Froggy always refers to the large fans in the ceilings of the school's basketball courts as "big ass fans" (or "B. A. fans" when someone of a sensitive nature is nearby). When I opened the junk mail I received today, I saw a brochure from, you guessed it, the Big Ass Fan Co.
Oh, and if you really want a song tied to this, try this one (not embedded, in case you are of a sensitive nature). Honestly, there has to be a better one out there.
Sorry, but this was the first fish song that came to mind.
Before the workday started, our client sent me a text message that there was a dead animal on one of the campus roads. "Oh well," I thought, "it's probably a squirrel which was run over." Duly, I sent my crew up there first thing, to remove the corpse. Shortly after giving them their assignment, one of the security guards (not knowing that we had been informed already) called me on the two-way radio, to notify me that there was a dead fish on the road.
Yes, "WTF?" would be an appropriate response.
My crew determined that it was a Striped Bass, weighing approximately 13 pounds, and added that it was a shame to waste such a specimen because "them's good eatin'".
I've heard of salmon swimming upstream to spawn, but bass going uphill is a new one.
There's never a track ball around when you need one.
I decided I had earned a lazy weekend. (I spent most of Friday afternoon shoveling dirt, including staying 1.5 hours late.) Still, on Saturday morning, I had errands to run (drop off a package at the post office, deposit a check at the bank, and I did have that coupon for a free breakfast at IHOP). After that, though, I stayed in.
On Sunday, I made a conscious effort to be lazy. I kept my pajamas on and didn't make my bed. (I did wash myself and shave, though.) I played computer games. Then, to thwart my efforts, Thing One invited me to go with her to one of the ultra-organic stores. (All right, I can see starting a new diet, but why not buy most of those foods at a typical, and less expensive, market?) I recognized that I must have been in a bad mood, so I didn't rant about the customers (including the great unwashed and the yuppies), even though some of them let their kids run around unsupervised to get in the way and to eat as many free samples as they could get away with. When I got back home, I played computer games and read the rest of the day away. (I didn't put my jammies back on; the spell was ruined.)
Before going to bed, I noticed a centipede on my bedroom wall, above my headboard. I didn't try to kill it, since I didn't think it would hurt me, but mostly because I didn't want to risk getting a greasy spot on the wall. (I tried not to think of it crawling into my mouth while I was asleep.) After I read a while more, I saw that it had disappeared.
This morning, a centipede was on my bathroom wall. It disappeared while I was putting on my contact lenses. (It wasn't behind the towel or the shower curtain. Maybe it hid behind the picture.) I wondered if it was the same one as last night, or if I am being invaded by centipedes.
Or, if you prefer, visit my friend Robomarkov's site and Date this Mark.
Be it known that it is February 23, and the official temperature at the airport (right now) is 78 degrees Fahrenheit. I had to turn on the office air conditioning. I drove my utility vehicle with the windshield open, to keep from baking inside.
Mind you, I'm not taking the snowplow off the front of it yet. We're still in winter, after all.
I overheard one teacher/coach say to another this morning that he was going to do seven minutes of burping. At least, that's what I thought he said. "Seven minutes of burpies?" the second coach asked.
I spelled it that way because I didn't think it would mimic the seed company (and who in their right mind could spend only seven minutes with that seed catalog?), but the common internet spelling is, indeed, with a double-e.
Back in my day, this exercise was called a "squat thrust", and it was one of the most evil activities ever inflicted on me by an elementary school gym teacher. Why anyone would want to do this for seven minutes is beyond me, let alone how. Even Wakko Warner needed a break, and his song was just two minutes long.
I was having a really awesome dream this morning. An old teacher or puppet master painted a few, red brushstrokes onto a blackboard, to simulate a door. Then the door filled in, and I wondered, "Did he finish it, or did the door complete itself?" The door became more three-dimensional, projecting from the chalkboard. The man then started to turn the chalkboard on an axis, which would reveal whatever was behind the door.
Then the frickin' alarm clock went off.
I won't tell you the song which was playing in the background of my dream, partly because it wasn't at all relevant to the red door, but mostly because, if you could reach me, you would hurt me. Instead, have this song about a door.
And if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you.
I received a junk mail item yesterday which offered an "opportunity to own a carefree second home in Manhattan from $175,000." Are they kidding? Is it for a closet somewhere in Harlem? Maybe, for a little more money, you get a view of the airshaft and the building next door. (Premium prices bring a basement apartment with a view of the rats scurrying in and out of the dumpster.)
The brochure (on the back page, naturally) lists the details. Aside from the square footage and prices (which I will share upon request), I couldn't fail to notice the catch. "As an owner, you receive a real estate deed conveying a one-eighth interest in a Club residence."
That's right. You, too, can share a bed with seven other people! Actually, that might be fourteen other people, if they're married. (I hope they bring their own sheets.)
They provided me with my own, "personal webpage" to check them out. I didn't, though, because I don't want them thinking I fell for their propaganda. I did, however, do an anonymous web search and discovered this is, indeed, a real place: The Phillips Club at Lincoln Square.
1) It's probably not appropriate that I was thinking of Sodom and Gomorrah in the men's shower room this morning, but at least I was alone. ;) Anyway, are we ever sure that someone has translated the ancient writings accurately? The story goes that the towns were destroyed after inhabitants wanted to have sex with male visitors, even though the man they were visiting offered his daughters to the townspeople. Maybe they actually were poor and couldn't afford their own animal for sacrifice. Even a portion of an animal would do. Imagine, as the fire and brimstone rains down on the cities, some poor soul crying out, "All we wanted was a piece of ass."
2) When Jesus was a little boy, do you think Mary ever yelled at him for leaving the door open? "For crying out loud, shut the door! Were you born in a barn or something?"
The superhero Captain Chlorophyll is essentially mine. I have had some contributions from others (who will be suitably recognized should the time arise), but the concept, design, and structure of the character are mine.
Not so for my latest idea. I know much about the former character but next to nothing about the latter. However, I am sure that my readership is bound to contain someone capable of being my co-author. (Applications currently being accepted.) I now present to you...
A Sound Piece of Advice, Even if Your Sword Is Sheathed when You Wield It
I finally finished Moby Dick and wanted an easier read, so I've started the Narnia chronicle. It is, indeed, easier; I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe completely yesterday evening.
At the end of chapter twelve, Aslan instructs Peter, "And, whatever happens, never forget to wipe your sword."
What does it say about me that I could find a double entendre in classic, children's literature?
I reflected, upon washing my hair this morning, that I have been using shampoo my whole life. It must be cheaper than real poo. I don't even see bottles of real poo on the shelf. (I must admit that I prefer the smell of the fake stuff.)
I thought back to high school this morning and remembered my friend's
mother, who died at the age of 40. With a shock, I realized that I am now
that age.
So, I went to the school library and checked out The Magician's Nephew,
the first in the Narnia chronicle. What better way to combat feeling old
than by reading a children's book?
My family prays before meals only on the big, feasting holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Here, in the South, I see people praying before each meal. (Let's assume that most people eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so that would be three times each day.)
I presume they're praying to their god, thanking him/her/it for their food. What I want to know is why they wait until they're seated at the table before praying. Those of us sitting with or near them feel awkward if we tuck in while their heads are bowed. Do they not know they're thankful until they see what they're going to eat? Can they not pray while they're moving, such as when walking into the restaurant or selecting the food in the buffet line?
Do they also thank their gods for the people who cook and serve the food? For the people who wash the dishes and cutlery afterward? For the plants and animals that make up most of their food? For the scientists who invented chemical additives to deter spoiling?
Do they also thank their gods for the job that they have? For the car that they drive to work? For indoor plumbing? Why limit it just to the food on the plate in front of them?
