Flippin Jason

2008-11-22T06:52:00.000-08:00

Not So Cuddly Now, Are They?

With the election over and Obama heading for the White House, many of us are asking the same question. “What triggers a panda attack?”

First, let us consider the following. Panda bears are not the sweet harmless creatures that many believe them to be. In fact, a panel of scientific experts announced earlier this week, "We've just realized that the second word in panda bear is frickin’ bear. This explains an awful lot and, quite frankly, we're surprised we hadn't noticed earlier. We really need more funding".

If you see a panda bear sitting in its cell, whittling a shiv out of a bamboo shoot, and think to yourself, “Gee, that panda looks like it wants to play.” You’re right. It does want to play….the xylophone….with your femurs. Consider the geniuses who featured prominently in the following news stories by climbing into zoo enclosures:

August 5, 2007: Panda attacks zoo keeper in China

October 23, 2007: Panda attacks 15 year old Li Xitao in Beijing zoo

November 22, 2008: Panda attacks and bites student intruder at China’s Guilin Park

In response to this growing problem, China's leading panda scientist, Schilack Kling Pow, stated in a press conference, "Clearly, to improve panda safety, the first question that must be addressed is, “What the hell happens to peoples' brains in a Chinese zoo?”

The behavior at the root of Dr. Pow's concern is well documented, but poorly understood. When visiting pandas in a zoo, the rational mind generates thoughts such as, "I should stay outside of the animal cages because inside is where the animals are." Yet there's something about Chinese panda exhibits that causes folks to abandon such thoughts and before you can say "mauled to oblivion", over the fence they hop. (Incidentally, this answers the question, "What triggers a panda attack?" The answer is, getting all up in a panda's grill).

The nature lovers referenced above obviously weren't thinking rationally and probably don’t read the scientific journal Nature. If they did, they would have seen the study written by a world famous biologist who noted that in panda grocery stores in the wild, the best selling breakfast cereal is “Chinese Guyz 'N' Starz!” (now with 30% more drunken college students!)

This brings me to the meat of the issue: international diplomacy. Did you know that the Chinese have a trick up their sleeve called, “Panda Diplomacy”? Yeah, it’s a real thing. They garner the good will of foreign nations by handing out panda bears. That, my friends, is truly inspired. They come off looking generous but really all they’re doing is shipping five foot tall mobile buzz saws with blood lust to their enemies. Then the receiving countries will spend untold amounts of money in an effort to get these "gifts" to replicate, thereby sucking money out of the war coffers and amplifying the home-grown carnage potential. It’s brilliant.

I think we should do something similar:

China: Here pal, have a couple of pandas.

America: Gee, thanks China. Please receive this gift as a token of friendship.

Then when they open the box at home, fire ants jump out.

China: You sent us a plague!

America: Our bad. They’re red. We thought you’d like 'em

As soon as Obama gets to the White House, I'm sending him my idea.

Lucky, it's feeding time.

2006-11-13T05:21:00.000-08:00

Yep, we got a snake a couple of weeks back as a pet for DJ. The snake was a replacement pet after the parakeet died. I was remiss in my blogging duties, so this may be the first time that you have heard of JD the parakeet. Well, he lived here. Now he's dead. Anyway, DJ got a snake and named it "Lucky", which is a kick-ass name for a snake if you ask me.
When we picked up the snake from the breeder, we had a few questions. I asked the guy what he eats. "Snake chow? Hotdogs?". It turns out that snakes eat mice. In fact, the guy was feeding Lucky dead mice. I thought to myself, "Dead mice huh? Not in my house! We take care of our own around here." I mean seriously, a dead mouse? What fun is that if you're a snake? The way I figure it, life is probably pretty dull when you're basically a tube. Let's mix it up a little, ya know? Give Lucky a thrill or two.
Evidently, Lucky is a coward and/or an idiot. Diane went to the pet store and bought a mouse for Lucky. We had heard that if you place the mouse in the snake's aquarium (or terrarium, or bunk house), the snake will associate your hand with food. Then, every time you stick your hand in there, the snake will think it's feeding time. Of course, it will then bite you repeatedly and without mercy. This is not what we are looking for in a pet. We decided to drop the mouse in a box and then throw Lucky in after it. That way, every time Lucky sees something shaped like a cube, he just starts lashing out and biting at anything that moves. That's pretty safe.
So, we put lucky in the box and then the whole family stood around like Romans at the Coliseum. Here's a little known fact of nature. Snakes have both a top and a bottom. I know this because as soon as the mouse brushed up against him, Lucky immediately rolled onto his back, exposing his fleshy underside. Was he relinquishing dominance? I don't think he wanted his belly scratch. I guess he was just going through a good old fashioned, certified, full-blown panic. He was upside down and wiggin' out.
What's up with that? When you put a mouse and a snake in a box, who is supposed to panic? The food, right? Right! I thought snakes were supposed to be tough. They're cold-blooded after all.
Speaking of cold-blooded, you know who's really tough? Froggy. Remember him? "Froggy went a courtin' and he did ride. Sword and pistol by his side." The frog was packing heat and a blade to go visit somebody that he likes. Imagine the scene that would go down if you met that frog in an alley. Actually, you might luck out because frogs have tiny brains. He may forget to bring his sword and pistol. But then again, any frog that has the where with all to saddle and ride a horse probably plans ahead.
Froggy: Uh oh, I forgot my sword and pistol. (sigh) That's how I roll! Oh well, guess I'll just have to make due with this here leather sap. (whack! whack! whack!)
Guess what? You just got your ass handed to you by a frog with a bag of B-B's. Not so tough now, are ya hot shot?
Where was I?
Oh yeah, the snake that's scared of its food. Well, Lucky is indeed family so I saved him from the mouse. I then dispatched said mouse for him and dropped it into his bunkhouse. No freaking out. No flipping upside down. I figured that Lucky must have been freaked out by the box.
When feeding time rolled around again I thought I'd give Lucky another chance. We just wouldn't stick him in the box. I let Lucky out to roam and dropped another live mouse next to his water dish. Then I put Lucky back in his bunk house.
Here's what I'd like to say happened: Lucky coiled and flicked his tongue menacingly. He reared back almost imperceptibly and became like a statue. The mouse had caught the tiny movement and he froze, unsure of his fate. For one moment they were locked into place. Both seemed to be aware that life and death would be decided in the very next moment. Then Lucky shot out with super-natural speed. The mouse exhaled one last time. Lucky smoothly slipped a coil around the mouse and clenched. The game was done.
However, it went more like this:
Lucky took three laps around the area. Bumped his faced into the glass. Stopped. Whipped around and bit himself. Another little known fact of nature is that mice can laugh.
If you've ever bitten yourself, you know it hurts. I've bitten my own tongue before and don't pretend you haven't done it too. As soon as you realize what's happening...correction...before you realize what's happening, you stop. It's a quick (bite) "OUCH!", and it's over. Not my buddy, Lucky. He had a hold of himself at what I estimate to be his hip and he was not going to let go. He was, in fact, working his jaw back and forth while doing his best to throw a "death coil" around himself. I bet that's a game the snake children play. Kinda like "I bet you can't touch your nose with your elbow." Here's a sentence I would have bet I'd never have to say: Then I reached into the cage and shook the snake until he stopped eating himself.
I think from now on I'm just gonna put mice in the blender and feed Lucky intravenously.
Visitor to my home: How come your snake's got an I.V.
Me: Mind your own business.
Oh well, I think it's important for kids to have pets, even if feeding them is a mix between Saw 2 and the Keystone cops.

Godmen?

2006-10-29T06:05:00.000-08:00

Yes, Godmen indeed. Some knucklehead had the bright idea to put together an evangelical-style event with a beef-cake theme (Yes, I know how gay that sounds). Here's why it's so stupid:
Christian men are all supposed to gather in one spot and have a very personal and unique experience just like the personal and unique experiences of the people to their left and their right, but here's an added bonus. Not only do they coreograph your feelings, they tell you who you are supposed to be.
Okay, before I go too far off the deep end (and I will) I suppose I should explain that I am patently insane on the topic of audience participation of any sort. Why? I don't know. Even when I was a kid I hated the hokey pokey (the title of which, to this day, I refuse to capitalize).
Stupid Singer: You put your left foot in!!! You put your left foot..."
Me: I'll tell you were I'm gonna put my left foot. Gonna shake it all about, too you son of a (mumble mumble....)
In fact, a buddy of mine had his eighth birthday party at the "Skate Barn". When I heard the first dreaded measure of the hokey pokey, I intentionally skated into a wall so that I could fake an injury. I ended up really getting hurt, which was good enough for me. And yes, before you ask, If I were drafted into the army, I would shoot myself in the knee every time they tried to send me to the front. By the time I got discharged I wouldn't see any combat, but I'd have more purple hearts than a box my My Pretty Pony breakfast cereal.
Anyway, this event features all things "manly" like car crashes and gratuitous explosions on a jumbo-tron behind speakers like Paul Coughlin. He's some yutz who wrote a book called, "No More Christian Nice Guy,". But I am a nice guy. I get this crazy feeling that Jesus was a pretty nice guy too.
It's like the organizers got together and said, "Okay, let's take every over-the-top sterotype we can think of and cram them all into an eight hour block. Then, when people show up with their tickets, we'll tell them who to be."
Seriously, are they really trying to meet men on their own level? If I have a day off, and let's say the wife and kids are out somewhere, I'm not going to chose to spend my day watching car crashes, heading butting people, and rolling in bacon. I don't know anybody who is really like that. The guys I know would mow the lawn, wash their car, maybe catch a couple of episodes of The Munsters on TV Land.
But no, they're gonna tell you what you like.
And another thing. Pretty much every guy I know is a little fed up with the fact that every new commercial and T.V. show you see portrays only women as having the capacity to think cognatively. Guys are just big, childish, thoughtless oafs. Most guys aren't particularly fond of that image. But, someone takes all those stupid stereotypes, gives them a positive spin and says, "This is what men are like.", and guys respond.
"Why, I'm a man. So uh, yes. Yes, I act like that all the time!" Then they jump up and down, flailing their arms, and yelling, "Explosions and meat! Explosions and meat!" Then they wonder why T.V. and movies portray men as being capable of no more than jumping up and down, flailing their arms, and yelling, "Explosions and meat! Explosions and meat!"
So, I got my ticket. Who's going with me?!?

Mosh Girl does rule indeed

2006-04-14T03:59:00.000-07:00

If you are not aware of her, there is an internet icon out there called "Mosh Girl". She is the coolest thing ever in the history of everything. Here is the famous picture:

Please note the looks of unmitigated horror on the faces of the poor boys in the background.
Now, if you would please, click on the picture to see some hi-Larry-us photoshops featuring mosh girl.

The Flying Darts

2006-04-13T03:17:00.000-07:00

When I was kid, I was awesome. Here's a list of awesome things I did:
-Jumped off the house into a pile of leaves
-Jumped off the house with a garbage bag as a parachute
-Jumped off the top of my swing set with a garbage bag as a parachute
-Jumped off the top of my swing set with a kite as a hang glider
-Jumped off the house on to an old mattress
-Jumped out of my tree house
-Jumped out of my other tree house
Come to think of it, shouldn't my parents have been, you know, parenting? Just imagine this and tell me you wouldn't be moved to respond in some way.
You're sitting in the living room watching television when suddenly the blurry silhouette of an eight-year-old blasts straight down past your curtains followed by a sickening thud. Five minutes later it happens again. I don't know. I guess you get used to it after a while, kinda like the noise of living next to train tracks. Oh yeah...
-Jumped out of the way of a speeding train with mere yards to spare
Yep, my childhood was pretty much one long public service commercial illustrating why certain kids should not be allowed to watch certain shows. My favorite show? "The Fall Guy" of course. It was a weekly program in which a stunt man would solve mysteries and thwart kidnappings by jumping off some things and running into other things with Pontiac Firebirds. It was phenomenal.
Here's an idea. They should hire stunt men for positions in law enforcement. Follow me here--I'm robbing a liquor store and a couple of cops stroll in real nonchalant. And then, like he's bored, the one cop mentions, "My partner here wants you to put your hands in the air." Then his partner breaks a chair over his own head. I turn to run and the same guy sets himself on fire. I'm coming along quietly. Ya know what I mean?
So my point is this. I loved the idea of being a stuntman. That's why I had zero trouble agreeing to my big brother's idea. He wanted to form a precision stunt team consisting of just him and me. I'm pretty sure it was a scheme he came up with to get me to stand still while he beat me up but I jumped at the idea and "The Flying Darts!®" dare devil extravaganza was born. We were going to do high-flying stunt shows with fights, falls, breaking glass, the works. Sadly, we never got around to all that stuff because we decided to create and develop the finale first. It was beautiful in its simplicity. My brother would jump on his bike and ride to the end of the street. I would jump on my bike and ride to the other end of the street. We would then pedal as hard as we could toward each other. (Here's where you get involved.) Right when we were about to collide we would:
(A) Swerve in opposite directions to narrowly and thrillingly avoid a horrifying head on collision
(B) Slam on the breaks and bump front wheels together
(C) Jump off our bikes and roll safely onto the grass
(D) Nothing. Just slam bike-to-bike, face-to-face in a horrifying head on collision.
If you chose 'D', you're a winner.
It must have been quite a sight for the neighbors. Not that they weren't used to being treated to "quite a sight" pretty much every time I came home from school. I use to ride around the neighborhood on my metallic red Schwinn Stingray.

See that sissy-bar sticking up from the back of the seat? That's where I would tie the strings that were attached to a folded paper bag that I would sit on. When I stood up, the wind would catch the bag and it would pop out like a drag racer's parachute. Not cool enough for ya? How about this? I would ride around with a McDonald's French fry box on my head like a hat. Again, awesome. (And no, I am not kidding)
It was a quality stunt we had going there. Sure, there was a little blood and it took a while to untangle ourselves after each "performance", but it was a big hit with the other kids in the neighborhood (sadistic little bastards).
Sadly, after three or four "shows" one of the neighbors went over to our house and knocked on the door. She spoke briefly to my mother who immediately came over to where we were pulling my arm out of my brother's spokes and did a little parenting. "The Flying Darts!®" was immediately dissolved and its members placed under strict orders not to develop another stunt-themed exhibition. She even took away my bike and my French fry hat for two whole weeks. Man, that's like cutting Samson's hair. I suppose I should at least be happy that she took an interest in our hobby. You know? As soon as it gets light outside, I think I'm gonna jump off the house just for old time's sake.

Battle Royale

2006-04-07T02:10:00.000-07:00

(ding ding ding ding ding)
Good evening, ladies and gentleman!
In this corner weighing in at .17 ounces and draped in deliciousness...
Prepared to go toe to toe with any other confection.
Pounding competition 'till it loses sense of direction.
Killing all other snacks beyond hope of resurrection.
The sweet.
Not so petite.
Sporting more fat than a wagon of meat.
The Fudge!
Covered!
oooooOOOOOOOOREEEEEEeeeeoooooo!!!!!!!!!!

And in this corner, the grizzled old timer. Weighing a scant .13 ounces but packed with creamy, peanutty, panache.
You've known him since you were two.
Without him you'd wouldn't know what to do.
The Nutter BUTTERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!

Our contenders confidently sidle up to one another. There will be no backing down in this winner take all grudge match.
The Nutter Butter throws a quick jab of tradition which is immediately turned away by the Oreo's novelty.
Oreo spins, crouches, and leans back. He's striking an early low blow by comparing his smooth exterior to the harsh grid that mars the surface of the Nutter Butter.
The veteran appears un-phased, releases a cascade of childhood memories, and the newfangled treat buckles.
Could this be over already, folks? There was a lot of excitement about this young up-start but it looks as though he....wait! He's getting up and...I can't believe it. Oreo reveals his higher sugar content! Nutter Butter is reeling! He's on the ropes and Oreo is advancing. Oh my word! This could get ugly. Pow! Nutter Butter strikes back and strikes back hard with higher fat content. I didn't think it was possible. It would have been tough to guess that his slender waste belies such an incredible amount of tasty fat! The Oreo looks shocked, bewildered even. I don't think anyone expected that.
Nutter Butter looks like he's getting cocky. He throws out an ingredient. It's real peanuts. That may be a mistake, folks. Nutter Butter is really showing his age. He still thinks that people care if he contains actual food. He's wide open! Oreo slams Nutter Butter with an un-interrupted stream of hydrogenated oil! Its tastiness is undeniable! Nutter Butter is down, ladies and gentlemen! He is down!
As Nutter struggles to regain his feet, Fudge Covered Oreo is prancing around the ring with his sticky sugary hands in the air.
Nutter is up again. He refuses to give in. What in the world is he doing? Nutter Butter is up and appears to be grappling with his seam. Oreo turns to see. The look on his fudge covered face can mean only one thing. He's scared, folks. He knows what's coming and he's scared.
Pow! Nutter Butter, in a gutsy move, has torn himself completely in two! He pulled his signature move, folks! He's exposed his peanut buttery insides and displayed the delicious goo in its fullest glory. None can deny the appeal of that sticky layer. It's a bold move. The peanut butter presentation is a wonderful thing to behold but it leaves Nutter's other half naked and dry to the palate. It's a real gamble. Will it pay off?
Oreo trips. Oreo leans on the ropes. Oreo falls! I think we're at the end. But wait. Oreo struggles to his corner and whispers to his trainer. The trainer shakes his head. Oreo is very animated. He's waving his arms around and seems to be emphatically demanding something of his trainer. The trainer is....is he?....Yes, he's crying a little bit. I'm not sure what's going to.....OH MY STARS! The trainer has bitten Oreo in half! This is barbaric. I can't believe what I've just seen! What an awful end to such a fine cookie.
Hold on just a minute. Fudge Covered has gathered enough strength to walk. Oreo's trainer has stopped mid-chew and there's a look of disbelief on his tear streaked face. It's a look that's a near perfect match for the look of disbelief on every other face in this building, mine included. Oreo is calmly approaching the center of the ring. He's bending towards Nutter Butter but it's difficult to see exactly what's happening from this vantage point. Nutter has no expression on his face. He is leaning. No, no, Nutter is tipping. He's tipping backwards, my friends. He is falling! Both of his separated halves hit the floor. The slight double impact of cookie on canvas makes hollow echos in the stadium. The crowd is confused and quiet. Nutter is not moving. Oreo tips his ragged bite towards the crowd and then towards the judges. I can't quite make out....For the love of all that's good, there's cream on the inside! There's cream on the inside! There! Is! Cream! On! The! In! SIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE!!!!!! He's is covered all over AND throughout with sugar! There isn't a bare spot to be found on or in this youngster!
He's done it ladies and gentleman! Fudge Covered Oreo has dealt the blow that toppled the Nutter Butter. It's over and it's undisputable. I thought I'd never see the day!
Nutter's cleaved halves are being placed on a cookie sheet and carried out. If the mob climbing over itself to scoop handfuls of brown filling from his prone form is any indication, I think we'll be seeing Nutter again. But if not, rest well my peanutty friend. Rest well.

Bizarro World

2006-03-31T03:30:00.000-08:00

When we last left our hero he was working nights at Disneyland, wishing fervently for a jet pack, and mulling over stories that might be big foot sightings, might be leads in unsolved homicides.
I'm still working at Disneyland and I'm beginning to get use to the strangeness of it all. It really came home to roost a couple of weeks ago when I was fertilizing grass in the rain by myself at two o'clock in the morning when I tripped over a tiny little house. That's when I thought to myself, "This is, indeed, bizarro world." But that's not the only bit of weirdness.
Let me start this story with a little disclaimer: On a moonless foggy night, surrounded by a thick planting of trees, an animatronic indian looks a whole hell of a lot like a non-animatronic indian.
The meeting went like this. Walking....walking....walking....bump. [turn - indian face]. Me yelling something that sounded like, "Kra-florb-bak!" and running in place for a couple of seconds.
Of course, I know that my odds of bumping into an actual tomahawk wielding Cherokee in the middle of Anaheim in the year of our Lord two-thousand and six are rather slight, but that particular factoid has surprisingly little relevance in the woods somewhere behind Frontierland at 2:30 in the morning. I mean, even if it wasn't a real indian, what kind of guarantee do I have that one of the janitors didn't flip his lid, strap on a loin cloth, and head into the brush in search of human prey? It is the ultimate game after all.
Or consider this. It is the magic kingdom. Nobody ever specified what type of magic. What if it's some kind of scary indian magic? No such thing as "scary indian magic" you say? Have you ever seen Poltergeist? I rest my case. Speaking of Poltergeist, I have something to say here. Let's pretend I'm a magical dead indian and some yutz builds his house on my grave. Further, my scary indian magic allows me to manipulate the physical world. I'm scalpin' folks. I don't play around. Scalp comes off, people go away. That's a rule that works whether you're a dead indian or not. Instead, what do they do in the movie? Push a chair across the kitchen. They even do it on command.
Magical corpse: Me push-em chair across kitchen. Make heap big scratch in linoleum. Careful what you wish for, pale face.

Guess what. If you want people to leave, you gotta do some serious haunting. You know, chain rattling and floating knives and stuff. Kick that passive aggressive ghost action to the curb, man.
Oh no! What will they do next?!? Put all my butter in the freezer so I rip my bread when I spread it? Maybe throw a red shirt in with my whites?
Oh, oh, wait. That's gonna be my new reality show. I'll have a couple of 20-something roommates live in a house with a passive aggressive ghost. The weekly house meetings are gonna rock.
Roommate #1: You used up all the ice and didn't fill the tray.
Ghost: I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about.
Roommate #2: We were gonna make banana daiquiris tonight but there was no ice. You were here by yourself all day.
Ghost: What do I need ice from a tray for? I have a freezing spectral touch. Even if you handed me a glass of water, I couldn't hand you water back. It automatically just turns into ice.
Roommate #1: Let's hate him
Roommate #2: Totally.
Ghost: Whatever, I'm going to my tomb.
What was that I was saying about bizarro world? Oh yeah, the world is bizarre. It's not me. It's the world.

It's all about Coast to Coast

2006-01-20T04:57:00.000-08:00

I work nights now and I find myself switching through radio stations quite a bit. It's a whole different thing 3:27am. While flipping around I found a really cool...no, the COOLEST radio show in the world. It's called Coast to Coast. It's pretty much a live performance of Weekly World News. That's the publication which broke such important stories as "Bat Boy Escapes!" and "Wolf Man Catches Aides from Romping with Gays in Forest!". Coast to Coast is brought to us by L.A. radio station KFI 640 which is the the same station that also has brings us "The Jesus Christ Show". From what I've heard, that sounds like a pretty good one too. It gives you the opportunity to call in and ask Jesus himself anything you like. I haven't actually listened yet but some day soon I'm gonna call in and ask him how to safely install a door in a load bearing wall. Anyway, Coast to Coast....Ya got yer aliens. Ya got yer ghosts. And, of course, most topics somehow meander their way to the Illuminati. Who are the Illuminati? Why, they're only the most powerful organization in the world. They are evil, malevolent, snarling beasts who run the New World Order which, of course, wants to control and crush you. Kinda like the DMV but they're not as rude. Here's the thing though. I'm kinda diggin' the Illuminati. I mean, if they're that powerful, and that evil, and they want to do a bad thing to me, they would have done it already. Instead I have a job, a house, and two cars. Thank you Illuminati. Thank you for my stuff.
Speaking of stuff, where's my jet pack? They've been promising me a jet pack since the 1950's. The only thing I can come up with for why they don't have them out on the market yet because they aren't fuel efficient enough. I mean, it probably takes like sixty-eight gallons of rocket fuel to hover over a fifty yard line for ten seconds. I think the only way get your hands on a jet pack at this point is to make it yourself. It also has to utilize an alternative fuel. (Which should totally piss off the Illuminati). I'm thinking water and air. Remember those rockets that you put a little water into and pump up? When you push the button, the pressure is released and a jet of pressurized water squirts the rocket straight up. I bet something kinda like that would be cool. The only problem is that it wouldn't have the sustained thrust to hover you gently to work. You would have to bounce on your bicycle pump for about five minutes and then just kinda aim yourself in the direction of your office building. One push of the button and all of the air and water splooshes out in one violent, neck snapping evacuation sending you cart-wheeling end over end through the air to your place of business with a spent canister strapped to your back. It would probably be prudent to make the far wall of your cubicle higher than the rest so that you could "bank shot" yourself into your adjustable office chair. That would be awesome:

(distant popping sound)
Steve the jet pack guy: yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaHHH!!!!!!
(THUD!)
Co-worker #1: Steve's here.
Co-worker #2: You're a bad-ass Steve!
Man, I wish I was Steve.
Oh yeah. Another great thing on Coast to Coast was "Big Foot" night. The best part was when some guy from Arkansas called in and wouldn't say his real name. He told a chilling story about the time he and his buddy (who he would only refer to as "Bird Dog") heard something crashing through the bushes one night during a hunting trip. When they looked in the direction of the noise, they saw something moving on two legs not thirty feet away. What did they do? They shot it. Then they buried it. You know what I think? I think No-Name and Bird-Dog bagged a hiker.
No-Name: ....so we just kinda panicked and started shootin'!
Radio Host: Was it doing anything threatening?
No-Name: Well, we thought it was holding some sorta primative weapon like a rock or somethin'. We was a-scared.
Radio Host: And when you got close to the body, what sort of weapon did you find.
No-Name: Well, turned out to be a roll of Charmin.
Radio Host: Interesting. And how much would you say this creature weighed?
No-Name: You mean with it's shoes on?
Ah well, it's a great show and you gotta check it out. Just don't let the Illuminati catch you listening.

It's game time

2006-01-01T04:36:00.000-08:00

So my kid had to have "UNO ATTACK!" and I blame TV. For the 11 months leading up to Christmas, every station redistributes their daytime slots. During this season, 78% of the air time usually reserved for Yu-Gi-Warrior-Poki-Xiao-Princess-Oh is split, more or less, evenly between two basic themes. First, grinning little girls putting jewelry on everything from baby ponies to blood-thirsty mob goons. Second, ten year old boys shaking robots in each other's faces and screaming at the poor camera man. Sprinkled around the field of bejeweled felons and video technicians, who I doubt escape the Yule season without a drinking problem, are a few spots reserved for good old fashioned games. Okay, maybe "good old fashioned" isn't the phrase I'm looking for. I suppose I could still use that description if they were tastefully hocking stuff like Go Fish or Pick-Up-Sticks, but games and their commercials these days need to be X-TREME!!!!

X-TREME: (ex-stream) adj. -
1. Any act or utterance designed to bring about two simultaneous headaches, one stacked upon the other.

I suspect that in order to film a game commercial, the game people have to borrow a couple of screaming ten year olds from the robot people. Then they sit these kids, who even in their most relaxed state have so much energy that they are literally vibrating, around a table with the featured game in front of them. Next, they hit the whole scene with multi-colored strobe lights, change the camera angle every .43 seconds, and pipe in driving guitar rock while off-season Monster Truck announcers growl menacingly about flicking a spinner and counting spaces on a cardboard rectangle. The ten year olds jump up and down while pumping their robotless fists at each other and savagely yelling at the poor camera man (who doesn't typically do robot commercials and will most likely end up sobbing quietly well into the night). That's just the sort of commercial that was produced to advertise "UNO ATTACK".
That is, of course, why DJ had to have it. As my mom says about DJ, "Just like his dad. Anything flashy will do." Earlier this year DJ collected bonus points by selling chocolate covered everything for a fundraiser at school. While going through the catalogue of bonus prizes, he passed up all the musty old educational stuff like chemistry sets and pocket dictionaries and decided instead on something called "nose aerobics" and a pair of inflatable shoes. Now THAT, my friends, is MY boy!
Anyway, here's the deal. Even without the commercial, "UNO ATTACK!" would be considered X-treme by the staunchest of language experts. Speaking of language, I've been told that "uno" is not an English word. I am not the afore mentioned language expert but after playing this game, I'm pretty sure that "uno" is French for "heart".
Here's the premise. It's a card game like regular Uno except it comes with, I kid you not, a uni-directional card flinging device. When the game is played, the players will be sitting around in a circle, innocently laying down red threes and blue twos when next thing you know, some poor sap has to (get this) point the machine at their own face and push the button. The button doesn't always make the machine shoot cards but it does always make a shocking raspy beep. See, that way you never know if it's coming and even if it doesn't, it scares the crap outta ya anway.
You know, I would have loved to be in the board room when this idea got tossed out there.

Big Boss: Whatta ya got for me boys?
Smith: I thought we could design a new board game modeled after the most up to date documentaries from leading producers. You could play alone or in teams. That way it would be based on educational themes and encourage kids to cooperate.
Johnson: I figured we could crank out something that bears a striking resemblance to Russian Roulette.
Big Boss: I like the way you think Johnson. Smith, you're fired.

I wish more of life were like this game. It would be cool if every time you opened the kitchen drawer there were a slight chance that it would shoot vegetable peelers at your eyes. Even if it doesn't, a voice yells "Bah!" I know I'd cook more.
Either way, the kid got his game and he's happy. I just hope it doesn't end up giving me an uno-attack.

It is done.

2005-12-03T06:04:00.000-08:00

These past couple of months have been unmitigated suck. If you've ever looked for a job, you know what I'm talking about. Hence, the lack of Hi-larity. For the last 60 days or so every attempt to be funny went about like this:
Me: Knock knock.
Unsuspecting joke recipient: Who's there?
Me: (Convulsive weeping)
But 'tis in the past, my friends! I landed a gig at Disneyland. I won't bore you with details. The general idea is that I skulk around at midnight killing things. Know what? That's not a joke. Of course, the things that I'm killing are bugs and fungus on the plants but I like a bit of drama in my life so I'm gonna go with that description. Oh yeah, and I get to do fertilizer programs and irrigation stuff and all that. It'll be pretty cool. I'm just glad to be done with the hunt. I've spent like every waking moment plugged into a coffee I.V. while endlessly scouring the job boards. I also spent a lot of time studying for different certification tests for jobs that may or may not become available. So, now I'm all about arthropod vector biology, Hazardous materials management, and I think I'm also a beautician and/or an acrobat. Actually, I think it's "acrotician". I can give you beauty tips but you have to stand on a little platform and I can only speak to you at a rate of one word every fifteen seconds. So that's about it and I don't have much else to say at the moment. No. Wait. I would like to address my trip to the Jeep store yesterday.
First, a little personal history. I once bought a five year old Saturn that smelled like cat urine for ten thousand dollars. Now, when I talk about how overtly criminal this place is, please keep in mind that I am a bumpkin. If I sensed foul play, I am utterly shocked that anybody shops there. I mean, just check out their logo:

So, I went into the shop needing a) a snap for the frame that holds my Jeep top. b) a new Jeep top. c) a new headlight.
I decided to tackle the top first because it was, far and away, the biggest item. There were four people behind the counter and one attacks, I mean, offers help. We looked through the catalog and found the top I wanted and the guy quotes me a price of $525.
Me: I'm pretty sure your website quotes a price of around four hundred dollars.
Shyster: (with a look on his face like I need a pat on the head and live-in care) Noooooo.......that's not right.
Me: (in one of my more lucid moments) Say, isn't that a computer right there on your desk? Just look it up.
Shyster: (looking it up......pause....looking at his buddies who refuse to make eye contact.....pause....) That's the internet price.
At this, all his friends turn their backs on the two of us and become very busy cleaning things.
Me:Okay, so let me type my order in there, you can get the top out of the back room, and I'll be on my way.
Shyster: We'd have to ship it to you.
Me: How much is shipping?
Shyster: It's hard to say.
Okay, so I was done. I just wanted my snap, and a quick exit. I fell back into my default setting which is "pigeon to be plucked" and purchased the tiny metal snap I needed for ten freakin' bucks. I was about to walk out and remembered the headlight. I walked over to the shelf with about ten different types (none marked with prices by the way) and I said to the guy, "I'm not sure which one of these I need." He picked one up, placed it on the counter, rang it up and announced, "Sixty-five eighty-eight please." And ya know what? He had no remorse. I asked, "Don't you have anything cheaper?" At this, the guy who looked like the owner piped up. He looked at me like I was a skunk wrapped in a dead hobo and said, "That's the only one we stock."
Remembering the other nine on the shelf I said, "But...." thought better of it and left with my ten dollar snap.
So, I have a ripped top, one headlight, and a ten dollar snap. It's a good thing I at least have a job.

I'll buy that

2005-10-10T06:01:00.000-07:00

We went to Sea World this weekend. It was grand fun. However, I am beginning to wonder what the priority is. Is it sea life and education or vicious practical jokes? Why else would my family be actively encouraged to stick our arms shoulder deep into a tank of sting rays?
Sea World Guy: Stick your hands in there please.
Me: But sir, they're called sting rays.
Sea World Guy: Stick your hands in there!
Family: Okay.
Not only that, but some master prankster came up with the idea of serving beer at this place. If not an unconscionable desire for sick comedy, what in the world would possess a theme park to gleefully pour pale ale down the throats of un-witting dads, and then give them a gentle shove in the direction of a shark tank?
Whatever the motivation, I suppose it's working for them. After all, theme parks all over have their own special hook. Case in point: "Train Town". Diane and I went up to Sonoma for a wedding last weekend. We wanted to do something touristy while up there and we were kind of going back and forth between the state capital and this Train Town place. We're not particularly into trains.....or towns, but we wanted to steer clear of the capital building for fear of learning something. The way things turned out, Train Town proved to be tough to find and the capital is where we ended up. My brain can only handle so much stuff and, as predicted, I learned that the carpet in the state house of commons is green because that's how they do it in England. In order to remember that little gem, I had to jettison my children's middle names. In retrospect that was perhaps not the best decision.
Oh well, you work with what you got.
Back to Train Town and their hook. Actually, the Train Town brochure highlights a couple of selling points. First: "It's one fifth the size of Disneyland!" I am confused by this. Shouldn't they be focusing on stuff that would suggest a large potential for having fun? "We don't have Mickey Mouse, or the Tea Cups, or Space Mountain, or bathrooms, but we're little so you're never far from the exit."
I now present their second selling point: "You'll lose your sense of direction!" Now that, my friends, is what I am talking about. When I lay down my entertainment dollar, I expect nothing short of utter disorientation. Yep, I had a great time whacking myself into a drooling stupor at "Hammer Land USA" last summer. That's what everybody really wants and if someone tells you any different, they are lying. Invite them to your home for a meal. Halfway through one of their amusing stories, burst out of your chair in a fiery rage (knocking over a bowl of peas if possible), pound your fist on the table and yell, "YOOOOOUUUU ARE A DAMNABLE DECEIVER!!!" Then chase them out of your home, cracking a bullwhip behind them. Oh yeah, and lock the door so they have to go out a window. And get it on tape. Then send me the tape so I can add it to my collection. Anyway, I'm sold on the idea of train town and I plan to make it over there the next time I'm up north. I must admit that their brochure hooked me.
I guess that's just how they advertise stuff in that part of the world. In fact, I saw a billboard for a new housing development called "Sunken Valley" or "Raised Hills" or whatever and their slogan was: "Vacations will seem like less fun!". Again, shouldn't they be saying something positive while asking for several hundred thousand of my dollars? Besides, I'd like to see them make good on a promise like that. Perhaps they'll have have some guy follow me around Hawaii for two weeks, tapping me on the back of the head with a teaspoon every thirty seconds or so.
Customer Satisfaction Associate: Tap.......... Tap.......... Tap.......... Tap.......... Tap..........
Me: Would you stop that!!!
Customer Satisfaction Associate: Tap.
Me: (sigh) Boy, where they right.
Maybe I'll move up there and become an advertising agent. I could sell anything on that strategy.
You like milk, right? Buy my milk. You're frickin' hands will fall off.
Need shoes? These beauties right here smell surprisingly foul when they get hot.
Oh yeah, baby. I'm seeing dollar signs already. I got a bunch of stuff I was gonna unload on Ebay but I think instead I'll get to work on some posters and radio spots.

Survive 'er!

2005-09-17T06:43:00.000-07:00

That's the name of my new reality show. It's said with the same inflection as that annoying phrase, "Get 'er done!" which is replacing "Cowboy up!" on bumper stickers and beer cozies all across Norco. Since only an authentic cowboy can properly pronounce the name of my show, the host will be Mat McBride.

Stunning, isn't he?
I got the idea for my show while watching the first installment of this season's Survivor: Guatemala. The first challenge had the Survivors slogging through eleven miles of dense jungle. At around mile nine I was thinking, "Well, this is kind of dull." But then, a spike covered branch falls out of a tree and conks a Survivor. Then the dude starts throwing up. It was awesome. I can't wait until the next time somebody asks me, "If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?" I'm gonna say, "A tree with frickin' spikes that throws branches at passers-by and makes them puke." Then I'll be writing my blog with a crayon between my teeth because my sporty new jacket would be a bit too tight in the wrists and waist, if ya know what I mean. That would be cool.
After the two tribes finished their race, the sheer physical strain of the event had four contestants clutching their guts, barfing, and rolling around on the ground just like an episode of Reba does to me. (And everyone else I presume. How could it not?)
The person in the most serious condition was the returning tough guy, Bobby Jon. He was lying flat on his back when his eyes rolled up into his head and he started speaking gibberish. (which is not a real language I'm told). I then saw a small flash of metal near his arm and distinctly heard a sinister voice off camera say, "There'll be no more AAAAHHHH-AAAAHHHH-aaaaahhhhhhhh! But you may feel a little sssssiCK!" Then Bobby Jon got up and did an interview.
That's when I had the idea for Survive 'er! I want to film a show that will seek to determine exactly how much punishment the human frame will endure without dying. I committed nearly fourteen seconds to formulating life threatening scenarios and once again found to my disappointment that thinking is hard. That's why the entire script will be based on Tom and Jerry cartoons. I'm just going to have contestants perform upon one another everything that ever happened to Tom and/or Jerry. Tom is the cat. If you get Tom and Jerry mixed up, here's a little rhyme to help you remember which is which: "Thirty days hath September, Tom's the friggin' cat."
For example, forget tossing coconuts into a basket. I'm gonna have one contestant stuff another's mouth with bullets and then conk him across the back of the head with the butt end of a revolver.
Can you.......Survive 'er!?
Or how about this?:

Oh man, this thing just writes itself. (Or rather someone else wrote it and I'll be stealing it.)
I can hardly wait to see a bulldog pull a certified public accountant through a knothole in a fence.
Stay tuned......

Okay, where was I?

2005-09-10T15:55:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah, stupid classes, upitty fruit snacks, hitting pigeons with rockets, right.....which brings me to my lawn. Diane's going to have a garage sale next week so my contribution is to make the lawn look like I take care of it. I actually use to love lawn care when we first got our house, pride of ownership and all that. I'm thinking now that the whole "pride of ownership" thing is just an insidious form of socialization. It's just this whole rap we feed each other to keep our neighbors in line. Ever wonder why Toro brand lawn care equipment is red? Communisim. Go ahead! Edge, the sidewalk.... COMRADE! Whatever the political implications, at least most of my lawn looks good. The whole thing doesn't look tip-top though. There is a dry spot because something went wrong with my sprinklers and the timer is screwed up. I'm pretty glad I don't know how to fix it because that would probably take forever.
Oh yeah, another part of the job that doesn't look so hot is a cluster of crab grass tufts growing out of the cracks in the driveway. I whacked at 'em for like fifteen minutes with my "The People's Weed Eater" and I just got them down to a managable size. I stopped because I got bored. It looks like a band of Apaches was running through my yard after attacking Troll Town and were in such a hurry to get away they didn't realize it when they dropped half their troll scalps in front of my house. I just can't be bothered to spend too much time on certain stuff like that. It's a good thing that I dropped out of Plastic Surgery on Peoples' Fingers school a couple of years ago. I'm pretty sure I would have gotten sleepy during operations and closed up shop early so I could go grab an Icee.
Patient: Hey doc, I uh...well, I was hoping I would have more fingers than this.
ME: Dude, how many fingers does one guy need? Every time you look down at your hand and DON'T see a hook, you say, "thank you".
Patient: thank you.
Yeah baby, that would be sweet! I mean bad. Very very bad.
At least I cleaned up the clippings. That part was pretty cool. I hadn't edged for a while and there was, quite possibly, more vegetation on my sidewalk and driveway than on my actual yard. Hence, I swept together a pile of grass rougly the size of me. It was awesome. It kinda looked like Cousin It from the Adams Family had dyed himself green. Then he tripped and conked his head on my cement, lying there, motionless. Then I threw him away.

No big deal. I hear he was a communist.

Buncha copy cats

2005-07-27T06:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday NASA used one of these:

To hit one of these:

There were, however, some key differences between their bird collision and the one I spoke of in the previous article. I'm pretty sure that they did it on purpose. In fact, I found a transcript of the shuttle radio traffic on a very reliable website.
Shuttle Commander:Dude...
Ground Control: What?
Shuttle Commander: You hit it!
Ground Control: Shut up!
Shuttle Commander: No, serioulsy!
Both: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Woooooooo!
Now you can call PETA. You know what's a funny phrase? Fajita PETA.
The other difference is that I do not believe their bird survived. I don't know, you tell me:

Anyway, that's how I wanna die. When I get old and terminal I'm going to buy a single engine plane and buzz around Kennedy Space Center until WHAMO! How cool would that be?!?
Guy #1: Hey, you remember Jason?
Guy #2: Yeah, what ever happened to that guy?
Guy #1: He got nailed by a frickin' space ship!!!
Yeah baby. That's what I'm talkin' about.

Fly away you sweet little thing, they're hot on your tail!

2005-07-19T04:44:00.001-07:00

[public announcement] I haven't started talking funny. That title is a reference to a Genesis song. There are problably 12 people in the world who would get it. [public announcement]
Yesterday we packed up the plastic wagon and made a trek to the park. Lots of stuff happened. but the one event that blots out everything else that I might otherwise have remembered was this:

We used one of these,

To hit one of these.

Right out of mid air. It was glorious. Two things. First, the bird was not hurt so don't be callin' PETA. Second, it was not on purpose so don't be callin' PETA.
Bird was just flying along, minding his own business and WHAMO! Out of nowhere he gets biffed with a freakin' rocket. I wish I had it on tape. I could have sent it to all the news stations and they could use it as an ultra low-budget "dramatic reenactment" of a surface to air missle strike on a plane.
Anchor woman: The attack was sudden and vicious.
Roll Footage: [Bap! Squaaaaaack!]
Anchor man: Disturbing images, Kelly. A tragedy indeed.
That poor bird had to have the same sense of surprise that I do when I'm walking down the stairs and there was one step less than I expected. You evere done that? You're already on level ground and you plant your next step like you're cracking walnuts with your heel. It's surprising the force with which people walk down stairs. If we could only harness that energy we could reduce our dependence on foreign oil. All we gotta do is build big warehouses across the country and fill them with people taking 16 steps down 15 stairs.
Oh jeez! Look at the time. I haven't taken my meds.

I got my ass kicked by a "Fruit Snack"

2005-07-16T05:43:00.000-07:00

I thought I was pretty bright until I took the test. Fruit By The Foot snacks now have little quizzes printed on the paper in which the fruit is rolled. If you don't know exactly what Fruit By The Foot is, I'll explain. In the interest of general enlightenment, I'll let you in on the entire process so that you can make your own educated purchases. [DISCLAIMER] This account contains descriptions of the real-life treatment suffered by our friends, the fruits. If you are squeamish, please do not read.
Apples, oranges, pears, etc. are raised in small cramped quarters, sometimes as many as sixty per two-foot by two-foot cage. They have no room to spread their leaves. Often the larger fruits will bruise and even break the skin of smaller fruits leaving them all to eat, sleep, and mate in puddles of their own sugary juice. They endure these deplorable conditions until finally they are taken out of their prison and cruelly dispatched by inserting an electrode into their stem-hole. The lifeless flesh of the produce is then crushed to a pulp and mechanically flattened into long strips while the skins are used to make hats and day planners. I'm not sure how they get rolled up but I've seen midgets and firemen walking in and out of the factory hand-in-hand at all hours of the day and night. I've got a hunch that they have something to do with it. I wanted to show what the finished product looks like so that you could bear witness to the final horror. That is why I selflessly took 11.3 seconds out of my morning to do the Google image search for fruit by foot. Here is the result:

So I'll just describe them. They are flattened strips of fruit corpse about one inch wide and six feet long pressed to a piece of paper with the same dimensions and rolled into a tight little package.
As I said before, the paper is printed with little questions and answers to make you feel stupid. I hadn't noticed the freakin' college entrance exam written on the backs of these things until my niece, out of nowhere, asked me how fast a kid can run. I said, "Let's find out." and chased her around the yard with a lizard. Okay, so that part is a lie. I do that because I am a liar. What I really said was, "Oh, I guess it depends on the kid. About thirteen miles an hour I suppose. Why?" No answer, just another question. "How fast can an emu go?" At that point, I noticed she was looking at one of those Fruit By The Foot wrappers (Wouldn't it be cool if there were fruit by the foot rappers?) There was a list of organisms printed down the length of it. It seems the good folks down at the Fruit By The Foot factory, knowing exactly how fast each one can move, (smug bastards) were having a go at pushing around all of us poor souls who do not know the speed of an antelope compared to that of a cockroach. They even teased us with a list of speeds given in MPH from which we could choose and apply to each animal. You tell me, is it a bear that goes 38 MPH or a tortoise? What if you toss the tortoise off the top of a Ferris wheel? I'll bet that sucker's doing at least 38 MPH when it's 2 feet from the ground. See? Not so easy, is it?
The point is, we got 2 out of 8. How humiliating is that? That's 25% or, in the language of education, an F- - -. I'll bet those sadistic freaks implanted each pressed snack with a tiny microphone just so they can sit around the office and laugh at adults having long and spirited debates with little children about the running style of ferrets. Well, I fell for it. My niece and I talked over each animal with an unwarranted degree of seriousness and, in 6 out of 8 cases, screwed up. I hope that the guys down at the factory had a good laugh. They just better run if they see me coming at 'em with an electrode and/or a lizard.

Please, oh please click this link.

2005-07-12T08:36:00.000-07:00

I'm not 100% sure, but I suspect that this is the greatest thing ever in the history of everything.

Taters

What is it with classes that have "management" in the title?

2005-07-09T07:07:00.000-07:00

You may remember that I took what I thought was the world's stupidest class last quarter. Well, I have to take two classes this summer to finish up and I found a class that is even worse: Stress Management for Healthy Living. There's this chump and she's teaching me how to remain calm. Our first assignment was to tell her how we typically manage stress. "Ya know? I chew staples and jump out of trees." What kind of question is that? I pack all the stress into a little black ball and shove it in my gut like every other red-blooded American.
But she has different ideas. The next assignment was to practice some "relaxation techniques". First I was to sit in a chair and, get this, breathe. Chump has a flippin' PhD and that's what she gives me. I bet people come into her private practice all the time, "Doctor! Doctor! My face is blue and it's getting harder and harder to talk!" To which she insightfully strokes her chin and queries, "Have you tried ---- breathing?" The patient goes, "GASP! AAAHHHHH! GASP! AAAAAHHHH! Oh yeah Doc. You sure know your stuff!"
Actually I am misrepresenting the technique. When you inhale, you are supposed to say out loud, "I feel heavy." When you exhale you say, "I feel warm." Yeah, I'm gonna work that into my daily routine. Diane will yell to me from the across the house, "Jason! Can you please help me get these kids under control so I can give them a bath?" I'll yell back from the other room, "I feel heavy! I feel warm!" I'm sure that will really help take the tension down a notch in the house.
But, I'm a wacko about grades. It really doesn't matter what I get in this class as long as I pass but I still get all obsessive about the grade. That's why I sat there listening to her recording, breathing, saying to myself (and feeling like an idiot) "I feel heavy. I feel warm." And then she lost me with the next thing. I couldn't put up with it anymore when she said that I was to (I am sooo not kidding) shoot a beam of negative energy out the top of my head through a hole that, to my best reckoning, does not exist. At that point I had an epiphany. She gets paid the big dollars to make stuff up. She can say literally anything and people well buy it. If it sounds stupid enough, she wouldn't dare say it if it didn't work, right?
Patient: Doc, I just lost my job, and my wife left me, and my neighbor bit me, and my corneas fell out, and I've just been indicted in a pyramid scheme, and my shoes are too tight.
The Good Doctor: (Again, thoughtfully stroking her chin) Have you dipped your elbows in blueberry marmalade?
Patient: To be honest I hadn't thought of...
The Good Doctor: Well? do that!
Patient: Thanks Doc! Here's my checkbook! They're all pre-signed!
Seriously, this class is the most pointless thing I've ever been subjected to and I've watched Sheriff Lobo. This class is gonna make me gag. Then you'll see a beam of negative energy shoot out of a hole in my head.

Don't cheap out on your seeing eye dog.

2005-07-07T06:33:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking that I probably had enough propane to get me through a single BBQ, but I wanted to fill the tank anyway. I mean, if you run out of propane on the Fourth of July you might as well pack up your crap and move to Cuba. You know why? Because you're a communist, that’s why. On my way to the gas station I was treated to a little show put on by the world's lousiest seeing eye dog. I think maybe the poor guy picked it up at one of those sleazy used seeing eye dog lots where they sell any dog that can see because it has eyes as a "seeing eye dog".
Blind Guy: I don't know. My social worker says I should stick with a "Seeing Eye Dog For The Blind" brand seeing eye dog.
Salesman: Oh well la-dee-da, Mr. Rockefeller. I didn't realize you were a slave to labels.
Blind Guy: It's not that. It's just that, well, this one has bitten me twice already.
Salesman: Oh that? They all do that when they're new. It'll settle down after a couple of miles.
Blind Guy: I don't know....
Salesman: Listen. If you're not interested, I have another blind guy coming down this afternoon who already made me an offer on this exact dog over the phone.
Blind Guy: I'll take it!
And that's probably why the dog stepped off the curb against a red light and sat down in the left hand turn lane. Of course the man didn't know exactly what was going on, but he could tell that something wasn't quite kosher. He was very agitated and yelled something at the dog. My windows were up so I couldn't hear him but I imagine it was something along the lines of, "Pardon me, faithful hound! I would like to safely reach the other side of the road!"
The dog slowly turned its head and looked up at his master with the same expression I would get from a sixteen year old sales clerk if I walked into Hot Topic. (For those of you who may not know, Hot Topic is a mall shop that sells individuality paraphernalia. That's how you can tell who the non conformists are. They wear the same clothes and have the same tattoo on the small of their back as all the other non conformists.) I'm sure that the guy could feel the dog turning to look at him because he shut up post haste. Since your seeing eye dog could walk you off a cliff if he chose to, I imagine that living with a seeing eye dog would be a lot like living with that kid from The Twilight Zone who could send you to the corn field if you did or said something that he didn't care for.
"It was great the way you stranded me in traffic, Patches. Yep, it sure was good that you did that."
Finally the dog stood up, yawned, checked his watch, and casually strolled his master out of the road. Now, I ain't no expert, but I think that maybe he should take his dog back to the dealership. He can get himself a nice brand name dog, maybe one of those models with a "For The Blind" tattoo on the small of its back.

Cold blooded, man.

2005-07-02T20:36:00.000-07:00

Diane pays DJ twenty five cents every time he kills a bug in the house. Tonight the boy pocketed fiddy-cent for waxing two spiders. Diane says to the kid, "Good job, bug killer." DJ, being all business the way he is says, "I'm not a bug killer. I just do my job. That's my job. Kill."
I'm sleeping with the lights on tonight.

oooooo that smell. Can't you smell that smell?

2005-06-30T06:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Diane and my anniversary. Nine whole years and it's been absolutely wonderful. Last night to celebrate, Diane and I got ourselves a babysitter and went out to eat at a nice place. Or rather, It seemed like a nice place. Yep the place was nice, but the people had a mean streak in 'em. I thought that the staff members were smiling at us because they were friendly, but they were just holding back the giggles because they were all in on the prank. Diane and I both ordered the rib-eye. Diane ordered it because she felt like having steak. I ordered it because the joint looked kind of fancy and I was hoping that by ordering a steak I wouldn't have to leave hungry. Sometimes I get duped in those fancy type places. I think that I'm going to get a lot of food if I order the most expensive thing. (Eighty bucks?!?! Woo hoo! I can't pronounce it, but they're gonna have to bring it to me on a furniture dolly!) Then the guy comes over with a plate bigger than my torso and smack in the middle is a piece of meat roughly the size of my thumb drizzled with red and yellow stuff with a side of rose petals. So anyway, we order our steak and the waitress comes back and sets it on the table. I was glad to see a lot of food there. Thing is, when the waitress leaned over to put my food on the table she got pretty close to my face and I caught a horrible stench. It was disgusting. How in the world can someone in the food service industry come to work smelling like that? And why in the world wouldn't her co-workers tell her to go home and clean up?
She left the table and I leaned towards Diane, ready to make some comment about the smelly help. The waitress was gone and as I leaned over my plate, I realized that the smell was my food. I could not believe my nose.
oh------my------goodness
My steak smelled like a skunk smothered in saurkraut and served stuffed in the belly of a two day dead hobo.
It was covered with onions. Okay, now if you know me, you realize the magnitude of the statement I am about to make. I wish that they had been regular onions. Normally, I would rather shave with a lawnmower than eat onions but I would have been thrilled to face my old nemesis in this case. These onions were red and slimy. They looked like entrails. They were the source of the smell. I don't really go for stinky food that looks like my guts.
You know what I hate more than stinky food? Sitting in a restaurant with nothing to eat. That's why I thought I would just roll the entrails off my steak and eat it. Actually, the steak itself was pretty good but I could not get that eye-watering stank out of my nostrils and it really tainted the mood. I'm like "Oh yeah! This steak is great! In fact, it's so great that I'm going to eat it in four bites and get the hell out of here as fast as I can." (Chew-gulp-"check please!")
All I left behind was a pile of what looked like ton-ton intestines and ill wishes for the chef.
Other than that it was a wonderful dinner. As we left, the staff was smiling more widely than when we entered. They brightnened up even more when I heard a guy who just sat down say, "I feel like steak."

'twas a bust

2005-06-30T06:47:00.000-07:00

The very day that I wrote the last post, Diane comes up to me and says, "So Jason, is there a reason you're throwing that cup away?" Blast her enquiring mind and candor! If my life were a sitcom, it would totally get cancelled. Well, maybe that isn't true. Even though nothing really happened, it's still funnier than anything on "According to Jim". Of course, nine hours of listening to a guy with a prosthetic larynx reading the tax code in monotone is funnier than "According to Jim".

Man, I hope Diane doesn't read this

2005-06-25T19:23:00.000-07:00

She reads my blog from time to time but she's pretty busy with friends in town right now so I'm going to take a bit of a chance. Here's the thing. I threw away a plastic cup the other day because it has this tiny little microscopic crack in it near the bottom. You can't even see the crack but the cup leaves huge rings of whatever you're drinking all over whatever you set it on. So...I threw it away. Now, I know I've thrown stuff away before by accident. I'm a little absent minded like that. But this time, she pulled it out of the trash and didn't say anything, so I threw it away once more. Today, I look in the sink and she pulled it out again. Naturally, I threw it away a third time. I would say something, but I think it'll be funner to see how many times I can throw it away and how many times she'll pull it out of the trash before she just comes up and says, "Dude, what's your problem?!". Yep, that's pretty much the sort of thing that makes my world go 'round. That and BRCs from El Pollo Loco. Ever had one? They're burrios with only three ingredients: beans, rice, and cheese. Oh, except for this one time I found some hair in it. I hope it was an accident. Because it was probably either that or the guy making my burriot saw that I'm starting to go bald and he was just rubbing my face in it. "HA! Look at me! I have so much hair that I cook with it!" Bastard. Anyway, I'll let ya know how this cup thing turns out.

This is a test

2005-06-20T15:01:00.000-07:00

I'm talking about junk mail. I mean the tangible stuff that you use to start your fireplace. I'm not addressing spam at this time.
Oh, incidentally. People say that the spammers track your internet habits and tailor a list of who gets what spam. Here's a little game. I'll tell you that I get a lot of spam advertising track lighting and portable toilets. Now you tell me where I get my news. The winner gets to use my portable toilet.
Anyway, back to actual junk mail.
It's all about testing you. They don't want to know how smart you are. They want to know how dumb you are. Here's how it works. They send you an urgent announcement with no return address that pleads with you to call United Virtual Housing Homestead Friends of Partnership Consolidation about your overdue mortgage payment.
Correct response: I feel like spaghetti tonight (crumple toss).
The response they're hoping for: HOLY COW! I didn't even know I had another mortgage out there! I better follow up on this just in case my other house is nicer than this one!
Bingo. They got a customer.
Let me be honest here. At this point I was planning to come up with a fictitious phone conversation to a fictitious mortgage company. However, I was unable to come up with anything off the top of my head. Furthermore, thinking is hard and is, for the most, to be avoided so I just called the number to see what would happen. I was expecting this big hilarious conversation where they tried to convince me that I owed them money, or that I was distantly related to an antelope ranch tycoon in Zaire, or something. Anything! Sadly, the conversation went like this.
"Mortgage company": Mortgage and loan department, how can I help you?
Me: Hi, I'm calling because I got a letter from you about my mortgage.
"Mortgage company": Yes, what can I do for you?
Me: I don't have a mortgage with your company.
"Mortgage company": I see, can you hold?
Me: Sure
"Mortgage company": *silence* *click* *buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz* "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, please hang up and dial your operator." (by the way, if you've ever wondered what note on the musical scale a dial tone is, it's "A")
Actually, I kind of suspect that she didn't really hang up. She was probably making that buzz with an electric toothbrush and impersonating a recording while her "old man" scooped stolen credit card numbers and fake social security cards into a nap sack so they could make a quick get away.
They gave it their best shot. I passed their first test and proved to be stupid enough to make the call. Unfortunately for them, I was still not quite dumb enough to talk to. Oh well, I'm sure that they'll find a nice little alley where they can park their pop-up trailer, splice into the electricity of an old widow, and resume their testing.

Is it just me?

2005-06-17T14:46:00.000-07:00

Look me in the face and tell me that's not creepy.

You know, I think I'm gonna fill it with vegetable soup and do that in front of my kids next time they get outta line. Oh oh oh, AND I'll give off this high-pitched screech while I do it. They'll start watching their step. Believe you me.
Oh yeah, this is absolutely time better spent than if I were working on the carport like I'm supposed to be.