I have bad news for everyone. I recently discovered that on the list of names for Hurricanes for this year is none other than Michael. This is odd because currently we are on John, and I thought they alternated between male and female names. But that is neither here nor there.
People, I must warn you about the potential dangers of a Hurricane Michael. I like to consider myself the quintessential Michael, and therefore, a good litmus test for what a Hurrican by such a name could do. The prospects are somewhat frightening.
Michael, as a Hurricane, will probably be pretty damn lazy. I recon it will linger about in the Atlantic watching cartoons when it should be growing and gaining strength. While it is a young hurricane it won't amount to much at all. Don't get me wrong, all the forecasters will predict great things from this Hurricane. But he will remain unmotivated, and he won't "live up to his potential." If you are lucky it will pass you over while it is somewhat new.
After college Hurricane Michael will really start to regret the choices he made, and also didn't make. He will regret being where he is and he may take it out on the land and people around him. You don't want to be beneath him at this point in his life. While he will never be a 'high class' hurricane, he will possess an ability to make you feel incredibly bad about yourself. He will also rant, on and on and on, about what a miserable failure he has become. This will not hurt you, of course, but you will want to die.
Later, entering middle age, Michael will obtain a new focus. You do not want to be near him at this point. Everyone will have written Michael off as a bloviated thunderstorm, but I believe it is at this point that he will become truly devastating. Something people will not forget. Hope he has already passed you here.
While Michael may never been able to blow up to 100 miles per hour he can still unleash some fairly devestating winds. Especially after eating too much cheese. Most people can handle their own smell, while the people around them wretch and writhe, however Hurricane Michael will create some vaporous monsters that will drive even the dogs from their station to seek fresher climes. So, while he may not be terribly fast, or terribly motivated, it could make a pretty big stink. Let us pray it does not pass over any dairy farms.
On the brighter side, the eye of a Hurricane Michael is probably totally sexy. If you get caught in the eye, don't forget to look at it; pensive, penatrating, humorous, jovial. All the things a wonderful eye can be. And it will be Hazel. Hazel is better than green because it also has brown. And brown is cool.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Shameful
Last night I did something that I am ashamed of. It was late and I needed to stay up to work on this stupid stupid stupid report for my job and I wanted to have something playing in the background. Well, I haven't had the cable turned on since we moved because I owe money to the company and I can't pay it right now, so we all pretty much just watch videos and DVDs whenever we want to watch TV. So I went looking through my DVD collection and found nothing that I was interested in. Then I checked out our old video collection. Most of the newer flicks in that stack, like Star Wars Episode 1, the Matrix, etc. I've seen so many times that I simply wasn't interested. Then I saw a movie that I am ashamed to admit I have.
Why this movie is out where children and guests could happen upon it, or worse, accidentally watch it, I have no idea. If it were discovered I'm not sure how I would explain it. It is the kind of thing that would forever alter a child's opinion of his parent. It is the kind of thing you definitely don't want your minister knowing you have.
Still, the compulsion was too great to resist. When it is late, and I am tired, these moral questions get fuzzy; hard to answer. I said "NO" to this film twice and went back to blankly staring at the other videos and DVDs. But in my mind I kept thinking, "the wife and kids are in bed... the curtains are drawn... why not?"
I picked it up and let the video slide out of its deceptive cover. I looked over my shoulder. I thought I heard a footstep upstairs and I quickly slid the video back in its case. Then I heard a meow and I knew it was safe. I turned the TV on and immediately turned the volume down. Then I slipped the video in the VHS player and it automatically kicked in.
I sat down on the couch and told myself, "I'm probably not going to enjoy this anyway." Once you've seen this kind of flick they kind of lose their appeal. The pretty women, the bad acting... they grate on your nerves once the passion and thrill is lost in the repitition. Well, not the pretty women. They are still very pretty. But the bad acting is OH SO BAD. Still, I had a tiny bit of excitement, if you know what I mean, when the first scene opened up. I was already anticipating the next scene and the next.
Oh the scenery was worse than I remembered. The hair dos were just God-awful. And the acting was as bad as I had anticipated. But there were some high points... and then there was the main hotty, with her perfect lips... I was getting anxious.
The guilty pleasure. I will never be able to tell my wife that I watched this. I mean, she knows we have it. The video is actually hers. I have a very progressive wife, in certain respects. But I don't think I can tell her. If she reads it here, it will be the only way she will find out that I watched Kevin Costner's Robin Hood.
Oh, the most shameful part of the whole ordeal was I loved every minute of it. Sure Kevin's acting was bad, but so was Christian Slater's and a host of the second string actors. But Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio is drop dead gorgeous in this movie. And, well, I hardly took my eyes off the TV. I watched all the way through the Brian Adams video at the end. "Yeah, I die for yoooooooooooooooooou... You know it's true. Everything I do. Oh oh oh. I do it for you." When it was over it was after midnight and I had barely touched my report for work. I had to stay up till 1 to finish it.
Please readers... Please don't think less of me.
Why this movie is out where children and guests could happen upon it, or worse, accidentally watch it, I have no idea. If it were discovered I'm not sure how I would explain it. It is the kind of thing that would forever alter a child's opinion of his parent. It is the kind of thing you definitely don't want your minister knowing you have.
Still, the compulsion was too great to resist. When it is late, and I am tired, these moral questions get fuzzy; hard to answer. I said "NO" to this film twice and went back to blankly staring at the other videos and DVDs. But in my mind I kept thinking, "the wife and kids are in bed... the curtains are drawn... why not?"
I picked it up and let the video slide out of its deceptive cover. I looked over my shoulder. I thought I heard a footstep upstairs and I quickly slid the video back in its case. Then I heard a meow and I knew it was safe. I turned the TV on and immediately turned the volume down. Then I slipped the video in the VHS player and it automatically kicked in.
I sat down on the couch and told myself, "I'm probably not going to enjoy this anyway." Once you've seen this kind of flick they kind of lose their appeal. The pretty women, the bad acting... they grate on your nerves once the passion and thrill is lost in the repitition. Well, not the pretty women. They are still very pretty. But the bad acting is OH SO BAD. Still, I had a tiny bit of excitement, if you know what I mean, when the first scene opened up. I was already anticipating the next scene and the next.
Oh the scenery was worse than I remembered. The hair dos were just God-awful. And the acting was as bad as I had anticipated. But there were some high points... and then there was the main hotty, with her perfect lips... I was getting anxious.
The guilty pleasure. I will never be able to tell my wife that I watched this. I mean, she knows we have it. The video is actually hers. I have a very progressive wife, in certain respects. But I don't think I can tell her. If she reads it here, it will be the only way she will find out that I watched Kevin Costner's Robin Hood.
Oh, the most shameful part of the whole ordeal was I loved every minute of it. Sure Kevin's acting was bad, but so was Christian Slater's and a host of the second string actors. But Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio is drop dead gorgeous in this movie. And, well, I hardly took my eyes off the TV. I watched all the way through the Brian Adams video at the end. "Yeah, I die for yoooooooooooooooooou... You know it's true. Everything I do. Oh oh oh. I do it for you." When it was over it was after midnight and I had barely touched my report for work. I had to stay up till 1 to finish it.
Please readers... Please don't think less of me.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Creativity and Updates
You cannot manufacture creativity. But you can provide the proper environment for it. I believe that everyone has creativity within them. However, some people, feeling a desire to be creative, will nurture it, putting themselves in situations that are likely to recall that creativity. I think that is why some people live under the delusion that drugs make you creative. When you take a drug for the first time you are experiencing something new. And newness always inspires. So you feel creative. But it is just the newness of the feeling that has caused the creative flux, not the drug. You would illicit the same feeling from taking a morning mountain walk for the first time, or have a first romantic encounter.
Other people, I believe, are not attracted to the feeling of creation, or perhaps they are repulsed by it, so they do not nurture it, and it remains dormant. This is only sad if it makes you sad. I have had some friends compare themselves to me and say that they did not wish to write because they could never write like me. On the other hand I have had "friends" who have made it very clear that they were unimpressed by my writings, and they did not wish to be subject to them any longer. To my friends who have abandoned a creative outlet because they cannot compare to someone else I say what a shame. If you wish to write the only way to improve is to write. If you want to BE something you will not become it by dreaming about becoming it, unless you want to be a dreamer. Only by BEING that thing will you become it. Just start writing and one day you will realize you are a writer. To those "friends" I have that think I suck I say good for you for having an opinion and being bold enough to tell me to my face in front of other friends and while I'm performing at my house where you were invited and didn't have to come and you knew that I would be performing here. Clearly your opinion is wrong, but it is yours, and perhaps it is the beginning of a kind of creativity; a cinical creativity for bastards and fat asses, but a creativity nonetheless.
Anyway, I say all of this to say how much I hate going to websites, especially favorite websites, and finding that nothing has changed. There are several websites I visit on a daily basis to see what new stuff has popped up, and a couple that I visit weekly or even monthly. I am always colossally disappointed when I go and find that nothing new has been posted. Some of these site belong to huge companies. Some of these sites MUST have a bankroll. Some of these sites are for companies that center around creative output. So where is the excuse for not having something new for me to consume? There is none.
I do make an effort to have something new to read at least every week, but I think I do much better than that. And I hope what I post is entertaining. Still, I do understand your frustrations when you come to this Eldorado of Internet Humor only to find that I have posted nothing. I understand and I share your grief. I also get frustrated when I show up to this site and find that no one has bothered to post or anything. I get pretty angry with myself. And I get angry with you. All this reading and complaining, and yet you never post. Would it kill you?
If you are afraid it might kill you, but you post anyway, then you are a truly brave person. Not too bright, but very brave. And, I might just have a prize of questionable value for such a person. No, I'm not bribing you to post. Afterall, I also might NOT have something special for you. It all really depends on how cool your post is and/or how hot you are.
Other people, I believe, are not attracted to the feeling of creation, or perhaps they are repulsed by it, so they do not nurture it, and it remains dormant. This is only sad if it makes you sad. I have had some friends compare themselves to me and say that they did not wish to write because they could never write like me. On the other hand I have had "friends" who have made it very clear that they were unimpressed by my writings, and they did not wish to be subject to them any longer. To my friends who have abandoned a creative outlet because they cannot compare to someone else I say what a shame. If you wish to write the only way to improve is to write. If you want to BE something you will not become it by dreaming about becoming it, unless you want to be a dreamer. Only by BEING that thing will you become it. Just start writing and one day you will realize you are a writer. To those "friends" I have that think I suck I say good for you for having an opinion and being bold enough to tell me to my face in front of other friends and while I'm performing at my house where you were invited and didn't have to come and you knew that I would be performing here. Clearly your opinion is wrong, but it is yours, and perhaps it is the beginning of a kind of creativity; a cinical creativity for bastards and fat asses, but a creativity nonetheless.
Anyway, I say all of this to say how much I hate going to websites, especially favorite websites, and finding that nothing has changed. There are several websites I visit on a daily basis to see what new stuff has popped up, and a couple that I visit weekly or even monthly. I am always colossally disappointed when I go and find that nothing new has been posted. Some of these site belong to huge companies. Some of these sites MUST have a bankroll. Some of these sites are for companies that center around creative output. So where is the excuse for not having something new for me to consume? There is none.
I do make an effort to have something new to read at least every week, but I think I do much better than that. And I hope what I post is entertaining. Still, I do understand your frustrations when you come to this Eldorado of Internet Humor only to find that I have posted nothing. I understand and I share your grief. I also get frustrated when I show up to this site and find that no one has bothered to post or anything. I get pretty angry with myself. And I get angry with you. All this reading and complaining, and yet you never post. Would it kill you?
If you are afraid it might kill you, but you post anyway, then you are a truly brave person. Not too bright, but very brave. And, I might just have a prize of questionable value for such a person. No, I'm not bribing you to post. Afterall, I also might NOT have something special for you. It all really depends on how cool your post is and/or how hot you are.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
My Big Back Yard
I mowed my yard again this weekend. I know that the last thing you folks want to hear about is my boring day in my yard, but I want to be a writer, and you have to write what you know, right?
Anyway, I'm mowing my huge back yard when...
Let me interrupt myself with a point here. When I first saw this house and learned that I could pseudo afford it, I thought that the huge yard was such a plus. I actually felt like I was getting away with a steal. Now I'm not so sure. The yard is steep, about 20% grade, and just plain huge. It's about half an acre of grass that I have to mow. And while half the time I am mowing downhill, the other half I am mowing up hill. It's absolute hell. I used to like mowing the yard. Now I believe that the couple that owned this house did not get a divorce like they said. No, they just made up the divorce story to have an answer when people like me ask, "So why are you moving from such a nice home?" They can say, "We got a divorce," instead of, "We hate the huge hill-yard. We can never agree on whose turn it is to mow," because who would want to buy a house that is such a physical burden. Actually, they may have really gotten a divorce, but it was the yard that caused it.
They also made up the divorce lie because of what I found this weekend as I mowed.
Anyway, I'm mowing my huge back yard when I mow over a hole. Not a pit in the ground, a hole. I could not see the bottom. It was a pretty big hole, too, about 8 inches wide. I made a mental note of where it was and told myself I needed to fill it in. About fifteen minutes later I mowed over another hole, then another. I started to worry. It could be nothing, but then it could be...
I ran over a couple of ant hills and the holes left my mind for a moment. About another fifteen minutes passed and I ran over two more holes. Then I came upon the proof: a pile of about fourteen or fifteen marble sized poo pellets. You are probably thinking, 'holes in the yard, poo pellets... it can only be rabbits." Well you're wrong! I have Demons, there's no other explanation. If it was just one hole I might agree with you, but I had five. Five holes, and when I marked them all my suspicions were confirmed; they were laid out in a pentagram pattern.
Five holes in a star formation and demon scat. It all makes sense now. I don't have allergies or a virus. I have a demon. I went upstair, into the attic, where my wife's old secret books and artifacts are kept, and I read up on Sinus Demons. There were some special incantations, a few herbal remedies, even a dance that is supposed to be performed naked, in the moonlight, with at least 7 homely women. The book actually said they were supposed to be homely. But the last bit of advice seemed the best. Suggestion 8 for getting rid of Sinus Demons: Blow Your Nose.
Now, I am not a blower. Typically I am a sniffer and a wiper. I don't like to blow much. But how could I refute such wisdom. So I went into the bathroom, got a kleenex and blew. Nothing. So I took a deep, deeeeeeeep breath, and I blew the the hardest blow I could blow. And when I was done, sure as could be, there was a giant yellow demon in my hands.
He was drippy.
"Well?" he said.
"Well, what?" I said.
"Well, why did you wake me?"
"I didn't mean to wake you," I said, "I just wanted you out of my nose."
"Why? That's my home."
"Well it's my nose. And I want you out."
"Well I'm out now, ain't I!"
"Will you stay out?" I asked.
"Maybe," he said. "Anybody else live here that has a nose?"
"We all have noses," I said.
"Good," he said, "Just take me to one of them."
"I'm not taking you to my family."
"Well then, I'll just hop right back into you."
"No you wont," I said.
"Do you know the magic words?"
"What magic words?"
"If you don't know the words," he said, "Then you can't tell me what I can and can't do."
At that point I dropped the paper towel in the toilet and flushed it. I thought I was so clever. But when I woke up this morning the Sinus Demon was back. So I went to church and asked my minister about it. I expected that she would have some kind of exhorcism to perform. But she just said, "Did you try blowing your nose, really, really hard?"
Anyway, I'm mowing my huge back yard when...
Let me interrupt myself with a point here. When I first saw this house and learned that I could pseudo afford it, I thought that the huge yard was such a plus. I actually felt like I was getting away with a steal. Now I'm not so sure. The yard is steep, about 20% grade, and just plain huge. It's about half an acre of grass that I have to mow. And while half the time I am mowing downhill, the other half I am mowing up hill. It's absolute hell. I used to like mowing the yard. Now I believe that the couple that owned this house did not get a divorce like they said. No, they just made up the divorce story to have an answer when people like me ask, "So why are you moving from such a nice home?" They can say, "We got a divorce," instead of, "We hate the huge hill-yard. We can never agree on whose turn it is to mow," because who would want to buy a house that is such a physical burden. Actually, they may have really gotten a divorce, but it was the yard that caused it.
They also made up the divorce lie because of what I found this weekend as I mowed.
Anyway, I'm mowing my huge back yard when I mow over a hole. Not a pit in the ground, a hole. I could not see the bottom. It was a pretty big hole, too, about 8 inches wide. I made a mental note of where it was and told myself I needed to fill it in. About fifteen minutes later I mowed over another hole, then another. I started to worry. It could be nothing, but then it could be...
I ran over a couple of ant hills and the holes left my mind for a moment. About another fifteen minutes passed and I ran over two more holes. Then I came upon the proof: a pile of about fourteen or fifteen marble sized poo pellets. You are probably thinking, 'holes in the yard, poo pellets... it can only be rabbits." Well you're wrong! I have Demons, there's no other explanation. If it was just one hole I might agree with you, but I had five. Five holes, and when I marked them all my suspicions were confirmed; they were laid out in a pentagram pattern.
Five holes in a star formation and demon scat. It all makes sense now. I don't have allergies or a virus. I have a demon. I went upstair, into the attic, where my wife's old secret books and artifacts are kept, and I read up on Sinus Demons. There were some special incantations, a few herbal remedies, even a dance that is supposed to be performed naked, in the moonlight, with at least 7 homely women. The book actually said they were supposed to be homely. But the last bit of advice seemed the best. Suggestion 8 for getting rid of Sinus Demons: Blow Your Nose.
Now, I am not a blower. Typically I am a sniffer and a wiper. I don't like to blow much. But how could I refute such wisdom. So I went into the bathroom, got a kleenex and blew. Nothing. So I took a deep, deeeeeeeep breath, and I blew the the hardest blow I could blow. And when I was done, sure as could be, there was a giant yellow demon in my hands.
He was drippy.
"Well?" he said.
"Well, what?" I said.
"Well, why did you wake me?"
"I didn't mean to wake you," I said, "I just wanted you out of my nose."
"Why? That's my home."
"Well it's my nose. And I want you out."
"Well I'm out now, ain't I!"
"Will you stay out?" I asked.
"Maybe," he said. "Anybody else live here that has a nose?"
"We all have noses," I said.
"Good," he said, "Just take me to one of them."
"I'm not taking you to my family."
"Well then, I'll just hop right back into you."
"No you wont," I said.
"Do you know the magic words?"
"What magic words?"
"If you don't know the words," he said, "Then you can't tell me what I can and can't do."
At that point I dropped the paper towel in the toilet and flushed it. I thought I was so clever. But when I woke up this morning the Sinus Demon was back. So I went to church and asked my minister about it. I expected that she would have some kind of exhorcism to perform. But she just said, "Did you try blowing your nose, really, really hard?"
Saturday, August 26, 2006
What do you know/ Letter 3/ disclaimer
Well, what do you know? I decided to try uploading the pic from home and it worked. I'd go back and erase that whole part about not posting the pic until Monday, but I think I'll just leave well-enough alone.
Letter 3:
I had a dream last night that I worked for you. Only, in my dream I was made of blue Play-Doh. And every time I would try and get some work done someone would walk by me and say, "Hey, Mike! How's it going!" and they'd smash my blue, Play-Doh head in. And everybody in the room would laugh, and I would chuckle and pretend it was funny. Then when the laughter had died down I'd get up and feel my half-blind way to the bathroom so I could re-sculpt my head in the mirror.
After a while, as I'm sure you can imagine, this started to get old. Everyone was coming up with new ways to squish me. they'd bend my arm backwards, or turn my head all the way around while making a breaking sound, as if they were Steven Segal. They'd punch me in the chest and see whose fist could go the deepest. Then somebody got scissors and much fun was had pushing in my back and watching my hair grow, then cutting my hair so close that I actually lost most of my scalp. Then, of course, came all of the "eye gouges," stabbing me me in the heart, then in the head, tearing my heart out, and ripping my head off, and, of course, kicking me in the Play-Doh balls, which, in case you want to know, did hurt!
Then someone got the clever idea to squish my hands. At first this was even funny to me because I couldn't fix it. I kept asking mpeople to sculpt new hands for me, but everyone would say, "Awe man, I don't know how." Finally I found a lady in the art department that I thought would be my savior. She promised to sculpt new hands if I would let her play with my hair. Reluctantly I obliged and before I knew it she was sculpting my face.
At first she made me look like Jessica Simpson. It was funny, and a bit disturbing, how many guys said things like, "Man, he's hot." Then I looked like Peter from The Family Guy, then Meg, then Stewie, and pretty much the whole family. Then she made me look like Ted Turner and everyone gasped. Instantly four people shouted, "Mike Lazzo." I think it's best if I don't say what you depraved lot did to me after that.
At that point everyone wanted in on the action. People were tearing chunks off of me to sculpt as they saw fit. There were tiny little pieces of me all over the place, all looking like some famous actor or cartoon. And the whole building was alive with laughter and chatter, when someone yelled, "Lazzo's coming!"
A hail of blue bits of me went flying into my chair. Loosely they clumped together in a mound. Most of the staff scattered to their offices, but a couple stayed behind and tried to quickly mold me into something resembling a person. They were not successful in time.
Mike Lazzo came walking through the door. "Hey," he said, "I'm here to greet the new guy."
I heard his feet shuffle over to me. "This is him?"
"Yeah," one of the ladies who had been sculpting me said, as if it was obvious.
"Right," he said. "So, how was your first day so far?"
I was silent.
"It's 'Michael' right?" he said. "How was your first day, Michael?"
I was silent.
"Is this a joke?" he asked the lady.
"No," she said.
"This isn't a guy. This is a lump of Play-Doh."
"It's him."
"If it's him then why isn't he answering me?"
The lady looked down at me and then made a realization. Quickly she bent over and dug a hole out between my lips and used the left over clay to make a tongue. I tried to smile around her hands as she took a bit too much time putting in a row of teeth.
I smacked my lips and swallowed, trying to get rid of the taste of fingers in my mouth. As an after thought she made me a couple of really pathetic eyes. Then I looked up at the lady and Mike Lazzo. He sighed. "How was your first day?"
"Ok, I guess," I said with a smile.
"Just ok?" he smiled. "That's better than bad, I suppose. Why don't you show me what you've done today."
"Well, sir," I said as my arm dropped to the floor, "Actually, I haven't been able to get much work done."
"How much is 'not much?'"
"Um," I paused. "Any."
"You haven't done anything?" he asked, sounding increasingly frustrated. "I don't pay my employees to do nothing. I want results. I took a chance on you because... well, because you're made of Play-Doh, but this is not a fun Play-Doh... fun factory. It's a cartoon studio. And we have serious business to do." He paused for a moment and looked at the pieces of me on the floor. "What a mess. I knew I should have hired the guy made of Nitrous Oxide."
"Excuse me one second, sir," I said, defending myself a bit too aggressively. "I am ten times the man that Nitrous Oxide guy is. He has no substance. Sure, he'll make you laugh a little bit at first, but then he'll put you to sleep. I am a great writer and I would have gotten all kinds of work done, if it hadn't been for everyone tearing me apart and making me look like President Clinton or Princess Leia or Big Bird. Every ten seconds I had to go to the bathroom and resculpt myhead."
"Really?" he asked, seeming concerned.
"Yes!"
"Was it the Star Wars Princess Leia, or the Return of the Jedi Princess Leia?"
"I'm not kidding!" I said, growing angrier. "I wanted to work, but they wouldn't let me."
"Alright, Michael, alright," he said. "I believe you. These guys can get out of control. But don't get all bent out of shape about it."
signed
August 14, 2006
Ps. I wasn't sure of what the best cheesy ending would be here. I had two alternate punch lines.
-These guys can get out of control. But you need to pull yourself together.
-These guys can get out of control. But don't fall to pieces on me.
~~~~
dislcaimer:
I would like to state for the record that I in no way believe that Mike Lazzo, or Cartoon Network, or any of the affiliates of Time/Warner, would discriminate, or say potentially discriminatory things against people of Play-Doh. Nor do I believe he/they would base his/their decision to hire a person solely on whether they were or were not made of Play-Doh and/or Nitrous Oxide.
Letter 3:
I had a dream last night that I worked for you. Only, in my dream I was made of blue Play-Doh. And every time I would try and get some work done someone would walk by me and say, "Hey, Mike! How's it going!" and they'd smash my blue, Play-Doh head in. And everybody in the room would laugh, and I would chuckle and pretend it was funny. Then when the laughter had died down I'd get up and feel my half-blind way to the bathroom so I could re-sculpt my head in the mirror.
After a while, as I'm sure you can imagine, this started to get old. Everyone was coming up with new ways to squish me. they'd bend my arm backwards, or turn my head all the way around while making a breaking sound, as if they were Steven Segal. They'd punch me in the chest and see whose fist could go the deepest. Then somebody got scissors and much fun was had pushing in my back and watching my hair grow, then cutting my hair so close that I actually lost most of my scalp. Then, of course, came all of the "eye gouges," stabbing me me in the heart, then in the head, tearing my heart out, and ripping my head off, and, of course, kicking me in the Play-Doh balls, which, in case you want to know, did hurt!
Then someone got the clever idea to squish my hands. At first this was even funny to me because I couldn't fix it. I kept asking mpeople to sculpt new hands for me, but everyone would say, "Awe man, I don't know how." Finally I found a lady in the art department that I thought would be my savior. She promised to sculpt new hands if I would let her play with my hair. Reluctantly I obliged and before I knew it she was sculpting my face.
At first she made me look like Jessica Simpson. It was funny, and a bit disturbing, how many guys said things like, "Man, he's hot." Then I looked like Peter from The Family Guy, then Meg, then Stewie, and pretty much the whole family. Then she made me look like Ted Turner and everyone gasped. Instantly four people shouted, "Mike Lazzo." I think it's best if I don't say what you depraved lot did to me after that.
At that point everyone wanted in on the action. People were tearing chunks off of me to sculpt as they saw fit. There were tiny little pieces of me all over the place, all looking like some famous actor or cartoon. And the whole building was alive with laughter and chatter, when someone yelled, "Lazzo's coming!"
A hail of blue bits of me went flying into my chair. Loosely they clumped together in a mound. Most of the staff scattered to their offices, but a couple stayed behind and tried to quickly mold me into something resembling a person. They were not successful in time.
Mike Lazzo came walking through the door. "Hey," he said, "I'm here to greet the new guy."
I heard his feet shuffle over to me. "This is him?"
"Yeah," one of the ladies who had been sculpting me said, as if it was obvious.
"Right," he said. "So, how was your first day so far?"
I was silent.
"It's 'Michael' right?" he said. "How was your first day, Michael?"
I was silent.
"Is this a joke?" he asked the lady.
"No," she said.
"This isn't a guy. This is a lump of Play-Doh."
"It's him."
"If it's him then why isn't he answering me?"
The lady looked down at me and then made a realization. Quickly she bent over and dug a hole out between my lips and used the left over clay to make a tongue. I tried to smile around her hands as she took a bit too much time putting in a row of teeth.
I smacked my lips and swallowed, trying to get rid of the taste of fingers in my mouth. As an after thought she made me a couple of really pathetic eyes. Then I looked up at the lady and Mike Lazzo. He sighed. "How was your first day?"
"Ok, I guess," I said with a smile.
"Just ok?" he smiled. "That's better than bad, I suppose. Why don't you show me what you've done today."
"Well, sir," I said as my arm dropped to the floor, "Actually, I haven't been able to get much work done."
"How much is 'not much?'"
"Um," I paused. "Any."
"You haven't done anything?" he asked, sounding increasingly frustrated. "I don't pay my employees to do nothing. I want results. I took a chance on you because... well, because you're made of Play-Doh, but this is not a fun Play-Doh... fun factory. It's a cartoon studio. And we have serious business to do." He paused for a moment and looked at the pieces of me on the floor. "What a mess. I knew I should have hired the guy made of Nitrous Oxide."
"Excuse me one second, sir," I said, defending myself a bit too aggressively. "I am ten times the man that Nitrous Oxide guy is. He has no substance. Sure, he'll make you laugh a little bit at first, but then he'll put you to sleep. I am a great writer and I would have gotten all kinds of work done, if it hadn't been for everyone tearing me apart and making me look like President Clinton or Princess Leia or Big Bird. Every ten seconds I had to go to the bathroom and resculpt myhead."
"Really?" he asked, seeming concerned.
"Yes!"
"Was it the Star Wars Princess Leia, or the Return of the Jedi Princess Leia?"
"I'm not kidding!" I said, growing angrier. "I wanted to work, but they wouldn't let me."
"Alright, Michael, alright," he said. "I believe you. These guys can get out of control. But don't get all bent out of shape about it."
signed
August 14, 2006
Ps. I wasn't sure of what the best cheesy ending would be here. I had two alternate punch lines.
-These guys can get out of control. But you need to pull yourself together.
-These guys can get out of control. But don't fall to pieces on me.
~~~~
dislcaimer:
I would like to state for the record that I in no way believe that Mike Lazzo, or Cartoon Network, or any of the affiliates of Time/Warner, would discriminate, or say potentially discriminatory things against people of Play-Doh. Nor do I believe he/they would base his/their decision to hire a person solely on whether they were or were not made of Play-Doh and/or Nitrous Oxide.
Letter 3 Pic
I will add Letter 3's pic to this spot on Monday. I have already scanned it, of course, but my computer doesn't seem to want to post pics to this site anymore, and since I was sick from work today, and yesterday, well...
Anyway, this illness this has set me behind. I have letter 4 ready to go, but I need to scan the pic into the computer before I send it, so it will have to wait until Monday also. That bothers me. The good news, however, is that I already have letter 5 written and the pic drawn also. So, I may be able to actually get ahead next week. That is, if I'm not spending all my time on the toilet.
Friday, August 25, 2006
the rotavirus
The rotavirus, not to be confused with the rhododendron virus, which does not exist, but is far more lethal, is a gastrointestinal virus that is fairly contagious and causes diarrhea and vomiting.
So, Monday, a week ago, my poor 3 year old son develops a cough. We take him to the doctor and he is declared asthmatic. This particular occurance could have been caused by virus or allergen. Then Sunday, as I have documented, I mowed the yard without respiratory protection and had a horrible allergy attack. It only made sense then that he and I were both allergic to something that was pollenating.
Then my allergies turned into a cough and my daughter also developed a cough. Well, I have spent the last two days out of work because of this illness and because my whole family seems to be coming down with it. Now my wife is showing signs of it, and before long her boyfriend, and his whoever and et cetera, and thus are viruses propagated.
But today, as my son and I were staying home ill, this respiratory virus did something awful. It invited his friend in. I'm sitting on the couch, watching Teen Titans for the umpteenth time, feeling like I could sleep for days, when my son says, "Daddy, I want to lay down." This may sound innocuous to you, but 1. my son is a very active child, 2. he is well over his cough (I was only keeping him home because I was staying, and frankly it was easier than taking him to day care), and 3. he was already laying down.
"Ok," I said, "Lay down on the pillow."
"Ok," he said, and did. He really is the sweetest little boy in the world.
Seconds later he said. "Daddy, I want to lay down."
Finally I started to get wise and I asked, "Are you ok?" to which he invariably responds, "Yeah," but this time he said, "No." I sat him up just in time for him to launch two cups of Kool Aid and several chewed up Cheez Its all over himself, the couch, and the floor.
Seconds later he reached all the way back to breakfast and coughed up coagulated strawberry milk. This must have been hard to cough up, it was like cream cheese. And, Oh Dear Lord, the smell. I can still smell it.
Anyway, we are people of science right? We know how to disinfect shit, right? Well, I played the duteous parent. I cleaned up the horror, changed my son's clothes, tossed the towels in the wash, Lysoled the couch and floor and my feet and everything that might have been remotely associated with splatter, washed my hands, and then I sat down. Then I looked over at my son and saw that he was very downtrodden. So I went over and I snuggled him and sat next to him and watched Teen Titans, (*sigh*) again, and basically stuck my face right in his.
You see, if illness just happened to adults there would be no illness. The first person to get sick would summarily be placed in a quarantine where nurses, appropriately attired, could tend to him and doctors could exact nature's cure. In this way, no one would ever be exposed to the ill patient, and the disease would never spread. But illness happens to these cute little kids. And although I know he is a volcano of disease, out both ends I might add, I look at his cute face and I can't let him sit there by himself. He is so sad. And even though I know vomit is coming and it will likely spash in my face, and get under my nails, and I will aspirate it, et cetera, I can't help but cuddle him.
Anybody want to lay odds on how long it will take before I'm spending quality time with the trash can on the throne?
Don't even get me started on the poop-soup I had to clean.
So, Monday, a week ago, my poor 3 year old son develops a cough. We take him to the doctor and he is declared asthmatic. This particular occurance could have been caused by virus or allergen. Then Sunday, as I have documented, I mowed the yard without respiratory protection and had a horrible allergy attack. It only made sense then that he and I were both allergic to something that was pollenating.
Then my allergies turned into a cough and my daughter also developed a cough. Well, I have spent the last two days out of work because of this illness and because my whole family seems to be coming down with it. Now my wife is showing signs of it, and before long her boyfriend, and his whoever and et cetera, and thus are viruses propagated.
But today, as my son and I were staying home ill, this respiratory virus did something awful. It invited his friend in. I'm sitting on the couch, watching Teen Titans for the umpteenth time, feeling like I could sleep for days, when my son says, "Daddy, I want to lay down." This may sound innocuous to you, but 1. my son is a very active child, 2. he is well over his cough (I was only keeping him home because I was staying, and frankly it was easier than taking him to day care), and 3. he was already laying down.
"Ok," I said, "Lay down on the pillow."
"Ok," he said, and did. He really is the sweetest little boy in the world.
Seconds later he said. "Daddy, I want to lay down."
Finally I started to get wise and I asked, "Are you ok?" to which he invariably responds, "Yeah," but this time he said, "No." I sat him up just in time for him to launch two cups of Kool Aid and several chewed up Cheez Its all over himself, the couch, and the floor.
Seconds later he reached all the way back to breakfast and coughed up coagulated strawberry milk. This must have been hard to cough up, it was like cream cheese. And, Oh Dear Lord, the smell. I can still smell it.
Anyway, we are people of science right? We know how to disinfect shit, right? Well, I played the duteous parent. I cleaned up the horror, changed my son's clothes, tossed the towels in the wash, Lysoled the couch and floor and my feet and everything that might have been remotely associated with splatter, washed my hands, and then I sat down. Then I looked over at my son and saw that he was very downtrodden. So I went over and I snuggled him and sat next to him and watched Teen Titans, (*sigh*) again, and basically stuck my face right in his.
You see, if illness just happened to adults there would be no illness. The first person to get sick would summarily be placed in a quarantine where nurses, appropriately attired, could tend to him and doctors could exact nature's cure. In this way, no one would ever be exposed to the ill patient, and the disease would never spread. But illness happens to these cute little kids. And although I know he is a volcano of disease, out both ends I might add, I look at his cute face and I can't let him sit there by himself. He is so sad. And even though I know vomit is coming and it will likely spash in my face, and get under my nails, and I will aspirate it, et cetera, I can't help but cuddle him.
Anybody want to lay odds on how long it will take before I'm spending quality time with the trash can on the throne?
Don't even get me started on the poop-soup I had to clean.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Rain Will Make The Flowers Grow
It wasn't all that ominous. A lady called to ask me a question she admittedly knew the answer to, and that I did not know the answer to. Then, as she was hanging up the phone, she said, "Is it raining down there yet?"
"No," I said, "But it looks dark."
"Ok," she said. "We just had a really hard rain pass over us. It should be headed your way."
I looked down at the clock. It was 4:45. I looked out the window and saw a tiny ray of sunlight. Then that anemic ray of hope vanished and it began to rain.
15 minutes later work was over; it was 5:00pm. Yay. In retrospect I should have found other work to do and just stayed busy. But I wasn't feeling good, on account of my allergy flare up, so I really wanted to get home to rest.
I exited my building and saw that this was not an ordinary rain. A typical rain will fall straight down and make everything wet, et cetera. A really hard rain will do the same, but harder. And sometimes the wind will pick up and blow the rain so that it falls at an angle. If you are clever you can always hold your umbrella just right to protect yourself and stay relatively dry.
This rain was messy. You know the kind. The rain drops were not terribly large, but there were billions and billions of them; like the wet mist at a self service car wash, the air was saturated with them. And they didn't seem to fall in a uniform direction. They came from everywhere.
"Well," I thought to myself, "At least it will wash the pollen away." Then I reached into my bag and pulled out my umbrella. This umbrella was given to me by my father because he had never had a chance to use it, and because it folded up pretty small and fit in my briefcase. When I opened it up I knew I was doomed.
In college I had a good umbrella. I used it to walk to classes in the rain. I'd walk miles in the rain some days, and usually only my feet got wet. This was the Hercules of umbrellas. It was blue and white, it's canopy was four feet in diameter, and it's metal rods were thick. This was an umbrella a person could feel safe under. It was stolen.
The umbrella my father gave me had about a two foot spread. I think the metal rods were made of tin foil. If the other umbrella was Hercules then this umbrella was just some guy; some skinny armed, flat chested, run away when the dragons come, by-stander victem. And it turned inside out with the first gust of wind.
After walking ten feet with this wimpy parasol I was soaked from my belly button down. But I can hardly blame the umbrella for all of it. It was a pretty hard rain.
I stuck to the sidewalk as best I could, but I had to cross a few intersections. The roads were so washed out you couldn't see the street at the bottom of the water. One lady stepped out onto the street, faithfully assuming she would touch the bottom, and I never saw her again.
A pirate ship sailed up Andrew Young International. It was crewed by bankers mostly. They were singing Yo Ho Blow the Man Down. I laughed to myself when they got caught in an eddy and were stuck up against the Peachtree Plaza. But my laughter was short lived. Some guy in an Excursion drove up and pulled them free. The pirate-bankers thanked him then repossesed his truck. I let him share my umbrella as we waited for the bus.
By the time the bus arrived I was drenched from my neck down. My hair was only damp. And oh was I cold.
Just about every seat was taken on the bus, so I had to walk to the back. Before I sat down the man in the seat next to mine said, "You may not want to sit there. There is a leak."
I made a gesture that said, 'Look at me. I'm already soaked,' and we both laughed. Then, about a mile down the road, the bus had to stop suddenly and a full quart of dirty water poured out onto my head. Where had the bus been storing this water? No one knows. The guy next to me said, "No way." But I knew better. It had indeed happened. I could still feel the cold dirty water making it's way down my back and into my shorts. And by shorts I mean underwear.
On my way home I started to sniffle again. Where does an allergy attack end and a cold begin? On the Gwinnett Transit, that's where. And I comforted my cinical self with the knowledge that the rain would make the flowers grow. And those flowers would f*** me up with more pollen next week.
"No," I said, "But it looks dark."
"Ok," she said. "We just had a really hard rain pass over us. It should be headed your way."
I looked down at the clock. It was 4:45. I looked out the window and saw a tiny ray of sunlight. Then that anemic ray of hope vanished and it began to rain.
15 minutes later work was over; it was 5:00pm. Yay. In retrospect I should have found other work to do and just stayed busy. But I wasn't feeling good, on account of my allergy flare up, so I really wanted to get home to rest.
I exited my building and saw that this was not an ordinary rain. A typical rain will fall straight down and make everything wet, et cetera. A really hard rain will do the same, but harder. And sometimes the wind will pick up and blow the rain so that it falls at an angle. If you are clever you can always hold your umbrella just right to protect yourself and stay relatively dry.
This rain was messy. You know the kind. The rain drops were not terribly large, but there were billions and billions of them; like the wet mist at a self service car wash, the air was saturated with them. And they didn't seem to fall in a uniform direction. They came from everywhere.
"Well," I thought to myself, "At least it will wash the pollen away." Then I reached into my bag and pulled out my umbrella. This umbrella was given to me by my father because he had never had a chance to use it, and because it folded up pretty small and fit in my briefcase. When I opened it up I knew I was doomed.
In college I had a good umbrella. I used it to walk to classes in the rain. I'd walk miles in the rain some days, and usually only my feet got wet. This was the Hercules of umbrellas. It was blue and white, it's canopy was four feet in diameter, and it's metal rods were thick. This was an umbrella a person could feel safe under. It was stolen.
The umbrella my father gave me had about a two foot spread. I think the metal rods were made of tin foil. If the other umbrella was Hercules then this umbrella was just some guy; some skinny armed, flat chested, run away when the dragons come, by-stander victem. And it turned inside out with the first gust of wind.
After walking ten feet with this wimpy parasol I was soaked from my belly button down. But I can hardly blame the umbrella for all of it. It was a pretty hard rain.
I stuck to the sidewalk as best I could, but I had to cross a few intersections. The roads were so washed out you couldn't see the street at the bottom of the water. One lady stepped out onto the street, faithfully assuming she would touch the bottom, and I never saw her again.
A pirate ship sailed up Andrew Young International. It was crewed by bankers mostly. They were singing Yo Ho Blow the Man Down. I laughed to myself when they got caught in an eddy and were stuck up against the Peachtree Plaza. But my laughter was short lived. Some guy in an Excursion drove up and pulled them free. The pirate-bankers thanked him then repossesed his truck. I let him share my umbrella as we waited for the bus.
By the time the bus arrived I was drenched from my neck down. My hair was only damp. And oh was I cold.
Just about every seat was taken on the bus, so I had to walk to the back. Before I sat down the man in the seat next to mine said, "You may not want to sit there. There is a leak."
I made a gesture that said, 'Look at me. I'm already soaked,' and we both laughed. Then, about a mile down the road, the bus had to stop suddenly and a full quart of dirty water poured out onto my head. Where had the bus been storing this water? No one knows. The guy next to me said, "No way." But I knew better. It had indeed happened. I could still feel the cold dirty water making it's way down my back and into my shorts. And by shorts I mean underwear.
On my way home I started to sniffle again. Where does an allergy attack end and a cold begin? On the Gwinnett Transit, that's where. And I comforted my cinical self with the knowledge that the rain would make the flowers grow. And those flowers would f*** me up with more pollen next week.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Honey-Lemon
Ok, so I have really bad allergies. If it grows in dirt I am allergic to it. Grass especially. So whenever I mow the yard I take care of my lungs by wearing a mask, right?
Well, no, because you see the mask has been bothering me lately because it gets really hot under there and it makes it hard to breathe and I keep having to stop and rest and catch my breath. But I can't just stop anywhere because there is cut grass at my feet, and now floating in the air. So I have to walk ten or fifteen feet away, remove the mask and catch my breath.
So I said forget it, and I mowed the yard without my mask.
Now I suffer. I have nasal drip deluxe and my throat is killing me. My lungs feel like I inhaled pure cotton.
I took a Claratin..... nothing.
I took a Sudafed..... nothing.
So then I got a package of Honey-Lemon flavored Halls. Now these aren't flavored to taste like Honey, or Lemon. They can't be. That would mean that every flavor creator and tester in the Halls Corporation is a big, fat, freeloading moron with no sense of taste. No, I figured it out. They are not supposed to be Honey-Lemon flavored. In fact, I think they just shortened the name. It used to be called "Honey-you-are-stupid-if-you-think-this-tastes-like-Lemon." Only the people in Packaging said it was too long and needed to be reduced to fit on the wrapper. Then the people in the Flavor Department said, "Ok, we'll go back to the original name: Shit and Gravel." But the people in Marketing said, "No. How about Honey-Lemon?" And the people in the Flavor Department said, "Where did you get that idea. It tastes nothing like Honey or Lemon. How about Paper and Bird Flu?" And the people in Marketing said, "Honey and Lemon it is."
So now I have to suffer eating Rock-Paper-Scissors flavored Halls because I was too dim to question whether a flavor as subtle as Honey can even be tasted through Menthol and Eucalyptis. The answer is NO! Nothing can be tasted through those. Either suck it up and eat your menthol candy or suck it up and let the rivers of snot flow freely.
None of this would be necessary if I were made of wood. I wish I were made of wood instead of weak flesh. I want to be Tree Beard from Lord of the Rings. I could walk around the wood and not worry about ticks. And my friends could climb up on me and I could carry them to a movie, or to dinner, or to anywhere really. And I could throw rocks really far. And I wouldn't have allergies.
Only with my luck I would still have allergies. I'd be allergic to plants, just like I am now, except I'd be a plant and I'd be allergic to myself. And I'd sneeze and get all snotty. I'd be the worlds first snot tree.
Still drop dead beautiful, but snotty and gross at the same time.
Well, no, because you see the mask has been bothering me lately because it gets really hot under there and it makes it hard to breathe and I keep having to stop and rest and catch my breath. But I can't just stop anywhere because there is cut grass at my feet, and now floating in the air. So I have to walk ten or fifteen feet away, remove the mask and catch my breath.
So I said forget it, and I mowed the yard without my mask.
Now I suffer. I have nasal drip deluxe and my throat is killing me. My lungs feel like I inhaled pure cotton.
I took a Claratin..... nothing.
I took a Sudafed..... nothing.
So then I got a package of Honey-Lemon flavored Halls. Now these aren't flavored to taste like Honey, or Lemon. They can't be. That would mean that every flavor creator and tester in the Halls Corporation is a big, fat, freeloading moron with no sense of taste. No, I figured it out. They are not supposed to be Honey-Lemon flavored. In fact, I think they just shortened the name. It used to be called "Honey-you-are-stupid-if-you-think-this-tastes-like-Lemon." Only the people in Packaging said it was too long and needed to be reduced to fit on the wrapper. Then the people in the Flavor Department said, "Ok, we'll go back to the original name: Shit and Gravel." But the people in Marketing said, "No. How about Honey-Lemon?" And the people in the Flavor Department said, "Where did you get that idea. It tastes nothing like Honey or Lemon. How about Paper and Bird Flu?" And the people in Marketing said, "Honey and Lemon it is."
So now I have to suffer eating Rock-Paper-Scissors flavored Halls because I was too dim to question whether a flavor as subtle as Honey can even be tasted through Menthol and Eucalyptis. The answer is NO! Nothing can be tasted through those. Either suck it up and eat your menthol candy or suck it up and let the rivers of snot flow freely.
None of this would be necessary if I were made of wood. I wish I were made of wood instead of weak flesh. I want to be Tree Beard from Lord of the Rings. I could walk around the wood and not worry about ticks. And my friends could climb up on me and I could carry them to a movie, or to dinner, or to anywhere really. And I could throw rocks really far. And I wouldn't have allergies.
Only with my luck I would still have allergies. I'd be allergic to plants, just like I am now, except I'd be a plant and I'd be allergic to myself. And I'd sneeze and get all snotty. I'd be the worlds first snot tree.
Still drop dead beautiful, but snotty and gross at the same time.
Monday, August 21, 2006
savings
So I've never really done much saving. I'll be honest and tell you exactly how much I have in my savings account. It's a little bit more than zero dollars. Well, actually, it's exactly zero dollars. But I've decided to take the plunge and begin investing towards my future. I have looked at my budget considering all of the following: the probability of increasing gas prices, the rise of interest rates, the likelihood of the federal government repealing child labor laws so my children can earn their keep, the likelihood of Martians attacking, and the marketability of my Snow in a Box invention; and I have decided that I can afford to put away approximately $0.20 a day. The good news is I should have a three month salary cushion built up in just 40 days. By 40 days I really mean 40,000 days. I should have a three month cushion built up by the year 2115.
Naturally this is not considering interest. With interest I will be able to shave a good 50 to 55 years off of that. I won't even be 90 yet. Already I feel like a financial guru.
I wonder if you can start a 401K with twenty cents. I'm totally psyched.
Naturally this is not considering interest. With interest I will be able to shave a good 50 to 55 years off of that. I won't even be 90 yet. Already I feel like a financial guru.
I wonder if you can start a 401K with twenty cents. I'm totally psyched.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Letter 2
My wife made hotdogs for dinner the other night. Don't laugh, I have small kids. Anyway, we were eating while watching TV and everyone's eyes were fixed on the show. But I had seen it a million times so I was able to break my alpha-state trance and look around the room. When I did what I saw shocked me to the core.
My dear wife, who didn't realize I was watching, had decided she was going to try and stuff her hotdog in her mouth, bun and all. The shocking part was that she was successful. I immediately stood up and shouted, "I knew it!"
~
Speaking of hotdogs, I picked the perfect booger today. It was big, but it didn't stick to my finger. I was so amazed at its perfection that I almost forgot I was in a public place. Luckily nose picking is par for the course at the Varsity, so no one noticed. If they did they probably would have just assumed I was an employee.
Anyway, as soon as I remembered that I was surrounded by people I flicked the booger away. I was shocked at how far it went, and immediately I knew it was headed for trouble.
This big jock-giant, who incidentally had been being a jerk to his girlfriend, and to the cashiers, and to the other customers, had his mouth wide open to stuff a fist full of French fries in it when my projectile landed on his tongue. His mouth instantly closed, his nose crinkled, and his eyes squinted. He definitely knew what he had in his mouth. "Who did that?" he hollered.
I quickly turned and faced the other way. "Who did what?" his girlfriend asked, irritated.
"Who flicked a booger in my mouth!" he yelled.
"What?" she asked again.
"A booger, dammit! A booger.... in my mouth. Something just landed in my mouth that tasted exactly like a booger."
The jock-giant stood up. I was looking the other way, trying to stuff my hotdog in my mouth as fast as I could. Even still, I could tell by the sound of the chair and table sliding across the floor, and of the building's foundation creaking, that this guy was huge. "You!" his voice boomed, and a chill ran down my spine. I almost gagged on my hotdog.
His footsteps approached my seat and he slapped his hand down next to me. It easily covered a quarter of the table. "You," he said quietly, but quite angrily.
"What?" I said in a poor attempt to sound innocent and confused.
"You flicked a booger in my mouth."
"Oh, I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, I think you did," he said as he pulsed with an inhuman amount of muscles.
"Well, what did it taste like?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"It tasted like a damn booger."
"You mean salty, kinda slimey?" I said. I was surprised at how cool I was taking this.
"Yeah, exactly," he said.
"No," I said. "It couldn't have been mine. My boogers are sweet, never bitter."
The giant paused at this. He seemed to have hit a road block. "Prove it," he finally said.
"Ask anyone," I stammered. To my surprise most of the patrons, who had gathered around to witness my demise, nodded in ascent.
"Let me taste one," he said mightily. "I want to see for myself."
So with everyone watching, I closed my eyes and plunged my finger deep into my nostril. Unfortunately its caverns were pretty much barren. All I managed to find was a tiny spec of something yellowish. I held it up on my finger and the restaurant audibly winced.
The giant jock looked at me. Then he looked at the booger. Then his eyes scanned over the crowd, looking for someone to scream at; someone to pummel and be his escape. But everyone looked on with innocent, silver-dollar eyes. His fate was set.
I don't know how I expected the mucous transfer to go down, but I did not anticipate that the dude would just wrap his slippery, nasty lips around my finger and suck the goober right off. Slowly he pulled away from my finger, leaving it drippy with slobber, then he savored the morsel. I quickly wiped my finger on my shirt.
The giant was disconcerted. He was frustrated. "Well?" someone in the crowd hollered, but the jock didn't turn fast enough to see who it was. "It was too small an amount to tell!" he barked at the crowd.
"Oh God. Can we just go?" his girlfriend pleaded.
"Pick another one!" he yelled at me.
Again I put my finger in my nostril. This time I used a different finger, and the other nostril. And by chance I hit upon something solid. It took some work, but I was able to loose it free. When I pulled my finger out of my nose another glorious, huge booger came forth; complete with nose hair.
"Ugh," the crowd moaned, and a little girl ran to the bathroom. But the goliath wasted no time. He wrapped his mouth around my finger and pulled the booger free like it was a candied cherry.
A lady fainted.
"It's salty!" he roared.
At that point I go the ever-lovin'-crap kicked out of me. But I really think it was worth it.
signed
August 7, 2006
Ps. When possible, I recommend not flicking your boogers into the mouths of giant, athletic jock types. But it's better than eating them yourself. Ultimately it's a choice only you can make.
My dear wife, who didn't realize I was watching, had decided she was going to try and stuff her hotdog in her mouth, bun and all. The shocking part was that she was successful. I immediately stood up and shouted, "I knew it!"
~
Speaking of hotdogs, I picked the perfect booger today. It was big, but it didn't stick to my finger. I was so amazed at its perfection that I almost forgot I was in a public place. Luckily nose picking is par for the course at the Varsity, so no one noticed. If they did they probably would have just assumed I was an employee.
Anyway, as soon as I remembered that I was surrounded by people I flicked the booger away. I was shocked at how far it went, and immediately I knew it was headed for trouble.
This big jock-giant, who incidentally had been being a jerk to his girlfriend, and to the cashiers, and to the other customers, had his mouth wide open to stuff a fist full of French fries in it when my projectile landed on his tongue. His mouth instantly closed, his nose crinkled, and his eyes squinted. He definitely knew what he had in his mouth. "Who did that?" he hollered.
I quickly turned and faced the other way. "Who did what?" his girlfriend asked, irritated.
"Who flicked a booger in my mouth!" he yelled.
"What?" she asked again.
"A booger, dammit! A booger.... in my mouth. Something just landed in my mouth that tasted exactly like a booger."
The jock-giant stood up. I was looking the other way, trying to stuff my hotdog in my mouth as fast as I could. Even still, I could tell by the sound of the chair and table sliding across the floor, and of the building's foundation creaking, that this guy was huge. "You!" his voice boomed, and a chill ran down my spine. I almost gagged on my hotdog.
His footsteps approached my seat and he slapped his hand down next to me. It easily covered a quarter of the table. "You," he said quietly, but quite angrily.
"What?" I said in a poor attempt to sound innocent and confused.
"You flicked a booger in my mouth."
"Oh, I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, I think you did," he said as he pulsed with an inhuman amount of muscles.
"Well, what did it taste like?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"It tasted like a damn booger."
"You mean salty, kinda slimey?" I said. I was surprised at how cool I was taking this.
"Yeah, exactly," he said.
"No," I said. "It couldn't have been mine. My boogers are sweet, never bitter."
The giant paused at this. He seemed to have hit a road block. "Prove it," he finally said.
"Ask anyone," I stammered. To my surprise most of the patrons, who had gathered around to witness my demise, nodded in ascent.
"Let me taste one," he said mightily. "I want to see for myself."
So with everyone watching, I closed my eyes and plunged my finger deep into my nostril. Unfortunately its caverns were pretty much barren. All I managed to find was a tiny spec of something yellowish. I held it up on my finger and the restaurant audibly winced.
The giant jock looked at me. Then he looked at the booger. Then his eyes scanned over the crowd, looking for someone to scream at; someone to pummel and be his escape. But everyone looked on with innocent, silver-dollar eyes. His fate was set.
I don't know how I expected the mucous transfer to go down, but I did not anticipate that the dude would just wrap his slippery, nasty lips around my finger and suck the goober right off. Slowly he pulled away from my finger, leaving it drippy with slobber, then he savored the morsel. I quickly wiped my finger on my shirt.
The giant was disconcerted. He was frustrated. "Well?" someone in the crowd hollered, but the jock didn't turn fast enough to see who it was. "It was too small an amount to tell!" he barked at the crowd.
"Oh God. Can we just go?" his girlfriend pleaded.
"Pick another one!" he yelled at me.
Again I put my finger in my nostril. This time I used a different finger, and the other nostril. And by chance I hit upon something solid. It took some work, but I was able to loose it free. When I pulled my finger out of my nose another glorious, huge booger came forth; complete with nose hair.
"Ugh," the crowd moaned, and a little girl ran to the bathroom. But the goliath wasted no time. He wrapped his mouth around my finger and pulled the booger free like it was a candied cherry.
A lady fainted.
"It's salty!" he roared.
At that point I go the ever-lovin'-crap kicked out of me. But I really think it was worth it.
signed
August 7, 2006
Ps. When possible, I recommend not flicking your boogers into the mouths of giant, athletic jock types. But it's better than eating them yourself. Ultimately it's a choice only you can make.
Word Verification
I'm sorry to report that I am going to activate word verification. I know it is an annoying step for you one or two posters that I get, but I grow weary of these fake posts sent by "annonymous," that say wonderfully generic things like, "Bookmarked," or, "This is the best site. Wish mine was like this," or "What a wonderful format," or "Wow, Michael, last night was great. You are undoubtably the best lover mankind has ever created."
At first it was really flattering. Then it became confusing; wondering how these people could say things that indicated they hadn't even read the site. Then it became exciting because it appeared that the fake posts were drawing in new posts. Now it just seems pathetic. I have about 15 posts that I think are legit, verses the 40 posts I'm fairly certain are computer generated.
There is only one thing for it and that is to use word verification.
At first it was really flattering. Then it became confusing; wondering how these people could say things that indicated they hadn't even read the site. Then it became exciting because it appeared that the fake posts were drawing in new posts. Now it just seems pathetic. I have about 15 posts that I think are legit, verses the 40 posts I'm fairly certain are computer generated.
There is only one thing for it and that is to use word verification.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Alternate pic, heart problems
Here is the other image. It's a shame that the color is so flushed out. I need to get a photo quality scanner.
In both pics the dude is flesh colored, the sky is blue and so are the oceans. And you cannot even see the clouds. Totally disappointing.
I will work on the quality for my wonderful, demanding, and impatient readers.
So anyway, I was reading a little fantasy novel the other night and my heart does this little fluttering thing. It was at a relatively boring part of the book, so I know I wasn't scared or turned on. I was reading and all of a sudden my heart, out of nowhere, beats twice as fast as it had been beating, for three or four beats.
I know that doesn't sound like much, but it sure as hell felt like much. It immediately slowed down after the three or four beats, but it was still faster than it had been before I started reading. It actually kind of worried me.
I have heard people say things like, "My heart skipped a beat," or "My heart has a murmur," and I've always thought they were being melodramatic. I mean, who would notice if your heart skipped a beat? Who would notice if it fluttered? Well I noticed. And I can't stop thinking about whether that was some kind of cosmic warning. As if my heart was saying:
YOU NEED TO START RUNNING AGAIN. GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS OR I QUIT!
I need to start running again. Or I'm gonna die. And I know when it will happen too. I will be sitting in the most boring meeting in the world and I will have done none of my assignments to prepare for it. And just as I'm about to get chewed out by my boss I'll get a call on my cell. And I will answer it right there in front of everyone. And it will be a book publisher asking for the rights to produce a book by me. And then I'll get a call on the other line and it will be a music publisher asking to produce an album by me. And then I'll get another call and it will be Cartoon Network offering me a job as the coolest man alive. And then I will drop dead of a heart attack.
So if I drop dead of a heart attack, you, my readers and loyal fans, will know it was because I was the Coolest Man Alive.
Moving on, Pic Letter 1
So here is the pic for Letter 1. There is an alternate version that I will probably load up someday. Right now I'm just happy to have gotten this one on.
Apparently there is a problem with my home computer because I still can't load things with it. I loaded those last images, the one of the creepy bathroom and the copious boxes in my living room, from my home, but I cannot get the darn thing to work now. Oh well.
Incidentally, the original pic is a little better than this. It lost a good deal of color in the scanning process. It was scanned with a government scanner, which means detail was an afterthought. Still, you get the general idea.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Pic for Letter 1, Take 2
Now, there is a pic. It is not the picture I drew and sent to [adult swim], but it does prove that I do know how to post a picture. So for all of those doubters, who were too thick to see that I had already successfully posted three pics, but who still thought I was too n00b to handle it, here is proof that you are stupid.
Incidentally, this picture was not made by me. I came to work one day and found that I had a secret fan club. It's pretty exclusive. So far I haven't been invited in, but I am told they talk about me all the time. You can see how exclusive it is by the signature. It says Hoi Polloi, which I believe is Latin for "intelligentsia." It's like Mensa.
Anyway, as we can see I am able to post a picture. So hopefully tonight I will post my drawing for letter 1.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Pics for Letter 1
It seems that I cannot upload the pics for Letter 1. This is really pissing me off. I had one of them added to the letter last night, but I got distracted and didn't publish it. Now, for the life of me, I cannot get this damn program to add them. I know I am doing it right because I've done it successfully with other pics, and it worked last night with these pics. But every time I do it I get a message that says, "Error on page." So until I figures this stupid problem out, I cannot add the pictures for Letter 1.
*sigh* This is really frustrating me. When I finally figure out the problem I will post the pics on this entry.
***continuation:
muther....! I'm getting pretty pissed off at this. I know I am doing it right because I have done it the same way as ever other flippin' pic I've posted on this site. But then I thought, well maybe there is a size maximum. So I tried to look up what the size max might be. But I couldn't find it. I could only find a size max for my personal pic. 50K, that's it. So I tried to upload a pic that was on 3.5 kilobytes. That's a small friggin' pic.
And the damn program wouldn't take it! It was only 3kb. I could fart bigger than 3 kilobytes!
So I continued looking for a max pic size. Then I found an answer that said you can load up to 300 Megabytes of server space with pics. Ok, so there is a max, but not necessarily on one pic. the pic cannot be more than 300 megabytes, but 3.5 kilobytes hardly counts as 300 megabytes. And theres no way in a foggy hell that the pics I already have on file take up that much space. That's absurd.
Crud. Now I'm gonna have to go and add up all the space my pics take to see if I'm at my damn limit.
I've seen sites with more pics that this! I know it can be done. I know it!
I'm gonna have to get a second site just so I can post pics on it and link to this blog.
Ok, I'll stop whining.
*sigh* This is really frustrating me. When I finally figure out the problem I will post the pics on this entry.
***continuation:
muther....! I'm getting pretty pissed off at this. I know I am doing it right because I have done it the same way as ever other flippin' pic I've posted on this site. But then I thought, well maybe there is a size maximum. So I tried to look up what the size max might be. But I couldn't find it. I could only find a size max for my personal pic. 50K, that's it. So I tried to upload a pic that was on 3.5 kilobytes. That's a small friggin' pic.
And the damn program wouldn't take it! It was only 3kb. I could fart bigger than 3 kilobytes!
So I continued looking for a max pic size. Then I found an answer that said you can load up to 300 Megabytes of server space with pics. Ok, so there is a max, but not necessarily on one pic. the pic cannot be more than 300 megabytes, but 3.5 kilobytes hardly counts as 300 megabytes. And theres no way in a foggy hell that the pics I already have on file take up that much space. That's absurd.
Crud. Now I'm gonna have to go and add up all the space my pics take to see if I'm at my damn limit.
I've seen sites with more pics that this! I know it can be done. I know it!
I'm gonna have to get a second site just so I can post pics on it and link to this blog.
Ok, I'll stop whining.
A little note, a littler note, and Campaign 3 Begins!
I have told you, on more than one occasion, about my lack of posts from visitors. I believe I also mentioned that of the posts I have received I'm fairly certain that a good deal of them are fake. I have successfully found a way to stop commercial spam. I just review every post before it posts. However, I have received many posts that are not commercial, but they are so generic that they cannot be real. My theory is that Blogger has a program that sends out "sympathy mail" to losers like me who aren't cool enough to elicit real posts. For example, last night when I went to bed my Visitor Counter showed 42 hits. I got 4 posts over night, all of them relatively generic, and I still show only 42 hits. And as sad as this sounds I don't want to delete the posts, even though they are obviously fake, because my ego needs to see that I have viewers. Even the imaginary kind. But should I decide that I am tired of the fake posts I may have to activate the word verification so that only real posts get through.
....
Because many of the letters of campaign 3 could be significantly longer, and because I know your attention span is abysmal, I may, at times, just post a letter with no commentary. I will, however, still post the picture for you to look at. Today's post is accompanied by two pics. I couldn't decide which color outfit I liked best, so I sent both.
....
Letter 1,
Dear [adult swim],
You don't love me. I haven't written in over two months and you haven't said a thing. Did you even notice?
You don't owe me anything. I know. That was the rule from day one. Still, I thought we were going somewhere.
The effects are deep.
I almost had a gay dream the other night. I was in bed and there was this man... he must have been a doctor. I don't know why he wasn't wearing a white jacket, or any clothes at all for that matter.
Anyway, I'm not saying you are responsible for my dreams. I can totally go lucid whenever I want. And I'll give myself angel wings and a ninja sword. And probably huge girl boobs. But only for a second. Then I'll go back to my normal boobs, which are totally rock hard and covered with hair.
My point is I'm responsible for my own destiny. And I think it's time you hired me.
signed
August 1, 2006
Ps. please.
Pps. Do you need a show about a guy with wings and boobs? I think you do. I'll throw in the ninja sword for free.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Voices on the Elevator
About four or five months ago the facilities department of the building where I work added a voice to the elevator telling you what floor you were on, and it what direction you were heading. "Second floor, going up."
The voice is a pleasant woman's voice, but I was wondering what would happen if they had chosen different voices. There are four elevators in the building, so four different voices could have been used.
I think it would be a neat experiment to see if one elevator got ridden over another, if different voice types had been chose. For example, one elevator could have a female voice that was bitchy and nagging. "You're on the third floor. Are you going to make a floor selection, moron, or are we going to sit here all day?" And another could be a woman with a sexy, inuendo soaked voice. "You're on the second floor, baby. Do you want me to go up, or down," or, "I need you to push my buttons, if you want me to move." The male voice could be similar, but using language that women find appealing and/or revolting.
The appealing man would say, "I'm ready for a commitment, beautiful. Let me carry you away to your floor." Or, "I paid the phone bill. What floor do you want." And the revolting voice would say things like, "You don't love me. Stop hanging out with your friends and make me some dinner. And while you're at it, choose a damn floor." "Or, I don't think you're cut out for this job, woman. What floor do you want to fail on today?"
My experience says that more women will ride the revolting elevator than the appealing one.
Or we could forget about gender roles and just put billigerent voices on all of them. I wonder how quickly people would switch to the stairs.
"What floor do you want, dammit?"
"Pick a floor before I drop us both to the basement."
"Hurry up and get on. I ain't got all damn day!"
"Didn't I just come from the second floor? Where the hell were you?"
"One floor down? Just one floor? You know, it wouldn't hurt that ass to climb a stair or two."
Or how about this beauty: "I haven't been inspected in six months. I'm not saying you're in danger, but..."
The voice is a pleasant woman's voice, but I was wondering what would happen if they had chosen different voices. There are four elevators in the building, so four different voices could have been used.
I think it would be a neat experiment to see if one elevator got ridden over another, if different voice types had been chose. For example, one elevator could have a female voice that was bitchy and nagging. "You're on the third floor. Are you going to make a floor selection, moron, or are we going to sit here all day?" And another could be a woman with a sexy, inuendo soaked voice. "You're on the second floor, baby. Do you want me to go up, or down," or, "I need you to push my buttons, if you want me to move." The male voice could be similar, but using language that women find appealing and/or revolting.
The appealing man would say, "I'm ready for a commitment, beautiful. Let me carry you away to your floor." Or, "I paid the phone bill. What floor do you want." And the revolting voice would say things like, "You don't love me. Stop hanging out with your friends and make me some dinner. And while you're at it, choose a damn floor." "Or, I don't think you're cut out for this job, woman. What floor do you want to fail on today?"
My experience says that more women will ride the revolting elevator than the appealing one.
Or we could forget about gender roles and just put billigerent voices on all of them. I wonder how quickly people would switch to the stairs.
"What floor do you want, dammit?"
"Pick a floor before I drop us both to the basement."
"Hurry up and get on. I ain't got all damn day!"
"Didn't I just come from the second floor? Where the hell were you?"
"One floor down? Just one floor? You know, it wouldn't hurt that ass to climb a stair or two."
Or how about this beauty: "I haven't been inspected in six months. I'm not saying you're in danger, but..."
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Comments/Where Are My Peeps?
Sorry I haven't posted in a couple of days. I've been dealing with errant comments. I hate comment spam, but I don't want to do anything that will potentially prevent a real comment. I have too great a scarcity to be throwing them away.
Anyway, I've been getting tons of comments that are clearly spam links to fake blogs that link to commercial sites. I was just about to add word verification to the site when I saw that I can preview my comments. I didn't realize that when I set up the account. So, for those of you who actually post, you will notice that your comments don't post immediately. I will approve just about anything that is not spam, and glorifies my wonderful wit or my outrageous man-boobs. Anything that is topical.
I have finally, very late in the week, finished my first letter and picture. I have the second letter ready, but the pic is not done. I haven't even started on it. I expect to send the second letter tomorrow and the third on Friday. On Friday I will also be posting the first letter of the Third Campaign, so if you are getting impatient, well... stop it.
........
It also has not escaped my notice that since I installed my counter my visits have increased by about 18 hits. I think I can account for at least 12 of those hits, they were all me. That means I have had about 6 hits that I have not personally been responsible for. What happened to all of my fans? Where are my peeps? Show some love people.
(Mental Telepathy to the World) You will visit tobecomeawriter.com, and you will love it. You will love it so much that you tell your friends and family about it. And they will love it and thank you, and ten years from now, when your niece is marrying that nasty half wit, who will likely cheat on her within a year, and who smokes more dope that Cheech and Chong, and whose life long ambition is to work on a shrimp boat so that he can get a candid shot of a sea monster, your niece will come to you and say, "Hey, aunt/uncle, back in the day you showed me that awesome website. Do you have any advice for me?" and you will say, "Don't marry the loser," and she won't, and everyone will call you the family hero, and your niece's father will slip $300.00 in your pocket out of gratitude, and you will totally hook up with a hot bridesmaid/groomsman, unless you're married. If you're married then you will get to drive home from the wedding in peace. I promise.
Anyway, I've been getting tons of comments that are clearly spam links to fake blogs that link to commercial sites. I was just about to add word verification to the site when I saw that I can preview my comments. I didn't realize that when I set up the account. So, for those of you who actually post, you will notice that your comments don't post immediately. I will approve just about anything that is not spam, and glorifies my wonderful wit or my outrageous man-boobs. Anything that is topical.
I have finally, very late in the week, finished my first letter and picture. I have the second letter ready, but the pic is not done. I haven't even started on it. I expect to send the second letter tomorrow and the third on Friday. On Friday I will also be posting the first letter of the Third Campaign, so if you are getting impatient, well... stop it.
........
It also has not escaped my notice that since I installed my counter my visits have increased by about 18 hits. I think I can account for at least 12 of those hits, they were all me. That means I have had about 6 hits that I have not personally been responsible for. What happened to all of my fans? Where are my peeps? Show some love people.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Statistics
Let us celebrate! I now have a counter on my blog. Now you count because I count you. So all my visitors have been elevated
from the status of: Hardly Matter
to the status of: Just Another Number.
Tell your parents. They will be so proud.
from the status of: Hardly Matter
to the status of: Just Another Number.
Tell your parents. They will be so proud.
OH GOD, RESPONSIBILITY
Holy crap, owning a house is horrible. Everyone tells you how it's an investment and how you build equity and how important it is. Oh, but sometimes I wonder if it's really that important. Is equity so necessary if I made it through 14 years of adulthood, 10 years of being a pet owner, 9 years of marriage, 6 years of being a parent, and God only knows what else, without it?
I'm sure it is very important. Afterall, Jesus told us in the sermon on the mount,
"Blessed are the Home Owners, for they shall own a home, and it shall be homey, and safe, and like heaven but intrinsicly different and worse, but still not too shabby for earth. And he shall gain equity and that equity can be used to garner himself a credit card. And that credit card is as good as cash, baby."
But they just don't tell you everything when you purchase a home. They leave shit out. They leave so much shit out. They say, "Here is your mortgage rate," and you think, 'wow, I can totally afford to own a home. Before long I'll be vacationing in the French riviera.' But then you find out about taxes. And let us not forget about insurance. Afterall, you don't want to lose all your stuff to a fire. But you also need liability in case your house bites somebody. Oh, and did we forget to mention that YOU are now responsible for that swollen ceptic tank? What about that 3/4 acre lot. It needs mowing or the home owners association will fine you. And you have to pay a small fee to be in the home owners association, so that they have the right to fine you. That will just be $100.00/year. And what's that? Is that the sound of a roach family scurrying between your walls? Well you don't want poisons lying around because you have a 3 year old. You need to get a contract with a Pest Control service. That will cost you too. And did we mention that your house is haunted? Yeah, it is. You will need to spend $50K to have it excorcized, or sell the soul of one of your children to free the house.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
breathe
Last Friday I got to work and found a bug in my sock. GROSS! I know that it came from my house, because, afterall, that's where I typically engage foot to sock for the day. But then the office receptionist, a frequent poster (note to all slackers: if you post frequently I may say good/bad things about you), said, "I bet you have Chaggas and you're gonna die. I'm gonna watch."
Well, it turns out I probably don't have Chaggas, but I do have the terribly-grossed-outs. So I went home and began to disinfect the house. What I realized in doing it is that the last owner did not know how to clean. If she did then she didn't feel it was necessary. The only other option is that she was part pig and so she cleaned her house with shit. Because I was relatively disgusted at some of the brown stains I was cleaning off of the blinds. THE BLINDS! Not the insides of the toilet seats, the flippin' blinds.
Holy Crap! the last owner of my house was Nurgle, god of all things nasty and plaguey.
People, go home and clean your house! It's what separates us from Typhus. And no, that's not a rapper.
I'm sure it is very important. Afterall, Jesus told us in the sermon on the mount,
"Blessed are the Home Owners, for they shall own a home, and it shall be homey, and safe, and like heaven but intrinsicly different and worse, but still not too shabby for earth. And he shall gain equity and that equity can be used to garner himself a credit card. And that credit card is as good as cash, baby."
But they just don't tell you everything when you purchase a home. They leave shit out. They leave so much shit out. They say, "Here is your mortgage rate," and you think, 'wow, I can totally afford to own a home. Before long I'll be vacationing in the French riviera.' But then you find out about taxes. And let us not forget about insurance. Afterall, you don't want to lose all your stuff to a fire. But you also need liability in case your house bites somebody. Oh, and did we forget to mention that YOU are now responsible for that swollen ceptic tank? What about that 3/4 acre lot. It needs mowing or the home owners association will fine you. And you have to pay a small fee to be in the home owners association, so that they have the right to fine you. That will just be $100.00/year. And what's that? Is that the sound of a roach family scurrying between your walls? Well you don't want poisons lying around because you have a 3 year old. You need to get a contract with a Pest Control service. That will cost you too. And did we mention that your house is haunted? Yeah, it is. You will need to spend $50K to have it excorcized, or sell the soul of one of your children to free the house.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
breathe
Last Friday I got to work and found a bug in my sock. GROSS! I know that it came from my house, because, afterall, that's where I typically engage foot to sock for the day. But then the office receptionist, a frequent poster (note to all slackers: if you post frequently I may say good/bad things about you), said, "I bet you have Chaggas and you're gonna die. I'm gonna watch."
Well, it turns out I probably don't have Chaggas, but I do have the terribly-grossed-outs. So I went home and began to disinfect the house. What I realized in doing it is that the last owner did not know how to clean. If she did then she didn't feel it was necessary. The only other option is that she was part pig and so she cleaned her house with shit. Because I was relatively disgusted at some of the brown stains I was cleaning off of the blinds. THE BLINDS! Not the insides of the toilet seats, the flippin' blinds.
Holy Crap! the last owner of my house was Nurgle, god of all things nasty and plaguey.
People, go home and clean your house! It's what separates us from Typhus. And no, that's not a rapper.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Can someone please help me out?
What is this about? Look closely. There are two toilets in the same room with no divider. How does this work? Are we supposed to believe that two people can use this bathroom at the same time?
Now really, men, if you were using a urinal (right toilet for you ladies) and by some stroke of bad luck you forgot to lock the door, and some big burly lumberjack cum truck driver stode into the lavatory with you, would you not mind if he proceeded to drop trou and take a dump right behind you? I'd flip out. To be honest, I'd flip out if anyone walked in on me and started using the other toilet. That's too close!
But what if he just needed to pee. There isn't a large berth there for two ships passing in the night. Cheeks would necessarily touch. You'd be playing toush cusion with a stranger.
No. The only way I can see this working is if one or both parties are taking a dump. True, the urinal is no place for number 2, but a gas station bathroom is no place for this kind of intimacy either.
This scenario can only be bad.
There you are, yes you... You're driving along the highway, two hundred miles from home, when suddenly your bowls tell you that the three cups of coffee and two bean burritos you had an hour ago want out! So you pull over at the next gas station and this restroom is what you find. You try to lock the door, but the lock is busted. But you can't wait! You have to go.
No sooner do you sit down than the door opens up and a tall, skinny, short-bus looking guy walks in the room.
"Oh, sorry," he says, and you pray he will leave. But he doesn't. "I'll just use this other 'un," he says, and unzips his fly right in front of you. Luckily he turns around before you are forced to see the unseeable.
But things get worse. You are nowhere near finished when the door opens again. This time it is a man who looks exactly like the first. He starts to leave when the first man says, "Naw, it's ok, John-john, there's two commodes." So creepy number two sidles up to his identical twin and they begin to share the first toilet.
But that's not the worst. The door opens again and another guy, looking exactly the same as the first two guys, comes walking in. "Well, I s'pose this 'uns a party house." The other two guys laugh. "Scoot up," the first one says, "There's room."
"Naw," he says, "I gots serious business to tend to." Then he looks at you, "You wanna scoot over and give me some rim?"
At that point you would probably bolt out the door. I personally would have hyperventilated the minute I heard the door open for the first time. But, if by some unlucky chance I made it this far, I'd become a temporary superhero and fly out the door; leaving a little trail of bread crumbs behind me as I went.
My Chapped Hide
Ok, about two months ago, after having no posts for the longest time, I suddenly got 30 posts. It was so sudden, and so much, that I was pretty certain they were all fake. Then I got a post or two that sounded legitimate. Those legit posters have not posted back again, but it was nice, I won't complain. Since then I've picked up one frequent flyer (thank you).
But recently something has started that really pisses me off. --Either these blogs are free or they aren't. If they aren't, fine, I can always go to MY SPACE.-- But I've been getting hits by "Anonymous," and they all say the same thing. "Here are some links I think you will be interested in." Then you click the link and it is clearly a fake blogger page about "Joe" or "Andrew" or "Sheena Easton," with links to commercial sites. It's totally a set up to get people to a site to try and sell shit to them, or worse, to toss a cookie onto their computer so they can monitor their web use. MAN THAT PISSES ME OFF! If I want ads on my site I'll put them there.
Blogger, pay attention. You are being used. That is, if you aren't actually responsible for it!
But recently something has started that really pisses me off. --Either these blogs are free or they aren't. If they aren't, fine, I can always go to MY SPACE.-- But I've been getting hits by "Anonymous," and they all say the same thing. "Here are some links I think you will be interested in." Then you click the link and it is clearly a fake blogger page about "Joe" or "Andrew" or "Sheena Easton," with links to commercial sites. It's totally a set up to get people to a site to try and sell shit to them, or worse, to toss a cookie onto their computer so they can monitor their web use. MAN THAT PISSES ME OFF! If I want ads on my site I'll put them there.
Blogger, pay attention. You are being used. That is, if you aren't actually responsible for it!
You like to think...
You like to think, if you are creative, that you have an endless supply of ideas and creative juice. But that just isn't the case. Well, it may be the case, but you only have a limited amount of energy and time. Ironically, whenever I focus my efforts on this blog, ostensibly about my efforts to become a writer, I do very little writing.
I don't know if that is really true, or if it is just true of late. I am finally starting to settle into my new house, but things still aren't winding down. My daughter will begin school this year. That is hectic. And there is still a mound of boxes that need to be unpacked, reference the picture above. That was the night we moved in. Now the mound is bigger. Now we've realized that the movers pretty much put a box wherever the spirit moved them to drop it. So they've all had to be relocated to this corner.
Our movers sucked. I even did the responsible, grown up thing to do, and called around to find the best deal. Of the five places I called these guys had the best rates. They charged $120.00/hour for four men. Not bad, right?
Two years ago when I moved I had pretty much all the same stuff. I have one bedroom suit more than before and a box or two more of toys. Well I had two movers and I it was 40 minutes from one home to the next. That move still only cost me $480.00 with tip. This move cost me $600.00 without tip and we only moved 15 minutes down the road. Why? Because my movers were slow as shit. I'm not going to say the name of the movers but it ryhmed with Cheesey Blowing Movers. And the second word is pretty EASY to get if you know where the first word is GOING.
Anyway, I hope that once my life settles down I'll have more time to write.
You will be happy to note, however, that I did send off my first letter of campaign three. I wanted to send off two letters this week, but I had some technical difficulties with scanning. That should be taken care of now though, so about two letters a week should be feasible. Wheeeeeeeeee.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
empty house/Letter 16
The old house is empty. I finished moving crap from it last night. Now, sadly, all the crap is in our new house. We seriously need a yard sale. My father-in-law once said, "three moves equals one fire." I used to think that he meant the damage that you do in moving is so bad that after three moves your stuff is as badly damaged as it would be from a fire. Now I think that he means that after three moves you have accumulated so much worthless crap that you'd be better off just burning your house down and starting over.
In case any Insurace Underwriters are out there reading this, that last sentence was a literary device called hyperboli. It was not premeditation.
Ok, the following letter, number 16 for Campaign 2, was the last letter of the campaign. It's a good letter, I guess, but it's not the kind of letter that should end a campaign. I know you are disappointed in me. Eat it.
Letter 16:
Dear [adult swim],
Ok, several of my letters will be delayed in coming because I have been conducting training in Valdosta. When I was asked what cities I wouldn't mind traveling to for these trainings I said Athens, anywhere in metro Atlanta, and Savannah. I guess Valdosta is Savannah. Here I always thought they were different places.
I stayed at the Knights Inn just off of I-75. I highly unrecommend it. What a piece of crap. I was going to take pictures with my digital camera so that I could send them to people and they could say, "Wow, that really sucks," but my camera refused to take the pictures.
The lock on the door was busted. I don't want to talk about the beds. And I absolutely refused to take my socks off.
The toilets were so bad I couldn't bring myself to use them. I would rather have taken a dump in the sink and pushed it down the drain with my hands than to have sat on that toilet seat. It was not a good scene, unless you don't believe in hepatitis. When I got to the training facility I ducked into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face and hands.
This morning I figured that since I had tempted fate with my temporary housing and lived, I could probably also survive McDonalds. Every time I eat at McDonalds I am reminded of why I want to die.
While I was waiting in the drive through I saw three pigeons pecking at the remains of an Egg McMuffin that someone wisely tossed out their window. They were bickering about the quality of the food and comparing it to the garbage in the I-HOP parking lot.
Pigeon 1: This crap is crap. Let's go back to I-HOP.
Pigeon 2: It's too far. I'd rather take my chances here.
Pigeon 1: It's just across the street. We have wings. Why don't you ever want to use your wings?
Pigeon 2: It's dangerous. I had a friend who died that way.
Pigeon 1: You mean Rob? He was hit by a bus.
Pigeon 2: While he was flying.
Pigeon 1: He was an imbecile.
Pigeon 3: Shut up and eat. Dammit.
A few seconds passed in silence while I waited for the window attendant to remember that she needed to hand out my 'food.'
Pigeon 2: Have you guys seen the Da Vinci Code?
Pigeon 1: I saw it. What a load of crap. I can't believe people believe that junk.
Pigeon 2: What are you talking about, it was great. And it's all true too. I saw a report on the Internet.
Pigeon 3: You two are f*ing idiots. I'm going to I-HOP.
signed
May 22, 2006
In case any Insurace Underwriters are out there reading this, that last sentence was a literary device called hyperboli. It was not premeditation.
Ok, the following letter, number 16 for Campaign 2, was the last letter of the campaign. It's a good letter, I guess, but it's not the kind of letter that should end a campaign. I know you are disappointed in me. Eat it.
Letter 16:
Dear [adult swim],
Ok, several of my letters will be delayed in coming because I have been conducting training in Valdosta. When I was asked what cities I wouldn't mind traveling to for these trainings I said Athens, anywhere in metro Atlanta, and Savannah. I guess Valdosta is Savannah. Here I always thought they were different places.
I stayed at the Knights Inn just off of I-75. I highly unrecommend it. What a piece of crap. I was going to take pictures with my digital camera so that I could send them to people and they could say, "Wow, that really sucks," but my camera refused to take the pictures.
The lock on the door was busted. I don't want to talk about the beds. And I absolutely refused to take my socks off.
The toilets were so bad I couldn't bring myself to use them. I would rather have taken a dump in the sink and pushed it down the drain with my hands than to have sat on that toilet seat. It was not a good scene, unless you don't believe in hepatitis. When I got to the training facility I ducked into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face and hands.
This morning I figured that since I had tempted fate with my temporary housing and lived, I could probably also survive McDonalds. Every time I eat at McDonalds I am reminded of why I want to die.
While I was waiting in the drive through I saw three pigeons pecking at the remains of an Egg McMuffin that someone wisely tossed out their window. They were bickering about the quality of the food and comparing it to the garbage in the I-HOP parking lot.
Pigeon 1: This crap is crap. Let's go back to I-HOP.
Pigeon 2: It's too far. I'd rather take my chances here.
Pigeon 1: It's just across the street. We have wings. Why don't you ever want to use your wings?
Pigeon 2: It's dangerous. I had a friend who died that way.
Pigeon 1: You mean Rob? He was hit by a bus.
Pigeon 2: While he was flying.
Pigeon 1: He was an imbecile.
Pigeon 3: Shut up and eat. Dammit.
A few seconds passed in silence while I waited for the window attendant to remember that she needed to hand out my 'food.'
Pigeon 2: Have you guys seen the Da Vinci Code?
Pigeon 1: I saw it. What a load of crap. I can't believe people believe that junk.
Pigeon 2: What are you talking about, it was great. And it's all true too. I saw a report on the Internet.
Pigeon 3: You two are f*ing idiots. I'm going to I-HOP.
signed
May 22, 2006
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