Makes me chuckle. A quote of a quote* of a quote. If you ever meet the originator, please slap with haste.
“Here’s my subjective experience, which I will now objectify for you as universal truth. My definition of success is the only one that matters, even though it has shifted over time in accordance with my unique journey through life. “
*Chris Guillebeau
Every now and again when logging into some website in a frenzy, I miss the tab key and end up typing my password right onto the tail end of my username. The first time I did this was the first time I ever actually saw my password. It had previously only existed in my fingers’ muscle memory and in black dots on the screen. Seeing it was a fairly traumatic experience – the mortified paranoia that surged through my bones was second only to the moment a mystery creak interrupts a home alone ‘research’ sesh.
Tomorrow the day after yesterday will be today.
Inspiration is like bathing. Its effective but only for short periods of time. That’s why its recommended daily. – Daily inspiration from the Joe Rogan Experience podcast
Maybe its not the goals we set as much as its who we become in pursuit of them. – my wording but not my creation
What’s up with the eager beaver tailgating you as you’re coasting to a red light? Inevitably he burns out to get around you, revs into the red to punctuate his distaste, then slams on the brakes 50 yards ahead. I get great satisfaction from rolling up right next to him – never mind being a bit heavier in the gas tank and brake pads.
To ease back into a lost habit of prose, I’ll dish some new nuggets of wise cracks and knows. Not quite my classical ways, nor baroque. Defined as uncertain I’ll start with a quote:
‘We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.’ – W. Churchill
If you can say things like, ‘she IMed me’ without a bat of an eye, why can’t you say ‘I had the funnest day ever’ without starting a tangent discussion about grammer.
After a shower, am I the only one who routinely discovers an unrinsed soapy part while drying off? Ear, armpit, butt crack. All the sneaky spots. Now the towel’s all soapy and I have to embarrassingly climb back into the shower. I hate it but I do it far too often.
My other frustration is when I’m up close and person with the mirror trying to investigate the finer details of my skin, stray hair, you name it. The mirror fogs right up from my breathing. So I shift and then fog up that part too. Before I can get any work done, the whole mirror is foggy.
Anyone else? Didn’t think so.
At a recent cocktail party, I asked the host who a girl across the room was. The response was this, “Oh, that’s Nikki, you’ve met her. You know, she had the three-way with Sarah.”
At a pool party, a similar situation came up and the response was simply this. “You’d never know it but she has a two year old”
While I love the immediate insight, I wonder how my friends introduce me.
Every year my summer starts like this. I hesitate to put on much sunscreen for fear of depriving my pale office skin of invaluable tanning potential. Then, I spend the entire day thumbprinting myself and rationalizing that some hypercolor is ok. That evening, I’m inevitably shocked by the lobster in the mirror but decide, after a minor panic attack, that the tan is salvageable with a regiment of aloe. A week of sticky shirts later, I’m totally stoked that the tan is here to stay. The next day, my skin goes into Chernobyl meltdown. 28 years, every fucking year.
Dear Mr. Gates: How bout we work a feature into Outlook that looks for the word ‘attach’ and then asks if you’d really like to send the email attachmentless. I send way too many follow-up whoops emails.
Isn’t it cute when you see a little old woman who is still paying for her groceries with a check. Checkbook open, pen in hand, you see her perched there with her eyes locked on the running total waiting to craft her own currency. It’s adorable and nostalgic. Then you choose a different line because you don’t want to wait there while she flips to the front of the book to balance here finances.
Whenever I see really old wild west style buildings, I always think, wow, this looks just like Universal Studios. Hmmmm….
Occasionally a funny subject line will catch my eye in the ol’ spam tank. My favorite so far is “Increase your Love Canon,” a reference I’ve since adopted to my vernacular. Their misspelling of cannon is a bonus and conjures up thoughts of leather bound books and rich mahogany.
Also, my Gmail spam filter routinely blocks their own monthly Google Earth Sightseer Newsletter that I subscribed to in a weak moment. I take very little joy in spam but this gets an LOL out of me every time.
The only place on the planet that you’ll find screws that can’t be unscrewed is in a restroom. Millions of hours have been spent staring at these bathroom marvels. Its always made me wonder how Chandler got the door off on the episode of Friends where he was left naked in the restroom. Anyone else ever wonder that? No? Bueller….
Does anyone else ever think about taking a picture of those extraordinarily special dumps to show your friends? Yeah, me neither.
Texting has brought a number of interesting dynamics to our culture but one that intrigues me revolves around spelling and predictive text. While Microsoft Word and spellcheck have eroded the efforts of hard working elementary school teachers everywhere, predictive texting could bring it back. You have to blindly commit to a spelling and hope that by the end, you’ve landed on the word you intended. It gets more exciting the longer the word. One letter off and you phone suddenly reverts to Russian. Backtracking’s a lost cause too. Either start over and try again or admit that you’re not smarter than a 5th grader and switch to the tap-tap-tap input with your tail between your legs.
When the tables are turned and your friend’s quality control department slips up, you get to play a whole new game of deciphering their code. The advent of QWERTY Blackberry Pearl predictive phones throws in a whole new twist too.
Finally, why can’t my predictive phone figure out that I use ‘fuck’ more often than ‘duck’ and ‘bitch’ more than ‘butch’. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve text someone to ‘sick a duck butch.’ Really softens the edge.
This whole not signing for charges beneath a certain amount thing is amazing. It’s so freeing to forego reeling in the depressingly chained pen only to realize its low on ink and heavy on chew marks. Now we just need to get everyone on the same page because it’s a crap shoot at each place you go. At one place, I can buy a case of beer sans Hancock and at another, I’m still required to sign for a pack of gum. What do they do with those signatures anyway? I can’t imagine they’re actually kept somewhere for credit card disputes. And you can forget to sign your tab at a restaurant or bar and the charges still go through so WTF? Let’s all just admit that signing is futile and take one small step towards utopia.
iPods are an unusual showcase of design in the otherwise unintuitive world of consumer electronics. Unfortunately, they have a huge Achilles heel. While the meticulous design puts German engineering to shame, it stops short at the headphones. Steve Jobs must have enlisted Apple’s iTard department for this part to cut costs. Houdini’s alter ego must live in my pocket because the headphone knots that form in there make Eagle Scouts jealous.
Labor dispute protestors have become like car alarms to me, annoying and homogeneous. They all use the same 20 foot long “Shame on Company X” banner and politely stand on the sidewalk behind it looking miserable. I am torn on which side to support. My despise for corporate greed wants me to side with these poor folks but their complete lack of creativity in protest makes me realize exactly why Company X decided to trim the fat. What happened to the good ol’ days with picket signs, chants, marches, and fire hoses? Now that was the heyday of collective bargaining.
As one who is continually disappointed with the general populous, I throw the term ‘retard’ around quite freely. However, the developmentally disabled couldn’t be further from my mind. There’s no need to denigrate that subgroup when our entire society is more fitted for the term. Joe Public, too often, falls short of the mark and Suzy Special is rather impressive. The prevalence of incompetence and ignorance is at an all time high and my patience for it is at an all time low. People have become too comfortable with not knowing things. Job descriptions have narrowed to the point where the only thing within their scope is how to say: “That’s not in my job description.” Maybe I should pay kudos to American humility and its non-knowitall attitude but I think the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction. People now champion their ignorance. We have overspecialized our way from the Renaissance back into the Dark Ages.
Alas, there is hope! I have recently noticed a proliferation of developmentally disabled adults in the workforce. Target no longer has charitable beggars raising money out front. Instead, they now employ them. Same with many of the fast food and grocery behemoths. A correlation between performance and disability is a refreshing alternative to general nincompoopness.
Coming across real life stereotypes is exciting, the more exaggerated the better. It feels like being in a movie. For example, I’ve met a number of Jeff Spicolis in my days on the beach. Too much sun, too much surf, too much pot, and they actually say things like ‘Whats up braaa, waves were toootally gnarly today.’ In these walking caricature moments, I often wonder if its really just an actor and there are hidden cameras around somewhere. How does one evolve into this? And are they aware of their status? I think I should at let them know how much pleasure they’re bringing me?
Another such experience occurred in Skid Row, the urban camping capital in downtown LA. On a 3am drunkventure through one of the sketchiest places on the planet, my brother and I ended up interacting with a plethora of crackheads who were right on point with the Chappelle Show character, Tyrone Biggums. Turns out the itching and twitching and powdery white lips is not an exaggeration. Its kinda like when you drive through an old western town and you think, wow, this is just like Universal Studios.
I’ve found its damn near impossible to wash a spoon without getting splashed. I’m even consciously aware of this phenomenon when I wash dishes but I still can’t avoid the renegade attacks by the little bastards. Everything is fine, faucet on a nice medium flow, and then you put a spoon under the stream and time speeds up. No matter how you angle the thing, the water slingshots off of it and does a beeline for your dress shirt – usually carrying just enough pasta sauce with it to cause concern.
Yesterday’s Calif. Supreme Court ruling flooded the e-waves with messages from the free-thinking populous to their token gay friends all across the state, joking “So when’s the wedding!?” Hey, I’m guilty of this. I sent two emails. It’s really no different than when I received a bunch of emails from obscure coworkers and friends after the shark attack in San Diego…because I was the token surfer in their Roladex. Everyone should be someone’s token something.
Anyway, back to the gays…good for them. Good for everyone. The institution of matrimony (and I speak in generalizations) is fucked (duh). The great majority of marriages dilute down to a cocktail of false pretense, infidelity, and apathy. Or they just plain fail altogether (which may be the nobler outcome). In the process, millions of children are screwed up for life, adults become hopeless, and billions of dollars are lost.
I have no idea what the ramifications of gay marriage will be on society and their adopted children, but the bar is set pretty damn low so I’m all for social experiment. Hey, ‘Gay Marriage’ by pure definition means ‘Happy Marriage’ so that’s a start.
Today was a monumental day for me. At age 28, I went to my first laundry mat. I had kinda romanticized this event thanks to the movies but was thoroughly let down. There were zero cute girls to wink at me or make small talk with, just a variety of miserable looking foreigners. So I tried passing the time by staring into the industrial sized dryers spinning round and round to see if I would daze off into some drug-like daydream. Not so. But, my brain did wander enough to come to the disgusting conclusion that every person in that laundry mat was either going commando (like me) or down to their nappiest pair of undies.
Fuck the romance, the movies are bullshit. From now on I’m going to do everything in my power to postpone this wink-less foray into the blue collar world. I’m going to be a lot more selective with what makes it into the hamper. Simply being worn does not constitute entrance into club LaunderLand. Even after unpacking from a weekend trip, the ol’ throw everything in the laundry bin is a thing of the past. There will be a lot more armpit smelling going on in my house.
Again!? Are you fucking kidding me? This is happening way too often. I haven’t even made it through the single book of stamps I bought after the last change. And, those stamps didn’t even show the actual postage, so clearly the USPS can’t even keep up with their own changes.
Obviously, they know I’ll just double up on old stamps until I run out. Then I’ll buy the smallest book of unlabeled new stamps, use a few, and then repeat in a few months when they raise it again. I haven’t actually seen a stamp with the rate on it for years now so for all I know, I’m paying about $3.00 per letter. It’s encouraging when your own government adopts free-enterprise pricing tactics to screw its citizens. I wonder how many more increases we’ll see before ponies and carrier pigeons become competitive again.
Remember when Miller Lite introduced the ‘Manlaws’ ad campaign? One was “Don’t Fruit the Beer.” Fast forward a couple years and they’re now peddling ‘Miller Chill’…with lime flavor. Hmmmm.
No matter how you slice it, they suck.
Like Dane Cook keenly observed, public restrooms are usually soaking wet. Even at seemingly dry and respectable ones, you mustn’t lower your guard. After avoiding urinal backsplash, then avoiding water shrapnel from the turbo sink, you’re still not guaranteed to escape without embarrassing water marks on your pants. It usually all goes to hell when I lean in to the mirror for one final zit inspection and the water camoflauged on the granite countertop paints a nice crotch-high line across my khakis. Fuck.
Every now and then, I’ll be walking through a doorway and slam my shoulder on the door jamb. Not a little brush, but an audible THUD. Brain, how do you let this happen? Same goes for biting my tongue. Unacceptable!! This is something we’ve been working on for 28 years now. The assailant and the victim are both your responsibility. Mission control, you’re really letting me down.
It’s one of the silver linings of an ultra-crowded bar. Some dude spills half my $8 beer with his elbow. I’m angry. Some braless chick in a satin shirt squeezes by unknowingly saying howdy-do with her hug pillows. The world is right again. Giggity giggity.
You’ve heard it a million times – mostly from women who are clearly miserable. Maybe it’s even true, exact cause of death, debatable. But there is one chivalrous act that has stood the test of time: a man holding a door open for a woman. Like the masked magician on Fox, I’m gonna reveal the secret. Simply put, we get to check out your hiney while also feeling good about ourselves. A rare combination indeed. Ladies, your welcome for the self-consciousness you will now experience when you walk through doors.
I felt this response to my blog unveiling was blog worthy in its own regard:
“I feel like you have blown your wad. Don’t get me wrong, I know that deep in the cavernous mind of the Cowabunga Dude lies profound and enlightening thoughts each and every day, but are you going to be able to excavate them on a frequent enough basis as to satiate the appetite of what will surely be a large, fanatical following of your blog? PERHAPS you should have kept a few of these entries in your journal so you could use them during a time when you are really busy or (gasp!) without a great idea for a post. I just feel like you picked me up in a limo, took me to a 5 star restaurant and gave me a pair of diamond earrings on our first date. I mean you set the expectations so high that I am going to feel like you are losing interest when you roll up in the Corolla to take me to a movie next week and we only have time to stop in at Chipotle for a quick bite to eat. Scratch that. I love Chipotle.
-White Chocolate”
90% of Americans can call anywhere in America for free and this has been the case for going on 10 years now. Yet, people have not abandoned the old mentality. If you asked anyone years ago if free long distance calls would allow them to stay in better touch with their friends and family across the country, you would get a resounding yes. Now that its free, this is not the case. Its the same dynamic as it was. Weeks and months go by and people lose touch over distance. We’re all guilty. I’ve even seen people step out of a situation were they would otherwise ignore a call, claiming “I’ve gotta take this. It’s long distance.” WTF?
Unless its Kim Jung Il calling to offer amity, its not long distance.
Who cares (unless they’re yours). The end.
As a rule, if a guy is thrown into a pool fully clothed including his wallet and cell phone, he will always be less pissed off than a chick who gets thrown in wearing a bathing suit. The only exception is if the guy’s cell phone is not backed up and he loses a booty call or pics of naked chicks.
True story: My coworker came back from her lunchbreak and told us that Taco Bell couldn’t serve her that day because they ran out of meat. She inquired further and the man at the register confessed that there actually was meat but the meat hose was clogged. My first thought: disgusting!! My second though: How do I get a meat hose in my house?!
We recently got a beer fridge for our house and now we no longer keep any beer in the main fridge. However, the other day I opened up the main fridge to see a couple cold sixers competing with the milk and orange juice and instinctively got irritated. Then I thought, wait, it’s beer! That’s like getting mad at a naked chick because she walked into your poker game.
You can size up how miserable someone is by how slowly they cross the street at a busy intersection. I can’t decide if they’re hoping to get hit and put out of their misery or they’re using the crosswalk as their moment in the limelight. Unlike most of us who actually pick up our pace to limit our time in front two-ton automobiles, they actually walk slower than they would on the sidewalk. I call the crosswalk the miserable person’s soapbox. The slower they walk, the more they’re hating life.
My office building has a steady stream of people coming and going and a weird dynamic develops at the door. Do you hold the door for the person behind you? Or do you not look back and drop it? Because if you look back and establish eye contact, you’re fucked. There’s no longer the option of dropping it. Out of habit, I can’t help but glance back and it’s often to the irritating site of somebody way too far away doing a fake hustle to be the recipient of my chivalry. Are they thinking I’m gonna just sit there waiting for them? Well, I usually do. As I bitterly watch them waddle towards me, my only consolation is that they’re gonna be stuck in the same position for the next person. Ha!
Like clockwork, every time I sack up and get a $12 car wash at lunch, I hit a drive thru on the way back and totally blow it by rolling down my window. I then spend the entire week pissed off while the rest of my car catches up to the spotty driver side window. The only thing worse than that, though, is when I’m driving on the freeway and Mr. Douchebag in front of me decides he needs to give his windshield an 80 mph spray wash. Hey buddy, do you realize that I’m taking all your collateral damage back here on what’s left of my $12 car wash!
The funny thing is that I’ve actually adopted this high speed spray attack whenever some jerk is tailgating me. It’s the closest thing I have to reverse blasters or a Spy Hunter grease slick and it makes me feel like a suburban superhero. I’ve even inadvertently levied one of these attacks within hours of getting my car washed. Road rage couldn’t be further away from logical thought.
I occasionally have walk rage too. I can’t stand close walkers. These are those people that, whether its on the sidewalk or crowded room, they contently walking right behind you for an extended period of time without trying to pass. I don’t know how they are comfortable with this but it freaks me out. Are they drafting? Pass already! I’m going to start bringing Windex with me wherever I go for pedestrian spray attacks.
If there’s one time to ever be on your A-game when you’re on the road, it’s lined up at a left turn light. My heart races in anticipation every time because there is no guarantee that you’re getting through, even if you’re the 3rd car in line. Inevitably, the guy in pole position will be asleep at the wheel and kill half the green light while each person behind him will find it necessary to keep a 60 mph buffer for their 12 mph turn. Between hugging the guy’s bumper ahead of me and going onto 2 wheels for a buzzer-beater stunt turn, I’m certain years are being shaved off of my life by this madness. I’m considering adopting a policy of three right turns instead.
We have auto-flush toilets at work. We have toilet seat covers. They don’t get along. About 50% of the time before my ass hits the frosty seat, the auto-flush sucks the seat cover down the chute with ferocious power leaving backwash spray all over the unprotected seat. As I stare at a wet seat, a number of lesser-of-evils thoughts ensue.
I recently watched a guy at a concert take no less than 15 pictures in a row. After each one, he reviewed his Loch Ness Monster meets UFO on a 1 inch screen and then tried again. What are you really going to do with that picture? Really?
Same goes with people who put their phones up in the air to let their absent friends hear the show. This must be the epitome of the concept of ‘it’s the thought that counts’ because I’ve been on the receiving end of these attempts and it sounds like Darth Vader singing through a voice box from a Bazaar in Timbuktu.
How is it that every time I use a credit card self-swiper, I always choose the wrong orientation first. I figure it should be a 50-50 chance assuming I disregard the hieroglyphically cryptic picture. However, since I do attempt to reference the picture, I’m convinced that it is misleading and poorly designed. Inevitably, the checker always has to grab my card and swipe it herself so its ironic that we’re supposed to be saving time and manpower with these machines. I could also go without their subtle judgments too. They’re the professionals after all, of course you know which way its supposed to swipe.
P.S. This same orientation anomaly occurs when I blindly reach behind my computer to plug a USB cable in. 50% of the time I’m wrong every time.
Recent Comments