I get visitors to this site from all over the world.
Not a lot of visitors, mind you. But they come from all corners of the globe, and they’re the best readers around. It’s the quality of the clicks that matter, not the quantity. That’s my stance.
Until there’s quantity. Then all bets are off. Obviously.
In the meantime, the slow steady crawl of page hits allows me to see where people are coming from, and what they’re seeing, and in many cases, what they came looking for. Through careful study and analysis, I’ve come to a firm and scientifically defensible conclusion:
You people are freaks.
Nah, I’m just kidding. Oh, don’t get me wrong. There are freaks out there — as I’ve documented several times in the past — but mostly, I like to think that the people browsing by the site are just looking to kill a few minutes of time, and maybe grab a quick laugh or two. They’re regular folks, whether from Paris, Texas or Paris, France, from Riyadh to Rio de Janiero, from Quebec to Canberra, and from everywhere in between.
They’re even, as I found out recently, from the United States government. Gulp.
You may imagine, quite rightly, that when I first found hits from the Fed in my logs, I was a little worried. Who knows when the lawmakers will finally get around to passing some sort of anti-silliness law, or a bill outlawing the use of words like assmometer or flaccipointing? If not for the crippling economic situation, the half-dozen wars being fought, the recent election, baby-kissing photo ops, education, health care, billion-dollar bailouts, Social Security, welfare reform, special interest pandering, mall openings, urban rezoning, Constitutional amendments, media spinning, subcommittee meetings, foreign relations, union negotiations, environmental watchdogging and deciding what to buy Wolf Blitzer for Hanukkah, it’d be way up high on their to-do lists. Maybe even first.
So it was with some trepidation that I clicked on an access log from last week indicating that a visitor from ‘senate.gov‘ had made his or her honorable way to my little corner of the internets. And that trepidation trebled when I saw that specifically, the hit came from the office of the U.S. Senate Sergeant at Arms. It looked bad. It looked official. I had no freaking idea what a sergeant of arms is, or why the Senate would need one. So I looked it up on Wikipedia:
“The Sergeant at Arms and Doorkeeper of the Senate is the law enforcer for the United States Senate. One of the chief roles of the Sergeant is to hold the gavel used at every session. The Sergeant can also request the attendance of absent Senators.”
He’s a ‘doorkeeper’. And his main duty is to hold a gavel and play truant officer for Senators playing hooky. Suddenly, I felt a lot less trepidatious.
“With the architect of the Capitol and the House Sergeant at Arms, he serves on the Capitol Police Board, responsible for security around the building.”
Fine. I’d be concerned if I were blogging from the Capitol rotunda. From an unspecified location outside of Boston, I think I’m probably in the clear.
Also. There’s an architect on the Capitol Police Board? Seriously?
Pfffft. Rent-a-cops.)
“The Sergeant at Arms of the Senate can arrest any person upon their violating Senate rules (including the President of the United States).”
Uh-oh. That whole ‘flaccipointing‘ thing could conceivably violate Senate rules somehow. There’s no way shit like that is covered in Roberts’ Rules of Order. Maybe I’d better see what this person came looking for:
grammar lesson your and you’re
Well. That takes a load off. Here I’m worried about being court-martialed — or sworn in and court-martialed, or enlisted and court-martialed, or whatever they’d have to do to make me eligible — and it’s just some high-ranking government official searching for a basic rule of grammar taught to children in the third grade.
That’s… um, comforting. Sort of.
The question is, was it more or less comforting than the visit I had today, also from the office of the Senate Sergeant at Arms, who found my Simpsons quotes page by searching:
“you, sir, have the boorish manners of a Yalie” simpsons
I suppose that sort of thing would come in handy on the job, when you catch a couple of truant freshman Senators hanging out at the ice cream shop when they’re supposed to be voting. You’d think a ‘Sergeant at Arms’ would be using tougher language, though — maybe he should be searching for Full Metal Jacket quotes, if he really wants to make an impression.
I suppose you’re not allowed to call elected officials ‘maggot pukes’, though. Not actually in the Senate building, anyway. Only in the newspapers, I guess.
(It’s remarkable, by the way, how much the U.S. Senate Sergeant of Arms’ office gets around the web. I don’t know what the size of the staff is like, but a quick search reveals several other posts like the one you’re reading, reporting visits from the same folks.
Of course, given the subject matter around this place, I ascribe little significance to a couple of chance visits from the legislative branch. Many of the sites above are political in nature, and prefer to think of the visits as much more targeted and meaningful.
My guess? If they knew the truth, they’d be sadly flaccipointed.)
As troubling as the experience with Sgt. Senate was, there was one other gubment-related log item of note in recent days. This one came from, of all places, the domain belonging to the United States Court of Appeals for Veterans Claims. And what, pray, were the good folks on the appeals board searching for, perhaps to assist in a ruling on some worthy veteran’s case?:
photographs of women who go commando
Now, possibly they’re talking about the military sort of commando. Maybe they’re after pictures of camouflaged ladies, to compare to an alleged commando lady pleading her case to the court. There’s a chance it’s all on the up-and-up.
Only… no. I don’t think so. If you’re in the military, and you have to Google for pics of ‘women who go commando’, I’m pretty sure it’s not the good sort of ‘commando’.
(Depending on your views on underpants. And special forces personnel. And possibly whe’er the twain should meet.)
At any rate, it’s been an eye-opening experience to catch a glimpse of the browsing habits of supposedly-serious government officials. I suppose they’re people, too, just like the rest of the internet crowd — curious, bored, horny types looking to the web to brighten their days. Sometimes in the form of pantiless women, evidently. And who hasn’t been there, am I right?
But I’m not sure it helps me sleep any easier at night, knowing these elected officeholders are just as fragile, just as forgetful, and just as freaky as the rest of us. When it comes to learning about how these governmental gavelholders and Army appellate agents get their online jollies, one of their own policies leaps to mind:
Don’t ask. And don’t tell.
Freaks.
Permalink | 1 CommentIngredients
Preparation
Use pooch/hallway owner to construct clearly insurmountable doggie obstacle of chairs, coats and framed painting. Place pooch behind clearly insurmountable doggie obstacle, sealed away from long hallway.
“1 pooch/hallway owner, powerless to stop the ensuing madness”
Set owner aside for 8-10 hours at workplace, to earn money to pay for pooch, hallway and contractors.
Use contractors to spread paint evenly on hallway. Be certain to get the areas near the floor especially wet and sticky. Immediately use contractors to close kitchen door, sealing pooch (and all of its ‘juices’) away from doggie door.
Set contractors aside for at least 24 hours. Probably a week. Maybe longer; who the hell knows with these things?
Use pooch to easily surmount clearly insurmountable doggie obstacle.
Mix pooch and hallway well, making sure to slide haunches of pooch along freshly painted walls. If desired, also slide wet pooch haunches along heavy coats, dining room chairs and framed painting.
With doggie door inaccessible, dump doggie juices in middle of long, freshly smeared hallway. Repeat as necessary.
Return owner to house; mix with soggy long hallway, smeared walls and blithely wagging brown-and-white striped mildly retarded pooch. Simmer for 10-20 minutes. Send owner out for booze. And possibly electric dog prod.
Season to taste and serve with a side salad or vegetable medley. Bon appetit.
Permalink | 2 CommentsA strange and magical thing has been happening over the past few weeks. I’ve been getting email.
Not the regular sort of email, mind you. I mean, I always get email. But the emails lately haven’t been the usual old ‘buy \/1agr@ 0nl1n3!!!1!eleventy‘ and ‘Hot local singles want to rub peanut butter on YOU!‘ and ‘FINAL NOTICE: Student loans overdue — Vinny the Knuckles now handling your account‘
(Okay, to be fair, most of them are still that kind. Especially the student loans ones — those people are relentless.
Luckily, I was able to score Vinny some Viagra, and set him up with this nice local girl who’s into long walks, jazz fusion, and extra-crunchy Jif. That oughta buy me some time.)
No, the emails I’m talking about have come from people — actual, honest-to-god people — writing to me, specifically. About this site. Seriously.
They’re not from the FBI or anything. I know. It’s weird.
“If I can warp sully ruin shape the mind of just one young student, then I’ll have done something meaningful here.”
Even more specifically, these fine folks have been writing to ask permission (unlike some shifty jackholes) to use one of my posts. And adapt it into a monologue. To be performed in high school.
(Why do I suddenly get the feeling that the next email I get will be from the FBI?)
Actually, it’s not quite so scandalous — but it is pretty cool, and until today, somewhat mysterious. Here’s the story:
In the past couple of weeks, I’ve received three separate requests from high school students to use the contents of my ‘Oh, I Need a Clue, All Right… I’m Just Not Sure It’s This One‘ post as a humorous forensics piece.
For those of you unfamiliar with these sorts of high school competitions and trying to reconcile the apparent paradox of ‘humorous forensics’, I can tell you that it doesn’t involve wearing a Groucho Marx mask while doing an autopsy. Nor fingerpainting knock-knock jokes on the wall with crime scene blood spatter. Nor giving David Caruso an atomic wedgie and dumping him in Biscayne Bay.
(Not that it shouldn’t involve that last one, if there were any justice in the acting world. I’m just saying it doesn’t.)
Instead, high school forensics has to do with public speaking, in its various forms. Giving extemporaneous speeches, debating hot topics, performing dramatic readings, and… if all of that sounds dreadfully dry and distasteful to you, ‘humorous interpretations’. The last one being the only one, of course, that couldn’t possibly assist you in any respectable sort of career down the road.
Which is what makes it. So. Damned. Cool.
As cool as forensics gets, anyway. The whole team is only a half-step above being the ‘tuba kid’ in band, anyway, so why not have some giggles? Story of my life.
And as it so happens, I was myself a forensics fool, back in the day. My muse was a young Bill Cosby, who wrote a bit about a smart-mouthed Noah talking to God about some damned fool boat he was supposed to build. I even made it to the 1987 NCFL National Tournament, as a junior.
(Sadly, the ‘C’ in NCFL stands for ‘Catholic’. And backsassing Biblical belligerence doesn’t go over too well with the yardstick-wielding nun crowd. So while I made it to the tourney, I daresay I barely made it back.)
Now, it seemed, there was a new generation of fresh-faced young orators ready to take up the cause. And instead of Cosby’s words, or anyone else’s, they were asking me to provide the material to propel them into the prestigious national spotlight.
(Insofar as it qualifies as a spotlight. Two decades ago, I experienced the ‘prestige’ of traveling to Buffalo, New York to compete. This year’s competition? In Albany.
Somebody needs to teach these Catholics how to shake off the habits and have a little fun. Sheesh.)
Naturally, I was quick to agree to each of the requests. If I can warp sully ruin shape the mind of just one young student, then I’ll have done something meaningful here. The children are our future. Ye gods help us all.
My only question was… why? Not that I found it completely outside the realm of possibility that someone other than myself would be willing to repeat my words in public. Mostly, sure. But not completely.
But they were all asking about the same post, which is now a little more than five years old. And at the time of the requests, I wasn’t actively writing here, and hadn’t for months. Google had likely forgotten all about me. The Blue’s Clues bit was nearly as old as they were. Flattered as I was, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why the sudden hubbub was bubbling.
Until today.
Today, I found a video on YouTube starring a young lady, Chelsea, who asked for permission a few months ago to adapt the piece. I’d forgotten all about it, but the existence of the video — and Chelsea’s super (as in gold medal-winning in the state tourney super) performance — easily explained the renewed interest.
And was pretty interesting for me to watch, actually. The words in the piece are mine — but the inflection, the gestures, the flair is all hers. I’ve never done any scriptwriting, so this is really the first time I’ve seen anything I’ve written interpreted onstage. Mis-interpreted, sure — at family reunions, staff meetings, interventions, holding cells… but acted out, in front of an audience? Pretty damned cool.
So I wanted to share the video below, for anyone interested in seeing Blue’s Clues (or my/Chelsea’s twisted take on it) come to life. Belated congratulations to Chelsea on her win, and many thanks for choosing a piece of mine to perform. Frankly, I hope it inspires more requests from forensics folks — finding this version of an old favorite made my day. I wonder if there’s any future in writing custom monologues that high school smartasses would appreciate?
Come to think of it, I wonder if that’s what I’ve been doing here all along. Dear lord.
Permalink | 4 CommentsI should never be allowed in public. Clearly. But I should be doubly locked in and chained to my nightstand on holidays. Particularly Thanksgiving. I’ll explain.
Today being one of vanishingly few that my wife and I both have free, we decided to run some errands together. Grab some lunch, hit the gym, drive the dog deep into the woods and kick her out of the car — the usual old stuff. And everywhere we went, the people we met all had the same thing to say:
‘Happy Thanksgiving!‘
The first severalteen times we heard it, we had the same reply:
‘Happy Thanksgiving!‘
Gradually, though, I started to feel like a trained parrot, just repeating the same phrase back into someone’s face. “Squawk! Happy Thanksgiving! You said, “Happy Thanksgiving!’ Happy Thanksgiving! Polly wants a giblet! Squaaaaawk!”
So, I tried to find something else to say that expressed the same thought. It turns out that Thanksgiving isn’t particularly flexible in this regard. Much to my dismay.
See, I was thinking of Christmas. If someone jumps out of the bushes and screams ‘Merry Christmas!‘ at you, you’ve got options. ‘Happy X-Mas!‘ works. ‘Joyous Noel!‘, too — if you don’t mind sounding like sort of a douche. ‘Happy Holidays‘ is in vogue these days. And there’s always ‘Happy Hanukkah, you insensitive asshole!‘
(If you can pull it off, of course. A yarmulke helps, but isn’t absolutely necessary provided you can muster enough righteous indignation to be credible. I’ve seen Catholics do it, just for kicks. It’s possible.)
The point is, there are lots of ways to say ‘Merry Christmas!‘ (or ‘Happy Hanukkah!‘ or ‘Krazy Kwaanza!‘ or ‘Spooky Wiccan Winter Solstice Time!‘) without saying those exact words. You could greet a whole busload full of shopping mall Santas, and never say the same phrase twice.
But what the hell do you do with ‘Happy Thanksgiving‘? I didn’t know, but I was determined to find out.
I started off easy. The next ‘Happy Thanksgiving!‘ thrown my way was met with a:
‘And a happy Thanksgiving… to you.‘
“She still made me stop. Said I looked like some kind of Grim Turkey Reaper.”
That wasn’t great. For one, it was still mostly the same damned words, and took a lot longer to say. Also, my wife didn’t like the ominous pointing that went along with it. She said it creeps people out. I was just trying to be precise. I’m not wishing happy Thanksgiving to that guy, or those girls, or that group of creeped out people over there. I’m wishing it to you. And only you.
She still made me stop. Said I looked like some kind of Grim Turkey Reaper.
Fine. I tried to be more creative. Next time it came up, I said to the big musclebound guy behind the counter at the gym:
‘Joyous fattened turkey time!‘
That didn’t go over well, either. He asked, ‘What’d you just call me?‘ and I had to scoot out of there before he lobbed a dumbbell at my head. I had to wait in the car while my wife worked out.
Luckily, that gave me time to prepare. As we made the rest of our rounds this afternoon, I flung rapid-fire replies back to every ‘Happy Thanksgiving!‘ I encountered:
‘Merry Pilgrim eating day!‘
(Spent ten minutes explaining that I meant celebrating the Pilgrims eating with the Native Americans. And that I wasn’t condoning actually eating Pilgrims, in any way.
Which is a hell of a conversation to be having with the butcher in the grocery store, let me tell you.)
‘Gobble down a tom tonight!‘
(Said to our lunch waitress, whose husband’s name, regrettably, happens to be Tom.
I tipped her all the money I had left, but I’m pretty sure she still spit in my soup. Or worse.)
‘Hapgiving Thanksy, too!‘
(I was running out of ideas at this point. Or developing a speech impediment. Probably both.)
Clearly, I wasn’t getting anywhere with these efforts. Except kicked out of Kroger’s, and possibly arrested.
So I give up being nice. I’m spending the rest of the day holed up in the house, and if I never hear another ‘Happy Thanksgiving‘, it’ll be too soon. But if I do, I’ve got my reply waiting on deck:
‘Stuff a drumstick up it, jackass!‘
Here’s hoping the rest of you have an easier holiday time than I did. Eat some turkey. Cranberry sauce it up. And above all, have a happy… well, you know.
Permalink | 2 CommentsWinter is easily my least favorite time of year.
(Yes, I’m aware it’s not technically winter yet. I don’t care. You season police and lunar calendar creeps can wax a crescent and shove it up your gibbous.
I’m in Boston. It’s twenty degrees outside, it’s pitch black by three-thirty in the afternoon, and every other house on my block has Christmas lights and rooftop Santas and plastic freaking lawn elves triggered to sing ‘O Holy Night’ in chipmunk voices when you ring their stupid doorbell.
It’s winter. To me. The calendar can go suck a solstice.)
Now. why am I so down on winter? Is it the cold weather?
Nah. I don’t mind the cold. I wouldn’t be traumatized if I never had to shovel snow again in my lifetime, but generally the prevailing climatological conditions don’t factor overmuch into my mood.
Is it Christmas? Am I just a bitter old Scrooge?
Well… yes. In the interest of full disclosure, I suppose I am. Not the ‘steal candy canes from orphans and depants Santa at the mall’ kind of Scrooge, mind you. More a ‘lock myself in a closet after Halloween and hope to god the carols die down by New Years’ Scrooge.
Christmas for me is like a small hyper child with a runny nose. I don’t hate it. I don’t have anything bad to say about it. I’d just prefer it didn’t climb in my lap and scream and sing and rub its gooey little paws all over me.
(‘Oh, Christmas. Always into something. Why couldn’t you be more like your brother, President’s Day?’)
But no, Christmastime (which now officially begins during the 4th of July fireworks extravaganza, from what I understand) doesn’t get me down. Tired, maybe. Exasperated. Willing to do hard time for manslaughter, if I could just get ten minutes alone with the jackass that recorded those dogs barking ‘Jingle Bells’. But down, not so much.
No, the reason I hate winter is a simple matter of fundamental electromagnetics. As in the ‘static’ kind of electro. And me as the magnetics.
I can’t explain the physics behind it.
(No, seriously. Ask my freshman physics teacher; I wouldn’t know a Faraday cage from a hamster ball.
Which turned out to be most unfortunate for our little lab buddy Mr. Squeakers. Rest his furry, crispy little soul.)
All I know is that I’m an unwilling — but ungodly effective — lightning rod for the discharge of static electricity. Always have been. Only in winter, when the air is dry and cold and jam-packed full of loose angry electrons waiting to leap at me when I’m not expecting it. But winters here in New England are, like, eight months long. And already this year, I’m feeling the sizzle.
When I opened the car door this morning — *zzzap*! When I turned the key in the lock at the office — *shhhizock*! As I hung my coat on the (regrettably metal) hook by my desk — *pppppzot*!
“If I attracted stray women the way I attract loose electrons, my life would be an Axe commercial.”
I’d swear I never touched that hook, by the way. I was a good three inches from it, and the electricity just arced over at my fingers. Like a pack of rabid tigers. I’m telling you, it was vicious. If I attracted stray women the way I attract loose electrons, my life would be an Axe commercial.
(Only less smarmy. And with more redheads.)
The worst shock of the day came in one of the worst places possible — the bathroom. I was just putting the final shake on a trip to the urinal, reached for the handle to flush and — *bbbbbbbzzzzzzowie*!!! I’m pretty sure the bolt passed into my finger, whizzed through my body, and slammed into the wall behind me. Some of the paper towels in the holder back there looked a little singed, is all I’m saying. It’s not CSI:Miami proof, but it’s solid forensic corroboration. Singed paper towels would totally hold up in court.
Meanwhile, the jolt was alarming. I would probably have peed my pants, if I hadn’t just gotten finished peeing. And if my peeing apparatus had been tucked away back in my pants already. And if my bladder hadn’t just been cooked to medium rare by a rogue bout of ball lightning.
Instead, I jumped back from the shock, convulsing and flapping my arms. With my pants still unzipped, and the apparatus downstairs waving about willy-nilly. Thank goodness no one walked into the bathroom just then. Maybe someone out there could explain their way out of looking like ‘Cosmo Kramer, sex offender’ in a public restroom, but I’m certain that I couldn’t.
And I have the court-appointed community service records to prove it.
Of course, all of these shocking developments pale in comparison to the teeth-rattling thunderbolts unleashed on me by my wife. If I’m the glue getting stuck with these nasty little shocks, my missus is the rubber bouncing thousand-bolt lightning strikes at me. She’s like Zeus with those things. Or a much cuter Emperor from The Empire Strikes Back. Some days, I’d swear she keeps a Van de Graaff generator in her pants.
(There’s a joke to be made here about electrified panties and pubic hairs standing on end.
But I like being married, so I’ll leave this one to you. Knock yourself out.)
Spending a winter with my wife is taking my life in my own hands. Any other shocks I get — from doorknobs, ungrounded urinal handles and the like — are solely on the fingers. Unless I start licking my car door or getting ‘intimate’ with the tailpipe, only my hands are at risk out in the wintry world.
My wife isn’t nearly so specific, or as merciful. She’ll sizzle me with a touch on the elbow, or the cheek, or worst of all, singe my lips when she leans in for a kiss. I think I’m getting a nice smooch; next thing I know, my mouth is soldered shut and no hairs grow back on my chin for a month. Not cool. At least if she ever delivers a fatal shock, she can always resuscitate me. A quick shuffle across the rug and a megawatt poke in the chest would get me going before any fancy defibrillator paddles. Might catch my shirt on fire, too, but I’ll climb that electrified fence when I get to it.
So winter for me is basically a pain in the neck. And the fingers, and sometimes more sensitive parts. Spring can’t possibly get here fast enough. Until then, I’m sewing resistors into my underpants.
Or transistors. Capacitors? Damn. I really wish I’d paid attention in that physics class.
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