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Why Am I Late?

YouTube Contest to Sell a Brick

The Best Part About Being a Middle Manager is the Women

	Cake - The Distance .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

I would say I have a trophy wife, but that's not really accurate. She's more of a plaque wife.

Cupid, Please Occasionally Aim at Reasonable Targets

That song lyric, "Lookin' for love in all the wrong places," popped into my head the other day.

I thought, "I hope that only 99% of the places that I'm looking for love are wrong."

Excerpt From a First Date

"Another thing you should know about me is that in a few months, I am starting an untitled, avant-garde theater-of-life piece in which I repeatedly crap my pants in public. Cool right? I'm an idea guy."

American Jockstrap Disassociation

	fleetwood mac - don't stop .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

 

I see the license plate that says, "Support Law Enforcement," and I am reminded of the license plate I designed for the American Jockstrap Association: "Support Male Genitalia."

Clearly, there's a big difference between what my promotional material is supporting and what the law-enforcement plate is supporting. While the two plates agree on the imperative, and the transitive function of "support" (and these are substantial agreements), we disagree or at least choose a different focus regarding the predicate complement, the law enforcement people choosing of course "law enforcement," and me, a huge supporter of especially scrotums, choosing "male genitalia."

Since both the law enforcement people and I are requesting the same action for different purposes, it is only fair to consider which cause is more important. When I put enforcement and genitalia up side-by-side, the answer is obvious. Enforcement.

With the help of enforcement, support does not exist in a vacuum; it becomes a part of a symbiotic relationship. Support enforcement, and then in turn, support can be enforced. 

In order for this process to work correctly, we need to write male genitalia support into law. In order for that to happen, all we need is a phone bank and a little bit of passion. Let's do this.

Tennis Balls that Smell Like Halitosis

	Neil Diamond and Barbara Streisand - You don't bring me flowers .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Something I'd never thought to do, but that is apparently important, is to smell things when buying them used. Clothing, of course. But even things you wouldn't expect -- like tennis balls.

I went to a sporting goods store to search for a couple of tennis balls to put inside a sock that I would then tie up and put underneath my neck to give myself a neck massage by sort of rolling around on it on the ground. A masseuse recommended this at one point. She said something to the effect of, "Replace me with tennis balls."

In the store, I noticed a definite stench at the used tennis ball bin. I didn't quite know what to make of it, but I (wrongly) assumed that if I just grabbed a couple of balls and went on my way, the stench would not come with me.

I tossed the bag containing the balls into my backseat and drove across the street to the Salvation Army to purchase a couple of pairs of tan pants for work. My boss has been telling me to do this for about four months. Here I was focused entirely on two things: size and stainlessness. These two parameters met to my satisfaction with two pairs of tan slacks, I went on my way.

I first noticed a problem when taking the tennis balls out of the bag. I was hit with a wave of a smell I could not quite place. At first I thought, "Damn, disgustingness." I smelled it again to make sure it was as horrible as I initially thought. I reasoned, "Sweaty gym bag."

I placed both tennis balls, although it seemed only one was problematic, in some soapy water in my sink. I realized (as I suppose I have had experience with before) that tennis balls float in water and that this creates problems when attempting to wash them. Always the problem solver, I determined that I would periodically rotate the tennis balls in the water so that all sides would get decontaminated.

To my horror, the smell became worse, like a wet dog. I started to identify with the smell a little bit, feeling somehow responsible for it since I had purchased the problem tennis ball. I had to keep reminding myself that the smell was not my doing -- that though I did own the tennis ball, I did not have to claim the smell as my own.

As I thought about wet dogs, I came to my final conclusion: halitosis. Canine halitosis. A dog had had that tennis ball in its mouth, a dog that had probably been eating its own feces. Awesome.

I pulled my pants out of the bag, at this point generally wanting a respite from stenches. No such luck. Another odor of bodily fluids stole into my nostrils. Acridity. Urine. Really, urine? Well, yeah, some people piss their pants, and one of those people used to own these ones. Not cool, dude, but I guess that's what (among other things) washing machines are for.

Over the next 24 hours, I repeatedly smelled the tennis ball and the pants. Canine halitosis and urine? Yes and yes.

All is well though now -- Once dry, the tennis ball seemed somewhat improved; now held within the confines of a thick sock, it cannot hurt me anymore. The tan pants, tested with the to-do list item, "Smell crotch of tan pants once washed," now smell like industrial laundry solvent.

Lessons like this are good and bad I guess. Now I will be the guy walking through the yard sale, inhaling everything, and possibly learning a little more about the guy behind the card table.  Really, fecal matter on a board game? As I investigate once more, I will know the answer: no Parcheesi for me.

Patriotism Version 78.492.6

 

	Words: Cecil Frances Alexander, Music: Old English tune - All Things Bright and Beautiful .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

 

I went to a few Tampa Bay Rays games last year, and I will go out and watch a basketball game with a friend from time to time.

However, I have always found excessive zeal for sports teams owned by rich people a little nauseating, plebeians dutifully buying up all the paraphernalia and lining the pockets of some scumbag who "always used to like baseball when I was a kid and always dreamed of owning my own black people... I mean team."

Stating that zeal almost like a political perspective is an interesting twist. "SUPPORT THE RAYS" -- this is what it says on an auto mechanic's placard on MLK Avenue in St. Petersburg.

The basic idea here, I assume, is that the local economy depends on the success of this business enterprise/sports team. It's like a brainwashed feudal serf -- "We can only be strong if we all support our lord!"

The economy will collapse if we don't pour our money into the coffers of the Harperstown Wombats! Pour, pour, pour! Keep pouring until it starts to make sense! Until your wife loves you again! Until your life feels rich and meaningful! Here, have another pint of mead, whatever the hell this stuff is.

Food, Beer, Sex, Food, Beer, Sex

	Johnny Cash - Rusty Cage .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Habituation. Booze, nicotine, sugar, caffeine, sex, TV, the Internet, videogames, cell phones.

Habituation. Repeating the same process, robotically, allowing the mind to submit to the security of the train track when there are fields that we could be running across, when there is terrain to explore.

Habituation. The immobile masses, huddled in a perpetual state of fear. The experience of constant fear requires that high anxiety must rise not just from turbulence, but also from a calm and quiet sea.

Habituation. Afraid of calm, afraid of quiet, afraid of boredom, afraid of our own dull company. Like fitful children, refusing to sit still. Reaching for another "pick me up," spiritless lemmings skipping toward death with crazed smiles on our faces.

Habituation. I want out.

Customer Service in the Age of Aquarius

	HAIR - Age of Aquarius .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Customer: I need this problem to be solved, and I need this problem to be solved now.

Counterperson: I agree that this is important, more important for instance than me earning a living wage.

Customer: Have you read The Fountainhead? I am really upset about this inconsequential thing to an extreme, severely self-absorbed degree.

Counterperson: Ma'am, let me get the manager. Maybe he cares.

Manager: Yes, ma'am, what seems to be the problem.

Customer: First of all, the thesis of Atlas Shrugged. Second of all, my father used to beat me. I want a full refund-- at least of this product, preferably of my whole life.

Manager: How do I put this -- I don't get paid enough to care about what you're saying, but I do get paid enough to care if you tell my boss that I don't care.

Customer: I've gotten so involved in this conversation, I've forgotten, what exactly does your company do?

Manager: We sell mushrooms.

Customer: Oh, I'm sorry. I should probably lighten up.

Manager: Yeah, I'm not actually a manager. The counterperson and I are the same person. Plus, you are standing inside my dingy apartment.

Customer: Oh, I thought you were just twins. And I guess I was under the impression that I was in a store.

Manager: Nope, same guy. We both live here.

Customer: Wow, that's really embarrassing.

Manager: Don't worry about it. We get it all the time.