Happy People With Hot Dogs - or - I Wish My Brain Worked Like This... Oh Wait...

Back in 2000, I moved to Boston without any money, any real work experience or any sense of reality. I lived on Swampthing’s back porch while I was getting my feet on the ground, which ended up meaning working for Scientologists... but that’s a totally different scary story. This story is about a gentleman who has become known in my circle of friends as Hobobadiopay (Hoe-boe-ba-DEE-oh-pae). I believe that his real name is Angel. He used to hang out at Powerhouse Circle in Somerville, Massachusetts, which is just outside of Medford, near Cambridge but not even close to Harvard Yard, those bastards. You know the place, just down the street from Ball Square (no, I did not make that up, Ball Square exists).

Here’s the scenario. I am walking through the Powerhouse Circle roundabout, on my way to the T to go work for the Scientologists, when I notice a balding, clearly distressed fat man sitting on a park bench on the edge of the roundabout. He is trying, in vain, to eat a hot dog. What I mean by this is that, yes, the hot dog was making it’s way into his mouth, but only after a jaunt across this guys chin, then over to his cheek and across his nose, leaving behind it an orangeish swirl trail of mustard, ketchup and relish. While he’s painting his face, his tongue is playing the part of (http://www.zamboni.com) zamboni, chasing after the dog as it eludes his gaping hole of a mouth and further mixing the topping on his face. As he is attempting to eat this hot dog, I notice that he has another one, fully loaded with condiments, in his other meat hook of a hand. He is holding this second hotdog at a 45-degree angle and the toppings are beginning to slide off the dog and collect in a thick, colorful yet stomach-turning puddle at his feet. Jackson Pollock would be proud.

Regardless,

I am crossing the street and walking right towards this fellow. He notices me walking his way and stops chasing his hot dog across his face with his tongue. As I get closer, he suddenly stands up and quickly walks towards me with a wide-eyed look of confusion and concern on his face, as well as a few coatings of ketchup, mustard and relish. We are a few feet apart and he blurts out, with a note of fear in his voice, “Hobobadiopay?!” I am stunned. I stop dead in my tracks, for two reasons. One, because I have no idea what “hobobadiopay’ means and, two, because in shouting this at me, he has inadvertently spat some rather large chunks of half chewed hot dog at me. I can smell the saltiness of his snacks hanging in the air around him. “Hobobadiopay?!” he cries again, with a bit more desperation in his voice. I shrug, smile and say, in a cheerful, friendly voice, “Hobobadiopay, Capt’n!” To my surprise and sudden amusement, his face lights up, he smiles a huge toothy / hot doggy smile, and, while spewing more hot dog juice and relish chunks, he yells “Ya think so?!” with a voice that sounds like his tongue is three times too big for his mouth. He proceeds to literally bound across the four lanes of traffic, hot dogs flailing along and dripping a multicolored trail behind him as if they were some kind of gooey tracking device. He gleefully shouts “hobobadiopay! Hobobadiopay! Hobobadiopay!” all the way across the street and then disappears back to the store from which I can only speculate he had bought his snack / makeup. I, in bewilderment, turned on my heels and kept walking to the train, knowing full well that this was one encounter I was never going to forget.

Months later, it occurred to me that “hobobadiopay” could actually have been, “Hope it will be ok.” Of course, it could also mean, “time to get another hot dog.”

Why I Hate The DNC

1) It is pure and simple propaganda; chalked full of empty promises, pointless rhetoric and he said / she said political party separation.

2) It doesn’t lay out policy so the DNC isn’t really a political convention, it just lays out blame for all the problems that we are in (and there are a shit load of those) and reiterates who the majority of Democratic voters have chosen to be blamed for not being able to fix these problems within the next four or eight years.

3) It is a weeklong “Obama is great” party, thrown by people who think “Obama is great” for people who think “Obama is great.”

4) It effectively widens the gap between left and right, which in turn creates political enemies of the two parties and creates the scenario of two opposite powers vying for power over the whole country, which in my book is a political war.

5) P.U.M.A. – Political Unity My Ass. An actual group of people who were Clinton supporters and who now refuse to support Obama. She lost the race, and did it by the rules. She has since conceded and, even though she said during her presidential campaign that McCain is more presidential than Obama, she wants her supporters to support the party that she is part of. Sure it was close, but pull your heads out of your PUMAsses and support the candidate that best represents her ideals and positions. I don’t think that light shines on McCain, like Debra Bartoshevick wants you to believe.

6) There is no recognition of 3rd party politics, which, if recognized, could easily end the redundancy and monotomy of our failed two party system where the two sides of the isle are literally pitted against each other in every contest.

All this being said, I fully support Obama because I think Obama is great. And I think this guy, Dan, is smart and well spoken.

Bachelor Party Part 7: Stuck In Salt Lake - or - Watch Me Slowly Lose My Mind In Chairs That You Can't Lay Down On

Bachelor Party Part 6: Inappropriate Airport Behavior

Inappropriate, inappropriate, inappropriate.
I was trying to "share the love."

If you don't like fart jokes, viewer digressions is advised.

Click here for Day 1 of the bachelor party.

Bachelor Party Part 5: Airports Are Dangerous For Anyone Near Me - or - Take Me To Your House Of... What?

I also learned that people actually do shoot road signs in the middle of the sticks.


Or is it "in the middle of Styx."

Bachelor Party Part 4: A Gas Powered Goodbye

Check out Part 1
Then try Part 2
Followed by the ever elusive Part 3

Or just watch this one. Whatever floats yer boat.

Bachelor Party Part 3: Crack Gets Me High - or - On Rocks, With A Twist Of Limestone

See the day 1 video here

Bachelor Party Part 2: Vertical Dillemas and Liquid Solutions

See the first video here.

Bachelor Party Part 1

Boing - or - The Chosen People's Harp

$500 Parking Spot - or - Away I Say Thou Yeasty Swag-Bellied Foot-Licker

When I got home the other night from some much needed excess and relaxation, I thought that I would have to move my car as it was parked on a major street. Parking in my neighborhood is never easy to find and vexes me quite often, except for this night. Much to my surprise, I was legally parked in one of those unbelievably hard to come by and highly coveted, totally free parking spots. It was well lit, in a good neighborhood, across the street from the green house in which I work, in front of well lit fountain dedicated to a surprisingly manly woman named “Peaches”, and all in all a conveniently located and more over an exceedingly legal parking spot. I remember commenting to myself, “isn’t it great that there are still these free parking spots her and there around my neighborhood? It makes my life so much easier, and simultaneously decreases the level of world-suck by ensuring that I won’t get some bullshit $50 parking ticket, which in turn frees up my capital to invest in wind power generators, or solar panel technology, or environmental protection lobbyist, or beers, and as a result make the world a better place for everyone forever, or just me for an hour or so until my twitch comes back."

Regardless.

The next day I went to lunch. I had to deposit a pay check during my half hour lunch break so I phoned in an order at my new favorite deli, piatto pronto while walking out to my car. When I was about 15 feet away, I stopped dead in my tracks. This is why.









Someone in my quickly gentrifying neighborhood practiced an act of random aggression against my car, my new car, the one I just got in October for thousands of dollars that I don’t have. Someone ran a lap around my car, in a well-lit area, on a constantly busy street, scrapping a key against my paint job. Deep. I don’t think that I’ve pissed anyone off this badly, ever. I think it’s a pointless and random act of vandalism against my paint job. Now, I am not a materialistic person, and I try to avoid connecting happiness with inanimate objects but I choose to buy this car and I really like it and I don’t want a scratch circling the entirety of it, reminding me every time I go to my car that some impressively insignificant heap of human bullshit thought that it would be fun to scratch up my paint job. So now I have to shell out the $500 insurance deductible so that it can get repainted. The entire car must be repainted, except for the roof. Yes, every single piece of metal on my car was scratched up by this rancorous douche-ass. My last vehicle was a pick-up truck. I miss that truck. The more dings, scratches, mud, rust, and holes on it, the better it looked. That is not true with the scion. So I have decided to do the noble thing and insult my car’s aggressor with the finest of Shakespearian insults.

To the loathed issue of thy father's loins;

In civility thou seem'st so empty. In fact, thou art i' th' worst rank of manhood. For your offence, thou shall stand in fire up to the navel and in ice up to th'heart, and there th'offending part burns and the deceiving part freezes, thou bootless sheep-biting scut! Bathe Thyself, thou villainous half-faced ruttish flap-mouthed coxcomb! Thou frothy pox-marked nut hook. Thou art a dull and muddy-mettled rascal. Thou art a fishmonger. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it. May the worms of conscience still begnaw thy soul.

Forever yours,
Obsquatch