The Ice( Iron )man cometh...

It never ceases to amaze me at what you can find when you're walking around aimlessly at a festival that has everything from Top Hats to a guy hawking his mother's antique jewelry.





 
That's right kids. That IS an Ironman ice-cream bar. And I got it from an ice-cream truck. With the jingly jingly music and everything. My inner comic book nerd and eight year old self just giggled and bounced in their seats with joy... again.

I got the chance to spend the day with an awesome new friend yesterday who, surprisingly, is just as geeky as I am. While we sat chatting she announced that she had an irresistible urge for carnival food ( who doesn't?! ) so we strolled down to the Inman Park Festival to grab some funnel cake. What was intended as a quick trip for deep fried battery goodness turned into a day long adventure in which the two of us darted about like chipmunks dosed with copious amounts of sugar, looking at every shiny object that caught our attention.

After indulging our ADHD for a few hours we decided that it was time to retire and find real food. On the way to our chosen eatery I heard the tell tale sound that there was a man in a van handing out sweets to kids... legally. We came upon the ice-cream truck and after shouting excitedly so that the other people on the street averted their eyes and walked quickly in the other direction, my eye was drawn to a picture of the Ironman ice-cream bar. I was transfixed. It was a thing of beauty; bright red and yellow ice-cream that I knew, KNEW!, would be awesome!

Perhaps my partner in crime saw the look of childlike wonder on my face; perhaps it was the doofy ear to ear smile. Whatever it was, the next I knew she was presenting me with my very own iced Ironman head on a stick. A treat which I happily shared after capturing the above picture.

The lesson here kids? Nostalgia and nerdiness tastes like a two dollar novelty ice-cream. Indulge.

-D

The start of alcoholism...

is when you attack the wine bottle with a knife because you can't find your corkscrew.









So... funny story. My friend LCA came over the other night to watch Dexter with my roommate and I because she's tragically behind on the series and we just happen to have all of the current seasons and episodes on the PS3. I always enjoy it when LCA comes over. She's a fellow wine drinker and her visits give me an opportunity to indulge the refinement I've cultured since leaving my little farm town in rural bum-fuck.

This particular evening, however, refinement gave over to redneck ingenuity as the corkscrew vanished in a well played game of hide n' seek ( Its still hiding despite my near desperate cries of Ollie Ollie Oxen-free ). Never one to be deterred, I grabbed something that I thought would do the job, which just happened to be a paring knife. A very. Sharp. Paring knife.

Channeling the very spirit of our entertainment that evening, I stabbed the wine bottle in the cork ( sounds dirty when you say it like that ) and drove the blade in; burying it to the handle. Twisting viciously, I worked the wound until the Cabernet spilled it's deep red goodness into our glasses. It was dirty work well worth the reward.

Suffice it to say, LCA's prime time education in the life of a serial killer has been fun.


-D

* The evil gleam in the puppies' eyes say that they approve...

Deus Ex Machina... and he's laughing at you.

Today is the kind of day that exists only in fairy tales. Dark, twisted fairy tales where the hero is the butt of a great cosmic joke of which everyone is privy... except him. The telling of this fairy tale is certain to bring you a fair amount of joy assuming, of course, that you are sadistic enough to get a kick out of another's misfortune. And let's be honest... you know you are.

I woke this morning to the unexpected cacophony of birds singing and my roommate slamming doors. I'm assuming that he and the house had gotten into an argument ( like you do ) and he was trying to show his dominance. At least I didn't walk out of my room to find him on all fours, leg raised,  marking the couch... again. To his credit, there was an unhealthy amount of tequila involved the first time. *

If the manner of my return to the waking world weren't clue enough  that today was indeed going to be "one of those days" the sudden realization that I had forgotten my ID badge for work hammered it home. The realization was accompanied by a string of Gaelic obscenities; an exclamation so forceful that the young lady in the car next to me jumped visibly and scootched as far from me as her seat-belt would allow. And of course, Mr. Murphy saw to it that I was far too close to the office to turn around and correct the issue without being late. So, resigning myself to the fact that I would spend the day confined to the building else stand outside with my nose pressed to the glass in the hopes that someone would notice and let me in, I drove to work.

One thing that can be said about me with a fair amount of certainty is that I'm crazy. But that really has no bearing on my story so we'll just set that nugget of goodness aside for the moment and concentrate on something that does. For instance, the fact that I hate being late. I'm the kind of guy that arrives to an appointment fifteen minutes early. Always. And because I had gotten up so early ( there's no sleeping when your alarm is a slamming door ) I had a little time to kill. I chose to kill this time by running a few errands. Specifically, stopping at the ATM to pull the cash needed to run said errands.

I pulled up to the Publix near my office thinking that I would kill two birds with one stone. I would be able to use their Presto! ATM, which is mercifully free of fees ( I KNOW!! I couldn't believe it either! ), and swing into the store to grab some orange juice ( I love me some juice ). Everything was going perfectly; just as planned. The machine did its job, taking my card and reading the information from the magic strip on the back. I entered my pin to let it know that I was who I claimed to be and when it was satisfied with my identity it took my order.

And this is where things went horribly horribly wrong, kids.

I stood there, patiently waiting for cash that never came. Like an orphan waiting for the Santa from all the stories who never comes down the chimney. The ATM beeped at me mournfully as if apologizing and displayed a austere message stating that it was unable to dispense cash. I glanced from side to side certain that I was being Punk'd and that Ashton Kutcher was going to spring from the rubbish bin to catch me with that doofy look of surprise on my face. Once I recovered enough to realize that I was not being Punk'd, I mouthed a quick "Feis!" and tried to think of what went wrong. As my mind reeled from the shock of a plan gone off rail, I moved to check the balance in my account... just to be on the safe side. What I found raised my hackles and seriously disturbed my calm. Even though the machine was unable to give me my money it decided that it was okay to remove it from my account anyway.

That's what I get for trusting a financial organization whose logo reminds me more of pasta sauce than a bank.

I walked into the Publix to speak to a manager who fulfilled my low expectations by promptly informing me that the only thing that could be done was to send an email to Presto! and that I would be contacted. No, there is no number I can give you, sir. Yes, I understand the inconvenience, sir. No, I can only send the email on your behalf. The ATM doesn't belong to us, sir. In the interim, two hundred and sixty of my hard earned dollars float somewhere in the limbo of cyberspace; cold and alone.

Isn't it amazing how we create technological convenience upon technological convenience to make our lives easier and yet, somehow, they still manage to make our lives a living hell?! I can almost imagine that the machines have already taken over and rather than choosing to destroy mankind, they've instead decided to keep us around because we're much more valuable as entertainment than batteries. I am resigned to this fate wholeheartedly and when my XBOX tells me to put on tights and dance like the court fool in Camelot, I will go willingly. Until then, I'm going to get a very large truck and tear that fucking ATM out of the wall and get my money back. Wish me luck, blogland.

-D

* My roommate has never, to my knowledge, urinated on our couch in a drunken stupor.