Saturday, November 20, 2010

Rub a nub - ten people in a tub

Call it a phobia or whatever, but I am repulsed by hot tubs. Hate them.

So even though this may forever alter the way you view the fun and relaxing tub, I offer all about the various aspects about hot tubs that make me involuntarily shake with heebee-geebees every time I think about them.

To those of you who just bought your TurboSpa 6000, sorry. And to you who own one already, sorry too. Try and forget what I write here during the four times a year when you use yours.

I refer to hot tubs as “people soup” or “human bullion”. Why? because people who sit in them are literally stewing. “Soaking in the hot tub” is bad enough, but you’re not soaking, you’re stewing. That’s what you are doing…stewing. You all look like big chunks of meat softening up.

Speaking of chunks, ever thought about what is floating around in there as you frolic, thinking you’re at the Playboy mansion ? SKIN, lots of it. Big chunks of skin…and scabs and warts and corns, and urine (yep I went there), and my top gagger, hemoglobin from open wounds. Then snot guy…zits guy….

I also love how it is a big cauldron of bleach. Nothing sexier than naked time in the stuff they clean hospital instruments in. Speaking of naked time, what might be in water after that…wait - never mind, don’t think about that.

Love the hot tub smell, call it bleach-reek. And you know why there’s so much of that chlorine and liquid Lysol in there? see previous paragraph.

Super-heated water, in a small container, filled with bleach and humans - I’m on my way to the fair to buy one right now.

A few weeks ago, I’m with friends at this resort in Lake Chelan - yes I get the oxymoron - and they’re all drinking and having fun (Missus Kravitz is 2 ½ years sober and board shitless ) and they’re all headed to “The Grotto” for party time in the crock pot. The Grotto looks like something from the Land of The Lost, kept looking for Chaka. One hairy dude in the tub might have been him though.

So I purposely did not bring a bathing suit so I had an out and didn’t have to explain my phobia. Thank the Lord above for that. It was a hot tub trifecta. It was like a SNL skit or something, “All the things that wig you out about hot tubs in one place at the same time.”

First, there’s big fat kid. And as an aside, I was up on this seven-foot high bar stool overlooking the hot water pot. I felt like I was like the life guard. All I needed was that Crisco on the nose they use. ANYWAY, back to the fat kid. I was openly giggling because my friends, happily married with no children, had this fat kid right in between them - like he was their kid. He’d look at one of them, then turn right around to hear the other one’s response. Right in the middle of them. Laughs.

Next was the young teen trailer-twosome who were getting real close to just straight up mackin. Probably would have stayed there all night if it wasn’t for the band teacher busting them.

And in this corner, fat couple, she with the giant shower curtain bathing suit (with the little tu-tu thing around the waist - laughs), and he with the Wal-Mart suit with Disney or NASCAR or some shit on it.

He’s all frisky, probably from 10 MGDs and she’s all nervous, probably because there’s a chance he might want the annual romp and she wants to outlast him to the point where he passes out (very clever on her part to suggest a soaking in the hot tub - has the same effect as an elephant tranquilizer).

I’m all laughing up there in my director’s chair thing until I stop and go cold. Out from the tub walks an amputee. No. Shit. I recoiled in shock and fear. So I added a new one to the hot tub stew ingredients - stub junk.

(“walks” an amputee - heh)

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

New York, New York by way of Walla Walla

This special post is to offer you some free writing tips. Writing is kind of in my job description, so you'd think that I'd be somewhat good at it - though that skill is obviously not evident in this blog. Thanks for nothing University of Phoenix.

Our tip today deals things we all say and write but don't really realize it: redundancies.

Redundancies happen to be one of my pet issues, so much so that I get facial tics and Tourette’s each time one is uttered.

I've been writing them down as I hear them for years now. With this blog I have a reason for doing it. It is now my priviledge to educate my huge following out there (shout out to you four, you know who you are). I’ll even add an example for each to help you guide you.

After reading these, you too will be tormented by them. Better start eating Ritalin like M&Ms after that.

OK…let’s start with my favorite: Free Gift. You hear this one all the time.
“Hey man, I want you to have this gift.”
“Very cool. Thanks.”
“You bet. Give me thirteen dollars.”

Let’s continue.

Advance warning – literally a warning about a warning

Reduce it down – “I reduced this copy up to 7,000%.”

Armed gunman – The gunman, wielding a stolen policeman's pen, forced the hostages to play Jeopardy for their lives.

Ask the question – Similar to “riddle me this”

ATM Machine, PIN Number – 99% of people do not know what either of those abbreviations stand for, obviously.

Blend together – I have tried for years to blend together Reese’s with chocolate and peanut butter.

Close proximity – Look this shit up people. They mean the same damn thing. “Proximity” = CLOSE

Connect together – “Tyson connected together with a left to the temple of Creed and down goes Frazier.”

Two twins – fuuuuuuuuck

None at all - "Not even none a little bit?"

Protest against – I protest against my best favorite all the time

Repeat again – Did you not hear my initial repeat?

Rise up – The congregation rose up to their knees

Tuna fish – “I have a snake reptile that gets the farts something wicked bad after he eats tuna fish.”

Alright, that’s full enough of this caca shit. You get the photographic picture.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

There used to be a Tower Records here

My cousin, who is my man-crush because he is the ultimate in awesomeness, sent me an external hard drive full of music containing about five thousand songs. Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas, Alamalla Ramadan to me. The uber-most spaz-inducing gift Missus K has ever received.

Imagine how much time and money went into compiling that. And no, my cousin did not download them all. He wouldn’t say how he acquired them, but I’m sure he rolled some music nerd who was on the way to his other music nerd friend's house, or he found the external drive in one of the cases of illegal Viagra he gets in the mail every week.

Speaking of music nerds, I wear that banner proudly. I am a connoisseur of all types of music, save for any of that shit played on the radio right now: Hip-hop, bad country, pop, Lady Gaga Gabor…ack.

Anyway, I do love music and am a self-professed expert in obscurities and rarities. I am partial to 70s funk music – due to the fact that I was born an African American in a whitey body – but heavy metal and grunge occupy a great amount of GBs on my shitty MP3 knock off.

So I’ve spent the last four days perusing this cornucopia of music and there is virtually no band or genre missing – from 1920s-era blues, to old school country (i.e. Johnny Cash, which I do like), to one-hit wonder metal bands. I need a Dewey Decimal System to find my way around. Believe me when I tell you, IT IS THE SHIT.

With the vast variety of tunage comes a few bands that embarassingly and in full disclosure, Missus Kravitz used to proudly listen to - and which I will now confess to you. Warning: turn away from your screen, cause this is ugly.

BANDS THAT MK ONCE(and secretly still does)LIKED:
- Dead or Alive
- Duran Duran
- Bow Wow Wow
- The Go-Gos
- Madonna (yep – even saw her first-ever live show)
- The Carpenters
- John Denver
- Prince(saw him too when he had the spewing guitar, got me with that - 3rd row seat)
- Haircut 100
- The Bee Gees
- George Michael
- Allison Moyet
- Art of Noise
- Shelia E.
- Many, many other cringe-worthy lames

Now after seeing this horrifying list, you might say “Jesus, get him a rainbow window sticker”, but here’s the thing. I also liked hard-core, kick ass metal at the same time (and definitely still do). We’re talking Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, Ozzy, etc. If they were English and wore spandex, I worshipped at their altar.

How did I pull off this duplicity and multi-social-group membership without being labeled a fraud? I was the original Ferris Buehler. I hung with the jocks, the suburbans, the skull-bongs, the Richie Rich’s, the rednecks and the knobs. The one group I did not hang with though was the New-Wave/Goths with the stretch pants and the painted fingernails (on the dudes).

Now I probably sound pretty righteous by saying all this, but it really was a case of me trying too hard to fit in with too many groups, and as a result, I really didn’t have my own identity. By senior year though, I found myself and just hung with the bad kids (while wearing a polo shirt and penny loafers).

Monday, October 18, 2010

Municipal Dump

OK, it’s taken me three posts and I think it’s about time we bring some bathroom humor to this gig…literally.

I work in a brand new, million-dollar building that is otherwise, pretty nice, except it has one major flaw. For some inexplicable reason, they constructed this building with door-less bathrooms. Goddamn if that’s not the dumbest “advance” in modern facilities I have ever heard of.

You curve around a little wall when you go in, so it's not like anyone can see you.

But they sure as hell can hear you.

What's more, they put these bathrooms - there are only three in the building, plus two handicrappers (heh…made that one up myself) - 1)right in the lobby of the building (the one I am forced to use), 2)right near an elevator and 3)right outside a conference room.

As I mentioned, you can hear EVERYTHING going on in there. I mean not only can you hear someone taking a piss, you’d hear it if they were pissing on cotton.

So if you can hear the pissing, guess what it sounds like when people are off-loading cargo. The ceiling is about 11 feet high, which produces a perfect acoustically pitched echo, so no hiding what's going down in there.

And no, the building lease-holder will not remedy the situation - probably because it would run about 50 grand.

Now imagine you are new to the building (or you work there and you just don’t give a shit – heh again), and you have to weigh anchor, and let’s just say you aren’t going to be fully solid with this one. Much to your surprise, your Master Blaster has just been broadcast by way of a Marshall amp into the lobby an/or hallway by the elevator. And if you have to flush twice or wipe an inordinate amount of times, guess who now knows this. That’s right, about 5 to 7 more people than you want to.

Then you walk out…. “Hi".

Out in the lobby, picture you're talking with a coworker about the deliverable on the latest TPS Report, and being suddenly interrupted by this very unmistakable, startling and unpleasant sound. Then think of the immediate correlation you make. And if you didn’t get it then, in seconds the whole lobby smells like a porta-potty at a Dave Matthews concert in July.

Oh, and you can hear women doing the same thing, but worse (think pee). Calling all fetish-freaks.

The poor receptionist is subjected to this All.Day.Long. Speaking of which, the positioning of this receptionist makes a seemingly routine trip to the bathroom, a stealth adventure.

I drink about 10 cups of coffee and 10 glasses of water a day, which means I pee about 32 times a day. Because the receptionist is planted right out in front of the bathroom, I have to alternate my rest stops between floors - I don’t need her counting the times I pee. If those recepticles are all occupied or reek, then it’s…the Handicrapper.

My old office used to share the wall next to the Handicrapper, which meant I got to hear all the life struggles going on in there. But that pales in comparison to the poor sot whose office is directly across from the door of the handi. We’re talking feet from it. Imagine your day with that going on constantly. Half the people that come out I’d have ask, “Sonofa bitch, what was going on in there? Are you OK?” It would be like being the lucky winner of the who's-got-next ticket in the contest to see who gets to follow your dad in the bano after Thanksgiving dinner - except that would be the scent surrounding you all day long.

Back to my challenge. In addition to trying to conceal my frequent urination (Flomax on line two), I refuse to work one out in any of the door-less Dumpatoriums. So this forces me to walk across the campus to another building where bathrooms have doors. I will do this regardless of weather: Depression-era dust storms or Nor’easter gales - doesn't matter.

Shit. My job is bad enough without having to contend with this.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Wheels on my bus

So my ideal job would be (wait for it) a bus driver in a mid-sized, non-crime infested city.

Before you say, “that’s cliché” or “yeah, you would”, consider:

As a bus driver ALL you have to worry about is not running over somebody or leaving a little kid or Alzheimer’s sufferer on the bus at the end of the day (well, that and Bitterman's who won’t let you merge). That’s it. No quotas for how many people you pick up in a day (“People don’t want to ride the bus, who’s gonna stop em? – Yogi shout-out), no worries on how fast you make your rounds (you’ll just be back around again! - tain’t no big thing!), you don’t have to worry about what you’re going to wear every day, and most important – no meetings, team-building retreats or other corporate workplace intelligence-eroding activities. In other words, complete bliss.

As a bus driver, you’d actually increase your intelligence, because at every stop is a potentially scholarly and stimulating conversation! And if your only riders are mullet-wearers and hygiene non-believers, you can always tune in for some educating by Professor Limbaugh or fire up that “Chicken Soup for the Bus Driver’s Soul” CD your mom gave you.

*Point of clarification…this does not mean that driving a school bus is included in this goal of mine. Nofuckingwayever on that notion. Cab driver too, those guys get robbed and you’re expected to know the absolute fastest way to get to the Northside via the Tri-State Parkway ("but don’t take it during rush hour, I got a fukin plane to catch").

“So,” you ask, “you’d be a bus driver over a job doing something you love, like being in a band or working for the Seahawks (weak, I know)? Response: “yup” - cause here’s the thing. My theory is once you turn something you “love” into “work” then you no longer love it (that, and I can find a downside to anything).

In the case of being in a band, it would be pain-in-the-ass bandmates; having to write good songs and play your instrument well; unscrupulous managers; contracts and royalties; and touring (I’m thinking big).

In the case of working for the Seahawks, it would be just like working at InnaTech. You’d have to drink the Kool-aid. You couldn’t come to work on Monday and say, “Jesus, can any of these people tackle? Shit, they gave up 400 yards on the ground…and WTF with the play-calling?” You’d get, “Can I have a word with you in private,” and that would be that.

So look for me piloting a Municipal Transit, running over cones in a big parking lot somewhere…but not for long, I’m gonna get a route.

By the way, I want to make more than forty grand a year, so potential of this ever happening is nil...unless I get shitcanned, where the potential grows exponentially.

Today’s endorsement: The bumper-sticker I’m thinking of producing: “Big Pickup=Little PP”.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Atari Syndrome

Things that will be obsolete and passé in ten years.

I'll bet you these show up on VH1's "I love the 00's (OO'hs), where Rich Eisen and a very old Mo Rocca will make fun of them:

Ed Hardy shirts and anything with gothic prints or Olde English lettering - cept for Douchebag Twelvekids, he'll still be rocking his EH shirt.

Reality Shows - there will be high-def cameras everywhere, so instead of watching Jersey Shore, you'll watch "Walmart" or "Bus Station" (in real time).

Monday Night Football - which will have become Everyfucking Night Football.
* Sidebar: Why is the NFL music on Fox, CBS and NBC so goddamn dramatic and epic? What happened to cool, stylized themes?

Baggage Fees - "Nope," you say, "they'll only get higher". No they won't, cause you're going to be buying baggage FARES in ten years. Your bags are going to be on a whole different plane and you'll just have to hope they get there. There will be vending machines that sell clothes though, so you'll be cool for a day or so til your stuff gets there.

Botox -"Remember when people used to stick needles in their faces and shit? Then they'd look like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day float? That shit was messed up."

Potlucks - I can only hope. Maybe if enough people get E-Coli.

GPS' in cars - Huge, illimunated screens on your dashboard? Somebody's got to have come up something better by then.

Bud Lime - Bud Clamato will be huge though.

Facebook - God willing.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

This blog is going to be good, I swear.....a lot.

This will undoubtedly be one of those "I remember where I was" moments for all of you reading the first post of MK, probably a lot similar to when MTV was launched (and we all know where the music industry would be today without that.). Not sure how often I'll be posting, but probably pretty frequently, because I'm hoping to get out of a lot of household duties by shouting, "I'm updating my BLOG!... Jesus, this is important shit I'm doing here."

I expect to be making money off of this thing in about eight months or so, after it's goes viral and Hoda endorses it on TTS. For all of you collectors, I'll be happy to sign any "print screen's" you'll all make of this post.

For my wife and my mom, the only two people who will ever read this, head's up: there will be some salty language.

"Fucking pretzel". See? ...can't get much saltier than that.

I'm going to try and keep these posts somewhat topic-focused, so it looks like this one is going to be on Fuck. So speaking of, here's one on that:

So, I'm watching the Hawks and, as typically happens, Hasselbeck throws a pick on the first play of the game (yes, him throwing a pick on the first play is typical). I respond with an involuntary "Fuuuuuuuckin Hasslebeck" (which is also typical). My three-year old, who was within ear-shot (my bad), comes out and says, pointing at the TV, "You said he yucky?" "Yep, he makes my sick." Bada Bing! (Then I ran upstairs to my drum kit to do my own rim-shot [why do they call it that? Evokes, ze anal, no?]).

Incidentally, I'm not going to write much about my kids, because they are covered quite extensively in the award-winning blog CEO of the Circus (the award is for "Best Blog About My Kids", which was an honor given the blog by me).

One other thing on fuck: Instead of saying "fuck off" to someone, say, "cough". You get your point across. They know what you said, but you really didn't say it.

"Whaaaat? I did not tell you to fuck off, that's crazy. I wouldn't ever say that.......cough".

"You did it again."

"No I didn't, I said 'cough'".

"Why'd you say 'cough'?"

"Cause I got to get a physical today and I'm practicing."

OK, that was dumb, but it is original. I'm not going to ape anyone's bits on this blog.

Endorsement of the Day: Modern Toss