Oh, And The Memories.

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

• Enjoying an obscene amount of food with my family


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


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


• My entire family remains both healthy and stunningly attractive


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


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


• Facebook allowing me to keep track of old friends


• Fart jokes (and by association, Wondermark)


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


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


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


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


• Tofurkey - no, two Tofurkeys



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


• Monkeys


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

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

What's So Good About Grief Anyway?

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

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

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

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



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

Actually, That Is The Droid I'm Looking For

Someone has stolen a droid.



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

My God, what if they come for Hermie?



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

Dear Candy Industry,

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

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

This will not do.

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



Sincerely,
Your Friends At Dangerously Low On Grog

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

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

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

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

Okay, now stop it.



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

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

I Should Be Grateful They Work At Softsoap and Not Massengill

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey Baby, Wanna Split a Jalapeno?

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

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

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

The Power Of The Net, Corrupted Absolutely

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

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

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

The Happy Dance Was Legendary

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

First, the winner:

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

And then the rest:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

It Felt Like Success, But It's Snot

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

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

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