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Everything posted by BearSchlong
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Official 2023 bitch about your family @ the Holidays thread
BearSchlong replied to GhostOfTomJoad's topic in Lulz
My ex-wife dumped her 89 yr old mom in a nursing home in Spring and never visits. I think the only visitor she ever sees is ex wife’s husband. Neither of my kids have spoken to their mom in over 18 months and for me it's been over 2 years. I just ordered a big Thanksgiving flower arrangement from me, current wife, son, DIL, and daughter to be sent to the nursing home. Probably because I feel so damned sorry for a decent lady whose offspring turned out mentally ill and/or felonious. Wife, daughter and I are flying to Raleigh in the morning to spend the week with son and DIL at Ft. Liberty. Son deploying in a few weeks.- 579 replies
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Godiva has sent me 12 emails in the last 7 days. And Sonos, Allen Edmonds, and Costco aren't far behind. So irritating.
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Leaf. I actually never tried plug.
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Also, it's “pell mell” and “koo-fittuh-kings” /noracist. My family owned a Gibson’s, so I’ve sold my fair share of smokes.
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Dad smoked vantage and eventually their ultra lights, which had zero flavor IMO. I smoked Marlboro Lights from 16-26, quit in 1998. I never really liked smoking. I still chew nicotine gum daily. By far the most addictive thing I’ve ever found. I'll quit from time to time but inevitably pick it back up. But the best tobacco on earth is Levi Garrett with Red Man being an honorable mention. There is nothing as satisfying as stuffing in a huge chaw and then chewing it down and generating that first spit. I hope there's chewing tobacco in Heaven.
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I lost it at sisters
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It may just be a maturity problem. Time will tell. Not a good look when $22mm in guaranteed money shows up to practice hungover and reeking.
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Good. My locker room source said that his quad injury IR trip was code for “you better get your shit together before you drink your way out of the NFL.”
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No. We just have very low expectations. I'm sorry that happened to you. I imagine it happens frequently to people who don't check bags containing specialized instruments and electronics. And it's not like you want that stuff thrown around by baggage handlers. I've sat in many a window seat watching throwers abuse luggage at the plane at the neighboring gate. My wife insists on traveling with some specialty mixers this week - “Hot Ruby” from Lubbock, and she’s packing that in bubble wrap and putting it in a checked bag with her coat and shoes. So it's a potential shitshow. My worst TSA story was them confiscating my Leatherman’s tool that I was dumb enough to leave in my backpack.
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My wife can't stop laughing at that.
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Fishing Megathread: Looking For Big Girls Who swallow
BearSchlong replied to Mac8111's topic in Hobbies
Troph has me ready to trade the CC in for a skiff. Well done, ma’am. Today I got out there late - about 11 am. About 7 miles from the dock I came across a guy and his gal staring at their engine, cowl off, Power pole deployed. Towed them back to the ramp and headed back out. Ran all over Sabine Lake for the next few hours and then the birds started working at 3. Caught about 40 specks, and kept none even though they were big for schoolies and all Louisiana legal. Washed the boat and popped Tylenol. My arm is sore. -
Especially at the turn at Bayou Din golf course, with mustard. Mark Zummo is a generous contributor to nonprofits, including the one where I serve as treasurer. We serve/sell $20k in gumbo the Saturday before the super bowl every year and he provides much of the meat.
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I wish he'd run. I'm hoping to have a cup of coffee with his uncle in the morning. We don't usually talk politics but I'm going to make an exception.
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Me too. Trying to get my shit together for a conference call. The videos are spine-chilling.
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Cringey for sure. Reminds me of a timeless scam, the Lonely Heart’s club. People will believe and pay for what they wish to happen.
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Nice. How is the Zummos? I picked up 15 lbs of Rabideaux sausage in Iowa tonight on my drive home from Baton Rouge. My wife said that should last us til March. Between gumbo, cabbage, and greens I hope it's eaten by NYE.
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My psychiatrist and I discussed that yesterday. She said that and MDMA and micro-dosing are really promising. I regret that my 15-year-old nephew didn't get the chance to try those therapies prior to his death by suicide this summer.
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He's setting himself up for a presidential bid, isn't he?
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That reminds me, I need to order some rub from them.
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Not really a stonk but check out RAMP. My kid gave me the tip about six weeks back and I bought 1000 shares at $29. Had a good day. She says they are set to capitalize on the elimination of browser cookies on Jan 1.
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I had my first relapse dream in a long while last night, probably because of my posts on this thread.
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Cross posted for relevance: From the NYT: By Hank Azaria Matthew Perry said that he wanted to be remembered as someone who helped people get sober, even more than he wanted to be remembered as a very funny, famous Friend. I think he’ll be remembered as both. I know that I will always think of him that way. We met almost 40 years ago, and he was, by far, the funniest friend I ever had. He also was the person who helped me get sober. He took me to my first A.A. meeting, in 2005. Matthew quit booze a few years before. He struggled with it, for sure. I didn’t need rehab, but I knew I had a very serious problem, so I called Matthew and asked him to take me to a meeting. We went to this very big gathering in Brentwood, Calif. We walked in, and I swear it seemed there were a thousand people in there. He knew the look on my face — daunted. Beyond daunted: demoralized. It’s very hard to imagine how going into a room like that is somehow going to make you want to stop drinking or make you feel better. And he looked at me and said in his Matthew, half-joking, very loving way: “It’s something, isn’t it? God is a bunch of drunks together in a room.” At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. I’ve since learned. He meant that as bad as we feel, as low as we go, we tend to feel we’re alone in it, whether our problem is alcoholism, a bad marriage, illness, depression, strife. We feel that we are the only one who has ever gone through it; in recovery we call it terminal uniqueness. And it’s by going into a room with a few or a lot of other people and sharing, saying out loud what it is that’s upsetting us and hearing that from others that we feel, well, maybe we’re not alone. In fact, in time, what we become sure of is that the most unfortunate, terrible things we face are actually our greatest strength, as they connect us with others. And so all that seemingly pointless suffering has a tremendous point. He was telling me I needed the support of those people in the room. I needed their stories. I needed to lean on them. I needed to tell them, “I don’t think I can make it through the day without drinking.” And hear them say, “We didn’t, either.” Matthew told me that, too. And, boy, Matthew was a living example. I saw close up how hard he would hit the bottle and pills. And I felt like, “Well, gosh, if he can stop, maybe I can.” In his memoir, Matthew called addiction “the big terrible thing.” He also thought of alcoholism as a bully. Cunning, baffling and powerful — too powerful to take on alone. But if you have a bunch of guys with you, you can beat up the bully or at least make it a fair fight, one day at a time. God is a bunch of drunks together in a room. We talk a lot about a higher power in A.A. Everyone gets to define God as he or she defines God. It can be anything you want. My sponsor would say, “I don’t believe in some sky daddy.” That’s the way he put it. Like Matthew, he’d say his higher power was the wisdom of the group. He’d say, “I believe in the power of people being honest about how they’re struggling, connecting with each other and in loving each other.” In A.A., I heard stories that were worse than mine — way worse. And yet these people were smiling and calm and connected and happy. I wanted that. God was a bunch of drunks together in a room. I think of that phrase every single day. I loved Matthew, and I leaned on him a lot in my early sobriety. I was lucky that Matthew was my guy because humor is a huge part of recovery. And he was a hilarious, hilarious man. As funny as he was on “Friends” — and he was — he was breathtakingly, hysterically unbelievable to be with in person. In any situation, he’d just start finding what was funny about it, beat it into the ground until it wasn’t funny anymore, take that as a challenge and then find a way to bring it back so that it was not just funny but riotous. Then it would get not funny again, and his attempts to make it so would border on annoying, until he’d somehow unlock it a third time and reduce you to tears of helpless glee. Many times I had to beg him to stop because it was physically painful to laugh that hard for that long. Every time — and I do mean every time — we went to a McDonald’s drive-through, he would ask the person on the other side of the speaker, “Do you know what Grimace is?” After getting a “no,” he would offer, “I think it’s a purple shake that has no cup.” There was usually a pause followed by a very confused, “May I take your order, sir?” Whenever we went into a public restroom together, I’d beg him — I’d say, “Please don’t do it, Matthew.” He’d say, “OK.” Then he would proceed to go into a stall and start making little high-pitched straining “ow” noises, that would build into a crescendo of a man full-volume screeching as if he were giving birth to whatever was coming out of him in there. In recovery you know you’re getting better when you’re able to laugh at the things that before were so serious and shameful you didn’t think they could ever be repeated to anybody else, let alone laughed about. In fact, Step 5 in the program is you admit to God — there’s that word again — and to yourself and another human being the exact nature of your wrongs. Matthew and I did that for each other. We were able to say who we really were. A lot of times we did it through humor. I was used to laughing with him over — I don’t want to say shallow things, but as the previous examples indicate, they were not exactly weighty, recovery-related items, either. What I was surprised by was the depths that he could go to in his profound understanding of human nature and human flaws — his own flaws and those of others. It gave him a lot of compassion for other people. Tragically, I think he had a lot more compassion for me and for everybody else than he did for himself. He helped so many people; they got so much out of the fact that he was willing to be honest with them and loving toward them and share with them what he went through. As he ended up doing in his book. Even writing this piece, talking this way about him, is an example of his legacy: the one that he preferred, about recovery. There’s a tradition in the program that you’re not supposed to speak at the public level about this stuff, and there are good reasons for it. But I have found over the years — and partly it was Matthew’s book that convinced me of this — that speaking publicly about addiction and A.A. does more good than harm. Because I think it’s really valuable for people to hear that folks like Matthew can struggle and that they can find help. And there’s no shame in asking for that help. There’s no shame in feeling that bad. And there’s no shame in getting help for feeling that bad. I was unfortunate to have needed his help — or fortunate, depending on how you want to look at it. And certainly fortunate to have received that help and friendship directly from him. I was also a huge fan of his and felt the friendship that we all feel through “Friends.” I consider myself blessed that I got to experience both. And I do want to say that if you go into recovery, while there will only ever be one of the real thing for me, you will find your own Matthew Perry. You’ll find someone to laugh with and connect with. You’ll find someone who understands your story. You’ll find someone who seems to care about you more than about him- or herself. I think Matthew would want folks to know that more than anything.
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Sorry about that- Here it is: Matthew Perry said that he wanted to be remembered as someone who helped people get sober, even more than he wanted to be remembered as a very funny, famous Friend. I think he’ll be remembered as both. I know that I will always think of him that way. We met almost 40 years ago, and he was, by far, the funniest friend I ever had. He also was the person who helped me get sober. He took me to my first A.A. meeting, in 2005. Matthew quit booze a few years before. He struggled with it, for sure. I didn’t need rehab, but I knew I had a very serious problem, so I called Matthew and asked him to take me to a meeting. We went to this very big gathering in Brentwood, Calif. We walked in, and I swear it seemed there were a thousand people in there. He knew the look on my face — daunted. Beyond daunted: demoralized. It’s very hard to imagine how going into a room like that is somehow going to make you want to stop drinking or make you feel better. And he looked at me and said in his Matthew, half-joking, very loving way: “It’s something, isn’t it? God is a bunch of drunks together in a room.” At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. I’ve since learned. He meant that as bad as we feel, as low as we go, we tend to feel we’re alone in it, whether our problem is alcoholism, a bad marriage, illness, depression, strife. We feel that we are the only one who has ever gone through it; in recovery we call it terminal uniqueness. And it’s by going into a room with a few or a lot of other people and sharing, saying out loud what it is that’s upsetting us and hearing that from others that we feel, well, maybe we’re not alone. In fact, in time, what we become sure of is that the most unfortunate, terrible things we face are actually our greatest strength, as they connect us with others. And so all that seemingly pointless suffering has a tremendous point. He was telling me I needed the support of those people in the room. I needed their stories. I needed to lean on them. I needed to tell them, “I don’t think I can make it through the day without drinking.” And hear them say, “We didn’t, either.” Matthew told me that, too. And, boy, Matthew was a living example. I saw close up how hard he would hit the bottle and pills. And I felt like, “Well, gosh, if he can stop, maybe I can.” In his memoir, Matthew called addiction “the big terrible thing.” He also thought of alcoholism as a bully. Cunning, baffling and powerful — too powerful to take on alone. But if you have a bunch of guys with you, you can beat up the bully or at least make it a fair fight, one day at a time. God is a bunch of drunks together in a room. We talk a lot about a higher power in A.A. Everyone gets to define God as he or she defines God. It can be anything you want. My sponsor would say, “I don’t believe in some sky daddy.” That’s the way he put it. Like Matthew, he’d say his higher power was the wisdom of the group. He’d say, “I believe in the power of people being honest about how they’re struggling, connecting with each other and in loving each other.” In A.A., I heard stories that were worse than mine — way worse. And yet these people were smiling and calm and connected and happy. I wanted that. God was a bunch of drunks together in a room. I think of that phrase every single day. I loved Matthew, and I leaned on him a lot in my early sobriety. I was lucky that Matthew was my guy because humor is a huge part of recovery. And he was a hilarious, hilarious man. As funny as he was on “Friends” — and he was — he was breathtakingly, hysterically unbelievable to be with in person. In any situation, he’d just start finding what was funny about it, beat it into the ground until it wasn’t funny anymore, take that as a challenge and then find a way to bring it back so that it was not just funny but riotous. Then it would get not funny again, and his attempts to make it so would border on annoying, until he’d somehow unlock it a third time and reduce you to tears of helpless glee. Many times I had to beg him to stop because it was physically painful to laugh that hard for that long. Every time — and I do mean every time — we went to a McDonald’s drive-through, he would ask the person on the other side of the speaker, “Do you know what Grimace is?” After getting a “no,” he would offer, “I think it’s a purple shake that has no cup.” There was usually a pause followed by a very confused, “May I take your order, sir?” Whenever we went into a public restroom together, I’d beg him — I’d say, “Please don’t do it, Matthew.” He’d say, “OK.” Then he would proceed to go into a stall and start making little high-pitched straining “ow” noises, that would build into a crescendo of a man full-volume screeching as if he were giving birth to whatever was coming out of him in there. In recovery you know you’re getting better when you’re able to laugh at the things that before were so serious and shameful you didn’t think they could ever be repeated to anybody else, let alone laughed about. In fact, Step 5 in the program is you admit to God — there’s that word again — and to yourself and another human being the exact nature of your wrongs. Matthew and I did that for each other. We were able to say who we really were. A lot of times we did it through humor. I was used to laughing with him over — I don’t want to say shallow things, but as the previous examples indicate, they were not exactly weighty, recovery-related items, either. What I was surprised by was the depths that he could go to in his profound understanding of human nature and human flaws — his own flaws and those of others. It gave him a lot of compassion for other people. Tragically, I think he had a lot more compassion for me and for everybody else than he did for himself. He helped so many people; they got so much out of the fact that he was willing to be honest with them and loving toward them and share with them what he went through. As he ended up doing in his book. Even writing this piece, talking this way about him, is an example of his legacy: the one that he preferred, about recovery. There’s a tradition in the program that you’re not supposed to speak at the public level about this stuff, and there are good reasons for it. But I have found over the years — and partly it was Matthew’s book that convinced me of this — that speaking publicly about addiction and A.A. does more good than harm. Because I think it’s really valuable for people to hear that folks like Matthew can struggle and that they can find help. And there’s no shame in asking for that help. There’s no shame in feeling that bad. And there’s no shame in getting help for feeling that bad. I was unfortunate to have needed his help — or fortunate, depending on how you want to look at it. And certainly fortunate to have received that help and friendship directly from him. I was also a huge fan of his and felt the friendship that we all feel through “Friends.” I consider myself blessed that I got to experience both. And I do want to say that if you go into recovery, while there will only ever be one of the real thing for me, you will find your own Matthew Perry. You’ll find someone to laugh with and connect with. You’ll find someone who understands your story. You’ll find someone who seems to care about you more than about him- or herself. I think Matthew would want folks to know that more than anything.
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It worked. Those are actual raindrops.
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