So it's about 13 hours into hell day 5 of our massive push to meet a development deadline. The first 9 hours of my day were spent on a production support call for another project that would have been complete two weeks ago if our vendor (who is neither Romanian nor Canadian) had half a clue. The Chinese food arrives for dinner and I gather the troops for our evening repast.
Spirits are dragging a bit. Everybody is still trying to wear a game face but you can feel the tension. People are getting tired and grumpy and all they have to look forward to is a weekend of 12 hour plus days followed by a week of the same or worse. My brain is still somewhere in the UK on that support call and I notice that somebody has passed me a fortune cookie.
I open it up and toss the cookie. I can't stand those cardboard vanilla things. Pure nasty. Ever walk into a Chinese bakery? That's because there aren't any. Stick with rice and MSG, damn it!
Anywho, I get a juvenile kick out of reading the fortunes and adding "...in bed" to the end of them. So the typical milquetoast "The honest man earns great riches" becomes "The honest man earns great riches...in bed". It always works.
So I read this thing and "...in bed" doesn't work. I'm stunned. My QA lead asks me what my fortune says. This is the set up I would have been waiting for. This is where I put on my serious face and solemnly utter "You will find great friends...in bed" or whatever mildly humorous thing the cookie has rendered. People smile. Spirits are restored a bit. But this one doesn't work.
Then I got an idea!
An awful idea!
THE PM GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
My serious face in place, I stretch out the paperlet and cleard my throat. "It says", I solemnly utterd as I look down at it "You are only half as popular as you think you are."
"NO WAY!" she replies. My eyes crinkle a bit. Our Graphic Artist catches on right quick. He cracks his cookie and reads out "Your friends talk about you behind your back". Others start to get it.
"Everybody knows you masturbate."
"My lucky numbers are ... Don't bother, you're a natural born loser."
"Your mother masturbates to your yearbook picture."
We almost had to give the Heimlich to one of our analysts after that last one. Spirits were suitably restored.
The project manager's job is so much more than charts and schedules.
Okay, it's been 6 years over two vehicles but I'm finally ready to stand up and admit it. I am a minivan driver. I'm not saying I'm a truck driver stuck in a minivan or an SUV aficionado forced into minivandom by circumstances. I am an actual, honest to God, confirmed and anointed minivan driver.
I sit high up and can actually see what's going on around me. I live in Atlanta - on these roads you need this height just to hit par. Whenever I rent a car I feel like I'm an ant lost in SUVland.
I can take 7 friends or family (or occasionally work folk) 300 miles in any direction without stopping. I can tow shit. I can strap stuff on the roof without running rope through my windows.
E.L.F. does not light minivans on fire.
While the advantages are obvious there are admittedly a couple of problems. First, it's a minivan. Although my engine is bigger than the recycled sedan engines in comparably sized neo-trucks I will never get street cred. It is next to impossible to look cool with one arm at 12 o'clock, the other out the window and Nickelback blaring on the speakers when all of that is happening in a minivan.
There's also this blind spot at the passenger's side rear. I'm used to a blind spot on the driver's side and have learned to compensate for that over 20 years of driving. I still have problems with the one on the passenger's side though. It's a monster on my particular type of minivan - big enough to hide a Labrador Retriever in.
So anyway, my question is ... How do you tell your kids that their favorite pet is dead?
I've lived in both Oakland and San Diego; the proverbial arm pit and sun tanned breast of California respectively. I thoroughly enjoyed both. I've got family out in the O.C. I've got friends peppered up and down the coast. I've always kept California near the top of my list of places I'd be willing to move to. But after this morning? Not so much.
The Scene: I'm in the kitchen making coffee. Lovely Wife is outside in the car port.Lovely Wife: Listen to the warning on this label: "Warning: This product contains a chemical known to the state of California to cause cancer and birth defects and other reproductive harm."
Me: What is it? Cleanser?
Lovely Wife: A fishing pole.
Me: A fishing pole?
Lovely Wife: Yeah. A fishing pole.
Me: A fishing pole that causes cancer and birth defects?
Lovely Wife: Yeah. But only in California.
So there it is. If I can't fish there I can't live there and I'm not going to take the chance of catching birth defects from my fishing pole. Sorry, California. You're off the list.
I really dislike those pithy little sayings like "A picture paints a thousand words" and "Three times is a charm". People tend to take them as actual maxims of life, giving them far more weight than they could possibly merit, simply because they are well known. They absolve people of the burden of rational thinking and justifying their arguments. Instead of arguing and proving a point, just throw an idiomatic saying at it.
Take "Three times is a charm" for example. People throw this one out to escape culpability for screwing the pooch twice. They wouldn't be on time three if they hadn't royally fucked up time one and time two.
[The Scene: After a long day of fishing followed by the application of high temperatures to brats and tube steaks we are relaxing outside the homestead. Kota (our chocolab) trots over for some lovin' and then settles down by my chair and starts licking my feet.
Sompopo: Oh, yeah. Licking the feet. That's got to feel good.Me: Especially between the toes. Come on, baby. Suck out that toe jam!
Sompopo: [laughs] It feels good but sort of gross at the same time.
Me: Yeah. A bit gross and sort of freaky. Like, damn... I am sitting here getting a canine tongue bath...
Sompopo: Yup. Sort of like "Damn this feels good and I don't want it to stop, but does enjoying this make me a pervert?"
Me: Exactly! Just like sex with midgets.
Sompopo: [stunned silence]
Sompopo: [continued stunned silence]
Me: Dude, it's a joke.
Sompopo: I know, but I think you're going straight to hell anyway. Just for thinking that up.
I woke with the instant panicked reaction that DANGER was present. My flight or fight reflex was in full effect. I was immobilized and I was being smothered. In my moment of waking clarity I knew that the inevitable had finally happened - the children were launching their coup and were trying to take me out in my sleep.
I fought back. The vermin weren't going to get me without some losses! My arms were being held down, preventing me from clearing my face and taking a breath. With a mighty heave I ripped my right arm free, throwing the soft body against the wall with a satisfying "thwack".
I kicked out, freeing my legs. I rolled over violently, upsetting the clinging evil that still covered my supine form. In the back of my mind it registered that Lovely Wife was not in the bed. Had they already finished her or was she holding out somewhere else in the house? I had to finish this fight quickly if she was to have any chance of survival.
I leaped from the bed. As I did, the last of the pillows fell off. I rushed for the door and ...
Stopped.
Pillows?
I flicked the light on to see my vanquished enemy strewn about the room. Not children at all, except perhaps the children of Martha Stewart. They were pillows. Pillows everywhere. Plus one rather tangled up duvet.
On the plus side the children weren't actively striving for my demise. At least not yet anyway. On the negative side I now had to return to sharing my bed with nine homicidal pillows and their duvet overlord.
There should be a law about how many stuffed objects a man can be subjected to at one time.
[step, step, step]
[zip]
[sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle]
[zip]
[step, step, step]
[splash, splash, splash]
[step, step, step]
Database guy: [jokingly] You allergic to soap or something?
Irate Project Manager: What?
Database guy: You didn't use soap when you washed your hands.
Irate Project Manager: It's seven in the morning. The only thing my dick has touched since being thoroughly scrubbed with a loufa an hour and a half ago is the inside of freshly laundered underwear.
Database guy: Dude, I'm just joking...
Irate Project Manager: My dick is clean. It's not like I'm bending programmers over their monitors and ramming my cock in their asses.
[stunned silence]
Irate Project Manager: Yet.
[more silence]
Database guy: So...Project Black Widow running behind schedule?
Irate Project Manager: Yeah. How did you know?
Database guy: Just a guess.
Had an email blasted to everybody in the office this morning. It was from our Executive Fembot Assistant:
Good morning,When utilizing the break room appliances (i.e. toaster) please do not put plastic utensils inside of them.
This can cause a potentially hazardous situation and can result in a fire.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Which led directly to this IM conversation:
CoolyCoo MoDee*: It frightens me that you have to actually tell people this.DeathAngel**: Tell me about it! Would you believe his is the 7th time I have had to remove spoons from the toaster?! What is wrong with these people?
CoolyCoo MoDee: Dropped on the head too often as children, no doubt.
DeathAngel: Can we do that now? What does the HR manual say?
CoolyCoo MoDee: I think it's allowed, as long as you don't say anything sexual or religious while you do it.
HeadDropper: Excellent. That's my new nic.
CoolyCoo MoDee: Um...
To cap it all off, when I went to take a leak I found myself faced with a wall plastered with boogers. I work with fucking pigs. Fucking moron pigs.
* What? It's an affectation.
** Name changed (slightly) to protect the guilty.
Jen is closing in on her quarter millionth visit. That's almost as many site hits as donuts on Michael Moore's brunch buffet!
Jen's also giving away a bucket to visitor number quarter millionny. Not just any bucket, mind you. Jen's bucket is full of buckety goodness.
She'll be hitting the magic number today. Who will win the goody bucket? Could it be you?
The scene: Post dinner, pre-bedtime. Some time during the day the boys had caught an episode of Dora the Explorer
Bear: Daddy! Listen to this! Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco. That's how to count to five in Spanish.Me: Wow. Pretty good, Bear. Can you go higher?
Bear: Yeah, but I forgot. Can you go higher?
Me: I think so... Six, siete, ocho, nueve, diez. I'm much better in French.
Bear: Cool! Tell me in French!
Me: Un, dous, trois, quatre, senq, six, septe, huit, neuf, dix.
Bear: Wow. Can you speak in any other languages?
Me: Just cuss words mostly, but I'm fluent in Canadian*.
Bear: Can you teach me how to speak Canadian?
Me: No problem. Just say whatever you want in English but pronounce it like a question and add an "eh" at the end. Like this: It's getting close to bed time, eh?
Bear: Can I watch TV in bed, eh?
Me: Not quite. They don't use questions since every sentence is a question anyway. Rephrase that question as a statement but state it like a question.
Bear: I'll watch some TV in bed, eh?
Me: Much better! And the answer is no.
Bear: That really sucks, eh?
Me: You're a natural! Now take off hoser, eh?
* I joke about Canada because it's...Canada. Serious though, I love Canada. It's one of my favorite states.
DATELINE: Atlanta
Researchers at MGRC* announced today that they have isolated the elusive "PTY" gene. This gene has been difficult to isolate because it is active only when paired with both X and Y chromosomes. That is, although it is present in all humans it is only turned on in males.
The PTY gene is classified as "limited functionality" because it has a very minor effect. According to MGRC researchers the only function of this gene is that when active the person will visually survey a surface before sitting on it.
With the gene isolated MGRC researchers were able to activate it in female subjects using targetted stimuli. Research subject Janet Mulberry related her experience of having an activated PTY gene:
"It was incredible" Janet reported. "I woke up in the middle of the night and had to piddle. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light like always but then had this incredible urge to look at the toilet before I sat down. I looked at it and the seat was up! I put the seat down before I sat and had a perfectly comfortable potty experience. I can't tell you how many times I've had a wet tuckus during previous bathroom trips. I feel...empowered!"
MGRC is now turning its attention on gene IGNR. Similar to PTY, this is a limited functionality gene active only when paired with X and Y chromosomes and governs a specific behavior. The IGNR gene is thought to produce a semi-catatonic state when the subject is exposed to excessive amounts of input in the high vocal register. When in this state the subject will nod frequently and utter noncomittal common phrases such as "Yes dear", "Of course dear", and "Whatever you say dear". Short term memory is completely shut down during these periods.
* Madeup Genetic Research Center
What do nudists do about butt sweat?
I'm not talking about olestra-esque anal seepage or other such nastiness. I'm talking about standard everyday butt sweat. The juicy crack syndrome that occurs on hot days or during intense bouts of physical exercise. Butt sweat hits everybody, old and young, man or woman*. Nudists certainly aren't immune.
For us regular clothes wearing types it can be taken care of with a strategic self administered semi-wedgie. Care being taken, of course, to avoid excessive depth and the track marks that could thereby result. A surreptitious crack swipe followed by a demure cheek shake to release the cotton is all that we norms require. What are the nudists doing?
When it comes down to it they must either embrace the butt sweat or use an alternate means of dealing with it. I can't imagine the first. I mean really - if you ignore the dewy gorge long enough the misting will eventually become genuine precipitation. I can't imagine anybody who could long tolerate butt sweat trickling into their coochie or dripping off their sack of balls like some twisted Japanese water torture. For nudists this would be even worse. Every time they sat down they'd leave a Rorschach test.
So if we eliminate the first option, the second must be true. Nudists are handling the butt sweat with some sort of wedgie alternative**. Do they have towels lying around with needlepoint messages like "Butt Sweat Only" and "If You Only Knew Where I've Been"? Do they make constant trips to the loo? Perhaps they carry around a personal nappy for just this occurrence?
It's mysteries like this that will forever keep nudists as strange and exotic creatures to mundanes like me.
* Don't try to deny it, ladies. If women didn't have butt sweat used panties wouldn't sell for $50 on eBay.
** "Alternative Wedgie" would be an excellent name for a rock band.
Bear: Crocodiles are the only living dinosaur.Bacon: Are they really dinosaurs?
Me: Not quite. But the ancestors of crocodiles lived in the age of the dinosaurs.
Bacon: Oh. But they weren't dragons.
Me: No, definitely not dragons.
Bear: Dragons have poison spit.
Me: I thought they had fiery breath.
Bear: No, Daddy. Those are the story ones. The real ones have poison spit.
Bacon: Yeah. The Komoko dragons.
Me: Oh, right. The saliva of the Komodo dragons have virulent bacteria.
Bear: And if they bite you, you'll be dead in a day.
Bacon: And you have to be careful because they'll spit on you with their poison spit.
Me: Komodo dragons don't really spit. They just have saliva that's very poisonous.
Bear: Yeah, they don't spit poison spit.
Bacon: Oh.
Bear: You're probably thinking of Howard Dean.
I might make politics an off topic at the dinner table.
There was a pleasant surprise for us this morning. The bosses brought in a load of high carb breakfast substances. The danishes were typically yummy. My favorite is the cheese danish. The cream cheese-like filling on these helps to mitigate the unbearable sweetness of the pastry and sugar shellac resulting in bakery goodness that is not quite so sweet that I can't eat it.
And there were bagels. Bagels of many varieties and with loads of butter, cream cheese, lox and other toppings available. When I entered the break room and saw this plethora of chewy Jewy breakfast goodness I immediately started salivating. There's nothing quite like a good bagel to start out the day.
And these were nothing like good bagels.
Burger (age 3 as you know) has a vocabulary problem. Specifically, he's been using words that should be reserved for grown-ups. More specifically, words that should be reserved for grown-up political pundits and/or grown-ups who just hit their thumb with a hammer. We are working on correcting this antisocial behaviour but sometimes it just blows right up in our faces.
[Burger and Bacon are bouncing on the trampoline. Bacon makes contact with his brother (most likely by intention but that couldn't be proven in a court of law) and Burger responds.]Burger: You're an asshole!
Lovely Wife: What did you say? You get over here right away young man!
[Burger makes his way slowly over to Lovely Wife, defiance writ large upon his brow.]
Lovely Wife: You do NOT use words like that! If you have a problem with your brother you work it out with him. If you can't do that, bring it to me. There is no excuse for swearing.
[Burger mumbles something under his breath. It's clear we have not achieved "buy in".]
Lovely Wife: I'm serious, Burger. Do not use cuss words. Do you even know what an "asshole" is?
[Burger brightens noticeably.]
Burger: Yeah! I do! Bacon's an asshole!
I fear he has discovered our primary weakness. We are functionally unable to discipline him when we are laughing our asses off.
Today started out...interestingly.
Bacon: Daddy! I made Yu-gi-oh cards!Me: You made them?
Bacon: Yeah, look!
[Bacon brings over a stack of paper with random drawings and numbers on them]
Me: Oh! I see. Very nice, buddy.
Bacon: This one is a dragon monster. Look at how many life points he has!
Me: Wow. That's a tough monster there.
Bacon: And this one has WHORES!
Me: Whores?!
Bacon: Yeah, whores on the top AND the bottom!
Me: Um...
Bacon: See? And he can stab with them!
[Bacon presents one of his drawings, proudly pointing to the features in question.]
Me: Oh! Horns!
Bacon: Yeah. Lots of them! I wish I had a bunch of whores too!
Me: Well that goes without saying.
I need more coffee.
Me: Is "ballsacks" one word or two?
Coworker: Just one.
Me: Are you sure? Spellcheck says it's two.
Coworker: Try spellchecking "spellcheck".
[Pause]
Me: Oh. I see.
Coworker: Yeah. If the damn thing can't even recognize it's own name you can be pretty sure it's clueless about ballsacks.
I'm old. As evidence I present this conversational snippet from Monday:
Bear: Do you know what tomorrow is?Me: What's tomorrow?
Bear: Tuesday!
Me: Yeah, the chances are high that tomorrow will be a Tuesday.
Bear: Do you know what else is tomorrow?
Me: The day before Wednesday?
Bear: Your birthday!
Me: It is? Are you sure?
Bear: Yeah!!
Me: How about that... Hey, how old will I be?
Bear: Real old. Sixty-three.
Me: Sixty...three...??
Bear: I meant thirty-six! It just looks almost the same as sixty-three!
So there you have it out of the mouths of babes. Or at least out of the mouth of a cheeky six year-old. I'm just hoping that "it" was the numerals and not my aging carcass.
Hmmm...I'd better be careful around the homestead. I can now be legally exchanged for two eighteen year-olds...
Bear got quite a load for his birthday this year. With the money that Grandma and Uncle sent he bought a slew of Bionicle toys. With the money that Aunt sent he purchased for himself a little digital camera. He was so excited about the camera and went around taking hundreds of pictures yesterday. Literally. We have almost two hundred snaps of the television. We'll be working on subject quality now.
The camera is pretty neat for a little $20 job. It taks halfway decent pictures if you and the subject are both perfectly still. Of course that means that most of the pictures that Bear has taken are massive colorful blurs (except for the television shots - those are all crystal clear). It also functions as a screencam and takes movie clips.
Movie clips. That's pretty cool.
So here I am. A somewhat morally challenged but otherwise healthy adult male. Alone at the computer with a digital camera that takes movie clips. Of course I did what any other Id deficient fella would have done in my place. I made a clip of myself masturbating.
Just have to remember to take that file out of the default save folder. Wouldn't want to traumatize the kids. Or the Lovely Wife.
Blackmoth the Terriblest was just too cute and we've been trying to trick him into a repeat performance. Last night as we were tucking the boys into bed we finally just came out and asked him.
Lovely Wife: Goodnight Blackmoth.Burger: I'm not Blackmoth.
Me: You were Blackmoth the other night.
Burger: No I wasn't.
Bacon: Yeah, no he isn't.
Me: Sure you were. With the Power Rangers sheet over your head...remember?
Lovely Wife: It was Aladdin sheets, actually.
Burger: No. Not me.
Me: You don't remember jumping into our room and yelling "I'm Blackmoth!"?
Burger: I'm not Blackmoth. I'm Burger.
Lovely Wife: Well you were pretending to be Blackmoth.
Burger: No. Not me. I'm not Blackmoth.
And then it hit me. Of course he won't admit to being Blackmoth! He's in his cover identity of Burger Peacock. Only his closest and darkest associates and henchmen (aka Bacon) are permitted to know that Burger, unassuming neighborhood kid, is actually Blackmoth the Terriblest, nefarious watcher of Nick at Night.
He's good. Oh, he's real good.
The boys are allowed to watch TV before they go to bed. The objective here is some quiet relaxation time so we're not pouring wired up kids into their beds with instructions to fall asleep. The caveat is that their selection is pretty limited. Channels like Discovery, Animal Planet and The History Channel are allowed. Their favorite channels (Nick, Cartoon Network) are not. The nighttime programming on those two is simply not acceptable for little kids.
Sometimes it works well, other times not quite. Lately they've been using quiet relaxation time for ninja fights and trampoline contests on the bed. When the noise level creeps up to levels noticeable to the fascist regulators (that's us) the TV goes off and they are put straight to bed. This has been happening with greater frequency of late so is high in our minds as bedtime approaches.
The other night as the boys are cleaning up their rooms in preparation for turning in, Lovely Wife and I were in our room making our bed. Bear walked in with a request.
Given: Home improvements are an investment.Given: Investments are money.
Given: Momma always say to put your money away for a rainy day.
Ergo: You should only paint the house if it's raining.
The fact that you can't paint your house if it is raining is just a side benefit.
So the other day we were out enjoying the beautiful Atlanta weather. Bear spontaneously started dancing a little jig and singing to himself.
[spin, twist, dip]Hey now there you
[cabbage patch with head bob]
Can I punch you
[shoulder shake, butt shake]
In the
[stop moving, protracted pause after looking up and realizing everybody is watching, revert to normal voice]
I have no idea what I'm talking about.
So politics are not in the future. He's going to have way too many skeletons in the closet.
Things are looking good for being the next prophet of Scientology though.
The Production Manager at my old job in Buffalo had a green plastic button on his desk labeled "Make Everything Go Smoothly". It was just a plastic novelty piece and obviously didn't do anything but when things got stressful he's press it and it would make him feel better. Sort of a psychological soothing feeling came from pressing that worthless button. I just discovered that this concept is widely implemented.
Elevator doors irritate me. When you are moving toward them they are closing. When everybody is on or off the elevator they stand open. There's a solution for the latter one though - the "Close Doors" button. But does this button do anything? It makes you feel better when you press it. You are actually doing something concrete to address your current situation. It is empowering. But is it useful? It never actually seems to make the doors close any faster than they normally would.
Just now, on an impulse (I get these quite often when I'm alone on in an elevator), I popped the "Close Doors" button out of the console. While it was definitely a button it was no more functional than my old PM's magic green button. There was nothing behind the button at all. Just empty space and the unfinished interior wall of the elevator.
I can't decide what to do now - spread the information around to the people here or keep it my secret and giggle inside whenever I see somebody pressing the magic button.
Or maybe a mixture of the two? Wait until the satisfied expression lights up the face of the button presser and then give the news that their action is ultimately worthless.
Yeah, I think that last option is the one I'll go with.
I helped to move Dopple-G this weekend. He (fortunately) wasn't in the immediate area to hear most some of these:
Oh! That was unfortunate.Did you just hit the wall with that truck?
No.
[crunch]
How about now?A little masking tape and that hutch will be as good as new.
[At a stop light a black Denali (that's a big-ass SUV, in case you're not familiar) with oversized racing tires drove past.]
You've really got to feel sorry for a guy with a penis that small.That dresser will go in the bedroom.
Really? Thanks, Galileo.So that's what 'fragile' means.
What the hell is on that mattress?
I don't know, but it sure is salty.It'll fit, just deflate it a bit more.
What are you doing in there?
Christening the new bathroom.
Christening?
You're right - it's more of a baptism.You're drinking beer?
Hell, it's twelve o'clock somewhere.
I think the phrase is "it's five o'clock somewhere".
Shit. It's five o'clock somewhere too.
Good times.
Everybody dogs on France because ... well, mostly because they're French. I think that by now everybody has seen the list of French military defeats. They've pretty much lost every major and minor military conflict since bronze was first beaten into a spearpoint.
But do we have to keep saying that they are incompetent military losers who haven't won a war during their past twenty governments? This is a kinder, gentler world. A world of PC feel-goodness, verbal cuddling and slash-Americans. Can't we think of a nicer way to express the deficiencies of the French armed forces? I think we can. Try this on for size:
"The French army has consistently finished in the top 3 against every opponent they have faced. In fact, in the vast majority of conflicts, they have achieved the second best performance. The French armed forces are truly Silver Medal quality."
Now isn't that better?
We have three urinals in the men's room here at work. With one men's room and 60 or so guys it's fairly common to see somebody else in there when you go to drain the main vein. One fellow worker has been a cause of concern. You see, any time I walk in and he's there he is occupying the center urinal. As you all know, this is classified as a major violation according to the BBMRE*.
If you are the first fella at a bank of three urinals you should be occupying an outer urinal. Preferably the one closest to the door so your presence is more easily noted by others entering the bathroom and you are thereby more easily avoided. Taking the center urinal is a major violation because it almost guarantees AUWC**.
I don't think that most women understand AUWC so I'll attempt to clarify. It is not a "gay thing", it's a "guy thing". Homosexual men avoid AUWC just as stringently as straight men. The basic rule is that you do not stand next to another man and piss unless forced to do so by situations outside of your control (the "last urinal" exemption) or during temporary suspension of the AUWC rule caused by sporting events and alcohol or the presence of snow banks or open fire pits.
This fellow's habitual use of the center urinal clearly marked him as either etiquettely challenged or a pervert.
I'm happy to say that he is neither. Just moments ago I went to pay off the interest on a coffee loan and happened to walk into the bathroom right behind him. He went first to the preferred urinal (the one closest to the door), sighed in disappointment, and flushed it. He then went to the secondary urinal (the other outside urinal), sighed deeper, muttered a curse, and flushed it. Only then did he go to the center urinal to do his business.
Mystery solved. He's not a pervert, he's just another victim of the filthy bastards here who don't know how to flush a urinal.
I'm very relieved.
* Big Book of Men's Room Etiquette
** Adjacent Urination Without Cause
Helen has a list of demands for the world at large. It's good stuff - mostly common sense things like having an option for a non-shedding cat (besides those nasty hairless ones, of course). I put a couple of my own in her comments but my brain has been on fire since then and has regurgitated its own list.
Dear World, the following are my demands:
* Stop making hot sauces turn my ass into a fiery red inferno of pain and bloody leakage the next day. I know back in the day that this was a mark of honor and gave me bragging rights to show off my consumption of deadly spices but these days I'm not showing off at all. Honest. I just like the taste and would like to enjoy it without the specter of a disintegrating colon hanging over my head.* Please throw whatever switch is needed in women's heads so they'll understand that it is not necessary to have any particular objective in mind in order to purchase a reciprocating saw. Having a reciprocating saw is self justifying just because it is.
The argument between the Creationists/Intelligent Design people and the Scientific/Many Pens in the Pocket community is a fiery and contentious thing. The battle is waged in the legislature, in school boards around the country and in uncountable online communities and their offline equivalent, Starbucks.
I always counted myself among the enlightened skeptics until this morning in the shower when I realized that there really did have to be something behind the design of the human body. There is one feature of the male body that is so perfectly designed for its use that the mere thought that it might have resulted from happenstance is simply ludicrous. One area that if it were even marginally different would have spelled the extinction of our race.
I speak of course of the male's lack of boobies. Imagine if you will a world where men had boobies. Men are unable to resist the draw of a boobie. We are genetically programmed to want to play with them (that's why they call them "fun bags" you know). We want to fondle them, jiggle them, wiggle them and squoosh them into a single virtual boobie with two nipples. Speaking of nipples, we have a serious fixation with manipulating those suckers too.
Imagine what things would be like if every man on the planet had a pair of boobies that they were allowed to play with at any time. No constructive work would ever be done. Meetings, already a bastion of inefficiency, would become a total farce as nobody would be paying attention except perhaps for a moment or two between sessions of fondling their boobies.
Sales of disposable razors would skyrocket though. Furry boobies are a major turn-off so most guys would be shaving their chests. That would of course add considerable time to a guy's morning routine. Not only the time spent shaving the boobies but the aftermath of the shaving itself. Seriously now, what do you think would happen when a guy was confronted by a well lathered set of boobies? Tardiness at work would be a huge problem.
It's obvious then that men don't have boobies for a reason. If the Creationists ever get a hold on this argument they'll easily win the whole debate.
I just figured this out and it is so cool I had to share it with all of you. Every word really does mean 'nads'. Just put it in the right context and BLAMMO, it's nads. Here's an example:
He missed the line drive and the ball smacked him right in the wall socket.
Now 'wall socket' doesn't ordinarily mean 'nads', right? Well, not in your everyday conversation anyway. But just by creating the imagery of a guy getting a line drive in the groin we've made a normally placid and harmless word mean 'nads'. Isn't that great?
Here's another one:
Never drive naked. Bob did that last Tuesday and got his block and tackle stuck to the seat.
Hee hee hee. I feel so naughty. I'll never think of pulleys the same way again.
Hey, wouldn't 'pulleys' be a good euphemism for wanking off? Just thought of that.
Sorry. Got sidetracked. Back to the nads. This is just the coolest thing. I'll be doing this for hours.
Go ahead. Try it for yourselves.
In a couple of weeks we'll be traveling to Spokane. I'm going to basically be on blog-hiatus for eight days. The Snooze gets bitchy and moody if I ignore it for more than a weekend so it is imperative that I find a couple of blogsitters. If you are interested in putting up some content while I'm off gallivanting just submit the following application* in the comments:
In a recent meeting my technical lead on the MonsterOfAllProjects told me "It's not important that you know what you're doing. It's only important that you do it correctly." He was referring to my numerous questions about HOW THIS THING WORKED.
The shift from Quality Assurance to Project Management is a bit weird in this. I'm going from needing a full understanding of the process in order to bugger the hell out of it expose its weaknesses to needing to know absolutely nothing about the process. It was explained to me thusly:
Tech Lead: "Tell us what you're putting in and tell us what you want to come out. The rest is ours."Me: "Wait a sec. 'The rest' is what I'm used to dealing with."
Tech Lead: "Not any more. Mwah hah hah hah hah!!"
The evil laugh might have been a tad shorter but that was essentially how the conversation went. So now I have to change my wall sign from "If you build it, it will crash" to "Garbage in, garbage out".
I had a long meeting scheduled today. It is for a program asset database - a central location for all documentation, references and all information on every program we own, build or use. The idea started small and has been growing daily as more and more departments think of information that they want to store.
Today's meeting was to go over the high level requirements and get a basic development strategy. This way a decent development estimate could be made and we could take that to the Legion of Doom executive review board for cost approval. It was going to be a hellabad meeting.
I got there a few minutes early as usual. I set up the laptop, got on the network and hooked up to the overhead projector. I even plugged into the wall since the meeting was probably going to go longish and I didn't want to deal with any battery issues or that incredibly irritating screen-dimming.
People started arriving. The Vice President of Development. A Director of Application Development. Another Director of Application Development. The Vice President of Product & Quality Assurance. It dawned on me that I had all of the top people* responsible for all of our product development together in one room**. That's how big the scope for this program had become. I would have been nervous but my flight/fight reflex had landed firmly in fight mode.
It's begging week pledge drive time at NPR. This time they are doing something a little bit different. They are going to end the begging drive as soon as they reach their goal! Cool, right? Well, no. They've never reached their goal so the chance that they'll reach their goal early is about the same as Michael Moore passing on a deep fried Twinkie.
But I've thought of a way to end this annoying crap early after all. You see, the magic number is for pledges of donations, not the donations themselves. This means that all somebody (meaning "you") has to do to stop the madness is to call up and pledge $600,000 or so. Badda boom, badda bing, pledge drive is over.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Yeah that's great except for the $600,000 debt I'd incur". Well you're wrong. There's no legal financial obligation to fulfill your pledge. A pledge is just your personal promise to give them your money.
Now you're thinking "So you want me to break my word, corrupt my honor, defile my personal integrity just so you don't have to listen to a bunch of whining beggars during your morning commute?" Of course not! I would never ask you to do such a thing. All you have to do is get somebody else to make the pledge. I've got the perfect solution to this problem too. Bums.
That's right. Get a bum to make the call for you. Hell, if a bum is willing to suck a dick for a bottle of Thunderbird it shouldn't be hard to get them to make a phone call for you. If you're a decent negotiator you might even be able to get the BJ and the phone call for the same bottle. They don't have any teeth so it'll probably be worth it.
So get on out there now and find yourself a bum. I greatly appreciate your assistance in this matter.
That's the number of nose pickings I witnessed on the way into work this morning. One of them could possibly have been a mismanaged scratch but at least three were knuckles deep and digging for gold.
What is it about cars that makes people forget that glass works both ways?
So millions of people are marching by the Pope's remains to pay their last respects. Some people have been in line for days. They are coming to Italy from all over the world to say goodbye. For many it is their first time traveling to Italy and for most it is their first time seeing the Pope.
Isn't that just a little bit sick? I could understand a Pope groupie gathering the clan and hightailing it to Vatican City for a last look at the body but we're talking about people who've spent their entire lives without glimpsing His Popliness suddenly feeling the call to go look at a dead body.
What? You couldn't make the trip while the guy was alive? Do you prefer a viewing of a dead, made up, preserved, rigormortised* Pope to the live guy saying mass?
It's really creaping me out. It's like some death cult that comes out of the woodwork to get their jollies over a corpse.
Freaks.
* If he's stiff enough he'd be a Popesicle.
I love etymology*, the study of the source of words. Some of the words in our current lexicon come from some seriously weird places. Take the common greeting Hello, for example. Hello has one of the strangest sources I've come across, one that is seriously out of place with its current use.
Hello is a bastardization of a 14th century phrase Hie below. Hie is from Middle English and means to go quickly. Below in this context meant persons who were underneath the speaker. You see, Hie below was a warning yelled out by upper story tenants when they were about to dump their chamber pots out of windows or off of balconies. It was a very quick method of saying "Whoever is underneath me better get their ass moving fast or they're going to be wearing a shit coat".
Hie below, as is typical for common phrases, contracted over the years. The first commonly recognized contraction in print was in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream when Nick Bottom's character was being publicly ridiculed and despoiled. The feces coated weaver turned erstwhile player uttered the famous line "The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen; such unkind act with nary a hielow". This use of the word is one of Shakespeare's infamous double entendres. Bottom is complaining of both the lack of courtesy in a warning as well as the rudeness of not being properly greeted.
Usage of the word gradually shifted. With advances in sanitation there wasn't so much tossing of shit out of windows any more so that connotation died away. The word survived though and finally morphed into the common greeting of Hello that we all use today.
* Not to be confused with 'entomology', the study of bugs. Although that's pretty cool too.
A hippie is a dirty and smelly hugger of trees. A Goth is a member of an ultra-violent tribe of barbarians that kicked serious ass over half of Eurasia.
What will the new Pope be like? I was listening to NPR* this morning and one of the talking heads was saying he wouldn't be surprised if the new Pope was younger and more energetic. I thought "I sure as hell hope so, buddy. You can't get a whole lot older or less energetic than the dead Pope". Then I realized he meant like overall. He's expecting a younger, more vibrant, hipper Pope.
Maybe a Pope that does a little pop and lock up on the Pope balcony. You know - a little entertainment for the masses. Or for the Mass, depending on your point of view. Maybe a bit of karaoke. Hell, it's got to be one huge temptation to be up there at the Popepodium with thousands of people assembled in the courtyard every day and not occasionally break into Unchain My Heart.
Or maybe, just maybe (my heart trembles at the thought), a kick-boxing Pope. THAT is what the Catholic church really needs. Nobody is going to call the Mother Church old, tired and stodgy with a kick-boxing Pope at the helm. A kick-boxing ninja Pope.
How freaking cool would that be, eh? You'd have young toughs lining up around the block to convert to an ass kicking religion like that. And just think about how this would let the Catholics compete in the Asian markets. What Buddhist monk could stand up to the force of the kick-boxing ninja Pope? Or better yet, a kick-boxing ninja RoboPope!
Yeah, that would be tooooo sweet!
Sometimes NPR actually has some good shit on it.
Who'll play the Pope in the movie?
I figure it'll be Matt Damon for the young Pope, Mel Gibson for the older Pope and Marlon Brando for the Popely Pope.
With Brando as the Popely Pope they won't have to do as much to fake all of the medical problems.
Do you think they'll put the Popemobile up on eBay now?
The Pope died after a long and fruitful life and people all over the world are mourning and praying for him.
Why?
The mourning I understand. The pontiff was a well loved man. But why pray for the Pope? I mean, he was the frickin Pope! Leader of the Catholic Church, mouthpiece of God and all that good stuff. He's pretty much a shoe-in for whatever's supposed to come next.
Praying for the Pope is a waste of a good prayer. It's like praying that your reuben sandwich will have corned beef on it. Dude, it's a done deal. Already in the bag. Success by definition. Minutes taken, meeting adjourned.
So don't waste your effort with Pope prayers. Aim those prayers at a place where they can do some constructive good. Join me in praying that Hillary Clinton will find a soul. Or at least a clue.
With the Terry Shiavo thing so prevalent in the news and on everybody's lips living wills are getting some well deserved attention. All over the blogosphere you see people posting their digital equivalent. The three most common sentiments are:
- I want to live, no matter what, as long as possible.
- I don't want to live like a vegetable, no matter what, do me in please.
- I don't want to live like a vegetable but for the love of all that's holy please don't starve me to death.
My choice is none of the above. Here, I'll make it official:
I, James Peacock, being of (reasonably) sound mind and (for the most part) sound body do hereby solemnly swear and affirm that in the event my mental faculties are reduced to the point where I can be out-thought by a toaster that I officially do not give a damn what you do with my semi to fully mentally vacant meat puppet. It's up to you. If I am a financial burden and am holding back your life then do me in without regrets. If it is a comfort to you to have my non-sentient living corpse lying about then by all means keep me going. If you can make some cash by decorating me with sparkles and posing me in compromising positions with various woodland animals then have at it.
Seriously. Whatever will make the lives of my survivors better, no matter what that is, you have my permission to do it.
Now, to avoid the possibility of a repeat of the Shiavo/Schindler feud I'll take care of any possible disagreements right off the bat: In the event that my survivors disagree on what to do with me, whoever has the least permanent plan wins. So if one relative wants to inject me with morphine until I expire and another wants to pose me on their mantelpiece, the poser wins. Simple enough, right?
I think that covers everything. Carry on.
Well, she was just 17, You know what I mean,
Earworms are nasty little buggers. Those snippets of songs that invade your conciousness and simply will not leave.
And the way she looked was way beyond compare.
I woke up with one today and no matter what I try it won't leave me alone.
So how could I dance with another (ooh)
That's not unusual though. There's really only one surefire method of getting rid of an earworm.
My company is a tad meeting heavy. I've been doing what I can to reduce the number of meetings and make them more productive. I myself have never had to schedule a meeting for my own needs. I'm a productive user of the phone, email and instant messaging and confident enough to do things under my own initiative without a group consensus. I also have more than ample time to acquire any group feedback in the many meetings I attend that are scheduled by other people.
I'm in meetings pretty much the entire day today and I'm taking the battle to the next level. Last night I had double helpings of homemade split pea soup washed down by three beers. Lunch today is more split pea soup ammo.
Cry havoc, and let slip the peas of war!*
* Rob gets credit for this deliciously creative aliteration.
...will have an emptisensometer. When the pot is empty it will automatically turn off the coffee pot so a layer of baked coffee residue stronger than space shuttle tiles is not left in the bottom of the pot. When there is coffee left in the pot it will not start brewing, thereby preventing coffee brew overflow from cascading down the electrical appliance itself as well as the counter, cabinets and floor.
The advanced model will have a voice synthesizer for the latter case that will say something along the lines of "Hey, dumb-ass! Empty the damned pot first!"
I went out for a smoke break just a bit ago and realized I had left my lighter in the van. I retrieved said lighter and mid-way through my smoke I realized something. This was my second smoke break. I had already had a cigarette. Without a lighter.
There's only one logical explanation - I have superpowers. I unconsciously lit the first cigarette using my mental energies.
I'm currently trying to direct my newfound powers against Boman in the hopes that heat really does sterilize.
The gross guy. The one who doesn't understand the social niceties of cleanliness. The guy with the black mouse that started as a white one and a keyboard that makes crunchy sounds when it's used due to the many cracker and chip bits lodged between the keys. The one with stained clothes featuring crusty cuffs from nose wipes and a greasy patch on each thigh from using pants as a napkin substitute.
At my last job this guy was infamous for his unsanitary habits. His cubicle smelled vaguely like a three week old roadkilled opossum dipped in urine. He eventually left us for a fantastic work from home opportunity. We celebrated for a week.
At this job he is known primarily for his personal odors. He has sparkling white teeth that starkly contrast with the brimstone and cabbage that he exhales. How can somebody who obviously brushes regularly have such a mouth odor problem? My theory is that he has no dental hygiene, rotted his teeth out and wears dentures.
He is also possessed of an unearthly stench about his person. It's an odor that says he fell in love with the Shower-to-Shower concept and has accepted talcum powder as his personal savior. He is a master at the Silent But Deadly. I've never heard him cut one loose but he is followed by the permanent aroma of juicy anal exhalation.
I have named him Boman* and he is my personal nemesis.
So, what's your guy like?
* B.O. Man
Today marks the anniversary of one of the happiest days of my life.
Leaving work the other day I ran into Luka, of ER fame.
Okay, so he wasn't really Goran Visnjic, he's a programmer from a group I don't usually deal with. But he could be Goran's long lost twin.
He's from Athens (Georgia, not Greece) and has one of the most phenomenal southern drawls I've ever encountered. It was seriously weird looking at this guy who looks just like Luka and hearing Boss Hogg.
When I told Lovely Wife she responded with "He looks like Luka? When do I get to meet him?". Something tells me this guy is swimming in women.
As long as he keeps his mouth shut, anyway.
Interesting... Spellcheck had a problem with "Luka" but "Goran Visnjic" sailed right through. Who's making the dictionaries for these things?
It started innocuously enough. On an ostensibly cooperative "humanitarian" mission to the tsunami ravaged Far East, the senior George Bush connived to get ex-President Bill Clinton, a post-operative heart surgery patient, to sleep on the cold, hard floor.
The next morning, Bush said he peeked in and saw Clinton sound asleep on the plane's floor. [The article does not mention how Bill then slept through Bush's cackling, maniacal laughter. - ed]
Now we learn that Clinton must undergo another round of surgery to attempt to repair damage to his lungs.
Former President Clinton will undergo a medical procedure this week to remove an unusual buildup of fluid and scar tissue from his chest, six months after he underwent quadruple bypass surgery [And just a few weeks after being forced to sleep on the cold, hard floor. - ed], his office said Tuesday.
You don't have to take your tin foil hat off to connect the dots here, people. You can almost taste the taint of Karl Rove on this plot. This is obviously an attempt by the Bush Monarchy to head off the Hillary Clinton presidential run in 2008. If they succeed in killing off Mr.Clinton they will send poor Hillary into a trough of despair from which her broken heart will never recover. Even if they have a near miss and only turn Bill into a bed-ridden differently-abled individual they know that Hillary will immediately resign her Senate seat and forgo all political ambitions to nurse him and be constantly by his side.
Now the truth is revealed. Who has the guts to brave the stormtroopers of Halliburton to do something about it? The first step is obvious. Everybody needs to link to this post and spread news of the plot. Eventually, if we all do our part, somebody at Reuters who isn't compromised by the jackbooted government thugs will pick it up and spread the truth to the world.
Only the truth, shouted loud and proud, can save Hillary and Bill from this diabolical threat. And as we all know, only Hillary can end the neocon threat, restore us to a life of liberty, and deliver the holy grail of free medical.
Dopple-G mentioned how much he enjoys a certain type of my stories. Ones like this, or this, or maybe even this. I always aim to please, so...
The other night we had finished with the washing up and sent the boys to put their pajamas on. Burger sometimes has a difficult time with his. He can put on a two-piece with no problem but the one-piece jammies with the footies are a pain. On this occasion he had the footie jammies and he called me in to help him out. I got him dressed and then a problem surfaced.
Burger: Daddy, there's a rock in my foot.Me: A rock? In your foot?
Burger: Yeah. In my sock.
[Side Note: All three boys smuggle rocks into the house and they turn up constantly in the oddest places. A rock in the freshly laundered pajamas wouldn't be an altogether impossible scenario.]
Me: Let me see.
10:30
The power is out. Apparently the construction workers putting up a building across the street did something bad. Georgia Power has advised that it will be about a half hour before power is restored. In the words of our receptionist who relayed the message "...but you know how that goes."
The handful of us with laptops are good until our batteries go down, so I've launched every program on the PC and turned the screen brightness up to max.
12:15
The network finally went down. UPS units on the web servers are only good for so long. This means I no longer have anything productive to do. It also means I'm typing this in Notepad and will be uploading it later.
12:45
Lights are back on. Still no cube power so nobody with desktops can do anything. No network means I'm still playing FreeCell.
1:05
The network lives! No cube power. Two hours remaining on my laptop battery.
Time for blogreading? Heh.
1:10
People keep coming by my cube staring at my laptop covetously. It is dangerous to be among a hundred nerds who are cut off from the internet. I keep getting visions of Lord of the Flies where I'm Piggy and they want my glasses.
(Continued in the Extended Entry)
The maximum acceptable number of children in a car is two. I have proof.
Burger (3): Where are we going?Lovely Wife: We're going home now.
Bacon (4): Are we there yet?
Me: Yeah, we're there. Hop on out.
Bacon: Are not! We're still driving!
Me: Why so we are!
Burger: Where are we going?
Lovely Wife: We're going home!
Bacon: I want to go home!
Me: We are going home!
Burger: Where are we going?
Me: We're going to Disney World.
Bear (5): Really?!?
Me: No. We're going home.
Bear: That bites.
One is the magic number, Clancy.
I think we might need to declare the breakroom a conversation free zone.
Gal 1: Great haircut!Gal 2: Thanks! You really like it?
Gal 1: Yeah! It really shows off your breasts.
I just can't imagine going up to a male coworker and saying "Hey, Tom - great haircut. It really makes your cock stand out."
Is it just me?
Disclaimer: Vegans, vegetarians and lovers of cuddly animals should not read this entry, which has been courteously concealed in the extended entry. You've been warned.
(That disclaimer sort of makes the title to this post all menacing, doesn't it? Mwah hah hah hah!!)
Well, that's the only explanation I can come up with for why I don't shed pubes all over the men's room like seemingly every other male employee in this office.
The bathrooms are scrubbed squeaky clean every day so I know it isn't an accumulation problem. I know for damned sure that I am not dropping curlies when I drain the vein. So is there an epidemic of sporadic nether hair loss in the company? There must be because by the time lunchtime comes around the urinals are outfitted for blizzard conditions.
Am I unusual for not spreading around my love floss? Is it something odd that I'm doing? Maybe I should only scrub Captain Happy for five minutes instead of fifteen in the morning shower so as not to dislodge any tentative sprouts?
Is the follicular presentation of my coworkers an intentional act? Perhaps I should be plucking a couple each time I decaffeinate to mark my territory like these other fellows do.
The only thing I know for sure is that the shag covering in the bathrooms is way nasty.
Late to class? Go see Intelligent Design 101 and Intelligent Design 102.
[Class assembles and Mr.Balsavage hands out the test results while welcoming the students]Mr.Balsavage: Good morning class!
Class: Good morning, Mr.B!
Mr.B: I have some bad news, class. It seems that Michael Newdow has filed a Constitutional objection against our Intelligent Design class and the 9th Circuit Court has issued a court order regarding our test.
Class: Oh, no!
If you're in the wrong class go to Intelligent Design 101 and catch up.
[Class convenes and Mr.Balsavage gathers up a stack of blank tests from his desk.]Mr.Balsavage: Good morning class!
Class: Good morning, Mr.Balsavage!
Mr.B: Is everybody ready for the big test?
Class: Yeah!
Little Susie: No, I'm not ready. I have some questions.
Okay, this one's serious.
How much does a vending machine sandwich cost? Something like $2.50 to $3.00, right? How much does a fresh made deli sandwich cost at a place like the Atlanta Bread Company or Arbys? We're talking a buck or two more. And they're worth it.
If you had the choice between a vending machine sandwich that's been in there getting soggy and nasty for who knows how long or a fresh deli sandwich for a buck or two more, which would you take? The deli sandwich, obviously. The only reason people eat vending machine sandwiches is because they're there. They're convenient.
Offer deli quality sandwiches for the vending machine.
BOOM! Start raking in the money.
The reason vending machine sandwiches get so nasty is because they're all assembled already and the wet stuff turns the bread into a nasty mass that's a consistency somewhere between jello and the lung cookies that you hack up just as a chest cold is passing. Individually package the bread, meat and veggies. No more soggy bread. No more ham slices soaked in tomato juice. No more tomatoes squooshed into a red pulpy mass.
This is way bigger than the vending machine market, too. Sell them in supermarkets and you'll make a killing on people too freaking lazy time stressed to make their own sandwiches for lunch. Not to mention the people like me who thoroughly enjoy making a sandwich from scratch but can't stand to sacrifice an entire tomato since they can't use the rest of it.
I'm thinking a clamshell like the ones they sell Lunchables in. Hey, speaking of Lunchables this would put those suckers right out of business. If any Lunchables employees or shareholders are reading this, please contact me for job and investment opportunities.
Oh yes. This is the money maker. I can feel it!
So, Kansas is in the process of reducing the impact of the Theory of Evolution in their schools. This paves the way to the introduction of Creationism / Intelligent Design. Removing emphasis on the Evolutionary Theory is retarded. Yes it is a theory. So is Gravity. Darwin's brainchild is used today in the real world to do real things. Playing religio-political games with it will have only one realistic effect - stupid kids.
But what about Intelligent Design? I don't see a problem with putting this into school curriculums. School can be a terribly droll place and a bit of humor could really liven things up. Plus it would be one short-assed class with a test everybody was guaranteed to ace. That could be a big help meeting No Child Left Behind requirements.
So what would the class be like? Follow me into a journey into the near future as we attend Biology class at North Kansas Elementary School in the North Kansas City School District, Kansas City, Kansas. In today's lecture (this will be a several lecture series of posts) the kids are introduced to Intelligent Design.
You can get single slice wrapped cheese, right? And I don't mean just that slightly cheese-like processed food product called "American cheese" either. There's cream cheese in single serving packets, butter in single serving packets, salt and pepper in single serving packets. Hell, they even have single slice wrapped peanut butter and jelly for the unconscionably lazy over-busy parent.
Practically all of your sandwich needs are met with product available in unit sizes suitable to a sandwich with one notable exception.
Tomatoes.
You see, I like tomatoes. You could even say I love tomatoes. You'd be wrong, we just had that one weekend of wild sex, there was no genuine love involved except in the biblical sense, but you could still say it, this being a free country and all, and me with unmoderated comments.
I wonder how many English teachers I could kill with that last sentence.
Anywho... Nobody else in my family is particularly fond of tomatoes. You might even say they loathe tomatoes. Go ahead and say it - you'd be right this time.
So what is a man to do when he loves him some tomatoes on his tuna fish sandwich but tomato slices are available only in bulk form; that is, as a whole tomato. I don't eat enough sandwiches where I could actually use a whole tomato before the bulk of it went nasty and I am waaay too much of a cheap bastard frugal to just waste food like that.
Wouldn't single wrapped tomato slices be the bees knees? No? How about the gerbil's tits then? Yeah, that is a better expression - sorry about the bee thing.
Just imagine - any time you wanted a sandwich with two slices of tomato you just unwrap your individually wrapped tomato slices (available in Hearty Beefsteak (tm) or Classic Vine Ripe (tm) flavors). No cutting. No tomato guts seeping out. No wasted tomato!
So what are you waiting for? Get out there and start producing my tomato slices. I'm not a terribly sane patient man.
Hmmm... How about single sliced and wrapped lettuce?
Lovely Wife: I know why I felt so sick yesterday. I think I'm getting my period.Me: You should quit that. They're really gross.
Bear: I've got my period too!
Lovely Wife: You do?
Bear: Yeah, right now.
Me: Are you flowing like a river?
Bear: No.
Me: Well that's good anyway.
Lovely Wife: Stop teasing him. He doesn't know what a period is.
Bear: Then what is a period?
Lovely Wife: It's a dot that goes at the end of a sentence.
Me: Or the sanguineous discharge of the lining of the placenta.
Lovely Wife: Is not!
Me: Oh, right. I mis-spoke. It's the uterus, not the placenta.
Bear: That's gross.
Me: That's what I've been trying to say!
Bear has a playdate today. I wonder how that's going...
From the ride in today:
Burger: I see an alien!Lovely Wife: An alien?
Burger: Yeah! An alien! It's right there.
Me: They prefer 'undocumented worker'.
Burger: Right there!
Lovely Wife: [Pointing to a vehicle a bit ahead] I think he means that 'ambulance'.
Me: [Pointing to a road crew] He's right either way.
A reader over at Ilyka's place had a question in the comments. Specifically, is it possible to survive this type of set-up question with scrotum and relationship intact. The happy answer is yes, though it is often not easy.
The absolute first response to this question is to run screaming from the room. Barring that (for example, if the door is barred) you may be able to defuse the situation by ignoring the question with a compliment.
Her: Honey, does this dress make me look fat?Him: Baby, you look gorgeous.
Note the compliment and the complete avoidance of the question.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Do not, under any circumstances, add the words "to me" at the end of the compliment.
If the avoidance/compliment doesn't work you can try a distraction technique.
Her: I know I look beautiful to you [notice she used the "to you" even though he specifically avoided that trap. This is known as a trap within a trap or more commonly "The Bundy Offense".], but I really want your opinion. Does this dress make me look fat?Him: What that dress really needs is a new set of diamond earrings. Do we have time to stop at the jewelers?
Note again the critical and skillful avoidance of the actual question. Dodge and weave, dodge and weave.
If both of these techniques fail there is still one method left to preserve your manhood and relationship.
Her: Will you knock it off and just answer the question? Do I look fat in this dress or not?Him: [clutches chest] ARGGGGGHHH!!!
The fake heart attack will only work two or three times before she catches on so use it sparingly.
I know that you are efficiency minded but sometimes corners should not be cut and procedures should not be rushed. This could be for any number of reasons including quality, performance or, in this particular case, etiquette.
What I am specifically referring to is your behavior in the men's room this morning. You may recall that when you entered said bathroom I was already occupying the first urinal. You quickly analyzed the situation and correctly (according to the tenets of the Big Book of Men's Room Etiquette) proceeded to the last urinal. My concern is with your actions while traveling to your post.
It was particularly unnerving to be in the semi-compromised position mandated when urinating to hear your zipper open when you were directly behind me. Furthermore your motions and mannerisms, as well as your speed off the blocks, showed that you had already taken the tool in hand before arriving at your destination.
To reiterate, these two actions (unzipping behind another man and walking through the bathroom with your cock in hand) are both egregious violations of the BBMRE. I trust that merely bringing these errors to your attention will suffice to correct these deficiencies but I must warn you that I am prepared to retaliate if this behavior continues. I have homemade pea soup in storage and I am not afraid to use it.
Regards,
Jim Peacock
We had Lovely Wife's homemade pea soup for dinner last night. Mmmmmmmm. Most of you have probably never had homemade pea soup; it's a vanishing art here in the States. Lovely Wife makes her soups old school style. She starts with a big pork butt bone, does some magic thing to get the flavor out of it, strips the meat, slow cooks the dried split peas, hand mashes the stuff and oh my Lord is it good stuff.
But it's more than just a fantastic dinner. You see peas, like their cousin beans, are a musical fruit. Pea soup for dinner means more than just a delightful repast. For a person like me it means ammo.
My strike runs are already planned. There'll be some cubical bombs dropped today.
Oh, yeah!
[The scene: The boys are in the tub. Lovely Wife and I are having a conversation while they are relatively quiet. ]
Me: [To Lovely Wife] So I'm going to be involved in setting up KPIs for the company as well as metrics for Development.
Bear: [Interrupts] What's that?
Lovely Wife: What? Metrics?
Bear: No, kaypeeayes.
Me: It's an acronym. KPI stands for "key process indicator".
Lovely Wife: Do you know what that means?
Bear: No.
Lovely Wife: Can you figure it out?
Bear: Well, an indicator is like a light or something so it's probably a light to help you find your keys.
Lovely Wife: You're pretty good at figuring stuff out bear but...
Bear: [Interrupts] I know. I'm brilliant.
Lovely Wife: You're brilliant?
Bear: Yeah. I'm even smarter than you.
The quality of Nigerian scams has degraded so much over the past couple of years. Just look at this piece of garbage I got today:
Hello,My greetings.
I got your email address from a casual enquiry wherein I sought for trustworthy potential partners with whom to go into business with in the investment of some contact funds ( $ 8,500,000.00 U.S ) currently trapped. It is my hope that you will be of assistance in helping me free the trapped funds, transfer it, and put it to investment purpose. 10% of the funds will accrue to you for your assistance.
The source of the funds are as follows: During the last military regime in my country,government officials awarded contracts that were grossly over-invoiced to Contractors. The present civilian government set up the Contract Review Panel, and mandated it to use the instruments of payments made available to it by the decree setting up the panel, to review those contracts and if necessary pay those who are being owed outstanding amounts.I have identified the above mentioned sum which have been lying unclaimed for years and would like to transfer and invest it.My position as a current serving Civil servant forbids me from operating foreign Bank accounts, this is why I need your assistance.
Here is where you come in : I need you to furnish me with the following information :
1. YOUR FULL NAMES
2. BUSINESS NAMES
3. ADDRESS
4. TELEPHONE AND FAX NUMBERSWith these information, I will forward an application for payment in your busines's favour and ensure that it is approved. Upon the transfer of the funds, I will meet with you in your country so that we can go into investment after sharing in the agreed percentages ( 10% for you ).
Please do reply,
Olawale
I mean - that is truly pathetic. It breaks my heart to see the fine tradition of Nigerian scamming headed straight into the shit heap. Being me, I could not let this go without expressing myself. My reply is in the extended entry.
My New Years resolutions are a bit different from most people's. Like I explained last year I don't have a lot of interest in them. If something needs changing I change it when I recognize the problem. Plus, my inner reflection cycle tends to hit at around my birthday and not the end of the year (yet more proof of my inherent egocentricity).
Last year I made resolutions that were guaranteed winners. If I kept them that meant I had succeeded in keeping a resolution. If I broke them it meant I was actually better off personally. I like to play with a fixed deck don't ya know.
This year I'm stacking the deck in a different manner and my resolutions are absolutely genuine. They're just easier to reach than most others.
Baby steps. Baby steps.
In 2005 I resolve to:
- Dance like a whirling dervish on crack when Osama gets his multiple 5.56 mm plumbum injections.
- Laugh from deep in my belly when Michael Moore's next propaganda film crashes and dies at the box office.
- Repeat #1 but with an Irish jig.
- Say "I told you so" repeatedly and with conviction.
- Assume a glassy eyed stare whenever a wingnut or moonbat opens his gob to emit vomitous rhetoric.
- Maybe a little more #1 with a dash of extra #2.
- Stop making numbered lists.
- Change my mind about #7.
- Eventually make those damned cookies!
- Lots and lots of sleeping.
There. That's a healthy list of 10 resolutions. I am on the road to personal success and satisfaction now.
Feel free to chime in with your own in the comments. I must warn you though - if I get the impression that they are serious attempts at self improvement I will heckle you mercilessly.
It was a beautiful sunny day. One of those superior Saturdays in July with eighty something degree temperature and a delightful little breeze. We took the boys down the the town green in Duluth. There is a big open fountain that the kids love to play in and a ready supply of water for the numerous squirt guns that anti-social folk like us keep ready to hand.
We had a blast with only a few threats of death by strangulation for our aquatic mischief. There was a minor issue when we discovered a lack of dry clothing to change into. A bag had been forgotten when we packed up the van. We solved the problem by enjoying some ice cream cones while we waited for our clothes to dry. Not having a new pull-up for Burger was a concern but we sat him down on a few towels in case there was an accident in the van.
On the way home we decided to stop at Blockbuster. There was a new GameCube in the house and the Bear was dying to get something to play. This turned out to be a less than ideal decision. You see, the children were almost completely re-energized by the rest at the end of play and were now highly fueled by the sugar rich ice cream snack. We were not so much looking for things to rent as we were herding cats.
We split up in an attempt to cover more territory. The boys seemed to be gravitating toward the tower of games display where every console system is set up with demo games. I was stationed in this area keeping an eye on Bear and Bacon as Lovely Wife tried to quickly find a rental so we could escape.
The boys are illin'. It started on Sunday with Bear. A 103 degree fever, listless apathy and miserability. Sore throat, no appetite, unquenchable thirst. All you parents out there are thinking "strep", right? So were we.
Sunday night featured Burger getting it. He was up the entire night crying and whining, just totally miserable. Monday morning brought Bacon into the mix with symptoms even more severe than the others.
A look down the throats Monday eve showed severe red irritation and white spots. Strep. Egad! After a relatively unsuccessful dinner of Jim's super-fluffy scrambled eggs (traditional sicko comfort food) we packed up the miserable lot and headed to the urgent care center.
Me: I have a problem with the UI (user interface) on this program.Boss #2: What's the problem?
Me: It seems to have been designed by a team of near-sighted epileptics.
Boss #2: [silence]
Me: On crack.
Boss #2: [silence]
Me: During hurricane Ivan.
Boss #2: I laid that one out.
Me: The graphics are striking.
I am now tasked with defining and documenting UI standards.
Ms. Coworker: Don't freak out or anything, but I had a dream about you last night.
Sir Coworker: A dream about me?
Ms. Coworker: Well, you were in it. You, me and Bob. We were in the telecon room talking with Kansas City and I looked over at you and you had this monstrous bugger [that's 'booger' through a hellacious accent] hanging out your nose.
Sir Coworker: Gross.
Ms. Coworker: Yeah. Totally. I tried to let you know without saying anything so KC wouldn't know but you just looked at me like I was a freak.
Sir Coworker: What about Bob?
Ms. Coworker: Um...I don't know. I guess he was just gone then.
Sir Coworker: Freaky.
Ms. Coworker: Yeah. But then I emailed you about the bugger so you would know about it, only I sent it to the group by accident. All the KC people were going on like "Ewwww! Gross! It's huge!" like they could all of a sudden see it or something.
Sir Coworker: Weird.
Ms. Coworker: Yeah. So you picked it and I was like "Gag", you know? But it wasn't really a bugger. It was your brain coming out your nose.
Sir Coworker: That is fucked up.
Ms. Coworker: Yeah! Then it got weird.
Sir Coworker: That wasn't weird enough?
Ms. Coworker: Okay, it got weirder. Suddenly I was you and you were me looking at me picking the brain bugger. It was me all the time only I was confused or something because my brains were coming out of my nose.
Sir Coworker: That is one seriously weird dream.
Ms. Coworker: Yeah! Oh, my microwave is done. See you later.
Sir Coworker: Later!
Me: [suddenly and conclusively no longer hungry]
Posted at Protomonkey.
I think it might be possible that our children have been replaced with evil clones. Or perhaps the natural evil aura of the kitten has infected them? Maybe alien implants. Whatever the source, we're talking pint sized packs of evil.
Don't believe me? Ask Bear. He's been warning us for the past couple months, saying "My brothers are evil". He also says that about the kitten, lending credence to the evil infection theory.
They talk in tongues too. It started with Burger and a nonsense phrase he was happily babbling to himself while riding his bike. From out of nowhere we heard "dar dar dar dar dar dar". Of course we thought this was hilarious. Our attempts to learn the source of "dar dar dar" have met a blank wall. We chalked it up to being a Burgerism.
Then it started to spread. At any time you might hear any of our kids or the neighbor's kids doing the "dar dar dar dar" chant. Just an innocent Burgerism? I'm beginning to think it's like the "beep" warning you get when your smoke detector battery is running low. Time for the aliens to recharge the brain implants, or something like that.
Not that the evil quotient seems to be reduced by any measure.
At the dinner table the other night Burger was doing the "dar dar" chant when he hit a clear patch of vocabulary with “I’m the fucking baby around here” followed smoothly by another round of “dar dar dar dar dar”. It was so smooth that Lovely Wife and I couldn’t be sure that we had heard what we thought we heard. So we asked him. And he proudly repeated it with an angelic smile upon his face.
I regret to say that discipline was spotty as both of us had gut aches from laughing so hard.
Evil. Cute, but definitely evil.
I was thinking about this on the way into work today. I could really use some theme music. You know what I mean, right? The sound sample that plays whenever the hero walks into the scene. Shaft had that bow-chicka-bow-wow thing and James Bond has that snippet that's been around for 40 years and just says "BOND IS HERE". Theme music. That's what I need.
I was thinking a good one for me would be that part of Won't Get Fooled Again where
So I tried to think of music that would never have a chance of ever being adopted as a corporate jingle but the sad fact is that anything decent had a decent chance of being sold to pimp toothpaste eventually. I figured I'd have to take a chance that my theme music would eventually be co-opted else I'd end up with something from the B52s or Oasis and we just can't have that.
After much hemming and hawing, deliberation and debate (hey, if you can't debate with yourself then who can you debate with?) I settled on this one.
Now I've just got to find a decent boom box.
'Cause that's where I'm going thanks to our viewing selection on the boob tube last night. It was an HBO documentary on dwarfs. Little people, that is. The vertically challenged. I think it was called "Natural Born Carnies" but I can't be sure.
Damn, there it is again. You saw that? That's at least six years in purgatory for that carnie crack. I was horrific through the entire show. I think I'll get a few pokes with the pointy fork for corrupting Lovely Wife as well. Hmmm...maybe I can earn some time off for good behavior if I apologize.
Okay, let's try that. Let's see if I can remember some of my worst offenses here...
Regarding the dwarf girl who had lengthening surgery I apologize for the "Stretch Armstrong" crack. That was terribly unkind.
Regarding the dwarf pediatric surgeon I fully realize that there is really no great chance of him being mistaken for his own patient and I apologize for making that inference. My observation regarding his height compatibility with his dog was likely over the line as well.
Regarding the little person gal marrying the pixie dude, I'm very sorry that my response to Lovely Wife's observation "I wonder if they'll try to have kids" was "Yeah, they'll have midget dwarfs". I'm equally sorry that my response to her query about their future sex life included a quip along the lines of "Oh yeah, you can do a lot of cool things with a dwarf". I'm especially sorry that I gave Lovely Wife a knowing wink after that one. I also apologize profusely for my quip about the gal not needing any kneepads. Hey, at least I didn't make any "flat head" comments. Do I get any points for that?
In my defense I can only say that I am a materialist and there was just too much material thrown at me to resist. Before anybody casts stones please remember that age old maxim "If making fun of midgets is outlawed, only outlaws will make fun of midgets".
Wishes of a happy Veterans Day to all of the men and women who have protected this great country in past and present. (Lovely wife says thanks too.)
I served in the Navy myself. Eight years as a Hospital Corpsman in the Reserves. A bit over two years of that was spent on active duty.
In the beginning I didn't have a specialty so was basically just a nurse's aide with EMT training. My unit became the foundation for a Mobile Fleet Hospital unit (like M*A*S*H except we didn't have dirt floors) so I was then trained as a Marine. Military logic, don't ask for an explanation please. During Desert Storm I was activated and sent to Oakland (motto: The New Jersey of the west coast) to become an Operating Room Technician. That's the guy who hands the surgeon the sponges and clamps and needles and blades and stuff. After eight years in medicine with some of the most expensive surgical training you could ask for I promptly got into computers.
All of that is a huge non-sequitir to the story I'm going to tell you today: How Jim Ended Up As A Corpsman
Part of the process of joining the military is taking the ASVAB test. That stands for Armed Service Vocational Aptitude Battery. They put you in a field and shoot cannons at you. If you dodge enough of them they let you join.
I jest. It's actually a fill-in-the-oval test like the SATs and is designed to determine what military billet you could eventually fill. Lots of math and geometry, physics principles, word comprehension, mechanical aptitude stuff, and at least ten or eleven questions that amount to "The answer is A. Darken the oval next to the letter A. No, you dumbass! The one next to that!" Being a math wiz who spent his formative years helping Dad fix cars and planes and only rarely being a dumbass this test was pretty much designed for me to make it my bitch.
And I did. It is an hour-plus timed test. I finished it in fifteen minutes or so and was too bored to double check my answers so I took a nap. My score was in the 98th percentile. Pretty awesome, right? I'd have my pick of billets, right? I could go and do just about anything I wanted to, right?
I don't want to be cremated after all. That was my original plan, you see. No muss or fuss, the family gets a nice ceremony, say goodbye with the ol' ash sprinkle picnic, everybody goes home happy. Side benefits include not becoming worm food or the victim in some Frankestinian madman's experiments. You know me - I'd end up as "Abby Normal" for sure. And if you think of it cremation is really the only sure way to limit the necrophiliacs to a few choice days of abuse.
Unfortunately I've uncovered a flaw in my plan. You can duplicate the error very easily. Take the bag out of your vacuum cleaner. Cut off one end. Empty it. Look inside. What do you see?
Dust! There's still dust in there! Dust is fine stuff. It sticks to things. When they dump your ashes there's going to be some of you left inside that urn or Ziploc baggie (the container depends of course on whether your relatives spent actual money on your Shake-N-Bake moment or if they sent you out on the cheap).
And what happens to the leftovers? If you were urn bound you get washed away down the sink and into the sewer system. Oh, yay. Either a one way trip to the sewage reclamation processing plant or you end up in the East River. Depending on where you live.
God forbid your family lives in the boonies. Eternity in the septic tank - how does that grab you?
It's even worse if you were slag in a bag. You're trashcan bound at that point. Oh, you don't think so? Just exactly what do you expect the grieving kin to do with a used plastic baggie with a thin layer of you-dust in it? You're going into the can and from there to the dumpster and then to the land fill. Or the East River.
So dumping the dust proves problematic. The alternative is being cosseted on the mantelpiece of one of your whacked-out aunts or being stuffed in the back of your widow's (or widower's, as appropriate) closet. Oh, come on - do you really think they're going to get laid with a bottle full of your ashes around? Back of the closet (with last year's shoes) is about the best you can realistically hope for.
If they do keep you on display it's just a matter of time before somebody accidentally knocks you down and spreads you all over the floor and cleans you up with the Dustbuster, thereby fulfilling the awful prophesy of doom that says you are going to end up in a landfill. Or the East River.
Nope, none of that for me, thank you very much. I'll go traditional and let my rotting corpse take up some pristine park land for a few decades until they pave me over for the next strip mall. But I'm leaving specific orders for the coroner to implant a razor in my asshole. That'll show the necrophiliacs who's boss.
The Scene: Garret and I are on our way into work. He's wearing some new duds and talking about his shopping experience.
Garret: So even though they had a huge display of dress shirts they were all pointed collars.Me: Maybe there's a reason that you can't find button down collars anywhere. Maybe they're a fashion no-no.
Garret: If you're not wearing a tie then a pointed collar isn't doing you much good.
Me: Or maybe they're just so popular they can't keep them in stock.
Garret: Yeah, right. I'm sure that's the reason.
Me: Or maybe it's because you're only going to factory outlets and they don't need to unload button-downs at those places.
Garret: You could stop now.
Me: But it's probably just because they're a fashion no-no.
The Scene: With Garret, on the way to work. A few minutes later.
Garret: So that was two more white shirts for only $40.Me: All of your shirts are white?
Garret: Yeah, that's the best color for business shirts.
Me: White - it's the new black. Goes with everything.
Garret: That is such a retarded saying.
Me: What? 'Goes with everything'?
Garret: No, 'the new black'. Nobody in business wears black shirts.
Me: But it does go with everything.
Garret: So what? You might wear a black shirt when you go out but when have you ever seen somebody go to work in one?
Me: Never, I guess. Except for in the movies.
Garret: Exactly.
Me: And even then they only wear black shirts at the evil corporations.
Garret: We're not an evil corporation.
Me: Well, we don't think so anyway.
Garret: Even if we are an evil corporation, only the evil leaders of the corporation wear black shirts. All of the minions are still wearing white shirts.
Me: We're minions?
Garret: Yup.
Me: I always wanted to be a minion. All the evil, none of the guilt.
The Scene: Jessie and I are relaxing on the couch on Sunday evening after a long weekend of back-breaking labor.
Me: I'm tired. I wish I had a neck brace.Jessie: What for?
Me: So I wouldn't have to hold my head up.
Jessie: But then your head would always be up. That's no good.
Me: It would be removable. I'd only need it for times like this when I'm tired but need to keep my head up.
Jessie: You're odd.
Me: Yeah, that's what I need. A removable neck brace. Or somebody to stand behind me and hold my head up.
Jessie: Very odd.
There's also a new conversation with Dopple-G at Protomonkey.
The Scene: Garret and I are driving in to work. Discussion is centered on the new dress policy at work. Garret did some online shopping the night before and was regaling me with how expensive Joseph A Bank shirts are.
Garret: We're talking $65 a shirt!
Me: $65?
Garret: Yeah, and it doesn't come with a blowjob either.
Me: Maybe that's in the pocket.
Garret: Nope.
Me: Damn. For $65 it better stand up by itself.
Garret: And wash and press itself. And then dress you!
Me: Hey, wait a second. Your khakis cost $65. Why is it okay to spend $65 on pants but not on a shirt?
Garret: Because they're pants.
Me: Oh, that just explains everything now doesn't it?
Garret: Pants are more expensive. They cradle, protect and fondle your nads.
Me: Assuming you are wearing your business shirts tucked in, the shirt will be doing that. In fact it will be closer to your nads than the pants.
Garret: [Pauses to give me "the look".]
Me: It's true. Think of the pants as your own hand, holding her hand against your nadular bits.
Garret: [More "look".]
Me: The shirt is her hand.
Garret: Then what are my boxers in this scenario?
Me: They're the chocolate sauce.
I am no longer permitted to discuss shirts while Garret is driving.
She has done it before. Now she's done it again.
To the tune of "O Canada"*.
O Fistula!
A hole within my flesh!
My meat tunnel to my internal gland.With pencil tip I poke inside,
I probe the hole in me!From deep and wet,
O Fistula, the smell comes out of thee.God heal this hole inside of me!
O Fistula, the smell comes out of thee.O Fistula, the smell comes out of thee.
* Yes, I fully expect a team of elite Canadian assassins to strike at any moment. It's okay though - Michael Moore says they don't have any guns up there.
So they can hide in strawberry fields.
A few weeks ago Jen lamented that I was not around to provide my usual witty and bolstering comments to her site. When I read that I was both touched and sympathetic. I know only too well how a website can falter without my constant input. I took pity on Jen and promised her that I would comment the very next day.
That didn't happen of course but no biggie - Jen's a single gal so she's used to guys leading her on.
But I saved a note reminding myself to write that post and today it has passed the threshold of irritation where I've just got to get rid of it for once and all. My fear of Jen's hoodoo powers conscience prevents me from simply discarding the thing so I am now writing my overdue contribution.
I was one of those supremely irritating kids who never had to study in order to get A's and B's. I was a knowledge sponge who could absorb and regurgitate in the manner preferred by the US scholastic method and I did it without batting an eye. Whatever I didn't pick up in class was usually pretty easy to figure out or bullshit through. Until second year French anyway.
I didn't get French. It didn't just come to me the way math, science or history did. I didn't understand the rules for genders of words (What do you mean "dog" is female? It's got balls for Chrissake!) and I just didn't care to learn them. Verb tenses, weird spelling, variable pronouns, second person plural possessive1...I hated it all. Because I was lazy and it didn't sort and file into the brain sponge like everything else did. Who needed French anyway? It would only be a few years until everybody who mattered was speaking English2.
Well, as you can imagine I didn't apply myself to French and the results were fairly predictable. When I managed to pay attention in class I might squeak in a B or two but I was generally a C student in the Tongue of Love3. I suppose it was inevitable that the unthinkable would happen. I, Jim Peacock, knowledge sponge, achiever of the effortless A's and B's, I got a D on a test. My world shattered.
So I was over at Ryan's place reading about his Unreal Tournament experiences when an offhand comment about Maude Flanders got me to thinking. What's with the 'e' at the end of 'Maude'? It doesn't serve any real purpose. You don't pronounce it at all and it doesn't modify the other vowels. Why not 'Maud'? Isn't it just a tad pretentious to be adding extra letters onto a name and not even pretending to use them? Maybe I should go by 'Jime' and if people tried to use that 'e' to make a long I-sound I'd get all condescending on them like "Look you plebian, the 'e' is silent" and I'd be all looking down my nose at them (I might have to lean pretty far back to do that because I'm short but that'll just add to the pretentious effect) and I'd be all dismissive and "whatever" towards them.
Jackasses can't even pronounce my damn name? Screw 'em!
I had the weirdest dream last night...
I was falling through the air, the wind ripping at my clothes, blinding me and whipping my hair about. I vaguely remembered a fight on the airplane and sabotaging it so the people on board (terrorists I think) would die. I was falling and perfectly calm, with no parachute. Then I remembered that I had thrown the only parachute out of the plane before the fight. I had to catch up to it now.
I caught a glimpse of it tumbling far below and behind me and I angled myself to catch it, just like James Bond. In my head I was processing my fall: attitude, altitude, trajectory, velocity, overtake, you name it. I was processing the parachute's fall too, especially how it's terminal velocity and relative speed were changing as it tumbled. It made the numbers jiggly to follow but I was running them like my brain was some sort of supercomputer (not that this should surprise any of you).
To reiterate, I wasn't frightened at all. In fact I didn't think about the fall itself at all, just the mathematical construct of the variables and effects of it. An image coalesced in my mind's eye that represented my reaching the parachute in time to secure it and deploy it safely. It was a tesseract and as my chances of survival dropped, the tesseract collapsed on itself.
As I slowly gained on the parachute I saw the ground gaining definition as it rushed up toward me. I watched as the tesseract inexorably drew in upon itself. I caught the tumbling parachute, oriented on it and put my right arm through a strap. I spun around to let the wind carry the parachute into place and put my left arm through. The tesseract was almost flat as I buckled the harness in place and grabbed the rip cord. The tesseract was flat. I pulled the cord.
And an anvil popped out, a la Wiley Coyote, and took up position a few feet above my head. I crossed my arms and got a foul look on my face. I rolled my eyes, said "fuck it" and woke up.
Damned roadrunners.
POINTS: 3 points to the first person to name the group that sang the title to this post. No searching please.
Q: I stumbled across the original post by Jim while searching "wet dreams" on the internet. I'm 40 years old, and I haven't had any kind of a dream in a very long time, but I'd really love to. Is there any way to force your self to have some kind of a wet dream- either peeing or ejaculating?-Dry in Denver
A: There sure is, DID. Your best bet would be to drink as much apple juice and water (about a 50/50 mix) as you can (without vomiting, of course) before going to bed. After about 45 minutes have your partner pour tepid (tepid means slightly warmer than you) water over your hand. If you don't start peeing from that then your partner should pour it over your groin. This way even if you never actually piss yourself you can still pretend that you did.
Along the same vein if you can't ever seem to achieve an ejaculatory dream you could simulate the effects of one by having some guy jerk off on you while you sleep.
...to get Jim to clench the flow mid-stream and abandon the urinal?
One guy shuffling to the crapper like Eddie Murphy doing his tight-assed white guy impersonation followed by two explosive gaseous anal exhalations. You know the ones with that curiously soft echo that you can only get while seated on the throne. Poof! Poof!. The ones that always precede a torrent of semi-liquid gelatinous feces spraying forth from a burning anus like a garden hose when you hold your thumb over the end that will remain stuck to the back of the bowl regardless of how many times you try to flush.
Yeah, that's what it takes.
The scene: Two bearded men are asleep in bed in the classic spoon position. The morning call to prayer awakens them. They hurriedly jump from bed, pull on robes and kneel on their prayer mats. They are in the midst of prayers when one suddenly sits up as if coming to a realization.
Abdul: Yassir...last night...you got your anus on my external najaset*.
Yassir: No Abdul, you got your external najaset in my anus.
Abdul: You fool! You attempted to make your anus Pak** using a handful of gravel!
Yassir: The Taharat*** allows one to make their anus Pak using stone.
Abdul: But not when an external najasat reaches the anus! In this case only water may make the anus Pak! You are engaged in prayer with a najis**** anus!
Yassir: Um...I...but...
Abdul: Infidel!!
Abdul reaches into his robe and detonates his bomb belt.
The moral of the story: Fundamentalists do not make successful gay lovers.
* As near as I can figure, an 'external najaset' is somebody else's cock.
** 'Pak' means 'acceptably clean'.
*** The 'Taharat' is the list of 83 rules that Islam specifies to take a dump, brush teeth, etc.
**** 'Najis' is 'dirty'. Not in the naughty sex kitten way like "Oh, you are a dirty little girl" but more in the "soiled with bodily fluids" sort of way.
The scene: Dopple-G and I are driving into work in the early morning hours. As it often does, our conversation turns weird.
Dopple-G: If you were a chick, what would you do for a living?
Me: I'd screw.
Dopple-G: You'd be a whore?
Me: No, I'd have a lot of sex and make a lot of money.
Dopple-G: That's called being a whore.
Me: Well I'd be having sex because I want to have a lot of sex. The money is just a bonus.
Click for supah size pictures.
Redneck
Good ol'Boy
(This post is going to come up in therapy sessions when they are teens.)
Lovely Wife and I went to relationship counseling once. Our "facilitator" seemed likable enough and our session started out pretty well. At one point she said something along the lines of "It is essential that husbands and wives know the things that are important to each other." She then asked me if I could name Lovely Wife's favorite flower.
I leaned over, feeling very confident, touched Lovely Wife's arm gently and whispered, "Self-Rising, isn't it?"
The rest of the story is not pleasant.
Jimmy Breslin, longstanding columnist for Newsday, has been accused of creating an interview with the Rev. Louis Sheldon (chairman of the Traditional Values Coalition) out of whole cloth. Pulitzer prize winner Breslin claims that the interview occurred in 1992 but his target is crying foul.
[Reverend Sheldon] said he has "never met Jimmy Breslin, never had the conversation described in his column today and never said those sentences to anyone in my life."
Snooze Button Dreams correspondents, in a daring predawn raid, managed to interview the beleaguered newsie. Without admitting any guilt the SBD operatives correspondents would like it known that it is possible Mr.Breslin was anally accidentally administered a large dose of sodium pentathol.
The puppy has several methods of waking me up in the morning when she's ready to do her business. The first one she used was jumping half up on the bed and raking her claws down my back. That was exceptionally effective at waking me up but it did not put me in the spirits to provide her with the friendly companionship that makes a morning poop so much more enjoyable. In short, she quickly came to learn that this wasn't acceptable.
She then moved to whining (or as my Brit readers would say, "whinging") but found the results to be less than satisfactory. I'm a pretty deep sleeper and little noises like polite whining, televisions and fire alarms don't have a very good chance of waking me up.
Then she discovered the power of the puppy nose. There is no good way to describe the sensation of being brought out of a deep slumber by having a cold wet puppy nose jammed up your ass crack. Suffice it to say that this method had much better success at rousing me (yes I said 'rousing' in conjunction with a dog's nose up my crack. Get your minds out of the gutter. The word you are looking for is "arousing", which I didn't use because I wasn't. Aroused that is. Pervs.) than did mere whining. After a bit of negative reinforcement, the pup learned to aim higher and I thought we had a mutually agreed upon system. Oh how wrong I was.
I got a call from Lovely Wife this morning. I usually do and my morning isn't really started until I get one. This particular call had one of those spooky beginings that sounded suspiciously like "Do you know what your son did?" Those are the worst calls since you're effectively powerless. If whatever your son (not hers, at least at this particular moment) did makes you furious you're shit out of luck. You're at work buddy and by the time you get home it's ancient history. Of course since you're a grown up you've festered on it for the entire day and when you do get home you try to do the corrective counseling thing but by that time the kid doesn't even remember what it was that he did and your oh-so-carefully crafted and mentally rehearsed speech falters and dies on your lips when confronted by stupefyingly honest childhood ignorance.
If whatever the boy did doesn't happen to irritate you or (God forbid) you don't think it was such a bad thing anyway you are equally screwed. You are on the phone with a woman who is so pissed she has temporarily disowned her child. You. Must. Agree. With. Her. Not doing so, and doing so in colorful and excited terms I might add, will allow her to transfer that rage from the son to the father. That's you, remember. This is a bad thing. You always want to place children between yourself and your spouse's rage, never the other way around. Hey, that's the basic reason you had the little beggars in the first place.
How much of the pricetag on that bottle of Jack Daniels is going to the taxman? In New York it's over $6. In Alaska it's almost $13.00. Other states are anywhere from a buck to several bucks. Then there are the states (18 of them) where the government completely controls all sales and profits from alcoholic spirits.
How about that pack of Marlboros? How much of that price is added by the state? If you're in New Jersey, more than $2.00 is going to the government. Yeah, the State can impose a 100% user cost penalty on these consumers and nobody says "Boo".
And why is that? How can the government get away with such phenomenal taxation schemes? Well, it's obvious, isn't it? These are immoral items. Only immoral people are being forced to pay extra taxes. Plus, they aren't healthy. Consumption of these items leads to deteriorating health conditions and that creates a burden on society. So if we make the consumers pay up front then the State won't have to foot the bill later on.
...since we moved to Georgia, are our kids going to grow up to be whitetrash or rednecks? And then Bear will say something like what he said at dinner last night:
"When I get bigger I'm going to be a daddy. I'm going to be in charge. Cordelia will do what I tell her because she likes me and she's going to marry me."
And I realize that the answer is of course "rednecks".
My previous post got me thinking about superpowers. My favorite wouldn't really be the projectile dootie I linked to before. I'm not really sure what superpower I'd most like to have but it comes down to one of these three:
Polymorphic: That's a shapechanger for all y'all that's weak on your latin. That's like the blue naked lady in the X-Men movies. How cool would it be to look exactly the way you want to instantaneously? No more worries about bad hair days or having clean underwear. Just wake up, take a crap, poof into the look you want and you're out the door. Want to hang out at muscle beach? Poof, you're The Rock! Want to play runway model? Poof, you're Kate Moss! Want an ice cream but you left your wallet at home? Poof, you're a soulful eyed waif! In a fight with the Yakuza? Poof, you're superfast, superstrong, with skin harder than rhinocerous armor.
Flying: Yeah, I know it's common and trite but I've never lost my childhood desire to fly. This is the most common dream power I get, though I've gotten much slower as I've matured. A lot of times I'm really just gliding now. Still cool but I guess I'm feeling my age in my dreams.
Stopping Time: I used to have lots of fun imagining what it would be like to be able to stop time. This one has loads of opportunity for mischief (and outright criminal behavior). Sure, you could save the heroine by stopping the bullet inches before it hits her and moving her out of the way. Sure, you could save the four kids in the back seat of the runaway car just before it heads off of the bridge/cliff/parking ramp. But think of all the things you could do in your time off...every beach is a nude beach for the person who can stop time. And it's only the people you want to see nude who are nekkid. Money is no object. Well, I guess it's still an object it's just a really easy to reach object. Anything that you want is yours for the taking and as long as you're taking it from bad guys and jerk-offs your concience is clear, right? That is so sweet.
So, if you could have a superpower, what would it be?
Did you ever have one of those times when you've got to take a leak super bad to the point where you can feel your bladder being constricted by your other organs and you finally get to the bathroom and drop trou as you get into position and you do the one armed lean in anticipation of the unbelievable satisfaction you are about to receive and you cut loose and sigh as the stream of urine cuts into the water like a Bali cliff diver and that delicious sound echoes about you but then you realize that despite these wonderful sensations you are experiencing the one critical one that you are not feeling is the sensation of having to urinate decreasing even the slightest iota and this strikes you as perplexing because how can you still feel like you have to take a piss while you're in the middle of pissing but then it hits you like a thunderclap.
You are asleep.
You are dreaming of peeing because the urge to pee is so bad it is invading your dreams.
And then you jolt awake in a horrific panic knowing, just KNOWING, that you are going to be laying in a pool of urine but thankfully the sheets are dry and the relief that washes over you quickly fades as you realize that your waking up in time on this particular occasion is no guarantee that you will wake up in time on future occasions and that maybe, just maybe, God really does have a sense of humor and this is his little finger in the ribs method to tell you that you'd better shape up or next time is going to be an even bigger relief but not in the way this one was.
No? Me neither.
Just how valuable is a single vote? Let's find out!
I am offering up my vote in the next general election to the highest bidder. This includes the Presidential race as well as any Congressional, Senatorial, State, County and Local elections, and any ammendments or resolutions that appear on my ballot. Items that are not on the ballot may also be included and I will think about those unavailable choices with simulated regret while voting for actual ballot items.
The above are offered up for sale in a mixed auction right on this very site. If you wish to bid silently you may send an email to votebid@jpeacock.net. If you would like to bid publicly you may do so right here in the comments to this post. Bidding rules are:
- You may bid as many times as you wish.
- Bid increments will be a minimum of $1.00.
- All bids are in US Dollars.
- Offers of goods or services will be accepted in lieu of cash. Auctioneer will be the sole arbiter of the cash value of goods or services offered. You may contact the auctioneer to receive an assessed value before bidding with goods or services or just go for it and the auctioneer will post the assessed value when he gets around to it.
- Bidders will not refer to themselves in the third person. Third person personal referral is reserved solely for the auctioneer.
- 3rd party goods or services may not be offered. For example, you may not bid "Sex with Kate Beckinsale" unless you yourself are Kate Beckinsale.
- If you are Kate Beckinsale and you bid "Sex with Kate Beckinsale" you win.
- Bid entry must include at least a Presidential vote choice and may include selections for all ballot choices available in Lawrenceville, Georgia.
- Bids will be accepted through the end of the auction. Auction will end at some random point in the future when the humor potential of this post has petered out.
- Hehehe. I said "petered". That was cool.
Good luck and may the wealthiest person with the loosest morals win!
Helen's having a bit of a bother trying to open a bank account in merry old England. You know how it is - they want three forms of ID, utility bills, body fluids, firstborn child, etceteras.
I had a bank experience like that. It was back many a year when we were putting a new roof on my Dad's house. It was a lovely Saturday, just about 140 degrees on the roof (or near enough you couldn't tell the difference). We were pounding away and laying shingles when out of the house pops my step-mum. Normally this was a welcome occurence as she'd be bringing out iced tea or cool-aid, or perhaps sandwiches and a beer ration. Hopes for cool beverages or sustenance were crushed when a quick glance showed her hands to be empty.
Lo, she said unto me: "Jim, didn't you have to go to the bank today?" This struck me as an odd question. Of course I did. I had spoken of it quite specifically the night previous. My aquisition of my very first muscle car (a 1970 Mustang Grande) would be jeapordized were I to miss hitting the bank this day. A thought occured to me then and I asked her "Prithee, what time is it?" Her reply of "It is approximately 2 minutes before the bank closes. Or, using the New Math, it is exactly 42 seconds too late for you to get to the bank regardless of what you do to try to speed up your travel process" did not fill me with joyous feelings. However, I was always a polite lad and responded thusly. "Thank thee, m'lady. Wouldst thou care to remove thine self from my directeth patheth as I shall be travelling forthwith post haste?"
Dateline - Oakbrook, IL
Ronald McDonald has gone into hiding since a mob of obese burger lovers attacked McDonalds Corporate Headquarters earlier today. The super sized protesters had gathered to peacefully complain about McDonald's decision to discontinue its Super Size Value Meal program but things quickly got ugly.
The rotund eaters were gathered on the headquarter's grounds either pacing slowly or relaxing in straining portable canvas chairs when several busses arrived and disgorged members of CEA (Competitive Eaters of America) and FaBELOS (Fat Bastards Eating Lots Of Stuff). While the two groups are often at loggerheads they had apparently united to demand the return of their beloved Super Sized fries and a Coke. The high energy gluttons incited the protestors who were already present with an end result of a waddling wave of jiggling flesh crashing into the building. Glass windows were shattered from the concussive force and several floors lost power.
Police and National Guard troops were called in to subdue the rampaging gastrophiles while Ronald McDonald, Grimace and at least one other company spokesman were smuggled out the back of the building and spirited away to safety. Ronald called later from a secluded location to make a statement on the attack.
"I have never been so terrified in all my life. The shear weight of the opposition was daunting. This is a monstrous burden but it is one I am prepared to bear. McDonalds will not bow to terrorist tactics and we are sticking with our decision to eliminate the Super-Size options as well as cancelling the proposed Monstro-Size and Garganto-Sizes. We are committed to helping create a healthy America." The distraught clown closed his statement with a plea. "Everybody come on - let's put a smile on."
Burger King, McDonald's chief adversary in the fast food field, voiced support of Ronald's decision but regretfully declined to follow suit with his own menu. According to Mr.King "While we respect and admire Ronald for standing by this difficult decision, our company works on a different basic premise. At our restaurants you get it your way and if your way is a pound and a half of tallow soaked potatoes washed down by a half gallon of carbonated sugar water then by God that's exactly what you'll get." When asked if he expected an increase in Burger King sales as high content eaters moved away from the lighter McDonalds menu he responded only with "Oh, I'm sure I'll be lovin' it."
Third rate competitor Dave Thomas was unavailable for comment.
The big hand is on the 3 and the little hand is on the 10. What time is it? Well we could say it's "ten fifteen". We could also say that it is "quarter after 10". Why can't we say "ten and a quarter" or "fifteen after 10"?
Why is "quarter after seven" okay but "three quarters to eight" is wrong? "Twenty after three" is just peachy but heaven forbid you should say "forty to four".
And why is it just fine and dandy to say that it's "half past twelve" but people look at you funny if you say "half til one".
Frankly I'm sick of it and I'm not going to take it any more. Free your mind and your ass will follow! Join me in rebellion against these outdated and nonsensical clock mores!
What time is it?
I said WHAT TIME IS IT?
It's fourty three to two!
YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAARRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!
POINTS: 3 points for the first person to name my source for the title of this post. No searching, please! And my source is not a bunch of no talent copy cats either.
(The scene: James Earl Jones and I are sipping tea on the veranda. The kids are running about alternately chasing and being chased by the dogs. Lovely Wife is whipping up a batch of her unbelievably delicious potato salad to go with the steaks that James is tending on the barbeque. The blush of premature spring is in the air and our conversation remains light and idle until James springs a whopper on me.)
James: You know, sometimes I am so jealous of you.
Me: Really? Why? Because I'm married to a Teutonic Princess? A woman who's loving kindness is exceeded only by the gorgeosity of her legs?
James: No, although I will admit that was a spot-on description of your Lovely Wife.
Me: Is it because I'm surrounded by fine strong boys, the issue of my loins, manifest proof of my virility and masculine prowess?
Ron, aka Acidman, aka "that guy at Gutrumbles", has gone and sprayed the proverbial waterhose on the hornet's nest that is the blogosphere. Lots of my regular reads have delisted him because of a couple of posts of a suspect nature. That suspect nature is blatant racsism and use of the bad word instead of one of the PC terms for dark skinned people. Don't ask me any more about it than that cause I don't know. I didn't read him before this event and don't see any real reason to start now so I've got no opinion on the matter.
It got me to thinking though...could there be any less appropriate time for me to put up a post that poked fun at some of our racial stereotypes? I mean, outside of a riot or OJ whacking another white chick. I sure can't think of a worse time to post such off color humor (bad pun was intentional) so of course that's exactly what I'm doing. May I proudly (but subject to instant retraction if I get delinked anywhere) present:
The Evolution of the Booty
One of the most common questions I get (besides the pervs asking about cow udders) is "Why do black chicks have such fine booty?" To which I of course reply "How can you say such a thing? That is a slander that perpetuates the stereotypes that black chicks must battle against every day of their lives and doing this is both unfair and at least marginally rascist despite the fact that they do indeed have ultrafine booty. And don't say 'black chicks' as that's neither respectful nor politically correct. Say 'black gals' instead."
But it isn't just black gals, is it? No, there are quite a few black fellas that have premium, Grade-A, USDA Choice keisters. But that's not really it either since a fair number of white gals have what we euphamistically call "bubble butts". In fact, the only race/gender slice that is universally known to never have a delectable booty is the white male*.
You remember the Butt Game, right? That's where you call out "Butt" and something that you can see. Whoever gets the most laughs wins. Well, Bear is getting really good at this. The other day we were playing it in the car and he trumped both Lovely Wife and myself with his butt-isms. Some were so good that I couldn't help but wonder why they aren't part of our regular vocabulary. In the interest of expanding the wonder and grace of the English language I present a sample of Buttcabulary.
Buttramp: Sounds naughty doesn't it? This word could be used with hillarious effect as a synonym for "slide".Buttplate: This is an actual word already but it lends itself to another definition. You know those round plastic sleds that you can't control worth a damn and are designed so you can't sit at the center of gravity so you always end up going down the suicidal hill backwards? Yeah, those are now called buttplates.
Buttbus: "Short bus" has taken on dangerously non-PC tones. We'll call them buttbusses from now on.
Buttpole: Can't really stay away from homosexual references when we're talking about butts, can we?
Buttlight: The doctor uses this during rectal exams.
Buttgrass: This was the winner of our last contest. Isn't this just perfect to describe the muppet like growth that covers some folks backsides or the jungle of hairs pouring out of some butt cracks? Here, let me use it in context for you: "Damn, girl! Mow that buttgrass!"
What Buttcabulary words do you know?
Disjointed and caffeinated thoughts that most certainly do not come from your regular host, Mr. Jim Peacock, so throw the tomatoes at me, not him. 'Course, you'll have to wait until the site's back up, which is what I'm doing right now. The other thing I'm doing right now is taking advantage of Jim's kindness in giving me a guest login. I'm a real super-good taker-advantager. I'm knacky with the grammar, too, if you couldn't tell.
Anyway, Jim didn't write the following, I did, and you'll be able to tell right away because Jim, unlike myself, is normally coherent.
Do you have a Goody Box at work? It's a cardboard display with all sorts of chips, cookies, microwave popcorn, cup-a-soup, etc, that's brought in and stocked by some local vending company. It's the stuff you'd find in a classic vending machine except it's just in this open cardboard thing with a cardboard box with a slit where you put your money (All items 75 cents!). There's one sitting by the printers on the other side of the building and another in the break room slash kitchen. They work on the honor system. You want a Snickers bar, you're supposed to put in your 3 quarters.
My problem is that I don't have any money. I don't mean I'm destitute, y'all. I mean I don't carry cash. Like ever. Except for vending machines (or vending cardboard boxes) the old debit card works for just about anything. So what do I do when I'm pouring my coffee and I look over and see those Lorna Doone cookies staring at me? What could possibly complete a morning cup of coffee like shortbread cookies? Do I just take a pack of cookies? That's stealing, even if it is from a faceless corporation. The guilt would just crush me if I did that (I am a recovering Catholic after all). No, what I've had to do every day for the past several months was wipe that single tear from my eye, pass by the coveted Lorna Doones and retire to my desk to attempt to enjoy a suddenly tasteless cup of coffee.
That's what I had to do until recently anyway. You see, we got a new vending box last month. It looks the same as the old one - cardboard half box with the cardboard safe that has a slit on top for money deposit and prepacked snack delights filling up the display portion - except for one small detail. This one has a little Master Card/Visa sticker on the pay box. Hallelujiah and saints be praised! I just swipe my debit card in and out of that cardboard slot, take the beloved Lorna Doone cookies and enjoy them with a clear conscience. I was a bit concerned at first because there was no slip to sign but then I remembered that signatures aren't required for purchases under $50.
It's odd that none of my purchases showed up on my last bank statement. They must process all of the transactions in a batch and they just haven't hit mine yet. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Do you know how when you and your partner are both really tired on a Saturday afternoon and she's lying on the bed relaxing while you (for some unknown reason that even you can't explain except that it has something to do with your severe anal retentive nature) are checking your work email on your own time and then you finish up and shut down the computer and you lie down in the bed with her and just snuggle for a while until that certain spark starts up (most likely because she suddenly says "I am so horny right now") and you start fondling her but then you hear the kids coming down the hall so you distract them by telling them they can go to town on their entire box of Valentine's day candy and to stay in the front room and you and Mommy will be out in a little bit and then the two of you get under the covers giggling a bit because you're oh-so-naughty having a quickie in the middle of the day when the kids are up but not giggling too much because you're both so horny now that you can only really think of one thing and then you're rocking away in the spoon position and having a grand old time and then you hear your oldest child (the four year old) pipe up from the foot of the bed "Hey! Stop messing around!" and gives you a huge panic because even though you're under the covers you just got caught and you have that panic like you did when you were messing around in your parents' house way back when so you yell "Get in the living room now!" and when the confused lad runs out of the bedroom your Lovely Wife starts laughing and you can't help but laugh too in a mixture of relief and humor at the absurdity of the situation?
Me neither.
It's been a while since I expressed my appreciation to the homosexual men in the world. Not you bi fellas! Y'all are icky. But gay men? Damn, do we straights owe you guys.
I don't understand why some hetero guys are gay haters. Don't you guys get it? You owe the gay guys a round of thanks too! I see you're confused so I'll take it a step backwards and start with an anecdote.
Iv, our next door neighbor's son, is gay. He's also a smoking hot specimen of male boditude with the sweetest personality you could imagine. He makes Lovely Wife and all of her lady friends weak in the knees. Unappologetically. They brag about it. Hell, if I ever decide to switch teams I am going to be so all over him it'll be pathetic.
So that full bladder feeling starts up. You know the one - it says "It's about time to head on over to the can. We're approaching terminal capacity here." So I do what any normal male would. I ignore it for a while. Let that sucker build up a bit. You know - get the fire hose up to pressure. I'm at work, see? Work has many benefits including health care, salary, job satisfaction...and urinals.
Yes, urinals. Urinals are a gentleman's playground. At home we have the shitter sitter. That classic low slung all purpose throne. It works great for the ladies and even guys would be lost without it but it has drawbacks. For a crap it's got everything you could want. For a piss it is less than satisfactory. You have two basic choices - sit or stand. If you sit for a pee you are automatically docked a minimum of 5 Guy Points. Sitting is for toddlers and men afraid of their women. A guy really has only one valid choice - the stand.
The Scene: Dopple-G and I are eating lunch and discussing the 7 year old who was suspended for saying 'hell'.
Dopple-G: You've got to be a little nervous about stuff like this, right? I mean, Bear's about to enter the vaunted public school system.
Me: Yeah, it's a definite concern.
Dopple-G: But he doesn't have a potty mouth, right?
Me: Nah. In fact, he does a good job keeping Lovely Wife and I straight. He does play The Butt Game with me though.
The Scene: A summer barbeque at our house. The sun is down and the rugrats are abed. Dopple-G, his wife, my own Lovely Wife and I are relaxing on the veranda with beers and cigars. Lovely Wife goes into the house to get a glass of wine. She returns with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. The bottle has about a half inch of wine in it.
Dopple-G: Why bother with a glass? There's barely a swig left in that bottle.
Lovely Wife: Because wine is drunk from glasses. Perhaps it's acceptable for Americans to drink from the bottle but I am European. I'm naturally more sophisticated.
At this point Lovely Wife is faced with a conundrum. Both hands have something in them. There are no flat surfaces ready at hand to put her glass upon. She solves the problem by biting the cork and spending considerable effort and no small amount of time to worry it out of the bottle. She then spits the cork across the veranda and prepares to pour the wine.
Dopple-G: (laughing) Oh, yeah. You're definitely more sophisticated. I probably would have used an armpit or something to get that out. And there's no way I could have spit that far for distance. Nowhere near sophisticated enough.
Lovely Wife realizes what she just did and starts laughing so hard that she drops her glass in the dirt. At this point she gives up and finishes off the wine with one good pull from the bottle.
So now you know why I call her Lovely Wife and not Sophisticated Wife.
It always knows.
The flavor of fruit.
Just follow my snoot!
This little ditty is lodged firmly in my head this morning. I have no idea where it came from. As far as I know this jingle was retired many, many years ago. I also haven't actually seen Toucan Sam in I don't know how long.
So why do I have this bloody annoying Fruit Loops jingle bouncing around my grey matter? What synapse misfired to bring this annoying stuff out of cranial retirement? Is it a warning sign of some grand mental problem lurking just beneath the surface?
Of course some people would clarify that as another grand mental problem lurking just beneath the surface. Because they're all out to get me and they do stuff like that. What was that noise?!
[mumble mumble mumble]
Dear Y'all:
The group mailing address that sends email to everybody in the company is a feature that should be used sparringly. Its purpose is to allow a simple way for people like the President, CFO, and Bob to tell us when people are fired, when our W-2 forms will be ready, and when the gas leak is fixed, respectively. Occassional use by other people is okay, but only when they have an actual message imparting information that applies to the entire company. For example, it's okay when the receptionist sends out an email that the car wash guy is here. It's okay for someone to send an email when they put homemade cookies in the break room.
The most absolutely amazing thing about this picture of Lovely Wife with Nicki (pup #1) is not the teasing swell of hip, so rounded and shapely that even the big droopy shirt can't hide it. It isn't the seductive "come hither" look in her eye. It isn't that she's lying down with a dog who's exposing his genitals. It's not even the gargantuan size of the graphic due to me not realizing how big it was as I uploaded it and being far too lazy to edit and upload another picture.
No, my friends. The most amazing thing is that Lovely Wife gave me verbal permission to take the photo. That's right. Actual permission. "You can take a picture if you want" will forever be scored upon my forebrain. She even told me where the camera was when i couldn't find it.
This is big, y'all. Is Lovely Wife losing her abject hatred of being photographed? Is she coming to appreciate the camera's lecherous stare?
Or perhaps I should be off to the shed to look for empty pods.
This morning in the shower I was accosted by an unnatural sensation. No kids yelling. No dog barking. No cat attempting to dig to China via the litter box. Just the delicate sound of the water sluicing off my naked body. The silence was unnerving.
I did the only thing a rational person with absolutely no singing ability could do in this situation. I made sound effects.
The other day, Bacon walked by the puppy and gave her a kick. Not a mean kick, just a little "Hey there, I'm kicking you, what are you going to do about it?" type of kick.
Lovely Wife was the first to react as she yelled out ''Why did you do that!?" and he replied with only a look, head cocked just so and a facial expression that clearly said ''I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about". She rephrased her query ''Why did you kick the puppy?" He shrugged his shoulders and uttered the classic ''I dunno" that all parents are infinitely familiar with but his look clearly still indicated that he was clueless as to the subject under discussion.
So yesterday I was reading a story to little Burger. Kota was laying next to me, hoping for some petting action. The other two were sitting around having their brains sucked out by the evil glowing box in the corner. Kota got bored waiting for me to pay her attention and got up to find our other dog, Nicki. As she passed by Bacon, she calmly and casually turned her head to bite him as she passed. Not a mean bite, just a playful puppy bite. A bite that said "I bit you. Do something about it."
I yelled out "Kota! No! Why did you do that?" (animals can understand complex questions as long as you are angry when you ask them.) She sat down and looked at me, head cocked just a little bit and wearing an expression that said ''I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about." I didn't bother rephrasing the question.
We're in trouble.
The Scene: Lovely Wife is in the supermarket with the spawn children. They spy an unnecessary but not out of bounds pricewise item that they covet.
Bear: Momma, can we get that unnecessary but not out of bounds pricewise item that I covet?
Lovely Wife: No, Bear. I don't have the money for it right now.
Bear: You can use your card!
The Scene: Dopple-G and I are sitting down to lunch. He is eating naked burgers with cheese slices on top.
Background: Dopple-G actually enjoys American cheese singles and considers them to be actual cheese. I am a cheese snob where this pseudo-food is concerned.
Dopple-G: I've got "real cheese" today.
Me: That is not real cheese. It is "processed cheese food product".
Dopple-G: Why are you so anti-American?
Me: I'm not anti-American, I'm anti-cheese impersonation.
Dopple-G: American cheese is real cheese.
Me: Real cheese does not have partially dehydrogenated soy bean oil as an ingredient.
So, y'all know about our new puppy (Kota, short for Dakota) and how we took the calm, affectionate one instead of the hyperactive, psychotic one. By way of explaining our current situation I'll share with you the meaning of "Dakota", which I've just discovered after many hours of searching. The original Indian doesn't come over to English exactly but a loose translation is "Oh, you thought I was the calm one? You are in such terrible shit that I would pity you if only I could sit still long enough to do so".
Apparently her original calm demeanor was the result of a heavy barbituate overdose. She has now self medicated with mescaline to compensate. I must, for the sake of the family's continued sanity (okay, the adults' continued sanity), find her stash.
It just came to me that the pet-style animals in the household now outnumber the humans. 2 dogs, 2 cats, 2 birds vs 5 bipeds. Thank god for opposable thumbs. Still, if they ever figure out basic mathematics we might be in for some trouble. If you ever come to the site and the entries are all "woof grrr woof" (and badly spelled) please send Snausages.
The Scene: Dopple-G and I are on the way home from work. It's a beatiful sunny Atlanta day, traffic is light, spirits are high.
Me: So, any plans for next Saturday?
Dopple-G: I plan on not doing any work. Period. No construction. No cleaning. No moving things about. Nothing.
Me: Easy, killer. I'm not trying to get you to do work.
Dopple-G: Yes you are. Any time you have something fun in mind you say "Hey, do you want to do this fun thing next Saturday?" When you are trying to get me to do work you say "So, any plans for next Saturday?" and then I either have to lie and say I've got plans or make up something really quick because as soon as I say that I don't have any plans you'll say "Great, then you can help me do somethingorother" and somethingorother is always work.
Bacon has a hard time with the "V" sound and he tends to avoid it or substitute different sounds for it. Instead of "vanilla" he uses "Tamilla" (the "N" changes to an "M" because, let's face it, "tamilla" just sounds better than "tanilla"). I expect that if he ever tried to go for "Veritable" it would come out like "Terrible" and I don't even want to think what he'd do to "Vertiginous" or "Versimilitude". But give the kid a break, he's only 3.
I myself had problems mastering some phonemes when I was a lad. Specifically I couldn't do the "TR" sound as in "Strum" or "Triangle". Those came out as "Fum" and "Fangle" respectively as I tended to substitute an "F" for the "TR" and whatever might come before it.
You see where this is going? Of course you do.
It was a bit of an embarassment to Mom when we were in a fairly nice restaurant, seated by a window and enjoying a fine meal, when my small but eagle-keen eyes spotted quite the cool lorry driving by. This was a car carrier and my little brain was very excited over the large vehicle carrying an assortment of autos.
"Momma! Fuck! Momma! Fuck!" I cried joyously as I pointed out of the window.
"James Robert! Stop that this instant" replied my less than thrilled mother.
"No, look Momma! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" my small but increasingly voluble voice rang out. I stood up on my chair pointing excitedly as the truck motored out of sight, belting out ever more strident yells of "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
"James Robert Peacock! You sit down this instant! Oh, my sweet Lord!" The last part was somewhat muffled as her face had lowered into her hands by this time.
As the truck had passed from view I obliged her, trailing off with one last "You see fuck?" as I reclaimed my seat. Mom didn't finish her dinner that night if I recall correctly.
I'm sure you can see now why I'm not overly concerned with Bacon's "V" thing.
No I do NOT hate you, your religion, your race, your sexual disposition, your nationality (except those misfortunate enough to be French) or any other minority slice you lay claim to.
Actually the French comment above is especially topical here as the email I'm responding to was indeed from a froggy. Why do we Americans, particularly this American, hate the French? The short answer is "We don't" or at a bare minimum "I don't". The somewhat longer answer is "Because you are cheese eating surrender monkeys" but that is way overused so I'm not going to go there.
With the unprecedented success of the 3 Lord of the Rings movies it was pretty much a no-brainer that director Peter Jackson would get the chance to make the prequel to the LOTR storyline, The Hobbit. What isn't well known is Jackson's concerns over making The Hobbit, the movie.
As readers of the books can easily attest, The Hobbit is by far the weakest of the four books. This will put the pressure on Jackson to create a movie on par with the 3 already completed. He is going to have to do it with a greatly reduced budget as well. The special effects that were such a grand part of the blockbuster movies will not be much of a factor in the rather pedantic Hobbit storyline and the movie is budgeted accordingly.Added to this is the problem of characters. Both the Bilbo Baggins (played by Ian Holm)and Gandalf (played by Ian McKellen) characters appear in The Hobbit but that storyline occurs many years before the time of the other movies. Jackson has resolved this issue by recasting the parts. Leonard Nimoy has been cast to play the younger Gandalf. At the time of this writing it is unknown who will play the lead roll of Bilbo Baggins.
Despite his difficulties and concerns, Jackson remains upbeat and optimistic over his new movie project.
I'm happy that Peter Jackson remains optimistic but if you're a fan of the first three movies and you've seen The Hobbit advanced teaser trailer you might agree with me that there is some definite cause for concern. If you haven't seen it yet you should probably take a minute to do so and form your own opinion.
Washington (Reuters) - Britney Joins the Nation of Islam
Pop sensation Britney Spears has become the most recent celebrity to join the ranks of the african-american-centric Nation of Islam. Spear's conversion to Islam follows on the heels of her two day long marriage and subsequent annulment to childhood pal Jason Alexander.The black separatist religious organization has a longstanding policy of accepting only non-white members. In a prepared statement, spokesman Louis Farrakhan explained the exception was made for Ms.Spears "Cause the girl gots soul. We're talkin' Aretha Franklin soul."
Spears was unavailable for comment but her press agent Schreck Menteur explained that "It was a joke that just went too far. Britney will be getting an annulment...that is, Britney will be getting rebabtized in the Christian faith...as soon as the churches open on Sunday."
Menteur stronly denied that this was yet another publicity grabbing stunt intended to cast some sort of attention on the flagging pop star's career. An insider to the Spear's camp confirms this, saying that it is merely the next in a series of "Britney thinks it's a joke" jokes. Having completed the "Britney thinks marriage is a joke" and "Britney thinks Islam is a joke" stunts, the anonymous insider says that Spears is now planning "Britney thinks pregnancy is a joke" and "Britney thinks terrorism is a joke" gags.
In a word...revenge.
Young kids do not understand the concept of conservation of energy. They go flat out until they are out of juice and then they collapse wherever they are. When they've got the flu this can happen at the drop of a hat since their little bodies are already running low on go stuff and they tend to get knocked out by the flu medicine.
Yesterday at around 5:30 Lovely Wife noticed a sudden shift in the ambient noise level. I was on the love seat making hideous Magna-Doodle drawings for Burger and she was in the dining room. She called out "Is Bacon asleep?" Sure enough he was passed out on the couch.
During this hectic holiday season there are a few things that we need to go over to insure my sanity and your continued good health.
- Shopping on your lunch break is fine but the sense of urgency this creates for you is not the “life or death” type of thing that will get you out of a traffic ticket.
- No matter how late you are getting back to the office, the laws of physics still say that you cannot go faster than the car in front of you.
- That three feet of space you normally leave between my back bumper and your front bumper is sacred and should not be sacrificed no matter how desperate you are to get to Borders.
- Stay the hell away from Pleasant Hill Road.
- Those lanes that turn into forced right turns are still there even when they are full of traffic. If you don’t want to turn right you need to get into another lane before you get into the intersection.
- If you find yourself in the intersection turning right even though you don't want to, go ahead and turn right anyway. Sitting in your turn lane waiting for a break in the lane of traffic full of cars that got out of that right turn only lane in time will get your ass totaled by the Excursion carrying one very stressed mom and 3 screaming kids that is coming up behind you. The people behind her will cheer your destruction.
- Do NOT match your vehicle speed to the ambient temperature.
- When the left turn arrow turns red this means you are not supposed to enter the intersection. They picked that color because it is exactly the fucking same as a red light. If you are in the intersection when the red arrow makes its appearance you may continue out of the intersection. If you are not yet into the intersection then stay right the hell where you are.
- If you are the fifth or succeeding car to blow through the red arrow by playing choo-choo train with the car in front of you I will shoot you dead.
Bacon: I peed my pants.
(Bacon is a card carrying member of the CAP Society. That's Children Against Parents. Their methods are nefarious, devious and purely evil.)
Lovely Wife: What? You just went potty before we got in the car! Why did you pee your pants?
(Lovely Wife has recently joined POTLaN, better known as Parents On Their Last Nerve.)
Bacon: I don't know.
(CAP members are highly trained to withstand the fiercest interrogation.)
Bear: Because we don't have a bathroom in here!
(As the CAP Team Leader, Bear launches a flanking attack to support his troops.)
Lovely Wife: Gah!
(Bear's flanking attack is successful. Lovely Wife's adult thought processes cannot switch gears fast enough to counter his devious non sequitir.)
Bear and Bacon smile, content in their victory as Lovely Wife and I devolve into a laughing fit.
The family had to be based in freaking New York. Upright, uptight Atlantic state New York, a place of unbridled acceptance of general morality. My life could have been so much cooler if my family was from West Virginia. It's warmer, which is something I've really come to appreciate since moving to Georgia. Lots more scenery and nice mountains. Western New York has no mountains. They even frown upon hills there. And most importantly, in West Virginia they let you boff your cousins.
No, I'm not talking about the infamous Singaporean animal masturbator, any of the worthies on WorstJob.com or even the guy who collects worms from cattle intestines. I'm talking about the poor S.O.B. who has to squeegee clean the holodecks on the Enterprise at the end of the day.
Kelley is wondering what stuff you believed as a kid that you can laugh about now.
I had a particularly voracious monster under the bed. It wasn't good enough to keep hands and feet away from the edge. All body parts had to be protected by the Blanket of Monster Repelling or it was all over. You had approximately 5 seconds to get covered (after jumping the last 3 feet into the bed) before he would attack. I didn't have a closet monster though. The bed monster probably ate him.
I had a stair monster too. The steps to the basement were open (no backs on the steps). If you were too slow getting up the stairs he would grab your ankles. One of the most terrifying moments of my childhood was when I was tearing ass up these stairs and slipped. I smashed my shin on the wooden step so hard that I couldn't even scream, it hurt so badly. I was stuck, unable to move, just waiting for the monster to grab me. Eventually I was able to crawl up to the landing where I sat huddled in a fetal position until I could stand up again. To this day I don't know what saved me back then. Either he was asleep on his watch or just assumed I'd trucked all the way up like I usually did. I'm sure that if I'd actually been able to cry at the pain he would have been alerted and then he would have got me.
Say that you're in a meeting with your team (programmers, production guy, product manager and boss). Further, say that you are sitting across from and just a bit over from the boss. Let's also say that she has one too many buttons undone on her blouse. And it's obvious she does not have a clue that said button is open. She's also got a lacy black little half bra thing going on and depending on which way she is facing and how she is sitting you can see nipple.
Do you stare? How openly? Is it bad if you do a jaw dropped open full-on ogle for several minutes, during which time you are aparently brain dead and slowly, one by one, the people in the meeting each realize that you are occularly linked to the boss's boobages? How bad is it when the boss herself realizes that you are visually molesting her and calls your name several times before you respond?
Finally, if at the completion of the meeting the boss stands up and it turns out that she was wearing some black leotard thing under her blouse and anything else that you thought you saw was just your own very overactive imagination, should that cancel out any asshole points that you've accumulated or does it simply mean that you are pathetic?
This is all just hypothetically speaking of course...
So you don't believe in real magic? Well this will convince you. With my help you will now cast your very first real magic spell. Just do the following:
- Take a deep breath.
- Grab a pencil, pen, or other wand-like instrument.
- Wave your wand in front of your mouth in a counter-clockwise manner. Those of you with digital clocks just wiggle it a bit.
- Breath out! Jeeze. That was just a calming exercise, I didn't want you to hold your freakin' breath. Just breath normal, okay?
- Speak the following line three times. Each successive line must be louder than the one previous. That means that you say it once softly, once a bit louder and then again a bit louder still:
inflatus lingua nimium
Okay, all done. You've successfully cast your first spell. What? Don't believe me? You didn't notice anything? Oh, really...
How is your tongue feeling? Does it seem a bit...large? Sort of slipping across your teeth instead of sitting nicely inside the old toothline, isn't it? In fact, it now takes some considerable effort to keep that sucker in place, doesn't it? Oh, my hapless foil how you have fallen into my evil snare.
Bwah hah! Bwah hah hah! Bwah hah hah hah hah!
Just in case that last post didn't gross you out enough I'm going to share something with you. Oh, come on. Why the long face? Y'all know that when I'm disgusted with something I share that disgusting thing with you. This increases the amount of disgust in the world thereby lowering my disgust level in relation to the world as a whole. Plus, Momma told me to always share.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right? Well, since my stats are totally mucked up by hits looking for the Paris Hilton and whatsisname amateur porn extravaganza I figured I'd just go with it.
After an intense search which led to many, many, many sites with posts much like my previous one that did not contain any link to the video in question I finally found a site that not only has the entire thing but has it for free. The site is understandably busy so it loads slow but it's worth it. This is some of the best in your face (and elsewhere) camera work I've ever seen in a non budget night vision sex video.
What's more, they have a second Paris Hilton porn where she's having a threesome with Playboy playmate Nicole Lenz and former MTV VJ/actor Simon Rex.
There's a nice compilation of Shannen Doherty stuff there too.
Without further ado, here is the link you're all coming here for: www.parishiltonshagfest.com
Seriously. She puts these evil thoughts into my brain and I am powerless to resist.
This travesty is to the tune of Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious of Mary Poppins fame. Yes, it's true. I have molested one of the world's favorite childrens' songs. Broken down, this version is cremasteric reflex it's a scrotomatic clenchin'. I'll sit quietly until the men in the white van get here.
For those who didn't see the comments referenced above, the Cremasteric Reflex is what causes a man's scrotum to contract when his inner thigh is stroked.
Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin'!
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle me
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle me
Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin'!
The pleasure that it gives your groin
Is simply beyond mention.
If you do it oft' enough you'll
Release all your tension.
Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin''
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle me
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle meBecause I was a fraid to wank
When I was just a teen,
Me girlfriend gave my thigh a stroke
And showed me something keen.
Then one day I learned the word
For my new favorite trick.
The biggest word you've ever heard
For playing with your dick!Oh! Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin'!
The pleasure that it gives your groin
Is simply beyond mention.
If you do it oft' enough you'll
Release all your tension.
Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin''
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle me
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle meSo when you're with that special gal,
Or got some time alone,
Just stroke that inner thigh a bit
And watch your scrotum roam.
But better do it carefully
Or it may change your life.
One night I did it with my girl
And now my girl's my wife!
She does Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin'!
Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin'!
Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin'!
Cremastericreflexitsascrotomaticclenchin'!
I guess writing porn pays off. Extended entry is not work safe.
Howard wants to get a solid constituency in the South but, based on recent comments, he's going to be having some problems doing so. Let's face it, saying that we should quit basing our votes on "race, guns, God and gays" shows pretty conclusively that he doesn't know his target audience. He's lumping all of us Southern bigots into one big group when there are actually three distinct types of Southern bigot. You got yer white trash, yer rednecks and yer good ol' boys and Howie is going to need to tailor his voting instructions to each group.
Now I'm a helpful sort, that's just the way folk are down here, so I've compiled a little guide for Howard to use while he's down here drumming up support. Snooze Button Dreams proudly presents:
The Howard Dean Guide To Southern Bigots
As Don sits studiously writing the next portion of his future historical biography, he is engulfed by a sulfurous, but oddly pleasant in a musky manly-man sort of way, cloud. As the cloud clears he finds himself in a dark and musty cavern. Standing over him is a monstrous form, complete with shiny horns and spikey tail.
Jim: Hey, Don. How's it hanging?
Don: WTF?
Jim: You didn't actually just spell out "W-T-F", did you? That is so...so...
Don: Trite? Generation-X? Geeky?
Jim: That last one.
Idea totally ripped off from Don.
As God walks off into the sunset chuckling heartily over his victory against Don, Jim pops up in that annoying arms-waving-about-attracting-attention manner of his.
Jim: Hey, wait up!
Ever have one of those days when you're driving into work and you're so freaking tired that you seriously think about slamming your car into that jackass next to you because then there would be a car accident and you could get a quick 15 minute nap before the emergency crew got there?
No? Uh...me neither.
G beat me at pinball this morning. I could give excuses like he uses a good paddle and I use a house paddle or that I'm sick as a dog and regurgitating a lung right now or that my drug addled senses couldn't focus on the ball or even that he has gained enough skill to actually beat me at ping pong. But those would all just be excuses.
The real culprit is my Great Uncle. He's dead so it's not much use for me to bitch at him. You see, he and my Great Aunt lived in Hawaii and they sent me some crystals and volcanic rock when I was a little kid. This was bad. It angered the gods and cursed me, much like that episode of The Brady Bunch with the Angry Tiki God.
I didn't understand about the curse until I was a teenager and by then it was too late. I didn't have those rocks any more so I couldn't return them to Pele's bosom to break the curse. That's Pele the Hawaiian volcano goddess, not the aged soccer player.
That's right, y'all - I am doomed for all eternity to suffer the curse of the Maori. I can normally keep it at bay with constant ritual sacrifice but every now and then it will creep through into my life.
On the plus side I always know exactly why things go wrong when they do. Like this morning's ping-pong game or last week when I ran over that kid.
Damned Maori.
Found a nifty link over at Ilyka's Place. It seems that Dean Esmay is looking to find out just what women hate about men. Ilyka had a rough time but finally thought one up. I don't see how this could be difficult for a woman. There should be loads of things that all y'all curvy wenches have against us.
Just for an example, there's the way we mark our territory over at your place. You know, the couple dribbles of pee on the rim of the toilet or the way we take the toilet paper roll off and put it back on so it rolls the right way (over the top!). Or the way we go through your cosmetics and beauty products and wipe our penises across your facial beauty bars. Or the way we'll put a couple of teaspoons of salt in your fish tank so the fishes all die and you'll sell the damn aquarium because you're so upset and that way we don't have to move the bloody thing for you when you get your next apartment.
You know, stuff like that.
Rice-a-Roni, The SanFrancisco Treat.
Rice. A tasty side dish, certainly, but a treat? I can't imagine getting a hankering for a treat and thinking "You know what would be a nifty little pick-me-up? A nice bowl of Rice-a-Roni. Yeah, that's the ticket." As far as treats go I have to rate Rice-a-Roni way down on the list. Well below traditional items like cookies and pastry. I'm thinking it would even fall below a medium rare steak on the old Treat-o-Meter. So what exactly is up with "The SanFrancisco Treat"?
G and I think we have it figured out. What is SanFrancisco well known for, besides the aforementioned rice treat? Yes, that's right. Homosexuals. It seems pretty clear that Quaker Oats (The company that makes Rice-a-Roni and it's non-treat cousin Pasta-Roni. And why exactly is rice a treat but pasta isn't?) is inferring that the preferred treat to the homosexual palate is a tasty dish of rice.
This is very interesting and raises several questions. Why do homosexuals prefer rice to more common "straight treats"? Is this seeming sensual oddity a side effect of homosexuality or a cause of it? And most importantly, can this preference for rice be used as a substitute or enhancement of a straight person's gaydar?
We quickly decided that the first two questions lacked sufficient humor potential would likely require federal funding to investigate fully so we concentrated on the last one. Could we develop a system that uses the knowledge of tasty rice being a preferred homosexual treat to assist homophobes the world over? And, more importantly, would there be any way to make money off of it? We believed that we could indeed develop such a system but there would be little profit potential. Any money we made would most likely be lost when we were sued by Quaker Oats. Therefore our system, known as the "Rice-a-Roni Homosexual Evaluation System", or more simply the "Rice-a-Roni Test" would be open source and free for use by any and all.
Our first step was to verify that tasty rice was not a preferred treat for heterosexuals. We took a poll of our straightt coworkers (male and female) and the unanimous decision was that they did not seek out Rice-a-Roni as a treat, or even as a snack. Some admitted to occasionally using the product as a meal instead of its intended use as a side dish but even that was done rarely and only when "there wasn't anything else in the house". We did not, of course, poll homosexuals as Quaker Oats already established the homosexual preference for tasty rice as a treat and we didn't want to get beat up or anything when said homosexuals found out what we were doing.
A second poll established that all straight respondents viewed chocolate chip cookies as an acceptable treat. For most it ranked quite high or at the top of their overall treat preferences. Even the ones that didn't have a particular love for chocolate chip cookies still preferred them to Rice-a-Roni as a treat source.
Our groundwork done we set about constructing the "Rice-a-Roni Homosexual Evaluation System". Being computer nerds this naturally fell into a flow chart. The beauty of this system is its simplicity. No training is needed to administer the test, simply follow along on the flow chart according to the responses of the subject. Note that although the original intent of this test was revelation of homosexuality for homophobes (gaydar enhancement) it can just as easily be used by sexually confused persons to determine their own sexuality or as a dating assistant for homosexuals. There's a much lower chance of an awkward situation developing when asking a prospective partner if they like cookies instead of grabbing his/her ass and jamming a tongue in an ear.
So without further ado, here is the "Rice-a-Roni Homosexual Evaluation System":
You knew it was coming. I was nice enough to wait until after lunchtime to make sure I didn't ruin any appetites. Except for y'all out West who are 3 hours back of me. You may want to go chow down and then come back to this.
I took a crap at work today.
Hey, that sort of works with the Pearl Jam song "Jeremy". Let's try it out:
Jim is crappin' at work today
Jim is crappin' at work today
Clearly I remember
Sittin' on the can
Seemed a harmless little crap
But he unleashed a pile
Clenched his teeth
And bore down on his ass
How can I forget
He hit me with that surprise stench
My nose left hurtin
Eyes were burnin
Just like The Crew
That stinkin AM Crew
Okay, enough levity. It's time to recount my horror. By sharing this with you I increase the total amount of revulsion in the world, thereby decreasing my own revulsion relative to the mean.
Scene: Darkened bedroom
Lovely Wife: Ohhhhhh. Ahhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhh.
Me: Mmmmmmm.
LW: Oooooooooooooooh!
Me: Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
LW: Ah! Oh! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
(Click - bedroom lights come on)
LW: AHHH!
Me: SHIT!
A while ago while jesting about some of the searches that find my site I made an offer for people to send in their homoerotic dreams for me to interpret them. The response has been absolutely overwhelming and of a broader scope than simple interpretation. There are people out there who need my advice and help and by gosh I'm gonna give it to 'em! I've been answering these inquiries personally but have culled a select few to share with the readership at large.
Doctor Jim,I discovered my homosexuality several years ago and have been doing my best to become comfortable with myself and explore my sexuality. I am very happy with just about everything except for my one major failing. I am unable to come up with any genuine homoerotic fantasies and I have never had a homoerotic dream. Can you help?
Todd,
San Francisco, CA
Open Scene: Jim and G have just sat down for lunch. G is enjoying a turkey sandwich while Jim has leftover homemade mashed potatos.
Jim: Mmmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmm.
G: What is that you're eating?
Jim: Mashed potatos. Leftover from last night. They're heavenly.
G: They're only mashed potatos. You sound like you're having an orgasm in your mouth.
Jim: That's how good they are.
G: No mashed potato is that good.
(Jim gives G a taste of the mashed potatos.)
G: I've had worse but I've had better too. You know what would make them taste even better?
Jim: Cheese.
G: No, not cheese!
Jim: Everything tastes better with cheese.
G: Whatever. I was talking about sour cream.
Jim: Oh, yeah. A dab of sour cream can really be the difference. Lovely Wife usually puts some in but we didn't have any. Hey, you know what else sour cream is good for?
G: Masturbation.
Jim: (Stunned silence)
G: You mean besides that?
Jim: (Continued silence)
G: You caught a visual, didn't you?
Jim: Yeah.
G: Sorry bout that. You going to be okay?
Jim: Yeah.
Close Scene: Sound of one person eating as screen fades to black.
Do you remember O'Gradys chips from Frito-Lay? These were gloriously thick ridged chips available in Au'gratin or Sour Cream & Chives flavor. I got such a hankering for them the other day that I tried to manufacture my own. Got some Lays rippled chips and some cheddar cheese sliced real fine. Take a bite of chip and a bite of cheese. It's okay but it just didn't bring back the magic.
Man, oh man, did Pops and I love those chips. Step Mom would get one bag for the both of us when she went shopping. She shopped once a week, usually on Monday. Do the math here: (1 bag o' chips) / (high school student + adult male) * (1 full week) = (insufficient chips for harmonious living). Thanks, Step Mom. Thanks for adding that extra layer of tension between us. My raging hormones weren't causing quite enough problems without the two of us competing for food like hyenas of the Serengetti.
Anyway, like I said, we had a bag per week between the two of us. There was a set of very well defined unwritten rules for O'Gradys consumption:
The polls will soon open on the highly contested California recall election. Who to vote for? All of the serious candidates have been dragged so thoroughly through the mud by their competition that it seems like your choice is either the lesser of evils or a throwaway vote for a porn star. I say forget everything you've said or know about any of the candidates. Let's face it, their personality and past actions don't really matter squat for how well they will handle the reigns when they're in office and there's no way to know how well they will handle those reigns until they are in office. Lacking anything practical to measure them with i recommend using something impractical. Specifically, the entymology of their names. Why the hell not? It's about as accurate a measure of their worth as anything you've read or heard about them.
That said, there are really only two choices we have to worry about. Sorry, Gary, you're not even a long shot in this one. And Arianna, you have a better chance of getting groped by Arnold than you do getting anything close to a respectable percentage of the vote. Actually, that's a bad example. You've got an excellent chance of getting groped by Arnold, no chance for the vote. Anyway, here's how Cruz "Bustamove" Bustamonte and Arnold "Governator" Schwartzenegger stack up:
Bustamonte: "busta" (busto) is Spanish for "bust" as in bosom or breasts. "monte" means "it mounts", also in Spanish. So a vote for Cruz is a vote for mounting busts, more typically known as "getting in the saddle".Schwartzenegger: "schwartz" (schwartzes) is German for "black". There's no need to spell out what "negger" means. A vote for Arnold is obviously a vote for the African American man.
So who would you rather have as Governor of California? A Democrat who is going to have his office characterized by sex scandals or a Republican who will be dedicated to support of minorities? I know where my vote would go.
One burning question has lingered in the thoughts of women across the world since the very beginning of civilization. "Why the hell are guys like that?" Or more specifically, "Why can't I have a rational conversation with a guy without him looking at my boobs every five seconds or having his eyes glaze over as he strokes his mental stiffy with thoughts of me in a naughty French maid outfit, two nipple clamps and a short but firm whip?"
The Male Conspiracy has kept the answer to this question closely guarded, forcing you gals to come up with your own wild conjectures. Some of you have studied animal behaviors and attributed those to us. Others say that evolution has programmed us with this behavior and even millenia of civilized living cannot counter that. Still others blame our culture for fostering an ideal of the womanhunter that we all strive unconciously to attain.
Nope. The true answer is that fire is the reason and you are the cause. Totally, completely, 100%, en totale your fault. You did it. Well maybe not you specifically but other women like you. Specifically, it was our Moms.
WARNING: Crude and vulgar stuff ahead.
On the ride into work today, G and I got on Hillary Clinton. Not literally on her, of course; she wasn't in the car with us. But we talked about her in the context of the 2008 election and what would happen if it came down to Condi and Hill. G thinks Condi would blow her away. I also think Condi would win but it would be close.
>From there the conversation naturally turned to sex with Hillary. Yes, that is a natural turn of conversation given the ungodly hour, the fact that she's female and that we are both heterosexual males. Actually the stream of conversation went sort of like this:
- Rush Limbaugh is a racist bastard. He intimated that McNabb is a popular quaterback because he's black and people want to see a successful black quarterback.
- That's just plain stupid thinking. 20 years ago it might have been plausible but there are loads of black quaterbacks, coaches, etc.
- Even outside of sports it's not plausible. Look at the Bush government. Conaleeza Rice and Colin Powell are two of the most powerful people in America and they're black.
- Either Colin or Condi will probably run in 2008.
- Bush is a lock in 2004 because the Radical Left is polarizing the Dems.
- Hillary is setting up for a 2008 run too. She's marginalizing the Left Dems already and will be in an excellent position to say "Told ya so. Let's try it my way" when Bush squashes whatever loon makes it out of the current Dem candidate pack to challenge him.
- Condi vs. Hillary in 2008 is not only possible, it's actually likely.
- Condi would crush Hill (G) or at least win on a margin (Me).
- I hate Hillary with a deep burning passion.
- I don't hate Hillary as a person but as a public persona and especially as a politician.
- I wouldn't hold it against Hillary if she slept around on Bill.
- Would you sleep with Hillary?
That last point of the conversation got the most development. It
Before I lose all of your respect, please let me answer some of the inevitable questions:
You said you hate her. Why would you have sex with somebody you hate?
I don't hate her, the person. Unlike many very vocal pundits I am more than able to separate the person from the politician. I have never personally met Hillary so I have no idea if I would actually hate her. I hate her lying, cheating, power grubbing, Clintonian ways. For all I know she's quite pleasant in person. In fact, she's probably quite charming face to face. You sort of have to be to get into a Senate seat.
Okay then, if you hate her policies so much and think she's a lying, thieving, cheating crook then isn't it a clash of your principles to be involved with her?
No, this is not a clash with my principles. I still wouldn't be voting for her, I'd just be gifting her with the pearl necklace on a semi-regular basis. There's a big difference. I don't agree with many of the political views of my wife but I still bang her.
Isn't she a bit "old" for you?
All right, I'll admit that Hill isn't a great looker. On the other hand, she's not a sow either. Contrary to modern advertisers' claims, it is not necessary for a woman to look like Cameron Diaz to attract a mate. I also don't have hangups about age. So long as I don't have to worry about snapping hips during the wild ride it's really not a concern for me.
Would you really sell your body for some gifts?
Of course not. I'd also be getting sex. You see, for the average guy there really isn't any such thing as being a prostitute. At least not within our normal comprehension of it. "I get to have sex with chicks and I get money? Rock on!! Hold on while I warm up my mangina."
Aren't you worried about what a relationship with Hillary (extramarital for her) would do to your reputation?
Are you serious? When has a reputation ever been a consideration for whether a guy has sex or not?
Back to her policies. You hate them so much and think she's such a lousy politician. What could you talk about? How would you actually have any kind of relationship?
I'm sure her economic policies would sound much better with my cock in her mouth.
What about after it's all over though. Wouldn't you be worried about some sort of repercussions?
I see only benefits. It would be much easier to argue her down against Hillarites. Oh, she rallied the Senate and got her pet bill passed? "Well she was an astoundingly bad lay." She's made another impassioned speach about socialized health care, reverse discrimination and how she continues to battle the vast right wing conspiracy? "I can tell you that she didn't speak so well with a ball gag in her yap hole." Hillary has opted into the 2008 Presidential race? "Yeah, that horse can run all right. Just like the day I put the saddle and blinders on her and shoved the pony tail butt plug up her ass."
So sure, I'd screw Hillary. Nothin' but pie there as far as I can see. How bout y'all? Guys (and ladies that go that way), what do you say?
I do not like that Clinton, Hill.
I do not like your wife there Bill.
I do not like her with a mouse.
I do not like her in The House.
I do not like her lying ways.
I do not like the cons she plays.
I do not want to hear her voice.
Please tell me that I have a choice!
I do not like her in New York.
I'd rather stab her with a fork.
I do not want her as my Pres.
I don't respect that bull dyke les.
I fear she'll use me as a goose,
And with my cash play fast and loose,
And spend and spend to up our debt.
It won't be paid til I am dead!
'Bout Travelgate she gives a scoff.
There's smoke and fire but she gets off!
And Whitewater she couldn't care.
Her sneaky ways sidestepped that snare.
On Monica she was astounded,
As if she thought Bill's ways were bounded.
The "vast right wing" she called at fault,
When it was just Bill's trouser trout.
The truth came out, did she recant?
Not too bloody likely, gent.
Apologize she did not do,
She'd rather have the Righties stew.
"It's still their fault" is what she'll say.
"They're after us, please stay away!"
But stay away they'll never do,
Like me, Hill, they just don't like you!
Snooze Button Dreams is proud to present an exclusive interview taken with H, of The Everyday Stranger, leader of the Anti-Mappists. This interview was obtained at great personal risk to our intrepid war reporter who will remain anonymous for his own protection*. The following transcript is taken verbatim and is certified to be 100% fair and balanced as well as completely accurate.**
H: Patronize me at your peril, man. I am not kidding.
SBD: Right. Sorry. Let's get to the interview then, shall we?
H: Whatever. You're just old and bitter.
SBD: I'm not old! I'm 37. And I am not bitter, either! I must say I am offended by that!
H: Oops, sorry, I didn’t mean to bend your dick that way.
SBD: Quite all right. Now, for the first interview question: Recently, blogwar hostilities have erupted between your blog and Snooze Button Dreams. Can you tell my readers why you declared war on Jim?
H: I want him to cry soft, silent tears while he makes love to me.
SBD: Are you being flippant?
H: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
SBD: Well, it's well known that you both already have partners and there would also be a logistical problem with you being in Sweden and him in the USA. Given that, I thought it might be possible that your previous answer was flippant. Was there perhaps a little bit of sarcasm there?
H: Buckets and buckets of it.
SBD: I see. Let's skip to the next question. Did you make any preparations for battle before declaring war?
H: Trimmed my minge. It's now in a very cute box shape.
SBD: Yes, of course you did. Now that battle has been joined, can you describe the experience?
H: Rhythmic choas, baby. It’s like being in a small confined space with Satan and suddenly, I was nude. I am reduced to being nervous about super-speedy cows.
SBD: That sounds quite traumatic. Looking into the "crystal ball", what do you see for you and Jim at the end of the Mapwar?
H: We have to be scraped off the top of our cars with a putty knife and double our doses of thorazine.
SBD: If you forsee such a horrible outcome for both of you, why pursue this war?
H: You have no idea how grouchy you can get after four days of pygmy hamsters.
SBD: I will have to take your word for it. I assume you have heard the rumors to the effect that you were put up to this Mapwar by the Swedish Fairies Union. Can you comment on these rumors of your collusion with the SFU?
H: If I see that little bastard Roland the Mental Health Fairy I am going to rip his goddamn wings off. I cooked and served up the Laundry Fairies earlier this week.
SBD: I think we can safely take that as a denial of collusion. Do you have anything to say to your opponent?
H: Go muff diving often, and without prompting.
SBD: Yes...sound advice that. I was thinking of something apropos to the Mapwar. Do you have anything of that nature to say?
H: I have been the one taking care of the dog.
SBD: That makes no sense at all.
H: Shut up.
SBD: It's hardly an interview if I do.
H: Don't piss me off...I have an anger control problem, remember.
SBD: Ummm...perhaps it would be safer...er...prudent to end the interview here. Thank you again for granting it and I hope my presence here was not too upsetting.
H: I feel enormously pleased.
So there you have it folks, in her own words. Who are you going to support in this Mapwar? Your favorite source for wit and humor or an aparently confused fairy killer?
Think of the fairies.
(*And because he's a total and complete fabrication of my mind.)
(**In the great traditions of Maureen Dowd, Jayson Blair and Reuters.)
Bear and I took a little drive the other day to do some bonding. I calmly explained what has to happen with his school work and chores around the house and why it is in his best interest and he finally decided father knows best. I really felt that we finally connected so I took a photo to always be able to remember this milestone. So my message to all of you with kids is to just take some time and really try to communicate with them and they'll come around.
(hat tip to Steve)
Except it was Sunday and it was the 28th and the month was September. Otherwise it happened just like in that song. Well, the song title anyway. There weren't any dancin' people or ice cream salesmen and there certainly weren't any people saying "Eicay varee', eisee' nardee'". So I guess it was only tangentially like that song. But isn't "tangentially" a cool word? It's really close to "tangenitally", which isn't a word but has "genital" in it and that's funny.
Anyway, took the happily family plus canine for a walk in the park yesterday. Canine is always leashed because he's a moron and will run off at any and every opportunity. He'll then run through the neighborhood pretending to be the Great Rabbit Hunter. We don't have any rabbits in our neighborhood but this doesn't phase him. We do have a load of feral cats and he thinks they are rabbits. He is consistently amazed at the tree climbing prowess of the local rabbit population. Eventually, when both of his brain cells happen to fire at the same time, he will realize that he is A) Hungry and B) Not the Great Rabbit Hunter. He'll then lope on home wearing a shit-eating grin and shit-rolled-in fur so Lovely Wife can do her Academy Award winning performance of "Dog owner who is furious enough to bite dog's ear off but has to act happy and nice so the moron dog won't take off again but oh wait until we're inside the house cause then your ass is mine except not really because said dog owner is afraid that if she lets the moron dog know she's angry then maybe just maybe the next time the moron dog runs off he might be afraid to come back at all as if I could be so lucky so instead he gets bribed with treats and canned food that makes him fart like Ted Kennedy after a weekend bender thereby reinforcing in his tiny little mind that running away is a good thing so he is encouraged to do it again".
This particular park is more than one neighborhood away so canine is carefully leashed. Should canine get loose here he would be completely unable to find his way home. Yes I've heard the amazing stories of dogs that travel thousands of miles, swim the Atlantic and get part time jobs as restroom attendants in order to find their way home. Those are smart dogs. We're talking Benji smart. Pull Timmy out of the well smart. Our dog is more on the intelligence level of a laboratory test subject. After the tests.
While in the park we met a real dog. Don't get me wrong, canine isn't one of those little ankle biters. When Lovely Wife decided we needed a dog I gave her the basic criteria: Any "dog" that can be heaved one handed over the roof will be. Canine is a beagle/terrier mutt and a decent 30 pounds so he passes the heave test (barely cleared the gutters). This dog we met in the park was a real dog though. "Great Dane" real. "This is my couch find your own" real. "187 pounds of imitation pony" real. Wow.
This massive beast, who we'll call "Opie" ('cause that was his name), was also very friendly in a "You will do exactly what I want and I won't consume your children. Deal?" sort of way. Nah, I'm not being fair. Opie really was friendly. Aloof but friendly. Its just when you encounter something that unbelievably large it takes a minute or two before the "fight or flight" reflex settles into the "deal with it, he can catch you if you run and swallow you whole if you don't" reflex. And when he yawned his jaws were the approximate size of the baby stroller. And where'd Burger go? And just why does my kid have to have a food nickname at a time like this? Oh, there he is, standing upright underneath the horse dog. Isn't that nice? Now where are my glycerin tabs?
The kids loved him. Couldn't get enough of him. Petting, hugging, kissing, rubbing, you name it. Everything short of copulation was performed. Our canine seemed visibly shaken. That's understandable as this behemoth was more than 6 times his size. Normally canine isn't bothered by a minor fact like his rival being larger. He's like the Joe Pesci of dogs, small and belligerent like if he refuses to acknowledge that his opponent is bigger than he is then maybe the opponent won't realize it either. I guess after a certain point there's just no need to fake it anymore and Opie was a good 80 pounds over that point. So canine sat there and pouted while his kids showered love on the interloper.
So now Lovely Wife wants a Great Dane. They're really great dogs, see? It's right there in the name. And they don't really take up a lot of space because they mostly just lay around all the time. They don't even realize that they're that big. They think they're a lap dog. Yeah, that's exactly what I want. A 187 pound mobile speed bump that wants to lay in my lap. I told her she could get one as long as she trades in an equal weight of current pets. She was not amused.
Not for a while, of course. Right now I am the shiznit. I'm the guy who'll suck on a giant plastic cow's teats. I'm the guy who'll scream sing "Nemo!" "Memo!" at the top of my voice in Borders. 2 out of 3 of my kids know how to play Hot Hands. I give airplane rides until the kids stumble around worse than a Massachusets senator. Let's face it, right now I am like the ultimate in Daddy material.
But for how long? I do this stuff because it's fun. It amuses me. I am all about amusing me, always have been. I'm the guy who takes the wooden sword off the shelf in the toy aisle and yells out "I'm invincible! Have at you!". If I think it's funny or the idea of it makes me smile, I do it.
I embarrass lovely wife on a constant basis. The other day at Kroger (supermarket) I had all three kids in the cart and swung 'em around, doing an impersonation of a Tilt-a-Whirl. People stared. She almost died. Someone commented "Jeeze, grow the hell up." I responded proudly "No thanks. I'll stay young instead of turning into a bitter bitch with an asshole tight enough to squeeze pennies out of a quarter." I shouldn't talk to Lovely Wife that way - I didn't get any action for a week after that one.
The kids love it. Of course they do! I'm amusing as hell to their immature personalities. But what happens when they start to grow up and learn what "embarassment" is? How long until Bear shuffles off to the next aisle when I pick up a squirt gun at Toys 'R Us and tell him to "Cover me. I'm going in"? How old will they be when they don't want an airplane ride anymore, not because it's not still fun but because they don't want to be seen getting an airplane ride?
Hopefully it'll be a long time but it will arrive. It's as unavoidable as another Jason movie or the next Clinton scandal. It'll start with a forced laugh at one of my antics, instead of the gut busters I get now. Then it'll go to "that look" and silence. Then avoidance. It'll probably end up with my death.
Bear: Not guilty by reason of embarassment.
Judge: Looking at your case file I do see quite a number of instances where you were subjected to mortifying embarassment but you never reacted violently before. What straw broke the camel's back?
Bear: We were getting ready for the prom and Lovely Mom was taking pictures. Dad came up behind me and gave me a wedgie.
Judge: In all honesty that doesn't seem sufficient to justify homicide.
Bear: And he goosed my date.
Judge: You're right. He had to die. Case dismissed.
So my days are numbered. I'll enjoy 'em while I can though, with reckless abandon and malice aforethought.
Anybody see where I left my Supersoaker?
Welcome to Modern English 201. If you are in the wrong class you can find the Modern English 101 class here. Today's instruction includes common translations from the Y'allbonics to Yankee dictionary.
1. HEIDI - (noun) -Greeting.
2. HIRE YEW - Complete sentence. Remainder of greeting.
Usage: "Heidi! Hire yew?"
3. BARD - (verb) - Past tense of the infinitive "to borrow."
Usage: "My brother bard my pickup truck."
4. JAWJUH - (noun) - The state north of Florida. Capitol is Lanner.
Usage: "My brother from Jawjuh bard my pickup truck and took it to Lanner."
5. BAMMER - (noun) - The state west of Jawjuh. Capitol is Berminhayam.
Usage: "A tornader jes went through Bammer an' left $20,000,000 in improvements."
6. MUNTS - (noun) - A calendar division.
Usage: "My brother from Jawjuh bard my pickup truck, and I ain't herd from him in munts."
7. THANK - (verb) - Cognitive process.
Usage: "Ah thank ah'll have a bare."
8. BARE - (noun) - An alcoholic beverage made of barley, hops, and yeast.
Usage: "Ah thank ah'll have anutha bare."
9.) IGNERT - (adjective) - Not smart. See "Arkansas native."
Usage: "Them Bammer boys sure are ignert!"
10. RANCH - (noun)- tool used for tight'nin' bolts.
Usage: "I thank I left my ranch in the back of that pickup truck my brother from Jawjuh bard a few munts ago."
11. ALL - (noun) - A petroleum-based lubricant.
Usage: "I sure hope my brother from Jawjuh puts all in my pickup truck."
12.FAR - (noun) - A conflagration.
Usage: "If my brother from Jawjuh don't change the all in my pickup truck, that thing's gonna catch far."
13. TAR - (noun) - A rubber wheel.
Usage: "Gee, I hope that brother of mine from Jawjuh don't git a flat tar in my pickup truck."
14. TIRE - (noun) - A tall monument.
Usage: "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, I sure do hope to see that Eiffel Tire in Paris sometime."
15. RETARD - (verb) - To stop working.
Usage: "My grampaw retard at age 65."
16. FAT - (noun), (verb) - a battle or combat; to engage in battle or combat.
Usage: "You younguns keep fat'n, n' ah'm gonna whup y'uh."
17. RATS - (noun) - Entitled power or privilege.
Usage: "We Southerners are willin' to fat for are rats."
18. CHEER - (adverb) In this place.
Usage: "Just set that bare rat cheer".
19. FARN - (adjective) - Not domestic.
Usage: "I cuddint unnerstand a wurd he sed ... must be from some farn country."
20. DID - (adjective) - Not alive.
Usage: "He's did, Jim."
21. ARE - (noun) - A colorless, odorless gas containing oxygen.
Usage: "He cain't breathe ... give 'im some are!"
22. BOB WAR - (noun) - A sharp, twisted cable.
Usage: "Boy, stay away from that bob war fence."
23. JEW HERE - (noun) and (verb) contraction.
Usage: "Jew here that my brother from Jawjuh got a job with that bob war fence cump'ny?"
24. HAZE - a contraction.
Usage: "Is Bubba smart?" "Nah .... haze ignert. He ain't thanked but a minnit'n 'is laf."
25. SEED -(verb) - past tense of "to see".
Usage: "I ain't never seed New York City". ---
26. VIEW - contraction (verb) and pronoun.
Usage: "I ain't never seed New York City ... view?"
27. GUBMINT - (noun) - A bureaucratic institution.
Usage: "Them gubmint boys shore is ignert."
This article (Microsoft Rolls Out Beta of XP 64-Bit Edition) almost gets it right but it loses it right here:
WOW64 is an interpreter that lets old programs (the 32-bit ones we use now) run on the new 64-bit Windows operating system. It can't possibly do this without a loss of performance. The loss may be close to negligible but it'll still be there. It's basically like having two people who speak different languages communicating with an interpreter. The archaic and primitive system (pulling a name randomly from the hat we come up with French) says something to the translator (which speaks both languages, we'll call it British) who then repeats it to the advanced system (for the sake of continuity we'll call this one American English) in terms it can understand. The process works the same in reverse. As the following simulation shows, even simple concepts can be difficult to translate and will add processor overhead and performance loss when running French programs (32-bit) on American operating systems (64-bit).
Frog Program: Putang inamo! (<--made up French words) Please display graphic X.
Brit Interpreter: Sure thing. I'll let the OS know.
(to the OS side)
Brit: OS, please show me something.
Yankee Operating System: What would you like to see?
Brit: Nothing really, it's that French program that's asking.
Yank: Well what does he want to see?
Brit: Graphic X, of course.
Yank: Okay, got it. Where do you want it displayed?
Brit: I told you, I don't give a fig. It's the Frog that's looking for it.
Yank: Then where does HE want it?!
Brit: Dunno. I'll find out.
Yank: Please do.
(back to the program side)
Brit: Hey, Froggie!
Frog: Aloette! Vin! Bleue fromage! (<--Pretty sure this is French for something.) Where is my graphic? I issued that display request nanoseconds ago!
Brit: The Yank needs to know where to put it. And probably what size to display it at, color, whatever. Things don't just always go in the top left corner at the default size anymore, you know.
Frog: Je suis un Ă¢ne complet et total! (<--Babelfish is so totally cool.)
Brit: What? Speak in 32-bit. I don't understand any of that ultra primitive 16-bit crap.
Frog: I said that you are next to worthless and the only thing more insufferable than you is that unilaterally acting warmongering American OS!
Brit: Well you better get used to it. They're in charge now and you're pretty much powerless to do a damn bloody thing without them.
Frog: Alors je bouderai comme une chienne! (<--Babelfish again)
Brit: What? Why do you keep using that barbaric tongue that nobody in the world knows or cares about except high school students in America who only take it because, unlike Spanish (the only other choice), they will never in their lives be forced to actually use it to communicate?
Frog: I said that I will obstruct the American OS in every manner possible. I have a seat on the UM (Universal Memory) too, you know! I will add zeros and ones all over the place! He won't be able to do a damn thing!
Brit: Okay, I'll tell him. I think that you're making a pretty big mistake though.
Frog: J'ai le sexe avec de jeunes garçons! (<--Cool. We'll stick with the Babelfish for the rest of the skit.)
Brit: Whatever.
(back to the OS side)
Yank: Hey, there! Welcome back. Did you get the location for that graphic?
Brit: No. He totally freaked. Says he's going to obstruct you at the UM and bring your processes to a screaching halt.
Yank: He's only 32-bit. Doesn't he know that?
Brit: I don't think he really gets what that's all about. He thinks he's all top of the line and modern and powerful even in today's environment.
Yank: But doesn't he want that graphic displayed?
Brit: Yeah, I guess so. Hard to tell really but I think he's just pissed that you want to do it. What are you going to do?
Yank: Well, I guess I'll go ahead and just display it anyway. He's only 32-bit. He might stop me at the UM but I'm multithreaded and I'm in tight with the processor. Won't be a problem at all. It probably won't end up exactly where he wants it but it'll look just fine when I'm done.
Brit: Great, I'll let him know.
(program side again)
Frog: Mon chien a les niveaux exceptionnellement bas de testostérone! And you can tell that to the Yank too!
Brit: Uh...yeah. Right. Anyway, I just stopped over to let you know that the graphic is up.
Frog: Excusez-moi tandis que je donne une fessée àmon singe! How dare he do that without my instructions!
Brit: You did give him the instructions. Came right through the UM and everything. You just wouldn't help him with the details so he went and finished the job by himself.
Frog: Ma mère est un hamster! Does he not realize my majesty and power?! I will crush him! I will take that graphic down myself! Or make him turn its display properties over to the UM where it belongs!
Brit: Maybe you should take a look at it first. It looks pretty good.
Frog: Je suis une plus grande putain que Joe Theismann!
So you can plainly see that although the intended instruction of the 32-bit program was indeed carried out by the 64-bit OS there was quite a bit of overhead added and the end result wasn't quite what the 32-bit program wanted. An update on the 32-bit programs will help them to interface better with the translator and the OS but old 32-bit programs are going to be miffed by the new OS until they truly realize that they are in a 64-bit world and are, in effect, the bitch of the new OS.
UPDATE: If you're curious what the French person said but unable/unwilling to translate it, Ilyka has done the work for you.
I can handle the occasional lousy officiating, even when the time crew can't seem to remember to reset the play clock. I can handle a poor performance by the offensive line. I understand that even Drew Bledsoe can have an occasional terrible day. I can even accept that it's nigh on impossible for a mediocre running game to do anything productive against the Dolphin's defense. Philosophically I can even deal with a loss to the hated Miami team. What I can't stand, what makes me sick unto vomiting, is the gushing Theismann led Ricky "Check out my dreads" Williams lurve fest that made up the majority of the "commentary" for yesterday's game.
And what's with those dreadlocks anyway? Is rasta the image of the day? But at least Ricky's got decent looking dreads. It's that half goatee thing he's sporting that pooches the image. Come on Ricky, if you're going for a goat then you need an upper and a lower. You've got some sort of chin rectangle thing going and it just isn't working. Or are you trying to create the "new look"? Some sort of dreadlock-rectangle thing (dreadtangle?). Whatever.
Back to the point of the rant. For those of you who had the good fortune to miss the Bills' humbling performance yesterday evening you may not understand exactly how far Joe Theisman had his head up Ricky's ass. Normally it would not be possible for one person to rectally intrude as far as Joe did but he had help from Mike "I am not Marv Albert" Patrick and Paul "I used to respect myself" Maguire who utilized a shoehorn and KY Jelly, resptectively, to assist in the insertion. Here's a brief transcript:
Paul Maguire: He sure is, Joe. But he doesn't really run North-South as much as he used to.
Theismann: That's right, Paul. He's such a smart runner. He runs East-West so that he can run North-South when a hole opens up. He's like a modern day Barry Sanders.
Mike Patrick: Or a new age Emmit Smith.
Theismann: Absolutely. And he's so freaking gorgeous, too!
Maguire: Um, yeah. He sure is, Joe.
Theismann: I begged him to sodomize me but he has such class that he turned me down cold.
Maguire: You've just got to keep trying, Joe. Keep on keeping on.
Theismann: (wipes tear from eye) Yeah, just like Ricky. Keep on keeping on. (sniff)
Patrick: Yes!
>From Joe Thiesmann we learned that there is nobody on the Bills that can beat Ricky to the corner, nobody on either team that could take him down with one arm, nobody in the AFC with his lighning speed through a hole and nobody in North America with a larger penis. It would have been tolerable from a Madden or a Gifford because you would at least know that they were sincere about it. Then again neither of those gentlemen would have engaged in such a display because they don't need to. They are both excellent commentators with their own personalities, not obtuse ex-mediocre quarterbacks still riding the most publicized broken leg in media history as if it was some claim to legitimacy. He has to be a gushing simp because he has nothing else to offer.
The post game interview between Theismann and Williams was, if anything, more disgusting than the hours of verbal love Joey had already subjected us to. At least it was shorter.
Williams: I just read the patterns and followed my blockers mostly. I had a couple lucky breaks and just kept pushing as best I could.
Theismann: You were unstoppable. You were godlike. It was as if the spirits of all the great running backs in the history of the NFL were instilled in your lithe, sweaty frame.
Williams: Uh... I guess I had a really great game but it was mostly just hard work, lucky breaks and a really great effort from the offensive line. I thank Jesus for watching over me and letting me perform so well.
Theismann: Jesus would be lucky if you let him lick the toe jam from your heavenly feet. I love you. I want to have your love child.
Williams: You are whack, man. Seriously freakin' whack.
Patrick: Yes!
UPDATE: We discussed Theismann's whoring in detail in our department meeting today (I am quite fortunately surrounded by Miami haters) and it became apparent that Chris Collinsworth is also a man-whore. His infatuation was with the entire Tampa Bay team, not a single player, which makes him an even bigger slut than Theismann.
No, I'm not bitter. Why do you ask?
A scientist from Southampton University has invented a bra that keeps women's breasts from jiggling and prevents the nipples from pushing through the fabric when cold weather sets in.
At a news conference announcing the invention, the scientist was taken outside by a large group of men where they proceeded to kick the shit out of him.
Man, I wish I was gay. Life would be so much cooler if I was in a relationship with a guy. Just imagine, there'd never be an argument about what to watch on TV. The game! If there's no game on then the selection automatically runs down through action flicks, nature shows on sharks, StarTrek, classic cartoons and That 70's Show (of course my favorite character would probably be Fez then but I can handle that).
If there wasn't anything on the boob tube we could always pop in a porno. What guy doesn't like porno? And since there's no gals around there would definitely be a nice sized collection. Sure, it would be gay porno but that's what I'd be into anyway.
And we'd be watching it on a massive TV. Guys know how to prioritize purchases in ways that women just can't grasp:
Gay Lover: Um, hello? The TV of course. Don't be such a dumbass.
Food would be so much simpler. No matter who ends up going to the grocery store the correct items would be purchased. Steaks, beer, maybe some munchies.
GL: I thought I'd grill up a couple steaks and wash 'em down with some brew.
Me: Again?
GL: Yeah.
Me: Awesome.
Sex would be so much easier too. I mean, come on! That's all we guys ever really think about. Never again would I have to worry about not getting a blow job when I want one.
GL: Um, hello? I'm a guy. Of course I want to screw.
Watching the game on my big screen TV, beer in hand, gay lover giving me a fine blow job...that's guy heaven right there.
Man, it sucks being straight.
(Blame Credit for this one is 100% on G, my chief idea man.)
Warning: Potty humor ahead
I have just done something I absolutely hate doing. Something that disgusts me more than an image of Michael Moore and Hillary Clinton making the beast with two backs. I crapped. In the john at work. I loathe myself now.
Lest you think I'm overreacting here, there are several reasons for this disgust with birthing a stink pickle at my place of employment. First and foremost, the mens' room here has an extremely odiferous reputation. This is due to exceptionally poor ventilation and the contributions of "The Morning Regulars". Our many requests for better ventilation have resulted in a stand-alone HEPA air filter. Despite early misgivings this has actually helped quite a bit but nothing can cope with the depradations of the "Sunrise Commandos". These are a handful of gentlemen that descend upon the mens' room stalls shortly after arriving in the morning. They are armed with newspapers, magazines and enough collective colonic problems to put a gastroenterologist into a shiny new Lexus. Annually. Our bathroom is rectangular with a door on each end. It is not at all unusual for a person to walk into one door, see the stalls closed, and sprint to the other door in asphyxiated horror. For those with an especially refined disgust of olfactory scatagrams this can be a very painful time. The odor is so foul that I have seriously considered a ruptured bladder to be preferable to suffering through a urinal session while surrounded by the clouds of doom. It takes the air filter anwhere from a quarter hour to forty-five minutes to get rid of the fecal aroma depending on what was for dinner but this seldom happens. Remember that the "AM Crew" is comprised of a not inconsiderable number of gastrically challenged individuals. What normally happens is that they arrive in staggered formation and sentence the blighted restroom to consecutive punishments. It is sometimes noon before it is completely safe to enter.
So there is the general problem of not having a facility that allows me to breath normally while doing my business. That by itself is quite a deterrent. My second reason for not wishing to practice the fecal arts at work is of a more personal nature. It's freakin' gross! Crap at home! Don't bring that nastiness to your place of business! It's one thing to peal porcelain in the comfort of your own bathroom, it's quite another to use a public throne and then wonder just who the heck knows that you are the source of that curious combination of rotten cabbage, fouled eggs and sulphur. And foreign asses have been on that seat! Asses not related to you by blood or marriage. Bare skinned asses belonging to persons of the same sex as well as heterosexual orientation (as far as you know). Your only protection against ass cooties and pooples (butt pimples from seat nastiness) is that paper ass gasget. A microthin sheet of wax paper that cannot possibly be a barrier to any significant contaminant and that you just know is going to wick potty water up onto the seat from that part that dangles in the bowl.
Shudder. Shudder.
The final warning flag against corporate crapping is the toilet paper. Is this toilet paper? I use toilet paper at home all the time and this just doesn't resemble it except superficially by shape. It is resistant to tearing. It has no quilting. It is not two ply. It is not absorbent. In texture this work TP is more like the roll of message paper next to the phone. It fails the most important goal of toilet papers, that all important function that is the one thing it must succeed at. Specifically, it is not capable of getting shit out of your ass crack. You end up with fistful after fistful trying vainly for a feeling of cleanliness but you shall never succeed. It is like trying to clean spilt latex paint off of linoleum using only newspaper. Every wipe gets some more but there is always more on the next wipe. By the time you can no longer see dookie streaks on the paper (and you DO look at it, don't lie to me) your anus has been sanded to a bloody remnant of its former glory.
The horror. Oh, the humanity.
So for these reasons I avoid making a lincoln log cabin at work but occasionally, like this morning, there is no other recourse. I blame the Taco Loco I had for lunch yesterday for the way I feel right now. I sit here typing, hoping ever so much that the feeling between my cheeks is just nervous perspiration. Or maybe blood. I'd go in for a secondary wipe right now but one of the "Magnificent Seven" just headed in there with the morning paper.
I want my own toilet. I want my own TP. I want a freaking baby wipe.
My penis is nicely sized, thank you for your concern. I have no need for your penile enlargement drugs or devices. I am generally a happy fellow so no thanks on the discount rate Zoloft and psychotropics. Similarly, I am blessed with a libido that can be stroked stoked by the merest of feminine charms. I really don't have a use for bargain basement prices on Viagra. Thank you for thinking of me though.
I have a real life job that takes up the bulk of my daytime working hours and on the weekends I like to relax and enjoy my family. Otherwise I would be more than interested in making up to $6,000 a month from my home. As you see though, I wouldn't have the time to invest to take full advantage of this wonderful opportunity. You should try to help somebody else with that one.
I'm very happy that my resume was accepted, my application approved and that you are replying to my review, but every time I try to read the emails my wacky virus protection kicks in and won't let me. Could you maybe resend those without the attachments? I think that's what is getting the antivirus so upset.
Yes, i do love music but I haven't purchased a CD for any price in almost a decade. Even though you are practically giving them away I am afraid that I'm just not interested. I could forward your offer to Lovely Wife if you'd like. She is still a music consumer.
Those are really great deals on those software titles but I don't think they would run on my computer. I'm terribly sorry but I got rid of my Win 3.11 system several years ago. Had I only known the amazing deals that would become available I would certainly have held on to it.
Could you do me a favor? There are apparently billions and billions of unclaimed monies in abandoned accounts scattered all over Africa. Unfortunately there seem to be some disreputable people trying to smuggle it all out to America. Although I could certainly use a couple million bucks myself I couldn't take it at the expense of its rightful owners - the poor folk of Africa. Since you are a real internet business person I'm guessing you're pretty well connected. Could you let the proper authorities know? Thanks.
Oh, one more thing. If it isn't too much bother, would it be at all possible for y'all to get some sort of idgit scale to correlate with the addresses on your mailing offer lists? I'm imagining a simple scale starting from Intelligent and working down to AOLer. That way you could omit sending quite so many amazing offers to those of us at the top end and concentrate your efforts on the folk that might actually buy your stuff.
Thank you ever so much.
Sincerely,
Jim
Discovery of this phenomenon has made my life much simpler. I can now judge the relative evil of a person at a simple glance. You may doubt my conclusion now but after reading my uncorrelated, anecdotal, and harshly edited and/or manufactured evidence you will no doubt agree with me. We shall begin my recitation of facts with Bear, our largest (and therefore least evil) child.
Bear has just turned 4 and is in all ways a model child. He is polite to a fault, caring, giving, nurturing and posessed of a sweet temperment. His primary goals in life are to watch television, play video games and protect his possessions against the depradations of his younger siblings. In other words, Bear is a carbon copy of me. Except for the caring, giving, nurturing crap - I am sadly lacking all of those. But I do love the telly and video games and I'm quite protective of my worldly goods. Bear has occasional episodes of evil but they tend to relate to his life goals. For example, he may have a conniption fit when one of our more compact children take his Ozzy Osborne talking doll (which features such gems as "I love you all but you're (bleeeep) mad!" and "Sharon! I can't get this (bleep) (bleep) TV to work!") and occasionally throws a tantrum when it's time to turn off the Monsters, Inc game. All in all, Bear's evil quotient is less than 25% even under the most dire circumstances.
Our next example is Bacon. Bacon will turn 3 in a week. Bacon wants money for his birthday. Bacon wants money at all times, for all occurences. Bacon does not want toys for he has discovered that he can simply take whatever toy he wishes at any time. Bacon spends much of his time on his hands and knees looking for dropped change. We emptied the piggy bank yesterday and took his money to the big-green-machine-that-eats-your-spare-change-and-counts-it-for-you-for-the-low-low-price-of-only-8.9%-of-whatever-you-feed-it-so-you-don't-have-to-roll-it-up-in-those-stupid-paper-rolls-and-put-25-forms-of-ID-on-it-before-any-cashier-will-accept-it-and-where-can-you-get-those-blasted-things-anyway-cause-God-forbid-you-ask-at-the-bank-where-the-teller-will-look-at-you-like-you-are-an-idiot-while-the-frigid-bitch-assesses-your-account-with-a-$2.50-fee-for-your-temerity-in-actually-going-to-a-freaking-teller-when-everything-you-do-now-should-be-through-the-internet-or-at-the-non-bank-employee-time-wasting-ATM. He had over $6 there. While some of this was odd change given to him by Lovely Wife or myself the bulk of it was money he has found over the past year. Money is Bacon's sole obsession and he will lie, cheat, steal and kill to get it. We estimate Bacon's evil quotient at close to 50%.
Our third example is Burger. Burger is somewhere between 1 and 2. His birthday is in January but as a male I am unable to peg his age down to months like Lovely Wife does so you can do the math yourself if you are interested. Burger's obsessions include turning off the television, standing in front of the television when people are playing video games, taking toys from Bear and stealing Bacon's money. His other hobbies are ripping up Daddy's books and throwing food. And he bites. And throws complete dive-to-the-ground-kicking-and-screaming tantrums. In public spaces. Like churches. Burger's evil quotient is an astounding 87%. The only reason it is not higher is that he is incredibly cute while sleeping.
Although these three anecdotal and highly biased examples are far more than would be required to prove a point and then become dogma at the DNC I sense that some of you may require further examples. Very well.
Napoleon. Perhaps the most famous short dictator the world has ever known. He enslaved most of europe, using his size induced evil to his utmost advantage.
Hitler. Not only was Adolph a crackpot, egomaniacal madman, he was also short. One can only wonder how different history would have been if Adolph had achieved a normal height. And if he wasn't a crackpot, egomaniacal madman.
Mini Me. Talk about compression of evil. Yes, I know that Mini Me was a character in movies and that he "turned good" in the third one. However, he was brought to life in such convincing fashion by Verne Troyer that we cannot but help thinking of him as a real person. And nothing in Goldmember counts! Nothing! That movie didn't happen! Nah! Nah! Nah! I can't hear you!!
So you can clearly see that I have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that shortness (or "The state of being vertically challenged", to be politically correct) is a primary indicator of evil. Put this knowledge to good use. Protect yourself and your loved ones from the diminutive forces of darkness. And always remember that despite my own mid 5' height I am an exception to this rule, am firmly on the side of good, and would never mislead you.
Bwah hah hah hah hah hah!!!
Caution: Lewd humor ahead. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
So, G and I went out to dinner at a local man's paradise. No, not a strip club. This place is a fantastic tribute to adult male couch potato sportsters. Pristine fields of green felt (that's pool tables, y'all), dart boards, a hundred foot walk around bar, big screen televisions, acres of arcade games and a very fine full service restaurant. All in one place! The Man Show crew would be proud to dine and play in this establishment. It is a place we know as Dave & Busters.
Anyway, after amusing ourselves for a while we took a break and went over to the restaurant area for the aforementioned dinner. Our very pleasant waitress left menus and took our drink orders (they have an excellent beer selection as well). We hungrily opened the beautifully laminated multipage missives and began poring over the choices. I passed over the desserts (you see why we love this place - the menu starts with desserts), appetizers, chickens and steaks. None of these enticed me as I already had a specific goal - I was targetting an artichoker. No, not an artichoke (that wierd little vegetable that you eat by scraping leaf gunk off its fibrous plates) but an artichoker. A burger so loaded with cholesterol that merely gazing upon its reflection while wearing arc welding glasses can cause instant and violent stoppage in major arteries. Next was the salad page (salad before burgers? yeesh. minus 1 point for Dave & Busters) which was quickly supressed with extreme prejudice before its corruptive influence could harm me. Finally, the Burgers & Sandwiches page. That's page 7 for those of you playing along at home. As I looked down the page, scanning for my target, my eyes did a double take, returning to the top of the page of their own volition. I carefully read the first couple items and then realized what had so ensnared my subconcious attention.
(We now move to the made up conversation portion of this post.)
G: What?
Me: Look at Page 7, at the top. The 2nd item.
G: Crispy Corona Tacos. So what?
Me: Look again.
G: (looks again) (giggles)
Me: (laughs)
G: No way!
Me: Way! Crispy Corona Fish Tacos.
G: Fish tacos. Incredible.
Me: I'm gettin' those.
G: Serious? It sounds nasty. Battered fish, avacado, and what the hell is "Taco Slaw"?
Me: When have you ever had a fish taco that wasn't a little bit nasty?
G: (belly laughing commences)
Me: And how many opportunities am I going to get to leave Lovely Wife at home with the kids and go out to eat a fish taco with no pangs of guilt? This place really is a male paradise.
G: (beer comes out nose)
Me: And where else in the world could I look straight into a lovely waitress' eyes and say I'd like "Two Buster fish taco"?
Things got bad from there and the concerned waitress hurried over to assist G, who had apparently inhaled an ice cube and/or firmly implanted one in his nasal sinuses. Eventually things settled down and we managed to order dinner. Things went well until the actual dinner came, at which time rude things were done to the fish tacos that caused another ice vs. sinus episode.
Ah, Dave & Busters. You've got customers for life.
UPDATE: My editor tells me that nobody will understand the humor here because "fish taco" isn't a very widely used phrase and my teaser in the title (little man in the boat) isn't either. I disagree but never let it be said that I'm uncooperative. Feel free to replace the title with any of the following if it helps you figure out fish taco.
Is that muff warm?
Hair pie a la mode
Bearded clam chowder
UPDATE2: The D&B menu also features "Kumbak Sauce" for the Buster's Cheeseburger. I shudder to think where I could have gone with that one.
Thanks and no thanks to Common Sense & Wonder for finding this article. Thanks because you found it and shared it. No thanks because now I don't know what to do with it! Read and see why:
The university's dean of law, Nabil Hilmi, told the Egyptian weekly newspaper Al-Ahram Al-Arabi the Jews during the exodus "stole from the Pharaonic Egyptians gold, jewelry, cooking utensils, silver ornaments, clothing and more ..." The Aug. 9 newspaper report was translated by the Middle East Media Research Institute and posted on its Web site Thursday.
Asked why cooking utensils might have been taken, Hilmi said "... this had been the Jews' twisted way throughout history; they seek to cause a minor problem connected with the needs of everyday life so as to occupy people with these matters and prevent them from pursuing them to get back the stolen gold ..."
Hilmi said the "debt" could be rescheduled over 1,000 years, with the addition of the cumulative interest during that period.
How do I handle this? What can I do to poke fun at something so moonbat crazy? What can I possibly come up with that is more ridiculous than what the article is already reporting?
I thought about a quick sarcastic quip about how even The Onion or Ridiculopathy Daily couldn't come up with something like this. You know, a "truth is stranger than fiction" angle. That just seemed too dismissive. Something this stupid has earned more snark and ridicule than such a simple repost.
Then I thought of taking each part of this thing and making fun of the individual aspects. Like for the cooking utensils part I'd do something like this: The Jews stole cooking utensils so the Egyptians couldn't pursue them to get their gold back? I've heard that an army moves on its stomach but this takes the cake. This option is rich in opportunity but it still didn't satisfy my need to make fun of the entire concept here.
Then I thought that I should do a serious commentary. Maybe a fisking. Take that utensils part again for an example: So missing cooking utensils prevented the armies of Pharoah from pursuing the Jews? Funny, in the version of the story I heard the armies of the Pharoah had no problem whatsoever pursuing them. Cornered them against a river bank if my recollection serves... But I figured a serious fisking might lend this thing legitimacy. What it really needs is a bit of ribald badinage.
Going with commentary on the overall topic I could go for a hit on the university. Something like: This is coming from the DEAN OF LAW? Where did he study for his degree - the Jerry Springer School? I liked this one but it still seemed to lack a certain something.
Maybe an alternate headlines theme would work: Egypt To Sue Jews Over Exodus Theft. Jews Countersue With Reparations Suit, Threaten Plaque of Frogs.
You see what I mean? Opportunities for mischief like this one are few and far between and there are so many ways to go with it that I'm lost.
Thanks a lot, CS&W!
>:p
Wow! Check this out:
UN Secretary General Kofi Annan applauded the document saying "Having this basic instruction at all of our facilities will help each of our regional commanders to provide a basic safe working environment for our deployed personnel. Our security preparations in Baghdad were woefully inadequate to the situation and poor choices were made regarding personnel and facility protection. Having a standing order for minimum security may have prevented the horrible loss of life and compromise of our mission in Iraq."
In a brief press call US ambassador to the United Nations John Negroponte described the contents of the document. "It's very simple really. We consulted with military and civilian security experts and constructed a basic tier system. A building in an area of partisan activity has different basic security minimums than one in a peaceful region. Regional commands may increase security at their own discretion but may not implement less than the mandated levels. The lowest level of security for any facility was copied from that here at the United Nations headquarters. Ironically, if we had protected our personnel in Iraq as well as we ourselves are protected in New York City it is unlikely the August 19 attack would have succeeded."
Who would have thought that the United Nations could manage to take an effective step in this matter? And nobody would have predicted that they would admit culpability in the security failure in Baghdad. Nobody with a rational thought process, anyway. It's too bad that we rational folk are generally right - they didn't do any of the above. This Jayson Blairesque piece is from a "what if" session between me and G on the ride into work this morning. Don't actually expect the UN to do anything this intelligent. Ever.
At great personal expense and peril, Push Button Dreams has come into possession of a security tape from the Oval Office. It was apparently recorded shortly after Ariel Sharon first read the infamous “Roadmap To Peace”. The transcript follows:
Bush: Call me George! No problem there, pardner. Always happy to listen. What can I do you for?
Sharon: Er...yes, well, it's about this "Roadmap". I've just completed reading it and I must object in the strongest possible terms. This plan is horribly biased against Israel and quite simply it cannot be made to work.
Bush (interrupting): Hold 'em.
Sharon: Hold what Mr. Bush?
Bush: Call me George. Mind if I call you Ari? Naw, better not. Might get confused with Fleisher. Anywho, it's not "hold what" it's "hold 'em". Texas Hold'em. Gentlemans' game. Bettin' mans game. You a card player Ari?
Sharon: Sir, I must protest that you have me completely befuddled. Precisely what are you talking about?
Bush: Call me George. Serious. I get enough "Sirs" and "Mr. Bushes" to choke on. Go for George.
Sharon: Very well, George. What in the blazes are you getting at with this "Hold 'em"?
Bush: Well, in Hold'em you get all the players using the flop, that's 5 common cards, and you get two in the hole that the rest don't know about. A good player'll figure those holes out too, likely as not, if they know you well enough.
Sharon: George, this still doesn't make sense. What does that have to do with this despicable Roadmap?
Bush: That's no Roadmap, Ari. That's the flop and we're playing the mother of all hands in a true Texas sized game of Hold'em. What's great here is we know their hole cards too. You see, the way I figure it there's just no way you're ever going to be able to grab a beer without worrying about some Hamas feller exploding himself on you until we lick all them terrorists, right?
Sharon: Yes, quite right, but this Roadmap can't possibly...
Bush (interrupting): And I've sort of noticed that some of the big newsies are lacking in impartiality where all this is concerned. I think that's a fairly big problem as well. Not as bad as getting exploded, at least on a personal basis, but pretty bad on the national scale. You agree?
Sharon: Yes, it's something we've been trying to combat for some time and...
Bush (interrupting): So I figured that what we need is to lick problem number two to pave the way to lickin' problem number one. Get the press on your side and public opinion will follow. Get the world press on your side, or at least off your back, and things'll get a whole hellovalot easier.
Sharon: A fantastic goal George, but this certainly isn't addressed in your Roadmap. The only thing even remotely like that is a call for the Palestinian Authority to cease instigative propaganda.
Bush: Yup, and I doubt they'll even do that much. This ain't about the PA though. You see, I figure that if we can put up a plan that is so slanted in the Palestinians' favor that they can't possibly resist it and that the world at large can't possibly object to then we're in a win-win situation. Their hole cards are uncontrollable violence and hatred. There is no conceivable way that those PA folk can actually put the reigns on their own horse. Peace can't work for them 'cause the only real power they have is to incite. Hell, if they ever tried to disarm their own militants they'd end up in a civil war. 'Spect that's the excuse they'll use when they start wheedling out of their stage one commitments.
Now I suppose there's always a chance that they'll get the more organized groups to settle down a bit. Good PR for them and a chance for their team to huddle up. Now if they do that, Ari, y'all just be ready yourselves. Use that time to work up your own folk, pin down their folk and catch up on all the detail work that needs doin' but never seems to get done. That way when they get thrown off that bronco and the crap starts up again you'll be ready to throw the lasso on them baby killers. Bad metaphor but you git my drift.
Sharon: Yes, that was a fantastically bad metaphor.
Bush: Settle down, Ari. I'll run the humor here. You do the "steadily increasing amazement at George's cunning" portion of the conversation.
Sharon: Yes, I am beginning to be impressed. So we agree to this Roadmap which is horribly, horribly weighted towards the Palestinians with the full knowledge that there is no way they can ever fulfill their commitments...
Bush (interrupting): And note that their commitments are really just reiterations of what they've been lip servicing for years. Cleverer and cleverer, eh?
Sharon: Yes, George, but please let me finish a thought here.
Bush: Sorry, Ari. Hey, that sort of rhymes. Sorry, Ari. Sorry, Ari.
Sharon: Er...yeah. So we know that they will fail to fulfill a plan that consists of what they have been saying they want to do all along. A plan that is endorsed and supported by the generally anti-semitic and certainly anti-zionist newslines, groups and countries, including our Muslim neighbors. This will provide final and conclusive proof to the world - proof that they finally cannot spin or ignore - that the Palestinian Authority and the various Palestinian terrorist groups absolutely cannot be reasoned with or dealt with in a peacable fashion. They themselves will show that they are not truly interested in peace of any sort but only in the murder of jews. So when they break down and resort to savagery again we can finally move to protect ourselves with at least tacit world approval.
Bush: Yup. That pretty much sums it up.
Sharon: But George, what if they are able to follow the plan? What if some charismatic firebrand takes the reigns and mobilizes popular support? What if a viable secular authority can wheedle and cajole the groups into disarming and allowing the peace process to work?
Bush: Well Ari, that's our hole card. If that happens then y'all have peace. Maybe not on the best terms you imagined but in a manner that'll get you the respect of the sane world in any case.
Sharon: I see. Well thank you for taking the time to explain all of this George. And George...one more thing...
Bush: Yes, Ari?
Sharon: Remind me never to play poker with you.
On a serious note:
This entry was originally intended as a serious essay attempting to prove my hypothesis that Bush knows exactly what the results of the Roadmap will be and is planning on it. It devolved into this because understanding and cooperation between Bush and Sharon is critical to my theory and I kept imagining the conversations they had to have had.
Anywho, the essential points to my theory are:
1) Bush is not an idiot. I know that many of his detractors like to paint him that way but it simply isn't so. That's the standard lefty caricature of every republican president. Righties do a similar thing with painting democractic presidents as philandering, lying criminals. Oh, wait. I guess Clinton did that himself. Bush speaks relatively slowly. He has an accent. He accentuates his points to an uncommon degree. These are not indications of idiocy. They are indications of being from Texas. (And speaking as a voluntary southerner I can tell y'all that we're pretty sick of that particular stereotype.)
2) Bush's advisors are not idiots. Unlike certain philandering liers under oath, Bush's appointees are fairly well suited for their positions.
3) Ariel Sharon is not an idiot. I don't think that even his detractors advance this theory much but it's important to my summary so I'm stating it in my points.
4) The Roadmap's basic premise is that both sides must work towards a peaceful resolution. Both sides constantly profess that this is their true desire. Israel has consistently proven that this is actually their goal. The PA and the terrorist groups have consistently proven that this is not their goal.
So, given these points, why is there a Roadmap at all? There must be a reason that Bush's advisors would craft it, Bush would advance it and Sharon would endorse it. My belief is that they all know that the Roadmap is not feasible due to the inate inability of the Palestinians to work towards their own best interest. I believe that the Roadmap is being used to once and for all show with incontrovertible proof that the Palestinians cannot govern themselves to peace and to allow Israel enough popular world support to protect themselves from Palestinian terrorist attacks.
Another thing to note is that even though the Hudna was a PR sham (Casualties since Aug 26, 2003) and the terrorists used that slow time to rearm and plan, the IDF made excellent use of it as well. They certainly seem to have been ready for when the terrorists slipped their bit.
Yes, you. Driving in your tricked out dedication to mass produced individuality, slouched low in the seat in unintentional but humorous immitation of a blue haired suburbanite, single hand at the 12:00 position to further degrade your already sabotaged field of view, four busted 15" speakers belching out the cracked baseline of the lastest gangsta turned hipster. You are not a playa. You are a jackass. As you tool through the bucolic streets of Duluth there is not a single person who sees you and buys your pathetic attempt at cultural impersonation. When you pulled up next to me at the stoplight it gave me extreme pleasure to bollux your attempt to race ahead and cut in front of me on our little one lane road. How did it feel to have your lowrider riceburner outclassed by an aging Aerostar?
There's a man who leads a life of danger
To everyone he meets he stays a stranger
I woke up this morning with this song running through my head.
With every move he makes another chance he takes
Odds are he won't live to see tomorrow
And it just won't leave!
Secret agent man, secret agent man
They've given you a number and taken away your name
That refrain especially just keeps knocking back and forth rising to my stream of conciousness at the most inappropriate time.
Beware of pretty faces that you find
A pretty face can hide an evil mind
Damn it, Johnny Rivers! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!
Ah, be careful what you say
Or you'll give yourself away
Odds are you won't live to see tomorrow
You know there's only one reliable way to get rid of a song in your head. That's to firmly implant it in somebody else's head.
Swingin' on the Riviera one day
And then layin' in the Bombay alley next day
You're providing the head for this particular song exorcism. Sorry to do this to you. Normally I'd walk over and lay this on G but he's still on vacation.
Oh no, you let the wrong word slip
While kissing persuasive lips
The odds are you won't live to see tomorrow
Feel free to bitch at me for this unwarranted and evil thing I have done to you. You may freely curse my name each time the devilish refrain pops unbided into your thoughts throughout the day.
Secret agent man, secret agent man
They've given you a number and taken away your name
Ahhh...freedom.
I went to bed pissed last night. It was partly because of what happened to Kate and partly because a simple oil change and tire rotation on the family truckster ended in a quote for a grand to fix things that we just fixed last year. Predictably, I had a dream that reflected my somnolent attitude. Unpredictably, I remembered it and it's another doozy.
I'm standing in front of a desk in a big room, like a cafeteria. Old Old Boss is sitting behind the desk in his oh-so-comfy big ass executive leather chair. Now this is Old Old Boss, not Old Boss. That is, he's from the company I left in Buffalo to come down to Atlanta. In real life we had parted on good terms and, though we haven't stayed in close contact, the few times we've spoke or written have been very cordial. Dream Old Old Boss was like that - friendly and smiling. Decent start for a dream.
He talks for a little while about how great it is to have me working there and then just sort of stops talking. This is where the dream starts to go downhill. It's obvious to me that the conversation is over but he hasn't really ended it. It would be disrespectful for me to just leave so I stand there expectantly waiting for him to continue or conclude. The silence gets uncomfortable so I take the initiative and offer a hand for shaking and say something like "Thanks, it's great working here. I guess I'll see you later." He smiles and shakes my hand. As I'm turning to go he calls me back, says "You'll need this" and hands me a short report.
I walk out the door into the hallway. The hallway is odd - like in a high school with lockers lining the walls. There are lots of people walking to and fro. I look at the report and suddenly understand that I was just in my review. That silence from his was just him waiting for me to ask for a raise. I blew it! No raise! Sonofabeetch!
I turn around to go back and talk to him again. Maybe I can explain that I was confused or something and bring up the raise. As I walk back I start reading the report. The first item is Product Quality and has a rating of 2.4. The written explanation for the rating is "Software hangs. Too many bugs." I look at other items and most of them have ratings in the 3.6 to 3.9 area. I go to the back page and see that the scale is from 2 to 4.
I stop walking. I was not a software analyst at that job, I was the Executive Assistant. I did most of the custom programming but it was well outside my job description - not an item that would be number one on my review. Then I realize that this review is for my current job. Old Old Boss just did a job review for my position in software QA! I've received a review with a rating of almost as absolutely low as you can get in my primary area of responsibility.
Now I'm pissed. First of all Old Old Boss, nice as he could be, was not what you would call a technofile. He knew his industry backwards and forwards and he knew people well but he was not kin to the computer. How the hell could he possibly review my work in a pure technology field? Second, I do damn fine work. Since I took over QA on my product line the incidence of reported bugs has gone way down, customer satisfaction with new releases is way up and (most telling) the overall incidence of bugs found in new release features is at an all time low.
And I was rated 2.4 on a scale of 2 to 4?! Now I was furious and stormed back into the room ready to rant and rave. I get in the cafeteria sized room and it's now a bloody cafeteria with tables, serving line and lots of people eating their lunches. I stand there fuming. No Old Old Boss to confront over the unfair review, no recourse possible, I'm helpless to combat the situation at all.
Then I woke up. Pissed. Anybody care to conjecture just what the heck is going on with my id and ego here?
I just realized something odd. Maybe it isn't so unpredictable that I remembered this dream. I picked the name for this blog from a conversation I had with G. He was late for our car pool and said he was waylaid by a snooze button dream. That was the first time I'd heard the term and it really tickled me so I used it here as my title. Since I started this blog I have remembered more dreams than any other time in my life. The couple I've written about and quite a few others that haven't made the cut. Maybe because I have an outlet to share them so there is a value to remembering them? Maybe just because the word 'dream' is in my face several times a day? Maybe just because I'm writing again each day so the creative juices are flowing? I don't know but I'd be interested in finding out.
Promethazine, promethazine,
lovely cherry flavor.
How you make my days float
and entertain my dreams.
Awake or asleep there is no difference
as the burden of my conciousness is lifted
by sweet, sweet promethazine.
I've got a bad chest cold. It came on like a freight train last night after tickling me with threats the whole day. Taking some lovely syrup which allows me to breath at will without disgorging a lung but I'm feeling a bit loopy. Don't expect much coherence from me this day.
De's having a problem with arsehole neighbors. Not the "borrow your weed eater and never return it because they accidentally dropped it in the pool and it is so fubar that the guy at Home Depot actually laughed when they asked him if it was fixable and there's no way these people are going to buy a weed eater themselves that's why they borrowed yours to begin with and they're especially not going to pay good money to buy somebody else a weed eater despite the fact that they damn well owe you a freaking weed eater but then they start giving excuses why they still haven't returned it and then start avoiding you until you finally corner them and they admit they broke it and promise to replace it 'soon' but never do and then they really avoid you like the plague until you are finally forced to urinate in their air conditioner unit in retaliation" type. No, definitely not that type. Hers are the loud and obnoxious arguer type.
I was in a similar situation once. I lived in the upper apartment of a duplex house and the people in the downstairs apartment alternated between psychotic caterwaling arguments and 70's screaming porno sex. Always starting after midnight and lasting just a few minutes short of eternity. The arguing that is, the screaming porno sex was generally blessedly short. Go figure.
So I was in a situation and saw 4 ways to resolve it:
1) Grab my ankles and take it.
2) Call the cops.
3) Talk to them.
4) Get creative.
Number 1 was right out. I take my hobbies seriously and sleeping is my number one hobby. For a successful night's sleep I need a minimum of 4.5 hours of uninterupted somnolent repose. The timing of their activities prevented this necessary component of acceptable sleep.
I was hesitant to try number 2 for the same reason DeAnna is. Namely, I didn't want to be one of "those people" that call the cops on a neighbor because they're irritating you. Don't get me wrong, if one of their battle royales had ended in a high pitched scream and sudden silence I would have called down a pork attack on their domicile in a heartbeat. It just seemed wrong to do it for what realistically amounts to just a bit of annoyance.
I tried number 3. In a duplex you share the basement and I would bump into Madam Screamer there on occasion while doing laundry. On one such incident I hinted strongly that their nocturnal actions were unacceptably disturbing. I don't remember exactly what I said but it was along the lines of "You guys are so freaking loud with your murderous rampages and brain-screwing-outing that I wake up each night in cold sweats and a mild heart attack. If you had air conditioning I would be seriously considering urinating into it." That quieted things down for a blessed two weeks. Then the vocal assault picked up again sporadically until settling into its familiar mind shattering routine.
I tried number 3 again. This time it was Mister Screamer I spoke with, telling him something like "I have no problem with you verbally assaulting your significant other or attempting a craniectomy via vaginal insertion but your timing makes it impossible for me to get a decent night's sleep. I am seriously considering buying you an air conditioner so I can urinate in it." Peace lasted almost 3 weeks this time until a drunken brawl broke the ice and the nocturnal assault came back in full force.
Talking obviously wasn't working so I decided to go for number 4. I'm not especially creative but this situation put me in an inspired state. At that time I didn't have a wife or kids. What I did have was one fantastically loud sound system on the old Gateway computer. I also had a brother who was an electronics junkie who let me borrow some very nice reel to reel recording equipment.
You can probably see where this is going. You see I worked early in the morning. They slept in until God only knows when. I started recording their vociferous spats and their ferocious copulation. These audio captures then went onto a wave file and were replayed at considerable amplitude for the enjoyment of my inconsiderate neighbors when I left for work at 5:30. Each time they rowed or screwed in assaultive fashion I saved it and also added it to the Big Ass Wave File of Guaranteed Sleeplessness. I would then play the most recent attack followed by the complete collection when I left for work.
This worked much better than talking had. At first there was little reaction besides foul looks when I ran into them, as if my actually proving that there was no avoiding their nocturnal cacophanies was an invasion of their privacy. But after the third or fourth retaliatory strike the incidence of attack diminished to only an occasional outburst.
Note that this exchange of audio barrages did not make us the friendliest of neighbors. Then again there was no real loss there as they were already suck ass neighbors in any case. They moved out a couple of months later when their lease expired and as far as I know they've been happily making their neighbors' lives miserable ever since. Hmmm...Deanna, your trouble couple wouldn't happen to be named Larry and Stacey, would they?
My one regret is that the ol' Gateway suffered hard drive meltdown. I bet that wave file would be an instant classic if I could post it here.
So I'm out back having a smoke break with a couple of my coworkers and (as often happens) talk turns to the situation in Iraq. At one point I mentioned that I hadn't voted for Bush but I was now very happy that he had won the election. Anonymous Coworker #1 replied with "I didn't vote at all 'cause I didn't like any of the candidates." Now this is a coworker who is well read and stays fairly current on world affairs and local happenings. I must have had a pretty interesting look on my face because conversation died at that point and both coworkers tossed their butts and went back to work. If I hadn't been so stunned by this admission of idiocy the conversation would not have stopped. It would have gone something like this:
Me: You didn't vote?
Anonymous Coworker #1: Nope. Like I said, I didn't like any of the candidates.
Me: You mean the presidential candidates?
AC1: Yeah. I didn't think any of them should have been in office.
Me: So you didn't vote because there wasn't a presidential candidate that you supported?
AC1: Yup.
Me: You are a dumbass.
AC1: What?!
Me: You are a dumbass. An idiot. An imbecile.
AC1: What the hell's your problem?
Me: You just told me that you didn't vote simply because there wasn't a presidential candidate that you supported. Your entire reason for not voting revolved around the presidency.
AC1: Yeah. So what?
Me: Did you know that there was also an election for Senators?
AC1: Well, yeah.
Me: Did you know that we also elected Congressmen?
AC1: Um, yeah.
Me: And that we also elected Public Service Commissioners, State Senators, State Representatives, District Attorneys, Court of Appeals Judges, and Superior Court Judges and a Governor and Lieutenant Governor?
AC1: Ah...I didn't realize there were so many but yeah, I knew there were state positions too.
Me: That's just the half of it. Did you know that there were votes on 7 amendments and 4 referendums and an official question that will affect how we vote in the future?
AC1: I, uh, heard something about those, yeah.
Me: Our local government was also elected at that time. Positions like Commissioner of Agriculture, Superintendant of Schools, Attorney General, Commissioner of Insurance and Commissioner of Labor to name a few.
AC1: (subdued) Yeah. I guess I did.
Me: Did you know that a significant number of those polls swung by 1000 votes or less?
AC1: (very subdued) Yeah, I heard that on the news.
Me: Dumbass.
I've just come to realize how pervasive this phenomenon is. Take any two kids, each with their own particular bad habits. Mix them together then separate after 1 hour. Each will walk away with a complete set of their combined bad habits, give or take a couple lesser ones. Take this real life example of my own Bear and his close friend (who we'll call "Bear's Friend") as recorded on our Nanny-Cam:
The Scene: Bear and Bear's Friend are sitting and playing relatively peacefully with Bear's new Ultra Incredibly Cool Nintendo Brand Game Cube while Lovely Wife folds laundry. Lovely Wife gathers the folded laundry and walks off camera (stage left).
Bear's Friend: (looks around the room) She gone?
Bear: (also looks around the room) Yeah.
BF: Cool! What new ones do you got?
B: I was over with Bear's Other Friend yesterday and I got BREAKING EXPENSIVE STUFF. I only had to give him SNEEZING ON DADDY'S PLATE. You got anything that good?
BF: Almost. Last week Bear's Friend's Sister was playing on the floor and then just SPEWED WITH NO WARNING AT ALL. It was awesome. She traded me for TAKING OFF PULLUPS AND PEEING IN THE BED.
B: Hmmm. That's good but you need to do a bit better. Tell you what. You throw in SPEWING WITH NO WARNING AT ALL and that INCESSANT RATTING ON SIBLING that you got last week and I'll trade you the BREAKING EXPENSIVE STUFF.
BF: Deal
B: Cool
(Bear and Bear's Friend shake hands. Bear's Friend picks up the controller for the Ultra Incredibly Cool Nintendo Brand Game Cube and smashes in the top of the Ultra Incredibly Cool Nintendo Brand Game Cube. Lovely Wife rushes into the room (from stage left) to see what the noise was. Bear's Friend looks up at Lovely Wife with a face of cherubic peace. Lovely Wife's face splits down the middle in the first physical manifestation of a conniption.)
Lovely Wife: (furious, loud voice) What in the world are you doing?
BF: (confused, sotto voice) Sorry.
LW: Gaaaaaah!
B: Blaughlupslup
(Bear throws up on the No Longer Quite So Ultra Incredibly Cool Nintendo Brand Game Cube.)
LW: Gaaaaaaah!
The tape cut off here as a random laser beam from Lovely Wife's eyes aparently impacted the video camera.
In any case, although this is anecdotal evidence, it certainly points to a much greater pattern of behavior and perhaps even a juvenile conspiracy. Parents beware.
Welcome to Modern Speach 101. Our lesson today is the word y'all and its derivatives.
Let us begin with the boring stuff, just as Mrs. Klutch always did back in high school. Y'all is a variant of You-all that has generally suplanted that longer form as it is more comfortable on the tongue and its use shows that the speaker does not hail from West Virginia. Y'all is singular, All Y'all is plural, Y'all's and All Y'all's are single and plural possessive, respectively.
Phew, glad that's over. Now let's move onto the fun stuff. Why do we need Y'all in all its forms and glory? Because the English language has hamstrung itself with the loss of the plural possesive pronoun. Once upon a time we had Ye and life was good. "Hear ye, hear ye", etceteras. Some time in the early 1800's the use of ye was lost in favor of the generic you. This sucked. I mean really, can you picture the town crier yelling out "Hear you, hear you"? This loss was quickly corrected with regional abberations of you-all. In the northeast we have youse as in "Hey! Youse guys better pay up your vig or Vinnie Two Thumbs is gonna break your kneecaps". In the middle Atlantic states you-all was preserved in its pure form giving us usage such as "You-all should stop going to family reunions looking to pick up chicks". In the south sometime around 1834 the use of y'all gained wide acceptance allowing concise statements such as "Y'all come check this out before I flush it".
Actually, that last example is substandard. The correct sentence would be "Y'all come check this out afore I flush it".
Great care must be made regarding which form of y'all to use. Use these examples of proper usage as a guide:
Addressing a single person or small group representing a larger group:
1) Y'all gonna finish that?
2) Y'all just opened up a fresh can of whoop-ass.
Addressing a group, especially when the group is racially, geographically or religiously distinct:
1) I'd be off the welfare if it weren't for all y'all carpet baggers taking the good jobs.
2) All y'all are just lucky my woman ain't cleaned my white sheet yet from the last lynchin.
Possessive address regarding something belonging to a single person or representative group:
1) Those wheels still on y'all's trailer?
2) Y'all's kids outta third grade yet?
Possessive address regarding something belonging to a group:
1) Dale's car woulda put all y'all's to shame. Earnhardt! Wooo! Never forget!
2) Got me some shine better than all y'all's.
As intimated above, y'all and y'all's can be used in a limited plural form. For beginners it is sometimes advisable to stick to just those two. Incorrect usage of all y'all and all y'all's can identify you as either a Yankee or a Floridian, both with disastrous results.
