I'm not quite sure what happens to me when I have to leave a voicemail for someone. All of the sudden I have a severe personality disorder. I really can't control it.
Once the phone hits the 3rd ring, everything changes. This is the moment when you start to question if the person is actually around. If by chance, the person does pick up after 3 rings, it always catches you off guard. Why? I mean you are the one placing the phone call, shouldn't you be expecting to actually talk to that person. In those situations I always end up saying something like "woah...I thought I wasn't going to get you." Then I seem like a dummy who goes around calling people with nothing good to say.
I will argue, though, that it is actually worse when the person doesn't pick up. After that 3rd ring, the idea that the person isn't there enters you mind. Quickly, you begin thinking about leaving a message. The whole voicemail process is antagonizing--while the phone is still ringing, you are sure that your party will not pick up and begin to organize the message in your head. Then you hear that little "click" sound of the voicemail picking up. I think this sound is solely to create confusion on the part of the caller. It breaks your chain of though, letting you think for a split second that maybe the person is actually going to pick up. Alas, you realize that you have, indeed, reached a voicemail. You listen to the person's message, sure that you are ready to leave them an awesome voicemail. Then the anticipation reaches its peak--maybe you even try to start leaving your message--until you hear that stupid computer lady explaining to you how to actually leave a voicemail.
Let's face it: it's just about 2010. I'm pretty sure no one needs instructions on how to leave a voicemail. But still, you listen to those instructions and wait for the tone with words ready to jump out of your mouth.
A curious thing happens, though, with the sound of the beep. That little sound causes me to become a complete idiot and say things that I would never actually say in a conversation. Voicemail creates a monster out of all of us. The worst part, though, is figuring out exactly how to end your message. At this point, you know you've already said things that make you sound like a dad, and the stress just keeps on building as you try to figure out how to sign off. Can you say goodbye on voicemail? I mean who are you even saying bye to? Do you just say "ok." and hang up? Or maybe "talk to you soon," or "call me back."
For me all of these questions race through my mind as I ask myself why I sound so stupid; my sign off usually ends up combining about 50 salutations--one of them is bound to work. So I say something like "ok, well bye. Call me back. I'll talk to you soon. I can't wait to hear from you. Um yeah bye. OK. We'll talk soon. Bye."
Stupid voicemail.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Abbrevs...
"Please arrive a few minutes early to load your PP in the conference room (bring your PP on a stick)"
Yeah that's an actual quote from an email I received today. Maybe I have the sense of humor of an 8 year old child, or maybe abbreviations have gone too far...
Some people are way too into abbreviations. Sure we can all handle acronyms here and there to speed up the information transfer process, but seriously, like make-up on a high school girl, less is more...
There are three types of abbreviators : the annoying teen, the 40+ boss, and the "abbreviate-practically-everything" friend, or the APE.
1. The annoying teen--we won't even go here, you know exactly who and what I'm talking about. If you are ever having a day when you feel young and stupid, just read one of those little shit's text messages. Better yet, read this. (Boy is that helpful; I can't tell you how many times I've texted "All We Need Is Another Chair" when I could've just written AWNIAC or "Buy Abroad but Rent in Britain," "I am Not Nurturing the Next Generation of Casualties," or "Owing To A Slight Oversight In Construction." All this time I could've been abbreviating these common, often-texted phrases.)
2. The 40+ Boss--yeah, you know the one I'm talking about mmmmmmmkay. He asks you to give him "the docs when you have a few secs" so he can "shoot that email out asap." This guy is always having a "barbie" at his house, throwing some "burgs and dogs" on the grill. This guy seriously believes that using shortened words somehow makes him cooler and less boss like. Well, he's wrong because it makes his sound like a giant tool.
3. The APE--The APE is a special character. This person somehow abbreviates everything she says (let's face it, the APE is usually a lady). "O-M-G I'm in a new relaysh with this tote hot guy. He is amaze. We had a delish din-din last night. I wore this gorge dress, it looked awesome! Woah, this whole sitch is cray-cray, I can't believe we met on craigs." Perhaps the weirdest thing about the APE is that when she drinks or gets excited, rather than abbreviate everything, she elongates each word. "Ooooooooo-myyyyyyyy-gooooooddddddddd."
But really, what this all boils down to is: perhaps PowerPoint needs a new abbreviation...Last I checked it was inappropriate to show your PP to a room full a people, so we should probably stop encouraging that...
Monday, September 21, 2009
Frozen Specialties: a pube in the freezer
I've been doing a lot of moving lately. When I moved into my newest place, the first thing I did was place some frozen food (thanks mom!) in the freezer. To my surprise the freezer was not empty, as I had expected. It had one thing left in it from the previous tenant: a pubic hair. The image was not unlike a surrealist painting: a stark white background with one small, curly, black line just left of the center. Jasper Johns would have probably painted a still life of the scene entitled Lone Pube in the Freezer.
I find this incident rather mind boggling, and I still question how it happened. How did a pube end up in the freezer? I'm not sure I'll ever know the answer to that question, but this incident brings up a great point: pubic hair appears to have a magical quality that allows it to travel great distances on its own, defy gravity, and zap itself into the most random places (i.e. the freezer).
Stop and think about this fact for one moment and you will probably recall countless times when you asked yourself, "how did that pube get there?" How did that pube end up on your keyboard, on your dashboard, on the seat next to you on the train, on the ceiling of a taxi cab? Seriously though, how did it? I am currently waiting to hear the results of the grant funded series of experiments entitled "Rogue Pubic Hair: The Study of Movement Among Pubic Hairs" to get the answers to these questions. I believe Albert Einstein began research on this topic, but was forced to put it on the back burner as he developed "more important research" (come on government, what is more important than discovering how and why pubes are everywhere?). In the remainder of this post, I will explain the two competing hypotheses for the curious movements of pubic hair. Remember these are just scientific guesses that still need to be tested.
1. Perhaps all pubes have a magnetic charge. Like a game of Wooly Willy, those tiny little hairs follow the magnetic force wherever it may be. The magnetic power allows them to climb walls and travel distances. Maybe if we never picked up a stray pube after a few years, the refrigerator would be covered with them, just maybe. Scientists are testing this theory by placing magnets on various bathroom floors.
2. A more likely explanation, though, for the curious movement of pubes has to do with fairies. Each night, a team of fairies (they are small creatures so it takes a pair to lift each pube) finds stray pubes and hides them throughout one's living or work space. Fairies like to play games. They also love Where's Waldo (a little known fact). Scientists believe this is how fairies play with people; they believe the fairies call the game Peculiarly Placed Pube and see how long it takes people to find the pubes (This hypothesis comes from the discovery of a new Rosetta Stone like legend depicting tiny fairies placing short, thin strings on computers, carpets, desks, and in cars--though researchers are unaware as to the origins of what they call "The Pube Pictures." ).
I understand this may be difficult to believe, but these are theories presented by scientists, and until scientific testing yields results voiding these theories, how else might you explain a pube in the freezer?
I find this incident rather mind boggling, and I still question how it happened. How did a pube end up in the freezer? I'm not sure I'll ever know the answer to that question, but this incident brings up a great point: pubic hair appears to have a magical quality that allows it to travel great distances on its own, defy gravity, and zap itself into the most random places (i.e. the freezer).
Stop and think about this fact for one moment and you will probably recall countless times when you asked yourself, "how did that pube get there?" How did that pube end up on your keyboard, on your dashboard, on the seat next to you on the train, on the ceiling of a taxi cab? Seriously though, how did it? I am currently waiting to hear the results of the grant funded series of experiments entitled "Rogue Pubic Hair: The Study of Movement Among Pubic Hairs" to get the answers to these questions. I believe Albert Einstein began research on this topic, but was forced to put it on the back burner as he developed "more important research" (come on government, what is more important than discovering how and why pubes are everywhere?). In the remainder of this post, I will explain the two competing hypotheses for the curious movements of pubic hair. Remember these are just scientific guesses that still need to be tested.
1. Perhaps all pubes have a magnetic charge. Like a game of Wooly Willy, those tiny little hairs follow the magnetic force wherever it may be. The magnetic power allows them to climb walls and travel distances. Maybe if we never picked up a stray pube after a few years, the refrigerator would be covered with them, just maybe. Scientists are testing this theory by placing magnets on various bathroom floors.
2. A more likely explanation, though, for the curious movement of pubes has to do with fairies. Each night, a team of fairies (they are small creatures so it takes a pair to lift each pube) finds stray pubes and hides them throughout one's living or work space. Fairies like to play games. They also love Where's Waldo (a little known fact). Scientists believe this is how fairies play with people; they believe the fairies call the game Peculiarly Placed Pube and see how long it takes people to find the pubes (This hypothesis comes from the discovery of a new Rosetta Stone like legend depicting tiny fairies placing short, thin strings on computers, carpets, desks, and in cars--though researchers are unaware as to the origins of what they call "The Pube Pictures." ).
I understand this may be difficult to believe, but these are theories presented by scientists, and until scientific testing yields results voiding these theories, how else might you explain a pube in the freezer?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
sweatpants...
Let me begin by saying I love sweatpants. Sweatpants are excellent. I have my favorite pair that make me feel like I'm wearing clouds. They are roomy and baggy and long enough for me to tuck my feet into the legs and keep warm. As wonderful as sweatpants are, there is a time and a place for them. It seems this fact has been forgotten by many.
I think I need to be very direct here: sweatpants are not ok to wear in public (there are a few exceptions to this: going to the Dr. when you are sick, running to the store because you forgot one thing you needed, going to the gym, and dressing up in costume). Their purpose is for indoor, private wearings only. You might sit there and say, "why can't I wear sweatpants in public?" Oh where to begin...
First, let's look at the origin of sweatpants. See figure1 below. Obviously we can all agree that Nintendo is cool and will always be, and this picture clearly exhibits an air of coolness, right? WRONG. The only thing that makes these kids cool is the awesome floor pad they have for their Nintendo (Did that really exist? If it did, then boy I missed out...) This picture illustrates the era in which sweatpants became popular--I think you can clearly see the difference between that time and today. So unless you are sitting home watching Pauly Shore movies, playing old school Nintendo, using the phrase "...NOT," eating Bugles, and throwing your trash in a metallic Nintendo themed trash can, then you should never wear sweatpants in public.
I think I need to be very direct here: sweatpants are not ok to wear in public (there are a few exceptions to this: going to the Dr. when you are sick, running to the store because you forgot one thing you needed, going to the gym, and dressing up in costume). Their purpose is for indoor, private wearings only. You might sit there and say, "why can't I wear sweatpants in public?" Oh where to begin...
First, let's look at the origin of sweatpants. See figure1 below. Obviously we can all agree that Nintendo is cool and will always be, and this picture clearly exhibits an air of coolness, right? WRONG. The only thing that makes these kids cool is the awesome floor pad they have for their Nintendo (Did that really exist? If it did, then boy I missed out...) This picture illustrates the era in which sweatpants became popular--I think you can clearly see the difference between that time and today. So unless you are sitting home watching Pauly Shore movies, playing old school Nintendo, using the phrase "...NOT," eating Bugles, and throwing your trash in a metallic Nintendo themed trash can, then you should never wear sweatpants in public.
You might still want to fight me on this, but clearly it is no longer 1991. Unless you are putting your sweatpants on to ride in your time machine set for 1991, do not wear them outside your home. Today, sweatpants conjure negative thoughts (they are no longer associated with Nintendo, and rolls of quarters)--maybe they always did conjure negative thoughts, though. But today there seems to be a crusade fighting to bring sweatpants back into the realm of popular dress. I can't say I understand why...
There are two groups fighting to make sweatpants a legitimate form of dress. You all know what I'm talking about: younger high school/college girls who think they look cute and down to earth. And my personal favorite, the 40-year-old man who just didn't get the memo that men his age wearing sweatpants are either rapists or baggers at the grocery store (just because Vanilla Ice and Marky Mark pulled it off in the 90s does not mean it's still hot, sir). Basically this guy:
It's easy to understand why men shouldn't wear sweats, but the ladies are convinced that it's ok if they wear them. Perhaps rather than explain why I feel sweatpants also shouldn't be worn in public by women, another visual aid can be of use. 
Ladies and gentlemen, my case in point. One day I will go up to a girl wearing sweats in public, show her this picture, grab her by the shoulders and shake her and scream, "This is what it looks like when you wear sweatpants. You don't look cute, you look dirty and gross."
So next time you think about going to class dressed in sweats, think again because I might be lurking in the corner waiting to shake some sense in you.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
soap in my coffee
The best part of waking up is not folgers in your cup, but coffee in general--delicious, wonderful coffee. For me this month it is Wolfgang Puck's estate grown coffee (estate grown, what does that even mean, Wolfgang? and yeah, I did buy it at Walmart). Last month it was Cafe Du Monde chicory blend...There is something wonderful about coffee, the way it tastes, the way it makes you feel--coffee is like some sort of magic juice. Sometimes I call it the juice of life (I also call Jack Daniels that--another story, another time, kids).
Tracy Jordan reminds us that "coffee is not like alcohol, it's very addictive." (as well as "freakie deakies need love too," words to live by, people.) I'm sure you can imagine how I feel when I don't get to drink my precious coffee in the morning. I don't joke around when I drink coffee. I like my coffee like I like my cast iron fences: black.
Sometimes it is difficult to order black coffee at certain establishments, more specifically, McDonalds. Now don't get me wrong, I love McDonalds, and they make a pretty good cup of joe. It's just I seem to be the only person in America who orders black coffee from McDonalds. When I place my order, I usually have to reiterate no cream, no sugar. Once in VA a kid behind the counter asked his manager if they could even make it without cream or sugar. Then, the manager asked me if I was sure I wanted it that way. Oh I was sure alright, cause that's how I like it. Scratch that, that's how I LOVE it.
This morning, though, an unfortunate incident happened regarding my beloved coffee. I brewed my wondrous cup, poured it into my travel mug, and got in my car. As I pulled away from my apartment, I took my first long awaited sip. At first it tasted excellent, but Wolfgang Puck's estate coffee quickly gave way to the taste of palmolive soap. BLECHHHHH. I took another sip, and a few more. I had to be sure it was ruined before I gave up on it. I decided that there must have been soap left on the lid, and washed it quickly once I arrived at work. Sure that the problem was fixed, I took a test sip. But alas, the soapy addition was not on the lid of my travel mug, it was in the coffee itself--a terrible realization, really. I thought about drinking it still--for a split second--and took another sip, but that palmolive aftertaste encouraged me to dump it down the drain.
It really is kind of silly if you think about it. I guess that's what I get for saying too many bad words in my blog or when I drive. Like my mom always threatened she would, life just washed my mouth out with soap because I said too many bad words. But gee life, did you really have my ruin my coffee to teach me that lesson?
Tracy Jordan reminds us that "coffee is not like alcohol, it's very addictive." (as well as "freakie deakies need love too," words to live by, people.) I'm sure you can imagine how I feel when I don't get to drink my precious coffee in the morning. I don't joke around when I drink coffee. I like my coffee like I like my cast iron fences: black.
Sometimes it is difficult to order black coffee at certain establishments, more specifically, McDonalds. Now don't get me wrong, I love McDonalds, and they make a pretty good cup of joe. It's just I seem to be the only person in America who orders black coffee from McDonalds. When I place my order, I usually have to reiterate no cream, no sugar. Once in VA a kid behind the counter asked his manager if they could even make it without cream or sugar. Then, the manager asked me if I was sure I wanted it that way. Oh I was sure alright, cause that's how I like it. Scratch that, that's how I LOVE it.
This morning, though, an unfortunate incident happened regarding my beloved coffee. I brewed my wondrous cup, poured it into my travel mug, and got in my car. As I pulled away from my apartment, I took my first long awaited sip. At first it tasted excellent, but Wolfgang Puck's estate coffee quickly gave way to the taste of palmolive soap. BLECHHHHH. I took another sip, and a few more. I had to be sure it was ruined before I gave up on it. I decided that there must have been soap left on the lid, and washed it quickly once I arrived at work. Sure that the problem was fixed, I took a test sip. But alas, the soapy addition was not on the lid of my travel mug, it was in the coffee itself--a terrible realization, really. I thought about drinking it still--for a split second--and took another sip, but that palmolive aftertaste encouraged me to dump it down the drain.
It really is kind of silly if you think about it. I guess that's what I get for saying too many bad words in my blog or when I drive. Like my mom always threatened she would, life just washed my mouth out with soap because I said too many bad words. But gee life, did you really have my ruin my coffee to teach me that lesson?
Monday, September 14, 2009
White Trash 101
Here is a little story I like to call my summer. It began as a glourious journey--I lived in an early 20th century farmhouse, surrounded by acres of green pastuers, sheep, and Filipe the groundhog. I lived on the grounds of, perhaps, one of the greatest American country estates ever. Joe Biden lived down the road, and visited the gardens on "my" estate whenever he was in town.
Life was pretty good. I was in love with Delaware. Just thinking about Delaware made me giddy and excited, like all new relationships, I wondered, "how did I get so lucky?" But alas, life slapped me hard across the face and shook me until I realized what Delaware was really all about...My bubble burst as I moved to my new apartment.
Now before you get too angry or offended, this is not going to be a bash on Delaware (I do enjoy it here); this is going to be a bash on white trash people. This area has an incredibly large population of white trash people. Joe Biden, much like Giuliani did with the homeless, must have shuffled all of the white trash out of his town. To think, I thought the whole state was full of high-brow, educated people...THANKS FOR DECEIVING ME JOE BIDEN.
I remember once in college I attempted to explain "white trash" to my Spanish teacher from Madrid, but I just don't think Marisol understood that mullets were not actually chic, hip, or cool...I guess it went over her head.
If you are unsure as to whether you are surrounded by white trash (or maybe you are questioning your own lifestyle), read the following list. Much like an I-9 form, sometimes you only need one item from LIST A to prove that you are white trash, other times you need an item from LIST B and LIST C, and well if you have multiple items from multiple lists, you can say without a doubt you are white trash.
If you posses one item from LIST B or C, you better watch your step, because you are dangerously treading white trash territory. If you can put a check mark next to one thing from LIST A or one thing from LIST B and one thing from LIST C, you are a lost cause. You might as well start saying "well, shoot i'ma go get me a deer baby for dinner" (as if you don't already); but before you get on the ATV, knock up a 16 year old and name your baby Cabella Marlboro.
If you posses one item from LIST B or C, you better watch your step, because you are dangerously treading white trash territory. If you can put a check mark next to one thing from LIST A or one thing from LIST B and one thing from LIST C, you are a lost cause. You might as well start saying "well, shoot i'ma go get me a deer baby for dinner" (as if you don't already); but before you get on the ATV, knock up a 16 year old and name your baby Cabella Marlboro. Friday, September 11, 2009
Cheers!
what did wine ever do that we grade it like it's in high school? I have wondered about this point system for some time. Wine doesn't get an A or an A-, it gets a 96 or a 92. I think we all remember how arbitrary those number grades can be. Remember that time in 11th grade when you got a 93 for your class average and you thought "WTF..." Wait wait "wtf" probably wasn't even invented yet, so you really started with: "Dude, this is so not rad, one more point would be an A, one stupid, lousy, little point."
Let's not kid ourselves, wine feels this way too. Do you think that Cabernet is proud of itself for getting an 89 when it was just one point away from an A-? It could've done something slightly different and made a better mark. So then why, why do we grade wine like it's in high school?
Maybe it's not about what is, rather how it treats others. Wine makes people cry, it pressures them to do stupid things, spills all their great secrets, and pretends to be friends with them so they will hang out with it--only to be a backstabber the next day. Wine is basically a high school girl.
Every time you drink wine, you know there is a shitshow lurking in the corner, waiting for you to take that one sip that'll send you over the edge. From this point on let's replace the word wine with "Kellie" and drinking with "hanging out." Perhaps the following will remind you of a conversation you had with your mother in high school:
"Remember the last time you hung out with Kellie. You hung out waaaaaaay too much, and then Kellie made you cry, that always happens, doesn't it? Then Kellie made you call that boy from math class, but he didn't pick up so with Kellie's help you left a 5 minute message. You woke up the next morning and thanks to Kellie you had a massive headache and felt like crap. You have got to stop hanging out with Kellie. Kellie is such a bitch; Kellie doesn't care if you have plans the next day because Kellie always ruins them. This Kellllliiiie doesn't even get high marks, what a bad influence!"
But today, the above statement reminds you of a night with a cheap bottle of wine. And that folks, is why wine is graded like it's in high school. It's so the good kids know to stay away from the ones that get low grades--unless of course they are just looking to get drunk--and spend more time with ones that have better marks (and only convince you to go crazy every once in a while).
Cheers!
Let's not kid ourselves, wine feels this way too. Do you think that Cabernet is proud of itself for getting an 89 when it was just one point away from an A-? It could've done something slightly different and made a better mark. So then why, why do we grade wine like it's in high school?
Maybe it's not about what is, rather how it treats others. Wine makes people cry, it pressures them to do stupid things, spills all their great secrets, and pretends to be friends with them so they will hang out with it--only to be a backstabber the next day. Wine is basically a high school girl.
Every time you drink wine, you know there is a shitshow lurking in the corner, waiting for you to take that one sip that'll send you over the edge. From this point on let's replace the word wine with "Kellie" and drinking with "hanging out." Perhaps the following will remind you of a conversation you had with your mother in high school:
"Remember the last time you hung out with Kellie. You hung out waaaaaaay too much, and then Kellie made you cry, that always happens, doesn't it? Then Kellie made you call that boy from math class, but he didn't pick up so with Kellie's help you left a 5 minute message. You woke up the next morning and thanks to Kellie you had a massive headache and felt like crap. You have got to stop hanging out with Kellie. Kellie is such a bitch; Kellie doesn't care if you have plans the next day because Kellie always ruins them. This Kellllliiiie doesn't even get high marks, what a bad influence!"
But today, the above statement reminds you of a night with a cheap bottle of wine. And that folks, is why wine is graded like it's in high school. It's so the good kids know to stay away from the ones that get low grades--unless of course they are just looking to get drunk--and spend more time with ones that have better marks (and only convince you to go crazy every once in a while).
Cheers!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Superfine Lane
Today I spent a good part of the day looking at apartments via the internet (maybe you've heard of it). I came across one listing for an apartment on, I kid you not, Superfine Lane.
In disbelief that this was a real street, I google mapped it. To my surprise Superfine Lane is very real. I would not want to live on this street, though. I'm pretty sure it's part of an elaborate hooker finding aid (watch your step because I'm about to drop some knowledge). So the streets in Wilmington are set up in a grid like pattern, you have your numbers, 1st st through 41st (ish) street. The lady hos on these streets are organized by looks and quality, aka price. Basically if you go to 1st street, you are getting one hot $$$ lady, perhaps a $$$EXXY GURL. And if you go to 41st you can probably utter the phrase "I'll give you a nickle if you touch my pickle" and walk away a successful man. Now Superfine Lane, of course, represents those gals who are the cream of the crop. It is a very short street, and difficult to find, even the google man can't walk on it--obviously only intended for the most elite customers. It is tucked away along the river, part of a specialized hooker section--
Follow along using this excellent google walking path...
By specialized I mean like those aisles in the grocery store that sell ethnic and hard to find things. If you look closely, you will notice that Superfine Lane parallels Race Street, which is a littler longer. No surprise there, I'm sure that many races are represented along that road, the more choices the better, and diversity makes for a stronger workplace. (Though the French women have their own street across the river because they are pretty much their own category. If I have learned anything from Art History it is that French whores are dirty, hairy, and usually missing a limb--of course these ladies cannot be anywhere near Superfine Lane.) Also within the specialized district is New Street, the best place to find the less haggard, younger hos.
So next time you are in Wilmington and you are lost, look for the dirty, one-legged slut on the corner, and you will know, thanks to the systematical organization of whores, that you are on French Street...
In disbelief that this was a real street, I google mapped it. To my surprise Superfine Lane is very real. I would not want to live on this street, though. I'm pretty sure it's part of an elaborate hooker finding aid (watch your step because I'm about to drop some knowledge). So the streets in Wilmington are set up in a grid like pattern, you have your numbers, 1st st through 41st (ish) street. The lady hos on these streets are organized by looks and quality, aka price. Basically if you go to 1st street, you are getting one hot $$$ lady, perhaps a $$$EXXY GURL. And if you go to 41st you can probably utter the phrase "I'll give you a nickle if you touch my pickle" and walk away a successful man. Now Superfine Lane, of course, represents those gals who are the cream of the crop. It is a very short street, and difficult to find, even the google man can't walk on it--obviously only intended for the most elite customers. It is tucked away along the river, part of a specialized hooker section--
Follow along using this excellent google walking path...
By specialized I mean like those aisles in the grocery store that sell ethnic and hard to find things. If you look closely, you will notice that Superfine Lane parallels Race Street, which is a littler longer. No surprise there, I'm sure that many races are represented along that road, the more choices the better, and diversity makes for a stronger workplace. (Though the French women have their own street across the river because they are pretty much their own category. If I have learned anything from Art History it is that French whores are dirty, hairy, and usually missing a limb--of course these ladies cannot be anywhere near Superfine Lane.) Also within the specialized district is New Street, the best place to find the less haggard, younger hos.
So next time you are in Wilmington and you are lost, look for the dirty, one-legged slut on the corner, and you will know, thanks to the systematical organization of whores, that you are on French Street...
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
some days you swear in public (warning: this post contains actual swears)
Some days you smile at all the people you pass. I have days like that all the time; days where I even add a "hello" or "good morning" with a big toothy smile.
And some days you swear in public. These days are less frequent for me, in fact very seldom. (I do not include road rage because, let's be honest, I swear about 70 times a day while driving, some people are just fucking douche-bags and there is no other way around it.) I don't mean positive, conversation-enhancement swearing either, like "abso-fucking-lutely" "this is fucking awesome!" "no fucking way!" Obviously using phrases like that in public makes you cooler and fucking awesome.
I am talking about an entirely different type of swear, a moment that comes with the word. There should be a separate name for these occasions. When I let one of these babies out, I don't want it to simply be called swearing. I want it to be called something that sounds offensive. Something so great that you could say "I'm going to ________," and everyone would gasp and cover their ears. The term needs to capture not only the spoken swear, but also all of the rage, anger, and emotion that goes into it. How about--and I'm just suggesting this as a possibility--sweardurkunt? When you get angry you could scream "I'm going to sweardurkunt all of you!" Simply saying the word feels liberating, it sounds German and inherently angry in a wonderful combination of offensive syllables.
So next time your eyes pop, your voice cracks, and you lose all of your vocabulary, except for the bad words and random words that somehow connect to a thought, raise your voice and sweardurkunt. And if someone tells you to calm down, just tell them to "shut the fuck up" because you are sweadurkunting.
And some days you swear in public. These days are less frequent for me, in fact very seldom. (I do not include road rage because, let's be honest, I swear about 70 times a day while driving, some people are just fucking douche-bags and there is no other way around it.) I don't mean positive, conversation-enhancement swearing either, like "abso-fucking-lutely" "this is fucking awesome!" "no fucking way!" Obviously using phrases like that in public makes you cooler and fucking awesome.
I am talking about an entirely different type of swear, a moment that comes with the word. There should be a separate name for these occasions. When I let one of these babies out, I don't want it to simply be called swearing. I want it to be called something that sounds offensive. Something so great that you could say "I'm going to ________," and everyone would gasp and cover their ears. The term needs to capture not only the spoken swear, but also all of the rage, anger, and emotion that goes into it. How about--and I'm just suggesting this as a possibility--sweardurkunt? When you get angry you could scream "I'm going to sweardurkunt all of you!" Simply saying the word feels liberating, it sounds German and inherently angry in a wonderful combination of offensive syllables.
So next time your eyes pop, your voice cracks, and you lose all of your vocabulary, except for the bad words and random words that somehow connect to a thought, raise your voice and sweardurkunt. And if someone tells you to calm down, just tell them to "shut the fuck up" because you are sweadurkunting.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Post # 1: Cologne (and it's a good one)
Let's have a little chat called "how much cologne is appropriate?"
I often find myself wondering why some people wear so much cologne. I'm sure you too have wondered this in a crowded elevator, at the office, or on the subway--why do some people not understand the rules of scenting their bodies?
"How much is too much?" you might ask. For those of you questioning your cologne habits, you are in luck, because there is a clear line that can be crossed (or uncrossed, please!).
There are some people that use cologne as a little surprise for those that get exceptionally close to them during the day. I presume Johnny Depp wears his cologne this way. Bravo, A+
Then there are those that announce their presence with cologne, like an Abercrombie store at the mall. You know you are about to encounter them before you even turn the corner--your throat tickles, dries up a bit, and then they appear, just in time for you to cough and say hello.
This gentleman, though, is far from the worst. Let us discuss the transferer...The transferer is the man who, upon contact, somehow transfers his scent onto you. Weather it's a hug, a handshake, or an arm around the shoulder, there is no fighting it. Like a dog marking his territory, you become the secondary wearer of his cologne. You are forced to spend the remainder of the day wafting his smell with every movement of your body, and you pray no one thinks you smell like him for a reason.
But the worst cologne wearer of all is the REVENGE of the transferer...This man requires no contact with his victim, he simply needs to touch an object that will soon be touched by another person. For example, one morning when I was minding my own business, pumping gas, I got back into my car only to smell the strong scent of men's cologne. I started sniffing around until I realized that it was my hand polluting the car...MY OWN HAND. Let me remind you that this hand had been pure prior to touching the gas pump. Or perhaps another example, suits you: last night, after my suitcase was unloaded by the taxi driver, I wheeled it into my apartment. I washed my hands, sat on the couch, and touched my face--MY HAND SMELLED LIKE COLOGNE! "WTF!" I exclaimed! I ran to the sink and washed my hands again with lemon scented mirco-bead antibacterial soap, dried them quickly, placed my hand to my nose and inhaled...To my dismay, the smell of cologne was still there. You see, that is the horror of REVENGE of the transferer--no matter how hard you try and how many times you wash your hands, the smell remains...
In the words of contestants on my favorite game show, The Price is Right (Bob Barker not Drew Carey, please): THAT'S TOO MUCH!!
Next time you wear cologne, remember that not everyone else wants to wear it as well.
I often find myself wondering why some people wear so much cologne. I'm sure you too have wondered this in a crowded elevator, at the office, or on the subway--why do some people not understand the rules of scenting their bodies?
"How much is too much?" you might ask. For those of you questioning your cologne habits, you are in luck, because there is a clear line that can be crossed (or uncrossed, please!).
There are some people that use cologne as a little surprise for those that get exceptionally close to them during the day. I presume Johnny Depp wears his cologne this way. Bravo, A+
Then there are those that announce their presence with cologne, like an Abercrombie store at the mall. You know you are about to encounter them before you even turn the corner--your throat tickles, dries up a bit, and then they appear, just in time for you to cough and say hello.
This gentleman, though, is far from the worst. Let us discuss the transferer...The transferer is the man who, upon contact, somehow transfers his scent onto you. Weather it's a hug, a handshake, or an arm around the shoulder, there is no fighting it. Like a dog marking his territory, you become the secondary wearer of his cologne. You are forced to spend the remainder of the day wafting his smell with every movement of your body, and you pray no one thinks you smell like him for a reason.
But the worst cologne wearer of all is the REVENGE of the transferer...This man requires no contact with his victim, he simply needs to touch an object that will soon be touched by another person. For example, one morning when I was minding my own business, pumping gas, I got back into my car only to smell the strong scent of men's cologne. I started sniffing around until I realized that it was my hand polluting the car...MY OWN HAND. Let me remind you that this hand had been pure prior to touching the gas pump. Or perhaps another example, suits you: last night, after my suitcase was unloaded by the taxi driver, I wheeled it into my apartment. I washed my hands, sat on the couch, and touched my face--MY HAND SMELLED LIKE COLOGNE! "WTF!" I exclaimed! I ran to the sink and washed my hands again with lemon scented mirco-bead antibacterial soap, dried them quickly, placed my hand to my nose and inhaled...To my dismay, the smell of cologne was still there. You see, that is the horror of REVENGE of the transferer--no matter how hard you try and how many times you wash your hands, the smell remains...
In the words of contestants on my favorite game show, The Price is Right (Bob Barker not Drew Carey, please): THAT'S TOO MUCH!!
Next time you wear cologne, remember that not everyone else wants to wear it as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)