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.