Oct 21

Fall

A few years back, I had a job that required me to spend a large portion of my time behind the wheel of a truck.  Early mornings were common, and I’d drive a lot of miles before returning home.  One memory stands out in my head above all others from that period of my life, and I believe that memory helped shape my current attitude toward the community I currently call home.

The day I remember must have been really close to this time if year.  The leaves had mostly turned, early mornings demanded a slight scraping of frost from the windshield, and the jacket I wore to brace against the frigid morning breeze rested on the seat beside me before noon.  Fall in Nebraska is almost like two seasons in one: the pleasant, warm time while the sun brightens the day, and the crappy, cold time when the sun, too, has had its fill of Nebraska.  On this particular day, I had left at around 3:00 am for some early morning business in Kimball.  The business in Kimball didn’t take too awful  long, and I found myself driving back into Scottsbluff at around 11:00am.  As I drove north on Highway 71 and drove over the bridge spanning the meek North Platte River, I couldn’t help but notice all of the leaves that littered the side of the road.  The area around the river is one of the few places where you can find a multitude of trees all in one spot in western Nebraska, and a significant wind must have blown through the previous night.  I can not remember a time before nor after that day where I have seen an exodus of leaves along the roadside of that magnitude. I was so impressed that I actually pulled over to the side of the road and just stared at the leaves.

A light breeze blew, and the leaves tumbled and twirled along the embankment.  Brown leaves, yellow leaves,  and even some green leaves and the occasional red leaf — leaves of all shape and size, though mostly cottonwood leaves — bustled along in an attempt to find the final resting place where decay could completely consume them.  The leaves fascinated me.  They were just a bunch of stinking leaves, but they were beautiful in their own way.  As I watched the leaves, I realized that they had all come to this stretch of road in Scotts Bluff County, probably through no choice of their own (I don’t think leaves have “choice”, do they?) either to die or because they were already dead.

While watching the leaves from my truck by the bridge over the North Platte River, I remembered a man I had recently seen at Walmart.  A funny looking man standing back in the dairy section caught my eye.  From a distance, the man appeared to be quite well-off.  He appeared to be dressed in a nice suit with shiny shoes and a stunning little bowler hat.

“How odd for someone to be dressed like that in Walmart,” I thought to myself, “and it’s not even Sunday.”

As I pushed my shopping cart closer to the man, his clean, crisp image began to unravel.  The man’s suit was not really very nice at all; it was haggard and stained… and it smelled… smelled bad.  His shoes (although it was obvious that a great deal of care had gone into their shining) barely had any soles, his right toe peeked out from not only the right shoe but the right sock as well, and the frayed laces appeared to be just getting the job done of keeping the shoes on his feet.  The white sweat stain that circled the man’s bowler added to the appearance of age that the runs in the bowler’s fabric created.  The old man seemed to be in a hurry to find something.  As I passed him, however,  he offered a sincere, toothless smile as he gently touched the brim of his hat… then he bustled on his way.

The memory of the man faded, and once again I watched the leaves — the leaves whose sole remaining purpose was to become fertilizer for the next generation — the leaves whose final resting place may be a stretch of road in the panhandle of Nebraska.

My mind wandered again, this time to the overweight population of Scottsbluff.  In 2009, Quality Health ran an article titled “10 Fattest Cities in America.”  Scottsbluff (not a community that graces many “top ten” lists) with 31% of its population classified as obese, came in at number seven.  Seventh fattest city in America… there’s something to take pride in.  See what a little corn-fed beef and buttered corn on the cob can do for a community?  And don’t forget about the wonderful high fructose corn syrup!  Corn… it’s what for dinner… and it leads to obesity!  Maybe people here just don’t know how to take care of themselves.  Maybe people here just don’t care.  Maybe people in the panhandle of Nebraska are just trying to tumble and twirl through life and get what little pleasure they can along the way.  A lot of pleasure can be found in a couple of Big Macs with a large fries and a Coke.

As I continued to watch the bustling leaves, I started to get cold.  The leaves I watched put on quite a show, but I started to realize that they really weren’t as beautiful as I originally thought.  I began to suspect that, upon closer inspection, the leaves might actually be kind of gnarly — full of bug bites and patches of disease and torn flesh and broken dreams.  I thought of the people that I know who have a bachelor’s degree in this or a master’s degree in that, and they are stocking shelves at a grocery store or working as para-educators  or slinging a construction hammer.  The leaves weren’t searching for a fulfilling life there along the side of the road in Scottsbluff, NE; they were there because they were dying or dead.

My appetite for watching the leaves gone,  I  suddenly just wanted to go home.  Still chilly, I slid on my jacket from the seat beside me as I started the truck and bustled toward home with the dawning realization that I probably had a lawn full of leaves in need of raking…

Tagged with:
Feb 14

My snore has been likened to the thunderous growl of a Tyrannosaurus rex. Now, I know that no living person is exactly sure what a T. Rex growl really sounds like, but I have been told that my snore has to be in the ballpark.

T-Rex

Of course, I have never heard my snore. My snoring has woke me up in the middle of the night on thousands of occasions, but by the time I’m actually awake, I’m done snoring. Funny how that works.

Anyway, my wife and I have been married for over 16 years.  My wife has complained about my snoring for, well, a little over 16 years.  I finally decided that maybe it was time to do something about it.  See what a great guy I am?

Why would I avoid going to the doctor to have something done about my snoring?  Well, the reasons are multiple:

1st:  I hate doctors.  I don’t hate them on a personal level, I just don’t like the fact that I have to rely on someone who makes a buttload of money for my physical well being.  I also don’t like the fact that I have to pay said person a buttload of money for services rendered.  Yeah… it’s all about the Benjamins.

Benjamins

I couldn’t be a doctor because I’m really not smart enough, and the thought of messing with someone’s other than my own bodily fluids makes me slightly light-headed.  Just another of the “life isn’t fair” deals that pisses me off.  Okay, so maybe I do hate them on a personal level…

2nd:  When you go to the doctor, he or she always ends up finding a bunch of crap wrong that has nothing to do with the reason for your visit.  It’s kind of like when you take your car in for an oil change, you know.  All of a sudden, you’re needing new brake pads and a front-end alignment and your head-gasket is leaking… you, at the doctor… your car, at the mechanic… it’s all the same.  Now that I am “in my forties”, I know that crap is going to start breaking down at an alarming rate.  I’d really rather just not know about it.  After all, maybe I can get another 2000 miles out of the car without fixing the problem, right?  Besides, it seems like when they start trying to fix one problem, everything else starts to go to hell.  You know, like the 35-year-old lady who goes in because she sprains her ankle, and they discover she has pancreatic cancer, so they cut her open to get to the cancer, and they find out that it is EVERYWHERE, and she is dead within a couple of weeks… because of a stinking sprained ankle.  If she hadn’t gone in for the stupid sprained ankle, she would probably be alive today!

3rd:  Uh… I don’t take exactly the best care of myself.  I know this.  I don’t need some yahoo driving a BMW to point this out and talk down to me while doing so, because when he or she does, my level of class-envy goes through the stinking roof!

Okay, so I don’t like going to the doctor.  In fact, I don’t even have a doctor.  I go to a local urgent care clinic (Quick Care) for all of my medical needs… which are few and far between.  You’d think that, seeing as how I’m getting to the point where annual visits are looming on the horizon, I should probably find a doctor.  I don’t like shopping for shoes… and I like shoes… so why would I spend time shopping for a doctor?

So, back to the snoring.  I call one of them “sleep centers” (Western Sleep Medicine, I believe it is called) to see how I go about getting fitted with one of those Darth Vader masks to make me stop snoring.

Darth Vader snores?

They say I have to be referred by a doctor.  I say I don’t have a doctor.  They say I can use Quick Care to refer me.   I call Quick Care and make sure that they can refer me, which they reassure me that they can.  I ask, “So, uh, I’m wanting a referral for a sleep study… and that’s it.  You aren’t going to test me for a bunch of other crap, are you?”  And I am reassured that I will only be tested for the condition that I am visiting about.  Great!  So I drive on over to Quick Care.  Never believe medical people.

I get to Quick Care and they make me fill out the stinking form that all medical places make you fill out when you first arrive.  I get done filling the stupid form out and I realize that right beside the line where I fill-out my date of birth, there is a line for me to fill-out my age.  I ask the receptionist, “So, why is there a line right beside my date of birth for my age.  Wouldn’t just my date of birth be sufficient?  Can’t you figure out my age?”  Of course, I’m being a little smart-assy, but in a good-natured way.  The receptionists at Quick Care are not exactly “good natured”.

“It’s there so we don’t have to figure it out,” the receptionist says, and I can tell by the look on her face that I’m pissing her off by breathing her air, so I let it drop.

So now I’m thinking to myself that I may be making a mistake by not actually having an actual doctor.  I’m thinking that using Quick Care for a referral may not have been the swiftest of my most recent decisions.  Did I have to list my age beside my date of birth so they didn’t have to figure it out… or because they couldn’t figure it out?  I know, I should assume that the receptionist (or anyone else who touches my chart) would be able to figure out my age from my date of birth.  However, before I entered Quick Care, I assumed that a receptionist in a place where people are going to have medical issues addressed and are looking for a little comfort would be able to smile… or at least be partially pleasant.  I have learned to never trust my assumptions.

After a short wait, I am led into an examination room.  The nurse tells me that the first thing she needs to do is check my blood pressure.  Crap!  This is exactly what I don’t want.  This is why I called before I came… to make sure unnecessary crap wasn’t going to be tested.  What does my blood pressure have to do with my snoring?  But I’m already thinking I need to keep my mouth shut because of the whole receptionist encounter, so I sit down and let her test it.

170 over 130.

She looks at me like I should already be dead.

“Uh, is your blood pressure always this high?” she asked.

“No, these places freak me out,” I said.  “It’s usually more like 150 over 100.” Of course my blood pressure is high.  Everyone and their dog stresses me out.  I hate any sort of confrontation and life is full of it… confrontation that is.  The older I get, the less I am able to deal with the basic BS that every person on the planet seems intent on dishing out.  If I could hole-up in a dark room and not have to ever deal with anyone or their problems, I bet my blood pressure would be just fine.  I pray to God to let me not get stressed out, but stress is still there around every single stinking corner in this road of life… and God just looks down from heaven and laughs.  I think jacking around with me is how God deals with His own stress.

Again… she looks at me like I should already be dead.

“I’m going to get the P.A.,” she said and disappeared out the door.

P.A. stands for “physician’s assistant”.  A P.A. is like a doctor, except they didn’t have to go to school as long as a doctor, and instead of BMWs, they usually drive Audis.  I don’t hate P.A.s quite as much as I hate doctors.

The P.A. comes in and he talks about getting me a referral for the sleep test, he fills out the necessary paperwork, and then he starts talking about what we are going to do about my blood pressure.  He has the nurse run a ECG, and then she sticks me with a needle and red crap comes out my arm into a little vial.  I’m ready to pass out as he tells me about the blood pressure medication that I’m going to be put on.

Crap!

So, I leave, I go and get my blood pressure medication, and I go home.

The next day, I take the first of the pills.  It’s Lisinopril.  It’s supposed to have very few side-effects.  I notice nothing and think I’m golden.

I take my second pill the following morning.  All is well… until I get out of the shower, reach for the hair gel (it’s Sunday, and I gel my hair up on Sunday to keep from looking like such a hippie freak), and I fall to the floor with chest pain.  I can’t even stand up.  The wife and kids are already gone, because the wife takes the kids to Sunday school.

Crap!

Okay, so I figure I’m having a heart attack.  Figures, right?  I mean, if I hadn’t gone in for the stupid snoring issue, I would have been fine.  Anyway, I’m downstairs, and I need to find a way to get upstairs.  I figure out that if I bend over and do not stand straight up, I can walk without a ton of pain.   So I hunch it upstairs and sit down at the dining room table.  I start weighing my options.

I can call the wife and freak the crap out of her.  Yeah… not going to happen.

I can call 911 and get an ambulance coming.  That would, however, be expensive.  I’m all about the Benjamins.

Benjamins

Then, I start thinking that I really don’t feel like I’m going to die.  You know how people who have heart attacks claim that they get all freaked out because they can tell that they are dying?  Well, I’m not freaking out.  I’m just pissed because my chest hurts.  There is no pain shooting through my shoulder or up my arm, just a sharp pain under my left man-boob.  Feels more like something is pulled than I’m dying.  I think to myself, “If this cramp in my chest gets worse, do I feel like my heart is going to stop?”  I answer myself, “No.”  So, I sit there and wait for the pain to go away.

Western Sleep Medicine is supposed to call me to schedule a sleep study.  I haven’t heard from them yet.  I may not have to worry about it.  After all, I went to medical people for one problem and they discovered another.  I give myself two weeks, tops.  Damn it…  I swear, I could have got another 2000 miles out of this s.o.b.

Tagged with:
Feb 01

Being short is not cool.  Short people are seldom respected, self-confident, successful, or desirable.  If being short was a positive trait, then in your youth, your parents would have lectured, “Drink your coffee.  That stuff is good for you… it stunts your growth!”  Instead, parents emphasized the danger of coffee stunting growth as a warning, much like the if-you-cross-your-eyes-they-will-stay-like-that-forever warning, or the if-you-do-that-too-much-you-will-go-blind warning.  Being short is perceived to be as undesirable as walking around for the rest of your life crossed-eyed, blind and acne-scarred… with hairy palms.  sigh Being short is not cool.

If you haven’t been able to guess this fact, I’m short.  So, what exactly does “short” mean?  Well, I’m kind of thinking that “short” means below the average height those around you.  In other words, I’m short because I’m below the average height of a male in the United States of America. Wikipedia actually has a really nice breakdown of the average heights around the world.

Ok, so I’m 5′ 7″. The average male in the U.S. is 5′ 9 1/2″. See how they do that crap? ‘1/2″ ‘. They gotta throw in that 1/2″ just to rub it in a short guys face. The bastards! And that’s just “average” U.S. males. The average “white” U.S. male (which, I’m a cracker) is 5’10”. Seriously?!? I’m a full 3″ shorter than my cracker brothers?!? sigh… no wonder I can’t seem to get a fair shake.

Alrighty, so let’s think back to short people who have been successful.  Any leaders that you can think of who were short?  Well, of course, there was Napoleon Bonaparte, right?  You know, the little French dude who was thought to be a little power-hungry.  In fact, Napoleon, had a complex named after him: Napoleon Complex.

.

.

.

Napoleon Complex

The Napoleon Complex is an informal term describing an alleged type of inferiority complex which is said to affect some people, especially men, who are short in stature.  So, Napoleon must have been a real shorty, huh?  Just a tiny little guy, right?  Guess how tall Napoleon was.  C’mon, take a stab at it!  That’s right, Napoleon was 5’7″!!! Oh, for crying out loud…

So, who are some other famous short guys… or, maybe I should write, who are some other guys famous for being short?  Well, there aren’t really many famous athletes.  In order to be a competitive athlete, one has to be relatively tall.  So, a career in athletics was never in the cards for me.  So when I complain that athletes are overpaid entertainers, and people say crap like, “They had to work hard to get where they are,” I have to come back with, “Yeah, I guess working hard at having parents with the right genetics earns them a multi-million dollar-per-year contract.”  Seriously.

Hey, what about Danny Devito!  He’s a short dude, right?  He’s famous, right?  He makes a ton of money, right?

Danny D

Well, who would honestly want to look like Danny Devito? I mean, c’mon. If he wasn’t an incredible comedic actor, he would probably be a side-show act at a circus.

Ooh, ooh, what about Tom Cruise?  He’s real short too, isn’t he?  I mean, he’s a dinky little guy, right?  By the way, Tom Cruise is 5’7″…

T Cruise

Tom Cruise, is well respected, right? And he does the whole acting thing, right? He was even nominated for an Academy Award for that Born on the Fourth of July
thing, right?  And the hotties… how can anyone forget the hotties of Tom Cruise?
.
.
.
.
.
N Kidman
.
.
.
.
.
P Cruz
.
.
.
.
.
K Holmes

Tom Cruise has done pretty well for himself. And like I wrote earlier, he’s well respected…
.
.
.
Crazy Cruise

I mean, it’s not like he’s a little crazy or anything…
.
.
.
Insane Cruise

Oh, who am I kidding. Tom Cruise is a complete freaking nutjob…
.
.
.
Jumping Crazy Cruise

See, being short is enough to drive a person absolutely INSANE!

Ok, so being short sucks because you really can’t be a professional athlete, and being short can drive you crazy.  Oh, I know, there is gonna be some dipwad who says something like, “What about Spud Webb… Spud Webb was only 5’6″?”  Well, Spud Webb is what is known as an “anomaly”.  He is one of the shortest pro basketball players of all time. So people of his stature… err, our stature… are not likely to have much success in sports.  Also, Spud Webb wasn’t a cracker.  Crackers can’t jump.

In addition to the lack of multi-million dollar athletic contracts and the whole going-insane thing, short people are have a 50% higher risk of having a heart problem or dying from one . Also, tall people earn more money than short people, both due to height discrimination and also the fact that tall people are apparently smarter than short people ! For crying out loud… can us shorties catch a freaking genetic break here?!?

Even renowned marketing guru Seth Godin, who stresses that our “Lizard Brain” (which, according to Seth, is the primitive part of the brain that keeps us mired in fear and self-doubt) keeps us from accomplishing our real goals in life, uses a typical short-dude slam to get his meaning across.  Of course, Seth is saying you need to build a quality reputation and a lot of anticipation for you and your products online before clients meet you in real life (or something like that), but “I thought you’d be taller” could be taken as “I’m disappointed that you are physically short”.  I know (hope) that this is not what Seth meant, but c’mon, Seth… way to help feed the Lizard Brains of the vertically challenged!

So, yeah… us shorties have a rough go of it.  I did happen to notice on the Wikipedia link that the average height of a man in Mexico is around 5′ 4″ to 5′ 5 1/2″. Suddenly, I’m all about allowing unlimited immigration (legal, illegal… who cares) from Mexico to the U.S. Hell, let as many of our little Mexican neighbors in as want to come. In a few short years (no pun intended… who am I kidding, pun definitely intended), I will feel like a giant around all of the short Mexican dudes.

lil' Mex

Or, maybe I should consider moving to Bolivia. Dudes are only like 5′ 3″ there. I would be like a god to them… MWAHAAHAAHAA!!!

Me in Bolivia

… and all of you jerkholes who look down on us smallies, stick it where the sun don’t shine… err, or in the above picture, where the sun does shine :)

Tagged with:
Dec 18

We had to replace our dryer.  Our old dryer just pooped-out.  She had been in a state of deteriorating health for quite some time, but we have put up with her “quirks” because… well… she was our dryer.  When the wife and I were married over 16 years ago, one of the first major purchases we made was a washer and dryer.

I can remember shopping for her (the dryer… not the wife… although I vaguely remember that as well).  We went to every place in town, trying to get a good deal.  We looked at all sorts of off-name brands, but we ended up going with Kenmore from Sears.  I don’t remember the exact reasoning behind why we purchased this particular brand, but I know I have felt confident that we made the right choice.  I have never looked at our washer and dryer and thought, ‘We made a mistake by going cheap.’  We considered buying our washer at one store and our dryer at another.  “Matching appliances” that were to end up in the basement or the laundry room or the spare bedroom were never a big concern for us.  However, the particular washer and dryer that we purchased in our first year of marriage just… well… they just seemed to go together, kind of like a newly-wed couple.
.
.
.

Happy Washer

Happy Dryer
.
.
.

Mr. Washer and Mrs. Dryer have been with the wife and me through thick and thin.  Whether they were cleaning the bedding and lingerie of a newly-wed couple, sitting in storage while the wife and I hopped apartments in Denver, cleaning the tiny clothes of our firstborn, cleaning dog hair off of everything after we received our family’s first dog, cleaning up the spit-up of our second-born, cleaning up the spit-up of our second-born, cleaning up the spit-up of our second-born (oh, the joys of a RSV-prone and mucous-filled child), or preparing the daily garb of a laundry-producing family of four people and one dog in present day; Mr. Washer and Mrs. Dryer have always tried to be good to us.  I have spent many a late night sitting downstairs watching T.V. or pecking on the computer, while Mr. Washer scrubs the whites and Mrs. Dryer fluffs the darks.

Listening to the two of them in harmony could be quite … err… interesting?!?  While Mr. Washer went into spin cycle and Mrs. Dryer tumbled her load round-and-round, there unison motions often caught my attention.  Mr. Washer would spin, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, shaking the stillness of the basement with his urgency.  Mrs. Dryer kept the same unison pace throughout, yet I sensed that they were working toward a common goal.  Finally, Mr. Washer, at a frenzied speed in search of some extraordinary outcome… stopped spinning.  I could tell he was spent.  Mrs. Dryer usually continued on, searching for her own “mission complete” banner.  Every once in awhile, the two of them would reach their goal at the same time: Mr. Washer’s final spin cycle quickly grinding to a halt as Mrs. Dryer’s buzzing high-pitched alarm screamed that her load was complete.  It was kind of exotic and erotic, in a very blue-collar and… uh…  pervy kind of way… probably like the erotic encounters of most married couples :)

Mr. Washer started having issues a little over a year ago.  He really wobbled when he went into the spin cycle, and we knew that something was wrong.  Finally, he just gave out.  Every time I tried to start a new load, he would just hum.  I tried my best to get him working on my own… which, with my mechanical expertise, resulted in several swift kicks to his nether-regions.
.
.
.
Sick Washer
.
.
.
Mrs. Washer did not seem to approve.
.
.
.
Mad Dryer
.
.
.

Nothing I did (i.e. no matter how hard I kicked) worked.  We finally called an appliance repairman.  Like $50 later, some doohickey was replaced and Mr. Washer has been working like a champ ever since!
.
.
.
Happy Washer
.
.
.

Mrs. Dryer has been in a state of decline ever since we moved into our new house over two years ago.  It seems her heating element has been going out… or something.  It used to be that we could throw a wet load into her and, within a multitude of mere minutes, she would have it dry.  Recently, it would take a second, and sometimes third, cycle to actually remove all moisture from a load of clothes.  Apparently, she had come down with something… something terminal.  Finally, a few nights ago, she wouldn’t work at all.  I threw a load of wet mass into her, closed her door, pushed the “start” button, and… nothing.
.
.
.
Sick Dryer
.
.
.

Crap!

I figured, initially, that this was something I could fix… given my exemplary track-record with fixing major appliances and all.  I gave her several swift kicks.  Although the kicks did nothing to spur her into action, I did seem to notice several sever looks-of-reproach from Mr. Washer.
.
.
.
Mad Washer
.
.
.

Ignoring the ire of her spouse, I decided to perform a little surgery.

I think I’ve already mentioned this, but my mechanical skills are a little lacking.  I blame my lack of ability on the fact that I don’t have the proper tools.  Convincing the wife that I needed to add to my haphazard tool collection, I headed to… Walmart… and bought a multimeter.  Armed with the necessary tool to assess Mrs. Washer’s condition, I started the procedure.

First, I tested the actual outlet she plugged into.  As the multimeter’s needle sprung to action with the insertion of the red thingie and the black thingie into  the slots that we are taught from early childhood not to stick anything into, my heart raced.  I realized that between my fingers raced enough electricity to kill the average mortal.  Feeling slightly immortal through my discovery, I proceeded to the removing-of-the-screws on the back of Mrs. Dryer.  Leaving the appliance plugged in, I proceeded to test this and that… not knowing exactly what I was testing, but feeling exilerated that I was playing with something with which I shouldn’t.  Not finding a clue as to the current condition plaguing Mrs. Washer, I unplugged her, turned the multimeter device to the “ohm” setting, and continued with my examination.

The ohm setting apparently tests the connection through different electrical components of a system without the necessity of outside electricity… or something.  The multimeter’s AA battery provides everything one needs.  All of a sudden, I’m not a general surgeon… I’m a “specialist”, as I test this component and that.  I become increasingly disheartened as my search proves more and more futile.  The wife recommends that we just purchase a new dryer.  I remind the wife that Mr. Washer was fixed for next-to-nothing and recommend that we try the same with Mrs. Dryer.  The wife points out that the average appliance lasts about 15 years, Mrs. Dryer is over said 15 years, and that we could really use a dryer with a little more capacity to dry our increasing quantity of clothes and linen-type-stuff as our boys grow.  Feeling like I had let Mrs. Dryer (and Mr. Washer as well) down, I somberly agree.  Mrs. Washer has fulfilled her purpose and her time had past…
.
.
.
Dryer... Done
.
.
.

Mr. Dryer was devastated…
.
.
.
Sad Washer
.
.
.

After quick visits to all of the major local appliance places, we settle on a nice Maytag that Home Depot was offering at clearance prices.  We brought her home, plugged her in, and tried her out.  She works great.  She gets hotter than Mrs. Dryer ever did.  The new dryer is sleek, shiny, and has great capacity.  We like her a lot. She may have been “cheap”, but you could never tell that from her appearance!
.
.
.
Hot, young Dryer
.
.
.

Okay, maybe her appearance screams “cheap”… but only in the softest of screams.

At first, I was afraid that Mr. Washer would hold some contempt towards our newest appliance.  However, I think he’s coming around :)
.
.
.
JOYOUS Washer
.
.
.
In fact, this is the happiest I have seen Mr. Washer in a long time. His spin cycle seems to be a little faster and he cleans better than he has in years… and I can’t quite seem to figure out why…
.
.
.
uh... unfit couple?
.
.
.
Appliances… go figure?

Tagged with:
Jan 17

The garden was especially peaceful on this day.  The air was warm and calm as the sun shed it’s midday light amongst the dense,  prismatic vegetation.  Adam, leaning against a large rock in the shade of a dragon’s blood tree, watched a distant tyrannosaurus rex just outside the garden feed on a wooly mammoth.

‘Glad those things aren’t allowed in the garden,’ thought Adam.

A rustle of brush behind Adam announced the arrival of Eve with the midday meal.  Adam loved Eve, and he loved the fruit she harvested for the midday meal each day.

“What’d you bring today, Hon?” Adam asked.  “Mango… I hope you brought some mango today.”

“Something even better,” replied Eve, blushing.  “I brought something new.”

Adam had never seen Eve blush before.  “Why are your cheeks turning red?”

“Uh, ’cause you’re naked,” Eve said.  She handed the golden fruit in her hand to Adam and immediately went to the nearest fig tree.  Grabbing a couple of fig leaves, she covered her “womanly” parts.

“What are you doing?”  Adam asked.

“Try the fruit and you’ll see.”

“Why are you covering the parts of yourself that make you different from me?” Adam asked.

“Try the fruit and you’ll see.”

Adam looked at the golden fruit in his hand.  Other than the single bite taken from it, the fruit was unblemished.

“Where did you get this?” Adam asked.

Eve pointed to the south and, realizing that her woman-parts were exposed, quickly put the fig leaf back in its protective position.

“Over there,” Eve said, nodding to the south with her head.

“I’ve been south and I have never seen a fruit like this.”

“Oh, it’s there alright,” Eve said.  “The serpent showed it to me.”

“The serpent?” asked Adam.  “The freaky long thing with no arms or legs that slithers along the ground with the fangs and stuff?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh, okay, cool,” said Adam as he started to take a bite.  As the fruit approached his lips, his brow began to furrow.  The fruit froze inches from his mouth.  “Hey, this isn’t from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, is it?”

“Well of course not,” said Eve.  “We were expressly forbidden from eating that fruit.”

Adam furrowed his brow further and, hand on hip, glared at Eve.

“Okay, maybe it’s from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.”

“Maybe?” asked Adam.  “What, you have a death wish or something?  We were expressly forbidden from eating this fruit or we will die.”

“Or touching it,” said Eve.

“What’s that?” Adam asked, his eyes growing wide.

“Or touching it,” repeated Eve.  “We were forbidden from eating it or even touching it.”

Adam looked from Eve to the fruit in his hand.  “Crap.”

“You might as well try it,” Eve said.  “You already touched it, so if God is gonna kill me he’s gonna kill you too.  You might as well get a taste of it.”

“You lied to me,” Adam said.  “You… you…” and because Adam had yet to actually take a bite of the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, he could think of none of the really good words to scorn her with, “you… stinker!”

Adam looked at the fruit in his hand and, although he had lost his appetite, he took a bite.  As the sweet flesh of the fruit burst to juice in his mouth, Adam realized that he was naked.  He ran to the fig tree and grabbed a leaf.

A-HEM!” came from the sky… and the ground… and everywhere.

“Crap,” whispered Adam, “it’s God!”  Adam grabbed Eve by the wrist and forced her down in the bushes as he climbed in beside her.

Why are you hiding?” asked God.

“I heard you coming and didn’t want you to see me naked,” said Adam.

Who told you you were naked,” asked God.  “Have you eaten from the tree I warned you about?”

This is all your fault,” Adam whispered to Eve, elbowing her in the side. “Yes, but it was the woman you gave me who who brought me some, and I ate it.”

How could you do such a thing?” Eve felt the voice of God against her flesh as goosebumps rose on her body against the vibrations of His words.

“The serpent tricked me,” she replied.

God rolled His eyes.  Then God started doling out punishment for the serpent.

Meanwhile, Adam stared at Eve.  Adam was sure that God would take his side on this matter.  After all, Adam had been tricked by that stupid Eve to touch the fruit.  Eve, succumbing to the long, seductive form of the serpent, had sold them both up the river.  ‘Plus, she lied to me,’ thought Adam.  Of course, he still took a bite of the forbidden fruit… all on his own with no physical coercion.  Like most of the men to follow him, however, Adam  decided at this point in time that he was going to do everything within his power to blame every ill in his life on the sex bore of his rib… and all men to follow fell to Adam’s fate.

Adam started to listen to the punishment appropriated for the serpent, and he realized that Eve and all of womankind was being punished just as much as the serpent.  God then directed punishment to Eve and all of womankind.

You shall bear children in intense pain and suffering; yet even so, you shall welcome your husband’s affections, and he shall be your master.”

Adam snickered.  Eve was getting her due.  Adam felt pardoned; he felt that God had forgiven the sins that Eve had led him to.  Adam felt that silly little women was getting her just desserts, and Eve and all of her ilk would, throughout eternity, pay for the dishonest lies of the first woman taken from the rib of the man!  Adam smiled.

…and then Adam felt The ShiftThe Shift was the formation of two oval-shaped appendages springing suddenly from the groinish-area of Adam’s loin.

“What the…” Adam exclaimed as his hand fell to the new addition of his outward appearance.

These, dear Adam, in addition to the life of sin and the need for repentance that lie ahead in your and your descendant’s miserable little lives, are a reminder of the affront to My name that you have allowed here today,” said God.

“But Eve…” said Adam.

Yes, Eve has done much wrong,” said God.  “But Eve is also in a vulnerable position when compared to you, my dear Adam.  She is not as physically strong as you, and she is more emotionally unstable than you.  So, in order to offset the differences between you and her, I am allowing the ‘dropping of the balls’.

“The dropping of the what?” asked Adam.

The balls… those things swinging about your fig-leaf-covered groin,” said God.

Adam touched the balls and asked, “Where did they come from?”

They were attached to the appendix and were a significant force in the ability of humankind to remain immortal,” said God.  “They will still play a significant role in the future of humankind, but having organs that were meant to be protected deep inside of the male body suddenly exposed for all of the natural world to rape… oh, woe it is to be ‘man’.

Eve and all of womankind are relegated to a position of inferiority and complacency when compared to man.  Of course, the feminists will come along and try to disparage these facts,” said God.  “The balls will act as an equalizing force in the battle between the sexes.  The feminists will see the balls as a sign of repression and weakness and will strike against them.  The insecure woman will see the balls as a sign of power through which they will struggle to find their own identity.  The average woman will see the balls as a comical extrusion from the male body and America’s Funniest Home Videos will be born!

America’s Funniest Home Videos,” whimpered Adam.

Oh, my son,” laughed God.  “The balls will be both your best friend and your worst enemy.  And you will provide to all of humankind more laughs through your balls than you could ever, throughout a thousand lifetimes, imagine.”

Adam looked at the protrusion from his groin and whimpered.  Surely this all had to be some sort of horrific joke.  Suddenly, Eve grabed Adam’s balls with her clenched fist.  She tugged once, softly, and said, “You ready to go start our new life of sin together?”

“Screw you!” exclaimed Adam.  He was going to have no part of this new life of sin and regret.

Eve squeezed and pulled at the new appendage between her fingers.  Nausea fell upon Adam’s being; from the tip of his toes to the top of his head, he felt pain as Eve pulled at his balls and led him in the direction she desired.

And so it has been ever since…

Yeah, probably not entirely Biblically correct, but his is how I see it going down.  Much more believable than evolution, isn’t it?  :)

Tagged with:
Jul 06

I was having a little trouble going back to work today.  After a vacation or a holiday it’s always a struggle to go back to the day-to-day monotony of work-a-day life.  At work, I was doing a little venting to a wise coworker.

“Wouldn’t life be perfect if we could wake up every day and work at something we’re passionate about?” I asked.   “When you get a job working for someone else, you are most likely trying to turn someone else’s passion into your own.  Life would be so much easier and more fulfilling if we all worked on our own passion instead of trying to become passionate about someone else’s passion.”

The wise sage looked at me with a slight smile gracing the corners of his lips.  “We humans grow tired of things so rapidly,” his deep voice rumbled as he shook his head knowingly.  “If our passions were our means of earning a living, we would quickly grow tired of them and they would no longer be our passions.  By keeping our passions separate from our means of economic survival, we maintain the passion that is our passion and our lives retain their meaning.  After all, a job provides the sustenance we need to live… but a passion provides the fullness of heart and soul each of us need to live well.”

I looked at the wise sage and began to contemplate his wise words.  This man, with his hair half-way down his back but contained in the most majestic of ponytails, had a lot of time to contemplate the meaning of life.  This man… this 32 year-old hulk-of-a-man, lives in the basement of a house he shares with his brother and his… cat.  This man’s passion is World of Warcraft and conquering that online games world with his band of misfit brothers.  This man almost peed his pants when the new Mountain Dew Game Fuel (in tribute to World of Warcraft) came out… and he came close to punching me in the face when I told him I thought the “blue” tasted best (“Blue represents the pesky Alliance, a grouping of mere humans and their ilk, who are far inferior to the majestic, raging power of the Horde,” he had said to me in a raised voice with a fist at half mast.  “Ok, Dude, the red is better… take a pill,” I responded, not really thinking the red was better but not wanting to get into a debate, or  my butt kicked, over a stupid video game.)  This is the guy I’m taking advice from on the idea of following one’s passion?  This is the guy who, for one brief instant, I am considering a sage and one worthy of listening to?  I’m an idiot!

Man… coming back to work after a holiday can really SUCK!

Tagged with:
Jun 25

Wow… celebrities that actually had an impact on my upbringing have been dropping like flies this week.  First, good old Ed McMahon kicks the bucket.  The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson could be mind-numbingly funny.  When Johnny and Ed were “on”… you would swear your head was going to explode.  I can remember my mom actually crying because she was laughing so hard watching Johnny and Ed.  Ed was the perfect straight-man to Johnny’s… well… whatever form of perfection Johnny was falling into that night.  Johnny has been missed for awhile… Ed is a fresh loss.

Next was Farrah Fawcett: Charlie’s most beautiful angel.  A great actress and a hottie.  She was hot into her fifties… lets see a current twenty-something hottie actress follow in those footsteps!  Seems like it would be impossible, but I’m sure plastic surgery and loads of cash can make that happen :(

Finally… The King of Pop… Mr. Michael Jackson.  I feel like there are so many jokes I could make right now.  I’m not going to go down that road.  I’m going to take the higher ground.  I loved Thriller. As much as I hate to admit it, I would stare at my reflection in the sliding glass door of the home I grew up in listeing to “Beat It” and practicing my moonwalk.  I actually got pretty good, although the sliding glass door in the only thing to have ever seen it. M.J. was an extremely talented entertainer; no one can dispute this fact.  M.J. is the perfect example of modern America: struggle; work hard; through hard work and developed talent, rise to the top; once at the top, everyone will gun for you.  You may go insane and do all sorts of things that are horrendous and unforgivable… and you will be accused of these things even if you are the purest, most loving being on this planet.

I don’t know if M.J. was a creature of love who was too good for this existance… or if he was a child molesting monster… all I do know is that his face seemed to melt more each and every time  saw him and he freaked me out!

I received a text message less than 12 hours after Michael Jackson’s death.  It shocked me.  It made me wonder what kind of person has nothing better to do than make up sick jokes.  It made me chuckle… and because of that, I’m going to share it with you:

Farrah Fawcett dies and goes to heaven.  Because she has been an inspiration to thousands and has done much good in her life, upon arrival to heaven God tells her, “My dearest Farrah, because of the good deeds you performed and strength you portrayed in your life on earth, I am going to grant you one wish.”

Farrah, being Farrah, looked at God and said, “I wish all of the children in the world to be unafraid and safe from their worst nightmares.”

… and Michael Jackson immediately fell dead to the floor…

Yeah… I know… so much for the high road :)

Tagged with:
preload preload preload