Haiku #1

Holiday shopping and wrapping,
as well as finding a job?
Makes it tough to blog.

Random thought #1

If a man voices his opinion in a forest and there's no woman around to hear it... is he still wrong?

The art of the interview...

There are few things more degrading than trying to sum up your entire net worth with a few sentences.

But before you go thinking I’m all full of myself here, wait… I’m not trying to imply that my net worth is actually worth MORE than a few sentences…I’m just sayin’ that constructing the right line of BS to win over a prospective employer… well that’s tough. But it’s also exactly what you’re supposed to do when you go on job interviews. Impress them. Dazzle them. Wow them.

Yeah sure… with information about… ME? About MY life? …and MY jobs?

Oof… So, what exactly do you say to people you’ve never met?


Because you certainly can’t tell them the truth…

Q: So, why do you want to work here at [company name]?
A: Because In case you haven’t noticed, I’m unemployed… I need a job, and I’m not ready to admit defeat and flip burgers.

Q: And why did you leave your last job?
A: Well, I argued with them one too many times… I guess my, ahem… “superiors” finally decided they’d rather have someone sitting in my chair who didn’t use the logic portion of the lump of goo sitting three feet above his arse.

Q: I see… well you do seem to have some good experience here, but tell me, what are your personal strengths…
A: Um, video games, cheese eating, and references to obscure moments in pop culture.

Q: What about your weaknesses?
A: Let’s go with an irrational fear of bugs, the aforementioned cheese eating, and oh yeah, the fact that I’m unemployed.

Q: Do you have any long-term goals?
A: Well, I’d like to make a ton of money, and Jennifer Garner’s pretty cute…

Q: I was thinking more along the lines of career goals…
A: Oh, well in that case… um, I’d uh, just like to make a ton of money… and uh, not have to deal with dinks who are afraid to actually be creative or try something new.

Q: Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
A: Jennifer Garner's house.

Q: No, I mean career wise:
A: Pool boy at Jennifer Garner's house?

Q: You want to be a pool boy?
A: Hey, I just want to be at her house... YOU'RE the one who said I had to have a career...

Q: Let's move on... I’m going through your portfolio, and I see a lot of good work... but tell me, do you have anything more “creative” you can show us?
A: In my portfolio? No. But give me some glitter, a bean burrito, and about an hour, and I’ll make that canvas sing, baby!

Yeah… using the truth wouldn’t really go over all that well…


I guess for now, I’ll just smile, nod, and try to sound enthused about the prospects of commuting everyday to some remote building where people with egos the size of Delta Burke (circa 4th season of designing women) tell me what to do.

In the meantime, there’s always video games…

Random paragraph #17

7 months... 13 days... 4 hours... that's how long it had been since Stan last saw any sign of civilization... since he had tasted cooked flesh or drank untainted water... Following the storm (and the subsequent wreck), he'd spent the better part of a year on this beach... sustaining himself on seaweed, crabs and whatever else might washup on shore... and during those months, those long, long months... well, let's just say it wasn't easy... fatigue, sickness, loneliness... they'd all threatened to end him at one time or another... but somehow... for the love of god, somehow... he'd managed to keep going. Then, off in the distance, something cut through the haze... a vision... a red sphere like object, skidding across the sand... and behind it... could that be? Another person?  He struggled to bring it into focus, and as he began to make out what could only be a little girl running to meet the tide and retrieve the sphere (and actually was just the first in a long line of tourists returning to the shore for the summer), a single, incredible thought formed in his brain, "My god! ...I 've been going through hell... and.. she's just strolling across the sand? How on earth did she ever last this long!"

Random paragraph #16

One day while walking alone in the woods, a man came across something that gave him reason for pause...  a brittle, mishapen branch had fallen from an old tree and landed by the bank of a small but quickly moving stream. Balanced precariously on a stone jutting out from the underbrush, the branch teetered back and forth, one end dipping in the edge of the water, then falling back, tapping lightly against the stone. For nearly a half an hour the man watched this, transfixed by the picture of beauty before him... the gracefull run of the stream, the delicate rhythm of the branch's tapping... he watched, and began to lose himself in the simplicity of it all...  then, as he sat crouched by the side of the stream, sun breaking through the tips of the trees, a cool wind gently scraping across his cheek, he had a revelation... "great," he sighed... "now I have to pee."

Random paragraph #15

And as a deafening silence engulfed the room, Walter thought about what he had just said... maybe Ellen had been right... perhaps a social mixer at the GOP national caucus WASN'T the best opportunity to present his new theories on the power of the female perspective to free a repressed proletariat from the grips of a corrupt and unsympathetic ruling class.

What's that sound...

Today: a few tips on tire maintenance…

If your front tires have odd growths on the sides (much like your Aunt Edna) then they probably need to be replaced.

If these growths enlarge and pulsate when additional air is added to the tire, then they most likely will rupture at some point in the near future and should be replaced (unlike your Aunt Edna, who is of course, irreplaceable).

If after adding air, said tires don’t scare you enough to have them replaced, wackiness will ensue.

Said wackiness is most likely to ensue at a moment of prime inconvenience such as during a monster truck pull or street race for pink slips (or when you’re on a major highway, returning from a Holiday weekend at the parents).

It is important to realize that the aforementioned wackiness will not ensue in the manner in which you think… no, no, no... one of the tires afflicted by said pulsating growths will in fact NOT be the one that blows… it will instead be the tire on the opposing side of the car… you know, the one that looks perfectly fine… the one that theoretically is still under warranty… the one that when you tell the guy at the tire place that it’s still under warranty he looks at you like “oh brother this guy doesn’t think he’s actually going to get me to give him a break on the tire here does he” …yeah, THAT tire… THAT will be the tire that blows… and that blows…

Apparently, you will learn, tires that appear to be in perfect working order are utterly terrified by pulsating growths and will resort to committing suicide rather than be subjected to further exposure to said pulsating growths (for this reason it is advised that exposure of said tires to Aunt Edna also be kept at a minimum).

Changing the tire will make you more tired than you think.

The spare donut will not be easy to procure if it is hidden beneath 3,847 pounds of laundry, holiday decorations and car stereo equipment.

The spare donut will not be fun to put on if it’s cold out.

The spare donut will not be fun to put on if it’s raining.

The spare donut will be even less fun to put on if it’s cold out AND raining.

For some reason, you will view changing the tire yourself with a great sense of accomplishment, and you’ll wish you had a camera handy so you could document your supreme exhibition of manhood.

You are an idiot.

You don’t care. You’d still take a picture if the camera wasn’t buried under everything you just moved out of the trunk so you could get at the spare donut.

The next day, for some reason, even though only one tire blew out, you’ll wind up replacing 3 (see previous comment about terrifying effects of said pulsating growths on healthy tires).

Tires are more expensive than you think.

Tire salespeople will always smile at you and look you in the eye - even when they're lying or making up reasons why your warranty is not valid.

You will pay an additional fee for the disposal of the tires… but not the ones you’re getting rid of… the ones you just bought… the ones that are still on your car… the ones that don’t even have any pulsating growths… yes, THOSE tires... you will pay this fee, and somehow the tire salesperson will smile and make it make sense to you.

You will not trust tire salespeople anymore.

You will leave the tire place slightly grumpy, and you will go home... and you will pray you don’t run into your Aunt Edna along the way.

Random paragraph #14

Joe'd been at the underwear factory going on 13 years now... he'd worked hard... he'd put in his time...and gradually, he'd been promoted...  now, he was inspector #17... not the most prestigious number in the world, but hey, it could have been worse... at least he wasn't #2... that honor i'm afraid to say, was reserved for poor, sweet Marjorie... I'll tell ya, she was the butt of many a joke around the factory (no pun intended)... No, #17 wasn't that bad at all... it was respectable even... But what Joe couldn't stand... what Joe hated more than anything else in the world was inspector #1... Hank Peterson... with his big toothy smile, his gangly arms, and his fancy salon haircut... Hank, you see, was the son of the owner,  and had not come into HIS position honestly... But even more so, Hank was not what you'd call a modest man... and everyday around 10, Hank would start... He'd parade around with a pair of RX440's on his head, laughing and pointing... shouting "I'm number 1, I'm number 1..." Well yes Hank, today you may indeed be #1... but things change my friend...  things change...

Random paragraph #13

Harvey was not a confrontational man... but this was too much... first, the airline sat him in the wrong section, in a seat that neither reclined nor had a working window shade... then they brought him his meal...  a suspicious looking fish steak and a small bag of peanuts...  he was, of course, acutely allergic to both (a condition he had dutifully informed them of when he booked the ticket)... when the resulting medical emergency caused him to miss his connecting flight, they charged him a $59 rebooking fee and refused to cover his medical expenses, or the cost of a hotel... it was a complete nightmare from start to finish... he'd had problems with the airline before, but this time they had just gone too far... Harvey Middlebaum was no doormat... he was going to do something about this... yes, as soon as the swelling went down, SOMEBODY was getting a very stern e-mail...

Random paragraph #12

As the clock wound down, Jimmy summoned his courage and lofted the ball into the air... along with his hopes, fears and dreams. He was tired of being a nobody... He wasn't tall. He wasn't strong. He wasn't athletic. Jimmy wasn't very much of anything really, but now he had a chance to make a difference... and with this in mind, his awkward, wobbling mess of a shot somehow found its way through the bottom of the net. Cheers erupted as the buzzer rang out... his basket had just decided the outcome of the game! But alas, Jimmy wasn't exceptionally bright, and in his haste to remove himself of the obligation of carrying the ball, had simply thrown it at the nearest basket he could find... one that naturally, was not his own... Jimmy HAD just won the game...  but for the opposing team. It took him a moment to realize this, and in his haste to celebrate with his teammates (slapping high-fives all around) he all but cemented his legacy. Shortly after, in a quiet corner of the locker room, Jimmy received the first in a long line of beatings that would follow him throughout all four years of high school and even inexplicably beyond... to a small midwestern technical school over 1300 miles away.

Random paragraph #11

On Tuesdays, when Mrs. Roberts held her weekly "fatbusters" meetings, Gerald drove his ice cream truck just a little bit slower as he rounded the corner by her house... it's not that he was a cruel man... being 347 pounds himself, Gerald was no stranger to the plight of the robust... but money was money, and as grandad always used to say... "you don't stop selling umbrellas just cuz its raining."

Random paragraph #10

Methodically, Frank went about his work... first repositioning the trailer, then moving on to the beast... For three years he had been planning this from his cubicle on the 11th floor of the Gellman building... the idea blissfully coming to him one day as he watched the policeman's horse lazily feed by the bank of a small stream... he had worked out every possible permutation of the events that would follow... knew every conceiveable scenerio, every calculation (to at least the third decimal point)... he was, after all, one of the most respected... nay, feared... accountants ever to pick up a calculator at Stern and Devanovich. And as his watch neared the zero hour, Frank quietly began to laugh... a soft, unnatural chuckle that would have set anyone around him at unease... not that anyone would have been there of course...  Frank took care of that... the countdown was on, and in a moment, Frank would pull a carrot from his front shirt pocket, and leading the horse a little further back from the water's edge, commit the most defiant act against the logic of man that he could think of... he, Frank Bowman, with reckless disregard for the consequences... would put the cart before the horse.

Lunchtime...

Ah, the simple joy of a peanut butter sandwich…

There are few things I know of that have held their favor and gracefully passed from childhood into adulthood like the good ole’ PB&J. As is now self-evident, I’m a jelly man myself… grape to be specific, but even if you prefer preserves or favor fluff, it’s all the same. Creamy or smooth, crust on or crust off, a peanut butter sandwich is a small slice of pure perfection.

You doubt me?

Well, what other sandwich do YOU know of that actually holds itself together… a sandwich that blindly serves it’s purpose, clinging for dear life against the bread that exists as nothing more than a modest frame for it’s nutty goodness?

Think your beloved turkey or ham’s gonna do that?

Not a shot…

More than likely, when you bite into your turkey sandwich, its gonna slide and shift, trying to escape and evade your intended mandible action, until you finally windup with a mouthful of mayonnaise and little else. And ham? Well ham’s just as selfish… but it’s slow, so the best it can do is rebuff your attempts to tear it off when you bite into it, opting instead to turn into a stringy flap of flesh and refusing to acknowledge it’s own mortality (which, if you’ve built your sandwich correctly, has already passed by the time it reaches your plate)… c’mon, is that really something you want in your mouth? I didn’t think so…

Peanut butter is different. Peanut butter has pride, allowing YOU to determine the best path of distribution, before selflessly segmenting and dividing itself whenever and wherever you want.

That my friends, is commitment to purpose.

It's also WAY overthinking your food choices... and ok, so I ponder a little too much about the inner-workings of my luncheon meat (or in this case, lack of meat)… but still, one can’t help but admire something that’s able to transcend the boundaries of one’s youth. I don’t know about you, but other fare hasn’t fared as well with me. Cotton candy? Not unless I want a dangerously serious sugar coma. Hawaiian Punch? Sadly, I just can’t drink it anymore (and I used to guzzle the stuff). Even my former obsession - hot dogs - don’t hold the same place in my heart they used to (unless I’m at some type of BBQ or sporting event).

Granted, not everything has been forgotten… fruity pebbles are still worthwhile on occasion, and I don’t think I’ll ever give up my love for little chocolate discs wrapped up in gold foil and passed off as Christmas currency… but few things in my life have made a truly successful transition from child favorite to adult favorite as well as my wonderfully nutty buddy...

That... is why I cherish the simple joy of the perfect peanut butter sandwich.

Random sentence #2

"Yes your honor, that's true... but in my own defense, i'd like to remind you... it was Bob's idea to get the butter."

Random paragraph #9

Although well-schooled in over 80 different languages and dialects, Professor Engleton wasn't prepared for what he found on his latest trip to the canary islands... a remote group of natives seemed to have developed their own unique sytstem of communication. Using their native bird and a series of small rocks, they appeared to be conversing via a rudimentary form of morse code. Then again, with all the mess, it was hard to be sure...

Random sentence #1

And with a single, petulant cry of "Shatner was a hack!", all heck broke loose at the 16th annual Mahooga, PA, "Kirkathon."

A graphic equalizer...

So… this morning I was out running an errand (ah, the freedom of unemployment), and I saw something that made me question the intelligence of an average member of the human race.

I had just pulled up to a traffic light when I started to hear a thumping. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. I had a pretty good idea what was emitting these sonic vibrations, but I can honesty say that I didn’t realize the extent of its absurdity until I had actually laid eyes on it. When the broken-down 1980’s era honda civic with duct tape (no lie) holding the wheel wells together pulled up along side me (IT naturally, was the source of the thumping), it was all I could do not to dip my head in shame for the course of humanity. Here we had some poor unfortunate middle-aged fellow sitting behind the wheel, groovin’ to the best of his ability, who was completely oblivious to the fact that you couldn’t actually “hear” any music… that it was really just a series of blips and blumps, like morse code for the rhythmically insane… And actually, “groovin’” is probably the wrong word… it was more of an angry, contorted, gesturing that kinda looked like he had stuffed a sleeping marmot down his pants, not realizing that eventually it would wake up.

To make matters worse, he obviously thought he was quite the thug. Now what the average 40-something white male can learn from the teachings of 50-cent I’m not about to judge, but I’m pretty sure Mr. Cent would confirm my deduction that there was a high degree of probably this man was in fact most definitely NOT a thug. He was however, progressively removing various parts of rust (and frame) from his car by subjecting it to the repeated audible throngs of inner-city life.

Now, before you think I’m just being cranky or dismissive of something I don’t understand, hear me out. I fully support the use of ridiculously loud car stereos. Having filled the majority of my trunk with boxes, amps, speakers, and wires myself, trust me… I get it. And I’m also not trying to say that the music selection was the mistake. Believe me, I’d be mocking this man just as much if he were blaring Whitesnake, Justin Timberlake, or Andrea Bocelli (though In that case I probably would have made allusions to an animal other than the marmot… no real reason… I just think the marmot works better as a symbol of the struggle for survival within the confines of the urban concrete jungle than say… an otter). No, I’m all for loud obnoxious music… but there are a few simple guidelines you should follow:

1. First, your stereo probably shouldn’t be worth MORE than your car.
2. Second, you DO need to have speakers other than subwoofers… even if you don’t turn them up very loud.
3. Third, if using your stereo is actively doing damage to your car, then you might want to rethink your priorities… buy “bondo” this week,… next week you can pick up that hot bass booster you saw at best buy.
4. Fourth, you don’t need rims that “spin.” honestly… I know this has nothing to do with the stereo, but really dude… your rims shouldn’t be worth more than your car either.
5. Finally, if you’re over the age of 40… and white… don’t try to groove to rap music… you can like it… you can really like it… but don’t try to act like the artist knows where YOU’RE coming from. Because odds are, you wouldn’t even DRIVE through where he’s from.

Hey, I’m not trying to say that I’m even the slightest bit better than anyone else here (odds are that guy at least has a job!), but please… take a moment to think before you act. It’s all I’m asking… just common sense and dignity. Thanks, I appreciate it.

Oh… and one more thing: spoilers and ground effects? very cool… but not on your mom's escort.

Be careful what you wish for...

Ok… um… ya know how, just a few entries ago I was complaining about how jobs, and uh, especially MY job, was uh… overrated?

Yeah, well… a funny thing happened on the way to the blog yesterday…

And now, um… that job’s not really a problem anymore. You see, I was laid off… terminated… or, to paraphrase The Emperor’s New Groove:

“I was let go… my department's being downsized… I’m part of an outplacement program… they’re going in a different direction… they’re not picking up my option. Take my pick. They've got more!”

Yes, I was duly informed that yesterday would be my last day in their employment…

So alas, here I am back on the job hunting trail… albeit with a mixed set of feelings. On the one hand, I feel like dancing to “the hills are alive with the sound of music” while screaming “free at last, free at last… thank god almighty, free at last!” I want to run through the streets and proclaim my joy to the mountaintops… No longer will I have to do uninspired work that I can’t support wholeheartedly while trying to make nice with people who arguably know less about the business than I do (and lets be honest… I really don’t know that much).

But on the other hand, there’s another distinct part of me that’s more like “heeeaaaaayyyyyyyy…. whatchoo talkin’ bout Willis?” After all, no one likes being told they’re not wanted anymore… even if (or especially if) the words are being delivered by two people who could probably be outwitted by a piece of luncheon meat.

Now, by their words, I wasn’t fired… their business is slowing down, and they can’t afford to keep me on staff. But that being the case, I have a sneaking suspicion that if new accounts fell from the sky in great numbers, crushing all the surrounding agencies, and they were the only ones left standing to pickup the pieces and therefore happened to stumble into a wealth of new business… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t expect a panicked phone call from them telling me what an egregious error they had made in letting me go.

I was good though… I didn’t burn bridges. And as much as I would have liked to have emptied the vault of complaints and grievances I have amassed over the past year, I decided to forgo the frustration of trying to convert it into language that they would understand… Is it even possible to convert the phrase “ignorant, insecure, male-chauvinistic arse-orifice with a god complex” into a series of monosyllabic grunts? Yeah, that’s probably a little excessively bitter… but hey, I didn’t even go INTO what I think of the “talents” of the VP, and besides, what are they gong to do… fire me?

Anyway, no self pity here… I’m actually kind of excited. It’s a chance to look for something new… something different… something more exciting... and if I have to eat a few ramen noodles in the meantime, so be it. For now, I’m going to make the most of my current situation… who knows, maybe I’ll write a song today… maybe I’ll clean, um, something… maybe I’ll just go downtown and laugh at all the people who actually have to work today… hey, all I’m sayin’ is I’ve got options… my schedule is suddenly WIDE open… and in the immortal words of another character from The Emperor’s New Groove, “Squeaker squeak squeak squeakin'.”

Random paragraph #8

I'm not sure where we first went wrong... it was harmless enough, really... a couple friends, a map, some chips... your basic road trip. But when it was all finally over, we were broke, starving and humiliated... and everyone... every last one of us... had a deep and everlasting hatred of possums.

Toys for scotts...

I have a confession to make...

I am 31 years old, and I like toys.

OK, I said it... so tell me... why is this bad? I don’t understand what makes this wrong. At what age are we suddenly supposed to become “adults” and stop playing with toys? Is there really a cut-off point? ...because I’m not sure there is... In fact, I have a strong suspicion that there are more than a few men out there who are simply embarrassed about their love of toys and consequently wind up having children solely for the purpose of securing plausible deniability for future purchases (ok, it’s a stretch, but there are also people that have “strong suspicions” that Elvis is still alive, so work with me here). So why do we ever have to stop loving toys? They amuse me, and as long as they continue to amuse me I’m going to keep them around... But for some reason, people (at least some people) find this strange... odd... inappropriate... and therefore, wrong.

And that, I just don’t get.

As I look around my office (where theoretically I guess I should be doing some actual work instead of writing this) I see lots of toys... kids’ toys, geek toys, random toys... all fulfilling some minor role in keeping me more entertained than bored, more joyful than sad, and (in all honesty) more distracted than productive. Currently I am surrounded by (among other things) an etch-a-sketch, a pen that shoots Nerf darts, a pull-back and rev mini cooper, an itsy, bitsy, teeny, tiny gong (with accompanying itsy, bitsy, teeny, tiny gong mallet), and a dude with a black eye and boxing gloves that sits on a spring attached to a suction cup (so you can whallop the bejesus out of him), that gives me way too much satisfaction on bad days (he he... some days I shoots him with my Nerf pen). I also have more geeky-type toys, like my “binary clock,” a wonderfully absurd invention that tells time using only LEDs. That, in particular, is a good litmus test for people’s sensibilities. If right now, you have to ask “why” I would own such item, “why” I would even want a clock that still takes me (after a year of ownership) about 4-7 seconds to determine what the time actually IS... well then you’ll never really understand... it’s just cool... The bottom line is, I don’t want to grow up... I’m a toys r us kid... or at least I would be a toys r us kid if they actually even really sold toys anymore… no, now, if you want diapers, sleepers, strollers, or random baby type things you go to toys r us… if you want toys, you have to go to someplace like wal-mart (which incidentally also sells diapers, sleepers, strollers and random baby type things… usually for less). But that’s beside the point, the real question is why are toys wrong… I say they aren’t… So the next time someone gives you a strange look for blowing bubbles with a straw, or sighs when you walk by them gleefully stretching out a slinky, just ignore them… have sympathy that they’re not having as much fun with life as you are. Who says you ever have to put away your action figures. Who says you have to stop playing “tag”…oh, and can someone, ANYONE, please tell my why they don’t make “Big Wheels” in adult sizes… cuz that would be just about the coolest thing ever…

The life & times of skinny dirk - 4

In 1982, at West Podunk High, Dirk graduated 10th in his class... an accomplishment somewhat muted by the fact that there were only a total of 11 students... 3 of whom rode the short bus.

The life & times of skinny dirk - 3

In the mid 80s, Dirk toured with a heavy metal band... until they fired him for complaining that the repeated exposure to spandex and mesh was chafing his nipples.

Random paragraph #7

This was it... today was the day Warren was finally going to delcare his love for Ernestine. Sure, she may not have been a "conventional" beauty, but if you had a strong stomach, a love of obtuse angles, and a thing for large feet (Warren was blessed with all three), then there wasn't a finer woman to be had in all of Taloosa county.

The life & times of skinny dirk - 2

Inspired by a live performance he witnessed in the early 90s, Dirk started his own religion... an effort that ultimately failed due to his inability to find anyone else interested in accepting Vanilla Ice as their savior.

The life & times of skinny dirk - 1

After a failed stint as a pro wrestler, Dirk decided to try his luck in the legitimate ring, quickly earning the nickname "The non-threatening, glass-jawed guy who falls down a lot."

Random paragraph #6

"Barb, for the last time... No, I was NOT playing 'Jim Peters - Stapler Assassin' with your office supplies again! Now please, stop giving me that look and just tell where I can find some peroxide and a band-aid..."

Wah, wah, wah...

I have come to the conclusion that work is overrated.

I know that this isn’t really a groundbreaking revelation or anything (on par with say, “there is no spoon”), but still, it’s my revelation (©2004), so I’m going to write about it.

Now first off... when I say I think work is overrated, please note that I’m not referring to the Richard Bransons of the world, whose work entails waking up in the morning, having some toast, and then climbing a peak in the Himalayas to see if they can dive into the waiting hands of a personal assistant (most likely named Buck) who just happens to be tethered to a bungee cord and hanging from a hot air balloon. No, I’m talking about your run of the mill jobs... your daily commute jobs... your “please god, let someone put a bullet through my head today” jobs...

You know, the other 99.9% of us.

Don’t get me wrong... I like my paycheck and all, and when you get right down to it, I have absolutely no right to complain. At least I have a job... and hey, I ain’t exactly diggin’ ditches... But some days, I walk down the hall, staring at the neutral colored walls, and I see the cubes, the people, the fluorescent lighting that sucks the life from my very soul, the kitchenette filled with candy and sweets meant to placate us and keep us fat and dulled by sugar so we’ll be docile sheep for the machine (more Kit-Kats huh? don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to... gimme a break indeed!)... yeah, it’s about this time that I start to get... that my blood begins to boil... and I just... I... I...[unpronounceable guttural whimper]... um... I guess I drifted a bit off-topic there... my bad...

I guess I should tell you right out... I have some “issues” with my current employment situation, so every now and then you’re just going to have to deal with me getting a bit ornery... sorry.

Anyway, I was watching part of “Office Space” the other day and it got me thinking about the sheer idiocy of the modern work environment. Why does everything require an overly thought out structure? Does everything have to have a “process,” and tell me, has any of these said “processes” ever done anything other than mire down a project to the point where nothing tangible actually gets accomplished? And tell me, what’s with the obsession over titles? As far as I’m concerned, you could call me “Chief Council of Inter-office Lint Relations” and I’d be just as happy... no, check that... I’d probably like that better... But as long as the paycheck clears, you can call me anything you like... Oh, and one more thing, if you ever find out who devised the concept of the “Mission Statement,” I’d like to pay him a visit... I’ve always wondered what someone who was both anal-retentive and insane would actually look like. I just don’t get it. People seem to want to wrap everything they do in a thick coat of the bull’s business to make it look more important than it actually is. Ya know, I freely admit that some days, I do absolutely nothing that is of any value to anyone... I’m not slacking off... I’m still doing my job.... it’s just that I realize that I’m not exactly curing Cancer here (though if I could that’d be pretty cool), and therefore I’m not about to try to make it look like I’m a superhero (though that would be even cooler... “look, it’s a bird... it’s a plane... it’s Flarfman” ... “Flarfman saves the day!” ... “come Spudboy, to the Flarfcave!” ...ok, I’m done now).

I don’t really have a point here (I hope for your sake you don’t actually expect ME to have any of the answers), I’m really just whining and complaining, so I apologize. I’ll try to cut back on that... it’s just... I’m at work now, and I guess I’m bit cranky... maybe I need a change, something different in my life... yeah, that’s it, shake things up a bit... learn some new stuff... explore a bit... perhaps even try climbing a peak in the Himalayas to see if I can dive into the waiting hands of someone tethered to a bungee cord or something... ya know, I could do that! And I really think I should... I'll just leave this place right now, and take my life in an entirely new direc.... Oh look! Munchkins!

Abstract thought #1

Would a mime with a speech impediment look like he's trapped in a box during an earthquake?

All in...

I have a poker tournament coming up.

Now, before I go any further, I’d like to clarify something (just in case any keepers of the peace or representatives of the department of taxation happen to be casting their eyes in this general direction). By “poker tournament,” what I really mean is “tea party” ...and if I speak of things such as “the flop,” “the turn,” and “the river,” I’m actually referring to specific blends of chamomile, earl grey, and english breakfast... really, honestly... that’s all I mean. Oh, and if I talk about “blinds,” um... well, that’s just a not very sensitive way of referring to a grouping of two or more visually challenged individuals... I promise.

Well now that that’s out of the way, let me just come out and say that I hope to win a lot of money at my upcoming um... tea party. Yes, it’d be really nice if I continually got a selection of chamomile, earl grey, and english breakfast that went perfectly with my hole cards...

But in all honesty, I don’t really expect to win. And that’s ok. I just don’t have the stomach for it... I know this. On the night in question, if I’m sitting with a full boat (note: slang for a “milk creamer filled to the brim”), I may look at the cards and think I have a chance... I may even tell myself that lady luck has cast her gaze upon me... that her countenance is blessed with a smile so grand the heavens themselves must be bathed in glory... I may tell myself that on this night... this one glorious night... I might just possess the faculties necessary to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat and restore honor to the legacy of my entire family.

Unfortunately, I’ll probably tell everyone else this too...

You see, I can’t bluff to save my life. If I have a good hand, I either get all antsy waiting for my chance to bet (resembling an uncomfortable man on a bumpy bus who just ate mexican), or I try to act nonchalant, the end result being that I wind up looking more than a might bit constipated. I guess with me, it’s just really all about the digestive system. In any event, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there are people out there with a much cooler composition than I, and that given the opportunity, they will rightly whomp my patoot (note: slang for “drive the boot heel of indignance into my spineless mound of inadequacy”). But that doesn’t mean I won’t have fun. I’ll play poor cards. I’ll limp into pots when I should be aggressive. I’ll do other things that would have Phil Gordon rolling in his grave... were he actually dead. The way I see it, as long as I play well enough that I wouldn’t have been embarrassed to have been in the losers lounge at Celebrity Poker Showdown, I’ll have done ok... and if I do end up winning a few bucks in the process, all the better.

Mostly, I just want a moment... MY moment... that ONE special moment of cool every poker player lives for... you know the one I mean... that moment when you calmly put your cards down... take your sunglasses off... push your chair back... stand up... and utter the only two words that can cause opponents to literally shake in their boots...

More tea?

Random paragraph #5

Ya know, I really just wanted to do something special for Jack, something to make his bachelor party memorable...

But hey, no one was more surprised than I when his grandmother popped out of that cake. Now I'll be the first to admit, for being 82, she looked pretty darn good... but it created a bit of an awkward situation to say the least. And to make matters worse, her vision and hearing aren't quite what they used to be... it was awfully hard to get her attention, and consequently, we couldn't get her to stop until after she had already begun her, uh... "tricks"...

Man, all I can say is... Jack's making wonderful progress in therapy, and as for me, we'll... i'll never look at eggplant the same way again.

Holiday cheer™ ...

Well, Halloween’s over, so you know what that means... yup, break out the pastels, Pablo ‘cause Easter’s just around the corner! Time to pay heed to that great symbol of Christian rebirth - the chocolate bunny.

OK... it’s called sarcasm people, but you get the idea. And it may be an exaggeration (albeit a slight one), but with the inundation of holiday themed sales, movies, and products that took place starting November 1st, I’m already beginning to feel like I’ve fallen behind in my consumerist duties. Who knew that there were so scant few days left until Christma... Quanz... Chanak.... whatever politically correct festival takes place in or around the end of December. According to the popular media, I believe my shopping should be done, and my thanksgiving turkey should currently be soaking in brine in the bathtub (or being prepared to be fried, boiled, pit roasted, or whatever other trendy cooking motif is being hawked on us this year by Martha Stew... hmm... maybe not... perhaps we’ll just say Paul Prudhomme to be safe).

But c'mon... it’s two months away people!

I don’t know what I want to eat, let alone what I want to wear, or even where I want to eat... and I certainly haven’t begun to even THINK about what I want to get people for their respective allotted holidays.

And I like it that way...

I don’t need a Hallmark commercial with a singing/dancing duo of snowman and dog to tell me it’s time to start shopping.

I don’t need a Sprint ad letting me know that my mother will be sad (and I am a horrible son) if I don’t have enough “anytime” minutes to call her every time it looks like it might snow.

And I really don’t need the ASPCA to send me holiday stamps with little pictures of kittens and puppies in Santa hats in an effort to get me to give them money (even if it IS after all the “season of giving”).

Now I’ve got nothing against kittens or puppies, and I know the ASPCA does some great work, but get an accountant people! Maybe if you didn’t spend so much money sending stamps, key chains, calendars, thermometers, and address labels to me every two weeks, you wouldn’t need my money in the first place!

But I’m getting off track here...

It’s the Holiday season dagnabbit, and therefore it’s officially mandated that we be cheerful... at all costs... or else... or at least outwardly. When people turn their backs we’ll most likely curse them for stealing our parking spaces.... curse them for taking too long in lines (just tell me why...WHY do people still insist on writing checks!)... and we’ll surely curse them for bringing their screaming one year old into the cafe where we took a break because we just wanted to sit down for a minute, have a cup of coffee, and maybe finally achieve a moment’s peace... oh for heaven’s sake... why god, why.... why hath thou forsaken me!

But alas, that's just how it is... and we should embrace the Holidays for everything that they are. So get out your credit cards (and your earplugs), head to the malls, and start shopping with a renewed passion and vigor. Hey, there’s only 400 or so shopping days left until next year’s holidays and after all, if you’re not doing your part, well... then the terrorists have won.

Besides, if it really starts to stress you out, you can always take a break and reward yourself. I’m sure by now CVS is fully stocked with chocolate bunnies.

Random paragraph #4

Three whole days!

It had been three days since she'd left in a huff... with not even a phone call! OK, yes, he flew off the handle... yes, he had yelled and said a few things he'd probably regret... And yes, he HAD locked her precious pet pekingnese "Mr. Snookems" in the back room... But that darn dog wouldn't stop barking! And besides, how was HE supposed to know the snake hadn't been fed yet?

Aural bliss abyss...

I love my iPod. From its minimalist design, to its sleek, easy-to-navigate interface. It’s one of the few “gadgets” to come out in recent years that seems to address a need, rather than manufacture one. I adore every last gigabit... and as such, I take my iPod everywhere. Need some music for the road? Check. Wanna hear some stand-up? Check. Looking for some Rock? Classical? Trippy emo beatles-esque power pop circa 1993? Check. Check. Check. My iPod is a veritable U.N. of musical tastes and flavors... and that’s just the way I like it. I take comfort in knowing that there’s at least one place in the universe where Eminem and Moby can get along. Where Mahler, Miles, and Biz Markie all peacefully co-exist in perfect harmony... (ok, maybe Biz Markie and “harmony” don’t really belong in the same sentence, but there’s no denying that “Just a friend” is a catchy tune, and hey, every now and then, Mr. Markie... you got what I need).

If nothing else, an iPod is a great way to explore the depths of your CD collection... but this is also where I run into trouble. My iPod has robbed me of my ability to pick out music. I no longer have any idea what I want to listen to. With each turn of the click wheel I’m presented with hundreds upon hundreds of choices... I’m simply overwhelmed. Now, I know... you may be saying to yourself, “Well, it’s all YOUR music... stuff YOU like... can't you just put it on shuffle?”

But don’t you see?!?!? That just makes things worse!

I wind-up skipping ahead... looking for that “perfect” song... time and time again, always guessing that the next tune to come up will undoubtedly be more of what I’m longing for at that exact moment... I need just the right fix... so I keep searching... tapping new veins... always looking for that ultimate high. It’s like cable tv... You get 47 movie channels, and most of them are probably playing something that given the option, you’d be perfectly happy to watch... if it were your ONLY option. But it’s not, so you keep flipping... moving on to that next channel in hopes of finding something even better. And where does this lead you? 2 hours later, you’re knee deep in the weather channel, and all you have to show for your efforts is a callus on your thumb and a slight headache.

That’s what it’s like with my iPod... it really is an addiction... But does this mean I want to get off the pipe? That I should seek help? That I should ween myself off the portable audio goodness?

Of course not!

And if I intend to extend this tired music-as-drug parable even further (which of course, I do), then who’s my biggest supplier? You guessed it, the iTunes music store. That fickle behemoth just exacerbates the problem. It makes getting my stash way too easy... It’s like a bottomless pit. I buy music (clicking away... after all, it's only 99 cents a pop!), only to have it completely disappear... I mean it never surfaces again... Don’t get me wrong, I'm not stupid, I know it’s in there somewhere... but it gets lost in the abyss, it just vanishes. Case in point: there’s a quaint indie-label rock album I bought months ago that I have yet to hear a single track of... I’m sure the songs are wonderfully tasteless, full of bitter angst, repressed anger, gorgeous melodies and wailing guitars, but how would I know? I have absolutely no clue what it sounds like. Maybe eventually it’ll pop up on shuffle and i'll resist the urge to skip... or, maybe not... for now, I just hope those guys are making nice with Sinatra and Skid Row.

Random paragraph #3

"Lisa! Timmy! Stop it right now!" she said, rushing across the room as something caught her eye "That..." she scowled, staring and pointing at the fresh stain on the carpet as she removed the crudely sharpened yardstick from little Timmy's sternum, "is why we don't play 'pirates of the carribean' in the living room!"

Random paragraph #2

Though he tried to fight his growing fear, deep in his heart Jack knew these would likely be his last moments alive.

Stranded for days in the bitter cold, cut off from the rest of the world, his hopes pinned to a distress signal one would optimistically call "iffy", the group really no longer had a choice. Having exhausted the remainder of their food supplies, they had been forced to make a decision... a terrible decision... they would draw straws to see who would be sacrificed for the sake of the others, and Jack, well... he never really was much good in art.

Rationalization #1

Push-ups are wrong.

I don’t just say this because I’m incapable of doing any vast quantity of them successively (even though that’s a fair enough observation). No, they are wrong because they are a poorly designed exercise. Skeptical? I will explain. As you do push-ups, you burn calories, thereby driving your body to shed excess weight. Since the body itself serves as the resistance for this exercise, you’re left with a no-win situation. The more you work out, the less you’ll weigh... but the less you weigh, the less you’ll benefit from working out. It’s the law of diminishing returns. Eventually, the exercise itself will produce no real benefit at all.

That is why push-ups are wrong.

Just let it go...

I don’t understand people. I freely admit this. But believe me, it’s not from lack of trying. For the better part of my 31 years - save a few of the early days, when I was paralyzed by fear because some brilliant individual had decided to suspend various objects of different sizes and weights from thin string and then place them directly above my head... beautiful idea guys... really, wonderful... I particularly like the blue fuzzy hovering orbs of death... very educational... is it any wonder I was making the dirty business in my pants? I really don’t think there’s much mystery there... It’s actually quite simple, a + b = poo.

Now where was I? Oh yes... for the majority of my life, I‘ve been trying to figure people out. To understand why they act and react the way they do... and the more I figure out, the more I’m baffled. For example: let’s take a look at recent series of events that took place here in Boston. I should preface this by saying that I am a Yankee fan, and have been since I was a little kid, when the only decent guy we had was Don Mattingly. We didn’t win championships. We didn’t even make the playoffs. We pretty much just hired and fired Billy Martin. It was a rough time... so I think I’ve earned my place as a Yankee fan. And even now, when they win, I don’t gloat... much. But it’s also important to note that while I enjoy a friendly rivalry, I don’t harbor any ill will for Red Sox or their fans - with a few noted exceptions. You know the ones I mean. The scary ones. The angry ones. Yes, I get it... Jeter swallows... you are incredibly witty and profound.

Anyway, here’s where I begin to make a cohesive point (hopefully)...

This year, the planets aligned, the gods smiled down upon the Fenway, and the Red Sox finally “reversed the curse.” This is all well and good. My team just didn’t have it this year... I can accept that. And being the devoted American League guy that I am, I supported the Red Sox in the series... even cheered them on... As far as I was concerned, they deserved this... they earned their moment in the sun. And when it was over, I braved the cold and rain to go downtown for the celebratory parade. Now, before you start calling me a poseur, let me tell you that come next year, I firmly believe the Yankees will trounce the Sox (it’s the oath I take as a fan). No, I went to the parade out of curiosity... call it a sociological experiment... after all, I live in Boston... and this was a big deal for Boston (or at least I would assume it’s a big deal to you guys, this kind of thing seems to happen a lot in NY... he, he... I’m sorry... I said I don’t gloat MUCH, I didn’t say I was perfect.).

So, I go to the parade... the culmination of a defining moment... a grand celebration set up to revel in the virtues of a team that defied 86 years of history... a team that swept the World Series against a National League opponent many thought would simply overpower them... a self-proclaimed “bunch of idiots” that proved they were the best.

And are the fans caught up in this moment? Yes.

Are they high-fiving each other and grinning from ear to ear? Yes.

Are they yelling, screaming and chanting in large (wet, rain-soaked) numbers? Yes.

And what are the words of support and exalted salutation that these devoted followers are bellowing to their beloved team in symbolic gesture of all that they accomplished?

Yankees Suck. Yankees Suck. Yankees Suck.

Like I said before, I don’t understand people. And honestly, this one I’m not even going to try to figure out. I’m giving up... In fact, I think I’ll just move on and see if I can find closure in another area of my life.

So... do you have any idea how I might track down the inventor of the mobile? I have a little equation I’d like to teach him.

Random paragraph #1

an example of how to use the resources at hand.

...having maintained a figure one might categorize as “beyond the realm of portly” for much of his adult life, Chester had grown accustomed to insults and awkward glances. He was a man of few words however, and tried not to respond in kind to others’ lack of consideration. One might think that after a while, the familiarity with this routine would soften the blow, but with Chester, that simply wasn’t the case... And that might have been why, when the waitress jokingly called him “slim,” he still didn’t say anything. He just pleasantly smiled.... stood up... leaned over the table... and in a most emphatic fashion, passed wind in her face.

Reclaiming your dignity...

The “twist and flip” method of bread protection... it’s not exactly an auspicious place to start, but I guess my aspirations just aren’t that high for this little space. Besides, I figured I’d ramble on whatever popped in my head, and right now, that’s it. So anyway, the bread...

Bill Engvall does a routine about being chastised by his wife for putting bread away by simply spinning the bag and tucking the end under... Well I heard it again the other day, and it got me to thinking...

Why is this wrong?

I know a large number of women would just shake their heads at me in that condescending “how do you even dress yourself, and by the way, those pants don’t match that shirt” kind of way, saying “it’s wrong, because that’s not the way you do it.” Well, when was it decided that there WAS a predefined way for doing everything, and WHO decided that women would be the only ones to be given this vital information?!? God, (Allah, Jesus, Buddah, Martha, whatever), if you’re up there, I figure you must be trying to teach me something, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. You see, I have come to discover that women have “places” for everything, even things that aren’t theirs! Utensils, bowls, toilet paper, small animals... nothing is safe!

Apparantly, when I lived by myself I just didn’t have a clue about what I was doing. As for me personally, I was blissfully unaware of this fact (and also admittedly, progressively unaware of where anything was), but I guess I was pretty hopeless... In fact, my possessions must have been quite ashamed to call me their owner. Who knew that bowls, cups, mugs, et al, all have specific places to reside in the cupboard... and for me, that begs the question, why? Is there civil unrest in the glassware community? Overt prejudice? Why is segregation so important? Is there such a thing as teacup hate crimes? Are we still THAT mad at the British?

But then again, maybe this would explain why often in the middle of the night I would awaken to the sound of clattering, only to find the next morning that one of my coveted “Welch’s Jelly” glasses was lying smashed in the middle of the kitchen floor (I’m a guy, I don’t OWN any teacups). Who knows, maybe the other glasses were jealous of its thickness and many colors... or maybe they were just making a bold statement against the rampant commercialization of our culture by laying waste to a symbol of perpetuating corporate greed. Hell, I don’t know what sends beverage containers over the edge...

But I digress... My point (if indeed I do have one), is that as guys, we need to really take a look at why we do things. We need to realize that women don’t know everything! They’re making it up as they go along too... they’re just much better at getting us to BELIEVE they know what they’re doing. Guys tend to just blindly accept that they probably do everything wrong... in part because it makes life easier... and also in part, because if a guy does what he’s told, there’s a distinct chance that he might get some monkey love. But listen up monkeys! We need to be strong! If I want to throw caution to the wind, and discard the age old twist tie in favor of a patented “twist and flip”, that shouldn’t cause me to be shunned by the fairer member of my household... After all, it still stops the air from getting in, it removes the frustration of unwinding that dangerously sharp bit of paper covered metal, and it generally makes the entire “bread-getting” process take less time. If you ask me, it’s a much more efficient way to do things... plus, it adds flair, and gives you a deeper sense of satisfaction (who DOESN’T like to spin a loaf every now and then?).

So go forth men... Twist! Flip! Live it up... after all, you can always apologize for it later... and hey, if you own up to it first, maybe you'll even get some monkey love.