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.

No good deed goes unpunished.

I know that helping stranded motorists is getting to be right up there with picking up sketchy looking hitchhikers, but sometimes I still feel bad when I swerve around someone who is broken down, or pass some old guy struggling with a bumper jack in a rainstorm. Most of the time, though, I don't stop. After all, if you listen to the media or read the internet, they're all murderers, robbers or rapists just waiting to lure you into their evil clutches.

Yesterday I'm driving home from my father's house just after dark, and it's starting to rain pretty hard. At that time of night, it's a pretty busy ride, and a lot of it is on smaller two-lane roads. You know the type -- one lane in each direction, with a double yellow line down the center. No shoulder, just a curb with sidewalks. People are constantly stopping for lights or left turns, slowing down for other people to pull into the parking lot of the video store... basically, I run through about 3 or 4 small villages like this on my way home, and a lot of it is stop and go.

Even so, I'm moving along pretty good, windshield wipers slapping back and forth, iPod cranking out some Sister Hazel, and as long as I'm moving I'm a happy guy. Put me in stopped traffic and I turn into an asshole.

Suddenly, my happiness is yanked out from under me as I see the long line of rain-blurred tail lights in front of me start lighting up in random order as people hit their brakes. I join the jerky train, and switch the iPod to the new Tool CD. (Tool helps the transformation along a little quicker.)

About a quarter mile down the road, I see the problem. There's a car stopped at a traffic light with its flashers on, and people are swerving around it. As I said before, it's a two lane road, so if there's someone coming in the other direction you have to wait to pass unless you're into playing chicken with an 18-wheeler. It's finally my turn, and I pass the stuck car. I can't see the driver, but the car is only about 50 feet or so from the entrance to a school parking lot.

I go about another half mile, and I'm feeling a little bad for them. They've got a bunch of pissed off strangers beeping at them non-stop, it's pouring out and it's not like I'm on any schedule or anything. I figure what the hell. I switch the music back, turn around, and prepare, in the face of almost certain death, to offer my assistance to the yet-to-be-determined rapist/murderer/robber. I'm silently hoping for robber, unless it's a hot chick then I'm hoping for rapist.

Anyway, I finally work my way back past the car, turn around *again* and pull into the school parking lot, because I don't want to add to the blocking of traffic. I jump out, splash over to the car and tap on the window. The window opens, and I see a guy on a cell phone. There are two other people in the car, an older guy, and a woman. He puts his hand over the phone and says, "Yes?"

"You want me to help you push the car around the corner?"

"Excuse me?" he says. Like he doesn't understand what I'm saying.

"Yeah," I say. "We can probably push you around the corner, it's only about 50 feet."

The guy looks at me and finally gets it. He says, "Oh no, I'm not broken down. I'm waiting for somebody."

It was my turn to not understand. "What? But..." I say, unable to comprehend what he just said to me.

"My car is fine," he says. "I'm just waiting for someone."

I was speechless.

"Thanks, though," he says. He gives me a dismissive little smile, and returns to his cellphone call as he closes the window.

I stand there in the pouring rain for a second, completely amazed, then walk back to my car.

It's just my luck. I don't get the murderer, robber or hot chick rapist.

I get the idiot who has his head so far up his own ass he shouldn't be allowed to own a car -- the prick on a cellphone who single-handedly put Tool back on my playlist.

I took a left out of the parking lot and turned around just so I could pass him again. I leaned on the horn as I swerved around him.

That Tool CD works damn fast.

Abomination

Around 2:30 this afternoon, I walked over to the vending machine because I was feeling a mite peckish (are Americans allowed to feel a mite peckish, or is that reserved for Brits?) and I thought perhaps I'd get me a pair of Reese's Peanut Butter cups, one to eat now and one to save for later. So when I get to the machine, what do I see? This...this complete clusterfuck:



It was too horrible to comtemplate. These albino pieces of shit had taken up residence in the slot normally reserved for my beloved, (and chocolate,) *regular* Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I quickly ran down to the first floor. The machine down there was also full of these. 5th floor -- same story. I couldn't believe it. Damn that vending machine dude! Damn him to hell. (Which, incidentally, he already has been, specifically for replacing the spearmint sugarless gum with carefree bubble gum and/or Juicy Fruit.) I've long suspected him of stocking the machine with crap nobody wants so he doesn't have to fill it as often.

It was my first exposure to these abominations, and I was not ready. Hershey's has officially jumped the shark, to use an over-used expression just to say I used an over-used expression. In an effort to attract those who do not like chocolate, they have created a taste sensation, and by "sensation" I mean something so disgusting you will probably have the sensation you are about to hurl.

I bought one, just so I could see how bad they actually were.

My first impression was not wrong.

First off - and true peanut butter cup aficionados will know instantly what I'm talking about - the smell is gone. Upon opening, you do not smell the intoxicating scent of rich, dark chocolate surrounding the salty goodness of an almost chunky peanut butter. No, what you get instead is the smell of a stale Keebler peanut butter cookie deep-fried in synthetic motor oil.

The second thing was the color. Even though I expected it, it was still a shock. There was no glossy brown perfection. It was the fish-belly white of the Undead; the waxy, pale complexion of a blood-sucking creature of the night. The color of mushrooms and cave fish.

I should have tossed that crap into the garbage right then and there, but I made a terrible mistake, and invited it into my mouth.

What hit me first was the sickening sweetness, and the fact that the texture said "chocolate" but my taste buds said "pure cane sugar." It tasted like I had eaten the icing off a danish.

When I hit the peanut butter, it got a little better, but not much. This was not two great tastes that taste great together.

This was not even one great taste.

Somehow, the albino sugar coating had robbed the peanut butter of its awesome power. It tasted way too salty. So basically Hershey's new ad campaign should be "one formerly great taste that tastes like ass when combined with this other taste that really isn't a flavor at all but is really more of a sweetness." Also, listen carefully here, Hershey people -- there is no such thing as "white chocolate" at least as far as myself and the FDA are concerned.

Yeah, so you use a little cocoa butter instead of vegetable oil, but that doesn't cut it in my book. These things truly suck, and I demand that you remove them from my vending machine immediately. And while you're at it, you can get rid of the Fast Break, Reese's Stiks and the Nutrageous bars too. You guys are fast becoming the Taco Bell of the candy world. Just how many different combinations of the same ingredients can you rename, repackage and resell? Call it a day already and fire your marketing department.

You can't improve upon the original perfection, unless you can figure out some hi-tech way to keep them from melting in the delivery truck in the summer. I say this because if I unknowingly buy one more liquefied and re-hardened peanut butter cup that has some sort of white chalky shit on it, I am hand delivering it to your CEO's pie hole.

Seriously, if you need a new idea, you would be better off selling a pair of uncoated peanut butter balls in a strawberry-flavored fruit roll-up sack. Call that one Nutrageous.

I probably wouldn't buy it, but it sure would be funny to blog about.

I love my neighborhood.

I know, I know.... I've been neglecting my blogging/writing duties as of late, and trying to pass off some quickies to keep people interested. I hope you're all buying it, because I have one more picture from my street.

Say you're repairing the roof of your trailer. Also say you need a nice, flat piece of sheet metal to complete said repair.

So here's my question: At what point do you actually think to yourself, "Fuck it. I'll just use a piece of the car."

I'm torn.

On the one hand, they're probably really good for you. On the other hand, I'm not sure I can get past the name.



I think I'm gonna have to go with the chocolate ones. "Natural flavor" just leaves too much to chance.

Like the early explorers always said, "There ain't nothin' like havin' a tasty Horlick on the pole."

So here's the thing.

1. I don't know what meat milk is.

2. I don't want to know what meat milk is.

3. It sounds like a slang term used in a porno flick.

4. Having "no hormones" really does not make it sound any more enticing.

5. I would have thought that anything containing a mixture of meat and milk would pretty much have to be organic, but apparently I know nothing. I guess up until now, people have been drinking inorganic meat milk with hormones added because they didn't know any better.

6. A well-placed ampersand would make this sign so much less disturbing.

Wonder Bro

I was thumbing through a magazine, and saw an ad for a Munsingwear T-shirt. For some reason, in the ad, they included a tiny replica of an old ad from the same company, which has apparently been selling underwear for over 120 years. It made me laugh, so I decided to share.

Back in the day, when "gay" meant "carefree and happy" the marketing gurus at underwear companies came up with ads like this one:



I am betting that the day after this ad came out, the word "gay" was well on its way to its current meaning.

Until this moment I had never heard of a "skit-suit." Judging from the picture, it is very much like having your wife-beater stapled to your tightie-whities.

No matter what year this ad happens to be from, one fact has remained constant: Men should not wear one of these skit-suit things unless they are (1) a trapeze artist in a traveling circus or (2) a professional wrestler. Even then, it's questionable.

There are so many problems with this whole "one-piece underwear" idea that I don't even know where to start. Every time you raised your arms above your head, you'd be giving yourself a wedgie, for one. And unless this thing has a backdoor, I can't even imagine the effort required to take a crap. You would have to get almost completely undressed first.

Now let's get to the meat of the oddness. The two dudes.

Does anyone else find it strange that the one guy is prancing around in his underwear with a badminton racket, getting a chubby over how well-balanced said racket is, while the other one is sitting on the couch, fully clothed, holding the underwear dude's racket frame and acting as if this scene is completely normal?

Sadly, the ad copy is too small to read. I'm sure it's hilarious.

"Say Bob, your racket is so long and perfectly formed. And that shaft -- man, that shaft looks stiff. You're gripping it well, too. I'll bet you could beat the crap out of somebody with that."

"You have no idea, Stan. But this racket, in all its awesomeness, is nothing compared to the glorious wonder that is my well-cut skit-suit."

"I can see that -- I really can. Hey, is that the new comfort pouch? I have to tell you, you fill it out nicely."

"Why thank you, Stan. I appreciate that. Say, you want to have sex before the big match?"

I'm betting it was something along those lines.

Or not.

I'm all thumb.

So this weekend I managed to eff up my left hand by trying to take the thumb off it.

Here's what happened: I was walking down the back deck stairs (which are pretty steep and long because the deck comes off the second story of the house) and I tripped on some miscellaneous crap, lost my balance and almost took a header to the bottom. Luckily, I was able to grab the railing with my left hand. When I did that, however, my hand slid down the railing. It slid down the railing until my thumb bent backward, thereby spraining the living shit out of it.

Why did my thumb bend backward you ask? Well, because it stopped moving when the rest of me didn't. Why did it stop moving you ask? Well, it stopped moving because a one-inch-long sliver of wood jammed directly into it. As a result, one of these things doesn't go with the other:



Note that I am not intentionally bending it backward -- it just wants to go that way because the front is so swollen. I am pretty sure I could build a summer home from the wood still embedded in there. I went to the doctor and the thumb isn't broken, however they gave me a tetanus shot and put me on antibiotics. He told me that if the railroad tie doesn't work itself out in a week, he'll send me to a surgeon.

Good times.

There are some benefits, however. I drew up a list of things that I am currently awesome at:

1. Acting out the lyrics to old Rolling Stones songs
2. Hitchhiking
3. Giving hot babes the thumbs up
4. Hand modeling for R. Crumb
5. Doing a kick-ass Fonzie impersonation
6. Casting the final vote in a Roman execution
7. Pulling plums out of pies

I made a corresponding list of things I am currently not awesome at:

1. Thumbwresting (although I look formidable, it doesn't bend at all and it hurts like hell if you touch it.)

2. Anything that requires me to have a level of dexterity equal to or greater than that of a chimpanzee.

So you can see that the tradeoff is totally worth it.

BUMP This.

I'm driving home today and I see a new sign on my normal route that says BUMP. The road really didn't seem any different to me, and I kept on the lookout, but nothing out of the ordinary cropped up. No gravel, no gaping hole, nothing. My equilibrium was off for the rest of the night. That got me thinking about these stupid signs and why I hate them.

First, even if the bump actually exists, you can never judge how far past the sign the actual bump is going to be. And since there's also no qualification as to the size of the bump, it's completely confusing.

Sometimes you can drive for miles thinking "Was that it? That had to be it. No, that was too small. That was barely anything. They wouldn't put up a sign for just that, would they? No wait, maybe that was it." You will do this for at least ten minutes after every time you run over anything that is slightly different from totally smooth pavement.

Other times, you will see the BUMP sign and think, "I don't remember seeing tha--" and then you spend the next ten minutes trying to fish the front half of your tongue out from under the driver's seat because apparently the earth is flat and your car just drove off the edge.

What is the distance limit in regards to that anyway? What is the maximum distance the sign can actually be from the bump? There has to a rule, and someone somewhere has to know what it is.

Personally, I think the distance is determined by a group of sadistic highway engineers who, through rigorous scientific double-blind testing, have determined the precise distance it takes you to actually stop expecting the bump. They do this so your guard will be completely down when a pothole the size of the grand canyon rips out the underside of your vehicle, and causes you to scream "FUCK!" at the top of your lungs with your grandparents in the car.

All I'm saying is, fix the damn roads and forget the warning signs. Seriously, WTF? When I go to the doctor does he just hang a sign around my neck that says "Jock Itch" and send me on my way?

Of course not. First he laughs at me, then he fixes me.

Bastard.

Apple of my blind eye

I am currently in the market for a new digital camera, and one of my requirements is that I must be able to connect it to my telescope. I was asking Yort for camera recommendations and of course, since any conversation with Yort is almost required by law to take a left turn somewhere along the line, that is exactly what happened. I was talking about taking pictures through telescope eye-pieces, and after about the third time I said "eye-piece" he interrupted me.

"Are those made by Apple?" he asked.

"Huh?" I said. "Oh, the i-Piece. Yes, I believe it is. Or it will be. Sometime in the future."

So during the in-depth ten-minute conversation that followed, all of which had absolutely nothing to do with digital cameras, we hammered out the details since that is what we do. We determined that the i-Piece would be a hard, white shiny codpiece that plays mp3 files, and it would cost around one hundred and thirty nine bucks. This is assuming the codpiece makes a fashion comeback, of course.

Obviously, being a couple of geeks, the first thing we thought of were the Imperial Storm Troopers. I found this picture of an Imperial Storm Trooper on-line:



However, let's take a closer look:



Dammit Apple! Always stealing my ideas.

Why they didn't opt for a bluetooth wireless signal direct to the helmet is beyond me, but Steve Jobs is the king of planned obsolescence, so I'm thinking that might be it. Or it could be so that when you're at home, sitting around wearing nothing but your i-piece, you can use better headphones.

New Project and Big Fido is Homeless

My latest woodworking project so far:



I realize there's absolutely nothing funny about this, unless you count the fact that I have no idea at all how to play a guitar.

I did see something oddly humorous on the way home the other day. I was on a twisty back road that follows a creek and when I came around a corner, I saw the biggest stuffed animal I've ever seen in my life. It had to be almost 6 feet tall, and it was just sitting there in the woods.




It's hard to tell from the scale, but that's a pretty big tree he's leaning against. I am about 5'6 or so, and this thing was as tall as I was.

I can just picture the conversation that led to this unfortunate abandonment:

Dad: "Stacy! Daddy's home! And he brought you a birthday present."

Stacy: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! GO WAY! GO WAY!"

Dad (to Mom): "You said she wanted a big stuffed dog, right?"

Mom: "Yes, I did say "big" -- but I didn't mean "bigger than me." If it fell on her, she would probably be crushed to death. She's only 3, Jim."

Dad: "Stacy, the big fido doggie likes you, see? [thrusting the giant dog's giant head at the little girl.]

Stacy: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHhh......
GOWAYDOGGIEGOWAYGOWAYGOWAY!"

Mom: "Jesus Jim, get rid of it will you? She's going to shit herself."

Dad: "The store isn't going to take it back. They have a policy against that."

Mom: "I don't care if you bring it back or toss the frigging thing on the side of the road, just get it the hell out of here before she passes out."

Dad: "Fine. Fuck it. I'm going out for a beer."

I think there's a lesson here for giant stuffed animals and parents everywhere.

Lord of the Flies

Exodus 8:24 And the LORD did so; and there came a grievous swarm of flies into the house of Pharaoh, and into his servants' houses, and into all the land of Egypt: the land was corrupted by reason of the swarm of flies.

I am pretty sure I've never been a pharaoh, and I've never intentionally doublecrossed the fly mafia or anything, so I can't really explain what is happening outside my house today. It started around 8 am with a few big black flies hanging out on the porch. By noon, you couldn't even walk from one end of the porch to the other without passing through a swarm of them. As an added bonus, they bite.

Here's a picture of a small section of porch post. Keep in mind there are about 9 more posts just like this one:



I decided to hang a fly strip, just to see what I could catch. As I was opening it up, I caught three flies. After about two hours, it looked like this:



So I hung a few more. An hour later, I had this:



It's pretty disgusting. Even more disgusting, I think the majority of them were playing "hide the fly salami." Either that or they're just really close pals.

I have no idea what they are attracted to, or where they are coming from. I keep looking under my porch for jewish people to let go, but there is none to be had.

I looked for dead bodies under there too, but I know it can't be that because I never bury them there.

The Penie Genie

I really have to stop posting the searches that lead people to my blog. According to site meter, I am fast becoming the foremost authority on all things testicle, and that can only end badly for everyone involved. More than half my Google searches every week center on genitalia questions of some form or another, and I cannot believe that people actually click on my blog link based upon half a dozen random words in 3 different paragraphs. It clearly has nothing at all of value to them, yet they click on it anyway.

At any rate, it's time for that most regular of 15 Minute Lunch features:

Fantastic Google Searches that Somehow Led People to My Site

is no hair on your scrotum when you're 15 normal? - That depends upon whether you're talking about years or inches. Either way, nobody is really going to care. In the first case, nobody but you will see it, and in the second case, you'll be in such demand it won't matter.

what causes penis head to crack and bleed? - Ball peen hammers, propane torches, hot irons, sunbathing naked, boiling water, liquid nitrogen...the list really is almost endless. They're not indestructible. Maybe you should get a little helmet for it if you're having a problem with this. Or just don't take it out so much.

taken for a ride in the woods and castrated - This gripping, tell-all novel recounts the terrifying, true story of one dog's personal journey into a private hell. The book's protagonist, Fido, takes you on a horrifying emotional rollercoaster from start to finish, and the action just never stops.* You will be crossing your legs in terror, as you realize that no one and nothing is safe -- not you.....and not your penis.

Everyday italian with Giardia - Call me crazy, but I'm thinking a cooking show hosted by an intestinal parasite probably wouldn't do well. Nothing says "Yummo" like abdominal pains, diarrhea, nausea, dehydration and flatulence.

How to fuck a pregnant woman - Wait until she is in the shower, and then move to Arizona, change your name to Steve Smith and open a record store that sells nothing but vinyl copies of Yanni's Greatest Hits.

drop the soap you must - OK. Now I'm pretty sure Yoda is gay.

bad smell from testicle - I do not even want to visualize the apparent contortions you must have subjected your spine to in order to definitively determine that it was, in fact, a single testicle that was to blame for said odor.

Dammit. Too late.



* Well, until the end, when all the action pretty much stops, which is kind of the point of the whole trip to the woods if you really think about it.

Breaker 1-9, Break.

I'm driving home today after work, and I am sitting at a traffic light next to a giant tanker truck full of propane. There's a sticker on the truck that says I can make $50,000 a year and be home most weekends if I have experience driving the big rigs. All I have to do is call the 800 number.

Now, if it had been a truck full of stereos and I was supposed to be delivering them to Best Buy stores across the country, that might not be a bad gig. But this truck was full of propane. So essentially, they're saying "We're looking for suckers to drive this rolling bomb, and (if you live to collect it) make 50K a year."

As I was checking out the rig, I noticed a white cylinder about the size of a small fire extinguisher fastened to the back of the cab. Turns out the reason it was about the size of a small fire extinguisher was because that's exactly what it was.

So to sum up: Not only are you driving a rolling bomb, you are expected to put it out if it suddenly catches fire.

I am fairly certain that a career change to propane trucking wouldn't really be a good move for me. To illustrate this point, I drew a picture of me, bravely battling the flames of my burning propane truck:

As hard as it is to believe...

I am watching this movie right now:



I shit you not.

Mansquito.

The name makes me laugh. The thought that this movie actually got funded makes me laugh. The fact that it was made LAST YEAR and not in 1977 makes me laugh some more.

But I cannot not look away.

I am going to watch until the Mansquito shows up. Or at least until the first something-squito makes an appearance. Womansquito, Boysquito, even Homosquito - I don't care. The acting is beyond horrendous. If the Mansquito sucks as much as what I've seen so far, he's going to be one ravenous, blood-sucking bastard.

[insert ten minutes of ridiculously stupid dialogue read directly off cue-cards by attractive people with 3rd grade reading skills here. The leading man used to be on an old Fox sitcom. Apparently, Parker Lewis CAN lose, and badly.]

Ladies and gentlemen -- we have us a Mansquito. Oddly enough, it is the female scientist that goes first. Maybe they should have called the movie Ms. Quito. Scientifically, it stands to reason I guess, since I think it's only the female mosquitos that actually bite.

Here is the gripping transformation from human to blood-sucking monster, as pasted from my closed-captioning system:

[groaning]
[groaning]
[groaning]
[we need some backup in here!]
[groaning]
[screams]
[gunshots]

I am pretty sure I've seen that closed-captioning word-for-word on the Adult film channel, except the shots at the end were slightly different.

Watch this movie. I dare you.

They lost me.

OK, it's time for a little rant.

I've been looking forward to the 2-hour season finale of LOST. Not because it's ending, but because it looked to be an awesome episode from the previews.

I don't get roped into that many TV shows, but I've been watching this one since it first aired, and while it's been entertaining, I still have no fucking idea what is going on. Not only that, I am pretty sure the writers have no idea either. It's starting to annoy me, and I think that right now the only thing that will bring me back next season is if Evangeline Lilly gets naked. Otherwise, I think I'm done.

Another reason I am through with this show -- This is just a guess on my part, but apparently there is a huge population of American Idol fans who, after all this time, have decided that they don't actually care which shitty singer wins, and they desperately need to catch up on what's been happening on LOST.

I am also pretty sure that they have to pass a written and oral test tomorrow morning with no mistakes, or the executives at ABC will force them to kill a kitten for every question they get wrong.

That is the only possible reason** that I should be forced to once again sit through an hour's worth of recycled, voiced-over, bullshit clips from previous episodes.

So, to all you people who have just crawled out from under your rock tonight to watch your very first -- and my very last -- episode of LOST, I'm tired of paying for your lack of commitment with my time. Let me know how it ends.

On second thought, scratch that. Just let me know if Evangeline gets naked.*




*or if you hear that she stopped dating that Hobbit. Because I don't think she'd be happy in the Shire.

**actually, there is one more reason -- and that reason is Dish Network sucks and their guide sucks and its ability to actually record something correctly sucks. So yeah, it was 2 hours -- and I don't think it actually recorded from 9-11. This POS recorded from 8-10. Awesome.

I've become a stall man.

Yes, it's true. I can't take it any more.

I always thought stall guys were kind of weird, and all sorts of things ran through my head when I encountered one. Maybe they were homophobic, I thought, or had some sort of catheter bag to empty. Maybe they had stage fright, or were embarrassed by their tiny weenie. Perhaps it was just the opposite, and they were embarrased by their freakishly large one. I really had no idea.

Today, I am here to tell you that I've joined their ranks. I have converted, and not because of any of the aforementioned reasons. The reason I converted is simply this:


That is a top down view of every urinal at every place I've ever worked.

Usually, they look like this by about 9am, and get progressively worse as the day goes on. It starts out at 8am as a spray mist, turns into a small puddle by 9, then turns into a sticky puddle from noon on. After that, you could probably scrape it up with a putty knife.

I simply refuse to stand in it any longer.

So I've become a stall man. I don't know which particular set of slobs is doing this to every urinal station, but I am pretty sure that there are only a few ways it could happen:

1. Gross obesity and absolutely zero control over where your urethra is currently pointing, or

2. Intentionally spraying piss like a horny alley cat marking his territory.

The problem in the first case is twofold - one, being too fat to actually see your own member and two, the ballistics of the thing, which determines how much piss lands on the floor. I suck at math and can't seem to actually generate a working peequation, so if there are any mathematicians reading this, feel free to help me out:

As far as I can tell, the variables are as follows:

Let R=relative stream strength (condition of prostate+bladder level+amount of coffee and/or mountain dew consumed)

Let X=dribble/shake

Let Z=distance from urinal

Let P= well, Pee

Somewhere therein lies the answer. But many math problems can be solved with geometry as well, and a diagram often works wonders. Being more visually oriented, I feel the peequation can be illustrated more clearly with a simple drawing:



So that takes care of possibility number one. As for possibility number two, (i.e., the alley cat theory) the only other conceivable way this amount of piss could end up on the floor is if he put his thumb over the end like he's spraying something with a garden hose. I have yet to actually witness that, but give it time. I've seen just about everything else.

So long story short, I now piss in the stall where it's dry and I don't stick to the floor. I'm sure there are some people who think I'm ashamed of my tiny weenie (that's besides the point), but at least I no longer feel compelled to burn my shoes.

Goddammit people. AIM for chrissakes. It's not that difficult. And if you're too fat to get close enough, dangle your dongle in a coffee cup and then dump it or something. Jesus.

Google me wrinkly.

Without further ado, and also without something better to post, I present:

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site.

Im looking for a cake that look like male private body part - Come on. Just type it. We all know which body part you're talking about. So think about this, Mr. or Ms. Bashful: If you are successful in your search, you will, at some point in the very near future, actually be eating penis cake -- so you might as well get used to the word rolling around on your tongue.

what foot doctor can remove toe knuckles? - I am almost positive that the vast majority of them have the medical training and ability, however, you may have difficulty finding one willing to actually do it. Well, unless your toe knuckles are really effed up. I think if you are serious about wanting your toe knuckles removed, you will either have to do it yourself with a pair of bolt cutters and a bottle of cheap whiskey, or find a crackhead vet who does a lot of cat declawing. Maybe he can throw you a neuter while he's at it.

shoes or no shoes witch is faster - Through rigorous scientific testing, and the cooperation of the Mayor, I have determined without a shadow of a doubt that a good witch is faster with shoes. A bad witch is faster without them. I hope that helps.

husband castrators - I am not sure about this one. Either this woman is looking for an actual product or tool to accomplish said castration, or some sort of castration service she can call to get the deed done. Either way - Run, Logan, Run!

what does it mean when you put cereal box in the fridge by accident - I think it means that you really should track down the milk asap.

enzyte red and swollen arms - I have never actually tried it, but I am pretty sure it's not your arms that are supposed to be red and swollen.

I want to retract my testes - I've occasionally wanted to do this same exact thing. Well, except it was with an e-mail, which I guess is probably not really quite the same thing after all. As handy as this magical alternative could be, I've never queried Google for the proper technique, so you're on your own.

remove odor of dead grasshopper - I knew it would happen. Master Po finally had enough of Kwai Chang Caine trying to grab that little pebble out of his hand.

Problem with wrinkled scrotum - After all this time, I had no idea. I thought they were supposed to be that way. Great. Just what I need. Another thing to iron in the morning. Although as my friend pointed out, it would probably be much easier if I could retract my testes.

And on a completely different topic: What piece of shit, lame-ass ad agency came up with the tagline "It's the only Soquid you eat with a Fpoon?" If I ever meet one of the douchbags responsible for this abomination of marketing, I will personally pump an entire tank of Wendy's Frosty up his ass with a high-pressure firehose.

Jarts, anyone?

Hmmm. Until I just wrote that last post, I hadn't thought of Lawn Darts in years. Now I feel compelled to write about them.

I wonder what genius thought that one up? We had a set when we were kids -- I think they were actually called "Jarts."

For those of you who aren't familar with this old toy, it was pretty much just two sets of giant darts. They had a weighted, sharpened metal spike on one end, and fins and a grip on the other end. You would set a plastic ring at each end of your lawn, and each team would try to put their darts into the ring on the far side of the yard for points. It was basically just an extremely dangerous game of horse shoes.

I think the rules were you played until 10 points were scored or someone was impaled.

I can't remember how long these things were actually on the market -- but I do remember that the alarming number of people showing up at the hospital with giant darts sticking out of their heads caused the company to pull them from the shelves.

Regardless, you haven't lived until you've had to dive out of the way of a blue death missle coming directly at your head from across the yard. I can still hear the THWOCK! sound it made when it barely missed you and drilled itself into the ground 30 feet from anything remotely resembling a plastic ring.

I'll bet there weren't any lawsuits against the company back then. That's because people used to take responsibility for their actions. If you somehow ended up with a jart jammed into your thigh, you didn't blame the toy company -- You blamed yourself, or your dumbass brother and his shitty aim.

I think we were playing it wrong.

I'll trade you a claw hammer for your sunshine bear.

I was driving home in the pouring rain yesterday, and as usual, I had some idiot riding my ass. Finally, I changed lanes to let him pass, and it turned out that him was a her. An old her. This grey-haired old lady was sure in a hurry to get somewhere -- maybe her Milk of Magnesia kicked in early or something, I don't know. At any rate, she was pissing me off, so I moved over. She passed me, and then locked up her brakes because the guy in front of me was going pretty slow too, but she hadn't noticed. She swerved side to side, and then pulled into MY lane, about an inch from the front of my car.

I flashed her my high beams, and was about to flip her off when I saw that she had roughly 35,567 stuffed animals on the rear window deck. So many, in fact, that there was no way in hell she would ever be able to see past these things to my angry, agitated finger. There was literally a two-inch gap at the top, and that was the extent of her rear-visibility.

I have no idea what posesses people to stack this kind of shit on their rear deck. Stuffed animals, bobble-head dolls, I've even seen cats and dogs (real ones) up there for the ride.

I saw an episode of myth-busters one time where they tested out whether or not stuff stored up there could actually injure you in an accident. Turns out, it can. If you rear-end someone, that stuff can come flying forward at 60mph and hit you right in the back of the head. Granted, not much of a problem with stuffed animals, but I will have to do some research to see if anyone was ever injured by a high velocity persian cat or a Lou Gehrig bobble-head to the base of the skull.

It was too bad I couldn't follow her home, wait for the middle of Wheel of Fortune, then sneak into her car and replace the stuffed animals with a pile of rusty kitchen knives, a bucket of claw hammers and an old set of lawn darts. Cover this up with a thin layer of stuffed animals and she's good to go.

Don't drop the soap, lightbulb head.

Just some random things today. Nothing of real import. Let's start with this oddness. This morning I decided it would be a good day to spill coffee on my shirt, so I was standing in the men's room trying to get the coffee stain out, and some guy walks in and takes a stall. Normally, you can tell a few things about someone when they do this. There are two types of stall people -- the kind that cover the seat with TP, and the kind that just sit down on whatever and let'er rip.

I know there can be mitigating circumstances, and this behavior can vary depending upon what sort of spicy burrito was consumed for lunch, however this dude was clearly of the first type, and was spending an inordinate amount of time on initial seat prep. For the entire 2 or 3 minutes I was standing there removing coffee from my shirt, I could hear the toilet paper roll going like mad, and it just didn't stop. Roll, tear, roll, tear, roll, tear. This guy was at that roll like he was building some sort of nest in there. At any rate, I got the hell out of the room before his feet disappeared.


In keeping with the toilet theme, I snapped this on the way home today:



That my friends, is a shining example of stellar marketing. Seriously, how could you pass that up? Just because it's covered in a solid layer of E. Coli and people you don't know have been crapping into it until recently doesn't detract from its outstanding value. C'mon. It's free and it works good. What more could you possibly want? Of course, they could be lying and you would have no way of knowing, because they certainly aren't going to hook it up again for a test drive. Even if it didn't work at all, they aren't going to write that. They are having a problem getting rid of it as it is -- if it didn't work and they actually told you that, they might as well just fill it with dirt and plant flowers in it. All I'm saying is that when a free radio doesn't work good, you might only get one or two stations. When your free roadside toilet doesn't work good, you have poop floating through a room. There's a world of diference there.

Speaking of piles of shit, I'm thinking that since Zacharias Moussaoui is getting life in prison, it won't be too long before he's someone's bitch. I took the liberty of mocking up some possible hot new looks for him since instead of getting 72 virgins, he's going to actually be one. At least for a little while.









Oh yes. One more thing. Taylor Hicks dances like he's trying to shake a dried corncob out of his ass.

Hick Humor

I drive by this house sometimes:



You probably can't read the sign on top, but it says "Air Mail."

Somehow, the same guy who has had no front steps for the last 5 years managed to find the time to dig a giant hole and sink a 25 foot long 4x4 in concrete just for the sake of this joke.

I'm not sure whether I want to slap him silly or buy him a beer.

How many MPB* does it get?

I was on my way to work this morning and I was waiting at a red light next to another car. The car happened to have a "For Sale" sign in the window. It was a pretty nice looking car, so I started checking it out. I don't need a car, it's just something I do. Don't judge me. No rust, no dents, not bad for the asking price.

I looked up at the driver just in time to see him nose-mine a good-sized booger and wipe it on the pillar between the side window and the windshield. I was going to roll down my window and ask him if he was going to throw in the whole collection at no extra cost, but I figured that was a given.

This got me thinking, which, as you all know, isn't always a good thing. I've purchased my share of used cars, and I got to wondering how many ounces of other people I've actually owned over the years. All the bitten-off cuticles and fingernails, the dandruff, the lost hair....everything you can think of stuck between the seats and ground into the rug. You name it, and it's probably there somewhere.

Luckily, I bought my last car new, so I don't have to wonder how many of someone else's farts the front seat has absorbed before I got it. Probably a max of three or four would be my guess -- just from the test drives, I would think.

I've also had my share of piece-of-shit cars over the years, and I promised Sarah that I would mention some of them. In fact, in talking with her today, I remembered quite a few details I otherwise probably wouldn't have. So let me tell you about my first junker, and my last junker and maybe one or two in between:

An orange 1975 subaru two-door coupe - This is the car that I learned to drive on. I failed my driving test the first time because this orange piece of crap overheated in the middle of an intersection. My father bought this car for 200 bucks, and the only thing that was really wrong with it, (other than the fact that the paint was so chalky that the orange had faded to the color of wet baby aspirin) was that the support member across the motor was rusted out, which meant the fenders were falling in toward each other. If you opened the hood, you would never get it closed again without a guy on either side pulling on the fenders. I learned this the hard way the first time, and ended up driving home doing 15 mph with a torn strip of t-shirt holding the hood closed. A little creative welding, however, and it was good to go.

It had an aftermarket cassette player in it -- and I am not talking about an in-dash. This thing was the size of a small suitcase and it hung down under the dash on two sharp brackets, just far enough to guarantee that you would bang your knee on it at least once every time you drove it. On the plus side, the motor on the cassette ran slow, so it was really easy to hit the high notes in the REO speedwagon and Triumph songs. The stereo system also had a separate component amp, and the genius who had the car before me had wired it wrong so it was always on. In addition to the gigantic ear-splitting POOMP! sound that happened every time you turned the radio on, if you didn't disconnect the amp at night your battery would be dead in the morning. Eventually, I got tired of forgetting to do this and I fixed the issue permanently by tearing the piece of shit out from under the dash and leaving it in the dumpster at Star Market.

The other shitty thing about this car was that it only weighed about a thousand pounds. Having both an easily identifiable orange car that weighs considerably less than Rosie O'Donnell, and friends that like to fuck around with you at every possible opportunity is not a good combination.

I would stop at the convenience store for a soda, or come out to the parking lot after work, and my car would invariably be in a different location. It wouldn't have been so bad if that location wasn't (a) on the sidewalk, (b) up against the side of the building with the driver's side door about an inch from the wall, or (c) nestled sideways between two other parked cars. I can't count the number of times I had to climb in through the trunk and pop the back seat because I didn't have room to open either door, or wait for one of the owners of the other cars to come out so I could actually move.

The day the car died, I was driving along minding my own business when suddenly it felt like I hit the mother of all potholes. I slowed down and pulled over, but didn't see anything obviously wrong. I opened the trunk, thinking maybe the spare tire had shifted. Indeed, it had. It was being pushed up by something coming through the floor of the trunk that looked suspiciously like the rear spring and shock absorber of the passenger side rear tire. I didn't know much about cars, but I was almost positive that what I was looking at was supposed to stay underneath the car at all times. A little more creative body work, and it was ready to hit the classifieds.

I sold the car to a guy who wanted it to make a single run to North Carolina or something. I expected the bondo'd up trunk spring to give way first, but he returned the next day and wanted his money back because the engine exploded about 2 minutes after he got it on the highway. It had an aluminum block, and he actually brought pieces of the engine back to show me. My dad felt bad and gave him half his money back. $25 bucks, I think it was.

1969 Impala - The first car I actually owned free and clear. I got it in 1981. This was my dad's old junker before it became mine, and he offered me a choice as my high school graduation present: The car, or $300. I figured the car was worth at least $400, so I took it. I bought aluminum mag wheels for it, and when they wouldn't fit, I cut the wheel wells out with a saw. When the exhaust fell off, I put on headers and had side pipes welded on. It got 8 miles to a gallon, and blew dense, white smoke for the first 10 minutes after you started it up. It was so bad that it looked like they were fogging the neighborhood for insects. The car was primer grey and blue, and had orange Rolling Stones tongue logos stenciled on every surface, and across the back of the trunk, written in black sharpie, were these immortal words:

Life is Just a Cocktail Party On The Street

My parents were so proud.

Eventually, I did some body work on it, glued blue shag material to the front and rear dash, installed a siren, and painted it refrigerator white. It was pretty reliable for the most part, and even though it stunk like an oil refinery fire, it only gave me trouble once. I was at a bar not far from home, and when I came out, the transmission wouldn't go into Drive. It would only go into Reverse.

After fiddling with it a bit, I did the logical thing. I bummed a ride home from a friend. No, I didn't, because that would be stupid. Instead, I did what any normal teen would do after a night of drinking -- I drove it home backwards.

1986 toyota tercel - My last piece of shit car was one that my brother gave me when he moved to Boston. I wanted to use it as a winter car so I could take my miata off the road. The car ran great, but had a host of problems. The most immediately noticable: It had no carpet and no headliner in it.

The radio worked, but only on AM, and it made a sound like a buzz saw when you hit a bump. It was an in-dash model, but it wasn't completely in the dash. It was just placed in there. Not fastened to anything -- so if you took off too fast, it would come shooting out of the dashboard into your lap. The cassette player in the radio would eat 90 minute tapes for breakfast. You could tell when it was dining because the song would get faster and faster until the singer sounded like Alvin the chipmunk.

The driver's side window was permanently up, and the inside of the door was in the backseat. This was from a below zero repair attempt to address the fact that the driver's side window was permanently down.

The entire thing smelled like cat pee when it rained.

I found out later that it was actually mouse pee, and the little bastards had made a nest that looked like an inside-out futon under the hood of the car. By the time I had discovered it, it was huge. It's amazing that the engine could get enough air to the carb to actually run, let alone avoid instantly bursting into flames. I evicted about 14 of them, but the smell never went away. I have often wondered if they looked forward to their daily commute.

As an added bonus, the car was a stick shift, and since it had no carpet, you could actually see road through the rusted out console. I used to stuff the crack with old McDonald's bags when it rained to keep the water from splashing on my leg from underneath.

Toward the end, it started beeping the horn randomly when turning right.

This was awesome if you happened to be be stuck in traffic on an off ramp behind a group of Harley bikers, because as a rule I have found that they are very helpful people and they will come back to your car and ask you if you have a problem with your sexual performance. They are really caring that way.

Anyway, when I had enough (in other words, when my wife said that either it went or I did) I gave it to a friend of mine for nothing.

He drove it for another year before something bad happened in the front end and it would only turn right.

He made right turns for 2 more months, then got rid of it.

It still ran like a sewing machine, and it had over 200K on it.

Try that shit with a chevy.

*miles per booger

Oops. My bad.

I passed a hand-lettered sign on someone's front lawn this morning. It said:

ATTENTION:

The desk WAS NOT GARBAGE.

Please return it.

OK, for starters, it wasn't that nice of a desk. I saw it the other day. It wasn't a roll-top oak heirloom or anything. It was a particle board and vinyl woodgrain computer desk.

Also, if a desk is within 4 feet of the curb on garbage day, it is garbage. That is an unwritten, but totally inviolate law.

In fact, anything that close to the curb on garbage day is garbage.

A bike, a desk, a stained mattress, your drunk 18 year old teenage daughter on a stained mattress, it doesn't matter. If it's within 4 feet of the curb on garbage day and not fastened to a post in the ground, it is up for grabs.

Basically what I'm saying here is that I'm keeping it.

Somebody moved my shit. I think.

How many of you married guys have ever asked your wives this question:

“Have you seen my {article of footwear, clothing, tool, car keys, mp3 player, etc.}”

I am willing to bet that a lot of you have. To a guy, this a simple yes or no question. To the woman he lives with, it is not.

Let me give you an example. Suppose that you are a guy, and you are going on an excursion to the hardware store for some guy-type stuff. As you are walking out the front door, you attempt to grab your keys from off of that little table in the foyer next to the front door where you left them. It turns out that you are unable to do this, because the keys are no longer there. This is a mystery to the guy mind. “They were there,” you think to yourself. “But….they no longer are.”

Your mind flashes to yesterday, when you came in the door and tossed your keys on the table. In your mind, you see them hit the table, and slide an inch to the rear. Your ears hear their distant, phantom jingle. You see the light reflect off the shiny new brass house key you just had made. No doubt about it. The keys were there at some point in the recent past. You can feel it. So the only conclusion is this: The keys have been moved. You are almost 23% sure of this fact. There is a reason that this percentage is so low, and we’ll get to that in a moment.

The next step, obviously, is to inquire as to the key’s whereabouts with the other co-habitants of your dwelling. If you live alone, you can stop reading this now, because it does not pertain to you. If you live with a room mate of the same sex, this also does not pertain to you. Otherwise, walk with me.

What usually happens next is that you yell something along the lines of:

HONEY?? HAVE YOU SEEN MY KEYS?”

Pay close attention, because this is where things move outside the realm of guy think. As I said -- to a guy, this is a simple yes or no question. Either the keys have been seen, or they have not been seen. There should be a 50% chance of either an answer that will help you, or an answer that will not. Either one is OK, because as a guy, you are simply employing the process of elimination to determine the possible location of your keys, and if a witness can be had, this is always helpful.

So do you get a yes or no answer? No, you do not. If you live with a woman, you will most likely get one of the following answers:

1. If you didn’t leave your keys all over the place maybe you’d be able to find them. Did you check {insert obvious place here}?

2. They are probably still right where you left them.*

3. Well, I didn’t touch them.**

4. Did you check the hook (where they are supposed to be?) Note: the part in parenthesis is usually not said out loud, but it doesn’t have to be. All guys will hear it as if it had been screamed into a megaphone. Also, “the hook” refers to an arbitrary decorative hook or group of hooks set aside by your wife specifically for keys, and as such, is the only acceptable and logical place for keys to be deposited immediately upon entering the house.
As you can plainly see, all of the previous answers could have been covered by a simple “No.” And keep in mind that a simple “No” will not aggravate. It will not annoy. It will not do anything except impart a single, valuable piece of information. To wit, whether or not the keys have been seen. Period. That’s the only answer a guy really cares about when it comes down to it, and this is precisely why a woman will never give it.

If, on the other hand, she actually has seen the keys, and has actually moved them, you will get one of the following answers:

1. If you didn’t leave your keys all over the place maybe you’d be able to find them. Did you check {insert obvious place here}?

2. They are probably still right where you left them.

3. Well, I didn’t touch them.

4. Did you check the hook (where they are supposed to be)?

You will notice that these answers are exactly the same in either case. This is not an accident.

You may also notice that in the second list of possible answers, answer #3 is a blatant lie. This is not to say your wife is a liar. Far from it. This is the literal truth – as she remembers it. She really has absolutely no recollection of moving the keys, even though she obviously did, and if there was a hidden security camera above the hallway table it would show her walking by, sighing, grabbing the keys, and hanging them on the appropriate decorative hook.

There are many reasons for this behavior, and most of them have to do with the difference between how a guy’s mind keeps track of things as compared to a woman’s mind. A guy remembers where things are by picturing where he left them last. A woman remembers where things are by picturing where they belong. I have to say that the woman’s way is much more logical, however it takes more effort than most guys will want to expend. Somehow, a woman is born with this capability, and somewhere deep in the primal reptilian portion of her brain, she has an unconscious ability to put things away without even thinking about it. And that is why a woman will swear up and down that she never touched your keys, even though we have the hidden video and, if we were so inclined, the fingerprints to prove it.

Think of it this way: A guy’s mind is like a 60” flat screen TV with post-it notes stuck all around the edges. On each note is the location of something we put down somewhere. We know exactly where those somethings are, because we have the post-it note and we can reference that at any time. A woman’s mind stores information such as this in a mental file cabinet full of file folders, each cross referenced and color coded alphabetically by item and location.

The problem occurs when the woman stumbles upon an item the guy has already written the location of on one of his mental Post-it Notes and decides to move it to where it belongs, and then add its location to her file cabinet. She will do this with much sighing and muttering, and she will also derive satisfaction from a job well done, because women are like that. Meanwhile, the guy is blithely watching his 60” mental TV (which is probably showing porn or sports or, in a perfect guy world, porn-sports) and he is completely unaware that one of his Post-It Notes has just become obsolete.

Until, that is, the time comes when he needs to find whatever it was that was written on it. He will think to himself, “Hmm…where did I leave my tape measure?” and that particular little Post-It Note will flutter down off the mental TV and he will pick it up and read it.

It will say something like, “Tape measure: placed in the little basket on the bathroom counter that holds the cotton balls and Q-Tips.” So he will go to the bathroom and find the little basket with the cotton balls and Q-Tips and the tape measure will not be there. Granted, it probably shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but still, he is almost 23% sure it was there at some point, because the mental post-it note in his mental hand is telling him that it was.

Invariably, what will happen next is the familiar sequence of “Have you seen my tape measure? It was right here in this basket,” and the answer of “No, I didn’t touch it,” and the hidden video camera, had it really existed, would have clearly shown her picking up the tape measure and tossing it in the kitchen junk drawer while on the way to emptying the bathroom garbage can. It is this automatic behavior that drives the guy nuts, and is completely responsible for the fact that he is, at any given time, only 23% sure of where he left any of his stuff, and has no real idea that the remaining 77% of his post-it note inventory is total crap.

Here’s a real-life for instance.

Last night, I hung the particular pair of jeans I wanted to wear to work over the railing by the stairs so I didn't have to dig them out of the closet in the morning. I did this so that in the morning I can just grab a shirt and underwear from the dresser, grab the jeans from the railing, hit the shower (sans clothes), get dressed and be in the car thirty five minutes after my alarm clock goes off. This morning, I stumbled to the stairs, grabbed my pants on the railing, and…no, actually I didn’t grab them because they were no longer there. Somehow, they had been put on top of a laundry basket of other clean clothes in the next room. I am guessing that they did not look very good hung over the railing, and had the camera crew for Better Homes and Gardens made a surprise appearance at our house at 10:30 PM, it could have been a complete and utter disaster.

Seriously, I have taken milk out of the fridge, walked to the pantry, grabbed a box of cereal and by the time I turned around again, the milk was back in the fridge. I kid you not.

She is that efficient.

Once a woman realizes she has this power, she can begin to use it toward her own ends. Say for instance her husband pissed her off. Also say he only pissed her off slightly, so she doesn’t really want to get into a full-blown fight, because that will simply upset her, which she also does not want.

So she thinks for a bit, and decides that she will clean his office. The reason she decides to clean his office is not because she wants to do something nice for him. Hardly. It's because that is where the highest concentration of mental post-it notes can be found, and she wants to screw with them. A lot. (A quick note to my wife: I'm not talking about you, of course. But now that I've thought of it, I will have to pay more attention and see if there is any correlation between my pissing you off and my office getting cleaned.)

So she will move stuff, clean stuff, stack stuff, throw out stuff, and relocate stuff to the basement. When she is done, the office will look fantastic, which makes her happy, and the guy in her life will not be able to find a single thing in there, which also makes her happy, because she just got even with him and he can’t get pissed at her. She will say “Honey, I cleaned your office for you. It looks so good, doesn’t it?” adding a silent “you bastard” to the end of the sentence, knowing full well that he can’t really complain about it because she has just done something "nice" for him. All he can do is sit, bewildered, as thousands of mental post-it notes fly off his mental TV and flutter around his ears. It’s the perfect revenge crime.

The guy cannot win this battle unless he takes the drastic step of deciding to live alone and therefore only having himself to blame for not being able to find things. This is kind of like cutting off the arm to fix the hangnail, so in reality all he can do is continue to leave shit all over the place, and hope that he can remain 23% positive that he is not losing his mind because nothing is ever where he thinks he left it.

Now where the hell did I put my car keys? Oh yeah, I think they're on the kitchen table. Hmmm. I guess not. Maybe that was yesterday or something. Ah, there they are, right on the hook (where they belong.) The funny thing is, I am pretty sure I didn’t put them there.

But I could have.

Maybe.

I’m about 77% sure I didn’t, though.


*implies that the keys are probably someplace they clearly do not belong, and have been in that particular location for way too long.

**a masterstroke of tactical genius - four words that immediately cut off any attempt by you to accuse her of moving them, and also seizes first-strike capability in any argument that may follow.

Once upon a time.

Lo, many years past and once upon a time, a lone Johnny didst inhabit a cube on the third floor of the wood near the enchanted window.

It was a good cube, and it had all the comforts of home, and for the most part Johnny was happy there. There was one problem however. In the next cube over, across the mystical aisle, a horrible cackling ogre didst live. She was not evil, no -- However, 'twas her nature to annoy the Johnny by virtue of her cackling ogre personality. The ogre of the aisle was the loudest, most raucous ogre in all the land. Legends were told of her laughter, which was like that of a mad demon eating the souls of the damned. Everything the cackling ogre did, she did with verve and zest and other words normally used to describe the hyperactive hard-of-hearing with no "inside" voice.

After many clashes and some harsh words, Johnny abandoned his wonderful cube by the wonderful window, and moved all his belongings to the other end of the row, in order to avoid that most distasteful of chores, the thrashing of the ogre.

Ogre assault and battery thus avoided, Johnny lived in relative harmony, until he and the other people in his village were moved to the 5th floor. The fifth floor was at first bountiful -- the restrooms were uncrowded, the air clean and silent, the villagers happy. Soon however, the interlopers came, and the fifth floor was inundated with loud talkers, whistlers, cellphone Ali-Babblers, no-hand pissers and other assorted riff raff. Still, Johnny and his close compadre Gutu Notunobu enjoyed a relatively peaceful existence in the back of the woods near the window, watching each others' backs. Other than the occasional clash with the more obnoxious interlopers, life was good.

There was a problem hiding in the wood, however, as there always seems to be in tales such as this. You see, Johnny and Gutu did not own the land they lived and worked -- it belonged to the great Margerine and her merry man Peterstone.

It came to pass that Johnny and Gutu and their brethren and sistren were again to be relocated. In an effort to appease Johnny and Gutu, The Peterstone assured Johnny and Gutu of the prime cube locations. Much sighing was sighed, muttering was muttered, and boxes were boxed, and a whole bunch of shit was tossed out. And so it was that Gutu and Johnny moved their stuff, and life was again full of adjustments and upheaval.

At first, the new forest was to Johnny's liking. He was by himself in a quiet back cube with a wide open space between his cube entrance and the vast, glittering sunshine-filled window. Gutu was less lucky -- she was placed within arms length of the subjects over which she ruled. It was not a good situation for a ruler who was used to ruling from afar -- but she made due, and made plans. Plans to move outside the village walls.

As it usually is the first day in a new wood, Friday was full of exploration and wonderment. It was a happy day, and all was well.

However, there was another evil lurking.

Waiting to spring.

At the beginning of a fair new week, Johnny arrived at his new digs to find a conference table and 4 chairs in the clearing behind his cube, nary 10 feet away as the crow flies, had there actually been a crow loose in the building, which there was not. So you will have to take my word. It was right the fuck on top of Johnny.

And that was not the horror of this tale, oh no.

No, the true horror was revealed upon closer inspection of the interloper's chairs. Each chair had a sticker on the back, and on the sticker was a name.

The name of the horrible cackling ogre, who had moved into a cube not 30 feet from Johnny after he left the forest wood on Friday afternoon!

The horror could not be contained, and thusly, a rare post about the workplace didst make its way unto Johnny's blog for all to see.

Mother fucker.

$ensory Overload.

I get roughly 937 catalogs in the mail every day. I would estimate that on any given day, about 314 of them are Victoria's Secret catalogs, and I'm not complaining about that because a man can never have too much Gisele. I would, however, like to complain about the other catalogs, because they are generally from companies I've never ordered from, or in most cases, even heard of.

Today I stumbled on a catalog for a place called Free People, and they are trying to be fresh and funky, along the lines of Anthropologie. Anthropologie tends to hire some "unusual looking" models -- not what you'd normally call model material.

It seems that Free People is taking a similar approach. In fact I believe they've taken it several steps farther, and actually hired homeless crack addicts as their models. From looking at some of their fashions, I am guessing that their clothing designs are inspired by this same subculture.

On the first page I turn to is this beauty:



Not terrible at first glance, right? Once you get past the toothpick-like arms, the inverted breasts and the fact that you can actually almost see her skull through her skin, she is not quite attractive in a Mischa-Barton-on-the-third-day-of-a-meth-bender sort of way.

But let's take a closer look:



Holy orthodontics, Batman! This chick has a gap between her teeth that David Letterman could crawl through sideways.

This is a full-blown case of Toofs. No question.

I have no idea what possessed the art director of the magazine to have her actually open her mouth during the photo shoot, but there it is.

I am thinking they should maybe change the name of the store to Dentist-Free People.