How drunk do you have to be to buy a cheeseburger at McDonalds at midnight? Scale of one to ten, people. Scale of one to ten.
And how not-drunk do you have to be to start (but not finish) imagining the modern processes that got the cow in the bun for only $1.25?
Anyway, it was delicious. An unfortunate precedent has been set.
If my math is correct, by the time I'm 76 years and 4 months old, I will have contracted every one of my opinions and observations down to a single sentence each. At that moment, I'll be at some kind of opinionated person's zen, allowing me to finally stop my brain and get a good night's sleep for once.
It's hard for me to believe that, at that moment, I'll be able to explain the annoying part of having a beard better than this deceptively-stupid-sounding phrase:
The annoying thing about having a beard is that you always have the feeling that there's something on your face.With that out of the way, I can now go study English word roots until I find out why "opinion" and "onion" are so close to each other. BRB.
Act One: These are not sensible shoes. In fact, they're soaked through with snow and your feet are freezing. You know that your body is cold, but it doesn't matter while you wonder if the anesthesia they give you for foot amputation puts you under or if you're still conscious, thinking about how different it all could have turned out if only you'd had the sense to wear your boots.
Then a kind soul gives you some extremely warm, extremely thick, dry socks, and it's like your feet had never known cold.
Act Two: The alarm clock goes off and you think there couldn't be a worse sound. There you are, warm in the covers, feeling the tiniest bit of cold seeping in, and the alarm has the fucking nerve to try and break it up. You wonder if there could be a worse sound than this tiny tolling of the digital bells, signaling the doom of the dawning work day.¹
It's round about then that you hear another alarm, this one set to go off when there's a fire, and a look out the front door and into the hallway reveals there's a pretty good amount of smoke, and you wonder just how much hotter it's about to get.
And you thought the air around the bed was cold? Try the air around the ice in front of the building as the firefighters hoist their ladders up onto the roof and trudge into the building with a disinterest that says they know exactly how these things turn out: boiler room, everything's fine, back inside.
Act Three: Only a month ago, you were wondering if the heater in your apartment worked at all. You piled blankets on you to try and sleep and wondered if there were any force in the world strong enough to pull you out from under them.
The the heat started dribbling out, enough so that you no longer felt like you could believably write a novel that takes place in a tenement. Then the landlord finally sends someone over to fix it up, and now you're thinking that, if it's warm enough for shorts on the first floor, it must be a fiery furnace on the third floor.
¹ Come on...like you haven't been this dramatic at 7 am.
After last week's profitable idiocy, I let my guard down and had a weekend full of record-setting levels of stupidity. An innocent scarf and credit card were tragic victims of this recent moronic maelstrom.
The list below is of proposed reasons of why I'm such an idiot lately. To try and get to the bottom of this, I've created a poll on the right for you to help me figure out why this is happening. Please let your voice be heard. Won't you please help stop this epidemic of Thick Skullness?
The Chartitable Reason: I've been working a lot lately, and the work-related information is muscling out space in the extremely limited real estate of my brain--space that's normally used for the information that keeps me barely over the line of "functioning human being".This hot topic is also open for lively debate in the comments.
The Sporting Reason: Me watch lot of sports lately. Football and bassetball. Lots of commercials in football and bassetball. Lots of sports in sports. Brain stop working. Where beer?
The Conspiracy Reason: The colder weather is not, in fact, natural. Global warming has actually raised the average November temperature to around 95 degrees, but the US Government, in an effort to cover up global warming, has created an artificial coldness—much like the titular mist in the Stephen King's The Mist, in theaters now!—to create the illusion that nothing is wrong. This artificial coldness has the side effect of dumnening up those of us who are already prone to dumbening, which is another benefit to the US Government because...um...er...dammit!
The Obvious Reason: Alcohol is a known cause of idiocy. This has been known for centuries by pretty much everyone. However, this is the first thing that is forgotten under the influence of alcohol. The feedback that this logical loop creates is deafening.
The Likely Reason: I've been an idiot lately because I am, in fact, an idiot.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution has characterized my client, the 1984 Ethiopia famine benefit song, "Do They Know It's Christmas?" as ridiculous, geographically and culturally ignorant, and patronizing; a song whose only lasting value is as a guilty pleasure.
Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution is absolutely right.
(gasps from the court crowd)
Yes, it's true! Most Africans don't know it's Christmas, because they're Muslim and they don't celebrate Christmas! There is snow in parts of Africa, things do grow there, and not only do rivers flow there, it's home to some of the biggest, most spectacular rivers and waterfalls in the world!
And yet, it doesn't matter.
No, it doesn't matter! Because this song is not for Africans...it's for the English. However much of a guilty pleasure it continues to be, however antiquated and Anglo-centric it contiunes to reveal itself, we must remember what it was at it's core: a plea to the people of the wealthy nations of the world to help out those less fortunate than they are.
We forget that even people in rich countries have cultural touchstones that may be too-deeply entrenched, but yet are there and undeniable. And in England, the spirit of Christmas--that blind feeling that you're supposed to be happy and giving in December--still holds strong, even more so that in the States. And so the idea of letting Africans "know it's Christmas" is not the point. "Let them know it's Christmastime" means only, "In the spirit of Christmas...give to those less fortunate." The selfish line that Bono must now cringe at--"Tonight thank God it's them instead of you"--is little more than the common sentiment of "You could have it so much worse, so help those that do."
And the cultural and geographical offenses? Nothing more than setting a scene that the listeners can relate to: snow, rain, flowing rivers. Is it a crime to make an inaccurate cultural reference to help a worthy charity?
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, consider these things when coming to your decision. "Do They Know It's Christmas" is a song with a specific audience; an audience that needs to be moved by things that are familiar to them to help people and places that aren't. It may strike us as slightly offensive, but sometimes, in the name of help and humanity, that's an unfortunate side effect of needing to appeal to the people who can give that help.
The defense rests, your honor.
One day in the future, when Google has taken over the country and implanted a chip into our heads to give us more and more exciting and convenient functionality and to make even our deepest dreams and secrets searchable, I'll be able to post to this blog directly from my mind and from anywhere. And ohhhh, readers. If you think that the quality is high now, just wait until the random and odd thoughts that pass through my head while I'm away from the computer will be posted here. It's good stuff. Oh, and if you don't think that the quality is high now...well, it kind of looks like you're wasting your time right now, doesn't it?
Yeah, I'm afraid that the best stuff that my brain can compute drips quickly out the sizeable memory leak in my head. This is pretty much the D-list on this page. Then again, it's been well established that I crack myself up far more than I crack anyone else up, so maybe it's likely that you'd think the A-list stuff is just bizarre and stupid. Oh, well.
The point I was getting to is that, as I was driving from Winston-Salem to Durham and back again, I thought of lots of good stuff to post here, but I can't remember a bit of it. If I could have posted from I-85/40 between Burlington and Mebane, you'd be reading a top-shelf post. But as it is? All I can think to tell you is that the beer tasting I went to in Durham with Becky and Chris made me realize that I don't really like any micro brews and the only beers I like anymore are the opposite ends of the beer spectrum: snooty Belgian and British beers and Miller Lite and Yuengling. And that's no kind of post.
Wait a minute...there was beer...beer kills brain cells...I can't remember what I was going to post. Okay, I think I'm beginning to make a connection.
Hello, and thank you for playing Are Seven! You could have been the winner of a shiny, brand new post that pulls you for just a few fleeting seconds out of your standard weekday routine. Instead, you as much of a loser as the person who came here searching for "hilarious birthday cakes". Sorry about that. Chalk it up to the kind of adversity that makes you a stronger person.
Candidate is sought for the position of Online Life Manager (OLM) for an eccentric but lovable billionaire (ELB). The primary responsibility of the Online Life Manager will be updating and maintaining the ELB's iTunes library. This includes creative use of playlists and updating tags so that all songs in the library have correct information. In addition to this, the OLM will be looking for new music for the ELB on blogs and other sites, adding them to the iTunes library where appropriate. The ELB defer's to the OLM's music tastes.
Other responsibilities include:
I'd just like to start this post out with a little bit of a parental advisory. Scratch that. Make it a decency advisory. Because, see, this post has some crude language that might make some of you blush and giggle and go sticky wet. Are you feeling warned? Are you glowing with warning? Alright. Go on through.
As I was cleaning out my spam filter, I noticed that, in among the Chinese characters and subjects that look like someone passed out on a keyboard was a subject line that made me, frankly, lol:
Your penis will be so big the whole hockey team can fit thereAnd as I was laughing, I made the mistake of trying to make sense of it. I mean: Fit where?! Around it? In it? On top of it? Is it a ride? Well, I guess it would be in a sense, but why would it interest the hockey team so much? Is there a growing level of sexual dissatisfaction on hockey teams that I'm not aware of?
Anyone see Bill Clinton on The Daily Show? That man has lost a lot of weight. My guess as to what happened is that somehow, in the backroom pagan blood ritual that the president and vice president have to take when they're sworn in, Clinton and Gore's bodies synced in a bizarre, unspeakable way that now forces them to share the same total body mass. So as Gore gets bigger, Clinton gets smaller.
I honestly can't think of what else it might be. Unless...Gore has become a literal parasite and is actually feeding off of Clinton. But that's almost too horrifying to consider. And yet...I just did.
Remember that time you went to Texas? Remember? You got in a cab and told the cabbie, "I need to go deep in the heart of Texas." And the cabbie took you to the edge of the heart and then stopped and told you "Fourteen dollars", which was total bullshit, because it's only one zone, but you told him, "No, no. Deeper." And the cabbie continued, but you could tell he was all cranky because he knew there was no way he was going to pick up a return fare once he dropped you off. But you didn't care.
Then, you finally got to the deepest part of the heart of Texas, and you stood there gazing up into the night, and you were so moved by the sight that you said, without thinking, "Wow. The stars at night are big and bright." And then some jerkoff appeared from out of nowhere and clapped four times, and you just rolled your eyes, because some jerkoff is always doing that.
But remember how you felt like there was something missing from the sky? You couldn't quite figure out what exactly was missing at first. You just knew that, as pretty as the night sky was, it was...incomplete somehow. And then you realized the missing piece. Of course!, you thought. There should be a gigantic banana floating in between the high atmosphere and Earth's low orbit, visible only to Texas residents!
You were right. It should have been there. And it will be there.
Let's say you went to the kitchen at your workplace, and let's say, hypothetically, that there was, in theory, a large tray of cookies and sweets. And let's pretend that you decided on a piece of baklava from this tray. In this imaginary dreamworld, you carried your new baklava over the threshold of your office and proceeded to eat it. Now let's say that, for some odd reason, this baklava tasted almost exactly like a Krispy Kreme glazed donut.
Now: is this a good thing? You might logically put together that a Krispy Kreme is good, so therefore, this is a good thing, but don't you want baklava to taste like baklava and not a Krispy Kreme?
I'm confused. Satisfied, but confused.
You've probably guessed already, but the blogging muse isn't returning my calls this week. She isn't giving me any creative ideas for posts, hasn't given me any good new music, and whenever I think about writing about one of the two noteworthy events of my last week, my muse raises an eyebrow as if to say, "I wouldn't if I were you." And I don't want to piss her off, even though I'm beginning to think I already have.
But while I need her for the good stuff, I have odds and ends that I can stitch together to make that ultimate in blogging desperation: the list.
You probably think that, after only two days on the job, I've done something stupid and/or offensive that caused me to be fired in a dramatic, sellable way, but you'd be wrong.
You probably think that, when a really cool boy bartender who gave me good deals leaves my favorite local bar, that it wouldn't quite make up for it that he's replaced by a semi-cute girl bartender with hair-metal-chick hair and a slammin' body, but you'd be so very wrong.
You probably think that, when I started a new job, that my inherent air of authority would cause the staff around me to shudder in awe and run to the closet where they keep all the top-notch computer equipment; that they wouldn't let me have a keyboard with a squeaky space bar, but you'd be wrong.
You probably think that I still hate pants, and you'd be right.
You probably think that two days isn't enough to form a new work crush, but you'd be wrong.
You probably think that this crush that I may or may not have formed is completely inappropriate in any number of ways, and you'd be right. But if you thought she wasn't cute enough to throw all those reasons for inappropriateness right out the window, you'd be wrong again.
You probably think that I'm exaggerating about my new, incredibly short commute and that I would have plenty of time to listen to more than one song on my iPod before I have to get in the elevator at work, but you'd be wrong.
You probably have pieced together that my head is spinning. This is the correct stance.
For my first day of work at the new job—indeed, for anyone's first day of work—there's only one quote that's appropriate. It's this bit of the script of The Hudsucker Proxy, a great movie, and this bit from it is one of the most brilliant things that's ever been written in a screenplay. Enjoy, and wish me luck.
You punch in at 8:30 every morning, except you punch in at 7:30 following a business holiday, unless it's a Monday, then you punch in at 8 o'clock. Punch in late...and they dock ya!! Incoming articles get a voucher, outgoing articles provide a voucher. Move any article without a voucher...and they dock ya!! Letter size a green voucher, oversize a yellow voucher, parcel size a maroon voucher. Wrong color voucher...and they dock ya!!
6787049A/6. That is your employee number. It will not be repeated! Without your employee number you cannot get your paycheck!
Inter-office mail is code 37, intra-office mail 37-3, outside mail is 3-37. Code it wrong...and they dock ya!!
This has been your orientation. Is there anything you do not understand? Is there anything you understand only partially? If you have not been fully oriented, you must file a complaint with personnel. File a faulty complaint...and they dock ya!!
In a move of action, excitement and thrills, I replaced the light bulbs in my bathroom this weekend. There are two bare bulbs on either side of my mirror, and one of them burned out. After a brief memorial service for the dead bulb that included a touching tribute from it's still-burning mate, I decided to replace the two with CFLs. Because I try.
The problem comes in (you had to know there was a problem) when I got the wattage wrong. I knew there was a little bit of translation from regular bulbs to CFLs, and in my head, that translation came out to "CFLs are weaker than regulars, so get a higher wattage than you'd be used to." Only I didn't realize that they are now doing the translation directly on the box, so when they say "60 watts", they're like regular 60 watts. No translation necessary.
The sum is that my bathroom is now blindingly bright. A pair of retinal images are my constant companion. The simplest bathroom task is now like Going Into The Light. I was already exclaiming "Jesus!" when I looked into the mirror, thanks to my graying, thinning hair, but now it's turned into a question: "Jesus?" Flossing now approximates an out-of-body experience.
I'm going to the store to buy some light bulbs, honey. Back in a few.
According to a search on allmusic.com, there are 153 different songs called "I'm Free". Unfortunately, the ones stuck in my head are Soup Dragons and Kenny Loggins, but some things in life have to be taken as they come. Other things get to be decided on.
There's nothing like beer, pizza, and sloppy rock 'n' roll to loosen the tongues and let the brilliance fly. This was the case with the following exchange from band practice last night, as we talked about the girlfriend of a friend of ours, who's a domanatrix:
Nicole: Yeah, she apparently charges, like, $500 a hour to do things like "trampling".Needless to say, that got a rimshot.
Ivan: What's "trampling"?
Nicole: It's just stomping on people's balls.
Reid: Shit! I'd take $500 an hour to stomp on people's balls!
Ivan: Yeah, it's called "management".
ICHABOD: You know, I always used to have a crush on Pippi.DIRECTORS COMMENTARY
pause
THOR: Oh.
ICHABOD: Yeah, you were really lucky to be with her. She was really beautiful and wonderful and hilarious.
pause
ICHABOD: I thought she was really great.
pause
THOR: Yeah, me too.
Tonight, as I traveled home along the blue line that I know all too well, there was a strange moment. Between the Arlington Cemetery and Rosslyn Metro stops, there was a tiny moment when, out of the right side windows, there was a extremely bright flash that was brief but brilliant. I looked around the car to see if anyone else noticed it, but it seemed like I was the only one. But it was definitely there: a bolt of white light that...did something. I don't know what, but it did something.
What I'm getting at, dear readers, is that I may have gone back (or possibly forward) in time, or may have been transported to another dimension. So if I seem a little off or ask you what year it is or if the Astros have won a World Series or if Cheetos come baked or only fried or if Law and Order is just a show and not a political jumpstart, it's only because I'm trying to figure out where I am and what of Cheetos; if it's 2007 or a year of a number I can't imagine. Please be patient with me, readers. I'm only trying to get my bearings.
