Monday, January 30, 2006

65. Did You Think To Bray?

You May be wondering where I’ve been. I’ve been posting less, and it’s partially because as a humorblogist (not to be confused with human biologist), I feel responsible for making you laugh. Since I haven’t felt very funny lately, I haven’t posted.


I had a brilliant idea last night: What if I changed an old post to make the ensuing comments more better? Well, I don’t want to change an old post and lose the post it WAS, so I’ll make a new post and insert comments from old posts in the comments section. Here are three short stories:

1) Once upon a time there was a caterpillar named Fifi. Fifi was a very confident young caterpillar whose friends all looked up to her and admired her. Little did they know she was just a butterfly in embryo. Little did she know that they were maggots-little flies in embryo.

Anyway, Fifi decided it would be a great idea to take a little journey with her maggot friends. They were all told to take a knapsack and invite a friend. When they arrived at the meeting place, there were 35,000 of them. That’s when they walked to Sedona. (All this happened in 1965)

When they got there, they were unable to get a room until they came to the fleabag motel. The man behind the counter was busy explaining to another customer why his job sucked, but he got them rooms and didn’t charge them too much.

Later on that week, all the little maggots and Fifi grew up and none of them talked anymore. I guess they had all gone their own way.

2) Once upon a time there was a cornish game hen. He was a male bird, technically making him a cornish game rooster. Anyway the rooster’s name was Bub. Bub was accustomed to chatting online with cornish game babes all day. One day in a fit of lonely with which Bub was occasionally stricken, he decided to meet one of the babes in real life.

“Wanna meet IRL one day.”
“OMG, yes. Tonight, LOL. where?”
“At Fat Cats. It’s kewl in there.”
“What time”
“8 pm”
“Gr8! How will I know you?
“I’ll be wearing hot pink Spandex pants and a mullet.”
“ROFL! And when I see you in your Spandex, I’ll bray like a donkey.”
“Not pretty.”
“I totally spit and blew snot on my monitor and keyboard—FUUUUUUN-NY!”
“That’s SOOO HOT! I love it when a woman goes nasal projectile!”
“OK. L8R!”
“PS: Are you a cow orker?”
“Never mind, later then.”

3) Mr. Furious was a wretched soul. He and his sister couldn’t reach the leaves on the trees. This made him tired. And being tired made him cranky. Which made it even harder to reach the leaves on the trees.

And OH! his poor tendons ached.

He also had no one to kiss. So he sucked on gummy candy.

Anyway, that’s all I have in the way of stories. Post very random comments below if you love tripe.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

64. Click This!

Click here.

Back story...

Friday, January 20, 2006

63. Snow Business

So while some people were excited this year when we got the first snow, I was elated to have gotten the first real snow my area has seen since I was a child. Those of you who have lived in Utah for 10+ years have not been subjected to the Utah winter yet. I’ll explain:

When I was a child, I remember having enough snow in the yard to have knee-deep snow all winter. That’s right, all winter. I know knee-deep snow for a child is not the same as ankle-deep snow for an adult, but still! We ALWAYS had snow settled in the yard—even the south facing part of the yard. My wife Limpy, who grew up in the Carribbean, is had finally been sure she could deal with the cold Utah winter. Until yesterday that is.

We got no less than 8” of snow yesterday. I only had to shovel it for 2 ½ hours yesterday to get it cleared off the walks and driveway. Fortunately, I decided to go the easy route and take the day off work to do it. The deciding factor was pulling out of my neighborhood only to see the UTA bus parked sideways on the street. Knowing my little Honda Civic was not apt to be safe in weather that would wreck a bus, I turned around, went home and phoned it in. the pile of snow I made on the side of the driveway came up to mid-thigh.

The day off gave me time to work on my wife Limpy’s birthday party.

Ramblidad and Ramblimom, my brother Chewy and family, the Molotovs, the Aardvarks, my sister Mortimer, and others were all there. We had a pile of food and a great party—all of which was prepared without the knowledge of my wife Limpy. Highlight of the night—we got to make fun of Jane Austen. Who knows how it came up.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

62. Stuff I saw

Today I saw:

1) A squirrel get run over.

The poor little guy was in the road probably munching on a fallen pecan from the pecan orchards (I’m in Macon, GA). The car in front of me was closing fast. I looked at the innocent, playful squirrel and watched as the other car got closer, and closer, AND CLOSER, AND WAAA WAAA WAAA waaa waaa waa wa wa wa! The car closed in and he darted left. Then in a supreme twist of violent fate. The indecisive squirrel dashed right. He was just a bit too fast because he ran all the way back under the car and got run over by the right rear tire.

I watched him roll a few times with the sharp impact. Long after the furry guy should have stopped rolling, he (or she) was still flopping around in the road. It looked like only one of his (or her) legs was working and it couldn’t propel itself—only flop. I only had a split second, but I tried to run it over with my car to put it out of its misery, but I missed. Then I watched for a few seconds in the rear view mirror as it continued to turn and turn. I giggled—GIGGLED—at the scene. It really was funny. Am I a bad person?

2) A school bus pulled over on the side of the road.

I was reminded of the time when I was in second grade when my school bus wrecked. The route took us to rural (lets call my hometown) Nineveh. One of the rural roads took a 90° bend that was very difficult to maneuver. There was a tree on the inside angle of the corner, and a fence just inches off the shoulder on the outside angle of the curve. On any given day making the turn would have been tricky, but on that January day, the bus hit a patch of ice and slid eventually hitting the fence sideways.

I was sitting on the right side working on my Rubik’s Cube (no lie; I was a real heeb. I can still solve it.) I hit the bus’ side wall very hard. I found the Rubik’s cube three rows ahead of me on the floor. The bus driver told us all to stay on the bus while she RAN approximately ½ mile to the nearest house so she could call the school and the police. Fortunately no one was injured.

We rewarded the bus driver by chanting, “wreck! wreck! wreck! WRECK! WRECK! WRECK! WRECK!” every day for three weeks when we approached that corner.

3) Sasha Cohen ice skate.

I don’t particularly like figure skating. I don’t hate it either; I just don’t like sports with judges. Not that I don’t respect the athletes—I do—I just don’t like the judging. Sports shouldn’t allow points for artistic merit. Also, anything that involves glitter and/or sequins should automatically not qualify as a sport. But that’s a different topic for another post.

Anyway, I LOVE the Olympic Games. When the Olympics roll around, I make a point to watch every second. I’m a junkie, I know, but I love it. Therefore, I tend to get to watch a bit of ice skating during Olympic years.

Despite my ambivalence regarding figure skating, I always make a point of watching when Sasha Cohen is on the ice. Her skill and polish are evident, and I can definitely respect that. She also has the most precise positions and her attention to detail is always impeccable. Watch for her in the Olympics this year.

4) A series of billboards all lined up in a row sponsored by a western wear store.

Since I AM in the south, I didn’t think it too odd, but I DID decide to never, EVER visit the store. I shall also avoid the town the store was in and burn my Roy Rogers albums.

Anyway, I went past the billboards twice today and the second time, I noticed something. The following is the sequence of billboards:

E) [Name of the western wear store]

I started thinking and I defy you to disagree with me: if The Dali Lama were a family guy, wouldn’t those be great names for his sons?

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

61. My Big, Fat Greek Restaurant Talker

I was in a Greek restaurant the other day enjoying a Gyros meal.

I just wanted to tell you.

Really I enjoyed the company at the restaurant more than the food.

The occasion: me eating alone again—wishing I was cooking food on the massive BBQ grill my wife Limpy gave me for Christmas (see picture.)
The Company: 7 total strangers.
The Strangers: the restaurant owner, two waitresses, the cook, an Asian, female patron sitting alone in the far corner, a 40-something couple on what appeared to be a first date, and me.
The setting: a greasy-spoon type Greek joint where the owner counts money and makes silverware bundles ON THE SAME TABLE.
The owner: an abusive, control freak type who probably calls the waitresses ‘broads.’
The cook: who made the food taste really good.
The waitresses: more than adequate servers who will probably end up at a better restaurant as soon as they get enough experience to leave the misogynist Greek restaurant owner.
The Asian lady: kept looking around the restaurant with a vacant expression.
The daters—her: I know nothing about her since she was a low-talker.
The daters—him: a three-time divorcĂ© with hair plugs, 3 “hot” daughters from two ex-wives, a garage in his house where he can fix his Camaro, a “wicked” stereo, two Pit Bulls, a great job pulling down $28,000 per year, a side business that “pays for the dog food,” a mullet-wearer.

How do I know all these things? Because he told me. Well he told everyone in the restaurant. I kept looking for the Blind Date cameras because the scene looked more like reality TV than actual reality.* (*Actual reality: see people who just get by—working two jobs, who drink on weekends to forget the pain of the week, and who don’t starve and/or humiliate themselves on national TV for the right to be head loser.)

The low talker he was with seemed to murmur in hushed tones trying to give the big HINT that one could actually communicate without shouting.

The Greek Restaurant talker rambled on for about 45 minutes while I furiously took notes on a napkin—hoping to catch every golden nugget of socially crippling spew emanating from his mouth in an attempt to capture the quote of the year.

I won.

Friday, January 06, 2006

60. Who Moved My Cheese Snare?

My wife Limpy and I recently acquired a home invader. My sister Mortimer—who will make herself known to you at her leisure—told us we had a mouse in the garage after making another luxurious trip to the trash bin. My wife Limpy and I promptly went to Wal-Mart to purchase mouse traps and grenades.

My sister Mortimer didn’t express her desire to have us buy a frying pan too, but she hinted it with her eyes. (Not to EAT the mouse per se; she wanted to use the pan to go TOM & JERRY on the vile rodent and squash it—making little mouse-shaped indentations in the pan in the process.)

Side story: you may remember the story I wrote about my wife Limpy indicating her desire to squash mice with her heel a couple of months ago. Recently I had a surge of hits on this blog. 21 people read that story 35 times thanks to a website that my employer’s firewall won’t let me open. So, if any of you can tell me who referred so many to my site and what the context was, that would be much appreciated. Here is the link. I’m dying of curiosity, but I’m not of the persuasion of those-who-have-easily-accessible-internet-at-home, so please let me know what the story is.

Back to the main story.

Despite the title of this blog, we decided to use peanut butter on the mouse trap instead of cheese You can see it in the photo. Peanut butter is very aromatic and fatty—exceptionally good at attracting vermin and rodents—so we figured it could be a good attracter for the mouse that has made a home in our garage.

Well, this morning the trap was sprung, the peanut butter was gone and the trap had been dragged about a foot. I reset the trap and reloaded it with peanut butter.


When I pulled the trap back, I found that we indeed almost caught the thing. You may have missed it in the photo, but if you look closely you can see the severed gray tail wrapped around the business end of the trap thingy. It’s to the right. It’s SOOOOO gross. Not that it’s gross necessarily, but I touched it.

That’s right, I TOUCHED THE SEVERED BODY PART OF AN ANIMAL THAT IS STILL ALIVE. I didn’t mean to touch it, but I didn’t see it when I looked at the trap initially. I wager you didn’t see it either at first glance. So when I went to reset my little wooden death implement, I grabbed it right where the rotting tail is there mocking from its trappy home.

I am a germophobe. I am still mortified that my work doesn’t have life-saving sanitary covers for the toilet seats, but I rationalize my way through. It’s people—who are generally clean—who use the bathroom. I don’t think ANY amount of therapy is going to help me discover that one day my left index finger will be decontaminated. Rodents are neither generally clean nor people friendly. They don’t make sanitary rodent covers for us humans.

Who knows what I will do when the trap actually kills the mouse and I have to pick up the sprung trap to throw the mouse away. I KNOW picking it up with plastic is out of the question because plastic is very permeable. “No it isn’t,” you say, but I argue with you. Proof? Suck on a plastic-wrapped sucker (or lollipop) with the plastic still on. You get flavor.

So not only do I have to go into quarantine, I’ll have to handle the cretin-spawn vermin again when we finally catch it. Good bye cruel world. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from this one.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

59. “WELCOME TO [OUR] AIRLINE” ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzz zz z z zzz z zz

Some of you know I am a traveler. I am one who travels, and work pays for it all because I am a good person who tries hard to do my very best at every moment—when I’m on the clock anyway.

The flight attendant on my last plane ride was very interesting:

1) When I boarded the plane, a way-too-perky flight attendant greeted me at the door and practically shouted “Welcome to [Our] Airlines.” I muttered a brief thanks and shuffled back to my seat on the front row. (No I don’t fly first-class, it was one of the regional jets with only 100 seats.) She looked to be about 20, but was very, very odd.

2) Said flight attendant seemed a little bit less than smart. She shouted the VERY SAME greeting to everyone who boarded the plane in the VERY SAME tone and I listened to EVERY INTONATION because I was: A) at the front, B) First to board and C) very annoyed.

3) Said flight attendant spilled ice all over the floor while she was preparing the captain a drink. Then she looked down with a vacant expression and exclaimed (to no one in particular) “OOPSIE!” When she got back from the cockpit after serving the cap’n, she slipped on the ice and fell down. One of her shoes went flying because it was low heeled and she didn’t have the shoe strap around her heel. “WHOOOP!” she exclaimed. All of us passengers giggled.

4) While she was getting ready for takeoff, she pulled out a roll-away seat—facing me—and took an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to buckle her seatbelts. Then she stared at me (remember with a vacant expression) Through the ENTIRE takeoff and initial ascent. I started to wonder when they let her out of the school for the two-dimensional when she got up and prepared the drink cart for its trip through the cabin.

5) Here’s the really good weird part: Her ability to serve drinks, engage the passengers in light conversation and be professional. I don’t know why I had “halo-effected” her and assumed she would be really bad at service; she certainly hadn’t given me any reason to suppose she would be great at service. Anyway, she finished serving drinks, parked the cart up front and then proceeded to go back into unfeeling, unaware-robot mode.

6) She sat down on her backward-facing, flight-attendant seat, pulled out a tattered book and opened it up to page 10 or 15 or so. The book looked like it had been with her for a long time, so I was surprised she was so close to the beginning. She stared at the page for about 3 minutes, but her eyes never moved. 15 minutes later she still hadn’t turned the page. Weird. After the drink filtered through my guts, I had to get up and go to the bathroom, so I made my way to the back of the plane where I had to wait for a few minutes.

7) Here’s the really bad weird part: When I got back to my seat, the girl was gone. I peeked around the bulkhead to see if she was working in the galley. She was asleep. She had pulled out the drink cart to conceal her from the other passengers and gone to sleep right there between the drink cart and the ‘Exit’ door. This was a longer-than-usual flight so she slept there for about 35 minutes until initial descent when she stood up and finished the flight normally.

I can’t wrap my mind around how it was even OK in her mind to go to sleep on the floor during her shift. She obviously hasn’t been reported yet. She reminded me a lot of the airline reservationist in Tommy Boy who was absolutely no help to David Spade.

I don’t expect I would be a person who would need or want to depend on her if there was a problem with the flight, but I DO think she would probably need to be awake if something started to happen. I’m just sayin’. Maybe she’ll still be with the airline next week. Probably not.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

58. Pre-Blog Stupidity

I haven't felt very inspired to write much lately. Maybe it's the leftover nog in my system since Christmas. I don't want to let you down, so here's a story I wrote before I was a blogger. I feel responsible to share this story with you because I am vain and shallow. The following was written by me about three (3) years ago and published--PUBlished--ME!:

My ex-girlfriend recently got married. I'm very happy for her, but I'm even MORE happy for me. I was never really sure I ever liked her. I thought the new boyfriend was just a vain attempt to make me jealous. Although now that she's married him, I'm beginning to think she wasn't just dating him on the rebound.

I met her after seeing her in a crowd of people at a mid-day concert and thinking she was hot. Later that day I walked around a corner and ran right into her...coincidence? I think not. I had been following her for three-hours by that time, but that's beside the point. I got her digits and told her I would call her soon. My friend had seen us talking and expressed an interest in being introduced to her. I told him he was ten minutes too late.

At first things were great; I was dating a girl my friend liked, and despite his attempts to hit on her later behind my back, she told him she was attached. After a few weeks however, I began to think dating a girl to spite my friend wasn't enough; I was going to have to start bringing something to the relationship. So I bought her a box of chocolates. I was alarmed at how fast she oinked through the candy. Since I'm a benevolent guy, I decided to look past her one little shortcoming. Unfortunately, other shortcomings started to surface.

Later that month when I took her to my parents' house for a free Sunday dinner, she wore a dress that looked like Laura Ingalls Wilder made it herself. I had never seen a more hideous mix of colors. She said it was her mom's dress from the '70s so I didn't say much-but brown "ric-rac?" I mean come on! It's 2003 already.

She always smelled like chlorine too. As a swimmer I thought the chlorine smell was somewhat normal, but when asked if she'd just got back from the pool, she told me she hadn't been to the pool since the morning before. She should have showered at least twice since the previous morning, right?

The last straw came when I went to her house one day to surprise her. Her roommates let me in. They told me she was decent and I could go back to her room to surprise her. When I peeked in her room she was sitting on the floor by the mirror ROLLING HAIR FROM OFF THE FLOOR INTO HAIRBALLS AND TRYING TO SHOOT BASKETS IN THE GARBAGE!

As repulsed as I was, I paused, took a deep breath and said, "Surprise-it's me!" She hopped up and gave me a kiss and we went out. I wouldn't walk on her right hand side because I didn't want to have to hold her right hand, the hairball hand.

That night I realized I had already been noticing all the bad qualities she possessed. Possibly I had been looking for an excuse to break up, possibly she was a repulsive troll with a great physique and an otherwise pleasant personality.

That night I broke up with her. It was tough, but I let her down easy. "It's not you, it's me-I don't like you..."

The reason I'm telling you all of this is to set up what happened when I went to take a wedding present to my repulsive ex-girlfriend and her repulsive new husband. I rang the doorbell and was invited in. While I was there, I noticed a big, fat, Greek, black cat named Harry. I couldn't help noticing the cat hair everywhere since I'm extremely allergic to house pets.

We had a short, pleasant visit and I have to say her husband turned out to be a really cool guy with a very repulsive wife. Why can't I just let it go? Because in the five minutes I was there, she began rooting black cat hairballs off the carpet with her big toe. My Wife Limpy--who had been skeptical at the veracity of the original hairball story--was repulsed and decided we had better go.

What's my point? I guess it's that you can't make people change. It's a good thing I'm not the sucker stuck with hairball girl.