I found this in the archives and am in mood to share. This is about the Boxer dog I had waaaaaaaaay back when we were in high school. I hope you enjoy this, because you're not getting a refund, Cooter...
Man is it great to be home from school! All that jive about geometry, history, and biology (had to cut a dead frog apart. Nancy almost puked. She didn't, darn it!) has me wanting to snitch Oreos from the cookie jar, except mom got those Hydrox ones with no flavor. Maybe I'll go back outside and take another look at the orange engine in dad's Monaco. You don't see too many orange engines. Wonder what that "440 Magnum" emblem on the air cleaner means? Whatever it means, that car sure was fast last night. Good thing I rode the bus to school today -I have a feeling the county deputies are on the lookout for that car. Hmm. Maybe I'll go back inside and scold Dube (aside: he was already a year old when we got him and had already been named, so there) for dragging that trash bag through the house and tossing mom's shoes down the stairs. I'd better get him off of the sofa first.
"Dube, get off of the couch."
"Mawrmawrmawrmawrmawrmawr." (Boxers do this really weird mumbling thing.)
"Dube! I mean it. Mom's coming up the street."
"Mawrmawrmawrmawrmawr. GRRRR!"
"Don't you growl at ME, Dube! Ha! I got you by the collar! I'd like to see you get away THIS ti-OW! My CHEEK!"
"Mawrmawrmawr..."
(Sound of the front door opening, followed by a perturbed mom voice) "Roooob! WHY is that dog on the sofa?!"
"I've BEEN trying to pull him off, mom, but he mumbled at me. Then he growled and boxed me in the cheek!"
"Mmm. I doubt that you tried very hard. Have you made his dinner yet?"
"I was about to, but-"
>gasp< WHAT are my SHOES doing on the STAIRS?!"
"Why are you blaming ME?" HE did it!"
"Oh my beautiful sandals! They don't MAKE these anymore! And WHY are there EGG shells and coffee grounds all over the living room CARPET?"
"I forgot to take the trash out this morning... "(voice trails off meekly)
"Oh, well that's great. Now you can make his dinner, then pick up all my shoes and THEN you can vacuum the living room, but FIRST you need to check the basement floor to see if he went to the bathroom down there again. Clean that up first. Do you have homework?"
"Well, not really."
"And by 'not really', what exactly do you mean?"
"Only 150 pages of Latin, 247 pages of geometry, twelve chapters of biology, nine papers, and a reinterpretation of the Mona Lisa for art class. Did you know she doesn't have eyebrows?"
"All right, do your homework and I'LL take care of this mess. I hope you don't have plans to take dad's car anywhere tonight. Don't forget that I chased you down the last time you sneaked the car out late at night without my permission. And clean up your room. There is NO excuse for trying to install a fountain by the dresser."
"Okay, mom. I have dad's best pipe wrench here. Give me a sec. Oh, I need to shut off the water main first so I don't warp the floorboards again."
>sigh< "Do you have any idea how hard it is to teach kids all day, then come home and have to deal with you and that hellion of a dog?"
"Well, no, it's been YEEEAAARS since I taught kids."
"Don't be smart with me. I do NOT appreciate coming home to these messes every day. Now, then: what do you want for dinner?"
"Um... how about pizza?"
"Funny you should say that. We're having meatloaf. And I'm cooking it until it's so well done that it's crunchy all the way through."
"Aw, mooom. Why do you cook it like that?"
"Your father likes beef well done."
"Well done is one thing, but this stuff is like it was blown out of a volcano!"
"Well, do your homework and I'll put a bottle of catsup next to your plate. And don't even THINK about sneaking your dinner to Dube!"
"Uh... Mom?"
>tsk< >siiighh< "What is it now?"
"Did you hear dad's car start up?"
"I think I did. Why?"
Where's Dube?"
"Well, in the living room, of course. What kind of -the front door is wide open!"
"Not only that, mom, but look! Some guy with pointy ears and a brown coat just stole dad's Monaco!"
"Well, let's hope he has coupons for Gainsburgers."
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Once there was a little worker bee. Actually, there were several worker bees, and not just once. This worker bee in question was a loyal little worker bee. He had a very strong work ethic. He never asked for a lot of money, but what he wanted was a little appreciation for his efforts and dedication.
At first, things were going really well in the hive. The Queen Bee and her assistants were willing to do their share of the work. Over time, however, the little worker bee began to notice that the better he became at building honeycombs, the less the Assistant Queen Bees contributed to the production of the hive. At first, this was no concern. After time, though, the little worker bee was doing his share of the work in addition to that of the assistant bees. Now, whenever the Queen Bee flew off of her throne to inspect the royal hive, her assistants became very nervous, as was exemplified by a waggle dance known as an expression of anxiety among all bees. Her assistants were on the clock, as bees are known to have throughout their hives, for twelve hours per day. But the assistant bees thought it unfair that they should have to work all twelve hours. Having the Queen Bee discover how little they contributed would be a shame.
What this meant was that one of the bees was going to have to pick up the slack. That bee, of course, was the little worker bee. He was known by the Queen Bee and her personal assistant bees to take great pride in his work. "Well, why not let little worker bee do some of my work so I don't have to work all twelve hours?", reasoned assistant bees. "After all, worker bee only works in the hive part time. Let's give him some of our work." At first, worker bee thought this was eminently fair. After all, what bee can work nonstop twelve hours?
Things went well for awhile, but one day worker bee noticed that he had been working much harder lately than he ever had. Additionally, summer was in full swing and it was very warm. In fact, it was over one hundred degrees in the labor division of the hive. worker bee began to feel dizzy and close to fainting, but the assistant bees, afraid that he might have to go rest, thereby leaving them to have to do some work again, began pushing worker bee harder. Now, while this was happening there were other worker bees who, like the assistant bees, got away with not working as much as they were being paid to work. This meant that, in addition to doing his own work, he now was also required to do much of the work of the assistant bees and his fellow worker bees.
This made worker bee very sad. "I'm being paid to do the work of one bee, but now, because I have become so good at my little job, the assistant bees now make me do work that they should be doing. Worse, now I also must perform the tasks of two of my fellow worker bees, who don't seem to want to work as much as they did."
Worker bee began to experience heat sickness and soon sought the air conditioned comfort of that of the assistant bees, but before long the assistants saw what he was doing, and chased him back to work. Worker bee, feeling very faint, then sought the air conditioned comfort of the office bees. But that didn't last long, for the office bees wanted no part of a sweaty, filthy worker bee in their pristine midst. worker bee soon realized that while his productivity was valued at first, soon it was merely taken for granted by those bees who had long forgotten what hard work it is to run a hive.
This took a very bad toll on worker bee. First, he became faint almost every day. Then, he became very, very dehydrated. His soaking wet work shirt was seen by other bees as a disgusting sight rather than as a symbol of a strong work ethic. Worker bee had kept his chin up as long as he could, but after a few seasons of working in the hive, he began to feel very, very sad. Before long, a tear -a very small tear at first- formed in his eye, then fell down his cheek. He finally realized that his purpose in the hive was not to treated as an equal, or even with any appreciation at all. It was simply to serve as a bee taken for granted, much like a comfortable breeze on a hot summer day. Worker bee's spirit was broken, and now he performs less than he once did, for now he has lost sight of the goal of the hive.
The end.
At first, things were going really well in the hive. The Queen Bee and her assistants were willing to do their share of the work. Over time, however, the little worker bee began to notice that the better he became at building honeycombs, the less the Assistant Queen Bees contributed to the production of the hive. At first, this was no concern. After time, though, the little worker bee was doing his share of the work in addition to that of the assistant bees. Now, whenever the Queen Bee flew off of her throne to inspect the royal hive, her assistants became very nervous, as was exemplified by a waggle dance known as an expression of anxiety among all bees. Her assistants were on the clock, as bees are known to have throughout their hives, for twelve hours per day. But the assistant bees thought it unfair that they should have to work all twelve hours. Having the Queen Bee discover how little they contributed would be a shame.
What this meant was that one of the bees was going to have to pick up the slack. That bee, of course, was the little worker bee. He was known by the Queen Bee and her personal assistant bees to take great pride in his work. "Well, why not let little worker bee do some of my work so I don't have to work all twelve hours?", reasoned assistant bees. "After all, worker bee only works in the hive part time. Let's give him some of our work." At first, worker bee thought this was eminently fair. After all, what bee can work nonstop twelve hours?
Things went well for awhile, but one day worker bee noticed that he had been working much harder lately than he ever had. Additionally, summer was in full swing and it was very warm. In fact, it was over one hundred degrees in the labor division of the hive. worker bee began to feel dizzy and close to fainting, but the assistant bees, afraid that he might have to go rest, thereby leaving them to have to do some work again, began pushing worker bee harder. Now, while this was happening there were other worker bees who, like the assistant bees, got away with not working as much as they were being paid to work. This meant that, in addition to doing his own work, he now was also required to do much of the work of the assistant bees and his fellow worker bees.
This made worker bee very sad. "I'm being paid to do the work of one bee, but now, because I have become so good at my little job, the assistant bees now make me do work that they should be doing. Worse, now I also must perform the tasks of two of my fellow worker bees, who don't seem to want to work as much as they did."
Worker bee began to experience heat sickness and soon sought the air conditioned comfort of that of the assistant bees, but before long the assistants saw what he was doing, and chased him back to work. Worker bee, feeling very faint, then sought the air conditioned comfort of the office bees. But that didn't last long, for the office bees wanted no part of a sweaty, filthy worker bee in their pristine midst. worker bee soon realized that while his productivity was valued at first, soon it was merely taken for granted by those bees who had long forgotten what hard work it is to run a hive.
This took a very bad toll on worker bee. First, he became faint almost every day. Then, he became very, very dehydrated. His soaking wet work shirt was seen by other bees as a disgusting sight rather than as a symbol of a strong work ethic. Worker bee had kept his chin up as long as he could, but after a few seasons of working in the hive, he began to feel very, very sad. Before long, a tear -a very small tear at first- formed in his eye, then fell down his cheek. He finally realized that his purpose in the hive was not to treated as an equal, or even with any appreciation at all. It was simply to serve as a bee taken for granted, much like a comfortable breeze on a hot summer day. Worker bee's spirit was broken, and now he performs less than he once did, for now he has lost sight of the goal of the hive.
The end.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Budget Model Doesn't Come With Segues.
Warning: The following blog entry is suitable for adults 40 and older. Perusing discretion is advised.
(Hackneyed comment is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)
Well, it was a slow one at the ol' ranch today. Thankfully, we were all in good spirits. That's no mean feat when you're loading a sofa into Beatrice's 1989 Ford Almost-a-Bronco. I'm not sure why there was a Bronco II since Ford got it right the first time. This time it wasn't loaded down with sandy remnants from Nag's Head which, of course, would have been highly offensive to the "I took my grandchildren to Witch Mountain" sticker plastered masterfully over the rust hole on the rear bumper. Nor were there spare tires (with tread, please), jumper cables, or dessicated road flares to contend with. What was contentious was loading that sofa while Miss Charm School was polite enough to remind us 41 times to "be careful about the head liner". Those cigarette burn holes are arranged in a very meticulous pattern, and having a Herculon-covered couch manufactured in 1972 would so interrupt the fung shui thing she had going.
Oh, I got to be a commando this afternoon. Actually, one of my managers (Can I mention you, Brent?), two customers, and I rolled a love seat (to the uninitiated, a love seat is like extremist politicians, i.e., no middle ground but with a lot of extra padding) half of a block to their photo-and-haircut studio. It was an interesting experience: when traffic was clear, we set course due east about one click from the Times building. Then, in true SAS form, we slipped across the street one at a time on a ten meter spread. One of the customers was on point; I had rear guard. It was pretty intense for me, since I was the one rolling the "merchandise" with no weaponry or cover. I cannot tell you how easily I could have been captured. Mind you, the love seat would have made good, albeit temporary, cover against flying rounds and grenades. Fortunately, the enemy haden't been operating in that part of the block, so slipping across Salem Avenue undetected was easier going than initially anticipated. To read more about this harrowing experience, go to www.soldieroffortune.com.
>INTERMISSION: LET'S ALL GO TO THE LOBBY AND HAVE OURSELVES A SNACK!<
Why on earth did I do that?
Oh, one of the managers dared me to sniff an old garbage can we keep on the dock. Well, you know I have to do that -it's in the Guy Code. Jeff Foxworthy calls it the "courtesy sniff". He says that by sniffing something truly awful when called upon to do so, the guy who asks you will owe you a sniff at a later time. That came as very good news for me, as the odor to which I subjected myself was that of a small dead mammal. Boy does John owe me. By the way, I don't think dead animals have the right to smell sweet. It would have blasted my socks off, except that I don't wear socks at work in the summer. And no, it wasn't my shoes that smelled so bad, so don't go there with me, Jerry. If anyone remembers how truly rancid the locker room smelled back in the eighth grade, this was worse. But I believe I'm a better man for enduring the smell emanating from that old garbage can. Not just anyone could have endured such odoriferous largesse. I am now a true guy. This morning, I was merely a minor player, but when I took that sniff, I did more than honor an assistant manager's request. I established myself as a man's man. As a guy who can be counted on to sniff garbage cans anywhere at work. Why, I bet if I got a phone call at 7 pm from my boss telling me we had an emergency, and that garbage cans had to be sniffed right away, I could be at work, fully olfactorized and nasally conditioned, within 20 minutes.
Word on the street is, they're going to build the right side of our building into condos. That's going to be interesting. Barry Blueblood is going to stroll over and ask us not to make so much noise on the third or fourth floors. The condo is going to be equipped with a mini movie theater, you see, and it's bad enough having to wait in line, like common people do, to purchase the Tobblerone bar and Perrier, without having to deal with the sound of Rob loading 31 towel bars onto a metal hand cart. Simply dreadful. I've been down this road with "people of means" before. What I'm referring to by "people of means" is folks who are new to being wealthy and who haven't yet learned that money doesn't bring negative or superior attitudes. "That table is solid mohagany", stated Thomas Farquarr III, Esquire, last week. "I shall require a receipt proving that I was kind-hearted enough to donate this very precious personal posession to you indigents with true love for my fellow man. And please do remember to stay in your part of town." As it turns out, that one-hundred percent mohagany table, skillfully crafted by monks in the high ranges of Katmandu, was, in fact, plywood with a 1/32" inch mohagany applique. That's a fancy way of saying that Brother Farquarr III, Esquire, expresses his love for his fellow human 1/32 of an inch at a time.
I bet he was relieved to have gotten a receipt for that outporing.
(Hackneyed comment is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)
Well, it was a slow one at the ol' ranch today. Thankfully, we were all in good spirits. That's no mean feat when you're loading a sofa into Beatrice's 1989 Ford Almost-a-Bronco. I'm not sure why there was a Bronco II since Ford got it right the first time. This time it wasn't loaded down with sandy remnants from Nag's Head which, of course, would have been highly offensive to the "I took my grandchildren to Witch Mountain" sticker plastered masterfully over the rust hole on the rear bumper. Nor were there spare tires (with tread, please), jumper cables, or dessicated road flares to contend with. What was contentious was loading that sofa while Miss Charm School was polite enough to remind us 41 times to "be careful about the head liner". Those cigarette burn holes are arranged in a very meticulous pattern, and having a Herculon-covered couch manufactured in 1972 would so interrupt the fung shui thing she had going.
Oh, I got to be a commando this afternoon. Actually, one of my managers (Can I mention you, Brent?), two customers, and I rolled a love seat (to the uninitiated, a love seat is like extremist politicians, i.e., no middle ground but with a lot of extra padding) half of a block to their photo-and-haircut studio. It was an interesting experience: when traffic was clear, we set course due east about one click from the Times building. Then, in true SAS form, we slipped across the street one at a time on a ten meter spread. One of the customers was on point; I had rear guard. It was pretty intense for me, since I was the one rolling the "merchandise" with no weaponry or cover. I cannot tell you how easily I could have been captured. Mind you, the love seat would have made good, albeit temporary, cover against flying rounds and grenades. Fortunately, the enemy haden't been operating in that part of the block, so slipping across Salem Avenue undetected was easier going than initially anticipated. To read more about this harrowing experience, go to www.soldieroffortune.com.
>INTERMISSION: LET'S ALL GO TO THE LOBBY AND HAVE OURSELVES A SNACK!<
Why on earth did I do that?
Oh, one of the managers dared me to sniff an old garbage can we keep on the dock. Well, you know I have to do that -it's in the Guy Code. Jeff Foxworthy calls it the "courtesy sniff". He says that by sniffing something truly awful when called upon to do so, the guy who asks you will owe you a sniff at a later time. That came as very good news for me, as the odor to which I subjected myself was that of a small dead mammal. Boy does John owe me. By the way, I don't think dead animals have the right to smell sweet. It would have blasted my socks off, except that I don't wear socks at work in the summer. And no, it wasn't my shoes that smelled so bad, so don't go there with me, Jerry. If anyone remembers how truly rancid the locker room smelled back in the eighth grade, this was worse. But I believe I'm a better man for enduring the smell emanating from that old garbage can. Not just anyone could have endured such odoriferous largesse. I am now a true guy. This morning, I was merely a minor player, but when I took that sniff, I did more than honor an assistant manager's request. I established myself as a man's man. As a guy who can be counted on to sniff garbage cans anywhere at work. Why, I bet if I got a phone call at 7 pm from my boss telling me we had an emergency, and that garbage cans had to be sniffed right away, I could be at work, fully olfactorized and nasally conditioned, within 20 minutes.
Word on the street is, they're going to build the right side of our building into condos. That's going to be interesting. Barry Blueblood is going to stroll over and ask us not to make so much noise on the third or fourth floors. The condo is going to be equipped with a mini movie theater, you see, and it's bad enough having to wait in line, like common people do, to purchase the Tobblerone bar and Perrier, without having to deal with the sound of Rob loading 31 towel bars onto a metal hand cart. Simply dreadful. I've been down this road with "people of means" before. What I'm referring to by "people of means" is folks who are new to being wealthy and who haven't yet learned that money doesn't bring negative or superior attitudes. "That table is solid mohagany", stated Thomas Farquarr III, Esquire, last week. "I shall require a receipt proving that I was kind-hearted enough to donate this very precious personal posession to you indigents with true love for my fellow man. And please do remember to stay in your part of town." As it turns out, that one-hundred percent mohagany table, skillfully crafted by monks in the high ranges of Katmandu, was, in fact, plywood with a 1/32" inch mohagany applique. That's a fancy way of saying that Brother Farquarr III, Esquire, expresses his love for his fellow human 1/32 of an inch at a time.
I bet he was relieved to have gotten a receipt for that outporing.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
When 90 MPH Was Too Slow For 419
I cannot remember the last time I was in a land vehicle going over 100 miles per hour.
(Insipid statement sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)
I suppose birth certificates should come with disclaimers. For me, that disclaimer would have read, "Warning:" (The German instructions, of course, would have started with that Kaiser helmet-sounding "Achtung!") "This infant is designed for future unsupervised acceleration trials only. Any warranty herein is null and void." Such an official notice would have gone a long, long way toward avoiding aggravation on the part of the Roanoke County Sherrif's Office long 'bout 1977 or so. For the uninitiated, when I was a teen and doing dumb things like spying on the girl next door (they were pink, as it turned out) and putting Pop Rocks in my beloved Boxer dog's mouth to watch his reaction, taking a nightly study break was always a temptation for my very short attention span. Typically, it went something like this: "Dad, can I borrow the keys? I need to go to Hop-In for -" "You need to go to Hop-In? Here's five bucks. Bring me back some cigarettes and a six pack." Daaaaad, you KNOW they won't sell me that stuff!" "(Grumble, grumble) All right, but take it easy with the car, okay sport? That last engine cost me $900."
Going to Hop-In was great, but who wants to head straight back home when you're sixteen and have wheels? Electric Road, known by locals as 419, has a wide, sweeping turn between Keagy Road and all those nondescript office buildings overcrowding the highway these days. The nightly goal, while you were studying trig and writing a paper for English Lit, was to blast toward that sweeper at, oh, 90 miles per hour or so, then slow waaaay down to a very sedate 70 through the turn (diving down to the fast lane from the right hand lane ala NASCAR; it's called "riding the apex" because you wanted to know). Then, coming out of "turn four" this future savior of Petty Enterprises would upshift back to third gear or, as it's called on automatic transmissions, "drive".
Then the fun would begin.
Dogs ran.
Children cried.
And a leadfooted, dumb kid with 400 horsepower under his right foot would blast back up to 120 miles per hour as though heading down the Mulsanne Straight with the smell of the checkered flag hanging heavy in the air. Think of it as the high performance equivalent of Ray Charles singing "Shake Your Tail Feathers" in the Blues Brothers. Let me tell you, Margie, that county library came up FAST! Telephone poles began to look kind of like a picket fence. Deputies stirred from their boredom in time to hear the wailing of a fast-approaching 440 Magnum engine (and a police interceptor engine at that). Often, the Doppler effect distracted them before they could adjust their radars. (Remember when they looked like two Clorox bottles glued together and hung on the passenger door's window? I bet Bert Tyler does! Sorry, Bert -haha!) When the deputies weren't distracted by the Doppler, they would pull out of their favorite hiding places and give chase. I learned automotive escape and evasion techniques that would have wowed SEALS Team 6.
Well, all good things come to an end when you're sixteen and hot-footing dad's car around Southwest county. An overwhelming sense of guilt always followed such impulses. And a vow to myself to take studying geometry seriously when I got home. (Yeah, right.) I had already studied geometry. I had calculated the degrees of the curve in "turn four" -at 90 miles per hour. I had also summed the total number of degrees required to take the fewest number of 90 degree turns to get back home undetected.
And the best part? I was a kid, and there were no required postulates and theorems.
(Insipid statement sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)
I suppose birth certificates should come with disclaimers. For me, that disclaimer would have read, "Warning:" (The German instructions, of course, would have started with that Kaiser helmet-sounding "Achtung!") "This infant is designed for future unsupervised acceleration trials only. Any warranty herein is null and void." Such an official notice would have gone a long, long way toward avoiding aggravation on the part of the Roanoke County Sherrif's Office long 'bout 1977 or so. For the uninitiated, when I was a teen and doing dumb things like spying on the girl next door (they were pink, as it turned out) and putting Pop Rocks in my beloved Boxer dog's mouth to watch his reaction, taking a nightly study break was always a temptation for my very short attention span. Typically, it went something like this: "Dad, can I borrow the keys? I need to go to Hop-In for -" "You need to go to Hop-In? Here's five bucks. Bring me back some cigarettes and a six pack." Daaaaad, you KNOW they won't sell me that stuff!" "(Grumble, grumble) All right, but take it easy with the car, okay sport? That last engine cost me $900."
Going to Hop-In was great, but who wants to head straight back home when you're sixteen and have wheels? Electric Road, known by locals as 419, has a wide, sweeping turn between Keagy Road and all those nondescript office buildings overcrowding the highway these days. The nightly goal, while you were studying trig and writing a paper for English Lit, was to blast toward that sweeper at, oh, 90 miles per hour or so, then slow waaaay down to a very sedate 70 through the turn (diving down to the fast lane from the right hand lane ala NASCAR; it's called "riding the apex" because you wanted to know). Then, coming out of "turn four" this future savior of Petty Enterprises would upshift back to third gear or, as it's called on automatic transmissions, "drive".
Then the fun would begin.
Dogs ran.
Children cried.
And a leadfooted, dumb kid with 400 horsepower under his right foot would blast back up to 120 miles per hour as though heading down the Mulsanne Straight with the smell of the checkered flag hanging heavy in the air. Think of it as the high performance equivalent of Ray Charles singing "Shake Your Tail Feathers" in the Blues Brothers. Let me tell you, Margie, that county library came up FAST! Telephone poles began to look kind of like a picket fence. Deputies stirred from their boredom in time to hear the wailing of a fast-approaching 440 Magnum engine (and a police interceptor engine at that). Often, the Doppler effect distracted them before they could adjust their radars. (Remember when they looked like two Clorox bottles glued together and hung on the passenger door's window? I bet Bert Tyler does! Sorry, Bert -haha!) When the deputies weren't distracted by the Doppler, they would pull out of their favorite hiding places and give chase. I learned automotive escape and evasion techniques that would have wowed SEALS Team 6.
Well, all good things come to an end when you're sixteen and hot-footing dad's car around Southwest county. An overwhelming sense of guilt always followed such impulses. And a vow to myself to take studying geometry seriously when I got home. (Yeah, right.) I had already studied geometry. I had calculated the degrees of the curve in "turn four" -at 90 miles per hour. I had also summed the total number of degrees required to take the fewest number of 90 degree turns to get back home undetected.
And the best part? I was a kid, and there were no required postulates and theorems.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Live From Roanoke!
What a horrible title. I know. A few who have been reading this blog (and others like it which I seem to have misplaced) are used to intriguing titles like "When Dogs Commit Anthropomorphic Fallacy" or "Steak Fries: Are They Right For You?", but in my defense I'm hot and tired. I was tempted to title today's entry, "Never Drink A Slurpee While Taking A Cold Shower", but some of you out there are too dirty-minded and would never have let me live such a title down. and that's sad, of course, because just this afternoon I was, in fact, drinking a large, Cola-flavored Slurpee while standing in a cold shower. I do this because (a) money is tight, (b) because I'm cheap and don't want to enable the CEO of AEP's greed, and (c) because you know you've always wanted to do this, but were afraid of what your loved ones would think. One of my favorite standup comics says he likes to step into the shower with his clothes on, turn on the shower, and pretend he's in a submarine that got torpedoed. Well, I do that too, but I save that naughtiness for laundry day. Today is all about peeling off my drenched-with-sweat work shirt, turning the cold water on with such precipitous force that I get blasted against the towel (purchased from TJ Maxx for $10) hanging on the rack opposite of the faucet wall, and get forced to inhale deeply whether I want to or not. This latter point is key to my decision to climb into the shower, since I've been short of breath lately and cold water really helps me breathe. Of course, inhaling deeply when going into hypothermia can only help, so I elect to keep the cold water running until I'm just about incoherent.
While the hamburgers are frying away and the steak fries are changing into a golden brown that only Burger King could possibly duplicate, and while I'm hard at work anticipating how great it's all going to taste with the Goulden's mustard, the balsamic vinegar, and the garlic powder, it occurs to me that preseason football is just around the corner. Yep, in just literally days we're all going to be cheering our teams on to win those oh-so-important preseason games like we're already in the playoffs. Oh, the humiliation, nay tragedy, of being outscored by... another highly trained, equipped, and motivated team of professional athletes who have been playing this game since they were kids. What will my fellow football-loving coworkers think if the Steelers fall, in Preseason, The Prophetic Word of Future Victory, to some team like the Panthers? Could I ever look them in the eye again or until next week when Pittsburgh wins a preseason contest which carries with it all the importance of an audited college course on your gpa? We'll have to see, but this blogger has steeled himself (no pun intended; I'm a Steelers fan, btw) with a dogged determination to see these harrowing few games through to their bitter end. Frankly, I believe the Steelers are going to have a great season, but if I'm wrong, so be it.
There are always cold showers and Slurpees.
While the hamburgers are frying away and the steak fries are changing into a golden brown that only Burger King could possibly duplicate, and while I'm hard at work anticipating how great it's all going to taste with the Goulden's mustard, the balsamic vinegar, and the garlic powder, it occurs to me that preseason football is just around the corner. Yep, in just literally days we're all going to be cheering our teams on to win those oh-so-important preseason games like we're already in the playoffs. Oh, the humiliation, nay tragedy, of being outscored by... another highly trained, equipped, and motivated team of professional athletes who have been playing this game since they were kids. What will my fellow football-loving coworkers think if the Steelers fall, in Preseason, The Prophetic Word of Future Victory, to some team like the Panthers? Could I ever look them in the eye again or until next week when Pittsburgh wins a preseason contest which carries with it all the importance of an audited college course on your gpa? We'll have to see, but this blogger has steeled himself (no pun intended; I'm a Steelers fan, btw) with a dogged determination to see these harrowing few games through to their bitter end. Frankly, I believe the Steelers are going to have a great season, but if I'm wrong, so be it.
There are always cold showers and Slurpees.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
What a soaker!
I'm not sure how hot it is outside these days, but inside the building at work it has routinely been slightly over 100 degrees. That's Fahrenheit to you, Myrtle. My work shirt, proudly emblazoned with the company logo, looks like the a wet t shirt contest gone awry at a frat kegger. It's so saturated with perspiration that I duck out the back door to the dumpster in order to wring it out so I don't have to put up "Caution: wet floor" signs on the sales floor. This, as it turns out, is an excellent idea; Sky and Freedom, two diehard hippies from Floyd who are shopping for old lumber for some kind of art I'd frankly love to go see, notice that my freshly-wrung shirt is now sporting a tie-dye look, albeit a subdued look. "It's monochromatic" I offer to my two acquaintances who have more talent than I could ever comprehend having. Now, I'm not sure what monochromatic means, exactly, but in sales one must think on one's feet. As it turns out, Sky nods understandingly while Freedom (Free for short) expresses his wish that the shirt had more color -more "hue".
Mike is making do with the second floor in an effort to deal with this somewhat oppressive heat (humidity). In his defense, he works full time and needs air conditioning every now and then. I'm only a part time worker, so I can deal with it a little easier. Well, except for last week when I had to leave work an hour and a half early due to shortness of breath. I found that humiliating, since I was a desert rat for five years in the New Mexico sun while pursuing an undergraduate degree. I'm conditioned to 120 degree summer afternoons. What a wimp! 95 degrees and I fall to my knees on the dock floor like a B-movie sidekick looking for a lost contact lens in a bar brawl. Brent, mercifully, reminds me that I'm "not in my twenties anymore", and that I need to keep an eye on my elderly health. Hmm.
I'd put a paper bag over my head, except it might get wet with sweat and fall apart.
I'm not sure how hot it is outside these days, but inside the building at work it has routinely been slightly over 100 degrees. That's Fahrenheit to you, Myrtle. My work shirt, proudly emblazoned with the company logo, looks like the a wet t shirt contest gone awry at a frat kegger. It's so saturated with perspiration that I duck out the back door to the dumpster in order to wring it out so I don't have to put up "Caution: wet floor" signs on the sales floor. This, as it turns out, is an excellent idea; Sky and Freedom, two diehard hippies from Floyd who are shopping for old lumber for some kind of art I'd frankly love to go see, notice that my freshly-wrung shirt is now sporting a tie-dye look, albeit a subdued look. "It's monochromatic" I offer to my two acquaintances who have more talent than I could ever comprehend having. Now, I'm not sure what monochromatic means, exactly, but in sales one must think on one's feet. As it turns out, Sky nods understandingly while Freedom (Free for short) expresses his wish that the shirt had more color -more "hue".
Mike is making do with the second floor in an effort to deal with this somewhat oppressive heat (humidity). In his defense, he works full time and needs air conditioning every now and then. I'm only a part time worker, so I can deal with it a little easier. Well, except for last week when I had to leave work an hour and a half early due to shortness of breath. I found that humiliating, since I was a desert rat for five years in the New Mexico sun while pursuing an undergraduate degree. I'm conditioned to 120 degree summer afternoons. What a wimp! 95 degrees and I fall to my knees on the dock floor like a B-movie sidekick looking for a lost contact lens in a bar brawl. Brent, mercifully, reminds me that I'm "not in my twenties anymore", and that I need to keep an eye on my elderly health. Hmm.
I'd put a paper bag over my head, except it might get wet with sweat and fall apart.
Monday, July 26, 2010
What's up with all that sort-of-sticky clear plastic that covers new electronic gadgets? What IS this stuff, anyway? Is it window tint material that got rejected? I ask, because waaaaay back when I was a late-blooming hotrodder, I tried (in vain) to affix something similar that covers the outer edges of new keyboards to the windows of my beloved '71 Dodge Charger. The only difference, as far as I can tell, is that the stuff I was smearing all over the inside of the windows was tinted. And didn't stick to anything except dead bugs and dust.
Mind you, I DID wash those windows until you could perform surgery on them. You'd think that Windex would dry fairly quickly in the heat of a New Mexico summer. This marvelous space-age material peeled faster than Marsha's flipflops when someone yelled, "PINWHEEL COOKIES!" I ended up tossing $20.95 worth of glorified Saran Wrap in the apartment dumpster because, apparently, I was the only hotrodder in Dona Ana County who couldn't quite master the four inch squeegie that came with the kit which extolled the virtues of dark tint ("guaranteed to reduce the heat of your interior by 50%", which, um, means I'd have climbed into an all-vinyl interior whose temperature would have been reduced to a balmy 900 degrees Celsius).
Now, after the Charger has long since been recycled into a new refrigerator for Lillian in Akron, I type this blog, shaking like a leaf due to the five square yards of failed window tint which adorns this keyboard so it wouldn't get scratched or dinged during shipping from Beijing. Perspiration frames my face as if it were an 8 X 10 glossy from MGM Studios. 3m's latest attempt to induce Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in my psyche has, for the moment, failed.
I've considered removing it, but there's something irresistable about new electronic gadgets staying wrapped in failed window tint.
It must be that new electronic gadget smell.
Mind you, I DID wash those windows until you could perform surgery on them. You'd think that Windex would dry fairly quickly in the heat of a New Mexico summer. This marvelous space-age material peeled faster than Marsha's flipflops when someone yelled, "PINWHEEL COOKIES!" I ended up tossing $20.95 worth of glorified Saran Wrap in the apartment dumpster because, apparently, I was the only hotrodder in Dona Ana County who couldn't quite master the four inch squeegie that came with the kit which extolled the virtues of dark tint ("guaranteed to reduce the heat of your interior by 50%", which, um, means I'd have climbed into an all-vinyl interior whose temperature would have been reduced to a balmy 900 degrees Celsius).
Now, after the Charger has long since been recycled into a new refrigerator for Lillian in Akron, I type this blog, shaking like a leaf due to the five square yards of failed window tint which adorns this keyboard so it wouldn't get scratched or dinged during shipping from Beijing. Perspiration frames my face as if it were an 8 X 10 glossy from MGM Studios. 3m's latest attempt to induce Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in my psyche has, for the moment, failed.
I've considered removing it, but there's something irresistable about new electronic gadgets staying wrapped in failed window tint.
It must be that new electronic gadget smell.
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