Functionally ReTodded

Wow.

So today, on the way to the office during a seemingly routine cab ride, the VERY French driver points to his left to a warehouse looking building and says, “Have you eaten there?”

“No,” I replied. “Is it good?”

“The girls…the are pretty…and wear short short skirts.”

Well thank you, Pepe Le Pue. I’ll keep that filed under Not Very Likely.

So I get to work, pull the pterodactyl’s tail like Monsier Flintstone, and start my day.

Fast forward to 12:45pm, and my co-worker on this job says “So…you got lunch plans?”

“Nope,” I say. “I think I’ll just order something to be delivered.”

He said, “Do you wanna come with me? I’m going to a fast food place, so we won’t be gone long.”

“Nah,” I said. “Maybe I can just have you pick me up something.”

“Seriously,” he said. “We won’t be gone long. My buddy’s got a meeting at 2pm. Why don’t you just come along?”

“Fine,” I said. “I don’t have anything better to do. What the hell.”

And off we were, just having a conversation like two co-workers heading to lunch. Before you know it, we’re driving near the same warehousey place I looked at with the Frog on the way to work. I said “Hey, my cabbie told me about this place today. What’s the deal?”

Co-worker replies “The staff is pretty good looking.”

Whatever dood. I know you’re from Montreal and live in Florida now, but I’m from the Land of Hot Chicks. From college in Alabama to now in Atlanta, I see more hot chicks out and about in a month than most people see in a year.

So we walk in, I take off my sunglasses, and right then my co-worker (from now on referred to as the greatest international host EVER) says out loud to no one in particular something I’ll never forget…

“They weren’t topless last time I was here.”

Sure enough folks. The entire wait and bar staff (all female) were attractive gals with micro g-strings, sheer scarves around their waists (you know, to be discreet) and nothing up top but what God gave ‘em.

(I add that last part because it was refreshing and exhilarating to see a group of roughly a dozen girls working topless and not one of them had bolt-ons. I don’t think there’s a nude establishment at home where the ratio of bolt-ons to naturals is less than 70-30 or worse, and I think that’s as sad as kids today looking at porn on the web instead of stealing playboys from their dads or finding Penthouses in the woods behind gas stations).

We sat down and I realized two things: I was drooling and I my trousers were starting to feel a little snug.

I looked at the menu (as well as the fantastic natural tatas of the drink waitress) and noticed that the prices were damned reasonable. I was able to translate most of the menu and decided to get the grilled cheese with bacon (and side of fries), but…wait a minute…is that? Could it be? Oh my God! Yes!!1!11!!

POUTINE!!!

Oh, my sweet cheesy, gravy-covered mistress.  How I’ve missed you so!

I didn’t even have to hide my excitement since I was in a room full of naked waitresses. It was safe to be excited while sitting, as long as I was looking at the menu, tits, ass, or anything else as long as it wasn’t some girl’s eyes.

And then, a tall brunette with a lei around her neck (how cute and demure, no?) came over to take our orders. The two guys I was with both said “Bon jour,” followed by some other shit and then she looked at me and I said “Bone jerr. Grilled fromage plate with bacon, see voo play. And a puhteet pooTEEN.”

She looked at me, kind of shocked, and said “acsikmhai,hslak laohwrtc c acv htr hrt ac cryac awe vtva rtv?”

I responded by saying nothing and staring at her tits.

She looked at my table-mates, said “srlm cacsaih coas,c ascoihga ac?” and GCE (greatest coworker ever) said “She wants to know if you want the fries on the side AND the poutine.”

“I looked up at her tits/eyes and said “Yes please. I’ll have the fries too, por fuhvore.”

She shrugged (which moved her funbags) and walked away. GCE said “Did you really want the fries too?”

I replied honestly, “Dude, I would have ordered Beef tripe, asparagus, a colonoscopy a two-pack of douches if she’d have stayed at the table a few more minutes. It’s just so refreshing to be in a place with naked chicks and the place isn’t lit like a coffin.”

So our two waitresses came and went, and since I had the seat with my back to the door, all I got to do was watch the ladies go from table to kitchen to register, lather rinse repeat.

And then I saw THE SIGN.

There was a partially obscured poster on the wall that said “MON-TUE-SAT special: 3 Bud Lites and a XXX DVD for $12.95”

I set an appointment in my blackberry for Saturday afternoon after the Boosh race.

I do have a few observations though.

I can’t tell you how odd it is to see a topless chick wandering around with a pot of hot coffee. I mean seriously. You’re in a lunch spot with topless chicks. You can’t splurge and order a coke, you pussy?”

There must have been 80-100 people there having lunch, and there was only one female patron (who happened to be sittin at a table just diagonal from me). All I could think (when I wasn’t looking at knockers) was, “How would I feel if I was the only guy with 99 other women having lunch at a place where all the male employees were wearing banana hammocks…or less?”

The answer? What the fuck do I care? She’s ugly and all the waitresses are topless!!!!

God Bless you Canada. I think I’ll change your nickname from “America’s Hat” to “Land of the topless lunch where poutine is served.”

I know it’s wordy, but sometimes you can say too little.

For the translation of the title, click here and paste in the text and choose the French to English)

I made a few notes during my flight Sunday, and I wanted to share them with you.

First and foremost, WHO FARTS ON AN AIRPLANE?!?!?!?

Seriously.  I understand if that gawdawful smell was coming from the fore lav.  But to just be sitting in my seat and having this green wave of death falling upon me is just pathetic.

Next, the douche reading a novel (in French) who presented the flight attendant with a free drink coupon for his glass of red wine, and didn’t tip her!

Here’s how I roll on the free drink thing.  Whatever your bill should have been if you counted the free drinks is what you pay.  That way, the attendant / waitress / bartender gets a nice tip for being nice.  That dood could have made her day by tipping her the six bucks.  Instead, he looked like a jackhole and I was brought several free snacks and stuff because I DID tip.  So eff you frog boy.

And then there are a couple of comments for the people across the aisle from me. She was an attractive brunette around 35-40 wearing a mini-skirt and sitting on the aisle.  He was a 65ish odd looking dude with a comb-over, denim shorts and black socks with tennis shoes.

She, on no less than three occasions, took out a hairbrush and spent ten minutes each time brushing her hair.

Really? Multiple hair brushings when you’re doing nothing but sitting?  Good God.

And you, you svengali dood.  This guy had his right hand on his woman’s left thigh the ENTIRE flight.  Every second.  All the while rubbing, rubbing, rubbing.  And I’m not talking near the knee.  This was half the time not seeing his hand.

And for the record, I blame that for me ejaculating during the in-flight trash pickup.

I had a couple of 30-ish year old hippie douches, complete with their communist Red Army hats on.  Seriously, who is a hippy anymore?  If you wanna smoke pot, fine.  But do you have to have the whole Haight-Ashbury vibe?

And lastly, there was diva acting broad on the plane.  And she made four bathroom trips during the two hour flight.  Complete with Harry Carey sized sunglasses and a full-length white coat.

That’s right.  You flew from bajillion degree Atlanta to 85 degree Montreal in late July, and you wore a full-length winter coat.  Nice work.

Let me think if anything else caught my attention.  Oh wait.  That’s right.  The girl at the front desk when I checked in Monday was the same girl that was there last time when I was checking out, and I had to explain how I had inadvertantly selected the 44.95 ppv movie that you got for 24 hours.  It’s fun having to look a total stranger in the eye and say "Yes.  I was ordering porn whilst alone in my room.  I meant to order ‘Blowjob Babes 8′ and I accidentally selected ‘24 hours of Airtight Grannies 11.’  Can I get that $44.95 refunded and then pay the difference in cash to have that removed from my itemized statement please?"

Good times.

So here I sit, and I have some observations.

If you are a fat 50+ year old in a wheelchair at the airport with all the signs of advanced diabetes, should you really have a 12 pack of Krystal Burgers in front of you?

Flying on Monday morning means two hours in the Homeland Security line. Fly Sunday at noon and you go from the curb to the gate in under 20 minutes.

I walked into the bafroom to take a wee-wee, and after I washed my hands, I looked to my left and saw this:

My first thought was, how do I get into that thing to pleasure myself?

Then I read the sign and it’s a 400mph hand dryer produced by the fabulous Dyson company. Go try one at your local airport asap. They’re really cool.

Why is it that I never get to board or exit the plane at a gate that’s right next to the concourse? I am constantly at the very last gate in the airport, as I am today.

My flight’s at 12:22pm and it’s a beverage only flight. Look fuckers, this ticket was $1,277 dollars, and you can’t come correct and give me a shitty sammich or something? For $1,200 bucks I could almost have chartered my own plane to Montreal.

Last night was great, although I am exhausted. 1doh had a sleep-over at our house with three neighborhood girls, all of whom arrived with the pink rolling suitcases at exactly 3:40pm. The good part was that my rents came and got 3doh and took him to their house for the night. (And go figure that the cute little bastard went to bed at 7:30pm and didn’t get up until 8:45am today!)

We ordered pizza for them (and their mascot 2doh) at around 6:00pm, and then ran them ragged in the yard, right up until the BIL offered them access to the hot tub. an hour of that and the girls were flat done and in bed snoring by 10pm, which wasn’t NEARLY as bad as I thought it’d be.

We spent the evening in the driveway in camp chairs getting mailed by skeeters, drinking beer and enjoying some fellowship with the neighbors.  A few notes from that as well:

Tony, sorry a neighbor and I took the golf cart down to your house and peed off your deck.  You know what they say when you’ve gotta go…

It’s a small world when a jewish girl that goes to Alabama is best friends with the girl whose dad was a client of my dad’s in the 80’s and was the guy that got me Joshua Tree tickets in 1988 for free with 24 hours notice.

I think a person might want to consider their drinking habits if they fall on their face in the driveway trying to stand up from a camp chair.

So that’s it for now fuckers. I’m gonna end this post so I can browse some porn here at the gate. Seems like it would be funny. Stay tuned…

Last evening, my eldest offspring was having some tummy issues, and she was very, how shall I say it?

Let’s call it aromatic.

Anywho, it was rolling up on bedtime, and 1doh decided that she wanted to get into 2doh’s bed with 2doh and mommy so they could have the bedtime ritual together, that ritual consisting of song singing and teaching the kids to say "Kyle Busch is a douchbag."

So there they sit, and all of sudden GBD notes a hint of something unpleasant in the air and looks to 1doh, who says "I tooted mommy."

(GBD said to herself "Really?")

And then 1doh got an odd look on her face.

She stood up, looked at GBD funny, then said "I think I pooped in my pants mommy," and proceeded to do her best to turn around and pull out her pajama waistband to look and see if she had done just that.

She looked back at GBD in disbelief and uttered "How on earth did THAT happen?"

As you may or may not know, I’ve more than my fair share of run-ins with Charter Communications and their line of residential (non)services. I’ve had near strokes dealing with their Madagascar-based tech support where some dot-head can’t vary from the script for one second to actually listen and hear me say "Hey FUCKO!!! I’m a network administrator and not a monkey feeder at some temple like you, and I’m telling you that IT’S NOT MY GOD DAMNED NETWORK CARD!!!" I’ve gone insane spending two hours on hold only to have some ass-hat hang up on me while "attempting to transfer me" to her supervisor. Of course, I’m sure that supervisor is some dot-head based in Madagascar.

The trouble is, it’s not a Charter problem really. It’s a telecom/customer service problem for many companies in this country. You can thank the shareholders and board members the next time some guy named "Sam" takes your call and you realize that only one of you even barely speaks English.

Offshoring: It’s FAN-tastic!

That said, the wife and I came to the realization yesterday that we were paying WAY too much for our phone and internet services at home. In light of that realization and that our Charter Business contract for internet service had expired, I decided to crawl into the cesspool known to laypeople as "Bundled Services."

I know you’ve all heard of bundled services. You are beaten over the head constantly on TV, radio, magazines, billboards, etc., at all the ways you can save money by letting one company handle your phone/internet/television services. Of course, they don’t tell you that the shit-tacular service you got for just your television will now be shared amongst all of the things you hold dear in your home that aren’t your kids.

But it’s a brave new world out there, and a family doos what it gots ta doos.

So I contacted Charter residential yesterday about bundling our services. I’ll skip the details of that except to say that I worked it out so that we’d save $70 a month, which ain’t exactly ashtray change.

Of course this switch means that we have to:

a) cancel our business internet

b) get a new residential cable box

c) re-program our wireless router

d) return the old business internet cable box

e) have someone from charter handle the provisioning of our VOIP service on site

And most of these items require direct contact with customer service, so you get the idea. This is going to be painful.

Yesterday I got home to a wife that had been on the phone with customer service three times, each consisting of 20 minutes on hold, 30 minutes of retardation with someone that is less internet/tech savvy than my 6 year old, and then an attempted transfer to tier two support and / or a manager that results in getting hung up on, which just lights the fuse for the next call.

So we got the kids to bed and I calmly contacted tech support. 30 minutes on hold and a dot-head with a script later, I was transferred to a supervi…click.

Call back again and get someone from Appalachia, which is a welcome change indeed. He recognized my networking and troubleshooting prowess immediately and deemed my assessment correct, that the modem we were using was still tied to the business unit, and we agreed that I should get a residential modem, have it re-provisioned, and then go from there.

However, one of our old business internet modems worked when connected directly to a computer, but not thru our brand new wireless router. So, at 9pm, I called D-Link tech support. Hello Katmandu? How can you help you?

Fast forward several holds, then a few redundant power cyclings, and we got nowhere fast. I arranged an RMA replacement of my brand new wireless router (in a mere 7-30 days of course), and went to bed grumpy.

By the way, my least favorite tech support instruction is the "Please disconnect the power from the router and wait five minutes…"

People, I have it on good authority and experience that that particular recommendation is complete bullshit. There is nothing that five minutes powered off will do that 10 seconds won’t do. At that point, just hold down the reset button, plug it in, and move along. That five minute thing is just so you might set down the phone for a second and they can then hang up on you.

Back to the story.

I decide to go straight to the Charter office this morning for my new modem, hoping that I can drop it off at home later and my wife can get it configured with tech support and then get off her ass and get some work done (just kidding sweetheart).

I walk into the office at exactly 8am and there are two women at the counter. One is waiting on someone else and the other is waiting on me. After going thru the usual "I don’t see an account in your name" bullshit, we finally are able to find my account information. Never mind that I’ve had charter service for over fifteen years. I’m sure it’s my fault.

Anyway, the woman waiting on me is clacking away with her three inch fingernails and I glance to my right and see the other girl, who is now not waiting on anyone, lotioning up her hands and her ashy arms.

My girl waddles off to find me a modem, and during this time, the other woman starts lotioning her feet.

SERIOUSLY!!

Yes, I know I am at work and that I am sitting at a customer service counter prepared to have direct visual and physical contact with our customers instead of in some back office where no one can see me, but I need to lotion my fucking feet. You gotta problem wit dat?

I manage to push my mouth closed after having my chin hit the counter at this egregious violation of any kind of decorum, and instead look back at the vacant chair in front of me.

Then, I hear the recognizable sound. It elicits a Pavlovian response from me as my head snaps right at the thought of delicious sweet Pringles.

And that’s when I see the retard to my right up to her elbow in the can of Pringles and shoveling them into her maw with the same hand with which she had just finishing lotioning her stinky ashy feet.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!