My Annoying Brain

Application for Bro-ployment

2011-08-29T22:42:00.001-05:00

Buddy. Pal. Homeboy. Friend. The Brits favor the word "mate".

It's strange how it's harder to find friends -- real friends -- when you get older. You get picky and set in your ways. You end up wanting them to conform to your ways and you don't really see it as an option to compromise. Obviously, this isn't the right thing to do.

However, it is what *I* am going to do, because I'm picky and set in my ways.

I pondered for a while on different ways to meet people who share my loves, hobbies, ideologies and general nerdity. But... how to accomplish this?

I could try a dating site, but a dude lookin' for a dude might give the wrong impression.

I could go to a local comic book or sci-fi convention, but there'd be a lot of "-tion": desperation and perspiration. I can deal with the former, but the latter is always accompanied with a lack of deodorant.
Cloning is not really a possibility at the moment. Even if it was, it'd be WAY too expensive. Oh, but don't think I haven't pondered the hell out of it.

No, what I need is for them to come to me. <makes the stroking motion on my chin while looking up and to the right with a cocked eyebrow> I need something like a job posting, but for a buddy.

So, I came up with one. And, before you continue, understand that I know it's going to offend some of you. It doesn't mean I don't like you. Well, it might mean that -- let's not discount it completely. However, the more you agree with me, the better things will be.

Part 1: Friend Requirements

Must have:

Moderate understanding of superheroes. Must know all major heroes and their secret identities. Nobody gives a rat's ass about the third-tier losers.
Basic understanding of sci-fi with heavy, heavy emphasis on Star Wars. I'm not asking that you know what attack pattern the snowspeeders flew at the beginning of Empire, but it'd help.
You must have the ability to carry on an intelligent conversation. We're not going to hang out and talk about your fungus.
An understanding that the most important word in the English language is: "Why", used in the interrogative form.
Knowledge of two (minimum) funny web sites. If either or both of the web sites were sent to you in an email from your mother, wife, girlfriend, or grandmother, then they aren't funny. xkcd.com and fark.com preferred.
Familiarity with pop culture.
A desire to defend, to the death if necessary, the belief that:

Barbecue is a noun that refers to the meat in question, and not the apparatus used to cook it. It is never used as a verb
Barbecue is made from pork and only pork.

The ability to "get it". If you don't "get it', then all of the above requirements are useless -- helpful, but useless.

Must not:

Own any paraphernalia of a college or professional sports team. Including, but not limited to: stickers, magnets, clothes, logos, wallpaper, underwear, license plates, tattoos, or pets used as mascots.
Have a desire to be a manager.
Have a job in any form of sales. If you want to be a sales manager, I will attack on sight.
Enjoy Fox News.
Talk about politics or religion. This doesn't mean I'm not political or religious -- I just don't want to talk about either.
Brag about your state. I'm looking at you, Texans and New Yorkers and to a lesser extent, Californians.
Smoke, either casually or seriously. If you do smoke, it better be because you are literally on fire.

Part 2: Personality Profile

Questions:

You are watching the Winter Olympics. It's the women's giant slalom. The athlete is from Finland. Halfway down the course, she launches from a bump and, in the air, loses control and begins flailing wildly before crashing into the ground, and ultimately, into the barrier. She's fine, but is now firmly in last place. How do you react?

(gasping) "Oh... my... God... is... is she okay?"
"This is a chance for the Americans to medal!"
(pained breathing from laughing so hard)

Are you gay?

A little
My boyfriend thinks so
I make RuPaul look like Ned Flanders
Hell no.
Nope, but to each his own.

What is the best kind of beer?

Lazy Magnolia's Southern Pecan
New Belgium's Fat Tire
Both of the above
I'll drink most anything as long as it's not made by Budweiser, Miller, Coors, Corona, Pabst or Heineken

What is the best way to prepare bananas?

Frozen, then dipped in chocolate
Bananas Foster
Split, with three scoops of ice cream
Trick question. Bananas are an abomination from God. It's no coincidence that both poop and bananas are the same shape.

At the end of The Lord Of The Rings: The Return Of The King, when Aragorn turns to the hobbits and says "My friends. You bow to *no* one." You cried like a baby.

True
False
Didn't see those stupid midget movies.

The Princess Bride is:

Prince William's wife, Katherine
A movie I watched when I was sick because there was nothing else on.
Hands-down, the best movie movie ever made.

I know something you do not know.

I am not left-handed.
I am Spartacus
I am the eggman. Whoo! I am the eggman. Whoo! I am the Walrus. Ku-ku-ka-chu.

ROUSs:

Are mortgage-backed securities
Are secret societies in Europe, dedicated to stopping left-handers
Rodents of unusual size? I don't believe they exist. AAARRGH!

Finish this lyric: I strip away the old debris, that hides a shining car...

A brilliant red Barchetta from a better, vanished time
Motor down the boulevard, feeling like a star
Baby you're much too fast, yes you are.

Best celebrity chef:

Guy Fieri
Alton Brown
Rachel Ray
Sandra Lee

Mob, DPS, Raid, Tank, and Loot are:

Words that describe a typical post-NBA championship "celebration".
Terms from World Of Warcraft, possibly the greatest game ever invented.
Names of the children of gangsta rappers.

Answers:

C. Your wife will look at you in disgust, but this isn't about her, is it? Welcome to the inner circle.
E. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
A, B, C, and D are all correct. We would have also accepted a write-in answer of "More Southern Pecan"
D. Before you eat a banana in my vicinity, notify your next of kin.
A. You shut your stupid face. You have no soul.
C. Australia is entirely peopled with criminals.
A. I am not left-handed either.
C. The flame spurts and the lightning sand don't exist either.
A. Bonus points for knowing where the story behind the song came from.
B. It was sort of a trick question. The other three aren't real chefs.
B. Hunters for the win.

Please include 3 references and a cover sheet.

39 and holding

2011-08-23T22:22:00.000-05:00

Seriously, don't ever use that phrase when someone asks how old you are.

Other things not to say:

You're only as old as you feel.
40 is the new 30.

I say this because I recently turned 39.

I wouldn't say I'm handling it badly, but it's not exactly fun. I don't like thinking that the first half of my life is basically over. I'm not sure that I like my kid's daycare teacher calling me "sir", either.

39 is a strange age. You're leaving the age of irresponsibility and you're not quite into that age where you automatically get respect. It's the Purgatory of ages.

A few years back, I bought a skateboard with a laughable sum of money that my old job called a "bonus". It's hanging in my garage and every day that I see it, it taunts me. It's like "Hey, remember when you used to be athletic?"

This manifested itself about a year ago when I went with a group of guys to Gatlinburg, TN for a bachelor party weekend. Why Gatlinburg? Well, we were gonna rent a cabin and have a "guy" weekend. Sounds highly gay, but it wasn't. At least I don't think it was. There was a hot tub and a lot of alcohol. Maybe it was gay. Anyway, back to the story. There was a place in G'burg called "Ober Gatlinburg" where you could snow ski or snowboard. Because I'm fluent in many, many languages, I can tell you that "Ober" is German for "Over". See? You really take away something after reading my blog.

Now, I have always wanted to snowboard, and I have never planned a trip to do it. So, I took my chance and rented a board and learned. After much falling, I kinda got good at it. So, that bolstered my confidence and I decided to try a jump... off a ramp... in the snow. After all, I am a former skateboarder. What could possibly go wrong?

A faceplant, that's what. One thing I conveniently forgot was that my feet were strapped in to this snowboard and that I couldn't control myself after the jump. I landed on my face/shoulder and my shoulder bone hurt for at least a year or more -- no exaggeration. Back in the day, I could break both of my legs and be walking the next day.

Maybe this is my fate. I dunno. I'm trying not to let it bother me, but it's hard not to think about it.

Just the other day, a guy at my office sent out a nostalgia email, but it was about kids who were born in the 80's. I was appalled when I saw a picture of the computer game "Oregon Trail", except it was the full-color one. FULL COLOR? Double-U. Tee. Eff. Oregon Trail is a monochrome game, and you played it on an Apple IIe. None of this full color crap. We didn't have no stinkin' computer mouse, either. If you couldn't use the arrow keys, you didn't play.

I don't necessarily want to be young again, either. Stuff was crazy in the 70's/80's -- the threat of nuclear war, an AIDS epidemic, women wearing "Units", and Kajagoogoo. I'm surprised we survived.

Plus, I didn't know then what I know now. I have a good life, with a great wife and two beautiful kids. Financially, we're secure, and we both have good jobs. I love where I live, and I like how things are progressing in life. I can make my own choices and I can eat my dessert before my supper. Take that, Mom.

Maybe 39 ain't so bad.

Pooptacular.

2011-07-26T20:33:00.000-05:00

I was always a good student. I tried hard. I studied. Many things came to me naturally.

Because of this, I got bored easily in grade school. They say idle hands are the devil's workshop. For me, an idle mind was the devil's playground.

Now, I had completely forgotten about this story until this past weekend, when I attended a 25-year reunion of the 8th grade class of my Catholic school in my hometown.

So, let me set up the story for you, because I want you, the reader, to fully understand the environment I was in and how this event affected me the way it did.

I was in 8th grade at the time, and our home room was on the second or third floor (depending on how you looked at the building). The room had a giant blackboard on the front wall, and a huge bank of windows on the left side. The rest of the layout doesn't matter.

Now, the building was built on a hill, which is why it's hard to determine if we were on the third floor or not. The windows overlooked a big open area between our building and another building. This open area sloped downward. I guess the best way to get an idea of what it looked like would be to extend your left arm out, parallel to the ground. Now, bend your arm at your elbow to make a 90-degree angle with your arm. Now, lower your hand (but not your elbow) until it's at a 45-degree angle.

That was easy, no? Okay, screw you. It's not my fault you suck at math.

I think we had assigned desks, but it's hard to remember. Did I mention it's been 25 years? My desk was in sort of the middle-back of the room.

It was on this fateful day that we were studying infinitives. Now, for you illiterates, the infinitive form of a verb is the base form plus the word "to". For example, "to be", "to live", or "to make a !@#$% 45-degree angle with your arm". Okay, that last one might not be a good example. How I can remember that we were studying infinitives, I'll never know. I just remember that our teacher was trying to illustrate these with a picture of an umbrella on the blackboard. Don't ask how that illustrates infinitives. I might be fuzzy on that part.

Well, I began to get glassy-eyed and I decided to turn and look out the window. You know how in movies they show flashback scenes in slow motion? Yeah, that's how I remember this.

About that time, I see this large white bird come swooping down and he decides to pull up, hard. I'm guessing the g-forces were a little too intense, because it was at that moment he decided to evacuate his bowels.

Now, infinitives aren't funny. I don't think I've ever seen any book in the "Humor" aisle of any Barnes and Noble. I don't think I've ever heard any stand-up comic devote a bit to infinitives, either. So, you can imagine that when I let out an audible giggle, that my teacher, obviously not having seen any infinitive humor either, wondered what in God's name I could be laughing at.

I went cold. She asked me what was so funny, and well, I'm an honest guy. I figured I had better tell her, because the truth shall set you free. Whoever said that is a lying bastard. Poop humor is only funny to a certain percentage of people. My 8th grade teacher isn't in that elite crowd.

[cue the Doogie Howser theme]

Well, I got the equivalent of an "F" for my daily grade in English that day, but I learned something important...
Your 8th grade teacher can be a real pain in the ass, and the fact that you find a divebombing pooping bird funny will carry you very far in life. In fact, people will begin to love you because you can make them laugh, and your future wife will tell you that it's one of the things she loves most about you, which far, far outweighs a stupid daily "F". I also learned a new infinitive: "to vindicate".

In case of the Rapture, this blog may or may not be manned.

2011-05-14T14:53:00.001-05:00

With all this talk of the Rapture, I couldn't help but throw my hat into the ring. I've been thinking a lot about it lately, and probably not in a good way.

There's some differing viewpoints (crazy, I know) on the Rapture. Some think that it's going to happen on a certain day and, on that day, the 'chosen' will be taken to Heaven. Others, like my father-in-law, an ex-priest, say that everyone gets taken all at once, much like when you harvest a crop, and then the bad ones get thrown out.

I don't know which I believe, but I do believe one thing: If you believe in God, then you're an idiot if you think you know the mind of God.

I do believe in God, and I'm smart enough to know that I will never know when God decides to end this whole experiment that we call life.

But, let's play devil's advocate and assume that the wackos that believe the Rapture is happening on May 21st are actually right. We are left with some logistical problems. Namely:

If you are a bus driver who is driving a load of 'bad seed' kids and you get 'raptured' (if that's a word), and you're traveling down the highway at 65 miles per hour and the bus careens off a cliff (let's assume we're in Colorado) and all the children die, do you go to Heaven, only to get rerouted to hell because God killed you? Or, to put it another way, does God wait until your vehicle is in the parked position before you are taken?
I keep hearing this urban legend that airlines will have one athiest pilot and one Christian pilot, just in case. What if Captain Churchgoer is sick that day and you get two heathens behind the stick? Will the passengers crash into a creepy lush tropical island where they will subsequently find out that two jerks wrote a crappy ending to a 6-year long series?
What if you are making your first tandem skydive and your instructor gets poofied away? I'd pull all of the cords, just to be sure.
What if you are in the middle of a particularly badass triple flip on the trapeze and your partner gets taken. Oh, it's also "no safety net" night.
What if you had suffered a heart attack because of your years of eating at Popeye's? You're sitting there in the operating room and your whole surgical team vanishes?
What if you carpool to work and this week, it's Steve from Accounting's week to drive, and he takes the God elevator? Who am I kidding? No accountants are going to be raptured.
The rapture is supposed to happen on May 21st. Is that America time, or will The Big Man upstairs start at the international date line? Will there be a rolling rapture that happens with the sun? I guess what I'm saying is, what time should I set my alarm for?
If you are at a theme park, and you're riding a rollercoaster and the person operating the ride goes to Heaven, do you get free rides all day? I'm not saying you should, I'm just saying you have a pretty good argument in court.
If you happen to be competing in a baseball tournament and the opposing team hits a pop fly that would easily be caught by the centerfielder, but he goes to the Home Run in the sky, and the runner scores, causing your team to lose, is the game ruled a loss, or what?
If you are at one of those stupid team-building outings that companies have and you're doing trust falls with a co-worker (I think you see where this is going), is the day considered a failure?
If you are on an extreme vacation and you decide to go into one of those shark cages, and while you are down, the boat crew ascends, who does your family sue?

I don't want to give the wrong impression. I think God can do what he/she wants any time, regardless of the consequences. However, it would seem to go against what we believe.

Several years back, before I was married, my wife was rooming with this girl who as a devout Baptist. The three of us had gone shopping for some groceries and I saw a car in the parking lot with a bumper sticker that said "In case of Rapture, this car will be unmanned", and I began to laugh. The roommate told me that if I truly believed, that I would be saved. Fantastic! However, just because one has a bumper sticker doesn't mean that person is a nice person and furthermore, you can't know the mind of God. So, it was my opinion that the car owner had a pretty high opinion of himself/herself. Also, what happens if they sell that car to a serial killer. Does the rapture guarantee get tranferred with the title?

All the same, I'm gonna call in sick on May 21st and I'm gonna dress in some comfortable clothes. No sense being uncomfortable in Heaven.

You say it's your birthday? Ba na na... I don't care.

2011-02-26T18:05:00.000-06:00

I'm not a huge fan of birthday parties. I'm happy for other people to have them, but I've got a pretty bad outlook on mine. It probably has to do with the fact that I was born on my parents' second anniversary, so I had to share that day with them for, well, forever.

Now that I'm older, birthdays mean a lot less. I guess I'm bitter that I missed out on a lot of the birthday parties as a .kid.

Yeah, I know... wah wah wah.

Recently, I went to a birthday party for one of my youngest daughter's classmates. I don't go to many of these birthday parties, but I wanted to try to make a change and start going to them. This... was a bad idea. It's not a bad idea to be with your kids. It's a bad idea to go because you get to experience what's wrong with the world: other people.

First, let's start with the timing of the party. Whether you are a parent or not, you can logically figure out a time that it's best to have a birthday party for a kid.

Do you have it on a weeknight? No, because, believe it or not, some people work for a living.
Do you have it on a major holiday? No, because nobody will show up.
Most importantly, do you have the party during the time when your kid (and all of the people invited to the party) take their daily naps? NO. FOR GOD'S SAKE, NO.

Ignoring rule #1 -- bad, but not a game-changer.

Ignoring rule #2 -- not as bad, but pretty dumb.

Ingoring rule #3 -- Everyone will hate you forever.

This parent ignored rule #3.

The parents invited siblings, which means both of my children missed a nap for that day. It's a lot like the Hulk. You wouldn't like them when they've missed a nap. Now, why does this bother me so much? The parent of the birthday girl mentioned openly, "We got the last open time slot for the party."

Let's analyze that. Firstly, if you can't get a good time slot for your kid, then make the party for another day. Second, your child's birthday - and this is the part that completely perplexes me - is ON THE SAME DAY EVERY YEAR. How can you not plan for that? We're already planning Birthdaypalooza* right now.

Next, they had it at one of those specialized gyms for gymnasts. That might seem redundant -- a gymn for gymnasts, but I'm trying to distinguish between something like a high-school gym and a place where Béla Károlyi sleeps. The gym only had two people helping with umpteen kids. So, it was a lot of chaos. I realize any given group of two-year olds is chaos, but we're at a place where they can fall off some pretty high things, and there weren't many people watching them. I was being Mr. Overprotective. It turns out that the kids were fine, but man.

Lastly, the mom miscalculated the time she had reserved the party, and instead of a two-hour party, it was an hour and a half. We had to rush through eating and she suggested that everyone load up their kids and take them down the road to a public park. Yeah... good idea... after they missed a nap and have just been loaded up on sugar and adrenaline. Imagine early Robin Williams (a.k.a. the funny Robin Williams) on 13 espressos and an IV of Red Bull.

So, when we got back home, it was meltdown time. There was lots of crying, screaming, tantrums... and the girls were upset too. Of course, you can't let them take a nap at 4:00 because they will never sleep that night. It was a nightmarish hell. My wife was curled up in the corner in the fetal position with a had a blank stare and all I could hear was the song "Happy Birthday" in that labored breathing you do after you've been crying for an hour straight. Pics on Facebook soon. (Just kidding, Facebook sucks)

If you are a parent reading this, and you schedule your child's birthday during the Generally Accepted Nap Time, you are an evil, evil person and I hope your kid grows up to like Twilight.

On a side, and more evil note, I was standing beside my wife talking to another parent about her two-year-old daughter's upcoming birthday party. I use the word "talking" in the generic sense. She's one of those people that always seems to turn the subject of the conversation back on herself and her family. Not that she ever had to turn the subject back to herself. She never shut up the whole time, so there wasn't an opportunity to change the subject to anything else. She informed us that she had to call around the state of Alabama to find 7 women who could/would play the role of all of the Disney princesses. It was just such a chore. How was she going to handle it?

Maybe you didn't catch that I said the little girl was !@#$% TWO. Yes, we got our invitation. It arrived in a tubular container just like Mike Brady used to have lying around on his desk. Inside was a scroll attached to a wooden rod with rounded finials. And yes, I'm so damned ashamed for knowing what a finial is. I've placed my man card in the mail back to Guy Headquarters. But I digress.

This is what happens when you have too much money and you want to make sure your child grows up to be hated by others.

Oh well. Maybe the princess chicks will be hot.

*Birthdaypalooza: The time of the year in the Annoying Brain household where the three women in my life have birthdays that occur inside a one-week period. I don't call it this because it's a big bash. I just like saying the word "palooza". Palooza.

What's it gonna take to put you into this car today?

2011-01-20T18:51:00.000-06:00

Car buying. It's not the sort of thing one wants to do very often, which is why we don't. However, certain events prompt you to take the plunge, such as a new baby or, in this case, the passing of a decade (or more).

After 11 years, we finally decided that Mrs. Annoying Brain's car (a Honda Accord) was past its prime. Not that it was running badly -- it wasn't. It's just that well, c'mon. IT'S BEEN 11 YEARS.

So, we decided to 'sell' the car to my wife's father, who will be giving it as a present to our niece before she heads off to college. (she doesn't know that. Don't tell her.) For a car that old, it's really in fantastic shape. There's actually nothing wrong with it at all, other than the fact that you have to hand-crank it with that little thing in the front and the car was made before seat belts were invented. Other than that, it's a solid ride.

It's the whole car-buying business that gets me all worked up. This isn't going to be news to anyone, but damn, why do car salesmen have to be slimeball jackasses? We first went to the local dealer, Tameron Honda in Birmingham. The fact that I mentioned them first in the article doesn't bode well for them, and it shouldn't. That sales routine that car salesmen use is so tired. It's so old. At least try something new on us. You're as transparent as can be.

The whole story of how we got the car is great, because the cast of characters is as good as any B movie. First, we made an appointment with a girl salesman. I thought "Awesome! A chick! They don't have the raw nerve that a man does when it comes to car sales".

Well, I was right. She didn't have the raw nerve, but she apparently could memorize a script. The thing was, she was horrible at her job. Seriously, they could have put a cardboard cutout of a chick that smelled like cigarette smoke, had a horrible dye job and fake nails that were way overdue for a touch-up. The first line out of her mouth was "I'm going to do everything I can to treat you guys right." Run for cover when you hear that.

Well, she left us sitting at her desk for about 15 minutes. A) this is rude and, B) it's the oldest tactic in the book. Then, she 'didn't have the authority' to make the deal herself, so she got her manager, who was a moron. You're going to charge us 500 dollars for mud guards? "Well, they're already installed. I can take them off, but it's going to leave big holes in the body." Right, stupid ass. Way to try and overcharge us for something that comes on every single car.

It just goes on and on after that, and we had told them when we walked in that morning that we weren't prepared to buy. Also, in an economy when people aren't buying cars, you can't really afford to try to jack with your customers. So, we told him we had a better deal with a dealer from south Alabama (which we did) and we walked out.

Literally 10 minutes later, my wife's phone was almost ringing off the hook. "We probably got off on the wrong foot..." blah blah blah blah blah. My wife said "Okay, well thanks for the call, but you can't beat the other guy's price. Bye."

Ten minutes later, her phone rings again. They keep trying to get closer to the number, but they keep trying to nickel and dime us for stuff. Seriously, this is straight out of the douchebag handbook.

So, my wife calls the dealer in south Alabama who says "Yeah, I've got the car you want. I'll put on the options you want and I'll drive it up to meet you." All this, for less than the price Tameron quoted us. The south Alabama guys says, "You bring me a check and we're all done."

And it was just like that. We met him on a Sunday, gave him the check, got the car, and we've been happy ever since.

Now, I ask you... why can't it always be like that? No muss, no fuss. I want a car, I'm willing to pay x dollars, done deal.

After we got the car, Tameron still had us on their automated email service... "Have you purchased your car?" You bet your sweet ass we have. Sucks to be you.

Here's the question that still boggles my mind, even today: Why would a dealer not meet your demands and lose a car sale over a few hundred dollars? The guy in south Alabama sold the car, made the commission, and made his dealership happy. Tameron sold a big pile of jack squat.

Maybe I don't understand the big picture, but I understand OUR picture. We got a car for the price we wanted to pay and we had no hassle.

I have to drive by Tameron every day on the way to take my kids to school, and every day, I get a big, self-satisfying grin knowing that we won. Nothing feels better than getting the better of a scummy car salesman.

It's not easy being green.

2011-01-20T18:18:00.000-06:00

I'm so green Captain Kirk hit on me.

We've made strides in the past few years to try to change our lifestyle and become more 'green'. I'm here to tell you, it's tough.

To start with, the whole recycling thing just makes me angry. Each town/city has their own recycling program, and each program has rules to abide by. When we lived in Texas, you recycled glass, paper, and plastic that had the number 1 or 2 on the bottom of it.

Now that we're in Alabama, there's no glass recycling, but the other two types still apply. Oh, and if you want, plastic that has the number 5 on the bottom can be taken to certain places like Whole Foods that has a special bin just for that. Luckily (sarcasm incoming) Whole Foods is on the other side of town, and if I do go, I forget to take my 5s.

Back to the glass thing. We found out that our city didn't recycle glass, and I thought how silly it was, because people recycled glass from the beginning, right? Well, we asked where we could take our old wine and beer bottles (the ones that, um, my wife emptied. Yeah.) and we found out that there was a place downtown. So, one day, we loaded 'em up, and took them there and found out that it really wasn't cost-effective to recycle the glass. We learned that it took more energy to melt down the glass than it did to make a brand new bottle. In fact, since glass is inert, it doesn't actually harm the environment other than making your back yard look horrible from having this giant pile of beer bottles...which my wife drained.

So, then I decided that I would just keep refilling a big glass bottle of water with tap water and keep that in the fridge and just mark my name on it. That way, I could swig directly from the bottle and not worry about throwing away a plastic bottle. It was this 'green' moment when I came up with the Captain Kirk line at the top of the post. I'll take inspiration where I can get it.

A few months ago, we decided to watch the movie Food, Inc. Whoa. Now, I'll be the first to tell you that I try my best to keep an open mind about these "shock" movies. It's no secret that I lean to the liberal side, but all the same, let's not believe everything we see. Still, this movie had an effect on me. We made the decision to stop buying meats that were not organically grown/fed. I try to eat organic food when possible, even if it costs more. I'm not trying to get anyone who reads this to switch, or even condemn anyone for eating the more affordable food from the Walmarts of the world. It's just... something I want to do.

Now, does this mean if we get invited to someone's house for supper that I'm going to try to find out if the lasagna was made with grass-fed, hormone-free beef? No. Only a douchebag would do that, and I'm not a douchebag most of the time. It also doesn't mean that I stopped drinking soft drinks because they were made with high fructose corn syrup. However, I did reduce them dramatically. I think I've had one Coke in the past 5-6 months. That's not bragging. I love Coke. LOVE IT. But, it has to stop somewhere.

Also, as a reference to becoming more environmentally conscious, 'green' is a bit played out. Can we please stop saying that? I used it as a joke here, but I can't imagine myself telling someone how I've 'gone green' or whatever. It sounds like I left my wife for a lime -- a delicious, pesticide-free, honeybee-pollenated, fair-trade, USA-grown lime.

Buck a Lup and Will have a fun ride.

2010-11-25T10:15:00.003-06:00

Before reading this, let me try to get you in the spirit of this post. Every place you see something in brackets, pinch your nose closed and say the words to yourself in a less-than-enthusiastic manner. Everywhere you see the word 'dink', think of the sound of a tiny, tiny hammer hitting a tiny, tiny anvil.

[Buckle up.. BuckleBuckle up Buckle Buckle Buckle up, and we'll have a fun ride.]

Repeat this about 7,000 times and you'll have an idea of how Thanksgiving started this year. [This is Mommy].
A my in-laws' house [pew pew pew pew pew], they have a kid's scooter-type toy that has a bunch of buttons on it that make different sounds, among these are:

(the aforementioned) "Buckle up, and we'll have a fun ride"
This is Mommy.
This is Daddy, buckle up for safety!
PEW PEW PEW - No idea what this is. I think it's a siren, but it sounds like a laser gun.
ZAP ZAP ZAP - Again, not a clue, but it sounds like the bad guys' laser guns.
Vrooom

So, what it boils down to is that apparently, there is a family [This is Daddy, this is, this is Daddy. Buckle up for safety] of people who are having a space laser battle, but these people [ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP] are very conscious about car safety.

In what can only be described as a cruel irony, the scooter doesn't have a seat belt.

In addition [dink dink dink dink] the fan in the [dink dink dink dink] living room is slightly [dink dink dink dink] off-balance and makes [dink dink dink dink] some sort of [dink dink dink dink] "dink" sound. Being that the [dink dink dink dink] living room is [dink dink dink dink] where I'm typing this [dink dink dink dink] right now, it's sort [dink dink dink dink] of like Chinese [dink dink dink dink] water [dink dink dink dink] torture, except that [dink dink dink dink] with Chinese water [dink dink dink dink] torture, it's less annoying.

Now, add to all of this the fact that the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is playing on the brand new flat-panel TV that my in-laws rushed to buy so that my kids could watch the parade.

My kids aren't watching the parade.

In addition to buckling up and having a fun ride, my oldest has now rolled over her own toe (twice) on the Death Scooter 2000 (tm). That's not just a personal feeling. This model was recalled because an 18-month old died by inhaling a loose screw. In related news, a "loose screw" is what you will become after 10 minutes with this... thing.

Sanity's nemesis

My in-laws bought a plastic bowling set for the kids when they're here. The pins and the bowling ball (which is white -- how can you get that wrong?) are semi-hard plastic. Of course, if you think that the sound of plastic hitting plastic on [Buckle up, and we'll have a fun ride! Vroom Vroom] a hardwood floor is annoying, just wait until you've heard both of your kids hitting everything in sight with the pins.

[Buckle up.. BuckleBuckle up Buckle Buckle Buckle up, and we'll have a fun ride. Buckle up.. BuckleBuckle up Buckle Buckle Buckle up, Buckle up.BuckleBuckle up Buckle Buckle Buckle up, and we'll have a fun ride.Buckle up.. This is this is this is this is this is this is mommy. Pew pew pew. This is Daddy. This is Daddy.]

My oldest just rolled over her toe for the third time.

Although it sounds like I've gone to hell for some grievous sin, I'm actually loving this. There's nothing better than family on Thanksgiving. If I had to have this versus the alternative, I'd take this any day.

Buckle up, and we'll have a fun ride.

Santa is a fear-mongering dictator

2010-11-24T23:08:00.000-06:00

The other day, my oldest daughter asked me why some people end up on "The Naughty List". I said, "Honey, have you been going through your mother's closet again?" Just kidding. I didn't say that. I said "Christmas list" instead of "closet".

I had to give her some sort of answer, so I did what any parent would have. I told her that Santa watches people to make sure they're not being bad. Bad people don't get Christmas presents.

I never really stopped to think about this because we never had a need to tell the kids this before. They were too young to really be "bad". That's when it hit me:

Santa = oppression

Heil Nickler
Let's take a look at some of the ways he can violate your civil rights.

He sees when you are sleeping - WHOA. Are you serious? This dude can see me during church?
He knows when you're awake - This is actually surprising to me as I have learned to sleep with my eyes open to fool people, such as the kids on the bus I used to drive.
He knows if you've been bad or good - So, I guess he has his Elfin secret police keeping tabs on me. That sneaky bastard.
I saw Mommy kissing him - No respect for family values, which is typical of someone in authority. He's a homewrecker.
He has a friendly-sounding nickname - Literally. His name is Nick, or rather, "St. Nick". You know who else was like that? François "Papa Doc" Duvalier
He comes down your chimney in the middle of the night - Dictators don't recognize any property as private, and the fact that he can come and go as he pleases in YOUR house should worry you. If it doesn't, then you probably have some sort of weird fetish. Give me a call.

The Elf On The Shelf
Then as if to make things worse, a co-worker asked me about something called "The Elf On The Shelf". Apparently, this is some sort of tradition that I wasn't aware of. Because I'm old enough to have experienced a few Christmases, I'm guessing this is some sort of 'invented' tradition to sell some stupid product. Of course, being a male, I:

Am not supposed to know things like this.
Don't care.

So I Googled it. Here, let me save you the trouble: http://www.elfontheshelf.com

If you go to the link about the "tradition", you'll see that this is again used to make kids behave. Again, let me save you the trouble: http://www.elfontheshelf.com/indexnf.php?id=about

A Web Of Deceit And Lies
Dictators and lies go hand in hand, like Paula Deen and butter.
When I was a kid, I, like many other kids had learned of Santa's secret identity through some other kid at school. When, at 8, I confronted my mom, she relented and coughed up the truth.

I said "So, you lied to me all these years. I thought you said lying was bad." She said, "It's not really a lie..."
Oh, so what is it, mom, if that is your real name?

The lie is perpetuated so long, it becomes myth, which becomes legend. Much like the myth of Hitler's research into the Occult, who knows if it's actually true or not? I'd like to think it is and that the Germans are hiding some sort of gateway into the netherworld.

Maybe the netherworld is where Santa actually lives.

* It's a shame how easy it was to find a picture of Hussein dressed as Santa.

Honor Stud

2010-11-22T17:37:00.001-06:00

Over the weekend, I went to visit my parents in Mississippi. On Sunday, I went to church at the church I grew up going to. On this particular Sunday, instead of the usual choir, they had an acoustic band that plays every so often. Normally, it's the same 3 or 4 people that play, but this time, there was a kid who looked to be in his early twenties leading the band.

My mom leaned over during the middle of mass -- she's a bad Catholic -- and told me the kid's name was <something> Drew. I'm bad with names. The important part is his last name. I asked -- after mass, because I'm a good Catholic -- if his mom was the same Mrs. Drew who taught me 9th grade English, and lo and behold (does anyone ever use "lo" without "and behold"?) it was.

Now, this isn't a stretch and it's definitely not a "small world" story. My hometown is very small. Very. So, I went up to the kid after mass and asked him about his lineage and he confirmed that yes, he was her son. So, I told him to tell her thanks from me.

Driving back from Mississippi this weekend, I started thinking more about her and I realized that simply telling her thanks doesn't do it justice, and here's why:

In the 1986-1987 school year, the principal at our school instituted something called the Principal's List to reward students who achieved a certain grade point average (92 or above, I think, but that part's fuzzy) for each quarter semester (9 weeks). You were called, over the sound system, to come to the auditorium where you were thanked by the principal and given one of those nylon ribbons (in our case, red, the school's colors) with the words "Honor Student" in gold lettering. You got to wear it as a badge of honor (literally) for the rest of the day. Of course, I liked to scratch out the "ent" part of "Student", hence the title of the post.

If I remember correctly, it was the start of the second semester, and the second opportunity to make the Principal's List. I had made it previously, but I was still new to the school after having graduated from 8th grade in Catholic School. So, it was probably in January when I came back from the school auditorium proudly wearing my ribbon pinned to the leg of my jeans, because obviously you couldn't wear it on your shirt. That'd be uncool.

I go back to my seat, which was on the front row, on the rightmost aisle. Yes, I still remember where it was. When I took my seat, a kid on my same row, Wayne, called me a "nerd" in a voice loud enough so that the class could hear, which got some chuckles from the rest of the guys on my row. Remember, I'm the outsider kid who didn't go to public school with the rest of the kids, so naturally, I was an easy target. This wouldn't be the last of my run-ins with Wayne, but that's another story.

It's a sad truth in our society that you are punished for doing poorly, and you are punished, in another way, for doing well. Tell the truth, when you see Bill Gates, you know that he could have you killed while you are standing in front of the President with 7 gazillion cameras on the killer and he has enough cash to make everyone forget about it, but still, when you see him, you say "What a geek." You know you do.

So there I am, sitting in my seat, fuming, thinking of the most evil things to do to Wayne, when Mrs. Drew, seemingly out of nowhere, turns to him and says something wonderful. I wish I could remember what it was, something like "You wish you could make grades like that" but in all honesty, it doesn't matter. She shamed him in front of the whole classroom.

It was the first time an authority figure had stuck up for me.
It was redemption.
It was validation.
It was ecstasy.

All I can remember after that was thinking:

"NOW WHAT, MOTHER &@#$%^ ?"

So here is what I intended to say all along, and hopefully she'll find this one day and not be upset that I used vulgarity in a post about her.

Dear Mrs. Drew,

I'm sure you may not remember me, but I will never forget you. What you did for me that day, however small it may have seemed to you at the time, was monumental to me. That one, simple act gave me enough self-esteem to believe that what I was doing was the right thing to do. You remain, to this day, one of my favorite teachers ever and I hope the other kids you taught realize just what a treasure they had.

Also, please don't correct my grammar.

Eternally grateful,

Kevin

P.S. I Googled Wayne to see what he was doing these days, and more importantly, to gloat that I had turned out better than he had. Sadly, Wayne died in 2002 at the age of 30 and left behind a wife and 3 kids, and it just wouldn't be right to slam him, although I want to reeeeeeeaaaaaalllllly badly.

My giggle box

2010-11-18T00:07:00.000-06:00

The other day, I was on the phone with my mom and she was telling me about some training she had to take using one of those collaborative internet applications where one user can view the desktop of another user.

It reminded me of a time I had to do the same thing at a former job.

I worked for a company that provided computer services for a hospital corporation, so we were constantly having to take courses on ethics, insider trading, and what-have-you. Well, one day, I found myself having to take a course on policies and procedures, except this time, we used one of those fancy-schmancy web-based tools. You could post questions to the moderator with a little instant-messaging-type chat box. You could click buttons to answer no or yes if the administrator asked a question, and you could could click an "Applaud" button or a "Laugh" button if the situation warranted it. To me, those two things seem just plain silly. No sound comes out when you click Applaud or Laugh. In fact, I don't even know if anyone other than the instructor can even see who is clicking the button. It just seemed so... surreal to click a button to indicate laughter when you could just... you know, laugh.

As advanced as this system was, you still had to use an old-fashioned telephone to dial into a central conference call number and put your phone on mute until you needed to say something. Well, most people would put their phone on mute. There's always an idiot who forgets about it and we end up hearing him talk to his wife about something private on his cell phone. Awkwaaaarrrrd.

Well, on this particular occasion, I was taking a class with a guy named Joe* who also worked on the same team as I did. Joe and I both had an instant messenger program installed on our computers that was different than the one used in the web training thingy.
Neither Joe nor I wanted to be there that day, so I figured we might as well chat while it was going on -- anything to make the time pass.

Now, remember, the course was on policies and procedures. Pro-ceeeee-duuuurrressss. Doing things the same way every time. Well, the instructor brings up some Powerpoint slides and shows us the proper way to log into some new HIPAA website that the company was instituting. (For lay people, HIPAA is what protects your medical history and information) So, the instructor opens up a web browser, types in the site address, and attempts to log into the site...

...and her password is invalid.

In the span of a split second, here's what went through my brain:
- How is her password invalid?
- Shouldn't she have checked that prior to starting this class?
- Maybe she should make a procedure that tells her to verify her HIPAA site password before class.
- Isn't this class on procedures?
- The irony of this situation is not lost on me.
- This is funny.

Humor is my adrenaline. Just like when you hear the stories of the mother who lifts an 18-wheeler to save her child from being crushed to death, the potential to make myself laugh is like tempting a drag queen with the offer of a free Liza Minnelli album collection. So naturally, I did what anyone in this situation would have done. Well, anyone who is me.

I clicked the "Laugh" button.

In the second that followed, the instructor said "Kevin, do you find this funny?" and an instant message popped up on my screen from Joe that said "Oh no you didn't just do that."

Now, here's a situation I'm both proud of and not proud of at the same time. I'm not proud, because one day, I will have to answer "Yes" when my daughter asks me: "Daddy, have you ever knowingly lied to someone directly?". I *am* proud, because at that moment, I had the respect and admiration of my co-worker Joe. I felt like I needed a wheelbarrow to carry around my huge brass balls.

So, I fumbled for the button to un-mute my phone and I said, in a voice that sounded like I was trying with every ounce of self-control in my body not to giggle, "My apologies, I clicked the wrong button." Now, if she had followed up on this, I would have been in deep trouble, because... what button WOULD have been the right button to push? I can only think that either Jesus intervened on my behalf, or that she was so frustrated by her ineptitude that she forgot someone was laughing at her.

I'm going with the divine intervention on this one.

* Not his real name. Okay, maybe it was his real name.

I'm not a super saver.

2010-11-08T17:35:00.000-06:00

Everywhere I go these days, I'm bombarded by questions from the robot sales clerks asking me if I am a member of whatever "savings" club the store offers.

It's not the clerk's fault, though. It's the evil, evil marketing department's fault. The clerks are forced to ask the question as part of their job role.

But, the real anger comes from the fact that the super saver cards are not really a good deal.

Barnes and Noble
According to barnesandnoble.com's website, for $25 dollars per year, you get 40% off hardcover bestsellers, 20% off all adult hardcovers (I didn't even know that Barnes and Noble peddled smut! I gotta go more often.) and 10% of "almost" everything else. For reference, here's the link where I got that: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/membership/join2.asp?

So, let's do the math. In order to recoup your 25 dollars, just buying standard, non-bestseller stuff (or even the 20% porn), you'd need to figure 10% of what number would equal 25 dollars. Because I'm a math wizard, I'll tell you. It's 250 smackaroos. For the math impaired, let me draw it out for you. 250 dollars times .1 (which is 10%) = $25.

You'd have to spend two hundred and fifty dollars JUST TO BREAK EVEN. You haven't even made any gains yet. Now, I buy a good deal of stuff at B&N, but I heartily refuse to get the super-saver card. Not only are they getting your money, but you also are agreeing to give out your home address, etc... which puts you into a business contract with them, enabling them to spam your home mailbox with all kinds of crap.

You know what's fun? Ask the emo kid behind the counter to explain to you why it's a good deal. Sit back and watch the festivities. I take pleasure in people's discomfort.

Best Buy
Best Buy's program makes me downright ill.
Here's the lowdown:

Earn a point for NEARLY every dollar spent for promotional purchases
Earn two points for NEARLY every dollar spent for all other stuff.
250 points gets you 5 bucks off something.

I don't know what NEARLY means, but I assume it's not a 1 to 1 ratio. However, for the moment, let's assume that it is. That means you have to spend 250 bucks (but most likely more) just to get 5 dollars off the *next* purchase. Let's assume you buy something that costs exactly 5 dollars. You've now purchased 255 dollars worth of stuff that you only paid 250 for, which is a savings of 2%. Assuming you purchase something that costs 50 dollars, you've now purchased 300 dollars worth of stuff that you paid 295 for, dropping your savings to 1.01%.

Congratulations on saving the economy. The only upside is that you don't have to pay a fee get the savings, other than the fact that you are spending a boatload of cash at Best Buy.

Discover Card
Oh, Discover will tell you they give cash back, and they do, but seriously, let's take a look at it. On the base card, you get 1% *after your total annual purchases exceed 3,000 dollars*. Until then, it's only .25%. Spelled out, that means you save 7 dollars and 50 cents after spending 3,000 dollars.Also, if you fail to make your minimum payment for 2 periods, that reward is forfeit.

For people who don't use a credit card for daily purchases, this is not a good deal. You could, however, use your Discover card for all of your purchases, then pay 1 monthly bill to them. That'll get you over 3k pretty quickly, but most people don't have that kind of self-control to pay off a credit card monthly. We did, but then again, we're pretty awesome. However, we found something better and we told Discover to go 'reward' itself.

The upside
We (the wife and I) have a debit card with a bank that, for a time, was offering a a plan that gives you 2% back on EVERY purchase, unlimited. The 2% is automatically deposited into a brokerage account. We get two percent and we didn't have to spend 250 (or more) just to get that.

That, my friends, is awesome. They don't offer it anymore, but we're grandfathered in, so, there's that. Sucks to be people who are not us.

So I guess maybe I am a super saver.

How to be a good gift-giver.

2010-09-27T13:34:00.000-05:00

It's getting close to Christmas, and that can only mean one thing: Disappointment on an epic scale.

Bah! Humbug! You say. Mr. Annoying Brain is a Scrooge!
No. I'm not. I'm a realist. I love Christmas as much as the next Muslim. (I'm not Muslim, although people look at me funny in the airport.)

What drives me batty is two-fold:

The excessiveness of gifts. You don't HAVE to give a physical gift. Do something nice. Donate some money to a worthy cause in someone's name. I don't, but you should.
If you are going to give a gift, put some thought into it, or else choose option #1. Here's why...

Obviously, the older you get, the less you need/want (GOOD!), but you still get things anyway (BAD!). It just perpetuates the "shopping season" ideology and not the idea that it's a time for family. But, there's a demographic of people where this really hits home: children, or as we like to call them in my house, overhead. Hey, don't get mad at me. I'm a computer programmer. My wife is an accountant, and "overhead" sounds pretty bean-counter-y. Just sayin'.

Friends and relatives give gifts to the children of other friends and relative. This is most certainly a great thing, but here are some pointers to help make you revered in the eyes of everyone come Santa Day.

Does this gift make noise? If so, you are an asshole. With that out of the way, let's get down to why you are sphincter-central. See, while it may be fun for the kids, it's a nightmarish hell on the parents. The song normally comes from some cheap, electronic device embedded in the bowels of the toy. There's no way to make something like that sound realistic. Plus, because it's a kid's toy, expect to hear that sound 6.02 x 10^23 times. What does Avogadro's number have to do with this? If you're not a parent, shut your face and quit asking questions.
Does this gift require batteries? If yes, do us a favor and disembowel yourself. Those batteries will last approximately 2 days and then we (the parents) will have accidentally forgotten to pick some up at the store, causing us stress and grief from our children during the happiest time of the year. Disembowelment is not good enough for you. Also, batteries are a danger to the environment. Why don't you just go spray an aerosol can into the face of an endangered panda while you are at it?
Can the recipient of your gift get hurt? They don't need a bicycle until they are 17.
Is this gift messy? As fun as Play-Dough is, it's destined to end up as a rock-hard razor-sharp pebble on the kitchen floor which will ultimately result in the death of the parents. Sure, it may take a few (30 or 40) years, but they'll eventually die. Magic Markers? More like Tragic Markers. Our very expensive kitchen table looks like a flippin' Jackson Pollack. Okay, our kitchen table isn't expensive, but theirs MIGHT be, so I'm warning you.
Is this gift fragile? No child needs anything made out of glass. Kids like to play with things. They like to throw things. They like to eat things. Congratulations on giving the kid an instrument of death. Plus, if it's meant to sit on a shelf and look pretty, that's just something else that Rosarita will have to dust. Think of the hired help, won't you?
Is it a "Collector's Edition"? No it's not. It's really not. Seriously. Trust me on this. If you buy a package of anything labeled "Collector's Edition", then you have been duped. The only things that are collector's editions are things that weren't meant to be collector's editions. Also, anything that can be mass-produced cannot be a collector's edition. Rarity = value. As I say this, I'm eating off some "Collector's Edition" Chinet. Suck it, losers.
Is this gift a novelty item or, is it a cheap item to be given as a joke gift? Don't do that. The recipient (me) will hate you forever. If it's a child getting the gift, that just means a longer period of hate. You'll get another 40 years out of me, but you'll get a LIFETIME from the kid. This is also why I hate "white elephant" parties. People who go to white elephant parties should be sterilized.
Is this a perishable good? Hey. Thanks for the temporary gift which will end up as sewer fodder in 8-12 hours depending on your digestive system. This category does not extend to the dreaded fruitcake, which, despite being "fruit" and/or "cake" is not perishable.
Is it educational? It better damned well be. The Chinese and Japanese are kicking our asses with the smarts. We need to retaliate with our young. Why don't you give 'em the gift of some sort of experimental brain surgery that makes them think twice as fast as a regular kid? Lauding their intelligence over their classmates is only one benefit. Completing college in 1 year at the age of 6 is the other.

Lastly, we should end our discussion with a mention of gift cards. I can almost make the case for gift cards, because at least the decision is left up to the purchaser, but it seems so informal. Plus, you are relying on the giver to give a gift card at a place you (or the kid) actually shops. Why not just give cash? Then, we can just give you cash, which brings us back to the beginning.

If we're just going to exchange cash, then the gift cancels each other out. I give you 40 bucks, you give me 40 bucks, we're in the same boat we were before.

Just do something nice for someone.

I'll write soon. I'm playing with my daughter's chemistry set right now.

Taking the Browns to the Superbowl

2010-09-09T18:49:00.000-05:00

I've been taking some medicine lately for a sinus infection. The label on the medicine says "May cause diarrhea." This is like me saying "The sun may come up."

Why do I tell you this? Because this medicine is forcing me to go to the bathroom at work. I'm not a social pooper. I don't like public bathrooms. At. All. I clench up tighter than Jerry Falwell on a trip to San Francisco. Seriously. If you want a diamond, feed me some coal, some Ex-Lax and drop me off at a mall bathroom.

But enough about me. It's the whole bathroom-at-work thing that's driving me crazy. There's several reasons, so I'll address them in order.

The Cleaning Crew (a.k.a. poop-blockers)
For some reason, the cleaning crew at work has decreed that 10:00 and 2:00 are the prime times to clean the bathrooms in my building. Not coincidentally, those are also prime times to drop the Cosby Kids off at the pool. I mean, you could clean the bathrooms at say, LUNCH, when everyone is gone. Or, you could just do it after 5:00. But, alas, no. You have to go clean the place when I'm about to make a fecal Hiroshima.

I mean, let's think about this. Have we defiled the bathroom *that* much between 8:00 and 10:00? I'd love to know some numbers on this, I think.

Calling an Audible
As most men know, there is a rule about which stall to pick. Surprisingly, some men didn't pick up on this vital tidbit of information. Let me explain it like a mantra that you should burn into your brain:

"You are not allowed to occupy a stall next to a stall that is currently occupied."

Take this to heart. Let's take a little test and see if we've learned anything. If you walk into a bathroom with three stalls and there's someone in the middle stall, you should:

Go to another bathroom.
All of the above.

Inevitably, I get the middle stall and some guy who has apparently eaten 6 pounds of Pop Rocks and chased it with a 2-Liter of Coca Cola decides to pick the stall next to me and proceeds to make a Jackson Pollack in the bowl. Of course, it sounds like the U.S. forces are taking Fallujah not 2 feet from me.

Have your people call my people
And what about the guys who are so focused on their job that they forget that the bathroom is a quiet place, a place of serenity, where the average joe is just trying to crank out a steamer because the guys decided to go to the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet for lunch?

Yeah, I used to work with a guy who insisted on discussing the intricacies of the latest project we were working on together. I went in, went to the urinal, unzipped, and got asked "So, do you think you can give us that in XML?" I had to turn and look over my shoulder and, I should tell you ladies, it's hard to maintain concentration on keeping the stream constrained to a 2x2 square when you are not looking directly at it. Don't believe me fellas? Close your eyes and try this at home and see if your wives don't beat you senseless.

This particular perpetrator was an Asian guy, so I thought it might be a cultural thing, so I waited for my chance to strike up another conversation about sushi with a different Asian dude in the bathroom. Now, that dude just looks at me funny when we pass in the hall. Live and learn, I guess.

I can see my house from here
What I think is particularly cruel in our bathrooms at my office is the height of the handicap toilets. They're a good 6-8 feet higher off the ground (or so it seems) than the non-handicap versions. I can literally sit on the handicrapper (HA! I made a funny) and swing my feet. I like to pretend I'm on one of those inverted roller coasters where you hang down instead of ride in a car. Okay, maybe not, but next time I am, and you probably will too.

I have to wonder how the poor people in a wheelchair get on those stalls. Also, what's with the giant bars on both sides. I understand that they're there so the handicapped person can lift himself off the toilet, but they're up high. It's like the parallel bars at the Olympics. Last week I dismounted off the commode with a double backflip, pike position and stuck the landing. I don't want to brag but the German judge gave me a 9.8.

What are you, 5?
I think one of the most disturbing things are men who don't actually know how to use the restroom. Notice, I said "men", and not "boys". A 35-year old man should know not to unbuckle his belt, unzip his zipper, and drop his pants to his ankles before using the urinal, but sadly, that wasn't the case for a co-worker of mine in 2007. He and I shared an office and one day, he comes back into the office with eyes wider than the Runaway Bride.

She buys Visine by the truckload.

He happened to be in the bathroom at the same time as the man we came to refer to as Minty. Why? He had mint-green underwear, and he wasn't afraid to let you know.

Why I don't shake hands at work
Okay, so there you are. You are standing next to some dude at the side-by-side urinals (which have a "separating" wall which does about as much good as the "No Smoking" section of a restaurant) and after a lengthy shaking process (2 Mississippi, max; 3 Mississippi and you should be arrested for public indecency), zips 'er up and walks right out the door. Now, where is Mr. Pee-Pee hands going? God only knows, but I always pray he's about to go eat some hot wings, just so he has to lick his fingers.

Chocolate Chips
Lastly, but certainly not least, are the cretins of the work bathroom world. Now, all men are created equally. This is especially true when talking about Uranus. I can't say I'm 100% positive, but I like to believe that no man has a hole the size of a grapefruit back there. I mean, your flatulence would sound like one of those t-shirt cannons they have at sporting events. Fwoop. Anyyyyyhoooooo, on more than 17 occasions, I've been lucky enough to pick a stall with, how shall I say it.... 'remnants' on the seat. How, I ask you, does that happen? I mean, the horseshoe-shaped seat is convex for a reason, much in the same way a cereal bowl consistently holds your Frosted Flakes in the center.

Our holes are centered on our butts, right? So, how can you get it on the back of the seat? Truly, this is a puzzle for a higher intellect than mine...

...or yours, for that matter. You just read an entire post on pooping.

Chaotic Good, or I cannot be trusted with a super power.

2010-08-21T09:50:00.000-05:00

Chaotic Good: favors change for a greater good, disdains bureaucratic organizations that get in the way of social improvement, and places a high value on personal freedom, not only for oneself, but for others as well. They always intend to do the right thing, but their methods are generally disorganised and often out of alignment with the rest of society. They may create conflict in a team if they feel they are being pushed around, and often view extensive organisation and planning as pointless, preferring to improvise.

I was listening to a great podcast of This American Life this week. The episode was on super powers and one section of the show was narrated by John Hodgman (the "PC" guy on the Apple commercials).

John said that he likes to start conversations at parties with a question like "If you had a choice of one super power, either Invisibility or Flight, which would you choose? You can choose only one."

Having the power of Flight invokes a sense of heroism in people. Those that chose Flight were, in essence, choosing to be the person that they think that they should be.

Invisibility denotes someone who is hiding something or wants to to keep to himself. Definitely not heroic. Choosers of Invisibility were choosing to be the person that they know they probably already are. What does that mean, you ask? Well, with Invisibility, you'd just use it to get free trips on airplanes, you'd use it to spy on your neighbors, and you'd probably use it to stalk famous people.I know I would. Free trips on airplanes, I mean. Not the stalking. Okay, the stalking too.

The subject of super powers is a subject you just should not bring up in front of me. I've thought about my super power for a long, long time. I know which one I want, and I know exactly how I'd act if I had it.

It's simple, really. I want Telekinesis.

Dictionary.com defines it thusly:

the movement of a body caused by thought or willpower without the application of a physical force
the ability to cause such movement

If you didn't get that, just understand that it's what Yoda used to lift Luke's X-Wing out of the swamp on Dagobah. If any of the words in the previous sentence were foreign to you, and you know me in real life, please never talk to me again.

Moving stuff with your mind. Yessir, it's the best superpower. Fly all over the place. I don't care. Go invisible. Whoopty-freakin-do.

Me? I'm gonna be making people trip as they walk up stairs. I'm gonna get a beer out of the downstairs fridge while I'm sitting upstairs. I'm gonna be changing the channel without the aid of a remote control.

There's three main areas where I'd focus my telekinetic powers: Revenge, Personal Gain and Mischief.

Having this power in high school would have been the ultimate. The homecoming festivities at the homecoming game would have been epic. I know a few girls who would have accidently lost their balance and gotten a free serving of turf to the face.
In the lunchroom at work, I would cause people to spill what they were drinking on themselves.
Simply walking down the hallway near me would become dangerous. Oops! Did you just trip? Gotta be more careful.
That 3-pointer that was gonna win the game? Brick... house. She's mightay mightay, just lettin' it all hang out.
Two words: Self Levitation. See, who needs flying when you can pick up your own body with your mind?
The rude lady at the DMV would be taught a lesson she'd never forget. I need two forms of identification? You need to stop banging your head against the desk.
Hey, how'd that cop's radar gun suddenly point skyward? Musta been the wind.
That little bastard who just whipped a snowball at me would find that his snowball suddenly reversed direction with deadly speed and accuracy.
I'd pull a Jesus and walk on water. I'd start my own church. Who's gonna doubt I'm the second coming? I already look like my middle name is Mohammad.
I might even play football... professionally. I'd be the best running back in the history of the game, nay, mankind. There wouldn't be anyone who'd get with 5 feet of me. I'd be on the play of the week. Every week. Ever.
I could paint my entire house whilst enjoying a nice, cold beer on the porch. Ladder, schmadder.
Don't think for one second that I wouldn't use that Darth Vader maneuver where he chokes Admiral Motti aboard the Death Star. I find your lack of faith....disturbing.
Any person who decides to text someone while I'm having a conversation with them will find that their phone would suddenly smash itself against the ground. Technology is a fickle mistress.
Anyone who flicks a cigarette out the window of their car near me would find it right back inside the car, in the back seat where they can't get to it.

But bar none, the absolute best thing ever about having telekinesis is the sheer personal amusement I would get from it. I'd have to change my middle name to Loki.

So no, I can't be trusted with this. The radioactive spider wouldn't bite me. I wouldn't be given the power ring by the Guardians from Oa, and I wouldn't have a twin sister who could turn into some form of animal while I take the form of a bucket of water.

I would just use the powers for evil.

Why my daughters will hate me when they grow up.

2010-08-17T18:23:00.000-05:00

The other night, it was my turn to give baths, and, as always the girls like to play with their toys in the tub. My oldest daughter is in the phase where she likes to hide things and make me guess what she's hiding. This is fun for the first 3 times, then, it gets a little old.

So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. She has one of those "Littlest Pet Shop" kitties, and she hides it under a used plastic cup that cake frosting comes in. (Don't ask. I don't know why my wife decides to use what would otherwise be trash as a bathroom playtoy.)

Here's how the conversation went:

Her: Daa-aad, I bet you can't guess what I'm hiding under heeeeere.
Me: I bet I can.
Her: I bet you ca-an't.
Me: Is it a pile of old cheese?
Her: No.
Me: Is it a German family?
Her: No.
Me: Is it a carburetor from a '37 Ford?
Her: No. Dad.
Me: Is it Jimmy Hoffa?
Her: What? No.
Me: Is it your grandmother's favorite Jell-o mold?
Her: Noo-ooo.
Me: Is it all the money in the world?
Her: DAD. You have to guess right.
Me: Oh. Is it a plastic dinosaur?
Her: NO.
Me: Is it a swimming pool full of piranhas?
Her: Dad. Stop.
Me: It's the Beatles' White Album, isn't it?
Her: NO. DAD. ANSWER RIGHT.
Me: Is it a seven-legged spider?
Her: (looks at me with "I'm tired of this" eyes)
Me: Is it the Star Wars Episode 4 Special Edition DVD?
Her: Dad, it's the kitty.
Me: Is it some asbestos?
Her: I already told you.
Me: Is it a room full of asthmatics?
Her: What's an az.. ath.. Dad, what's that?
Me: Is it an E-Z-Bake Oven?
Her: AAAAAAAAAAAARRGGHHH!

I can't wait to see how they turn out when they grow up.

Gasholes

2010-08-13T20:40:00.000-05:00

Why is it that some people will drive across town for a 1-cent savings on a gallon of gas?
This has to be my biggest pet peeve with gas. Let's dissect it, shall we?

Suppose your car has a 15 gallon tank. 15 gallons x .01 = .15. Yes, 15 cents.
Even if it's a nickel's difference, you've only saved 75 cents, and you had to drive to a completely out-of-the way gas station to do it.

Effort definitely does not equal reward.

Why is it that gas stations on opposite sides of the street, or even those that are next to each other on interstate exits will have a price difference on their gas?
For example, the price for regular unleaded gas at a Shell station located next to a BP station will have a 1 or 2 cent difference in price? I'm all for not being dumb and driving across town to save a penny, but if the stations are directly next to each other, why would I choose the higher price?

Why do people feel the need to "top off" their tanks with gas?
There are a couple of problems with this:

It clearly says on most pumps not to do that, so you are either illiterate or you are an imbecile.
How much do you really think you are putting in your tank? Expect to take a road trip on that extra ounce of gas you got? Honestly, can you measure how much longer that will keep you from going to fill up again? Maybe an extra 2 miles? Congratulations on beating the system.
I have for a long time, had a belief that while the meter registers when you press the handle on the pump, the gas isn't distributed accordingly. The only way you're going to get close to an accurate price on the gas you pump is to do it all at once. Any "topping off" is just going to charge you more while not giving you as much gas. But don't take my word for it. If it was an efficient way to get extra gas, then you should pump your whole tank in little tiny squirts.
The sound that the pump makes when you repeatedly get cut off by automatic shut-off valve on the handle is damned annoying, and anyone who does that would probably also like the sound of their head being smashed repeatedly with said gas pump handle.

Why are the windshield cleaning fluid containers routinely empty and are either missing the squeegee or the squeegee is completely useless?
Nothing like washing your windows with half of a squeegee and old rainwater. The rubber scraper part of the squeegee usually has a giant gap in the middle, like a third grader's top row of teeth.

Why is it that the gas pump can't tell you ahead of time that there is no paper for the automatic receipt?
That way, you wouldn't feel like hitting the pump with a crowbar. Maybe that's just me. I love the "See cashier for receipt" message. Not a chance. See, the idea of paying at the pump is so that you DON'T HAVE TO SEE THE CASHIER. My printer at home puts up a message on my computer screen approximately every 1.5 seconds telling me that it has no paper. The technology is there. Use it.

Also, we all know how much the person behind the counter wants to be there. You mean, you don't get smiling, overjoyed, sweet-smelling, English-fluent attendant, when you go in? Bad luck, I guess.

Who actually buys the middle grade gas?
Hm. I'd like to get the same MPG out of my car, but I'd like to pay a little more for that. I don't think any car manufacturers recommend using the middle grade gas. It's either the high or the low. It's the Jan Brady of gasolines.

Happy Birthday, Individual.

2010-08-13T20:00:00.003-05:00

It was my birthday a few days ago, and I got a card from one of the higher-ups in my company, delivered directly to my cubicle from his administrative assistant. The label on the envelope had my name, the department I worked in, and that I was, and I quote: "Customer A C03013"

How very thoughtful.

The picture above is the actual inside of the card. I scanned it, just for you, my loving audience. I took care to erase the higher-up's name, rank, and signature -- but nothing else. You know what'd be nice? Maybe if he had actually put my name on the card and said that he was glad that I worked in his division.

This brings me (again) to one of my pet peeves: Why buy/send a card to someone if it has no meaning? I mean, I'm not sending birthday/Christmas/Valentines cards to the guy behind the counter at McDonald's. This sort of thing makes you look like a complete jerk, which isn't far from the truth.

When this particular guy was first hired at our company, he was hired from the outside and not promoted from within. Our company was without this type of person (I'm trying to be vague here if you can't tell) for a good while, over a year, I think. He set up introductory meetings for each and every team in his division, but he did it at 7:30 A.M.

Pro Tip: If you don't want people to hate you, don't set up a meeting with them at 7:30 in the morning. I'm sure, like you, nobody else has a spouse that works or kids that need to get to daycare.

At that meeting, he outlined to us his way of doing things and suggested we go around the table and introduce ourselves, which we did. Obviously, I must have made a deep, lasting impression upon him because I keep getting a birthday card each year. Maybe I shouldn't have introduced myself as "Customer A C03013". Then, something happened that will stick in my memory forever. He decided to play a little game with us so that we could get to know him better. He asked us a bunch of questions and asked us to write down the answers, but, the questions were all about him. Now, this can be good or bad, depending on how you do it. Because you are reading this, you know it wasn't the "good" way. I'm going to modify the questions slightly, but I'm not going to change the intent.

Q. Do I like chocolate cake, or strawberry cake?
A. Strawberry!

What bearing this had on anything, ever, was lost on me. I don't think I'm going to pass him in the hall and think, there goes Flippy McDouchebag. That's a guy who likes strawberry cake!

Pro Tip: Nobody gives a rat's ass what kind of cake you like.

Editor's note: Everyone knows that there is only one, true cake, and that cake is: Yellow cake with Chocolate Icing. Strawberry cake is for girls. Girls and lepers. And leper girls.

Q. During football season, do I pull for the Florida Gators or the Florida State Seminoles?
A. HA HA! I tricked you! I pull for the Arkansas Razorbacks.

Normally, I'd just file this under "General Douchebaggery", but this one deserves some special attention. You see, the state I live in doesn't care about professional sports. Not. One. Iota. They are all about college sports, and only one sport at that: Football. You just came in and told them that you don't pull for either of their teams. Grats, dumbass.

Pro Tip: Evaluate your surroundings before you go spouting off at the mouth.

Q. How old are my kids?
A.

No, I didn't leave the answer blank. I actually stopped listening and started thinking of mean replies, like:
A. Old enough to join the sideshow of a traveling carnival, which would actually be a more dignified life.
A. Hm, they're 3 and... Not 3.
A. Are you sure they're yours?

Pro Tip: If we didn't ask how old your kids are, chances are moderately high to skyrocketingly high that we don't want to know.

Since that fateful breakfast meeting, none of us have seen or heard from this guy. I think he still works there, because I see him every once in a while, but as a leader or a communicator, he fails pretty epicly. It'd be nice to know you have someone in your corner representing your interests to the company, but alas, all I know is that of all the delicious cake flavors in the world, he loves the crappy kind.

Sincerely,

Customer A "See-oh" C03013

P.S. Since I know your birthday is coming up, I got you something:

Interesting specimen

2010-08-13T18:52:00.000-05:00

I am an interesting specimen.

I once ate my weight in cotton candy.

I write books on the safety of felines in war-torn countries.

I taught a fish to juggle.

Sometimes, people wink at me for no apparent reason.

For fun, I read the entire World Book Encyclopedia, but only every third word.

When I use Google, I am always "Feeling Lucky".

I have a belief that phone books should be condensed.

I am the president of one of the many pleather fan clubs.

My car has no Reverse gear.

On Thursdays, I am required by law to write my name in cursive.

I believe in using braille wrapping paper, just in case.

I paint left-handed, bat right-handed and eat potato chips ambidextrously.

I like to tan during eclipses.

My high-school science project won national recognition for my ground-breaking study of the malleability of glass.

I was awarded the Nobel Prize for Anger.

My children believe I invented Kool-Aid.

I name all my pets as if my computer keyboard had been arranged with the keys in alphabetical order. It's hell finding a food bowl with the word Ljie on it.

I have advised the President on matters of global cooling.

I am afraid of the color mauve.

I have successfully sneezed while keeping my eyes open.

I carve marble balloon animals as a hobby.

I am not allowed near open flames.

I once negotiated a peace treaty between red ants and black ants.

One time, on a dare, I built an adobe treehouse.

I own the patent for the first solar-powered bicycle.

I know the scientific names for every species of ivy.

I am, as far as I can tell, the only person in the world who knows a real English word that rhymes with 'orange'.

After my pet died, I went through the 7 stages of grief in random order.

I am fascinated by magnets.

I compete in freestyle lawn mowing.

If given the opportunity, I would like to design a high-powered flyswatter.

One day, I hope to make something of myself.

We Are Family (by marriage), Part 1

2010-07-17T13:07:00.000-05:00

Above: Not my family.

My wife's family decided to have a family reunion this year. This is where the problems began.

See, the thing is, I don't even want to have a family reunion with MY side of the family. They frighten and scare me, not unlike the workers at traveling carnival shows.

The wife and I have been married a while now, and this isn't the first family reunion I've been to. There was one before, back in 1996, but we had been dating maybe a couple of weeks, so, I'm sure the people I met we either A) still alive or B) wrote me off as the 'new guy'. Well, here I am now, husband, father of two, a man who has his life in order. That is, until I got to the reunion.

It all started about six months ago, I think. Let me see if I can articulate the conversation.
My wife: "We're having a family reunion this year.".
Me (in my head) "Hey, have fun. I'll just stay here and take care of the house."
Me (out loud) "Oh, really? When?"
My wife: "The weekend of July 16-18, but we'll be driving there on the 15th."
Me: "The 15th, as in, 'Our Tenth Anniversary The 15th' ?"
My wife: "Oh."

Strangely, my wife can remember everything I've ever done or haven't done, when I did or didn't do it, and what kind of mood I was in when I did or didn't do it. But our anniversary day? For some reason, it doesn't register, which is weird. Normally, it's the guy who always forgets that day, but Hollywood and decades of male-bashing have conspired against me, and I know better than to forget that day. That one, and the day we became an 'item' are burned into my skull.

So there we are, traveling down the road on Thursday, July the 15th, my anniversary, towards Cincinnati.

Cincinnati? Yes, you heard right. Cincinnati. My first thought: "Who the hell goes to Cincinnati..... for anything?"

We left Birmingham at 7:00 in the morning, and, surprisingly, the girls were really good on the trip. After a few hours, I thought to myself that I wasn't going to have anything to write about.. and that's when I saw it. There was an 18-wheeler in the right lane, and we were passing it on the left. This was one of those trucks with the two doors on the back instead of the one roll-top door. On one of the doors there was a metal rooster affixed to it, and, while a little unconventional, it wasn't until closer inspection where I almost careened off the road. The rooster had a pair of Truck Nutz attached to it.

Above: The testicular appendage.

Just in case you would like a pair of these (and you have a truck -- they're not called SUV Nutz) here you go: (http://www.trucknutz.com/).

Oh, but the fun didn't end there. About an hour later, we come across a truck with this emblazoned across the side:

Helloooooo ladies.

No, the picture above isn't mine. I was laughing too hard to take a snapshot. Thank God other people on the interweb have the same sense of humor that I have.

We got to the hotel (which was across the Ohio river in Kentucky) at around 3:00 on Thursday, and we finagled my niece into keeping the girls while we went out for an anniversary supper. I gotta say, I was a little apprehensive about heading into Cinci for supper, but, when we got there, I was more than a little surprised. The city is clean and well-kept, and everyone we met that night was really, really nice. The restaurant had printed out menus specifically for us with our name at the top and something about our anniversary... nice touch. They seated us by the window so we got a beautiful view of the river and our meal was superb. I had to send my steak back because it was overcooked, but they gave me a new one in a couple of minutes, so no harm done.

Friday, we went to the hotel swimming pool, a saltwater pool. It was the first time I had ever swum (swum? swimmed? swam?) in a saltwater pool. Now, my oldest daughter (4) is a little afraid of swimming, even with floaties. By "a little afraid", I mean that she screamed a blood-curdling scream when I let go of her in the middle of the pool. The guys from CSI showed up, if that's any indication. My youngest daughter (2) has no fear whatsoever. Put her in the middle of the pool with nobody around? No problemo.

Friday night, we had plans to go see the Cincinnati Reds play the Colorado Rockies play. More on that later. Some time around 3:00 or 4:00 that afternoon, we were hanging out in our hotel rooms, having sammiches or something, when my mother-in-law said: "Oh, the people from New York are here."

Excuse me, what the !@#$% did you just say? It sounded something like "The people from New York are here."

That's right. New Yorkers. Second on my list of people I can't stand: New Yorkers. If you are from New York, and we meet, don't tell me.Still, it probably won't matter. You've got that air about you. I'll know. I'm sure it's not PC these days to not like New Yorkers, what with 9/11 and all, but I just... I don't know what it is about them. I feel pretty sure it's the arrogance. Oh, and the attitude.

I was validated when, on Saturday morning, I go down to the hotel's meeting room, which they had reserved for our family reunion, to find one of the 'New Yorkers', a full-on guido, wearing a Harley-Davidson shirt that said "I like it Hoggy-style" on the front.

Kids, when you are out-classed by a Southerner, you know something's wrong. Well, I take that back. Yeah, we Southerners may be rednecks, and there are more than a few of us that live in trailers, but by damn, when it comes to class and manners, we rank #1. That douche could have picked any t-shirt he wanted out of his closet, but he chose the 'Hoggy-style' one. Next up was some lady who dresses like my mother, and was wearing a fanny pack, I think. Besides the faux pas of wearing a fanny pack, she had a little diamond stud in her nose. No. No no no no no. We do not wear a diamond stud in our nose if we are a 55+ year old woman wearing a fanny pack and a sleeveless plaid shirt. I stand by my hatred of New Yorkers.

Sorry, I had to jump forward there for a bit. Back to the ball game. The Reds. For those that don't keep up with baseball, like me, I thought that we were going to see a game of epic suckness. However, the Reds are leading the National League central division after the all-star break, and they had 4 players go to the All-Star game. Not bad. They haven't won a World Series since 1990, though, and they were 'celebrating' the 20th anniversary since they won the Series. Let me translate that: We haven't won a world series in 20 years. Since they were doing this celebration, they got M.C. Hammer (seriously) to perform at the ballpark that night, because Mr. Baggy Pants himself was the hottest thing going in 1990. Trust me. I know. I was 2 Legit 2 Quit (hey hey) back then.

The game itself was pretty uneventful, but it was the whole atmosphere that made it great. The ballpark is located right on the Ohio River and the view from the stands is just gorgeous. I could just sit there and take in the sights all night rather than watch the game. We left the youngest at home and took our oldest. Jeannie decided to buy her a whole cotton candy before the game. Note to prospective parents: do not do this. Imagine the Tasmanian Devil confined to a 2'x3' box.

Adding to the whole 'Cincinnati suprised the heck out of me theme, we were about to buy some peanuts at the game when a lady behind us told us not to spend our money. Thinking (wrongly) that the peanuts were tainted or something, I was pleasantly surprised when she said "Here. Wal-Mart. Two bucks." Best. Peanuts. Ever. I didn't get the lady's name, but I wanted to make sure her kindness wasn't lost. Thank you, sweet lady, whoever you were.

So, after the game was over, they cleared the outfield stands for a fireworks show, but not before M.C. Hammer was to perform for a small after-game show. I never saw Hammer in concert during his heyday, but the man put on a great show. I kept wondering the whole time if you had asked him in 1990 if he'd ever perform at a Cincinnati Reds vs. Colorado Rockies game in 2010, what he'd say, but I digress. I was teleported in time back to high school and my first year of college. A super-dope homeboy from the Oak-town and I'm knowwwwwwn... as such, and this is a beat (unnnh) U can't touch. Jeannie got me on video dancing, and if it ever becomes public, and she mysteriously disappears, you'll know why.

After U Can't Touch this, they immediately went into a fireworks show. I figured it was gonna be some dinky show that the promoters of the ballpark used to get the attendance numbers higher. Wrong again. Cinci is a surprising town, if I haven't made that abundantly clear. This was, far and away, the best fireworks show I've ever seen. Of course, with your four-year-old daughter sitting in your lap, her eyes full of wonder and a smile that says "I've never been happier", it sorta pushed it over the top. However, don't let that diminish the show in any way. They went all out. It was, for lack of a better phrase, one hell of a show. There was a short pause and Hammer picked up with "2 Legit 2 Quit" (hey hey) while the fireworks continued. Then, the finale, and what a finale it was.

All this for 20 bucks. Booyah.

It's Saturday at noon when I'm writing this. Hopefully, there's going to be a part 2. With New Yorkers, In-Laws, Kids, and a drive back home, stay tuned.

Ten

2010-07-15T01:00:00.238-05:00

Before we got married, my wife and I had to choose the song we would dance to at our reception. The song we loved the most was "Crash" by the Dave Matthews Band. Did we use it? Nope. We caved and went with Harry Connick Jr.'s "We Are In Love" figuring that the lyrics to "Crash" were a little inappropriate for a wedding reception. You see, "Crash" is a song about a peeping tom. Don't believe me? Read the lyrics. But, it's something much more. It's about a guy's head-over-heels love for someone.

Today, I'm gonna rectify that. The reason I love this song so much is this verse:

Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock and sweet you roll
Lost for you, I'm so lost... for you

What better way to tell a woman that you love her is there than to tell her that she is candy to your soul?

I wrote this post a week before it was published, but I really wasn't satisfied. Oh, it was my typical silliness. I had some things in there about how we're different and something about what marriage was, and blah blah blah. Then, the morning before, I got up at 5:30 because I couldn't sleep. I woke up with all of this in my head and I ran upstairs to the computer and all of this just began flowing out of me. It just goes to show you that sometimes, you aren't as clever as you think you are. Your heart takes over and you don't really have any control anymore.

Come to think of it, that's the perfect way to describe what happened 10 years ago. I was scared. Boy, was I scared. For a couple of hours before the ceremony, I just got lost. I drove around the city wondering if what I was doing was right. It seems so often today that people view marriage like buying clothes. If they don't fit, then you can just return 'em. I'm not that way. I was gonna make a funny analogy about a tattoo, but no, it's much more serious than that. I view marriage as a solemn commitment -- something not to be taken lightly. So, I told myself, when I choose the person, that's it. I will live with the consequences of my decision for the rest of my life. Again, though, what the brain thinks and the heart knows are really two different things. Your brain is there for logic, to keep you from writing a post about your anniversary on the internet, and your heart is there to tell your brain to quietly shut the hell up, that you're going to do it anyway.

Someone up there was watching over me, because here I am, ten years later, sitting at my desk trying to put into words how I feel, but I don't think I have to. She's sweet like candy to my soul.

When we were dating, I used to get this 'empty' feeling when we weren't together. It's almost like I had this bucket inside me with a little hole in the bottom. I'd fill it up with Jeannie when we were together and it would slowly leak out while we were apart. So, when I'd call her, I'd tell her that my "bucket was empty". Yes, have your fun. Go ahead and laugh it up. Show me a guy who has never said something like that to his lady, and I'll show you a bachelor. These days, I don't have to tell her my bucket is empty, not because we're together all the time, but because the bucket grew. It had to, really, to make room.

Today is our 10th anniversary, and I don't know that I could even begin to imagine the past 10 years of my life without her. I don't even want to imagine it. My bucket is full, and that's exactly the way I like it.

Do these heels go with my pasta fagioli?

2010-06-23T17:54:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, I go through a dry spell when I can't easily decide on things I'd like to write about. Then, along comes the a topic which has an impact that's the equivalent of getting hit in the face with a baseball bat. In case you don't know what that looks like, here you go.

The other day, a co-worker told me about a woman he knew that would coordinate her clothes with what she was planning to eat. Why? Because invariably, she'd end up spilling some portion of her food on herself. Finding out something like this has a different effect on the different sexes:

Females: "Oh, I totally understand. I've done that before too. (my wife)
Males: "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard of." (me, out of earshot of my wife)

Now, you can probably go several ways with this topic, but the most obvious question that you should be asking yourself is: "How do you know what you're going to eat for the day?" That takes some kind of willpower to pick a food that far ahead of time. I mean, I don't decide until we pull up at the drive-thru or the nice lady brings a menu to my table.

So what, then, is a person to do when confronted with the monumental decision of picking out your clothes in the morning. "Hm. All I have clean is this red blouse. I'll just have a strawberry smoothie for lunch."

This is even more complicated for the single lades. You've got an upcoming hot date. What do you wear? WHAT. DO. YOU. WEAR? You've got to wear something cute and/or sexy, but it's got to comply with where he's taking you for supper. What if you don't know where he's taking you? The anxiety must be driving you bonkers. You better wear something black. And Sexy. In fact, just always wear something black and sexy. Forget the stupid food thing.

Come to think of it, this pretty much precludes wearing white anywhere you go. That is, except if you are my sister-in-law. Let's just call her SlippyFingers. She's one of these people who spills stuff on herself all the time. I don't get it, and neither does my brother. We've just come to accept it. By "accepting it", I mean that she gets to eat outside when we invite them over for dinner. My family is still reeling from the barbecued rib she dropped on our dining room tablecloth. We don't have a tablecloth anymore. You connect the dots. Anyhoo, back to the point. She almost exclusively wears white t-shirts when she eats because she can bleach them. Not a bad idea, but it sure is a limiting wardrobe.

This whole business of culinary apparel is still tough even if you *do* know what kind of food you are eating. Sometimes, one doesn't have a choice. What if you have been invited over to a friend's house and you're having soup? What color does soup warrant? Does it depend on the soup? What goes with spaghetti? Let's assume there's a bolognese sauce. Is that a rust-colored dress or maybe something more tomato-y? I'm so confused.

Why yes, I believe I will have a bowl of rainbow sherbert.

There's not a lot of problems that we come across these days that haven't been encountered before at some point in our history. Oh sure, there's the occasional disease or computer virus that we need to actively come up with a solution before, but this... this food spillage thing. It just seems like I've run into this problem recently.

If only there were some kind of device that someone could use to keep from getting food on their clothes. Oh well, maybe we're just destined to be dirty.

Or... maybe not.

It protects your clothes while it brings all the boys to the backyard.

Jesus's Dentist

2010-05-27T23:27:00.001-05:00

Note: You can Google "Jesus Dentist" and find a picture of the lead singer of Lynyrd Skynyrd watching Leonard Maltin getting a routine checkup and cleaning.

On the way to church the other day, I was talking with my wife about how the 'details' of Jesus's life are left out of the bible.

Have you ever stopped to think that the Jesus that walked the Earth probably looked nothing like what we think of him? And, what's more, there are vast portions of his life that are completely unknown. Such as:

What kind of dental hygiene did Jesus have? Did he have cavities? That would make his teeth 'holy'. Oh, there's more. Just wait.
Did he have any ailments? Maybe a bad back? He was a carpenter and, I'm sure those guys didn't just sit around in comfy chairs all day. Well, they might have, actually, if they made their own chairs.
How long was his hair? Did he have a beard or not?
Did he bite his nails?
Was he color blind?
Did his mother dress him?
Did his dad (his foster one, not his real one) ever talk to him about the birds and the bees?
Did he ever get a spanking?
Did he ever get upset with his mother because she made him eat his broccoli?
Did he have any friends as a kid? Like maybe, some kid named Josh? Don't tell me they didn't have kids named Josh. There's a book of Joshua in the bible. It'd have been cool if they called it the book of Josh.
Did he ever have a girlfriend? For that matter, was he handsome?
What was his penmanship like? Did he misspell words?
Where did he sit in class? Was he the teacher's pet?
What kind of music did he listen to?
Did he ever spend the night at a friend's house?
Did he fart? Did he ever ask Mary Magdalene to pull his finger?
What was his favorite food? Did his mother make some food that no other person could make as good as she did? Did his mother ever forget to cook the rolls on Sunday? Did he ever get tired of eating the same old thing?
What was his favorite color?
Did the Christs ever go on family vacations? I'm guessing Jesus didn't build sand castles at the beach because the concept of the castle hadn't been invented yet. Did he build sand Ten Commandments?
Did Jesus ever tell a joke? Did he have a sense of humor?
Did he ever curse? Dad-damnit? When he was frustrated, did he just say "ME" ?
Did he know how to swim? Since the whole water walking thing, could he actually swim or did he just sit on top of the waves?
Did he participate in some kind of sport that was popular back then? Was he a good runner?
Was he a nerd?
Did the Christs live next door to someone?
Did Jesus ever act up at the synagogue, forcing his mother to pinch his ear and say "Don't make me get either of your fathers!"
Did Jesus have a toy and for that matter, a favorite toy?
Did he have a security blanket or a doll?
Did he suck his thumb or any of his fingers?
Did he have bad breath?
Was his voice high-pitched, medium, or low? Was it gruff?
Could he sing or was he really off-key?
Did he have any visible scars (pre-Resurrection)?
Did he daydream? Did he have nightmares?
Could he cook?
Did he have a pet?
What was his favorite subject in school? I'm guessing 'Religion class', but who knows? He was a carpenter, maybe he was good at math.
Did he ever have a crush on a girl? He could have had the greatest pick-up lines in all of creation, you know. "Wanna go out? I can give you eternal salvation."
Did he have a hobby?
Could he fish? I mean, with a net, not the metaphorical fishing.
Did he ever get sunburned?
Was he allergic? Did he have hay fever?

Maybe when they come out with the sequel to the Bible, they'll answer some of these.

Until then, my Jesus will look like a Scandanavian with a perfect set of chompers.

Our Dishwasher

2010-05-26T19:42:00.001-05:00

I don't understand our dishwasher.

The concept is simple, right? You put some dishes into the dishwasher, press a few buttons and blammo! Clean, dry dishes that you can put back into your cabinets.

If only it were that simple.Let me tell you why:

My wife tells me that you can't put dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

I'm gonna let that sink in for a sec. Get it? Sink in? As you can imagine, this was met with more than a little resistance on my end.
I'm like... huh? According to her, you have to rinse off the dishes first, including removing any caked-on food, because the dishwasher won't get it.

Let me get this straight: We have to *clean* the dishes before we put them into the dishwasher. Baffling. Mind-boggling, really.

Before I was married, I had a roommate who was an old college buddy. When my wife and I were dating, she'd come over to our apartment, and we'd have supper. One night, we had something or other and we had macaroni and cheese (Kraft family size, what God intended for us to eat) as a side dish. Yes. I said a SIDE DISH. I'm nothing if not versatile. After we ate, he decided to load up the dishwasher with the 'cheese' still on the plates. Guys: Learn not to miss warning signs like the one I'm about to reveal. She (my future wife) began to make this twitching motion with her eye like someone who stands behind another person playing solitaire and is trying with every ounce of their being to restrain themselves from saying "PUT THE RED FIVE ON THE BLACK SIX, MORON!". My roommate, who was more than a little adept at infuriating women, saw the look of desperation in her eyes and, with the calmness of a man who is significant-other-less, says to her: "Let's see what this baby can do" and proceeded to start the dishwasher.

It was about that time that I realized he needed saving, not unlike someone who had stuck a knife into a wall socket and needed to be tackled to remove them from the grip of the electricity.

But I digress, sorta.

Now, we get to the amazing part of our story, as if the mac-n-cheese incident of 1997 didn't have you on the edge of your seat. Back to present day: We turn the knob on the dishwasher to the setting where it will dry the dishes after we're done. No muss, no fuss, right? Nope.

Evidently, that doesn't work so well. My wife (again, here to clear up any confusion I might have had) tells me that once we're done, we have to open the door to the dishwasher and then pull out the two racks to let the dishes "air dry".

We have a dishwasher that won't wash dishes and a dry cycle that won't dry them. It's infuriating.

Heh. I washed dishes tonight and I put in a cereal bowl with dried-up Cheerios on the top rack.

Cry havoc and let slip the rinse cycle of war.

Stroke of genius

2010-05-19T23:38:00.000-05:00

Warning: Family members and relatives may wanna just go ahead and skip this one.

There are times when you see an infomercial (or a segment of a program) about a new product (see my post on the Nutty Buddy) that make you do the proverbial double-take. And then, you see one that is a 'stroke' of pure genius.

Enter: the Shake Weight .

Dear Mr. or Mrs. or Miss inventor-of-the-shake-weight. You will always have my undying gratitude. You see, I think you may have underestimated your product.

I am, of course, talking about what this is REALLY meant to teach women to do:

- Holding a flag to lead a parade - Parade flags are heavy and all but require that they be held by a woman. We can't have a limp flag, now can we?

- Ascending gym class ropes - Show those boys you can beat them off the floor to the top of the rope.

- Navigating a gondola - Traditionally a male-only occupation, the art of gondola driving is sadly, a dying art. Help spank this industry back into shape with some new blood: you!

- Dunking a mop into a mop bucket - Found a sticky spot on the floor? No problem! Rub one out with your mega-clean mop! Cleanliness is next to godliness, they say and I want a floor I could eat off of. That can't happen without a very, very clean mop.

- Jib Hoister - A sailboat is nothing without its frontmost sail. If we're gonna win the America's cup, we're going to face some stiff competition and we need to get that sail engorged and full of wind as quickly as possible. You'll be the fastest jib-hoister on the seven seas.

- Overpowering a tug-of-war team - Winners never quit and quitters never win. If you get a quick jerk off the start, you're almost guaranteed a win and, what's more, just think: One day, you may need a valuable skill like this in case your loved ones are hanging off the edge of a cliff and you need to pull them up via a rope you keep in your trunk. I'm just sayin'. It could happen.

- Butter churner - Butter is an essential ingredient in cooking and nobody loves fresh butter more than me. With practice, you may be able to work out some cream by just manipulating some wood.

My iPod is stressing me out.

2010-05-11T17:48:00.001-05:00

Call me late to the game. Call me behind the times. I don't care. I love my iPod.

Well, technically it's not *my* iPod. I got it for my wife about 3 or 4 years ago. It's the 80GB video model. Yes, it's older and bulky, but it's pretty great. After years of pouring songs into it, it's still only half full, or half empty if you're one of THOSE people.

I'm addicted to podcasts. Particularly:

The Instance
Film Sack
(Pretty much any Frogpants podcast)
Coverville
Fresh Air
Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me
This American Life
Freakonomics
RadioLab
... and about 20 more.

That's where the stress comes in. I love them so much that I download them all and I don't have time to listen to them.

Oh, and there's one more thing you should know before we get started. There's, how shall we say it, a "bug" with this iPod, at least I think it's a bug. When you turn on the iPod and you hit the Play button, it will play the first song, alphabetically, by artist. On my iPod, that equates to Abba. Dancing Queen, to be specific. I have hit the damned Play button by accident so many times it ain't funny.
Yeah, just imagine me sitting there in my cubicle, with Lumpy sitting across from me, and you hear the tinny sound of earphones blasting that piano sweep intro from the song. I slowly turn my head to see him looking at me, and I give him that look like in the cartoons where Sylvester has just stuffed Tweety into his mouth and the big bulldog comes in. You know, the sheepish "Ummm.... I'll just be going now" look.

But I digress.

So, I start listening to the iPod on the way in to work, on the way home from work, and all during the day unless people come to my desk and bother me... and they do. CURSE YOU PEOPLE WHO WANT TO HAVE LIVE CONVERSATION.

I have had to -- YOU CAN DANCE, YOU CAN JI-IVE (Stop Stop STOP) -- use iTunes to scale back the number of episodes of a podcast that I keep because I simply can't get to them all in the course of a week.

Some of them, like Planet Money, I feel obligated to download. I never even listen to it, but I *think* I should, which is really the important part, -- FRIDAY NIGHT AND THE LIGHTS ARE LO-OW (tap, tap, tap... DAMNIT!) -- because it's really valuable information about the economy. You should listen to it and tell me about it.

Other podcasts, like This American Life are about an hour long, and I keep getting interrupted in the course of a business day. It's hard to have an hour of uninterrupted listening time.

And then there's the ones with back episodes, like RadioLab. RadioLab must have about 6 quintillion back episodes that I just find irresistable. They do the most -- YOU ARE THE DANCING QUEEN, YOUNG AND SWEET, ONLY SEVENTEE-EEEN (aaaaaaaargh!) -- interesting shows on the most interesting topics, like this one where they did a show on whether or not we really need sleep, and exactly what sleep does to affect us. Cool stuff.

And then there are those sadists who do multiple podcasts per week, like Coverville, (best. podcast.ever) that you simply MUST listen to because -- SEE THAT GIRL. WATCH THAT SCENE <flings iPod across the room> -- the covers of the songs are better than the originals and the host shows that he did a lot of research and put a lot of thought into making a great podcast

Oh well, I'll get to 'em... eventually.

DIG IN THE DANCING QUEEN

Kiai

2010-05-06T18:42:00.000-05:00

kiai (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kiai) is a Japanese term used in martial arts to describe a short yell before or during some sort of strike, typically, a punch.

Sometimes I like to imagine a world in which it's totally okay to straight-up coldcock someone when that person deserves it. There are dozens, if not hundreds of reasons to show someone the business end of your fist. I think people have it too easy in today's world, and there should be repercussions for being a jerk.

Now this doesn't mean that we can just go off willy-nilly beating people down (although, that'd make a great TV show). I mean, you don't want a full-scale riot when some politician makes a decision you don't like, but if that same politician uses his authority or influence to do something like run a red light because he's late for some appointment, then that's just cause for a little nose rearrangement.

Now that we've got down the basics, let's list a few people who I think are desperately in need of a right cross (or left, if that's your dominant hand)

Hipsters

It's hard to define a hipster, as many of the identifying things about them are different from one to another. If we were talking about frat boys, then we could easily say: ballcap, polo shirt or fake faded t-shirt, prone to drinking beer. With hipsters, it's a little different. They all have strange hair, and it's always horrible. They wear strange clothes and most of them have glasses. The unifying theme with hipsters is that they are attention-starved 18-30 somethings who will probably never hold any semblance of a decent job.

Verdict: Go outside and practice falling down, because that's going to become a valuable skill in the next 2-3 seconds.

Almost anyone who appears on the E! television channel

I'm starting with these three first, then I'm going to go alphabetically down the list of employees at that channel. Joel McHale gets a pass. The Soup is funny, and if you don't agree with me, I'm going to add you to this list. I don't even watch E! anymore except for The Soup, and even when I do get a chance to watch it, I have to endure either commercials for the Kardashians, the little pop-up ads on the bottom right of the screen about the Kardashians, or seeing the name of their show in the channel listing whenever I pass by the E! channel. Seriously, just make a 24-hour Kardashian channel. But then, E! would fold, but I digress.

Verdict: You should never hit a lady. Luckily, they're nowhere near the definition of "Lady".

The teenager in the car behind me with his seat laid back and his ballcap to the side

Verdict: They say a picture is worth 1,000 words. This one is worth one: Haymaker.

The smug

Yes, that is a guy punching himself in the face. Why? Because I fall into this category. I shouldn't be smug, but gosh darnit, it's hard not to be. Yes, the smug train makes frequent stops at my house. Given my hatred for those who are smug, you'd think that I'd control myself, but alas, I can't. The temptation is too great.

Verdict: Ouch.

People who throw their cigarette butts out the window

I guess the world is your personal ashtray? Oh, you didn't want to keep a smelly butt in your car? You think we wanna smell it coming through our air conditioning vents?
This category is the reason the whole post was written. Not only do you deserve a beatdown, but you also deserve to be run off the road, but let me tell you what I really think. I think I'd also like to lock these people in a room and fill it with acrid, foul-smelling poopie diapers after my kid has eaten something truly horrible. I want a camera on these people so I can revel in their pain as they try to cope with breathing. I want to see them try to breathe through their mouth without breathing through their noses. I want to see their eyes water.Then, and only then, will I be satisfied.

Verdict: Forward + Down + Down-Forward + Any Punch Button

That's mighty white of them.

2010-04-29T18:22:00.002-05:00

Disclaimer: This post is about racism. I don't know the right term to use for "people of color", so I'm going to use "black", simply because the term "African American" is a little silly to me. I don't prefer to use a color at all when referring to anyone, but again, since this is about racism, I have to have a distinguishing word.

I was born in a small town, and I can breathe in a small town. I'll probably die in a small town. That's probably where they'll bury me.

I'm from a heavily racially divided state, even to this day. It's also typically a state that goes for the Republicans in every presidential election. However, my county in the 2008 presidential election went for Obama even though the state went for McCain. My state is poor, compared to other states. My state's education level isn't comparable to other states. Suffice it to say that my county/city is composed of more black people than white. Typically, in the Southern states, black people vote Democratically. You can tell here. McCain got his ass handed to him in my home county.(By the way, this picture came from CNN's 2008 voting results page http://www.cnn.com/ELECTION/2008/results/county/#MSP00map)

Still, I grew up in a community that told me that black people were inferior to white people, and until I was out of college, I believed it. It's not unlike kids that are raised in communes or cults. They believe that stuff because it's the only thing they've ever heard. It's not something I'm particularly proud of.

When I graduated from high school, we had a prom, just like every high school does, except with ours, we didn't include people from other races. How'd we do that? We came up with a group called the "Senior Social Club" where black people weren't invited to join. Because it's invitation-only, we could include whomever we wanted, which translates into "white people only". I won't even begin to feign ignorance. At the time, I was still a product of the environment I grew up in, so I welcomed the segregation. Lord knows we didn't want the black folk messing up our prom.

In college, I joined a fraternity. Wanna guess how many black people we had in our chapter? I think you know by now. To be fair, there are black fraternities too, and, had I tried to get into one, I probably would have had a story that could have been made into a movie.

Then, something great happened. I graduated and got a job in Memphis where I actually had to work with black people. Yes, real, live, black people. It turns out that black people are pretty nice. You can have conversations with them and eat lunch with them, just like you do with white people. In fact, sometimes the places you go to lunch with black people are better than the places you go to lunch with white people because they are A) cheaper and B) have better-tasting food.

A few years passed. Someone from high school planned our 10-year reunion. Still naive, I attended. Guess what? No black people. It seems that I was the only one who had learned from his mistakes. Everyone else seemed perfectly happy to be a part of this high school reunion that didn't include a large portion of our high school.

A few more years passed. Now, I have kids of my own. From day one, my wife and I swore that our kids would never hear the dreaded "N" word nor would they ever hear any disparaging remarks from either of us.

Fast forward to present day. It's now 10 years later and it's time for our 20-year reunion. With the advent of Facebook I've connected with a lot of my classmates from high school (even the black ones, but don't tell that to the Senior Social Club). I chatting with one of the girls in my class and she told me that someone was planning a 20-year reunion. So, I asked her if she was invited. You can probably guess what the answer was. Until she gets invited, I'm not going.

Now, I don't know how many of my former classmates even know about this blog. I'm not going to go out of my way to tell them about it, but if they find it because someone else told them about it, so be it. The next paragraph has been edited several times, because I keep realizing that there were too many expletives in it, so I'll try to tone it down, but I want to make it perfectly clear:

Grow the hell up.

It's 2010 and you're all 38 now and you should know better. It's time to realize that you aren't better than everyone else. It has to end somewhere. Let it end with you. I'm sure you all remember what Montel Williams (before he was a TV personality) said to us when gave a speech to the entire school at the football field that day. Although it's that goofy inspirational phrase, it actually means something. "If it is to be, it is up to me." Don't pass it on to your children. It's not going to happen overnight, but it can and will end, whether you like it or not.

Will my not going to the reunion affect the turnout? Nope.
Will this blog post change the hearts and minds of my classmates? I'm thinking it won't.
Is it my sincerest hope and desire that one day I can live in a world where people aren't judged by color of their skin?

Absolutely.

Lordy, Lordy, I hate it when people turn 40 (or 50).

2010-04-19T19:16:00.000-05:00

On my way to work today, I saw some signs posted along the road by someone saying "Nifty, Nifty, Bruce is 50".

It occurred to me that the person who did this was the same kind of person who didn't think twice when Jim Jones told them to drink the yummy Kool-Aid. * Seeing that sign made me think that since the sign had Bruce's name on it, then it must have been made for that purpose. That means that someone had a premeditated thought to have some signs made for Bruce. That means that that same person thought it was a good idea. So, instead of coming up with something inventive, they decided to plop down some hard-earned cash for a tired, worn-out, cliche 50th birthday phrase.

If you have ever done something like this (in the past 10 years) for someone who has turned 40 or 50, you should have to do some penance, not unlike prisoners cleaning up trash on the highway in bright orange jumpsuits, but more painful, like Prometheus's liver being eaten every day only to grow back again the next day and eaten again. Interesting side note: According to Wikipedia, the name Prometheus means "forethought". The same forethought you didn't have when you decided to plant 40th birthday gravestones in someone's front yard.

As I near 40, I spend more and more time thinking about turning 40 and what it all means. I keep telling myself that it's not a big deal, when in fact, it is. Technically, it's not all that different from 39 or 41, but it's a marker. It means that half of your life has passed. I'm sure you'll tell me that lots of people are living longer, but are they living better? Probably not. Plus, those of you who say that are probably the same people who put up 40th birthday signs along the road.

Every time someone at work turns 40 or 50 their fellow cubicle dwellers take it upon themselves to decorate that person's cubicle, with all manner of signs, streamers, etc...

Above: The work of a dick.

Also, who's gonna clean that up? That's right, YOU, the birthday boy/girl will have to, and that's just sad. Not as sad as turning 40, but sad. You had to clean up your own party. yay.

While neither funny nor original, it serves to let everyone on the stinkin' floor know that you turned 40. I'm not a big fan of my own birthday. I used to be... when I was 5. It's just... *my* day and I don't want it ruined by that cheesy pile of dookie on my desk.

I'm not going to work on my 40th birthday, and I'm going to politely ask everyone to lay off the decorations. I don't want to sound like a jerk, but honestly, would any of you want:

an "Over The Hill" sign?
A cardboard tombstone with your name on it?
Some candy "pills" for forgetfulness?
A joke box of Depends?
Enough black balloons to raise the Titanic?

If you read this, and you know me personally, don't take this as a "Oh, I just *have* to now that he said he didn't like it." Remember, I will pray for you to get a venereal disease. I will pray hard, too.

If you are my sister-in-law, who somehow still doesn't understand that I. !@#$%^ DON'T. LIKE. GAG. GIFTS, then understand this: you turn 40 mere months after I do. I will get myself hopped up on candy forgetfulness pills, put on some depends so that I don't have to stop to pee, drive to your house, fill the black balloons with helium, and inhale each one individually while I sing a never-ending Vienna Boys Choir rendition of Michael McDonald's "Sweet Freedom" outside your bedroom window.

I'll do it. I swear.

Maybe life really does begin at 40.

* No offense to the makers of Kool-Aid. It's a delicious beverage. I have no less than 15 packets of it in my pantry right now. I love, LOVE Kool-Aid, especially Green. It's not lime. It's green. Purple is a close second, followed by Strawberry (there are two red Kool-Aids, you have to distinguish. Cherry Kool-Aid is unnatural, a crime against God, like plastic flowers)

Goooooooooaaaaaalllll (or not)

2010-04-13T18:22:00.003-05:00

This weekend, my daughter had her first soccer game. As much as I told myself I didn't want any part of that, I figured it couldn't be too bad. However, I don't think it'll continue next year. Let me explain, so that you'll get as much of a "kick" out of this as I did. Get it? "kick"? See, that's a soccer term.

Before we get into this, we need to establish a few facts:

The term "soccer" is a generalization. What happened on Saturday morning had about as much to do with soccer as American Football has to do with actual feet. That still makes me laugh. We call it 'soccer' when the rest of the world calls it 'futbol'. In fairness, Americans who call it 'futbol' are 'douchebags'.
I am not a sports fan. It's not that I don't like sports; I do. I don't like everything that comes with it -- the idiot fans, the outrageous salaries, the insane dads whose kids do no wrong, but most importantly, I don't like the emphasis that schools place upon it making kids who don't play sports feel lesser.

That being said, Saturday morning was, as far as comedy goes, like waking up from a coma to find you are married to a mega-hot nymphomaniac model who owns a chain of liquor stores. The coach and other parents referred to it as "controlled chaos", and the jury is still out on the "controlled" part.

Highlights of the game included:

My daughter sitting down in the middle of the field as the rest of her teammates were trying to actually play.
Me, begging my daughter to at least try to kick the ball.
Me, bribing my daughter with M&M's to, for the love of God, kick the damned ball.
My daughter deciding in the middle of the game that she needed to take a break, and walking over to get a drink of water out of her thermos. Never mind that the other kids were playing.
My daughter watching the shadow of her head as she flipped her ponytails back and forth.
My daughter following the lines of paint on the field as if she was taking a sobriety test.
My daughter explaining to me that the other players weren't *sharing*, Daddy. In her defense, all we've ever tried to teach her was to share and be kind. Soccer undoes all of that. The goal (no pun intended) is to steal the ball away from another kid. Thanks, rest of the World, for destroying family values.
Some kid of middle eastern descent who must have had an instinctual ability. He was wiping the floor with everyone else, but not my kid. You can't be wiped if you aren't actually playing.

I love sports.

Stupidbook

2010-03-13T09:55:00.001-06:00

I have a Facebook account, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why.

Facebook's tagline on the main page is:

"Facebook helps you connect and share with the people in your life."

I like to think of it as:

"Facebook helps you keep in touch with people you hated a long time ago, and probably still hate."

Case in point: Every girl I have ever dated has friended me on Facebook. Now, that's not to say I hate them; I don't, but isn't that just plain freaky? Why'd we break up? Oh, that's right, I remember. IT'S BECAUSE WE COULDN'T GET ALONG. (and also because you thought dressing up as a bun and me dressing up as a hot dog was 'freaky')

And, what's with this whole "friends" thing? I don't even like that many people. Plus, I don't want these mongoloids knowing what I'm doing on a day-to-day basis, which is why I don't post much, if at all. Yes, I know you can restrict who sees what, but what's the use in that? Why would you join a social networking site only to restrict who can see what you post? That's like going to a buffet and asking for a menu.

There are several kinds of Facebookers... (all of the examples I provide here were copied from posts that my 'friends' made)

The Perpetually Boring
Yeah, you know who you are. These people feel the need to tell us about the most mundane of things. It's the equivalent of making small talk in real life, but less interesting.

Actual example: Needs MORE SLEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well now. That. Is. Fascinating. So, if I hear you correctly, you were not able to sleep a full night. Did you call the local news? Someone has to know. Oh wait, we do know now. Thanks.

Here's another one. One girl had two successive posts on consecutive nights that began with: "I'm calling it a night..." I need more, please. I'm on the edge of my seat.

The Prophet of He Who is Great and Powerful, the Creator, the Lord Jesus Christ and His Father, God most high, who is all-loving.
The first girl I ever dated friended me, and then several months later, her mother friended me. Back when I dated her daughter, I don't think her mother was really that fond of me because I'm Catholic and they were Southern Baptist, a combination that goes together like spaghetti and a spoon. She's also lists her political affiliation as "Republican Party". They say opposites attract. Not in this case. Anyhoo, every post her mother made on facebook was something like this: (Since I de-friended her, I can't see her super awesome replies/posts anymore, so I took the following from someone else.)

"My Saviour loves, my Saviour lives, my Saviour's always there for me. My God He was, my God He is, my God He's always gonna be..."

What's even better about the person who wrote this is that I clearly remember a buddy of mine having lots and lots of underage sex with her when they were in high school. Maybe, like Saul becoming Paul (Acts 9:1-6, 10-16) she saw the light. Praise be.

The Master of the Obvious
Because *I* don't want to be Master of the Obvious as well, I won't explain this one.

Actual Example:One more day til the weekend!!! THANK GOD!!!!! Hope everybody's Thursday ROCKS!!!

I want to post things like:

It's going to be dark tonight.
I'm SO HUNGRY! I like to eat when I'm hungry!
Steely Dan is a horrible band!
The New Tron movie is going to ruin my childhood once again.

The Politico
This particular genius seeks to both make his choice of political party look good while belittling the opposing party with links to internet sites and 'news' stories. It seems we've hit on the two no-no's of conversation: Religion and Politics. Thanks, Facebook for giving idiots a megaphone.

Actual Example: Video: Republican legislator says disabled children are 'God's punishment' for abortion.

Here's the thing... Maybe this is true, maybe it isn't. I don't know, and I don't care. But, do you think it helps anything by posting it to Facebook? No. So, stop... just stop. Anyway, Dubya was our punishment for abortion.

The Virtual Farmer
If Facebook is a way to connect with people, then why are 99.7 percent of the updates I get from tards whose cow just had sex with a chicken in FarmVille? Why does every post from FarmVille end in a "!" ?

The Wal-Mart Greeter

Good morning FB friends/family! It's another FANTABULOUS day!
Good morning FB friends! It's another FANTABULOUS day! Enjoy!!!
Good morning FB friends/family! It's another FANTABULOUS day!!! Hope all of you have a GREAT day!
Wudup FB peeps?!
G'nite guys/girls.....sleep well!!!

All of this came from the same guy in the span of 7 days. Why? Why, God, Why? Personally, if a guy uses the word Fantabulous and he's not flamingly gay, then it should be legal for him to be hit in his junk.

Repeatedly.

With an aluminum bat.

By the way, 7,365 people like this.

This post is leaky.

2010-03-13T09:24:00.000-06:00

I, for one, am tired of new movies/video games/general information being 'leaked' these days.

It seems everything is 'leaked', and therefore, it doesn't hold any special value.

It's reminiscent of the late 80's when someone discovered that there were cheat codes that you could enter on stand-up video games, like Street Fighter II. Unlockable Akuma, anyone? Then, cheat codes were just delayed for a month or two before they were 'leaked' to the public. It's common practice to just build the cheat codes in to the games now, which makes them unfun.

This all came about because the other day, a buddy of mine at work sent me a 'leaked' trailer for the upcoming Tron sequel. The thing is, it wasn't 'leaked' at all. It was someone's very horrible cell phone video of the actual released trailer before some other movie.

I play a lot of World of Warcraft, and it's really exciting to find out all of the upcoming changes that future patches hold, but every time, it seems that the new changes are 'leaked' to the public. For almost 6 years they've done this. Trust me, they aren't leaked. If Blizzard's security over their intellectual property was that bad, then they wouldn't be as successful as they are. You better believe Microsoft doesn't do that crap. Blizzard is releasing the information carefully in a controlled manner. It only serves to get the public in a frenzy about their game.

When it all comes down to it, that's what the whole 'leaking' thing is about anyway, to develop interest. Which brings me to...

Viral marketing. At first, it was cool, but now it's just cliche. Oh, there's a 'hidden' website for some new movie? Wow. Color me unimpressed. Maybe I'm getting older and more jaded... who knows? Still, it's just played out, even in this post.

Ode To Beer

2010-02-23T22:40:00.000-06:00

You know, I wouldn't call myself a heavy beer drinker, but there are a couple that set off the endorphins in my brain.

Before we get started, let's take a moment to talk about the craptastic beer that Big Beer tries to push off on us:

Miller Lite: Horrible.
Bud Lite: Even worse.
Coors: Passable.
Corona: Bottled Skunk

You might be thinking: He's a beer snob. If not liking Miller, Bud, or Coors because they taste like water makes me a beer snob, then so be it.Corona is absolutely horrible. Miller, Bud, and Coors do have their place, though. If you're at a crawfish boil (and if you've never been to one, you should) those beers are really good to wash down spicy mudbugs. I wouldn't suggest a heavier dark beer. It's just too much.

Now, on to the goodness:

Fat Tire.
Just the words make me happy.

If you are reading this in a part of the country where Fat Tire is not sold, I'm sorry. Fat Tire is a dark amber beer produced by the New Belgium Brewery in Colorado.

For a bottled beer, it's pretty much the pinnacle of awesome. I won't argue that some draft beers are equally as good, but this is fantastic for a store-bought beer.

Sadly, when I moved to Alabama, I found out that New Belgium doesn't ship it's elixir of happiness here (currently). I know. I called them on the first day I moved here, after frantically searching every store for it.

If only Alabama knew what they were missing.

Recently, some friends of ours who live in Tennessee came down for a visit and brought me TWO cases of Fat Tire. I promptly put them in my will.

However, I soon found an equal, if not better replacement for Fat Tire. Enter:

Lazy Magnolia Southern Pecan.

Lazy: Good
Magnolia: Good
Southern: AWESOME
Pecan: Fantastic

Oh hey! Lookie there. It's brewed in Mississippi, the motherland. I seriously keep this stuff in the fridge at all times. You can drink it for breakfast. You can even drink and drive with it and the cops won't arrest you because they'll recognize you for the god you are. It's dark, sweet, and did I mention it TASTES LIKE PECANS? Bam.

Guys, when proposing to the little lady, don't drop the ring in champagne. That's for weenies. Put it in a glass of Lazy Magnolia Southern Pecan. She'll be so impressed she'll not only say yes, she'll probably start making out with you right there in Burger King. At least, that's how it happened for me.

So, for those of you who only drink the mass-produced stuff, give one of these a try. If you find you don't like them, then, well, you're wrong.

I hope you got your "Child Labor" badge.

2010-01-12T18:52:00.000-06:00

Girl Scout Cookies are the devil.

I have a real beef with the Girl Scouts of America. As with everything, this was prompted by something in my life. Yesterday, my wife emailed me and told me that someone in her office had a daughter who was selling Girl Scout Cookies.

We've all had them at one time or another, and they're delicious*.

The problem I have with them is that the Girl Scouts of America use the actual Girl Scouts as a cheap labor force. By "cheap", I mean "Absolutely !@#$% free".

When you think of Girl Scouts, do you think of anything else they do besides sell cookies? No. I never see troops of Girl Scouts at my church going on a camping trip or doing anything besides sitting at table in the foyer hawking their goods on a Sunday.

There's nothing wrong with a fund-raiser once a year for your church, your school, or your fraternity/sorority. However, these guys are a national organization with a coordinated effort to sell cookies on a mass scale, and they are using your daughters to do it. Well, in one way or another they are using your daughters. See, what REALLY ends up happening is that the parents are too lazy to teach their daughters how to go door to door and actually sell the cookies. The parents ended up doing EXACTLY what my wife's co-worker did. They bring the sales form to the office and come around to everyone and pressure you to buy them. Or, what's worse, the parents will just buy the cookies outright and keep the daughter from ever having to go out and sell them.

I have a personal policy concerning stuff like that at work:

Your child must come to the office and go around and ask people to buy/donate/pledge.
You can help your child sell if you don't come around and ask me about it. If I ask you, then it's fine. I made the first move. You didn't pressure me.

I bought a tub of frozen cookie dough from a co-worker last year. The cookies were absolutely horrible, but I didn't care. My co-worker followed the rules above, and I'm all about helping someone out if they're not a jerk.

In the past, I've had a neighbor's kid who was a Boy Scout come to my door and sell me some caramel popcorn. I bought two tubs of it because HE did it, not his dad.

Here's the other thing about Girl Scout Cookies: If you have to sell them every year to make money, why not just produce them and sell them at Wal-Mart, or Target, or whatever? Because then they'd have to pay a portion of the sales to the store, I'm betting. With a free sales force, you don't have to do that. The web site says that approximately 70% of the sales stay with the local Girl Scout council, and a portion of that goes to the group actually selling the cookies.

This whole thing is a scam. The HQ gets 30% of the sales and they don't have to pay anyone a red cent. Oh, just FYI, in North Alabama, there's a $12 national membership fee, and the dues to your local troop dues vary. So, you pay *them* for the right to sell their cookies. Does this not seem weird to you?

Now, after reading all this, you may think I hate the Girl Scouts, and that's simply not true. I think both the Girl and Boy Scouts are great organizations, and I'd love for both of my daughters to be Girl Scouts one day, if they want to, but I will yank them out in a second if they are pressured to sell the cookies. The web site says they are not required to sell them but I suspect it's not like that in reality.

* if you like that kind of thing. Personally, I think that there should be two types of cookies in this world:

Home-made chocolate chip cookies, whether that means you actually made the batter or you bought one of those tubes of dough that sorority chicks (and I) am so fond of.
If you absolutely must have store-bought cookies, then you should eat Oreos. Oreos are delicious, fun, and good for you. *

* It's true. You read that on the internet.

The All-Encompassing Bumper Sticker

2010-01-05T11:12:00.000-06:00

Every day on my commute to work, I see people with various stuff on the back of their car. I often wonder why people like to do that, basically evangelizing to you on whatever subject they decide to champion.

I don't have any Photoshop skills, but I think they should make a single, magnetic device that allows you to plug in whatever you want to stick on the back of your car, but it should have the following things:

The Jesus Fish / Darwin Fish / Cthulu Fish
Notice how the Muslims and the Jews don't have Jesus fish? I think there's a reason for that. You should take note and follow their lead.

A ribbon for breast cancer / spaying/neutering your pets / praying for our soldiers
. There's a ribbon for almost every single cause ever. Some of them I could have listed would overlap some of the other categories in this post. I've seen them for autism, color blindness, and the clap.

A part for how your precious little snowflake is an honor student at his/her Kindergarten
Being the top of your Kindergarten class is not exactly a crowning achievement. There are about a zillion Kindergartens. Logically, every one of them has to have a "best" student. So, in conclusion, nobody cares.

A "I love my sports team" section.
This is particularly bad here in Alabama. They take it to the next (and possibly the annoyingest) level. I don't care that "annoyingist" is not a word. This is my blog, not yours. Back to my point. If some of these people could completely cover their car in college sports logo stickers, they would.

A new-age philosophy section
"Not all who wander are lost". Yeah? Well you will be when I slam into your car, beat you senseless, and drag you into the woods while you are unconscious.
"Coexist" written in the various religious symbols. Sweetie (and it's almost always a girl), if people could get along religiously, there wouldn't be a United States.

A low-class saying section
"Tailgate me and I'll flick a booger on your windshield". "Don't like my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT-!@#$".
I asked the cops and they told me it's okay if you run these people off the road, preferably into a very deep ravine.

A college fraternity/sorority section
You're 39. Give it up. Read the quarterly magazine and keep telling yourself how much softer they've gotten on pledges.

A "My other car is" section.
No, it's not a Lamborghini, Bentley or even an X-Wing, tool.Well, *yours* is not. I actually own an X-Wing Fighter.If you'll excuse me, I'm worrying about those towers and not worrying about those fighters.

An oval-shaped section for some random letters that nobody knows.
Seriously, does anyone know what these letters are? Initials? Airport codes? WHAT?!!! I've seen one that says "OBX" which, I THINK stands for Outer Banks, but I'm not sure. There's no X in those words anywhere. Those stickers are for idiots. You really need to tell us where you went on vacation via a bumper sticker?

A "13.1" or a "26.2" section
Congrats. Your grasp of floating point numbers is staggering. I think these things refer to a half or a whole marathon... but... you... have... them... on... your... car... which... you.... are.... driving...

In closing, I don't have any bumper stickers on my car. I refuse to put them on there, even if my marathon-running 3-year-old daughter with who Captain of her platoon and is social chairman of Theta Pi Beta is, in fact first in her Kindergarten class.

You're hot.... Grandma.

2009-12-23T09:50:00.000-06:00

It's that time of year again.

No, not specifically the Christmas season, but the Christmas Sweater Vest Season.

Oh, don't sit there and act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

For the life of me, I can't figure out why women (and in some rare cases, men) during the holiday season would even dare think of wearing something like this:

But still, they persist.

I mean, there are exceptions to every rule. If you are, in fact, a grandmother, then you get a little reprieve. If you are 40 or younger, ladies, well, let me say that the men-folk ain't lining up at your door.

Now, there is a certain class of people, 40 or younger, mostly women, who are accustomed to wearing sweater vests. You know who you are. You are setting a bad example for our youth, standing in front of the classroom non-verbally communicating to our little girls that it's okay to wear something like this.

This morning, as I was walking up the stairs at work, I saw a woman wearing a Christmas sweater vest that was arguably more hideous than the picture I linked here. I wanted to stop and confront her right on the stairs. By "confront" I mean "Push her down".

Let's take a look at the pros and cons of wearing this:

Pros:

None

Cons:

Doesn't keep you warm as IT HAS NO SLEEVES, and in most cases, is knitted, so it's pretty lightweight. It's the practical equivalent of a man's necktie. No. Purpose. Whatsoever.
Speaking of not having sleeves, a large majority of the women who wear these, should never be sleeveless. Ever.
It's a nonverbal warning to men: "If you talk to me, I will regale you with stories of how I dress up my cats in elf outfits so we can take our Christmas photos at Sears."
It's not flattering at all. In fact, I don't think there's ever been a sweater vest that's ever been flattering, not even Flattery McFlattering's Super-Flattering Sweater Vests.
It's not even as "cute" as you think it is. It's dorky, and trust me, I know dorky.

Oh, to all the males out there reading this, you're not off the hook either. If you wear a Christmas tie, you are an idiot, for many of the same reasons mentioned above. If your wife gives you Christmas tie this year, divorce her, because she's probably got a Christmas sweater vest in her closet.

I guess while we're on the subject, it's probably a good time to mention the right time for wearing a sweater vest: Never. There are numerous occasions where the clothing industry has seen fit to produce sweater vests for purchase. Most notable among these are Halloween, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, The Fourth of July and any other named calendar day. I'm sure there's an Arbor Day sweater vest out there, and that some woman has the date (http://www.arbor-day.net/arbor-day-state-dates.htm) marked down, just waiting to unleash that special brand of Hell upon us.

Trippin' on Vacation.

2009-11-29T22:38:00.003-06:00

Vacation? I think not.

This Thanksgiving, we decided to go visit my brother, who lives in perhaps the most horrible state in the union: Texas. There are two places in the U.S. which vie for my hatred. New York (the city, not the state) is the other one. But, this post isn't about that. It just lets you know that we got off to a bad start by going there in the first place.

This post is about the difference between a 'trip' and a 'vacation. My brother's little boy has a birthday around this time and my wife, loving thing she is, decided it would be the family thing to do to stop off in Mississippi and pick up my parents for one big happy vacation to Texas. This is the point and time that you, the reader, should be worried.

How do you define a vacation?

Webster's defines it as such:

a respite or a time of respite from something
a period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation

... among other things.

I define it as:

A. A period of time longer than 3 days.(in other words, 3 day weekends do not count as a vacation)
B. Having no responsibility whatsoever during the aforementioned period of time.
C. Having nothing that can cause you stress during that time. i.e., it's relaxing.

This is different from a 'trip', which doesn't have to meet any of the criteria above.

Let me give you a couple of examples:

Example 1
Trip: What you make when you have to appear in court for that speeding ticket you got in Canada because you were reading the M.P.H instead of the K.P.H.

Vacation: What you do after you've convinced the Canadian authorities that it was a complete accident.

Example 2
Trip: What a person in the military makes to a foriegn country when the government says they have to.
Vacation: George W. Bush's entire 8 years in office.

So, let's start at the beginning, where the trouble began. (T, in this story = Thanksgiving)

T-2 days:

Since we needed some extra space to be able to transport the four of us, plus my parents and their luggage, my wife decided (notice a pattern here? She decides a lot. I think that might be the source of my trouble) to borrow her parents' Honda Odyssey. (Point B: we were responsible for another person's vehicle) If you are not familiar with car makes and models, this is perhaps the make/model which will give the impression to all women who see him that the man driving it is sterile. I once had a co-worker say to me: "It's hard to look cool in a minivan."

Amen, brother.

T-1 day (Monday):

I have to drive to work on Monday in the minivan. A minivan is the sign you've given up trying and have been domesticated.

T-2 days (Tuesday):

I drove the thing to work again, and I left work around 4:00 to get home and leave for my parents' house. It's about a 4.5 to 5 hour trip. We have an agreement with the kids. They don't get to watch DVDs on short trips, which are typically 45 minutes or less. So, this trip meant they got to break out the kid movies. The kids are 3 and 1, respectively, which means there are a lot of high-pitched voices and squeals on the DVDs. If I had it my way, the high-pitched voices and squeals would be indicative of the pain the characters were going through as I tortured them slowly to death, which is pretty much what was happening to me.

T-1 (Wednesday):

We get up early, and are out the door by 7:45. That means we didn't get to sleep late, after working 8-ish hours the day before and travelling 5 hours. Fantastic.

The trip to Texas from my parents' house is 7 hours if you never pee and you never eat. I have a wife (female) and two daughters (also female) and a mother (conveniently, female). The 'never having to pee' thing is right out the window. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be so upset if they could just pee right out the window. It'd make the trip shorter. You can always run the car through a carwash, but you can never get back that time.

Now, the trip to Texas is pretty straightforward if there's no construction, and there wasn't. But, and this is a big 'but' (just like mine was after 7 hours of riding) when we got to the exit we usually take to my brother's house, there WAS construction, which my brother (as is typical) forgot to tell us. Thinking that we just hadn't seen the exit yet, we pushed on. This proved to be an unwise choice as we went all the way into Dallas and had to go up I-75 until we got to McKinney, which is were my brother lives.

Let me just tell you: I-75 on the day before Thanksgiving is a nightmarish Hell that you never want to experience.

What would have been a 7 hour trip, turned into 10 hours. Also, did I mention I'm not really fond of Texas?

T (urkey Day):

We get to my brother's house that morning and I commence to drinking whatever was available. I might have had isopropyl rubbing alcohol at one point. I didn't care. I was sore from riding in a MINIVAN FOR TEN FREAKING HOURS THE DAY BEFORE. "We're going on a trip in our favorite rocketship... zooming through the skies, Little Einsteins" (this is the part in my memory where I come up out of the water, (a la Chuck Norris in Missing In Action) with an M-60 and I just rip those little bastards a new one)

It's about this time where my brother decides that I need him to help cook the turkey. At this point, we should revisit points "B" and "C" in my definition of a vacation. If I have to help cook the turkey (which we were frying by the way) then that means that I'm partly responsible for the success of the Thanksgiving meal.

As to point "C", there is much stress in cooking. If you do it wrong, people hate you. If you do it right, you're a hero.

The turkey was cooked to perfection. I'm a hero.

Tripping on tryptophan, I laid down in the middle of the floor and took a semi-nap. In the haze of half-sleep, I overheard that we were celebrating my nephew's birthday the following day at the zoo.

Back at the hotel, after giving the girls their baths, the wife and I cuddle on the couch for a rare moment of silence. I turned to her and said "Were you gonna tell me that we were going to go to the zoo?" to which she feigned ignorance and said "I told you. I'm sure I told you. I'm positive I told you".

T+1 (Friday):

She didn't tell me.

As a bonus we need to leave early so we can make it to the zoo in time to feed the giraffes at 10:15. We didn't make it, so we got up early for nuh-thin. (point C: stress).

I'm thinking to myself. Sweet, the Dallas Zoo. This should rock. What's that? We're going where? The Gainesville Zoo? Where, in the name of all that's holy, is Gainesville, Texas? I'll tell you where: It's in the third ring of Hell. Seriously, we drove for a solid hour to find this zoo. I think we were actually in Oklahoma, but who can be sure. It all looks the same out there.

But, back to point at hand: Who knew Gainesville had a zoo? I swear to you that there was a cat someone had spray-painted with white and black stripes and stuck it in the zebra exhibit. Zebras meow, don't they? The cat-buffalo and the cat-giraffe were easily as captivating. One thing that nobody seemed to either care about, or just plain didn't notice was that the coyote exhibit was DIRECTLY next to the roadrunner exhibit. The only thing that was missing was the faux train tunnel painted on the wall with a sign reading "Free Bird Seed" pointing to a pile on the ground. Or, maybe they should have had a box of Acme Rocket Powered Roller Skates sitting on the ground, half opened. Either way, they missed out on comedy gold.

The highlight of the day was the awesome total wood playground outside the zoo. All I could think about was putting that red stuff on my kid's finger after she got her 75th splinter. Some of Gainesville's finest residents had brought their crotchfruit out to the park to apparently air them out. My favorite people were the two women who couldn't be bothered to stop smoking as they pushed their infants in the swing. I think the infants were smoking too.

After all that, the plan was to head back to my brother's house, where we would have some cake and ice cream. On our way back, we decided to stop by the new house of one of our old neighbors from Plano. They moved to a new house in Argyle, Texas. Argyle? Yes, like the sock. We get to their house (which was really nice, by the way) and they show us around to the back yard where they have two pet.... donkeys. If the day could have gotten any more weird, it just had.

Back at my brother's, I notice that my throat is beginning to feel scratchy and my nose is stopping up. Great. Just friggin' wonderful. What a way to top off a perfect week. I'm sick.

T+2 (Saturday):

I wake up with a pile of crud in my nose that feels as big as the pile of dead bodies the Spartans killed in the move "300" which I had caught on TNT the night before. In the shower, after a couple of loogies, I felt somewhat better, but the terror was just about to begin. I had a 7 hour trip to Mississippi with my parents and two toddlers. "We're going on a trip in our favorite rocketship... zooming through the skies, Little Einsteins" DIE. DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE YOU LITTLE CLASSICAL MUSIC-PLAYING BASTARDS! (the Little Einsteins, not my kids)

I thought it might be nice to let the wife drive for a bit, and maybe I could read a bit and relax. I climbed into the back of the Honda Odyssey, and let me tell you... if we want to find out where Osama Bin Laden is, put Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in the back of an Odyssey with no leg room and that S.O.B. will be talking faster than Quentin Tarantino after a case of Red Bulls. Seriously, the Geneva Conventions specifically made mention of the third row seat of the Odyssey. Never mind that the Odyssey didn't exist at the time. Those guys were some serious foward thinkers.

Finally, FINALLY, we made it back to Mississippi. I was so tired of driving that I started entertaining the notion of just swerving off the road with us all to end the misery. Riiiiiiight. Don't tell me you haven't done it. You know you been sitting at a baseball game with your best friend in the world and you've thought "I wonder what would happen if I pushed him off this balcony..." No? Mea culpa.

T+3 (Sunday):

We get up and get on the road at around 9:30. Again, it's about 4 and a half to 5 hours back home, but we had to stop and drop off the Pimpalicious Odyssey back at the in-laws'. Well, we had to eat, so we stopped at the fine, fine eatery known as Steve Barnhill's Southern Fresh Buffet, where you can get fried catfish, fried chicken, fried potatoes and fried salad. Being that I'm in the rural South, I had the good (or bad, depending on how you look at it) fortune to overhear this half of a lovely African-American lady's conversation with a person in the buffet line: (and I'm not making this up):

My brotha got put in jail on Wednesday.
And den, he got put in jail again last night.
I don't know, he crazy.
Do ya'll got any honey mustard?

Finally, we got our cars switched back out and headed back to Birmingham. We arrived around 4:30-ish and I got everything unloaded.

It's been a hell of a week. I need a vacation.

The Angel Tree Scam

2009-11-24T16:16:00.000-06:00

Okay, first and foremost, let me say I've done no research into this, no fact-checking, no nothing. So, don't come to me with your whining.

I was watching the wife wrap some presents for a kid whose name she got from our Angel Tree, and it made me think...

First, there are about 2 gazillion Angel Trees in my immediate circle. The church has one, the office has one, the mall has one, etc...

Now, I'm sure there are many kids who are in need, but this isn't about them. This is about the possibility of a scam.

Have we ever really checked to see that the actual children are receiving the goods that we are purchasing for them? As humans who have the ability to help the poor, we are obligated to do so, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't do some basic auditing of this system.

When we purchase these gifts, to whom are we giving them? Are they being put in a warehouse somewhere and distributed to the kids later? I hope so. If not, who is getting them? Are they, in turn, re-selling our gifts?

Again, we can and should give, but we should do it responsibly.

Just food for thought.

That took balls.

2009-10-09T09:19:00.000-05:00

I've had this one waiting for a while because I couldn't think of how to finish it. I wrote this while I was on vacation back in June...

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

We got to our hotel today, and, after getting settled in, I turned on the TV. I'm flipping channels, and I see what has to be the best commercial ever. Better than the Ron Popeil Pocket Fisherman? Yep. Better than the Slap Chop? Absolutley, and you'll even love this guy's nuts too. Why? Because they're safe.

I've always said: "A safe scrotum is a happy scrotum." Okay, I haven't always said it, but I just did, so when someone tries to scoop me on that little gem, you'll know.

I am, of course, talking about the Nutty Buddy athletic cup supporter for men. Ha ha, you say, nobody would make something called that.

http://www.nuttybuddy.com/

Oh snap! I think you just got told.

Yes, the Nutty Buddy. Fun for the whole family you plan on having one day. In the infomercial, they are, and I'm not joking, using one of those machines that they have at batting cages that fling baseballs at you so that you can practice your swing, except they're firing it at a guy's coin purse. He just stands there to prove how awesome the Nutty Buddy is at protecting nad central.

As an interesting aside, when I was in my early teens, I was at a buddy's house with my brother. My brother is about 5 years younger than me and pretty gullible. My buddy had his athletic cup sitting on the floor of his bedroom, and I told my brother that it was a gas mask. I don't have to go on, do I? This may be why my brother doesn't trust me. Who knows? I'll always have that memory.

Okay, so back to the main point: the name of this... thing. I think there are probably many other great and wonderful names for an athletic supporter.

The Cock Blocker. Oh come now, you didn't see that one coming?
Dick in a Box. That one might be taken already.
The Junk Trunk
BallSafe.

Edit: When I tried the link today, it wasn't working, but if you google "Nutty Buddy", you'll see what I'm talking about.

Pick your battles

2009-10-07T10:45:00.002-05:00

Several months ago, some overly-irritated person on my floor in my office decided to put up a sign above the coffee machine in the break room that says:

"Please do not use the hot water while the brew cycle is running".

Seriously, people? This is what you have to complain about? THIS bothered you so much you had to put a sign up?

Now, some explanation is probably in order. First, the water doesn't STOP running when you use the hot water spigot; it just chokes off the flow for a bit. Second, it's not like we're brewing rare coffee beans. This is the combination coffee/manure mixture that's the cheapest version that companies can give to the employees for free. Third, does anyone really know the difference? The answer is a resounding "no".

This sign has exactly the opposite effect with me. If you had never said anything, I wouldn't bother, but now that it's up there, I make it a point to do it, even when other people are around.

This reminds me of the break room at my former job. One day, this dude was making a fresh carafe of coffee, and it was sometime in the afternoon, if I recall. Anyway, this was one of those coffee makers that brews it into a warming carafe and not into a pot. So, this dude was in the break room having a nice chat with his buddy. The coffee was in the middle of the brew cycle and I just walked up and helped myself to a cup. Now, bear in mind that the first couple of cups that are brewed are very strong, as all the water hasn't had time to fill in yet. That was the way I liked it. The guys looks at me after I filled my cup and said, snarkily, "We were waiting on that." I looked at him square in the eyes and said in my most indifferent voice... "Okay." Then I walked away from him.

I think therapists ought to include that in their list of things to do to decrease stress.

Enjoy your special day!

2009-09-24T13:42:00.002-05:00

Have you ever had to fill out a birthday card for a co-worker?

If so, you'll be able to relate to what I'm about to dish out.

Isn't this the most asinine thing that we in the corporate world have to do? I mean, everyone likes to get a birthday card as much as the next guy, but this borders on crazy. Why? Let's discuss.

In our office, there's this bright yellow folder that gets passed around from desk to desk with a check-off sheet for each employee in the group. I'm sure NOBODY knows what the bright yellow folder is for by now.
The card inside is about as generic as cards can get. For example, the person who's getting the current card will be presented with "You take the cake!". Excuse me, I threw up in my mouth a little.
It's sorta mandatory that you sign the card. Well, not mandatory, but if you don't, you're a jackass. I am now at impasse: There are people in my group who I don't even know, and some I just flat out don't like because they're jerks or have never bothered to carry on a conversation with me even when I've tried to be nice. So, what does one do? Do you sign it with "Hope you have a great one!"? I did. I sold out.
Gratuitous use of the "!" Nobody in our office is that excited. Nobody. I'm surprised Lumpy was even awake to sign it.
Feigned sincerity. Even the people I do know on my team don't really care that it was my birthday. Most of 'em are so self-centered that I'm surprised they're not sending out daily emails reminding the rest of us how long it is until THEIR birthday.

I wanted to go to my boss and say "You know, I wouldn't be upset if you just skipped the birthday card for me this year", but then I would have looked like a giant female hygiene product. No, not that one, the other one.

Anyway,

Hope you have a great day!

Yield: A Primer.

2009-09-15T08:57:00.003-05:00

Yield. It's a scary word.

Yield. Understood by few, obeyed by fewer.

Yield. The primary cause of road rage, or at least my road rage.

This is how it works: FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, IT IS A STOP SIGN.

IT DOES NOT MEAN YOU CAN MERGE, JACKASS.

Take the following picture:
The people in lane 1 are driving along happily and a car in lane 2 comes along. Notice that lane 2 has a YIELD sign. The car in lane 2 should come to a complete stop until there is a large enough break in traffic in lane 1. Once there's a big break in traffic, the car in lane 2 can go. Cars in lane 2 do NOT have a right to get in lane 1.

Learn it.

Love it.

Do it.

I work with a bunch of whiners.

2009-09-11T08:51:00.015-05:00

I'm often surprised at how much grown people are such crybabies. The people on my team cry whenever they're asked to do ANYTHING out of their routine.

In order to understand 'teh funnay' today, you need to know a little backstory, so, here goes...

When the U.S. Government passed the stimulus bill, it not only included provisions to help failing banks and such, but they also snuck in the ability to fine individuals (to the tune of 10,000 dollars a pop) at businesses when private health information (PHI from now on) is compromised. This can occur from something like sending an email to the wrong person and that email not being encrypted. Another way might be printing something that contains PHI on your printer, and leaving that paper on the printer for the cleaning crew to find... which brings us to today's story.

In a staff meeting on Wednesday, our new boss was telling us that our administrative assistants would be doing us a favor and picking up paper off the printer at 5:00 PM and placing it into a locked box so that we could pick it up the next morning. Good idea, right? I thought so too. Apparently, some people had a problem with this.

One lady in particular, whom I'll refer to by her Native American name: Argues-With-Husband-On-Work-Phone (AWHOWP for short), decided to ask some really hard-hitting questions as it pertained to the printer 'problem'.

First, she asked, "What if we're here at 7:00 PM and we have to print something out?"

I don't know, lady, maybe go pick it up off the printer? I mean, you should have been doing that anyway, dumbass.

(also, some of us can work from home one day a week, but when we print stuff, it goes to the office printers...)
Next, she asked, "What if we're working from home and we print something out?"
This is where I wanted to punch myself in the face to misdirect the pain that was coming from my brain. Maybe, and I'm just speculating here, maybe you could NOT hit the !@#%%! print button when. you. are. at. home.

But finally, the suggestion to end all suggestions came.

"Maybe we should put a locked glass case over the printer."

Folks, that's why I come to work. You try to be humble, and not think of yourself as superior to other people, but they just make it so damned easy.

Still, I didn't let the brilliance that was that suggestion stop me from coming up with something better.

Without further ado, here are my suggestions for saving us from the horror of leftover printer output.

Lasers.

We put a rotating, variable pulse laser grid around the printer that requires a you to be ultra limber to avoid (a la Catherine Zeta-Jones in the movie “Entrapment”. See pic)

Camouflage.
Like a group of actual ninjas at a costume party, we could disguise the printer to look like some other inanimate object, namely, Lumpy. See, the thing is, *WE* would know it was there, but it would be completely passed over by the cleaning crew, corporate spies, Communists, Republicans, or what have you. We could have a CD that looped actual snoring sounds for added believability.

Sharks.

Tell me that’s not scary as hell. The picture above is during a performance of Vagner’s “The Ring”. Yes, sharks are very operatic. The more you know. But, I digress. A small moat could handle a shark or two, but we’d have to keep a bucket of chum nearby to keep the shark temporarily satisfied, and hungering for more blood. Oh, there’d be a plank to walk across to the now laser-surrounded, Lumpy-camouflaged, shark-protected printer.

Ebola.

Nobody wants Ebola. Not even the Ebola.

This guy.

To save money (which I’m ALL about), we could just get this dude on my team to nail some nails in his head. This dude sorta looks like him anyway, so it’s really a win/win. And, as you’re probably telling yourself: “Kevin, Pinhead from Hellraiser is not real.” Well, you’d be right, but my money’s on the idea that the cleaning crew has never seen Hellraiser or any of the sequels.

Holograms
We could create a hologram of the printer that looked exactly like the printer. When the evil company perpetrators come in to steal our PHI, we can film them grasping at thin air. It'd make for a great America's Funniest Work Videos episode, no?

Who’s with me?

Ignorance really is bliss, apparently.

2009-08-28T08:36:00.003-05:00

Lumpy, my oft-asleep co-worker, provides me with no end of material for this blog. Remember, I'm in Alabama, so some of this comes with the territory, but this is really too good to pass up.

Yesterday, on one of his many anything-I-can-do-to-avoid-work chatter sessions, he was talking with another co-worker about his sister, who, from what I gather, lives in Washington state. He mentioned that his sister and her daughter share a love of Harry Potter.

But what followed was priceless.

He said something to the effect of "She's always been a 'reader'. Oh, now she'll go to a Redskins game every once in a while..."

Wow.

That just struck me as mind-blowing. You see, he put emphasis on 'reader'. To me, that's like saying: (and feel free to put finger quotes where you feel it's necessary)
- Oh, she's one of those "literate" ones.
- That sister of mine with all of her learnin'.
- I'm ashamed that my niece will never grow up knowing about the shotgun formation.

In fairness, there are people in this world who are intelligent, but just don't find enjoyment in reading. This post is not about those people. This is about the willfully ignorant.

It goes without saying that I enjoy reading. Any of my friends will tell you that for fun, I used to read the World Book Encyclopedia, back when it was still in hardback form. I won't tell you *where* I read it, but you can probably guess. Let's just say that I was multitasking.

But let's get back to the matter at hand. It's one thing to not be a reader, but it's entirely different when you advocate the watching of a professional football game over the company of a good book. And before you go all crazy and say "Harry Potter' s not a 'good' book.", to each his own. Literary masterpiece? No. Enjoyable reading and the books that got kids re-interested in reading? Yep. Reading increases your vocabulary. It broadens your imagination. It's a sort of escapism, and I love escapism.

One of my friends once told me: "You can never own too many books." and I agree. I'm not going to put down professional football, because I realize that it's just a form of entertainment like any other, but after a 3-hour game, you're no smarter than you were at the beginning of the game.

It makes me sad to think about the importance Americans place on professional sports. I like to think of sports as being a great outlet for competition, a la the Olympics. When you move into the professional arena, it ceases to have that feel and becomes empty. Those guys are doing it for a job, not for the love of the game.

But don't take my word for it. I've always been a 'reader'.

I wish there was a church that worshipped Alton Brown

2009-08-14T09:35:00.000-05:00

... because I would be its High Priest.

Just in case you have never heard of the Food Network, here is his personal website and his page on Food Network

Put plainly, everything he makes is unbelievably good. But, it's not just that the food is incredible, it's that he explains why he cooks the way he does.

I guess it's best explained by an example. Last night's (8/13/2009) episode was about gumbo, but more importantly, the roux. Every cooking book says to use half fat/half flour and constantly whisk that over medium heat until you reach the desired roux color.

What'd Alton do? Well, instead of sitting there stirring the roux for God knows how long, he decided to put it in the oven to cook it. Pow. Easy, proper roux without the tedium. I've made this recipe at least 5 times and I can attest to how great that method is.

With the other chefs on the Food Network, it's just the same-old, same-old. Alton makes you *want* to learn how to cook. The beauty is that none of his recipes are these massive concoctions like you used to see on Emeril. They're just simple dishes, but prepared perfectly.

We have his book "I'm Just Here For The Food" which has a recipe for baby-back ribs that are pretty much considered heresy in most parts of the South, but (as a native Southerner) I find them to be MUCH easier and faster (and in a lot of cases better) than any restaurant can produce. You see, he prepares his ribs using a braising method, whereas most Southerners prefer to smoke their ribs for half a day. I ain't got time for all that. Braising (a wet cooking method) dissovles the connective tissue of the ribs into gelatin, making them tender and perfect. The problem with smoking is that there is a very high probablity that you will do it wrong and end up with ribs that are too dry to eat. Braising is rib insurance, if you ask me.

Don't get me wrong... smoked ribs are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. And, if I happened to mislead you, understand we're talking pork ribs. Anything else is an abomination.

But I digress.

Back to the matter at hand: King Brown. Take a minute to get to know Alton through his shows or his books. You'll find that you can prepare the food too, and you might even enjoy it. There's a satisfaction that comes in preparing a good meal for your family, even if the dish takes a while to prepare. You get out of it what you put into it.

Here's a small list of his recipes I've made and can attest to. I've made more, mind you, but these are big winners. (with links to the recipes from the show)

Baby back ribs (the ones from his book, not the show)
Pancakes
Pot Roast - Mama-slappin' goodness.
Buffalo Wings
Broiled Salmon (So. Easy.)
Shrimp Gumbo
Fajitas. How could I forget the fajitas. It's only the wife's favorite thing. It's listed as "Skirt Steak", but we use Flank. Plus, 86 the blow dryer and just cook 'em on the grill. It's the marinade that makes it.

And, if you read this and see Alton somewhere, tell him I love him.

Rules for work

2009-08-06T09:25:00.002-05:00

There should be some de facto rules for the workplace. Obviously, every workplace environment is different, but there are a lot of places that are very similar. Specifically, I'm talking about a typical office cubicle environment.

Don't clip your fingernails at your desk. It's disgusting and you have time at home to do that. Plus, that sound is not music to everyone's ears. Nobody wants your dirty fingernail clippings on the floor.
Don't sleep at your desk. You might be asking yourself why I'm even saying this. Well, the tub of crap that sits across from me apparently doesn't realize that you shouldn't take naps at your desk. It's demoralizing -- why can't I sleep at my desk too?
Do get to work at a respectable time. Should you be there at 8:00? Sure, but I'm a realist. People have kids, there's traffic, etc... Anything after 9:00 is unacceptable if it's on a regular basis. Nobody cares if you do it once or twice a month. Things happen. If it's every day, get your ass up earlier. If you live far from work, I don't care. Get up earlier and leave the damned house on time to get to the office.
Don't bring foul-smelling food back to your desk to eat. Hey, I love Indian food, but you don't see me eating Chicken Tikka Masala at my desk, because not everyone likes it. It's pungent.
Lay off the perfume. You women shouldn't smell like you made a few laps around the cosmetic counter at Macy's and tried every free spritzer that those over-made-up, plastic-faced women offer.
Don't purposely try to read a co-worker's screen. It's none of your business. While you're at it, if your co-worker has to type in a password, do the courteous thing and turn your head away. Otherwise, you're just a creepy creep. You're just giving that person reasons to not trust you.
Limit your personal time at a co-worker's desk. If you want, stop by, say hi or good morning, maybe tell a funny story, then Get. The. Hell. Back. To. Your. Desk. The other people in that area don't care to hear about how your dog caught on fire, or the fact that some dumb sports team lost to another dumb sports team. Hey, did you know that A-Rod R.B.I.'s are up from last year? Yeah? Well, did *you* know that you're costing the company money by being a slackass?
Check your breath. Some people have stankmouth, and you might be one. Keep a toothbrush at work if you need to.
Respect personal space. If you extend your arm (either one) in front of you, without bending over, and you can touch someone else, you are too close. Step back, creepy.
Use the phone for business only. If you have a personal call to make, step outside or in a lobby somewhere. The lady in front of me had a wonderful conversation with her husband about her dog chewing up, from what I gathered, a very fine piece of wicker furniture.
Keep your desk decorations to a minimum. Nobody wants to see the details of your 1984 trip to Cancun splayed out in all your fresh-out-of-college glory. Time has not been kind to you, has it? While we're at it, if you are a man over the age of 30, take the still-in-their-package Hot Wheels cars down off your cube wall and take them home. Nothing says "fail" more than your idea of a real Corvette manifested in a three dollar and ninety-five cent miniature.
Drop the tired office phrases. "Working hard, or hardly working?" *facepunch*. My personal favorites are the invariable questions that come after a vacation or a 3-day holiday weekend. "Enjoy your vacation?" "Yeah, but it was too short." No shit? You didn't get to take a 5 year vacation? I think the waaaaahmbulance is outside.
Spellcheck. All major email programs have one. You know why the spellchecker stopped when it came to the letter "u" that was by itself? It's because you're retarded. Oh, I get it. You're too busy to type the word "you", aren't you? People who use text-messaging rules are idiots, especially in a regular email.

Oh, and you probably shouldn't blog at work either.

Computer Engineers are HOT.

2009-07-17T12:25:00.003-05:00

Note: I apologize if some of you don't get some of this silliness. It's mostly internet-related jokes.

As part of my job, I have to read a lot of documentation, whether it’s internal or external. Many times, we have to read Adobe Acrobat files or whatever that were generated by companies for the manual on how to use their particular software.

I’m often amused by the pictures they put in those manuals. Most of them are harmless, but it seems like these layout artists always try to represent the perfect situation or the ideal user. Here’s an example:

Now, this in and of itself isn’t that funny, but I have to wonder, how the hell does this color-coordinated Barbie/Ken couple have anything to do with teaching you how to use a piece of software?

I took, or rather, my brain took the liberty of coming up with a few phrases pertaining to what's going on in this picture:

Him: RED 5 ON THE BLACK SIX
Her: Quit playing over my shoulder.
Him: You play the game right and I'll quit telling you how to play.
Her: I hate you.
Him: I hate your face.
Her: No U.
Him: ...

Her: Hey, you wanna get dressed up and take our laptop to Ikea and sit real still-like?
Him: You bet I do!

Her: Keanu, shut the hell up about the 'matrix'. You're drunk and you're looking at the screensaver again.
Him: Whoa.

Him: Look, if you're going to come over to my house and play WoW on my laptop, at least have the decency to get a damned coaster for my table.

Her: Hey, is 4chan spelled out or is the number 4?

Her: You have got to see this site my boss told me about. Something about some girls and a cup.

Him: IM IN UR COMPUTOR LOOKIN AT UR PRON

Her: I think we need more cylindrical two-tone non-aggressive colored objects on our shelf. If I order 16, I get a discount.

Him: Honey, get off Facebook and order some lipstick. You look like death... if death were really hot and stuff.

Her: Some guy from Nigeria wants us to hold some cash for him. What an idiot. Doesn't he know that any interest that we earn, we'll keep? Sucker.

Her: I think the new Bumblebee is cute.
Him: You are dead to me.

Him: I have a +5 stiff, I mean, STAFF.

Her: What? I just want to know how babby is formed. How girl get pregnant?
Him: I already told you. They need to do way instain mother. I am truely sorry for your lots.

Accidently in love

2009-07-15T00:01:00.004-05:00

Nine years.

Nine years ago today.

Nine years ago today in St. Louis Catholic Church on White Station Avenue in Memphis, Tennessee I married the love of my life.

It seems like it was yesterday.

People should be so lucky. Many of my friends have either gotten divorced or have had a really hard time finding 'the one'. I feel for them, because they've never gotten to experience what I have.

Why? I'll tell you, and this doesn't just apply to guys. There are some females who could take a few pointers.

Let's start with how we met. We met in church, on accident (hence the title of the post). I wasn't supposed to be at that particular church that day. In fact, I was gonna skip church that weekend because of a prior obligation, but my conscience got the better of me and I went. Good thing I did. I saw her and a feeling not unlike being punched in the stomach came over me. That was it.
Sometimes I think back and think about the series of life events that led me to that day. I'm not going to go into it here, but it's sorta fascinating how your life sort of pushes you in the right direction.

But, let's not digress from the point. Our relationship is founded upon something more than ourselves. I don't care what religion you are, or even if you are an unbeliever, I'm just telling you how it is. I'm not going to preach to you today, but I can offer what I know to be true -- that we love each other because we're being loved. Take it or leave it, but it's the truth.

Next, let's examine her personality: she's got this innocent, semi-shy quality about her. On the one hand, she's the most horrible joke-teller you've ever met. On the other, she's not encumbered by having to know every single pop-culture reference. She's the yin to my yang.

She truly loves people and she's not petty. When you or I would be concerned with what we're getting for Christmas, she's already decided that a portion of her gift-giving will go to the poor and the homeless. Selfless to the end. Think about that the next time you meet a woman, or ladies, think about that when going out with a guy. He doesn't have to take you to every expensive restaurant or buy you the shiniest gifts. Maybe spend some time helping the poor. The character of a person is revealed in acts like that.

She's an excellent mother. Yeah, it's trying at times, and sometimes it's too much to bear, but she's caring and she's exactly the kind of role model I want for my girls.

She looks like an angel when she sleeps, which is good, because she can fall asleep in about 2.5 seconds, no matter where she is. It makes for some quiet road trips.

When she takes off her makeup, she's as beautiful as she is with it on. This is important to me, not because of physical beauty, but because of what it says about her. She's not high-maintenance.

She's frugal. We're pretty conservative, money-wise, and that's fine with me. Women who spend a lot are trouble. We've had some extraordinary luck in our lives, financially, and I have to think that it's because we chose not to spend more than we make. Money problems lead to marriage problems.

She has a great family structure. I like her parents, and I think they might even like me. I can't tell yet, so I'm gonna give it a few more years.

She loves me for who I am. Hey, I'm not the best husband, but I ain't bad. This reason here is probably the most important. If you can love someone for their successes as well as their failures, you'll have a long and happy marriage.

So, is this cheesy to post about loving your wife? It is? Good. I hope you're lactose intolerant and you have stomach pains all day from reading this.

So, to my baboo, Happy Anniversary. I hope you have enjoyed every second like I have.

Olive Juice,
Me.

P.S. Yes, I put the seat down.

The state of women's clothing

2009-07-12T22:24:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I went on a 'date' with my wife. My in-laws came to take care of the kids, and we did what any loving couple would do when presented with an afternoon free from childcare: we went shopping for women's clothes.

Suffice it to say that the term "fashion" should be used loosely. Very loosely. In fact, it should be used in the same way as calling a salad "filling".

We went to Belk's, on the advice of my mother-in-law who, apparently, has a star with her name it on the sidewalk outside the store.

Here are some examples of clothing for the women-folk: (all of which I got from Belk's site)What the hell is that? It says "Hi, I have no regard for anyone and I'd like to look like I'm going on a safari where I'm the main target." That one is 99 bucks, by the way. Srsly. Also, I'd like to know what in the world she's looking at. My guess is that she's watching the last shreds of her dignity float away.

Same model, who is obviously clueless about what they're making her wear. I mean, that's like a bad Bob Ross painting, and all Bob Ross paintings are horrible to begin with. The problem with tops like this is that no skinny chicks in your office wear 'em. It's always Marge, the woman from customer service whose thighs make a scraping sound when she walks.

Get the seeing eye dog because this bitch is blind. Look at her face. She's saying "Are you !@#$ serious?"

Okay, I won't torture you any more. However, if you are a male, one thing you should know about shopping with a woman is how to fake your own death, but then be able to somehow come back from the dead after you're out of the mall. It's tough, but it's doable. Here's a situation where I am glad I know this sort of thing. In the past, my wife has gotten me with that age old question: "Which of these do you like, the red or the blue?" Sounds simple, right? WRONG, DUMBASS. There is no right answer. If you choose red, she'll choose blue. If you choose blue, she'll choose red. Women don't care what you think about fashion. In fact, it's just their way of torturing you mentally.

But see, this actually happened to me this weekend. She literally had a red and a blue item in her hands and she asked me which one I liked better. I reached up to point to one of them, and I collapsed and tried not to breathe. Luckily, my wife is a caring woman who understood my pain and told me I didn't have to decide. Just kidding, she picked the red one and let me lie there.

Then, we went to look for some new sunglasses for my wife. My wife is a beautiful woman. Seriously, she's quite stunning. However, only Jessica Simpson can pull off those 7-inch diameter shades. You know the ones... if it snowed, you and a buddy could sit in the lenses and sled downhill. At this point, I had had enough. My brain shuts down after only so many decisions. (see the post about taking my kids to daycare)

I'm praying that next season's lineup for women's clothes is more favorable than this season.

I am not a multitasker

2009-07-09T10:54:00.003-05:00

We started taking our kids to a new daycare, and with a new daycare come new rules you need to abide by.

There are approximately 32,768 rules that I have to remember when I drop my kids off each morning.

I have to:

Enter the top-secret code to open the door (bear in mind that I'm carrying a ton of stuff for the girls, in addition to making sure both of them stay still while I enter the code)
Enter the top-secret code again into the computer system in order to check the girls in.
Initial a sheet that says I checked them in. There are separate sheets, just to make it easy on me. (Remember, the girls are still with me at this point. I haven't taken them to their rooms yet.
Drop off the 3-year old into the 2-year old room. Why? No idea, but she'll be 'graduating' to the 3-year old room in 5 weeks.
Oh, if it's Wednesday, I have to make sure she has 2 bucks for ice cream.
If it's Friday, I have to make sure she has her swimming suit, etc.., because it's swim day.
Drop the 1-year old off in her room. This is no small feat.
Make sure the 1-year old's food is in the refrigerator, if it needs to be refrigerated. This changes daily.
Make sure her afternoon snack is in her bag, hanging by her cubbyhole.
Make sure I've completely filled out a daily sheet stating that her food is in the fridge and/or hanging by her cubbyhole.
If it's Thursday, she needs her swimming stuff, because Thursday is swim day for the 1-year old. Why it can't be Friday is beyond me.

Now, that's JUST to drop them off.

Here's the !@#$ I have to remember when I pick them up:

Pass code at the door.
Sign in to the computer and check the girls out
Initial the sheet saying I checked them out
Get the 3-year old's stuff, including any artwork.
Remember to check the 3-year old's cubby for any daily newsletter
Get the 1-year old.
Get the 1-year old's stuff out of the fridge
GET THE SIPPY CUPS. DON'T FORGET THE SIPPY CUPS. THEY MUST BE TAKEN HOME EVERY DAY OR JESUS WILL BE ANGRY. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET THE FLIPPIN' SIPPY CUPS.
Get the sheet that I filled out in the morning. It has notes about what happened that day.
Make sure she gets her blanky.
Get any other stuff, like swimwear, which we brought if it happened to be Thursday.
Put all of the stuff into a Crate and Barrell bag, because I didn't have anything manlier at the house.
Walk the girls out to the car.
Get them in their seats, all buckled up.
Drive safely home.

Now, you can see why I'm not good at this. My wife wonders what the big deal is, because a woman's brain is capable of this sort of thing, and her tolerance for pain is unreal.

Holy Mother of God. I think I forgot the sippy cups.

Java's HelloWorld: Worst. Example. Ever.

2009-06-10T09:24:00.005-05:00



class HelloWorldApp {
public static void main(String[] args) {
 System.out.println("Hello World!"); // Display the string.
}
}

I'm a newbie to Java programming, but I'm not a new programmer. I've been doing this stuff for over 10 years now. However, I've tried to approach Java as if I had never opened a book about programming. Boy, was I in for a surprise.

The code above comes directly from Sun's (the creators of Java) website. Specifically, here:
http://java.sun.com/docs/books/tutorial/getStarted/application/index.html

Also, understand that Java is a very widely used and respected programming language. It's changed the way we do business all over the world. It's a fantastic language to write in. Learning it was a bitch, especially if you came from an older programming style, like IBM's RPG or any version of Cobol.

This is probably one of the most horrible introductory programs anyone could ever write. Why? Glad you asked. (and I'll describe each of these things so that you will require no programming knowledge whatsoever to understand it. I'll pretend you're all Marketing Majors.)

The line "public static void main(String[] args)" says that you want to be able to run this program by typing it in on the command line in Windows. Now, see how weird that sounded? Who does that? Nobody. Having what is called a "main" method, which is what that is, is really only used when you want to run a program directly. That RARELY happens. And what about all those words that come before "main"? "public" means that anyone can run this particular piece of code. "static" means that there's only one copy of this piece of code running no matter how many people run this. "static" is an advanced Java concept, and it' s really too much to get into here. "void" means that when this runs, it doesn't give anything back to the person who ran this. Yeah, I don't expect you to understand that last sentence. Suffice it to say that the first line is a WHOPPER to a beginner.

"String[] args" from that same line, is a bit cryptic, to put it mildly. Let's break it down, shall we?
1. First, the word String (when it's capitalized) represents an advanced Java "Object". Now, for those familiar with Java, using a String isn't so advanced, but remember, this is a *beginner* program.
2. Next, the fact that "[ ]" comes after it means that it's an array of String objects. Arrays? Arrays are basically lists of things. Yeah, you don't discuss those on day 1.
3. Then, we have the word "args". "args" is a C++ holdover word that is short for "arguments". AR-GU-MENTS. When you hear the word "argument", you usually envision people fighting verbally. Most civilized people call those things "parameters" or "options".
Whew. All that, and we're not even past the first line. Next up, we have "System.out.println". Okay, so from step 2, we know that most things capitalized are Java "Objects" (advanced), and here, we're separating three words with a period. This indicates that you are chaining objects together (again, advanced). That's a fancy way of saying that you took an advanced shortcut to get what you needed. For a layman's example, it's the equivalent of this:

3 + 1 = 4 and
4 + 3 = 7

written as:

3 + 1 + 3 = 7

See?

So, after all this, what you have to understand is that this *IS* the most simple Java program you could write, even if it is horrible. To make things more correct, you have to get more complex.

After reading all that, what's most surprising is that somehow, somewhere, a woman found me attractive enough to marry me.

Death isn't funny.

2009-06-08T12:44:00.005-05:00

... that is, unless you're talking ironic deaths, where say, a crazy cat lady with 113 cats chokes on a hairball. However, that's another post entirely, so let's get to why I'm posting today.

A guy at my office had a medical procedure done, and was recovering, but then took a turn for the worse. One of the admins in my department sent out an email relaying the news.

Sounds normal, right? Here's the kicker: The entire email was in the Comic Sans font, the de facto font of people who forward Jesus emails that tell you how you should live your life. You know what font this is... here's a sample:WFWJU? Not Comic Sans. Jesus likes him some reasonably-sized Tahoma.

Business communications should never use this font. Here's an obit I faked to give you an idea how this feels.

It's a somber moment, and you think, upon first glance, that there's a summer swim party you've been invited to. I don't want to detract from the real purpose of the email. I really feel for the family of this guy, but at least show him some respect and be professional.

Location, location, location.

2009-06-05T08:29:00.002-05:00

Okay, more goodness from our internal newsletter.

Check out this BADASS cemetary(sic)* plot.

Now, the ad says "2 plots", so we have to assume it's a husband and his wife. If you don't limit my imagination to that, things could get ugly. Here are the conversations I imagined took place:

"Honey, I just got back from the doctor, and he told me that I was in GREAT health. Seeing as how there's a recession goin' on, maybe we could sell the cemetery plot and take that trip to Cabo San Lucas we've been talking about."
"Happy Anniversary, darling. Go ahead. Open it up. That's right! Two plots right next to your mother and father. I lov... Why are you crying?"
"Isn't Block 39 right next to your mother? She made my living life torture and I'm sure as hell not going to spend eternity next to that banshee."
"Jesus Christ, Lois. Heloooooooo? Have you ever seen me get hurt or get sick? I should have married Lana. AND FOR THE LAST TIME, QUIT SWITCHING OUT MY GREEN POPSICLES WITH KRYPTONITE!!! IT WAS FUNNY THE FIRST TIME!"
"Isn't Elmwood where they had that zombie uprising in the 20's? Yeah... no."
"WHY AM I ALWAYS THE LAST TO KNOW THAT WE ARRANGED FOR OUR BODIES TO BE CRYOGENICALLY FROZEN?"
"You know, having my body cremated, placed in an urn, and dumped into the Dallas water supply is an excellent last "!@#$" YOU" to them, but you could have told me before I bought those two plots in Elmwood."

And, I love how it's "Across the street from the Mausoleum", because the commute to the Mausoleum in the morning makes you wanna kill someb... wait, what?

Is the fact that it's close to the MLK highway a bonus? If so, for whom is it a bonus? I know *I* don't like to have to walk very far through the cemetery when I go for a visit. I mean, what the hell? Were you just gonna do a flower drive-by? Do you need to make a quick getaway? Are you agoraphobic and need to know where the nearest exit is? Hey genius, YOU ARE IN A CEMETERY.

* Cemetery is spelled with two E's, and not an A. Spellchecker is your friend.

Jake Brown

2009-05-28T08:22:00.002-05:00

Back when I was a bachelor living in Memphis, I was fresh out of college, and I used to hang around a group of guys that went to college with me.

One of the guys I hung around was 2 or 3 years older than me and married. A marriage, I might add, which was one of the strangest ever. His marriage lasted about 6 or 7 years, I think, but in that time, he and his wife 'experimented'. His wife ended up divorcing him and living with another woman. Yeah, it was that kind of relationship.

Anyway, this guy (let's call him Chad, since that was his name), liked to frequent a strip club called Platinum Plus. Platinum Plus, or "The Purple Church" (because of the purple neon sign) required that you sign your name whenever you came in. Why they did this is a mystery to me, because who in their right mind would sign their own name at a strip club? It was that little quirk which leads me to the story today.

Chad would always sign his name "Jake Brown", because it sounded cool. In an interesting aside, when I got married, the altar boy at my wedding was also named Jake Brown (no, really) but he was only like 12 or 13. Still, after you hear this story, you'll see why it still cracks me up.

[Note: If you want the full experience, when you say the words "Jake Brown", you have to say them as one word, excitedly, because that's how Chad would say it. 'JAKEBROWN!' But, you have to say 'Brown' with the same inflection that people do when they're doing the wave at a football game. The sound has to rise in the middle and taper off.]

So, Chad's alter ego became somewhat infamous. It was never Chad that did anything wrong, it was Jake.

You can imagine my surprise when one morning on the way to work, I was listening to the Wake Up Crew, the morning drive show that was popular at the time. One of the hosts on there (who went by the name "Bad Dog") had gotten his internet minister's license from the Universal Life Church in Modesto, CA. He had decided to take calls about religion, etc... that morning since he was, for all intents and purposes, a 'minister'.

He takes a call from this guy who identifies himself as "Jake Brown". "Jake" askes Bad Dog a marriage question. It went something like this:

Jake: Bad Dog, when two people get married, they become one, right?
Bad Dog: Yeah, I guess you could say that.
Jake: Now, that "one"... could that one marry another one and become one?
Bad Dog: Jake, I don't think that's legal in Tennessee.

And that's when I slapped my palm against my forehead.

I get to work, and there's a message on my voicemail from another one of my college buddies. "Hey, did you hear JAKEBROWN! on 103 this morning?"

Indeed, I had.

Five years later, my then fiance and I were discussing the wedding plans and she says: "I think I want to get my friend's little brother Jake Brown to be the altar boy at the wedding." Of course, I blurted out "JAKEBROWN!".

Then, I had to explain.

Fifi le Boom

2009-05-23T16:56:00.005-05:00

This is the sort of thing that can polarize people.

You will either find this hilarious or you will be disgusted. I'm fine with either way you feel, but if you are in the latter group, you're going to find it very hard to be around me for any length of time.

Prepare yourself for disgust or giggles.

I was working for a French auto parts manufacturer named Valeo (pronounced "Valley-oh") in Memphis, TN in 1997. Although these guys were insanely rigid on how they did business, you could actually learn a lot from them. Anyway, after a little over a year of putting up with their crap, I left.

But, in that time, they sent me to Indiana (who goes to Indiana?) for a week-long training session on how to work "the Valeo way". It was training in how to be efficient, how to work smarter, not harder, and how to (and I shudder to say this) "think outside the box". It was this boxless thinking which got me into trouble.

The instructor, this arrogant French jackass, which is redundant, was telling a story of thinking outside the box. Now, this is where the details are sketchy. It's been 12 years, sue me. Anyway, after some war (I think it was Vietnam) there was a field near a village that was littered with land mines. The land mines were put there by the enemy, so there was no way the villagers would know where the mines were. I guess the only way they knew there were mines in the first place was that one of the villagers wouldn't be making his 10-year high school reunion.

So, that meant that there could be no crops planted, children couldn't play, nothing. The place was a no-man's land, well, except for that one guy. So, the instructor continued, how would they ever be able to use the land again?

The instructor said "They decided to use dogs from the local pound."

That's when I let out an audible giggle.

Now, I should stop here and let you know that it wasn't just Americans in this French mind-control training. There were 3 Germans and I believe a dude from Great Britian. It was like 15 people or so.

The instructor, visibly upset, turned to look directly at me, as did the Germans. The Germans looking at me wasn't important, and has no bearing on the story, but I thought you should know.

He (the instructor) walks over to me and says in his thick accent, "Wut is zo funny?", to which I replied something like "Well, I guess they killed two birds with one stone, didn't they? I just had a vision of a poodle flying through the air after finding a mine."

Of course, in MY head the poodle had made some sort of high-pitched yelping noise as he was sent skyrocketing through the air. I didn't let the instructor in on that little piece of goodness.

In retrospect, you should never choose a French dog as the example to explain to a French man why you are laughing at something he just said.

The instructor, now furious, says: "Zey used ze dogz to zniff out ze gunpowder in ze mines!"

My bad.

Never Read

2009-05-22T08:36:00.003-05:00

Each Friday, my company publishes a little two or three page company newsletter, and at the end of the newsletter, there's a small classified section. It's usually nothing to write home about, but today's was golden.

These magazines were NEVER READ. Never.

What, in the name of all that’s Holy, does it matter if they were read or not. And, how can they back up that claim? They better be shrink wrapped and there better not be A. SINGLE. FINGERPRINT. on the pages.

Why, WHY would you continue paying for a magazine you don’t even read?

Let’s take a sample situation:
It’s January. There you are, enjoying those brand new furry bunny slippers your Mom got you for Christmas. You check the mail. Hey! It’s the new issue of Maxim! Oh, but you don’t have time to read it because you’re still trying to figure out how to convert that 8-track of Anne Murray’s greatest hits to your iPhone. So, you toss the issue onto the floor beside your Chuck Norris Total Gym that’s acting as a makeshift closet because, let’s face it: if you’re too lazy to read Maxim, you’re probably not using the Total Gym.

January passes and it's now February. In your frustration, you've thrown your Anne Murry 8-Track against the wall and it's lying in 37 pieces next to the Total Gym, which now contains a half-eaten olive loaf sandwich. You remember liking olive loaf when you were a kid, but it's different now. The new Maxim, with a picture of Sienna Miller as the Baroness on the front is laying on top of January's, with the pages bent because you tossed it into the corner, you slob.

March comes. You need to fertilize the yard, but you just don't have the energy. You ordered Anne Murray's greatest hits on CD from Amazon, and the unopened box is sitting on your floor and there's an unsolved Rubik's cube sitting on top of it. Curse you, Rubik's cube. You make a mental note to peel the stickers off of it and reapply them later. March's Maxim is lying on the kitchen table, still in the plastic. It's got one of those little white cards in it saying that you only have 15 issues left until your subscription runs out.

April. Ah, spring. The dead grass in your yard probably needs mowing. You'll get around to it later. Hey! The new Maxim is in. 14 issues left until they'll stop sending it, but if you act now, you can get a discount. That sounds like a really sweet deal! In a feat of sheer will, you log on to Maxim.com and you re-up your account. Dangit. Where's your wallet? Oh, that's right, it's in your work pants lying on the Total Gym. You trip over the still unopened Anne Murray CD box from Amazon, but luckily, your fall is cushioned by your giant stack of collectible Ty Beannie Babies. You rush back to the computer and complete the transaction.

I think you can see where this is going.

I love looking at people's wedding registries

2009-05-20T09:10:00.001-05:00

Why? Let me explain…

When I worked in Texas, I worked with this girl who was, shall we say, less than cultured, and that’s putting it nicely.

When she was getting married, we googled her name to find out where she was registered – and by the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, we found it. JACKPOT.

Now, I know people register at Wal-Mart, K-Mart, and Target for things like brooms, mops, sponges, dishtowels, etc… I’m good with that. That’s perfectly fine.

However, *this* girl went a step further (and wronger).

Among the things on her registry:

2-liter of Sprite
VHS tape (this is in the spring of 2001) of the movie Speed 2: Cruise Control (at least, I think that was the movie. In any case, it’s funny)
A two-pack of plastic flyswatters. Total value: A buck ninety-five.
A Dale “The Intimidator” Earnhardt analog wall clock. Yes, the second hand was a little #3 car. I wanted to ask her if the clock runs counterclockwise and suddenly stops working when it gets to 2:10.
A complete bedroom suite for her soon-to-be stepson. Evidently, it’s socially acceptable to register for plastic bedroom furniture for kids for your wedding.

What prompted this was that a co-worker of mine is getting married. Another co-worker emailed me with the links to his wedding registry, so I had *had* to go look. Fortunately (or unfortunately for me) he doesn’t have anything out of the ordinary. Dang him.

However, I did find something that made me giggle… They registered for something called Corn Cob Nobs.

"Cob Nobs". *snicker*

My loaner

2009-05-14T10:40:00.000-05:00

The girl from the rental car agency called me and told me what kind of loaner I was gonna get until my car got fixed.

Here's the piece of sh.. er, car that they're going to give me:

Great. Just great. Now, I’m going to have to wear cheap cologne and not brush my teeth to keep the ladies off me.

THIS is why the American automakers are in such a pile of !@#$. This has got to be the most Godforsaken ugly car I’ve ever seen. And, oh hey, how about that awesome front grille from the 40’s? Maybe I should buy a Tommy gun and hang out the window to shoot the coppers on my tail.

You know Chevy was like “Hey, Chrysler has that butt-ugly PT Cruiser. Let’s take our time-honored tradition of screwing up something perfectly fine and make a car worse than that”

Oh, the model of this car? It’s called the HHR, which I can only presume to stand for the phrase that came out of the first customer’s mouth when Chevy announced the list price of around 19k: “Ha Ha, Really?”

Fail

FAIL.

I like to see how fast I can change the station when Michael Buble comes on

2009-05-12T01:06:00.000-05:00

You guys know who Michael Buble is?

I don't want to link to his site, but it might be something like his first name and his last name and ".sucks"

Might be.

Go there and listen to music that makes you want punch babies.

I'm not saying he doesn't have a decent voice. I'm saying he chooses crappy music to make, or he does Frank Sinatra tunes. Just what the public is clamoring for: more Sinatra.

He even looks like a goober. Check out the pic. "Hey, what's that over there? My soul being sold to the devil?"

So, it's become a game with me. If a Michael Buble commercial comes on, I try to see if I can change the channel before even a single note has played.

It's puh-CAHN, not PEE-can, Paula Deen.

2009-05-12T01:05:00.000-05:00

dictionary.com gives two pronunciations of this word: the right one and the wrong one.

If you are from the Southeastern United States, (i.e. the "South"), it's pronounced puh-Cahn. If you are from other, non-Holy parts of the United States, or you are a douchebag, then you pronounce it PEE-can.

Paula, you make food that makes me happy to be alive. For the love of God and the South, please start pronouncing the word "pecan" like it's supposed to be.

Let's make an open-source superhero

2009-05-12T01:00:00.000-05:00

Wouldn't it be badass to have a new superhero that we all created?

We could start an internet task force to come up with all the qualities of a superhero (parentage, place of origin, weaknesses, powers, etc...) and have the public:

Come up with the options for each quality, and
Vote on each of those to determine which is the most popular.

Heck, we could even come up with our own storyline after he/she/it/them are created.

The comic could be published on a free site, and movie royalties would go to all of us.

Okay, so maybe the idea about the royalties wouldn't work, but hey, a guy can dream.

Just for once, I'd like to see a superhero that has a normal job, has parents, and doesn't have a secret identity. We can do that, can't we?

Lumpy

2009-05-11T22:36:00.000-05:00

In today's world, can you really afford to do a half-assed job at work? Let me tell you: No.

There's a dude at my office who I like to call "Lumpy", because he's morbidly obese. I don't just call him Lumpy because he's fat. Heck, we all put on pounds now and then. I call him Lumpy because he sits at his desk like a lump of crap.

Dude likes to roll in at the crack of 9:45. I don't know where you work, but we start at 8:00 AM. Then, after the strenuous task of signing on to his computer, he needs to take a break and talk with "Buddy" for an hour about sports, mostly baseball.

That puts him right around 9:45 and he hasn't even had his morning snack! So, off he goes to get a giant Coke and maybe something from our cafeteria. Chewing the food must wear him out, so he sometimes snoozes a little before he really starts to put in a good day's work.

Oh! But it's lunchtime. Yay lunch!

After lunch he does a little work, which involves him trying to stay awake. "Buddy" comes back over to his desk to discuss more baseball, as if the morning hour-long discussion wasn't enough.

Then, it's more on-and-off snoozes until 4:30, when he promptly leaves.

What's a guy to do? If I rat him out to the boss, I look like a jerk and nothing good may come of it, and then, on top off all that, he's out of work and that's just not cool. If I don't rat him out, there's a slackass taking up valuable oxygen in my department.

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

I want a cable company that lets me only pay for channels I want to watch

2008-08-30T13:44:00.000-05:00

... and this will signal the end of the following channels:

Lifetime
Lifetime Movie Network
Women's Entertainment
Oxygen
The Golf Channel
MTV

To quote a buddy of mine: "Every show on Lifetime is 'The Burning Bed' ". And damned if he ain't right.

All crappy station bashing aside, this would prevent people from wasting time and money producing shows for channels nobody watches, but we have to pay for.

Think about it: when was the last time you curled up on the couch with a nice glass of wine and turned on the Trinity Broadcasting Network?

On the flip side, more money could be directed toward juggernauts of awesomeness like:

The Cartoon Network, with their fine, fine programming.
The SciFi channel, so that maybe they can finally fund a mini-series that has a decent ending.
The Food Network, where every show is great except for Emeril, and much to my delight, he's not on there anymore. Oh, the Food Network Challenge show is boring. I love midwest housewives who are experts at cake baking.
Any of the Discovery Channel family of channels, especially PlanetGreen, which should be required watching for schoolchildren.

And, any missed episodes of any show should be stored on the cable company's servers and we should be able to watch it immediately whenever we want.

The icing on the cake is that I don't have to flip through 47 shopping channels that hawk their cubic zirconium wares.

I can not listen to Steely Dan

2008-08-26T21:38:00.000-05:00

So, I have a satellite radio in my car. Why does this concern you? It doesn't, to be quite honest, but it concerns me. You see, satellite radio (in my case, Sirius), has allowed me to listen to a great variety of music over the last two years -- music you don't normally hear on regular traditional radio.

This variety comes at a price: Steely Dan.

Every so often, I come across a Steely Dan song on one of the non-mainstream channels, and every time, I'm amazed at how completely and totally horrible their music is.

Here are some of their well-known pieces of suckitude:

Do It Again
Reelin' In The Years
Rikki Don't Lose That Number

Tell me, honestly, that you like any one of those songs. Moreover, I thought they were all the same song until I looked them up on wikipedia.

They won 4 Grammys in 2001 for their album "Two Against Nature". Am I not alone in never having heard of this album?

Here's the song list of the album. Maybe this will jog your memory:

Gaslighting Abbie

What a Shame About Me

Two Against Nature

Janie Runaway

Almost Gothic

Jack of Speed

Cousin Dupree

Negative Girl

West of Hollywood

Specifically, "Cousin Dupree" won Best Pop Performance by Duo or Group with Vocal. C'mon, seriously?

They beat out Eminem for Album of the Year, and, while I'm not a huge Eminem fan, I find that downright unbelievable. You mean to honestly tell me that ASCAP, out of all of the albums released in 2000, they found Steely Dan better than them all?

In conclusion: Steely Dan is a band composed of boring hacks with music more suited to be used as torture at Guantanamo Bay.