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The Day After......the Mega Millions

So it is now the day after the Mega Millions drawing and you once again did not win. An 89 year old woman and a hick from the outback of Utah split the $600 million jackpot. What do you do next? You were so convinced you would win that you told your boss where he could 'shove it'. You told your fellow employees about your plans to do burnouts in the parking lot with the new Ferrari you were going to buy and actually put a $7500 deposit on, from your kids college fund, while their "sorry asses" were stuck working the rest if their lives. You forced your significant other into signing a postnup so they couldn't get half in case of divorce, since being monogamous was no longer an option with that type of money.  But today you sit amongst a stack of 245 losing tickets and 2 that actually paid out $3. Your dog doesn't even have respect for you anymore. Your neighbors a pissed at you for actually pissing "eat me" on their driveway and writing "nice car loser" on the dirty door of their 2009 Camry. Well here are my tips to sliding back into your old life once again. Start with texting your boss "You've been punked. We got you good. Bernie put me up to it. You should have seen the look on your face." That way Bernie takes some of the heat and you get your job back. Next, send a mass email to your fellow employees stating that you haven't checked your numbers yet and you are really planning to supply them with new cars when you win. The postnup is a little trickier since you already made advances on their best friend with your tongue involved. An accidental prescription medicine mix up excuse may do the trick. "Honey, I've been secretly going to the doctor to find ways to make myself a better sexual partner for you. I realize the embarrassment I had to go through as the nurses and doctors laughed at me behind my back, but you were worth it. I think they messed up my prescription or something because I can't remember the last week or two. So from now on I'm no longer taking those pills. How was your day?" The dog will fall into line with some treats and hey, who cares about the neighbors? They didn't like you anyway.

March Madness, what she's thinking when picking her bracket

Out of shape people and armchair coaches assemble. It's time once again to ride the backs of college kids from all over the country. Armed with a solid ten minutes of college bball knowledge amassed from last night's Sportscenter and the ability to cut and paste in a spreadsheet it is time to go to work on March Madness brackets.
There are a few things that are guaranteed, you will go into it 'knowing' you will finally win it all this year, your girlfriend will always pick the team with the cutest guys or the teams with the best names and your girlfriend will always go further than you  and may even win it all.

Sorry but it is true. If not then explain why Dick Vitale doesn't win it every year.  There is a strategy she uses that is pretty systematic and cannot be mimicked by a straight man. It starts off first and foremost by choosing the teams with the 'cutest' players. How does she even know who's on what team? Glad you asked. I don't know. But somehow girls know. I believe there is a great big brain somewhere high on a mountaintop that women all over the world share and tap into when they need this information. It probably starts with what famous person is dating who and his little brother, who's a 'hottie', plays for this college team and he's single right now and likes Twilight too. Or maybe it's encrypted in one of their magazines. Either way they know which 'hot' guy plays for what team. Then the school location comes into play. If you can't get a little of the 'good' sun, which I am told comes out around 11-2 pm, on a beach near the school, she is not picking that team. Unless the cutie clause is enacted, which trumps location. Next the school's name comes into play. If it's a catholic school, they aren't getting past round one. All hot girls hated catholic school no matter what your fantasies entail. Last but not least the schools team name or mascot decides the winners. Huskies and cuddly bears are always a good bet, but big buff dudes in metal skirts and leather straps, aka Spartans, always rank high on her brackets. The algorithm is pretty complicated, else I would have won all of my MM pools trying to mimic it. No girl likes tar on her heals, but heels are in this season and she thinks one of the players is a 'hottie'. So you can bet UNC shares a top spot on her bracket.  You may have even watched all the games in February and your college hoops knowledge may be enormous, but when Duke goes down in the first round to a 15 seed and she's the only one in your group that called it, you should have known, blue devils are just creapy smurfs trying to look tough. And by the way, don't go mentioning triple doubles in your reasoning with her why you picked your team to win, because the only thing that's going through her head at that time is those cute guys on the team you hate and that's the last thing you want her thinking double and triples about.

What's this St. Patrick's Day thing all about?

Once again we are getting ready to celebrate the world's most unifying holiday. A day in which we all dress up in funny hats and flashing buttons. A day where employment temporarily spikes for people under 3'2". A day we all chase the rainbow. No, it's not national Starburst Day and although we all drink a little too much and guys hug a lot, it's not gay pride week either. Time to put on your green leotards and grab your pipe 'cuz it's Saint Patrick's Day.

A day whose mascot is both lovable and creapy and whose side jobs range from protecting gold to fighting, from dunking basketballs to running away with hungry children's cereal in the morning. Yes the leprechaun. From the lush green meadows of Ireland to the icy tundra of Buffalo, New York. From the rain soaked Starbucks rooftops of Seattle to the kangaroo hopping, crocodile catching, not sure if the Geico lizzard is from here or England outback of Australia, we are ready to don our plastic green hats in celebration of our favorate stein raising holiday. The rules are in place. Everyone must wear green and everyone no matter what race, religion, ethnicity or status in life summons the traces of Irish in their dna. Simply follow your buddy with nature's full body tattoo, aka the freckles, and the firey red hair, and have him lead the way to the nearest corned beef and cabbage serving bar. Every place from Subway to Wendys goes Irish. I believe Burger King offers a corned beef and cabbage Whopper but I could be wrong. Either way there is a realistic possibility you may wake up next to the 'King' the next morning if your night goes right. After three bottles of Pepto-bismal to offset the gas from the Cornbeefinator, the evening starts with an invitation to the local 'Pub Crawl' where every bar serves green Pabst Blue Ribbon and like the name implies, you will end up crawling from bar to bar. This is most likely due to your body rejecting the enormous amounts of unregulated green dye more so than the alcohol itself. The pub is ablaze with blinking shamrocks pinned to shirts in an attempt to bait members of the opposite sex. Unless of course you mistook the rainbow thing, in which case, welcome. There are at least 3 guys in every establishment who are truly hard core Irish. They are easy to spot. Just look for the guys wearing a Larry Bird jersey, throwback Converse with a 33 on the side and the official 1987 Celtic shorts. You know the ones. The short, short ones. The shorts so short that if he sits down you may think someone spilled hairy pancake batter on the stool. Sorry about the visual. Green PBR does not get served to the true Irish. Guinness is a must. As well as wearing a black leather fedora. As for dancing, jigging is the only way to go on SPD. Leave your tootsie rollin' at the door. As the night goes on even the most well rehearsed Irish accent morphs into a bad pirate imitation. "Arr me matey, what's an Irishman to do to get his pint filled?" And don't be at all surprised what the fella who spouted those words looks like. For St. Patty's Day is for everyone. If you don't beleive me then just click the red link and watch: Leprechaun Sighting in Alabama So toot your 2000 year old leprechaun whistle and follow along. Whose Irish eyes are smilin'? Your's!

Happy Leap Day

Anyone born on Leap Day realizes that it may quite possibly be the biggest 'screw you' life has ever offered you. Let's take a closer look. Being born on Leap Day is the equivalent to Farrah Faucet dying on the same day as Michael Jackson. "We interrupt this broadcast to bring you the breaking news out of Hollywood that beloved Angel, Farrah Fau...wait....we interrupt this interruption to bring you bigger breaking news that the King of Pop...." you know the rest. Think about it, an actual birthday every four years. Though you could celebrate a day early or the day after, who are you kidding? The day to celebrate your admittance to the planet comes around only on presidential election years. Though, it does allow the possibility of prolonging your youth, what's weirder than attending your grandmother's sweet 16 party? Christmas birthdays suck too, but at least you get to double up on the presents. But let's not just dwell on the negatives, my 6 leap year old friend. There are a few joys besides the tons of loot your parents saved on birthday cakes and party invitations.  I am actually thinking of starting a petition to keep February 29 indefinitely on the calender. Leap Day, is national anti-bully day. This is a day I fully support. It currently allows a reprieve from bullying a total of one day over the span of a full four year high school career. That leaves kids at the mercy of ruthless bullies for 99.9% of their victimized prime. Another positive is Disney World staying open 24 hours on Leap Day and the fun tradition of women proposing to men on this date. So as I rally my loyal followers to push to have February 29 on the calender every year, keep in mind, not to offset nature and the space time continuum, we need to make it up somewhere. So I propose we drop January 2nd. If you've had a good enough New Years eve party you will still be too hung over to notice.

Dr. Seuss does Angelina Jolie's Leg

As I lay half asleep in my fluffalla bed, visions of Angelina Jolie's leg are stuck in my head. It is so lovely and so full of life, but I do hope they soon stop with that photoshop knife. For her children need it to climb on, Brad needs it in bed. Just this morning I saw it, photoshopped with a head. I tried to plant more with a toe as the seed, but they keep getting stolen by that nasty old Sneed. He takes them and hides them in his late nighttime raid, I think I see one of them beneath a lamp shade. He hid one next to the wozzet who lives in my closet and under the ghair as a leg to his chair. There are four holding up the table and one next to the Oscar on the couch, I would move it myself if he wasn't such a grouch. Angie's leg has made it to the moon and multiplied on her hips, this trend has become even bigger than the size if her lips. So as I lay here in bed next to my favorite pet willow, I cover my eyes with my big fluffy pillow. I hope when I wake they will have all gone back to where they belong, on Ms. Jolie's right side helping hold up her thong.

..and the rockets green glare???

I recently got into a discussion with an office colleague about the disposal of spent nuclear rods via a rocket shot into space. The spirited debate, as to what to do with our leftover nuclear waste, continued for a while and increased in audience. The overwhelming reasoning for not packing a missle with our old, really hot, radiation oozing rods (and used tires) and launching it to destination 'way the hell out of sight' was......., yep you guessed it, .....intergalactic warfare.  Not the possibility of taking out the moon by accident or our satellite tv channels for that matter, but E.T. and ALF pissed to the gills and packing heat.  In distant second was the possibility that the rocket would explode and shower the earth in radiation, pretty much guaranteeing our next generation a second set of opposable thumbs and glowing smiles, actual glowing smiles. Though curtain number two seems the most realistic to me, I want to focus on the inevitable retaliation from the aliens lying in wait for us to use outer space as a never ending diaper genie. The ones believed to be ok with whatever we are doing on earth as long as we're not sending a Waste Management spacecraft packed with the main ingredient of Twinkies their way. I know you're thinking it. Why should we be galactic litter bugs? Isn't it bad enough that we clutter the earth like we do? You do know space is endless right? Hey, I feel the same way, but the fact that we have a very nasty radioactive issue on our hands that will not just go away for another 300 years in factories built to last 75 and most people will vote to let it fester on the planet, that until today I was 100% convinced contained intelligent life forms, because of the possibility that somewhere in the big universe there may be life and the rocket shot into space may eventually hit that planet and the life forms will take it offensively and they can trace it back to the right planet and they have the technology to come all this way back with a bunch of weapons and our own weapons would be useless against them? That's a whole lot of 'ands'. Yet that is numero uno on the list if 'why nots'. Well, I've got an answer for that one. Just as Mark Wahlberg was to the ape takeover in the SOP post, Will Smith is to this little dilemma. Noone in the universe is better equipped for alien retaliation than this guy. So I am confidant that, in the million years it would take for the space garbage truck  packed with uranium to collide with another planet full of 'Go ahead, make my day' minded space cowboys, even if they use a time machine to come back to whip our asses real time, we've got it covered. Which is kind of ironic seeing our most realistic form of time travel to date would require a nuclear reaction to accomplish. 1.21 gigawatts to be precise. One thing we may be overlooking is the possibility that alien lifeforms may need radiation in their diets to sustain a healthy lifestyle. We may actually be helping them out and as they lie in wait planning the 'We are coming to take your uranium at any cost necessary' mission, this might make them reconsider. So fling it out there world. What's the worst that can happen? We know what the worst that can happen here on earth is. If you don't beleive me, ask Bigfoot. But hey, maybe having two tails is an advantage for a dog. - And speaking of aliens, why not click the alien below and give me some props?

Ode to the guy with the flame shirt

You my friend are awesome. While most of us are wearing plain boring long sleeve dress shirts and letting life push us around, you don't just roll up your sleeves, you simply won't allow a sleeve to ever touch your forearm. And to show life that you mean business, you set them elbow length sleeves ablaze. Hell, even the tails of your shirt are on fire, making it the hottest fashion statement at church, a funeral, Applebees and even a rock concert. Now this is only one of the ways you display your extra Y chromosome. I am envious about the way every single bleached blonde or dyed jet black hair on your head is spiked. Even the little teenie tiny neck hairs. You're way too much man to actually style your hair like a little wussy. You simply look into the mirror and "SHAAAAMMMMM WOW!", every hair stands to attention. And speaking of attention, while most of the world is paying way too much attention to the lesser metals on this earth such as platinum and gold, you have a taste for the world's most precious. Yes, 24 karat stainless steel. From your necklace to your bracelets and all the way down to your nipple rings, you prove to the world that stainless is not just for utensils anymore. As you and your awesomeness take to the streets, it is you who finally and literally have the 'balls' to show who's really in charge on the roads. Even going as far as taking the alpha role as leader of the pack with your shiny chrome testicles swinging proudly from the trailer hitch of your Ford F350. Just when crossovers, hybrids and midsized suvs began running freely on our highways and dirt roads, you come along, riding mere inches from their bumpers, your back sliding window displaying an eagle and the American flag, your rearview mirror suspending a dream catcher. A dream catcher full of hopes of finally hand crafting your very own chopper....made of bone. Even my Jeep knows it's place thanks to you. You are a pure American. When duty called you were ready. Though you are not a marine, you proudly serve your country as a member of the Army. The Kiss Army that is, since 1982. I know this because, as I wait behind you in line at Arbys, your membership card dropped from the non-folding wallet you have chained to your hip (a wallet that screams "just try and pick me you punk") while you were reaching in it for that buy one get one free coupon. And no, there is nothing wrong with saving a buck when you take the entire family out to celebrate your first wedding anniversary. Stainless steel doesn't grow on trees you know. So keep on pumping iron and may the flames on your shirt burn eternally, for you are the last of a dying breed. I take my hat off to you. Partly because it says Chevy on it and you have that bumper sticker with Calvin peeing on a Chevy and I don't want to tempt you in any way, but mostly because you are awesome. - btw please upclick the little alien below, stumble or any of the other ways buttons below to help me share my stuff, because momma always said it's polite to share. Your the best.

Todays Thought (they quote I respond)

When I do good, I feel good.  When I do bad, I feel bad. That is my religion. - Abraham Lincoln
...and with that, Abe's  hopes and dreams of making the cover of the dime were dashed - jts

Quick Thought: Generation Soft

As I watch the television set and see real life struggles play out in from of my eyes, I cry out, "Why oh why God do you allow such tribulations to overcome our younger generation? They are just kids. Have mercy on them please oh Lord."  I can't beleive my eyes. They are passing out. There are ambulances being called. Fighting, loneliness, sickness, crying and exhaustion. It's like the news today has no barriers. They will take their cameras into the sickest and most controversial places to show us the other side of life. Far from our comfy couches and animal print snuggies. The places where the anguished youth is pushed beyond it's.....wait...hold on a second..nevermind this isn't the news. I accidentally turned on American Idol. Sorry about that. It seems they have to join a group and memorize twenty seconds of a song. Poor kids.

Multitasking (aka doing alot of things half ass all at once)

It has been drilled into all of us that multitasking is an effective and efficient means to get alot accomplished in a short amount of time. "Hi I'm Bob, I can multitask." "OK Bob, your hired. We need more people like you." What our pal Bob really means is "Hi I'm Bob, If you just let me hammer out projects one at a time, they would be done efficiently, effectively and without error. But, if I told you that, you would have that confused look on your face like grandma has when you try to explain to her that Facebook is not an actual book and you would not hire me." It may at first be hard for you to grasp even the slightest ideas that multitasking is counter productive. But that is to be expected since that's how we're programmed early on. So as always I am delving deep into the unknown for my faithful readers to find the origin and truth to lifes greatest mysteries.  As I bring you along on this journey, lets take the girl driving next to you this morning for example. She was driving, drinking a coffee, fixing her hair, applying lipstick and holding a conversation on her cell phone so animated and dramatic that it may have just netted her 2 Oscar nominations. Now if you are the girl I am talking about, thank you for also flipping the guy off in front of you whose not late for work (thats a plug to an earlier blog). Do you think her multitasking was effective and efficient? Two red light violations, lipstick on her tooth, some coffee spilled on her pencil skirt and a topsie tail malfunction. She did make it to work with the tasks sort of complete, but now you have to try to keep your eyes off her red tooth for 2 hours in that 'meeting just to have a meeting' meeting. (More on that in the near future) How the heck is it possible to keep your eyes off that bright-ass red tooth? Enter the inadvertent cleavage stare. (I am giving away way to much of my future topics here. But thats because I love you all). Next, lets think about the average office job worker. First of all it's your fault. You said "I am great at multitasking" in your interview, so as a gang member would say, "Blood in, blood out." It's too late for you now. Note how most office workers usually stumble on their words when someone asks them what they do for a living, often wondering what the hell the title of the job was in the paper when they applied. The most common answer is manager of something or other. This term encompasses doing a bunch of shit while juggling a bunch of other shit while answering emails immediately.  The title should actually be Shit Juggler or Poopyhands. Technology, the leading source if multitasking, does the opposite of what it was intended to do. Your life is now harder because of it. You see, just this morning my 'smartphone' said to me "Hey dummy, you have 22 apps that need updating. So for 45 minutes I watch it struggle to update all of them at once. The end result? I'm still rockin 'Mildly Upset Birds'.  Yes it's been so long since I have had my apps updated because of my phone's 'ability to multitask'  that I still have to spend the first 20 minutes of the game getting the damn birds pissed off enough to want to be slung across the air at the big green pig. Remember pre-internet? We used to only have to use the info we got from a 1976 volume of Encyclopedia Brittanica. Now we need to spend 96 straight hours researching every possible article ever written for any if our school or work reports. And where the telephone limited your communication throughout the day, email gives an unlimited number of people the ability to cc you on every single message they send, multiplied by 20 with all the 'ok' and 'thank you' follow up messages. You may even find yourself in a vicious game of email Tetris.  All those emails falling from the top of the screen needing to be read, sorted, replied to, rotated and stacked in different folder positions.  It's not that bad if you can find a way of tracking your high score. Now, since I am not one dimensional and value the luxury of keeping my job, I did look into the advantages if multitasking...sweetie, the tv isn't a chalkboard..and found that doing many....hey that green paper you just flushed down the potty was the rent money...things at once can help us to accomplish all the tasks...why is the dog blue honey?.....that need to be done in any given day without having to....it's ok baby we just need an ice pack...put it off until tomorrow. So to sum things, multitasking does come in handy when you need to accomplish many things at once. Thanks to my ability to multitask I was able to flawlessly..not now sweetie..write this post while watching the kids. Now please excuse me while I wash my hands. - if you liked what you read please click the little alien below to share this post with the world. It's free I promise :)

Oh Where Oh 'Wear' have the Wardrobe Malfunctions Gone?

Just when I have my doubts about His existence, God proves to me that I have nothing to worry about in the afterworld. This time it came in the form of Madonna saying "I promise that there will be no wardrobe malfunction." Thank you again God. I will be sure to leave something extra in the collection plate this Sunday. But more on that later. We all have noticed that, besides a few instances (Black Eyed Peas, Justin Timberlake, etc), the Big Game's (which I have cleverly renamed since noone knows the rules of using the actual name in public) halftime show is always 25 to 30 years behind what's happening in entertainment today. Though the acts are pretty big with The Rolling Stones, Springsteen, etc.. whom I do love dearly and with such passion I may need to put a restraining order on myself, they are not quite what's driving the music and video charts today. When The Who played a few years ago it seemed like an Abbott and Costello skit. "Wow son, The Who's playing the Buper Sowl." "Who's playing dad?" "Yes" "Yes who?"...... "third base!" You get it. The younger generation and prime audience for the sponsors have no clue, except for their parent's vinyl records and cassette tapes, who these people are. Again, I do know, and am on the verge of having that secret creapy shrine room with their posters, pictures and candles, but the others in my generation and younger don't. So back to Madonna. Sorry but nobody south of 65 years old is looking forward to a wardrobe malfunction from her weird musclie body. Twenty five years ago most definatly yes, but now not so much. We all remember the original wardrobe malfunction incident. Why oh why did you not run with that, professional football guys? Let me explain something to you. The cable, satellite folks and even our old friend 'tevo' have been riding the wave ever since. Did you notice the price of cable and satellite these days? It's like 2000 times higher than it was back then. And people will not get rid of it! That is because there were enough lucky guys in the world to have had a dvr at the time. You know the one because it is still in your living room. With Duper Mole XXXVIII still saved and requiring a 'forgotten' password to remove. Noone is turning in that dvr no matter the rates. So please Pooper Roll halftime show planners, book Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Rihanna or even Cee Lo Green and his way too short arms for that matter, because like it or not, male or female, we want that malfunction. Else we will just tune to the 'Puppy Bowl'. Shit...can I say that? I meant Guppie Knowle.

S.O.P.s (Standard Operating Procedures or Secret Operation Primate?)

By now most of us have had a job where a Standard Operating Procedure was used for something or other. For the lucky few of you who have never been subjected to an S.O.P., please forward my resume to your human resource department, I want in. I will bring morning donuts with me. As for the rest of us, we have to follow a specific set of guidelines that dictate our every move and bodily function throughout every single workday, including the office holiday party. Lets begin with the first S.O.P. of the day, the notification we successfully made it in for another action packed workday. In the pre-s.o.p. era we would punch a time card or simply show up in the morning with a cup of coffee and some questions for Bob about his weekend. Maybe even start the day off by high-fiving the boss, like a wrestling tag-in, while yelling "I'm in. Let's get it on!!" followed by a chest bump and some shadow boxing moves. Enter the S.O.P.. Now we start the morning with 1.) Place time card vertically, north facing, into the slot face down and apply pressure to the clicking lever or 1.) Log into your computer terminal within 8 minutes of the scheduled start time but no earlier than 15 minutes nor less than 5 minutes prior to the start of your scheduled shift. Or even 1.) Place your left eye onto the retinal scanner, while simultaneously placing your index finger onto the fingerprint scanner (note: if you are either missing an eye our index finger please see appendix 5.1 for acceptable eye finger combinations).  Step 1 complete, however you are not 'In' yet. You must first touch your desk. Although you may have a meeting first thing in the morning, you must still touch your desk. It's in the sop. A glancing touch or a jacket drop on the chair is acceptable but some sort of contact must be made. Now you spend the majority of the day working on the 'How to Hammer the Square Peg into the Round Hole' sop. Occasionally, as most humans do, nature will call (or text depending on what apps you have installed on your smartphone) and you will once again have to quickly review the 'Guidelines to Bathroom Behavior' sop. Although legally your employer cannot monitor your bathroom activity directly, length of stay and number of occupants may tip them off.  We end the day by being directed, per sop, not to yell "Wooohooo I'm outta this hell hole! Let's get some drinks!" What fun is that? So, in the interest of keeping my readers informed, I questioned the need for so many of these step by step, inch by inch, instructions to everyday activities. My initial inquiries were answered via the faq section of the "How to question a Standard Operating Procedure" sop. Mostly simple self explanatory answers like 'Because we said so' and 'Please bring these questions up to your immediate supervisor prior to cleaning out your desk.' Not good enough. So I dug deeper. I wandered deep into the reasoning of the Secret Society if CEOs and Upper Management for the answers even your boss and supervisors lack the authority and classification level to answer. You would imagine the reasoning of these sops would be the need to control every aspect of their employees work lives. A way for the high ups to have a tight grip on your every move or even something to brag and laugh about at the country club luncheon. "Ha ha, that's a side splitter Godfrey. But I wrote one last week that spells out how many squares of toilet paper an employee may use. L.o.l. I'm laughing out loud right now. Get it?"  Yeah we get it. However, if your thinking they do it for their own personal sick enjoyment you would be wrong. After some covert investigation this is what I found: 'Secret Operation Primate' (Yes, the true definition of S.O.P.) was put in place in the late 70's. It is the global initiative to turn all of the worlds most efficient and creative workers into, well, monkeys. Trained monkeys that is. Nobody wants you flinging shit on the walls. For in the 70's a group of scientists and statisticians realized that the workers of the world were becoming so efficient when allowed to think for themselves that all the work in the entire world would be completed by 2023. Global retirement. It sounds like heaven, but the reality of this would cause the untimely demise of planet earth. The rational is as follows: 6 billion people retire, each if which purchase a plastic pink flamingo for their lawn. The migration pattern of the entire Canadian geese population shifts. It's obvious what happens next. Mass floods, tornados, hurricanes, volcano eruptions. Yes armageddon. I know what your thinking right now. "I saw the movie Planet of the Apes. What's to prevent that from happening and the world being taken over by gorillas?" Well the answer is simple. Mark Wahlberg folks. He is a real person. He has had practice with the whole ape takeover thing and can handle it for us if all goes awry. Option b was to actually physically tie up everyone's hands with red tape. There was a backorder on this but it seems the tape makers were caught in a catch 22. An sop they needed to follow about making red tape. That my friends is an eternal loop I can't even wrap my head around. It's like trying to eat your own head or touch your elbows with your nose. So until we can figure out a way to get things done without getting anything done, we will need the sops. Hmmmmmm..... Congress might be onto something.... Sorry, I'm staying a mile away from that one.

The legend of 2shot McGraw

Now for something way out of left field. Remember, the title of this page is "Random Thoughts..." Now where to start? How about with the article from the newspaper. 'The Country music world was rocked today with the news that country music legend and notorious bad boy, 2shot Mcgraw, was found dead this morning in his buckshot rittled Chevy pickup truck. Police suspect the heavily publicized, so called, "East coast/midWest rivalry to have been the cause of the demise for one of country music's fastest rising stars. A similar rivalry played out in the 90's hip hop scene between two mega star rappers leaving both of them dead. 2shot, not to be outdone by what he termed "Them sissy talk singers who can't play an instrument", immediately took the reigns of music's violence scene. Always armed with a double barrel shotgun and an attitude to match, the country gangsta spewed violent lyrics, lived a life of womanizing and held a grudge against all of Nashville's finest. Even taking it as far as rewriting other popular country stars biggest hits in what would be  deemed country music's first 'diss' songs. "Here's bus fare now go home and stand by your man" and "Your cheatin' heart ain't cheatin' if you don't get caught" even making the charts. Legend has it that 2shot's scorn for other country music artist started when a song penned by him, "Hole in my Wranglers", was performed for the first time live by one of his long time friends in the industry, Garth Brooks, at the CMA's without his permission or knowledge. "We saw for the first time a very big change in him that day", commented an old friend, Travis Tritt. "His eyes, his eyes just went blank. Like there was nothin behind 'em anymore. It's like that betrayal of trust took his heart out." The tensions heated up recently with the release of the latest 2shot record, yes record (2shot now refused to release cds and mp3s because of "then damn pirates"), "Polishin' my nine inch barrel". On it, 2shot teams up with West Coast rapper, Snoop Doggy Dogg, for the song "Your one gallon short of a ten gallon hat". A song taking aim directly at Brooks. Later Snoop recalls, "That was one homeboy you wouldn't wanna mess with. His combination of cussin and sweet revival melodies made me want to both cover my ears and weep with joy at the same time. You know what I'm sayin' ?" We do Mr. Dogg, all too well. And now the world will have to live without one of the greatest pioneers of the fusion of Country, Western and Gangsta hip hop.  A full investigation is set to take place with the main suspect being Brooks. When questioned this afternoon by the press, Brooks released this statement, "I would never do anything to hurt my old friend. Though there was tension between us when he also blamed me for stealing my hit, "Ten Gallons of Loving in my hat and one in my pants", I loved 2shot and was trying to get him the help he needed. If I were the police I'd be questioning Chris Gaines. Now that guy is one flat tire short of a mobile home." One of the clues on the scene was a freshly placed 'Ford' bumper sticker. "Now everyone knows that F.O.R.D. stands for 'found on road dead", stated a local deputy. "That sounds like some sort of calling card to me."'

2012 The end of the world or one giant letdown?

By now just about all of us have heard that, according to the Mayan calander, December 21, 2012 spells Doomsday for the world as we know it. That is unless you were living under a rock, which ironically enough would keep you much safer than those of us who haven't used the heads-up to prepare ourselves with our own state of the art underground bunker accommodations. If the rock dweller describes you, just stop reading this and stay where you are. This way you can avoid the whole nonsense of having to panic. I mean why do all the Christmas shopping for three straight months when all you need to do is believe in Santa? Anyway, it's now 2012 and the start of the year that may end us. While most common folk, who can be grouped into the 'Last Minuters' category, are just waiting to see how things play out before rushing the supermarket for 200 cases of bottled water and poking people in the eyes to get the last can of Beef-o-roni, like it was a Cabbage Patch kid in the 80's, the 'Prepared World Endies', who have wisely taken the warnings provided through the prophetic teachings of Woody Harrelson via the ambiguously titled movie 2012 to heart, are well....preparing. (Yes, you may have just read the largest nested sentence in history). The ones who plan ahead have meticulously organized their underground fortresses complete with shelves full of water, popcorn (which has multiple future uses such as pillow stuffing and artificial snow), canned everything, posters of the soon to be old world (complete with functional sun and drinkable water) and lots and lots of batteries. To finance these wondrous underworld habitats they have spent their now unimportant retirement fund, since in 2013 money will be limestone, q-tips and poptarts. All the while the ones who procrastinate will be left with a bathroom full of off-brand boxed foods with misspelled names, lentil soup and every cup, bowl and water retaining object in the entire house, including old dress shoes, full of tap water. The bathtub providing them the much needed security from the elements that are destroying thier neighbors Volvo just outside the window. Hey, if you can't trust Will Smith's survival strategy then who can you trust. The  December 20th rush on the supermarkets is the equivalent of black friday at the mall. A chance to clear everything off the shelves no matter the price, expiration date or flavor. I, on the other hand, will be looking forward to the Mad Max afterworld where I can drive a bad ass old car painted flat primer black and fight crazy mutant gangs with mohawk haircuts and nose piercings. A scrappy looking but fiercely loyal mutt by my side completes the picture. While an ending to the world as we know it could easily be interpreted to mean the moment where the entire world as a whole is enlightened and finally realizes that we can all coexist in harmony and peace, most of us would prefer it be a real life game of Resident Evil complete with zombies and mutant bunnies that look oh so cute but have this odd desire to get back at the Elmer J. Fudds of the world that have been hunting them their whole life. So whether you are currently digging an enormous canyon in your backyard, waiting until December to get psyched up or believe December 22 will be the funniest day of your life while your tapping "Let me in I'm a mutant zombie with awesome hair" in morse code on the giant metal hatch next door, may the end of life as we know it live up to your expectations and not leave you poor and trying to get a refund on an $85,000 bomb shelter. (I know because I got an estimate on one)

Quick thought: Ode to the guy ahead of me who's not late for work.

For anyone who needs to leave their house and commute to work, via driving themselves, you all have experienced the 'guy who's not late for work'. The other 99.9% of us on the other hand are running late for work and would appreciate if he could join the crowd.  So I offer this ode to him. We are the many, who would like to be on time and would be if not for you ol' Mr. I Got Up Extra Early So I Could Eat Breakfast And Then Drive Really Really Really Slow guy. You may have missed this class of driver ed so on behalf of all of us walking a thin line at work I will enlighten you on the rules of morning driving. First of all, the speed limit means the lower limit. You may drive as fast as you would like but driving less than this limit will make it hazardous to those of us going with the flow. We have no desire to use the brake pedal unless it's to prevent flipping on turns, which will  cause us to be even later.  A yellow traffic light by no means signals you to slow down. It is merely a warning that you are running out of time to make it through the intersection, so hurry it up. Another big no no that is not only frowned upon but pretty much instantly will cause profanity and hexes to be cast your way is to pause for the eleven seconds it takes for you to process the changing of a light from red to green. This should not catch you by surprise. And finally and most importantly, never by the grace of God ever, let a school bus pull in front of you. You may be selfishly thinking of your own karma at this point, but the 38 cars stuck behind you forced to stop at every third driveway for eight miles will negate that karma with an egg McMuffin and large black coffee to your windshield. So please guy who is always on time for work, set your alarm clock for an hour later, sleep in a bit and join us. For you are a danger to those of us with no time to scrape more than a few small eye holes into the frost on our early morning frozen windshields. Oh and before I forget, to the lady who was somehow almost magically driving on two wheels between the two lanes of traffic with that frantic "I'm late for my meeting" look on her face, hats off to you.

How to manipulate the Soundtrack to your life

We all have watched movies who's soundtrack is customized to the individual scenes. For instance, "Time of My Life" plays as we watch Baby and Johnny's dance finale in the 80's masterpiece Dirty Dancing. Through this we have the feeling injected, directly into our souls that.....well..... they are having the 'time of their lives'. You may, depending on where you are, start dancing around the room using your bichon frise (a little white dog pronounced ˈbiʃɒn ˈfriz not bitchen fries, although both sound french) as a fill in for Baby. The scene just wouldn't work if the Allman Brothers "Tied to the Whipping Post" was playing while they pulled off the epic 'Lift' that gave us all goosebumps of excitement and had us high fiving everyone in the movie theater while yelling "I knew it!! I knew she could do it!! Baby!! Whoo who". Well over my lifetime I have compiled a music library that rivals even the 32 gigabyte ipods. Every moment of my life has it's own song playing in the background and therefore I can judge exactly how the moment is playing out for me and change the moment into amazing at will. You also have a personal soundtrack, even if you can't hear it.  It is a soundtrack that goes with your lifestyle. If you live and love Country music, your soundtrack will mimic that. Same for Rap, Rock and Indie. Once you gain understanding of this you too can manipulate your situations to your benefit ala the matrix, the force, inception, etc.. Now listen close, with that tilted gaze and eyes pointed upward. (Your coworkers may think you're nuts right now but that's ok, there's a song for that.) Do you hear it? Probably not, but that's only because you lack practice. But if you do, what song is it? If it's an AC/DC song then your probably reading this while doing something crazy like driving up a narrow mountain road at a high rate of speed next to a cliff. If the song in the air is Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Free Bird", carefully step back off the railing and go back into the window. You most likely have been doing cocaine all night and have wandered out there in a rash decision to toy with fate.  If it's a Lionel Richie song you may be blind and sculpting a creapy clay head of the man you are dreaming about.  If you are having trouble making out the song try this: Look around at where you are, who's with you, what your wearing and how you are acting. Try to relate a movie to what is going on. For example, if your reading this while flying a jet fighter plane doing unnecessary tricks not caring that your sargeant is screaming in your headset, then you would relate this to "Top Gun" and the most likely song playing would be "Danger Zone." If your in an elevator, for which there are unlimited  movie scenes burned into your subconscious, it's safe to say that there is a slow relaxing song being played at least until the doors open. Once you have mastered the simple notion that your soundtrack describes the moment you're in, you can then move on to more advanced tricks. Try this: Next time you walk by someone much bigger than you, pick a fight with him verbally. Once he has had enough of it and starts to pumble you to the ground, close your eyes and get "Eye of the Tiger" on the mental mp3 player. As he watches you slowly regain your footing and sees the 'Tiger' in your eyes, he will realize it's over for him and allow you to throw tens if not hundreds of unanswered punches and will eventually collapse to the ground in slow motion. You can then take him out for a beer and explain you meant him no harm and were just practicing. He'll understand and you both will share a nice rendition of "Staying Alive" as you and your new buddy continue the friendly competition with a 'Dance Off'.  Unfortunately, some of us have become so one dimensional that a single song continually plays when you have entered the room. As it may work for those who would like to impose fear onto everyone around them relentlessly and without end, like the well known "Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Da" that plays every single time Darth Vader is around, including his bath time which simply must drive him absolutely nuts, most will get sick of it.  I mean come on now, date night must just suck. "Darth honey, can you think lighter thoughts? I'm trying to enjoy our appetizers and the violins are getting drowned out by that darn Da Da Da sound." "Sorry sweetie, I've been typecast with it." It's best to mix it up a bit and keep things fresh. Make the moments vary. If you go to the same boring work meeting every week, put on some 'Hungry Eyes' and stare at the new employee while maneuvering your eyebrows seductively.  At the very least the next seven hours of work won't end up being "9-5" anymore. So remember, if your ever listening and 'Shadow Dancing' is playing, you must be having a pretty freakin awesome time.

LifeLube™ for those who get stuck in time

Have you ever run into an old high school friend out at the mall and wondered to yourself, "Wow, that dude looks exactly the same as he did ten/fifteen/twenty years ago"? Although your not thinking "Wow he looks great for his age". It's more like "Damn that dude looks like my old high school janitor would have if he dressed like us in 1987". Yes sir, what I'm talking about is the poor unfortunate people who get 'stuck in time'. It is an unfortunate phenomenon that afflicts many of our friends  sometime during high school. The exact time they are afflicted is very hard to determine since they may have been cool for a number of years in school. But research has proven that it only happens to the cool kids. Nerdy kids usually keep a few of their nerdy quips but go on to amazing places as they grow older. Some founding giant computer corporations, some becoming mega superstars who perform in tuna fish mini skirts and command legions of followers.You can see them driving by in cars who's names you can't pronounce. But for the unfortunate cool kid who has been afflicted with 'Stuck in Timeness', the cars they drive have usually been taken off the market due to safety recall issues.  There is hope though. An underground product known as 'LifeLube™'. It is rumored to have been around since the late Seventies. It's use is pretty simple. When you detect that your life or image has been stuck in some sort of time pot hole, just apply a thin coat to your entire body and walla, your moving again. Sliding effortlessly through life's anus like your doctor's finger in the dreaded prostate exam. Your fringed leather jacket slides right off. The feathered or teased hair?...gone. You are now moving along with the rest of us. Some of the most popular rumored cases of it's use include John 'Vini Barbarino' Trevolta, who rose from obscurity when Quinton Terentino got his hands on a can of it, Charlie Sheen, although he may have become dependant on it and overdosed, and Mario Lopez/Justin Timberlake who can be grouped together because they seem to have it's use down to an exact science. If you have ever watched 'What Not to Wear' on tv you'll notice that every single person on that show is adamantly reluctant to take off their tube top, Rick Springfield tshirt or the still never been washed in any way leather pants, until they walk out of the legendary mirror room. What happens next is never shown on camera. The 'Stuck in Timers' are baited through a fine spray mist of 'LifeLube™' with a copy of Tiger Beat being dragged by a string. It has to be true. Have you ever been successful getting your family or friends to actually drop thier AOL account? While Clinton and Stacy have a 100% success rate for turning a Bon Jovi groupie into a Fortune 500 CEO. Think about it. So when you make that wish to be frozen in time, make sure that the genie at least wraps you in a ziplock freezer bag, because it really sucks when you pull out that New York strip steak you've been storing for the right occasion to find out it's all freezer burned and gross.  And that Delorean you've been saving up for, although I want one too, may be best as a second car.

It's time for a 'Reality' check

Reality television stars. We all have heard about them, seen them in tabloids or if your desperate to inject some adventure into your life, have dared watch their antics live and in person (using the tv screen as a buffer though). For experiencing this type of reality without the eight teaser warmups has proven hazardous to your health. What I'm talking about is the shows merciful though relentless five second clips throughout that give us a taste of what is going to happen next. Many outsiders are left to believe that they are used simply to keep us in suspense and fill the 45 minute gap between actual events on the show worth watching. It all seemed too simple to me, so I looked into it deeper. It turns out, many pilot episodes were performed to see just what type of effect reality television would have on people. Sort of like clinical trials for medication. We all know of the ever popular little blue pill commercials where dirty alleys transform into lush green rain forests, complete with a bathtub where poisonous insects and man eating reptiles have been removed or at least put behind an electric fence. But there is much more to it than that. Prior to turning your blah night into 3 hours and 59 minutes of immense pleasures once unreachable by man, a lot of secret testing was done. If you listen closely during these magical journeys you will notice a 4 hour limit imposed on your erection. Those who dare try to eat of the apple known as the 'post fourth hour' have been said to witness their own penis explode. Don't feel bad for the clinical trial participants though. They were well compensated with $75 dollars, a lifetime of company advertisement pens and a stress ball. The same diligent research is performed for the reality audience. Besides experimenting with having a live studio audience at the Bachelor mansion, which ended up just being awkward due to the lack of bed space and bathroom privacy, they experimented with a test audience having been shown no teasers before and after every single commercial. This ended poorly when it was realized that the actors, pardon me, the reality stars (who are carefully chosen from a very select world wide 'U.S.' population that can ignore a camera guy following them around closer than a Bahamian native at a village market) only did something interesting for eight minutes of every one hour show. But when they did, and without the teaser buffer, half of the viewing audience was found in some sort of frozen, eyes wide open, mouth gaping shock by the other fifty percent that were in the bathroom or refilling their chip bowl at the time not knowing the 'good part' was coming up. Attempts to find out what they missed were futile. When coming to, all they could say was "I....did NOT...see....that coming!" Dvrs froze up, noone could rewind, technicians were, and still are, baffled by this phenomenon. So there you have it. So much more is done to provide the viewing public with the safe much needed reality break it takes for us to have a meaningful life. So tell your crazy stalking girlfriend or boyfriend to stop causing a scene in front of the cops, cancel that ridiculous trip to the hidden villages of Tibet, stop mercilessly working out to lose weight and saved your life, and put down that microphone. Because it is once again time to experience reality. Weeknights at 8 and 10.

Pet Peevers Exposed

I think the biggest pet peeve I have is pet peeves themselves. Everyone seems to have them.  People seem to  love them more when they have peeves in common. The 'Commonite  Peevers' are quite entertaining once they get on a roll. It usually starts off with a peever peeving about a pet peeve from something they noticed earlier in the day. For example "I just hate it when people don't clean all of the snow off their car. It blows all over and I almost skidded off the road on my way here." Somehow this peever left out the part where she was fixing her hair, checking her lipstick in the rear view mirror and sending a text all at the same time. Peever two usually responds with "I know, it's like they have no consideration for anyone else. You know what else drives me crazy?....." And so it goes on and on until they have linked three or four common peeves. The Commonite Peever needs to do this to expand their peeving circles. Kind of like Facebook networking where you obtain 7 million 'friends' by requesting and accepting everyone that ever went to your high school or kind of recognizes your face from a friend's friend's dorm party. Although you check the little box that keeps you from having to read any of their posts, you need them to pad your social stats.  The 'Secret Peever' comes in many different forms but is most commonly the guy that will listen to your every single word and give you a visually favorable  response, like a head nod or a slightly open mouthed smile, all the while you are absolutely repulsing them to the core the way you keep running your tongue across your top lip at the end of every sentence. Thinking to himself, "For God's sake man, what the hell is wrong with your top lip?!? Do you have a cold sore coming on? Is there cherry chapstick on it or something? Just cut it out!" This is usually the newbie in the office or school that needs some friends and doesn't want to blow it just yet.  They will eventually common up, but for now keep it to themselves or significant others. Another type of peever is the 'Creepy Peever', not to be confused with the 'Peevert', which I will talk about later. The Creepy Peever is the dude that is always walking by you in the office and looks up just enough to catch you doing something that pisses him off. He then continues to stare at the floor while scornfully mumbling to himself just loud enough for you to make out the following words - "always gotta be.....makes me wanna......if I wasn't...I'd..." From this you kind of get the point but are not sure, so you shake it off and hope he gets fired for doing whatever he keeps mumbling, to your boss. Every office has a 'Daily Peever'. This is the one who can't stand at least one completely unique thing for every calendar day. If you catch this person on a Monday morning you will be served with a 'Tri Peeve'. It will effectively catch you up on the weekend as well as the kickoff to the week peeves. "It drives me nuts when people invite themselves over to visit when I'm in my pajamas and don't get me started on these idiots at the supermarket that park in the handicap spot with their really expensive cars with their handicap tags. If they have so much money then why can't they pay to not be handicapped or at least get a chauffeur? It's not fair and did you see what that new weirdo that keeps talking to the floor was wearing? I mean, why would any guy wear white patent leather shoes anymore, you know?" Boom, you just got TriPeeved. Just try your hardest to resist agreeing. Unless of course you need to deepen your commonite peeving mafia. As for the 'Peeverts' I brought up earlier, this one is by far the funniest of the peevers. Unfortunately we will have to get into this one next time. (note: the most common peeve people have is to the term 'to be continued')

Whats a day off in the life of a Psycho like?

Have you ever wondered how the average day plays out for a psycho? Average meaning the majority of the days where no killing, stalking or creapy ass oogling is taking place. We all have read the news, seen the movies, been the victims (most likely not reading this right now) or actually are the lunatic psychopaths. There's the craziness of showing up at pretty much every sorority where the girls are in the middle of a strip yatzee game. There's the absolute madness and quite frankly the most absurd tactic of waiting for us in our dreams. For goodness sake, are you kidding me? After the day I had I finally get some shut eye and there's a frickin burnt idiot in my dreams chasing me around all night trying to kill me. Then after all that I gotta get up and go to work?!? So we pretty much get the point what the psychos do when playing the part. Let's instead focus on what these skin suit making weirdos do on thier days off. Most likely the day starts off with the alarm going off. Not the cool smart phone alarms or even digital for that matter. This one is the off white colored square one that you or your parents had when you were a kid. The one with the clock face, the one tiny snooze button on the top and the stubby red alarm setting hand that hung out behind the hour, minute and second hand. The one that was impossible to set to go off at the exact time you wanted it to. You usually got a ten to twelve minute window. Anyway, the psycho is awake. Time for breakfast. You would think, to keep up their bad ass or 'I'm always crazy man' attitude, would have them eating pig skulls or garden bugs. But I believe it's more like a bowl of Lucky Charms. I mean how better to get you pissed off enough to go out murdering in creative and brutal ways than to pay $4.75 a box and only 1/39ths of your cereal are the marshmallow shapes you actually like to eat. Picking them out of that useless blah tasting cereal filler will make even the gentlest of us ornery. Then it's off to work. The halfway normal looking psychos probably have jobs that they can skate through on. Like adult paperboys, statisticians or work at a candy factory like our old pal Jeffrey Dahmer. But some of those big nasty type ones like Jason or Leatherface most likely find and return cans and bottles or have to scrap metal. This way they can get cash to survive and kind of blend in a bit better with local crackheads, scrappers and ladies of the night that have trouble staying up late enough to make money. Unfortunately they can't just pick the pockets of the people they kill, since then it would just be written off as a robbery murder and tarnish the fact that the person's ears were found in one of those supermarket claw machines. To help pass the days a little faster I'm positive they go back home and watch a little Dr. Phil and mumble to themselves (in a low garbled Dennis Hopper voice), "Dr. Phil can't you see that Ted Williams can't be saved? You crazy fool! I'll teach you for giving that can stealing bastard free rehab over and over and over....." One of the mandatory moments of the psycho's day is to stare into the mirror applying way too much lipstick while wearing a feathery boa. This I am positive they teach in psycho 101 class. It just adds to the mystique and guarantees that they qualify for some sort of public assistance when they get too old to be 'psycho killing' on a regular basis. Another must for the average psyco's day off is computer chat rooms. It helps them to socialize without the need to kill, like the sharks from Finding Nemo. They are the ones who's spellings really messed up since most of them have mangled fingers from a sloppy murder or the last teenager at a summer camp. There's a new golden rule for these freaks of nature. 'Never ever go after the last surviver of a sorority, camp or dance studio mass killing spree. They always fight you back and in some cases temporarily kill you back too.' "Take that you psychopathic monster" as they stab them in the eye with a PF Chang chop stick for killing all of thier fellow classmates. The night probably ends with a cappuccino and the Bachelor on the dvr. Always thinking about what could have been if they took the other path in life. Nighty night Mr. Psycho. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs (in the dingy rented room where, although you wear a 'skin' dress and a hockey mask year round, the landlord doesn't care as long as the rent money isn't late) bite.

The serenity goes on for smiles and smiles and smiles.

Oh, the health food store. As the name implies, a health food store should be a store where all of the food is healthy. With isles of carrots, broccoli, rice cakes and vitamin water. So, as a resolution to the bettering of my health, I take a trip to the local Feel Rite (notice that the names of you favorite HFS imply the feeling you will get when you go there. Also notice that 'Rite', for our local HFS, is the 'wrong' spelling in this context). The automatic doors open. Not the type of automatic doors you will find in a major supermarket with the sensor at the top that open majestically and inviting as you walk up like a welcoming to a magic castle. These are the automatic doors that have the long rubber mat that you need to jump up and down on to detect your weight. Then follows the odd accordion style folding of what appears to be an old screen door. This is when it hits you. The scent of every hippie you have ever known. The smells that literally take you back into the manger scene under someones Christmas tree. I beleive these are scents of frankincense, myrrh (yes this is the correct spelling) and unwashed armpits. Let's see...where are the isles of delicious nutritious fruits and vegetables? I pass by an old folding table marked as discount items. The dusty table is adorned with Lou Ferrigno 'Hulk' size protein bars, banana paste dog wash, nine different exotic berry drinks who's names I've never heard of but I believe should still be refrigerated, and random bars of scented soaps. The music seems to be the soundtrack from Nepoleon Dynamite or any random elevator from the early 70's. The small slightly refrigerated display cases hold cheeses that are that 'off orange' color. Not the shiny orange that I am used to on American cheese, but this darker plasticy looking orange you might see on kids toys made in China. The temperature of the case seems to be ever so slightly lower than the temperature in your pants pocket. Since it doesn't seem to be real cheese we are led to believe it doesn't needs real refrigeration. On I go through the store looking for the healthy food I was craving to bring my body to optimal performance. Each isle bringing a new discovery. Sleepy time oil, teas for every occasion and bodily function, shampoos to ward off bad omens and so far the only healthy food I found was "Petey's howlin' good for you" dog treats. Each product containing a little * with a disclaimer that in no way this product does what it says on the label. It's time for me to ask for help. Although the total of 8 isles should not be overwhelming the amount of different types of products is astounding. Ahead of me I see an employee. Her hair is really long and has a wavy kink that can only be produced by weeks of shampoo deprivation. She seems to be levitating ever so slightly above the floor. As she greets me when I walk up to her, I am instantly taken to a place of verbal slow motion. As she welcomes me and asks me how she can help, I believe I watched the sun actual set through the window behind her. I'm not entirety sure though since the window was mostly covered with newspaper ads and coupons. My first thought is "forget the health food. Take me to the the isle where the stuff your on is." The magic vitamin isle. After finally adding a few random vitamins to help me wake up, concentrate, pee and sleep, and of course the omen deterrent shampoo, I make my way to the cash register with the bean sprout sandwich I obtained from the mini deli in the back (also not refrigerated). Yes this is literally a 'cash' register. Any attempt to use a credit card will have the slow motion lady hand typing your number into a machine and, with 100% certainty, misplacing a decimal point in the total price. It's a big pain explaining to the credit card company that you didn't spend $256,005.69 on beeswax. So if you plan on going, bring cash and stock up on the goldenseal tea to help you pass your next drug test.

Todays topic: Does your lawn really deserve this?

Have you ever had a neighbor that keeps their lawn cut tighter than a marine crew cut while you are barely keeping up with the city ordinance to keep the grass eye level or lower? If yes then I'm with you. Now when you move into the suburbs from the city like I have done, you learn that lawn maintenance is at a whole new level in the burbs. It's kind of like going from high school ball directly to the pros. No such thing as playing for fun anymore. Your contract depends on it out here. My neighbor? The Tiger Woods of lawn care. Pre-scandle that is. Back when Tiger was like a surgeon on the golf course. This analogy probably comes to me since when I look at his backyard I feel like I live next to Augusta, home of the Masters. That's a pretty nice golf course for those of you not in the know. Mine is a rundown public course in comparison. Anyway, let's begin on a typical summers day. I am awaken, not by the sounds of birds swirling around Snow White's head singing joyfully. Not by the happy pouncing of a Labrador retriever. No, I am awaken by a sound that makes my soul scream out "Oh dear God not again. Please let it not be starting at 8 am on a Saturday after the late night I had." But oh yes, the delightful sound of the old guy trying to get the lawn mower started. If God loves me even just a bit it won't start. I guess not this morning as the sputters turn into a whining pinging roar. Thus begins his 7 hour full blown lawn spa treatment. Starting with the outer perimeter. A full tracing of his entire yard, tree, lawn ornament and bird bath. The middle is left for the riding mower. As about an hour passes and my migraine is taking me to a place of pain where I believe they take lab monkeys or interrogation suspects to test extra maximum strength Tylenol, I get a few seconds of relief before the riding mower starts. This is bittersweet since although it is louder than the push mower, it has less of a marble in a blender sound. Most sane people would stop after that. Not the lawn enforcer. I believe his mission is to eventually scare his lawn into growing to the perfect height and learning it's lesson and staying there. Because, as I wet and jamb cotton balls into my ears, the riding mower's work is done and it's time once again to fire up the push mower and give the entire lawn a complete re-mow. Yes a re-mow. Just for good measure I believe. This, so far, describes the first 4 hours. Cuz now it's weed whacking time. Though the last time a weed dared step foot on his grass was some 25 years ago. This little baby is used to individually take care of any blade of grass that may have survived the lawn massacre. "Viva la resistance"..."Zzzzzip"...dead... weed whacker style. To not drag this on for you readers too long, the spa day ends with him sitting along the driveway and walkways trimming the grass even with a pair of scissors and a final clean up with a leaf blower. For what very well may be 2 hours. I myself believe that my lawn, having been an eye witness to the 7 hour systematic euthanization of unruly blades of grass next door, deserves a stay of execution and is allowed to grow until the mailman goes missing trying to cross it.

Todays topic: God spoke to you?

OK, first of all this won't be me preaching to you about going to church or saving yourself our anything like that. I'm sure you get enough of that when you answer the door early Saturday or Sunday morning thinking "I bet these two people at my door, all dressed up with pamphlets in thier arms are here to tell me I won a sweepstakes. The balloons and confetti must be in the mini van they parked down the street." Then blammo! They ask you to join them with no obligation to have to prowl the early morning weekend streets with them. Anyway, I promise not to convert you. Todays topic is about the people who believe that God has spoken directly to them. As my self defence disclaimer, I do believe in God and hope he does exist. Really. I just can't bring myself to believe he talks to people. Reason number one: Why would the creator of all mankind and the universe for that matter tell you personally that he needs you to do something that will pretty much only benefit your needs or desires? For example, "Joe, it's me God. I need you to shoot up a shopping mall." Sorry but I do take issue with this one. I'm pretty sure that ones on St. Peter's naughty list at the pearly gates. I kind of have a feeling that 'Joe' thought that one up himself. How about this example? "Hey, it's me my son. God. I need you to collect a few million dollars to start a church for people to worship me. And by the way, throw in a few nice cars and houses for yourself." Hmmmmm... Let's see. He sent down his only Son to spread the word and let him get crucified. I'm kind of thinking that the new Bentley and house in Malibu perk was your idea. I'm just guessing though. If God was speaking directly to people I'm pretty sure it would go a little more like this: "Wake up it's me God. I don't care if you were sleeping. You see, I made you in my image and quite frankly, your ruining that image. I worked pretty hard on my reputation and your screwing it up. So it's time for you to sell some of your unneeded crap and build a house of worship for me. Your incentive? I won't smote you." Plus I'm pretty sure the voice of God would leave your ears ringing a little bit and probably wake the neighbors. I'm just saying.

Winter Mini Blizzards

Where to start? So many topics to talk about. Let's start with the disclaimer. First of all I will probably offend everyone at one point or another but I believe I will offended everyone equally without bias. Today's topic: The Mini Blizzard. Now if you live in a wintry place that gets lots of snow, you know what I'm talking about. The amazing mini blizzards that are generated from the giant Mohawk of snow left on the rooftop of cars by drivers unwilling to clear it off. Well I'm here to defend my fellow mini blizzard generaters. While white knuckling the steering wheel in the winter hoping not the skid into oncoming traffic or into a ditch, I enjoy the entertainment a mini blizzard gives. For those of you lucky folks that have never had the pleasure of sub zero weather and frostbite, a mini blizzard is generated from a vehicle that, after having been left out during a big snowfall, has not been fully cleaned of snow prior to entering the highway. The force from high speeds causes the snow to blow off the top of the vehicle onto the street behind the vehicle. It is a majestic sight to behold. Kind of like the wind tunnel smoke that commercials use to show how aerodynamic a car is. Well, most people are anti-mini blizzard. Why? I'm not quite sure but I do hear plenty of excuses and reasoning. Most of them say it is dangerous to the cars behind them. The driver is too lazy to clean their car fully, or it just plain looks stupid. These are valid reasons. Valid for any obsessive compulsive, bitter, old, crybaby, or just plain bitchy person. But for those of us who do not take offense or just actually don't care I say let the snow fall where it may. You see, it is not all that practical to clean the top of your vehicle every time it snows. The widows are vertical for a reason. That reason being, we need to look around us while driving, not up. Now that would be just plain silly. Another great reason to support your own snowy Mohawk is the likelihood that cleaning it will cause you to get snow, dirt, salt and whatever is on the side of your car on your pants. That just sucks. Snow in your boots and dirt on your pants? And for what? So you can look out through your sunroof while driving. Like I said. Silly. Now to tackle the topic of the dangers of the mini blizzard. Even the best of them only trail your car or truck by about four or five feet before turning to a light dusting. The real danger is the car that is following you within that five feet on the highway yelling "Clean off you goddam car you jackass. I can't see a thing! Your gonna get me killed!" This is the real danger. So sit back and enjoy. For simply looking at someone's license plate while tailgating them just isn't that much fun. Revelling in a great mini blizzard is like catching a wave you can hang ten on. It's the most fun you can have on a snowy highway short of watching someone skid into oncoming traffic or careen into a ditch. 2KVMN77VCC65