Loading the dishwasher....

 

God damn it... Fightbook, I mean Facebook is at it again.  I log on this morning to see who is doing what before I go look for bears and I see this stupid ass picture.  This picture is of a guy, squatted down alongside the dishwasher, holding a fork in one hand and a sign in the other.  The sign says, "up or down" referring to how you are supposed to put the fork in the dishwasher.

This is stupid but it doesn't capture the stupidity in its entirety.  Nope, the ensuing arguments did that.  "Well, you gotta put the fork in tines down so you don't stab yourself when you take the forks out of the dishwasher."  "No, you have to have the tines of the fork up, so they get cleaned."  

Okay dipshits, I have a news flash for you....  Its a fucking dishwasher!  It doesn't give a shit how you do it!!!  There are 2 wrong ways of loading a dishwasher, and only 2 wrong ways... so listen up!  Removing both racks and just tossing all of your dishes in the bottom is "Wrong #1" and taking a shit in the soap tray is "Wrong #2" (literally and figuratively, if you will)!  End of the god damned discussion!

If you're so mindless and frail that a fork tine can cause you damage when accidentally touching them, guess what?  You now only get to use a fucking spoon!  How about that?  The big fucking pokey thingy is dangerous and you can't have one!  I'd tell you to use your hands but you'd probably bite your finger and then try to sue your fucking dentist!  

And "tines down" and "not getting clean".  Let me tell you something.  The water in a dishwasher is so fucking hot, you can cook a chicken with it. Between the hot ass water and the soap, your beloved fork is going to be clean... that's it!  End of the god damned discussion!!!!

What in the fuck is there to fight about?  I know there are assholes out there who have to load the dishwasher a certain way.  I know these people.  These are the most ungrateful shits on the planet.  You go to their house, eat dinner and in an attempt to help clean up, you load the dishwasher....  Nice effort, in my book but not these ungrateful shits... Nope, they dramatically unload the dishwasher and then reload the thing by plate size, color, shape and the spoons go in one little fucking spot, knives in another and folks in another... as if the dishwasher gives a shit!!!  The dishwasher gives NO SHITS WHATSOEVER!  If you do this, you're an asshole.  Post that shit on Facebook!

And while I have your god damned attention, listen to this!  You don't go thrust your face into the silverware holder when emptying the dishwasher because it isn't safe.  That means for once in your stupid life, you paid a little attention.  If you're paying any attention at all, the sharp, pokey thingy won't hurt you.

Put all of your silverware in the little silverware thing, how ever you want.  Be a god damned renegade and go all willy-nilly... because it doesn't matter, then put soap in and then press the go button!  You are now washing dishes correctly!  

We're talking about a fork and the dishwasher and safety issues... how is this shit even a thing?  Were not talking about bullshit 1 ply toilet paper and the adverse affects it can have on your asshole!  By the way, I don't care if you use 20 grit sandpaper on your ass, you masochistic sons-a-bitches.  Its your ass and if you don't care, neither do I.  I also don't care about this... This shit is only a thing in America and America-lite (Canada).  Knock it off, God damn it!

Old Dog/New Trix

 

A couple of years back, a friend of mine said that he was going in for a manicure/pedicure.  I chuckled because, well, that shit ain't for me.  I just couldn't see myself having it done.  First off, my hands look like 20 miles of bad road.  Unless you are going to repave them, they aren't worth messing with.  And pedicure?  If my hands are jacked up, you ought to see my feet!  If cave men had hooves...and the hooves had wooden shingles on them.... and they smelled like burned cat hair and garbage truck water, that would be my feet.  I thought about lopping them off and stumbling around on the stumps but my foot model days are long behind me.  I'm not subjecting anyone to that mess!

A couple of weeks later, the same friend told me that he was getting into yoga.  Again, I chuckled.  I'm so damned out of shape and stiff that I would pull a hamstring just thinking about stretching.  My worst fear would naturally be, getting into the group, getting my stretch on and then let go with a monster truck fart.  I can't embarrass myself that bad at this age...

A couple of weeks after that, the same guy told me that he was going to get a massage.  I said, "What in the world is going on with you?  Mani-pedi, yoga, and now massages?"  I thought my buddy either had too much money or too much time on his hands.  He made a very simples statement that I didn't understand.  "It's an investment in myself."  Silly me... that's what I thought beer was for.

Fast forward to this Father's Day.  I'm not big on "gift getting".  My wife and kids know this.  Anything I want or need, I just go get it.  And if my kids know that if they ever get me a fucking tie, I will come back in the after life and teach their kids all kinds of shit that will drive them crazy!  

Anyhow, this Father's Day... the wife and kids got me a massage.  She knew I needed this.  My back, neck and shoulders are tighter than a bulls ass sewed shut with a logging chain!  Me being me, I try to talk her and me out of this.  

"Why did you go and do that?  I ain't taking my clothes off in front of another woman and embarrassing her too.  My back has patchy ass hair all over it.  I look like a bigfoot who got dragged behind the Fed Ex truck, for Christ's sake." 

 Her retort..."You don't take your clothes off in front of her.  You take them off, cover up with a sheet and then lie down on a table.... and you're right about your back.  I should take you to get that waxed!"

  I said, "Well buddy, that shit ain't happening neither, but back to this massage bullshit.  I don't want some shaman healer chanting, casting spells and hitting me in the ass with a dead chicken!" 

 She replies, "Nobody does that.  Where do you come up with this garbage?  You're going to love it and you really need it.  You're stressed from work.  Your neck has been bothering you for months.  It's good for you.  Some people actually cry from it... its a huge release for some people."

I say, "That's another thing.  I heard some guys get an erection during massages and I have had all of the "Happy Endings" I ever needed.  And I'll be damned if I am going to go into this Voo-Doo High Preistesses office and have a good cry.  I do that shit in the garage when I am having a beer and trying to build something.  I don't need this kind of shit on my resume!"

As is with most of our arguments, I was wrong.  She booked that thing and already paid for it.  "Look man,'' she says.  "You've had a hell of a year with injuries and other crap.  First you toppled over and broke my toilet with your head and gave yourself a Grade 3 concussion.  That fired up your old back and neck injuries and you had to go get an injection in your back.  That costed way more than this massage ever will.  Then you go get your wisdom teeth out.  You had one problem after another with that for 7 weeks!  You've felt like shit and this is going to make you feel better, so your ass is going!"

My beloved wife rarely gives me directives.  After nearly 30 years of marriage, I know that when she does, she means business and I am going to be taking my big happy ass to the witch doctor and getting my ass smudged whether I think I need to or not.

So there I am...  Turns out, I know the massage therapist.  I have known her for 25 or so years.  She's good too.  The whole town voted "Best in the Valley" for damned near as long as she's been in business!  She orders me to "get ready" which means strip down, after she steps out.  Reluctantly, I do this and am brutally reminded that I wore my double dutch, stinky ass work boots to this massage....  no frigging way does she not smell this.

Anyhow, she comes in and turns on some music that I would never be caught dead listening to.  I guess that adds to the experience.  She starts in on the old neck with some warm ass oil, and it is.... uhm, FUCKING AWESOME!  Turns out, Trixie is not a Voodoo Priestess or a Witch Doctor... she is a god damned THERAPIST and will now be known as MY MASSAGE THERAPIST!  She finds about 200 knots and kinks in my neck and tells me how its probably related to the shoulders and vice versa.  She moves to the middle of my back and gets to cranking on it.  She finds more knots and lumps in there and stops to get my arms.  She cut loose on my arms and shoulders, y'all.  I was making noises that must have been a little frightening to her.  She kept asking, "Are you all right?"  I said, "Don't mind me.  Act like a regular human is here and just keep going!"

She moves from the arms to the small of my back.  She hit a spot that I didn't know if I was going to fart or faint, but it felt sooooo good!  I think I growled and maybe peed a little.  She goes back up and works more on the neck, then the shoulders and then said, "Take your time getting up.  Take a few deep breaths, this affects everyone a little differently.  Take your time and let me know when you're decent.  

Me being decent is going to take a lot more time on that table.  I've got to tell you, I don't know what that cost, but its happening again.  If you've never had a massage, do it!  Do it tomorrow.  Shit, today if you can get in.  If you want MY MASSAGE THERAPISTS name and number, I can get that to you.  

To my friend Mike... I'll leave your last name out of this since I didn't have your permission to use your name or likeness in this story, you sir were right!  I get it.  This was an investment in myself, but I still ain't getting a mani-pedi and you'll never see me in a yogurt hut or whatever those things are called, but I am all in on the massages!

 

Oatmilk...

So, there I was enjoying a rare day for me.  Everything was going along just as it should.  My mind was clear and quiet.  It was zen-like.  Then it happens.  My phone chimes to alert me of a new text message.  When it comes to text messages, I often prefer them to a phone call.  You can keep them short and sweet, stick to the topic and then have written proof of the conversation.

The problem with this particular text message was, it was from a 5 digit phone number.  I was afraid to answer it thinking it would be some idiot telling me that my vehicle warranty was about to expire.  Actually, that would have been a blessing.

The text message was a small photo.  The photo was so small that I had to put on my reading glasses to see it, and even that didn't help.  I spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out how to enlarge the pic in order to see what in the hell it was.  And after 10 minutes, I feel highly invested at this point.  I'm going to follow though.  Finally, I get the pic to open up and this is what it was.....

Oat Milk...  Oat Milk?  First of all, what is it about me that would make anyone feel as if I would even be remotely interested in Oat Milk?  Secondly, oats are cereal.  You put milk on cereal.  You don't get milk from cereal!  Did they not read my dissertation on Soy Milk???  It's rock solid, scientific!

Now I'm spun out.  Right now, stop what you're doing and go to the grocery store.  Purchase the cheapest or most expensive brand of oatmeal. It doesn't matter, because its grain.  It all comes from the same plant. Take it home, open the container, get you a nice handful of of delicious, dry ass oatmeal and just plop that shit in your mouth... DO IT, GOD DAMN IT!!!!  Do you feel refreshed?  Is your god damned thirst quenched?  Fuck no its not!  Do you know why?  Fucking oatmeal has about as much liquid in it as playground sand! You can't do that shit!  Oats have a negative fluid amount!!!  It takes 2 cups of water to make 1/2 cup of oatmeal edible!  

You can't milk a god damned oat either!  Uhm... did you not read my dissertation on Soy Milk?  Okay, well, in order for you to get milk from anything... it has to have a tit and a nipple!  I went and spent $900.00 on a stupid ass microscope that I will probably never use again and I put 200,000 oats, 1 at a time under the scope and guess what?  Not a tit or a nipple to be found....  Not one!  If 200,000 oats don't have a tit between them, where are you going to find an oat tit!  

You just can't make shit up and call it milk!  You're not fooling anyone, unless you're fooling a god damned vegan, and the only way you can fool them is because they don't have the energy to think clearly enough!!!  They would drink a cup of this goofy shit and get drunk enough off of it that you could convince them that a mashed up carrot, tofu, kale and wheat germ bio-enzyme is a vegetarian steak!  And by the way, wheat germ bio-enzyme doesn't exist either.  I consulted with the soy milk dick and he just told me to "Make some shit up.  We did."

Look, you can't catch the fluid dripping out of a garbage truck in a jaunty little box with a spout on it and call it 'BIG GREEN TRUCK MILK"!  If I ran up and smashed you in the head with a brick, I can't call the blood pouring out of your big, dumb ass head "Brick Milk"!  It doesn't make any fucking sense!!!

So while I am walking around the house, going through all of this shit and losing my mind, my beloved wife calmly says, "Honey, why don't you go buy a carton of oat milk and just give it a try?"  I said, "Wait, what?  Why would I do that?  Oatmilk doesn't exist!  It can't exist without oat tits!  I've done the science... go look at my work bench in the garage!  I have oats all over the place and I looked at every damned oat in there.  No tits.  Not a tit to be found.  So riddle me this, Love of My Life... what is that shit they are selling?"

She shrugged her shoulders and said, "You should try it.  You might like it."  I laughed.  "I already know what it tastes like.  It tastes like sadness and broken dreams!  Why don't you go try it?"  She said, "It's kind of good."  Now I am thinking, "Shit, they got to her...  The fucking fake milk illuminati got her, changed her brains to vegan brains and now she is going to run around and play hacky sac with college freshmen....."

If anyone was going to be mad about this lie forced upon us by the fake milk illuminati, it should be her!  I tried to tell her once that midgets really aren't short but the rest of us all just too tall... she almost didn't marry be because of that!!!  And now she is happy to buy into the oatmilk bullshit???  They took her brain... they took her god damned brain....  Now what am I supposed to do?

Now, if you know me, you know I just can't drop things.  I had to take a walk and try to get this shit out of my mind.  I was gone for 2 hours.  When I came home, the wife asked if everything was okay.  I nodded back and said, "I apologize for my behavior.  If I got out of line with you, I apologize for that too.  And I want you to know that I thought of something that is going to make you feel so much better about diarrhea."  She said, "What? What are you talking about and where did that come from.  Diarrhea is disgusting..." to which I replied, "No it's not.  It's fart milk!"