So, here's a question for you: why is it that we, as a species, kill bugs? As you all know, I'm the resident bug slayer in the house, and it suddenly struck me that I'm not sure why I'm comfortable killing bugs. I mean, I don't relish in it or anything, but I'm willing to do it.
The thing is, I've killed approximately one non-insect animal intentionally in my entire life. It was traumatic, and I would not do it again. Sure, many unfortunate critters fell to the wheels of my car when I lived out in the sticks as a teenager, and I felt bad, but none of those were intentional. Besides, if a possum can't be bothered to look both ways before crossing, I don't see where I can be held responsible. I have historically, however, slain a good number of insects quite on purpose.
I even consider not doing it. When called upon to face one of my typically eight legged foes, my inner tree hugging, hippy freak says that I should really catch the little fellow and simply release him back into the wild. You know, all humanitarian like. Then one or more of it's hairy little legs moves, and the little hippy is all, "Oh %#@$ that noise. Kill it! Kill it with fire!".
At first I figured it was xenophobia. I mean really, what could be more different from a person that a furry, multi-eye having, exoskeleton wearing insect, other than perhaps some of the freakier deep sea critters? (Make no mistake, however - if I find one of those things crawling up my wall, it's so getting hit with a shoe.) Then I thought back to a trip to Florida, where the relative I was staying with threw something at a gecko on the wall. I was appalled, as it would never cross my mind to try and eliminate a gecko for any purpose other than perhaps collecting their skins in exchange for bottle caps (skill multiplier for anyone who gets the game reference). Geckos don't really share a lot with people beyond an apparent concern for car insurance costs, so my xenophobic theory doesn't seem to hold water.
Therefore, like so many things in my life, I have no idea why it is considered acceptable to do this. I wouldn't think it acceptable to hurt an uninvited animal in my home unless it was directly threatening my family. Why can I freely smack a spider into oblivion and not only have it be acceptable, but be hailed as a hero (okay, maybe not hailed, but I should be dammit), and yet if I did the same thing to a puppy who wandered into my house, I would be promptly vilified? What if the puppy had eight legs? Then would it be acceptable?
I'm thinking no - then it would just end up on the internet, and I would be mega-vilified.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
For My Young Readers, It's Like a Video Store for Books
When we moved to the new town, we left behind a very nice, reasonably new library. I have many fond memories of this library. I would take the Princess there in her stroller, pushing it around while I perused the newest CDs or comic collections. I'd even occasionally get out a book. I loved that place.
Then we came here, and one of the first things I did was locate the local library. When I found it I was...well I'm not going to say disappointed. Let's go with underwhelmed. They had books, and nice sections for music and DVDs and all that. It's just small, and feels a lot older than what I was used to. It's like going to my grandma's house when I was a kid. This is going to sound weird, but the place smells like something built in the 1950s. I can not explain it better than that.
I feel bad that I even noticed it, as it does not detract from the media it houses. Still, leaving the gleaming metal and glass that I was used to left me a little sad. I looked into the libraries in the neighboring city, as back home we had a pretty lenient system for getting a card for neighboring towns, and the attendant looked at me as if I was joking and explained that if I wanted to participate, I would have to buy a library card. I'm not positive, but judging from the way she looked at me, I'm thinking I must have been wearing my mud-stained overalls and ripped white t-shirt, perhaps accompanied by boots thick with cow manure and a wad of chaw dribbling down my chin.
Anyway, it is with great joy that I look forward to next month, when our gleaming new two story library opens here in town. I'm sure it will be all the same books, and they probably won't have moved Maus II or Johnny the Homicidal Maniac out of the youth section yet, but it will be shiny. I'm practically giddy, as I'm a huge fan of dragging the kids to the library still. Now we have a brand new one to wander aimlessly.
Hopefully, the economy will turn around, and in a couple of years we'll be able to afford books for it.
Then we came here, and one of the first things I did was locate the local library. When I found it I was...well I'm not going to say disappointed. Let's go with underwhelmed. They had books, and nice sections for music and DVDs and all that. It's just small, and feels a lot older than what I was used to. It's like going to my grandma's house when I was a kid. This is going to sound weird, but the place smells like something built in the 1950s. I can not explain it better than that.
I feel bad that I even noticed it, as it does not detract from the media it houses. Still, leaving the gleaming metal and glass that I was used to left me a little sad. I looked into the libraries in the neighboring city, as back home we had a pretty lenient system for getting a card for neighboring towns, and the attendant looked at me as if I was joking and explained that if I wanted to participate, I would have to buy a library card. I'm not positive, but judging from the way she looked at me, I'm thinking I must have been wearing my mud-stained overalls and ripped white t-shirt, perhaps accompanied by boots thick with cow manure and a wad of chaw dribbling down my chin.
Anyway, it is with great joy that I look forward to next month, when our gleaming new two story library opens here in town. I'm sure it will be all the same books, and they probably won't have moved Maus II or Johnny the Homicidal Maniac out of the youth section yet, but it will be shiny. I'm practically giddy, as I'm a huge fan of dragging the kids to the library still. Now we have a brand new one to wander aimlessly.
Hopefully, the economy will turn around, and in a couple of years we'll be able to afford books for it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Heat of the Moment
Sorry I missed yesterday. I was very tired, very sick, and very unfunny. Believe me when I tell you that you wanted no part of that action.
Anyway, today I was pondering one of the many uncomfortable situations one must face when in an office setting. You walk into a meeting room that a group just left, you sit down, and the seat that you have chosen is still warm from the individual that was sitting there previously. You didn't see who was there a minute ago, so there is no clue who's body heat you are now absorbing.
This creeps me out. Big time.
It's not that I'm worried that they did something nasty there like push an SPD down into the seat cushion, leaving themselves a clean getaway while the next sitter inadvertently releases the stench lying in wait below. That's a different thing altogether, and while unpleasant, at least has an element of skill to it. My own daughter has caught me in this trick, and while I was less that pleased, I did admire the talent involved in the moments before the lack of oxygen caused me to black out.
Rather, my discomfort comes from the simple fact that there is a tranfer of body heat from some unknown individual at my office and myself. Seriously, consider for a moment those situations in your life where you have exchanged body heat with another individual. Take, for example, this morning when I was snuggling with my son before school. (What? I assume that was the kind of thing all of you were picturing. Wasn't it?) Now take out that other individual from the moment you were imagining, and replace them with the sweaty guy from HR.
Yeah...not cool.
I realize that this discomfort is somewhat unfounded. It just creeps me out a bit. I don't jump up out of the seat or anything. I will, however, consiously choose to not sit in a previously occupied seat if given the opportunity for exactly these reasons. And perhaps, next time you have to go to a meeting, you'll consider my words, and make a similar decision.
If not, you'll definitely think of me the next time you use a public rest room and the seat is warm, and really, what more could I want from life?
Anyway, today I was pondering one of the many uncomfortable situations one must face when in an office setting. You walk into a meeting room that a group just left, you sit down, and the seat that you have chosen is still warm from the individual that was sitting there previously. You didn't see who was there a minute ago, so there is no clue who's body heat you are now absorbing.
This creeps me out. Big time.
It's not that I'm worried that they did something nasty there like push an SPD down into the seat cushion, leaving themselves a clean getaway while the next sitter inadvertently releases the stench lying in wait below. That's a different thing altogether, and while unpleasant, at least has an element of skill to it. My own daughter has caught me in this trick, and while I was less that pleased, I did admire the talent involved in the moments before the lack of oxygen caused me to black out.
Rather, my discomfort comes from the simple fact that there is a tranfer of body heat from some unknown individual at my office and myself. Seriously, consider for a moment those situations in your life where you have exchanged body heat with another individual. Take, for example, this morning when I was snuggling with my son before school. (What? I assume that was the kind of thing all of you were picturing. Wasn't it?) Now take out that other individual from the moment you were imagining, and replace them with the sweaty guy from HR.
Yeah...not cool.
I realize that this discomfort is somewhat unfounded. It just creeps me out a bit. I don't jump up out of the seat or anything. I will, however, consiously choose to not sit in a previously occupied seat if given the opportunity for exactly these reasons. And perhaps, next time you have to go to a meeting, you'll consider my words, and make a similar decision.
If not, you'll definitely think of me the next time you use a public rest room and the seat is warm, and really, what more could I want from life?
Monday, February 23, 2009
I'm Not Getting Drunk, I'm Stimulating the Economy
I know that we're all concerned about the economy, and that our government is doing what it can to try and get things moving. While most of my good idea have been ignored (I'm all for a cake-based economy myself), I am impressed with some of the creativity I'm seeing, particularly here in Michigan, where the recession/depression that you're all seeing started ages ago. Your global financial meltdown is what we commonly refer to here as "Tuesday".
First, we're trying to turn Michigan into the new Hollywood. I for one would love to see that happen, if for no other reason than some of the best movies ever made have come from here. Plus, I'm starting to think that maybe basing most of our economy on car makers might have been a mistake. That's probably just me though.
Even better, though, is the latest suggestion to get the economy moving: keep the bars open later. If we can drink until four AM and buy booze on Sunday morning, the state collects more taxes, the bars make more money, yadda yadda yadda. I mean, it makes sense and all, but it just seems wrong somehow. Maybe Homer Simpson was right when he identified beer as the cause and the solution of all of life's problems.
I guess I'm lucky either way. Somehow there always seems to be a gig for a programmer. Still, I would love to see Michigan's economy finally pick up. It would be nice to see people working again and hear some good news about our economy for a change. I'd like to see the good people of Michigan given a chance to pick themselves up and show pride in their state for the first time in as long as I can remember.
Ah Hell, who am I kidding? I just want to be surrounded by drunken movie stars in the wee hours of the morning.
First, we're trying to turn Michigan into the new Hollywood. I for one would love to see that happen, if for no other reason than some of the best movies ever made have come from here. Plus, I'm starting to think that maybe basing most of our economy on car makers might have been a mistake. That's probably just me though.
Even better, though, is the latest suggestion to get the economy moving: keep the bars open later. If we can drink until four AM and buy booze on Sunday morning, the state collects more taxes, the bars make more money, yadda yadda yadda. I mean, it makes sense and all, but it just seems wrong somehow. Maybe Homer Simpson was right when he identified beer as the cause and the solution of all of life's problems.
I guess I'm lucky either way. Somehow there always seems to be a gig for a programmer. Still, I would love to see Michigan's economy finally pick up. It would be nice to see people working again and hear some good news about our economy for a change. I'd like to see the good people of Michigan given a chance to pick themselves up and show pride in their state for the first time in as long as I can remember.
Ah Hell, who am I kidding? I just want to be surrounded by drunken movie stars in the wee hours of the morning.
Friday, February 20, 2009
I Bet They've Never Found a Single Cat This Way
I've been fighting a nasty sinus infection for about two months now. After two bouts of less than effective antibiotics, I'm starting to get a little frustrated about having a headache most of the time. Between the headaches and the fact that I now smell smoke randomly where there is actually no smoke, I've decided that I'm either really messed up or I'm being haunted by a ex-smoker (it's pretty hard to find a ghost who's a current smoker because ectoplasm gums up the workings of a Zippo - not many people know that).
Anyway, this means I'm getting a CT scan of my sinuses today. As is my habit around these parts, I figured I'd let all of you know about it. I do this for two reasons. First, it's pretty much all I'm thinking about this morning. Second, you can all learn from my experiences. After all, there's no reason more than one person has to learn things like "never see a proctologist who works out of a van" the hard way, right?
What's weird is that I'm not really sure what I hope they find. I mean, if they come up with nothing, I'm just getting headaches and smelling mystery smoke with not further information and a chunk of my annual deductible being billed. If they find something, there's a remote chance someone want to open my head up and remove it, another idea I'm not particularly keen on. Such is the conundrum of the advanced medical procedure.
Honestly, I am hoping they find something, just not something especially medical. I'm hoping they find one of those sweet little tracking implants the aliens put into people when they abduct them. Not only would it explain the many gaps in my memory, but it would make me feel like I was better traveled that I currently am. Plus, if I ever run into David Duchovney, I would have something to talk about besides his supposed sex addiction, which I'm guessing would be an awkward conversation ("Dude, are...are you picturing us doing it right now?").
Unfortunately a CT scan doesn't lend itself to comical implants, so I have to hope the aliens have me covered.
Anyway, this means I'm getting a CT scan of my sinuses today. As is my habit around these parts, I figured I'd let all of you know about it. I do this for two reasons. First, it's pretty much all I'm thinking about this morning. Second, you can all learn from my experiences. After all, there's no reason more than one person has to learn things like "never see a proctologist who works out of a van" the hard way, right?
What's weird is that I'm not really sure what I hope they find. I mean, if they come up with nothing, I'm just getting headaches and smelling mystery smoke with not further information and a chunk of my annual deductible being billed. If they find something, there's a remote chance someone want to open my head up and remove it, another idea I'm not particularly keen on. Such is the conundrum of the advanced medical procedure.
Honestly, I am hoping they find something, just not something especially medical. I'm hoping they find one of those sweet little tracking implants the aliens put into people when they abduct them. Not only would it explain the many gaps in my memory, but it would make me feel like I was better traveled that I currently am. Plus, if I ever run into David Duchovney, I would have something to talk about besides his supposed sex addiction, which I'm guessing would be an awkward conversation ("Dude, are...are you picturing us doing it right now?").
Unfortunately a CT scan doesn't lend itself to comical implants, so I have to hope the aliens have me covered.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Remember, You Can't Spell 'Assessment' Without...Well, You Get the Idea
So today I got my annual self assessment out of the way, and as usual I feel ridiculous about it. Don't get me wrong - I think it's a good idea that we do a self assessment. It's just that no matter what I do, I end up feeling like it was wrong, which is a far cry from my actual work where I typically feel like an infallible being of almost infinite talent. (Okay, that's a bit of hyperbole. I'm sure my talent is finite, we just haven't found the end yet.)
The problem with a self assessment is that I either feel like I'm selling myself short, or I feel like I'm exaggerating my contributions. I do my best to find a nice middle ground, but it's hard. I really don't sit around assessing my performance on a regular basis. I prefer to squander my time, you know, actually doing my job.
It used to be that I would always hold back a little bit. I didn't ever want to sound like I was bragging or exaggerating, so I always rated myself as average or sufficient. The thing is, I really am good at what I do. So I'd sit there and say something like, "I think I do a good job", but inside I'd be thinking that without me the entire project would devolve into a wailing and gnashing of teeth. (I used to have a little problem with being egotistical. Fortunately, I got that in check, which only adds to my overall awesomeness.)
These days, I realize that no one is going to toot my horn for me (at least not since that harassment suit), so I try to be more accurate about what I felt I contributed. The problem is that now, I feel like my assessment is all braggadocio. I mean, I don't really think I'm exaggerating, but when I read over it all before I hit submit, I feel like I might as well have written, "This year, I accomplished all of my goals while repeatedly bailing out the rest of the team, only taking time off to cure cancer (pending FDA approval), save kittens from burning buildings, and read stories to orphans who would otherwise be forming drug habits".
I guess as long as I'm honest it doesn't matter. I just don't like having to evaluate myself like this. I'm not big on self-reflection, something I've been working on for the last few years, and it's...well, it's bothersome. Besides when you get right down to it, you all know I just want to type something smarmy in those comment fields.
Did I satisfy this requirement? I satisfied it in a way that no programmer has ever satisfied it before. I've ruined this requirement for other programmers. Years from now, when I've moved on to something bigger and better, this requirement will still think longingly on this experience and have to support itself against a desk as its knees grow weak, explaining to the latest programmers that it just grew faint for a moment, trying to hide the tear that runs down its cheek from knowing that never again will it experience satisfaction like it has today.
Yeah, I think I better stick with "I think I did a good job".
The problem with a self assessment is that I either feel like I'm selling myself short, or I feel like I'm exaggerating my contributions. I do my best to find a nice middle ground, but it's hard. I really don't sit around assessing my performance on a regular basis. I prefer to squander my time, you know, actually doing my job.
It used to be that I would always hold back a little bit. I didn't ever want to sound like I was bragging or exaggerating, so I always rated myself as average or sufficient. The thing is, I really am good at what I do. So I'd sit there and say something like, "I think I do a good job", but inside I'd be thinking that without me the entire project would devolve into a wailing and gnashing of teeth. (I used to have a little problem with being egotistical. Fortunately, I got that in check, which only adds to my overall awesomeness.)
These days, I realize that no one is going to toot my horn for me (at least not since that harassment suit), so I try to be more accurate about what I felt I contributed. The problem is that now, I feel like my assessment is all braggadocio. I mean, I don't really think I'm exaggerating, but when I read over it all before I hit submit, I feel like I might as well have written, "This year, I accomplished all of my goals while repeatedly bailing out the rest of the team, only taking time off to cure cancer (pending FDA approval), save kittens from burning buildings, and read stories to orphans who would otherwise be forming drug habits".
I guess as long as I'm honest it doesn't matter. I just don't like having to evaluate myself like this. I'm not big on self-reflection, something I've been working on for the last few years, and it's...well, it's bothersome. Besides when you get right down to it, you all know I just want to type something smarmy in those comment fields.
Did I satisfy this requirement? I satisfied it in a way that no programmer has ever satisfied it before. I've ruined this requirement for other programmers. Years from now, when I've moved on to something bigger and better, this requirement will still think longingly on this experience and have to support itself against a desk as its knees grow weak, explaining to the latest programmers that it just grew faint for a moment, trying to hide the tear that runs down its cheek from knowing that never again will it experience satisfaction like it has today.
Yeah, I think I better stick with "I think I did a good job".
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I Have Wicked Sack. Also, I Have a New Bag.
So another birthday has come and gone, and I got some really cool loot. My daughter picked me out a new water bottle for my desk, and while I probably wouldn't have gone with the purple with a big pink heart on it, my little girl picked it out, so I use it with pride. The Moose got a more manly version to carry around. My lovely wife, however, (with a gentle nudge from me) came through with the prize gift this year.
I gots me a new man bag.
See, I carry a lot of junk around with me. I typically have two books, my PSP with games, cords for my iPhone and the PSP, a back up set of headphones, and just to be sure, a diaper, wipes, and a plastic bag to jettison any of my son's business in a public waste container. (I've been told by my wife this is bad form, but I ain't carrying it around with me.) I also keep a couple of folders for random paperwork that needs to be dealt with during the day.
I was toting all of this around in a laptop case, and that worked out okay, but didn't feel right. A laptop case implies a laptop, and while my ten year old machine runs Fallout 2 admirably well, it's not worth carrying around just for that. Besides that, as a programmer, I kind of needed something not computer related.
So now I have an excellently functional yet manly bag to sling about my shoulder (not unlike the one pictured above, sans scary sneer and weapon), and it's somehow...better. For reasons I don't at all understand, I feel better about carrying the exact same stuff in this bag than I did before. I guess it's because around here, computer bags are a dime a dozen.
But a good man bag - well, that's something special.
I gots me a new man bag.
See, I carry a lot of junk around with me. I typically have two books, my PSP with games, cords for my iPhone and the PSP, a back up set of headphones, and just to be sure, a diaper, wipes, and a plastic bag to jettison any of my son's business in a public waste container. (I've been told by my wife this is bad form, but I ain't carrying it around with me.) I also keep a couple of folders for random paperwork that needs to be dealt with during the day.
I was toting all of this around in a laptop case, and that worked out okay, but didn't feel right. A laptop case implies a laptop, and while my ten year old machine runs Fallout 2 admirably well, it's not worth carrying around just for that. Besides that, as a programmer, I kind of needed something not computer related.
So now I have an excellently functional yet manly bag to sling about my shoulder (not unlike the one pictured above, sans scary sneer and weapon), and it's somehow...better. For reasons I don't at all understand, I feel better about carrying the exact same stuff in this bag than I did before. I guess it's because around here, computer bags are a dime a dozen.
But a good man bag - well, that's something special.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
POS TOS
Inspired by the recent brouhaha over an update to Facebook's Terms Of Service (TOS), I felt I should probably update the DLOG terms of service as well. I'm sure a lot of you probably weren't even aware that we had a TOS, but it's pretty standard for most websites these days. As such, the following are the new terms of service for readers of Dangerously Low On Grog, which you agree to simply by logging on:
All content contained herein is the sole property of Dangerously Low On Grog (DLOG) and it's author. No part of anything found on this site can be reproduced, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author. Exceptions will be made for those who feel the need to quote the site when explaining the supreme awesomeness that is DLOG, but only because I understand that there are those who will scoff in disbelief when you simply try to describe said awesomeness. I assure you that these scoffers will be dealt with swiftly when I have accomplished my goal of world domination.
Readers may comment on content here at DLOG in the comments area supplied. These comments need not be limited to praise for the author. It should be noted that the author reserved the right to hunt down those that use the comments area to post criticism of the author, his ideas or his work and hit them with a cheese of the author's choosing. The cheese will be selected based on the degree of offense, starting with a nice muenster for minor infractions and escalating all the way up to this stuff for major offenses, such as defending parachute pants or quoting Ann Coulter. Commenters give up their right to retaliation for this cheese smacking, instead agreeing to respond "That was gouda. May I have another?".
Finally, by reading DLOG, you also agree to the following: allowing the author to crash on your couch/spare bed if he's in town, buying the author drinks on occasions when drinks may be purchased, complimenting anyone wearing a sweater vest on said sweater vest (lord knows I love a good sweater vest), consistently being forthright and owning up to any silent but deadly action when directly confronted on such action (if not directly confronted, you may allow the blame to lie with whatever unfortunate individual is accused), and trying your best to be excellent to each other.
There. I think that should hold up in court nicely.
All content contained herein is the sole property of Dangerously Low On Grog (DLOG) and it's author. No part of anything found on this site can be reproduced, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author. Exceptions will be made for those who feel the need to quote the site when explaining the supreme awesomeness that is DLOG, but only because I understand that there are those who will scoff in disbelief when you simply try to describe said awesomeness. I assure you that these scoffers will be dealt with swiftly when I have accomplished my goal of world domination.
Readers may comment on content here at DLOG in the comments area supplied. These comments need not be limited to praise for the author. It should be noted that the author reserved the right to hunt down those that use the comments area to post criticism of the author, his ideas or his work and hit them with a cheese of the author's choosing. The cheese will be selected based on the degree of offense, starting with a nice muenster for minor infractions and escalating all the way up to this stuff for major offenses, such as defending parachute pants or quoting Ann Coulter. Commenters give up their right to retaliation for this cheese smacking, instead agreeing to respond "That was gouda. May I have another?".
Finally, by reading DLOG, you also agree to the following: allowing the author to crash on your couch/spare bed if he's in town, buying the author drinks on occasions when drinks may be purchased, complimenting anyone wearing a sweater vest on said sweater vest (lord knows I love a good sweater vest), consistently being forthright and owning up to any silent but deadly action when directly confronted on such action (if not directly confronted, you may allow the blame to lie with whatever unfortunate individual is accused), and trying your best to be excellent to each other.
There. I think that should hold up in court nicely.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
I Have a Ph.D. In Sweet, Sweet Love. And Horribleness.
Okay, so now that I've tried to help you fellas sexy yourselves up, I realized that I should go one step further. After all, I have a wife who is consumed by passionate thoughts of me at all times of the day. At least I think she is. I mean, she never said that she isn't, so it seems like a fair assumption, right? Anyway, I thought I should give you guys some more advice on being romantic and junk*.
The first thing is that if you're thinking of buying a gift, consider sending it to their office or place of work. Despite the illness I feel watching the Vermont Teddy Bear ad full of squealing women, there is something to it. The ladies like to get gifts at work that show someone is thinking about them. Be wary, however. If you intend to give a gift of lingerie or, ahem, "marital aids", then don't send them to her job. This last point is particularly important, as having the bomb squad called because a package arrived vibrating is not particularly romantic, and a mistake you only make once. I've heard.
When romancing a lady, you should consider how you dress. It should be noted that when a women indicates that she would like you to dress up for Valentine's Day, what she means is put on a freshly pressed pair of pants and shirt, perhaps a jacket. What the heck, go all out and maybe shave or something. She does not mean that she wants you to show up in a fireman uniform, a cowboy outfit, or a skimpy negligee, particularly if you choose to borrow her pumps that just happen to be the right shade of pink to match that negligee, even if said pumps were perfectly fine afterward and not "all squished out of shape by your giant man-feet".
Another important skill when it comes to romance is knowing how to compliment a lady. When complimenting a woman, it is important to be specific. It isn't enough to say that she looks nice. Rather, try and point out what exactly about her appeals to you at that moment. An example might be, "Wow, that color of dress really shows off how beautiful your eyes are". It's important to remember, however, to tailor your compliment to the person you're speaking to. Despite what you may think, your favorite features of your significant other may be off limits here. Just try to avoid any compliments involving the following words: can/cans, jubblies, hooters, booty, ayus (as in "that ayus"), boobies, hoo hah...you know what, just ask yourself if you would pay the same compliment to your mother, and if the answer is no, then skip it.
Finally, just remind yourself that you're lucky to have someone. Remind yourself that you have a person who thinks about you and who cares about you. Remind yourself that this person does this on a regular basis despite the overwhelming odds that you're probably an undeserving lout, and that you should really appreciate it if your fortunate enough to have such a person in your life. Keep reminding yourself that, all day, every day, long after Valentine's has come and gone.
You keep that up and you just might get away with the fact that you forgot to start preparing for Valentine's Day until now, you schmuck.
*Disclaimer: The advice given here is obviously meant to be humorous. The author is actually a Grade-A smoove operator. Just ask your mom.
The first thing is that if you're thinking of buying a gift, consider sending it to their office or place of work. Despite the illness I feel watching the Vermont Teddy Bear ad full of squealing women, there is something to it. The ladies like to get gifts at work that show someone is thinking about them. Be wary, however. If you intend to give a gift of lingerie or, ahem, "marital aids", then don't send them to her job. This last point is particularly important, as having the bomb squad called because a package arrived vibrating is not particularly romantic, and a mistake you only make once. I've heard.
When romancing a lady, you should consider how you dress. It should be noted that when a women indicates that she would like you to dress up for Valentine's Day, what she means is put on a freshly pressed pair of pants and shirt, perhaps a jacket. What the heck, go all out and maybe shave or something. She does not mean that she wants you to show up in a fireman uniform, a cowboy outfit, or a skimpy negligee, particularly if you choose to borrow her pumps that just happen to be the right shade of pink to match that negligee, even if said pumps were perfectly fine afterward and not "all squished out of shape by your giant man-feet".
Another important skill when it comes to romance is knowing how to compliment a lady. When complimenting a woman, it is important to be specific. It isn't enough to say that she looks nice. Rather, try and point out what exactly about her appeals to you at that moment. An example might be, "Wow, that color of dress really shows off how beautiful your eyes are". It's important to remember, however, to tailor your compliment to the person you're speaking to. Despite what you may think, your favorite features of your significant other may be off limits here. Just try to avoid any compliments involving the following words: can/cans, jubblies, hooters, booty, ayus (as in "that ayus"), boobies, hoo hah...you know what, just ask yourself if you would pay the same compliment to your mother, and if the answer is no, then skip it.
Finally, just remind yourself that you're lucky to have someone. Remind yourself that you have a person who thinks about you and who cares about you. Remind yourself that this person does this on a regular basis despite the overwhelming odds that you're probably an undeserving lout, and that you should really appreciate it if your fortunate enough to have such a person in your life. Keep reminding yourself that, all day, every day, long after Valentine's has come and gone.
You keep that up and you just might get away with the fact that you forgot to start preparing for Valentine's Day until now, you schmuck.
*Disclaimer: The advice given here is obviously meant to be humorous. The author is actually a Grade-A smoove operator. Just ask your mom.
Perhaps I Should Have Asked For a Water Pick
Today is my birthday, but as we all know, today was also the birthday of both President Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin, particularly Mr. Darwin since his seminal work was published 150 years ago. I will take a moment to plug an interesting site related to Darwin's work, and that is all I will say about this. As usual, they are all you will hear about, while my birthday will once again be ignored by the media. Pity.
Instead I'm going to talk about a ridiculous thing that happened to me this morning. I try to take care of myself, and that includes a full regiment of dental hygiene. I've always brushed, but I take it more seriously these days. I actually remember having a conversation with my father where he declared that he didn't remember the last time he brushed his teeth (apparently, whiskey kills the germs that cause bad breath - good to know), so it's not something that was pushed on me heavily as a youth.
Anyway, as part of my morning regiment, I floss. Not big thing. The issue is that I had a cavity filled a couple of months ago, and ever since, I can't properly get the floss between my two top teeth in back consistently. As a result, this morning, while attempting once again to wedge the floss in there, the floss broke, leaving a two inch piece of floss lodged firmly between the teeth. Again, I had something stuck in my teeth, and that something was dental floss.
For the life of me, I didn't know what to do.
I tried to grab it to pull it out, but wet floss is decidedly hard to grip. I tried grabbing it with a pair of tweezers, but failed miserably at that too. I seriously considered grabbing a pair of pliers, but decided that the risk of a kid walking in on me while I had a pair of pliers in my mouth might be setting a bad example. I attempted to try and send a second piece of floss in after it, a sort of rescue mission, but all other flosses died in any attempt to get in there.
Finally, I found one of those floss pick things that I ordinarily eschew for the traditional floss. I put the floss part between the teeth and bit down on it, successfully jamming it between the teeth. Then I tried to yank it out, "tried" being the key word in that sentence. So now I had a two inch length of dental floss and a green floss pick stuck between my teeth. This was not my most dignified moment.
Finally, after a yank of ridiculous proportions (I was seriously considering that I was going to spend my birthday at the dentist having yanked something out of place), I managed to dislodge both of the offending implements and move on with my day. I was just amazed at the chaos that could be cause by such a tiny thing. A seemingly innocent piece of waxed string nearly derailed my entire day.
On a side note, a similar incident is the reason that to this day I refuse to wear thongs anymore, but we can talk about that another time.
Instead I'm going to talk about a ridiculous thing that happened to me this morning. I try to take care of myself, and that includes a full regiment of dental hygiene. I've always brushed, but I take it more seriously these days. I actually remember having a conversation with my father where he declared that he didn't remember the last time he brushed his teeth (apparently, whiskey kills the germs that cause bad breath - good to know), so it's not something that was pushed on me heavily as a youth.
Anyway, as part of my morning regiment, I floss. Not big thing. The issue is that I had a cavity filled a couple of months ago, and ever since, I can't properly get the floss between my two top teeth in back consistently. As a result, this morning, while attempting once again to wedge the floss in there, the floss broke, leaving a two inch piece of floss lodged firmly between the teeth. Again, I had something stuck in my teeth, and that something was dental floss.
For the life of me, I didn't know what to do.
I tried to grab it to pull it out, but wet floss is decidedly hard to grip. I tried grabbing it with a pair of tweezers, but failed miserably at that too. I seriously considered grabbing a pair of pliers, but decided that the risk of a kid walking in on me while I had a pair of pliers in my mouth might be setting a bad example. I attempted to try and send a second piece of floss in after it, a sort of rescue mission, but all other flosses died in any attempt to get in there.
Finally, I found one of those floss pick things that I ordinarily eschew for the traditional floss. I put the floss part between the teeth and bit down on it, successfully jamming it between the teeth. Then I tried to yank it out, "tried" being the key word in that sentence. So now I had a two inch length of dental floss and a green floss pick stuck between my teeth. This was not my most dignified moment.
Finally, after a yank of ridiculous proportions (I was seriously considering that I was going to spend my birthday at the dentist having yanked something out of place), I managed to dislodge both of the offending implements and move on with my day. I was just amazed at the chaos that could be cause by such a tiny thing. A seemingly innocent piece of waxed string nearly derailed my entire day.
On a side note, a similar incident is the reason that to this day I refuse to wear thongs anymore, but we can talk about that another time.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Misery Indeed
I have another terrible confession to make, which is good, because without terrible confessions my blog would mostly consist of links to cat pictures. Anyway, I have an intense, irrational dislike of someone, and even though I know it's for the wrong reasons, I can't shake it. Last weekend, while trying to enjoy Revolutionary Road, I once again had to deal with distraction of my disdain.
I seriously cannot stand Kathy Bates.
Being an actress, I'm sure Mrs. Bates has dealt with those who do not appreciate her work, but that's not the case for me. I think she's a great actress, and I can honestly say that I've never seen her in a role that I wasn't impressed by. Her performance in Misery alone counts her as brilliant in my mind.
What's more, she's never done anything in her personal life, that I'm aware of anyway, that I would take offense to. In fact, I know almost nothing about her, being that I don't particularly follow celebrity news. So as far as I know, she's a saint who feeds homeless people and saves puppies from burning buildings.
Still, I can't stand her.
Why (you might ask) would a seemingly rational individual such as myself harbor such a passionate yet seemingly unfounded dislike for someone? It's simple. Kathy Bates is the spitting image of my mother, the lady I stopped talking to over six years ago. So every time I see her, I have this ridiculous knee-jerk reaction to her. It's bizarre, because I know that it isn't my mother, but my mind won't completely accept it. So yeah, every time I see her in anything, I can't help but feel like I'm watching my mom.
On the bright side, writing about it cause me to do my usual bit of research, and now I know not to ever, ever, ever watch At Play in the Fields of the Lord or About Schmidt.
I seriously cannot stand Kathy Bates.
Being an actress, I'm sure Mrs. Bates has dealt with those who do not appreciate her work, but that's not the case for me. I think she's a great actress, and I can honestly say that I've never seen her in a role that I wasn't impressed by. Her performance in Misery alone counts her as brilliant in my mind.
What's more, she's never done anything in her personal life, that I'm aware of anyway, that I would take offense to. In fact, I know almost nothing about her, being that I don't particularly follow celebrity news. So as far as I know, she's a saint who feeds homeless people and saves puppies from burning buildings.
Still, I can't stand her.
Why (you might ask) would a seemingly rational individual such as myself harbor such a passionate yet seemingly unfounded dislike for someone? It's simple. Kathy Bates is the spitting image of my mother, the lady I stopped talking to over six years ago. So every time I see her, I have this ridiculous knee-jerk reaction to her. It's bizarre, because I know that it isn't my mother, but my mind won't completely accept it. So yeah, every time I see her in anything, I can't help but feel like I'm watching my mom.
On the bright side, writing about it cause me to do my usual bit of research, and now I know not to ever, ever, ever watch At Play in the Fields of the Lord or About Schmidt.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Did That Really Need To Be Said?
Browsing Facebook this morning, I got another notification of someone joining a cause. As far as I know, this consists of clicking a link, with no commitment other than that, but it's a nice thought, right? Anyway, the thing that got me was that it was one of the really obvious ones, and I started wondering, do we really need to point this out? I mean, really contested topics like politics or religion I can see, but some of these are just silly.
Today the cause was people against animal cruelty, and all I could think was, "Well durr". Who is it out there who reads that and thinks, "Well now wait a minute, some animals just need a good ass kicking." Really? I'm going to go out on a limb and say this qualifies as something I think we can all agree on, right? Is there a group of people out there (discounting the handful of deviants) who really want to be cruel to animals and thinks that should be okay with everyone?
Even weirder is the one about getting pedophiles off of Facebook. Again, it's good to support such a cause, but really, who (other than said pedophiles) would really disagree. Can't we, as a society, determine that there are some things that we all agree are a bad idea? If so, do we really need to declare that we support these causes? Personally, I'd be more impressed if the freaks got together and put up a support group for the Facebook pedophiles. Of course I'd be all for the prompt arrest and beating of anyone who joined the group, but you get what I'm saying.
Instead of protesting, perhaps I should just join the fray and start making groups of my own. You know, let people know who I am through my public support of things that I assume we all can agree on. How about a group that supports not breaking the law? Maybe a group that unites together to agree that we should all observe gravity and not float about like balloons? Or a group that agrees that we shouldn't slam our winkies in the door, or cook bacon naked?
People against elevator flatulence unless it's really funny - now there's a cause I can get behind.
Today the cause was people against animal cruelty, and all I could think was, "Well durr". Who is it out there who reads that and thinks, "Well now wait a minute, some animals just need a good ass kicking." Really? I'm going to go out on a limb and say this qualifies as something I think we can all agree on, right? Is there a group of people out there (discounting the handful of deviants) who really want to be cruel to animals and thinks that should be okay with everyone?
Even weirder is the one about getting pedophiles off of Facebook. Again, it's good to support such a cause, but really, who (other than said pedophiles) would really disagree. Can't we, as a society, determine that there are some things that we all agree are a bad idea? If so, do we really need to declare that we support these causes? Personally, I'd be more impressed if the freaks got together and put up a support group for the Facebook pedophiles. Of course I'd be all for the prompt arrest and beating of anyone who joined the group, but you get what I'm saying.
Instead of protesting, perhaps I should just join the fray and start making groups of my own. You know, let people know who I am through my public support of things that I assume we all can agree on. How about a group that supports not breaking the law? Maybe a group that unites together to agree that we should all observe gravity and not float about like balloons? Or a group that agrees that we shouldn't slam our winkies in the door, or cook bacon naked?
People against elevator flatulence unless it's really funny - now there's a cause I can get behind.
Monday, February 9, 2009
When Only the Best Will Do - Me
Once again, this weekend found me making the hour and a half trek from my home to that of my in-laws who were graciously hanging out with the tots so we could get some stuff done. Since my lovely wife was working on the way (we didn't get our stuff done), I had plenty of time to take in all of the sights of a thawing Michigan landscape. Having used up that fifteen minutes, I spent the rest of the time thinking about weird things.
One of these things is billboards. First, a lot of billboards need to be worded better. I'll give you an example. On this drive, I pass by a billboard that tells me that every twenty minutes a child is diagnosed with autism, and every time I think to myself, "Well, maybe his parents ought to write it down or something so they can stop diagnosing him over and over. I mean, the kid's got to have better things to do that hanging around doctor's offices waiting to be diagnosed with autism again.". No, I do not think it in Seinfeld's voice.
More interesting to me though are the blank ones. Given the current economy, I see a lot of blanks that say "Your ad could be here for $500", and I think to myself, "Dude, I could find $500 for a billboard". Think about it. There's nothing that says that I, as a random yahoo, could not cough up the dough to get myself a prime piece of billboard space alongside interstate 94.
What does one do with such a space though? Well, my first idea was a straightforward ad for myself. Just a picture of me, perhaps in a suit, with a tagline like "Isn't it time you tried Roger?" or "Nine of ten doctors agree - Roger". Maybe instead I could use one of those really mysterious things that don't say anything at all but sound really interesting, like "Don't you owe it to yourself to know Roger?" or "Roger. Because you're worth it."
Because, really, aren't you?
Even better, I could use the space as a public service. "Roger says, 'Remember kids, when sharing the highway, try not to be a dick'." would be helpful for example. I also like "Studies show that male tailgating is a form of latent homosexuality." (That one came to mind during the drive home, when the car behind me was attempting to re-enact the Ned Beatty scene from Deliverance). I could wear a lab coat and hold a clipboard for that one.
Finally, I had an epiphany. If I was going to spend the money, I should really be using that money for something truly worthwhile. Therefore, I'm going to start a fund so I can buy up all of these blank billboards and fill them with good, common sense zombie preparation tips. Just the basic stuff, like "Remember, an axe never needs to be reloaded." or "I know it looks like grandma, but better safe than sorry.". Maybe we can can get backing from Max Brooks. Bruce Campbell could be our spokesman. We could change the world people!
I...I may have finally found my purpose in life.
One of these things is billboards. First, a lot of billboards need to be worded better. I'll give you an example. On this drive, I pass by a billboard that tells me that every twenty minutes a child is diagnosed with autism, and every time I think to myself, "Well, maybe his parents ought to write it down or something so they can stop diagnosing him over and over. I mean, the kid's got to have better things to do that hanging around doctor's offices waiting to be diagnosed with autism again.". No, I do not think it in Seinfeld's voice.
More interesting to me though are the blank ones. Given the current economy, I see a lot of blanks that say "Your ad could be here for $500", and I think to myself, "Dude, I could find $500 for a billboard". Think about it. There's nothing that says that I, as a random yahoo, could not cough up the dough to get myself a prime piece of billboard space alongside interstate 94.
What does one do with such a space though? Well, my first idea was a straightforward ad for myself. Just a picture of me, perhaps in a suit, with a tagline like "Isn't it time you tried Roger?" or "Nine of ten doctors agree - Roger". Maybe instead I could use one of those really mysterious things that don't say anything at all but sound really interesting, like "Don't you owe it to yourself to know Roger?" or "Roger. Because you're worth it."
Because, really, aren't you?
Even better, I could use the space as a public service. "Roger says, 'Remember kids, when sharing the highway, try not to be a dick'." would be helpful for example. I also like "Studies show that male tailgating is a form of latent homosexuality." (That one came to mind during the drive home, when the car behind me was attempting to re-enact the Ned Beatty scene from Deliverance). I could wear a lab coat and hold a clipboard for that one.
Finally, I had an epiphany. If I was going to spend the money, I should really be using that money for something truly worthwhile. Therefore, I'm going to start a fund so I can buy up all of these blank billboards and fill them with good, common sense zombie preparation tips. Just the basic stuff, like "Remember, an axe never needs to be reloaded." or "I know it looks like grandma, but better safe than sorry.". Maybe we can can get backing from Max Brooks. Bruce Campbell could be our spokesman. We could change the world people!
I...I may have finally found my purpose in life.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Call Me When We're Back To Skinned Knees
Our entire family is sick. This is not unusual, and pretty well consists of the typical, long winter illnesses. I have a wicked sinus infection. My lovely wife and kids are working the sniffles, with an added cough for the Moose. No big deal.
Well yesterday I get a call at work from my lovely wife telling me the school nurse called about the Princess. She didn't sound especially freaked, so I knew my little girl was alright, and figured maybe she threw up or fell down or something. I wasn't thrilled with the idea, but I can handle it.
Instead, she reports that the Princess went to her teacher complaining that went she went potty, there was blood.
Again, my lovely wife's voice is calm, so I'm assuming that I'm not supposed to be freaking out. Internally, however, I was freaking the %#$@ out. As a guy, when I hear someone is urinating blood, I naturally assume that she's either been punched in the kidney or shanked (those elementary school playgrounds are a lot tougher than you think). Still, I took my cue from my wife's calm and asked how we should proceed.
She took our daughter to the pediatrician where it was declared that she's working a urinary tract infection. Apparently this is more common among the ladies, hence my wife's calm. She gets a prescription and a bottle of cranberry juice, and apparently all will be well.
I'm not sure what the lesson to take from all of this is. I guess it's that every time I get comfortable with the idea that I can handle the whole parenting thing, something shows up and reminds me that I am far from knowing everything I'm going to run up against. I'm just glad I have my lovely wife to supplement my feeble knowledge of this stuff. I mean, I would have found out eventually if I had taken her to the doctor myself.
There's a chance though that I would have shown her how to sharpen the end of a toothbrush and given her the talk about making your enemies suffer so as to not lose street cred first, and I really wanted to save that one until she's at least seven.
Well yesterday I get a call at work from my lovely wife telling me the school nurse called about the Princess. She didn't sound especially freaked, so I knew my little girl was alright, and figured maybe she threw up or fell down or something. I wasn't thrilled with the idea, but I can handle it.
Instead, she reports that the Princess went to her teacher complaining that went she went potty, there was blood.
Again, my lovely wife's voice is calm, so I'm assuming that I'm not supposed to be freaking out. Internally, however, I was freaking the %#$@ out. As a guy, when I hear someone is urinating blood, I naturally assume that she's either been punched in the kidney or shanked (those elementary school playgrounds are a lot tougher than you think). Still, I took my cue from my wife's calm and asked how we should proceed.
She took our daughter to the pediatrician where it was declared that she's working a urinary tract infection. Apparently this is more common among the ladies, hence my wife's calm. She gets a prescription and a bottle of cranberry juice, and apparently all will be well.
I'm not sure what the lesson to take from all of this is. I guess it's that every time I get comfortable with the idea that I can handle the whole parenting thing, something shows up and reminds me that I am far from knowing everything I'm going to run up against. I'm just glad I have my lovely wife to supplement my feeble knowledge of this stuff. I mean, I would have found out eventually if I had taken her to the doctor myself.
There's a chance though that I would have shown her how to sharpen the end of a toothbrush and given her the talk about making your enemies suffer so as to not lose street cred first, and I really wanted to save that one until she's at least seven.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
And To Think I Just Cut My Hair Short
As we come up on yet another Valentine's Day, I have decided that I want to work on being romantic. As such, I took advantage of having to wait for the pharmacy to open this morning so I could score more Sudafed and perused the selection of romance novels for sale at the grocery store. Unfortunately, I am saddled with sufficient dignity that I refuse to actually read said novels, so I am forced to base my potential upgrade purely on the covers.
The first thing I noticed was the lack of shirts. Despite popular opinion, women apparently don't really care for a well dressed man. Rather, they long for partially dressed men. Should a man choose to wear a shirt, that shirt should be unbuttoned at least down to his navel. What really struck me about this was that the other clothing worn was irrelevant. If, for example, you are a vampire prowling around on a damp summer evening (which is apparently sexy despite the fact that it's probably going to end with someone getting eaten) and you decide to throw on a trench coat to ward off the evening chill, you're not supposed to take the time to put a shirt on. Not a sartorial decision I would make, but I guess that why I am consistently overlooked in People's sexiest man alive issue. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that George Clooney probably constantly has a cold from going about half dressed all the time.
Okay, so I have to stop wearing so many shirts. I'm not really comfortable with that, but with dieting and exercise, I suppose I could learn to adapt. The real issue is that all the open shirts reveal the same thing - men who seem to completely lack body hair. I'm not sure what women have against chest hair, but on the novels I was looking at, there was nary a hair on the ten or fifteen bare chests I saw. Bizarre. I think I'll wait for an actual request from my good lady wife before I commit to the epic waxing that this would require.
The next big change, again based on the covers, is my demeanor. I try to be pretty laid back, and rely a lot on my sense of humor. Apparently this is a mistake. The key to being romantic is glowering. Fortunately for me, I've actually been working on this. I recently became aware of the fact that when I look at myself in the mirror, I tend to flex my jaw and narrow my eyes, probably due to subliminal training of mall posters and the very novels I'm referring to here. That or I'm angry with myself and, sometime in the near future, will bust out and kick my own ass. Only time will tell. Either way I need to start expressing such a dark demeanor to my lovely wife, as it is apparently very romantic.
Finally, I have another issue with my wardrobe. When shopping, I have, in the past, consistently chosen pants. Apparently this is a mistake, and I should have by now purchased several kilts. At least two of the covers featured long-haired Scotsman standing boldly in their kilts (and no shirt of course). I recall this coming up in The Thornbirds, but wrote it off at time. Clearly this was a mistake as it would seem that women find this romantic. After all, someone probably researches this stuff and writes based on that, right? Last I checked, sheep don't read, so someone must dig the kilt look.
So there you go fellas. I have done the research required to help shape us all into the romantic ideal that our women desire. We just need to shape ourselves into gloomy, kilt-wearing, freshly waxed, blousally challenged dreamboats.
Yeah...I think I'm going to just go with buying flowers or something.
The first thing I noticed was the lack of shirts. Despite popular opinion, women apparently don't really care for a well dressed man. Rather, they long for partially dressed men. Should a man choose to wear a shirt, that shirt should be unbuttoned at least down to his navel. What really struck me about this was that the other clothing worn was irrelevant. If, for example, you are a vampire prowling around on a damp summer evening (which is apparently sexy despite the fact that it's probably going to end with someone getting eaten) and you decide to throw on a trench coat to ward off the evening chill, you're not supposed to take the time to put a shirt on. Not a sartorial decision I would make, but I guess that why I am consistently overlooked in People's sexiest man alive issue. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that George Clooney probably constantly has a cold from going about half dressed all the time.
Okay, so I have to stop wearing so many shirts. I'm not really comfortable with that, but with dieting and exercise, I suppose I could learn to adapt. The real issue is that all the open shirts reveal the same thing - men who seem to completely lack body hair. I'm not sure what women have against chest hair, but on the novels I was looking at, there was nary a hair on the ten or fifteen bare chests I saw. Bizarre. I think I'll wait for an actual request from my good lady wife before I commit to the epic waxing that this would require.
The next big change, again based on the covers, is my demeanor. I try to be pretty laid back, and rely a lot on my sense of humor. Apparently this is a mistake. The key to being romantic is glowering. Fortunately for me, I've actually been working on this. I recently became aware of the fact that when I look at myself in the mirror, I tend to flex my jaw and narrow my eyes, probably due to subliminal training of mall posters and the very novels I'm referring to here. That or I'm angry with myself and, sometime in the near future, will bust out and kick my own ass. Only time will tell. Either way I need to start expressing such a dark demeanor to my lovely wife, as it is apparently very romantic.
Finally, I have another issue with my wardrobe. When shopping, I have, in the past, consistently chosen pants. Apparently this is a mistake, and I should have by now purchased several kilts. At least two of the covers featured long-haired Scotsman standing boldly in their kilts (and no shirt of course). I recall this coming up in The Thornbirds, but wrote it off at time. Clearly this was a mistake as it would seem that women find this romantic. After all, someone probably researches this stuff and writes based on that, right? Last I checked, sheep don't read, so someone must dig the kilt look.
So there you go fellas. I have done the research required to help shape us all into the romantic ideal that our women desire. We just need to shape ourselves into gloomy, kilt-wearing, freshly waxed, blousally challenged dreamboats.
Yeah...I think I'm going to just go with buying flowers or something.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
For My Next Trick, I'll Pull A Kidney Out Of My...Wait...What?
It's been a while since I brought you any truly bizarre news around here (yesterday didn't count - dammit, people are hurting out there), so let's rectify that today. According to the recent news, in an effort to make kidney donation less invasive, doctors successfully removed a donor's kidney through her vagina. Apparently, it heals faster and there is no visible scar ( or at least it isn't visible to anyone not packing a speculum).
As usual, what I really want to hear is the brainstorming session that came up with this:
Hmm. Well, I suppose if it convinces someone to donate that otherwise wouldn't, great. What throws me is this excerpt from another article on the subject:
You know what, if I was considering donating anything, and the doctor involved suggested that it might be better to remove the needed organ through my anus, I'll be out the door faster that George W. Bush at someone else's inauguration. I don't care about scar tissue or the pain involved. You are not pulling anything out of my heiny that was not previously a food product. That I ate no less.
And I'd still look damned fine in a bikini.
As usual, what I really want to hear is the brainstorming session that came up with this:
"I want to donate a kidney, but not if it's going to ruin bikini season."
"Well, what if we pulled your kidney out through your hoo-hah?"
"Oh, well that's different. Let's do this thing."
Hmm. Well, I suppose if it convinces someone to donate that otherwise wouldn't, great. What throws me is this excerpt from another article on the subject:
Dr. Anthony Kalloo, the director of the Division of Gastroenterology at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, has revealed that the operation conducted on January 29 was one of a family of new surgical procedures called natural orifice translumenal endoscopic surgeries (NOTES), which use a natural body opening to remove organs and tissue.
The pioneer of NOTES has also revealed that the most common openings used are the mouth, anus and vagina.
You know what, if I was considering donating anything, and the doctor involved suggested that it might be better to remove the needed organ through my anus, I'll be out the door faster that George W. Bush at someone else's inauguration. I don't care about scar tissue or the pain involved. You are not pulling anything out of my heiny that was not previously a food product. That I ate no less.
And I'd still look damned fine in a bikini.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Once Again, Seinfeld Proves Prophetic
In hard economic times, it's easy to forget that there are people out there who have troubles worse than your own. Today, I was reminded of a group of people who suffer quietly, a group who lives with unnecessary shame and degradation because of a society that puts too much pressure on looks. Even worse, this affliction affects only men, a group who is traditionally branded as "having it easy" because with age comes a supposed dashing maturity. Unfortunately, for millions, it's not so easy.
I am referring, of course, to Flappy Old Hootie syndrome, or FOH.
Once thought to be contained to areas of Florida and Southern California, it is now known that FOH strikes one out of every three men over 50*. These men have to hide their shame beneath baggy sweatshirts or multicolored sweaters, always fearing the discovery of their droopping moobs. Fortunately, the tireless work of the paparazzi has now made it public knowledge that even the manliest of men are likely to succumb to FOH.
So why is FOH such a difficult thing for men to deal with? Well, the fact is that while much attention is paid to the effects of media on the way women view themselves, little is said about the same thing with men. The truth is that men are faced with the same barrage of images that women face. Young, fit men lounging on beaches (including the American President), musclebound wrestlers oiled up and flexing, action stars tearing their shirts open, revealing their bulging, perfectly formed chests all put unrealistic expectations on our aging male population**.
Fortunately, some celebrities have stepped forward to aid in the cause. Even Ricardo Montalban, prior to his recent passing, confessed regret in agreeing to wear the prosthetic chest as Kahn in the second Star Trek film. He acknowledged the fact that it put unfair pressure on the already self-conscious nerd crowd to hide their FOH, an affliction Montalban himself lived with***.
Fortunately, there is hope. Huge advances have been made in the field of pectoral implants. Also, some cultures have begun to accept men's needs, and are now showing the support required. What's really needed, though, is public acknowledgment that FOH is a natural part of aging, and nothing to be ashamed of. Our older generation needs to be empowered to throw off their jerseys and flannel and proudly declare, "I am a man with flappy, old hooties, and I will not be ashamed anymore!".
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do a %#$@load of push ups.
*Facts quoted here are completely made up, and should be taken at least as seriously as any you might hear from, say, a talk radio pundit.
**Did that come off as a little gay? It did, didn't it?
***These statements are also false, and meant in jest. We here at DLOG have the utmost respect for Montalban, and hope that these statements are taken for the humor intended and will lead to neither lawsuits from his family or an ass kicking from William Shatner.
I am referring, of course, to Flappy Old Hootie syndrome, or FOH.
Once thought to be contained to areas of Florida and Southern California, it is now known that FOH strikes one out of every three men over 50*. These men have to hide their shame beneath baggy sweatshirts or multicolored sweaters, always fearing the discovery of their droopping moobs. Fortunately, the tireless work of the paparazzi has now made it public knowledge that even the manliest of men are likely to succumb to FOH.
So why is FOH such a difficult thing for men to deal with? Well, the fact is that while much attention is paid to the effects of media on the way women view themselves, little is said about the same thing with men. The truth is that men are faced with the same barrage of images that women face. Young, fit men lounging on beaches (including the American President), musclebound wrestlers oiled up and flexing, action stars tearing their shirts open, revealing their bulging, perfectly formed chests all put unrealistic expectations on our aging male population**.
Fortunately, some celebrities have stepped forward to aid in the cause. Even Ricardo Montalban, prior to his recent passing, confessed regret in agreeing to wear the prosthetic chest as Kahn in the second Star Trek film. He acknowledged the fact that it put unfair pressure on the already self-conscious nerd crowd to hide their FOH, an affliction Montalban himself lived with***.
Fortunately, there is hope. Huge advances have been made in the field of pectoral implants. Also, some cultures have begun to accept men's needs, and are now showing the support required. What's really needed, though, is public acknowledgment that FOH is a natural part of aging, and nothing to be ashamed of. Our older generation needs to be empowered to throw off their jerseys and flannel and proudly declare, "I am a man with flappy, old hooties, and I will not be ashamed anymore!".
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do a %#$@load of push ups.
*Facts quoted here are completely made up, and should be taken at least as seriously as any you might hear from, say, a talk radio pundit.
**Did that come off as a little gay? It did, didn't it?
***These statements are also false, and meant in jest. We here at DLOG have the utmost respect for Montalban, and hope that these statements are taken for the humor intended and will lead to neither lawsuits from his family or an ass kicking from William Shatner.
Monday, February 2, 2009
If You Read This In The Next Twenty Minutes, You Can Read It Again Totally For Free
As someone who doesn't watch a ton of television, I get to avoid a lot of commercials. Nevertheless, I am of course familiar with Billy Mays, the huckster of such products as Orange Glo and OxiClean, the latter of which has saved countless outfits that my offspring has attempted to destroy. Billy, with his endless enthusiasm and clean cut look, has come to be someone I listen to, someone who I will almost trust when he's pushing a product.
Just look how happy he is, and this is over an OxiClean Ball thing. I don't get that excited for my birthday, and I %#$@ing love my birthday.
There is, however, a new act in town, and I think he may be on to something. I refer to one Vince Offer, the man who initially pushed the ShamWow, and now can be seen shilling the SlapChop. Vince brings something new to the game. He talks fast. He moves around too much. He acts like you're a shmoe for having not ordered yet. I listen for about five seconds before I know you can't trust him.
But I still listen.
Have a look at the man selling the SlapChop. It's such a load. All of your troubles will melt away now that you can...I don't know. Cut stuff I guess.
I love the contrast between these two guys. Mays is the sort of person you can count on. You would call him for advice. He would help you move or install a toilet. He's someone you could ask about taxes or the best car to buy. You would trust your kids with him.
If I needed to call someone from jail, however, I'm guessing that Offer is the guy who would have the necessary knowledge.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to cast aspersions on the guys character necessarily. I'm just thinking he'd be more fun to go to the bar with. He knows where you can get a good burger at two thirty in the morning. He's the guy you want running co-op in Halo. He's funnier. I mean come on, the guy worked the phrase, "You're gonna love my nuts." into a nationally run commercial, and don't tell me it was an accident. That was art.
Anyway, I look forward to seeing if his brand of hucksterism will catch on. His act is so ridiculously transparent that one has to assume that it's intentional. I wonder at what point he and Billy will be competing for sponsors.
What I really wonder, though, is who would Ron Popeil pass his torch (or Showtime Rotisserie) to.
Just look how happy he is, and this is over an OxiClean Ball thing. I don't get that excited for my birthday, and I %#$@ing love my birthday.
There is, however, a new act in town, and I think he may be on to something. I refer to one Vince Offer, the man who initially pushed the ShamWow, and now can be seen shilling the SlapChop. Vince brings something new to the game. He talks fast. He moves around too much. He acts like you're a shmoe for having not ordered yet. I listen for about five seconds before I know you can't trust him.
But I still listen.
Have a look at the man selling the SlapChop. It's such a load. All of your troubles will melt away now that you can...I don't know. Cut stuff I guess.
I love the contrast between these two guys. Mays is the sort of person you can count on. You would call him for advice. He would help you move or install a toilet. He's someone you could ask about taxes or the best car to buy. You would trust your kids with him.
If I needed to call someone from jail, however, I'm guessing that Offer is the guy who would have the necessary knowledge.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to cast aspersions on the guys character necessarily. I'm just thinking he'd be more fun to go to the bar with. He knows where you can get a good burger at two thirty in the morning. He's the guy you want running co-op in Halo. He's funnier. I mean come on, the guy worked the phrase, "You're gonna love my nuts." into a nationally run commercial, and don't tell me it was an accident. That was art.
Anyway, I look forward to seeing if his brand of hucksterism will catch on. His act is so ridiculously transparent that one has to assume that it's intentional. I wonder at what point he and Billy will be competing for sponsors.
What I really wonder, though, is who would Ron Popeil pass his torch (or Showtime Rotisserie) to.
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