Strap in, shut up and hold on. We're going back.

Last weekend I put an exhaust fan in the ceiling for my wife's grandfather. After a bunch of hours spent in The Hottest Attic In The Universe, he had a ceiling fan that ducted to the side of his house.

While my brother-in-law and I were fitting the fan in between the joists, we found something under the insulation. What we found was this:



A JC Penney catalog from 1977. It's not often blog fodder just falls in my lap, but holy hell this was two solid inches of it, right there for the taking. I thumbed through it quickly and found my next dining room set, which is apparently made by adding upholstery to old barrels:



Also, I am totally getting this for my bathroom, because obviously nothing absorbs errant pee like a nice, thick shag:



There's plenty more home furnishings where those came from, however I'm not going to bore you with that. Instead, I'm going to bore you with something else. The clothes.

The clothes are fantastic. Imagine if you wore them today.

Here's how to get your ass kicked in elementary school:



Just look at that belt. It's like a boob-job for your pants. He probably needed help just to lift it into place. The belt loops have to be three inches long, for god's sake. And way to pull your pants up to your armpits, grandpa.

Here's how to get your ass kicked in high school:



This kid looks like he's pretending to be David Soul, who is pretending to be a cop who is pretending to be a pimp that everyone knows is really an undercover cop. Who is pretending to be 15.

Here's how to get your ass kicked on the golf course:



This "all purpose jumpsuit" is, according to the description, equally appropriate for playing golf or simply "relaxing around the house." Personally, I can't see wearing this unless you happen to be "relaxing around your cell in D-block." Even then, the only reason you should put this thing on is because the warden forced you to at gunpoint.

Here's how to get your ass kicked pretty much anywhere:



I'll bet these guys do ok with the ladies. If you look at that picture quickly, it looks like Mr. Bob "No-pants" Saget has his hand in the other guy's pocket. In this case, he doesn't, although you can tell just by looking at them that it's happened - or if it hasn't happened it will. As soon as he puts down his color-coordinated coffee cup.

Here's how to get your ass kicked at the beach:



He looks like he's reaching for a gun, but you know it's probably just a bottle of suntan lotion in a holster.

How to get your ass kicked in a meeting:



If you wear this suit and don't sell used cars for a living, I believe you can be fined and face serious repercussions, up to and including termination. Or imprisonment, in which case you'd be forced to wear that orange jumpsuit; which, frankly, is a step up.

How to get your ass kicked on every day up to and including St. Patrick's Day

Dear god in heaven, I don't believe that color exists in nature. There is NO excuse for wearing either of these ensembles unless you're working as a body guard for the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

In this next one, Your Search For VALUE Ends at Penneys.



As does your search for chest hair.

And this -- Seriously. No words.



Oh wait, it turns out there are words after all, and those words are W.T.F. I'm guessing the snap front gives you quick access to the chest hair. I think the little tie must be the pull tab. If you look closely, it says, "In case of chest hair emergency, pull tab quickly and back away."

Also, judging by the sheer amount of matching his/hers outfits, in 1977 it was apparently considered pretty stylish for couples to dress alike. These couples look happy, don't they?





I am especially fond of this one, which I have entitled "Cowboy Chachi Loves You Best."



And nothing showcases your everlasting love more than the commitment of matching bathing suits. That, and an appreciative blonde with a look on her face that says "I love the way your junk fights against that fabric."



Then, after the lovin', you can relax in your one-piece matching terry cloth jumpsuits:



I could go on, but I'm tired, and my eyes hurt from this trip back in time. I think it's the colors. I will leave you with these tasteful little numbers:



Man, that's sexy.

--------------------------------------------------

Me and my brothers in 1976.



Dammit, mom.

(If you want to meet the woman responsible for dressing us like this, check out my book here.)

Modern conveniences stink.

One of the places we go camping has changed over the years. Here's another story about this same place.

It's become more commercialized, more people are using it, and really, it's just not the same as it was when we first started going there. You can tell by the posh accommodations that have recently been installed.

Case in point:



In other camping news, I finally got one of these:

Now I don't have to hang our food from a tree every night to keep the bears and raccoons out of it.

There isn't really a point to this post. I just wanted to show you that picture of the throne with a view. I like how they go out of their way to point out that it's "unisex."

I only wish it could be scratch and sniff.

Quiz time.

Yesterday, on the way home from work, I managed to do this:



Did I:

(A) Eat something yummy from a porta-potty?

(B) Do something to Smurfette that's really gonna piss off Papa Smurf?

(C) Finally get backstage at a Blue Man Group concert?

(D) None of the above.

If you guessed (D) then you are absolutely correct.

Actually, on the way home yesterday, I stopped at the vet to get some medicine for the cat, and they had a giant bowl of these sitting on the counter:

You see that one all the way over to the left? Yeah. That's the one. I thought it was grape, except that when I unwrapped it, it was bright blue. So then I thought it was blueberry. Turns out it wasn't blueberry either. I couldn't really place the flavor, but it wasn't great. I finished it because it was free, and didn't realize it was making my entire mouth look like a tidy bowl.

It turns out it's the one they call "Mystery Flavor." That explains all the question marks that I didn't notice until much later.

It's sort of a cross between Windex and Smarties.

I don't recommend it.

My pits can beat you at chess.

I noticed something that struck me funny while I was getting ready for work the other day. The top of my deodorant says this:



First of all, I'm not exactly sure how my no-stink stick can be smart. From what I can tell, it really has very little in the way of intelligence. It can't even automatically roll itself up a little bit when I am scraping armpit skin off on its hard plastic sides. Also, how do you trademark the word "smart?"

The bigger problem, of course, is that if some scientists set off to develop "smart technology" I would think one of the last groups of people they would go to would be athletes. Granted, they're probably better off going to athletes instead of...oh, I don't know....rappers or David Lee Roth, maybe. But still -- As a whole, athletes are not generally known for their scientific prowess.

How would that development actually happen? I can picture it now.

Scientist: I've developed what I think may be the ultimate Smart{tm} deodorant! However, I am not sure if it really works, so I need your odoriferous expertise. Rub this under your armpits.

(Pro football player rubs like there's no tomorrow.)

Scientist (pointing): No, no. Those aren't your armpits. There you go. And now, we wait. Um, maybe you better take a few laps.

PFBP, upon completing laps: Does I stink?

Scientist: SUCCESS!

PFBP (holding scientist by neck): Where's my money at?

I compared it to my other, non-smart deodorant, and there really doesn't seem to be much difference.

I think that one might be more crafty than smart.

OK, I'm off to a lake somewhere. Be back in a bit.

Advice for Batman: Avoid camping with Catwoman.

I realize I've been slacking lately, so let me tell you why. September and October are my vacation months, and my wife and I take 4-day weekends to go backpacking and/or canoing, although lately it's been easier to take the canoe. What this means is that I have three "regular" work days and also only three days to do things like freelance, practice piano, do stuff around the house, you name it. So that's my story. It'll get better - that's a promise. Or a threat. Take it however you want to.

This past weekend, my wife and I took the canoe to a place called Cedar River Flow. It's an easy place to put in, since you can almost back your car down to the water -- there's no canoe carrying involved, like there was last week. That being said, it is designated as "wilderness," so things are pretty rustic. And by "pretty rustic" I mean no bathrooms. Not even an outhouse. Also, it's a good idea to not leave food around your camp because there are various large and small animals in the area that would like nothing better than a free meal on your dime.

What made this trip unique is that we weren't alone. You see, we have this cat, JD. Unfortunately JD needs medication every 6 hours. Because we couldn't board him at the last minute, we decided we had two choices -- either not go on the trip, or....take him with us.

In a spectacular lapse of good judgment, we decided to take him.

Some more details: He is an indoor cat. He has never worn a collar in his life. So, of course, the first thing we did was get him a collar, which made him walk around like he had a cinder block resting on his head for 2 hours. After we got him used to that, we put on the harness. With all the buckles and studs and black leather, all he needed was a little leather cap and a pair of assless pants and he could have walked into any leather boy club in LA without attracting attention. If he hadn't been a cat, I mean.

We bundled the backpacks into the car along with the cat carrier and headed out.

Surprisingly, he was fine during the two hour car trip. He slept, in fact. When we loaded everything into the canoe, including him, he didn't flip out. He was amazingly laid back about the whole thing. We paddled through semi-rough water for a few miles and then unloaded everything at a remote campsite. The cat loved it. He was rolling around on the ground, exploring everything, laying in the sun, having a grand old time.

Everything was fine until approximately 2:30am, which is the exact time I learned why it wasn't a good idea to bring a cat camping with you. Was it the coyote howling approximately 100 feet from the tent? No, it wasn't that, although I am pretty sure he figured cat was on the menu if he persevered. Was it the incessant licking of various body parts? No, I'm used to that -- I'm talking cat stuff here.

2:30am was the exact moment in time that I learned that indoor cats don't realize that all of outside is their litter box. How they cannot get this, I don't know. I base this theory on the fact that our cat made himself comfortable on top of my sleeping bag, nestled himself between my calves, and then took a giant piss.

Luckily, (if you can call anything about this luck) my sleeping bag was slightly water resistant, which also means that it was slightly pee resistant. Incredibly, I didn't panic, even though there was approximately 2 pints of cat piss in a small indentation balanced precariously between my legs. We soaked it up with toilet paper, and when I was able to move, I dragged everything out of the tent.

So the stage was set: It's 2:37 in the morning. It's cold. There's howling in the distance. I can't find my jacket. Everything smells like pee. It was like waking up on the lawn after passing out at a frat party.

I carried my bag down to the lake and dragged it across the top of the water, front and back, about 3 times. I wanted to wash it, but not soak the feathers inside. Once I did that, I brought it back to the camp and started a fire, then stood there with it until it dried. Finally, we were able to put everything back in the tent and go back to sleep. Everything still stank, but at least I wasn't going to freeze.

I dreamt of hobos, and we left early the next morning.

As my wife told me repeatedly, worse things could have happened. She's right. At least I didn't get crapped on, too.

I guess there's always next time.

why does james blunt sound like maurice gibb?

No, the title of this post has nothing to do with the content, but I just heard James Blunt's new song '1973' and it sounds like it came directly from 1973. WTF, James Blunt. It's 2007, and as far as I know, it's not the year of the cat. According to a recent poll in the U.K., his music is more irritating than hangovers, noisy neighbors, bad hair days and stepping in dog shit. I'd fight them on the dog shit one, since I tend to wear hiking boots with a pretty intricate tread pattern, but the rest is right on.

This post was supposed to be about cow pasture golf, but I'm going to wait on that one.

Instead, I'm going to talk about our recent trip to Shelburne museum, which is an amazing place to visit if you've never been there. It's a 40 acre collection of stuff put together by one rich woman who collected things like the original Ticonderoga paddle boat, the last manned lighthouse on Lake Champlain, and various historic buildings from all over the northeast. Check out their website -- there's a lot more I didn't mention. Other than getting rear-ended by an old guy while sitting on the ferry on the way over to Vermont, the trip was uneventful.

We spent a little time in the Apothecary, which was pretty enlightening.



They have a extensive collection of old medicines, and reading the labels was hilarious. It seems there wasn't much in the way of a "federal drug administration" back in the 1800's, so if it didn't kill you, it was legal to sell as medicine. Most of the medicines on display seemed to have at least a 20% alcohol content, so I figure they were pretty much guaranteed to make you feel better no matter what your ailment -- at least for a little while. Alcohol is nothing if not nature's pain reliever.

Everything cured everything back then. You could drink one thing and it would cure impure blood, cramps, stomach aches, rheumatism, nerve problems and the dreaded "female sickness" which was "an awful internal trouble that is wearing out their lives." (Symptoms included nervousness, fragility, weak nerves, irritability, fretfulness, ringing in the ears, and sleepless nights.)*

I took some pictures of my favorites.

Dr. True's Elixir - If your kids have any complaints whatsoever, all they need is Dr. True and his fabulous elixir.



You know why? Because it cures all children's complaints. All of them. They don't like school? Dr. True will fix it. Don't want to eat their vegetables? Dr. True will make it happen. A bottle of Dr. True's Elixir across the side of the head and they will eat broccoli until long after the bleeding stops. In addition to curing ALL children's complaints, it works specifically hard to expel worms. You might think that the act of curing all complaints would include expelling worms (since I'm sure if you had worms you'd be complaining about it constantly) but who am I to contradict the Doctor? It's impossible to call him a liar -- not when he has the last name of True. There's no way you can go up against that and come out ahead. This stuff must have sold like crazy since everyone knows a worm-free kid is a happy kid.

Dr. Davis's Laxakola - Apparently, pooping was a pretty big issue back then too. It seemed like every other bottle up there either got you going or stopped you from going. This is one of the kickstarter formulas. You'd think Dr. Davis would look a little happier if he had just dropped the kids off at the pool. Physician, heal thyself and all that.



Not only does it supposedly get the factory back in production, it also cures "all conditions resulting from derangement and inactivity of the stomach, liver, kidneys and bowels."

And believe me, deranged bowels are nothing to mess with, especially when they don't care whether they live or die. They take hostages, they hole up, and before you know it, SWAT teams are involved, things are exploding left and right, and it doesn't end well for anyone.

Lydia E. Pinkham's Sanative Wash - The smugly smiling picture of Lydia speaks volumes. Or, if not volumes, sentences. Or maybe it's just one sentence. To me, that sentence is, "My toolbox is as clean as a whistle, and it feels fabulous."



I'm not a woman so I don't know a lot about the daily rigors of keeping things daisy-fresh down there in the old Pinkham, but to me it seems like this stuff has a lot of..well, acids in the active ingredients. And a little math and common sense would lead me to believe that:

Acid + Delicate Female Parts = A band I never liked.

They do eventually tell you what you were supposed to sanitize with it, just in case it wasn't obvious from Lydia's smiling face. I think they had to spell it out because it's conceivable that if you didn't know, you could be happily washing your face with the stuff.

Grove's Tasteless Chill Tonic - This one was lighter on the alcohol, being for babies and all, but heavier on the corn syrup. It supposedly cures the chills and fever associated with malaria.



Judging by the picture, and the tagline next to it that says "Original Laughing Baby Trademark" I can only assume one of these things is true -- (1) people had horrifically ugly children back then, or (2) this stuff has some nasty side effects.

But it is pleasant and effective, even if it does eventually make your baby look like a 35-year-old laughing midget with a receding hairline. Is it just me, or does he look like he should be smoking a cigar and running a pawn shop?

Oh, and it's tasteless. If you don't count the lemon flavoring.

Which, when it comes to malaria remedies, I never do.

*I think I might have it.

Please god, not the hole in one.

Recently I flew out to the old corporate headquarters for a little "team bonding" which involved playing two games -- one of which I was familiar with and one of which I was not. The one I was familiar with is called "golf" and the one I was not familiar with is called "cornhole." You probably think that sounds like a painful and unpleasant thing that you should go to great lengths to avoid playing ever in your life, and you would be absolutely correct.

Being from New York, I had never heard of this game. I guess it's big in Scranton because people were incredibly good at it. They brought their own homemade cornhole boards, that's how hardcore they are. What is cornholing, you ask? Well, it's when one inmate commits to a verbal 'contract' with another inmate whereupon he is provided 'protection' in exchange for...no wait -- that's the wrong one.

Much to my relief, it was fairly innocuous and not at all painful, unless you count the acute pain I felt for the lost dignity of those people actually playing. In this instance, cornholing is the act of throwing a bean bag, (or if you are playing with a bunch of professionals, an actual corn bag) at a slanted piece of wood with a hole in it.

There are all sorts of complicated and arcane rules that I really didn't pay attention to because I wasn't playing. From what I gather, it's similar to Jarts except there's no drunkenly launched steel-pointed projectiles flying through the air. With no chance of witnessing an inadvertent impaling, I lost interest pretty quickly.

I was, however, extremely relieved to find out that (1) You weren't forced to play, and (2) It was nothing like I expected.

To give you a sense of my relief, I drew it in picture form:





I have to say the high point for me was this conversation with my boss:

Me: The boards your husband made keep collapsing.

Her: Why? What's wrong with them?

Me: I don't know. I think it's cuz all these guys are professionals and they're just pounding the crap out of your cornhole.

Her: That is just so wrong in so many different ways.

The golfing was a lot of fun. We played a scramble, and I did better than I thought I was going to, since I haven't picked up a golf club in about 10 years. I quit when it became really popular because I was wasting too much time and money on it, and I couldn't stand the way our local public course was turning into a country club. I think I may have to give it another try though.

Special Dark was on my team, which really made the whole thing worthwhile. Even if I never got to swing a club, it would have been worth the 18 bucks just to see him shank three shots in a row straight into the woods and then completely lose his shit and heave his golf club into the next fairway. The other guy on our team had never been golfing before, and a lot of the time it was like watching a cartoon. He'd wind up, swing as hard as he could, completely miss the ball, and then spin around so hard he'd practically screw himself into the ground.

All it needed was manic piano music.

I would like a camp on a lake, please.

Last weekend my friend and I spent all day Saturday replacing the ghetto stairs. We ended up having to construct the new stairs in the empty stairwell because we figured out that they wouldn't come up from the basement -- or in from outside -- if they were in one piece. It's a long, boring story that has to do with modular houses and the way they are bolted together in the center.

My legs and shoulders were sore for two days, all from squatting like a constipated troll on a narrow platform under the stairs and hammering in 60 or so wedges at impossibly weird angles. These angles, incidentally, resulted in me pounding the living shit out of my own hand approximately 97 times. Anyway, they're done:

Before:




After:



My wife and I returned from a week's vacation on Friday, and I have a lot of stories that I will, in the not too distant future, attempt to weave into amusing tales for your reading pleasure. We had a lot of fun exploring a couple of different lakes around upstate NY and Vermont, and had almost perfect weather all week.

I still have vacation head, so it's going to take me a while to get back into this blogging thing. In the meantime, I have two questions for you.

One, wouldn't it suck if you were this guy and you had a tiny wiener?




And two, why the hell didn't they sell these things when I was a kid in high school?



For full comedic effect, read the "Feature" list out loud using a fake chinese accent, paying close attention to the creative punctuation.

Remember, more than a handful in wasted.

On Reflection*

I know everyone thinks they have good taste -- even though they mostly don't.

Luckily, my wife and I share the same taste in decorating -- not too modern, not too "country" -- maybe a bit too much toward the antiques-and-farmhouses side of things. I say that simply to enforce the fact that normally, I am OK with whatever home decorations my wife wants to indulge in.

I will admit that I like things less cluttered than she does (my office/music room/library notwithstanding). I don't like knickknacks on tables and counters. In the kitchen, for instance, I am not a fan of decorative bottles of olive oil that you will never, ever open and use, or fancy bottles of assorted sizes with absolutely nothing in them that just sit there looking pretty and take up valuable counter space.

That holds true in the bathroom as well. Our bathroom isn't too bad in that regard -- most of what's in there serves a useful purpose. Magazine rack: check. Candles and air-fresheners: check. Toothbrush holder and soap dispenser: check.

It's when we get to the back of the toilet that I have a problem. Here is the current decorating scheme:



I know what you're all thinking. "That's not too bad," you say inside your heads. Or maybe outside your heads if you've been living alone for a while.

But let me break it down for you.

Everyone reading this knows what the Kleenex is for -- it's mostly there for when you don't realize there's no toilet paper until it's too late. At least that's my theory, which has been proven to be true on multiple occasions. But the mirror? I'm not really clear on that. I suppose if you were a woman, you might want to check your makeup while sitting on the pot. I'm sure it's been done, however not being a woman and generally not wearing makeup, I've never tried it. That's not the problem, however.

The problem is this:



If you are between 5'6" and 5'10"* and standing where one would normally stand to take a piss, you have a pretty good chance of getting a free show -- one in which your penis gets top billing.

That is not a show I want to see on a regular basis. Or on any basis for that matter. It's bad enough I have to look down at it for control purposes, but I don't feel the need to simultaneously cover two different angles. I'm peeing, not creating performance art.

One Thanksgiving, my brother Houdini came back after a trip to the bathroom looking a little disconcerted. He walked over to me and asked quietly, "So what's with the dick mirror?" I just shrugged, pointed toward the kitchen, and told him to go ask my wife.

I am tempted to put a sticker on it that says "WARNING: OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE LARGER THAN THEY APPEAR" just to make myself feel better. I also recently discovered that there is a magnifying mirror on the other side, so for obvious reasons I keep flipping it around. My wife keeps flipping it back. I'm not sure why.

I am taking a little break for about a week, so I'll see you all after the intermission. And if you can stand to do it one last time, go here and vote for me. It's the last couple hours. Thanks for helping me win the $50 (I'm jumping the gun a bit, here but...). Now help me decide where to donate it.


*The title of this post comes from a Gentle Giant song. The lyrics are not intended to be penis-related.
*or over 6' and particularly well-endowed

Elvis would have tufts of ear hair.

I saw an article this week talking about how this University in the UK used some program they've developed to "age" a picture of Elvis in order to find out what he would look like today if he were still alive. It turns out that he would look a lot like the illegitimate love child of Powers Boothe and Ernest Borgnine:



It also turns out that a variation of the program used by the researchers at said university is available online.

Upon seeing this, I decided to see what I would look like in another few years when I turn 72.

I worked my way through the menus and followed all the instructions --moving ovals over my eyes and mouth, answering questions about the shape of my head, and giving away other seemingly innocuous information that I can only assume will be one day used to steal my identity.

After all that, did I get to see what I'd look like when I'm 72?

No, of course not. "Old age" was not one of the choices.

I could, however, see what I would look like as: (1) a baby (2) a west-asian (3) drunk (4) an El Greco painting (5) a japanese anime character (6) a black man, and lastly (7) 50% chimp.

OK, University of St. Andrews, WTF? You're telling me that Half-Chimp is a choice, but "old guy" isn't?

On the other hand, who hasn't at one time or another looked into a mirror and thought, "I wonder what I would look like as a half-chimpanzee?"

Anyway, I ran this picture through their available filters and...well, the results were disturbing, to say the least. You may get sick. You may pee your pants laughing. You may do both simultaneously. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Without further ado, let the games begin.

This first shot is what I would look like if I were some sort of freak baby mutie. The hills definitely have eyes. Picture me gnawing on your calf for the full effect:




As a west-asian, this is what I would look like while relaxing between Islamic rages. You are all filthy infidels:



In this next photo -- according to the computer program -- I am drunk. Apparently being drunk makes my eyes really shiny and my teeth glow with an unholy white light. Maybe I should stay drunk all the time:



This next one is me if I had posed for El Greco. Someone should check to see if he is really dead, because for some reason, everyone he paints resembles Nosferatu:



In this next one, I am supposed to look like a japanese anime, however I think I look more like Hank Azaria after he gnawed his way out of a 50lb. sack of espresso beans:



Here you can see I bear a striking resemblance to Lionel Ritchie -- that is if Lionel Ritchie had blue eyes, straight hair, and a dirty nose:



Last but certainly not least, this shows you what I would look like if my mom had married a chimp. Or maybe if she had actually been a chimp. I'm not sure if they based the "half-chimp filter" on the maternal or paternal side. You be the judge:



It looks like slightly more than "half" chimp to me, but hey -- chimp is like cowbell, am I right?

I still don't know what I'll look like at age 72, but I guess with a little luck I can wait it out.

fancy restaurant = fancy bathroom tiles = fancy pee pad.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were wandering around an outside strip mall and she wanted to treat me to dinner. We decided to go to this place called Provence because she had been there quite a few times for lunch and said it was really good and reasonably priced. That's lunch. Dinner wasn't so "reasonably priced," but that's not the story here. Our waiter's name was Steve, and he was excellent. I saw him "arrange" our bread on his way out of the kitchen though, and I don't like people touching my food. The meals were good, but way too elaborate for my unsophisticated palate. This story has more to do with their fancy bathroom than their fancy meals.

I've posted once before about becoming a stall man, and the reasons why. Or, rather the reason why, and that reason is because I don't like standing in sticky, half dried floor-pee. So I thought this was the greatest thing ever:




Yes. It is a pee pad. Because I am not really used to going to upscale restaurants, this is the first time I had ever seen one of these. Normally, the types of establishments that I frequent make you pay for your meal before you actually eat it, and if the bathroom has any sort of pee pad it's entirely coincidental and consists mainly of a pile of soggy paper towels and someone's vomit-stained sweatshirt.

At first, I wondered to whom the cleaning duties fell, because that seemed like something I would like to see my worst enemy do, if I had a worst enemy. I figured there was a sign next to the time clock that said:

ATTENTION EMPLOYEES:

IT HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION THAT SOME OF YOU ARE PUNCHING IN LATE. FROM NOW ON, IF YOU PUNCH IN LATE TWO SHIFTS IN A ROW, REMEDIAL ACTION WILL BE TAKEN. IN ADDITION TO YOUR REGULAR DUTIES, YOU WILL ALSO CLEAN THE PEE-PADS IN THE MEN'S ROOM FOR THE NEXT 3 MONTHS, OR UNTIL ONE OF YOUR CO-WORKERS PUNCHES IN LATE TWICE IN A ROW. WE ARE SORRY IT HAS COME TO THIS, BUT IT'S NOT FAIR THAT STEVE HAS TO CLEAN THE PEE-PADS ALL THE TIME.

THE MANAGEMENT

Then, because I don't want to mislead you all, I did some research. It turns out that they are disposable and contain "inner super absorbent Trilex 20™ fibers to catch drips and splashes." I don't know what that is, but it sounds very scientifically valid. Supposedly, "Once the mat reaches its saturation level, you simply throw it away and replace with another."

I am not sure I want to know exactly how "saturation level" is determined. I can only hope there is an alarm of some sort that warns someone that saturation level is fast approaching -- preferably someone who knows how to deal with such things.

Otherwise, your single, errant pee drip could be the one that breaks the camel's back and releases a urinary flood of epic proportions.

I know I wouldn't want that on my conscience. Or my shoes.

Possum. It's what's for dinner.

About two years ago, we decided to get rid of as much of the carpet in the house as we could. We had two cats and both were white, and the carpet was dark green. That is recipe for disaster no matter how often you shave them pink. As you can imagine, the carpet was almost impossible to keep hair-free, since for some unknown reason, our cats seem to spend more time writhing around on their backs than Lindsay Lohan.

We replaced everything we could with hardwood flooring, with the exclusion of the stairwell between the first floor and second floor. We didn't want to pull the carpet up there because we knew the stairs underneath were just "builder quality," and we figured we'd just save our money until we could afford to have someone replace them. After we had the upstairs floor finished, my wife decided to paint the stairwell, since it was pretty banged up. What happened next is this: She dropped a half gallon of antique white latex paint down the stairs. She will tell you that she did it by mistake. She was almost completely done with her paint job by the time she did this, so either she is telling me the truth or she is devious enough to think it would be more believable if she finished the job first. At any rate, this meant we had to pull up and discard the carpet on the stairs. What was underneath was pretty bad. Stringers cut with a circular saw, and what amounted to scrap wood for treads and risers. Paint and plaster all over.

Carpet covers a multitude of sins, and that's a fact.

We didn't have the money to replace the stairs, so we thought we'd get a quote on having them re-carpeted. Turns out, carpeting stairs is the thing most carpet guys hate the most, and the prices we got were between six and seven hundred bucks. I am nothing if not a cheap bastard so obviously I thought to myself "For 600 bucks, screw the carpet. I can build the new stairs myself for less than that."

I can do it myself for less.

I never seem to learn. Out of all the times those words have come out of my mouth, I would say about 75% of the time, I am wrong. But I am like a gambler in that respect -- I remember the wins and try to forget the losses. Don't get me wrong; Most of the time when the job is complete, I'm happy for having had the experience, but in the end it always seems to cost me more, if not in actual money, then in tremendous ass-pain. I decided I was going to do it anyway.

I mentioned this plan to my father, who mentioned it to a builder friend of his. His builder friend laughed heartily at my foolishness, then said that he had a set of precut stringers that he thought might work, and I could have them for free.

Free is better than not free, unless you're talking about furniture or hookers, so I took them. I made some rough measurements, and pronounced them most likely good. I sanded them, painted them, cut all the treads and risers, made about 70 wedges for keeping everything together and enlisted the help of a friend of mine who can make just about anything with wood, and make it better than I ever could. He makes fine furniture for a living and custom electric guitars for fun. And his boss had done stairs before and shared some tips with him. He bought a book on building stairs before coming over. That's the kind of guy he is.

On Saturday, we ripped out the old stairs. Being a meticulous and cautious sort, my friend suggested we try to get the old stairs removed without completely destroying them, since we weren't 100% sure the new stringers would work. All in all, we only had to saw through about half the treads to get them out.

When we had a giant hole where the stairs were supposed to be, we brought in one of the new stringers to figure out the length. Rise and run calculations are not fun, I can tell you that much.

We made cardboard templates, we enlisted non-euclidean geometry and I am pretty sure we came unknowingly close to summoning the Old Ones. After all was said and done, it turns out that the rise and run on the new stringers was just a tiny bit different than the old ones (the old steps, not the Old Ones), by about 1/16" per step. Which meant either the top step would be a couple inches longer and lower than it should have been, or each step would be at a slight downward angle. Neither of these solutions was optimal, unless my goal was to make it really easy for someone to break their ass on the stairs. So as a result of this, we had to put the old ones back in, 1/3 of which were cut into pieces. No fun at all.

So until I can get some new stringers cut and try again NEXT weekend, we have Cletus stairs, fit for a Louisiana Bayou shack:



On the plus side, it sure does help circulate the musty basement smell throughout the living room, and that's something we've been trying to accomplish for a while.

If the stairs don't work out next weekend, I think I'm just going to install a net. Then we can scamper up and down it like a couple of spider monkeys.

Pickup truck dude will bite me. As soon as I have 200 bucks.

Every morning, I leave my house to go to work at approximately the same time. It is extremely early, and most sane people are still watching the inside of their eyelids. I, however, and barreling down a godforsaken highway at roughly 80 mph, and generally the traffic is light enough so I don't have any issues with ass-munch drivers. Generally.

In the last month or so, I've picked up a lamprey eel, who sits in my blind spot and drives exactly my speed. I hate that like nothing else. It's my speed goddammit, pick your own and then go it. Or if you want to go mine, slow down for a while and wait until I'm way ahead of you. Don't be a tool and slow down and speed up with me because you think I have a radar detector.

This guy is a douchebag. And not just because he goes my speed. In fact, his ultra-high level on the douchbaggedness scale is based strictly on the type of rap music he listens to while driving. He's white. His music is angry. It says "what it do" and "Yeah. Uh huh" a lot. It hates women. It is liberally sprinkled with misogynistic phrases that appear approximately, oh...I don't know....EVERY VERSE and CHORUS would be my guess. On Wednesday, the chorus was simple enough to remember, so I looked it up. Turns out it's someone with the rap name of "Webbie." Here are the song lyrics if you're curious.

Normally, I wouldn't give a shit, and I'd say he can listen to whatever excuse for music he wants to. That's normally. But here's the non-normal problem:

You're probably wondering how I know what he's listening to, given the 80mph air-gap between our two vehicles. Or maybe you have experienced this irritation and already know. Not only does this dude go my speed, he also shares my frequency -- 89.9 on the FM dial if you are keeping track. This happens to be the best frequency in the area for a Griffin i-Trip, and the only frequency that is solid all the way from north buttscratch where I live to south buttscratch where I work.

The problem is, his transmitter is much stronger than mine and overrides my signal. I will be driving along listening to Dropping Daylight or Fountains of Wayne when suddenly I'm getting all Chingy wit' it, whether I want to be or not. When it happened the first couple of times, I just turned off my radio and slowed down, but I needed a good 1/8 mile between us before it would fade out. Then I figured I'd change my frequency, but I couldn't find one that didn't get overridden by some local FM station at some point during my trip.

After a while, I found another solution. I simply began to like rap music. It started growing on me. I began looking forward to our daily highway meeting. The simple, repetitive beat, the women-hating lyrics, it all began to make sense. I was beginning to understand the gangsta rap philosophy. No, I'm kidding. I don't have any bitches or hos that I beat up on a regular basis so I really have no business dabbling in that subculture.

My solution is not simple. It will take time, and it will take money -- but as god is my witness, I will force him to listen to MY music.

I figure i am pretty good with a soldering iron, and I can build this and this. Yes, I realize it will get me on the FCCs most wanted list, if they have one. Yes, I realize I am planning on running a pirate radio station from a moving vehicle. And yes, I am going to CRUSH this guy.

Now I just need to decide on the music. What band or music would a hard-core rapper absolutely hate? I'm open to suggestions. I can always turn my radio off while I broadcast.

Hazel is Nuts.

I usually don't pay much attention to the ads over there on the right that Google AdSense pukes up every time you refresh this page, but for some reason I decided to click on one the other day. A few clicks later, and this was on my screen:



Had I wandered into some perverted fetishist web site? Was I looking at the blow back from a particularly grisly Tarantino shotgun scene?

No, although either of those things would have made more sense.

In fact, I had wandered into a place that sells creams and oils and bubble baths and scented paraphernalia of every kind, all designed to make you better than you were before. Better. Stronger. Faster. We have the techn-- No, wait. I'm thinking of something else.

That picture up there is actually a woman who has (presumably voluntarily) slathered coffee grounds all over herself. While not technically identical to what comes out of a can of Maxwell House, it does appear to share much of its overall texture. They've apparently created a "special formula" by adding shea nut oil, olive oil, grapeseed oil and something called Babassu,* all in an effort to differentiate this from the "special formula" under your sink that has the eggshells and soggy cheerios mixed in it.

According to the website:

"Coffee Scrubs are quickly becoming the prized product of the beauty industry. They are an excellent source of caffeine that pampers the skin -- by awakening dead skin cells. The bonus is that Coffee is also an excellent exfoliant and a great anti-cellulite treatment. We have infused our Coffee Scrub with wonderful oils of Shea Nut, Olive, Grapeseed and Babassu. Each of these oils work in harmony to realign stagnant skin cells and speed nourishment to all areas of the body. If you crave a superior scrub -- that your body will devour -- our coffee scrubs are a perky jolt of body luxury!"

Let's take a look at these claims.

Claim number one: They claim their body scrub is an excellent source of caffeine. I will give them that much, since I believe caffeine can be absorbed through the skin pretty easily. That being said, I think you'd probably absorb more caffeine from the inside than the outside. Given that fact, it just seems easier to drink a big mug of coffee to get my daily caffeine fix rather than dealing with errant coffee grounds packed into my asscrack all day. Maybe that's just me, I don't know.

Coffee Grounds in Bad Places: Strike One.

Also, according to claim number one, this product awakens dead skin cells. I am pretty sure I would not enjoy having all my dead skin cells suddenly awakened. I, for one, do not want zombie skin. What if they start attacking the living skin cells in order to eat their mitochondria? I could have a microscopic version of Night of the Living Dead happening right on my own self.

Potential Zombie Skin: Strike Two.

Claim number two: It is apparently an "excellent exfoliant" and "great anti-cellulite treatment." I will give them a free pass on the "excellent exfoliant" part. Mostly because any granular substance that is harder than your skin is an excellent exfoliant. Beach sand and fish tank gravel are two exfoliants that come to mind. Also, falling off your motorcycle. As for the anti-cellulite claims, get real. Cellulite is clumpy fat. Short of an electric carving knife, there is nothing you can rub on your clumpy fat to make it go away. Period.

Blatant Clumpy Fat Lies: Strike Three.

Normally, I think that would be a strike-out, but since I know nothing about baseball, I am going to continue.

Claim number three: They say the added oils "work in harmony to realign stagnant skin cells." This confuses me. Number one, if my skin cells are stagnant, wouldn't I want them gone? Stagnant sounds bad, and has smelly connotations. Also, how am I to know they are truly out of alignment? I mean, they feel ok. I'm worried that maybe they are perfectly aligned but still could be in a stagnant state. Is this stuff going to screw up my alignment, or does it somehow differentiate between the various stagnant cells and only go after the ones that are getting out of line? Are stagnant cells that are in alignment a good thing or a bad one? I don't know.

Confusing, and grosses me out a little: Strike Four.

That's what I get for looking at my own ads. I should know better. You guys present me with a problem, however. On the one hand, I want you to look at them because I get a penny or something. On the other hand, I would like to save you all from rubbing garbage on yourselves. It's a quandary.

This same company sells something they call "Bath Fudge" that looks like this:



You're all on your own with that one. Good luck.

Vote if ya feel like it. There's some new whippersnapper gettin' all up in my bidniss.


*which looks a lot like a phonetic representation of how they pronounce the name "Bobby Sue" down south.

By request.

Too Big For My Rectum, Too Small For My Heart
written by Johnny Virgil and performed by Clay Aiken*

(verse)
I sat in a booth at a diner in Tulsa
eating a slice of Donella's peach pie

You walked right past me, you looked right at me
you didn't remember, you didn't say "hi"

It was a rest stop in Denver a summer ago
where we met and made love in my cabover pete

You were gentle and kind but when you left my behind
it felt like a pound of prime angus ground beef

(chorus)
You were too big for my rectum, too small for my heart
Too married to her and too soon we did part
I swore if our paths ever crossed on the road
Truck scales be damned, I'd take on your load
Too big for my rectum, too small for my heart

(verse)
Donella came over and saw tears in my eyes
Business was slow so she sat for a while

I told her my story, she said she was sorry
But a big guy like me just wasn't your style

Just then a blonde walked by us and joined you
Donella just nodded as I stood up to leave her

I threw down a twenty for a 5 dollar tab
I couldn't believe that you settled on beaver

(chorus x2)
You were too big for my rectum, too small for my heart
Too married to her and too soon we did part
I swore if our paths ever crossed on the road
Truck scales be damned, I'd take on your load
Too big for my rectum, too small for my heart

Get the vote out

*If you are confused by this post, read the previous one. If you are still confused, then there's not much else I can do.

Google Me

Those of you who have been hanging around here for a while know that occasionally I post the Site-Meter searches that lead people to my blog. Over the years, I seem to have become a magnet for strange searches that revolve around topics such as Flava Flav (I mentioned him ONE TIME, for god's sake), butt plugs, and all things scrotum. I am fairly certain that most of that is due to me publishing the questions that lead people here, and my subsequent advice for those searchers. It's a vicious and disturbing cycle, but most of the time it's a fun one. I haven't done this in a while, so it's time. Without further ado, I present:

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site

A butt plug out dancing -- I'm assuming here that you are not actually looking for a butt plug out dancing, but just in case there's a 3% chance that you are:



I'm 97% sure that you're searching Google to see if perhaps wearing a butt plug out dancing is a good or bad thing to do, and whether anyone will be the wiser. I am no expert, having never actually worn a butt plug, however not being an expert has never prevented me from giving you advice in the past and today is no different. I've found that you can usually tell which dancer has the butt plug just by paying close attention to facial expressions. For instance, take a look at this picture:



Can you spot the person wearing the butt plug? Look closely at the facial expressions. They are a dead giveaway. In case you're having trouble, I've gone ahead and labeled the picture for you:



(Note: Zombie chicks are also easy to pick out once you learn how. Hint: check the eyes.)

how do I know how big of a butt plug I can take? -- Well, again I have to say I'm no expert, but I would size it like you size a ring at the jewelers, only in reverse. Instead of sliding the ring down the cone until it stops, you shove the cone into the ring until it stops. Then you just have a really good friend read off the number.

what do to when your husband is looking at transvestites -- My advice is to spend this private time wisely. I suggest using it to draw up the divorce papers.

why do your testicles hang so low in the morning after sleeping naked -- I was not aware that this was a problem for people. Do you sleep hanging from the ceiling like some sort of giant bat, by chance? Because that's about the only way I can see this being an issue. Even then, I am pretty sure there would have to be ropes and weights involved. I suggest maybe looking into a sackectomy. Maybe you could have the excess made into a nice wallet.

I have black moles on my penis -- I suggest you try some of this:



too big for my rectum -- I think you are onto something here. This totally sounds like the beginning of a country song title, and it just needs to be finished up. Picture Jay Leno introducing Clay Aiken. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Clay Aiken singing "Too Big for My Rectum, Too Small for My Heart." See? Perfect.

stinging nettles on labia -- Ow. I don't even have a labia and this hurts me. Rule number one: If you are in an environment which may include stinging nettles, keep your labia covered at all times. Rule number two: For f*ck's sake, see rule number one and put that thing away. No good can come of waving it around.

piano teacher cut my labia -- I suggest you immediately find a different piano teacher. Perhaps we need to amend Rule number one to include locations with stinging nettles and also pianos.

baking soda and the vagina -- I believe I can help you here. I think you just need to know the full title of the book before you'll be able to narrow down your search. I can only assume you are looking for the new publication entitled "Baking Soda and the Vagina - A Retrospective" by Arm & Hammer. It's fascinating stuff. I was honored to have contributed this post to the first chapter.

what causes a guppy to swim upside down? -- Usually, it's a serious health condition called Death, and as far as I know, there is no cure.

do men wash their ass? -- Speaking as a man, I would have to say that yes, as a general rule, we do. I personally wash my ass at least twice a day, whether it needs it or not. Now, as with all things, there are exceptions to the rule. In this case, there is a particular subset of men who attend professional conferences like Lotusphere the IBM Advisor conference, and these men tend to NOT wash their ass. Avoid going to these conferences if at all possible.

please help dogs testicles turned black really worried -- I am of absolutely no use to you on this matter, since I do not have a dog, let alone one with black testicles. I will say this however -- I'll bet you're not half as worried as your dog is.

That's it for today, ladies and gentlemen. I'm off to write the lyrics to that Clay Aiken song I was telling you about. Wish me luck, and keep an eye out for me at this year's CMT awards ceremony.

P.O.S.

OK, maybe this is old news, but I haven't been watching much TV lately. I sat down to lunch and flipped on MythBusters and watched them try to light boats on fire with mirrors. While I was eating my sandwich, I glanced up and saw this on my TV:



"Did I just see pubes on soap?" I asked myself, mostly because there was nobody else in the room to ask.

I grabbed the remote and hit rewind.

The answer is: Yes. Yes, I did just see pubes on soap.*

I found this hilarious, and disgusting, and there's a lot wrong with that picture up there.

It's an advertisement for Old Spice Body Wash, and they make their point, as far as that goes. What they're not showing you, however, is the corollary to the soap, i.e., the pube-covered loofah, which is how you're usually supposed to apply body wash.

I'm betting it's way tougher to get pubes out of one of those things than it is to wash them off the soap. I'm pretty sure that over time, the pubes will just become part of the loofah, eventually just taking it over until you're basically scrubbing yourself with a 4" ball of curly pubic hair. I'll let you know, since my wife just came home with Irish Spring body wash and I just started using it.

All that aside, if you're living with someone who doesn't wash their own pubes off the soap, then you need to have a discussion. Especially if you're not dating or married to that person. They should dig them off with their fingernails if they have to, because I would rather you have pubes jammed under your nails than be forced go in the shower after you and find something like that picture.

Also, that guy in the commercial? He has another problem they're not showing you. He might be able to get away without touching the soap by using his handy-dandy body wash, but what's he going to do about the fact that the water is up to the middle of his calf because pube-boy left him a little hairy mat down there that's plugging up the drain? You can only move that thing out of the way with your toe so many times, is all I'm saying.

I have to admit, I still feel a little feminine using a loofah. At least I had to use the internet to look up what it was called. Up until today I called it the "scrubber-thing." I think I might go back to that. 

Lastly, vote for me dammit. I want to be able to say I won something for once in my life. Also, I would like to prove this anonymous douchebag wrong:



This is the last time I'll be bugging you about that, I promise. I feel like such a whore.

*Which I initially thought would be an awesome name for a punk band. But then I realized that punks generally aren't the most hygienic people on earth, so maybe not.

I think I've got wood thrush.

I know that sounds like some sort of chronic pecker disease, but it's not. It's actually the type of bird that is nesting in one of my wife's hanging plants, at least according to the internets. She was watering the plant one day a couple of weeks ago, and a bird flew out of it. When she took the plant down to look inside, she saw three tiny blue eggs. Each one was about the size of a dime.



I say "was" because as you all know, the world is full of dangerous predators who can't wait to get their mouths around some tasty wood thrush eggs. I figured that if I didn't make my move some other critter was going to beat me to it. So I did the only thing I could do:



No, I kid. I didn't really eat them. And to prove it, here they are right after they were hatched:



If you tapped on the side of the pot, you could get them to do their Rosie O'Donnell impersonation*:





We left them alone for about a week and a half and I didn't take any more pictures, but we did look in on them from time to time. They were ugly, bald prehistoric looking things and when their pin feathers started coming in I am pretty sure they were among the ugliest things on the planet. Ugly or not, it's truly amazing how fast they grow. Today, there were only two left, and they looked like this:



I think my wife got some good "in between" shots, but there weren't any on my camera. Because I care about you all deeply and I don't want you to miss out, here is an artist's rendition of what they looked like at about two weeks:




*that's when you open your big mouth and nothing of any consequence comes out of it, so you just keep it that way until someone shoves food in it.