Yeah, I'm pissed. Pissed about the Astros leaving an unheard of number of baserunners stranded and thus get swept in their first ever World Series appearance. Ensberg: how the fuck are we supposed to win a game when you left your balls in St. Louis? I'm pissed that asshole free agent bandwagon fans love to talk shit to me for the sole purpose of pissing me off. I'm pissed that SBC can't get something so simple like automated password reset right.
While the first incident spawned the two subsequent incidents let me tell you: Fuck SBC and fuck these buttmunches doing contract work for them in India.
First of all, SBC's simple automated password reset system doesn't work at all. How hard can it be to design something so ubiquitous in today's technological world that actually works properly? Fuck you SBC... you are cutting too many corners. And when another near-monopoly comes and blankets SF with free wifi (hint: Google), thus effectively diminishing your profit margins I hope all your VPs die and their Pac Heights burn to the fucking ground. Fuck you cunts.
Next, I want to strangle everyone of these Indian low rent tech support reps I get on the phone whenever I have to reset a goddamn password. My problem is not the fact that you get to buy fancy Hondas and Nissans and show off to Sari wearing females because you landed a relatively high paying job. I don't have a problem with your ethnicity nor your desire to improve your financial status. Everyone is entitled to that right. I have a problem with the coyness you display on the phone with me as well as your blatant disregard for making your "customers" comfortable. Fuck you too.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Rita Approaches
In the past 12 hours I've learned more about hurricanes than I'd like to admit. I've learned that hot air fuels these storms of doom, that when they hit land they sometimes split into several deadly tornadoes, and most shockingly, Rita, is the third most powerful storm ever recorded in the Atlantic Ocean.
Houston, stands in Hurricane Rita's patch of destruction. The country hasn't seen a hurricane hit land as a category 5 since Andrew in 1992. At at wind speeds of 175mph, Rita appears more dangerous than anything the Texas or Louisiana coast has ever seen --even more potent than Galveston's storm in 1900 (155 mph) or NOLA's heartbreaker (Katrina, which was only a cat 4 at landfall) from merely three weeks ago.
I'm scared shitless.
My parents, residing in my boyhood home, have stubbornly, yet confidently decided they're going to stay put (for now at least). My dad has assured me that he'll make the most prudent decisions about their safety --a statement which I have complete faith in. And it looks as if they'll be following city recommendations on what to do. I'm just horrified that if that recommendation comes too late, it might be too late to leave.
The decision to leave is a tough one anyways. I mean, where would they go anyways? They can't board a plane to come here since I'm pretty sure all flights are booked. They don't really have anyone to stay with in Dallas, Austin, or San Antonio. And, even if they did who's to say that those cities aren't along Rita's path also? It's just too early to tell.
Also, all hotels in most of the state appear to be booked up. Friends have informed me that traffic is moving at a rate of 3.3 miles per hour. What if they run out of gas? It's not like you can pull over and fill up --gas stations are tapped out.
I can't even call them as I keep getting "All circuits are busy messages". I have to leave text msgs for them to call me back.
And worst of all I can't do anything about it as I'm in fucking California.
All I can do is pray for their safety...
Houston, stands in Hurricane Rita's patch of destruction. The country hasn't seen a hurricane hit land as a category 5 since Andrew in 1992. At at wind speeds of 175mph, Rita appears more dangerous than anything the Texas or Louisiana coast has ever seen --even more potent than Galveston's storm in 1900 (155 mph) or NOLA's heartbreaker (Katrina, which was only a cat 4 at landfall) from merely three weeks ago.
I'm scared shitless.
My parents, residing in my boyhood home, have stubbornly, yet confidently decided they're going to stay put (for now at least). My dad has assured me that he'll make the most prudent decisions about their safety --a statement which I have complete faith in. And it looks as if they'll be following city recommendations on what to do. I'm just horrified that if that recommendation comes too late, it might be too late to leave.
The decision to leave is a tough one anyways. I mean, where would they go anyways? They can't board a plane to come here since I'm pretty sure all flights are booked. They don't really have anyone to stay with in Dallas, Austin, or San Antonio. And, even if they did who's to say that those cities aren't along Rita's path also? It's just too early to tell.
Also, all hotels in most of the state appear to be booked up. Friends have informed me that traffic is moving at a rate of 3.3 miles per hour. What if they run out of gas? It's not like you can pull over and fill up --gas stations are tapped out.
I can't even call them as I keep getting "All circuits are busy messages". I have to leave text msgs for them to call me back.
And worst of all I can't do anything about it as I'm in fucking California.
All I can do is pray for their safety...
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Stupid Drunk Games
Yesterday afternoon I hurredly fired off some bullshit emails to give my collegues the impression that I was still toiling away at some bullshit task.
I threw on some rags, kissed my daughter on the cheek, and jumped in the ride.
Detination: the city
Agenda: Watch the Monday Night Football doubleheader and get absolutely blitzed.
It didn't matter where or with who. As long as the games are shown and drinks keep coming, I'll be happy. Since I don't get out much any more I have to make the most each precious opportunity --to keep sane.
I get ahold of G and my new drinking buddy S. Although S whines about being broke and having to save up for an upcoming bachelor party, he agrees to "have a drink or two". G is always down. Don't these fuckers understand Monday night in a bar watching football while throwing down Jamesons and spitting game at hoes represents the last vestige of youth and irresponsibility for me??
We begin the evening at the Chieftain, our safe home bar I guess. We order pitchers of their special, Pilsner Urquell (with a free order of wings) and get down to business. Eating, drinking, watching football, whispering sweet nothings about nasty sex acts to the any half-decent woman who wants to listen... The place is filled with squares from the OracleWorld conference so our increasingly rambunctious behavior induces non-approving glances from many patrons. We decide we need to go somewhere a little edgier.
Boo yah... we end up at Rich's 93 hanging amongst a plethora of San Francisco's shadiest hustlers and twenty dollar whores. Now that's more like it --not a single OracleWorld tote bag in sight. While G plays in his weekly pool league in the rear of the bar, S and I try to go pint for pint. Newcastle's the poison tonight. I curse as I realize I just lost a few c-notes due to Joe Horn's idiot play near the end zone (while stretch to get the ball over the plane of the goal line he fumbles the ball which results in a touch back) --in effect keeping the total under 43.5 (I had the over). Fuck betting on NFL.
I notice I'm always about half a pint ahead of S. This is due mainly to the fact he can't stop recounting stories about his deprived childhood in upstate New York. All those summers spent in Canadian hockey camps must of taught him to drink like a pussy too. I call him out. He obliges and downs his beer grudgingly. After a few pints and a few more tales of youthful disobedience the fucker decides to call me out.
"You think you're a tough guy?", he challenges. Not being accustomed to hanging with slow drinking white boys, I answer back. "Hellz jeah, whats up??", I accept his challenge. He pushes his forearm again mine and in between he places a lit cigarette. Damn.. these crackers are crazy. I'm lit from the drink and feel as if I could beat the shit out of anyone.. plus my body is almost numb from it. I feel a warm sensation burning the hairs on my arm.. no biggie. The damn thing burns down to the filter. We both laugh and agree that wasn't shit.. just a stupid drunk game.
The night comes to a close, I stumble towards to BART station and some how get home in one piece. I drink half a gallon of gatorade and pass out on the couch.
This morning I'm staring at my arm in disbelief. It looks as if someone bit a off quarter-sized chunk of my forearm. Disgusting. It even obvious that it came from a fucking stogie. Looks like I'll be wearing long sleeves the next month or so. Never again.
I threw on some rags, kissed my daughter on the cheek, and jumped in the ride.
Detination: the city
Agenda: Watch the Monday Night Football doubleheader and get absolutely blitzed.
It didn't matter where or with who. As long as the games are shown and drinks keep coming, I'll be happy. Since I don't get out much any more I have to make the most each precious opportunity --to keep sane.
I get ahold of G and my new drinking buddy S. Although S whines about being broke and having to save up for an upcoming bachelor party, he agrees to "have a drink or two". G is always down. Don't these fuckers understand Monday night in a bar watching football while throwing down Jamesons and spitting game at hoes represents the last vestige of youth and irresponsibility for me??
We begin the evening at the Chieftain, our safe home bar I guess. We order pitchers of their special, Pilsner Urquell (with a free order of wings) and get down to business. Eating, drinking, watching football, whispering sweet nothings about nasty sex acts to the any half-decent woman who wants to listen... The place is filled with squares from the OracleWorld conference so our increasingly rambunctious behavior induces non-approving glances from many patrons. We decide we need to go somewhere a little edgier.
Boo yah... we end up at Rich's 93 hanging amongst a plethora of San Francisco's shadiest hustlers and twenty dollar whores. Now that's more like it --not a single OracleWorld tote bag in sight. While G plays in his weekly pool league in the rear of the bar, S and I try to go pint for pint. Newcastle's the poison tonight. I curse as I realize I just lost a few c-notes due to Joe Horn's idiot play near the end zone (while stretch to get the ball over the plane of the goal line he fumbles the ball which results in a touch back) --in effect keeping the total under 43.5 (I had the over). Fuck betting on NFL.
I notice I'm always about half a pint ahead of S. This is due mainly to the fact he can't stop recounting stories about his deprived childhood in upstate New York. All those summers spent in Canadian hockey camps must of taught him to drink like a pussy too. I call him out. He obliges and downs his beer grudgingly. After a few pints and a few more tales of youthful disobedience the fucker decides to call me out.
"You think you're a tough guy?", he challenges. Not being accustomed to hanging with slow drinking white boys, I answer back. "Hellz jeah, whats up??", I accept his challenge. He pushes his forearm again mine and in between he places a lit cigarette. Damn.. these crackers are crazy. I'm lit from the drink and feel as if I could beat the shit out of anyone.. plus my body is almost numb from it. I feel a warm sensation burning the hairs on my arm.. no biggie. The damn thing burns down to the filter. We both laugh and agree that wasn't shit.. just a stupid drunk game.
The night comes to a close, I stumble towards to BART station and some how get home in one piece. I drink half a gallon of gatorade and pass out on the couch.
This morning I'm staring at my arm in disbelief. It looks as if someone bit a off quarter-sized chunk of my forearm. Disgusting. It even obvious that it came from a fucking stogie. Looks like I'll be wearing long sleeves the next month or so. Never again.
It's Been A Long Time...
I shouldn't have left you without a dope rhyme to step to...
Yeah, I know, that was lame.
Due to my utterly hectic lifestyle I no longer have time to transcribe my precious thoughts in this here weblog. By no means am I joyous about that. But here's some kewl-ass links (credit to tmmb):
Get a human every time
Ashton Kutcher's phone hacked
How about the recipe for the Chik-fil-a chicken sandwich:
CHICKEN SANDWICH LIKE CHICK-FIL-A
1 egg
1 cup milk
2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, halved
1 cup flour
2 1/2 teaspoons powdered sugar
2 tablespoons salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
3 cups peanut oil
4 plain hamburger buns
2 tablespoons melted butter
8 dill pickle slices
Mix together the egg and milk. Place the chicken in this mixture, and let sit for at least an hour.
While the breasts are sitting, mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and pepper.
Once the sitting is done, dredge in the flour. (For ourselves and our favorite customers, after the first dredging, we would put them back in the milk bath for a few seconds, and re-dredge! This is not company policy, however!)
Place the Peanut oil in a deep fat fryer, and bring up to a high heat.
Once up to 375 F., gently drop chicken into the oil, and let cook until golden brown. (This is for those of us who do not have a pressure cooker. If you do, follow the note below!)
Lightly butter the buns, and grill until heated through. Place two pickles on each bun, and place a hot breast on each!
Note: Chick-Fil-A actually uses a Pressure Fryer (not a pressure cooker) to cook the Filets in. If you have one, use the peanut oil according to the instructions for frying in it. Desired heat is 400 F. Once steam starts shooting through, cook for about 4 minutes.
Servings: 4
Home Cookin, Chick-Fil-A (Posted By Former Employee)
Yeah, I know, that was lame.
Due to my utterly hectic lifestyle I no longer have time to transcribe my precious thoughts in this here weblog. By no means am I joyous about that. But here's some kewl-ass links (credit to tmmb):
Get a human every time
Ashton Kutcher's phone hacked
How about the recipe for the Chik-fil-a chicken sandwich:
CHICKEN SANDWICH LIKE CHICK-FIL-A
1 egg
1 cup milk
2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, halved
1 cup flour
2 1/2 teaspoons powdered sugar
2 tablespoons salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
3 cups peanut oil
4 plain hamburger buns
2 tablespoons melted butter
8 dill pickle slices
Mix together the egg and milk. Place the chicken in this mixture, and let sit for at least an hour.
While the breasts are sitting, mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and pepper.
Once the sitting is done, dredge in the flour. (For ourselves and our favorite customers, after the first dredging, we would put them back in the milk bath for a few seconds, and re-dredge! This is not company policy, however!)
Place the Peanut oil in a deep fat fryer, and bring up to a high heat.
Once up to 375 F., gently drop chicken into the oil, and let cook until golden brown. (This is for those of us who do not have a pressure cooker. If you do, follow the note below!)
Lightly butter the buns, and grill until heated through. Place two pickles on each bun, and place a hot breast on each!
Note: Chick-Fil-A actually uses a Pressure Fryer (not a pressure cooker) to cook the Filets in. If you have one, use the peanut oil according to the instructions for frying in it. Desired heat is 400 F. Once steam starts shooting through, cook for about 4 minutes.
Servings: 4
Home Cookin, Chick-Fil-A (Posted By Former Employee)
Friday, May 20, 2005
A Funny thing Happened
Yesterday, after our weekly staff meeting I was relieved to discover I had received no emails for about two hours. A little weird, but sweet considering I've been bombarded as of late. A collegue suddenly pops his head above the cubicle wall and says that a bunch of his emails to me were getting returned as "undeliverable". Shocked as hell, I take a look in the GAL and find that my name is missing. I call a friend who has access to view Active Directory objects and he confirms my fears.
My email address has been deleted off the corporate mail servers.
WTF??? So I'm sitting at my desk absolutely horrified. I'm busted. I'm about to get fired. But for what? Pr0n, warez, talking dirty to chicks online? Maybe they caught my hand in the cookie jar viewing classified data. I'm screwed. I start deleting "evidence" on my PC, 0-day exploits, NSFW pics of Jessica Alba, chatlogs, etc. I walk around and try to see through the expressions of my teammates. Nothing. I call the help desk and demand an explanation and insist they re-enable my account. Nogo, they can't do anything until the next business day. Fuck.
Then I think back to the meeting and that Panda Garden chinese food I ate in there. It came with a fortune cookie. The cookie said something to the effect of something strange will happen. Don't be paranoid about it.
What are the chances? I don't believe in the fortunes and whutnot but this has got to be a sign from up above. Without delay, I'm relieved.
Besides, I don't have any pr0n on my office system. The company can care less about warez, in fact they've provided many warez to us. 0-day exploits and hax0r tools are supposed to be on my PC. I'm a security engineer for chrissakes. And as far as trying to fuck hoes online, uhmm... no comment.
And just as I thought. It was nothing. Most likely some lackey windows monkey accidental fat fingering some buttons resulting in deletion of my account. :-)
My email address has been deleted off the corporate mail servers.
WTF??? So I'm sitting at my desk absolutely horrified. I'm busted. I'm about to get fired. But for what? Pr0n, warez, talking dirty to chicks online? Maybe they caught my hand in the cookie jar viewing classified data. I'm screwed. I start deleting "evidence" on my PC, 0-day exploits, NSFW pics of Jessica Alba, chatlogs, etc. I walk around and try to see through the expressions of my teammates. Nothing. I call the help desk and demand an explanation and insist they re-enable my account. Nogo, they can't do anything until the next business day. Fuck.
Then I think back to the meeting and that Panda Garden chinese food I ate in there. It came with a fortune cookie. The cookie said something to the effect of something strange will happen. Don't be paranoid about it.
What are the chances? I don't believe in the fortunes and whutnot but this has got to be a sign from up above. Without delay, I'm relieved.
Besides, I don't have any pr0n on my office system. The company can care less about warez, in fact they've provided many warez to us. 0-day exploits and hax0r tools are supposed to be on my PC. I'm a security engineer for chrissakes. And as far as trying to fuck hoes online, uhmm... no comment.
And just as I thought. It was nothing. Most likely some lackey windows monkey accidental fat fingering some buttons resulting in deletion of my account. :-)
Saturday, May 14, 2005
The Joys of Shopping (part 2)
Today I hit Macy's in search a new dress shirt and tie for a wedding we're attending this weekend. I like to dress nice but I don't wear ties or dress shirts too often so the semi-formal shit in my closet looks pimp albeit circa '98 pimp. I had planned on copping a new Zegna or Armani suit for the wedding but ran of time to shop around. So it looks like I'll be wearing my generic '98 cut suit. To compensate, I figured I'd treat myself to a slick Zegna or Armani shirt and tie instead.
I roamed around aimlessly on that annoying 1st floor of Macy's. I was getting hit up by every salesman around the Club Room and Alfani sections while getting blantantly ignored by every salesman in the vicinity of anything that said Hugo Boss and Versace. How distracting. I'm offended that these lamers who probably make less than 16-yr olds who work at In-and-Out burger would actually try to judge me. I pull out the ipod and throw my headphones on, figuring that would that would tell everyone to fuck the hell off. That new Geto Boys blared into my eardrums.
Anyways, I settle on this player $135 Zegna tie (figured I'd wear an old dress shirt in my closet). It screams powerful ex-cassanova, a witty sense of style, and a maxed out credit card. The low-rent Elton John scans it and peers into his screen with a look of skepticism. He sizes me up for a second then repeats the process. Finally, he asks me "Where did you find this?". I point in some arbitrary direction and hint to the butt-pirate that I'm in a hurry. I got bidness to take care of, ya know? He goes off about how beautiful the tie is blah blah blah and says there must be some mistake. He excuses himself and walks around trying to find an identical one.
I'm thinking, fuck... some scammer probably switched the price tag or something. These assmunches will probably try to accuse me of the act. I suddenly feel uncomfortable.
The dood returns with a manager, a low-rent Ellen Degeneres, and shows her how much the tie is ringing up for. They both stare in disbelief. Finally, Ellen helplessly nods and walks away shaking her head. I'm thinking kewl.. i saved 25% or some shit. Thats significant for a baller on a budget.
Elton finally states that I just lucked out and the register displays the damage: $10.85.
BWHAHAHA. You gotta be kidding me right? I asked the dood if I can't get several more in different styles and he shakes his head apparently pissed off that he didn't find this tie for himself. I realize I better bounce before someone catches the price tagging error so I hand the him 11 bux, grab my change, and get out to Stockton street as quickly as possible.
I roamed around aimlessly on that annoying 1st floor of Macy's. I was getting hit up by every salesman around the Club Room and Alfani sections while getting blantantly ignored by every salesman in the vicinity of anything that said Hugo Boss and Versace. How distracting. I'm offended that these lamers who probably make less than 16-yr olds who work at In-and-Out burger would actually try to judge me. I pull out the ipod and throw my headphones on, figuring that would that would tell everyone to fuck the hell off. That new Geto Boys blared into my eardrums.
Anyways, I settle on this player $135 Zegna tie (figured I'd wear an old dress shirt in my closet). It screams powerful ex-cassanova, a witty sense of style, and a maxed out credit card. The low-rent Elton John scans it and peers into his screen with a look of skepticism. He sizes me up for a second then repeats the process. Finally, he asks me "Where did you find this?". I point in some arbitrary direction and hint to the butt-pirate that I'm in a hurry. I got bidness to take care of, ya know? He goes off about how beautiful the tie is blah blah blah and says there must be some mistake. He excuses himself and walks around trying to find an identical one.
I'm thinking, fuck... some scammer probably switched the price tag or something. These assmunches will probably try to accuse me of the act. I suddenly feel uncomfortable.
The dood returns with a manager, a low-rent Ellen Degeneres, and shows her how much the tie is ringing up for. They both stare in disbelief. Finally, Ellen helplessly nods and walks away shaking her head. I'm thinking kewl.. i saved 25% or some shit. Thats significant for a baller on a budget.
Elton finally states that I just lucked out and the register displays the damage: $10.85.
BWHAHAHA. You gotta be kidding me right? I asked the dood if I can't get several more in different styles and he shakes his head apparently pissed off that he didn't find this tie for himself. I realize I better bounce before someone catches the price tagging error so I hand the him 11 bux, grab my change, and get out to Stockton street as quickly as possible.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
The Joys of Shopping (part 1)
Thursday afternoon I crept out of the office immediately after our weekly conference calls and met up with G for few drinks and wings at 4th Street Bar and Grill. Same shit. Order whiskey and beer pairs. Repeat several times. Discuss sports, bitches, and meaningful current events.
I have a dinner planned with some peeps in town for the wedding so I stop at around four or five rounds. G and I part ways and I'm killing time trying to walk off my buzz on Market Street while waiting for K to call me with the name and location of the restaurant.
I notice a Gymboree and immediately think of my daughter. Man, I love my little girl. She's turning three months this weekend and she's outgrown alot of her newborn sleep-n-play suits. In a drunken haze I decide I must get more...
As I walk in Gymboree I notice the thin yet shapely young fly Pinay folding and hanging clothes. She notices me too. I'm strikingly handsome and exude an aura of confidence. Plus, I'm happily drunk. Girl's got no shame. I swear she's undressing me with her eyes as she coyly and flirtatiously utters "hi". She catches me a bit off guard but I shoot an understanding smile back at her.
Back to the mission at hand. I browse the store in search of sleep-n-plays. I find them at the back. Aww How cute. My lil' munchkin will love this stuff. One's pink with ornate lions and the other is green displaying giraffes. All the while I notice this chick's gaze has not wavered. I grab my angel's size in each and stagger to the register.
Her body language suggests she's still into me. Her gaze into my eyes. Her flipping of her hair. She's sexy. She knows I'm attracted but can't figure out why I'm not trying to number close her real quick. I guess she doesn't notice the ring. She asks me a few questions about if I'll be needing a gift box, etc and I say no. Ahhh. I notice the disapointment in her face. Sorry babydoll. I fight off the knee-jerk reaction of trying to let her know I'm still down despite the circumstances. But naw.. remind myself of my whereabouts. I'm in friggin Gymboree and this little hottie has no idea. Morality gets the best of me.
Luckily she still gives me a 25% discount.
I have a dinner planned with some peeps in town for the wedding so I stop at around four or five rounds. G and I part ways and I'm killing time trying to walk off my buzz on Market Street while waiting for K to call me with the name and location of the restaurant.
I notice a Gymboree and immediately think of my daughter. Man, I love my little girl. She's turning three months this weekend and she's outgrown alot of her newborn sleep-n-play suits. In a drunken haze I decide I must get more...
As I walk in Gymboree I notice the thin yet shapely young fly Pinay folding and hanging clothes. She notices me too. I'm strikingly handsome and exude an aura of confidence. Plus, I'm happily drunk. Girl's got no shame. I swear she's undressing me with her eyes as she coyly and flirtatiously utters "hi". She catches me a bit off guard but I shoot an understanding smile back at her.
Back to the mission at hand. I browse the store in search of sleep-n-plays. I find them at the back. Aww How cute. My lil' munchkin will love this stuff. One's pink with ornate lions and the other is green displaying giraffes. All the while I notice this chick's gaze has not wavered. I grab my angel's size in each and stagger to the register.
Her body language suggests she's still into me. Her gaze into my eyes. Her flipping of her hair. She's sexy. She knows I'm attracted but can't figure out why I'm not trying to number close her real quick. I guess she doesn't notice the ring. She asks me a few questions about if I'll be needing a gift box, etc and I say no. Ahhh. I notice the disapointment in her face. Sorry babydoll. I fight off the knee-jerk reaction of trying to let her know I'm still down despite the circumstances. But naw.. remind myself of my whereabouts. I'm in friggin Gymboree and this little hottie has no idea. Morality gets the best of me.
Luckily she still gives me a 25% discount.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Heartbreak in Houston
The Rockets lay down and lose by 40 to our I-45 counterparts. Both Yao and TMac finish up with strong games statistically but we get absolutely no help from anyone else.
The loss goes down as one of the most disappointing losses in Houston professional sports history as we took an early and commanding 2-0 in Dallas to start off the series. After game two we were considered by many analysts as the team to beat.
We all got ahead of ourselves.
Even my dumbass was screaming idiotic shit like "Bring out the brooms" and "Bring on Detroit".
Lemme tell you it stings really bad.
I do want to give it up to Jason Terry and Josh Howard of the Mavs. These guys played ballz out. Did you hear Terry's interview at halftime? The dude is a fuckin' soldier. Props.
It's time to go fishing for the Rox. I can stop agonizing over each game and bet other games with a clear head.
This offseason the Rockets have the burden of working through JVG's referee debacle and bringing in some new personnel. How about bringing in more youth to the power forward and point guard positions. Can I suggest a Sean May and a Deron Williams?
Yeah, I'm dreaming... besides JVG hates rookies.
The loss goes down as one of the most disappointing losses in Houston professional sports history as we took an early and commanding 2-0 in Dallas to start off the series. After game two we were considered by many analysts as the team to beat.
We all got ahead of ourselves.
Even my dumbass was screaming idiotic shit like "Bring out the brooms" and "Bring on Detroit".
Lemme tell you it stings really bad.
I do want to give it up to Jason Terry and Josh Howard of the Mavs. These guys played ballz out. Did you hear Terry's interview at halftime? The dude is a fuckin' soldier. Props.
It's time to go fishing for the Rox. I can stop agonizing over each game and bet other games with a clear head.
This offseason the Rockets have the burden of working through JVG's referee debacle and bringing in some new personnel. How about bringing in more youth to the power forward and point guard positions. Can I suggest a Sean May and a Deron Williams?
Yeah, I'm dreaming... besides JVG hates rookies.
Cinco De Mayo
Thursday night, my Sucka Free homies G, M, and E met up for a much needed mini-reunion to let loose and act like college-aged keg mongers. I needed it to clear my head. I had been caring for the lil' one by myself for the past week.
Unfortunately I don't remember much since things got way out of hand.
Here are scenes I do remember:
- Rockets baby, Rockets winning by 18 or so.
- Talking hella shit to a group of older black dudes (Mav's fans) every time the Rockets scored.
- Smokin' latina at Jillians that was looked as if her ass and thighs were poured into tight jeans.
- 2 Jamesons, 4 Patron shots, 4 Coronas, and 1 Pale Ale in my body by halftime.
- Eluding the $40 cover and getting in free at Mitchell Bros
- Grabbing a handful of the first chick's ass I saw in there and trying to talk her into hooking me up for free.
- Immediately walking out after I realized I was out of cash and refused to get funny money from the ATM machine.
- Cutting in front of some fat bitch to place some pool at O.S.B.
- Then getting run out on by some Tenderloin pool shark, probably the fat bitch's boyfriend.
- Bumpin' Sam Quinn and Nickatina at full blast in E's Audi while doing 80 on the 280.
- Killing M at Madden with the Cleveland Browns (two hail mary's, two touchdowns) before he turned off the game.
- Waking up with a nasty hangover and a Cinco De Mayo necklace on.
- Picking up my cell phone that I left at M's this morning.
- Laughing because M was still wearing clothes from last night and still had the Cinco De Mayo necklace on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)