“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”
Friday, January 25, 2008
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
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Miracles Abound
A few days shy of Christmas I was out with my family, doing the last minute shopping. (All my shopping to be more accurate.) My daughter, in true two-year-old fashion timed her tantrum perfectly. She waited till we were on the top floor of Mervyn's in the middle of the crowd waiting to check out. Nearing the registers we were surrounded on all sides by no less than two hundred antsy shoppers. (If this had been an English soccer match at least fifty people would have been trampled.) Just as we were nearing the epicenter of the retail experience my daughter was possessed by the Devil himself and endowed, from below, with the insatiable desire to drink. "I NEED A DRINK!!" she shrieked. Drink what? It didn't matter. She needed liquid and she needed it NOW! I was hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean yet still she squirmed and arched like a newly landed marlin who knew it was fight or die. It took all of both my physical and mental capacity to keep her from flying free of my bear-hug like grip. All four limbs became lethal weapons acting autonomous of the other three. Knees and feet pummeled my torso and crotch. Elbows and hands battered my head and face like a crazed diabetic Mexican trying to shatter a sugar filled piñata. I tried to anticipate the blows by clenching my eyes tightly for fear one of her little fingers should pierce an eyeball, stab my frontal lobe, and drop me like a sack of flour. One man, certain she was having a violent seizure, attempted to insert his wallet into her mouth lest she bite down on, and sever her own tongue. I left my wife and son behind and pressed to the edge of the mob trying to restrain her and minimize the collateral damage upon innocent onlookers. It was my intention to first, remove the danger from the crowd, and second, retreat to more private environs where I could give her the beating she deserved out from under the watchful eyes of children's rights activists. When I broke the perimeter I felt a rush of cool air, breathed deep, and lengthened my stride.
It's an interesting thing about the toddler tantrum; it can subside as quickly as it arises. Not 10 seconds from the crowd her red little eyes spied a shopping cart with a child's seat. She gasped, fell silent, and in the blink of an eye changed from demon to angel. Her face went soft, her limbs hung peacefully, and the horns receded. I set her down and as she approached the cart she whispered, "Oh my darling. Oh my adorable."
I asked her if she wanted to ride in the cart and in a sweetness that even Shirley Temple could not have mustered she clasped her hands together, batted her eyes, and softly said, "Oh yes."
Upon observing this astonishing change, I didn't have the heart to deliver the aforementioned beating but instead lifted her inside the cart and pushed her away certain I had just witnessed a genuine Christmas miracle.
God bless us, everyone.
It's an interesting thing about the toddler tantrum; it can subside as quickly as it arises. Not 10 seconds from the crowd her red little eyes spied a shopping cart with a child's seat. She gasped, fell silent, and in the blink of an eye changed from demon to angel. Her face went soft, her limbs hung peacefully, and the horns receded. I set her down and as she approached the cart she whispered, "Oh my darling. Oh my adorable."
I asked her if she wanted to ride in the cart and in a sweetness that even Shirley Temple could not have mustered she clasped her hands together, batted her eyes, and softly said, "Oh yes."
Upon observing this astonishing change, I didn't have the heart to deliver the aforementioned beating but instead lifted her inside the cart and pushed her away certain I had just witnessed a genuine Christmas miracle.
God bless us, everyone.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Favorite Things About The Holiday Season
Everyone gets good at acting like they enjoy crap that they hate the rest of the year… like ballet.
Extremely outdated animation
The chance to sit around with the old folks listening to them breath through their noses so loud you think Lord Vader is in the room.
The superior feeling of Christian exclusivity
A chance to kiss women, who are out of your league, because they unwittingly stepped under the mistletoe.
A chance to grope women, who are out of your league, because they unwittingly walked too close to the poinsettia. (family tradition)
Late night Christmas Eve toy construction when it's o.k. to swear
Christmas MURDER! (Because the rest of the year it’s just plain murder.)
Midgets get to walk freely among normal people.
Conifer Genocide!
Extremely outdated animation
The chance to sit around with the old folks listening to them breath through their noses so loud you think Lord Vader is in the room.
The superior feeling of Christian exclusivity
A chance to kiss women, who are out of your league, because they unwittingly stepped under the mistletoe.
A chance to grope women, who are out of your league, because they unwittingly walked too close to the poinsettia. (family tradition)
Late night Christmas Eve toy construction when it's o.k. to swear
Christmas MURDER! (Because the rest of the year it’s just plain murder.)
Midgets get to walk freely among normal people.
Conifer Genocide!
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Memories In A Flash
The advent of the digital camera has infused our generation with a new kind of nostalgia; a nostalgia of the immediate past. Never mind the bygone days when things were simpler, all children loved and revered their parents, and mom-and-pop shops had yet to be snuffed out by the super store. No, never mind all that. We long for the immediate past. Despite the fact that we were just there OR are even still there, we want to relive those precious moments that we’ve just had. That is why everything you buy these days “is also a camera”; your phone, your computer, your camera. Need I say more?
Because of this phenomenon my children are part of the most photographed generation in history. And it’s not because they are cuter, and therefore more deserving of lens time. (Well, mine are. But I’m certain yours aren’t.) It’s because cameras are small, compact, cheap, and part of every other piece of technology. It’s getting to the point where it’s unreasonable to not have one.
Recent studies show that 96% of Generation X Americans have only seen one pre-marriage picture of their grandfather[s]. And it’s probably the one of him in overalls (nothing else) in front of a small schoolhouse with a small group of other children who look like orphans or chain-gangers.
94% of the same group saw an average of four pre-marriage photos of their father. And each time were embarrassed by both his goofy haircut and the girth of his glasses. The same percentage of Generation X has one photograph from every school year attended, along with some random pictures from various family vacations.
My children, Generation Z, are a totally different story. Their lives are an experience in intrusive documentary. If my kids were celebrities my wife would be the most vicious of paparazzi. (The kind that, while their child is on a tricycle, runs beside them with a camera, trying to capture a moment of them in real life, despite the fact that their child is trying to escape in a panic and crashes into a tunnel entrance wall and kills everyone on board including her Muslim lover.) (Too soon?) I say “my wife” because technology alone is not responsible for this ever-growing photo frenzy. Moms are the other half of the equation. Most dads on the other hand are convinced that simply experiencing a moment in time will suffice. But women half to catch it, and then relive it immediately just in case they missed some nuance of the fleeting moment.
While visiting the in-laws over Thanksgiving, my wife, our two kids, a few of the in-laws, and I went to The Aquarium of The Pacific to enjoy some nature just as God intended; in captivity. To support my thesis I would like to include an actual conversation, between my wife and I, that took place there.
Her: “Set the kids against the glass there.”
I comply because that’s what a dad does. He’s ever posing the kids so to convince all her friends that her children are in a constant state of “cuteness.”
Me: “Like this?”
Her: “No! So that Maggie’s arm is around Cash’s shoulder! Make it natural.”
Me: “Sorry.”
I fix the arm. Maggie understands what’s happening and fights it. Cash falls over. I hurry and stand him up because I know I’m blowing it.
Her: “Just get out of the way.”
Me: “Right. Sorry.”
She snaps the picture and immediately changes the function to “view.”
Her: “Oh my gosh mom, look how cute!”
Her mom excitedly hurries to her side. This gets her sisters attention and soon all three women are huddled around a tiny LCD screen, making the noises women make whilst viewing pictures of children (even if the kid has a face like Mr. Ed). But that’s not enough.
Her: “Honey, come look at this.”
Me: “That’s OK, I know what it looks like.”
Her: “Whadaya mean, ‘you know what it looks like’?”
Me: “I was there. You just took it. I was looking at the same scene you just photographed. The image is fresh in my brain, and I love it. No picture could improve that moment for me. It was magical. But you should know, after you took the picture, while you were pouring over it with maternal enthusiasm, you missed out on a bunch of other cute crap our kids did. Cash did a little tap dance for passers by, and earned over $10 in change, and Maggie struck up a conversation about the pros and cons of Affirmative Action with an elderly black man. It was adorable. I’m sorry you missed it.”
Her: “Why don’t you love our children?”
Despite what my wife may think, I do love my children and I do appreciate pictures of them when more than three seconds have past.
Here is a very small fraction of the pictures taken in the recent past.
Cash at his first swim lesson. (We did not stage this. He climbed in there of his own accord. My wife just left him in there long enough to photograph... and get something to drink.)
My kids spend 95% of their waking hours sitting around in nature in cute clothes, smiling.
Maggie's first pair of slutty boots.
A day at the aquarium.
The three most important people in the world.
Because of this phenomenon my children are part of the most photographed generation in history. And it’s not because they are cuter, and therefore more deserving of lens time. (Well, mine are. But I’m certain yours aren’t.) It’s because cameras are small, compact, cheap, and part of every other piece of technology. It’s getting to the point where it’s unreasonable to not have one.
Recent studies show that 96% of Generation X Americans have only seen one pre-marriage picture of their grandfather[s]. And it’s probably the one of him in overalls (nothing else) in front of a small schoolhouse with a small group of other children who look like orphans or chain-gangers.
94% of the same group saw an average of four pre-marriage photos of their father. And each time were embarrassed by both his goofy haircut and the girth of his glasses. The same percentage of Generation X has one photograph from every school year attended, along with some random pictures from various family vacations.
My children, Generation Z, are a totally different story. Their lives are an experience in intrusive documentary. If my kids were celebrities my wife would be the most vicious of paparazzi. (The kind that, while their child is on a tricycle, runs beside them with a camera, trying to capture a moment of them in real life, despite the fact that their child is trying to escape in a panic and crashes into a tunnel entrance wall and kills everyone on board including her Muslim lover.) (Too soon?) I say “my wife” because technology alone is not responsible for this ever-growing photo frenzy. Moms are the other half of the equation. Most dads on the other hand are convinced that simply experiencing a moment in time will suffice. But women half to catch it, and then relive it immediately just in case they missed some nuance of the fleeting moment.
While visiting the in-laws over Thanksgiving, my wife, our two kids, a few of the in-laws, and I went to The Aquarium of The Pacific to enjoy some nature just as God intended; in captivity. To support my thesis I would like to include an actual conversation, between my wife and I, that took place there.
Her: “Set the kids against the glass there.”
I comply because that’s what a dad does. He’s ever posing the kids so to convince all her friends that her children are in a constant state of “cuteness.”
Me: “Like this?”
Her: “No! So that Maggie’s arm is around Cash’s shoulder! Make it natural.”
Me: “Sorry.”
I fix the arm. Maggie understands what’s happening and fights it. Cash falls over. I hurry and stand him up because I know I’m blowing it.
Her: “Just get out of the way.”
Me: “Right. Sorry.”
She snaps the picture and immediately changes the function to “view.”
Her: “Oh my gosh mom, look how cute!”
Her mom excitedly hurries to her side. This gets her sisters attention and soon all three women are huddled around a tiny LCD screen, making the noises women make whilst viewing pictures of children (even if the kid has a face like Mr. Ed). But that’s not enough.
Her: “Honey, come look at this.”
Me: “That’s OK, I know what it looks like.”
Her: “Whadaya mean, ‘you know what it looks like’?”
Me: “I was there. You just took it. I was looking at the same scene you just photographed. The image is fresh in my brain, and I love it. No picture could improve that moment for me. It was magical. But you should know, after you took the picture, while you were pouring over it with maternal enthusiasm, you missed out on a bunch of other cute crap our kids did. Cash did a little tap dance for passers by, and earned over $10 in change, and Maggie struck up a conversation about the pros and cons of Affirmative Action with an elderly black man. It was adorable. I’m sorry you missed it.”
Her: “Why don’t you love our children?”
Despite what my wife may think, I do love my children and I do appreciate pictures of them when more than three seconds have past.
Here is a very small fraction of the pictures taken in the recent past.
Cash at his first swim lesson. (We did not stage this. He climbed in there of his own accord. My wife just left him in there long enough to photograph... and get something to drink.)
My kids spend 95% of their waking hours sitting around in nature in cute clothes, smiling.
Maggie's first pair of slutty boots.
A day at the aquarium.
The three most important people in the world.
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