt take me out quickly and definitively. Sitting on the desk right next to me in a small white box was the answer.
This time I was prepared. I'd isolated the correct breaker, set up all of my tools ahead of time and even verified with one hundred percent certainty that there was absolutely no power travelling to or from the object of my desire. I stood upon my rickety stool, clipped and stripped the appropriate wires and waited as my 7.99 Kmart soldering iron heated up. These things take time. I even went so far as to tape the transformer to a conveniently placed piece of conduit so I wouldn't require the inevitable third arm while I was wrestling with wire and solder. Nope, this time I'd just put iron to wire, solder to wire. Within minutes, I was solid.
For probably about 4 bucks more, I could have gotten the better Kmart soldering iron, the one with a stand and a little orange light that told you when it was on. I'm cheap like that though. Those things are for idiots. I can hang this fucker up right here on the light, on this little knob that adjusts the height. Not touching anything there, just hanging there smoldering. And when I lost that wire, the one that connected the doorbell button in the back, the one no one could ring anyway because somewhere in this house's seventy-five year history, a previous owner saw fit to build a mud room and therefore negate any and all benefits of having a doorbell at the back door, I had to move the light, just a few inches and of course I grabbed it as if I was going to move it, with that kind of force and suddenly a sharp and intense pain shot straight up my left arm from my left hand, a kind of pain I'd never felt before and would gladly welcome the absence of ever again. Yes, safely dangling from the exact spot where my hand saw fit to pick up the stand light was the soldering iron, unplugged a mere two minutes before, not nearly enough time to cool down and not singe half the skin off three of the fingers on my left hand.
I failed though, I did not report directly to my own demise and I've the scars to prove it now. From that point on, yesterday can be described as "stingy." The only saving grace there was that I was now too preoccupied by my own insignificant misery to realize I really wanted to smoke and wanted to quit quitting right then and there, 4 bucks a pack and all.
So I've made it one day. No smokes. Two more days and it get's that much easier. The hand isn't so red either and there's no real puss. It only hurts when I masturbate. Oh, and I'm only working 12 hours today too. At 7:52 am on a Saturday, what could be better in the world?
Posted on Saturday, August 3, 2002 - 6:28 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

Dear special-you,

No, it is not wise, and you´re an idiot. Who would ever quit smoking_


Dear Abby,

I tried to fly Colombia-Miami with a bag of medicinal white talc. Was that wrong?

I know, I know ... I´m a retard ... but I´ve seen it happen, and it´s baaaaaad man.
Posted on Friday, August 2, 2002 - 10:13 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

Dear Abby

Do you think it's wise to quit smoking and burn all the fingers on your left hand all in the same day?


Posted on Friday, August 2, 2002 - 10:07 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

The following are actual letters that Abigail Van Buren (Dear Abby) herself admitted she was at a loss to answer:

Dear Abby,
A couple of women moved in across the hall from me. One is a middle-aged gym teacher, and the other is a social worker in her mid-twenties. These two women go everywhere together, and I've never seen a man go into their apartment or come out. Do you think they could be Lebanese?

Dear Abby,
What can I do about all the sex, nudity, language and violence on my VCR?

Dear Abby,
I have a man I never could trust. He cheats so much I'm not even sure this baby I'm carrying is his.

Dear Abby,
I am a twenty-three-year-old liberated woman who has been on the pill for two years. It's getting expensive, and I think my boyfriend should share half the cost, but I don't know him well enough to discuss money with him.

Dear Abby,
I suspected that my husband had been fooling around, and when I confronted him with the evidence he denied everything and said it would never happen again.

Dear Abby,
Our son writes that he is taking Judo. Why would a boy who was raised in a good Christian home turn against his own?

Dear Abby,
I joined the Navy to see the world. I've seen it. Now, how do I get out?

Dear Abby,
My forty-year-old son has been paying a psychiatrist $50 an hour every week for two-and-a-half years. He must be crazy.

Dear Abby,
I was married to Bill for three months, and I didn't know he drank until one night he came home sober.

Dear Abby,
Do you think it would be all right if I gave my doctor a little gift? I tried for years to get pregnant and couldn't, and he did it.

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