The HumorSmith Chronicle

Koyannisqatsi

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 19:05:00 +0000

I am tipsy. Don't go there; I am not drunk. I refer to the fact when I put on my pants I tip over. For some reason, the stork stance is beyond my abilities of late. I can walk. I can sit. I have even been known to fetch. Standing on one leg: forget it.

Some suggest yoga. I say, what good is a cartoon bear in this situation? I have considered asking someone to hold my pants while I leap into them, but as I am single, and the only available someone is my roommate, I am not anxious to try this method for many reasons, not the least of them the strong possibility he will step aside at the last moment just for laughs.

Standing is not an issue. What's with the tipping over? I feel as if I belong in a pasture, grazing contentedly until some hilariously inclined teenager sneaks up on me and pushes me over. Well! That is not going to happen. I do have a very strong herd instinct, but nonetheless, I am not going to subject myself to public humiliation. Unless you count this blog, of course.

If you list this little problem along with my childproof packaging challenges, then you can see I do have some hills to climb. I will get on with that as soon as I can get this bottle of Tylenol open.

Climbing makes my muscles sore. Not to mention the bump on my head I received while dressing yesterday morning.

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Rehell

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 03:27:00 +0000

Being dead is not bad for your career. Look at Michael Jackson, Elvis, and John Lennon. Fact is, I do lots of good work when I am not fully functional.

Let me explain: ....erm, I can't, but those of you who get it understand, right?

Remember how everyone always told you to think before you said or did anything? You listened, I bet. Sure you did. Well, you are not alone. Most people don't think at all if it can be avoided. To put it another way, my workday is rife with "Mad's snappy answers to stupid questions" and "Here's your sign" opportunities.

Many out there rely on others to do the heavy mental lifting whenever possible. "Excuse me, do you have cds?"

Keep in mind, I was standing in a huge room which is half filled with cds. The other half is full of dvds, so maybe she was confused. *sigh*.

If you combine those folks with the I will scream and rant and rave and otherwise act like a two year old until you give me my refund/apology/coupon which I forgot to bring with me, then you truly have a recipe for retail hell. Let me get my "Bah humbugs" out early, okay? There are days when I think I don't get paid enough to be nice to these socially retarded misfits, but then I stop and think of myself when I am out shopping.

I am NICE to retail associates everywhere, even the surly ones. I smile and respond to their "May I help you?" and always move quickly at the register and engage them in minimal conversation because I know they have a lot to do and many other folks to help.

So where's the disconnect? Where are the nice folks at my store? Frankly, most of them are asleep in the comfy armchairs, snoring and drooling contentedly into their lattes.

Hey! Maybe that's the key! Perhaps all the surly bird shoppers who visit me really need is a nap and a latte. I mean, they've already got the drooling thing down, if you count the spittle I am pasted with while they tell me exactly what they want and question my lineage while asking for a refund on the dvd they bought a year ago.

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Louisville CSI*

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 00:56:00 +0000

"Hey. I can't get this cd to play on your system."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Not every disc we have is available to sample."

"But your sign says I can sample hundreds of thousands of titles."

"Uh huh."

"Then how come I can't listen to all of them?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. Not every disc we have is available to sample."

"But your sign says I can sample hundreds of thousands of titles."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Not every disc we have is available to sample."

"But your sign says I can sample -" WHAM!

There's a well guarded secret in retail. Hidden in a cupboard, in a velvet lined black lockbox, is a customer training tool. Because I like you, and I wouldn't want to see any of you get hurt, I will show you what it looks like so you can't be blindsided by an impatient sales associate.

It never mentions this terrific sales tool in the employee handbook, and management never talks about it. I only discovered it by accident. When I arrived at work one day last week, I was startled by a huge stain on the floor in front of the register.

None of my employees would tell me what happened, nor would management. However, when I stepped behind the counter, I discovered the lockbox behind a half-open cupboard door. Well, that neatly explained the stain, and I found out the customer was in a coma, but full recovery was expected.

Thing is, I have always wondered how many difficult customer service issues were handled so quickly and to everyone's satisfaction, and why our client satisfaction scores were so high.

It's amazing what can be accomplished with a good attitude and a little friendly persuasion.

*Customer Service Index

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Cellf Interest

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 23:58:00 +0000

Roommate crashed the computer. Apparently he was driving too fast and couldn't negotiate the curve. I warned him it was a hard drive.

There. I have not only explained the week without Humor, but I have managed to pun yet again. I should probably be ashamed, but you know me well enough to know if I had any shame, I wouldn't be blogging.

I have been hearing the term "clear the decks" a lot at work. I am still unsure what it means. If they're talking about a poop deck, I don't want to be around, because I know which way that stuff rolls, and I am definitely not at the top of the pyramid. Or the food chain.

That doesn't even sound appetizing. Food chain? Exactly how would you cook that?

I sat next to a lady at lunch today, and couldn't help overhearing her cell phone conversation. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Is it even possible to be out in public and not hear someone's conversation? She said something about how she knew this thing intellectually, but emotionally she was having a hard time dealing with it. No kidding. Emotions make everything hard to deal with; if we didn't get emotional about things, nothing would bother us.

Not even loud phone chat at restaurant tables. As if the verbiage wasn't obnoxious enough, the Marquess de Sadie also insisted on trying to eat while talking. Every statement was punctuated by a loud "smack smack smack". I considered telling her she was talking smack, but I knew she'd be miffed I was listening, even though people were coming in from outside to complain about the noise.

Isn't being overheard the whole point of cell phones? Sure, we tell each other it's for "emergencies", but how many emergencies involve hair appointments and significant others straying off the leash? We want everyone to know how important we are, how vital everything that involves us is, how crucial it is that we always be in contact with our friends, family, and the Verizon geek with the glasses and the endless concerns about our hearing.

Hell yes I can hear you now. Shut up already.

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Standup Retailer

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 09:27:00 +0000

A unitard is one really dumb guy.

Ever start to tell a joke to a coworker and realize halfway through it's highly inappropriate? Yep. It was too late to stop though, so I went ahead. I think I need a safety switch on my tongue. I used to not worry about such things, but everyone is so damned uptight these days. I'm not really crude, but some of my material is PG-13.

Maybe I should wear a warning label. How come people can't laugh at life anymore?
I used to worry folks wouldn't take me seriously, but I have never taken them seriously, so why would they? The worst that could happen is..

Nope. Not even gonna go there.

Now I have to filter everything before I speak. Remember the old saw about it being better to remain silent and be thought a fool? Whatever. I don't even err on the side of caution. Why is it so hard to be a comedian and maintain gainful employment? Being broke has a negative impact on my humor, but I can't help myself.

I think just about everything is funny. I think having fun at work is wonderful. Customers respond in a good way to the yuk yuks. Management doesn't always, and I are one. So I wear two masks at work, and sometimes I forget to change them. My biggest laugh usually comes when I see my paycheck, but what the hell. If I wanted to be rich, I'd. Well, I do want to be rich, but there's no reason to be morbid about it. Somehow I must find a way to make "Hey, HumorSmith, did you finish that assignment?"
"No, but this guy walked into a bar..." work in my favor.

Just because I am funny doesn't mean I'm a bad worker. It mystifies me how I manage to shoot myself in the foot without a gun. I shoot my mouth off too, sans weapon. I'm gonna make a movie. An action film wherein I am the buff, take no guff, courageous and humorous protagonist. I'll call it "Mirthful Weapon", and it will make lots of money and inspire the frustrated retail comics who just want to be rewarded for bringing the funny. Donald Trump will see it and realize the value of lightening up, and donate his money to me so that I can make more movies about the beautiful oxymoron "workplace humor".

That flapping sound you hear is nothing to be frightened of. It has to do with monkeys and my posterior. See? I can apply the filter when necessary.

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Speed Trappers

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 07:00:00 +0000

Frank Sinatra can sing the peel off an apple.

There. Having said that, I suppose there are those among you who will disagree, but that's okay. My blog, my opinions. He can, ya know.

My soon to be returned car is running again. The alternator blew. I searched online, found one for $71 and my roommate/landlord installed it. In 7 minutes. Take that, auto shops. Seven minutes! And the labor cost me nothing. Life is good.

So once again I am mobile. I will purchase a more economical and less cop-attracting car this time. I mean, owning a Mustang GT is all well and good, but one must be prepared with a battery of excuses to give to Smokey Bear, a limitless fund to pay the speeding tickets, and the will to tolerate being prohibited from ever driving the car at the speed for which it was designed. Muscle car? Feh!

How would I look in a Mini-Cooper? Better than in a Gary Cooper, I guess. Sport cars are not all they are supposed to be anyway. Mario Andretti is not my idol,and I am very much over being punished each time I drive 100 or so miles above the speed limit. Spoilsport cops. Where's the harm? I mean, the worst that could happen is I would remove myself and a few others from the planet, but still.

A little background: The 'Stang is the first fast car I have owned. Consequently when I step on the accelerator, I am unprepared for the burst of speed which ensues. If I'd had this car in my twenties, I wouldn't be here now. I wouldn't have been frightened by the g-force, and that along with youth's sense of invulnerability would have rendered me pavement smear in a matter of days. At this point in time, death is not so much a worry. Being the sole person responsible for the salaries of the WA staties is.

I'm not sure when financial concerns became more important than mortality, but there it is. I know I can't take it with me, but that doesn't mean I don't want to have some left when I go. I can't say with certainty that there aren't vending machines on the other side, can you? Or is there a huge cafeteria, and a buffet style setup? Does that mean we aren't required to tip? I just want to be covered either way.

Maybe if I carried a license that indicated I was an organ donor to the police they'd be less inclined to ticket, and more inclined to warn.

Then again, what are the odds the police would desperately need a Wurlitzer or a Hammond B-3?

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Bussed A Move

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 07:00:00 +0000

I apparently have to kill myself now.

I was riding the bus home from work, and it was SRO. Unreal, as it was 8:17 on a Thursday night. I was so busy grousing under my breath, I nearly missed the comely young lady boarding after me. Early 20's, long dark brown hair, prominent points of erm, interest. Yeah. It was kinda fun standing behind her. We never exchanged words or made eye contact, until the bus made its first stop, and a seat was emptied, at which point the young beauty turned to me and said, "Go ahead."

Excuse me? She wasn't really suggesting I needed to sit and she didn't? My attempt at chivalry fell on young, deaf ears. She insisted I have a seat. It was then I noticed said seat was at the front. You know, reserved for elderly and disabled persons. Well, I am certainly not physically challenged, so....

I'm sure you are way ahead of me. Was this woman actually deferring to me because of my.....age? Did I perhaps appear incontinent? I definitely would remember peeing on her foot. Oddly enough, after she forced me to sit, I kinda wished I had. Peed on her foot. For starters. A young, pretty woman insisted I use the senior seat on the bus. After this insult, I did the only thing I could: I shuffled slowly over to the seat and collapsed onto it, emitting a loud fart as I settled.

What's next, discount meals at Denny's? This can't be good.

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Jester Minute

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 04:58:00 +0000

Wow...I literally have nothing to write about this evening.

Fortunately for you, that's never stopped me from posting.

I often wonder if things that make me laugh make you laugh. Or is it only my warped sense of reality? I get the feeling from some of your comments there are more than a few of you who share my sense of humor.

Sorry about that.

I walked into the breakroom today and found one of the new female staff crying. I immediately prepared to do what I always do, but as she'd already seen me enter, I couldn't run out of the room.

Turns out the issue was another employee was being mean to her.

Excuse me? Mean to her? And she was crying? Well, naturally I stifled my laughter and played the empathy card. Perhaps you've seen that card:

I know, I know. I have pretty much given up on my dreams of working in the human resources department. Ah well, nonetheless I listened to her story and promised I would do something about it immediately and left the room.

Does rolling on the floor convulsed with laughter count as doing something about it? Thought so.

Hey don't get me wrong; I am very sympathetic to those who in their daily life encounter obstacles that stop them in their tracks, that bring them down and make it impossible for them to reach their full potential, incidents that...

Nah. Can't do it. It's damn near impossible to type while I'm laughing.

Don't get me wrong; I am very sympa.....

Forget it. Point is, bad stuff happens to all of us. We can't control it, all we can do is control how we react. And I react by blogging. Hey you guys, thanks for being there. Did you ever know that you're my hero? And everything I would like to be? Whoo!Damn! Can't do that either.

I think watching that double feature of Beaches and Terms Of Endearment has made it impossible for me to get in touch with my feelings or yours. I know I have feelings, because I experienced an emotion a couple years ago. It was a wild couple minutes, lemme tell you.

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Connie The Barberian

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 01:24:00 +0000

Got my hair cut yesterday. There's a salon just around the corner from my store, so in I went, as "Gene Whorez" was too busy for me. Big mistake. When I saw Connie, I was speechless, which is pretty unusual for me.

Biceps the size of radial all-weathers. Shoulders broad enough to make her a candidate for the Russian weight team at the next Olympics. Did I mention her attitude? She had one, trust me.

After I was seated in her chair, she shoved her fingers into my scalp, (I don't have a lot of natural covering), and arranged my fewlicles in a manner that evidently pleased her, as she grinned, (believe me, you don't want a description of that!), and stepped back to grab something off her table.

I reached up to casually push my hair back a bit.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Um, my head itched?"

"Well, you in my house now."

Okay. So, um, I promised not to touch MY hair again, and she went about her business, talking all the while about things I had no interest in. At all. Fortunately, that didn't stop her. "So, ya know, that guy on Battlestar Galactica, well, his son is...."

I really didn't hear the rest, but I grunted occasionally, trying to keep up my end of her monologue. Whatever happened to silent trims? I had just finished work, I was pretty much talked out, my head was bent under the excess weight of unwanted and untamed hair, and all I really wanted was to get the hell out of there. Shorn and gone. Oh yeah, and away from the sight of Connie's tree trunk arms.

You know how the stylist will gently touch your head to indicate to which side you should tilt? When Connie signaled me, it was very like the scene in Lethal Weapon where Mel snaps his adversary's neck. I briefly lost feeling in my toes and fingers, and the room reeled.

"When you put product in your hair..."

So now I have a convenience store on my head? Product? All I was aware of was gel and hairspray, but if you think I was going to tell Connie that, then you don't know me very well.

If the Taliban trained hairdressers, this would be the result. I have never received a style from a woman with biceps bigger than my head, and I never want to do so again. The many pleasant experiences I have had at the hands of nubile young beauties who always stood close enough to press their fun bits into my side are a hazy memory, but I know they must still be out there somewhere, and I will find them. Perhaps "Gene Whorez" next time.

Hell, I'll even make an appointment.

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Friedday

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 17:37:00 +0000

"My blog is like a box of chocolates: Ya never know what you're going to get."

As you can see, I have found the Gumption to post today. Good thing too, because I was afraid I couldn't see the Forrest for the trees.

Fridays seem to do something to me. Ah hell, every day does something to me. I hope soon to be in a position to do something to the day first. You know, leave my indelible mark on it, claim it as mine and hide it so that you all will be missing a day from your week. What? It could happen.

As I spend a great deal of ~~tome~~ time at work, (I was going to delete that typo, but since I work at a bookstore, I thought perhaps it was Freudian, and all you analytical types out there could study my blog for clues to the issues I have, and maybe help me figure out this thing called life. Life with a capital "L" I already understand. It's a game, a cereal, and a mostly defunct magazine), erm...where was I?

Oh. Right. I spend much time at the shop, and I am often forced to use the public restroom. I dislike doing so, because I prefer to be alone while I eliminate, but hey...they serve lots of coffee at the cafe, so....I have a tendency to, um...stutter when someone walks in midstream. It's very uncomfortable, and it unfortunately extends my break time, so that ~~up yours~~ upper management is beginning to question my frequent absences. How do I explain this one? Oddly, when I consider this question while in the men's room, all I can think to do is stall. Work on that for a minute. I'll wait.

Don't give me that "TMI" look. This is my personal blog, so information overload goes with the territory. Besides, I know I can trust you not to tell anyone, right? Who'd believe you anyway? Work is not all bad; they have cookies. Often a cookie and a white chocolate mocha serve as my breakfast. For some reason, I seem to be quite hyper afterwards, but at least I get a lot done. I'm starting to think that's why they give us a 50% discount in the cafe: so we work like the devil all day and never need sleep. But that would be evil. Surely no corporation would act in such a way. They only want the best for us. And what's a little hypertension now and then?

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Questionable Behavior

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 07:00:00 +0000

"What were you thinking?"

Hate that question. Obviously if I had been thinking, I wouldn't have done what I did. Which was what by the way? I may not have actually done anything, but I want to be sure.

That kinda covers my entire life, from 1st grade through my most recent relationship. Why all the questions? If I'd known there would be pop quizzes throughout my life, I'd've paid more attention in class. All the way from rug crawling sessions to the school of hard knockers, which may be accessed at your local strip club.

Thing is, I think we should reach a point in our lives where we are deemed good to go, and the training wheels are removed, we are set at the top of the hill and the restraining hand is lifted from the bicycle seat. I know. Me too. First thing I hit was a streetlight pole. Okay so maybe a little guidance now and again isn't such a bad thing. Guidance I can handle, but the incessant interrogations are over the top. Hell, sometimes even I don't know why I do something. Haven't you ever done something on a whim, just bypassed all the warning signs and gone for it?

Me too. It wasn't all that bad though; bail was only $10,000. Luckily I had an understanding judge. He understood I had just received a huge tax refund check and had plans for the money, and decided he couldn't understand why I wouldn't want to just turn it over to the legal system.

Why do they call those guys the bailiff? You still have to post bail if you go with them politely. They should be called bails, because there is no "if" involved. Baretta said, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time", but he never said a damn thing about not being able to afford to pay your fines.

The song should go, "Don't do the crime if you can't pay the fine". Time I have lots of, cash is a bit less abundant. Besides, the only one who got hurt by my impetuous deed was me. I decided to see if it was true you should always steer into the skid if you lose control of your car. Yeah, it's true, but all I killed was a couple of plants and my desire to drive. I ask you, was that worth a $10,000 fine? Okay, so I knocked a big chunk out of the house at the base of the hill, but still. And the fella didn't really need all that yard art or the Ford Explorer, did he?

And was it really necessary for the judge to ask me "What the hell were you thinking?" As if I would know.

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Restricted Living

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 19:55:00 +0000

Years ago, an "R" rating on a movie all but guaranteed plenty of sex and nudity. Not anymore. Today it means dialogue to make a sailor blush and enough Hollywood gore to set decorate a slaughterhouse.

When I was under 17, I used to find any reason I could to sneak in and enjoy the celluloid carnality. Now I look for any reason to sneak out without feeling bad about wasting $10 on a ticket. It's not that I object to the profanity. Fact is, it barely registers with me after so many years. I do bemoan the lack of sex. Both in real life and sinema.

It's just that I can't help feeling maybe I should be outside in the real world trying to cobble together some kind of life. Radical thought, no? Don't worry; the feeling soon passes and I am quickly back to paying attention to blogging and living vicariously through others. Except Hannibal Lecter; I do have standards.

I do still love movies, but even the refuge that all my life has taken me back to fun times seems to reflect a darker version of reality to me now. I don't feel I can live any of those lives. I don't identify with the psychotic potty mouth on the screen. That's how you can tell the good guy from the bad guy today: the good guy curses more eloquently and has less spittle flying from his lips and speaks in calmer tones. He still kills when necessary, and he doesn't really enjoy it, but kill he does. The psycho kills and swears for fun, and mostly comes off as completely maniacal, a ripe target just waiting for the hero to take him out. Or at least stuff a sock in his mouth so he can reflect on all the well written scripts he passed on to wind up in this F bomb.

Can you imagine living life that way? The boss gives you an assignment and you respond in a loud voice, using words unheard for years on the job, perhaps even making up a few as you gain momentum, really living in the moment, waving your pricing gun as if threatening to sticker the guy to death. Meanwhile, the boss takes it all in, waiting for the right time to deliver his best line, the one he's rehearsed for years, honed to razor edged perfection for just this scenario: "You're fired."

I suspect this is where all those movie madmen come from. They couldn't hack retail, so all that's left for them is to wander off onto the backlots, until the next nefarious scheme is hatched by an evil genius intent on ripping off the movie audience by fooling them into thinking this is real entertainment.

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Horse Nonsense

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 03:07:00 +0000

Is it just me, or is she hot in here?

Sorry. Of late (!) my mind has tended to wander. Mostly onto such topics as sex and money and sex, but wander nonetheless.

"Money and sex"? Hmmmm....perhaps that was Freudian? Nah. He probably never had to pay for it in his life. Although all of us do in one way or another. That's why I have taken a vow of abstinence.

Yeah I know. I couldn't even keep a straight face while I typed that. Odd to see a horse laugh at me; usually I make them cry. If you don't know the rest of that joke, send me $500.00 and a self-~~abused~~ addressed envelope and I will send you the whole story.

I have learned that abstinence causes calluses to grow on the right hand. I have no idea why.Enough already! You just wish you had opposable thumbs, you equine neuter. Or is that equine gelding? Is that redundant? I will probably receive a stern letter from Mr.Ed's lawyer in the morning. Most likely Wilbur Postmarked from the old horse actor home.

See? I told you.

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Busman's Holidays

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 05:18:00 +0000

I have ridden the bus to work the last couple days and my legs are killing me.

For some reason I can't seem to catch the bus that arrives at my destination. I end up having to walk 5 miles uphill through the snow and the strippers to get there.

On the plus side, I am having a great deal of fun making faces at the hapless single drivers who are stuck in the logjam of I-5 as I cruise past in the HOV lane. I am not proud; I will take whatever small measure of comfort when and where I can. Although I probably shouldn't have mooned that cop. I admit that may have been a tactical error, especially as there are rules of behavior posted on the bus about not harassing the other passengers, and since my posterior was attached to the window, I fear my man bits were dangling out in front of those across the aisle.

I have a pretty steep learning curve. I am still amazed at how effortlessly those daring knights of the commute manage to turn on a dime, (okay, a very large dime...okay, a nickel with the likeness of Jefferson of Mount Rushmore proportions, but still. Wow. ),and I am astounded at the way they manage to keep their sense of humor. It can't be easy what with being stuck on the freeways all day, and having to look at women dressed in revealing clothing and getting great views of shapely legs and thighs from those forced to stand while the less gallant among us are disinclined to give up our seats. Where do I apply for the job?

I have learned one thing from this very eco-friendly travel mode: it pays to be the first to board. That way I do not get stuck next to the fat, sweaty guy who's returning home from his job at the fish factory. I have been known to give up my seat in those cases.

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What The Hey?

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 05:27:00 +0000

Is it my fault? Really, if it is, just say so. It's not that I care, but I can't stand to have you thinking I am unreliable.

I am, but still, I can't have you being aware of that fact.

Look, just because I always look on the lighter side of things and try to have a laugh whenever possible doesn't mean I can't be counted upon. Believe me, if you are ever in trouble, I will be the first one to make light of your plight. That is just how I am. I am ready with wit and a smile to help you realize how pitiful your cries for help are. Really: stop whining already.

So what do you think? I have been wanting to ~~cash in~~ join the crusade in this country to be a beacon of hope for the downtrodden, the forgotten, the weak of will and chin. Move over Deepak and Dr.Dyer. The HumorSmith is going to save the masses from the utter seriousness of all the self-help guides out there and take the suffering by the hand,(the men anyway; I hear that women best follow when led by the breast), and shine the funny bulb into the darkest corners.

The beginning of this post was my first chapter of the forthcoming, (or maybe fifthcoming. It's taking a lot longer to write than I expected. I tried a ghost writer, but they are unreliable at best. At worst, they cause me to soil myself, especially when they appear unexpectedly, which most ghosts can do very well), and I think it encapsulates my true life philosophy quite neatly.

After all, who am I to ignore all the ~~money~~ happiness I can create by showing people the right way to overcome adversity? It's easy really. First simply ignore all the bad stuff that happens. Concentrate on the good. Always smile. See that you have plenty of money, and if you don't do not under any circumstances ask me for a loan.

It's not that I don't care, I do. Just not in a fiscal sense. I will be more than happy to take your money for my book however. That's a solid investment for you, and a great nest egg builder for me. What? I said it was a self-help book. Money will help myself immensely. You will feel lighter, (and not just in the wallet), after you read my wisdom, gleaned from many years of selfless toil in the fields of the Ward, at least until Montgomery Ward folded, then I toiled long and arduously in several fields over the years. Many were fertile, all were ovens of heat and flame in which my spirit was tempered until I became the backbone of steel man I am today.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the internet, I will fear no weevil, for I have the spirit and the light and the book appearing at a bookstore near you soon. What's it called? Thought you'd never ask. "Hey!" Simple and brilliant, no?
Quite the attention getter. Who can resist a call like that?

"Hey what? What do you want? Why do you address me in such a manner? Oh, what words of wonder are contained in this excitingly packaged book?"

(excited sufferer and seeker of freedom from pain and turmoil opens the book and thumbs through the glossy pages)

"Hey! I get it now. It's so simple. Hey! Only $5,000 a copy. Hey!"

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Wait For It

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 04:19:00 +0000

"Really, everything's fine. I need to talk to you later."

Never mind.

Don't you just want to smack people when they do that? I tend to be a bit emotional anyway, and when I hear those words, it just puts my psyche on red alert. What the hell? Just say it and get it over with. I have never gotten good news after a setup like that. Have you?

Think about it. People almost always can't wait to give you good news. They also can't wait to spoil the movie/book/TV show you're about to enjoy, but that's a separate issue. Nah, when the words are bad, and you are going to need a visit from Dr. Smirnoff, the talker always wants to put the discussion off as long as possible.

My ex put it off for 24 years, but I consider that unusual.

"We need to talk."

No, we don't. You need to talk, and I need to sit and listen. Not a good arrangement. Not good at all. I don't care if you're miserable and it's all my fault. Get over it already.

Where's my dinner?

That was probably the longest wait between meals I've ever had. Some people have no sense of HumorSmith. At all.

Can we blame Alan Alda for all this "feeling" man crap? I don't want to be in touch with my feelings. They cause me to weep at inappropriate moments, and say things I can't retract and feel bad sometimes. Who needs them?

Food, that's what I want. And sex occasionally, before I forget what it's like.

Food and sex together would be wonderful.

Hey you guys!

I mean with a woman involved also.

Perverts.

Honeydew melon makes a guy's equipment all sticky and gross, and it sometimes takes days to wash the smell off.

Or so I've heard.

From those who have done such things.

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Days And Confused

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 23:47:00 +0000

"My God! Does everyone here have to ask me if they can help me find anything?!?!!"

True story....a customer actually said that to me. I told him yes, we do. Not sure he feels any better, but I do.

So what's the big deal with Monday? I don't think it's any worse than any other day. People aren't grouchier, traffic isn't heavier, TV isn't any worse. I think it's all a plot to scare us into buying multiple copies of the Bangles' "Manic Monday" so we can feel better that we don't have to suffer through a day like that.

Really...between Cat Stevens' "Another Saturday Night", and Sinatra's "Saturday Night Is The Loneliest Night Of The Week", everybody thinks their weekend is screwed up if they're alone.

I don't even wanna think about "Rainy Days And Mondays"...ooops.

Sorry, guess I've got "Friday On My Mind".

See, a day is what you make it. The day itself is indifferent to how you feel. Sorry to break it to you, but we are just not that important. I greet each day with a smile and a swift kick to the crotch, so naturally I have yet to meet the day that can get the best of me. You did know the days of the week have balls, didn't you?

"Ah, balls. It's Monday again!"

Okay, so they're euphemistic balls. Still..when it comes to a foot in the willies, a euphemist is as good as a mile.

Wednesday got my goat once, but that's only because I lost controll of the situation.

Thursday? No, thanks, I just had some water.

You're right. This is a week post.

Very week.

It's Monday.

Oh, to all those who complained about the man crack picture in my last post:

Somehow, I don't find this as offensive.

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Cracking Up

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 04:37:00 +0000

I was leaving work last night, enjoying the balmy, (for once), weather, when my vision was assaulted by a large man tying his shoes wearing gym shorts. Oh. My. Sweet. Merciful. Mother. Of. God.

Man crack! Right there for all to see. A wannabe plumber. Why me? Oh when will I ever learn to stop looking around while I am out in public? Eyes straight down at my feet, that's where they belong.

Of course then I'd miss the occasional delight.

Maybe man crack is the price I pay for getting to see cleavage. I'm thinkin' it's too high a penalty for some visual frustration.
Seeing women like that is like walking into a candy store with your mouth sewn shut. Lotsa tempting things, but no way can you have any.

I must determine where this "do not flirt or talk to this man" sign I seem to be wearing came from. Women seem to not see me. At all. Ladies, (I do have some women readers, ya know, so although I am invisible, I am apparently amusing),tell me: does perpetual horniness carry a smell of some sort that only women can detect? It would figure; if anyone can give off mutant pheremones, it'd be me.

So. I got pulled over by Smokey Bear for the second time in a week last night. Okay, the first time I had it coming: I passed in the HOV lane, ( had no passenger), doing 90 in a 60. Last night the cop said he'd clocked me doing 80. I went off on him. No way was I doing anything above 70, and only that for a few seconds. What about the other silver Mustang that passed me in the HOV lane, no passengers? Hah?

Bat Masterbateson admitted he "kinda believed me." Gee, thanks. Do I seem crazy enough to try speeding twice in a week on the same stretch of freeway, where I got busted for $371 the first time? I think not, little drunk with power cop type person.

No ticket, but he gave me a warning. For what? For going off on him apparently. It's official: HumorSmith is a danger to himself and others and scares cops. Like you didn't know that already huh?

I share all this lest you think I have it easy, and that it would be fun to be me. Not so much.

If I could find anyone else to do the job, I'd quit in a second. Trouble is, with all the energy it takes to be me, no other is qualified or has the stamina. After all, anyone can have a continual series of misadventures and life altering disasters, (I think...it's not just me, is it?), but not all can mine humor out of the cave of despair. Pay no attention to the man behind the keyboard. Think of me as the Wizard of Ha's.

I do it all for you, so that I may perchance amuse with the occasional chortle inducing post.

I will continue to do so until you tire of visiting.

Or until I run out of alcohol.

Whichever.

Or until the next unfortunate man crack incident. That may be too much even for me.

Hence the alcohol.

That's gotta be illegal somewhere.

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Send In The Comic Relief

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 03:51:00 +0000

"Aren't I a bitch?
Look at my pair
Me now with all of my claws
in your derriere"*

What if they really did send in the clowns? Think it'd help? They had been considering sending in the clones, but then we'd all be beside ourselves.

"Don't you smell farts?
My fault I fear
I thought that you'd eat what I ate,
sorry my dear"

Nobody's fault, really. Sometimes sawdust happens, whether she has a big top or no. Not all marriages are a three-ring affair.

"Yes,love's a bitch,
You disapprove,
One who just tore you a new one
One who can't move"

I think most epic romance fails could truly use some comic relief. Sending in the clowns isn't all that bad an idea. It's hard to feel bad about things when you're first man into the clown car. How do they get those freakin' shoes in anyway? I mean, the bodies I understand, but the shoes?

"Just when I'd stopped bellicose roars,
finally knowing the heart I was mad with was yours
Writing my love notes again with a big ol' black Flair,
Sure of my syntax
What? They tax that too?"

No one can ever say exactly why things don't work out. The news is often met with a shrug of the shoulders and platitudes that clink on the ground like an abandoned game of jacks.

Folks are embarrassed. No reason to be at all. Happens every day.

"But where are the clowns?
Quick, send in the clowns
Don't bother....."

Beware of smiling clones. And be especially wary of the clone in the black mask. He takes the law seriously. His name's Reid, but you can call him the Clone Ranger.

* Apologies to Stephen Sondheim, but he wrote the damn song to begin with.

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Fresh Dates

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 00:33:00 +0000

"You had me at 'Hello'."

Oh. That explains why we never made it to the restaurant that night.

Dating is okay for dairy products and other perishables. In fact, I prefer it to the ritualistic dance we engage in while on the search for "The One". See, if the folks we were dating and having sordid thoughts about came with "love by dates" stamped somewhere discreet...perhaps under that lovely tattoo of a naked nymph with wings that points oh so subtly to their ass, then relationships would go much better.

It would surely help to avoid the spoilage of love gone askew. Then we could simply return the unused portion to Safeway before the whole affair went straight to hell.

Imagine...a verifiable and true date by which you could tell when your lover was turning rotten and needed to be disposed of. C'mon, with so many getting inked up voluntarily, what difference would "best if loved and left by 07/12" placed on an ankle or perhaps an inner thigh make? At least that stamp would have some significance beyond, "I am so damn cool. Look at the swell artwork."

I hear some of you saying you'd miss the surprise love always brings. Really? You'd feel bad if you never got your heart broken again and then started drinking like a fish and hanging out at strip clubs and trying to pick up the dancers, which will never happen unless they develop handles?

I am shocked, shocked I tell you. I am all for the date stamp. If I dredge one more bad apple up from the damn woman barrel, I will be forced to join a convent.

What? So you're saying as the only man in a place full of nothing but women, I'd still have no luck?

I've had ~~nun~~ none for quite a while now, so how much worse can it get?

Pass the tat ink.

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Both Sides Now

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 00:16:00 +0000

"What part of no don't you understand?"

I used to be highly offended by that question until it occurred to me that if you cannot express yourself well enough so that words of one syllable are comprehended by your audience, perhaps you are the clueless one.

It's all in how you perceive the world. Glass half empty or half full is fine, so long as we are referring to drinking receptacles and not ocular devices. Sammy Davis, Jr. perhaps had his glasses half full, but that affected his look out more than his outlook.

When life gives you lemons....well, I usually make a Vodka Collins. Speaking of which, I had a friend named Collins who was always very confused when, after asking "Would you like a vodka, Collins?", I always gave him a shot of vodka. Now I think of it, that may be why he stopped hanging out with me.

Walk a mile in my shoes. Good advice I suppose, if you are into the health thing at all. Not very useful if the shoes don't fit, or worse, if they are on the other foot.

Ever try laughing out the other side of your mouth? Once, after a particularly lively night of drink and mirth, in that order, I laughed out my nose, but that was a surprise, (more to the guy seated across from me than anyone else at the table), and I'm quite sure it really doesn't work as a substitute for laughing from the unused side of the mouth.

Assuming there is an unused side. I've known folks who can talk out of both sides of their mouth of course, and I think that's a good thing, as people who don't are likely to be seen as sneering at others.

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Give My Regards To Bardway

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Sun, 31 May 2009 20:20:00 +0000

"What's that smell?"

You have been unblogged the past few days. Roommate is burning all 600 seasons of The Guiding Light to disc. Therefore, I have limited access.

So I am still here. Still working and still bemused at life. I call that better than abused by life, so that is a perk. Should we all be born wearing armor? I guess that would mean more babies born at knight. Perhaps not.

I have found fortune is not actually so outrageous, but I do admit the slings and arrows do smart a bit. What helps though, is the difficulty of achieving any sort of accuracy with an arrow from a sling. Fortune doesn't always miss, however, and I have found myself wearing Arrow shirts now and then.

Might be a good idea to change clothes occasionally for safety. I understand Hathaway makes nice shirts, and women do like a man who hathaway about him.

Hmm, maybe a sabbatical wasn't such a bad idea; perhaps I should be Bard from blogging entirely.

As if arrows weren't enough to contend with, I have encountered a few who hurl epithets and shake spears at me, which is harrowing, but I have gleaned a few nifty new names for myself. Unfortunately, it is very easy to sling epithets accurately.

The other day someone threw a light bulb through my window. Ordinarily there would have been no window breakage, but this was a pretty heavy bulb. In fact, the bulb was still in a klieg light at the time. It made a horrendous mess on my floor, as did I when startled by the noise.

Theatrical lighting as a weapon? All the world is not a stage after all; my quarters are private and I do not need better lighting. I can only surmise the perp was some disgruntled actor who heard about my disdain for the musical Cats and decided to avenge himself.

Oh yes, you understood me: I abhor Cats. Not cats; I love the little critters. But the abomination which Webber unleashed upon us years ago needs to go away. Now. The costumes are ridiculous, the songs are forgettable, and Old Possum is undoubtedly spinning in his litter box. The only song worthy of the title is "Memory", although my cat is lucky if he remembers where the food bowl is, so I guess I must grant Webby a little poetic license.

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Bubble, Bubble, Toil And Trouble

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Tue, 26 May 2009 03:34:00 +0000

The jobeymoon is over. For the past month and a half, I have been encased in a lovely Glinda the Good Witch bubble, floating merrily along doing my tasks and schmoozing the customers. Or is that schmoozing the tasks and doing the customers? Whichever.

It now appears the Good Times are over,and the family feud has done commenced.If I had any smarts, I'd go hide in the ceement pond.

Y'see, in "Corporate America", it's all about the bottom line, and when the management team gets handed a bucket of turds, they dole out the turds to we demi-managers, of which I are one. When the dust settles, no matter how well I've done my job, or what decisions I've made they are A) Wrong, and B) Incorrect, for which I am eternally punished. Favors are withheld, smiles are scarce, and many impromptu lashings are dispensed.

In many ways, this career is much like my marriage; I am still getting screwed, but nobody's enjoying it. Companies change, corporate credos do not. A type personalites, who mostly run Amer-business, do not get along with happy types, and that would be me. Corporama must stamp out all things light of heart and times of good having. So I shall do my level best to be a corpormonkey, and keep my job until I can retire with some hope of having enough money to live on until I die, which will likely be 4 or 5 months after I retire at age 95.

Not that I'm complaining, of course.

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Tooth And Consequences

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Sun, 24 May 2009 04:19:00 +0000

"What the hell are you grinnin' at?"
"Owww! Invisalign hurts too!
"Exactly!"

I went to the ~~Marquis de Sade~~ dentist Thursday. Let me supply a little background: I got braces 4 years ago; I should have had them removed before this, but when I moved to PHX and away from my ortho, all the docs wanted to charge me at least a grand to do any work at all, so I flew back to Seattle every few months for maintenance, until I ran out of wife and money.

I had the top taken off in September, then finally got the bottom done this week. I know what you're thinkin': "Oh blessed relief. Oh what a terrific feeling of freedom. No more threader floss. No more lettuce from the salad in the bridgework. No more pain."

Wrongo! I now have retainers. Small pieces of plastic custom made for my teeth which I must don every night. I know I have them on right when it feels like a small group of demented trolls with pliers have taken up residence in my mouth and are attempting to fasten the tools to my pearlies and apply enough pressure to force them out the underside of my jaw.

Just think "Beans n' franks! Beans n' franks!" and you'll get a general idea of the pain. As an added bonus, when I try to talk while wearing the little darlin's, I sound like Boris Karloff on Quaaludes. Thing is, I foolishly expected debracing to be the end of the matter. I forgot a small gap was created between upper and lower when the braces were in place, and the teeth must be forced together again for an even smile.

About now I'm wondering if I really want to smile that badly, at least evenly. After all, what's wrong with a charming little quirk in my grin? It adds character, and really, it's rather charming. I'm willing to bet you're not buying that any more than my subconscious did. So, on with the plastic grips of death. Also, it will keep my uppers from moving.

Now if I can just get the effin' plaque off the back of my teeth, it'll be good. I'd kinda like to keep them after all this work. Why do we have plaque anyway? It serves no useful purpose. Besides, I use Listerine, and other than a cigar and the occasional meth fix, I take pretty good care of my dental work.

Which leads us to the inevitable question of the ages: How come everything fun is bad for you?

Except The HumorSmith Chronicle of course.

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I'm Okay?

noreply@blogger.com (HumorSmith) — Wed, 20 May 2009 07:00:00 +0000

All along, I have been amazed at the people who tell me I am nuts, like it's some kind of problem. I'm okay with that.

All the world loves a lover. All I can say is that must be one tired dude.

How does the globe feel about jokers? Not the Dark Knight wackjob kind, the bloggy type. I have to ask because though I have an outstanding 61(!) followers, that is nowhere near the total world population, so I could be loved by some and unknown to many. That will not do. If I am to succeed in my plan to take over the universe one silly post at a time, I must achieve more visibility. Hey! Maybe that's the problem. I am invisible. That's gotta be it. Not everybody can see me.

Well that oughta be easy to fix. I will just stand in the yard each day at noon and wait for the world to stop by and say "High?"
"Yup, pretty much." I will say, and the laughter will spread like swine flu.

Or I could simply hire a team of hackers and mysteriously blogappear on everyone's computers. Yeah, that should do. I can bloginate the cybersphere in just a matter of days, (insert megalomaniacal laugh here), and then everyone will know me, and share in the mirth that is the Chronicle.

Or I could just leave things alone and slide quietly into oblivion.

Nah.

Not in me, sorry. I am here for the duration. Or however long this lasts, whichever. I just have always felt folks take life way too seriously, and considering how it ends, I think that's a huge waste of time. Why not have some fun and pull the wings off of buildings? Or stop and smell the urinals along the way? Or when life hands you lemons, line them up on the kitchen counter and beat them to pulp with a hammer. I suppose you could try beating them to pulp fiction, but who has that much time?

The point is, erm...oh, who the hell am I kidding? There isn't one. But I'm okay with that.

If some of you have trouble figuring out where I'm coming from lately, let me just say that everything is straight outta my head and into the blog. Lotsa times, there is no central theme. Call it a process: you are all participating in my catharsis. Besides, I figure there are already too many sites to visit that are filled with serious discussions and weighty thoughts. Every now and then I like a little whimsy. I never question my place in the world. I merely question the entire universe and ask what the hell it's up to. Use any offered philosophical insights at your own risk.

Thank you!

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