Salty Sardines

work, life, reality, fantasy

Had an interesting customer today.
An attorney from the Big Apple nonetheless.
His corpulent and somewhat vocal wife sat her crinkly bumcakes on a leather chair while hubby proceeded
to thrill me with his infinite knowledge of cavendish/aromatic pipe tobacco.

Customer: Yeah, I had a blend you guys make and I liked it. It was called . . .  um . . . 4 . . . 43 . . .  43 something.
Me: 432?
Customer: Yeah, yeah, that’s it. You got something that’s kinda similar but different? (this guy IS a lawyer)
Me: Sure do. (pick up a can of whatever and offer him a sniff)
Customer: Oh, man! That’s way too strong! (It isn’t) How about something a little milder?
Me: Absolutely, sir. (pick up another can of whatever and offer him a sniff)
Customer: Oooh! That’s nasty! Maybe I should just stick with the 432.
Me: I pegged you as a ’432 guy’ the minute you walked in the door, sir. (winking) You like what you like, right?
(we have another name for this blend that’s unfortunately proprietary)
Customer: Yeah, I guess so. (laughing, while gazing not so lovingly at the lounging and now sweating profusely Wifey)
[No AC in store] [No lie]
Me: How much would you like, sir? An ounce? Two ounces?
Customer: Two ounces. I’m just going to peruse your pipes while you do that.
Whiney Wifey: (in a commanding and demeaning tone) You’re not buying anymore pipes today!
(to me she says) He already has too many. (a look of disgust on her face)
Me: How many pipes do you have? (I’m already feeling sorry for this choad)
Customer: 6 or 7
Me: Oooh! You animal! (my associate has over 400+ Castello high grades worth God knows what)
Customer: (smiles, and very slyly says) I started making my own pipes, too. (eyebrows going up to impress me)
Me: Really? (not really curious but being polite)
Whiney Wifey: You should see ‘em! Pff. (offering up a nasty and disapproving grin)
(to hubby) You’re such a loser! (hubby looks at me, and . . . )
Customer: {{{shrugs. admits defeat to his personal ball and chain}}}
I’m wondering if they have children.
To me, it seems a virtual/sexual impossibility.

Whiney Wifey( WW)(Anti-Cougar) finally goes outside to test the weight limit of our all too ancient benches as hubby looks at more pipes.
He finds one, takes it down and places it on the counter before running out of the store like a kid at a carnival to ask for WW’s permission to buy it.
WTF?

I found this sale comical in ways but so damn sad in many others.
Here’s a smart man (supposedly?) being controlled 100% by a woman that defies the definition of ‘loving and beautiful wife’, in my most humble opinion.
She was demeaning and down right salty.
My opinion? She’s in need of some high colonic irrigation. With Liquid Plumber. (ooh. that was a bit harsh)
And who knows, maybe 432 keeps her away from him like Off! spray keeps skeeters away from me.
If it does, he should have bought 40-50lbs of the stuff.
Hey, she’s worth it.

StormBirds

 

This is some awesome video with stuff blowing up.
Nothing like getting right to the point, eh?
It’s a guy thing so don’t ask me to explain it.
And I know, this has ‘cheat post’ written all over it.
You gotta admit, I keep it cool.
Click on the full screen and put on headphones for an Avatar-like experience.
Kinda.
Knuckles all around, boys . . .
Blow it up!

Ipod, therefore, I am

 

I was in a restaurant yesterday when I suddenly realized
I desperately needed to pass a nasty butt mutt.
The music was really, really loud, so I timed my anal acoustics with the beat of the music.
After a couple of songs, I started to feel better.
My case of nasty swamp ass had thankfully resided.
I finished my coffee, and noticed that everybody was staring at me.
Then I suddenly remembered that I was listening to my iPod.
Damn you, Apple . . .

Bike

To look at it, you would think it was just another normal boy’s bicycle but I knew better.
It was an off-brand that my father bought at an old store in town and I so loved it.
Can’t remember the name for the life of me but it was mostly fireball red and the fenders
had a bit of white detailing on the tips that made the overall effect one of ‘daredevil’ proportions.
It had a really cheesy gold sparkle banana seat, nicely padded for overall shock absorption.
The highlight was the handle grips which were a neon orange with black tiger stripes and tiger heads on the ends. Yeah, this was one serious machine, to me anyway.

I drove it everywhere: around the neighborhood, into the center of town, to the baseball field, the high school, my multiple girlfriends’ houses, the fruit stand for a classic Coke and a bag of State Line Cheese popcorn -
there wasn’t anyplace this thing wouldn’t go.
We used to build ramps to practice catching a little bit of airtime
and rode ‘sans’ hands whenever there were girls around.
We were daredevils and would try almost anything that gravity would allow.
You were nothing without your bike.
These days, you’re nothing without your FaceBook or MySpace page.
Funny how things change . . .

One day we decided to race down Harvard Street, a road right next to my house.
It had a bit of a downward slope and was an unforgivable gravel with asphalt road, rough as a lizard’s skin.
During the summer days we never had to worry about cars driving down the road because our fathers were all working and our Moms were at home doing whatever it was that Moms did.
We started at the top of Harvard Street and the first one to go all the way down,
around the cul-de-sac and back up to the top was the winner.
40+ years ago, the street seemed to go on for days.
I mean this was one long ass drag strip.
In reality, if I were to drive my truck down and up it today it would take all of about one minute.
At 15 M.P.H.

Someone yelled, “Ready? On your mark! Get set! Go!”

Off I went past the Gilbert’s house, whizzed by the Masterson’s, flew by the Pelletier’s before seeing the cul-de-sac ahead of me.
I was clearly in the lead and didn’t bother to slow down going into the nasty cul-de-sac.
The last thing I remember is hitting a patch off sand as my trusty bike slid out from under me.
My left forearm hit the asphalt as the rough road began chewing off my pieces of my skin.
My bike was wrecked and my left forearm and knee were bleeding profusely.
I left my poor and once awesome bike in the road and ran home in a bloody mess.
Winning would have been nice that day but having the skin back on my forearm would have been much nicer.
This was the day I learned and took to heart the phrase, “Winning isn’t everything.”
I omitted the last half of it for my own psychological benefit.
I did get another bike but it would never be the same.
Maybe that was part of growing up that I hadn’t counted on . . .

Super Bowl Preview

Here’s a sneak peak at one of the commercials from this years onslaught of ad campaigns.
It was the only ’09 one available at YouTube so
I’ve no doubt it will be plastered everywhere.
It is a fairly good one though.
Kinda nice to not give a crap about who wins today.
The food and commercials are what it’s all about for me.
Cripes, I’m still kinda numb from last years bowl.
Enjoy the game!

Headlube

Heart my coconut
Aerodynamic brilliance
Forever full moon

My daughter Sarah came by the house a week or so ago and decided to
lounge around on the couch and do some work for school.
Methinks she needed a break from the campus crowd.
At one point she got up to go into the bathroom and I heard her start laughing.
Holding my precious bottle of Headlube, she looked at me and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?” I said.

“Headlube? Come on, Dad. It comes in a friggin’ water bottle for God’s sake!” (she’s still laughing)

“So what,” I said, “It’s usually 8 bucks and I got it for 2.50. It’s just moisturizer and besides it’s my head.”

“See you got the ‘matte’ finish. Nice.” she said.

Yeah, I’m all about the silky smooth but understated cueball noggin’ I guess.
Headlube.
Hmmm . . .
Can’t wait to see how long it will take for the comments to plummet this post to rock bottom.
Yeah, I got it coming with a product that sports that kind of name.
As it says on the bottle, “It’s your head. Buy this lube.”
So, I did and I might add that some days my glabrescent dome is a blessed work of art.
IMHO . . .
:mrgreen:

Boys will be boys

A little while ago Evyl and me started a “man” blog.
A bit of a risque pot of blogging stew that we’ve had some fun with.
We’ve since added a few more men to make for some added insanity.
First was the addition of Evyl’s brother “Crazyass Dan”,
a full fledged comedian in his own right, reminiscent of his brother.
We’ve stretched the blogging ropes a bit more with a new contributor named B.E. Earl,
another interesting contributor to the mayhem.
He owes his moniker to a great site called “redmeat.com“.
With these additions we’ve also changed the name of the blog to “Mantown“, a name that encompasses
much of the overall atmosphere of the place.
Though posts are anonymous in terms of the writer, it’s always fun to play guess who.
It’s a guy blog that’s written by guys.
What can I say?
But damn, we love to see you ladies too.

Come one, come all to Mantown, the one place where boys will always be boys
You can leave your manners by the front door. :mrgreen:
Now click on that damn chili pepper!!!!!