Wednesday, September 28, 2005

My dog is better than your dog!

This is my dog, Wrigley J. Rimmer. It is my belief that all dogs should have three names, just like us. Giving your dog your own last name is unimaginative and lame.

Ever seen a Beagle puppy after drinking two pints of Mountain Dew?

I have.

This was taken last Christmas. I have no excuse for using that blanket.

Wrigs is a purebred Beagle and he is far cuter than any other dog. I know you're probably thinking (especially if you have your own dog) that is a subjective statement and by nature cannot be proven.

Well you are wrong. My dog is far superior in every way.

Want proof? Check out this sorry excuse for a dog:

What kind of person would let something like this into their home? Do you think she's able to eat around this thing? I can barely keep my lunch down just looking at it now. Imagine being in the same room as this.

And what would you name such a thing? Assuming you've lost a big enough bet, or promised your mother on her deathbed you'd look after her dog; what do you name it? Surely not "Sparky," or "Skippy," or "Cupcake."

I think I'd have to go with "Saddam," or "Stalin," or "Oprah."

If I were to see such a hound, I would surely feel obligated to wipe it's existence from the face of the Earth. Honestly, if you were driving down the street, and encountered this, you're telling me that you wouldn't swerve to hit this thing. In doing so, you'd be doing your country, nay, mankind a favor in ending the life of such a horrid creature.

What's even more sad, the fact that even this dog has a girlfriend.

There must be something seriously wrong with me.

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Thursday, September 22, 2005

People are stupid

Omar Gosh and his cousin, Oliver SuddenAs you might have ascertained from my profile, I am an aquarium technician. Basically, I clean fish tanks and treat sick fish. Most of the tanks I maintain are at people's homes or Doctors offices. However, for the last year and a half, I've worked primarily inside the fish store owned by my employer. In that time, I've come to a substantial conclusion about our society; people are stupid.

This simple fact is perpetually reinforced everyday I go to work. If you work in sales, retail, human resources, or have a job that requires you to deal with people in any way, then you know exactly what I mean.

Without a doubt, the most commonly asked question in any type of retail store is, "Do you work here?" I have literally been asked this question hundreds of times. Under normal circumstances, this is not necessarily a stupid question. However, I seem to be asked this no matter what I'm doing. On a number of occasions, I've been asked this question while one of my arms is completely submerged into an aquarium, cleaning it:

Moron: "Do you work here?"
Me: "No, I just like to touch other people's fish."

I've even been asked this while catching a fish for another customer:

Other moron: "Do you work here?"
Me: "No, isn't this a self-service pet store?"

Just today, a customer asked me if I "work here" while I was operating the cash register:

Yet another moron: "Do you work here?"
Me: "No, this a robbery, stick 'em up"

One time, after greeting a customer with my standard, "How can I help you?" I was immediately asked if I spoke English. Now, I live in an area (Southern California) where Spanish is quickly becoming the official language, and it has become necessary to sometimes enquire as to the appropriate manner of expression. However, after HAVING JUST SPOKEN ENGLISH, any previous questions about my heritage and language of choice should have been answered. Also, as you might have noticed from any of the pictures on this blog, that I am one of the whitest humans to have ever walked the face of the Earth; there are certain times during the summer that I am unable to go outside. A guy THAT white in Southern California, speaking fluent English with a native accent. It should come as no surprise that English is my primary language. GOSH!

People are stupid.

This simple truth is also consistently validated at the cinema. Have you ever been in a movie theater, and found yourself wanting nothing more than to senselessly beat the person in front of you? I think we all have.

A few weeks ago, I went and saw a special screening of one of my favorite movies, the Blues Brothers. The party in front of me was courteous enough to get themselves intoxicated before being seated, you know, to make the movie more enjoyable for everyone else. These incredibly thoughtful people decided it would be a good idea to break into applause after every musical number, not to mention recite their favorite lines along with the movie.

When I went to see the Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, there was a woman present with her son, who was worse than the aforementioned drunks. This mother/son duo, felt it was their duty to stand up during every fight scene and shadow-box the bad guys. Then, after literally any plot development that was even remotely positive, these two mental giants broke into applause. It took every ounce of restraint for me to not huck my cherry Icee® in their direction.

What kind of mental void must a person have to think that is acceptable behavior? Did these people fall, and subsequently suffer some form of head trauma? Had they taken some bad prescription medicine from Canada? Are their parents cousins? Who knows.

The shadow boxing lady's son has an excuse. His mom is flippin' crazy. But what about everyone else?

People are stupid.

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Saturday, September 17, 2005

Confessions of a fat-boy, or, how to lose eighty pounds in a summer.

Warning: The following is an account of how I, Pecadillo, dropped eighty pounds in a single summer. It is not meant to encourage anyone to follow my lead, or copy my method. Looking back, I should have known better; Pecadillo's Weight Loss Program was pretty dangerous. Now that I've sufficiently covered my rear...

Throughout the last few years of high school and into my first year in college, my weight stayed pretty much consistently at 250-260 lbs. As a rather large, 6'4 growing young boy, that made me fairly chubby, but never really fat. You know how they say college freshmen gain fifteen pounds during their first year in school; the freshman fifteen? Well I innovated the freshman forty. Strangely, I put it all on during the end of the second semester.

So one day, I hopped on the scale and to my disbelief; I was "three bills". That's right, three-hundred pounds. "Dude, I'm fat!" I could not believe my eyes.

Memphis: July 28, 2003
Memphis: July 28, 2003

As a 250 pound guy, 300 lbs seemed huge, much like the way 30 years of age sounds really old to a teenager. I was scared. I was so scared that I virtually lost my appetite for food all together. I'm not saying I became anorexic; I just wasn't ever hungry. Whereas food had previously been a priority and something I spent a great deal of time preparing and enjoying, now, I was simply not concerned with it. I was too scared about my own health to worry about what I was going to eat next. Growing up, I would eat every meal until I was full, now, after reaching three-hundred pounds, I would eat just a portion of what would have normally been a typical serving. I'd still eat the same types of meals, (anything Mexican) just much smaller portions. For example, in high school, I could polish off an entire pizza-no problem. However, after my stomach shrunk, I can vividly remember one night having trouble consuming a single slice. I call this the Pecadillo weight loss program-do not attempt.

After a few weeks of eating small amounts, my stomach actually shrunk. Then gradually, after my appetite slowly increased, I began eating until I was closer to being full, although, since my stomach had shrunk significantly, that meant I was still eating small portions of food. This is very similar to what happens to someone after getting their stomach stapled.

I never intended for this to happen; I didn't plan to shrink my stomach, it's simply what happened due to my sudden lack of appetite. And I want to be very clear on something; I am not recommending this for anyone. Looking back, even though I was careful to get all the food groups represented at each meal and took vitamins daily, it was still a stupid thing to do.

Hollywood: October 17, 2003
Hollywood: October 17, 2003
At the same time, my best friend C-train and I were both planning on enlisting into the Marine Corps, (this was about a year after 9/11) and spent the summer working out with our recruiters on the weekends, and running and lifting weights on our own during the week. Needless to say, the sudden drop in food intake and constant exercise made the fat melt off. I'm not exaggerating; there was one week where I lost twelve pounds.

It was an amazing feeling. By October, I felt so much better. Everything was different, I was no longer wheezing after running. I found myself sweating only after physical exhilaration. I could even go up numerous flights of stairs without fear of cardiac arrest. I had lost so much weight that my posture and general stance changed drastically. The loss proved so great that I found myself to be quite clumsy for a while. It was like I had been given a new body. The best part was I'd run into people I knew from high school or even the previous semester and they did not recognize me.

At the start of the summer, I tipped the scales at 300. By October, I weighed in at 210. Technically, I lost 90 pounds, but that last ten pounds returned just as fast as it had left.

My typically massive appetite has been reinstated, plus I don't run near as much, so my weight has gone up a bit, however, Crawford and I still lift so it's hard to tell how much of that is fat. Sadly, the massive weight loss has posed a serious side-effect; my skin is not what it was. Whereas I used to have tight (more like stretched) skin, now I'm more like one of those Chinese fighting dogs. That's right folks, loose skin. You know the way a balloon looks after its been inflated to its maximum density, then ,after time, slowly deflated; that's me.

If it aint' one thing it's another.

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Thursday, September 15, 2005


As you might have noticed, I recently cut off all my hair. I didn't shave it to the skin but I clipped it at a "one." This summer I had the longest hair I've ever had in my life. After our recent heat season,(temperatures of 114 degrees) I decided it was way too hot to keep all the hair. Now that I'm bald, I've been getting quite a few comments. My boss told me I looked like one of those "hari krishna dudes." Another guy I work with said I look like Kojak; I don't see how that could be a compliment. I think, if I look like anyone, it's Curly from the Three Stooges. Who do you think I look like?

Curly, a true genius.

Kojack, who loves ya baby.

Burn Victim looking like someone just insulted his mother.

Paul Schaffer

Hari Krishna dude apparently standing down-wind from something.

Drew Carey

Six Flags old dude-looks kind of like Drew Carey much later in life.

Yul Brenner, one of the coolest bald guys ever.

Mel Cooley, one of the lamest bald guys ever.

Stone Cold-it's like looking in a mirror.

Weird tattooed guy... something tells me he lost a bet or two.

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Tuesday, September 13, 2005

"Now a better blog!"

I was just enjoying a "fun-size" bag of Doritos Nacho Cheesier chips. "Fun-size" is the manufacturers' name for the smallest-size bag, although, I would think the largest size would be the most fun. Anyhoo, while I was contemplating what was printed on the bag, I noticed it also says, "Now better tasting!"


How, exactly, are they able to make such a claim? Who is qualified to tell me what I'll think tastes better? Isn't that the same as if a woman, after changing the way she does her hair, walks around with a sign that says, "Now more attractive"? Or a guy who, after seemingly bathing himself in cheap cologne, wears a shirt that declares, "Now better smelling"?

As a guy who has just recently both; cut off all his hair and, began wearing a new cologne, I can say with authority that my looks and signature musk are still nothing to brag about.

Do not be fooled by Doritos' lies and exaggerations, they are clearly not looking out for our best interests.


Saturday, September 10, 2005

What's in a name?

Are you telling me the best name they could come up with for this hurricane was "Katrina"???

Seeing how this was easily the worst natural disaster ever in America, shouldn't that merit a more fearsome name than "Katrina"? What's the deal with that? Katrina? That is not a name that evokes much fear. I don't know whose job it is to name these disasters, but the guy needs to get fired.

Last year, another hurricane ravaged the coasts of Florida and other southern districts, and some moron decided to name it "Betsy."


That has to be a joke. It sounds like a doll, not a destructive force of nature. No one is going to flee their home because "Betsy" is coming. Nobody in the history of mankind ever said, "Oh no, Betsy's coming, run for your lives!"

What's next? Hurricane Skippy?

Traditionally, hurricanes are named alphabetically. Apparently, they all used to have women's names, but some angry femi-nazis felt that hit a little too close to home, so to speak.

So now, in the name of equal rights, they rotate between boy and girl names. For example; the first one of the season might be called Andrew, followed by Betsy (apparently), then Chuck, then Doris, etc.

Last year, the second storm of the season needed a girl's name beginning with the letter B. Instead of "Betsy," maybe they should have gone with something a little more frightening—like Bertha. Now that's a name people will run from! "Bertha" just sounds like a powerhouse of destruction that claims hundreds of lives. In fact, most people are probably already accustomed to running away from people and things named "Bertha."

They never use famous names, but I can think of some really scary ones: Geraldo, Oprah, Cher, Seacrest.

And why is it only a first name? I think a last name or some kind of title could be useful to help people distinguish between disastrous storms that could potentially destroy their lives, and annoying relatives that might also destroy their lives. If they ever do name a hurricane "Bertha," it might be confusing for citizens who happen to have an Aunt Bertha. So maybe "Bertha the Horrible." Later that year we might encounter "Kevin Barstool." "Gunter Shirtstain." Or "Nigel the Colostomyzer."

Possibly someday we'll be hit with "Hurricane John Tesh".

Those are names people can be afraid of! Not "Betsy."

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Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Live strong; fall strong

This morning, while riding my bike a couple of blocks from my house, I ate it... hard.

I had been riding for about twenty minutes, when I saw a perfect opportunity to take my bike off a sweet jump. The jump was the slope of the sidewalk on the left side of the street. Unfortunately, today is trash day, so there was a row of three trash bins just beyond the spot at which I planned to make my ascent. There are a number of reasons why this particular jump was unsuccessful; namely, basic laws of physics, but also the well-known fact that my physical prowess is limited, and my body can can best be described as "dead weight".

For this jump to have been successful, I would have had to either: jump completely over the row of bins, or lean out of the jump which would send me to the side of the bins. I attempted the latter, a far more plausible scenario given my physical dexterity. As I took off, my uncoordinated, non-athletic butt had a meeting with the trash bin, turning me sideways, in the other direction. I had failed to stay to the side of the row, thus throwing the opposite side of my body to the ground. I only skidded for seven or eight feet, though that was more than enough to tangle my bike chain. There I was—blood flowing down my pasty-white, hairless legs—trying to fix my bike chain, while a little twelve-year-old girl was laughing her head off at what she had just seen. In her defense, pasty-white, un-athletic chubby guys falling off their bikes in the middle of the streets is always pretty funny.

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Monday, September 05, 2005

Casa Del Pecadillo

In about a month, my two best friends and I will be moving in together. Our "house" still needs a little work, but it's coming along. I say "house" because it's really more of a shanty. It's the kind of place that only single guys, fresh out of college would live in, and even we're having second thoughts. My future roommates, C-Train (a very odd and disturbed individual) and "Muffin" (who has yet to enter the blogosphere), are also my two best friends. We've already purchased our first, and most essential piece of furniture; an air-hockey table.

She's a beaut'.

Air Hockey

The house, however, is not.

The property is owned by Muffin's parents, and in a year or so, they're going to tear the house down and build their dream home. Until then, they're being awesome enough to let us live there for next to nothing. I keep saying "the house" but in actuality, it's two. There is a small, two-room main house, and a two-room guest house that is almost just as big. The backyard is huge. It's easily big enough for a good game of football or even baseball, something you don't see a lot of in California. C-Train and I will take the guest house because we are, without a doubt, the only people on the face of the earth who could tolerate living with each other. Plus, that's where the air-hockey table is. The pair of us share the same off-beat plans for interior design. Crawford will be contributing a painting he made in elementary school that features a sword-wielding rat, while I will be displaying a portrait of the one and only Sean Connery. Not young, good looking, James Bond era Sean Connery mind you, this picture is of the old, bald, depends wearing Sean Connery. We also have the same Blues Brothers movie poster that we have been talking about hanging next to each other ever since we got them in junior high. Living together is going to be very interesting.

Muffin will be our front man in the main house. His job is simple, he must keep up the appearance of normalcy so that neither C-Train's, nor my own LAPD background investigator will know what we're really like. This will work out nicely as Muffin can best be described as a 75 year-old-man trapped in the body of a 20 year-old. Let me explain; he is the only guy (my age) that I know of that listens to Dean Martin, refers to everyone as Sir or Ma'am, and always speaks with flawless grammar. Sometimes, his unwavering politeness can be a little hard to fathom.

Warning: Muffin is a nickname that only a select group of people are permitted to use, very few have earned the right. It's a lot like how a guy can say the most insulting things to his brother and it's all good, but if anyone else does, they're dead. Muffin's real name is the same as mine, and when we started to become good friends in high school, that caused a lot of confusion. Clearly one of us needed a nickname, so I dubbed him Muffin. It is my opinion that a good nickname must be either random or insulting, Muffin is both. Perhaps that is why it has stuck so well. Take my advice, if you ever encounter him, do not attempt to call him Muffin unless you have earned the right.

While we are on the subject, it should be noted that I am the undisputed king of nicknames. I have dubbed more alternative titles than I can remember. In high school, there was a kid that always tried to hang out with us. He was a nice enough guy, although I have the sneaking suspicion that he managed to make it all four years without taking a single shower. WOOF! Everyday it was worse. This rising crescendo of stink that never subsided. So of course, I dubbed him "the onion", as he smelled much like you'd expect a burning onion patch would. Just awfull. Another friend, named Rey, has become "little Rey of sunshine". That name is particularly enjoyable to shout in public.

Anyhoo, Muffin is a scholar and a gentlemen, and I have yet to persuade him to start his own blog. He will, no doubt, have a very respectable looking home that Crawford and I will endlessly enjoy messing up. Muffin is definitely the Felix to mine and Crawford's Oscar. It's amazing to me that he continues to put up with us.


Friday, September 02, 2005

Pecadillo's Picks, volume 1

Every once in a while, I think a few recommendations are in order. Not just links to other blogs, mind you—but other excellent time-consuming media and products, too. The following is a list of quality time-wasters I have found particularly enjoyable.

Has anyone seen that show on the National Geographic Channel called "The Dog "Whisperer"? That guy is awesome! Watching helpful shows about how to train your pet correctly or similar Animal-Planet-type topics is not usually my thing. Normally, I would much rather watch programs featuring real video clips of people getting mauled by a crazed circus elephant, a medical documentary about the effects of a flesh-eating virus, or news about an escaped Liger in Detroit. But there is something really cool about this guy. For one thing, his voice sounds like a pre-pubescent Ricardo Montalban. (Sadly, there is no counterpart for Tattoo on the program.) Still, the Dog Whisperer is able to turn even the meanest pit-bull into a cuddly little house dog, and every once in a while he gets bitten in the process.

Dave Cleland's got a winner. Don't get me wrong, I am in no way implying that Dave Cleland's blog is a total waste of time; it is actually sometimes edifying, and always one of my faves. However, a few months ago, he published a post in which he analyzed the endless debate of which is cooler: Pirates or Ninjas. It's without a doubt a very enjoyable read. As his central thesis is entirely incorrect, however, I deem that particular post a waste of time.

Last weekend, I purchased one of the most ingenious and essential kitchenware products I've ever seen. It's easily one of the greatest inventions since Gutenberg’s movable type printing-press. I'm speaking, of course, of the Chip & Salsa Sombrero hat tray.

The brim of the hat holds the chips (arranged in precisely the same manner as my famous chip-doughnut) and the top of the hat can be used to hold salsa or nacho cheese. The built-in cup that is designed to hold the salsa even detaches for easy cleaning. And what's more, it's dishwasher safe.

But wait; there's more. To uncover the salsa, one must press a button which simultaneously uncovers the dip and prompts the tray to play "Mexican Hat Dance". This thing is magical. This is surely something that will grace Pecadillo's actual kitchen for many years to come.

My brother introduced me to one of the finest burrito joints known to man. A place that combines all the benefits of Subway's assembly-line style of preparation with the quality and freshness of Baja Fresh. The place is called Chipotle. If you've already discovered this fine franchise, then I congratulate you on your impeccably good taste. If you have yet to enjoy the magical burritos of which I speak, then I feel very sorry for you and suggest you get better friends. If you live in an area that has yet to boast its own Chipotle, then move. Do whatever you have to, just go there.

I always get the "Barbacoa" burrito (spicy braised and shredded beef) with pinto beans, rice, their hottest salsa, sour cream, and a generous amount of shredded cheddar cheese. You're going to need a large drink.

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