Category Archives: Humor

Quotable

Man: “What have you got, then?”

Waitress: “Well there’s egg and bacon; egg, sausage and bacon; egg and spam; egg, bacon and spam; egg, bacon, sausage and spam; spam, bacon, sausage and spam; spam, egg, spam, spam, bacon and spam; spam, spam, spam, egg and spam; spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, baked beans, spam, spam, spam and spam; or lobster thermidor aux crevettes, with a mornay sauce garnished with truffle paté, brandy and a fried egg on top and spam.”

-Monty Python

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10 Sexy Secrets for Outside the Bedroom

No, not really. However in this age of blogging bloat this is the type of topic that gets most of the blogging buzz; pithy lists and scandalous secrets. The once Wild West of the internet, where you need only hang out your shingle, has become an overpopulated strip mall struggling against urban blight.

I’m certainly not the first to be lured by the promise of expressive freedom, putting my voice out there for all the digital world to hear. While this notion of blogging is quite romantic in theory, in practice the sad reality is the expressive freedom you signed up for is little more than a message in a bottle; perhaps some lonely soul in China will find it one day and use it to practice their English skills but more often than not entries will remain undiscovered and unread.   If you think about it the number of available blogs out there is staggering. The amount of content created over the course of a week is overwhelming. Even if one were to narrow down their search to specific blog topic or theme there’d still be thousands of posts to page through. There are blogs about moms, kittens and geeks. There are blogs about how to blog. Hell, I even typed in “robot monkey” at random and got three blog results!

Like any start up business the biggest challenge of blogging seems to be luring people through the virtual front door and then sufficiently dazzling them so that they’ll return again on their own volition. In addition to the more technical strategies involving meta tags, search rankings (SEO), and a robot monkey strike force sent to disable the competition, the majority of this task comes down to shameless self-promotion like posting links and references on Facebook, creating a buzz among friends and family, and joining the blog community, commenting on other people’s sites in hopes that they return the favor in kind; Anything you can do just to get your name out there and, as my friend suggested, be a good “net citizen” (sorry robot monkeys, maybe next time).

Originally publications would handle the battle for viewership and then we the writers would battle for a small slice of their printed page. Nowadays we may cheer for the liberation of removing the publisher as middle man until we realize this drops the hard fought battle for viewership squarely on our shoulders. And this battle is not like a new NBC comedy pilot hoping to win market shares over “The Big Bang Theory”, this more like Animal Planet’s Puppy Bowl competing against the actual Super Bowl,… if the Puppy Bowl was reenacted with sock puppets, filmed on your iPhone 3 and posted to YouTube.   The other inherent problem with this new battlefield perspective is that it even if we “win” it becomes increasingly difficult to define success.

What is the measure of a successful blog? Is it the number of views on a post? The number of subscriptions? The number of comments? Do numbers even matter? Does a singer busking on the street corner count success by the coin drop or the one person that mindfully changes course to cross the singer’s corner each morning? If that singer filled a coffee house with fanatic fans would that be more meaningful? What if she filled a stadium?

I recently came across a post from one of the daddy blogs (full post here) that I was checking out as someone who’d “made it”. As an excellent example of “the grass is always greener” this post perfectly illustrated the potential side effects of my perceived success; trolls. These are not the fictional trolls of Tolkien that I could go on about in far too much nerdy detail, this is referring to the online rat bastards that are the polar opposite of good net citizens. These are the individuals that like to leave the literary equivalent of a flaming bag of poo in someone’s comment section only to delight in the resulting shit storm that’s unleashed. Now I should say that other than the comments I intentionally solicited, my current count for valid non-spam comments is exactly one. I would often comment about how much I wish I had more comments. To me it seemed like a decent measure of success to not only have someone read a post but to be moved enough to share their thoughts. Apparently that doesn’t hold true when the comments turn vile. In the beginning a writer has only to contend with his own internal voices of doubt, which are hard enough to filter out. Once we add an external voice of scathing criticism I would imagine it becomes more difficult to press on with confidence much less a glowing feeling of success.

I wrote once about internal motivations and about how true artists supposedly create art for “art’s sake”. This is not a motivation I can cling to. While I do like the process of creating something I know that this comes from the anticipation that someone with eventually see it and appreciate it if not fully enjoy it. Like the question of whether a tree will make a sound if no one is around to hear it, does a post hold any meaning if no one is around to enjoy it? I prefer the way another inspirational writer put it, stating that if we do not create “we are keeping our gifts from the world”. This works better for me probably due to the “Jewish mom guilt” vibe, but the principle is important. We do not create for the random troll who think flaming bags of poo is their gift to the world, we are creating for the people who are open to finding creative expression all around them and will appreciate what we produce. So while I’m still unsure how to measure any endgame success (though it will be telling to see how many hits a bogus title gets me), I will be content for now to continue tossing bottles into the virtual ocean and hoping that one is occasionally rescued.  People need something to read while they recover from the latest top ten sex secrets.

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Tagged and Bragged

A school in Washington State recently attempted to correct a long neglected problem by banning the illicit activity known throughout the school yards as “Tag” (full article here). This so called “game” involves the incredibly dangerous practice of running down fellow classmates in an attempt to strike them with a taunting declaration of “you’re it”. This “tagged” individual is then compelled to further spread their “it-ness” to other victims like an infectious disease. The need for action was obvious; no good can come from propagating this horrific tradition.

Luckily this is not the first school to take such a decisive stance against the dangers of play. A district in San Diego was legally motivated to prohibit another playground plague known as “Red Rover”, where a child is repeatedly taunted until they throw themselves into their tormentors. Barbaric. Many districts throughout our great country have finally begun to recognize the threat that these activities pose to our precious youth along with the other more obvious blood sports such as dodge ball, and snowball fights. There is no question that this trend needs to continue; there are still many dangers lurking outside our double-insulated, suburban front doors. For example, with no regard for child safety, parks and playgrounds continue to install climbing bars that are much too high and slides that are much too steep, inviting ample opportunity for broken bones and skinned knees. Clearly these threats need to be removed. Even the benign looking sandbox offers the ever-present threat of blindness and accidental exposure to cat poop.

We need to teach our kids that youth is not to be wasted on silly, dangerous games that invite self-discovery and social interaction. We are trying to rescue them from the tragic fate that awaits all who engage in these physical experimentations; bike riding, fast walking and aggressive standing have all been linked to a shortened life expectancy in laboratory rats who really have no business being on bikes in the first place. We need to be proactive about safety not just for the survival of our children but for the survival of our very race. But this is not to say that we should prevent kids from having fun, on the contrary there are plenty of perfectly safe alternatives for our kids to engage in, such as sitting quietly under a tree,… as long as they are sitting upon a properly laundered drop cloth, dosed in triple digit SPF sunblock and maintaining enough distance from the tree to avoid splinters and squirrel cooties.

Please help spread the word so that we can avoid the mistakes of our parents who lost an entire generation of children to “The Great Tag” and who foolishly allowed frolicking to go unchecked until it became the devastating plague that historians now refer to as “childhood”.

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Baking Made Less Easy

Its starts with a simple thought; “let’s make cookies”. Unlike the vacuum of space where no one can hear your scream, the mere mention of cookies reverberates from every surface in the household until it sparks a small stampede of toddler toes. Sometimes I think they’re just part of the required baking equipment like a spatula or measuring cups; I need only to set down the Kitchen Aid mixer on the counter and turn around to find two new attachments hopping excitedly on either side.

Accepting that this will not be the efficient task I originally imagined we line up at the sink to remove a temporary layer of dirt from my volunteer assistants. I acknowledge that any attempts at full sanitation with be short lived, so we go through the motions mostly to encourage the concept of proper hygiene. We also have a rule regarding no touching and no coughing in or around the mixing bowl. Like Vegas, “What happens in your nose stays in your nose.”

The girls march back to their assigned step-stools with hands raised in the air like surgeons ready for operation. This is an appropriate state of mind because in the spirit of fairness every task must be precisely divided between them to avoid malpractice claims and disruptive hissy fits. One holds the whisk, while the other scoops the flour. Trade off, and the other whisks the flour while the first takes a scoop. One unwraps a stick of butter, the other unwraps a stick of butter. Crack one egg, crack one egg. I have specifically selected recipes with ingredients easily divisible by two. If your “Coco-loco Chocolate Chippo Cookie” calls for 1/3 cup of flour, it ain’t gonna happen in this kitchen, bucko!   And so it goes with tag team pouring and measuring right down to an even division of labor where one will lower and lock the mixer and the other will turn it on. As the plumes of flour settle about the kitchen so too do we settle into a predictable rhythm of sharing; taking turns fishing out egg shells and wiping off the sugar-coated counter surfaces to create the sugar-coated floor surface. Let it not be argued who was able to brush away more sugar onto the floor.

As we near the end of the process the real motivation behind my eager assistants becomes clear with our two important cooking concepts; “quality control” and “taster finger”. Quality control requires that key ingredients like chocolate chips and marshmallows be carefully scrutinized for taste and freshness. This requires a random sampling of say 3 to 30 pieces to ensure proper consistency. The “taster finger” is a related quality check on our resulting batter to prevent fingers (which are predictably dirty at this point) from plunging outright into the bowl. No sooner is the paddle attachment removed from the mixer than eager fingers descend upon it like a swarm of hungry piranha cleaning the carcass down to the bone.

As lips and fingers are licked clean (or dirty) and I prepare to start scooping out the cookies we proudly admire our shared creation. The grease smeared grins that spread across their faces more than makes up for the added hassle of managing these little cookie monsters; It was all worth it in the end. And just as I’m filled we a sense of fulfillment there comes the abrupt inevitable sneeze directly into the batter. Time to start again.

“Who wants to be the first flour scooper?”

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One in the Can

To all those who have ever experienced the undeniable, bowel wrenching need to sacrifice both your attachment to cleanliness and a small piece of your sanity in order to face the wretched conditions of a public restroom and heed the call for gastrointestinal relief you can appreciate the contrasting experience of heeding that same call in the comfort of your very own bathroom. No need to step over that hobo in the doorway. No need to question the random drips sprinkled about the stall. No need to gather a heaping handful of individually dispensed tissue squares to wipe away the sense of ick.   At home, in your private sanctuary, you have the clean seat, the tidy bowl, the stack of outdated yet unread magazines and the perfect combination of wipes and extra quilted paper for your delicate behind. It is the nirvana of potty breaks.

That is, of course, unless you live in a house filled with a motley assortment of teens, tweens and toddlers, in which case the home front is likely filled with bathrooms that are only one small step above the public facilities,… and that one small step is probably the hobo in the doorway which, thankfully, we rarely need to worry about. We do however still have the random sprinkling of drips and, more often than not, a clogged toilet. Could it be the carb heavy, fiber free diet of the average American youth or perhaps the California drought friendly low flow toilets that contribute to the maddeningly frequent clogs? I have no idea the cause but I’m quite familiar with the frequency. Approaching any toilet in the house is a paramount to visiting that old aunt that nobody likes and wondering if this is the visit that will find her face down in the kitchen with her four cats nibbling away at her recently deceased body. You approach cautiously, taking a tentative sniff at the air, deciding if it’s worth a peek to confirm your worst fears or if it would be better to just assume the worst and call in the cleanup crew now without further confirmation. I mean really, who needs to see that. Bad kitty!

To prepare for this inevitability every bathroom in the house comes equipped with a fully functional plunger. Each child knows what a plunger looks like and has at least a passing knowledge of how the thing works. And yet, none of them will make the effort to use one unless forced to at the end of a disapproving parental finger wagging in the direction of the offending clog.  More than that, not only will they not take action to clear said mess but they will all religiously swear that they were nowhere near the crime scene at the time of the incident. A unanimous chorus of “it wasn’t me” can be heard ringing through the halls. Alibis having nothing to do with anything start to percolate; “I haven’t been upstairs all day because I twisted my ankle during presidential testing in PE.” Accusations redirect blame to other random suspects; “I suspect Colonel Mustard, in the bathroom with the lead brick”.   This is a crime scene that no one wants to investigate. There will be no CBS series called “CSI: Downstairs Bathroom”. In the end, nobody cares. The residing adults play a quick game of rock, paper, plunger and whoever loses two out of three deals with the problem while somewhere in the house an unknown child giggles knowingly to themselves.

I just don’t want to think about it. I lose enough sanity dealing with everyone else’s mess, I don’t need to face that in my moment of need too. This is why no child is allowed in the master bathroom. I don’t care if every other bathroom is occupied (or clogged) and you just chugged a 32 oz. Gatorade on a dare. You can wait,… or discover the joys of operating a plunger. Whatever the supposed emergency at least one room in the house needs to be reserved for our little parental nirvana. Our blessed little brood may not care about trivial things like aiming or flushing, but those indiscretions will not be tolerated when I’ve intentionally avoided the public stalls in Costco only to race home with legs crossed and I need to know that a safe haven awaits me minus any potential clogs or hobos.

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Mud Tougher

I have another million dollar idea; Have people pay me to be tortured. No, no, really, this is going to work. I’ll electrocute them, submerge them in ice and push them off high-rise platforms. And they’re going to love it. The best part is I’ll convince them it’s actually good for them. I’ll make them run from one evil obstacle to the next so they feel like they’re exercising but I’ll keep them close enough together so there’s really no cardio benefit. I’ll make it a competition so people will strive to be the most beaten up. They will glory in the pain. Blood and bruises will be the badge of honor here so I won’t have to waste money on fancy trophies. We can even mix it up, sometimes I’ll keep it simple and just pelt them with colorful dyes, make colorful toxic clouds for them to run through, and make it feel like a party as I deafen them with an upbeat dance mix. Maybe I’ll put a fictional spin on it and make them feel like the last survivors of a zombie apocalypse or gladiators sentenced to death in a fiery arena. I’ll find some people that enjoy role-playing to dress up as zombies or Spartan’s and have them beat the snot out of people that generally mock role-playing. How sweet is that?! And again, they’re going to pay me for the privilege.

People seem to have lost interest in something as mundane as running; since the dawn of man we have run quite naturally towards prey and away from predators. Who wants to spend money on that? But throw in some back-breaking labor and a mud puddle or two and you got yourself a money-maker. All I need now is an iron clad liability release form and some legal small print about consulting a doctor before arriving for your time of torment. Actually compared to an Iron Man, no one will blink an eye at the abuse I’m signing people up for. This might just be a short-lived fad that I can cash in on quickly before people realize what they’re actually paying for. I can’t imagine anyone signing up to do something like this more than once. Nobody is that stupid.

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