Nothing gives us bigger boners than concert lasers...

Earlier in 2007, Jonesy & The Wayne graced the fine people of Hoffman Estates with their presence by attending the recital of a fine group of whipper-snappers that perform under the moniker "Tool".

Now, first off, I think it should be clarified that I was under the auspice that we were attending a hardware trade show. Ticketmaster was NOT very clear in their description of the event. But, being the good sport that I am, I did not immediately demand to return to our vehicle and decided that perhaps a little culture is just what I needed.

Upon entering the venue, we were greeted with the words "Prepare to have your face melted, f*ckers!". The enthusiasm on display was encouraging. Although, initially I was a tad disappointed that we would not be treated to display upon display of the latest socket-wrenches and leaf-blowers, I soon settled into my seat and buckled in for the ride.

We made acquaintances with our section neighbors almost immediately. To our left, sat "Doug" an unemployed father of four. Tonight was Doug's 27th seeing The Tool. Directly, behind us sat "Roach" a young lad in his early teens accompanied by his girlfriend Britney. We immediately could tell that Roach was an experienced concert attendee because he even thought to bake cookies for the show. He offered a cookie to both of us and we happily obliged. They were quite tasty, albeit a tad "earthy" in flavor. But I was grateful for the snack.

Approximately another 15 minutes or so passed and the lights in the arena started to dim. The crowd began to roar. With a blast of bass and treble, the band took the stage and embarked on an onslaught of glorious rock sounds. Above the stage, a large projection screen dances with seductive imagery. And then the lasers, those sweet f*cking lasers, tickled my face. Seizure shmeizure. Give me more.

But then I lost it.

Somehow, and without much recollection, I have now managed to curl up into a sweating, nervous ball of paranoia. The arena is breathing, talking to me. It has literally come alive as it proceeds to mind-rape every lobe of my brain.

I look next to me. I'm not even able to recognize Wayne who stands only inches away. He's loving every minute of it and in my eyes is no longer my human friend but rather an evil gyrating swirl of hair. I'm all alone. Abandoned with my own insanity.

This goes on for hours. At least so I'm told.

When I finally come to my senses, I'm stumbling across a suburban parking lot. Clomping along to the shitty sounds of Daughtry blaring from the cabs of Ford F-150s. FEAR THIS window stickers as far as the eye can see.

I'm battered and weary. But much wiser. And now the biggest fan of The Tool Band. Ever.

Oh, and I also can't go near a Home Depot now without having flashbacks.

-Jonesy

Jonesy feeds the homeless this Xmas...

In doing my part for the community this year, I decided to spend Christmas Day feeding the homeless. Well, okay, true it was government-ordered community service but it's still the same in my eyes, so let's not split hairs here. Anyway, I bounce out of bed bright and early, and after a few chugs of the hair-of-the-eggnog-dog I'm on my way out the door and ready to spread some holiday cheer. I quickly realize it's about 7 degrees outside. To hell with this. I'm not ABOUT to stand outside all day scooping sweet potatoes onto paper plates. I don't care WHAT my parole officer says.

So, I climb into my van and head down the road with the BEST idea in the world.

I pull around the corner and see that the less-privileged have already started lining up in front of the rec center. It's cold outside. No one is happy to be outdoors. The sympathy is tugging at my heart.

I come to a screeching halt in front of the crowd of hungry hobos. I slide the door open and yell out with passion "Hop in f*ckers, we're going to Taco Bell!"

So, there I am cruising down Western Ave with a van-load of Chicago's finest transients. We've got Elvis' "White Christmas" blaring from the stereo and everyone is having a great time. Laughing and singing. A pint of Mint Ripple is shoved in my face. I proudly take a swig and pass it back. This sleigh is rockin', folks.

I yank the van into the Taco Bell drive-thru with authority. Soon, with military precision I'm shouting out orders...

"Stompy wants two soft tacos!" (everyone cheers)

"Milky gots to have a Nacho Bellgrande and a Mountain Dew!" (round of applause)

"Twigs needs a DOUBLE order of Pintos N' Cheese, my friend!" (hoots and hollers)

And I take it upon myself...

"Hell, a round of Meximelts for everyone!" (we are slapping high-fives, someone lights a joint)

I pay the lovely cashier and we're on our way. We drive around for an hour or so while everyone enjoys their meal. You can cut the holiday cheer with a empty beer bottle it's so thick.

Afterwards, I drop all my new friends off at the bus station and we exchange heart-felt goodbyes. A tear streams from my eye, knowing I was able to bring joy to those less fortunate this Xmas.

Total run time: less than two hours.

I'm back at my apartment in just enough time to catch "Christmas Vacation" coming on TBS.

Ahhhhhh. I'm so awesome. I can't WAIT to go to heaven. :-)

-Jonesy

Need your help! I accidently donated my water bong to the Salvation Army!

So, I was cleaning out some old junk the other day from my apartment. The boxes were really starting to pile up. Around noon that day the doorbell rang. I went to answer and standing on my porch was a young gentleman sporting a green uniform and a high & tight haircut. His name tag read "Lt. Colonel Grover Muhstird - Artillery Commander - U.S. Salvation Army". Out of respect I immediately snapped to attention and we exchanged salutes.

Colonel Muhstird quickly got down to business. He informed me that his platoon was in the area collecting items for "the Army's" Annual Holiday Christmas Drive.

As a proud citizen I told that I did in fact have some items that I wished to donate. And so I started handing him box after box of stuff that I had just recently pulled from the closet.

Proud of my duty to America, I waved goodbye to the Colonel as he continued down my street atop his armored Chrysler Lebaron.

Retreating back into my apartment, I began to realize that I had REALLY just given away quite a large amount of my personal possessions. I really got carried away.

Suddenly, my blood started to run cold as it dawned on me that one of the boxes I had given away contained the love of my life ... a five-foot glass water bong that I had named Chief Jay SmokeThunder

I quickly dash out the door and down the street, but the Salvation Army's convoy had already left the area.

So, I guess what I'm asking is this... if you live near a Salvation Army Surplus Store... can you do me a favor and peek in there and see if my water bong is sitting on one of the shelves. Or, if you happen to be a poor homeless person and they show up one day and knock on your cardboard hut/shelter and unload a huge pile of gifts for you ... can ya just check and see if one of them is Chief Jay SmokeThunder? I'd be willing to exchange for it. Like maybe a sandwich and some crack?

Best wishes this holiday season,

Jonesy

I have no idea who "Shawty" is but she's in every f*cking rap song...

I live near the West Side of Chicago, so by default I hear alot of the hip-hop. And the rappy guys on the songs are always talking to "Shawty". Is this the most popular girl in the world or what? She's mentioned on almost every single song these days. I mean the fellas must really like her because they are always saying stuff like how they wish she would bounce her ass on the "danceflo mo" and stuff like that. I wish people liked ME that much to put me in all of their musical recordings. I would like to be famous too, ya know. See! Just as I'm typing this a car drives by my apartment window and out of the speakers I hear a dude singing "Hey, Shawty, where you at cuz I wanna slap my (censored) across your face like a whiffleball bat". I mean, is this young lady getting royalties or WHAT? I'm pretty jealous.

-Jonesy

Today, I got into a knife fight with Bryant Gumbel (while I was wearing a bear suit) in downtown Chicago...

But it's really not that interesting of a story. I won't bore you with the details.

G'night,

Jonesy

Here is my stock reply to those "I’m bored ... so answer a bunch of questions" emails

Copy and paste my answers and save yourself the email stamp...

-Jonesy


Two Names You Go By:

1. Jonesy

2. Monsignor Slapback Jungleworthy Fontaine, Esq.


Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now:

1. Bike shorts

2. Sombrero


Two Things You Would Want (or have) in a Relationship:

1. The remote

2. the right NOT to wear that awful turtleneck you bought for me ... please.


Two of Your Favorite Things to do:

1. cover homeless people in tinfoil

2. freestyle platform diving


Two Things You Want Very Badly at the Moment:

1. a time machine so I can go back 3 minutes and NOTICE that there is
no toilet paper BEFORE I proceed

2. another Police Academy sequel


Two pets you had/have:

1. there was an old lady that lived in my old building who always
wore a moo-moo and smelled like bacon. Well, she had a cat ...
probably.

2. Phil ... my pet rock


Two things you did last night:

1. downloaded the song "Funkytown" off the internet

2. re-enacted various courtroom scenes from "Law & Order" using my
pillows as jury members and a poster of Vanilla Ice as the "judge"


Person you last talked To:

the operator for the toll-free help line on the back of a Hellman's Mayonaisse jar


Longest car ride:

not a car but... last summer I went to the State Fair and the
operator accidently left me alone on the Gravitron for over an hour


FAVORITE Holiday:

Ash Wednesday because I love seeing the people whose priest got WAY
out of hand applying the smudge to their forehead ... "No no ... you
can hardly tell at all, I promise"


Favorite beverage:

Non-Diet Tab

I received the following letter from People Magazine today...

TO: Mr. Jones

FROM: Julia Bernard, Executive Assistant to V.P. of Customer Affairs

Dear Mr. Jones,

We want to thank you for your request to be featured in our annual "Sexiest Man Alive" edition. Unfortunately, we have to once again decline your submission of yourself as "Sexiest Man Alive". As we have stated repeatedly to you in years past, the editors of People Magazine tend to bestow the S.M.A. honor to an individual who is both a celebrity in his own right and quite honestly... someone who is sexy. We are also returning the personal photos you sent us and politely decline your offer to use them in this month's photo spread. It has been a long standing policy of People Magazine to refrain from the use of nudity.

Good luck with your future endeavours.

Sincerely,

J. Bernard



-Jonesy

Come on, dammit. Human beings have no business dying in "stampedes"

It happens every single year... somewhere on this planet .... USUALLY at a Wal-Mart. But it has to finally stop. There is absolutely no reason for another human being to be trampled to death by other shoppers who rush to be the first ones through the door on the year's biggest shopping days. Seriously, think about it for a second. Are we living in a Looney Tunes cartoon? Should "cause of death: crushed by herd of idiots" be something that has to be told to a family when they lose a loved one? Absolutely ridiculous. And I am in no way making light of a serious situation. This is not a joke. Maybe you lost someone dear to you in the infamous "Macy's People Stampede of 2006" or perhaps during the "Radioshack Idiot Round-Up of 2005".

Parents, listen to me. Your spoiled little kid doesn't have to have the new Fondle-Me Grover doll so bad that it's worth the loss of life. Calm down. Take a breath. Teach your child the values of patience. They can't wait. Or better yet ... plan ahead of time ... order your gifts online instead of congregating in a Target parking lot at 4am... sipping coffee... and comparing your level of pathetic with the other parents.

PEOPLE ARE DYING.

No more holiday stampedes!!!

I'm sick and tired of it.


Blessings & Wishes To You and Yours This Holiday Season,

Jonesy

Open Letter #11

Dear Single Mother On The Bus Yapping Away On Her Cellphone,

If your hyperactive Flaming Hot Cheeto-eating toddler runs past me and grazes my balls with his backpack one more time ... I'm going to punt the fucker out the door at the next stop.


Sincerely,

Jonesy

Apparently if your name is "Cody" you’re supposed to be a cowboy...

Or "Casey".

Count 'em ...

http://www.prorodeo.org/biographies.aspx?xu=1



-Jonesy

Listening to "Freebird" is a MAJOR commitment.

I sometimes find myself on the bus lost in my own little iWorld. And then I hear those unmistakable opening chords to Mr. Skynyrd's opus. And I think to myself... I can't do this right now. My stop is coming up and I'm already late for work. I can't NOT listen to that whole damn song. All 22+ minutes in length. (or however long it is ... fuck off, Rainman). And I feel guilty. I feel guilty for jumping ahead to the next song. And it stays with me. All day long. The betrayal. The regret. When will my next opportunity come? My next chance to be free as a bird now. Lord, knows I can't change. Could that have been the last time my ears would ever Ronnie Van Zant's croon? I sure as hell hope not. And to think that I skipped over it only to hear some fucking Smash Mouth song that I KEEP FORGETTING to delete from my ipod. Gods Of Southern Rock... give me another chance.

-Jonesy

9.5 million people in the Chicagoland area ... and a pigeon decides to take a shit on ME

October 20, 2007

For Immediate Release:

Officials from the U.S. Pigeon Air Force Command are keeping mum about an incident that happened at approximately 14:00 GMT near the intersection of Sheridan Road and Diversey Avenue in Chicago on Friday. Witnesses state that an innocent bystander was struck by a "bunker-busting" pile of bird shit upon his upper left shoulder. The immediate reaction to the bombing by the victim was described as "chaotic" and "pissed off". Police, Fire, and Rescue were on the scene in minutes and cordoned off a two-block area around Ground Zero. No other fatalities have been reported at this time. When investigators were finally able to question the victim, Ryan Jones, 30, he responded with "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Story supplied by Reuters, Inc. 2007

The moment Charlie & Emilio were inspired to write the screenplay for "Men At Work"

I don't pretend to know everything about Hollywood. But I do understand creativity, motivation, and inspiration. And I also have a pretty good grasp of shitty movies.

There had to be a moment, a particular day when Emilio Estevez and his younger brother Charlie Sheen came up with the idea ... of a feature film comedy ... involving, um, garbage men.

If you aren't familiar. Let me refresh your memory...

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0100135/

I imagine it went something like this:


It's an unseasonably cool autumn day in Los Angeles.

Emilio is at home, slouched on the sofa watching television. He wears his blue hooded sweatshirt from Breakfast Club.

Emilio's housekeeper peeks her head in.

HOUSEKEEPER: Meester Estevez?

EMILIO: Yes, Rosa?

HOUSEKEEPER: Your brother Charlie is here to see you.

EMILIO: Send him in, please.

The housekeeper exits.

Charlie enters soon after. He wears a leather jacket over a white t-shirt just like he did in whatever movie that was.

CHARLIE: Hey, man. How's it going?

They hug.

EMILIO: Not too good to tell you the truth. I just snorted the last of my money from St. Elmo's Fire.

CHARLIE: Tell me about it. Things have been pretty rough for me lately too.

Emilio sighs.

EMILIO: What's happened to us, bro? We used to be on top of the world. Now things are slowly starting to slip away.

CHARLIE: I know it.

Charlie plops down in a chair.

CHARLIE (CONT'D): My agent hasn't been sending me anything worth a damn.

Charlie hops right back up.

CHARLIE (CONT'D): I tell ya, Emilio. I need a hit bad.

EMILIO: Whaddya mean? You had Major League that was a HUGE hit.

CHARLIE: It's not the same. I tell ya ... I should have been in Young Guns II dammit!

EMILIO: But you were killed in the first one!

CHARLIE: It doesn't matter! It still hurts!

Emilio walks over to comfort Charlie.

EMILIO: Come on, Chuck. Sit down and relax. You're letting the pressure get to you.

They sit.

EMILIO: And I'm totally with you, man. We need to sit right here and come up with our own plan. Our own destiny. We can't just sit around and wait for someone to knock on our door. We have to go out there and show them that we still have the goods. Now let's just think.

There is a long awkward silence as they ponder.

Suddenly there is a load noise coming from "outside". It's the sound of garbage truck compressing and then the beeping sound of the truck backing up.

Charlie looks confused.

CHARLIE: What the hell is that?

Emilio is nonchalant.

EMILIO: That's just our garbage men picking up our garbage.

CHARLIE: Hmmph. Now what a job that must be.

Slowly both Charlie and Emilio look up as the brilliant idea comes to them both.

EMILIO: That's it!

CHARLIE: Absolutely!

EMILIO: We could play garbage men!

CHARLIE: It could be a comedy!

EMILIO: There could be murder!

CHARLIE: There could be a set of competing garbage men!

EMILIO: It'll be a gold mine!

CHARLIE: We'll call it Men At Work!

EMILIO: It's practically writing itself!

They embrace and dance a celebratory dance around the room.



The End.




-Jonesy

So, I was caught by my roommate last night...

as I was rehearsing my re-enactment of the "bike dance" from the movie RAD. In case you aren't familiar...





It was pretty embarrassing. Our kitchen is a MESS.


-Jonesy

Jesus Christ, the Gospel Block Party across the street simply WILL NOT END!!!!

There has been a church fundraiser/block party going on outside my apartment for the past 4 days. God has found his way of punishing me... and it's a good one. From sun up to sun down on every single day since last Thursday there has been a steady muffled supply of horrendous music rattling my windows. I mean, it literally hasn't stopped. All day and all night. I feel like a laboratory rat whose being monitored secretly by the government. Surely, this is it ... this is how we invade Iran... by piping in live amateur gospel carnival music. They would be laying down their arms within days. Crying. Begging for your mercy. Please. Please make it stop.

-Jonesy

Jonesy reviews "Spirit" - Southwest Airline’s Inflight Magazine

Like most everyone else... I get bubbly and excited when I know I'm about to get on an airplane. It's not because I know in just a few minutes I'm going to be stretched out in unbelievable comfort and breathing the fresh air flowing through your typical 737 cabin... but rather that I'm finally going to be reunited with the love of my life ... the periodical wonder that is "Spirit Magazine". The New Yorker can kiss my ass. THIS, my friends, is great writing. A literary blowjob for the brain. Let's get started...

(pg 23) - Hey, look at this! It's a list of America's Greatest Steakhouses! This is one of my favorite editorial pieces of all time. It's always good to know where I can get a decent ribeye next time I'm in Sandusky.

(pgs 27,28,34,46,55,58) - Did you know Las Vegas has hotels AND casinos???? As well as the budget to hijack an entire magazine with their advertisements? Seriously, who the FUCK is Danny Gans and why should I NOT want to kick his turtle-neck wearing ass?

(pg 65) - Great, some asshole has already started the crossword puzzle and in purple ink too. "famous Texas landmark". This jerkwad put down "SIX FLAGS".

(pg 78) - I'm glad to see that Ginger Ale has lasted this long on the drink list. It's an airline standard. It goes great with a $5 whiskey that comes the same size as a finger nail polish bottle.

So, that's about it for the interesting stuff. There were some article in there about time-shares and apple-picking in Michigan. But who really fucking cares?


Next week...

I review whatever document the guy sitting next to me has on his laptop. Looks like a sales report or something. He keeps catching me looking...

-Jonesy

Do you think the people at work notice that my shirt is 2 sizes too small?

Okay, so I recently moved apartments and of course during that process my entire laundry rhythm and routine got thrown way off its flightplan. So as the days go by and my laziness shows its ugly face... I'm left with very few clothing options for my daily life.

This morning I am rifling through boxes trying to find something ANYTHING that resembles a shirt. I find one. It kinda looks familiar but the mood is definitely awkward between us. Do I know you?

I confidently throw my arms into this baby. Not bad so far. I bring the two sides together ... uh oh. We're about 4-5 inches off target. As I'm pulling, stretching, and clawing ... I can literally hear the fabric fibers screaming as if being run through a medieval torture device. I'm sorry, little buddies.

I'm now on my bed. Tossing and turning with every ounce of power I can muster. Finally, I get the buttons to hold. Well, most of them. One button buckles under the torque and shoots across the room smashing a priceless ming vase from Target.

With the aid of a portable oxygen machine, I manage to catch my breath and make it downstairs to catch my bus. By this point things are going okay. The humidity is allowing for some decent stretchability. The folks on the bus don't seem to notice.

When I get to work ... things start getting a little hairy. Wouldn't you know it I forget that we have some very important clients in the office today. I spend a good deal of my morning just rolling around the office from the safety of my desk chair. Making every attempt not to stand up and display my attire that now has the comfort-level of Saran Wrap.

The rest of my day goes smoothly. Until at the very end when my boss asks me to run something across the street to the bank. Ugh! It would be a trip to the bank ... where the tellers are all gorgeous and who most likely prefer dudes that don't appear to get their clothing from Babys R Us.

After some lamaze breathing outside the bank... I'm soon able to take in enough oxygen to enter and make my transaction. I soon realize that keeping your gut sucked in for any period over two minutes will automatically require the use of every single muscle in your body. I smile at the cute teller and hand her my deposit slips. She makes small talk but I can only manage to smile and nod occasionally as I feel my face turning purple. My abdomen is now shaking uncontrollably in a epileptic rage as it fights to contain years of chicken wings and kool-aid. "OH MY GOD, lady, please stop talking so I can leave" is all I'm thinking at this point. Okay. Good-bye. Yes you have a good afternoon too...

Ahhhhhhh. I'm out the door. Free at last. My guy falls back into place like a sack of potatoes. I pause for a cigarette. Check my pockets....

FUUUUUUUUUCK. She forgot my deposit receipt....


-Jonesy

Reason #37 Why I'm Still Single - Baby Names

(Disclaimer: this post is bound to offend at least one person. Though it's not your fault, it's your parents)

I love kids. I look forward to having children of my own some day soon. But I will be damned if my kids are going to end up with a shitty name.

In the past ... biblical names were all the rage. John, Jacob, Mary, Barrabas...

Now things have changed. Yuppie America is fighting over your Codys, Emmas, Hannahs, Sophies, Tyler, Kyler, Smyler, Isabella, Madison, Evan Michael Thomas Baxter.

Give me a fucking break.

What happened to naming your kid something with a little courage. A little heart. A little history. Naming your child has now become like shopping for a Land Rover. Trying to be different, but ending up being just like everyone else. Why not have your children forever be know as an extension of who you are... both physically and historically. Your spawn is a part of you. Their lives are molded by your upbringing.

So, am I willing to put my money where my mouth is? I most certainly. My children will be named the following:

1) Fletch
2) Nerf
3) Pour Some Sugar On Me




-Jonesy

Classical radio station DJs are assholes.

So, I'm cranking along this morning to my favorite classical radio station. Feeling the groove, getting shit done at work. I think to myself "I could totally use some Haydn to get me through until lunch break". I call up the radio station. First, I'm put on hold. Okay, fine. There are more people out there just like me. I can live with that. So after about a 10-12 minute wait. The guy finally answers and is like "Heeeeey, thanks for calling WNPP 88.3 .... yourrrrr'e talkin' to Symphony Steve Hardwell ... Chicago's Classiest Classical Music Station DJ ... what would you like to hear???" I said I would like to hear something in a G Major ... how about Violin Concerto No. 4?

And this fuckwad totally ignores me and starts spouting shit about how I won two free tickets to some car wash grand opening and five minutes inside The Dollar Bill Typhoon Wind Machine.

I said, "Look, asshole, take my request or stop wasting my time". "It's bad enough you've already played Mozart's 40th Symphony twice this morning ... which we all know is the fucking Switchfoot ballad of classical music ... god-awful and overplayed.

And then he says "sounds like someone is having a bad day" and then plays this audio clip of Homer Simpson yelling about something followed by what I think was either a foghorn or whoopee cushion.

So, I hung up and kicked my computer across the room.

-Jonesy

No one's had a shittier life than the flavor Lemon...

As the days grow longer I quickly find my blank stares out the window a little uneventful. So, today I decided to focus my glazed eyes on the slowly-depleting bowl of hard candy here in my office. I don't eat the candy really. Not much of a fan, so I can safely rule myself out as a variable here... But seriously have we as adults not outgrown the phase of passing over the lemon-flavored candy in favor of the more desirable hues? I'll admit. It would be tough to knock cherry/strawberry of it's perch atop the flavor hierarchy. It's enjoyed a long, glorious reign as #1. Grape MAY have had a nice run in the 1980s. Maybe it was the cocaine. I'm not sure. Orange, god bless it, always a noble contender but let's face it... it's really the Canada of the flavor world ... we often forget it's even there. And there sits poor ol' lemon.

Why do manufactureres even bother churning this shittier Lysol replicant out of it's factories? It's always the last chosen. Like the fat blind kid at basketball camp. Put it out of its misery, please. Anything lemon is destined to remain at the bottom of the candy bowl for eternity until it becomes a stale, impenetrable nugget of shame.

Who in Washington is leading the lemon lobby? How hard is it to phase it out for something more favorable like ....kiwi. Anything for christ sakes.

But, alas, no. Lemon will remain a part of the candy spectrum for years to come. Life's a bitch. Don't even get me started on banana.


-Jonesy

When you fart on a public bus...you're putting us all in danger.

It never fails. At least once a week I'm subjected to someone's rectal terrorism during my commute to or from work. Look, man, this shit is crowded. We are all cramped, impatient, and a little on edge. Just hold that monster at bay, please. I beg you.

Why am I so pissed? Simple. Because no matter what... everyone always looks to me as if I'm the culprit. Because I'm a big guy. I have enough anxiety as it is and now I have to be judged in silence for something I know very well I didn't do yet I can't be vocal in my own defense. I have to sit there and pretend like I notice nothing even though I know very well why everyone is shifting uncomfortably in their seats. All because a waft of Satan himself has graced their nostrils.

And there you are... snickering in the corner ... you skinny, tofu-eating gastrointestinal nightmare.

Shame on you.


-Jonesy

I guess it's time to explain my phobia of old ladies...

I have mentioned this to a few people in the past and, of course, they always think I'm joking. But it's true. I am scared shitless of little old ladies.

First let me define. Old lady to me means over 70 years of age. Sometimes younger but rarely.

My reason is simple. Old ladies can be two extremes. First, they can be the nicest sweetest angels in the world. Or they can be the most bitter venom-spewing evil hags in the world.

Please before the sexist accusations fly... let me explain by a little compare and contrast.

Crabby old MEN are hilarious. Long a cliched character of the crusty old man who sits on his porch waving his cane and shouting at the rascal neighbor kids to get off his lawn.

But the evil old lady is more sinister. She lies dormant most of the time. Small and frail, wrapped in her shawl during those crispy August summer days. But once she strikes... all hell breaks loose. Setting off an old lady tantrum one can be subjected to a vicious tirade of scratching, clawing, profanity, lashes from strands of pearls, strangulation by way of hair netting, and handbag-induced head trauma.

All of this simply because Walgreen's ran out of her brand of calcium ... or something else so pathetically mundane.

I have tried to reason with them. But my words can't get past their reeking odor of Play-Doh.

So, now I avoid them. I will move to the other side of the street. I will move to the back of the bus. I will avoid that aisle in the grocery. All in an attempt to avoid the old ladies.

They are just fucking mean.

I miss you, grandma, but you can blame the others.

-Jonesy

1/17/07...

Okay here goes. Jonesy's Night 1/17/2007.

I go have a few drinks after work with some co-workers. I'm a little
tipsy by the time I make it home around 7:30pm.

I'm starving. So I order a BBQ sandwich from Hecky's (of all places)

Netflix came in the mail. Finally I get to see Talledega Nights. Life is good.

Come 8:30pm. Been an hour. Where the hell is my food?

Around 8:45pm I smell a weird burning plastic smell. I think the guys
downstairs must be farting around in the kitchen. I think I hear a
smoke detector going off but can't be certain.

8:55pm. Is that a fire truck on my street? They go into the
building next door and leave after like 5-10 minutes. Probably some
girl burnt her Lean Cuisine.

9:00pm. So, that was a fun little distraction. Where in the name of
Allah is my fucking sandwich??

9:05pm. I get a phone call. Strange number. I bet this is my
delivery guy. Lost or something. I am right. Problem is he
doesn't speak ONE SYLLABLE of English. He is repeating some
phrase over and over again but I can't make it out. All I do is yell
back (you're supposed to yell, right?) my address over and over. Are
you downstairs? I ask. We get nowhere. So I wait for the doorbell
to ring. Nothing. I go downstairs and check the front porch.
Nothing.

9:15pm. Another phone call from delivery guy. We do the same dance.
Our language barrier is like the fucking Great Wall Of China.

9:17pm. I call Hecky's and explain to them that I think their
delivery guy is trying to call me. Perhaps he is lost? I am not
angry I just want to make sure he finds my place. I mean, it's pretty
cold outside. They explain to me that he doesn't speak a word of
English OR understand a word of English. Great. I wait...

9:20pm. He calls back again. This time I spring to action. I have
to keep him on the phone and talking long enough in gibberish (to me
at least) so I can TRACK HIM DOWN OUTSIDE BY THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE.

Did I mention I am not sober at all at this point?

I step outside on the porch and I swear this guy darts over to me like
Jackie Chan on crack.

He is super nice and apologetic. I tell him it's no problem, welcomed
him to our country and tipped him well for his effort.

The sandwich was great ... Talledega Nights, eh, not so much.

-Jonesy

Can someone please explain to me what Mountain Glacier smells like?

Look, it's hard enough for a guy to spend more than a comfortable 37 seconds browsing the aisles of ANY drugstore... so why must companies make it so damn hard for us to choose a deodorant scent?

Spring Breeze? Arctic Blast? Sport??? How the fuck is "Sport" considered an adjective that describes a smell?

So, I've done the research and here are my findings. Each scent is followed by it's ideal situational usage.

Fresh = perfect scent for those "morning afters" when you wake up hungover at 8:17AM with an important meeting scheduled downtown for 8:30AM. No time to shower.

Cool Blast = excellent choice for those desperate evenings out on the town when you are determined to hook up at all costs. So horny you'd hump a mailbox.

Ocean Surf = a nice middle-of-the-road standby scent. plain and boring like everything else about your earthly existence

Unscented = when you just don't give a fuck any more. Life isn't worth it. who cares if you smell like an elderly immigrant's diaper


Next week, my article ... "Cologne: The Cute Counter Girl Lied To You...You Smell Like Ass"



-Jonesy