Chapter 27.1 Section B Para. II Subsection F, in Which OMFUG Becomes What He Despises-- a New Jerseyite

Well, what can I say. We got a house.........in New Jersey. This is kind of surreal, actually..... I mocked people from that hallowed Armpit of America for many, many years. In fact, out of respect for my former position and an unquenchable need to irritate the holy hell out of my new neighbors immediatly, I am in the the process of getting a shitload of shirts printed up for the move. They all have "F.I.T." written on the front, and "Flatlander In Training" on the back.


A book about New Jersey

Marshall, of course, is prohibited from wearing one since he has already been a Jersyite for many years, and Tommy Schu won't get one either since deep in his heart of hearts he holds a love for all things hairy and metal, thus making him an honorary Jersyite.
So anyway, back to the house. It's a nice single detatched home, 2 stories high in the Colonial style. 4 bedrooms, living room, dining room, eat-in kitchen, and a nice big backyard to bury bodies in. I think I can make some bling if I can score a contract with Fat Tony for....uh...disposal rights. (If you're reading this, Fat Tony, please contact me at igavebirthtomyownhead@yahoo.com. We offer competative rates for all your goombah needs.) The plan right now is to turn the living room into a game room, since I know a guy who has a pool table he wants to get rid of. Ooooh, look at me, I'm already collecting shit I don't need from people I barely know! I AM going to fit in there!


Another book about New Jersey

Anyway, this has been a much more pleasent experience than I thought it would be. I'm still in the dark about a few things, but I'm sure my realtor won't let anything bad happen to us. No, seriously. Stop laughing, he's a good guy even though he looks like BA Baracus punchisized his face a couplela-two-tree times. I say this because last night we met with him to begin the long and tedious process of signing our lives away. And he was quite helpful... he explained most things to us in a very easy manner, and let us know the sections of the enormous 37lb document we didn't need to worry about by reading the first sentence of a paragraph, and making a comforting "Dat-da-da-da-dat-da-dat-da" noise for a few seconds. Either that or I was having seizures again. Either way, it didn't hurt too badly. But dear god, why does so much of this stuff need to be repetative? I think that ths state of NJ feels like when somone buys a house they really should know (8 times, in toto) that the house has never been tested for the existence of fecal pixies, nylon permafrost, oversize washing machine gnat-turtles, or "happy gas" and the seller has no responsabilities heretofor thusly from whence they came. Forsooth. FUCK. LAWYERS. Seriously, I know this is a serious matter and all, but should they reall y have to tell me that there are two smoke detectors? If you buy a house, and don't figure out a) where the smoke detectors are, and b) if there are enough of them, then c) you should burninate.


Yet a third book about New Jersey. There sure are a lot of books about New Jersey! It must be a great place to live!

Well, that's the end of my little house rant. I have two more things to say, however:

1. Marshall, that was so wonderfully mysogynistic I think that Jane Fonda and Gloria Steinem may possibly be on her way to your house to present you with an award.

2. While I was searching on Amazon.com for books to use , I typed in "landfill". What came up made my heart beat faster, and filled my eyes with tears of joy. Try it... it's a bunch of books on childcare and parenting. So basically, Amazon is saying "Put your kids in landfills!" Kudos to Amazon.com

Chapter 27, in which OMFUG Gets a Big Boy House

The subject du jour is house buying. We're sick of pissing away rent money and getting nothing in return, so instead we have decided (fanfare) to get a house.

So, the process of looking for a house has begun, and we're chugging merrily along on the Amercian Freeway of Impending Debt. So far, there are about 9 places we need to see, and all of them are in New Landfill....er, New Jersey. They're nice places from what I have seen on the web, but I reserve judgement for when I actually see them. Of course, Wifey gets some say too....not too much, because women aren't really people...but a little. Fang and his brother are excited about the prospect of having an entirely new place to terrorize-- I can tell by the vacant look in thier eyes when I talk about the house-- so the whole family is behind the movement.

So the first step in this whole process was choosing a realtor. You might be saying to yourself, "Wow, OMFUG, how do you do that? I mean, I wouldn't know how to find a reputable realtor. Will you impart some of your scintilating thoughts and advice to us lowly mases, hyuck hyuck?" To which I respod: I haven't got a fucking clue. Picking a realtor is IMPOSSIBLe to do in a logical fashion. There is no reasearch you can do, other than past clients and criminal background checks. One might think that the broker of one of the three most important decisions you'll ever make (house buying, who to impregnate, and who to infect when you're dying of Ebola) should be researchable so that you can make an infomded decision about this person. Nope. Instead, you find a place you like, call a number, speak with someone you've never met, and they hook you up with a person who doesn't even know your name. If you're lucky, that is. Because in that scenario, you can always dump the realtor if you don't like him/her. More often , however, someone in your extended family is a realtor, or one of your friends is, or your cousin's best friend's wife is. And they find out you're looking for a house, you're stuck with them.

Anyway, then you get to sort through a million searches from the web, of which at least 80% have been off the market for at least two years, and quite possibly no longer even exist. It's an exhilirating circle of getting your hopes up and having them crushed constantly. Kind of like dating in high school, actually.

While you're doing this, you might want to figure out how much you can afford to pay a month on a mortgage. And once you've done that, increase it by 20% because you'll never find anything in that price range, you cheap fuck, so get used to eating mac and cheese 7 days a week to pay for your hovel.

And that's the point we're at. Our realtor (who happens to look like every slimey villan from the A-team ever) should be getting back to us today with some places to see. I've got my hopes already lined up, so that he can crush them easily.

Reposte

In response to Tommy Schu, I have to assertmyself as an ass man, not a boob man. But otherwise, he's right on the money. If you know what you like, you're already halfway there. Like G.I. Joe said, "Knowing is half the battle! Fuck you, Cobra pussies."

But I digress. I like the booty. That is all.

The Square Root of Normal is Random.
I've got a few things on my mind today, so instead of making one coherent post, I'm going to spout my random rants. Strap yourselves in and prepare for incoming angst.

I love the movie Office Space. You really can't appreciate it until you've worked in corporate America, and it gains a whole new meaning if you happen to be lucky enough to work for the DoD. One thing they left out, however, was company cafeteria food. It is, frankly, wretched. Hospital food, airline food, things you find in a dumpster.... all of these are culinary masterpieces compared to cafeteria food. I made the mistake on this cold and blustery day of going to Dunkin Donuts befre work to get a cuppa. Ah, such sweet nectar.... they have perfected the art of mass market consumer coffee making. It's les a beverage and more a food when they dump in thier 7 bagsof sugar and half a gallon of heavy cream (per cup!), and it just tastes so damn good once it hits your lips. So, after enjoying this delecatable beverage, I found myself strapped on the caffeine rocket and craving more. Unfortunatly, the only option available is the caf. Well, there are wings of the building I work in that have coffee clubs, but I refuse to bow to the java nazis that run them. Anyway, off to the caf. I made myself a steaming cup of go-juice to Dunkin Donuts specs (a feat attained only after long hours of watching thier art in person) and paid the kindly woman at the register. Walking out, I took a sip, a mile already forming.

It was horrible.


I'm pretty sure this is where the coffee comes from.

This is the simultaneously the weakest and strongest coffee I have ever had. It's strong in that NOTHING could mask it's horrid taste...it's kind of like licking a hot muffler. It's weak in that it seems to somehow be thinner than wate. I'm not sure how to describe this, but I'm pretty sure some sort of foul Elder God magic is upon it. It is a blashpemous brew, one which I am sure will prove to be my undoing as the icor of Cthulu corrodes my stomach. Blech. How do you fuck up coffee this badly? Mind you, I've had my fair share of really bad java, but this is beyond the pale. I can feel my soul rotting even as I type this.

On to other things. I had an epiphany yesterday.... men, we are not nearly so piggish as womankind would lead us to believe. I was watching TV last night, and saw a commercial for a gameshow that involved the introduction of a new co-host; said co-host was your typical cookie-cutter bimbo, of course. Now, Wifey took offense to this, but it got me thinking.... when it comes right down to brass tacks, men are pretty easy to please, beauty wise. Sure, we'd PREFER the hottest thing since Jebus in a thong, but we're quite content to oggle just about anything under 150 lbs. Women would hav3 us believe that the media horribly distorts the female body, forcing women everywhere to strive towards somethign they will never achieve. BZZZZZZ. Wrong. Yeah, there are plenty of silicon-loving bimbettes running around, but the vast majority of women on sitcoms, news shows, and movies AREN'T Pamlea Anderson-Lee-Anderson-Lee-Rock-Lee. Porn, of course, being the exceaption-- but I'm talking about mainstream media here. Lemme break it down for all the phallicly challened readers out there.

The women in these areas (again, you'll have to discount the wonderful yet blatently mysogynistic Man Show and thier Juggies) are not that different from the ones you see walking around during the day wherever you are. Unless you're Canadian. In which case, just imagine them with all thier teefers and without the flannel. Anyway, these women:

• Are not uggos, but not supermodels.


• Aren't anorexic thin or dangerously obese.


• Don't have titties the size of Cleveland; as a matter of fact most aren't above a large B cup.


• Don't have teeny tiny asses nor ones of Oprah proportion.


• Would definitly be judged do-able by upwards of 90% of men.

Which is to say, they are average. Now, let's examine the men in these same areas. They seem to share all the same charachteristics (except the titties) yet I have personally been in discussion with women who feel there is "no-one hot on television". Conclusin: Women are picky byotches. You claim that WE'RE the ones with unrealistic body and image expectations, but you won't even LOOK at a guy this side of Brad Pitt. And for a lot of you, even HE isn't good enough! Case in point: Friends. On the female tip, you've got Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, and Lisa Kudrow. I don't know a single guy that doesn't find these three women as adequate repositories for thier evolution juice. Look cloesly at them... allright, I'll give you Jennifer Aniston as H-O-T. But her tits aren't huge, and not the pertest either. Cortney Cox is even further down the line....smaller chesticles, no ass to speak of, and dangerously thin and Skeletor-like. Lisa Kudrow? Same deal. Except with worse hair. And all three are starting to show thier age.


Mmmmmmm, undead poontang....

Now, on the male side...well, we have Davis Schwimmer, Matt LeBlanc, and Matthew Perry. Oh, plus Paul Rudd now. Again, I'll give you that David Schwimmer isn't the hottest thing to grace the airwaves, but he's STILL better looking than just about everyone I know. And the scale goes up from there. None of these guys are overly fat or too thin, or too muscular. But I don't know a single woman who would bed any of them. ANY of them. Now that's just ridiculous. So men, next time a woman start flapping her hole about "our Barbie society", tell her to piss off. We've been so conditioned by feminazis (not feminists... there IS a difference, and I support feminists) to believe this stuff that no one ever really LOOKS at what is there.

Ok, that's all for today. Tune in tommorow when I refute other claims and get yelled at by the rest of the human race.

Just Fucking Die.

Yeah yeah, merry fucking new year, woo hoo. I hope you all have a better one than last. Allright, enough pleasantries. Tommy Shu is a brilliant man, and I thank him for his astute observations from Snaggletoothville, England. I am available for speech writing for a paltry quantity of whores and heroin. Now, onto the point.

Parking. Again. I cannot fathom how the three sodden bints that live upstairs from me can possibly consider themselves teachers. I designed a rather nefarious test for them, which they failed miserably. Ok, so I didn't design it as such, but it worked out as one and I'm taking credit. Here's the deal: I know now that they cannot, in fact, read or write. Furthermore, I can say with absolute certaintly they lack the motor skills necessary to knock on a door. What happened is as follows. As you all know, there are two colums of 3 spots apiece in my driveway. Miss HugeFugginSUV parked in the furthest spot back on the left side. Fine. I parked behind her. Fine as well. The downstairs neighbor parked behind me, but left me enough room to pull around him into the vacant right side and back out. Fine for the third time, and I actually appreciate his forethought. Now, this leaves two cars unaccounted for. One was parked on the street, leaving three possible positions for the last car to take. As such, I felt it my duty to instruct the last person where to park for maximum exodus efficiency. If this human fecal pump had followed my suggeestion, all would have been able to leave happily.

I simply left a note taped to the door saying that she should pul all the way forward on the right side; that way, I could still back out around, Miss HugeFugginSUV could follow, the downstairs neighbor could get out at any time, and the car on the street would be able to leave as well. Fuck. That. She parked in the spot closest to the street, leaving me no way of leaving. Happy Monday. My only bit of satisfaction comes from knowing her roomate will be VERY pissed when she can't leave for work because my car is parking her in. So be it, fucktard. Hopeully a battle royal will erupt and destroy all of them so I can have a nice, normal driveway once more. Failing that I want Tommy Schu, when he becomes President and Supreme Emporer of the World, to sign into law a bill that would give me the ability to powerbomb anyone I choose at any time. Hell, I'll even settle for a snap side suplex. Or a rolling neckbreaker. I'm not picky, really.