The extended warranty gods have smiled upon
me. My car battery finally decided that an under-charged life was
really not a life worth living and pulled its own plug. I went down
to Pep Boys expecting to take in some unwanted butt crack and buy
another battery, but when we checked, my warranty was still good
for one more day! Hurray for fortuitous timing! While it does not
make up for the dozens of times something has broken 30 seconds
after the warranty clock struck twelve and turned said object into
a lemon, it was a nice reversal of fortunes.
I think that among the other serious
problems facing the U.S. today, like unemployment, a terrible
drought in much of the country and a less than stellar education
system, we need to add something: cracked windshields. I didn't
realize the magnitude of this problem until I saw that on virtually
every street corner, there is a group of earnest-looking youth
standing by and ready to tackle this problem. They're
everywhere!
When I was in school, I learned to pass
notes without getting caught. Today's kids learn how to text
without looking. Damn these technologically sophisticated kids!
It's sad when you add a new phone number to
your cell phone just so you know not to answer when that person
calls.
So, I have a "four-in-a-line" game on my
phone that I NEVER win because the phone is just too good. It
bothered me until I started doing Indian leg wrestling with my
phone, which I win almost every time.
So, I bought a new smartphone, which, I have
to admit, I really like. It’s fast and has a great screen and,
honest to God, does everything but adjust my back and remind me to
zip up my pants after I pee (and there’s an app for that). The only
thing that was making me crazy was the battery life…or lack
thereof. I could start out in the morning guns a’ blazing and fully
charged, but by mid-morning, my little power bar indicator would
start to slide backwards faster than Enron stock. It was like a
Hummer’s gas gauge in stop and go traffic. It was like the Italian
army fifteen minutes into battle. It was my wimpy-ass battery
telling me that if I wanted to do anything other than know what
time it was, I was screwed. And it was killing me. I started
planning my day around phone charging sessions. My supervisors were
used to me storming into their offices and bellowing, “Get the hell
out of my way; I need an outlet, stat!” I started spending quality
time sitting in my running car in random parking lots just watching
my little green bar slowly inch upwards. After twenty minutes of
quality idle time, and not unlike an 80-year-old after a couple Red
Bulls and a Viagra, my battery had just enough juice to get the job
done, but was still nothing you would want to show off in the light
of day. So the other day, I broke down and bought an extended life
battery. It is truly the sumo wrestler of the smartphone battery
world and makes my original battery look like the skinny guy who
gets sand kicked in his face at the beach. Because it’s so big and
thick, it came with a new back cover for the phone, so my
brand-new, sleek and sexy smart phone now has the protruding ass of
a baboon in heat. The good news is that my phone lasts all day on a
single charge. I have become smug to the point that when I see
someone with a similar phone, but with the original 98-pound,
weakling battery, I make sure I hold mine in a way so they get a
really good look at the junk in my truck. Then, I laugh inside. So,
please call me sometime. I may actually answer now.
I am fundamentally opposed
to this entire concept of getting up in the morning, eating a
butt-load of high fiber bran bricks and then spending eight or nine
hours down at the widget factory (rinse and repeat). This work
thing is really cutting into freelance inventor time (don’t freak
out, and keep this under your hat, but I’m working on a Chia Pet
that only grows sideburns) but as the bumper sticker so eloquently
states, “I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.”
So, I was on a conference call today that
lasted over an hour. Only a few minutes of the call was regarding
the issues at hand, while the rest of the call was idle chit chat,
awkward silence and a bunch of BS. Yeah, kind of like sex in high
school.
When you think about it, crime does pay. The
hours are flexible. You travel a lot. And there’s the opportunity
to make a lot of money if you're good at it and work hard.
2:33 AM. Note to self: It does not matter
that the energy drinks are 2 for $4.00. DO NOT drink both of them
while driving home from work.
So, I had to write up and suspend an employee
today. What I said: “Your actions were a clear violation of company
policy, and at this time, I am going to suspend you pending a
further investigation to determine your job status.” What I wanted
to say: “Really? Seriously? What the hell were you thinking? You
are so outta here!”
Off to do an interview for a new supervisor.
I have my list of company-approved questions, but I think I'm going
to mix it up and make up a few questions of my own:
1. What's the weirdest place you have ever
been naked?
2. Moldova...your thoughts?
3. Mary Ann, Ginger or the lady from
I
dream of Genie?
4. How old do you think I look?
5. Be a mime for the next ten minutes while I
watch.
So, I’m cleaning up my resume, and I decided
that I have too many old jobs listed. These are the ones I ended up
cutting:
1. National Manager of the Save the Snail
Darter Foundation
2. Somali pirate (in training)
3. Mannequin whisperer
4. Snuggie model
5. Bovine methane gas analyzer and tester
6. Volunteer for the Unwed Mother
Organization (just helping them get their start)
7. Lobbyist for the Flat Earth Society
8. Worm farmer and herder
9. Fried Twinkie-On-A-Stick franchisee
10. West Coast Inventor (edible/inflatable
hamsters and dirty word pasta)
11. Hair Club model (before photos)
12. Lead singer for the band, Marsha and the
Electrical Crushed Velvet Freeway
13. Butt double for nerd in Go Daddy
Superbowl television ads.
I was going through resumes recently for a
job we had open, and I was amazed at some of the e-mail
names/addresses that people used when applying for a job.
[email protected] might work if we were looking for someone who
looks good climbing trees; otherwise, not so much.
BottleofB[email protected] does not inspire me to hire this person, or
let them drive or operate heavy equipment. [email protected]
while intriguing (did I say that?) this particular attribute is not
on the list of skills required to successfully do the job. Plus, I
don’t want anyone spending half their day taking and sending out
Instagram self-portraits. [email protected] makes me drowsy just
reading it. I don’t need Eeyore on Quaaludes or another
semi-catatonic clock watcher. [email protected] while I’m not big
myself on either guns or hunting, I respect the rights of others to
get drunk and kill defenseless animals with high-power,
laser-guided, semi-automatic guns in the name of sport. I do draw
the line, however, at those who go after fictional, animated,
cartoon characters. Needless to say, none of the above got the job.
I kept waiting for someone to e-mail me from
[email protected] That’s a slam dunk.
A/C in my car suddenly not working. Nothing
like sweating off a few pounds while driving around for work when
it's 100 degrees out. Also, in hindsight, I picked a bad day not to
wear deodorant.
Being alone at the office as an adult is a
lot like being home alone as a kid. Just, you know, less running
around in your underwear.
Jobs I have turned down this month:
1. Chef at the all-you-can-eat Monkey Brain
Café (country not disclosed)
2. Restroom attendant at the maximum security
men’s prison in Pelican Bay, CA
3. Sigmoidoscope cleaner and adjuster
4. Safety food taster/tester for Sarah Palin
for any San Francisco, CA visits
5. Pizza delivery boy (car provided: 1975
Ford Pinto)
6. Extra in the movie
Glitter II
(man
in clown shoes buying hot dog)
7. Assistant to the pig truffle sniffer
8. Certified aide to the colorblind
9. Freelance writer for
Fungal Times
(your toes are forever!)
10. Birthday clown for animal parties (human
balloon shapes!)
11. Test patient for the new drug, Groback,
for those who are losing their back hair
Am I being too picky?
Is there any better sleep than the fully
clothed, drool-inducing,
I’m-just-going-to-lay-on-the-top-of-the-bed-for-five-minutes (an
hour and a half later) kind? I think not.
For the past year, I have had to continually
fight off the urge to randomly jump up and start dancing 'The
Robot.' I really need to stop eating genetically engineered
food.
So, I just downed a sleeping pill with an
energy drink. I know that seems weird, but I just love the
competition!
So, every winter my psoriasis flares up a
little, and this year my doctor suggested ongoing narrow band light
therapy at the doctor’s office (fancy medical term for fancy
tanning booth) to keep it in check. I went the first time and
discovered that not only did I have to wear the protective goggles,
but I was given a brown, paper bag and a black sock as well. The
nurse explained that in addition to the goggles, I had to wear the
paper over my head to prevent any premature aging. I told the
nurse, “Look at this face. Do you really think three minutes of
ultraviolet light is going to make it worse? I have beautiful
children specifically because I DIDN’T make them with my face.”
That’s when she told me what the black sock was for. I was
instructed to stuff my ‘family jewels’ (honest to God, that’s what
she said) into the black sock. WTF? “Hey lady,” I told her, “I
don’t know where this sock has been, and I’m not used to giving it
up to laundry items on the first date.” She assured me that the
sock was new (oh great…so I have to be its first time) and sanitary
(if I had a quarter…). So, I got naked. I put on the goggles. I put
on the sock (not as easy as you would think, and now I’m going to
have a major aversion to certain hand puppets) and then put the
paper bag over my head. I felt like a really perverted Chicago Cubs
fan, but I have a pretty good idea of what I might be next
Halloween.
So, now, they are saying that chocolate will
help prevent colon cancer. That's great if I can just figure out a
way to get it in and keep it in. Anybody?
I had to reset my password for Kaiser (health
care provider) because, apparently, some genius in a cubicle
somewhere decided that the password I have been using for the past
15 years was no longer secure enough. No longer secure enough? Is
someone trying to hack my Kaiser account? Hmmm...I’m guessing there
is a state fair carnival worker out there who wants to check my
records to glean useful information so he can kick my ass in the
‘guess your weight’ game.
My head and face have been so oily lately. I
think there may be some illegal fracking going on up there.
You know those magnifying mirrors that make a
pore on your nose look like a hot tub and a zit look like Mount
Doom? I will NEVER look in one again on an empty stomach.
So, I may have to conduct a little scientific
research. You see, I’m not sure which grows fastest: tropical Asian
bamboo, the giant fern tree in the Amazon rainforest or this one
hair on my right earlobe that is trying to transform itself
overnight into a 2,000-pound-tested tow rope or maybe something
useful for bungee jumping. Hey, guys! Going marlin fishing? Sure,
I’ll come, but no, I do not need a pole. Don’t worry, officer. I’ll
tie up these criminals while you go after the getaway car. Fire!
Everyone, come over by this window and stand on the right side of
my head!
I have these antacids that are virtually
impossible to open, and I have to ask, why? Why do I have to
channel my inner MacGyver to pry open the tiny, vacuum-sealed pill
that will keep my stomach from doing the Macarena all night? Why,
in God’s name, is it so critical to keep antacid out of the hands
of the general public? Is there a secret government project to
create thousands of frustrated, acid reflux-capable, night zombies?
Are teenagers stealing Mom’s Pepcid AC for the cheap thrill and
dangerous rush associated with reduced intestinal acid? I just
don’t get it. It's possible to buy a baggie of crack on the corner
in a simple, re-sealable baggie, but to score one of my antacid
pills, I have to rip through industrial grade plastic with the
strength of Godzilla and the surgical precision of a circumcision
snip? Why?
I will admit it. I hate smoking. I never
tried a cigarette, not even once, because I just didn't see the
point. I don't let people smoke around my kids, and if I see
someone smoking where they shouldn't be, I'm the pain-in-the-ass
guy that always says something. The ironic thing, to me, is that no
one ever starts smoking because they like it. When that kid sneaks
around back with his friends and takes that first puff, he doesn't
suddenly have an epiphany and shout out, “Yes! This is what has
been missing in my life! It's great! I must smoke more!” He turns
green and coughs and may throw up. Why would you want to continue
something that makes you feel that way the first time?
If anyone wants to send me a “hope that jock
itch clears up soon” card, that would great as I battle through
this itchy situation. There’s nothing worse than a condition that
makes you want to walk around with a hand in your pants or makes
you want to spontaneously dry hump an old telephone pole.
Someone was once looking at
photo of my family and wondered aloud how someone with a mug like
mine could churn out such beautiful children. Hey, I don’t make
them with my face!