Sorry for the posting gap again. I've been debating whether or not to purchase a semi-automatic rifle, to protect my family from the roaming hordes that have begun terrorizing my neighborhood.
Let me take a step back.
I grew up in the suburbs (Glendale, WI, represent!). To me, people who looked their car and home doors were paranoid, or feral cityfolk. I thought you only had to worry about such things in places that also had sidewalks, and streetlights, and stoplights that kept working after 9 pm. Only suckers had to fence themselves off from their neighbors, was my firmly held 9-year-old belief.
Eventually, though, I moved to various cities, and learned the value of keeping my stuff safe. I also learned to never make eye contact on public transportation, to not flash your lights at a car without its lights on at night, never wear red or blue in public unless you want to be get wacked in a drive-by, and fuck the po-lice.
But for whatever reason, I thought Pittsburgh, specifically Squirrel Hill was different. It's the midwest! People are nice, obey speed limits, and are afraid of bridges and tunnels. Kids play ball in the street. People let you skip in line. Fathers will let you walk their young, nubile, naive daughter home at night, because you're such a nice-looking boy.
So I got sloppy. And I forgot the first rule of home safety - never expose bright shiny things to the seedy criminal element.
What I'm trying to say is, some fuckers stole our stroller.
It's not a TV. It's not a car. It's only the means by which I transport my child. No, these people aren't vile, scum of the earth. They are the lint from within my sweaty armpits. They are the goop from an infected ingrown toenail. They are weeping sores upon the testicles of society.
So what do I do? I'm locking everything up, tying everything down. I'm getting bulletproof glass for my car, and hidden machine guns in the headlights. I'm going to run an electric current through my grill so anyone who touches it gets 20,000 volts up the ass. I'm teaching child Kung-Fu, and giving Wife brass knuckles and a spiked bat. I'm having motion detectors put on my house, so anyone who approaches within 300 yards sets off piercing alarms and spotlights. I'm also training release the hounds with bees in their mouths so when they bark they spit bees at you (thanks, Homer, once again, for your brilliant insights).
So do I buy a gun, or what? Am I that guy? Do I have a rocking chair I can move to my porch and from which can eye suspiciously each and every passerby? Do I put my Glock in a locked case next to my bed, or get a thigh-holster and become a cowboy? Or one of those under-the-armpit bra-type thingies? Ankle holster? Attach it to an apparatus around my head? I need some good advice about joining the NRA.
Oh, and I have a kippah tan. That's right, because I'm bald, and whiter than Francis McKenzie Smithson, center for the Ku Klux Klan iter-racial basketball team (team name - the Alabama Pale Horses).
Showing posts with label Casper-style. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Casper-style. Show all posts
Monday, August 10, 2009
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Screw you and your delicious, buttery popcorn
I know you've all been wondering how my fantastic job is going. Whether it's the German e-mails, the medical journals, or the fascinating, mute coworkers, it's a constant battle not to swallow my monitor. So before I jet off to exotic Watertown, Wisconsin for Lady Liberty's birthday (don't forget to get her a present; I'm sending edible undies), I thought I'd treat you to some of my daily excitement.
Quick tangent: I have learned it was recently Canada Day. Well la-di-frickin-da. I hope all you folks up north had fun talking aboot the great history of your fine country, eh?
- 200 people on a floor, 1 water cooler. I'm not good with the arithmetic, but I think it's fairly predictable that those numbers make the "cooler" part a sad joke. If you're not going to offer us benefits, at least give us ice trays.
- Behind my half-cubicle sits an older man. At his semi-desk he has a footrest, an oscillating fan, and sundry personal items. He sits in an exquisite leather chair that reclines almost parallel to the floor. I don't know where he got it, I don't know what he had to do to get it. But I do know he's absolutely right in taking it with him when he leaves at night. If he leaves it...just once, that's all I need. I'll sit like a king!
- I'm diligent with throwing out holy socks. But what's the rule on the elastic? How far gone does it have to be before I have to throw them out? Does it matter if they're dressy or white? What if they're really long, so even if they sag they leave no blinding-white calf exposed to the world?
- There's a guy sitting next to me who looks like John Hodgman. Hey, there's another! Wait a minute...
Was that just a flimsy excuse to post footage of people funnier than me? Maybe. You'll never know.
- People who microwave popcorn at work, and don't have the decency to make enough for everyone, should be beaten with shovels. And I don't even like popcorn. That buttery aroma, though...it does strange things to me. I smell it, and I want to kiss Orville Redenbacher full on the mouth. Is that...is that just me?
- Not to fixate on a single topic, but office chairs that don't recline should be collected and burned on a pyre. There should be an evening of joyous revelry to celebrate the event: interpretive dance, jugglers, and bad coffee. Does it not sound glorious?
- The reason, then for my reclining chair obsession: someone stole my chair. The armrests were measured perfectly with my arms, it reclined easily, and had no weird stains. There it is, being used three half-cubes down on my left. That lady better watch her back.
- You know what? The lady chair-thief? She looks like John Hodgman too! Maybe it's all the fluorescent light...
- Today I had the pleasure of going through someone's personal e-mail. This individual decided to send the same document to twenty different people, in twenty different e-mails. Does he not know about cc'ing? If I ever have the pleasure of making his acquaintence, I'm going to poke out his eyes with my pinkie.
- I learned something. Ordinary inconvenience + wildly excessive response = joke, but does not always = funny. Discuss.
- Honestly, which is worse for you - Cheetos, or Snickers? Because that's all that's left in the candy machine. Well, that and trail mix. But I'm neither a sheep, nor am I from Vermont. So nuts to that.
- Happy birthday, America! For your 231st I'm wishing you a new president: a Muslim elitist effete Commie peacenik who won't wear a flag, salute a flag, or do anything but burn a flag unless he uses that awesome symbol to wipe his ass after a huge bowl of hummus and baby's blood.
Either him or Barack Obama. Whichever.
Quick tangent: I have learned it was recently Canada Day. Well la-di-frickin-da. I hope all you folks up north had fun talking aboot the great history of your fine country, eh?
- 200 people on a floor, 1 water cooler. I'm not good with the arithmetic, but I think it's fairly predictable that those numbers make the "cooler" part a sad joke. If you're not going to offer us benefits, at least give us ice trays.
- Behind my half-cubicle sits an older man. At his semi-desk he has a footrest, an oscillating fan, and sundry personal items. He sits in an exquisite leather chair that reclines almost parallel to the floor. I don't know where he got it, I don't know what he had to do to get it. But I do know he's absolutely right in taking it with him when he leaves at night. If he leaves it...just once, that's all I need. I'll sit like a king!
- I'm diligent with throwing out holy socks. But what's the rule on the elastic? How far gone does it have to be before I have to throw them out? Does it matter if they're dressy or white? What if they're really long, so even if they sag they leave no blinding-white calf exposed to the world?
- There's a guy sitting next to me who looks like John Hodgman. Hey, there's another! Wait a minute...
Was that just a flimsy excuse to post footage of people funnier than me? Maybe. You'll never know.
- People who microwave popcorn at work, and don't have the decency to make enough for everyone, should be beaten with shovels. And I don't even like popcorn. That buttery aroma, though...it does strange things to me. I smell it, and I want to kiss Orville Redenbacher full on the mouth. Is that...is that just me?
- Not to fixate on a single topic, but office chairs that don't recline should be collected and burned on a pyre. There should be an evening of joyous revelry to celebrate the event: interpretive dance, jugglers, and bad coffee. Does it not sound glorious?
- The reason, then for my reclining chair obsession: someone stole my chair. The armrests were measured perfectly with my arms, it reclined easily, and had no weird stains. There it is, being used three half-cubes down on my left. That lady better watch her back.
- You know what? The lady chair-thief? She looks like John Hodgman too! Maybe it's all the fluorescent light...
- Today I had the pleasure of going through someone's personal e-mail. This individual decided to send the same document to twenty different people, in twenty different e-mails. Does he not know about cc'ing? If I ever have the pleasure of making his acquaintence, I'm going to poke out his eyes with my pinkie.
- I learned something. Ordinary inconvenience + wildly excessive response = joke, but does not always = funny. Discuss.
- Honestly, which is worse for you - Cheetos, or Snickers? Because that's all that's left in the candy machine. Well, that and trail mix. But I'm neither a sheep, nor am I from Vermont. So nuts to that.
- Happy birthday, America! For your 231st I'm wishing you a new president: a Muslim elitist effete Commie peacenik who won't wear a flag, salute a flag, or do anything but burn a flag unless he uses that awesome symbol to wipe his ass after a huge bowl of hummus and baby's blood.
Either him or Barack Obama. Whichever.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
On the losing of hair in unfortunate places
As some of you may or may not know, I am in the process of losing some of the hair on my head. I refuse to call it "male pattern baldness" for a few reasons:
1) There is no pattern. There is only chaos, and blindingly white skin, whiter even than my upper thigh, which is also mindbogglingly pale. Ask Wife, if you dare.
2) Male pattern baldness sounds, depending on the day, either too harmless or not harmless enough. On the one hand, it's only hair. On the other, it's the hair on one's head. Unless there's a pattern I don't know about, one that wends its way down a man's chest to his toe hairs, those most precious of growths.
OK, there's really only one reason, because the second was neither interesting nor funny. It just shed an uncomfortably harsh light on my toe-hair fixation.
Anyhoo, I'm not terribly attached to hair in general, really just the ones on my head. Is there a pattern of baldness that attacks, say, the armpit? Or the "happy trail?" The public never hears about these unfortunate cases, maybe because there aren't commercials showcasing remedies. Remedies, by the way, that I refuse to consider. Because the pattern of my baldness is interesting, even mesmerizing. Like a shallow but strong rivulet of water it wends its way from the original, traditional bald spot forward to the forehead, leaving a trail of the aforementioned pearly white scalp. And I stand at the mirror, transfixed by the ever-growing blank space.
Questions to consider as one stares at the most prominent visual sign of aging:
- When is the proper time to just shave it all off, go Kojak?
- What compels a man to consider a combover?
- What does the Google Earth image of the top of my head look like?
- Are there topographical considerations as to the pattern? In other words, could a phrenologist have predicted the direction, and width, of the pattern, back when I was wee lad possessing full, lustrous hair?
- Is every pattern unique, like snowflakes?
- If I hold my head just so, can I still hit on high school chicks? Maybe they won't notice...
- 20 years from now, if there's a cure found, would I take it? Would it freak Children out a little too much? And would that be an incentive or disincentive?
1) There is no pattern. There is only chaos, and blindingly white skin, whiter even than my upper thigh, which is also mindbogglingly pale. Ask Wife, if you dare.
2) Male pattern baldness sounds, depending on the day, either too harmless or not harmless enough. On the one hand, it's only hair. On the other, it's the hair on one's head. Unless there's a pattern I don't know about, one that wends its way down a man's chest to his toe hairs, those most precious of growths.
OK, there's really only one reason, because the second was neither interesting nor funny. It just shed an uncomfortably harsh light on my toe-hair fixation.
Anyhoo, I'm not terribly attached to hair in general, really just the ones on my head. Is there a pattern of baldness that attacks, say, the armpit? Or the "happy trail?" The public never hears about these unfortunate cases, maybe because there aren't commercials showcasing remedies. Remedies, by the way, that I refuse to consider. Because the pattern of my baldness is interesting, even mesmerizing. Like a shallow but strong rivulet of water it wends its way from the original, traditional bald spot forward to the forehead, leaving a trail of the aforementioned pearly white scalp. And I stand at the mirror, transfixed by the ever-growing blank space.
Questions to consider as one stares at the most prominent visual sign of aging:
- When is the proper time to just shave it all off, go Kojak?
- What compels a man to consider a combover?
- What does the Google Earth image of the top of my head look like?
- Are there topographical considerations as to the pattern? In other words, could a phrenologist have predicted the direction, and width, of the pattern, back when I was wee lad possessing full, lustrous hair?
- Is every pattern unique, like snowflakes?
- If I hold my head just so, can I still hit on high school chicks? Maybe they won't notice...
- 20 years from now, if there's a cure found, would I take it? Would it freak Children out a little too much? And would that be an incentive or disincentive?
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