Hey Readers, sorry about being such a slacker in the absence of posts of late. I resolve to change that and get back to weekly, at a minimum. Now to the pressing topic on my mind...
There are several circumstances that occur in my life that cause me to ask one simple question of those I encounter: Do you smoke crack? For example, when you re-org large portions of your entire company, and you expect your customers and employees to be basically done with the transition in 5 working days, do you smoke crack? When you do 60mph in the fast lane, with everyone passing you, and you merge abruptly into the middle lane without looking or signalling, or seeing the car already there, do you smoke crack? When you drive down the freeway, at 5am in the morning, at 78mph, with your car cab lit up by the visor light in front of you because you are busy applying foundation to your overweight face while you don't watch where you are going, do you smoke crack? When you walk your dog in front of my property, and let it pause to take a crap on the edge of my lawn, while I am standing out front, watching you both, and you don't pick it up, and you act surprised when I yell at you as you leave and demand that you pick it up, and look shocked when I get you a bag to pick it up, again, I have to ask, do you smoke crack? When your three (count 'em, three) dogs so small they should be called rats incessantly bark every single solitary time I go into my backyard, yipping and doing sissy-snarls, bouncing off of the fence in micro-aggression, when that happens, and I finally tell them to shut up, and you get offended at me for talking to your dogs since you won't, again, DO YOU smoke crack? I can come up with at least five more examples of this hard evidence that the crack dealers in northern California are clearly making BANK selling their wares to my entire surrounding environs. Sheesh. WHERE oh where is the DEA? Do they still exist?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Strange Restaurants & Kids' Comments
OK first, sorry for not posting for a while, for all 3 of you that read this (LOL). I guess if I was even a AAA-league blogger, we'd have at least a few thow (I made that spelling up - you know what I mean) reading this. Of course, it'd have to be very regular, and very interesting. So yeah, I have a ways to go. Bethatasitmay, to today's topics...
Strange Restaurants. OK I recently had the chance to be in an ethnically diverse neighborhood, and at this particular strip mall there were some interesting restaurant names, obviously from first generation Americans. Their work ethic is unparalleled, their belief in the American dream inspiring, their sense of marketing and brand-development, absent to the point of hilarious! Let me give you a few examples. This first one is particularly choice, clearly ethnically diverse. So much so, that I figure the proprietors are a Chinese husband and a Hispanic wife. He greets, seats, and serves; she's in back whipping up the specials. The name of the restaurant? Ready for this? Carnitas de Mandarin. I can hear it now. "I'll take the mongolian beef tacos please, fried rice, refried beans, and give me one of those dimsum enchiladas with the hot oil dipping sauce. And for desert? Monkey chimichangas! Oh yeah!" I couldn't even bring myself to walk up and read the menu on the window. I was liable to walk off laughing, and I didn't want to be disrespectful. If I had my own restaurant, I could laugh, but since I don't, I can't, at least not out in front of their gig. I can in front of my keyboard, and that's exactly what I am doing now. Ok, this second one is a bit more muted, still quite funny, but screams an obvious ESL (English as a Second Language) disposition. Ready? Imagine, in a big red colorful lettering, above the front doors to a (sadly) empty restaurant, the words Wonderful Chinese Restaurant. Can you imagine calling 411, and asking for a listing for Wonderful Chinese Restaurant. I can hear the operator coming online, saying, "I'm sorry sir, but we're not permitted or equipped to provide restaurant reviews. There are many restaurants in your area. Can I get a name for the listing you seek?" The other part about this that strikes me as funny is the shameless attempt to convince people that this place is really good, using the name of the place to convince you and seal the deal. "Yeah, I came here because your name says you are wonderful, and wow, that was too compelling to resist. By chance, can I get some mongolian beef tacos to go? Oh wait, that's the place down the street. Sorry." This just cracks me up. You probably just think I am nuts. Onto topic #2.
Kids' Comments. Somehow or another my wife and I got on the topic of kids and their comments. I learned that her daughter (my step-daughter) at an early age, was taught that nobody touches her private parts. All responsible parents teach their kids this. So years ago, when my wife's daughter is all of three years old, and they're in line at the grocery store, my wife is in front of the cart, and her daughter is sitting in it facing the middle-aged man behind her in line. And what does she declare to this complete stranger in a loud, assertive voice, with all the authority a three year old can muster? "NOBODY touches my private parts!" My wife was concurrently mortified and dying laughing right there at checkstand seven. So after that story, I shared my own. She learned about my little brother, probably four at the time, somewhere on isle 12 at the local grocery, Mom pushing the cart. I was busy scanning the isle for things I wanted, grabbing them, and trying to convince my mom to get them. So it was a constant, "No Mark." coming from Mom. Something about my little bro though, he had this weird thing about midgets, but he couldn't pronounce the word. He'd call them midritches. However, at four, he couldn't and wouldn't distinguish between a midget and a dwarf; they were both the same - oddly short people. And they were all proclaimed midritches. So in either case, when there was a "sighting", the same reaction would occur. You probably figured it out already. Behind and approaching Mom, strolling down isle 12, is a dwarf. My bro leans to look past Mom, and sees him. "MOM!" he cries out, trying to get her attention. (I can tell, he's about to pop.) He leans past her and looks again, to be sure. Yep. Then, as usual, he takes a deep breath and starts a pointing, screaming tirade to the world: "MIDRITCH! MOM! A MIDRITCH!! MOM!! MOM!!!" She tries to hush him, starts pushing faster. He screams louder, thinking she does not see what he sees. She hushes him louder, finally covers his mouth as she quickly pushes the cart around the corner. You can still hear his screams under the muffle of her hand. I am almost peeing my pants laughing, following behind, trying not to look at the dwarf who's obvious physical characteristics are being maligned by a fearful four year old. The thought of it still makes me laugh. This is so not-P.C., but I can't help it.
Life is short. My advise is, laugh a lot, and pursue your purpose in life. Oh, and feel free to publish the link to this blog. Or at least leave me a note if you like (or hate) what you read.
Thanks for playing! :^/
Strange Restaurants. OK I recently had the chance to be in an ethnically diverse neighborhood, and at this particular strip mall there were some interesting restaurant names, obviously from first generation Americans. Their work ethic is unparalleled, their belief in the American dream inspiring, their sense of marketing and brand-development, absent to the point of hilarious! Let me give you a few examples. This first one is particularly choice, clearly ethnically diverse. So much so, that I figure the proprietors are a Chinese husband and a Hispanic wife. He greets, seats, and serves; she's in back whipping up the specials. The name of the restaurant? Ready for this? Carnitas de Mandarin. I can hear it now. "I'll take the mongolian beef tacos please, fried rice, refried beans, and give me one of those dimsum enchiladas with the hot oil dipping sauce. And for desert? Monkey chimichangas! Oh yeah!" I couldn't even bring myself to walk up and read the menu on the window. I was liable to walk off laughing, and I didn't want to be disrespectful. If I had my own restaurant, I could laugh, but since I don't, I can't, at least not out in front of their gig. I can in front of my keyboard, and that's exactly what I am doing now. Ok, this second one is a bit more muted, still quite funny, but screams an obvious ESL (English as a Second Language) disposition. Ready? Imagine, in a big red colorful lettering, above the front doors to a (sadly) empty restaurant, the words Wonderful Chinese Restaurant. Can you imagine calling 411, and asking for a listing for Wonderful Chinese Restaurant. I can hear the operator coming online, saying, "I'm sorry sir, but we're not permitted or equipped to provide restaurant reviews. There are many restaurants in your area. Can I get a name for the listing you seek?" The other part about this that strikes me as funny is the shameless attempt to convince people that this place is really good, using the name of the place to convince you and seal the deal. "Yeah, I came here because your name says you are wonderful, and wow, that was too compelling to resist. By chance, can I get some mongolian beef tacos to go? Oh wait, that's the place down the street. Sorry." This just cracks me up. You probably just think I am nuts. Onto topic #2.
Kids' Comments. Somehow or another my wife and I got on the topic of kids and their comments. I learned that her daughter (my step-daughter) at an early age, was taught that nobody touches her private parts. All responsible parents teach their kids this. So years ago, when my wife's daughter is all of three years old, and they're in line at the grocery store, my wife is in front of the cart, and her daughter is sitting in it facing the middle-aged man behind her in line. And what does she declare to this complete stranger in a loud, assertive voice, with all the authority a three year old can muster? "NOBODY touches my private parts!" My wife was concurrently mortified and dying laughing right there at checkstand seven. So after that story, I shared my own. She learned about my little brother, probably four at the time, somewhere on isle 12 at the local grocery, Mom pushing the cart. I was busy scanning the isle for things I wanted, grabbing them, and trying to convince my mom to get them. So it was a constant, "No Mark." coming from Mom. Something about my little bro though, he had this weird thing about midgets, but he couldn't pronounce the word. He'd call them midritches. However, at four, he couldn't and wouldn't distinguish between a midget and a dwarf; they were both the same - oddly short people. And they were all proclaimed midritches. So in either case, when there was a "sighting", the same reaction would occur. You probably figured it out already. Behind and approaching Mom, strolling down isle 12, is a dwarf. My bro leans to look past Mom, and sees him. "MOM!" he cries out, trying to get her attention. (I can tell, he's about to pop.) He leans past her and looks again, to be sure. Yep. Then, as usual, he takes a deep breath and starts a pointing, screaming tirade to the world: "MIDRITCH! MOM! A MIDRITCH!! MOM!! MOM!!!" She tries to hush him, starts pushing faster. He screams louder, thinking she does not see what he sees. She hushes him louder, finally covers his mouth as she quickly pushes the cart around the corner. You can still hear his screams under the muffle of her hand. I am almost peeing my pants laughing, following behind, trying not to look at the dwarf who's obvious physical characteristics are being maligned by a fearful four year old. The thought of it still makes me laugh. This is so not-P.C., but I can't help it.
Life is short. My advise is, laugh a lot, and pursue your purpose in life. Oh, and feel free to publish the link to this blog. Or at least leave me a note if you like (or hate) what you read.
Thanks for playing! :^/
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Dogs and Crap
You know what, dogs are great. They possess unbelievably unconditional love and profound loyalty. But they have the oddest, most inexplicable, most stop-it-I'm-gonna-puke reprehensive behavior at times. Take this past Saturday morning for example. I went for a bike ride, and upon coming back into the house, through the garage, I was greeted by my dog. She was excited to see me, and very affectionate. She was licking my hand and my arm, and right after that, I used my hand to push my hair out of my eyes. In an instant, I detected the unmistakeable odor of cat crap. Cat crap. On me. On my arm. From my dog's tongue. I called out to my wife, "Has Lacey (our dog) been outside eating the cat crap, AGAIN?!?" I resisted the urge to puke, ran upstairs, and showered vigorously. Upon finishing my shower, the wife asked me to please shower the dog, as she has tried and cannot get the smell of crap off of her facial hair. (This is all just so completely wrong I can barely even write about it.) So I grabbed the dog, ticked off and grossed out as I was, and just hosed her down in there, did the very best possible to de-feces her.
What kind of dog will not eat her own hi-dollar dog food, but will run outside and dig up and eat fresh cat crap? Honestly? Makes me think I need to reevaluate the quality of this dog food, if she'd pick crap over this. It's just not right, I say. It's bad enough that she'll lick her own butthole, but to eat the output of said orifice, that's incomprehensible. What possible smell could exist in cat crap that triggers something in her (questionably functional) dog-brain, that says, this crap, Lacey, is somethin' you wanna eat, fast, before anyone sees you. It's too good to pass up!
I mean, this isn't the first time. The first time (heck, as far as I know anyway), I was out back with her (she's still a pup, mind you) while she was (supposed to be) doing her business. I turn my head for a minute, then I look back down at her, and I see her trying to wolf something down. Instinctively, since I know there isn't any food out here, I grab the back of her head to hold it still, while I commence fishing out said object with the other hand. Much to my surprise, and after a considerable struggle, I dig the object out, it falls to the ground, and it takes me a disturbing second to realize what it is I have just fought to get out of my dog's mouth, and what is all over my fingers. Cat crap. You can probably at this point imagine the degree of my disgust. My face contorted severely, I jumped up and down while spinning around, all the while crying out in complete disgust. I wanted to chop my hand off and throw it away - for a brief second.
Then, after I was able to gather myself, I ran to the hose and hosed off my hand, and ran the dog into the house (lest she go back after the crap), then went inside to go wash up. She immediately was headed for my wife, to give her a good licking, and I warned my wife just as Lacey was getting in lick-range. We both shared a moment of nausea and disgust at something so vile. Our dog peered up at us happily. In that moment, she brought a whole new meaning to the phrase, "dog breath".
I've pondered it. I can barely figure it out. The only flimsy theory I have is that: a) dogs will eat anything that smells like there might be or might have been food in it, and therefore b) any cat crap with just one piece of unchewed or undigested cat food in it qualifies it under letter a above, because a dog can smell it in the midst of all that crap.
And come to think of it, some people aren't any smarter than my dog Lacey. They hear a bunch of crap, but because one little piece of information in all that crap has the scent of truth in it, they will go ahead and eat all that crap, swallowing absolute manure, spewn forth, not from the buttholes, but from the mouths of fools. Conclusion: people that eat crap are not any smarter than my dog.
:^/
Thanks for playing. Hey! Are you enjoying this blog? Please let me know. Leave a comment. Come back again!
What kind of dog will not eat her own hi-dollar dog food, but will run outside and dig up and eat fresh cat crap? Honestly? Makes me think I need to reevaluate the quality of this dog food, if she'd pick crap over this. It's just not right, I say. It's bad enough that she'll lick her own butthole, but to eat the output of said orifice, that's incomprehensible. What possible smell could exist in cat crap that triggers something in her (questionably functional) dog-brain, that says, this crap, Lacey, is somethin' you wanna eat, fast, before anyone sees you. It's too good to pass up!
I mean, this isn't the first time. The first time (heck, as far as I know anyway), I was out back with her (she's still a pup, mind you) while she was (supposed to be) doing her business. I turn my head for a minute, then I look back down at her, and I see her trying to wolf something down. Instinctively, since I know there isn't any food out here, I grab the back of her head to hold it still, while I commence fishing out said object with the other hand. Much to my surprise, and after a considerable struggle, I dig the object out, it falls to the ground, and it takes me a disturbing second to realize what it is I have just fought to get out of my dog's mouth, and what is all over my fingers. Cat crap. You can probably at this point imagine the degree of my disgust. My face contorted severely, I jumped up and down while spinning around, all the while crying out in complete disgust. I wanted to chop my hand off and throw it away - for a brief second.
Then, after I was able to gather myself, I ran to the hose and hosed off my hand, and ran the dog into the house (lest she go back after the crap), then went inside to go wash up. She immediately was headed for my wife, to give her a good licking, and I warned my wife just as Lacey was getting in lick-range. We both shared a moment of nausea and disgust at something so vile. Our dog peered up at us happily. In that moment, she brought a whole new meaning to the phrase, "dog breath".
I've pondered it. I can barely figure it out. The only flimsy theory I have is that: a) dogs will eat anything that smells like there might be or might have been food in it, and therefore b) any cat crap with just one piece of unchewed or undigested cat food in it qualifies it under letter a above, because a dog can smell it in the midst of all that crap.
And come to think of it, some people aren't any smarter than my dog Lacey. They hear a bunch of crap, but because one little piece of information in all that crap has the scent of truth in it, they will go ahead and eat all that crap, swallowing absolute manure, spewn forth, not from the buttholes, but from the mouths of fools. Conclusion: people that eat crap are not any smarter than my dog.
:^/
Thanks for playing. Hey! Are you enjoying this blog? Please let me know. Leave a comment. Come back again!
Friday, August 31, 2007
The marine and the insurgent
I needed a laugh today, so I read this, and thought maybe you do too. This isn't an original, but I believe in promoting public (I almost typed, pubic) health (but I fixed it, obviously, ok...), and my contribution to that end (public health, that is) is to laugh, smile, and share both whenever I can. OK, to our very short story:
A U.S. Marine squad was marching north of Fallujah when they came upon an Iraqi terrorist, badly injured and unconscious.On the opposite side of the road was an American Marine in a similar but less serious state.The Marine was conscious and alert and as first aid was given to both men, the squad leader asked the injured Marine what had happened.The Marine reported, "I was heavily armed and moving north along the highway here, and coming south was a heavily armed insurgent. We saw each other and both took cover in the ditches along the road.
"I yelled to him that Saddam Hussein was a miserable, lowlife scumbag, and he yelled back that Ted Kennedy is a good-for-nothing, fat, left wing liberal drunk."
"So I said that Osama Bin Ladin dresses and acts like a frigid, mean-spirited lesbian! He retaliated by yelling, Oh yeah? Well, so does Hillary Clinton!"
"And, there we were, in the middle of the road, shaking hands, when a truck hit us."
-----------
One more thing: if you want another good laugh, hit the link to the video about Stupid People at the bottom of the posting immediately underneath this one.
Please give feedback - leave a comment (don't make me grovel).
:^/
Thanks for playing.
A U.S. Marine squad was marching north of Fallujah when they came upon an Iraqi terrorist, badly injured and unconscious.On the opposite side of the road was an American Marine in a similar but less serious state.The Marine was conscious and alert and as first aid was given to both men, the squad leader asked the injured Marine what had happened.The Marine reported, "I was heavily armed and moving north along the highway here, and coming south was a heavily armed insurgent. We saw each other and both took cover in the ditches along the road.
"I yelled to him that Saddam Hussein was a miserable, lowlife scumbag, and he yelled back that Ted Kennedy is a good-for-nothing, fat, left wing liberal drunk."
"So I said that Osama Bin Ladin dresses and acts like a frigid, mean-spirited lesbian! He retaliated by yelling, Oh yeah? Well, so does Hillary Clinton!"
"And, there we were, in the middle of the road, shaking hands, when a truck hit us."
-----------
One more thing: if you want another good laugh, hit the link to the video about Stupid People at the bottom of the posting immediately underneath this one.
Please give feedback - leave a comment (don't make me grovel).
:^/
Thanks for playing.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Service, Running, n People That Are That Stupid - 8/28/07
OK so here I am in a sheik (wait; is that word Expired? Probably. Is it the right version of that word? Crap!) – ok, a cool restaurant in The City, in between meetings (my vocabulary could do with a remodel, but that’s a separate topic). Alright, so here I am. Waiting. And Waiting. And WAITING. Yeah. Service. What is that. No one here seems to know. It’s 11:45 a.m., mind you; I’d say that’s about lunch time for many folks. I did the math: at least 37% of the population is digestively needy at this shadow of the sun dial. OK so this place is nice, cool, well set up, and there are seven waiters in sight. And five customers, counting me. But my status as "customer" is in question - at least and apparently only in my mind. Not in theirs, not at all. I don't exist. I don't get it. I have been here before so I know the food is good, which is why I came back. So I am sitting and waiting, still, until finally, after ten full minutes have elapsed, I decide, this is enough. If I hadn’t worked so hard to get a stupid parking spot - and by a stroke of extremely good fortune, I nailed a spot right in front of the building - if that hadn't'a happened, I’d be hitting the door about 17 seconds ago. However, after doing a split second inventory of my parking spot, and of my blood sugar issues, I decide to get someone’s attention and ask for some service. What do I get? You already know, don’t you: the same basic lame confused cross-eyed answer of Everyone assuming that Someone had taken care of me since Anyone could but lo and behold Nobody did, so here I sit, no drink, no receptive ear ready to take my order, no nothing. Of course, as good folks, they now fall all over themselves to right this wrong, but how do people remain invisible? I showered; I don’t smell. It can’t be that. I have no superpowers of invisibility. It can’t be that. I can’t get lost in the crowd because, yeah, there isn’t one. Yet somehow seven people wander back and forth past me, repeatedly, people on the payroll mind you, and not a one does jack til I pipe up. Service. Did it die and I missed the listing in the obituaries? At it’s most primal root, Service means at least that I meet your needs. How hard is that to identify, in a restaurant no less? For some, just grasping the concept for this crew is about as hard as flying to Mars. But at this point, I should probably shut up. The food is here, and it is really good. Wontons in a nice broth, spicy, flavorful, delish. Spinach salad with thinly sliced apples, glazed walnuts, dried raspberries, feta cheese, flower pedals (?), a fresh slice of sourdough bread on the side, vinegarette (sp?) dressing. I have to remember to breath between bites. Didn’t realize I was this hungry. It was worth the initial absence of service, I must admit. Park Chow on 7th in SF. Try it.
Which brings me to my next topic: running. Why? Because at this moment, with a nicely contended belly, 40 minutes away from a food-coma (if it was Sunday), the absolute very last thing I want to do is run. And since I am half a block from Golden Gate Park, I have seen my share of runners today. I love to run. I hate to run. I hate to run when I am running, and the only thing that gets me through it is the music in my ears providing a cadence to my running, the die-first refusal to grow fat, and the satisfaction of doing something good for my body (except the knees). I just realized that I have to restate this. I don’t love running. I love having run/ran/whicheverworditis. Afterward, when I am done sucking in air like I have been holding my breath two full minutes, when I am done feeling the pain in my side that’s feels like some Ali Babba terrorist stuck me with a sword, when I am done resisting the urge to throw up everything up to and including the cookies I ate in sixth grade, afterward, I feel pretty good. The leg muscles are tight and sore, in a good way. I probably have endorphins floating through my system, somehow lifting me with an exercised-induced high. After it’s all done, I feel great. More energy, more everything. The sky is bluer, the birds sing sweeter, the flowers are more colorful, the air is cleaner, the bills matter less, the cares of life are more easily ignored. I smell more, feel more, see more. I love having run/ran/whicheverworditis.
Not knowing which word (run vs ran) is the right word makes me feel stupid, but since I am too lazy to look it up, I’ll just use it to transition to a particular example I have in mind of People That Are That Stupid. When I say stupid, I mean dumber-than-a-bag-a-hammers, can’t-spell-my-own-name, can’t-pronounce-my-own-name stupid. That stupid. This particular example…wow. How do you get not one PhD, but two – count ‘em – two PhD’s, then go into a selling job – I could stop there and add a question mark. I will. ? There. (I could actually stop there and make my point. But I will go on.) How do you do that? How do you get 2 PhD’s, then go into selling technology, and you have not one, not two, but three conference calls on a particular large opportunity which you are working on with a business partner. You get two emails from that business partner, both expliciting spelling out what inputs are required from you to win this deal. You are told on three calls what is needed of you. How does that all occur, and four days before the bid is due, you ask, what do you (business partner) need of (Company X aka) me? How do you ask that? How can you not know what is needed of you? After having read the emails, how do you say that you were never told what was needed of you? There were witnesses, on the call, and on the email string. In other words, How Can You Be That Stupid? Conclusion: some people don’t have the brains God gave a goose. My dad, who has a ninth grade education, told me that as a kid. Second conclusion: no amount of education, no quantity nor height of degrees will solve the first conclusion. If you’re stupid, and you have an education, you are now an educated idiot. But an idiot, still. It’s your condition. It Is What It Is. The only reason we didn’t figure it out on the first pass is because you are swallowing all your saliva, and blinking regularly, like a person who has good sense. But no worries. We eventually figure it out. Why? Because we’re not That Stupid. Another statement Dad made (to me once when I said something stupid – I have an excuse: I was young): son, it’s better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you are smart, than to open it and remove all doubt. Regrettably, no number of profound nuggets of Okie wisdom will improve the intellectual horsepower of someone That Stupid.
Wait. Newsflash! A majority of a whole nation, it turns out, is this stupid. You HAVE to watch this youtube entry from France: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxmHEGy7JUU. Do not drink anything while you watch this.
OK, I think it’s all out of my system. What is my deal?
:-/
Thanks for playing.
Hey real quick – one last thing. If you enjoy this, hate it, or have ANY feedback, leave me a comment. Show me a pulse!
Which brings me to my next topic: running. Why? Because at this moment, with a nicely contended belly, 40 minutes away from a food-coma (if it was Sunday), the absolute very last thing I want to do is run. And since I am half a block from Golden Gate Park, I have seen my share of runners today. I love to run. I hate to run. I hate to run when I am running, and the only thing that gets me through it is the music in my ears providing a cadence to my running, the die-first refusal to grow fat, and the satisfaction of doing something good for my body (except the knees). I just realized that I have to restate this. I don’t love running. I love having run/ran/whicheverworditis. Afterward, when I am done sucking in air like I have been holding my breath two full minutes, when I am done feeling the pain in my side that’s feels like some Ali Babba terrorist stuck me with a sword, when I am done resisting the urge to throw up everything up to and including the cookies I ate in sixth grade, afterward, I feel pretty good. The leg muscles are tight and sore, in a good way. I probably have endorphins floating through my system, somehow lifting me with an exercised-induced high. After it’s all done, I feel great. More energy, more everything. The sky is bluer, the birds sing sweeter, the flowers are more colorful, the air is cleaner, the bills matter less, the cares of life are more easily ignored. I smell more, feel more, see more. I love having run/ran/whicheverworditis.
Not knowing which word (run vs ran) is the right word makes me feel stupid, but since I am too lazy to look it up, I’ll just use it to transition to a particular example I have in mind of People That Are That Stupid. When I say stupid, I mean dumber-than-a-bag-a-hammers, can’t-spell-my-own-name, can’t-pronounce-my-own-name stupid. That stupid. This particular example…wow. How do you get not one PhD, but two – count ‘em – two PhD’s, then go into a selling job – I could stop there and add a question mark. I will. ? There. (I could actually stop there and make my point. But I will go on.) How do you do that? How do you get 2 PhD’s, then go into selling technology, and you have not one, not two, but three conference calls on a particular large opportunity which you are working on with a business partner. You get two emails from that business partner, both expliciting spelling out what inputs are required from you to win this deal. You are told on three calls what is needed of you. How does that all occur, and four days before the bid is due, you ask, what do you (business partner) need of (Company X aka) me? How do you ask that? How can you not know what is needed of you? After having read the emails, how do you say that you were never told what was needed of you? There were witnesses, on the call, and on the email string. In other words, How Can You Be That Stupid? Conclusion: some people don’t have the brains God gave a goose. My dad, who has a ninth grade education, told me that as a kid. Second conclusion: no amount of education, no quantity nor height of degrees will solve the first conclusion. If you’re stupid, and you have an education, you are now an educated idiot. But an idiot, still. It’s your condition. It Is What It Is. The only reason we didn’t figure it out on the first pass is because you are swallowing all your saliva, and blinking regularly, like a person who has good sense. But no worries. We eventually figure it out. Why? Because we’re not That Stupid. Another statement Dad made (to me once when I said something stupid – I have an excuse: I was young): son, it’s better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you are smart, than to open it and remove all doubt. Regrettably, no number of profound nuggets of Okie wisdom will improve the intellectual horsepower of someone That Stupid.
Wait. Newsflash! A majority of a whole nation, it turns out, is this stupid. You HAVE to watch this youtube entry from France: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxmHEGy7JUU. Do not drink anything while you watch this.
OK, I think it’s all out of my system. What is my deal?
:-/
Thanks for playing.
Hey real quick – one last thing. If you enjoy this, hate it, or have ANY feedback, leave me a comment. Show me a pulse!
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Meaning of Things - 8-27-07
Greetings, World! The Big Ninja is open for business, er - the business of thought exchange, the business of displaying feats of verbal kung fu wit and strength, the business of dumping random thought flow into my computer to prevent perilous drops in dopamine or seratonin levels, or whatever chemical it is that keeps me on a nice wacky even keel. Perhaps I should have called this spot the Pressure Valve. Hmmm... anyway. So why did I call this blot spot "Your Kung Fu Is Weak"? In a phrase: my little (or rather younger) brother. Has to be among the top 3 hilarious people I know on earth. He drops this line from time to time, at the moment of maximum hilarity, and it just cracks me up. So instead of asking him, Who's the Man? I have adopted the phrase/question: Who's the Big Ninja?
OK so here comes my first random cranial output. Today is one of those days where you just peer longingly into your cup of coffee, and somehow expect or weakly hope for answers to life to reside in the next sip. I have a few different sayings that just seem to bring meaning, or rather explain the absence of meaning, to many things that happen in life:
1. "It is what it is." It's there. You can't really change it. It just happened. You just-have-to-deal. The rules have been laid down. The eggs have been dropped. Unstoppable forces of nature have caused seemingly unpreventable events to occur. It's like when you step in fresh crap. Why did the dog have to crap right here on the edge of my front lawn? Why was I stupid enough to not see it? Where was the stinkin' owner of said canine at the time he/she was pinching off the last terd? Ask all the questions you want, buddy. Ain't gonna do no good. It's there, on your shoe, it smells beyond awful, it's instantly and nastily (is that a word? it is now) worked it's way into every crevace of your tread. You don't even want these shoes any more, it's so nasty. I also refer to this as I2WI2, stated as "I-squared W I-squared". However, there's no verbal efficiency in shortening it at all, so most the time I just revert to saying "It is what it is." I2WI2 is useful for text messaging, but that's about it.
2. "It's all fun and games til the flying monkeys attack." First time I watched the wizard of oz, it was in black and white, and I was perhaps 6 years old. The flying monkeys ruined my sleep for a week or so, maybe more, but I probably blocked that out and don't know it. Creeped me out completely. But isn't life like that? It's all good in da hood until BAM! Something goes crazy! SomeONE goes crazy! The bus comes by while you are standing in the street! Or, you have just lost track of time, and, standing on the curb near the bus stop, you are oblivious to its approach, while someone (who has the bus schedule and) zooms in to push you right into the street at the last second - in front of the bus, as it's doing 35 mph. Whack! You get hammered to crap'n back. Nothing you can do. Coulda been on accident, coulda been on purpose, can't really tell. Things just happen. In other words, the flying monkeys attack.
3. "You know what?" This tee-up phrase is nice-speak for either: a) a preamble to ...hey, clueless wonder, you who can't find your butt with both hands, I with my iron-toed boot am about to help you identify the precise geography of its location, or b) a preamble to ...hey, I really like you, so I want to let you in on something really good about you, or me, or us, or the world, but something really good. In either case, I find that tact, whether possibly wasted on the dullness of the hearer or not, does me therapeutically immense good. And I find that if I am doing good overall, I am a nicer guy, and even when waxing a bit hostile, don't revert to blunt instruments when I have a moment of hostility. Not that you particularly care about me and that and temperment issues. Sorry about the narcissistic moment.
Ok that about raps it up for now. Seems like I am out of gas. Time for another cup of coffee. Like I need the caffeine.
:^/
Thanks for playing.
OK so here comes my first random cranial output. Today is one of those days where you just peer longingly into your cup of coffee, and somehow expect or weakly hope for answers to life to reside in the next sip. I have a few different sayings that just seem to bring meaning, or rather explain the absence of meaning, to many things that happen in life:
1. "It is what it is." It's there. You can't really change it. It just happened. You just-have-to-deal. The rules have been laid down. The eggs have been dropped. Unstoppable forces of nature have caused seemingly unpreventable events to occur. It's like when you step in fresh crap. Why did the dog have to crap right here on the edge of my front lawn? Why was I stupid enough to not see it? Where was the stinkin' owner of said canine at the time he/she was pinching off the last terd? Ask all the questions you want, buddy. Ain't gonna do no good. It's there, on your shoe, it smells beyond awful, it's instantly and nastily (is that a word? it is now) worked it's way into every crevace of your tread. You don't even want these shoes any more, it's so nasty. I also refer to this as I2WI2, stated as "I-squared W I-squared". However, there's no verbal efficiency in shortening it at all, so most the time I just revert to saying "It is what it is." I2WI2 is useful for text messaging, but that's about it.
2. "It's all fun and games til the flying monkeys attack." First time I watched the wizard of oz, it was in black and white, and I was perhaps 6 years old. The flying monkeys ruined my sleep for a week or so, maybe more, but I probably blocked that out and don't know it. Creeped me out completely. But isn't life like that? It's all good in da hood until BAM! Something goes crazy! SomeONE goes crazy! The bus comes by while you are standing in the street! Or, you have just lost track of time, and, standing on the curb near the bus stop, you are oblivious to its approach, while someone (who has the bus schedule and) zooms in to push you right into the street at the last second - in front of the bus, as it's doing 35 mph. Whack! You get hammered to crap'n back. Nothing you can do. Coulda been on accident, coulda been on purpose, can't really tell. Things just happen. In other words, the flying monkeys attack.
3. "You know what?" This tee-up phrase is nice-speak for either: a) a preamble to ...hey, clueless wonder, you who can't find your butt with both hands, I with my iron-toed boot am about to help you identify the precise geography of its location, or b) a preamble to ...hey, I really like you, so I want to let you in on something really good about you, or me, or us, or the world, but something really good. In either case, I find that tact, whether possibly wasted on the dullness of the hearer or not, does me therapeutically immense good. And I find that if I am doing good overall, I am a nicer guy, and even when waxing a bit hostile, don't revert to blunt instruments when I have a moment of hostility. Not that you particularly care about me and that and temperment issues. Sorry about the narcissistic moment.
Ok that about raps it up for now. Seems like I am out of gas. Time for another cup of coffee. Like I need the caffeine.
:^/
Thanks for playing.
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