BEDTIME TUESDAY DANCE PARTY!!!!

Because this is the only proper way to end the dumpster fire of a day I’ve just had:

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Ugh

As we were drifting off toward sleep last night, I remarked to my wife that it had been something very close to a perfect day.  We’d gotten a major project done in the house, had pizza for dinner (there are times when pizza is the best food; last night was one of them), gotten some landscaping done outside, had some cuddle time on the couch with the boy, and spent a pleasant half-hour or so sitting outside and enjoying a summer breeze in the shade on our back porch.

The moment lasted for, well, a moment, before I remembered that the day had started with her telling me not to look at the news until I was more awake, and that fifty people had been gunned down in Orlando, the second time in less than a week that the phrase “murdered in Orlando” had made national news.

This shit happens every week by now, right?  It’s like a ritual; I always hear about these things on Twitter first, and it’s always something slightly opaque, so there’s that few moments of oh I wonder where and how many this time before I find out.  It’s almost always a white guy doing the shooting.  Sometimes it’s not.

I’m at the point where I want the Second Amendment repealed.  Period.  It’s been made obsolete by technology in a way that no other part of the Bill of Rights has, and it needs to go.  But I really don’t want to write a gun post, and I’m even less interested in policing comments about a gun post.  But I do want to make one specific, and probably unnecessary, point about this specific atrocity.

Here’s Omar Mateen:

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The majority of the pictures of him I’ve seen are selfies.  In a lot of ways this guy seems to have been as American as they come (he was born here, after all) and I suspect that the NYPD gear is going to end up being overlooked more than perhaps it should be.  Reports are contradictory on how much of a role Islam played in his life; his father claims religion had nothing to do with it, and his ex-wife, who had to be “rescued” from him by her family, also says that he wasn’t radicalized at all at the time of their divorce in 2011.  But that was five years ago; five years is a long time.

Donald Trump is yip-yapping about “radical Islamic terrorism,” and there’s more fooferall about whether Obama should have used that phrase, or whether Hillary did, and what it means that Hillary Said It but Obama Didn’t, and a whole bunch of nonsense.

I’d like to submit here that it doesn’t really matter all that goddamn much whether this dude was a radical Muslim or not, because the way things stand right now in the US there is no goddamn daylight at all between “radical Muslims” and conservative Christians on the issue of the gay community.(*)  When a leading Republican candidate for President is introduced to a cheering crowd by a pastor minutes after that same pastor calls for the execution of gay people, I don’t want to hear shit about Islamic terrorism.  Republican legislatures across the country have spent most of the last couple of months wetting their pants about whether trans people should be able to pee in public restrooms or not.  Out gay people are in danger in this country every time they leave their homes.  I don’t wanna hear shit about Islamic terrorism when we have an entire political party gleefully making the lives of gay people as miserable as they possibly can every chance they get right here in the United States.  It’s just not relevant.  I don’t care what this guy’s religion was.  He was a homophobe.  That’s the relevant variant of asshole we’re dealing with here, and it’s the only one that matters.

(Two side tangents: 1) I also don’t give a damn about his little 911 call before he drove off to kill people.  I can call 911 and proclaim myself a member of the Harlem Globetrotters right before I go shoot some folks; that doesn’t mean Big Easy and Flight Time are gonna know who the hell I am.  2) Yes, I know about this guy.  I’m not going to talk about him because the case appears to be getting murkier by the minute, and I’m already speculating enough right now.)

Actually, one more thing: it’s interesting to see signs of Mateen starting to get the “mentally ill” edit, which is normally reserved for white people and certainly not for Muslims.  Mental illness is a dodge of the real issue, as usual; a mentally ill and homophobic Omar Mateen who does not have access to a weapon that can shoot a hundred people in a matter of minutes is substantially less dangerous than a healthy and homophobic Mateen who does.

(*) There are so many acronyms.  I feel like “queer” is better as a single umbrella term but “queer” still feels like at least half a slur to me sometimes so I don’t like using it; I’m hoping we can agree that I’m trying to write in good faith here and leave it alone?  I really do hope that at one of the Gay Agenda meetings at some point they sit down and decide on one acronym.  I like QUILTBAG because it’s fun to say, but as a straight cis dude I don’t really get a vote.

#WeekendCoffeeShare: COB edition

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If we were having coffee, I’d

SHUT UP AND GIVE ME COFFEE

We’d probably end up

SUGAR DAMMIT SUGAR TOO

And eventually the subject would probably turn to

MOAR GODDAMMIT JUST INJECT THE SHIT INTO MY VEINS FUCK A SYRINGE GET ME A BIC PEN AND A KNIFE

I mean, it’s neat that we

MILK WHAT THE FUCK IS MILK COFFEE IS BLACK I ONLY DRINK BLACK COFFEE NOW

And maybe it would be neat if we would

BLACK LIKE THE BONES OF THE EARTH I WANT THIS COFFEE TO CRAWL OUT OF THE CUP AND SLAP ME

And it’s really nice to see that you’re

I HAD BETTER BE ABLE TO SEE THROUGH TIME WHEN I’M DONE WITH THIS SHIT

I’m happy to announce that

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Let’s do this again next week; it was

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IRATE CLOTHING RANT

middle-finger-poster-flag-6185-pDon’t bother reading this.  tl;dr: I am fat and pants are stupid.  Okay?   Just stop here.

I have, as anyone who has been around here before is already aware, been effectively out of work since October and genuinely out of work since January 4th.  Before anyone bothers to tell me: I am aware that I should probably be getting some exercise, and the fact that I’m struggling with depression right now is not a fucking excuse.(*)  But one way or another I have spent the last several months as a full-time writer, or at least a full-time-sit-in-front-of-the-fucking-computer person.

Also a problem: I have been hungry constantly for most of that time.  Like, all day, every day.  That might be a side effect of my medication; I don’t know.  But it’s a fact:  I’m ravenous.  Constantly.  I could eat six meals a day and not even blink at it.

You may have an idea where this is going already.

For most of the last several years I have been wearing 38 x 29 jeans.  Specifically, I’ve been wearing Wal-Mart’s Faded Glory brand.  In fact, that’s virtually the only reason I’ll set foot in a Wal-Mart.  Why?  I can find 29-inch inseams at Wal-Mart.  They’re fucking rare, I tell you.  Inseams like to be in even numbers, and 38 x 28 jeans don’t fucking exist.

Also: I wear jeans when I’m not working.  Only and solely jeans, carpenter cut, because they have the side pocket for my phone and are roomier.  I loathe khakis and would no more wear them when I wasn’t at work than I would wear a tuxedo.  I also tend to wear jeans for a couple of days in a row unless I spill something on them.  Go ahead, call me a slob; I don’t give a fuck.  They’re more fuckin’ comfortable on day 3 and nobody needs to do that much damn laundry.

ANYWAY.  Somehow, a week or two ago, I took off a pair of 38 x 29 jeans at the end of the day before going to bed, because they were getting musty, and in the morning no other pair of jeans in the house— and I own several pairs of identical jeans— would button.  Cursing and gnashing my teeth, I put the musty jeans back on and went to Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart didn’t have a fucking thing in a 29 inseam.  In fact, they only had one pair of pants that were 40 x 30.  So, after hitting a second Wal-Mart, I went into full “fuck it” mode and bought one pair at 40 x 30 and one pair at 42 x 30.  Note that other than the measurements they were the same fucking pants, same brand, same cut.

The 40s only barely fit, when I’d been wearing 38s when I bought the 40s.  That wasn’t the worst thing, though.

This, somehow, is what a 30 inch inseam looks like– on BOTH pants– when a 29 inch inseam fits me perfectly:

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Those motherfuckers are cuffed by at least three inches.  Walking in these in the damn house without shoes on is fucking ridiculous.  And it’s both pairs, meaning that mislabeling seems highly fucking unlikely.  Again: same brand, same cut.  The 40s fit eventually but the 42s were a little more comfortable, and fuck it, I don’t mind my pants a little baggy.  I am too old to give a fuck about the fact that I’m also probably too old to wear my pants the way I do.

But I cannot deal with cuffing my pants like I’m nine and wearing my older brother’s hand-me-downs.  And I’ll be fucked if I’m taking Wal-Mart jeans to a goddamn tailor, either.

I did something that no one should ever have to do: after searching around on Amazon a bit I ordered some 42 x 29 carpenter jeans.  Now, these were Lees, not the Faded Glory pants, but again: a 38 inch waist fit me last fucking week.  42s should be a damn no-brainer.

They just showed up.  It took me ten minutes of truly asstastic contorting and fuckery to get the goddamned things buttoned– yet now that they are the pants don’t feel tight, which doesn’t make any fucking sense at all.  Also, I’m still using the same belt and the same underwear size I’ve been wearing for forever.  My boxers claim to be a 34 inch waist.  My belt is, I think, a 44-incher.  Yet my pants have expanded by six inches overnight.

Oh oh oh and also these do have the side pocket typical to carpenter jeans, but it’s too small for my fucking phone.  I have hope that it’ll stretch out but right now nothing doing.

Here’s the new inseam:

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Fucking perfect, in other words, despite supposedly only being an inch shorter than the other two pairs of jeans.

There is, by the way, no way that I’m aware of to increase my waist size any longer without giving up and going Full Sweatpants, because 44 x 29 does not appear to be a thing that exists anywhere.  I am terrified of what’s going to happen once I have to put on a pair of dress pants for an interview.

Fuck pants, is what I’m saying here.

(*) And before anybody jumps my ass for that:  It isn’t an excuse for me.  And I’m talking about me, not you.

Sometimes I tell lies

Remember Monday, when I was all like “regular programming resumes tomorrow”?  And yesterday, when I said I’d try and write something today?

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