March 18, 2010: I wanted to take a moment and share about a remarkable discovery I made last month. After two years, I finally realized my car has these little tiny dials that make the seat heat up. Now, I know what you're thinking -- "What could the purpose possibly be?" I mean, we all know modern man has gotten along just fine for over a century with a cold seat. I was cynical too, believe me. But when I happened upon this switch -- you see, I was confused by the little drawing symbol and thought it had something to do with the ashtray -- my whole world was essentially changed. Suddenly the seat started getting warm, and not just hot, like the heater tends to do. (There's never a day, even the coldest, when I don't find the heat overpowering after a point, and I have to then go through multiple gyrations involving an open window, etc., to find my precarious comfort zone.) No, this seat heater just made me absolutely and comfortably toasty, and kept me so. It was dazzling, and I say without hyperbole that it took me to a level of comfort I'd heretofore only associated with a clean, well-lighted toilet.
Now, as the weather gets warm, I'm still finding I adore my seat warmer. I turn it up to 5 right away, and then let my mood and whims resettle the dial anywhere between 1 and 4. It's a lavish, dare I say decadent frill, and while I remain an old-fashioned man at heart, I still truly and wholeheartedly adore my "new" seat warmer.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Beware of the Irish!
March 17, 2010: So, I see the Irish are up to their old tricks again. I think we all saw that coming. But be honest -- can any of us really put trust in someone with red hair?
I remember the first time I saw a leprechaun. He wasn't happy and dancing, like in the movies. He was grumpy and hungover, which I saw firsthand accounted for a sickly green pallor. And when I asked him about the pot of gold lore had promised, he got all huffy, made some rude Celtic comment and tried to hit me with his Shillelagh.
No, the Irish are a dangerous lot. Don't be fooled by all those tearful songs about roses and lassies. These people would just as soon chase you down and stuff you full of shamrocks, than guide you to Dublin.
So now we're devoting yet another March 17 to the insane drunken escapades of people who can't keep their own country united. (I mean, are they Catholics or Protestants or what?!) Please understand, this had always been my favorite date on the calendar (not because Italy declared independence in 1861, but it's the same date Ringo released "Back Off Bugaloo" in the UK), until the Irish started honing in on it and ruined everything.
As we speak, millions of them are probably swarming down Fifth Avenue in New York, like fervent homosexuals on Harvey Milk Day, smiling Irish eyes and painting the streets green with their vomit, carrying on like the whole world had been scripted by John Huston.
And I'll do you one further -- I have a very plausible theory that the Irish are really just ordinary Englishmen. In fact, I don't believe anyone over in the UK can really tell anyone else apart, and that they even confuse Australians and South Africans with Scotsmen.
Well, I've said my piece, but I warn you to beware. Watch the roads with one careful eye shut for the goings-on of little green men. They're out there, I swear it, and you never know what these "lucky" people are going to try next ...
I remember the first time I saw a leprechaun. He wasn't happy and dancing, like in the movies. He was grumpy and hungover, which I saw firsthand accounted for a sickly green pallor. And when I asked him about the pot of gold lore had promised, he got all huffy, made some rude Celtic comment and tried to hit me with his Shillelagh.
No, the Irish are a dangerous lot. Don't be fooled by all those tearful songs about roses and lassies. These people would just as soon chase you down and stuff you full of shamrocks, than guide you to Dublin.
So now we're devoting yet another March 17 to the insane drunken escapades of people who can't keep their own country united. (I mean, are they Catholics or Protestants or what?!) Please understand, this had always been my favorite date on the calendar (not because Italy declared independence in 1861, but it's the same date Ringo released "Back Off Bugaloo" in the UK), until the Irish started honing in on it and ruined everything.
As we speak, millions of them are probably swarming down Fifth Avenue in New York, like fervent homosexuals on Harvey Milk Day, smiling Irish eyes and painting the streets green with their vomit, carrying on like the whole world had been scripted by John Huston.
And I'll do you one further -- I have a very plausible theory that the Irish are really just ordinary Englishmen. In fact, I don't believe anyone over in the UK can really tell anyone else apart, and that they even confuse Australians and South Africans with Scotsmen.
Well, I've said my piece, but I warn you to beware. Watch the roads with one careful eye shut for the goings-on of little green men. They're out there, I swear it, and you never know what these "lucky" people are going to try next ...
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Why I Hate My Blog
March 11, 2010: The fun's been slipping with this stupid Blah-ugh! Now, every time I open the site to see if anyone's been reading this dreck, I get a familiar cramp that tells me I hate being responsible for producing regular content that has to not only be intelligent and informative, but also funny.
Granted, there are little tastes of hope and satisfaction -- seeing Terry and S. recently join filled my heart ... for like a minute, then I realized they were just like the rest of you -- a horrible band of bloodsucking fanatics bent on pulling the life right out of my soul (or is it the soul right out of my life) with your merciless insistence that I be funny and wise and tasteful all at the same! Please, people, I can't be all three! Can't you just pick two?!
Anyway, I started this Blah-ugh! to share some of my hopes about life, including revelations around my sexual prowess and hatred of people who wear loafers without socks. (I also wanted to show Matt and Shannon up by beating them to the top of the Internet, but instead they both chose to steal my thunder with their own wordy rant sites.) Now, months later, I'm finding I have less and less to say, even though my mind still rattles on uncontrollably, like a runaway train. And in truth, it's not even really sure I'm doing my best part to improve humanity. To be honest, I've become torn between practicing an evergrowing enlightened awareness involving the spirituality of non-judgment, and simply wanting to be funny.
Anyway, anyway, I guess the real point is that I'm getting more and more lazy about bothering to write things out ... And that's why, going forward, I intend to devote more energy into nurturing the sexual prowess ...
Granted, there are little tastes of hope and satisfaction -- seeing Terry and S. recently join filled my heart ... for like a minute, then I realized they were just like the rest of you -- a horrible band of bloodsucking fanatics bent on pulling the life right out of my soul (or is it the soul right out of my life) with your merciless insistence that I be funny and wise and tasteful all at the same! Please, people, I can't be all three! Can't you just pick two?!
Anyway, I started this Blah-ugh! to share some of my hopes about life, including revelations around my sexual prowess and hatred of people who wear loafers without socks. (I also wanted to show Matt and Shannon up by beating them to the top of the Internet, but instead they both chose to steal my thunder with their own wordy rant sites.) Now, months later, I'm finding I have less and less to say, even though my mind still rattles on uncontrollably, like a runaway train. And in truth, it's not even really sure I'm doing my best part to improve humanity. To be honest, I've become torn between practicing an evergrowing enlightened awareness involving the spirituality of non-judgment, and simply wanting to be funny.
Anyway, anyway, I guess the real point is that I'm getting more and more lazy about bothering to write things out ... And that's why, going forward, I intend to devote more energy into nurturing the sexual prowess ...
Monday, March 8, 2010
Still More on Toilets
March 8, 2010: It's a sincere treat when the toilet flushes at work. This because my place of business features these automatic flush toilets, which make the bathroom-going experience a variable and often adventurous one.
I'm still not completely sure why sometimes it flushes and other times it does not. I've developed a few theories, including one involving fast motion. Therefore, after I've peed, I try to make a series of very quick moves in order to trigger the flush mechanism, which hides behind a dark plastic cover in the form of an all-seeing electric eye.
The worst thing is when I'm forced to sit down. Here, the automatic flusher seems to take on a life of its own, flushing willy-nilly throughout my time, frightening me into rushing in order to avoid another bottom-soaking splash of sanitary conscientiousness.
For my money, I'd appreciate an old-fashioned handle, wherein I could control my own fate. I'm not sure if it's that they expect I might not flush for some strange reason. I like to think they're trying to save me that arduous effort of having to reach my hand out to pull the trigger.
Whatever the reasoning, I merely wish I could hold it all in until the day was done!
I'm still not completely sure why sometimes it flushes and other times it does not. I've developed a few theories, including one involving fast motion. Therefore, after I've peed, I try to make a series of very quick moves in order to trigger the flush mechanism, which hides behind a dark plastic cover in the form of an all-seeing electric eye.
The worst thing is when I'm forced to sit down. Here, the automatic flusher seems to take on a life of its own, flushing willy-nilly throughout my time, frightening me into rushing in order to avoid another bottom-soaking splash of sanitary conscientiousness.
For my money, I'd appreciate an old-fashioned handle, wherein I could control my own fate. I'm not sure if it's that they expect I might not flush for some strange reason. I like to think they're trying to save me that arduous effort of having to reach my hand out to pull the trigger.
Whatever the reasoning, I merely wish I could hold it all in until the day was done!
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