Dishin’ Out the Hate

What in the hell does “I’m going to take a hot bath” mean?  Is there any other kind? Who in the holy nut shrivelin’ hell takes a cold bath?  A tepid tip toe through the tub ain’t enjoyable on any level.  You might as well piss in a blue plastic pool, and hang out if you’re gonna get down with that type of underground.  I only propose this question because there is a person I deal with on a regular basis who continually informs me of their next move consisting of a “hot bath”.  I just don’t get it.  I know the fucking bath is hot.  I couldn’t care less that you’re dipping your do-goods in high temperature hydrogen and oxygen.  If you start bathing in Oxiclean, then call me – and the executor of Billy Mays’ estate.

I heard a chick recount a story from the previous evening, in which she accosted the employees of a local eatery until she was provided with a fan to cool her and her party down while they ate, drank and were apparently high maintenance-ly merry.  In the midst of recounting her struggle for body temperature equality, she described her opening remarks to the employee luckily enough to draw her table’s card.  She stated that she asked, “What are we? Chopped liver?”  Why anyone would ask for another to compare themselves to finely diced organ meat, I haven’t a legitimate quandary.  I am also at a loss for what “chopped liver” actually is.  To my knowledge, livers are either fried, or they are cirrhotic.  To recap, livers are always fried.  According to my sources, chopped liver is favored by those who believe in the star named after that dude.  In other words, you never know what it costs.  It just depends on who you get it from, and how persistent you are.  You’d have to be pretty persistently nutty to want organ meat ran through a Cuisanart.  I’m all about freedom of eats when it comes to food processing   That doesn’t mean I have to agree with it though.  Back to whatever was and what will be, I am still not sure how mentioning the style of edible organs will give you the upperhand in any situation or argument.  It is my experience, at least generally speaking, that references to a particular organ and its consistency will get you no where without some proof of either.  How did this phraseology ever turn into an emoticon?  Why in the fuck did someone think referencing a Jewish food would be a proper statement of position to call into question the opinion of another?  I don’t fucking see it.  All I know is, if someone starts referring to a fucking KFC menu while arguing with you, you’ve got the upper hand.  “Well, just cause you want to Double Down, that don’t mean I’m going to 3 piece wing it.  My beliefs aren’t just dark meat.  I’ve got a bucket of beliefs that are both original and extra tasty.  If you don’t back off, I’m going to strawberry parfait the other way.”

I fucking hate Harry Potter.  My wife and son were watching it last night.  When they told me we were going to watch it, I thought it was going to be a documentary about that hip, singing cat from New Orleans.  Alas, it’s about some fucking Brit hiding his queerness in a Brittany Spears like uni, while acting like he’s the McCabe’s closest thing to Count Cockula.  I’m not scared of my son learnin’ any witchcraft.  I’m just concerned about having to sit through any more of these movies.  Klingon take me away!

I’ve had Direct TV for about two weeks.  In that time, I have had indirect service twice.  Both necessitated calling the 800 line and pushing enough buttons to sound out the chorus from In a Gadda Da Vida before I could speak to an actual human.  I heard no weird sitar in the back ground.  Of course, dots don’t make sounds. For all I could tell, this customer service representative was ignorant, unhelpful and in the great ole U. S. of A.!  Who says we have to farm all of our ignorance out to other countries?

Yes, I was watching the Yankees game on YES Network during one of these occasions.  A rain delay had just ended, and shit was about ready to get its start on.  Out of nowhere, like a submissive fat girl on $5 all-you-can-drink Thursday, it all went South.  The channel went away, and a blue box told me “(771)” – It was trying to find the signal.  This pissed me off for two raisins.  One, I could not watch the end of the Yankees game.  Two, I knew the dish was trying to find the fucking signal, because finding the fucking signal is its goddamn job.  Trying to downplay the situation by giving me the P.O. Box number of a comedic vehicle for the Jefferson’s maid isn’t going to placate me.  I was chapped like real Harley rider buying butt balm.

When you are actually able to reach a real-live person on one of these automated lines, they start by asking the phone number of the account you’re calling about.  Apparently, these people do not have caller id, or they are worried that random people are going to call up and prescribe people to channels they’re allergic to.  Anyway, I start talking to this chick, and she starts relaying some technical steps I should take to solve the situation.  Prior to calling, I had pushed the reset button.  I had screamed.  I had cussed.  I had threatened to throw the remote through the window.  What else could I do?  This chick claimed that, despite all my efforts, I could possibly fix the problem by pushing some button on a “black box with two cables coming out of it”.  In other words, she was telling me to look for Direct TV’s D.P. piece of equipment.  I looked for a short stint and could not find it.  I went to the front room and looked for the famed black box – Halley Berry aside – and got nowhere.  This chick then started describing the next step to me in a detail that only a diesel mechanic, or HVAC repair man could decipher.  I quickly reiterated to her that I was merely a non-frozen caveman lawyer, and her words scared me.  She continued to describe forth the actions she suggested I take.  I finally had to remind her that I was paying them for t.v., I did not graduate any course relating to the installation of satellite t.v. and I was not some sort of digital Schneider.  Two cables weren’t quite the company of three.  She continued to try to tell me how to perform the equivalent of neurosurgery on my t.v. directly.  I finally told her to suck my digital nuts, and send me a company trained flunky to fix this shit ASAP.  The dude they sent got here within the first hour of the 8 to 12 time frame, and was able to fix the shit in an 1 hour and a ½.  The box them mothefuckers were telling me to look for was behind the computer armoire in the front room.  I didn’t know it was an armoire until my wife told me that it stopped a bullet after someone took a shot at me.  I have Direct TV.  For now.

Well, I had a bunch of other shit but I can’t think of it.  Deal with it. Werd.