No Joke Today, Folks

OK, I know I keep saying this, but I promise this is the last time:

Papers.  No time.  MOAR PAPERZ!!!

So you get a cannibalized version of an essay I wrote (just for fun!  Yeah, I'm a freak) a while back.  It's not funny, but it's on an issue that is of extreme importance, in my opinion.

"An Entreaty"

It’s been said that “a picture’s worth a thousand words,” but why, then, do we have books of words instead of simple picture books?  If it is much easier to simply show someone an image, why spend the countless hours of wordsmithing to find the right phrase?  The answer is obvious, yet much overlooked in our culture of iPhones, HDTV, and streaming video.  Words express thoughts, while images can only express (at most) vague emotions or one specific snapshot in time.  We think in words; the only pictures in our thoughts are memories or vague approximations that must be translated into another format (drawing, painting, etc.) or words before we can pass them on in any meaningful way.

That is not to say that art is unimportant, because nothing of beauty should be overlooked, whether a song, a watercolor, a sunset, or a poem.  However, the messages sent, the lessons taught, the ideas transcribed through other art forms are generally very broad and vague.  This is one thing that makes them so appealing: they can mean different things based on the person receiving them; they are more open to interpretation than words are.

Other art forms (especially music) are held to a lesser standard than are words.  One can listen to every song ever written and be moved to tears or driven into a frenzy, but music can never change your opinion on anything except itself: music.  Listen to Mozart and you can see how it is more beautiful than other composers, but it will never change your opinion about another subject.  Music can never be labeled “good” or “evil.”

Words, on the other hand, carry much more weight.  Someone can write a few words and make the reader absolutely furious.  For instance, examine your gut reaction to this: “Mexicans are stupid and lazy.”  See what I mean?  You probably just got a mixture of anger, disbelief, and righteous indignation.  How dare he say that!  If I actually believed that sentence, most of you would (rightfully) stop reading and write me off (ha!  It’s funny…) as an ignorant bigot.  Now, I obviously don’t believe the statement, I simply made it to illustrate the power of words.

The bottom line is the fact that our thoughts are formulated as words.  If we do not have a word for something, it is nearly impossible for us to conceive it.  Probably the best illustration of this is found in George Orwell’s 1984: Newspeak.  The Party tries to eliminate words in order to make it nigh impossible for people to even conceptualize anything that goes against The Party’s wishes.  If the word “rebellion” was completely removed from the English language, if anyone who even knew of the word had long since died, and no one currently living knew how to describe what it means, then the subjugated populace would be hard pressed to even realize such a thing was possible, let alone actually gather enough followers to do so.

The concept that words are the substance of thoughts, which are the cornerstone of empowerment, is not a new concept.  Through the years it has been voiced by a multitude of leaders, from Einstein to Malcolm X.  However, this truth has been thrown by the wayside as of late, as our credit-card culture embraced ignorance over education, instant gratification over investment.  Simply watch MTV (or whatever the devil those kids are watching today) for a few minutes and see the glorification of ignorance, crime, and excess.  Chris Rock said it best, when he describes the “civil war” between two types of people: “black people and ‘niggas.’”  While he is speaking of the differences between two types of black people, it holds true for people of all ethnicities.  The war is between those who embrace civilization and education, and those who embrace ignorance.  And the ignorant camp is winning. 

While I decry the school of thought that glorifies ignorance, I find it impossible to feel any anger towards them, only pity and hope.  I pity them because they cling to their ignorance like an infant clinging to a dirty diaper.  “It’s nasty and stinky, but it’s warm and its mine.”   And I hope that our people, my friends and relatives, my peers, can change the direction in which our culture is headed.

Now, I am not so arrogant to think that I am better than anyone, even the completely ignorant.  However, I love learning things.  I love knowing things!  The pursuit of knowledge is what separates the ignorant from the enlightened.  Dave Ramsey has stated that the average millionaire reads one non-fiction book a month.  I figure, if you want to win at something, find someone who is winning and do what they do.  Zig Zigler said, “You are what you are and where you are today because of what has gone into your mind; you can change what you are and where you are by changing what goes into your mind.”

So I leave you with an entreaty: go read a book, write a poem, have a stimulating conversation.  Unplug the TV, turn off the Wii, and expand your mind.  Yes, it may be difficult, and it might even hurt a little, but everyone has growing pains, and you will be better off in the long run.  It will take time, and it’s hard work, but there’s nothing worth having that you don’t have to work for.

Our Culture Will Soon Drive Me Insane

I'm still alive, I promise.  I've just been writing paper after paper the past week, so I haven't had much time to blog.  However, I am currently finished with most of the papers (only 2 left), so I figured I'd take a break from writing to...write...some...more...  If I weren't me, I'd kick my butt.

Anyway, as you probably already know, I work in a chain pharmacy.  As part of a promotion, the front end of the store was giving away free Gogo's Crazy Bones.  Yeah, I had a, "What the..." moment as well.  Apparently they are the next Silly Bandz.  Whatever possesses our children to go absolutely bat-freaking-loco for these worthless rubber bands is beyond me.  On a side note, as I was looking at the Silly Bandz website while researching this post, I saw that they have testimonials.


These are not exercise bikes, computer parts, or workout tapes: they're freaking RUBBER BANDS!


Nevertheless, I can kind of understand why little children want them, because they're colorful and shaped like animals and such.  But what I can not understand is what type of parent spends outrageous sums of money (during the height of the craze I saw a 10-pack for $14 at a Rite-Aid) for rubber glorified office supplies.  I can go to Staples and buy a bag of rubber bands that weighs a full pound for $5.49.  That's about 7.3 billion rubber bands for less than half of what they paid for 10, simply because they're colored and shaped a certain way.

I rant against Silly Bandz because it angers me.  But this Crazy Bones crap absolutely infuriates me.  The soulless Gorgon who came up with these is simultaneously the most brilliant person on the planet and the most loathsome.  Let's look at this scam and you'll see why:

The single packs of Crazy Bones sell for $2.99 at Walgreens.  That's for one little plastic toy about the size of a quarter.  These things are seriously worthless.  Like, I'd be disappointed if I got a Crazy Bones as a Happy Meal toy.  But, if you can make the kids think they're cool, they'll all want one.  But this is nothing new.  What is truly brilliant/amoral is the fact that there are hundreds of different styles and they are all sold in a pouch that you can not see through, so you have no idea which one you are buying.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

If these guys actually pull this off, they will have successfully created a nigh-limitless gold mine by combining baseball cards with beanie babies.

"I want the green dude with the star on him, cause Billy has that one, and it's his favorite."

"How much do they cost, Johnny?"

"Only $2.99, Mom."

"Oh, that's not too bad.  Let's go get you one."

As Johnny and Helen (that's Johnny's Mom.  Shut up, it's my story and I get to name them what I want) show up to buy the green one with a star on it, Johnny's mother realizes that they have no clue which Crazy Bones they are purchasing.  And with a few hundred possibilities this could get expensive.

"Johnny, I'm not going to keep buying them until you get the one you want.  But you can get three of them today and maybe you'll get the green one."

Hope springs eternal and Johnny spends 20 minutes agonizing over his decision, rummaging through the bin, smelling each one to determine which smells the most "green with a starish."  Johnny does not get the green one with a star.  However, he gets an orange one with a zipper for a mouth.  That's pretty cool, so he's not completely disappointed.  But the plot doesn't end here...

As Johnny feverishly tears open the pouches to access his treasure, he sees that they also include a sticker of another Crazy Bones character which looks so cool that he must have it (this one looks suspiciously like a Pokemon, but who are we to cry copyright infringement?).  This ever-increasing cycle soon consumes Johnny's life.  He must have more Crazy Bones.  He gets a part-time job cleaning the bathrooms at Wal-Mart (that way he can use his employee discount to buy more Crazy Bones) and withdraws from his friends.  Every night he goes to sleep atop his growing mountain of Crazy Bones, and every morning he pulls a Scrooge McDuck before heading off to clean up people's bio-hazardous waste so that he can increase his hoarde.

One day, the unthinkable happens: he gets the green one with a star.  This long awaited moment, which he had anticipated to be similar to Nirvana, is underwhelming; especially do to the fact that he was on a break at work when he bought the Crazy Bones and has four minutes before he must return to shoveling poo.

Fortunately, Johnny is not long in his disappointment.

A coalition of starving third-world countries invade America and beat us all to death with our Wii controllers.

The Crazy Bones are all melted down and molded into a gargantuan statue of a ham sandwich.  If only Johnny (and his millions of countrymen) had not wasted their time and money on MEANINGLESS CRAP and spent it on something worthwhile, the Ethiopian Alliance might not have hated them with such passion.  There's something infuriating about seeing kids spend hundreds of dollars on plastic toys,because they're cool, when you have to set traps for mice so you can eat.

Dear Sarah Mclachlan,

Dear Sarah Mclachlan,

I refuse to send you money to save a couple cats.  I prefer to send my money to other organizations who deserve it.  I am astounded at the ignorance and triviality of the groups such as the ASPCA and PETA who spend millions of dollars trying to stop me from eating at Chick-fil-a instead of doing something useful, like fighting AIDS or feeding the hungry.

This is not to say I don't like animals.  I do.  I have two dogs, and my wife and I spoil them terribly.  But, if forced to choose between their lives and a human being, even a complete stranger, the dogs would be out of luck.  Because they're dogs.

I'm Probably the Meanest Person Ever (On Accident)

Well, I have another story about how I am a cold-hearted, mean person, but not on purpose, really.

Twice a week, the pharmacy where I work receives a warehouse shipment of drugs that are boxed up in plastic totes.  We're a smaller store, so we generally get about a dozen totes, each containing about 40-60 bottles on average.  One important thing to note is the fact that the front of the store gets shipments from the same warehouse, in the same totes, which are apparently tossed into a communal pile upon return, with the totes from the front freely co-mingling with the pharmacy ones.

Moving the medicine from the totes to the shelves is on my top ten "Bane of My Existence" list, so I was already less than thrilled.  As I opened one of the totes today, it was apparent that it had been previously used in some sort of animal sacrifice, or possibly as a visual aid in potty-training a bus of diarrheal llamas.  It was splattered in some sort of unidentifiable brown-red substance and had about a quarter inch of honest-to-God dirt in the bottom, upon which perched the medicine bottles, like dodo eggs from a former era.  I was less than thrilled, and made the comment, "Man, what bunch of retards packed this?"

As the unloading continued and we found another tote that should have mandated a call to FEMA, my comments only grew worse.  I brought up the probably inbreeding, excess chromosomes, and brain damage of the workers who packed the tote.  I completely admit I was out of line, but I did not know how far out of line until my boss pointed out a simple fact:

Whom the Warehouse Hires

Yeah, I felt a little bad.

On a completely unrelated note, here is a text a friend of mine sent me that made me laugh out loud in the middle of class:

"We should joust sometime to prove who's cooler.  Ill ride a steel unicorn with laser eyes and you can be on a Manticore composed of flames and children's tears."

I am the best essay writer in the history of essayism...

Here is a verbatim short-answer I wrote for my drama class.  I got 4 out of 6 points, by the way.  The question was -

"Describe one of the following traits of Greek Drama introduced by Aristotle in his work Poetics: Hamartia, Peripeteia, Anagnorisis."

My answer was -

"Unfortunately, I have no bloody clue.  Apparently I spent too much time reading the actual literary works and their influence on other forms of drama rather than studying some random Greek words that attempt to describe said plays.  I figured the plays were the important part.  However, because I am required to choose one, I'll pick "anagnorisis."

Anagnorisis is a painful, itching skin disease, somewhat similar to eczema.  There is no known cure for anagnorisis, but the symptoms can be reduced through the use of topical corticosteroids such as hydrocortisone or triamcinolone.

Anagnorisis was named after a distant relative of the African rhinoceros, the Agnorhino, mainly due to the scarred, leathery skin left behind after the disease runs its course.  Anagnorisis is a fairly common disease, effecting 29 in every 1000 people (+- 4%).  The prognosis is good, due to the relatively benign nature of the disease, and there have been no recorded deaths due to anagnorisis.

</humor>"

It is a testament to the awesomeness of my professor that I got partial credit for this mountainous pile of complete bullcrap.  She said that my creativity deserved some credit.

Anagnorisis actually means "recognition or discovery," in case you give a crap.  I sure don't.

How Unfortunate

I have absolutely nothing to say.  I am bored out of my mind, hopped up on caffeine and phenylephrine, unable to sleep, and I have nothing to say.  Nevertheless, I have a blog to update, so here ya go, a few random thoughts that've been floating around my sleep-deprived brain:

1. I love the ellipsis.  I love it a lot...  A whole lot.........  I feel that the length of the pause should be signified by the number of periods in the ellipsis.  That could be my addition to the English language that makes me notable, like Dickinson's annoying little dashes, and Heinlein coming up with the word "grok."  Every time you see an ellipsis, think of me.

2.  I sometimes read while sitting at stop lights.  This tends to cause the drivers around me to give me strange looks, generally somewhere between "Woah, this guy is crazy because he's reading while driving," and "Woah, this guy is crazy because he's reading."

3. I have poor time-management skills (evidenced by the fact that I am typing on a bloody blog at 1:30 in the morning).  Even worse is my ability to remember things of importance.  I can sing you 4 out of 5 songs on any station of the radio, but I have no clue when my next Chaucer paper is due.  It seems that my brain loves interesting-yet-worthless facts but eschews day-to-day necessities.  It's a good thing that my wife excels at organization, or we'd have our power cut off every few days.

4.  I enjoy Payday candy bars more than I enjoy every other Friday that is my payday.  But the first is completely reliant on the second, so I guess I like paydays more than Paydays.  But the only reason I like paydays more is because they allow me to have Paydays.  So, in actuality, I like Paydays more than paydays, which I, in turn, like more than Paydays.  My favorite is enjoying a Payday on payday.  It's just awesome.

5.  B-B-B-Bored...............................................(long freakin' pause).......................

6.  McAlister's has the best pickles, and I don't know how they get them that good.  I have tried all the brands and none of them stack up.  I wonder if they have some sort of mystical pickle farm in the back next to their enchanted sugar-cookie tree and the Manticore/Oompa Loompa hybrid that brews their sweet tea.

7. Geoffrey Chaucer really should have died a lot sooner than he did.  Preferably the day after he completed The Canterbury Tales.  In fact, he should have never written anything other than that, because the rest of his bollocks (see, when insulting the English it's best to use words they know, or else they get their knickers in a bunch over tea and crumpets, sitting under Big Ben while listening to The Clash) makes me want to shove a fork in my eye.  Especially The Parliament of Fowles.  If you want to simulate the experience, just whack yourself on the head with a ball-peen hammer for four hours.

8.  I sometimes wish I had superpowers, but then I realize that I'd eventually get sick of having to run out and save people.  "I'm trying to watch the World Cup!  Can't you please stop blowing crap up for a couple hours?!?"  I would imagine Superman got fed up with us stupid earthlings after a while.  Maybe, if he hadn't been so selfish he wouldn't have take up horseback riding (too soon?).

That's all I got.  Rambling and pointless, I know, but hopefully you were able to make some sense of the raving lunacy that is me forcing myself to write even though I have no clue what to write about.

Post-Midterms Twofer (Part 2): RCYSN - Expiration Dates are Important

My boss stumbled upon a "deal" today: a bunch of Good Humor Strawberry Shortcake Bars on clearance for $0.27 each.  His reaction was what you would assume - "holy crap on a keyboard, that's AWESOME!"  He bought them and brought some to the pharmacy to share his good fortune, 'cause he's cool like that (read: I want a raise).  He opened one and took a bite.

Now, when you bite into a Strawberry Shortcake Bar, the general reaction is akin to that of a puppy on heroine having sex with a Cadbury Cream Egg.  You get that goofy, happy look on your face as you taste the cake coating, which only intensifies as your taste buds register the strawberry ice cream.

His reaction was somewhat more subdued.  In fact, his facial expression reminded me of the time in fourth grade when I was playing soccer, tripped, and fell face first on the cow pasture we used as a pitch.  Something was horribly, horribly wrong.  There's something excruciating about the incongruity you experience when you expect to taste something rapturous but actually receive a chilled turd.

Needless to say, it was expired.  This was probably why they were on clearance.  We looked on the packaging, but it had no expiration date.  Because he's kind of obsessive, my boss called Good Humor customer service to see if they could help him find the expiration date, but after a 45 minute hold time they told him that the expiration date was on the box, not the individual bars.  How unfortunate.

However, we were able to come up with a bit of evidence for our theory that they were expired.  At the time these bars were created, Good Humor was running some sort of sweepstakes, and the basic rules were printed on the wrapper.  The aforementioned rules stated that the sweepstakes would officially end in January.  Of 2010.  He ate a milk based product that was obviously past its expiration date by more than a year.  I hope he doesn't die.

PS.  Don't forget to read the post just below this one - it's a Post-Midterms Twofer, and you don't want to miss out on my near-death experience!

Post-Midterms Twofer (Part 1): I Almost Drowned Today

So, as I have mentioned before, I work in a retail pharmacy.  We're a relatively slow store, but we are one of the very few stores that offer compounded medications.  For instance, we can make Phenergan Gel that you can rub on your wrists.  If you're projectile vomiting, it's somewhat difficult to keep a pill down, and most people tend to shy away from inserting any objects in their butt.  It's just unpleasant...er...I mean...um......I've heard from...um...other people....that it's...um...............YES I'M AWESOME!

Ahem.

Anyway, one of the things we make is Boric Acid vaginal suppositories.  We were running low, so I decided to make a batch while we were slow.  It's pretty easy, just time consuming.  You have to measure out a couple ingredients, melt one down, and mix the others into it, then pour the entire concoction into some molds.  Simple stuff.  Unless you get attacked by the Silica Gel.

Silica Gel is an interesting monster.  It's a nearly weightless solid (not a gel, interestingly enough) that acts like a powder (read: floats in the air) until it gets wet.  Once it comes into contact with any type of moisture, however, it sucks it up and expands.  Somehow the container got slightly pressurized.  Maybe because someone left it under the heating vent.  Just a thought.

However it happened, I unscrewed the lid and it puffed up into my face.  Fortunately I was breathing out, because if I had inhaled a bunch of it I could have become the first person in the history of history to dry drown.  There are several other nasty side effects to inhaling this crap that I would like to avoid.  While managing to drown in the middle of a pharmacy would make an interesting obituary, I'd prefer to remain boring yet alive than spectacularly dead.

King of the Hill

Well, it's been a week or so since my last post, mostly due to my lack of time because of midterms and such.  In case you're ever presented with the choice of going to college while not working, I suggest you take it (under the condition you don't go into an ungodly amount of debt, that is), because you will still get to have a life.  Anyway, I mention my absence in order to denounce those who would take issue with my blog's continuity.  I will persevere in this endeavor, and will have more time (read: more posts) after this hell-week of tests.

However, I will leave you with this nugget, this gem, this treasure of an analogy, uttered by my friend Zach.  We were discussing international economics (don't ask me why), including how Greece has roflstomped the Euro, as well as the fact that China owns just over 99.3% of America, and he told me the following:

"It's like we're playing a giant game of King of the Hill with our [manhoods] tied in a knot.  As soon as somebody falls, we're all screwed."

I fell out of my chair laughing.

Random Crap You Should Know: I Can Hear You

Welcome to a new column on Nightingale’s Folly, which I have chosen to call “Random Crap You Should Know.”  I considered “The Guide to Life If You Have an Extra Chromosome” as well as “If You Don’t Already Know This, Please Die in a Fire,” but I chose the high road.  Plus "IYDAKTPDIAF" is just a little too much.  It also looks like I fell asleep on the keyboard.

For my inaugural installment, I chose a topic that is very near to my heart.  Because I work in a retail pharmacy, I come into contact with a plethora of different people on a daily basis.  My store has a veritable cornucopia of humanity; a populace of individuals, homogenized, and paraded by my counter at a rapid rate.  While there are many traits that set the pleasant people apart from the demonspawn, the most important, nay, vital component of an intelligent human being can be summed up in one word:  deodorant.

If I can smell you before I can see you, we have a problem.  Now, I understand if you’re on your way home from the gym, or the AC is out on your car.  We've all been there, and I am more than happy to make allowances.  However, if you smell like an octopus’s sphincter, you should probably pick up some Speed Stick before gracing us with your presence.  It’s on isle three, between the razors and the condoms, which is great product placement at work, because you need to use the first two if you want to use the third.

My store is on the border between a middle class suburb and the ghetto; a proverbial last chance before crossing the Rubicon into the land of Ford Tauruses (Tauri?) on 32’s.

(Yes, I know it’s an Impala.  I wanted to work in the “Tauri” joke, so shut up.)

This unique placement gives us a very diverse clientele.  Some are intelligent, some are ignorant.  Some are angelic in their demeanor, some make me want to hit them with something large and blunt.  I can (and have) handled the most difficult customers with little problem (it helps that my boss is awesome to the point that he once told an old racist guy "Get the **** out of my drive-through before I beat the osteoporosis out of you".), but the one thing I cannot stand is someone who smells so bad that I can hear their stench.

Pardon Me While I Wax Sentimental

Impatiently, we wait for you,
Barely containing our desire
To know you.
Our very hearts beat together
As yours, yet unformed,
One day shall,
Together yet separate.
Your destiny unknown,
Your very name remains shrouded
In the mystery of the moment,
Yet we know you well,
Young stranger.

This is teh clud fer yew!

Deuring a brake n oen of my klasses, I came acrost this powster on a walle of the colege I atend.  I dide a litle incide.

It is extremely difficult to type using such atrocious spelling.  I had to edit that section four times, because my OCD tendencies forced me to spell most of it correctly, even though I was purposely doing it wrong.

Schmalentines

'Ello again.

As this year's Valentines Day draws to a close (considering it's 3am as I write this, i guess we are past the apex of its "Valentinea"), I would like to take this time to reflect upon the absolute crap-hole of a day this is if you work in a retail setting.

I work in the pharmacy of a rather slow Walgreens.  We have rushes, like anyone else, but we generally have a laid back work experience.  This was not the case today.

The first sign of the atrocity that was today manifested itself in the parking situation with which I was greeted upon arrival.  Or, I should say the lack of a parking situation.  I had to circle the bloody building three times, waiting for someone to leave so I could go to work.

When I was finally allowed to enter the soul-sucking vortex from which I will probably never escape, I found that the line at the front register resembled the one at the DMV, except that it was about 80% male, and most of these had flowers and/or candy (which is a pretty sad comment on the "I want it now!" last-minute mindset of our culture).  Ever single flower represented was a red rose.  I wasn't even aware that Walgreens had flowers, but I guess you can probably score a bouquet of roses at Denny's if you go on February 14th.

I tell you this to pose a question: why are red roses considered the "love" roses?  What's wrong with the yellow ones?  Or the white?  Heck, I've seen purple roses.  Why do we neglect all these other colors and go for the red ones?

I think that the color of the flower should say something.  Yeah, I know, there is an accepted "give this color if..." scale, but it's crap.  Yellow = friendship?  There are not words for the awkwardness that would arise from me giving any of my friends yellow roses.  Maybe the scale is just for girls.  Well, that's even more crap, because it's a sexist scale.  I'm a guy, and I want my own scale.  I decided to make up my own meaning for one of the least used colors:

Merry Valentines Day to all, and to all, time to go to freaking bed.

I'm on to you...

Dear Kimberly,

Over the years that I have known you, I have been able to observe your behavior in a myriad of situations.  Little did you know that I have been cataloging this information for later use, and have come to an alarming conclusion.  You are either a serial killer or insane.  Probably both.

I come to this conclusion because it is the most likely explanation for your actions, particularly those concerning me.  For instance, no matter how often I forget to accomplish the most simplistic task (wash the dishes, bathe the dogs, eat lunch) you always forgive me and help me complete said task.

            

            In addition, you often tell me, in many different ways, that I am attractive.  We all know this is a bald-faced lie, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I have spent a grand total of seven minutes in my entire life attempting to be attractive, and all of those took place before we were even married.  You told me I was handsome a few mornings ago, and I was not.  I know this, because it was 7:00 on a Monday morning, and I was up until 3 the night before.  My hair held a remarkable resemblance to that of Jim Varney, and my eyes were completely crusted over, to the point I had to open them with my fingers.

            

            Initially, I thought you were simply mocking me, but you always sound so earnest that I am forced to attribute said comments to an ulterior motive (such as a desire to see me stuffed and mounted on the wall) or a clear lapse in sanity.

                

            Another example of your nefarious plotting can be found in your love of special occasions, such as my birthday and our anniversary.  I am the worst special-day-rememberer in the world.   I forget my own birthday most of the time, and I have forgotten nearly every special occasion the entire time we have been together.  Most wives yell and scream if they don’t get a “Happy Ramadan” card, but you barely even mentioned it when I forgot your birthday.  You even put up with my pitiful “making up for it” ceremony, involving about a month of “Happy seventeen days after your birthday”, etc.

            

            Again, Occam and his teaching lead me to believe you have some devious plot to sell my internal organs on Ebay.  Why else would you react to my thoughtlessness in such a way?

        

            Finally, I cite the final reason I believe you may be a deranged psychopath: you cook and clean for me, even though I HAVE NEVER ASKED YOU TO DO SO!  What is wrong with you?!?  What type of sick individual takes time out of her already busy day to prepare meals for someone who would be content to eat ramen noodles every day?  Or do laundry for a person who is completely happy to wear the same thing four days in a row?  Granted, the laundry thing might be slightly motivated by self-preservation, because you would also have to live with my stench, but that can’t be the only reason.

    

            I am writing this to let you know that I’ve figured out your scheme.  To be honest, it wasn’t that hard.  You were too perfect!  You might have gotten away with it if you yelled once in a while, or nagged a little.  You should have been less witty and engaging!  It must be a farce, because no one is so utterly perfect all the time!

            I’m watching you.  This behavior had better stop, or I will be forced to alert the FBI.

(idea from Hyperbole and a Half)

The Hairlocost

So I went to get a haircut today.  I despise the necessity of having the keratin violently removed from my scalp.  I feel a vague sense of pity for hair, because it does its job very well for weeks and sometimes months, only to get shanked and thrown in a dumpster.

But today, I hated getting a haircut for an entirely different reason.

It hurt.  A lot.  Like, a WHOLE lot.  A subjective "buttload".

As soon as I walked into Fantastic Sam’s I knew it was a bad idea.  I was greeted by Debbie, one of the “stylists,” with the words, “Hey, sweetie.  I’ll be right back, I gotta’ put twenty down on the phone bill.”  I love Mississippi.

Had I been aware of the travesty that was to be committed upon her return, I would have run screaming into the hills.

When she finally got back and I had the giant bib on, she began to, for lack of a better phrase, ravaging my head with her clippers.  Apparently they have a new beauty accessory: adamantine clipper guards.  I know this, because I have some imbedded in my skull.

For the next 10 minutes I was cranium-raped by this apparatus of doom.  Not only was she excessively violent, the clippers seemed to be powered by a pair of titmice hopping on a pair of tiny pistons, because it got caught in my hair 3 times.  This was bad enough, but my “stylist” must have read the instruction manual wrong, because I doubt the recommended procedure to remove a jammed clipping apparatus from someone's mane is through a swift, hard yank.

Approximately seven years later, the cranial molestation ended.  While I was greatly relieved it was over, I quickly became apprehensive about the next step, in which this psychopath would be wielding a set of hinged blades in extremely close proximity to my face.  I’ll spare you the details and just mention that I was poked in the eye with a comb twice and it still took her four tries to make it look halfway decent.

To add insult to injury this particular "salon" had a tip added to every ticket if you used a debit card "because we can't edit the amount after it's sent."  However, because I was finally free of Herr Debbie and her house of horrors (and therefore free from reprisals), I could finally explain that, when I entered the establishment, I did not want to be shivved, have my hair ripped from my skull, or nearly blinded.

She never even apologized.  She simply said, "Well, I've already run it."

To which I replied, "Well, un-run it, Deb.  Or, if you prefer, I can send you the bills for my tetanus shot, opthalmological exam, and post-rape counselling."  Which I thought was pretty funny.  Apparently Deb does not share my sense of humor.

She called her manager to void the transaction and proceeded to tell her that I was "being rude".  Granted, I wasn't the nicest person in the world, but I had been recently traumatized, so I wasn't exactly chipper.

I told the manager that I would pay the bill (because my hair was indeed shorter than when I had entered the establishment, thus, in a technical sense, I had received a haircut), but I only handed her $13 instead of the requested $14.83 and explained that I wanted to give Debbie a negative tip of $1.83.  She said that I did not have to give her a tip, but I was required to pay the bill in full.  I dug out another bill and some change, threw it on the counter and left.

But the trick's on them.  I only left $1.70!  VICTORY IS MINE!!!1111!

Apparently, Stereotypes Are There For a Reason

                Some guy came into work today and stood talking to the pharmacist about hunting and fishing for about 7.3 years.  I was concentrating on filling prescriptions, but I overheard snippets of their conversation, and I was compelled to write them down so I could share them with you.

              

  I will preface these comments thusly:

I live in Mississippi.  Now, when I said that, what was the first thought that came to your mind?  Some backwoods town with a population of 200 people, 400 pickups, 79 meth labs, and 7 teeth?  Or maybe a tiny, run-down shack with a toilet-planter and 7 rusted vehicle chasses?

This is not the case (most of the time…).  Most Mississippians are just as intelligent as anyone else.  But there are many who give credence to these stereotypes, such as the interesting individual who uttered the following phrases:

1. (talking about deer hunting) “…done put a hole in him ‘bout yea big [holds up a Red Bull], could look down in ‘im ‘bout that fer, too.  Looked like ya’ put a three-n-a-quarter drill bit an’ yanked it out.”

2. “Ah reckon huntin’ is ‘bout 57% luck.  The rest is sweat ‘n’ spit.”  It's Bubba the freaking statistician...

3.  “We got’s us an ‘in-R-essin’ sit-che-a-shun’” (interesting situation, in case you aren’t fluent in hillbilly).

I was barely able to keep from laughing in his face.

On an unrelated note, my coworker shared a story today about an experience she had in her college drama class.  This is almost verbatim.

“I was taking a theater class and our teacher was one of those drama nuts.  You know what I mean?  Everything had a deep, deep significance.  Anyway, it was a night class so lots of the students were older.  As part of the class we had to pick a partner and act out some scenes.

“One of the students was a middle-aged black lady who was never far from a bottle.  She would always roll in with stories about how wasted she was the night before.  When I heard that we had to act with partners, I immediately picked her.  One of the scenes we were supposed to act out was one from The Women.  I was supposed to sneak around a house, trying to get information.  She was a cleaning lady who catches me.

“Because we were acting it out in the hallway, we decided to pretend that the doors in the hallway were the windows I was snooping through.  As I’m making my way down the hallway, staying low, because that’s what the lady in the movie did, I reach the door to the men’s restroom.  I am oblivious to this fact, because I’m so nervous about everyone watching me.  I lost my balance trying to stay low and fell to my knees.  Of course, the door bursts open and there stands another one of my other professors, and I’m suddenly all up in his junk.  He yelped and jumped back into the bathroom, and I fell over backwards.  The entire class is laughing so hard they are about to have seizures, and my partner is rolling on the floor holding her sides.”

I lol'd.

My Drug of Choice

Am I the only one who feels that Wikipedia is like a combination of Cadbury Creme Eggs, sex, and heroine?  I am obsessed with knowing things.  I'm not all that concerned with the subject...I just want to know more about...well...stuff.  When I get on Wikipedia, I can literally spend hours just reading about the most random junk in the universe, and if I inexplicably run out of ideas, they actually have a "Random Article" button!

After spending only a few minutes on the site, here's my Google Chrome (no, I didn't join the Firefox bandwagon, suckas!) history.

1. Edward James Olmos - How could someone who looks like a cross between a pizza and a crocodile's rectum be in show business?

2. Battlestar Galactica - I like this show.  Maybe one day I'll have more money so I can buy more than 1.5 (not 2, but 1.5, the cheap punks) seasons.

3. Latino Public Broadcasting

4. Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood - He still scares me a little.  No one should be that calm and emotionless.

5. Reading Rainbow - Yes, please.

6. LeVar Burton - I thought he was blind for years.  Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

7. Star Trek: The Next Generation - The only good one, imho.  Shatner was terribad, and after Picard it turned into a soap opera.

8. Patrick Stewart - Best.  Voice.  EVARRR!!!

9. X-Men - Used to be so cool, until they had to change everything for the idiotic children of today.  Of course, I'm sure the same was said about...

10. Howdy Doody - Did you know they made a knock off?  Me neither:

11. La Hora de Jaudi Dudi - Presumably "The Howdy Doody Hour"  or possibly "The Whore of Jaundice and Fecal Matter".   Probably the former.

It is now 2:30 in the morning, and my typing woke up my wife.  She asked me what I'm doing.  I said "blogging."  She responded, "Well, how about sleeping, so I don't have to make myself a widow?"

I'll post this quickly, because I am in danger of being garroted with a pony-tail holder.

The Great Shift (or The Bathroom, the Penis, and the Napalm)

Well, I am in my final semester of my undergrad, and I am going to try my darndest to update more often, even if I'm only talking to myself.  Because I need to be able to express my somewhat strange (read: insane) ramblings, or I will end up including them in my term papers, which has not ended well in the past.  In addition, I have read over some of my past posts and they bored me.  And I'm the one who wrote them.  And I Like Me.  And if I don't enjoy reading them, it poses the question, "Why on this earth would anyone else want to read them?"

Having said that, I am going to spend more time talking about more interesting subjects (such as my own personal neuroses, things that make me laugh, things that I want to hit with something hard and blunt, etc.)

Now, on to the first post in my new world in which I embrace the purple elephants of my undiagnosed ADD and mold them into a new form that entertains you.



Do you remember the first time you had to use a public restroom as a kid, and your parent had to explain the rules?  In my case, my dad had to explain to me that public restrooms were not as clean as ours at home, so I shouldn't touch anything.  Then I had to figure out the urinal.  Holy crap, was that an ordeal.  When I finally realized what I was supposed to do, I couldn't stop laughing, because, to my infantile mind, whoever set this up actually wanted me to pee on the wall.  After I overcame my laughing fit and finished, I was mildly disappointed, which was business as usual.

I was reminiscing about this experience, and I had a thought.  When we use a public restroom, we all make sure to wash our hands especially well, because they're nasty, and we don't want to end up with gono-herpa-syphil-AIDS.  But what I just realized is that the most disgusting part of the bathroom (outside of the actual "pee on this" surfaces) is the handle of the urinal.  Why?  Because, right after the third shake, we zip up our pants and flush the toilet, with only a mere second or two separating hand/wang from hand/flushing-rod-thingie.  What the heck?  If I designed a bathroom, I'd have a concentrated beam of UV rays and possibly some sort of napalm delivery system installed directly in front of the urinal handle.

OR, more realistically, maybe some sort of flushie-handle condoms to put on it, so I don't end up grabbing 400 penises every time I flush.  I don't care that I'm about to wash my hands, I have a strong aversion to phalli.