Other things that shouldn't need to be said but apparently need saying.

Open letter to the people who eat at my cafeteria:

This is a corporate cafeteria, and not your personal kitchen. Even if you drink directly out of the milk carton at home, or eat applesauce with your fingers while standing in front of the fridge, you aren't really supposed to do that sort of thing here.

To simplify it for you: Please do not handle the food, sample the food, cough on the food or otherwise molest the food in any way, unless and until you have decided to purchase it.

This means you, lady from the other day. Do not lick soup or whatever off your fingers and then use them to pick out the pieces of lettuce that you "don't like the looks of" and toss them back in the bin. And even though I really shouldn't have to tell the rest of you this, I will anyway. It is bad form to take food from the display, partially eat it, and then change your mind and put it back.
Thank you,


What prompted this letter you may ask? Well, against my better judgment, I eat in our cafeteria downstairs almost every day. I've seen the movie "Waiting" and I realize there's a certain amount of bat-winging and other unhygenic practices that go on in every food establishment, and to be honest, I'm willing to live with a small amount of fry-cook sweat dripped onto my grilled chicken on occasion if there is no alternative. Would I rather not have the grill guy sweating on my food? Well, hell yes, but sometimes there's just nothing else to eat but a chicken wrap from the grill, so I take a chance and try to watch where the sweat bead lands so I can tear that bit off.

My point here is that at least in a normal restaurant you don't have to deal with other idiot customers screwing with your food. Not so at our fine dining establishment.

Sometimes, when I can't decide what I want to to eat, I'll stand around for bit and think about it. If I do this at a busy time, I might have the opportunity to observe some of my coworkers and their behavior. Trust me, if you did the same thing, you would never eat from the buffet again.

In addition to the lettuce lady I mentioned above, here are a few others I have witnessed: About two weeks ago, I watched a woman bring a full ladle of soup to within a millimeter of her cavernous, bushy-haired nostrils, take a deep whiff, and the drop the ladle back into the soup in disgust. I am pretty sure a few of her nostril hairs took a dunking, and she may have actually snorted soup.

Apparently she didn't believe the sign that said, "Today's Soup: Clam Chowder."

Lady, the soup smells like effing clams, ok? It's practically all you can smell when you walk into the cafeteria, so for future reference, you really don't need to gargle with it to decide if you want some or not.

Not too many mornings ago, I watched another guy come in, grab a muffin off the table with his grime-laden fingers, smell it, tear a small piece off of it to taste, and then decide he didn't want blueberry after all. He put it back down, and moved on to the honey walnut. Seriously, WTF? I felt like asking him if he was going to buy it now that he practically had sex with it, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have thought my joke was funny.

I actually did open my mouth when I saw the lady doing her pick 'n fling act with the lettuce. I said, "The tongs are right there."

She glared at me as if I had just falsely accused her of poisoning the salad bar with strychnine. I just walked away shaking my head. How could she not understand this simple concept? How could she not at least acknowledge the slight possibility that someone else might not want to ingest food that she so recently rejected with a casual flick of the well-licked finger? I wanted to dunk her head in the ranch dressing and hold it there.

I know it's really all about appearances anyway. If I hadn't actually seen her do it, I would have eaten that piece of lettuce with no ill side effects whatsoever. I know that. But it's a matter of common courtesy and maintaining the illusion of clean food.

I'm sure I can probably go to the downtown market square in some third-world country, pick out a nice, fly-covered dog carcass that has been hanging by its back legs on the side of a building for three days, buy a box of shake and bake and have a casserole ready for dinner in about 30 minutes. In America, that sounds disgusting -- but for all I know, people in other countries would call it "aged to perfection" or perhaps "well tenderized."

I don't know anything about that. I just know I don't want your fingers (or any of your other body parts) in my food.

I suppose I could just bring my lunch, but then what would I bitch about?


You can bring a source to water...

Just once, I would like to see a news story that doesn't contain these words:

"They spoke with us on condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to disclose details."

I'm not sure if it's just that goverment officials have all the secret-withholding willpower of a ten year old girl, or if it's because they're trying to maintain some sort of plausible deniability, but that phrase and those like it are starting to irritate the piss out of me.

Basically, if you're not authorized to talk about something, then please, STFU about it.

Either that, or go get me someone who IS authorized, because I want names. I want to know that the person who is telling me stuff knows what they are talking about. The way things stand now, I could be getting my information on the unfolding situation in Lebanon from an Israeli general or the ex-janitor at Hezbollah High, and I would have no way of knowing which one it really was.

I try not to get political on my blog, but when I read stuff like this it pisses me off:

"... al-Zawahri said, adding that "all the world is a battlefield open in front of us."

"The war with Israel does not depend on cease-fires. ...It is a jihad (holy war) for the sake of God and will last until (our) religion prevails ... from Spain to Iraq," he said. "We will attack everywhere."

Sources close to Johnny Virgil, speaking under condition of anonymity because they are not technically authorized to speak about Johnny Virgil's alleged beliefs, nonetheless believe that Johnny Virgil may possibly believe that this al-Zawahri dude needs to get his 72 virgins ASAP.

Wow. When I sat down, I planned this post to be a funny comparison of bike people. Oh well. That's what I get for watching the news while I blog. Maybe next time.


CSI: Poopsmith

If you are easily grossed out, you might want to skip this one. If not, dig right in.

Speaking of digging right in, I spent yesterday afternoon digging up my septic tank and then waiting for some guy with a poopsucker truck to come and pump it out. I learned several things, and disgusting as they may be, I'm going to share them with you, because that's what I do. I'm generous like that.

For those of you who live in the boonies, you know all about septic tanks. For those of you who do not, I offer this distinction between septic tanks and city sewers: If you have a septic tank and flush the toilet, the crap disappears, slides through your pipes, exits the house, then travels about 20 feet into a tank where it stops and sinks. If you have a sewer and flush the toilet, the crap disappears, slides through your pipes, exits the house, then travels to Manhattan and Los Angeles where it is used to periodically refill the inhuman shells of Michael Moore and Barbara Streisand.

The guy who showed up was pretty friendly, and I made the mistake of actually standing out there and talking to him as he got all his hoses set up. My wife has a pretty extensive flower garden, and the tank is buried right in the middle of it. My job was to make sure nothing got screwed up.

My grandmother always used to say that I thought my crap didn't stink. Well, Gram, let me tell you -- I was wrong. So friggin' wrong you wouldn't believe it.

The septic dude took the top off this thing and it was like an invisible cow farm jumped out. I took a step back and reflexively said, "Holy Shit!" The guy laughed at me. "Nah, this isn't bad."

I hated to think what he thought "bad" was, because goddamn, I almost chucked on the spot. Of course, it didn't help that it was about 95 degrees out and the air was so stagnant that the smell just hung there like a burrito fart in a down sleeping bag. This was his last job of the night, and his 6th tank of the day, so I imagine he was probably pretty used to it by then.

He walked back to his truck, started the pump running, and came back with what I refer to going forward as his poop rake. This is a highly specialized tool used exclusively for, as you've probably guessed, raking poop.

He jumped down into the hole I had dug, dropped the rake down in the tank and proceeded to start pushing things around down there. This had the unfortunate result of releasing a fresh new cloud of horrendous stench. I couldn't really figure out a good way to excuse myself without seeming like a big pussy, so i stuck it out. To tell you the truth, I think I almost started getting used to it by the end. By that time, I was instinctively taking shallow breaths through my mouth, so that may have been what saved me.

He swirled his rake around there for a while, and then looked up and said, "No kids, right?"

"No, no kids," I answered, surprised.

"Yeah, I can tell," he said. "Normally, you'll see a lot more paper and toys and other stuff. Kids like to flush things."

Some additional sloshing and poking ensued, and then "You guys eat pretty healthy."

"We try," I responded cautiously, half expecting him to tell me what I had for dinner last Thursday.

"You can tell by the amount of cooking grease floating on the top. You have a little, but you wouldn't believe some of them. I've seen it in a layer 3 inches thick. And tell your wife not to flush the tampons anymore. That's bad for the system, and they get stuck in the grease and don't sink."

I nodded, and made a mental note. Who knew that tampons and cooking grease combine to form an impenetrable barrier that could apparently be used to armor tanks?

He did, of course.

He was, after all, a professional turd technician of the highest order and it was clear he was the best that money could buy. A master of fecal forensics. The Columbo of Crap, if you will.

He swirled a bit more and the he said, "Hmmm. Slight problem."

Those are two words you don't want to hear when you're looking down a hole in your lawn at five years worth of your own excrement.

"What?" I asked. "Something bad?" As if anything involving that much liquefied crap could ever be good.

"Not really," he said. "It's just that you should have pumped this about 2 years ago, so the solid to liquid ratio is way off. I don't have enough liquid to get the rest of the sludge out. I'm gonna have to backwash."


"Yeah, he said. I have to fill your tank back up in order to break things up a little."

"Huh." I said. "I didn't know you guys carried water on those trucks."

"We don't," he answered.

Just as the full ramifications of that statement dawned on me, he said, "Hey, can you put your foot on this hose while I go make the switch to the other nozzle?"

I was committed at this point, so I said, "Sure." and then stood at the edge of the hole with one foot on the hose, keeping it from falling down into the tank.

How the fuck did it come to this? I thought. One minute I'm making small talk, and the next minute I'm holding a 4" diameter hose about to erupt with a solid stream of someone else's crap. I stood there awkwardly, breathing shallowly through my mouth, my head turned as far as possible away from the hellhole of stank.

Let me tell you, I crushed that hose with the full weight of my massive 147lbs, trying to abolish visions of a giant, poop-spewing hose whipping around like a wounded snake, spraying brown sludge everywhere.

It was actually kind of a let down. He didn't pressurize it, which makes sense when you think about it. While faster, that's just asking for bad trouble. He let gravity push it out of the truck. At that point I had just about had it with the heat and the stench, and my main concerns were reduced to not getting splashed and not throwing up. It wasn't so much the smell, as the combination of smell and sound. It was like a being in the next stall over from a 400lb biker who was in the midst of a really bad Budweiser-and-chicken-wing dump on a hungover Sunday morning.

He came back and took over, and I was glad to move away from ground zero. He poked around some more, then aimed the crap bazooka around inside the tank, apparently loosening up the last of it. He said, "You haven't had this pumped in about five years, have you?"

"Five years to the month," I said. This guy was too good.

He went back to the truck, and reversed the hoses again, and the hose started chunking and slurping the sludge back toward the truck again. I, for one, was glad to see it go. He came back and started up with the rake and in a few minutes the hose was making that sound like a straw at the bottom of an almost empty chocolate milk shake. A really big, really disgusting chocolate milkshake.

He pulled the hose out and examined the end, scraping it with the pooprake.

"So, you play the drums?" he said.

"Yeah, I do," I stammered, thinking, He can tell that from looking at my poop?

He must have noticed the odd look on my face because he nodded toward the house and said, "I can see them through the window."

I was relieved to know there was no genetic poop signature that singled out the percussionists among us.

He cleaned up all his tools with my garden hose while holding them over the hole, then closed it up and brought everything back to the truck. I followed behind him, taking deep breaths of fresh air.

"That'll be $171.20," he said, stowing his gloves and taking out a clipboard holding my invoice.

It was a bargain at any price. I paid the Poopsmith and crawled back into the house.

Next time, you can bet your ass that's exactly where I'm staying.


This is my life.

Here's an actual IM conversation I had yesterday at work:

9:02AM Helpdesk: HI - is there any issues with the system? I'm getting emails for people who cannot log in.

9:02AM Johnny Virgil: right now? or from earlier?

9:03AM Helpdesk: yes

9:03AM Johnny Virgil: yes right now, or yes from earlier?

9:03AM Helpdesk: yes, from today

9:03AM Johnny Virgil: right now, or from earlier today?

9:03AM Helpdesk: since 8am

9:04AM Johnny Virgil: OK, let me try one more time. There was a problem earlier. It should be resolved. If they are having a problem at This Exact Moment In Time, then that's a different issue.

9:04AM Helpdesk: OK, I'll just have them try again. Thx

It's not just me, right?


I'm not sure, but....

...I think I may have stumbled on Mr. T's old penis pump for sale on the way home from work today.

I pity the fool.


Searching far and wide.

I never cease to be amazed at the searches that lead people to my blog. Since I'm currently out of brilliant ideas for my next post, I figured it was time to produce another edition of:

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site

Johnny depp vs. gene wilder - I am pretty sure Gene is about 96 years old now, so unless Johnny Depp is a big glass-jawed pussy, I'm betting he could probably kick the shit out of Gene any time he wanted to. Unless, of course, they were dressed up as respective Willy Wonkas. If that happened, I think there would be crowd involvement and Johnny Depp would get beaten into the ground by ten people with lead pipes. That's because Gene's Willy Wonka was friendly and eccentric, and Johnny Depp's Willy Wonka was clearly a predatory pedophile.

what happens if I only use monistat 3 for two days? - I believe that burning sulfur will rain down, the cities and the plains will be torn asunder, and all the people and vegetation in the land will be destroyed. There is also a very high probability that you will become a pillar of salt.

How to get cat out from under car hood - That's an easy one. Start the car.

fireworks, tampons, bananas and maxipads - That right there is a 4th of July party you'll never forget.

how to find my labia - Most of the time, the labia is very difficult to misplace. It's not at all like your wristwatch or cellphone - It's pretty hard to leave it on the bench in the locker room by mistake, or drop it in the parking lot while getting out of your car. Even so, anything is possible. My suggestion is to retrace your steps. Think of all the places you may have taken your labia out, and go there. Eventually, you will find it. (Be sure to watch where you step.) I've never actually used the technique to search for a labia, but it usually works pretty well on other things.

man wit sexy stomachs - you found me baby. My stomachs is so fine. All four of them. By the way, I'm hung like a cow.

can I leave on my underwear for hernia surgery? - It depends upon where your hernia is. If you have an arm hernia or a face hernia, then by all means, keep your underwear on. If your hernia is in the normal place, i.e., directly underneath your underwear, then no you fuckwit, you cannot leave your underwear on.

why is my scrotum black? - This may or may not be an actual problem. Here's what you do: Go look in a mirror, the come back here and take this quiz:

Question number one: Is the rest of you black? (Yes) (No)

If you answered yes, then you're fine. It is supposed to be black. If you answered no, then get your black sack to a doctor asap, because it probably needs to be surgically removed. Your other option is to simply wait a week, because it will most likely fall off on its own.

flopping labia - On rare occasions you will see these in the parking lots of department stores. They are the ones that were recently lost. They can't live long in the open air -- they tend to dry out quickly and die. Those things you thought were dried up earthworms? Nope. If you do happen to stumble on one with some life left in it, your best course of action is to scoop it up and put it in a glass of water until you can get it back to its owner. If it's too far gone, your only humane option is to stomp on it and put it out of its misery.

How do I get rid of sticky earwax? - There are many different ways to do this, however one of my favorites is to wipe it on the cardoor handle of that assknob who takes my parking spot every morning.

what does bad bacon look like? - I'm guessing it looks something like this:

rotten toe haiku - Ah, one of my favorite forms of rotten toe artistic expression. Truth be told, I consider myself something of a dabbler. Allow me to share one of my originals:

Do you smell that smell?
A stench like cheese on fire?
It is my black toe.

what if my clitoris is too high? - Before I can give you any advice, I need more information. For starters, I need to know how how high. If it's a half-inch higher than normal, that's not really a major problem. You and/or your boyfriend/husband will adjust. If it's like 3 feet too high, then the best advice I can give you is to wear a turtleneck, and develop a new hobby. I suggest taking up humming.

I'm filthy rich.


Starting from November 10th of last year, that's the grand total of my fantastical earnings from those google ads over on the right. A few more clicks and I can retire. What I don't understand is how you all can resist clicking on amazing offers like this one:

It's a full three minutes of cord blood, for god's sake. How can you possibly pass that up?

Get to clickin' people. I'm counting on you.


Things I don't need to see.

Open Letter to all the people who use the bathroom:

You people need to remember where you are. As a public service, I will remind you. Ready?

You are not at home.

You are in an office building, and in office building bathrooms, we behave a little differently than we might while visiting other, non-public bathrooms. Even if your normal modus operandi at home is to shit in the corner and cover it with dirt, you cannot realistically expect to do that here.

Please remember this, and act accordingly.

Thanks so much,


To most people, the above statement would seem fairly obvious. However, my experience in the men's room today tells me that nothing is out of the question.

First, a little info on the general layout. When you walk in the door, you are facing the handicapped stall. If you turn left immediately after you enter the room, you will see a row of three additional regular stalls. After that, two urinals. That's the end of the room.

Across from the urinals, there are 3 sinks. If you are picturing this correctly, you will picture a pretty narrow space, with sinks and mirrors on one end, and a door around a corner at the other. Simple right? Basically what I'm saying is that when you walk in the door, you have to take about 8 or 9 good-sized paces before you reach the urinals.

Now here's where it gets tricky. Remember, you are not at home.

What that should mean from a procedural standpoint, but apparently does not, is simply this:

As a general rule, you should not liberate your junk before the door fully closes behind you. Or even, dare I say, immediately after that.

The reason for this? Remember, other people use the bathroom too.

If one of these other people (oh, say....ME, for instance) is standing at the sink drying his hands, the unfortunate result of your actions means you will be coming directly at this person with your pecker in your hand for approximately six to ten paces. Needless to say, (but apparently needing to be said), this is slightly unsettling for the person forced to witness this act, as they are cornered and have no way out unless they are named Alice, or perhaps Bruce Banner, which I am not. After all, I can't be expected to know your intentions. Are you about to start pissing wildly all over? Are you going to start banging it on the edge of the sink and yelling profanities? Or are you going to just nod your heads and continue to the urinal to do your business?

In this particular instance, it was the last option, and for that I am thankful.

But goddammit, I didn't need to see that.


Danger, Will Robinson!

I finally put the finishing touches on my death ray, and I've got my list of potential targets together. In retrospect I probably should have gone mobile -- it makes the targeting less math-intensive.

No, I kid. Actually, this is my first post from 22,223 miles above the earth. To clarify, I'm not actually floating around up there. I just beam my shit up to some flying ball of tinfoil called 95-West and then the nice people from India that Hughes hires to talk unintelligibly on their tech support lines eventually beam it back to my blog.

It's less than half the speed of DSL or cable at 3 times the price, so how could I go wrong? Of course, I know that by buying this hardware and committing to a 15 month contract I've pretty much guaranteed that Verizon will decide to offer DSL in my area next week, but what can you do?

As Arthur C. Clarke said, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."



Ask me no more questions and I'll tell you no more lies.

You'd think I'd learn. The other day, a woman asked me for my opinion on something. For some reason, I was struck with temporary insanity and I actually gave it to her. It is a well-known fact that when a woman asks a guy his opinion on something that she knows does not matter to him in the slightest, she is really only looking for him to agree with whatever decision it is that she has already made. I've realized that there are several unique categories of questions, and any of them can get you into deep trouble before you realize it. To all the guys reading this, I am here to help you avoid these pitfalls. Let's start with clothing questions. Ever since the first cavewoman decided she didn't want to be naked any longer, women have been asking men their opinion on particular articles of clothing. I am pretty sure the first time it happened, it probably went something like this: "Ogg, what you think of new fur-lined peehole cover? Keep bugs and dirt out." "It look stupid, Lana. Also, make your ass look big." Can you spot Ogg's mistake? Let me give you a hint: It was at this point that Ogg was bludgeoned to death with a mastodon femur, and from that moment on, the rest of the men in the cave knew not to say anything about Lana's new look. Ever since then, on some level, men have been aware that some questions are just traps, yet they continue to fall directly into them. Examples of these questions include: Are these pants too tight? Do you think this top is too low cut? Does this color look good on me? A guy will instantly realize that all of these questions are totally ridiculous. He will also instantly realize that his wife or girlfriend expects a serious answer, and that answer better be the one she wants to hear. Also -- and this is very important -- there must be almost no delay in the answer. If there is too much hesitation, she will never believe you even if you are telling her the god's honest truth. You have to be quick. A guy's rationale is generally as follows: Question One: Are these pants too tight? -- The answer to this question should be obvious to the woman asking it. In fact, the question should be no harder to answer than the question "Are these pants?" If you can't actually sit down without paralyzing yourself from the waist down, then yes, your pants are too tight. If you have material jimmied into places material isn't supposed to go, then yes, your pants are too tight. If your pants make you walk like you have a pool cue jammed up your ass, then yes, your pants are too tight. Of course, you can never actually use these answers, unless you don't mind having a fight. In fact, there are only a few ways to even have a slim shot at avoiding the fight: Die of a brain aneurysm, intentionally hurt yourself to deflect the question, or lie like you have never lied before. Even if you have never seen spandex stretch that far without exploding, say "Don't be silly. You look great. No, seriously. You do." Question Two: Do you think this top is too-low cut? - This is a tough one, because mostly, guys love to look at low-cut tops on hot women. They just don't love other guys looking at their wife's or girlfriend's low-cut top. So there is a delicate middle ground there, and the acceptable cleavage threshold will vary from guy to guy. As a general rule, however, if more than the upper third of either boob is showing at any given time, then yes, your top is too low-cut. If either nipple has more than a 23% chance of catching some air, then yes, your top is too low-cut -- unless you are a whore, in which case you're good to go. If, as a guy, you think that your wife or girlfriend's top really is too low-cut and you don't want to let her out of the house looking like that, then a good answer is, "Well, personally, *I* like it, but I think there's going to be some tight-asses at the office party, so maybe you should tone it down a little. If she answers, "Well, screw them" there isn't a lot you can do, really. Just enjoy the show and try to keep her away from the free wine. Question Three: Does this color look good on me? - Unless the color makes her look like a rodeo clown, then the answer to this question is an easy one. Most guys might think the answer should be "Yes, it looks great on you" but that answer is for rank amateurs. A real pro will answer with something like: "You have no idea how good. It totally brings out the blue in your eyes." Just make sure you know the color of her eyes before you try this one. Otherwise you're in for a world of hurt. One other major category of questions revolves around home decorating. Some examples may include: Do you like this color or this color for the bathroom walls? Wouldn't these pillows look great on our {insert piece of furniture here}? First, let's start with decorating in general and guys in particular. When it comes to decorating, how good or bad a guy is at it depends upon one factor, and that factor is how much money he has. If he has a lot of money, then each room in the house will look like a page torn out of a magazine -- because that's exactly what it is. He saw something he liked in a magazine, tore it out, and brought it to the store. Rich guy, pointing to magazine page: "I'll take that." Salesperson: "Which piece would you like, Sir? The walnut coffee table or the leather couch and chair?" Rich guy: "No, I mean I'll take all of it. Any install fee?" On the other hand, if a guy doesn't have much money, the conversation will go more like this: Poor guy: "Can I take that?" Guy who answered the door: "Which one? The busted foosball table or the pee-stained couch with cat hair? Poor guy: "No, I mean I'll take all of it. Any lice or fleas? That about sums up how much most guys care about decorating. It's nice to have a comfortable, nicely appointed house, but its usually a case of function over form. A guy can live in a trailer, but he will have a comfortable chair in the living room. If a guy cares way too much about decorating then he is either trying to impress people, or he's gay, or both. With that as your baseline, let's get back to the questions: Question one: Do you like this color or this color for the bathroom walls? - I am willing to bet that over 99.9% of the guys asked this question will simply pick a color, but it's really immaterial as to which color they choose. They don't really care. They pick a color because for some reason, women think that men are supposed to care. It's easier to pick a color than to to deal with the aftermath of saying, "I really don't give a shit" because that would be callous and insensitive and true. Guys use the bathroom to shit, shower, shave and brush their teeth. That's pretty much it. They are not lighting candles and playing soft music while soaking in a tub full of lavender-scented bubbles, staring at the walls and thinking, "Mauve. Mauve would be good." As long as the shower water is hot, the seat is clean and the magazine rack is fully stocked, they couldn't care less about the color of the walls. Ditto the color of the tile, the color of the sink and the color of the towels. Question number two: Wouldn't these pillows look great on our {insert piece of furniture here}? - OK, here's the thing with guys and accent pillows. We hate them. They always have to be arranged just so, and they are constantly in our way. If all of the accent pillows on earth disappeared tomorrow, every guy in the world would be ecstatic. That being said, just agree with her. It doesn't matter what the pillow looks like --you will be moving it anyway. So it makes no difference if the pillow you are moving is green or red. For some unknown reason, women love pillows. They will put pillows on everything. My wife actually has pillows with other, smaller pillows tied to them. I shit you not. Another case in point: Our bed. In addition to the 4 down pillows we actually sleep on, there are two more pillows stuffed into pillow cases that match the bed spread. In front of those are two square accent pillows. In front of those are two small round pillows that look like frilly tootsie-rolls. I have no fucking clue what these are for, but I do know this: When the bed is made, literally 1/3 of the entire top surface is covered in pillows of every conceivable shape and size. It is almost a cardio workout to clear all the fucking pillows off of it before actually being able to get under the sheets, and that is extremely annoying. There is a lot more to explore here, but I realize I've typed far too much already, so I'll let you off the hook with this bit of advice:
Just shut up about the pillows, and you'll probably get laid more. At least that's my experience. Your mileage may vary.


I moon you all.

Here's a shot of the moon I took through my telescope the other night.

The new camera rocks.


Go ahead. Axe me anything.

I've finally escaped the cackling ogre and moved my cube once again. I am now in a quiet area of the floor, surrounded by nobody. It's fan-freakin*-tastic. The reason I mention it is because whenever you move into a new cube, you always have to deal with the detritus left behind by the last inhabitant. Sometimes it's just dust bunnies, and other times it's everything from unidentified moldy tupperware to 3-year-old toenail collections.

This cube fell somewhere in between, and the strangest thing I found was a hand-made picture frame, presumably made by the goofy looking kid in the picture. I think at one time it had macaroni or some other shit glued on it, but when I dug it out from behind the file cabinet, it was pretty rough. I also found two teddy bears holding hands and they were so incredibly adorable I immediately tossed them in the trash before they could make me puke.

Anyway, the reason I mention finding weird shit -- A few weeks before I moved, my friend Gutu moved too, and the when the worker bees were dismantling the cube next to her, they unearthed this little beauty:

She really had no use for a double-edged executioner's axe, and since I've been on the lookout for one, she gave it to me. I immediately brought it back to my cube and examined my prize more closely. This bit made me laugh out loud:

So yeah. For those of you with kids, let this be a reminder that if you have a choice between, say, a teddy bear and a double-edged executioner's axe, you might want to go with the bear -- especially if your kid has a tendency to choke on axes.

But if you do decide to go with the axe, make sure the kid is supervised at all times. You don't want to glance out in the backyard and see this:

*(as an aside, Blogger's spell checker wanted to replace "freakin" with "foreskin." I almost let it. Fan-foreskin-tastic kinda has a snappy ring to it.)


I got nothin but nothin.

Some randomness:

I hit a bird fight today. I'll bet that's the first and last time you'll ever hear that sentence for as long as you live. I was driving along minding my own business when two small birds that looked like sparrows tumbled halfway across my lane, hovered in midair - flapping wildly and clawing and pecking at each other - and then turned into an exploding ball of feathers as I drove directly into them at 50 mph. It happened so fast I wasn't even positive of what I saw. But sure enough, I had feathers in my grill. So I am, in all likelihood, a murderer. A birderer, if you will. My mother always told us not to fight in the road, and she was right. No good can come of it. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure it was don't play in the road. Either way, good advice.

Speaking of potential road kill, what the hell is with turtles trying to cross the road? Why would something so slow attempt to cross a busy road during rush hour? I am guessing it is because they don't have wrist watches, or wrists, or because they are just really bad at figuring out their ETA and they thought they had plenty of time to beat traffic.

There have been quite a few instances where I've had to stop the car, grab the turtle and shuttle him to the other side before he got flattened. In the case of snapping turtles the size of hubcaps, I didn't so much "grab the turtle"* as "poke him in his turtle ass with a stick from really far away while getting snapped and hissed at." Those prehistoric-lookin' bastards can fight back, and sometimes they really don't want to go where their best interests lie.

I would also like to know what makes the muddy patch of polluted scumwater on the other side of the road better than the muddy patch of polluted scumwater you happen to be in. Had I been born a turtle with a burning need to find out if the old legends are true and the swamp on my side of the road truly does suck in comparison to the holy nirvana reputed to be on the other side of that 36-foot stretch of blistering blacktop, I would hope I'd have the good sense to wait until nightfall. That way, I might actually have a shot of making it over there without getting flash-fried in my shell or flattened by two tons of rolling steel.

Don't head out at 4:30 in the afternoon and try to beat the commuter rush is all I'm saying. You're a fucking turtle. You're nature's speed bump. Realize that you're slow and plan ahead. Wait for 2 a.m. on a Sunday night during a rainstorm or something. Also, do not pull all your shit inside your shell and stop for a breather when you're only half way across.

If you're movin', you're groovin' -- if you're stopped you're popped.

Think of it as a Mount Everest summit attempt - you have to plan it thoroughly and time it exactly right. But this is probably wasted advice because I doubt that there are many turtles reading my blog. From what I've seen splattered on the road, turtle brains are actually pretty small.

*I realize that the term "grab the turtle" sounds dirty, but it's really not.