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 |   The only blog that will put hair on your chest... |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Turning from the Dark Side ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** < This is where I'll insert a cool new blog description. Someday. > |
| For as long as I can remember I hated physical contact. I was always that recalcitrant little boy that would not under circumstances hug or kiss his relatives on departure. My family, on both sides, always wanted a kiss goodbye or a hug. I don't think I was quite old enought that I should remember this, but it was sufficiently traumatic enough that I scowl when I think about it even now. I still remember my grandmother's scratchy lips on my cheek and my other grandmother's arms around my little body. The older I got the more I fought it, until they gave up trying. Thankfully my one grandfather, from whom I draw my namesake, never pressed the issue. If I didn't want to kiss him goodbye, then so be it. In truth, I don't think he liked it either, but my grandmother and my aunts always forced him into it. I still hate my aunts for it. I still don't like physical contact. Jodi's family is all about hugs, on arrival and departure. I cringe every time her mom spreads her arms. It's just not my thing. Though the cringe is much worse when my mom's mom shows up and goes for a hug. With her, I don't even offer up my own arms; I let them hang limp at my side. Fortunately she's a little old lady, and I stand a full head and shoulders above her, so it's easy to stare out over the top of her head and pretend none of it is happening. Her family has Luke kissing people goodbye now. My parents tried to get me to do that when I was a toddler too, but I never would. I think my brother and sister did, but I fought it endlessly. Last time we were in Maine, Luke and Amy were heading home so there was the usual rounds of "Did you give Grampy a kiss? Did you give Grammy a kiss?" I seriously swallowed back bile when the dreaded "Did you give Uncle Ernie a kiss?" finally came up. I kept watching TV and tried to pretend I didn't hear it. Thank the Heavens he's not comfortable enough with me yet to acquiesce. Like me, the smart kid just ignored it. Had they pressed the matter like my family used to, I half wonder if I would have tried to avoid it. Maybe I could have escaped to the bathroom. I better keep that in mind for this weekend. I'll cuddle and kiss only two people... er... living things in this world: Jodi and Zeus. Opposite ends of the spectrum indeed. A gorgeous, petite, blond soulmate and a drooling, perpetually dirt-stained, mud-covered, smelly, 201lb Saint Bernard. One makes me want to take a bubble bath and the other makes me want to take a shower. But I think I understand it. They both love me unconditionally and I return that love, each in their own way. Under ordinary circumstances, only that unconditional, stigma free love makes me comfortable enough to cuddle. I suppose that should translate into wanting to hug my parents too, but that's just gross. |
According to Jenn  , in my past life I was Michael Wigglesworth, Puritan poet who wrote the apocalyptic "The Day of Doom." The fact of the matter is I doubt very much if I was a writer in a past life. Most reincarnation religions will tell you that you continue to come back again and again until you get it right. Well if I'm still improving on Wigglesworth's skills, then it's obvious why the Puritans sucked so much ass. I can totally see myself writing a Judgment Day tribute though. I'm sure I blamed the end of the world on the Quakers or something, mostly because the word hippie didn't exist yet. And being the master of metaphor that I was, all that fire and brimstone was quite obviously symbols for liberals and ignorant people, which incidentally are usually one and the same. The angels, if the poem featured any, were without a doubt an archane form of ninja, and the demons doubled as pirates. This is all purely conjecture, because I've clearly never read the poem. I'm certain it's a Google click away, but I'm much too busy cranking out these contest entries factory style to go look. Not to the mention the fact that I'm too lazy and fearful it might entirely debunk my theory. The fact that children were forced to memorize it really isn't all that different from today. I have a sneaky suspicion that at least half my readership reads the entries aloud into a voice recorder and plays them back while they're sleeping, thus inserting my messages subliminally. It's the only way I can explain so many people jumping on the PC bandwagon and getting all poopy with it. No sane person could or would accomplish such a feat without an iota of subliminal reprogramming. Now despite how flattered I am for being compared to a tyrannical, brain-washing prude, I'm a little annoyed by the fact I was supposedly a poet in a past life. Poetry is for sissy men. Seriously now, I dare you to name one successful male poet whose masculinity and/or heterosexuality wasn't dubious at best. And Poe doesn't count because he was clearly off his rocker. Now if I were truly an early American writer in a past life, why couldn't it be Washington Irving? He's one of my literary heroes, and yes, I do have some, believe it or not. His stories became folk tales and the stuff of legends. Though I suppose if I was him in a past life, I wouldn't be here now still trying to figure it out. I'd be in Nirvana or something. Even so, if ever I produce something that makes people feel like they're sitting around the campfire trading tall tales like I feel every time I read "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" or "Rip Van Winkle," then I'll know I made it. Basically I aspire to be a class A bullshit artist too. |
| Every six months or so I wake up with no hearing in one ear. Whichever ear was pressed to the pillow the night before is effectively sealed off. I get up and realize, usually in a panic, that I've lost hearing in that ear. It's like listening under water; the sound exists but it's faint and garbled at best. I'm certain people adjust to losing hearing in one ear, but in that case the hearing gradually evaporates. In this case I just wake up with 50% of my hearing. It comes with a sudden pressure in the side of my head, like an ear infection without the discomfort. Getting my hearing back becomes an itch that needs to be scratched immediately. It's because I have torturous ear canals. At least that's what the ER doctor called it the first time I woke up with no hearing and raced to the ER. Basically it means my ear canals are far more twisted and irregular than normal ear canals. Sometimes I wonder if that's why I'm hard of hearing. But twisted ear canals means rinsing water in and out of there doesn't get around the corners or in those nooks and crannies. Over time the unreachable crevices build up with ear wax. Then, the pressure of sleeping on that ear all night presses those crevices together until the wax seals off the channel and leaves me practically deaf. But now I have a solution. You can buy ear wax removal kits at any pharmacy. Basically it's a bottle of some solvent and one of those blue ball syringes. I lay on my side, dump some of that solvent in my ear, along with some peroxide, and I let it set. I usually have to tug on my ear lobe until that stuff dribbles down into the hidden caverns. I lay on my side for at least 20 minutes while that stuff is bubbling away in my ear, fizzing and popping and working its magic. Next comes the fun part. I drape a towel over my shoulder, partly to keep my shirt dry and partly to shield against any wax splatter. I hold a bucket under my ear and start blasting luke warm water down my ear canal with that ball syringe. The water washes back out with a few green or brown bits of wax. A little clump here, a little blob there, but still I can hear nothing in that ear except the steady fizz of peroxide. At last a gush of water will shoot down my canal and go swishing back out, and I'll hear again. Instantly full hearing returns, as if someone pulled an earplug out. I look into the bucket and realize that's effectively what happened. It's a lump of tar, often the size of a penny and always jet black. It floats in that brown water, sometimes even with a bit of hair attached. I shoot a couple more bursts of water in there, and a few more BB-sized black tar pellets will wash out, their outer layer dissolving in the water until you can't tell it was ever water to begin with. Sometimes it will even dribble down my earlobe, and that's why the towel is there. I haven't had to clean the ears out in about a year, which is the longest I've gone since my senior year of high school. Jodi's looking forward to the next time it happens, because she gets to help. We'll see if she still feels that way after she sees that black tar come shooting out. |
| "...let's head on over to the bath area, and no sex on the display toilets!" That's what they'd tell you on the Home Depot tour on Eighth Street. Finally something interesting about Home Depot. In "Jackass: The Movie" somebody took a crap in the display toilet at a hardware store. That was some brown that was never getting flushed down. I laughed my ass off. But it's rather unoriginal when you think about it. I mean that's what toilets are built for anyway. Now having sex on the display toilet. That's intriguing. The fact that it's been mentioned, makes me wonder if it actually happens. A couple wanders into the... uh... the... yeah, whatever you call that section of Home Depot, strips down, and does the nasty on the toilet. Well, no, not that nasty thing, but something not so nasty I guess. What do you as an employee do when you come across that? Seriously now. Someone please tell me, because this is something I need to see! And not just for the porn value. Does the creepy child molester-looking guy that works in the paint section watch the security footage over and over on his lunch break? If so, can he get me a copy? The mechanics of it are a bit boggling, though I suppose it's no different than any chair if you have the seat down. But what if the seat is up? I think you'd have to be careful or somebody could wind up in the bowl. Being naked and stuck in the display toilet at Home Depot and no happy ending. Now that would truly suck. Let's throw one more cog into the machine. The seat is up and it's up for a reason. That's right, having sex and using the crapper at the same time. Actually, never mind, that's way too gross even for me. Besides, I am hereby refraining from writing about poop. At least until my next entry. Now, in the name of science, I think I need to go explore the logistics of sex on a toilet. I should probably clean it first though... |
| And how long and winding they are indeed. That's what I get for signing on for NaNoWriMo. Long, winding, padded chapters that move the story forward without a whole lot of substance. Basically my outline is getting its own sentences, forming blah chapters that I intend to use as a shell for rewriting. I should be whining about it really, but I'm starting to hit that threshold where 1700 words a day is almost routine. Where's the big NaNoWriMo hullabaloo this year though? When I first considered it back in 2004, it was the Maquerena of the writing world, It was the hip new thing for wannabe writers. Everybody was doing it, everybody but me. Just like the Maquerena. And sex. Two years later I finally commit to doing it, and no one gives a rat's ass anymore. I haven't even seen mention of it on Writing.com, the very place I learned about it back in the day. Listen, I know I'm a trendsetter, but just once I'd like to be the bandwagon jumping conformist. So here I am doing this thing alone. I'm a trooper though, and an inspiration, so I'm going to make it happen. No sissy late night chocolate binges for me though. I'm not one of those girly NaNoWriMo'ers. I'm sitting here, typing out this thus far nondescript plot whilst gulping Twisted Tea and watching football. Well, that's how I did it last night anyway. Tonight I'm too busy writing this damn entry because shannon's being a nag about catching up on the contest. Here's something that will shock you all. Well, not really, but it's worth mentioning. I find I do my best and most productive writing on the toilet. I take my laptop in there, drop a deuce or three, and type away as my rectum bleeds out and heals up. I think it's because I have fewer distractions in there. No large-breasted Austin Powers women on TV, no tantalizing Twisted Tea, no spine crippling couch to battle, and no horny, suggestive looks from Jodi across the room. I actually crank out hundreds of words on the shitter. That's when I'm not IM'ing with people. Whilst crapping, I have carried on conversations with Jay's debut novel is out now! , Melissa is fashionably late!  , and mood indigo . They're my little pooping triumvirate.This thing is good for me though. I've led a pathetic existence as a "writer," though I've never actually claimed to be anything other than a storyteller. Or a bullshit artist. Granted NaNoWriMo (which by the way is the single most annoying acronym after NAFTA) doesn't produce my best writing (far from it), but it does force me to actually write. The plot on this story is finally advancing, from scratch this time, and it only took me three years to get kickstarted. Rewriting for me has always been the easy part, so creating this shell is all I need. I'll write the damn thing and then go back and make it good. Except for the action sequences, I already kick ass at action sequences. |
| Despite the obvious prestige and accolades that come from a nomination by a three year old, I simple can't take anything serious when it involves a "bubby." What exactly is a bubby anyway? And why do people use it? What part of that word could possibly be derived from some other world indicating a small child? Is it some kind of illiterate, slack-jawed mispronunciation of baby? Not that everyone saying "bubby" is illiterate or slack-jawed mind you, but just that some dumbass sometime in the past raped the English language and left that abomination of a word behind. And now, for reasons that escape me and my articulation, that bastardization of a word is now part of our vernacular. But bubby is just one word of a much larger "language." I'm referring to baby talk, cutesy wootsey, nauseating baby talk. Why is it that we as a society insist on talking to babies as if we are babies ourselves? What hemmorhaging lobe makes us think the best way to teach a child proper articulation is to spew madeup words and unintelligible coos in their general direction? Is it really any wonder why illiteracy, inarticulation, and words like "strategery" exist today? I swear to God I will piss on the next person that calls their kid a munchkin. Not just a tinkle either. Anyone who reads my blog already knows my intense hatred for the word "munchkin." In reality though, munchkin isn't nearly the worst kind of baby talk. Munchkin at least is a word, as opposed to some nonsensical bastardization. If you call your kid a munchkin, you're not talking baby talk so much as just being stupid. Munchkins are little people living in Oz, in case you didn't know, and I'm sure Aussie midgets are not pleased with the comparison made to dumb little shit toddlers. The words that really get me though are the ones that don't exist in any capacity in the English language. Does anyone know what a pacifier is? Of course you do, and yet you probably didn't know until you were at least old enough to tie your own shoes. (Or pull the velcro over them as I did.) A pacifier is that thing you stick in baby mouths to pacify them. Oh, see how that naming works? Makes sense doesn't it? So why the fuck do people call it a binky, a chooch, and whatever other dumbass names baby talkers come up with? Does it bink the kid? Or chooch him? God, I certainly hope not; that sounds like some sort of sick pedophilia. How about blankie? Is there any good reason whatsoever to teach a kid to ask for his "blankie" instead of his "blanket?" Seriously, I challenge you to come up with a good reason. Likewise, how about the potty? Why not just call it a toilet? Or bedpan, if that's what you're using. I can't even pose an argument and counter argument here, because there's no viable reason for the misnomer. Nominations is it? I nominate baby talk for Greatest Bastardization of the English Language. |
| You know what I hate? Well, besides hippies, liberals, vegans, womanizers, pretentious assholes, people with no sense of humor, munchkins, Michael Moore... you get the point. But this time I'm talking about whiners. I used to whine back in the day, though I had the common courtesy to save my whining for chats with friends so I could totally bring them down, suck the life out of them, and save the Writing.com public from self-defeating pessimism. Some people though, lots of 'em in fact, insist on whining whenever and wherever they get the chance. People love to whine in their journals. There's a few journalers that plan out their suicides more often than I write about poop, hippies, and liberals combined. It gets to a point where the whining is clearly just for attention. Sometimes you just want to poke them with a stick and say "Just do it, you big pussy." Wow, that's cold isn't it? Meh, just one more thing for them to whine about. What pisses me off worse though is whining in Scroll. No one cares about your troubles in scroll, and in fact telling us about them, only makes us dislike you more. I don't care if your dog crapped on the floor. I don't care if your dumbass rugrat has a runny nose. I don't care if your connection is too slow to solve any of the bots. Get over it, you pathetic gift point whore. Pull an Ol' Yeller, slap the dirty brat, and be done with it. We all have problems, so don't try to make it sound like your literal spilled milk is armegeddon. And suppose you do have bigger problems? Lord knows Writing.com is full abuse victims, degenerates, sex fiends, and the sick. Well, unless you're my close friend, I really don't care. In fact, depending on your problems, it may give me a whole new reason to dislike you. Or at least disrespect you. Sometimes in life we encounter a real crisis. No one has a real crisis every day. If it really is that bad, maybe you really should end it all. But it's never really bad enough to do that is it? That's because it's purely a matter of perception. Get a spine, a clue, and maybe a hobby. Then shut the hell up. I'm starting a crusade right now. Anytime someone whines in a prominently public place, most notably Scroll, I'm going to initiate a Pity Party. Ever hear of a Pity Party? Someone counts 1... 2... 3... and then everyone says "Awwww" in unison in a condescending, total bastard tone of voice. So watch out sissies, because the Cold, Uncaring, PO'ed Pity Party Brigade is on its way. |
| Double clicking a mouse? That's what they call it you know. Not me, mind you, because I certainly do not have a mouse to click. A joystick that needs calibration maybe, but no mouse that needs clicking. But that's what the females are calling masturbate these days I guess. Now seriously, if there's a mouse down there, why would I want to put my joystick anywhere near it? Sharing a USB port with a mouse? Probably not a good idea. My stick can be delicate, and frankly I don't like the idea of getting bitten. Besides, what the hell is a mouse doing down there anyway? I don't think that pussy cat is doing its job! So why do we invent these ridiculous euphisms? I was going to get a whole list of them and have fun with that, but that's boring, unoriginal, and sounds like work. Instead, because I'm better than that, and mostly because I'm really lazy, I'll use some of the ones terryjroo gave us to work with. Do the Han Solo? So let me get this straight. I'm supposed to compare masturbating to "doing" Han Solo? Okay, that's just sick. I'm a straight man, and even doing the Princess Leia is unfavorable after seeing recent video of Carrie Fisher. That girl seriously spent way too much time with John Belushi. She pulled off sexy with Jabba the Hutt as a backdrop, but all that coke isn't showing too well 30 years later. Shampooing the rug? Thankfully I don't have a rug to shampoo. In fact I made sure I rented an apartment with hardwood floors. Polishing the hard wood I can do, but shampooing the rug? Don't you need like some big machine to do that or something? You girls and you're electric devices, sheesh! Tapping the keg? Look, my six pack may in fact be a keg, but that's just absurd. Does that mean alcohol comes out of your genitalia? Alcohol breeds addiction, and that explains a few things, but seriously, doesn't that burn? And is it like a malt beverage or hard liquor? Is it like taking shots down there? Does it taste like rum because, I really only like rum. Or maybe tequila. Though I suppose it's beer, probably something girly like Corona too. Well, I hope it's not Schlitz or Pabst Blue Ribbon. Now I could have written about masturbation, but everyone seems to do that these days. And why? Telling people you masturbate is like telling them you're straight or you're gay, you're male or you're female, you're short or you're tall. It just is. It's obvious and doesn't really change anything. Yet I see people writing about it everywhere. It's silly really. It's like telling people about how you poop. Oh... |
| Everyone knows there's only two things I hate worse than raging liberals: 1) constipation and 2) hippies. In fact, hippies, tree-huggers, peaceniks, or whatever you want to call them, are pretty much the pirate to my ninja. And we all know hippies love their pot. That's why what I'm about to say will likely shock and apall you. I support the legalization of marijuana. Yup, you read me right. Now you'd fully expect me to rage against anything associated with hippies, and in general I do, but because I'm a reasonable human being, not some raging hippie liberal myself, I can see the value in legalizing it. I'm a Libertarian, I have been ever since the religious right conquered the Republican Party and ruined the glory days of Reagan Republicanism. There's one basic principle surrounding libertarianism: do whatever you want so long as it harms no one else. Basically why should we as a people and a government dictate the legality of activity in your own house, on your own land, and with your own body if you're not hurting anyone? Laws are designed to protect our individual safeties, liberties, and right to pursue happiness. If you want to get stoned out of your gourd in your living room, why the hell should I care? It's your mind and body, not mine. I say go for it. Now, if you decide to then drive under the influence, you're suddenly endangering other people, and that's what laws are for. So yeah, I say legalize it all. Why stop at pot? How's pot any different than the other stuff really? Legalize it, regulate it, tax it, do the whole thing. Smoke in your house, do lines in your kitchen, shootup in your bedroom, whatever tickles your fancy. The way I see it, we can accomplish several things: let people seek happiness as they wish, battle the growing threat of overpopulation, gain sales tax to replace absurd income taxes, let the cops get back to finding killers and rapists, eliminate the tantalizing idea of experimenting with something illegal, etc. I for one won't touch marijuana or anything else. I hardly ever even drink. It's just not my thing. However, to each his own, I say. And why stop at drugs? Why do we need to pass legislation about what people do for recreation? Liberals want to do away with things like gun ownership and hunting. They want to raise villages, telling each person how to live better lives. Religious republicans want to dictate morality to us and tell us what we cannot do. I say fuck both of them; let's do whatever the hell we want to do. If I'm not hurting anyone, except for maybe myself (which is usually debatable), why should anyone care? Anyway, this is why I hardly ever write anything political, except to bash hippie liberals. It's boring, and spouting off accomplishes exactly nothing. No one will ever see the light and realize how right I am, just like I'll never waste my time on the wrong opinions of hippies and liberals. |
The greatest moment of my life to date has already been written down by the one I love: "Invalid Item"  , so I'll have to pick another.Wednesday night, or more accurately Thursday morning around 2:30AM, I was dreaming about having diarrhea. It was so vivid I woke up and realized I really had to go drop the deuce. In fact, several tiny deuces already felt like they were going to ooze out. At this point, in my half awake stupor, I couldn't completely separate the dream from reality. My movement had roused Jodi so I told her "I have to go the bathroom." "I do too," she said. Oh crap! "You do?" I was sure she didn't realize I was going to be awhile, so I hurried out while she began to rise. I rushed into the bathroom, shut the door, and went about my business. Jodi told me after she was right behind me and waited for a few seconds before going back to bed. I crapped and crapped and crapped, a great oozy mass of diarrhea. Wiping myself involved nearly an entire roll of toilet paper and several flushings. When done, I noticed I had even scraped a little on the back of the toilet seat, which I then proceeded to clean off between gaggings. At that point I started to wonder again just how much of my dream was really just a dream. And I realized we had been sleeping naked. I washed my hands and rushed back to the bedroom. I stood there, a dark silhouette in the doorway, as Jodi began to slide out of bed. I cringed, waiting for the impact of my words. "We should probably check the sheets." "What?!" I told her of the dream and my inability to tell what was real and what was not. I peeled back the comforter, searching for poo stains. She leapt out of bed and did the same. Fortunately the only stain on the sheets was a blood stain from when a cut on my leg had opened up and bled one night. She went and did her business in the bathroom, and then we both settled in for another two and a half hours of sleep. "We should probably check the sheets," she repeated. "I don't ever want to hear those words again." We burst out laughing and giggled ourselves back to sleep. |
| "There must be something... Well. We'll go with the title as inspiration. How's that." No, nothing in the title either, and that would just be a total copout anyway. So what about this leading entry inspires me then? Well, it appears to be a series of well-written fictional prompts. None of which I really care about for one very specific reason: I detest reading fiction in journals. And there's my inspiration. Why do people write fiction in journals? Isn't that what... uh... fiction is for? Writing.com has given us numerous genres and item types to write fiction, and yet people insist on writing fiction in their journal. I don't read it. Never have, never will. When I open up one of the the usual journals or blogs I frequent and I discover it's fiction, I move on. The journaler could be an excellent writer, and it doesn't matter. You see, if I wanted fiction I would perused a person's port, not his or her journal. Why do they do it? Is life truly that boring? Or is it too shameful and embarrassing to share? Do they lack the creativity to make the mundane interesting? Do they have no revelations? No observations? No words of wisdom or philosophical thoughts to offer up to the reading public? Do they think their journal is some form of art? If any of those are true, why in God's name would such a person start a journal anyway? Journals are the Reality TV of the writing world. Would anybody watch Survivor if they thought the winner and order of elimination were scripted? I sure wouldn't. If I want fiction, I'll watch CSI. The same thing applies to journals. I read them to gain insight on the journaler and to hopefully hear a funny or entertaining anecdote now and again. If I want a story, I'll pick up a freegin' book. Now those who write fiction in their journals would probably claim they write the journal for themselves, and therefore shouldn't be expected to abide by the common perception of a journal. They don't journal for their readers. That's pretty ironic considering the whole point of writing fiction is to share it with readers. That's why I don't get that whole "journal is art" bullshit. The only person that comes to mind for getting famous writing journals was Thoureau, so unless you plan on being a hermit you're probably just deluded. Oh, and then there was Anne Frank, and I'm fairly certain none of the journal "artists" want to share her fate. Really now, what is the point to it all? When I have fiction to write, I write fiction, not some random, disjointed story in my journal. The same principle applies to poetry in journals, but I don't write poetry, so I'll shut up about that. If you're so serious about your fiction that you have to throw some into your journal, shouldn't you be off trying to get published instead of wasting time journaling or blogging? I blame the whole thing on annoying crap like berets, coffeehouse poetry readings, contemporary art, uber-liberal English professors, new-age mumbo jumbo, and other deluded fads that convince people that "art" is more important than entertainment. |
Dog Prison. That makes about as much as sense as my dream the other night. It seems almost like divine intervention that I had that glorious dream and then logged on to see that Sophy  had written about a dream. It seems that sharing my dream with the Writing.com community was just meant to be. And while it was an intriguing dream for me, it would no doubt have been a nightmare for the rest of you. Though I love to embellish in my blog, I will relate this dream exactly as it happened. Though it will lack my usual flair and sense of humor, the horrifying ending is worth the read.The dream began at the Writing.com convention. I'm not sure if it was meant to be the 2006 convention or some future Writing.com get-together. The format though was very different. No creative writing sessions, no auction, no open mic, no live campfires, no raging alcoholism. Instead the entire convention was a physical and mental competition, a series of challenges which involved solving clues and using brute strength to unearth giant treasure chests. We had to pair up for this competition, so of course Jodi and I formed a team. Our opponents were all recognizable faces from the convention, but I'm not sure who was paired with who. I was too focused on the challenges to pay much attention. Jodi and I cleaned house. Invariably each challenge culminated in some showing of physical strength, which not surprisingly tipped the scale in our favor every time. At a minimum, after solving clues we'd have to tear up floor boards to retrieve a substantial pirate-styled treasure chest. I did this with ease, tearing and throwing aside floor boards while everyone else struggled to even peel up the boards. In fact, Jodi and I would finish all our challenges early and then I'd smash the floor for the other teams. At one point I yanked two chests out of the ground at the same time, and I was greeted with a great deal of oohing and aahing. Once opened, each chest would reveal a voucher for a special doorprize and a shape-shifting jewel. The jewel always had some weird mythological name, and The StoryMaster  kept hinting that whoever collected the most would receive a special grand prize. Jodi and I had all of them so it hardly seemed like a competition.During a lunchbreak, Jodi went to the bathroom and I was enjoying some sort of meat dish when the The StoryMistress  approached me. She made some heart-warming comment about how in love Jodi and I were, and then she nodded toward a corner of the room and hinted at something. Lunch ended and the next challenge began. No one could solve the clues, and after a while I went into that corner of the room and started smashing the floorboards. We unearthed the only treasure chest of that challenge.At this point in the dream I began to wonder what was going on. Every challenge thus far had been tipped in our favor, and The StoryMistress herself had pointed me in the direction of that victory. I was beginning to wonder if The StoryMaster and The StoryMistress were orchestrating the challenges such that Jodi and I would win. But why?The final challenge was announced to be a series of mini challenges, and once again The StoryMaster alluded to a grand prize if we hung on and won this challenge. We took an early lead but got stuck in a room where we couldn't fit a key into a lock. The StoryMaster was in the room with us, and he locked the door so no other groups could try until we advanced. This again puzzled me, but I assumed he would do that for all the groups.We finally busted through and were greeted by an unrecognizable henchman of The StoryMaster who led us right to the spot of the treasure. It was outdoors this time, buried beneath the huge footprint of a dinosaur. Oddly enough the footprint dirt peeled back just like floorboards. Two other groups emerged, and I envisioned losing our prize. I renewed my assault, and lo and behold I unearthed the chest. We pulled out the final transforming jewel and began to celebrate. The voucher this time did not identify the doorprize, but The StoryMaster and The StoryMistress were there to explain.The voucher it turned out was for the grand prize of $31 million! Jodi and I began dancing around, and the SM's seemed genuinely happy for us. Then SM began to explain our prize for collecting all the jewels. He informed all the convention attendees that he and his father were embarking on a business deal and some pesky legal problems and he wouldn't have enough time to dedicate to Writing.com. He and SMs would remain members of the site, but they could no longer be the staff. We all stood there with our mouths agape, and I'm sure some people started to cry. Then he told all of us that Jodi and I had just won Writing.com. The website was being handed over to us, and we were to run it as they had! The crowd became a mass of both cheering and booing. He then took us aside and gave me all the details of where and how to access the code and gave me a list of instructions. He confided that the contests were rigged so that Jodi and I would win. Of all the Writing.com members, we were the only couple that fit the bill, me for my programming and Jodi for her creativity. We then had dinner with The StoryMaster and The StoryMistress and spent most of the time pleading with them to stay on and assist us. We failed. After dinner we swapped contact information to stay in touch and invited them to our wedding. With my list of instructions and access and carte blanche to every nook and cranny of Writing.com I finally woke up.And that, my friends, is a factual account of my dream. If this were to come true, imagine the outcome! I could write a whole entry on that alone, but instead I'll let you all leave your ideas in the comment section below. I'll award GPs to any that I find especially entertaining. |
| The title is a tribute to shannon, who is the master of following rules to the letter rather than the intent. It doesn't say I have to fill the blank with the title of the show, so I won't. I wonder if she's proud of me. I doubt it. In fact, I'm fairly certain she'll IM later asking me what I mean by that and demanding I give a concrete example of what I expected for that last dare challenge. I don't watch much TV anymore; my net addiction makes it pretty hard to do so. But back in the day, when my best friends were DVR and the Dish Network program guide, I had a few shows I watched. I actually I used the DVR to record them and vegged out for a few hours every night, usually falling asleep to the third episode of Star Trek: Deep Space 9. One show stood out though. At the time it may not have been my favorite show, but looking back on it I realize the sheer genius behind it all. Some of you probably haven't ever heard of it. And those of you that have either love or hate it. There's no middle ground with "Most Extreme Elimination." It's a Japanese gameshow that has been dubbed for American audiences. Let's face it: the Japanese know how to do gameshows. This particular one is a series of physical challenges where the winner... Well, actually, I don't remember anyone ever winning anything. That's the beauty of it really, an hour of jumping across logs, sliding down hills in huge cups, dodging fake boulders, and getting shot at with volleyballs all culminating in pretty much no reward. "Most Extreme Elimination" is shown on SpikeTV, which is fitting since Spike is billed as "Television for Men." Why kind of guy wouldn't want to see a bunch of nitwits, often dressed in absurd outfits, perform a series of "stunts" that generally end in face plants, unplanned backflips, volleyballs to the groin, sumo wrestling, and mud as far as the eye can see? Answer: pretentious assholes and fairies. Then you have the commentors, who spend the entire show talking nonsense about the various "contestants." They should actually take this part out. Leave it to Americans to ruin good Japanese comedy. However, the dialogue of field reporter Guy LeDouche saves the day for American dubbers. He's basically the Japanese version of Benny Hill, chasing the female contestants around and making lewd jokes and innuendos. I honestly wonder if the cast of the "Man Show" is dubbing this gameshow. And you can't forget the Captain, some dashing Japanese man in a what appears to be a Barnum and Bailey's ringleader outfit. He screams unintelligible phrases and sends the contestants racing off to their challenges. He reminds me of that creepy guy who hosts Iron Chef, but the Captain gets a stick and gets to ridicule the failed competitors. Bob Barker and Alex Trebeck can't hold a candle to MXC's Captain. They cap each show with the "MXC Most Painful Elimination." It's a video clip of some idiot taking a spill. He's running, dodging boulders or jumping logs one minute, and then Whammo! Faceplant on a log! Boulder in the groin! Mud in the face! You name, they got it. But this is the the most painful elimination, the worst of the worst. But where some people might cringe when they see it, I burst out laughing. Sometimes I laugh until I wheeze. They don't just show the clip; they show it over and over. They show it in real time, then they back it up and slow it down. They send it into super slow motion, zooming in as the guy's cheeks mush against the rock or his spine wraps around a spinning turbine. They fixate on that moment of impact and play it again and again, backwards and forwards. Forward, not backward, upward, but forward, and always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom! Or something... (GPs to the first person to identify that reference.) Sometimes though they would pick the wrong elimination, and I would use the DVR to rewind and find my personal favorite spill. I'd play it again and again and laugh until my sides hurt. That's some funny shit. Some people watch "America's Funniest Home Videos" to see old people fall down and break hips at weddings or to see little kids fall off their bikes, but that's all amateur stuff. For real spills you have to check out MXC. Nobody does slapstick like the Japanese. You can watch that shit muted and it still makes you laugh. Unless, like I said, you're a pretentious asshole. |
| Last time I participated in the Follow the Leader contest I wrote a leading prompt about poop and several other repugnant details, mostly just to get a rise out of the contestants. It worked, but of course it would. It worked so well that I voluntarily dropped out of the competition because I had single-handedly turned the contest into a poo-slinging journaling rumble. Well, I'm starting to see a bunch of boring surveys in journals again, so I figure I better come back and stir the pot. Here I come to the rescue, because I’m cool like that. This time around I'm going to keep it serious. I decided I wanted to write about a pressing issue, something beyond generational gaps, party lines, ethnic upbringing, and geographic separation. I wanted to write about an issue where we draw a whole new kind of line in the sand, where old barriers break down and new ones rise up, creating a whole new separation by opinion. I want to place us into two camps, two heterogeneous camps. Only one pressing issue, only one universal debate, meets those criteria. I am of course referring to the age-old question of Pirate versus Ninja. If you’re not aware of the heated Pirate vs. Ninja debate, then you’re clearly living under a rock somewhere. And it must be a very tiny rock, because ninjas have been known to hide under rocks and pirates have been known to stash treasure under them. Whether you accept it or not, pirates and ninjas are an integral part of our culture. They invade not just stories, television, movies, video games, and toys, but also our very civilization. If you truly believe that’s a homeless guy and not a drunken, marooned pirate or if you truly believe that crazy guy that walks down the street talking to himself is not a ninja in disguise, then clearly you subscribe to this absurd cover-up orchestrated by world governments who fear the bad-ass tradition of pirates and ninjas. The sooner you embrace and welcome pirates and ninjas into your heart, the sooner you escape their hellacious ass-kickery. (They’re like Jesus when it comes to that.) Well, actually no, if you have gold or happen to be an attractive woman, the pirates will likely pillage and rape you anyway. And ninjas have been known to flip out at any time and kill random people. So in reality, you’re not safe at all. That leaves all of us with only one recourse: pick the winning side. If we align ourselves with the winning side, then we vastly improve our chances of survival. Nerdy college kids, D&D players, and bored film students debate the sheer awesome might of pirates versus ninjas to pass the time, perpetually arguing over which is more cool. Their efforts are wasted and lose sight of what really matters, which is of course joining the winning team. I won’t argue one side or the other here. This forum is not appropriate for such a grandiose debate. Nor do I have enough space here to expound on the pros and cons of either faction. And in fact I won’t say where I align myself, because to do so puts me in direct danger from the opposing viewpoint. That’s where my sheer genius and survival instincts kick in. Instead I’ll simply point out what it means to pick the winning side. If you align yourselves with the pirates, then first you’ll become rich with gold. Of course, if you’re not the captain, you’ll really never get to see the treasure and will likely be paid with rum. Some of you are raging alcoholics, so this may be the best gig around. Now, if you are the captain, you’ll bury the treasure on some remote island and likely never get to use it. See pirates are packrats, accumulating a whole mess of junk. If pirates ever had a yard sale, they’d make enough to replace all the food stamps they use to buy rum. If you’re not the captain, you could certainly mutiny, which might very well be the single coolest thing a pirate can do. But then you’d be the captain, and you’d be in the same boat all over again. Quite literally the same boat, since pirates are always in a boat. Which is probably not a good idea if you suffer from motion sickness. If you’re a pirate, you also get to rape, pillage, loot, and kill. Some of you are also sex-crazed, so the raping would likely be a perk. Pillaging and looting is good for everyone, with the possible exception of Los Angeles truck drivers, and you’d finally get your 54” Flat Panel LCD High Definition TV. Of course you’d have to bury it in the sand somewhere. And then there’s the killing. Pirates get to kill. Whereas ninjas do it for sheer entertainment value or to make a quick buck, pirates do it more as a matter of circumstance. Someone insults your honor, you kill ‘em. Someone takes your treasure, you kill ‘em. Someone steals your rum, you kill ‘em. Someone doesn’t slur their Rs, you kill ‘em. Pretty simple really. But being a pirate has drawbacks too. For one thing, even if the pirates win and take over the world, pirates kill pirates. You may have to walk the plank anyway. What’s worse, is they may send you to Davy Jones’ locker. Now I don’t know about you, but living with one of the Monkeys would make me want to swim with the fishes. And then there’s all the rum. You’ll be so drunk you won’t get to enjoy any of your escapades. On the other hand, there’s the rum. ‘Nuff said. Then there’s the pirate fashion sense. I don’t recommend it for the ladies. And finally, what self-respecting hairy-chested man would ever want to look like Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom? You might as well ask Boy George for makeup tips. Of course you could become a ninja instead. You’d learn to become a shadow, a hidden killing machine. Ninjas can kill sumo wrestlers with a slinky and some bubblegum. They are the MacGuyvers of the assassin world. If you’re into killing, and who isn’t really, the ninja is the way to go. Even if you’re not into skulking in shadows and killing people with pencils and bailing twine, you could wear cool armor like the Shredder. You’d have to give yourself a cool Japanese name that must always be spoken in a guttural yell, but… Well, no, there really isn’t any drawbacks to that. Ninjas dress all in black. This would be perfect for any of the Goths out there, although I don’t think ninjas live in their parents’ basement or hang out at Hot Topic. You’d also have to trade in the bong for a katana. Which brings me to the weaponry. Whereas the muskets, cannons, and big ass cutlasses of the pirate realm allow for a great deal of laziness, the ninja arsenal requires a bit more skill and creativity. Ninja’s are so bad ass they have to invent ways to kill people. Of course when they flip out, as they are known to do, killing comes quite naturally. But not all is safe with the ninja either. Should the ninjas be victorious, they would no doubt start killing each other. Ninjas need to kill. Everyone knows that. Now if you happen to be one of the best ninjas, that might not be much of a concern. However, should you be spotted, you’ll be obligated to commit seppuku. (Whoa, I just misspelled that word and MS Word corrected it for me. Already the ninjas have infiltrated Microsoft. Or Bill Gates stole their technology.) Seppuku is suicide by disembowelment. So basically you hunch over, cut yourself open, and let the entrails spill out. The ninjas even do suicide in style. If you’re lucky, a comrade will assist and behead you before you have a chance to bleed out. They always look out for their homeboys (which are of course “mateys” in the pirate world). So which will it be? Will you pick a side and be assimilated into that kickass culture, or will you be a damn dirty hippie and wait for some pirate to anally rape you or some ninja to carve you up like the Christmas goose at Leatherface’s house? Newsflash to you idiot peaceniks hippie liberals: you can’t reason with pirates or ninjas. They’re just like terrorists, only way cooler. Try to be all diplomatic with them, and they’ll feed you to a kraken or pour molten steel down your throat. So pick a side and pray; it’s your only shot. Okay, I said I wouldn’t identify the faction to which I’m aligned. This is supposed to be a leading prompt though, an enlightening window into my soul, so I guess it wouldn’t hurt. So then, do I choose the pirates or the ninjas? Do you have any guesses? You’d of course be wrong, because I align myself with… the zombies. You can’t kill a fucking zombie. I was going to provide some resourceful links down here, but I got too lazy. |
| The plant manager at work is in a bind right now. The parent company is all up in his face because his monthly inventory reports include some weird numbers. As the resident applications analyst and previous programmer analyst, it fell on me to figure out where the numbers were coming from. Lo and behold they were being calculated wrong. After I mined the correct data, we made the alarming and disconcerting discover that his numbers are way worse than we first expected. Since we need to tie to old reports and somehow generate the correct calculation from months prior with no history in the database, we have no feasible way to get what we need. We have a historical mystery to solve, and no data to get there. That leaves us with only one option, and he and I have been discussing it in detail. We need a flux capacitor, and we need it prompto. Although... I guess if we had one, it wouldn't really matter when we got it, because we always back up and give it to ourselves earlier... Hmmmm When we ran into issues in the past, we made the correction and the plant manager, who shall henceforth be referred to as Marty, would kick a cat to relieve the stress. As a result, cats are now in short supply at the office. I think he also double-fisted Jack Daniels but never on company time. This time we have to somehow go back in time. Clearly only a mad genius with a bad hair day and an antique Delorean can help us out. I got some more info on the data, and I think I found a workaround. I warned him that recalculating threatens to destroy the entire space-time continuum. I don't think he fully grasped the impact though; he sent me an email I'm not supposed to open until 1985 and went on his way. Yeah, he can be a little slow sometimes. I told him I'm not going to open the email, especially not with that kournikova.exe file attached to it. Talk about a blast from the past. He calls me Doc when he sees me in the hall now. I'd say I'm more like Christopher Lloyd's character in "Taxi," but whatever. We've given up on the flux capacitor, mostly because neither of us can afford a Dolorean. Plus I'm fairly certain the company mechanic didn't complete the flux capacitor certification when he took that dilithium crystals training. He insists it's easy though; you just hook those damn things up to a computer and let it do its thing these days. We have a theory though that if we strap plutonium to a cat and kick it through the air at 88 mph, it will... uh... Well, we're not exactly sure, but we figure it would be good for a laugh. He doesn't think there's anyone on the company's approved list of vendors that sells plutonium, but I think if we slide it in as a line item on the tools budget no one will notice. Anybody know any Libyans with some plutonium? Preferably the sort that drive hippie vans. And in case you're wondering, the answer is yes, the 50+ year old plant manager and I had this discussion. Though for the record his name is not really Marty and I'm most like Judge Doom in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" It's all just one more recent why I love working in IT. Great Scott! "... the encounter could create a time paradox, the results of which could start a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the space time continuum, and destroy the entire universe! Granted, that's a worse case scenario. The destruction might in fact be very localized, limited to our own galaxy." |
Sometimes I worry that will be a tabloid headline years from now, when I'm rich, famous, and the world dictator. The adoring masses and soon to be groveling acolytes seem to think I have some kind of poo fetish, some unhealthy obsession with all things scat Well, I'm here to debunk that horrible theory, and ironically I'll do it by writing about poo. I do not, nor have I ever had a fascination with poop. I won't use unflushed toilets, I can't watch the changing of a dirty diaper, and I'm just as likely as anyone to start gagging when scooping dog crap off the kitchen floor. I refuse to clean the litter box, I carry out dirty diapers in a plastic bag with my fingertips, and I'll only clean the toilet when I need to direct another spiffy ninjas sequence. I do not like the feel of a shart squishing in my undies, nor do I generate skidmarks for the sheer love of it. I'm not proud of the fact that doing my load of whites sometimes equates to doing a load of beiges, and pooping is not some kind of meditative ritual. In fact, when I challenged three people to reach into a poopy toilet, I was shocked, horrified, and disappointed that they already done it. I have no true love of poo. But despite all that, there is an unwavering, universal truth that governs my poo reverence: poop is funny. I talk about poo because it's funny. I show off my especially large turds because it's amazing and hilarious that my body can produce that without exploding. I joke about streaking my undies with a particularly wet fart because life isn't nearly as complicated when you can laugh at yourself and your most embarrassing misadventures. I brag about it because it pisses some people off, people who have a rod shoved so far up their ass that they likely can't shit without screaming bloody murder, and frankly I do enjoy pissing off people like that. I fixate on it because it's problematic, and that's my name and how I've made my WDC mark. I respond to it because people would be shocked and disappointed if I didn't. Basically, I cater to all you sick fucks that like reading this blog by shocking you with more poo tales. And in the process I get to further press the buttons of all the uptight, pretentious assholes that hate my guts. That I love. Having said that, Jodi thinks I do in fact have a poo fixation. She's even diagnosed its cause. She's also fearful, or at least she should be, that any children we have could develop, or rather underdevelop, the same fixation. See it goes all the back to when I was in diapers, big, smelly, loaded diapers. My father never changed a baby diaper. Not for me, not for either of my siblings, and not for anyone else. He flat out refused. I don't just mean poopy diapers either; I'm talking about any kind of diaper. So when I was a baby my mom was solely responsible for wiping my gorgeous little ass cheeks. (She was also responsible for dressing me in lederhosen, but that's a horrific tale of traumatization for another time.) Now clearly Mom wasn't always around. She was a stay-at-home mom, and worked from the house sewing blankets and eventually curtains for retail businesses, but sometimes I was left with Dad. That meant unchanged dirty diapers. If I shat myself, Dad would leave me in that poopy diaper until Mom got home. Same if I pissed myself for that matter. Sometimes I'd be stewing in poo for a couple hours. (I suppose by today's standards that might get you hauled in by DSS, but back in those days hippie liberals weren't peering into everyone's parenting techniques.) I don't know if I chafed or anything, but I do know my mom bought economy-sized baby powder. I can only assume these experiences directly resulted in my difficulty in learning to properly use the toilet. I wet myself until halfway through first grade, and I needed rubber sheets until even later. In the poo department, I developed a tendency to hold my poo. Not in my hands, you sick bastard, but rather within my colon. You see, I would constrict my muscles and resist pooping for as long as I could. I didn't really dislike pooping, but I just preferred to hold it for as long as possible. Of course then my poo would turn rock hard and compact itself, so when I finally did go it became excruciating. Sometimes a little poop would ooze out while I was trying to hold it, and I'd stain my undies. Or worse. Then my parents would scold me and command me not to hold it in for so long. I did anyway. That actually continued much later into life than I'm willing to admit. So there you have it, it's all Dad's fault. I almost feel like one of these new-age, hippie liberal psychologists for blaming all my problems on my father, but it is what it is. Guess what though... if he didn't ever have to change a poopy diaper, neither do I. If Jodi's not around, I'll pay my mother to change it. |
| kittiara made a shocking confession today. She tells us: When I was a kid, I didn't like depositing a number two in the toilet. The house we lived in in those days was quite cold, and I didn't want to stay on the toilet for too long. So I made up this whole species who lived in the bottom of the toilet and they needed poo to survive. It was their food, you see. And if I didn't do my number two, they'd go hungry. Whilst my backside was cold, I was actually helping them, doing them a favour and keeping them from extinction! YaY! I always imagined how grateful they'd be with my generous donation, and pictured the lil busy people dancing with joy. I bring this up, because we can all learn from it. You see, folks, kittiara has been living in denial. The real root of this issue is something so many of us deal with, and like her, many of us concoct fantasy tales like the one above to preserve our precious psyche. The truth is far far worse and often too traumatic for the laymen, and especially children, to withstand. We block it out and replace it with some fanciful tale of Lilliputians living in the toilet. I am of course referring to the ever-growing threat of toilet ninjas. Tiny plastic ninjas are taking over toilets everywhere. They usually arrive via the town sewage systems and migrate up through the plumbing. Once in your toilet, the ninjas make camp and rely on your constant supply of waste for sacrifice to appease their poo-like gods. The have been known to cause sores, welts, hemmorrhoids, and stage fright. Any homegrown attempt at dislodging the ninja menace usually meets with failure. Those who suffer from ninja infestations typically pretend it's not happening. They enter into a state of denial. They blame sore asses and bleeding stool on absurd things like too much fiber and internal bleeding. They'll assume tiny katana pricks are spider bites and thorns. They'll mistake the ninjas for poo-sniffing flies and stray flecks of turd. They'll then try to eradicate the ninja menace with cleaning supplies, which is like fighting fire with bricks and mortar. Other people, like kittiara, realize there is something more sinister at work here. But because the thought of deadly assassins crouching under their ass cheeks is too terrifying or traumatizing, they will invent some cockamamie story to explain it. That's where we find some common misconceptions about the ninjas. For example, clearly ninjas don't eat the poo as kittiara first suggested. Plastic ninjas have no need of sustenance, and poo is already digested food anyway. The whole premise is absolutely silly. Likewise ninjas are never ever grateful for a donation to their poo gods. Ninjas are well-honed killing machines, and they'd just as soon flip out and flay your rectum as pay homage to your sacrifice. And the mere notion that ninjas dance with joy is absolute folly. It is purely the conjured mirage of a misfiring synapse. Toilet ninjas do not dance; they kill. And worship poo. Now, I'm not just the spokesperson for toilet ninja awareness; I'm also a victim. I currently struggle with a toilet ninja infestation. I've managed to see the infestation for what it truly is, though somedays I wish I could turn my blinders on like everyone else. Some days I wish I had rose-tinted glasses to make those ninjas look like bloody poo specks. But I don't; I see the ninjas, I deal with the ninjas, and I live with the ninjas. I've devoted my life to raising ninja awareness and finding a cure for ninja infestation. With your help and a measely 39 cents a day, we can work toward solving this crippling epidemic. You can make donations to the Ninja Relief Fund at my website: http://ninjachronicles.problematiccontent.com In the meantime, I've found that Preparation H works wonders... |
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| No, the twenty-four inches does not refer to my genitalia this time. It's actually the title to one of the leading prompts from "Invalid Item" , which I'm participating in this round. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the "Spending Time Together" series; I've just been too swamped at work lately to blog, but I'll be working on them this week. So for now, enjoy a minor PC anecdote. Sometimes the greatest life lessons come from being just plain stupid. This is one such life lesson, a fable as it were, a fable with a moral that has guided me over the last several years. About four or five years ago, right around that age when I was close to finishing college but not close enough that I understood what the real world was yet, I started receiving all those junk mailings. Pre-approved credit cards, sweepstakes, brochures, special offers, bills, etc. In the tradition of citizens everywhere, I threw most of them away. But one bit of junk mail held my attention: the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. Now every Joe knows that Publisher's Clearing House, or PCH as those in the know call it, is really a way of selling magazine subscriptions to the elderly. They buy some magazines with their social security checks, and they are entered to win millions. By the time of the sweepsteak drawing, which invariably coincides with the Superbowl, Father Time and Mother Earth have forgotten all their sweepsteaks entries and are too busy perusing the pages of Cosmopolitan and Vogue. Some senior citizen will get the prize though, probably one with a chronic illness that will make them kick it before PCH has to deliver the full payout. See, you can take the money in one lump sum, at a discount of course, or over the course of several years. Old folks love those fixed incomes so they choose the latter. That's why a wizened old person never wins, just the old biddies with the garden gnomes and knitted sweaters in the midwest somewhere. Somewhere along the way, PCH went the way of the dodo, and instant scratch lottery tickets became the get rich quick medium. That's fodder for another blog entry though, so I'll save mention of trailers, cigarettes, scratch tickets, bastard children, mullets, and misused food stamps for another day. Now clearly I'm not nor have I ever been elderly, so I'm not about to fall into that magazine ordering trap. I am, however, someone who wants to get rich quick. So I read the fine print on that PCH mailing. And wonder of wonders, I found a loophole. You were entered in the drawing whether you ordered magazines or not. I ignored the words of my relatives who had seen that "60 minutes" expose of entries with no magazine subscriptions going in the shredder. Who was I to believe the liberal media, especially the immense suckitude of CBS? Besides, my education in law, which consisted mostly of mock trials against my sister when I was 12 years old, convinced me that Ed McMahon really didn't want a lawsuit for false advertising. So, needless to say, I filled out the form and mailed it back. And then I plotted how I'd spend the money. I knew I was going to win. It wasn't that I just wanted to win or that I thought I might, but really that I knew I would. I already had the money accounted for. I knew PCH was showing up at my door, or more accurately my parents' door, during halftime of the Superbowl. I told my parents and sibling what I'd buy them. I plotted how much I would save, and how I could live off the interest without working a day of my life. I arranged it so I'd be home when the big PCH van would arrive. I stayed home instead of going to the big family Superbowl party, because I was afraid PCH might give that oversized check to the neighbors instead. I even figured I'd strip off all my clothes and roll around on the check for a while. Ten millions dollars, and it was all going to be mine. The Superbowl came and went. No PCH van, no check, no Ed McMahon, nothing. Never had I felt so cheated. My plans of wiping my ass with $20 bills just because I could would never come to fruition. I was cursed to be a working stiff the rest of my life, just like everyone else. They knew I was supposed to win, but for some reason they gave it to someone else! The moral of this story, which I didn't realize until much later, is that the power of positive thinking amounts to exactly jack shit. Not only had I been optimistic about winning, but I was certain I was going to win. And for the first and only time ever in my life, I was wrong. Proof that positive thinking gets you nowhere. That experience helped me become the realist I am today. And by realist, I of course mean pessimist, because the two terms are synonymous. Mmmmmm, french fries... |
| You all think Jodi has me cleaning, being cuddly, and scrapbooking huh? Well, I got news for you: she's the one undergoing the transformation. Last night while I was doing laundry Jodi announced she had to poop. She grabbed one of her scrapbooking magazines and headed for the bathroom to begin her marathon turd-making. Sometimes that girl spends so much time in there I even leave my poker games to check that she's okay and hasn't somehow fallen into the seat and is stuck in the toilet bowl. I returned from laundry, and sure enough she was still locked away on the shitter. I started uploading photos from her new camera onto my laptop when I heard the phone ring. She apparently had it in the bathroom because I could hear her talking to whoever was on the other line. Moments later she came out, with the phone still against her ear, and silently motioned me to follow her back into the bathroom. She stopped at the bathroom doorframe and pointed across the linoleum to the toilet. No, it couldn't be, I thought. She stood there chatting away with her sister on the phone, while I traversed the room to where she pointed. There, curled in a semi-circle traversing half the circumference of the toilet bowl, I saw her handiwork. A light brown, mostly thin tendril that was likely a foot or more long when uncurled. Turdtastic. I looked back at her and saw the look of sheer glee on her face. Amy continued to jabber away in her ear, but I doubt that Jodi heard her. She was grinning ear to ear and staring at me. I shook my head in a combined expression of amazement, disgust, and pride. Having gotten my eyeful, she returned to the toilet and flushed it down. I proceeded immediately to the kitchen to pick up the other phone and tell Amy what her sister just insisted on showing me. I was shocked to discover Jodi had already told her while I was finding the second phone. And instead of her usual shade of bright red, Jodi was still grinning. Amy told us "You guys have such a weird relationship." I regretted afterwards not snapping a couple photos and posting them on http://www.ratemypoo.com. That sucker might have made the top 10. I'm very proud of her. |
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Tooo rich...Love the tale....Would make a great comic for a local newspaper!!