A lot of people I know are building or moving into new houses, and almost every single one of these houses is in a development. It got me thinking about our first house, also in a development, and why I would never, ever live in one again. (A development, not a house.)
This place was called Laurel Acres*, and it started out as a bankrupt dairy farm. When we moved in, there wasn't an effing tree in sight that was over 4 feet tall. The builder made a half-assed attempt to put trees in, and every house got the same treatment - one in front, two in back. It was insanely cookie-cutter. There were only 2 types of houses available -- Ranch and Colonial -- and you could have either of them in a mirror image floorplan, so basically every fourth house was exactly the same as yours. Maybe, if you were lucky, it would be a different color.
Put it this way, it was a definite bitch if you came home drunk. After about 2 months of trying to pick my house out of a lineup, I put a blue bulb in the lamppost out front. Problem solved. I would tell people coming over at night -- look for the blue light. It made it easy for me as well.
That worked great until the douchebag three houses down from me thought it would be a good idea to do the same thing.
With the same color bulb.
So from then on, I had to tell people that we were the FIRST blue light.
Idiot.
But I'm not bitter.
Anyway, it was a new development, and it was full of new families -- as in lots of people with many little kids. Nobody could afford a fence, or more likely, didn't care if they had one, and the backyards all connected. You could look right down the line at about 30 back yards, and it was like some sort of surreal farm where the crops were swing sets, above-ground pools and sheds. The kids pretty much ran amok, and there was no such thing as private property.
Our house was a ranch, and it was a pretty common occurence to wake up and find the little monster who lived next door with his face against our bedroom window, or discover him sitting in the rocking chair on our porch at 7am. Or even digging up my wife's flowers for no apparent reason.
Development Rule Number One: When you live in one, you have zero privacy. Get used to it. You will most likely find that you had more privacy in your old apartment.
We had some good friends on one side of us -- and the Addams family on the other. We called them Gomez and Morticia, and they totally looked the part. She had long black hair, and pale skin, and I think I saw her outside about 3 times the entire time we were there. They had two kids, and I swear to christ they came from a pod. They just...appeared --at an approximate age of 4 or 5. We are pretty sure they either grew them in the basement or abducted them from somewhere. We always leaned toward the "growing in the basement" theory, because they looked just like her -- hellspawn vampires, only with sunlight resistance.
The parents and the kids had this incredibly annoying New Yawk City accent that scraped little curls of bone from your skull when you were forced to listen to it. And you pretty much had to listen to it all the time, at top volume. Either she was yelling at him, he was yelling at her, they were both screaming at the kids, or sometimes they were all going at the same time. They would smack the kids and drag them into the house by the arm, hair, shorts -- whatever was handy. It was like having our very own Walmart right next door.
Right about then I figured out what the deal was. The houses were pretty cheap, which is why we snapped it up. We looked at it as a stepping stone. This was a house to live in for a couple years, then flip for some quick cash, and then build the house we wanted. We figured it beat paying rent, and it would cost about the same.
What we didn't count on was the fact that most people in this development were at their pinnacle, and here for life. They had moved out of the trailer park straight into the Merkin Dream. As a result, we soon realized we were living in the biggest trailer park without wheels that anyone had ever seen. That gives you some background on most of the neighborhood.
Right around this time, a few people in the neighborhood noticed a curious thing: Their backyards were slightly squishy. It seemed that in certain instances, the mud pies that little suzie had been baking were composed entirely of her own family's shit. It turns out that the septic tanks were faulty, and raw sewage was seeping up through the ground. Good times.
We didn't have a problem, but we were instructed to dig up our tank to make sure it was installed to code. So that was my first neighborhood chore that was forced upon me. Turns out our tank was fine.
The next thing I know, some loudmouth freakjob with bad hair and a kid on each hip is knocking on my door with a petition. They are suing the builder, the real estate company, the engineer who put the septic tanks in, the realtor who said that we would most likely have city sewer and water within 3 years -- you name it. If it moved, they were suing it. They wanted us to join the class action suit. At first, I thought it might be a good idea, since if anything went wrong with the septic system, at least there would be money to cover it.
It didn't take us long to realize that these people had dollar signs in their eyes, and you could easily see that they were banking on getting rich off this shit. They had visions of putting junior through clown college and buying a kickass pontoon boat with their share of the booty. We got smart pretty quickly and bailed out of the entire mess, which caused a lot of people to get pissed at us.
Development Rule Number Two: When you live in a development, you inherit the development's problems. You will become sucked into them against your will. Be prepared.
Finally, when we couldn't take it anymore, we decided to sell. It was a bad time, with the lawsuit going on and all the bad press, but we still managed to make a few bucks on it. We then overreacted a bit and drove too far north in search of peace and quiet. The first time my boss came over to the house for dinner, he was convinced I was taking him somewhere to kill him and hide his body.
So the net result of our move to the new house is that now I have a killer commute, and callouses on my ass from sitting in my car for two hours a day. On the plus side, you would not believe our gasoline bill every month.
Every time I think about moving closer to work, I look around. We have ten acres of woods. We can't see or hear our neighbors, the closest of which is a few hundred feet away through the woods. There are 5 houses on the entire street. On a weekend, you don't hear 30 lawn mowers going all at once. There are no screaming pool parties. No blaring rap music.
In other words, it is sweet.
As long as I am able, I will live in a place like this.
I've narrowed down my house hunting needs to a few essentials -- First, wherever I live has to have a porch. Second, that porch has three requirements. You have to be able to piss off of it, shoot a gun off of it, and screw on it without getting arrested -- or even noticed.
If you can do that, there's not much else you need.
Lastly, a word of advice for my newly 'burbed friends:
Development Rule Number Three: Buy a SHITLOAD of candy on Halloween. Those little bastards are insatiable.
------------------------------------------------------
* Did you ever notice the names they give these places? Wandering Stream, Fox Run, Meadowland Estates, Luther's Forest.....basically, they name it after whatever they bulldozed into oblivion in order to slap up the houses.
6/29/05
6/27/05
Does your gas pump ever make you feel wet and sticky?
So I'm at the gas station the other day, and I grab the nozzle from the pump to put gas in my car, and the handle is wet and sticky.* WTF? If you read my blog, you know that I think people in general are scum, and this was no exception. Who would get shit all over the pump handle, and then not clean it off? Disgusting, I tells ya.
Not knowing whether it was blood, cherry popsicle residue or Something-else-red-I-Know-Not-What, I look around for a paper towel to wipe it is off my hand. As I hit the towel dispenser, I realize that they now have a Purell hand sanitizer dispenser next to the towels. I never even thought about it before, but what a great idea. Normally, I put the gas in, jump in my car and go on my way -- probably because I never got funk on my hands before.
This Purell stuff looks to be alcohol suspended in an aloe gel or something. I really have no idea what's in it, but you can tell that when you put it on your hands, microscopic things are dying at an extremely satisfying rate. I gobbed it on quite heavily, and I'm pretty sure that whatever that red goo was, it didn't stand a chance.
That got me thinking. All things considered, a gas pump handle has to be one of the most "handled" things in the modern world (insert joke about John's vasectomy here), and EVERYONE who drives ANYTHING needs gas.
That garbageman who just spent 12 hours getting maggoty garbage juice all over his hands, the new guy working for the tree service company with the seeping blisters on his palms from running the chainsaw all day, that fat chick who just dug her week-old underwear out of her ass before she got out of her car, the Harley dude who is allergic to showers -- all of them need gas for their cars, trucks, busses and bikes.
So along comes you, and you grab the handle and drop 20 in the tank. Even if you pay at the pump, you're still hanging onto that hotbed of viral funk for upwards of at least 3 minutes. That shit is halfway up your arm by the time you drop the pump handle back in the slot. Then you jump back in your car, grab the door handle, the seatbelt buckle and the steering wheel...before you know it, your car is basically a rolling petri dish.
Then all you have to do is inadvertently rub your eyes or bite a hangnail, and best case, suddenly you've got three weeks to live. Worst case, you just ate an antibiotic-resistant strain of group A streptococcus, and 6 hours from now you'll be a steaming puddle of goo.
OK, now that I've grossed myself out, think about that shit next time you get gas, and remember: Be kind to your immune system -- it's the only thing standing between you and a hideously gruesome death. And if you see some sub-human shitting up the gas pump handles, call them on it -- maybe they're so clueless they don't even know they're doing it. ("Dude, did you know your hands are bleeding? No? Well, you might want to get them looked at. I don't think fingernails are supposed to fall off like that.")
*speaking of "wet and sticky," it turns out that I must not have been the only one a little grossed out by the mini-pad commercial, because I saw it again last night, and they changed it. The brazen woman now asks the other chick if her pad ever makes her feel wet and "uncomfortable."
Not knowing whether it was blood, cherry popsicle residue or Something-else-red-I-Know-Not-What, I look around for a paper towel to wipe it is off my hand. As I hit the towel dispenser, I realize that they now have a Purell hand sanitizer dispenser next to the towels. I never even thought about it before, but what a great idea. Normally, I put the gas in, jump in my car and go on my way -- probably because I never got funk on my hands before.
This Purell stuff looks to be alcohol suspended in an aloe gel or something. I really have no idea what's in it, but you can tell that when you put it on your hands, microscopic things are dying at an extremely satisfying rate. I gobbed it on quite heavily, and I'm pretty sure that whatever that red goo was, it didn't stand a chance.
That got me thinking. All things considered, a gas pump handle has to be one of the most "handled" things in the modern world (insert joke about John's vasectomy here), and EVERYONE who drives ANYTHING needs gas.
That garbageman who just spent 12 hours getting maggoty garbage juice all over his hands, the new guy working for the tree service company with the seeping blisters on his palms from running the chainsaw all day, that fat chick who just dug her week-old underwear out of her ass before she got out of her car, the Harley dude who is allergic to showers -- all of them need gas for their cars, trucks, busses and bikes.
So along comes you, and you grab the handle and drop 20 in the tank. Even if you pay at the pump, you're still hanging onto that hotbed of viral funk for upwards of at least 3 minutes. That shit is halfway up your arm by the time you drop the pump handle back in the slot. Then you jump back in your car, grab the door handle, the seatbelt buckle and the steering wheel...before you know it, your car is basically a rolling petri dish.
Then all you have to do is inadvertently rub your eyes or bite a hangnail, and best case, suddenly you've got three weeks to live. Worst case, you just ate an antibiotic-resistant strain of group A streptococcus, and 6 hours from now you'll be a steaming puddle of goo.
OK, now that I've grossed myself out, think about that shit next time you get gas, and remember: Be kind to your immune system -- it's the only thing standing between you and a hideously gruesome death. And if you see some sub-human shitting up the gas pump handles, call them on it -- maybe they're so clueless they don't even know they're doing it. ("Dude, did you know your hands are bleeding? No? Well, you might want to get them looked at. I don't think fingernails are supposed to fall off like that.")
*speaking of "wet and sticky," it turns out that I must not have been the only one a little grossed out by the mini-pad commercial, because I saw it again last night, and they changed it. The brazen woman now asks the other chick if her pad ever makes her feel wet and "uncomfortable."
6/26/05
Out Cruisin'
I was walking by my television, and happened to see this:
For a second, I thought the whole Katie Holmes thing was off.
For a second, I thought the whole Katie Holmes thing was off.
6/25/05
Pit stops on the road to paintball
So I was out at the old corporate headquarters on Thursday for an half-day of meeting half-day of fun kinda thing. Right before the half-day of fun was supposed to start, I got paged to fix a problem. Me and this other guy, who I will call PP for short, got to stay at the office while the rest of the crew went off to play paintball and drink beer - not necessarily in that order. We were on the phone with vendors, emergency response, the client, you name it.
After about two and a half hours, we determined that we needed to talk to one of the guys on our team who was probably, at that exact moment, lying on his stomach behind a burned out jeep, pinned down by enemy paintball fire. So PP and I start walking down the hall to the parking lot to drive over there and find said pinned-down expert. PP is still talking on his cell phone, dialed into this emergency phone conference.
As we pass the men's room, I motion to him that I have to make a quick pit-stop before we drive. I turn left, push open the door, and walk toward the urinal.
As I'm taking my piss, I realize something odd.
I can still hear PP talking on his cellphone. That's because he is standing right next to me, pissing away.
Still dialed in.
There is no mute.
There is only pee.
And flushing. Lots of flushing.
I quickly wash up, break for the door and stand in the hallway outside the men's room, waiting for PP to finish up.
I learned something else. Apparently, "finishing up" doesn't necessarily need to happen on any particular side of the men's room door, because PP comes out of the men's room and he's still zipping up when he hits the hallway. It was awesome.
I'll give him the benefit of the doubt on the hand washing thing even though I didn't witness it, but jesus. On one hand, I admire him for not giving a shit what people think, but on the other hand, I'm just glad no bigwigs were walking by at that exact moment.
So to all the people on the phone -- sorry. I didn't know he would follow me, and subject you to this. Also, if you're keeping track, I'm pretty sure his pee noises were louder than mine, since it sounded like he was aiming right for the water instead of banking it off the back.
I will, however, cop to that last double-tap flush you may have heard. That was all me.
After about two and a half hours, we determined that we needed to talk to one of the guys on our team who was probably, at that exact moment, lying on his stomach behind a burned out jeep, pinned down by enemy paintball fire. So PP and I start walking down the hall to the parking lot to drive over there and find said pinned-down expert. PP is still talking on his cell phone, dialed into this emergency phone conference.
As we pass the men's room, I motion to him that I have to make a quick pit-stop before we drive. I turn left, push open the door, and walk toward the urinal.
As I'm taking my piss, I realize something odd.
I can still hear PP talking on his cellphone. That's because he is standing right next to me, pissing away.
Still dialed in.
There is no mute.
There is only pee.
And flushing. Lots of flushing.
I quickly wash up, break for the door and stand in the hallway outside the men's room, waiting for PP to finish up.
I learned something else. Apparently, "finishing up" doesn't necessarily need to happen on any particular side of the men's room door, because PP comes out of the men's room and he's still zipping up when he hits the hallway. It was awesome.
I'll give him the benefit of the doubt on the hand washing thing even though I didn't witness it, but jesus. On one hand, I admire him for not giving a shit what people think, but on the other hand, I'm just glad no bigwigs were walking by at that exact moment.
So to all the people on the phone -- sorry. I didn't know he would follow me, and subject you to this. Also, if you're keeping track, I'm pretty sure his pee noises were louder than mine, since it sounded like he was aiming right for the water instead of banking it off the back.
I will, however, cop to that last double-tap flush you may have heard. That was all me.
6/12/05
They're here.
Have you ever been driving down the highway, and you look over and see a tarp-covered flatbed truck, and you realize that the shapes underneath it are nothing even remotely recognizable? I hate that. Call me paranoid, but I always wonder just what the hell it is that they're hauling, and to where.
The other day on the way home from work, this truck passed me, and I glanced over and saw this:
I mean, holy shit on a stick. Just look at this thing. This is the highest number of death-inducing signs I have ever seen on a single truck in my life. And it was all covered up with a blue tarp. I didn't even want to breathe when it passed me, just in case.
If you're not familiar with these signs, they are required by law to be displayed on all rigs -- they are supposed to give the authorities an idea of what type of payload they are dealing with in case of an accident.
In other words, they are a reliable indication of just what kind of stuff that particular truck is hauling.
All I know is if I see these types of signs on anything, I want at least six inches of hermetically sealed, stainless steel-reinforced wall between me and it -- not a effing blue tarp.
Of course after I blasted past it and was a safe distance away, I started breathing again. Breathing and wondering. After a minute or two, I had it. I knew exactly what was under that innocuous blue tarp:
Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong.
The other day on the way home from work, this truck passed me, and I glanced over and saw this:
I mean, holy shit on a stick. Just look at this thing. This is the highest number of death-inducing signs I have ever seen on a single truck in my life. And it was all covered up with a blue tarp. I didn't even want to breathe when it passed me, just in case.
If you're not familiar with these signs, they are required by law to be displayed on all rigs -- they are supposed to give the authorities an idea of what type of payload they are dealing with in case of an accident.
In other words, they are a reliable indication of just what kind of stuff that particular truck is hauling.
All I know is if I see these types of signs on anything, I want at least six inches of hermetically sealed, stainless steel-reinforced wall between me and it -- not a effing blue tarp.
Of course after I blasted past it and was a safe distance away, I started breathing again. Breathing and wondering. After a minute or two, I had it. I knew exactly what was under that innocuous blue tarp:
Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong.
6/11/05
Caution: Children
I vandalized a street sign once when I was a kid. I think I took some white spray paint and put a big DON'T on a stop sign or something equally lame. In my defense, I don't think I had actually reached puberty yet. Later on, I would see other vandalized signs in the neighborhood, but I never ran with the crowd that did that sort of thing on a regular basis. Their mods always sucked anyway -- the people who would usually tend toward that sort of behavior didn't seem to be the brightest of the bright. So normally, you'd see them changing the speed limit 30 sign to an 80, or just spraying some random crap over the Yield sign.
I think that as a result of a restless mind, and the unfulfilled delinquent tendencies I had as a child, I still see the possibilities in this extremely neglected art medium. The 'Caution: Children' sign still gets me to this day. I always speed up because I have visions of crazed zombie children swarming my car and trying to pull me out of the driver's side window and eat my brains.
So, for those of you with restless teens at home, you probably won't want them to see what's coming up next. With two paint brushes, a bit of black and yellow paint, and a few beers, this is what is possible*:
Warning - Road Apples ahead:
Watch for Farmer Brown tending to his prize Holstein:
I hate it when those headless little bastards dodge right out into traffic chasing their loose melon.
The always popular "Watch for streakers" variation:
This one is just confusing:
This one's a little bit cruel, but hey -- Closet Delinquent, remember?
*Note that I did not actually go out and vandalize these signs. I sat on my ass with a gin and tonic and the new Bowling for Soup CD and photoshopped them.
I think that as a result of a restless mind, and the unfulfilled delinquent tendencies I had as a child, I still see the possibilities in this extremely neglected art medium. The 'Caution: Children' sign still gets me to this day. I always speed up because I have visions of crazed zombie children swarming my car and trying to pull me out of the driver's side window and eat my brains.
So, for those of you with restless teens at home, you probably won't want them to see what's coming up next. With two paint brushes, a bit of black and yellow paint, and a few beers, this is what is possible*:
Warning - Road Apples ahead:
Watch for Farmer Brown tending to his prize Holstein:
I hate it when those headless little bastards dodge right out into traffic chasing their loose melon.
The always popular "Watch for streakers" variation:
This one is just confusing:
This one's a little bit cruel, but hey -- Closet Delinquent, remember?
*Note that I did not actually go out and vandalize these signs. I sat on my ass with a gin and tonic and the new Bowling for Soup CD and photoshopped them.
6/6/05
The Grand Tour
Well, I said if I could get into the Scummerson Estate that I would take some snapshots and share them, so here they are.
There are two things that these pictures will not convey -- the fact that, a) there was literally only a a hair over 5 feet of headroom in this place and b) the whole thing smelled like shit. And by shit, I don't mean "really bad" -- although it was really bad. I mean literally, like human or animal excrement.
Here's the fabulous kitchen:
Here's the master bedroom with adjoining bath. Note the seriously cute "half-moon" outhouse decor on the door. Obviously, the electrical work was done by an experienced electrician that was fully licensed and bonded by the state.
I snuck a peek into the bathroom too:
Just kidding.
There are two things that these pictures will not convey -- the fact that, a) there was literally only a a hair over 5 feet of headroom in this place and b) the whole thing smelled like shit. And by shit, I don't mean "really bad" -- although it was really bad. I mean literally, like human or animal excrement.
Here's the fabulous kitchen:
Here's the master bedroom with adjoining bath. Note the seriously cute "half-moon" outhouse decor on the door. Obviously, the electrical work was done by an experienced electrician that was fully licensed and bonded by the state.
I snuck a peek into the bathroom too:
Just kidding.
6/2/05
All This Can Be Yours!
Proudly displayed in a pristine setting, this stunning Adirondack Farmhouse* is being exclusively offered to those with discerning taste! Located on a beautiful one-acre corner lot, this house is a tribute to beauty. It blends quality high-end materials, fine craftsmanship and special attention to details! Take a walk through the leaves on a crisp autumn day as you listen to the babbling trout stream* behind the house.
Amenities include:
1 Bedroom
1 Bathroom*
Living Room*
Dining Room*
Eat-in Kitchen*
CALL US for a confidential showing of this extraordinary home.
So.....as you can see from the picture, the Squatterson Estate went up for sale this week. For the last month or so, we've been noticing some unusual activity in and around the building.
A few weekends ago, about 6 or 7 biker-lookin' dudes with pickup trucks and lumber showed up and installed a 6-foot-high stockade fence on the property line between this place and the Scummersons trailer next door. I can totally see why blocking off the view of that shithole would be the first thing on the agenda, however I'm not sure how much good the fence will do unless they're planning to bring prospective buyers in by doing a "visit to the Batcave" kinda thing with the knockout gas and what not.
Nothing has really changed at the Scummerson place next door since I last reported on it, although I do have a pretty funny current example of how these people think, or don't, as the case may be. About a month ago, when it was nice out, they washed a load of clothes and hung them on the line to dry.
So that being said, here's a picture from this morning:
Yep.
The same clothes.
These things have to be as stiff as shingles by now. At this point, they are basically a stretched out bundle of sun-bleached rags. I have no idea why they just decided to leave them there indefinitely, but they did. They have been rained on at least a dozen times, and then dried to a beef jerky-like consistency at least a dozen more.
I'm guessing that this particular thought process is being hammered out by the same malt liquor-blasted neurons they used to decide that the snowblower should be permanently stored in the middle of the front yard. Yeah. I can see the reason for the fence.
I actually called the number on the 'for sale' sign, and talked to Cooter. We chatted a while about the "real nice trout stream," the "fantastic views" and the "house" itself. He told me that he was pretty sure I could build a new house on this one-acre lot (I can't, there's a 3 acre minimum) and the fact that it was in the Saratoga school district, (it's not, it's in Corinth) and how the taxes were *very* reasonable (they're not) before we finally got down to price.
Are you ready?
All this can be yours for the amazingly low, bargain-basement price of.....
$35,000.00!!!
Keep in mind that a few years back we bought FIVE secluded acres on a dead end street a quarter mile away for $27,000. Somehow, I'm thinking that even with the recent real estate boom around here, this guy is living in some delusional crack-induced dreamland.
I thanked him, and told him I would catch up with him later for a look inside the house. If I get in there, I'll definitely post some pics.
There is one good thing about them asking so much for it -- there won't be anyone buying the place with last week's leftover drug profits and then turning it back into a shit collection with a shack in the middle of it. At least right now it's neat, and they keep the lawn mowed.
Anyway, don't all dial at once. You might start a bidding war.
*Outhouse
*Muddy culvert that splits the property in half
*Same room as above
5/30/05
Praise Batman, We gots us a party!
So we had a little dinner party on Sunday night for my birthday. Nothing fancy, just a few friends, some beer, wine, food and good conversation. It was very low-key. So I'm not exactly sure when things got to this point:
So anyway, if you happened to notice a slight glow toward the northern horizon, that was coming from my back yard. Whenever I invite Fireboy to the house, it's almost a given that sometime during the night I'll be hooking the hose up to put something out. You turn your back on him for a split second, and next thing you know, something's going up in flames. Most of the time it's outside at least, so...there's that.
The one thing this photo doesn't show, since I blurred his image to avoid unnecessarily alerting the authorities to his whereabouts, is the look of fervent joy on his face as he watched the tree burn. It was a look that clearly said, "This is what I was born to do."
I knew I should have dragged that old christmas tree out of sight when I had the chance, because it, as so many things at my house apparently do, "needed burnin'."
Dammit.
So anyway, if you happened to notice a slight glow toward the northern horizon, that was coming from my back yard. Whenever I invite Fireboy to the house, it's almost a given that sometime during the night I'll be hooking the hose up to put something out. You turn your back on him for a split second, and next thing you know, something's going up in flames. Most of the time it's outside at least, so...there's that.
The one thing this photo doesn't show, since I blurred his image to avoid unnecessarily alerting the authorities to his whereabouts, is the look of fervent joy on his face as he watched the tree burn. It was a look that clearly said, "This is what I was born to do."
I knew I should have dragged that old christmas tree out of sight when I had the chance, because it, as so many things at my house apparently do, "needed burnin'."
Dammit.
5/24/05
Stand down until I give the signal.
I actually learned something watching television last night. I know that's rare, but once in a while, it does actually happen.
While I was watching 24, I learned that this guy lives and works in my colon.
I call him Jack Bauell, and I believe him to be the Director of CMC, or Colon Mission Control. His job, from what this commercial told me, is to monitor my overall colonic environment, and if anything goes amiss, call out the troops, and by troops I mean some sort of new, high-powered liquid Imodium AD.
As you can tell from the picture, he has the latest in colon monitoring technology -- a real-time holographic image of the actual bowel he is sitting in, and a buttload of other equipment, so to speak, that can sense the seismic pre-shocks that indicate an oncoming bout of diarrhea, and head it off at the pass.
He is, basically, the top field operator my intestines have, and he runs a tight ship. He is all guts and glory -- a tough, no-nonsense, take no prisoners, thinking man's soldier, and I am thankful he has taken up residence in my lower abdomen.
He's no hard-nosed grunt -- far from it. He's exactly the kind of smooth operator you need watching your backside when you're 75 feet underwater in the Florida keys, or rafting down the Colorado river, and that undercooked ground beef and bean burrito you had for lunch decides to gear up a level 3 (or god forbid, level 4) case of the runs.*
I can only assume that after his shift in the hot seat, he gets to go home to a nice little place in the suburbs -- probably somewhere up around my esophogus -- that he shares with his wife, two kids and his dog Paco.
So here's to you, Mr. Jack Bauell, Director of Colon Mission Control. Yours is a dirty and much under-appreciated job. However, thanks to prime-time television your cover is blown, and I can now properly recognize your contribution to society.
Have a beer in me, and relax. You've earned it, my friend.
By the way, I'll be having the hot wings for lunch tomorrow. So get some sleep tonight.
*They tell you on the commercial that he is responding to a level three case of diarrhea, which, judging by the way CMC gets tossed around, is pretty damn violent. I am guessing that he lets his subordinates deal with the ones and twos. Also, I am pretty sure that anything higher than the level 3 that they illustrate on the commercial would mean he would be running CMC from the septic tank shortly thereafter.
While I was watching 24, I learned that this guy lives and works in my colon.
I call him Jack Bauell, and I believe him to be the Director of CMC, or Colon Mission Control. His job, from what this commercial told me, is to monitor my overall colonic environment, and if anything goes amiss, call out the troops, and by troops I mean some sort of new, high-powered liquid Imodium AD.
As you can tell from the picture, he has the latest in colon monitoring technology -- a real-time holographic image of the actual bowel he is sitting in, and a buttload of other equipment, so to speak, that can sense the seismic pre-shocks that indicate an oncoming bout of diarrhea, and head it off at the pass.
He is, basically, the top field operator my intestines have, and he runs a tight ship. He is all guts and glory -- a tough, no-nonsense, take no prisoners, thinking man's soldier, and I am thankful he has taken up residence in my lower abdomen.
He's no hard-nosed grunt -- far from it. He's exactly the kind of smooth operator you need watching your backside when you're 75 feet underwater in the Florida keys, or rafting down the Colorado river, and that undercooked ground beef and bean burrito you had for lunch decides to gear up a level 3 (or god forbid, level 4) case of the runs.*
I can only assume that after his shift in the hot seat, he gets to go home to a nice little place in the suburbs -- probably somewhere up around my esophogus -- that he shares with his wife, two kids and his dog Paco.
So here's to you, Mr. Jack Bauell, Director of Colon Mission Control. Yours is a dirty and much under-appreciated job. However, thanks to prime-time television your cover is blown, and I can now properly recognize your contribution to society.
Have a beer in me, and relax. You've earned it, my friend.
By the way, I'll be having the hot wings for lunch tomorrow. So get some sleep tonight.
*They tell you on the commercial that he is responding to a level three case of diarrhea, which, judging by the way CMC gets tossed around, is pretty damn violent. I am guessing that he lets his subordinates deal with the ones and twos. Also, I am pretty sure that anything higher than the level 3 that they illustrate on the commercial would mean he would be running CMC from the septic tank shortly thereafter.
5/21/05
Steve and Edie's is the best store in the universe
As some of you already know, I have a history with S&E. Well, I'm glad to say that nothing has improved. I walked in there today to get some milk, and when I get to the cooler, there's a kid stocking it with milk. I stand there for a few seconds, then he notices me. "You need milk?" he asks me sagely. I nod in the affirmative, he scoots out of the way and I reach over and grab the last quart of skim, and head toward the front register. "We have a milk club," he informs me.
The girl behind the register looks bored. She's twirling her hair between her fingers, and she's wearing what looks like a brand-new Good Charlotte T-shirt. She smiles, looks down at the milk I placed on the counter, and says "Are you in the milk club?"
Again with the freakin' milk club. I reply that yes, I am probably in the milk club.
She says, "What's your name?"
"Johnny Virgil," I tell her.
"Virgil...." she says thoughtfully, flipping through a box of index cards.
She looks up. "What letter does that start with?" she asks quizzically.
I blink.
No. Really?
Yes, really.
"Uh, V. It starts with V," I reply.
I have to think more quickly when I'm in that place. Next time, just to mess with her, I'm going to say, "It actually starts with a P, but the P is silent."
This is the future of america, right here.
The girl behind the register looks bored. She's twirling her hair between her fingers, and she's wearing what looks like a brand-new Good Charlotte T-shirt. She smiles, looks down at the milk I placed on the counter, and says "Are you in the milk club?"
Again with the freakin' milk club. I reply that yes, I am probably in the milk club.
She says, "What's your name?"
"Johnny Virgil," I tell her.
"Virgil...." she says thoughtfully, flipping through a box of index cards.
She looks up. "What letter does that start with?" she asks quizzically.
I blink.
No. Really?
Yes, really.
"Uh, V. It starts with V," I reply.
I have to think more quickly when I'm in that place. Next time, just to mess with her, I'm going to say, "It actually starts with a P, but the P is silent."
This is the future of america, right here.
5/20/05
Meat cube of love
For a while, it seemed like all the fast food places were on a health kick. Even McDonald’s had a low fat menu. Leave it to Wendy’s to buck the trend. Lately I've been seeing an ad for this new burger they’re selling, the Classic Triple, a.k.a. the “Beefasaurus Rex.” Truly, a beef lover's delight.
The underpinings of this monstrosity consist of a solid, 3-inch-high cube of beef.
I actually laughed out loud the first time I saw the commercial. I can’t even imagine ordering one of these heart stoppers, let alone actually eating one. Given how much cheap ground beef shrinks up when you cook it, each of those frozen patties has to start out about the size of Stephen King's last hard cover.
The weirdest thing -- to me, at least -- is the way they chose to build it. It’s not like they start off with a patty of meat, then a layer of lettuce, then another patty, then pickles…then meat, then tomatoes.....no way. That's too much work. Instead, they start this thing with three solid back-to-back slabs of meat, stacked up like the rolls on the back of a fat dude’s neck. Everything else is piled on top, like the afterthought that it actually is. This thing is All About The Meat, baby.
At first I was wondering about the three-patty thing, but then I figured it out. I think it actually has to be three separate patties by necessity, because if it were a single slab, it would still be raw and cold in the center when the outside was charred to a crisp. Given the quality of their beef to begin with, that's a sure recipe for a cozy night in the shitter. I might have to try one, just to say I did, but….I'm probably not that brave. That’s just too much meat for a normal human to digest. Even one like me who eats at superhuman speed.
Also for your enjoyment, two idiot people who have pissed me off in the last couple of weeks:
Elevator guy: So I’m riding up from the first floor after lunch, and just before the doors shut, some guy hits the button, and they open up again, and he gets on. Whenever someone does this, the elevator gets pissed, and lets out this loud buzzing sound that instantly rips through your nerve endings like a blowtorch through a chainlink fence. He couldn't just wait for the next one. That’s strike number one against this tool. Strike number two: He pushes the button for the second floor. Goddammit, walk up a flight of stairs. It won’t kill you.
Strike number three is the big one.
As he is stepping off the elevator on the second floor, this inconsiderate effer lets out an ENORMOUS fart, just as the doors slide closed behind him. I couldn’t believe it. So I had to ride up three more floors in a cloud of this dude’s post-lunch ass gas, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, except take shallow breaths through my mouth. The worst part was, I didn’t even recognize the guy, so I couldn’t track him down and "thank" him. I mean, what goes through the head of someone who does this? He couldn’t sphincter up for another 3 seconds until he cleared the elevator? Jesus.
Early morning delivery woman: Three times in the last week while I was driving to work, I’ve seen this incredibly stupid woman driving down the wrong side of the road, stuffing flyers or newspapers or some other trash into mailboxes. She does this by driving into oncoming traffic. I, for one, don’t appreciate a 6 am double-shot of adrenaline as I register the headlights of an oncoming car that appears to be heading directly at me. Trust me, that shit will wake you up fast.
Here’s a couple tips for you, lady – get your wide ass up a little earlier so that you’re not doing this during the morning rush. Also, don’t give me dirty looks like it’s MY job to avoid YOU, just because you think it’s ok to just throw the most basic of traffic laws right out your car window. YOU are on the wrong side, which also happens to be MY side, so shove your indignant looks right into the next mailbox in line and get the hell off the road. If you absolutely MUST do this shit during my morning commute, go buy a used mailtruck so you can drive like the rest of the people in this country. Badly, but mostly in the right direction.
Idiot.
I feel better now. Blogs are the best therapy.
The underpinings of this monstrosity consist of a solid, 3-inch-high cube of beef.
I actually laughed out loud the first time I saw the commercial. I can’t even imagine ordering one of these heart stoppers, let alone actually eating one. Given how much cheap ground beef shrinks up when you cook it, each of those frozen patties has to start out about the size of Stephen King's last hard cover.
The weirdest thing -- to me, at least -- is the way they chose to build it. It’s not like they start off with a patty of meat, then a layer of lettuce, then another patty, then pickles…then meat, then tomatoes.....no way. That's too much work. Instead, they start this thing with three solid back-to-back slabs of meat, stacked up like the rolls on the back of a fat dude’s neck. Everything else is piled on top, like the afterthought that it actually is. This thing is All About The Meat, baby.
At first I was wondering about the three-patty thing, but then I figured it out. I think it actually has to be three separate patties by necessity, because if it were a single slab, it would still be raw and cold in the center when the outside was charred to a crisp. Given the quality of their beef to begin with, that's a sure recipe for a cozy night in the shitter. I might have to try one, just to say I did, but….I'm probably not that brave. That’s just too much meat for a normal human to digest. Even one like me who eats at superhuman speed.
Also for your enjoyment, two idiot people who have pissed me off in the last couple of weeks:
Elevator guy: So I’m riding up from the first floor after lunch, and just before the doors shut, some guy hits the button, and they open up again, and he gets on. Whenever someone does this, the elevator gets pissed, and lets out this loud buzzing sound that instantly rips through your nerve endings like a blowtorch through a chainlink fence. He couldn't just wait for the next one. That’s strike number one against this tool. Strike number two: He pushes the button for the second floor. Goddammit, walk up a flight of stairs. It won’t kill you.
Strike number three is the big one.
As he is stepping off the elevator on the second floor, this inconsiderate effer lets out an ENORMOUS fart, just as the doors slide closed behind him. I couldn’t believe it. So I had to ride up three more floors in a cloud of this dude’s post-lunch ass gas, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, except take shallow breaths through my mouth. The worst part was, I didn’t even recognize the guy, so I couldn’t track him down and "thank" him. I mean, what goes through the head of someone who does this? He couldn’t sphincter up for another 3 seconds until he cleared the elevator? Jesus.
Early morning delivery woman: Three times in the last week while I was driving to work, I’ve seen this incredibly stupid woman driving down the wrong side of the road, stuffing flyers or newspapers or some other trash into mailboxes. She does this by driving into oncoming traffic. I, for one, don’t appreciate a 6 am double-shot of adrenaline as I register the headlights of an oncoming car that appears to be heading directly at me. Trust me, that shit will wake you up fast.
Here’s a couple tips for you, lady – get your wide ass up a little earlier so that you’re not doing this during the morning rush. Also, don’t give me dirty looks like it’s MY job to avoid YOU, just because you think it’s ok to just throw the most basic of traffic laws right out your car window. YOU are on the wrong side, which also happens to be MY side, so shove your indignant looks right into the next mailbox in line and get the hell off the road. If you absolutely MUST do this shit during my morning commute, go buy a used mailtruck so you can drive like the rest of the people in this country. Badly, but mostly in the right direction.
Idiot.
I feel better now. Blogs are the best therapy.
5/19/05
Deer Internet,
I have to write this quickly, before they find me out. They're out there, right beyond the wire, waiting for their chance. If they knew the fence was down, if they even suspected it, it would be all over. They'd be on me like flies on shit.
All week long I have been unable to get on the internet with my pathetic dial-up connection, and tonight I finally figured out why. It's the deer. Those oversized, flower-eating forest rats have cut me off from the internet.
How, you ask? Let me tell you.
They couldn't just live and let live -- no they had to get in my shit. They forced me to put up an electric fence to keep them out of my wife's garden, and now the fence is interfering with my phone lines. The only way I can connect to the internet is when the fence is down, so I have to write this quickly, before they realize things are wide open. If word gets out, there could be a riot in the yard.
Last year, they destroyed about $500 bucks worth of flowers. Chewed them right to the ground. So far, these deer have cost me about a grand, and a ton of inconvenience. First the flowers, and then this fence, and now my goddamn internet connection. They're taking it all, piece by piece. By this time next year, they plan to be living in our house, watching our TV and drinking my Guinness.
Over my dead body. Yeah, I know they were here first. I'll be here last.
Effers.
5/17/05
If you gotta go, go laughing.
A couple years ago, about this time of the season, a very nice house started going up on a semi-busy street in Saratoga. It looked to be a really nice place, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why they would build it where they did. It had a gorgeous porch, beautiful grounds and even a separate three-car garage, but it was right on top of the road. Cars would be driving by it non-stop, and there would be absolutely no peace and quiet. I watched it go up over a period of weeks. When it was done, there was a final addition -- a sign outside that read: Mary's Haven - Home for the Dying.
My first reaction was "Ewww. That's kind of a strange thing to advertise." After I saw the sign, however, I knew why they weren't really concerned about traffic noises. The people who live there don't have to bitch about it for too long before it's not a problem for them anymore.
Turns out this place provides Hospice care for people without a primary care-giver. Basically, people go there instead of hospice services coming to you. It's a place where the staff chooses people who have the "greatest need and the fewest options." They only have two rooms, which are generally always full. They provide a great, very-much needed service, and I applaud the people who run it and the many volunteers that make it work as well as it does. God willing, none of us will ever live long enough to be forced to take advantage of a place like this, but if we do, it might not be the worst place in the world to spend your final days.
That being said, the sign still strikes me funny. Yeah, I know, I find humor in really strange things. "But death isn't funny," you say. Well, *I* say you're wrong. My way of dealing with things I fear is to laugh at them. That practice doesn't really work out all that well if you're about to get your head shoved up your ass by an angry biker in some sleazy bar, but when it comes to death and dying as abstract concepts, it works just fine, thank you very much.
Anyway, think about it -- How much would it suck for your mailing address to be:
John Smith
Home for the Dying
1313 Mockingbird Lane,
Saratoga, NY 12856
Talk about awkward. Say for instance you walk into Best buy to pick out a new 60 gig iPod.
"Name?"
"John Smith."
"Address?"
"Home for the Dying, 1313 Mockingbird Lane, Saratoga, NY"
[Long pause] "Yeah...you might want to to think about picking up this 10 gigger instead. It only holds like 14 days worth of tunes, but it's a lot cheaper because it's been discontinued. And for only $39.95, I can offer you a lifetime replacement warran.......uh, I'll just put that in a bag for you."
There would be other issues as well. Good luck getting a credit card or a bank loan with that address. And I'm pretty sure your chances of actually getting a call girl of any caliber to come out to your place for a quickie on a Friday afternoon would be pretty slim.
On the plus side, you probably won't have any insurance agents calling you, so there's that.
All humor aside, when you're considering making a charitable donation, think about Hospice organizations. They do good work.
My first reaction was "Ewww. That's kind of a strange thing to advertise." After I saw the sign, however, I knew why they weren't really concerned about traffic noises. The people who live there don't have to bitch about it for too long before it's not a problem for them anymore.
Turns out this place provides Hospice care for people without a primary care-giver. Basically, people go there instead of hospice services coming to you. It's a place where the staff chooses people who have the "greatest need and the fewest options." They only have two rooms, which are generally always full. They provide a great, very-much needed service, and I applaud the people who run it and the many volunteers that make it work as well as it does. God willing, none of us will ever live long enough to be forced to take advantage of a place like this, but if we do, it might not be the worst place in the world to spend your final days.
That being said, the sign still strikes me funny. Yeah, I know, I find humor in really strange things. "But death isn't funny," you say. Well, *I* say you're wrong. My way of dealing with things I fear is to laugh at them. That practice doesn't really work out all that well if you're about to get your head shoved up your ass by an angry biker in some sleazy bar, but when it comes to death and dying as abstract concepts, it works just fine, thank you very much.
Anyway, think about it -- How much would it suck for your mailing address to be:
John Smith
Home for the Dying
1313 Mockingbird Lane,
Saratoga, NY 12856
Talk about awkward. Say for instance you walk into Best buy to pick out a new 60 gig iPod.
"Name?"
"John Smith."
"Address?"
"Home for the Dying, 1313 Mockingbird Lane, Saratoga, NY"
[Long pause] "Yeah...you might want to to think about picking up this 10 gigger instead. It only holds like 14 days worth of tunes, but it's a lot cheaper because it's been discontinued. And for only $39.95, I can offer you a lifetime replacement warran.......uh, I'll just put that in a bag for you."
There would be other issues as well. Good luck getting a credit card or a bank loan with that address. And I'm pretty sure your chances of actually getting a call girl of any caliber to come out to your place for a quickie on a Friday afternoon would be pretty slim.
On the plus side, you probably won't have any insurance agents calling you, so there's that.
All humor aside, when you're considering making a charitable donation, think about Hospice organizations. They do good work.
5/14/05
JaQueen is Pleased.
I stumbled on this in my desk drawer today. A few years ago, I was working early one morning, and this network admin broadcast message popped up on my screen:
It struck me funny at the time, so I printed it out and saved it. I had absolutely no clue what it meant. I did know, however, that there was a story buried here somewhere. I just wasn’t sure what it was. I sent the screenshot to my friend. Who was JaQueen? Who was Phillippe? What was Stargate? And Laserpro? He had none of the answers. He told me that he would await the results of my research.
After checking into it, I decided that the most probable explanation was that this message did not originate on our network, but rather was inadvertently intercepted by us as a result of immense electrical disturbances caused by recent solar flares. It had actually come from an alien ship in a distant galaxy. I am pretty sure this is what happened:
JaQueen glanced at the com-screen. A message from Phillippe, using her commID. He was incompetent, subservient, spineless and brainless, she thought. He was, however, her only engineer. She should have had him killed and replaced long ago.
She punched up his comm-channel and spoke.
“Phillippe! I need Stargate and I need it NOW,” JaQueen commanded. “Unless you repair the weapon systems and get Laserpro back on-line, we are dead. The Scrotians have us trapped. If you cannot do it, I will find someone who can. And do not use my command console ID again. Ever.”
“Yes, my Queen,” Phillippe replied. “I apologize profusely. I used it because it was convenient, and I -- ”
“SILENCE!” JaQueen commanded. “Do not waste my time by talking. Do your job. I expect Laserpro will be available – WITH remote function – within ten minutes. If it is not, there will be consequences. If not by by me, then by the Scrotians. Either way, you will not like the result.”
She killed the comm connection before he could respond. Let him sweat, she thought. It will make him more diligent. She started the countdown timer on her chrono, and turned her attention back to the mainscreen at the front of the bridge. She needed to stall for time. She opened a channel to the Commander of the ship that was currently holding them in stasis. She looked at the insectoid head that appeared on her viewscreen, and tried not to vomit.
“Commander Sporn. I….agree to your terms of surrender. I have one request. Please allow us ten minutes to make peace with the gods of our afterworld. Then, we will lower our remaining shields and allow you to board."
A series of clicks and whistles emanated from the console speakers, and the universal translator kicked in, converting these strange sounds to intelligible speech.
“If we wish to board, we will, regardless of the status of your shields,” the translator relayed in a metallic voice. “However, we grant you eleven minutes. We are not, after all, barbarians.”
She killed the channel, and sat, waiting for Phillippe to do the impossible.
Exactly ten minutes and 50 seconds later, the following message appeared on her console:
That idiot had used her console ID AGAIN. If he had actually repaired Stargate, she would forgive him. Maybe.
She turned to her command panel, and punched up the Stargate weapons system console. Laserpro was armed, and indicated full power. Phillippe had actually done it. JaQueen was pleased.
She would have to time this right. The Scrotians would have to drop their own shields to board, and she was counting on this. She keyed the com console and opened a channel to the Scrotian commander.
“We are ready to be boarded,” JaQueen said. “Please have mercy on our very young and very old.” JaQueen dropped her shields. Her ship was totally vulnerable.
“Very well,” the Scrotian commander replied. “Death will be quick. Prepare to be boarded.”
The screen went blank.
“Weaponsmaster! Laserpro ready,” JaQueen commanded. “Target the Scrotian ship at the base of the shaft. It’s their most vulnerable spot. Wait for them to lower their shields, then fire.”
The instant the Scrotians lowered their shields, the Stargate weapons console danced under the fingers of the weaponsmaster. Twin beams of white light shot out from the front of the ship, striking their intended target exactly where planned.
The base of the shaft withstood the barrage for a second, then the protective shield collapsed. Laserpro tore through the skin of the Scrotian ship. JaQueen wanted the spectacle to last, but unfortunately the scrotian ship exploded prematurely, ending her enjoyment.
She checked her chrono. Still time for a late dinner. Looking at it reminded her that Phillippe was almost one full minute late getting Stargate back online. This would not do. And he had used her console again.
He had saved her ship, however, so there was that.
She decided to let him live a little longer.
It struck me funny at the time, so I printed it out and saved it. I had absolutely no clue what it meant. I did know, however, that there was a story buried here somewhere. I just wasn’t sure what it was. I sent the screenshot to my friend. Who was JaQueen? Who was Phillippe? What was Stargate? And Laserpro? He had none of the answers. He told me that he would await the results of my research.
After checking into it, I decided that the most probable explanation was that this message did not originate on our network, but rather was inadvertently intercepted by us as a result of immense electrical disturbances caused by recent solar flares. It had actually come from an alien ship in a distant galaxy. I am pretty sure this is what happened:
JaQueen glanced at the com-screen. A message from Phillippe, using her commID. He was incompetent, subservient, spineless and brainless, she thought. He was, however, her only engineer. She should have had him killed and replaced long ago.
She punched up his comm-channel and spoke.
“Phillippe! I need Stargate and I need it NOW,” JaQueen commanded. “Unless you repair the weapon systems and get Laserpro back on-line, we are dead. The Scrotians have us trapped. If you cannot do it, I will find someone who can. And do not use my command console ID again. Ever.”
“Yes, my Queen,” Phillippe replied. “I apologize profusely. I used it because it was convenient, and I -- ”
“SILENCE!” JaQueen commanded. “Do not waste my time by talking. Do your job. I expect Laserpro will be available – WITH remote function – within ten minutes. If it is not, there will be consequences. If not by by me, then by the Scrotians. Either way, you will not like the result.”
She killed the comm connection before he could respond. Let him sweat, she thought. It will make him more diligent. She started the countdown timer on her chrono, and turned her attention back to the mainscreen at the front of the bridge. She needed to stall for time. She opened a channel to the Commander of the ship that was currently holding them in stasis. She looked at the insectoid head that appeared on her viewscreen, and tried not to vomit.
“Commander Sporn. I….agree to your terms of surrender. I have one request. Please allow us ten minutes to make peace with the gods of our afterworld. Then, we will lower our remaining shields and allow you to board."
A series of clicks and whistles emanated from the console speakers, and the universal translator kicked in, converting these strange sounds to intelligible speech.
“If we wish to board, we will, regardless of the status of your shields,” the translator relayed in a metallic voice. “However, we grant you eleven minutes. We are not, after all, barbarians.”
She killed the channel, and sat, waiting for Phillippe to do the impossible.
Exactly ten minutes and 50 seconds later, the following message appeared on her console:
That idiot had used her console ID AGAIN. If he had actually repaired Stargate, she would forgive him. Maybe.
She turned to her command panel, and punched up the Stargate weapons system console. Laserpro was armed, and indicated full power. Phillippe had actually done it. JaQueen was pleased.
She would have to time this right. The Scrotians would have to drop their own shields to board, and she was counting on this. She keyed the com console and opened a channel to the Scrotian commander.
“We are ready to be boarded,” JaQueen said. “Please have mercy on our very young and very old.” JaQueen dropped her shields. Her ship was totally vulnerable.
“Very well,” the Scrotian commander replied. “Death will be quick. Prepare to be boarded.”
The screen went blank.
“Weaponsmaster! Laserpro ready,” JaQueen commanded. “Target the Scrotian ship at the base of the shaft. It’s their most vulnerable spot. Wait for them to lower their shields, then fire.”
The instant the Scrotians lowered their shields, the Stargate weapons console danced under the fingers of the weaponsmaster. Twin beams of white light shot out from the front of the ship, striking their intended target exactly where planned.
The base of the shaft withstood the barrage for a second, then the protective shield collapsed. Laserpro tore through the skin of the Scrotian ship. JaQueen wanted the spectacle to last, but unfortunately the scrotian ship exploded prematurely, ending her enjoyment.
She checked her chrono. Still time for a late dinner. Looking at it reminded her that Phillippe was almost one full minute late getting Stargate back online. This would not do. And he had used her console again.
He had saved her ship, however, so there was that.
She decided to let him live a little longer.
5/12/05
It only takes a minute, girl.
I was a radio junkie when I was a kid. I would rush home to listen to Casey Kasim on Saturdays, and late at night, I'd try to pick up the skip signals, pulling in stations from Chicago, Maryland, NYC and other exotic locations.
Check it out. She's gone. It only takes a minute. Remember what I told you to forget. Heaven must be missing an angel. Don't take away the music. Fool of the year.
Not exactly the typical soundtrack of adolescence for a lower-middle class white kid growing up in the 70's, but for me, it was the first music I ever lived for. The songs were all by the same group -- Tavares. Five brothers who sang exquisite harmony, Tavares were the lesser-known contemporaries of Earth, Wind & Fire, The Commodores and The Spinners. I heard "It only takes a minute" on the radio, I won their LP by being caller number 5, and the rest was history. I was nine years old, and Tavares sparked my nascent musical interests, and then lit them up like a flare. This was the first music that got inside my spine and made me want to do the white-boy shuffle. I knew all their songs and had all their records. I have no idea why they struck me like they did, but I think it was something about their ballads. I didn't realize they were the precursor to disco, or I may have dropped them right there. Disco didn't exist yet -- instead it was a type of R&B that made you want to jump around, and ballads that made you pine for the girl you were afraid to even make eye-contact with. At nine, I could get behind both of these things wholeheartedly.
In addition to being the first music I ever listened to, they also have the distinction of being the first live music I ever saw, and the first concert I ever attended. When I heard on the radio that they were coming to town, I badgered my mother into letting me attend. She listened to some of the music to make sure it was appropriate, then agreed, with reservations. I had to find someone to go with, I had to be dropped off and picked up at a precise time, and she would be the one doing the driving. I jumped on the chance, and called my best friend Mike to see if he wanted to go.
Mike had never heard of them, and in fact, I don't know if he even listened to the radio at all at that point. But he agreed to go, we got the blessing from Mike's mother, and then we waited not-so-patiently for the night of the concert to arrive. Our tickets showed up in the mail a few days later, and it was such a thrill to hold them in my hand. I must have examined them for hours. They were bigger than movie tickets, and had the name of the band written right on them. I was hoping to get an autograph.
The night of the concert, my mother pulled up in front of the venue and we got out. As she pulled away, something struck us as odd. There was something out of place, something weird, something that we didn't put our finger on right away. We stood there and looked around, trying to figure it out.
Almost simultaneously, we realized what the problem was. I glanced at my blond-haired, blue-eyed friend, and he was looking back at me, wide-eyed.
Leaning close to me so he wouldn't be overheard, he whispered, "Everyone is black."
"Yeah," I replied, in total awe.
We were the only white people within a quarter mile radius. The entire crowd consisted almost exclusively of black couples. There were no kids. And definitely no little white kids.
We attended a tiny elementary school, and I think there was probably one black kid in the entire school. This was the most black people we had ever seen in one place. We quickly walked inside, careful to avoid looking anywhere but straight ahead, and tried to find our seats.
As we were moving through the crowd, people noticed us. They were laughing, shaking their heads and pointing, and doing a fair amount of whispering of their own. "I think they're lost." "Yo, The Captain and Tennille aren't playin' tonight." "Hey, look at the little white dudes. That's some funny shit."
We found our seats and sat down. They were pretty good. Something like tenth row, but they were kind of in the middle. It was ok at first, since we had gotten there early, but eventually the seats around us filled up. We sat there, our necks on swivels, just staring at the people around us. People dressed in Tuxedos and glittery dresses, leisure suits of all types, short skirts, long skirts, tube-tops, fancy hats and everything in between. There was so much to look at, I think our senses went into overload. There was a ton of smoke in the air too, and not all of it smelled like cigarettes. So in addition to seeing my first band and my first really large group of black folks, I also got my first whiff of pot. Bonus.
The house lights went down, and the band started playing. The stage lights exploded into colors, and the brothers came out, dressed in identical white suits and sky blue shirts, instantly dancing. They moved as one, a syncopated machine on a Teflon stage, sliding and clapping with precision, spinning on queue. They broke into "Whodunit," and I was gone.
I was singing the words to every song, and even though I couldn't see very well because everyone was standing, I could make out enough of the stage to know it was the greatest experience of my young life. After about the 5th song, I started noticing the people around me -- mostly because they were noticing me.
Finally, a big, bald, black dude with a beard leaned over and yelled, "Can you see?"
"Not really," I yelled back. "We're too short."
He said, "We gonna get you to the aisle."
Before I realized what was happening, he had us walking on the backs and arms of the chairs, helped along by the folks in our row. When we reached the aisle, we jumped down. It was amazing. We could see the entire stage, and there was nobody in front of us. I couldn't believe I was actually watching the people who were responsible for "The Love I Never Had," a song I played incessantly during my first crush on a girl. We stood for a while, and then the security guy noticed us. He motioned for us to come down to the front, and we thought he would make us go back to our seats. Instead, he said we could sit on the floor right there in the aisle, dead-even with the front row.
So we did. For the entire show.
They played their concert, and ran off stage, and the crowd went crazy. A few minutes before the band came out for for the encore, the big bouncer came over to us and said the band had invited us to sit on the edge of the stage for the last song, if we wanted to. It was a dream come true, for me at least. I wasn't so sure about Mike, but I didn't care.
I’ve been to more concerts than I can count, but a first concert is like a first kiss, or losing your virginity. You never forget the first time, no matter how good or how bad it is. Those three moments are always with you. If you’re lucky, and they're all good, you get the hat trick.
So even though I helped usher in what was to be the Disco Age, I’m not sorry. Whenever I hear a Tavares song, I’m instantly transported back to the innocent age of nine, and that one concert, that one magic moment in time, when I sat on the stage with my idols and they didn’t let me down.
Check it out.
Check it out. She's gone. It only takes a minute. Remember what I told you to forget. Heaven must be missing an angel. Don't take away the music. Fool of the year.
Not exactly the typical soundtrack of adolescence for a lower-middle class white kid growing up in the 70's, but for me, it was the first music I ever lived for. The songs were all by the same group -- Tavares. Five brothers who sang exquisite harmony, Tavares were the lesser-known contemporaries of Earth, Wind & Fire, The Commodores and The Spinners. I heard "It only takes a minute" on the radio, I won their LP by being caller number 5, and the rest was history. I was nine years old, and Tavares sparked my nascent musical interests, and then lit them up like a flare. This was the first music that got inside my spine and made me want to do the white-boy shuffle. I knew all their songs and had all their records. I have no idea why they struck me like they did, but I think it was something about their ballads. I didn't realize they were the precursor to disco, or I may have dropped them right there. Disco didn't exist yet -- instead it was a type of R&B that made you want to jump around, and ballads that made you pine for the girl you were afraid to even make eye-contact with. At nine, I could get behind both of these things wholeheartedly.
In addition to being the first music I ever listened to, they also have the distinction of being the first live music I ever saw, and the first concert I ever attended. When I heard on the radio that they were coming to town, I badgered my mother into letting me attend. She listened to some of the music to make sure it was appropriate, then agreed, with reservations. I had to find someone to go with, I had to be dropped off and picked up at a precise time, and she would be the one doing the driving. I jumped on the chance, and called my best friend Mike to see if he wanted to go.
Mike had never heard of them, and in fact, I don't know if he even listened to the radio at all at that point. But he agreed to go, we got the blessing from Mike's mother, and then we waited not-so-patiently for the night of the concert to arrive. Our tickets showed up in the mail a few days later, and it was such a thrill to hold them in my hand. I must have examined them for hours. They were bigger than movie tickets, and had the name of the band written right on them. I was hoping to get an autograph.
The night of the concert, my mother pulled up in front of the venue and we got out. As she pulled away, something struck us as odd. There was something out of place, something weird, something that we didn't put our finger on right away. We stood there and looked around, trying to figure it out.
Almost simultaneously, we realized what the problem was. I glanced at my blond-haired, blue-eyed friend, and he was looking back at me, wide-eyed.
Leaning close to me so he wouldn't be overheard, he whispered, "Everyone is black."
"Yeah," I replied, in total awe.
We were the only white people within a quarter mile radius. The entire crowd consisted almost exclusively of black couples. There were no kids. And definitely no little white kids.
We attended a tiny elementary school, and I think there was probably one black kid in the entire school. This was the most black people we had ever seen in one place. We quickly walked inside, careful to avoid looking anywhere but straight ahead, and tried to find our seats.
As we were moving through the crowd, people noticed us. They were laughing, shaking their heads and pointing, and doing a fair amount of whispering of their own. "I think they're lost." "Yo, The Captain and Tennille aren't playin' tonight." "Hey, look at the little white dudes. That's some funny shit."
We found our seats and sat down. They were pretty good. Something like tenth row, but they were kind of in the middle. It was ok at first, since we had gotten there early, but eventually the seats around us filled up. We sat there, our necks on swivels, just staring at the people around us. People dressed in Tuxedos and glittery dresses, leisure suits of all types, short skirts, long skirts, tube-tops, fancy hats and everything in between. There was so much to look at, I think our senses went into overload. There was a ton of smoke in the air too, and not all of it smelled like cigarettes. So in addition to seeing my first band and my first really large group of black folks, I also got my first whiff of pot. Bonus.
The house lights went down, and the band started playing. The stage lights exploded into colors, and the brothers came out, dressed in identical white suits and sky blue shirts, instantly dancing. They moved as one, a syncopated machine on a Teflon stage, sliding and clapping with precision, spinning on queue. They broke into "Whodunit," and I was gone.
I was singing the words to every song, and even though I couldn't see very well because everyone was standing, I could make out enough of the stage to know it was the greatest experience of my young life. After about the 5th song, I started noticing the people around me -- mostly because they were noticing me.
Finally, a big, bald, black dude with a beard leaned over and yelled, "Can you see?"
"Not really," I yelled back. "We're too short."
He said, "We gonna get you to the aisle."
Before I realized what was happening, he had us walking on the backs and arms of the chairs, helped along by the folks in our row. When we reached the aisle, we jumped down. It was amazing. We could see the entire stage, and there was nobody in front of us. I couldn't believe I was actually watching the people who were responsible for "The Love I Never Had," a song I played incessantly during my first crush on a girl. We stood for a while, and then the security guy noticed us. He motioned for us to come down to the front, and we thought he would make us go back to our seats. Instead, he said we could sit on the floor right there in the aisle, dead-even with the front row.
So we did. For the entire show.
They played their concert, and ran off stage, and the crowd went crazy. A few minutes before the band came out for for the encore, the big bouncer came over to us and said the band had invited us to sit on the edge of the stage for the last song, if we wanted to. It was a dream come true, for me at least. I wasn't so sure about Mike, but I didn't care.
I’ve been to more concerts than I can count, but a first concert is like a first kiss, or losing your virginity. You never forget the first time, no matter how good or how bad it is. Those three moments are always with you. If you’re lucky, and they're all good, you get the hat trick.
So even though I helped usher in what was to be the Disco Age, I’m not sorry. Whenever I hear a Tavares song, I’m instantly transported back to the innocent age of nine, and that one concert, that one magic moment in time, when I sat on the stage with my idols and they didn’t let me down.
Check it out.
5/6/05
Paradise by the Kenmore light
Why my wife should never ask me to make the meatloaf when she's not home:
How to not have sex for at least 7 days
1. Rent the movie "The Ring" some weekend.
2. Watch it with your wife (or girlfriend) really late at night.
3. When the end credits are still rolling, get up to go to the bathroom.
4. Using your cell phone, call the house phone. When your wife or girlfriend answers, pause for a second, then whisper "ssseven daysss......."
Additional note: In my experience, you may want to move the phone away from your ear to avoid any permanent damage caused by the loud screams of "YOU ASSHOLE!"
2. Watch it with your wife (or girlfriend) really late at night.
3. When the end credits are still rolling, get up to go to the bathroom.
4. Using your cell phone, call the house phone. When your wife or girlfriend answers, pause for a second, then whisper "ssseven daysss......."
Additional note: In my experience, you may want to move the phone away from your ear to avoid any permanent damage caused by the loud screams of "YOU ASSHOLE!"
5/3/05
I will not sleep well tonight.
I'm not sure about the rest of you, but whenever *I* eat Skittles, the one thing I rarely - if ever - experience is a hankerin' for man-sheep.
This is just soooo wrong on so many levels, I don't know where to start. Oh wait, yes I do.
1. JESUS CHRIST! THEY'RE MAN-SHEEP!
2. The black man-sheep is also white? What's up with that?
3. I'm hoping like hell that the man-sheep are just really good friends.
4. Was this creature borne of woman or sheep? Or woman-sheep?
5. THEY ARE MEN - BUT ALSO SHEEP! GAH!
6. I keep waiting for the axe to come down on the tree stump.
7. God help me, I keep wondering what they would look like sheared.
OK, I'm off the commercials for a while. I need to find something else to write about. I may escape to my childhood for a few posts. I can't take much more of this.
This is just soooo wrong on so many levels, I don't know where to start. Oh wait, yes I do.
1. JESUS CHRIST! THEY'RE MAN-SHEEP!
2. The black man-sheep is also white? What's up with that?
3. I'm hoping like hell that the man-sheep are just really good friends.
4. Was this creature borne of woman or sheep? Or woman-sheep?
5. THEY ARE MEN - BUT ALSO SHEEP! GAH!
6. I keep waiting for the axe to come down on the tree stump.
7. God help me, I keep wondering what they would look like sheared.
OK, I'm off the commercials for a while. I need to find something else to write about. I may escape to my childhood for a few posts. I can't take much more of this.
More finger food
So it appears that this is the week for finger food in the news. Unlike that sleazy bitch who cost Wendy's so much money with her fraudulent lawsuit, these particular entries into the little-too-fast food category have actually been verified by the respective restaurants involved.
This week, this guy found a fingertip in his frozen custard. He apparently "thought it was candy because they put candy in your ice cream ... to make it a treat.'
He then told reporters that he thought to himself, "OK, well, I'll just put it in my mouth and get the ice cream off of it and see what it is."
Stowers said he spit the object out, but still couldn't identify it, so he washed it off and...
Surprise! Finger Treat.
I can almost guarantee that this dude will never eat anything but plain ice cream again as long as he lives. Not strawberry. Not praline crunch. Not Super fudge chunk. Especially not The Gobfather, because christ only knows what's in that shit.
This next one goes out to Toren and her Jusskins(tm)
Last week, this guy filed his lawsuit. It turns out that he found a piece of skin on his Arby's chicken sandwich. The bad part? It had fingerprints, and that's never a good sign.
He said, "It looked like I was seeing fingerprints on it," he said. "I got sick and went to the bathroom."
I appreciate his honesty and hardcore dedication to accuracy, because that is the exact order in which I would have done things too. While it may be much neater and more socially acceptable to go into the bathroom and then get sick, it rarely seems to happen that way when body parts are found in your food.
According to the story, health investigators talked to the restaurant manager, who had a bandage on his right thumb and wore a latex glove, according to a health district report.
Busted.
I'm thinking that this one would have been hard to deny, given the fact that the fingerprints on the rest of his fingers actually matched the one in the sandwich.
The manager said he sliced the skin from the thumb while shredding lettuce, and sanitized the area but didn't throw away the bin of lettuce, the report said.
For some unknown reason, he wasn't at all concerned about where the errant slice got off to. As long as he saved his bin of lettuce, he was all good.
Sweet Jesus.
From now on, I'm bringing my lunch from home.
5/1/05
Do you ever feel wet and sticky?
I shit you not, I just heard those exact words used in a Playtex Mini-pad commercial.
I think this is a new low in the feminine hygiene product arena. Based on my last post, I felt compelled to comment on this commercial.
It starts out with two women chatting in the grocery store. One turns to the other and says, "Does your mini-pad ever make you feel wet and sticky?"
The other woman lights up enthusiastically, and replies that yes, in fact, she feels exactly the same way. For a second, based on her response, you think that perhaps you mis-heard the question, and it was actually "Don't you just love cheesecake?" You rewind the Tivo, hoping for the best.
Sadly, no. She really did just ask the other woman if her crotch ever feels wet and sticky.
In the middle of a casual conversation.
In the grocery store.
I can't even imagine how this would unfold if it ever happened in real life, since (a) I'm not a woman and I have no idea how they actually think, and (b) I generally stay out of that aisle if at all possible.
I can, however, give you a good idea of how the conversation would go if it were between men, say, at a baseball game, surrounded by other fans.
"Steve, this is a great game! Thanks for the invite, buddy."
"Hey, anytime, man. I had the extra ticket, so I'm just glad you could make it. Hey, Bob, I've been meaning to ask you -- does your crotch ever feel wet and sticky?"
[long pause]
"Jesus, dude. What the hell is wrong with you? I'm gonna go get a beer."
I think this is a new low in the feminine hygiene product arena. Based on my last post, I felt compelled to comment on this commercial.
It starts out with two women chatting in the grocery store. One turns to the other and says, "Does your mini-pad ever make you feel wet and sticky?"
The other woman lights up enthusiastically, and replies that yes, in fact, she feels exactly the same way. For a second, based on her response, you think that perhaps you mis-heard the question, and it was actually "Don't you just love cheesecake?" You rewind the Tivo, hoping for the best.
Sadly, no. She really did just ask the other woman if her crotch ever feels wet and sticky.
In the middle of a casual conversation.
In the grocery store.
I can't even imagine how this would unfold if it ever happened in real life, since (a) I'm not a woman and I have no idea how they actually think, and (b) I generally stay out of that aisle if at all possible.
I can, however, give you a good idea of how the conversation would go if it were between men, say, at a baseball game, surrounded by other fans.
"Steve, this is a great game! Thanks for the invite, buddy."
"Hey, anytime, man. I had the extra ticket, so I'm just glad you could make it. Hey, Bob, I've been meaning to ask you -- does your crotch ever feel wet and sticky?"
[long pause]
"Jesus, dude. What the hell is wrong with you? I'm gonna go get a beer."
4/29/05
I've been feeling a little blue lately...
So what is it about the color blue that the TV ad guys think we automatically associate with valid scientific tests?
I know that might not make much sense, but stay with me for a second.
I recently noticed that whenever you see test tubes or lab beakers on television, they're always full of that same clear blue liquid. It's almost the same color as the chemicals in a Porta-Potty. It's the same color as Sani-Flush. It's the same color as window cleaner.
I hate that color. Mostly because when I see that color, my mind instantly conjures up the smell of either Windex or toilet bowl cleaner, neither of which are on my list of favorite smells.
On TV, it may turn another color after they do whatever they're doing to it, but it almost always starts out that uniform shade of medicinal blue.
There is one exception to this rule: Antacids are always demonstrated using Some Other Color. I'm thinking that perhaps the logic there is that blue would be too soothing a color to represent acid indigestion, but I'm just guessing here.
Think about it. Paper towel commercials are always showing off their absorbency by being stuffed into glasses of blue water, or soaking up blue spills on the countertop. I mean, seriously, who spills blue stuff? Nobody I know, except for those people who drink that blue GatorAid, and they should be beaten within an inch of their lives.
Then there's always the tampon and maxi-pad ads: Yeah, there's that blue liquid again.
Now, I realize that for obvious reasons, the color red would be a spectacularly bad choice for either of the last two examples -- reality of the situation be damned -- however, in the paper towel arena, red could be the impetus for some interesting and disturbing commercials.
As your host, it is my duty to provide you with an example:
So anyway, my twisted imagination aside, I'm casting my vote for purple or green. It's different, it's eye catching, and you can still pour it on top of a maxipad or swipe it off a bar top without grossing out your TV audience.
Anything but that damn blue.
Oh, and feel free to take the feminine hygiene ads off the television completely. Every possible thing people of either sex need to know about them can be learned by reading the back of the box in the drug store. Same goes for all commercials that contain any of the following words:
1. Burning
2. Itching
3. Bloating
4. Not so Fresh
5. Mucus Membranes
6. Lubrication
7. Dysfunction
8. Wet and Sticky*
And what's with the cartoon bears wiping their asses with Charmin behind the tree? No matter how soft that stuff is, there's no way hairy bear ass is even coming close to clean without a pre-moistened wipe of some sort.
*new entry
I know that might not make much sense, but stay with me for a second.
I recently noticed that whenever you see test tubes or lab beakers on television, they're always full of that same clear blue liquid. It's almost the same color as the chemicals in a Porta-Potty. It's the same color as Sani-Flush. It's the same color as window cleaner.
I hate that color. Mostly because when I see that color, my mind instantly conjures up the smell of either Windex or toilet bowl cleaner, neither of which are on my list of favorite smells.
On TV, it may turn another color after they do whatever they're doing to it, but it almost always starts out that uniform shade of medicinal blue.
There is one exception to this rule: Antacids are always demonstrated using Some Other Color. I'm thinking that perhaps the logic there is that blue would be too soothing a color to represent acid indigestion, but I'm just guessing here.
Think about it. Paper towel commercials are always showing off their absorbency by being stuffed into glasses of blue water, or soaking up blue spills on the countertop. I mean, seriously, who spills blue stuff? Nobody I know, except for those people who drink that blue GatorAid, and they should be beaten within an inch of their lives.
Then there's always the tampon and maxi-pad ads: Yeah, there's that blue liquid again.
Now, I realize that for obvious reasons, the color red would be a spectacularly bad choice for either of the last two examples -- reality of the situation be damned -- however, in the paper towel arena, red could be the impetus for some interesting and disturbing commercials.
As your host, it is my duty to provide you with an example:
So anyway, my twisted imagination aside, I'm casting my vote for purple or green. It's different, it's eye catching, and you can still pour it on top of a maxipad or swipe it off a bar top without grossing out your TV audience.
Anything but that damn blue.
Oh, and feel free to take the feminine hygiene ads off the television completely. Every possible thing people of either sex need to know about them can be learned by reading the back of the box in the drug store. Same goes for all commercials that contain any of the following words:
1. Burning
2. Itching
3. Bloating
4. Not so Fresh
5. Mucus Membranes
6. Lubrication
7. Dysfunction
8. Wet and Sticky*
And what's with the cartoon bears wiping their asses with Charmin behind the tree? No matter how soft that stuff is, there's no way hairy bear ass is even coming close to clean without a pre-moistened wipe of some sort.
*new entry
4/28/05
Buried Treasure
Apparently, these guys dug up over 50 grand while removing a small tree in their back yard.
Things I have dug up in my back yard over the years:
On purpose:
1. A small tree (no cash bonus)
2. A septic tank (pumped out, $110)
3. Gigantic boulders in the exact places I needed to put the supports for my deck (broken auger, $50)
By mistake:
4. My cable television wire (severed, $45)
5. Construction debris (aggravation, free)
6. Electrical power line to my shop (severed, $25)
7. Previously buried dog shit (quickly reburied)
I really have to start digging in back yards that belong to other people, since almost all of the attempts in my own yard seem to actually cost me money.
On the other hand, maybe I should just stop digging altogether, since it also appears that I am not to be trusted with a shovel.
Things I have dug up in my back yard over the years:
On purpose:
1. A small tree (no cash bonus)
2. A septic tank (pumped out, $110)
3. Gigantic boulders in the exact places I needed to put the supports for my deck (broken auger, $50)
By mistake:
4. My cable television wire (severed, $45)
5. Construction debris (aggravation, free)
6. Electrical power line to my shop (severed, $25)
7. Previously buried dog shit (quickly reburied)
I really have to start digging in back yards that belong to other people, since almost all of the attempts in my own yard seem to actually cost me money.
On the other hand, maybe I should just stop digging altogether, since it also appears that I am not to be trusted with a shovel.
4/27/05
Free skibs: Rockin' it out bare-butt in Scranton
This is supposed to be a fine hotel. It's the Marriott for christ's sake, and it runs about $150 a night, including the corporate discount. I would think that for that amount of money, I wouldn't be forced to deal directly with some stranger's dirty tighty whities. Do the maids even vacuum under the beds here? I think they need to deploy a fleet of these:
Industrial strength, heavy duty underwear-sucking Roombas to go room to room snagging errant skivvies and other detritus from under the beds.
Here's what happened: I was so tired when I got back to my room that I fell face first on the bed and slept straight through what was supposed to be "going to the gym." Feeling guilty about that, I decided to do a few pushups after I ate dinner. Somewhere around push-up number twenty, I noticed a flash of white. There was something sticking out from under the coverlet on the bed. I thought it was one of my socks, so after I finished the push-ups, I reached down and grabbed it. I had it in my hand before I realized that:
1. It wasn't a sock
2. It was, in fact, a pair of someone else's dirty underwear and,
3. They were HUGE.
Granted, I didn't spend a lot of time examining them once I realized what they were, but whoever the guy was who left them here had to go at least three times my size. I can almost guarantee that he did not lose them doing anything resembling pushups. More likely, he dropped them by mistake and the act of just thinking about the exertion required to bend down and pick them up caused him to break a sweat, so he just gave them a quick shove under the bed with his foot.
There was no convenient time stamp or expiration date on them, so it was hard to judge just how long they had been there. I figured they were really too big for me and probably way past their prime, so I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances: I opened the door and kicked them into the hallway, half on top of my empty room service tray. Let the room services people make of that what they may.
The next thing I did was tentatively check under the other bed. I was cautiously optimistic that I would find nothing even more disgusting, and in this I got lucky. I half expected used snake skins, but the worst of it was an empty jolly rancher candy wrapper. So maybe the underwear Roomba isn't strictly necessary, but I feel it would still be really useful in a situation like this, just so I didn't have to actually touch them.
"Roomba! To the underwear!"
The housekeepers could send them in like one of those bomb-defusing robots or something. Encapsulate the undies and then run them to a safe place before detonating.
So I learned something new this trip. Check under the beds in addition to behind the bathroom door for other peoples clothing. You might score some decent britches. My friend got some lingerie for his wife that way. No such luck for my wife, dammit.
This reminds me of my last trip to Chicago. On that fateful journey, I learned another important and disgusting lesson.
Lesson: No matter how expensive the hotel, they do not wash the top bedspreads.
Always, always, always peel them off by one corner and let them fall to the floor. I cannot stress this enough. Last time I was there, I pulled down my covers and the inside of the top one had boot-knockin' skidmarks on it. Clearly, someone was in a major hurry. And this hotel ran close to three bills a night.
I kicked that into the hallway too. Then I slept in the tub.
Industrial strength, heavy duty underwear-sucking Roombas to go room to room snagging errant skivvies and other detritus from under the beds.
Here's what happened: I was so tired when I got back to my room that I fell face first on the bed and slept straight through what was supposed to be "going to the gym." Feeling guilty about that, I decided to do a few pushups after I ate dinner. Somewhere around push-up number twenty, I noticed a flash of white. There was something sticking out from under the coverlet on the bed. I thought it was one of my socks, so after I finished the push-ups, I reached down and grabbed it. I had it in my hand before I realized that:
1. It wasn't a sock
2. It was, in fact, a pair of someone else's dirty underwear and,
3. They were HUGE.
Granted, I didn't spend a lot of time examining them once I realized what they were, but whoever the guy was who left them here had to go at least three times my size. I can almost guarantee that he did not lose them doing anything resembling pushups. More likely, he dropped them by mistake and the act of just thinking about the exertion required to bend down and pick them up caused him to break a sweat, so he just gave them a quick shove under the bed with his foot.
There was no convenient time stamp or expiration date on them, so it was hard to judge just how long they had been there. I figured they were really too big for me and probably way past their prime, so I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances: I opened the door and kicked them into the hallway, half on top of my empty room service tray. Let the room services people make of that what they may.
The next thing I did was tentatively check under the other bed. I was cautiously optimistic that I would find nothing even more disgusting, and in this I got lucky. I half expected used snake skins, but the worst of it was an empty jolly rancher candy wrapper. So maybe the underwear Roomba isn't strictly necessary, but I feel it would still be really useful in a situation like this, just so I didn't have to actually touch them.
"Roomba! To the underwear!"
The housekeepers could send them in like one of those bomb-defusing robots or something. Encapsulate the undies and then run them to a safe place before detonating.
So I learned something new this trip. Check under the beds in addition to behind the bathroom door for other peoples clothing. You might score some decent britches. My friend got some lingerie for his wife that way. No such luck for my wife, dammit.
This reminds me of my last trip to Chicago. On that fateful journey, I learned another important and disgusting lesson.
Lesson: No matter how expensive the hotel, they do not wash the top bedspreads.
Always, always, always peel them off by one corner and let them fall to the floor. I cannot stress this enough. Last time I was there, I pulled down my covers and the inside of the top one had boot-knockin' skidmarks on it. Clearly, someone was in a major hurry. And this hotel ran close to three bills a night.
I kicked that into the hallway too. Then I slept in the tub.
4/25/05
Not All Fur Coats Are Created Equal
Greetings from beautiful downtown Cleveland. Yeah, I'm kidding. Not about the greetings part, but about the beautiful part. It's about 11pm, and I'm currently in my hotel room recovering from eating a piece of beef the size of a small child. I'm working on about 3 hours sleep, and I need to watch the inside of my eyelids for about a week.
Tonight at dinner, we got talking about ex-employees. "Janice" came up, and I instantly knew I had a post for today that would practically write itself.
So let me introduce you. Janice was someone who worked in our department about 5 or 6 years ago, and was the epitome of "dumb blonde." She was considered attractive, but I think this was mostly due to the fact that she was, as I said, blonde, which most guys like. In addition to that obvious advantage, she also she had very expensive, highly stylish clothes, and the body to wear them. She had a relatively pretty face, but it didn't really do much for me. Kinda cheek-bony, which isn't one of my favorite looks. She was a total princess from top to bottom, that's for sure. As Yort says, "you could tell she was high-maintenance just by looking at her."
She would always come to work dressed like there was at least a 60% chance that a famous celebrity would stop by, sweep her off her feet and fly her to Paris that very afternoon. In fact, she actually wore a real fur to work on a regular basis.
One day, Shamus and I needed to ask her a question, and her phone was busy. We decided to take a walk over to her desk. We had to do this because at the time we didn't have instant messaging, and if someone's phone was busy, you had two choices: Leave them a voicemail or actually go interact with them in person. (I know, it's unbelievable. The horror..)
So we walk up to her desk, and she's on the phone talking to a client. She's also reading a copy of Glamour magazine or some such. She was famous for that. You'd walk by, and she'd be chatting away, doing her nails or makeup.
As we're standing there waiting, Shamus reaches out and touches the fur coat, which was hanging on a hook attached to her cube wall. I'm not sure why he did it. Maybe to see if it was real, or maybe he just wanted to feel the texture, I don't know. I do know that Janice witnessed this, and felt compelled to give him more information.
She very carefully puts her hand over the mouthpiece on the receiver, looks directly at Shamus and whispers:
"Shaved Beaver."
Shamus blinks, obviously confused. "Huh?" he says.
She tries again.
"BEAVER. It's SHAVED."
I can't keep a straight face any longer, and when I start laughing, I turn and look at Shamus. He still has a dumbfounded expression on his face that says, "Did she say what I think she said?"
In the meantime Janice finishes up with the customer on the phone, and hangs up. She's a little miffed now, because she knows we're laughing at her, but she has no idea why, only that it has something to do with her and her coat.
She looks at Shamus and says in a snotty voice, "What? You guys have something against shaved beaver?"
Shamus manages to choke out a strangled "No, not at all" without completely losing it. We both turn around and head back to our desks, our question completely forgotten.
We had an answer we weren't sure what to do with, but that wasn't quite the same thing.
So anyway, a word of advice: If you're ever in the market for a fur coat -- or a high-maintenance blonde for that matter -- stay far, far away from the shaved beaver.
It's just a punchline waiting to happen.
Tonight at dinner, we got talking about ex-employees. "Janice" came up, and I instantly knew I had a post for today that would practically write itself.
So let me introduce you. Janice was someone who worked in our department about 5 or 6 years ago, and was the epitome of "dumb blonde." She was considered attractive, but I think this was mostly due to the fact that she was, as I said, blonde, which most guys like. In addition to that obvious advantage, she also she had very expensive, highly stylish clothes, and the body to wear them. She had a relatively pretty face, but it didn't really do much for me. Kinda cheek-bony, which isn't one of my favorite looks. She was a total princess from top to bottom, that's for sure. As Yort says, "you could tell she was high-maintenance just by looking at her."
She would always come to work dressed like there was at least a 60% chance that a famous celebrity would stop by, sweep her off her feet and fly her to Paris that very afternoon. In fact, she actually wore a real fur to work on a regular basis.
One day, Shamus and I needed to ask her a question, and her phone was busy. We decided to take a walk over to her desk. We had to do this because at the time we didn't have instant messaging, and if someone's phone was busy, you had two choices: Leave them a voicemail or actually go interact with them in person. (I know, it's unbelievable. The horror..)
So we walk up to her desk, and she's on the phone talking to a client. She's also reading a copy of Glamour magazine or some such. She was famous for that. You'd walk by, and she'd be chatting away, doing her nails or makeup.
As we're standing there waiting, Shamus reaches out and touches the fur coat, which was hanging on a hook attached to her cube wall. I'm not sure why he did it. Maybe to see if it was real, or maybe he just wanted to feel the texture, I don't know. I do know that Janice witnessed this, and felt compelled to give him more information.
She very carefully puts her hand over the mouthpiece on the receiver, looks directly at Shamus and whispers:
"Shaved Beaver."
Shamus blinks, obviously confused. "Huh?" he says.
She tries again.
"BEAVER. It's SHAVED."
I can't keep a straight face any longer, and when I start laughing, I turn and look at Shamus. He still has a dumbfounded expression on his face that says, "Did she say what I think she said?"
In the meantime Janice finishes up with the customer on the phone, and hangs up. She's a little miffed now, because she knows we're laughing at her, but she has no idea why, only that it has something to do with her and her coat.
She looks at Shamus and says in a snotty voice, "What? You guys have something against shaved beaver?"
Shamus manages to choke out a strangled "No, not at all" without completely losing it. We both turn around and head back to our desks, our question completely forgotten.
We had an answer we weren't sure what to do with, but that wasn't quite the same thing.
So anyway, a word of advice: If you're ever in the market for a fur coat -- or a high-maintenance blonde for that matter -- stay far, far away from the shaved beaver.
It's just a punchline waiting to happen.
4/23/05
CAUTION: Watch for Moose
This is the oddest thing I saw in my rear-view mirror while I was driving down to Jersey last weekend. I have no idea where he and his buddies were going, so don't ask me. All I can tell you is that he couldn't drive for shit, and was swerving all over the place.
Those "CAUTION: Watch for Moose" signs aren't there just for the fun of it. Pay attention, because they could save your life -- especially when the moose are right behind you.
Those big bastards love to tailgate.
Those "CAUTION: Watch for Moose" signs aren't there just for the fun of it. Pay attention, because they could save your life -- especially when the moose are right behind you.
Those big bastards love to tailgate.
4/20/05
Gym Rats, Corporate Style
I’m seriously thinking of joining the gym at work again, ten-hour work day be damned. It seems like I never have the time or ambition to do as strenuous a workout at home. Maybe there’s some motivational factor that I haven’t considered, like being in public makes you not puss-out. Our gym at work is pretty pathetic, but it’s convenient. It’s just a bunch of Nautilus machines, a couple of bikes and treadmills, and a rack of dumbbells. The absolute best part about it is the people who work out here. It takes all kinds, and there's some definite characters in this mix.
Let me introduce you.
OK, you've changed into your work-out clothes, and we're ready to hit the gym. What time is it? Oooh, it's noon. That's bad. Why is it bad? Because that's the timeslot for the guy on the treadmill who smells like chicken noodle soup and onions. He doesn’t ever wash his gym clothes.
This dude smells so bad, you don’t even want to be in the gym if he’s been there in the last two hours. He could be back at his desk and his stench would still be sticking to the machines. I’m convinced it’s some sort of intelligent alien cloud, and it hangs out after he's gone, trying to get all buff. It seems to be working because The Cloud From Planet Stank sure ain’t getting any weaker.
To your left is the guy I call Rico Suave. He does two sets of curls with 25lb dumbbells, then goes and chats up all the women. He “works out” every day, but he’s not in shape, although he thinks he is. He walks around with his arms held about 6 inches from his body on both sides, like there’s some sort of invisible back muscles holding them out there. In reality, he has a bit of a gut and likes to glance at himself in the mirror. He may go the gym every day, but you’ll never seen him actually do anything resembling an honest-to-god workout. No, he’s camped out by the treadmill talking to one of the girls, or he’s strutting for the female gym manager, or he’s giving some sort of private “personal trainer” time to some woman or another. Honestly, I don’t think they actually ask him for advice. I think he just gives it. I would love to be in his mind for a few minutes so I could see what he sees when he looks in the mirror.
To your right there’s Bob, and I'm sure you're wondering if he’s gonna blow a tube. He doing some floor exercises, and he must go 400 lbs easy. [Funny story about Bob: One day, he was lying down on a mat, doing crunches. The thing is, his stomach is so big, there is no way he can bend his midsection. So he’s lying there, arms outstretched, trying to bring his legs up so that he can touch his knees. And he’s doing this wicked fast, so fast he’s almost rocking. His face is beet red, the sweat’s pouring off him, and he’s grunting with the effort. I’m doing some dumbbell bench presses, and my friend is spotting me. He leans over and says, “Somebody should really help him up.” I almost dropped my weights I was laughing so hard.]
I give him a lot of credit though. He’s got the dedication and the drive, and he’ll reap the rewards eventually.
Oh, hey, look over there. That's GQ-Man. For some reason, this dude doesn’t bother to change into his workout clothes. He’s sitting on the machines in his suit pants, button-down shirt and wingtips, doing preacher curls. WTF? Not only is that strange, it’s pretty disgusting too. One, you’re sitting in other people’s sweat with your good clothes on, two, you are getting your own clothes all sweated up. Makes no sense to me.
Over in the corner, there’s Ah-nuld Vish-I-Vus-Bigger. Yeah, him. The skinny guy with the lifting belt, the gloves, and the muscle shirt. He’s got alllll the equipment, but he is curling 15 lbs. He does this heavy breathing/grunting thing when he’s lifting, and is always looking down at his arms, like he can actually see them getting bigger. Um, Arnold? They’re not. Keep at it. Maybe you can borrow Rico’s eyes and use them to glance lovingly at your big guns. Or maybe just check out the ass on that girl on the treadmill. They are Rico's eyes, after all. That'll be your cardio for the day.
Hey, I just thought of something. I wonder what nickname they all have for me?
Don't even get me started about the locker room. Just one quick notable mention here. If you glance to your right upon entering, don't be shocked by what you see. Wee Willie Wang will most likely be standing in front of the mirror drying his hair. Completely naked. I am not sure if it's all Asian men or just this particular one, but he appears to have no modesty whatsoever. I mean, seriously, who does that? Is that standard practice in the far east? I could see if you had some monster tackle and wanted to show it off, but .....no, on second thought, that's still effing weird.
So anyway, I hope you enjoyed your tour. If you want to sign up, it's only $28 a month.
I think I just talked myself out of it.
Let me introduce you.
OK, you've changed into your work-out clothes, and we're ready to hit the gym. What time is it? Oooh, it's noon. That's bad. Why is it bad? Because that's the timeslot for the guy on the treadmill who smells like chicken noodle soup and onions. He doesn’t ever wash his gym clothes.
This dude smells so bad, you don’t even want to be in the gym if he’s been there in the last two hours. He could be back at his desk and his stench would still be sticking to the machines. I’m convinced it’s some sort of intelligent alien cloud, and it hangs out after he's gone, trying to get all buff. It seems to be working because The Cloud From Planet Stank sure ain’t getting any weaker.
To your left is the guy I call Rico Suave. He does two sets of curls with 25lb dumbbells, then goes and chats up all the women. He “works out” every day, but he’s not in shape, although he thinks he is. He walks around with his arms held about 6 inches from his body on both sides, like there’s some sort of invisible back muscles holding them out there. In reality, he has a bit of a gut and likes to glance at himself in the mirror. He may go the gym every day, but you’ll never seen him actually do anything resembling an honest-to-god workout. No, he’s camped out by the treadmill talking to one of the girls, or he’s strutting for the female gym manager, or he’s giving some sort of private “personal trainer” time to some woman or another. Honestly, I don’t think they actually ask him for advice. I think he just gives it. I would love to be in his mind for a few minutes so I could see what he sees when he looks in the mirror.
To your right there’s Bob, and I'm sure you're wondering if he’s gonna blow a tube. He doing some floor exercises, and he must go 400 lbs easy. [Funny story about Bob: One day, he was lying down on a mat, doing crunches. The thing is, his stomach is so big, there is no way he can bend his midsection. So he’s lying there, arms outstretched, trying to bring his legs up so that he can touch his knees. And he’s doing this wicked fast, so fast he’s almost rocking. His face is beet red, the sweat’s pouring off him, and he’s grunting with the effort. I’m doing some dumbbell bench presses, and my friend is spotting me. He leans over and says, “Somebody should really help him up.” I almost dropped my weights I was laughing so hard.]
I give him a lot of credit though. He’s got the dedication and the drive, and he’ll reap the rewards eventually.
Oh, hey, look over there. That's GQ-Man. For some reason, this dude doesn’t bother to change into his workout clothes. He’s sitting on the machines in his suit pants, button-down shirt and wingtips, doing preacher curls. WTF? Not only is that strange, it’s pretty disgusting too. One, you’re sitting in other people’s sweat with your good clothes on, two, you are getting your own clothes all sweated up. Makes no sense to me.
Over in the corner, there’s Ah-nuld Vish-I-Vus-Bigger. Yeah, him. The skinny guy with the lifting belt, the gloves, and the muscle shirt. He’s got alllll the equipment, but he is curling 15 lbs. He does this heavy breathing/grunting thing when he’s lifting, and is always looking down at his arms, like he can actually see them getting bigger. Um, Arnold? They’re not. Keep at it. Maybe you can borrow Rico’s eyes and use them to glance lovingly at your big guns. Or maybe just check out the ass on that girl on the treadmill. They are Rico's eyes, after all. That'll be your cardio for the day.
Hey, I just thought of something. I wonder what nickname they all have for me?
Don't even get me started about the locker room. Just one quick notable mention here. If you glance to your right upon entering, don't be shocked by what you see. Wee Willie Wang will most likely be standing in front of the mirror drying his hair. Completely naked. I am not sure if it's all Asian men or just this particular one, but he appears to have no modesty whatsoever. I mean, seriously, who does that? Is that standard practice in the far east? I could see if you had some monster tackle and wanted to show it off, but .....no, on second thought, that's still effing weird.
So anyway, I hope you enjoyed your tour. If you want to sign up, it's only $28 a month.
I think I just talked myself out of it.
4/18/05
Hey, Baby. Want some?
Today I'm going to talk about commercials. We all know commercials and other advertisements have only one purpose -- to convince you to buy something. They can do this in a multitude of ways. Sometimes they'll use weirdness to make the product stick in your memory, sometimes they'll use cool effects, or celebrity endorsements. Sometimes they will even demonstrate the product, and then keep driving the price down until it is impossible to resist. Late at night, this technique works wonders on people like me who cannot be simultaneously trusted with both credit cards and alcohol.
About 15 years ago, I bought a Soloflex machine in the middle of a 3am showing of First Blood because at that exact moment of drunkenness, I sincerely believed that it could make me as hardcore as Sylvester Stallone in only 15 minutes a day. I sold it about a year later. While it didn't get me ripped like Sly, I can say this: Those things will hold a truly amazing amount of clothes.
Also, flowbees do kinda work. Don't ask me how I know.
That being said, there is one marketing technique that drives me nuts, and that is using babies in commercials. Now it's all good if you're using the baby to sell baby stuff. You want to use a little pooper to sell diapers, baby food, carseats or toys? Knock yourself out. That's fine. The thing I have a problem with is the whole blatantly manipulative attempt to pull the viewer's heartstrings with a gratuitous baby.
A gratuitous baby is there for one reason only -- to try to make you go "awwwww, isn't that cute" or to make you think that you'll be considered a better parent if you buy whatever shit they're selling.
I haven't been blinded by babies, since I don't have any. I don't know if that's the reason these commercials are so incredibly transparent to me or not. In the last three days, I've seen babies used to sell cars, insurance, breakfast cereal, flooring and allergy medicine, just to name a few. In all cases, the baby had absolutely nothing to do with the product. How stupid do these marketers think people are? Sadly, the answer is probably "not as stupid as people actually are."
These babies are always the perfect specimens, too. Happy, smiling, well-behaved, pretty little babies. They never show them like they sometimes really are. I think there's an untapped marketing resource here. It could be huge. Here's a few of my ideas:
Commercial #1
Man: "For god's sake, Carol, can't you shut that kid up? He's been screaming for 3 hours. He's giving me a frickin' migraine."
Woman: "What the hell do you want from me? I've tried everything short of a pillow, but he's teething.
Announcer: "Don't smother your baby. Instead, try new extra-strength Excedrin Migraine. It gets into your system 3 times faster than other brands."
Commercial #2:
Man: [walking into room] "Jeez, It really stinks in here."
Woman: "Yes, little bobby has the runs. He's pooping his diaper faster than I can change it."
Announcer: "For those tough to handle odors like crap and puke, try new Glad FreshAire diaper crystals. They don't just mask odor, they destroy it at the source -- your baby's butt."
Commercial #3:
[Screaming baby in background]
Man: [Punching hole in sheetrock] "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!"
Announcer: Do you sometimes feel Angry? Depressed? Do you feel like your life is falling apart and you aren't in control? Check with your doctor to see if Prozac might be right for you.
Commercial #4:
[Screaming baby in background]
Man: [Puts on Bose Noise-cancellation headphones, and sits back, a peaceful smile on his face.]
All you marketers out there, how about it? Tell it like it is, that's all I'm askin.
About 15 years ago, I bought a Soloflex machine in the middle of a 3am showing of First Blood because at that exact moment of drunkenness, I sincerely believed that it could make me as hardcore as Sylvester Stallone in only 15 minutes a day. I sold it about a year later. While it didn't get me ripped like Sly, I can say this: Those things will hold a truly amazing amount of clothes.
Also, flowbees do kinda work. Don't ask me how I know.
That being said, there is one marketing technique that drives me nuts, and that is using babies in commercials. Now it's all good if you're using the baby to sell baby stuff. You want to use a little pooper to sell diapers, baby food, carseats or toys? Knock yourself out. That's fine. The thing I have a problem with is the whole blatantly manipulative attempt to pull the viewer's heartstrings with a gratuitous baby.
A gratuitous baby is there for one reason only -- to try to make you go "awwwww, isn't that cute" or to make you think that you'll be considered a better parent if you buy whatever shit they're selling.
I haven't been blinded by babies, since I don't have any. I don't know if that's the reason these commercials are so incredibly transparent to me or not. In the last three days, I've seen babies used to sell cars, insurance, breakfast cereal, flooring and allergy medicine, just to name a few. In all cases, the baby had absolutely nothing to do with the product. How stupid do these marketers think people are? Sadly, the answer is probably "not as stupid as people actually are."
These babies are always the perfect specimens, too. Happy, smiling, well-behaved, pretty little babies. They never show them like they sometimes really are. I think there's an untapped marketing resource here. It could be huge. Here's a few of my ideas:
Commercial #1
Man: "For god's sake, Carol, can't you shut that kid up? He's been screaming for 3 hours. He's giving me a frickin' migraine."
Woman: "What the hell do you want from me? I've tried everything short of a pillow, but he's teething.
Announcer: "Don't smother your baby. Instead, try new extra-strength Excedrin Migraine. It gets into your system 3 times faster than other brands."
Commercial #2:
Man: [walking into room] "Jeez, It really stinks in here."
Woman: "Yes, little bobby has the runs. He's pooping his diaper faster than I can change it."
Announcer: "For those tough to handle odors like crap and puke, try new Glad FreshAire diaper crystals. They don't just mask odor, they destroy it at the source -- your baby's butt."
Commercial #3:
[Screaming baby in background]
Man: [Punching hole in sheetrock] "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!"
Announcer: Do you sometimes feel Angry? Depressed? Do you feel like your life is falling apart and you aren't in control? Check with your doctor to see if Prozac might be right for you.
Commercial #4:
[Screaming baby in background]
Man: [Puts on Bose Noise-cancellation headphones, and sits back, a peaceful smile on his face.]
All you marketers out there, how about it? Tell it like it is, that's all I'm askin.
4/15/05
King of the Dead
I know I'm probably the millionth person to write about this, but I can't help myself. I find the new Burger King ads with the plastic king-head mask very disturbing. I didn't know this until recently, but he first appeared in a 1970's Burger King campaign. Think about that. Not only did it pass muster the first time, but 30 years later, someone in the marketing department apparently thought he was a good idea again. They actually made the conscious decision to bring this scary-ass King character back from the dead.
Great. So not only is The Burger King back, but now he's a fucking zombie.
If I ever pull back the curtains on my bedroom window, and there is something standing there wearing a giant, smiling, king-head mask and holding out anything at all that could even remotely be considered or described as "meatnormous," I think the situation would unfold a little differently than it does on TV. Especially when the zombie king starts out with one hand behind his back. Maybe it's just me, but when I see that commercial, I always expect him to come around with a gigantic knife instead of a breakfast sandwich.
At my house, it would probably be more like this:
Me: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! click. click. click.
Me: "Holy shit, did you see that?"
My wife: "Yeah! That thing had to have at least 47 grams of fat in it."
My advice? Aim for the forehead, right below the crown.
It's imperative that you destroy the brain. Otherwise, he'll just keep coming back.
Oh, and don't eat the sandwich. That shit will kill you, all zombie-kings aside.
Great. So not only is The Burger King back, but now he's a fucking zombie.
If I ever pull back the curtains on my bedroom window, and there is something standing there wearing a giant, smiling, king-head mask and holding out anything at all that could even remotely be considered or described as "meatnormous," I think the situation would unfold a little differently than it does on TV. Especially when the zombie king starts out with one hand behind his back. Maybe it's just me, but when I see that commercial, I always expect him to come around with a gigantic knife instead of a breakfast sandwich.
At my house, it would probably be more like this:
Me: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! click. click. click.
Me: "Holy shit, did you see that?"
My wife: "Yeah! That thing had to have at least 47 grams of fat in it."
My advice? Aim for the forehead, right below the crown.
It's imperative that you destroy the brain. Otherwise, he'll just keep coming back.
Oh, and don't eat the sandwich. That shit will kill you, all zombie-kings aside.
4/13/05
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