Saturday, February 21, 2004
Where I Prove Conclusively That Work Is Not an Option
I've gotten nothing done today. Up at ten, shower at one,
lunch breakfast at three. I haven't accomplished anything substantial since sometime last night at work.
(I did engage in a quasi-philosophical debate on the existence of God in the comments of another blog this afternoon, but really, I don't think that counts. For one thing, I was just pulling shit out of my ass. And for another, I doubt I could convince anyone of the metaphysical state of wheat bread, much less whether or not there's a frickin' deity somewhere up there peering down at us.
The whole mess was an exercise in chasing my existential tail, and not even in an amusing way. And it's still the most significant thing I've managed to tackle in the past eighteen hours or so. Pudsnugglers!)
Anyway, I'm toying with the notion of actually sitting down and doing a bit of work. Real work, like from the office. I was just about ready to dig in, too, when I gave the matter some additional thought. It went something like this:
Gee, I really should get some of that work done. People in the office are counting on me, after all.
Of course, to really work, I'd have to go downstairs and log in on my laptop. My wife is down there right now, working on her laptop. That would be nice, in a way -- both of us working away, side by side there in the living room.
On the other hand, I don't want to disturb her. All that typing I've got to do might get on her nerves, and then she'd get really mad. Sure, she wouldn't say anything, because I'd just be working and not trying to bother her, but still, it might get to her. And then she'd sit on that annoyance and let it fester for years and years, until finally, she'd reach over in the car one day and unhook my seat belt just before crashing the car into a guardrail, just to get me back.
So clearly, I can't disturb her. That would be bad.
I suppose I could bring the laptop back up here and work. But the dog is up here, sleeping. There's some adage about what to do when you encounter a sleeping dog -- I'm not sure exactly how it goes, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve 'tippy-tippy-tippity-tap'ing all over the damned place right next to said slumbering mutt. And the keys on the laptop keyboard are much louder the 'quietkey' dealies I've got here, so maybe I don't want to work here, either. The dog is a pit bull, after all, and she's overdue for a face-shredding tantrum as it is. Perhaps it's best if I leave her buttons unpushed as well, lest my nose end up the hors d'oeuvre du jour. I'm rather attached to my nose, you see.
Suddenly, working here in the office doesn't see like much of an option, either.
Perhaps I could take the laptop to the 'library' and lounge on our new but old futon while I work. Surely, that's safer -- there's no one for me to enrage with my loud typing in there. And the futon's pretty damned comfortable, too. I spent some time reading on it last weekend... and woke up three hours later, my book soaked with drool.
(Hey, it was a Danielle Steel novel. They're built to withstand a little slobber here and there, you know?)
(Okay, it wasn't really a Danielle Steel novel. I don't think we even have one in the house. But that sounds better than telling you that I was whiling away a Sunday afternoon reading about Grover, doesn't it? Or does it? Now that I type it out, I'm really not so sure. Eh.)
Anyway, I think the library is out, too. I can just see myself falling asleep, computer on my lap, and slumping forward onto the monitor. Twenty minutes and a couple of good drools later, and suddenly the laptop shorts out and fries my uglies. And my 'short and curlies' are already quite short and curly enough, without an electrosinge treatment, thank you very much, Mr. Futon. And that goes for you, too, Mr. Bed. If I'm gonna check out of this world in my bedroom, it is not gonna happen fully clothed and alone, you got me? The drooling and electrocution and all of that... well, I'm flexible on those points. But there's gonna be some damned nakedness, and there's gonna be at least one witness / accomplice / night nurse / anatomically-correct lump of plastic there with me, understand?
So what options do I have left? Where can I go to actually get some damned work done? The basement? Too cold. The attic? Too dark. The kitchen? Way too many pointy, stabby things in there -- I wouldn't stand a chance. My wife would find me hours later, impaled on a corkscrew, with those little ends-of-the-ears-of-corn doohickeys jammed in my ears and my naked ass hanging out the doggie door. I don't know how I'd get that way, you understand -- just that somehow, some way, I would. Me and kitchens don't get along; we go waaay back on this one.
It seems the last possible place I could work here in the house is the bathroom. And while I think I could manage to not frizzle myself in there by splashing water on the laptop, it's still not the most conducive environment for getting work done, now, is it? For one thing, there's really only one place you can sit in there to form a 'lap' for the 'laptop', and an Aeron, it ain't. It's drafty, often cold, and there's no lumbar support at all. You'd think, given that we've been using the damned toilet for a few dozen thousand years now, that someone would have made the experience ergonomic by now. But no.
Add to that the cramped spaces in our bathroom -- shower to the right of me, sink to the left -- and I think I'd spend more time banging my elbows and knees against porcelain fixtures than getting any damned work done. The only possible advantage to working in the crapshack is that if we're out of toilet paper, I could send my wife an emergency email to come upstairs and bring me more. Finally, a practical use for wireless technology. Now that's progress!
So that's that. Nowhere to work equals no work done. I guess I'll finish up this post and play Madden or something. It's sad, really -- oh, lord knows how I'd like to work, but, alas, it's just not to be. Woe is me. (Hee!)
Anyway, that's my story, and I present it to you in the hopes that it'll help you rationalize your way out of a working weekend, too. I'm only here to help, folks. And now, if you don't mind, I think my wife has worked long enough. I'm gonna go downstairs, plop my ass on the couch beside her, and say,
'Jesus, do you have to type so fricking loud?!'
That oughta get the ball rolling. Pretty soon, she'll be goofing off and sucking down margaritas from her bra cups with me. It's a slippery slope to fall down, but all you need is a little tiny nudge, and there's a big bunch of fluffy pillows at the bottom. (And, you know, the dark specter of unemployment. But that's 'weekday' thinking, dammit!)
In any case, happy goof-off Saturday, folks. Now who's got that bottle of tequila?
Friday, February 20, 2004
Okay, So I Posted, Dammit -- Can I Go Back to 'Grow' Now?
Wow, that kicked ass, everybody!
A week's worth of comments, and a bathtubful of giggles -- that tears it. I'm making 'Punchline Fever!' a weekly feature! I've devoted a whole page to the endeavor, and there's a link over there on the left. Every Friday, the new 'Fever', with all of your rib-tickling contributions, will go up in the same space. It'll be a hoot. Really.
In the meantime, for those of you who missed this week's post, go have a read and leave a punchline of your own. Or two. Or a recipe, whatever you like. Nobody's keeping score here.
Anyway, that was fun. Now let's move on to other topics. First, I'd like to warn you that Natalie is a dangerous, dangerous woman. Not because of her womanly wiles, or any pointy objects that she might have handy at the moment (though those are certainly potential dangers, as well), but because she recently posted a link to this. And now I'm playing the goddamned thing. I'm intrigued, I'm fascinated, I'm mesmerized. And I haven't beaten the ass-farting thing yet, so I almost didn't post tonight. Dammit, Natalie, don't do this shit to us!
By the way, and speaking of Natalies, this one has decided, most graciously, to mind my business for a while. So please, go show her some love, and let her know that I have, in fact, managed to almost pull my shit together.
(Yes, yes, I know it's not true. And you know it's not true. But maybe she hasn't realized, and I think it would put her mind at ease while she's minding my business. I don't want her to think she's bitten off more 'bidness' than she can chew, now, do I?
No, no I don't. Nor do I want to think about that last sentence in any context for very long at all. It's creepy, sort of. Moving on.)
In other news, I also managed to tear myself away from that infernal damned game to watch a couple of episodes of South Park, which is when it struck me -- since I really started watching 'da Park', I think one of my friends hates me. At least, he should. His name is Tim, and if you've watched the show yourself, then you likely know where this is going. I used to be able to run into Tim and say, 'Hi, Tim', or 'What's shaking, Tim?', or perhaps, 'Well, if it isn't Tim Dandy!'
(Yeah, he's pretty much always hated me for that last one. I can't help it if I'm an assbag. I blame my parents. Or the public school system. Or global warming, or something. It can't be my fault, surely.)
In any event, I don't use all of those greetings with Tim these days. Now, after a couple of dozen episodes of South Park, only one thing comes out of my mouth when I see my friend Tim:
'Timmy! Timmah! Timmy-timmy-timmah-tim! TIMMAH!!'
And then, of course, the glaring (from Tim), and the heaving, uncontrollable tittering (from me). It's no wonder I don't see Tim much any more. I'm surprised he hasn't kicked my ass yet. 'TIMMAH!!' Hee. That kills me.
Now I just need to find a friend named 'Butters'. Then I'll be able to do some world-class annoying! Rock on!
Hey, folks. I've got an idea for a new feature around here -- I'm gonna give it a whirl today, and if it flies, maybe I'll make it a weekly thing, to brighten up our weekends forevermore.
(And if it flops miserably, then we'll just share an uncomfortable glance and never speak of this again. Like when I told my parents I thought it'd be cool to be a writer when I grew up. Meh.)
Anyway, here's the thing, and I'm calling it: Punchline Fever! Here's how it works:
1) I'll sit around, day and night, thinking of a short but flexible setup for a joke.
B) I'll post the best setup I can think of, but with a blank where the punchline should go.
iii) Then it's up to you to come up with your best line, and leave it in the comments, for all to snicker over.
I'll get us started each time with a sorry punchline of my own, but I expect you to beat it! Show me up, people; I can take it. Sound like fun? Then let's waste no more time, and join together for the inauguration of this little enterprise of ours. Whee!
Punchline Fever #1:
'I'm sorry you had another 'accident' in the kitchen, Martha. But honestly, you wouldn't have these problems if you'd ________________________'
See? Fun! It's like a caption contest without all the pretty pictures. Or a do-it-yourself comedy show. Or MadLibs, sort of, only not.
Anyway, hit me with your best line. I'll get us started, but I'm counting on you to make this worth the effort, people. I can't do it alone.
(Well, okay, technically, I could do it alone, but sitting here trading punchlines with the dog is gonna get old really fast. You wouldn't have me do that, would you? Would you?!)
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Maybe I'm Wrong... Maybe It Is Just Gas, After All
Do you ever find yourself in one of those moods, one of those crazy manic states of mind where you just know that you're about to have some fantastic new idea? You're seeing things just a little clearer, thinking a couple of speeds faster, solving problems, taking shortcuts that actually work, putting your pants on with the fly in the front for once... really in a groove.
And sooner or later, you're bound to come up with the Next Big Thing™. Or at least A Big Thing™. Would you believe A Moderately-Sized But Still Substantial Thing™? Whatever. Anyway, something good is just aching to come wiggling out of your brainstuff -- you can feel it. Maybe it'll happen today, and maybe it'll happen tomorrow, and maybe it'll hurt like hell, but it's gonna happen. Or it's just gas. There's no way to be certain, really.
Anyway, that's the feeling I've got now. And I haven't had Mexican food in weeks, so I'm pretty sure it's not gas. I don't know what the hell is in that melon of mine, but it's coming out soon. I just hope it doesn't involve spandex, or rhesus monkeys. For once. You wouldn't think that shit could get old, but eventually, it happens.
In any case, I'm pretty much just hanging around waiting for that magical moment when the muse strikes and my revelation reveals itself. Of course, I've got to maintain the mood until it does -- I'm thinking a steady diet of Hershey's Miniatures and red velvet cake ought to do the trick. I may not sleep tonight, or ever have a blood pressure reading under three hundred again, but that idea's coming out, whatever the hell it is.
In the meantime, I suppose I'll have to find something else to entertain you with. How about... I don't know. Tap dancing? Naked ventriloquism? Juggling failed American Idol contestants? What would you like?
I know -- how about my top five Blogger Idol posts for the week? That sounds like fun, and it looks a little something like this:
Well, that's all for now, folks. I'm just certain there's something very special coming out of my brain soon, but I'm also pretty damned sure that this wasn't it. I suppose all I can do is finish off the chocolates and try to get some sleep. Perhaps all will be revealed in the morning. Until then, may you sleep well, and may your dreams be filled with spandex and rhesus monkeys. Not necessarily at the same time; it all depends on how much you think you're ready to handle. But in any case, sleep tight!
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Oh, It's Not Like I'm Perfect -- You Know the Drill By Now...
Yes, I'm late with today's post. I know. And I apologize.
And yes, it's not really 11:15, it's already fifteen minutes into tomorrow. Again, I'm sorry.
And no, I'm not actually typing very well right now, nor am I going to make a hell of a lot of sense, or attempt to whip up a 'real' post tonight. Mea culpa.
And yes, dammit, yes, I'm behind on posting links to my shows -- I owe you a (rather pitiful, frankly, and far more impromptu than it should have been) tape of the performance at the All Asia from Sunday night.
(In my defense, I've put off posting it because I blanked about thirty seconds into my set. And while I recovered, somewhat, it's still very spotty, and extremely embarrassing. But I'm still new to this shit. I get a couple of 'do-overs', godammit.)
Oh, and speaking of blanking during sets, I did it again tonight at the Emerald Isle... and while I actually thought I picked up the pieces much better this time, neither you nor I nor anyone else will ever see that performance, because I didn't even have time to come home before rushing straight from work to my show tonight. Which means I didn't have the camera with me. Or dinner. Or much of anything, including my wits, apparently.
So you see, I've not posted today, but it's not because I don't love you. I do, with tongues and everything.
(Unless, you know, that would make one of us cringe to think about. Then I just love you, but tonguelessly. Still love, no doubt. Just less tonguing, is all. You understand.)
Anyway, I haven't managed to put fingers to keys today because I've been uber-busy at work lately -- damn that comparatively lucrative day job of mine!
(Of course, collecting aluminum cans, or selling my body for sex, would be 'comparatively' more lucrative than this, so I suppose I shouldn't complain.
Well, collecting cans would be, anyway. You know what the hell I mean. Meh.)
And Wednesdays are the worst -- two-hour meeting at nine am, and a one-hour meeting at one. And today, a forty-five minute interview splunged right in the middle, at eleven-thirty. My 'real' workday -- when I'm supposed to actually accomplish all those fables and legends that I've told people I know how to do -- started at around three pm today. And, not surprisingly, lasted until the very ass-end of the seven o'clock hour, at which time I was too late to make it home before the eight-thirty Emerald Isle extravaganza.
(Which is too bad -- we actually had an audience tonight, and they were pretty cool. Sure, they didn't number in the double digits in terms of warm bodies or anything, but they were an 'audience', nonetheless, and that's a good thing.
Not quite a 'crowd', perhaps -- maybe closer to a 'small gaggle' -- but still, I could feel the love. Especially when I talked about crotches and asses. They dug those parts. Not a 'high-brow' group, apparently, which is just the way I likes 'em. Result!)
What can I say, though? I've let you folks down, I know. Here I am, already closing in on a half-hour late, and I'm just going to lie to you -- right to your monitors -- and set the date on this for three-quarters till twelve, yesterday night. Again, I say I'm sorry. It's a Wednesday thing -- there simply aren't enough hours in the day to remain gainfully employed, suffer through three hours of stifling, mind-wrenching, 'I wonder if this pen will fit all the way up my nose' meetings, do a comedy show, and, on top of all that, give you fine feathery folks the attention you so richly deserve.
(That's 'tongued' or 'un-tongued' attention, either way. Wednesdays are just hard for me, you see?)
So, this is about all I can offer you, I'm afraid. I've got to hit the sack soon, or I won't have anything left to entertain you with on Thursday, either. Not that I'm promising that I will be witty and clever if I get my beauty sleep -- or 'sexy snoozies', as I like to call 'em -- but I can pretty well guarantee that I won't have anything worth posting if I don't get the hell to bed soon. Yes, it's kind of a crapshoot, folks, but that's the only kind of 'shoot' I can offer at this time. I hope you'll forgive me.
Anyway, there is a bit of news around here, in case you haven't noticed yet -- thanks to the good folks at HaloScan, I've now got 'Trackback' capabilities. So, if you see a post here you like, feel free to link 'er up! I'm still working out how these newfangled doohickeys operate myself, but it's very exciting news, let me assure you. Pretty soon, I'll have no reason to move away from Blog*Spot, and that's just one more thing I can cross off my list of 'Dreams I've Finally Given Up On'.
(You know, like 'Winning the Indy 500', or 'Owning my own brewery'. Or 'Rubbing canola oil onto Tawny Kitaen's naked body'.
Ironic, isn't it, about that last one? For ten years or more, it was unattainable because there's no way in hell she'd have let me. Now, she'd probably like nothing better than a good slickering up... but holy hell, what the hell happened to her? Did you see that mugshot of hers from a while back? Somebody thwacked that girl with the ugly lamppost or something. How'd you like that writhing and rubbing on the hood of your car? Eep.)
Okay, I'm just getting silly now. I think it's my bedtime. (Hey, it's almost eleven thirty! *snicker*) But seriously, I'm off to bed before this goes too far down the tubes. I promise I'll be better -- and earlier -- tomorrow. In the meantime, you have a good night, and don't be afraid to play with those trackbacks, all right? It's okay -- there's no need to be shy; nobody's watching but me. We can explore together. And we only have to use tongues if you want to, okay?
All righty, it's a deal, then. I'll see you tomorrow. Nighty night!
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
My Random Thoughts, as Influenced By the Simpsons
Man, even the Simpsons is weird tonight. I just watched two episodes, and they both involved a nearly-naked Groundskeeper Willie slathered in grease. Coincidence?
Jesus Leafy Christ on a green riding lawnmower, I hope so.
Hmmm. Maybe I'll try watching another one while I write, and see what happens.
Ooh, cool, this one's about when Homer becomes a boxer. Sweet!
Now there's a profession I've never considered taking up -- boxing. Toad wrangler, sure. Braille cartoonist, yep. Professional Gummi Bear licker -- well, yeah. Who hasn't thought about such glamorous and fulfilling careers?
But boxing? Well, it's just not my style, really. All that punching and bobbing and weaving and such, not to mention all the 'husky' guys wearing nothing but shiny boxers and lace-up boots. That's not a fricking sport, people -- that's a gay bar during Mardi Gras.
(Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. The Mardi Gras thing, that is. There's something seriously wrong with boxing. I think it has something to do with the spitbuckets.
Seriously, you can have guys running around in their underwear flailing at each other, or you can have open containers of saliva lying around. But fer chrissakes, you can't have both. It's just not natural!)
Anyway, back to boxing, and my non-participation therein. I've just never really seen the point of professional pugilism, I suppose. Not that sports that I do enjoy need to have a purpose, mind you. I'm perfectly happy watching a gaggle of grown men throwing and thwacking a little white ball around, and running in circles around the bases for no good reason. Hell, it's our national pasttime -- what's not to like?
(And see? See? There's a whole lot of spitting, but everybody keeps their damned clothes on. It's one or the other, people. This is not fricking rocket science.)
So it doesn't really bother me that there's no real point to boxing, other than staying on your feet for two minutes at a time. I just think that promoters could do so much more with that same format -- throw gin in those buckets instead of spit, for instance, and make the combatants drink a tubful between rounds. Then we'll see who can stay on their feet, and we won't need them to smack each other in the face to make it interesting, either. While they're at it, maybe they can put on a damned shirt, and some sensible shoes.
(Who are they kidding with those boots, anyway? You're not allowed to kick people in the ring. Could those really be more comfortable than a nice, worn-in pair of Reeboks? I don't think so. And when you've got some welterweight walrus pummeling the shit out of you off and on for the better part of an hour, shouldn't you at least make sure your feet are comfy? Really, that's about all you'll have left.)
I have to admit, though, that a few boxers have been worth watching over the years. Everyone loves Ali, of course; I also had a soft spot for Evander Holyfield. Maybe it was his style, or his presence. Maybe it was the 'soft spots' in his head; I don't know. I just know that I really don't often watch boxing matches, and can't remember ever paying for the privilege.
That's another thing I don't get -- why do the big, potentially interesting boxing bouts have to cost us sixty fricking bucks? And why does it keep going up, and who the hell keeps paying these fees? Stop encouraging these pay-per-view bastards, people! Lookit -- yes, I just typed 'lookit'; let it go, dammit -- we get the World Series for free, right? NBA finals, Stanley Cup, Super Bowl -- free, free, and free. So why is boxing so fricking special, and more importantly, how do I get my hands on some of that swag? Hell, I know plenty of people who'd be willing to strip down to their skivvies and slap and smack at each other -- how come nobody's paying to see that?
(Except that one guy, who wanted a refund when he found out the people in the ring weren't gonna be small-nosed sorority girls. Pick, pick, pick.)
Well, that's about all I've got tonight, folks. I'm not sure we really got anywhere, but I did get to say a few words about the 'sweet science'. And now my third Simpsons is over. And hey, no nearly-naked greased-up Willies!
Or, um, none on the television, anyway. But I, uh, I'd better go. There's this, um, thing I forgot to do. Yeah. A thing. Right. G'night, then!
I Can Almost Hear the 'Rocky' Theme...
Wow! It seems that I've made a near-miraculous comeback in the waning hours of the latest Blog Madness Bills Region Elimination Round. Seriously, an amazing leap, to within one vote (at press time) of my worthy competitor, The Hard Life, and his entry, This One's for the Ladies.
(Which is really funny. Damn him!)
Anyway, if you haven't already, hop on over and vote. Well, first read, and then vote.
(This ain't Florida, dammit. Or, if it happens to be Florida in your neck of the tropics, then it ain't 2002. Take yer pick.)
Either way, go have a read, and a vote, and then maybe a beer. As for me, I've already read and voted, so now it's time for me to toddle on home for the third -- and perhaps most delicious -- item on that list.
And don't worry -- I'll be back later to earn that beer with some sort of post or other. About something. I'm sure nudity or boobs or infinitely embarrassing anecdotes from my childhood will be involved. Quite possibly all three. Until then, go check out the madness, and enjoy the evening. Cheers!
Monday, February 16, 2004
I Got Your 'Fisheye Lens' Right Here, Jackass!
Well, here we go again, kids. It's Blogger Idol time, so let's skip the pleasantries and just get ourselves lubed up, shall we?
(Click icon to see all Week Five posts)
Week Five Topic: 'Picture This'
Well, poop. I'm not really much of a 'picture guy', really. You know, having no artistic talent or visual imagination to speak of.
(That's right, folks -- it's all words and voices up there. Frightened yet? You oughta be.)
On top of that, I'm not the most photogenic person on the face of the planet. Oh, I'm not the least photogenic, either, of course -- at least as long as Carrot Top and Sandra Bernhardt are alive, anyway. But I've never really enjoyed having my picture taken -- I never know where to stand, or where to put my hands, and I always, always, always blink before the flash goes off. Without exception, without fail. It's one of my more annoying involuntary habits. (Though not nearly as vexing as many of the things that I do on purpose. Those just suck.)
Anyway, the blinking -- there seems to be no way to stop it. I've tried everything I can think of, from holding my eyes shut until the picture's about to be taken, to looking away from the camera until the 'pre-flash' occurs, to bugging my eyes open like Marty Feldman on a coke high, hoping that if I just get those damned eyelids far enough apart, they can't whoosh shut before the picture is snapped.
But they always do. The bastards.
So, I've got whole shelffuls of vacation snaps and wedding shots and 'candid photos' with my eyes in various stages of shutness. Sometimes, they're just closed, which looks most natural.
(People see these pics and say, 'Oh, he looks so peaceful. It's almost like he's sleeping.' This is how I know I'm not photogenic -- when your best pictures get 'compliments' normally given to dead people at their own funerals, then you know you're never going to be asked to be in the front row of any group shots. Or couple shots, or even your own portraits.
Hell, I went the other day to get a head shot done for standup, and they hid me behind a lamp. And I still blinked. Meh.)
Anyway, like I said, the 'sleeping' pose is the good one. There's also the 'eyes squished shut' look, the 'squinty scrunched-up nose' shot, and the ever-popular 'Exorcist' pose, where there's still a little sliver of each eye showing, but no pupil, so I look like some alien bodysnatcher belched up from the depths of Hell. Yeah, that's a good look for a groom. The families loved that one.
(And yes, I realize that being 'belched' from hell probably isn't technically compatible with being an 'alien', assuming that hell is... you know, down there somewhere. Just work with me, here, all right? Sometimes I get all excited and just throw words together. And who knows -- maybe subterranean demons are aliens. Seriously, have you ever met one? Who's to say, really?)
Circling back to the point, pictures suck. At least, the pictures I'm in suck. I've seen a few out there that didn't include me and were quite nice, so I have to assume that I'm the problem. My only chance to make a positive photographic contribution is to have the shutter snapped in broad daylight, where there's at least a slim chance that I can keep my damned eyes open. Even then, I'll probably end up in some ridiculous pose, with my hands thrust three feet into my pockets, or arms awkwardly akimbo like a bad 'Yul Brenner in The King and I' impression. It's just a friggin' nightmare.
A-hah! Which gives me, finally, not only an idea for how to tie in this week's topic, but also a way to get out my true feelings about getting my mug shutterbugged. It all fits perfectly, and it's simply this:
The next time someone asks me, 'Can I take your picture?', I'll simply turn to them, smile sweetly, and say,
'Yeah, I don't think so. Why don't you picture this, bitch!'
And then.. I don't know, I'll do something crude and awful, like moon the person, or flip him or her off, or unleash a squealing ninja nipple-twister.
(That's the other person's nipples being twisted, if you're scoring at home. Just to be clear.
Aw, hell, maybe I'd give my own just a little tweak. Just for giggles.)
Anyway, I don't know if it would work. Certainly, it'll get a little dicey around Christmastime, when the family photo ops come fast and furious. I'm pretty sure Dad's not gonna take too kindly to being given the finger, and Mom's never liked having an ass waved in her face. I suppose there's a chance that dear old grandma might actually appreciate having her boob-ends twiddled... but I'm not terribly excited at the prospect of trying to find the damned things. Maybe I'll just moon her, too. She'll get over it.
But definitely, I'm gonna use the 'Picture this!' line. I'm digging that. So thanks for the idea, Darren -- hey, this Blogger Idol thing is really coming in handy! Sweet!
Sunday, February 15, 2004
The 'Long and the Short of It', Valentine-Style
Heh. I love my blogroll. I love that some people are witty, and others are brutally honest, and still others (or, to be fair, many of the same) curse almost as much as I do.
But I think what I love the most about my blogroll is the diversity. Sure, there aren't many blogs on my list dedicated to politics, religion, or the life=and-death rigors of high school life -- these are subjects about which I know or remember little, and it seems unlikely that my particular brand of blogginess would appeal to the authors of such sites. But outside those parameters, I've got a wealth of people from different backgrounds, geographies, opinions, styles, and outlooks on life.
I was reminded of this just today, as I made the rounds around a few sites, and saw the exact same item commented on by two people on my blogroll. Commented on, yes, but rather... differently. To say the least. I'll show you.
(But before I do, I'd just like to ask that you be extra-specially nice to both folks linked below, no matter on which end of the spectrum -- or in the vast, yawning 'middle ground' between -- you happen to fall. They're both fantastic bloggers, and really nice people -- I just get a kick out of seeing the two opinions juxtaposed like this. No harm, ill will, or fun-poking is intended or implied. Promise. If anything, maybe it'll scoot a little traffic both their ways.)
Okay, now that I feel I've sufficiently disclaimerated, here's a pair of short posts that describe just exactly how two of my bloggy buddies felt about the holiday-inspired decorations in effect yesterday on their Google toolbars:
Rachel of The Real Dragon Babble -- 'Google'
Monkey of I Am the Monkey -- 'Don't make me sick.'
Ah, that nutty, quirky, schizophrenic blogroll of mine! Did I mention how much I love it? Man, it must be Valentine's Day -- I just can't help myself -- I love it!
There's No Time Like the Present... or Maybe Tuesday Night, or How About Next Thursday?
Damn. The pressure's really on for next week. I'm starting to get nervous.
You see, this upcoming week, I have... nothing going on. Zip. Zilch. Boobies.
(Sorry, did I say, 'boobies'? I think I meant to say, 'bupkis'. How embarrassing.
Still, we have to go with the contestant's first answer, right? I'll take the hit for my mistake. Boobies for me next week! Huzzah!)
Okay, so technically I have a little bit going on -- there's some work I've got to do, and a semi-show on Wednesday, and the daily posts here, of course -- but compared to the whirlwind that has been the last few weeks, my dance card is refreshingly, mercifully... terrifyingly free. I'll explain.
For the past month or so, I haven't seen much of my house. As you can see from the 'Standup Standup' section on the sidebar, I did seven shows in January, and tonight have my third in February. Now, I love doing these open mikes, and it's great fun and practice, but that's ten evenings out of forty or so in this still-young year that I've been out and about. I've also been playing volleyball twice a week -- less some weeks, but three times last week, for another ten or twelve nights away from home, sweet home. It's pooping!
(I can say that, right? If it's okay to say you're 'pooped', then the process of getting there is 'pooping', right? It makes perfect sense.
What? Nobody says that? Well, why the hell not? Are you shitting me?)
Anyway, the point is that I've been not 'home and snuggled up in my PJs and bunny slippers by a roaring fire with a hot cup of cocoa and my favorite shawl' more nights than I have been 'home and snuggled up and blabbedy blah, nobody's really gonna read this whole fricking quote the second time, are they?' But that's all changed, at least for this week. This week, there's just one show. One volleyball night is finis until fall, and the other has an off week. I'll be out tonight, but then I fully expect to spend six of the next seven fabulous nights right here in the 'comfort of my own'. But it gets better.
Monday's a holiday, albeit a fairly bogus one.
(Seriously, 'presidents day'? How many countries actually celebrate, 'Hey, look, we managed to find someone to lead us!' Day? And it's never for the present goobered leader, either -- it's for all the previous people who've been thrust into the gaping maw of the office and spat out the other end. 'Ooh, ooh, look, we elect presidents! Let's have a party!'
I dunno -- sounds like the kind of bullshit a king, or some slimy dictator, would call. Look, Independence Day I can understand. Even, if I really try and get just the right kind of drunk, Flag Day. But how many parents with school-aged kids -- or any citizens, for that matter -- take the time on Presidents Day to crack open a frigging encyclopedia, or do a web search, to learn the first damned thing about the prior leaders of our country, anyway? Your average schmuck on the street knows, at any given time, who Washington, Lincoln, Kennedy, and the last three schmoes in office were. And s/he thinks that Ben Franklin was in there somewhere, and probably that he led the Boston Tea Party.
Look, if you want to save this holiday -- and I would argue that it doesn't need saving -- then dedicate each year's 'special day' to a different president. Go in order, or randomize it, or -- better yet -- start with the obscure ones first. And for chrissakes, get some corporate money behind it! Nothing gets off the ground these days without high-profile sponsorships. Really, do you want some vague, meaningless, largely ignored holiday, or would you rather have events like this once a year:
'The Sixth Annual President's Day Extravaganza, featuring Martin 'The Little Magician' Van Buren
Narration by James Earl Jones and Katie Couric, with Carrot Top as our 'man on the street'
Featuring musical guests Lee Greenwood, Nelly, and a very special duet by Justin Timberlake and Gerald Ford
Proudly brought to you commercial-free by your friends at Pepsi, Philip Morris, and the Ford Motor Company'
Yeah, you know what, never mind -- let's just bury this freakin' holiday, instead. Nobody needs that kind of shit on a Monday.)
All right, where the hell was I, anyway? Oh, the 'empty' week I'm about to have. Got it.
So, no work on Monday, and home every night except Wednesday. I've even got less to write and bitch and cajole about blogwise -- I was just upended in the King of the Blogs competition, and things aren't looking so hot for staying alive in Blog Madness, either. So there go a couple of posts a week of filler material, asking you to vote, or begging you to read, or being handed a free topic on which to write. Sure, I've still got Blogger Idol, but things are definitely going to be a lot quieter around here for a while.
And that's the scary part, you see. Here at home, and in this space, I've been putting things off, pooh-poohing projects because 'I haven't got the time'. Well, now that's not gonna fly any more. I do have the time, and there are a dozen things that I should be doing -- even a few that I'd like to be doing, however challenging they might be -- but have been able to keep at arm's length since Christmas because there just aren't enough hours in the day to tackle them. But now the hours are flooding in, I'll soon be awash in free time (relatively speaking, anyway), and... well, frankly, that whole 'PJs by the fire' thing is sounding really good. Eep.
I'm afraid that I'll look back after the next week or so is over and find that I really didn't accomplish anything (except pissing off a bunch of foamy-mouthed flag-wavers over my Presidents Day rant, most likely). And then, soon enough, I'll be swamped again, and the list of shit I'm not doing will just keep growing and growing, ad disgustum.
So that's why I'm taking a pledge, right now, to get at least one freaking thing done this week. Come hell, high water, or holy hand grenades, I will accomplish one of my many goals before next Sunday. You heard it here first, folks -- it might be one of the blog features I've been thinking of, or I might feel the muse and move the whole enterprise off of Blogger, finally. Or I might finally set the stereo up to CD-transferitize those vinyl LPs I've been lugging around for fifteen years. Maybe I'll read a few of the mounting pile of books on my desk, or get serious about evaluating my standup bits, or paint the trim in the damned living room.
(Okay, so I'm not gonna paint the trim. I'm fighting that one for the rest of forever, or until my wife physically throws the dropcloth over the couches and dresses me in my painting clothes. In my world, that trim is gonna stay just the way it is, flaws and all, until we move out of the house. Not because it looks perfect or anything, mind you -- it's just an awful pain in the ass to paint around all the crap in that room for a few little niggling spots that nobody (except us) notices, anyway.
I'm sure she'll put her foot down one of these days and demand that we finish it, though. My only hope then is to distract her somehow while she's trying to slip my painting pants on. I suppose I should probably just stop wearing underwear until then, to improve my odds. Hey, I can't predict when she's gonna finally snap -- better chafed than sorry, right?)
Anyway, something is gonna get done. I just don't know what, yet. I'll decide that later -- it's only Sunday afternoon, you know. I've got a whole week to get something accomplished, right? Baby steps, people -- baby steps. Right now, there's a set of pajamas, two bunny slippers, and a soft couch downstairs with my name written all over them. Free time, here I come!
It's Madness, I Tell You! Maaaaadness!
Hey, thanks to all who voted in the last round of Blog Madness. It seems that I just squeaked out a win by the nib of my pen, and am still alive.
If you'd care to vote again (and read two posts that I personally think are pretty damned funny, then hop on over to the current elimination round and read 'This One's for the Ladies...' from The Hard Life, then compare and contrast with my own 'Can I Buy a Damned Clue, Please?', pick your favorite, and viggity-vote, people. Vote like a pro.
(Unless you've chosen the other guy's post; in that case, you're free to vote like an Alzheimers-addled octagenarian Floridian.
Hey, don't knock it, people. Those might be the only votes I get.)
Anyway, check it out, and the other Blog Madness matches, too. You might just find a new read or three.