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Mr. Cziltang’s guide to fashion, part 6

I see a lot of people every day. Some of them could use a bit of fashion advice:

(Imagine a bullhorn…)

THIS IS THE FASHION POLICE.  WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED.  PUT DOWN THE SPANDEX AND SLOWLY STEP AWAY FROM THE CLOTHING RACK!

Less than 5 % of you can actually wear spandex and look decent.  If you are one of those people, good for you.  If you THINK you’re one of those people, just don’t.

Mr. Cziltang’s guide to fashion, part 5

I see a lot of people every day. Some of them could use a bit of fashion advice:

If you’re over 6 years old and over 300 pounds, riding the electric shopping in your sock monkey jammies with the feet in them makes you look like the short bus forgot to pick you up for your shopping trip.

Mr. Cziltang’s guide to fashion, part 4

I see a lot of people every day.  Some of them could use a bit of fashion advice:

#4: If you are considering putting your hair up in that little ball on the top of your head (and especially if you plan to add the little headband as an accent), consider that contrary to your own perception, the little ball of hair on the top of your head does not make you look athletic, or elegant, or cute, or sexy.  It does make you look like they had to put your hair up to keep it out of the snot while you were riding the short bus.

Mr. Cziltang’s guide to fashion, part 3

I see a lot of people every day.  Some of them could use a bit of fashion advice:

#3: If you are considering wearing one of those t-shirts with the huge cut-out armholes that go clear to your waist, consider the possibility that perhaps no one else wants to see your armpit hair, and they certainly don’t want to see your man boobs.

#3a: If you are female and considering wearing one of those t-shirts with the huge cut-out armholes that go clear to your waist,  consider that if, while wearing such a garment, a casual observer can tell whether your bra has a front clasp or not, perhaps there’s no real point in wearing such a garment.

Mr. Cziltang’s guide to fashion, part 2

I see a lot of people every day.  Some of them could use a bit of fashion advice:

#2: If you decide to wear white spandex pants, make sure the color and style of your underwear works with white spandex.  There is no color and/or style of underwear that works with white spandex.

Mr. Cziltang’s guide to fashion, part 1

I see a lot of people every day.  Some of them could use a bit of fashion advice:

#1:  If taking a single step sets up a standing wave pattern in your butt cheeks, perhaps spandex should not be your “go to” fabric.

An unheralded return

It’s been over a year since I last posted here.  There’s no good reason for the lack of output other than, in general, I really haven’t felt like I had anything to say.  A lot has changed lately, some of which I may talk about.  The biggest change is that I am, once again, employed full time.  I picked up a job catching shoplifters for a major retailer.  Not, perhaps the most glamorous pursuit, but at its most basic, I get paid to play hide and seek professionally.  What’s not to like.

OK, 8 hours a day wandering around a store on the concrete floor is pretty rough on an old guy, but it is fun, and, more importantly, I appear to have some talent for it.  I have a pretty good eye for things that aren’t quite right.  You know that feeling you get when there’s something about someone that is wrong for the context?  You don’t always know exactly what it is, but you know there’s something?

So anyway, I’m out walking around all day and have plenty of time to think, without being able to avail myself of the distraction that is the internet.  I don’t know if this will, in the long run produce any worthwhile content for Ratlands, but it certainly can’t produce less.

Some things I just do for my personal amusement

Some time back, when I was tinkering with my WiFi set-up, I changed the SSID to “FBI Surveillance Van #2″.  Just a bit of personal amusement.

I found out today that my younger niece completely freaked out recently because she thought the FBI was in the neighborhood snooping around.  (Given the legal history of her various significant others, not an unreasonable fear.)

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Biathacross

I’ve had a couple of road jobs recently and have been contemplating the verities of the universe, the meaning of life, and other assorted very deep thoughts.  Well, that’s always what I plan to do on a road trip.  It usually doesn’t work out that way.

This week I wasn’t able to get my new winter sport out of my head.  I realized that other than the gun part, there really wasn’t a real tie-in to biathlon, but I think I’ve fixed that.

Stage One:  Each team had a biathlete compete in a regular biathlon competition (probably a 7.5k race with 2 trips to the range and penalty laps for missed targets).  The order of finish determines order of preference for shooting positions.

Stage Two:  6 sniper nests get set up at various points along the snowboard course.  In any heat, the team with the highest biathlon finisher gets first pick of the sniper nests, with the next highest getting second pick, and the lowest finisher getting last pick.  (i.e. if Team A, B, and C are in a heat and the shooter from A finished 5th in the biathlon, B finished 2nd, and C finished 4th, Team B’s shooter gets first pick of the sniper nests, Team C gets next pick, and Team A gets last pick).

Stage Three:  3 teams of 2 riders make the snowboard cross run and the snipers ( with only one paintball shot each) can either try to take out another team’s racer or another team’s sniper.  If you’re hit, you’re out.  First rider across the finish line without being shot wins for his or her team and they move on to the next round.

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Weekend Roundup

I install house arrest ankle bracelets part time on the weekend.  If I’ve had a particularly unusual day, I send an email to the boss on Sunday night so he knows what he’s walking into on Monday morning.  It also gives me a chance to vent a bit.  Here’s an excerpt from tonight’s email:

Ok Kats and Kitties, here’s your totally happenin’ weekend roundup.

First off, I think someone is running around town smacking our clients upside the head with a stupid stick.  Either that or my tolerance level is just bottoming out.

Client J apparently had better things to do this weekend than hang out in jail for two days.  No show.

Client S is apparently disabled after a car wreck.  We’ll probably hear from her about the comfort and wear-ability of her ankle bracelet.  We’ll probably also hear from her about 27 things she just has to do this week.  HouseArrest.  2 words.  Put them together and you get a concept that is apparently fucking unfathomable to our clients.  (I referred her to her PO…)

Client R apparently takes off work once a week to attend classes to learn to be a yoga instructor.  OK.  You can start waving the evil sexist pig flag now, but as a former practitioner of yoga, I can tell you that there are some yoga poses it is physically impossible to get into if you are 4′ 11′ and have a 38D chest (at least not without smothering yourself).  (I referred her to her PO…)

My guess is that Client T just woke up from a coma caused by being repeatedly beaten with a stupid stick.  He was supposed to get out Monday 2/24, but he turned himself in a day early.  Of course, we wouldn’t have known about it ( and the jail didn’t know about it because the paperwork still said 2/24 with a little attached note saying he turned himself in early) if a woman who I think was his girlfriend hadn’t been waiting at the office to alert me to the issue.  While I was calling the jail, she was looking over the desk at his paperwork and asked me if we got the information on the page from the client.  Apparently he told her we got our info from the bondsman.  This is only an issue because he apparently gave us his OTHER girlfriend’s name as his ride.

So I get the weasel out of jail ( after calling the Other Woman to pick him up) and when he gets to the office he tells me his “people” paid the woman in the office this morning.  Now, I shaved this morning, but just my head, and the beard is still there, so I called “bullshit”.  Then he wants to know if he has to pay today.  So I said, “Are you a fucking moron?”  Inside my head.  Outside my head I said “yes”.  He wants to know how much.  I tell him $98.  So he goes out to the Other Woman’s car (really nice convertible.  Camaro I think) to get money from her.  He comes back in with $60 and wants to know if it’s enough.  I said, “Uh. No.”  (Yeah.  That was outside my head.)  So he goes out to get more money and eventually comes back with $98.  Then, because he works out at a Juvenile Correctional facility out in the country, he wants an hour and a half travel time (each way) “’cause it’s a long way out there.”  (ed. note: It’s maybe a 45 minute drive from his house if the traffic’s bad.  It also begs the question, “How does he get out there?” given he’s got the house arrest gig because of multiple driving while suspended convictions….)

At the Residential Center we used to say that our job was like herding squirrels: you’re never completely done, you’re never completely successful, and on a good day no one gets run over by a truck.

Today no one got run over by a truck, but only because my knees were really gimpy and I couldn’t get to my truck fast enough to pick them off before they got in their cars.

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