Tag Archives: Newt Gingrich

Suicide or Ikea, Suicide or Ikea, Suicide or Ikea … crap, it’s Ikea

I have some bad news friends.  

I’m going to have to kill myself before Saturday.   Okay maybe kill myself is a bit strong but I’m talking totally believable suicidal gestures.   You know the kind, I’ll eat a bottle of Flintstone vitamins and post a suicide note here, or I’ll cut my wrists with a dull butter knife (but it’ll totally hurt) while listening to whatever Goth song is currently number one on iTunes or I’ll …

Okay never mind I’m not going to kill myself before Saturday but at some point this Saturday I’ll wish I had.

The first hint that I was about to be forced into doing something I consider equal to a colonoscopy on the ‘scale of fun’ came yesterday morning when Dagmar noted she hated the curtains in the guest bedroom.

We’ve been married a while.   I knew what this meant.  It didn’t mean she’d go find new ones more on her lunch

Ikea, we destory men's souls

Ikea, we destory men's souls

break.   It didn’t mean she’d surf the web looking for the type and color she wanted.   No it meant something more ominous, something darker.  It meant I was going, with her, to Ikea.

I did the math in my head and quickly guessed that there was five percent chance that I could get out of going with her and a 95% chance I would be craving the sweet sweet kiss of death at about one p.m. this Saturday afternoon.

I did the smart thing, I kept my mouth shut and simply muttered something like “I like them but if you want new ones okay.”

It was ‘May Day’ a holiday for labors across the world (except for us non-commie ‘Mericans) and spring has sprung here in Europe.   Point is what should have been a quick (no traffic) and pleasant drive on a fine spring morning was ruined.   

My mind raced with thought about how to get out of the dreadful Ikea experience.

As I said Spring has sprung here in Deutchland.   The sun is out, there are bee’s in the flowers we planted last weekend and Dagmar has that insane’ let’s rip the house apart in a maniacal desire to remove the dirt’ look in her eye.

I get spring cleaning, I do.  It makes sense and while I’m not a fan of it (check my Facebook ‘likes’ I’m not) I understand it and don’t enjoy living in filth anymore than anyone does.   I’ll participate, if given detailed instructions I might even do the chore slightly better than ‘halfassed’.   I’m a man though I’m best turned loose in the garage with ‘clean this crap up’ as guidance.

But this, this Ikea trip, I did not see coming.   We’ve been in this house a few years, Ikea trips are what you do when you move in … this one was out of the left field.

I had to see Dagmar right before a meeting I had yesterday afternoon.   That’s when she dropped the bomb officially while we were discussing what we were going to do that weekend.    “We’re”.  Crap she used the word we’re (death sentence right at the sentence’s start.  “We’re going to Ikea.”   

I now calculated my chances of getting out of this at less than one percent.  Newt Gingrich’s moon colony and presidential nomination are more likely.  

I did what any other trapped animal does in this situation, I panicked.   I think I even started to gnaw off my own legs.

“I was going to hang that picture in the living room like you wanted,” I volunteered before realizing that would take about 15 minutes if I took a smoke break in the middle.  I needed something of substance.   I seriously considered ordering a hot tub from my iPhone (which how cool is that, we can do that today) with a hopeful Saturday delivery date.   I considered enrolling in one more college courses right that minute so that you know, “the weekends are when I study honey”.  

I had nothing, in fact I had added to my misery.   I was going to clean the garage I said which was met with, you ARE going to clean the garage but you’re still going to Ikea.

I know, I screwed that up royally.

If you’re a guy reading this you know exactly what I mean.   If you’re a girl reading this you’re saying what is the big deal it’s just a trip to a store.  

I’m going to break it down for you ladies …

We’ve seen this movie a thousand times before.  It’s a good movie to be sure and when we first watched it we loved it, but now we know that it’s the same movie.   The purchases change but the lead up the purchase is exactly the same, every time.

Every man, ever, eventually turns over these kinds of purchases to his wife, significant other, long time girlfriend whatever.   We do and we do it because you’re right and we have long ago conceded that.  When we turned those decisions over to you ladies, our input, in our minds at least, became irrelevant.   It’s not that we don’t care about the curtains in the guest bedroom it’s that we’ve learned from long and hard experience that you’re smarter about what shade of, insert trendy color here, goes with, other trendy color here, better than we do.

Thus we don’t care anymore.   If our opinion is generally, and I admit it is, wrong we stop caring about giving it.  

We’re just there as a cheer leader toward whatever side you seem to be leaning toward during the decision regarding what kind of throw pillow you should buy.  Mentally we’re going “well she seems to like that one at the moment, encourage that one.”  It becomes all about hurrying the process along so we can leave the goddamn aisle and maybe someday, before we’re old and senile, check out, go home and drink beer.

I’m pretty sure you can trace all this back to evolution or at least the study of primitive hunter-gather societies.  Studies have shown the gathers, typically woman, worked a whole lot harder than the men’s hunter role.    While women were out debating which berry was yummy and which berry would turn you into a dead person men were at the village wondering if they could ferment rocks to make booze and drawing crude stick figure porn in nearby caves.   

But when word came that the elk, buffalo, whatever herd was near the hunters of the tribe “saddled up and rode” bitches!    Meaning I can go to Ikea alongside Dagmar (and yes this is basically the same as the vacuum analogy) but I’m going to dart in, find the curtain that comes closest to the one you described to me and then get out.

You women though are going there to gather.   “Oh that shiny thing would be great in the hallway” and “Oh that would be fun to put in the bathroom” and “My cousin (twice removed and never met in person) would love this,” will be uttered countless times and the dreadful question, “what do you think” will be asked.  I’ll try to process the question but the “you’re not right, she is” gene will kick in and I’ll again boil it down to I don’t care at all.

Ikea is the worst of all the shopping trips.    The store is designed like one of those rat and cheese mazes making the possibility that even after we finally move forward three feet after an agonizing 30 minutes of looking at a

There is only one way in and one way out ...

There is only one way in and one way out ...

picture frame we’ll stop again to see which vanity set for the bathroom would look ‘cute’.    The Ikea here even has a small restaurant/bar thingy in the middle of it (I think for asshole husbands like me) but I can’t even work up enthusiasm for it because there’s BEER at the goddamned house.

I even asked for suggestions on how to get out of this on facebook but honestly that compounded my misery is all as Adrian Schulte reminded me that Saturday Ikea trips were worse than ALL OTHER Ikea trips.   Cameron Christianson alluded to the mythical shortcut through the store but this kind of exploration isn’t authorized during our trips and Jerry O’Hara suggests a badly timed “gas” incident that just might work but in the end I resigned myself. 

I’m going to Ikea.

More facebook updates that piss me off

If that dog so much as blinks, I’m snagging that umbrella

Okay bullcrap.  If he valued his damned umbrella so much he’d HAVE IT OVER HIMSELF.

Dear homeless man, here’s some help climbing aboard the clue train.  First stop, why animals have fur and why humans invented umbrellas.   See in the wild, dogs (wolves) get wet everyday! They have this hair ALL over them that protects them and makes it OKAY.   We, long ago, discovered that getting wet sucks because we don’t have hair all over us (well most of us don’t) and some goddamn genius invented the umbrella to protect us from the rain so that we don’t get sick and/or have bad hair.  Besides I bet you could get like $10 for that umbrella on a day like that and $10 would buy beer.  Then you, and the dog, will still be wet but you won’t care (and the dog never cared) because you’ll have beer.

You gave a shit enough to make this fucking sign though …

Again pure, distilled and fermented bull.   You know who else didn’t give a shit, the guy in the photo up above and look at his situation.   He’ll likely be trading sexual favors for drugs later on tonight but he doesn’t give a shit.   Life is a thousand times harder when you don’t give a shit and a thousand times easier when you DO give a shit.  You know who gives a shit?  Bill fucking Gates gives a shit and that man that asked you for spare change last Friday so he could get drunk buy food doesn’t give a shit (except about getting drunk).  Which of those two people has a better life …  I know, I know the drunk guy.  Fuck you.

You see everquest was SO much better because …

Don’t you think your little Facebook game has gone off the deep end when the bounty of someone is LARGER than the GDP of THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD?!?!?!   What the hell did Hobo Ella even do that every nation in the world is ready to collapse their own economy just so you would FINALLY kill her.  Besides if she’s worth that much isn’t about damned time she changed her name from Hobo Ella to SUPERFUCKINGRICHANDAWESOME Ella?  I’m thinking if we’re nice to her she might get that moon base that Newt Gingrich has been talking about off the ground.  And what the hell are YOU going to do with all that money besides crash the world’s economy I mean.  Don’t get me started on you Farmville people.  Don’t you all know that Facebook is for seeing if your ex got fat and for spying on your kids … Jesus.

purple, the color of elves and shit, also purple. Bonus point, nice boobs.

If you ever posted this to your Facebook feed and are A: older than 17 or B: heterosexual and male contact me immediately.  I wish to study you.

Snarking on Jesus is funny … he told me so.

I don’t even know where to start with this one.   Mostly they have a tag that says, “will you let him in?”  Hell yes I would, he can even have the last beer if he wants it but SO WHAT.  He’s GOD.   Dude walked on water, turned water into wine and did a bunch of other crap why does he need me to let him in.   Can’t he just ‘jesus’ his way into the house?   I’m trying to watch Simpson’s reruns.  Posts like this are the reason there are fights on numerous message boards across the net.  This is the very reason that every internet fight devolves into someone being compared to Hitler.   If you post this in your feed you’re the reason that someone had to start a POE wiki … Also he is God can’t he modernize his clothes?

Men scan this, looking for boob references …

I promise you no man read the entire thing up above.   I didn’t even read it and I cared enough to copy it out of Facebook, uploaded it here and am about to write a (grammatically incorrect and largely incoherent) paragraph about it.   Ladies, because let’s be honest only ladies post this crap, men never read this shit.  That long ass card you got us for our anniversary or birthday or national boob appreciation day, we didn’t read that one either.     We don’t.   We stare at it constantly asking ourselves if we can stop pretending we’re reading it yet.  Generally we take some sentence in the middle and read it just in case you ask a question.   Her, “Didn’t you just love the part about beaches?” she’ll ask.   We’re just going to spout off the random crap we DID actually read back to you so you THINK we read it.   “Sure did honey but I really found the part about love being a never ending circle like our rings very special.”   It’s total shit I know but we’re all just hoping for blow jobs with minimal effort.  Amiright?