Soda Jerks......Uggh

Found a kindred spirit out in the blogosphere, so I cut and paste a little something of interest. Because, seriously, who are these people who drink soda all the time, and can't we just ship'em all to an island?

"I’m finally off the Coke"

No, no, not that coke. This is a lot less glamorous, and less fun depending on one’s level of addiction. You, my friend, are rubbing shoulders with self admitted diet coke addicts everyday. The evidence is startling, something has to be done.

Consider Amanda Sanchez- a 29 year old working mother of two. Amanda admits to drinking at least 12 diet cokes a day. Diet Coke is her drug of choice. And once a week she shamefully goes to her local grocer to re-up, toting an extra buggy for those seven cases of Diet Coke. Amanda said she uses Diet Coke to “get her through the days.”

On a side note, it’s interesting how various media outlets like to give a little personal description of the person, much like the aforementioned 29 year old working mother of two. Who the fuck cares? I mean couldn’t you just replace that with 29 year old zilch? She’s a nobody. She’s getting ink for drinking 12 Diet Cokes a day, not for building a well in Zimbabwe as Robert Mugabe chases her around while riding a cheetah. Therefore I will revise the second paragraph.

Consider this zero, Amanda Sanchez. She drinks 12 Diet Cokes a day to keep her from crushing the left side of the menu at Taco Bell.

Amanda Sanchez

A Diet Coke lobbyist has stepped in on Amanda’s behalf, paying off the Immigration official in charge of her case. Her addiction has made Coca Cola Bottling Company recession proof.

Back to the lecture at hand, there are numerous reasons a Diet Coke addiction is formed. You have those who say, “I used to drink tons of Coke; decided I needed to lose weight, and switched to Diet Coke.” Classic case of transferring addictions. So dependent upon sugar and carbs (found in your favorite foods and abundant in regular Coke) you use Diet Coke to replace them. Now you’re slamming back 7 Diet Cokes to replace the 2 bags of Doritos, 3 Cokes and 3 snickers you would have crushed during “snack time.” Sometimes they slip up though. When I worked at a restaurant, I’d loathe these lard consuming disasters that would come in and order a bacon cheeseburger, fries and….you guessed it…a mf Diet Coke. Really? You’re making a healthy choice huh?

Secondly, there is a large contingent who have used to Diet Coke as a “healthier” way to fuel their caffeine addiction. Either too much coffee or a general distaste for the java family has driven many coeds to pick up Diet Coke in order to stay awake to study for the exam given by your professor who has 38 years of ear wax build up and suit jackets that belong on an AIDS quilt.

One blogger is quoted as saying, “Back in undergrad, my diet coke pace was around 6-8 cans a day and I quit cold turkey.”

“I quit cold turkey,” are we talking about heroin here? No, just Diet Coke, it's that fucking serious MAN. You do not want to get hooked on that stuff. Did you have the shakes when you were coming off that stuff? Get chills? Coming off a serious addiction is tough, ask James Frey for the honest truth.

Finally there is the learned addiction. Unfortunately this is a gender specific addiction. Women use Diet Coke to keep from eating, so they won’t get fat, so that people will like them. This idea goes hand in hand with the Parisian model that constantly smokes (and snorts various mind altering powders) to suppress her appetite, in order to appear totally emaciated for that next shoot. Fast forward two months and you have women all over the globe green with envy (seriously) when they see that very Parisian model in the new Christian Lacroix. But where o where is the addiction learned from? From dear old mum. When a teen sees mom invariably clutching that Diet Coke in concert with two skipped meals a day, she’s hooked. Not only does the young teen start to emulate the behavior, she also fits into the size zero dress that she borrowed from mom.

Ladies want to know, how do I get a body like that? Simple, more Diet Coke, bitch.

Folks, trade the no guilt, zero calorie, fizzed delight for a raging addiction if you so choose. But this whole Diet Coke addiction phenomenon has gone too far as far as I’m concerned. Its not really going to kill you or anything, it’s just weird. But I’m willing to help all of you fighting this epidemic. I’m taking a stand, I hope you will too. Ever notice how Diet Coke is always, and I mean always, capitalized? Its not diet coke, or Diet coke, its Diet Coke. Both first letters capitalized, which is almost as pretentious as those people who use an initial in their name (see M. Night Shyamalan, ps your movies are fecal matter). It has even reached Bill Gates; MSWord auto corrected my key strokes and capitalized both words. That tells me we’re putting Diet Coke on the same level as Monday, January and Queen Elizabeth. Choose for yourself the elements of style with which you choose to write, but I will no longer stand around

and give this can of enslavement the capitalized treatment it has forced upon us since 1982.

Take your can of zero calorie nothing and shove it up your fart box.

Stand with me in the fight against addiction and call it diet coke, all letters lower case.

This one’s for you Amanda:

diet coke

______________________________________________

Bravo!

"Hello Friend"

Well, hello. That was the subject from 1 of 132 junk emails I had in my email spam folder. Sometimes you have those days where you think, "No one's emailed me today? Nobody? People's internet connections must be down. Yes, that's it. They're trying to email me. They just can't. Or, maybe it got sent to my spam folder."

That mystery email you didn't get? You didn't get it because no one sent it. At least 99 times out of 100. There was the one time where I had been out to lunch at a Sticky Fingers restaurant and my friend emailed me with "Sticky Fingaz" as the subject. That one found it's way to the spam folder. Too lewd? Apparently so, for hotmail. But no, most of the time, it's just tons and tons of emails about a tons and tons of disturbing things (remember champion dong?) Mostly though, they're just about my tiny penis.

Here were my favorites today. Oh, and poor, little Emma Watson....what did she ever do to anyone?

Meet and Marry a Gorgeous Russian Queen
Well, Stephen does love vodka. But I'm not into that.

Your Watch Is In the Mail
Wait a minute. My watch, in the mail? And not on my wrist? Because, it looks like it's on my wrist.

Do you want to make out like an aerobics instructor?
You know, I'm not sure. I'm leaning towards no, though.

Energy to tear her ham wallet.
It just sounds like a crime, though I can't tell if it's about sex, food, or money.

Melt away those lbs. organically.
This has to relate to all that ham that I'm gonna tear up.

Dude, your snake sucks.
Bullshit. I don't even have a snake. But if I did, he'd be awesome and cool. Not suck. Though, maybe they mean Baby Snakes, my band. Now, they suck.

Famous Rapper Raped in Public.
I can't believe I haven't heard about this. Maybe it was reported in Source magazine and it's just a misspelling. That I could believe. "Famous Rapper Rapped in Public." Much more sense.

Where's your girlfriend?
Uh..work? Hopefully not with an aerobics instructor.

Gorgeous Diva Drunk
That gal who sits beside Simon on Idol?

Make your pecker glorious.
Not bigger, longer, or harder, but glorious. What a word to use.

So Easy to Be Bigger
Now, come on. This goes against organically shedding those lbs..

Make yourself a hero in her eyes tonight.
This sounds like some kinky sandwich action going on.

Emma Watson Acted Profligate
Now here's a word I don't know.
prof·li·gate (prfl-gt, -gt)

adj.

1. Given over to dissipation; dissolute.

2. Recklessly wasteful; wildly extravagant.

Reckless, extravagant? She is a superstar. And I should hope so, for what's about to come next.....

Emma Watson's Ass Destroyed
Aw, man.....well, that's what she gets for being wasteful.

The Road Warriors: Listen to this Shit

Not these guys....but, I do have a certain affection for Animal (right) and Hawk (left), aka The Road Warriors aka The Legion of Doom. Don't know'em? Umm...they're only the baddest guys on planet Earth when you're some age between 7 and 11. Professional wrestlers, spiked shoulderpads, facepaint, championship belts adorning their soon-to-be pot bellies, and the icing on this cake is the fact they their entrance music was Black Sabbath's Iron Man. Are you kidding me? What!

But no, the real Road Warriors are me and my carpooler. Pulling out of town at 6:40 every day sucks, especially when I'm driving, and the only good thing I can say about it, is that the road isn't very crowded.

But within our cars, there's a battle brewing. And it's not the battle over what music we force upon each other. I'm forever punished by Steve FM and she's punished by a cornocopia of off the wall goodies, that I keep at just the right volume. Just loud enough to hear, but not loud enough for either of us to enjoy, and probably extra annoying when you're unfamiliar with the material. Nor is it a battle of wits. She sleeps when I drive, I zone out when she drives. Convo is pretty minimal in the morning. And it's not even a battle between her nose and my sometimes stinky bar/life/unshowered aroma that I hope she thinks is some sort of Axe type spray. "Hmm...he must be wearing "Pitchers o' Pavlovs." Or is that "Eau d'Whig."

The real battle of this Road Warrior is between me and my bowels. Every. Stinking. Day. Zing!

I get up every morning and pee. And thankfully, I've been fortunate enough to have a nice steaming cup of coffee on the way to work pretty much every day for the past couple of months.

My breakfasts are small. Egg sandwich. Scrambled Eggs. Perhaps some cereal. Or maybe just a banana. Nothing extravagant. But usually my nights are a little more more on the wild side.

Who's aren't? 6 tacos loaded with cayenne pepper sauce? Check. 5 brewskis? Sometimes. Sriracha? My new best friend. El Buritto? Si, senor. 5 días una semana. And while I eat a measly spinach salad, pretty much every day at work, I even found myself dipping a piece of broccoli into a jar of pesto as I made my lunch a few nights ago.

So needless to say, I gotta go by the time I get to school. And by "by the time I get to school," I mean "about 20 minutes from school." And heaven forbid I eat Pizza Man. Turn that 20 into "as soon as I leave the house."

We all have our schedules. And I can't force the body to do things it doesn't like. I wish I could, but I'm only human.

So, every day, when she's at the helm, I get that twinge that makes me wanna scream, "FOR GOD'S SAKE GO AROUND THAT CAR!!! PLEASE!!!!!!! UGH!!!!!!!"

Or when I'm driving, I put both of our lives on the line, for the sake of her nose, my pants, and my dignity, and whip in and out of traffic like it's a race. Eat dust, y'all.

So, you can imagine my relief when we pull off at our exit. From there it's a 1.4 mile straight shot. No lights, no traffic, no nothing. Just sweet relief from the goose bumps and cold sweats that I've been living with for half the ride. So, as we pull into the parking lot, you think I'd be home free. Oh no.

Usually we're the first one's there. 7:25ish. The rule is to be there at 7:30. And I must follow the rules. Clock in on time, clock out on time.

For some reason, pehaps my work ethic or lack of interest, I don't have a key the front. But she does. So after she unloads her 6 bags of papers/binders/nolife, we start the journey across the lot. I'm solid during this part. It's when we get inside and the office is locked, I go into super panic mode.

I know that someone will be by to open up the office door and grant me access to the nice bathroom, sooner or later, so I just have to bide my time for a few more minutes. Stay busy. I slowly waddle down the hall and come into my room. Put my lunch in the fridge. Start my computer. Do a little dance to hold back the flood as I wait for that Novell screen to appear. An eternity passes. Finally. As my computer logs itself on, I scramble down the hall, and 9 times out of 10, someone's opened unlocked the office.

I fling open the door, and like a bull I charge to the bathroom. I've never once had to wait on anyone actually in there.

But sometimes, like today, there is no one in there. A dark office stares back and says, "I know. Your body has already put into motion what may not be able to be stopped. But I'm of no help. I can't open myself." At this point you'd think I'd go to the kids bathroom, right? Well, some people probably also think that it would be fun to try and eat a bowling ball.

So, on these rare occasions I walk back into my room, 30 yards away. Pace around a minute or two, and go back. Sweet, unlocked ecstasy.

Today, though. Wow. Maybe because it's April 1st. Maybe I wronged someone. I don't know. But as we came through the front door, I saw the dark, empty office. Breathe deep, grasshoppa'. Do the room ritual and head back down the hall. Not too fast, not too slow. Round the corner and see the lights on. Success! Gather all my muscle might and lurch towards the heavy glass door with both hands. "Outta my way, you pane in the ass!" I mumble as my hands make contact. But something's wrong. The door doesn't budge! My forwad momentum causes me to crash into the door, chest and face first, and lemme tell you, it's quite the feat to A) not fall down and B) not destroy my chinos.

I feel like I'm in a movie. This close from escaping a killer. Now I'm pressed up against the wall as he stabs me with a knife. Or like those people must've felt when Moses closed up the doors of the Ark. Helpless. Broken. My cold sweats have been replaced by proverbial streaming tears.

What to do what to do! What's that? In the distance, towards the back of the office something moves. There's a black man in there. Oh yes! Donald, our new janitor! Our old one died. He must've wandered into the hopper after moi. But yes, Donald, please walk faster. Come on homey, you're my height, you've got a bigger stride than that! I don't care why you're in there or why the door's locked, just get out of my way. "Yes, good morning, salam alaikum, my brotha," but move, dude.

Three minutes later, a new man leaves the office, ready to face the day. After this battle, the Road Warrior is ready to demolish anything that stands in his path. Boring co-workers, an apathetic audience, and even conversations about Rascall Flatts.

Until 7:02 tomorrow morning.