Vacation, all I ever wanted...

I'm on vacation this week, and I'm "doing stuff around the house." Sanding and painting the front porch, and doing other winter prep activities that revolve around trying to burn coal this winter instead of wood.

I can't believe it's even time to think about that yet. Today is the first decent day since I got back from Arizona, and I hate having to spend it on chores. On the other hand, blogging opportunities arise wherever you recognize them, and today is no exception.

One of the guys who installed the new stove came back today today to install a heat shield. He was a nice enough guy, but he smelled like cat pee, cigarettes and B.O., which is a veritable cornecopia of olfactory foulness.

He was wearing a tie dye tee-shirt and had a pony tail and one of those whispy beards that are only on the very end of your chin. While I won't go as far as to say that he smokes crack, I will go so far as to say he likes to share his crack, as evidenced by my hastily snapped cell phone photo:



Seriously, at one point his pants were so low I am pretty sure I inadvertently saw the back of his marble bag.

Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for you, the camera resolution isn't high enough to show you all the gory details. I only wish there was a way to make that picture scratch n' sniff, so you all could join me in my pain.

More things that shouldn't need to be said, but apparently do. (The airplane version)

If you weigh upwards of 200 pounds, you should choose a profession that doesn't require that you repeatedly waddle your giant ass up and down a two-foot wide aisle to serve peanuts and drinks. All I'm saying is that I didn't particularly enjoy the repeated stretch-polyester caresses to the face that my aisle seat so generously provided.

If your breath smells like dead animals, try not to sleep with your open mouth pointed directly at my wife.

If you have a cough that sounds like you are expelling pink, wet chunks from your chest cavity, at least cover your pie hole when you cough. And after you cough, please wipe the saliva off your mustache. Better yet, shave that shit off. I realize you're a stocky, 60-something italian woman, but razors are cheap. Just sayin'.

If you are obese, and sitting next to me, don't just assume it's ok with me to raise the armrest between us. I will slam that shit down hard, because it's the only thing keeping you from spilling over into a seat that I paid good money for. Also, it's not my fault that it requires five minutes of strenuous activity for you to un-wedge yourself from your seat to allow me to go to the bathroom, so don't act all exasperated. Here's an idea -- skip the in-flight meal once in a while.
And keep your sausage fingers off my reading light and air control.

Under no circumstances should you "make yourself comfortable" by taking off your leather loafers immediately after the jet leaves the runway. Especially if you are sitting directly behind me and have been walking around in Arizona all day wearing no socks. Next time, please realize that your feet smell like a rancid combination of parmesan cheese, garbage juice and unwashed ass, and refrain from jamming them so far under my seat that the smell comes up in front of me.

And lastly: Walk to the left. Stand to the right.

Morons.

It's good to be back.

Even though it's raining, I'm digging the "everything's green" vibe back here in NY.

Arizona in August will suck the moisture out of your body and leave your dried husk to blow away into the desert, so obviously it's the perfect weather for outside shopping.

My wife and her friend were browsing a few stores in old Scottsdale, and I was a little bored, since shopping isn't my thing. I was sitting outside on a bench, thumbing through a free local music and arts magazine that every town seems to have, and I noticed an ad for a local strip club that claimed to have "Simply the hottest women in Scottsdale."

I will let you be the judge:





Maybe it's just me, but if that's an example of one of the hottest women in Scottsdale, I am thinking they might have a serious issue in that town. I'm all for a set of sexy lips, but when you look like a lamprey eel that just kissed a hot iron, that's not a huge turn on for me.

I've never actually had a lapdance, but I can easily imagine that getting one from this girl would be the last thing I ever did. Well, the last thing I ever did before she transformed me into a bloodsucking creature of the night, I mean.

AC is a chick magnet.

Anyway, back to crazy drunk conference lady. As I said, we were standing there waiting for the shuttle and talking amongst ourselves when she stumbles up, clearly intoxicated.

She must have a weakness for large black men, because she makes a beeline for AC and starts talking in a non-stop drunken slur. She completely ignores our respective wives for the first minute or so, intent on talking shop with AC, and then asks my wife if we all met at the conference. My wife jokingly says "No, they just picked us up at the bar, and we're going back to their hotel."

The crazy drunk conference lady starts in on how awesome the hotel is, and how it will "treat them right." She was drunk enough to actually believe my wife, which was pretty funny.

My wife and AC's wife, recognizing the serious amount of crazy in play here, move themselves slowly away and continue their conversation, leaving AC and I alone with CDCL. She suddenly says "So here's my story" and then launches into the entire sordid history of her trip so far, starting with Saturday night and working her way forward through a series of drunken encounters. She starts telling AC about how she was just at the bar and some guy was hitting on her with a line about how his wife had just died, and he wanted to give her a ride back to the hotel. I don't think either of us had heard that particular line before, and we were wondering if perhaps his wife had actually just died, and was, at that point in time, still back in his room rapidly cooling.

Then she starts asking about our ages. She is smashed out of her gourd, and says that we look like we're in our twenties. We break the news to her, and she comments on how smooth AC's skin is, and I think that line is supposed to aid her in trying to steal him away from the "local girl" that he just "picked up." Abruptly, she says to AC "Let me see your teeth." -- like she can tell his real age by the amount of wear on his molars, in the same way she would if he had been a horse she was thinking of buying. Instead of saying "Fuck No, Crazy Lady," AC complies with his best Mr. Ed grin, and she leans in close and checks out his fine incisors. I'm still not sure exactly what she was looking for, but I guess she was impressed with his obvious dental prowess.

Finally, AC gets tired of being inspected for signs of age, and pulls out his license just to prove he was really as old as he said he was.

Luckily, the bus came right about then and saved us. On the ride back, we disclosed that the women were actually our longstanding wives, and that we didn't just pick them up at a bar. As we're walking into the hotel, AC is talking about CDCL and doesn't realize she's about ten feet behind us. I don't think she heard him though. She was already setting her sights on her next tall black man with fine molars, since AC was obviously taken. Either that, or on her next drink.

Probably both.

Now I know why Glen Campbell left this dust bowl.

I slept in the plane during the five and a half hour flight to Phoenix, and I woke up when the pilot came on the loudspeaker and said we were about 20 minutes out. I slid up my window cover and got my first look at the beautiful state of Arizona. My exact words were "Holy shit! It looks like a gigantic dirt pile."

So yeah, the entire state looks like Afghanistan only with more shopping and less small-arms fire and opium. It's seriously hot here, and frankly, I am not used to 112 degree days, and have no desire to become used to them.

And of course, the hotel is seriously cranking the air conditioning, so it's only about 65 degrees in all the conference rooms. Picture walking from hell on earth into a meat locker and back about ten times a day, and you'll have a good idea of what it's like here.

People always say it's a dry heat, and they're right. That makes no difference. My oven at home is a dry heat, too, but you don't see me living in there, for god's sake. These people are nuts. Seriously, if the electricity ever went off in this town for more than a week, this whole place would get swallowed by the desert.

The hotel itself is pretty nice. There's an insanely expensive spa where I am pretty sure you can go get your nuts packed in mashed cucumber and lemon for 200 bucks, if that's your thing. They play soft music and then rub your feet with oregano or something. I don't know. I took one look at the prices and ran scared.

I'll post more (with pics) soon. Special Dark is a trip to travel with. He's afraid to talk and scared to move because he thinks I'm going to blog about it. I am, of course, but that's besides the point.

What is the sound of one hand flapping?

Quite a few years ago, I chanced upon a severed rubber hand a few weeks before Halloween. I can't remember who gave it to me, but it was molded from a real hand and the overall effect was pretty convincing if you weren't too close.

In my infinite wisdom, I thought it would be funny to slam it in the trunk lid of my shitbox Chevy Citation, leaving its fingers sticking out above the license plate. I enjoyed seeing people's reaction in my rear view mirror when they noticed it.

After about a week of this, I pretty much forgot about it. It was still hanging out of the back of my car, getting grimier by the day.

I was watching television one night, and the doorbell rang. I got up and opened it, and a state trooper was standing on my doorstep. It turns out that the sound of one hand flapping is a lot like a siren. The conversation went something like this:

Cop: Mr. Johnny Virgil?

Me: Yes, that's me.

Cop: Do you own a maroon 1986 Chevrolet Citation?

Me: Yeah, why?

Cop: Does it have, uh, a human hand sticking out from under the trunk lid by any chance? I know that sounds crazy, but we've been getting reports all week and someone reported your license plate number.

Me: (laughing nervously) Ha ha, well, yes, actually. It's not real though. It's a rubber hand.

Cop: Can you come with me please?

Me: Um, where are we going?

Cop: Out to your car. I'd like to take a look at it if you don't mind.

I put some shoes on, grabbed my keys and followed the cop outside to the parking lot of the apartment complex. He had his giant flashlight swinging around sort of randomly, and I was trying to remember where I had left the car. I finally remembered and we walked over to it. He played his light across the back of the trunk, and there was the hand. The problem was, while the thing had started out looking pretty fake, the road grime had taken its toll. Dirt and dust had collected around the fingernails, and combined with the grime in the skin creases and the general overall grubbiness, in the beam of the flashlight this thing looked as real as the hand on the end of my arm, had my arm been attached to the torso of my recently exhumed corpse. The cop took a quick step back.

"Open the trunk please," he said, suddenly all business.

I unlocked the trunk, and the hand fell onto the ground with a muffled thump. I picked it up, wiggled it around, and then handed it to him. He shined his light on it for a few seconds, flipping it over, then visibly relaxed and said, "OK. It's probably not a good idea to keep that there. You wouldn't believe the number of calls we received on this. We've had troopers looking for you all week."

I told him I was sorry about that, and I tossed the hand on the front seat. He left, and I went back inside.

The next day, I stuck it behind the little door to the gas cap. I figured that still looked creepy, but it was more funny-creepy than axe-murder creepy. And you'd have to be insane to think that someone was actually reaching out from down inside the gas tank.

Two nights later, the doorbell rang again. I opened the door, and the same trooper was standing there, holding the grubby severed hand and looking at me. He was not smiling.

"I'm gonna have to take this," he said.

"Yeah, that's probably best," I replied.

'I don't want to have to come out here again," he said, pointing the severed hand at me for emphasis.

"No sir," I agreed. "That would be bad."

"OK," he said, "We understand each other."

He turned and walked back to his cruiser. I could tell that for a split second, he wanted to slam the hand in the black-and-white's back door and drive around with it that way, but he restrained himself and just tossed it on the seat next to him and then drove away.

And that, sadly, was the last I saw of my severed hand.

Halloween is coming up pretty quickly, and I'm thinking it might be time for another one.

I'm heading to a Phoenix resort next week for a conference with my co-worker Special Dark, so there should be some good blog fodder in the making. Plus, I'm pretty sure I saw in the brochure that they sell severed hands in the lobby store. I'll let you know how I make out. Hopefully it won't get confiscated at the airport.

Is it better to check a severed hand with your luggage, or keep it in your carry-on? I can never remember.

Ingenuity: brought to you by Coors Light

There's been a little activity recently over at the Squatterson's place. Some general cleaning up and painting has been going on. I think they got spooked because the town has started to tear down the mobile home next door as an "unsafe building" and there's a big dumpster out front. They probably figured they'd better get their shit together before the town decided they were next.

Anyway, the last time I drove by, there was about 5 or 6 of them sitting around a picnic table with an umbrella on it drinking beers and swatting mosquitos. It was a pretty hot and humid day, and the bugs were bad. I could see that all of them were waving their hands around their heads trying to kill whatever they could.

The very next day, I saw this:



They didn't have any poles, so they just cut the bottom out and draped it over the umbrella. A few tie lines to some trees and a road sign, and they were good to go.

On my way home I saw a bunch of them all hunched up under there like they were discussing where to bury the body and hide the money, but I'm pretty sure they were just trying to get out and were too drunk to find the zipper.

Shakira is hot, but she sounds like Cher.*

I live in a pretty scenic and rural area. As a result of both those things, on the nice days we have a lot of bike traffic. Up where I live there are two types of bike people. The ones who like to ride their bikes, and the ones that have to ride their bikes.

These two particular types are easy to tell apart.

Because of the scenic areas, the first type of bike people come from all over. They will pull up in their Mercedes SUVs, and they will have five thousand dollar Trek Madone bicycles, stretchy bike pants and shirts, helmets that make them look like they have torpedoes strapped to their heads, and fancy bike shoes that lock into their pedals. Judging by the standard amount of activity I've witnessed at traffic lights, I am fairly certain that if they actually stop pedaling, they will fall over.

These are the people who ride their bikes because they want to, and they want to because they are fanatics. They travel in packs and love to share the exercise, the camaraderie, and the fun of pissing off motorists by riding directly down the center of the road and not budging one inch for the car behind them.

Because of the rural nature of the area, we have our share of the other type of bike rider as well. They will have a rusty Schwinn with a wire basket in front, and they will be dressed as they are always dressed -- dirty jeans, a wifebeater T-shirt and old sneakers. These are the people who ride their bikes because they have to, and they have to because they no longer have the right to drive a car. They travel alone, and deeply hate everything involved in pedaling wherever they need to go to find beer or work or food. About half the time, the wire basket will contain a six-pack of Coors.

The odd thing though, is that these people actually ride on the shoulder. Somehow, either in their drunken stupor or through the hazy pain of their hangover, they are able to out-think the stretchy pants people. This group of bike riders know instinctively that a car weighs upwards of 2000 lbs, and that they, on the other hand, do not.

Give me the second type any day. The other ones just make me want to commit vehicular manslaughter.

*yeah I know the title has absolutely nothing to do with this post, but I was watching a rerun of SNL and it needed to be said.

Mr. Clean is a Giant Man-Whore.

I was watching TV last night, and I realized something. Mr. Clean only "comes round" when the missus is home alone. There's never a husband or boyfriend in sight.

Mr. Clean is a clearly a major playa and special man-ho for de ladies.

Seriously, just think of all the moist towelette this guy must get -- he has the ability to pop into any house he wants at any time, and apparently he can also read minds, because he appears just when the women are thinking, "I wish I had a strapping, virile bald man to polish my pot."

I first noticed this phenomenon when I saw some fleeting but seriously flirtatious eye contact between the lady of the house and the Mister. You could also tell that he'd been there lots of times before because she wasn't even surprised when he materialized. I re-wound my PVR, and caught this still frame:




If there isn't smoldering passion there, there's at least some mutual interest in a quickie over the counter.

After that, I started freeze framing through Clean's other visits. It seems that one of the main talents it requires to be a giant man-ho is an ability to service several different women per hour. I have to say, that impresses the hell out of me. Not even when I was in college did I have that sort of stamina, and there was certainly no satisfaction involved on anyone's part.

To be fair, part of his success has to be due to the fact that he doesn't have to actually drive anywhere. Also, because he's Mr. Clean, I am pretty sure he's inherently dirt-free and never has to do any laundry or take a shower.

This one starts out innocently enough.



He is showing her what a great job he can do on her stained and filthy table, upon which, in her spare time, she apparently rebuilds lawnmower engines. But she turns away for a second, and then he makes his move:



Yep. It's out, and you didn't even see it happen. He's that good. She is shocked, but obviously also appreciative.

And this one is just blatant. I am almost positive they are actually doing it as she cleans.



Here's to you, Mr. Clean. You are truly a hero among men.*

*except among those men who happen to be married to the above women.

I stole this internet connection.

Ahhhhh. It's good to be back. It was touch and go for a while there. I don't have internet access until the 14th, since there was a small gap between when my satellite internet ended and my DSL begins, so I'm going through information withdrawal. I had to use an actual paper phone book yesterday, for god's sake. I watched the news on television. I called a store on the telephone and asked them for directions. I felt like a caveman. Or my dad. I was about a second away from digging through my garbage and trying to find an AOL free trial disk, that's how bad it was.

I was in Cleveland for a few days, and I'm not sure exactly what was going on in that city, but there was not a hotel to be had. Every hotel I called, from the Ritz Carlton to the Crackwhore Inn, was booked solid. Because of this, a guy on my team tells me to book a room at a hotel in the suburbs, and he'd drop me off and pick me up. He dropped me off after work on the first night, and was supposed to pick me up at 7 the next morning. I was waiting for him at 7 sharp, but he didn't show. At 7:30, I started calling him at his desk and trying to page him, but my pages were failing. At about 8, I went back into the hotel and asked them if they had a fresh battery for my pager. They did, and as soon as I popped it in, 3 pages came down. One of them said, "I have a 102 fever, and I'm not going to work. The bus into downtown stops right behind your hotel."

Great. I walk behind the hotel, and see the bus stop, and a bus is just pulling in. I start running and catch the bus with no problem, even though I didn't have exact change and a $1.75 ride cost me five bucks. Cheaper than a taxi. I drop into a front seat. It's one of those that has another bench seat facing backward directly across from me. A second after I sit down, a black guy sits down across from me.

I do a double take because the black guy has a smaller, additional black guy growing out of the side of his face. OK, it's not a whole black guy. It's actually a mole, but the mole itself has a mole, which seems to have vestigal arm lumps and the beginnings of a head. It was coming out of his left sideburn, and it was almost impossible not to stare at it. It looked like a small brown penis was attached to the side of his cheek, and it was practically waving at me. It was tough to ignore and I was trying to look everywhere but directly at it, and failing miserably. I could even see its reflection in the the window. Seriously, I don't know how he didn't bang this thing on doorjambs or knock pedestrians off the sidewalk by mistake.

After a bit of thought, I concluded that the guy either didn't do anything about his face growth because he didn't have the money, or because he didn't care. The thing is, this little man didn't spring from his sideburn overnight. It had to start slow, giving him ample time to get it taken care of. Of course, as I said, not having money is a problem. That's understandable, I suppose, but had it been me, all I can tell you is that a bottle of vodka and a utility knife are pretty damn cheap. Even if that level of self-surgery was out of reach, I would have been at that thing with a broken bottle if it came down to it. All I'm saying is that there's no way I would walk around with a small brown penis growing on my face, because one small white penis on my body is more than enough.

So anyway, that was my bus trip to the office. That night I came down with whatever creeping crud my co-worker had and I sweated off about 20 lbs and dreamed I got stabbed. I woke up with a fever, took some tylenol and then fell asleep again, whereupon I immediately dreamed I got shot. I don't know what's in the water in Cleveland, but I think it wants me dead.

I finally got to sleep around 5:30 and my coworker pages me at 6 am and says he's working today and is going to pick me up at 7. Fortunately for me, it was the day I was going to be flying home. Unfortunately for me, it was also the day a bunch of fucking Islamic morons in England decided to try to blow up some planes with some kind of two-part explosive. From what I gather, there was supposed to some sort of boy-on-boy mile-high club meeting where the guy with the Diet Coke would meet up in the bathroom with the guy with the Mentos and then all hell would break loose.

So after shipping all my liquid shit to myself via interoffice, I made it through security no problem, but they did take away my mountain dew.

Pretty soon the only way people are going to be allowed on planes is if they're buck naked. Of course the fares will double, because there will be another plane following behind with everyone's luggage. Once everyone is on board and strapped in, the pilot will pump the cabin full of knockout gas and keep everyone asleep until they reach their destination. You'll wake up with drool all over you, from both yourself and the guy next to you, since most likely they'll be lots of head-lolling going on.

It's not going to pretty -- especially if the guy sitting next to you has a small brown penis on his face.

Spiderman and Me: A retrospective

First, a little background.

Ever since I was a kid, I liked comic books. I collected them, but unfortunately in the process of collecting them, I actually read them to death, and consequently destroyed them without realizing it. By the time I was done with each issue, it was worth absolutely nothing.

It wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized the wisdom of reading them once, and then putting them in a sealed plastic bag with an acid-free cardboard backer. I collected comic books until I was a few years out of college, my rationale being they were an investment. Once I was out on my own, however, things like rent and food began to take precedence, and my collecting habit ground to a halt.

It was about time anyway, because I was very close to killing the marketing department at Marvel. Every story line broke across 7 different titles, and if you wanted to stay in the story loop, you were often forced to buy shit issues of some other comic that Marvel was whoring out. By that time, the comic books had a cover price of almost 3 dollars, so I called it quits.

When the Spiderman movie came out, other than a few fanboy quibbles,* I was ok with it -- they did a decent job. At some point, my wife got me a pewter paperweight of Spiderman as a gift, and I had it on my desk at work.

Word got around that I liked Spiderman. I would come in and find little 'gifts' on my chair that were spiderman related. Keychains. Christmas ornaments. Happy meal toys. Every "secret santa" revealed another hunk of useless chinese-made Spiderman merchandise.

When I came in on my birthday, I found this:



Nice, huh? Some kind of wall hanging thing from the movie. Before I chucked it, I flipped it over, and was surprised to find this:



Hmmm. I wasn't sure what to make of that.

If there is one thing I know, however, it's that if you're given some sort of useless collectible that you don't give a shit about, and the back of it contains a stern warning that says "CAUTION: Do not open" the first thing you should do is open that bitch without hesitation.

So I pry the top open, and laugh out loud, because I see this:



Holy shit. First a CAUTION and now a WARNING. They aren't fooling around. I decided that before I went any further, I would take a deep breath and hold it, just in case.

I pulled the picture completely out of the frame. There was a piece of pressboard under it, a piece of transparent plastic over it, and the picture itself, printed on a cheap glossy paper.

I flipped the picture over, and it turns out that holding my breath wasn't going to do any good at all because I saw this:




OK, I made that last one up. But that's along the lines of what I expected. Instead, I got squat. Nothing at all. It was completely blank.

I still have no idea what the hell the big deal was, although I do have one request: If I start slurring my words more than usual tomorrow, get me to the emergency room and tell them what happened.


*Organic webbing from his wrists instead of from a mechanical webshooter? WTF? Also, in the comic, Mary Jane was a HOT MODEL. Hello?? Dunst? Seriously?)

Here, kitty kitty.

The other day I was driving to the store and I saw a sign hung on a tree at the corner of my street about 200 yards from my house. I don't know why I decided to check it out -- I figured it was probably some left-over garage sale sign or something. I pulled up next to it and saw this:



Great. I think it's safe to say that I won't be covering myself in raw bacon and running through the woods naked.

Well, not anymore, anyway.

It's good to be a squirrel.

So I'm eating dinner and thumbing through one of the ridiculous mail order catalogs that show up at our house by the bucketload every single day - even though I've never ordered a single thing from them - and I can't believe the stuff they are trying to sell me.

The chinese people working the assembly lines where they make this crap must think we're all effed in the head.

One thing in particular catches my eye right away. It's this:



First off, let's talk about the big "Exclusive!" in the center, as if any other catalog might actually be tempted to sell this abortion. I am thinking it's exclusive only because this is the only mail-order catalog the manufacturer of the apple-torso-squirrel could convince to take it. Trust me - somewhere, there is a warehouse stacked to the ceiling with these things.

The second thing that I found hilarious is that they are apparently encouraging squirrels to eat a hearty meal out of the abdomen of one of their own. Now, in the squirrel world, this may be entirely permissible, but I have to be honest -- it sorta creeps me out. Not to mention the fact that if a real squirrel overcame his apprehension long enough to partake, the owner of this feeder would look out his living room window one morning and see this:

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

Open letter to the people who eat at my cafeteria:

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

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

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

JV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can bring a source to water...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CSI: Poopsmith

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

"Backwash?"

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

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

"We don't," he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is my life.

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

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

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

9:03AM Helpdesk: yes

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

9:03AM Helpdesk: yes, from today

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

9:03AM Helpdesk: since 8am

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

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

It's not just me, right?

I'm not sure, but....

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



I pity the fool.

Searching far and wide.

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

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

I'm filthy rich.

$23.58

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



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

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

Things I don't need to see.

Open Letter to all the people who use the bathroom:

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

You are not at home.

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

Please remember this, and act accordingly.

Thanks so much,

JV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Danger, Will Robinson!

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



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

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

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

Abra-cadabra.

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."