Awkward situations

   So, funny thing happened to me tonight(See, what had happened was.... hah). ANYWAY, I was going to grab something from a buddy's house. On my way over there dude gives me a call. My car's over heating says he. can you swing by the store for me?  Sure thing, says I. Being the helluva nice guy I am, I don't think twice. He asks me to buy him 2 wild stallions. So, in my mind I'm thinking this product will help his overheating car. I wander in to the little auto section at the shell, no luck. I ask the gentleman behind the counter. Turns out these are sex pills. not only are they sex pills, but they're sex pills he's currently out of. I kind of know this guy, so he immediately gives me shit. "You need beeg harrrdd deeekk meester cammerrronn? what for?" "...chill out fool." so now I've gotta call my buddy(who's a dude btw) and ask his preference on the remaining sex pill options. Fuck it, there's a line now, damage is done. I might as well just do the damn thing.

   The story behind all this is, his girl's outta town. I figure dude's got some oats to sew or something. Not the coolest thing in the world, but who am I to judge? I don't know the situation. So I go up to the door, and knock on it. A dude answers the door, but not my dude. Some other dude, in a bathing suit and a deep v tee-shirt I might add. he calls my buddy and buddy comes out of the back room. Wearing a wife beater and pajama pants no less. We do our business and I leave. End of story.....But not really.

   I mean come on dude. Really? Really?  REALLY MAN? Seriously chief? You're gonna have me buy you sex pills for strange gay adventures? Cheating on your girl with a DUDE on a fucking Wednesday night? That shits fucked. In more ways than one(couldn't resist). The least you could do is give me the heads up before I make an ass of myself in the stab-n-grab. Gonna have me buyin damn sex pills in a crowded ass store. I don't like that stuff.... And that there's what I did with my Wednesday. Yup. seriously though, how many gay pride points do I really need? I already worked at a gay bar. How much is enough for you people!?!?!

   The funniest part of this story though, is the poor guy working at the shell. He's one of these dudes who tries  hard to be an american. I mean REALLY hard. He asks me about my tattoos, where I buy my clothes, why I drink cheap shitty beer in giant cans etc. Nice guy, he really is. However, let this be a warning to the immigrants among you! Do what we Americans have been doing all our lives... Fucking avoid other people. Avoid them like the fucking plague. Seriously man. Know why? 'Cause one night some dude you thought you knew will draw you into a conversation about the pros and cons of over the counter sex pills. NO warning, no warm up, no cause, no rhyme or reason. Just Blam! And then where will you be? left behind the counter at a shitty convenience store. Thoroughly confused, violated, and left with a diminishing customer base. And that my friends, is just nowhere you want to be. Wait a minute, that's not too far from where I am.... Shit.

Hell on earth

   I realize that this post is going to deal with first world problems. There are plenty of fine folks over in Afghanistan and Iraq who would say that my rant is melodramatic and ridiculous. They would be right. 

  Now, that being said. this post deals with a little slice of hell I've been forced to deal with on the daily: Office life.  Yep, with the cubicles and the fluorescent lights and all that. I'm sure your wondering what a wild motherfucker like myself is doing in an office building, and I don't blame you. I deliver them sandwiches. Yep. For a company whos' name I'm sure you've all heard and seen and who's sandwiches you all probably love. I've got the lovely job(srs) of riding my bike around all day slingin sammies at the fine folks of uptown Charlotte. Its a totally legit job, considering the hours I keep. Except for that one little part. Now maybe I'ts just me being a twenty-something male; fear of commitment and all that. But there's nothing worse in the world than the prospect of waking up every morning and rolling into the office. with its bright lights, cheap carpet, bright white walls. The cubicle with that same shit carpet all over the walls. A couple photos of your family on the desk, a piece of flare to show how "original" and "unique" you really are. the gurgling water cooler; The cramped break room with terrible coffee and poorly prepared lunch brought in your finest Tupperware. Where every week or so you decide to throw caution to the wind and order delivery.

 Enter me, the big bearded sweaty dude who rolls in with bag full-o-goodies. Modern day drug dealer to the mid 30's crowd. Yeah, I got salami in this motherfucker, extra mayo too... Does your wife know? Don't worry, your secrets safe with me, just as long as you tip. This is where it gets weird. See, these people generally pity my kind. It's hot, I'm forced to wear long sleeves, I'm riding a bike. Just a low income college dipshit scraping a living off the generosity of the well heeled. Now, on the one hand, I thrive on this pity. It generates the majority of my income. Tips that is. But on the other hand it just makes me want to scream. You pit me? REALLY? Is this really the life you wanted when you were twelve?  nine-to-five in a place you probably hate? filing reports and reading memo's, all to pay a mortgage on a house that probably ain't all that great. Fighting traffic; Everything else. Just waiting for the weekend so you can crack out the Bud light and watch grown men run around in tights. Kinda twisted don't ya think?

  Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. But I'll take my wandering bullshit lifestyle to being  tethered to the cubicle any day. 

Shit that irks me

   Here in this second installment of "shit that irks me" we shall be covering several subjects. Mainly because they are subjects of little concern, and only mildly irk me. Unlike socks... filthy cotton bastards.

   Anyhoozle, on to the matter at hand; Dusty wood floors. Yep, that shit. Anyone who has wood floors knows that going barefoot is  hazardous. You know what? sometimes I like to roll barefoot(see: 'Lil Cam Cam's sock issues). BUT, anytime I do my feet always wind up covered in dust. tiny little bits of nothing that hardly qualify as particulate matter, yet irk the balls outta me on the daily. So I sweep the floor... Nothing. still dust all up in my toes. So I mop(  note that Dude's idea of mopping involves spraying windex on the floor, then sweeping it with a bar-towel on the end of a broom(see also: the ghetto swiffer) -Ed.) and STILL the shit lingers. Fuck me, I guess. I swear God does it just to watch me do battle with my sock drawer.

   This next bit I'd like to dedicate to the right side of my mustache: If only you could be like the guy on the left. But no, like a bastard step-child you continually fall short. Disappointing me at every turn... For those of you without a 'stache, please allow me to explain; The left side curls itself into the perfect handlebar. Every time. Without wax. The very image of perfection. The right however, does not. It bunches up, curls all the wrong way, and generally just looks goofy. Even WITH wax the little bastard just isn't-quite-right. Just, always off enough to make me think about it every time I look in the mirror. Fucking obnoxious I tell you. Fucking obnoxious... that is all for today, Carry on.

The value of bullshit

   This whole blogging thing causes me no small amount of anxiety. Always worrying about whether or not I come off as you know, funny, interesting, and totally cool. Or rather, if I just seem like the agoraphobic douche bag I tend to be in real life. I stress about content, "is that shit really funny, or am I just being an ass?" All sorts of other shit bugs me too: Concept, punctuation(I just know my use of semicolons is excessive) wording, the reliability of spell-check(I have my doubts). And that's just the tip of the iceberg. it's a fucking hard knock life, I know.

   ANYWAY, I told you that story to tell you this story. I was having a conversation with a friend of mine recently, when the inevitable "what have you done with your life lately" thing came up. Right.... Well... I ummm..... Shit.... Actually! I started a blog not too long ago. yeah, that's what I did! Totally! Of course he felt the need to press me further. "So, what's it about?" Came the question; And after my lengthy explanation  he concluded: "you essentially write about nothing." with which I could only agree. Yep, I write long-winded dissertations about nothing. I  feel the need post them on the web no less! But doesn't every blogger do essentially the same thing? These posts are all terribly important to the writers. But not really to anyone else. We give a shit, sure. but this mindless drivel we love to create really has no effect on anything. Nor does it have anything even approaching a legitimate purpose. Being somewhat liquored up at this point I had to defend myself "well, it might not be particularly relevant material, but it's certainly not NOTHING! Just because you don't care doesn't mean it has no value!" It got me thinking though. yep. Sure did. 'Lil Cam Cam thought long and hard about this fall-dee-rall.

   Which brings us to the point. Me being the obnoxious ass I like to be; I decided to make a challenge: Is it really possible to write about absolutely nothing? If so, could you actually dupe poor schmucks into reading it? Well guess what folks... the answer is yes. And, what's more; If you've gotten this far, you are one of those schmucks. Love ya!

Shit that irks me

Welcome to the first installment of "shit that irks me," an ongoing series of posts about...waaaait for it... shit that pisses me off. In honor of this inaugural run, I'll start off with something that irks me all day, every day. Socks. Yep, socks. those obnoxious fucking cotton things that go on your feet but inside your shoes. Now, I know what your saying, "but Cameron, they keep your shoes from stinking and keep your feet warm and ALL kinds of other great shit!"' Sure, this might be true, but lets go ahead and look at the headaches these little bastards cause:

1. It takes FOREVER to find a matching pair. Seriously, no matter how on top of my laundry I am, I have to pull out like 37 different socks from the drawer to find a compatible pair.

2. They fucking disappear. Just because you buy the friggin eight pack from Target DOES NOT mean you will wind up with eight new pairs. More like two. Seriously. No matter how many I buy, within twenty four hours I'm always left with no more than two pairs. I'm almost at the point of pulling a Steve Martin and just ripping out two pairs and just buying them that way. At least then I know I won't ever have enough.

3. Holes. Motherfucking, goddamn holes all up in my shit! All the time! Oh my god that junk irks me. It's like this; After all the nonsense and hullabaloo of finding that matching pair. Amidst the sea of socks you swear you've never seen before, you find the ones you need. Sweet Jesus thank you, I can leave now. So, you put them on, and slide your feet into your shoes. But, something's just not right, Your foot feels all jangly and shit. So, you investigate. And, wouldn't you know it... Fucking holes all up in that shit. Fuck! Now you've got to make a decision; Repeat step one and spend god-knows how long looking for a new pair, hoping they too don't have holes. Or, just roll with that shit, and have that annoying hole-in-the-sock shit all day.

So, in summation, fuck socks. Fuck 'em in the ear.

prologue

Why would I create a blog? Do I really think that my opinions are valid and necessary to the world? The short ansewer is no; Absolutely not. they're totally relevant and interesting to me, but I couldn't  spew even half of this crap in real life. Not to an audience. Well, not a conscious audience at least. This is where the internet comes in handy. I rant and rave about whatever ridiculous shit happens to be on my mind. Whenever I want. Maybe people read it, probably not. Either way it's a win-win. Unless of course you happen to be one of the poor schmucks who comes across this blog. In which case it just sucks to be you.