I didn’t think it was possible that I could create such venom in someone. Sure, I’m an asshole, but assholes are nuisances that hit on your girlfriend or don’t pay you back for lunch. Usually we don’t cause steaming, putrid hate.
Tracy hates me. With vitriol on top.
I saw her at Freckled Jen’s this weekend during the Ohio State game. It had been about four months since I pissed her off last so I thought she might be receptive to a hello. Not so much. Her eyes didn’t meet mine the entire night and she would say things under her breath that I’m sure were not pleasant. It almost seemed like she would stand close to me just to ignore me.
I’m torn between the “I don’t really care” and the “screw her.”
If it was the “I don’t really care,” I wouldn’t be writing this right now. So if I’m being honest, it’s got to be the screw her. Perhaps there is a middle ground. How about “I gave a shit, but now I couldn’t give two shits?”
Oh well. It gives her something to get excited about. Better me that someone else. Maybe she really likes me and can’t do anything about it, so she feels the need to push me away! Oh, that’s good. Hold on…
**** *******
Tracy really loves me
I know someone who has a secret crush on me. And I have a crush on her. It’s Freckled Jen’s friend, Tracy. She and I have been involved in a cat and mouse game for several months, but it has become increasingly hard for us to hide our emotions.
As a cover, we fight in front of everyone. We don’t make eye contact. She says horrible things about me. We avoid each other.
But when we are alone…
Recently, Tracy has had to take it up a notch. At the OSU v Michigan game this weekend, I pretended that I wanted to say hello and be amicable. She acted like she wanted to slit my throat. IT WORKED!
Maybe someday we will be together. Until then, I will be an asshole and protect that secret. I'm sure Tracy will do the same.
Ohio State v. Michigan
Doug's prediction:
Ohio State – 27
Michigan -17
And, yes, that is a negative sign in front of the Michigan score.
Ohio State – 27
Michigan -17
And, yes, that is a negative sign in front of the Michigan score.
Libertarian Freedom Fighter
At Ohio University, we did a live broadcast called “Fridays Live.” It was a live show that combined real time interviews with pre-packaged movie reviews, Man-On-The-Street bits and some video segments we thought were funny at the time.
Thanks to YouTube, we can all relive those special moments and see what Doug looked like 50 pounds ago.
A warm How-Do to Tony and Craig in the pillow bunker.
Tony is an author and I think Craig is running for re-election in 2008.
Thanks to YouTube, we can all relive those special moments and see what Doug looked like 50 pounds ago.
A warm How-Do to Tony and Craig in the pillow bunker.
Tony is an author and I think Craig is running for re-election in 2008.
I said, it’s a Honda.
I have never purchased a new car in my life. Adopting someone else’s misery always seemed like a better deal than bringing home a brand new, expensive, depreciating baby.
Today we brought home our newly adopted child. A 2004 Honda Odyssey. It’s roomy and actually has some git up and go. I drive it like a teenager who drives his parents', well, minivan. I admit that I like driving it. I also admit that I like Helen Reddy music.
But to purchase this van we had to get rid of Doug’s Car. We swaddled it up and left it at the dealership doorstep. They said they would find a home for my baby.
Suckers. They just spent the worst $500 of their lives!
My poor little ‘95 Honda Civic. It held up so well over the past eight years. The 10,000 miles between oil changes. The watered down anti-freeze. The watered down break fluid. I abused that poor car. Acton reminded me of when he and I left a club one frigid winter night and as we sat freezing in the car, I revved the engine to the red line to heat it up. He said I was killing the engine. I said, it’s a Honda.
I slept in the back seat when I had had two too many. I slept in the trunk when I had many too many.
Right there at the end the clutch began to give up on life. The clutch was so bad, the sales guy at the dealership asked me to drive it around to the service garage because it kept stalling on him. As I shut it off, I realized that there was probably 1/100th of a tank of gas left. I timed it perfectly.
Some 16 year old kid is going to get a terrific Christmas present this year. As a matter of fact, I can almost squeeze the first bit of the 12 days of Christmas out of it:
Five fuses blown
Four balding tires
Three quarts low of oil
Two taillights out
And a spare tire with a big fat hole
Three years ago, I got a flat. I threw on the spare and drove off. An hour later, I went through a pothole and my spare went flat. I was only a mile from home so I drove on the spare. For the next three years, that spare was flat in the trunk of my car. As my tires began to bald and show the furry metallic signs of steel belt, I started to think I might need to get my spare fixed. Instead, I traded my car in.
Welcome to the family, 2004 Honda Odyssey. Godspeed 1995 Honda Civic. Join your brother, 1988 Honda Civic, in that great big Möbius Strip race track in the sky.
Today we brought home our newly adopted child. A 2004 Honda Odyssey. It’s roomy and actually has some git up and go. I drive it like a teenager who drives his parents', well, minivan. I admit that I like driving it. I also admit that I like Helen Reddy music.
But to purchase this van we had to get rid of Doug’s Car. We swaddled it up and left it at the dealership doorstep. They said they would find a home for my baby.
Suckers. They just spent the worst $500 of their lives!
My poor little ‘95 Honda Civic. It held up so well over the past eight years. The 10,000 miles between oil changes. The watered down anti-freeze. The watered down break fluid. I abused that poor car. Acton reminded me of when he and I left a club one frigid winter night and as we sat freezing in the car, I revved the engine to the red line to heat it up. He said I was killing the engine. I said, it’s a Honda.
I slept in the back seat when I had had two too many. I slept in the trunk when I had many too many.
Right there at the end the clutch began to give up on life. The clutch was so bad, the sales guy at the dealership asked me to drive it around to the service garage because it kept stalling on him. As I shut it off, I realized that there was probably 1/100th of a tank of gas left. I timed it perfectly.
Some 16 year old kid is going to get a terrific Christmas present this year. As a matter of fact, I can almost squeeze the first bit of the 12 days of Christmas out of it:
Five fuses blown
Four balding tires
Three quarts low of oil
Two taillights out
And a spare tire with a big fat hole
Three years ago, I got a flat. I threw on the spare and drove off. An hour later, I went through a pothole and my spare went flat. I was only a mile from home so I drove on the spare. For the next three years, that spare was flat in the trunk of my car. As my tires began to bald and show the furry metallic signs of steel belt, I started to think I might need to get my spare fixed. Instead, I traded my car in.
Welcome to the family, 2004 Honda Odyssey. Godspeed 1995 Honda Civic. Join your brother, 1988 Honda Civic, in that great big Möbius Strip race track in the sky.
Today is the first day of the rest of your life
We bought a mini-van.
I just pulled my pants up a little higher and ate a bowl of Fiber One for breakfast.
I just pulled my pants up a little higher and ate a bowl of Fiber One for breakfast.
Ohio State vs Michigan
It’s Ohio State vs Michigan week.
And oddly enough, for the 3rd year in a row, I have a business trip to Guam that leaves at 2:00pm on the Saturday of the OSU v Michigan game. The business trip returns sometime Sunday morning, depending on flights and customs.
Sadly, the trinkets and post cards at the Guam Duty Free Shop are overpriced and I never seem to bring any home.
I do have a series of photos of me there last year. Miss Sally always asks to see the photographs.
Here I am on Mucholohi Beach:
Here I am participating in a native dance ritual:
Here I am at a local street fair:
Looks like it's going to be another boring trip again this year. I'll try and bring back a shell or something. Unless I forget again.
Go Buckeyes!
And oddly enough, for the 3rd year in a row, I have a business trip to Guam that leaves at 2:00pm on the Saturday of the OSU v Michigan game. The business trip returns sometime Sunday morning, depending on flights and customs.
Sadly, the trinkets and post cards at the Guam Duty Free Shop are overpriced and I never seem to bring any home.
I do have a series of photos of me there last year. Miss Sally always asks to see the photographs.
Here I am on Mucholohi Beach:
Here I am participating in a native dance ritual:
Here I am at a local street fair:
Looks like it's going to be another boring trip again this year. I'll try and bring back a shell or something. Unless I forget again.
Go Buckeyes!
Kingy's Pizza Pub
The dudes got together last night at Kingy’s Pizza Pub. I know it is very lame to have a name for your group of friends, but it’s less generic than “the guys” and we all know who we are including when we say dudes. (And I’m not capitalizing dudes because Dudes would be completely faggy.) We would have chosen a cooler name but “Booze Hounds” was taken and the number in “Fab 5” isn’t large enough to encompass the group.
Kingy’s Pizza is in Canal Winchester, right off of 33. It’s almost dead center between Columbus and Lancaster so it’s a convenient place for everyone to meet. Except for Tony who lives up in Delaware, OH. And Doob who’s in Chicago. And for Kit because he’s Kit and can't seem to find his front door.
During our high school years, many of us thought Kingy’s was a gay hangout. Not due to any fault of Kingy’s. There was a rest stop in close proximity that was labeled by the locals as Lollipop Park. Gay people or freaks would go there to hook up. There were a number of complaints and sadly, Lollipop Park was shut down, requiring people that had to pee and gays alike to keep their legs crossed until they got to Columbus. Kingy’s got a bad rap and we idiotically avoided the place.
Right after high school Greg worked at a vending machine company and he would collect money and fix vending machines and video games. One of the places on his route was Kingy’s. One day, someone mentioned Kingy’s. Greg perked up. “They’ve got great food there.” We were all stunned. You eat at Kingy’s? He explained that it was on his route and that if he timed it right, he could get there around noon and stay for lunch.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha! You are gay! You go to Kingy’s and you actually eat there! Fag!
Greg tried to argue that is was NOT a gay hangout and the food was really good. We did not listen and continued to make fun of him for the next five years.
The intersection that Kingy’s was built near went under construction a few years back. It was determined that Kingy’s would need to be torn down for the new overpass to be built. The owners decided to re-build on the opposite side of Rte 33 off of Diley road. Handsome Joe lived around the corner from there and came back with a scouting report:
Hotties. Smoking hotties everywhere. I had to go check it out.
After dredging up all the old Greg is gay jokes, we decided that the dudes would meet at Kingy’s. Handsome Joe was right. All the waitresses were smoking hot. (I’m not going to go into the details of what standards are used in Central Ohio to judge hotness. For rural Ohio, these girls were 9s and 10s when graded on a curve.) I believe that Canal Winchester has a policy of giving the smoking hot, high school graduate girls a diploma, a slap on the ass and a Kingy’s t-shirt so they can start working that night. Needless to say, we were all awestruck and a few hours later, drunk and awestruck.
Now that Fat Cat’s Pizza sucks, Kingy’s pizza is at the top of my list. Just don’t get it to go. Eat it there. Slowly.
Apologies to Greg for all the gay comments. Apologies to the owners of Kingy’s that we incorrectly made fun of your restaurant all those years. And apologies to our hot waitress last night who had to serve a group of loud guys who stayed until closing and still call themselves dudes.
Kingy’s Pizza is in Canal Winchester, right off of 33. It’s almost dead center between Columbus and Lancaster so it’s a convenient place for everyone to meet. Except for Tony who lives up in Delaware, OH. And Doob who’s in Chicago. And for Kit because he’s Kit and can't seem to find his front door.
During our high school years, many of us thought Kingy’s was a gay hangout. Not due to any fault of Kingy’s. There was a rest stop in close proximity that was labeled by the locals as Lollipop Park. Gay people or freaks would go there to hook up. There were a number of complaints and sadly, Lollipop Park was shut down, requiring people that had to pee and gays alike to keep their legs crossed until they got to Columbus. Kingy’s got a bad rap and we idiotically avoided the place.
Right after high school Greg worked at a vending machine company and he would collect money and fix vending machines and video games. One of the places on his route was Kingy’s. One day, someone mentioned Kingy’s. Greg perked up. “They’ve got great food there.” We were all stunned. You eat at Kingy’s? He explained that it was on his route and that if he timed it right, he could get there around noon and stay for lunch.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha! You are gay! You go to Kingy’s and you actually eat there! Fag!
Greg tried to argue that is was NOT a gay hangout and the food was really good. We did not listen and continued to make fun of him for the next five years.
The intersection that Kingy’s was built near went under construction a few years back. It was determined that Kingy’s would need to be torn down for the new overpass to be built. The owners decided to re-build on the opposite side of Rte 33 off of Diley road. Handsome Joe lived around the corner from there and came back with a scouting report:
Hotties. Smoking hotties everywhere. I had to go check it out.
After dredging up all the old Greg is gay jokes, we decided that the dudes would meet at Kingy’s. Handsome Joe was right. All the waitresses were smoking hot. (I’m not going to go into the details of what standards are used in Central Ohio to judge hotness. For rural Ohio, these girls were 9s and 10s when graded on a curve.) I believe that Canal Winchester has a policy of giving the smoking hot, high school graduate girls a diploma, a slap on the ass and a Kingy’s t-shirt so they can start working that night. Needless to say, we were all awestruck and a few hours later, drunk and awestruck.
Now that Fat Cat’s Pizza sucks, Kingy’s pizza is at the top of my list. Just don’t get it to go. Eat it there. Slowly.
Apologies to Greg for all the gay comments. Apologies to the owners of Kingy’s that we incorrectly made fun of your restaurant all those years. And apologies to our hot waitress last night who had to serve a group of loud guys who stayed until closing and still call themselves dudes.
Landing Strip update
1. Here is a photo of the Landing Strip sign taken via camera phone.
2. The angle shows the sign as one leaves the parking lot.
3. Much has changed in the past four years.
4. Some things have not changed in the past four years.
2. The angle shows the sign as one leaves the parking lot.
3. Much has changed in the past four years.
4. Some things have not changed in the past four years.
In a holding pattern outside of the landing strip
You want to know how I feel right now? Imagine having the Holy Grail (the golden kind with jewels, not the cheap wooden one from Raiders 3) within a hands reach. You reach out to grab it and you knock it over and it rolls out of reach. Gone.
Then!
It rolls back around again within a fingertips reach… you stretch out…and you miss it again. Gone.
Last Thursday, I was five minutes away from The Landing Strip in Romulus, MI. It was 11:30pm and I was sick. I had the chills. And I had to get up to Clarkston, MI to meet with my guys. They had mutinied and I to get them back on board. There wasn’t any time to go. The next day I had to get back to Ohio. Just out of my reach…
Tonight, I am driving up again. I’ll be driving within five miles of the most beautiful place on earth…
It’s 7:30pm now. I’m weary. I’m tired. I’ve got to meet the client at 7:30am. If I leave when I think I can, I’ll be out the door here at 9:00pm and be at teh hotel at 1:00am... but that also means I could be at the Landing Strip at 12:30am. I’d need 4 – 5 of the $10 drinks to loosen up.
And hey! By some act of whichever god you choose to imagine in, John just called. His quote was a little something like this… “Five years ago it would have been a no brainer, you would have gone. Now, we are older. I give you a 50/50 chance of going. If you do, take a photo on your camera phone and send it to me.”
It’s 7:38pm now. Maybe I can get out of here in the next 15 minutes.
The Landing Strip Wednesday night special is buy one Holy Grail of Coors, get the second half off. (There’s a better joke in there somewhere. Any suggestions?)
Then!
It rolls back around again within a fingertips reach… you stretch out…and you miss it again. Gone.
Last Thursday, I was five minutes away from The Landing Strip in Romulus, MI. It was 11:30pm and I was sick. I had the chills. And I had to get up to Clarkston, MI to meet with my guys. They had mutinied and I to get them back on board. There wasn’t any time to go. The next day I had to get back to Ohio. Just out of my reach…
Tonight, I am driving up again. I’ll be driving within five miles of the most beautiful place on earth…
It’s 7:30pm now. I’m weary. I’m tired. I’ve got to meet the client at 7:30am. If I leave when I think I can, I’ll be out the door here at 9:00pm and be at teh hotel at 1:00am... but that also means I could be at the Landing Strip at 12:30am. I’d need 4 – 5 of the $10 drinks to loosen up.
And hey! By some act of whichever god you choose to imagine in, John just called. His quote was a little something like this… “Five years ago it would have been a no brainer, you would have gone. Now, we are older. I give you a 50/50 chance of going. If you do, take a photo on your camera phone and send it to me.”
It’s 7:38pm now. Maybe I can get out of here in the next 15 minutes.
The Landing Strip Wednesday night special is buy one Holy Grail of Coors, get the second half off. (There’s a better joke in there somewhere. Any suggestions?)
Finally.... pumpkin carving
We finally carved pumpkins tonight. We bought six of them, thinking that we would carve and carve and carve. Not so much.
At least we got two of them. Greg drew the face of the pumpkin on the left. One big eye. One small eye. A small nose and a big smile.
The pumpkin on the right was tall and solid. The pumpkin wall was about 2 1/2 inches thick! I used a drill to dot matrix out the eyes, nose and mouth. Greg helped too. The photo came out better with no flash. Sometimes it's easier to see things in the dark.
At least we got two of them. Greg drew the face of the pumpkin on the left. One big eye. One small eye. A small nose and a big smile.
The pumpkin on the right was tall and solid. The pumpkin wall was about 2 1/2 inches thick! I used a drill to dot matrix out the eyes, nose and mouth. Greg helped too. The photo came out better with no flash. Sometimes it's easier to see things in the dark.
Drug Bust Evidence
One box filled with various papers.
One manila envelope.
One 36 inch latex dong with MagicThrust attachment.
One manila envelope.
One 36 inch latex dong with MagicThrust attachment.
Surlyman
You might have asked yourself, "What would Superman look like if he just gave up on life?"
A little like this. (The Superman on the right.)
I do not think I will ever live this costume down. I'm also waiting to see the photos that were taken of me after I passed out in Shorty's spare bedroom.
A little like this. (The Superman on the right.)
I do not think I will ever live this costume down. I'm also waiting to see the photos that were taken of me after I passed out in Shorty's spare bedroom.
Brer Rabbit and the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby
I recently read that some politicians have gotten into some trouble for using the term “tar-baby.” Apologies were issued and Al Sharpton went back into his condo, foretelling six more weeks of winter.
If you are not familiar with Uncle Remus or the name “tar-baby,” then you’n go off and stick your head in a bucket full o water. For everyone else, I’m sure you are aware of the possible racial implications from using the term. And I think those implications are a bunch of horse hooey. I think tar-baby is a beautiful way to explain how people can get all uppity and put themselves in a bit of a quagmire.
For those of you who are offended or feel like you should be offended, I’ve changed the story so that we can get back to making analogies about the War on Terror without offending anyone who doesn’t know whether or not to be offended or not. Let's let Whitey take it on the chin.
Brer Rabbit and the Marshmallow Fluff Baby
Retold and unkindly edited by Doug from a story retold by Joel Chandler Harris
One day Brer Fox thought of how Brer Rabbit had been cutting up his capers and bouncing around until he'd come to believe that he was the boss of the whole gang. Brer Fox thought of a way to lay some bait for that uppity Brer Rabbit.
He went to work and got some Marshmallow Fluff and mixed it with some corn syrup. He fixed up a contraption that he called a Marshmallow Fluff-Baby. When he finished making her, he put a straw hat on her head and sat the little thing in the middle of the road. Brer Fox, he lay off in the bushes to see what would happen.
Well, he didn't have to wait long either, 'cause by and by Brer Rabbit came pacing down the road--lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity--just as sassy as a jaybird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit came prancing along until he saw the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby and then he sat back on his hind legs like he was astonished. The Marshmallow Fluff-Baby just sat there, she did, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"Good morning!" says Brer Rabbit, says he. "Nice weather we're having this morning," says he.
Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't say a word, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"How are you feeling this morning?" says Brer Rabbit, says he.
Brer Fox, he winked his eye real slow and lay low and the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't say a thing.
"What is the matter with you then? Are you deaf?" says Brer Rabbit, says he. "Cause if you are, I can holler louder," says he.
The Marshmallow Fluff-Baby stayed still and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"You're stuck-up, that's what's wrong with you. You think you're too good to talk to me," says Brer Rabbit, says he. "And I'm going to cure you, that's what I'm going to do," says he.
Brer Fox started to chuckle in his stomach, he did, but Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't say a word.
"I'm going to teach you how to talk to respectable folks if it's my last act," says Brer Rabbit, says he. "If you don't take off that hat and say howdy, I'm going to bust you wide open," says he.
Marshmallow Fluff-Baby stayed still and Brer Fox, he lay low.
Brer Rabbit kept on asking her why she wouldn't talk and the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby kept on saying nothing until Brer Rabbit finally drew back his fist, he did, and blip--he hit the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby on the jaw. But his fist stuck and he couldn't pull it loose. The fluff held him. But Marshmallow Fluff-Baby, she stayed still, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"If you don't let me loose, I'm going to hit you again," says Brer Rabbit, says he, and with that he drew back his other fist and blap--he hit the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby with the other hand and that one stuck fast too.
Marshmallow Fluff-Baby she stayed still, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"Turn me loose, before I kick the natural stuffing out of you," says Brer Rabbit, says he, but the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby just sat there.
She just held on and then Brer Rabbit jumped her with both his feet. Brer Fox, he lay low. Then Brer Rabbit yelled out that if that Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't turn him loose, he was going to butt her crank-sided. Then he butted her and his head got stuck.
Brer Fox walked out from behind the bushes and strolled over to Brer Rabbit, looking as innocent as a mockingbird.
"Howdy, Brer Rabbit," says Brer Fox, says he. "You look sort of stuck up this morning," says he. And he rolled on the ground and laughed and laughed until he couldn't laugh anymore.
By and by he said, "Well, I expect I got you this time, Brer Rabbit," says he. "Maybe I don't, but I expect I do. You've been around here sassing after me a mighty long time, but now it's the end.
And then you're always getting into something that's none of your business," says Brer Fox, says he. "Who asked you to come and strike up a conversation with this Marshmallow Fluff-Baby? And who stuck you up the way you are? Nobody in the round world. You just jammed yourself into that Marshmallow Fluff-Baby without waiting for an invitation," says Brer Fox, says he. "There you are and there you'll stay until I fix up a brushpile and fire it up, "cause I'm going to barbecue you today, for sure," says Brer Fox, says he.
Then Brer Rabbit started talking mighty humble.
"I don't care what you do with me, Brer Fox, says he, "Just so you don't fling me in that briar patch. Roast me, Brer Fox, says he, "But don't fling me in that briar patch."
Brer Fox says, "OK," and cooked the Brer Rabbit over a fire and et the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby for desert.
The End
**** *******
I always thought that Rabbit was a little too cocky.
If you are not familiar with Uncle Remus or the name “tar-baby,” then you’n go off and stick your head in a bucket full o water. For everyone else, I’m sure you are aware of the possible racial implications from using the term. And I think those implications are a bunch of horse hooey. I think tar-baby is a beautiful way to explain how people can get all uppity and put themselves in a bit of a quagmire.
For those of you who are offended or feel like you should be offended, I’ve changed the story so that we can get back to making analogies about the War on Terror without offending anyone who doesn’t know whether or not to be offended or not. Let's let Whitey take it on the chin.
Brer Rabbit and the Marshmallow Fluff Baby
Retold and unkindly edited by Doug from a story retold by Joel Chandler Harris
One day Brer Fox thought of how Brer Rabbit had been cutting up his capers and bouncing around until he'd come to believe that he was the boss of the whole gang. Brer Fox thought of a way to lay some bait for that uppity Brer Rabbit.
He went to work and got some Marshmallow Fluff and mixed it with some corn syrup. He fixed up a contraption that he called a Marshmallow Fluff-Baby. When he finished making her, he put a straw hat on her head and sat the little thing in the middle of the road. Brer Fox, he lay off in the bushes to see what would happen.
Well, he didn't have to wait long either, 'cause by and by Brer Rabbit came pacing down the road--lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity--just as sassy as a jaybird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit came prancing along until he saw the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby and then he sat back on his hind legs like he was astonished. The Marshmallow Fluff-Baby just sat there, she did, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"Good morning!" says Brer Rabbit, says he. "Nice weather we're having this morning," says he.
Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't say a word, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"How are you feeling this morning?" says Brer Rabbit, says he.
Brer Fox, he winked his eye real slow and lay low and the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't say a thing.
"What is the matter with you then? Are you deaf?" says Brer Rabbit, says he. "Cause if you are, I can holler louder," says he.
The Marshmallow Fluff-Baby stayed still and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"You're stuck-up, that's what's wrong with you. You think you're too good to talk to me," says Brer Rabbit, says he. "And I'm going to cure you, that's what I'm going to do," says he.
Brer Fox started to chuckle in his stomach, he did, but Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't say a word.
"I'm going to teach you how to talk to respectable folks if it's my last act," says Brer Rabbit, says he. "If you don't take off that hat and say howdy, I'm going to bust you wide open," says he.
Marshmallow Fluff-Baby stayed still and Brer Fox, he lay low.
Brer Rabbit kept on asking her why she wouldn't talk and the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby kept on saying nothing until Brer Rabbit finally drew back his fist, he did, and blip--he hit the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby on the jaw. But his fist stuck and he couldn't pull it loose. The fluff held him. But Marshmallow Fluff-Baby, she stayed still, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"If you don't let me loose, I'm going to hit you again," says Brer Rabbit, says he, and with that he drew back his other fist and blap--he hit the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby with the other hand and that one stuck fast too.
Marshmallow Fluff-Baby she stayed still, and Brer Fox, he lay low.
"Turn me loose, before I kick the natural stuffing out of you," says Brer Rabbit, says he, but the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby just sat there.
She just held on and then Brer Rabbit jumped her with both his feet. Brer Fox, he lay low. Then Brer Rabbit yelled out that if that Marshmallow Fluff-Baby didn't turn him loose, he was going to butt her crank-sided. Then he butted her and his head got stuck.
Brer Fox walked out from behind the bushes and strolled over to Brer Rabbit, looking as innocent as a mockingbird.
"Howdy, Brer Rabbit," says Brer Fox, says he. "You look sort of stuck up this morning," says he. And he rolled on the ground and laughed and laughed until he couldn't laugh anymore.
By and by he said, "Well, I expect I got you this time, Brer Rabbit," says he. "Maybe I don't, but I expect I do. You've been around here sassing after me a mighty long time, but now it's the end.
And then you're always getting into something that's none of your business," says Brer Fox, says he. "Who asked you to come and strike up a conversation with this Marshmallow Fluff-Baby? And who stuck you up the way you are? Nobody in the round world. You just jammed yourself into that Marshmallow Fluff-Baby without waiting for an invitation," says Brer Fox, says he. "There you are and there you'll stay until I fix up a brushpile and fire it up, "cause I'm going to barbecue you today, for sure," says Brer Fox, says he.
Then Brer Rabbit started talking mighty humble.
"I don't care what you do with me, Brer Fox, says he, "Just so you don't fling me in that briar patch. Roast me, Brer Fox, says he, "But don't fling me in that briar patch."
Brer Fox says, "OK," and cooked the Brer Rabbit over a fire and et the Marshmallow Fluff-Baby for desert.
The End
**** *******
I always thought that Rabbit was a little too cocky.
Top Ten List of Crappy Internet Top Ten Lists
There seem to be a million of top ten lists on the internet. I was able to crawl through and find these ten offenders of good taste. Whether it be formatting, topic or choice of what is considered the best, these lists are on the bottom of the list. Or the top of the list if it is a bad list. I tried to put these in a top ten order, but there was a nine way tie for first place.
Click the links to see the actual lists, if you must.
Top 10 Oprah Winfrey Quotes
There are some that believe that everything Oprah says should go on a top ten list. I think Oprah’s top ten quotes should be her simple phrases: “Two scoops.” “You’re fired.” “More.” “Just slap a big O on it and mark the price up 650%” “Does this not make me look fat.” “I own that.” “Bring my shoe horns.” “Didn’t I fire you?” “Get off my couch.” “There isn’t anything that can’t fit into a gift basket.”
The Top 10 weirdest case mods
Nothing cries erectile dysfunction louder than case mods. I could imagine that if my dick did not work anymore that I would turn my rig into a volcano with actual lava created by the heat dispersed from processor. The keyboard would be formed of actual pahoehoe. That would be cool. If my dick didn’t work.
Ken's Top Ten Lists
Ken likes cars AND Top Ten Lists. Of all the lists that I hated, this one I hated the least. Even though Ken is a mechanic from Canada, the guy seems to grow on you. My beef with his lists are that no one gives two craps about what their mechanic thinks. Or with the mechanic sense of humor. “Not as many of us around these days that remember the days before front wheel disc brakes became standard on all cars. Most of us were killed in accidents.”
Plus bumper stickers should never be discussed or brought together in a group as a top ten list. People with 80 bumper stickers are a lot less creepy than the people with just one. One bumper sticker person only believes in one thing. That’s creepy.
Top 10 fall foliage destinations
The leaves are so beautiful! It’s like God decided to change his mind about the tree colors three quarters way through the year!
Tree leaves are like a relationship headed toward marriage. The leaves actually have a purpose until the big day when they burst with color in a marriage of botany and beauty. Then they die, fall off the tree and clog gutters.
Top 10 reasons to install Windows XP Service Pack 2 (SP2)
Christ. This list looks like it was created by either Amway or The Church of Scientology. My favorite is “Take action against crashes caused by browser add-ons.” It’s almost as if they had two really good reasons and then hired a perky, museum tour guide to create the rest.
Top 10 Cats
This list stinks because it is a list about cats. It also stinks because it is not a list. When I see top ten, I want a commitment as to which is the best. If this were a list about top ten dogs, you’d see 1 through 10. This list should be about the top ten ways to make it look like the cat ran away from home.
The Top Ten Presidents
I’m not opposed to presidents or ranking them. I am opposed to the formatting of this list. The author was too lazy to write out the first names of most of the Presidents. Somehow, he didn’t want us to be confused with some of the other Presidents named Roosevelt and Truman, so he gave their first names. Some of the others earned first initials. Otherwise this list sucks because J. Carter isn’t on it. He was the only president to have sexual thoughts. That’s my kind of President.
Top Ten Games Over the Past 10 Years
Video games are way too subjective. You cannot build a top ten list of just games and not piss everyone off. I also have to assume that this list was created in 2001. My internet calendar is broken.
10 Best Science Fiction Novels of All Time
Another example of a list gone horribly wrong. Amazon has a tool called Listmania, where users can create a list of their favorite stuff. This Top Ten list has 24 listings of 28 books. And a good percentage (99%) of these are absolute dreck. I’ll give this guy Ender’s Game. Otherwise, get back into your Mormon time machine and wait for the future.
Top Eleven Movie Sequels
At least this top ten list tried to be as creative as the 249 other top ten lists with eleven on their list. Ghostbusters 2 is actually on the list. The only redeeming quality is the mention of Batman Returns and Aliens. Evil Dead 2 is a great flick, but really a remake. The Empire Strikes back is part two of a trilogy. Terminator 2 isn’t even on the list. This guy is a complete turd. I’m surprised he didn’t have Matrix: Reloaded on his crap 11 list.
OK. Superman 2 was pretty good. When compared to 3.
Top Ten List of Crappy Internet Top Ten Lists
Obvious.
Click the links to see the actual lists, if you must.
Top 10 Oprah Winfrey Quotes
There are some that believe that everything Oprah says should go on a top ten list. I think Oprah’s top ten quotes should be her simple phrases: “Two scoops.” “You’re fired.” “More.” “Just slap a big O on it and mark the price up 650%” “Does this not make me look fat.” “I own that.” “Bring my shoe horns.” “Didn’t I fire you?” “Get off my couch.” “There isn’t anything that can’t fit into a gift basket.”
The Top 10 weirdest case mods
Nothing cries erectile dysfunction louder than case mods. I could imagine that if my dick did not work anymore that I would turn my rig into a volcano with actual lava created by the heat dispersed from processor. The keyboard would be formed of actual pahoehoe. That would be cool. If my dick didn’t work.
Ken's Top Ten Lists
Ken likes cars AND Top Ten Lists. Of all the lists that I hated, this one I hated the least. Even though Ken is a mechanic from Canada, the guy seems to grow on you. My beef with his lists are that no one gives two craps about what their mechanic thinks. Or with the mechanic sense of humor. “Not as many of us around these days that remember the days before front wheel disc brakes became standard on all cars. Most of us were killed in accidents.”
Plus bumper stickers should never be discussed or brought together in a group as a top ten list. People with 80 bumper stickers are a lot less creepy than the people with just one. One bumper sticker person only believes in one thing. That’s creepy.
Top 10 fall foliage destinations
The leaves are so beautiful! It’s like God decided to change his mind about the tree colors three quarters way through the year!
Tree leaves are like a relationship headed toward marriage. The leaves actually have a purpose until the big day when they burst with color in a marriage of botany and beauty. Then they die, fall off the tree and clog gutters.
Top 10 reasons to install Windows XP Service Pack 2 (SP2)
Christ. This list looks like it was created by either Amway or The Church of Scientology. My favorite is “Take action against crashes caused by browser add-ons.” It’s almost as if they had two really good reasons and then hired a perky, museum tour guide to create the rest.
Top 10 Cats
This list stinks because it is a list about cats. It also stinks because it is not a list. When I see top ten, I want a commitment as to which is the best. If this were a list about top ten dogs, you’d see 1 through 10. This list should be about the top ten ways to make it look like the cat ran away from home.
The Top Ten Presidents
I’m not opposed to presidents or ranking them. I am opposed to the formatting of this list. The author was too lazy to write out the first names of most of the Presidents. Somehow, he didn’t want us to be confused with some of the other Presidents named Roosevelt and Truman, so he gave their first names. Some of the others earned first initials. Otherwise this list sucks because J. Carter isn’t on it. He was the only president to have sexual thoughts. That’s my kind of President.
Top Ten Games Over the Past 10 Years
Video games are way too subjective. You cannot build a top ten list of just games and not piss everyone off. I also have to assume that this list was created in 2001. My internet calendar is broken.
10 Best Science Fiction Novels of All Time
Another example of a list gone horribly wrong. Amazon has a tool called Listmania, where users can create a list of their favorite stuff. This Top Ten list has 24 listings of 28 books. And a good percentage (99%) of these are absolute dreck. I’ll give this guy Ender’s Game. Otherwise, get back into your Mormon time machine and wait for the future.
Top Eleven Movie Sequels
At least this top ten list tried to be as creative as the 249 other top ten lists with eleven on their list. Ghostbusters 2 is actually on the list. The only redeeming quality is the mention of Batman Returns and Aliens. Evil Dead 2 is a great flick, but really a remake. The Empire Strikes back is part two of a trilogy. Terminator 2 isn’t even on the list. This guy is a complete turd. I’m surprised he didn’t have Matrix: Reloaded on his crap 11 list.
OK. Superman 2 was pretty good. When compared to 3.
Top Ten List of Crappy Internet Top Ten Lists
Obvious.
Boots
I started roofing back in the Summer of 1989. A roofer needs boots. I bought a pair and tried to scuff them up the day before I started so that it would look like I wasn’t a punk kid. I was a punk kid and the roofers called me out on my boots the first day. They had to do it quick because by the second day, they were tar stained and looked like boots.
One day, I screwed roofing washers on to the back of both boots and pretended they were spurs. I sauntered into the group of guys circled up eating lunch with my boots jingling and said something John Wayneish. Old Goat said, “Hey Tinkerbell. Nice fairy boots.” That nickname stuck for three years.
My boots went with me to college and I played backyard volleyball in them because I thought it was cool.
My boots went to Alaska where I wore them in a tent for five weeks and then on the retort line.
My boots went with me to Europe. Though Acton and I never went anywhere that wasn’t paved, I brought them just in case.
They went with me to Shreveport, Boston, Omaha, Denver, Syracuse, Ft. Lauderdale and back to Columbus. They were a conversation piece in my apartment when people would ask what they hell they were.
My boots didn’t get thrown out when Miss Sally moved in, but she did make me leave them in the garage. They traveled from the apartment to our first house and made the cut going to our second home.
The soles were worn almost flat with only suggestions of tread. The laces had been replaced three times. When I slid them on, they felt like a second skin. And I mean a creepy feeling of a second skin. I was usually grossed out for the first five to ten minutes.
Today, I threw away my boots. I probably threw away 400 baby spiders as well. They deserved a better burial or funeral pyre, but I hate to think about the toxic cloud they would have produced.
I took some photos of them before I tossed them in the trash.
Thank you boots. I will miss you.
Downtown Brown
I am still of the belief that the internet is fake. That most the “people” you deal with on a daily basis via the net are bots and a few lines of programming smeared over toast. I’d have to guess that there are probably only 79 real people on the internet. Six of those people are responsible for 6,456,332 MySpace pages each.
In this fake world, I found myself making a bet with Carpanza. Carpanza’s some guy out of Minneapolis that likes to drink and seems like he’s got his shit together. We are in a Fantasy Football league and we "talk" crap, via the internet, about how crappy the other guy’s crappy players are. We also found ourselves talking smack about Ohio State and the Iowa Hawkeyes. While this talk of the smack was commencing, I made a bet with him that Ohio State would beat the Hawkeyes. He disagreed and agreed to the bet. The wager was for the winner’s choice of a six pack of beer from beeronthewall.com.
Ohio State won.
I chose a six pack of Lost Coast’s Downtown Brown. This was one of Miss Sally favorite beers back when our relationship was young. She had drank it in California and we couldn’t find a distributor in Ohio. It seems the only way to get it is by winning a bet.
So here’s where it got interesting for me. Would Carpanza, an imaginary internet character, actually buy a six pack of beer and have it shipped to some stranger in Ohio who was also probably imaginary?
Today we received a very well packaged, 6-pack of Downtown Brown. The bottles were lovingly swaddled in cardboard and they even folded up the decorative, 6-pack carrier and included it in the box. It was beautiful.
As I type, they are chilling in the refrigerator, waiting for me to savor a Buckeye win, the warm memories of young love and my new belief that perhaps there is a shred of humanity out there in the electronic aether.
The enclosed card read, “I hope this beer arrives skunky, and gives you explosive diarrhea.”
Thanks Carpanza.
In this fake world, I found myself making a bet with Carpanza. Carpanza’s some guy out of Minneapolis that likes to drink and seems like he’s got his shit together. We are in a Fantasy Football league and we "talk" crap, via the internet, about how crappy the other guy’s crappy players are. We also found ourselves talking smack about Ohio State and the Iowa Hawkeyes. While this talk of the smack was commencing, I made a bet with him that Ohio State would beat the Hawkeyes. He disagreed and agreed to the bet. The wager was for the winner’s choice of a six pack of beer from beeronthewall.com.
Ohio State won.
I chose a six pack of Lost Coast’s Downtown Brown. This was one of Miss Sally favorite beers back when our relationship was young. She had drank it in California and we couldn’t find a distributor in Ohio. It seems the only way to get it is by winning a bet.
So here’s where it got interesting for me. Would Carpanza, an imaginary internet character, actually buy a six pack of beer and have it shipped to some stranger in Ohio who was also probably imaginary?
Today we received a very well packaged, 6-pack of Downtown Brown. The bottles were lovingly swaddled in cardboard and they even folded up the decorative, 6-pack carrier and included it in the box. It was beautiful.
As I type, they are chilling in the refrigerator, waiting for me to savor a Buckeye win, the warm memories of young love and my new belief that perhaps there is a shred of humanity out there in the electronic aether.
The enclosed card read, “I hope this beer arrives skunky, and gives you explosive diarrhea.”
Thanks Carpanza.
Moms
With Miss Sally returning to work, we needed some help taking care of Baby Ann during the day. We were only going to need help for about three weeks until a spot opened up in the infant room at Miss Sally's preschool. Because Baby Ann decided to come out four weeks early, we now need seven weeks of help from my mother and Sally's mom.
I cannot tell you how grateful we are. I cannot tell you how much I forgot to realize that they would be spending the entire work week here. We are ending day two and my mom showed up a little bit ago to take the Wednesday/Thursday shift.
I'll let you know how it goes.
I cannot tell you how grateful we are. I cannot tell you how much I forgot to realize that they would be spending the entire work week here. We are ending day two and my mom showed up a little bit ago to take the Wednesday/Thursday shift.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Don't ask, no Wonkas!
I did some work at the Columbus Zoo a few years ago. One of the components was a nocturnal building in the Australia area that the exhibits division at the zoo wanted turned into a themed bar/restaurant/travel office/educational center/insect diorama/casino. Another case of if simplicity is good, then a bunch of simple concepts thrown together should be GREAT!
One unique aspect was the signage in the building. They wanted themed/aged humorous signs. As it turns out, humorous themed signs are my specialty.
My favorite:
When we had the signs made, I had a second made for myself. I took it with me when I left the Studio. It’s hanging up at work. A small window that looks out at a more creative time.
The Willie Wonka and the Chocolate aficionados will notice that there is a slight issue with the sign. Any guesses?
If you get a chance to check out the Nocturnal Building (Or Bob and Evelyn's Roadhouse as it lovingly called)look for the huge relief map of Australia on the wall. That is constructed out of blood, sweat, tears and four, one gallon cans of Bondo. Look for the area on the map marked "Mystery Spot" and put your car keys near it.
One unique aspect was the signage in the building. They wanted themed/aged humorous signs. As it turns out, humorous themed signs are my specialty.
My favorite:
When we had the signs made, I had a second made for myself. I took it with me when I left the Studio. It’s hanging up at work. A small window that looks out at a more creative time.
The Willie Wonka and the Chocolate aficionados will notice that there is a slight issue with the sign. Any guesses?
If you get a chance to check out the Nocturnal Building (Or Bob and Evelyn's Roadhouse as it lovingly called)look for the huge relief map of Australia on the wall. That is constructed out of blood, sweat, tears and four, one gallon cans of Bondo. Look for the area on the map marked "Mystery Spot" and put your car keys near it.
Rejection is good
My friend Meshell is a very talented and creative illustrator. We got together at B-Hampton’s for a drink a few months ago and she had her portfolio on hand from an earlier meeting. Meshell and I had discussed children’s books in the past and I thought she and I should team up to create something. But like most my ideas, they are simply words with no substance behind them. That night though, Meshell showed me one of her illustrations called “The Power of Soup.”
I immediately thought of an idea for a story and went home and wrote it.
I then submitted it to a publishing company.
And then I waited.
I knew that my story wouldn’t get published. It was my first submission. It was pretty rough. I found out later that my main character’s name was not only a Teletubbie, but also a slang word for kinky sex. (Lala. I choose it because it was Miss Sally’s nickname for her sister. Luckily I had never seen the Teletubbies and only found out what Lala meant when I saw it on a 17 year-old’s T-shirt.)
What I was really looking for was acknowledgement that someone opened my letter and glanced at my five pages of dreck and responded with a form letter suggesting I burn my keyboard and take up roofing again.
And I waited some more.
Most submissions take about 10 – 15 weeks to get processed. As of yesterday, it had been almost 30 weeks and I kept telling myself that I had forgotten about it.
Yesterday, I got a letter from Tricycle Press, the children’s book division of Ten Speed Press. A form letter. A rejection letter.
And I feel acknowledged.
I then went back to re-read my story and oh boy… it could use a bit of editing. I’ll change Lala’s name (though she will always be Lala to me) and beef up a bit of the story. Perhaps I will change the part where Lala receives second degree burns from hugging a pot of steaming, hot soup.
I immediately thought of an idea for a story and went home and wrote it.
I then submitted it to a publishing company.
And then I waited.
I knew that my story wouldn’t get published. It was my first submission. It was pretty rough. I found out later that my main character’s name was not only a Teletubbie, but also a slang word for kinky sex. (Lala. I choose it because it was Miss Sally’s nickname for her sister. Luckily I had never seen the Teletubbies and only found out what Lala meant when I saw it on a 17 year-old’s T-shirt.)
What I was really looking for was acknowledgement that someone opened my letter and glanced at my five pages of dreck and responded with a form letter suggesting I burn my keyboard and take up roofing again.
And I waited some more.
Most submissions take about 10 – 15 weeks to get processed. As of yesterday, it had been almost 30 weeks and I kept telling myself that I had forgotten about it.
Yesterday, I got a letter from Tricycle Press, the children’s book division of Ten Speed Press. A form letter. A rejection letter.
And I feel acknowledged.
I then went back to re-read my story and oh boy… it could use a bit of editing. I’ll change Lala’s name (though she will always be Lala to me) and beef up a bit of the story. Perhaps I will change the part where Lala receives second degree burns from hugging a pot of steaming, hot soup.
Thanks!
This message is to the girl who was at Skully's last night, dancing around in your bra. You danced for a bit, but were so drunk, you fell flat on your face and had to be carried off.
Thanks. That was hot.
Thanks. That was hot.
Plaid pants
I have a friend that is South Korean. Towards the beginning of our relationship, I felt we were almost friends enough for me to ask a really awkward question. I asked, “How do you tell the difference between Korean, Japanese and Chinese people?”
He thought only for a moment and said:
Koreans are pretty good dressers and they are clean.
Japanese dress very well and are very clean.
Chinese people are kind of dirty and they wear clothes that don’t match.
It's comforting to know that there are people as shallow as me all over the globe.
A few days ago, I saw a man wearing green plaid pants and a striped sweater and brown shoes with a black belt. He looked Caucasian, but I guess he was Chinese.
He thought only for a moment and said:
Koreans are pretty good dressers and they are clean.
Japanese dress very well and are very clean.
Chinese people are kind of dirty and they wear clothes that don’t match.
It's comforting to know that there are people as shallow as me all over the globe.
A few days ago, I saw a man wearing green plaid pants and a striped sweater and brown shoes with a black belt. He looked Caucasian, but I guess he was Chinese.
I’m not getting a flu shot
I’m not. I never have been immunized and I have never had the flu.
Now, I’m not one of the idiots that think that the flu shot has a chance of giving you the flu. It can’t. It’s impossible. (Unless the dude giving you the shot has the flu and sneezes in your mouth.) (Wow. That was really gross.) The shot has dead flu virus in it and you just can’t get it from that source.
There is a nasal mist vaccine that has mostly dead flu virus in it that has an infinitesimally small chance of giving you the flu. Of course, if you go by Princess Bride logic, mostly dead is slightly alive. But the chances are still slim. As slim as three men versus sixty. Get the mist and you also might want to purchase a wheel barrow and a Holocaust Cloak.
I’m also not worried because I am not old. I am not young. I don’t have asthma. I don’t have diabetes. I’m not pregnant (yet.)
But then I realized that I am what they classify as a “caregiver.” I’ve got one kid that falls in the young category and one that is in the six months and younger category. If I get the flu from that old, asthma ridden, pregnant diabetic woman at work, I could bring it home to the kids. And that would suck.
So, I’ll get the stinking flu shot. Or the mist.
And if I get the flu this year, I am going to be really pissed. And I will probably blame the vaccine. Or the guy that sneezed in my mouth.
Now, I’m not one of the idiots that think that the flu shot has a chance of giving you the flu. It can’t. It’s impossible. (Unless the dude giving you the shot has the flu and sneezes in your mouth.) (Wow. That was really gross.) The shot has dead flu virus in it and you just can’t get it from that source.
There is a nasal mist vaccine that has mostly dead flu virus in it that has an infinitesimally small chance of giving you the flu. Of course, if you go by Princess Bride logic, mostly dead is slightly alive. But the chances are still slim. As slim as three men versus sixty. Get the mist and you also might want to purchase a wheel barrow and a Holocaust Cloak.
I’m also not worried because I am not old. I am not young. I don’t have asthma. I don’t have diabetes. I’m not pregnant (yet.)
But then I realized that I am what they classify as a “caregiver.” I’ve got one kid that falls in the young category and one that is in the six months and younger category. If I get the flu from that old, asthma ridden, pregnant diabetic woman at work, I could bring it home to the kids. And that would suck.
So, I’ll get the stinking flu shot. Or the mist.
And if I get the flu this year, I am going to be really pissed. And I will probably blame the vaccine. Or the guy that sneezed in my mouth.
I’m not scarred
Like many of you, I went through the fourth grade. That was when I had my traumatic childhood experience. Everyone has the traumatic childhood experience. If you don’t remember yours, it’s because it was REALLY traumatic and you should seek counseling. Mine wasn’t that traumatic, but it’s really my only one, so I have to pin the brown and black ribbon on it.
Ms. Rice was a fourth grade teacher at Tallmadge Elementary School. She was not my homeroom teacher, so I only saw her for one period a day. I think it was for science. Now I remember it was science, because she gave me a C for my report on the planets that was copied directly out of the encyclopedia. I hate to think that my parents paid thousands of dollars for a set of books that only got me a C.
One day in science class, Ms. Rice asked everyone to be quiet. Everyone got quite. Which made it a lot easier for Ms. Rice to hear me ask the kid next to me for their scissors. She had just about enough. Ms. Rice told me to come to the front of the room. She instructed the other students, “Get out a piece of paper and write something you hate about Doug.”
They did.
“Now stand up and form a line in front of Doug and read what you wrote.”
Doug stinks.
Doug is ugly.
Doug is stupid.
Doug talks in class. (You got me there.)
Doug is smelly.
Doug…
I don’t remember a lot of what they wrote. I definitely remember the Doug stinks. At first I tried to laugh it off. And then I cried. Come on, I was in the 4th grade.
The last person read their paper. I was sent back to my seat and we finished what ever we were doing. Everyone was told to throw their papers away. I went home and didn’t say a word.
Andy Friesner was a friend of mine at the time and he felt bad about it. Bad enough that he took several notes out of the trash and took them home to his parents. His parents called mine. Mine questioned me and then called the school. There was a too do.
I would have to call my mom to remind me of what happened after that. I’m sure she’d love to talk about it and get all fired up again. I seem to recall that the next day all the kids wrote nice things about me and I was to take the nice pieces of paper home and show them to my parents. Jamie Barnes (upon a proofread, I’m realizing that this might be a good point to preface that Jamie is a girl) asked me to be her square dance partner in Gym class. That might have all been worth it.
I’m not scarred. Thinking about it makes me sad. But mainly because I’m now remembering these people from my past. I haven’t talked to Andy in years. He is a great guy. And that my long lost love Jamie Barnes hasn’t thought about me in years.
Ms. Rice? My understanding is that she is now an educational administrator somewhere. I searched the internet for “Ms. Rice is a stinking filthy whore” but did not get any search results. I’m not scarred.
Ms. Rice was a fourth grade teacher at Tallmadge Elementary School. She was not my homeroom teacher, so I only saw her for one period a day. I think it was for science. Now I remember it was science, because she gave me a C for my report on the planets that was copied directly out of the encyclopedia. I hate to think that my parents paid thousands of dollars for a set of books that only got me a C.
One day in science class, Ms. Rice asked everyone to be quiet. Everyone got quite. Which made it a lot easier for Ms. Rice to hear me ask the kid next to me for their scissors. She had just about enough. Ms. Rice told me to come to the front of the room. She instructed the other students, “Get out a piece of paper and write something you hate about Doug.”
They did.
“Now stand up and form a line in front of Doug and read what you wrote.”
Doug stinks.
Doug is ugly.
Doug is stupid.
Doug talks in class. (You got me there.)
Doug is smelly.
Doug…
I don’t remember a lot of what they wrote. I definitely remember the Doug stinks. At first I tried to laugh it off. And then I cried. Come on, I was in the 4th grade.
The last person read their paper. I was sent back to my seat and we finished what ever we were doing. Everyone was told to throw their papers away. I went home and didn’t say a word.
Andy Friesner was a friend of mine at the time and he felt bad about it. Bad enough that he took several notes out of the trash and took them home to his parents. His parents called mine. Mine questioned me and then called the school. There was a too do.
I would have to call my mom to remind me of what happened after that. I’m sure she’d love to talk about it and get all fired up again. I seem to recall that the next day all the kids wrote nice things about me and I was to take the nice pieces of paper home and show them to my parents. Jamie Barnes (upon a proofread, I’m realizing that this might be a good point to preface that Jamie is a girl) asked me to be her square dance partner in Gym class. That might have all been worth it.
I’m not scarred. Thinking about it makes me sad. But mainly because I’m now remembering these people from my past. I haven’t talked to Andy in years. He is a great guy. And that my long lost love Jamie Barnes hasn’t thought about me in years.
Ms. Rice? My understanding is that she is now an educational administrator somewhere. I searched the internet for “Ms. Rice is a stinking filthy whore” but did not get any search results. I’m not scarred.
Saints vs Atlanta
I'm not a cartoonist, but I pretend to be one on teh intraweb. I thought of this one my drive into work this morning. (Click to enlarge.)
I started to redraw it, but I like the spontaneity of this one. (And I was too lazy.)
I'm thinking though that if I did re-draw it, I'd combine the 2nd and 3rd frame and then in the new forth frame have everyone come running back into the dome looking for shelter and blaming the Bush administration.
(Man, the #12 guy looks like a terrorist.) What kind of f'd up helmet is that?
I started to redraw it, but I like the spontaneity of this one. (And I was too lazy.)
I'm thinking though that if I did re-draw it, I'd combine the 2nd and 3rd frame and then in the new forth frame have everyone come running back into the dome looking for shelter and blaming the Bush administration.
(Man, the #12 guy looks like a terrorist.) What kind of f'd up helmet is that?
God made fish. The devil made the deep fryer.
God made fish. The devil made the deep fryer. Let’s go eat in Purgatory!
There is a restaurant in Columbus called Old Bag o’ Nails. They have really, really great fish and chips. The slaw stinks. The tartar sauce is usually warm. But the fish and chips are perfect. The almost better part is that they give you a huge portion. Some have described the portions as big as a baby’s arm or like a big fish, but bigger!
I have never heard anyone say that the fish portion was as large as a #1 foam finger.
Please compare and contrast the following:
The first photo is that of an Ohio State University #1 foam finger.
The second is a camera phone photo of some fish and chips I ordered last week.
I rest my case. The Old Bag o’ Nail fish and chips portion is as big as a #1 foam finger.
There is a restaurant in Columbus called Old Bag o’ Nails. They have really, really great fish and chips. The slaw stinks. The tartar sauce is usually warm. But the fish and chips are perfect. The almost better part is that they give you a huge portion. Some have described the portions as big as a baby’s arm or like a big fish, but bigger!
I have never heard anyone say that the fish portion was as large as a #1 foam finger.
Please compare and contrast the following:
The first photo is that of an Ohio State University #1 foam finger.
The second is a camera phone photo of some fish and chips I ordered last week.
I rest my case. The Old Bag o’ Nail fish and chips portion is as big as a #1 foam finger.
Male and Female Numbers and Letters
Without getting into it, here is my list of boy and girl numbers and letters:
Girl Numbers
2
3
5
6
8
9
Boy Numbers
0
1
4
7
10
Girl Letters
B
K
P
Q
R
S
U
X
Boy Letters
A
C
E
F
G
I
J
L
M
N
O
T
V
W
Y
Z
Both D and H are tomboy letters. Girl letters, but with a Peppermint Patty kind of boyishness. OK, they are dyke letters.
Girl Numbers
2
3
5
6
8
9
Boy Numbers
0
1
4
7
10
Girl Letters
B
K
P
Q
R
S
U
X
Boy Letters
A
C
E
F
G
I
J
L
M
N
O
T
V
W
Y
Z
Both D and H are tomboy letters. Girl letters, but with a Peppermint Patty kind of boyishness. OK, they are dyke letters.
How to pay your mortgage in coins
We have a large jar of coins at home. I’m sure you do too. If you are like me, you call it the emergency fund. I’m not sure what kind of emergency you would need to have to carry that thing into Kroger’s the day after Shorty’s bachelor party and pour $250 worth of pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters into a CoinStar machine and then deposit the cash into the bank and hope to God the money goes through before the mortgage check. I’m really not sure at all.
Anyways, it was the day after Shorty’s bachelor party and I was at Kroger’s empting out the emergency coin jar into the change machine. The CoinStar machine takes all you coins, keeps 8% and spits out the rest as a receipt that you cash in at customer service. Through a slot in the front, the machine will kick out any wooden nickels, tokens, washers, NECCO® Wafers, Canadian coins, or anything else that is round but not a coin or is a coin, but not round anymore.
That’s where I found this token:
I’m not sure where it came from, but if it is a coin from some Asian country, I want to live there. It also reminds me of how I felt the night of Shorty’s bachelor party. The next morning when I woke up and looked in my wallet I felt more like “Unhappy No Wood.”
I’m saving coins up for when John gets married and we throw him a bachelor party. I’ll have about $12,450 saved up by the time that happens.
Anyways, it was the day after Shorty’s bachelor party and I was at Kroger’s empting out the emergency coin jar into the change machine. The CoinStar machine takes all you coins, keeps 8% and spits out the rest as a receipt that you cash in at customer service. Through a slot in the front, the machine will kick out any wooden nickels, tokens, washers, NECCO® Wafers, Canadian coins, or anything else that is round but not a coin or is a coin, but not round anymore.
That’s where I found this token:
I’m not sure where it came from, but if it is a coin from some Asian country, I want to live there. It also reminds me of how I felt the night of Shorty’s bachelor party. The next morning when I woke up and looked in my wallet I felt more like “Unhappy No Wood.”
I’m saving coins up for when John gets married and we throw him a bachelor party. I’ll have about $12,450 saved up by the time that happens.
Finding My Inner Coil
We bought a mattress recently. We also had a baby. Purchasing the mattress was far more traumatic. Really.
With the birth of a baby, you have no control over the proceedings. The water breaks and you drive really fast to the hospital. Three or four different people wearing colorful scrubs stick ¾ of their arms in the mother to be. If you are the au natural type with a thing for extreme pain, the baby comes out with a whole bunch of screaming and yelling. If you believe in modern medical science, some dude sticks a needle in the mother's back and you can balance the checkbook as the baby comes out. They then give you a $45 Advil, several portions of dry chicken and kick you to the curb 47 hours and 59 minutes later. Pretty easy.
The purchase of a mattress requires so much more planning and effort. First off, you never know when a mattress is ready to be replaced (unless it’s a waterbed.) You’ll get a good idea once the springs start poking through or if you’ve worn it down so that you are sleeping on dust and the box spring.
Once you’ve made the decision to buy, you have to pick where to buy. When you are about to deliver a baby, you have two choices: the hospital or the back of a cab. There are over 106 places where you can pick up a mattress in Columbus. (You can sometimes find mattresses along the road for free as long as you can fit Various Stains Brown into your bedroom color pallet.) You’ll pick the wrong store to buy no matter where you go. You will overpay or buy something of low quality or find out another store had a better deal. (Please note: Never ever buy from a store that says they will take your old mattress away when they bring the new. Notice how they show up with a mostly empty truck, put your old mattress inside, close the door and five minutes later pull out the “new” mattress.)
Your purchasing of a mattress really isn’t based on wrapped springs or space age foam or Amish construction. It’s all about how far the salesman rolls his eyes back in his head. When you ask about the floor models, you might get a quarter roll. If you lay down to test a mattress for more than four minutes, you’ll get the full eye roll with the crossed arms and toe tapping. If you walk into the store and wave off the salesman while walking back to the “USED” section, you can get his eyes to roll a full 360 degrees and a sigh big enough to suck the oxygen out of the strip mall. As you walk around the store, watch his eyes and pick the mattress that causes him the least distress.
Once you’ve got the salesman’s eyes back in place and he finishes tacking on the stain guard and undercoating to the bill, he’ll ask about delivery. I highly recommend taking the mattress home with you right there and then for two reasons. The first is so you actually get the mattress you think you want. At the factory in Guam, they make one kind of mattress and 24 kinds of labels to sew on to the mattress (not including the "Do not remove under penalty of law” tag.)
The second reason to drive you mattress home is the physics involved with a mattress tied to the top of your car. The tension of the twine. The power-to-weight ratio required to become airborne. Newton’s First law combined with the breaking power of the car behind you. The muscle mass required to hold the mattress on the top of the car with one hand stuck out the window. My buddy Russ passed his third quarter of Physics by showing up to the final with a king sized Sealy Posturepedic attached to his car with a coat hanger and sixteen feet of dental floss.
Your first night with the mattress is the most important. Mainly because the spider eggs hatch that first night after being distressed during transportation. Also be prepared with a good one liner to combat your buddies who ask if you have “broken in” the mattress yet. I suggest the following response:
“Broken in? You kidding? I got fucked at the store.”
(Actually, I am kidding. We just bought a mattress from The Mattress Firm on Morse Road. It was a very pleasant experience and the sales dude was a great guy. We had it delivered and I even tipped the two delivery guys. And no, we haven’t broken it in yet… assholes.)
With the birth of a baby, you have no control over the proceedings. The water breaks and you drive really fast to the hospital. Three or four different people wearing colorful scrubs stick ¾ of their arms in the mother to be. If you are the au natural type with a thing for extreme pain, the baby comes out with a whole bunch of screaming and yelling. If you believe in modern medical science, some dude sticks a needle in the mother's back and you can balance the checkbook as the baby comes out. They then give you a $45 Advil, several portions of dry chicken and kick you to the curb 47 hours and 59 minutes later. Pretty easy.
The purchase of a mattress requires so much more planning and effort. First off, you never know when a mattress is ready to be replaced (unless it’s a waterbed.) You’ll get a good idea once the springs start poking through or if you’ve worn it down so that you are sleeping on dust and the box spring.
Once you’ve made the decision to buy, you have to pick where to buy. When you are about to deliver a baby, you have two choices: the hospital or the back of a cab. There are over 106 places where you can pick up a mattress in Columbus. (You can sometimes find mattresses along the road for free as long as you can fit Various Stains Brown into your bedroom color pallet.) You’ll pick the wrong store to buy no matter where you go. You will overpay or buy something of low quality or find out another store had a better deal. (Please note: Never ever buy from a store that says they will take your old mattress away when they bring the new. Notice how they show up with a mostly empty truck, put your old mattress inside, close the door and five minutes later pull out the “new” mattress.)
Your purchasing of a mattress really isn’t based on wrapped springs or space age foam or Amish construction. It’s all about how far the salesman rolls his eyes back in his head. When you ask about the floor models, you might get a quarter roll. If you lay down to test a mattress for more than four minutes, you’ll get the full eye roll with the crossed arms and toe tapping. If you walk into the store and wave off the salesman while walking back to the “USED” section, you can get his eyes to roll a full 360 degrees and a sigh big enough to suck the oxygen out of the strip mall. As you walk around the store, watch his eyes and pick the mattress that causes him the least distress.
Once you’ve got the salesman’s eyes back in place and he finishes tacking on the stain guard and undercoating to the bill, he’ll ask about delivery. I highly recommend taking the mattress home with you right there and then for two reasons. The first is so you actually get the mattress you think you want. At the factory in Guam, they make one kind of mattress and 24 kinds of labels to sew on to the mattress (not including the "Do not remove under penalty of law” tag.)
The second reason to drive you mattress home is the physics involved with a mattress tied to the top of your car. The tension of the twine. The power-to-weight ratio required to become airborne. Newton’s First law combined with the breaking power of the car behind you. The muscle mass required to hold the mattress on the top of the car with one hand stuck out the window. My buddy Russ passed his third quarter of Physics by showing up to the final with a king sized Sealy Posturepedic attached to his car with a coat hanger and sixteen feet of dental floss.Your first night with the mattress is the most important. Mainly because the spider eggs hatch that first night after being distressed during transportation. Also be prepared with a good one liner to combat your buddies who ask if you have “broken in” the mattress yet. I suggest the following response:
“Broken in? You kidding? I got fucked at the store.”
(Actually, I am kidding. We just bought a mattress from The Mattress Firm on Morse Road. It was a very pleasant experience and the sales dude was a great guy. We had it delivered and I even tipped the two delivery guys. And no, we haven’t broken it in yet… assholes.)
What you shouldn't do when you are in the Secret Service
Oddly enough, I know a guy who is in the Secret Service. I know another guy who isn’t. Him first.
The other guy was the perfect candidate for the Secret Service. He had military service. He liked guns. He was very smart, but just dumb enough to step in front of a bullet. Sadly, he did not pass a certain level of the Secret Service interview tests. I guess they hook you up to a machine and ask you various questions about morals and honor and if you would have sex with a chicken. Sadly, he failed this part of the test. I can almost (almost) guarantee that he wasn’t a chicken fucker, but he did take offense to the implication that he might be. He was not asked back to continue the process. He is now a professional chicken fucker on the internet.
The first guy (let’s call him Ralph) did make it past the chicken fucking question and is now an agent in the Secret Service. While Ralph was still being interviewed for the position, the Secret Service went out and questioned his friends and family. I was one of those people. The dude they sent out to interview me sucked every last drop of dirt I had on Ralph. I didn’t mean to rat him out on the drunken fun we had in college, but this SS agent somehow loosened my tongue and before I knew it I was relating stories about smoking pot and getting into fights and arrests for jay walking. After it was all said and done, I was sure that Ralph would never get the job. Perhaps my answers actually matched Ralph’s. He is a very honest guy.
After a few months, Ralph was assigned Presidential duty. I guess there is a lot of stuff the Secret Service does besides guard the President. Ralph wouldn’t say what, but what he didn’t tell me sounded interesting. What he did tell me was this:
Ralph was assigned to stand around the tarmac by himself, observing the herded crowd, while the President disembarked from Air Force One. He was watching for bad guys. He had the thing in his ear and a gun and sunglasses. He was very excited. The President walked out of the plane and waved to the crowd. Hurrah! He turned in Ralph’s direction and waved. Ralph was the only one standing there… so he waved back. Ralph suddenly realized what he was doing and put his hand down.
Later on, Ralph admitted to some other agents what he had done. In between fits of hysterical laughter, the got a hold of the video surveillance tape and confirmed the wave. I think most of the Secret Service has seen it now. I’m not sure as a joke or if it is being used for training.
The other guy was the perfect candidate for the Secret Service. He had military service. He liked guns. He was very smart, but just dumb enough to step in front of a bullet. Sadly, he did not pass a certain level of the Secret Service interview tests. I guess they hook you up to a machine and ask you various questions about morals and honor and if you would have sex with a chicken. Sadly, he failed this part of the test. I can almost (almost) guarantee that he wasn’t a chicken fucker, but he did take offense to the implication that he might be. He was not asked back to continue the process. He is now a professional chicken fucker on the internet.
The first guy (let’s call him Ralph) did make it past the chicken fucking question and is now an agent in the Secret Service. While Ralph was still being interviewed for the position, the Secret Service went out and questioned his friends and family. I was one of those people. The dude they sent out to interview me sucked every last drop of dirt I had on Ralph. I didn’t mean to rat him out on the drunken fun we had in college, but this SS agent somehow loosened my tongue and before I knew it I was relating stories about smoking pot and getting into fights and arrests for jay walking. After it was all said and done, I was sure that Ralph would never get the job. Perhaps my answers actually matched Ralph’s. He is a very honest guy.
After a few months, Ralph was assigned Presidential duty. I guess there is a lot of stuff the Secret Service does besides guard the President. Ralph wouldn’t say what, but what he didn’t tell me sounded interesting. What he did tell me was this:
Ralph was assigned to stand around the tarmac by himself, observing the herded crowd, while the President disembarked from Air Force One. He was watching for bad guys. He had the thing in his ear and a gun and sunglasses. He was very excited. The President walked out of the plane and waved to the crowd. Hurrah! He turned in Ralph’s direction and waved. Ralph was the only one standing there… so he waved back. Ralph suddenly realized what he was doing and put his hand down.
Later on, Ralph admitted to some other agents what he had done. In between fits of hysterical laughter, the got a hold of the video surveillance tape and confirmed the wave. I think most of the Secret Service has seen it now. I’m not sure as a joke or if it is being used for training.
The Power of Doug
You may recall my story about Stephanie and the Witch and how we went out one night and threw smoke bombs in cars and such. (In the photo above, the Witch is on the left, Steph is on the right.)
It seems that through the power of my writing that the two of them decided to cast aside their differences and get together in Denver. Stephanie flew in from Washington and the witch hitchhiked in from northern Colorado.
Click here to see the photos. They met at a really cool bar called The Cruise Room that was modeled after a lounge on the Queen Elizabeth. Steph took me here once and forced me to drink dirty Martinis.
The girls will deny it was a spontaneous visit, but I know that it was the power of my storytelling that brought the two together again.
They will also deny that they got hammered and went streaking past 1082 Broadway (now Club Vinyl) singing Nine Inch Nails songs at the tops of their lungs. Good times.
Go Buckeyes
The Buckeyes play Texas tonight. My prediction is Ohio State over Texas, 24 - 21.
On a different note, the over/under was at 14 days as to when I would be able to go out again to get a drink. At 6:18 today, it will be into the 14 day if you play by the Price is Right rules. Purists and people with common sense will tell you that it is still the 13th day.
Either way, at 7:00pm tonight, I will be watching pre-game from outside my home at The Rack with a chilly brew.
Go Buckeyes!
The Ohio University Marching 110 will be playing today in Northern Illinois. The pre-band warm up football game starts at 2:30 and the post-band football game will play for two more quarters after the band plays.
On a different note, the over/under was at 14 days as to when I would be able to go out again to get a drink. At 6:18 today, it will be into the 14 day if you play by the Price is Right rules. Purists and people with common sense will tell you that it is still the 13th day.
Either way, at 7:00pm tonight, I will be watching pre-game from outside my home at The Rack with a chilly brew.
Go Buckeyes!
The Ohio University Marching 110 will be playing today in Northern Illinois. The pre-band warm up football game starts at 2:30 and the post-band football game will play for two more quarters after the band plays.
Damn! I hope it ain't skunk
I was looking for an easy way out of writing tonight and did so by sifting through a bunch of old crap in a file called “Comics and Keepers.” Within that horrible file folder I found one small nugget of gold.
This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.
Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.
That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.
That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.
Wow. Turns out I am a real asshole.
This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.
Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.
That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.
That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.
Wow. Turns out I am a real asshole.
Useless
Now that Miss Sally and little Ann are spending a good amount of time together, Greg and I have become dependant upon each other. He used to request Miss Sally 75% of the time to read books before bed and tuck him in. Now he gets daddy 100% of the time. We are both geting used to it.
Children’s books are two pages away from being depressing stories of real life. Happily ever after glosses over therapy necessary to get over seeing a woodsman kill a talking wolf. They never go into that.
So here’s something to depress the shit out of you if you are familiar with the story.
**** *******
Useless
I opened the cigar box and it creaked as the duct tape hinge relented. It smelled of cigars and dust and oddly enough, fabric softener.
I didn’t mean to find the box and it didn’t need me to find it. The objects inside were used up; meant only to be used as fodder for faint memories or dreams that are gone by morning. There was a folded award for attendance. A snail shell filled with wax. There was the base of a trophy for bowling. There was a love note and a photo of a dog named Kid. A ball bearing and a marble, both the same size. A nail and a safety pin. A silver dollar with a bullet hole through it. Three buffalo nickels wrapped with yellowed tape.
These things removed with a shaky hand and set on the carpet of the closet. I am old now and have no use for such memories and I am grumpy that I ever opened the box. I tipped the box sideways to scoop back up the memories when the last something fell out.
The interior of the box was brown and matched the color of the darkish, lumpish thing. It was easy to miss. Held up in the 60 watt light, it looked like a ball of mud that had dried into a stone. It was warm. And then I remembered…
The Truffula seed.
I had always planned on planting it once I found a place. There was no easy place for the Truffula seed. But there were video games and football practice and girls named Stephanie and Angie. There was no time to look for the exact proper place and to spend the time watering and caring. I had apples to pick and houses to build and boats to carve. It was too big a task and easier to forget.
I pocketed the three nickels. Scooped up all the trash and closed the box. Then put the cigar box back up on the shelf behind the slide projector.
Unless. Useless.
Children’s books are two pages away from being depressing stories of real life. Happily ever after glosses over therapy necessary to get over seeing a woodsman kill a talking wolf. They never go into that.
So here’s something to depress the shit out of you if you are familiar with the story.
**** *******
Useless
I opened the cigar box and it creaked as the duct tape hinge relented. It smelled of cigars and dust and oddly enough, fabric softener.
I didn’t mean to find the box and it didn’t need me to find it. The objects inside were used up; meant only to be used as fodder for faint memories or dreams that are gone by morning. There was a folded award for attendance. A snail shell filled with wax. There was the base of a trophy for bowling. There was a love note and a photo of a dog named Kid. A ball bearing and a marble, both the same size. A nail and a safety pin. A silver dollar with a bullet hole through it. Three buffalo nickels wrapped with yellowed tape.
These things removed with a shaky hand and set on the carpet of the closet. I am old now and have no use for such memories and I am grumpy that I ever opened the box. I tipped the box sideways to scoop back up the memories when the last something fell out.
The interior of the box was brown and matched the color of the darkish, lumpish thing. It was easy to miss. Held up in the 60 watt light, it looked like a ball of mud that had dried into a stone. It was warm. And then I remembered…
The Truffula seed.
I had always planned on planting it once I found a place. There was no easy place for the Truffula seed. But there were video games and football practice and girls named Stephanie and Angie. There was no time to look for the exact proper place and to spend the time watering and caring. I had apples to pick and houses to build and boats to carve. It was too big a task and easier to forget.
I pocketed the three nickels. Scooped up all the trash and closed the box. Then put the cigar box back up on the shelf behind the slide projector.
Unless. Useless.
Half Remember
There is something astounding about the human brain that not only allows us to forget, but also lets us half remember.
My buddy Conny was in town for a meeting and we went out after work/meetings, played 18 holes of golf and then had dinner at Hooters. In the good old days, Conny coming in town meant us both skipping out of meetings/work at noon, golfing, hanging out with some of the chicks at a bar who also were in town for meetings and who also bailed at noon to drink margaritas. Later on, we would go to the nudie bar. (If Conny’s wife is reading this, Conny would always go home before the nudie bar. If my wife is reading this, Doug would always go home before the nudie bar.) Either we are wiser now or they keep better attendance at those meetings.
It’s while we were eating wings that I was reminded about mostly forgetting. Or half remembering.
We had a job in Charleston, WV that lasted about six weeks. We’d drive down early Monday, stay for the week, and try to sneak out in the early afternoon on Friday. There were between 5 – 10 people working at a time. In those situations, you all end up waking, working, eating, drinking and sleeping together (not sleeping together, at least in my case.) Eating together is painful. I can eat the same thing at the same place every day. Other people have taste and require a variation in their diet. You also need to be able to eat quickly so that you can run back to work and watch your fabricator drop expensive stuff on other expensive stuff. Where variation and quick crossed paths was at a restaurant called Chef Dan’s. It was close to the jobsite, quick service and had a decent sized menu. Two items on the menu were wings and salad. Wings first and last with salad in the middle.
Wings First
I like chicken wings. There is such a variation in preparation and sauces that almost all wings are different. Most wings are pretty blah. Deep fry and dip in Red Hot. I like Red Hot, but it’s definitely a crutch in the sauce world. Arbuckle’s in Boston had good wings. Someday I’ll make it Duff’s. I’m no wing purist, but there are some “cooks” that think you can take baked chicken and dip it in BBQ sauce and voila!
Unless there is a picture in the menu or some other sucker close to your table who ordered them before you, you’ll never know what you are getting until they drop the plastic basket in front of you (with the bonus five rubbery celery sticks!) It’s a crap shoot.
At Chef Dan’s it was more crap than shoot when it came to wings. I actually asked the waitress if the wings were good. She enthusiastically said yes. I don’t know why I trusted her food knowledge. Especially since the Trevor salad incident.
Salad in the Middle
Trevor is a pacifist vegan with a hidden rage. His leftist political views are only out curdled by his deadly reaction to milk products. Trevor looked a lot like Jesus, spoke a lot like Jesus, but would rip out your trachea if you pissed him off. He would try to rip out your trachea, but mainly you just end up with some resin smears on your neck. Due to his diet of grass and dirt, he wasn’t a brawny lad.
Trevor was with us on the installation in Charleston. He worked with us, but due to his strict diet, he requested a room in another hotel with a kitchenette so that he could prepare his own not meat, not milk, not tasty food. What this meant was that we didn’t see that much of Trevor outside of the job site. He’d wisp in at dawn and fade away at night. At lunch, he would sulk off with his camping mess kit that I assume was filled with green and brown stuff.
On day, Trevor went with us to lunch. Perhaps the Co-op was closed in honor of Howard Lyman’s birthday or maybe Trevor left his Swiss Army Knife with spork attachment in the kitchenette at the hotel. Either way, he joined us for lunch at Chef Dan’s. Trevor grumbled and sighed through the menu. I don’t blame him. Everything was coated or dipped in or wrapped or soaked in a meat or milk product. (I’m not completely insensitive. I think vegans that don’t eat meat or milk for social/political reasons are idiots. If your body can’t process milk or meat, I feel bad for you (as I suck the ice cream out the bottom of a bacon wrapped cone.)) Trevor questioned the waiter about the salad:
“Does this salad have cheese on it?”
“No, sir.”
“No cheese at all?”
“No cheese.”
“Really?”
“Sir. There is no cheese on the salad.”
Fifteen minutes later, Trevor’s salad came out, covered in Parmesan cheese. Trevor was pissed:
“Excuse me. What is this white stuff?”
“That is Parmesan cheese.”
“You said there was no cheese on the salad.”
“Sir, that is dry cheese. It’s not real cheese.”
“Dry cheese?”
“Yes.”
“Is there milk in it?”
“I would guess so.”
“Then it’s fucking cheese!”
“But it’s dry.”
Trevor got a new salad with no wet cheese or dry cheese and he never went out to lunch with us again. The moral of this middle part is never trust the wait staff at Chef Dan’s.
Wings Last
So I trusted the waitress’ judgment about Chef Dan’s wings and ordered six of them to go with a BLT. I ordered the wings to come out first. As the basket dropped in front of me, I knew I was screwed. They were small, scrawny, un-breaded and drenched in some industrial canned version of sickly sweet BBQ sauce. I was disappointed, but starving. I’ll eat anything. Or so I thought.
I took a few bites from the first wing. The sauce was horrible. And the breading had a very odd texture. My brain played connect the dots with my tongue for a few seconds as I chewed the wings and swallowed. My eyes were included in the dot connecting and they were instructed to look at the un-breaded wing for the stuff that was giving it such an odd texture that might trick my mouth into thinking they might be breaded. Partial breading? Burnt outer skin?
Feathers. My half eaten wing had feathers on it.
I’m not talking about A feather or A COUPLE of feathers. IT WAS ALMOST FULLY FEATHERED. The wing sauce had coated it enough to hide the feathers. In an instant, I went from starving to nauseous. I dropped the half eaten wing and spit the remnants in my napkin. I poked around in the basket and saw that the other wings were covered with feathers as well. Deep brown BBQ sauce and feathers. I don’t know how I could have missed them. When the waitress came back we spoke as such:
“Um, Miss? These wings are bad.”
“Oh, what’s wrong?”
“They are covered in feathers.”
“Oh, really.” (She didn’t even look at them.) “Do you want me to get you some others?”
(gag) "No."
I didn’t eat much of the BLT I ordered. I looked on the inside for feathers to amuse my lunchmates and my stomach. It didn’t help.
After that, I didn’t eat wings for about three months. I couldn’t get the texture out of my mind. I also couldn’t eat anything with sweet BBQ sauce. But, after those three months, I only half remembered the incident. I remembered it happening. If I thought about it really hard, I’d feel sick, but when I was eating wings, I would just choose not to not fully remember the feathers. Our brain is a wonderful creature. There are many things in life that if we were forced to fully remember them that we’d never function. Too many heartbreaks and deaths. There are a shitload of injustices and murders and rapes going on right now and if you tried to comprehend it all, you’d never get out of bed. (I guess there are people who don’t get out of bed. Maybe that’s why.)
In the end, we half remember or mostly forget, and get out of bed, get in the shower and go to work.
We then leave work. Meet Conny for golf. Go to Hooters. Order wings.
AND THE WINGS HAVE FEATHERS ON THEM!!!
In three months it will be November and maybe by then I will half forget again. Until then, I’ll be in bed.
My buddy Conny was in town for a meeting and we went out after work/meetings, played 18 holes of golf and then had dinner at Hooters. In the good old days, Conny coming in town meant us both skipping out of meetings/work at noon, golfing, hanging out with some of the chicks at a bar who also were in town for meetings and who also bailed at noon to drink margaritas. Later on, we would go to the nudie bar. (If Conny’s wife is reading this, Conny would always go home before the nudie bar. If my wife is reading this, Doug would always go home before the nudie bar.) Either we are wiser now or they keep better attendance at those meetings.
It’s while we were eating wings that I was reminded about mostly forgetting. Or half remembering.
We had a job in Charleston, WV that lasted about six weeks. We’d drive down early Monday, stay for the week, and try to sneak out in the early afternoon on Friday. There were between 5 – 10 people working at a time. In those situations, you all end up waking, working, eating, drinking and sleeping together (not sleeping together, at least in my case.) Eating together is painful. I can eat the same thing at the same place every day. Other people have taste and require a variation in their diet. You also need to be able to eat quickly so that you can run back to work and watch your fabricator drop expensive stuff on other expensive stuff. Where variation and quick crossed paths was at a restaurant called Chef Dan’s. It was close to the jobsite, quick service and had a decent sized menu. Two items on the menu were wings and salad. Wings first and last with salad in the middle.
Wings First
I like chicken wings. There is such a variation in preparation and sauces that almost all wings are different. Most wings are pretty blah. Deep fry and dip in Red Hot. I like Red Hot, but it’s definitely a crutch in the sauce world. Arbuckle’s in Boston had good wings. Someday I’ll make it Duff’s. I’m no wing purist, but there are some “cooks” that think you can take baked chicken and dip it in BBQ sauce and voila!
Unless there is a picture in the menu or some other sucker close to your table who ordered them before you, you’ll never know what you are getting until they drop the plastic basket in front of you (with the bonus five rubbery celery sticks!) It’s a crap shoot.
At Chef Dan’s it was more crap than shoot when it came to wings. I actually asked the waitress if the wings were good. She enthusiastically said yes. I don’t know why I trusted her food knowledge. Especially since the Trevor salad incident.
Salad in the Middle
Trevor is a pacifist vegan with a hidden rage. His leftist political views are only out curdled by his deadly reaction to milk products. Trevor looked a lot like Jesus, spoke a lot like Jesus, but would rip out your trachea if you pissed him off. He would try to rip out your trachea, but mainly you just end up with some resin smears on your neck. Due to his diet of grass and dirt, he wasn’t a brawny lad.
Trevor was with us on the installation in Charleston. He worked with us, but due to his strict diet, he requested a room in another hotel with a kitchenette so that he could prepare his own not meat, not milk, not tasty food. What this meant was that we didn’t see that much of Trevor outside of the job site. He’d wisp in at dawn and fade away at night. At lunch, he would sulk off with his camping mess kit that I assume was filled with green and brown stuff.
On day, Trevor went with us to lunch. Perhaps the Co-op was closed in honor of Howard Lyman’s birthday or maybe Trevor left his Swiss Army Knife with spork attachment in the kitchenette at the hotel. Either way, he joined us for lunch at Chef Dan’s. Trevor grumbled and sighed through the menu. I don’t blame him. Everything was coated or dipped in or wrapped or soaked in a meat or milk product. (I’m not completely insensitive. I think vegans that don’t eat meat or milk for social/political reasons are idiots. If your body can’t process milk or meat, I feel bad for you (as I suck the ice cream out the bottom of a bacon wrapped cone.)) Trevor questioned the waiter about the salad:
“Does this salad have cheese on it?”
“No, sir.”
“No cheese at all?”
“No cheese.”
“Really?”
“Sir. There is no cheese on the salad.”
Fifteen minutes later, Trevor’s salad came out, covered in Parmesan cheese. Trevor was pissed:
“Excuse me. What is this white stuff?”
“That is Parmesan cheese.”
“You said there was no cheese on the salad.”
“Sir, that is dry cheese. It’s not real cheese.”
“Dry cheese?”
“Yes.”
“Is there milk in it?”
“I would guess so.”
“Then it’s fucking cheese!”
“But it’s dry.”
Trevor got a new salad with no wet cheese or dry cheese and he never went out to lunch with us again. The moral of this middle part is never trust the wait staff at Chef Dan’s.
Wings Last
So I trusted the waitress’ judgment about Chef Dan’s wings and ordered six of them to go with a BLT. I ordered the wings to come out first. As the basket dropped in front of me, I knew I was screwed. They were small, scrawny, un-breaded and drenched in some industrial canned version of sickly sweet BBQ sauce. I was disappointed, but starving. I’ll eat anything. Or so I thought.
I took a few bites from the first wing. The sauce was horrible. And the breading had a very odd texture. My brain played connect the dots with my tongue for a few seconds as I chewed the wings and swallowed. My eyes were included in the dot connecting and they were instructed to look at the un-breaded wing for the stuff that was giving it such an odd texture that might trick my mouth into thinking they might be breaded. Partial breading? Burnt outer skin?
Feathers. My half eaten wing had feathers on it.
I’m not talking about A feather or A COUPLE of feathers. IT WAS ALMOST FULLY FEATHERED. The wing sauce had coated it enough to hide the feathers. In an instant, I went from starving to nauseous. I dropped the half eaten wing and spit the remnants in my napkin. I poked around in the basket and saw that the other wings were covered with feathers as well. Deep brown BBQ sauce and feathers. I don’t know how I could have missed them. When the waitress came back we spoke as such:
“Um, Miss? These wings are bad.”
“Oh, what’s wrong?”
“They are covered in feathers.”
“Oh, really.” (She didn’t even look at them.) “Do you want me to get you some others?”
(gag) "No."
I didn’t eat much of the BLT I ordered. I looked on the inside for feathers to amuse my lunchmates and my stomach. It didn’t help.
After that, I didn’t eat wings for about three months. I couldn’t get the texture out of my mind. I also couldn’t eat anything with sweet BBQ sauce. But, after those three months, I only half remembered the incident. I remembered it happening. If I thought about it really hard, I’d feel sick, but when I was eating wings, I would just choose not to not fully remember the feathers. Our brain is a wonderful creature. There are many things in life that if we were forced to fully remember them that we’d never function. Too many heartbreaks and deaths. There are a shitload of injustices and murders and rapes going on right now and if you tried to comprehend it all, you’d never get out of bed. (I guess there are people who don’t get out of bed. Maybe that’s why.)
In the end, we half remember or mostly forget, and get out of bed, get in the shower and go to work.
We then leave work. Meet Conny for golf. Go to Hooters. Order wings.
AND THE WINGS HAVE FEATHERS ON THEM!!!
In three months it will be November and maybe by then I will half forget again. Until then, I’ll be in bed.
Half right
Tanya and John are in town with their little girl Elle. She is a real cutie.
Miss Sally keeps predicting that she is having a boy. We both would like a girl to complete the set.
It seems that 95% of the people that want to talk about the sex of our upcoming child have some secret knowledge into what the sex of our child will be. Here are the criteria that these child sex experts have brought up:
How low the baby is
If the belly button is in or out
If the mother's butt got fat
If the mother is craving meat
If the mother is craving sweets
If the mother has let a metal object swing above her wrist and if it circles or swings back and forth.
If the belly is sticking out or rounded
If
*********
OK, that's as far with that post as I got. Before I could finish, we had the breaking of water and so on and so forth.
As you know, we had a girl. And as predicted, 50% of the people who guessed were incorrect.
I've always loved the statistic that 50% of American women are below average while half of all American men are above average.
It's good to be half right, 50% of the time. It's better to be half wrong, 100% of the time.
Miss Sally keeps predicting that she is having a boy. We both would like a girl to complete the set.
It seems that 95% of the people that want to talk about the sex of our upcoming child have some secret knowledge into what the sex of our child will be. Here are the criteria that these child sex experts have brought up:
How low the baby is
If the belly button is in or out
If the mother's butt got fat
If the mother is craving meat
If the mother is craving sweets
If the mother has let a metal object swing above her wrist and if it circles or swings back and forth.
If the belly is sticking out or rounded
If
*********
OK, that's as far with that post as I got. Before I could finish, we had the breaking of water and so on and so forth.
As you know, we had a girl. And as predicted, 50% of the people who guessed were incorrect.
I've always loved the statistic that 50% of American women are below average while half of all American men are above average.
It's good to be half right, 50% of the time. It's better to be half wrong, 100% of the time.
We've replaced your regular article with a photo of a gay guy
I got caught up writing about something else and now I don’t like where it went. So instead of reading five pages of drivel, please take a look at the following photo:
I believe this was an attempt by my previous employer to meet and exceed the quota for affirmative action. The guy you see in this photo was:
black
gay
bald
and he stuttered
If he would have been a chick, we would have received an award.
It doesn’t count for affirmative action, but the guy was also not that smart. At least he made some very bad judgment calls. Lucky for us, the guy last strawed, was let go and we hired Lacey.
The other person in the photo is Anne. She is the cat's coffee. She is the corn on the tinternet. She puts the crazy in crazy crazy. And I'm realizing that I miss her.
I believe this was an attempt by my previous employer to meet and exceed the quota for affirmative action. The guy you see in this photo was:
black
gay
bald
and he stuttered
If he would have been a chick, we would have received an award.
It doesn’t count for affirmative action, but the guy was also not that smart. At least he made some very bad judgment calls. Lucky for us, the guy last strawed, was let go and we hired Lacey.
The other person in the photo is Anne. She is the cat's coffee. She is the corn on the tinternet. She puts the crazy in crazy crazy. And I'm realizing that I miss her.
Elevator Terror
My co-worker, Angie, got a phone call from her very distraught mother. Here is her mother’s tale:
Angie’s mom walked into her office building and to the elevator on the first floor. Her mom is in her late 50’s so she is familiar with technologies such as the phone and the elevator. Being familiar with the elevator, she pushed the button and got in. She pushed another button to go up. A second after the doors shut and the elevator started going up, the elevator jerked to a stop.
She waited for a bit. No movement. She did what all normal people do and tried pushing all the buttons that weren’t red. Numbers. Open door. Close door. (I don’t know why she even tried those as they don’t work anyways.) All the normal buttons did nothing so she hit the red EMERGENCY button. It was the type that makes a ringing sound when you press it, but stops making the ringing sound when you stop pressing it. A doorbell for people who think they are going to starve to death. She hit it again and again for longer and longer amounts of time, but no handsome fireman’s voice came through the neatly drilled holes in the stainless steel.
Time passes.
She was getting worried. Then she noticed the phone in the little glass booth. She was familiar with that technology.
There were no numbers to dial, so she put the phone to her ear. It was ringing. A woman answered. Something like, “Otis emergency elevator service. How can I help you?”
What do you say in situation like that? Me? I’d joke around about sending up a pizza or that they’d better hurry because the elevator was filling with water and piranhas. Basically, you give them the address of the building and tell them you are stuck. It would probably make them happy not to get a prank call.
What did Angie’s mom say?
“I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.” And hung up.
After this, she started to get panicky. And what does a woman in her 50s do when she is stuck in an elevator with no food or water and gets panicky? Why, with the strength of 80 drunken men she wedged her fingers in between the elevator doors and ripped them open! She then put her fingers between the outer doors and ripped them open! The elevator was about 18” above the first floor so she got on her hands and knees and climbed out of the elevator and flopped (the ungracious kind of flop) out on to the 1st floor. A co-worker was the solitary witness to the floppage. He had heard the emergency bell and called for help.
Why hadn’t the help arrived?
Because between the button pushing and the emergency button pushing and the phone calling and the panicking, she had been stuck in the elevator for a total of five minutes.
Perhaps elevators distort time. When the doors shut, time speeds up on the inside while remaining constant on the outside. Different elevators have different levels of time distortion based on how stinky the elevator is and who is in it with you. When I had sex in an elevator, it seemed like hours, but when we got out, only a few minutes had passed.
Angie’s mom made it out with nothing more than a bruised psyche. I have not asked Angie how many days her mom took the stairs until she got over her fear of that elevator.
Angie’s mom walked into her office building and to the elevator on the first floor. Her mom is in her late 50’s so she is familiar with technologies such as the phone and the elevator. Being familiar with the elevator, she pushed the button and got in. She pushed another button to go up. A second after the doors shut and the elevator started going up, the elevator jerked to a stop.
She waited for a bit. No movement. She did what all normal people do and tried pushing all the buttons that weren’t red. Numbers. Open door. Close door. (I don’t know why she even tried those as they don’t work anyways.) All the normal buttons did nothing so she hit the red EMERGENCY button. It was the type that makes a ringing sound when you press it, but stops making the ringing sound when you stop pressing it. A doorbell for people who think they are going to starve to death. She hit it again and again for longer and longer amounts of time, but no handsome fireman’s voice came through the neatly drilled holes in the stainless steel.
Time passes.
She was getting worried. Then she noticed the phone in the little glass booth. She was familiar with that technology.
There were no numbers to dial, so she put the phone to her ear. It was ringing. A woman answered. Something like, “Otis emergency elevator service. How can I help you?”
What do you say in situation like that? Me? I’d joke around about sending up a pizza or that they’d better hurry because the elevator was filling with water and piranhas. Basically, you give them the address of the building and tell them you are stuck. It would probably make them happy not to get a prank call.
What did Angie’s mom say?
“I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.” And hung up.
After this, she started to get panicky. And what does a woman in her 50s do when she is stuck in an elevator with no food or water and gets panicky? Why, with the strength of 80 drunken men she wedged her fingers in between the elevator doors and ripped them open! She then put her fingers between the outer doors and ripped them open! The elevator was about 18” above the first floor so she got on her hands and knees and climbed out of the elevator and flopped (the ungracious kind of flop) out on to the 1st floor. A co-worker was the solitary witness to the floppage. He had heard the emergency bell and called for help.
Why hadn’t the help arrived?
Because between the button pushing and the emergency button pushing and the phone calling and the panicking, she had been stuck in the elevator for a total of five minutes.
Perhaps elevators distort time. When the doors shut, time speeds up on the inside while remaining constant on the outside. Different elevators have different levels of time distortion based on how stinky the elevator is and who is in it with you. When I had sex in an elevator, it seemed like hours, but when we got out, only a few minutes had passed.
Angie’s mom made it out with nothing more than a bruised psyche. I have not asked Angie how many days her mom took the stairs until she got over her fear of that elevator.
Shorty.... OUT!
We all knew it. No one wanted to say anything. Finally someone did and then it was a Who concert stampede of agreement. Shorty was, in his secret life, Lance Bass. How a Dayton native could grow to receive so much fame was beyond our reasoning, but yet he did. He kept the media circus to a minimum and some how was able to tour and hold down a design job while spending 12 hours a day at DeFabCo while painting Gaelic designs on refrigerators.
Of course, there were rumors. Questions. Elle magazine subscriptions. We all, once again, began to wonder how the fame would go to his loins. Shorty would spend a lot of time at choir practices and The Columbus Men's Origami functions. We knew the news would break... we just didn't know how big it would break. PEOPLE magazine came out with the story. We still love you Lance/Shorty. Just now it the other 50% of us that are more frightened.
Thanks for breaking the news Meshell
Of course, there were rumors. Questions. Elle magazine subscriptions. We all, once again, began to wonder how the fame would go to his loins. Shorty would spend a lot of time at choir practices and The Columbus Men's Origami functions. We knew the news would break... we just didn't know how big it would break. PEOPLE magazine came out with the story. We still love you Lance/Shorty. Just now it the other 50% of us that are more frightened.
Thanks for breaking the news Meshell
Greg the Psychic Artist
I asked our household psychic to help us find the murderer of JonBenet. He drew the following sketch to assist the Boulder police in locating the murderer.
Clearly you can see the drawing of a one finned porpoise. Inside that animal is a street level map of Leadville, CO. There are also two hieroglyphics representing toilet and forge.
The porpoise is winking.
Our analyses of the drawing are probably the exact same ones that you have derived from the sketch:
1. Porpoises are fish that breathe air
2. Leadville, CO once had the 12th largest Jewish community in Colorado
3. The two symbols together can be roughly translated to John-Smith.
4. Porpoises do not have maps on their insides, but have been known to swallow fish sized globes.
5. Do not trust winking porpoises
Here is what can be surmised from the drawing:
The father did it.
The psychic may also have been influenced by me asking him to draw a picture of mommy with baby in her belly. This is still being investigated.
Clearly you can see the drawing of a one finned porpoise. Inside that animal is a street level map of Leadville, CO. There are also two hieroglyphics representing toilet and forge.
The porpoise is winking.
Our analyses of the drawing are probably the exact same ones that you have derived from the sketch:
1. Porpoises are fish that breathe air
2. Leadville, CO once had the 12th largest Jewish community in Colorado
3. The two symbols together can be roughly translated to John-Smith.
4. Porpoises do not have maps on their insides, but have been known to swallow fish sized globes.
5. Do not trust winking porpoises
Here is what can be surmised from the drawing:
The father did it.
The psychic may also have been influenced by me asking him to draw a picture of mommy with baby in her belly. This is still being investigated.
Sorry
I’m as guilty as the 97% of everyone else who thought the family was involved. I just like to place my blame on the media.
**Please note: I woke up this morning and decided that I think this guy is lying. It was just dusting of doubt over my brain. Since then, more tidbits of information have started coming out about this realy scary dude. I'll withhold my judgement until the DNA tests come back.
I guess I'll need to edit my little drawing.
The rPiec... iecPr... riceP... Prcie.. PPPPP is Right!
If you have five minutes to kill, please watch the following clip from the Price Is Right. Some say this girl is an idiot. I like to believe she is a savant.
I love how Bob sits down at the end.
I love how Bob sits down at the end.
Fat Cats Pizza is dead to me
“The only way to hurt a man who has lost everything is to give him back something broken." – Thomas Covenant
There was a survey on FARK a few days ago about where readers thought the best pizza in the world was. Everyone had their hometown favorite. My hometown favorite was Fat Cat Pizza in Lancaster, OH. “Was” is the word that puts the anchovies in that sentence.
We started picking up Fat Cat Pizza around 1979. They wouldn’t deliver out to our house out in the country so we had to drive through the bad side of town, the West Side, to get it. They had the BEST freaking pizza. The crust was thin and crisp. The sauce…(Here’s where I realize I am not a food critic nor am I keen to taste adjectives. Let’s just say it was great pizza.)
There was a Fat Cat’s West and a Fat Cat’s East. Rumor had it that a happily married pizza business couple became unhappy and split the family business, as well as the town of Lancaster, in half. The wife took Fat Cat’s West and hubby, Fat Cat’s East. I can’t remember the woman’s name, but she had a dog named Bear.
My brother started working at Fat Cat around 1983. My sister in 1985. I started in 1986. It was a family affair. You’d go in at either 4 or 5 and work until midnight. The dough was made in the morning and allowed to rise in wheeled, Rubbermaid trash cans. You would grab a ball of it and throw it in the flattening machine. A toss here and there and then on to the pie pan. There was some hand held, mid-evil torture device made from plastic that put dents in the dough. Add sauce, cheese and toppings. Into the oven you witch! Ta da, magically a cooked pizza came out the other side. In the box and cut it into squares with the giant, stainless steel scythe. In between pizzas there was time to fold boxes and drink free pop out of flour coated mason jars. What a job.
Then three-a-days started with Coach Redmen in football and I pussied out. I couldn’t keep up with going from 6am practices through midnight making pizzas. So I quit Fat Cat Pizza.
I didn’t quit eating it though. In my opinion, nothing beats a pepperoni/mushroom. I dreamed of it in Alaska and wrote about it in my journal when Acton and I went to Europe. At family gatherings we would always get Fat Cat’s the night before turkey. If you were late, dad would heat up slices in the oven. If you were really late, the microwave.
Now I live in Columbus and Fat Cat’s is still within reach. If I drive down, I can order it from the car and pick it up right as it comes out of the oven. It would still be warm when I got it home, but half of it would get devoured in the car. Corners first and eat inward.
Greg had a party recently. We went out to the Lancaster bars. I left my credit card at one. The perfect excuse to go back to Lancaster and get Fat Cat’s. The following Monday I drove down. I ordered. Picked-up. I was eating a corner within three minutes on the way back to Columbus…
And something was horribly, horribly wrong. The crust was different. Some kind of French bread crap. It was slightly thicker and had a taste that was not Fat Cat’s. The sauce was the same as well as the pepperoni and the mushrooms, but the combination of flavors was not Fat Cat’s. I kept eating squares, hoping that something would change. Nothing did. Doug wept.
I immediately called a few friends. I finally tracked down one that corroborated my taste buds. He had it a few weeks ago and it tasted different to him too. It was true. And an era was over.
Farewell Fat Cat’s.
Author’s note: I haven’t done it yet, but please feel free to call Fat Cat’s at 740-687-1966 and voice my displeasure. Tell them HolyJuan is pissed.
There was a survey on FARK a few days ago about where readers thought the best pizza in the world was. Everyone had their hometown favorite. My hometown favorite was Fat Cat Pizza in Lancaster, OH. “Was” is the word that puts the anchovies in that sentence.
We started picking up Fat Cat Pizza around 1979. They wouldn’t deliver out to our house out in the country so we had to drive through the bad side of town, the West Side, to get it. They had the BEST freaking pizza. The crust was thin and crisp. The sauce…(Here’s where I realize I am not a food critic nor am I keen to taste adjectives. Let’s just say it was great pizza.)
There was a Fat Cat’s West and a Fat Cat’s East. Rumor had it that a happily married pizza business couple became unhappy and split the family business, as well as the town of Lancaster, in half. The wife took Fat Cat’s West and hubby, Fat Cat’s East. I can’t remember the woman’s name, but she had a dog named Bear.
My brother started working at Fat Cat around 1983. My sister in 1985. I started in 1986. It was a family affair. You’d go in at either 4 or 5 and work until midnight. The dough was made in the morning and allowed to rise in wheeled, Rubbermaid trash cans. You would grab a ball of it and throw it in the flattening machine. A toss here and there and then on to the pie pan. There was some hand held, mid-evil torture device made from plastic that put dents in the dough. Add sauce, cheese and toppings. Into the oven you witch! Ta da, magically a cooked pizza came out the other side. In the box and cut it into squares with the giant, stainless steel scythe. In between pizzas there was time to fold boxes and drink free pop out of flour coated mason jars. What a job.
Then three-a-days started with Coach Redmen in football and I pussied out. I couldn’t keep up with going from 6am practices through midnight making pizzas. So I quit Fat Cat Pizza.
I didn’t quit eating it though. In my opinion, nothing beats a pepperoni/mushroom. I dreamed of it in Alaska and wrote about it in my journal when Acton and I went to Europe. At family gatherings we would always get Fat Cat’s the night before turkey. If you were late, dad would heat up slices in the oven. If you were really late, the microwave.
Now I live in Columbus and Fat Cat’s is still within reach. If I drive down, I can order it from the car and pick it up right as it comes out of the oven. It would still be warm when I got it home, but half of it would get devoured in the car. Corners first and eat inward.
Greg had a party recently. We went out to the Lancaster bars. I left my credit card at one. The perfect excuse to go back to Lancaster and get Fat Cat’s. The following Monday I drove down. I ordered. Picked-up. I was eating a corner within three minutes on the way back to Columbus…
And something was horribly, horribly wrong. The crust was different. Some kind of French bread crap. It was slightly thicker and had a taste that was not Fat Cat’s. The sauce was the same as well as the pepperoni and the mushrooms, but the combination of flavors was not Fat Cat’s. I kept eating squares, hoping that something would change. Nothing did. Doug wept.
I immediately called a few friends. I finally tracked down one that corroborated my taste buds. He had it a few weeks ago and it tasted different to him too. It was true. And an era was over.
Farewell Fat Cat’s.
Author’s note: I haven’t done it yet, but please feel free to call Fat Cat’s at 740-687-1966 and voice my displeasure. Tell them HolyJuan is pissed.
Photo Spots
I don’t appreciate the Disney parks as much as I should. Didn’t make it there until I was 29 and by then I was looking at how the fake rock was sculpted and where the electronics were hidden. I’ve never had the opportunity to think it was real and that Mickey wasn’t actually just a 19 year old aspiring actor who was two years from finding out that he is gay.
My favorite part about the parks are the Photo Spots. In case you are not smart enough to figure out that the huge Chinese gateway or the monolithic statue are a good place to snap a photo of Uncle Bob, Disney helps you out by posting a sign telling you that it is.
Here’s a photo of Bill at Epcot and a photo of me at somewhere that is not Epcot.
My favorite part about the parks are the Photo Spots. In case you are not smart enough to figure out that the huge Chinese gateway or the monolithic statue are a good place to snap a photo of Uncle Bob, Disney helps you out by posting a sign telling you that it is.
Here’s a photo of Bill at Epcot and a photo of me at somewhere that is not Epcot.
Separate Ways
I had a Journey song in my head so I downloaded the album from iTunes.
After getting my fill I did a search for the video and found it on YouTube.
Didn't know if it was going to be like I remembered.
It was all and more.
After getting my fill I did a search for the video and found it on YouTube.
Didn't know if it was going to be like I remembered.
It was all and more.
Um, can I keep my tray table down the entire flight?
The news reported this morning that a plan to bomb several planes between the UK and the US was uncovered and (hopefully) thwarted. The security lines at Heathrow were between 3 – 4 hours long because passengers were unable to bring any liquids through security and carry-on baggage was heavily restricted. Damn that sucks.
It’s been discussed that perhaps all passengers should be required to fly nude. This works for two reasons:
One: unless you cram the bomb up your ass, it would be very hard to smuggle on board.
Two: religious fanatics are not allowed by their god to see naked bodies and therefore will not fly
Three: (I just thought of a third) It has been scientifically proven that suicide bombers have small penises. While covering their shame with their hands, it will impossible for them to commit acts of terror.
I’m all for it. Except for the issue I might have (as illustrated below.)
It’s been discussed that perhaps all passengers should be required to fly nude. This works for two reasons:
One: unless you cram the bomb up your ass, it would be very hard to smuggle on board.
Two: religious fanatics are not allowed by their god to see naked bodies and therefore will not fly
Three: (I just thought of a third) It has been scientifically proven that suicide bombers have small penises. While covering their shame with their hands, it will impossible for them to commit acts of terror.
I’m all for it. Except for the issue I might have (as illustrated below.)
Film Girl
Handsome Joe was the realtor that handled the selling of the house we used to call home as well as the closing of the house we now call home. Joe has also played the role of “Good Cop” and was the second set of Bs in my B, B, B and B story. Something you may not know about Joe is that he thinks he is a better story teller than I am. Here I must disagree with Joe, but of course, the bear and the fox have been arguing for years as to who is smarter and more handsome.
One other detail about Joe is that he is never wrong. And that is mostly true. There is one time when Joe (almost) might admit to being wrong. I enjoy his admittance.
One of my two problems in college was that I never knew when to leave well enough alone. Most women of college age know that guys are dicks and idiots and that a man will spend the night with a young lady and never call again. It’s expected and probably desirable for both parties. I thought I was clever. I couldn’t just have a one night stand. I’d go back for seconds and thirds. Maybe I felt guilty or maybe I didn’t know what I was looking for or maybe I was just really horny. Either either, I would lay down a fog of personality and talk my way back in the door each time. Suckers? Maybe.
After a couple three nights, their once unconcerned feelings towards me would change. This is when mine would go in the opposite direction. Then things would end not so well. Badly. Hurt feelings. Name calling. Tears. I was only trying to be nice.
The second of my two problems in college was that I always seemed to leave some personal item at a girl’s house, usually after the third or forth visit and especially right before I would call things off. Things like a necklace or a pocket knife or a book. Stuff I really didn’t need, but hated leaving behind. What really sucked was that this gave the girl a focal point to call and leave messages on our machine:
“Hey, this is 19 Palmer. Neither Joe, Betsy, Amy, Paul, Doug or Chris can come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep.”
Beep – Hi Doug. You left your necklace over at my place. Come over and pick it up.
Beep – Hello Doug. Still got your necklace. Call me.
Beep – Doug, I can meet you somewhere neutral. The Pub? Let’s talk. I’ve got your necklace.
Beep – Goddamnit Doug. I’m going to throw this thing in the fucking trash if you don’t call me.
Beep- Sorry about that. Can we please talk? Do you want this back?
Delete all.
Fall quarter came and went. It took me the whole quarter, but I charmed a girl I really liked from my film class into taking me home with her. The next day, Film Girl made me breakfast and gave me all the perishables out of her refrigerator. The perfect hook up. We did not talk over winter break, but hooked up immediately that winter quarter as if we had not been separated at all. Sadly, after the second night together, I realized that I didn’t like her as much as I thought I did. I got a very distinct and creepy vibe from Film Girl that she realized she couldn’t spend another day without me. I had to get out. So I left. And I left a pocket knife behind.
A few weeks passed and I avoided her calls. Her calls started normal but quickly became creepy. “I have your knife, Doug.” Click. I could have ended it all quickly, but I do not have a spine and pretended to miss her messages and avoid her bars. After a week, I didn’t hear from her and thought she got the point.
Handsome Joe and I went to The Crystal one night that winter quarter. It wasn’t our usual hang out, but Joe was tracking a new girl and in the interest of getting Joe laid, we entered new territory. We were upstairs and Joe was playing pool with said quarry. I drank and watched.
“Hello Doug.” Oh shit.
“Hello Girl from my film class that I really wanted to hook up with but now that I have I have had second thoughts and just want to be friends, but I am too chickenshit to tell you all this.” Actually I probably just said, “Oh, hello!”
“Are you here picking up girls?”
“No, Joe and I are…”
And in a flat tone that was just above the jukebox, but clearly we both knew she was yelling when she said, “I KNOW YOUR TYPE. YOU ARE HERE PICKING UP GIRLS.”
“Um, I… err.”
She held out her hand and my pocket knife was in it. She had brought it to the bar. It had been my Dad’s knife. Nothing I’d hide in my ass for five years in a POW camp, but it was still special.
She was glaring and smiling and talking at the same time, “If you want it back you have to come and get it.”
With that, Joe interrupted. The hate melted off her face as she turned to Joe and her grimace turned into a smile. They traded perfectly sane hellos and she excused herself. Joe said something to the effect that I was going to hook up.
“Joe, she’s crazy.”
“Doug? What are you talking about?”
“Joe, SHE’S CRAZY. We have to get out of here.”
Joe couldn’t believe it. She’s good looking. She’s nice. You are drunk. She’s a great girl.
“JOE, WE HAVE TO LEAVE!”
Joe usually does not give in without a fight or a good argument. So, I told him about the knife and that Film Girl looked INSANE. He didn’t believe a word. But, being Joe, he humored me and said goodbye to his girl. We grabbed our coats and left the bar. As we walked down the street, I kept repeating how insane the Film Girl was acting. Joe kept shaking his head with disbelief.
For some reason that neither one of us can explain, we both turned and looked back towards the bar. We were about a block away and the sidewalk sloped back up to The Crystal. Perfectly silhouetted with a streetlight at her back, Film Girl stood outside the bar.
She thrust her fists down to her side, arched her back and threw her head backwards. The lighting was perfect. Her shadowed mouth opened and into the night air she screamed.
“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”
The words turned to condensation against the cold night air. They shot out in great gouts of steam.
“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”
Joe and I both ran.
Later. “Doug, that girl was crazy.”
If you mention this story to Handsome Joe, he won’t concede the fact that he was wrong. What he will do is tell the story again, but in his words. He will describe the night and the smells and the temperature. He will hold out his hand and you will see the knife in it. He will go on about her beauty and how not-insane Film Girl looked that night. He will act out her stance on the street and you will almost see the steam coming from his mouth silhouetted in the cold night air.
But I still think I tell the story better.
And I never got the knife back.
One other detail about Joe is that he is never wrong. And that is mostly true. There is one time when Joe (almost) might admit to being wrong. I enjoy his admittance.
One of my two problems in college was that I never knew when to leave well enough alone. Most women of college age know that guys are dicks and idiots and that a man will spend the night with a young lady and never call again. It’s expected and probably desirable for both parties. I thought I was clever. I couldn’t just have a one night stand. I’d go back for seconds and thirds. Maybe I felt guilty or maybe I didn’t know what I was looking for or maybe I was just really horny. Either either, I would lay down a fog of personality and talk my way back in the door each time. Suckers? Maybe.
After a couple three nights, their once unconcerned feelings towards me would change. This is when mine would go in the opposite direction. Then things would end not so well. Badly. Hurt feelings. Name calling. Tears. I was only trying to be nice.
The second of my two problems in college was that I always seemed to leave some personal item at a girl’s house, usually after the third or forth visit and especially right before I would call things off. Things like a necklace or a pocket knife or a book. Stuff I really didn’t need, but hated leaving behind. What really sucked was that this gave the girl a focal point to call and leave messages on our machine:
“Hey, this is 19 Palmer. Neither Joe, Betsy, Amy, Paul, Doug or Chris can come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep.”
Beep – Hi Doug. You left your necklace over at my place. Come over and pick it up.
Beep – Hello Doug. Still got your necklace. Call me.
Beep – Doug, I can meet you somewhere neutral. The Pub? Let’s talk. I’ve got your necklace.
Beep – Goddamnit Doug. I’m going to throw this thing in the fucking trash if you don’t call me.
Beep- Sorry about that. Can we please talk? Do you want this back?
Delete all.
Fall quarter came and went. It took me the whole quarter, but I charmed a girl I really liked from my film class into taking me home with her. The next day, Film Girl made me breakfast and gave me all the perishables out of her refrigerator. The perfect hook up. We did not talk over winter break, but hooked up immediately that winter quarter as if we had not been separated at all. Sadly, after the second night together, I realized that I didn’t like her as much as I thought I did. I got a very distinct and creepy vibe from Film Girl that she realized she couldn’t spend another day without me. I had to get out. So I left. And I left a pocket knife behind.
A few weeks passed and I avoided her calls. Her calls started normal but quickly became creepy. “I have your knife, Doug.” Click. I could have ended it all quickly, but I do not have a spine and pretended to miss her messages and avoid her bars. After a week, I didn’t hear from her and thought she got the point.
Handsome Joe and I went to The Crystal one night that winter quarter. It wasn’t our usual hang out, but Joe was tracking a new girl and in the interest of getting Joe laid, we entered new territory. We were upstairs and Joe was playing pool with said quarry. I drank and watched.
“Hello Doug.” Oh shit.
“Hello Girl from my film class that I really wanted to hook up with but now that I have I have had second thoughts and just want to be friends, but I am too chickenshit to tell you all this.” Actually I probably just said, “Oh, hello!”
“Are you here picking up girls?”
“No, Joe and I are…”
And in a flat tone that was just above the jukebox, but clearly we both knew she was yelling when she said, “I KNOW YOUR TYPE. YOU ARE HERE PICKING UP GIRLS.”
“Um, I… err.”
She held out her hand and my pocket knife was in it. She had brought it to the bar. It had been my Dad’s knife. Nothing I’d hide in my ass for five years in a POW camp, but it was still special.
She was glaring and smiling and talking at the same time, “If you want it back you have to come and get it.”
With that, Joe interrupted. The hate melted off her face as she turned to Joe and her grimace turned into a smile. They traded perfectly sane hellos and she excused herself. Joe said something to the effect that I was going to hook up.
“Joe, she’s crazy.”
“Doug? What are you talking about?”
“Joe, SHE’S CRAZY. We have to get out of here.”
Joe couldn’t believe it. She’s good looking. She’s nice. You are drunk. She’s a great girl.
“JOE, WE HAVE TO LEAVE!”
Joe usually does not give in without a fight or a good argument. So, I told him about the knife and that Film Girl looked INSANE. He didn’t believe a word. But, being Joe, he humored me and said goodbye to his girl. We grabbed our coats and left the bar. As we walked down the street, I kept repeating how insane the Film Girl was acting. Joe kept shaking his head with disbelief.
For some reason that neither one of us can explain, we both turned and looked back towards the bar. We were about a block away and the sidewalk sloped back up to The Crystal. Perfectly silhouetted with a streetlight at her back, Film Girl stood outside the bar.
She thrust her fists down to her side, arched her back and threw her head backwards. The lighting was perfect. Her shadowed mouth opened and into the night air she screamed.
“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”
The words turned to condensation against the cold night air. They shot out in great gouts of steam.
“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”
Joe and I both ran.
Later. “Doug, that girl was crazy.”
If you mention this story to Handsome Joe, he won’t concede the fact that he was wrong. What he will do is tell the story again, but in his words. He will describe the night and the smells and the temperature. He will hold out his hand and you will see the knife in it. He will go on about her beauty and how not-insane Film Girl looked that night. He will act out her stance on the street and you will almost see the steam coming from his mouth silhouetted in the cold night air.
But I still think I tell the story better.
And I never got the knife back.
Doug, white, looks inside old bible
A few years ago, Miss Sally received an old, leather bound bible after her grandmother passed away. The movie prop kind with gold lettering and yellowed pages. It contained not only the word of God, but several articles, photos, hand written prayers and even a pressed flower. Nothing was labeled, which is heartbreaking because you know that these items had significance, but they are now almost worthless.
But I am not here to shit in your coffee. I'm here to tell you the fun stuff.
It seems that Miss Sally's grandmother found an article in the newspaper interesting enough to cut out and place in the bible. The aged newsprint relates how Christmas only falls on a Sunday about once every 11 years. Nice. Those were the good old days. (click to enlarge)
But flip the article over and the fun begins. Here it is: (click to enlarge)
Wow! There was actually a sense of humor back in ye olden days.
When I first read the article, I was struck how the word "colored" was used. Obviously it was to state that the person mentioned was black, but even though the article doesn't have any whities in it, you know they aren't going to write, "Then along came Jonas Brown, white, and the real fun started."
I did not realize when I first read the article that it was satire. Real events, I'm sure, but written to make a simple stabbing fill a full column and to poke a little fun at all involved. Luckily today, our professional journalists do not make up parts of the news to sensationalize or create a more interesting story.
The article is cut off at the end and we do not know if poor Alonzo Moore, colored, survived the stabbing. I can only hope that the Brown Collection Agency is still a thriving business and helping whities, yellows, redskins and them sand people to reclaim owed monies.
But I am not here to shit in your coffee. I'm here to tell you the fun stuff.
It seems that Miss Sally's grandmother found an article in the newspaper interesting enough to cut out and place in the bible. The aged newsprint relates how Christmas only falls on a Sunday about once every 11 years. Nice. Those were the good old days. (click to enlarge)
But flip the article over and the fun begins. Here it is: (click to enlarge)
Wow! There was actually a sense of humor back in ye olden days.
When I first read the article, I was struck how the word "colored" was used. Obviously it was to state that the person mentioned was black, but even though the article doesn't have any whities in it, you know they aren't going to write, "Then along came Jonas Brown, white, and the real fun started."
I did not realize when I first read the article that it was satire. Real events, I'm sure, but written to make a simple stabbing fill a full column and to poke a little fun at all involved. Luckily today, our professional journalists do not make up parts of the news to sensationalize or create a more interesting story.
The article is cut off at the end and we do not know if poor Alonzo Moore, colored, survived the stabbing. I can only hope that the Brown Collection Agency is still a thriving business and helping whities, yellows, redskins and them sand people to reclaim owed monies.
Scavenger Hunt
I am a slob and here is some anecdotal evidence.
After several days of oppressive heat, the weather turned and I had all my windows down on my way to work this morning. As I zoomed along at 75 mph, something flew in the driver’s side window and smacked me upside the temple. Fortunately, the part of my brain controlling the car wasn’t affected by the sudden jolt as it was wrapped in a blanket of Miller Light residue from Skully’s last night. I had one of those moments where you cover up a wound with your hand and hold it there hoping that the cut isn’t there and isn’t about ready to spurt all over the place. I slowly peeled my hand back to reveal a reddish area that was a nickel sized blemish and not mangled flesh. Phew.
Now I’m just pissed that something nickel sized flew in my car and hit me. So I start searching my car for the culprit.
A penny? A ball bearing? A washer? A stick? A rock? A box of Nerds? A French fry that would require carbon dating? A pencil? A pen? A bolt? A key? Another key? A coffee lid? An ABBA tape? A quarter? A lighter?
Well, it could have been any of these items because that’s what I found within an arm’s reach of the driver’s seat. I am a slob.
Do not feel bad for Miss Sally. Within the confines of her realm (everywhere that is not my car) her cleanliness reigns and her loyal subject keeps his squalor tidy. She’s got me trained.
I think I’ll spend a few hours and clean it tonight. Maybe it if I set a small fire in the backseat, the fire department will hose it out for me.
After several days of oppressive heat, the weather turned and I had all my windows down on my way to work this morning. As I zoomed along at 75 mph, something flew in the driver’s side window and smacked me upside the temple. Fortunately, the part of my brain controlling the car wasn’t affected by the sudden jolt as it was wrapped in a blanket of Miller Light residue from Skully’s last night. I had one of those moments where you cover up a wound with your hand and hold it there hoping that the cut isn’t there and isn’t about ready to spurt all over the place. I slowly peeled my hand back to reveal a reddish area that was a nickel sized blemish and not mangled flesh. Phew.
Now I’m just pissed that something nickel sized flew in my car and hit me. So I start searching my car for the culprit.
A penny? A ball bearing? A washer? A stick? A rock? A box of Nerds? A French fry that would require carbon dating? A pencil? A pen? A bolt? A key? Another key? A coffee lid? An ABBA tape? A quarter? A lighter?
Well, it could have been any of these items because that’s what I found within an arm’s reach of the driver’s seat. I am a slob.
Do not feel bad for Miss Sally. Within the confines of her realm (everywhere that is not my car) her cleanliness reigns and her loyal subject keeps his squalor tidy. She’s got me trained.
I think I’ll spend a few hours and clean it tonight. Maybe it if I set a small fire in the backseat, the fire department will hose it out for me.
Two lists
It’s interesting what you find when you are unpacking boxes covered in dust.
I once created two lists: one of words that sounded good and one of words that sounded bad. Good words don’t essentially have to have good feelings attached to them and bad words don’t have to be about bad things. They are words that, to my ear, sound good and sound bad. The list started small, but never really grew.
GOOD WORDS
Smuckers
savor
cram
Judge Ito
Tang
slab
Camus
crelm
smock
kack
freaky
grim
zip cord
creamy
boisterous
Testaverde
caulk
mucous
smegma
(excretion)
(parenthesis)
(MOIST)
BAD WORDS
crust
discharge
phlegm
scab
puss
feltcher
yeast
Woolworths
Hmmm. It seems that most the words on the bad list are bodily functions or excretions. Ooh… excretions. That’s a good word. I’ll add that in parenthesis. OOOH! Parenthesis!!! Another good one! I’ll quit now.
Feel free to add your own.
I once created two lists: one of words that sounded good and one of words that sounded bad. Good words don’t essentially have to have good feelings attached to them and bad words don’t have to be about bad things. They are words that, to my ear, sound good and sound bad. The list started small, but never really grew.
GOOD WORDS
Smuckers
savor
cram
Judge Ito
Tang
slab
Camus
crelm
smock
kack
freaky
grim
zip cord
creamy
boisterous
Testaverde
caulk
mucous
smegma
(excretion)
(parenthesis)
(MOIST)
BAD WORDS
crust
discharge
phlegm
scab
puss
feltcher
yeast
Woolworths
Hmmm. It seems that most the words on the bad list are bodily functions or excretions. Ooh… excretions. That’s a good word. I’ll add that in parenthesis. OOOH! Parenthesis!!! Another good one! I’ll quit now.
Feel free to add your own.
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