Thoughts from today:

How much cocaine can the average human snort before their heart explodes?  What would my desk job be like if I snorted a lot of coke?

I really do wish that they’d invent the computer that one can just connect directly to their brain and it would interpret the brainwaves and patterns into images and words.  Yeah, on the one hand it would be super neat, but on the other I’d probably traumatize myself with the images!

Why aren’t these schmucks responding on the forums at my school?  Bastards.  Wasted effort on my part.  Rat bastards.

Carnivale…all I want to do is leave and go watch it.

Change.  It is good but dollars are better…unless we are talking gold coins here.

I should write that article on change…just to see how well I can bullshit these fiendishly stupid twits and twats.

Pride?  When is it?  Do I dare attend and take my camera?  Last year I almost got my ass kicked I think.

I hate.

Damn, boy, ya’ done good.

Dust of heroes, God will remember you…

Y’know, I can’t help but think how pretty Becky would look bound to the hood of that car.  Three…maybe four straps total.  Spread-eagle. 

Thongs?!  They should leave the kind worn on the feet alone…ban the fuckin’ things these bitches wear almost in their pants.  Whale tail!

Pasties…just think about pasties…that’ll make everything better!

Men shouldn’t wear capris.  Big guys…small guys…straight…gay…black…white…everything in between.  Men should NOT under any circumstances wear capris.  You’re just going to look like the world’s biggest pussy…even the girls at work will be laughing their asses off at you.  And they’re the ones looking truly retarded!

Whale tail…

He really did look like a very thin bearded lady while wearing those damned capris.

Becky,  whatever you are doing; I miss you.

These things happen.

I believe in second chances…but I just don’t believe everyone deserves them.

Rest…sweet, sweet blessed rest and nicotine.

A "C," an "E-flat," and a "G" go into a bar.
The bartender says: "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So, the E-flat leaves, and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished and the G is out flat.
An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough. A D comes into the bar and heads straight for the bathroom saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second."
An A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a B-flat hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims: "Get out now! You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight."
The E-flat, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar in a 3-piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender (who used to have a nice corporate job until his company downsized) says: "You're looking sharp tonight, come on in! This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the E-flat takes off the suit, and everything else, and stands there au naturel.
Eventually, the C sobers up, and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, is found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all accusations to the contrary are bassless.
The bartender decides, however, that since he's only had tenor so patrons and everything has become alto much treble, he needs a rest - and closes the bar.

Then there's the one about three guys waiting in line at the pearly gates. St. Peter is asking each applicant what he did on earth. The first guy says "I'm a doctor." St. Peter says "You're in." The next guy says "I'm a stockbroker." St. Peter says "This way, please." The third guy says "I'm a musician." St. Peter says "You'll have to go around to the back, in at the loading dock, up the freight elevator and through the kitchen..."

The assistant conductor finally took over and had his first session with the orchestra. He reckend he was a real hot shot. So he started off by saying Ôyou people have really been slacking off lately. So we're gonna set things straight. No more coming to rehearsal late. And be ready when I want to start. I can hear not everybody has been playing every note. And your clothes have even been a bit scruffy. Then from the back of the orchestra came a timpany roll bumbumbumbum. He said "all right who did that?"

Summary of Life

GREAT TRUTHS THAT LITTLE CHILDREN HAVE LEARNED:

1) No matter how hard you try, you can’t baptize cats..

2) When your Mum is mad at your Dad, don’t let her brush your hair.

3) If your sister hits you, don’t hit her back. They always catch the second person.

4) Never ask your 3-year old brother to hold a tomato.

5) You can’t trust dogs to watch your food.

6) Don’t sneeze when someone is cutting your hair.

7) Never hold a Dust-Buster and a cat at the same time.

You can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.

9) Don’t wear polka-dot underwear under white shorts.

10) The best place to be when you’re sad is Grandpa’s lap..

GREAT TRUTHS THAT ADULTS HAVE LEARNED:

1) Raising teenagers is like nailing jelly to a tree.

2) Wrinkles don’t hurt.

3) Families are like fudge….mostly sweet, with a few nuts

4) Today’s mighty oak is just yesterday’s nut that held its ground..

5) Laughing is good exercise. It’s like jogging on the inside.

6) Middle age is when you choose your cereal for the fiber, not the toy..

GREAT TRUTHS ABOUT GROWING OLD

1) Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional..

2) Forget the health food. I need all the preservatives I can get.

3) When you fall down, you wonder what else you can do while you’re down there.

4) You’re getting old when you get the same sensation from a rocking chair that you once got from a roller coaster.

5) It’s frustrating when you know all the answers but nobody bothers to ask you the questions

6) Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician

7) Wisdom comes with age, but sometimes age comes alone.

THE FOUR STAGES OF LIFE:

1) You believe in Santa Claus.

2) You don’t believe in Santa Claus.

3) You are Santa Claus.

4) You look like Santa Claus

SUCCESS:

At age 4 success is . . . . not piddling in your pants..

At age 12 success is . . . having friends.

At age 17 success is . . having a driver’s license.

At age 35 success is . .. .having money.

At age 50 success is . .. . having money.

At age 70 success is . …. . having a drivers license.

At age 75 success is . . . having friends.

At age 80 success is . . . not piddling in your pants.

So, yesterday I went into the DSW Shoes store at 290 Mid Rivers Center in Saint Peters, MO 63376 to look around for a pair of cuban heel shoes.  I walked around the store looking, but did not find anything like what I was after.  I went up to one of the sales associates to ask as to whether or not they carried anything like what I was after.  She seemed to not know what I was talking about so I gave a description.  Ultimately she ended up getting on the radio to ask one either her manager or one of her co-workers...I don't know which.  In any case she had her headset turned up loud enough that I was able to hear the response.  The response I received was "What kind of a fag wants something like that?"  I turned around and walked straight out of the store.  In any case, I have written a letter to DSW Shoes informing them of this incident.

The following is a copy of my letter:

Sir / Madam,

I am writing to inform you of my experience in one of your stores.  Specifically the store at
290 Mid Rivers Center in St. Peters, Mo (63376).  On Friday (November 6, 2009) at  roughly 11:30 a .m. I went   in to this store looking for a very specific style of shoe.  I did not find it in the store so I asked an employee of the store about the shoe I was after.  She was seemingly unaware of the style I was after (cuban heel).  She used to her radio to contact either the manager OR one of her co-workers about it.   This is all fine and dandy.  I appreciate her help with this.  I do not, however, appreciate the response I heard from her fellow employee.  The response I heard (her headset was turned up loud enough) was, "What kind of fag wants something like that?"  I assure you that is a precise and exact quote.  After hearing that extremely hateful response I left your store quite upset and angry.  Personally I find that type of response to be completely reprehensible and irresponsible.  I will not be going back to one of your stores ever again and have informed a great many of my friends of this incident.  I assure you none of them will ever buy from your company again.  Whether I or any of my friends ever go back to your stores or not, I still feel that something should be done about an employee (who represents your company) using such careless and hateful language in one of your stores.  I patiently await your response on this matter.
Sincerely,
Bryan K. Poston
P.S. It is my sincere expectation that this letter finds its way in the hands of someone that can make a difference in the climate of your company and / or the attitudes of the people that work in your stores.

Okay, so I just read this story.  What in the fucking hell is this?  What in the world is wrong with people that they would watch such a thing happening and not do something to stop it?  Some people simply are not deserving of life...

So tonight when I left work there were several bins of pumpkins for employees to take home with them.  This is a normal thing this time of year.  However, they generally don't allow people to take one home with them until 2 days before Halloween.  This year was no exception.

I have worked at my place of employment for 4 years.  Every year I have always ended up getting a shitty pumpkin because of the shift I work.  I work from 1 in the afternoon until 9:30 at night.  This means I have never been able to get a good pumpkin.  I've always been pissy about it.  Which means that this year if I don't get a fucking amazing pumpkin I will write HR and encourage anyone else on my shift that gets fucked out of a good pumpking to do the same.  The letter will go something like this:

Human Resources,

For the last four years I have been a victim of this company's discriminatory policy of denying the people that work the evening shift the chance at a good pumpkin.  This grievious error, whether intentional or not, has led to many employees dealing with serious issues of self-esteem (low), and a great deal of anger.

Well, no more, I say.  No more.  This discriminatory practice cannot be permitted to continue and I expect it to be abolished as soon as is humanly possible.  Failure to do so is a slap in the face of a great many ideals and is, in fact, against one of the tenets of this great country.  The idea that all men (and women) are created equal.  Yes.  That's right.  By allowing this atrocity to continue you are saying that the great people that work the evening are not as good as the people that work the mornings.  How can you allow such a clearly discriminatory practice to continue in the face of the facts that I have laid out before you in this letter?

Sincerely,

Bryan

P.S. If I don't get a god damned good pumpkin I will as it was said in the great movie known as Office Space, "Burn down the building."

P.P.S. I want my red fucking stapler back, bitches!

P.P.P.S. While you are at it get me a pair of Holy Grail Bunny Slippers!

It is my belief that the vast majority of people are just pretty god-damned useless.  Most are incapable at looking at a chain of events and seeing the root cause of a problem.  Most are incapable of following a train of thought to a logical conclusion...who am I kidding?  Most are incapable of following a train of thought. 

In summary I would just like to say the following: I hate my job and the fucking idiots I work with.  I'd fire about 80% of them for incompetence, 5% of them should be chemically castrated (what is the female version of this?), and the other 10% are probably safe...probably. 

I thank you for your time and wish you a wonderful evening.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S.  READ MY GOD DAMNED PAGE BEFORE SENDING ME A REQUEST...

P.P.S.  Emanon...I'm coming around to your brand of thinking!

The original article can be found here.

The 6 Most Badass Stunts Ever Pulled in the Name of Science

By Luke McKinney

RIVERSIDE, Calif.  —  Abts, Richard. Adamski, Walter. Ahlman, Enoch.

The names are whisked away by the hot, gusting wind as soon as they are spoken, forgotten in the stream of the next name and the next name and the next name.

Fuller, Addison. Fuller, Mary. Furlong, John.

The story of America could be told through these names, tales of bravery and hesitation, of dreams achieved or deferred and of battles won and lost.

Taken alone, they are just words, identities stripped of place and time, stripped of rank and deeds and meaning.

But they are not taken alone. They are taken together — 148,000 names, representing the entire veteran population of Riverside National Cemetery, a roll call of the dead read aloud over 10 days by more than 300 volunteers.

They read in pairs, rotating through 15-minute shifts in the beating sun, in the chilly desert night and in the pre-dawn hours thick with mosquitoes.

Some time on Memorial Day, they will read the last name on the 2,465th page.

Some read for their country.

Others read for a father lost in battle or a beloved son cut down in his prime.

And one man reads for no one in particular — except, maybe, for himself.

Richard Blackaby was just 18 and fresh out of high school in 1966 when he was drafted for Vietnam. His father had served as a Seabee in the U.S. Navy during World War II and Blackaby was desperate to follow in his path.

But the Army said no: Blackaby had epilepsy and asthma and was unfit for service.

Twelve years later, Blackaby — now married with three children — reapplied to the Army and was accepted to the 4th Infantry Division as a forward observer.

But Vietnam was over and the eager recruit spent the next six years waiting for a war that never came. When he was honorably discharged in 1984, he was a sergeant but had never experienced combat, had never called in a real air strike or fired at a real target.

Nearly 25 years later, Blackaby's missed opportunity weighs on him as he patrols his self-selected battleground: Riverside, the nation's busiest national cemetery. While others gave their lives, Blackaby gives his time — and a lot of it, nearly 30 hours a week.

Over the years, Blackaby has made his specialty here not among the remembered and the honored, but among the lost, the abandoned and the forgotten. The work seems to fit his story of missed chances and dashed dreams, his yearning to belong to something greater than himself.

Every day, the 60-year-old grandfather with the crinkly, blue-gray eyes slips on the black leather vest that's his personal uniform and stands at attention as the cemetery honors the cremated remains of dozens of abandoned or forgotten veterans.

Every day, he salutes as the National Guard reads the names off the simple wooden boxes filled with ashes.

Every day, he accepts the folded flag for soldiers he will never know — and then gives it back for the next day's dead.

Dog tags engraved with the names of 145 forgotten veterans dangle from a thick key chain that never leaves his side, a different color for each branch of service. He knows the story behind almost every name.

"If I didn't do it, who would do it?" he says. "I mean, they have friends, they HAVE to have friends. They don't go through a whole lifetime and not have somebody that cares about them."

And, true to form, Blackaby reads names — hundreds of them — for the roll call project.

He reads for hours on overnight shifts in the cemetery's eerie gloom, the podium illuminated only by a floodlight. He reads during the weekend afternoons and late into a Saturday night to cover gaps in the schedule.

"Every one that we read off, I feel like I am probably doing their family a favor because they can't be here," he said.

"I'm reading off a whole litany of history. It kind of makes you wonder what's behind each name, what their life was like, what they did."

Lamborn, Richard. Lamphear, Everett. Landaker, Jared.

A gust of wind springs up and snatches the last name away.

No one notices it and later, even the volunteer readers won't recall the name of the young Marine or which one of them read it.

All they know is he was a 1st lieutenant, fifth from the bottom on page seven of 2,465.

Joe Landaker was the first person to touch his son, Jared, as he slipped into the world on his parents' bed on May 3, 1981, after 36 hours of labor.

From the beginning, Jared was special — but not in the way most parents would want. His skull was compressed during birth and doctors warned that he might be mentally challenged.

During childhood, he kept falling off the growth chart. He barely topped out at 5-foot-8.

But Jared, who went by the nickname J-Rod, surprised everyone.

He took calculus in high school, knuckled down in college and got a degree in physics. He signed up for the Marines his sophomore year and graduated from officer training school in Quantico, Va., among the top five in his platoon of 80 men.

By fall of 2003, he was in flight school and on Aug. 18, 2006, Jared shipped out for Iraq as a Marine helicopter pilot flying a CH-46 Sea Knight with the famed HMM-364 Purple Foxes.

"He overcame so many adversities in his life, time after time," said his father, Joe.

On Feb. 7, 2007, a week before Jared was expected home in Big Bear City, his father was watching CNN at 5:30 a.m., getting ready to go to work, when he saw that a CH-46 chopper had been shot down near while on a medical mission.

Two months before, when two Marines died in a CH-46 crash, Jared had e-mailed his parents within two hours to let him know he was OK.

But this time, hours passed with no word.

"They said there were seven people on board, so I waited. I didn't go to work, waited and waited all day long, waited again for his e-mail or a phone call that he was all right," said Landaker, choking back tears. "It never did come."

At 4:15 p.m., a Marine captain, a chaplain and a 1st sergeant came to tell Landaker his son had died on his last mission before coming home.

Since that day, Landaker has been consumed with keeping his son's memory alive. He shares his story with anyone who will listen. He has memorized every detail of his son's life and death. He now knows that the boy who called him "Pops" took 58 seconds to lower his stricken chopper from 1,500 feet to 200 feet; seven seconds faster, and he might be alive today.

"The last thing I want to do is forget about Jared. He comes to my mind all the time, songs, things that you see," said Landaker. "When he was a baby, I'd give him a shower and I'd hold him up and those kind of memories come to mind all the time."

"He's so special to me," he said. "Those Iraqis have no idea who they killed."

The rows of grave markers are cool and smooth in the heat, their numbers obscured by tufts of grass that have crept around the edges of the stone.

Landaker walks, head bowed, along the rows of plots in Section 49B.

"3438. It should be right around here," he says, bending low.

Then Landaker falls to his knees, weeping.

The stories, the details don't matter now: There is no way to unbury the dead, to bring the CH-46 from 200 feet back to 1,500 feet, to reset the clock with seven extra seconds.

"Well, all right son," he says. "Take care, son."

And so he volunteers to help call the roll at Riverside. He will not have an opportunity to read his own son's name, but at least he can ensure that the sons of others are not forgotten.

The heat beats down on the volunteers. A dozen spectators press themselves into any sliver of shade — a tree, the thin shadow of the flagpole, an awning.

In the shade near the sign-in booth, Richard Blackaby and Joe Landaker stand ready to take the podium, two strangers awkwardly chatting before their shared 15 minutes of service.

Landaker wears a white T-shirt printed with Jared's photo; Blackaby, for once, has shed his black leather vest for a dark suit adorned with military ribbons and an American flag pin.

They discover a bittersweet bond: Blackaby escorted Jared's coffin to his military funeral at the cemetery two years before. The two men embrace, then step to the podium.

The names pass between them like fragile treasures.

White, Clark. White, Mary. Whito, Russell.

Their 15 minutes pass, and they step down. Landaker, eyes red with tears, has another piece of his puzzle, another connection — another story to cling to.

But Blackaby is not finished. He steps forward again, ready to read for those who will never have the love of a father like Jared's. He will be there until 2:30 a.m. on this muggy Sunday and back again the next day and the next day and the next.

He is patrolling the boundaries of the past, filling gaps in this American story and in his own life — one name at a time.