Tuesday, September 26, 2006

120. Why Things Don't Go Well for Me

So, imagine you're me for a second--a younger, thirtysomething, white, chubby, bald guy with a knack for putting himself in the most awkward situations possible. Then imagine yourself walking into a black hair salon and asking the gay, black hairdresser man if he knows where you can buy some Black N Sassy Triple Gro Tea Tree Oil Gro hair products. Then imagine how awkwardly the man and his elderly black client look at you as you stammer and run out the door a la Napoleon Dynamite.

Well if you imagined that, it must've happened right? Right. Last week I was in Los Angeles working. And for those of you who don't know, my wife Limpy is black and has been all her life. Unfortunately, we live in Utah and she is one (1) of only three (3) black people in the entire state. The other two (2) live in Magna or something.

And for those of you who don't know, Black people don't wash their hair every day. Washing one's hair ruins the hair, makes it brittle, and depresses the soul. I guess their scalps don't produce the oils necessary to keep the hair safe like ours do. In fact, since I am bald, I have been thinking of a way to share my hair oils with my wife Limpy for years but I haven't thought of any good hair oil transferral systems.

Anyway, since there aren't many black people in Utah, the beauty supply stores here don't carry many products for them. And every time we find a product that my wife Limpy likes, we find it has been discontinued when it's time for a refill. Well, not discontinued, but that the store has stopped shipping any to Utah.

Which is how I found myself in LA making a fool of myself. And now our brand new storage room has a shelf dedicated to the forty (40) jars of hair oil I brought home.

Another reason I'm in such a chipper mood is because the First Mate was up all night last night. I'm not complaining. I vowed I would never tell people I'm tired because of the newborn. I hate it when people tell you how bad their life is because of a baby and I'm not going that way. My life is a blessing, and the First Mate is a bundle of....no, a compressed bundle of extra joy.

But last night, just before bed, he was very hungry. I fed him three (3) ounces of milk because he usually eats just about that much--sometimes four (4). He was still acting hungry after three (3) so I fed him another ounce. And then another. And then half (1/2) an ounce more. If the First Mate wants food, the First Mate gets food, I say (at least for now while he is still a newborn.) Feeding him is a lot like the storage room: the more you stuff in there, the better.

Imagine my surprise when he didn't fall asleep right away, and kept baby-vomiting through the next three to four (3-4) hours. At the agreed time at which I was to hand him to my wife Limpy and get some rest, I thought he was on the verge of sleep. Not so. My wife Limpy was up the rest of the night with him. He didn't sleep from nine-o-clock (9:00) last night until this morning, and maybe not since. And it's all my fault. Not only did I feed him nearly twice as much as normal, I stretched his stomach out so he'll never feel full again.

So things went bad because I am a moron.

Did you know someone found my blog by google-searching the words 'unibrow spanish translation?'

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

119. ArupiseMVLINFA!


That's what you get when you type 'stupidramblings' with your left hand shifted one key to the left on your keyboard. How do I know? Because I'm a good typist. Well, what I mean is I don't look at my hands anymore when I type; I look at my elbow.

No, serious. I have gotten to the point in my typing career where I can type without looking. Unfortunately, the issue of starting with your hands in the right place remains. So once in a while, when I'm trying to type something, I end up with a phrase that is very different from what I was expecting.

Which I suspect may have been the case when Miss Nemesis said she brayed like a donkey. Or what happened when I decided to write a blog.

About a year ago, I started this thing with the thought in mind that I could brush up on my typing skills, get a Hollywood contract to write for a major sitcom, and rule the world with my own brand of stupid humor. Well folks, I'm just steps away from my dream.

Hollywood, don't bring at around here for less than eight (8) digits. Because this blog has netted me like two dollars and seventy three cents ($2.73) and If I'm going to be torn away from it, it's gotta be worth it...

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

118. My Heart Bleats for You.

But first a couple of photos with explanations (click on each photo to see it full size):

So my wife Limpy makes excellent Rice Krispy Treats. 'Cept when she doesn't as was the case last time. She used old marshmallows from two opened halves of packages. The result of using slightly less-soft marshmallows was a pan full of rock hard Rice Krispy Treats--By Kellog's Brand Rice Krispy People, Snap! Crackle! Pop! Below you can see the blood spot on my midnight snack from where it attacked my gums.

Next comes the story of how I washed my headphones. I wore my headphones on the plane to listen to my MP3 player a few days ago. Then I carefully folded the headphones up and placed them in my cargo pockets in my shorts. (not those shorts) Then I carefully placed the shorts in the wash when I returned home. After carefully placing them in the drier, I returned to find the headphones carefully wrapped around everything. And wadded into a tight little ball. Like freshly spun yarn. And your intestines. So rather than try to carefully unwrap said bundle of wires, I decided to first test the headphones to see if they still worked. They do! but the wires just don't look the same; behold the photo below.

The weather may have sucked in Utah the last few days, but the sunrise outside my house was excellent. Vis a vis:

For you computer guys and girls out there: 0101010001110101101110101000010101011010101001 110010110001 101 1010100101001011111100000101001010 1. 101 1 10010 110110010 0101 0 01 1011 01 0101101 10101 0010 11010101001010 0101010010101. 101 010010 1001010 010 1001 01 1011111000000 010 100111111000110010 01 010101010100101001000001010 0010 1010010001 0101 010100101 10010 101 110. Please don't tell my mother.

And finally, I ate mutton tonight. I usually go for chicken, but I was in a reputable-looking restaurant, and I wanted to do something adventurous. It was a Jamaican place in Inglewood, CA that makes a mean curry goat. I enjoyed it very much. Baaaa-a-a-aa-a-a-aaaa--a-a--a-a-a--a--a---a-a (that's enough of that.)

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

117. Tons o' Fun

So I weigh a lot 'n' stuff. More than an elephant, in fact.

I'll prove it to you here and now.

Bring it on, Cletus!


Saturday, September 09, 2006

116. Various Funnies from Where I Travelled To.

Eric Snider's readers sent him a link to a website, called Crying, While Eating.com which I am forced to recommend. Find it here.

A new site I found while using the ‘next blog’ feature I’ve gotta recommend is here. It’s a mind numbing explanation of how we might possibly imagine what it’s like to operate in a ten (10) dimensional universe. (String Theory is the relatively new and popular theory of everything that, if true, delineates 10 dimensions. That’s why this explanation is necessary.) I'm sorry I can't remember whose blog it was on. Credit to you, whomever you may be. Watch it here.

And some funnies:

In rural [another state], I saw a roadside billboard advertising one ‘Hookers Restaurant’—sorry no photo. I can’t even begin to explain what’s wrong with naming your restaurant ‘Hookers.’ Do the cops run undercover sting operations weekly? Is there anyone who lacks so much self respect to work there? Does the name eliminate most of the potential clientele? Is the owner’s name Hooker? Naw, anyone with that last name would have to know the perils of such a name and not based their business on it. ‘Hookers’ Really?

Finally, I saw a the personalized plate ‘NVIG8R’ on the same drive. Sure, it looks innocuous enough on the casual glance, but upon closer inspection one realizes it spells EN-vi-ga-tor. I can only imagine how the plate ‘NVIG8R’ came to be.

“Darrr-lin’ I reckon it’s time we get us one o’ them personalized license plates”

"If'n ya wanna waste yer money, go ahead. Whaddya wannit to say?

"Envigorate--N-V-I-G-8-R. It's probably taken, but we might be the first to ask for it."

[later that month]

"Darrr-lin'! We got it. No one has 'NVIG8R.' We own it. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAAAAWWWWWW!"

Anyway, I'm "envigatored" by my chance to get back out on the road. I've forgotten how many of the little things I miss when I travel the same route to work every day.

Which brings me to my final thought: in Utah, between Provo and Salt Lake City, there's road that leads up to American Fork Canyon, home of Timpanogos Cave. Just after you leave I-15 heading east toward the canyon, they've posted a large brown road sign that reads:

Timpanogos Cave
Three (3) Hour Tours

I've always wanted to make an attachment for that sign. If I could duplicate the brown paint and font style and size on another board, I could hang a board on the sign that covers the word 'Timpanogos' and replaces it with the word 'Gilligan's'. I think the sign

Gilligan's Cave
Three (3) Hour Tours

Would be a lot more funny.

I'm gonna go drive real fast....

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

115. Express Your Shelf.

Some may think it’s a little crazy to stockpile food and munitions in one’s basement in hopes one might survive the apocalypse. Not me. I think it’s a great idea.

Well, not the munitions part, just the food part. I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out that having a supply of long-lasting, leathery-tasting food in case something bad happens is a good idea. My church preaches physical and emotional self-reliance as well as spiritual progress and yadda, yadda, yadda. I’m not here to preach, sinners, I’m just saying I feel it’s a smart idea to get something together in case a catastrophic earthquake or waterspout hits my valley.

So, I feel the religious fervor-like need to gather grains, canned goods and “a very little meat” in my basement, but until recently I had nowhere to store it all. When we built the house, my contractors had the foresight to put a cold storage room underneath my front porch, so I had the space, but I needed an organizatory plan for righteous space usage.

Which is why I used some of the tax return money to buy materials with which to build a storage room in the nethermost parts of my house. So, all summer as I had time and energy, I spent time in the basement building shelves in the storage room.

AND NOW I PROCLAIM TO THE WORLD THAT MY SHELVES ARE FINISHED AND THAT WHEN THE APOCALYPSE COMES, EVERYONE IS INVITED TO MY HOUSE FOR FREEZE-DRIED POTLUCK RATIONS. Actually I warn you to stay off my property so I don’t have to shoot you. No offense, but I’m an ant and you’re a grasshopper coming to steal my bounty and I don’t have enough for you. Sharing is not part of my religion.

Anyway, the shelves are done and thanks to a ‘case lot’ sale at the local grocery store, I have about three hundred (300) cans of veggies and supplies we regularly cook with to start the shelf-stocking. I can’t wait for the flood so I can live on creamed corn and coconut milk until the nation gets back to order. Shown is a photo of my shelfish ways.

Next plan is an upright freezer so we can store tons (4000 lbs) of raw venison and mutton for non-emergency consumption. And there’s really no way to wrap up my comments in this here post except by saying STAY OFF MY PROPERTY! Posted by Picasa