Hey, thanks to all who voted in the last round of Blog Madness. It seems that I just squeaked out a win by the nib of my pen, and am still alive.
If you’d care to vote again (and read two posts that I personally think are pretty damned funny, then hop on over to the current elimination round and read ‘This One’s for the Ladies…‘ from The Hard Life, then compare and contrast with my own ‘Can I Buy a Damned Clue, Please?‘, pick your favorite, and viggity-vote, people. Vote like a pro.
(Unless you’ve chosen the other guy’s post; in that case, you’re free to vote like an Alzheimers-addled octagenarian Floridian.
Hey, don’t knock it, people. Those might be the only votes I get.)
Anyway, check it out, and the other Blog Madness matches, too. You might just find a new read or three.
Permalink | 2 CommentsMy parents got me a bag of ‘wasabi peanuts‘ for Christmas. Or my birthday last summer, I forget. I doesn’t really matter — the point is that these things were sitting around unopened for quite some time before the Super Bowl a couple of weekends ago. We had a few people over to watch, so I decided to whip out the ‘hot nuts’ and see who might enjoy a taste.
(Okay, so that last sentence got awfully perverted all of a sudden. Look, you know what I mean. Or not. Either way, I’m gonna keep going; this train is moving on.)
Anyway, there were exactly two takers for the little wasabe balls — me, and a friend of mine, T. He had two of them, maybe three. I ate three or four of them. Let’s just say that we were not altogether satisfied with our tasting experience.
The bag of nuts is still in the kitchen. They mock me, sneering, from the countertop. ‘Eat us,’ they chant. ‘Eat us — what are you, chicken?’ Bastards. They can eat me. I want no part of their little reindeer game.
Until today, that is. In a fit of ‘if I didn’t learn from it, how could it have been a mistake?‘ bravado, I tore into the package again after lunch, and popped one of the little green monsters into my mouth. And then another. And another.
And folks, I’ve got to tell you — it was not a wise decision. I’m kind of a dumbass sometimes.
See, I love spicy food. Indian curry, Mexican sauces, Buffalo wings — the hotter the better, and keep ’em coming. I don’t care if I’m sweating; I’ll tell you when it’s too hot. Just bring me a towel and another bowl of chili — hey, a beer to go with that would be nice — and let’s do this thing. Life’s too short for bland food — I’ll eat meatloaf and carrots when I’m dead, dammit.
But wasabi is different. It’s like horseradish — a whole different class of hottitude. Most peppers burn your lips and mouth — it’s the oil you have to worry about. But with the radishes, it’s… well, I don’t know what it is, frankly. Something airborne, maybe, aerosoled out of the hot stuff and up into the nose. Too much habanero pepper, and you’ll cry and sweat and burn, but it’s a good kind of hurt. A double dose of wasabi, and the back of your throat will melt, your nose hairs will curl and fall out, and you’ll snort like Mr. Ed doing a line of coke. Like I said, different.
And these peanuts are fricking serious with the wasabi, let me tell you. The shit is not spray-painted on there, or even brushed on. They gunk that green goo on there — the damned things are still vaguely peanut-shaped, but they’re huge — like big green golf balls or something.
(Okay, so maybe not that big. Hey, I can’t help it. Guys are always overestimating the size of their peanuts, right? It’s genetic, or something.
Just be glad I wasn’t discussing my pretzel sticks. Now those are huge. Fricking enormous. You hear me, ladies? Enormous.
Meh. Nobody’s listening. Damn. Well, now who’s gonna lick the salt off these things? Dagnabit!)
Seriously, there’s probably an eighth of an inch of wasabi coated on each peanut. And frankly, that’s just too damned much, people. There’s no safe way to eat these little bastards. I’ve tried another dozen or so, and cannot for the life of me find a method that doesn’t leave me with the ‘back the fuck up; I’m about to cough up a hairball‘ look on my face.
(Yeah, you usually only see that on cats. But our dog does a lovely impression, just before she upchucks kibble all over our rug. And I was in a fraternity in college, so I’ve had plenty of experience with that face, both viewing and making. Trust me; I’m an expert over here.)
Anyway, I tried the following, with varying degrees of non-success:
I see now that I should have just left the bag alone, and maybe had a cookie. Or a couple of crackers. Or battery acid. Any of those things would have been far, far preferable to my experience with the wacked-out wasabi peanuts. But I learned my lesson this time — after just a few nuts, I closed up the bag, got up, and put the bag away.
In the kitchen. Back on the countertop. Where the nuts immediately started taunting me again. ‘Hey, chico, come suck on this, you big baby!‘
Lousy frigging nuts. I’ll put up with that crap for a few days, but I think we all know that I’ll be back again, eating the stupid things, falling out of my chair, and likely blinding myself again. Honestly, I’m not the wiggliest dildo in the sex shop, if you know what I mean.
Still, in the end, I’m gonna win. I’ll eat all those little bastards, and there’ll be nothing left but that empty damned bag. It might take me a couple of years, but I’ll do it. (And certainly, nobody else around here is jackassed enough to beat me to it.) And then, I’ll have won. I’ll have lost my sense of smell, and possibly gone completely insane, but I’ll have won, and that’s all that’s important. No foodstuff is gonna come into my house and pimpslap me around — just you watch. I’ll shut those nuts up yet. Mark my teary-eyed, dizzy, huffy-nosed words.
Ugh. I think I’ll lie down for a while. Somebody get those damned Pikachus outta here, would you?
Permalink | 6 CommentsWell, this is not the way to start a long weekend, I can tell you that.
I’m still at work, just itching to make some semblance of progress on my project so I can declare ‘mini-victory’ and get my sorry ass home for the evening. There’s a program running right now, as I type, and if it works, I am so freaking out of here. I shit you not.
You know, as an aside, I’ve been giving that little euphemism quite a bit of thought lately, in all of it’s various forms. ‘I shit you not.‘, ‘Are you shitting me?‘, ‘I wouldn’t shit you!‘, and the ever-popular, if somewhat enigmatic, ‘Don’t shit a shitter.‘
I don’t know whether you’ve ever really considered this little group of sayings, but it begs the question — who in the hell decided that a good analogy for ‘lying to someone‘ would be something that sounds like ‘forcibly expelling that person out of your ass‘?
And more importantly, why the hell do we go along with it? Honestly, is there ever a time when you really, truly want to ask someone, ‘Pardon me, ever so sorry to trouble you, but I really have to know — are you, right now, physically shitting me?‘
I’m thinking not. For one thing, if that’s really what’s going on, you’re better off not knowing. On the other hand, if that is what’s happening, then I’m pretty sure there’s no way you could not know, and therefore no reason to ask. I know some people out there who struggle with that whole ‘self-awareness’ issue, but really, I have to believe that if you’re being shat, you couldn’t help but notice. It’s got to be pretty obvious.
Which is exactly the opposite of the situation when someone is lying to you, which is really the point, of course — the analogy doesn’t make any damned sense. (And here, you thought all along I was just going to beat the literal ‘shitting’ thing into the ground, and then leave you hanging. Tsk. Silly reader.)
Anyway, I think we need a replacement for this whole ‘shitting you‘ thing — something that better captures the uncertainty and guardedness of what is really at issue, namely whether one person is willfully misinforming another, whether for fun or profit. (Or both. Who’s picky?) We should have a euphemism that matches the mistrust, vulnerability, and moral indignation that comes with suspecting you’re being lied to.
(Yes, that’s right, I said ‘moral indignation‘.
No, I don’t know what other kinds of indignation there are.
Yes, I’m just repeating something that I’ve heard a million times, without really thinking about it.
No, I haven’t really actually heard it a million times.
Yes, I’m already regretting this whole set of parentheses.
No, I’m apparently not ready to straighten up and stop this nonsense yet.
Yes, I’ll get back to the damned post, in just a minute.
No, you really have no control over when it’s going to happen.
Yes, I think I’ve finally learned my lesson, and I’ll never use ‘moral indignation‘ again because it’s redundant and superfluous.
No, I don’t know what ‘redundant’ or ‘superfluous’ mean.
Yes, I know this has gone on long enough, I’m truly sorry, and I’m going to end it right now.)
(No. No, you can’t spank me as punishment. Don’t get me started again, dammit.)
Anyway, I say we need something that better captures the essense of ‘Hey, dipshit, are you lying to me?!‘ I’m not sure I have the final answer, but perhaps something along the following lines would be more appropriate substitutes for ‘Are you shitting me?‘:
See? Now there’s some shock and outrage, and some realistic accusation! That’s the kind of thing we need to be saying to each other — it makes our intentions so much clearer, don’t you think?
So, I tell you what — I’ll get things started. Whenever I think somebody suspects that I’m lying to them (not that I would, of course, but you know how paranoid people get), I’ll turn one of those phrases above into my declaration of innocence. Like so, for instance:
‘Hey, dude — would I secretly masturbate in public when I think no one is looking? Come on!‘
Um… oh. That was probably not the bext choice of example. Ouch.
On second thought, just never mind the whole thing. I’m cool with ‘Would I shit you?‘, whether it really means anything or not. I see now that the status quo is the way to go. I have opened my eyes and seen the one true path. Just forget I said anything at all. And, um, especially that last thing, if you would, please. That’s really not the sort of thing that needs to get around. I can barely look grandma in the face as it is. *sigh*
Permalink | 5 CommentsFolks, I don’t know quite how to tell you this. Let’s try it in stages:
First, the good news. I did, as expected, receive my twenty thousandth visitor to the blog this morning.
Better still, the visitor was not some pimply teenaged boy searching for animated Pammy porn. (Which I don’t actually have — are you hearing me, Pete?)
(However, if you’re interested, you can read about my earlier experience with waves of huffy horndogs lusting after cartoon boobage.
I thought the saga was over, frankly, but my mention of a certain boobly blonde minx yesterday has driven droves more of them over here. I really should be more careful what I put in my posts, I suppose. I wouldn’t mind the extra eyeballs; it’s just the other body parts they bring along that I take issue with. I’ve had to put plastic down on all the flat surfaces — it’s out of fricking control!)
Anyway, back to the matter at hand.
(Heh. ‘At hand‘, see, ’cause that could still be the wankers looking for the porn? Get it? ‘At hand‘?
Oh, screw it — I’m tired. Make your own goddamn double entendres for a while, then. I’m taking a break.)
So, back to the original point — milestone visitor, check. Not from a search engine, check. Actually, the visit seemed to come from a bookmark of some kind — there was no referer that I could use to track who the person was. All I had was an IP address.
So, on a lark, I swept back through the comments that have been left here over the past few weeks, thinking that maybe the person had been here before, and had perhaps commented on something. And, as it turns out, she had, and she had. Finally, I had a name to put with the IP address — I knew the identity of lucky number twenty thousand. And what’s more, she’s even got a blog of her own. Yes, folks, our fantabulous winner is:
Sabrina of LoserGenius Just Can’t Win
What’s so unbelievable about that, you ask? (Or maybe you don’t, if you’re a regular around here and have a good memory for these sorts of things.)
Well, the kicker about Sabrina being my twenty thousandth visitor is, she was also my ten thousandth visitor, too! I don’t know how the hell she does it!
Maybe she’s got a tap on my SiteMeter stats. Maybe she checks in thirty-eight times an hour, and I just haven’t picked up the pattern. Maybe she’s got a lucky leprechaun stuffed up her butt. Honestly, I don’t know. All I know is that history has repeated itself, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl.
Hey, she even started her blog after ‘winning’ the last little milestone contest, so in a way — a wrongheaded and misguided way, I’m sure, but still a way — I feel a bit responsible for helping to ease her into the blogosphere. So choke back that disappointment, if you were hoping that you would be my big number two oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! (Yeah, you Office Space fans’ll get that one. That was my ‘Oh!‘ face.)
Anyway, put those feelings aside and check out Sabrina at LoserGenius Just Can’t Win. Sure, based on my experience with her, it should be called ‘WinnerGenius Can’t Frigging Lose, Apparently‘, but it’s still a cool spot to hang out in. And maybe she’ll even share what I’m getting her off her wishlist for being the lucky customer in the right place at the right time. Again.
As for the rest of you, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wait till fifty thousand visitors for your next shot at a prize. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I won’t be moved to generosity before then, somehow or other — there’s always the chance that someone will get me a writing gig, or a comedy audition, or email me naked pictures of themselves.
(Okay, that last option is only open to a select few, I’m afraid. Mark‘s out of the running. As is Scott. And Andy, and Matt, and nef, and Buzz. J‘s excluded, too, as are Jeff, Brad, and TJ. But not the other one, of course.
Anyway, I love you guys, really… but you’re guys, so I don’t love you quite that much. You’ll just have to concentrate on helping me further my career if you want free swag from me. Stripping down to your skivvies is simply not gonna get it done. I hope you understand.)
Okay, so that’s about it for this post. Once more, congratulations and thanks go to Sabrina. And now that this place has twenty thousand eyeballs under its belt, it’s time to start working on the next twenty thousand. I certainly hope you’ll all be on board. Cheers!
Permalink | 11 CommentsI don’t know about the rest of you, but I live my life in a state of perpetual tardiness. I’m always late for something. Meetings, work, parties, bedtime — you name it. If it’s an event, and has a scheduled start time, you can pretty much guarantee that I won’t manage to show up until ten minutes to a couple of hours after the thing gets under way.
And frankly, I’m not sure that’s ever going to change. My chronic lateness seems to be hard-wired into my brain. I was born late — just ask my mother, after thirty-odd hours of labor; she’ll tell you. I’ve been late to classes, late to final exams, even late to job interviews. At this rate, I’ll likely die late, too. I’ll hang on to a ripe, three-digit age, outlasting everyone I care about and tended to by bitter old hags thinking, ‘Christ, old man, just die already, so we can spend the twelve fricking dollars you have left!‘ Hell, they might even say it out loud, or send it to me every so often in a Hallmark card. Lousy bitches.
Moving back to the present day, suffice to say that I simply cannot seem to find a way to be on time. It’s a curse, or a character flaw, or a recurring brain fart. Call it what you will; the important thing to know is that if you want me somewhere at seven, then you’d damned well better tell me to be there at six-thirty, or earlier.
(And if it’s seven in the morning you’re talking about, then just give the hell up. I’m not coming at all. And believe me, I’ve been making creative excuses for enough years now to get out of whatever damned fool thing you’re foolish enough to schedule for the ass-crack of dawn. I don’t even start breathing for the day until eight. Not interested.)
Anyway, given my propensity for piss-poor punctuality — okay, I’m kind of proud of that one, folks; alliteration is our friend! — I’m always on the lookout for ways to get from point A to point B just a little bit faster. Especially when ‘point A’ is the bed, and the method for hurrying my ass up doesn’t involve losing any beauty sleep.
(Or ‘handsome sleep’, I suppose, but that just doesn’t sound right. ‘Studly snoozing’? Mmmmmm… no. ‘Dashing, debonair dozing’? Ugh.
Bah. Screw it. I’ll just call it ‘forty winks for lazy dinks’, and stick with that. It’s not how good you look, people; it’s how many hours in a row you can remain unconscious and completely unproductive. And drooling, preferably. There’s nothing ‘pretty’ about sleeping, dammit.)
So, over my many years and thousands of hours of research, I’ve come up with a few time-saving devices for getting up and out the door in the morning. And, since you might find yourself in the same sorts of dilemmas, I thought I’d pass some of my vast store of wisdom on to you. Maybe it’ll save you a tardy slip some day. Ready? Here we go.
The real secret to reducing your ‘prep time’ in the morning is to multitask. You simply need to find combinations of things that you can perform simultaneously. Two five-minute preparations become one five-minute (or possibly six or seven, if you’re not used to such trickery) combination. And voila! Instead of ten minutes late, you’re only down five! (Or, in my case, only down twenty instead of twenty-five. Still, every little bit helps.)
And you non-tardy tadpoles (you know who you are) can benefit, too. Now you can set the alarm forward another five minutes or so, and still be on time. Extra sleep means… um, well, actually, I’m not sure. I’ve never gotten any, myself, frankly. But I’m sure it improves memory, or promotes a sunny outlook, or makes your breasts grow bigger. Something good like that, probably.
Anyway, let me give you a few examples from my personal experience. In my insatiable quest for insight into the world of sleeping more and being late less, I’ve tried just about every imaginable time-saving combination. Some of them work quite well. Others… well, maybe I’d just better get to the examples. You can see for yourself.
So, here’s a list of the things that I need to accomplish every morning before hitting the door. Take a moment to familiarize yourself with this list — maybe make one of your own, so you can play along, too. It’ll be fun.
Wow, that’s a lot of crap to get done every morning. I need a nap, just thinking about all of that. But let’s look at a few of the combinations — viable and otherwise — that I’ve discovered when trying to manage all of these tasks:
#1: A Sprinkle Under the Sprinkler — Certainly, we all know what a timesaver taking a ‘number one’ in the shower can be. Not… not that any of us would actually do such a thing, of course! Even in an emergency, right? Still… theoretically, one could pee in the shower while washing one’s hair, if one were so inclined. I mean, it’s physically possible, is all I’m saying. One would just have to be careful where one’s pee-er was pointed, so as to not have to ‘tiptoe through the tinkle’ for the rest of bathtime.
Time Savings: Approximately one minute, perhaps two after a night of hard drinking (purely hypothetically, of course)
Recommendation: Hey, it’s your shower stall; I can’t tell you what to do. But a word to the wise — if you’ve been eating asparagus recently, you might want to find another way to save time. Again, purely hypothetically.
#2: A ‘Dry Shave’ Is Never Good — There was a time when, in my eagerness to get out the door, I would attempt to shave myself with my right hand while still drying off from my shower with my left. This time — as well as various patches of body hair — is no more. You see, it’s far too easy — for me, at least, early in the morning — for the two hands to get confused about which is doing what, and which one has the soft fluffy thing, and which one has the sharp dangerous slicy thing. I luckily never bled myself anywhere sensitive, but I did have some rather, er, ‘close shaves‘. So to speak. Ahem.
Time Savings: Five to ten minutes, if you can keep each hand working full-time on its task without getting confused.
Recommendation: Don’t try it, unless you’re far less distractable than I. Or unless you don’t mind accidentally giving your genitals a reverse mohawk. Hey, I hear it looks good on some people.
#3: I’m Really Not Sure That’s How Vitamin C Is Meant to Be Taken — I’ve also gotten a bit ahead of myself in gulping down a vitamin, sometimes grabbing the bottle while I’m still putting in my contacts. With a clear head and a little bit of dexterity, this is no problem. Of course, with my brain, and my fumble-fingered mitts, it often means a little piece of plastic in my mouth and a One-a-Day in my eye. And while I can easily fish the contact off my tongue, getting the vitamin out is usually far more painful. Not cool.
Time Savings: Thirty seconds, tops.
Recommendation: I wouldn’t do it, frankly. The risk-to-reward ratio is way too high, and those pills fricking hurt if they get stuck under your eyelid. On the good side, though, the lenses taste like chicken. So there is an upside, I guess.
#4: I’ll Never Hear Again, But My Cowlick Is Gone! — I once tried to Q-Tip my ears while brushing my hair. You know that little game where you try to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time? Yeah, I could never fricking do that, either, so you can imagine how this went. The brushing part was fine, but I think I rammed the Q-Tip through my eardrum and all the way into my brain. Somewhere along the way, it broke in half, and I haven’t been able to taste salt or multiply fractions ever since. Freaky.
Time Savings: A couple of minutes, if you’re truly ambidextrous.
Recommendation: ‘Huh? Reco-what, now? Whad’ya say? Speak up? Huh?!‘
#5: The ‘Number Two’ Two-Step — There are actually a lot of things that you can get accomplished, should you feel the need to ‘take a seat’ during your morning routine. It’s perfectly reasonable to brush your hair, put on deodorant, and possibly even finish drying off while pot-sitting. Personally, I’d avoid putting a toothbrush or a vitamin — or anything else, frankly — in my mouth while so occupied, but still, a poo-poo pit stop doesn’t have to slow you down, if you don’t mind holding your nose and being creative.
Time Savings: Five minutes or more, depending on how long you take (and how far you can reach from your seated position to grab a Q-tip, brush, towel, etc.).
Recommendation: Sure, why the hell not? What else are you gonna do on the toilet? Read?
#6: Mmmmm… Just Like an Irish Spring! — I know people who brush their teeth in the shower. These are innovative, ambitious people for having thought of such a time-saver… but more than that, they’re completely fricking crazy. I tried it once, hopping into the tub with half my wits, still-sleepy eyes, and a brushful of Crest. It was a complete nightmare — I scrubbed my teeth with a bar of Dial, rubbed the brush under my armpits, and I think I still have toothpaste in my hair. And I’m not talking about the hair up there, either, people. Remind me never to do anything that requires conscious thought ever again, okay?
Time Savings: I don’t have any fricking idea. And everything I eat still tastes like Dial.
Recommendation: Don’t. Just don’t.
So, there you go. Some real time savers, and a few cautionary tales. I hope you’ve enjoyed this little public service message, and that it helps you get to whereever you’re going just a little bit faster. As for me, I think I’m just going to resign myself to being late for the rest of my life. It’s just safer that way, and I can keep the early-morning thinking to a bare minumum. Otherwise, I’m gonna find myself shaving my eyeballs, or pooping in the damned shower. And those are not combinations I wanna think about, no matter how late I’m running.
Permalink | 6 Comments