I Blog to Rant

I like sports like the next man..who likes sports. But the fact that NBA players are complaining about a league-enforced dress code boggles the noggin

Now every NBA player must wear a suit before/after games and even while sitting on the bench, when not active for a game. NBA players' biggest complaint is that it stifles their expression and it's not comfortable.

Tell that to the millions of folks out there who are caged up in cubicle space in their suit and tie. Do you think they wear it because it's cozy? There's Casual Friday for a reason. With NBA players, every day is Casual Friday. Even on the court. In fact NBA Commissioner David Stern, if your players keep bitching, force them to wear the suits while playing.

You can't complain about not feeling comfortable when you live comfortable. Hard to garner support from the masses about comfort, when you drive a Lexus.. and have finger massagers for your PlayStation controllers. I'm guessing that gold-plated pool with your name engraved on the diving board is quite comfortable, not to mention the 34 groupies and entourage that accompany you everywhere you go.

Once you get paid 6 figures, you're no longer allowed to complain. Outfits should be the least of your problem, you should be putting that money towards the surgery to remove your head out of your ass. The boss dictated a dress code. Everyone else does it where they work, why not you? You can go home, get naked, and roll around in your millions, while I toil around in 6 year old shoes, with the soles peeling off. I'm not comfortable, but does anyone write headlines about that? Of course not, because B-Ball Bocephus with the 36-inch vertical can't wear his bling-bling. Boo Hoo. Trust me when I say this, the masses admire your athletic ability. But we don't look up to you. We just wish we could get paid to play a game and go to parties.

If that was the case, I'd be HopScotching my way to the bank

My Money My Problem

So this new apartment complex I'm moving into next weekend just called me to ask for income verification. You know.. check stubs, bank balances. I'm a comic. We gets no check stubs. Bank balance? Ha. But, basically, she needs to know that I'm not running drugs through her fortress.

Me a drug dealer? I'd be so horrible at it. I have no business insight. I once had a door-to-door Strip-O-Gram service that failed because I had all my dancers dress up as serial killers and Jehovah's Witnesses. Plus I can't even do drugs successfully. Just yesterday, I burned my thumb, just messing around with a lighter and there were no drugs involved. I was just playing with fire. I'm 6 in that sense. Keep me away from stoves and unmarked vans

I smoked weed one time back in November 1997, and I didn't even smoke enough to get high. It was around Thanksgiving too. (Which if you're gonna get the munchies, what better holiday to do it on than the one with all that grub at your fingertips)

Thanksgiving's the only holiday that everybody dreads the leftovers. New Year's Eve doesn't have that problem. Nobody ever wakes up on January 1st and stares, disgustingly, into the fridge..

"Whoa. How are we gonna get rid of all this booze? We're gonna be having booze for the next two to three weeks. Booze for breakfast. Booze for lunch. Booze sandwiches. We should've sent some booze home with Grandma. Kids, I'm gonna have to pack some booze in your lunch for tomorrow."

"But Dad, I'm so sick of booze!"

"Shut up and eat your booze casserole!"

I've noticed that the apartment lady has now assumed the role of my mother. She's now just as concerned as to how I make money and how much I make. What's next. She's gonna start calling me every day at 6pm to make sure I had dinner? She's gonna argue with my dad? She's gonna keep asking me when I'm gonna get married?

Hey, maybe the apartment lady will be like my mom and make a mean meatloaf. That'd be dope.

When did "mean" mean delicious? I like that we associate a synonym for evil to describe food that tastes yummy. Reverse the logic

Saddam Hussein? Did you see what he did to those refugees? He is so scrum-diddly-umptious!

Mr. October

This is the month that Texas has it's "State Fair" here in Dallas. I don't know if it's as big an event in your state as it is here, but lemme blog you. It makes all the local news. They have concerts full of "VH1 Where are They Now?" artists. So many newspaper features on the origin of funnel cakes and corny dogs. A huge like 52 foot tall statue called Big Tex that greets you. The State Fair is such a big deal that elementary school kids have a holiday around it.

Fair Day. The state gave them a day off to go to the fair.

"We don't think our cafeteria food is greasy enough, here take these Fair tickets and buy a batter-dipped Oreo"

I went to the Fair one time when I was little. Seven years old to be exact. Or as my dad referred to the day..

"There's nothing Fair about these prices"

I look back on it now and I was too scared to get on any of the rides. My sister told me that Big Tex talked so I sat there and stared at him for 30 minutes. My dad went to see the car show but I think he just went to look at the car show models. The car show was so big on showing the "Cars of the Future" and since my dad was so cheap I was running around just looking at the regular cars thinking they were something special..

"Look Dad! This Buick has air conditioning and a tape player! Wow, this probably cost like a gazillion dollars!"

My mom's forced to ride with my sister on the ferris wheel. Two Varghese women sitting side by side going in a circle for 20 minutes. Awkward silences galore. If that image doesn't remind you of every opening scene to a Massengill commercial, you obviously haven't watched enough television.

I recently got a MySpace account. I haven't bothered to update it or add any nuggets of joy or information. So feel free to come on over. It's simple and basic. But so is my website. I'm simple and basic. You know what I eat for dinner? Bread and water. Blue slacks, gray polo shirt. Hair parted down the middle, black penny loafers. My dog Prilosec by my feet, watching Everybody Loves Raymond.

Have a great week blogaroos.

Family Fun

My grandma can read tarot cards. She's so good, it's spooky. She predicted that two of her friends would die within a year and they both did.

She killed them.

But still how did she know that she'd have the urge to do such a heinous thing?

And both were on December 30th. The last day of the year. How creepy. One more day and her psychic powers would have been put in serious question. The timing was uncanny.

Never second guess the elderly. They're that wrinkled for a reason

How did palm reading even begin? Who decided that this line right here would tell you about your love life and this one right here would determine how many children you'll have? I have creases on the bottom of my foot, anyone want to read those?

"Let's see you wear alot of shoes. The toejam also indicates heavy sock usage. This nail fungus tells me you're single. And these callouses and corns mean you will stay that way for years to come."

Truth be told, I have angelic feet. Christ-like. Meaning they're so clean and pristene, it'd make you want to drive a nail through them

And I can make that joke, people. Lest you forget, my sister's a priest. So I'm not worried about getting into heaven, I know she'll hook me up.

I'm still holding her Corey Hart poster hostage