Aquarius
Your love knows no bounds. Till tomorrow, when she bounds, and gags, and tortures you.
Pisces
Get ready to play host this weekend... to a flesh-eating alien that will chew his way out when he’s good and ready.
Aries
Your true love is waiting to meet you later this week. And by "true love" we mean "Gary", the giant you made fun of, while standing in line for movie tickets.
Taurus
You knew head wounds bled a lot, but you're going to want to hold onto your socks, because tomorrow’s is going to be a gusher.
Gemini
Your astrological sign will seen ironic for the first time later this week when the doctor gets those tests back for the lump on your neck and identifies it as your twin that never developed but has been capable of thoughts and emotions your whole life.
Cancer
At first, the dog you hit with your car won't seem significant. That is, until the dog's ghost shows up to haunt you. And urinate on your pillow. Ghost-dog urine… the worst.
Leo
Luckily you're ambidextrous. But your chainsaw-juggling career is over. (Also, you won't be having any kids.)
Virgo
Before you sign that deal with the Devil, see if you can negotiate for more that just "mad banjo skillz." Your soul is worth it.
Libra
Just before you pass out, you'll wish you had paid better attention at the first aid class you took, as the neck tourniquet was not a good idea.
Scorpio
The heart-to-heart you have with your mother later this week is going to be really emotional. But it's not till you have to smash in her zombie brain with a Louisville Slugger, that the real tears start to flow.
Sagittarius
They say that when a person is attacked and eaten by a wild animal, that person feels very little pain due to the amount of adrenaline in their bloodstream. Too bad you won’t get a chance to tell all those stupid doctors how wrong they were. Oh, how very, very wrong they were.
Capricorn
You knew Montezuma's Revenge was bad, but it's not until you pass your own stomach that you learn that Montezuma really has it in for you.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Question 3
Assume you are going out to lunch with some close friends. This group of friends meet every Friday at the same time as part of a weekly tradition. There are four people in the group and each week a different person gets to choose where you go. For the most part the variety and quality of the chosen eating establishments keeps things fresh and enjoyable. However, every fourth week one member of the group, Steve, insists on going to Subway. Unwilling to try anything new, Subway Steve is completely unbending on this issue. His love for the long sandwich is only matched by your hatred of it. And as much as you’d like to miss Steve’s Friday you can’t because the group is governed by a few strict and unbending rules. If you don’t join them on Subway day AND eat a sub you will be permanently excluded from the group and you will lose these friends forever. There is no explanation for the rigidity of the rules. That’s just the way it is.
On Steve’s next Friday, with dread in your heart, you meet your friends at the local Subway. But this day is different. As the Subway sandwich artist completes your order and hands you your twelve inch meal you turn around and see a lone women enter the establishment and at that moment you are endowed, from some unknown source, with the certain knowledge that if you will but unwrap your sandwich, approach the woman, and then deliver the most vicious sandwich beating that your muscles can muster, you will magically develop a sincere and lasting affinity for sandwiches. You will no longer dread, but rather, look forward with fondness to Subway day. She will collapse and shriek with terror as you deliver blow after fresh baked blow. In the end the physical damage done to the victim will be minimal as the weapon was only a sandwich. However, the emotional damage will be significant and acute as this woman has never been beaten with a foot long sub in her life and will never receive any explanation as to why she received one that day. And that is the catch. You can never tell a soul why you attacked that poor woman that day. If you attempt to explain yourself to anyone, especially the victim, your new found love for the sandwich will be replaced by a bitter hatred even more powerful than before. Your friends who were shocked by your behavior will have to settle for the explanation, “I just felt like beating someone with a sandwich.”
Question: Do you continue to suffer every fourth Friday, or do you beat an innocent stranger with a sandwich?
On Steve’s next Friday, with dread in your heart, you meet your friends at the local Subway. But this day is different. As the Subway sandwich artist completes your order and hands you your twelve inch meal you turn around and see a lone women enter the establishment and at that moment you are endowed, from some unknown source, with the certain knowledge that if you will but unwrap your sandwich, approach the woman, and then deliver the most vicious sandwich beating that your muscles can muster, you will magically develop a sincere and lasting affinity for sandwiches. You will no longer dread, but rather, look forward with fondness to Subway day. She will collapse and shriek with terror as you deliver blow after fresh baked blow. In the end the physical damage done to the victim will be minimal as the weapon was only a sandwich. However, the emotional damage will be significant and acute as this woman has never been beaten with a foot long sub in her life and will never receive any explanation as to why she received one that day. And that is the catch. You can never tell a soul why you attacked that poor woman that day. If you attempt to explain yourself to anyone, especially the victim, your new found love for the sandwich will be replaced by a bitter hatred even more powerful than before. Your friends who were shocked by your behavior will have to settle for the explanation, “I just felt like beating someone with a sandwich.”
Question: Do you continue to suffer every fourth Friday, or do you beat an innocent stranger with a sandwich?
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
I Got Fired
"I Got Fired." Possibly the most pride swallowing three-word combination in the English language. It ranks right up there with "she dumped me," and "I've got herpes." It must be one of the worst phrases to have to utter to friends, family, and acquaintances. But invariably, we, or someone we know, will have to say it sometime in our lives.
I've had to say it to friends and acquaintances since July and each time I do it feels as if a little bit of the light, that was my dignity, is snuffed out. Now, the circumstances are such that I am not really ashamed of my recent dismissal, but I know that even when I try to explain the circumstances to people, they are still judging me on some level. "Sure, your boss was wacko," they say out loud, without sarcasm. But in their minds they are saying, sure your boss was wacko... with sarcasm.
Now, most people would think that a sense of humor would be an asset to a high school teacher. At least, that's what my students and many of their parents told me. In fact, the only person who told me otherwise just happened to be the person who held my tenuous position at that school in her dry, bony hands. Let's call her Skeletor. Skeletor was the school director and ran the show with carte blanche authority. She was one of those people who compartmentalized human emotions into different sections of life. Sure, humor had its place. But a school full of teenagers certainly wasn't it. I mean, c’mon.
Skeletor was supposed to be my mentor. She told me, in not so many words, that under her guiding wing and strict tutelage I would someday make a fine teacher of youth. Ironically, she was the most uneducated person I'd ever met. (That's not true. I once knew a homeless guy named Polaris that used to bathe himself in the sink and eat his lunch on the toilet of a public restroom. What I meant was, she was the most uneducated person in the field of education.) It wasn't unusual for her to be confused by words used in everyday conversation, like "ironically".
Skeletor actually only came to my class and observed three times the whole year. (Where was the guiding wing of knowledge and power, I cried from within as I struggled through each class alone.) After the class ended and the students walked out she pulled a seat to my desk so we could go over her meticulous notes and the real training could begin. The only thing I remember from those enlightening conversations was that my humor made me both unapproachable, and un-relatable to the students. I think you've let your life as a stand-up comedian cross over too much in to your teaching career, she would say. I never was a stand-up comedian, I explained. Well, I understand you did comedy, she persisted. I didn't understand what she meant, but the idea conjured images of a man who had a physically intimate relationship with comedy. I laughed to myself and when I did, I realized she was right. My two lives had crossed over. I was laughing at school.
In one breath she would say, I know the kids are having fun in your class, but are they learning anything? And in the next breath she would tell me I'm requiring too much. I was stuck between a rock and a dumb place and wasn't sure how to proceed. In the end she decided that a personality like mine wasn't fit in the world of education. And maybe she was right. If anything can be said of the youth these days, it's that they're studying too hard and laughing too damn much.
I've had to say it to friends and acquaintances since July and each time I do it feels as if a little bit of the light, that was my dignity, is snuffed out. Now, the circumstances are such that I am not really ashamed of my recent dismissal, but I know that even when I try to explain the circumstances to people, they are still judging me on some level. "Sure, your boss was wacko," they say out loud, without sarcasm. But in their minds they are saying, sure your boss was wacko... with sarcasm.
Now, most people would think that a sense of humor would be an asset to a high school teacher. At least, that's what my students and many of their parents told me. In fact, the only person who told me otherwise just happened to be the person who held my tenuous position at that school in her dry, bony hands. Let's call her Skeletor. Skeletor was the school director and ran the show with carte blanche authority. She was one of those people who compartmentalized human emotions into different sections of life. Sure, humor had its place. But a school full of teenagers certainly wasn't it. I mean, c’mon.
Skeletor was supposed to be my mentor. She told me, in not so many words, that under her guiding wing and strict tutelage I would someday make a fine teacher of youth. Ironically, she was the most uneducated person I'd ever met. (That's not true. I once knew a homeless guy named Polaris that used to bathe himself in the sink and eat his lunch on the toilet of a public restroom. What I meant was, she was the most uneducated person in the field of education.) It wasn't unusual for her to be confused by words used in everyday conversation, like "ironically".
Skeletor actually only came to my class and observed three times the whole year. (Where was the guiding wing of knowledge and power, I cried from within as I struggled through each class alone.) After the class ended and the students walked out she pulled a seat to my desk so we could go over her meticulous notes and the real training could begin. The only thing I remember from those enlightening conversations was that my humor made me both unapproachable, and un-relatable to the students. I think you've let your life as a stand-up comedian cross over too much in to your teaching career, she would say. I never was a stand-up comedian, I explained. Well, I understand you did comedy, she persisted. I didn't understand what she meant, but the idea conjured images of a man who had a physically intimate relationship with comedy. I laughed to myself and when I did, I realized she was right. My two lives had crossed over. I was laughing at school.
In one breath she would say, I know the kids are having fun in your class, but are they learning anything? And in the next breath she would tell me I'm requiring too much. I was stuck between a rock and a dumb place and wasn't sure how to proceed. In the end she decided that a personality like mine wasn't fit in the world of education. And maybe she was right. If anything can be said of the youth these days, it's that they're studying too hard and laughing too damn much.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Question 2
Assume you've just met the perfect mate. You and this new person are compatible in every way and your personalities compliment each other better than any person you've ever been with. You find this person intellectually stimulating while maintaining a high level of physical attraction for them. This person is successful, happy, and generally well rounded. They also get along surprisingly well with all of your friends who have congratulated you on finally finding your other half. Best of all, this person brings out the best in you. Since meeting them you feel like you are actually a better person.
After a month of dating, this person invites you to meet their family at the monthly Sunday family dinner, which they rarely miss. You accept, and attend the dinner with high expectations. Once there you realize that their family has an interesting quirk. They are obsessed with slapstick comedy, particularly that of The Three Stooges. The obsession has elevated itself to the point that it has almost overtaken their lives. This person’s dad has even made himself to look like Curly, while their mom has taken on the persona of Larry. After the first hour of the first visit you have already been slapped, whacked, nose smacked, yoinked, and bonked on the head more times than you can count. None of it is malicious, but all in good fun, and while you try to be polite, you are blown away by the family’s level of dedication to the show, which seems to be never ending. Even your significant other becomes part of the show as they take on a persona that is nothing like the person that you have already fallen in love with. However, as soon as you leave the home, this person immediately stops with the slapstick routine and becomes their old self. Not only that, but they also never speak of or reference the unusual Sunday dinners. This part of their lives is reserved strictly for the once-a-month dinners.
Knowing that these Sunday dinners will be a regular occurrence, could you be with this person?
After a month of dating, this person invites you to meet their family at the monthly Sunday family dinner, which they rarely miss. You accept, and attend the dinner with high expectations. Once there you realize that their family has an interesting quirk. They are obsessed with slapstick comedy, particularly that of The Three Stooges. The obsession has elevated itself to the point that it has almost overtaken their lives. This person’s dad has even made himself to look like Curly, while their mom has taken on the persona of Larry. After the first hour of the first visit you have already been slapped, whacked, nose smacked, yoinked, and bonked on the head more times than you can count. None of it is malicious, but all in good fun, and while you try to be polite, you are blown away by the family’s level of dedication to the show, which seems to be never ending. Even your significant other becomes part of the show as they take on a persona that is nothing like the person that you have already fallen in love with. However, as soon as you leave the home, this person immediately stops with the slapstick routine and becomes their old self. Not only that, but they also never speak of or reference the unusual Sunday dinners. This part of their lives is reserved strictly for the once-a-month dinners.
Knowing that these Sunday dinners will be a regular occurrence, could you be with this person?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Question 1
SCENARIO: You’ve just been in a major accident and are mortally wounded. In exactly 5 minutes you will be dead. The paramedics have already informed you of your certain demise and you have already gone through the Five Stages of Death; denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and have just arrived at acceptance. Your family will be well taken care of as you have recently taken out a large life insurance policy on yourself. 4 minutes before you pass a Chinese angel appears above you and informs you that you are not going to Heaven. To your relief, you are also not going to Hell. Rather, you will be reincarnated, born again, into one of two possible lives.
Possibility 1: You can be born into your run of the mill, middle income, American family. There is nothing extraordinary about this family. They are normal in every way. You will have a good relationship with your parents and all of your siblings. You will be, for the most part, happy. But you will remember absolutely nothing from your previous life. You will start life from square one as a newborn infant.
Possibility 2: You are born with every one of your memories intact. Even as a newborn infant, while breastfeeding, you will know who you are, where you came from, what your real age is, and you will be able to think and reason with the same depth you now enjoy. But, you will be born into the most backward, redneck, hillbilly family in the deep Appalachian Mountains. Everything about your family is dirty, weird, gross, and offensive, and there is a good chance your mother and father are blood relatives. Though your diet consists mostly of possum, raccoon, and corn, you are generally well fed and pretty well taken care of. However, you have nothing in common with your family and you will have little to no contact with mainstream civilization and will be completely unable to leave your parents until you are a legal adult.
QUESTION: Which possibility do you choose and why?
Possibility 1: You can be born into your run of the mill, middle income, American family. There is nothing extraordinary about this family. They are normal in every way. You will have a good relationship with your parents and all of your siblings. You will be, for the most part, happy. But you will remember absolutely nothing from your previous life. You will start life from square one as a newborn infant.
Possibility 2: You are born with every one of your memories intact. Even as a newborn infant, while breastfeeding, you will know who you are, where you came from, what your real age is, and you will be able to think and reason with the same depth you now enjoy. But, you will be born into the most backward, redneck, hillbilly family in the deep Appalachian Mountains. Everything about your family is dirty, weird, gross, and offensive, and there is a good chance your mother and father are blood relatives. Though your diet consists mostly of possum, raccoon, and corn, you are generally well fed and pretty well taken care of. However, you have nothing in common with your family and you will have little to no contact with mainstream civilization and will be completely unable to leave your parents until you are a legal adult.
QUESTION: Which possibility do you choose and why?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Suggestions For New Olympic Events
Indian Leg Wrestling
One Handed Knife Fighting (like in Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” video)
Poetry Recitation (no original poems allowed)
Star Gazing
Heckling (this could be done in conjunction with any of the real events)
Whistling Dixie
Pistol Whipping (to make it more objective, it would have to be to the death of course)
The Border Cross (contestants run and swim through an obstacle course whilst being shot at by armed guards)
Lactating
One Handed Knife Fighting (like in Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” video)
Poetry Recitation (no original poems allowed)
Star Gazing
Heckling (this could be done in conjunction with any of the real events)
Whistling Dixie
Pistol Whipping (to make it more objective, it would have to be to the death of course)
The Border Cross (contestants run and swim through an obstacle course whilst being shot at by armed guards)
Lactating
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Gay Tweakers
[The following post was written over a year ago while I was still living in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. For some reason I never posted it. I think I refrained from doing so because I didn’t think the humor translated well when I wrote the experience down. (That’s also my disclaimer if you don’t find it the least bit amusing.) Anyway, I never bothered erasing it because my dad passed away soon after, and this short post illustrated two of his strongest characteristics – his humor and his inability to pass someone in need without helping.]
The other night my dad, brother Patrick, and I were driving to my parent’s house in Kelly Wyoming, which is just outside of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Before we got to the Kelly turn-off we noticed a hitchhiker with a cold thumb exposed, and decided to give him a ride. As soon as he was in the car we realized he was a little off. Having no experience in the field of psychology I was unable to diagnose his particular type or severity of off-ness but sufficed to say it was evident to anyone who may have encountered him. The following dialogue is as close as I can remember it.
Hitch: Thanks for stopping.
Dad: No problem. Where are you going?
Hitch: Dornans. (Dornans is one of those Dutch-oven-dinner/restaurant/gas station/fish-and-tackle sort of places. I’m somewhat blown away it’s not a nation wide chain.)
Pat: What do you do out there?
Hitch: I wait tables.
Dad/Pat/Me: Hmmm. Nice. Harrumph, harrumph.
Hitch: Where are you guys going?
Dad: I live in Kelly.
Hitch: Oh, okay. (pause) I sure am glad you guys are normal.
Me: What do you mean?
Hitch: Every time I hitch, I get picked up by the weirdest people. Just a few days ago I got picked up by these Indians that were totally wasted. I was sure that if we didn’t all die in a wreck, they were going to take me into the woods and beat me to death. And a few weeks before that I got picked up by two gay tweakers.
Me: What’s a gay tweaker?
Hitch: (looking at me with mild surprise due to my ignorance and then saying with a frank matter-of-factness) A gay tweaker. You know, a queer tweaker.
Dad/Pat/Me: (laughing at the misunderstanding)
Me: I figured out the “gay” part. What’s a “tweaker”?
Hitch: (again, with the same look of surprise) Someone who tweaks.
Dad/Pat/Me: (laughing)
Me: What does someone who “tweaks” do?
Hitch: They tweak; get high; take drugs.
Dad/Pat/Me: Oh, well. Of course. So simple. Should have known.
Dad: Well you lucked out because none of us are “gay-tweakers”. Although, (pointing to Me, then Pat) he’s gay and he’s a tweaker.
Hitch: (with look of concern) Really?
Needless to say, “Gay Tweaker” is now one of our favorite insults, and is used liberally on each other at any and all opportunities.
The other night my dad, brother Patrick, and I were driving to my parent’s house in Kelly Wyoming, which is just outside of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Before we got to the Kelly turn-off we noticed a hitchhiker with a cold thumb exposed, and decided to give him a ride. As soon as he was in the car we realized he was a little off. Having no experience in the field of psychology I was unable to diagnose his particular type or severity of off-ness but sufficed to say it was evident to anyone who may have encountered him. The following dialogue is as close as I can remember it.
Hitch: Thanks for stopping.
Dad: No problem. Where are you going?
Hitch: Dornans. (Dornans is one of those Dutch-oven-dinner/restaurant/gas station/fish-and-tackle sort of places. I’m somewhat blown away it’s not a nation wide chain.)
Pat: What do you do out there?
Hitch: I wait tables.
Dad/Pat/Me: Hmmm. Nice. Harrumph, harrumph.
Hitch: Where are you guys going?
Dad: I live in Kelly.
Hitch: Oh, okay. (pause) I sure am glad you guys are normal.
Me: What do you mean?
Hitch: Every time I hitch, I get picked up by the weirdest people. Just a few days ago I got picked up by these Indians that were totally wasted. I was sure that if we didn’t all die in a wreck, they were going to take me into the woods and beat me to death. And a few weeks before that I got picked up by two gay tweakers.
Me: What’s a gay tweaker?
Hitch: (looking at me with mild surprise due to my ignorance and then saying with a frank matter-of-factness) A gay tweaker. You know, a queer tweaker.
Dad/Pat/Me: (laughing at the misunderstanding)
Me: I figured out the “gay” part. What’s a “tweaker”?
Hitch: (again, with the same look of surprise) Someone who tweaks.
Dad/Pat/Me: (laughing)
Me: What does someone who “tweaks” do?
Hitch: They tweak; get high; take drugs.
Dad/Pat/Me: Oh, well. Of course. So simple. Should have known.
Dad: Well you lucked out because none of us are “gay-tweakers”. Although, (pointing to Me, then Pat) he’s gay and he’s a tweaker.
Hitch: (with look of concern) Really?
Needless to say, “Gay Tweaker” is now one of our favorite insults, and is used liberally on each other at any and all opportunities.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
What's in a Name?
My brother Tom and I have been rocking under the name The Quinn Brothers for some time now. Unfortunately that name hasn't taken us anywhere. I blame the name because I refuse to believe there could be another explanation for our lack of success, like, we just suck. No, I won't admit that. It can't be true. My mom says we're good and mommies never lie to their children, so we're good. That said, rockin' tunes, dreamy melodies, thought provoking lyrics, and ridiculous good looks just aren't enough. We need a new name.
Below, I listed some ideas off the top of my head. Obviously some aren't as serious as others. But I'm just brain storming here.
Bucket-O-Puke
The Poor Snobs
American Ideal
The Racists
ToadStool Sample
Tender Moments
Tender Loins
The Pulled Hammies
Rubber Souls
Fire Retards
Hop Scotch
Crime Scene Investigators
The Artists Formally Known as The Quinn Brothers
Agent Yellow
Plastic Soldiers
Tar Stain
American Sons
Yankee Doodles
Fenetics
The Windbags
Grand Theft Autocrats
The Special Guys
Small Band
The Orphans
Unholy Cow
That's all I've got for now. But here's the deal, we're hoping everyone who reads this will also leave a suggestion of their own. Whether it's a vote for one already listed, a variation of one or more of the above, or something totally original, please tell us who The Quinn Brothers should be. (If it's important that you know what we sound like before you make your suggestion, go here.) If we choose your suggestion as our new band name you will win two free tickets (valued at $175 each) to a concert put on by a band that has not been named yet. Good luck.
Below, I listed some ideas off the top of my head. Obviously some aren't as serious as others. But I'm just brain storming here.
Bucket-O-Puke
The Poor Snobs
American Ideal
The Racists
ToadStool Sample
Tender Moments
Tender Loins
The Pulled Hammies
Rubber Souls
Fire Retards
Hop Scotch
Crime Scene Investigators
The Artists Formally Known as The Quinn Brothers
Agent Yellow
Plastic Soldiers
Tar Stain
American Sons
Yankee Doodles
Fenetics
The Windbags
Grand Theft Autocrats
The Special Guys
Small Band
The Orphans
Unholy Cow
That's all I've got for now. But here's the deal, we're hoping everyone who reads this will also leave a suggestion of their own. Whether it's a vote for one already listed, a variation of one or more of the above, or something totally original, please tell us who The Quinn Brothers should be. (If it's important that you know what we sound like before you make your suggestion, go here.) If we choose your suggestion as our new band name you will win two free tickets (valued at $175 each) to a concert put on by a band that has not been named yet. Good luck.
Monday, June 30, 2008
My Life As A Biker
I’ve heard it said, that a woman becomes a mother the moment she feels the baby move inside her, and a man becomes a father the moment he sees his child. I think it goes something like that. Anyway, now that I have been through the experience twice I can testify of its truthfulness. Long before I felt any connection to the little bag-o-guts, my wife was already loving, thinking, and planning; forming a bond that was months ahead of the one I would one day begin.
There is a little less known saying that goes, a man becomes a biker the first time he hears the roar of a hog motoring down the street, but a woman becomes a biker's wife only after her husband secretly withdraws money out of their joint account, sneaks out, and buys a motorbike. I think it goes like that. I am happy to say that that day has finally arrived, and we are now the proud new parents of a Shadow Aero 750.
My life as a biker is everything I dreamed it would be; freedom, adventure, power, women, bar fights, hell raising, rock ‘n’ roll, wheelies, rumbles, petty crime, superior gas mileage, and the amazing feeling of wind in my short hair. Well, the gas mileage and the part about the wind are true. Everything else is stifled by my strong sense of civic and family responsibility. But for the most part, it’s everything I dreamed it would be.
To those who know me, it may seem that I remain mostly unchanged. They’re probably saying, “Sure he rides a kick-A hog, but it’s still the same old Ben. He still baths and everything.” But I have changed. For those who don’t own a motorbike this may be hard to understand, but I am a brother who comes from a vast fraternity of brothers. No, I’m not black. (Not 100% anyway.) I am the newest member of the family of bikers. To the layperson it may be hard to see the bond of friendship and love we share. (This bond doesn’t include bullet bikers. Nobody likes bullet bikers. Not even themselves.) The idea of such a bond is completely foreign to car drivers, but that is because car drivers hate each other. When you are in a car, the only thing that can make you angrier than social injustice and child abuse is a stupid driver. And when you’re in a hurry, everybody is stupid, except you. But such is not the case among bikers. We live by a higher law. And although you may not see the bond and higher law, it’s there. Don’t believe me? Next time you're driving behind a biker on the highway, watch what he does when he passes another biker. If he thinks you’re not looking he’ll take his left hand and point at the ground at a 45 degree angle.
I quickly learned that this was called the “Signal of Brotherhood” (S.O.B.). At first, I was certain everybody was pulling the “made you look” joke on me. But I figured this wasn’t the case when they never came back to punch me in the arm. Later, I determined they were pointing at Hell, as in, “See you in Hell, bro.” Again, I was mistaken. Finally, I learned that it was a signal of recognition and acceptance, as in, “Hello there brother. I see you, and you see me. We see each other and therefore we are not alone. I do not know you personally, but I love you and am loved of you. If you are ever in trouble, just perform the scream of the Norse god, Kerfluggon, and your brothers will be there, in all their raging furry, to fight on your behalf.”
Upon further research I learned that the S.O.B. was not always performed the way we see it now. Up until 1973 the S.O.B. was a low five. You actually slapped hands with oncoming bikers. You’re probably thinking an actual five is way awesomer than a non-five, and you’d be right. It was way awesomer. But the original S.O.B. was wrought with peril. S.O.B. deaths were not uncommon. But it wasn’t until Sonny “Bones” Wilcox, leader of the Southeast chapter of Hells Angels, S.O.B.’d a passing biker, swerved into an oncoming semi, folded like an accordian on impact sending his butt through the back of his face, and killing him instantly, that the biker community decided to change the way the S.O.B. was performed. Needless to say, the language is changing but the feeling and intent remain the same.
Despite my new adoption into the larger family of bikers, I am convinced that true arrival as a biker does not occur until one is part of a "gang." But rather than join and conform to the rigid traditions of an existing gang, I’ve decided to form my own. That way, I make the rules by which I live. Since the names, “Hells Angels” and “BACA” ,(which turned out to be an acronym about some sissy child advocates group), were already taken I decided to name my gang “The Pillow Fighters.” Right now I am the sole member of the Pillow Fighters, but we’ve got a lot of spirit and I see us doing great things. That said, we are now taking applications for membership and would be happy to consider anyone. So, if you own a hog and would enjoy the association, camaraderie, and fun-loving good times of the Pillow Fighters, then please leave your info and I’ll be in contact.
BORN TO RIDE! RIDE TO BORN!
There is a little less known saying that goes, a man becomes a biker the first time he hears the roar of a hog motoring down the street, but a woman becomes a biker's wife only after her husband secretly withdraws money out of their joint account, sneaks out, and buys a motorbike. I think it goes like that. I am happy to say that that day has finally arrived, and we are now the proud new parents of a Shadow Aero 750.
My life as a biker is everything I dreamed it would be; freedom, adventure, power, women, bar fights, hell raising, rock ‘n’ roll, wheelies, rumbles, petty crime, superior gas mileage, and the amazing feeling of wind in my short hair. Well, the gas mileage and the part about the wind are true. Everything else is stifled by my strong sense of civic and family responsibility. But for the most part, it’s everything I dreamed it would be.
To those who know me, it may seem that I remain mostly unchanged. They’re probably saying, “Sure he rides a kick-A hog, but it’s still the same old Ben. He still baths and everything.” But I have changed. For those who don’t own a motorbike this may be hard to understand, but I am a brother who comes from a vast fraternity of brothers. No, I’m not black. (Not 100% anyway.) I am the newest member of the family of bikers. To the layperson it may be hard to see the bond of friendship and love we share. (This bond doesn’t include bullet bikers. Nobody likes bullet bikers. Not even themselves.) The idea of such a bond is completely foreign to car drivers, but that is because car drivers hate each other. When you are in a car, the only thing that can make you angrier than social injustice and child abuse is a stupid driver. And when you’re in a hurry, everybody is stupid, except you. But such is not the case among bikers. We live by a higher law. And although you may not see the bond and higher law, it’s there. Don’t believe me? Next time you're driving behind a biker on the highway, watch what he does when he passes another biker. If he thinks you’re not looking he’ll take his left hand and point at the ground at a 45 degree angle.
I quickly learned that this was called the “Signal of Brotherhood” (S.O.B.). At first, I was certain everybody was pulling the “made you look” joke on me. But I figured this wasn’t the case when they never came back to punch me in the arm. Later, I determined they were pointing at Hell, as in, “See you in Hell, bro.” Again, I was mistaken. Finally, I learned that it was a signal of recognition and acceptance, as in, “Hello there brother. I see you, and you see me. We see each other and therefore we are not alone. I do not know you personally, but I love you and am loved of you. If you are ever in trouble, just perform the scream of the Norse god, Kerfluggon, and your brothers will be there, in all their raging furry, to fight on your behalf.”
Upon further research I learned that the S.O.B. was not always performed the way we see it now. Up until 1973 the S.O.B. was a low five. You actually slapped hands with oncoming bikers. You’re probably thinking an actual five is way awesomer than a non-five, and you’d be right. It was way awesomer. But the original S.O.B. was wrought with peril. S.O.B. deaths were not uncommon. But it wasn’t until Sonny “Bones” Wilcox, leader of the Southeast chapter of Hells Angels, S.O.B.’d a passing biker, swerved into an oncoming semi, folded like an accordian on impact sending his butt through the back of his face, and killing him instantly, that the biker community decided to change the way the S.O.B. was performed. Needless to say, the language is changing but the feeling and intent remain the same.
Despite my new adoption into the larger family of bikers, I am convinced that true arrival as a biker does not occur until one is part of a "gang." But rather than join and conform to the rigid traditions of an existing gang, I’ve decided to form my own. That way, I make the rules by which I live. Since the names, “Hells Angels” and “BACA” ,(which turned out to be an acronym about some sissy child advocates group), were already taken I decided to name my gang “The Pillow Fighters.” Right now I am the sole member of the Pillow Fighters, but we’ve got a lot of spirit and I see us doing great things. That said, we are now taking applications for membership and would be happy to consider anyone. So, if you own a hog and would enjoy the association, camaraderie, and fun-loving good times of the Pillow Fighters, then please leave your info and I’ll be in contact.
BORN TO RIDE! RIDE TO BORN!
Friday, June 20, 2008
Deep Dialogue
SCHOOL
UnMighty: If you had to pick a leader based on one quality, what would it be?
Student: Someone with a state of mind.
UnMighty: Which state of mind?
Student: What do you mean?
...
UnMighty: Tell us about your book.
Student 1: The book I read was called “Code Talkers” and it was about an Indian guy who served in World War 2 because America wanted him to use his language like a code that the Japanese couldn’t understand.
Student 2: What tribe were they from?
Student 1: I don’t know. Native American?
...
UnMighty: If you could do anything without failing, what would you do?
Student: Rid my rats of mites.
HOME
Wife: What are you writing about?
UnMighty: Twinkies.
Wife: (gasp) Are you writing about me?
UnMighty: Yes. It’s about how your body is starting to take on the shape of your favorite foods.
Wife: You are such an #*@#%&@.
(She sees that I’ve just typed this conversation.)
Wife: (gasp) Don’t you dare write that I just said that!
...
(Just left the grocery store with 3-year-old daughter)
Maggie: Gimme my donut. I want to eat my donut right now.
UnMighty: I'll give you your donut if you get in your car seat and act like a sweet girl. Can you be a sweet girl?
Maggie: That's me. Bing!
UnMighty: If you had to pick a leader based on one quality, what would it be?
Student: Someone with a state of mind.
UnMighty: Which state of mind?
Student: What do you mean?
...
UnMighty: Tell us about your book.
Student 1: The book I read was called “Code Talkers” and it was about an Indian guy who served in World War 2 because America wanted him to use his language like a code that the Japanese couldn’t understand.
Student 2: What tribe were they from?
Student 1: I don’t know. Native American?
...
UnMighty: If you could do anything without failing, what would you do?
Student: Rid my rats of mites.
HOME
Wife: What are you writing about?
UnMighty: Twinkies.
Wife: (gasp) Are you writing about me?
UnMighty: Yes. It’s about how your body is starting to take on the shape of your favorite foods.
Wife: You are such an #*@#%&@.
(She sees that I’ve just typed this conversation.)
Wife: (gasp) Don’t you dare write that I just said that!
...
(Just left the grocery store with 3-year-old daughter)
Maggie: Gimme my donut. I want to eat my donut right now.
UnMighty: I'll give you your donut if you get in your car seat and act like a sweet girl. Can you be a sweet girl?
Maggie: That's me. Bing!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
HOLY CRAP!
Cash's father's day gift to me.
I discovered the surprise when I stuck my left hand in it.
Nice.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Food For Thought
“Twinkies.” A simple recipe: angel’s food and cream. I’m not sure what’s in “angels food,” but no one does; no mortal anyway. But if God approved it for his angels, you know it must be good. And I’m sure the cream came straight from the teat of a free-range cow. Twinkies just might be one of the greatest foods ever made by God and nature. At least that’s what I used to think, that is, until I learned any Tom, Dick, or Harry can read the real ingredients ON THE BACK OF THE PACKAGE! Yeah, I’m serious. See for yourself.
To my dismay, I learned that Hostess has been sticking it to their loyal customers for years. Still don’t believe me? Here are the ingredients as written on the package, word for word:
Although I now have a better explanation for the negative feeling I experience after eating a package of Twinkies, I’m not sure what I set out to do by writing this post. I certainly don’t want to cause harm to the Hostess Corporation, or it’s stockholders. They’re just honest people trying to make a buck, same as anyone else. I do think the inclusion of some of their ingredients could be deemed socially irresponsible, what with the current health crisis and all. But I have to concede that I am not a baker and wouldn’t know the first thing about what it takes to make a world-class pastry.
It may be of comfort to some to learn that the ingredients are listed in order from highest to lowest content amount. This was a relief to me because, despite the fact that sugar and high fructose corn syrup are bad for you, they are significantly less harmful than say, turpentine or full blown AIDS which are present in much smaller quantities. That said, now I think I’m just being a bit of a “Nervous Nelly” and should stop worrying so much about what goes into my body.
After all, I didn’t acquire the body of a Greek god by eating my vegetables. I never acquired the body of a Greek god by eating twinkies, either, but I tried vegetables once and it didn't work, so I gave them up long ago. No telling what Mother Nature puts in that stuff.
To my dismay, I learned that Hostess has been sticking it to their loyal customers for years. Still don’t believe me? Here are the ingredients as written on the package, word for word:
enriched wheat flour, sugar, corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, Beef fat, crack, baby fat, bone fragment, toast, camel toes, silly putty, toadstool, hummus, tooth filling, Spam, pumice stone, paper, rock, scissors, Hepatitis A, B, and C, Sharpie, bike tire, sand, depression, lederhosen, dandruff, HIV, back hair, polio, communism, rubber-bands, scabies, racism, crude oil, turpentine, polite oil, arsenic, incest, full blown AIDS, and hatred.
Although I now have a better explanation for the negative feeling I experience after eating a package of Twinkies, I’m not sure what I set out to do by writing this post. I certainly don’t want to cause harm to the Hostess Corporation, or it’s stockholders. They’re just honest people trying to make a buck, same as anyone else. I do think the inclusion of some of their ingredients could be deemed socially irresponsible, what with the current health crisis and all. But I have to concede that I am not a baker and wouldn’t know the first thing about what it takes to make a world-class pastry.
It may be of comfort to some to learn that the ingredients are listed in order from highest to lowest content amount. This was a relief to me because, despite the fact that sugar and high fructose corn syrup are bad for you, they are significantly less harmful than say, turpentine or full blown AIDS which are present in much smaller quantities. That said, now I think I’m just being a bit of a “Nervous Nelly” and should stop worrying so much about what goes into my body.
After all, I didn’t acquire the body of a Greek god by eating my vegetables. I never acquired the body of a Greek god by eating twinkies, either, but I tried vegetables once and it didn't work, so I gave them up long ago. No telling what Mother Nature puts in that stuff.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
"Hooked On Phonics" Didn't Work For Kara
WARNING: This post contains direct quotes from people who have commented on the previous post titled “She loves to hate me”. Some of those comments contain profanity, hatred, and bad grammar. If you are at all sensitive to profanity, hatred, or bad grammar it may be in your best interest to skip this post and come back in a week when I intend to post a whimsical tale of my latest visit to the pet store, when I was playfully mauled by a litter of adorable cocker-spaniel puppies.
It is amazing the attention a little controversy attracts. Life’s little dramas are like the universal meth of society. No one is immune to it’s addictive properties. In every aspect of our culture, even the most passive observer will witness people regularly indulging, as if by compulsion, in the latest scandal. And the centers of gossip and drama have been well known for ages. Whether you’re at the water cooler, break room, employee lounge, dinner table, or somewhere else, “What’s the latest…?” is a question that is meant to tap the ubiquitous well of gossip which allows us, at least momentarily, to live vicariously through friends and family, and make our own lives feel a little less dull.
There are those, however, who will not be satisfied with the sporadic, vicarious experience, and therefore seek to create drama on a more regular basis in their own lives. I recently “met” one such person online. I stumbled upon her blog, was under the impression that comments were welcome, left one, and then learned from her response I really wasn’t welcome at all. Without retelling the whole story I will use the words of my younger brother Tom who, I think, summed up Kara’s experience and feelings in this short allegory:
I thought the encounter and the reaction of my visit to Kara’s blog were so unusual and, to be honest, humorous, I decided to write a post about it. And like all good gossip my post received a lot of undue attention. Most of the comments were from usual readers, some from new readers, and then a few from the "anonymous" demographic. Strangely enough, however, the anonymous comments were surprisingly similar and left in very close chronological succession. Coincidence? I’ll let you be the judge. (The comments have not been altered at all.)
Upon closer inspection any reader, with the literary skills of a 7-year-old or higher, will notice how similar these comments are. I am not proposing that there aren’t three people out there who dislike me as much as the comments would suggest. On the contrary, I’m sure there are thousands who dislike me that much, with the numbers growing with each new post. I just think it’s highly coincidental that there are three people out there who 1) hate me, 2) have such similar taste in insults, and 3) struggle with the same basic rules of grammar.
Now, I have no evidence that it is Kara who left the comments and have no desire to make such accusations. I’d like to think that Kara has moved on, and that she has not given me, or my stupid blog, another thought, and is, as I write, out swimming with her top heavy baby. But I do think the same person left them. So for convenience of writing I’ll call the anonymous commenter, “Cara.”
Despite the criticisms left by Cara, I would like to say that she is always welcome here and I wish to offer the hand of friendship and assist her with some of her writing disabilities so that when she returns her words will carry more weight. Let me preface my critique by saying all my advice should be taken with a grain of salt, as I am not an English teacher, and also struggle with spelling and grammar. But I think together, Cara and I can achieve more. Let’s get started.
In all three comments Cara has trouble with the difference between the possessive pronoun, “your”, and the conjunction of “you are”, “you’re”.
In two of them Cara tells me to “get a life” because she assumes that anyone who may have a differing opinion or different sense of humor must therefore, not have a life and should straightway go out and get one. I just think Cara has used some faulty logic here. Despite my vast differences with Adolf Hitler I would never argue that he didn’t “have a life.” On the contrary he stayed quite busy conquering neighboring countries, killing Jews, and sleeping with his generals. He had a life, despite the fact that he used it poorly.
In two of the comments Cara suggests that I am homosexual, but then turns around and contradicts herself in the last comment when she refers to my wife. This is not only faulty logic but also a poor debating technique. Your initial insult of homosexuality only loses weight when you reveal to your audience that I am married to a female. And I’m not saying that having a wife is indisputable evidence of heterosexuality, but doesn’t it help?
In Cara’s last comment she did land a hurtful blow when she suggested that teaching was not “a real job.” I admit that the teacher’s paycheck leaves little to be desired, but is society really at that point where our feelings for teachers matches the monetary compensation we provide them with? Friends and family assure me that this is not the case. But then again, they are “friends” and “family” and may therefore just be blowing hot air up my butt. It is entirely possible that they agree with Cara and think that I’m a schmuck for teaching. However, I can’t help but think that if Cara had held her own teachers in higher esteem, she may have learned something from them and, as a result not spelled “retard” like a retard when calling somebody a retard!
Lastly, when making any kind of insult you have to be careful that your wording doesn’t detract from what you are trying to say by conjuring other ideas in the readers mind. In Cara’s last comment she said that it “looks like the blogging is left to you instead because your wife is too busy making money to pay for your cheap ass.” (This again is in reference to my low paying job.) I couldn’t help but laugh here because of the way Cara makes blogging sound like one of the necessary chores on a farm, like getting the harvest done before the first frost, or fetching water from the well for drinking and cleaning. In my mind, I could almost hear my wife say, “Well I’m off to work. Looks like a storms rollin’ in, so make sure you get that blogging done early.” Also, had Cara done a little research she would have learned that my wife is a stay-at-home-mom, does not have a paying job, and enjoys her own fair share of blogging. So in effect, the argument just makes Cara sound stupid to anyone who may know my family at all.
Because I’m not one to give criticism without coupling it with praise I want to say that I think Cara has a lot of potential as an insulting hate blogger. Right now her skills are just a little raw. But with time I think she will become clear, concise, and efficiently hurtful. And with all the drama she creates for herself, I'm sure she'll have ample opportunity to practice.
It is amazing the attention a little controversy attracts. Life’s little dramas are like the universal meth of society. No one is immune to it’s addictive properties. In every aspect of our culture, even the most passive observer will witness people regularly indulging, as if by compulsion, in the latest scandal. And the centers of gossip and drama have been well known for ages. Whether you’re at the water cooler, break room, employee lounge, dinner table, or somewhere else, “What’s the latest…?” is a question that is meant to tap the ubiquitous well of gossip which allows us, at least momentarily, to live vicariously through friends and family, and make our own lives feel a little less dull.
There are those, however, who will not be satisfied with the sporadic, vicarious experience, and therefore seek to create drama on a more regular basis in their own lives. I recently “met” one such person online. I stumbled upon her blog, was under the impression that comments were welcome, left one, and then learned from her response I really wasn’t welcome at all. Without retelling the whole story I will use the words of my younger brother Tom who, I think, summed up Kara’s experience and feelings in this short allegory:
A couple of years ago I opened a candy shop on University Ave. It was a pleasant little business where my friends could come and relax in the company of familiar faces and indulge their sweet tooth. I sent around advertisements to let the locals know where I was and what they could expect from my little confection connection. One day, while dipping my apples a stranger walked through my door. A stranger! I didn't know whether to yell "RAPE", or "FIRE", but my initial thought was "Who does this bastard think she is"? I didn't know her from Eve, but there she was, bold as brass, standing in my candy shop. As you can imagine, I threw her out immediately. Of all the nerve!
I thought the encounter and the reaction of my visit to Kara’s blog were so unusual and, to be honest, humorous, I decided to write a post about it. And like all good gossip my post received a lot of undue attention. Most of the comments were from usual readers, some from new readers, and then a few from the "anonymous" demographic. Strangely enough, however, the anonymous comments were surprisingly similar and left in very close chronological succession. Coincidence? I’ll let you be the judge. (The comments have not been altered at all.)
(May 18, 10:56 pm)
your gay dude. get a life!
(May 18, 11:13 pm)
Your a freaking reatard. get a life dumb fag. You think your so funny dumb shit.
(May 18, 11:41 pm)
so your a teacher huh? I bet you wish you had a real job so your wife could stay at home and blog like the others. looks like the blogging is left to you instead because your wife is too busy making money to pay for your cheap ass.
Upon closer inspection any reader, with the literary skills of a 7-year-old or higher, will notice how similar these comments are. I am not proposing that there aren’t three people out there who dislike me as much as the comments would suggest. On the contrary, I’m sure there are thousands who dislike me that much, with the numbers growing with each new post. I just think it’s highly coincidental that there are three people out there who 1) hate me, 2) have such similar taste in insults, and 3) struggle with the same basic rules of grammar.
Now, I have no evidence that it is Kara who left the comments and have no desire to make such accusations. I’d like to think that Kara has moved on, and that she has not given me, or my stupid blog, another thought, and is, as I write, out swimming with her top heavy baby. But I do think the same person left them. So for convenience of writing I’ll call the anonymous commenter, “Cara.”
Despite the criticisms left by Cara, I would like to say that she is always welcome here and I wish to offer the hand of friendship and assist her with some of her writing disabilities so that when she returns her words will carry more weight. Let me preface my critique by saying all my advice should be taken with a grain of salt, as I am not an English teacher, and also struggle with spelling and grammar. But I think together, Cara and I can achieve more. Let’s get started.
In all three comments Cara has trouble with the difference between the possessive pronoun, “your”, and the conjunction of “you are”, “you’re”.
In two of them Cara tells me to “get a life” because she assumes that anyone who may have a differing opinion or different sense of humor must therefore, not have a life and should straightway go out and get one. I just think Cara has used some faulty logic here. Despite my vast differences with Adolf Hitler I would never argue that he didn’t “have a life.” On the contrary he stayed quite busy conquering neighboring countries, killing Jews, and sleeping with his generals. He had a life, despite the fact that he used it poorly.
In two of the comments Cara suggests that I am homosexual, but then turns around and contradicts herself in the last comment when she refers to my wife. This is not only faulty logic but also a poor debating technique. Your initial insult of homosexuality only loses weight when you reveal to your audience that I am married to a female. And I’m not saying that having a wife is indisputable evidence of heterosexuality, but doesn’t it help?
In Cara’s last comment she did land a hurtful blow when she suggested that teaching was not “a real job.” I admit that the teacher’s paycheck leaves little to be desired, but is society really at that point where our feelings for teachers matches the monetary compensation we provide them with? Friends and family assure me that this is not the case. But then again, they are “friends” and “family” and may therefore just be blowing hot air up my butt. It is entirely possible that they agree with Cara and think that I’m a schmuck for teaching. However, I can’t help but think that if Cara had held her own teachers in higher esteem, she may have learned something from them and, as a result not spelled “retard” like a retard when calling somebody a retard!
Lastly, when making any kind of insult you have to be careful that your wording doesn’t detract from what you are trying to say by conjuring other ideas in the readers mind. In Cara’s last comment she said that it “looks like the blogging is left to you instead because your wife is too busy making money to pay for your cheap ass.” (This again is in reference to my low paying job.) I couldn’t help but laugh here because of the way Cara makes blogging sound like one of the necessary chores on a farm, like getting the harvest done before the first frost, or fetching water from the well for drinking and cleaning. In my mind, I could almost hear my wife say, “Well I’m off to work. Looks like a storms rollin’ in, so make sure you get that blogging done early.” Also, had Cara done a little research she would have learned that my wife is a stay-at-home-mom, does not have a paying job, and enjoys her own fair share of blogging. So in effect, the argument just makes Cara sound stupid to anyone who may know my family at all.
Because I’m not one to give criticism without coupling it with praise I want to say that I think Cara has a lot of potential as an insulting hate blogger. Right now her skills are just a little raw. But with time I think she will become clear, concise, and efficiently hurtful. And with all the drama she creates for herself, I'm sure she'll have ample opportunity to practice.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
She Loves To Hate Me
Whenever I hear it said of somebody that, "there isn't anybody who doesn't like him", I think to myself, all that means is that not very many people know him. One of the many things history can teach us is that anyone who is well known has been both loved and hated. As they say, "you can't please everyone."
Now, as a person it didn’t take mass popularity for me to attain the status of one who was both loved and hated. I have been on the receiving end of these two extremes my whole life; loved by my mother and hated by pretty much everyone else. Even my wife, whom I have a very close and intimate relationship with, harbors ambiguous feelings for me. However, as a writer, specifically, a writer in the blogosphere, I have only been the recipient of positive, if not neutral, criticism. That is, until recently.
One afternoon, when I should have been reviewing the finer points of the Cold War with my students, I decided to go blog surfing instead. So there I was reading up on the latest exploits of some of my friends and family when I stumbled upon a blog that belonged to Kara, who is from Las Vegas, and is the friend of a friend. I.e., I did not know Kara.
Mind you, this is not uncommon practice in the blog world. After all, Blogspot.com, and other like sites are networking websites. People go there to read about and meet new people. (If it is your first time to theunmighty.com, welcome. There will always be a hot meal and a warm bed for you here.)
The site that I stumbled upon was your typical “mom blog.” If you’re not sure what I mean go to the blog of some mom you know and look for one of the following:
The word “family," "clan," or "gang" in the title
A picture of one or more of their children in the banner
A subtitle that specifically references one or more of their children
A very recent post about the wacky misadventures of moms with their kids at home
Kara’s blog hit 4 for 4.
Lest any mom’s hurriedly edit their blogs to make them look less mom-ish, let me say that some of my favorite blogs are mom blogs maintained by hardworking, stay at home, American mothers. I think it’s a fantastic outlet for their creativity, and feelings (which we all know they need to unload often and in great repetition lest their brains explode). So blog on moms of the world, and be heard!
I digress.
When I stumbled upon Kara’s blog I happily read about her most recent mom experience, which included a swim with her young son at an outdoor swimming pool. In said post she expressed her concern for her son’s safety, as he is very top heavy and not yet stable on his feet, thus necessitating her constant attention. Cute, right? That’s certainly what I thought. Her crafty wordsmithing combined with a few charming pictures made me want to run to my own children, scoop them up, and drown them in my love. But they were having so much fun playing their favorite game, “knife fight," in the street I decided to leave them undisturbed and continue reading instead. At the very bottom of the same post Kara left these words:
Reading this I thought, great, here’s my chance to make somebody’s whole day. And they can probably use the pick-me-up being from Las Vegas and all, with their lives steeped in drugs, gambling, pornography, prostitution, and violence. I felt like a modern day Good Samaritan.
I don’t know exactly what I wrote, since Kara has since deleted my comment, but it said something about human babies being born with the innate ability to swim similar to dog babies and therefore she need not worry. Harmless enough. Or so I thought. Soon after my comment was posted, Kara visited my site and left this comment:
Surprised by her reaction, and fearing the misunderstanding might permanently prevent any chance of our becoming life long bosom buddies, I decided I better write her back and clear the air. This is what I wrote;
Needless to say, this comment too, was immediately deleted. But I politely respect Kara’s right to run her blog as she sees fit. In fact, the whole purpose of this post was to thank Kara, who, in my opinion, facilitated my arrival as a writer. I’m not saying that I am now a good writer. Quality has never been a criterion for success in the arts. I just believe that anyone who experiences any real breadth of influence is, without question, going to be loved and hated. And with her short comment I have officially achieved both sides of that line.
I would also like to express that I bare Kara no ill will. And I’d like to encourage all my readers to visit Kara’s blog, which I’m sure you will find stimulating, artistic, heart-warming, and really really special. Once there, please, leave Kara a comment and let her know how much you appreciate her. And that you think she is doing a great job as a mother and a writer. And that you would like to meet her sometime… at night… when she’s not expecting you. And that you are currently in Las Vegas watching her, and her family… through binoculars. And you’re waiting… just waiting… for the right time.
But don’t be creepy. Kara hates that.
BLOG UPDATE - 5/15/08: Yesterday Kara put a privacy block on her blog, so all the helpful links I provided in this post are now useless. From what I've observed, from outside her window, she had become inundated with comments from admiring readers and had to slow the flow as to provide ample time to catch up on comments already left. This became understandable only after I got ahold of, and read her medical file and learned she has severe dyslexia. So lets all just be patient with Kara. I'm sure she'll be back soon.
Now, as a person it didn’t take mass popularity for me to attain the status of one who was both loved and hated. I have been on the receiving end of these two extremes my whole life; loved by my mother and hated by pretty much everyone else. Even my wife, whom I have a very close and intimate relationship with, harbors ambiguous feelings for me. However, as a writer, specifically, a writer in the blogosphere, I have only been the recipient of positive, if not neutral, criticism. That is, until recently.
One afternoon, when I should have been reviewing the finer points of the Cold War with my students, I decided to go blog surfing instead. So there I was reading up on the latest exploits of some of my friends and family when I stumbled upon a blog that belonged to Kara, who is from Las Vegas, and is the friend of a friend. I.e., I did not know Kara.
Mind you, this is not uncommon practice in the blog world. After all, Blogspot.com, and other like sites are networking websites. People go there to read about and meet new people. (If it is your first time to theunmighty.com, welcome. There will always be a hot meal and a warm bed for you here.)
The site that I stumbled upon was your typical “mom blog.” If you’re not sure what I mean go to the blog of some mom you know and look for one of the following:
The word “family," "clan," or "gang" in the title
A picture of one or more of their children in the banner
A subtitle that specifically references one or more of their children
A very recent post about the wacky misadventures of moms with their kids at home
Kara’s blog hit 4 for 4.
Lest any mom’s hurriedly edit their blogs to make them look less mom-ish, let me say that some of my favorite blogs are mom blogs maintained by hardworking, stay at home, American mothers. I think it’s a fantastic outlet for their creativity, and feelings (which we all know they need to unload often and in great repetition lest their brains explode). So blog on moms of the world, and be heard!
I digress.
When I stumbled upon Kara’s blog I happily read about her most recent mom experience, which included a swim with her young son at an outdoor swimming pool. In said post she expressed her concern for her son’s safety, as he is very top heavy and not yet stable on his feet, thus necessitating her constant attention. Cute, right? That’s certainly what I thought. Her crafty wordsmithing combined with a few charming pictures made me want to run to my own children, scoop them up, and drown them in my love. But they were having so much fun playing their favorite game, “knife fight," in the street I decided to leave them undisturbed and continue reading instead. At the very bottom of the same post Kara left these words:
“I want to thank all my faithful friends who leave me comments. My last post had a record # of comments and it made my whole week! You have no idea how it makes my whole day to get comments.”
Reading this I thought, great, here’s my chance to make somebody’s whole day. And they can probably use the pick-me-up being from Las Vegas and all, with their lives steeped in drugs, gambling, pornography, prostitution, and violence. I felt like a modern day Good Samaritan.
I don’t know exactly what I wrote, since Kara has since deleted my comment, but it said something about human babies being born with the innate ability to swim similar to dog babies and therefore she need not worry. Harmless enough. Or so I thought. Soon after my comment was posted, Kara visited my site and left this comment:
“I don't even know you, but Anjie [Anjie and her husband are close friends of mine] says you're just a funny guy. I'm just wondering why you post comments on a complete stranger's blog?? You don't have anything better to do, than to stalk Anjie's friends' blogs? It kind of freaks me out a little, so can you please mind your own business. Thanks.”
Surprised by her reaction, and fearing the misunderstanding might permanently prevent any chance of our becoming life long bosom buddies, I decided I better write her back and clear the air. This is what I wrote;
Kara,
Wow, I'm sorry. I must have really offended you. My apologies. But you should know, your blog is on the WORLD WIDE WEB! It's not unusual for people to surf blogs and to stumble upon friends of friends. Take a deep breath and count to ten before you blow an ovary.
-The UnMighty
PS. If you're that paranoid about strangers reading your blog you can put a privacy block on it where only invited parties can look at it.
PPS. Thanks for visiting my site and leaving a comment.
Needless to say, this comment too, was immediately deleted. But I politely respect Kara’s right to run her blog as she sees fit. In fact, the whole purpose of this post was to thank Kara, who, in my opinion, facilitated my arrival as a writer. I’m not saying that I am now a good writer. Quality has never been a criterion for success in the arts. I just believe that anyone who experiences any real breadth of influence is, without question, going to be loved and hated. And with her short comment I have officially achieved both sides of that line.
I would also like to express that I bare Kara no ill will. And I’d like to encourage all my readers to visit Kara’s blog, which I’m sure you will find stimulating, artistic, heart-warming, and really really special. Once there, please, leave Kara a comment and let her know how much you appreciate her. And that you think she is doing a great job as a mother and a writer. And that you would like to meet her sometime… at night… when she’s not expecting you. And that you are currently in Las Vegas watching her, and her family… through binoculars. And you’re waiting… just waiting… for the right time.
But don’t be creepy. Kara hates that.
BLOG UPDATE - 5/15/08: Yesterday Kara put a privacy block on her blog, so all the helpful links I provided in this post are now useless. From what I've observed, from outside her window, she had become inundated with comments from admiring readers and had to slow the flow as to provide ample time to catch up on comments already left. This became understandable only after I got ahold of, and read her medical file and learned she has severe dyslexia. So lets all just be patient with Kara. I'm sure she'll be back soon.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Bad moments to experience spontaneous, explosive diarrhea
While spinning naked, at zero gravity, in the space shuttle
While stuck in a broken elevator with five strangers
The exact moment you pass through the metal detector at airport security
While delivering your first baby (you’re the doctor)
While standing on the diving board at the public pool
While performing the “how many clowns can we fit in this VW Bug” trick at the circus
While lying face down on the proctologist’s examination table
While climbing into bed on your wedding night
While leading a post cave-in escape through a very narrow passage
While looking down the barrel of gun of a man with a hair-trigger and a sensitive nose
While stuck in a broken elevator with five strangers
The exact moment you pass through the metal detector at airport security
While delivering your first baby (you’re the doctor)
While standing on the diving board at the public pool
While performing the “how many clowns can we fit in this VW Bug” trick at the circus
While lying face down on the proctologist’s examination table
While climbing into bed on your wedding night
While leading a post cave-in escape through a very narrow passage
While looking down the barrel of gun of a man with a hair-trigger and a sensitive nose
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Human Pearl
Confession: I am a nose picker. I don’t think this is a revolutionary declaration and probably doesn’t even warrant the “Confession” beginning that I used because I think a high percentage of the population are nose pickers. In fact, I’m convinced that people who just plain refuse to stick their own fingers in their own noses make up a very small percentage of the population. (1.6% according to the latest U.S. census survey)
Despite the high level of picking that occurs there is still a negative stigma attached to this very natural process. And to me, this begs the question, when did picking ones nose become socially unacceptable? It is not my intention here to be gross or juvenile. And I’m definitely not striving for shock value since, despite the negative stigma attached to picking, the subject is too juvenile, while at the same time not gross enough to solicit any real shock. It’s just that I have been thinking a lot about social norms and cultural relativity, and this subject is one of many that address the greater issue. I guess I could have written about a number of things; shaking hands, bowing, chewing with mouths closed, burping, flatulence, shoe and shirt requirements, clapping, forms of chivalry, functionless clothing, and other seemingly innocuous acts of social propriety.
To me this subject lacks inappropriate connotation because of my personal feelings about the item being picked. When analyzed scientifically, the booger is not as unpleasant as pop culture would have you believe. I have reasoned that the booger is not unlike the pearl. My comparison is not in the realm of aesthetic beauty or monetary value, but in origin. Though I am not a marine biologist, it is my understanding that a pearl is made when an oyster gets an unwelcome grain of sand inside its shell. The grain causes discomfort and to cope with said discomfort the oyster spins mucus around the grain. Once hardened, the final product is a pearl. In like manner, the human will get a foreign object in its nose (i.e. sand, dust, saw-dust, etc.) and to cope with the discomfort the human nose will coat the object with mucus. This conclusion has helped me look at my boogers in a whole new light. I don’t think I’ll soon be making a necklace of them. But still, it’s not impossible that my family will someday fall on hard times and I’ll need an anniversary gift.
Aside from the social implications, there is still some danger in picking ones nose. And it is this danger that has occupied an inordinate amount of my thoughts. The other night, while driving home, I started to wonder to myself about the possibility of picking a vein large enough to cause massive hemorrhaging from the nose. And if I struck the large vein, would I have the wherewithal, amidst all the bleeding, to get myself to a hospital?
This led me to think about what would happen if I died at the hospital. So I started making mental plans about what to do in such an event. Get my wallet so I have Id. But the address on my license is incorrect. This could lead to an unpleasant exchange.
“Miss, I regret to inform you that your husband has died.”
“Died?! How? What happened?!!”
“He bled to death due to a nose picking accident.”
“NOOOOO! THAT BASTARD! HE TOLD ME HE QUIT! THAT LYING BASTARD!”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Quinn.”
“Who?”
“Is your husband not Ben Quinn?”
“No.”
“Sorry to alarm you.”
It could take days before my family was finally tracked down and told of my untimely demise.
I rethink my mental plans. Grab my cell phone. Once I die they’ll go through my pockets, find my wallet, learn my identity, send a cop to the wrong house, find my phone, start calling everybody in my contact list alphabetically. Hopefully Adam will tell them who my wife is so they don’t bother calling all the people I don’t care about between A and K. Good. Don’t forget the phone.
My wife has little patience for the deeper questions in life. If I asked her if she thought death by nose pick was possible, she’d roll her eyes far enough to see her own brain. I know this because every once in a while, while driving along in silence, I make the mistake of vocalizing some of my deeper questions.
“If you were paid 100 dollars an hour to work out, would you limit yourself to working out one or two hours a day, or would you work out to the point of becoming freakishly ripped with all your veins popping out all over and your breasts turning to man pecks, just so you could be rich?”
“Who’s going to pay me 100 dollars an hour to work out?”
“No one, I know. But for arguments sake, what would you do?”
“Where are they getting the money, and how does my working out benefit them?”
“Forget who or where the money is coming from! Just answer the question!”
“No. It’s stupid. It would never happen.”
At this point my daughter would chime in and remind my wife that we do not say, “stupid”, and the conversation would be over. I would then recede back into my own mind where there is greater opportunity for profound and meaningful conversation between the hemispheres of my brain.
Deep into this conversation I feel an itch and have to pick. “Wait a minute,” I tell myself. “Grab your wallet. Check. Get your phone. Check. Think of the nearest hospital. Check. Now dig away. But use caution, because
Despite the high level of picking that occurs there is still a negative stigma attached to this very natural process. And to me, this begs the question, when did picking ones nose become socially unacceptable? It is not my intention here to be gross or juvenile. And I’m definitely not striving for shock value since, despite the negative stigma attached to picking, the subject is too juvenile, while at the same time not gross enough to solicit any real shock. It’s just that I have been thinking a lot about social norms and cultural relativity, and this subject is one of many that address the greater issue. I guess I could have written about a number of things; shaking hands, bowing, chewing with mouths closed, burping, flatulence, shoe and shirt requirements, clapping, forms of chivalry, functionless clothing, and other seemingly innocuous acts of social propriety.
To me this subject lacks inappropriate connotation because of my personal feelings about the item being picked. When analyzed scientifically, the booger is not as unpleasant as pop culture would have you believe. I have reasoned that the booger is not unlike the pearl. My comparison is not in the realm of aesthetic beauty or monetary value, but in origin. Though I am not a marine biologist, it is my understanding that a pearl is made when an oyster gets an unwelcome grain of sand inside its shell. The grain causes discomfort and to cope with said discomfort the oyster spins mucus around the grain. Once hardened, the final product is a pearl. In like manner, the human will get a foreign object in its nose (i.e. sand, dust, saw-dust, etc.) and to cope with the discomfort the human nose will coat the object with mucus. This conclusion has helped me look at my boogers in a whole new light. I don’t think I’ll soon be making a necklace of them. But still, it’s not impossible that my family will someday fall on hard times and I’ll need an anniversary gift.
Aside from the social implications, there is still some danger in picking ones nose. And it is this danger that has occupied an inordinate amount of my thoughts. The other night, while driving home, I started to wonder to myself about the possibility of picking a vein large enough to cause massive hemorrhaging from the nose. And if I struck the large vein, would I have the wherewithal, amidst all the bleeding, to get myself to a hospital?
This led me to think about what would happen if I died at the hospital. So I started making mental plans about what to do in such an event. Get my wallet so I have Id. But the address on my license is incorrect. This could lead to an unpleasant exchange.
“Miss, I regret to inform you that your husband has died.”
“Died?! How? What happened?!!”
“He bled to death due to a nose picking accident.”
“NOOOOO! THAT BASTARD! HE TOLD ME HE QUIT! THAT LYING BASTARD!”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Quinn.”
“Who?”
“Is your husband not Ben Quinn?”
“No.”
“Sorry to alarm you.”
It could take days before my family was finally tracked down and told of my untimely demise.
I rethink my mental plans. Grab my cell phone. Once I die they’ll go through my pockets, find my wallet, learn my identity, send a cop to the wrong house, find my phone, start calling everybody in my contact list alphabetically. Hopefully Adam will tell them who my wife is so they don’t bother calling all the people I don’t care about between A and K. Good. Don’t forget the phone.
My wife has little patience for the deeper questions in life. If I asked her if she thought death by nose pick was possible, she’d roll her eyes far enough to see her own brain. I know this because every once in a while, while driving along in silence, I make the mistake of vocalizing some of my deeper questions.
“If you were paid 100 dollars an hour to work out, would you limit yourself to working out one or two hours a day, or would you work out to the point of becoming freakishly ripped with all your veins popping out all over and your breasts turning to man pecks, just so you could be rich?”
“Who’s going to pay me 100 dollars an hour to work out?”
“No one, I know. But for arguments sake, what would you do?”
“Where are they getting the money, and how does my working out benefit them?”
“Forget who or where the money is coming from! Just answer the question!”
“No. It’s stupid. It would never happen.”
At this point my daughter would chime in and remind my wife that we do not say, “stupid”, and the conversation would be over. I would then recede back into my own mind where there is greater opportunity for profound and meaningful conversation between the hemispheres of my brain.
Deep into this conversation I feel an itch and have to pick. “Wait a minute,” I tell myself. “Grab your wallet. Check. Get your phone. Check. Think of the nearest hospital. Check. Now dig away. But use caution, because
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Death Of A Friend
I never was one of those guys who enjoyed attaching an undue amount of personification to his car. It never got a nickname like Gertrude, or The Beast, and I never referred to it like someone I was intimately or physically involved with. Nevertheless, I did have a certain fondness for my ’95 Geo Prizm. Partly because it was a gift from my father and partly because it was the means by which I saw so much of this beautiful world. So allow me, for a moment, to suspend my unwillingness to see machines as our equals, because, to be perfectly honest, my car was a truer friend than… well… all my other friends. Shame on them for being outdone by a car.
Gertrude the Beast was born June 27th 1995. I was not her original companion but became so in September 1998 after her original companion ran out on her like a coward. She was maroon, had four wheels, four doors, a great rack, which I liked to attach stuff too, and a trunk big enough for one medium sized body or two small bodies. We seemed to hit it off immediately and were surprised at how closely our interests aligned. We both liked music, air-conditioning, and driving places. We were like peas and carrots.
Within her lifetime she drove exactly 1,605, 250 miles, which is equivalent to driving to the sun and back. She visited every state in the nation, every country in North and South America, drove to Europe twice, Asia once, and is the only four wheeled vehicle to drive on the Great Wall of China.
She was also born with a surprisingly competitive spirit. Before she passed, Gertrude the Beast won three Formula One titles, two NASCAR titles, a motor-cross championship, and an aerial freestyle competition. Other notable accomplishments include the trafficking of displaced African refugees, assisting in the initial invasion of Iraq, personally capturing Sadam Hussein, and hosting Saturday Night Live. Sadly, her competing came to an abrupt end when she was convicted of vehicular dogslaughter in 2002. She pled guilty, paid a heavy fine, but was relieved the court never learned of the vehicular catslaughter, deerslaughter, and minorityslaughter she had also participated in.
Gertrude the Beast was there to see me through college, marriage, the election, the surgery, and the birth of my first two children. I had hoped she would be there for many more years but on the morning of April 14th, 2008, while driving to work she suffered major internal damage due to old age. After I cursed her and kicked her in the side I was immediately filled with regret because a man could not have asked for a better companion or truer friend. She was loved in life and will be missed in death.
Tomorrow she will be taken to the scrap yard, sold for the handsome sum of $100, and crushed. Goodbye old girl.
Gertrude the Beast was born June 27th 1995. I was not her original companion but became so in September 1998 after her original companion ran out on her like a coward. She was maroon, had four wheels, four doors, a great rack, which I liked to attach stuff too, and a trunk big enough for one medium sized body or two small bodies. We seemed to hit it off immediately and were surprised at how closely our interests aligned. We both liked music, air-conditioning, and driving places. We were like peas and carrots.
Within her lifetime she drove exactly 1,605, 250 miles, which is equivalent to driving to the sun and back. She visited every state in the nation, every country in North and South America, drove to Europe twice, Asia once, and is the only four wheeled vehicle to drive on the Great Wall of China.
She was also born with a surprisingly competitive spirit. Before she passed, Gertrude the Beast won three Formula One titles, two NASCAR titles, a motor-cross championship, and an aerial freestyle competition. Other notable accomplishments include the trafficking of displaced African refugees, assisting in the initial invasion of Iraq, personally capturing Sadam Hussein, and hosting Saturday Night Live. Sadly, her competing came to an abrupt end when she was convicted of vehicular dogslaughter in 2002. She pled guilty, paid a heavy fine, but was relieved the court never learned of the vehicular catslaughter, deerslaughter, and minorityslaughter she had also participated in.
Gertrude the Beast was there to see me through college, marriage, the election, the surgery, and the birth of my first two children. I had hoped she would be there for many more years but on the morning of April 14th, 2008, while driving to work she suffered major internal damage due to old age. After I cursed her and kicked her in the side I was immediately filled with regret because a man could not have asked for a better companion or truer friend. She was loved in life and will be missed in death.
Tomorrow she will be taken to the scrap yard, sold for the handsome sum of $100, and crushed. Goodbye old girl.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
You've Been Lip Serviced
Most people don’t know this, but my wife is a master of persuasion and champion debater. And being a graduate of a state college public speaking class, I am well aware of the tools used against me when we are forced to go toe-to-toe in a verbal sparing match. They are the 3 Greek elements of persuasion, as set forth by Aristotle himself, and I’m sure you will all agree that he was one deep thinking SOB.
The three elements are as follows:
Ethos (Credibility or Ethics) means convincing by the character of the speaker, or persuading by appealing to one’s ethics.
Pathos (Emotional) means persuading by appealing to one’s emotions.
Logos (Logical) means persuading by the use of reasoning.
My wife, like all females, has never tried to use Logos. Before you ladies freak out and blow an ovary, let me say it is not my intention to offend. Females cannot be faulted for this. It’s just that they are born without the part of the brain that produces the logic hormone. We can no more expect them to use logic as we can expect them to pee accurately standing up. They’re just not built that way.
She is also unable to use the element of Pathos. This time however it is not due to a lack, but rather an over production of the element. When she attempts its use, words and noises fly out of her mouth in an uncontrolled barrage of inflammatory nonsense, which undulate in pitch, volume, and intensity. It's like watching one of the mutants, from the X-Men movies, as they first discover their powers and unwittingly cause large amounts of destruction.
As for Ethos, well, she uses it on a very limited basis.
So how can she possibly be a persuasive speaker, you are probably wondering. It is because she has discovered and capitalized on the forth Greek element;
Hyperbolos: persuading by the use of ridiculous exaggeration.
Allow me to illustrate with an excerpt from our most recent debate.
Situation: We are at the local Dell Taco to appease my wife’s “cravings.” This locale is equipped with a play area for kids, which my daughter disappears into the moment we arrive. Halfway through our meal…
Wife: Where’s Maggie?
Me: She’s playing.
Wife: Where? I can’t see her. Can you see her?
Me: She in one of those tubes. She’s fine.
Wife: Go find her.
Me: Go find her? Honey, there’s like 50 miles of tubing in there. It could take days. She’ll come out when she gets hungry.
Wife: There’s an outside exit in the play area. How can you be sure she didn’t open the door and run out into the street and is about to get splattered by a giant semi from Hell?
Me: What?
Wife: She’s probably in the back of a windowless van, gagged, bound, drugged, and helpless, with you sitting here stuffing your face, while her captors are forcing her to shoot up heroin and smoke crack and do acid.
Me: That’s a lot of drugs.
Wife: She could be getting high and watching pornography right now.
Me: Huh?
Wife: Maybe she’s in a shipping crate, on her way to war-torn Africa where she’ll be given a gun and forced to participate in the latest ethnic cleansing campaign and kill mindlessly while, simultaneously being forced into a life of child prostitution as the tribe passes her around like some kind of soulless plaything, and pushed to the brink of existence till she is nothing more than an empty shell, a vague memory of the cute, rosy-cheeked girl we once knew and one day, as she teeters on the edge of a monstrous African cliff, before she leaps to her own demise upon the jagged rocks below, she will utter one… last… word.
“DAAAADDYYYYY!!!”
Me: *gulp*
Wife: You’d never be able to forgive yourself. You’ll sit around in a constant state of morbid depression, getting old, fat, ugly, bald, stupid, and retarded. Unmovable. You’ll burst into uncontrollable, seizure-like, fits of weeping every time you think about the day you chose a burrito over your own daughter. Hmmph.
And with that last “hmmph,” I was defeated; once again bested by the Queen of Rhetoric. I promptly ran to the play place certain I was too late.
As it turns out, she was only playing on the slide. Not a windowless van in sight.
The three elements are as follows:
Ethos (Credibility or Ethics) means convincing by the character of the speaker, or persuading by appealing to one’s ethics.
Pathos (Emotional) means persuading by appealing to one’s emotions.
Logos (Logical) means persuading by the use of reasoning.
My wife, like all females, has never tried to use Logos. Before you ladies freak out and blow an ovary, let me say it is not my intention to offend. Females cannot be faulted for this. It’s just that they are born without the part of the brain that produces the logic hormone. We can no more expect them to use logic as we can expect them to pee accurately standing up. They’re just not built that way.
She is also unable to use the element of Pathos. This time however it is not due to a lack, but rather an over production of the element. When she attempts its use, words and noises fly out of her mouth in an uncontrolled barrage of inflammatory nonsense, which undulate in pitch, volume, and intensity. It's like watching one of the mutants, from the X-Men movies, as they first discover their powers and unwittingly cause large amounts of destruction.
As for Ethos, well, she uses it on a very limited basis.
So how can she possibly be a persuasive speaker, you are probably wondering. It is because she has discovered and capitalized on the forth Greek element;
Hyperbolos: persuading by the use of ridiculous exaggeration.
Allow me to illustrate with an excerpt from our most recent debate.
Situation: We are at the local Dell Taco to appease my wife’s “cravings.” This locale is equipped with a play area for kids, which my daughter disappears into the moment we arrive. Halfway through our meal…
Wife: Where’s Maggie?
Me: She’s playing.
Wife: Where? I can’t see her. Can you see her?
Me: She in one of those tubes. She’s fine.
Wife: Go find her.
Me: Go find her? Honey, there’s like 50 miles of tubing in there. It could take days. She’ll come out when she gets hungry.
Wife: There’s an outside exit in the play area. How can you be sure she didn’t open the door and run out into the street and is about to get splattered by a giant semi from Hell?
Me: What?
Wife: She’s probably in the back of a windowless van, gagged, bound, drugged, and helpless, with you sitting here stuffing your face, while her captors are forcing her to shoot up heroin and smoke crack and do acid.
Me: That’s a lot of drugs.
Wife: She could be getting high and watching pornography right now.
Me: Huh?
Wife: Maybe she’s in a shipping crate, on her way to war-torn Africa where she’ll be given a gun and forced to participate in the latest ethnic cleansing campaign and kill mindlessly while, simultaneously being forced into a life of child prostitution as the tribe passes her around like some kind of soulless plaything, and pushed to the brink of existence till she is nothing more than an empty shell, a vague memory of the cute, rosy-cheeked girl we once knew and one day, as she teeters on the edge of a monstrous African cliff, before she leaps to her own demise upon the jagged rocks below, she will utter one… last… word.
“DAAAADDYYYYY!!!”
Me: *gulp*
Wife: You’d never be able to forgive yourself. You’ll sit around in a constant state of morbid depression, getting old, fat, ugly, bald, stupid, and retarded. Unmovable. You’ll burst into uncontrollable, seizure-like, fits of weeping every time you think about the day you chose a burrito over your own daughter. Hmmph.
And with that last “hmmph,” I was defeated; once again bested by the Queen of Rhetoric. I promptly ran to the play place certain I was too late.
As it turns out, she was only playing on the slide. Not a windowless van in sight.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Slip 'em a Mickey
I’m not what you would call a “pickle” guy. Sure, I like pickles as much as the next person. I’ll enjoy them with a sandwich, or on a sandwich, or even right from the jar if I’m hungry for a salty snack and there’s a lack of better choices. But I would never use “pickle” in a list of favorites, let alone to describe my tastes. Also, I can’t recall a single conversation, from my 30 years, when someone said to me, “I love pickles” or “I think the pickle is the best damn thing in the world. I think I’ll marry pickle and conceive human-pickle babies.”
No, I have never heard that.
But somehow, by some ethereal sorcery, when everyday people cross the threshold of the Disneyland barrier, they not only want pickles, but they want them so bad they’re willing to pay exorbitant sums of money to obtain one.
“Is that a pickle?” Joe Tourist will ask. “I want a pickle. Nay, I need a pickle! I must have pickle!! How much is pickle? Thirty-six dollars? That’s totally reasonable. Give me one.”
However, the spell Walt has over every person who dares enter his world holds no sway over me. For me, Walt’s domain (which I call Mordor) lost it’s magic in the summer of 1990 when I got kicked out (on my birthday) for nothing more than a few trumped up charges of assault and battery. I was taken behind the scenes to Disneyland “security” and it was there that I was first exposed to the dark underbelly of what was universally touted as “The Happiest Place on Earth.” Dwarves were smoking, ducks and dogs were gambling, and fairy-tale princesses were prostituting themselves for nothing more than a meal. During my short stay, before my official ejection from the park, I focused my senses and became an astute observer. It was there that I saw, firsthand, the puppet strings and learned the Wizard of Oz was just a man behind a curtain.
I saw the canisters, filled with various smells, (vanilla, buttered popcorn, etc.), which were systematically sprayed over the crowd as they walk past the corresponding food shops. I saw the cages where the Disney characters are kept at night. I witnessed an official Disney song recording session in progress where seemingly innocent Disney songs like “It’s a small world” and “A Pirates Life” are laced with subliminal messages that encourage over-spending, over-eating, the purchasing of ridiculous souvenirs, and promote teen promiscuity, binge drinking, communism, Celine Dion, and white supremacy.
Despite the blatancy of it all, no one is the wiser. The world has collectively been slipped a giant Mickey and it won’t wake up. It’s like the town of Stepford, but instead of robotic wives they’ve given us little robotic minorities who chant about laughter and cheer whilst brainwashing us into mindless disciples.
The most alarming thing I discovered was found in the journal of Walt Disney himself. How I stumbled upon said journal is unimportant. From the journal I learned that the capitalistic abuses of Disney Inc. and it’s subsidiaries are for one purpose and one purpose only. To secure Walt’s empire preliminary to the second coming. Not the Second Coming of Jesus, (I would have used CAPITALS to specify that one) but the second coming of Walt Disney himself.
A few excerpts from his prophetic timeline read as follows;
2012: The United States of America becomes The United States of Disney when Disney Inc. pays off the national deficit.
2013: World War 3 breaks out when the entire band of Franz Ferdinand is assassinated at the Mtv Music Awards hosted in Sarajevo.
2021: The United States of Disney emerges victories and declares world domination.
2022: A secret society named The Illuminati of Mickey thaws Walt Disney from his cryogenic status to full vitality thus facilitating his “second coming.”
2022: Walt Disney assumes his position as Supreme Ruler of the World and governs from the highest tower of the Disneyland Castle.
In case you’re considering visiting The Black Magic Kingdom on your next vacation, let me tell you what you should expect to spend.
Entrance Fee: $66 ($56 for kids 3 – 9)
Pickle: $36
Churro: $72
Burger: $85
20 oz. drink: $98
T-shirt: $153
Yarmulka w/ plastic discs stapled to it (a.k.a. Mickey Ears): $379
Giant Turkey Leg: $586
Glow-in-the-dark crap for post sunset: $1,105 (when I say "crap" I mean stuff. It's not an actual glow-in-the-dark terd. You get those at San Diego Zoo.)
Tiara: $2163
The look on your child’s face when they realize the full magic of Disneyland, try to beat you because of it,
and then collapse from heat stroke:
Priceless.
I wasn’t willing to pay full price for my turkey leg, but I was willing to tear it from the hands of a screaming 6-year-old and hide in the bushes while I ate it.
No, I have never heard that.
But somehow, by some ethereal sorcery, when everyday people cross the threshold of the Disneyland barrier, they not only want pickles, but they want them so bad they’re willing to pay exorbitant sums of money to obtain one.
“Is that a pickle?” Joe Tourist will ask. “I want a pickle. Nay, I need a pickle! I must have pickle!! How much is pickle? Thirty-six dollars? That’s totally reasonable. Give me one.”
However, the spell Walt has over every person who dares enter his world holds no sway over me. For me, Walt’s domain (which I call Mordor) lost it’s magic in the summer of 1990 when I got kicked out (on my birthday) for nothing more than a few trumped up charges of assault and battery. I was taken behind the scenes to Disneyland “security” and it was there that I was first exposed to the dark underbelly of what was universally touted as “The Happiest Place on Earth.” Dwarves were smoking, ducks and dogs were gambling, and fairy-tale princesses were prostituting themselves for nothing more than a meal. During my short stay, before my official ejection from the park, I focused my senses and became an astute observer. It was there that I saw, firsthand, the puppet strings and learned the Wizard of Oz was just a man behind a curtain.
I saw the canisters, filled with various smells, (vanilla, buttered popcorn, etc.), which were systematically sprayed over the crowd as they walk past the corresponding food shops. I saw the cages where the Disney characters are kept at night. I witnessed an official Disney song recording session in progress where seemingly innocent Disney songs like “It’s a small world” and “A Pirates Life” are laced with subliminal messages that encourage over-spending, over-eating, the purchasing of ridiculous souvenirs, and promote teen promiscuity, binge drinking, communism, Celine Dion, and white supremacy.
Despite the blatancy of it all, no one is the wiser. The world has collectively been slipped a giant Mickey and it won’t wake up. It’s like the town of Stepford, but instead of robotic wives they’ve given us little robotic minorities who chant about laughter and cheer whilst brainwashing us into mindless disciples.
The most alarming thing I discovered was found in the journal of Walt Disney himself. How I stumbled upon said journal is unimportant. From the journal I learned that the capitalistic abuses of Disney Inc. and it’s subsidiaries are for one purpose and one purpose only. To secure Walt’s empire preliminary to the second coming. Not the Second Coming of Jesus, (I would have used CAPITALS to specify that one) but the second coming of Walt Disney himself.
A few excerpts from his prophetic timeline read as follows;
2012: The United States of America becomes The United States of Disney when Disney Inc. pays off the national deficit.
2013: World War 3 breaks out when the entire band of Franz Ferdinand is assassinated at the Mtv Music Awards hosted in Sarajevo.
2021: The United States of Disney emerges victories and declares world domination.
2022: A secret society named The Illuminati of Mickey thaws Walt Disney from his cryogenic status to full vitality thus facilitating his “second coming.”
2022: Walt Disney assumes his position as Supreme Ruler of the World and governs from the highest tower of the Disneyland Castle.
In case you’re considering visiting The Black Magic Kingdom on your next vacation, let me tell you what you should expect to spend.
Entrance Fee: $66 ($56 for kids 3 – 9)
Pickle: $36
Churro: $72
Burger: $85
20 oz. drink: $98
T-shirt: $153
Yarmulka w/ plastic discs stapled to it (a.k.a. Mickey Ears): $379
Giant Turkey Leg: $586
Glow-in-the-dark crap for post sunset: $1,105 (when I say "crap" I mean stuff. It's not an actual glow-in-the-dark terd. You get those at San Diego Zoo.)
Tiara: $2163
The look on your child’s face when they realize the full magic of Disneyland, try to beat you because of it,
and then collapse from heat stroke:
Priceless.
I wasn’t willing to pay full price for my turkey leg, but I was willing to tear it from the hands of a screaming 6-year-old and hide in the bushes while I ate it.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Signs You’re Subconsciously Ready To Quit Your Teaching Job
Your students know more about Texas Hold’em than History.
When you come across a fight in the hall, instead of breaking it up you prefer to take bets.
When you get caught in the bathroom smoking, you refuse to remove the cigarette from your lips before you tell the principle to “bite me!”
You love to teach the kids of the “good ol’ days” by constant use of corporal punishment.
You can lecture for hours on the qualities of navel lint whilst extracting samples along the way.
Your favorite object lesson includes Nazi uniforms, the parking lot, and a giant pile of burning books.
When a parent comes to talk to you about why their child is doing poorly the only explanation you can muster is, “Well, stupidity breeds stupidity.”
Your way of “preparing kids for the real world” is by administering the occasional sucker punch, and stealing their lunch money.
You stopped bothering to learn names long ago and now just refer to all your students as “Numb-Nuts”.
In a year end self evaluation, you give yourself an F.
When you come across a fight in the hall, instead of breaking it up you prefer to take bets.
When you get caught in the bathroom smoking, you refuse to remove the cigarette from your lips before you tell the principle to “bite me!”
You love to teach the kids of the “good ol’ days” by constant use of corporal punishment.
You can lecture for hours on the qualities of navel lint whilst extracting samples along the way.
Your favorite object lesson includes Nazi uniforms, the parking lot, and a giant pile of burning books.
When a parent comes to talk to you about why their child is doing poorly the only explanation you can muster is, “Well, stupidity breeds stupidity.”
Your way of “preparing kids for the real world” is by administering the occasional sucker punch, and stealing their lunch money.
You stopped bothering to learn names long ago and now just refer to all your students as “Numb-Nuts”.
In a year end self evaluation, you give yourself an F.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Leap Yeah!
Where I come from we have this tradition and deep seeded religious belief that February 29th, the extra day of every leap year, is very special. Like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Arbor Day, February 29th is accompanied by it’s own set of mystical beliefs, and outré traditions. The belief is that on the 29th the eyes of heaven are closed and the people of the world are unattended and basically unaccountable for anything they do that day. Needless to say the 29th soon became a day of revelry, lasciviousness, gluttony, horseplay, tomfoolery, bally-hoo, hijinks, buffoonery, capers, shenanigans, and overall unwonted behavior.
Now, some people would argue that bad, or immoral behavior deterred only by fear of the stick, is callow, and is at the lowest level of self-governance. While some would say, that righteousness due to external incentives is not righteousness, Others would say, “No ones watching?! YAHOO!!”
If you were previously unaware of this unique holiday allow me to illustrate just what you’ve been missing out on.
In 1980, when I was two, and still a bit of a novice, I pulled off my diaper, unbeknownst to my parents, and crapped myself silly. Looking back, it seems more like a vicious prank on myself as much as anyone else.
1984; Some other first graders and I took a carton of eggs and a balloon launcher and shot eggs at cars on the freeway. Unfortunately four people lost their lives that day. Fortunately, they were all pretty old and on their way out anyway.
1988; I joined a PETA youth group and helped them burn down a facility that was doing medical tests on animals. The screams that came from the animals that we forgot to un-cage still haunt my dreams.
1992; I leaked a story to the LA Times that the 29th of February had been moved to the 29th of April. Some uninformed Americans still believe that the LA riots were a result of the acquittal of the white police officers that beat Rodney King like a piñata, instead of the truth, which is, they were just enjoying the regular celebratory rights of the 29th.
1996; I verbally supported Bill Clinton all day.
2000; I went to Vegas, got a job, and danced with the Chippendales for the whole night. Financially it was time well spent because, aside from my wages, I made $68.94 in tips. (Admittedly, it’s a little awkward dancing with 94 cents clinking around in the sling area of one’s Speedo.)
2004; I had a hard time enjoying the 29th that year because, unlike previous years, I was married to someone who cracks an even bigger whip than the Man upstairs. So, it was pretty much a let down.
This year I reclaimed my independence. I got up, took off my son’s diaper, and then left for work. I later found out from my wife that he’s doing his part to carry on my legacy.
I hope you all had an eventful 29th. Only four more years ‘till we get to do it again.
Now, some people would argue that bad, or immoral behavior deterred only by fear of the stick, is callow, and is at the lowest level of self-governance. While some would say, that righteousness due to external incentives is not righteousness, Others would say, “No ones watching?! YAHOO!!”
If you were previously unaware of this unique holiday allow me to illustrate just what you’ve been missing out on.
In 1980, when I was two, and still a bit of a novice, I pulled off my diaper, unbeknownst to my parents, and crapped myself silly. Looking back, it seems more like a vicious prank on myself as much as anyone else.
1984; Some other first graders and I took a carton of eggs and a balloon launcher and shot eggs at cars on the freeway. Unfortunately four people lost their lives that day. Fortunately, they were all pretty old and on their way out anyway.
1988; I joined a PETA youth group and helped them burn down a facility that was doing medical tests on animals. The screams that came from the animals that we forgot to un-cage still haunt my dreams.
1992; I leaked a story to the LA Times that the 29th of February had been moved to the 29th of April. Some uninformed Americans still believe that the LA riots were a result of the acquittal of the white police officers that beat Rodney King like a piñata, instead of the truth, which is, they were just enjoying the regular celebratory rights of the 29th.
1996; I verbally supported Bill Clinton all day.
2000; I went to Vegas, got a job, and danced with the Chippendales for the whole night. Financially it was time well spent because, aside from my wages, I made $68.94 in tips. (Admittedly, it’s a little awkward dancing with 94 cents clinking around in the sling area of one’s Speedo.)
2004; I had a hard time enjoying the 29th that year because, unlike previous years, I was married to someone who cracks an even bigger whip than the Man upstairs. So, it was pretty much a let down.
This year I reclaimed my independence. I got up, took off my son’s diaper, and then left for work. I later found out from my wife that he’s doing his part to carry on my legacy.
I hope you all had an eventful 29th. Only four more years ‘till we get to do it again.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
High School-isms
The Following are actual questions and comments from a few of my high school students. Names have been changed to protect the ignorant.
Paige: “If I were French, I think I would hate American food.”
Sara: “Whatever. I love our food. French Fries are awesome.”
-----
Jacob: “You don’t know how long it took Columbus to get here? I thought you were a history teacher.”
Me: “Well, I know when he got here. Do you?”
Jacob: “Ya. Like 1944.”
Adam: “It was way before that you idiot. It was like the 1830’s.”
-----
Me: Who would you like to follow around and observe for a day, and why? It can be anybody; dead or alive.
(I get a variety of answers. People from history, politics, religion, pop culture, family, etc.)
Me: Jennifer, how about you?
Jennifer: I’d like to follow my dad while he was fighting in Vietnam.
Me: Oh, your dad was in Vietnam? (joking wryly) What side did he fight for?
Jennifer: You know what, I’m not sure.
Me: Well, is your dad Vietnamese? (Jennifer is obviously Caucasian.)
Jennifer: I don’t know. I’ve never asked him.
-----
Trina: “Is England in the United States?”
Paige: “If I were French, I think I would hate American food.”
Sara: “Whatever. I love our food. French Fries are awesome.”
-----
Jacob: “You don’t know how long it took Columbus to get here? I thought you were a history teacher.”
Me: “Well, I know when he got here. Do you?”
Jacob: “Ya. Like 1944.”
Adam: “It was way before that you idiot. It was like the 1830’s.”
-----
Me: Who would you like to follow around and observe for a day, and why? It can be anybody; dead or alive.
(I get a variety of answers. People from history, politics, religion, pop culture, family, etc.)
Me: Jennifer, how about you?
Jennifer: I’d like to follow my dad while he was fighting in Vietnam.
Me: Oh, your dad was in Vietnam? (joking wryly) What side did he fight for?
Jennifer: You know what, I’m not sure.
Me: Well, is your dad Vietnamese? (Jennifer is obviously Caucasian.)
Jennifer: I don’t know. I’ve never asked him.
-----
Trina: “Is England in the United States?”
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Valentine To Self
My good friend, Garrett Batty from Three Coin Productions, did all the filming, directing, and editing.
To find this on YouTube type in "Valentine to self." It should be near the top.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Love It
I’d like to kick this month off right by dedicating my first post to a subject very close to my heart. So close, in fact, that it’s right inside my heart; Love. Because, all you need is love.
Well, unless you’re homeless. Then all you need is love, and someplace to sleep where you won’t freeze to death. Other than that, I guess, all you need is love.
Now that I think about it, what about hitchhikers? Forget love. I’ll bet they’d just settle for a ride. Also, I would say amputees’ need more than love. They probably need some kind of major surgery, physical therapy, and then some prosthesis. And as long as I’m brain storming here, what about diabetics? Are you trying to tell me that when their blood sugar plummets that a shot of love is going to save their butts? H no! Best case scenario; their feet get the axe, then they need prosthesis too. Worst case; a fat shot of insulin fast or they're tits up in an hour. And what about drowning victims? Do you think any of them are under water struggling for love? OXYGEN, PEOPLE! That’s all they need! And what about the obese? Don’t try and tell me it’s the lack of love that’s fueling their gluttony. I think they’ve received too much love, and not enough tough-love. What they need is a taskmaster to crack the whip, and knock the Twinkies from their chubby fingered grip when they succumb to temptation, and to push them outdoors and then have them chased through a park by wild, starving dogs. After that, then maybe we’ll talk about some normal love. And don’t get me started on Asian child sweatshop laborers. Do you think any of them are thinking, “Now that all my needs are being met, I could use some love.”? Answer; NO, THEY'RE NOT! They’re going to need a butt-load more than love to make it to adulthood. As their collective legal representative I demand that they receive, 1) Regular workplace safety inspections, 2) A minimum wage equal to that in the U.S., 3) Clothes appropriate for the weather and working conditions, 4) Regular meals where all the four food groups are represented, 5) Dessert, sometimes. 6) Bi-weekly employee socials and mixers where they can meet and mingle and possibly spark a romantic relationship. When these needs are met, the Asian Child Sweatshop Laborers Civil Liberties Union will drop it’s case.
You know what, now that I think about it, The Beatles were naïve, mindless nincompoops. The world needs a lot more than love. My new mantra is as follows; All you need is a warm bed, a ride, exercise, prosthesis, oxygen, minimum wage, and insulin.
Well, unless you’re homeless. Then all you need is love, and someplace to sleep where you won’t freeze to death. Other than that, I guess, all you need is love.
Now that I think about it, what about hitchhikers? Forget love. I’ll bet they’d just settle for a ride. Also, I would say amputees’ need more than love. They probably need some kind of major surgery, physical therapy, and then some prosthesis. And as long as I’m brain storming here, what about diabetics? Are you trying to tell me that when their blood sugar plummets that a shot of love is going to save their butts? H no! Best case scenario; their feet get the axe, then they need prosthesis too. Worst case; a fat shot of insulin fast or they're tits up in an hour. And what about drowning victims? Do you think any of them are under water struggling for love? OXYGEN, PEOPLE! That’s all they need! And what about the obese? Don’t try and tell me it’s the lack of love that’s fueling their gluttony. I think they’ve received too much love, and not enough tough-love. What they need is a taskmaster to crack the whip, and knock the Twinkies from their chubby fingered grip when they succumb to temptation, and to push them outdoors and then have them chased through a park by wild, starving dogs. After that, then maybe we’ll talk about some normal love. And don’t get me started on Asian child sweatshop laborers. Do you think any of them are thinking, “Now that all my needs are being met, I could use some love.”? Answer; NO, THEY'RE NOT! They’re going to need a butt-load more than love to make it to adulthood. As their collective legal representative I demand that they receive, 1) Regular workplace safety inspections, 2) A minimum wage equal to that in the U.S., 3) Clothes appropriate for the weather and working conditions, 4) Regular meals where all the four food groups are represented, 5) Dessert, sometimes. 6) Bi-weekly employee socials and mixers where they can meet and mingle and possibly spark a romantic relationship. When these needs are met, the Asian Child Sweatshop Laborers Civil Liberties Union will drop it’s case.
You know what, now that I think about it, The Beatles were naïve, mindless nincompoops. The world needs a lot more than love. My new mantra is as follows; All you need is a warm bed, a ride, exercise, prosthesis, oxygen, minimum wage, and insulin.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Most Surprising Things I’ve Read In a Panda Express Fortune Cookie
“We call this place ‘Panda Express’ because there’s an actual panda in the back ‘expressing’ all the food from his bowels.
“You’ve just ingested at least 6 ounces of pure MSG.”
“If they wanted too, any one of the employees could jump across the counter and kung fu your a%#.”
“My name Javier. I’m a nine-year-old boy and I live in a sweatshop just outside of Caracas, Venezuela where we are forced to write fortunes 13 hours a day. Please Help!”
“說 文 解 字 说 文 解 字.”
“A monetary reward will be paid to anyone who kills escaped capitalist Chinese citizens.” –General Mao Zedong
“You just ate Orange Chicken.”
“Impending doom awaits around every corner. Your violent demise is certain. Sorry.”
“Made In Taiwan”
“You’ve just ingested at least 6 ounces of pure MSG.”
“If they wanted too, any one of the employees could jump across the counter and kung fu your a%#.”
“My name Javier. I’m a nine-year-old boy and I live in a sweatshop just outside of Caracas, Venezuela where we are forced to write fortunes 13 hours a day. Please Help!”
“說 文 解 字 说 文 解 字.”
“A monetary reward will be paid to anyone who kills escaped capitalist Chinese citizens.” –General Mao Zedong
“You just ate Orange Chicken.”
“Impending doom awaits around every corner. Your violent demise is certain. Sorry.”
“Made In Taiwan”
Monday, January 21, 2008
Big Fat Quitter
I love snowmobiling, I just hate guiding, and until I quit my job yesterday I was in the middle of my 5th year of snowmobile guiding. And, despite the guests and the contact I'm forced to have with other humans in this particular line of work, I probably could have made it through to the end if the work to compensation ratio hadn’t been so far out of whack this year.
Allow me to explain –
In years previous I lived within 40 minutes of the job site. Both places of employment were in or near Park City. I’d get there by eight a.m., warm up the snowmobiles and be guiding by nine. That, and I had a normal person for a boss. This year I got a job at Snowbird and my reasoning was that this place was closer and would be easier to get to and from work everyday. Not true. This was the routine. After teaching school all week I’d use my weekends to get up at six, drive 40 minutes to the bottom of Little Cottonwood Canyon, hitchhike to Snowbird, catch the 7:30 tram to the top of the mountain, ski down the back side of the mountain, change out of ski gear and into snowmobile gear, warm up and gas snowmobiles, hope the guests don’t cancel, take guests for rides on dangerous machines, repeat process in reverse, go home without a break in my week. On top of all that, my boss, who was a short, stalky, angry lesbian (imagine Grumpy, of the 7 dwarfs, with longer hair and a sex change. I kind of think she was angry all the time because she was a lesbian by chance and not by choice; a no-other-options kind of deal. She was always talking about how she was going to “chew your a$$” if you did this or that and “sh#@ runs downhill” so don’t do this or that cause the “sh%@’s going to hit the fan” and there’s going to be a “sh#@ storm” so “watch you’re a#@” or “I’ll chew it.” She was surprisingly fond of expressions involving a@#’s or sh#%, and for some reason she wanted to chew on both of them - a lot. But I digress.) On top of all that, my boss, the angry lesbian, decided that she would have less problems if she put two guides, instead of one, on every tour. At the end of the day, what that means is I was making half as much in tips. Well, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I called the angry lesbian and told her I was done. Surprisingly, after our conversation, I didn’t smell any sh@#, and my a#% was still intact.
Anybody have any great ideas for a weekend job?
Allow me to explain –
In years previous I lived within 40 minutes of the job site. Both places of employment were in or near Park City. I’d get there by eight a.m., warm up the snowmobiles and be guiding by nine. That, and I had a normal person for a boss. This year I got a job at Snowbird and my reasoning was that this place was closer and would be easier to get to and from work everyday. Not true. This was the routine. After teaching school all week I’d use my weekends to get up at six, drive 40 minutes to the bottom of Little Cottonwood Canyon, hitchhike to Snowbird, catch the 7:30 tram to the top of the mountain, ski down the back side of the mountain, change out of ski gear and into snowmobile gear, warm up and gas snowmobiles, hope the guests don’t cancel, take guests for rides on dangerous machines, repeat process in reverse, go home without a break in my week. On top of all that, my boss, who was a short, stalky, angry lesbian (imagine Grumpy, of the 7 dwarfs, with longer hair and a sex change. I kind of think she was angry all the time because she was a lesbian by chance and not by choice; a no-other-options kind of deal. She was always talking about how she was going to “chew your a$$” if you did this or that and “sh#@ runs downhill” so don’t do this or that cause the “sh%@’s going to hit the fan” and there’s going to be a “sh#@ storm” so “watch you’re a#@” or “I’ll chew it.” She was surprisingly fond of expressions involving a@#’s or sh#%, and for some reason she wanted to chew on both of them - a lot. But I digress.) On top of all that, my boss, the angry lesbian, decided that she would have less problems if she put two guides, instead of one, on every tour. At the end of the day, what that means is I was making half as much in tips. Well, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I called the angry lesbian and told her I was done. Surprisingly, after our conversation, I didn’t smell any sh@#, and my a#% was still intact.
Anybody have any great ideas for a weekend job?
Monday, January 14, 2008
The STINKEYE!
Yes, those are my eyes. No, I did not use Photoshop to color the left one.
I have…
con•junc•ti•vi•tis (kən-jŭngk'tə-vī'tĭs) n. inflammation or infection of the mucosal membrane that covers the eyeball and lines the eyelid. Conjunctivitis usually causes redness, discharge, and itching of the membrane. It may also cause fatigue, loss of libido, shrieking flatulence when surrounded by people, hair loss, deafness in the left ear and extreme sensitivity to sound in the right, twisted testicle, turrets, paralysis of the brain, shrinkage of the urethra to the point of complete urine blockage, expansion of the urethra to the point of incontinence, an emotional sensitivity to puns, road rage, athletes foot, explosive porcelain shattering diarrhea, spontaneous usage of Ebonics, tooth loss, cow-licks, edible toe-jam, spastic colon, whiplash, overbite, PMS in males, ear hair, arthritis in the middle finger making it unable to bend, southern drawl, facial hair and a propensity for "locker-room talk" in females, elephantitis, sympathy for Yoko Ono, cleft pallet, table-tennis elbow (not as severe as tennis elbow), club foot, pirate talk, and ghetto booty.
Commonly called pinkeye, conjunctivitis is also know as Blood-Clops, The Baboon’s Sphincter, and El ojo del Diablo.
If contracted one should regularly rinse eye with hot water, wash hands, avoid staring at the sun, avoid staring at women’s breasts (especially if they’re talking to you), not operate medium-light to medium heavy-ish machinery, avoid attempting to scrape the red off the eyeball, avoid legal gambling, avoid consorting with the mafia, avoid raiding meth labs without backup, avoid starting a meth lab without proper support, avoid alligator wrestling, bull fighting, dog fighting, bull dogging, cock fighting, cock dogging, dog cocking, and knitting. Also, refrain from greeting friends and loved-ones with butterfly kisses.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)