How To Throw An Office Christmas Party.

Come in and sit down please. No, sit on a chair. Thank you.
What's up, bossman?
Do you know why I asked you in here?
You want me to buy into your lucrative Multi Level Marketing elbow polish business?
What?
I don't know, I was just guessing.
That was the weirdest guess I've ever heard.
It's a good idea though, right? How come nobody ever thought of that before?
Because it's stupid.
Stupid? Or genius?
Stupid. Unbelievably stupid.
So you don't want to buy into MY elbow polish business?
That's not a real thing.
It is. Haven't you noticed how young and supple my elbows are?
I haven't. And I don't want to talk about elbows. I want to talk about the events of earlier today.
To which events would you be referring to?
You really have to ask?
So, the office Christmas party then?
We don't have office Christmas parties.
Until today. That par-tay was off the hiz-ook.
If by off the hiz-ook, you mean it was highly inappropriate, then yes it was.
What was inappropriate about it?
For one, you were dancing naked on the reception counter.
I wasn't naked.
Just because you were wearing a lampshade and a mistletoe belt buckle, doesn't mean you weren't naked. And just where did you get a lampshade from?

I brought it from home. I thought it would add to the holiday ambience.
And you didn't find this behavior in any way inappropriate?
I just wanted you to take the stick out of your proverbial you know what, and loosen up. It's a Christmas Par-tay.
There is a reason we don't have Christmas par-tays. We work at the Jewish Medical Center.
Uh-huh.
The JEWISH Medical Center.
I don't see the problem.
Jews don't celebrate Christmas.
Everybody celebrates Christmas. It's a worldwide thing, like the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving.
There are so many things wrong with that statement. Listen, the Jews don't celebrate Christmas.
Why not? Wasn't Jesus a Jew?
Oh my goodness. Listen. Jews just don't celebrate Christmas. I don't want to talk about it anymore.
So... OK. I shouldn't have had a Christmas Party at the Jewish medical center. Can I go?
Not yet. There's more. What is the department we work in, at the Jewish Medical Center?
The rehab department.
Correct. Knowing that, do you think it was appropriate for you to replace the water in the water cooler with everclear?
You always spike the drinks at an office party.
This was NOT an office party. It was a Monday.
It turned into a FUN-day.

All of our patients are in relapse, thanks to you.
They all seemed pretty happy to me.
They don't want to be happy. They want to stop drinking. And now most of them are puking in the trashcans.
Happily puking. That's the mark of a good party.
Additionally, half of the staff are passed out in the break room, and the the others are involved in a spirited round of some sort of combat karaoke.
They're involved in a team building exercise. Plus, fighting AND singing? They're totally multi-tasking.
Do you ever say anything that ISN'T stupid?
No. I mean, yes. Wait, what? I'm confused.
Never mind. Finally, let's get to the matter of Miss Nussbaum.
There is nothing the matter with Miss Nussbaum, if you know what I mean.
The matter concerning Miss Nussbaum and the phone.
Oh that. Tradition sir.
I am not aware of that tradition.
You know, sir. In the movies, there is always that one hot female employee that sits on the copier and makes copies her butt, to pass around. Well, you have the copier locked up in your office, so we were just going to take pictures with a phone and then send ourselves a photo message and then print it off of the computer printer.
Very industrious. But unless I'm a little unclear on this, the photo isn't supposed to be of the inside.
Well no. But Miss Nussbaum was rather thirsty today and partook of the holiday spirits rather liberally and fell whilst taking the aforementioned picture.
Just so you know, at the moment, she is in the Emergency Room getting the phone surgically removed.
Lucky we're close to an emergency room.
That's not luck. We work at a hospital.
Well at least she was drunk.
I sincerely doubt she would be in this predicament if she wasn't drunk. You realize I'm going to have to let you go, don't you?

Oh sir, you can't do that. Especially not around the holidays.
And that's another thing. What holidays? It's the middle of June.
That means it's Christmas in, like, Australia or something.
No, it doesn't. Please find your clothes and get out.
Whatever. You're a total scrooge.

What Do You Think I Am, Some Kinda Fairy?

Oh my goodness. Do you need some help?
Why? Because I'm a fairy. Or, just because I'm old?
Uh... no.
You patronizing me, you little sissy?
No sir, I uh... it just seems that your struggling with that a little.
You just think I'm some kinda old pansy don't you son? Some weak ass old flamer that can't handle a little bit of weight.

I didn't think that at all.
You're just going to come down here and and help the old feeb. You with your fancy pants, and yo...
They're just Dockers.
What?
They're not fancy. They're just Dockers, Levi's makes 'em. I think.
You with your fancy pants and your ridiculous shoes.
They're just shoes.
Fairy shoes.
Loafers.
Might as well be wearing high heels, son.
Whatever, you old kook, I'm leaving.
To your boyfriend? You Pooftah.
Listen you jerk of an old man, I just wondered if you needed help. You obviously don't. So just lay there under that fridge and be hateful.
Oh, I suppose I'm getting crushed by a fridge because I'm a fairy?
No. Because it's crushing you.
Maybe I'm just taking a nap.
Under a fridge?! You're not even sleeping.
I might be.
You aren't. What is your problem?!
I don't have a problem, you pansy.
I would say you have tons of problems. The least of which is the fridge that is crushing you.
Oh, is that your professional shrink opinion, Dr. Pansy Pants?
You're a pathetic a*hole.
An A*HOLE?! You can't even say ass? THAT is pathetic. You are an even bigger girl than you appear to be.
I'm leaving.
Can't handle the heat can you?
The heat?
The fridge heat.
Fridges are famously not hot, jerk face.
Ooh, aren't you smart? Little Miss Nerdy-kins.
Are you actually trying to bully me while you're being crushed?
I'm not a bully. You dork.
Why don't you just intimidate that fridge off of yourself? Bully.
I tried. It didn't respond.
Maybe you weren't mean enough. Did you question it's sexuality or insult it's mother?
Yes. It didn't even budge.
You're a sad, sad, man. Here, let me push this off of you. 
Ugh. Thanks, Geek-a-rella.
You ungrateful ball of hate. Goodbye.
Wait. Let me at least buy you a drink.
No thanks. The last thing in the world I would do, is spend another second with you.
C'mon. There's a bar just around the corner.
No, I have to go to... somewhere. Somewhere that isn't here.
Be a man, you little sissy.
Goodbye. 
Wait. So if you ever change your mind, the bar is called "The Manhole" and I'm almost always there.
Isn't that a gay bar?
Yeah.
You've been using gay slurs on me this whole time.
So? Oh, I get it. Now you think I'm all gay, just because I'm all gay?!

Taxi!
Hey, come back! Why are you running away! Come back here, you pansy!



After the urging of hundreds of my readers, and by hundreds I mean tens, and by tens I mean literally that one guy, I will submit this to Dude Writes. http://dudewrite.blogspot.com/

You Like Me. You Really, Sorta, Kinda, Maybe A Little Bit, Possibly, In A Small Way, Like Me.

Aubree at Akashic Aisles: The Basement View; (http://akashicwindow.blogspot.com) nominated me for a Leibster Award. (Excuse me while I go look up akashic... Ooh, it's Sanskrit for aether. Cool. I will definitely check out your blog now.) Anyway, Aubree nominated me for the Leibster Award, where I am three for three, three nominations, three years, three wins. Or maybe only two, I get confused. I may not get be getting paid, but at least awards make it all worth it. Unless you want to pay me, then I'll give back my awards, and go back to using the mantle as a place to put pictures of my kids, the little felonious ruffians. 
   The rules of winning are, you have to be nominated. Check. You have to nominate others, and you have to answer questions from your nominee-er... and you also have to come up with questions of your own? Damn. No, it's as easy as pie. But, more like buying a pie, not like making one, 'cause that is way harder, unless of course it's a pie where you just pour the pudding mix into the pre-made pie crust, that's sorta easy. Just like this.

1.) Do you consider yourself to be super-duper fly? Sorta. I'm a self deprecating, narcissist. Half the time I can't believe I'm not the King of the internet, and half the time I can't believe I managed to make it through the day without being exposed as a fraud. Inside I'm just an insecure little girl. But less manly. And somehow still pretty awesome, like Perry Farrell.

2.) What is your favorite reality show? I used to watch the first couple weeks of "Idol", and I've seen a couple episodes of "Survivor" over the years, and I'll watch "Chopped" if it's on, (just so you know, it's a misnomer, nobody ever loses body parts like the title suggests,) but I really like my shows to be scripted, I love good writing. Especially on a funny sitcom. That being said, I love sports, which are the original reality shows, so I guess Sports would be my answer. 

3.) Do you fear that the Apocalypse or Armageddon will occur in your lifetime? Like the Zombie Apocalypse? If it does I'll probably end up being a zombie. But, I'll be the best Zombie I can be. Just in case, I am going to have a steak and see if my wife wants to fool around on the 20th.

4.) What is one of your top three favorite quotes of all time?

1) She turned me into a newt. I got better. -Monty Python
2) I'm picking out a thermos for you. -Steve Martin
3) ...and that's when I developed my drinking problem. -Airplane
4) I do not think that word means what you think it means. -Inigo Montoya
5) It is also one hell of a thing to get hit with in the small of the back. -Douglas Adams

...and to explain my poor counting ability, I leave you with:

6) then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it. -Monty Python

5.) Who is your Favorite writer? Douglas Adams. And The Monty Python crew. Steve Martin. Dave Barry. Tolkein. Card. King. William Goldman. Greg Garcia. 



6.) Can you recite any movie in its entirety, and if so, which one? The Holy Grail. The Jerk. Airplane. Not correctly of course, which really pisses off the Nerd-Nazi's. Who demand that you are exact, or they freak out and start hyperventilating. It's kinda fun really. Try it. Say something like "It's merely a flesh wound", and the nearest nerd will have a seizure of righteous indignation that you dared misquote a line. 


7.) What one person has most influenced your life thus far? I guess my Grandma. She was loving and kind... and funny. When I asked her where I came from, she told me "a crow crapped you on the fence, and the sun hatched you." When she needed a haircut she said, "I either need a haircut or a dog collar." The first time I watched Monty Python was at her house, she was awesome.

8.) What is your favorite childhood memory? Walking the mile and a half to my grandma's trailer so I could watch saturday morning cartoons. The good ones, like the original Looney Tunes, Laff-A-Lympics and Scooby-Doo. (OK, I know Scooby-Doo sucks in retrospect, but at the time it seemed so awesome!) 

9.) Why do you blog? I'm just waiting for my big break. One day some comedic writer is going to stumble across my blog (I'm talking to you Greg Garcia) be amazed at my talent and hire me. In the meantime, I'm trying to find my comedic voice. (So far my comedic voice is a gay nasally Bobcat.) 

10.) What is the most terrifying thing to ever happen to you? I remember that one time that I caught on fire and I thought I was going to die.  That was pretty scary. Yeah, that's probably the one.

And finally, number 11) Do you wipe front to back or back to front? yes.

Now to nominate people. First the triumvirate of evil. Or Axis of Awful. Or the three consistently funny blogs that I read that also almost always comment on my stuff. You guys are great, but don't feel obligated to participate. 

http://www.pickleope.com

http://chiz-chat.blogspot.com

http://muppetsforjustice.blogspot.com

http://www.abeerfortheshower.com The new guys to me. (I know where have I been?) And I think they are beyond small awards like this.

http://stuffsammisays.blogspot.com I have always liked Kevin and his writing, back since The Coffee Shop days.

Also, also. I am a fan of Shay, who doesn't need another Leibster. Workingdan who doesn't like awards. The crew at Sinquiry. Violet and Drone who rarely post anymore. Petite and Cowgirl who never post anymore. My cousin Jonathon at Troy Town who is a talented writer and also Josh Meares who is incredibly intelligent and spiritually authentic.

I HAVE TO COME UP WITH QUESTIONS NOW? Are you sure this an award?

What is the answer to life, the universe, and everything?

Boobs. What's not to love?

If you had a time machine, and you could have dinner with anybody in history, would you wake me up last Tuesday so I won't be late anymore?

If you live in a glass house, would you take up curling?

Who is your favorite Vlad?

Juggling cats: Healthy animal bonding or animal cruelty? 

Does this look infected to you?

Is it OK for a man to cry? What if he just lost a limb? But then what if he just never shut-up about it? OK, OK, we know you lost a limb. Get over it, that was like 90 minutes ago. Fricking baby. Don't you hate that?

What color banana hammock do you prefer? Corral, watermelon or a peachish pink?

The Utah Jazz?

Shouldn't Olivia Newton John just officially change her name to Olivia Neutron Bomb?

How I Solved A Problem, That Probably Didn't Need Solving.

I love to laugh. But with the deaths of Douglas Adams and Dave Barry, (Are you sure? I'm pretty sure he's dead. I haven't seen any beer or bad music books lately. I guess I'll take your word for it. But I'm pretty sure he's dead.) I am left with a disturbing lack of funny books to read. Luckily, I have the internet. There are some clever blogs out there writing some seriously funny stuff. (Serious, as in copious, not as in solemn or staid. 'Cause that would be oxymoronic.) One of my favorite bloggers... bloggists... blogites(?) writers that write on blogs; is me. I totally crack myself up.

   But one thing I am missing by reading my own stuff, is the sense of surprise, the unexpected turn of phrase or a clever plot twist that the non-me enjoys. This has been the bane of many an author, and undoubtedly why so many former writers have killed themselves, that and the substance abuse problems and the self esteem issues. But I, for one, wasn't going to take this conundrum lying down. I came up with a brilliant plan to counter this historically unsolvable riddle.
   Like any truly great plan, my plan included generous... large... insanely stupid amounts of alcohol. What I decided to do was drink myself into a drunken stupor and then write the next Great American Novel, (possibly an Average Armenian Novelette, at the very least a Substandard Peruvian Short Story), while under the influence. And then when I was done I would have a brand spanking new novel, that I was reading as a neophyte.

   So night after night, for the love of my craft, I drank myself into a black out state. And I wrote. Like a feverish drunken writer guy... that was really drunk. And morning after morning I woke up feeling like death itself, but knowing that it would be worth it when I was able to read some heretofore undiscovered gem of writing mastery. Sometimes I would leave myself cryptic notes, about some subject that I needed to research, or the status of the project. "Find out about Egyptian mythology", "You are a cleaver... wity... inteljent man", "Te-kill-ya; ahahahhahaahahha... urp".
   Finally the much anticipated day arrived. I awoke to find a note stapled to my forehead stating simply, eloquently, "f*cking done." I picked up the stack of papers in eager anticipation, put them back down and ran to the bathroom to puke out my guts. After taking a shower, and half a bottle of aspirin, and a little twelve hour nap, I tried again. I gathered my manuscript and sat in a comfy chair and began to read.

   HOLY CRAP! It was exactly what I had set out to create. I had no idea what was coming up next. Nobody could. it was ... just... it just makes me cry a little bit. It was awe inspiringly, unimaginably, completely, utterly, in every way, unreadable. Apparently drunk flip is an even worse punctuater than sober flip. In addition, drunk flip is obsessed with clowns, poop, and aliens, (oh and all caps, evidently drunk flip yells a lot.) I left myself with a 400 page tome of, what in retrospect seems completely obvious, drunken rambling.
   I included a small excerpt, lest you think I am just being to hard on myself.

...AND THEN THE UGLY GREN ALIEN LEEDER SIAD "HAHAHAHA: YOU POOPED YOURSELF IN FEAR.
AND THEM THE STOOPID CLOWN SAID. "OR DID I? CHECKMATE. YOU CAME IN PIECE, AND NOW YOUR LEAFING IN PEACES! THAT WAS A NEURONIC BOMB SUPPOSITORY THAT THE U.N., I MEAN THE CIA, I MEAN THE MEN IN BLACK PREEMPTIVELY GAVE ME TO GET YOU. CHECKMATE!"
"YOU ALREADY SAID THAT", SAID THE UGLY GREEN ALIEN
"SAID WHAT?" SAID THE CLOWN
"SAID THE CZECH MATING THING" SAID THE ALIEN
"OH YEAH" SAID THE CLEVER CLOWN
"YEAH" SAID THE GREEN UGLY ALIENS
"WELL; THATS BECAUSE IT'S A DOUBLE DANGER TO YOU" SAID THE CLOWN
"HOW IS THAT?" SAID THE GREEN ALIEN, WHO WAS UGLY
"IT IS A A NEURONIC BOMB, THE MOSTEST DEADLY-IEST BOMB EVER KNOWN TOO MAN, AND IT HAS CLOWN POOP ON IT. THAT IS THE PANCEA FOR GREEN UGLIES WHO ARE ALSO ALIENS" SAID THE CLOWN.
"ISN'T PANGEA THE SUPERCONTINENT FROM YOU'RE PLANETS YESTER-YORE?" QUERIED ALLEN THE UGLY
"NO DUMBY." COUNTERED CLOWNY THE CLOWN. "I MEANT A CURE ALL FOR YOU'RE EVIL ALIENESS. ALIEN EVILNESS. SOMETHING, YOUR THE DISEASE, NEURONIC POOP BOMBS IS THE ANSWER"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" SAYS ALIEN. THE GREEN UGLY ONE. 
AND THEN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE BLUE UP.

 I would say that this experiment was an abject failure, if I didn't have the benefit of some lovely fist size holes in my drywall walls and a charming case of psoriasis. Maybe I should try Opium next time.

Keep Your Enemies Close, And Your Dog Closer.

Dogs can do amazing things. Every day the internet extolls the virtues of some incredible dog or another. The news is full of the exploits of heroic, dauntless canines. Man's best friend. Well, I got news for you; not all dogs are that great. You know how dogs can sense cancer? And then they let their owners know that something is wrong by dialing 911 or spelling out YOU HAVE LYMPHATIC CANCER with Scrabble® tiles or something. Hell, I think I even heard about some valiant pit bull that performed a mastectomy on her doting owner. Well, I just got diagnosed with advanced skin cancer on my buttocks and crotchal region, on account of how I never wear pants, (if God would've wanted us to wear pants he wouldn't have given us special parts that love to swing around in the breeze,) and guess what my dog did?! Nothing. Not one damn thing! Didn't try and alert me to the growing menace in my loins with a series of morse-codelike barks, and during our weekly charades game didn't even take the time to hint that I might be soon losing some of my favorite parts. He didn't even try to hook me up with one of those hokey psychic healers down at the flea market. That ungrateful bastard! I mean I've loved that dog since I found him guarding the local meth lab/chop shop and stole him away from his abusive owners who terrorized him with Porterhouse steaks and fluffy pillows, and this is how he repays me? The only sense that I got that something might be wrong is that he, if possible, spent even more time than usual licking his own private areas. How am I supposed to take anything away from that, dammit?! Now if he had spent more time than usual licking my areas, that would be wrong, but I could've gleaned something from that. But no. And now I'm on butt chemo. And all of my crotch hair has fallen out, and I have to wear a little pubic toupee to cover up my shame, but sometimes I just don't have the energy to make it look natural, so I put on a little bandana and it looks so sad down there. And what is all the more tragic is that all of this could have been avoided if my selfish jerk-face of a dog would've just done his doggy diagnostic due-diligence.

   And dogs can sense earthquakes right? You heard about that, haven't you? Well I live in Southern California and my crack-head of a dog didn't give out one little peep to warn me about the recent "Big One." He didn't wake me up in the middle of the night, or drag me under a doorjamb, or outside where it was safe. Nope. He just left me passed out in the bathtub. Stupid dog. You only hide in the bathtub for tornados. And alien invasions. And, I'm pretty sure, droughts. But not earthquakes. G'ah, everybody knows that. The Earth starts having an epileptic seizure and he just lay there at the entrance to the bomb shelter and gave himself some, apparently, much needed pelvic grooming. (Oh great, we're gonna be buried under six feet of rubble, but at least your twigs and berries will be all presentable.) That dog is just no good, I tell you.

   And the final straw might have been when he failed in some of the most basic and ingrained of doggy abilities. Recently my friend Tony "The Drug Dealer" Medellin, came over to my house to sell me some, uh... Girl Scout Cookies. And my, so called, loving dog allowed that dirty crook, low life, double dealing, sneaky thief of a scumbag, cookie dealer to just march into my house and sell me counterfeit cookies made with oregano instead of, um... other stuff that is also green. And he sold me some other cookies that were made with ground up aspirin and not pure columbian coc..a-nuts like I was promised. And then when I discovered that I had been duped, Tony "The Drug Dealer" Medellin pulled a big damn gun out on me and one thing led to another, (those things mostly being that I cried, I wet myself, I cried some more, I changed my pants, I got scared and accidentally wet Tony, I got shot in the leg, we both cried; he's very sensitive, he told me he had to run because he had a brunch date with that weird guy from that show, you know, that guy whose all nerdy and bald and he likes heavy metal and he looks like sasquatch with dork glasses, and anyway) I was laying on the floor bleeding. And did my BEST FRIEND at ant point stop taking inventory of his nether regions long enough to offer assistance? Nay. Did he, as dogs are known to do, alert me to the facts that there was a dangerous man in our humble abode? Nay. Did he sniff out contraband or lack thereof in Tony's cookies? Nay. Did he sniff out the gunpowder on Tony's Desert Eagle 44 Magnum and let me know the whackjob in my kitchen was packing? He did not.

   So you go ahead and read all that feel-good crap on the internet about dogs and their fabulous feats. You go home and look at your dog at believe that he has your best interests at heart. Your friend will never let you down. Yeah right. Until he just doesn't feel like saving your life. And then he'll just sit there, smugly tongue bathing his unmentionables as you suffer and die. Just like Nero fiddling while Rome burned, but with a tongue instead of a fiddle. And another thing instead of Rome. And also he's a dog. An evil selfish dog.

Black Friday, Inappropriate Cat Names, And Dream Blogging. Or, The Unfunniest Post Ever.

Woohoo, Black Friday is here! Black Friday is here! I love Black Friday! It's my favorite holiday of the whole year. You can have your Thanksgiving, with it's quaint family time and outdated sense of gratitude. You can have your Christmas with it's spiritual significance and glow of the transcendent warmth of the human spirit. Your Independence Day, Veterans Day, Memorial Day and Labor Day and the patriotic love of country all the oddly specific fashion rules that accompany them.

   For me, it's all about the Black Friday. Yessiree, I Love Black Friday. Not so much for the super-duper deals that accompany them. Or even for the opportunity to purchase gifts for my loved ones, heck, I don't even like my loved ones.
   For me Black Friday is all about lines. Long, long lines. Unmoving lines of crazy unwashed shoppers. Angry sardine-ish lines of consumers waiting for dubious deals on electronics and socks. And now I don't have to wait for Friday! I can wait in line, on Thursday. Insane lines of Wal-Mart people...
   Man, is this NOT funny. Whoo, line after line of unfunniness. This is what happens when you have an idea and try and flesh it out and it doesn't work. The original thought was, "Man if you loved lines, Black Friday would be heaven." But, wow! Did I fail at bringing that to life. I'm sure lots of people will think that I am making some grand statement on the evils of consumerism and greed. But I wasn't. Just an odd thought that crashed and burned.

   Well, while I'm not being funny, I will share some other odd thoughts with you. We bought a little black kitty at the shelter yesterday. We already have a Cat, but we were walking past the shelter window, which our town has wisely placed in the mall, and my family gave a collective "ahhhhh," at the group of cute kittens in the window. We ended up bringing a little black kitten home, partially because black cats have a low adoption rate, and partially because I just liked her.

   After I got her home, we started coming up with names for the new cat. Shade (that was mine) didn't seem to fit. Panther, Sneaker, and Julie were passed on. Then this morning my oldest son said, "Hey, let's name the cat,  Friday. We bought her on Black Friday and she's black. It's perfect." But the thing is; can you name a black animal Friday, in this day and age? I just don't think you can. I'm sure most people haven't even read Robinson Crusoe, but somebody will have and think that you are, at the very least, racially insensitive. So I guess the cat will be named Pepper, or Slinky or something.

   Also, also. I keep having these dreams in which I come up with some brilliant idea for a blog-post. Several months ago I dreamed that it would be hilarious if I wrote about how, in revenge for Egypt being so high and mighty about how they domesticated the cat, the whole world rose up and said, "Oh yeah? You're not going to think you're so clever when we return the cats to you." And the whole world started giving Egypt back all the cats in the world, dropping cats out of bombers and firing them out of cannons and throwing them like grenades. It was so funny, picturing all these little kittens blanketing Egypt with their cuteness. It wasn't nearly as funny, or feasible, when I awoke.

   Then last night I had another one. I decided it would be funny if I started wearing little ceramic stag heads on a necklace and wrote about it. Little miniature versions of mounted, stuffed dear heads that hunters are so found of. But the funny thing is that I wasn't going to wear them all thugish like the bangers do. No; I was going to play it straight. Nice, clean ceramic deer heads on a sedate wood necklace. None of this garish fat gold chains and funky tagger lettering, and the deer wearing sunglasses that the gangsters are so fond of.  How is this even a blog post?! But in my dream, it was the best one ever. My subconscious is even morer weirder, and lesser funnier than the awake me is.

   Maybe I'll attempt the Black Friday thing again tomorrow. I'll try it in my tried and true, fake dialog. It won't be funny either.

Also, also, also, I am writing as Sloth over at Sinquiry. Where you can go and ask the cardinal sins for advice. It's kind of like The Screwtape Letters, but less Oxford educated. And spiritual. And more profane, I imagine. I won't be profane, I'm still PG. And you really shouldn't ask sins for advice, that's just wrong.  But, here's the link, http://sinquiry.blogspot.com. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Five Minute Rule Doesn't Always Apply.

Would somebody just write down the unwritten rules already?! I have always been told there is a five second rule on things that drop on the floor. Meaning you can eat anything, as long as it has been on the floor for less than five seconds. But apparently there are unwritten addendums to this rule.

For instance, if someone accidentally drops their baby on the floor, it is considered bad form to eat said baby. But they're so tender.

If you are in Lower Crackton and Shaky Pete drops his hypodermic needles, you're not supposed to snack on them. Although, you do get a euphoric sensation, with a side of toxic face rash.

Don't eat anything that comes out of a pet. Unless you have a pig, and he drops a plate of tasty, tasty bacon.

No, on rocks. Especially, hot rocks. This includes both rocks spewed out of volcanoes and meteorites from space. Not nearly as delicious as one would think. 

Hair clippings at a barber shop, are right out. Filling, but has a weird aftertaste. Like sweat, horse mane and soap. 

Don't eat birds. Well, live ones anyway. Technically, they are landing and not falling. Plus they don't appreciate being eaten, and they have sharp beaks and claws which they use with abandon.

Most anything that your kids drop is bad. Sure, they'll drop a cookie or an ice cream cone occasionally. But it's mostly just toys, wrappers, and boogers.

Don't try tools at the local construction site. Especially power saws; they bite back.

I wouldn't suggest random pianos and anvils dropped by diabolical coyotes. In my experience ACME doesn't make anything even remotely edible.

No medical waste. Not matter how appetizingly packaged.

Car crashes are verboten. Burning glass gives wicked heartburn.

I have taken the liberty of writing down these unwritten rules for the greater good of the public. Rest assured this is not the complete list, it also includes clothes, hot casings at the gun range, tree leafs, tree branches, trees in general, gauntlets that have been thrown down, basketballs, baseballs, footballs, well any kind of balls really, pretty much anything on the freeway, everything at the dump, and lastly, downed power lines. Hopefully, as it is Thanksgiving, somebody will drop a turkey dinner with all the trimmings and you can eat that. 

On Monday a new blog will debut wherein you can ask questions to the seven cardinal sins. I'm not sure why you would seek advice from the seven cardinal sins. It's kind of wrong, really. Nonetheless, I am helping Sloth out, because he is to lazy to do it himself. http://sinquiry.blogspot.com

Outsource You? I Don't Even Know You.

As soon as I got into work this morning, there was a note on my chair telling me to go see the boss, ASAP. That's never good. I knocked on his door and he invited me to come in and sit down. 

No, you idiot. Sit in a chair.

Oh, thank you sir.

Do you know why I called you in here this morning?

I think so sir. And I just want to apologize to you. I never meant to start the orphanage on fire.

You what? Nevermind. Not that.

Oh. Then I would like to apologize for flooding the Adorable Pets store and drowning all the puppies and kittens.

Not that either.

For getting the plumbing wrong at the old folks home and inadvertently turning all the toilets into a sort of deadly bidet cannon?

No. Maybe you should stop apologizing.

Yes sir. Sorry sir. Ooh, did it again. Sorry sir. Dangit! Sorr...

SHUT IT! No, I've called you here to let you know that your job has been outsourced.

Outsourced sir?

Yes. Outsourced. To India.

But I'm a plumber sir.

(Barely)

What sir?

I said, barely. You are barely a plumber.

Well, that seems uncalled for sir.

When you attempted to fix my kitchen faucet, I mysteriously had hot and cold running water flowing out of my 60" flatscreen.

I already apologized for that sir. And on the bright side, watching Titanic was incredibly immersive.

If I want immersive, I'll buy a 3-D TV.

Maybe water is the next dimension sir.

It isn't. You also melted my hot tub.
Not my fault sir; who knew you couldn't use a pizza oven to heat a hot tub.
Everybody but you, apparently.
OK, I'm not the best plumber in the world. But what am I supposed to do now?
Plumb.
You said my job had been outsourced.
Yes. 
To India.
Yes.
Where am I going to work now?
India.
What? How am I supposed to get to India?
UPS. There's a crate in the back.

I don't think this is legal.
Outsourcing has been going on for years.
Jobs. Not people.

I couldn't very well outsource a plumbing job to India, without a plumber. That doesn't make much sense.

But, they have substandard plumbing in India sir.
You're a substandard plumber. That's a perfect match, I'd say.
So I've been outsourced. Who are you going to replace me with here?
A spicy chicken vindaloo and a bag of naan. 
A chicken vindaloo can't plumb.
Neither can you.
So you traded me to India for a vindaloo?
Basically yes. But, outsourcing just sounds more official.
And there you go, turns out this might be my last post for awhile. I'm not sure how long it takes to get to India via ground freight.

Mudslinging For Fun And Profit.

Don't vote for my opponent, he is the worst person ever.
I'm the worst person ever?
Ever.
I'm worse than Alec Baldwin?
And Hitler and Stalin. Combined.

There you go again, engaging in wild hyperbole. Just slinging mud instead of talking about the real issues.
Issues?! Let's talk issues. You are in favor of euthanizing anybody over 50.
Mud.
You think death row inmates should have to fight to the death for our viewing pleasure.
More mud.
You think polygamy should be mandatory.
Muddy muddy mud mud.
You are in favor of government funded prostitution and recreational drug use.
Mounds of mud. Marshes of mud. Mega Martian mountains of mud.
You are a satanist.
You're eyes are turning brown, you're so full of mud.
You want to start a nuclear war.
Mud. I ask you again, do you want someone who talks about things that affect you, or just slings mud?
I don't think that word means what you think it means. It's not mud if it's true.

The truth? I don't think you know what the truth is.
And you don't know what sanity is, you nutjob.
Again with the attacks. You people deserve better. Somebody who isn't just running a negative campaign.
Negative? I got all this stuff off of your website. Word for word.
Probably got hacked.
It says it on your flyer.
A smear campaign.
You're wearing a T-Shirt that says it.
I got reverse mugged.
You have it tattooed on your face and neck.

OK. Suppose I do stand for those things. What about you? Where do you stand on those issues?
I'm opposed to ALL of them.
See?! That is such a lazy, pedantic, rote answer. You didn't even give them a second of thought.
You don't have to think about them, they're certifiable.
See?! My opponent doesn't think. All he's really good at, is casting wild dispersions.
Euthanizing people isn't a good idea. Ever.
Not even Zombies? You hear that? My opponent is in the pocket of the big zombie lobby.
There's no such thing.
Lobbyists don't exist huh? Wink, wink. Proof that my opponent is a serial liar!
You are out of your mind.
You would know. I'm sure the zombies tell you who has the big juicy brains and who doesn't.
I am not having this discussion with you anymore.

See?! My opponent is is afraid to talk about the issues.
Zombies are not an issue.
My opponent doesn't think that the undead, eating his constituents brains is a big deal.
This debate is over. I refuse to talk to you anymore.
My opponent is afraid to debate me.
No, I'm not. You're a loon. When you go to the polls, vote for me; Bob Kahn;  I'm not insane.
No. Vote for me; Betsy "McCrazypants" Jones. I'm not a zombie. Plus, my plan eliminates taxes and shrinks the national debt.

The Emperor's New Costume.

ARRRRGGHGHH!
ARGH! What?
You. What the hell?
What the hell, what? It's Halloween.
That's not a costume!
Sure it is.
It isn't. 
It is so. I'm a zombie.
You're not a zombie. You're NAKED.
Zombies are naked.
Zombies aren't naked.
Maybe I got bitten during sex.
No! You don't even look like a zombie.
Just got turned.
There's no bite marks.
They're hidden under my clothes.
You don't have clothes. YOU'RE NAKED!
Good point... I'm a Viking.
You don't look like a Viking.
I do too.
Vikings weren't naked. Vikings wore helmets and carried round shields and axes. 
I dropped mine in battle.
You're naked and you're an idiot.
I'm the Invisible Man.
You are a very visible naked idiot.
I'm a leprechaun.
Idiot.
An imaginary friend.
That almost works, but you can't see imaginary friends. And I'm pretty sure they wear clothes.
If they're human.
Yes, of course, it's just weird when animals wear pants. Or coats or whatever.
I'm Shrodinger.
Of Shrodinger's Cat fame? How so?
My clothes may or may not be in a box.
That doesn't even make sense.
I'm a Pict.
Of what?
No. I'm a Pict. A wild Celtic warrior madman. They a often went into battle naked.
You don't have a weapon.
I left it in my other pants.
You're not wearing pants!
Oh.
Also. Picts painted themselves blue.
I'm blue.
Pale isn't really blue. 
I didn't have time. I was in a bit of a rush.
You're a bit of an idiot.
Hey, I know! It's a birthday suit costume.
Hey, I know! You're a moron.
Well, yours isn't so great. You're only wearing a cop outfit.
I know. I'm a cop.
Boring.
I'm a cop.
You're not even an exciting cop. The cop from the Village People, A stripper cop. Something.
I'm a cop.
Maybe a naked cop.
Cops aren't naked.
They are if they're having sex.
I'M NOT HAVING SEX.
Maybe you're not doing it right.
Shut Up! Listen; you can't walk around without clothes on. It's the law.
It's Halloween!
Still the law.
Really? What about my constitutional rights?
You don't have the right to be naked.
I'm pretty sure. ...blah, blah, something, something, something, have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of nakedness.
Idiot. YOU have the right to remain silent.

The Zombie Apocalypse Is Coming. DON'T Prepare.

As you have seen in countless movies and television shows, the Zombie Apocalypse is coming. Before long, an epidemic will sweep the land, and the vast majority of mankind will be turned into the living undead. The last vestiges of humanity will fight against the encroaching darkness, trying desperately to avoid extinction.

   But you are prepared. You've stocked up supplies, you've got a plan. And you've got guns. But I want you to stop and think about this for a second; in all the scenarios there are only a few people remaining uninfected. A few. This means you, in all likelihood, will be a member of the zombie majority and not one of the surviving humans. What are the chances that you will beat the odds? Are you a lucky person? Have you won the lottery recently? Avoided that sickness that everybody else caught?

   Nope. It's time to face facts. You are going to be a zombie. And the last thing you want to see as you round a corner chasing after Sunday brunch is a tasty meatbag holding your shotgun. Or swinging  your spiked zom-bat at your head, or running you over with your Zom-burban. So stop it. No more preparing. Don't let your overzealous zeal, provide some nasty breather with the means to separate your head from your shoulders.

The preceding message was brought to you by your friends at the Zombie Majority.

A Tortuous Performance Review.

Please sit down Mr... Taupe, is it?

Yes, sir. Taupe. Sir.

Good. Good. Let's get to it shall we?

Yes sir. I'm a little nervous sir.

Oh nonsense. It's just a performance review. I'm not going to torture you or anything. HAHAHA!

Oh, good one sir. Haha.

So... Mr. Taupe, how long have you been with us?

Uhm, well. Thirty-five years.

You've been with the department for thirty-five years?

No sir! I've been alive for thirty-five years. I thought that you were using us, all encompassingly, to include the human race.

I wasn't.

Oh sorry. I AM a little nervous sir.

It's fine. How long have you been with The Department?

Eight years, sir.

Excellent. And how long have you been in your current position?

I would guess one minute sir.

What?

You told me to sit down and then I sat down and then, blah blah blah, HAHAHA, blah blah blah, how long, nervous, How long have you been in your current position? I'd say about a minute. A minute-ten maybe.

It's not too late to change my mind on the whole torture thing, you know. Don't be so literal, you moron. How long have you held your current job?

As a persuasive verity extraction engineer?

A what?

Well, it's just that Torturer seemed so out of touch with the modern parlance. A little un-PC, if you know what I mean. 

Are you for real? 

According to Descartes; probably.

SHUT UP!

Yes sir. Nervous sir.

How long have you tortured people for a living? And don't include whatever mental anguish you inflicted on your parents as you were growing up, or (heaven forbid) your spouse.

I got promoted to Torture Technician Level One, about thirteen months ago, sir.

And how would you say it's gone?

Great, sir! I've really made some good friends. And we've really done some amazing things and...
I could care less about your personal life. Have you gotten any usable intel?
Oh, yes sir.
Such as?
Well, let's see. I know about a hip little Korean speak easy in Pyongyang. Umm,  I can order vodka while flirting with the cocktail waitress, in Russian or Mandarin. Let's see. Oh, I learned a really excellent new recipe for humus and I can make a Cuban coffee that is just electric.
So you're telling me that you have been torturing your prisoners for thirteen months and this is all you've come up with?
There's a ton more. I mean this is just off the top of my head.
Is the rest of your intel similar in scope?
Uh, pretty much sir. I would say so.
You followed the guidelines in your torturers handbook? And this is what your prisoners gave up to you in their despair and pain? Recipes? Flirting advice?
Oh well... about that sir. You see, I had just gotten the job as torturer and things in my life were a little hectic... and well um, it's possible that I used the pages of my torturers handbook as packing material when I moved out of my mothers basement. And I've just winged it since then.
Why didn't you just ask for a new book?
Oh, well that's embarrassing sir. And plus I remember some of it. There were some parts about water boarding and something about fingernails and some other stuff.
So you've been using water boarding? Excellent.
Oh, yes sir. First we tried it in Cuba, but the waves were non-existent. Then we tried Hawaii, but that was too intense. The consensus favorite was Southern California; warm, good waves, nice scenery. Although we've all been talking about a trip to Tahiti, we hear they have some really tasty waves there.
I believe you are talking about Boogie Boarding. And that is not really torture in any sense of the word, what else have you been up too? (I shudder to ask.)

Well, sir. There was a chapter on pulling fingernails. So I've done some of that.
Really?! That's great. How did that go?
Well, it was a little rough at first. I couldn't get them to come out, and the prisoners were definitely not liking it. But then I found a Vietnamese place down the street who specialize in difficult customers, and since then things have been great. Some of the guys had to be convinced to let someone touch their feet, but everybody is into it now.
It's sounds like you're describing manicures and pedicures. You are incredibly bad at this.
You really think so sir? Everybody at work says I'm great at my job.
THE PRISONERS AREN'T SUPPOSED TO LIKE YOU!
Jeeze. Sir, you don't have to yell. That's why I'm so nervous.
You're making me so angry.
Sir, nobody can MAKE you anything. It's a choice. Perhaps I should ask; how are things at home? Sometimes, it helps to talk about it. I know that there are days when I have had a bad day and I bring that to work with me and the fellas have to let me know that I am using my words to hurt.
That is your job, you moron.
I'm so glad you agree. The counseling sessions are really starting to have an effect. Just the other day Ahmed opened up and told the group that he didn't think that his father ever really loved him.
Counseling is not your job. Hurting people is your job.
But sir, isn't it better to help these men realize that the only ones they hurt when they blow themselves up, is themselves?
NO! You are supposed to be pulling info out of these terrorists by any means necessary. By torturing them.
They don't like torture sir.
That's the point! Have you used the rack?
They prefer Queen size Posture-Pedics.
Iron Maiden?
We mostly play Disco at our mixers, it encourages people to mingle.
This is why you were nervous. You are officially the world's worst torturer.
Officially? That's fantastic sir. Does that title come with a raise?

Apathy And Politics Don't Mix... Or Do They?

So if I have my facts straight, this years contest comes down to a choice between Hitler or Stalin. The diabolically evil super rich who want to crush us, or the lazy evil bastards who want to steal all of our stuff. The lefties who allow the Mexicans to take our primo dishwashing jobs or the righties who send our awesome telemarketing jobs to India. EVERYBODY is trying to take my retirement fund. (Joke's on them, I don't have one.) Oddly enough, certain TV channels and websites say the exact same things about the other side of the aisle. Amazingly, they both hate freedom and the constitution. And holy crap, are they stupid, and patronizing, and they control the press, and are delusional, and, and, and...

I always thought Hitler was Hitler, and Stalin was Stalin.

   So, I'm looking for alternatives to the Republicans and the Democrats. If only I was in Europe. In Europe there is some real variety. From the right-iest Right to the left-iest Left, and every combination in between. My personal favorite is England's the Very Silly Party, but they are on some sort of watch list, because apparently their ballot is tattooed on an endangered haddock, and PETA (that hallowed organization, that arbiter of all things right and wrong) has managed to get the Very Silly Party banned. This through the use of a very austere and serious public awareness campaign involving naked vegetarians and sexual innuendo.

How people who argue politics appear to me.

   And If I vote for an existing third party, my friends on Facebook assure me, I am wasting my vote, and I might as well be spitting on the grave of Abraham Lincoln, because that is how much voting for third parties shows that you hate America. I don't want to spit on Lincoln. I don't want to vote for Stalin. Or Hitler. These choices are all bad. I am left with one final choice. I'm starting my own political party.

Apathy Party, just like Anarchists but with less throwing stuff through windows. And a more sustainable plan.

   Join my party. Or don't. I don't care. Vote. Or don't. I don't care. Lecture me about what an idiot I am. I don't care. Tell me how much the other guy is going to ruin the nation. I don't care. Because at the Apathy Party, our motto is "M'eh, I don't care." Next year I am considering a joint ticket with my buddy, who founded the Ignorance Party. Our campaign will be: Ignorance and Apathy, "We don't know, we don't care."

I'm A Masochist, And It Sucks.

How do you describe someone who willingly and repeatedly chooses pain? A masochist right? Except instead of chains and whips (isn't that what they use?), my soul gets pummeled with baseball bats and football cleats by Dolphins, Lobos and Red Sox. And I hate it. (Do masochists hate being a masochist?)
   "Well Flip," you say, "why don't you just stop?" Because I can't. I gave my loyalty to these teams, and I can't take it back. "That's borderline retarded", you say (unless you're really PC, and then you might just call me mentally challenged or stupid or pathetic or dummy poo-poo head <---this from my key kindergarden demographic.)
   I swear, I wish I could be more band-wagonish. Who's winning this year? Atlanta? I love Atlanta. The Orioles are going to win the World Series? I've always loved the Orioles. It would make my life, infinitely less painful. Or if I didn't care about sports at all. That would be great too! (If I was a little girl.) But I care. So I suffer.
   I'm just waiting for that wondrous day when my team comes through in the clutch and wins the Big One. And I can proudly proclaim, "That's MY team! I stuck with them through thick and thin!" And I can claim some small part of their victory. That wondrous, wondrous day that never, ever, comes.
   But I've just come up with a new idea that just might turn my fortunes around. If I proved to the Karmic Ether that I am a loyal dedicated uber-fan, it would be forced to grace my teams with heroic superpowers and they would reign supreme in their respective fields of competition. Surely Karma will reward me if I get a huge tattoo right in the middle of my chest declaring my love for my favorite teams. With out further ado, here it is, a Lobo riding a Dolphin while wearing Red Sox... TO VICTORY!

Artwork by my friend, the uber-talented Mike Cronce. Colors, by yours truly.

My New Career Is Really Opening Some Doors.

When I was in the Marine Corps, I always said I would only re-enlist if I could get Authorized Personnel as a job. It never came through, so I got out. Perhaps I was too hasty. It took almost twenty years, but I finally made it. 

Dreaming And Collateral Damage.

Police spokesman Impossible Purple Smith said that nearly thirty subconscious beings were hurt or killed in a violent night of dreaming. Dream police are investigating crime scenes in several dream sequences that severely injured and even killed dozens of dream citizens. In a night of violence that the dream community hasn't seen since the fever dream of aught six, in which hundreds of citizens were transformed into zombies and then mowed down by a delirious Dreamer and his deadly bubblegum spewing machine gun.

   In the first incident of the night, the Dreamer killed several when the stunt he was performing, went awry. The motorcycle he was attempting to jump over fifty school buses with, transformed into a bulldozer in mid jump and crushed a busload of New Jerseyans who were on their way to Las Vegas to be Roy in the new Seigfreid and Roy show.

   Next the Dreamer was involved in a flying mishap. Ever since learning the secret of flight as a youngster, the Dreamer will periodically engage in unmanned flight. This dream started like all the others, with the Dreamer gently distributing his weight out over the air and slowly lifting up first one leg and then the other. After a few tentative pulls at the air, he began zooming around. Several onlookers copied the dreamer and also began to fly. Unfortunately, when the Dreamer flew into another dream sequence they lost the ability to fly, and many of them plummeted to their untimely deaths.

   In the last violent attack of the night, apparently fueled by a spicy food and pre-bed sci-fi reading, dozens more were killed and injured. The Dreamer spent a good portion of the night in a mutated version of the chapter he read before falling to sleep, and wielding a glowing obsidian sword, battled wave upon wave of citizens disguised as orc-like creatures. The crime scene is expansive and grisly, and the exact casualty numbers may not be known for some time.

   No charges are pending against the Dreamer, as he has ultimate diplomatic immunity. The dream prosecutor does intend to introduce feelings of inadequacy and failure into future dreams as a punitive measure.