Whenever my laptop takes a crap, every few months it seems, I send it to Dell and then march over to my local Rent-a-Center for a temporary replacement…all in the name of keeping this exciting e-zine percolating.  This will be my last visit to Rent-a-Center and this time it’s not because of the beer-soaked flat-screen incident.

This time I even called first, which I never do, and was told, “We don’t rent laptops by the week anymore, only by the month.”  So I called the other Rent-a-Center in town, expecting the same, but the lady said, “Sure, weekly’s fine.”

An hour later I am at the desk arguing that very point. 

Of course, the last person on the phone was mistaken.  “But monthly is our new policy.”

Eventually, with some haggling on my part, they agreed to a weekly rate and they handed me that awful 17 page form.  Have you seen these?  They’re like waaaay to long to fill out on your lunch break. 

“Ummm, why can’t you use the form I filled out the last time I was here?”

“Sorry, you always have to fill out a new one for each rental.”

So I spew out a number of fictional references and list NASA as my employer—you know, the usual—and then hand it to the guy with my credit card.

“Ahh, we don’t take credit cards, we’re going to have to check your references.”

“Ummm, the references on the sheet?”  I don’t even remember what I wrote already.

So this guy comes back in about five minutes.  “Umm, the first two numbers didn’t work and the third number is Phoenix Children’s Hospital.”

“Yeah, ahhh, they know me there…. Look, dude, why are you calling for references?  I rent here all the time, there’s never been a problem (I left out the beer-soaked flat-screen incident).  How about if I use this place as my reference?”

He proceeded to explained how they no longer take credit cards as collateral so they must check references.   

“So I need to give you three names with three phone numbers that match?”

I don’t remember names and numbers and stuff, thus the Arabic Pig Latin I usually enter into such forms.  I thought about leaving but then I thought about Mr. Winslow, our Commander and Thief over at the Discord.  

“Where’s that post, Zano!  What am I paying you for, Zano! I said two coats of wax, Zano!” and “You’re cutting too close the cuticle, Zano!” 

Then I thought of the fans, or in our case, fan—no, not the one I use to fan Mr. Winslow.  So I did what anyone would have done, I gave them all the people working on my psych unit at that particular moment in time.  I knew the numbers and I knew who would be answering the phones.  These loyal colleagues apparently verified my good name, so I didn’t have to fire anyone.  In just under two hours I was able to walk out with a laptop for one week for 23 bucks.  In fact, I am typing this anti Rent-a-Center rhetoric with one of their rented Toshibas, the bastards.   But I did let them know on the way out the door my tenure here at happy acres was winding down.   Next time my Dell craps out, don’t be surprised if the same joke scrolls across our marquee for a couple of weeks.   Oh, that happens anyway?  I’ll have to look into that. 

You would think our story ends here…but it doesn’t.  The next day the rumors started at work that I was applying for a job at….yep, at the Rent-a-Center!!!!!  I guess they were a little vague about the type of reference. 

Oh, and get this, after asking my employees about how responsible or not I am, they asked them if they wanted to rent anything today.  Spamming my peeps?   Really?  Is there a Loaner Loft in town somewhere?  Geesh. 

As I sit here at my place of employment, gazing out at what has become the biggest fiasco-slash-cluster fuck of any city utility improvement project ever, I can’t help but think, wow, there really are more incompetent people than at the dailydiscord.com.  Hey, if you hyperlink to where you already are does that create a virtual wormhole?  Try it.

It started almost one year ago, when the City of Glendale, AZ, sent a letter warning all those businesses potentially effected that the city was about to embark on a mission to install a six-foot diameter drainpipe down the center of  Northern Ave. This pipe would re-route the massive amount of water we here, in the DESERT, need. Set to take a reported three months, it’s been about ten now, but who’s counting?  Well, I am, because for most of the time they have been at this, it has been nearly impossible to egress or ingress the parking lot from which I derive my income.  The Discord only pays me in Twinkies, you see.  I’m not complaining, but rent money would be nice too.

When they first started this, the lovely lady from the City of Glendale, in charge of traffic flow for the project, came to my place of employ for a meet and greet. She then made what was to become the biggest mistake of her life. She gave me her cell phone number and said to call her with any complaints/questions. As she did so, I giggled, knowing full well that this New Yorker—pre-destined by his gene pool to spend the rest of his life on the surface of the Sun—was gonna have some ‘fun’ with this traffic flow lady.

First, they took the four lanes of traffic down to two outside lanes, closing off all left turns in either direction indefinitely. That was the start of the ‘round robin,’ the ‘you can’t get there from here’ madness that was to become the flow of traffic around my workplace going on for nearly a year. With little else to do, as there was only sound of crickets in my driveway, I watched them as they dug up a large trench down the middle of the road to install a six-foot diameter corrugated drainpipe. They then filled and paved the trench…little did I realize, this would be the first of many times.

When they got to the intersection of 61st Avenue and West Northern, they exhumed the pipe hole a total of six times. Each time doing something, like: running a power line, then filling and paving, then re-exhumation, then run a telephone line, then refilling and repaving, ad nauseam.  Then they re-exhumed the beast to run a gas line, followed by some more refilling and repaving. A total six times total, over six months. Still no left turns anywhere. I was reduced to reading the Daily Discord hourly (not recommended). When someone would actually come in to my place of business, it was usually a worker or rent-a-cop to use the bathroom. When they finally got done with the intersection, they went on to a dozen other intersections, doing the same fucking crap-dance for each one. I guess the thought of scheduling ALL of the utilities there AT THE SAME TIME was a foreign concept to them.

By this time, the only people filling our parking lot were workers from the project (even the crickets had moved on because of all the noise). Soon after another complaint to the traffic flow lady, a large hard hatted fellow burst into my store…surely to intimidate me into passivity, as it were. He did not figure on me. As he started his rant about “just doing his job” I slowly stood up. It was then that the hard hatted man got an earful of angry New Yawker.

“I don’t get a salary like you, I am full commission, and I have to sell something to get any. And your fucking trucks are blocking the few clients I have left from accessing my store.  So MOVE THEM NOW, Bob the Blunder!”

In ten minutes they were gone, never to appear again.

With the workers temporarily away from our business, we thought we would soon return to normal. That was not to be the case, oh no. We received a notice that the, now buried-like-James-fucking-Hoffa, drainpipe had failed its test. A test they did after it was installed. And well covered. And paved over. And guess what? Yup, it all had to come out. All the utilities had to be re-exhumed and re-routed and a new pipe needed to be installed. It all was happening again, like a bad fucking dream.  It was kind of like that movie Groundhog Day only slightly more repetitive.  I guess this is some of Obama’s ‘shovel ready’ jobs…jobs designed to bury my own.

As this was all going down, I was in, shall we say, constant touch with the traffic flow lady. She was by now feeling the full-blown effect of her previous decision to give me her number. It was not good for her, but it did help alleviate the urges to commit mass murder that I was having at the time.

Now, keep in mind, all of this was week day-daytime only work.  You know, union type 9am to 5 pm, no nights, no weekends.  Nothing to “upset the residents,” or so I was told. Upset the residents? This was all to appease the ‘residents’ so that the once per millennia we have rain it would not leak into their poorly designed houses?  Fuck them.  Keep them up all weekend for all I care.  Did I mention this is a business district?

After eight months, watching six of my co-workers take ‘the final trip home’ due to the drop off in business, they told us they were about to do the final paving and striping. Final, well…not so much.  These people’s idea of final is worse than those Final Destination producers.

First, they had to dig up all the asphalt that was the result of eight months of cluster-fucking, plus some 30 years filling potholes and repaving. They then had to lay down two layers of asphalt. All this meant the re-closing of various lanes over various weeks. They got about two thirds of the way done with the final coat, when all work stopped. For about two weeks the pylons were there, but no one was working. Then came the news: the initial layer of asphalt had failed ITS test, a test done after it was down and covered.

Then the lovely Vogon-type, planet-devouring machines returned…the ones that eat asphalt like I eat Twinkies. Have you ever been near such a device as it was happily eating fresh laid asphalt? Fillings get loosened, windows vibrate, bladders lose their loads, and tempers flare. By this point I was calling the poor traffic lady hourly but was only getting her voicemail (wonder why?).  I adapted to this by just screaming into the phone for as long as the message would allow.

Yesterday the final striping went down. I fully expected to come in this morning and see something I haven’t seen in almost a year, a road unencumbered by cones and workers—a silent road. It was then I saw the men with the air powered hammers cutting a large trench across the newly laid and striped asphalt. Traffic flow lady’s phone had been completely disconnected at this point.  The only good move she’d made in months.

As the Philatrenchia Experiment continues, keep in mind, I have watched the City of New York rebuild two-million-cars-a-day roads, like the Cross Bronx Expressway, without ever closing it. They worked all nights and weekends and managed to keep all lanes open each and every rush hour.  If they failed at this, there were fines aplenty. They also gave the construction companies a large bonus for work done early. What a concept, huh Arizona?  Meanwhile, does anyone know the new number of that traffic flow lady?

In a desperate effort to not only protect our borders, but to save the American tax payer’s money, the U.S. Senate has authorized the United States’ southern border be lined with millions of banana peels.

Homeland Security Chief, Janet Napolitano, had this to say, “You will soon see pre-peeled bananas in your grocery stores for no extra charge. En route from Mexico we will continuously peel the bananas imported from Mexico and place them along the nearly 1,300 miles of as yet unprotected border. This will create good American jobs that match our current educational prowess.”

Corporal Bob Saget had this to say, “Well, you see ha, ha, ha. We also have these hidden cameras ha, ha, ha. When they try to cross and slip, we’ll air the whole scene on our newest show World’s Stupidist Illegal Aliens. One guy landed on a cactus and we got this awesome nut shot, ha, ha, ha.”

The head of the Environmental Protection Agency, Lisa Jackson, added, “The peels are effective and biodegradable. As for interrupting animal migrational patterns, it’s only going to affect the really stupid ones already slated for extinction.” The dodo bird was unavailable for comment. “Those few species impacted may also inspire another show, World’s Stupidist Desert Animals,” said Jackson.

Senator John McCain (AZ) had this to say, “My original idea, at least for Arizona, was to line the border with land mines, but this proved unpopular in recent polling. We seem to be having our own liberal migratory issues these days. I didn’t originally like the banana peel idea, but then I realized Mexicans are a proud people and showing up on Bob Fagots show during prime time will embarrass the refried beans out of them.”

Is this sheer idiocy or pure genius? What we do know is banana stocks are one of the only stocks on the rise this week. As the U.S. slides into the realm of Banana Republic, this may somehow be a fitting end to America. Let’s not forget what Snork from the Banana Splits told us nearly four decades ago, “Let’s have a load of banana fun, a lot of fun for everyone…except those damned illegals!”

Hate is a strong word, maybe loathe is better…yeah, fear and loathing on some God-awful social site.  Let’s be clear about this, I’m only on Facebook to promote the Daily Discord, which sucks!   Our other venues grow like social site Chia Pets, even when ignored, but Facebook?  What’s more disturbing, there’s something inherently wrong with Facebook and the whole virtual narcissistic cesspool (VNC).  As John Bender once said, “It’s demented and sad, but social.”

First off, I am supposed to be incognito.  This may come as a surprise to some of you, but Mick Zano is not my real name.  Oddly, the Crank is his real name (go figure) but I chose an alias.  I did this so Muslim extremists, tax collectors, and Mormons can’t find me.  In fact, I moved out west as part of a Jehovah’s Witness Protection program.  I just want to post my Discord funny of the week and get back to the Lesbian Bondage Forum, but nooooooooo.   Oh, and FB now has big brothery facial recognition programs too, which is going to help a few small town sheriffs connect the dots…dots I don’t necessarily want connected.

Facebook also killed a nice little Yahoo group I had going with all of my college friends.  For years we had witty banter bantering about.  There was always great pithy-quipy style remarks from the peanut gallery on a wide range of topics, from beer all the way to women.   That’s been replaced with:  

Rats, I have the stomach flu today. 

Be the first of your friends to Like…

Then that loser gets 5 Likes and 17 comments, while our own Virgin Contracts VD: Hailed as Immaculate Infection headline gets bupkis.  Yeah, like that’s fair…but, then again, I do like the stomach flu as much as the next guy. 

Here’s my main point for bringing you all to this dark and terrible post.  I ended up on Facebook for real the other day, to do some actual social site activities.  What was I thinking? For only the second time ever I searched for new friends. What do I find?  I’m old…damn old.  Don’t any of you have hair?  Here’s a flashback from my first Facebook experience.

My First Impression of Joining Facebook You all look, er…great!

It’s gone a little downhill since then, I’m afraid.  But undaunted—well, somewhat daunted—I found a way to forge ahead.  I saw some peeps from my old high school and even updated my profile.  Apparently, I speak Klingon now.  This “activity” netted me three comments within about 11 seconds.   Wait, five, the Crank just commented on it…twice! 

Then, during this ridiculous searching-for-new-friends procedure, I finally find an old friend of interest, but his profile pic is of Hermione Granger of Harry Potter fame.  What?!  Dude, you’re in your early 40s and she’s like 14… and guess what?  I’m a mandated reporter! 

Then, when I’m searching for friends, I find two people on the suggested friend list.  Wait a cotton picking Farmville minute…they must have secretly un-friended me!  Snap.  One of them had even asked me to be her friend in the first place!  BWTF woman!  Bad enough you still have my Dylan CD and now this?  Hey, I only befriended you in the first place out of pity, which brings me to the big problem: people posted pictures on my home page.  I have never put any of them up there (I don’t even know how!).  How do they get up there exactly?  Not without some considerable effort on my part, I have ruled out the work of the Virtual Elves. 

I didn’t even know these blasts from the past were there for months, then I click on my profile and find crimes, misdemeanors, debauchery, dogs & cats, living together, mass hysteria…or as I like to call it “college.” Did I mention I’m supposed to be incognito?   Besides, as those of you who know me can attest, ever since college I have become a model citizen.  Really…I have….just ask my probation officer.

I thought, last time, I figured out how to hide the pictures on the top of my page, but this week I find they’re still there!  You can scroll on the sides and still reach all of them (in all of their pre-Photoshop glory). BWTF?  Like most people caught in this web of deceit, my social group consists of a strange hodgepodge of friends, coworkers, and family members—an unsettling combination, for sure. 

Of course, my kids and my wife are nowhere to be found on this “profile page,” so if they go to my home page, sure as shit, you can find me smooching somebody other than mommy.  Thanks for posting that one!  Well, in all fairness, I’m smooching fellow contributor, Dave Atsals, as well—even more enthusiastically, by the look of it.  I guess I was an equal opportunity smoocher.  So I finally figured out how to get them all off the page, for good.   Now let us never speak of them again.  Well, one of them is below, the only one I’m not kissing anyone or doing something incriminating.  It’s a good picture of a Thunder Alley rally.  Oh, shit, underage drinking.  Well, the statute of limitations should be over by a couple of decades.

Finally I’m back in stealth mode, like a Romulan flagship.  I am the wind.  I am the rider on the storm.  I am Claude Rains.  I am the MIB and the MIB 2.  I am the walrus, ko ko kajoob.  So no more tagging me in these pictures, you social site hooligans, or so help me I’ll, I’ll, I’ll unfriend you…and you’re little dog too! 

Hermione Granger.  Really, dude?  Wish I had thought of that.

The biggest blockbuster of the year is undoubtedly Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows—Part 2. You know it’s a serious movie when I throw in an adverb as big and daunting as ‘undoubtedly’, right from the get go.   The Daily Discord was there to cover this prestigious premiere.  When I say premiere, I mean, a week later during a matinee at the Ghettoplex.  Oh, and Mr. Winslow will probably never reimburse me the admission price.  Bastard! 

I have to say, for the record, this last wizardly installment has made me a believer in magic!  How any movie could pacify the hundreds of screaming-meemies in my audience is truly miraculous. I do believe in Harrys, I do, I do!  For this I offer a Sorting Hat tip to J.K. Rowling and Co.  I’m not kidding, the place was bursting at the seams…and not just with kids…let’s not forget those youngins from ten years ago at Harry’s debut (aka, those annoying twenty somethings in the back).  They all fell silent after the last preview as if by some divine intervention.  Who says paganism is dead? 

I’m not going to give away any of the fun.  You know, the Luke Skywalker is Yoda’s second cousin kind of thing.  I think it’s more important to reflect on this whole pagan Potter phenomenon and its implications for American culture.   This, coincidentally, was also my thesis, which may help explain why I am not a doctor.  But why the hell did we all get sucked into this decade-long nightmare?  Most of my married life has been spent asking: “Are Snape and Dumbledore in cahoots?”  “How do you spell Whorecrux and is there some connection to that Vegas chick I periodically employ?” and, let’s not forget, “If Dumbledore is gay, is he a proponent of don’t ask, don’t spell?”

For good or ill, upon leaving the theater, I did feel like it was the end of an era.  After all, I took the youngins to all of these things, ever since Episode 1: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Franchise.  I even read some of the books to the kids, until they got way to friggin’ long (the book, not the kids).  I think I gave up at Harry Potter and the Goblet of Why the Hell Am I Still Reading This?

Today, I really do just want Potter purged from my brain.  I’ll just shotgun a pounder of ale while someone yells “stupefy” …that should do the trick.  My family feels the same way.  It ended at a good time.  And now it’s like that Samuel L. Jackson moment, “Get these mother f&^*ing Snapes out of our mother f&^%ing brains!”  I really am washing my hands of Hogwarts.  Hell, this took longer than it did to get my own degree, albeit barely.   I’m glad to finally graduate.  It can’t hurt my chances of employment in this climate… but I never did pass Defense against the dark farts.

In some ways, I think Harry Potter was a bit dark for a children’s thingie, and whereas the movies were generally enjoyable, this last installment was one of the best.  It was a fitting finale. So if you haven’t seen it, I encourage you to do so.  Just don’t bother submitting your admission ticket to Mr. Winslow.  He won’t reimburse you.  Have I mentioned he’s a bastard?

Winslow says he wants proper conclusion/summary paragraphs to wrap up these things.  So, in closing, I believe each movie in the Harry Potter series was worth watching, but, honestly, they’re not movies I would ever watch a second time…more like 4 to 5 hundred times!  I’m afraid that’s part of the job description for being a parent in the early twenty-first century.   What’s stranger still about the series is this: I have watched them 4 to 5 hundred times, each, and even read some of the books, yet I still find myself lost at times.  I guess I need to sign up for some remedial Potter classes.  Is there tutoring available for those learning disabled wizards among us?  Never mind, 4 to 5 hundred more showings and I’ll have this bitch down. 

Oh, and Mr. Winslow wants to end all movie reviews with a Discord original closer, like “We’ll save you the aisle seat” or “We’ll see you at the movies.”  

Er, how about, “We’ll leave the light on for you.”  No.   Hmmm.   How about, “We’ll wing some Good & Plentys at the back of your head, bitches.”  I believe the Ghetto Shaman would approve. 

Holidays are excessive and outlandish, like liberal budgets.  But if you don’t get off work for them, what the hell’s the point? I did a web search on popular U.S. Holidays (I can do these now…with help). I found a list of fifty-one of them.  So let me get this straight, there are more holidays than states in the union?  Which makes me wonder, what would we do on South Dakota Day?  Anyway, I have broken down our holiday cheer into a few arbitrary and quite meaningless categories.

Category 1 (the must keeps):

These entail the big ones, which most people agree are the major leaguers (aka, we get off work, eat and drink to excess).  Namely, Christmas, Easter, Labor Day, Independence Day, Memorial Day and Thanksgiving.  Although Christmas and Easter are holidays of religious significance, I don’t hold that against them.  You see, I don’t do churches, cults, synagogues, or any place of worship, but they still meet my main criteria.  For each of these I typically get off work and then I either eat or drink to excess, sometimes both. 

The only sucky thing about them is putting together that one gift on that box that reads “Easy to Assemble”, especially after eating and drinking to excess on Christmas Eve.  And you can’t even start until after the kids are asleep.  Labor Day and Memorial Day also meet the key Holiday criteria (KHC), extra crispy, although they do involve a cook out with the family, so hopefully you like them.  This section isn’t broke, so we’re not going to fix it.

Category 2 (Questionable):

These entail only two major offenders, Halloween and Valentine’s Day.  You don’t get off work for either of these, so they by no means meet the Must Keep criteria.  However, they both have a few advantages.  Halloween is a costume and candy day.  There is nothing better than tricking treating for shots and beers as your children are raking in the candy.  (Note of interest to adults, Jack Daniels does not mix well with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  Thanks for teaching us that important lesson at the Discord’s last X-mas, Mr. Winslow).  Halloween also get some kudos because there’s always that one hot single mom running around in the French Maid outfit.  Of course, most of the points for this holiday can go down the shitter when Zano shows up at your house in the aforementioned French Maid outfit.

Now Valentine’s Day is OK, except for having to do all that I Love you crap leading up to the sex. This is that dreaded day, fellas, when foreplay is required.  But, it is nice to know you are almost guaranteed a piece at least one day a year.  So there’s actually a payoff for taking all those damn little blue pills. 

(Note of interest: When you are sexually ignored on Valentine’s Day your marriage may be heading into serious Alex Trebek country). 

Category 3 (why bother?):

The rest of the Holidays all fit into this Why Bother category, particular ones of note are Ground Hog Day, Columbus Day, and Presidents Day.  Ground Hog Day is just a joke.  I think we should have one last Ground Dog day this coming year, where we watch that Bill Murray movie a few times and then get all jihad on that furry bastard’s ass.  Wouldn’t it be great seeing Punxsutawney Phil sustaining a blast that would launch him into space?  It’s a good lesson on the effectiveness on terrorism, not to mention it could inspire NASAs next shuttle program.

Columbus Day is a little old as well.  Everyone currently knows the Earth is round and America exists.  We also know Columbus wasn’t the first one to find the damn place anyway.  Heck, his first clue should have been when he had to tap Leif Ericson on the shoulder so he could have a word with Sacajawea.  Besides, if we got rid of Columbus Day would he really care?  I don’t think so… he’s dead, and has been so since around 1500.   The guy thought he was in India, for Pete’s sake.  And his culturally insensitive name has upset countless Native Americans, so why not celebrate his birthday in India instead?

Finally, I propose three more paid Holidays a year, each one dedicated to a different deserving American.  How about Dick Clark Day?  We might have to work on the name so it doesn’t offend anyone or cause a breach of the peace.  The second one should be for Clint Eastwood, a true American hero, at least in the movies.  And, most importantly, the last one should be for me, Dave Atsals. I can see it now…a day off work in my honor.  We can all wear Cowboy boots with sweat pants and drink cheap beer as we conga-line down the Main Streets of America.  Now that’s a Holiday!

A note from our CEO, Mr. Pierce Winslow:

In Mr. Atsals’ original post, holiday was spelled with two Ls throughout the entire document. And I can’t even begin to explain how or why he attempted to spell Sacajawea with a Q.   Mr. Atsals is truly one of our special staffers and it is our sincere hope here at the Discord that Dave masters his spell and grammar check features…but we’re not holding our breath. 

Until then, say hi to Qsukugeweeka for us, Dave!

Pierce Winslow, CEO

Collapsing Shack, AZ—In a story of biblical proportions, Alex Bone has put Jonah, Pinocchio, and Natalie Wood to shame.  The Discord contributor and Yig enthusiast, missing since early last month, was discovered living inside the stomach of a colossal Crawdad.

Dr. Sterling Hogbein, of the Hogbein Institute and liquor store, said, “Megadonulus Crawdaddyo was believed to be extinct for millions of beers. Yet this recent specimen discovered in Northern Arizona proves that we’re heading into a new age where dinosaurs will once again rule the Earth!”

When asked how Bone survived within a giant crayfish gullet for over a month, he replied, “The digestive acid was the most severe issue and I only escaped its effects by constructing a suit of armor from the small tails of the smaller crawdads—the monster’s primary diet. I sewed the tail shells together with my own hair, creating a kind of a crawmail©, which is also why I’m now bald… er, everywhere.”

Bone apparently only subsisted by ordering out each night for pizza or Chinese food.  He eventually escaped certain death by eating his own way out of the Crayfish.

“It wasn’t easy without butter,” said Bone, “but sometimes a man’s gotta chew, what a man’s gotta chew.”

He has since sworn to hunt the beast down as soon as he “gets a bigger boat.”

“These damn crawdads declared war on the ecosystem, so I declared war on them,” said Bone. “Then they declared war on me, so now I’m declaring war on them, Big Time!”

Mick Zano had this to say: “I hope someone offers a bounty for this creature, because Bone lost his job while he was in the guts of that retched thing. Now he’s crashing on my sofa and emptying my refrigerator, which is actually not that different from when he was employed. He even sucked the mold off the bottom of the crisper and, man, that guy can drink. And if he doesn’t get his fill, I have to hear about him sewing those inch long shells together again and again. And if I have to hear the part ‘when I was down to my pubic hair’ again…”

Zano has since offered his own bounty for the creature, in the hopes it will get Bone out of his house.

Bone has enlisted the aid of the famous hunter ‘Bearblooded Thompson’ in his quest to stop this rampaging crustacean monstrosity.

“Our only hope is to build a trap big enough to hold that thing. But where can we find something that size? Kirstie Alley has thus far refused to donate her underwire bras for the cause,” said Bone.

Dr. Hogbein believes “we are just beginning to discover how dangerous this crawdad menace is. As for the conspiracy behind the threat, I am inclined to blame Republicans, which is my default position.  Rolling back EPA standards, cutting park rangers, global warming, increased pollution…if we turn a blind eye to nature those Godzilla movies will just be the beginning!  Once the crawdads have their way with Mother Nature, there won’t be anything left to protect.  The world will become a barren wasteland, devoid of life, only fit for artificial golf courses and bombing ranges…aka, a conservative Nirvana.”

After reluctantly accepting some forms of technology, it looks like another of my old school habits will soon be gone. To put this tale into context, I still own one of those tripod cameras with the dark cloak you throw over your head.  OK, maybe not.  But I bought some 35mm film recently, which was pretty easy and inexpensive, but getting it developed…not so much.

The photos for this Discord classic will most likely be the last 35mm photos I take.  When I went back to the drugstore where I bought the film, I was informed they no longer develop film. “But I bought the film here yesterday” I logically pointed out. As if saying this out loud would somehow bring film developing immediately back to the store. The clerk again politely informed me the store no longer developed film. I looked at her as if to say, “but, but, but I bought the film here yesterday.” She looked at me as if to say “you bought your toilet paper here too, but we didn’t follow you home and wipe your ass.”

Realizing I would not get the film developed in the store I bought the film from, I did what any person my age should do, I went on a killing spree.  Actually, on the way home I looked for a Fotomat booth.  Remember them?  Well, there aren’t any.  I went home, put on my reading glasses, opened the phone book, took the receiver off the hook, listened for the dial tone, and rotarily called several places until I found one that still developed film. As it turns out, getting one roll of film developed was more expensive than buying a four pack of film from the first place! So that’s that.  I can no longer fight the film fight. I have several other expenses/bills first, but soon, as much as it pains me to say it, I will be purchasing my first dig-i-tal camera.

I certainly understand the selling points of such a technological monstrosity: Photos can be seen instantly, even quicker than a Polaroid.  You never run out of film or have to change rolls at an inopportune time, and with email, Flickr, Facebook, etc… photos can be shared with many people all over the globe within minutes of taking them—which really came in handy when Zano passed out during his last Vegas trip.  And while those are all good things, I suppose (except the Zano part), it takes away one of my favorite feelings (and a good Carly Simon song) Anticipation. Some of you may be too young to remember what it was like drop off a roll of film, and call the store or Fotomat a few days later to see if your memories were back yet. Pictures may fade a bit but they last forever (assuming you do not lose them), and I do not think waiting a few days for eternal memories is a big deal.

I also had pen pals way back when: Sonja in OR, Barbara in TX, Charlie and Karen in different parts of PA, and some others whose memories have faded like an old photograph. I remember that feeling in my gut as the school day drew to a close, wondering if I would have mail, actual envelopes with stamps and postmarks on them, with handwritten ink notes on paper inside, delivered by a human being. If I had letters, great! If not, something to look forward to for the next day.

When the Zanos visited me Easter weekend I needed someone more mature than Mick to have a conversation with, so I talked with his 11-year old. I am not sure how the topic came up, but I was explaining to her how phones were not always portable, households used to share one phone number (and often one phone), and going further back, several houses on one block used to share a phone and number. She certainly has mastered her father’s blank clueless stare. Then I told her about busy signals and not being able to leave a voice message. She looked at me as if I was reading a fairy tale.

“You are making that up!” she insisted.

When the Zanos and I got separated for a few minutes on the Strip she texted me. When we found each other and I told her I do not have texting, she looked at me in a confused gross amazement. I would describe it as the way a vegan would look during a backstage tour of a butcher shop. Oh, and we did that later in the day.

Oh, and if your phone is so smart, why does it not tell you the text did not go through?

When I set my VCR to tape a show as the Zanos and I went out, she laughed. Excuse me, she LOL’d, or more grammatically correctly, L’dOL (Remember grammar? Whatever happened to grammar?). She has a fleeting memory of VCRs. At least mine is VHS. If you do not know what BETA is, Goggle it (yes, back in my day it was called Goggle).  And try explaining what it was like not being able to tape/record a show to someone born in this millennium.

I still have a cassette player in my car, complete with The Big Chill soundtrack forever embedded in it. Zano points this out every time he visits, usually accompanied by some snide ass remark. Zano’s daughter held the dingy white cassette tape like a museum curator might hold a shard of some 3^rd Dynasty Egyptian pottery. I was going to explain how cassette players are more advanced than eight track players, but you have to choose your battles. Anyone else remember waiting thru five lousy songs to get to the one you really wanted to hear? Back then, it was not a hardship. Anticipation…

I actually have a computer, probably not as advanced as yours, but at least I have one. And one of my favorite sites on the interwebs is The You of Tubes. I have no idea how to put anything on there, nor do I want to. I use it for listening to old songs like Peter Frampton’s Show Me the Way, which I believe is about programming one’s DVR. There were plenty of beautiful women in the 2000s, but I still hold a special place in my heart for Peggy Lipton, Barbara Eden, Farrah Fawcett, Catherine Bach, et al, and their images are all over YouTube. In fact, I dream of Barbra Eden.  If you laughed at that one, you’re officially an old fart.  Two fairly modern songs I recommend people listen to on YouTube, or Ithingies, or PMS players, or whatever gizmos you have—which will be obsolete this time next month—are Tim McGraw’s Back When and Mark Wills’ 19 Somethin’. I also watch a lot of pre 1984 pro-wrestling there, as I much prefer it to the post 1984 product. Why and how the product changed is not Discord material, but trust me, it is like the difference between the PGA and mini golf.

Everything these days is instant this and automatic that. The whole world is all orgasm and no foreplay. While I am certainly pro orgasm, a big part of me still thinks that sucks, but not in a good way.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to my Viewmaster Land of the Lost, reel 3.

I now call Arizona my home, and have for six years.  But, recently, I started to consider to just what I miss and don’t miss about Lawn Guylin’.  To start with, FOOD plays a big part of what I miss. Hell, food plays a big part of what I AM. And I have news for the people of Arizona: just because an establishment has the name ‘New York’ some-fucking-where in the title, does not mean the pizza will taste as such—unless you have the wrong kinda shrooms on that bad boy.

Not until you have ventured into some local “Marios Pizza” will you understand. I also miss what we called pork stores, places where you could go to purchase home-cooked-almost-as-well-as-Momma’s Italian style meat and pastas. A place you could get sausage, or as we called it phonetically, sawzeetch, ravioli, Bracioli (brazshoal). I can smell ‘em now, sawzeetch & peppers, an Italian man’s Viagra. Oh, and real imported Auricchio, a provolone cheese that smells like dirty socks (very hard to come by in AZ—the cheese, not the dirty socks). Farm stands all selling their own home-grown veggies. Making sauce out of those tomatoes deemed too ripe when the season ends (lovingly called ‘Mahoo’). Not to be confused with Mahoo Ahmadinejad, who most days I would like to hurl tomatoes at.

I also miss going to a hot dog vendor and getting real “dirty water dogs”. They would be Sabrett brand hot dogs cooked in the same water all day—with the water eventually getting its aforementioned look. The taste cannot be beat. As with most really good food, you don’t look, you just eat. I miss real pretzels too: hot, soft, big, fresh, and salty as hell. Not the out of a box & into a ‘wave variety. We’re talking bowtie-the-dough and bake it fresh. Real deli, I miss real deli. A different lunch every day, all home style, all great, not having the same meal twice in a month, Deli.  Yep, I miss that shit.

Road construction: Overnight and weekends only! with finish dates religiously adhered to or construction companies faced massive fines for each late day. That seems to be the opposite approach in Arizona.  Are they offered more pay because they’re holding up traffic?

“Ah, look we’ll double the money if you finish this road someday.”

And it beats me why anyone would rather work during the day in 120° heat instead of cool nights. I guess you have to be born here to understand that one. There are a whole host of things like that. When I ask a given question, I get this look—you know, like a dog gives you when it just isn’t gittin’ what you’re a sayin’. Yeah, that look.

I miss the fact that as an Italian-American, I was part of the majority. Here, I am the smallest of minorities. Vee-necked tee shirted guidos, all getting out of matching 90’s Iroc-Z’s, talking with their hands but not necessarily with a need for sign language. Big haired guidettes, sitting in the car, talking to their friends on the cell in a language not heard anywhere else on ‘oit’. The term ‘hayadooin’ being THE mandatory greeting, but definitely not a question, ever.

Driving on L.I. is something everyone from Arizona should be mandated to do prior to receiving a license. This will weed out the people not serious. On NY roads you will find women texting, grooming, drinking coffee, and driving 70 mph better than most Nascar drivers could. They take the term ‘multi tasking’ to a whole ‘nudda level. A line of cars some 40 miles long, on the very misnomered Long Island Expressway, all going to the same place, at the same high rate of speed, all a bumper’s length away from the car in front of them. No one makes a stupid move, no one. They would not last long there. Not one “single vehicle roll-over” to be seen. No one just “loses control” of their car, Evah!

The Hamptons: This is a term most of G’ilanders use derogatorily. Dissing Hamptonites was a favored pastime. The Hamptons are the east’s equivalent to Scottsdale, or Snottsdalians, only WITH brains. I never thought I would ever meet a more plastic, false, self-absorbed group of people in my life.  Sorry, but the Hamptons were dethroned by Scottsdale. As far as snobs go, Hamptonites are the Dalai Lamas to the Scottsdale’s Paris Hiltons.

That about takes care of what I miss. Let me now tell you what I DON’T miss about life on the east coast:

Winter: Snow. Ice. Grey skies for months. Cold rain. Rain so humid and cold your joints seize up at the sight of a dark cloud. It’s the only place on Earth where one can freeze and sweat simultaneously.

Fall: Falling leaves, raking leaves, carting leaves away, anything leaf related, frankly. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I even had to blow leafs.  I feel so dirty.

Lawns: Cutting, feeding, watering, edging, and raking…to summarize, fuck lawns. I like the southwest’s yards full of brightly colored gravel.  When you actually do see a weed, you’re like somehow proud of it…anything that grows green in the desert deserves our praise. 

Having to travel through New York City: Sadly, no matter where on Earth you wanted to go, it was through New York City. Millions of cars, idling, waiting for their turn to “Escape from New York” through one of three ways out. Two tunnels two lanes each under two bodies of water, complete with eight miles of the lovely and talented Manhattan Island between them.  For all of your trouble, you ended up in Joisey. Or, one bridge to Staten Island, the longest single span bridge in the U.S (Verrazano) then on to south Joisey. Or, and my favorite hateful drive, the Cross Bronx Expressway (Satan’s Driveway), 3 lanes and 8 mph all the way to the George Washington Bridge, 3 lanes, 2 miles, 1 hour, $8.00 toll, and finally onto Joisey and freedom.  The only good news about this road is the mufflers and other car parts tended to collect in the pot holes making them slightly less deep and harrowing. Just think of how bad it really is when true freedom means New Jersey.

Paying Property taxes: They are ten times what they are in Arizona. Cops? Yeah, we got lots of them, thousands. As you see one diminish in your rear-view mirror, you see one getting larger as you approach him. You pay dearly for them. Truly the Beverly Hills Cops.

Pinheaded progressive liberals: A lot of whom seem to reside in the northeast. In AZ, I am a pinheaded progressive liberal comparatively. I do not tote a gun, nor do I like the smell of horse shit.  Nor do I have a tea party flag on my property, nor am I a “Premium Member” at billOReilly.com.

In my previous life, I spent almost 30 years working for a Long Island supermarket chain. I have driven the L.I.E. enough to do it blindfolded (and did once on a bet). I have worked in every little town in both Nassau and Suffolk counties. I have worked at the Grand Opening of stores I had to oversee the closure of years later. I have had tug-of-wars with rats over a loaf of bread, and opened stores for which I felt much pride. My mind often goes back to those days and the colorful people I met there. That all being said, I could easily go the rest of my natural born days without ever again seeing the towns of Moriches, Mastic, Ronkonkoma, Bay Shore or Patchogue. And, yes, I even know how to pronounce those names (despite never running into a native American there). The town of Shirley, however, will have a spot in my heart for eternity. That marked the last store I ever worked in (after I got a buyout option of my union contract).  Anyway, as I was leaving the building on that last day, the store manager got on the P.A system and said the following as I walked out the door:

“Attention customers, Elvis has left the building.”

A very misty Crank

I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the old fashioned video store.  Currently there are over 13,000 movies in my queue over on Netflix and, invariably, on any given Saturday night, none of my choices are in the mailbox.  Whew, good thing I’m out drinking on Saturday nights.

Before I start pummeling on Netflix, I have to say I do enjoy the free play option.  Sure, it has cut down on my reading, my meditating, and my thinking, but at least I can now say I’ve seen every episode of Will & Grace.  Heck, a few more years of this and I might even vote republican.  Having said all those positive things about Netflix, here’s why I despise the thing:

1. Unless you know exactly what movie you are looking for, you may never find it.  There is no feature to search all films in a given genre.  You can’t search horror and scroll through everything they have. You can only look through the “popular” models, deemed worthy by the masses.  So unless you know the title and enter into the search option, you are shit out of Lucky Fritz (2009) NR. 
2. And did any of you realize Netflix jumped from $16.99 a month to $19.99 a month in January?  I don’t think, with all the dipshit they send me, I was ever notified of this hike. Oh wait, here’s the email from 12.21.2010.  Let us know if Zoolander arrived. Oh, and don’t forget to rate Godzilla vs. Mothra.
3. They also have this “Suggestions for you” feature, which doesn’t really work out all that well with my wife and my daughter adding to the mix.  So, I’ll choose the genre Horror. I get,” based on your own ratings, here’s our best guess at some selections you might like:  Twilight, Saw, and Scooby Doo: Pirates Ahoy!”
4. Perhaps the most insidious Netflix feature is how you can bump any movie up to the front of the cache.  This is akin to those new jukeboxes where you can spend an extra 50 cents to bump your selection to the front of the line—to the chagrin of all those other folks waiting all night to hear Sweet Home Alabama.  This feature breeds ill-will toward our fellow drunken man.  At times this triggers a kind of bump-war, where people return time and time again to the jukebox, pay that extra damn 50 cents, to gyp their fellow bar goer.  There are no winners in this game (except the jukebox), only losers. 

“Why is daddy in jail, mommy?”

“Well, this guy kept bumping Sweet Home Alabama for some Phil Collins song.   Your father hates Phil Collins and the rest is on the police report.”

I was in a bar once and…I’m kidding, I’ve never been in a bar just once.  Anyway, I was in this bar where the jukebox shut down at 1:45AM, cutting off a number of people who never got to hear their songs because of this bump feature spawned by Satan (BFSS).  BFSS…we don’t make the jukebox, we added the feature where you can screw up your friends selection.

And in that other awful jukebox war I never did get to hear that Monkees’ song.  On a related note, I am no longer a believer.  And there are no Jukebox Heroes anymore.

Sorry for the tangent, but a similar phenomenon now occurs in my Netflix cache.  My wife bumps the first season of Twilight over my choice, my daughter then bumps my wife’s selection for Saw, ad infinitum.    At this rate, I may never get to see Scooby Doo: Pirates Ahoy!

The video store is gone, and the only alternative, besides Netflix type shit, is the evil machine box thingie at the front of the grocery store.  Have you seen these?  They represent a nearly complete selection of every modern movie I would never want to see and every obscure movie that I would never want to see.  Just approaching those things makes me feel a little queasy.

In the immortal words of Foghorn Leghorn, “I say, I say there’s something kind of aewwueuieeee about a grocery store video machine.”

What are you supposed to do when your friends come in for the weekend and you want to have Scooby Doo: Pirates Ahoy! on hand?  Sure I own it, so that’s a bad example, but what if I didn’t?  That’s my point.  Damn these new-fangled soulless gadgets!