The Most Accurate GPS Ever.

Hello? Is this the ACME Crap Shack customer service line?
Yes it is. How may I help you?
Good. Yes, well, I recently purchased the World's Most Accurate GPS device from you.
Yes, isn't it wonderful?
NO! Are you kidding me?! It's a piece of crap, and I want to return it. AND I want a full refund.
I'm sorry to hear that. Why don't you tell me what the problem is.
It doesn't work.
Again, I'm sorry to hear that. Has it led you astray?
It didn't do anything, because it doesn't DO anything.
Oh, I'm sorry. Have you accidentally taken a wrong turn and driven off the planet?
What?! No! That's ridiculous.
But, sir that is the only possible way the World's Most Accurate GPS could possible fail to accurately locate your position.
Your product couldn't locate it's ass with both hands. Because, once again, your product doesn't do anything.
Sir, that is not true. The Worlds Most Accurate GPS failure rate is four in six billion. Those are astounding odds. Far and away the most accurate GPS system ever invented.
ARE YOU INSANE?! It doesn't do anything.
Perhaps, you assembled it incorrectly.
What?! 
Do you have the location indicator correctly oriented to the global location area?
I followed the directions exactly.
Well then, I don't see what the problem is.
Do you even know what a GPS is supposed to do?
Well, most of the GPSs on the market use a series of satellites to triangulate your position.
Exactly.
Ours accurately locates your position with NO satellites. And it doesn't need electricity.
It doesn't need batteries or satellites because it doesn't do anything.
Sir. You are being unreasonable. Look at your device. Does it, or does it not accurately represent your current location?
No. It does not.
Sir? Really?
Alright, it does. But not really. It's not what I expected.
Sir, I hardly think that you buying a product with preconceived notions and our product not living up to those random benchmarks is reason for a refund.
But all the other GPSs on market accurately pinpoint your location and then provide you with directions on how to get to another location.
Sir, we didn't promise direction assistance.
But your GPS isn't very precise.
Again, we did not promise, pin point precision. Our only selling point was unerring accuracy.
Look, I just want my money back.
Sir, you have not given me any reason to give you a refund. Even by your own account your GPS is accurate.
A reason? You want a reason?! I'll give you a reason. Because your so-called GPS is nothing more than a miniature globe hanging from my rear view mirror, with a red arrow with the words "You Are Here" printed on it, attached to the globe by a piece of wire.  
But sir, you are here on the Earth. The World's Most Accurate GPS is absolutely correct.
Oh whatever, keep my $50. It's worth it, just to not have this conversation anymore. I feel like I'm in hell.
Well if you ever do find yourself there, give me a call, because then the World's Most Accurate GPS would be incorrect, and you would be eligible for a full refund.

Late breaking update: the boys at Beer for the Shower wrote another book, (I know; they're addicted,) and here is a nifty link, or ad, or something. The best use of 99¢ since, ever.

I'd better get a beer out of this, dammit!

Or a shower. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

I Don't Know If I'm Getting Older Or If The Doctors Are Getting Younger.

Hey dude, what's uOH MY GOD, YOU'RE BLEEDING!

I know. I just got back from the doctor. I had a rash, and he treated it for me.

TREATED IT?! It looks like he ran a cheese grater over your arm and then rubbed dirt on it.

That's exactly it. You must be a patient of Doctor Toddler as well.

Not likely. There's no way I would go to your Doctor Mengele.

His methods might be a little unorthodox, but he gets results.

Results?! Like the time he took out your molars with a ball peen hammer?

I admit, that hurt a lot. BUT, I don't have problem with impacted wisdom teeth anymore.

Yeah, and you still eat your steaks through a straw.

Every cure has side effects.

And how about that vasectomy?

It was a bloodless, non invasive, in-patient office visit.

He and his "intern" kicked you in the crotch for thirty minutes. 

Everybody is a little sore afterwards... 

You sat on frozen peas for six months. 

And?…

AND. You had another kid, you idiot. It didn't even work.

There are no guarantees in science.

There kinda are. I guarantee you'll hit the floor if you throw yourself at it. Gravity is automatic.

You make it seem like I am the first guy to have a kid after a vasectomy.

No. Just the first one to let his "doctor," and I use the word loosely, play soccer with his testicles.

You live and you learn.

You're going to be learning about this one for another eighteen years. Are you sure he's even a doctor?

Well, he does have a stethoscope and a white lab coat.

Those are not qualifications. Doctors have to go to medical school, not just a supply closet.

And he's very persuasive. And bossy. 

So is my wife. And I don't go to her for my medical emergencies. 

Of course not, that would be silly. 

She would probably dispense better medical advice than Doctor Toddler. What kind of name is that anyways? Toddler. French? Russian? Thai? What?

I'm pretty sure it's just regular old American.

Really? The only time I've heard toddler in American English, is referring to a child.

Yeah, that's it.

Your doctor is a child?

Yup. Practically a baby. Five or something.

That would explain the odd remedies. What? Is he a genius? Some kind of Doogie Howser? 

Nah, he's more of your basic kindergartner, kind of an idiot, really. 

Then why in the world are you going to him?

Because, he said I have tons of cooties, and the best way to fight cooties, was to drink LOTS of beer. As much as I want! I finally found a doctor that says I should drink more, instead of less. So I might have another kid or two, and I might lose a little blood now and then, but I don't care, I'm half drunk all the time anyway. Yeah, swollen testicles suck, but it's a small price to pay for unlimited, prescribed beer. I've never been so happy in all my life.

That is the stupidest thing I have ever… all the beer you want? …heard… um, do you know if he is accepting new patients?

Welcome To The Flipside.

For some reason or another I had been hearing about these high end clubs and bottle service a lot lately. I didn't realize that bottle service was even a thing. Bottles of booze starting off at $1000? Man, what a racket! I need to get me some of that cash.

   So I installed a strobe light and a mini fridge in my kids playhouse in the back yard, and opened Flipside, my own high end, ultra-exclusive nightclub. I floated a rumor on twitter that Miley Cyrus was seen canoodling with Justin Beiber (is that MilTin or BeiRus?) at Flipside, and before you know it I had A-Listers lining up outside Flipside's tiny plastic door, to get into the hottest club on the planet. They didn't seem to mind that the bathroom was a coffee can or that bottle service consisted of Safeway Generic Vodka. I handed out glow sticks and played bad 80's music off of my iPhone.
   Everybody was happy. The A-Listers were partying sans paparazzi, and I was making money hand over fist. Then things began to take a turn for the dark, as professional party people started making the short thirteen hour journey from Hollywood to Flipside for a night of revelry. Tara Reid, Paris Hilton, and the Kardashians, started showing up at all hours of the night, sneaking into my cool little club and telling people that they had done blow with the owner and had slept with the bartender. Which obviously upset my wife a little bit, since I am in fact both. Plus my kids were getting tired of their playhouse smelling like vomit, boob glitter and cigarette smoke. So I shut down Flipside.
   But it was too late. I already had a Lindsay Lohan problem. She moved in, even though the club closed and now I have spent my entire fortune trying to get rid of her. I find her sleeping on my couch, in the shower, under the kid's beds. She borrows my kids bikes to ride down to the liquor store and then comes back without the bike, she uses all our hot water and eats all of our breakfast cereals. I lock her out and the next morning find her draped over the toilet. For some reason, known only to her, she keeps shaving our cats.
   I am at a loss. Restraining orders have no effect on her. New age healers and shaman take my money and give me trite cliche's and useless crystals, to which she is apparently immune. Exterminators run in fear. All I can hope at this point is that somewhere, somebody opens up the new "it" club and she relocates. Please, in the name of all that is good and holy, open up a club, I beg you.

Sorry. My Email Got Hacked.

For those of you that got an email from me today that was obviously a spam email, I am totally sorry. Some bastard hacked my Yahoo account and sent Raspberry Drops spam to all of my contacts. Hackers are such jerks. I feel so violated, kinda like a guy that dropped the soap in a prison movie. OK, not that bad, but it still sucked. It put me in a bad mood all day. But rest assured, I have not joined some freaky cult that thinks Raspberry Drops are the answer to all of mankind's ills. As a matter of fact I've never even tried the stu… ARGgggggggghhh

Please disregard that of which I myself was telling you moments before. It was untruth. I LOVE to consume Raspberry Drops with my mouth on my face. They are making my human mind and body relaxed and in a place of content. You should put them in your human face. It will fill your carbon based self with feelings of happy down in your abdomen. You will never more be worried of wars and driving your non-flying vehicles along with millions of other humanoids in a non winnable struggle of making Earth currency. Give Raspberry Drops to all the sentient beings you know. Place them in your genetic progeny's mid meal. Slip them into the drink of people who are trying to engage in primitive mating with you. You will be glad you listened to me, a satisfied authentic human Raspberry Drop user, and clearly not an alien occupying a meat bag trying to enslave Earth planet.

You Look Like That Guy, From That Thing.

Hey, you look familiar. Aren't you that guy from that thing?
Uh, I don't think so.
No. No. I know you. You're that guy!
I'm A guy.
I swear dude. You're on that show.
I swear dude. I'm not on whatever show you're talking about.
You know… that one.
I don't.
The one on TV.
The only time I've ever been on TV is when I was on the news when I was in middle school.
Why were you on the news?
I sold a steer at the county fair.
Really? That's weird.
No weirder than this conversation. I grew up on a farm, it's what you did.
I don't think that's it.
Told you.
No. You're on that show on cable.
That's really narrowing it down.
That violent one.
Game of Thrones?
No.
Are you thinking of Breaking Bad?
Which one is that?
The one that is filmed here in Albuquerque. The one about the meth.
Haven't heard of it.
It was filmed here. It was a huge deal. People talked about it all the time.
Nope.
I can't believe you haven't heard of that. But if it isn't that, I don't know what you are thinking of. But whatever it was, it wasn't me.
It is. I know you. You're that guy.
Oh holy crap. I'm not anybody.
Don't be so hard on yourself. You're somebody. Everybody is somebody.
I didn't mean that. My self esteem is fine. I'm just not that guy you are thinking of.
How do you know? Did you figure out what guy you are?
I'm just me.
…that guy from that show.
NO! UGH. YOU'RE that guy that is giving me a headache.
Give me a minute. I'll think of it.
You know, I don't need a cup of coffee that bad. I'm leaving.
Wait. I thought of it. That zombie thing.
The Walking Dead?
That's it.
I'm not on that show.
Yeah, you're that guy.
I'm not.
Yeah, that lead guy.
The sheriff? Rick?
No.
Daryl?
Who's that?
The cool guy, with the crossbow.
Nope.
I don't know who else you could be talking about. I don't look like an Asian guy.
No. THAT guy.
I'M NOT ON THAT SHOW!
Yeah. That guy who's the star of the show.
There isn't anybody else.
Yeah, that guy who is on the opening credits. The one that's always standing by the fence, growling.
A zombie?! You think I'm a zombie?!
Yeah. You're not?
There is no such thing as zombies.
Then why do you look like that?
Like what? This is just my face.
Ouch.
You are NOT getting a tip.

Skull Highlighting.

There is a new rage sweeping the ranks of the rich and famous. For too long the Hollywood elite, the ultrarich, and supermodels have been forced to look just like everyone else when in an MRI or an X-Ray machine. But no more. Now, with my patented skull highlighting you can appear fabulous, even without your expensive clothes and plastic surgeoned skin. For the low, low price of only $10,000,000 dollars I will simply drill several minor, unimposing 1" holes in various parts of your head and inject the (probably) non-toxic paint directly unto the surface of your skull turning it a vibrant yellow, pink, or trendy color of your choice, thereby setting you apart from all the huddled masses with their plain, boring, bargain basement, brain cases.

I know what Rob is talking about. I love my new Wacom tablet. 

Stop! You're Tearing Me Apart!

It was one of the worst days of my life. I remember it like it was yesterday.
   I was at the kitchen sink when the two people I love the most, grumble into the room like a toxic cloud. The silence is thick and the mutual hate radiates indiscriminately as they pour coffee. They effortlessly avoid each other with barely constrained fury, aggression and not a little bit of effort. They vacantly acknowledge my presence, and take turns filling the awful quiet with small meaningless words.
   They have been fighting again, and their marriage can't take much more of this. They know it, I know it, I suspect even the toaster knows it, and it's an entirely inanimate object. I try and be brave. I carry on the charade, partake in the idle chatter, and politely pretend not to notice that my whole world might  soon crumble around my ears. I fill up on pleasantries while they gorge themselves on sidelong spiteful glares and unsaid poisons.
  Unbidden, my words erupt. Stop it! Stop it! You're tearing me apart! I can't deal with this anymore. You're killing me. My every waking moment is full of torment, and the nights are even worse. I lay in in bed most nights and cry, eventually falling into dark dreams full of rejection and death. I'm not even sure if you guys love me anymore, or if you ever even did. I'm sorry I'm a failure in your eyes. I'm sorry I let you down. If only I had been perfect, things would have been different… better. Still, you just have to stop, you have to fix it, because you have to. Because if you can't make it, then nothing makes sense. Your love has to matter, it has to be enough. Because if you can't… because… 
    I can't finish. Tears overwhelm me and I rush out of the house. I collapse on the front porch and let the tears come.
   After several seconds the door creaks open. Tentative steps approach. Uhm, we're sorry we've hurt you, we never intended to. We'll work on our relationship, try and make it work. And we're not disappointed in you. You haven't let us down, not at all. 
You sure?
Absolutely. Because, we don't know who you are. Who the hell are you again? 
Who am I? I'm Flip. I change your drinking water filters every year. Who am I? Wow. I thought we had something. 
Uhh. I'm sure we did. Yeah. Flip, we kinda sorta remember you. So, first off, you seem like a really nice guy, but do you think that you could just finish changing the filters… and then maybe just go away?
Yes. I can do that. I'll pull it together. I'm sorry I broke down, but I really am glad we had this talk. Next year will be better. 
Next year? We don't think that will be a good idea.
You're absolutely right. That's a long time. You guys should have me come over every six months or so. And maybe we could even have dinner. Hey, I know! We could go to therapy and work on our issues.
WE don't have issues.
Then why am I on the front porch crying?
Fair point. The two of us, have issues, things we need to work on. And you, yourself, you have some serious issues. But there are not issues between the two of us and you. As a matter of fact, never mind, forget the filters. I'll figure it out myself. Why don't you just go away. Now.
Are you sure?
Very.
OK then. So… dinner?
Uhh. We'll call you.
   They go back in side and close the door. And lock it. And then oddly it sounds like they are struck by the sudden urge to rearrange their furniture, most of it now resting against the front door.
Hey, you guys I didn't give you my number. Guys! Hey guys! My number! I'll just go ahead and carve it into the tree out front, shall I?