MAY 2007
Okay, so today's tagline becomes even more disturbing, if you can imagine such a thing, when I tell you that it's based on the 'Mail Song' from Blue's Clues. And if you knew that already, congratulations. You're nearly as bad off as I am. Another couple of blows to the head should just about do it.
But what the hell -- as long as I'm on the subject: have you guys seen this show? I haven't watched it in a few days, but it always sends me into giggling fits. Well, parts of it, anyway. Obviously, you have to ignore all the parts where they're trying to actually teach kids about shapes, or numbers, or laughing and pointing at people who are 'different'. Just fast-forward through that, or go get yourself a nice snack, or some creamy hot cereal.
(It's an important part of a balanced breakfast, you know.)
What you don't want to miss out on is when the actual human in the show, whose character's name is 'Steve' (and whose real name is, um, Steve; look, they don't get all that creative for the pre-school crowd, okay?), is running around or musing or talking to the fake 'laugh track' of two-year-old slobbering goobers that poses for the 'audience'. Because that shit is hi-larious. Pure comedy gold.
Look at it this way. Here's Steve. He's equal parts Mister Rogers and Tobey Maguire.
(And looks exactly like this guy from my softball team a few years ago. Whose name was... Steve. Purely coincidence? Um, yeah, almost certainly. Oh, well.)
So, if you've never seen the show, just try to imagine our striped sleuth traipsing around chasing after a blue dog and other creatures that are all made of paper and cardboard and move around as though they're Barbie dolls being piloted by four-year-old girls. In other words, unsteadily, stiffly, and jerkily. Sort of like your first time in the back of a Pontiac Grand Am back in high school. Or the Barbie doll thing, you pick. Are you in the mood for 'G' or 'PG-13' rated analogies? It's up to you; I'm all about choices here.
So, just the fact that they've got this guy in his faux Charlie Brown togs frolicking around among household objects come to life is amusing enough. At least, to me. If you can't tell from reading this blog, it doesn't take much to tickle my humerus. Apparently. Anyway, then you start to think about the implications of this house that 'Steve' (who is really Steve; don't get confused) is living in.
For instance, let's have a look at a few of Blue's friends. First, there's Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper. Shakers with arms. Charming, no? But what I wonder is this: when Steve's out of salt, or needs to fill up on pepper, wouldn't he have to unscrew their frickin' heads to get more in there? And wouldn't that hurt, just a bit? Come to think of it, could Steve even use salt and pepper in that house? He'd be flipping them upside down and shaking out their insides, after all. Seems a little like being strung up by your ankles and having your pancreas jostled out through your nose. Or your lungs. Ew. No, thanks.
While we're at it, let's look at this unholy thing. This is baby Paprika. She's apparently the bizarre spawn of the spicy couple above. Which begs the question, just how exactly did these two 'get it on'? I mean, where the hell are their uglies, and how in God's name did they bump them? That's to say nothing of the fact that pepper plus salt gets you... well, I don't know. Salty pepper, I guess. But not paprika. I'm no expert on foodstuff genetics, but I'd have to guess that Mrs. Pepper's been getting some lovin' from the mailman, if you know what I mean. I bet she gets jiggy all over the spice rack. Mustard seeds, tarragon, you name it. Bitch probably does the nasty with celery salt. Whore.
Then, there's shovel and pail. Now, they've gotta be pissed. For one thing, everybody else on this damned show's got a name. The dog's got a name, the clock's got a name, even the damned condiments have names. And what are the shovel and pail called? 'Shovel and pail'. Bitches.
(Of course, Steve's got the same beef, I guess. Where's the love?)
But of the two, shovel's obviously got it worse. Sure, pail gets loaded up with all manner of sand and rocks and crap and gets carried around by his ears. It's no picnic being pail; don't get me wrong. But did you look closely at the picture of shovel? It's a little hard to see, but his face is on the scoop part of the shovel. So every time he gets dipped into sand, or dirt, or a big juicy pile of Blue shit, he's getting it all in his mouth and nose and eyes and everywhere. He just gets grabbed by the legs and dunked in Heaven-knows-what, like one big nasty swirly after another. What the hell kind of life is that?! What are we teaching kids, anyway?
I'm not even going to talk about Magenta, who appears to be Blue's personal bitch.
(No, really, she's a bitch. Literally. It's okay. Breathe.)
All's I know is that if she spends more than thirty seconds on that show and there's not some serious ass-sniffing and face-licking and dominant humping and territorial pissing happening, then it's just not realistic. I had a dog. I know what goes down out there on the streets.
So, still with me? My, we are sick and twisted, aren't we? (Or desperate for a blog to read. Either way, I'll keep going. You really shouldn't encourage me like this...)
It gets better. For the show -- please, please tell me it's just for the show -- the producers have given Steve a partial lobotomy, which I presume is to allow three- and four-year-olds the chance to catch up every now and then. But it's ever so much fun to watch our green-clad goon stumble and bumble around like an addled wino, 'trying' to figure out what to do next. It usually goes something like this:
Steve: Dum-de-dum. Well, that was fun. I wonder what'll happen next. Maybe I'll go into Mr. John and take a big nasty --
Audience: Steve! Steve! A clue!
Steve: Hmmm? What's that?
Audience: It's a clue! A clue! Look behind you!
Steve: A shoe? Well, yeah, I've got two shoes. They're called Mr. Lefticle and Tighty Righty. You want to talk to them?
Audience: No, not a shoe. A clue!
Steve: A what? I'm gonna spew? No, no, I'm good. My hangover's finally gone. But thanks for asking.
Audience: No, no. Steve -- a clue! A Blue's clue!
Steve: Huh? Elisabeth Shue? No way, dudes! She's fuckin' hot! I'll slip her some paprika! Where is she? Where?
Audience: No, Steve, look behind you! It's a cah-looo.
Steve: Wha? Oh, a clue. A clue! Hey, a clue! Well, liquor me up and wrap me in leather. It is a clue. You're so smart!
Well, something like that, anyway. I took out as much of the foul language as I could. This is a family blog, after all. But it's pretty entertaining, even if you haven't had a couple of six-packs before it comes on at nine in the morning. (Though it's oh so much funnier if you have. I highly recommend it, if you haven't tried it yourself.)
And, then, just to top it all off, if you actually start to get bored with the show, just remind yourself of the reality of it all. The responses and paper cutouts and backdrops and all are added later. At the time this poor sod is actually delivering his lines and drooling on himself and dancing around like a crackhead maniac, it's just him. He gyrates in front of a green screen, and talks to air, and reaches out and plays with nothing. To him, the actor, it's an elaborate charade that he probably has to get all hopped up on gin and pills to recreate every day. How else could he maintain that manic wackiness and nonstop innocent oblivion? I mean, I suppose he could bang his head in the car door a few times before he walks into the studio, but I think the pills and booze are the way to go. That's just me. In my book, self-medication trumps self-mutilation every time. But that's just me, now. Your mileage may vary.
So, that's that. I've spent an hour or more waxing poetic about a television show for four-year-olds. This is either the very pinnacle of my blogging career, or the lowest point that I can possibly reach. Eh, fuck it. Either way, I can crack open a beer later and think about what I've done. Hey, maybe my DVR taped an episode or two for me, too. That would be sweet! Goodness knows I told it to tape just about every other piece of garbage on TV. So we'll see.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Smartass 101: A Study in Snark
MAY 2007
People often ask me: 'How can I become a smartass like you?'
Not in so many words, of course. Often they ask: 'Why the hell are you such a smartass?'
Or: 'You think you're so cool, don't you?'
Or even: 'You know the restraining order says one hundred feet! Would you get out of my panties drawer?!'
But the intention is clear -- they want to be a smartass, just like me. And in the interest of sneering petty snarkophiles everywhere, I'm going to tell you how.
Being a smartass is very simple; there are only two rules you need to follow.
1. Tell people what they most want to hear, with a straight face.
2. Then tell them the truth.
Those two simple rules are all you need, really. With a bit of practice and some loving encouragement, even a child could become a serviceable smartass .Hell, a monkey could do it. Maybe even a telemarketer -- though Darwinism dictates that we really shouldn't interact with their kind in any way that doesn't involve heavy blunt objects. And possibly a taser.
The key thing to remember about being a smartass is the turning point between 'sugary sweet' and 'brutally honest'. It's crucial to be polite and helpful, right up until the key word comes out of the victim's mouth: 'Really?' Then, all bets are off.
Let's see the rules in action, shall we? We'll need a patsy for this -- a clueless sort, naive and oblivious to the gathering stromclouds. So I'll make up a rube, our smartass foil du jour -- we'll call her 'Jilly'.
Now, imagine Jilly out there trying on pants somewhere. Possibly in a mall. You, the budding smartass, have somehow been roped into tagging along. You'd much rather be doing something else. Maybe there's football on TV, or garbage to take out, or fresh poodle plop to rub in your hair while you sing 'I'm a Little Teapot'. Basically, anything to get away from yammering Jilly and her shopping-spree shenanigans. So, when she emerges from the dressing room with a pair of capris stretched around her frame, straining and groaning at the seams, you could play it thusly:
Jilly: Do these pants make my butt look big?
Smartass: No, not at all. Really, they're quite fetching on you.
Jilly: Really?
Smartass: No, not really. They're squishing your enormous ass like an oversized pressed ham. Maybe if you'd tuck the bottom of your cheeks into your socks, that would be better.
See how easy? And after that exchange, you'll never have to suffer through another trip to the mall ever again. Trust me.*
(* Technique not recommended for use on wives, steady girlfriends, women who carry mace, ladies with canes, 'foxy boxers', or large black women prone to saying 'Oh no you di'n't!!!'.)
So, that was an easy one. Let's try another.
Say you're over at Jilly's house, helping her out. She's not the wiggliest dildo on the nightstand, remember, so you're trying to do your civic duty and assist the less clueful in the neighborhood. Maybe you're there, opening her mail -- because otherwise, she might stab herself in the eye with the letter opener, or lose her virginity to one of those AOL CDs they're always sending around. In this scenario, she might see you opening a 'Publisher's Clearing House' letter, and say:
Jilly: Ooh! Ooh! It says I may have won! I may have won! Did I win? I bet I did.
Smartass: Why... yes! Look at this -- you won! It says right here, eleven million dollars!
Jilly: Wow! Really?
Smartass: No. You didn't win, and you never will. And if you do, they won't give you any money. Ed McMahon will come to your house, pee in your orange juice, and leave. You're a moron. Now put down that AOL CD, and for crissakes, put some pants on.
See, that's public service, there. Making idiots more realistic about the poor, sad, lonely, peed-in-breakfast-drink kind of life they're likely to lead. Being a smartass is not only loads of fun, it's also good for society. We're, like, doctors or therapists or strippers or something.
And you don't have to wait for an opening to be a smartass. Oh, no. You can pull smartassery out of thin air, in most any situation. Say, for instance, that our friendly rube Jilly can't find her cat. She's lost it, or eaten it, or squished it under those capri tents she's wearing -- who knows? But you've been recruited to help find the finicky feline; what better time to practice your smartass lessons? To wit:
Smartass: Oh... hey! I think I found it! I found your cat!
Jilly: Omigawd! I thought I'd never see Mr. Fluffers again! Really?
Smartass: No. Not really. Your cat's probably in somebody's moo goo gai pan by now. Hah!
Mean? Yes, I suppose. But really, should the morons of the world be trusted with pet ownership in the first place? I think not. That's how yappy lap terrier rats and crazy cat ladies get started.
Why not nip the nonsense in the bud, with a well-aimed verbal jab or two?
I hope these lessons have helped you see that just about anyone can be a smartass. Why, with a little hard work and practice, even the nicest and most unassuming among us can make a contribution, and become a smartass. Hey, maybe even you!
(Did you just say, 'Even me? REALLY?' Sheesh.)
People often ask me: 'How can I become a smartass like you?'
Not in so many words, of course. Often they ask: 'Why the hell are you such a smartass?'
Or: 'You think you're so cool, don't you?'
Or even: 'You know the restraining order says one hundred feet! Would you get out of my panties drawer?!'
But the intention is clear -- they want to be a smartass, just like me. And in the interest of sneering petty snarkophiles everywhere, I'm going to tell you how.
Being a smartass is very simple; there are only two rules you need to follow.
1. Tell people what they most want to hear, with a straight face.
2. Then tell them the truth.
Those two simple rules are all you need, really. With a bit of practice and some loving encouragement, even a child could become a serviceable smartass .Hell, a monkey could do it. Maybe even a telemarketer -- though Darwinism dictates that we really shouldn't interact with their kind in any way that doesn't involve heavy blunt objects. And possibly a taser.
The key thing to remember about being a smartass is the turning point between 'sugary sweet' and 'brutally honest'. It's crucial to be polite and helpful, right up until the key word comes out of the victim's mouth: 'Really?' Then, all bets are off.
Let's see the rules in action, shall we? We'll need a patsy for this -- a clueless sort, naive and oblivious to the gathering stromclouds. So I'll make up a rube, our smartass foil du jour -- we'll call her 'Jilly'.
Now, imagine Jilly out there trying on pants somewhere. Possibly in a mall. You, the budding smartass, have somehow been roped into tagging along. You'd much rather be doing something else. Maybe there's football on TV, or garbage to take out, or fresh poodle plop to rub in your hair while you sing 'I'm a Little Teapot'. Basically, anything to get away from yammering Jilly and her shopping-spree shenanigans. So, when she emerges from the dressing room with a pair of capris stretched around her frame, straining and groaning at the seams, you could play it thusly:
Jilly: Do these pants make my butt look big?
Smartass: No, not at all. Really, they're quite fetching on you.
Jilly: Really?
Smartass: No, not really. They're squishing your enormous ass like an oversized pressed ham. Maybe if you'd tuck the bottom of your cheeks into your socks, that would be better.
See how easy? And after that exchange, you'll never have to suffer through another trip to the mall ever again. Trust me.*
(* Technique not recommended for use on wives, steady girlfriends, women who carry mace, ladies with canes, 'foxy boxers', or large black women prone to saying 'Oh no you di'n't!!!'.)
So, that was an easy one. Let's try another.
Say you're over at Jilly's house, helping her out. She's not the wiggliest dildo on the nightstand, remember, so you're trying to do your civic duty and assist the less clueful in the neighborhood. Maybe you're there, opening her mail -- because otherwise, she might stab herself in the eye with the letter opener, or lose her virginity to one of those AOL CDs they're always sending around. In this scenario, she might see you opening a 'Publisher's Clearing House' letter, and say:
Jilly: Ooh! Ooh! It says I may have won! I may have won! Did I win? I bet I did.
Smartass: Why... yes! Look at this -- you won! It says right here, eleven million dollars!
Jilly: Wow! Really?
Smartass: No. You didn't win, and you never will. And if you do, they won't give you any money. Ed McMahon will come to your house, pee in your orange juice, and leave. You're a moron. Now put down that AOL CD, and for crissakes, put some pants on.
See, that's public service, there. Making idiots more realistic about the poor, sad, lonely, peed-in-breakfast-drink kind of life they're likely to lead. Being a smartass is not only loads of fun, it's also good for society. We're, like, doctors or therapists or strippers or something.
And you don't have to wait for an opening to be a smartass. Oh, no. You can pull smartassery out of thin air, in most any situation. Say, for instance, that our friendly rube Jilly can't find her cat. She's lost it, or eaten it, or squished it under those capri tents she's wearing -- who knows? But you've been recruited to help find the finicky feline; what better time to practice your smartass lessons? To wit:
Smartass: Oh... hey! I think I found it! I found your cat!
Jilly: Omigawd! I thought I'd never see Mr. Fluffers again! Really?
Smartass: No. Not really. Your cat's probably in somebody's moo goo gai pan by now. Hah!
Mean? Yes, I suppose. But really, should the morons of the world be trusted with pet ownership in the first place? I think not. That's how yappy lap terrier rats and crazy cat ladies get started.
Why not nip the nonsense in the bud, with a well-aimed verbal jab or two?
I hope these lessons have helped you see that just about anyone can be a smartass. Why, with a little hard work and practice, even the nicest and most unassuming among us can make a contribution, and become a smartass. Hey, maybe even you!
(Did you just say, 'Even me? REALLY?' Sheesh.)
Sick McNasty
OCTOBER 2007
Let me tell you about the third stall in the bathroom at work. People enjoy it, because it is the farthest away from the door. You know, so it feels the most private. Well, lately it has become fairly disgusting.
First, someone wrote on the wall a few weeks ago. I am all for writing on walls at bars because it amuses me when I am drunk. It can be funny. But I don't want the bathroom that I use at work to turn into a bar bathroom. Bar bathrooms are tolerable because they are at bars and you are drunk. Work bathrooms are tolerable because you can hide in there from work and catch up on your text messaging and Tetris.
Anyway, someone wrote on the wall, "What country is this?" And below that is a "drawing" which is basically a very uneven decagon. Maybe about two inches by two inches. I know geography fairly well and I am pretty sure this is not a rendering of any country. It's just some hoodlum that wants to get a dialogue going on the crapper. So their question goes unanswered for a few weeks, but then the other day, an answer!Beneath the question "What country is this?" now reads, "Yourbuttistan?"Now, it is written as a question, as if this person is taking a guess. But if you look at it, the handwriting is exactly the same. So my conclusion is that the question asker went into the bathroom every day to see if anyone answered. After going a few weeks with no response, they decided to make it seem as if someone else is actually playing along. After such a long wait, I was hoping for a better answer. Actually, it's not the answer that bugs me so much. It's the drawing. If it resembled a butt, I would maybe giggle at it. If maybe they drew a butt with a terrorist sticking a piece of dynamite in the butt crack, then I would laugh. Oh well.So that's not so bad, you say. Only one idiot writing an innocuous joke. I would agree with you. But recently, maybe two weeks ago, something else started happening in everyone's favorite poop stall.
I walked in there one day and the toilet seat is covered in pubes. I mean, not the random two or three that can show up on a toilet seat or on envelopes. I am talking ten pubes. Someone had to make an effort of walking into the stall, sticking their hand down their pants, then proceed to rake their nethers. Then, not place them in the toilet to flush them, but place them all around the toilet seat as if they are a chef sprinkling garnish on a plate.I have seen this twice. Meaning more than once. This is just crazy. If you work or frequent my building, please pay attention. If anyone sits near you, then all of the sudden is like, "Oh my god, I have so many pubes! Too many, in fact!" Then they get up and go to the bathroom and then they come back and they are like, "There. Not as many pubes as before." If you hear that, I think we have our person!
Apparently, I work in a frat house. It's gross. But at least it's not some third world country, like Yourbuttistan. Oh, I didn't even mention all of the boogers on the wall. Yeah, boogers! Fucking everywhere. Boogers and pubes. That would be a good cartoon for Adult Swim. Boogers and Pubes. They would fight crime, but no one would ever congratulate them because no one wants to shake hands with a pube or hug a booger.
Let me tell you about the third stall in the bathroom at work. People enjoy it, because it is the farthest away from the door. You know, so it feels the most private. Well, lately it has become fairly disgusting.
First, someone wrote on the wall a few weeks ago. I am all for writing on walls at bars because it amuses me when I am drunk. It can be funny. But I don't want the bathroom that I use at work to turn into a bar bathroom. Bar bathrooms are tolerable because they are at bars and you are drunk. Work bathrooms are tolerable because you can hide in there from work and catch up on your text messaging and Tetris.
Anyway, someone wrote on the wall, "What country is this?" And below that is a "drawing" which is basically a very uneven decagon. Maybe about two inches by two inches. I know geography fairly well and I am pretty sure this is not a rendering of any country. It's just some hoodlum that wants to get a dialogue going on the crapper. So their question goes unanswered for a few weeks, but then the other day, an answer!Beneath the question "What country is this?" now reads, "Yourbuttistan?"Now, it is written as a question, as if this person is taking a guess. But if you look at it, the handwriting is exactly the same. So my conclusion is that the question asker went into the bathroom every day to see if anyone answered. After going a few weeks with no response, they decided to make it seem as if someone else is actually playing along. After such a long wait, I was hoping for a better answer. Actually, it's not the answer that bugs me so much. It's the drawing. If it resembled a butt, I would maybe giggle at it. If maybe they drew a butt with a terrorist sticking a piece of dynamite in the butt crack, then I would laugh. Oh well.So that's not so bad, you say. Only one idiot writing an innocuous joke. I would agree with you. But recently, maybe two weeks ago, something else started happening in everyone's favorite poop stall.
I walked in there one day and the toilet seat is covered in pubes. I mean, not the random two or three that can show up on a toilet seat or on envelopes. I am talking ten pubes. Someone had to make an effort of walking into the stall, sticking their hand down their pants, then proceed to rake their nethers. Then, not place them in the toilet to flush them, but place them all around the toilet seat as if they are a chef sprinkling garnish on a plate.I have seen this twice. Meaning more than once. This is just crazy. If you work or frequent my building, please pay attention. If anyone sits near you, then all of the sudden is like, "Oh my god, I have so many pubes! Too many, in fact!" Then they get up and go to the bathroom and then they come back and they are like, "There. Not as many pubes as before." If you hear that, I think we have our person!
Apparently, I work in a frat house. It's gross. But at least it's not some third world country, like Yourbuttistan. Oh, I didn't even mention all of the boogers on the wall. Yeah, boogers! Fucking everywhere. Boogers and pubes. That would be a good cartoon for Adult Swim. Boogers and Pubes. They would fight crime, but no one would ever congratulate them because no one wants to shake hands with a pube or hug a booger.
my love affair with country music
The Country music of today should be ashamed of itself: especially the songs that the men are putting out. I mean, when someone who is supposedly a man sings, "Every little thing that you do; I'm so in love with you; it just keeps getting better," he should be shot on sight or at least beaten senseless with his own guitar, unless he's talking about his pickup truck or his favorite whiskey.And if your last name is Urban, I'm sorry, but you just cannot be considered "Country." Does anyone even know what 'urban' means?
Don't get me started on Rascal Flatts, either. Every time their lead singer opens his mouth to sing, Waylon Jennings rolls over in his grave. "What hurts the most" is actually how his voice makes my nerve endings feel. Rascal Flatts is to Country music what nightly grinding is to healthy teeth: a terrible, terrible scourge. Recently, in fact, studies showed that 15% of the 400 lab rats subjected to a continuous half hour of their music developed Leaky Gut Syndrome; 2% spontaneously decided to eat their own young; and the remaining 83% blew their heads off. You know that sound a cat makes when it gets its tail caught in a bear trap? That's what Rascal Flatts' lead singer would sound like, if the cat was also on fire. Seriously, Rascal Flatts, be men, for God's sake, not cats with their tails caught in bear traps. Sing about how you're lying there with Linda on your mind, or how you're on the road again, or how you're a boy and your name just happens to be Sue. Don't serenade me about something dumb like the temperament of your ex-girlfriend's cat, unless your ex-girlfriend's cat is an escaped mountain lion that's just eaten one of your stepbrother's Black Angus calves. And cut it out with the leather pants and the spiky hair and the crappy electric-guitar solos, okay? If you're gonna take the time to do a solo, it better blow my freaking socks off. Beware, though—I wear my socks tight.
And to all you undiscovered male Country singers out there, here's a tip: If your last name is Metropolis or Inner-City, you should think about changing it.
Don't get me started on Rascal Flatts, either. Every time their lead singer opens his mouth to sing, Waylon Jennings rolls over in his grave. "What hurts the most" is actually how his voice makes my nerve endings feel. Rascal Flatts is to Country music what nightly grinding is to healthy teeth: a terrible, terrible scourge. Recently, in fact, studies showed that 15% of the 400 lab rats subjected to a continuous half hour of their music developed Leaky Gut Syndrome; 2% spontaneously decided to eat their own young; and the remaining 83% blew their heads off. You know that sound a cat makes when it gets its tail caught in a bear trap? That's what Rascal Flatts' lead singer would sound like, if the cat was also on fire. Seriously, Rascal Flatts, be men, for God's sake, not cats with their tails caught in bear traps. Sing about how you're lying there with Linda on your mind, or how you're on the road again, or how you're a boy and your name just happens to be Sue. Don't serenade me about something dumb like the temperament of your ex-girlfriend's cat, unless your ex-girlfriend's cat is an escaped mountain lion that's just eaten one of your stepbrother's Black Angus calves. And cut it out with the leather pants and the spiky hair and the crappy electric-guitar solos, okay? If you're gonna take the time to do a solo, it better blow my freaking socks off. Beware, though—I wear my socks tight.
And to all you undiscovered male Country singers out there, here's a tip: If your last name is Metropolis or Inner-City, you should think about changing it.
the least employable person in the world
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MYSPACE IN FEBRUARY 2008
Sometimes i see people and it makes me think - who is the least employable person in the world - and today i found out. A woman about my age came into goodwill today looking for a play pen because she leaned on her kid's and it broke. I was dropping off old equipment from our consolidation of our upcoming move at work. The lady tells her that they have some and she'll be right with her. She obviously ignores the fact that I'm standing there and insists on keeping conversation with this employee. She asks, "Are you all hiring?" The employee says that she doesn't really know, to ask at the office. Her reply is, "I need a job. This one looks easy."
After the employee is done helping me, I'm just writing down the model numbers and information for company tax deduction purposes. So this employee finds her item for her and she asks how much it is. She tells her $5 and she says, "Shit! That's so cheap! I'll definitely take that mother fucker!"So in the same conversation she asked for a job and swore twice. Nice.
Sometimes i see people and it makes me think - who is the least employable person in the world - and today i found out. A woman about my age came into goodwill today looking for a play pen because she leaned on her kid's and it broke. I was dropping off old equipment from our consolidation of our upcoming move at work. The lady tells her that they have some and she'll be right with her. She obviously ignores the fact that I'm standing there and insists on keeping conversation with this employee. She asks, "Are you all hiring?" The employee says that she doesn't really know, to ask at the office. Her reply is, "I need a job. This one looks easy."
After the employee is done helping me, I'm just writing down the model numbers and information for company tax deduction purposes. So this employee finds her item for her and she asks how much it is. She tells her $5 and she says, "Shit! That's so cheap! I'll definitely take that mother fucker!"So in the same conversation she asked for a job and swore twice. Nice.
amish underwear
I have no beef with the Amish. (I don't have beef with anyone really.) We live our lives in parallel universes (universi?). We are aware of each other and curious, but avoid eye contact. We exist kind of like two strange dogs, making sideways glances and a butt sniff or two, but that's as far as it goes. (This was just a bad simile. I don't recommend Amish butt-sniffing, seriously, they bathe once a week.) I only see them when I go to the Wal-Mart in St. Johns or take a stroll through Ovid Elsie.
The one thing that I do notice is that they seem to change their own rules in order to incorporate more and more modern conveniences. I've seen them on rollerblades. Some of them can own cars (usually 15 passenger vans they load up and take to discount grocery stores). The cars have to be flat black, with no chrome.
Here's where the underwear come in (remember, from way back in the title?). Did you know that they buy their underwear at Wal-Mart? I know, it's an evil place, but they have a bigger selection and it's cheaper. Bite me. Some of us can't afford to shop politically. Anyway, I was underwear shopping and there was an Amish woman, with her daughter. I thought they had to make old-fashioned pantaloons out of handpicked cotton sewn with animal sinew as thread. I googled Amish underwear and apparently it's ok now to buy them premade at Wal-Mart. I'm happy to report that they chose big, white undies and not leopard print thongs. It would have made for a much more amusing blog, but oh well.
There are also a lot of Mennonites in Ovid Elsie. I like to call them Amish lite. They get to have more cool stuff. They typically dress like people who were dorks in high school. It's less noticeable that they aren't like the rest of us. The tip off is the prayer cap and sneakers with skirts. Never Nike's or Adidas, they always wear velcro KMart sneakers. (KMart which, if you recall is a perfect place to buy underwear, particularly at 400 Oak St. in Cincinnati. However, Rain Man was not Amish and I'm on a parenthetical tangent once again.)
The one thing that I do notice is that they seem to change their own rules in order to incorporate more and more modern conveniences. I've seen them on rollerblades. Some of them can own cars (usually 15 passenger vans they load up and take to discount grocery stores). The cars have to be flat black, with no chrome.
Here's where the underwear come in (remember, from way back in the title?). Did you know that they buy their underwear at Wal-Mart? I know, it's an evil place, but they have a bigger selection and it's cheaper. Bite me. Some of us can't afford to shop politically. Anyway, I was underwear shopping and there was an Amish woman, with her daughter. I thought they had to make old-fashioned pantaloons out of handpicked cotton sewn with animal sinew as thread. I googled Amish underwear and apparently it's ok now to buy them premade at Wal-Mart. I'm happy to report that they chose big, white undies and not leopard print thongs. It would have made for a much more amusing blog, but oh well.
There are also a lot of Mennonites in Ovid Elsie. I like to call them Amish lite. They get to have more cool stuff. They typically dress like people who were dorks in high school. It's less noticeable that they aren't like the rest of us. The tip off is the prayer cap and sneakers with skirts. Never Nike's or Adidas, they always wear velcro KMart sneakers. (KMart which, if you recall is a perfect place to buy underwear, particularly at 400 Oak St. in Cincinnati. However, Rain Man was not Amish and I'm on a parenthetical tangent once again.)
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