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swimming upstream And then my mind left the room. Just like that. Without nary a goodbye, it simply got up and walked out. It was right after that astounding moment when the words "removing variability from upstream operations that are inputs to a process will yield defect-free outputs" were uttered from the mouth of the speaker. I think it was the shock that made my mind leave. Up until that moment, things were going, well...peachy. The drone of the speaker on the conference call had lulled me into a sense of secure quietness. My mind had curled up into a corner and proceeded to fall asleep. It was that one-eye-open-ear-twitching kind of sleep much like the family pet that tries to stay alert in case Grandpa was to step on it's tail. Or fart. My hand wandered aimlessly as I left-clicked, left-clicked, left-clicked my way around the world. Occasionally I would throw in a right-click or even a quick scroll-wheel down followed by a series of left-clicks just to make sure my mind wouldn't lapse into a complete comatose state. That would be inconvenient. And then the words were spoken and my mind woke up and left. It was cold this morning. The temperature gauge said -14C in it's usual dead pan way. Measurement of cold on your skin is calculated by how the air feels against it. Wind chill factors were absolutely giddy at -21C. The wipers were frozen to the windshield. The shock absorbers were frozen by apathy and the fact that they were close to the end of their hurried lives. I felt like a bobble head inside a clothes dryer on the drive to work. They're taping magnets to crocodiles heads to keep them from returning to a South Florida neighborhood. I can see it now. Frenzied crocs stuck to cars whizzing down the highway. Yes, that's one way to stop them from returning isn't it? It's Fat Tuesday which can only mean one thing. Carnival in Rio and Mardi Gras in New Orleans. And in the spirit of fatness, from the department of "I've never seen one's as big as that before!" I leave you with the following image.  observational mutteringsIf you drive a late model Honda Accord, chances are you are an idiot. If the windows are tinted, you qualify for a free upgrade to fucking moron. Gnosiophobia is the fear of knowledge. I'm afraid of the gnome that lives under my bed. He gnaws all night and messes with my head. grey grazingSitting in traffic, my thoughts drift along with the clouds of vapor belching from the slowly moving cars ahead. Like a funeral procession for snails we creep along the frozen tarmac coloured a dirty white from the salt and drifting snow.
What's the difference between partly cloudy with sunny periods and partly sunny with cloudy periods? The world around me is reduced to monotones of greys and whites. Even the evergreens, cloaked in snow have taken on a grey-green tint for which Debbie Travis must have a creative name for.
I would like to be a meteorologist. I'd like to throw weather darts against a weather dart board and fuck up the day of the general paying public. That's how it's done isn't it?
Deep within the bowels of some indistinct building, Larry passes through two separate security doors. The steel doors hiss open and close with a small puff of wind with each swipe of his electronic pass. He is carrying a precious load balanced precariously on a precisely engineered tray. There is still a long sterile corridor through which he must walk down. His footsteps echo and crack against the glossy walls. His destination is one last door ahead of him looming larger with each hurried step. Fluorescent tubes crackle and hum above. His mission is almost over. Just one more swipe of his card. The Card.
Larry bares his Card with pride and determination. It took him years of peddling and pandering to fat men in starched Moore's suits and thin-lipped women dressed in black slacks and suit jackets
(Fairweather's, 40% off) to get this point. He carries this Card around his neck like a rosary. Stroking it several times a day in a mantra of self-admiration and gratification. The last door swished open with the same hiss of pneumatic jacks and well oiled gears as the previous entryways. He blinks to adjust his eyes to the muted glow of the large almost barren room.
Heads turn toward Larry and voices erupt in a symphony of praise and joy
"Hey, coffee's here"
"Man, that took you long enough"
"Did they have chocolate glaze?"
"Damn! I love the smell of Timmies in the morning"
Larry beamed. A smile as wide as his chubby cheeks would allow made his face glow with happiness. One of them approached him to take the precious cargo off his hands. Fred was like that. An endearing man with an unassuming face, his hair had long abandoned him for the deep recesses of the bathtub drain. But he wore the remaining strands like streamers at a birthday party. With a little effort, the dark strips contrasted well against his shiny pate like an abstract painting. He held before him a pointed object, sharply tipped on one end and feathered on the other. It was a dart. Not just any dart. The Dart.
"Here you go Larry. You know what to do".
Yes of course Larry knew what to do. Today, Wednesday, just like every other Wednesday for the past seven years, it was his turn to throw The Dart against the Weather Board. It was his turn to make sure that this small light weight object, flew from his fingers with precision that belied the weight of the world in it's missile-like shape. It was time to predict the weather.
Larry took a deep breath as a chorus of angels erupted inside his head. Mozart's Ave verum corpus in Technicolor-colour. Larry approached The Board. dong work for yuda*"He said Dong
was Wong, 'N Wong was Kong 'N Dong work for Yuda, 'N John was wrong" ~Frank Zappa
Every morning I wake up and scratch myself. I'm a man, deal with it. If I am in an especially playful mood, I might even sneak in a quick squeeze or two. It helps me wake up smiling. I like my penis. I have grown quite attached to it. I take good care of it. I take it out often for some fresh air and sunlight and play with it at least once a day. I do right unto it and it does right to me. I've been told it fits just right in certain places and curves to the left in an oh-so-cute way. This makes me smile too. But as much as I love my penis, there's a limit to my adoration and infatuation. For example, I would not pull it out in a public bus and try to introduce it to the nice lady in the window seat. That would not be cricket. Neither will I try to talk to it while examining fresh cucumbers in the local grocery store. See, common sense does prevail.
The Nazca people of South America carved giant animals in the desert a thousand years ago. There is still a mystery over the origins and even today scientists cannot agree how this primitive race managed to create these huge carvings with such precision. Popular theory is that it was an attempt to communicate with extra-terrestrials. I find it fascinating and stunningly impressive. I often wonder if we will ever find the answer in our lifetime.
Modern man however has less of an inclination to aspire to such great ambitions. Give a bunch of men too much to drink and the levels of creativity become directly inverted to the proportion of alcohol consumed. An Arizona man was notified by a news crew that he had a giant penis painted on his roof. Turns out it was the work of his drunken friends.
Now granted, had I been told that I had a giant penis painted on my roof, I would have been suitably surprised but I certainly would not have equated it this way:
'It was like a hit of coffee or something in the face. A penis on the roof. I was like, huh? Are you serious?'
Are you serious? Is that the best you could do?
I know I could've come up with a much more illustrious explanation. For example, I would've clutched my crotch and exclaimed, "so it wasn't a dream!". I would have then proceeded to tell them how an alien ship landed on my lawn one night and a group of bare-breasted ET's accosted me while I slept. How they dragged me on to the roof (doing it under the shadow of Orion and all that) and proceeded to have their way with me. Bodies and limbs and appendages merged in a frenzy of mad lust. Afterwards, as we basked in the after-glow and Ursa Major shone her light upon our naked glistening bodies, the bare-breasted aliens rolled me over and proceeded to chalk my member on to the cold hard roof. "bxtsj tht whsgfh t orught y scl fflabzbn", they chanted as they worked, giggling and jostling each other as their breasts bounced merrily in the starlight. This loosely translated as, 'the fallacy of a flaccid phallus is as false as a fflabzbn'. A Fflabzbn being a mythological creature of their planet much akin to our Dodo. It pays to imaginative...you never know when you'll need it.
no punch-line!
Being human does have it's limitations doesn't it. As imaginative as we are, real life has a habit of making us humble. Mere servants of reality we are. Supplicants of existence in this fucked up world we call home. I must admit that every now and then, even I cannot come up with a punch line worthy of an event. Take this picture.
Of course a dozen questions went through my head when I saw it. At first there were the obvious ones: why are they wearing hats? Are the seats still attached? Are there seats? Then came the more scholarly debates. Shouldn't the man be at the back? Is there actual penetration? Is someone or something being violated? Being bored I decided to google 'bicycle + sex'. I wish I didn't. Did you know that a person who enjoys having sex with a bicycle is known as a cycle-sexual? The bastards! they stole my punch-line!! Freddy Mercury, is there something you never told us? "I want to ride my bicycle/I want to ride my bike" why is henry smiling?In the news the other day was a story about a contractor that was caught flagrante delicato with a vacuum cleaner.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2008/03/03/nhoover103.xml
I say bad Henry!
He was caught naked and kneeling in front of Henry Hoover and claimed that he was vacuuming his trousers when a security guard stumbled on the amorous encounter. Now the thing that gets me is that how did it get to this point. Did the contractor see Henry’s smiling face and that oh-so-long-and-irresistable-proboscis and think naughty thoughts?
According to the manual, Henry Hoover is "famous for its looks, but under its fascia lies a powerful, reliable vacuum cleaner ready to go time and time again." See, there's the problem. Every day this contractor would hold onto Henry's vibrating throbbing hose and it would make suggestive sucking noises as he worked the floor. It's easy to see how one could get distracted into feelings of romantic intent. Henry would suck and swallow anything in it's path. No complaints, no spitting, no chocking. No requests for bling-bling. Time and time again. Just one smiling sucking machine.
If I was the judge, I would've absolved the contractor of all charges.
"Mutual nasal copulation, grounds for exoneration!"
cadaver anyone?
I'm sorry......to the person that searched for 'who invented Reeses Pieces' and ended up here. Although I would not have used the word invented in my query and I'm sure you didn't find the answer here, there are a few things that you could do with chocolate and peanut butter:
Thank you for visiting. Please come again ...tright
The Committee for Refrigerator Ethics (CoRE) has decided that once the surface of jello has taken on a wrinkled appearance, much like grandpa's foreskin, it can be safely removed and discarded. A shame really, it was fascinating to look at every time I opened the fridge. It jiggled seductively with every movement. It gave me pause as I pondered the possibility of consuming the blue experiment. But common sense prevailed. It had to go. Sigh. There will be others just like it I am sure, following valiantly along in its unsteady footsteps.
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