Compatibility Match

I saw a commerical on TV for one of those on-line dating sites, and I joked with my wife that we should sign up for it and see if it matched us together.  She told me absolutely not.  When I asked her why not, she said it was because I might end up meeting someone better.  Which is just ludicrous, because that’s impossible. There is nobody better than my wife.

When I told B.D. about it, he said he’d be afraid to try it too.  He said knowing his luck the thing would come back and say he and his wife had a 4% compatibility match.  Or worse, his wife would end up on the “Under no circumstances should you date this person…” list.

Worth More Alive

Sometimes, I'm a pain in the keister...a downright turd.  Sometimes, I antagonize my wife, just because I'm bored.  I know I shouldn't.  I just can't help it.  I think the only reason my wife hasn’t offed me yet is that I’m worth more alive than dead.  I mean sure, I have a $90,000 life insurance policy if I die; but alive, she can collect on the reoccurring revenue.

The Mirror

Someone was watching me wash my hands in the bathroom today.  It was creepy.  He didn't do anything to me, but it's just weird to have someone just stand there and watch you wash your hands.  I know what you're thinking...he was just waiting for me to finish so he could use the sink.  Not so.  There are two sinks, and the other one was free.  He didn't use it.  He just stood there staring at me.

What was worse was that he was in there watching me every time I went to the bathroom.  Tomorrow, I think I'll just hold it.

Friendly Fire

I started playing computer games cooperatively with my stepfather back in 1993 with the release of Doom, a wildly popular first-person shooter.  However, our philosophies about the best way to play the game differed greatly.  I was more of the sneak into the room quietly, creep up behind the monster, put one bullet into the back of his head, and then move on to the next target kind of guys.  My stepfather was more of the fling the door open, proceed to fan back and forth, while unloading your entire arsenal of bullets into the room, not sure exactly what you hit because you can't see it through the flare from your gun kind of guys.

I'll admit that his way did serve its purpose and proved effective.  With very little threat to himself, he did manage to wipe out the entire room.  Ammo was plentiful enough, so the cost was acceptable.  There wasn't really a downside to his method.  That is, unless I went into the room first.  Then, I'd find myself being attacked by an unseen enemy.  Hiding behind barriers to escape the monsters' attacks, only to find that somehow they were still managing to hit me.  After suffering multiple deaths on each level, I finally figured out that it was friendly fire that was fragging me.  Who would have thought that I'd have more to fear from my own team than from the monsters?

The Resolution Notes

During our testing phase at work, we write up issues that we find in the code.  These can be anything from a misspelled label to a complete failure in the functionality of a button...and everything in between.  We pass these issues along to the programmers to research and fix.  When they're done, the programmers are supposed to write up their resolution notes, so that we know what and how they fixed the code.  Today, I received the following resolution on an issue I had written up:

"Code changed to fix the problem. Fixed some other things too."

That about says it all.  Should be pretty easy to retest.

The Signpost

I never claimed to be a good example of Christianity. I still struggle and stumble along just like you. I still question and wonder. I try. Sometimes, I still fail. But I would never want your faith to be impacted by my poor example. Because a poor example it will always be. I’m not perfect. I know, I know…that’s hard to believe, but I’m not. And even if I might be farther along in “the walk” than you at the moment, I’m still not the ideal embodiment of all that Christianity entails.

No, I don’t want to be your example. I just want to be a signpost that points you to my example.

To Blow or Not to Blow...

I’m not sure about this whole blowing your nose in the bathroom thing. I mean, is that really a place that you want to be able to smell your surroundings better?

The Soda Machine

I ran into M.C. in the breakroom at work buying a soda. Knowing that he only buys sodas in extreme circumstances, I asked him if today had been a bad day. He said it was just one of those days when you feel the whole world is against you.

About an hour later, I ran into him in the breakroom again, and again he was buying a soda. (No, the point of this post is not to criticize how often I find myself in the breakroom.) I commented to him that it must be a really bad day, if he was already having another soda. At that exact moment the soda machine was spitting his perfectly crisp dollar bill back out for the fourth time. He just looked at me and said, "You know it's bad when even the soda machine turns against you."

Pant Sizes

I tried to buy clothes for my niece today, but I didn't know her size. I called my sister-in-law to ask what size to buy. She told me that my niece is skinny as a rail and as tall as a tree. She said that she has problems buying pants for my niece, because by the time she buys pants long enough for her legs, they are too big in the waist.

I can sympathize with that...or at least I used to be able to sympathize. Now, I buy pants to fit my growing waist, and I have to roll them up at the bottom to keep them from sliding over my shoes.

Where are the pants for the short, fat people!?

Facebook

I signed up for Facebook and finally joined the "in crowd." When filling out my personal information, it asked if I was married and to whom. I indicated that I was and selected my wife's name from the search. A pop-up was then displayed that said, "A message was sent to your wife to confirm that she agrees to being married to you."

Agrees to being married to me? What if she doesn't agree? Is this a new kind of anullment? Does she really have the ability to just "opt out" via Facebook?

I feel just as nervous as I did when I was waiting for her answer to my marriage proposal.

A Wee

That's a wee bit more than I expected. Oh, that's a wee mintay!

How much is a wee? I asked B.D. this question today, and he replied, "A wee is a wee." Profound, right? I told him I was looking for something more along the lines of 'the approximate distance between your thumb and forefinger when you hold them this far apart.' He said that that won't work because a "wee" doesn't always apply to distance. Sometimes it deals with size, sometimes with time...it can mean so many things.

Now, how am I supposed to measure a wee of time with my fingers? Answer me that, Mr. Smarty-pants. Ha!

All or Nothing

B.D. said yesterday that Jesus being the Son of God and dying on the cross for our sins is a belief. It can’t be proven as fact. Which is why he has a hard time blindly accepting it as truth. Let’s suspend my personal feelings about this being a fact which I believe in, rather than just a belief of faith. My question is why wouldn’t you want to believe it?

You have the ability to believe in an all-powerful being that has nothing but your best interest at heart. He takes care of you, blesses your life with abilities and gifts, provides for you, loves you, and even dies for you. He is never mean or hurtful to you. He lets you mess up, spit in His face, disobey, and walk away without it ever causing Him not to love you. You can crawl back to Him, and He forgives you without holding a grudge or storing it away to take out on you later.

What could be better than believing in this? Why would you resist? What harm would it cause you to believe it? All of the reasons are on the Pro side with none on the Con side, so what’s the problem? I just don’t understand it.

I accede that I am a person that tends to believe things are true until proven wrong, instead of the other way around. But what comfort can there be in not believing in something in general and God in specific? Why would anyone want to believe that God doesn’t exist until they have proof that He does? That just leaves you alone…with nothing…with no all-powerful being watching over you, protecting you, and helping you. Between those two choices, I am dumbfounded why anyone would choose nothing.

Mocking Happiness

How bad does your life have to be when you mock someone else’s happiness?

Someone is on a phone call behind me, and he’s laughing in obvious happiness. And all I can do is silently find ways to make fun of his laugh. Which doesn’t make me feel any better about my own crappy day. Nor would I feel better if for some reason he had heard me and started to have a crappy day because of it. I would just walk away thinking how pathetic and overly-sensitive he was. His pain…and his pain at my expense…would not bring a shred of compassion to my heart.

Why, just because I’m upset, would I begrudge someone else their happiness? Because I don’t want someone else to be happy if I can’t be too? Sick, just sick.

The Dartboard

I used to have a dartboard. I hung it up on the side of my dad’s workshop. Most days I hit the side of the workshop more than I hit the dartboard. Either that or the dart would miss completely and land in the grass somewhere. One or two even went over the fence behind the workshop.

My dad finally made me take it down because I was putting a lot of holes in the workshop. Funny, the dartboard looked practically brand new. You couldn’t even tell that someone had played on it.

Curling Toes

When I sit without my shoes on, I tend to curl my toes underneath my feet. I’m not conscious of this. I don’t even know why I do it, but without fail, it will happen. Then, one day I noticed my mom doing the same thing. So, I guess it’s a genetic thing. I guess the true test will be if my kids do it too.

Lost

I wish I was lost…and nobody knew where my cubicle was. I’m so tired of people coming by constantly and interrupting the flow I’m trying to get myself into. I was admonished and betrayed for attempting to bring a little positivity and fun into this wretched gray, waffle of an office. So, now that I want to just be left alone and let the imbeciles I work with fend for their own joy, I can’t keep them away from me.

I sent someone an e-mail, making a very simple statement. Rather than just sending a reply back via e-mail to clarify her point (clarification which was completely unnecessary to begin with), she felt the need to walk over to my cubicle to tell me in person. So, instead of reading her useless response in five seconds and deleting it, I was forced to listen to her drone on for seven minutes, seven wasted minutes of my life that I’ll never get back again. In addition, I had to force a non-annoyed look onto my face. A feat which is not easy when you want to beat the person to death with your shoe…or a handy stapler…or perhaps just stab them in the neck with a brand new red ballpoint pen.

No, I haven’t given this a lot of thought.

Coke Bubbles

I love the way Coke bubbles tickle when they fizzle onto the end of your nose.

Can Opener

Today I brought a can of carrots to work to eat for lunch.

I didn’t bring a can opener.

Faded

Whenever my roommate in college, J.T., would get depressed or have a bad day, I would cheer him up by doing a chair dance for him. And no, that's not a distant cousin of the lap dance. I'd put the song 'Faded' on by Soul Decision and Thrust. Then, I'd start dancing; doing little hip thrusts, "back the booty ups," left and right slides, and front-to-back swivels...all without leaving my chair! It was quite complicated and elaborate choreography.

By the end, I'd have him in stitches. I never knew if it was because of the absurdity of dancing while sitting in my chair, or if it was because of the enthusiasm and energy I put into making him happy. After a while, all I'd have to do was put the song on, and his face would break into a grin. I still think of that time, every time I hear that song.

Saint Harmony

We were talking today at lunch about how Catholics choose a Confirmation Name when they are confirmed into the church. This name has to be one of the literally thousands of saints’ names canonized in the Catholic Church.

A.S. asked if the name was given to them or whether they get to choose their own, and M.C. said that you get to choose your own. So, I asked whether they were given a list of saint names so they knew what to choose from, and M.C. said, “No, you just have to look it up somewhere.”

This started the discussion about choosing the right Confirmation Name. Do you base it on whether you like the sound of the name or whether what that saint did touches you or relates to you in some way? That is when we came up with the idea for Saint Harmony…a saint matching service. The confirmation candidate answers a series of questions, and a list of potential saint names comes back based on a compatibility scale with their answers.

Brilliant!

Live By Faith

B.D. said yesterday that all of the debate over whether Creationism is right is useless, because nobody really knows. I think it’s interesting that people refuse to accept or believe in Creationism because they weren’t there to see it. In fact, they can’t even talk to anybody that was there to see it. All they have to go by is a written account of what someone says happened.

So, by that logic…how do we know Genghis Khan existed? Or Alexander the Great? Or Attila the Hun? Or Julius Caesar? How do I know that Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated? Or that Davey Crockett and Jim Bowie died at the Alamo? Or that there were Hanging Gardens in Babylon? Or a Colossus statue in Rhodes?

I didn’t see any of these things. I can’t find anyone that was alive at the time to ask about them. All I have is someone’s written account. Yet, nobody has a problem accepting or believing that these people or events are real.

In addition, Christians believe the Bible, the source for Creationism, was inspired by God. This would make it a better, written source than history books. But suspend the facts for a brief moment and consider the theory that it was only written by men. (How many times have I heard that argument? I can’t believe the Bible because it was written by men and therefore is prone to error.) Why does this book by men deserve less blind faith than the history books I studied in school?

Why do people struggle so much with faith about God and miracles? Don’t they blindly work off of faith for millions of things they have never seen every day?

TGIF

I hate when you ask someone how they're doing, and they say, "Well, it's Friday." As if this suddenly answered all your questions. I feel like saying back to them, "Yes, it is, and Cairo is a city in Egypt, but that really has nothing to do with what I asked you."

Do you know that a study was conducted to determine what is the most common Favorite Day of the Week? And do you know what they found? Friday. And do you know why people like Friday so much? Because the next day is the weekend. Um...then why wouldn't Saturday be your favorite day, because then it actually IS the weekend! I don't know about everyone else, but I still have to work on Fridays, so it really isn't any better off than say Thursday or Tuesday.

Personally, I think all of that is stupid. Why wouldn't we be trying to make the most of every day. Why spend your entire week rushing to the weekends? Do you know how much faster that makes your life slip by? No wonder people always think their life goes by faster as an adult. Kids are enjoying every single day. Sure they may rush to get out of school, but then all evening is a free-for-all. You can do anything. Why aren't adults like that?

For me, my favorite day is Wednesday. It goes all the way back to elementary school. On Wednesdays we had music class. I liked music class so much that I couldn't help looking forward to the next week when we could have it again. Now, I just figure that liking Wednesdays is just as logical as liking any other day.

Methane Signature

Today, I was in a long meeting. Halfway through, the other person needed a break, so he got up to get some water. He left the room and shut the door. And that's when I discovered it. He'd left me a nice treat behind. And that sucker was potent! Within seconds it had permeated every corner of the room. It was so bad that I had to seek shelter outside the room as well.

When I accused the guy of the dastardly deed, he adamantly denied it. I told him that there were only two of us in the room, so one of us was lying.

Wouldn't it be nice if farts had a methane signature? Something that identified them to the person that dealt them, like DNA or a fingerprint. Do you know how useful that would be? No more getting falsely accused of fumigating the elevator. No more getting anonymously "crop dusted." No more conference room farts that nobody is man enough to claim.

On a side note, I was shopping tonight for shoes. I was standing there feeling the lack of cushion in a pair of dress shoes, when I was hit by the same foul stench that I had smelled earlier in the meeting. Suddenly realizing that I was the only one on the aisle, I started to suspect that I was the culprit of the earlier crime as well. Pride and joy filled my heart that I was able to eradicate a room like that...it lasted but a few minutes, because the reek got so bad I had to leave the store.

The Firecracker and the Sunrise

Make me not like the firecracker that explodes with light and color
That expends its energy in a quick burst and then fades quickly into darkness.
Make me instead like the sunrise that creeps its light upon the earth
Then stays to warm and illuminate the life below it for the entire day.

Credit Fraud

D.R. got a call from his credit card company today. Apparently, someone in California was trying to use his Debit Card to pay for a colonic irrigation. D.R. told them it wasn’t him, but if he ever gets his hands on the guy, the guy will have more than just a tube shoved up his butt.

Like D.R.'s foot, perhaps? Is anyone else thinking Red Foreman?

What's the point?

A romantic comedy on Blu-Ray.

Because sometimes you just want to see a love story in high definition.

The Bag of Crisps

B.D. was telling us about this guy who used to come to the pub with his German Shepherd. Apparently, the guy could tell the dog to get him a bag of crisps, and the dog would go behind the bar and pull a bag of chips out of the basket and bring it back to the guy. Then, the guy could tell the dog to go get one for himself, and the dog would go get another bag of chips, bring it back to the table, lay down on the floor, tear it open, and eat it.

What was even more remarkable was that the dog could tell the difference between flavors. B.D. told the guy that he bet the dog would be confused if they switched the baskets of chips up, but it didn’t faze the dog one bit. Somehow he nailed it every time.

3 Seconds

- The time it takes to see your entire life flash before your eyes right before you get into an accident.

- The time it takes to either make my wife’s night or ruin my own based on what I say when I first walk in the door.

- The time it takes me to comb my hair after a shower.

- The time it takes to genuinely ask how someone is doing.

- The time it takes for a kid to go from clean to dirty.

- The time I can stay on the mechanical rocket outside the supermarket before I'm bucked off.

- The time your car stays new after you drive off the lot.

- The time of clear breathing that I have in between blowing my nose and it filling back up.

- The time it takes for B.D. to finish two double-cheeseburgers and a basket of fries at Dairy Queen.

- The time it takes my wife to be completely asleep when her head hits the pillow.

Extra Virgin Olive Oil

How can you have Extra Virgin Olive Oil? I mean “virgin” is an absolute term. It’s either virgin or not. It can’t be more virgin than another olive oil. I knew a girl once that used to wear a shirt that said, “98% Virgin.” I know it was supposed to be a joke, but it got me to wondering if people really try to justify screwing around by giving virginity a degree of how far you went.

I digress…we’re talking about olive oil, not people. So, okay, maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe it’s more like an advertisement for a special offer. Buy one virgin olive oil, get an extra olive oil free. Or maybe like those adds that say, “10% More Free.” You are getting extra virgin olive oil at no additional charge.

The Fanny Super Pack

Have you ever wondered what Superman did with his clothes when he changed into costume? I think he has a fanny pack behind his cape to put them in. We all know the cape is useless, so it must just be there to hide his pack.

I wonder what else he keeps in his fanny pack. Maybe some peanuts or crackers for a little in-flight snack? Wouldn't that suck if the bag of peanuts violently tore open and all of his peanuts went plummeting to earth? Then again, I guess he could just zip down and scoop them all up.

The "fanny super pack." That almost sounds like you're getting two for one on butts when you buy in the next 30 minutes. Maybe the "super fanny pack." Not to be confused with the "just okay fanny pack." Nah, that won't work either. How about the "hide-it-behind-your-useless-cape-so-nobody-sees-what-you-do-with-your-clothes after-you-changed-into-your-costume-in-a-phonebooth-so-that-you-could-go-fight-crime in-tight-spandex fanny pack"? Yep, I think I'm onto something here!

Coffee is Not Good for Plants

B.D. pours the leftover coffee in his cup onto his plant at the end of the day. Now, the poor thing is addicted to caffeine. Yesterday, he didn't have any coffee left to give it, and this morning he came in to find his plant leaning toward his cup and shaking.

Pantless in the Office Picture

I woke up this morning thinking that we were taking our office picture at work today. So, I made sure to put on a flattering shirt, clean pants, and my nicest underwear. Imagine my disappointment when I found out the picture is tomorrow! Imagine my disappointment growing deeper when I found out the picture was being moved to next week! Well, I'm not playing the game. I wore my good underwear today. They're not getting it again next week.

S.M. tentatively asked why wearing my best underwear should matter for the office picture. I told him that you never know when you might get "pantsed." It's best to be prepared.

I seem to be going with an underwear theme this week. Funny.

Wear Clean Underwear

Why do people always tell you to wear clean underwear in case you get in an accident? Why would people see your underwear if you got in an accident? Are they assuming that you'll hit so hard that you'll fly right out of your pants? There you'll be lying in the street in your skidmark underwear when the paramedics show up. But honestly, would that really look so odd, having skids after an accident? I mean, there's nothing wussy about having the crap scared out of you.

Or maybe it's because the paramedics check that sort of thing while you're unconscious. "You keep him alive, while I rifle through his pockets for change and check his underwear for skids." Then they roll you into the ER, and the attending physician asks for your status. "Well, we've stabilized his breathing, his heartrate's fine, and he's wearing Tweety Bird boxers with skids."

My wife seems to think it has to do with when they're changing you into your hospital gown. But that still doesn't tell me why some nurse is inspecting my underwear to such a close degree. I say that if you're going to look, then you deserve whatever you see.

You Talkin' to Me?

My friend Bruce was telling me that he screwed up naming his dog. Apparently, his dog, Zeus, can't tell the difference when Bruce's wife calls for Bruce from the other room. Zeus always gets up and lumbers in to see what she wants. Bruce said that he doesn't even bother getting off the couch. When his wife asked him why he didn't come when she called, he told her that he didn't think there was a need, because he sent Zeus to find out what she wanted.

Bruce said that Zeus is the smartest dog he's ever owned. The kind of dog a man can have a conversation with and just know the dog understands him. He said that lately when his wife calls for Bruce, Zeus will just look over at Bruce to see which one of them is supposed to go. He'll only check it out if Bruce tells him that she called the dog.

Nudity and the Dream

I had a weird dream last night. Actually, it was just one in a series of bad dreams over the last several nights. In my dream, I was naked. I know that on the surface that doesn’t sound so bad, especially to my wife who knows my penchant for going “a la in the buff” pretty much every chance I get. But what made it bad was the fact that everyone else in the dream was clothed. Let’s take it a step further to say that not only were they clothed, but they were consciously aware of the fact that I was naked. Trust me, that situation is even awkward in a dream.

I tried all sorts of things to be more modest…the convenient placement of a hand or a crossed leg…but it’s hard to stay focused on the “story” of the dream when you’re constantly having to worry about the fact that people know you’re naked and are uncomfortable by it. I finally resorted to trying to “dream” myself some clothes, but as is usually the case with dreams, things did not turn out as planned.

My next appearance in my dream found me standing there with a fig leaf over the appropriate area like some early Renaissance statue. Technically, that should have sufficed to allow me to go on with the story, but then I became obsessed with figuring out how the leaf was staying on since there was no obvious attachment device. Not to mention the constant questions from the other members of my “dream cast” about why I was wearing a fig leaf instead of clothes, like everyone else.

Having one of these dreams would be bad enough, but to find the same problem night after night, as I dream my way through various adventures is just disconcerting. It’s also not easy to feel powerful and confident when people are constantly laughing at my underdeveloped arms and legs and my oversized belly. Aren’t you supposed to be anything you want to be in your dreams…a powerful superhero, a ladies man, rich and confident? Well, either something’s wrong or this is a sign from a higher power that I’m supposed to save the world single-handedly with nothing more than a fig leaf!

The Sadness of Light

A light went out in my cube. No, I don’t mean that metaphorically as an attempt to say that I lost my desire to do my job or anything. I mean that the actual light bulb over my cube went out. Well, to be more exact one of the three bulbs went out.

So, now I have this band of shadow, if you will, sandwiched in-between two bands of light. Every time I cross into that band of shadow now, I feel a momentary sadness cross over me. It’s as if the shadow sucks out my joy. Or maybe it’s the other way around, and it’s just the light that gives the joy.

It’s strange how light and colors can have so much affect on your emotions.

Memoirs of the Prom

I was sick right before my high school prom. I had the sinus crud the week before, and even though I was over that by my prom, I still managed to lose my voice because of it. This stunk for several reasons, such as my date barely being able to hear me over the music, since all I could do was whisper raspily into her ear. But I think what I regret most is that I was supposed to sing a duet with my best friend, C.W., and couldn’t.

The prom committee had rented a karaoke machine, and C.W. and I were going to try our luck (and make our public debut) singing “More Than Words” by Extreme. But the ill-timed voice loss destroyed any hopes I had of doing my part. C.W. was not to be deterred, though. She decided to sing a solo of the song, and dedicated it to her partner who had lost his voice and couldn’t join her.

I think that was the most beautiful rendition of that song that I have ever heard. The power and beauty of her voice was enough to move me to tears. Well, that and the fact that she looked at me the whole time. She was singing that song just for me. I felt all the love and sadness that she conveyed to me through the song. I will never forget that as long as I live.

The Pee

I hadda pee today. I sort of got stuck with it. I tried to trade it in for another letter, like a queue or an ex, but everyone was being stingy today. I got offered an eee from a guy that had five of them, but I declined. Everyone knows that a pee is worth more than an eee. Another guy offered me a number two for my pee, but I adamantly refused him. A pee is bad enough, a number two is just inconvenient. So, with no good offers on the table, I decided to just get rid of my pee and call it a wash.

Mysterious Texts

B.D.’s wife, M., texted him yesterday. The message simply said, “Having an emergency.” Forty minutes later, he received another message saying, “At the dealership.” Twenty minutes later, a third message followed asking, “Spend whatever it takes?”

When he finally called her back, he found out that the radiator on his car had essentially exploded. The mechanic at the dealership performed some other tests on the car, only to find out that the rear brake lights weren’t working either. When B.D. asked his wife about this, she said that it probably happened when she backed into that little old lady.

“Backed into a little old lady?!” he exclaimed.
“Yeah, when I busted up the bumper,” she said.
“You busted up the bumper?!” he exclaimed again.
“Well, I was trying to figure out why the front tire was shaking, and I wasn’t paying complete attention,” she replied.
“What’s wrong with the front tire?” he asked.
“The mechanic said the rotors are messed up or something.”
“What the #$%@ is actually working on the car then?” he asked, losing his patience completely.
“The radio’s fine.”
“Well, that’s something,” he replied, sarcastically.

Neuticles

I know I'm probably the last one on the face of the planet that has heard of these things, but I couldn't know about them and not comment in my blog. If by some strange chance you haven't heard of Neuticles, then let me inform you. Simply put, Neuticles are testicular implants for pets. They are supposed to allow your pet to retain his natural look, to aid in the trauma associated with neutering, and to bolster your pet's self esteem.

His self esteem? Is this really a problem that needs fixing? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in dogs that have lost their "boys?"

After searching the Internet for some time on this topic, more in complete amazement than anything, I found dozens and dozens of articles from people who are greatly concerned with the fact that their pet will look less manly without his testicles. Should we be concerned with how much time people are spending looking at animal testicles?

If that wasn't enough, the website for Neuticles advertises implants that feel just like the real thing. Neither you nor your pet will notice the difference. I'm thinking we should definitely be concerned that people are feeling animal testicles. So much so that they would know what a "natural" one feels like. And how is it possible that a pet wouldn't notice the difference? One swipe of the tongue without the appropriate feedback from the lick site should clear that right up!

Okay, and now the icing on the cake. A direct quote from the Neuticles website:
"While canines and felines have been most popular, other pets have been Neuticled including prairie dogs, water buffalo, monkey's and even rats!"
http://www.neuticles.com/

Prairie dogs? Water buffalo? Are there a lot of these as pets?

I give the guy credit for being unique, but I have to shake my head at anyone who would actually waste money on this. As one blogger said, there are starving children all over the world, and people are wasting money on fake testicles for their pets. That is a sad commentary on our world.

Frogger Red Rover

In an effort to encourage team unity and teamwork, our company decided to institute a game day at work. The first game chosen for the event was "Frogger Red Rover." You might be familiar with Frogger and Red Rover, but you are probably wondering to yourself what on earth "Frogger Red Rover" could be. Simply put, it is an ingenious combination of both popular games.

At lunch one day, associates were divided up into two teams, one each on either side of Hwy 50 (the busiest highway in the city). The first team then chanted across the highway, "Red Rover, Red Rover, let J.L. come over!" J.L. then had to take off running across Hwy 50, attempting to dodge the constant stream of cars passing by. She was almost successful, making it to the very last lane before an unexpected car turned the corner and took her out three feet from the curb.

The director of our site was the first to her still body. He patted her hand, "J.L., J.L., are you okay?" J.L.just moaned, as blood bubbled from her lips. "Well," the director continued. "You need to get up out of the street. There's still four more hours left in the day."

Needless to say, I don't believe we will be continuing the tradition of "Frogger Red Rover." Nor will we be attempting any team unity games for a while. You will all be happy to know that as soon as J.L.was released from the emergency room, she was back at work. In an effort to congratulate J.L. on her extreme commitment to the job, our director had his assistant print off a generic certificate that was presented to J.L. in her cube quietly one afternoon. Her name was spelled wrong on the certificate.

Baching It

My wife has been in Cyprus for the last two weeks now, visiting her family. I thought it would be nice to have the house to myself for a few weeks...to be able to watch what I want on TV, to be able to sleep an entire night without having someone invade my side of the bed, to eat when and what I want...you know, to rule the house.

But the short of it is that I'm pathetic. I miss her terribly. I miss all those things I usually complain about. It has gotten so bad that I saved the message she left on my phone, just so I can listen to it every day to hear the sound of her voice. I guess it's true, I'm really only half a person when she's gone.

Maybe I'll try to have a new appreciation for what she means to my life. Maybe I'll try to be nicer to her, complain less, and snuggle more. Maybe this break is just what I needed to wise up and realize what a great and blessed thing I have.

I love you, Sweetie!

The Corporate Games

Every year, the companies in the surrounding area get together and compete against each other in a friendly competition. The event is aptly named The Corporate Games. This is the first year that I’ve been able to participate, so I signed up for the dodge ball team. If you can dodge a stapler, you can dodge a ball!

In order to help me prepare, my wife has been throwing stuff at me at home. Some sort of honing my reflexes thing. There are just two problems with that. One, she was throwing stuff at me long before I signed up for the dodge ball team. And two, if I couldn’t dodge a slow-moving towel ball, what made her think I could dodge a quickly thrown frying pan?

Fifteen stitches later...

Thin Walls

Okay, I was in the restroom today, and I…to put this delicately...passed wind. It was moderately loud...sort of like a brief tuba note. It was followed by someone in the women’s restroom exclaiming, "I heard that!"

Which means that it was one of three things: louder than I thought, the woman in the restroom has bionic ears, or the walls are entirely too thin between the restrooms.

Regardless, I was so embarrassed that I hid out in the bathroom for twenty minutes to make sure I didn’t run into her as she came out.

Gone to the Birds

We have recently been battling a family of barn swallows that decided to take up residence on our front porch. We endured the chittering from the front porch until their babies were old enough to fly. Then, we took action and knocked down the nest…in an effort to persuade them to find other lodgings. Not to be so easily deterred, they started to rebuild the nest again. My wife had been pushed to the breaking point. “It’s our house, not theirs, and I won’t be attacked every time I step out my front door.” And the war began.

It started with some impressive aerial maneuvers on the birds’ parts as they dipped and dodged the aquatic flak that I was sending up from the water hose. I tried several times to shoot them from the sky, but their fighters were always faster and more maneuverable. Then the birds launched a counter attack. As soon as the hose was safely back in the garage, a whole squadron of Sparrow S-54 fighters dive-bombed me, keeping in perfect formation as one after another took turns swooping at my head.

While I attacked the birds directly, my wife attacked their repeated attempts to rebuild the nest with a stool and a broom. This went on for several weeks with neither side backing down, until finally my wife covered the spot on the stone where they like to build their nest with a bleach-soaked rag. The nest attempts stopped, but the birds grew even more hostile.

In an attempt to show their disapproval of our interference with natural order and instinct, the birds launched a massive counter-attack. SR-18 Spy birds were sent in at night to plaster the ‘Welcome’ mat, front porch, front door, and an innocent garden elf statue with poop. G-10 Guerilla birds were seen blatantly pooping on the mailbox in broad daylight while shouting taunts at us through the window. But most disturbing of all was the squadron of B-17 Bomber Sparrows that could be seen flying in slow formation high above our yard.

“Target acquired. The stupid human has stepped foot outside the protection of the fortified nest. On my mark, men. Don’t drop until I do. We’ll only have one chance at this, so let’s make every shot count. Three, two, one…drop! Bombs away!”

“What’s that high-pitched, whistling sound?” I ask as I walk to the mailbox to get the mail. Too late I look up to see the threat. Splat! Splat, splat, splat, splat…splat! “What the crap! It’s in my hair, and my eye, and uck! my mouth. That’s disgusting. I’ll get you, you B-17 Bomber Sparrows!” I scream, shaking the flaming fist of fury at the retreating squadron. “If it’s the last thing I do…right after I wash this crap out of my hair!”

The Siamese Cookie

I had a rare and strange discovery in my bag of animal crackers today. I pulled out a cracker of two crackers attached to each other. This Siamese cookie was strange in its flawless transition from what I can only surmise is a donkey to what looks vaguely like a goat. What is truly disturbing about this cookie, however, is that the donkey’s head is up the goat’s butt. This is not only disturbing for its depiction of an animal impossibility, a donkey and a goat being of vastly different heights, but also for the pure shock of finding such a non-family-friendly cookie in my bag.

I can only guess that some worker in the cookie factory had grown bored with his job and had decided that the creation of such a cookie would help pass the time.

Beauty of the Rain

It was raining again this morning. Of course saying it was raining is an understatement. It was pouring. I really wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t have to drive in the mess. Although there is a certain beauty to the rain that can only be seen from the inside of a car.

I like to turn my windshield wipers off when I stop at a stoplight and watch as the rain slides down the windshield in wavy, uneven sheets. Colors blur together. Perfect, logical shapes turn into irregular, curving masses. It’s like watching the world slowly going out of focus. And I sit mesmerized as the picture before me takes on an endless array of variations when looked at through my ever-changing lens.

Then the light will turn green, the windshield wipers will be switched back on, and the abstract will be swept away. The lines and perfect angles will be back. Clarity will be restored…at least until the next stoplight.

The Jalapeno

When M.B.’s son was three, he snuck into the kitchen while M.B. was making nachos. M.B. was cutting up some jalapenos when his son unexpectedly reached up over the edge of the counter and snagged a jalapeno slice. Before M.B. could react, his son dashed out of the kitchen, shoving the jalapeno slice into his mouth.

Within seconds, a high-pitched wail could be heard from the next room. M.B. ran into the room to find his son crying and scratching at his tongue. In between sobs, his son cried, “You poisoned me! It hurts!”

M.B. picked him up and carried him into the bathroom. He got a wash cloth, soaked it with cold water, and set about rubbing it over his son’s burning tongue.

The moral of the story is two-fold: If you’re three, don’t stick things in your mouth that you grabbed off the counter. If you’re a three-year old’s father who just grabbed a jalapeno off the counter and shoved it into his mouth, you can either make him drink the water or you can have a little fun with it and scrub his tongue with it.

It's a Boy!

When announcing a new birth, why do people always say that baby, mom, and dad are all doing fine? Dad is doing fine? Why wouldn't he be fine? Did he faint and knock himself out on the edge of the bed? Was his hand pulverized during an extremely bad contraction? Did he stupidly try to give advice to his wife and get stabbed with a wayward scalpel?

I mean what do people think he was doing in there other than standing around uselessly, panicking that he wasn't doing more?

Miles per Fry

With the continued success of bio-diesel cars to turn unwanted restaurant grease and oil into a usable fuel source, it is only a matter of time before McDonald’s capitalizes on this emerging market. Pretty soon you’ll stop at the McDonald’s Food and Fuel. You’ll drive up to the window and order a Number 1, which will now be a Big Mac, medium French fry, medium drink, and 10 gallons of bio-diesel fuel for $25 plus tax.

Of course industry standards will have to change as well. Car fuel ratings will no longer be measured by miles per gallon. The new bio-diesel cars will now have a mpf, or miles per fry, rating. How many miles can you drive on a gallon of French fry oil?

The Prom Date

S.M. was telling me yesterday that he broke up with his girlfriend days before his prom. He had no choice but to ask out a Freshman since all the other good girls were taken. He told me that from the get-go the date did not go well. I asked how bad it got, and he replied by saying that it got so bad that they didn't leave the prom together. Apparently, his date met someone else, and left with her instead.

Tastes Like Chicken

You know how everyone says that things taste like chicken. Well, thanks to my mother's insight, I have a new perspective on that theory. Who decided that chicken ought to be the top of the meat foodchain? As if everything was beneath it and should be compared to it. How do we know that snake isn't really the top meat? Maybe snake doesn't taste like chicken, maybe chicken tastes like snake. Logic would then follow that all other meats that were once compared to chicken would now be compared to snake.

"I had alligator once."
"Oh yeah, what did it taste like?"
"It tasted like snake."
"What does that taste like?"
"Like chicken."
"Ah, gotcha."

Sheep Flatulence

I was reading an article in the paper the other day about new research that is being done to help identify and combat Global Warming. Apparently, there is an entire research facility in Australia devoted to the study of how sheep flatulence affects the environment. Scientists believe that the abundance of sheep flatulence in the atmosphere is actually having a greater impact than car exhaust. So, research is being conducted to determine how to feed sheep without giving them gas.

How do you solicit funds for that? "So, you want me to give you money so you can study sheep farts?"

And more importantly, how do you test if the sheep has passed gas? "All right, Bob, you go stand behind the sheep and see if you smell anything."

D29X

I can just imagine some civilization digging up my bones in the future. Pouring over the multiple fractures in close examination, and concluding that I must have been a great and powerful warrior of my people. How else could they explain the multiple skull fractures, broken elbow, broken fingers, and hundreds of other unknown scars without determining that it must have come from war.

Soon the theories will start about how I was not only a great and powerful warrior, but a king. A king that waged so much war that I must have ruled a vast and varied land. So much land that I must have been ruler of the entire known world. Of course, this will be hundreds of thousands of years in the future, so nobody would be around to explain that I was more like a peon than a king.

Then questions about the circumstances of my death will surface. For surely a king as great as myself could never succumb to a mortal weapon in battle, so it must have been that I was betrayed. Maybe poison. Maybe a paper cut on my tongue. You know, something really dangerous and deadly.

Then they will dig up the skull of my wife next to me, and theories of the humble, submissive queen will surround her. Again nobody will be around to tell them that here lies the skull of the woman that discovered the cure for cancer…sugar momma to the lazy, clumsy skull next to her. Financial supporter of the stupid moron that once hit himself in the head with a PVC pipe after it bounced off the bumper of the RV he was beating it on. Caretaker of the hapless weakling that broke his finger while trying to catch a stuffed animal thrown by a four-year old girl. Guardian of the unfortunate wretch that was thrown off the monkey bars by a three-year old girl, shattering his elbow in multiple places. Better half of the ridiculous idget that once drove a tent stake through his finger. Superior to the dimwit that was once drop-kicked across the room by his best friend, slamming his head into a window sill while pretending to be The Ultimate Warrior…which is as close to a warrior as he ever got.

No. Nobody will be around to tell them all that. So, I shall hence forth be known as specimen D29X, ruler of the known world!

Fleece

I have a little stuffed sheep on my desk, which I affectionately named “Fleece.” In fact, he is one of the counting sheep made famous by those Serta commercials on TV. I got him as a gift when we bought our new mattress.

Today, Fleece decided to go hip-hop on me, and I found him sporting an earring. Of course, you can’t really pull the look off unless you’re sporting a rag for your head, so I made him a “ewe rag” out of a napkin to help hold back his wool.

Oil Change

M.C. and I both had to take our cars to get the oil changed. We decided to take them to the same place, but our experiences were very different. I jumped back into my car and noticed a faint but pleasant floral scent wafting from the vents when I turned my car on. It lasted about a day and then disappeared altogether. I thought it was a nice touch.

M.C. jumped back into his car and noticed a distinct fish smell wafting from the vents. At the time, he shrugged it off as the car just picking up some smell from outside, but the odor lingered all the way to his house. The next day he came to pick me up for work, and the stench had magnified overnight. My eyes were watering as we drove away, and by the time we got up to speed on the highway, the full force of dead fish had permeated throughout the car.

The moral of the story: Unless you want the smell of dead fish wafting from your vents for weeks after you leave the shop, don’t take your car in five minutes before the place closes and ask for the Premium Service.

Garden Snake

I was out in the garden the other day, and I stumbled upon a gigantic garden snake. This thing must have measured every bit of three or four inches long. I’m not a snake person, so my initial reaction was to scream at a pitch that was so high that dogs started barking…followed by an impressive feat in which I leaped vertically eight feet into the air.

About that time, my wife came barreling out of the house and asked, “What’s the matter? I heard a woman screaming out here.” I told her I saw a snake. She cocked an eyebrow, as only wives can do, and said a bit too sarcastically, “And you screamed like a little girl?” Not to be emasculated by some stupid snake, I puffed up my chest, looked her squarely in the eyes, and said, “Yes, because I saw on the Discovery Channel that snakes can’t stand high-pitched noises.”

I’m just guessing here, but I’m thinking by the way she was laughing and shaking her head as she walked back into the house that she didn’t really believe me.

Bracketless Shelves

My wife bought these cute, “bracketless” shelves for the bathroom. She asked me to hang them for her on the wall over the jetted tub. She explained exactly how she wanted them arranged, but I told her the design wasn’t artistic enough. So, after several sketches of potential designs, several fights about her calling my designs stupid, and several instances of flying shoes; I went to hang the shelves exactly how my wife had originally said she wanted them. Although I did so confidently believing that it was my idea all along.

I was born with an incredible eye for gauging when things line up, are at the same height, and are level to my relative position. So, I got to work attaching the brackets to the wall, they aren’t in fact “bracketless” after all, and eyeballed their relative levelness. When I got done, the shelves were perfect.

That is when I brought my right foot out of the tub, my left foot having stayed outside on the bathroom floor, and found out that the jetted tub is actually higher than the bathroom floor.

I tried to explain to my wife that the “left lean” of the shelves was intentional, my own little way of adding some artistic flair to her bland design. She just scowled at me and told me to fix it. I spent the next 15 min weighing the potential time and effort that it would require to un-hang and re-hang the shelves. Finally, I decided to just shave off the bottoms of her candles so they would lean to the right.

Except when one of the candles takes a swan dive off onto the bathroom floor, this solution has worked out fine.

Limbo Day

With Mother’s Day right around the corner and Father’s Day a month after that, I realized that I’m in sort of a limbo land here. I’m quite obviously not a mother if for no other reason than I’m not female. And I’m not a father yet. So, basically I don’t get a day to just lay around and be pampered. I’m sure my wife would say that that is my usual state of affairs, but barring that more true than I’d like to admit statement, I’m advocating for another holiday for guys like me. So, this year I’m celebrating the “Not a Father Yet, but Anatomically Still Could Be Day”! I really think this is going to catch on.

Compuwhore

S.M.’s computer, it has been discovered, is the office slut. She’s been passed around to various people more times than a best-selling library book. She has more profiles stored on her than any other computer in the office, and apparently the hard life has caused her to become bitter and unresponsive. Yesterday, she even refused to respond to mouse clicks, and S.M. was forced to discontinue working early. It is a sad tale of our society, but it does happen. We can’t all have monogamous computers.

Found...Dead at Work

I was reading this article about this guy that died at his desk at work, and nobody noticed there was anything wrong for five days. Apparently, the guy was always the first one in, the last one to leave, and it wasn’t unusual for him to work for days on end without talking to anyone.

I’m a little appalled by this. So, basically this guy got paid for doing nothing for five days! If it was my company, I’m sure my widow could expect a nice payroll deduction on my last paycheck. “Dead at desk…5.0 units @ 168.00…-$840.”

It’s not all bad, though, at least I could get a nice tax credit on my taxes. When I did my taxes this year, the software asked me if I had died before December 31. I was a little unsure how to answer that. I skipped the question until I saw if I was going to get money back or owe the government. I figured maybe I wouldn’t have to pay if I was dead. I came to find out later that death is not an excuse for not paying your taxes. Apparently, tax collectors can even find you in the afterlife!

Squatty Potty

S.M. came across this article yesterday about squatting toilets, or the “squatty potty,” which are apparently common in parts of Asia and the Middle East. This is essentially just a hole in the ground that you squat over to do your business. There is no flushing mechanism. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a bucket of water sitting next to the hole to help clean up after yourself! (Does this remind anyone else of a Port-o-Potty…minus the bucket of water, of course?)

The article went on to describe the proper way to use the toilets; proper squatting technique, how to clean yourself only with your left hand (and how not to eat with that hand later), how to properly dispose of your toilet paper, etc.

I realize that here at work we don’t have squatting toilets, but I figured the same technique could be applied to a normal toilet. It would just take achieving the proper balance while standing up there on the toilet seat. I discovered that is not as easy as you might think. For one thing, you are limited in the width you can spread your feet apart, since the toilet seat is only “so” wide. And for another, it is doubly hard to squat, keep your balance, and still have your hands free to play Midnight Pool on your cell phone.

I don’t think the “squatty potty” will catch on here anytime soon.

A Blessing and a Curse

You know, it really is a curse to be as good looking as I am. Well, of course you don’t know! How could you? There’s nobody as devilishly handsome as I am. It’s a blessing and a curse, though. On one hand women faint at the mere sight of me, and on the other I could never commit a crime, because I’m so easily recognizable.

My poor wife, bless her soul, doesn’t trust me at all. She’s always suspicious of where I’m going and who I’m going with. She can’t help it. I’d never cheat on her, but how could she trust this face when it melted her heart easily enough?

*Sigh* Yes, a blessing and a curse.

I would hide myself from life, to keep my beauty from everyone. But I must go on. It wouldn’t be fair to deny so many deserving people the opportunity to catch even a glimpse of me.

Oh the burden I must carry!

Errorless E-mail

Today has been a pretty good day. I wrote an entire client e-mail without the spell checker finding a single error. I was so stunned when it went right through. I had my mouse poised to click the usual ‘Skip’ or ‘Replace’ buttons. I was thrilled and strangely disappointed at the same time.

I went on to write two more e-mails that also went through without a single error. I started to get cocky. Then I sent an e-mail that contained a simple, three-word answer and got caught misspelling two of the three words. The honeymoon was over. I’m a loser again.

Corporate Quit Smoking Plan

My company decided that employees were taking too many smoke breaks, which was cutting into their productivity. They decided to take our end-of-the-year bonuses and start a new “Kick the Habit” program. Each smoker was to be given a daily dose of Nicorette to help them start curbing the habit.

A week before the program was supposed to go into effect, the financial numbers for the actual cost of the program came out. My company decided that it would cost too much to buy Nicorette for all of the smokers, so they decided to substitute packs of gum instead. Each smoker was to be given a pack of gum weekly.

The first day of the program the managers came around and handed each smoker a single stick of Extra gum. When asked what happened to the entire pack of gum, the managers responded that this gum would last an extra, extra long time and the smokers would just have to make it last the entire week.

Shortly after, we received an inter-office memo stating that upper management had found a way to cut costs and that each of the executive officers would be receiving a raise in pay. Our end-of-the-year bonuses were never reinstated.

That was five years ago.

My Baseball Cards

BANG!

“I’ve been shot,” I say, clutching my hand to my chest. I gasp and crumple to the floor. The pain is unbearable. I can hardly catch my breath as my wife sits down next to me and cradles my head in her arms.

“Just be still. Don’t try to talk too much,” she says comfortingly, gently moving a stray hair out of my eyes.

“But…gasp…but there’s something…gasp…I need to tell you. I…gasp…I want you to have…gasp, cough, cough…I want you to have my baseball cards.”

“Your baseball cards?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes. They’re my most…gasp…valuable possession. Cough, cough…you can sell them…gasp…sell them and use the money…gasp…to live…cough, cough. I don’t have much…gasp…but what I have…gasp…is cardboard,” I say sincerely.

“And how much are they worth?” she asks me suspiciously.

“I’m sure…gasp…they’ve gone up in value…cough, cough…but the last time I checked, they…gasp…were worth around $12.00.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” she exclaims, rolling me off her lap. My head hits the floor with a thunk.

I roll over to face her with some effort. I plead with her. “But, Baby, it’s…gasp…it’s not my fault that Jose Canseco ended up sucking…cough, cough…and…gasp…nobody’s heard of Don Mattingly…gasp…and Barry Bonds thought it would be a good idea…cough, cough…to do steroids. It seemed like a good idea…gasp…at the time. I spent hundreds of dollars on them…gasp…and now they’re worth about five cents apiece.”

“You’re pathetic!” she screams at me and stomps out of the room. The last image I have in this world is a sideways view of the floor and her retreating shoes.

I think to myself. “Damn you, Jose Canseco! Damn you!”

Bankruptcy Party

The show I was listening to this morning on the radio was discussing the fact that less than a week after the federal government gave AIG $85 million to bail the company out of its financial difficulties, the company sent its executives on a retreat to a posh California resort. The total tab for the retreat cost the company approximately $440,000.

The DJ on the radio show asked callers what they would do with $440,000. Most of the callers talked about paying off debt or buying a new car or house. One guy called in and asked if the DJ thought he could buy the Kansas City Chiefs for that amount. The DJ said that the guy probably could, but why would he want to, even for that amount.

I think that caller is just stupid. I mean, it’s $440,000! He could probably negotiate and get the Kansas City Chiefs and the St. Louis Rams for that price. Idiot!

Wal-Mart Greeter

I applied at Wal-Mart to be a door greeter. I wanted to be able to smile at people and welcome them to the store. Seemed like a great job. Everything seemed just fine until Wal-Mart turned me down. They said I was overqualified for the position. Imagine that, being overqualified to say “Hi” to people.

Channel My Inner Greek

With the success of the Canada trip, in that she was able to leave the country and come back again, my wife has already started making plans for a trip to Greece at the end of the summer. She wants to go for about a month, which unfortunately I can't do. I suppose I will tag along for the 2 weeks I have and then come home alone. I guess I really need to get cracking on my Greek! Although I still don't know enough to carry on a "useful" conversation. I mean, who really cares that I drank a glass of milk at school or that my cantaloupe is green?

Incognito

I had to cut my hair last night. I actually cut it pretty short. I needed to change my look completely…to become unrecognizable. You see, I’m on the run. I placed a bad bet on a bad tip during the Synchronized Swimming Championships. I put it all on China, and then they got disqualified when it was revealed that three of their team members were only seven years old.

Apparently, disqualification still counts as a loss to a bookie, and now he wants me to pay up. Where am I supposed to get that kind of cash? It’s not like I have $22.65 just sitting around somewhere! I don’t know what I’m going to do. These guys are serious!

Shouldn't Leave Me Alone

My wife is leaving for a week to attend a conference in Whistler, Canada. This means that for a week I can have everything in the house exactly the way I want them. Simply put, this means the theme for the week is “Pants are Optional!”

Man Jailed for Throwing Shoe

I heard on the radio today that some guy in Iraq who was arrested for throwing a shoe at President Bush back in December got three years in prison. Apparently, in the Mideast, displaying the soles of your shoes to someone else is considered offensive, while throwing your shoes at someone else is extremely offensive.

Apparently, the Iraqi reporter could have gotten as much as fifteen years in prison for throwing his shoe. I suppose he only got three because he missed…with both shoes.

It cracks me up to hear about a society where hijacking planes and blowing up a building with a bomb strapped to your chest are taught as a higher calling, but throwing a shoe is offensive. Seriously? Throwing a shoe is worse than killing someone? “When you shot that guy, we were willing to overlook it. But you threw a shoe, and that, we cannot tolerate!”

It’s not all bad, though. The shoe company claiming to have made the shoes had to hire one hundred more people to be able to keep up with the demand for that particular model of shoe!

Church Bells

When I came in this morning, the church bells across the street were ringing happily. I like to think they are thanking God for getting us all through another night and allowing us to see another beautiful day.

I met J.C. coming in, and she commented how pretty the bells sounded. She said that was why she always came in a few minutes late each day, so she could hear the bells. I quickly agreed, thinking that it surely couldn’t be the sleeping in late, absurdly thinking that eating breakfast was important, watching TV just five minutes too long, the unexpected bowel movement that crept up on me, spending an extra few minutes admiring my potato physique in the mirror, or the traffic through the three construction zones I have to drive through. It has to be to hear the bells that brings me in late every morning. Yeah, that’s it.

Boquillas del Carmen

When I was a kid, I found myself on a family vacation in Big Bend National Park, which is in southwest Texas and runs right up to the Mexico border. This was back in the days when border crossing was more common and less restrictive. My dad decided that since we were so close to Mexico that we should visit Boquillas del Carmen, a little village just across the Rio Grande River. We hired a guy to drag us across the river in his boat…yes, he simply walked across the river. The Rio Grande River was not the deterrent and safety wall that some people thought it was.

After a twelve-second burro ride up the hill (which we also paid for), we found ourselves in the village of Boquillas del Carmen. Needless to say, it left a lot to be desired. The entire village consisted of three buildings: two saloons and a restaurant. We paid a guy to “show us the town,” and we were led on a tour of the aforementioned three buildings, the village Coke machine, the village water well, and the pig sty located right next to the village water well. (This was the main reason we opted for a Coke out of the machine rather than the offered glass of water.)

At the time, Boquillas del Carmen had one pig living in the village pig sty, and that pig only had three legs. When we asked the guide about this, he smiled his crooked, yellow smile and said, “We’re eating ‘im one leg at a time.”

Marriage Aroma

I have long believed that my inability to attract the attention of the opposite sex stemmed from the fact that I wore a wedding ring. However, recent experiments of going shopping without my wedding ring have shown that belief to be false. I still am unable to get ogled. This has led me to establish a new theory.

I must be reeking of what I like to call the “marriage aroma.” This aroma, while completely invisible to me, must be evident to every woman out there. It identifies me immediately as being married and wards off any potential attention I might get. If it isn’t something that all husbands get when they say, “I do,” then I suspect that it is something that my wife has concocted to protect her “investment.”

The “marriage aroma” is really the only plausible explanation. A few of the guys at work have suggested that maybe I’m just not attractive to the opposite sex…which is just absurd. Everyone knows I’m God’s gift to women. So, it must be the “marriage aroma.”

New On-Site Technical Support

The system has detected a problem with your request. Please, rub the side of your monitor and a genie will appear. He will determine the error and correct the problem for you. Thank you for using our new on-site technical support.

7 Habits

I’m in this training class at work, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. While the book has incredibly good content, it is best to read it in stages. I found this out the hard way. I tried reading some of the book during my lunch hour. I made pretty good headway, but somewhere along the way I started dozing off. I tried to fight it, but apparently I lost. I say apparently, because I don’t recall falling asleep, I only recall the brisk shaking of my co-worker as he aroused me out of my slumber.

I sat up, wiped the drool off my cheek, wiped the drool off the book, wiped the drool off the desk, wiped my foot across the drool on the floor, and stared at him in annoyance. “I’m trying to read here. What do you need?”

“Class is about to start back up, and I didn’t want you to sleep through it.”

“Oh,” I said a little chagrined. “Thanks.”

Perhaps it was because of the way I had talked to him. Perhaps it was for some past offense that I’m unaware of. Perhaps it is just in his nature. But while this co-worker made sure to wake me for class, he didn’t find the time to mention that I had an embossed “7” on my cheek from sleeping on the cover of the book! Luckily, the teacher just thought I was really gung-ho about the class.

Strange Ideas

As strange as my mind may seem at times, my brother has equally come up with some strange ideas. One day he came up with the bright idea to weigh himself before and after he went to the bathroom to see how much weight he had lost while he was in there. I honestly have never thought of anything that strange. But it can definitely get worse than that.

When I related this funny anecdote to S.M. today, he said that he actually weighed himself WHILE he was going to the bathroom, so he could watch the weight ticking off point one pounds at a time.

So, Bro, there is someone out there as strange as you.

Reeling Economy Hurts in More Ways than Previously Imagined

In yet another pitiful example of how the poor state of the economy has affected our lives, my company recently changed toilet paper manufacturers to try to cut some costs. Their new choice leaves no doubt as to its cheapness, being that if you hold it up to the light it is basically see-through.

However, this half-ply wonder, as in it is so thin you wonder how it is doing any good at all, is one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever…well, experienced. I’m pretty sure that if someone handed you a roll of sand and glass shards, you would choose that before you chose this masochistic torture roll. Not only does it scrape off the outer two layers of skin with every pass, but it also must be coated in jalapeno and Tobasco sauce to make sure that you are aware that you are missing the above-mentioned two layers of skin.

For all management out there who might stumble upon this blog, don’t go with the cheap stuff. It might save money in the short run, but the Workman’s Comp payouts aren’t worth it.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Go Outdoors

The weather here in Missouri is finally starting to get a little warmer. Of course, according to the weather report this week, just as the temperature will be edging on “nice” it is supposed to rain and drop at least 20 degrees again. Figures!

I firmly believe that there is someone watching the weather here…someone in charge of making sure that I never have the ability to breathe again through both nostrils simultaneously.

“ALERT! ALERT! We have a code red, people. He’s on the verge of regaining the use of both nostrils. Flip the switch quickly before he figures it out! Did you hear me? We are at DefCon 5! He’s getting close to knowing what everything smells like again without the snot undertone. Drop the temperature 20 degrees; that ought to take care of it. Get moving, people! Do you understand the severity of the situation? We have an Amber Alert. Do you actually want him to have a complete 24 hours without getting a sinus pressure headache?! I didn’t think so. Now get on that switch, and mix in some rain as well.”

My New Lunch Bag

My wife bought me a new lunch bag the other day. This thing is big enough to hold the entire contents of my refrigerator! I told her it looked like luggage. The only thing it is missing is the slide-out handle and some wheels. She said that my use of plastic grocery bags to carry my lunch was henceforth unacceptable, and she watches me like a hawk in the mornings to make sure I’m using the correct bag.

So, I walked into work today with my ginormous lunch bag, and K.E. asked me what I had for lunch. I said, “I’ve got a thing of yogurt in there. It’s a little picky about who it hangs out with. I have to separate it from the rest of my food. The rest of my lunch is in this plastic grocery bag.”

Some people are just stuck in their ways, I guess.

Keep Austin Weird

A.S. said that he was sitting in this café once and saw this cheerleader standing outside the window. She had her back to him, but he noticed how good her legs looked in her short, cheer skirt. When the cheerleader turned around, A.S. was taken aback to see that the cheerleader had a full beard!

That was A.S.’s first introduction to Leslie Cochran, Austin, Texas’s own homeless cross-dresser. According to Leslie’s wikipedia page (yes, he has his own wikipedia page) his favorite outfit is his leopard-skin thong and high-heeled shoes. Apparently, he also ran for Mayor several years ago and got more than 1% of the vote.

I’m still floored that he has his own wikipedia page. I didn’t realize the requirements for fame and status could be as low as wearing a thong and showing it to people. I’m already halfway there!

Candy Connoisseur

I brought some candy to work today. S.M. apparently loves Krackel candy bars, so he spent ten minutes digging all of them out of my candy jar. He then took them to his desk, slowly unwrapped one, ran his nose just above the surface of the bar, breathed in deeply, and then place it on its little foil wrapper on his desk.

I watched all of this with wonder. When he clearly wasn’t going back to it, I asked him what he was doing. He said he was letting it breathe. I then watched as he bit off the corner of the bar and let the chocolate piece melt slowly on his tongue. When it was completely gone, he promptly scarfed down the rest of the Krackel.

A true connoisseur.

Chicken Foreclosures

I read in the paper today that due to the economic crisis, many chickens are losing their houses due to inability to pay. Apparently, they are in extreme debt with their chicken coops, and some are experiencing bankruptcy and bank foreclosures. For the first time in history, chickens are finding themselves homeless, and they don’t know what to do about it. When will this horror end!?

The Coaster

I was sitting in a conference room at work yesterday, where we have these leather coasters that we use to keep water rings from appearing on the conference tables. I slid one of the coasters across the table to another associate on the other side. But the coaster took on a life of its own and headed in a completely different direction.

Down it plunged into the dark void, also known as the one-inch crack between the table and the wall. The table has a back on it, so I couldn’t just crawl under it, and there was no way my arm could fit down the crack to reach it. So, I left it there; sitting forgotten, collecting dust, and useless.

I was in the same conference room today, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the crack. I knew the coaster was sitting down there, barely visible in the half-light shining down from the fluorescent bulbs overhead. I felt a knot, tight and bunched in my stomach. I had robbed that poor coaster of its single purpose in life: to sit on a desk and hold someone’s drink. Something had to be done.

How could I sleep at night, knowing that coaster lurked at the bottom of the crack, and that I had been the one that had turned it to a life of crime, of violence, of darkness? It hadn’t asked for this fate, but life is sometimes a cruel mistress. So, it did whatever it could to survive, to make it from day to day, to eke out a sad existence in that hell that I had subjected it to.

It was driving me crazy! Who was I to determine a coaster’s fate? Am I so cruel and heartless that I could do that without feeling guilt or remorse? Alas, no! I sighed and shook my head. Like Reverend Dimmesdale from the Scarlet Letter, I may not wear the red ‘A’, but I was being persecuted by it nonetheless.

I waited until my meeting was over, and then I crawled under the table. I wedged my pen into the tiny gap under the table’s back, and inch by inch I guided the coaster to freedom. You’ll be relieved to know that the coaster is once again lying on the desk, waiting to fulfill its single purpose in life. Now, maybe I can sleep tonight.

The Low for the Day

I woke up this morning to the weather report being delivered on the radio. The meteorologist said, “…the high today will be 45 with a low of 23. The current temperature is 16.”

How is it possible that the current temperature is lower than the low for the day?

Negative Temperatures

I never even knew my car thermometer could express negative temperatures. I looked down at the dash this morning and was like, “What’s that funny little symbol to the left of the ‘2’?” It was a minus sign. That’s right, negative two degrees here in Missouri today. It was actually probably colder than that, like before the sun actually graced the world with its presence.

In the 12 seconds that it took me to walk from the car into the office building, I lost all feeling in my ears, nose, fingers, and toes, and I couldn’t blink for about two hours. That just isn’t right! My boss tried to send me home, because I was crying. I tried to explain through my Botox lips that I wasn’t upset, I just couldn’t blink and my eyes were drying out.

Ode to My Pawpaw

My grandfather passed away today around lunchtime. He was a good and honorable man. Quiet and reserved most of the time, and as stiff and unbending as an oak. He was a man from a different generation. A generation where it was accepted and encouraged to rule the house with a firm hand and occasionally a peach-tree switch! But what I remember most about my grandfather was a heart full of love.

He was a man that loved his wife of sixty-one years so much that he worked well into his seventies in order to provide her with the luxuries he felt she deserved. I never once heard my grandfather complain. He just got up every morning at 4 a.m., had himself an egg for breakfast, and headed off to drive his semi-truck.

He was a man that loved his family so much that in addition to raising four children, he also raised four grandchildren and one great-grandchild. He didn’t have to do this. Lord knows it wasn’t his job! But he never thought twice when they needed a place to live. He just moved some stuff around in the spare bedrooms, so they’d have a place to put their bags.

He was a man that loved his garden. When I went over to see him, if he wasn’t outside lovingly coaxing some cucumbers to grow, then he was filling up a paper bag for me of the latest haul. He didn’t just love to work in his garden, he loved to experiment in it. He’d try growing all sorts of different plants. I remember the time he grew some “Bird’s Eye” peppers. Those things were so hot that they had every man in our family crying uncontrollably after just one bite! The ladies were smart enough to stay well away.

And if he wasn’t growing it, then he was cooking it. My grandfather loved to cook, and by golly he was really good at it! Stove, oven, pit…it didn’t matter…he was a master of them all. His slow-cooked beef jerky, smoked in the heart of two fifty-gallon oil drums, was practically world famous. And I know his nutless, banana nut bread definitely was! That was always a special treat for me. And after I managed to “hoover” my loaf of banana bread down in a single afternoon, I would sneak into the kitchen and start in on my step-father’s loaf. It was THAT good!

I never went hungry at my grandparent’s house. I doubt if anybody ever did! I used to joke that I would no sooner put my empty plate down, then my grandfather would come shuffling in from the other end of the house to ask me if I needed some more.

He was a man that always made everyone feel welcome. It didn’t matter what you had done in your past, where you came from, or who your family was…my grandfather would shake your hand, offer you something to drink, and get you a plate. He was always thinking about someone else.

No matter what was ailing him, he always greeted me with, “Son, how’re you doing?” Followed promptly by, “And how’s your wife?” The man had a million worries and responsibilities, and he wanted to know how my wife and I were doing! Every moment that I was there, I felt like he was genuinely glad to see me. There wasn’t a single time that I left his house that he didn’t tell me, “Ya’ll come back and see us!” I expected it, and I loved that about him.

I loved my grandfather. I don’t know that I ever told him that. I know he loved me, but I don’t think he ever told me either. I suppose our relationship wasn’t defined so much by words as by gestures. But it was enough.

It was enough.

One Year Down...

Today is my 1-year anniversary at my job. My boss, undoubtedly the coolest boss I’ve ever had, made me brownies in celebration. The time has flown by so quickly that I had completely forgotten about it. I’m still wondering how she remembered. Oh well, it was just awesome that she did, so a HUGE gold star to my boss for making me feel important. And a Happy Anniversary to me!