My Non-Boots

So I'm sure that you avid readers must be asking yourselves, "Didn't SweatyBootsStink say that he would put up pictures of his so-called 'non-boots', like, months ago?"

The answer to that question is simply this:

Yes, I did.


I mentioned that they were Adidas, and surely they are. I finally pulled the picture off of my phone, for the brief time that I was able to. Ha ha, I'm tellin' you, that phone is gettin' pretty screwy. I connected it to my computer to upload the picture, and it just went crazy. I had to select how I would use it seeing as how you could choose to have it simply act as a mass media storage device, a media player, or what have you. Unfortunately, the selection process became a little more complicated when the highlighting selector just kept scrolling without me pressing any buttons. I had to time it just right to select Mass Media Storage Device...That crazy crazy phone, ha ha ha.

Anyway, this picture was taken while I was volunteering to help out with a golf tournament. Honestly, it was probably one of the biggest wastes of time I have ever had the pleasure of being a part of. I will have to divulge all of the juicy details another time. I seriously need to get to sleep since I open tomorrow at work. Do I have anything on my feet currently? Socks. Similar to these:

I suppose I will have to give the story behind this picture as well. Don't worry, I'll get around to it. Just give me a few months.

SweatyBootsStink, signing off!!!!

(Ps, yes, both pictures are of my feet, and yes, I do actually have pictures of my socks and shoes for no apparent reason other than to remind me of the fact that I have both socks and shoes, and I typically wear them on my lower extremeties)

The Plural of "Rape" is "Rapes"

***Well, I found this bad boy when I was looking through my MySpace blog (yes I have one, despite the fact that I haven't written in it for such a long time) and it's just a classic discussion --that actually happened, might I add-- so I thought you readers might enjoy seeing the writing style of a younger version of myself***

So I was talkin' to my roommate, see. "Joshua" is what I calls him, although what his real name is, I may never know.

Anyway, I says to him "Yo Joshua, I gots a good hypothetical fors ya."

He responds, "Okay Johnny, let's hear it." Of course, in order to protect my identity, I'll have to replace my real name, which he irresponsibly uses too much, with the more common name, "Johnny".

"Okay, now, let's say 'dat 'da mafia is after yuh family. Unfortunately fuh you though, they's a gay mafia. They put a gun in yuh ugly mug and tells yeh...they tells yeh, 'Yuh got two choices. Either take one incestual rape, or two anal rapes.' Now, yuh gots to choose between 'deze two options."

"Hmm..." is all 'dat Joshua could say at 'dat point. I knows he was worried, he ain't one to typically do well in situations like 'deze. I could see all 'dem cogs toinin' in his head as he tried to find a way outta a situation like 'dis one. I could see 'da light turnin' on though; he had an answer. I had to do somethin' to make it more difficult.

"No, THREE anal rapes." Ha, I got 'im good. His face weren't so happy no more. 'Da cogs get back to toinin'. Eventually, I see 'dat he comes to compromise wit' himself. I had to slam him down again before he gave his answer. "FOUR anal rapes." I held up four uh my best fingers to illustrate my point. His face showed his disappointment once more.

"Does it have to be four rapes? Really?" He asks me 'dis wit' such pleadin' emotion. It was 'den 'dat it hit me.

"Is 'da plural of 'rape', 'rapes'? I feel like I should say 'acts of rape' and not so much just 'rapes'." We debated 'dis major issue. In 'da end we came to consensus, mostly 'cuz my buddy Chang confoimed our results.

"Yeah, it's 'rapes' man. Rapesssssssss, oh yeahhhhh." He says to me over 'da phone after I ask him 'bout 'da woid.

"Well, 'dat case is closed Joshua," I tells him in reference to 'da controversy surrounding how to use 'da plural foim. At 'dis point, Joshua goes back to thinkin' 'bout 'da question. I decide against lettin' him think too much about it. It's a bad topic. "Just forget 'da question Joshua. It ain't sanitary to consider such things."

"Okay, thanks Johnny, I didn't wanna answer it anyway." So then I pulled out my tommy gun and robbed a bank....And 'DAT, my friends, is how I loined to drive.

-- June 13, 2008

Confessions of a Person Who is Me

Perhaps I need to be straight with all of you loyal readers who continuously take the time out of your day to sit, read, and reread these posts (Me, I'm lookin' at you!)...

My name isn't really "SweatyBootsStink". I know that many of you may have actually thought, "This guy named SweatyBootsStink would never lie to me because he just seems to be an unrealistically honest person. Going by this logic, I suppose that I can conclude that he would not lie to me about his name either, so I will unquestioningly assume that his name is, indeed, SweatyBootsStink."

I'm really sorry to disappoint you, but my name is actually one, Ysaac Keith. I am not actually the last Atlantisian, and I apologize to those of you who were led on (by myself) to believe that that is the case. Furthermore, I must admit that I was not born in a volcano named Mt. Legendary Hero (with the even more fictional legend that I had invented regarding the alleged prophesy that anyone born inside the aforementioned volcano would go on to become -- big surprise -- a legendary hero). I was born in a hospital in an apparently unpopular city.

I understand that much of this may come as a shock if you weren't actually in the hospital watching me being born.

I must also admit, that I have fallen deeply in love with Sweet Leaf Tea, which is made right here in Austin, TX where I currently reside. It is so good...

I will also add that I should probably be getting to sleep. It's pretty late and I do have work tomorrow. The unfortunate thing is that I might actually have to go in pretty early, there's no real telling on that matter. I'm kind of waiting on one guy who may or may not show up tomorrow to open his department. If he does not show up --which he didn't earlier today-- then I will have to step in and help out.

Speaking of work, my phone doesn't so much anymore. Or at least the camera built into it. The thing is that I really want to start adding some kind of photographs to this blog, or at least, you know, in my life. I just can't use my camera. If I try to access it, a stupid message comes up saying "Cannot connect to camera", which I always yell, YOU ARE CONNECTED! DON'T TELL ME YOU CAN'T DO SOMETHING THAT YOU ALREADY ARE!! That piece of crap just stares at me in defiance with the same message across the screen though. I think it's trying to make me mad...and boy is it successful. Anyway, if I'm lucky and I don't get that message, I'll get a myriad of unwanted color all over the screen and it does an excellent job of preventing me from seeing anything that I would like to take a picture of. Conclusion: It's not working. I don't know what I did, besides drop it, crack the screen, drop it, toss it around when I'm bored, drop it, viciously open and close it when I'm anxious, and light it on fire.

I have a confession to make: I never lit my phone on fire.

My point is that I need a new camera, and seeing as how the one on my phone isn't working, along with a few other problems I have with that same phone, I should probably look at a new one. Does anyone that reads this blog (me) have any ideas? (No I don't.) I don't know though, I was thinking about the MyTouch one coming out with the google stuff, but...I don't know, I originally wanted a flip phone so it would be more difficult for me to crack the screen since it would normally be closed (my current phone is a Samsung U600, which has a beautiful screen that I successfully damaged within its first week of being in my possession). I guess I'll see what happens.

Socks are on my feet. It's all good. Questions?

SweatyBootsStink signing out!

Joseph Heller is My Hero

Let’s say that I’m walking down the street and there is a guy who is following me who is as conspicuous as a flaming homosexual who is, in fact, on fire. I would spin around on my heel and accost him with a curiosity reminiscent of George, the monkey.

"Who are you?

Why are you following me?

Who would be the would-be inventor of a potential remake of an anonymous idea for a possible hit television show eventually based on the humorous lives of teenage jackalopes lost in New York City as they try to adapt to big city living, but initially based on the terrifying stories of global warming and it’s unfortunate effects on sexual intercourse between nerds and their imaginary significant others?"

While he ponders the impossible midseason transition from nerds to jackalopes, I will creep behind this mysterious stalker and give him a good whack or two to the head with an oversized monkey wrench that I would have handy thanks to my recent decision to carry one with me on brisk walks for occasions such as these prior to leaving my miserably cordial home. Spinning around on his heel and vocalizing a bored “Ouch”, he would then interrogate me with the betrayed fury of a woman scorned. Wondering why he wasn’t knocked out by my monkey wrench, I would then look down to my hand and see that when I had made the decision to carry a monkey wrench, I had accidentally grabbed a female pirate monkey who was frequently seen with my pet monkey on ships and in beds—my “monkey’s wench” so to speak. What a grave error. Looking once more into my bag of tricks (which, in this case, is not a literal bag, but a metaphorical one where I keep all of my diversions, verbal assaults, and pencils) I would reach in and throw out a slew of new questions to keep my stalker/adversary busy for another moment.

"Who gave you the right to spin around on your heel when that is obviously my thing?

Why didn’t you answer my first questions?

Who, of all the people that you know, could be the kind of person who would never be suspected of being an undercover member of the mafia that had always been suspected of being an undercover FBI agent the entire time that he was being inducted into said mafia when he was, in actuality, an undercover member of the Power Rangers Fan Club who had secretly joined back in the early nineties when the rangers were still both mighty and morphin’ and was neither a member of the mafia nor the FBI, but attempted to make others suspect that he was an undercover member of both despite the incontrovertible verity that he could be suspected of neither case?"

Thoroughly perplexed at the first question, he would struggle to find any sort of cogent argument that could possibly refute the possibility that any one person could claim an action for himself. Seeing an opportunity, I would then creep behind him and throw my monkey’s wench upon his back with the ferocity of an exhaustingly depressed softball player gently tossing a badminton player’s shuttlecock to her feeble grandmother who is entirely too old to catch another year with the living let alone a ridiculously shaped sporting projectile.

I would disapprovingly stand and watch as the wench would do absolutely nothing but jump off this still-mysterious stranger, dust herself off, and (hopefully) stagger back to my pet monkey after handing me a reproachful stare filled with more annoyance than an optimist’s glass is filled with water. I would then become distractingly preoccupied with the prospect of a pet monkey that is livid after his owner had irritated his wench to the point of departure.

Would I ever find out who the stalker is? Probably not, but it would definitely be quite the adventure in adjectives and adverbs.

On my feet? Naught.

To be continued? Perhaps.

Goodnight loyal readers!