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

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

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

Huh.

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

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

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

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

Why Do You Blush Whenever I'm Carrying Chapstick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do not abide by this.

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

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

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

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

I feel it was a righteous maneuver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


• You are likely to be eaten by a grue.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


• Do you smell something?


• Have you ever wondered what asphalt tastes like?


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


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

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

Hey Hey Hey, It's Diiiiiabetes!

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

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

I speak of course, of Fat Albert.

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

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



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

Bill Cosby, what have you wraught?

Parenting: A Haiku

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

Wouldn't Want Him Soiling His Legend of Zelda Underwear

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

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

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

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

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

Brief Lies: Ending The Argument

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

Except this time, something changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Still Informative Though

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

http://www.sheldoncomics.com

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

Of Course Heavy Medication Isn't Out Of The Question

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

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

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

That's just cruel.

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

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

I Just Said I Love You. I Think.

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

Apparently, when I'm sleeping, I click.

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



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

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

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

As a Former Ninja, This Disgusts Me

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

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



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



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

I Really Thought the Little Clown Costumes Would Have Done It

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

The 1812 Overture Would Totally Work As Well

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

Thunderstruck seems fitting.

Not That I Don't Value Your Opinion, Internet

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

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

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

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

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

Sweater vests?

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

On second thought, don't answer that.

DLOG Presents: Debate Tips

Once in a while, I like to offer a little bit of the wisdom I've gathered through the years on this site. I was recently reminded of my prowess where public debates are concerned, and have decided that you good people could benefit from my experience. So, without further ado, I present:

Dangerously Low On Grog's Debate Tips

• Always start by researching your topic well. Try to use encyclopedias, professional journals, or books on the subject. Avoid using less reputable information sources such a Wikipedia, your cousin Ray Ray, or Fox News.
  


• Never let the exchange devolve into personal attacks unless the attacks directly relate to the debate. (Who could forget the great Lincoln-Douglas "Does Stephan Douglas have the biggest damned head in the world?" debate in which Lincoln famously said "A house divided, not unlike Douglas buckling under the crippling weight of his ponderous cranium, cannot stand"?)
  
  


• Try and not fart. If you do fart, attempt to maintain composure. No one ever won a debate while hiding behind their note cards, red faced and giggling like an idiot.
  


• Stay on topic, addressing your opponents points in a direct and straightforward manner. If you find you cannot contend any point directly, shoryukun.
  
  


• Like any public speaking occasion, don't be afraid to use your whole body when presenting your case. This is especially true for debate, where a particularly important point can be emphasized by the all important "jazz hands".
  


• Gentlemen, remember that a debate is meant to be an exchanging of ideas. Do not set out to prove that you are the better man. As such, it is never considered an appropriate response to put it on the table and look at your opponent, saying, "You got anything to say about that? Yeah, I didn't think so". (Incidentally, this is what cost me a win during high school forensics. On the bright side, he really didn't have anything to say about it, so it was still a moral victory.)
  

Follow these tips, and you too can become a master debater like myself.

It's An Upgrade!

Because the search functionality remains spotty, I've added a label menu so you can find some of my favorite posts by topic. That way, those that come here for the bathroom humor and zombie advice can skip all the other stuff. Enjoy!

Just Don't Bring Up The Environment And Your Golden

Assuming you haven't been living under a rock for the past few weeks, you've probably caught wind of the brouhaha that has been the health care protests. Essentially, town hall meetings all over the country are being disrupted by loud protesters who are touting claims of "death councils" and painting swastikas on public buildings. Unfortunately, this is now the cynosure of the national coverage, rather than the points being made on the other side of the debate, and today I realized why.

Conservatives, I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to come right out with it: you guys suck at protests.

It's not your fault. While protesting has been a hallmark of the American experience since the Boston Tea Party, for the last sixty or seventy years all the really good protest topics seem to have fallen on the liberals side. War protests. Equality protests. Workers' rights protests. The fact is, you guys are totally out of training for this sort of thing.

Now you guys are out of power, and naturally you turn to this established tradition to be heard. You wanted to be heard on the issues of taxes, a perfectly justifiable concern given the agenda of the new President, but a lack of research meant that you allowed the term "teabagging" to be associated with the protests, thus turning a protest movement into an off-color joke. Now you want to stem health care reform, but any real protest is being drowned out by people equating Obama with Hitler, which just makes you all look like kooks. Between this and leaving trails that show some protesters being shills for insurance companies or Republicans (or as it's being referred to now, "Astroturfed"), the protests are losing all of their meaning.

Do the liberals do the same thing? Of course they do - it would be naive to think otherwise. They're just better at it.

So, how do you solve the problem? It's simple - you guys need some hippies. Seriously, who knows more about protests that hippies? Now this is going to be no small task, what with the difficulty in finding conservative hippies, but I'm sure you guys can put your heads together and come up with something. If nothing else, you can offer them lots of money for consulting, or if that fails to sway them offer to build a Whole Foods near them or maybe start a patchouli farm. They eat that stuff up.

So there you go. Get yourself some expert advice, and try this thing again. I'm sure with a little coaching, you guys could be putting together protests that actually sway opinions instead of just supplying MSNBC and Fox News with soundbites and annoying the rest of us. You can do it, you guys! Now get out there and try again.

Oh, and if you follow my advice and get the hippies, stick to your own food unless they bring brownies, but by all means, try the brownies.

Mo' Money, Mo' Problems

Recently, in an effort to stem sales being lost be counterfeiting, Gucci decided to sue credit processing companies for processing payments for fake Gucci products. They claim that the companies "not only supply the necessary marketplace for such transactions, they are full partners in those counterfeiting activities". Therefore it's perfectly reasonable to seek damages from these companies, who some would claim are just providing a service unrelated to the products being sold.

Me personally, I'm glad to see Gucci take this initiative. Too long have we coddled groups that enable criminal activity just because they were "doing their job". I mean, if you're going to provide the means for people to pay for such transactions, then clearly you are complicit in said transactions. In fact, this has inspired me to start a movement to take down he real enablers of criminal activity in this world.

I speak of course, of Government.

Seriously, Government thinks they can print and distribute money with no thought about how that money might be used. New flash: almost all criminal activity directly revolves around money one way or another. Back when people were bartering for chickens, there was a whole lot less mugging going on. If not for all this money the Government has distributed, there wouldn't be nearly the levels of extortion, burglary, theft, drug dealing, etc. Clearly, the Government is the greatest enabler of crime that our time has ever seen.

There will, of course, be naysayers. They'll say that the Government is simply providing a service, and that the Government cannot be held responsible for the fact that some people will abuse the freedom that money offers. Well tough. If those bleeding-heart liberals care more about their ability to pay for a tall latte with a five dollar bill with no concern that the same bill could eventually be used to buy a vial of crack for some kid, then their priorities are far too askew to even consider their opinions valid. Why won't they think of the children? Take the cash out of the equation, and it becomes clear what we have to do.

Crack houses don't take other dealers operating in their turf, and they don't take American Express.

My Family, Now Brought To You By Tampax

Like a lot of people, I've been thinking of ways to bring in more money. I'm not hurting or anything, but a little extra cash is always welcome. Unfortunately, this is difficult because people like money, so no one wants to give me any of theirs, and I don't know anyone about to croak, so inheritance is out. Then I had a brilliant idea.

I can sell advertising on my car.

Seriously, people pay all kinds of money to pay for ads on race cars, and that's a total waste. First, they're all packed with ads, so you don't typically see any of them but the biggest ones. Second, all the cars are covered in ads, so it's not like your ad stands out. Add to that that a lot of people would rather eat their feet than watch cars turn left for hours on end, and you can see that this is not money well spent.

My car, on the other hand, drives all over the place. Well, in lower Michigan anyway. Okay, it's mostly just the school/work/grocery store route, but hey, that could be great for local shops. My car is a bright, attention getting red. I'm a law abiding citizen, so there's no risk of their store being associated with criminal activity. More importantly, I have almost no pride left, so I'm happy advertising any damned thing short of a strip club (sorry, but I drive kids around, and that's just not right). Add to that a built in attractive family just like on TV, and you've got a solid gold premise here.

So, if you're looking for a new and exciting way to get word out about your business, shoot me an email. We'll arrange terms, and next thing you know you'll have a traveling billboard like no one else. Just think of the word of mouth that will be generated at my job, the grocery store, and the local schools when I pull through with your business emblazoned on the side of my car.

Of course I should probably run all of this by my lovely wife first, but what are the odds that she would mind riding in a car that says "Mountain Dew" on the side?

UPDATE:
Holy cow, this is a real thing. I guess that's what I get for not researching before I post.

So You Wanna Start a Cult

So, you've decided that you have the charm and charisma stats, and the time is right to start your own cult. You're tempted by the siren song of rabid followers who will do your bidding without question. Who wouldn't be, right? Well, as someone who has his own aspirations of world domination, I'm done some research and I'm here to give you some helpful suggestions when starting this endeavor.

1. No Dress Codes
For some reason, this is the first mistake a lot of cult leaders make. They start out strong with the whole "the beast has shown me the light and told me to share it with the world" pitch, but then move too quickly into whether or not pants are allowed. Most people, for whatever reason, like to dress themselves, and allowing them this freedom will net you more rabid followers. This is doubly true for forcing bad haircuts onto people. Trust me - no one wants to join The Alliance of the Golden Mullet.



2. Don't Advocate Violence
As a cult leader, you really shouldn't be advocating breaking the law in any manner, but for some reason this is another huge mistake a lot of otherwise successful cult leaders make. You get a good sized group of people who heed your every word, and then you get the cockamamie idea of having them hurt someone. This is a terrible idea. I realize that a lot of cult leader wannabes are really rage-filled shells desperate for the love and attention they missed out on by being a fat kid (one wonders how different history would be had the other schoolyard children not referred to him as "Ass The Size Of Branson Manson", but I digress), but really, you need to learn to let that go. These poeple love you now, or think they do anyway, and that should be enough. Besides, people don't usually like to hurt each other, and it irritates the Government, a sure way to lose any tax-free status that you would otherwise enjoy.

3. Don't Ask Anyone To Castrate Themselves
You know, I would think this one could go without saying, but I've been wrong before. It's one thing to convince a group of otherwise reasonable people that the comet that will pass by the Earth in a few weeks is actually an alien craft here to rescue the true believers. A lot of people are stupid, and would jump at the chance to perish in an effort to join these aliens (I'm not sure why everyone seems to assume things would be better with aliens, who last I checked are still best known for probing people without permission). Ending the pitch, however, with "So, you just need a new pair of Nikes, and then you've gotta cut your %#$@s off" is going to lose you a lot of followers. A lot of people are stupid, but not crazy.

So there you go - a few helpful hints to start you on your way. Of course, if you're really that charming and charismatic, maybe you could just go out and make some freinds. Take up bowling perhaps. After all, having a cult is a lot of work and responsibility, and not everyone is up to the challenge. But who knows, with hard work and dedication, you could be the next L. Ron Hubbard.

I figure if I make fun of him enough, I'll at least get the traffic from the Scientologists plotting my demise. Hi Tom!

We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Blog...

Dangerously Low On Grog is taking a brief hiatus while the author staves off an illness and gets his %#@$ together. During this time, we encourage you to browse the extensive archives or look at the posts I like the best. I would suggest the search box, but that's currently broken and hopefully being looked at by our good friends at Google.

Here In The Hall Of Heads

There was this time a few weeks ago where I was having gastrointestinal issues. I dealt with them by taking a couple of laxatives. Then I forgot about it and made lunch, which consisted of a couple of spicy, black bean burgers covered in yellow peppers and hot deli mustard.

Now, thanks to these people, that is no longer the worst idea ever.

The good people at Cremation Solutions have come up with a...novel way of storing your loved ones. They take a photograph of the deceased, put it into a machine, and produce a three-dimensional replica of their head, that you then put their ashes into. If this sounds creepy, believe me when I tell you I'm not doing it justice. This is the actual promotional picture from the linked web site:



Now, there are currently a few kinks to the system. First, they don't do hair, so if the deceased isn't bald, you'll probably want to spring for a wig. Also, if you decide to go this way yourself, you'll probably want to be very specific about what you want done with it and leave it with someone you trust. No one wants to spend the afterlife wondering if the container for their ashes is being decorated in drag queen makeup and donning a "Boob Inspector" cap.

There are benefits, though. I mean, when I went to dad's funeral and saw the box they threw him in, my first thought was that it looked like something you'd keep jewelry in. At least here, there's nothing ambiguous about it. Plus, this way you would get to double as an attractive and effective Halloween decoration, which is cool and a lot easier than my plan of paying some neighborhood kids a couple hundred bucks to go put a plastic arm sticking out of my grave each year after I go (heh). I'm even considering trying to convince my lovely wife that maybe when she passes, this may be the best way to handle the arrangements.

That way, even though she would be gone, I could still admire her bust.

Kalamazoo - Go Be Fabulous Somewhere Else

Today I got word that my old stomping ground of Kalamazoo, Michigan has managed to get a petition put forth to repeal measures that made it illegal to discriminate against homosexuals for housing and employment purposes. Yes, in a time of unprecedented change and social progress, Kalamazoo has a group of concerned citizens who are actively fighting the powers that be, powers that tried to prevent them from discriminating against others. Way to fight the man, keeping you down, so you can, you know, keep those others down.

Personally, I don't think they're going far enough. For example, why not take the natural next step and put together a petition to end women's suffrage? Surely the good people of Kalamazoo are concerned with suffraging women, right? Besides, something has to be done. I worked with all sorts of women in Kalamazoo, and not one ever offered to bring me a cup of coffee or make me a pie. You can do better than that, Kalamazoo.



The real shame here is that during these hard economic times, there's not a realistic opportunity to take the really big steps. You know, fund putting in the duplicate drinking fountains and restrooms. You know, for them. You guys could truly be playing this old school if not for the whole "we've got like two big companies in town, and they're mostly skilled at layoffs" thing.

What the...aw Hell. I just blew another sarcasm fuse. See what you've gone and made me do? I hope you're happy with yourself. Now I can't be sarcastic again until I get to the hardware store. I guess I'll just have to take comfort first in that I got out, and second that when someone passed around a petition asking people in your town if they were ignorant bigots, only a couple thousand people were willing to go on record in agreement.

Now, Kalamazoo, you go and think about what you've done.

The Birthers Got Nothin' On Me

Once again, despite my best efforts, I have allowed information about politics to enter my brain. I would blame my wife and her habit of putting on MSNBC when we go to bed, but that doesn't work because a) she's not forcing me to listen to it and b)my wife has no natural faults, and blaming her for something suggests otherwise. Regardless of how this came to pass, I'm forced to face yet another mountain of ignorance, this time in the form of "birthers".

Birthers, for those whose wives do not control the remote at bedtime, are the group who insist that Barack Obama is not qualified to be President of the USA because he is not a natural born citizen. Some claim they'll be quiet when they see his birth certificate (the link is his Certificate of Live Birth, which is apparently something else). Others claim even that won't change things, because his father was not a citizen, so that disqualifies him.

I'm not going to sit here and pick these people apart for the same reason that I don't pick on my daughter for believing in fairies: the sensible among us know better, and we're the majority. Rather, I'm kind of wondering at how something like this gains traction. We've discussed individual yahoos before, but really, what does it take for these loons to unite into a full blown...I'm not sure what the proper term is for a group of yahoos. A flock? A bushel? An asylum? Yes, that sounds right. What does it take for a weird idea to amass a full blown asylum of yahoos to argue for it?

Things like this always resurface my temptation to start a completely unfounded rumor here on DLOG, just to see how far I could get it. Originally I was going to go for something in the movie industry. Speculation on Batman villains is always a hot topic (Neil Patrick Harris as the Riddler - you heard it here first). Now, however, I'm thinking of something more nefarious. I mean, at this point these people seem willing to believe anything, so I could really go to town, and as long as it get's picked up by the right yahoo, we could be making history here.

Tomorrow on DLOG: I'm pretty sure Barack Obama has a tattoo on his left butt cheek of Stalin sitting on a throne with his feet on the back of Ronald Reagan dressed in a gimp suit with a ball-gag in his mouth, and I refuse to believe otherwise until he gives an address that involves him mooning the entire press corps.

Alternate Definition: An Amputee Lap Dance

As I was walking out of our local grocery store, my eye was drawn to the big bulletin board where people post ads and business cards and whatnot. Right in the middle was an ad for stump grinding. I recalled my father-in-law saying something about having someone out to grind a stump once, and was reminded that I have no idea what the heck that means.

I know that the idea is that a tree stump is to be removed, but what an odd term. A quick Googling reveals that stump grinding involves someone taking a big, scary machine that basically chews up the stump into wood shavings. Apparently, like most household chores that involve big, scary machines, it's best to hire a professional. Fair enough. It was true when I tried to build my own giant robot, so I'll assume it's true for this too.



I have to say thought that, like most things I learn the truth about, I'm a little disappointed. I had assumed that stump grinding involved dancing in an overtly sensual manner while rubbing up against the stump. I figured once you did it long enough, the stump would simply become uncomfortable to the point where it just went away.

That's how it always worked with the girls in high school anyways.

Or I Could Write A Script That Adds The Current Zombie Alert Level

When I got my iPhone, it came with an automatic email signaure. For those of you that aren't tied to a computer that you carry around and pretend it's a phone, people who send emails from their phone set these up. As I recall, all it said was something like "Sent from my iPhone", which struck me as kind of obnoxious. It was like I was sending an advertisement with every message. "This email brought to you by the good people at Apple and their amazing iPhone technology."

Blech.

I looked around a bit, and found that this is actually standard fare. I think the idea is to let people know that you're sending the email from your mobile device in an effort to get some slack on bad spelling or brevity. Some of them are quite explicit about this, going all "please excuse any misspellings or terseness", which I frankly find to be a bit silly. I mean, you went out and bought the thing because it has a full keyboard and sends email, and then immediately use it as an excuse to be lazy. My personal feeling is that if you're sending a message, you can take the time to check it for spelling. If you don't have that kind of time, perhaps you should put the phone down and focus on driving your damned car instead.

I suppose that there are times when you need to send out a quick message, but those aren't really the kind of situations that allow for a canned response, right? Maybe just in case I should set up an automatic signature on my phone after all. That way, if I do find myself in one of these situations, I'll be ready. What do you think of this:

Please excuse any errors in my English or spelling, but if you see such errors, there's a pretty good chance I'm actually bound and gagged and managed to type out this message with my nose while holding my iPhone between my knees. You might consider calling the police, especially if I misuse "your" and "you're", which even a failed English major knows is completely unacceptable and frankly frustrates me to the point where just reading it makes me want to punch a kitten.

You know, I think I'm probably just better off without one after all.

Because Really, With a New Baby What Else Are People Going To Spend Money On

Today, as of roughly 12:19 AM, I became an uncle. Now, I just came off of a big birthday weekend, what with the Princess turning seven yesterday and having not one but two parties, so I'm in a birthday mindset. The thing is, I realized that they make all kinds of birthday card except one. So once again, it's up to me to state the obvious, million-dollar idea, and then count on the kindness of others (not to mention the ever present threat of litigation) to keep it safe: actual birth day cards.



Why not cards for the actual day of your birth? Why wait for a year to pass when you could start celebrating right freaking now? So, here are a few ideas I've been tossing around for actual birth day cards:

[Front] We welcome you to the world, a being of complete purity and innocence who can not even concieve of judgment
[Inside] Which is good, because just between us your mom and dad aren't going to know what the Hell they're doing for a while.

[Front] We welcome a new American to the land where you can be anything you want to be.
[Inside] Now when can you start? We've got a lot of old people to feed.

[Front] Happy birthday, little baby. I can't wait to teach you all sorts of games...
[Inside] Which you need, because that last hour of labor? Worst game of peek-a-boo ever.

[Front] Happy birthday! Enjoy this time when all your needs will be taken care of without question.
[Inside] Seriously, when you're grown up you have to pay extra if you want a diaper change, and even then they'll give you looks.

[Front] I will have the image of the first time I saw your sweet face forever burned into my memory.
[Inside] Now if only it didn't involve your sweet face pushing through your mom's vagoo.

Remember folks, you see one of these in a Hallmark, you let me know and we'll share the settlement.

I'm Suprised Deniro Isn't In There

Okay, I'm going to give you a list of actors and actresses, and you tell me what they all have in common. Ready?

Tracy Morgon, comedian, actor and Saturday Night Live Alumni.

Sam Rockwell, an actor know for being featured in popular independant films.

Steve Buscemi, a genius known for playing the nervous and paranoid in such films as Reservoir Dogs, The Big Lebowski, and Fargo.

Penelope Cruz, an actress that, having claimed critical acclaim in her home of Spain followed suit here in the USA.

Jon Favreau, actor, screenwriter and director whose credits include writing Swingers and directing one of last year's biggest hit, Iron Man

Nicolas Cage, a household name whose nearly thirty year career has seen him in some of the biggest movies produced.

Did you guess that they are all award winners? Well, that's absolutely true I suppose. Maybe you went with them all being big players in their particular scene, which I guess I would also have to agree with. Neither of these is what I'm thinking of, however.

No, what I was thinking of is that they are all playing rodents in G-Force, Disney's latest theatrical romp, that revolves around a troupe of secret agent guinea pigs, give or take a robotic fly or a mole. That's pretty much what I know about it, having managed to ignore most of the ads up until yesterday when the Disney Channel was running one of their long commercials for it. That was when I realized what kind of cast they had nabbed for themselves.



Now I can't say I'm surprised that once again Disney has opted for name recognition over professional voice actors. Disappointed maybe, but not surprised. No, what's throwing me here is that combining talking rodents with this particular group just seems so...disparate. I mean, I admit I don't see a lot of movies, and I tend to stick to the best reviewed stuff, so maybe they have fallen further than I knew, but these are people I associate with works of skill, things that made me laugh or cry or think, or at the very least entertained the Hell out of me. And Tracy Morgan.

Now they're doing rodent voices for Disney.

Now I'm not hating on Disney. You all know I just came back from a rocking vacation that they had a big part in. Between that and the joy they bring my kids, I'm pretty happy with them as a company, and would not ever do anything to cast aspersions on them. Plus I really like Jonas, and I'm not ashamed to say so. (Okay, I'm a little ashamed, but ^#%$ it, it's funny.) But how they pulled together these people is a mystery to me.

Maybe they payed them all a ton of money. Maybe they've all had kids now and they're trying to win favor this way. Maybe someone at Disney has compromising photos of them all at an Oscar party (fingers crossed). I just don't know. Whatever it is, the casting has had the odd effect of taking a movie that I had absolutely no interest in seeing whatsoever, and making me curious. You don't suppose...I mean, that can't be their intention, can it?

Either way, I think I'll wait for the sequel, G-Force 2: Kicking It In Gere.

Yo Quiero...Paz

I dedicate today's blog to the passing of a great American talent. The recent rash of celebrity deaths (not to be mistaken with the recent rash of celebrity rashes) can be overwhelming, and some of the lesser players may not get the press of a Walter Cronkite of Michael Jackson. This would be a true injustice in this case, as the death involved one of my personal favorite television personalities.

I speak, of course, of Gidget, the Taco Bell chihuahua.



Gidget effected me in a way that no commercial spokesdog had done before. She was a Mexican chihuahua, I am part Mexican. She wanted Taco Bell, I wanted Taco Bell. She spoke to chubby guys who were clearly stoned out of their gourds, I was a chubby guy who...wanted Taco Bell.

It was like she was talking just to me.

Let us not forget that in addition to her work for the Bell, Gidget took on other work in an effort to help her Hollywood friends. Oh sure, she put together an ad for Godzilla, who didn't really need the help, but she also stepped forward and came out of retirement when she heard her friend the Geiko gecko was going to replaced by a platypus (apparently testing showed that the platypus would appeal to cross markets, covering mammal lovers, duck lovers, and people like me who just find them delightfully ridiculous). Don't even get me started about how she carried Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blond 2. I hope the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences hangs its collective head in shame for that little oversight.



And so it was with a heavy heart that I donned my Yo Quiero Taco Bell shirt this morning. I wear it for the little soul that gave so much of herself to bring joy to others. I can only hope that she has found peace in a land of squeaky toys and all the burritos she can eat.



Vaya con Dios, perrita con mucho talento. Vaya con Dios.

I Don't Want The Web, I Just Want Your Half

Some of you may have noticed the new link to the left where I'm asking you to vote for my entry in a writing contest over at Telltale Games. If you're anything like me, you're pausing to look at the back of your hands right now, fingers together with thumbs outstretched to determine which forms an "L" and is therefore your left. That's fine...we'll wait. Got it? Okay then, carrying on.

So, I threw the link up in an effort to push myself into the new Monkey Island game, what with me having a natural stake in it and all (this blog, for those who don't know, gets its name from the original Secret of Monkey Island). Unfortunately, I realized that while this blog gets decent traffic, that is not going to be enough to tip the scales in my favor. What's worse is that there is a chance that this contest might not be decided on the actual quality of the entry, but rather who can influence the most people to go vote for them through some other fealty.

I started ticking through my own resources. I posted the link twice to Facebook, which will get me a subset of the sixty or so people I'm connected to there (so three). I put the link over on Halforum, where I know I picked up a couple of hits from the people I haven't managed to annoy yet. Still, this seems decidedly lacking in numbers. I mean, if I'm ever going to successfully overthrow the worlds leaders and force everyone to recognize me as their supreme lord, you'd think I'd be better at attracting hordes. Seriously, I couldn't even start a cult with these numbers, and I'm way more pretty and charismatic that L. Ron Hubbard was.



So now, I have to figure out how to increase my online presence. Twitter is probably out, as being brief isn't exactly my strong suit. I already have the RSS feed at the bottom of the blog which you've all subscribed to lest you miss one of these delightful and fascinating posts. I've included a bevy of "Share This" links so you can all share your favorite posts (or my favorite posts) with friends via Facebook, Digg, and now even Twitter, links that you're all using, right? Right?

Come one people, what does it say about the state of the world if we can't unite a simple legion of followers through snarky remarks and occasional bathroom humor?

I Motion That You STFU

I'm officially back to not wanting to see anything having to do with politics thanks to this whole Sotomayor business. As I was listening to another Republican bring up the "wise Latina" bit for the fiftieth time (I suspect that the plan was to annoy her until she decided it wasn't worth it), I realized once again that this whole confirmation process that was being televised had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not she would be confirmed. In fact, it had nothing to do with her at all. It was just another opportunity for a handful of Republicans to make sure that they spouted the correct talking points so they could be seen on Fox News fighting the good fight.

Let's not single out the Republicans either. I heard an interview on NPR the other day with Nancy Pelosi where the interviewer was asking about the whole "did the CIA mislead you" thing. Pelosi, who had no qualms about outright saying that they did previously, not only dodged the question, but got outright rude about it, making it perfectly clear that she was there intending to discuss...well frankly, I didn't give a damn by then. What was clear was that she wanted to, again, cover a handful of talking points that her side had agreed on and then get out of there.

I guess what's bothering me is that you can't get away with that in the private sector. I'm trying to imagine team meeting where my manager asks how my project is going, and instead of answering, I point out that while we could discuss my current work, I'm really more concerned about the overall health of our team and think we should start planning a fitness program for us. If she tried to get the meeting back on topic, I may very well accuse her of not caring about our well being in addition to being prejudiced against fat people, not because I actually believe she's prejudiced against fat people (although in all fairness, I've never asked), but because later when she's trying to accuse me of being non-productive, I can bring it up and try to spin it as her just not liking me due to lack of fitness, which is of course totally unfair as I'm a programmer and our version of physically fit is "not immediately mistaken for a walrus".

Goo goo g'joob.

Anyway, I'm guessing that such a derailment would get me a talking to, and for good reason. In the real world, if you're not there to get something done (or occasionally digress the situation for a momentary snicker or two, something I will happily admit to doing), you're generally invited to get the Hell out. For some reason, we don't expect the same from many of our public servants, who seem perfectly happy using whatever platform they see fit to discuss affirmative action or health care or Argentinian soul mates or whatever damned thing that comes to mind. If these people really need an outlet for spouting this stuff off, they should all get blogs and keep their work time to actual work.

Well, that or all public hearing and conferences should be held in internet forums, where such derailment is expected and can be swiftly dealt with with an appropriate image.

R2's Got Nards?

We have someone in my pod of cubicles who places small toys randomly around the room. This may sound strange, but I find it vaguely comforting, as it means I'm not the only one with toys at the office. Anyway, last week, one of the tiny ducks on someone's wall picked up a companion in the form of an R4-E1 unit.



Someone referred to it as R2, and while I tried my best to suppress it, my inner nerd spilled forth. I pointed out that it couldn't be an R2 unit because the top would be round like R2-D2's (it turns out that this isn't entirely true, thus adding to my immense body of useless knowledge). Compounding the error, it bothered me that I couldn't tell them what the actual model was, so I applied my Google Fu which led to Wookiepedia and the entry for the R4-E1 Unit. While perusing the entry and sharing my new found knowledge with my cubemates, I came across the following words, which stopped me dead: "Masculine Programming".

Whaaaaaa?

Apparently, astromech droids were assigned genders, which makes no sense to me. I mean I can see C-3PO, who actually had a humanoid shape and a voice, needing a gender assigned. It would probably be quite confusing if someone tacked on a pair of tin jubblies and then gave him a voice like Barry White. Identity issues would abound (not to mention what that would have done to Anakin's already troubled formative years).

The astromech droids, on the other hand, have as much sexual presence as a mini-fridge, which is to say none (feel free to keep your disagreements on this point to yourselves). Nevertheless, it turns out that they all had a gender programming, including our beloved R2-D2. Even stranger is that when I inquired if my cohorts had ever considered R2 as a male or a female, one replied that he had always thought of R2 as a guy, and oddly enough, I found I did too.

So now I'm trying to figure out if I think of R2-D2 as a guy because I'm a guy projecting myself onto it, or if it's behaviors were somehow male. I don't recall any belching or R2 watching sports, so that doesn't help. I guess I should ask some women what they thought to see if that changes things. Feel free to comment with your own observations.

Either way, one this is for sure: now I'm going to feel a little dirty every time I see R2 interface with another machine.

Why Do All My Life Plans Sound Like Sitcom Premises?

There are times where I grow desperate with my situation, times when I feel the need to change something drastic. Given the fact that I'm not the "abandon your family to wander the Earth, meet people and have adventures like Caine from Kung Fu" type, this leaves me with pondering a career change. Specifically, I'm thinking about starting my own business.

Now I know a lot of people start their own business only to fail spectacularly, but I think I've got a winning angle. First, I've considered what I like to do most. Realizing that no one is going to pay me to play video games and drink, I'm forced to look at my second option, which is writing. Now I could cover the edges of this here blog with ads and wait until this thing reaches enough mass to cover my expenses, but I seem to pick up an average of one reader every couple of months, and frankly I don't have that kind of time, so we're talking freelance writer. I've won contests for writing blurbs before - maybe I could make it work as a career.

Of course it would take time for people to realize my mad wordsmithing skills, and this is where my genius kicks in. See, I would combine the business to use my current skills and my new goal to offer multiple services. So I would have a freelance writer/web development business. The only issue with that is that it seems off-kilter somehow with the two services.

And that's why you add "Detective Agency".

So there it is. I'll start scoping out locations for the new Dangerously Low On Grog Freelance Writing/Web Development Detective Agency immediately as well as scoping out a long term business plan to show the people who give out loans for this sort of thing. They'll probably want details on my qualifications, particularly for the detective agency part, but I figure if I add the caveat that the detective agency will only take cases involving electricity monsters, ghosts, or space kooks then I'll be fine.



Take into account that I can work a white sweater and red scarf like nobody's business, and it's clear that this is gold baby. Solid freakin' gold.

Facebookers, Sometimes No Comment Is Best

Today we'll cover a tip from our "learning from the mistakes of others" department with regards to online shenanigans. Let us say, hypothetically, that you use Facebook. Let us say that someone that you are related to uses Facebook as well, for example your teenage child.

Now, it's an established fact that teenagers have an amazing way of doing dumb things. It's not their fault. They're young. They don't know better. I myself was a teenager once, and I did enough dumb things to fill volumes. I would tell you about them, but I was also once an unsuccessful college student, so I don't remember most of them anymore.

Anyway, the difference between the dumb things I did when I was a teenager and the dumb things teenagers do now is that the teenagers today compound the levels of dumb by allowing themselves to be photographed while doing these dumb things. This becomes worse when these bits of evidence invariably find their way onto the internet, where they are shared by God knows how many people. This may seem tragic, but the fact is that there are a lot of pictures of people doing dumb things on the internet, so the odds are whatever your teenager is doing in their picture is probably overshadowed by some celebrity flashing her goods while kicking a homeless person and will thus be largely ignored.

Which brings us back to Facebook, and our lesson for the day. These (purely theoretical) pictures may very well find their way onto the Facebook pages of your child's gooby little friends, whereby you may stumble upon them. Once the initial rage/shock/embarrassment/gagging has ceased, you will feel inclined to say something to both the child and probably the gooby little friend who put the picture up in the first place. Your immediate urge may very well be to comment on the photo itself, thus letting everyone who sees it how you feel about it.

Do not do this.

Here's why I say that: when you put a comment on a photo, all of your Facebook friends get a little notification that you have commented on it, along with the photo itself. As such, all of us who would ordinarily not have seen whatever debauchery your child is engaged in will be directly notified of it. Oh sure, we'll get the disapproving note as well, letting us know how you feel about it, but really, wouldn't it have been better to send a threatening/guilt ridden/litigating letter directly to the offending parties?

Of course, those who disagree might like my idea for a new regular feature here: One Degree of Fail - Friends of Friends Embarrassing Themselves on the Internet.

Let's See Chris Pine Top That

I'm a man who has the ability to take great pleasure in things that are truly awful. Bad music. Bad television. Bad movies. Taco Bell. There's just something wonderful about coming across something so absolutely terrible that it enters into the realm of camp. It was with this mentality that I took great delight in entering two little words into my Pandora application this morning.

William. Shatner.

Okay, if you don't know what Pandora is, it's a program that lets you put in the name of a song or an artist. Then it builds a radio station around the entered data, using the Music Genome Project to match other songs and artists that are similar to what you've selected. When a song plays, you say whether you approve of it or not, and it fine tunes the station. It's a wonderful way to find new music, and the first 40 hours a month are free (and only a dollar for the rest of the month if you want more). It's awesome.

Anyway, I knew that Bill Shatner, one of my personal heroes for obvious reasons, had produced some variety of music, but I had only heard a couple of songs a few years ago. It was spoken word poetry set to music, and Henry Rollins was involved, so naturally I was delighted. Thus, I decided to pursue what else there could be.

Oh what I found.

Try to imagine Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, only entirely spoken over background singers. That's...well it's awful. Wonderfully, delightfully awful. Then Pandora throws in a Rufus Wainright song, or maybe something by Tom Jones. Something to cleanse the aural palate before I'm subjected to his work from The Tranformed Man, where he performs a Shakespeare monologue and then follows it with a cover of some song, again entirely spoken in his stilted, Captain Kirk cadence.

The thing is, and it's really hard to accept at times, he's completely serious. Unlike his later work, there's no indication that he has any idea of how ridiculous this all is, no tongue-in-cheek wink at the camera to let you know he understands. It makes it so, so sweet.

Don't believe me? Here, try this. The sound is a second or two off, but it's so worth it.



I'm almost afraid to watch Leonard Nimoy's Balland of Bilbo Baggins now lest I implode in a moment of perfect, tasteless delight.

I'm Calling Everyone To See Who Answers Fastest, And You Totally Won

So, the date of my becoming an uncle fast approaches. In fact, a doctor apparently predicted the there is a significant chance that the little lady will escape her current living quarters within the week. Having two children of my own, I know what this means for my brother-in-law, the father to be. He's sitting by the phone all day, jumping when it rings in anticipation of this being the call.

Naturally, it's everything I can do not to abuse this situation.

I don't recall ever having a reason to call him directly before. Oh sure, I could call him up with helpful advice, but I've kind of covered what he needs right now, so that's out. Still, I suddenly have all of these questions that I feel he is uniquely qualified to answer, and I don't think it's unreasonable to call and ask, right?

"Hi Nick. I was trying to remember - how many strings are there on a banjo? Huh. How about an upright base? I see. Okay, thanks."

"Hi Nick, it's me again. I forgot to ask before if we could order a cd of your band from somewhere yet."

"Sorry to interrupt again, but I figured you're an accountant so you'd know this one. Do I look for dividend information on my balance sheet or my statement of retained earnings?"

"Hey Nick. Boy, you sure are answering the phone quickly today. Anyway, I was hoping you could help me settle a debate online. Who would you say was the most talented of the Monkees?"



Fortunately for him, I am an upright individual who would not prey on another person's anxiety for my own amusement. No, I choose the more noble path of simply waiting with him, ready to lend any kind of support I can. Better to be helpful and take the high road, avoiding any kind of louche games that, while potentially amusing, might be hard on already strained nerves.

Well, that and I still really don't like talking on the phone.

Someone Got Their Crazy All Over My Internet Again

My God, I love the internet. Every time I feel like I've seen enough crazy, someone throws up a link, embeds a video or sends me a picture that just blows my mind. Today's example is the following video (careful at work, I think she say the h-word in there somewhere):



People never cease to amaze me. Now, I don't want to belittle this woman's concerns. Clearly this is well researched postulation being done on her part. Attention needs to be paid to the scourge of rainbows that threaten to overtake our nations lawns caused by some creepy chemical (and certainly not by the fact that sprinkler technology has probably changed the way the actual water sprays). If allowed to continue unabated, the costs of cleaning up after all the leprechauns alone could be staggering (the little buggers just poop anywhere you know). Still, I have a couple of points that might make this a more effective presentation.

First, let's try to stick with one or two theories. The best conspiracy theorists are pretty specific, which is what makes them compelling. It's why we ignore the random "I was probed by aliens" stories, but will listen to the guy who claimed aliens were implanting their fetuses into the anuses of celebrities (I ain't Googling it at work, but I've heard the guy talk, and it's breathtaking). I don't want to hear rambling about water supplies or stuff seeping up from the ground or airborne contaminants causing this issue. Give me something concrete. Give me Government vans mysteriously showing up right after the rainbows and then driving off, with you catching a glimpse of the captured unicorn whose flatulence was causing said rainbows. Now you have my attention.

Second, let's work on our composition skills people. I know looks aren't everything, and I may be accused of being superficial here, but I find that your point is easier to take seriously without the sounds of police sirens constantly blaring somewhere beyond your broke-ass fence. For that matter, perhaps it's not the best idea to buffer your eloquently explained concerns with text that has not been run through a spellchecker. Unless of course it is truly the Government's thrist for energy that concerns you here. In that case, carry on. Fight the good fight.

But if you really want to know who's behind the increased rainbows, I'd start by questioning the lovers, the dreamers, and felt amphibians with ping pong ball eyes.

And Don't Even Think About Planting a Toilet Paper Tree

Today, I saw that someone had posted a question regarding "urban chickens" online, and immediately I was fascinated. Naturally, I was picturing bands of chickens with low-hanging pants and doo-rags listening to rap music too loud. It turns out that instead they were talking about people who live in regular houses with regular yards keeping chickens.

Having never heard of such a thing I was fascinated. Why anyone would choose to keep a chicken on the premises is beyond me. Chickens, as a species, lack the cuteness I require from a pet, so that can't be it. It seems unlikely that you would raise a bunch of chickens just to eat them, as it doesn't seem like the time, money and effort to raise one healthy bird would pay off. That just leaves eggs, which I find come conveniently pre-packaged at the supermarket, remarkably free from any evidence that they once sat in close proximity to a chicken's exhaust portal.

Naturally, I turned to the internet for more information. I found that it's at least popular enough to have a web site dedicated to it, but that never impresses me much, as there are whole web sites dedicated to stopping alien abductions through homemade thought-screening caps (yikes). According to them, the advantaged are fresh eggs, fresh chicken (if killing is legal where you live), fresh chicken poop (I think they're stretching a bit calling that a plus), and insect control. Right.

This, to me anyway, feels like a really bad idea. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a strong proponent of utilizing the expertise of others to get things done. I mean, if fresh chicken and eggs are something that really matter to you, why not support a local farmer, who more than likely knows way more about raising chickens than you do? Then you're still supporting the "buy natural/buy local" mantra that seems so prevalent right now, all without subjecting your neighbors to chicken dookie and clucking.

More importantly, if this did catch on, where does it lead. What about cows for fresh milk and beef? Pigs for pork and entertainment (I'm sorry, but pigs are inherently funny)? Goats for Greek cheeses to place upon salads with cucumbers and tomatoes? I'm not keen on the idea of looking across my neighbors lawns and seeing the set of Green Acres looking back at me.

Besides, when the kids get to the age where their creepy little friends think it's funny to egg houses, I want the little bastards to at least have to pay for the eggs.

Who Knew The Apocalypse Would Rock?

Starting with a news brief, Oscar Mayer, retired chairman of the good people who turn animals into tube steaks, has passed away at the age of 95. Apparently, he was the third Oscar Mayer in the family, being the grandson of the man who founded it. Details on his burial services have yet to be announced, although it is assumed that he will be cremated just as soon as they can find a hot dog bun big enough to hold him.

In more frightening news, British scientists claim to have created human sperm from stem cells. The work (currently being questioned by other, less mad scientists) is supposedly meant to treat infertile males, but one wonders if they have considered the far reaching consequences that success may bring. Between the facts that men are not technically needed for noise checking and bug killing and technology already simulated and, according to some, surpassed what a man can do when it comes to the female pleasuring (link NSFW - funny, but NSFW), one questions if heading towards potential parthogenesis is a wise move.

While on the subject of girl power, a Russian woman has broken her own world record for having the world's strongest vagina. The athlete apparently was able to lift 14 kilograms (over 30 pounds) using only the muscles in her hoo-hah. As described in the article (mostly SFW, but sanity isn't guaranteed), she does this by using a pair of balls. I'm sure there's a joke there somewhere, but I fear that I just went into innuendo overload.

And finally, with much pomp and circumstance (but mostly pomp), Michael Jackson's body was laid to rest yesterday. It was just as much of a media circus as one might expect from such a thing. I'm not going to make fun, because the fact is I grew up when the man became a legend, and while I avoided all the media as much as possible, I'm somehow affected by it. Besides, I view it as little more than a temporary setback, leading to one of the greatest comeback tours in history.



Cue Vincent Price laughing.

"Tongue Secured" Would Work Well Too

Last night my lovely wife filled out a set of invitations for the Princess's birthday party later this month. Being young and full of exuberance, my daughter requested permission to put on stamps and lick the envelopes shut. I watched as she proceeded to shut them, her enthusiasm draining slightly each time, and I realized that there is absolutely no dignified way to lick an envelope closed.

Let us compare this to the olden days, when an envelope was properly sealed with a wax stamp. You write out some important letter, and then take a moment to melt a puddle of wax and firmly press into it your personal seal. It's so elegant and official.



For a long time now, we have instead used the standard gummed labels. This required that after you finished typing out your carefully thought out letter, you neatly folded it, slipped it into an envelope, and proceeded to slobber over the back of that envelope until the gummed portion (which invariably tastes like poison) was sufficiently covered in saliva to seal the envelope. You press shut the envelope, excess spittle oozing out of the freshly sealed edge, then do the same to the stamp and send the thing off.

Stop and consider for one moment how seriously icky this is. It's particularly rough for the poor schmoes at the post office who spend their days surrounded by envelopes sealed with the spit of strangers. It would be like me coming to work only to discover that while I was away, everyone in the office had licked my keyboard. (On a side note, this is one of the many fine reasons I don't clean the Cheeto dust off my keyboard. Its absence would serve as an immediate warning that my keyboard may have undergone a mass licking, requiring repeated washings with some variety of industrial strength cleaner. That's a little pro-tip for you non-computer geeks out there.)

Fortunately for those of us who are forced to consider such things, they now have these lovely self-adhesive envelopes. Between that and self adhesive stamp, I may now partake of the postal system in a relatively spit-free manner. This is a great relief to me as the one who typically sends out the bills and whatnot. As far as the cases such as invitations where they still rely on the licking-type envelopes, I'm thinking I may get a rubber stamp made to put on the back of the envelope.

"Lovingly sealed with my own bodily fluids", or something like that will do nicely I think.