How listening to Yahoo Radio for six hours will stifle your dreams and make you lose your mind

If my name was Paolo Nutini I probably wouldn't write a song about how a new pair of shoes makes you feel "alright."

I know what you are gonna say that the King, "Elvis" Pressley wrote a song about wearing shoes and he wasn't gay. True. But Elvis wasn't about no "post-modernism either."

He wrote that in the margins of some Sparkle Hayter novel.

The king was always like that, scribbiling down important stuff on the top of Dominoes Pizza boxes while he was sitting on the John. The King just wouldn't "get" going to thrift stores to find your style.

But I am just sure I can hear Paolo Nutini's rebuttal:

Look man, I like shoes because it is like expressive. It's refreshing. You come home and change your socks throw some anti-fungus powder on your feet and it's like refreshing. Really ...really ..refreshing.

And at the end of the day this thing about the shoes, it's about Art. It is Art.I don't care how many times I have to have this conversation with you guys in the buisness.

You guys just don't get it.

Now go visit my Radio Station!

I'd need three blogs devoted to the Surveillance Society if I wanted to keep up with all the news

That our society moves closer and closer each day to a police state requires little speculation on my part.

You don't need to be Alex Jones to get caught up in the conspiracy hype.

Today I learned that George Bush has made it easier to declare Martial Law in the United States.

"The law also facilitates militarized police round-ups and detention of protesters, so called "illegal aliens," "potential terrorists" and other "undesirables" for detention in facilities already contracted for and under construction by Halliburton.

That's right. Under the cover of a trumped-up "immigration emergency" and the frenzied militarization of the southern border, detention camps are being constructed right under our noses, camps designed for anyone who resists the foreign and domestic agenda of the Bush administration. "

Boston Celtics Dance Team-way ugly

I can't wait to blog about my road trip. I am headed from Tampa to Tempe via I-10. That means I will party down in New Orleans and visit my old hometown of Houston.

I am sure to bump into plenty of hookers at the Gainsville Florida Greyhound Bus Depot, the best bus depot in the world.

Until then I am pretty bored and I will have to spend my time surfing the net and maturbating to the half naked women on the internet like you losers do.

That's why I read the Bastardly because I enjoy any blog that uses Jailbait as a category.

Like the bastardly I also tend to be snarky and gossipy, but I am comfortable with that fact. Any website that allows gossip to stay firmly and securely within the confines of my latent misogyny is fine with me.

It's simply sexist to insist that gossip should be reserved for women.

And just like the Bastardly, I can't get over how ugly, fat and manly the current "dance team" for the Boston Celtics is.

The Celtic Dance Team makes Kelly Clarckson's new hairdo look flattering. After all she is just fat with a bad wig, but it wouldn't take you looking under her hood to convince you she had a pussy.

Thanks Drug Nazi

I want to thank the Drug Nazi for sending me all his traffic today.

I'd also like to take credit for the Drug Nazi becoming so popular.

Long before he began his resurgence, I was one of his first 3 readers. I think it was my encouragement and kind words that kept him writing.

And I am certain that the time I talked him out of substituting cyanide for those tylenol 3 pills kept our dear nazi out of jail. Though that would have made for a great blog.

I could just see the Drug Nazi complaining to the warden about how bad the living conditions were.

"We only get basic cable?"

Rest up old chum. I hear LSD was approved by Dick Cheney for use against unlawful combatants.

Now that I think about it, maybe you are in jail. Sweet.

I've been Memed. 5 things you did not know about me.

Katie has Memed me.

1. I am only answering this meme because it is easier than thinking of a post myself now that I am not working on this blog.
2. This Blog is going on walkabout. I am taking this blog on the road. It will be called "On the road with Romius T." I will visit exciting cities like Gainesville, Florida.
3. See you guys in Tempe Real Soon!!!
4. I secretly hate being memed or tagged. I have had a disastrous relationship with memes. And even though I support Darwin and evolutionary theory, I think the concept of meme is as scientific as Forensic Science.
5. Fried coke sounds like a good idea to me.

For your viewing pleasure.

Since RomiusTexis is mostly the minor accomplishments of one Romius T. while he is at work and since Romius T. is not working you could try going to this guy's weblog.

Source: Metafilter

"When you have a blog , and you're the Special Representative of the UN in Darfur, be careful about what you write. Jan Pronk's blog gives you a good idea in what a high level UN diplomat actually does, and how difficult it is to get anything done in a country torn by war. Oh, and check these photos out, if you just want the non-political goodness."

The Butcher of Palmetto.

I am not the kinda person who likes drama. I try to avoid drama in my personal life as much as possible. I go so far as to avoid watching TNT because I dislike drama that much.

That being just said, I think we all say that we dislike drama. So I don't think you should just take the word of people when they say something. Because there are facts in the world we can discover things. And sometimes those facts have a way with not corresponding to our expectations.

The other day I went to work and both my store manger and department were waiting for me. Turns out they "don't have enough work to justify the number in the bakery." But they did have the "numbers" to justify hiring a person at the meat department. So I was offered the choice unemployment/meat department.

"You're not gonna quit are you?" The bakery manger asks. She repeats the question three or four times before I can think about an answer.

"No, I am not going to quit." I finally decide. "I guess I will take the butcher position."

"Great." The store manager declares and then he inquires about my payscale.

"Oh. Well that's fine." It is? I am not sure you heard correctly then.

"You start tomorrow." He informs me.

Nice.

My first day as the Butcher of Palmetto is my last.

Customer: "Can you rinse off the ice off my crabs?"

Me: (but to myself) "Are you fucking serious?"

The first and only lesson you need to know in regards to the etiquette of the butcher's block at your local grocery store.

1. If you cannot afford to pay for the "ice" that sticks to your crab meat, you cannot afford to buy crab meat. Try frozen ground turkey. It comes in a at around $1.69 a pound. And I would be happy as fuck to rinse it the fuck off for you.

How I stopped working and started loving being a bakery team member.

You would think standing around in a 34 degree cooler with your hands in frozen chicken blood would be the bomb. But it's not all what it's cracked up to be.

First, I would like to remind you that chicken blood is basically fecal matter. By basically, I mean it would be cleaner for me to have the chicken squat over my face and take a shit in my mouth than it would for me to rub my eyes after working with this product.

I only make this point to indicate to you that it is impossible to work in the meat department and not get blood splashed in to your eyes. They should issue you one of those high school chemistry class goggles that only the nerds wore when they toss you your apron.

Second. I don't really have a second. Working with guts and intestines was not what I signed up for. I will not even mention that the meat department requires you to work.

"We are not even in our busy season yet." I was told by one of the very brave meat guys. We really need to have 2 or three times the number of guys working that we have.

The first and only rule you need to learn on how to make sure you frighten the staff on their first day of work.

1. Tell newly hired staff members "how it's just a matter of time before they get a rash that starts near your fingers and ends at your shoulders." But "not to worry about it, you probably won't die."

Got a Job?

The Minor Accomplishments of RomiusTexis.

I am listening to Keith and the Girl on my I-pod and washing dishes. The dishes are actually large metal trays covered with bits of baked on bread.

Baked-on dough does not come off easy. I have to let it soak for several hours and then take a scouring pad to it.

I apply myself to the task and begin with forceful elbowed jerks to the pans followed by splashes of hot water to rinse. The banging and rinsing of pots and pans in a sink located at the back of this bakery makes it a bit difficult for me to hear you calling for assistance sometimes.

"Excuse me!" "Excuse me!!" "Excuse ME!!!"

At first all I hear are the pans banging against stainless steal sinks, but soon it dawns on me that someone is yelling. Yelling. And I mean YELLING at me at the top of their lungs.

It is the screaming voice of a child no more than 6 years old. And if you have ever had the unfortunate experience of being a parent then you know the freakishly large lung capacity that human offspring have.

This little fucker is standing there and facing me with his hand on his hip muttering "it's about time" and asking me for his goddamn "free cookie."

I am not ashamed to tell you my reaction. At least the reaction in my head.

"You little fucker. I am gonna strangle you. I'll watch as your last breath leaves your body, then I am going to cut that lifeless body into bite sized portions I'll ingest in front of your sibling. I will then shit out your sibling with dysenteric force and compel your brother... that oh so willing accomplice, to eat your remains as shit."

But instead all I did was look around for his parents in the hopes that I could give them a look that says "Is that really necessary? Couldn't you learn that child some manners?"

But in my world even this small amount of satisfaction will not come. Instead I just meekly hand over the cookie failing to give the miniature tyrant his napkin. He views my restrained philanthropy with the native unimaginative curiosity of his age, operating only at Level 1 (Pre-Conventional) on Kolberg's Moral theory of development.

1. Obedience and punishment orientation
2. Self-interest orientation

Psychology 101 is not very helpful to me at this point in my life. I don't want tips to help me understand the ego-centric nature of childhood wants.

I only need tips on getting the balls up for killing the personification of those childhood wants.

I understand fully now how people crack. When interviewed the friends and family members of discovered serial killers always trot out the same hollow cliches. Like..."He had a job." "Seemed normal enough." "He seemed like a pretty smart guy."

Just smart enough to to be aware of my growing and total frustration with life. And my complete lack of ability to persuade hot chicks to fuck me. I was once asked, "What's it like to be you?"

Now you know. Imagine if you will a man with no discernible talents or skill who winces at even the slightest tug from inertia to defend his low rung beta-status.

"Poke that little fuckers eye out!" Shouted out my ghosts of evolutionary past. But I abstained. And because of that abstention I am ashamed. And too pathetic for words.

What if I were to lazy to post today?

Couldn't I just google for a few 'grocery store blogs' and send them my massive traffic?

This Garrick knows way too many languages and is "made ill at ease" in grocery stores "by the artificial lighting, the monstrously huge red and green peppers, the giant, perfectly yellow Costa-Rican bananas."

I don't really know why he is afraid of large red bell peppers. They are the best kind. Also I tend to think we are a bit high up on the food chain to be concerned by something without teeth.

Any visit to the grocery store for Garrick becomes unsettling as he "wander(s) from vegetable to vegetable like a lost nomad, gazing with glazed eyes at the products of pesticides, herbicides, fungicides."

"I can spend thirty, forty-five, fifty-six minutes wandering the isles thinking of consumerist food bliss. Buying prepackaged this and precooked that," but "eerily, my societal musings don’t end here."

Getting eerily freaked out by ordinary things like grocery stores, leaves Garrick plenty of time for his Early Critical Theory ponderings on preferred shopper’s cards, RFID's, weird stickers, consumerism and just plain old Idenity Theory.

Good luck with all that thinking. Just remember, Garrick, too much thinking and the Terrorists win.

The Baker's Moral Code. A code I can't live by.

"Do you have an 99 cent Donuts?"

Asks Diabetic Amputee Girl.

Sure she has one leg already amputated, and yes the other one is grossly swollen. But as she likes to say "I needs my sweets!"

So now I have to ask myself "Do I have some kind of 'Moral' obligation to prevent said single amputee girl from actually becoming double amputee girl?"

Too late! Before I can get all "Kantian" on Diabetic Amputee Girl she powers up her scooter and races over to the reduced table and snags the last three bags of donuts.

"It's the only time I can afford them. When they are reduced and all!"


What sort of insulin doping junkie knows how to time her visit to 8 p.m., right after I break down the bakery bins? Nice.

***
Attention Shoppers:

From now on if you make the manager call "customer service to the bakery" when I am on the john taking a shit, you will be getting a very special chocolate chip cookie.

P.S.

If you are gonna make me leave the washroom early just so your stupid little kid can get a chocolate chip cookie, you might wanna pretend to buy something from the bakery. Grocery stores are notorious for their sectarian infighting, so I could care less that that you will be buying 3 dollars worth of fish sticks.

***

And now more of:

ASK the Baker.

Q. "Dear Mr. Baker, what is the difference between French Bread and Italian Bread?"

A. You mean other than the label on the cardboard box of frozen dough in the freezer? Not a damn bit of difference. I think we charge more for the Italian. But when we run out of the French bread we just substitute the Italian for it. Don't worry you can't tell the difference and either can we.

You want a real answer? In theory Italian is supposed to be chewier, but I am not an Epicurean expert. I am trained only in the meticulous nuances of placing frozen dough on metallic trays. And you're just going to slather it up with butter and garlic spread anyway completely obliterating any taste difference if there was one to start with. So I have a question for you. Why do you care?