It looks like I jumped to conclusions. Yesterday we checked our bank statement and discovered that $87 had been taken out of our account from the Long Beach Yellow Cab Company. Where the number 87 came from is beyond me. Alls I know is that I am beyond angry about it. Frankly, I'm appalled at how dishonest that little twerp of a taxi driver is. Appalled!
Lewis is working with the bank and the cab company so we can get our money back. Hopefully it'll all work out. Cause for reals, yo. I'm really, really mad.
In other news, we figured out what that mysterious seven dollar charge was, that I had previously attributed to the taxi ride. We got a locker for our stuff on our first day at Disneyland and I didn't write down the charge because I was just keeping track of our food budget. My bad! It was a great moment when I solved the mystery of the seven dollar charge, though. I was ready to run out of the shower, soaking wet and with my hair all shampoo-y to tell Lewis because I was so excited. But then I listened to the reasonable side of my brain.
But seriously! What a jerk of a cab driver. He may have made me lose my hope in humanity for his dishonesty. Okay, not really, but still. I hate to say this but I kind of hope he loses his job over this. Maybe I didn't mean that. Maybe I did, but I would feel a little, tiny bit guilty if that actually happens. More'n likely we'll just be out the money he charged us. For now, I'm just sending bad karma vibes his way. Or angry thoughts anyway. Gosh!
Showing posts with label Nudity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nudity. Show all posts
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
What a Load of Crack
Here I am, minding my own business as I head down to grab a snack from the vending machine. I turn the corner and - Wham! - I get a face-full of butt crack.
I have seen waaaay too many butt cracks in my day. It all started when I was a park attendant at WaterWorks WaterPark at the ripe old age of 14. It was my job to man the slides. Basically, I would tell people when they could go down the slide, make sure they didn't go down headfirst (I had a few bribery offers), and measure small children to make sure they were tall enough. Hard work, I know. Well, this may come as something of a shock, but a lot of people don't wear swimming suits that fit them well enough. And the crack will make an appearance whether your swimming suit is too big or too small - all you have to do is sit down on the top of the slide, right in front of me.
Once the summer ended and the pool closed, I got no respite from butt cracks. Low-rise jeans were the new thing - none of this high-waisted junk. I admit it. I prefer low-rise myself. Not only do I find them more comfortable (I don't like the feeling of a waistband around my bellybutton), but I think I look better in them. Unfortunately, some people took low-rise to the extreme. There's a healthy balance when it comes to low-rise: they can be low enough to be considered low-rise, but high enough to both hold in any fat you may have riding on your hips, and completely cover your stinking butt crack!
If I had to choose, I would pick a swimming suit butt crack over a low-rise jeans butt crack. A little bit because swimming suit crack seems slightly more understandable than low-rise jeans crack, but mostly because I still can't get that image out of my mind from 11th grade English class. Whenever the girl in front of me sat down I'd get not only an eyeful of her crack, but of whatever sparkly g-string she elected to wear that day. And she had a nasty habit of leaning forward a lot in her desk, causing even more of her cheek separation to appear.
Can't these people tell that they're flashing their glory to all the world? I mean, come on, you can tell when your crack is on the air. It's a different feeling than just when just your back or midriff is showing. It's...draftier, somehow.
Before I get back to the crack I had the privilege of viewing today, a little side note: haven't butt cracks gone out of style? I mean, there was a day when no man, woman, or child could keep their eyes virgin, but haven't jeans regained a little bit of waistband? Or am I just writing from the sheltered bubble that is BYU, where long shirts and tank tops are the ish?
So today's hot plate of crack: this girl was sitting on the floor (maybe that's why most of the desks here have full backs - nary a chance of glimpsing a sliver when you're covered by hard plastic from neck to knee), schmoozing with a young fellow I can only assume was her boyfriend (she kept rubbing his leg) with her crackity-crack on display for the whole Student Center. Directly to her left was a whole slew of wall, with the dual feature of fixing her modesty and providing an undoubtedly more comfortable seat. She was all slouched forward-like.
Other recent crack attacks:
-Walking home from work last summer, a guy cut me off on a bike. Bent over the handlebars, it was unfortunate to see that both his too-big jeans and and undies were slowly slipping down his derrière.
-With the new all-sport pass system, our football tickets were in the same spot every game, rather than rotating like in years past. Our seats weren't bad. I wouldn't have minded moving up a few rows down and a few seats over, but not bad. However, what was bad was the fact that we were surrounded by the same people every game including, but not limited to: the guy who complained about every play and every call and usually got them wrong; the guy who said how many yards the ball was moved and always got it wrong; the girl who talked to her friend the whole time, didn't look at the field once, and made her boyfriend leave at halftime (or was it the other way around); and the guy who needs to buy longer shirts and higher jeans. Six games, six crack sightings.
-While we chilled on the beach at Cabo, a drinking game was going on which included running out into the ocean, switching swimming suit bottoms with your significant other, and racing back. One of the contestants (who happened to sit at our dinner table every night [this was on our honeymoon cruise]) not only broke his girlfriend's bikini bottom, but did not hold it on very well. In this case, swimming suit crack was not better than low-rise jeans crack. Thank goodness his back was to us the whole time.
I have seen waaaay too many butt cracks in my day. It all started when I was a park attendant at WaterWorks WaterPark at the ripe old age of 14. It was my job to man the slides. Basically, I would tell people when they could go down the slide, make sure they didn't go down headfirst (I had a few bribery offers), and measure small children to make sure they were tall enough. Hard work, I know. Well, this may come as something of a shock, but a lot of people don't wear swimming suits that fit them well enough. And the crack will make an appearance whether your swimming suit is too big or too small - all you have to do is sit down on the top of the slide, right in front of me.
Once the summer ended and the pool closed, I got no respite from butt cracks. Low-rise jeans were the new thing - none of this high-waisted junk. I admit it. I prefer low-rise myself. Not only do I find them more comfortable (I don't like the feeling of a waistband around my bellybutton), but I think I look better in them. Unfortunately, some people took low-rise to the extreme. There's a healthy balance when it comes to low-rise: they can be low enough to be considered low-rise, but high enough to both hold in any fat you may have riding on your hips, and completely cover your stinking butt crack!
If I had to choose, I would pick a swimming suit butt crack over a low-rise jeans butt crack. A little bit because swimming suit crack seems slightly more understandable than low-rise jeans crack, but mostly because I still can't get that image out of my mind from 11th grade English class. Whenever the girl in front of me sat down I'd get not only an eyeful of her crack, but of whatever sparkly g-string she elected to wear that day. And she had a nasty habit of leaning forward a lot in her desk, causing even more of her cheek separation to appear.
Can't these people tell that they're flashing their glory to all the world? I mean, come on, you can tell when your crack is on the air. It's a different feeling than just when just your back or midriff is showing. It's...draftier, somehow.
Before I get back to the crack I had the privilege of viewing today, a little side note: haven't butt cracks gone out of style? I mean, there was a day when no man, woman, or child could keep their eyes virgin, but haven't jeans regained a little bit of waistband? Or am I just writing from the sheltered bubble that is BYU, where long shirts and tank tops are the ish?
So today's hot plate of crack: this girl was sitting on the floor (maybe that's why most of the desks here have full backs - nary a chance of glimpsing a sliver when you're covered by hard plastic from neck to knee), schmoozing with a young fellow I can only assume was her boyfriend (she kept rubbing his leg) with her crackity-crack on display for the whole Student Center. Directly to her left was a whole slew of wall, with the dual feature of fixing her modesty and providing an undoubtedly more comfortable seat. She was all slouched forward-like.
Other recent crack attacks:
-Walking home from work last summer, a guy cut me off on a bike. Bent over the handlebars, it was unfortunate to see that both his too-big jeans and and undies were slowly slipping down his derrière.
-With the new all-sport pass system, our football tickets were in the same spot every game, rather than rotating like in years past. Our seats weren't bad. I wouldn't have minded moving up a few rows down and a few seats over, but not bad. However, what was bad was the fact that we were surrounded by the same people every game including, but not limited to: the guy who complained about every play and every call and usually got them wrong; the guy who said how many yards the ball was moved and always got it wrong; the girl who talked to her friend the whole time, didn't look at the field once, and made her boyfriend leave at halftime (or was it the other way around); and the guy who needs to buy longer shirts and higher jeans. Six games, six crack sightings.
-While we chilled on the beach at Cabo, a drinking game was going on which included running out into the ocean, switching swimming suit bottoms with your significant other, and racing back. One of the contestants (who happened to sit at our dinner table every night [this was on our honeymoon cruise]) not only broke his girlfriend's bikini bottom, but did not hold it on very well. In this case, swimming suit crack was not better than low-rise jeans crack. Thank goodness his back was to us the whole time.
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