Thursday, May 08, 2008

Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Away From The Dill

I think I have a good sense of humor and find most things, except the CW network, pretty funny. But I rarely laugh out loud. It's so rare that I try to avoid using LOL in IM. I feel like I'm lying. Maybe I should start using IDNLOLBTWPDF (I did not laugh out loud but that was pretty darn funny). Even my favorite comics rarely elicit a guffaw. But then something utterly stupid will crack me up every time no matter how many times I read it. This time, of all the possible things, it was The Indiana Mothers' Baby Book put out by The Indiana State Board of Health. I can't remember where I first saw it, but I think it was Evan that found it and uploaded portions to his Flickr page. Click on it to view full-size and check out the advice on crying babies.


All I know is that you, too, might be doubled over like I am, picturing a sinister character in a black hat and evil mustache lurking in the shadows waiting for the opportunity to give a pickle to your baby in an effort to exact revenge for some previous wrong that your family committed against him.

Or you think I'm insane.

Either one is fine with me.

Update: In the comments on the Flickr page there are some links to a pdf of the entire book (published in 1920) for all you new mothers out there. Or mothers to be - some great labor and delivery tips for in Volume I for you do-it-yourselfers.

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

High Expectations

My son’s high school strives to maintain a climate that emphasizes high expectations for all students. I know this to be true for two reasons. One, the last time I was at the high school I saw one of their thermostats, and it was set to “Emphasize High Expectations”, which is the setting right next to “Endeavor To Not Get Shot By A Picked-On Nerd”. Two, I received a letter from the dean’s office bragging about their emphasis on high expectations. The letter went on to say that my son has met those expectations set by the HVAC system in the school.

Do you know how he did that? No, he hasn’t gotten straight A’s. No, he is not a McDonald’s All-American (but he does order the Double Quarter Pounder when he eats at McDonalds’s, so I’m guessing he may have gotten a few votes for that). No, he was not voted Prom Queen (he took eighth). He has achieved these lofty heights of success by being courageous enough to have behaved himself in a manner as to not have received a discipline referral for one month. That’s one month, IN A ROW! If that isn't expecting the most out of teenagers today, I don't know what is.

As you might imagine, his mother and I are very proud. Neither of us ever performed so admirably in high school to have prompted such an illustrious letter to our respective parents. For this honor, my son has “earned the right to have four progressive discipline points removed from his discipline record”, and possibly a lesson in redundancy.

This letter surprised me, but not because I did not expect my son to last a whole month without getting into trouble. I never realized that could be even considered a feat of recognition. What surprised me is that this has been the first month out of the seventeen months he’s been in high school that he’s been an upstanding citizen.

I had been aware of only three instances of notoriety on his part. Two of them involved improper use of food in the cafeteria. Apparently, he’s found other uses for the liverwurst fruit rollups I’ve been packing in his lunch bag. I don’t recall the specifics of the third incident, but I seem to remember something about photographs, blackmail and the teacher’s lounge. Why didn’t they tell me about the other thirteen months worth of shenanigans he’s been waging? He's been waging shenanigans. That's not easy to do.

What bothered me the most about the letter was the last line: “We would like to thank you for your involvement and for your son’s commitment to improve.” Right - my son’s commitment to improve. In reality, you just haven’t caught him doing anything stupid for a month. They may as well have said to me, “Your son isn't as big of an asshole as we thought he was. We are delighted to see that you’ve gotten off the couch and finally did some parenting.” As if I ever told him specifically to launch liverwurst bombs at the cheerleader lunch table. I did advise him to develop his entrepreneurial skills, which may or may not have led to the blackmail episode. I’ll take credit for that one.

How am I supposed to nip him in the bud unless they tell me about the nefariousness he’s blossoming into as it happens? They didn’t even bother to tell me how many progressive discipline points he’s “earned”. If he can only reduce his total by four points a month, is it even mathematically possible for him to reach zero in his remaining nineteen months? It would help me to know what I’m up against here. Who knows, maybe he’s on the brink of a new record. If he’s close, it may behoove him to set a goal to beat that record. It’s good to have goals. I wouldn't want to get in the way of his road to immortality.

As the true criminal that my son is, he denied having any knowledge of the existence of discipline points, referrals, the dean’s office, the fact that he’s in high school or the notion of what a good boy is. I admire his resolve. I told him to take the letter to the dean’s office (after he “finds out where it is”) and ask them for a medal, or at least a ribbon. Meanwhile, I will wait by the mailbox for the invitation to Honors Night.

Monday, May 05, 2008

What They Don't Teach You At Harvard Business School

From the Conversations I Never Thought I'd Have At Work file...

Co-Worker: How do you spell "bootylicious"?

Me: It's like "delicious" except with "booty" in the front.

With leadership, mentoring and training like that, how can the office fail?

Saturday, May 03, 2008

Waste of Time

Throughout our lives, most of us are faced with at least one decision that will forever completely change the course of our future. I was faced with one of those decisions today. I didn’t quite know how to approach it. The potential outcomes for each option were unclear. I had no prior experience in the situation to help guide me. All I could do was wing it and hope for the best.

It looks like I made the wrong decision, and my life will never be the same again. My life is pretty much going to suck from here on out. See, what happened was….



Excuse me, I have to take this call…




Hello*.





Yes, ma’am, it is.





I’m not dead, if that’s what you mean.





A survey? Sure, I have absolutely nothing better to do.





Why do you want to know that?





Oh. OK, continue.





Hillary.





Yes, I’m serious.





It’s about time we got a chick in the White House.





Yes, I understand she’s a horrible bitch, but she can’t be any worse than the people with penises have done running the country.





Yes, I believe having a penis has influenced them very much.





Well how would you know, do you have a penis?





Then you really don’t know what you are talking about, do you? Do not judge a man until you have walked a mile while dangling his penis.


Yes, I'm sure that's how the saying goes.



Of course, with one of those you can get as many penises as you want.



Nevermind.




Are there any other questions on this survey?





OK, shoot.





Yes. I pluck my arm hair out while I’m sitting on the toilet.





I never said it was a GOOD hobby.





The soothing sound of boiling water.





Ear cushions.





Scabs.





More scabs.





Potential scabs.





Yes, you can interpret that as open wounds. Even unharmed skin, depending how broad of the term “potential” you’d like to use.





Ah, that’s easy – Hillary, again.





I know she’s not a professional baseball team.





I can TOO answer Hillary.






It doesn’t matter. Are you really interested in finding out my thoughts on these questions or would you just like to answer the rest of the questions yourself? I’d be happy to hang up the phone and get back to my busy day of not being on the phone.





That’s fine. Go ahead.





Floyd Rose





I have a tie for that one. Can I give two answers?





The Angry Beavers and Petticoat Junction.





I use the trilogical method of a pop metal hit, then the power ballad followed by the power cover song.





I don’t know what you mean.





I have absolutely no clue what you are talking about.





No, it isn’t.





What?





Um…





Hey, could you please call me back tomorrow?





Yes. Around noon. And I may want to change some of my answers, so we’ll start from the top.





You, too. Thanks for calling.





Good-Bye, Grandma Kooschnik.




I'm back. Sorry about that. But you all know phone calls are very important. Now, where was I? I don’t remember. Oh, well. I hope I haven’t wasted your time.













*Note: I usually speak in brown when I'm on the phone.

Friday, May 02, 2008

You And Me Up In The Trees

I heard a rumor that Moist Rub was going to get a new tree for his yard for Arbor Day. He's the one that started the rumor, so I don't know whether to believe it or not. Most of the rumors he starts are about him dating Sharon Gless and I've yet to see her with him. Regardless, I volunteered the use of my truck to go pick up the tree for him because I think that would be like driving a forest around. And how often do you get the opportunity to do that? Not very often, I tell 'ya.

Thursday, May 01, 2008

It's a Rat's Ass Mother's Day!!!


This is horrible. Mother's Day is just over a week away, and it looks as if nobody loves their mother this year. We know this because nobody has yet ordered a Rat's Ass from us to send to their mother. It's a proven fact. It is impossible to love your mother until you buy her a Rat's Ass. I am ashamed of all of us.


It's not all your fault you don't love your mother. Our marketing department has been remiss in their responsibility to remind you of your mother loving needs. And for that, we are reducing the price of The Rat's Ass by 10%. Screw it, these are our moms we're talking about - we'll make it 15%. Wait, 15% is too hard to calculate, let's make it an even 18.367%.

That's right, you can buy all the moms in your life as many Rat's Asses they want for only $49.99 each (regularly $61.24* for those of you doing math at home).


For more information about The Rat's Ass and how to order, click here. If you missed that link, try clicking here. Or here. We understand not everybody is a marksman with the old mouse pointer. Try here if you missed the other links. OK, one more time and that's it. HERE.


Prototype displayed. The actaul one your mom will receive will be much better, I'm sure.

*before you start whining, call the government about this damn inflation thing.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Terminal Toothache

Dear Del Pharmaceuticals Inc,


RE: Orajel


My throat is numb. My cheeks are numb. My tongue is numb. My lips are numb. My face is numb. My hair is numb. Even the nape of my creamy, milky-white neck is numb. Do you know what is not numb? My toothache, that's what.

Luckily, my dentist gave me some vicodin. If she didn't, I would have been tempted to drink the other half of the bottle of Orajel I bought. You owe me five bucks. Consider this blog a legally binding agreement.

Benzocaine, my ass.

I will be dead soon,

Moist Rub



Note to you college kids out there: Sometimes it's fun to have a few beers and then douse your entire mouth with Orajel before you head out to a party or the bars. Talk about being a blathering idiot! Also, try using Orajel when you make out (do kids still make out these days, or do they go straight to the oral and anal sex?). It makes it feel like you're smashin' face with a dead person. Rad.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

It'll Be Tyco-riffic!

Sardinia isn’t quite an anagram for San Diego, but I’m beginning to wonder if it should be. If you remember, Sardinia was the locale for Karen Kozlowski’s 40th birthday party. Remember, that was the one where you gave her the vanilla scented candle. And then felt embarrassed because the party featured gladiators, women in togas, Jimmy Buffet and Stoli flowing from the penis of an ice sculpture of David. Ringing a bell? The one thrown by her husband Dennis who attempted to slip half of the $2 million tab on his Tyco expense report. That didn’t work out too well and he’s in jail now. But I digress.

I went to a party last night and as soon as I hit the patio I heard the band playing a Jimmy Buffet tune. I’d have preferred some Miami Sound Machine, but I guess Jimmy more suited the business casual crowd. Next I noted a mermaid hanging from a suspended hoop. I wouldn’t even know where to go to hire a mermaid. It’s not like Bob from Accountemps is going to cut it. Another girl dressed like the ivy outfield walls at the friendly confines of Wrigley Field walked by with a streamer and decided to show me her flexibility skillz by pulling her leg back behind her head. I felt like a girls gymnastics coach and don’t know how they do it without feeling a little bit dirty. Blue margaritas flowed through taps built into blocks of ice. It was all very Tyco. I commandeered an O’Doul’s and some shrimp quesadillas and tried to find a shady spot. As I set up shop where I thought was further removed from the activities, ivy girl walked by again this time to show me that she can also pull her leg completely upside her head. As I was about to munch a quesadilla (no, that’s not a euphemism (but it should be)), I hear a guy say, “Excuse me,” politely, not like Steve Martin during his Wild and Crazy Guy days. I turn to see him wheeling a girl out on a dolly. She’s perfectly still and dressed like a statue, except without all the bird crap. That’s how I knew she really wasn’t a statue. Also, when I grabbed her boob it felt like a bag of sand and not granite. I stepped aside and he wheeled her to a pedestal where she posed and then did this goddess of water routine to some operatic music and eventually turned herself into a fountain, complete with a shower of water shooting out of her calamari hairdo.

It all seemed so wrong. I left the convention center and walked up the street to a dive bar to watch the end of the hockey game. Because there’s nothing more natural than watching hockey teams from Texas and California battle it out for a shot at the Stanley Cup.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Risk Mis-Management


From a sign in my hotel... this certainly doesn't sound very safe.

Auto-Pilot, Auto-Harp, Oughta Shut Up

American Airlines Pilot: And if you look out to your right, you’ll see a nice view of Sioux City, Iowa as we head into Nebraska.

American Airlines – we know why you fly.

Apparently you don’t. It certainly isn’t to see Sioux City, Iowa from 32,000 feet. Even better was that we later flew right over some snow-capped Rockies and some beautiful painted desert spotted with mesas without another word from the flight deck. Maybe as soon as they hit Nebraska they put the baby on auto-pilot and catch a few zzzzz’s until the tower in San Diego wakes them up with some Black Sabbath. Some time the tower should “forget” to wake them until they’re all the way out over Guam. I’m not even sure where Guam is exactly, but it sounded funnier than Hawaii to me.

Speaking of Guam, the other night I became obsessed over the autoharp. I went from believing it was the lamest instrument ever made to absolutely wanting to buy one and find an autoharp instructor. If a door-to-door autoharp salesman had happened to knock on my door during that particular hour, he totally would have made a sale. By the way, I’m over it now so don’t go getting me one for Mother’s Day or I’ll be really pissed.

But I digress. After landing safely and checking into my hotel I did what any normal person would do – I bought a toothbrush and found a bike shop. Oral hygiene is a priority in my life, and one never knows when one might need a bicycle.

I mentioned this to the Mrs., aka Miss Safety, who wanted to know if they also had helmets available.

“I’ll wear a Subway bag on my head if I go riding.”

“I don’t think that will afford the same protection as a helmet.”

“Well, I planned on filling it with lettuce first.”

She actually debated the merits of a helmet versus a Subway bag filled with lettuce for a moment before realizing that I’m an utter moron and changing the topic. She would probably get along with Gladys very well.