Ron Obvious
Ron Obvious's JournalThe meanest dog I've ever known was a bug-eyed Chihuahua with a Napoleon Complex called Fuzzy.
It belonged to a friend of mine I used to visit. He (the dog, not my friend) would spend most of his days engaging in his favourite hobbies of eating, trembling and shitting, but every so often he would take offence at something I said, stop in mid-tremble and cast a jaundiced eye at me. He would then launch himself with a flying leap at my midriff, where he would try to bite me in the bollocks, attacking them in that head-shaking fashion you might have seen other dogs do when ripping a pillow apart, growling all the time.
My friend would think this was just hilarious. He (my friend, not the dog) and I eventually fell out over political differences.
I bought an electric guitar. I can't play a note.
I bought an electric guitar. On impulse. At Costco. I can't play. What on earth possessed me?
I suppose I could try to learn how to play the damn thing, but my track record in this area is not stellar. My musical education began and ended in primary school, with my biggest success being a tinny performance of Frère Jacques on the xylophone on parents' night, which was met with polite, if muted, applause. At least I think I struck the majority of the notes nearly correctly that night. A nasal-sounding rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star failed to achieve a passing grade later that year and my version of Für Elise is still spoken of in hushed tones when elderly retired educators foregather to swap stories over a pint.
I tried choir, but was thrown out when the teacher figured out where the noise was coming from. I wasn't interested enough to learn the lyrics of songs either. Well, of clean ones at least.
My parents attempted to engage a music teacher privately, but we didn't really hit it off. The man simply had an odd prejudice against lazy, untalented smartarses, and he gave up quickly trying to teach me the piano. He thought that rhythm might be more my thing and suggested the drums, possibly as a form of revenge against my parents for inflicting me on him. That ended when my first drum solo was likened to the sound of a painful bowel movement. As an aside, fuck you, Mr. Holzheimer. Shame on you for humiliating a 10 year-old to get a cheap laugh out of the other kids. Bastard.
I've got to face it, I'm never going to learn how to play and this impulse purchase is just a vainglorious attempt at recapturing lost youthful dreams. I've become a sad, pathetic, middle-aged bastard whose dreams are now behind him. Buying this guitar confirms it.
What is your robot name?
To generate it, simply combine your initials with your full social security number, followed by a hyphen and and any bank account numbers you may have.
I'd share my own, but I'm more interested in yours.
Also, how about your WWF fighter name?
Simply combine the town of your birth, followed by the name of your first pet in quotes and your mother's maiden name. For example, Philadelphia "Fido" McNabb.
Hahaha, what fun these innocent little games are.
Oh, and finally, list all your login passwords. I've got 7 of 'em! Can you beat that? Be sure to show them with their url's to make sure you don't duplicate!
Profile Information
Name: RonGender: Male
Home country: Middle Earth
Current location: Seattle
Member since: Tue Dec 13, 2011, 11:37 PM
Number of posts: 6,261
