The
Oxford Dictionaries' word of the year for 2013 is “selfie.”
To make room for the new addition, Oxford announced
it would be deleting the seemingly now obsolete entry, “dignity.”
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
23 things that aren’t toast...
1. carbon fiber
2. mittens
3. kittens
4. fancy French cheeses
5. Nick Lachey
6. stuff that you crochet
7. anything croquet
8. chicken vindaloo
9. Cindy Lou Who
10. Lieutenant Dan
11. A Denver omelet
12. those weird little things that keep the ends of your
shoelaces from getting all frayed
13. shoelaces
14. earlobes
15. globes
16. thermonuclear war
17. Denny’s Oreo Blender Blast
18. pot roasts
19. toast
…
dammit!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
I Ponder
Currently wondering when the concept of a "good hair day" officially switched from "pleasant confidence boost" to "nostalgic reminder of my mortality."
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Li'l Epiphanies
Seeing the soul-crushing look on a cruise ship piano bar guy's face the moment after he's been asked to play "Piano Man" is truly heartbreaking.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Today's headlines #7
Vatican brings back clocking in
God to remain in charge of clocking out
Girl finds $1,000 in Richard Simmons tape
Boy finds Richard Simmons incredibly annoying
Family river rafting makes great memories
and lousy baklava.
Scotch tape unleashes X-ray power
Um... guys... it's Scotch tape. It’s kinda clear to begin with.
Israel considers question: "Who is a Jew?"
Iran offers support... is willing to launch massive search effort
Court weighs amputee's case
Client hopes for quick decision… says attorney fees are costing him
an arm and a leg
(I can't believe I actually typed that last one)
God to remain in charge of clocking out
Girl finds $1,000 in Richard Simmons tape
Boy finds Richard Simmons incredibly annoying
Family river rafting makes great memories
and lousy baklava.
Scotch tape unleashes X-ray power
Um... guys... it's Scotch tape. It’s kinda clear to begin with.
Israel considers question: "Who is a Jew?"
Iran offers support... is willing to launch massive search effort
Court weighs amputee's case
Client hopes for quick decision… says attorney fees are costing him
an arm and a leg
(I can't believe I actually typed that last one)
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Fun with language #1
“I have a big cock” might be the only phrase in the English language that becomes less outlandish if spoken while holding a live rooster.
…also maybe “look at my pecker”.
…also maybe “look at my pecker”.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
A life of embrassments #1
Have you ever been put in the unenviable position of having to take credit for someone else’s smell?
It’s just not fair…
Now I’ll be the first to admit that when I emerge from a room of rest, I don’t always leave the aforementioned water closet smelling of a dozen petunias on a spring day, but still, you never should have to be saddled with the odor output of another.
But it happens.
You know the scenario. You walk into a facility of personal waste management to do your business. Maybe you had too many sodas. Maybe you drank your water a little too quickly on the ride in to work. Either way, you’re really just looking to get in and get out… to vacate a bit of H2O from your system before venturing out into the real world and starting your day.
But then, as you open the door, you’re immediately greeted by… the smell. That unmistakable sign that someone has been having… shall we say… a “rough morning”.
Well whatever you think… the bladder waits for no man, so you mentally plug your nose and do your best to complete your transaction in as little time as possible. You then do a quick scrub of the hands and start to make your way for the door…
And that’s when it happens…
Someone else comes in.
You try to avoid eye contact, but it’s too late. You know already that any and all of the horrors of humanity and culinary punishment that combined to produce “the smell” have now been attributed to you and your intestines.
After all, look at the facts. Person B is walking in… you’re walking out… basic logic dictates that whatever shape that room is in, it’s most like YOU who has left it that way. And once they catch “the whiff”well… then it’s just game over. There’s no doubt in the universe that Person B has just tagged you as being one seriously smelly dude…
And that’s just not fair.
It’s just not fair…
Now I’ll be the first to admit that when I emerge from a room of rest, I don’t always leave the aforementioned water closet smelling of a dozen petunias on a spring day, but still, you never should have to be saddled with the odor output of another.
But it happens.
You know the scenario. You walk into a facility of personal waste management to do your business. Maybe you had too many sodas. Maybe you drank your water a little too quickly on the ride in to work. Either way, you’re really just looking to get in and get out… to vacate a bit of H2O from your system before venturing out into the real world and starting your day.
But then, as you open the door, you’re immediately greeted by… the smell. That unmistakable sign that someone has been having… shall we say… a “rough morning”.
Well whatever you think… the bladder waits for no man, so you mentally plug your nose and do your best to complete your transaction in as little time as possible. You then do a quick scrub of the hands and start to make your way for the door…
And that’s when it happens…
Someone else comes in.
You try to avoid eye contact, but it’s too late. You know already that any and all of the horrors of humanity and culinary punishment that combined to produce “the smell” have now been attributed to you and your intestines.
After all, look at the facts. Person B is walking in… you’re walking out… basic logic dictates that whatever shape that room is in, it’s most like YOU who has left it that way. And once they catch “the whiff”well… then it’s just game over. There’s no doubt in the universe that Person B has just tagged you as being one seriously smelly dude…
And that’s just not fair.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Today's headlines #6
Seniors rush to beat Medicare cutoff
Let’s be honest… do seniors really “rush” to do anything?
Rising Diabetes Threat Meets a Falling Budget
And an onslaught of “Ho Hos”
New England Deluged by Worst Flooding in Decades
Local leaders speak up for those hardest hit, saying “Yankees suck”
Supreme Court rules in favor of eBay
And against good taste
Bush Denies Eavesdropping on U.S. Phone Calls
Well sure… first you’d have to understand how to use a phone.
Hawaiian waters dangerous for whales
Sea-faring mammals warned to be on the lookout for “tiny bubbles”
Alligators kill two more in Florida over weekend
See? I told you seniors couldn’t “rush”
Let’s be honest… do seniors really “rush” to do anything?
Rising Diabetes Threat Meets a Falling Budget
And an onslaught of “Ho Hos”
New England Deluged by Worst Flooding in Decades
Local leaders speak up for those hardest hit, saying “Yankees suck”
Supreme Court rules in favor of eBay
And against good taste
Bush Denies Eavesdropping on U.S. Phone Calls
Well sure… first you’d have to understand how to use a phone.
Hawaiian waters dangerous for whales
Sea-faring mammals warned to be on the lookout for “tiny bubbles”
Alligators kill two more in Florida over weekend
See? I told you seniors couldn’t “rush”
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Things that TV and the movies get wrong...
Ok, so this has been bugging me, and even though I’m as big a fan of escapist entertainment as the next guy, I feel obligated to point out a few of the more gaping holes in the television and movie industry’s basic tenants of story structure…
For example:
Outer Bully, Inner Child
Not all bullies are overwrought with such insecurity that their feelings of inadequacy force them to act out with aggression towards anyone weaker or more vulnerable than they - and thusly, when confronted with equal assertiveness, will back down, respecting the abilities of the “victim” to stand up for himself. That’s right, some just like to punch people in the face. It’s a sad fact of life, but it’s true. Don’t believe me? Ok… try it.
Meeting Cute
If you meet a beautiful woman… and immediately get into a heated argument with her such that it is apparent by the end of your encounter that she wholly detests you… she will NOT over time come to realize that you are in fact a swell guy, and her initial anger was simply born out of her frustration with the fact that someone challenged her on an intellectual level… most likely she will ALWAYS detest you, and you will never get some of that, no matter how hard you try.
The Welcome Matt
If you meet a beautiful woman… and you two strike up a winning friendship even though you harbor feelings for her… and if said woman has established a pattern of picking the “wrong” kind of man, leaving you to be the one she comes running to when they inevitably leave, cheat on, or otherwise upset her, she will NOT eventually realize that the right man has been standing next to her along and throw her arms around you at some wildly poetic moment (such as when you’re about to board a boat to leave for a 6-month basket-weaving sojourn in Namibia). She will continue to pick the wrong man time and time again, and you will never get some of that, no matter how hard you try.
[the previous two examples also apply if you reverse the sexes… the only difference is that if you’re a woman, you probably CAN get some of that if you want]
Office Space
If you’re able to secure yourself an executive position you’re completely under qualified for through a mountain of lies and deceit that would rival, um… well a REALLY big mountain of lies and deceit… and if you manage to maintain that high wire act for a sufficient amount of time such that when it finally all comes crashing down it does so with a flair and panache worthy of Cirque du Soleil, well chances are pretty good that the CEO of the company is NOT going to reward your “moxie” with a legitimate position at the company… no, chances are you’re going to prison, where some big guy name bruce will show you the secret of HIS success.
And of course…
Yippee Kayay
If you ever find yourself in an abandoned warehouse surrounded by 23 drug runners armed with automatic weapons (and bad tempers), and you jump out from behind your yugo to begin firing the rusty 9MM weapon that the fast-talking “plays by his own rules” detective (on suspension) gave you so you can rescue the beautiful damsel in distress that’s tied to the bumper of a Hummer that just happens to be parked next to roughly 17 barrels marked (inexplicably) “Flammable” – well, let’s just say that you probably wont get to fire more than a couple shots before your lifeless corps starts to slowly collapse to the warehouse floor (yes, like a flan in the cupboard)… oh, and if by some miracle you DO survive, and the damsel DOES get rescued… she’s going home with the detective… THAT one, they got right.
For example:
Outer Bully, Inner Child
Not all bullies are overwrought with such insecurity that their feelings of inadequacy force them to act out with aggression towards anyone weaker or more vulnerable than they - and thusly, when confronted with equal assertiveness, will back down, respecting the abilities of the “victim” to stand up for himself. That’s right, some just like to punch people in the face. It’s a sad fact of life, but it’s true. Don’t believe me? Ok… try it.
Meeting Cute
If you meet a beautiful woman… and immediately get into a heated argument with her such that it is apparent by the end of your encounter that she wholly detests you… she will NOT over time come to realize that you are in fact a swell guy, and her initial anger was simply born out of her frustration with the fact that someone challenged her on an intellectual level… most likely she will ALWAYS detest you, and you will never get some of that, no matter how hard you try.
The Welcome Matt
If you meet a beautiful woman… and you two strike up a winning friendship even though you harbor feelings for her… and if said woman has established a pattern of picking the “wrong” kind of man, leaving you to be the one she comes running to when they inevitably leave, cheat on, or otherwise upset her, she will NOT eventually realize that the right man has been standing next to her along and throw her arms around you at some wildly poetic moment (such as when you’re about to board a boat to leave for a 6-month basket-weaving sojourn in Namibia). She will continue to pick the wrong man time and time again, and you will never get some of that, no matter how hard you try.
[the previous two examples also apply if you reverse the sexes… the only difference is that if you’re a woman, you probably CAN get some of that if you want]
Office Space
If you’re able to secure yourself an executive position you’re completely under qualified for through a mountain of lies and deceit that would rival, um… well a REALLY big mountain of lies and deceit… and if you manage to maintain that high wire act for a sufficient amount of time such that when it finally all comes crashing down it does so with a flair and panache worthy of Cirque du Soleil, well chances are pretty good that the CEO of the company is NOT going to reward your “moxie” with a legitimate position at the company… no, chances are you’re going to prison, where some big guy name bruce will show you the secret of HIS success.
And of course…
Yippee Kayay
If you ever find yourself in an abandoned warehouse surrounded by 23 drug runners armed with automatic weapons (and bad tempers), and you jump out from behind your yugo to begin firing the rusty 9MM weapon that the fast-talking “plays by his own rules” detective (on suspension) gave you so you can rescue the beautiful damsel in distress that’s tied to the bumper of a Hummer that just happens to be parked next to roughly 17 barrels marked (inexplicably) “Flammable” – well, let’s just say that you probably wont get to fire more than a couple shots before your lifeless corps starts to slowly collapse to the warehouse floor (yes, like a flan in the cupboard)… oh, and if by some miracle you DO survive, and the damsel DOES get rescued… she’s going home with the detective… THAT one, they got right.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Politically incorrect perishables...
Being a reticently rotund individual myself, I understand perfectly the longing for new forms of fatty foods and sweeter treats. But that being said, there is such a thing as common sense, so when I turned on the food network recently and witnessed a man deep-frying a hot dog (in the bun no less), it was not without some surprise that a single thought occurred to me…
“This is most ingenious thing I have ever seen!”
Common sense be damned…
Sure, by this point in my life I’ve heard of deep fried Oreo’s, deep fried Mars Bars, and even deep fried Nutter Butters… And they were impressive once, but now, as far as I’m concerned, the people who came up with those are nothing but amateurs.
No… this man… the guy I saw on the tee vee… he was a true genius.
And he didn’t just stop at the hot dog no siree bob… he also went so far as to deep fry cheesecake – creating an industrial-strength artery buster that I can only assume causes at least a 13% blockage simply upon being smelt.
(smelt? smelled? smellindid? whatever… I like smelt… so what if it sounds like a welder came in extracted iron ore from someone’s superior vena cava… that’s probably not all that far off anyway)
But the final stroke (and I do mean stroke) of genius this culinary pioneer came up with… the veritable piece of resistance that this guy tempted fate by creating was the battered and dipped, deep-fried macaroni and cheese.
That’s right… Macaroni and cheese!
I don’t even LIKE macaroni and cheese, and this brought a smile to my face. He grabbed a handful of the yellow gooey mess, cupped it in his hands like a 4-year-old making a snowball (kinda gives new meaning to the old adage “don’t eat the yellow snow”), and then proceeded to roll it in bread crumbs and dip it in batter, before finally dropping it into a vat of boiling oily goodness.
That my friends, is the kind of “out-of-the-box” ingenuity that’s going to get us to the moon someday.
“This is most ingenious thing I have ever seen!”
Common sense be damned…
Sure, by this point in my life I’ve heard of deep fried Oreo’s, deep fried Mars Bars, and even deep fried Nutter Butters… And they were impressive once, but now, as far as I’m concerned, the people who came up with those are nothing but amateurs.
No… this man… the guy I saw on the tee vee… he was a true genius.
And he didn’t just stop at the hot dog no siree bob… he also went so far as to deep fry cheesecake – creating an industrial-strength artery buster that I can only assume causes at least a 13% blockage simply upon being smelt.
(smelt? smelled? smellindid? whatever… I like smelt… so what if it sounds like a welder came in extracted iron ore from someone’s superior vena cava… that’s probably not all that far off anyway)
But the final stroke (and I do mean stroke) of genius this culinary pioneer came up with… the veritable piece of resistance that this guy tempted fate by creating was the battered and dipped, deep-fried macaroni and cheese.
That’s right… Macaroni and cheese!
I don’t even LIKE macaroni and cheese, and this brought a smile to my face. He grabbed a handful of the yellow gooey mess, cupped it in his hands like a 4-year-old making a snowball (kinda gives new meaning to the old adage “don’t eat the yellow snow”), and then proceeded to roll it in bread crumbs and dip it in batter, before finally dropping it into a vat of boiling oily goodness.
That my friends, is the kind of “out-of-the-box” ingenuity that’s going to get us to the moon someday.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Today's headlines #5
Massachusetts Sets Health Plan for Nearly All
Frank and George reportedly pissed.
Last Gasp of Winter Arrives With Supersized Snowflakes
Details of breakthrough McDonald’s/Mother Nature sponsorship deal revealed.
Apple Unveils Software to Let Macs Run Windows
Supersized snowflakes seen falling in Hades
Activist Nuns Return to Missile Silo
I just hope they don’t have the launch codes.
Saddam Dodges Shiite Questions
Well if they’re that bad, I probably wouldn’t answer them either…
Doctors Reattach Part of Sharon's Skull
Still offer no explanation for Basic instinct 2
Vain Wild Turkey Seeks Leftovers at Café
I’m not even going to ask.
Frank and George reportedly pissed.
Last Gasp of Winter Arrives With Supersized Snowflakes
Details of breakthrough McDonald’s/Mother Nature sponsorship deal revealed.
Apple Unveils Software to Let Macs Run Windows
Supersized snowflakes seen falling in Hades
Activist Nuns Return to Missile Silo
I just hope they don’t have the launch codes.
Saddam Dodges Shiite Questions
Well if they’re that bad, I probably wouldn’t answer them either…
Doctors Reattach Part of Sharon's Skull
Still offer no explanation for Basic instinct 2
Vain Wild Turkey Seeks Leftovers at Café
I’m not even going to ask.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Flarf rambling (literally)...
Ok, so I know I haven’t blogged in a while… quite a while… but there’s a good excuse… really.
Um… you see, about a month or so ago, I started studying transcendental mediocrity. It’s a new trendy spiritual quest (all the rage in Hollywood) that hopes to help you focus the positive energies of the world so you can obtain a state of being decidedly average. Well contrary to what Paris Hilton might be saying, it really didn’t generate quite the return on investment I was hoping for, so I decided to try something else… full contact bocce. Don’t laugh, it has potential… but seeing as it’s still winter, it didn’t work out all that well… you can probably imagine what happened. Yup, at the first match, our team leader went to throw out the “pea” (he, he, he), and the little sucker took a skid on a patch of ice and just kept going and going and going… anyway, we decided to declare the match a draw, and I decided to give up the sport entirely… at least until the spring thaw (or until I can stop laughing at the notion of throwing out the first “pea” which I have since learned, is also called a “jack,” a “kitty,” a “cue ball,” a “pill,” and a “palinna,” all of which hold their own humoristic merit with the last one packing the extra bonus of repeatedly making me think of that guy who keeps popping up in all of Aaron Sorkin’s projects).
But I digress…
Anyway, sporting endeavors notwithstanding, I have been quite busy, as I recently decided to see how many boxes it would take to reduce my entire life down to corrugated squares…
The answer: I forgot to count.
I was going to, really, but then a big truck showed up, and seeing as it was empty and everything, we just decided to see if we could actually fit all of said boxes on said truck… turns out we could.
We also had room enough for various pieces of furniture, questionable bits of art, and a 3-year-old Pomeranian named “PhooPhoo.”
Just kidding… the art wasn’t all that questionable (and the dog’s name was Ralph).
Once the truck was good and packed, we figured we might as well ride around in it a little… and a few yips here and there aside it was a rather pleasant trip (so I hear… I decided to take my car, and was enagaged myself by playing a rousing game of “where’s the kitty now?” for three hours or so).
Well when all was said and done I found myself no longer residing in the Commonwealth… Instead, I’m back in the Empire State, sitting at a desk in an apartment filled with wall-to-wall carpet, a shower that’s not trying to kill me, and most importantly of all, a dishwasher. I am however, also surrounded by a gaggle of cardboard containers that seem clearly confused as to their current location (how’s that for alliteration?). I’m sure they will adjust in time… for now, I just hope they don’t try to overthrow the appliances.
Well that’s all for now… more to come, on a more regular basis (I hope), as the days progress…
-Flarf
Oh, by the way… if you happen to see a dusty Pomeranian stumbling around your neighborhood, it’s probably best to keep your distance… I’m guessing he’s pretty ticked off right about now.
Um… you see, about a month or so ago, I started studying transcendental mediocrity. It’s a new trendy spiritual quest (all the rage in Hollywood) that hopes to help you focus the positive energies of the world so you can obtain a state of being decidedly average. Well contrary to what Paris Hilton might be saying, it really didn’t generate quite the return on investment I was hoping for, so I decided to try something else… full contact bocce. Don’t laugh, it has potential… but seeing as it’s still winter, it didn’t work out all that well… you can probably imagine what happened. Yup, at the first match, our team leader went to throw out the “pea” (he, he, he), and the little sucker took a skid on a patch of ice and just kept going and going and going… anyway, we decided to declare the match a draw, and I decided to give up the sport entirely… at least until the spring thaw (or until I can stop laughing at the notion of throwing out the first “pea” which I have since learned, is also called a “jack,” a “kitty,” a “cue ball,” a “pill,” and a “palinna,” all of which hold their own humoristic merit with the last one packing the extra bonus of repeatedly making me think of that guy who keeps popping up in all of Aaron Sorkin’s projects).
But I digress…
Anyway, sporting endeavors notwithstanding, I have been quite busy, as I recently decided to see how many boxes it would take to reduce my entire life down to corrugated squares…
The answer: I forgot to count.
I was going to, really, but then a big truck showed up, and seeing as it was empty and everything, we just decided to see if we could actually fit all of said boxes on said truck… turns out we could.
We also had room enough for various pieces of furniture, questionable bits of art, and a 3-year-old Pomeranian named “PhooPhoo.”
Just kidding… the art wasn’t all that questionable (and the dog’s name was Ralph).
Once the truck was good and packed, we figured we might as well ride around in it a little… and a few yips here and there aside it was a rather pleasant trip (so I hear… I decided to take my car, and was enagaged myself by playing a rousing game of “where’s the kitty now?” for three hours or so).
Well when all was said and done I found myself no longer residing in the Commonwealth… Instead, I’m back in the Empire State, sitting at a desk in an apartment filled with wall-to-wall carpet, a shower that’s not trying to kill me, and most importantly of all, a dishwasher. I am however, also surrounded by a gaggle of cardboard containers that seem clearly confused as to their current location (how’s that for alliteration?). I’m sure they will adjust in time… for now, I just hope they don’t try to overthrow the appliances.
Well that’s all for now… more to come, on a more regular basis (I hope), as the days progress…
-Flarf
Oh, by the way… if you happen to see a dusty Pomeranian stumbling around your neighborhood, it’s probably best to keep your distance… I’m guessing he’s pretty ticked off right about now.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Under the influence (of Dayquil)...
Being sick,
It can’t be good,
Some people fake it,
No one should.
Your head is hot,
Your feet are cold,
You stay in bed,
Like you are told.
Those are the first lines to a poem I wrote when I was in seventh grade. I was feeling lousy, and had come to school only because I had a social studies test to take that day. I finished the exam early, and was therefore sitting at my desk, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the period to end. I got bored, and as I often did when I was bored, I started writing. Well, when all was said and done, I had 3 or 4 pages filled front and back with my soliloquy of flu-themed rhyming couplets. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but it amused me, and had thusly served its purpose.
Then, I started to get nervous. My teacher, a cranky, older gentleman who disapproved of anything not directly related to the study of socials, had begun to make his way over to my desk. While making his rounds, he had spotted me scribbling away, and consequently must have assumed I was up to no good.
In typical Junior High style, students in his class who had completed their work early were supposed to sit quietly at their desks and do nothing. Not talk. Not move. Not write. Not anything. Actually, looking back on it now, I think that’s kind of cruel. Asking someone at that age, with that many hormones running rampant through their body, to sit still and not act out in some fashion, is like asking a fat guy to wait in line at the all-you-can-eat buffet.
But I digress...
Upon reaching my desk, the teacher stopped. Angrily, he snatched the papers off my desk and shot me his best “I’m bigger and grumpier than you” look. Then he turned away from me and began to read what I had written.
Then, he began to laugh.
Not a big laugh mind you... we’re not exactly talking guffaws here, but still, it was a laugh nonetheless... and you’d think that might have comforted me, but you have to understand something... I wasn’t used to seeing this man adopt a demeanor that approached anything even resembling pleasant... so seeing him express himself like this wasn’t exactly encouraging... in truth, it just made me wonder about the sadistic thoughts that must be running through his mind... it was all rather unsettling.
And then, it was over.
He finished reading, chuckled one last time, put the papers back on my desk, and walked away. No comment. No look. Nothing.
He never mentioned anything about what I had written to me or anyone else, and today, those two opening stanzas are all I can remember of that poem. I’m sure there’s a copy of it floating around in a notebook somewhere in my parents’ house, but I’ll be darned if I have even the first clue as to where it might be.
So why did I bring all this up?
Did I really need to further illustrate the fact that I have always been a big dork? No. Anyone who has read more than a post or two here already knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt...
No, I brought it up because right now... I’m sick.
And ever since seventh grade, when I get sick, the first think that pops into my head are those first 29 words... they're indelibly imprinted into my cortex... no, they’re not exactly Shakespeare, but they still amuse me, and thusly, they serve their purpose.
It can’t be good,
Some people fake it,
No one should.
Your head is hot,
Your feet are cold,
You stay in bed,
Like you are told.
Those are the first lines to a poem I wrote when I was in seventh grade. I was feeling lousy, and had come to school only because I had a social studies test to take that day. I finished the exam early, and was therefore sitting at my desk, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the period to end. I got bored, and as I often did when I was bored, I started writing. Well, when all was said and done, I had 3 or 4 pages filled front and back with my soliloquy of flu-themed rhyming couplets. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but it amused me, and had thusly served its purpose.
Then, I started to get nervous. My teacher, a cranky, older gentleman who disapproved of anything not directly related to the study of socials, had begun to make his way over to my desk. While making his rounds, he had spotted me scribbling away, and consequently must have assumed I was up to no good.
In typical Junior High style, students in his class who had completed their work early were supposed to sit quietly at their desks and do nothing. Not talk. Not move. Not write. Not anything. Actually, looking back on it now, I think that’s kind of cruel. Asking someone at that age, with that many hormones running rampant through their body, to sit still and not act out in some fashion, is like asking a fat guy to wait in line at the all-you-can-eat buffet.
But I digress...
Upon reaching my desk, the teacher stopped. Angrily, he snatched the papers off my desk and shot me his best “I’m bigger and grumpier than you” look. Then he turned away from me and began to read what I had written.
Then, he began to laugh.
Not a big laugh mind you... we’re not exactly talking guffaws here, but still, it was a laugh nonetheless... and you’d think that might have comforted me, but you have to understand something... I wasn’t used to seeing this man adopt a demeanor that approached anything even resembling pleasant... so seeing him express himself like this wasn’t exactly encouraging... in truth, it just made me wonder about the sadistic thoughts that must be running through his mind... it was all rather unsettling.
And then, it was over.
He finished reading, chuckled one last time, put the papers back on my desk, and walked away. No comment. No look. Nothing.
He never mentioned anything about what I had written to me or anyone else, and today, those two opening stanzas are all I can remember of that poem. I’m sure there’s a copy of it floating around in a notebook somewhere in my parents’ house, but I’ll be darned if I have even the first clue as to where it might be.
So why did I bring all this up?
Did I really need to further illustrate the fact that I have always been a big dork? No. Anyone who has read more than a post or two here already knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt...
No, I brought it up because right now... I’m sick.
And ever since seventh grade, when I get sick, the first think that pops into my head are those first 29 words... they're indelibly imprinted into my cortex... no, they’re not exactly Shakespeare, but they still amuse me, and thusly, they serve their purpose.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Singing the praises of the period...
When it comes to punctuation, most people don’t give much props to the period. Sure it’s symmetrical and dependable and all, but for the most part it lives in the shadow of its flashier cousins. And that’s too bad. Because I think, if you really think about it (and apparently I have), it’s much more versatile then you may be thinking.
Take for example, the following sentence:
I want pie.
It’s a fine sentence. A declarative statement that is readily and easily understood. It’s plain to see that the person speaking would like some pie. No, it doesn’t tell you what KIND of pie they would like, or how much pie they’re planning on consuming, but still, you know the basics, and that’s pretty good.
Now watch what happens when we add in a couple more:
I. Want. Pie.
Quite a change there. By adding those two tiny dots we’ve made the same three words seem more forceful, more impactful. Now, it’s not a statement. It’s a command. This person’s perturbed, and they won’t be put up with a praline or a pudding pop, no siree Bob. This particular person won’t be pleased till they partake in some pie!
And yet there's more. Watch what happens when we move those three little periods around a bit.
I want pie...
Well that shook things up, didn’t it? Now we’ve got a full fledged mystery. A cliffhanger. It’s like grammatical film noir. You know pie is involved, but you feel like there’s more to the story. It could be something seedy... something illicit... something involving meringue.
It could be, but you don’t know, do you?
That my friend, is the power of the period.
Take for example, the following sentence:
I want pie.
It’s a fine sentence. A declarative statement that is readily and easily understood. It’s plain to see that the person speaking would like some pie. No, it doesn’t tell you what KIND of pie they would like, or how much pie they’re planning on consuming, but still, you know the basics, and that’s pretty good.
Now watch what happens when we add in a couple more:
I. Want. Pie.
Quite a change there. By adding those two tiny dots we’ve made the same three words seem more forceful, more impactful. Now, it’s not a statement. It’s a command. This person’s perturbed, and they won’t be put up with a praline or a pudding pop, no siree Bob. This particular person won’t be pleased till they partake in some pie!
And yet there's more. Watch what happens when we move those three little periods around a bit.
I want pie...
Well that shook things up, didn’t it? Now we’ve got a full fledged mystery. A cliffhanger. It’s like grammatical film noir. You know pie is involved, but you feel like there’s more to the story. It could be something seedy... something illicit... something involving meringue.
It could be, but you don’t know, do you?
That my friend, is the power of the period.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Green means go...
It’s funny... ask a person to rate his or her driving skills, and he or she will most likely assure you that they are without a doubt an above average example of vehicular fortitude. Yup, nine times out of ten you’re bound to come across someone who wholeheartedly believes that they are without equal among their respective peers in the driving community. But as anyone who has driven on the streets of Boston will attest, this is, in reality, utterly impossible. And truth be told, most people will probably agree with you on that point too... they’ll just follow it up by reiterating that they ARE in fact above average, and it is EVERYONE ELSE who is misrepresenting their versatility with an ignition key.
Well, let me take a moment here to admit something...
I am NOT an excellent driver.
Ok, that’s probably the wrong way to phrase it... I mean, I’m probably better than rain man, but let’s be honest, that’s not saying too much. Sure, he talks a good game... but when everything’s on the line, I’d be willing to bet he crumbles like a soiled pair of k-mart underwear.
...I’ll give you a minute to get that visual out of your head.
Now, it’s not that I think I’m an exceptionally BAD driver (um... recent events not withstanding). I just wouldn’t call myself exceptionally skilled...
I’m not about to apply make-up in the rearview mirror, or try to outrun a Corvette with my Sentra, or play chicken with a bridge embankment... and I almost never play “top gun,” slamming on my breaks while traveling at high speeds so the people chasing me will “fly right by”
...not anymore anyway.
But gross negligences aside, I have to admit that I am susceptible to a veritable plethora of other distractions... the radio... engaging conversations... shiny objects. Even the daily routine of driving the same paths over and over can force me to lose focus from time to time.
Plus, I probably follow too close, accelerate too much, and generally act like an impatient 4-year-old standing six people deep in line for a sugar fix at the ice cream truck.
No, this isn’t really anything to be proud of (as my insurance premiums continually remind me), and I’m not proud of it... at all. But at least I’m brave enough to stand up and take responsibility for my own ineptitude.
Yes, my name is Flarf... and I am an average driver.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s not really anything to fear... and who knows... now that I’ve admitted it perhaps I’ll even be more attuned to the world around me... maybe now, when I am actually driving, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the task at hand... and maybe I’ll start to see my skills improving... and maybe someday I’ll even get to the point where I attain a level of proficiency at which I can once again legitimately consider myself to be counted among the more elite group of automotive enthusiasts who are truly gifted at their craft.
But in the meantime, if you look over and happen to see a black Nissan Sentra that appears to be missing its driver, don’t worry...
...that’s probably just me trying to find my ipod.
Well, let me take a moment here to admit something...
I am NOT an excellent driver.
Ok, that’s probably the wrong way to phrase it... I mean, I’m probably better than rain man, but let’s be honest, that’s not saying too much. Sure, he talks a good game... but when everything’s on the line, I’d be willing to bet he crumbles like a soiled pair of k-mart underwear.
...I’ll give you a minute to get that visual out of your head.
Now, it’s not that I think I’m an exceptionally BAD driver (um... recent events not withstanding). I just wouldn’t call myself exceptionally skilled...
I’m not about to apply make-up in the rearview mirror, or try to outrun a Corvette with my Sentra, or play chicken with a bridge embankment... and I almost never play “top gun,” slamming on my breaks while traveling at high speeds so the people chasing me will “fly right by”
...not anymore anyway.
But gross negligences aside, I have to admit that I am susceptible to a veritable plethora of other distractions... the radio... engaging conversations... shiny objects. Even the daily routine of driving the same paths over and over can force me to lose focus from time to time.
Plus, I probably follow too close, accelerate too much, and generally act like an impatient 4-year-old standing six people deep in line for a sugar fix at the ice cream truck.
No, this isn’t really anything to be proud of (as my insurance premiums continually remind me), and I’m not proud of it... at all. But at least I’m brave enough to stand up and take responsibility for my own ineptitude.
Yes, my name is Flarf... and I am an average driver.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s not really anything to fear... and who knows... now that I’ve admitted it perhaps I’ll even be more attuned to the world around me... maybe now, when I am actually driving, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the task at hand... and maybe I’ll start to see my skills improving... and maybe someday I’ll even get to the point where I attain a level of proficiency at which I can once again legitimately consider myself to be counted among the more elite group of automotive enthusiasts who are truly gifted at their craft.
But in the meantime, if you look over and happen to see a black Nissan Sentra that appears to be missing its driver, don’t worry...
...that’s probably just me trying to find my ipod.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Random thought #26
When you pass someone in the hall going the opposite direction and they start talking to you... how far away do you have to get before it’s acceptable to stop responding?
...at what point does it just become yelling?
Hmmm... maybe all those people on city streets aren’t really crazy after all. Maybe they just forgot to stop talking.
...at what point does it just become yelling?
Hmmm... maybe all those people on city streets aren’t really crazy after all. Maybe they just forgot to stop talking.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Making right with the world...
It’s unfortunate, but real life is not an ABC after school special...
Cheaters are not always caught (thereby losing their prominent football scholarships)...
Most kids can’t get mom to quit drinking by joining “ala-teen” with Kristy McNichol...
A socially-crippling stutter is not likely to be overcome by learning how to figure skate...
And god help you if you ever decide to confront the mongoloid who keeps taking your lunch money by offering a well-reasoned plea to help resolve his insecurities about being abnormally proportioned by taking him to a baseball game.
...especially if it’s “bat day”
Childhood just doesn’t usually work that way. Often, the same boys that are spitting in other peoples’ food, keying the teachers’ cars, and “pants-ing” the retarded kid in the middle of assembly are the ones dating the cheerleaders and getting jaguars on their 16th birthday.
It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is...
Apparently, the karma-centric idea of being rewarded or punished in life based upon personal responsibility for your actions doesn’t hold jurisdiction over anyone below the age of 20.
But one time... for me... it did.
Doug was an obnoxious little twit who had developed an aptitude for two things: playing soccer, and making my life a living hell (at least in as much as a middle-class white kid’s life CAN be a living hell).
This led to many days of torment and anguish (both on the field and off), the gory details of which I’ll spare you for now. Let’s just say that while he never actually physically abused me, Doug was able to make me heartily resent the fact that my school didn’t have a tighter “anti-dick” policy.
For a while there it seemed like I couldn’t turn a corner without hearing some sort of derisive soliloquy hurled in my direction. Monologues on everything from my clothing and my hair, to my actions, my music, my speech patterns, and even my parents’ car were commonplace. Anything was fair game... it was all but fuel and fodder for Doug’s ever-emotive onslaught of ridicule. Now I can’t say I was the sole recipient of these dishonorable discharges, but if Doug’s insults were Shakespeare, I was his crowning achievement... his Hamlet... only there was no question... the answer was always “To be.”
To put it mildly, I didn’t like the guy very much.
Then, as I made my way into high school, a funny thing happened... I started seeing Doug less and less. I’d like to say it was because he noticed the err of his ways and decided to leave me alone - becoming a reformed man, helping little old ladies cross the street and raising money for UNICEF... but that was hardly the case. The truth was simply that our schedules had drifted apart, and we weren’t crossing paths quite as much anymore. In fact, I probably went an entire year or so without ever running into him.
Then, it happened.
One afternoon in gym class they were short on staff, and they decided to combine a couple of sessions together. There were about 40 of us in the gym that day... 40 of us, including Doug. Now with that many guys in one room, you might think it would be easy enough to stay anonymous, but I’ll tell ya... it sure didn’t take Doug long to find me. And the joy and excitement on his face at that moment could only be likened to that of a cat who has discovered a mouse trapped in the open.
After some early verbal sparring (I was at least starting to get a little indignant by this age if nothing else), we were corralled into groups and instructed that we would be playing handball. Skip ahead 20 minutes, and there’s 4 sets of teams engaging in what some might call a loosely-organized sport, but what more would probably say closely approximates the sight of someone with “terrets” trying to ice skate in a shooting gallery... balls were flying... BALLS were flying... and general unrest was the order of the day.
Then, the gym teacher told us he had to step out for a minute, and my beautiful moment of retribution came...
At the time the teacher walked out, Doug was playing goalie for one of the teams. Then, not 30 seconds after he left the gym, a strange event started to occur. Without direction, without forethought, and without planning, the 38 other kids in the gym spontaneously began to gather around the area where Doug was playing. These 38 kids (including the members of his own team) assembled into a loose semicircle around the goal Doug was defending. And once in place, these 38 kids proceeded to pelt Doug repeatedly, using every one of the 12 or so handballs that were in the gym. It started with the jocks, but eventually almost everyone was taking part. Nerds. Preppies. Heads. Geeks. One by one they threw... harder and harder... until Doug’s arms and legs were red, his voice was hoarse, and a tear was running down his cheek.
And while it was all going on, the 39th kid in the gym was perfectly content to just sat back and quietly watch the whole thing... an enormous smile spreading across his face.
I still have no clue why the planets aligned on that particular day to make that wonderful moment happen. Much to my astonishment Doug had always managed to be a pretty popular guy, so I don’t know if he had pissed off the wrong person that morning, or if the jocks had just thought he might make a fun target (never try too hard to figure out “jock logic”)...
Either way, it was a moment that I knew instantly I would always remember.
One thing did surprise me though... while watching Doug get up close and personal with 8-inch spheres of educationally institutionalized vulcanized rubber, a strange emotion rose up in me... pity.
There he was... receiving exactly what he deserved... and for a moment, I actually felt bad for him.
But only for a moment.
And I never stopped smiling.
Now... a few more words from Hamlet and Uncle Willie:
“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.”
Cheaters are not always caught (thereby losing their prominent football scholarships)...
Most kids can’t get mom to quit drinking by joining “ala-teen” with Kristy McNichol...
A socially-crippling stutter is not likely to be overcome by learning how to figure skate...
And god help you if you ever decide to confront the mongoloid who keeps taking your lunch money by offering a well-reasoned plea to help resolve his insecurities about being abnormally proportioned by taking him to a baseball game.
...especially if it’s “bat day”
Childhood just doesn’t usually work that way. Often, the same boys that are spitting in other peoples’ food, keying the teachers’ cars, and “pants-ing” the retarded kid in the middle of assembly are the ones dating the cheerleaders and getting jaguars on their 16th birthday.
It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is...
Apparently, the karma-centric idea of being rewarded or punished in life based upon personal responsibility for your actions doesn’t hold jurisdiction over anyone below the age of 20.
But one time... for me... it did.
Doug was an obnoxious little twit who had developed an aptitude for two things: playing soccer, and making my life a living hell (at least in as much as a middle-class white kid’s life CAN be a living hell).
This led to many days of torment and anguish (both on the field and off), the gory details of which I’ll spare you for now. Let’s just say that while he never actually physically abused me, Doug was able to make me heartily resent the fact that my school didn’t have a tighter “anti-dick” policy.
For a while there it seemed like I couldn’t turn a corner without hearing some sort of derisive soliloquy hurled in my direction. Monologues on everything from my clothing and my hair, to my actions, my music, my speech patterns, and even my parents’ car were commonplace. Anything was fair game... it was all but fuel and fodder for Doug’s ever-emotive onslaught of ridicule. Now I can’t say I was the sole recipient of these dishonorable discharges, but if Doug’s insults were Shakespeare, I was his crowning achievement... his Hamlet... only there was no question... the answer was always “To be.”
To put it mildly, I didn’t like the guy very much.
Then, as I made my way into high school, a funny thing happened... I started seeing Doug less and less. I’d like to say it was because he noticed the err of his ways and decided to leave me alone - becoming a reformed man, helping little old ladies cross the street and raising money for UNICEF... but that was hardly the case. The truth was simply that our schedules had drifted apart, and we weren’t crossing paths quite as much anymore. In fact, I probably went an entire year or so without ever running into him.
Then, it happened.
One afternoon in gym class they were short on staff, and they decided to combine a couple of sessions together. There were about 40 of us in the gym that day... 40 of us, including Doug. Now with that many guys in one room, you might think it would be easy enough to stay anonymous, but I’ll tell ya... it sure didn’t take Doug long to find me. And the joy and excitement on his face at that moment could only be likened to that of a cat who has discovered a mouse trapped in the open.
After some early verbal sparring (I was at least starting to get a little indignant by this age if nothing else), we were corralled into groups and instructed that we would be playing handball. Skip ahead 20 minutes, and there’s 4 sets of teams engaging in what some might call a loosely-organized sport, but what more would probably say closely approximates the sight of someone with “terrets” trying to ice skate in a shooting gallery... balls were flying... BALLS were flying... and general unrest was the order of the day.
Then, the gym teacher told us he had to step out for a minute, and my beautiful moment of retribution came...
At the time the teacher walked out, Doug was playing goalie for one of the teams. Then, not 30 seconds after he left the gym, a strange event started to occur. Without direction, without forethought, and without planning, the 38 other kids in the gym spontaneously began to gather around the area where Doug was playing. These 38 kids (including the members of his own team) assembled into a loose semicircle around the goal Doug was defending. And once in place, these 38 kids proceeded to pelt Doug repeatedly, using every one of the 12 or so handballs that were in the gym. It started with the jocks, but eventually almost everyone was taking part. Nerds. Preppies. Heads. Geeks. One by one they threw... harder and harder... until Doug’s arms and legs were red, his voice was hoarse, and a tear was running down his cheek.
And while it was all going on, the 39th kid in the gym was perfectly content to just sat back and quietly watch the whole thing... an enormous smile spreading across his face.
I still have no clue why the planets aligned on that particular day to make that wonderful moment happen. Much to my astonishment Doug had always managed to be a pretty popular guy, so I don’t know if he had pissed off the wrong person that morning, or if the jocks had just thought he might make a fun target (never try too hard to figure out “jock logic”)...
Either way, it was a moment that I knew instantly I would always remember.
One thing did surprise me though... while watching Doug get up close and personal with 8-inch spheres of educationally institutionalized vulcanized rubber, a strange emotion rose up in me... pity.
There he was... receiving exactly what he deserved... and for a moment, I actually felt bad for him.
But only for a moment.
And I never stopped smiling.
Now... a few more words from Hamlet and Uncle Willie:
“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.”
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Random thought #25
72 16-oz. bottles of Poland Springs water... 3 additional one-gallon jugs of H2O... a stick of deodorant (right guard)
...and a six-pack of pudding snacks.
That’s what the guy in line behind me at the supermarket last night was buying.
20 hours or so have passed since then... and I'm still puzzled by it.
...and a six-pack of pudding snacks.
That’s what the guy in line behind me at the supermarket last night was buying.
20 hours or so have passed since then... and I'm still puzzled by it.
InSensitives #1
I don’t understand why they put all those "handicapped only" parking spaces so close to everything. I mean, c'mon... don't most of those people already have chairs?
Friday, December 02, 2005
Justifying the eggnog...
Since we’re heading into December now, I figured I should probably just address this one out in the open...
I have an opinion to share...
And some of you may not like it...
Ok, here goes...
As far as I am concerned, Christmas is not a religious holiday.
There, I said it...
Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas... the whole she bang... swadling, reindeer, angels... chimneys, frankincense, wise men... sugar plums, stockings, fashion-challenged midgets with yellow hair who aspire to be dentists... heck, I’d fully endorse a wider acceptance of the Wassail if you could actually tell me what one was...
Yes sirree, I loves me some Christmas... hands down, it’s my favorite holiday of the year.
But as far as I'm concerned, it aint about the Jesus.
It’s not like I think he was a bad guy or anything... I don’t.
Actually, from what I’ve seen in Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, it seems like he had a pretty good handle on the whole “how to treat your fellow man” thing, and hey, I’ll be the first to admit he rocked a sandal like it was nobody’s business... but I’m just too analytical a guy to wholly (pun intended) accept the idea of anybody as my personal savior without first seeing at least some shred of empirical evidence.
Maybe that’s just my lack of faith... maybe it’s flawed judgment... maybe it’s not... either way, for now, I’m going to cast my vote for evolution... and if I pray for anything, it will be for evolution to hurry up and... well, evolve... cuz there’s nothing I’d like more this year than to gets me some mad gills or wings or something... oh, and it’d be totally kick ass if I could have both.
Don’t worry... I’d only use them for good.
But anyway, where were we? ...oh right, Christmas!
So yeah... me... not so much about the religion... but that doesn’t mean I think any less of those who do embrace this as a time to celebrate the birth of our... or rather, their, lord... after all, they did name the holiday and pick the date and stuff (historians can’t reach any kind of consensus as to when Jesus was actually born... estimates vary in month, date, and even year), and at the end of the day, who am I to judge?
(judge not lest ye be judged and all that)
You see, in my life, Christmas has always been more about family and friends than finding a cake and party hat for the big guy in the sky. For me, Christmas is a time to celebrate the people in your life, not the life of the king of a certain people...
You may think that’s strange, or that I’m missing the point of the holiday entirely, and that’s ok... to me, it’s just normal... it’s Christmas... and I embrace it all...
I get the tree, I do the decorations, I fight with the tinsel, and generally, I make my apartment look like it’s the beachhead for a massive elf invasion (albeit a friendly one filled with knickknacks and scented votives).
And yes, I sing along with the carols too... it doesn’t matter if it’s “Let it Snow” or “O Holy Night”, I’m gonna belt it out with the best of them, and I’m going to do it with a smile on my face... and not the least bit of irony in my heart.
Now, before you start asking how someone who doesn’t appreciate the religious overtones of Christmas can derive such pleasure out of singing songs that reinforce the ideology its based on, I think it’s important to point out that I’m not really a “lyrics” kind of guy...
I don’t mean for that to sound flip, or dismissive, or anything really... it’s just the way I am...
I think of it like this... to this day, I derive great pleasure from songs that feature drug-induced stupors, tales of dragons and wizards, and the romantic entanglements of two men, but that doesn’t exactly make me Timothy Leary, Gandalf the Grey, or that guy on the corner wearing assless chaps who’s fond of asking if you know what a “Lithuanian Trumpfart” is...
It just means I dig the tunes...
And as my somewhat obsessive 900-some-odd song deep Holiday iPod playlist will attest, I certainly do dig them Holiday melodies...
Add in the nostalgia factor of having years and years of memories based around all those songs, and forget about it...
Yup, I’m just as happy to sing about snowmen, reindeer and the jolly guy who doles out the toys as I am to harmonize on the plight of Joseph and Mary. But the way I see it, all I'm doing is refusing to discriminate.
What's more Christian than that?!?!
(heck, ask me nicely, and I'll happily participate in a round or two of "The Dreidel Song")
I know that come this time of year you often see signs and billboards calling for everyone to “put the ‘Christ’ back in Christmas” and hey, if that’s what works for you, go for it.
But as far as I’m concerned, to really make it “Christmas” all you need is some good tunes, a glass of eggnog, and a few friends with which to deck the halls.
Ho, Ho, Ho.
And now that we’ve got that out of the way... BRING ON THE PRESENTS!
(just kidding)
I have an opinion to share...
And some of you may not like it...
Ok, here goes...
As far as I am concerned, Christmas is not a religious holiday.
There, I said it...
Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas... the whole she bang... swadling, reindeer, angels... chimneys, frankincense, wise men... sugar plums, stockings, fashion-challenged midgets with yellow hair who aspire to be dentists... heck, I’d fully endorse a wider acceptance of the Wassail if you could actually tell me what one was...
Yes sirree, I loves me some Christmas... hands down, it’s my favorite holiday of the year.
But as far as I'm concerned, it aint about the Jesus.
It’s not like I think he was a bad guy or anything... I don’t.
Actually, from what I’ve seen in Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, it seems like he had a pretty good handle on the whole “how to treat your fellow man” thing, and hey, I’ll be the first to admit he rocked a sandal like it was nobody’s business... but I’m just too analytical a guy to wholly (pun intended) accept the idea of anybody as my personal savior without first seeing at least some shred of empirical evidence.
Maybe that’s just my lack of faith... maybe it’s flawed judgment... maybe it’s not... either way, for now, I’m going to cast my vote for evolution... and if I pray for anything, it will be for evolution to hurry up and... well, evolve... cuz there’s nothing I’d like more this year than to gets me some mad gills or wings or something... oh, and it’d be totally kick ass if I could have both.
Don’t worry... I’d only use them for good.
But anyway, where were we? ...oh right, Christmas!
So yeah... me... not so much about the religion... but that doesn’t mean I think any less of those who do embrace this as a time to celebrate the birth of our... or rather, their, lord... after all, they did name the holiday and pick the date and stuff (historians can’t reach any kind of consensus as to when Jesus was actually born... estimates vary in month, date, and even year), and at the end of the day, who am I to judge?
(judge not lest ye be judged and all that)
You see, in my life, Christmas has always been more about family and friends than finding a cake and party hat for the big guy in the sky. For me, Christmas is a time to celebrate the people in your life, not the life of the king of a certain people...
You may think that’s strange, or that I’m missing the point of the holiday entirely, and that’s ok... to me, it’s just normal... it’s Christmas... and I embrace it all...
I get the tree, I do the decorations, I fight with the tinsel, and generally, I make my apartment look like it’s the beachhead for a massive elf invasion (albeit a friendly one filled with knickknacks and scented votives).
And yes, I sing along with the carols too... it doesn’t matter if it’s “Let it Snow” or “O Holy Night”, I’m gonna belt it out with the best of them, and I’m going to do it with a smile on my face... and not the least bit of irony in my heart.
Now, before you start asking how someone who doesn’t appreciate the religious overtones of Christmas can derive such pleasure out of singing songs that reinforce the ideology its based on, I think it’s important to point out that I’m not really a “lyrics” kind of guy...
I don’t mean for that to sound flip, or dismissive, or anything really... it’s just the way I am...
I think of it like this... to this day, I derive great pleasure from songs that feature drug-induced stupors, tales of dragons and wizards, and the romantic entanglements of two men, but that doesn’t exactly make me Timothy Leary, Gandalf the Grey, or that guy on the corner wearing assless chaps who’s fond of asking if you know what a “Lithuanian Trumpfart” is...
It just means I dig the tunes...
And as my somewhat obsessive 900-some-odd song deep Holiday iPod playlist will attest, I certainly do dig them Holiday melodies...
Add in the nostalgia factor of having years and years of memories based around all those songs, and forget about it...
Yup, I’m just as happy to sing about snowmen, reindeer and the jolly guy who doles out the toys as I am to harmonize on the plight of Joseph and Mary. But the way I see it, all I'm doing is refusing to discriminate.
What's more Christian than that?!?!
(heck, ask me nicely, and I'll happily participate in a round or two of "The Dreidel Song")
I know that come this time of year you often see signs and billboards calling for everyone to “put the ‘Christ’ back in Christmas” and hey, if that’s what works for you, go for it.
But as far as I’m concerned, to really make it “Christmas” all you need is some good tunes, a glass of eggnog, and a few friends with which to deck the halls.
Ho, Ho, Ho.
And now that we’ve got that out of the way... BRING ON THE PRESENTS!
(just kidding)
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Today's headlines #4
Doctors in France Perform First Partial Face Transplant
Woman desperately wanted 2nd nose to snub at the rest of the world.
Bush Again Rejects Calls for a Withdrawal Timetable in Iraq
Names “abstinence” as the only choice a Christian should make.
Bongo Stays in Power in Gabon
Citizens reelect small piece of stretched cowide running on platform of “thump” and “thwack”.
Mexico's Leader Says He'll Persevere on Migration
Vows to have entire population across US border by 2012.
TSA to allow sharp objects on planes
Institutes mandatory “mitten-wearing” policy for all passengers while in-flight.
New Orleans launches free wireless Internet network
Said a spokesperson: “now all we need is power, running water and sewage service and we’ll be good as new!”
Gregory Peck's star stolen from Walk of Fame
Inexplicably, Patrick Swayze’s remains.
Woman desperately wanted 2nd nose to snub at the rest of the world.
Bush Again Rejects Calls for a Withdrawal Timetable in Iraq
Names “abstinence” as the only choice a Christian should make.
Bongo Stays in Power in Gabon
Citizens reelect small piece of stretched cowide running on platform of “thump” and “thwack”.
Mexico's Leader Says He'll Persevere on Migration
Vows to have entire population across US border by 2012.
TSA to allow sharp objects on planes
Institutes mandatory “mitten-wearing” policy for all passengers while in-flight.
New Orleans launches free wireless Internet network
Said a spokesperson: “now all we need is power, running water and sewage service and we’ll be good as new!”
Gregory Peck's star stolen from Walk of Fame
Inexplicably, Patrick Swayze’s remains.
Monday, November 28, 2005
The number of the least...
I have decided that “one thousand six hundred and eight” is now officially my LEAST favorite number...
That’s right, I’m making a bold proclamation. And I have a strong feeling I’ll be sticking to it. “One thousand six hundred and eight” just holds no joy for me any longer... It’s not a fair decision to make I’m sure, but all the same, from this day forth, simply mentioning “one thousand six hundred and eight” will encourage me to do nothing but mutter and shudder... as i'm doing right now...
[shudder]
Yes, even as I write this, it is painful to THINK about the number “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...much less type “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...or, god forbid, dare to speak “one thousand six hundred and eight”
Which of course means that I should probably stop repeating it over and over and over.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
...
Ooooo... Do it again
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“But why Flarf” you may ask, “why does this number hold itself in such ill-favor with you?”
Ok, so you probably wouldn't ask that using such a convoluted and mismatched set of words and phrases, but cut me some slack... i'm angry.
And it is a fair question, so to begin to answer it, I offer the following evidence...
In computerspeak, 1608 is the error number assigned to an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance... an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance?!?!?! That’s some pretty pure hatred right there...
It also marks the birth year of poet John Milton... the man who wrote Paradise Lost... the work that, among other things, goes into great detail about the origins of a real bad dude... THE bad dude in fact... the baddest dude of them all... no, I don't mean Darth Vader (though he's pretty fickin' badass)... I’m talking about Satan here... Lucifer... Beelzebub... The Dark Lord of all that is Oogilly Boogilly.
And I might add, it’s also the number of bed spaces for on-campus students at the University of North Florida...
Ok, so that in and of itself isn't actually a BAD thing...
But... but... how bout this one? ...in the year of the Greeks one thousand six hundred and eight (A.D. 1296--97), the victorious king came down to pass the winter in the city of BAGHDAD, and Mar Catholicus remained in MARAGHAH. And it fell out that a certain man, who was called by the name of SHENAKH EL-TAMUR (or SHAING EL-TAIMUR, or SHAKH EL-TAIMUR) came into MARAGHAH, and he cast about a report that he had with him an Edict ordering that every one who not abandon Christianity and deny his Faith should be killed.
Killed?!?!?
Hey, not that I’m the world’s leading proponent of organized religion or anything, but promoting closin’ up shop on some dude just cuz of how he gets his groove on, well that seems wrong man...
So you see what I mean?
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
It’s just a bad, bad number.
Oh, and it also just so happens to be the appraised cost of repairs to my six-month-old car...
Repairs that I have a $1,000 deductible on...
Repairs that are necessary due to an accident that a policeman thought was too minor (and involving so little damage) that it wasn’t even worth writing up...
Repairs that I don’t really have the funds to pay for or the inclination to undertake.
...not that I’m bitter or anything.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
...the joy is gone.
[shudder]
That’s right, I’m making a bold proclamation. And I have a strong feeling I’ll be sticking to it. “One thousand six hundred and eight” just holds no joy for me any longer... It’s not a fair decision to make I’m sure, but all the same, from this day forth, simply mentioning “one thousand six hundred and eight” will encourage me to do nothing but mutter and shudder... as i'm doing right now...
[shudder]
Yes, even as I write this, it is painful to THINK about the number “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...much less type “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...or, god forbid, dare to speak “one thousand six hundred and eight”
Which of course means that I should probably stop repeating it over and over and over.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
...
Ooooo... Do it again
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“But why Flarf” you may ask, “why does this number hold itself in such ill-favor with you?”
Ok, so you probably wouldn't ask that using such a convoluted and mismatched set of words and phrases, but cut me some slack... i'm angry.
And it is a fair question, so to begin to answer it, I offer the following evidence...
In computerspeak, 1608 is the error number assigned to an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance... an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance?!?!?! That’s some pretty pure hatred right there...
It also marks the birth year of poet John Milton... the man who wrote Paradise Lost... the work that, among other things, goes into great detail about the origins of a real bad dude... THE bad dude in fact... the baddest dude of them all... no, I don't mean Darth Vader (though he's pretty fickin' badass)... I’m talking about Satan here... Lucifer... Beelzebub... The Dark Lord of all that is Oogilly Boogilly.
And I might add, it’s also the number of bed spaces for on-campus students at the University of North Florida...
Ok, so that in and of itself isn't actually a BAD thing...
But... but... how bout this one? ...in the year of the Greeks one thousand six hundred and eight (A.D. 1296--97), the victorious king came down to pass the winter in the city of BAGHDAD, and Mar Catholicus remained in MARAGHAH. And it fell out that a certain man, who was called by the name of SHENAKH EL-TAMUR (or SHAING EL-TAIMUR, or SHAKH EL-TAIMUR) came into MARAGHAH, and he cast about a report that he had with him an Edict ordering that every one who not abandon Christianity and deny his Faith should be killed.
Killed?!?!?
Hey, not that I’m the world’s leading proponent of organized religion or anything, but promoting closin’ up shop on some dude just cuz of how he gets his groove on, well that seems wrong man...
So you see what I mean?
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
It’s just a bad, bad number.
Oh, and it also just so happens to be the appraised cost of repairs to my six-month-old car...
Repairs that I have a $1,000 deductible on...
Repairs that are necessary due to an accident that a policeman thought was too minor (and involving so little damage) that it wasn’t even worth writing up...
Repairs that I don’t really have the funds to pay for or the inclination to undertake.
...not that I’m bitter or anything.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
...the joy is gone.
[shudder]
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Hey, I wrote a joke #1
[It helps if you imagine this being told by Mitch Hedberg... if the name doesn't ring a bell, then go google him right now... trust me, it will be funnier if you know who he is]
I do not understand people who wear puffy vests...
It’s like:
“Hey, I want a jacket that will make my torso warm... and my arms jealous.”
I do not understand people who wear puffy vests...
It’s like:
“Hey, I want a jacket that will make my torso warm... and my arms jealous.”
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Random thought #24
Have you ever stared intently at something... and I mean REALLY stared... just to see if you could get it to move... or lift up... or burst into flames?
...ok, maybe it's just me.
I'd swear I almost did it the other morning... I could tell... the toaster was scared.
...ok, maybe it's just me.
I'd swear I almost did it the other morning... I could tell... the toaster was scared.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Varifying Newton's research...
So... I learned something new today.
There’s a reason why the Nissan Sentra only costs around $13,000... and it’s not because their accountants lack the ability to count properly.
No... I'm wagering it's because they’ve created a vehicle made solely out of balsa wood and Styrofoam.
Or at least that's what comprises the front sections, as I unfortunately discovered this morning.
Yup that’s right, at approximately 8:30am, whilst making the journey to my current place of employment, my front bumper decided to engage in a rather intimate and somewhat humiliating “bonding” experience with the back of a Honda Civic.
Ya know, I really didn’t need a blog topic this badly...
Ok, so there’s a particular on-ramp to Storrow Drive down by the BU campus here in Boston that has been the source of much acrimony for me since my commute found its way to include said on-ramp in its path. Technically, it’s a yield... but the cars already ON the main road are traditionally traveling between 55-105 mph, so really the only thing you can do is accelerate slowly and try to merge when someone looks the other way...
Or at least I THOUGHT that was the only thing you could do.
Apparently, you can also start to accelerate into the merge and then change your mind at the last minute and slam on the brakes.
Who knew?
The guy traveling in front of me sure didn’t... taken completely by surprise at the lead car's, um... "spontaniety," he was forced to slam on his brakes... luckily, he stopped just short of making contact with the offending vehicle (who then, blissfully ignorant of the carnage he was causing, took off into traffic).
I however, wasn’t so lucky.
The first car stopped... the second car stopped... the third car (yours truly), tried to stop, but instead slid forward until it’s front bumper was conducting a rather impromptu proctology screening on a surprised piece of Japanese machinery.
Did I mention it was raining this morning?
I hit the brakes... the brakes hit wet wheels... the wheels hit wet pavement, and the car hit the wet Honda.
Thankfully I resisted the urge to wet myself.
The minivan behind me had come to the conclusion that aggresive braking might be its best course of action as well, and with luck, goodwill and a little bit of physics on it's side was able to stop a few feet short of hitting my vehicle... the car behind HIM however must have been operating with a high quotient of negative karma (no pun intended), because it decided to join me in my endeavor of attempting an amateur automotive colonoscopy, and thus was busy bumping bumpers with the minivan.
[no, I have no idea why I’m so fascinated with anally-fixated automobile metaphors today]
So there we were, four cars stuck on the side of the ramp, exchanging information, and waiting for a policeman to come and tell us if we had misbehaved.
I looked around at the other cars and noticed that they didn’t seem to be all that damaged... a few scratches here and there, but all in all it didn’t look that bad... we were on an onramp after all... we really hadn’t been traveling all that fast... then of course, I saw my poor pathetic little vehicle.
Imagine if you will, what it might look like if you punched a muffin in the face...
Now, I realize muffins don’t have faces per se... and, even if you could assume that they might, you may not be able to conjure up any reason why you would be inclined to punch one in that face, but work with me here, i'm painting a metaphor...
Basically, the front of my car currently looks like someone hooked a vacuum cleaner up to the tailpipe and set it on übersuck.
The grill is all mushed in, the emblem is hanging by a (cheap) thread, and the bumper has been split in the middle, revealing the all-too-disconcerting fact that a very thin plastic coating has been giving me a false sense of security in the safety of my vehicle, when in fact, all that lies between me and certain death is a piece a generic, run of the mill, “good for packing the teevee on a long trip to Rhode Island”, Styrofoam.
Joy.
So the policeman shows up and decides that quote:
“since there’s no real damage, I’m not going to bother writing this one up,”
and tells us that we should just work it out with our respective insurance companies.
I look back at the parts of my car that appear to have just suffered a severe nervous breakdown and contemplate alerting the policeman to his subtle inaccuracies, but in light of the fact that technically I was the one doing the rear-ending (and because I have a New York Jets cap prominently displayed in my back window) I decide against it.
With a heavy sigh, and a rolling of the eyes, I climb back in my bruised vehicle and head off to work...
Now the fun begins...
The calling of the insurance company.
The filing of the paperwork.
The raising of the rates.
And of course, the open weeping at the fact that I own a 6-month-old car that probably couldn't stand up to a Vespa.
...and I have a $1,000 deductible.
There’s a reason why the Nissan Sentra only costs around $13,000... and it’s not because their accountants lack the ability to count properly.
No... I'm wagering it's because they’ve created a vehicle made solely out of balsa wood and Styrofoam.
Or at least that's what comprises the front sections, as I unfortunately discovered this morning.
Yup that’s right, at approximately 8:30am, whilst making the journey to my current place of employment, my front bumper decided to engage in a rather intimate and somewhat humiliating “bonding” experience with the back of a Honda Civic.
Ya know, I really didn’t need a blog topic this badly...
Ok, so there’s a particular on-ramp to Storrow Drive down by the BU campus here in Boston that has been the source of much acrimony for me since my commute found its way to include said on-ramp in its path. Technically, it’s a yield... but the cars already ON the main road are traditionally traveling between 55-105 mph, so really the only thing you can do is accelerate slowly and try to merge when someone looks the other way...
Or at least I THOUGHT that was the only thing you could do.
Apparently, you can also start to accelerate into the merge and then change your mind at the last minute and slam on the brakes.
Who knew?
The guy traveling in front of me sure didn’t... taken completely by surprise at the lead car's, um... "spontaniety," he was forced to slam on his brakes... luckily, he stopped just short of making contact with the offending vehicle (who then, blissfully ignorant of the carnage he was causing, took off into traffic).
I however, wasn’t so lucky.
The first car stopped... the second car stopped... the third car (yours truly), tried to stop, but instead slid forward until it’s front bumper was conducting a rather impromptu proctology screening on a surprised piece of Japanese machinery.
Did I mention it was raining this morning?
I hit the brakes... the brakes hit wet wheels... the wheels hit wet pavement, and the car hit the wet Honda.
Thankfully I resisted the urge to wet myself.
The minivan behind me had come to the conclusion that aggresive braking might be its best course of action as well, and with luck, goodwill and a little bit of physics on it's side was able to stop a few feet short of hitting my vehicle... the car behind HIM however must have been operating with a high quotient of negative karma (no pun intended), because it decided to join me in my endeavor of attempting an amateur automotive colonoscopy, and thus was busy bumping bumpers with the minivan.
[no, I have no idea why I’m so fascinated with anally-fixated automobile metaphors today]
So there we were, four cars stuck on the side of the ramp, exchanging information, and waiting for a policeman to come and tell us if we had misbehaved.
I looked around at the other cars and noticed that they didn’t seem to be all that damaged... a few scratches here and there, but all in all it didn’t look that bad... we were on an onramp after all... we really hadn’t been traveling all that fast... then of course, I saw my poor pathetic little vehicle.
Imagine if you will, what it might look like if you punched a muffin in the face...
Now, I realize muffins don’t have faces per se... and, even if you could assume that they might, you may not be able to conjure up any reason why you would be inclined to punch one in that face, but work with me here, i'm painting a metaphor...
Basically, the front of my car currently looks like someone hooked a vacuum cleaner up to the tailpipe and set it on übersuck.
The grill is all mushed in, the emblem is hanging by a (cheap) thread, and the bumper has been split in the middle, revealing the all-too-disconcerting fact that a very thin plastic coating has been giving me a false sense of security in the safety of my vehicle, when in fact, all that lies between me and certain death is a piece a generic, run of the mill, “good for packing the teevee on a long trip to Rhode Island”, Styrofoam.
Joy.
So the policeman shows up and decides that quote:
“since there’s no real damage, I’m not going to bother writing this one up,”
and tells us that we should just work it out with our respective insurance companies.
I look back at the parts of my car that appear to have just suffered a severe nervous breakdown and contemplate alerting the policeman to his subtle inaccuracies, but in light of the fact that technically I was the one doing the rear-ending (and because I have a New York Jets cap prominently displayed in my back window) I decide against it.
With a heavy sigh, and a rolling of the eyes, I climb back in my bruised vehicle and head off to work...
Now the fun begins...
The calling of the insurance company.
The filing of the paperwork.
The raising of the rates.
And of course, the open weeping at the fact that I own a 6-month-old car that probably couldn't stand up to a Vespa.
...and I have a $1,000 deductible.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Random observation #5
It seems very odd, that this, a classic symbol of anti-consumerist Holiday sentiment, is now being sold at Urban Outfitters... for $24 no less.
Of course, that that being said, it’s also kinda neat....
Of course, that that being said, it’s also kinda neat....
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Random paragraph #24
After 217 days of ingesting nothing but fish sticks and warm orange juice, Frank thought he might need to shake things up... it just didn’t feel right anymore... sure, the fish sticks made him smile every time he snapped one in half with his front teeth while pretending he was a bear foraging for food in the great northwest... and let’s face it, you just couldn’t beat a tall, pulpy glass of slightly lower than room temperature OJ, but still... he wasn’t feeling that “zest” anymore. He needed something new. Something exciting. He headed into the kitchen and begin to work his magic... 4 hours later, Frank emerged with what he thought could be the perfect addition to his formidable nutritional arsenal... With great jubilation he had discovered that, when mixed in a blender (for 14 seconds on “frappe” to be precise), partially defrosted chicken nuggets, chocolate pudding mix and extra-firm, spicy cajun tofu combined to form a new substance that, while having the consistency of a slightly past date cod, and a smell that one might accurately relate to spoiled milk, tasted pretty darn close to a hearty head-cheese risotto.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Today's headlines #4
Pilot injured after plane crashes into Wal-Mart
Receives multiple cuts and abrasions... not from crash, but from encounter with smiley-faced “rollback man” busy “slashing prices.”
Ship Blasts Pirates With Sonic Weapon
Gains +3 experience, +2 magic, level 9 scimitar of Andernol
Female Amputee Completes Ironman Triathlon
Random guy named Frank claims similar achievement – spends 37th consecutive day sprawled out on barcalounger subsisting on nothing but orange glazed donuts and yoo-hoo.
Penguin evolution linked to shifting icebergs
Flightless birds apparently had no choice but to “go with the flow”.
Study: Women Expect Less When It Comes to Humor
Unrelated study shows women boast higher levels of exposure to ABC sitcom “Full House” during formative years.
Today: Chocolate lovers invade New York!
Attacks easily thwarted when unexpected warm front moves in, melting confectionary arsenal.
Two Drunken Moose Invade Home for Elderly
One of the facility’s 15 “Senior Residents” responds: “We were happy to have the company... positively lovely fellows... a little hairy though... didn’t talk much... and I think one of them might have pooped in the cafeteria.”
Tom Cruise hires new publicist to replace sister
Newly-hired Paul Bloch promises to “tone down that crazy little bugger”
Receives multiple cuts and abrasions... not from crash, but from encounter with smiley-faced “rollback man” busy “slashing prices.”
Ship Blasts Pirates With Sonic Weapon
Gains +3 experience, +2 magic, level 9 scimitar of Andernol
Female Amputee Completes Ironman Triathlon
Random guy named Frank claims similar achievement – spends 37th consecutive day sprawled out on barcalounger subsisting on nothing but orange glazed donuts and yoo-hoo.
Penguin evolution linked to shifting icebergs
Flightless birds apparently had no choice but to “go with the flow”.
Study: Women Expect Less When It Comes to Humor
Unrelated study shows women boast higher levels of exposure to ABC sitcom “Full House” during formative years.
Today: Chocolate lovers invade New York!
Attacks easily thwarted when unexpected warm front moves in, melting confectionary arsenal.
Two Drunken Moose Invade Home for Elderly
One of the facility’s 15 “Senior Residents” responds: “We were happy to have the company... positively lovely fellows... a little hairy though... didn’t talk much... and I think one of them might have pooped in the cafeteria.”
Tom Cruise hires new publicist to replace sister
Newly-hired Paul Bloch promises to “tone down that crazy little bugger”
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