Am I right or what? Part 2: John Boehner

You know what really chafes my privates?  The way John Boehner pronounces his name.  In case you haven't heard of him, he's the current Speaker of the House, a position held until recently by Nancy Pelosi.  It seems I can't turn on the news without seeing him and hearing the retarded way he pronounces his name. 

John Boehner is a member of the Republican party, but that's not the only kind of member he is.  He's gone to great lengths to ensure people pronounce his name 'Bayner' instead of 'boner.'  I don't know where he gets off changing the proper pronunciation of his name, but he seems like kind of a tool.  I don't know much about his policies, but he has the kind of douche-y face that kind of makes you want to punch him:

"He had a face only my fist could love"

And it's not just me.  Apparently, he's such a dick, he even got his own Dickipedia entry.  Just look at the gavel he chose:

No, I'm not overcompensating for anything, why do you ask?

He even puts the douchenozzles from the Jersey Shore to shame with his tan.

Tell me I'm wrong

He needs to stop pronouncing his last name 'Bayner', and insisting everyone else do the same.  Here's the reasoning:

I'm pretty well traveled, having visited many cultures and learned several languages, even achieving fluency in a couple of them, and in all of my travels and language studies, never have I ever seen the combination 'oe' even come close to being pronounced 'ay'. 

His Wikipedia page says he's of German and Irish descent, and I'm fairly certain 'Boehner' is German.  German happens to be one of the languages I know, and I'm pretty sure it's not pronounced 'Bayner'.  In fact, if I'm not mistaken, it's spelled Böner in German, and the closest pronunciation in English would be 'Berner' or 'Buurner'. 

The only language I know of that pronounces the letter combination 'OE' as 'AY' is Korean.  For example, the Korean last name 최 is spelled Ch-o-i (choi), but pronounced 'chay'.  That is the ONLY language I know of that has that rule.  And even though he's doing a fairly decent job of changing his skin color from white to leather due to repeated visits to the tanning salon, he will never be Korean.

So, Mr Speaker of the House, please, stop trying to reject your heritage, accept your true name, and next time you're behind the podium, stand up with an erect posture and a stiff upper lip and announce to America and the world: "I am John Boner."

No matter how much it hurts

Everything is trying to kill me

I swear, everything here is trying to kill me, from the people biting my head off for minor uniform infractions to the van we ride to and from work with its heart-stopping static shocks and our driver almost rolling us into a ditch; a co-worker of mine downloading an extreme workout regimen and pushing me beyond what I thought possible in the gym, to my cursed M-16 rifle almost getting me killed me on my way home.

It's bone dry here in Afghanistan, and the lack of humidity combined with our rubber soled shoes dragging over the filty carpets on the floor of the 15 passenger van we use for transportation make for some truly hair-raising static shocks after each ride.  Without fail, every time we step out of the van and grab onto the door to avoid falling out,  there's a series of loud cracks (from skin touching metal and the ensuing electrical discharges) and profanities issuing from the mouths of the crew filing out of the rolling tin can of death.

On the way to work one day our driver almost rolled us into a ditch.  In Afghanistan there are ditches (for sewage and the odd rainstorm/flash flood) along the side of the roads which vary in depth from 3 to 5 feet.  I guess she miscalculated the length of the vehicle and the right rear tire rolled into one of them.  We were all thrown around like rag dolls, and I hit my head on the ceiling and almost knocked myself out on the butt of my rifle.  Fortunately, we all escaped injury, save for a few bruises and almost toxic levels of adrenaline.  The Captain sitting on the seat next to me kept asking if I was alright, because he swore he could feel his knee slam into my ribs.  I assured him I was alright, and if he did hit me, I hadn't felt it.  If our driver had been driving any slower, I have no doubt the van would have rolled right on into it and we would have had injuries a bit more serious than our lives flashing before our eyes.

Even things that aren't normally considered sentient are out to get me.  A few days ago, a shelf attacked me.  It happened when I was working at my desk.  I got up to tell a coworker of a change I had made to a spreadsheet (isn't war exciting?) and that's when it happened.  My skull made contact with the sharp metal corner of the shelf that's over my computer.  I yelped in pain, clutched my head and ran outside.

I thought that maybe I'd just bumped my head and I had made a bigger deal of it than there needed to be (though I assure you, it was the most painful thing I had felt in months).  But a few moments later, I felt blood starting to course down my face.  I grabbed a napkin and applied pressure to the wound, hoping that it'd close shortly, but the worried looks on the faces of my co-workers who had followed me outside dictated otherwise.  "I'm going to have to see a doctor, huh?"  They replied in the affirmative. 

It turned out I had sliced my head open and needed 3 staples to close the wound.  The next day, I dropped my rifle on my foot, almost breaking the bones.  The day after that, I hit my funny bone while I was doing pull ups at the gym, and somehow cut my knuckle.  See what I mean when I say everything is trying to kill me?

Happy (belated) Valentine's Day!

I'd completely forgotten that yesterday was Valentine's day.  I noticed it was February 14th, but that held no significance.  Working 12 hours a day every day, the days tend to run into each other.  I was only reminded by the happy/sad facebook statuses (and a few well wishers) populating my feed when I got back to my room.

I hope you lovebirds all had a memorable day, and if you're single, I hope you celebrated Singles Awareness Day in style.

Like this guy

I also hope you all didn't buy into the corporate brainwashing and get an excessive amount of roses for your special lady.  Romantic gestures are all well and good, but some people (*cough* flower companies *cough*) take it too far.  I was watching CNN, and apparently certain numbers mean certain things when it comes to flower arrangements.  365 roses, I found out, means "I can't stop thinking about you, each and every day") and 999 roses symbolizes everlasting and eternal love.  A dozen roses are fine, but get into the triple digits, and that's just overkill.



Flowers are the worst symbol of love.  Love is supposed to be eternal.  Flowers are temporary.  They die within a few days.  Is that what you want to tell your significant other?  "Our love is vibrant and alive now, but give it a few days, maybe a week tops and it'll be dead."  Screw that.

Take the ridiculous amount of money you were going to spend on the stupid flowers and use it to buy her something a bit more substantial, like some make up, or a cruise or something like that. 

One Valentine's Day, I got my (now ex) wife a potted tulip, some make up from Sephora, some lingerie from Victoria's Secret and a box of chocolates.  And still spent (slightly) less than the $100 some florists charge for a dozen roses.  The tulips lasted a whole 3 weeks, and grew back again the next year.

Of course, by next V-day we were no longer married, so take any relationship advice I give you with a grain of salt.

I have the attention span of a hyperactive chihuaha on crack. Squirrel!

I always set goals and start projects which I soon neglect.  Then a few months later I tell myself I need to get back into (insert goal here).  When I first got to Afghanistan about 2 months ago, I made a resolution to learn Farsi.  I have this audio language course I started listening to on the trip to and from work, which was all good for about 2 weeks, and then I got bored.  That's about the most time I can devote to any one interest or project before either getting bored or moving on to another project.  I swear, I have the attention span of a – hey, look a squirrel!

He knows what I'm talking about

What was I talking about?  Oh, yeah, setting goals and getting distracted.  It's a lot easier to do something when I have to do it, like school or work or if it's part of a routine.  Another resolution I made was to work out regularly.  I've been able to keep that one because I go to the gym almost every day, right after I get off of work. 

Back in the States, I almost never went to the gym on the weekends, because I couldn't force my lazy butt to get off the couch or computer and drive the 3 miles to the gym.  But I work every day here, so I don't have to fight much with my own willpower.  It's gotten to be a routine, and I fully expect to have a beach body by the time I return to the States

YAAGHHHH!  Gahtta pahmp it AHP!

When I was a kid, my mother tried to get my sister and I to play the piano.  It was quite the conundrum, as music wasn't allowed in the house (I guess the early 90s was all NWA or something and my mother thought music was a bad influence).  Since I had nothing to base my interest on, my skills as a pianist never really took off.  But now I kind of wish I had that ability.  I hear all these songs with piano riffs in them, and I really want to reproduce them, so I promised myself that once I get back home, I'm going to buy a keyboard and start re-learning the piano.  Of course, that will probably last for all of 2 weeks as well, before it's relegated to the garage in the active position of dust collector.

Only to be found by this squirrel, who will get better at it than I ever will

My inability to catch onto certain things doesn't help much either.  I've tried to get into physical activities like dancing, but either I'm the clumsiest person on Earth or I just completely lack the ability to pick up something new if it's not in my muscle memory.  I roller bladed as a kid, so when I tried ice skating as an adult, I picked it up in a matter of minutes. 

I tried skiing and snowboarding last year, both once, and after a day of crashes and falls, I can say with complete certainty that they're not for me.  People told me I just needed practice, but it didn't seem like I was getting anywhere after 6 straight hours, and I really didn't want to fall on my face again.  However, that doesn't preclude me from all winter sports.  Give me a sled with some kind of control mechanism (like brakes), and I'll take that thing down a black diamond.

I don't know how to end this post, so here's another picture of a squirrel.

Hello, ladies

Theory of Temporal Relativity

We've all been there.  There are 30 minutes left on the clock before your shift ends and you can go home.  You resolve not to watch the clock, because time always drags ass when you do.  An hour later, you look back at the clock and to your great surprise and dismay, only 5 minutes have passed!  Inversely, whenever you're doing something light and enjoyable, time seems to fly by.  Why is this?

This conundrum has stumped scientists for millenia, but today I, your humble blogger, calling upon the tremendous ideas of the great Albert Einstein, will attempt to solve this enigma once and for all.

This is the face of a man who will simply not put up with your shit

Here are the facts:

1) Einstein's theory of relativity states that the closer you get to something heavy (of great mass), the slower time seems to go.  Part of the theory, anyway.  I think.  I saw it on a Stephen Hawking PBS special or something.

2) Einstein was German

3) The word 'schwer' in German can mean both 'heavy' and 'difficult'

Therefore, we can safely accept that Einstein, being the confusing, two-meaning German wordsmith he was, may have in fact meant that the closer you get to something difficult, the slower time seems to pass.

So it's not too much of a stretch to assume that he was not only thinking of black holes when he came up with his famous and revolutionary theory, but also of you, my loyal readers, sitting in your cubicle, at your desk (or waiting tables, or whatever it is that you do), wondering why time seems to slow down the closer you get to being released for the day.

Why do you think I used the word 'light' (in the first paragraph) to describe things you enjoy doing?  Because it's the opposite of 'heavy'!  That's precisely why time seems to fly so fast on your break or when you're on vacation.


He's just laughing at your misery

You heard this revolutionary idea here first, folks.  Just in case someone tries to steal my idea and patent it for themselves, much like Alexander Graham Bell did with the telephone, or Thomas Edison with the lightbulb.  I'm not kidding.  You can read about it here.  



To the spandex-wearing men at the gym: please cease and desist

Dear skinny Asian guy with glasses at the gym

First of all, I admire your persistent efforts to show up at the gym every day, in a valiant attempt to strengthen those noodle-thin arms you possess.  I must commend you on your lithe muscular lower half and rounded glutes any female would be proud to call her own.  I cannot, however, in any good conscience, allow you to continue the wear of black spandex shorts (and not much else) you are so fond of, which do nothing to abscond your pendulous set of family heirlooms swinging semi-freely between the aforementioned panther-like lower extremities.  No one needs to see that.

Your T-shirt, which I can only assume to be a Marine-issue olive green (because every other Marine in the joint is wearing one of the exact same color) does nothing to conceal your manhood.  If you are in fact a Marine, you would be the weakest one I've ever seen, and would probably be kicked out for breaking the dress code.  Every other Marine there is wearing shorts that do not reveal the naughty bits; would you please do the same?   

I have seen others, yea, from far flung nations of the continent of Europe, wearing shorts made of the same revealing material but of the neon green variety, and before passing judgment, I must also take into account that they don't know any better; as we all know that the 80's didn't arrive in Europe until 1996.  Newer advances in fashion and technology have likewise experienced similar delays, but you, you are American and should know better.  I know this for a fact because I heard you speaking fluent American English with your gym-appointed trainer.  You have had ample occasion to change your wardrobe, therefore I am left with no choice but to issue the following:

By order of the fashion police, you have 24 hours from the receipt of this letter, to begin wearing real shorts that don't cling to your legs, or if you unwisely insist on wearing Spandex, at least put another pair of real shorts on over them. 

You are hereby warned, that if you continue to break the fashion laws, I will have no choice but to issue you another strongly worded letter and see that all of my friends know of your plight and ridicule you accordingly.

Keyboards

A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a bluetooth keyboard for my smartphone so I wouldn't have to lug around my laptop everywhere I went.  I wanted something I could carry around in my pocket.  I considered getting a netbook, but was soon advised against it.  Tim (a guy I work with) said it was a bad idea to get a small laptop with pitiful processing power which was almost as expensive as a regular laptop, and persuaded me instead to get a full sized folding keyboard for my Droid.

When it arrived, I was surprised how big it was.  It folds in half, but even so, I can barely fit it in my cargo pocket.  My buddy Warren asked me if I could type without looking at the keyboard (the answer is not very well) and if so, why I hadn't bought one of those laser projection keyboards, as they take up less space.  I replied that I didn't trust them, as they seem to run on black magic and hocus pocus.  Honestly, how does the laser know where your fingers are supposed to be?  I'm going to leave well enough alone.

Pictured: pure evil

Now I just need to figure out how to connect the keyboard to my phone wirelessly so I can write these posts at my leisure, if I ever get a chance to read the excessively long and confusing instruction pamphlet.  Maybe I'm just getting old and technology's starting to confuse me.  Before you know it, I'm going to start carrying around butterscotch candies in my pocket, wear my pants under my armpits and yell at people to stay off my lawn before I come out there and beat their little punk asses with my shillelagh.  Damn kids these days with their Pokey Men and their Rascal scooters.  No respect for their elders.

The great Twizzler crisis of 2011

Being deployed deprives you of certain things you took for granted.  Kind of like how in the dystopian future in 'the Book of Eli', chapstick is worth its weight in gold.  A simple object or substance, which, in and of itself, isn't worth very much, experiences extreme value inflation if it's nowhere to be found.  For me, that item was Twizzlers.

Ambrosia of the gods

I try to keep my family and friends abreast of my experiences here in Afghanistan via weekly emails.  Many of them have urged me to let them know if there was anything I ever needed or wanted, and they'd get me a care package out here lickety split.  And up until last week, I hadn't really asked for anything specific.  Just snacks, magazines, stuff like that.

But seven weeks into my deployment, all was not well.  I'd become listless of late.  Life just didn't have that spark anymore.  Then one day I saw a coworker of mine eating some Twizzlers at his desk.  At that moment, I realized my lack of lust for life (say that 5x fast) was due to a diet low in Twizzlers.  I hadn't had any in so long, it was affecting me.  I needed some now.  And I'll tell you why.

What happens is the One True God grows them on bushes in the Twizzle fields using an incantation that would kill us mere mortals if it were to hit our puny eardrums.  He then proceeds to wrap them in plastic and magic them down to your local superstore where whatever redneck cashier your Walmart has rescued from welfare that week proceeds to ring them up and pass them along to you, the fortunate consumer.  You proceed to ingest this finery in the vain hope that your obviously overmatched taste buds can somehow grasp the delectable intricacies they are suddenly faced with.  Is that Cherry Flavor number 5?  Why yes, yes it is.  As your tongue tries to process that amazing bit of information, your mind struggles to wrap itself around the wonder that is happening in your mouth.  And just as you think that all good things must come to an end, the last remaining Twizzler in the package surprises you with a conjoined friend.  You down them both, and all is well with the world.

So when I sent out my weekly update email, I asked the roughly 200 people in the 'To' field to send me some Twizzlers.  I hinted at my desperation and possible malnutrition.  I hit Send, hoping to be inundated with the delectable red ropes.  I'd been to the shop on base on previous occasions, and while they had a candy section, never had I seen any Twizzlers.  The day after I sent the email, I visited the store, and what did I happen to come across but an entire section of the stuff.

The rays emanating from the package is a graphical representation of the music produced by an angelic choir

Needless to say, I bought the store's entire supply, and then rushed back to the barracks to send out a retracting email.  Here is that email:

"Everyone!  I've just received an urgent update regarding the Twizzler crisis of 2011.

If you recall my last email, I asked you to send me Twizzlers, lots and lots of Twizzlers.  I was hoping for roughly a metric buttload, in every color of the spectrum and flavor of the rainbow.  Well, if you haven't already sent any, have no fear!  It has been revealed to me that the shop does in fact carry them and there is no need for you to waste your hard-earned money on shipping them out to me.  I don't know why they decided to hide their Twizzler supply from me by placing them in a corner of the candy rack where I would be unable to see them very easily. Maybe some wise soul with tons of foresight went ahead and did as I did, buying the store's entire supply.  I now have enough to keep myself and the family of elves that live under my bed sated with red sugary goodness for the rest of our days.

If you have already gone out and overnighted 5 lbs of the stuff to me, have no fear, as one can never have too many Twizzlers.  The elves thank you.  In fact, their king has decreed that the unit of currency used in all forms of trade, both domestic and between their kingdom and the kingdoms under far distant beds in the room be in the form of Twizzlers."


After sending the email, I proceeded to dig into the booty.  I was sick the next morning, but it was worth it.  I cherished every delicious piece of red sugary goodness.

I shudder to think how many thousands of collective dollars would have been needlessly spent on the greedy postal service if I hadn't sent the email.  $20 in postage for a 4 lb box that wont arrive for 2 weeks?  No thank you.