Wednesday, May 21, 2008

I just made you up
To hurt myself

That new Nine Inch Nails (free!!!) album is freaking phenomenal. We listened to it 6 or 7 times last night.

It's so good that I went to Itunes and paid Trent Reznor 99 cents for the song, "Only," which I already own on cd, but am too lazy to find and put in my cd drive. (BTW- I highly recommend you spend 99 cents for that song as well.)

I went over to (soon-to-be) my new house today to take some measurements with my friend, Ross. He's gonna put in new floors, new cabinets, granite countertops, set it up so we can cook with gas and change the shape of the island.

{After all, the island is kind of the Captain Kirk command center of the house.}

Christian rock dude was pretty cool. He showed me around the house and showed me little features of which I was not aware. For instance, he has the entire house wired for sound. Even the outside. Bedrooms, deck, surround sound in the tv room, kitchen... pretty much everything except the bathroom.

He also clued me in to some features of the soundproof "Rock Room."

Holy shit, am I going to have some fun in there. He's got banks of computers, wires everywhere, huge speakers and instruments galore.

I think I saw an accordion.

The Mitten is going to rawk the holy hell out of that place.

I'm going to need more amplifiers. And a drum set.

I got a little distracted with the new house smell.

The reason for this post is that I was at work today, and I walked to the bathroom to take a leak. There is one urinal and a stall.

I stepped to the urinal and I heard some strange noises.

The person in the stall was breathing rapid, shallow breaths ... lamaze-style.

(A.) Like I even know what the fuck lamaze means.

(B.) Like I know anything about having kids.

(C.) It didn't matter. I was pissing and this guy was breathing hard.

(D.) Giving birth.

I'm standing there, thinking, "Holy Shit. Somebody's having a baby in there."

Due to the confines of the room, he knew I was there. Hey, we've all struggled to push out a defiant, uppity dump. Maybe he had Mexican. I'm not judging.

He walked out of the bathroom rapidly, with his head down. He neither flushed, nor did he wash his hands.

He was morbidly obese, a real estate broker.

Three hundred-something pounds, white hair, and a full, unironic mustache. He was wearing a button-down, short-sleeve oxford cloth shirt.

The shirt was light blue.

I only glanced at him for a second, in the mirror as I was urinating.

(Urinate? If you had bigger tits, you'd be a ten.)

He walked by, with his head down, ginormous gut hanging over his pants.

We didn't know each other, but for some reason, he was in there, breathing like he was giving birth to twins.

I heard it. He knew I heard it. I was peeing. He walked by.

I knew he didn't flush.

He didn't wash his hands.

I glanced up and to my right and our eyes met in the mirror.

I wondered what he left in the bowl.

It was Wednesday.

You took my money, my cigarettes

The following is taken verbatim from a letter to the editor in yesterday's Bozeman Daily Chronicle:

Shame On The Person Who Stole My Basket

This letter is directed toward the dishonest person who deliberately took the red SOLD tag (with my name on it) off my hanging basket at Oak Gardens, took it in to the counter and purchased it.

Shame on you.

It is people like you who ruin it for the rest of us. I purchased the hanging basket weeks ago and left it there so that it could have more time in the greenhouse before taking it home.

May I suggest that next year you go out and purchase your hanging basket before the selection has been picked over so that you won't steal someone else's.

If you would do it with flowers, you would most likely steal someone's Christmas tree as well.

I hope that each and every time that you look at that basket this summer, it reminds you about what kind of person you are and how you got that perfect basket, and I hope you get absolutely no enjoyment from its beauty.

I believe in karma and I hope you get it back ten-fold.

C. Weaver


I would like you to know the Herculean effort it took to simply transcribe that and not add commentary.