CBH - Live! at the House of Blues.

Sometimes when I am searching for pictures on the web for particular blog posts, I will stumble on something completely different. With "safe search off," the resulting picture can be so disturbing that it defies description, and of course from that moment on I will obsess about ways to describe it.

During my last foray out into the world of Google, here's what I discovered. It turns out there's these things called "reborn dolls" which are, without a doubt, among the creepiest fucking things I've ever seen. Go search Google for "reborn dolls." I'll wait.

Hi. Welcome back. I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking:

(a) Holy shit!
(b) There is no effing way that's not a real baby.
(c) Is that a fake booger? No, I think it's just something on the picture.
(d) How do I convert pounds to dollars again? Is it twice as much or half as much? Goddammit I hate math.
(e) I love google.
(f) Someone paid over four thousand dollars for that?
(g) No, I'm pretty sure it IS a fake booger.
(h) Holy shit!

I build furniture, and intricate work fascinates me, so I can completely appreciate the amount of sheer amazingness involved here, but tell me I'm not alone in thinking this is one tiny step away from some sort of horrifying baby taxidermy. I realize there are some weird hobbies out there, but for the love of all that is holy, please stop stuffing babies.

Also, I can almost guarantee that the type of person who would buy such a thing is completely incapable of buying just one. No, this type of person will have a house full of these fake babies, in all manner of poses, reclining around the house in strategic places, all designed to provide maximum viewing potential at all times.

I find the mere thought of that to be so creepy that I probably won't sleep tonight.

There is no way you can look at this doll and not be absolutely positive there is a factory somewhere in China with a stack of cloned babies, a vat of quick-drying latex, and a bunch of cardboard boxes with "Fragile: USA" stamped on the side.

All creepiness aside, I will be the first to admit that if they didn't cost 4 grand, one of these bad boys could come in handy. In fact, I was just telling someone at work the other day that if I ever get laid off from my current job and manage to find another, this time I am going to plan ahead. Before my first day, I'm hitting Target and buying some frames, preferably ones with pictures of kids already in them. Then I will put them on my desk and lie my ass off.

Yes, I will pretend to have kids, because -- let's face it -- based on all available evidence, kids are an incredible excuse to either stay home from work, or leave work early. Having one of these dolls would allow you to create some really convincing photo ops, is all I'm saying. Eventually people would probably wonder why your kid wasn't growing and was always asleep in your pictures and then social services would get involved and it wouldn't end well for anyone, but until that happened, you'd be on easy street.

"I have to leave early to pick up my kid from daycare."
"I can't come in today because my kid has strep throat."
"I'm going to be late. My kid shoved something up his nose again."
"Yeah, I won't be in the office for a few days, my kid's paint is flaking off."

There's a million variations on this theme, and I've seen them all in use, with the possible exception of that last one. (As an aside, I am also thinking about taking up smoking, or at least taking up standing outside and holding a cigarette, because from what I can see these folks get about 15 minutes out of every hour off, and who couldn't use that?)

I know, I know -- I dream big, but the simple fact remains that I would be my own worst enemy, and my charade would probably last about three days because even as I write this I am thinking "Man, if they didn't cost 4 grand, I would totally have one riding shotgun on my ski rack right now."

So to make a long post longer, since I'm in a hotel room in Scranton trying to digest a filet that was (coincidentally) the size of a small child, let me tell you how I found out about these bizarre creations.

I can't even remember what image search I did that turned up this picture, but it definitely didn't have anything to do with what you're all probably thinking:

Upon seeing it, I became curious as to what sort of android creature they were building, and found myself on a site that detailed how you, too, can stuff babies for fun and profit.

Let me warn you, some of these pictures may scar you for the rest of your life -- or at least for the rest of this post.

First, to root the fake hair, you apparently must jab the baby-thing in the head with a giant needle, thusly:

When you are half-way done, you will have this demon-monk baby head:

Don't stare at it too long, or you will be forced to do its evil bidding, and I am not even kidding. (Between you and me, I think I may have killed a drifter earlier.)

Apparently, they are also totally customizable. If you don't like the color of the eyes, you can change them. Take little Mr. Blue Eyes here:

Obviously, the first horrifying thing you do is cut out the existing eyes.

I am still having nightmares where I wake up and that disembodied head is floating above my bed making a noise that sounds like "pshwwwsshwwwwhhhwwwwssssshssssshshshsssswwww."

Then, after you calm down and pop a Xanax or three, you simply goop up the replacement eyes and jam them in:

Voila! Your very own Creepy Baby Head:

I'm not even going to get into describing what a bag full of arms and legs looks like, but if you're interested in this particularly disturbing art form, you can get most of your natal appendage needs met here -- the site from which these pictures were shamelessly stolen.

Enjoy your night. If you can.

ps - My next band is totally going to be called CreepyBabyHead.


Mustaches. Crossbows. It's all here.

In case any of you were wondering about the videos I decided not to post, they're actually on-line as of today.

If you've ever wondered what happened to those guys who were in drama club in high school, here's your answer.

Yeah. They fight crime now.


Garbage Day.

I hate Garbage Day. It's like a weekly staff meeting - it only happens once a week, but it feels like it happens every two days. Normally I try to take it out to the curb the night before, but sometimes I forget. OK, I always forget. But that's neither here nor there.

Last Garbage Eve, I went to bed too late and the next morning I overslept. Not only was I going to be late for work, but I was also going to miss Garbage Day. Normally, that's not a huge problem, but the 75 gallon dumpster on wheels was already full from missing it the previous week, and there are only so many bags of cat shit you can have sitting on your porch, frozen or not. So it had to go out.

I jumped out of bed, grabbed some clothes, ran to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, took a quick shower, got dressed, threw a bucket of coal into the stove and ran out the door to drag that giant piece of frozen-wheeled shit to the bottom of the driveway. (Which, by the way, is approximately 120 feet long and currently consists of icy ruts covered in snow, which is not conducive to garbage rolling of any sort.) It was windy as hell, the garbage bin was not cooperating, and I almost dumped it on myself twice. I finally got it to the curb, ran back down the driveway, jumped in my car and headed to work.

Since I was late, I didn't get a chance to make a pot of coffee like I normally do, so I stopped at the Mobil station where I sometimes gas up on all things petroleum and caffeine-based. Even at that time of the morning, it's pretty crowded, and I'm in there often enough so the clerks recognize me. I was pouring my coffee when I noticed that people were looking at me strangely. I got to the counter, and the clerk looked at me and said, "Rough night?"

I laughed and said, "No, a rough morning."

I paid for my coffee, and then headed to the office. I sat at my desk for an hour or so -- answered a few e-mails, checked my meeting calendar and checked our mail gateways for problems. By that time the coffee was starting to work on my bladder, so I headed to the bathroom to take a leak.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw something disturbingly similar to this:

OK, not exactly like that. But subtract out the Hawaiian shirt, the receding hairline, and the date-rape drugs coursing through his system, and it's pretty much right on. It seemed that I had been in such a hurry to bring out the garbage bin that I neglected to do anything but towel off my hair when I got out of the shower. Then, of course, the high winds finished the job nicely.

I immediately splashed water on my hair and then slapped at it randomly until I was slightly closer to looking like I was not completely insane, then headed back to my desk.

Messing around with that mug shot of Nick Nolte (2002? Really? Holy crap.) got me thinking. Some of the hairstyles you see on male celebrities these days aren't too far off from that, and everyone is always talking about how good they look, and by everyone I mean those people in charge of all things Style.

So when I got home, I looked around on the web and found a few pictures, along with their descriptions by those in the know, the so-called Style Experts. I will contrast their view with my own.

Colin Ferrell:

What the experts say: This is a smart and neat look for Colin. Colin's back and sides have been kept short and his top has been slightly layered and blended into the rest of his style.

What I say: Jesus Christ, Colin, wash your hair. It looks like you dipped your entire head into a vat of warm bacon grease.

Keanu Reeves:

What the experts say: Keanu is the king of the casual style and this great look from the 2006 Teen Choice Awards is no exception. His hair length has been left long and this cut requires very little styling or maintenance.

What I say:
Keanu looks homeless and a little smelly.

Seth Green:

What the experts say: This is a soft and sexy look for Seth. His hair has been kept at one length all over, slightly parted to one side and styled messy and wispy.

What I say: I'm glad Seth finally got his head free of that elephant's ass. It looks like he had to pull pretty hard.

Ty Pennington

What the experts say: Ty made the right choice at the ABC Upfront event with this hairstyle by messing up his fine textured ends to create a fuller and thicker look for his hair.

What I say: This is how you look moments after intentionally dislocating your shoulders, yanking the straight jacket over your head, escaping from the guards, and leaping over the fence at Arkham Asylum.

Billie Joe Armstrong

What the experts say: Green Day's world class rock star, Billie Joe, shows off his full tousled contoured style cut and jet black hair color. Could his boyish face and rock style look be a trend for men? For that punk rocker charm, Billie Joe's edgy hair style is the way to go.

What I say: He's Billie Joe from Green Day. He's supposed to look all fucked up. Also, my guess is that this hairstyle is not ever going to be a "trend for men," unless you're talking about men who have never held down a job that didn't involve either (a) being in a rock band or (b) wearing a name tag on their shirt.

In other news, after looking at the rest of that video series, I decided to pass on them. I just didn't find them to be all that funny.

feed: humor-blogs.com


Get it togetha, baby.

Don't get me wrong, I do think Wanda Sykes can be funny. But those Applebees commercials drive me bat-shit insane. I can't even imagine the truckloads of cash they must have offered her to get her to become the official voice of the Black Apple. I know that sounds like the name of a new superhero, but trust me, it's not. It's just a talking apple. With no face. With no... anything really. Oh, a hat. I think it has a hat now.

But all winter-wear aside, it's just an apple. That's it.

The sheer un-brilliance of this idea just boggles my mind. I can't believe someone from a supposedly high-ticket ad agency pitched it, and I can't believe someone at Applebees signed off on it.

I know you could use the argument "Hey, if you had a talking apple, you wouldn't be saying "Oh, it's just a talking apple, no big deal" and you'd be right. If I actually had a talking apple in my posession, it wouldn't take me long to parlay that into becoming rich beyond my wildest dreams. Unless of course it sounded like Wanda. Then I would just be moderately well-to-do, because talking apple or not, nobody can actually listen to her voice for any length of time without being driven to a homicidal rage. It sounds like a power saw cutting sheet metal. The same holds true for Rosie Perez and Fran Drescher, now that I think about it.

It really doesn't do much either. I guess that's fair, since it has no appendages to speak of. It just sort of....bounces around slightly in one place while it tells you what to do.

Also, I'm not sure what sort of apple-y orifice it actually uses to speak, but I think it's safe to assume that it's not being done telepathically, because I don't think Wanda wouldn't go for that. I am pretty sure that no matter how big the payoff, she would draw the line at mind-voicing telepathic restaurant-chain apples. That's all speculation on my part, of course. I could be wrong.

I'd still like to see the version of the commercial where the guy being berated by the black apple finally has enough, and he scoops it up and takes a giant bite out of it right at the table. Then, while his wife and children look on in horror, he continues to eat it until the screaming stops.

I guess it's pretty obvious why my career in advertising didn't work out.

Bonus question of the day: I've recently been approached by a company that wants to pay me a small amount of money to run a series of short, humorous videos on my blog. I've only seen the first one, and it wasn't horrible. They assure me that the rest are funnier. There's nine of them in total, and if I agree, they'd be run twice a week for a month. I am currently weighing what's left of my blogger integrity against the offer of cold hard cash, and unbelievably, I'm still undecided. One day I lean toward becoming a professional whore -- mostly because my roof is leaking -- but on other days I think that I don't particularly enjoy videos on blogs. There is also the possibility that the videos may actually turn out to be funny. Let me know your two cents.

feed: humor-blogs.com


Happy "Valintines" Day.

Remember when you were a kid, and Valentine's day would roll around? Remember how you'd be up late the night before, making sure you had a valentine for everyone, because that was the rule? Remember how you would always make sure to put a little 'extra effort' into that one for the girl or boy you had a crush on? You don't? Well screw you, then. I don't want a card from you anyway.

I was driving home tonight and wondering what I was going to post, when I remembered that in my stash of childhood artwork, there was an envelope full of valentines from my 2nd and third grade class. I did a little digging through the pile, and even found one I had made for my mom.

Let's take a stroll down memory lane. A trip back to a simpler life; to a Valentine's Day when your teacher forced you to give a card to everyone in the class -- even the goofy kid who smelled like sour milk and threw up all over his desk that one time. Yes. Even him.

You could always tell the kids who had thrifty parents -- their valentines would always be reused from last year. They'd take the old card, glue it to a piece of paper like it was art, and then fold it in half and write something in it. Here's an example of a card like that I received from Susan:

Because of a clearly inferior glue job, I could see that the back of the original card said "To Tina." That hurt me deeply, since I knew I was getting a recycled card. But that wasn't the worst part. Oh no. Not only was the card itself recycled, the text inside the paper it was glued to was also recycled:

In case you can't make out what's going on here, that bitch Susan had originally written "This is for my best pal. His name is Greg," but apparently Greg pissed in her Frosted Flakes or something, because she decided to give it to me instead. However, rather than expend the minimal effort to actually get a new sheet of paper, she just did a half-assed erasing job and sent it to "Her next best pal" who was apparently me. So it was Tina, then Greg, then me. Can't you feel the love? I know I can.

Then there were the kids who clearly had no help at all from their parents. A folded piece of paper was the best you were going to get from them. Here's one to me from a kid named Danny:

That was it. Nothing inside. In fact, there was no inside. It was just a single sheet, with a deformed sideways heart on it. The heart was scribbled out in an apparent act of defiance against teacher-forced boy-love. I don't blame Danny for fighting the establishment, although he was always a troublemaker. I think he's in jail now. It's sort of ironic.

Remember how I was telling you about going the extra mile for someone you really liked? Check out this painstakingly rendered work of art:

You're hard to beet, Valentine. Do you carrot all 4 me? That's true love right there.

At first, this one made me all warm and fuzzy inside, because there seemed to be quite a lot of work and thought and feeling put into it. Then I opened it and immediately thought, "No, STEVE, I most certainly DO NOT carrot all 4 you, you little homosexual."

I kid. After all, it was a simpler time. I realize that Steve had no idea that his Valentine might have been a little inappropriate. He was just being a nice guy. It reminded me of that one Simpsons episode when someone asked Ralph Wiggum if he was gay or straight and he replied, "I'm not anything yet!" That was us.

Last, but not least, here's one I made for my mother when I was in the 3rd grade:

Thank you for all the Grand Things you did for us?

Who the fuck was I? Little Lord Fauntleroy?

"Thank you ever so much for all the grand things you've done for us, mummy. Now, if you don't mind, The Snitch and Houdini and I are off to play a quick game of cricket in the courtyard. Perhaps before we retire for the evening you'd be so kind as to read to us from the Illustrated Chaucer? Very good, then. Ta ta!"

I don't know what I was thinking. I have no recollection of making any of that.

I'm still not too sure about that Steve kid, though.

feed: www.humor-blogs.com


Doghouses are very uncomfortable.

When you're in Orlando for a week, you get to witness a lot of poor parenting in action. Children doing whatever the fuck they want, while the parents are oblivious, or worse, they just don't care. This got me thinking about what my parents did to us to make us behave when we were small. It was a different time, but I think we need to go back to it.

When I was 9, and my brothers The Snitch and Houdini were 7 and 5, respectively, we spent a lot of time in the dog house. Don't misunderstand. This was not by choice.

Whenever we misbehaved, that's what my mother would do to us. She would give us one or two chances, and if we didn't behave, that would be it. In the doghouse we would go. Sometimes, it was just one of us, but most of the time it was at least two, because just as it takes two to tango, it also takes two to gang up on Houdini and tickle him until he pees on the living room carpet.

This was considered the worst punishment my mother could dish out. First came the standing in the corner. If that didn't work, she'd send us to her room (because our rooms were much too fun for the punishment to be effective) where we'd sit by the door dying of boredom and yelling "Can I come out yet? Can I? Can I come out yet? I'll be good, I promise..." until she threatened to spank us if we didn't shut up. If she let us out and we got into trouble again, it was the doghouse for sure. This was the straw after the last straw. Yes, I know that doesn't make sense, but work with me here. Basically, this was the moment when she handed off our punishment to my father, and washed her hands of us. She would scream, "OK, That's it! I'm putting you in the doghouse!" and we instantly became the best children on the face of the planet. But by then it was too late. We had received our warnings. We had squandered our chance to avoid our fate.

When that happened, there was only one thing to do: Beg. Beg as if your life depended on it, because you thought it just might. Beg because our father would be home at 6 pm, and if we were still in the doghouse when he came in the door, there would be hell to pay. At least that's what we believed.

Now, before you go thinking that my mother was the most heartless person in the world for stuffing her children into the doghouse, let me show you a picture of our doghouse:

It hung on the kitchen wall next to the phone. The hook inside the doorway of the doghouse was eventually replaced with a two-inch-long finishing nail, because the stock hook couldn’t easily handle all three dogs, which it was frequently called upon to do.

Most of the time, unless my mother was really pissed, we could convince her to let us out of the doghouse a few minutes before my father walked in the door. He’d normally call before he left work, and we knew that we had about 15 minutes to work on her. It was like being on death row and waiting for a pardon from the Governor. There was an almost palpable sense of freedom when it happened, and we were on our best behavior for the rest of the night, which was probably her plan from the beginning.

If you were in the doghouse and didn’t make it out before he came home, most of the time you would end up in tears, but not because of anything physical. My father was a master of psychological punishment. He was scary in a serious, stern sort of way, and he certainly wasn’t averse to a ritual spanking now and again, but he never really hurt anything but our pride. I can think of only once when he lost his temper and hit me upside the head, catching me a good one with his wedding ring by mistake. I can’t remember what I had done to deserve that, but I’m sure it had to have been spectacular. He apologized to me afterward, told me it would never happen again, and it never did.

Normally, our punishment was of the non-physical type. His usual way of dealing with our transgressions was to use logic, something with which we were mostly unfamiliar. There would be a conversation like this:

“Your mother said you were bad today. What did you do?”
“I got Houdini’s hair caught in the wheels of my race car.”
“So that’s why you’re in the doghouse?”
“No? Why are you in the doghouse then?”
“Because I did it two more times after she told me to stop.”
“Is that it?”
“No. He threw my car down the stairs.”
“So what did you do then?”
“I punched him pretty hard. In the butt.”

This line of questioning would continue for a while, but eventually we’d work our way down to the speech, which always centered on a common theme:

“Do you know how much your mother does for you and your brothers every day?”
“What does she do?”
“She cooks dinner and does our laundry and cleans the house and takes us places.”
“You made her cry today, did you know that?”
“Do you think that’s fair? That she does all that for you, and you make her cry?”
“I think you owe her an apology, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t tell me, tell her. Come with me. You’re going to apologize right now, and then your mother and I will decide what your punishment is going to be.”

At that point I would usually start crying, and again tell him how sorry I was. After the apology, (and that was rough, let me tell you) he’d send me back to my room. A few minutes later, he’d appear at my bedroom door and just stand there, like a judge preparing to hand down a sentence. By that time, I was resigned to my fate, because (1) I knew the hardest part was over, and (2) I knew I totally deserved whatever it was.

So that’s the story of the parental discipline in our house growing up. I’ve never been arrested or in rehab, so I guess it worked. There’s still time, I guess. I can only imagine how much they laughed about it after we were asleep.

I can remember being in a crowded grocery store with my mother when she got pissed at Houdini and yelled, “If you don’t start behaving right this instant, you’re going straight into the doghouse when we get home!”

Today, screaming that sentence in public would definitely get you a stern talking to – most likely by social services.


Unintelligent Design.

If you've been around here long, you know I talk about bathrooms a lot. For example, there's the reason I've become a stall man, there's the disgusting bathrooms where I used to work, and the bathrooms in our building where people do odd things like this and this and this and this. I'm sure there are posts that I'm forgetting, and they're probably best forgotten.

Well, I'm going to do it again, in order to point out something that should be fairly obvious, but apparently is not. It has to do with intelligent design, and the people and companies that are in charge of this -- this one single thing that they have to do, and yet they consistently fail miserably at it. Case in point: Badly designed urinals. As punishment, these designers should be pummeled into unconsciousness and then dragged to lie underneath their own urinals, to illustrate to them the reasons that I believe they clearly have no idea what the hell they are doing.

I had this epiphany the other day, and I think I've figured out another reason (besides not being able to see your own junk) why the floor in the bathroom where I work is always covered in a sticky, partially-dried coating of pee.

It was early in the morning, and as a result the floor looked pretty clean, so I chanced the urinal, which looks kind of like this:

This is just a picture I found on the web, but it's close, other than the fact that it sensibly has walls on either side of it, while ours are literally 2 feet apart with no wall in between, which is great if you want to get up close and personal with someone else's shaking technique, but not so great for me and most everyone else. Anyway, I digress. Take a closer look at that picture and see if you can figure out what's so incredibly wrong up there.

Give up? It's a matter of surface area. More specifically, a level surface area. In all the wrong places. Let me explain. No. There is too much. Let me sum up.

Listen up urinal manufacturers: There's two things wrong here. One, there's a fucking SHELF of porcelain around the whole bottom of this abomination. Because of a little thing called surface tension, combined with another little thing called disgusting slobs, errant urine just sits on top of that wide, level lip in large, ever replenished puddles. That's number one, and it's bad enough.

Number two is simply this: If you're not hung like Ron Jeremy, and you want to avoid adding to the puddle -- or worse, becoming the victim of your own splashback because you stood too far away -- you'll actually have to stand fairly close to the opening. This can be a recipe for disaster.

Why? Let me tell you. Because this urinal is square in front. This means that the two corners of the urinal are fairly close to your legs. As a result, you're only one bad pantleg-crease away from inadvertently contacting the stagnant piss pond on that ledge, which will instantly wick into your pants like they were made entirely of Bounty paper towels. At that point you have two choices: (1) Walk around the rest of the day with someone else's pee staining your pants, or (2) grab a giant handful of wet paper towels and -- in an effort to avoid simply tearing off your pants and running outside and rolling around in a snowbank -- rub frantically at the pee stains until you make yourself look like you just drained your bladder directly into your Dockers.

Don't ask me how I know this.

The solution from a design standpoint is simple. The edge of the urinal bowl should be sharp. A knife edge. That way, if you happen to lose control of your fire hose your urine goes one of two places -- on the floor, or into the bowl. At least that way the only thing you have to worry about is pissing on your own shoes -- and you can do that all day and I won't give a shit because I'll take one look at the floor and be heading for the stall.

This one has it almost right, since there's no way your pants can make contact, and the ledge is tipped in, but still, it could be sharper:

I took another look at the equipment at work, and it says "American Standard 1.0."

I was hoping for their sake that this was a version number, and their later models were better engineered. I did a quick search on the 'net and I found the American Standard model 7.0:

I still don't think they get it.

feed: humor-blogs.com


I hate what used to be German food.

I haven't written about the geekfest conference yet, because nothing really bad happened, unless you consider getting drunk on sake and singing karaoke in a Japanese restaurant really bad. Oh, and my singing. My singing was really bad.

Usually, at least one gross thing happens to me when I am at any sort of conference. One year, it was the stall-vomiting incident, another year it was the rotten feet, last year it was the serial snot-snorter. This year it was the second-hand fart. You would think that would be better than a first-hand fart, but you'd be wrong. I'm not exactly sure why, but it just is. Take my word for it.

If you don't know much about Lotusphere, understand one thing. It's huge. There are anywhere from 8000 to 10,000 people in attendance, and there are technical sessions from 7am to 6pm every day for 5 days. The conference rooms are set up with row upon row of padded chairs, usually with a center aisle and two side aisles. The seats are jammed together so you are pretty much shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy (or girl) next to you. You would think that this close proximity would make people more deodorant and chewing gum conscious, but no. (Also, skinny white dude with the dreadlocks that reach the center of your back -- wash that shit. You smell like old socks dipped in sour milk.)

Anyway, the pattern of seat occupancy is generally this -- the seats on the outside aisles go first, then the seats on the inside aisles. Then the back rows. Since there is very little time between sessions in some cases, the goal, for me at least, is to shoot for the easy exit. So I got into the habit of just going to the back row and pulling a chair out of formation and sitting on it. It was a win-win. I didn't have to touch shoulders with the guys next to me, and I could split whenever it was necessary.

So with that background planted firmly in your minds, here's my gross tale for this year's conference. I was sitting in the back row in my pulled-out chair, just minding my own business and taking copious notes (my boss might be reading this) when the 2 large coffees I had after lunch started to work their magic. I put my notebook down, put my far-away-seeing geek glasses on top of the notebook and got up to go to the bathroom.

I was gone maybe 5 minutes total, and when I came back in, there was some dude sitting in my seat. My glasses and notebook were on the floor.

I leaned over and said, "You're in my seat." He looked at me, and said something in what I think was German. I pointed at the chair and said, "I just had to use the men's room. I was sitting there." He finally understood what I was getting at, and stood up to go somewhere else. I picked my notebook and glasses from the floor, and sat down. This was unfortunate. I have no way of confirming this, but I believe what he initially said to me in German was "Trust me. You don't want your chair back right now."

Why? Because German dude left me a present. The second my ass hit the seat, I was instantly surrounded by a very foul, very fresh German fart that had been, until very recently, buried deeply in the chair. It was horrible. I stood up so fast you would have thought there was a hot coal under my ass. I think I actually would have preferred that, now that I mentioned it.

That marked the end of "60 Admin Tips in 60 Minutes" for me, because "60 Admin Tips and One Fart in 48 Minutes" was already more than I had signed up for.

In case you were wondering, the song I butchered the shit out of was Sister Golden Hair by America.

feed: humor-blogs.com


False Tooth.

You gotta love the SkyMall catalog:

The obvious fact here is that walking around with one of these stuck to the side of your head all day will not actually enhance your image or give you a more youthful appearance.

It will, however, make you look like a dick.

like those guys over at humor-blogs.com