All Covering Their Circuitry With Little Fez Hats, Awaiting My Command

After a long and welcome delay, the Michigan Winter has formally settled in around these parts. For the kids, this means excited fantasies about snowmen and sledding. For me, it means the act of filling my car with gas becomes an exercise in bitterness and frustration that leads me to wonder just how far advanced we are as a species if we haven't yet converted anything with more than a half inch of annual snowfall into a massive penal colony.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of an overstatement, but really, I do not approve of Winter in the least. This region is great for Spring, Summer and particularly Fall. However, besides proximity to family and obvious tactical advantage during a zombie apocalypse, spending Winter here has nothing to offer someone like me.

Now I know there are those of you out there who would argue that I would enjoy Winter more if I partook in some of the more popular Winter sports. To these people I would point out that in high school, the guy who was supposed to teach me skiing broke his leg skiing the weekend before my scheduled lessons. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is. (On the bright side, I got to call him 'Hopalong' for weeks, and he couldn't move fast enough on his little crutches to stop me. Ah, good times.)

Apply a little logic to the Winter sports, actually, and you'll see that this is actually an argument for my point of view. Skiing, snowboarding and sledding all have two things in common: speed and travel. Even snowshoeing is based on the same common thread. Basically, all Winter sports are built on the premise of getting the hell away from wherever you are, i.e. the snow. Heck, even the Olympic biathlon, where athletes test their prowess at both skiing and rifle shooting, was born of an angry Norwegian who was so desperate to get to warmer climes that he declared he'd shoot anyone who got into his way.

Of course, I should look at the bright side, like all of the things Winter encourages. Watching movies on television for example. Or playing video games. Reading books works as well. Basically, anything that allows me to close the shades and pretend that if I were to open them again I would be presented with a lovely Summer afternoon full of lush, green life and sunshine.

Or an army of cyborg monkeys waiting to do my bidding. That would be pretty cool too.

No Need To Get All Snippy Now

Circumcisions are interesting things when you think about it. It has for a long time now been a standard practice in the USA, and yet it doesn't make a ton of sense to me. As far as I can tell, the primary argument in favor of it (outside of religious practices) is that it's more sanitary, as the cut version is supposedly easier to clean that the alternative.



Now, maybe it's me, but I'm reasonably sure that if you were to approach an adult male and offer to cut off a part of his junk so he doesn't have to wash as well, he will politely decline (and by 'politely decline', I mean he will grasp himself protectively and then either flee whimpering or beat you soundly). I mean, we don't do this for other body parts, so why this? Are we that uncomfortable as a society with sitting our sons down and explaining to them the proper application of soap to ones dangly bits?

Maybe we should extend this practice. Perhaps our mistake is not the medically acceptable mutilation of our children, but rather not taking it far enough. I was, for example, occasionally reprimanded for not properly washing behind my ears as a child. You know what would have made that totally easier? Not having ears in the way. I bet you get way less ear infection that way too.

You know what else we could eliminate this way? Underwear streaking. Seriously, you know what the primary issue is with coming clean after making a major transaction in the restroom? No, it's not whether you do your cleanup standing or sitting (another mind-blowing topic altogether). It's your butt cheeks all getting in the way of your business.

Simple solution? Total butt cheek removal. Believe me, I know better than most the usefulness of the human butt cheeks, so I don't make this suggestion lightly. Still, think about how sanitary things would be. Why, we could see the total elimination of hemorrhoids in a single generation.

Now obviously I'm being slightly sarcastic. I would never actually condone the removal of the human butt cheek, if for no other reason than it would create a world where flatulence would lose it's musical qualities and the SBD would become the norm. Rather, I'm trying to point out that maybe it's okay to question some of these things people seem to take for granted, like automatically taking the comb off your son's rooster being a good idea.

Frankly, I'm just glad I'm a man and feel comfortable discussing this with you fine people - women's health issues are not only way more complicated, but I know far fewer euphemisms I can use for female anatomy and still maintian a PG-13 website.

The Twelve Days of Christmas: Excuses Edition

I'm trying to get into the Christmas spirit depite someone setting a deadline the week before Christmas (Scrooge). I can't really give shopping advice, but I'm great at giving excuses. Thus, I present to you:

The Twelve Days of Christmas: Excuses Edition

• 12 Drummers Drumming: Too damned noisy


• 11 Pipers Piping: Hard to keep that many crackheads in one place


• 10 Lords a-Leaping: Inquired with UK Parliament - apparently 'leaping' no longer among skills that qualifies one for the House of Lords


• 9 Ladies Dancing: Didn't realize that it's considered inappropriate if poles are involved


• 8 Maids a-Milking: Got kicked out of the lactation consultant's office


• 7 Swans a-Swimming: Couldn't get all seven swans in the bathtub


• 6 Geese a-Laying: Mating season for geese doesn't begin until February


• 5 Gold Rings: Lost phone number for Sonic the Hedgehog, my primary gold ring supplier


• 4 Calling Birds: Feather allergies


• 3 French Hens: Hens refused to bathe properly and I couldn't take the smell - also, feather allergies


• 2 Turtle Doves: Couldn't get turtle and dove to mate despite repeated application of Barry White albums and wine coolers


• Partridge in a Pear Tree: Our pear tree fell down last year and David Cassidy wasn't available anyway (Danny Bonaduce was, but hey, I've got standards)

Hopefully, that will help those of you out who lack my creativity. Also, I can now add "Crackhead Herding" to my resume, which just adds to my already rich set of skills. Overall, this was a win for everyone.

Gah...Okay In Your Case, Science And A Miracle

Yesterday, despite my severe mallstrophobia, I forged into our local mall to take the kids to see Santa, or as the princess referred to him "some guy in a costume" (she humored us for the sake of her little brother). My choice in parking spots left something lacking, not because I feel the need to avoid walking, but because I had to pass directly through the perfume and cosmetics section of a department store to get to where I was going. This is hard for me because I have asthma, and I find that air thick with sixty-three different kinds of perfume makes it kind of hard for me to breathe. Go figure.



Anyway, through eyes blurry with tears cause by the fumes, I noticed my new favorite part of the cosmetics section: the lab coat. I'm not exactly what they're trying to achieve with this, but it seems that certain employees shilling cosmetics have moved beyond mere counter clerks to something more clinical as judged by the long, white coats they wear behind the counter. All I can think of is some mad man telling a lady, "Yes, we can make you look beautiful, but not through normal means. This...this requires SCIENCE!".


The Perils of Modern Science by Travis Pitts

I'm thinking someone might be offended, but hey, it's not my job for a reason, right?

Yo Quiero Perro

Apparently a bunch of people decided that Paris Hilton was a good role model and then regretted it. No, I'm not referring to a glut of poorly lit sex tapes leaking onto the internet. Rather, there is now an overflowing supply of chihuahuas in Californian pet shelters. One can only assume that these people thought carrying a dog around in your purse was a good idea because they didn't realize that Paris has someone else who has to clean out the purse after the dog relieves itself in it.

Anyway, there is now this excess supply of chihuahuas with no home and people are all concerned about the fate of the poor pooches. As usual, these people are missing the obvious opportunity that this situation presents. We have a bunch of extra chihuahuas. We have a terrible economy with a lot of people out of work. We have a state that has (at least for those with medical issues) legal marijuana distribution.

Two words, dudes and dudettes: chihuahua tacos.

Come on people, this is a no-brainer. They're just going to put those poor little pups to sleep anyway. Why not use them to provide inexpensive meals for the good people of California? And really, if we're going to start eating dogs (and I see no reason not to, as they're no cuter than cows), what could be more natural than to use chihuahuas to make tacos? We could even get cheese from Chihuahua, Mexico, and have double chihuahua tacos. It practically markets itself.

You know what, I bet the chihuahuas would even want us to make tacos out of them if their little, dumb, chihuahua brains could comprehend such concepts as national pride. Or Tacos. Or death. (I've lived with chihuahuas. They're not the quickest rats in the pack.)



So let's make this happen people. Let's grab a bottle of salsa, shred some lettuce, break out the shells, and make us some tacos con perros. I bet they'll taste just like chickens.

Little, yappy, big-eyed chickens.

The Of Course Leads To My Other Great Idea: Fez Book

As near the end of the aughts, as I shall heretofore refer to the previous decade, I fear we have failed at producing a single meaningful contribution to the fashion industry. Actually, scratch that - the youth of our nation has failed to produce a single meaningful contribution to the fashion industry. As an older individual, I can look back on the decade before this, and take pride in our inclusion of both hip hop fashion and the whole grunge thing (or as I like to call it, 'layering'). Pity the high top fade fell out of favor, but what can you do?

Anyway, as I am wont to do, I will pick up the slack for those around me who lack the inspiration to put forth brave new ideas and give you a helpful suggestion: the fez. For too long the fez has been pushed to the back of the American fashion scene, relegated to foreign restaurant waitstaff, grown men driving tiny cars in parades, and of course, monkeys. Well, it's time to correct that. We need someone who is more artistically creative than myself to reinvent the fez, and you don't have a lot of time. Thanks to MTV, you can still start a trend in less than two weeks, so if you're quick you can make it. Maybe a goth fez or something - I don't know. You work out the details.



Of course we'll never pull of the look as well as the monkeys, but it will be something.

Stupid Deadlines

Deadlines suck. Unfortunately, if I'm to continue earning money, I must occasionally meet them. As such, nothing new to talk about today. I strongly encourage visitors to use the labels in the menu to explore some of my older posts. I'm sure some of you missed my musings on the missing footage of Ghost Hunters, wonder just how the government determines the proper height for urinals or listing all the questions that I resisted asking when I was required to do interviews. Look at this as an opportunity to catch up while hopefully I do the same.

I Know A Certain Little Girl Who's Getting "Baby's First Bagpipes" This Year

Some of you out there will be charged with purchasing toys for children, so I thought I'd pass along a couple of helpful pieces of information. First, when you're shopping for a child who you will be around frequently, like your own, make sure to hunt down an open package for any toy you are seriously considering at the toy store. Once you find the open package, take the smallest piece out of the package, remove your shoe, and put your full weight unto that toy part. If the resulting pain from embedding...oh, I don't know...perhaps Princess Barbie's %#$@ing crown into your foot causes you to do more than slightly wince in pain, perhaps reconsider that particular toy.

My second bit of advice is to check for volume control. Many toys talk, produce sound effects, or play music at incredibly loud volumes. When considering one of these toys, make sure that it has both the ability to be turned down and the ability to be turned off. Failure to do so will result in what will inevitably be your child's favorite toy, which he or she will follow you around the house with, pushing the buttons over and over and over again until the very first electronic notes find you longing for the sweet release that death will bring. If the toy you are considering lacks these controls, it could still be a worthwhile purchase, but only for a niece or nephew, perhaps in retaliation for a certain sibling who insisted on sticking their feet in the popcorn bowl every movie night to ensure that he or she did not have to share.

Not...not that I would do such a thing, but not everyone is as forgiving as myself.

After All, Booty Is Only Skin Deep

Okay, so once in a while, I come across a story that I want to talk about- I mean, something that just begs for me to rip into it and tear it all to shreds - but it's kind of a sad story, so I hesitate. Such a thing is the tale of former Miss Argentina Solange Magnano, who died as a result of complications during butt surgery. Elective butt surgery, actually. She basically gave her life in an effort to have taught, firm buttocks, a noble goal no doubt, but hardly one I would consider worth risking one's life over.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm going to make some crack about this. You're thinking that a cheeky fellow such as myself will not be able to let this one sit. You're thinking I'm going to allow this person's death to become the butt of my jokes. Seriously though, someone has died here, and left a beautiful set of twins behind her to be reared by someone else. I mean sure, in hindsight it was a bad idea, but I'm sure she assessed the risk, decided it was worth the booty (these surgeries aren't cheap) and assumed the responsibility for her actions. What kind of ass do you take me for to thing that I would mock such a thing? In fact, I'm proud that someone as immature as myself can take the high road here, and I hope all of you who took the opportunity to poke fun of this tragic story fell guilty to the very bottoms of yourselves.

The very bottoms I say.

Oh, And The Memories.

Tomorrow, I will be enjoying an obscene amount of food with my family, and I think it's only fitting to take a moment here to list some of the things I am thankful for this Thanksgiving:

• Enjoying an obscene amount of food with my family


• No zombie apocalypse - yet (stay on guard, people)


• I still haven't had a disease named after me


• My entire family remains both healthy and stunningly attractive


• Three kind of pie on one table, or as I like to call it, the pie-fecta


• A promising new Star Trek franchise, which recently came out on Blu-Ray which I'm sure someone will get me for Christmas (subtle, no?)


• Facebook allowing me to keep track of old friends


• Fart jokes (and by association, Wondermark)


• I have a job and it doesn't involve wearing a tie, getting shot at, or handling anyone's bodily fluids


• The weirdness that is Halforums, and our fearless leader Dave


• I've never been the subject of a conversation that started with "Jesus, what's that smell?"


• Sweet, delicious, life-giving coffee remains the universally free beverage


• Tofurkey - no, two Tofurkeys



• Portable electronics that allow me to play video games while I'm waiting to vote


• Monkeys


• An amazing wife who is beautiful, smart, funny, and completely disinterested in the Twilight franchise (And yet can appreciate Buffy the Vampire Slayer - truly, I am blessed)

I'm sure there's lots more, but I've got food to fantasize about. Happy Thanksgiving, folks!

What's So Good About Grief Anyway?

Another holiday season is ramping up, and if the premature Christmas tunes and bell-ringing strangers requesting donations were not enough of an indicator, last night I saw that Christmas specials had started showing on television. Now I don't mind Christmas specials for the most part, but there is one that I must admit bothers me. In fact, it's not just the Christmas special - it's the entire series of holiday specials that bother me.

Honestly, I &%#$ing hate Peanuts specials.

Sure, I enjoyed them as a kid, and when I first showed the Charlie Brown Christmas special to my daughter, there was a certain nostalgia to it. Then I started really paying attention, and I realized that at the heart of each of these is the same thing: a bunch of kids being mean to Charlie Brown for no real reason. He never does anything wrong. He's nice to people. He doesn't kick Snoopy. So what the Hell? Why is everyone a dick to Charlie Brown all the time? Do they hate bald people? Is he an ex-Nazi? What is their %#$@ing problem?

As I watched more, it started eating at me. What kind of sociopath would put a rock in someone's Halloween bag? Why would Chuck be excluded from parties and such? The only one with any real motivation for their behavior is Lucy, who is at least making money from his suffering with her psychiatrist racket. As for the rest though, what lesson is it that my kids are supposed to be picking up from this?



You know what kids, some people are just losers, and no matter how hard they try, no one will ever like them or be nice to them. Ever. Merry %$#@ing Christmas.

Actually, That Is The Droid I'm Looking For

Someone has stolen a droid.



We don't know when it happened, but the R4-E1 droid we discussed earlier has suddenly turned up missing from our cube farm, and I for one am aghast. It wasn't even mine, but being a less than mature decorator, I'm forced to address the fact that I am surrounded by toys, all of which are now targets for hoodlums to pilfer when I least expect it. What's next? My Dexter that demands that Didi get out of his laboratory? My Opus plushes? My Mario mushroom tin?

My God, what if they come for Hermie?



Anyone with information on the wherabouts of the droid are encouraged to contact us here at Dangerously Low On Grog. We will pass on all information to the proper authorities, unless my lovely wife picked up my winged vigilante outfit from the cleaners, in which case I'll hunt them down myself. Information leading to a successful rescue will be rewarded, but only with whatever we have laying around. Probably old Halloween candy. In the meantime, I'll be contacting building security and began reviewing security tapes for suspicious individuals.

Call it racial profiling if you want, I'm keeping my eye out for Jawas.

Of Course At Times It Leads To Pants That Reek Of "Juicy Melon"

I'm a technologically advanced individual. I have a degree in computer science and make my living programming computers. The times displayed on my oven, microwave, television, phone and wrist watch are all relatively similar. I guess what I'm saying is that I have sufficiently evolved to make myself useful in this modern age of ours. It is for this reason that I cannot understand my inability to interact successfully with those stupid automatic paper towel dispensers now so popular in public restrooms.



It's a matter of some embarrassment that every time I find myself facing one of these machines, I utter a series of curses that would make Al Pacino blush. See, I never successfully wave my hand under it and retrieve a section of paper towel in exchange. Instead I wave my hand under it, wait, wave my hand the other way, wait and...nothing. Then I wave my hand in front of it. Then I try the sides. Then I try the bottom again. Perhaps I'll throw in a swooping motion that goes from the side to the front and then underneath. Either way, after about two minutes of looking like I'm involved in a kung fu battle with the region surrounding the damned thing, I shake my hands off, wipe them on my pants and walk away, defeated.

Fortunately for me, I continue to be a strong proponent of wearing extra absorbent pants.

I Can Ignore That Raspberries Are Not Blue, But This...This Is Too Much

Dear Candy Industry,

When we go to eat colored candy, we have certain expectations - things that we, as a society, have come to an agreement on so that we can all have a safe, enjoyable experience. Principal among these expectations with regards to your particular craft is that, given a color, I will know what flavor I am about to encounter. It is this foundation, this trust, that our relationship is built upon.

Unfortunately, something went awry at some point. Someone decided that the colored candy experience was overwrought with citrus flavors. Thus began the gradual shifting of the color green - previously a pleasant, enjoyable lime - to the less favorable green apple.

This will not do.

Please, take a note from the frozen treats industry, or even your own Mike and Ike: green is lime. Always. Anything else is...well, it's just uncivilized is what it is.



Sincerely,
Your Friends At Dangerously Low On Grog

What's Really Sad? She Never Said Anything Like That.

Despite what you all may think, I am actually a bastion of self-control when it comes to deciding what I do or no not say in public spaces. A bastion I tell you. I'm extremely adept at determining what is or is not appropriate in social situations, and make decisions based on that knowledge. Sure, I'm willing to push a few boundaries, but I usually know right when to reel it in.

That said, I do face temptations - things I think about saying, but resist due to societal pressures. For example, when asked how things are going by a coworker, I have thus far resisted telling them that my workload is backed up like the inventor of the all-cheese diet. Also, I don't ever say "that's what she said", even if it's completely fitting. You don't know how hard it gets sometimes.

You just said it to yourself, didn't you? See. It's harder than most people realize.

Okay, now stop it.



It's not just work either. When I'm using a public urinal next to another guy, and a bit of gas escapes me in a boisterous manner, despite my usual misgivings I have this nigh-irresistible urge to turn to the guy and declare, "That's right. I said it.". I have no idea where this comes from, or what the consequences might be of such a thing, but I'd hate to have to explain to my lovely wife that I got my ass kicked because I was backing up the statements of last night's nachos.

Ah, self-preservation, you ruin so many good joke opportunities for me.

I Should Be Grateful They Work At Softsoap and Not Massengill

Today I read to my daughter's elementary school at lunchtime, and while there I had cause to use the restroom, where I made the following observation: the hand soap they put in elementary school bathrooms is the same pink liquid that they used when I went to elementary school, a long, long time ago. This is both amazing and somewhat comforting. More importantly, it had the two qualities I look for in a liquid soap: it was liquid, and it smelled like soap is supposed to smell like.

Now some might scoff at the preceding statement, but think about what you have at home right now on the bathroom counter. It seems like over the last few years, someone went nuts in the creative department of Softsoap, and now we have liquid soap in at least 99 flavors. My lovely wife protests my use of the word "flavors" when describing such things, but really, once you have "black raspberry & vanilla", "pomegranate & mango" and "juicy melon" varieties, we're talking about flavors. These are deserts, not sanitary products.

More egregious, however, is what has evolved from the liquid soap industry. Now we have advanced liquid soaps, which include random stuff floating around in it. "But it's just beads of shea butter to soften your hands". Bah. They look like spider eggs, and their in my damned soap. Besides, I don't want to put stuff on my hands. I want to wash stuff off of my hands. Isn't that what we were shooting for in the first place?

Don't even get me started on the self foaming stuff. How lazy are we as a species that we have found a way to get around the ever-tiring process of lathering? Sheesh.

So huzzah to the producers of pink liquid soap for staying the course. As soon as I find out where I can get a case, I'm on it. I may even install the little hand pumps at home, so I can have the full experience.

Now the little milk cartons - the ones that only open correctly like two-thirds of the time - those could still use some work.

Hey Baby, Wanna Split a Jalapeno?

Today, I have learned yet another bizarre bit of history: graham crackers were originally developed as a bland food made to discourage "carnal urges". Yes in 1829, one Reverend Sylvester Graham decided that spicy, flavorful foods were a bit too exciting for the average, easily-tempted yahoo, and that he needed to come up with a more innocuous comestible to curb our more animal desires. This is the same view held by our own semi-local famous health nut, one John Harvey Kellogg. I wonder how the good reverend would feel knowing that his attempt at blandness was perverted by the sultry marshmallow and seductive chocolate bar. Aghast, I imagine.

More importantly, what if the dude was right, and we just never caught on? I mean, it's common knowledge that spicy food release endorphins, which arouses feelings of pleasure. What if instead of the sexual revolution being driven by the throwing off antiquated inhibitions and flowering personal freedoms, it was really just that Mexican food was getting more popular? What if the increased population growth rates in Asia have less to do with changes in economic and medical improvements, and more to do with increased access to chana pindi and szechuan chicken?

One thing is for certain: this would explain a whole lot about my unnatural attraction to the international foods aisle at Meijer and why I blush when I get caught manhandling the big bottles of Pace Medium Salsa.

The Power Of The Net, Corrupted Absolutely

While discussing the fact that my previous list of interview questions to avoid would not apply when interviewing interns, the topic of Natural Light came up. For those not in the know, Natural Light is to beer what Paris Hilton is to actress: it's a loose affiliation at best. It is, however, a favorite of college kids, as it is dirt cheap and contains alcohol (something else it has in common with Ms. Hilton). This put a quandary in my head, though: what precisely is Natural Light a light version of? Why is there no Natural?

Fortunately, in this age of instant information, we are able to resolve even the most mundane of inquiries immediately, and thus I promptly emailed the good people of Anheuser-Busch to inquire about the full-calorie version of Natural Light. Less than 24 hours later, I have my response: Natural Pilsner was introduced in 1991, but lasted a mere six years before being removed from the market. How is this information useful? It isn't - not even a little bit. It does, however, bring me a certain amount of glee that I can not only posit what is an inherently silly question, but actually get that question answered promptly thanks to the power of the Internet.

Next week: why are there no nuts named after alcoholic beverages other than beer? Is there no marked for Whiskey Nuts, Vodka Nuts, or Bartles & Jaymes Tropical Fruit Wine Cooler Nuts?

The Happy Dance Was Legendary

I just won a writing contest, and I could not be more full of myself (okay, I could, but my lovely wife would stop talking to me, and that's no good). The contest was to write a creepy story in 140 characters or less - essentially, a Twitter story. I will now reproduce all of my entries, including the winning entry, for your enjoyment. (Warning: My entries do not have my usual language filter, so the eight-year-olds reading this will find it extra juicy.)

First, the winner:

She giggled. No one would look in the dark closet. Through his noose-bent neck, the hanging man shared the laugh and reached towards her.

And then the rest:

He's eccentric, this one, his wall covered in faces, all photos or sketches. "They're all dead," he sighed. Seems an odd place for a mirror.

Why yes, it was a shock finding so many spider eggs. Pretty though, and matched the color of the cookies I was making so well. Have another?

It had been hard, caring for so many cats. Now, as she fed them one last time, she wondered what they would do once her bones were clean.

The mirror on my desk at the morgue lets me know when someone is behind me. Just once I wish they would still be there when I turned around.

I hate distrusting her. She's my own little girl. But ever since her mom died, I swear when she laughs, it's with someone else's voice.

Arms pinned now, the cold water reached her chin. She looked to the distant light trying to remember when the sound of rain calmed her.

He stood, naked and sweating, over bodies lain on years of old comics pages. The knife raised again as he screamed, "Fuck you, it's funny!".

I know you said to stop or you'd call the police, but my iPhone is so quiet I just had to share. I mean, you didn't even hear me click send.

I looked into the mirror, and said to my reflection, "I don't know if I can do this." As I turned away, I heard it whisper back, "I know."

She could have said "I love you" at the funeral, but that's okay. She say it soon enough, once she realizes I'm still here.


A big shout out to Halforums for a particularly interesting challenge, especially for one as garrulous as myself, and a special thanks to our fearless leader Dave, who not only funds this foolishness but tries his hardest to keep our weird little band together despite all the adversity the internet can offer.

It Felt Like Success, But It's Snot

This morning, I had agreed to go into the Princess's school to discuss her weekly work sheet with her teacher, as not all items had been marked as completed and she had insisted they were done. I went in and discussed it with her teacher, who responded as I had expected - she had been out sick for four days, returning just in time for the Halloween festivities. As such, she was a little discombobulated, and some things had slipped through the cracks. (Side note: I've never considered that, for teachers, being sick means you have some other person working in your space, moving your things about and manhandling your personal effects. I would not abide by this. One more reason the programming gig is a good one.)

Anyway, I played the role of the good parent as best I can. I was charming and attentive, showing support for my daughter and understanding for the teacher's situation. When I walked back to my car, I was all puffed up, as I often am when I successfully interact with one of my daughter's teachers or friends (or anyone else in real life, for that matter). I got into my car all happy with myself, kicked on the radio, and looked into the rear-view mirror to check for cars and/or short people behind me, which is when I noticed it.

You know, there's nothing that sucks the confidence out of a person like that moment when you have to ask yourself just how long you've had that big, honking booger hanging out of your nose.

DLOG Presents: Halloween Safety Tips

Once again, we come upon the time of year where we all encourage our kids to take candy from strangers, which would be viewed as hypocritical if there weren't potential Reese's peanut butter cups at stake. As the ever dutiful watcher over the denizens of the internet who wander through here, I offer the following helpful hints for keeping your kids safe this Halloween:

• Make sure your kids know that they need to let you inspect their candy before they eat any of it. Follow through on this. Personally, I go so far as to take a small bite of each piece of candy, just to make sure it is safe, but not all parents are as dedicated to safety as I am.


• If you see a zombie, and there isn't a discreet way to check it's pulse, take it out. Better safe than eaten.


• Kids walking streets in the dark make for unsafe conditions. Some suggest having costumes include neon colors or reflective strips. Of course, this will ruin their costumes, and possibly their social lives as well once the other kids see how their costume now sucks. Is one night of safety really worth that risk?


• Some people give out healthy treats on Halloween, like pennies or toothbrushes. Remind your kids to change into darker clothing and avoid roads when they go back to throw eggs and toilet paper at those houses.


• If you see a pet dressed up on Halloween, remind your kids to stay far away. Most pets are just waiting for an excuse to kill you. Putting a Yoda costume on one is like handing Jeffrey Dahmer a blunt object and a bottle of steak sauce.


• Your kids may become frightened by the scary costumes they see, making them prone to running away unsafely. To help alleviate this, find a couple of kids in really scary costumes, and show your children how easy it is to knock them down and take their candy.


• Some people will encourage you to feed your kids a big meal before trick or treating so the kids won't fill up on candy afterward. These people hate children. Besides, what's so healthy about eating a five-month-old Snickers bar that you've been saving since Halloween?


• Remember that kids are impressionable, and some may get into their costume a little too much. Remind them that just because they are dressed as a monster or a superhero, it doesn't mean they have those powers. Use a painful personal memory if possible to bring the story home, like my ill-fated invisible man costume. (In my defense, and this came up at the trial for indecent exposure, a lot of the people in that mall were acting like they couldn't see me at all.)

Have a safe and happy Halloween, Internet!

Trust Me On This One

In addition to making me a better person environmentally, my lovely wife also plays an important role in making me a better person in my household - defending our cat. For those that don't know, about eight years ago we picked up a Siamese cat. Given that all of my previous cats were of the "come to the barn and take a kitten" variety, I was not aware of the specific temperament of the Siamese cats. Mainly, they have two talents: yowling, and getting in your face and yowling. Neither is particularly endearing to me.

Don't get me wrong - when she was a wee, white kitten it was cute. We'd come home from work, and she would make the arduous journey climbing pants and shirt to get all up in our Kool-Aid and subject us to a tiny feline version of "Just where the Hell have you been all day?". Now that she's all grown up, however, I find myself looking back at my past cats, who were far less vocal, with a certain longing.



My lovely wife thus defends her. "Look how pretty our kitty is," she'll say, and I have to acknowledge that she is the prettiest cat I've owned. "Look how much kitty loves you," she'll say, and I grudgingly acknowledge that, yes, she is very affectionate (especially with me, who is not nearly as friendly with her - I'm thinking daddy issues, but whatever). She also tells me to stop it when I point out that for a cost equivalent to that of her adoption, I could have gotten a hamster, cage and all, who would have made far less noise. So she has thus protected the cat from my ire, which is probably a good thing.

Now she just has to protect her from the Princess, who once again brought up the idea of a kitty Halloween costume, an idea that rates with visiting an amateur proctologist both in awfulness and potential physical harm.

You'd Think Someone Named "Iron Eyes" Wouldn't Be So Weepy

One of the many things my lovely wife does for me is act as my social conscience. This means that when the grocery stores we frequent began selling reusable bags, she was the one that suggested we pick some of them up. Myself, I was contented collecting plastic bags, although in my defense I had intended to reuse them eventually. Having not yet found the time to put together a hang glider composed entirely of old Meijer bags however, I relented and now own enough of the reusable bags for most of my shopping needs.

There is, however, a cost to being responsible in this manner. See, when the cashier is bagging my groceries now, he or she seems to be incredibly self-conscious about how much they can fit in one of the reusable bags. This means that I stand there a lot longer while they call upon all their hours of Tetris playing to arrange and re-arrange the items in the bag. Yesterday, my cashier was actually taking things out of the bag, slowly looking over what she hadn't rung up yet, and then selecting items based on what would fit best. When she finally ran out of room in the bags, she actually looked ashamed when she asked if I wanted paper or plastic for the four items she couldn't fit.

Of course it probably exacerbated the situation when the question prompted me to sadly look across the store at the crying Native American.

Although That Venomous Duck Thing Is Tempting

So, a guy was mauled to death by a bear in Russia, which in and of itself would not be newsworthy, what with the fact that Russia is lousy with bears. What makes it newsworthy is that the guy was mauled to death by a bear wearing figure skates. No, not the guy - the bear. While this is a tragedy to be sure, it didn't happen to me or anyone I know, so it has now inspired a new feature:

Horrible ways to die that would look awesome in an obituary

• Mauled to death by a figure skating bear (duh)


• Dismembered by rabid fans


• Spontaneously combusted during a tour of a popcorn factory (a firework factory would work too)


• Poisoned by a venomous duck


• Sexed to death


• Devoured by an escalator


• Eaten by a grue


• Trampled during the Macy's Thanksgiving day parade during a particularly spirited edition of Dancing Queen played by the Kennesaw Mountain High School marching band



• Beheaded by group of misguided teens and their dog when mistaken for for Old Man Jenkins wearing a mask


• Zombie Apocalypse: Patient Zero


• Killed during a high speed buggy chase across Amish country

Me, I'm sticking with "died peacefully in bed surrounded by loved ones at the age of 127 years old", but hey, you guys are welcome to any of these.

Not A Word Until Thanksgiving. Got That?

Dear World,

I haven't had Halloween yet. As Halloween does not occur until October 31st, and today is October 21st, I'm guessing you haven't had Halloween yet either. As such, I would appreciate it if you might accommodate the following request: stop talking about Christmas. Don't tell me how many shopping days I have left. Don't put away the skeletons and ghouls on display to sell Snoopy in a Santa suit. Don't start discussing trips to Bronners with the kids. Just %#$&ing stop it. I'm not ready yet.

Sincerely,
Roger

P.S. I will make an exception for The Nightmare Before Christmas. That is all.

The Shopping List As Performance Art

A conversation on Facebook has awakened a new creative outlet in me. I have decided that my new favorite activity is coming up with shopping lists for our local superstore (Meijer, in my case) that are designed to invoke a narrative for the poor cashier who would otherwise have nothing notable to talk about his or her day besides screaming toddlers and furious debates over the price of Spam. The key here is that I know for certain I can get each of these items in the same store. As such, I present to you the first of these lists:

• 1.75 Liter Cheap Whiskey


• Machete


• Party hats


• Tampons


• Duct tape


• The Best of Tiny Tim CD (If they don't have that, anything by Abba will do.)


• Rubber hose (Good catch, Adam. I would have forgotten this one.)


• You-Mix Concrete

I like this list especially because in my case I follow up by asking the cashier if the industrial building up the road was still abandoned. Nice.

Your Home, Now Heated Through Sweet, Sweet Bunny Lovin'

As Fall slides through Michigan, bringing with it colder days and spectacular displays of colored leaves, some of us are forced to consider the impending Winter, and the heating bills that it will bring. Of course, in addition to the cost comes the consideration of the environmental impact of whatever method of heating that we each choose. My household uses natural gas, the cleanest of all fossil fuels (which is like saying that Jack the Ripper was the most charming of mass murderers, but I digress), so I don't feel too guilty. Still, there are those out there that are truly thinking beyond the rest of us.

For example, there's a town in Sweden burning bunnies.



Apparently, in response to the mass of rabbits eating up their public park foliage, Stockholm acted with extreme prejudice, resulting in a sizable pile of ex-rabbits. Instead of simply burying the bunnies (or having the biggest hossenfeffer cook off ever), someone had the bright idea of using their furry little carcasses as fuel to heat homes. Apparently, the body fat of a bunny has similar properties to heating oil. While I find the idea slightly repugnant (one can only imagine a town that reeks of barbecued bunny), you have to admire their inventiveness.

In fact, I'm thinking given rabbits natural habits, we're a case of Viagra and a carrot farm away from an endless supply of heat. Investors looking to get in on the ground floor of this can email me for more information.

I'm Not A Doctor, But I Advise Like One On TV

So, I'm reading one of the many blogs I follow, and this one on vaccinations and the people who protest them got me thinking about something important I've been meaning to mention to you guys. I understand that we here in America have an odd celebrity culture, and that we tend to idolize people for...bizarre reasons. It is because of this that I must pass along the following knowledge:

Celebrities are just people, and therefore are just as likely to be ignorant morons as anyone else.



Seriously you guys, I don't trust celebrity endorsements of snack foods and cooking machines (see above), much less medical advice. They are entertainers, not unlike clowns or that guy at the bus stop who will dance for a buck and a quarter (best money you'll ever spend). This is not to say they're all ignorant, but if you want to know if you, or your children, should be getting vaccinated or taking vitamins or seeing a psychiatrist or whatever, ask a %#$&ing medical professional. Do not trust Bill Mahar, Amanda Peet, or even Bill Frist. As much as I would love to leave those who need this advice to your own devices, and thus let natural selection work its magic, I feel that your kids should get a fighting chance.

On the bright side, we can look forward to a future full of interesting reality television like "I'm a Celebrity With Polio, Get Me Out Of Here. And By 'Here', I Mean This Bed.".

It Was a Three-Year-Old's "Barbaric Yawp"

Yesterday, the Moose was acting up at the dinner table. As a result, I put him in time out. As he was already in a dinner chair, all I did was pulled the chair away from the table where he couldn't reach anything, so he ended up sitting behind me. As he railed against his being in time out, he showed his dissatisfaction by taking off one of his socks and throwing it at the back of my head.

For me, the hardest part of being a parent is being an authority figure, which means when things like this happen, I have to hide the fact that I'm giggling like an idiot.

But Hey, Find Something That Works For You

I've been thinking a lot about workplace diversity lately. This is, in part, due to an email that went around my company suggesting that managers look around at their group and see how many of them share ethnicity, background, etc. with them. I reassured my manager that despite my appearance, I was actually a great employee to have around for diversity's sake as not only am I part Mexican, but I also grew up as a poor, black woman. (I saw The Color Purple at a very young age. It's...complicated). This did get me thinking about the companies I've worked at.

When you get right down to it, most of the places I've worked in the past have been populated with a lot of white people. I personally don't think of this as an issue of discrimination, as it pretty well reflected the population of the area where the business was located. Still, my teams have traditionally had all the diversity of, say, the Kidd Video crew.

Still, part of me wonders if by continuing to draw attention to our differences, we're just prolonging the awkwardness. I find that given a little consideration, you will find that you have more in common with the people around you then you think. Even furries. We're all just trying to get along, and focusing on what makes us different seems to be a backward approach to addressing the real issue, which is equality.

For example, I personally take great comfort in the fact that no matter who I meet, regardless of race, background, or religious convictions, is probably at least a little overwhelmed by my charm and good looks.

I Hope They Were Recording It - They Can Use It For Samuel L. Jackson's Next Screenplay

You know what I love? I love the fact that many companies have replaced the old standard automated answering systems where you press numbers to navigate menus to the new ones where you talk to them. This combines many of my favorite things like listening to crappy, ambient music no one would intentionally listen to, being misunderstood by a machine after I say exactly what it told me to, and cursing out machines, which in my defense is actually part of my job (a lot of people who drop out early in the Computer Science program miss out on the advanced machine cursing classes, which is why we professionals seem so good at it). These systems are far more efficient than the old ones. It used to take me like five, maybe six menus before I was ready to kill someone before.

Now, I'm pretty much ready to lay waste to humanity the first time I hear "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that".

One Even Had The Nerve To Mention My Unshaved Legs. Brute.

At some point in the last century, it was decided that in order for a man to be sexy, he has to completely lack body hair. I don't who the originator of this concept was, although one is forced to suspiciously eye the major razor manufacturers. Either way, it has become the norm that magazine ads, romance novel covers, and the walls of mall stores I refuse to enter on principal are adorned with sullen, half-naked men who seem to have skipped the part of puberty that gave the rest of us body hair.



This is bothersome to me, as I actually went all the way through puberty, and thus come equipped with said body hair. While I have no issues with shaving my face, the idea of taking a razor to the rest of my person just seems wrong, not to mention time consuming. I'm sure right now there are hypocrite alarms going off for some of my female readers (assuming I have female readers that is), but it's true. I can't imagine adding forty minutes to my morning routine to de-wookie myself, not to mention the investment in razors and shaving cream that would entail.

The thing is, because this is all I see, I become self-conscious about it at times. I mean, I'm not Robin Williams furry. If I take off my shirt, you can tell I'm not wearing a sweater or anything. Still, it makes me wonder if my good lady wife would, despite her protests, actually prefer the more aerodynamic look I see all around me. This is especially true in the most complained of area, the back hair, where I don't actually have full coverage, but rather one decent row of hair right across the top of my back.

Yeah, nothing says sexy like a unibrow across the back.

Still, I hold fast for the most part, taking comfort in the odd exceptions. Hugh Jackman seems to have retained sex symbol status, so there's hope for us manly men yet. In the meantime, I'll maintain my longstanding policy of simply remaining clothed pretty much all the time I'm within public view. Well, I don't know about longstanding, but at least since the neighborhood association got that complaint about me taking the garbage out half-dressed because I was running late.

If any of them knew how long it took to get those garters on in the first place, I'm sure they would have been a little more understanding.

DLOG Presents: Public Speaking Tips

In my never ending efforts to bring my extensive experience and knowledge to you, good readers, today I continue my series of educational posts. Among my many talents, I happen to be an expert public speaker. Calling on that talent, today we provide:

DLOG Presents: Public Speaking Tips

• Familiarize yourself with the space you will be speaking in. This will help you become more at ease. It will also make you familiar with the exits in case the audience turns against you and becomes violent, which could happen if you suck.


• Try not to suck.


• Visualize yourself giving the speech ahead of time. Picture yourself expressing your ideas, your voice loud and confident, the audience being impressed with your knowledge, the thunderous applause after your finished, clothing being thrown onto the stage as they rush to you, your own outfit being ripped asunder as each tries to physically express how moved they were through deviant acts of...wait, what was I talking about again?


• It's important to remain relaxed as possible during a long speech. Sometimes it helps to have something to drink nearby so when your nerves are getting the best of you, you can pause and take a sip while reminding yourself to relax. I find either either gin or vodka look enough like water to avoid arousing suspicion.


• It never hurts to prepare notes to refer to at various points in your speech. Try to make them specific enough to be helpful though. "Tell them about that thing with the clams." is probably not going to help you in your time of need.
  


• Make sure you know the audience you'll be speaking to. This helps tailor your speech to those who will be receiving it, making it more effective, as well as allowing you to choose appropriate minorities or fringe groups to mock without offending the crowd. One should not go into a furry convention expecting their best Chip and Dale material to kill. In fact, one should not to to a furry convention at all. %#$@ing freaks.


• Sometimes when you're nervous, you can try to imagine the audience in their underwear. If that doesn't work, try to imagine them naked. If that still doesn't work, try to imagine them picturing you naked. If you're still having trouble at that point, you're probably visibly aroused and should just get off the stage before someone calls the police.

Now get out there and do some public speaking - remember, no one has ever started a war giving a speech. Well, almost no one. I'm sure you'll be fine.

This Now Surpasses "Zombie Defense" In My Landscaping Priorities

I am not what you would call someone with a green thumb. This does not bother me, first because I prefer all my digits remain their standard color if at all possible, but also because I am admittedly not real outdoorsy. Oh I mow the lawn when it's requested and all that, but beyond that and occasionally spraying bug killer on trees, I'm pretty well out of my element when it comes to plant maintenance.

I had always believed this to be a choice. Should I want to, I was convinced that I could to the necessary research and become the kind of person that could, say, grow his own pumpkins. I'm not sure how the homeowner's association would feel about me running a pumpkin patch, but that's hardly the point, since I now have concrete evidence that I am not that person.

For I have killed a cactus.

Yes a cactus, which I believed to be a plant tough enough to endure my general apathy towards caring for something that has all the personality of, well, a plant. Do not ask how I came to own a cactus in the first place, for that is not the issue. The issue is that I was the caretaker for one, and it died. Badly. I didn't even realize it had passed until I went to move it one day and realized that part of it had taken on the consistency of old fruit.

I would simply write this off as the loss of one cactus and move on, assured in my knowledge that cactus rearing is now off the list of potential career choices in my future, but there is a problem. See, my wife charged me with the disposal of a small houseplant, and I chose instead to bring it into my office, in part because the plant was a Mother's Day gift that I was already covetous of, what with Father's Day falling consistently outside of the school year, leaving us dads out of the whole school-supported gift giving scene. Anyway, now I have this little plant sitting here, and I feel that by preventing its swift disposal, I may here condemned it to a slow and painful demise by my own hand. I don't even know what this thing is, my plant knowledge being limited to color (green) and degree of deliciousness (haven't forgotten my lunch yet, so I don't know).

Either way, one thing is certain - it is now an imperative that I call upon my lovely wife's plant skills to get this pumpkin patch plan into action, for not I'm stuck on the idea that having my own pumpkin patch would be nothing short of awesome.

Oh It Starts With Fart Jokes, But Before Long You Have Men Walking Into Bars

So, Tuesday the FDA ban of "flavored" cigarrettes took effect. Apparently, the thinking is that the mint, fruit and candy flavored cigarettes appeal to a younger crowd, and by removing them from the market, they can help keep these young'ins from getting addicted. It's...interesting.

I find this move confusing for a couple of reasons. First, they seem to be suggesting that the flavored cigarettes are marketed to kids and young teens. Personally, I would have guessed the target crowd to be college girls who want a smoke that matches the flavor of whatever sickeningly sweet schnapps she's using to find her inner girl-gone-wild that evening, but I'm not big on marketing so what do I know? So the theory is that if you get rid of tasty cigarettes, the kids will no longer be interested.

Huh.

Two things. First, I have no problem with anyone who wants to ban clove cigarettes, not because they are a "gateway" cigarette to the real things, but rather because their smell is reminiscent of, say, a hippy pyre. It's like someone ran out of pot at a Phish concert, and they decided to try smoking eachother's hair. It's...unpleasant.

Second, and more to the point, this is so ridiculously transparent a political maneuver that any meaning behind it is lost. Look, if you really think cigarettes are bad for people, then ban all of them. If, on the other hand, smoking is a personal choice, then leave it the Hell alone and stop with the constant "it's for the kids" posturing. If people want to do something bad for themselves, let them. If we don't want kids picking up stupid habits, educate them and hope they make good choices. I don't think regulation is the answer to people's health problems.

Seriously, what's next, banning the sodas that kids drink most because they're a gateway to the Mountain Dew? Force Doritos to only offer flavors that appeal to grown up tastes? (I'm still wanting to try Bourbon and Disappointment flavored Doritos myself, but then I have grown up tastes.) Ooh, I know, take all children's programming off the television. Sure, some of it is educational, but it's a gateway to sedentary lifestyle, and we can't have that now can we?

I'd say more, but DLOG is proudly notorious for immature bathroom humor, and I don't want to attract the Government's attention and get banned as a gateway to full-blown dirty jokes.

Why Do You Blush Whenever I'm Carrying Chapstick?

One of the best things about my place of employment is the on-site workout facilities. This means that I can exercise over lunch without having to shell out for a gym membership, which is awesome. The only catch is that it means that I am sharing locker facilities with coworkers, something I'm not entirely comfortable with.

I've never been a big fan of the locker room in the first place. I'm not weird about it or anything. I just always feel like there's a set of guys who are a little too comfortable just kind of hanging out in there. Chatting. While they're hanging out in there. While I'm not the most prudish of individuals, this falls into a similar category as talking to me while you're in a bathroom stall - I'd love to talk, but why don't we wait until you've, you know, put your %#$@ing pants back on. I don't see where your co-anchor needs to be part of this interview.

This is amplified at the work place, where there is already a certain competition between cohorts. I am personally of the opinion that the less my coworkers know about me, the better. As such, I don't see where they need to know about my scars or tattoos or whether or not I wear underwear with cartoon animals on them...you know, personal information. And I feel no need to know about theirs, either.

Of course I might just be paranoid. Most likely we're all just trying to take care of ourselves, and my concerns are unfounded. Still, there are times where I feel like someone may have disseminated information that I would rather stay private. Again, it's probably just paranoia, but still it bothers me.

Especially that one day where no one reacted at all to my walking around with a banana in my pocket all morning, but as soon as I bought a roll of Certs...nah, I'm sure it was nothing.

In My Mind, Jeff Corwin Was Narrating It. It Was Awesome.

Saturday, I found myself running to my local grocery store. This is not unusual for me, however this particular trip was marked with an unfortunate occurrence. You see, once again a troop of Boy Scouts had set up shop outside of the exit, attempting to accost passer-bys and force unto them overpriced tins of popcorn.

I do not abide by this.

It's not that I begrudge the scouts their mission, whatever that may be. I was a boy scout myself for all of three or four weeks. As I recall, we were given a bag of loose art supplies (an egg carton, pipe cleaners, that sort of thing) and told that we would be competing for best creation. I turned up later with a little puppet guy, not exactly competition for the scale model race car, complete with tailpipes and headlights, that won. I recall how proudly the father looked upon his son's prize, a moment that made a lot more sense when my own father explained that they guy had made the thing himself. As I didn't feel like competing with adults, and my own father lacked the artistic talents to assist me, I called that off toot sweet.

Still, good for the ones that carry on, but they have fallen under the umbrella of fund raisers that, frankly, suck. I'm sure it eats away at them, the way their female counterparts have built a global empire on mediocre cookies that get treated like manna from Heaven because they keep them from us for the better part of a year. (Of course, I make an exception for Carmel Delites, which I'm pretty sure are, if not actually from Heaven, at least from a dimension of delicious, fattening goodness that our puny minds cannot fully comprehend.) While the Girl Scouts are buying private islands and building vast, pony-filled fortresses on their cookie money, these shmoes are trying to convince me that if it's for a good cause, I should be happy to pay $22 for a tin of cheesy popcorn that is undoubtedly no better than the 99 cent bag of the same product I just walked by in the store. Not happenin', junior.

Still, at least these kids have a physical product. The ones that really slay me are the kids who show up at my doorstep with a %#$@ing catalog, hoping that I will leaf through it and place an order. I remember when these things were done right. I was handed a box of chocolates. Given that my parents were not the type to sell them to their office mates, I would sell three or four of them to my neighbors, eat about fifteen of them, and return the rest. Easy peasy. I don't mind picking up a bag of M&Ms for a good cause. I am not, however, going to commit to a set of overpriced cookie cutters, pizza pans, or oven mitts. If I need any of that, I hit up Bed, Bath, and Beyond, as opposed to waiting around for the rocket football fund raiser.

Anyway, I played my exit perfectly, having had much practice at dodging the young salesmen. As I was leaving, I took my place behind an older woman, putting her between me and eager scout that awaited us. As she fell to him, I moved past swiftly, not unlike the antelope leaving the weak and the old behind to be preyed upon.

I feel it was a righteous maneuver.

I Bet There's Not One Drawer Here With a Human Head In It. I Hope.

If you're at work right now, look around you. Each day you come in and hang out with this group of people, but what do you really know about them? I mean sure, they look normal and all, but then so do you, and you know what a freak you are.

Each of us takes the time to identify certain classes of coworkers for career reasons. Who is helpful to newcomers? Who is only out for themselves? Who is most likely to snap and come in one day with loaded weapons and start shooting up the place? (Hint: it's always the quiet ones who talk to their shoes.)

What about deeper questions, though? Who among you right this minute is most likely to be wearing underwear meant for the opposite gender? Which of them opens the office fridge when no one is looking and licks the first piece of cheese they find, putting it back so as to not arouse suspicion? Who has the worst smelling bellybutton? You spend most of your waking time with these people. Shouldn't you know this stuff?

Right this minute I'm looking around the room, and frankly, I'm terrified. Outward appearances say it's just a bunch of programmers, but I've seen enough TV to know better than to trust that. How do know that the guy sitting behind me is actually going to go eat and lunch at noon and not rush home to make sure the shackles on the goat he keeps in the bedroom aren't rubbing against its lace teddy, causing it discomfort while he's away working? What about that one over there? He seems okay, but for all I know he spends his free time making sure his Star Trek action figures are arranged in just the way they like to be, and if they're not then they will complain loudly to him. I don't really know anything about these people. Who knows what kind of freaky things their into when they go home at night.

My God, some of them might even watch Fox News.

Of course, all of this is unlikely. They are most likely just as well adjusted as I am, simply marking off eight hours of diligent work, and then going home to take care of their loving families. It seems improbable that, especially within a group as small as mine, I happen to have the coworker who fantasizes about the day when the otters overthrow us all, taking all of our French toast and locking it in giant vaults, to be distributed only to the most deserving of their human servants.

I mean, what are the odds there are two of us?

Finally, You Can Get Part Of Me Inside A Baked Good

In my never ending quest to figure out just what it is I am here on this planet to do(assuming that just being here so people can admire my stunning good looks isn't enough), I have had a minor epiphany. I will combine my love of writing, endless wisdom, and hamster-like short attention span and begin producing fortune cookie inserts. I'm putting together a sampling here. Now I just need to know where to send this stuff.

• Woman who orders spicy garlic shrimp on first date probably didn't shave legs.


• Man who drives sports car may be compensating for something, but he still has a better car than you.


• You are likely to be eaten by a grue.


• Do not mock the emo kid, for he is a cut above you.


• Chinese calendar says you are a snake. US President says you are a jackass. (This one might not apply to everyone.)


• You are a constant source of joy for those around you. Wait...I think this was supposed to go to someone else. You're okay too though. Probably.


• I was going to say something about not trusting astrology, but what's the point? You're taking advice from a cookie.


• Lover who claims to admire you just for your mind should have pulse checked - zombies make strange bedfellows.


• You will make a questionable decision involving someone taking your picture in a compromising position. Keep the picture safe by sending it to your good friends at dangerouslylowongrog@gmail.com.


• Some say you can tell a politician is lying because his lips or moving. This is not always true. Now they have Twitter.


• Violence is the choice of a weak mind. Which is irrelevant, really, because who hits with their mind?


• Person who still thinks Chinese talk like this is bigoted plick.

Dude, I'm like Confucius with pants and a better haircut.

Does It Make You Mad When I Say You're a Douche?

This morning I received the email saying it was time for another annual employee poll. I will of course dutifully fill this one out like I always do, being honest and as serious as I can be (unlike email polls, which I treat quite differently). One of my cohorts suggested that the poll is, in part, self-fulfilling, by asking questions that alter the answer just my asking, such as whether or not you're engaged as an employee.

This is now my new favorite idea. I'm obsessed with coming up with questions where the answer is altered by my asking the question in the first place. Here are the examples I've come up with so far:

• Are you uncomfortable with how much I know about your underwear?


• When was the last time you thought about your shins?


• Have you ever gotten the theme to Star Wars stuck in your head?


• Are you afraid of those big, hairy spiders that bite hard and run like the wind itself? (This one is most effective if, while you ask the question, you're staring at their left shoulder the whole time.)


• Do you smell something?


• Have you ever wondered what asphalt tastes like?


• Does it ever make you a little uncomfortable when you think about the millins of bacteria squirming around in your colon right now?


• Have you ever pictured your mother wearing a g-string?

I have to admit, sometimes it's frightening when I consider what might happen should I ever decide to use my genius for evil.

Hey Hey Hey, It's Diiiiiabetes!

A quick Google search shows that childhood obesity seems to be a pretty consistent issue with Americans right now. It's in the news all the time, with the primary focus being the cause. I see it all the time. It's too much fast food. It's sugary drinks and cereal. It's lack of exercise.

While I'm sure these all add to the problem, I think that once again people are missing the question that needs to be asked: why do parents let their children live like this instead of encouraging better habits? I think a quick look at the age group who's responsible for these children will show something that I think the news outlets are missing: we all grew up with a certain role model. This role model that not only encouraged such overeating, but really glorified it.

I speak of course, of Fat Albert.

"But Roger," you may say, "Fat Albert taught children life lessons and morality." Well, you can keep that opinion to yourself. Seriously, this is the internet - I can't hear you. All talking to your monitor like a whack job. Use the comments section, loon.

Anyway, Fat Albert taught us, above all, that to be in charge, you had to be the biggest kid in the group. Why do you think the others followed him? You think they enjoyed listening to his Darth Vadar-like wheezing, or maybe his fashion sense? (In his defense, I believe the whole group was economically challenged, what with each of them only having the one outfit to wear all time.) No, they feared his mighty girth. I don't know that he would have actually eaten one of them had they crossed him, but just the threat of getting sat upon must have been enough to keep them in line. Not even the Brown Hornet could have withstood that ponderous posterior.



So yeah, all of us who watched the show regularly took this lesson away with us. As a result, when our own, healthy children go out into the world, part of us wonders what chance they have. I know I lie in bed at night sometimes thinking on my own children, lean and strong, and fear that they'll become that kid in the big, orange hat or, God forbid, a Mushmouth. There are days when the fear that my lovely daughter might one day come saying that one of her friends is like a teacher in the summertime makes me want to force-feed her an entire box of Little Debbie snack cakes.

Bill Cosby, what have you wraught?

Parenting: A Haiku

Kids sharing bath time
When my daughter says the words,
"Hey, there's poop in here".

Wouldn't Want Him Soiling His Legend of Zelda Underwear

While purchasing groceries this weekend, I swung by the electronics department of the greatest store in the world, Meijer, in an effort to procure a screen protector for my beloved PSP (and no, they don't give me money for saying that, but I would seriously consider a sponsorship - call my people and we'll make this happen). I figured I have them for the DS and the iPhones, so I should probably do the same for my PSP, even of touching the screen is not an inherent part of the experience. Anyway, I asked this kid working there if he knew where they were, and mentioned that their PSP supplies were dwindling lately, and he made, much to my suprise, the following statement: "Well, it's not that good."

Now understand that for a moment, I seriously considered unleashing all of the pent up fury and hate that I swallow in the name of remaining somewhat civilized on this poor kid. I mean, given a moment's thought (which could be giving him too much credit), I obviously own the system that I was attempting to purchase the accessory for, so this is at best an ill-advised comment to be making to a customer. I'm not sure what the look on my face was in response, but it was sufficiently venomous to have him quickly pin on a frightened "in my opinion", which kept me from my scathing diatribe.

Still, I kind of wish I hadn't held back, as the only reason someone would make such a statement is something I loathe: fanboyism. See, his comment implied that there is a superior system to my own, the most likely the Nintendo DS (which, through my daughter, I also have access to). Now, he's free to have a preference between the available systems - it's none of my concern. This need to actively bad mouth a system, however, stems from this immature, ridiculous, almost religious devotion to the hardware you have chosen to play video games on. It's really bad with the Xbox 360 vs. PlayStation crowd, whose nerd rage never fails to litter the comments section of Kotaku with nuggets of wisdom like "well if you played it on instead of a piece of %#$@ then you'd agree". Very helpful insight, really.

So yes, part of me wished I had opened up and allowed all of the bile I have built up to spill forth onto this poor little man. I imagine it like a horror movie, where I would open my mouth and dark beasts would begin to spill out, demons and insects holding him fast while I explained that every decision he's ever made has led to this unfortunate place, where the most important thing he has to offer humanity is his meaningless opinion to someone who has no interest in it, something worth less than nothing. I wanted to lay his soul to waste, leaving him to cry himself to sleep each night, tears rolling down his Super Mario Brothers pillow case, failing to find his usual comfort by clutching his Kirby plush close, his mother knocking on the door asking if he's alright.

In the end, I just went and bought diapers, which was probably better for everyone.

Brief Lies: Ending The Argument

What they were fighting about didn't matter. Someone said or did something. Or they didn't. Either way, it had devolved into the same fight they always had. He didn't listen. She didn't value his opinions. It would eventually end with her storming out of the room, leaving him to fume until time soothed them both and they got over it.

Except this time, something changed.

They were just getting to the point of total meltdown, minutes away of the crescendo that ended in tears and frustration, when he said, "I need to step away for a minute."

Of course, this just made things worse. "Don't you dare walk away from this," she demanded.

"Look," he said, "I just need to step away for a second."

"No," she countered. "You don't get to just walk away without us resolving this. We can't keep having this same fight."

"And we won't," he said, growing more desperate. Red-faced, he continued. "I just need a second by myself."

"Well that's too bad. No one leaves this room until we work this out."

And that's the first and last time that their standard fight ended with Eric farting.

.......................................................

Don't ask me where this came from. It probably would have made a good comic, but alas, I have no skills with the art beyond coloring books. I do like the idea of a story so short you could read it during a single trip to the restroom. I'll have to work on that.

Great. Put the Jello Wrestling Next Door And Call It a Buffet.

In Lancashire, England, the Rose 'n' Bowl pub has hosted the World Gravy Wrestling Championships. 440 gallons of expired gravy was used in the competition, won by Joel Hicks. The competition was done for charity to support a local hospital, and not, as one might assume, in an effort to raise awareness of the continued travesty of English people boiling meat.

I a related story, a poll taken by the dark forces of the universe now place Lancashire as the most popular location to begin the zombie apocalypse.

It's Still Informative Though

It's cop out week here at DLOG, as I am home with my lovely children, so instead of me trying to be funny, I'll point you to other people being funny. Today, I give you Sheldon, a comic by Dave Kellett about a boy, his grandpa, and his duck. It's clean, and it's made me laugh out loud more than once.

http://www.sheldoncomics.com

The last one that made me laugh loud enough to be self conscious.

Of Course Heavy Medication Isn't Out Of The Question

I've mentioned in the past that I have what you might call an odd memory. I remember things that happened to me in my life, but I remember most of them the way other people remember something they read in a book once. I remember them factually, with no emotional connection to them. This leads to an almost total lack of nostalgia for damned near anything.

The reason I'm thinking about this now is that someone asked if I ever wished I was back in high school, and I answered honestly, "No". Well, it wasn't totally honestly, as my initial reaction was something along the lines of "Aw Hell no. I'd rather volunteer to be Rush Limbaugh's proctologist for a day that spend one minute as a teenager again". Still, when I think back to high school, it's like anything else in my life - there were a lot of things I liked about it and a lot of things that sucked about it. There wasn't anything particularly magical about that time of my life.

What's funny is that I think a lot of people tend to forget about some of the more rotten parts of high school, most of which involved being a teenager. Being a teenager has a lot of drawbacks. You think you know everything, but no one wants to listen to you. You're pumped full of enough hormones to make lawn furniture vaguely attractive. They make you sit in class all day and read the most depressing literature ever put to paper. As if it wasn't bad enough dealing with heartbreak, rejection and social pressures, I had to read The Jungle. The Jungle for God's sake!

That's just cruel.

Now there were a lot of cool things about being a teenager too (the ability to consume my own weight in Mancino's meatball subs and Mountain Dew comes to mind), but I'm careful not to glamorize them, especially now that I have kids. Some day, they're going to be teenagers, a thought that sends a chill down my spine. I don't want to be the parent who remembers that as being awesome and thus doesn't comprehend why the Princess is in tears over something someone else wore to school or why the Moose has taken to brooding and won't talk to me for a week. I need to remember what it was to go through that pain, those feelings of being alone and frustrated and knowing that no one will ever truly understand you.

I need to remember, because it's probably going to be the only way I can tolerate it without heavy medication.

I Just Said I Love You. I Think.

I have once again been banished from my own bedroom, forced to drag a mattress out in the basement and sleep there all by my lonesome. This punishment is not due to some slight of communication betwixt my lovely wife and myself causing undue strife in our marriage, nor is it because of a burrito-induced Dutch oven incident. I am not, in fact, in any kind of trouble. Rather I have moved to the basement because of something I cannot control.

Apparently, when I'm sleeping, I click.

At first when my wife told me this, I was reasonably incredulous. I mean, why would I be clicking? I'm pretty sure I'm not a cyborg, so the odds of her hearing some kind of mechanical process within me is unlikely. (I say pretty sure because I did go through some medical enhancements while a secret agent, not all of which were fully disclosed to me. And no, they weren't those kind of enhancements. Dammit.) Still, my wife doesn't usually lie to me about anything other than her disappointment in prior medical enhancement choices, so I took her at her word but didn't worry much about it.



As time went on, this would recur, with her telling me that I had woken her up in the night with it. Finally, I actually woke myself up. For whatever reason, I start clicking at the back of my throat when I inhale. It's not like I'm snoring (although apparently I've picked that habit back up as well, backing the argument for my new sleeping arrangements). It's just one click as in inhale. Bizarre.

Well, at my wife's request I moved out so that she can at least get a few good nights of sleep. Hopefully I can figure out why it's happening without involving my doctor. Perhaps I have discovered a new type of hyper-efficient snoring, whereby I take a long drawn out snore and compress it into one big click, and just losing a few pounds will rid me of it. I guess it's possible, but it's not my favorite theory.

I prefer to think I'm talking in my sleep, and she just doesn't realize it because she doesn't speak Zulu.

As a Former Ninja, This Disgusts Me

I do my best not to be too quick to judge someone else's job performance. I'm sure we all have experiences that mold how we approach a task, and who am I to say which ideas are better than others. Nevertheless, once in a while I do see something that forces me to ask just what the hell someone was thinking. Today is such a day.

See, I was expecting a package from UPS, and according to the tracking information, it was sent out today. I was a little nervous, because the package I was expecting was large, and I was afraid they might not leave it, as they tend to leave things under our welcome mat and this was definitely not going to fit. I saw that it had been delivered and, as it was kind of a pricey thing to leave on the front step, went home to retrieve it. As I walked out, I joked with my coworkers about how it would probably be under the welcome mat. Well, when I got home, this is what I found:



I'm not sure just what his intention was with this one. Is he welcoming someone to steal my package? Is this an instance of hiding something in plain sight? Or is he perhaps an ex-agent of the Wolfenstien academy of subterfuge and he really believes that, under the guise of an innocent welcome mat, no one will notice the huge freaking four-foot box.



One thing is for sure - his future with the espionage community is done for.

I Really Thought the Little Clown Costumes Would Have Done It

I'm a cat person for a few reasons. Cats are (mostly) dignified. They're small. I'm pretty sure I could take one in a fair fight. Mostly though, owning a cat doesn't rely on me following my pet around with a plastic bag on my hand waiting for something awful to occur.

Now I know, however, that the alternatives are much worse.

Specifically, I'm referring to PooTrap, a new fangled device used to skip the whole "picking it up" step. I'm not going to describe the product when they have been gracious enough to supply an ad. Watch it. You'll thank me.



I think my favorite part of this product is the way they have cunningly combined all the charm of a diaper with the tastefulness of a gimp suit. I also enjoy some of their specific decisions, like not supplying opaque bags, thus allowing everyone to fully view the transaction taking place, or the fact that removal of the bag involves tugging on your dogs rear end (here's hoping it never gets stuck, forcing you to give it a really good pull). You really have to admire the amount of work these people have put towards accomplishing something that I thought was completely impossible.

One way or another, they're going to find a way to humiliate a dog.

Fine, Eat the Steak, But That Tie. Have You No Decency?

When becoming a vegetarian, you learn all sorts of interesting and disturbing things about food. More interesting than this though is what you learn about people. Specifically, I have noticed trends in how people react to learning that I am a vegetarian, some of which completely baffle me. I've found that most people react in one of three ways.

Conspiratorially
This first group only comes up when I comment that something with meat in it smells good. They mistake the paying of a compliment with a desire to eat the thing, which I do not have, so they respond with, "You can have some - I won't tell anyone". I still remember eating and enjoying some meat products, but I don't want to eat them anymore. More to the point, however, is that they are suggesting that I am answering to some higher power on my eating habits (presumable my lovely wife), which is not the case. The voices in my head suggest all sorts of things, but they know enough to stay out of the kitchen.

Apologetic
The second group are the ones who apologize for eating meat in front of you. It's considerate I suppose, but the fact is that unless your eating something I knew personally, I don't really care what you eat. Go on with your bad self and pack away that bacon burger. If, on the other hand, a large component of your meal is, say, Grandma, then yes, by all means apologize. And no, I still don't want any, even if you promise not to tell.

Confrontational
These are the ones that totally lose me. They find out you're a vegetarian, and the reaction is an exposition on how much they like meat. They're never going to give up meat. Bacon is the best thing ever. Tonight they're going to go home and eat a steak the size of their own head, and they want it so rare you can still hear it moo. What I don't understand is why the think I care. The only reason I ever talk about being a vegetarian is if someone asks or offers me food I'm not going to eat because of it so they don't think I'm rude. Again, if you wanna shave a goat and call it dinner, have at it. If you want to shave a goat and call it Susan...well, then I might question your judgment. (I mean really, who ever heard of a goat called Susan? Myrtle maybe, but Susan? That's just silly.)



I guess what I'm surprised by is that these reactions are common, and I'm not sure why. Perhaps they're used to the far more obnoxious militant vegan who goes about spouting that meat is murder and whatnot. I guess it makes sense that people are afraid that I'm judging them for their eating habits when they find out I've decided to eat differently, which is totally not the case. I couldn't care less how they eat.

I'm judging them on their dress or their lack of pop culture knowledge.

The 1812 Overture Would Totally Work As Well

Here's a suggestion to businesses. I understand that you want people to be relaxed and happy when they are there, and as such you might choose relaxing music to pipe into the place. The problem is that you have the one sound system typically, so whatever is playing in the main area is also playing in the restrooms. This needs to change. Lionel Ritchie or Micheal Bolton is fine if I'm there to relax over dinner (I guess), but it's not doing anything to cover the end results of the guy in the next stall winning the "who can eat the most jalapeno poppers" contest. I'm thinking something by Metallica or AC/DC would be more appropriate.

Thunderstruck seems fitting.

Not That I Don't Value Your Opinion, Internet

As is often the case, this morning I faced the conundrum of clothing. I've discussed that one of the great benefits of being a computer programmer is that it allows me to dress like a high schooler. My concern is that as often as not, I take advantage of that opportunity. Thus, the nice dress shirt I ironed this morning got thrown over a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The only reason this concerns me is that I have a history of having my own style, a history that is both rich and varied, and I'm afraid that as I get older, I'm going to start taking on the appearance of someone who is resisting his age.

Don't get the idea that I'm afraid I won't age gracefully. I can't flip a pancake gracefully, so any concern I put into aging gracefully would most likely backfire. Besides, this kind of pretty should only improve with age.

Rather, I don't want to be that guy that people look at with that sad, "Oh look, he thinks he's still twenty" gaze. I know how old I am, and I'm cool with it. The issue is that I still have these urges. Occasionally, I want to put in the earrings, although they always look wrong now, and I never actually make it out of the bathroom without removing them. Still, I go to grab a pair of dress pants and a button-down shirt, and it always turns into my jeans, tucking be damned.

And my hair. My hair just wants to be long.

Of course, I resist the urge to regrow my hair for the simple reason that no one likes it that way but me (dammit), but the rest I'm not sure about. I mean, what are the alternatives? Put on a suit every day? Shine my shoes? Wrap a brightly colored noose around my neck and pretend it's comfortable?

Sweater vests?

Not a chance. All that stuff is fine for special occasions (well, not the sweater vests, but the rest is okay), but it's just not me. So hopefully I can go on as I have without the misunderstanding that I'm trying to cling to my youth. Frankly, I'm a lot happier now than I was in my youth. I just like to be comfortable and wear watches with bands that are too wide. Is that so wrong?

On second thought, don't answer that.