Entries from August 2004 ↓

People flinch nowadays when you say the word “Mexican” with the wrong inflection. Somehow society has demonized the word. If I told you there are a bunch of “English guys outside” who would care…same goes for Danish, Russian, Irish…it doesn’t matter. But if I were to say, “There are a bunch of Mexicans out side” I’d be labeled a bigot.

I was at a dinner party and a guy started a story, “So there was this “Mexican”…ah..sorry…there was this guy from Mexico….”

Asshole…he’s Mexican. I’d rather be called French, than a Man from France.

The next step is to call them Spano-Aztecians.

At my brother’s wedding in Texas, I was the only one without a digital camera. I felt like I was at a farmer’s market, watching everybody showing their produce. Shoot, pose, show…pose, shoot, show…show, shoot, pose. A monotonous Factory of Fun. The “Present” was slipping away, while everyone was peering into the “Past”. “Like sands through an hour glass, these are the Days of Our Lives”

Our lives have been digitally compartmentalized into emails, txt msgs, jpegs, mpegs, and who-gives-a-fuck-pegs.

I used to feel smart because I was the only one who could email an attachment. I was the chosen one. The Prodigy Son, who could decipher Microsoft’s hieroglyphics. When I enlightened them with the “Paper Clip Icon”, I immediately became a computer guru.
Now any jackass with hands and a heartbeat can operate a computer. However, their ignorance usually surfaces when they try to verbalize their tech knowledge.

At my brother’s wedding in Texas, I was the only one without a digital camera. I felt like I was at a farmer’s market, watching everybody showing their produce. Shoot, pose, show…pose, shoot, show…show, shoot, pose. A monotonous Factory of Fun. The “Present” was slipping away, while everyone was peering into the “Past”. “Like sands through an hour glass, these are the Days of Our Lives”

Our lives have been digitally compartmentalized into emails, txt msgs, jpegs, mpegs, and who-gives-a-fuck-pegs.

I used to feel smart because I was the only one who could email an attachment. I was the chosen one. The Prodigy Son, who could decipher Microsoft’s hieroglyphics. When I enlightened them with the “Paper Clip Icon”, I immediately became a computer guru.
Now any jackass with hands and a heartbeat can operate a computer. However, their ignorance usually surfaces when they try to verbalize their tech knowledge.

Gigatytes!! What the hell are gigatytes?! The only thing tight is their pants that are holding in their mammoth hillbilly belly.

It’s a sad moment when you realize that you are an egotist with low self-esteem. When I get into a pessimistic mood, I commit the most narcissistic act of Googling myself. Unfortunately, Dan Allen is a owned by 3.66 x 10 to the sixth power other human beings(Google provided this information in 0.16 seconds). Oddly, the majority were scientist, pastors, and coaches. An enigmatic triad.
Here’s are fellow comrades:

“I’m Antler Dan Allen and, as my name implies, I am an antler artist.”
Antler Dan Allen

I normally do not judge people, but this Dan Allen seems extremely ethical and has a profound respect for woman.
Sleazy Dan Allen

In order for me to get a glimpse of me on the World Radar, I’m forced to use quotation marks to pigeon hole the web pages pertaining to yours truly.

ie “Dan Allen” and “loser”

Inanimate objects also lay claim to the blandness of Dan Allen.

North Carolina decided to dedicate an entire highway to the already over used name

Dan Allen Drive

“The average vehicle speed on Dan Allen is 28 mph, exceeding the posted 20 mph speed limit.”
“With the approval of the city of Raleigh and the N.C. Department of Transportation, 1 million dollars will be invested into Dan Allen.”
Great!!

I decided to feed my ego and visit this stretch of pavement in the South. It felt wonderful seeing your name honored everywhere. Your name embodied in the community’s vernacular. I felt an ebb of power flowing through my veins. It was intoxicating. My judgment was impaired, and my foot was heavy on the accelerater. My ethereal feelings of ownership ended, when a siren overpowered my glorious dream. The state trooper’s floodlights blinded me in my rear view mirror. I took my foot off the pedal, and decided it would be in my best interest NOT to slam on the brakes. My car took its sweet time to decelerate. I had to have been going over a hundred. My car finally came to a stop miles down the road. I heard the police officer get out of his car and slammed the door. The gravel crunched under his hard hitting knee high leather boots. He materialized next to my window with his hand on his 9mm Beretta 92FS. I could see my reflection in his mirrored aviator’s sunglasses. I rolled down the window.

NC State Trooper: “I know they drive fast in New York City, but, boy, who do you think you are? License and registration!”

I fumbled for my wallet, and pulled out my driver’s license. Once I saw it, my confidence was revived. The King has returned.

Me:Officer, you are on private property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Perhaps you know my father, I. Ninetyfive.