July 7: @#%&

People have come and gone throughout my life. Some of them are funny while others are too sensitive. I've made friends with a few and enemies with a few. Some of these characters are a joy to be around while others are just plain annoying. I've met people that were funny on purpose and others that are unknowingly funny. A recent acquaintance fell into the latter category. He was a nice enough guy and he meant well, but his lack of vocabulary was laughable. Every other word from this chump's mouth was an F-Bomb or the S-Word and it was pretty f*ckin' funny.

He didn't saturate his sentences with expletives for laughs or to make his point. It was just the way he spoke. He would casually intersperse his stories, compliments, and questions with four letter words not suitable for a child's ear. The funny thing was that he was the proud father of a young daughter. I always wondered if he spoke like that in front of her, but I didn't really care. It was just fun laughing at his cockamamie ways.

He would say things like, "The weather is so f*cking nice. I wish I could go to the f*cking lake and lie in the goddamn sunshine." Another line you might overhear him deliver would be, "Brandon, would you mind taking this sh*t to my table so I can go the the f*ckin' bar and grab some f*cking margaritas? Thanks, bro." He was never angry when talking which made it that much more enjoyable. As I type examples of things he would say I'm realizing that it's not going to read as funny as my memory is playing for me. Trust me when I say that I spent the tail end of many conversations with this dude by simply laughing at his choice of words.

I'm not the smartest tool in the shed, but I try to keep my cursing to a minimum. When I let the occasional expletive fly, it's usually for comedic purposes even when I'm expressing my frustrations. Many times, I'll be talking to my parents on the phone and describing a person with whom I despise, but a part of me still wants to be funny. Because I so seldom swear, my hope in describing said person as a "piece of sh*t d*ckhead" is that it clearly paints my emotional feelings with a comedic element to it as well.

One of the many reasons I like Jerry Seinfeld's comedy so much is that he can be so funny without succumbing to cursing. There aren't many comedians out there that can do a forty-five minute show without cursing up a storm. I feel like it's almost a cop out to resort to four letter words to get a guaranteed laugh. Everything is funnier when you throw an F-Word in there somewhere, but it takes a real artist to come up with an entertaining idea without that crutch.

When a person drops an F-Bomb in every sentence, it takes all of the sting away. My dad always said that people who cursed a lot were unintelligent and they couldn't think of a better word. I don't think my friend was dumb, but a person that swears that much is showing a certain lack of energy in coming up with something a little more descriptive.

I've met some people with the goal of their words sparking a laugh. Other friends, like today's subject, unknowingly become the butt of the joke when they do or say absurd things. Cursing is funny, but it's too easy. Curse too much and you no longer look cool; you look foolish. But you become a f*cking laugh riot!

July 6: Gratuity Not Included

It sits on the counter quietly as I wait in line. It stares at me as I walk forward and give my order. Silently, it screams at me and makes a scene. I'm the only one that can hear its calls. The girl behind the counter knows it's there as she spreads mayonnaise on my sandwich. She smiles to herself because she is aware of the internal struggle I'm having. The short, stout monster sits with its mouth open and waits for me to pay for my lunch. It begs. It pleads. It heckles and taunts.

Is there anything more (for lack of a better word) offensive than an empty pickle jug sitting next to a cash register? The jars/boxes/jugs are always covered with a piece of paper with the word Tips boldly written in black marker. Occasionally the sign will also include a colorful smiley face or some gold stars, but the message is always the same: Give me more money for a job that I'm already being paid to perform.

As an employee that makes his wages off of the graciousness of patrons, one might think my stance on the tip jar would be different. What you may or may not know though, is that I get paid $2.13 an hour without my tips. I'm counting on a guest to leave a tip. I pay my bills on those tips. The tip jar, however, is set up by an employee that is already making at least (and sometimes more) minimum wage.

Minimum wage isn't a lot of money, but that's the salary agreed to work for when hired. During the interview, I doubt the employer said, "You'll be making X amount of dollars an hour plus tips collected in a dirty, banged up jug. Feel free to decorate that jug to your liking."

I feel uncomfortable when sitting at a red light while a vagabond holds a cardboard sign that reads, "Will work for food." I don't like being approached by the homeless for money either. I get the same feeling when I'm paying for a sandwich and I see the tip jar sitting on the counter. I'm paying for the sandwich; not the service. I still have to pour my own drink and get my refills. I still have to throw away my trash. If I wanted service, I would go to a restaurant and have the sandwich served to me. Am I supposed to tip you for preparing my sandwich? Why don't I tip the cooks in a restaurant then?

Where do the tips stop? Do I tip the guy that comes out and replaces my windshield? I think you're supposed to tip your mailman and newspaper delivery guy every Christmas, but no one tips their mechanic. We tip our hair cutters and our masseuses, but why don't we tip our grocers and our doctors? In "The Robbery" episode of Seinfeld Jerry asks, "What do you tip a wood guy?" in reference to a wood delivery service. He then asks if he has to tip a gardener.

The line is definitely blurry. Who do you tip? Who don't you tip? I think it should be left up to the customer. Everyone knows you tip a waiter; that's a given. Everyone else is paid a salary. Putting a filthy jug on a counter where you pay for your sandwich is too much. If you don't tip, you're a cheap jerk. You're never thanked for your contributions so why bother? My solution: don't insult the guest with the jar in the first place. Get rid of it.

July 5: 49 and 33

The (Padres) have now played 82 games. If they duplicate their record in the second half then they will have 97 wins. One shy of the '98 season.

This is a text message I received this morning from an old friend. As excited as I am at the prospect of having another '98 season (which ended with a trip the World Series) I'm a little less ecstatic about talking about it. You see, in 1998 the Padres weren't as big of a surprise as this year's club. They had recently acquired Kevin Brown from the Marlins who would be the ace of the pitching staff. Tony Gwynn was coming off another batting title season to go along with an offense that included Steve Finley, Ken Caminiti, Wally Joyner, and Greg Vaughn. They also had Trevor Hoffman at the back end of a spectacular bullpen. I can't remember if that club was favored to make it as far as they did, but they weren't picked by sports writers all over the country to end at the bottom of the league.

Which brings us to this year's team. The 2010 San Diego Padres were supposed to be last in the National League West and possibly the entire National League. Their only offense was Adrian Gonzalez and their ace was a tall right-hander that spent too much time on the Disabled List by the name of Chris Young. Hoffman departed in '09 and had his shoes nicely filled by closer Heath Bell, but second year closers rarely maintained their first year success.

The offensive predictions were accurate. The Padres are near the bottom of the majors in almost all offensive categories. They have the 26th lowest team average of 30 teams and they have the 25th lowest on base percentage. The only area where they're near the top is stolen bases. After spending most of the first half with the second most stolen bases, they've recently dropped to fifth.

What's keeping the Padres competitive this year is the pitching. Simply put, it's ridiculous. Chris Young pitched six scoreless innings in his first start of the year and has spent the rest of the season on the Disabled List. Other than that, the staff as a whole has the lowest E.R.A. in the majors, the most shutouts, and the most strikeouts. Their bullpen is incredible with the lowest E.R.A. as well. Heath Bell is just as good this year as he was last year and there are at least three other guys in the bullpen that could be successful closers on other teams. The pitching is what's getting it done for the Friars; which scares me the most.

If the Padres got a few runs, the pitching staff has been able to keep the lead. Scores of 1-0 and 2-1 are not uncommon at all. In fact, they have become the norm. The problem with this style of baseball is that three of the five starting pitchers are extremely young; one of which is only 22-years-old. Will these guys be able to continue their dominance for another 80 games and still be able to pitch effectively in the post season? What will pitching this much this early in their careers do to their arms in the long run? At what point will the 22-year-old Mat Latos' arm just give up? Will that shatter his confidence at the big league level?

It's been fun being a Padres fan so far. Nobody expected them to be 16 games over .500 at any point in the season; let alone halfway through. The July 31 trade deadline is fast approaching and there are a few things the Padres need if they want to continue their run. A solid starting pitcher would take a lot of the pressure off of the young staff. A bat to compliment Gonzalez's in the lineup would be great too, but what will this cost the future of the club?

I would love for the Padres to win 97 games. I'm saving all of my money for a trip to San Diego and playoff games in October, but I'm trying not to get my hopes up. I feel like talking about it too much will just jinx the team. The odds are against them and I'm aware of that; which is why I'm hesitant to send text messages like the one I received this morning.

July 4: Cut it Out

The other day I went to the bank to make a deposit. I was lucky to find a spot right out front because it was pouring. It wasn't just raining really hard, though. Rain was falling so hard and vigorously that I had to turn my wipers to the fastest setting; something I've rarely ever had to do.

Anyway, I found this great spot in front of the local bank, grabbed my cash, tucked my chin into my chest, and ran inside. I kept my head down as I watched my feet make their way to the counter of deposit slips, but I still saw the girl watching me out of the corner of my eye. I figured she was just an employee of the bank that wanted to give me the fake hello that she was required to give so I minded my own business.

As I counted my money once more before writing the total to be deposited, I felt her continued gaze. What did this woman want? Why was she staring at me? Now it was just awkward. I refused to let myself look up and make eye contact with this nut. Other people came in and joined me at the counter, but she didn't move. She just kept staring and staring.

Once the form was completed and I had my money, I was about to get in line to speak with a teller when I looked up. The woman was still standing there. She was wearing a navy blue pant suit and she actually looked pretty good. Her blonde hair had a soft shine to it and her fake smile glowed. Her face had the same shine that her hair did and so did her eyes. She was a life size cardboard cutout advertising home loans.

I don't really know how I feel about these things. I think they're hilarious when used in the right context. My friend has a life size Gollum from The Lord of the Rings films and we had our fun scaring people with it in college. We would hide it in the bathroom to wait for unsuspecting guests and we got a kick out of it each time they jumped. When I was younger, I had a Jessica Rabbit cutout that was great but I don't know what happened to it. Come to think of it, I wish I still had it. She would really tie my room together.

A cutout of a person in a public building is different, though. I'm always a little on edge when I step inside a bank because I always have so much cash on me. I don't want to talk to anyone and I don't want to make eye contact with anyone either. I want to go in, drop off my money and be done with the whole thing. Walking into that situation and immediately feeling like someone is glaring at me is not cool.

I haven't been to Petco Park since Trevor Hoffman departed, so I wouldn't be surprised if his cutout has been removed from the team store but his was kind of cool. Granted, he was in uniform and had his trademark leg up in the air as if about to throw a pitch so it wasn't as easy to be confused for a real person. But it was Trevor Hoffman!

My mom used to tell me that there was a time and a place for everything. She was mostly talking about me acting obnoxious and rambunctious, but I think the same applies to life size cutouts. If your intentions are to scare the crap out of people, then they're great. If you're trying to get people to ask you about mortgage rates, come up with something different.

July 3: On the Hour and When it Breaks

Is this thing on? Can you hear me? Did you say "Donna?" Hi, Donna. Are you there? Donna must have given up. Next caller on a cell phone, are you there?

I love talk radio. I wake up to the gardening channel and I don't garden. I fall asleep to Coast to Coast AM and I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I'll listen to everything from Rush Limbaugh (even though I can't stand him) to Laura Schlessinger. I love hearing callers call in and give their opinions on the Cleveland Browns' Offensive Line and I don't know anything about football. Gardening, conspiracies, politics, therapy, sports, open lines, headline news, and love song requests. I love Dr. Dean Edell and Dr. Dog. I love Leo Laporte the Tech Guy and Bruce Asakawa. Art Bell and George Noory are brilliant. Jim Rome is ridiculous, but I still listen when I can. I love it all.

There was a show that I used to listen to when I lived in California called The Third Shift. I hated the show, but for some reason, I still tuned in every single night. It was two guys (John and Jeff) that talked about the day's headlines and they would have listeners call in and voice their opinions. They would do segments called "Stupid and Worthless Trivia" and they would find lists for everything. "The top ten most used online passwords," "The top ten most common dog names." One night I won a Third Shift tee shirt by knowing that "Password" was the most used online password. Stupid and worthless, right?

The funniest thing about the show was that the hosts had a name for listeners like me. I was a part of the 22 Percent Club. According to John and Jeff, 22 percent of their listeners hated the show, but still tuned in. Where they got that figure, I don't know but I was definitely a part of it. Why would anyone be proud of having 22 percent of his audience hate his show? Sometimes they would have listeners call in and admit to being a part of this club. The listener would then go on about why they didn't like the show only to be berated by John. This was why I didn't like the program.

John was a pompous assh*le that had to always be right. If a listener didn't agree with him, John would literally sit there and put down the caller for being intellectually inferior to him. He even did it to his co-host on numerous occasions. Jeff would sit there like the wimp that he was and take it. He would throw out a few little jokes to ease the tension, but he took it nevertheless. And for some reason, I still tuned in every single night.

The Third Shift would infuriate me sometimes, but it was interesting. It was talk radio and I had to listen. I love the Padres pregame show, postgame show, and play-by-play. I feel like the hosts of each are family and listening to them is relaxing. I love listening to four hour blocks of conservative radicals bash the current administration and then hear about the troubles of teen mothers for another four hours. I love hearing the same new bulletins every half hour, on the hour and when it breaks. I love hearing a host scold a caller for having the radio turned on. There's something hilarious when a caller that doesn't know how to respond after being on hold for an hour and a half. Talk radio. I love it.

July 2: For Your Convenience

You'll never guess what I saw yesterday while at the grocery store. Go ahead. Guess! Give up? I was walking past the dairy wall at the back of the store looking for eggs. In front of the milk display I witnessed an obese woman sitting in an electric shopping cart. You know the carts I'm talking about, don't you? Twist the handlebar forward and the cart crawls at a snail's pace. Twist the handle back and you roll in reverse. On the front of the cart is a little basket to place things in.

What's wrong with that, you ask. A handicapped woman needing a little assistance with her chores. So what? I'll tell you what's wrong with it. I would be willing to bet that this woman isn't handicapped at all. What's her disability? Not being able to say no to candy?

Look, maybe she is handicapped and this post is just an extremely ignorant and insensitive assumption, but my theory is that this lady is too lazy to push a cart so she rides one instead. You know that little basket I was telling you about? Notice how small it is. These carts are for people who can't walk but need to buy a few groceries. They're not for people who eat super-sized Big Mac meals for appetizers. If these carts were intended for our jolly friends, I don't think they would be electric; they would be diesel-powered. They would have two or three baskets instead of the one and I guarantee the little buggies would have more than the lone wheel at the front, but I digress.

The whale of this tale sat there with her basket overflowing before slamming the handlebar into gear. The cart groaned under the beast's weight and made a wide turn away from the milk and straight into the aisle's end display of fun-sized chips. Her front-right bumper clipped the display, but the handlebar didn't let up. The cart kept crawling, the bumper kept pulling/pushing, and the professionally shined floor was instantly covered with salty snack packs.

As the people passed and stared, I did the same. I grabbed my eggs and made my way to the checkouts. If I thought this lady was truly disabled, I might have helped, but because I was so confident of her refusal to walk I left her sitting there with a dumbfounded look on her porky face.

I didn't follow her to her car to see if she had the blue placard and I didn't ask her to stand up. For all I know, she could have been handicapped but this post wouldn't have been nearly as entertaining if she was, now would it?

July 1: Going Bananas

When you give an incompetent twenty-something an extra day off, exciting things happen. He'll remember the five bananas that he was too lazy to eat and stuffed into the freezer months ago. He'll get the idea to attempt a banana nut bread with his free afternoon and then come to the conclusion that people would want to read about it.

Google "banana nut bread" and you'll get hundreds of recipes. Our subject today found the recipe with the most gold star ratings and followed (sort of) the directions. He made a list of items he needed to purchase which included: sugar, flour, chopped pecans, and eggs. The recipe called for buttermilk, but suggested trying sour milk. Intrigued, our protagonist Googled "how to make sour milk" and found that it was as simple as adding vinegar to 2% (or richer) milk. "I have those things," he thought to himself as Jack Johnson strummed through his computer's speakers. Our friend only drinks 1% milk, but he didn't think the extra percent would make much of a difference.

With his list in tow, he grabbed the keys to his car and made his way to the local grocery store. He grabbed a red hand basket and began his search for the coveted ingredients. In the process, he witnessed an obese woman crash her motorized cart into a shelf of potato chips. As the individually-wrapped snacks fell to the ground and the fat woman looked around helplessly embarrassed he made a mental note to write a blog about the scene.

After using the self checkout, he got back into his vehicle and drove home. He carefully placed his purchases on the counter, washed his hands, and began his preparations. Preheat oven to 350. Check. In a large mixing bowl, mash bananas with a masher. He didn't own a "masher," so he used a fork instead. Check. Mix ingredients with bananas by hand and add one cup of pecans. 2 cups of sugar, 1/2 teaspoon of salt, 2 1/4 cups of flour, 3/4 cups vegetable oil (Does corn oil count? Corn is a vegetable, right?), 3 large eggs (He never was any good at at cracking an egg without smashing it. He didn't think he saw any shells), 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract (Does this stuff ever go bad? He had his extract for quite some time), 1 1/3 teaspoon of baking soda (He didn't have a 1/3 teaspoon so he put 1/4 and a little extra), and 1/4 cup of buttermilk [sour milk]. Check. Because of his cheapness, he had purchased the smallest bag of chopped pecans which resulted in just more than half a cup. Check.

Proud of himself for making it this far, he washed his hands once more and began squeezing, kneading, and molding the smorgasbord of ingredients through his fingers. Because the bananas were frozen to begin with, they were still very cold which led our storied idiot to quickly change mixing methods. He withdrew a whisk from the nearest drawer and proceeded to stir the solidifying mess. As he held the bowl under his left arm and stirred with this right, he felt like a professional cook. A Julia Childs or Curtis Stone, if you will.

Because he didn't actually own a loaf pan, he was forced to divide the dough between two shallow, glass pans. He greased the pans and placed them side by side in the oven before setting the oven's timer to one hour; just like the recipe told him to.

As the hour ticked away, he sat down at his computer, turned up the volume on the music and proceeded to write a blog in the third person on the events of the afternoon. The aroma of bananas and pecans filled the room as he typed away. Just as he was finishing the post, he went to check on the status of his hard work. He opened the oven door and slowly submerged a knife into the bread before retrieving it. A lack of remnants on the utensil told him that the loaf was done. He then pulled both pans from the center rack, placed them on the stove top, and turned the oven off.