Ballad of the wing-men..

I am not a follower of the "Bro" Bible as founded by Barney Stinson on "How I met your mother." In fact I have been out of the dating game for some time. Well, 12 years is more than some time, but that is a conversation for another time. But, as a married man, when hanging out with single men, you are going to be the wing-man 99.9% of the time, and it is a responsibility I take seriously. Unlike single men, married men have nothing to prove, and nothing to lose by walking up to an attractive women with the trademarked, "Ha-a-a-ave you met Ted?" If they shoot us down it doesn't effect our ego because we already have a beautiful wife we are committed to back home, so nothing is lost to us.

For the last 6 months, I have been working a contract with the US Navy as a Graphic Designer on board an Air Craft Carrier. With my civilian rank, I find myself spending more time with pilots and officers. This always guarantees a good time, and stories to share with the wife and friends back home. While we have been busy and have only stopped at a few liberty ports, I feel it is my duty to share some lessons learned as the permanent on hand wing-man.

First: Your responsibility as a wing-man (as it pertains to flying wing-man for Naval aviators; there is a difference trust me). Accept your call sign. Mine was "Cash". This is important to aviators. They will have entire conversations with you using this name. This is your new name, accept it, embrace it, and respond accordingly. You can miss very important details about the path your night is going to take if you do not pay close attention. For example: "Cash, you'll need to talk to the one with a mustache so she doesn't get bored and take all the hot women home with them." This small missed phrase almost lost my friends the chance to spend some quality time with very attractive Swedish teachers. It is called jumping on the hand-grenade. As the wing man, who has no interest in the pursuit, this is your responsibility to deal with. Be funny, interesting, and keep the pattern full. Once the the rest of your group has paired off and separated from the hand-grenade, you politely excuse yourself, or mention your wife and kids. Hand-grenade defused, you can carry on with the rest of your night filled with people watching, dancing, copious amounts of imbibing......or whatever your thing is.

Second: If you are all headed back to the hotel, and the cab only has room for 4 people, and you are the fifth, as the wing-man it is your responsibility to catch the next cab. As a note, this cab should not arrive at the hotel for at least 2 hours. Arriving early can cause some unsavory mind burning trauma, should you arrive too early and find your single room has been commandeered for the greater good. So, be prepared to have extra money for time at the hotel bar, or have a visual code, like the universally understood sock on the door handle, and make sure your roomies set your laptop by the door so you can at least peruse the inter-webs while they "Call in the alert 30 strike package." On a second note, if your pilots are slapped and left naked following an also naked, quickly dressing, British female down the hotel hallway after the last phrase is shouted during intercourse, it is in no way your fault if she makes it out the front door of the hotel and into a cab. Holding people any where against their will is kidnapping, and always will be. If you have to explain this, it is time to call in a replacement pilot. You do not want to be associated with this one anymore, no matter how funny it is to watch him try to explain to the military police and local authorities why he is bare naked on the street, screaming at a cab that left 20 minutes ago.

Third: Pilots should have respect for the wing man. I walked up and talked to the women first, kept the conversation funny and personable every time the conversation died, sacrificed sleep, and at times, pride, so that you could pursue your conquest of an exotic goddess in a foreign land. You owe the wing man. He lied, bribed, sacrificed, and sweated so you could have your fun. This is a list of things you should not ask your wing man to do.

#1: Permanent forfeiture of hotel room based on "falling in love". Quite frankly, "FUCK YOU". This is most important when you have been on a US Naval Vessel for the last 6 months. Get your own damn room if you are in love, and want to spend the last 2 days of liberty with your Spanish beauty you only met last night in that topless bar. You can't have my room. You wanted to share a room, and feel uncomfortable when your roommate walks in on you.

#2: If you order a round, you ordered the round, and therefore you pay for said round out of your money. Just because my call sign is "CASH" doesn't give me the ability to shit money and cover your idiocy.

#3: If you get her drunk, you have to clean up after her. That is not my job. If I have to, I will curse your name the entire time I hold her hair back as she pukes, while you try to pick up her friend down at the bar.

#4: Any failure on your part to close the deal is not my fault. I don't care how close you got, what went wrong, what you said about the hair on her nipples, or shouting random ass thoughts while in mid-coitus. NOT MY FAULT. This is not potty training, or summer camp. I am not Yoda. I am not going to call a time out and slap the shit out of you before you abruptly slap her ass and knock her off the crappy box springs on wheels they call beds in your small cheap ass room. However, if you wake me up, or approach me while I'm eating, to go into detail about what went wrong, right, or ask what an STD looks like, I will fucking stab you in the face.

#5: During the down time of the cruise at our hotel, if I am in my room, using the internet to talk to my kids, wife or mother, and you walk in and expose yourself to any of my family, punishment will be dealt out when you are drunk, and at your most vulnerable. For 50 Euros, most janitors will jump into bed with you while you are passed out. Many will do it butt ass naked wearing lipstick, and will kiss you awake for 150. While you sew your oats, I want the time to talk with my family. I respect your fun. Please respect mine, or suffer the consequences.

Holidaze

For the sake of sanity and frankly because I don't believe in working during the holidays we will be coming back to you on the 3rd of January with more of our dry wit and satire in the meantime I hope that you can find something to do with yourself.

If not you can always wait here and hold your breath. We will be more than happy to pick up and dispose of any bodies (dead or not) upon our return. I have to have something to feed Cthulhu.

So from the Sarcasm Family to yours.

Little Cthulhu

Sarcasm's Sister Vol. 2

Every Sunday morning, while my dear Grampa is watching from the west side of the mountains, my Mom, here on the east side, watches CBS Sunday Morning. They’ve watched this show “together” for years now. It’s a beautiful thing, really, knowing that even though they aren’t in the same room, they are both tuning in at the same time each week.

I don’t always watch the show, but today I sat still long enough to enjoy it with them, and Oh am I glad I did. Today they did a feature about the creators of the website AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com. For today's blog post, instead of posting an angry and/or sarcastic rant about whatever is irritating me this week, I’d like to post a few of the photos I laughed at the most, along with the comments of the people who posted the photos. When we were growing up, our Mom would get us all dressed up, and we’d go get our own Family Photo’s taken for the year. I won’t be posting any of ours, but I thought some free publicity for Mike and Doug at AFP would be a great Thank You to them for this genius idea of theirs. This is the week before Christmas, after all.
Enjoy! (as much as I did, I hope) Remember, the comments and photos are not mine. They are just some of the comments and photos posted on the site.


You actually will shoot your eye out, kid.

You should hear her play the screwdriver.

If he couldn’t blow out the candles, his father was always there to back him up.

This young man had blinked for the last time.

A reminder never to use a baby as a bookend.

“My in-laws live on a farm in central Virginia. One particular afternoon I wanted to get some photos of my father-in-law. Naturally he was outside tending to his horses. This horse needed some shots and we all know horses don’t comply when they see the ‘needle.’”

This horse was very upset when he heard he wasn’t a part of the “bridal” party.


There is a theory that people look like their pets.

Barley had been upstaged for the last time.

Don’t say I never did anything nice for you......

Once upon a time, in the land of make believe, lived a young, beautiful girl, who just happened to be lucky enough to be raised with good manners. She was taught very important things, like brushing her teeth, bathing regularly, saying please, thank you, yes ma’am, no ma’am, and to eat all her limabeans. For many years life was fairly uneventful, and the young girl lived a happy life, full of happy thoughts, with a smile on her face.

Until one day, while foraging for food for her poor, hungry family, she entered a dark and scary wood. Although she was trepidacious, she knew her little puppy was hungry too, so she gathered all her bravery, and stepped into the ominous trees.

The going was rough, due to the darkness and fallen trees all over, but otherwise uneventful...........at first. The young girl felt that she had been walking for miles and miles, and was becoming very tired, when suddenly light began to shine through the trees. Feeling that she must finally be coming to the other side of the dark wood, the girl walked a bit faster. Breaking through the darkness into the light, the girl came upon a small field of sagebrush. She pushed through the sagebrush, scratching her arms and catching her clothes, but finally she made it to the other side. When she looked up she could see a huge archway, with a gigantic door inside it, a big red cowboy hat on the front, with A R B Y ‘ S written inside. “What could this be?”, she thought. The door was so large, so large that she thought there would be no way she could open it herself, as she was small of frame, and weak in muscle. That’s when the smell of curly fries, roast beef, cheddar-melts, potato cakes, and chocolate turnovers touched her nose, and suddenly she knew she must get in! She took a step back, appraised the door to decide the best angle in which to open it, and then started to reach for the handle.

Just as she had a good grip, and was ready to pull with all her might, she heard a noise from behind her. Looking in that direction, the girl saw an older woman heading toward the very same door the girl was about to open. The woman looked frail, and downright sickly, and the young girl knew immediately what she should do. Gritting her teeth, and digging her heels into the ground, the girl pulled on the door with all the strength she could muster. At first the door wouldn’t budge, but then with a loud squelch, the door began to swing open, slowly at first, and then faster, it’s own weight pushing it open. After what seemed like forever, the door was finally open wide enough to walk through. The young girl stepped to the other side of it, propping it open with her own body weight, and turned to smile at the older woman, as if to say, “Please, you go first!”

At first the woman didn’t say anything, just stood looking at the young girl. But then she began to move, at her own lazy pace as people her age do, and started to head into the open doorway. The young girl pushed back on the door, which was very heavy, but kept smiling, holding it open for the older woman to walk through, knowing that she was doing the right thing by helping the woman. As the woman got closer, the young girl could see that she was not frail at all, nor was she sickly. This woman had obviously had a rough life, and her wrinkly face told a story of too much drink, and too much sun. But having been taught from a young age to be kind to everyone, no matter who they may be, the young girl just kept smiling away, pressing all of her weight against the heavy door to keep it open.

Just as the older woman stepped just inside the doorway, face to face with the young girl, she stopped, turned and with a grumpy face, and a sour tongue, said to the girl, “Finally, people your age are starting to do things for everyone else.”

The young girl could not believe her ears. Was she smiling? Check. Were her feet out of the way so the woman could pass? Check. Was the doorway wide enough for the woman to get through? Check. Well, alrighty then.

The young girl looked the older woman dead in the eye, and said, “I was raised to be kind. I was raised to be giving. I was raised to help those less fortunate than myself.” The older woman raised her eyebrows and started to say something else, but before she could, the young woman interrupted her and said, “However, I was also raised not to put up with anyone's crap, no matter who they are, and especially if I did nothing to deserve it. So, because you suck, you can open your own damn door.”

And with that, the young girl straightened herself, released the door, and walked on through. Head held high, with a smile on her face, the girl heard a cry of pain and disbelief from behind her as the door slammed into the only thing blocking it’s path.

Moral of the story: Be grateful. Be gracious. Be humble. Honor other people. Be kind whenever possible, and always say thank you. Don’t judge. Never forget everyone is an individual. Get to know them, you may be surprised. And don’t be all shocked and dismayed if your rudeness is thrown back in your face. You earn what you get.

~ A Little Sarcasm

Yesterdays Blog post was written By my dear friend Sardnicism, and today my Little Sister Sarcasm had something to say about an experience at Arbys. Some people can;t be happy, unfortunately for this old she encountered "A Little Sarcasm".

Driving or "Top 5 ways I know we are complete tools"

The peaceful lull of the road, the vast openness, the interconnecting expanse connecting everyone to everything; the quintessential veins of America. Is there anything truly as majestic as the open road? It’s serene nature filling my heart with.........

What the fuck man!!??? Really??? Really guy??? How in the hell did you get a license!!???

Haven’t we all been there? Just when we start taking the system for granted it comes back and rears it’s ugly head and shoves humanity’s lack of social skills right in our face. I, of course, am talking about driving or better yet OTHER DRIVERS.

We all know we can drive. We’re the best at what we do, and what we do is drive. We were born to do this. It’s everyone else that can’t drive. I was raised on driving in snow, it’s easy. I’m a natural at driving fast. I got this.

Apparently not.

You see, ladies and gentlemen, we have been living a lie. The worst lie of all: the one you tell yourself. We can’t drive. We are horrible drivers. We are small squishy pink meat-bags sitting between 2,000 pounds of “Oh-no-he-didn’t”. Oh yes, he did.

Now individually, we might be the Mario Andretti’s of the motorized world. We can handle 16 inches of snow, pelting sleet, torrential downpours and winds in excess of 87 knots. But collectively....wow....we suck. It’s like we all take this massive brain dump when we merge into traffic. We forget everything our father’s (or drunken grandfathers) taught us about 10 and 2, polite street manners and passing on the right-hand side and replace it with....”Must break land-speed record, must not let asshole pass me”.

It is to this effect that I present to you the top 5 reasons we; the collective driving world, are complete tools.

5. Lanes merge...we don’t. You see it every day. That douche-bag who rides out the last 17 miles of road that he drives EVERYDAY and knows damn well ends in a merge. 60% of the cars got over and are patiently awaiting traffic to die down so they can get to little Timmy and that roast duck. But not this guy. He’s got it all planned out. He’ll just slide in there and take that 2 foot gap between the patient cars. He’ll save LOADS of time. He’s a douche and guess what....so are we. What do we do to Mr. Impatient....we put our asses bumper-to-bumper...that will show em. Get in front of me now asshole.

4. Get out of my way, I’m a terribly important man on a terribly important, critical mission from God. I’m going to go 175 in a 55. I’m going to swerve in and out of traffic like they were parked cars in a game of Frogger. I’m going to get about 2 millimeters from your Garfield suction cup window ornament and you’re not going to do a damn thing about it. Why? Because I’m important. I’m in a hurry and you’re shit out of luck. Or are we? Because I know the secret to infuriating you: Mr. Importante`...meet Mr. Brake Pedal. Oh yeah. Here’s to you cruising past me now. Stuck between Garfield on one side and Grandma on the other. You’re screwed now. Good luck getting that organ to the hospital on time now, loser.

3. Well, he’s speeding, so I might as well. The “screener”, the “guinea pig”, the “guy-more-likely-to-get-a-ticket-than-you”; whatever you want to call it. For some reason it seems perfectly logical to get behind Mr. Get-out-of-my-way and cruise on in the home plate. After all, he’s doing all the leg work, you’re just riding on his coattails. Nevermind that the logic makes no sense and that most cops tag the person BEHIND the person speeding. That just makes too much sense.

2. Stop signs really are optional if you stop and think about it...good thing I didn’t. Stop signs, yield signs, (slow) children at play signs...you name it, chances are you’ve ignored one in the last 24 hours. It’s ok, we all suck...not just you. We all KNOW they’re important. We all KNOW they serve a purpose and a reason for existing...we just don’t care. Why should we, the last 137 people rolling through them didn’t? What was that rule about the person to the right of the 4-way stop sign....oh, I remember, the person to the right doesn’t have to stop, right?

And the number one reason:

1. Gimmie a break, Gimmie a break, break me off a piece of that...car in front of me.....just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? You’re driving on the Interstate (insert random odd and or even numbers here), going breakneck speed, observing all of the wonderful items from steps 5 through 2 when suddenly, that jerk in the fast lane decides to perform the “Brake of Death” and slow you down (what an asshole, right?). He brakes, you brake, the person behind you brakes, Jimmy Joe Sue behind that person brakes, Billy Bob, yup..he brakes too. But Curly Jimbo...he can’t brake. He can’t break because he’s already at a complete stop on the interstate. He can’t brake because the other 12,000 motorists in front of him had to brake. Each one slowing down a little more until they get to Curly. Yup...that’s how traffic jams happen. Yup...that’s how organs don’t get delivered to orphans. Yup, that’s why we all suck at driving. Because you had to be a dick and slow me down when I wanted to drive fast in the fast lane.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Tipping clinical hostility...

Today, we’ll be discussing some rather unimportant issues. Just small things that bother me.

To begin with, Tip Jars just piss me off, in certain undeserving venues. I come in, stand in line, tell someone named Balthazar or Stormy what I want after making selections from a pre-existing list of ingredients, and combinations of said ingredients. These products are then made in fast food style, going through grinders, cappuccino machines, brewers, mixers, foamers, steamers, and whippers, and then dumped into a cup made safe with a cardboard condom, followed by being placed on a counter, screamed at (or over) and then abandoned. You just leave it there, all by its lonesome. Anyone could just grab it and walk away! You do not care enough about your product, your beautiful creation, to even deliver it safely into the hands of its new parent, who already loves it before even touching it. Just left alone on a cold, lonely counter, while caffeine starved sharks circle, waiting to get their hands on their very own condom covered cup. The sharks are all wound up, stressed out, and strung out, like a heroin addict in withdrawals, and you had the gall to just set my drug of choice down, in full view of the assembled piranhas, and walk away. But not before shouting some semblance of my name, (mispronounced every time. My name is two whole letters long. How can you mispronounce THAT?!?) not really caring if I heard you, or whether or not I even understood your sorry excuse for enunciation. Then, if all of that behavior wasn’t bad enough, you ask for a tip. Right there, next to my lonely cup, on the lonely counter, sits a strategically placed lonely little cookie jar, plastic tub, or any manner of device purposely intended to hold change.

Here is a list of deeds that you will have to perform to help me feel you’ve earned a tip:

• Dance: a little Jig would work. Hell, turn my cup of Black coffee, no sugar, no fluff, no espresso, just plain every day coffee, into a production. Bring on the dancing girls, entice me with a tragedy, a story with a climax and epic ending. Better yet, make it a cliff hanger and I’ll be back tomorrow to see how it ends. Maybe I’ll tip you again.
• Bring me my damn coffee: Get me a shield (condom) and a swizzle stick (also phallic) and fend off the rampaging hordes of customers trying to get their grubby hands on my Cafe` Americano (a-k-a black coffee). Walk your happy ass the 6 whole feet to where I’m standing. I just might tip you.

Then again, I might not. I believe that in establishments such as the one described above, tipping is still optional. You did nothing more than your job. I can’t think of any other thing you could possibly do to make me believe you deserve a tip for doing that job.

In an after note to this point I would like to state for the record that drive-thru tip jars should be reserved for prostitutes. Balthazar had to work harder than you did. He had to walk like 8 whole feet, AND he prepared my drink. All you have to do is stand there, be rude to me, or ignore me completely, before handing me my coffee, which means you may have to stretch your delicate little arms about a foot and half. You don’t have to walk anywhere, get anything for me or even make anything for me. Someone else will bring it to you, completely ready to go! Your sole purpose is to STAND THERE, turn your body 45 degrees this way, then 45 degrees that way, and lift half-pound objects. Oh, you have to put the condom on the cup? Put the cups in a cup-holder? Hand them to me? Whoopty fricken’ doo. Here’s a tip: wash your hands, brush your teeth, and don’t eat yellow snow.

Next, something else that also bothers me. If I make an appointment for 1:30 pm, and you tell me to be there 15 minutes early for check-in, I should be fully involved in the appointment at 1:30. I followed your rules, I made an advanced appointment, I showed up 15 minutes early for check-in and here I am, 45 minutes later, still sitting your waiting room. They haven’t even checked my vitals yet, but I see you all walking around happily discussing everything from sports, the weather, Nurse A’s night with Doctor B etc. etc. etc... This is the point. I loose my temper, I receive my 34th consecutive restraining order. And it will be your fault. You see, I have given you my money, and my insurance companies money, filled out your stupid forms, and now you have wasted exactly an hour of my time. I don’t get paid to be in your office. In fact, most jobs require a note to say that I have actually been to you so they don’t think I was out going to lunch or looking for another job or playing golf. But your medical/dental staff, you have no responsibility to have me served and on my way out the door and back to work in a timely manner. Nope, your only job is to be politely restrained in your over-expensive education and think about reasons you would need to prescribe me a new drug, whose pharmaceutical manufacturer will make obscene amounts of money from its distribution. But don’t worry, you won’t be left out. Oh no, you’ll make sure to have a $300 follow-up visit where you can assure me I’m OK. $300 for OK. $150 per letter huh?

Your passive hostility towards the people you are supposed to be helping sometimes makes me sick. I suggest you get off of your high horse and figure out how to co-exist in an appropriate manner, or you will be replaced. My robot army is just looking for reasons to kill and take over your role in the world.

We also know that is going to be your fault for the coming Zombie Apocalypse. You scoff, but be warned. It IS coming. Don’t worry, I have Robot Pirates, Robot Ninjas and Robot Zombies. I am prepared for everything, including Robot Baristas and Robot Doctors. So, enjoy the pending pressure of being replaced, while you can. I have to go see my lawyer about finding an appropriate medical clinic I have not been banned from.

Important topics...

I have a couple of very important topics to discuss with you today. First and by far the most important: WHO IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?!?!

Facebook has a Causes application. The idea is a wonderful interfacing of social media, and may even be changing the world through the interwebs. I mean, come on. Dedicating a whole 90 milliseconds out of your busy day to push a “like” button more times then a California Valley Girl can, like, say “like”. That has gotta say something for your overall resolve and belief in the cause. You’re hardcore... really, I mean it.

However, this potentially life altering feature has been abused recently; these charlatans putting on a guise of concern.... I actually believe these people are more excited about receiving the most “Likes”, more than they are for the actual causes the applications are supposed to be used for, if the application can really be called a Cause. Seriously, who doesn’t want a consistent flow of free Farmville bucks coming in at each and every level, if only you click the Like button? That's important..... right? I mean, these applications seem counterproductive, (not that the game isn’t as well, but we’re not judging here) wastes of space that demand the companies who developed the game (who allow you to play for free, forever, nor do they charge fees should you decide to purchase “cash”) change the way the game works so that these companies do not make any money at all. Obviously these fakers do not understand the time and effort that goes into building a product, and constantly keeping it updated and interesting to the players, FOR FREE. I mean they don’t need the money you saps will spend on it anyway, right? Their time and energy to make this game one of the most popular on the internet doesn’t need to be compensated. Give me a break, you will spend the money, you will buy the cash, and they will be compensated, so that you can be better than the rest of your Internet acquaintances, who are the same people you share your deepest, darkest, “my dog pooped on the floor” status posts with. If we were all to put our foot down, and stop being so blatantly greedy, all of these Imitation (half the calories, all the flavor) Causes would be shut down, and REAL e-commerce could commence as the good lord intended it.

Just suck it up, play the game like every one else and be happy, so that real causes can be posted, such as “Why are there no mirrors in the “Self Check-Out Line”? (Notice the well played transition here, Bob? I think he’s using a segue, Steve.This could get ugly. Stay tuned for the next episode of Sarcasm Writes, where our pain creates giggles.)

We have been lied to, America (and other countries that have been involuntarily invaded by Rollback prices). Walmart, and all other stores that use these monstrosities to speed up their check-out process, limit the number of employees, and frankly separate human interaction, replaced by yet another machine. They are frauds. The entire title is misrepresentation. “SELF” Check-Out Line. The name itself suggests that I will be able to look at myself while patiently waiting for others to do the same. Who gives a crap about milk and dog food.

But, no. No mirrors, only some brushed stainless steel with kitty litter and chicken blood on it, and smudged, possibly toxic, plate glass with lasers behind it. LASERS, can you fricking believe it?! The only decently reflective surface on those machines (I can just almost barely sort of see myself in it), and they put lasers behind it. My retina’s are burned to hell! All I wanted to do was publicly bask in the glory of my own actor hair, and they shoot lasers into my eyes!

This has got to stop! As self-elected President of the Organization of People and Hair for the Mandatory Placement of Mirrors and Removal of Laser At Self Check-Out Lines Every Where (OPHMPMRL@SCOLEW) I submit that on (insert date here), everyone who reads this blog (Thank you Mom and Dr. Steirn, my therapist), will go to your local supermarket and place mirrors at the self check out line. Stand within view of the other shoppers. Hold up your mirror, let people bask... in the glory of you looking at yourself. It’s your mirror, screw them. If they want to look at themselves they should have brought their own. After you’re done, and you might want to give yourself a couple of hours, you can pick-up a $10 Farmville Cash gift card, conveniently located right there by the Self Check-Out Lines. Two birds, one stone. Or mirror.