Liquor Stores

During my recent trip to Vegas, I made a side trip to a discount liquor warehouse. That’s right, warehouse. This facility was like an airplane hangar. Alcohol was stacked on palettes from floor to ceiling. It felt like a stroll through Costco, only without the free samples of toaster oven pizza and about ten thousand fewer shoppers. Needless to say, it was the single greatest experience I’ve ever had shopping for alcohol.

Exiting the store, I was thoroughly impressed with how well the liquor stores in Vegas are run. In contrast, I couldn’t help shaking my head over how the state of Washington does it all wrong…

You see, in Washington, all the liquor stores are run by the state. This means prices, location, store hours, and selection are all controlled by our elected government officials and their appointed unemployed family members. In other words, the liquor stores in our state are a complete debacle.

The business model for Washington’s liquor stores is similar to that of convenience stores. That is to say, they’ve mastered the concepts of cramped aisles, poor selection, and price gouging. Unfortunately, the state ignored the only upsides to this formula: The convenient hours and locations.

First, let’s start with the facilities. No warehouses here. And as far as locations go, the state of Washington follows the “Inverse-Starbucks” rule: Instead of placing a store on every street corner, they opt for placing one per area code. And when they do actually build a liquor store, they intentionally place them far away from schools. Sadly, this creates a tremendous burden on high school students with fake ID’s. It’s also a hardship on working families, as parents often have to choose between picking up their kids or picking up booze on their way home from work. I can’t tell you how many times I was on the wrong end of that coin flip growing up.

Then there are the hours of operation. The liquor stores in Washington are closed at night and during holidays. That’s really all that needs to be said. All right, I’ll say more: Sweet idea! Nobody likes to drink at night or during holidays! (Italicized for sarcasm.)

Finally, the prices at Washington liquor stores are astronomical, mainly due to the excessive alcohol taxes in our state. Because of these taxes, booze in Washington costs literally twice as much as it does in Vegas. Now, I’m used to paying high taxes, as my annual income puts me squarely in the “Zillionaire” bracket. However, the alcohol tax is especially punitive, as I generally use alcohol to help cope with all the other taxation in my life.

Apparently, the state realized that it is impossible to directly tax “happiness”, so they settled on the next closest thing: alcohol. Like the Holy Grail, I’m sure the state will continue looking at ways to tax “happiness,” as I fully expect to see a proposed XBox tax during the next legislative session.

As you might guess, the high taxes do nothing to curtail the quantity of alcohol that we consume. Unfortunately, it’s the quality that suffers, as heavy drinkers are forced to settle for the most generic bottom-shelf alcohol on earth.

Of course, everyone knows that bottom-shelf alcohol should only be used for utilitarian purposes, like unclogging drains and disinfecting wounds. Sadly, it’s not uncommon to overhear a respectable Washington drinker discuss his preference of using paint thinner over Monarch Vodka when making a martini. Without hesitation, most of us would agree with this choice, as the paint thinner tends to have less after-taste.

To be fair, sometimes we splurge for a bottle of top-shelf booze on a special occasion… like winning the lottery. Other than that, we’re increasingly forced to concoct “drinks” out of household chemicals as a substitute for ridiculously overpriced alcohol. Trust me, there’s nothing like a refreshing Old Spice and tonic after a hard day’s work. And I personally enjoy sitting around smoking cigars while sipping a Listerine on the rocks.

True, these are nice short-term fixes to the high-priced alcohol dilemma. Cleary though, heavy drinkers in Washington need an alternative. But what are my options? I suppose I could start distilling moonshine, and complete my destiny of turning into a cast member from the Dukes of Hazzard. I already drive recklessly and have been known to shoot a bow and arrow out of my car window. Or, I suppose I could give up drinking. Of course, unless annoying people are willing to give up living, I don’t see this as a potential solution either.

Thankfully, I do have an answer: Vegas. Simply fill a hollowed-out mannequin with booze, and pass it through airline security as your wife. They’ll both reek of alcohol anyway, right? Who could tell the difference? And when you get back to Washington, you’ll be able to relax and enjoy a quality drink while you try and figure out how to get your wife home from the Las Vegas airport…

I Hate Hurricanes

Like most of you, I’m sitting at work right now, not working. While this is how most of my workday is spent anyway, today there is a reason. I’m monitoring hurricane Rita like a human Doppler radar. Unintentionally, I’ve become an expert on hurricanes… Why you ask? A second vacation destination of mine is about to be leveled by a hurricane.

The first was New Orleans. My wife and I, along with fourteen other friends and family planned to spend a few days in the Big Easy prior to embarking on a weeklong Caribbean cruise. Bourbon Street! I was looking at this part of the trip with such anticipation. I even trained myself to say the words “N’awlins” and “jambalaya” so that I could blend in with the locals. I preemptively dubbed the weekend “Nipple Fest ’05”, as my plan was to treat the entire city to my areolas pretty much 24/7. There was going to be more gratuitous nudity than a backbend competition at my in-laws.

Of course, we all know what happened to New Orleans. After the city “pulled an Atlantis”, Carnival changed the cruise itinerary to depart from Galveston. Ok, fine. So we (and by “we”, I mean my wife) rebooked everything. Instead of Bourbon Street, we’d do Six Flags before the cruise. Fast forward to today… Hurricane “dia-Rita” has gathered strength in the Gulf of Mexico, and is threatening to derail everything. At first I was optimistic about this, figuring at least the lines at Six Flags would be shortened. Now it looks like everything could be cancelled…

As it stands now, the trip to Houston and the entire Caribbean cruise hang in the balance. Theoretically, I was supposed to fly into Houston tomorrow. I’d then spend 48 hours hunkered down in a hotel room, waiting out the hurricane, possibly without electricity, room service or cable television. This would have been the start of my vacation. Compared to my usual day at work, I was actually looking forward to this.

Don’t cry for me. I understand your concern. Most of you don’t know anyone affected by the hurricanes. But I don’t need a fundraiser or any volunteers. I already politely declined the assistance of the Red Cross. Just keep me in your prayers. I’d like to think this whole ordeal has given me new insight. They say the Lord works in mysterious ways. Apparently, ruining my vacation plans is a high priority for Him.

So now what? There is a real possibility my “vacation” next week will likely be spent at work. Memo to my coworkers: If you thought I was disgruntled before…

The Weekend Getaway

A few months ago, my wife and I celebrated our one-year anniversary. Achieving this milestone not only proved dozens of oddsmakers wrong, but it also officially makes me an expert on marital relations. Naturally, I decided to put my wisdom to good use and introduce a new category on Zillionaire, simply entitled “Marital Advice.”

So here’s how this category works: I dispense marital advice and then go into hiding while a mob of angry women seek to have me de-penised (New word!) for exposing the reality of married life. This is what happens when you tell it like it is. And as you know, I’ve always been a straight talkin’ dude. I pride myself on keeping it real.

In all seriousness though, marriage is great. Seriously. If you simply follow the thousands of rules I’ll be documenting on this site, you too can have perpetual marital bliss. With that said, here are some tips for surviving a weekend getaway with your wife…

Tip #1: When going on a weekend getaway with your wife, always pack your own clothes.

Packing for a weekend getaway pits two primal male instincts against each other: The desire to be in charge versus the compelling alternative of being lazy and letting your wife pack your clothes for you. But be mindful, there is a reason she is offering to pack for you. Hard to see, the dark side is. Your wife is usually smart enough to suppress an evil laugh when making this overture, so don’t expect your Spidey-sense to tingle ominously. That’s why I’m here to help…

It all goes back to your wife’s childhood. From the moment she received her first Ken doll as a little girl, it was ingrained in her that the man in Barbie’s life is pretty much a fashion accessory to whatever Barbie is wearing. Like a blank canvas, a buck-naked Ken doll was an outlet for little girls to express their fashion creativity by dressing a male figure in a way that robbed him of his dignity and masculinity. Since his head was hollow and plastic, and since he lacked beer-swilling buddies to save face from in the Barbie fantasy world, there was no protest from Ken when he was placed in a tuxedo with a pink bow tie and matching cummerbund. This became the genesis of your wife’s concept of acceptable male attire. Fast-forward twenty years later… Her fashion sense remains the same, except now your wife simply substitutes her husband as a life-size and slightly more anatomically correct Ken doll to dress.

So how does this affect you? While the original Ken doll came with lots of accessories, his wardrobe unfortunately lacked sleeveless Homecoming ’94 t-shirts, Budweiser bandanas or anything camouflaged. Because of this, your wife doesn’t think it is suitable for a man to dress this way, even though these items constitute 98% of the average male wardrobe.

Also, since your wife doesn’t drive a pink Corvette, the closest thing she’ll ever experience to the Barbie lifestyle is dressing her man in an “outfit” that is coordinated with what she is wearing. For instance, here’s a brief list of what you could look like if you allow your wife to pack your clothes:

a) A member of a boy band (Usually the “sensitive” one with a fu-Manchu and purple-tinted sunglasses.)
b) A cast member of “The OC.” (Any of them would qualify.)
c) A mannequin at the GAP. (The one wearing a turtleneck and a scarf.)

Of course, here’s what you won’t be dressed like: A man.

But, it’s not just what she packs. It’s also what she doesn’t pack. For instance, women don’t see the need to bring a fart machine to a wedding… or a flask to a funeral service… or the Xbox to, well, pretty much anywhere. This means that not only will you find yourself wearing a pink cardigan sweater in a public setting; you’ll also be without the necessary mancessories (Another new word!) to survive the weekend at hand. But that’s only half the battle…

Tip #2: Even if it’s only for a weekend, do not share a suitcase with your wife.

Clearly, this ties in with tip #1. While this tip conflicts with male inclinations towards efficiency and minimizing luggage, it is simply counterproductive to pack your own clothes in a suitcase your wife will share. The reasoning is simple: You’ll never be able to find your clothes again. Feel free to dig around. Your clothes may be in there, sure… if you like finding needles in haystacks.

Me: “Where are my socks? I packed them in the outer pouch…”
My Wife: “Oh, I moved them. They should be buried somewhere in the bottom of the bag where they’re impossible to find.”

That’s the first obstacle. Regardless of how you initially pack your clothes, your wife will re-pack the suitcase in the following manner:

The top layer is devoted to gigantic beauty appliances: Travel irons, hair dryers, curling irons, belt sanders… along with any extension cords, gasoline and power strips that might be needed to operate multiple devices at once. Of course, all of these are absolute necessities, so don’t even attempt to question their importance on a weekend getaway. There’s no way to win this argument, but you can score one for your side. The best thing to do is cite how long (in seconds) it takes you to style your hair. Women love this.

The next layer consists of her beauty products. I can live with transporting 20 or 30 pounds of makeup, but my wife also insists on packing her own shampoo and conditioner as well. For some reason, she fails to realize that hotels provide these products for free. I no longer argue this issue, because at this point, I’m just thankful we’re not hauling in our own towels and linens.

The next layer is her clothes and shoes. However many days you plan to be gone, multiply that number by eight and you’ll get the number of days she’s actually packed for. Also, add and subtract 60 degrees in temperature to the weather that is forecasted, and you’ll find that she’s packed for those conditions too. Finally, add in 14 other outfits for the standard “in case we” scenarios. These include, “in case we go clam digging” or “in case we go bullfighting” or “in case we enter a judo tournament.” Of course, regardless of the amount of clothes she packs, you’ll still find her rummaging through her suitcase during the weekend lamenting that she didn’t pack the one item that was left on a hanger back home.

The last, and bottom layer is reserved for your clothes. The reasoning behind this placement is simple: If any of the hair products leak, only the clothes on the bottom will be totally ruined. Of course, that’s implying there is still room for your things. In theory though, this is where they would be. I can’t verify this personally, as I’ve never actually been able to spelunk my way to the bottom of the suitcase to find any of my clothes. I usually just give up and grab a sheet in the hotel room and sport a toga for the duration of the weekend.

Tip #3: By packing your own clothes in a separate suitcase, you can avoid futile arguments.

Me: “What is this? Why did you pack four pairs of shoes? We’re only going to be gone two days!”
My Wife: “Just let me bring what I want! Why do you have to be so controlling?”

Ah yes… And that always ends the discussion. My wife can micromanage and critique every aspect of my attire every day of my life. If I so much as suggest that she’s overpacking, I’m the one that gets labeled as “controlling.” It’s standard. Until the day I learned to pack for myself and use my own suitcase, this exchange precipitated every weekend getaway. So fellow Zillionaires, save yourself and your marriage… just follow these tips. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must now enter the witness relocation program…

Your Tax Dollars At Work

My parents officially retired a few weeks ago, and I thought I would commemorate the event with a few posts about their former professions. Last week I lampooned my mom’s career. Now it’s my dad’s turn…

Former Occupation: Manager of warehouse/receiving facility at a local university.

Note the occupation above. This makes him a state employee. Hence, the title of this post: Your Tax Dollars At Work. Believe me, after finishing this post you’ll have plenty of reasons to write your congressman.

The Internet: My dad actually accomplished something pretty amazing a few weeks ago, as I really had no idea you could retire from surfing the Internet all day. To be fair, that’s not all that his day consisted of…

The Forwards: Have you ever wondered where all the forwards clogging your inbox actually originated from? My dad’s computer is ground zero. He’ll send out anything… just a few weeks ago (true story) he sent me a series of pictures capturing a guy attempting to shoot a firecracker from between his butt cheeks. Again, your tax dollars at work.

The Notebooks: Using the Internet and an ungodly amount of time on his hands, my dad meticulously researched products before getting locked into a contract or making major purchase. Have you ever seen a 400-page notebook comparing the features of cable television versus a satellite dish? What about a binder containing analysis of every cell phone plan in existence? Of course, by the time these notebooks are actually complete, the technology he’s looking to purchase is obsolete.

Emailing: His personal emails are much like his comments on this site: Contrite, no punctuation, all letters capitalized. Essentially, my father types as if he has purchased a classified ad and is paying by the character.

The Coffee Drinking: Sadly, my father is also retiring from sitting around and drinking coffee all day. His coffee consumption has been well documented on this site. Now picture a scenario where the coffee was supplied free of charge, in unlimited quantities, and he was being paid to drink it. In other words, this was his definition of a dream job.

Lunch: My dad walked away from a job that provided him with the luxury of going home for lunch everyday. Of course, he eats his lunch on the car ride home, so that his entire lunch hour can be devoted to taking a nap. You see, a full day of surfing the Internet, sending out a ridiculous amount of forwards, and drinking 2 or 3 pots of coffee really takes a lot out of you. Yes, he’ll be tough to replace. Because, despite all of this, he’s still considered highly productive by state employee standards.

Plans For Retirement: Watch the Godfather trilogy. That’s it. This is no exaggeration. My father has worked a lifetime with the hope that he could one day watch three movies in succession. Evidently, I’m pretty sure my dad expects his golden years to last about nine hours.

The Van, My Dad, or Both?: Finally, the only thing truly in need of retirement at my parents’ house is their ’89 Dodge Caravan. This vehicle is an eyesore, with the performance to match. It currently has a blue-book value of $45, and that includes the $30 worth of gas in the tank. If you need further proof that the van is ready to be retired, read the following statements and try and determine whether I’m referring to the van, my dad, or both?

1. Has a spare tire…
2. Is old and gray…
3. Performance is sometimes sluggish due to bad gas…
4. Is no longer insurable…
5. Often blows a gasket on long family car trips…
6. Not cool to be seen in public with…
7. Has dead insects stuck in grill…
8. Leaks fluids overnight….
9. Is developing a musty aroma…
10. Is prone to backfiring…
11. Is not compatible with modern electronics…
12. Questionable as to whether it can reach 60…
13. Has an ample seat cushion…
14. If left on the street corner, neighbors would likely complain…
15. Requires an annual inspection of the tailpipe…
16. Needs major body work…
17. Will likely be abandoned on side of road someday…
18. Would likely fail an emissions test…

So there it is, best of luck and congratulations to my parents on their early retirement…

The Greatest Teacher on Erath

My parents officially retired a few weeks ago, and I thought I would commemorate the event with a few posts about their former professions. We’ll start first with my mom…

Former Occupation: Fifth-grade teacher.

Easiest Part of Job: That’s easy: The jar of Skittles… (the remnants of which are currently on display at my parent’s lake house.) Skittles are the currency of fifth-graders. Apparently, you can bribe fifth graders to do anything as long as a handful of Skittles are involved. Do your homework! Learn your spelling words! Behave perfectly… here’s a Skittle. She had the entire classroom doped up on the performance-enhancing drug known as Skittles. And Skittles aren’t even that good, that’s the amazing thing. Imagine if a Snickers bar were dangled… these kids would be splitting the atom.

Toughest Part of Job: Aside from teaching math, science and English, she also had to teach sex education to a bunch of ten year olds. Honestly, I would rather teach feces-throwing to a group of monkeys. There would at least be some dignity in that. Let’s face it: this kind of material really has no place in the classroom, as it is best learned through cable television and political press conferences. The kids pretty much giggle and fidget through the whole lesson anyway, as the primary authority figure in their lives is reduced to standing before them attempting to say the word “erection” with a straight face. Try it. It can’t be done. I guess this is pretty much my definition of comedy too, so I suppose the giggling is justified. This is made all the more difficult for teachers considering they can’t show a video on this topic, and there’s really no way to incorporate Skittles into the lesson plan.

Thing She’ll Miss the Least: Grading the hygiene of 10 year olds. Not only do teachers have to evaluate their students’ academic performance, but they also must grade them on their personal hygiene as well. Seems kind of harsh doesn’t it? How do you even do this? When a kid raises their hand to answer a question, do teachers covertly wander over and smell their armpit? You know, just to make sure they’re using deodorant. While you’re there, I suppose you could check for earwax buildup as well. I just assume teachers maintain a log of all of this, along with any nosepickings they witness each day and then grade on a curve. But the question is, can you be held back for this? “Sorry, Johnny… you read at a tenth-grade level, but unfortunately you wet yourself at a first-grade level… we think it’s best that you repeat the fifth grade.”

Telling Sign It Was Time To Move On: Aside from replacing a teacher, Valley View will now have to find a new director of the Christmas program. It’s probably for the best. Last year my mom confessed that she had been grooming the star of last year’s play since the girl was in kindergarten. Let me tell ya, lots of nervous glances were exchanged when she admitted that one. My mom had basically turned the Christmas play into the Chinese Olympic gymnastics team, where girls are taken from their families at an early age and groomed for performance through rigorous practice schedules and controlling their diet. I can only assume my mom was walking up behind this girl and taking the cheeseburger off her plate at the hot lunch line.

Most Rewarding Aspect of Job: So what are the thanks for all of this? If you’re lucky, a student will make you a handmade gift at the end of the year as a token of appreciation. In my mom’s case, one year a student made a plaque that read “Greatest Teacher on Erath.” What is “Erath” you ask? That’s what you get when you misspell “Earth.” Obviously, this student must have went off his Skittles regimen during the production phase. In all fairness, it was a unique gift. It’s rare when one receives a backhanded compliment suitable for hanging on a wall.

Plans for Retirement: Read a lot of books, maybe watch TV until a grandkid arrives.

Up next, my Dad…