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The Top Five most ridiculous excuses I use to justify my own laziness
5. I prefer to live "outside the false construct of Time"
4. I wasn't aware I was actually supposed to be doing something with my life
3. I'm doing personal research on the seven deadly sins, starting with Sloth
2. I'm waiting until after the Apocalypse to see if I'm dead or not
1. I couldn't bear the soul crushing post-task self mockery
So I'm driving to work today and manage to end up behind one of those large clean pickup trucks that probably never haul anything besides luggage and groceries. While waiting at a stoplight, I discover that the truck is sporting one of those absurdities that seem to be increasing in popularity, the ball sack. For those of you blessed never to have seen one of these, let me explain. A linen bag, about the size of a loaf of bread, is hung from the back of the truck, roughly between the rear wheels. Two spheres, probably tennis balls, are placed in this bag and arranged to make the whole thing resemble the non-phallic aspect of male genitalia. I believe the idea is to make the vehicle appear more "animal" in a "humorous" way. So, yes, it is, as the kids of a decade ago said, lame.
After my inevitable lane change to avoid this sight, I found myself passing the vehicle, and saw that its driver was a 40-something male (as expected) in a business suit and tie (not so expected). I've had plenty of suited managers that seemed of the right personality to scrotify their cars, so the attire didn't completely throw me, but hanging from his rear-view mirror were a pair of arts-and-craftsy grandma dolls. You've probably seen the kind. Spheres of some kind of fabric (probably the same as the ball sack, now that I think about it) stuffed tightly with cotton to form the head and body, black buttons for eyes, some kind of yarny hair, and wearing wholesome looking plaid aprons. This sort of thing in any setting outside of the hands of a young Laura Ingalls freaks me out. Contemporary creation, cultivation and display of such things is far beyond my understanding and falls into the category of "Things That Should Not Be." But all that combined with the knowledge that these figures were riding in a bescrotumed truck, well, it's just too much. It's as if I had looked idly out my car window to briefly connect with the sad gray eyes of a dog on its hind legs waiting alone for the bus. Madness. I was only able to get to work without collapsing into a persistent vegetative state by trying to sing the words of Prince Adam's soliloquy from the beginning of the Masters of the Universe cartoon to the tune of Sisqo's "Thong Song."
The Top Five phrases that would have made my extended airport layover more bearable if occasionally appended to the end of the oft-heard "Mr. Jones, please report to the podium at Gate C26 for a message."
5. "...about how you too can make thousands of dollars from the privacy of your own home."
4. "...in a bottle."
3. "...of deadly import."
2. "...within a message."
1. "...from beyond the grave."
I am preparing to depart for a several-day stay in New Orleans, a city known for its food (and its human weight), so I naturally did some web-poking to see if there were any restaurants I shouldn't miss. There is no shortage of lists of such things, but I am amazed to see how many "frou-frou" places there are on these lists. And when I say "frou," I mean fancy. And when I say "fancy," I mean "stupid."
I've never really understood the whole "Haute Cuisine" thing. Or "Nouvelle Cuisine." Or "Cuisine" at all. It's gotten me to thinking that my whole system of determining a good eating experience is worth documenting.
I usually give every potential meal the benefit of the doubt with a standard 4 points. Based on modifying circumstances, that point value can fluctuate. Anything below 1 point I really can't be justified eating.
While my system is really quite complex and deserves an entire book dedicated to it, here is a sampling of some of the penalties I apply:
Though, according to this, the Double Sausage McMuffin with Egg and Cheese may be the perfect meal. Ridiculous, of course, though...well...wait...I hadn't thought about this before. Maybe it is the perfect meal. Maybe it is.
Saving Face
When I wake from the anesthetic, there is something on my lap that looks like a maimed rat. It has a zig-zag scar on its back just like the one on my chin, the one I got from the bike wreck when I was nine.
"It was an accident," I hear someone say, and I look over to see the dentist sitting nearby, one gloved hand on his forehead, his smock spattered with blood. "I'm...I'm sure someone can put it back on."
"Gurg uht agk gahn?" I ask.
The top 5 most unique high-frequency nouns revealed in a word-count scan of this entire blog (and how many times they show up):
5. Horror (24)
4. Meat (24)
3. Bathroom (25)
2. Blood (30)
1. Goat (33)
I'm not advocating animal mistreatment. I love animals. Animal torture probably bothers me more than people torture. Unless they're kid people. In any case, bad.
All I'm saying is that I think everyone would enjoy greyhound racing more if there were little monkeys in jockey suits that rode the dogs. That would rock. Assuming, you know, that they were both into it. And I'm sure they would be. Dogs love to run, and monkeys like to...um...ride dogs.
A while back, the company I work for had a food drive. To encourage participation, people who gave a certain amount of nonperishable foodstuffs received "Dress Down" cards. The more food you donated, the more cards you got. Each one was good for one day of, you guessed it, "Dressing Down." The cards were handily the same size as the corporate id/magnetic entry cards that everyone who works here has, and certain people display on their belts or lapels. If you woke up in the morning and discovered you couldn't stand another day with your legs trapped within twin tubes of khaki tyranny, you could put on jeans and slip your "Dress Down" card into the plastic sheath already carrying your well-displayed id card.
Now, I already have a problem with the suspect fashion choice of hanging anything on your belt (excepting live fauna), but the idea that you need to openly display proper identification and documentation justifying non-homogenous clothing choices seems, well, a bit Reich-Flavored. It's not like we have jackbooted sentries in the halls that constantly question our legitamacy (that's more of a family thing). No one really cares.
And yet most of the people still wear those little badges on their belts. Even more unfortunately, it's been a month now since most of our departments adopted a five-day "casual friday," letting everyone know they can wear jeans to work whenever they want, and there's one guy who still occasionally displays one of those sad little "Dress Down Day" cards. I don't get it. Is he worried that it's all a joke? That the harpies in HR set the whole scheme up to some day swoop down on the staff and rend the flesh from everyone in jeans? Or is he just unwilling to give up that precious prize they won seven months ago for parting with his entire stock of pork and beans? Hard to say. He might just be accessorizing. The card is a delightful shade of pale blue.
Last Words
I'm still staring at the corpse of the hog Milt's wife bludgeoned to death when Milt comes back with my chicken feed.
"You want it?" He asks, dropping the feed. "Rita hates the thing, so I gotta throw it away."
"Have you seen this?" I ask, pointing at the scarring on the pig's flank.
"Them squiqqly words?" Milt says, shrugging. "I expect some kid made 'em."
"It says 'NO EAT ME', Milt," I say. "What kid would write that? What pig would let him?"
"Yeah, yeah," he says, waving his hand like he's clearing the air of mosquitos. "You want the ham or not?"
"Sure." I say, as I'm never one to turn down free meat.
My Top Five Personal Behaviors That Are Just As Annoying Now As When I Was Fifteen
5. Bellowing hearty fake laughs when people say things I don't think are funny
4. Eating 2-3 times faster than whoever I'm sharing a meal with
3. Referring to anyone around me as "My Fellow Program," and any authority figure as "My User"
2. Feigning attention while listening to someone but constantly muttering gibberish under my breath
1. Blowing my nose and pushily offering the used tissue to anyone who wants a "Snot Rag"
