How chocolate eclairs and marzipan pastries made me lose my marbles
Friday morning, last day before the weekend, everybody commuting towork; some by train others by bus or for the green left wing socialist hippies, by donkey...if they have a job that is. Most of them just sit there waiting till capitalism is overthrown by the next Stalin so they can all have free shoebox apartments instead of their current cardboard box. Enjoy some more socializing while queuing for 5 hours for some loaf of 10 year old bread and drive around in a car made from a tin can while leaving a cloud of blue smoke killing every animal on the planet that uses lungs to breath.
But for most of us the drive to work is done by car. Comfortablel istening to the radio while queuing to leave your driveway and get onto the clogged city streets. Everybody is equally generous. "He does not let you pass so why should I?"... And it works... we all know how the dance of rush-hour goes and we all stick to the same routine. And the proof we all can actually drive a car is when you see everybody travelling the opposite direction on a Friday evening...We all want to get home first and for that we repeat the same routine as in the morning but we all become a little Michael Schumacher... We think "oh I can fit in that space" or " he has seen me" and swerve with the speed of light in front of the other car and just when we are in front...a polite wave with the hand just to say "thank you for letting me pass and not having to take your bumper off in the process"... And then you are safe back on your driveway.
The weekend begins. Saturday is mostly gone before you know it. No big deal for those Stalin-I-love-you-and-every-day-is-Saturday hippies because al they do is sniff glue and get pieces of cardboard box out of their dreadlocks, but for us, the people who actually work and buy that fridge so they can live in it's aboard box, a Saturday only comes by once a week. So thank God for Sunday. You think let's get out for a drive, the sun is shining, you need to re-energize and what better place is there then the beach? Sunday mooning smiles at you when you leave your driveway...no queue.
However, just 5 meters down the road is a bakery. And then your penny drops...It's Sunday...and Sunday is already smiling just a little less at you...Why? ...
Because of people who only use their cars once a week. You know who they are....shiny new Ford Escort build in 1945 with only 5 km on the odometer, complete with original toolbox, never used and seats still in the factory plastic wrapping. All of them creating a bumper to bumper queue in front of the bakery going 3km/h...It's the world's dullest drive-by.... I shoot past them demonstrating my "mid-week-queuing" - abilities while giving them a look that clearly indicates that I am not interested in chocolate eclairs or any marzipan pastries. Now nothing can stop me reaching the beach in a record queue-free time....Right?... Wrong... you are not even 4 cm on the onramp of the motorway leading you to your sunny stress-free haven and the radio announces that cars are standing still for the next 6 million km due to a ...correct... queue.
Too late to turn back, behind me some more non Stalin fans are wanting to unwind on the beach and are blocking my only escape route...a quick 4 cm reverse off the onramp.....After driving the last queue free moments of what is now turning out to be a rather sarcastic smiling Sunday you see in front of you a sea of breaklights....You have arrived at the place where ulcers are born.....But the worst part.... is that you know the type of car that belongs to that sea of break lights.....As far as the eye can see....people in their brand new 1945 Ford Escort..... enjoying chocolate eclairs and marzipan pastries....
And that ladies and gentlemen is how chocolate eclairs and marzipan pastries made me lose my marbles.
donderdag 26 augustus 2010
zaterdag 15 mei 2010
My 4.50 EUR ticket cost me a kidney
I do like going on holiday. By car or on a boat or maybe on a train or as a last resort on foot but by plane... I would rather be flung out of a catapult knowing the landing spot would be covered in broken glass and angry hedgehogs.
It all starts when you know you want to go on holiday. A warm place...in February....or March...you know you will have to fly since Holland is either flooded or frozen over and France...well is France...
You go to the travel agent, since al-Qaida you can not walk up to a plane and take it anymore, and have the nice lady explain that a seat to your very warm and 65 star resort only costs you 4,50 euro.
And then it starts. "Do you have luggage sir?" well yes..."That's 50 euro handling charges"... What?? For 5 pair of shorts and a toothbrush?......"Have you heard from the fuel tax sir?"... No but I am about to am I?....Long story short, 50 euro to get that piece of horror into the sky... "What room do you want sir?" and then the tricky part begins.... I would like one with a double bed, ocean view and away from the elevator. There is always 1 guy during your holiday who thinks it's funny to do an Aerosmith drum solo against the elevator wall when riding up or down...so no sleep if you are close to one of those... "Ok, we do not have a room available in this category"... Ok what do you have then?..."A penthouse presidential suite overlooking the pool, the chimney and the neighboring 5 islands or a single room next to the elevator with no view at all except for the one overlooking El Corrida des Kaka."... No thank you, from a previous trip I learned that that was an open sewage waste pipe and not actually a parrot sanctuary...
So you end up paying for your 4,50 euro ticket with the deed of your house and the promise that, if the lady ever needs a new kidney she can have yours, and start packing.
Driving to the airport does not get me in the holiday mood, walking around on an airport neither so how anybody would think it's fun to drive around on an airport parking lot for 5 years looking for a space to park and then when you found one figuring out that you are parked in zone 6542 with the yellow funny looking turtle logo and that you have to walk back 5 years with luggage in tow, I do not know....
You check in your luggage and it's of through the custom office. Passport check and a quick probe by a big hairy bloke called BorisGzmirnkov to see if you do not make funny noises when he puts his metal stick up your wazoo and you are in the tax free zone...I learned not to buy anything while leaving because I once bought an 80 piece puzzle andby the time I was back home 7 days later.... I only had 7 pieces left. The rest was on it's way to some African country together with my suitcase... So you wait, sweat, wait and sweat some more and then, like a call from Death himself: "Plane with destination not-France is now boarding"... Quick trip to the loo for some clean shorts and then a brave face and of we go.
Strange crackling noises, a strange wind and smell and that is only the person in the seat next to you...I am on a plane...the horror...no way back now. Better start remembering what to do. Chew gum, ok, I start chewing gum like an idiot, 4, 5 pieces at once. Take-off... I start chewing even harder, so hard my eyes start blinking in sync with my chewing. My eardrums feel like they are about to exit my body via a way that would leave me in need of another pair of clean shorts. Then I remember that yawning can help. Ever tried to yawn with 5 pieces of mashed up gum stuck between your teeth...not easy. I blew a bubble so big they thought I smuggled an inflatable bouncy castle on board. After the worst 15 minutes of my life you hear a "ping" and a little indicator that says it's ok to unbuckle your seat belt. No way...when that plane explodes at least I want to fall, sitting comfortably towards my death.
Then it's lunch time. Thanks to Mr Bin-Laden I now need to cut my half frozen piece of pate with a plastic knife that breaks when you try to open the plastic wrapper it comes in. So after finishing my pate snow cone I watch on a small screen the route of the plane and the expected time of arrival. The agony...a blue map, which I can only presume is water, or some kind of error page, which I do not want to think about... and in the middle of it a small dot...still 2h to go... 5 packets of chewing gum, 6 apologies for exploding bouncy castles later another "ping"... The "put on your seat belt" sign went up. Finally....another 15 minutes and the sweatiest armpits you have ever seen later, I was kissing the tarmac...not like the pope but in my rush to get out of there I tripped and bounced my way down the landingstairs....
And the worst part....7 days, an indigestion and a sun tan later the thing starts all over again...
I do like going on holiday. By car or on a boat or maybe on a train or as a last resort on foot but by plane... I would rather be flung out of a catapult knowing the landing spot would be covered in broken glass and angry hedgehogs.
It all starts when you know you want to go on holiday. A warm place...in February....or March...you know you will have to fly since Holland is either flooded or frozen over and France...well is France...
You go to the travel agent, since al-Qaida you can not walk up to a plane and take it anymore, and have the nice lady explain that a seat to your very warm and 65 star resort only costs you 4,50 euro.
And then it starts. "Do you have luggage sir?" well yes..."That's 50 euro handling charges"... What?? For 5 pair of shorts and a toothbrush?......"Have you heard from the fuel tax sir?"... No but I am about to am I?....Long story short, 50 euro to get that piece of horror into the sky... "What room do you want sir?" and then the tricky part begins.... I would like one with a double bed, ocean view and away from the elevator. There is always 1 guy during your holiday who thinks it's funny to do an Aerosmith drum solo against the elevator wall when riding up or down...so no sleep if you are close to one of those... "Ok, we do not have a room available in this category"... Ok what do you have then?..."A penthouse presidential suite overlooking the pool, the chimney and the neighboring 5 islands or a single room next to the elevator with no view at all except for the one overlooking El Corrida des Kaka."... No thank you, from a previous trip I learned that that was an open sewage waste pipe and not actually a parrot sanctuary...
So you end up paying for your 4,50 euro ticket with the deed of your house and the promise that, if the lady ever needs a new kidney she can have yours, and start packing.
Driving to the airport does not get me in the holiday mood, walking around on an airport neither so how anybody would think it's fun to drive around on an airport parking lot for 5 years looking for a space to park and then when you found one figuring out that you are parked in zone 6542 with the yellow funny looking turtle logo and that you have to walk back 5 years with luggage in tow, I do not know....
You check in your luggage and it's of through the custom office. Passport check and a quick probe by a big hairy bloke called BorisGzmirnkov to see if you do not make funny noises when he puts his metal stick up your wazoo and you are in the tax free zone...I learned not to buy anything while leaving because I once bought an 80 piece puzzle andby the time I was back home 7 days later.... I only had 7 pieces left. The rest was on it's way to some African country together with my suitcase... So you wait, sweat, wait and sweat some more and then, like a call from Death himself: "Plane with destination not-France is now boarding"... Quick trip to the loo for some clean shorts and then a brave face and of we go.
Strange crackling noises, a strange wind and smell and that is only the person in the seat next to you...I am on a plane...the horror...no way back now. Better start remembering what to do. Chew gum, ok, I start chewing gum like an idiot, 4, 5 pieces at once. Take-off... I start chewing even harder, so hard my eyes start blinking in sync with my chewing. My eardrums feel like they are about to exit my body via a way that would leave me in need of another pair of clean shorts. Then I remember that yawning can help. Ever tried to yawn with 5 pieces of mashed up gum stuck between your teeth...not easy. I blew a bubble so big they thought I smuggled an inflatable bouncy castle on board. After the worst 15 minutes of my life you hear a "ping" and a little indicator that says it's ok to unbuckle your seat belt. No way...when that plane explodes at least I want to fall, sitting comfortably towards my death.
Then it's lunch time. Thanks to Mr Bin-Laden I now need to cut my half frozen piece of pate with a plastic knife that breaks when you try to open the plastic wrapper it comes in. So after finishing my pate snow cone I watch on a small screen the route of the plane and the expected time of arrival. The agony...a blue map, which I can only presume is water, or some kind of error page, which I do not want to think about... and in the middle of it a small dot...still 2h to go... 5 packets of chewing gum, 6 apologies for exploding bouncy castles later another "ping"... The "put on your seat belt" sign went up. Finally....another 15 minutes and the sweatiest armpits you have ever seen later, I was kissing the tarmac...not like the pope but in my rush to get out of there I tripped and bounced my way down the landingstairs....
And the worst part....7 days, an indigestion and a sun tan later the thing starts all over again...
woensdag 5 mei 2010
How love almost made me keep my marbles
Ever loved someone so hard it actually did hurt, and not in a spiritual way, no, actual real I-just-got-hit-in-the-face-by-a-fully-loaded-freight-train pain...
It happened to me, yes I know, underneath this sarcastic shell there lives a little shy young man who has true feelings. Now that I am all mellow and in touch with my feminine side I feel like making another confession.... I like French fries with ketchup and raw onion sprinkled on top...I hear you think... And yes, it does make me fart louder then a foghorn during a how-loud-can-you-go foghorn contest....
But love, the Bloodhound Gang phrased it nicely, "not the one you clean up with a mop and bucket", the real deal...between a man and a woman, man and man, woman woman, man African lion...you know what I mean....fill in your preference yourself... It happened to me a few years ago and at first you do not know it's even happening. You start seeing or hearing this person on a daily basis and you think, "come on what's this?" But before long you are waiting by the phone like a doggy that needs an urgent tinkle and his owner is standing there with the leash. No, I do not like bondage, it's just a figure of speech, not another confession...And when that phone then rings.... It's not making a ringing sound..Noooo it's a symphony of cherubs playing the waltz of love...
You want to talk to this person so desperately that you run to the phone without even knowing your foot made a 180 degree twist around it's base because you hit the staircase and afterwards you hit the glass coffee table resulting in a face that looks like a cross between Leatherface and a run over squirrel. You are just focused and your hormones produce so many chemicals that you would not even feel pain if Mrs Fat Globe would step on your little toe wearing the pointiest stiletto heels in the world...
You talk and talk and talk about the most silly things, "oh I saw a duck in the pond and it was sooooo lovely"...Normally I wouldn't even look at a pond unless it was playing host to the world championship monster trucking...but now "ohhhhh, I saw it too, Soooo lovely"...what happened to me...Love, making you see interesting things without being drunk....
However the worst part is when it's a love you can not share. Can be for a million reasons....she's Amish, he is a Golden Retriever....or just plain simple..you are scared for saying the words "I love you" or scared for rejection "No thanks, I'm Amish". So you keep your feelings to yourself. "Why would she be interested in me?" is often heard....We've all been there, apart from George Clooney... So you watch and admire from a distance...not in a tree, you do not want that restraining order... but metaphorically speaking...
You try and make sure they like you and for that you become Superman.You rush from 1 part of the city to the other in less time then it would take that world record guy to sprint the 100m. On your way, picking up whatever she would like at whatever cost to you, knife fight over the last chocolate bar "ok, bring it on". Monkey wrestling for the last can of coke, "Sure, bring on the baboon..." And when you are standing in front of her, wiping away your blood and sweat, all she has to say is"thank you" and all your pain is gone...
But...and this is the dark magic of love.. It only works for as long as they are near you.... The moment you are alone and your Golden Retriever or Amish girl left you for a Buddhist Poodle.... Pain, hell and agony...just like you twisted your ankle in a 180 degree angle, hit a glass coffee table with your face, had your toe crushed by a fat lady and wrestled a wild baboon...
And that ladies and gentlemen is how love almost made me keep my marbles...almost...
Ever loved someone so hard it actually did hurt, and not in a spiritual way, no, actual real I-just-got-hit-in-the-face-by-a-fully-loaded-freight-train pain...
It happened to me, yes I know, underneath this sarcastic shell there lives a little shy young man who has true feelings. Now that I am all mellow and in touch with my feminine side I feel like making another confession.... I like French fries with ketchup and raw onion sprinkled on top...I hear you think... And yes, it does make me fart louder then a foghorn during a how-loud-can-you-go foghorn contest....
But love, the Bloodhound Gang phrased it nicely, "not the one you clean up with a mop and bucket", the real deal...between a man and a woman, man and man, woman woman, man African lion...you know what I mean....fill in your preference yourself... It happened to me a few years ago and at first you do not know it's even happening. You start seeing or hearing this person on a daily basis and you think, "come on what's this?" But before long you are waiting by the phone like a doggy that needs an urgent tinkle and his owner is standing there with the leash. No, I do not like bondage, it's just a figure of speech, not another confession...And when that phone then rings.... It's not making a ringing sound..Noooo it's a symphony of cherubs playing the waltz of love...
You want to talk to this person so desperately that you run to the phone without even knowing your foot made a 180 degree twist around it's base because you hit the staircase and afterwards you hit the glass coffee table resulting in a face that looks like a cross between Leatherface and a run over squirrel. You are just focused and your hormones produce so many chemicals that you would not even feel pain if Mrs Fat Globe would step on your little toe wearing the pointiest stiletto heels in the world...
You talk and talk and talk about the most silly things, "oh I saw a duck in the pond and it was sooooo lovely"...Normally I wouldn't even look at a pond unless it was playing host to the world championship monster trucking...but now "ohhhhh, I saw it too, Soooo lovely"...what happened to me...Love, making you see interesting things without being drunk....
However the worst part is when it's a love you can not share. Can be for a million reasons....she's Amish, he is a Golden Retriever....or just plain simple..you are scared for saying the words "I love you" or scared for rejection "No thanks, I'm Amish". So you keep your feelings to yourself. "Why would she be interested in me?" is often heard....We've all been there, apart from George Clooney... So you watch and admire from a distance...not in a tree, you do not want that restraining order... but metaphorically speaking...
You try and make sure they like you and for that you become Superman.You rush from 1 part of the city to the other in less time then it would take that world record guy to sprint the 100m. On your way, picking up whatever she would like at whatever cost to you, knife fight over the last chocolate bar "ok, bring it on". Monkey wrestling for the last can of coke, "Sure, bring on the baboon..." And when you are standing in front of her, wiping away your blood and sweat, all she has to say is"thank you" and all your pain is gone...
But...and this is the dark magic of love.. It only works for as long as they are near you.... The moment you are alone and your Golden Retriever or Amish girl left you for a Buddhist Poodle.... Pain, hell and agony...just like you twisted your ankle in a 180 degree angle, hit a glass coffee table with your face, had your toe crushed by a fat lady and wrestled a wild baboon...
And that ladies and gentlemen is how love almost made me keep my marbles...almost...
maandag 3 mei 2010
How IT made me lose my marbles
Now, for the people who do not know me, I am a dinosaur. Well not really, typing would be a bit difficult and then I am not even talking about the vast amounts of Special K cereal I would need in the morning to keep myself "regular"....
What I am saying is, I am an IT dinosaur. I have no Nano-byte-terra phone nor do I have the latest flatboard or keyless-screen or whatever IBM is calling it these days..I believe it's an I-Orange or something...
I do have 1 old playstation which my brother donated to charity....or me....to try and lure me into the Age of Technology.
Well...what is that? "The Age of Technology"...Cavemen also thought they lived in the Age of Technology when they invented the wheel...hell we still use it today....do you still use your first Mac or Intosch...?
I have a car that is 33 years old...same as me...it's old, farts, has some unexplainable spots and smells...same as me....But what I want to say before alienating all of you...is that when it breaks down, I do not have to go to a garage and pay a trillion Euro just for a guy in a suit sticking his laptop into my cigaret holder and telling me my washer fluid needs a top-up....No, I just go to Bob around the corner and he hammers some new greasy part in place and after spending 5 Euro I am back motoring along with a smile on my face and a bank account that does not look like Imelda Marcos went shoe-shopping with it...
Same with a pc or laptop, I had a pc when I was at school because it was "the Age of Technology" and all those teachers broke their fingers on typewriters...after that I never owned one in my life. My mother donated a laptop to charity once...I still have it...
And the reason why I am a dinosaur is that I do not speak Klingon. When that little message pops up with a small red circle and a cross in it and starts explaining me in, what I can only guess is fluent Klingon, that my Z-Bat drive is in error for my Log Script Unit I have a tendency to be a little violent and use that fork not for what it was designed for. It's hard to explain at the PC shop that that fork got accidentally stuck between the T- and the F key and that it has nothing to do with the Klingon on the screen...
What I also do not get are domotics systems. You drive home and before you are even in the same zip code as your house it is already making coffee, tuning the radio to your favorite tune and walking around in your slippers to get them "comfy-warm"....Same thing in the morning. Before you realise you need to wake up, breakfast is made and poured into you, your slippers are "comfy-warm" and your teeth are brushed. No wonder people fall asleep at the wheel...they never woke up in the first place, their house just puts them in the car and of they go...
And another thing... all those cards you get these days with chips in it to keep track on how many points you get when buying 5 loo rolls and a leek or when filling up with gas at the gas station, what is that all about? I asked one day and the answer apparently is: "Well sir, if you buy 500 leeks you get a free carrot" why do I even ask.... These days even pharmacists have member cards... How often do they expect me to get sick?...Do they know something that I don't know yet? "Oh, he is turning yellow, quick get him a member card..." Only the other day I tried to get gas with my loo roll card and was trying to explain a guy at the bank that I did not put my grocery discount card into his cash point machine deliberately...
And that ladies and gentlemen is how IT made me lose my marbles
Now, for the people who do not know me, I am a dinosaur. Well not really, typing would be a bit difficult and then I am not even talking about the vast amounts of Special K cereal I would need in the morning to keep myself "regular"....
What I am saying is, I am an IT dinosaur. I have no Nano-byte-terra phone nor do I have the latest flatboard or keyless-screen or whatever IBM is calling it these days..I believe it's an I-Orange or something...
I do have 1 old playstation which my brother donated to charity....or me....to try and lure me into the Age of Technology.
Well...what is that? "The Age of Technology"...Cavemen also thought they lived in the Age of Technology when they invented the wheel...hell we still use it today....do you still use your first Mac or Intosch...?
I have a car that is 33 years old...same as me...it's old, farts, has some unexplainable spots and smells...same as me....But what I want to say before alienating all of you...is that when it breaks down, I do not have to go to a garage and pay a trillion Euro just for a guy in a suit sticking his laptop into my cigaret holder and telling me my washer fluid needs a top-up....No, I just go to Bob around the corner and he hammers some new greasy part in place and after spending 5 Euro I am back motoring along with a smile on my face and a bank account that does not look like Imelda Marcos went shoe-shopping with it...
Same with a pc or laptop, I had a pc when I was at school because it was "the Age of Technology" and all those teachers broke their fingers on typewriters...after that I never owned one in my life. My mother donated a laptop to charity once...I still have it...
And the reason why I am a dinosaur is that I do not speak Klingon. When that little message pops up with a small red circle and a cross in it and starts explaining me in, what I can only guess is fluent Klingon, that my Z-Bat drive is in error for my Log Script Unit I have a tendency to be a little violent and use that fork not for what it was designed for. It's hard to explain at the PC shop that that fork got accidentally stuck between the T- and the F key and that it has nothing to do with the Klingon on the screen...
What I also do not get are domotics systems. You drive home and before you are even in the same zip code as your house it is already making coffee, tuning the radio to your favorite tune and walking around in your slippers to get them "comfy-warm"....Same thing in the morning. Before you realise you need to wake up, breakfast is made and poured into you, your slippers are "comfy-warm" and your teeth are brushed. No wonder people fall asleep at the wheel...they never woke up in the first place, their house just puts them in the car and of they go...
And another thing... all those cards you get these days with chips in it to keep track on how many points you get when buying 5 loo rolls and a leek or when filling up with gas at the gas station, what is that all about? I asked one day and the answer apparently is: "Well sir, if you buy 500 leeks you get a free carrot" why do I even ask.... These days even pharmacists have member cards... How often do they expect me to get sick?...Do they know something that I don't know yet? "Oh, he is turning yellow, quick get him a member card..." Only the other day I tried to get gas with my loo roll card and was trying to explain a guy at the bank that I did not put my grocery discount card into his cash point machine deliberately...
And that ladies and gentlemen is how IT made me lose my marbles
vrijdag 30 april 2010
How shopping made me lose my marbles
I do like shopping but not at the same time as everybody else. It all starts at home. I am frantingly looking for that last slice of bread which is not too stale or too moldy. Just when I found one that has not yet gone the same color as my lawn I realise that I have nothing to put on it. Some eggs but I think they are about to hatch a dodo because I do not know how long they are there yet and that is it...
It's 11 pm and all I have is a not-so-green piece of bread an almost empty jar of jam and a baby dodo....all the shops are closed and the only ones that are actually open are these so called "night shops"...Especially designed for people like me...hungry, cold and alone in a kitchen. I went to one once...big mistake...I thought I was in St-Tropez or some other place where the jet-setting crowd lives.... Not because it was so beautiful that Versailles looks like a garden shed after a nuclear attack but because of the prices... How come hungry people at night are seen as stupid? Do they really expect me to pay 8 million Euro for a jar of jam the size of that tiny guy of Big Brother? I do not even have a small enough spoon to get to the jam in the first place...a loaf of bread...also astronomical...I wonder if they sell by the slice...
And the reason why I am being ripped off at night is old people....Whenever I try to go to a shop during normal hours the place is packed with old folk. Now before I go along, I do like old folk...really...especially when they are all in 1 place...I think it's called old folks home or something...Old folk don't move like Michael Jackson, even not now he is dead they don't move like Michael Jackson...Just to say they are slow... After a long day all I want is to pop into the shop, whiz around with that lovely trolley which has 4 wheels, all with a mind of their own making the thing harder to control then a moon landing buggy driven by a monkey juggling 5 flaming hamsters.
When you finally learn to control the thing all you want is to speed up, throw a loaf of bread into it, find a decent size jar of jam and get out of there... No go...why? 2 Reasons. Firstly the nice old folk...while using the trolley as a free walker they tend to stop unexpectedly almost causing you to create a pile-up in isle 7. Then they start reading the label of whatever they would like to eat only to find that the last E something something causes them to have an animated night filled with gas and trips to the bathroom...So they trot along. All that time you were standing behind them, blocked in front by a reader and behind you, guess...another one who found something to read...
At an end of an isle I usually try to make a run for it and on autopilot I go left, right and left again....only to bring myself to reason 2 why a shopping trip is never just a whiz around.... After the autopilot move I look up only to find myself between the big-ladies underpants....Why? Because the nice Marketing people found it funny to move the bread to the other part of the shop..again.. It's like landing on that "go to jail" spot at the Monopoly game...you try to avoid every difficulty on your journey and with 1 role of the dice you are back to square 1. For me it was again queuing behind old folk reading labels and making a run for it, this time in the opposite direction.
When finally, you are happy that you got your loaf of bread and your jam and you did not park that out of control trolley into a "buy 18 get 1 free" custard can pyramid and decide to stroll to the register. But what do you see there, always to my disbelieve...the same old folk in front of you as the ones you so frantingly were trying to outrun in the shop... Counting those microscopic copper euro coins as if their lives depend on it, only to find after 15 minutes of counting and re-counting with the friendly shop lady, they can't eat beans after all and wonder off without actually having bought a thing...
And that ladies and gentlemen is how shopping made me lose my marbles,
I do like shopping but not at the same time as everybody else. It all starts at home. I am frantingly looking for that last slice of bread which is not too stale or too moldy. Just when I found one that has not yet gone the same color as my lawn I realise that I have nothing to put on it. Some eggs but I think they are about to hatch a dodo because I do not know how long they are there yet and that is it...
It's 11 pm and all I have is a not-so-green piece of bread an almost empty jar of jam and a baby dodo....all the shops are closed and the only ones that are actually open are these so called "night shops"...Especially designed for people like me...hungry, cold and alone in a kitchen. I went to one once...big mistake...I thought I was in St-Tropez or some other place where the jet-setting crowd lives.... Not because it was so beautiful that Versailles looks like a garden shed after a nuclear attack but because of the prices... How come hungry people at night are seen as stupid? Do they really expect me to pay 8 million Euro for a jar of jam the size of that tiny guy of Big Brother? I do not even have a small enough spoon to get to the jam in the first place...a loaf of bread...also astronomical...I wonder if they sell by the slice...
And the reason why I am being ripped off at night is old people....Whenever I try to go to a shop during normal hours the place is packed with old folk. Now before I go along, I do like old folk...really...especially when they are all in 1 place...I think it's called old folks home or something...Old folk don't move like Michael Jackson, even not now he is dead they don't move like Michael Jackson...Just to say they are slow... After a long day all I want is to pop into the shop, whiz around with that lovely trolley which has 4 wheels, all with a mind of their own making the thing harder to control then a moon landing buggy driven by a monkey juggling 5 flaming hamsters.
When you finally learn to control the thing all you want is to speed up, throw a loaf of bread into it, find a decent size jar of jam and get out of there... No go...why? 2 Reasons. Firstly the nice old folk...while using the trolley as a free walker they tend to stop unexpectedly almost causing you to create a pile-up in isle 7. Then they start reading the label of whatever they would like to eat only to find that the last E something something causes them to have an animated night filled with gas and trips to the bathroom...So they trot along. All that time you were standing behind them, blocked in front by a reader and behind you, guess...another one who found something to read...
At an end of an isle I usually try to make a run for it and on autopilot I go left, right and left again....only to bring myself to reason 2 why a shopping trip is never just a whiz around.... After the autopilot move I look up only to find myself between the big-ladies underpants....Why? Because the nice Marketing people found it funny to move the bread to the other part of the shop..again.. It's like landing on that "go to jail" spot at the Monopoly game...you try to avoid every difficulty on your journey and with 1 role of the dice you are back to square 1. For me it was again queuing behind old folk reading labels and making a run for it, this time in the opposite direction.
When finally, you are happy that you got your loaf of bread and your jam and you did not park that out of control trolley into a "buy 18 get 1 free" custard can pyramid and decide to stroll to the register. But what do you see there, always to my disbelieve...the same old folk in front of you as the ones you so frantingly were trying to outrun in the shop... Counting those microscopic copper euro coins as if their lives depend on it, only to find after 15 minutes of counting and re-counting with the friendly shop lady, they can't eat beans after all and wonder off without actually having bought a thing...
And that ladies and gentlemen is how shopping made me lose my marbles,
donderdag 29 april 2010
How Politics made me lose my marbles
I live in Belgium...
I know, famous for its' chocolate, beer, peodofiles both cleric and non-cleric...yes we have the whole range.... woohoo.......and recently for carnival politics....
Let me explain the last. For you guys not so familiar with Belgium, it's located below Amsterdam: prostitutes and marihuana and above Luxembourg: tax-haven. The part closest to the prostitutes we call Flanders and we speak Dutch...the part closest to the place without prostitutes is called Wallonië, they speak French.
These are the major differences but by far not all because in the North, we work, have a gazillion speedcamera's, have a beach, pay for upkeep of the South, have a sence of humor...in the South well...non of the above but they have rocks with trees on which they call mountains and where they kill wild boars and make pate out of them.... a kind of meat spread for on a sandwich...tasty if you like wild boar taste....
Our politicians trying to keep this plot of prime development land as 1 country. Better said, are trying to keep as 1 country because they otherwise would be out of a job and most of them are even too stupid to shoot a wild boar in the South.......
Only the other day our prime minister Mr Leterme tripped once more over his election victory dated 2007, he then won the elections stating, "only 5 minutes of courage would be needed to split Brussel-Halle-Vilvoorde (BHV)". I should explain, BHV is a patch of land where both Flemish people and Wallon people are trying to leave their mark. Kind of like doggs...they piss on it all the time to mark it as theirs.... sometimes they piss on each other and then we have elections...
5 minutes of courage turned out to be almost 3 years of brutal agony... and as a result Leterme I and now also II will go into Belgium's history books as a 1 grey and a half black page. He will be learning to shoot wild boars in the South soon.
When writing this blogg meetings are still going on on how the agenda will look like to set a meeting that will determine the agenda of the meeting on the elections...lost? wait you will be...for the meeting of the agenda of the pre-meeting of the king.
Yes we have a king too... He is only an old guy in a large house, for us people in the North that is...for the people in the South he is like the pope or that Oracle in Greece...all knowing and holy... We give him money...let me rephrase...he takes our hard-urned cash without asking and spends it on yachts, helicopters for his son and some eyeliner for his wife....
That is the king taken care off. Now, new elections will be necesary to get us out of yet another North-South difference.... Some say..."split Belgium"... others say "NON"... bottom line is we will have new elections and it will make no difference at all because politicians in the North do not want to go boar shooting in the South and politicians in the South can only shoot boar and we do not have that in the North....
And in the meantime the king and all of the politicians are partying with my hard-urned cash like it's carnival in Rio.
And that ladies and gentlemen is how politics made me lose my marbles...
I know, famous for its' chocolate, beer, peodofiles both cleric and non-cleric...yes we have the whole range.... woohoo.......and recently for carnival politics....
Let me explain the last. For you guys not so familiar with Belgium, it's located below Amsterdam: prostitutes and marihuana and above Luxembourg: tax-haven. The part closest to the prostitutes we call Flanders and we speak Dutch...the part closest to the place without prostitutes is called Wallonië, they speak French.
These are the major differences but by far not all because in the North, we work, have a gazillion speedcamera's, have a beach, pay for upkeep of the South, have a sence of humor...in the South well...non of the above but they have rocks with trees on which they call mountains and where they kill wild boars and make pate out of them.... a kind of meat spread for on a sandwich...tasty if you like wild boar taste....
Our politicians trying to keep this plot of prime development land as 1 country. Better said, are trying to keep as 1 country because they otherwise would be out of a job and most of them are even too stupid to shoot a wild boar in the South.......
Only the other day our prime minister Mr Leterme tripped once more over his election victory dated 2007, he then won the elections stating, "only 5 minutes of courage would be needed to split Brussel-Halle-Vilvoorde (BHV)". I should explain, BHV is a patch of land where both Flemish people and Wallon people are trying to leave their mark. Kind of like doggs...they piss on it all the time to mark it as theirs.... sometimes they piss on each other and then we have elections...
5 minutes of courage turned out to be almost 3 years of brutal agony... and as a result Leterme I and now also II will go into Belgium's history books as a 1 grey and a half black page. He will be learning to shoot wild boars in the South soon.
When writing this blogg meetings are still going on on how the agenda will look like to set a meeting that will determine the agenda of the meeting on the elections...lost? wait you will be...for the meeting of the agenda of the pre-meeting of the king.
Yes we have a king too... He is only an old guy in a large house, for us people in the North that is...for the people in the South he is like the pope or that Oracle in Greece...all knowing and holy... We give him money...let me rephrase...he takes our hard-urned cash without asking and spends it on yachts, helicopters for his son and some eyeliner for his wife....
That is the king taken care off. Now, new elections will be necesary to get us out of yet another North-South difference.... Some say..."split Belgium"... others say "NON"... bottom line is we will have new elections and it will make no difference at all because politicians in the North do not want to go boar shooting in the South and politicians in the South can only shoot boar and we do not have that in the North....
And in the meantime the king and all of the politicians are partying with my hard-urned cash like it's carnival in Rio.
And that ladies and gentlemen is how politics made me lose my marbles...
Jabba The Hut made me lose my marbles
Ever been in a hurry and stopped in your tracks by roadworks...?
Then this is right up your alley....
I was motoring along at an agreeable cruzing speed when the first sign, litteraly, appeared that I might sit longer in the car then I really would want. A sign we all know, a little black guy, I am not being racist here, he was painted in black... with a shovel and next to him a pile of some more black paint.... But that was not what caught my eye...it was a large dod and a humming sound about 40m in front of me, kind of dumbo meets a bumble bee.... I was closing in rapidly and my fears became true. Not only had I stumbled on roadworks with only 1 narrow lane available, I was now also stuck behind Jabba The Hut on a mopet...not muppet...mopet (small motorbike...) Jabba The Hut on a muppet is the "after dark" version of this blog...
Really...this guy was so fat that I thought: "dude, you better not move around a lot because 5 million people in China will have move just to keep this rock we are flying on in balance, otherwise we will be all flung into the sun...."
That humming noise came unmistakenly from the little engine that couldn't....smoking, wobbling, coughing...just my aunty at Christmas...and on top of it...Jabba The Hut....To be clear..Jabba The Hutt does not do the horizontal monkey with my aunt at Christmas, she is just wobbly etc....
I started to zig-zag a bit to see if I could see the end of the misery...but apparently the car behind me thought I was swerving to avoid potholes or something and he joined in.....funny...where it not that due to Jabba's fat ass I could not see a thing....
Talking about fat ass....One thing I could see was Jabba's buttcrack...looking at me as it was trying to say "hello... I am a buttcrack"....well....what else would a buttcrack say...? It was a long time ago I last saw a crack like that..I think it was on Discovery Chanel.....The Grand Canyon Special....I wanted to throw up so bad from looking into that guy's rear-end....I could see what he had for breakfast.. and I really throw up violently from buttermilk pancakes...which I could clearly see he had....
Then it happened, a bridge ...now I have to say we were doing 40Km/h and looking at that mopet it could not handle much more going up that bridge...and I was right...my speedometer counted...40..39... etc all the way to F#ing 30.... my jaw dropped in disbelieve..I could accelerate with my shin....
All of a sudden his head dropped a bit and his back arched...I thought the guy got a heart-attack but nooooo...he was trying to be "aerodynamic"....ever seen a hippo crouch when trying to run...No? well...this did not help the guy either....still 30.....And with all that back-arching going on his buttcrack became even larger..I had to clench my jaws not to throw up all over the dash...The guy's ass looked like the Eurotunnel...complete with departing train...If you know what I mean......
Anyway..I could see we were over the worst part as my speedo went back to a I-will-not-shoot-myself-through-the-head 37 km/h. Unfortunately his mopet only barely survived the trip uphill..only 2 wheels and a tail light were showing...the rest moved so far up his sweaty ass I could not see it anymore...
Finally, after I had seriously thought about crashing my car into a brick wall, he went to 1 side of the lane...was it indeed a heart-attack, did his mopet die? I could not care less....the road was mine..ALL MINE I TELL YOU...hahahahha...
and that ladies and gentlemen is how Jabba The Hut made me lose my marbles....
Then this is right up your alley....
I was motoring along at an agreeable cruzing speed when the first sign, litteraly, appeared that I might sit longer in the car then I really would want. A sign we all know, a little black guy, I am not being racist here, he was painted in black... with a shovel and next to him a pile of some more black paint.... But that was not what caught my eye...it was a large dod and a humming sound about 40m in front of me, kind of dumbo meets a bumble bee.... I was closing in rapidly and my fears became true. Not only had I stumbled on roadworks with only 1 narrow lane available, I was now also stuck behind Jabba The Hut on a mopet...not muppet...mopet (small motorbike...) Jabba The Hut on a muppet is the "after dark" version of this blog...
Really...this guy was so fat that I thought: "dude, you better not move around a lot because 5 million people in China will have move just to keep this rock we are flying on in balance, otherwise we will be all flung into the sun...."
That humming noise came unmistakenly from the little engine that couldn't....smoking, wobbling, coughing...just my aunty at Christmas...and on top of it...Jabba The Hut....To be clear..Jabba The Hutt does not do the horizontal monkey with my aunt at Christmas, she is just wobbly etc....
I started to zig-zag a bit to see if I could see the end of the misery...but apparently the car behind me thought I was swerving to avoid potholes or something and he joined in.....funny...where it not that due to Jabba's fat ass I could not see a thing....
Talking about fat ass....One thing I could see was Jabba's buttcrack...looking at me as it was trying to say "hello... I am a buttcrack"....well....what else would a buttcrack say...? It was a long time ago I last saw a crack like that..I think it was on Discovery Chanel.....The Grand Canyon Special....I wanted to throw up so bad from looking into that guy's rear-end....I could see what he had for breakfast.. and I really throw up violently from buttermilk pancakes...which I could clearly see he had....
Then it happened, a bridge ...now I have to say we were doing 40Km/h and looking at that mopet it could not handle much more going up that bridge...and I was right...my speedometer counted...40..39... etc all the way to F#ing 30.... my jaw dropped in disbelieve..I could accelerate with my shin....
All of a sudden his head dropped a bit and his back arched...I thought the guy got a heart-attack but nooooo...he was trying to be "aerodynamic"....ever seen a hippo crouch when trying to run...No? well...this did not help the guy either....still 30.....And with all that back-arching going on his buttcrack became even larger..I had to clench my jaws not to throw up all over the dash...The guy's ass looked like the Eurotunnel...complete with departing train...If you know what I mean......
Anyway..I could see we were over the worst part as my speedo went back to a I-will-not-shoot-myself-through-the-head 37 km/h. Unfortunately his mopet only barely survived the trip uphill..only 2 wheels and a tail light were showing...the rest moved so far up his sweaty ass I could not see it anymore...
Finally, after I had seriously thought about crashing my car into a brick wall, he went to 1 side of the lane...was it indeed a heart-attack, did his mopet die? I could not care less....the road was mine..ALL MINE I TELL YOU...hahahahha...
and that ladies and gentlemen is how Jabba The Hut made me lose my marbles....
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