Now in Stereotypical Where Available

I recalled a great story told to me a few years back and I have to share it.   It’s all about language barriers and international travel.   This was told to me by one of the product marketing managers from my previous place of employment.   She was on a business trip in South Korea, meeting with sales reps, and they treated her to a night on the town.  I’ve done my best to recreate this from memory… it’s about five years old… of course, some dramatic license will be taken but the premise is intact.

After a long day of interacting with the sales force and their customers, they all decided to go to a restaurant for a later dinner.  It was a typical place in South Korea, not an Applebee’s or something internationally known.   The place looked a bit dated, but the food was great.  

Knowing that there was going to be a long flight back to the states, they decided to live it up a little and seek some post dinner entertainment.   One of the customers told the reps that this place had a private room that would be perfect.   He went and talked with the wait staff, none of which spoke English.   When he came back, he told the reps, who were bilingual, all about it.   This excited the reps but bewildered the product manager, dumbfounded by the lack of translation.  

They finished up their dinner and a very large man, almost bouncer looking, arrived at their table to escort the party to the private room.  He led them through the kitchen where various cooks and wait staff threw shifty glances.   At the back of the kitchen there was a large metal door.   It creaked open to reveal a dark staircase leading down into the bowels of the restaurant.    Once there, the only light source was the flickering of the fluorescent bulbs.  The poorly kept small tile floor looked like something out of a New York City tenement; missing small pieces of tile every so many feet.   The blackened walls looked as if they were once rich mahogany but had been painted over with thick coats of death.   At end of the hallway there was a door which opened into a single room.    It looked like a boardroom from hell or something out of the first Saw movie.   The same dilapidated flooring and poor lighting extended into the room, which almost cast a sort of blue glow.    There was a large rectangular table in the center of the room with swivel chairs around it.   On the other side, opposite the entrance, another, smaller door sat.

After the group got seated, the secondary door opened and two employees wheeled in a large boxy item on a dolly; electrical cords securing it to the greasy sides of the dolly.     The product manager began to sweat a little.    The scene was very quiet with some chattering of Korean between the staff.  Her focus went onto watching the staff hook up the box.  In international settings, electrical outlets and plugs do not resemble American ones so whatever this hulking black thing was, it looked menacing as it was being plugged into the wall.  

Immediate thoughts were that this was some sort of acetylene torch.  “OH MY GOD!”  She thought.   “It’s that scene out of Hostel.  They’re going to burn out my eyeballs!”   A second later the staff returned with a video camera and an evil looking black case, the size of a pistol.    No explanation for what was going on at this point, just the devices being brought in for what looks to be a videotaped torture.  “This is where I have to denounce the West and my family gets to see my death on YouTube, I just know it.” 

One of the customers, dressed in a sharp business suit, walked over to the AV cart that had been wheeled in and flipped the monitor on.  It remained black for the moment.  He adjusted the camera and began to play with the weapon case.   He opened it and removed a long barreled object, just obscured by the case lid.  “Oh, Jesus!  This is it.”   He pushed record on the camera and walked over to attach the unseen weapon to the black box on the dolly.  

There was a distinct hum.  

More sweat rolled down the back of product manager’s neck.  No one produced any kind of emotion other than stern focus on what was taking place.

Everything just screamed "run" in her mind.   Hopefully, she could make the stairs and be in public view before they tackled her and dragged her back into this death room.  

The customer flipped some switches and more lights flickered on the black box.   He walked over, his back to the table,  and stared at the camera, in view of the monitor, which was still blackened.  Suddenly, noise erupted from the dolly.  

Then, he began…

“At first, I was afraid, I was petrified…”

"What?" She thought.

“Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side.”

"Wait a minute?"

Still going, he walked over, flipped one more switch, and the monitor produced a teleprompter of sorts, displaying the rest of the lyrics to Gloria Gaynor’s song.

Smiles and head nods broke across the rest of the room.

Karaoke?

Staff wandered in with trays and drinks, placing down fresh glasses at each place setting.

KARAOKE!?!?!?

This became a top five story moment in my life.  I loved the suspense of it. 

Camping Is In Tents

Last weekend, I had the opportunity to do something I haven’t done since I was a sophomore in college some 17 years ago. I went camping. Now, there’s a reason I haven’t done it in 17 years. That reason is that the ground and I aren’t on the best of terms. It’s hard and cold and unfeeling, and I’m applying 280 pounds of weight in one spot all the time. That’s like having a needle sticking in your back, which is what it felt like sleeping on the ground Saturday night.

When I was a young Mongo, and not so angry, I used to go camping at Prince Gallitzin.  If not staying there, we would visit our friends who had a camper up at Cutty's campground, which is in between route 711 and 31, in Saltlick, PA.  But the most recent trips I went on were in college, either camping on the fringe of Ocean City, MD or at Shawnee State Park.  However, this weekend, we stayed a little closer to home, just deep enough into the mountains of Fayette Nam and into Somerset County.

We took the little one and the LP (La Papa as my wife and her friend used to refer to my father-in-law as when we met) up to visit my sister-in-law at Scottyland which is way up there in the Laurel Highlands, near Seven Springs. Now, Scottyland is one of those places where people get rooted in their camping ways. They pay somewhere around $1200-$2200 a year for a site. Some have no hookups, which they call “primitive” and some are full supersize sites, which the other campers call “snob knob”. Some people, up there, take their camping seriously. One trailer looked like a mini two story house, complete with a stone walled deck and outdoor wet bar.

The site we stayed at was right on the lake, which to be fair was more of a pond that you could walk across. It was along the main drag around the “lake” where campers were butted up against each other and most people know what their neighbors are doing at 2AM when the lights go out.

We pitched a tent… not in a good way… in the back yard next to the fire ring. We spent the bulk of the day fishing for the same blue gill and watched the drama unfold in another scintillating episode of Red Neck ER as two guys from the Off-Off-Off Broadway run of O’ Brother Where Art Thou performed CPR on a fish that had swallowed a hook. The action was suspenseful in that it took them at least 30 seconds to get out an entire sentence. One guy was stationed to our left and the other guy was stationed to our right and they proceeded to have a conversation over top of our campsite that was just quality stuff and I could hang on every word…. From a noose… in a tall tree.

“Heeeey…. Dooo yooou haaaave some neeeedle noooose plierrrrrs?”

“No, we don’t.”

“Ohhhhh, allllllll riiiiiiiight. Thannnnnks.”

Then his buddy chimed in from the bank on the other side of us.

“Whaaat haaaapened?”

“Welllll, I thiiiink heee swallloowed the hoooook.”

The next hour was spent watching as both men, knelt on the ground over the fish, performing open mouth surgery trying to retrieve the hook.

Really? Now, I’m no fisherman, which is apparent from this story, but I would think that the fish should have been dead long before Cleetus over there spit out the word, “hoooook.” Which means, why be delicate? Gut the dead bastard and retrieve your hook. Still, as I said, I’m not a fisherman, so I don’t know if a fish can live for an extended period of time with a hook in its belly. I know if can probably live a lot longer than it can sucking wind on the bank of a pond. What was so special about that hook? I’m guessing it Cleetus’ last hook or only hook or maybe these two just weren’t the brightest crayons in the box. When my wife asked me how long can a fish live out of water, I replied, “Till the end of a Faith No More video.”

After Red Neck ER went to commercial, we took a tour of the campground, performing a ninja mission to retrieve a picnic table. One was supposed to be at the site but there wasn’t one. We also got to see what the “primitive” sites were. These were sites that had no plumbing or electric. You were roughing it with a few wooden outhouses along the way. Paddle faster, friends, methinks I hear banjos.

After that, we ate. We ate good. I had homemade deep fried potato chips, hot dogs, chili, awesome clam dip, deer kabobs, and bacon and cheese stuffed jalapenos. Now, we did all this with full awareness that the men’s side of the bathhouse was locked due to, what I was told was “fecal vandalism”, and that the toilet in the camper was not working properly. So, needless to say, there were some tense times in the tent.

Now, the best way to disguise the sound of that dinner coming back on you is to go joy riding in the golf cart. The wind will carry away any fumes and the sound of the engine will cover up the audible. One thing I learned about golf carts at the campground was that most of them had huge tires and lift kits. Apparently, there was some correlation between the size of your truck and the golf cart. Also, this being Southwestern Pennsylvania, you can rest assured that a lot of the campers, no matter how run down and awful they appeared, were fully equipped with a 47” or better flat screen television hooked up outside and tuned to the Steelers-Buffalo game. Some things are non-negotiable when it comes to camping. Meanwhile, I had no cell reception the entire weekend. Other sights to behold was the construction light trees set up to illuminate what must have been a phenomenal game of corn hole. So phenomenal that they couldn’t just quit because of darkness. We also saw one of those huge Paul Bunyan statues that scared the crap out of my kid.

At the end of the night, we sat around a fire that proceeded to cook us like marshmallows. My legs became Deep Fried Woods Off. I’m pretty sure that stuff shouldn’t be exposed to an open flame and our fire big enough to be picked up by Curiosity on Mars. The kid crashed and my wife and sister-in-law nearly did after taking a late night golf cart ride down through the primitive area where an overturned outhouse prompted my sister-in-law’s drunken statement, “They shipped the flitter!”

In the morning, I punched the ground for making it so hard on me and we gathered up our stuff and headed home. We drove on out of the campground, passing by the glittering beer cans that littered the corners of each site. The Sunday morning dew mixed with the effervescent remainder of Milwaukee’s Beast and Budweiser, with just a subtle hint of Skoal filled saliva. Ahhh, camping.

From what I was told, there is a guy with a bit of a mental handicap that goes around and collects all the beer cans from the various sites. If you ask him about the owner, he will tell you that he is a “peepee and an asshole”. And, if that wasn’t enough of a visual for you, he points to each body part as he announces it; hopefully in the right order.

So, that was our camping trip and I will never forget all the good times; fish surgery, flitted shippers, peepees and assholes. Those will be my memories.

Travellers Tales 2012: Zombie Moon Shine Serenade

After surviving the high tide-near wash out of a drive home, we decided to relax on the deck with some drinks. I managed to empty a bottle of our Apple Pie “hooch” and even created a deadly concoction… well, to my arteries. I mixed the shine with some French Vanilla coffee creamer, effectively making Apple Pie a la Mode. It was very tasty.

As the darkness fell across the beach and the full moon began to rise we saw the waters subside, uncovering the beach road, which allowed traffic to flow once again. Though, they usually caution against travelling on the beach at night. The sunken forest of petrified stumps that dot the landscape could wreak havoc on the axles of your truck, I’m told.

Drink after drink we consumed to calm the nerves of our ordeal with just getting home for the night led to conversation about the latest events we had heard on the news. In Miami, there was a “zombie” incident, in which a man, high on bath salts, disrobed and proceeded to chew the face of another man. What? Yes, this has become a big story, apparently. In our seclusion up among the wild horses and men who live in houses with baby doll heads on posts… still trying to get that picture… we were somewhat shaded from current events, strange or otherwise. Armed with an Internet connection I had found that another incident had occurred. Once again, a man, high on bath salts pretended to act like a zombie after being arrested.

So, we talked into the night about the ramifications of a possible zombie apocalypse. I thought back to reading The Zombie Survival Guide and thought that, in the event, we might be in pretty decent shape up here. Zombies aren’t the best of walkers, so the sand would give us a chance at escape. Not to mention, the isolation of being in this area wouldn’t attract their attention as much as being in the hustle and bustle of the lower, commercial areas. We have Internet and satellite television, so if the word came, we could make a trip down to the stores to get what supplies we needed to make a long term stand. And, we had a pool, which makes for waiting out the apocalypse a little more enjoyable.

Although, I could imagine the following scenario:

“MARCO!”

“BRAAAINS!”

The more we drank, the funnier the conversation became. Soon, we noticed something down at the water line. It looked like a person but they were just wandering back and forth along the water. They didn’t seem to sure footed as the shuffled up the beach a few feet, then back down a few more feet. In our drunken state, we started to get a little loud and bolder with our comments. Cracking jokes at the expense of a silhouette in the distance.

“Maybe he’s drunk.”

“Maybe he’s lost.”

“Maybe he’s a zombie!”

Soon, we started rolling with the idea and eventually, one of our more adventurous, and inebriated of the group decided to walk down to see which this person was. We watched as he walked down the walkway and onto the beach, disappearing from sight. A few seconds later we caught sight of him in the moonlight walking along the dunes to a set of benches right by the ramp up from the beach. We laughed as he just took it upon himself to sit on the bench and blend into the scenery. Then… it happened.

The shape turned and moved its way up to the bench. Then it disappeared. Then nothing. No sound could be heard except for the surf. The dunes blocked our view of the scene. Minutes went by with no word, no movement, no sounds.

What if it IS a zombie? What if our guy is a midnight snack? Our missing member of the group, now gone from view for more than five minutes elicited a few four letter words from his drunk wife, my sister-in-law. She made it a plan to go after him and kick his ass for being gone so long. I looked at my wife and said, “Should I go?” She nodded and I went with her.

As we walked along the deck and down to the beach, my mind raced with the possibilities. “I have no weapons. If this is a zombie, what am I going to do? What if our guy is now one, too?” As we trudged up the beach to the benches, my sister-in-law began yelling for her husband. He then let out a scream. For a brief moment, I panicked. Then, his flashlight began bouncing around playfully and we knew all was well.

“Hey, this here is Luke. He’s legally blind. He’s just waiting for his sister and his girlfriend to arrive.”

How’s he going to know it’s them? Anyway, turns out, he was standing down at the water, just playing his guitar and wandering around, while waiting for his group to arrive. They were from New York. They were staying a few houses back. They weren’t the ones who called the cops on us. They weren’t zombies. We sat and chatted for a few minutes and I contemplated running up to the house screaming of zombies but I was too tired and had too much to drink to navigate the steps while running. I finally heard my wife calling from back at the house and gave them the all clear with the flashlight.

Eventually, all was well and all of our group was back in the house ready for some shut eye after a wonderful, wild, wet evening. Hopefully, Legally Blind Luke managed to see his sister’s truck and make it back to his house before the zombies made their way up the beach.

Travellers Tales 2012: And Then The Cops Showed Up

I’d like to think that I am a competent griller. That, when presented the task of cooking up some animal I am capable of producing a good product. Granted, I do not grill like most people. I usually put foil down to keep the juices from leaving the surface. That and when visiting rental houses on vacation, I have no idea what has been on that grill, so I’m not too keen on grilling directly on the grill plates. It’s kind of like using a toilet seat cover in a public restroom.

That being said, all good vacation stories should include the phrase, “And then the cops showed up.”

On Sunday, I took turns making dinner and grilled up 15 steaks. We had 13 people at the house, three of which were under the age of seven. Still, we could make those leftovers disappear on Friday, which is “mustgo” night.

So, of course, I put down foil on the grill and cooked up the steaks with ease. There were two gas grills on the upper deck of the house, right off of the kitchen. It was a little odd to have the grills on a deck, let alone on the top floor. Worse yet, the wind whipped against that side of the house, making it hard to keep the grills lit. Halfway through, one of the propane tanks kicked, forcing me to finish up with all of the steaks on one grill.

nom... nom... nom... nom...

There was a spare tank that appeared to be almost empty, but we tried to hook it up and all it did was hiss gas. So, I called the realty company and asked about it. They sent a guy out, Monday afternoon, with a spare tank. He looked like a typical local; older gentleman, long blonde hair with a handle bar mustache. Somewhat of a cross between Nick Nolte and Hulk Hogan. He confirmed that it looked like a bad regulator on the other grill.

Now, on Monday night, my buddy decided to cook up hamburgers and hot dogs. He made his own patties with ground meat they had brought down from home. He made these huge patties with thumbprints in them. They were sort of falling apart. Perhaps they were too thawed or the 80/20 split on the fat percentage was too much leaving them a bit greasy. Still, they were patty shape and he threw them on the grill, sans foil.

He had various issues with grilling. The patties began crumbling and in flipping them, the bottoms of the burger seemed to peel off and leave a slice of meat stuck to, and in between, the grill surfaces. Large chunks of greasy, uncooked meat began falling down into the grill box. In all, the burgers came out OK and tasted pretty good. But when it came time to grill up the hot dogs, I suggested putting foil down, just in case.

After throwing the dogs on the grill we went back in to wash our hands and refresh our beverages. That’s when someone noticed black smoke floating passed the kitchen window. I then started repeating the word, “Grill. Grill! GRILL!”

We walked back out onto the deck and black smoke was oozing out of the grill. I opened it and it all went out like the Smoke Monster on LOST. The dogs were a little black from all the smoke, but more importantly, the greasy meat on the burners had ignited.

I reached down and turned off the burners. Then, I reached down and turned off the gas. Next, against my better judgment, I let my buddy pour water into the box on the various hot spots. Fire was out. Dogs were burnt… on the outside… and then the cops showed up.

Whoops



Well, that’s not exactly true. They drove past. Then, they drove back towards the beach. Then they drove back up the road and did a three point turn. I wondered what the hell they were doing. I then realized we were the house that was called about. It was about the time I said, “They aren’t coming here are they?” Apparently, our neighbors across the street felt we were going to set the entire house on fire because of a little grill fire. I then went inside and informed everyone that I was going down to talk to the cops. Hide the moonshine… (It wasn’t really shine. It was more like wine. Actually, I’m not sure what it was because it froze in the freezer.) In any case, I didn’t feel like spending a night in a North Carolina holding cell with illegal hooch. I told everyone to be on their best behavior.

I walked outside and met the officer who asked if we were grilling. I said, “yes” and said that the fire was out and all was well. She asked if they could come in and look to be sure. She said they’ve had one too many houses burn down because of this kind of thing. I obliged and her and an older gentleman entered.

She asked if the grills had been moved. I said they were like that when we arrived and that I was unhappy about the location. They checked out the place and all looked good. As we stood on the deck overlooking the driveway, about six more vehicles showed up including an ambulance, another truck with a dog in the cab, and a couple more police cruisers.

I don't know if the dog drove but he came along on the call.

I asked, rhetorically, if all of those vehicles were for this call. The office said that they were and that more were on the way.

“I don’t have that much food to go around.”

She laughed and they went back down. About this time, the entire house was cracking jokes and pointing fingers at me and my buddy. The proverbial icing on the cake came as the last vehicle pulled up to the house. It was a fire truck and who should jump out but PROPANE MAN!

Unreal. The guy that was there two hours ago to drop off a propane tank was now pulling up to our house in a fire truck. I can only imagine what was going on in his mind. “OK. Another fire call. Here we go! Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, dear God, no! I just… OK, be cool. Maybe nobody will notice.”

They pretended to put handcuffs on him. Somebody noticed. So, I went down to jag him as well. “I swear to God we didn’t do it!” I yelled. His response, “I told you not to use that f**ing grill!”

Putting Propane Man in Cuffs

In all, the fact that we managed to get the majority of Currituck County Emergency Services to show up on our doorstep was enough to make this trip memorable.

I was hoping to have the Coast Guard show up by Friday.

Next up… make sure you check those tidal charts before you go out for dinner.

Sampsonia Street Samurais

Google Street View can be useful for a lot of things. If you want to know where the entrance to a parking garage is, or how close a parking spot is from where you need to be, it’s invaluable.

Then, there’s the sheer joy of just looking at the city without having to get real close. You can travel down the streets looking at the architecture from the comfort of your living room. After all, Pittsburgh has been given so many accolades over the past few years, it’d be a shame to not take in all that splendor. And this way, you don’t have to get involved in road rage incidents with jagoffs that make Pittsburgh lefts.

However, you have to wonder if Google does a lot of quality control in their selection of filming. Maybe they just turn the camera on and go. Perhaps they do a few passes to make sure that they don’t have anything inappropriate in the shots or a bug on the lens effing it all up for five blocks.

Sometimes, I think that the folks at Google have to have a sense of humor. Because otherwise, why would you let this be a part of your Street View scenic landscape?

Sampsonia St. Samurais

In addition to all the accolades Pittsburgh has received, I think we need to get an award for Most Samurai Friendly city.   Now, this, of course, is slightly less as prestigious than when South Union won the, “Best Place For a Ninjas to Break in Cars” award.   But, it’s almost on par with Scottdale when it won, “Best City to Abandon Your Kids For Ninja Practice”. 

Now, my brother emailed me this picture, so he gets credit for bringing it to my attention.  But, it didn’t stop there.  Why would it?   You never know what’s around the next corner.  So, my brother sent me the link to this street corner.

Now, at first glance you might say…. “Oh, look, a whale tail!”   

But, more importantly, WTF is in the alley?

Here's a better view from the opposite direction.

It looks like a half assed Matryoshka doll or homemade Gloop costume for Comic Con.  For you kids out there, Gloop is from a cartoon called The Herculoids. 

Still, I have no idea what the hell that thing is. It’s got feet, so somebody is standing under whatever that is. And that guy, with the apron, must work at Doug’s Market and he’s unfazed by all this. Maybe he saw the samurai fight in the distance and didn’t notice the thing next to him in the alley.

So, if you’ve got time to kill, wander around Google Street view in your town and see what you can see. 





Graceful

I am in no way a very religious person. We’ll leave it at that. My kid already has a firm grasp on what death means when we lost my mother-in-law. No child should have to experience a loss like that at the age of two. Still, she’s a trooper and managed to come out wiser than her peer group. And while I may not hold the same belief structure as my wife, I am trying to honor her wishes and raise our daughter in alignment with hers. When she gets older, she can eventually make her own decisions based on all the available information about what she chooses to believe.

That all being said, at the dinner table in our home, we do say grace. Usually, my wife or father-in-law will be the one to say it. Although, this past Sunday, my daughter wanted to take a stab at it. Wondering where this was going to go and expecting a train wreck, we entertained her request and prepared for something out of the ordinary. At least, we’d get a laugh out of it.

Here's a dramatic re-enactment.

I shit you not. She went into the full version of the Pledge of Allegiance, word for word, spot on. As she was saying it, my wife and I both slowly looked up and then at each other, smiling from ear to ear.

Apparently, she learned this at preschool. My father-in-law said, “How many four year-olds can do that?” I guess at least one classroom full.

For Thanksgiving, we’re hoping she whips out the “Star Spangled Banner”.
Somewhere, in the aether, there is a shit eating grin and cackles of laughter. It would have made her Grammy’s day.

Happy Birthday A. Wilford Brimley

Today is Wilford Brimley’s 77th Birthday.
The good folks at Liberty Medical hopefully sent him a box. Inside the box was enough dia-beet-us medication to help the 77 year old make it through his birthday cake.

And now, a message from the birthday boy himself.

Happy birthday Wilford. Go eat your cake, because it’s the right thing to do and a tasty way to do it. Maybe, if you're lucky, there's a pool somewhere with alien pods in it that can cure your dia-beet-us.  Until then, stick with the box.

Speed Updating

I have no time. No time I tells ya! Things must be automated so I can get back to staring at the wall of my cube/living room/bathroom stall.

First there was speed dial. We had the ability to skip dialing all ten numbers on our home phones and instead dial one number that was assigned to someone we commonly called.

Hell, do you remember when you could dial just seven numbers and need to put in the area code? I do. That was back when a mobile phone meant your parents had a 50 foot spiraled phone cord attached the wall phone in the kitchen and you could talk to people from the bathroom. Of course, after a while, the cord became all twisted and knotted up and you could barely get away from the fridge before you yanked the phone off the wall and it made that “ding” sound when it hit the floor. Yeah, this was back when phones actually had real ringers, with bells inside of them.

But after speed dialing, there was voice dialing. You didn’t have to even get your fingers dirty dialing your house on the cell phone while your blazing a trail up the highway at 90mph. You just say, “Call Home” and it called the house. Of course, this never worked for my mother-in-law. I’d heard complaints that every time she said “Call Home” it tried to call her mother’s nursing home. Then she’d say, “No! CALL HOME!” By the time she’d have it all straightened out she could have, not only dialed all ten numbers of her home phone but, been standing in her living room to do it.

Texting slowed things down a bit because you had to hunt and peck your way around the phone pad and even worse, auto correct lead to some interesting combinations of phrases that could get you into serious trouble if you didn’t pay attention.

So, I’m proposing a new speed update method whereas I simply type in a two digit number and all my friends on Facebook know exactly what I’m saying.

This is actually something some friends I concocted about 10 years ago, before Facebook was even a thought in the back of Zuckerman’s mind... or the Winklevi, depending on who you believe.

We were all sitting around a sports bar and thought, “You know what? Instead of actually telling a joke or retelling a funny story, whenever it comes up as an applicable moment, just yell out a number.” We had a system down where various punch lines became numbers and all we’d do is yell out, “4” and that meant some joke about a guy who needs surgery to reattach his arm and he can’t afford the reputable doctor’s prices. So, he goes to a cheaper, less educated doctor who reattaches it and while talking with the original doctor he chides him over the original price, complete with giving the expensive doctor the old forearm jerk. At that point, the arm he slaps with his other hand goes flying off.

To that end, I want to simply say a number and have it correspond to a particular statement.  Here's 50 I've come up with, so far.

1. I love my wife.
2. My wife puts up with my stupid bullshit.
3. I put up with something my wife does but it’s not the end of the world because I love my wife and she’s on Facebook.
4. I just pooped.
5. Traffic was a bitch getting into work.
6. Traffic was a bitch getting home from work.
7. I just had a tasty breakfast.
8. I just had a tasty lunch.
9. I just had a tasty dinner.
10. My bowels have decided to reject tasty breakfast/lunch/dinner.
11. My kid did something funny.
12. My kid did something scary.
13. My kid is off doing something leaving me to update my status.
14. My cat did something funny.
15. My cat did something scary.
16. My cat is off doing something leaving me to update my status.
17. Obscure 70s movie quote that only three friends will get and ‘Like’ no matter what.
18. Obscure 80s movie quote that only three friends will get and ‘Like’ no matter what.
19. Obscure 90s movie quote that only three friends will get and ‘Like’ no matter what.
20. Obscure 00s movie quote that only three friends will get and ‘Like’ no matter what.
21. Facebook is doing something buggy, again.
22. Steelers/Penguins did something great.
23. Steelers/Penguins did something awful.
24. Refs screwed over the Steelers/Penguins.
25. Team playing the Steelers/Penguins are evil.
26. Buffy Quote.
27. Firefly Quote.
28. LOST Quote.
29. Song Lyrics about Love.
30. Song Lyrics about Hate.
31. Song Lyrics about Sadness.
32. Never Forget.
33. Patriotic American Update.
34. Election Candidate I hate statement that starts flame war.
35. Election Candidate I love statement that starts flame war.
36. Statement about War on Terror.
37. Clarification about stupid statement about War on Terror.
38. Apology about misunderstanding due to stupid statement about War on Terror.
39. Something, something, people, something, something disease, something, repost.
40. Going to bed.
41. Not wanting to be up.
42. I love my car.
43. I hate my car.
44. I love my phone.
45. I hate my phone.
46. I love my job.
47. I hate my job.
48. Weekend!
49. Monday, uggh!
50. Thank you for the birthday wishes.

Velocity Rapture

The end is seriously nigh, maybe.

It could be, or it won’t.

Your mileage may vary.

Tomorrow, May 21st, 2011 is the supposed day of Judgment. The Rapture. The straight to video Kirk Cameron movie. Repent! Genuflect! Sashay! Turn, turn, ball change kick turn!

I for one look forward to the quickened commute I will face on Monday. Not to mention, everyday errands will be much easier to accomplish without the crowds. I would say that Black Friday would be a great experience except that it’s after the end of the world.

But what about the variables concerning this end of days prediction.

Will Australia spoil it for everyone else, since they’ll be first in line? Are we going to hit that magical number of 144,000 before they get to NYC? What about Samoa? They are changing the placement of the International Dateline.

What if you are aboard the Space Shuttle Endeavour? Will you just vacate your space suit during an EVA or are your SOL because you chose to be away from the Earth when it’s time to be called in for the big dinner in the sky?

What about babies? If you aren’t baptized, are you sticking around? In a coma? Sleeping because you have the night shift? My wife kicks me when my alarm goes off and I don’t hear it. She’d be pissed if I wasn’t there and she had to roll over and turn it off herself.

How many people will call off on Monday only to find out that the Rapture didn’t come?

How many Catholic priests will still be in mass on Sunday? (Insert parting of hair jokes here.)

Those signs on the Parkway East that estimate travel time will go nuts. “Estimated Travel Time to SQ. Hill Tunnels: Zero Minutes”. Frankly, tomorrow would be the best time to hack into the signs and put something funny like, “Estimated Time To Rapture: 25 Minutes” (thanks to Lesley for that one.)  Here's another great prank courtesy of Six Feet Under

In all seriousness, yet not, I feel bad for the people who really believe in this stuff. Tomorrow will be like their Great Pumpkin moment. They’ll be like the Cincinnati Bengals’ fans in December. Always close to the playoffs but never making it very far. I mean how would you feel if you gave up your job, your family, everything to go about preaching the end of the world coming only to find out some guy forgot to carry the one? I mean he’s already screwed up once in 1994.

Let’s face it. The bible is a good story. It was written by a bunch of people and much like today’s movies, they’ve rebooted the franchise numerous times. Supposedly, Moses wrote the first five books during the forty years that he wandered around in the wilderness. Should have been drawing a map. “That rock looks vaguely familiar.” But just like every culture, the story is changed to suit the purpose. Every religion has its own telling of creation and the apocalypse. Which one is right? The answer; all of them and none of them.

No one person got the story right and IMO that’s what it is, a story. Fantastical events occurred for everyday occurrences. With no knowledge of modern science they were chalked up to some sort of higher power. We have a world population of almost seven billion people but only 144,000 are getting saved. Surely, in the last 100 years there have been more than 144,000 righteous people born. What about them? Is there a name cutoff? Is there a lottery? Is there a reservation process?

So, Monday, I’ll be posting and the same amount of people that read today will be here. Well, that is unless you just don’t care.

And just in case I am wrong… I’m taking your stuff.

Get Dave Letterman On the Phone

On Monday, I kind of took a jab at my wife over her saying that they killed Obama Bin Laden.   Well, I apologize because everybody seems to be having trouble getting the name right.   Now, normally I would laugh at the fact that FOX News got it wrong.   I’ll let you stew on that for a bit.   However, it seems that CNN, local news affiliates and even people can get the names mixed up just as much as Geraldo Rivera.

Check out 1:02 for the huge fail.

Now, as I was coming back from lunch during my day long sit-and-wait-to-be-told-that-I wasn’t-going-to-be-picked-for-jury-duty, I passed by one of the televisions which was showing HLN.   The crawl at the bottom was “NYC FIREFIGHTERS REACT TO OBAMA’S DEATH”.

As an amateur humorist and lover of all things quirky about language I have to find the funny in all this.   In our time, we have had a murderous Al Qaeda leader named Osama Bin Laden and a President of the United States named Barack Hussein Obama.  Now, what are the odds that, one day, these two people with similar sounding names would cross paths where one would end up being killed during the others Presidential term?  It boggles the mind.

As we move through the life cycle of this news story, there will probably be countless other grammatical slips and I hope that we have the common sense to realize what they are and move past them.   However, I’m sure somewhere in the White House, Michelle is asking her husband about his ‘other wives’.   At least, I hope she’s joking about it.

With that, I leave you with the only possible to tie this all together.

Dave at the 67th Annual Academy Awards

March 27th, 1995

The House Of Maybe

Whenever I wanted something as a child I would go to my parents and say, “Oh, dearest mother and/or father, if you could find it in your magnanimous heart I entreat you, might I have that toy and/or candy, there, in the aisle betwixt the Chapstick and the National Enquirer?” Well, that’s what my brain said, my mouth sounded more like “GIMMIE! GIMMIE! GIMMIE! PLEASE? OOOH, I’LL NEVER ASK FOR ANYTHING EVER AGAIN!” My parents were calm and collective and immediately returned an answer of “Maybe.”

Maybe? What the hell is this maybe, crap? Can I have it or can’t I? The indecision is killing me. So of course, I would continue to ask if a decision was made. That is a path to rejection. Maybe leads to pestering. Pestering leads to annoyance. Annoyance leads to NO!

I hated that. I hated when I would ask for something and I would get maybe as an answer. Getting “Maybe” as a response was like a the insurance in Blackjack. It’s a sucker bet. Any kid who hears maybe as a decision is morally obligated to continually ask again and again which always leads to the same final answer of “No.” It was almost like baiting a child to piss you off into saying it. There it is, “maybe,” sitting in the middle of a forest with no one around. A child slinks along the treeline, stalking its prey. The “maybe” sits there enticing the child. “No one is around to stop you, go ahead.” The child hesitantly walks up and taps at the word. Jumping back to see if a trap gets sprung. Nothing happens. The child once again, more cautiously sneaks up on the word and taps at it. Jumping back, but not as much. Now, full of confidence, the child brazenly walks up to the word and grabs it, full force, and begins to yank at it. It notices the string but it’s already too late. The trap is sprung and soon the carefully woven net of “No” surrounds the child, capturing it in its grasp with no chance of escape. Another one caught.

Maybe. What the hell?

But now I am a parent and the constant barrage of “Can I have a cookie?” or “Can we race the car?” comes from the mouth of my three year old. We have to restaurants that we frequently patronize and in both there is a small area for games. One has a racing game and the other has a couple of crane games. We used to be able to fool her into believing that the demo of the racing game was her actually playing it but she caught on rather quickly and said, “Daddy, you have to put quarters in there to make it go.” With the crane games, she doesn’t accept the fact that the machines are geared towards not paying out, with the exception of the candy one which allows you to play until you win. So, as we make our way out in the evening for dinner and she says, “Can I race the car” or when we go to the grocery store and pass by the bakery prompting her to ask for a cookie, I have fallen into that same answer strategically employed by my parents. “Maybe,” I say to her. Then the cycle repeats all over again as it did when I was a child.

But, I add a caveat to the answer. “Maybe, but you have to be a good girl and sit quietly and eat your dinner.” And for the most part we manage to get more results out of her than if we were to just say “Maybe” and be done with it. She hasn’t quite caught on to the length of time that should pass yet and when I say, “In a minute” she immediately equates a minute to a few seconds between her asking the first time and the second time. She’s getting better but there are instances where I catch myself saying “maybe” when I really mean no but I don’t want a full blown three alarm meltdown from saying it. Sometimes, she forgets what she asked but she has a pretty good memory and calls me on it. Perhaps she is baiting me into a trap and the hunter is suddenly becoming the hunted.
Maybe.

Random Post #1: Mo Hunny, Mo Problems

I just had to post this because it combines my childhood love of Winnie the Pooh and pop culture.

Mo Hunny! Mo Problems!

That's it. Nothing more.

Doomsday Seed Vault Reaches 500k Samples Adds Burpee Section

I have yet to grow a successful garden in my yard. It could be the fact that I have four huge trees standing guard at the corners of my yard shielding it from most of the sunlight available. It could also be the fact that I just plain suck at growing things. That sound you just heard was my Father doing a facepalm over his son’s horticultural ineptitude.

But when I heard that the Svalbard Global Seed vault in the arctic region of Norway hit over half a million samples my mind started short circuiting. Could you imagine standing in the presence of all those seeds, carefully tucked away in four ply protective enclosures at a regulated temperature? I get a little sick standing at the Walmart Burpee seed section thinking about what species I could potentially wipe out of existence with my black thumb. I’ve done some experimenting over the years to try and correct my faults. Recently, I took the approach of putting a tomato plant in the bottom of a hanging basket and putting a couple basil plants on top. I figured the tomato plant would be able to grow down without the need of a stake and the basil would be a nice addition to the mix. I never grew one fruit but the basil did pretty well. I can also grow nice zucchini vines and flowers but never a damn zuc.

Anyway, the point of my story is not my gardening issues but this damn seed vault. How cool is that? Of course, it functions the way a backup server functions in a computer network. There are seed banks all over the place and this one is used for duplicates in the event of global or regional disasters affecting the primary ones, which have happened in the case of the Philippines one flooded from a typhoon in 2006. The one in Norway is supposedly able to withstand global warming, earthquakes, and nuclear strikes. We’re pretty two for three around the world these days on those types of disasters.

This got me to thinking, though. Usually in cases like this the fire department gets a preemptive alarm on my brain. Just follow the smoke. Actually, I’m sure there are safeguards in place for more than just seeds. But what if there aren’t. Think about it? In the bible, whether you choose to believe everything you read, Noah built an ark and herded two of all the animals of the world, and Kathy Lee Gifford onto his Noahwegian Cruise Ship and set sail for higher ground. Unfortunately, dragons, unicorns, fairies, and other “mythical” creatures were told the wrong time and were made extinct. Thank you, Robot Chicken. So, is there any kind of repository for animal species to be preserved in the event of a global disaster? Yeah, kind of… There are things called Frozen Zoos which hold DNA and genetic material thanks to groups like the Audubon Center for Research of Endangered Species. Think proactive Jurassic Park. They could theoretically revive species that become extinct.

Remember in high school when you learned about the Wonders of the Ancient World? Me neither. But there was a library in Alexandria that held some of the greatest works of ancient writings and it burnt down because Julius Caesar got a little carried away with matches. Kidding again. That’s a theory. Still, the destruction of the library caused a huge gap in written history. That was until Nicholas Cage found scrolls from it along with the Mason’s treasure vault underneath a church in New York City. Once again, kidding.

So, what about an indestructible vault for architectural drawings and concepts, medical procedures, music, writings, and other items of historical worth?  Sure, you have the library of congress and my iPod but what if the attacks on 9/11 would have destroyed more than just a section of the Pentagon. What if the National Archives building were hit? Now, there may be some electronic repository for works of art or architecture that Bill Gates might have come up with but are you willing to expect future generations to recover the history of civilization while waiting for automatic updates to occur on Windows X? Or better yet, an update to the iTunes store. If we’re lucky a monolith will appear somewhere with a service patch that automatically upgrades us to the next version.

Let's put Dean Devlin and Roland Emmerich in charge of the scenarios and in the event that some disaster does occur, and Al Gore will stand there saying I told you so, it would be nice to offer future generations a blueprint and set of tools to get civilization back up and running quicker than a millennium of incremental baby steps. My brother said, “We should start sticking stuff up on Mars…you know…before we move.” I told him we should think about the future and buy a franchise operation of an EZ Storage business and place it right between the Walmart and Starbucks. That’s a couple years away, at least. Maybe by then we’ll have a fix for social security, healthcare, and a better way for me to grow tomatoes in my yard. If I’m lucky I can swing by the Mars Walmart for some Burpee seeds, a Caramel Macchiato from Marsbucks and a copy of the National Audubon Society’s Guide To Better Growing. One can only hope.


Funny Footnotes

Mars-Evans City Storage
Mars does have a storage business.  But the Starbucks and Walmart are miles away.

Behold The Mongo Burger

My love of the Baconator is epic if not sad, but that can’t be the pot of saturated fat end of the Lipitor rainbow.. Just for fun why not build my own burger just for the hell of it.

Now to lead into this I entreat you to recall John Candy eating the old 96er from The Great Outdoors. Then, go on ahead to Clearfield, PA and try out Ye Olde 96er at a place called Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub. These guys are a nutritionist’s worst nightmare. They have speed records to be broken by eating 2lb and 3lb burgers and all the way up to 15lbs. By the way, that 96er that I mentioned was just eaten in less than 2 and a half hours by a teenager in December. He also ate the 15lb burger in 4 and a half hours. Pass the Tums.

“Look at the size of the maggots on that meat.”

Anywho, back to the Mongo Burger. In the age of full disclosure of nutritional value, it might be of importance to flip over your carton of fries and look at the table on the back, or the bottom of that cardboard box your burger came in, provided you can see through the soaked in grease stains. The numbers are astounding. It’s insane how bad fast food is for us and don’t even get me started on McDonald’s salads. But just for fun go to Burger King’s site and do a little mad scientist work of your own.
It might be hard to navigate but simply put click on this link and build your own.

The consumerist has been having some fun with this site and why not? After all, it’s like catching a glimpse at your own salty, meaty death. You can choose any sandwich like the Triple Whopper and then take away or add on things like extra meat, chicken, fish, cheese, sauce, bacon, onions, bacon, lettuce, tomato, bacon, mayonnaise, bacon, and even bacon. Then check out the nutritional value of your creation and even try to order it. You could create the Land, Sea and Air sandwich. It’s rumored to be on the ”secret” list of menu items that only the true fast foodies know about. Or anyone with an Internet connection, anyways. The LSA sandwich is a beef, chicken, and fish patty on a bun, presumably with mayonnaise, ketchup and tartar sauce as well. It’s definitely not Lent friendly.

For my own, I created the Mongo Burger which has four whopper patties, four orders of bacon, three slices of cheese, extra, extra mayonnaise and tops out at 1830 calories, 135g of fat, 48g sat. fat, 350mg of cholesterol, 47g of carbs, and 2220mg of sodium. Dear god, just have the ambulance on its way.

Supersize my Lipitor while you're at it.

The Oh My Colon Burger From The Consumerist Article

Now whether or not BK would actually make the thing is debatable. This could be just a fun way to get people to buy a regular sized salt meaty death. Burger King certainly has better marketing skills than say McDonald’s. These are the people that brought you The King who still terrifies and titillates me in a way I will never shake from my psyche. Not to mention there was the subservient chicken which I believe is the answer to which came first between it and chat roulette. The ability to custom order your demise is more likely a gimmick for fun than it is to actually order said death. However. there is an “Add To Your Order” button, but I’m sure someone with an ounce of common sense would say, “No way, chunky butt.” If they do, BK’s slogan of “Have It Your Way” may apply to your funeral arrangements as well with buried, cremated, or flame broiled.

“That ain't the last bite!”

“Well sure it is, there is nothing on that plate but gristle and fat!”

Check please?

Dear Food Network, Hire Me

As much as I enjoy watching Giada De Laurentiis… cook, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps there needs to be a show for the idiot in the kitchen, like me. After all, one of my first cooking endeavors had me trying to be creative by putting some vanilla into a pot of beans and weenies. There was brown sugar in there. I thought it would be a good idea. I didn’t know one iota of cooking basics and have yet to live that incident down over the last ten years. So, for the dumb ass in the kitchen I think there needs to be a show that doesn’t take itself too seriously and has a lot of fun while being informative. Think "Tool Time" with skillets and whisks instead of power tools.

I am a married with family and we very rarely cook. My oven and stovetop are pretty much storage. Even the microwave holds items. It’s kind of like the equivalent of having a Nordic Rack which is a Nordic Track or other piece of exercise equipment that is utilized as a place to hang laundry on after it comes out of the wash. But, I can make some dishes. I can make spaghetti and even jazz up the sauce from a jar without resorting to vanilla extract. I can make chili from a recipe I could only get from my father-in-law after I married his daughter. I do pretty good French toast and some other baked goods, but real meals escape me or at least the motivation to make them does. I guess that I am more kitchen lazy than kitchen incompetent….hey that’s a good idea for a title.

So, here’s my unsolicited pitch. You’ve seen talk show hosts like Dave Letterman have someone on to make something and he spends more time screwing around and drinking the cooking sherry, straight from the bottle, than actually preparing something so let’s go with that idea. I would be the host of a cooking or home show that dispenses more tips on “What Not To Do.” It’s like Martha Stewart with knuckles dragging across the hand knitted rug.

Each week I would have a theme and actual chefs would come on to cook a meal and show me how to do it. Meanwhile I would bet totally inept and would make jokes or break a lot of stuff, this would not be a struggle in the acting department for me. During the cooking segments we would have two dishes being prepared, one by the pro and one by the putz, me. At the end, we compare to see what it should look like and what it probably will look like. I want truth in advertising here.

Now, there are guy type shows on The Food Network but do we really need to see Guy Fieri going for the ole 96er eating speed record. Not to mention, I don’t use product. I’m just your average idiot who doesn’t know the difference between jam, jelly, or preserves. The draw and attraction to the show would be the honesty with which I would truly screw up dishes. In fact, I expect there to be a lot of broken dishes and food splashed around so that it looks like something exploded in the kitchen. Granted, a lot of this will be done for effect. Also, I like to be able to interject a sense of Pop Culture trivia, sort of like an Alton Brown delivery with very little important information. I would love to devote entire shows to recreating recipes used in movies and television shows.

But why would anyone watch such idiocy when they could be tuning in Paula Deen and learning how to make hoecakes. Because Paula would be a guest and I’m sure her and I would have a huge amount of fun going back and forth. My only hopes would be that the guest chefs would not take themselves too seriously on my show and it would give the audience a chance to see their favorites cut it up and have fun. I expect a food fight at least once a month….maybe when Giada shows up.

Of course, I know I can never realize this pipe dream. I wouldn’t last one three minute egg’s length of time on Iron Chef. They’d have to rename it cheap ass aluminum foil chef for me. I couldn’t go onto a cooking show competition and expect to wow and dazzle anyone but wouldn’t it be funnier if the guy hosting the show was so ridiculously incompetent that he would have three fire extinguishers on the set and a fire marshal on speed dial?

Come one TFN. Why not dumb it down for those of us who think that Semi Homemade with Sandra Lee should still have a Le Cordon Bleu degree as a prerequisite. Think about it, Home Improvement was more popular because of the antics that Tim Taylor would get himself into rather than the home life. Here I would be the Bob Vila of the kitchen. Did you ever notice that they never let Bob do any dangerous work? And how can you resist having a show on the air that could or could not end in the Emergency Room every week. There should be a warning in front of the show like on Jackass. In fact, there’s an automatic drinking game built into the show from the first episode.

• Take one drink every time the host uses too much of an ingredient.
• Take one drink every time the host uses the wrong ingredient.
• Take two drinks every time the host pronounces something wrong (no lie, I was in Applebee’s once and ordered the Tuscan Chicken and called it Tucson Chicken. I thought it was a South Western dish)
• Take two drinks every time the guest has to control the host’s attention.
• Take three drinks every time the host swears and gets bleeped.
• Take four drinks every time the censors miss it.
• Finish the bottle if the paramedics or EMS is called.

So, write your congressman or go bug Rachel Ray or something. Start a petition, update your facebook status to read “If you believe my friend Mongo deserves his own cooking show because I want to see him catch on fire, at least once, add this to your status for an hour.” Do the work for me because I’m too busy leveling up my café on Facebook. Get on the ball and get me on TV. Think of the carnage and wonderful dishes we can bring to your home.