Greg and Dad
I didn't notice until we got to the game that Miss Sally had picked out the Homestar Runner t-shirt for Greg. With me in my Midnight Mountain Club t-shirt, we make a good pair.
WTF: Dude at Panera with desktop computer
Either that dude couldn't wait to get home for the unboxing or he was Jonesin' for some wi-fi.
Photo courtesy of @tgoodnight
Photo courtesy of @tgoodnight
Phertatradon
The Phertatradon is the most feared dinosaur in the world. If you take its photo, it will charge and more than likely kill the photographer.
Fear the Phertatradon.
Fear the Phertatradon.
Transcript of the Patton Oswalt "Black Angus" stand-up
Patton Oswalt - Black Angus
I am getting a st… I'm gonin’.. when I fly back to LA tomorrow I am going to the Buggy Whip restaurant and getting a giant fucking steak. You heard me! I enjoy steak too much because I hate hippies so much. You know what I mean. I enjoy it more than I think I actually enjoy it. Every time you eat a steak, like a hippy’s hacky sack goes down the gutter, you know, “Oh man, oh dude, what the fuck man.” Every time you eat a steak a hippy’s hacky sack goes into the sewer. Always remember that.
And I like the… I mean I’ll go to Lawrys and Ruth’s Chris, the really high end steak houses. But I’ll go to the shitball steak house, I don’t care. Outback. Blank Angus. I’m there, it’s steak. Not so much Black Angus, thought. Cause do you remember how friendly the ads for Black Angus use to be? They like, Come on in! Have a steak. How about a baked potato? You’re like, how bout yeah! I’ll see you tomorrow night. Table for two, 7:15.
Now the ads for Black Angus, have you noticed how it’s turned into this gauntlet of angry food? It’s almost like they’re like challenging you?
“At Black Angus, we’ll start you off with our appetizer platter, featuring five jumbo deep fried gulf shrimp, served on a disk of salted butter, with 15 of our potato bacon bombs and a big bowl of pork cracklins with our cheese and butter dippin’ sauce. “
Your like, um we’re all gonna split that…
“Awe, you’ll each get your own!”
“Then well take you to our mile long soup and salad bar featuring bacon and cheese cream soup and our five head of ice burg lettuce He-Man salad, served in a punch bowl with 18 pounds of ranch dressing, pork stuff deep fried croutons and, what the hell, a couple of corn dogs.”
Uh, hey man, I tell you what, I’ll just get like a mixed green salad.
“Hey, I’ll suck a cock on the Golden Gate Bridge before I bring you a mixed green buddy.”
I.. what? I?
“Then we’ll wheel out our bottomless trough of friend dough.”
Wait a minute, am I getting a steak?
“Oh you’ll get a fucking steak. Cause then we’ll bring out our 55 ounce Lost Mesa, He-Man steak slab, served with a deep fried pumpkin, stuffed with buttered scallops and 53 of our potato bacon bombs.”
Oh dude, I don’t think…
“And then bend over Abigail May cause here comes the gravy pipe.”
What?
“Black Angus, door are locked from the outside, faggot!”
But, no. What, when did I?
“At Black Angus, your name is Peaches.”
I am getting a st… I'm gonin’.. when I fly back to LA tomorrow I am going to the Buggy Whip restaurant and getting a giant fucking steak. You heard me! I enjoy steak too much because I hate hippies so much. You know what I mean. I enjoy it more than I think I actually enjoy it. Every time you eat a steak, like a hippy’s hacky sack goes down the gutter, you know, “Oh man, oh dude, what the fuck man.” Every time you eat a steak a hippy’s hacky sack goes into the sewer. Always remember that.
And I like the… I mean I’ll go to Lawrys and Ruth’s Chris, the really high end steak houses. But I’ll go to the shitball steak house, I don’t care. Outback. Blank Angus. I’m there, it’s steak. Not so much Black Angus, thought. Cause do you remember how friendly the ads for Black Angus use to be? They like, Come on in! Have a steak. How about a baked potato? You’re like, how bout yeah! I’ll see you tomorrow night. Table for two, 7:15.
Now the ads for Black Angus, have you noticed how it’s turned into this gauntlet of angry food? It’s almost like they’re like challenging you?
“At Black Angus, we’ll start you off with our appetizer platter, featuring five jumbo deep fried gulf shrimp, served on a disk of salted butter, with 15 of our potato bacon bombs and a big bowl of pork cracklins with our cheese and butter dippin’ sauce. “
Your like, um we’re all gonna split that…
“Awe, you’ll each get your own!”
“Then well take you to our mile long soup and salad bar featuring bacon and cheese cream soup and our five head of ice burg lettuce He-Man salad, served in a punch bowl with 18 pounds of ranch dressing, pork stuff deep fried croutons and, what the hell, a couple of corn dogs.”
Uh, hey man, I tell you what, I’ll just get like a mixed green salad.
“Hey, I’ll suck a cock on the Golden Gate Bridge before I bring you a mixed green buddy.”
I.. what? I?
“Then we’ll wheel out our bottomless trough of friend dough.”
Wait a minute, am I getting a steak?
“Oh you’ll get a fucking steak. Cause then we’ll bring out our 55 ounce Lost Mesa, He-Man steak slab, served with a deep fried pumpkin, stuffed with buttered scallops and 53 of our potato bacon bombs.”
Oh dude, I don’t think…
“And then bend over Abigail May cause here comes the gravy pipe.”
What?
“Black Angus, door are locked from the outside, faggot!”
But, no. What, when did I?
“At Black Angus, your name is Peaches.”
Lollapalooza iTunes Card
The official program of the 2010 Lollapalooza came with an iTunes card glued in the back. Upon inspection, it read that the card was good for 40 free songs. 40 FREE SONGS! And they were handing out the programs like candy!
The process in my head, which I call math, started to ask for additional processing resources, so I stopped in my tracks and started to figure out how many of these cards I would need to break even on my ticket price.
Greg saw me come to a complete stop and noticed the tell tale signs that I was thinking. He knew what was going on in my head.
"The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
So I stuffed the card in my wallet for when I got home.
Later that day, we saw a dude going through a recycling bin, pulling out programs and looking for the iTunes card in the back. We didn't say anything to him, but I assume that he figured it out on his own once he got home.
On our last day of Lollapalooza, Kit and I were standing at the Blogger stage when three very good looking, blind girls approached us. We thought it odd that the blind girls didn't have guide dogs or walking sticks. It took us a moment to figure out that the three very good looking girls were actually NOT blind and were asking us where the Adidas Stage was. Kit said he thought it was at the other end of the park and pulled out his Program to confirm it. Their destination was at the other end of the park and I would have thought their next move would have been to run from us post-haste. But instead they began chatting with us. One of the girls pointed at Kit's program and said, "Did you know that there is a iTunes card in there that gives you 40 dollars worth of free songs?"
I, in my 40 year old know-it-all-voice, said, "The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
And with that, the imaginary, shimmering bubble that surround us burst and they said thanks and walked off.
I downloaded the 40 songs and it turned out there were 45. They should edited the graphic on the card to read, "4 songs you will like and a shitload of others that suck balls and make you wonder why you dug through the recycling for hours to collect these fucking things."
The process in my head, which I call math, started to ask for additional processing resources, so I stopped in my tracks and started to figure out how many of these cards I would need to break even on my ticket price.
Greg saw me come to a complete stop and noticed the tell tale signs that I was thinking. He knew what was going on in my head.
"The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
So I stuffed the card in my wallet for when I got home.
Later that day, we saw a dude going through a recycling bin, pulling out programs and looking for the iTunes card in the back. We didn't say anything to him, but I assume that he figured it out on his own once he got home.
On our last day of Lollapalooza, Kit and I were standing at the Blogger stage when three very good looking, blind girls approached us. We thought it odd that the blind girls didn't have guide dogs or walking sticks. It took us a moment to figure out that the three very good looking girls were actually NOT blind and were asking us where the Adidas Stage was. Kit said he thought it was at the other end of the park and pulled out his Program to confirm it. Their destination was at the other end of the park and I would have thought their next move would have been to run from us post-haste. But instead they began chatting with us. One of the girls pointed at Kit's program and said, "Did you know that there is a iTunes card in there that gives you 40 dollars worth of free songs?"
I, in my 40 year old know-it-all-voice, said, "The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
And with that, the imaginary, shimmering bubble that surround us burst and they said thanks and walked off.
I downloaded the 40 songs and it turned out there were 45. They should edited the graphic on the card to read, "4 songs you will like and a shitload of others that suck balls and make you wonder why you dug through the recycling for hours to collect these fucking things."
How to Disable Facebook's "Places."
"Places" might be a wonderful option for some people, but I'd rather not let my entire collection of "friends" or the whole of the internet know where I am at. "Places" also allows other people to 'check you in' so that they can tattle on me when I am at the nudie bar seeing my favorite dancer act, Doris.
Here is how to disable places:
1. Go to Account > Privacy Settings on top right.
2. Click on ‘Customize Settings‘ link at the bottom of that page.
3. Next to “Places I check in” use the drop down box to select ‘Only Me‘.
4. Make sure to ‘uncheck” the ‘Include me in “People Here Now” after I check in’ box.
5. Further down under “Things others share” select ‘Disabled’ next to “Friends can check me in to places.”
Here is how to disable places:
1. Go to Account > Privacy Settings on top right.
2. Click on ‘Customize Settings‘ link at the bottom of that page.
3. Next to “Places I check in” use the drop down box to select ‘Only Me‘.
4. Make sure to ‘uncheck” the ‘Include me in “People Here Now” after I check in’ box.
5. Further down under “Things others share” select ‘Disabled’ next to “Friends can check me in to places.”
Allow me to explain
I created a list yesterday of the Top Ten Worst Stripper Names. Not my best work by far. In that list, amongst the wretched and disgusting names, was my grandmother's unique name. My thinking was that it would be awful to have the memory of one's grandmother tarnished by being a stripper's name. Funny, right?
Wrong.
My relatives did not find that humorous and to quote my cousin, I should, "die of shame for even having her name in this listing you unholy maggot."
So while my intent was for the sake of humor it did not come across that way. I can't really say that I'm sorry except that I'm sorry I didn't explain the joke the right way and that perhaps it was a bit unholy and maggoty.
So I edited my post and changed it to "satin peach" which is the nickname we gave a co-worker's shirt.
I hope this will not ruin our relationship.
Love,
HolyJuan
Wrong.
My relatives did not find that humorous and to quote my cousin, I should, "die of shame for even having her name in this listing you unholy maggot."
So while my intent was for the sake of humor it did not come across that way. I can't really say that I'm sorry except that I'm sorry I didn't explain the joke the right way and that perhaps it was a bit unholy and maggoty.
So I edited my post and changed it to "satin peach" which is the nickname we gave a co-worker's shirt.
I hope this will not ruin our relationship.
Love,
HolyJuan
Top Ten Worst Stripper Names
It’s best if you read these prefaced by saying, “And now welcome to the main stage the lovely…”
1. Smegma
2. Androgyny
3. Infectious
4. Satin Peach
5. Cesarean
6. Garlic
7. Mrs. Henderson
8. Ted
9. Carbon
10. Crustina
1. Smegma
2. Androgyny
3. Infectious
4. Satin Peach
5. Cesarean
6. Garlic
7. Mrs. Henderson
8. Ted
9. Carbon
10. Crustina
Bag o' Money winner!
We finally got a winner in the Bag o' Money contest. John from North Carolina correctly guessed $16.91.
Here's the goods before they were sent out. (The cash was in my car. I did actually send it.)
Here is the letter I sent along:
Dear John,
Thank you for entering and winning the “How Much Money is in the Bag” contest on holyjuan.com. While I almost had to spoon feed my readers the answer, you were the one with the wherewithal and the quickest correct guess of $16.91.
While you are taking food from the mouths of my children with this win, I do want you to spend this money appropriately. May I suggest one of the following:
16.9 condoms (use the .9 condom if you are planning on reproducing)
1 really, really cheap hooker
1/10 of a more expensive hooker
67 games of Donkey Kong at the retro arcade
33 games of Dragon’s Lair at the retro arcade
5 bags of Swedish Fish (Damn, they are addictive)
4 Happy Meals that my children will not be eating
Best of luck!
HolyJuan, Esquire
PS. Please use the included HolyJuan refrigerator magnet at your discretion. Your friends may actually find out what you have been up to.
---
And after spending $45.56 on postage, here is John with the goods!
"I always wanted a sack with $$ on it. Thanks Holy Juan!"
Here's the goods before they were sent out. (The cash was in my car. I did actually send it.)
Here is the letter I sent along:
Dear John,
Thank you for entering and winning the “How Much Money is in the Bag” contest on holyjuan.com. While I almost had to spoon feed my readers the answer, you were the one with the wherewithal and the quickest correct guess of $16.91.
While you are taking food from the mouths of my children with this win, I do want you to spend this money appropriately. May I suggest one of the following:
16.9 condoms (use the .9 condom if you are planning on reproducing)
1 really, really cheap hooker
1/10 of a more expensive hooker
67 games of Donkey Kong at the retro arcade
33 games of Dragon’s Lair at the retro arcade
5 bags of Swedish Fish (Damn, they are addictive)
4 Happy Meals that my children will not be eating
Best of luck!
HolyJuan, Esquire
PS. Please use the included HolyJuan refrigerator magnet at your discretion. Your friends may actually find out what you have been up to.
---
And after spending $45.56 on postage, here is John with the goods!
"I always wanted a sack with $$ on it. Thanks Holy Juan!"
Leah Lou
Billy invited us up to Cleveland to go see a few bands at the Beachland Ballroom. Billy has very good taste in music and has yet to let us down. While we actually went to see the headliner, Marc Broussard, I was much more intrigued by the opener Leah Lou.
WARNING! You will either dig this chick's music or not. I like her. If you do not, you obviously have crappy taste in music.
Check her out at http://www.myspace.com/leahlou12.
And while I am not a starfucker, the opportunity did arise and I got a photo with my new girlfriend.
WARNING! You will either dig this chick's music or not. I like her. If you do not, you obviously have crappy taste in music.
Check her out at http://www.myspace.com/leahlou12.
And while I am not a starfucker, the opportunity did arise and I got a photo with my new girlfriend.
Stoned Stoneder Stonederiest
Oddly enough, we thought of these t-shirts while we were at Lollapalooza.
If you and your two stoned friends want t-shirts, you can buy them here:
STONED
STONEDER
STONDERIEST
If you and your two stoned friends want t-shirts, you can buy them here:
STONED
STONEDER
STONDERIEST
The Invitation and Then What We Did Once We Realized We Actually Weren't Invited
One plugged flat tire and 250 miles later we were within 20 minutes of Eric’s place in Chicago. We texted back and forth to coordinate when we would be arriving. Eric said that he would be at a party and that we should come over to the party. In Ohio, we call that an invitation.
Greg’s TomTom was re-programmed and we were on our way. There was parking right in front of the apartment and we jumped out and stretched. We called Eric and he came out of the party and warmly greeted us as only Eric can.
“Hey guys. The party is breaking up.”
That’s fine.
“Just a minute.”
Eric went back in.
We waited about five minutes standing outside the car. A couple walked out and then went down the street. Eric came out about three minutes after that.
“Things are still breaking up. Let me grab some folks and we’ll head back to my place.”
Should we come in?
“Um, no. Wait just a minute.”
Eric went back in. About two minutes later he emerged with a girl who was very fun and a guy with a football. The girl laughed and talked to us and we threw the ball back and forth with football guy. At some point, a guy stuck his head out the door, eyed us up and went back in. I assume that was the host of the party that was breaking up.
Eric admitted that there had been a bit of a mix up. He told the people at the party that he was having a few high school friends over. The host of the party thought that Eric was bringing over people that were in high school and not happy about that. Eric went back in.
So we stood outside and waited for a total of about twenty-five minutes for the party that was breaking up to break up.
The party broke up. Several piled into Eric’s car. If I was better with names, I would tell the name of the one guy who got into Greg’s. He was a cool dude. We chatted on the way over to Eric's.
We arrived at Eric place. He’s got an awesome house. His awesome house has an even more awesome deck that we sat on under the hazy stars, drank beer, talked and laughed with Eric and his friends. We mocked Eric for inviting us to a party we were not allowed to enter. We talked of our past transgressions. Eric played music from his computer. We discussed Lollapalooza. We laughed.
Kit went to bed. I took a group shot a little while later.
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Other Photos
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Greg’s TomTom was re-programmed and we were on our way. There was parking right in front of the apartment and we jumped out and stretched. We called Eric and he came out of the party and warmly greeted us as only Eric can.
“Hey guys. The party is breaking up.”
That’s fine.
“Just a minute.”
Eric went back in.
We waited about five minutes standing outside the car. A couple walked out and then went down the street. Eric came out about three minutes after that.
“Things are still breaking up. Let me grab some folks and we’ll head back to my place.”
Should we come in?
“Um, no. Wait just a minute.”
Eric went back in. About two minutes later he emerged with a girl who was very fun and a guy with a football. The girl laughed and talked to us and we threw the ball back and forth with football guy. At some point, a guy stuck his head out the door, eyed us up and went back in. I assume that was the host of the party that was breaking up.
Eric admitted that there had been a bit of a mix up. He told the people at the party that he was having a few high school friends over. The host of the party thought that Eric was bringing over people that were in high school and not happy about that. Eric went back in.
So we stood outside and waited for a total of about twenty-five minutes for the party that was breaking up to break up.
The party broke up. Several piled into Eric’s car. If I was better with names, I would tell the name of the one guy who got into Greg’s. He was a cool dude. We chatted on the way over to Eric's.
We arrived at Eric place. He’s got an awesome house. His awesome house has an even more awesome deck that we sat on under the hazy stars, drank beer, talked and laughed with Eric and his friends. We mocked Eric for inviting us to a party we were not allowed to enter. We talked of our past transgressions. Eric played music from his computer. We discussed Lollapalooza. We laughed.
Kit went to bed. I took a group shot a little while later.
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Other Photos
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A Rough Start *or* When Open 24 Hours Means Something Else
Thursday at 5:30pm, Kit called to say he was in the parking lot. I had just finished changing clothes and making sure that I was only forgetting two or three things. Greg arrived a few minutes later and we filled his already full trunk with our bags.
We were off to Chicago.
Traffic out of Columbus was for crap and construction had us slowed to a crawl. Slow enough so that a car next to us had the time and opportunity to make the necessary jestures to explain that we had a flat tire. We waved a thanks and pulled off.
We had the aspirations of a pit crew as we simultaneously leapt from the car to change the tire, but the ballet of clumbsiness that followed was laughable.
The fully packed trunk was evacuated of our bags and a soccer coach's collection of stuff. Greg was on the jack and Kit and I we responsible for extracting the spare tire from the bottom of the trunk.
But the spare tire had other plans. The plastic cap holding down the spare would not relent. Not to my girly grip nor Kit's steely grasp could unscrew that cap. Kit whipped out his trusty Leatherman and he applied leverage. Leverage did its job and broke off half of the plastic cap. With only half the cap left, we used Greg's wide array of truck tools to ensure we would break off the other half. With a rusty phillips screw driver and a piece of metal that looked like it once had a purpose in life, we applied a different kind of leverage that broke the other tab off.
With no intelligent choice left, we used brute force and over then next ten minutes we bloodied nuckles and bent tools. We realized that if we chipped away enough of the plastic, we could pull the tire up and off of the stuck cap. With 75% of it chipped away, we used the spare to pull up ad break that mother fucking thing off.
Greg applied the spare.
We loaded everything back in the truck and drove to the next exit. With the approval of the gods, that exit had a business called "24 Hour Tire Repair" right off the exit.
The 24 Hour Tire Repair shop was closed.
We had two scenarios. One scenario is that we drive through to Chicago on a 50 MPH spare tire. This was dangerous and would slow our drive to a crawl. The other scenario is that we call AAA to have the car towed to a shop that was actually open to have the tire fixed or replaced. This would take hours.
But Greg saw a Third Scenario.
We drove to the Pilot gas station across the street. Greg said, "When you are in the store, look for a tire plug kit." I thought he was joking because no manufacturer would create a product that regular idiots like me might use that could result in exploding tires and car accidents. So I didn't even look for a tie patching kit. I looked for Swedish Fish instead. Kit got the number for a different repair shop from the nice lady at the counter. I called and left a message for Bruce that we were in dire need of help. Kit and I watched Greg emerge from the gas station holding a tire plug kit. They actually sell them.
We moved the car to a lonely spot in the parking lot and empied the trunk again. Kit pulled out the flat and Greg redied the kit. We found the most likely spot where the hole might be. Greg used the shiv looking device to ream out the hole location. It was tearing the crap out of the tire and bits and chunks of rubber crumbled to the ground. I feared the worse. The next step involved threading a strip of rubber that looked like licorice through something that looked like a cross between a needle and a wine bottle opener. He applied a pungant adhesive from a tube to the licorice.
The whole lot was then shoved into the now gaping tire hole.
When Greg pulled the needle device from the hole, a sharpe edge cut the licorice strip in half, leaving it behind in the hole. A nub of patch and gooey adhesive stuck out of the tire.
Kit rolled the tire to the air station and filled it. It held. While they were filling I jacked the car up. Greg and Kit applied the patched tire.
Ten seconds after this photo was taken, the car rocked back off of the jack and came slamming down. Luckily the tire was completely on and we all had time to back away to watch it fall off the jack at a distance. Safety Tip #103: Always put your parking brake on while changing a tire.
We loaded the trunk and piled in. Greg took a test drive down the road and back again. We stopped at the 24 hour tire repair parking lot (still closed) and checked out the tire. It was holding. We got back on the highway.
The tire held and we made it to Chicago with enough time to go to a party that we were not allowed to enter. But that's a story for another time.
Here's a photo of Kit taking his turn at the wheel, driving up 65 with a patched tire and three very excited boys on their way to Lollapalooza 2010.
We were off to Chicago.
Traffic out of Columbus was for crap and construction had us slowed to a crawl. Slow enough so that a car next to us had the time and opportunity to make the necessary jestures to explain that we had a flat tire. We waved a thanks and pulled off.
We had the aspirations of a pit crew as we simultaneously leapt from the car to change the tire, but the ballet of clumbsiness that followed was laughable.
The fully packed trunk was evacuated of our bags and a soccer coach's collection of stuff. Greg was on the jack and Kit and I we responsible for extracting the spare tire from the bottom of the trunk.
But the spare tire had other plans. The plastic cap holding down the spare would not relent. Not to my girly grip nor Kit's steely grasp could unscrew that cap. Kit whipped out his trusty Leatherman and he applied leverage. Leverage did its job and broke off half of the plastic cap. With only half the cap left, we used Greg's wide array of truck tools to ensure we would break off the other half. With a rusty phillips screw driver and a piece of metal that looked like it once had a purpose in life, we applied a different kind of leverage that broke the other tab off.
With no intelligent choice left, we used brute force and over then next ten minutes we bloodied nuckles and bent tools. We realized that if we chipped away enough of the plastic, we could pull the tire up and off of the stuck cap. With 75% of it chipped away, we used the spare to pull up ad break that mother fucking thing off.
Greg applied the spare.
We loaded everything back in the truck and drove to the next exit. With the approval of the gods, that exit had a business called "24 Hour Tire Repair" right off the exit.
The 24 Hour Tire Repair shop was closed.
We had two scenarios. One scenario is that we drive through to Chicago on a 50 MPH spare tire. This was dangerous and would slow our drive to a crawl. The other scenario is that we call AAA to have the car towed to a shop that was actually open to have the tire fixed or replaced. This would take hours.
But Greg saw a Third Scenario.
We drove to the Pilot gas station across the street. Greg said, "When you are in the store, look for a tire plug kit." I thought he was joking because no manufacturer would create a product that regular idiots like me might use that could result in exploding tires and car accidents. So I didn't even look for a tie patching kit. I looked for Swedish Fish instead. Kit got the number for a different repair shop from the nice lady at the counter. I called and left a message for Bruce that we were in dire need of help. Kit and I watched Greg emerge from the gas station holding a tire plug kit. They actually sell them.
We moved the car to a lonely spot in the parking lot and empied the trunk again. Kit pulled out the flat and Greg redied the kit. We found the most likely spot where the hole might be. Greg used the shiv looking device to ream out the hole location. It was tearing the crap out of the tire and bits and chunks of rubber crumbled to the ground. I feared the worse. The next step involved threading a strip of rubber that looked like licorice through something that looked like a cross between a needle and a wine bottle opener. He applied a pungant adhesive from a tube to the licorice.
The whole lot was then shoved into the now gaping tire hole.
When Greg pulled the needle device from the hole, a sharpe edge cut the licorice strip in half, leaving it behind in the hole. A nub of patch and gooey adhesive stuck out of the tire.
Kit rolled the tire to the air station and filled it. It held. While they were filling I jacked the car up. Greg and Kit applied the patched tire.
Ten seconds after this photo was taken, the car rocked back off of the jack and came slamming down. Luckily the tire was completely on and we all had time to back away to watch it fall off the jack at a distance. Safety Tip #103: Always put your parking brake on while changing a tire.
We loaded the trunk and piled in. Greg took a test drive down the road and back again. We stopped at the 24 hour tire repair parking lot (still closed) and checked out the tire. It was holding. We got back on the highway.
The tire held and we made it to Chicago with enough time to go to a party that we were not allowed to enter. But that's a story for another time.
Here's a photo of Kit taking his turn at the wheel, driving up 65 with a patched tire and three very excited boys on their way to Lollapalooza 2010.
Archived HolyJuan Stories and Thanks
In January of 2006, I started HolyJuan. It was Lia that said, “You should start a blog,” and I did.
My first story was a work related trip to Chicago and how I ended up spending the night at somewhere that was not my hotel room.
Since that story I’ve created 1,289 posts. Some stories. Some lies. Some rants. Some terrible cartoons. More lies.
Sadly, I am a much better story teller than a webpage person. Many of the wonderful HolyJuan stories are buried deep within the tubes of the internet. Someday, when I am famous and I thank all of you for getting me there, I’ll find a way to make the archives a bit more accessible. Until then I am going to begin dredging some of them up and reposting them at the top of the website. While many might call me lazy for reposting old stuff, I hope a few of you might appreciate some of my dustier memories.
I’d like to thank you for your continued readership. You e-mails and comments let me know that you all love me almost as much as I love myself. I’m always accessible by e-mail at holyjuan@gmail.com. I usually reply within a few days. Some of my best posts are Ask HolyJuan e-mails. Try me sometime.
Thanks again.
HolyJuan
My first story was a work related trip to Chicago and how I ended up spending the night at somewhere that was not my hotel room.
Since that story I’ve created 1,289 posts. Some stories. Some lies. Some rants. Some terrible cartoons. More lies.
Sadly, I am a much better story teller than a webpage person. Many of the wonderful HolyJuan stories are buried deep within the tubes of the internet. Someday, when I am famous and I thank all of you for getting me there, I’ll find a way to make the archives a bit more accessible. Until then I am going to begin dredging some of them up and reposting them at the top of the website. While many might call me lazy for reposting old stuff, I hope a few of you might appreciate some of my dustier memories.
I’d like to thank you for your continued readership. You e-mails and comments let me know that you all love me almost as much as I love myself. I’m always accessible by e-mail at holyjuan@gmail.com. I usually reply within a few days. Some of my best posts are Ask HolyJuan e-mails. Try me sometime.
Thanks again.
HolyJuan
Storm about to take a bite out of Columbus
If you look really hard, you can see Jesus' nose and eye.
Gold Bond Pancake
I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow with Greg and Kit. We'll be staying at Doob's over the weekend for Lollapalooza. I have never had the opportunity to go and am very excited, knowing full well that most of the fun and memorable bits will happen outside the venue and on the trip there and back again.
Greg is a Lollapalooza veteran and I asked him for tips on what I should bring. He, knowing that there's a bit of chafing with all the walking that happens during the weekend, suggested Gold Bond and I took him at his word. A few days ago while we were finalizing the details for the trip, he laughed about his Gold Bond suggestion saying, "I really don't think you'll want to be putting Gold Bond in your shorts. With all the sweat mixed in, you'll have a Gold Bond pancake."
I had a good laugh at that.
I'll post what I can from Chicago over the weekend. Let me know if you'll be there.
Greg is a Lollapalooza veteran and I asked him for tips on what I should bring. He, knowing that there's a bit of chafing with all the walking that happens during the weekend, suggested Gold Bond and I took him at his word. A few days ago while we were finalizing the details for the trip, he laughed about his Gold Bond suggestion saying, "I really don't think you'll want to be putting Gold Bond in your shorts. With all the sweat mixed in, you'll have a Gold Bond pancake."
I had a good laugh at that.
I'll post what I can from Chicago over the weekend. Let me know if you'll be there.
The Midnight Mountain Club
After John's wedding, we decided we would climb the mountain. Greg found his Midnight Mountain Club T-shirt in a box when they moved and he wore it that night. Eric had his buddy draw the design and we had about 10 of them silk screened in 1990. I think Greg's is the only one exists (and still fits.)
Greg scanned the shirt and sent it to me. I was able to clean it up in photoshop and made a shirt at Skreened.
I am so happy.
Greg scanned the shirt and sent it to me. I was able to clean it up in photoshop and made a shirt at Skreened.
I am so happy.
Columbus, OH - Main Street Bridge - video and fun facts
I've received a few e-mails for details on the bridge:
1.7 miles in length
3200 feet above the river
Only single arch, wire suspension bridge in the tri-county area
First "living" bridge; interior is wheat, grasses and microbes for strength
The bridge lifts 75 feet to allow the heavy boat traffic to pass
Once open, the toll will only be $1.00 heading west and $5.00 east
Bono, from U2, described the bridge as "A 22nd century accomplishment; I dig the dangle."
The bridge can hold over 18 cargo containers of mayonnaise (NOT Miracle Whip.)
The Bridge is named after Sylvia T. Main, a Columbus inventor and markswoman
Birthing Advice to Anne
My good friend Anne is about to have a baby in the next few days. Here was my advice to her:
Have a plan for the stuff you cannot plan for. My experience is that shit happens very quickly and the doctors are going to want you to do what they say. You need to know if you want the epidural and that they need to stick you not too early but not too late. You want pitocin? We didn't know we did with Anne, but they said, we are going to give you this to help with the labor and we said, "Duh, sure." If things go south, you need your husband to be able to side with you on what you'd like to do, like keep trying to push or bail and C section. We had two very good experiences, except with the epidural that freaked miss sally out worse the second time.
It will all go too quickly. Take photos. Not of the event but leading up to and at the hospital. Let both sets of parents know ahead of time if you want them around in the room or whatever. They will understand, but you should lay that crap out now just so everyone knows if they are welcome to stare at your vagina.
Just remember that people have been having babies for a very, very long time and that means absolutely nothing when it's you.
Take care and best of luck.
I think this is a HolyJuan post. Sorry. Love you.
Doug
PS If you are breast feeding, it is the single most frustrating thing in the world. Keep at it. Don't feel bad if it doesn't work out but don't give up too quickly. You should send me a photo of your boobs so that I can see if everything looks right.
Have a plan for the stuff you cannot plan for. My experience is that shit happens very quickly and the doctors are going to want you to do what they say. You need to know if you want the epidural and that they need to stick you not too early but not too late. You want pitocin? We didn't know we did with Anne, but they said, we are going to give you this to help with the labor and we said, "Duh, sure." If things go south, you need your husband to be able to side with you on what you'd like to do, like keep trying to push or bail and C section. We had two very good experiences, except with the epidural that freaked miss sally out worse the second time.
It will all go too quickly. Take photos. Not of the event but leading up to and at the hospital. Let both sets of parents know ahead of time if you want them around in the room or whatever. They will understand, but you should lay that crap out now just so everyone knows if they are welcome to stare at your vagina.
Just remember that people have been having babies for a very, very long time and that means absolutely nothing when it's you.
Take care and best of luck.
I think this is a HolyJuan post. Sorry. Love you.
Doug
PS If you are breast feeding, it is the single most frustrating thing in the world. Keep at it. Don't feel bad if it doesn't work out but don't give up too quickly. You should send me a photo of your boobs so that I can see if everything looks right.
Corporate Dress Policy
My friend sent me this memo from their company concerning dress code:
Good afternoon everyone,
There seems to be a lack of understanding regarding the (XXX Company) dress code. This email is to reiterate the policy and remind everyone you will be asked to go home on your first offense and not be a part of the Company for the second offense. You should re-read the handbook which prescribes the following:
Appearance and Grooming
The people-oriented nature of our business lends great importance to the professional image (XXX Company) presents to customers, vendors, and other visitors. Therefore, it is important that you present a professional impression in your dress and grooming.
Staff based or working in (XXX Company) office:
(XXX Company) expects you to maintain a clean and polished yet professionally casual appearance. Generally speaking, (XXX Company) has adopted a relaxed dress code as follows:
For men:
Shirts: Dress or sport, knit or woven, must have a collar. Tee shirts, v-necks, henleys or other collarless shirts are not acceptable.
Pants: Dress slacks, chinos, or dockers
Suits: Suits, sports jackets, and/or ties are optional.
Sweaters: Crewnecks, v-necks, cardigans or turtlenecks are acceptable.
For women:
Slacks or skirts; jeans are permitted on Fridays and on days when employees are scheduled to embark on midday travel. Torn jeans are not allowed at any time for any reason.
Business suits
Dresses
Leggings, skimpy tank tops and shorts, and midriff blouses are considered inappropriate at any time. Shoulders and backs must be covered.
You are expected to use good judgment.
________________________________________________________
NOTE THE FOLLOWING BEING ADDED REGARDING FOOTWEAR:
No flip flops or flimsy sandals (i.e., ones more appropriate for the beach or BBQ than the office)
No sneakers (even if they are "hip")
We are lucky to have a relaxed dress code and need everyone to adhere so as not to risk losing it for all of us.
If you have any questions, or are unsure what's appropriate, contact either XXXXXXXXX or me.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Good afternoon everyone,
There seems to be a lack of understanding regarding the (XXX Company) dress code. This email is to reiterate the policy and remind everyone you will be asked to go home on your first offense and not be a part of the Company for the second offense. You should re-read the handbook which prescribes the following:
Appearance and Grooming
The people-oriented nature of our business lends great importance to the professional image (XXX Company) presents to customers, vendors, and other visitors. Therefore, it is important that you present a professional impression in your dress and grooming.
Staff based or working in (XXX Company) office:
(XXX Company) expects you to maintain a clean and polished yet professionally casual appearance. Generally speaking, (XXX Company) has adopted a relaxed dress code as follows:
For men:
Shirts: Dress or sport, knit or woven, must have a collar. Tee shirts, v-necks, henleys or other collarless shirts are not acceptable.
Pants: Dress slacks, chinos, or dockers
Suits: Suits, sports jackets, and/or ties are optional.
Sweaters: Crewnecks, v-necks, cardigans or turtlenecks are acceptable.
For women:
Slacks or skirts; jeans are permitted on Fridays and on days when employees are scheduled to embark on midday travel. Torn jeans are not allowed at any time for any reason.
Business suits
Dresses
Leggings, skimpy tank tops and shorts, and midriff blouses are considered inappropriate at any time. Shoulders and backs must be covered.
You are expected to use good judgment.
________________________________________________________
NOTE THE FOLLOWING BEING ADDED REGARDING FOOTWEAR:
No flip flops or flimsy sandals (i.e., ones more appropriate for the beach or BBQ than the office)
No sneakers (even if they are "hip")
We are lucky to have a relaxed dress code and need everyone to adhere so as not to risk losing it for all of us.
If you have any questions, or are unsure what's appropriate, contact either XXXXXXXXX or me.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Homestar and a Haircut
In 2004, Greg was a one years old boy and Homestarrunner.com only sold shirts for little boys and not for babies. But I bought Greg a shirt anyways, knowing that someday he would grow into it.
And he did.
A Drink with Allen
There is nothing more fun than a drink with Allen
Except two drinks with Allen
Of course three drinks is marvelous
And the fourth is only the prequel to the next drink
The fifth drink is the next drink and then there's the sequel
The sequel is the seventh drink and that's because there was a surprise ending where the sixth drink was kidnapped by my liver!
And then it's one in the morning and time to say goodbye
So then there's the last drink
And the last last drink
And the just kidding this is the last drink
And then I wake up and it's 11:45am and I have to be in Mansfield in 15 minutes.
Good god there is nothing more fun than a drink with Allen.
Except two drinks with Allen
Of course three drinks is marvelous
And the fourth is only the prequel to the next drink
The fifth drink is the next drink and then there's the sequel
The sequel is the seventh drink and that's because there was a surprise ending where the sixth drink was kidnapped by my liver!
And then it's one in the morning and time to say goodbye
So then there's the last drink
And the last last drink
And the just kidding this is the last drink
And then I wake up and it's 11:45am and I have to be in Mansfield in 15 minutes.
Good god there is nothing more fun than a drink with Allen.
Funny Translator
I got an e-mail from Andrew S. with a link to a concept I had played with a while ago, but forgot about. Fun stuff:
HolyJuan,
Just wanted to pass along http://www.funnytranslator.com
It uses Google to translate any phrase from English to 56 other languages and back again, with often funny, usually bizarre, sometimes even insightful/ironic results. My favorite example so far is actually someone complaining about the site: "Ok, I'm sorry to be the curmudgeon but I get the translator part, I'm just not seeing the funny part."
...56 translations later we get:
"Oh, Sorry, I know, I think it sounds great."
Andrew
I tried this one:
"My voice is my passport. Verify Me. "
...56 translations later we get:
"Yu. It. Passport / Embarrassing for them to show."
HolyJuan,
Just wanted to pass along http://www.funnytranslator.com
It uses Google to translate any phrase from English to 56 other languages and back again, with often funny, usually bizarre, sometimes even insightful/ironic results. My favorite example so far is actually someone complaining about the site: "Ok, I'm sorry to be the curmudgeon but I get the translator part, I'm just not seeing the funny part."
...56 translations later we get:
"Oh, Sorry, I know, I think it sounds great."
Andrew
I tried this one:
"My voice is my passport. Verify Me. "
...56 translations later we get:
"Yu. It. Passport / Embarrassing for them to show."
The Best Man Speech
About two weeks before John's wedding, I called his best man and brother, Chris, to ask him if he needed any help with his Best Man speech. Chris said he hadn't started working on the speech, but that if he needed me to look at something, he'd let me know.
The Wednesday before the wedding, I left Chris a message, asking him how things were going with the speech. I didn't hear back so I assumed things were going OK.
The night before the rehearsal dinner I got a call from Chris. He had a bit of writer's block and was well on his way to losing his mind. We talked for a little bit about what he was thinking and he had some good ideas. I gave him some gag ideas but I could tell that wasn't what he was looking for.
But at about 2:30am, he had a break through.
The speech was very well received at the reception and I got his permission to share this with you.
Chris' Best Man Speech
Hi everyone, I'm Chris, John's brother. I want to thank all of you for coming. I also would like to assure you that I am indeed the best man, and not the ring bearer.
Some of you know that John and I are very close as brothers--our parents passed away when we were very young and we pretty much raised ourselves. Now it's true that we had a lot of help from our friends, who also essentially moved in with us. You can imagine then that two teenage boys being "raised" by other teenage boys -- things are going to fall through the cracks. Our neighbors likened this whole situation to living next door to a den of wolves--that is a gross and malign misrepresentation -- we regard you more like a pack of dingoes, and you were delightful company.
Since John and Bekah have met, this has all played out like a Disney fairy tale...no, no, not the one with the dwarves...ok yes that one, but...the one where the beautiful, cultured princess falls in love with the scruffy, uncouth man-boy living in a cabin somewhere and on the way to falling madly in love, sees fit to re-introduce him to those quotidian preambles of adult normality like eating off plates that aren't made of paper, silverware that’s actually metal, or -- what is...an oven. (I share some of the blame here too...Doug reminded me the other day that the oven at our house in Lancaster had not functioned properly for 10 years...we were informed of this by the NEW owners. Brett, again we are terribly sorry and we had no idea that family of raccoons was living in there)
Bekah, you've found a wonderful husband to grow old with--John, you've found a great girl you can grow UP with. I'm sure the two of you will create all new deeply embarrassing, traumatizing adventures to add to the catalog of our family lore --none of which you can ever ever publicly talk about.
Oh, speaking of that John, there's a nice lady from Wal-mart's toddler's department who's waiting to speak with you after the reception.
So I'm proud to welcome you Bekah into the family as a younger sister/den mother (not that there's anything weird about that). And thank you both, and Bekah's parents, for making this a wonderful celebration.
The Wednesday before the wedding, I left Chris a message, asking him how things were going with the speech. I didn't hear back so I assumed things were going OK.
The night before the rehearsal dinner I got a call from Chris. He had a bit of writer's block and was well on his way to losing his mind. We talked for a little bit about what he was thinking and he had some good ideas. I gave him some gag ideas but I could tell that wasn't what he was looking for.
But at about 2:30am, he had a break through.
The speech was very well received at the reception and I got his permission to share this with you.
Chris' Best Man Speech
Hi everyone, I'm Chris, John's brother. I want to thank all of you for coming. I also would like to assure you that I am indeed the best man, and not the ring bearer.
Some of you know that John and I are very close as brothers--our parents passed away when we were very young and we pretty much raised ourselves. Now it's true that we had a lot of help from our friends, who also essentially moved in with us. You can imagine then that two teenage boys being "raised" by other teenage boys -- things are going to fall through the cracks. Our neighbors likened this whole situation to living next door to a den of wolves--that is a gross and malign misrepresentation -- we regard you more like a pack of dingoes, and you were delightful company.
Since John and Bekah have met, this has all played out like a Disney fairy tale...no, no, not the one with the dwarves...ok yes that one, but...the one where the beautiful, cultured princess falls in love with the scruffy, uncouth man-boy living in a cabin somewhere and on the way to falling madly in love, sees fit to re-introduce him to those quotidian preambles of adult normality like eating off plates that aren't made of paper, silverware that’s actually metal, or -- what is...an oven. (I share some of the blame here too...Doug reminded me the other day that the oven at our house in Lancaster had not functioned properly for 10 years...we were informed of this by the NEW owners. Brett, again we are terribly sorry and we had no idea that family of raccoons was living in there)
Bekah, you've found a wonderful husband to grow old with--John, you've found a great girl you can grow UP with. I'm sure the two of you will create all new deeply embarrassing, traumatizing adventures to add to the catalog of our family lore --none of which you can ever ever publicly talk about.
Oh, speaking of that John, there's a nice lady from Wal-mart's toddler's department who's waiting to speak with you after the reception.
So I'm proud to welcome you Bekah into the family as a younger sister/den mother (not that there's anything weird about that). And thank you both, and Bekah's parents, for making this a wonderful celebration.
Air Hockey Table
My parents did something amazing once. Normally the stuff they did was one step down from amazing. It wasn’t their fault. We were not rich and they always bought what they could and not what we wanted. They bought the Sears Atari knock off when they could have bought the original. They bought the TI-99/4A computer when we could have had an IBM. They bought an Apple //c when we could have had an PC. You get my drift.
One year they bought something awesome. They bought an air hockey table. It might have been used (some dents and some larger dents filled with bondo,) but it worked great. We would play for hours. I think I was born with six fingers, but luckily I lost one of them on the air hockey table, so now I look normal.
One weekend, my buddy Russ got to spend the night. Russ and I did a lot of spending the night at each other’s house. It was great when I got to go to his house because I got to watch Monty Python and Benny Hill. At my house, we got to play air hockey.
During one morning at my house, we decided to play a game of air hockey. I’m not sure if it was the corn flakes for breakfast or the pizza we had the night before, but something crept through my bowels and waited to pounce.
During a very hard fought game, I let loose a very quiet, but very deadly fart. It left my butt, snuck through my dirty underwear and pajamas. Right before escaping unto the world it was pulled back under the table and into the fan that sucked air up and through the hundreds of holes in the air hockey table surface. As it was a hard fought game, Russ was bent over the field, intent on winning. The fart was pulled up and pushed right into Russ’ face.
Here is where I mention that Russ had a weak stomach.
Russ puked. First on the table and then on to the floor. The air didn’t mind having puke on the table so it just kept on bubbling through. Yeah. Gross.
I ran downstairs and got mom. We unplugged the table and cleaned it up. Unto this day, Russ will swear that the Devil himself crawled up his nose and pulled forth the vomit from his gut the stench was so bad.
The table withstood the vomit and only lost its value with its legs buckled under the constant leaning and smashing it had to endure. We tried propping it up under some chairs, but they were never even and someone always got the uphill bonus.
My son, Greg, and I play air hockey when ever we get the opportunity. Sometimes, Russ is there with his kid and we watch them play. I know what we both are thinking.
One year they bought something awesome. They bought an air hockey table. It might have been used (some dents and some larger dents filled with bondo,) but it worked great. We would play for hours. I think I was born with six fingers, but luckily I lost one of them on the air hockey table, so now I look normal.
One weekend, my buddy Russ got to spend the night. Russ and I did a lot of spending the night at each other’s house. It was great when I got to go to his house because I got to watch Monty Python and Benny Hill. At my house, we got to play air hockey.
During one morning at my house, we decided to play a game of air hockey. I’m not sure if it was the corn flakes for breakfast or the pizza we had the night before, but something crept through my bowels and waited to pounce.
During a very hard fought game, I let loose a very quiet, but very deadly fart. It left my butt, snuck through my dirty underwear and pajamas. Right before escaping unto the world it was pulled back under the table and into the fan that sucked air up and through the hundreds of holes in the air hockey table surface. As it was a hard fought game, Russ was bent over the field, intent on winning. The fart was pulled up and pushed right into Russ’ face.
Here is where I mention that Russ had a weak stomach.
Russ puked. First on the table and then on to the floor. The air didn’t mind having puke on the table so it just kept on bubbling through. Yeah. Gross.
I ran downstairs and got mom. We unplugged the table and cleaned it up. Unto this day, Russ will swear that the Devil himself crawled up his nose and pulled forth the vomit from his gut the stench was so bad.
The table withstood the vomit and only lost its value with its legs buckled under the constant leaning and smashing it had to endure. We tried propping it up under some chairs, but they were never even and someone always got the uphill bonus.
My son, Greg, and I play air hockey when ever we get the opportunity. Sometimes, Russ is there with his kid and we watch them play. I know what we both are thinking.
Andyman Fund
It wasn't until after I gave $5 to the Andyman fund that it all became very real. I didn't know the guy at all, but it seems that many did or felt a strong connection to the man.
So if you get a chance... drop his family a buck or two. Go to http://www.cd101.com/andyman/ and click on the PayPal link under his photo.
I think some DJs of CD101 said it best... pretend like you are buying him a drink. The same drink he would have bought you, not expecting one back.
So if you get a chance... drop his family a buck or two. Go to http://www.cd101.com/andyman/ and click on the PayPal link under his photo.
I think some DJs of CD101 said it best... pretend like you are buying him a drink. The same drink he would have bought you, not expecting one back.
My Only Andyman Story
It seems like everyone has two or three stories about Andyman from CD101. He was everywhere Columbus and people gravitated towards his exuberantly friendly personality.
I only have one Andyman story.
A few months ago, my buddy Russ and I ended up at the My Morning Jacket concert. Towards the end of the show, I walked off to use the bathroom. The line was only a few dudes out the door and I saddled up. I could sense people lining up behind me and that became obvious when the guy behind me starts talking to the guy behind him. When I turned to look, I could tell it was Andyman. I had not seen any photos of him recently and I missed the part where he dropped 200 lbs. I said, "Hey, it's Andyman!" Without missing a beat, he proceeded to tell me a story as we all shuffled forward into the bathroom. He said that years and years ago, he was standing in line for a bathroom with one of his crazy buddies at a concert. His buddy couldn't wait any longer so he just started pissing in the bathroom all over the concrete floors and on dudes' shoes. All the time he was telling this story, he was laughing and his laughing caught me doing the same. The best part of this was that we were using urinals that were separated by three or four guys and he just yelled over the top of them to finish the story.
I assume that every hour of his life was like that. No, not the pissing on shoes part. The openness. The stories. The contagious laughter.
Here's a tribute video from one of his co-workers at CD101.
I only have one Andyman story.
A few months ago, my buddy Russ and I ended up at the My Morning Jacket concert. Towards the end of the show, I walked off to use the bathroom. The line was only a few dudes out the door and I saddled up. I could sense people lining up behind me and that became obvious when the guy behind me starts talking to the guy behind him. When I turned to look, I could tell it was Andyman. I had not seen any photos of him recently and I missed the part where he dropped 200 lbs. I said, "Hey, it's Andyman!" Without missing a beat, he proceeded to tell me a story as we all shuffled forward into the bathroom. He said that years and years ago, he was standing in line for a bathroom with one of his crazy buddies at a concert. His buddy couldn't wait any longer so he just started pissing in the bathroom all over the concrete floors and on dudes' shoes. All the time he was telling this story, he was laughing and his laughing caught me doing the same. The best part of this was that we were using urinals that were separated by three or four guys and he just yelled over the top of them to finish the story.
I assume that every hour of his life was like that. No, not the pissing on shoes part. The openness. The stories. The contagious laughter.
Here's a tribute video from one of his co-workers at CD101.
Andyman has Died
News spread quickly this eventing in Columbus that Andyman had passed away. Here is the news from the CD101 website:
"It is with much sadness that CD101 announces the passing of John Andrew “Andyman” Davis – programming director and beloved dee jay at CD101. Andy was vacationing with his family in Michigan and tragically drown on Saturday evening. Andy is survived by his wife, Molly, and their three sons Johnny, Oliver, and Sammy.
Andyman Davis started at CD101 in June of 1991 as on on-air personality and became CD101’s Programming Director in 1998. Andyman was the voice of CD101’s afternoon drive program and was voted Columbus’ favorite DJ on numerous occasions.
No further details regarding Andyman’s memorial services are available at this time but information will be announced as it is made available."
On Friday afternoon's, Andyman would do a bit called, "Taking Calls" where he would answer the phones and let people say whatever they wanted for a few seconds. At the end of the bit, he would play the Beer Song by Asylum Street Spankers. My kids sing the "beer, beer, beer, beer, we love beer" part.
You will be missed, Andyman, and never replaced.
John is a Good Friend
My friend John is getting married this weekend. I can only hope that at sometime in your life you get to have a friend as fiercely loyal and genuine as John. John is my friend for several reasons. I will only include the ones that will ensure that his wedding actually happens and that my divorce proceedings won’t:
John wasn’t too upset when I literally stole a girl out of his lap at a party in his house
John has driven when I could not
John has paid when I didn’t have the cash
John held my clothes when I went streaking
John stood by sober when I was a drunk idiot at Outland on SEVERAL occasions
John drove to visit me in Boston and slept in trash on my floor
John has never said no
John has never brought up the fact that I never gave him $200 for the Amiga 2000 computer I “bought” from him.
John lights up a room
John never complains
John will lend you his last dollar and take out a loan if you need another
John loves my kids
John doesn’t mind (too much) when you fall through his roof
John always has a place for you to sleep if you need to crash
John will pick you up at 4:00am from anywhere
John will not hold a grudge
John spent 12 days in Paris with me and we are both still alive
John agreed to pick me up at the Columbus airport and then drove over to Dayton to get me when I fucked my flights up
John bought me doughnuts and it saved me from a bad case of the herpes
John remembers my stories when I do not
John laughs at my jokes
John wants the best for everyone
John is there when you need him and he knows when it’s time to leave
John is a good friend
Good luck buddy and congratulations!
.JPG)
John wasn’t too upset when I literally stole a girl out of his lap at a party in his house
John has driven when I could not
John has paid when I didn’t have the cash
John held my clothes when I went streaking
John stood by sober when I was a drunk idiot at Outland on SEVERAL occasions
John drove to visit me in Boston and slept in trash on my floor
John has never said no
John has never brought up the fact that I never gave him $200 for the Amiga 2000 computer I “bought” from him.
John lights up a room
John never complains
John will lend you his last dollar and take out a loan if you need another
John loves my kids
John doesn’t mind (too much) when you fall through his roof
John always has a place for you to sleep if you need to crash
John will pick you up at 4:00am from anywhere
John will not hold a grudge
John spent 12 days in Paris with me and we are both still alive
John agreed to pick me up at the Columbus airport and then drove over to Dayton to get me when I fucked my flights up
John bought me doughnuts and it saved me from a bad case of the herpes
John remembers my stories when I do not
John laughs at my jokes
John wants the best for everyone
John is there when you need him and he knows when it’s time to leave
John is a good friend
Good luck buddy and congratulations!
.JPG)
Equipped with full breathing apparatus
With budget cuts, "full breathing apparatus" means "holding your breath."
Read the fat removal story HERE.
Read the fat removal story HERE.
Dinner Table Questions
As a youth, I was a curious lad and asked many questions. Usually they were asked as the family gathered around the dinner table so that everyone could hear. For years we had an expanding table in our kitchen that was extended during the holidays. After a time, that table got beat down by four kids and needed replaced. Dad, attempting to get his WoodCraft badge, built a table out of two by fours, butcher block style. I distinctly remember the unevenness of the top and how hard it was to clean off with all the crumbs falling in the cracks. I assume mom hated that table.
As the kids got older and moved away, the two by four table ended up in the garage and a smaller table took up residency. My younger sister and I were the last two left and we would spend our evenings, after work or practice, at the table eating reheated leftovers. In mid-meal, one of us would inevitably begin to eat with our hands and the Barbarian Food Eating Contest would begin to see who could eat the messiest and loudest. We were 19 and 16 at the time.
Getting back on track...
Back when I was seven, while at the table with the family around Christmas time, I asked what was behind the door in the basement. I knew what was behind the door in the basement because my brother and I had been down there that morning looking at the hidden Christmas presents. The door did not have a lock, so dad put a nail in the top of the door frame and bent it down as a make shift security device. Steve stood on a paint can and turned the nail. We looked through the bags of stuff and put them back exactly as we found them, thinking mom and dad actually remembered how precisely the packages were stacked. As we left, Steve said, "Don't say anything to anyone about this." After I told everyone about this, we were told NOT to go in the room and that those presents could be returned. The next day when I went down the nail was not in the lock position and the room was empty. For the next week I feared the gifts had been returned. Christmas morning we learned that they had actually been re-hidden.
Years later I heard our teen babysitter Darla tell my brother a joke about 100 nuns and gasping and tittering. I didn't get the joke. One of the words didn't make sense in the context it was being used. I knew what the word was, but it didn't seem to fit. When I asked them, they said I wouldn't get it. At the full dinner table I got to ask, "What's a rubber?" I then got to tell them where I heard the word and Darla got to hear my mom and dad express their disappointment. Steve explained to me how to keep my mouth shut with a series of punches to the arm.
At our dinner table at home, I wait patiently for those questions to emerge. So far, Greg has only dared to talk about bodily functions and body parts, but I assume that one evening he will blow us away with a ringer.
The joke? It's still a good one:
Head Sister Maria called all 100 nuns in the convent together for a meeting.
"We have learned that a MAN broke into the convent last night."
99 nuns gasped and 1 nun tittered.
"And he left behind a rubber."
99 nuns gasped and 1 nun tittered.
"And the rubber was USED!"
99 nuns gasped and 1 nun tittered.
"And the rubber had a hole in it."
1 nun gasped and 99 nuns tittered.
As the kids got older and moved away, the two by four table ended up in the garage and a smaller table took up residency. My younger sister and I were the last two left and we would spend our evenings, after work or practice, at the table eating reheated leftovers. In mid-meal, one of us would inevitably begin to eat with our hands and the Barbarian Food Eating Contest would begin to see who could eat the messiest and loudest. We were 19 and 16 at the time.
Getting back on track...
Back when I was seven, while at the table with the family around Christmas time, I asked what was behind the door in the basement. I knew what was behind the door in the basement because my brother and I had been down there that morning looking at the hidden Christmas presents. The door did not have a lock, so dad put a nail in the top of the door frame and bent it down as a make shift security device. Steve stood on a paint can and turned the nail. We looked through the bags of stuff and put them back exactly as we found them, thinking mom and dad actually remembered how precisely the packages were stacked. As we left, Steve said, "Don't say anything to anyone about this." After I told everyone about this, we were told NOT to go in the room and that those presents could be returned. The next day when I went down the nail was not in the lock position and the room was empty. For the next week I feared the gifts had been returned. Christmas morning we learned that they had actually been re-hidden.
Years later I heard our teen babysitter Darla tell my brother a joke about 100 nuns and gasping and tittering. I didn't get the joke. One of the words didn't make sense in the context it was being used. I knew what the word was, but it didn't seem to fit. When I asked them, they said I wouldn't get it. At the full dinner table I got to ask, "What's a rubber?" I then got to tell them where I heard the word and Darla got to hear my mom and dad express their disappointment. Steve explained to me how to keep my mouth shut with a series of punches to the arm.
At our dinner table at home, I wait patiently for those questions to emerge. So far, Greg has only dared to talk about bodily functions and body parts, but I assume that one evening he will blow us away with a ringer.
The joke? It's still a good one:
Head Sister Maria called all 100 nuns in the convent together for a meeting.
"We have learned that a MAN broke into the convent last night."
99 nuns gasped and 1 nun tittered.
"And he left behind a rubber."
99 nuns gasped and 1 nun tittered.
"And the rubber was USED!"
99 nuns gasped and 1 nun tittered.
"And the rubber had a hole in it."
1 nun gasped and 99 nuns tittered.
Dirty Little Boy
My family tries to get together every 4th of July. I love seeing my kids interact with all their cousins and transmit all the Ohio germs to Missouri and North Carolina.
While the adults sit around at night, tales of our youth always seem to pop up. This year was no different. We talked about the bus this year.
As kids, we rode the bus to school. We were the first stop of the day on a ride that took an hour. My teachers thought I had horrible hand writing, but actually I was just doing my homework on the bus. The back roads we took were very bumpy and we would sit in the back and time the bumps so that we could get maximum height on the bounces. I remember seeing one kid bounce over the top of the seat and land head-first on the seat in front of him. To make things worse, on the ride home we were not the first ones dropped off as the bus re-traced its route backwards. We were dropped off at the halfway point of the route so I spent about 90 minutes a day on the bus.
The bus stop was about 100 yards from our house off a major highway. On the mornings when we got there early, we'd stand about 10 feet away from traffic traveling 60mph. When trucks would pass we would dare to stand as close as possible to the road to get pushed around by the wash of air. But most days we were late. I'd be putting on my first sock when you would hear someone yell, "BUS!" In a flurry, we all grab 75% of the stuff we were supposed to take to school and head out the door. As I exited the house, I could see the person who yelled now getting on the bus with someone sprinting half way down the road and me trailing behind thinking about how I was going to eat with my lunch money sitting on the counter. With the bus stopped, traffic would begin in build on either side of the road, held back by the bus' red flashing lights. Sometimes it would take all of us three minutes to run to the stop. I assume people changed their drive schedules to avoid our stop.
At the bus stop there was plenty to do. There was always trash that people had thrown out of their cars. Sometimes there would be fast food bags half filled with food and half filled with ants. There was always a dead animal and then usually the things that eat dead animals. When the trash on our side of the road was thin, sometimes one of the daring youth would sprint across the road and see what was in the ditch on the other side. Once we found a gumball machine with the money gone and the gumballs wet and ruined on the inside of the broken glass top. Sometimes there was a Playboy or Hustler in a state of sogginess, hopefully from the rain. The pages would be all stuck together, but careful peeling would reveal bits of pink.
The last option for entertainment was the stop sign. We would climb it and swing from the pole. If I ran around it fast enough with one hand holding on, I could actually make a complete flying circle with my feet not touching the ground.
Then one day my parents got a letter from school. It said that then needed to ensure that I was properly cleaned up when I left the house to be prepared for school. They were mortified and ensured that I was presentable upon leaving the house to catch the bus. Cleanliness was ensured, but they got a phone call a few days later. While what was actually said is up to debate between my parents, the phrase that everyone agrees on was that I was a "dirty little boy." My parents were baffled. They were sending me out the door clean, so I must be getting dirty on the way to school. Some brief interviews with my brother and sister and well as a trip to the bus stop showed the culprit. The stop sign pole was covered in black grease. I'd be sent out the door clean, make a few laps on the pole and my hands and face would be nicely covered. So my parents banned me from the pole.
I rode the bus through the first half of my senior year until Russ got a car and drove me to school. Before Russ had a car, I would sneak in though the high school kitchen so that the my classmates would not see my bus riding shame. By that time, the city school busing department got smart and the bus would actually turn down my road and pick us up in front of our house. This way the bus would give us a five minute warning as it roared past our house and then turned around to pick us up. Even with that five minutes we were still usually running our the door with the driver leaning on the horn.
Here is my tribute to all my bus drivers: Thank you for not beating us when were were late or loud or obnoxious. Thanks for finding the stuff we left behind and knowing exactly what child the crap belonged to. Thanks for not telling our parents and thanks for not making assigned seats. And thanks for giving us a warning look first in that big overhead mirror.
Thanks to:
Mrs. Bibby (Retired after 30 years service. Her last two were with me.)
Mr. Sigler (Paralyzed in a car accident.)
Miss. Budd (She had beehive hair. The bus smelled like cigarettes with her.)
Mrs. Norris (Who was actually just Miss Budd, but married.)
While the adults sit around at night, tales of our youth always seem to pop up. This year was no different. We talked about the bus this year.
As kids, we rode the bus to school. We were the first stop of the day on a ride that took an hour. My teachers thought I had horrible hand writing, but actually I was just doing my homework on the bus. The back roads we took were very bumpy and we would sit in the back and time the bumps so that we could get maximum height on the bounces. I remember seeing one kid bounce over the top of the seat and land head-first on the seat in front of him. To make things worse, on the ride home we were not the first ones dropped off as the bus re-traced its route backwards. We were dropped off at the halfway point of the route so I spent about 90 minutes a day on the bus.
The bus stop was about 100 yards from our house off a major highway. On the mornings when we got there early, we'd stand about 10 feet away from traffic traveling 60mph. When trucks would pass we would dare to stand as close as possible to the road to get pushed around by the wash of air. But most days we were late. I'd be putting on my first sock when you would hear someone yell, "BUS!" In a flurry, we all grab 75% of the stuff we were supposed to take to school and head out the door. As I exited the house, I could see the person who yelled now getting on the bus with someone sprinting half way down the road and me trailing behind thinking about how I was going to eat with my lunch money sitting on the counter. With the bus stopped, traffic would begin in build on either side of the road, held back by the bus' red flashing lights. Sometimes it would take all of us three minutes to run to the stop. I assume people changed their drive schedules to avoid our stop.
At the bus stop there was plenty to do. There was always trash that people had thrown out of their cars. Sometimes there would be fast food bags half filled with food and half filled with ants. There was always a dead animal and then usually the things that eat dead animals. When the trash on our side of the road was thin, sometimes one of the daring youth would sprint across the road and see what was in the ditch on the other side. Once we found a gumball machine with the money gone and the gumballs wet and ruined on the inside of the broken glass top. Sometimes there was a Playboy or Hustler in a state of sogginess, hopefully from the rain. The pages would be all stuck together, but careful peeling would reveal bits of pink.
The last option for entertainment was the stop sign. We would climb it and swing from the pole. If I ran around it fast enough with one hand holding on, I could actually make a complete flying circle with my feet not touching the ground.
Then one day my parents got a letter from school. It said that then needed to ensure that I was properly cleaned up when I left the house to be prepared for school. They were mortified and ensured that I was presentable upon leaving the house to catch the bus. Cleanliness was ensured, but they got a phone call a few days later. While what was actually said is up to debate between my parents, the phrase that everyone agrees on was that I was a "dirty little boy." My parents were baffled. They were sending me out the door clean, so I must be getting dirty on the way to school. Some brief interviews with my brother and sister and well as a trip to the bus stop showed the culprit. The stop sign pole was covered in black grease. I'd be sent out the door clean, make a few laps on the pole and my hands and face would be nicely covered. So my parents banned me from the pole.
I rode the bus through the first half of my senior year until Russ got a car and drove me to school. Before Russ had a car, I would sneak in though the high school kitchen so that the my classmates would not see my bus riding shame. By that time, the city school busing department got smart and the bus would actually turn down my road and pick us up in front of our house. This way the bus would give us a five minute warning as it roared past our house and then turned around to pick us up. Even with that five minutes we were still usually running our the door with the driver leaning on the horn.
Here is my tribute to all my bus drivers: Thank you for not beating us when were were late or loud or obnoxious. Thanks for finding the stuff we left behind and knowing exactly what child the crap belonged to. Thanks for not telling our parents and thanks for not making assigned seats. And thanks for giving us a warning look first in that big overhead mirror.
Thanks to:
Mrs. Bibby (Retired after 30 years service. Her last two were with me.)
Mr. Sigler (Paralyzed in a car accident.)
Miss. Budd (She had beehive hair. The bus smelled like cigarettes with her.)
Mrs. Norris (Who was actually just Miss Budd, but married.)
Perpendicular Speed Trap
As I leave my house in the car, my road dead ends into the main street that runs through our neighborhood. There must have been some calamity with them crazy kids speeding thorugh the area on that main street because the city put up a speed detector with a large readout that says "SPEED LIMIT 25; YOUR SPEED XX" with XX being your speed.
The radar is set up in such a way that it will clock my speed as I slow down to stop at the intersection. My street is perpendicular to the radar so I know they weren't trying to measure speed on my street, it's just a coincidence that is can also tell my speed.
So for the past few mornings, I've been trying to see what speed I can reach before I have to stop at the sign. My record so far is 32.
I'll let you know when I get into an accident or when they set the radar up on my street because of the new speeding complaints.
The radar is set up in such a way that it will clock my speed as I slow down to stop at the intersection. My street is perpendicular to the radar so I know they weren't trying to measure speed on my street, it's just a coincidence that is can also tell my speed.
So for the past few mornings, I've been trying to see what speed I can reach before I have to stop at the sign. My record so far is 32.
I'll let you know when I get into an accident or when they set the radar up on my street because of the new speeding complaints.
Fresh Doug
Years ago, I lived in Boston for the summer. I worked at the Boston Museum of Science and was quickly absorbed into the Marketing department as one of their own. I was always very good at quickly locating the people that like to drink.
Their department and associated friends in the museum would go out for drinks after work on "Thirstdays" to one of several nearby bars. I was invited and was excited to attend.
Within the marketing department was another Doug. There was a very obvious way to tell us apart, but I think it would have been awkward to always call me "White Doug." In the mean time they just called me the other Doug or similar.
On my way into work one morning, I was driving through the outskirts of the city and in the distance I could see a billboard that was partially blocked by a building in front of it. As I drove forward, more of the sign was revealed. The very obvious part of the sign said "FRESH." As I drove the letters "D" "O" and "U" were revealed. Then "G."
FRESH DOUG
For that instant I thought I was awesome.
Then my euphoria was ruined as the last letter appeared. "H"
FRESH DOUGH
The sign was for a bakery. They have fresh dough and like to share that information with possible customers.
At the next Thirsday event, I shared this story with my new friends. As with most my stories, I told it with such excitement that they almost expected to hear that instead of the "H," it was my photo that appeared on the end of FRESH DOUG. Then I got to the end and that was it. They laughed at the story and they laughed at me.
And then from that day on my nickname was Dough and that took care of the Dougs issue.
Their department and associated friends in the museum would go out for drinks after work on "Thirstdays" to one of several nearby bars. I was invited and was excited to attend.
Within the marketing department was another Doug. There was a very obvious way to tell us apart, but I think it would have been awkward to always call me "White Doug." In the mean time they just called me the other Doug or similar.
On my way into work one morning, I was driving through the outskirts of the city and in the distance I could see a billboard that was partially blocked by a building in front of it. As I drove forward, more of the sign was revealed. The very obvious part of the sign said "FRESH." As I drove the letters "D" "O" and "U" were revealed. Then "G."
FRESH DOUG
For that instant I thought I was awesome.
Then my euphoria was ruined as the last letter appeared. "H"
FRESH DOUGH
The sign was for a bakery. They have fresh dough and like to share that information with possible customers.
At the next Thirsday event, I shared this story with my new friends. As with most my stories, I told it with such excitement that they almost expected to hear that instead of the "H," it was my photo that appeared on the end of FRESH DOUG. Then I got to the end and that was it. They laughed at the story and they laughed at me.
And then from that day on my nickname was Dough and that took care of the Dougs issue.
The Phrase That Will Always Piss You Off
I work in an environment where customers enter our place of business and we treat them like guests. We like to have a positive, safe environment for all our guests.
Recently, as I was walking through the building on the mezzanine level, I came upon a man with two children. The children were both between two and three years old. I immediately noticed that the man was setting one child up on a ledge that over looked the first floor. From that ledge it is about a 20 foot fall on to carpet that isn't all that energy absorbent. While this wasn't the smartest move in the world, it wasn't all that dangerous if he held on to her. I started in his direction so that I could stand near him in the hopes that he might get the non-verbal message that he was not exactly being safe.
And that is when he let go of her and turned around to pick up child number two. Child number two had wandered about seven feet away so the man started to walk away from the first child on the ledge.
I hastened forward and said, "Sir! Sir! That is not very safe!"
He turned to me as he picked up child two and quickly stepped back to the girl on the ledge. He paused for a second wondering if he should now stick kid number two up on the ledge. I'm sure at this point he realized that he was not being very safe and made up his mind to take the child off the ledge. I continued to try and talk to him into taking the girl down and I said, possibly using the wrong phrasing, "Sir, I do not think it is wise to put your kids up there."
He put the second kid down and in reaching for the girl he said flatly, "Calm down, pal."
The phrase had the exact opposite effect.
I read once that the phrase "calm down" is offensive in every language. I have to agree. Tacking on a "pal" was just enraging. I immediately went red. Luckily, I am trained in the art of guest services and I focused my rage and turned it into a big smile. I flattened most of my canine teeth in the process. I waited until he took the girl off the ledge and turned and walked away with a "Have a good rest of your visit."
Two or three people in the office got to hear that story in my efforts to cool off. Sure, maybe suggesting that the guy wasn't wise could have been poor word choice. He was probably embarrassed at his actions.
But for that split second after he said "calm down, pal," I could have cared less about him or his kids. That's a powerful phrase. I'm going to try it on a few folks and see if I can get my ass kicked.
Recently, as I was walking through the building on the mezzanine level, I came upon a man with two children. The children were both between two and three years old. I immediately noticed that the man was setting one child up on a ledge that over looked the first floor. From that ledge it is about a 20 foot fall on to carpet that isn't all that energy absorbent. While this wasn't the smartest move in the world, it wasn't all that dangerous if he held on to her. I started in his direction so that I could stand near him in the hopes that he might get the non-verbal message that he was not exactly being safe.
And that is when he let go of her and turned around to pick up child number two. Child number two had wandered about seven feet away so the man started to walk away from the first child on the ledge.
I hastened forward and said, "Sir! Sir! That is not very safe!"
He turned to me as he picked up child two and quickly stepped back to the girl on the ledge. He paused for a second wondering if he should now stick kid number two up on the ledge. I'm sure at this point he realized that he was not being very safe and made up his mind to take the child off the ledge. I continued to try and talk to him into taking the girl down and I said, possibly using the wrong phrasing, "Sir, I do not think it is wise to put your kids up there."
He put the second kid down and in reaching for the girl he said flatly, "Calm down, pal."
The phrase had the exact opposite effect.
I read once that the phrase "calm down" is offensive in every language. I have to agree. Tacking on a "pal" was just enraging. I immediately went red. Luckily, I am trained in the art of guest services and I focused my rage and turned it into a big smile. I flattened most of my canine teeth in the process. I waited until he took the girl off the ledge and turned and walked away with a "Have a good rest of your visit."
Two or three people in the office got to hear that story in my efforts to cool off. Sure, maybe suggesting that the guy wasn't wise could have been poor word choice. He was probably embarrassed at his actions.
But for that split second after he said "calm down, pal," I could have cared less about him or his kids. That's a powerful phrase. I'm going to try it on a few folks and see if I can get my ass kicked.
Ask HolyJuan: Spicy Pepperoni
Hi, I have a package of Pepperoni that I want to make it hot and spicy,, what can I soak it in. Please help.
Pat j.
Dear Pat j.,
Clever. Very clever, MISTER HORMEL!! I know it's you! You and that stinking over priced Tabasco Brand laced Pepperoni in the stinking 5 ounce package. I outed you months ago and now you come crawling back to good ol' HolyJuan seeking advice about how you can make your rotten spicy pepperoni on the cheap!
Well I'll tell you how to make it hot and spicy. Use Frank's RedHot! I use Frank's on almost everything I want to give a nice, but not too hot, spicy kick.
Step One:
Buy pepperoni (you own a pepperoni company so I assume you do not need to buy it. Just walk out on the factory floor and grab a handful.)
Step Two:
Buy some Frank's RedHot (Don't let the Tabasco people see you buy it... that would be breach of contract.)
Step Three:
Put eight (not five) ounces of pepperoni in a plastic bag
Step Four:
Through a proprietary process, infuse the pepperoni with Frank's RedHot.
Step Five:
Sell it for the same price as your other eight ounce products.
Step Six:
Enjoy!
There, I fixed it for you!
Love,
HolyJuan
Pat j.
Dear Pat j.,
Clever. Very clever, MISTER HORMEL!! I know it's you! You and that stinking over priced Tabasco Brand laced Pepperoni in the stinking 5 ounce package. I outed you months ago and now you come crawling back to good ol' HolyJuan seeking advice about how you can make your rotten spicy pepperoni on the cheap!
Well I'll tell you how to make it hot and spicy. Use Frank's RedHot! I use Frank's on almost everything I want to give a nice, but not too hot, spicy kick.
Step One:
Buy pepperoni (you own a pepperoni company so I assume you do not need to buy it. Just walk out on the factory floor and grab a handful.)
Step Two:
Buy some Frank's RedHot (Don't let the Tabasco people see you buy it... that would be breach of contract.)
Step Three:
Put eight (not five) ounces of pepperoni in a plastic bag
Step Four:
Through a proprietary process, infuse the pepperoni with Frank's RedHot.
Step Five:
Sell it for the same price as your other eight ounce products.
Step Six:
Enjoy!
There, I fixed it for you!
Love,
HolyJuan
Clay Pipe Bomb
I’ll just start this out by saying that the names have been changed.
Lewis, Tony and Seth had planned on going toilet papering. They had saved up a large number of rolls of toilet paper and had a pretty good plan of attack. They waited until after midnight and then snuck out of Lewis’ house. Their plan was to cut through some yards, cross a major intersection, hit two houses and then get back home.
After running for about two blocks of back yards, Seth had everyone stop. Seth relayed that they had to go back so he could go the bathroom.
No way. They couldn’t risk sneaking back in and out again. Seth really had to go. Tony said they had toilet paper so he should just go and wipe. Seth said he couldn’t just poop on the ground. Nearby was a stack of clay drainage pipes. They were about 12” long and 5” in diameter. He found one that had dirt blocking one end and stood up on the ground. It was almost perfect as the dirt not only made a plug, but it also helped to keep the pipe standing upright. Seth filled the pipe with fecal goodness and wiped. The pipe was then stuffed with toilet paper and they were on their way.
What happened next is debatable. Some say it was Tony’s idea and others say it was Tony’s idea. I am not here to place blame on Tony. I am here to tell you about the pool.
Next to where Seth filled the clay pipe was a hill and at the bottom of the hill was a house with a very nice in ground pool. From the top of the hill you could easily see how clean and inviting the water was as it was lit and glimmering in the darkness. The boys did not have time to go swimming, but they did have time to hurl that pipe filled with foul into the pool.
It made a tremendous splash and immediately the dirt, or similar, started to swirl and sprout from the end of the pipe.
The boys giggled and ran off to tp.
They tp’d without incident.
On the way back, they looked at the pool.
The casual observer would look and think they were looking at a paler version of the chocolate river from the set of Willy Wonka. The water was very, very brown. They were speechless. Speechlessly, they ran home.
The next day they slept in all morning and wanted to go and check out their tp handiwork from the night before. Overnight, the pool struggled and strained to filter the water, but it only succeeded to spreading the foulness evenly, especially in thick brown ring along the top.
A day later the pool was emptied and professionals came in with brushes to scrub the sides clean.
The pool was filled with water.
The brown ring came back.
Again emptied. Professionals. Scrub. Filled.
A third time the ring came back.
The boys didn’t check out the pool again until later in the summer. When they did go to look for it, they almost didn’t see it because it had been filled in and covered with dirt. The owners had completely given up.
I’m not here to judge. I will not place blame. All I can say is that the statute of limitations has passed and from the satellite view you cannot even tell that a pool once had a home there.
Lewis, Tony and Seth had planned on going toilet papering. They had saved up a large number of rolls of toilet paper and had a pretty good plan of attack. They waited until after midnight and then snuck out of Lewis’ house. Their plan was to cut through some yards, cross a major intersection, hit two houses and then get back home.
After running for about two blocks of back yards, Seth had everyone stop. Seth relayed that they had to go back so he could go the bathroom.
No way. They couldn’t risk sneaking back in and out again. Seth really had to go. Tony said they had toilet paper so he should just go and wipe. Seth said he couldn’t just poop on the ground. Nearby was a stack of clay drainage pipes. They were about 12” long and 5” in diameter. He found one that had dirt blocking one end and stood up on the ground. It was almost perfect as the dirt not only made a plug, but it also helped to keep the pipe standing upright. Seth filled the pipe with fecal goodness and wiped. The pipe was then stuffed with toilet paper and they were on their way.
What happened next is debatable. Some say it was Tony’s idea and others say it was Tony’s idea. I am not here to place blame on Tony. I am here to tell you about the pool.
Next to where Seth filled the clay pipe was a hill and at the bottom of the hill was a house with a very nice in ground pool. From the top of the hill you could easily see how clean and inviting the water was as it was lit and glimmering in the darkness. The boys did not have time to go swimming, but they did have time to hurl that pipe filled with foul into the pool.
It made a tremendous splash and immediately the dirt, or similar, started to swirl and sprout from the end of the pipe.
The boys giggled and ran off to tp.
They tp’d without incident.
On the way back, they looked at the pool.
The casual observer would look and think they were looking at a paler version of the chocolate river from the set of Willy Wonka. The water was very, very brown. They were speechless. Speechlessly, they ran home.
The next day they slept in all morning and wanted to go and check out their tp handiwork from the night before. Overnight, the pool struggled and strained to filter the water, but it only succeeded to spreading the foulness evenly, especially in thick brown ring along the top.
A day later the pool was emptied and professionals came in with brushes to scrub the sides clean.
The pool was filled with water.
The brown ring came back.
Again emptied. Professionals. Scrub. Filled.
A third time the ring came back.
The boys didn’t check out the pool again until later in the summer. When they did go to look for it, they almost didn’t see it because it had been filled in and covered with dirt. The owners had completely given up.
I’m not here to judge. I will not place blame. All I can say is that the statute of limitations has passed and from the satellite view you cannot even tell that a pool once had a home there.
HolyJuan: Guest Poet
I received an e-mail from a reader named Tom who thought that his poem, that was created in 1992 with the help of his buddy Jim, would be suitable for printing on my site. On the day I agreed to do so, he became very ill and will be out of commission for a few days while he pees blood. I believe that this is what they call in the story telling business, foreshadowing. HolyJuan.com is not responsible for the poem's content nor any aneurism you might have reading this:
I don’t give a fuck
I don’t care if you run a mile
I don’t care if you french kiss a vertical smile
I don’t care if you smell like a pile
I don’t care if your shaped like a pear
If you have no hair
Or suck off a bear
I don’t care if you swallow a puck
Or your fingers stuck
Because I don’t give a fuck
I don’t care if you pet the beaver or analy penetrate Mrs. Cleaver
I don’t care if you keep heads in a freezer
I don’t care if you have genital warts or drink bull seaman by the quarts
I have no fear that you ride a steer or have a bumpy gourd stuck in your ear
I don’t care if you’re a candy striper or wear a diaper
I don’t care if your ass sucks canal water or if you know Barry Goldwater
Don’t give a fuck that you’re out of luck or fuck six albino bikers in the back of a truck
I don’t care if you’re a loner or if you knit a sweater for your boner
If you fondle a baker or bury a Quaker
If you’re under house arrest or shave a dinner guest, if you think your smart or smell like an elk fart
If you have cauliflower ear or field dress a deer
I don’t care if you’ve got a good lawyer or an incredibly large goiter
If you eat perch or enjoy a generous cavity search
If you stand naked in an elevator with a machete, or Jell-O wrestle with Mario Andretti
If you act loony or give unmerciful enemas to Rosemary Clooney
If your always on the go, or grab your nose with pliers and scream “look I’m Moe!”
I don’t care if you sing with inflection or go to the Vatican for a free wiener inspection
If you eat a rancid pudding pie or braid the butt hair of your local rabbi
And I don’t care if your uncle wears a hood and his motto is “Hitler bad sausage good!”
Because you suck
And I don’t give a fuck
Bear and the BJ
Time was moving very slowly. I was very uncomfortable. I had another thirty minutes of this. After that there would be explosive violence. Time was moving very slowly.
Previously…
The roofing company I worked for had a couple of trucks that we took on roofing jobs. A large truck with removable, fenced sides for carrying materials. A large pick up truck for tools. And a little son-of-a-bitch Subaru diesel flatbed. The Subaru had more of a wooden back seat than a truck bed. The trucks all used to be white. The guys who did plumbing jobs had newer trucks with newer paint jobs. The roofers got the shit trucks. Well, perhaps we got good trucks and just treated them like shit. Bear was driving the Subaru and I was in the only other seat.
Bear was just passing though town. He was a trucker without a truck. He had been in Lancaster for a few months and with the roofing company for about a month. I’m sure they called him Bear because he was huge and because he was furry. He was one of those guys that told you what his nickname was without mentioning his real one. I'm sure he had something to hide. He was a talker or a sawbitch as Miss Sally would have called him. He had big plans. Driving munitions for the Army. Carrying hazardous cargo for the government. Each “job” was exciting, dangerous and paid a shitload of money. I don’t know why then he was driving my ass to a roofing job in a Subaru for $8.50 an hour.
About $4.25 into the morning, Bear and I were heading down to Logan, OH to the GE plant to continue a roofing job. We had all met at the shop, loaded the trucks and divided up for the trip down. I got stuck with Bear. As we headed out of town, he pulled off the highway into a residential neighborhood I was unfamiliar with. I asked where we were going. “My girlfriend’s house.” We pulled up to a little green house in the neighborhood and he got out with his coffee mug. “Be right back.” I waited. Be right back turned out to be fifteen minutes. Just enough time to fill his coffee cup and get a BJ. He got back in all smiles and laughs. I pretended to be asleep. We headed south to the jobsite.
The Subaru did have one good attribute. It had a choke. And when you were going down the highway, pulling on the choke would emit copious amounts of smoke out the tailpipe. Because the top speed of the Subaru was 58 MPH, many people would ride our ass. I’d yell, “Give um the smoke!” and the driver would pull the choke and bury the unlucky bastard behind us.
A week later, I found myself in the Subaru again. This time with Mark. Mark was a plumber who was working as a roofer until a plumbing job opened up. He felt like the owner of the company was keeping him back and not promoting him. Especially when they hired another plumber without offering him the job. I think he spent his entire life picking himself up and dusting off after some bully pushed him down.
We loaded up the trucks with roofing materials and divided up to drive down to Logan. Mark and I got in the Subaru and headed south. Mark swore. He had forgotten his lunch bucket. He apologized and soon pulled off the highway into a little residential neighborhood that I was now familiar with. I remarked, “Hey, this is the same neighborhood where Bear’s girlfriend lives.”
“Really?” He said “really” in a way that implied that his brain plumbing was springing a small leak. Mark never really got along with Bear. Bear had been picking on guys like Mark since the first grade.
We pulled up to a little green house in the neighborhood.
“Hey, this is where Bear’s girlfriend lives.”
“No, this is where I live.” Mark has a wife and two kids. He mentioned them often.
“Does Bear’s girlfriend live with you?” At that moment, we both realized that yes, Bear’s girlfriend did live in Mark’s house.
Mark got out of the truck and walked into the house. He was only in there for four or five minutes. He didn’t have his lunch bucket when he walked out. He didn’t say anything as he got in the truck. He pulled out and we headed south.
Time was moving very slowly. I was very uncomfortable. I had another thirty minutes of this. After that there would be explosive violence. Time was moving very slowly.
Bear had ridden down in one of the other trucks and I wondered if he would sense Mark walking up behind him with a shovel and bashing his brains in. Or Mark dumping a bucket of hot, liquid asphalt on him. There was also an axe in the tool truck…
We arrived at the jobsite in silence. Mark got out of the truck and put on his gloves and boots. He then went to work. I did the same.
Throughout the day, Mark was silent. At lunch he drove down with the foreman to buy stale sandwiches from the gas station. He ate them alone in the truck.
“What’s wrong with Mark?” others would ask.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
At the end of the day, I made sure I wasn’t in the same truck as Mark or Bear. So I rode in the back of the fenced truck with roofing debris and fiberglass swirling about. Permanent eye damage seemed more desirable than half an hour of silence with Mark or half an hour of bullshit with The-guy-who-is-sleeping-with-Mark’s-wife. We got back to the shop and everyone went home.
I’m sorry to tell you that is how this story ends. There was no confrontation. There was no bashing of the skull or death by black tar. Everything went back to normal the next day. It turns out Mark was still the little kid getting pushed down by a bully or a boss or a guy fucking his wife. And he wasn’t fighting back. The story doesn’t always end with a montage of the little kid leaning karate and kicking the bully’s ass. Sometimes we just keep getting pushed over.
Why do I feel like I’m leaving something out…
Oh! Did I mention that Bear did give his real name to Mark’s wife?
I think I also forgot that Bear had several warrants out for his arrest.
And then there was the part about Bear being arrested as few days later when someone left an anonymous message with the Lancaster police.
In about a month, a plumber position did open up. Mark got one of the newer trucks.
Previously…
The roofing company I worked for had a couple of trucks that we took on roofing jobs. A large truck with removable, fenced sides for carrying materials. A large pick up truck for tools. And a little son-of-a-bitch Subaru diesel flatbed. The Subaru had more of a wooden back seat than a truck bed. The trucks all used to be white. The guys who did plumbing jobs had newer trucks with newer paint jobs. The roofers got the shit trucks. Well, perhaps we got good trucks and just treated them like shit. Bear was driving the Subaru and I was in the only other seat.
Bear was just passing though town. He was a trucker without a truck. He had been in Lancaster for a few months and with the roofing company for about a month. I’m sure they called him Bear because he was huge and because he was furry. He was one of those guys that told you what his nickname was without mentioning his real one. I'm sure he had something to hide. He was a talker or a sawbitch as Miss Sally would have called him. He had big plans. Driving munitions for the Army. Carrying hazardous cargo for the government. Each “job” was exciting, dangerous and paid a shitload of money. I don’t know why then he was driving my ass to a roofing job in a Subaru for $8.50 an hour.
About $4.25 into the morning, Bear and I were heading down to Logan, OH to the GE plant to continue a roofing job. We had all met at the shop, loaded the trucks and divided up for the trip down. I got stuck with Bear. As we headed out of town, he pulled off the highway into a residential neighborhood I was unfamiliar with. I asked where we were going. “My girlfriend’s house.” We pulled up to a little green house in the neighborhood and he got out with his coffee mug. “Be right back.” I waited. Be right back turned out to be fifteen minutes. Just enough time to fill his coffee cup and get a BJ. He got back in all smiles and laughs. I pretended to be asleep. We headed south to the jobsite.
The Subaru did have one good attribute. It had a choke. And when you were going down the highway, pulling on the choke would emit copious amounts of smoke out the tailpipe. Because the top speed of the Subaru was 58 MPH, many people would ride our ass. I’d yell, “Give um the smoke!” and the driver would pull the choke and bury the unlucky bastard behind us.
A week later, I found myself in the Subaru again. This time with Mark. Mark was a plumber who was working as a roofer until a plumbing job opened up. He felt like the owner of the company was keeping him back and not promoting him. Especially when they hired another plumber without offering him the job. I think he spent his entire life picking himself up and dusting off after some bully pushed him down.
We loaded up the trucks with roofing materials and divided up to drive down to Logan. Mark and I got in the Subaru and headed south. Mark swore. He had forgotten his lunch bucket. He apologized and soon pulled off the highway into a little residential neighborhood that I was now familiar with. I remarked, “Hey, this is the same neighborhood where Bear’s girlfriend lives.”
“Really?” He said “really” in a way that implied that his brain plumbing was springing a small leak. Mark never really got along with Bear. Bear had been picking on guys like Mark since the first grade.
We pulled up to a little green house in the neighborhood.
“Hey, this is where Bear’s girlfriend lives.”
“No, this is where I live.” Mark has a wife and two kids. He mentioned them often.
“Does Bear’s girlfriend live with you?” At that moment, we both realized that yes, Bear’s girlfriend did live in Mark’s house.
Mark got out of the truck and walked into the house. He was only in there for four or five minutes. He didn’t have his lunch bucket when he walked out. He didn’t say anything as he got in the truck. He pulled out and we headed south.
Time was moving very slowly. I was very uncomfortable. I had another thirty minutes of this. After that there would be explosive violence. Time was moving very slowly.
Bear had ridden down in one of the other trucks and I wondered if he would sense Mark walking up behind him with a shovel and bashing his brains in. Or Mark dumping a bucket of hot, liquid asphalt on him. There was also an axe in the tool truck…
We arrived at the jobsite in silence. Mark got out of the truck and put on his gloves and boots. He then went to work. I did the same.
Throughout the day, Mark was silent. At lunch he drove down with the foreman to buy stale sandwiches from the gas station. He ate them alone in the truck.
“What’s wrong with Mark?” others would ask.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
At the end of the day, I made sure I wasn’t in the same truck as Mark or Bear. So I rode in the back of the fenced truck with roofing debris and fiberglass swirling about. Permanent eye damage seemed more desirable than half an hour of silence with Mark or half an hour of bullshit with The-guy-who-is-sleeping-with-Mark’s-wife. We got back to the shop and everyone went home.
I’m sorry to tell you that is how this story ends. There was no confrontation. There was no bashing of the skull or death by black tar. Everything went back to normal the next day. It turns out Mark was still the little kid getting pushed down by a bully or a boss or a guy fucking his wife. And he wasn’t fighting back. The story doesn’t always end with a montage of the little kid leaning karate and kicking the bully’s ass. Sometimes we just keep getting pushed over.
Why do I feel like I’m leaving something out…
Oh! Did I mention that Bear did give his real name to Mark’s wife?
I think I also forgot that Bear had several warrants out for his arrest.
And then there was the part about Bear being arrested as few days later when someone left an anonymous message with the Lancaster police.
In about a month, a plumber position did open up. Mark got one of the newer trucks.
Erik Eats Haw Flakes: Of Flatness, Fruit Arises
Who knew that stomach pumping could take a toll on one's body? Well, Erik. Erik knows. So let's disperse with the sad remembrances of the last Erik Eats Lead Paint and move on to something better:
Haw Flakes
What sounds like a cereal is actually something else. Let's take a look.
And since the packages looked so much like fireworks, we decided to light one to see what would happen.
Taste Explosion!
Haw Flakes
What sounds like a cereal is actually something else. Let's take a look.
Inside the package it looks like 10 individually wrapped tubes.
The nutritional information tells us that there is absolutely no nutritional value to this food. I guess that means it is Erik Eats Worthy©.
Erik opens the package.
Erik tries harder to open the package.
Erik gets tired of fucking around.
Ah haw! His knife wielding skills reveals a cylindrical package.
I'm going to ignore the fact that the ingredients on the package say "baw" instead of "haw."
What's this!?
It seems the Haw Flakes people have STOLEN the copyrighted Erik Eats Thumbs Up© logo! You bastards! It is spot on.
Instead of suing, Erik takes the high road and uses the symbol to help him get ready for his Teal'c from Stargate SG-1 Halloween costume.
Erik as Teal'c
Teal'c as Teal'c
Opening the package...
...reveals flat discs of red.
The discs are great for sharing!
Erik Eats...
...and tastes
The verdict...
The nutritional information tells us that there is absolutely no nutritional value to this food. I guess that means it is Erik Eats Worthy©.
Erik opens the package.
Erik tries harder to open the package.
Erik gets tired of fucking around.
Ah haw! His knife wielding skills reveals a cylindrical package.
I'm going to ignore the fact that the ingredients on the package say "baw" instead of "haw."
What's this!?
It seems the Haw Flakes people have STOLEN the copyrighted Erik Eats Thumbs Up© logo! You bastards! It is spot on.
Instead of suing, Erik takes the high road and uses the symbol to help him get ready for his Teal'c from Stargate SG-1 Halloween costume.
Erik as Teal'c
Teal'c as Teal'c
Opening the package...
...reveals flat discs of red.
The discs are great for sharing!
Erik Eats...
...and tastes
The verdict...
The haw flakes discs are sweet and crumbly in the mouth. Delicious!
And since the packages looked so much like fireworks, we decided to light one to see what would happen.
Taste Explosion!
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