i mean, really!

ok, if you have been reading at this tiny bit of broken glass on the beaches of the world wide web for any length of time, you know i am completely down with nudity (my own, and that of others).

it's also possible, o my droogs and only friends, my long-suffering non-existent readers, that you might've also cottoned to the fact that i am a firm believer that there is a time a place for everything.

so here's the rub: i will not be finding any new pals to add to the list today as a result of one particular blogger somewhere in germany.

i clicked on "naked lunch" in my favorite books and commenced traversing the blogsphere like a much taller and only slightly less rounder bilbo baggins. blog number four featured a not-so-slim fella who apparently held the camera just below his (rather small, shriveled, ugly, and uncircumcised) genitalia and snapped a pic upwards towards his face, so that the very first thing greeting my upon looking was his semi-erect cock.

now, again, penises don't bother me. nudity does not bother me. but when i am fucking searching for blogs to read, i really don't want to be bombarded by your dick! i'd rather not find myself positioned somewhere slightly below your scrotum like you and i are on the most intimate of terms. these sorts of things need a certain amount of warning, of prep, or at the very least, the proper mindset to start off with: "ok, it's no big deal, i am gonna be seeing a naked middle-aged man. so don't freak out." at the very least, right?

but here i am, munching on a sandwich, thinking (the truth comes out as to how i search for pals, lol): "boring, boring, full of himself, boring, way too high-maintenance, bor--holy fucking two-week old fuckstain!! what the fuck?!!? who would do that?!? fucking warn a guy, jesus christ!"

so if i have no one new to add, you, the beleaguered non-existents, might understand why.

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

pompous, posh, and prigs

and now to get to the golfers. (i know i know, sorry it took so long i have been busy!)

the golf course i work at is on base, and not one of the nicer ones in the area (or even in the air force, for that matter), and as a result at least 90% of the golfers are retired military.

i would venture a guess that most of those are retired officers. and the bulk of them are a) not very good golfers, despite thinking they are the greatest, and b) completely full of themselves:

instance one: recently, the horse n rider (a group of golfers who get together at the course regularly. i call them "dog n pony") team had a big get together with food, and one of the nicer ones invited all the employees of the golf course to join them for lunch. i showed up a little late, with a few of the other maintenance guys coming behind me, so i grabbed an empty table and sat down with my food. a few minutes later, an old fart golfer comes over and says, "hey guys, here's an empty table here." and sits down. he is joined by about 6 more golfers, all of whom don't even look my direction, let alone ask if i am saving seats, or say hi, or anything of the sort.

they then proceed to ignore me for several minutes as they scarf their food and bad-mouth the "liberal media".

instance two: i was doing set-up (every day we move the hole on the green so the grass doesn't get worn), and was on 9 punching a hole. 9 green is right by 1 tee box, and the golfers are usually waiting to tee off when i reach the 9th hole to set it up.

on this particular day, i am bent over filling the old hole and stand up and a ball lands about 3 feet away from me. i look over, and there is a golfer practicing on the 9th green while i set it up. i can see him, so i know he saw me and knew i was on the green. the thing that made this more offensive is that instead of practicing his chipping from say, 6 to 10 feet, he is about 25 feet away and down a hill, which means he had to put enough steak on the hit that if it had hit me, at the very least, it would've stung and left a nasty bruise.

instance three: i was by the pumphouse dumping some dirt. the pumphouse is off the 11 fairway, seperated by about 15 feet of rough (including trees) a small access road (about another 15 feet) and another 20 feet of fallow ground. when i pulled up to dump, there was a ball sitting there. over by the trees, a group of dog n pony-ers are searching for their ball. i whistle, and point to it. the guy drives over in his cart, and as he rounds up his (extremely way off course) ball, he says to me, snippily, "well why didn't ya kick it over?"

my first thought was, "why don't you fucking keep it on the fairway you lousy-assed golfer, then i wouldn't be your bitch boy." and my second thought "i don't fucking work for you."

but most of the golfers seem to think so.

darth sardonic

nitwits, nincompoops, and ninnyhammers

ok, let's start by catching up on the work front. this is going to be a two-parter: the workers, and the golfers. i will start with the workers.

but first, a word math problem: if it takes 5 maintenance flunkies a half-hour to empty two pallets of sod, and the future assistant superintendant to dump a pallet of sod on its side with the forklift and then spend 25 minutes behind an irrigation box watching sprinklers run, how long before they are all skull-fucked?

now think about it, it's not as hard as it first appears. and all the info you need is there.

give up? the answer is: they were skull-fucked when they came into work that morning.

i work with a ragtag lot of ne'er-do-wells who are, for the most part, decent fellas and good workers. we all have our quirks. mine is a negative attitude and a penchant for cracking wise about anything and everything under the sun. one old guy can take a job that takes the rest of us 2 or 3 hours and spreads it out all day. but there are three dumbshits that are really pissing us off right now.

dumbshit no. 1 is your average, run-of-the-mill moron and fuck-off. he runs his mouth like an unblocked sewage pipe, frequently saying things geared towards pissing one or all of us off. this is the dimwit who chucked a golf-ball at fred's head just to watch him snap. this kid is given a job and does it half-assed, and invariably leaves some kind of mess that has to be cleaned up by one of the others later. (an example, he was once put on the frontloader to build an area for a new tee box, and pushed the excess dirt against a tree, leaving a big mound of fresh-turned earth half-way up the tree trunk. i was sent out the next day (he was off or didn't come in, can't remember which) with the frontloader to scatter the dirt and try to return the area to some sort of normalcy.)

he is a blow-hard. he talks alot of shit, but lacks the balls to back any of it up. he was recently denied full time (the kid that was hired same time as me told him, "i wouldn't hire you full-time either, you are a screw-up!" god i laugh and laughed), and decided he was going to get "everyone in management" by keeping track of all their discrepancies and writing them down. the next day he was five minutes late, and got written up for the first time since he was hired there. if he gets three write-ups for the same thing, he can be shitcanned. he isn't long for this job anymore.

dumbshit no. 2 is our "irrigation tech", which is apparently golf-talk for "show up when you like and take a month to do a job that takes 8 hours to do". he was "sick" for two weeks, (the union requires a doctor's note after an absence of more than three days) while me and another two guys and our superintendant fixed a plethera of irrigation issues (our plumbing and sprinkler system is outdated and falling apart), showed up in time to tighten a joint on a break and get recognition from the boss, then was "sick" again for another day, had to appear in court the second, and recently spent another week not showing up for various reasons. he has yet to produce a doctor's note, or any other note not written sloppily in crayon with misspelled words. he shouldn't be long for this job, but the superintendant likes him, and he knows just how to schmooze the boss.

as bad as both of these twats are, dumbshit no. 3 is the worst. dumbshit no. 3 hired on a mere two months ago. there was no position actually open at the time. but dumbshit no. 3 golfs with the boss regularly, and one day the boss says, "go talk to [the superintendant] and i will make sure you get hired." within days, he was. took me almost a month from resume to starting my first day of work. he is, in a word, a suck-up. a brown-noser. he's not even been there long enough to know what the fuck he is doing yet, but is already bucking for promotion. and he is gonna get it. because the boss created an "assistant superintendant" job, that looks ear-marked and specifically tailored for this busybody. in my experience with suck-ups (and i have had lots, having been in the military), they are usually so busy keeping the higher-ups' asses clean that they very frequently have only the vaguest idea how to do the actual job. this guy is no exception. he often skips his breaks and takes shorter lunches. he shows up fifteen minutes early. he is nearly always out on the course tinkering with something or weedeating or pruning or whatever thing, and yet he still manages to take longer than anyone to do the things that need to get done on a daily basis. on the rare occasions that i have worked with him, i have noticed that he is like a squirrel with add on crack. he never finishes a job, because he notices something else that needs to get done, and rather than making a mental note to come back later, he drops what he is up to at the moment, and goes to do the new thing right then. but you can be assured that when the boss is around, or the superintendant, he is outworking all of us.

the superintedant, who used to be a jovial, easy-going fella, has so much shit on his plate now with these three worthless hunks of scum and playing mediator to the rest of us bitching about them that he is grumpy and short all the time now. his year contract is up in january, and we doubt he is going to be around a day longer than he needs to be, which will leave us with suck-up until they can find a new superintendant to take his place.

despite all this, i still love the job. the days are cooling off. the gators are out. most of the time i get to work with only myself and my ipod to keep me company, and the hours work out perfectly with my kids' school schedule, so i am not spending half my paycheck on daycare. so i am unlikely to quit, but the next several months ought to be really interesting.

tomorrow, i will tell you all about the golfers.

darth sardonic

it's bout damn time

thank god and sonny jesus, poppa hilton finally wised-up.

it appears that he has (fucking finally) had it with paris, and is donating his ridiculous fortune to a charity. the charity is in the name of his granddad or father (not really sure which, and furthermore, don't really care), so the charity is probably just going right back to keeping the old bastard in big houses and fancy fucking cars, but at least it isn't funding paris' coke habit anymore. matter of fact, i think if you read the charity's by-line, it will probably say, "to help old billionaires whose kids have embarrassed them and the world, by providing the funds to keep said old billionaire in the lifestyle that he has grown accustomed to, without allowing any of that money to fall into the hands of greedy, free-loading offspring."

and i want to know how the flippity-fuck paris became famous in the first place? i mean, she hasn't done anything of note: no no. 1 box-office smash, no billboard no. 1 single, not even any decent porn. she is a sloe-eyed, dim-witted, drug/alcohol fueled white-trash tramp that could stand to eat a steak. as far as i can tell, all she has done is fuck up in such a way that all us normal parents would've disowned her/clubbed her like a baby seal eons ago, and somehow or other, this has made her famous.

the only thing i can think of that she has done that made me feel good about life at all was her jail stay, but considering she whined about it and pitched so many fucking fits about it, even that seems a huge waste of time. maybe if she had just ducked her head, done her time, toughed it out, and walked outta there a new person, i might find some table-scrap of respect for her, but no. she actually had the everloving gall to say "i bring beauty to the people of the world." your fucking kidding me, right? seriously?!?

so my predictions for the future: other than a yearly newscast, paris will go the way of oj simpson.

and coming soon to ebay: a million "dresses" (i use that term loosely), most only worn once, and many not worn at all, and paris' car, slightly dented, and unable to drive past any drug-sniffing dog without trouble, but otherwise in great shape.

other than crazy sleep patterns, the sardonics are all doing well. nothing really new to report there.

darth sardonic

i need a beer to wash it all away without a trace...

And then i'll drink 23 more/To wipe this stupid smile off my fucking face

am i horribly wrong for hoping that paris hilton gets shite kicked out of her in prison?

does anyone still watch er? or even care? i watched it back when it was a show about doctors and patients. now it is a show about abductions, deaths, reincarnations, and dr. slutbutter being trapped on some desert island. each episode has to outdo that last. in our house, if a show we liked starts getting stupid, we say it has gone all er. yes, i am saying that er is now a soap opera. and god knows, i hate soap operas.

today on the way to therapy, i am cranking the stereo, singing (or barking might be more appropriate) the words at the top of my lungs when i cotton to the fact that i have back-up singers.

in the back seat i hear, "i ti-eeeeerd. ah seepin' wif mahsel."

oh joy and frabjous and gorgeousness and gorgiosity, o my beloved non-existant readers. as a shot a quick backwards glance, eyebrow on full tilt and grinning like the dippy bastard i am, i see my boys bobbing their heads and singing along to the, although possibly inappropriate, definitely extremely cool song pumping out of the stereo.

the father of the year award review board is holding my trophy pending further investigation.

need to schedule a sardonic males mosh pit a little later today. maybe after i dessimate them in a super soaker battle.

i'm completely blown away at the amount of people swinging by this dumb little blog. good lord.

i had a bunch more silly and sarcastic and possibly funny random stuff to put here, but the kids just pulled my energy plug a sec ago and it has completely drained out of me, and i lost it all.

not to worry though, it always comes back to me, sometimes at the most inopportune moments.

darth sardonic

getting to know you...

it seems, as a result of some uncontrolled commenting i did on sparx's blog (yes, yes, i will get it added. if not here in the next few, then today for sure), new people are swinging by this small grain of sand on the beach that is the world wide web.

and since i have been doing this for some time, and got most of the "getting to know darth" stuff out of the way in the first year, i feel it might be time to do a recap for the new readers:

i am a huge bucket of conradictions (as if stating this in my "about me" isn't nearly enough.) i am alternately gloomy and joyful. i love life, despise it, hate it, embrace it, look forward to each day with anticipation, dread, and childlike glee. i piss and moan about my life on occasion, all the while completely cognizant of how good i have it.

i am a smartass. duh.

the title "not even star-crossed, just unlucky" is a line from the codiene song, cigarette machine. it is, in my opinion, one of the most clever lines in a song i have ever heard.

i play the bass, the guitar, the drums, and even a bit of keyboards, and make failed attempts to sing. i do it in that order, heh heh. i hope to soon have a music myspace to abuse at least as much as i abuse this blog.

i am a stay-home father for my(our) two children, both boys, that i call nos. 1 and 2 within the confines of this blog, for the sake of their privacy, such as it is, since i elaborate on embarrassing details of their potty-training, therapy, and whatever else.

both of my kids were born early, and as a result, are behind somewhat developmentally. no. 1 is a little delayed in speech, and no. 2 is behind in general. this does NOT mean they are dumb or slow in any kind of way, and i resent it enough to nearly come to blows when people i don't know insinuate that they are based on a quick observation at the park, pool, or in line at the supermarket.

i am: a dork. a punk. a motherfucker. a lazy bastard. a crackah (hahahahaha, or poor white trash that has clawed its way up from the depths, but it still comes out sometimes--you can take the boy out of the trailer, but not the trailer out of the boy.) a fiercely loyal friend who will drop you like hot dogshit if you fuck me over (life is too short to waste on people who don't treat you like you treat them.) a star wars fan (again, duh.) a son. a husband. a father. a pervert (shocking, i know, to discover that a stay-home dad, is still, after all is said and done, a male homo sapien.) a lover. a fighter. a filthy-mouthed intellectual who loves language in it's many and varied forms, from the most refined and educated, right down to the gutter. i do not give a shit what 99.9% of people think about me.

i believe everyone is right. i believe everyone is fucked-up. i believe that we have the god-given right to be both right and fucked-up at the same time, and to shout it loudly from the rooftops. i don't believe "shouting it loudly from the rooftops" means the same thing as "cram it down people's throats."

unfortunately, i also believe that this gives me the right to make fun of you and yours, just as you might do me were you so inclined.

i usually laugh at most of what i find someone has said derrogatorily about me. i am my biggest critic, i also have a sense of humor, which means i can laugh at the stupid shite i do. but, being a bucket of contadictions, i am also amazed to find out the idiotic things i do on a daily basis are being done by people all over the world.

i am a writer that completely embraces both "author intrusion" and "stream-of-conscious."

i am not sure if the periods are actually supposed to go inside either the parentheses or the quotations in most of what i have written in this post. i am also not worried about it; if i ever publish anything (which seems unlikely) most companies hire editors, and i am sure that guy will set me straight. in no uncertain terms, no doubt. and probably at top volume.

i am darth sardonic, welcome to my blog.

and if you don't like anything you have read here, there's the door and you can piss right off.

too little too late

lately, the meatheaded ex-roommate has been making some kind of sideways-coup attempt, by telling mutual friends to let the wife and me know he's "really sorry" and that he would like to "make amends" and that the whole thing was a "big misunderstanding."

he's never bothered to tell either the wife or myself this, through email or text or whatever. i, personally, have been in the same room with him twice (yes, i behaved. rather than kicking him in the nads and sucker-punching him on his way down, i just ignored him), and he never tried to see if he could talk to me or even said "hi" for that matter.

and frankly, i am getting sick of this shite. so when my buddy caz (caz hates meathead's everloving guts, o beloved non-existant reader) told us at my wife's going-away party that meathead had asked him to tell us that meathead was sorry, when my wife got done asking, "are you serious? did he really say that?" i said, "you can tell meathead that darth said he's a cunt!" to which caz laughed uproariously, and said, "i'll do just that."

and he probably will.

and i hope to christ it ends meathead's underhanded attempts at making us feel sorry for him so that i can get on with my life.

darth sardonic

overheard

this is a real, no-shit conversation that i heard (or more like "was forced to undergo." like a colonoscopy.) while waiting in a line that i was unable to escape yesterday:

but first, let me set the stage. as i said before, i am in a line that i cannot leave, when several persons join the line right behind me. these people are what i, a lifelong card-carrying member of the Dorkboys of the World, Unite and Take Over Movement (or DWUTOM--you know it?), like to refer to as uberdorks. that is to say, these fellas speak klingon more than english, and make the 40-year-old virgin look like don juan played by ron "the hedgehog" jeremy with brad pitt's looks.

the one nearest me begins humming something loudly while we all wait.

"hmmmm hmm hmmm hmm hmmmmmmmmmmmm hm bmm hum bmml hm hmmmm hmmmmp hmmmmmmmmmmmm." (and if you think it is annoying reading it typed out right here, you should've been there when he was actually humming it!)

this lasts a minute or two, in which time i wish i had the ability to run screaming away, or at the very least, rip my ears right off my skull.

apparently, his annoying humming doesn't elicit the response he hoped for, so he says to one of his buddies, "that has got to be the best rendition of that song, ever."

"what's that?" asks his buddy. (i imagine someone doing motions as if they are reeling a fish in.)

"oh, something i have been listening to on my ipod."

"oh?"

"yeah, the best version of kumbaya."

i swallow my gum.

"it's a trombone sextet, and they jazz it up. it is awesome!"

i feel faint.

"if i could put it on my myspace, i would."

i think i am going to projectile vomit, and try to sneak off to my happy place, but the speaker has apparently skipped right over the lowering of the voice segment of puberty, and his high-pitched sandpapery words fight their way right past my mental roadblocks.

when i am finally out of the line, i realize i am crying and sucking my thumb with my other arm over my head like a shield.

kumbaya?!!!!? seriously? and where would one go to locate a trombone sextet of any song, let alone that particular song? i believe were i to walk into my local purveyor of dusty musical discs, and spout, in my best john cleese posh git, "i say, my good man, fetch me everything you have in print of jazzy trombone sextets, and be hastey about it." i might very well find myself staring down the barrels of a loaded shotgun that all small music stores keep behind the counter specifically for assholes seeking jazzy trombone sextets. or at the very least, john cusack would tell me, "trombone sextets? seriously? get the fuck out of my store. no, i'm serious, leave my fucking store right now."

of course, i think it behooves me to admit that i, until recently, had all the string quartet tributes i could find to system of a down, joy division, new order, tool, and nirvana. heh heh.

for now,

darth sardonic

pot calling the kettle black fishnet

i was with a group of acquaintances, when i overhear this conversation between two goth ladies:

"you know where i can find a good black fishnet shirt? not the small weave, like hot topic carries, but a bigger, more open weave."

"i don't know, i used to do nearly all my clothes shopping at hot topic, but the stuff they carry now is such shit."

"i know, it's gone all emo."

"'oh, let me smear my makeup and cover it up with my bangs!'"

(i choke at this point because goth number one is caked in fucking make-up that appears to have been applied several days ago and slept on since.)

they laugh uproariously, and the other says, "my sister sent me an email: 'emo, the reason we hide the razor blades.' i nearly peed my pants!"

(i choke again. when i dabbled in goth, they used to say the same fucking thing about us.)

so here's the rub, o my beloved non-existant droogs and readers: here sat two heavily made-up, dressed from head to toe in black, pretentious goth chicks making fun of heavily made-up, dressed from head to toe in black, pretentious emo people.

i was on the front lines of the goth movement, i guess you could say. i did it. the make-up, the robert smith hair, the black from head to toe. it was a pain in the ass. it lasted about six fucking months.

and i got sick of the goddamn pretentiousness and fucking posturing all the time. "o, i am so tortured. o, so pained. o, how i long for the release of eternal sleep." fuck off. jesus christ.

i mean i still dig the styles and bands and whatever, though i simply don't have the time or energy or ganas to dress like that anymore, but come on, are you fucking kidding me?!? when i was a goth and met other goths, we said, "hey, i'm darth." "cool. i'm nick." "you like bauhaus?" "yeah. do you like the cure?" "of course."

now, it's all, (in voice of the sepulchre) "i'm vlad." "i'm azreal abyss." (damn, cracked myself up there, using chris kattan's ongoing goth character's name. now those skits captured the pure ridiculousness of what is the whole goth thing now. sorry, i digress. now back to our regularly-scheduled program:) "where did you buy that lacey cravat?" "from 'treasures of the crypt' on 8th." "o, am so tortured and pretentious, and i long for the release of death." "o my, look at those two emo kids over there." "{snicker} i bet they bought their lacey cravats at hot topic." scene fades as vlad and azreal abyss huddle close and laugh uproariously, saying the very same things about the emo kids that i am saying about them.

when i see a young punk, i am just fucking glad that a few kids get it and are still carrying the torch or whatever other fucking highly cliched thing it is i'm sposed to say. it is a natural progression. emo kids look exactly like goths to my untrained eye. it's like one southern baptist telling another southern baptist he is going to hell cause he isn't of the apostolic line or whatever fucking thing.

and goths had their roots in punk, and we all came from the same fucking place. so what is the fucking issue?

and quite suddenly it becomes a bigger thing. this is what humans do. we get all cliquey and hang out with a select few people that we think are exactly like us and make fun of others who ultimately are exactly like us cause ultimately we are all fucking human. and this is what humans do. we get all cliquey and hang out with a select few...etc etc ad nauseum.

forgive me if i just can't figure out why we can't all fucking get along.

darth sardonic

american idol seattle

i got home from work, and my wife is watching the american idol auditions that occured here in seattle.

i loathe, and i mean loathe, anything american idol related. i hate simon and his "i'm not being rude but..." followed by something even i wouldn't say behind the safety of this blog. i hate paula abdul and her drinking problem or pain meds or whatever thing it is that makes her act strung out in at least half her interviews. i don't hate the other guy, but haven't even bothered to learn his fucking name.

and out of all the contestants on all the shows, they only one that has done anything long-lasting was kelly clarkson. and i will cop to liking her music. fuck yeah.

now, though, i actually know why i despise american idol so much. and if you saw it, you know exactly what i am talking about.

if not, let me break it down for you, darth sardonic style.

now, let me begin by saying that you will never see me on an american idol audition, or any other audition of similar mettle. here's why. i am a shitty singer. yes, i have been told on occasion that no, i am not really that bad, that i actually sound good. most of the time when i am playing a song and singing it at the same time. but still, not nearly the chops to be on some show. on top of being ungifted in the singing department, i have a modicum of dignity.

ok, so, the difference between me and the people i saw on the show: a) they showed up to the audition, and b) they don't possess any dignity whatsoever.

because, o my beloved non existant readers and droogies, even though my vocal talent is seriously lacking, i could probably sing better than nearly everyone i saw. (i saw the black jailbait with the cute smile, and she really had it.)

and i was sitting there at the commercial, and felt as if a surgeon had told me they were going to need to remove my arm, and then left to go find four burly guys to hold me down as the hospital was out of anesthesia. cause, my pals, i knew it was gonna hurt. i knew it was going to be so painful that i would have to leave the room. i nearly threw up.

and there i was, and it was as if i had just witnessed a violent and bloody train wreck and then was witnessing the obviously strung out conductor arguing with authorities that he couldn't possibly have been strung out cause it had been a full 20 minutes since he had drunk a fifth of tequila, down the last of the shroom tea, and then smoked up all that rock, and the crack whore he was with told him it would be completely out of his system after five minutes.

and why, oh, why, my beloved mates, do all these contestants feel like they must overdo the song like mariah carey trying to channel whitney houston, only times one thousand?!?

does no one just sing, anymore?

well, i don't know if you would call it that, but i just sing.

darth sardonic