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 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
Dont 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...
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
Apparently my behavior at work hasn't been up to par as of late (the past five years). I received a memo, via e-mail, of things I'm no longer allowed to do at work. I'm not sure if I should read too much into this, as it's probably my boss's idea of a joke. But he's serious it's going to be awfully dull around here.
The List:
- Leave open cans of potted meat or sardines in the boss's office; I was only offering him a mid-day snack.
- Set the "On Hold" Music to the Llama Song.
- Fill the boss's desk drawers with Styrofoam packing peanuts.
- Set the boss's computer up with a Barbie, Sponge Bob Square Pants, Fraggle Rock or Muppets Themes.
My girlfriend and I have the unwritten rule of three-
This is, simply put- A free pass to sleep with three pre-agreed upon famous people should we ever get the chance. It’s a nice little semi-harmless exercise- We get to hoot, whistle and drool unabashedly in front of each other when any of the five chosen ones appear on TV.
Yes, I did say five. (More on that in a minute..)
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.