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Where the Hell Was I?

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Standup Standup

  11/16/03: Comedy Studio
  12/03/03: Emerald Isle
  12/17/03: Emerald Isle
  01/07/04: Emerald Isle
  01/08/04: The Times
  01/18/04: All Asia Cafe
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  #6: Six Stitches
  #7: What's in a Name?
  #11: The Speling Bea
  #19: A Capital Weekend
  #35: Road Trippin'
  #36: Geronimo! Ditto!
  #40: Three for the Ages
  #43: Mishaps on the River
  #47: Puzzled Over Puzzling
  #53: Justifying My Tuition
  #55: My Yearbook Quote
  #56: Whatever It Takes
  #65: Pissing in the Middle
  #78: Losing My Faith
  #85: Goodbye, Teeth
  #88: A Painful Separation
  #91: An Only Child
  #98: Nothing But Putrid
  #99: Bovine Dreaming
  #100: 'Dudden Hurt'

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  02/15/2004 - 02/22/2004
  02/22/2004 - 02/29/2004
  02/29/2004 - 03/07/2004


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Charlie/Male/31-35. Lives in United States/Massachusetts/Watertown, speaks English. Eye color is hazel.
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Where the Hell Was I? has moved!

Please visit my new home at:
http://www.wherethehellwasi.com

I'll be glad you did!

Saturday, November 08, 2003
 
My Kingdom for a 'Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger!'

(Note: Yes, I'm backdating this post by a few hours. Again. At least this time, I have a good excuse. (Assuming that laziness, exhaustion, procrastination, and distractedness -- the ones I've used in the past -- aren't good excuses. Even though I think they are. Nyah.)

Anyway, this time my tardiness has a technical explanation -- apparently my wireless router hiccuped yesterday and stopped talking to my ISP's DNS server. Maybe they had a spat of some kind. Maybe the router was upset that the DNS server never calls any more. (Just like a man.) Or maybe they've both got their eye on some hot mailserver out there. Something. Anyway, they got snarky with each other, and I lost all access to the web at large.

(Well, that's not entirely true, I suppose. If I'd known the IP addresses for Blogger, and Yahoo, and the rest of the places I wanted to go, I guess I wouldn't really have needed the DNS server. But I didn't. Maybe I should start memorizing those for future reference. Yeah, that should be fun.)

So, to make a long story... um, marginally less long, I finally called my ISP this morning (because I didn't know the problem was on my end), and -- after some initial diagnostics -- the tech support guy gave me the universal, highly technical, time-tested, expert advice that I give people when they come to me with computer problems:

'Uh... did you try turning it off and back on?'

Shit. Why the hell didn't I think of that? If the printer's screwed, what do I do? Off and back on. When my computer locks up? Reboot. So what happens when the network suddenly goes belly up? Well, um, I wait sixteen hours or so, then call my ISP. And what do they tell me? 'Restart your router, stupid.' (In a very nice, friendly, customer-friendly sort of way, of course. They know who pays the checks.)

*sigh* I'm such a tool sometimes.)



So. I thought about bitching about last night's horrendously unfunny Saturday Night Live / Mad TV episodes. But I just can't find the energy. I'm depressed that there's no good sketch comedy on TV any more. Sure, SNL has hit lulls before -- the post-Eddie Murphy era, the dark times right after guys like Mike Myers jumped ship -- but I've seen very little in the past couple of years that suggests they're close to coming out of their current flat funk. (Seriously -- Hall and Oates custom-singing at a business conference? Why would that be funny? And why Hall and Oates? Who the hell cares?)

Ugh. It just makes my funny bone hurt. (Andy Roddick as host? *sniff sniff* Is it just me, or am I catching the faint whiff of 'desperation'? Maybe SNL's not bringing in the cool kiddies any more.) Where are the Dana Carveys, the Eddie Murphys, the Chris Farleys? (Well, okay, I suppose we have a pretty good idea of where Chris Farley is right now. Bad example. Sorry.) That's to say nothing of the show's heyday -- Dan Ackroyd, Chevy Chase, Jane Curtin, Bill Murray, Jim Belushi... shit, I'd settle for John Belushi right now. Or Rob Schneider, for chrissakes. David Spade, Kevin Nealon -- give me something! Placate me, dammit! Even Victoria freakin' Jackson would be... um, no, never mind. She was the worst. Forget I mentioned her. Sheesh.

And it used to be that I could turn to Mad TV for relief. Miss Swan ('Rooka rike a man.') would help, and Stuart ('No.... noooooo... look what I can do!') pitched in; even Lorraine ('God, that's cute! Hurmph!') lent an occasional hand. But that show's gone down the craptube, too -- last night, with plenty of old regulars back, they chose to go with Will Sasso's Kenny Rogers (damn, what brain-deficient bumbleass decided that character should get more than one sketch? Mumbling, bumbling semi-famous has-been Southern nonsense was funny for the first couple of minutes, but skit after skit after skit?), Nicole Sullivan and Michael McDonald as the 'literally' twins (ugh!), and Aries Spears' 'Real M************ News' nightmare. From what I gather, I missed a few of the better sketches, but still -- for a big 'special show', shouldn't most of the material be good? Not half, or some, or a little, but most? Is that asking too much?

Well, apparently. Mad TV is still the better option, but last night was just damned depressing. I watched for over an hour, and the most entertaining thing I saw was Tina Fey shaking her stuff along with the other SNL chickies during Andy Roddick's monologue-that-wasn't. I don't know what the hell they fed 'Tangy Tina' before that little bit, but she was the rump-shakin'est of anyone out there. She always seems so straight-laced and calm in most of her sketches -- I didn't even know she had a jiggy to get with. Color me impressed.

Okay, that's enough. I said I wasn't gonna bitch, right? Oh, well. So much for 'best-laid plans'. Eh. I can't help it if I have high humor expectations. It's not my fault. It's those people who wrote the good shit back in the day -- the Conehead family, and the wild and crrrrazy guys, and 'Jane, you ignorant slut.' If they'd never shown me Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood, or Wayne's World, or even the Church Lady, then I wouldn't be demanding something just as good now. Seriously, my tastes haven't changed much. (Since I was eight or so, come to think of it. Obvious, isn't it?) So it's not my fault. It must be the writers, and the actors, and whoever's running the crappified versions of these once-funny shows.

Heh. Finally I've found a scapegoat. Cool. I think I'll quit while I'm ahead. Or at least while I have someone else to blame. I don't get to do it often, you know.



 
Standing on the Edge, Rubber Chicken in Hand

Well, today's the day. Today I enter the infancy of my standup comedy career.

All right, so technically, it's not quite the 'infancy' yet. My first show's not tonight, or anything official like that. So I guess I'm still in my... um, fetusry. (Or something. Ew.)

But the point is that I'm about to get serious. Over the past few weeks, I've come up with material. I refined some stuff, I reworked other bits, and a lot of it I crumpled into tight little balls and buried in the yard. And then peed on the spot, and covered it up with leaves. Believe me, I am capable of dreaming up some horrible, unfunny shit. (Yeah, I know -- I'm preaching to the choir. Suck me.)

Anyway, there was some crap that made the cut. About twenty minutes' worth, in fact. So today I have to make some tough choices. I have to edit, to winnow. To separate the chaff from... well, from the other chaff, pretty much. None of this is friggin' Shakespeare, after all. But again, that's not the point.

All I'm saying is, it's gonna be tough. These little skits and bits are my babies now. (Well, except that they don't produce any green poop or early-morning screaming fits. There's still a bit of projectile vomiting from time to time, of course, but that's okay. It's usually not mine, and that's all that's important.)

But how to choose? How to choose?! Do I cut the 'assbag' bit, or leave out the 'wet spots' routine? Do I do the thing that ends with 'licking herpes'? Then I might have to leave out the part about being 'in my bedroom with a cucumber for an hour and a half'. Oh, they're all so priceless -- how on earth can I be expected to choose?

(And yes, if you've been paying close attention, versions of most of this crap have appeared here on this very site. That's right -- you saw it here first, whether you wanted to or not. Hopefully, you still manage to sleep at night.)

Anyway, by the end of the day, I'll have a five minute set all ready. There's a 'dry run' on Tuesday -- on stage, but with an empty house -- and then next Sunday's the big show. I guess that counts as the 'wet run'. (Which could be taken several different ways, very few of them good. Unless this was a porn movie shoot. Which it isn't. Damn.) And we'll see what happens after that.

So hopefully it'll go well, and I won't leave anything good on the cutting-room floor. Assuming there's anything good in the first place. And assuming that I actually had a 'cutting room', which I don't. I'll probably end up doing the deed in the basement, or the spare bedroom. Somewhere out of the way, where I won't be disturbed -- or embarrassed, by getting caught in the act of miming how I 'raise the roof' or 'eat like a bird'. (Jeez. How the hell did I fall into this crappile, anyway?)

But getting the set together's not the end of the process. Oh, no. Once I have something ready, then I'll have to practice. And record it, and time it, and play it back while I cringe in horror and make the 'I sound like that?!?' face. Yeah, that'll be fun. I'll probably have to do that a few times, too, to get the timing down. It'll be a little repeating loop of me being a moron over and over, with slight variations each time. Like when I went around to every girl in my class in high school, trying to score a prom date. Or that time I ended up on the wrong side of a plate-glass door from the keg at a party a few weeks ago.

(As in:
'Hey, beer!'
'Ow! Shit!'
'Hey, beer!'
'Damn! That hurts!'
''Hey, look. A keg!'
'Ouch! Ow-ow-ow! Oh, hoppy goodness, why hast thou forsaken me?!')

Anyway, I'll let you know how it goes. And, of course, I'll keep writing this drivel down, and maybe I'll find something else I can use. (Like 'fetusry'. Hey, shut up! You never know.) In the meantime, I'm off to talk to myself in the mirror. At least this time, I'll have a good reason.




Friday, November 07, 2003
 
Adventures With Massholes... Yes, Dammit, Again. Shaddup!

You know what really bakes my muffins?

(Hmmm. Actually, come to think of it, I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, muffins are nice, right? They're usually pretty tasty.

Ooh, and they smell nice, too. In a pinch -- like when you're out of deodorant -- you can rub 'em under your arms to 'freshen up'. Of course, you wouldn't eat them then. Unless you've got some sort of fetish thing going on that involves sweaty, musky, damp muffins. Or the armpits they rubbed up against. Not that there's anything wrong with that. 'Weird' with that, yes. 'Disturbing' with that, certainly. But 'wrong'? Um, yeah -- come to think of it, maybe so.

Look, all this talk about sweaty pit muffins is getting us nowhere. (And yes, I do say that to all the girls. However did you know?)

Maybe I should just start over.)

So. You know what really tweaks my nipples?

(Okay, wait, hold on right there. Stop. Time out.

To be honest, I'm not so sure that's a bad thing, either. Gimme a second; I'll check.

Yee-ouch! Ow ow ow ow ow! Holy shit, OUCH!

Um... yeah, that was actually pretty good. I'm strangely excited now. Shit. I guess I can't use that one, either.

Okay, let's try this again. Take three.)

Ahem. Hi there. You know what really burns my ass?

(Well, that sounds like what I'm looking for. Just to be safe, though, I'd better make sure. Hold on -- the stove's in the other room. I'll be right back.

<...time passes...>

Um. Yeah. That really pissed me off. That's the one I'm looking for, all right. Anybody out there got any Bactine? Aloe, maybe? Some sort of ass Band-Aid? Anyone?

Hey, don't give me that look. I had to make sure I picked the right saying for the occasion. I'm willing to suffer for my art, even if it means roasting my assflesh to a nice golden brown.

Ooh, ooh -- it's 'Choose Your Own Punchline' time -- pick the one you like best to end this train wreck of an aside. Which of these goes best after the 'assflesh' line above?:
A. And they said Van Gogh was dedicated. Harumph. Anyone can cut off a body part. 'Dedicated', my crispy smoked ass!
B. Just be glad I didn't say, 'You know what really screws the pooch?' Woof!
C. Now if I can just decide what side dish goes with roast ass, I can have some lunch. Rice pilaf, anyone?
Don't go saying I never gave you options, folks. Get in there and participate! Woo!)

Okay, I think we're (finally) ready to get this damned entry started. Once more, from the top! And... action!


You know what really burns my ass? (Um, besides the stove, that is.)

Lucky bastards, that's what.

And I'm not talking about all lucky people here -- I really mean the bastards out there, who happen to get lucky through no merit or effort of their own.

I'm sure this shit happens all over the place -- in business, and love, and even in Vegas -- but the place where I notice it the most is on the road. And boy, it burns my ass.

Now, I've talked a couple of times (here, for instance, and also here) about the lobotomized hyperactive boobs that are Masshole drivers. I'm truly beginning to think that part of the driving exam in the Boston area involves jamming the business end of an electric mixer as far as it'll go up your nose, and setting it on puree for thirty seconds. And then developing a crack addiction. (No, I don't know how you'd document a crack addiction to the DMV's satisfaction. Maybe a form from your dealer, signed in triplicate? Dunno. I'm just saying. Don't be a smartass, man.)

But I'm past that. Mostly. Maybe 'accustomed to it' would be more accurate. I've sufficiently lowered my expectations, such that I now expect -- even anticipate -- asinine, oblivious, idiotic assholery out on the roads. Oh, occasionally, a drooling dumbass will manage to surprise and enrage me, but it's happening less and less often. Generally, things are Zen. Very Zen.

So, when some sport utility bitch cuts across three lanes of traffic -- two of them oncoming -- to make a left turn, or a plodding peckernose just has to pull in front of me from a side street, and is then compelled to drive at six miles an hour... I can deal with it. I don't like it. I'm not happy. But I can control the urge to pull the cluetards out of their vehicles and shove their tires up their tailpipes. If you know what I'm saying.

However. All of that changes if one of these vehiculosers actually manages to win.

You see, once I'm wronged by Tom Toyota or Vicky Volkswagen, then I have to win. I'm past the point of wishing them bodily harm in response to a dumbass swerve or a dickhead move, but I still have to win. I've got to get where I'm going before they do. As long as we're taking the same path, I've got to get ahead of them, to teach them a lesson. Cheaters -- and careeners, and cutoffers, and no-signal-using sudden-turning jackhole cocksuckers -- never win. Me win. You no win. Arrr.

That's the way it's supposed to happen, anyway, in my little world. But sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the assholes get lucky, and often at my expense. They piddle and crawl toward a green light, until it turns yellow, then race through it as it blinks red, leaving me green-eyed and red-faced myself. (And, I suppose you could say, yellow with piss and vinegar. But that's nasty.)

Or the numbnuts continues to pull his or her death-defying, anger-inducing stunts on drivers in front of me, and manages to scoot on down the road before I do. And that's just wrong. What kind of a world are we living in, anyway, where I don't get the chance to cut them off? Where I can't center my car in the two lanes directly in front of their car, and then drive like a turtle on Valium? Where my ass gets boxed in behind a semi after they pass it on the right... on the shoulder... at sixty miles an hour... in a school zone? How the hell is that fair?

This shit happens on a regular basis. I get cut off, hemmed in, blocked out, and nearly run into just about every day, often repeatedly. Now, most of the time, I'm able to hustle past most of the goons, and go on about my day confident in the knowledge that I've taught them, in a subtle and non-violent way, that their particular brand of vehicular pilotry isn't the solution. Smart driving's where it's at.

But once a week or so, one of the boobjobs gets away, and that's damned frustrating. It's another reckless yahoo out there who thinks they've got a leg on the rest of us, traffic laws and common courtesy and crosswalkers with the right of way be damned. And that's not cool. Not to mention very messy. And we're the ones left cleaning pedestrian parts off our tires, because some jackass was late for his monster truck rally, and couldn't be bothered to avoid the people trying to leap out of his way. Inconsiderate bastard.

Anyway, that's my peeve. (Brought on by a particularly aggressive dimbulb-that-got-away on my way to work this morning. Damn you, slow-witted Chevy Suburban douchebag!)

Sorry to be so negative -- and to go on (at length, again) about the drivers around here. My commute pretty much doubled with this new job, so driving among the clueless cartards out there is a bit higher on my list of complaints. I promise to cool it with the commuting rants for a while, though. I think we've all had enough.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's time for some more nipple tweaking. My ass may be burnt, but I can still have a good time. Hey, speaking of which, I wonder if we have any muffins around this place...



 
Man, They Grow Up So Fast!

Hey, all -- just a quick note with the skinny on some changes around here. The scoop. The striaght dope. The scuttlebutt, if you will.

(And you will, because that's a damned easy way to get the Word of the Day out of the way. Don't hate me because I'm lazy.)

Anyway, here are just a few of the many delectable changes I've made for you, my adoring fans. (You not-so-adoring fans are out of luck. Don't even think about trying out the new shit if you don't adore me, dammit. Adore me!)

Ahem. Sorry. Here's the list:
  • This site is now a 'Klip Joint. (Yes, I made that up all by myself. And yes, I stayed awake all last night doing it. Smartass.) Anyway, you can now get your daily dose of hilarity as a 'Klip'. Essentially -- and as far as my severely-limited brain understands it -- you can download a little program called a KlipFolio, which will sit on your desktop. You then configure it to auto-download and track all sorts of news channels, and weather updates, and (*nudge nudge wink wink*) your very most favoritest weblogs. Seems like a cool idea to me, so I'm on the bandwagon. Go try it out, and then subscribe to my Klip. Come on -- all the cool blog readers are doing it.
  • I've also added a search feature, brought to us by our good friends at Atomz. You can use it to find all the hilarious crap you've missed -- not just from the main blog, but from the 100 Things, as well. What could be cooler? Want to know how many times I've used 'assbag' in posts? (Um, three, so far, and all in the same week. Well, now four, I guess. Fun!) Looking for that post about the "Wheel of Fortune"? Or maybe you're just curious just how many times I've typed in fuck. (Answer: a lot. Fuck.) Anyway, search away. That's what it's there for.
  • I finally also made my 'Friendly Folks' list of blogs a proper blogroll. So now, you'll see little stars light up by their names when they update. So go see. They're all nice people. They'll only bite if you promise to bite back.

So, that's about it. Sorry to interrupt the zanery around here, but I thought you ought to know what you're dealing with. This shit is high-falutin'-tech, folks. And leaning further and further that way, too. I'll be working on building a better RSS feed next, and re-templatizing my non-main blog pages, like the 'about' pages, and the 100 Things. And if none of that last bit meant anything to you -- don't worry! It's all behind-the-scenes crap.

(You might notice the RSS thing if you subscribe to my Klip, or some other service that picks up the RSS feed -- right now, it's pretty crappy and generic. It's the Yugo of RSS feeds, or maybe one of the Olsen twins. I'm not going to go overboard futzing with it -- I just want to bring it into the twenty-first century. You know, make it a Nissan, or an Alicia Silverstone. It doesn't have to be perfect, but it should at least have some 'oomph'. And be nice to look at.)

So that's it -- check out the Klip thingamadoodad, and search away, folks. Hey, and I get reports on which searches are being done, and how many get entered. So hop to it, dammit. I wanna see lots and lots of crazy queries, all right? This shit didn't read itself the first time around, and it ain't getting any funnier just sitting around in the archives. Go get it.




Thursday, November 06, 2003
 
Dial 'M' for Moron

Yesterday I told you about my pocket problems. There's one that I forgot to mention, but that you may be interested in. (In a sort of 'Ooh, look at the monkey dance!' kind of way. The sacrifices I make for you people...)

Anyway, this one involves my cell phone. I always keep it in my front left pants pocket.

(Except when I'm using it, of course. For one, using the phone while it's still in my jeans would be awfully challenging, given that I'm not friggin' Gumby. I mean, I'm 'bendy' and all, but I'm not that bendy. I can gaze at my navel, but I can't actually get my eyeball inside it. I can kiss ass, but not my own. I know about self-love, but... all right, let's just stop right there. You get the picture.

Besides, I think I'd get some pretty funny looks if I walked around talking to my crotch. Or rather, yelling at, given that whole not-bendy-enough-to-reach thing. And the conversations would be pretty one-way -- I doubt I could hear much of anything from two feet or more away from the speaker.

On the other hand, I could cement my place as the weirdest person I know. (Yes, it's frightening that there's even anyone else in the race, isn't it? Poopyhead.)

But just imagine me walking around having loud, difficult conversations, and apparently with my penis. Bent over all day, straining toward my nethers, yelling,

'Hello?! Hello?! What?'

'Speak up! I can't hear you!'

'You want to -- what? Meet for dinner? Okay, where? Where? I said 'WHERE'?'

'What? 'Eagles sleep nude'? What?!'

''Little three boobs'? What the hell?'

'Ohhhh! 'Legal Sea Foods'! Sure, I could go for some tuna.'

'Tuna! Tuna! Tuuuu-naaaaa!! Oh, forget it.
'

Nah, I'd better not try it. I get enough funny looks as it is, without really trying very hard.)

Okay, where the hell was I going with this?

Oh, my phone. Right. So, my phone's usually in my left front pocket. Fine.

Now, I should explain that my pockets are generally pretty roomy. This is a Good Thing™, given the myriad of crap that I stuff in them every day. But some days -- today, for example -- the distribution of crap in the pockets gets skewed a bit. More bits of stuff end up in some of the pockets than others. And generally when this happens, it's my phone that ends up alone, with room to shimmy around whereever it pleases. And this is where the problem comes in.

You see, my phone isn't particularly small. It's not ginormous, either, but it's fairly substantial. About as wide and as thick as a pack of cigarettes, maybe, but a little longer. Like a couple of dozen credit cards stacked together, plus an antenna. Or two big dog turds laid end to end.

(Yes, I know that's gross, but you've got to blog what you know, right? And I'm not so sure about the cigarette thing or the credit cards. It's been a long time since I've had much experience with either. Dog shit, on the other hand, I see every day. I deal with a veritable fricking flood of dog doo on a regular basis. It's downright diluvial. Really.

Yes, you can kill me now.)

So, anyway, the phone tends to shift and slide in there sometimes. And on occasion, it'll twist itself just the right way, and fall, fully horizontal, across the bottom of the pocket. Now, for those of you who aren't men, and can't picture exactly what the male genitalia might look like, I'll tell you that this poky-phone situation is not comfortable. At all. At best, it's unnerving. At worst, it's downright painful. (And if the antenna is intimately involved, it feels a lot like a billiard cue stick, if you know what I mean. And if you move the wrong way, your 'two ball' might just end up in the 'corner pocket'. Yikes.)

So, when this happens, I do what any reasonable person might expect one to do -- I reach down, and gently lift the end of the phone closer to my happy place -- first up, and then away from 'ground zero'. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I flip it to the outside until the phone is standing upright, on the far side of the pocket. In other words, right where I want it. No problem, right?

Well, maybe. But perhaps I should also mention that I tend to perform this maneuver without actually reaching into my pocket. Which means that my sly little move looks something like this to any close observer:

I reach down, toward my crotch, and find a bulge. I get two or three fingers underneath it, and slide it up a few inches. Then I flick my wrist, and the bulge near my crotch suddenly disappears. Or gets a lot smaller, anyway. (Hey, keep quiet. I don't need your help in describing my bulge. And no, I'm not going to italicize 'a lot smaller'. Get the hell outta here.)

Now, I'm not sure exactly what people might guess is going on... but it's fairly safe to say that it isn't good. It doesn't help that many of the activities that often involve shifting pants -- digging for keys, coming out of the bathroom, mooning the boss -- are the same ones that cause the phone to jostle around. So people are already focused on my jeans when I make my little 'adjustment'. So they can't miss it. (And they don't. I can tell by the gapes on their faces.)

I don't really have a good solution. I'm not so interested in a phone holster, or stuffing more junk in my pockets to hold the phone still. Something else would just poke me eventually -- a pen, or my ID card, or something -- and I'd be back to square one, publicly crotch-swiping all over again. I suppose I could try making the adjustment from inside the pocket, but I'm not sure that's better. At least if people can see my hand, they know I'm not staying down there for the 'long haul'. But maybe they just assume my 'haul' isn't that 'long' to begin with. Or that I'm easily... um, 'amused'. Or something. Ugh.

Anyway, I thought you should know. Not for me, you understand. I don't get any pleasure out of embarrassing myself in front of you folks. (Well, maybe just a little pleasure. I mean, I like it if you like it. Is it good for you? I know how you like to watch. Perv.)

But maybe this will alert you to the types of things -- purely innocent, 'routine maintenance' types of things -- that sometimes go on 'down there'. And maybe you'll be just a little kinder, and less aghast, next time you see a guy fiddling around near his equipment. (That's an important distinction -- he's likely not fiddling with his equipment; it's near his equipment. Get it right.) Hell, maybe you'll even be a good sport and help him out.

(Of course, then it'll be 'with' the equipment. Which really isn't the guy's fault. Look, if he's at all interested in having your help in the first place down there, then the equipment's gonna end up being pretty much everywhere. Suddenly, you won't be able to swing a dead cat without hitting something naughty.

Not that you would, of course. Swing a dead cat. We don't do that sort of thing in polite company. Even when 'polite company' involves helping out with a bad case of crotch crowding.)

So, have a heart out there. The next time you see someone groping his pockets, or fumbling in his drawers, or making with the hitchy-pants -- don't look down your nose at him. He's having a rough day. Show him a little support. He's is not an animal. He puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like you do. He just wiggles them around a little more, is all. So please, be kind.

Just... don't ask to borrow his phone when he's done. Really, you don't know where that thing has been.



 
Blogging It Forward

Hey all -- got a (semi-)serious one for your today.

A far, far better man than I (well, far, far more popular, at least... and probably 'better', too -- I mean, how hard could that be?), Buzz, has suggested a little game called Blog It Forward, where everyone within the sound of his.. um, site... you know what I mean -- is invited to showcase a blog that they particularly enjoy, respect, or envy for it's yummy goodness.

Well, in my case, it's all three. Maybe you're way ahead of me on this one, but I just can't stop reading Sundry Mourning. Not that I've tried, really. Sure, there's a patch out there to help people quit, and there's that icky-tasting gum, and... but this isn't about me, dammit. It's about Sundry. Here's what I know:

She lives in the Seattle area, where the weather sometimes gets her down, with husband JB and dog Dog. (See, creative! Her dog is named 'Dog'. No, it's ironic! It's clever... oh, never mind.) And she works at... Workplace. (Look, if you didn't get the 'Dog' thing, I don't think I can explain this one to you...)

She posts pictures on her site, but it's not a 'fotoblog'. On the other hand, when it is something akin to a fotoblog, it can be very, very, very, very good. (I still can't read/look at that entry without laughing out loud.)

But most of all, Sundry is hilariously funny. And cool, yet self-effacing. And adventurous. And beer-drinking. And profane -- oh, so very profane. In a good way. (Of course!) (Fuckers.) (Hee.)

In other words, she's all of the things that I strive to be here, plus lovely and talented and other good things to boot. And she makes it look easy. (Not to mention good -- go find one of her self-pictures; you'll see.) Really, there's nothing bad I can say about her site.

(Well... I can always say something bad. But in this case, it's just that she doesn't have the time to update six times a day -- do you hear me, Workplace, JB, and Dog? Stop distracting her, dammit! -- and that Sundry Mourning isn't indexed on blo.gs, so I can't see at a glance when she updates. Oh, and she's funnier than me. Yeah, that's bad, too.)

Anyway, that's my 'Blog It Forward' homage, and I sincerely hope you take the time to go check out Sundry Mourning. (Yes, in all of its yummy goodness.)

I'll be back later with the usual crap, but I wanted to play Buzz' little reindeer game first. (Go check him out, too, by the way. Two blogs in a day -- plus me, of course -- isn't gonna kill ya.) Catch you later!




Wednesday, November 05, 2003
 
Is That Thirty Pounds of Crap in Your Pants... Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

I'm becoming more and more concerned about my pants.

Not every part of my pants, mind you. The knees, for example, seem to be fine. I've got no beef with the cuffs, and the waistline -- though bigger around than I think it really has any right to be -- has been relatively well-behaved of late. These parts of my pants are not the problem.

Now, I realize that doesn't leave much for me to be concerned about, so I want you to take any inchoate and inappropriate deas that you might be percolating, and nip them in the bud right now, because:

I am not concerned about my pant-crotch, nor my pant-ass. Let's just get that right out in the open, okay? I may be concerned -- infatuated, even -- with the crotches and asses of other people's pants, but not my own. Not right now. So this is not going to be a 'naughty bits' entry. It's not even going to be a 'parts of pants covering naughty bits' entry. So straighten up, and settle down. You and froggy wanna go a-crotchin', you're gonna have to do it on your own time.

(Today, at least. There's every indication that I'll talk about crotches in some form or another soon. Tomorrow, maybe. The weekend, at the latest. Hang in there, crotch fans. You'll get yours.)

No, the parts of my pants that concern me are the pockets. More specifically, all the crap in the pockets. I don't know when the hell it happened, but somewhere along the line, I became a walking fricking supply closet. I put on my jeans in the morning, and they weigh a pound or two. Ten minutes later, when I've shoved all my shit in 'em, they're like a damned anchor around my middle. It's like wearing a sandbag kilt or something.

(Except for the 'going commando' underneath part, of course. Do you know how fricking cold it gets in Boston? My boys down there wouldn't last ten minutes in this weather before climbing all up in my bidness.

Seriously, if I ever stepped out of the house in November with just a layer of denim covering up the goodies, they'd shoot so far up, I'd need a damned plunger to find them again. I'm talking way up in there. My Adam's apple would look like a sack of golf balls; that's how far up I'm talkin'.

And I said you wouldn't get any crotch talk today. Damn. That one's on the house, folks.)

All right, what the hell was I talking about? Oh, my pockets. Righty-ho, then.

I remember the good old days, not so very long ago. Things were simpler then. My life wasn't nearly so complicated, and I had plenty of room in my pants. (Ahem. You know what I mean. No comments from the peanut gallery. Dammit.)

Anyway, I can recall when all I carried -- and all I needed -- was a couple of keys and my wallet. That was it. Light shit, and in only two pockets. Oh, if only I could recapture that magic; what heady, intoxicating times those were.

But now? Well, things are different now. Let's start with the keychain. Back in the day, it was sparse -- a key to my apartment, maybe one for work, and one or two for my car. That was it. No frills, no extraneous bullshit keys -- just what I needed, and nothing else.

Somewhere along the line, all of that changed. My current keychain is a confusing, bloated nightmare. (Think Tom Arnold in a Shakespeare play, or Anna Nicole Smith defending herself in court.) There are keys I've never seen before on there. Some of them have labels or writing on them -- cryptic nonsense like 'A-112' or '2nd fl. vault' or 'Alex's BR'.

(What?! How the hell did I get these keys? Where is this 'vault', and what the hell's in it? Is that 'BathRoom' or 'BedRoom'? And who the hell is 'Alex'?! Is that a guy or a girl? Is my keychain living a double life that I don't know about? And if 'Alex' is a guy... do I want to know about it? What the fuck is going on here?)

But it's not just the keys -- oh, no. The keychain is apparently some sort of inanimate pack rat, because I suddenly have all sorts of baubles and doodads that aren't keys on there. There are two -- not one, but two -- grocery store 'savings cards'. Two! Folks, I've stepped foot in a grocery store maybe two times in the past decade. And when I do go, my only goal is to get the hell back out ASAP. Screw the coupons, to hell with 'comparison shopping', and fuck the savings cards. Just bag my damned Ho-Ho's and get me the hell out of there.

(And no, 'bag my Ho-Ho's' wasn't meant as a sexual euphemism. Just in case you're wondering. Next time I use it, it's gonna be. But not this time. I just didn't think of it in time.)

Anyway, the grocery store crap is just the beginning. There's also one of those keyless remote thingies for the car, and a bottle opener (okay, so that's mission-critical equipment; I can't complain about that), and my Guinness Society pint-shaped pendant. I'm a troll doll and a scrunchie away from having the keychain of a fourteen-year-old freaking girl. How the hell did this happen?

If it were just the keychain, that wouldn't be so bad. It's just one pocket, after all. Sure, it might make me leeeean forward and to the right all the time, but I could deal with that. At least I'd always be able to see whether my shoes are tied.

But the keychain's just the crappy tip of the shitberg. All the other pockets are stuffed to the gills, too. I walk around with a wallet (stuffed full of crap, unless by 'crap' you mean 'money'), a cell phone, sunglasses, a pack of gum, loose change, a pen, a back-pocket notebook (for writing down all the funny things I think of during the day... and yes, it's currently empty, fuck you very much), and -- usually -- a small wad of dollar bills.

(In case you missed it, I started collecting the bills a couple of months ago to build a TiVo fund. Well, now I have TiVo, but I've still got these stacks of dollar bills piling up. So I carry them around until I remember to put them on the pile at home, or add them to the stash in the car. Or until I wander accidentally into a stripper's convention at the deli across from my office. Which, um, has never happened. But by God, when it does -- I am so ready. I even crease a couple of bills down the middle, just in case. 'Be prepared', that's my motto.)

And that's just the crap in my pants on a 'normal' day. (Um, the crap in my pants pockets, that is. There's no crap in my pants on a 'normal' day, of course. My birthday, maybe. St. Patrick's Day, sure. Oh, and Arbor Day... but that was just the once. I'll never look at a poplar the same way again. But I digress.)

Some days, though, there's even more stuff to jam in there -- receipts, ticket stubs, restaurant silverware, small children... the list goes on and on. One day, I'm going to have a blowout -- the pocket seams are going to all give at once, and all the keys and money and shit are just going to fly off of me like candy dropping from a pinata's ass. That would suck.

So, I'm not sure quite what to do. Somehow, my life got complicated. So I need all this shit around, close at hand. But I'm also rapidly approaching the point where I can no longer carry all the crap I need. So what then? I'm not going the 'man-purse' route, or strapping on a 'fanny pack'. (Sure, you can't tell based on this blog, but I do have one shred of dignity left. And I'm not giving it up just because I need a place for my house keys. I'll sleep on the damned lawn before I go there.)

Maybe there's no good solution. Maybe I'll have to start wearing shirts with extra pockets, or those commandoesque, thirty-seven-pocketed cargo pant dealies. Keys in the hip pocket, cell phone in the ankle holster, wallet in the ass-crack compartment... yeah, I don't know. I'm not sure it's a good idea to have even more places in my clothes where I can forget shit, and get it ruined in the washer. (I lose more pre-creased dollar bills that way.)

I suppose I'll just keep making do with my current system. I just hope I don't get a little MP3 player for Christmas, or develop one of those Altoids addictions you hear about in the papers. I don't think I'd have any place to store those things when they're not in use. I'm at full capacity as it is. There's no more room in the trousers-inn. My jeans are standing room only. My pants are violating the fire code. (Okay, that last one doesn't make a lot of sense. Still, I was taught that it's always a good idea to get 'my pants' and 'violating' in the same sentence, if you can. Add in 'fire', and it's a must. My hands are tied. I can't buck the system, people.)

Anyway, keep an eye out for me. I'll be the one with the bulging pants. (Yeah, I say that to all the girls.) But my pants will be bulging -- and quivering, and quite possibly throbbing -- in all directions, not just in the front. So be on the lookout. And if you hear the seams start to rip, or a loud crrreeeeaaakkk, take cover. My pants are about to blow, and you don't want to get caught in the middle of that. Just do me a favor -- once the explosion is over, help me track down my essentials, okay? Just the house key and the bottle opener -- I can do without the rest of it and start over. I'd really appreciate it.

And if my gratitude's not enough, there's a center-creased dollar bill in it for you. Just pray that you find it first, or I'll give it to you my way. And 'my way' is not gonna be in your pocket. I think our pockets have been through just about enough, don't you?




Tuesday, November 04, 2003
 
An End Table... A Countertop... For Crissakes, a Milk Crate -- Gimme Something Over Here!

(Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm backdating this post by about sixteen hours to slip it in the Tuesday slot. You caught me. Bitches.

Look, you should be happy... assuming that you actually want more of this crap. (You poor, misguided soul.) I just couldn't bear to leave you with this dreck as the sum total of yesterday's stuff. Sure, I did the 'bare minimum', but folks, it just isn't enough. You deserve so, so much more.

And here it is. Be careful what you wish for.)


Well, that was unceremonious.

I had just assumed -- I may have even been told, though it's just as likely that I made that part up -- that all the pieces would come together at once. That there would be an orderly progression of events, a synchronization, a process. How wrong I was. (And maybe lied to; I really can't remember. So I'm not sure who to be pissed at. Dammit!)

Anyway, I thought it would happen like this:
  • 11/3: The big transition planned at my end-of-the-week workplace occurs. Champagne is poured, bulls are rung, and babies are kissed. I miss out, because I'm at beginning-of-the-week workplace. But that's okay, because:
  • 11/3 - 11/4: The group that's moving out of end-of-the-week office into new quarters gets their shit together and gets the hell out. Desks are freed up, space is available, and more champagne is poured. (Damn, these people love their champagne. Of course, most of my imagined fantasies are like that. Speaking of which, I'm surprised Heather Graham hasn't shown up in this one yet.)
  • 11/3: The guy whose desk I've been sitting at comes back from vacation. He's welcomed back with a party, where cake is eaten, and hurrahs are... um, hurrahed, and champagne is poured. Only later does he find that his desk drawers are superglued shut, all of his passwords are now 'WANKMUFFIN', and all of his pens have been meticulously, painstakingly drained of ink and returned. (Ain't I a stinker?)
  • 11/5: I return for end-of-the-week working. I have my pick of the myriad of empty desks and offices. I set up shop in a roomy corner affair, with plenty of leg room and a view of the Boston skyline. It comes with its own private bathroom, or maybe an antechamber. Or an antechamber that I pee in, to protest the fact that it's not, in fact, a bathroom. I'm assigned a secretary. It's Heather Graham. She pours champagne for us in the antechamber. Life is good.

So. That's more or less how I thought it would go. And lest you think me overoptimistic or unreasonably expectatious, let me assure you that I was ready to settle for something a bit less extravagant. A one-room office, for instance. Sparkling wine. Drew Barrymore. I'm not demanding, folks. I'm willing to do with less.

But I was unprepared for what I actually did get. Which was, basically, evicted. You see, in the four-part list above, number three (i.e., having people who are irrelevant to me get the hell out of my way) failed to happen. (As it almost always does. Oooooh!) But number two -- Mr. Desk Man returning from his vacation to reclaim his spot -- did not fail to happen. And he was there first. He's got papers and shit in those glued-shut desk drawers to prove it.

And so, I was out of luck. The music stopped, and I was the dumb bastard without a chair to park my ass in. So here I am, in an open, semi-public 'shared' computer area, firing off emails and studying the intranet (and blogging) in front of anyone who wants to walk out of their office and laugh and point at the monkey-man in the middle. And that's the way it'll be for the next two weeks.

It's ridiculous.

It's demeaning.

It's preposterous.

(But most of all -- it's putting a pretty goddamned heavy damper on surfing for porn at work. And that's just not right. How the hell am I supposed to stay awake now?)

Anyway, there's not much I can do about it, apparently. I tried saying, 'Well, if you don't have a place for me, why don't I just take a few days off, then? I can stop by after Thanksgiving to see how things look.' That didn't fly, of course. But I don't see why the hell not. If a class is full, they don't make you show up for it anyway. When a bar is at capacity, they have you wait outside until there's space. When a flight is booked solid, they... well, um, actually, they usually sell twenty or thirty more tickets, 'just in case'. The bastards. Screw the airlines. Bad example. Forget I mentioned it.

Still, I think the least these people could do is to let me have a couple of days of paid vacation, right? Look, it's not my fault they're unprepared. I'm here, I'm (almost) sober, and I'm ready to work.

(As ready as I get, anyway. All that really means is that I've managed to glom contact lenses onto my eyes, and put on some pants. Not my own pants, necessarily; just pants. I'm not so picky about the pants.)

So here I am -- freakshow public computer boy, typing and surfing and clicking for these fools' entertainment. Screw this, man. I didn't sign up for this shit. I'm taking my laptop, and I'm going to the can. I don't know how much work I'll get done on the toilet, but at least no one will be watching. Or listening, or seeing me walk out of the john with my laptop under my arm. That might come across as a little bit eccentric. People might even think that I took the thing in there to surf for porn in privacy. That wouldn't be good.

Hey, just because they're right doesn't mean it's good. And if they'd gimme a damned desk, we wouldn't have to do this little dance, now, would we? Clearly, it's all their fault. Now, if you'll excuse me... I've got some (ahem!) work to get done. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Or when my legs fall asleep. You know, whichever comes first.



 
What Was That? Nothing? Ooh, How About That? Nothing, Too? Damn!

Hum de hum de hum.

Folks, I gotta warn you -- I got nothin' tonight. No topic, no plan, no 'hey, guess what funny shit happened to me today'. Nuttin'. But here I am, on schedule, and I'll do my best to entertain you. The spirit is willing, folks. Stick around, and we'll see what the flesh is up to.

(Okay, forget I mentioned 'the flesh'. I may have nothing to talk about, but I'm not gonna resort to flashing flab at you nice people. I don't mind trying to make you unsnort milk through your nose, but I try to avoid any actual audience ralphing. No, no -- you can thank me later. It's just my way of showing that I care. By, um, not showing you much of anything at all. Trust me, you're better off.)

So. Off to a rousing start, no? Well, look, it's not my damned fault, all right? I can't help it if nothing funny or weird or interesting happened to me today. That's what I get for finding a damned job, I guess. I remember the good old days -- this summer, that is -- when I could just stay home all day and try all manner of dangerous, ridiculous shit, so I'd have something to write about. Grease on the floor, small animals in the blender, gratuitous nudity on the roof -- really, it didn't matter. If I thought it might make a good story, then I was there, dude.

(And soon after, I was in the hospital, or the police station. Just another case of 'the man' holding me down. Or, um, reattaching my various appendages. Hey, sometimes 'the man' comes in handy, all right? Don't hate him because he's cruel.

Oh, wait, no. I take it back -- hate him. Hate 'the man'. That's why he's there. The dickhead.)

Okay, where was I? Ah, looking for something risible to regale you with. Right. Well, then. I'd better get on that.

(Hey, while I'm at it, how are those 'Word of the Day' thingies working out, anyway? Worth the effort? Irrelevant? Distracting? Dead sexy?

Sorry... I always throw that last one in there, just to see if someone will bite. Or lick, or nibble. Whatever.

Yeah, it never works. Dammit. Look, just tell me whether you like the damned words or not, all right? I got other fish to fry here.)

Maybe I was just too damned tired today. I'm still not used to getting up for those nine am meetings. Maybe all sorts of interesting and weird crap was going on around me today, and I just sleepwalked through it. I don't remember any crocodile jugglers or amputee strippers, but maybe I just missed them. I was really tired, after all. But you'd think someone would call that shit to my attention, wouldn't you? Seriously. I shouldn't have to miss the good stuff, just because I'm all tuckered out.

I think it's more likely that it was just a dull, boring day. And so, here you are reading a dull, boring entry.

(Sorry, folks -- I've gotta play the cards I'm dealt here. You want excitement and hilarity around here, then you'd better help out, dammit. Do some sort of funny dance for me, or dump food on someone's head. Or run around with no pants on. C'mon, make yourselves useful, would you? Go give someone a class five swirly, then send them into the boss' office. Or rub tabasco sauce on your crotch and visit the dogs at the pound. Anything, people. Give me anything. Please?)

Well, this isn't getting any better. I promise I'll have something more for you tomorrow. Surely something will happen tomorrow. And if not, I'll make shit up. That's really the only alternative I have at this point. I tried the hot sauce crotch trick, and all I got was sneezed on by a bunch of dogs. And while dog snot all over your legs is many things, it's not funny. Not when it's my legs. Yours, maybe. Mine, nuh-uh. So I'm not goin' there. But maybe I'll throw another hamster in the blender and climb back on the roof again in the morning. Things are getting desperate.




Monday, November 03, 2003
 
I Got Your SuperSize Right Here, Doc

I'm not sure which disturbs me more -- that there's a McDonald's restaurant in the food court beside the hospital where I work, or that it's so damned popular with the medical staff. I'm sitting in said food court now, watching the stream of people in scrubs, or white coats, or with stethoscopes and pagers among their accessories, step up to the counter and order up a hot steaming lardy deathburger to go. With fries, naturally.

Now, I'm not a terribly healthy eater myself. (As I think I've already proven.) So I probably shouldn't be throwing stones here. Eventually, one of them's bound to come back and smack me in the fat ass.

(Just for the record, though, I did not partake of the faux beef slop served up at the Mickey D's. I'm writing this after finishing my chicken breast sandwich from Subway. You know, the 'less than six grams of fat' one? Of course, that's for the six-inch sandwich, and I had the footlong. And those six grams don't take into account the Swiss cheese or the mayo I had them slap on there. Or the fact that I asked them to deep-fry the lettuce and dip the pickles in bacon grease before they went on the sandwich.

Still, it's gotta be under... oh, I dunno, sixty grams of fat or so. Sixty-five? Seventy, tops. That's still less than the cholesto-crap the bitches under the golden arches are serving up. You might as well just jam a straw in a pig's back and start slurping. Other than the apple pie dessert option, it'd be pretty much the same experience. And probably cheaper.)

Anyway, this isn't about me, and my self-descructive nincompoopery. (For once.) This time, it's the doctors I'm concerned with. Look, there are patients running around this place.

(Well, okay, to be fair, most of them don't really 'run'. They shuffle, or limp, or amble along. But this is not about how well, or quickly, they perambulate, either. Just that they're here. So focus, goddammit. I'm trying to make a point here.)

I'm just saying, doesn't it seem odd for the doctors and nurses to spend all morning proverbially smacking their patients' little hands for not eating right, or exercising, or wearing any underwear (hey, you don't know what goes on in those free walk-in clinics, all right?), and then hopping on the Fat Wagon for a Double Whopper with extra moo fat? Somehow, that just doesn't seem right. It's like Bill Gates giving money to charity, or Anna Nicole Smith doing ads for Slimfast. (Not the 'old' Anna, who could've maybe gotten away with that. I mean the 'new', super-sized Anna. Or as I like to call her, 'Anna an' a half'. Eek.)

Maybe I'm making an arbitrary distinction in singling out hospital employees. Maybe I'm asking too much, or even being unreasonable. Hell, it's happened before; just ask my wife.

(Though if she brings up that thing with the 'French maid outfit' again, don't listen to her. Look, it was my birthday, and we'd been drinking, and it's a pretty common fantasy. Back me up here, guys. I don't think there was anything 'unreasonable' about that.

I just wish I could've found a bigger thong to wear under my apron. I still have chafe marks down there. Plus all that lace was really tickly and distracting.

Um... ahem. Moving on, then.)

What I'm talking about is a higher standard. (For doctors, mind you, not thongs. Let it go. Just... let it go.) I'm not saying healthcare practitioners have to be perfect, by any means. I don't expect them to be nutritional tightasses all the time. But for heaven's sake, shouldn't they indulge their fatty fantasies in a more private place?

(And if any of you have any lewd comments about 'indulging fatty fantasies in private'... just don't. You know what I mean. Let that go, too. Man, you people are a handful today!)

('Handful'? Got something for that, too? All right, that's it -- I think you need a time out. Geez, get your mind out of the gutter, would you?)

I just think the docs should be a little more sensitive to the example they're setting, when their patients are sitting there among them, chomping down broccoli and lettuce and styrofoam and whatever other rabbit food shit they put in those salad thingies. How do people do that, anyway? It's like eating a damned putting green. Who wants to do that? Have you ever seen someone eating a salad who looked happy? 'Cause I sure haven't.

And that's why I think it's insensitive -- nay, downright rude -- for the hospital folks to load up on burgers and fries right there by the workplace. It's not really fair, now, is it? I think they should at least work out some sort of code -- maybe for the 'to go' orders -- that at least makes it seem that they're setting a good example. Then maybe you'd hear something like:

McWeenie: Hi, welcome to McDonald's! May I take your order?
Man in Lab Coat: Um, yes. I'd like the 'special salad', please.
McWeenie: The 'special salad'?
Man in Lab Coat: That's right, the 'special salad'. I'm a doctor.
McWeenie: Ahhhhh, the 'Special Doctor Salad'. Yes, sir.
Man in Lab Coat: With bacon --
McWeenie: That's 'tofu strips' --
Man in Lab Coat: And extra cheese.
McWeenie: Sir, shhhhh. Be cool. That's double 'heart-healthy soy slices'. Check.
Man in Lab Coat: Sorry. I'm new at the hospital.
McWeenie: No problem, sir. Now then. Would you like... ahem, 'carrot sticks' with that?
Man in Lab Coat: Are those golden-brown 'carrot sticks'?
McWeenie: Yes, sir.
Man in Lab Coat: Oh, then absolutely. In fact, could you McSuperSize the 'carrot sticks'?
McWeenie: Yes, sir. And to drink?
Man in Lab Coat: I'll have the... oh, what's it called... the 'frozen health nog'?
McWeenie: Okay -- and what flavor of 'health nog' would you like?
Man in Lab Coat: Er... well... what are the options again?
McWeenie: We have the 'fiber nog' and the 'vitamin nog'.
Man in Lab Coat: Oh. Um. I see.
Man in Lab Coat: (whispering) Which one's the chocolate shake, again?
McWeenie: (whispering) The 'fiber'.
Man in Lab Coat: I'll have the 'fiber nog', then, please.
McWeenie: Yes, sir. Your total is seven dollars and twelve cents.
Man in Lab Coat: Here you go. And well worth it for such a healthy, nutritious meal.
Man in Lab Coat: (whispering) Dude, you made the brown one 'fiber'? That's so gross.

Yeah, maybe it's not worth the effort. Maybe things are fine the way they are, as long as the docs don't cop an attitude about it. I don't want to see them flaunting their fatburgers all over the place, waving them in other people's faces -- 'I got the cheeeeese-burger, and you don't goooot none! You cannot eeeeat it, 'cause you are on the Lipitor! Nah nah nah naaaaa nah!'

Eh, maybe I'm just jealous. I'm trying to be healthier myself, and I know I don't appreciate seeing those bastards sitting there, with greasy globs of cow goo dripping down from their smug self-satisfied smiles. Asswipes.

But I suppose they're entitled to eat whatever the hell they like. It's a free country. Still, I hope they all get grease poisoning, and have their stomachs slowly, painfully pumped dry. Repeatedly. And then be put on strict boring vegan diets, with nothing but soy paste and romaine lettuce to eat for the rest of their lives. Is that wrong of me?




Sunday, November 02, 2003
 
Can You Keep a 'Secret'?

I don't want to gross anyone out, or disturb the more squeamish of you out there, but I have a small confession to make. This morning, I woke up and discovered... that I'm out of deodorant. I used the last bit from the previous stick (or tube, or roll-on, or whatever the hell the container's called) yesterday morning. But I just assumed there was more. There's always more. I don't know how it gets there -- maybe my wife buys it, or it sprouts in the back of the closet, or the Mennen fairy flies in while we sleep to replenish my precious antiperspirant supply. Honestly, I don't know, and it doesn't much matter. Whenever I need deodorant, it's there. It's always there.

Except today. Today the supply closet let me down. Oh, it wasn't empty, certainly. There were all sorts of useful trinkets and potions in there -- cold medicine, contact lens solution, rubbing alcohol, a big box of those cylindrical 'back massage' thingies. (Why do those things have names like 'Sandblaster' and 'Mr. Pointypants'? What the hell does that have to do with having tense shoulders? Eh.)

But there was no deodorant. So I did what any self-respecting, red-blooded American, desperate husband would do -- I used my wife's.

(As opposed to what a self-respecting, red-blooded American desperate bachelor would do, which would be to find some creative and readily available substitute. Like toothpaste, or flour, or ground-up aspirin. Hey, I was single once -- I know what goes on out there. And I definitely prefer the 'married option'. Do you know how hard it is to clean half a tube of Aquafresh out of your armpit hair? It's not pretty.)

Anyway, I didn't have much of a choice. So I slapped on the sissy Secret shit. I worried a bit, of course. For one thing, it's 'pH balanced for a woman', right? So naturally I was concerned about the acid burns it might leave under my arms. (Just to be sure, I glided a little bit on the side of one ass cheek first. The good news is that I didn't experience any searing pains, and I've been able to sit normally all day. But the even better news is that my rear end has smelled like a spring meadow ever since. Jealous much, guys?)

So, I guess I got away with it. (Assuming I didn't leave any crusty ass hairs on the tube itself, of course. Don't worry; I think I picked them all off. I know, I know -- 'Ewwwwwwww!!' Bunch of babies.) And it looks like I'll have to get away with it tomorrow, and maybe the next day, too. I'm not sure exactly when I'll be able to get to the store to pick up some of my regular stuff, so I may be mooching the feminine stuff for a while.

And speaking of 'feminine stuff', I want to be clear that the deodorant grab is just about my limit for 'borrowing' personal hygeine supplies from the little woman. I'm cool with cadging Q-Tips from her, assuming she hasn't used them first. (I love my wife dearly, but someone else's wax on the stick you're about to poke into your head is hardly sexy.) And we use the same tube of toothpaste. Not at the same time, mind you -- we tried that once, with mixed results. Sure, our breaths were minty fresh, but so were our nostrils, our eyebrows, and much of our chests. (We're still chipping toothpaste off the ceiling after that one. And the eyelashes on my right eye are permanently stuck together. Bleh.)

The deodorant, though, is as far as I'll go. I don't sneak into her skin care products, or perfumes, or her collection of exotic fragrant soaps.

(Who comes up with some of these scents, anyway? 'Freesia Dreams'? 'Escape with Lilac'? 'Rose Petals at Dusk'? Come on, people -- they all smell like grandmas. Get over it.)

In short, I try to stay away from anything that would give itself away as 'less than manly', based on scent, feel, or appearance. I borrow only what I need, and what I think I can pull off wearing among my smartass friends. I'm not looking to do any vicarious living through cosmetics here. So no citrusy clarifying lotion, or potpourri-scented body lotion, or avocado-oatmeal facial cream. I had to stop pencilling my eyebrows, too -- it was just too obvious. (Probably because I also drew myself a Snidely Whiplash moustache while I was at it. That got a lot of stares. Doesn't anyone around here watch frickin' cartoons any more?)

So, I'm a little concerned about the deodorant. I mean... it smells so pretty. And now, by association, so do I. Sure, it's better than the alternative, but it does open me up to upraised eyebrows and questioning looks, should anyone catch a whiff of the flowery crap under my arms. I'm gonna try to keep my wings firmly down at my sides while I'm wearing the stuff, but I don't know how feasible that'll be. What if I have to pull something off a high shelf, or scratch my head, or 'raise the roof' for some reason? (Hey, it happens. You can never tell when the roof needs a good raising. It usually happens right after the dogs get let out. Be on the lookout for that.)

Anyway, I'll do the best I can. I'll wear the stuff until I can find the time to go buy something more appropriate for someone such as myself. Something musky, perhaps. Spicy. Pizza-scented, whatever. I don't really care, as long as it's not something that comes from a fricking garden. In the meantime, I've got one or two more days to survice as a 'Secret guy', hoping no one catches on and asks me about my 'perfume', or whether I've got lilacs tucked down my pants or something. (For the record, I don't. Nor would I. Tuck lilacs down my pants, that is. Rhododendrons, perhaps. Daisies, sure. Roses -- ouchie. No, thanks. Sunflowers, though -- sunflowers down the trouser chute, now that might be a party... I'll have to remember that.)

So, wish me luck. And fer Chrissakes, don't tell anyone about this. I catch enough crap as it is. I don't need any assholes running around my office calling me 'ma'am', or asking what 'that intoxicating aroma' could be. Because if they ever find out it's my hairy armpits oozing out the flowery scent, neither of us is gonna be happy. But only one of us is gonna take heat over it. And I don't know whether Secret can keep a non-pH-balanced guy dry during that kind of stress. I only know that I never want to have to find out. So 'Shhhhh', okay? I owe you one.




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