Step one:
Step two:
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Step four:
Formerly Benj (& Purge); formerly Sucking on Oranges
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Friday, March 07, 2014
How to Draw a Person Sitting in a Chair
Follow these four simple steps to draw your own picture of a person sitting in a chair.
Step one:
Step two:
Step three:
Step four:
Step one:
Step two:
Step three:
Step four:
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
What Do Snowmen Do at Night?
I think the more important question is, what kind of people do this to snowmen at night?!?!
Thursday, November 07, 2013
Slogans for Out Back
If you’ve left your house anytime during the last few years, you’re no doubt aware of a certain fashion trend that involves slogans being written across the rear end of women’s clothing. This is particularly common in sweatpants. Among the most frequently encountered slogans are “juicy” and “pink.” Behold Exhibit A:
If you’re a sensitive person like me, you worry that this type of clothing objectifies women, turning them into pieces of meat that are meant to be consumed. Why, the very slogans that appear on these ladies’ derrieres are the words that would be used on a steakhouse menu to whet the appetites of consumers. Recently, the trend has only gotten worse. The sweatpants I have seen lately are appalling. The fashion industry is becoming less and less subtle about its productizing of women. In fact, I did an informal study. I looked at nearly two dozen sweatpants and compared the slogans printed across the buttocks to the dinner menu of my local Outback Steakhouse. Believe it or not, every single slogan found on these sweatpants could be found on the Outback Steakhouse menu. In my anger and disgust, I now want to present my findings to you.
To begin with, it is worth noting that women of all ages are targeted as potential consumers of these sweatpants. Clearly, the messages written across the bottoms are meant to entice men. But designers are indifferent as to what women they objectify. If you are a female, the fashion designers want to turn you into a strip sirloin, a tantalizing dish prepared especially for the masticating male. Thus, they have designed sweatpants that will appeal to the young:
And they have designed sweatpants that will appeal to the old:
Perhaps the casual onlooker will not equate either of the above slogans with food. They are undoubtedly among the tamest. But as we continue through the selection of sweatpants, it becomes more and more obvious that any woman who wears them is to be regarded as a 13 oz. ribeye:
Some slogans are even more outrageous, scarcely concealing the commoditization of women. With this next pair of sweatpants, the message is loud and clear—if you’re a salivating customer with enough money in your wallet, you can get what you want:
“Pink” and “juicy” now seem mild in comparison, don’t they? Well, can I tell you about something that is not mild? It’s the alarm I felt in realizing that, in some cases, fashion designers have gone so far as to quote verbatim the descriptions found on Outback Steakhouse menus regarding the various ways in which steaks can be prepared.
Consider this pair of sweatpants, which contains the exact description of an Outback steak prepared “medium”:
Designers also utilized the description for steaks prepared “well-done”:
Sickening.
In their callous greed, designers have begun to utilize a wider- and wider-range of phrases plucked from the Outback menu. As they do so, the results become more and more perplexing. Consider the next batch of sweatpants. As a male, I admit that each one piqued my curiosity and struck me as highly alluring. And yet, the precise meaning of each slogan becomes increasingly allusive. At some points it is downright baffling. This indicates that fashion designers are seeking to appeal solely to the base and appetitive parts of our nature. They care not one whit for the rational parts of the soul. Take a look:
Even the dessert menu is not off-limits. Whether it’s a description of carrot cake or of Outback’s famous Chocolate Thunder from Down Under®, fashion designers want to take something innocent and pervert it by plastering it across the butts of women everywhere:
This is merely one study, conducted informally, and comparing the menu of just one restaurant to a small sample of sweatpants. I can only imagine what I’d find if I searched out more sweatpants and opened up more menus. Olive Garden, P.F. Chang’s, The Cheesecake Factory. It turns my stomach how, after conducting my simple study, merely listing these restaurants’ names is causing my loins to stir. Something must be done about this. If you have any ideas, please leave them in the comments. I myself will be thinking about what to do as I go eat lunch. I’m very hungry now, as you can imagine.
If you’re a sensitive person like me, you worry that this type of clothing objectifies women, turning them into pieces of meat that are meant to be consumed. Why, the very slogans that appear on these ladies’ derrieres are the words that would be used on a steakhouse menu to whet the appetites of consumers. Recently, the trend has only gotten worse. The sweatpants I have seen lately are appalling. The fashion industry is becoming less and less subtle about its productizing of women. In fact, I did an informal study. I looked at nearly two dozen sweatpants and compared the slogans printed across the buttocks to the dinner menu of my local Outback Steakhouse. Believe it or not, every single slogan found on these sweatpants could be found on the Outback Steakhouse menu. In my anger and disgust, I now want to present my findings to you.
To begin with, it is worth noting that women of all ages are targeted as potential consumers of these sweatpants. Clearly, the messages written across the bottoms are meant to entice men. But designers are indifferent as to what women they objectify. If you are a female, the fashion designers want to turn you into a strip sirloin, a tantalizing dish prepared especially for the masticating male. Thus, they have designed sweatpants that will appeal to the young:
And they have designed sweatpants that will appeal to the old:
Perhaps the casual onlooker will not equate either of the above slogans with food. They are undoubtedly among the tamest. But as we continue through the selection of sweatpants, it becomes more and more obvious that any woman who wears them is to be regarded as a 13 oz. ribeye:
Some slogans are even more outrageous, scarcely concealing the commoditization of women. With this next pair of sweatpants, the message is loud and clear—if you’re a salivating customer with enough money in your wallet, you can get what you want:
“Pink” and “juicy” now seem mild in comparison, don’t they? Well, can I tell you about something that is not mild? It’s the alarm I felt in realizing that, in some cases, fashion designers have gone so far as to quote verbatim the descriptions found on Outback Steakhouse menus regarding the various ways in which steaks can be prepared.
Consider this pair of sweatpants, which contains the exact description of an Outback steak prepared “medium”:
Designers also utilized the description for steaks prepared “well-done”:
Sickening.
In their callous greed, designers have begun to utilize a wider- and wider-range of phrases plucked from the Outback menu. As they do so, the results become more and more perplexing. Consider the next batch of sweatpants. As a male, I admit that each one piqued my curiosity and struck me as highly alluring. And yet, the precise meaning of each slogan becomes increasingly allusive. At some points it is downright baffling. This indicates that fashion designers are seeking to appeal solely to the base and appetitive parts of our nature. They care not one whit for the rational parts of the soul. Take a look:
Even the dessert menu is not off-limits. Whether it’s a description of carrot cake or of Outback’s famous Chocolate Thunder from Down Under®, fashion designers want to take something innocent and pervert it by plastering it across the butts of women everywhere:
This is merely one study, conducted informally, and comparing the menu of just one restaurant to a small sample of sweatpants. I can only imagine what I’d find if I searched out more sweatpants and opened up more menus. Olive Garden, P.F. Chang’s, The Cheesecake Factory. It turns my stomach how, after conducting my simple study, merely listing these restaurants’ names is causing my loins to stir. Something must be done about this. If you have any ideas, please leave them in the comments. I myself will be thinking about what to do as I go eat lunch. I’m very hungry now, as you can imagine.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Can You Spot the Differences?
Look closely at the following two images. Can you spot the 176,873 differences that exist between them?
Monday, July 30, 2012
Redbox: Utah Style
Melanie and I were recently perusing the movie selection at a nearby Redbox in Sandy, Utah, a suburb of Salt Lake City. We noticed that if you tried to put an R-rated movie in your “cart,” you were presented with the following message:
The notice seems friendly enough, but Melanie and I don’t recall ever seeing such a message when renting from Redbox in Florida. We find this rather amusing. Now, perhaps it’s simply that Utah has many more children per capita, and so Redbox is being extra cautious by trying not to rent to those who are technically below the recommended viewing age. (For the record, it’s not a law that persons under 17 cannot see R-rated movies, even without an adult. The MPAA ratings system is voluntary, and theaters and movie rental companies typically adhere to the recommendations as a matter of policy. But it’s not a legal matter.) However, I suspect that the age confirmation feature found at Utah Redbox kiosks is meant primarily to warn customers that they have added an R-rated movie to their cart, something that many Utah customers would hope to avoid. In other words, I take the age confirmation message to be Redbox’s thinly veiled way of saying, “Heads up! That’s an R-rated movie you just selected! Just warning you, in case you didn’t realize it!”
Of course, if Redbox has bothered to add this message especially to Utah kiosks, they must feel it is necessary. But why would that be? Can’t customers see that a movie is rated R before putting in their carts? Well, yes. But if enough customers have inadvertently rented R-rated movies in the past and then complained about it to Redbox, Redbox may deem it worth their time, money, and effort to update their kiosks to make them more Utah-friendly. I know, I know, this is something of a conspiracy theory on my part. But if there is any truth to my speculations, I have to roll my eyes. It’s ludicrous how much handholding companies are required to do of their customers. If you put an R-rated movie in your cart, that’s your problem. If you’re lucky enough to notice ahead of time and don’t want to watch it, don’t. But if you do watch it and then wish you hadn’t, don’t complain to Redbox. That’s like shooting the messenger, when really you should be shooting not even the message-sender, but yourself! Stomp your feet. Bite your pillow. Holler, “Gosh darn it!” But don’t waste the time of a Redbox customer service representative because you made a mistake. I can just imagine how these phone calls must go. “I didn’t know it was rated R! I don’t watch R-rated movies! I’m not going to pay for it!” “My kids saw something they shouldn’t have! I didn’t realize I was turning on an R-rated movie! What are you going to do about it, Redbox?” Lame.
Well, if that weren’t bad enough, Melanie and I recently went down to Utah county, which even by Utah standards is unbelievably Utah-ish. Movie rentals down there are even more extreme, with Redbox not at all pretending that Utah county residents are anything but strict Mormons who avoid R-rated movies as a matter of religious faith. Check out the warnings that appear onscreen as you try to rent an R-rated film at a Provo kiosk (you may need to click each picture in order to better read the messages):
The notice seems friendly enough, but Melanie and I don’t recall ever seeing such a message when renting from Redbox in Florida. We find this rather amusing. Now, perhaps it’s simply that Utah has many more children per capita, and so Redbox is being extra cautious by trying not to rent to those who are technically below the recommended viewing age. (For the record, it’s not a law that persons under 17 cannot see R-rated movies, even without an adult. The MPAA ratings system is voluntary, and theaters and movie rental companies typically adhere to the recommendations as a matter of policy. But it’s not a legal matter.) However, I suspect that the age confirmation feature found at Utah Redbox kiosks is meant primarily to warn customers that they have added an R-rated movie to their cart, something that many Utah customers would hope to avoid. In other words, I take the age confirmation message to be Redbox’s thinly veiled way of saying, “Heads up! That’s an R-rated movie you just selected! Just warning you, in case you didn’t realize it!”
Of course, if Redbox has bothered to add this message especially to Utah kiosks, they must feel it is necessary. But why would that be? Can’t customers see that a movie is rated R before putting in their carts? Well, yes. But if enough customers have inadvertently rented R-rated movies in the past and then complained about it to Redbox, Redbox may deem it worth their time, money, and effort to update their kiosks to make them more Utah-friendly. I know, I know, this is something of a conspiracy theory on my part. But if there is any truth to my speculations, I have to roll my eyes. It’s ludicrous how much handholding companies are required to do of their customers. If you put an R-rated movie in your cart, that’s your problem. If you’re lucky enough to notice ahead of time and don’t want to watch it, don’t. But if you do watch it and then wish you hadn’t, don’t complain to Redbox. That’s like shooting the messenger, when really you should be shooting not even the message-sender, but yourself! Stomp your feet. Bite your pillow. Holler, “Gosh darn it!” But don’t waste the time of a Redbox customer service representative because you made a mistake. I can just imagine how these phone calls must go. “I didn’t know it was rated R! I don’t watch R-rated movies! I’m not going to pay for it!” “My kids saw something they shouldn’t have! I didn’t realize I was turning on an R-rated movie! What are you going to do about it, Redbox?” Lame.
Well, if that weren’t bad enough, Melanie and I recently went down to Utah county, which even by Utah standards is unbelievably Utah-ish. Movie rentals down there are even more extreme, with Redbox not at all pretending that Utah county residents are anything but strict Mormons who avoid R-rated movies as a matter of religious faith. Check out the warnings that appear onscreen as you try to rent an R-rated film at a Provo kiosk (you may need to click each picture in order to better read the messages):
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
How to Lose Friends & Alienate People
I wrote the following joke as I tried to put Creegan back to sleep shortly after 5 a.m. this morning:
Thank you and good night!
Q: Why was the grim reaper roasting a marshmallow?
A: Because he was at death camp.
Thank you and good night!
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Truth About Kids' Night
Mom: It’s family night! Let’s go out to dinner!
Dad: Sounds great! Where should we go?
Mom: It’s kids’ night at Amy’s Awesome Grill. Kids eat free with every adult entrée purchase. We’ll save a bundle by going there!
Dad: You’re right. And the kids love going there. It sounds like a winner all around. Amy’s it is. Get your shoes on, boys! We’re going to dinner!
Boys [in unison]: Yay!!
[25 minutes later]
Waitress: Hi, folks! Welcome to Amy’s Awesome Grill! Can I start you off with any drinks or appetizers tonight?
Mom: Ooo, I do love the fried pickles. Honey, what do you think? Should we get some?
Dad: Well, we are saving on the kids’ meals. Even if we order the pickles, we’ll be spending less than if we’d gone anywhere else. Okay, what the heck. [To waitress] We’ll have an order of fried pickles to start. And a Diet Coke for me.
Mom: Make that two Diet Cokes. And two Sprites for the boys.
Waitress: You got it!
[Waitress leaves]
Dad [looking at menu]: Mmm, everything looks so yummy. Do you know what you’re going to get tonight, dear?
Mom: The chicken bacon ranch mozzarella mushroom melt, of course!
Dad: Of course.
Mom: What about you?
Dad: Well, I’ve always wanted to try the behemoth burger. It’s got five all-beef patties and Amy’s special sauce. It’s the priciest item on the menu. But…
Mom: It’s kids’ night! The kids are eating for free. I think we can afford to buy the behemoth burger!
Dad: You took the words right out of my mouth. The behemoth burger it is.
[Waitress reappears]
Waitress [setting food on table]: Two Diet Cokes, two junior Sprites, and an order of fried pickles.
[Dad emits excited gurgling noise.]
Waitress: Are you ready to order your entrées?
Dad: Indeed. I’m going to try the behemoth burger, medium rare.
Waitress: Excellent choice! Do you want to add the bleu cheese pellets and Amy’s Special Fried Onion Sawdust for just $2.50?
Dad: Aren’t those both included? They’re in the picture here…
Waitress: They are in the picture, but they’re not actually included with the burger. They’re sold separately. See, it says so right here.
[Waitress points to the menu.]
Dad: Oh, I see. Well, yeah, I kind of wanted those. Yup, I guess you better add them.
Waitress: Great choice! And for you, ma’am?
Mom: I’ll have the chicken bacon ranch mozzarella mushroom melt with French fries.
Waitress: Perfect. Did you want a side of Amy’s special pepper jack Alfredo dipping sauce for just a buck?
Mom: Why, that sounds delightful! Sure!
Waitress: Super! And how about for the boys?
Mom: The boys will each have the pepperoni pizza short stack.
Waitress: Okay, just so you know, only the cheese pizza short stack is eligible for kids’ night. If you want to add pepperoni, it’ll be $1 per short stack.
Mom: Oh, wow.
Boys [in unison]: Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni!!!
Mom: Well, they definitely want the pepperoni. Go ahead and add it. That’ll be fine.
Waitress: Any dinner salads for anyone tonight?
Mom [to Dad]: Should we split one?
Dad: Splitting one couldn’t hurt. It’s kids’ night, after all.
Mom [to waitress]: We’ll have just one dinner salad with Amy’s House dressing.
Waitress: Excellent! It’ll all be out in just a few minutes!
[35 minutes later]
Dad: This burger is soooooo good!
Mom: The chicken bacon ranch mozzarella mushroom melt has never been better! This pepper jack Alfredo dipping sauce is amazing!
[A young man with balloons aplenty approaches the table.]
Balloon Man: Hi, folks! Is everyone enjoying their meal tonight?
[Mom & Dad nod, food dripping from their lips.]
Balloon Man: Wonderful! Well, I just wanted to stop by and let you know, Amy’s has invited me to be here as a part of kids’ night. I’m making balloon animals, free of charge, for anyone who wants one. They’re absolutely free, and I can make just about any animal you can imagine. Yes, you heard me correctly, and just in case you didn’t, I’ll say it one more time—the balloon animals are absolutely free! I don’t charge a dime! I do this all out of the kindness of my heart!
[Balloon Man pats his heart, which coincidentally draws attention to the large note pinned to his chest. In bold letters, it reads: “Tips Are Appreciated!!!”]
Balloon Man: So, would you like to let your kids have a free balloon animal tonight?
Boys [in unison]: Balloon, balloon, balloon, balloon, balloon, balloon!!!
Dad: Ok, sure. I guess so.
Balloon Man [to Boy 1]: And what would you like, young man?
Boy 1: An elephant!
Balloon Man [to Boy 2]: And you?
Boy 2: An elephant!
Balloon Man: Two elephants. One of the trickier balloon animals to make, but I think I can manage! I do this for fun, after all! Just give me 90 seconds…
[90 seconds later]
Balloon Man: Voila!
Dad: Wow! That’s pretty amazing! They really look like elephants!
Balloon Man: Why, thank you! I’m just glad I could bring your kids so much joy tonight! Why, if I weren’t a poor college student, I’d pay a few bucks just to see the smiles these balloon animals have brought to their adorable little faces! [Sigh.] Oh well. You guys enjoy the rest of your evening!
[Balloon Man feigns to leave, walking backwards very, very slowly. He does not break eye contact with Mom and Dad, a pleading smile glued permanently to his face.]
Dad [fidgeting in his pockets and withdrawing a small handful of cash]: Um, wait just a second. Here you go. Thanks again for all your trouble!
[Dad hands Balloon Man three dollars.]
Balloon Man [feigning surprise]: Oh, wow! Thank you very much! That’s so kind of you!
Dad: No, no, we appreciate it. Thank you!
Mom [to Balloon Man]: Thanks!
[Balloon Man winks, pockets the money, and walks away.]
[15 minutes later]
Waitress: How was everything?
Dad: Absolutely fantastic!
Waitress: I’m so glad to hear that! Can I interest anyone in dessert?
Mom: Oh boy, I think we’re too full.
Dad [to Mom]: Not so fast. Maybe we should get something to go. What do you think?
Mom: Really? Isn’t that a bit indulgent?
Dad: Well, like you said, it’s kids’ night. We’re saving more than enough on the kids’ meals to make up for dessert.
Mom: I can’t argue with that.
Dad [turning back to the waitress]: You guys still have the Marble Cake Marble Run?
Waitress: We do. Did you want caramel or chocolate drizzle?
Dad: How about both?
Waitress: Not a problem. It’ll cost just 50 cents extra.
Dad: That’s fine. And we’ll get that to go.
Waitress: Great! I’ll be right back!
Mom: OK, boys, we’ll be leaving in just a couple of minutes. If you wanted to visit the game room, you better do it now.
Boy 1 [hopefully]: Can we have some quarters, Mom?
Boy 2: Quarters, Mom!
Mom: I don’t think so.
Boy 1: But, Mom, you never let us play the games!
Boy 2: Never!
Dad: Do you have a couple of quarters in your purse, honey? Maybe we should let them play this time. It’s kids’ night.
Mom: Well, let me check.
[Mom digs in her purse and finds four quarters.]
Mom: Alright, we’ll let you play tonight. You can each have two quarters, but that’s it. There’s no more after that.
[The boys excitedly take the coins.]
Boys [in unison]: Thanks, Mom!
[The boys scurry off to the game room. About five minutes pass.]
Waitress: Here’s your dessert!
[The waitress sets a heavy, large box on the table.]
Mom: Wow!
Dad: Yum!
Waitress: And here’s your check. I’ll get it from you whenever you’re ready!
[Dad takes the bill from the waitress. He eyes the total.]
Dad: Holy crapanoli, how did that happen?!? We’ve spent twice as much as we normally spend when we go to dinner, even when it’s not kids’ night!
[Mom peers quizzically over Dad’s shoulder.]
Mom: Wow! Did they forget to discount the kids’ meals or something?
Dad: No, they took those off. See? [Pointing at the bill.] Right here.
Mom: Hmm. Well, maybe their prices have gone up since the last time we were here!
Dad: They must have! What else could explain it? I tell you, I’m glad we didn’t come here when it wasn’t kids’ night! From now on, we’re only going out to eat when the kids can eat for free!
Mom: You can say that again!
Dad: From now on, we’re only going out to eat when the kids can eat for free!
Mom: Oh you!
[Mom & Dad laugh in unison.]
Dad: Sounds great! Where should we go?
Mom: It’s kids’ night at Amy’s Awesome Grill. Kids eat free with every adult entrée purchase. We’ll save a bundle by going there!
Dad: You’re right. And the kids love going there. It sounds like a winner all around. Amy’s it is. Get your shoes on, boys! We’re going to dinner!
Boys [in unison]: Yay!!
[25 minutes later]
Waitress: Hi, folks! Welcome to Amy’s Awesome Grill! Can I start you off with any drinks or appetizers tonight?
Mom: Ooo, I do love the fried pickles. Honey, what do you think? Should we get some?
Dad: Well, we are saving on the kids’ meals. Even if we order the pickles, we’ll be spending less than if we’d gone anywhere else. Okay, what the heck. [To waitress] We’ll have an order of fried pickles to start. And a Diet Coke for me.
Mom: Make that two Diet Cokes. And two Sprites for the boys.
Waitress: You got it!
[Waitress leaves]
Dad [looking at menu]: Mmm, everything looks so yummy. Do you know what you’re going to get tonight, dear?
Mom: The chicken bacon ranch mozzarella mushroom melt, of course!
Dad: Of course.
Mom: What about you?
Dad: Well, I’ve always wanted to try the behemoth burger. It’s got five all-beef patties and Amy’s special sauce. It’s the priciest item on the menu. But…
Mom: It’s kids’ night! The kids are eating for free. I think we can afford to buy the behemoth burger!
Dad: You took the words right out of my mouth. The behemoth burger it is.
[Waitress reappears]
Waitress [setting food on table]: Two Diet Cokes, two junior Sprites, and an order of fried pickles.
[Dad emits excited gurgling noise.]
Waitress: Are you ready to order your entrées?
Dad: Indeed. I’m going to try the behemoth burger, medium rare.
Waitress: Excellent choice! Do you want to add the bleu cheese pellets and Amy’s Special Fried Onion Sawdust for just $2.50?
Dad: Aren’t those both included? They’re in the picture here…
Waitress: They are in the picture, but they’re not actually included with the burger. They’re sold separately. See, it says so right here.
[Waitress points to the menu.]
Dad: Oh, I see. Well, yeah, I kind of wanted those. Yup, I guess you better add them.
Waitress: Great choice! And for you, ma’am?
Mom: I’ll have the chicken bacon ranch mozzarella mushroom melt with French fries.
Waitress: Perfect. Did you want a side of Amy’s special pepper jack Alfredo dipping sauce for just a buck?
Mom: Why, that sounds delightful! Sure!
Waitress: Super! And how about for the boys?
Mom: The boys will each have the pepperoni pizza short stack.
Waitress: Okay, just so you know, only the cheese pizza short stack is eligible for kids’ night. If you want to add pepperoni, it’ll be $1 per short stack.
Mom: Oh, wow.
Boys [in unison]: Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni!!!
Mom: Well, they definitely want the pepperoni. Go ahead and add it. That’ll be fine.
Waitress: Any dinner salads for anyone tonight?
Mom [to Dad]: Should we split one?
Dad: Splitting one couldn’t hurt. It’s kids’ night, after all.
Mom [to waitress]: We’ll have just one dinner salad with Amy’s House dressing.
Waitress: Excellent! It’ll all be out in just a few minutes!
[35 minutes later]
Dad: This burger is soooooo good!
Mom: The chicken bacon ranch mozzarella mushroom melt has never been better! This pepper jack Alfredo dipping sauce is amazing!
[A young man with balloons aplenty approaches the table.]
Balloon Man: Hi, folks! Is everyone enjoying their meal tonight?
[Mom & Dad nod, food dripping from their lips.]
Balloon Man: Wonderful! Well, I just wanted to stop by and let you know, Amy’s has invited me to be here as a part of kids’ night. I’m making balloon animals, free of charge, for anyone who wants one. They’re absolutely free, and I can make just about any animal you can imagine. Yes, you heard me correctly, and just in case you didn’t, I’ll say it one more time—the balloon animals are absolutely free! I don’t charge a dime! I do this all out of the kindness of my heart!
[Balloon Man pats his heart, which coincidentally draws attention to the large note pinned to his chest. In bold letters, it reads: “Tips Are Appreciated!!!”]
Balloon Man: So, would you like to let your kids have a free balloon animal tonight?
Boys [in unison]: Balloon, balloon, balloon, balloon, balloon, balloon!!!
Dad: Ok, sure. I guess so.
Balloon Man [to Boy 1]: And what would you like, young man?
Boy 1: An elephant!
Balloon Man [to Boy 2]: And you?
Boy 2: An elephant!
Balloon Man: Two elephants. One of the trickier balloon animals to make, but I think I can manage! I do this for fun, after all! Just give me 90 seconds…
[90 seconds later]
Balloon Man: Voila!
Dad: Wow! That’s pretty amazing! They really look like elephants!
Balloon Man: Why, thank you! I’m just glad I could bring your kids so much joy tonight! Why, if I weren’t a poor college student, I’d pay a few bucks just to see the smiles these balloon animals have brought to their adorable little faces! [Sigh.] Oh well. You guys enjoy the rest of your evening!
[Balloon Man feigns to leave, walking backwards very, very slowly. He does not break eye contact with Mom and Dad, a pleading smile glued permanently to his face.]
Dad [fidgeting in his pockets and withdrawing a small handful of cash]: Um, wait just a second. Here you go. Thanks again for all your trouble!
[Dad hands Balloon Man three dollars.]
Balloon Man [feigning surprise]: Oh, wow! Thank you very much! That’s so kind of you!
Dad: No, no, we appreciate it. Thank you!
Mom [to Balloon Man]: Thanks!
[Balloon Man winks, pockets the money, and walks away.]
[15 minutes later]
Waitress: How was everything?
Dad: Absolutely fantastic!
Waitress: I’m so glad to hear that! Can I interest anyone in dessert?
Mom: Oh boy, I think we’re too full.
Dad [to Mom]: Not so fast. Maybe we should get something to go. What do you think?
Mom: Really? Isn’t that a bit indulgent?
Dad: Well, like you said, it’s kids’ night. We’re saving more than enough on the kids’ meals to make up for dessert.
Mom: I can’t argue with that.
Dad [turning back to the waitress]: You guys still have the Marble Cake Marble Run?
Waitress: We do. Did you want caramel or chocolate drizzle?
Dad: How about both?
Waitress: Not a problem. It’ll cost just 50 cents extra.
Dad: That’s fine. And we’ll get that to go.
Waitress: Great! I’ll be right back!
Mom: OK, boys, we’ll be leaving in just a couple of minutes. If you wanted to visit the game room, you better do it now.
Boy 1 [hopefully]: Can we have some quarters, Mom?
Boy 2: Quarters, Mom!
Mom: I don’t think so.
Boy 1: But, Mom, you never let us play the games!
Boy 2: Never!
Dad: Do you have a couple of quarters in your purse, honey? Maybe we should let them play this time. It’s kids’ night.
Mom: Well, let me check.
[Mom digs in her purse and finds four quarters.]
Mom: Alright, we’ll let you play tonight. You can each have two quarters, but that’s it. There’s no more after that.
[The boys excitedly take the coins.]
Boys [in unison]: Thanks, Mom!
[The boys scurry off to the game room. About five minutes pass.]
Waitress: Here’s your dessert!
[The waitress sets a heavy, large box on the table.]
Mom: Wow!
Dad: Yum!
Waitress: And here’s your check. I’ll get it from you whenever you’re ready!
[Dad takes the bill from the waitress. He eyes the total.]
Dad: Holy crapanoli, how did that happen?!? We’ve spent twice as much as we normally spend when we go to dinner, even when it’s not kids’ night!
[Mom peers quizzically over Dad’s shoulder.]
Mom: Wow! Did they forget to discount the kids’ meals or something?
Dad: No, they took those off. See? [Pointing at the bill.] Right here.
Mom: Hmm. Well, maybe their prices have gone up since the last time we were here!
Dad: They must have! What else could explain it? I tell you, I’m glad we didn’t come here when it wasn’t kids’ night! From now on, we’re only going out to eat when the kids can eat for free!
Mom: You can say that again!
Dad: From now on, we’re only going out to eat when the kids can eat for free!
Mom: Oh you!
[Mom & Dad laugh in unison.]
THE END
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Excerpts from an Unpublished Manuscript, #2
Once again, the motion was brought before the committee. The tension in the room was palpable. Seven times the motion had been presented, and seven times it had failed to pass. This despite the fact that, with the exception of one solitary holdout, the entire committee desired the proposed change. Unfortunately, the bylaws were such that any amendment to the charter’s constitution required a unanimous vote on the part of the council. Other regulations further restricted the council from voting on the same proposal more than once within a 30-day period, and so the committee’s frustration had been dragged out for the better part of a year. The monthly vote always ended in defeat, and yet the overwhelming majority always felt crushed, their hope proving most substantial whenever it was about to be dashed to pieces.
“And finally,” the chair of the committee spoke into the microphone, “we have proposal #31. I’m sure we’re all familiar with the proposal. If it’s fine with everybody else, I think I’ll pass on reading it for an eighth time. Any objections?”
Heads shook as grunts of approval rose into the air.
“Very well then,” the chair continued. “We shall now vote on proposal #31.” He held the official document describing proposal #31 high above his head. “All those in favor of proposal #31 say ‘aye.’”
“Aye,” came the enthusiastic response, a great many of the committee members nodding as they spoke and looking around in exaggerated seriousness, as if to dissuade any dissenters.
“And all those opposed to proposal #31, say ‘nay.’”
And surely enough, from the back corner, came the lone opposing vote. The rest of the committee sighed in recognition of their defeat, some of them groaning while others were too crestfallen to do even that. The chair of the committee stared down at the podium and began folding up the piece of paper he was holding. “Proposal #31 has been rejected, according to the bylaws of this charter’s constitution,” he mumbled into the microphone, his eyes never again lifting to meet his audience. “The committee may now be dismissed. The council will reassemble 30 days hence.”
As the council drifted from the room, the chair of the committee sank into a nearby chair. Somebody had to put an end to this. Something had to be done to allow proposal #31 to pass. But what? He had thought about this many times before, but it was clear that no legitimate means of adopting the proposal were available to the committee. Extreme measures had to be taken. After all, didn’t the committee members have an obligation to look out for each other? And didn’t he, as the chair of the committee, hold that obligation more solemnly than anyone else? Indeed, he did. And that’s when the chair of the committee made his decision. His mind had voted, and the vote was unanimous. He would bring an end to the proposal’s defeat. He would ensure that proposal #31 passed the next time it was brought before the council. And how would he do that? By disposing of the one committee member who relentlessly and unapologetically thwarted the rest of the committee’s plans, by getting rid of that one committee member who seemed physically incapable of voting anything other than ‘nay.’ And so it was settled. The chair of the committee would murder Hattie the Horse.
“And finally,” the chair of the committee spoke into the microphone, “we have proposal #31. I’m sure we’re all familiar with the proposal. If it’s fine with everybody else, I think I’ll pass on reading it for an eighth time. Any objections?”
Heads shook as grunts of approval rose into the air.
“Very well then,” the chair continued. “We shall now vote on proposal #31.” He held the official document describing proposal #31 high above his head. “All those in favor of proposal #31 say ‘aye.’”
“Aye,” came the enthusiastic response, a great many of the committee members nodding as they spoke and looking around in exaggerated seriousness, as if to dissuade any dissenters.
“And all those opposed to proposal #31, say ‘nay.’”
And surely enough, from the back corner, came the lone opposing vote. The rest of the committee sighed in recognition of their defeat, some of them groaning while others were too crestfallen to do even that. The chair of the committee stared down at the podium and began folding up the piece of paper he was holding. “Proposal #31 has been rejected, according to the bylaws of this charter’s constitution,” he mumbled into the microphone, his eyes never again lifting to meet his audience. “The committee may now be dismissed. The council will reassemble 30 days hence.”
As the council drifted from the room, the chair of the committee sank into a nearby chair. Somebody had to put an end to this. Something had to be done to allow proposal #31 to pass. But what? He had thought about this many times before, but it was clear that no legitimate means of adopting the proposal were available to the committee. Extreme measures had to be taken. After all, didn’t the committee members have an obligation to look out for each other? And didn’t he, as the chair of the committee, hold that obligation more solemnly than anyone else? Indeed, he did. And that’s when the chair of the committee made his decision. His mind had voted, and the vote was unanimous. He would bring an end to the proposal’s defeat. He would ensure that proposal #31 passed the next time it was brought before the council. And how would he do that? By disposing of the one committee member who relentlessly and unapologetically thwarted the rest of the committee’s plans, by getting rid of that one committee member who seemed physically incapable of voting anything other than ‘nay.’ And so it was settled. The chair of the committee would murder Hattie the Horse.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Excerpt from an Unpublished Manuscript
Quentin was 24, a young professional earning more than his keep at Walton & Hestfield, a job he had secured thanks to a debt Quentin’s father owed to Quentin’s uncle. Quentin’s résumé placed him well beneath the scores of other job applicants salivating at the prospect of joining the prestigious firm located where else but at the corner of Lexington and Vine, the heart of the city. Quentin’s uncle had pulled some strings, flexed his networking muscles, and ensured that the unqualified Quentin received a job offer from the executives whom the uncle regularly humiliated on the Havenshire Country Club golf course (the nicer of the two courses, of course). Quentin was oblivious to his underqualification. He was much too optimistic, much too kindhearted and trusting, to realize people ever acted in ways that betrayed their true opinions of him. Quentin’s naivety gave him an innocent kind of confidence that, so long as one never learned just how dimwitted Quentin could be, made him quite charming. This and his equally unassuming brand of handsomeness—the best kind of handsomeness, really—explained his surprising, though always short-lived, success with the ladies. There was a tendency for single women, upon meeting Quentin, to view him as a kind of modern-day prince in appropriately khaki-fied armor. A good three or four dates could pass before a woman realized that Quentin’s aloofness was not the manifestation of boyish charm but of a sincere lack of mental capabilities. Usually, one or two attempts at deep conversation would solidify the woman’s suspicions, and she would suddenly find herself too busy to meet Quentin for dinner, to see that movie with him, to return his phone calls, or in some cases, to come back from the restroom to her loudly masticating date. Fortunately, Quentin’s genuine good faith in others had spared him a lot of hurt feelings over the years. He rarely, if ever, begrudged these women, assuming that each and every time they said “something has come up,” by golly, they meant it. In the world of romance, Quentin was like a well-aged man who always carries an umbrella, no matter the forecast and regardless of the amount of blue in the sky. He expected the unexpected, and as such, he regarded the sudden shifts in the amorous weather as no big deal, and more importantly, as nobody’s fault.
July 17th marked the 18-month anniversary of Quentin’s daily train ride to work. He failed to notice this, but rode the train in an exceptionally jubilant mood that morning nonetheless. Quentin enjoyed his daily commute. Taking cues from his fellow passengers, Quentin had decided after his first week at Walton & Hestfield that the time spent on the train each morning should be passed either reading the morning paper or playing Sudoku. Quentin hadn’t so much as touched a newspaper since 2001, when as a freshman in high school, he was required to report on current events for his social science class. The weekly assignment had bored him extensively, and he now felt an adamant aversion to reading newspapers voluntarily. He opted for Sudoku, bought himself a thick little book of over 500 Sudoku puzzles at the local newsstand, and attempted to master the game over the next three weeks. Try as he might, Quentin eventually gave up on the game, finding it impossible to make the numbers in each three-by-three square add up to 9. On the 11th day of playing the game, he experienced momentary elation at the realization that plugging negative numbers into some of the squares might just be the secret to conquering the game. Sadly, Quentin successfully solved only one Sudoku puzzle, even after this grand discovery. (The winning game involved placing the value “n+1” in the upper left hand corner of the square, a move Quentin thought ingenious but was never able successfully to replicate.)
Waving the proverbial white flag at publishers of Sudoku puzzles everywhere, Quentin decided he would spend his morning commutes immersed in the puzzle game that had absorbed so much of his time as a kid—Mad Libs. Not being the brightest bushel in the shed (as Quentin sometimes said of others), Quentin was flustered by Mad Libs that required much more of his grammatical and syntactical prowess than the supplying of simple nouns and adjectives. He was particularly annoyed at the frequent demand for verbs ending in –ing, a seemingly unreasonable demand given that the commonest verbs in the English language—“run,” “eat,” and “swim,” for example—do not end in –ing. As a youth, Quentin beamed with pride whenever he thought of new –ing verbs—“bring,” “sing,” “spring,” “swing”—which he jotted down in a spiral notebook and kept hidden underneath his bed lest someone else reap the benefits of his work. The list scarcely made it to half a dozen words, and Quentin wasn’t even sure if “ching” counted. It wasn’t long before Quentin’s go-to list of verbs ending in –ing felt overused. Still, he felt resigned to use them, even as the words so often failed to make sense within the context of the stories they were meant to complement. Quentin chalked it up to the fact that Mad Libs thrive on being zany.
As an adult, Quentin felt obligated to take Mad Libs to the next level. In the most recent two weeks, Quentin had started timing his games, giving himself no longer than two minutes to fill in every blank on a given Mad Lib page. This put a great deal of pressure on Quentin’s brain, but he took pleasure in the adrenaline that seeped into his veins as a result. He also found that many of the Mad Libs turned out all the funnier because of the frantic pace with which he completed them. This was not so much because Quentin’s sense of humor and creativity were elevated during the timed games, but because the time constraints caused him to be sloppy. Quentin snorted when he once discovered that he had written “cringe” for a verb ending in –ing, and he laughed out loud when he saw moments later that he had written “sleeping” as a verb ending in –ing on the very same page. He was doubly delighted by the latter gaffe, since “sleeping” was clearly not the kind of verb ending in –ing that the writers of Mad Libs were seeking (it was, after all and properly speaking, a derivative of “sleep,” which does not end in –ing), and yet somehow, the word actually made sense within the context of the story! It was one of the first times this had happened for Quentin. (He made a mental note to send a letter to the publishers of Mad Libs recounting this tale of irony.)
On this morning’s commute, Quentin’s good spirits lasted just until the train passed Summoner’s Park, at which point Quentin turned the page to a particularly brutal game of Mad Libs and felt his enthusiasm dissipate like passed gas. Why, the whole page asked for no more nouns and adjectives than three and four, respectively. Other than that, the game insisted on quite a few verbs and adverbs, plus one name of a person in the room. Being on a train rather than in a room, Quentin was unsure of how to respond to the latter request. He ate up a good 30 seconds wondering if he should jot down his own name, the only name of anyone in the vicinity that he knew. He did eventually scribble “Quentin” onto the two-inch black line, but he felt he was bending the rules in doing so. He promised himself he would read the Mad Lib again once he was officially in a room if it turned out that his not being in a room made the story incoherent. Continuing on, Quentin sweated and strained to finish the puzzle. With 15 seconds to go, Quentin still had one verb ending in –ing and one adverb needing to be filled. Furiously tapping his feet and chewing on his bottom lip, Quentin racked his brain. 10 seconds remaining! “Sting!” his brain shouted at him, and Quentin’s eyes went wide. His shaking right hand manipulated the ballpoint pen across one of the empty lines. His gaze then fell to the lone void remaining at the bottom of the page. “C’mon, adverb! Adverb, adverb, adverb!” Quentin thought to himself.
Five seconds remaining!
Quentin wiped the sweat from his brow, his curly chestnut hair quickly becoming matted against his moist forehead. “Adverb! Like an adjective verb!” Quentin continued to prod himself.
Four seconds!
Nothing was coming to mind! Quentin groaned. The other passengers on the train glanced over at him in curiosity. Guttural moans were typically reserved for the sleeping and inebriated vagabonds who frequented the train. Only rarely were such bellows proffered by the business class, and typically that was just before the groaning individual made sick. Those nearest to Quentin scooted ever so slightly away from him, though he was too immersed his game to notice their impromptu, synchronous emigration.
Three seconds!
“I need an adverb! I need an adverb!” Quentin’s mind screamed at itself, but to no avail. His brain continued to give him the silent treatment.
Two seconds!
The consternation was too much. Quentin leaped from his seat and turned to his fellow passengers. Instinctually, the huddled mass of commuters looked up at him in rapt attention. Grabbing onto a handrail and steadying himself, Quentin cleared his throat and, with one second remaining, blurted aloud:
“I need an adverb! Quickly!”
July 17th marked the 18-month anniversary of Quentin’s daily train ride to work. He failed to notice this, but rode the train in an exceptionally jubilant mood that morning nonetheless. Quentin enjoyed his daily commute. Taking cues from his fellow passengers, Quentin had decided after his first week at Walton & Hestfield that the time spent on the train each morning should be passed either reading the morning paper or playing Sudoku. Quentin hadn’t so much as touched a newspaper since 2001, when as a freshman in high school, he was required to report on current events for his social science class. The weekly assignment had bored him extensively, and he now felt an adamant aversion to reading newspapers voluntarily. He opted for Sudoku, bought himself a thick little book of over 500 Sudoku puzzles at the local newsstand, and attempted to master the game over the next three weeks. Try as he might, Quentin eventually gave up on the game, finding it impossible to make the numbers in each three-by-three square add up to 9. On the 11th day of playing the game, he experienced momentary elation at the realization that plugging negative numbers into some of the squares might just be the secret to conquering the game. Sadly, Quentin successfully solved only one Sudoku puzzle, even after this grand discovery. (The winning game involved placing the value “n+1” in the upper left hand corner of the square, a move Quentin thought ingenious but was never able successfully to replicate.)
Waving the proverbial white flag at publishers of Sudoku puzzles everywhere, Quentin decided he would spend his morning commutes immersed in the puzzle game that had absorbed so much of his time as a kid—Mad Libs. Not being the brightest bushel in the shed (as Quentin sometimes said of others), Quentin was flustered by Mad Libs that required much more of his grammatical and syntactical prowess than the supplying of simple nouns and adjectives. He was particularly annoyed at the frequent demand for verbs ending in –ing, a seemingly unreasonable demand given that the commonest verbs in the English language—“run,” “eat,” and “swim,” for example—do not end in –ing. As a youth, Quentin beamed with pride whenever he thought of new –ing verbs—“bring,” “sing,” “spring,” “swing”—which he jotted down in a spiral notebook and kept hidden underneath his bed lest someone else reap the benefits of his work. The list scarcely made it to half a dozen words, and Quentin wasn’t even sure if “ching” counted. It wasn’t long before Quentin’s go-to list of verbs ending in –ing felt overused. Still, he felt resigned to use them, even as the words so often failed to make sense within the context of the stories they were meant to complement. Quentin chalked it up to the fact that Mad Libs thrive on being zany.
As an adult, Quentin felt obligated to take Mad Libs to the next level. In the most recent two weeks, Quentin had started timing his games, giving himself no longer than two minutes to fill in every blank on a given Mad Lib page. This put a great deal of pressure on Quentin’s brain, but he took pleasure in the adrenaline that seeped into his veins as a result. He also found that many of the Mad Libs turned out all the funnier because of the frantic pace with which he completed them. This was not so much because Quentin’s sense of humor and creativity were elevated during the timed games, but because the time constraints caused him to be sloppy. Quentin snorted when he once discovered that he had written “cringe” for a verb ending in –ing, and he laughed out loud when he saw moments later that he had written “sleeping” as a verb ending in –ing on the very same page. He was doubly delighted by the latter gaffe, since “sleeping” was clearly not the kind of verb ending in –ing that the writers of Mad Libs were seeking (it was, after all and properly speaking, a derivative of “sleep,” which does not end in –ing), and yet somehow, the word actually made sense within the context of the story! It was one of the first times this had happened for Quentin. (He made a mental note to send a letter to the publishers of Mad Libs recounting this tale of irony.)
On this morning’s commute, Quentin’s good spirits lasted just until the train passed Summoner’s Park, at which point Quentin turned the page to a particularly brutal game of Mad Libs and felt his enthusiasm dissipate like passed gas. Why, the whole page asked for no more nouns and adjectives than three and four, respectively. Other than that, the game insisted on quite a few verbs and adverbs, plus one name of a person in the room. Being on a train rather than in a room, Quentin was unsure of how to respond to the latter request. He ate up a good 30 seconds wondering if he should jot down his own name, the only name of anyone in the vicinity that he knew. He did eventually scribble “Quentin” onto the two-inch black line, but he felt he was bending the rules in doing so. He promised himself he would read the Mad Lib again once he was officially in a room if it turned out that his not being in a room made the story incoherent. Continuing on, Quentin sweated and strained to finish the puzzle. With 15 seconds to go, Quentin still had one verb ending in –ing and one adverb needing to be filled. Furiously tapping his feet and chewing on his bottom lip, Quentin racked his brain. 10 seconds remaining! “Sting!” his brain shouted at him, and Quentin’s eyes went wide. His shaking right hand manipulated the ballpoint pen across one of the empty lines. His gaze then fell to the lone void remaining at the bottom of the page. “C’mon, adverb! Adverb, adverb, adverb!” Quentin thought to himself.
Five seconds remaining!
Quentin wiped the sweat from his brow, his curly chestnut hair quickly becoming matted against his moist forehead. “Adverb! Like an adjective verb!” Quentin continued to prod himself.
Four seconds!
Nothing was coming to mind! Quentin groaned. The other passengers on the train glanced over at him in curiosity. Guttural moans were typically reserved for the sleeping and inebriated vagabonds who frequented the train. Only rarely were such bellows proffered by the business class, and typically that was just before the groaning individual made sick. Those nearest to Quentin scooted ever so slightly away from him, though he was too immersed his game to notice their impromptu, synchronous emigration.
Three seconds!
“I need an adverb! I need an adverb!” Quentin’s mind screamed at itself, but to no avail. His brain continued to give him the silent treatment.
Two seconds!
The consternation was too much. Quentin leaped from his seat and turned to his fellow passengers. Instinctually, the huddled mass of commuters looked up at him in rapt attention. Grabbing onto a handrail and steadying himself, Quentin cleared his throat and, with one second remaining, blurted aloud:
“I need an adverb! Quickly!”
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Potpourri No. 30
Random tidbits o’ life:
Ah, Summer
It’s February in Florida, which means the first signs of summer are upon us. As in years past, the shortest month in the calendar has given rise to the first sunbathers by the pool. Lately, I myself have been wearing t-shirts and shorts and driving with the A/C on. It’s uncomfortable not to, which sucks considering we’ve got about six months of steadily increasing temperatures to look forward to. Currently, afternoon temperatures have been reaching into the high 70’s, and tomorrow it’s supposed to top out at 79 degrees. Crazy!
So What Else is New?
Guess who’s sick? Trick question! The real question, of course and as always, is who’s the sickest? That’s a tough one right now. Melanie’s just starting to get over something terrible, and I think I might just be descending into it. In a family of five, it seems impossible to fully exorcise illness from the home, which sucks a donkey. I somehow thought I might scrape by this round with barely a scratch—or scratchy throat, I should say. My throat had been sore and swollen for a few days, but nothing major. It seemed to be getting better, but last night, my throat suddenly feels like it’s coated in sand. It’s not sore again, but it’s obnoxious and I’m occasionally seized with coughing fits that leave me seeing stars and tasting blood. I assume it’s salt and not blood, but I always think of blood when I’m hacking my lungs out and get that distinct flavor in my mouth. It would have to be snot, methinks. Or, maybe I’ve just got tuberculosis! LOL!
Taking Teaching to a Whole New Level
Some exciting (dreadful?) news this week: I’ve been given a teaching position for the latter part of the summer semester. That means I’ll have full responsibility of a class, the first time in several years that this has been the case. During my time at Georgia State, I taught seven classes completely on my own. But my teaching gig this summer will be quite different. First of all, I’ll have as much control over the course as a genuine professor would. At GSU, we grad students didn’t have much say over anything other than what work-appropriate clothes we wore while we taught. The syllabus, textbook, lesson schedule, exams, etc., were all selected and written for us. Very little was left up to us. At FSU, I’ll be calling the shots. That’s cool, but it’s also a lot more responsibility and work on my part, so I’m sure it will be stressful. But, funny enough, I think I’ll have a TA of my own to help me out. Wow, I’m growing up! But anyway, another huge difference between my time at GSU and my upcoming teaching gig is that I’ve now been assigned to teach a 3000-level class. A symbolic logic class, no less. Reductio ad absurdum! Symbolic logic is not my specialty, by any means, but I guess that’s beside the point as far as the department is concerned. It’s assumed that I know the material at this stage of the game, and of course, I do. I’ve taken symbolic logic twice, after all. (“I’ve been going to this high school for seven and a half years. I’m no dummy!”) I took it at the U of U even though I didn’t have to, and then I had to take it as part of my master’s program at GSU. I always kind of liked the subject and did exceptionally well with it, but it’s also one of the most intimidating subjects I’ve ever studied. It can easily confuse people, and I’m not excluded from that. I often have to think through matters of symbolic logic very slowly, and I can’t help wondering how inept I might sometimes appear to my students this summer. But that’s OK. It should be quite an experience teaching the class. An overwhelming but interesting and good experience.
It’s Official—I’m a Twit
Yup, I’ve made a Twitter account. Why? Why ask why? No reason, really. I decided to follow a bunch of celebrities just for the heck of it, and also because most of them excel at being witty in 140-characters or fewer. (Bam! Bet you thought I’d say “less”!) Probably everything I put on Twitter I’ll also put as a status update on Facebook, but in my experience, Facebook status updates are much easier to miss. One reason is the fact that Facebook friendships are practically meaningless, so people have way more Facebook friends than they could ever keep up with. Another reason is that status updates on Facebook have to compete with updates about someone’s horse dying on Farmtown or with the results of someone's survey to determine what kind of legume best captures their personality. (You are a garbanzo bean, but your besties call you chick pea!) On Twitter, depending on whom you follow, you’re not getting so much excess baggage and fluff. That’s nice … even if it is pointless.
Two-Line Poetry
While walking home from the bus stop the other day, I thought maybe I should start writing simple, two-line poems. It would give me a chance to be more artsy without demanding too much of my time. And, as we’ve all learned from haikus, short and simple can be truly beautiful, just like Dudley Moore. So, anyway, I came up with these gems. Hope you enjoy them!
The end!
Ah, Summer
It’s February in Florida, which means the first signs of summer are upon us. As in years past, the shortest month in the calendar has given rise to the first sunbathers by the pool. Lately, I myself have been wearing t-shirts and shorts and driving with the A/C on. It’s uncomfortable not to, which sucks considering we’ve got about six months of steadily increasing temperatures to look forward to. Currently, afternoon temperatures have been reaching into the high 70’s, and tomorrow it’s supposed to top out at 79 degrees. Crazy!
So What Else is New?
Guess who’s sick? Trick question! The real question, of course and as always, is who’s the sickest? That’s a tough one right now. Melanie’s just starting to get over something terrible, and I think I might just be descending into it. In a family of five, it seems impossible to fully exorcise illness from the home, which sucks a donkey. I somehow thought I might scrape by this round with barely a scratch—or scratchy throat, I should say. My throat had been sore and swollen for a few days, but nothing major. It seemed to be getting better, but last night, my throat suddenly feels like it’s coated in sand. It’s not sore again, but it’s obnoxious and I’m occasionally seized with coughing fits that leave me seeing stars and tasting blood. I assume it’s salt and not blood, but I always think of blood when I’m hacking my lungs out and get that distinct flavor in my mouth. It would have to be snot, methinks. Or, maybe I’ve just got tuberculosis! LOL!
Taking Teaching to a Whole New Level
Some exciting (dreadful?) news this week: I’ve been given a teaching position for the latter part of the summer semester. That means I’ll have full responsibility of a class, the first time in several years that this has been the case. During my time at Georgia State, I taught seven classes completely on my own. But my teaching gig this summer will be quite different. First of all, I’ll have as much control over the course as a genuine professor would. At GSU, we grad students didn’t have much say over anything other than what work-appropriate clothes we wore while we taught. The syllabus, textbook, lesson schedule, exams, etc., were all selected and written for us. Very little was left up to us. At FSU, I’ll be calling the shots. That’s cool, but it’s also a lot more responsibility and work on my part, so I’m sure it will be stressful. But, funny enough, I think I’ll have a TA of my own to help me out. Wow, I’m growing up! But anyway, another huge difference between my time at GSU and my upcoming teaching gig is that I’ve now been assigned to teach a 3000-level class. A symbolic logic class, no less. Reductio ad absurdum! Symbolic logic is not my specialty, by any means, but I guess that’s beside the point as far as the department is concerned. It’s assumed that I know the material at this stage of the game, and of course, I do. I’ve taken symbolic logic twice, after all. (“I’ve been going to this high school for seven and a half years. I’m no dummy!”) I took it at the U of U even though I didn’t have to, and then I had to take it as part of my master’s program at GSU. I always kind of liked the subject and did exceptionally well with it, but it’s also one of the most intimidating subjects I’ve ever studied. It can easily confuse people, and I’m not excluded from that. I often have to think through matters of symbolic logic very slowly, and I can’t help wondering how inept I might sometimes appear to my students this summer. But that’s OK. It should be quite an experience teaching the class. An overwhelming but interesting and good experience.
It’s Official—I’m a Twit
Yup, I’ve made a Twitter account. Why? Why ask why? No reason, really. I decided to follow a bunch of celebrities just for the heck of it, and also because most of them excel at being witty in 140-characters or fewer. (Bam! Bet you thought I’d say “less”!) Probably everything I put on Twitter I’ll also put as a status update on Facebook, but in my experience, Facebook status updates are much easier to miss. One reason is the fact that Facebook friendships are practically meaningless, so people have way more Facebook friends than they could ever keep up with. Another reason is that status updates on Facebook have to compete with updates about someone’s horse dying on Farmtown or with the results of someone's survey to determine what kind of legume best captures their personality. (You are a garbanzo bean, but your besties call you chick pea!) On Twitter, depending on whom you follow, you’re not getting so much excess baggage and fluff. That’s nice … even if it is pointless.
Two-Line Poetry
While walking home from the bus stop the other day, I thought maybe I should start writing simple, two-line poems. It would give me a chance to be more artsy without demanding too much of my time. And, as we’ve all learned from haikus, short and simple can be truly beautiful, just like Dudley Moore. So, anyway, I came up with these gems. Hope you enjoy them!
TURTLE SOUP
Suntan while you can, little turtle
For tonight, it’s turtle soup
SILENT REJECTION
I thought she’d never ask
Turns out I was right
Suntan while you can, little turtle
For tonight, it’s turtle soup
SILENT REJECTION
I thought she’d never ask
Turns out I was right
The end!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Putting My Scanner to Use
I admit. Sometimes I think I’m very funny. Probably a lot more often than anyone else does, but that’s okay. One such instance occurred just the other night, after Melanie and I had taken a grocery shopping trip to Wal-Mart. With it being late in the afternoon, we decided to buy something quick and easy for dinner, and so we purchased a couple of frozen pizzas that were on sale. One pizza (that I chose, unfortunately) was a Buffalo Chicken pizza. Now, I’ve always had the problem of thinking of Buffalo Chicken, Buffalo Wings, and other Buffalo treats as being barbecue based. I’ve thought this even though I’ve learned on more than one occasion that this is not true. Buffalo sauce is some kind of hot sauce based concoction, rather on the spicy side. And so, that’s what our pizza had all over it. This concerned us once we started eating because Melanie is breastfeeding Creegan and we didn’t want her to eat something that would ultimately upset our baby boy.
Now, I am anything but an artist, but I decided to draw a warning label that can be applied to all spicy foods to serve as a warning to breastfeeding mothers that the food in question is potentially dangerous to their young ones. I grabbed a napkin and a ballpoint pen and came up with this:
Of course, on the products, the picture will have to have a “jet” through it, like so:
For the record, Edison coined the phrase “jet” to refer to the familiar red circle with a line through it, indicating a warning. I don’t know why he started calling it a jet, but it’s stuck with us and now it seems like a good word for the thing.
Because I was using my scanner to take a picture of my napkin art, I thought I’d also scan the cover a book that Edison (or perhaps Peter) recently picked out from our local library. It’s a children’s book, but the cover is a bit unsettling. Even the title of the book seems all too easily to hint at something very perverse. I’m just glad there aren’t only two civil servants standing in the background, one Caucasian and one African-American, or I’d start thinking Mr. Levine and Ms. Lewin really are trying to corrupt our youth.
Thanks, and good night!
Now, I am anything but an artist, but I decided to draw a warning label that can be applied to all spicy foods to serve as a warning to breastfeeding mothers that the food in question is potentially dangerous to their young ones. I grabbed a napkin and a ballpoint pen and came up with this:
Of course, on the products, the picture will have to have a “jet” through it, like so:
For the record, Edison coined the phrase “jet” to refer to the familiar red circle with a line through it, indicating a warning. I don’t know why he started calling it a jet, but it’s stuck with us and now it seems like a good word for the thing.
Because I was using my scanner to take a picture of my napkin art, I thought I’d also scan the cover a book that Edison (or perhaps Peter) recently picked out from our local library. It’s a children’s book, but the cover is a bit unsettling. Even the title of the book seems all too easily to hint at something very perverse. I’m just glad there aren’t only two civil servants standing in the background, one Caucasian and one African-American, or I’d start thinking Mr. Levine and Ms. Lewin really are trying to corrupt our youth.
Thanks, and good night!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Philosophy on Fire
With me being a philosopher and my sons (especially Eddie) being so into firefighters lately, I found the following spoof news article from The Onion particularly amusing. Give it a read!
Existentialist Firefighter Delays 3 Deaths
*Note: what I do in philosophy is far from existentialism. Please don’t think my career revolves around the sentiments expressed in this article!
Existentialist Firefighter Delays 3 Deaths
*Note: what I do in philosophy is far from existentialism. Please don’t think my career revolves around the sentiments expressed in this article!
Thursday, April 01, 2010
For the Fools Who Read My Blog
In the spirit of April Fool’s Day, I thought I’d share a couple of items from “America’s finest news source,” The Onion. I frequently find The Onion’s humor to be quite poignant, and I fear this first item all too believably captures the attitudes of many present-day American parents. Click the below headline to see the article in full:
Increasing Number of Parents Opting to Have Children School-Homed
The second item is a video news clip with an existential bent. As a philosopher, I probably get an extra kick out of it.
Scientists Successfully Teach Gorilla It Will Die Someday
Here’s hoping you’ve had a good laugh.
Increasing Number of Parents Opting to Have Children School-Homed
The second item is a video news clip with an existential bent. As a philosopher, I probably get an extra kick out of it.
Scientists Successfully Teach Gorilla It Will Die Someday
Here’s hoping you’ve had a good laugh.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Drive-Thru Service, Indeed!
You know your city has serious prostitution problems when you see a sign like this…
(See? I knew having a camera in my cell phone would come in handy!)
(See? I knew having a camera in my cell phone would come in handy!)
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Big Laughs, Courtesy of Eddie
Just moments ago, the family and I were gathered around the dining table enjoying some chocolate chip cookies that Melanie and Edison had made. Peter was requesting another, and I said something about him already having a chunk of cookie in his milk. The following interchange then occurred:
Eddie: What’s a chunk?
Me: It’s a big piece of something.
Eddie: Oh! Kind of like you’re big, so you’re a chunk!
Me: Right.
Funny enough, just yesterday, as we were driving home from the mall after getting a family portrait taken, the following occurred. Melanie was singing “The Joker” by Steve Miller Band. She sang the line, “Some people call me a space cowboy.” Eddie, who’s a fan of changing words in songs as a matter of being funny, then sang, “Some people call me a fat cowboy!”
It’s even funnier because Eddie’s not choosing the word “fat” to be especially silly. He’ll throw in any word and consider it a good joke. He’s not thinking at all about what the new words mean (or don’t mean) or how they change the meaning of the lyrics overall—it’s just funny to change the words. He went on to sing things like, “Some people call me a truck cowboy” and even less sensible things, and he laughed just as hard at himself. But “fat” was too perfect a place to start. I was rolling … you know, because round chunks roll.
Eddie: What’s a chunk?
Me: It’s a big piece of something.
Eddie: Oh! Kind of like you’re big, so you’re a chunk!
Me: Right.
Funny enough, just yesterday, as we were driving home from the mall after getting a family portrait taken, the following occurred. Melanie was singing “The Joker” by Steve Miller Band. She sang the line, “Some people call me a space cowboy.” Eddie, who’s a fan of changing words in songs as a matter of being funny, then sang, “Some people call me a fat cowboy!”
It’s even funnier because Eddie’s not choosing the word “fat” to be especially silly. He’ll throw in any word and consider it a good joke. He’s not thinking at all about what the new words mean (or don’t mean) or how they change the meaning of the lyrics overall—it’s just funny to change the words. He went on to sing things like, “Some people call me a truck cowboy” and even less sensible things, and he laughed just as hard at himself. But “fat” was too perfect a place to start. I was rolling … you know, because round chunks roll.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Now That's What I Call Streaming Video!
As always, I feel too busy to update my blog, but I keep wishing I could. Unfortunately for you, that means you're getting a cheap and easy post today. Below, you will find a clip from YouTube that is certifiably hilarious. I couldn't help but laugh repeatedly as I watched it. It's not so much the juvenile, scatological humor as it is the absurdity of looping the same four-and-a-half seconds of film, forward and backward, for a full ten minutes. It's utterly ridiculous, and I love it. It reminds me of the film-making techniques my friends and I would use when making stupid movies in high school. Sigh. Good times.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Smoking: Why Not?
Smoking: Why Not?
A Reasoned Response to the Current Anti-Smoking Trend in 21st-Century American Thought
A Reasoned Response to the Current Anti-Smoking Trend in 21st-Century American Thought
Smoking gets a bum rap. All you hear nowadays is, “Smoking causes cancer, blah blah blah.” Well, you know what I say? Carcinogens, shmarshminagins! Here’s what all those hyped up, fascist, anti-smokers out there will not tell you. Those who smoke have a veritable license to litter! They can literally litter and it does not matter! How cool is that??? But does anyone tell you this when they’re passing out the “Dare to Be Drug Free” t-shirts in fifth grade? When they start brainwashing you, at the tender age of four or five, to “just say no”? Ironically, I’m forced to “just say no” to that question! Here, you turn on the TV and CNN’s telling you that cigarettes cause everything from emphysema to low birth weight (hello! I’m already born!) to “yellow” fingernails, but nobody’s promoting the fact that, whether you’re just a social smoker or a chain smoker who downs three packs of cigarettes a day, you’re endowed with a special privilege that only a select few of the U.S. population enjoy – the right to treat the world like your own personal garbage can! And who would want to pass that up?!? Granted, just because you smoke, it doesn’t mean you can get away with littering just anything. You’re still an A-hole if you drop a McChicken wrapper out of your driver-side window as you cruise down Main Street. But only smokers know the pleasure of littering something without having to let it weigh on their conscience. And I don’t think we should be so quick to pass that up.
I’ll tell you what I think’s going on. I think congress is chock full of chain smokers who do not want to share the metaphorical wealth. They want to retain the special privilege of littering their cigarette butts anywhere they please all for their dang selves. That’s why cigarettes are kept under lock and key and can’t even be purchased by 18-year-old adults! Adults, people! You know, as in fully grown, mature, and reasonable!!! What is this, communist Russia!?! Nope, the lawmakers up on the hill want to make you wait another year before you can start huffing and puffing, just so they feel a little bit more special for a little bit longer. And that’s why they outlawed everything that could tip a kid off to the coolness of smoking! Joe Camel? The dromedary equivalent of Don Johnson? (Remember him? Either of them?) Too cool for school, they said! Yanked all the Camel ads out of the elementary schools! Can’t put him in a commercial, but you sure can put some dude with a hole in his neck telling you not to smoke in a commercial! That’s fine and dandy! Nothing wrong with showing a three-year-old that, is there! And candy cigarettes? Can’t have those! They make kids feel grown up and special! That’s a no-no! Kids aren’t special! You’re all the same! You don’t know anything yet! Just listen to us adults and repeat what we say! Don’t think for yourselves! Phooey on you, Congress! I say it’s about time we start lightening up about lighting up!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Potty Humor for the Whole Family
I have always been a fan of writing little songs and jingles. Some time ago, I found myself singing this little ditty:
You see me coming your way
And you like the way I dance
But there’s something you don’t know
I’m going in my pants
For whatever unknown (and thankfully not too directly related) reason, this song returned to my mind this morning, and I found myself singing it at the breakfast table. Soon enough, Edison turned the straw for his hot chocolate into a makeshift microphone and started belting out the last line of the song: “I’m going in my pants!”
Melanie and I were quite amused and laughed heartily. As soon as Edison sang the line, he turned to me and asked, “What does that mean?” I explained in delicate and not so many words that sometimes if a person doesn’t utilize the toilet, they utilize their trousers.
Apparently the song is quite catchy, as Edison then spent the next while singing his own rendition of the song. I quite like the changes he made. Eddie’s version goes like this:
When you don’t go in the bathroom,
I go in your pants!
I laughed harder this morning than I have in a long time.
I do not claim to be a perfect role model for my children.
You see me coming your way
And you like the way I dance
But there’s something you don’t know
I’m going in my pants
For whatever unknown (and thankfully not too directly related) reason, this song returned to my mind this morning, and I found myself singing it at the breakfast table. Soon enough, Edison turned the straw for his hot chocolate into a makeshift microphone and started belting out the last line of the song: “I’m going in my pants!”
Melanie and I were quite amused and laughed heartily. As soon as Edison sang the line, he turned to me and asked, “What does that mean?” I explained in delicate and not so many words that sometimes if a person doesn’t utilize the toilet, they utilize their trousers.
Apparently the song is quite catchy, as Edison then spent the next while singing his own rendition of the song. I quite like the changes he made. Eddie’s version goes like this:
When you don’t go in the bathroom,
I go in your pants!
I laughed harder this morning than I have in a long time.
I do not claim to be a perfect role model for my children.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Literal Video
Some comedic geniuses have created a series of (well, two so far) “literal videos.” The idea is this: take a music video, strip it of its original vocal track, and insert a new vocal track featuring lyrics that more fully and accurately capture the goings-on of the accompanying video. It’s actually quite funny, and it’s all the better that the targeted videos thus far have been 1980s pop classics. Here is the literal video version of “Head Over Heels,” by one of my favorite 80s bands, Tears for Fears:
Prior to the “Head Over Heels” video, the literal video team had their way with A-ha’s “Take On Me,” commonly regarded as one of the awesomest music videos of all time. The result was not quite as humorous, but it has its moments. Take a look:
See more funny videos at Funny or Die
Prior to the “Head Over Heels” video, the literal video team had their way with A-ha’s “Take On Me,” commonly regarded as one of the awesomest music videos of all time. The result was not quite as humorous, but it has its moments. Take a look:
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