While the in-crowd of the blogosphere are salivating over this year's Weblog Awards, we at SBD have to settle for this:
But hey, who wants to be caught up in another circle-jerk awards show right? Not us! It's okay though, we of the avant garde are used to being overlooked in our time.
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.
And he comes out of the gate with the old favorite, “What have you had up your ass lately?”
I’ll admit it’s a solid, if not predictable, start. I fear he may follow up with what’s been up his ass, which at the very least includes a couple of male fingers.
So, what’s next? Any guesses?
Once there was a man. An incompetent, totally inept in all things, who decided to blog.
It was a train wreck in every possible way. Yet we could not look away. He stole material from me and just about everyone else. He’d steal ideas, links…you name it. He had no shame.
He became known, simply, as the king of suck. He got absolutely no respect.
He and I became ordained ministers on the Internet and then blasphemied all over the place simply because we needed material.
And one day this man disappeared. He left no note and no forwarding address. He was simply gone. Until today. He has risen from the ashes like the Phoenix.
SBD readers, please join me in welcoming the great Bloviator himself, Bill.
Go ahead, Bill. Stink the place up.
I shall be making an announcement some time today that will rock the walls of this place.
Have I found the Templar gold?
Is Shank in jail?
All I can say is that it will make you laugh. Or cry. And probably make your bowels twitch.
The Clues:
1. The phoenix rises
2. Internet ordained
3. Rodney Dangerfield
Don’t touch that dial.
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...