Tag Archives: Rome

Art … I give you “ART” with capital letters and explain why I suck at TV

The first thing we need to discuss in this:

This is the most brilliant thing posted on Facebook in at least the last six months.

This is the most brilliant thing posted on Facebook in at least the last six months.

It was drawn by a friend from high school and posted to Facebook with the following message:

“I got paddled and suspended for drawing this work of art with a friend in the third grade. Can you believe I would do something like this? Me?”

The message was followed by an invitation to use the drawing for my blog.

As if I could resist. How a sad-puppy photo can generate hundreds of thousands of likes, and this – dare I say it – this “masterpiece,” only warrants eight likes and a few dozen comments, is beyond me.

Art is truly dead, I say. Look at the damn thing if you don’t believe me. Its got wieners everywhere! The only thing that prevents me from asking for a signed copy to hang is the man cave is it lacks boobs. Had it been boobiful, in addition to dickalicious, I‘m certain it would be in the Louvre right at this very moment.

The omission is understandable, however. We were in the third grade then. Girls had cooties and we had no clue boobies were a favorite pastime of older brothers and/or fathers.

LOOK at it again and recognize a THIRD GRADER created it. Its awesomeness overflows the boundaries of the page, I tell you.

Now, I want to talk about TV and how much I suck at it, because I suck at it very much.

I have a TV. I’m not some retarded hipster drinking a PBR and wearing hipster clothes, claiming I don’t have a TV. I don’t even have glasses, prescribed or not. I like news far, far, far too much to not have a TV.

It’s all the other TV that I suck at. Literally, every other bit of it. Name the show and I’ve never seen it, don’t care to see it, don’t know what it’s about and don’t know who’s in it. I suck.

I can stomach some Mythbusters on occasion, I like that Bear Grylls survival show because I like being prepared for situations I’ll never find myself in, and Tosh.O.

Other than that, I suck.

And I’m not talking about those retarded “Who Wants to be Americas Next flash-in-the-pan Celebrity Sensation” or the completely, obviously scripted, “reality” shows like Storage Wars (you realize that they literally put the expensive stuff in the storage locker before the show right?). Those shows are shit and all of us know it.

I mean the good stuff that I can’t fucking get into.

What the fuck happened to me? Was a dropped as a child? I must have been. Damn you Mom (or Dad, could’ve been Dad)!

The last “series” I actually watched was Rome. Rome ended in what, 2008? See I suck.

At this very moment my wife and some house guests are eating up some Breaking Bad. I was asked, begged even, to participate. Hooks were tossed into my pond with tasty worms on them. “It’s really your kind of show,” my wife said. “I know you would love this,” said the guests and I probably would have if I …

… If I gave a fuck. It’s not just Breaking Bad either, sadly. I know there is a lot of quality stuff out there that I should like, but I, and this gets very scientific, can’t be asses enough to care. I probably should care. Good stories are good stories. Good writing is good writing. I just can’t be bothered to watch anything. Because, again, I suck.

This character flaw makes me useless at water-cooler talk (even more so when you realize I don’t follow sports. I’m doubly retarded.)

Boss: Hey Todd did you catch the game last night?

Me: There was a game on last night?

Boss: Yeah there was. Hey did you watch (great cool show here)?

Me: Totally didn’t see that either.

Boss: Well, small talk is over.

Me: Damn it!

I used to worry my disinterest would leave me barren in the blogging department, but after this stellar contribution, I realize I can blog about nothing.

Need help annoying your partner during long drives, this updates for you!

Summer’s here and like many of you Dagmar and I just spent a wonderful, relaxing and nightmarish 20 odd hours in the car together.

Oh what a joy, the things you learn when you’re cooped up in a car with someone are remarkable.

Yes, yes I DO think history pod casts are interesting even after 8 hours!

Yes, yes I DO think history pod casts are interesting even after 8 hours!

For instance did you know that while the someone is exiting an autobahn rest stop, madly working the gears, checking mirrors and judging whether or not that Porsche in the left lane, driving a reasonable and insane 200 mph, is going to suddenly change lanes, that’s the perfect time to ask them to hand you things.

“Honey I know you’re pumping the breaks like a madman because of another of Germany’s infamous stau’s has appeared out of thin air but hand me that water bottle.”

Perfectly reasonable request.

In her defense she was probably close to insanity at this point because I’d subjected her to a collective 15 hours of Mike Duncan’s “The History of Rome” podcast.

Now I Love (yes, with a capital L) me some, “The History of Rome”, I love it so much I’ve listed to all the podcasts three times!   Yeah I’m dork so what, Cato the Elder would have said … oh never mind, sorry.  I should have been clued in though during hour 13 of the podcast when she literally started yelling at the radio, “Shut up, Shut up, Shut up!”

So maybe I missed a sign or something.

Also honey I give you a ‘C’ when it comes to bringing up uncomfortable subjects.    Sure you get an ‘A’ on subject matter, why WAS I flirting with that girl, but a ‘F’ on timing … I mean come on we were pulling into the driveway at that point.

Another point is that yes, maybe I am a male-chauvinistic pig but when I grew up dad did all the driving.  If they were both in the car, pops had the wheel.  I see it as the man’s duty, like mowing the lawn, re-shingling  the roof and looking at porn.   “No honey I can’t go to bed yet, this porn’s not going to watch itself is it?”

You, yeah you reading this, do you keep change in the car?  You know in the divider thing between the passenger and driver’s seat?  Maybe you keep it in the ashtray?  Do you?  If so never, I repeat Never, let Dagmar in your car.    This type of change storage is an affront to the very laws of our existence and it must be policed up, sorted and stored in a proper change receptacle (this little bag in her purse).    Loose change (both the kind in my car and the retarded September 11 2001 conspiracy movie) drive her nuts.  Makes no never mind that the next time I need 35 euro cents I’m screwed, everything has to be organized.

Which leads to another fun game I call, ’round up the trash!’  Now I’m all in favor of having a car that’s reasonably clean and who am I kidding, without anyone else in my car the interior quickly begins to resemble a public landfill.   But I’m not so stupid that I don’t pick up before she, or anyone else, gets in the car but it’s always amusing that during long trips she become litter patrol super captain of the world!    For instance, I’m a filthy smoker and yeah, yeah don’t smoke it’s disgusting and filthy (really don’t), but I’ll often put empty cigarette packs in a little cubby hole on the bottom of the driver’s side door panel.   Heck tons of stuff can go there, empty coffee cups, empty drink bottles, tissues whatever.

These are great opportunities for her to ask me to hand her things during my before mentioned attempts at passing a 1950s Winnebago while someone tries to park their Lamborghini in my ass.

“Todd can you hand me that empty cigarette pack?”

“Sure thing my love, just as soon as I’m done merging into a construction zone surrounded by Italian drivers.  I mean if we live that is.”

This is more of a suggestion in italy, I mean if you want to go right who am I to stop you?

This is more of a suggestion in italy, I mean if you want to go right who am I to stop you?

Which, unrelated to my lovely bride and her adorable passenger habits brings me to crossing international European borders.   Entering Austria from Germany is a yawn, like visiting a sibling, they’re the same as you but different.  Entering Italy from Austria is akin to visiting Charles Manson wearing a shirt that says, stab me please while handing him a knife.

Want to drive 70 KPH in the fast lane, go right ahead in Italy.   Lane changes need not be indicated by signal lights, just change lanes damn it, extra points if you cut someone off and then slow down.   Letting someone merge into your lane means you have a small penis and yes, yes you can slow down to check out the hot chick.

Crossing back into Germany it’s like everyone flips a switch and the rules count again.

“Holy shit, did you see that?   That dude just used his ‘blinker’ to indicate he was making a lane change.  Someone should tell the Italian’s about this!”

I think I’m going to get a lot of support from the men reading this next point.   If the start time, for getting on the road, is agreed upon, say 9 a.m., then 8:45 is not the time to start elaborate philosophical discussions.   See we were visiting our best friends (hey Maggie and Alex) and I guess, the fifteen minute mark is the time to start a discussion about ‘what it all means’ or ‘why are we here’ or ‘are Oreo’s better than Chips ahoy?”.   But Alex I do want to add that I’m in.  In  retrospect, I’m down with the Somalia plan but you’ll have to navigate because …

Listen officer, the GPS TOLD me to drive over this guy's lawn.

Listen officer, the GPS TOLD me to drive over this guy’s lawn.

I confession I suck at directions.  Thank god for GPS.  I failed land navigation as a young soldier at the (then called PLDC) Warrior Leader’s Course.  I failed it AND because of a crap-ton of snow we were doing it in garrison.  Those of you that know what I’m talking about are laughing at me right now, go ahead … dicks.   For those that don’t know what I’m talking about the instructor basically told me, “go four blocks that way, turn left two blocks and tell me what the sign there says.”  Yeah, I fucked that up, repeatedly.So YES honey you DO have a better sense of direction than I do but that’s like me saying I’m better at golfing to a retarded, physically handicapped 5 year old.  It’s not much of a victory.