tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23617785118405356622024-03-05T05:39:45.948-05:00The Voice of SanityIn the midst of chaos, fortunately someone is willing to fearlessly speak out.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-81354182454916360552009-09-25T21:54:00.011-04:002010-01-25T18:16:37.775-05:0015 - Airline Industry - Part 2 (FAA Regulations)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcj9_-zCZJHfD6Hu3h1X6MqAX5Uvzpw1p9u8abJNPysTnJqVK_q_47pkYBDAqq1jgnYhE21ZDOXEMMOlFmHA7oEIqjEYzYdAZ3_gjl7ukgeuU5-zMUXsHey1rQHKz-d_ZnVosRfzCttlcB/s1600-h/federal_aviation_administration_emb_n11297.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385589077757769426" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcj9_-zCZJHfD6Hu3h1X6MqAX5Uvzpw1p9u8abJNPysTnJqVK_q_47pkYBDAqq1jgnYhE21ZDOXEMMOlFmHA7oEIqjEYzYdAZ3_gjl7ukgeuU5-zMUXsHey1rQHKz-d_ZnVosRfzCttlcB/s320/federal_aviation_administration_emb_n11297.gif" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Every month I travel approximately 10K miles via airplane. Not to toot my own horn, but I would consider myself an experienced traveller. Toot. Oops. I meant to not do that. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">What I have come to realize from my vast experience, is that FAA Regulations have been written by some whiny little turd-ball tattle-tail who probably got beaten up as a kid, or by someone who has a very small penis.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: That's kind of inappropriate and sexist. What if it was a woman?</em></span><br /><br />Before you start crying about my rudeness, let me explain. My frustration is all about <strong>PED</strong>s, or Portable Electronic Devices. Can I ask you a question? Good, because I'm going to. How many plane wrecks have you heard about that were caused by Portable Electronic Devices? None. That's how many. </span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><div><br />Ok. I'll give you the two-way radios, and talking on the cell phone. That MIGHT interfere with communication equipment. But give me a break. Ebooks, ipods, laptops, noise cancelling headphones, Gameboys, calculators. </div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div>"Anything with an on and off switch." </div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div>It's bull-crap and you know it. And THEY know it. It's a power trip, plain and simple. They love coming by and spying my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00154JDAI/?tag=googhydr-20&hvadid=3445487751&ref=pd_sl_177pa6cuyf_e">Kindle</a> turned on. They get all excited like it's Christmas morning. AHA!!! Caught you, you little cheater! They probably keep a tally in the back and whoever gets the most points at the end of the day wins the pile of treasure they found in the seatback pockets.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: I don't think they really...</em></span><br /><br />And speaking of seatback pockets, I'm not allowed to keep ANYTHING in them! What the hell are they for?? And where am I supposed to keep my water bottle, Kindle, M&Ms, sweatshirt, shoes, aerosol cans, nail clippers...? </div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>My guess is that all this precaution is to keep us safe in the event of a crash. Come on! We're going to be squashed! Who cares if my laptop was on, or my tray table was down, or my seatback was not in the "upright position"?<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: It's for YOUR safety and the safety of those around you.</em></span><br /><br />Safety!? You drive to work in your car full of unsecured projectiles strewn about, eating a bacon double-cheese buffet, and talking on your cell phone (using your <a href="http://somebodyshouldfixthat.blogspot.com/2008/02/10-ear-thingies.html">ear thingy</a>, of course) while <a href="http://somebodyshouldfixthat.blogspot.com/2007/11/6-having-text.html">texting</a>, and you're going to lecture me about safety? </div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>That's what I thought. So. I leave my cell phone turned on for the entire flight, and I turn my Kindle on as soon as the flight attendants are done with their spying. It's my own small rebellion. When I die in a fiery plane crash, you'll know why. </div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div>It was the damned Kindle. (Or the cell phone. Maybe my watch? It's electronic...)<br /><br />Somebody should fix that. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-10452745307330669002009-09-25T21:38:00.008-04:002009-09-30T09:08:09.106-04:0014 - Airline Industry - Part 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbiuJ1rNlhDruFSO75JSkkPcSP1LIJFndL2sUlOUyLdSOo2sv4W99fJpEAzmzekwHc1D5zW6HfPLIVFLXkyph9L1vsVYbfF350d0Fxqpxq8F1BC_W0445AFT9oOacGs80CDb-gHjUCsZD/s1600-h/k0963140.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385586930483449826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbiuJ1rNlhDruFSO75JSkkPcSP1LIJFndL2sUlOUyLdSOo2sv4W99fJpEAzmzekwHc1D5zW6HfPLIVFLXkyph9L1vsVYbfF350d0Fxqpxq8F1BC_W0445AFT9oOacGs80CDb-gHjUCsZD/s320/k0963140.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">The day started fine. After work I went home and packed my bags in anticipation of seeing my kids for the weekend. I was scheduled on the red-eye out of Seattle, so I arrived at the airport with plenty of time - two hours early as usual.<br /><br />On this day, two hours was too early. It gave my attitude extra time to deteriorate...<br /><br /><strong>One.</strong><br />The security check-point I typically use was closed. I walked the quarter mile to the other checkpoint to find a lone TSA Agent servicing the whole State of Washington. Like a good little sheep, I got in line with nary a grumble and waited my turn. Secured, I walked the quarter mile back to where I should have been thirty minutes ago.<br /><br /><strong>Two.</strong><br />As I waited by the departure gate, I happened to notice the departure time was 11:55p, not the scheduled 11:17p. As any airline professional will tell you, there are many very good and valid reasons for delay. I will list them for you:</span></div><ol><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Because. (completely out of our control) </span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Act of God ie: There’s Weather. (completely out of our control)</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">The flight crew didn’t get their 20 minutes of beauty rest and due to FAA regulations and reason #1 it is completely out of our control.</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">We don’t have a plane. (completely out of our control)</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Mechanical difficulty. (completely out of our control)</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">The inbound flight is delayed. (see #1-5, and it’s completely out of our control) </span></li></ol><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Don’t bother calling the 800 number. I’ve tried. It’s futile, because how can they be responsible for crap that is completely out of their control?<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: </em>You're<em> out of control.</em></span><br /><br /><strong>Three.</strong><br />Idiot travelers. Your rolly bag goes WHEELS FIRST into the bin. Nice and easy. NOT SIDEWAYS. Keep your purse with you. And your cardigan. And your hat. And your bottled water. And all your moronic extra traveling crap. It’s not rocket science. Rolly bag in the bin, other crap under the seat in front of you or on your lap you selfish, inconsiderate jerk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I had to go back seven rows to find a spot to stow my bag. Yes, I was pissed when we landed and I had to swim downstream against traffic to retrieve it.<br /><br /><strong>Four.</strong><br />I had been traveling so much that I’d finally racked up enough frequent flier miles to qualify for complimentary Economy Plus seating and was excited about enjoying it for the first time. There is so much more leg room, it felt downright spacious. I called out to my feet, “Can you hear me down there??” Echo. Echo. Echo. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">No. They couldn’t. That’s how roomy it is.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Sometimes I think you’re retarded.</em></span><br /><br />ANyway. The plane was nearly full, and there was a rare empty seat between me and my row-mate. Fortunately for us, and in the nick of time, two people stuffed into one body joined us in our row. I’m not sure words can describe how very upset I was by this point.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Who’s the moron who arranged this seating assignment? It doesn’t matter. Because of circumstances “beyond their control” I ended up getting to use HALF of my Economy Plus seat. The two people in the middle seat were disguised as a Rabbi. They smelled extremely NON-kosher, spread out over their seat (and a large portion of mine) and proceeded to fall asleep. I was in the aisle seat, so I spent the night cuddling their arm on one side and being beaten to a pulp by the beverage cart on the other. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Where’s the justice when all the skinny bitches are in first class and the fat Rabbis are sitting on my lap in coach?<br /><br />Somebody should fix that. </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-86920731126049167242009-02-11T19:44:00.016-05:002009-02-18T10:59:58.763-05:0013 - Where's the Love?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3CSQcJb2G-pmsX_kFs6LCRJone-HVnYBEW-JjSRYc-J196JyzlYtlXPtxN5A_SEisIg9PLXtw31GyVoUfSiobAyIBuzJ-BOtskTIKaR-XOvdMXse-eAgpgZU1N1mosKBpm96_R23_8ggs/s1600-h/13heart.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301710054088189794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 136px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3CSQcJb2G-pmsX_kFs6LCRJone-HVnYBEW-JjSRYc-J196JyzlYtlXPtxN5A_SEisIg9PLXtw31GyVoUfSiobAyIBuzJ-BOtskTIKaR-XOvdMXse-eAgpgZU1N1mosKBpm96_R23_8ggs/s200/13heart.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">I don’t know the history of Valentine’s Day, or anything about St. Valentine. Nor do I care right now. What I do know, is that Saint or no Saint, Person Valentine would roll over in his/her grave if they had an inkling as to what their day had become.<br /><br />Before you get all up in my face about how I have no sense of romance or bah-humbug, or whatever, let me tell you something. Shut up. I’m a very romantic and passionate person, and I love the idea of Valentine’s Day. At least I love the idea of what it used to be before communism reared it’s ugly head in America. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><em>Blog: You can't tell, but I'm rolling my eyes.<br /></em><br />It all started a few days ago when I was asked to get Valentine’s Day cards for my kids to take to class. I said, “No problem!” Of course, that was before I took two seconds to think about it. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />My four-year-old needed 16 cards for her class. My six-year-old needed 27 for his. Fortunately my nine-year-old’s teacher isn’t a retard and she opted to stop the madness this year by saying NO to the fifty million cards.<br /><br />When I was a kid in grade school, we spent the week before Valentine’s Day making special cards for each person in our class and sneaking them into their little decorated boxes or folders at their desk. It was fun and exciting. If you got a bunch of cards, you knew you were a pretty good friend - and/or sexy. If you didn’t, you knew you sucked and would need to crank it up a notch for next year. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301710278397548594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 222px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKvc1_XPHdWEyUieIATbEJe7r0mmylpCBSRwKtdbgCmPqpam0ygkOkCSE9UoQpxJcVEas9Je3hUGXxoq6LJgdwuRBqd3iKKhX30Y4lVOMNwWU9ddEAohRMt8uaqV9d8bcBO1uDHFx2OHhr/s320/13panda.jpg" border="0" /><br />But not today. No. Today our kids BUY cards - Pokemon, Tinkerbell or Kung-fu Panda cards - 32 to a box. They come with stickers or tattoos. Or pencils. Or lollipops. Or a Ferrari. Just kidding. If they came with a Ferrari, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. I’d be driving my Ferrari.<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><em>Blog: You were saying?</em><br /><br />Oh, yeah. These stupid pre-made cards. You (theoretically with your child’s help) tear apart the cards, fold them, insert the “goodie”, seal the card shut with a sticker, and then have the child write their name in the FROM spot. BUT BEWARE!!! DO NOT write anything in the TO spot… </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />And this is where I start getting upset. Each child in the class has a bag or some type of container for loot. In the interest of fairness (I’m already barfing), each child gets one card from every student in the class. But it’s not personalized. Your child is required to give a card to everyone. Even if they’re an asshole. They still get a bag full of free stuff. No meaning. No love. Even if they don’t deserve it.<br /><br />As I was writing this post and venting to a friend of mine, she said her four-year-old son was required to bring 80 (EIGHTY!!) cards so everyone in the whole program would get one from everyone else, whether they knew that person or not. Did her son sign eighty cards? Hell no! His Dad ended up doing it for him. So basically, eighty parents are sending out cards to the children of 80 other parents who they probably haven’t even met. Hey Teacher, Karl Marx called. He wants his insanity back.<br /><br /><em>Blog: That’s a rude and unfair comparison.</em><br /><br />Whatever. There is absolutely no meaning to this ridiculous Valentine’s charade. Everybody gets one? Let’s keep if fair? It’s bullcrap and you know it.<br /><br />No wonder our children are growing up with the Welfare Mentality. You get stuff for free! Not only that, it’s Valentine’s Day, so you DESERVE it! Go ahead and be a jerk all year. You’ll still get a bag full of tattoos and lollipops next year!<br /><br />It pisses me off. Love and friendship is special. It takes work and commitment and responsibility. This celebration is a farce. The meaning is gone.<br /><br />I almost required my kids to hand-make each card from scratch. I figured it would add value to the experience. Then I realized, all the kids who receive the hand-made cards are going to be upset because they didn’t get one more sticker they could throw away later.<br /><br />Either bring the love back to Valentine’s Day, or quit doing it all together.<br /><br />Somebody should fix that.</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-26604771632622405052008-02-08T19:48:00.000-05:002008-02-08T19:54:46.171-05:0012 - Gums<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmz3NkX445lq_AKAkTkv649ZQND2sxYxc0zR6h_OSlNDPEhdgTMQC6-xJOoyQyQ4XxBjJN8wBbunYtcAuzYxspMZOxB_mrzg2cDSBMH_BOuDLg1-KnsmtU3xkJc81ji1prQN2VBjKxlS3Z/s1600-h/p_00020.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164776192049687794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmz3NkX445lq_AKAkTkv649ZQND2sxYxc0zR6h_OSlNDPEhdgTMQC6-xJOoyQyQ4XxBjJN8wBbunYtcAuzYxspMZOxB_mrzg2cDSBMH_BOuDLg1-KnsmtU3xkJc81ji1prQN2VBjKxlS3Z/s320/p_00020.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Remember the old days? Ok. Not the REALLY old days. I just mean the old days when I was a kid. Grandma’s purse was incredible. Any time we’d go somewhere with Grandma, she'd manage to lug her Samsonite with her. </span></div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><div><br />The beauty of having a Grandma with a purse of atomic proportions was that it had everything in it. Jumper Cables? Check. Pillow? Check. Case of Handi Wipes? Check. But the greatest reward to ever spring from Grandma’s purse, was gum. </div><div><br />And we could have whatever flavor we wanted, as long as it was peppermint or spearmint. Because, in the whole world, they only made peppermint or spearmint. But that changed when people started hearing about a new invention called The Choice.</div><div><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: I have a choice?</em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;"></span></em><br />No. I’m talking to the humans. We are psychotic about choices. Everyone wants choices. But there are so many choices we’re frozen into indecision. Have fun at the grocery isle. Have you looked at your gumtacular options? Walnut Berry Splash. Super Margarita Mint Medley. Chocolate Banana Fuzzy Ice Blast. Mango Papaya Yogurt Passion. Where the hell is the peppermint or spearmint? I wanted fresh breath, not fruit salad. </div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164776299423870210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJexbyGFOayD1Sp9uyWkxvrEkWnZkgVgCAzs9grPqRCZWyzou7Fy9UmnehW_L9Hy8PNjyuK4ZtsskTHP0Vav5wFuhCNsV6VLZFD6DuYzI_2IOEWdtKXYGib-ExdYxRQjHIC4MHca1w8EQU/s320/p_00020a.jpg" border="0" />Go ahead and keep your funky Bubble Tape and your Strawberry Vanilla Tart. Just leave me a small section with a sign so I can find it: Peppermint & Spearmint. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: and Juicy Fruit, and Cinnamon, and Fruit Stripe, and Bubbalicious, and Bubble Yum, and Bazooka, and …</em></span><br /><br />Somebody should fix that. </span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-7414674079839511252008-02-08T19:30:00.000-05:002008-02-08T19:43:56.408-05:0011 - Cereal Bags Suck<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164771720988732626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDuCY28izxHhp-Vgx5Tq2DYyTXSZ5dzXP5wyUvslJ-kybZA_Pro8QeOw1MYbtnEZBKrtlaxIzOmu0B-tBHXWXfBIL6MFBFJXQVaFrZqnJ0Cf0TEvOoARH-lizJSBmKA0yx7QvAAdQosLDY/s320/DSC04212.JPG" border="0" />Do we live in the greatest country in the world or what? We’re technologically advanced. We’re free (sort of – I’m sure I’ll have more to say about that later…). In general, we kick ass. Then why is it we can’t seem to manufacture a decent cereal bag?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Am I the only one who turns into a sailor when they open a new box of cereal? Seriously. Do I look like a plastic surgeon? </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: No.</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">40 years ago, we put a man on the moon. And by “we” I mean “they”. 10 years ago 128MB was a wicked hard drive. And just yesterday I was reading about <a href="http://www.pleoworld.com/">Pleo</a>, the interactive robotic dinosaur. Yet here I am. Struggling. Fuming. Because for some reason it’s impossible to invent a cereal bag that can be opened without archeological tools. Yes, I want cereal. No, I don’t want it in my hair.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Ok. I guess the problem isn’t really opening the bag. Any moron can open a cereal bag. The trick is opening it in such a way that it is still useable. But there’s such a fine line. You need to pull hard enough to separate the plastic, but not too hard or you’ll give the bag a C-Section. </span><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164773842702576866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98UFdpMynrOgHUK4-GxTZ8YGw_VyukTUFN5IwTTdrBiMf0rHIrPIUTDCFlSSvw3Z9yoyRrcxVYBhsVsdxHCAUpt-9VgIs-xyPGAQpSU9Iq844AEIPCLX3nuiR3dv5FFWfneGtUmwqLd8U/s320/DSC04214.JPG" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: Ever hear of scissors?</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">What? I don’t want to do an art project. I just want my freaking cereal. Right now! I’m not asking for cereal in a can. Shoot, I’m not even asking for Ziploc. I just want to be able to open the bag, excavate some cereal and roll the bag up for next time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Somebody should fix that.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-35568093268185791582008-02-06T14:57:00.000-05:002008-02-09T15:37:14.221-05:0010 - Ear Thingies<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbsrhFmUsWTi1kkNN06PUZ0RUSmBeWC8efM539MBXbqhTv29WqUhP7nmEp9yAAz0FP3ZaYtwywD64xmyEJKkh8zN-PL2QqBsi5bO1QH6qI090Ga7yPZa_TwzjAOjsvbnht8tOWPUJHNGIJ/s1600-h/DSC04193.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163959491133451410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbsrhFmUsWTi1kkNN06PUZ0RUSmBeWC8efM539MBXbqhTv29WqUhP7nmEp9yAAz0FP3ZaYtwywD64xmyEJKkh8zN-PL2QqBsi5bO1QH6qI090Ga7yPZa_TwzjAOjsvbnht8tOWPUJHNGIJ/s320/DSC04193.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Hey Bud! How’s it going? I’ve been really busy this week working on…Oops! Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Wait. Who are you talking to? Are you talking to me? I’m confused. Are you on the phone?<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Um. I’M confused.</em></span><br /><br />Sorry. It’s just that your lips weren’t moving so I thought you were wearing that Ear Thingy as a foundation for your self-confidence. Ha! Before you get all pissed at me for raining all over your charade, let me clarify: I like Ear Thingies. Ear Thingies are good. Ear Thingies make it possible for you to drive, talk on the phone AND chew gum at the same time. You go girl! (or boy)<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: I’m a boy.<br /></em></span><br />No you're not. You’re an androgynous collection of 1’s and 0’s, Pal. Simply created for my own amusement and completely controlled by the power of my will.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: I think therefore I am.</em></span><br /><br />Blog, sometimes you're just a distraction. I was trying to confront the ridiculous behavior of people who wear the Ear Thingy. Will someone please explain this phenomenon?</span><span style="font-size:85%;"></div></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"><br />A phone is a device you use and hold to yourself when in use. You don’t leave it hanging on your ear indefinitely just IN CASE you get a call. That’s stupid. It would be like leaving a roll of TP in my butt crack just because I MIGHT need to go to the bathroom at some point. Maybe I should carry around a stapler on the off chance I run into a stack of loose, unorganized papers today. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163960350126910658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_VDtIuIVwvxA5LWyEvFpMrxcSa7yhEfDl0tx7EdGQXerdAysHqomZAXugKmsTwnByh7l4ux8_VfTuCM4vcfGJuzXMDY7MuH3VOnuLliThTVRwy7i0pqxpiKLi6QdRZxIT8J6yUejX4JZ/s320/DSC04201.JPG" border="0" /><br />Imagine we lived our lives with this mentality. Everyone around us would be a walking junk drawer, and by trying to be prepared for every contingency, we'd revert to being useless. So ultimately we’d be breaking the Golden Rule, which states, “Be useful unto your neighbor so he can be useful unto you, and don’t wear Ear Thingies when you aren’t on the phone.” </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163959787486194850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcrQl7tduVDdrlJCPQhrM1QWweLAyJWJMnrznAt55wSDd3juntzKiJIit0Z5Pbv3-Z_EbFcVj-TL3uwFTBB0WjsdIA1flrtA8U8_DR6eknQzSwffiZUmd-fRg0L53kFQJg3N97r4e78bIB/s320/DSC04198.JPG" border="0" /><br />Seriously though, I don't keep my keys in my hand all day in case I might go for a drive. That's why God invented pants with pockets. So take off your Ear Thingy. Leave it in your pocket or your purse, or clip it on your belt. By all means put it on when you need it, but then quickly and with much stealth, remove it and stow it properly when finished.<br /><br />Somebody should fix that.</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: To be or not to be? That is the question.</em></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-76609638636659309712008-01-26T14:44:00.000-05:002008-01-28T19:57:25.106-05:009 - Proud to be an American<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqsVdqOSsUCRmgjM-eBgRliRiTvvEt-FbvAcy5_k1z5UjMQwdjVHVplp_BSV-c9VX1Q2ofYRn0RkGfytWi1Q0OeQopMUhEpx_G1OEB7bp0XiNCMcp0zF8ZaCTUJNwvjhoyM6KKKbmukXmq/s1600-h/Flag.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159873778939079810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqsVdqOSsUCRmgjM-eBgRliRiTvvEt-FbvAcy5_k1z5UjMQwdjVHVplp_BSV-c9VX1Q2ofYRn0RkGfytWi1Q0OeQopMUhEpx_G1OEB7bp0XiNCMcp0zF8ZaCTUJNwvjhoyM6KKKbmukXmq/s320/Flag.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">What is an American? An American is a mixture. Let me explain using the universal language, FOOD. Take a bunch of meals from their various containers. Ship them across the globe and throw them into one common bowl. Stir it. Mix it. Bake it. Mark it with a B. Pull it out of the oven and what do you have? Glop. THAT’s what an American is. Glop.</span></div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:100%;color:#ffffff;">.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: Am I an American? Because if I am I feel insulted by your rudeness.</em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">If your family’s been here for more than one generation, you’re a mixture. I’m Portuguese, Norwegian, Swedish, German, English, etc, etc, etc. How do I pick which country to be loyal to? AMERICA. Because it’s where I choose to live and the country I pick for citizenship.<br /><br />Here’s my problem. I’m sick and tired of people who are American citizens trying to pretend they’re not American. Rather than come out and say it, I figured I’d soften the blow a little by using Germany as an example.<br /><br />Can I live in Germany and be an American? YES. If I ever get confused, I just look at my passport. Oh, yeah. I’m an American. If I apply for German citizenship and for some unknown reason they accept me, I become a German. Should I learn to speak German? YES. HELLO! I’m a freaking German. I should know my own language. Or should I get all my American buddies to move to Germany with me, get citizenship, and go around converting everything to English? Then we could be American-Germans. We’d have American Awareness Month and the Germans would be pissed because in our neighborhood all the billboards would be in English. Does it sound ridiculous? Yes, it does. You would probably wonder why, if I love America so much, I live in Germany. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div></span><div></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;"><em>.</em></span></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: Ouch. Careful, buddy. You're coming across as kind of racist.</em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">I hope you don’t misunderstand me. I’m not racist. I have a color TV. But seriously, yes your ancestors had a sucky time. So did mine. So did everyone else’s. Some were slaves, some were Jews, some wanted religious freedom. Even Abel was persecuted to death by Cain. Life sucks. Move on.<br /><br />You’re a person. You have value. I love you the way you are. I don’t care what color you are or where your ancestors were from. Unless you’re a jerk. Then we can’t be friends. But what I was trying to get at is we’re all essentially the same. Our personalities are probably more different than our genetic make-up.<br /><br />The good (and the bad) thing is that in America, you make your bed. You lie in it. Don’t give me all that crap about how you don’t have any money, or you were born on the purple side of the tracks, or your Mommy loves Pringles more than she loves you. Lesser people than you have accomplished much greater things. You have just as much opportunity as the next person. Quit looking for a handout and step up to the plate. All they did different was work for it. I’m not an idiot. I realize that some people have to work harder than others. But everyone has the same <em>opportunity</em>. That’s what being an American is all about.<br /><br />The upside is that you don’t HAVE to live here. It’s a free country. You’re free to leave at any time. But if you’re going to live here and be a freaking citizen, lose the damn identity crises. You’re an American. Deal with it. Wear it with pride. Or go somewhere else and be an Asian-European, or an Ethiopian-Australian, or a General-Tso’s-Macaroni.<br /><br />Somebody should fix that.</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-1675565294325130742008-01-26T02:08:00.001-05:002008-03-11T14:05:54.703-04:008 - The "Fast" Lane<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fnPhUM6HzKVYyAJAU9UXqf1s2gbsElgYlSPPX4vjyVWSAsqDnrn7Wzu_DUqlxQ0no4LwaPravGg1CN46lb9AOfu4RWYxXTM-g1JUmX6MHu82wxJGA4paxkgjnwrj68GwOymQ7C_T5YuT/s1600-h/lane1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159679358654491698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fnPhUM6HzKVYyAJAU9UXqf1s2gbsElgYlSPPX4vjyVWSAsqDnrn7Wzu_DUqlxQ0no4LwaPravGg1CN46lb9AOfu4RWYxXTM-g1JUmX6MHu82wxJGA4paxkgjnwrj68GwOymQ7C_T5YuT/s320/lane1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Dear Mr. Driving-Slow-in-the-Fast-Lane Driver. This is a special note just for you. Yes, you. You know who you are. Or maybe you don't. You will in a minute.<br /><br />Did you go to Driver's Ed.? No you didn’t, Liar. Because what the hell are you doing in the fast lane? I'm hauling logs, jamming right up into your tail, and you're oblivious.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Maybe they can’t see you because their eyes are on the road.</em></span> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /></div></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159679646417300546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9LaUEIZZZeo-V0KL__rEiC61K8_y-WlrR2BZK0Dy-iXj9oYQBfQNPDwKpzEQst7hbyT3gQYqrtAcrtcCsCygyuL27iwEL1ts3qLuOdIzCInc1JE5VVI1BlahtEFkiayxMqRUcVKL7Juu0/s320/lane2.jpg" border="0" /><br />Take a look ahead of you. Now, glance up and to the right a little. See that rectangular thing with the black frame and shiny surface? That's called a rear-view mirror. Use it! What the hell! I'm flashing my brights at you. Not because I'm better than you. Not because I want to pick a fight. Not because you have a flat tire. It's because your slow ass is hindering my progress and I want you to SHOVE OFF. There are two perfectly good, empty and relaxing lanes to your right. Use THEM!<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Maybe they WANT to be late to the fire.</em></span><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159680011489520722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1G_B3E-T_5pBOZkoSt1ancbjfFokBZ1C3BUtzE00PQpvb584O6xgo0A1FAiu6hl1RUzL52d0EcmUqrDFn50PDk-cPbslYWAog9SbwTOkFjzU__R7bB0Y9fcAGR8h4WQC-eb7xquPrtKN/s320/lane3.jpg" border="0" /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I don't mind that you want to go 47 mph. Please! By all means, go 47 mph to your hearts content. But do it in the freaking Slow Lane. See? It has a name for you and everything. You're enjoying the journey. You don't care when you get there. Go ahead. Stop and smell the roses. But do it on your own dang time and somewhere far, far away from MY fast lane.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Maybe you should stop speeding.</em></span><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I don't need to go 90 mph. I just want to put my shoes on, my blues on and get my cruise on. Every time I have to tap the brake to disengage my cruise control brings me one step closer to the edge, and I'm about to break. Please save me, and yourself, from an ugly confrontation. MOVE OVER. SIT. STAY. Enjoy your slower pace and live life to it's fullest - over THERE. To the far RIGHT. And get the hell out of my way.<br /><br />Somebody should fix that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159862629203979378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuq1JwZ_B-NcXaf1SMZIAFyu_yMVwIEA4tW-RQRejKdtvtWoysnkOF4GSDC9TsRIgWFttZ85DXO9E92SkFqlj6fKuCrW2_SUAw1tf6auqdhxhq14WhkWuPOFgRzz9EatSIe1WE_s-jtYS/s320/lane4.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-18560059395654800542008-01-24T19:42:00.001-05:002008-02-17T22:53:19.590-05:007 - Chew<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHd74eNux6BgXNzltDDP67PMzSLcnjXiIE8H2j8tZTwsIH8eSnSsUVn0zEc3NUNjo7JscUPWdFkZwMJJgW5qkeJGASQQqYU0L7sY8MQKM6afKJUZ3AkJVzTNCjZTkt_MEf_U1TZ0kUQFf8/s1600-h/DSC04104.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159209016785906706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHd74eNux6BgXNzltDDP67PMzSLcnjXiIE8H2j8tZTwsIH8eSnSsUVn0zEc3NUNjo7JscUPWdFkZwMJJgW5qkeJGASQQqYU0L7sY8MQKM6afKJUZ3AkJVzTNCjZTkt_MEf_U1TZ0kUQFf8/s320/DSC04104.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I understand smoking. It looks cool, chicks dig it and it's a social activity. Smoking provides a clear indication of manhood. Unless you’re a girl, then it’s disgusting. But chewing tobacco? That's just stupid. What's the draw? How do you even get started with that? “Pssst. Hey Buddy. Tuck some of this cow poop in your lip. Everybody’s doin’ it.” Um. No thank you.<br /><br />If you smoke, there’s a good chance you’re going to end up with some kind of cancer, lung disease or breathing disorder. With chew, you don’t have to guess. There won’t be any sleepless nights worrying, or anxiety about what disease you’ll get. Just throw some dip at the body part you hate and chances are you’ll grow some cancer there.<br /><br />I’ve noticed that most people who chew prefer the lower lip. Tuck a nice wad of snuff in there, let it brew for a few years and PRESTO! You don’t have to worry about brushing those pesky old teeth anymore. Now you have an attractive chasm where your munchers used to be.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Since when do you get to judge what is or isn’t attractive? I’ve seen your hair.</em></span><br /><br />That was a rude interruption. I was totally on a roll. Maybe Blog could relax and keep its thoughts to itself. Sorry about that. So, here’s my problem with sucking the moist smokeless: It’s an <em>instant</em> IQ degenerator. </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Okay. I can tell by the look on your face that you don’t believe me.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span></div><div></div><div></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><div><br /></div><div></div><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><div></div><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><div></div><div><strong><em>Try this:</em></strong> Imagine you’re on the operating table and your brain surgeon is removing that part of your brain which thinks chewing tobacco is cool, sexy and all around bitchin’. Now, take a closer look at the brain surgeon. Does he smell like menthol? Is his lower lip pooched out? Is he drooling on your cranium? Does his expression say, “Duh . . .” Exactly. Now, imagine you’re ice fishing. There’s a guy about 10 feet away from you using a chain-saw to cut a hole in the ice. He’s standing in the middle of the hole he’s cutting. His name is Billy Bob Jethro Tull Meatloaf IX. Now, take a closer look at BBJTM IX’s face. Thank you. I rest my case.<br /><br />So, I’ve come up with a list of Pros and Cons to help sway you to my point of view.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Does anybody freaking care about this topic? Do they even make tobacco products anymore? I thought they were illegal.</em></span><br /><br />Dang it, Blog! Can you shut your face for 2 seconds! Sheesh.<br /><br /><strong>Pros</strong> </span></div><ul><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">The mark on your back pocket from the Skoal tin looks cool. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">You can pick where you'd like your cancer. </span></li></ul><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><p><br /><strong>Cons</strong> </p><ul><li>You look like a dufus. </li><li>You have to pick where you'd like your cancer. </li><li>There is a never-ending supply of chunks in your teeth. </li><li>Drooling. </li><li>Slurping between sentences. </li><li>Where to squirt the sauce? </li><li>Who wants to kiss a wet hay bale? </li><li>Your IQ is cut in half (if you're lucky). </li><li>Do I need to continue? </li><li>I don’t think so because if you're not convinced by now, you're a dufus and your mom wears combat boots. </li></ul><p>The ultimate goal for a guy is to be cool enough for chicks to dig him. I haven’t met a single girl who thinks that a guy chewing tobacco looks sexy. (Some married ones do, but no singles.)<br /><br />I propose arming tobacco pushers with M&M’s instead. Not only because I have stock in the Mars company, but also because chicks love chocolate. I know you can’t picture how this would work, so here is a recipe for Instant Stud: </p><ol><li>Toss a hand full of M&M’s (peanut look coolest) into your mouthal cavity. </li><li>Let them brew up a good sauce right there in that special place nestled between your lower lip and your teeth. </li><li>Slowly, delicately suck the juice out. </li><li>Eat the peanuts. </li><li>Swig some Pepsi. </li><li>Rinse and repeat.<br /></li></ol><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159209429102767138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpSTHNBQfgJQOAJ-ith2RGdPR8bdzOY-qsrxMg-rLtXip-qagdQ3iPopMNbG13qFojuGCLDGt4lO5mhF7hsDcnem2RfdsnEiPVeyRGA6BT7kDIXcl42gHtI7TpQXEh3ifvceNIZlCAVj1/s320/DSC04106.JPG" border="0" /><br />See? I knew you’d like it. There’s no spitting, no cancer (as far as we know), and you’ll always smell good. But you’ll still look like a dufus.<br /><br />Somebody should fix that.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: You’re not the boss of me.</em></span><br /><br />Yes I am.</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-86838195951464517992007-11-19T13:21:00.000-05:002007-11-20T10:08:19.239-05:006 - Having Text<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q-i8DF_BaULz_EWcaAA6NRU2UKSHzUAIv8NkYVvNoLi3dt5lOh5br3BDQz3KYmjsEeoM-I0wVLJW1z0fpTbz_ViO3UJwoyzdqWUi8oWnormshM-B_WeG_7kRcDAFeIeAXfYk7AG6lmdg/s1600-h/DSC03648.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134621926891970146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q-i8DF_BaULz_EWcaAA6NRU2UKSHzUAIv8NkYVvNoLi3dt5lOh5br3BDQz3KYmjsEeoM-I0wVLJW1z0fpTbz_ViO3UJwoyzdqWUi8oWnormshM-B_WeG_7kRcDAFeIeAXfYk7AG6lmdg/s320/DSC03648.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I've noticed an epidemic. Everywhere you look, people are having text. It's cool. I'm hip. I've even had text before. But give me a break. What ever happened to The Conversation?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br />Text is a sensitive topic. Like everything else, there is a time and place for text. When you and I are hanging out for an hour and you spend half that hour having text with someone else, there's a problem. It would be less rude to call the person, spend one minute having a conversation and then focus your undivided attention back on ME.<br /><br />On the other hand, I can see many legitimate reasons for having text. If I'm in a meeting and you need to get a message to or from me, text is a great solution. Maybe you're in class, just sending a quick FYI or note. Or you don't have a mouth. All good reasons for textual relations.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: You're my BFF. </em></span><br /><br />Okay psycho. I wasn't even talking to you. And what the hell is a BFF? I thought I told you before, I don't speak acronym.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: My bad, Homie. Chill. It's all good. Piece. </em></span><br /><br />Now you're scaring me. Let's move on because this is important. I've developed a list of definitions to help us all be better people, loving our neighbors as ourselves. I believe with a better understanding and awareness of text, we will be able to maintain good, healthy textual relations without sacrificing interpersonal communication as a whole.<br /><br /><strong>Textual Definitions </strong><br /><br /><ul><br /><li><strong>Textual Conduct</strong> - The behavior exhibited while having text.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Safe Text</strong> - Be smart. Be appropriate. For example, don't text while driving. We need you focused on the task at hand.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Text Offenders</strong> - These are people who text at inappropriate times, like during a conversation with you. To fix it, squeeze your eyes shut, scream "Blueberries!" at the top of your lungs and box your ears until they stop.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Textual Assault</strong> - Overload! You haven't even had a chance to answer the last text and you already have 3 more.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Oral Text</strong> - The act of SPEAKING words.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Text Goddess</strong> - She can text faster than she can type.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Text Machine</strong> - The doo-hicky you're using to text with.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Textual Harassment</strong> - They keep texting you even after you call them and ask them nicely to "Knock that crap off!"<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Pre-contractual Text</strong> - Having text before you even have a cell phone. Not sure how that works. Pencil and paper text?<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Textual Relations</strong> - Engaging in text with someone.<br /></li><br /><li><strong>Textual Tension</strong> - The electricity between two people who really want to have text with each other but know they can't because it's not the time or place.</li></ul><br /><p>I propose we have text messages, not textual conversations. Wouldn't our world be a much happier place if we all engaged in more Oral Text? I think so.</p><br /><p>Somebody should fix that.</p><br /><p><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: Wait a minute . . . that sounds a lot like something else.</em></span></span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-72558915168804912162007-10-24T19:01:00.000-04:002007-10-25T02:07:21.121-04:005 - A.D.D.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I saw this bandwagon the other day. It was so full of people it looked like the head on a frosty mug about to erupt like a thermal spring. On each side of the bandwagon was a sign that proclaimed "Attention Deficit Disorder Isn't a Bunch of Crap". I'm sorry. There are plenty of bandwagons I'll get on. That isn't one of them. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Now, before you start pelting me with spit wads and stoning me with insults, let me finish. I don't want you to misunderstand me. I believe A.D.D. is a legitimate condition and theoretically there are people who struggle with it. Having said that, I just ooooh! There's a butterfly . . .</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: Hello? Where did you go?</em></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-36028170077785969922007-10-15T09:31:00.000-04:002007-11-07T00:44:48.671-05:004 - Counting to Three<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxEvwg9QZhwRA3sl-VcEl11W9cnmEJotVzFOLLyBAKug6WyoORZhOxThWfpmW-d5sG8ShIqp111HEGf7wLGtNd2siY4MtMwalCtlTUCvJkNsrdHuQ-ijyz_FBuG-L9Q4euBUKK4whFLR7/s1600-h/3c.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124380397857113602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxEvwg9QZhwRA3sl-VcEl11W9cnmEJotVzFOLLyBAKug6WyoORZhOxThWfpmW-d5sG8ShIqp111HEGf7wLGtNd2siY4MtMwalCtlTUCvJkNsrdHuQ-ijyz_FBuG-L9Q4euBUKK4whFLR7/s320/3c.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I'm a pretty reasonable guy. I understand there are an infinite number of books written about parenting and child discipline. There are innumerable parenting techniques that I don't agree with. But that's ok. I can live with the fact that we disagree on some things. However. There is one form of discipline that I can not comprehend. Ergo, it must be stupid. It is the warning technique that involves counting, and the magic number three.</span> <div><div><div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">I realize there's the Holy Trinity, Three's Company and Three Blind Mice. But don't you remember? Bad things happen in threes. Three's a crowd, the Third Reich and the <em>Rambo</em> Trilogy.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: Um. I kind of liked the Rambo Trilogy.</em></span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Yeah. Because of it's eloquent and witty dialog, right? Maybe you should check out <em>Gladiator</em> or <em>300</em> and join us in the 21st Century. Sorry about that. Blog's kind of rude interrupting us in the middle of a perfectly good one sided conversation. Where were we?</span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Oh, yes. Counting to three. I have a question. Why stop at three? Why not go to four or ten? In my experience, which involves countless hours of field testing and research, three is not magic. I'll bet you the four pennies jangling in my right pocket that if you counted to four your kid would wait until four to listen to you. Ditto the number ten.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Have you noticed? Police don't count. "Pull it over. I'm serious. Don't make me count. Alright, buddy. One . . . Two . . . Two and a half . . . Two and three quarters . . ." Seems ridiculous, right? I agree. And, at what age does the counting stop? "Son, I expect you and your wife and kids to come for Thanksgiving dinner. What do you mean you're busy? One . . . Two . . ."</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Are there rules? Like you can't count to someone older than you? "Gram, don't go outside in the ice storm. I don't want you to break your hip. Again. Gram! Get back in here! One . . . Two . . . Two and nine sixteent<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAE6GGG3ncsqCLhQlRCYjW_psdydIHN83dM5OBbexJoY4dqQrGw85hgWM9SgxED9kuUathE3nMg6N5AMnsJphyphenhyphenGiU1OVXNWlsVQ8cqWaQmfrZLCJ4fBk1wto6-5Ak85aEa9Nd_fHjSq5W/s1600-h/3b.jpg"></a>hs . . ."</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I guess the reason it seems so absurd to me is that when I tell my kids to do something, I mean it the first time. I realize that i</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">f I were a counter, they'd wait until three because they could. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Kids are kids. Obviously they won't always do what you tell them to do, when you tell them to do it. But can we stop the madness?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">No wonder kids demand a second and third chance. When you speed, your chances are pretty good you'll get a ticket. Don't expect a warning. Don't ask for a second chance. You were caught disobeying the law. Quit crying and take your ticket. You deserve it. Learn from it. One time. That's how many times I'm going to tell you something.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Oops. I slipped and accidentally got her pregnant. You only told me once not to play Twister. Oops. I trapped my czar around an elephant pole while I was punk. I wish you'd told me tee times so I knew you were serious about blinking and diving. They're not used to facing the consequences because they've never had to. Until the wondrous power of three has been reached.</span></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: I think you're going overboard. Blaming an insignificant number for the downfall of our society.</em></span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Sometimes I think Blog is a pesky little junior higher. Questioning my intellect and authority. Like Blog has any experience being a parent. Check the facts, pal. They fit.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">I think the ridiculous counting needs to stop. If you don't mean it the first time, don't say it. And if you just can't help yourself, and you physically NEED to count - like a hummingbird needs socks - why not stop at one? You may be surprised. It's just as magic as three.</span></p><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Somebody should fix that.</span></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-58938865954186315062007-10-02T14:59:00.000-04:002007-10-15T09:45:42.052-04:003 - Pennies are Stupid<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpglam9m5VUQBkGCf3oiRqlYXxiCP6FJlYP0xdMeiLfIWHuViHhB5xmx23kf-Q8GvEfvEqSK7V3F-GXt75eVOdE4NZrgCP-AH2T7DoIEoQ99fSQAk86gvuFdD-Or1ZClaSmK5f7f45Ml6/s1600-h/DSC03073.JPG"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119150908692513346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpglam9m5VUQBkGCf3oiRqlYXxiCP6FJlYP0xdMeiLfIWHuViHhB5xmx23kf-Q8GvEfvEqSK7V3F-GXt75eVOdE4NZrgCP-AH2T7DoIEoQ99fSQAk86gvuFdD-Or1ZClaSmK5f7f45Ml6/s200/DSC03073.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Do I look like Santa Claus? No. Then why should I jingle all the way?<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">A few days ago I stopped at a fast food restaurant. I knew going in that you get good food or good value, not both. All I got was pissed. I frugally selected the 97 cent yucktastic cheese booger. After paying tax, rent and the milkshake fund, my total came to one oh three. Nestled in my left pocket were several neatly pressed, fresh and crispy dollar bills. Spooning in my right pocket were my keys and a whole bunch of nothing else. The way I like it.</span></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">All I needed was three stupid pennies. But no. I was forced to sacrifice one of my thin, quiet bills in return for 97 cents worth of Here I Am Look At Me!</span><br /></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I don't mind spending the extra money, I mind the geyser of nearly useless metal in my pocket waiting to erupt all over my car seat and trickle down into my socks. Recently I've just been telling people to "keep the change". Have you seen someone at the exact moment when the lights go out? Tell them to keep the change. It's actually kind of funny. Their eyes glaze over and they start mumbling and drooling. DOES NOT COMPUTE. That's 97 cents worth of entertainment right there. Money well spent in my book.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119151119145910866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-xs5BLfdFNZbBnMdZ1wEd0aLmI6a7Q4wtfMIiaKgl8tR7F-76ice9xsHq2V-cuZTdOneSNdo95fJjfE-TTB5LedGyjOQssA3M7ah1HPwRp-4qKyWuDl9Sud1NgmlNjMAW23dvVbzdl_3/s200/DSC03072.JPG" border="0" /></span></p><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">In the scheme of things, does a penny really make a difference? They take up space. They use up all the batteries in my change sorter machine. I always run out of penny wrappers first. You have to find 25 of them just to buy a gumball. Pennies are like mosquitoes. Except they don't have wings. Or buzz. Or suck my blood. Or make me itch. Ok. I guess they're not totally like mosquitoes. But they're annoying and they bug the hell out of me. Does anybody make penny repellent? Because I'll buy some. </span><em><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Blog: You seem to do a lot of complaining without offering any solutions.</span></em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />Ok mister smarty pants. I'm not totally unreasonable. I propose a compromise. Let's get rid of all the stupid pennies, nickels and dimes. From now on we round to the nearest quarter. I would way rather pay an extra 25 cents to not have reindeer chase me. Seriously. You're going to give me 97 cents?? Save the time it takes counting out 97 cents in change, and just give me the frickin dollar. I've got your back next time when the total is $1.13. </span><br /></span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Somebody should fix that.</span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-65788498009832207902007-09-26T00:11:00.000-04:002007-10-02T10:35:51.826-04:002 - Toilet Paper<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Do you use toilet paper? Please say yes. I'll assume you do.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em></em></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: Assume makes an 'Ass' out of 'U' and 'Me'.</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Are you going to be like this ALL the time? I think Blog should be seen and not heard. Speaking of ass, I was at the store the other day. My task was seemingly simple. Procure some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">TP</span>. Simple it was not.</span><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-m8eC2pW0JWCNylQog6xlICh6c-ZcjT-pJV67lz_RtfQ98bM1zqhr_llMmXMdTHN0IxXsfgycY8oH5XZ6eTKY4Igye_hg7ypv2uAq6OTZZ0Exqi6DJ_LZwgcLiGv1FlTlmbDZGSptgdVJ/s1600-h/DSC03055.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115853816918196594" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-m8eC2pW0JWCNylQog6xlICh6c-ZcjT-pJV67lz_RtfQ98bM1zqhr_llMmXMdTHN0IxXsfgycY8oH5XZ6eTKY4Igye_hg7ypv2uAq6OTZZ0Exqi6DJ_LZwgcLiGv1FlTlmbDZGSptgdVJ/s200/DSC03055.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Somewhere in the last ten years a "brilliant" product analyst came up with an entirely new way to piss me off. If you do not have vast experience or an intimate knowledge of higher math, it is virtually impossible to buy toilet paper. A roll of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">TP</span> is no longer measured as a roll. I'm convinced there is a formula or equation involving <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">pyarskwaired</span> and circumference vs. diameter divided by squares per roll times the number of ply equals who gives a crap. I just want some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">frickin</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">TP</span>! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><em>Blog: You're whining, so you may as well use the wine comment</em></span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">It's not like I'm trying to pick wine. It's small squares of tissue paper. In a roll. Seems simple enough. Why did somebody have to make it so complicated? 24 Double Rolls = 48 regular rolls. 24 Extra Jumbo rolls = a Million Billion Double Quadruple Rolls. </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">It takes longer to pick out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">TP</span> than the rest of the groceries! I finally just got pissed and grabbed one that looked familiar.</span> </p><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY0K7_wXLfmmRv_mUuG_-zYoC8RDi8rBsHdvSSCaQm53Y_J-qohMpq-KMsRu1QGAOD7Ts8oGYTmFlciD9hbXqHdK6EHiBFdOJB6Buu1amF3TxnPV-o-93mEMGkLS0xwJjkYIObxAxyi2pv/s1600-h/DSC03051.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115854181990416770" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY0K7_wXLfmmRv_mUuG_-zYoC8RDi8rBsHdvSSCaQm53Y_J-qohMpq-KMsRu1QGAOD7Ts8oGYTmFlciD9hbXqHdK6EHiBFdOJB6Buu1amF3TxnPV-o-93mEMGkLS0xwJjkYIObxAxyi2pv/s200/DSC03051.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">When I go to the store I'd just like to be able to reach out and grab a pack of toilet paper. No BS. No gimmicks. Just plain old, white as snow, pure, lovely toilet paper. To wipe with. I don't need it to lotion me. I don't need 18 ply. I don't need six thousand meters. I just need a few squares. To wipe.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">Somebody should fix that.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361778511840535662.post-26325298555874034812007-09-25T23:32:00.000-04:002007-10-02T10:36:04.062-04:001 - It's Name is Blog<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">I have discovered a new world, and it's name is Blog. I frequently get a hankering to spill my opinionated guts regarding things that are stupid and need to be fixed. Blog is there. Blog will hold my hand and comfort me. Blog will understand and not talk back. Blog will listen. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><em>Blog: Maybe you should get to the point . . .</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Blog will shut the hell up and keep it's opinions to itself. I'll do the talking. It's my Blog. Not the other way around. Sorry about that. Blog needs a "time out". </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">So. Here I am. The Voice of Sanity. Blog is just along for the ride.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4