This Now Surpasses "Zombie Defense" In My Landscaping Priorities

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

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

For I have killed a cactus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh.

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

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

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

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

Why Do You Blush Whenever I'm Carrying Chapstick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do not abide by this.

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

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

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

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

I feel it was a righteous maneuver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


• You are likely to be eaten by a grue.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


• Do you smell something?


• Have you ever wondered what asphalt tastes like?


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


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

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

Hey Hey Hey, It's Diiiiiabetes!

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

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

I speak of course, of Fat Albert.

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

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



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

Bill Cosby, what have you wraught?

Parenting: A Haiku

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

Wouldn't Want Him Soiling His Legend of Zelda Underwear

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

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

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

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

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

Brief Lies: Ending The Argument

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

Except this time, something changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Still Informative Though

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

http://www.sheldoncomics.com

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

Of Course Heavy Medication Isn't Out Of The Question

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

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

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

That's just cruel.

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

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

I Just Said I Love You. I Think.

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

Apparently, when I'm sleeping, I click.

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



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

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

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

As a Former Ninja, This Disgusts Me

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

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



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



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

I Really Thought the Little Clown Costumes Would Have Done It

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

The 1812 Overture Would Totally Work As Well

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

Thunderstruck seems fitting.

Not That I Don't Value Your Opinion, Internet

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

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

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

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

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

Sweater vests?

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

On second thought, don't answer that.