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| This is a quick one, and not a personal experience of my own, but worth repeating here. At dinner with my family last week, over a delicious meal of mu shu pork and orange chicken, my mother suddenly seems to drift off and then shudders to herself. The rest of us all stop and look at her, and she says to us, "Do you want to hear a funny slash (yes, she verbalized the slash) creepy thing that happened to me today?" Sure, why not? I'm only ingesting food in a mildly sketchy Chinese restaurant at the moment. Go right on ahead. "Well, I'm in the office today (she's a third grade public school teacher) to use the restrooms...you know how small the toilets are in our building, I don't need a gaggle of eight year-olds helping me up off the floor...so I'm in the restroom, and I go into a stall, and suddenly the woman in the handicap stall next to me starts freaking out, 'Oh no! Oh crap! Shoot!' and so on and so forth. I'm concerned so I ask her if she's doing alright, if she needs any help, to which she replies, 'No, I'm fine, I just lost my-' At this I look down and there from the restroom floor staring up at me is her glass eye! The woman's eye had popped out while she was going to the bathroom!" I choke on my chow mein at this point, unsure of whether I had heard correctly or I was just over dosing on MSG. Then my brother and I burst out laughing as my dad sits with his mouth hanging open. The two of us are on the verge of tears, but the comedy of it begins to wane as the realization that this woman's eye had fallen out on the restroom floor sets in. That's more than creepy, mom, that's muscle-convulsingly disgusting. At the end of her story, my mother offers to help this woman, who quickly refuses any aid stammering out some sort of explanation that this sort of thing happens when it is dry out and her allergies are acting up. WHAT?!? You mean you experience this ocular ejection on a regular basis?!? Sick, friggin' sick. I'm just imagining her handing out candy on a particularly arid Halloween, and instead of a Butterfinger some kid has an eye jettisoned into his bag, the whole scene descending into utter chaos as dozens of children scatter in the the streets screaming. ...Truly eye-popping (phew, that feels better...that pun has been sitting in my head for like a week now) | | |
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Via reckless cavorting about the Internet, I happened upon one of the most remarkably imaginative (and simultaneously asinine) websites I have ever seen. Ready Kids (also click on the picture for the link to fully experience my ever-expanding mastery of Xanga functions), as the site is aptly named, is the product of our very own U.S. government, and strives to teach this nation's young about the no less than seven natural disasters that will inevitably befall them, ruining their chances at a bright future, destroying the life they now hold dear, and killing both of their parents...and brand new puppy. These disasters are, in order of increasing importance and likelihood, tornadoes, earthquakes, fire emergencies, flooding, tsunamis, hurricanes, and of course the Fat Daddy of ALL NATURAL DISASTERS EVER...terrorism. I can see the ad campaign now: TERRORISM: Yeah, it sucks, but it's just going to happen... Honestly, the most interesting part of this list was that it explained the root of each word. Take earthquake being spelled "eorthequakynge" in the 12th century for example. I mean, did you know that up until about 800 years ago the English-speaking world was made up entirely of dyslexic third graders? Absolutely fascinating! Apart from the overwhelming urge to give up my right to privacy, the homepage, with its exotic colors and cartoony font, instilled in me the deep desire to learn more about safety, and under Bush's nuanced worldview of "Them's the bad guys, we's the good guys...le's git 'em!" the true lack thereof. In a stroke of creative genius the creators of this site decided that it was best to leave the preparedness and ultimate well being of America's youth in the paws of a family of anthropomorphized mountain lions. A friggin' + on that one people. The family is made up of Rex, the father, Purrcilla (clever puns have never been bureaucracy's forte...they're acronym kinda guys), the mother, and Rory (a fittingly bigendered name for an equally bigendered creature), the daughter(?) Not only does each member of the family have a personal profile and backstory, but in avidly reading each I learned that apparently the trio forms some sort of arboreal garage band.While I doubt they are much good, seeing as mountain lions tend to lack the appropriate vocal cords, human-like muscle control, and opposable thumbs required to sing and/or play an instrument, it appears as though they attract a fairly large forest following. I attribute this to the fact that either A) they could eat any of those pathetic woodland creatures on a carnivorous whim (everyone knows how bipolar artists can be), or B) Purrcilla is but the slipping of a loose knot away from being totally and completely naked (though I myself am not into the whole 6 nipples thing, that seems to do it for some). Following Rex around everywhere he goes is his homosexual friend (as evidenced by the lavender scarf...not that I make those kinds of judgments) Hector the Hummingbird. Hector is most obviously submissive (not because he is gay, you prejudiced ass, because he falls well below Rex on the food chain), doing Rex's bitch work almost happily. Since the animal world is still a few years from discovering things like modern electronics or telecommunications, Hector acts as Rex's personal messenger service. I do not even want to ask how he gets paid. I actually wouldn't be raising questions of his sexuality if this hadn't appeared on Hector's profile: HOBBY: When not exploring with Rex, Hector can usually be found on a limb trying to catch the attention of a pretty love bird. Exploring what? Some say jungle, I say limits of their sexual appetites. Though the second clause seems to refute the suggestive nature of the first, it is widely known that Hector is a non-perching species of hummingbird, so the description of his flirtatious endeavors with love birds (gender notably unspecified) is typically ignored by the greater forest community as a feeble coverup. My desire simply is to see Hector embrace his true identity as a proud, gay hummingbird, nothing more. I continued to poke around the site, discovering one delightful nugget after another. My favorite find would have to be the Children's National Preparedness Month song. Yes...a song...about preparedness...written by people with way too much time on their hands...in Oklahoma...of course in Oklahoma. The best stanza by far is this: You need tools and food and water for 3 days. Also, radio, flashlight batteries for your stay. Grab you first aid kit and some clothes to wear. Don't forget your underwear! Oh, September is the month to get prepared. Do not ask me to better describe how this song goes, because as far as I can tell there is absolutely no discernable meter or tempo. But also don't forget that this little ditty hails all the way from Oklahoma, proud birthplace of rusty pick-ups and small children with perpetually dirty faces, so that should be an answer in itself. Besides, I'm just caught up in the sheer audacity of these people including "intimate things" (you know, "unmentionables", "skivvies", "everyday lingerie") in the lyrics. The mere thought is enough to make someone as painfully polite as myself blush. However, I must say, I do enjoy a bit of private rebellion now and then, it makes me feel oh so naughty. At the end of my magical safety journey, jam-packed with learning AND fun (a truly winning combination), I put my newly acquired knowledge to the test and took the grueling, eight-question-long Readiness U graduation exam... AND I PASSED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
Now I have this neat certificate on hand that, in case of an emergency, I can burn to signal rescue workers. This post was brought to you by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, the numbers 9 and 11, and the letters W, T, and F. | | |
| That's right FOX, how d'you like dem apples?!? This time at home has strangely been like a modified version of Footloose for me (except the whole town dances and it's the new guy who has no clue...plus this one doesn't include Kevin Bacon, thank god, who is second only to James Blunt in creep-me-the-hell-out factor). I've always enjoyed hip thrusting to a beat, don't get me wrong, but I've never been much of a club-goer. However, in the past two weeks not only have I gone to more than one club (which brings my total perilously close to more than I can count on one hand), but these clubs were not your run-of-the-mill dee-jayed dry humps. Let me justify that. Remove one more piece of clothing from 90% of the people there and America would have another baby boom on it's hands, but such was not the focus of these clubs. First on the list was a Salsa club. But Joey, doesn't that involve coordinated step, self confidence, AND adequate motor skills? Why yes my friend, Salsa does, and your worried tone is well merited. Yet I neither hospitalized myself nor did I injure my partner, as was originally expected. It's a funny feeling going into a situation with another person in which you know one of you will sustain average to serious bodily harm. A layman's Russian Roulette. Almost as exciting as the time I was in a car that spun off an icy road and did multiple flips into a ditch...but who really wants to hear about that? I honestly believed I was not making a complete ass of myself, but the large volume of drunken 50 year old Hispanic guys that kept cutting in to show me how to do it right says otherwise. Can't say I blame them. If I saw a gangly, fumbling, rhythmically retarded gringo spazzing out in the corner I would feel it to be no less than my solemn duty to correct his erring ways. My favorite interloper (again, I'm spending way too much time on Thesaurus.com) was this particularly old guy wearing all white, including newsie cap and shoes, with a touch of flavor in the form of a bright green, floral print bandana around his neck. He startled me the first time (for there were more than one) that he interrupted because A) he was literally no taller than 5 feet, and B) spoke only Spanish, which means it didn't initially register with me when I heard a furious string of "Mira! MIra! MIRa! MIRA!" getting louder and louder as it approached, like a jet zipping overhead (or the cries of Britney Spear's neglected children, in case you were expecting a more flippant simile). Next thing I knew I was sitting in the corner watching him and my date go at it for 20 minutes or so. Which is fine with me, because it's next to impossible to trip or break someone's big toe when you're sitting down. The second club (which is also last on the list...I'm lame), the Branding Iron, was a horse of a different color... Get it? Huh? HUH? Do ya'? Pathetic puns are my cocaine, what can I say? As may be inferred from the name, this is the club where, yes, I went line dancing. And no, I will not repeat that. In truth the night alternated between that and "freestyle" (which was a prolonged period of synchronized sex basically), but still the experience was new for me. While I am still convinced the Devil actively tortures damned souls with Keith Urban albums, I had a remarkably enjoyable night. ...meh, this one was kind of a bust. I'll quickly recap. A lot of people wearing cowboy hats and not much else. Heard a girl yelling at her boyfriend, "Well I hope you choke on her big, fake BOOBS!" The End. Just wanted to get this one out of the way for something much more interesting I found online... | | |
| Back at work for yet another week of the strange and stimulating. I really didn't think the day was going to produce anything worth posting about...until I started making copies. The machine itself is a rather remarkable piece of technology, and has several astounding features. First off, one has to but place a paper on the clear plastic shelf, press that fun blue button, and SHAZAM! in an emerald flash out come innumerable replicas of the original. And this whole time I'd been doing it by hand. Now I can't tell you exactly how the machine does it, but judging by the lights show it puts on each time copies are made I have a sneaking suspicion it is a covert member of the Green Lantern Corps. I've since discovered that it can also do double-sided, color, collating, stapling, and I'm fairly certain if I look hard enough I'll find the origami folding function. What struck me about the copier today was one of the messages that appears on its little screen. After it warms up, in bold print the screen reads READY TO SCAN YOUR JOB. Now, tell me if I just have a dirty mind, but to me that phrase has very strong sexual undertones. I'm almost tempted to look it up on Urban Dictionary because it sounds like a sex act illegal in 48 states. I'm fully aware that most anything can be turned into an innuendo if you say with the right emphasis or in a particular context, but this lends itself especially well. Think about it: Bro #1: So what'd you n' Becky do last night when you brought her home? Bro #2: (obviously lying) Aww, you know man, she totally scanned my job! OR Husband: Oh come on, honey, just a little bit? Wife: I said no! Husband: What if you just scan my job? Wife: And risk getting crabs?!? Oh HELL no! OR Student #1: Did you hear about Janitor Hamburglar? He got arrested outside of school today. Student #2: What happened, what'd he do? Student #1: I heard he scanned a student's job behind the tennis courts! Student #3: You're sick dude, it wasn't that bad...sodomy at worst. See what I mean? Undeniably sexual, I just proved it scientifically. End of story. The only thing is once the copier forced sex into my head, everything else has subsequently become pseudo-erotic. While eating lunch (peanut butter & jelly, raisins, and dry Cheerios...a meal fit for a toddler) I kept having to lick raspberry jam off my fingers. At first this didn't bother me, but when I began to think about the copier encounter I suddenly became self-conscious. What if people are watching? How naughty is this to do in public? Should I be charging the security guard watching the camera monitors for the the show? And then there were my paper clip sculptures (I have a lot of time to kill, you know that). What had started out as an innocent exploration into the world of abstract art quickly transformed into an embarrassingly explicit anatomy lesson. Each time I bend over now I look behind me to make sure no one is gawking, the Sharpe markers are just a bit too phallic for comfort, and the Eye Evader has finally found something to focus on...yeah, up here buddy, hope you're planning on leaving a tip. Truth be told I feel like I'm living out a company sexual harassment video. My filthy mind aside, today is also significant because I am going to the dentist. This usually is not a momentous occasion, but this particular visit marks my first to a big person dentist. Intimidating, I know. My mother figured (this was her decision, not mine) that at 19 years old I needed to move on from fluorescent chairs (which I may or may not be 5 times too big for), free Nickelodeon magazines, and a "you were such a good boy you didn't scream or yell or kick the nice dentist man in the balls this time" prize bin. I can let all of those things go just fine, but one thing I will miss is the obnoxiously loud Ms. Pac-Man machine in the lobby. What am I supposed to do while I wait to be called in? Read Newsweek or something? What kind of pretentious bullshit is that? I want that sexy, made-up-like-a-hooker, yellow chomping dot or nothing. Plus the paperwork's a bitch, so there's that. On a completely unrelated note, in making deliveries around the office I saw on someone's desk this cutesy, rustic, homemade, one-of-a-kind, gingerbread man-shaped handicraft (found in the HOME & GARDEN section of your friendly, neighborhood Wal-Mart) which had printed on its stomach, "If life is a cookie, then friends are the chocolate chips." How sweet. But seriously, this is ridiculously stupid for two reasons. A) If life actually were a cookie, this would mean that it would have to be baked, which means then that it would find itself, however temporarily, in an environment above 200° Fahrenheit, which, if you hadn't been dropped on your head more than 15 times as a child, you would know to be a temperature that cannot sustain life, except maybe deep-sea tube worms that are heated by vents directly connected to the Earth's molten core, AAAND B) I know if my friends tasted like chocolate, let alone were made of the stuff, I don't believe I, or many people, would have any friends for the simple fact that I wouldn't spend so much time getting to know them as I would gnawing on them. But hey, that's just the world I live in. | | |
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