Yesterday was pretty much what passes as normal for me around here. If you discount the shitting the bed thing I mean.
I always start my day with a dose of the internet, mostly the blogs I follow and some Facebook. There’s some gems out there if you get lucky enough to find them. Like I’ve got this new pickup line to try out on the local ladies:
Although it will likely prove every bit as effective as my current repertoire…
Repertoire…isn’t that French? Coincidentally, the cover of this month’s online Hash magazine seems to feature bits of that archaic and dying language.
Maybe Kevin Kim can make sense out of it….
In the Subic kennel, we sing our songs in English thank you very much. Of course, I’m still learning the words to most of them but little by little I’m getting there.
I wish I could find me a songbook with all the lyrics for the Hash standards.
Anyway, once I’ve satisfied my internet addiction, it’s time to hit the road for the first steps of the day and of course some breakfast. I usually do Treasure Island for my morning meal, but yesterday I changed it up and ate at Mango’s.
Eggs with a view as it were.
I try to get 10,000 steps (1.5 hours) every morning. Back home to rest a bit, then give Buddy a walk through the neighborhood. He smiles the whole time!
Had my Sunday darts tournament at Alley Cats and managed a third place which was a tad disappointing. I’m not going to complain about it much, but this is not the traditional “blind draw” where teammates are randomly chosen. The tournament director instead divides folks into two groups “A” caliber players and everyone else, which in theory would give you more balanced teams. I just question how she determines who is going where. Now, I’m always in the “A” group and I belong there. But damn, she has some really solid players that in my mind should be in “A” as well teamed up with other “A” partners. Ah well, I have some thoughts on how to better rank and rate the players, but I can’t be bothered with it at this point. Just want to relax and have fun.
After darts I hoofed it on home and ate some leftover baby back ribs from the previous night’s dinner. Then took Buddy for his afternoon walk. With Buddy walked and fed, I packed a bag and headed back into town. Rented a room at the Paradise hotel using my 50% off coupon from the SOB raffle. Took a much needed shower, had a shave, dressed up nice and hit the bars.
It was in the back of mind that maybe, just maybe, I’d put the bed in that room to use. Sometimes my “no barfine” policy seems ridiculous. I mean seriously, some hot young women willing and wanting to fuck you for forty or less dollars and I just leave them up there on the stage? It strikes me as an awful selfish thing to do. After all, they really really need the money.
Alas, despite seeing some prospects that ticked all my boxes I just couldn’t pull the trigger. Bought a few ladies drinks which helps them out some at least. And didn’t feel guilty about enjoying some brews. This quote (attributed to Babe Ruth, but who knows, it’s the internet after all) pretty much sums up my thinking:
“Sometimes when I reflect on all the beer I drink, I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn’t drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. I think, “It is better to drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver.”
After an abbreviated bar hop (Wet Spot, Cheap Charlies) I popped into Lollipop. On Sunday night they have a live band doing country music. I pulled one of the dancers off stage to keep me company, but mostly to be my bodyguard. There were only two other customers in the joint and the hoards of thirsty waitresses were swarming around my table with the “buy me a drink” fever in their eyes. It really is off putting.
Only stayed for the first set of music. The band was okay, featuring some Eagles tunes and a Kid Rock song I like, Only God Knows Why. Caught a trike home, leaving my hotel bed untouched. Slept on the couch since I didn’t want to put clean sheets on a dirty mattress.
And that’s pretty much how things roll around here.
People don’t know about the things I say and do
They don’t understand about the shit that I’ve been through
It’s been so long since I’ve been home
I’ve been gone, I’ve been gone for way too long
Maybe I forgot all things I miss
Oh somehow I know there’s more to life than this
I said it too many times
And I still stand firm
You get what you put in
And people get what they deserve
Still I ain’t seen mine
No I ain’t seen mine
I’ve been giving just ain’t been gettin
I’ve been walking that there line
So I think I’ll keep a walking
With my head held high
I’ll keep moving on and only God knows why
Ah, zee Fraintch!
Alas, we’re dealing with typos, bad grammar, and fictional French words. Here we go:
La coupe du monde absolu = the Absolute World Cup
Juillet 2018 = July 2018 (you figured that out, I bet)
Vive la Nation = Long Live the Nation
Ou est le papier?? = “Where is the paper?” but there’s a typo: the “u” in “Ou” (“where”) should have a grave accent: “Où.” Without the accent, “Ou” means “or.” “Or is the paper?”
Qu est le papier = probably the same question, but the idiot typed a “Q” instead of a proper capital “O.” Thanks to the typo, the question now looks like an ungrammatical version of “What is the paper?” (“Qu’est-ce le papier?”—kess luh pah-pyay?)
Monsieur, Monsieur, je fait le manure! = “Sir, Sir, I’m making manure!” Only a person with no idea how to pronounce French would think this rhymes. One grammar issue is that “I’m making” isn’t written as “je fait”: it’s “je fais,” with an “s” to indicate the first-person singular. Another issue is that “manure” is an English word. The French have several words for manure, often related to what farm animals produce in great volume: le fumier, la bouse, etc. French kids say, “Je fais caca!” when they’re declaring that they’re pooping.
Ou est le papier?? = same as before: “Where’s the paper?”
What a godawful stupid faux-French rhyme. And people actually sing that? Here, let me compose a French poem that no one will sing, but if you want to hear it pronounced more or less correctly, run it through Google Translate and click the little speaker icon.
un Français est dans les chiottes
avec de la merde sur les bottes
y chie et y pousse
et la merde éclabousse
à la fin, y’est fier de ses crottes
I’m actually kinda proud of that poem, which follows the rhythm of an English limerick. The word “y,” used above (and pronounced “ee”), is a slangy way of writing the personal pronoun “il,” which means “he.” The line y chie et y pousse, then, means “he craps and he strains (i.e., pushes hard).”
Translation (with no attempt at rhyming):
A Frenchman is in the shitter
with some shit on his boots
he poops and he strains
and the shit splashes out
in the end, he is proud of his crap.
Rough translation (with an attempt at rhyming and rhythm):
A Frenchman a-sits in the loo
with some shit perched atop o’ his shoe
he craps; his teeth gnash
and the feces doth splash
in the end, he be proud of his poo
I think that could be worth reciting loudly while drunk. If you do it, please send me video.
Wow! I am duly impressed! I’m quite certain that this is the first time an original work of French poetry has been published on my humble blog! Really good stuff, appreciate the effort.
As to the Hash cover, well the Hash is definitely intentionally irreverent. Wouldn’t be surprised if at least some of those inconsistencies you noted were not intentional. This is the tag line at the end of the magazine:
THIS IS COMEDY/PARODY/SATIRE MAGAZINE MEANT FOR HASHERS NO ONE CARES IF YOU DO NOT LIKE IT
Ha ha—understood.
The quote would be cool if correctly attributed to the Babe. It looks like it might have been Jack Handey, though.
Haha! I’m sure those words are a common enough sentiment for us beer drinkers! Thanks for the comment, Jack!