gregisthewalrus

With our district championship game tomorrow night, today was quite possibly the last team meal I will ever eat in my high school soccer career. 

One of our assistant coaches, Ed, is not the most knowledgeable about the game, but he has one of the greatest work ethics I have ever witnessed. He's the only one of our coaches who has been part of our program for all of my four years so I have a lot of respect for him.

Today during our meal, he yelled at one of our players.

"Henry, don't be eating up all the bread. I seen with you two rolls and I seen you with two bread. What are you? A bread eater?"

He seen you, you damn bread eaters. He seen it!

My girlfriend told me that she wanted me to give her a cool nickname, because apparently "Aimee-bear" and "doll face" weren't cutting it. So being the good boyfriend I am, I decided to do a little research to appease her.

I googled "girlfriend nicknames" and found a great site.

The site listed submissions, some anonymous and some from qualified members, who listed the nicknames they had been called or had called someone at some time in some relationship. 

There were a lot of "some's" in that last sentence.

Some of them also included a little blurb about why this nickname was particulary personal to them or why it "sooo cute."

Some of my favorites were:

Big Mama: i love when my man calls me this

BUTTERFLY: THIS GIRL TOLD ME SHE GETS BUTTERFLIES IN HER TUMMY WHEN SHE LOOKS ME IN THE EYES

Ding Dong: I call my gf this and she almost jumps in my pants!

Fatty Face: I just love when he makes me feel so special because there is a lot of me...

Penguin: Everytime i call my gilfriend this she gets really happy, becuase i read somewhere, when a penguin finds its mate, they stay together for ever....so I call her penguin, cuz i plan to stay with her forever!!!

Stinkem Butt: My boyfriend calls me that because everytime we talk i'm either going to the bathroom, in the bathroom, or coming from the bathroom. He calls me his little Stinkem Butt

I mean, with options like that, I can't go wrong. Right?

I'm having trouble deciding between Kingwallafox and Plump Princess. But if both of those don't work out I might just have to go with Fanny Smell, because "i loooooooooove it wen my gf reacts to me calling her this because she always wants sum afterwards"

Any have any better ideas?

So last night my dad asked me how I was doing on gas. My attention immediately perked at the prospect of him paying for my gas. After I informing him that I was basically running on empty, he asked how I would like to go get free gas with him. Not being one for filling up my tank and driving off, I asked how this was possible, legally. He then told me about the Giant Eagle Get Go shit where you get money off your gas for however much money you spend at Giant Eagle on food or whatever. 

Good deal.

We then formulated our plan:

"We'll go to the backside of the parking lot so they won't see us."

"Wait, are we not allowed to do this?"

"No, no, we're fine."

"Okay well my tank is on the passenger side so I'll pull in and then you back in behind me since yours is on the driver side."

"Yeah."

Once we were in position we got out of our cars and scanned the card and what-not. A little apprehensive I asked my dad, "Are you sure we're allowed to do this with two cars?"

"Oh yeah, people at work do it all the time. Last time I was here I saw this guy filling up three of those big 5 gallon drums."

I looked over and saw the guy next to us doing just that so I felt a little better about it.

Everything was going cool as I refueled Tangerine and then passed the pump to Dr. Dale. 

"Should I just wait in my car then?" I asked.

"No just drive away," my dad said a little nervously.

This seemed like a good plan in case we were not actually allowed to pump both cars. I looked inside the station and the woman at the desk really had no idea what was going on so I really wasn't worried about it.

But, since the van was parked behind me, I had to wait for the lady at the pump ahead of me to finish up. Thinking that everything was cool, I just stood outside Tangerine and waited for my dad to finish up. And THEN, that dumb bitch in front of me couldn't figure out how to work the goddamn pump.

"My credit card isn't working," she whined over the intercom.

"Okay, I'll be right out to help you," the clueless clerk replied.

I watched the woman walk to the door and we made eye contact as she spotted us.

She came charging over towards us, "Mam, I'll be with you in a minute. Sir, one vehicle per transaction, as many gas cans as you like, up to thirty gallons. You're welcome to fill up some gas cans but I can't let you fill up the other car, " she said pointing to Tangerine.

"Oh, okay then."

Why would it be any different if we pumped thirty gallons into two cars or twenty gallons into the van and ten more into a couple of gas cans? 

Anyways, Dad just finished filling up the van and we took off not even bothering to pay our one cent balance. We got them good fuckers.

Sucka

Inspired by my last post about my alledged encounter with the Ergmeisters, I have decided to do a litle series of posts about one of my favorite child hood friends, "The Boss."

To start off, I should probably give you a little background on the Boss. His parents were way uptight. I mean they were crazy crazy. They would have all sorts of strange rules about how he couldn't cross the street until he was almost eleven years old and would restrict the hours when he could ride his bike. Oh my, another flashback: Many times I would be playing across the street with the aforementioned  Kevin, and the Boss, unable to come play tag with us, would stand at the end of the driveway sobbing, "Greg, come back over here." Also, always the instigator, I would try to convince him on why his parents were crazy for not allowing him to ride his bike during broad daylight. 

"That's when kidnappers are out: During the day," he would inform me. "Okay yeah, you won't be laughing when you get kidnapped and have your sack cut off."

It's a little disturbing that he would associate castration with kidnapping instead of a ransom. Obviously, he had some problems early on.

Well anyways, our first story is set around the time when I would be eleven maybe-right before the 9/11 attacks. At this time I was sure that I would become a military leader and later become a secret agent for the CIA. The Boss also dreamed of a military career. However, he didn't have the same dreams of covert missions like me and instead fantasized about becoming a member of the Military Police (MP) and shooting non-cooperative members of the military. He would later deem me one of these "disgraces to the army."

Now the Boss was of course the real expert on the military as his uncle or some shit was an experienced MP and supposedly had been involved in combat on several occasions. The Boss was really serious about becoming a MP and when he heard that I also planned career in the military, he was determined to show me that it would be no walk in the park. That hard ass.

The Boss then decided to enroll me in his own personal boot camp where he would train me and teach me a few lessons about respecting my commanding officers-namely him. So he gathered me and another of our neighbors-Big J we'll call him- to begin our training. He then closed the gate in his back yard and made us run laps around his house. Now being the hard ass that I was, I was adamant about showing him that I was no ones bitch and that I would not give a damn what my commanding officer told me to do. 

"I'll just tell him no. He can't make me do anything."

"Oh yeah, well then you'll get your ass kicked."

"Yeah, well then I'll sue."

I don't know how I ever planned to get into the CIA with this total authority-resisting attitude.

But I decided to play along and run the laps. After a while, the Boss informed me that Big J and I were not running the laps fast enough. Since we were not performing to his satisfaction, we had to do pushups.

"YOU WANNA ME A MP? DO YOU WANNA BE A MP?"

"Fuck you." (Always the instigator)

"WHAT? YOU CALL ME SIR."

The Boss then got in my face and screamed-and spit a little- as he yelled at me how my officer would one day. When I flat out refused to listen to him, he thought he'd give me one of those famous MP ass whoppings. That's when I did something, maybe punched him(?), that really pissed him off. He went into one of those crazy rages where even the biggest, best fighters (not me) is scared. I then deemed it an appropriate time to high tail it home. 

That brings up a classic memory. Whenever there was an altercation in the neighborhood, someone would always end up running home with the other party in hot pursuit. I can't describe how comforting of a feeling it was to see the porch of my house as I would run from the Boss, Kevin, Big J, Derek, Ryan etc. Running home and slamming the door on whoever was always my best defense tactic until one time I ran home, away from Kevin, only to run into the locked front door.

Anyways, I reached my house safely and continues to provoke the Boss into a futher rage by making faces out the window to the Boss who was wating in my driveway for me to come out . Maybe an hour later I saw the Boss and Big J jogging around our neighborhood in sleeveless white tees. I don't think I have ever owned a tank-top/sleeveless shirt. I guess I just wasn't cut out to be a MP.

So today was another uber day at the 356th. Since we are an "Authentically WWII themed" restaurant, we get a lot of old folks showing up just to look at the pictures and plaques on the walls and to relive their glory days as heroes fighting for America. 

I sincerely appreciate WWII verterans. I really do. They were truly fighting for a just cause.ANWAY, today we had mother ship of these old folks today in the form of the famed(?) 82nd Airborne. Hooray! Now for you folks that don’t know about the 82nd airborne (Gasp), there’s really not much to them. They’re just a bunch of old guys who make each other pay dues at their meetings for some noble cause I assume and apparently eat brunch at the Fighter Group every so often. So before these kind peoples got there at 12:15, an hour and a half before their reservation at 1:30, my highly regarded colleagues and I were discussing the set up of the room.

It was the usual set up: tables, chairs, silverware, the list goes on. Exciting I know. But then in the back corner, no not even the back corner, more like the front corner behind the open doors were these two little square tables with one place setting on each.

My first thoughts were, "What the fuck is that? Did they need really need 162 people instead of the planned 160 and this is the management’s idea of a quick fix? Those words carry such a different meaning at the Fighter Group.

So I went about my business not really worrying about it, setting up for the ass-raping we were about to receive just a half hour before closing. A little later, my gal-pal Melissa asked me, "What are those little one tops for in the corner? We’re not really going to seat those are we?" When my main-man, my dude, my right-hand man, my nizzle, Jarrad a.k.a J-RAD says, "You see those little one tops in the corner? We’re not actually going to seat those. They’re there to symbolize the killed POWs and MIAs."

That’s right; We’re getting symbolic up in this bitch.

Now as bad as it sounds, we all immediately began laughing hysterically. I guess to really get the full effect you had to see the complete lay out of the room for yourself. Everything was nice and cheery with Christmas music playing, and then in the dark corner of the room behind the doors were gloomily two small tables where the 82nd Airborne(!) was to pay homage to their fallen comrades.

It really was funny. I promise.

Throughout the ceremony(?) members of the 82nd Airborne(!) would mosey to the corner of the room behind the doors and partake in giving their respects to their former friends.

After all the gentlemen and their families had left, I had to clean up their dishes and all the mess they made. It sucks, but, it is my job. When I went to go clean the settings off the lonely one-tops I found quite a few interesting little mementos left behind on the tables where the MIAs were sitting. Apparently, the POWs weren’t that hungry as they left behind their half eaten cups of cherry cobbler, took their banana cream pie and turned it upside down on the table cloth and threw various rappers of sugar substitutes and their silverware on the ground. How rude.

Now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that people were using the table designated for honoring their fallen friends and true American heroes as a drop-off station for their trash or protests against the 356th’s banana cream pie.

Gotta love that 82nd Airborne(!). What a bunch of kidders.

FIGHTER GROUP

-La Catrina

So my dear sister, Meryl, has informed me that she will once again be on Wiretap.

While I am very happy for her, I must admit that I am a little bitter because the story that she will be telling "Sir" Johnathan Goldstein is more my story.

I’m not going to pretend that I am a huge Johnathan Goldstein fan, so I figured that I would be the good brother and allow (as if I had a choice) her to become rich and famous off my tale.

But, to all you Canadians that are going to listen to the show and think, “Why, what a great story. That girl must be so clever.” Remember, that’s me.

Muddog.