Last year, I started running. I also stopped running. Then I started again. When you think about it, running is a lot like smoking, only in reverse.
You would think that running wouldn't be that expensive. You would be wrong. I have a pair of running shoes that I paid $130 for. I have a pair of dress shoes that I paid $60 for. My running shoes will last about 6 months. I will probably be buried in my dress shoes, assuming that the employees at the funeral home don't want a $60 pair of black loafers.
Shoes are only the first expense. Working up from shoes, you come to socks. Socks made especially for running. Some people run in normal socks. These people are known as heathens. Wearing running socks allows the runner to know that he has been scammed by large multinational athletic companies. That's something that you can't put a price on. Well, actually you can, about $10 a pair. If you run regularly, you'll probably want more than one pair.
Moving up my ever expanding body, I come to the knees. I wear a knee brace. It keeps my knee from spontaneously becoming an elbow. Actually I'm not entirely sure what it does but I've seen people on TV wear them and that's good enough for me. That was another $15.
I also wear special running pants although here the term "pants" is used rather loosely, unlike the pants which are just tight enough to restrict blood flow to my $10 socks. They're also tight enough to reveal the location of a small mole on my outer thigh. They're black but are emblazoned with stylistic racing stripes which make me look like a gazelle. Specifically, a gazelle that has been singled out by a lioness as a free lunch. They were $20.
Moving up my geodesic body, we come to the lower part of my midsection. I wear special running underwear. The theory is that my special running underwear will prevent chafing. This theory is only slightly less correct than the flat earth theory. I've forgotten what I paid for them but I believe that they weren't free.
As we arrive at my pear-shaped chest, you will find my running shirts. I run in the dark to spare the world the agony of having to see my multiple layers of flab slapping against each other like a pair of twin boys engaged in a death-match round of "Why are you hitting yourself?" I wear neon yellow t-shirts. There's a fancy name for it but I'm a guy so to me, it's just yellow. It might be puce. Or aqua. Or ecru. The good news is that my shirts only cost $5. The bad news is that when I take them off, the laundry hamper smells like the Harlem Globetrotters visited and left a month's worth of dirty uniforms in the closet.
At the top of my body, somewhere roughly above my neck, we find my enlarged head. It's big. Really big. I wish that implied something other than the fact that it's hard to find hats that fit, but it doesn't. I wear sweat bands on my head. I'm not sure what they accomplish. They don't keep sweat out of my eyes. In fact, they seem to be designed to gather copious amounts of sweat and then at the worst possible moment, funnel it directly toward my eye sockets, which being shaped like a bowl, are only too willing to collect the perspiration and store it until such time as it is needed. Unfortunately, it is never needed. The good news is that head bands are cheap. The bad news is that they are also worthless. I wear one nonetheless.
But now I'm a runner. I did consider a less expensive hobby, like yacht racing, but decided that I'd just look ridiculous wearing deck shoes.
Happy trails.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Physics and phathers
Almost 24 years ago, I became a father for the first time. About 2 years after that, I became a father for the first time again. I say that because every child is different and being a father to one is completely different that being a father to the other. In honor of Father's Day, I'd like to share some things that I've learned along the way.
1. Babies do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "Matter cannot be created or destroyed." Babies laugh at the idea. You can carefully measure 4 ounces of baby formula into a bottle and a baby can turn it into 7 pounds of poop, if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, and you will be, the baby also has the ability to turn 4 ounces of formula into a quart of hot steaming "spit up". As a well prepared father, you'll have a spit up rag carefully placed on your shoulder to serve as a target area for the spit up. Your baby will be a lousy shot and in fact all that the spit up rag will accomplish is keeping your shoulder area clean. The rest of you will look and smell like a cross between the grossest thing that you can think of and something far far worse.
2. Toddlers do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "A body at rest tends to stay at rest and a body in motion tends to stay in motion." A toddler, given his new found ability to toddle, will lie on the floor in seeming compliance with the first part of the law only to jump up without cause or provocation. Once upright, the toddler will examine his surroundings to determine the best object to crash into. Preferred destinations include tables, dogs, Ming vases and fathers' groins. In defiance with the second law of motion, the toddler will come to a complete stop and solidly land on its diaper. Said diaper is filled with a toxic chemical which could have easily changed the outcome of World War I if it had been weaponized.
3. Small children do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction." When an adult touches something, there is usually no reaction. When a child touches something, it falls over and shatters into a million shards of glass. This occurs even if said object did not originally consist of glass. The child will look at you with big innocent looking eyes and will say the only thing that will help. "Sorry." As an adult, we use "sorry" to express regret and the idea that our actions were hurtful and hopefully won't be repeated. A child uses "sorry" to express his desire to avoid punishment all the while surveying the room for the next item to react with.
4. Teenagers do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "Force equals mass times acceleration." Teenagers, once behind the steering wheel of a motor vehicle, will attempt to test this law. They will fail this test but not for lack of trying. Most motor vehicles primarily consist of a substance commonly known as "steel". In its solid form, steel is known for its propensity to resist bending and breaking. Typically, a large amount of force is required to transform it from one shape into another. A teenage driver will challenge this notion by trying to combine two vehicles into one. We refer to this scenario as a "crash". A teenager will say that they "barely touched" (this is also the excuse given for teenage pregnancy) and that some mysterious force, possibly dark matter, must be the explanation for the resultant $7000 worth of damage.
5. Fathers do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "E = mc2". In layman's terms, this means that the energy of a system is equal to the mass of the object times the speed of light squared. In case you're wondering, squaring a number has nothing to do with carpenter's squares, square dancing or the children's game Four Square. At any rate, the speed of light squared is an incredibly huge number (34,596,000,000). To determine my energy, we simply multiply my mass, say 180 pounds (HA!) by the speed of light squared and you get 6,227,280,000,000 somethings. I have no idea what they are but that would seem to be a lot of energy. Where have they gone? With that kind of energy, I should be able to accomplish anything. As it is, I consider it an accomplishment to put the foot rest up on my recliner.
It also follows that as I get more massive, (that sounds a lot better than "fatter") I should have more energy. I assure you, this is not the case. In fact, I should have approximately 6 times the energy of a toddler when in reality, I can get tired just by watching one.
6. It is said that being a father is the greatest job in the world. The people that say that have never heard of astronauts. Being a father isn't a job, it's a privilege, one that I wouldn't trade for anything.
Friday, May 10, 2013
I'm a travelin' man.
Like a lot of people, my job requires me to travel from time to time. Since my company is gracious enough to allow me to stay in hotels and doesn't require me to sleep on park benches, I've learned a lot about hotels and their patrons. Today, I'll share the good, the bad and the ugly.
The first story is both bad and ugly.
Once upon a time, I checked into a hotel in Chicago. Or maybe it was Portland. It could have been St. Louis. I really can't remember because every hotel front desk and every hotel hallway looks exactly like every other. At every front desk, there are always three people. One is checking people in. Another is talking on the phone. The third person serves no useful purpose; they are the manager.
Every hotel corridor looks like every other. As soon as you exit the elevator, you will be greeted by paisley carpeting. It will be stained. On the wall, there will be a small sign that indicates that rooms 413 - 429, 435, 6, and 402 - 408 (except for odd numbered rooms) will be to the right. To the left will be rooms 465 - 432, 589, the exercise room (which will require your keycard but it doesn't matter because you're not going to use it), a broken ice machine and a soda machine capable of maxing out your American Express card.
So, I don't remember where I was. If it's really that important to you, pretend that I was in Phoenix.
My check in had gone like every other. I had signed, initialled, showed my ID and my credit card and was given a key to my room. Or at least, a key to what I thought was my room. When I inserted the keycard into the lock a second time (they never work on the first try), the green light lit, I pushed on the door handle and instantly became aware of the fact that "my" room was in fact "our" room.
I can't tell you much about my roommate. I can tell you that he didn't want to share a room as was evidenced by his "GET OUT OF HERE!!" I can also tell you that he believed that our room was a clothing optional area and that he was exercising the option. Since he appeared to be busy, I decided that this was not the best time to ask if he wanted the bed by the window or the door.
As I made my way back to the front desk, I pondered the logistics of a hotel reservation system that would allow more than one customer per room. I have written thousands of computer programs in my lifetime (although none of them hospitality oriented) and I am somewhat familiar with the concept of gathering computer program requirements. As nearly as I can tell, when this hotel's system was being designed, the following conversation must have occurred.
Computer programmer: What color should the background be?
Hotel executive: Beige.
Computer programmer: Password security?
Hotel executive: At least 6 characters, upper and lowercase, 2 numbers and 1 squirrel sound.
Computer programmer: Should we limit the number of strangers that can see each other naked?
Hotel executive: We'll take care of that in the next upgrade.
When I got to the desk, my former roommate had already called and asked that I be reassigned. When I asked the clerk how two people could have the same room, she just shrugged and said "It happens." Ponder that for a little while. And by the way, you know that little metal hook thing that latches over a metal piece so that your door is "really" locked? It looks like this:
There's a tool that allows hotel management to undo them from the outside. It looks like this:
But don't worry, I'm sure the bad guys don't have one, just as I'm sure that they're not available on the internet for $29.95.
The good thing about staying in hotels is that you don't have to make your bed, clean your room or wash your towels. Every day, a nice lady with questionable English skills will do everything for you. Her name is "Housekeeping". I know this because whenever I am taking a nap, I will hear a knock on the door and a voice will say "Housekeeping".
Housekeeping is wonderful. She will do all of the things that you would normally have to do and she'll do them with a smile on her face. She will bring you new towels and hang them in the one and only place in the room from whence they must be moved prior to use, the shower. She will rearrange all of the items that you have left on your dresser. She will hide the remote control to your TV. She will give you new hermetically sealed soap that you will have to spend another 15 minutes unwrapping. She does this because you already used the last bar once and just like at home, once you've washed your hands with a bar of soap, you throw it away, right?
She will bring you new bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bath gel and hand lotion. If you're a guy, you'll probably use the bath gel for shampoo (assuming that you brought your Vice Grips with you to remove the Super Glued-on screw tops). If you're a woman, you won't use any of them because you travel with your own personal supply of hair care products. You might take them home with you although you will eventually either throw them away or your husband will use them out of desperation when he runs out of "Great Value Fresh Scent" shampoo.
Your hotel bed will be hard. Not hard as in firm, but hard as in one notch below diamond.
More to come. Right now, it's time for "Big Bang Theory" and it will take me at least half an hour to find where Housekeeping hid the remote.
The first story is both bad and ugly.
Once upon a time, I checked into a hotel in Chicago. Or maybe it was Portland. It could have been St. Louis. I really can't remember because every hotel front desk and every hotel hallway looks exactly like every other. At every front desk, there are always three people. One is checking people in. Another is talking on the phone. The third person serves no useful purpose; they are the manager.
Every hotel corridor looks like every other. As soon as you exit the elevator, you will be greeted by paisley carpeting. It will be stained. On the wall, there will be a small sign that indicates that rooms 413 - 429, 435, 6, and 402 - 408 (except for odd numbered rooms) will be to the right. To the left will be rooms 465 - 432, 589, the exercise room (which will require your keycard but it doesn't matter because you're not going to use it), a broken ice machine and a soda machine capable of maxing out your American Express card.
So, I don't remember where I was. If it's really that important to you, pretend that I was in Phoenix.
My check in had gone like every other. I had signed, initialled, showed my ID and my credit card and was given a key to my room. Or at least, a key to what I thought was my room. When I inserted the keycard into the lock a second time (they never work on the first try), the green light lit, I pushed on the door handle and instantly became aware of the fact that "my" room was in fact "our" room.
I can't tell you much about my roommate. I can tell you that he didn't want to share a room as was evidenced by his "GET OUT OF HERE!!" I can also tell you that he believed that our room was a clothing optional area and that he was exercising the option. Since he appeared to be busy, I decided that this was not the best time to ask if he wanted the bed by the window or the door.
As I made my way back to the front desk, I pondered the logistics of a hotel reservation system that would allow more than one customer per room. I have written thousands of computer programs in my lifetime (although none of them hospitality oriented) and I am somewhat familiar with the concept of gathering computer program requirements. As nearly as I can tell, when this hotel's system was being designed, the following conversation must have occurred.
Computer programmer: What color should the background be?
Hotel executive: Beige.
Computer programmer: Password security?
Hotel executive: At least 6 characters, upper and lowercase, 2 numbers and 1 squirrel sound.
Computer programmer: Should we limit the number of strangers that can see each other naked?
Hotel executive: We'll take care of that in the next upgrade.
When I got to the desk, my former roommate had already called and asked that I be reassigned. When I asked the clerk how two people could have the same room, she just shrugged and said "It happens." Ponder that for a little while. And by the way, you know that little metal hook thing that latches over a metal piece so that your door is "really" locked? It looks like this:
But don't worry, I'm sure the bad guys don't have one, just as I'm sure that they're not available on the internet for $29.95.
The good thing about staying in hotels is that you don't have to make your bed, clean your room or wash your towels. Every day, a nice lady with questionable English skills will do everything for you. Her name is "Housekeeping". I know this because whenever I am taking a nap, I will hear a knock on the door and a voice will say "Housekeeping".
Housekeeping is wonderful. She will do all of the things that you would normally have to do and she'll do them with a smile on her face. She will bring you new towels and hang them in the one and only place in the room from whence they must be moved prior to use, the shower. She will rearrange all of the items that you have left on your dresser. She will hide the remote control to your TV. She will give you new hermetically sealed soap that you will have to spend another 15 minutes unwrapping. She does this because you already used the last bar once and just like at home, once you've washed your hands with a bar of soap, you throw it away, right?
She will bring you new bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bath gel and hand lotion. If you're a guy, you'll probably use the bath gel for shampoo (assuming that you brought your Vice Grips with you to remove the Super Glued-on screw tops). If you're a woman, you won't use any of them because you travel with your own personal supply of hair care products. You might take them home with you although you will eventually either throw them away or your husband will use them out of desperation when he runs out of "Great Value Fresh Scent" shampoo.
Your hotel bed will be hard. Not hard as in firm, but hard as in one notch below diamond.
More to come. Right now, it's time for "Big Bang Theory" and it will take me at least half an hour to find where Housekeeping hid the remote.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
I'm changing careers - part 1.
After careful consideration, I've decided that it is time for a career change. Although I love my current job (in case my boss reads this), I think that I would make an excellent TV meteorologist.
A meteorologist is what was once known as a weatherman. At some point in weatherman history, it was determined that in order to be more professional sounding, "ologist" would need to be added to the name. "Weatherologist" sounds like someone that can't make up their mind so that name was rejected. Ironically, weathermen are particularly poor at making up their minds. If you were to greet one with "Hey, how's it going?", a typical weatherman would reply "There's a .0000025% chance that I will die today. I'm taking my death precautions."
For those that have never lived in Oklahoma, "precautions" is a word that is always preceded by "tornado", as in "Take your tornado precautions." Weathermen tell us to do this all of the time. No one ever has. In fact, no one has a "tornado precaution" other than going outside to see if the tornado is within visual range.
Weathermen give other peculiar advice in advance of an oncoming tornado. "You need to get as low as possible" is frequently said. In my case, that would mean that I need to get in the crawl space underneath my house. While I'm down there I might as well check my plumbing for leaks. In the event of an actual tornado, I'm fairly certain that the biggest leak would be coming from me.
People that live in mobile homes are usually told that they need to abandon their homes and get to a "place of safety". Most people think of their home as their "place of safety" but apparently mobile home owners need to eschew that particular line of thought.
The instruction to get to a safe place puts the mobile home owner in a particularly difficult predicament because they are simultaneously told that their vehicles are unsafe and they need to stay off of the roads. Since mobile homes tend to congregate, the only other structures within walking distance are probably other mobile homes whose residents are also supposed to be searching out the mythical place of safety.
So, since walking and driving are out, the only other reasonable transportation alternative is................
helicopters.
Yes, that's right, helicopters.
You might think that a helicopter would be a relatively unsafe to be during a tornado with all the whirling vortexes of death spinning around the atmosphere. You might think that said death vortexes would have an adverse effect upon a device that depends upon consistent air currents as its means of remaining aloft. You might think that a helicopter would be on par with a hot air balloon or a glider as a preferred method of emergency tornado transportation. You would be wrong.
Whenever a tornado warning is issued, a veritable swarm of helicopter pilots take to the skies in order to locate, chase and televise the potential winds of death, the very same winds that forced you to leave your mobile home or crawl under your house.
So if you don't have immediate access to a cellar, you should get a helicopter. It's the only sure-fire way to reach a place of safety, assuming that it hasn't blown away.
Time to check Craigslist.
In part 2, I'll explain why I'm becoming a meteorologist instead of a System Administrologist.
A meteorologist is what was once known as a weatherman. At some point in weatherman history, it was determined that in order to be more professional sounding, "ologist" would need to be added to the name. "Weatherologist" sounds like someone that can't make up their mind so that name was rejected. Ironically, weathermen are particularly poor at making up their minds. If you were to greet one with "Hey, how's it going?", a typical weatherman would reply "There's a .0000025% chance that I will die today. I'm taking my death precautions."
For those that have never lived in Oklahoma, "precautions" is a word that is always preceded by "tornado", as in "Take your tornado precautions." Weathermen tell us to do this all of the time. No one ever has. In fact, no one has a "tornado precaution" other than going outside to see if the tornado is within visual range.
Weathermen give other peculiar advice in advance of an oncoming tornado. "You need to get as low as possible" is frequently said. In my case, that would mean that I need to get in the crawl space underneath my house. While I'm down there I might as well check my plumbing for leaks. In the event of an actual tornado, I'm fairly certain that the biggest leak would be coming from me.
People that live in mobile homes are usually told that they need to abandon their homes and get to a "place of safety". Most people think of their home as their "place of safety" but apparently mobile home owners need to eschew that particular line of thought.
The instruction to get to a safe place puts the mobile home owner in a particularly difficult predicament because they are simultaneously told that their vehicles are unsafe and they need to stay off of the roads. Since mobile homes tend to congregate, the only other structures within walking distance are probably other mobile homes whose residents are also supposed to be searching out the mythical place of safety.
So, since walking and driving are out, the only other reasonable transportation alternative is................
helicopters.
Yes, that's right, helicopters.
You might think that a helicopter would be a relatively unsafe to be during a tornado with all the whirling vortexes of death spinning around the atmosphere. You might think that said death vortexes would have an adverse effect upon a device that depends upon consistent air currents as its means of remaining aloft. You might think that a helicopter would be on par with a hot air balloon or a glider as a preferred method of emergency tornado transportation. You would be wrong.
Whenever a tornado warning is issued, a veritable swarm of helicopter pilots take to the skies in order to locate, chase and televise the potential winds of death, the very same winds that forced you to leave your mobile home or crawl under your house.
So if you don't have immediate access to a cellar, you should get a helicopter. It's the only sure-fire way to reach a place of safety, assuming that it hasn't blown away.
Time to check Craigslist.
In part 2, I'll explain why I'm becoming a meteorologist instead of a System Administrologist.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Madman's Guide to Insurance
I've had to deal with insurance quite a bit lately and like many of you, I find it to be quite frustrating. To correct this, I've done my research and am now in a position (seated) to explain the ins and outs of insurance terms and practices.
What is insurance?
A definition is always a good place to start. Insurance is a means by which risk is pooled among a population of people. The assumption is that if we average people's risk over a large group, our risk will be less.
Let's look at an example. (Those of you that are math averse should look away) Suppose that my risk is "x". Your risk is "x" too. Together, our total risk is x + x. In case you failed algebra, x + x = 2x. Now, to find our average risk, we divide our total risk by the number in our group. This is written as 2x/2. Those of you that didn't fail algebra can see where this is headed. Our average risk is x. Nothing has changed.
But wait! you say. "Madman, you're overweight and to call your lifestyle sedimentary would demean an entire classification of rocks!" - you also say. (That was a little mean-spirited and hurtful, I'd reply) This is where the magic happens. If my original risk was 2x and yours was only x, our average risk would be 3x/2 or 1.5x. You've just inherited some of my risk and I thank you for it. Insurance counts on people with low risk, also known as "pigeons", to join together with high risk people, also known as "Kevins" to pool their risk.
How do I get insurance?
You purchase insurance from someone known as an "agent". They prefer to refer to themselves as agents because of the negative connotations associated with the word salesman. When you hear the word agent, you instinctively think of something mysterious and perhaps a little dangerous, like a James Bond type "secret agent". No one is intimidated by a "secret salesman". Real estate agents work on this same principle. They've even gone so far as to create a whole new word "realtor" to avoid being called salesmen. I fully expect insurance agents to adopt this strategy and start calling themselves insurators.
What happens when I need to use my insurance?
The short answer is "Sucks to be you."
The long answer is, first you file a claim. Suppose that you go to a doctor or dentist or auto repair shop, it doesn't matter, the process is the same. You go in with a problem, get looked at and them get a bill. If you're lucky, they'll file a claim for you. They'll contact your insurance company and get told "No. That's not covered." It doesn't really matter what "that" is. It's not covered. You could have purchased a policy titled "Insurance against death" and your death would not be covered. If you were to actually read your policy (no one has ever done this) you would see that a small addition to an obscure sub-section that is written in Sanskrit (you do read Sanskrit don't you?) specifically states that "No payments shall be made in the event of accidental or non-accidental life stoppage." You should have bought the life stoppage policy but it wouldn't really have mattered because it would have its own obscure sub-section that stated that life stoppage is only covered in cases of extreme polyantimorphism and your case wasn't extreme enough. Plus, it was a pre-existing condition.
But surely insurance companies pay sometimes.
Yes, in extreme cases, they do. They pay what is known as "usual and customary". Bear in mind that nothing is usual or customary to an insurance company.
During the Civil War, if a soldier was wounded, it was customary to amputate a leg. It didn't matter where or how serious the wound was, a leg would be amputated. Upon seeing the reluctance of soldiers with acne to visit doctors, insurance companies seized upon customary procedures. So, if you need a leg amputated, by all means, go to the doctor.
Unfortunately, the pay scale has not changed in the past 150 years either so you'll need to find a doctor that will either take your Blue Cross/Blue Shield card or accepts payment in chickens.
Is it really that bad?
Yes.
No. I mean, is it really that bad?
Yes.
What is insurance?
A definition is always a good place to start. Insurance is a means by which risk is pooled among a population of people. The assumption is that if we average people's risk over a large group, our risk will be less.
Let's look at an example. (Those of you that are math averse should look away) Suppose that my risk is "x". Your risk is "x" too. Together, our total risk is x + x. In case you failed algebra, x + x = 2x. Now, to find our average risk, we divide our total risk by the number in our group. This is written as 2x/2. Those of you that didn't fail algebra can see where this is headed. Our average risk is x. Nothing has changed.
But wait! you say. "Madman, you're overweight and to call your lifestyle sedimentary would demean an entire classification of rocks!" - you also say. (That was a little mean-spirited and hurtful, I'd reply) This is where the magic happens. If my original risk was 2x and yours was only x, our average risk would be 3x/2 or 1.5x. You've just inherited some of my risk and I thank you for it. Insurance counts on people with low risk, also known as "pigeons", to join together with high risk people, also known as "Kevins" to pool their risk.
How do I get insurance?
You purchase insurance from someone known as an "agent". They prefer to refer to themselves as agents because of the negative connotations associated with the word salesman. When you hear the word agent, you instinctively think of something mysterious and perhaps a little dangerous, like a James Bond type "secret agent". No one is intimidated by a "secret salesman". Real estate agents work on this same principle. They've even gone so far as to create a whole new word "realtor" to avoid being called salesmen. I fully expect insurance agents to adopt this strategy and start calling themselves insurators.
What happens when I need to use my insurance?
The short answer is "Sucks to be you."
The long answer is, first you file a claim. Suppose that you go to a doctor or dentist or auto repair shop, it doesn't matter, the process is the same. You go in with a problem, get looked at and them get a bill. If you're lucky, they'll file a claim for you. They'll contact your insurance company and get told "No. That's not covered." It doesn't really matter what "that" is. It's not covered. You could have purchased a policy titled "Insurance against death" and your death would not be covered. If you were to actually read your policy (no one has ever done this) you would see that a small addition to an obscure sub-section that is written in Sanskrit (you do read Sanskrit don't you?) specifically states that "No payments shall be made in the event of accidental or non-accidental life stoppage." You should have bought the life stoppage policy but it wouldn't really have mattered because it would have its own obscure sub-section that stated that life stoppage is only covered in cases of extreme polyantimorphism and your case wasn't extreme enough. Plus, it was a pre-existing condition.
But surely insurance companies pay sometimes.
Yes, in extreme cases, they do. They pay what is known as "usual and customary". Bear in mind that nothing is usual or customary to an insurance company.
During the Civil War, if a soldier was wounded, it was customary to amputate a leg. It didn't matter where or how serious the wound was, a leg would be amputated. Upon seeing the reluctance of soldiers with acne to visit doctors, insurance companies seized upon customary procedures. So, if you need a leg amputated, by all means, go to the doctor.
Unfortunately, the pay scale has not changed in the past 150 years either so you'll need to find a doctor that will either take your Blue Cross/Blue Shield card or accepts payment in chickens.
Is it really that bad?
Yes.
No. I mean, is it really that bad?
Yes.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Earth, Wind and Fire!
I've made you wait long enough. I've decided to update my blog. First the good news, I survived my trip to Philadelphia. Now the bad news, I've lost my notes that I was going to use to write part 2 of my blog. Even more bad news, I don't remember why I went to Philadelphia. It was probably work related since Sheri didn't go. At least, I don't think she went. My memory isn't what I remember it being. Do I still have two kids? I hope so, I think I liked them.
There's a new tab on the page where you create your blog. I think it's new anyway. It says "Monetize". I assume that if you click on it, it will add pictures of paintings from the great French impressionist Claude Monet onto your webpage. This would seem to be a fairly obscure feature but who am I to argue with the geniuses at Google?
There's also a tab that says "Stats". From this fascinating page, I see that a grand total of 3 of my loyal followers use the Chrome web browser. To be perfectly honest, that's about 3 more than I would have guessed.
But enough of this silliness, if you can call it that. (Call it what you like, I've got bigger fish to fry.) This blog is about the weather. In Oklahoma, so the song goes, "The waving wheat, can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain!" In a lesser known and rarely sung verse, we learn that waving wheat is also capable of giving off an odor of "sand" when the wind comes before the rain as has been the case for the last few months.
The lack of rain has greatly contributed to the wildfire situation that has plagued southwestern Oklahoma as of late. It hasn't contributed as much as the people that believe that the roadside is the appropriate receptacle for their cigarettes but it has contributed nonetheless.
A few thoughts about fire:
1. Fire is cool. Not literally of course.
2. Whenever someone talks about free speech, the "You can't yell fire in a crowded movie theater" exception gets brought up. Why is it always a movie theater? If I'm at the opera and the urge should strike, can I yell fire? How many people constitute a crowd? If I'm at the midnight showing of "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo" and there are only 2 of us, can I yell fire? What if there really is a fire in a crowded movie theater, would I be safe from prosecution if I yelled "Rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products!" Can I whisper to those around me "Don't tell anyone but there's a fire in here. Let's all pretend that we have to pee."
3. Any list should have at least 3 entries.
If any of you have recently lost your house to a fire, I apologize for making light (see what I did there?) of the situation. I'll send you all of the Monets that I receive from this year's blog.
The Earth sucks. It's a gravity thing.
There's a new tab on the page where you create your blog. I think it's new anyway. It says "Monetize". I assume that if you click on it, it will add pictures of paintings from the great French impressionist Claude Monet onto your webpage. This would seem to be a fairly obscure feature but who am I to argue with the geniuses at Google?
There's also a tab that says "Stats". From this fascinating page, I see that a grand total of 3 of my loyal followers use the Chrome web browser. To be perfectly honest, that's about 3 more than I would have guessed.
But enough of this silliness, if you can call it that. (Call it what you like, I've got bigger fish to fry.) This blog is about the weather. In Oklahoma, so the song goes, "The waving wheat, can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain!" In a lesser known and rarely sung verse, we learn that waving wheat is also capable of giving off an odor of "sand" when the wind comes before the rain as has been the case for the last few months.
The lack of rain has greatly contributed to the wildfire situation that has plagued southwestern Oklahoma as of late. It hasn't contributed as much as the people that believe that the roadside is the appropriate receptacle for their cigarettes but it has contributed nonetheless.
A few thoughts about fire:
1. Fire is cool. Not literally of course.
2. Whenever someone talks about free speech, the "You can't yell fire in a crowded movie theater" exception gets brought up. Why is it always a movie theater? If I'm at the opera and the urge should strike, can I yell fire? How many people constitute a crowd? If I'm at the midnight showing of "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo" and there are only 2 of us, can I yell fire? What if there really is a fire in a crowded movie theater, would I be safe from prosecution if I yelled "Rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products!" Can I whisper to those around me "Don't tell anyone but there's a fire in here. Let's all pretend that we have to pee."
3. Any list should have at least 3 entries.
If any of you have recently lost your house to a fire, I apologize for making light (see what I did there?) of the situation. I'll send you all of the Monets that I receive from this year's blog.
The Earth sucks. It's a gravity thing.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Philadelphia Freedom: Part I
It was an ingenious plan. To be honest, I never saw it coming, But now, looking back in hindsight (as if there were any other way to look back) it is perfectly clear. Steve Jobs, the CEO of Apple, and Amy, my physical therapist, teamed together (as if there were any other way to team) to kill me.
Steve's piece of the puzzle was simple, create a phone that everyone wants but that also has the battery life of a wind up emergency radio. Amy's piece was much more subtle. She had to convince me to add Fleetwood Mac's "The Dance" to my Netflix queue. While both of these actions taken separately, were fairly innocuous, (and Steve's is obviously bad business) taken together, they almost led to my untimely demise.
As many of you know, I'm currently not in Oklahoma anymore. I'm sitting in a hotel room outside of Philadelphia. I flew into Philadelphia on Monday. All of my travel information was stored neatly on my iPhone. This included my hotel's address and phone number.
When I got in my rental car, a Nissan Versa, (I have come to the conclusion that Versa is named for Versatile only without the acceleration) I entered the address into my GPS. Within a few seconds, Cleo (the name I have given to the GPS lady that gives me directions) discovered the quickest route to get me from the Payless Rental Car parking lot to King of Prussia Pennsylvania. (Two quick notes. 1. You do not get a free pair of shoes when you rent from Payless although you should. 2. King of Prussia is a silly name for a city.)
At this point you are probably asking (I realize that you're probably not) "What do Amy and Fleetwood Mac have to do with this?" As I said, Amy had conveniently convinced me to add "The Dance" to my Netflix queue several months ago. Somehow, I suspect that sorcery might have been involved, Amy knew that I would be traveling to Philadelphia this month. She also knew that I would have an iPhone with the "10 minute: Extended Life Battery." Knowing that I would view "The Dance" the night before my trip, she must have concluded that I would need a Fleetwood Mac fix that could only be cured by downloading "Rumors." She also knew that I would listen to "Rumors" during my 2 hour layover in Chicago, thereby shortening my battery life from "Power nap" to "Hiccup". Some of you might insist that I bare some responsibility for this fiasco. You would fall into the exceedingly large group of people that I refer to as "Not my friends."
So, as I'm navigating Philadelphia traffic, I am constantly looking at my phone to see if Cleo has died. The only way that this situation could become more dangerous is if I decide to start texting or checking email. I probably would have, but right on schedule Cleo died. Fortunately that's not a problem because I have the address to the hotel in an email, I'll just call them and ask for directions. Oh wait.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The Mad Man's Journey to Health or at Least Something that Sounds Like it.
Sheri and I got bicycles for our 24th anniversary which we will be celebrating in July if we live that long. According to my exhaustive web research, the traditional 24th anniversary gift is supposed to be a musical instrument. Believe it or not, a bicycle fits well in this category as my thighs sang a chorus of "Ow, Ow, Ow" for my entire journey. The journey of which I speak was walking to the garage to retrieve my precious anniversary gift. Actually riding the bike was a different story entirely. Not better, just different.
I should start with a visual. Here is a recent photo. OK, that's not actually me but the likeness is remarkable. On a positive note, I have more hair. On the negative side, I have more chins. The culmination of my long and steady decline into a sedentary lifestyle was the indignity of purchasing "Relaxed Fit" jeans at Wal-Mart last week. They call them "Relaxed Fit" because if they called them "Jeans for the Bigger Butted Man", no one would buy them. The other indignity is that I'm certain that as I was bent over to get to the bottom shelf where Wal-Mart has decided that its husky customers should have to reach to find their "Relaxed Fit" jeans, someone snapped a picture of me to place on the notorious People of Wal-Mart website.
After finally making it to the garage (don't laugh, it's harder than it sounds, the grass was wet), I found my white whale. I probably should have just harpooned it and got it over with but unfortunately, my favorite harpoon is in the shop and my backup harpoon was back in the house. I decided that I wasn't making that trek again.
Speaking of treks, ironically enough, my new bicycle is also a Trek. If you want the full visual of the whale, you can see it here. Sheri's is the second one.
(As I was writing this, I came to the realization that cats do not chew their food. You do not want to know the details that led to this revelation.)
The word "trek" itself brings back many memories. As a child, I was a bona fide Trekkie. I played Star Trek with my friends. I attended many Star Trek conventions. I still have my first edition of Starlog magazine. Sheri and I met at OU while watching Star Trek. I was immediately attracted to her even though it was obvious to me that she had never attended a convention and probably never read Starlog. Looking back, those apparent shortcomings were probably blessings.
So now there's a new trek in my life. I'm afraid that this new trek can't be enjoyed from the safety and security of my Barcalounger. This new trek is going to make me boldly go to the garage and beyond. Did I mention that the grass was wet? It's also a long way from my house to my garage. It really is. It's a good 30 smoots (that's over 50 yards for you non-geeks) and its uphill! (and the grass was wet)
I've named my bicycle "Bones" as both an homage to DeForest Kelley and a reminder as to the part of my anatomy that will be in pain when I'm done riding. Bones is called a "hybrid" bicycle. That means that it's part bicycle and part rack only without the benefit of lying down.
For those of you that are unfamiliar with the topography around my house, I live right next to a lake. One defining characteristic of most lakes is that they are generally the lowest point around. To me, this means that no matter which direction I leave from home, it's uphill. In my car, that isn't much of an issue. In my barcalounger, it isn't an issue at all. If I had succeeded in convincing Sheri that what we really needed was electric bicycles, it wouldn't have been an issue. Seated high atop Bones, it is a major issue.
Bones comes with 21 gears. They range from "I'm pedaling but the scenery isn't changing" to "Pulling a Hummer". Neither of these will be useful in getting me up Caddo county's version of Mt. McKinley. Yesterday, before I had been on Bones, I thought that with 21 gears to choose from, at least one of them and possibly even more would be useful for my arduous climb. For those of you that don't know, and I was certainly in this group, a 21 speed bike has 21 gear combinations. The dirty little secret that they don't tell you (until after you've made your purchase) is that of these 21 combinations; 5 shouldn't be used and 8 are THE SAME! Really Shimano? Your business model is to provide 21 of something when only 8 are useful? I'm relieved that the engineers at Ford didn't take that approach when designing the gearbox of my Focus.
Through an amazing feat of endurance that could best be described as a cross between "hyperventilation" and "crying", I made it to the top of Mount Caddo. Unfortunately, I was only about 400 smoots (you can do the math) from my driveway and my lungs were kaput. I blame the altitude.
I did manage to finish the rest of my 7 mile trek. Sheri beat me by a mere 8 miles but in my defense, I'm a wuss.
I should start with a visual. Here is a recent photo. OK, that's not actually me but the likeness is remarkable. On a positive note, I have more hair. On the negative side, I have more chins. The culmination of my long and steady decline into a sedentary lifestyle was the indignity of purchasing "Relaxed Fit" jeans at Wal-Mart last week. They call them "Relaxed Fit" because if they called them "Jeans for the Bigger Butted Man", no one would buy them. The other indignity is that I'm certain that as I was bent over to get to the bottom shelf where Wal-Mart has decided that its husky customers should have to reach to find their "Relaxed Fit" jeans, someone snapped a picture of me to place on the notorious People of Wal-Mart website.
After finally making it to the garage (don't laugh, it's harder than it sounds, the grass was wet), I found my white whale. I probably should have just harpooned it and got it over with but unfortunately, my favorite harpoon is in the shop and my backup harpoon was back in the house. I decided that I wasn't making that trek again.
Speaking of treks, ironically enough, my new bicycle is also a Trek. If you want the full visual of the whale, you can see it here. Sheri's is the second one.
(As I was writing this, I came to the realization that cats do not chew their food. You do not want to know the details that led to this revelation.)
The word "trek" itself brings back many memories. As a child, I was a bona fide Trekkie. I played Star Trek with my friends. I attended many Star Trek conventions. I still have my first edition of Starlog magazine. Sheri and I met at OU while watching Star Trek. I was immediately attracted to her even though it was obvious to me that she had never attended a convention and probably never read Starlog. Looking back, those apparent shortcomings were probably blessings.
So now there's a new trek in my life. I'm afraid that this new trek can't be enjoyed from the safety and security of my Barcalounger. This new trek is going to make me boldly go to the garage and beyond. Did I mention that the grass was wet? It's also a long way from my house to my garage. It really is. It's a good 30 smoots (that's over 50 yards for you non-geeks) and its uphill! (and the grass was wet)
I've named my bicycle "Bones" as both an homage to DeForest Kelley and a reminder as to the part of my anatomy that will be in pain when I'm done riding. Bones is called a "hybrid" bicycle. That means that it's part bicycle and part rack only without the benefit of lying down.
For those of you that are unfamiliar with the topography around my house, I live right next to a lake. One defining characteristic of most lakes is that they are generally the lowest point around. To me, this means that no matter which direction I leave from home, it's uphill. In my car, that isn't much of an issue. In my barcalounger, it isn't an issue at all. If I had succeeded in convincing Sheri that what we really needed was electric bicycles, it wouldn't have been an issue. Seated high atop Bones, it is a major issue.
Bones comes with 21 gears. They range from "I'm pedaling but the scenery isn't changing" to "Pulling a Hummer". Neither of these will be useful in getting me up Caddo county's version of Mt. McKinley. Yesterday, before I had been on Bones, I thought that with 21 gears to choose from, at least one of them and possibly even more would be useful for my arduous climb. For those of you that don't know, and I was certainly in this group, a 21 speed bike has 21 gear combinations. The dirty little secret that they don't tell you (until after you've made your purchase) is that of these 21 combinations; 5 shouldn't be used and 8 are THE SAME! Really Shimano? Your business model is to provide 21 of something when only 8 are useful? I'm relieved that the engineers at Ford didn't take that approach when designing the gearbox of my Focus.
Through an amazing feat of endurance that could best be described as a cross between "hyperventilation" and "crying", I made it to the top of Mount Caddo. Unfortunately, I was only about 400 smoots (you can do the math) from my driveway and my lungs were kaput. I blame the altitude.
I did manage to finish the rest of my 7 mile trek. Sheri beat me by a mere 8 miles but in my defense, I'm a wuss.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Madman disproves evolution. Take that Darwin!
In the shower this morning, I was thinking about evolution. I don't know why. As I was pondering the nature of life and the universe, it occured to me that the theories of natural selection and survival of the fittest simply cannot be true. What led me to this inescapable conclusion? Backhair.
I have a hairy back. Not Robin Williams hairy but hairy enough for government work. (The government has all sorts of jobs.) If natural selection were a valid representation of the world around us, any sort of selection, natural or otherwise, would have kicked my particular kind of back out of the gene pool long ago.
I'm not proud of it but many years ago when I was in high school and college, I used to look at Playboy magazine. Consequently, I became intimately familar with the turn-ons and turn-offs of "bubble headed bleached blondes" (thanks Don Henley). Not once did I read a list of turn-ons that mentioned backhair. They all said that they wanted a guy with a nice smile and a sense of humor, both of which I've been told I possess in abundance. Inexplicably, I could count the number of real dates I had in high school without taking my mittens off. It must have been due to the backhair.
When I shared my theory with my wife, she said, "You know that's not right don't you?" I remain unconvinced. She also mentioned that as long as I'm going to talk about backhair, I might as well mention nosehair. I'm not sure what she's getting at but I think I have a pretty good idea.
That also got me to wondering about other qualities that I posess that would help disprove the "Theory" of evolution. (Remember kids, you can't spell "theory" without "the". You could probably use an "or" too.) I suspect that I have many other features which would help prove my theory. What self-respecting cave woman would choose a mate that's knock-kneed? Or has a spare tire? Or needed glasses? Or was about as useful on a hunt as a bag of rats?
The only logical explanation (to me anyway) is that Darwin was absolutely nuts. Look at the facts:
I have a hairy back. Not Robin Williams hairy but hairy enough for government work. (The government has all sorts of jobs.) If natural selection were a valid representation of the world around us, any sort of selection, natural or otherwise, would have kicked my particular kind of back out of the gene pool long ago.
I'm not proud of it but many years ago when I was in high school and college, I used to look at Playboy magazine. Consequently, I became intimately familar with the turn-ons and turn-offs of "bubble headed bleached blondes" (thanks Don Henley). Not once did I read a list of turn-ons that mentioned backhair. They all said that they wanted a guy with a nice smile and a sense of humor, both of which I've been told I possess in abundance. Inexplicably, I could count the number of real dates I had in high school without taking my mittens off. It must have been due to the backhair.
When I shared my theory with my wife, she said, "You know that's not right don't you?" I remain unconvinced. She also mentioned that as long as I'm going to talk about backhair, I might as well mention nosehair. I'm not sure what she's getting at but I think I have a pretty good idea.
That also got me to wondering about other qualities that I posess that would help disprove the "Theory" of evolution. (Remember kids, you can't spell "theory" without "the". You could probably use an "or" too.) I suspect that I have many other features which would help prove my theory. What self-respecting cave woman would choose a mate that's knock-kneed? Or has a spare tire? Or needed glasses? Or was about as useful on a hunt as a bag of rats?
The only logical explanation (to me anyway) is that Darwin was absolutely nuts. Look at the facts:
- He comes up with a crazy theory of evolution.
- He travels on a ship named after a hyperactive dog. Seriously, who names their boat after a beagle? I think I'm going to name my next boat the HMS Labradoodle.
- There is no #3.
- If there's no #3, then this one is really pointless.
I can't wait to see my name in Kansas high school textbooks everywhere. Well, not everywhere but at least in Kansas. You know what I mean.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Decisions. Decisions.
Making decisions is getting harder by the minute. The number of choices for any given decision seems to be growing geometrically. If you don't speak math, geometrically means " a metric buttload". The most obvious manifestation of this is television channels. Everyone that grew up in the 60's had exactly 4 channels to watch if you included PBS. Now, through the magic of satellite TV, I have 4 channels devoted specifically to Ethiopian midget porn.
My mother-in-law bought us a really cool Christmas present. It's an electric mattress pad. It's great on a cold night to get into a nice warm bed. The problem with it is the number of settings that it has. If the mattress pad people had asked me, I would have told them that Low, Medium and High would have been sufficient. They did not ask me. Apparently, whoever they asked thought that no mattress warmer would be complete without TWENTY different settings. I simply cannot handle that many choices. I lie awake at night with my pad set on 17 wondering if I might not be more comfortable if I turned it up to 18. If I turn it down to 16, will I get hypothermia? These are not decisions that you can take lightly.
I got my first bicycle when I was in 1st grade. It had one gear. It got stolen. I had another bike in 6th grade that also only had one gear. It got stolen too. By the time I was in high school, I finally had a 10 speed. Surprise! It got stolen too. At this very moment, there are three bicycles sitting in my garage that have a combined total of 57 gears. If I could pay someone to steal them from me, I would. Not uncoincidentally, I have a car in the same category.
I golf. Badly. Seriously. I'm a bad golfer. I love it but I stink at it. The rules of golf state that you can carry no more than 14 clubs in your bag. Naturally, I carry 14. Sometimes 15. I actually use 3. The perverse thing about it is that if I had more sleeves in my bag, I'd buy more clubs to not use.
Gotta go. Monk is on. I think this is the one where you know who murdered the guy but you don't know how Monk is going to prove that the bad guy actually did it. Please don't spoil the ending for me.
My mother-in-law bought us a really cool Christmas present. It's an electric mattress pad. It's great on a cold night to get into a nice warm bed. The problem with it is the number of settings that it has. If the mattress pad people had asked me, I would have told them that Low, Medium and High would have been sufficient. They did not ask me. Apparently, whoever they asked thought that no mattress warmer would be complete without TWENTY different settings. I simply cannot handle that many choices. I lie awake at night with my pad set on 17 wondering if I might not be more comfortable if I turned it up to 18. If I turn it down to 16, will I get hypothermia? These are not decisions that you can take lightly.
I got my first bicycle when I was in 1st grade. It had one gear. It got stolen. I had another bike in 6th grade that also only had one gear. It got stolen too. By the time I was in high school, I finally had a 10 speed. Surprise! It got stolen too. At this very moment, there are three bicycles sitting in my garage that have a combined total of 57 gears. If I could pay someone to steal them from me, I would. Not uncoincidentally, I have a car in the same category.
I golf. Badly. Seriously. I'm a bad golfer. I love it but I stink at it. The rules of golf state that you can carry no more than 14 clubs in your bag. Naturally, I carry 14. Sometimes 15. I actually use 3. The perverse thing about it is that if I had more sleeves in my bag, I'd buy more clubs to not use.
Gotta go. Monk is on. I think this is the one where you know who murdered the guy but you don't know how Monk is going to prove that the bad guy actually did it. Please don't spoil the ending for me.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
I may not be consistent but I am forgetful.
My faithful following (Laura) has encouraged me to put something on my blog. Let's see. What could I write about that hasn't already been done? I would do Sarah Palin (not that way) but that would be like shooting moose in a wildlife preserve. Is it a preserve or a reserve? If it's a pre-serve, you would think that it would have to come before something else. If it's a re-serve then it should be something that it done over and over. I'm at a loss.
Joe Biden is every bit as interesting as Joe Lieberman so I think I'll leave him alone as well. By the way guys, good job on busting the stereotype that men named Joe are dull.
My company (it's not really my company, I'm more like their employee) had our annual auction of worthless crap that isn't good enough for us to use anymore. I'm always amazed at what people will pay good money for. I mean, how much would you pay for a pallet full of broken computer monitors that you knew without a shadow of a doubt had sat out in the rain for the last month? I'm no electrical genius (or any other kind) but I seem to recall that water is bad for most electrical components. That's why you shouldn't swim with your cellphone.
Yes I do work for an electric company (thanks for asking) but they don't let me get near the electricity. I do however keep a hard hat in my office just in case somebody over at the plant needs someone to come over and plug their printer back in.
That's one of the weird things about being a computer programmer (technically, (snort) I'm a "Senior Systems Analyst"), everyone expects you to be able to solve any problem that is even remotely related to their computer. Just as you wouldn't go to a podiatrist and say, "I had a bird that died 7 years ago. What do you think it was?", you really shouldn't ask a guy that does database programming all day what the best way to get the porn off your computer is. I can drive too. Don't let me near your intake manifold. It will not end well for either of us.
Joe Biden is every bit as interesting as Joe Lieberman so I think I'll leave him alone as well. By the way guys, good job on busting the stereotype that men named Joe are dull.
My company (it's not really my company, I'm more like their employee) had our annual auction of worthless crap that isn't good enough for us to use anymore. I'm always amazed at what people will pay good money for. I mean, how much would you pay for a pallet full of broken computer monitors that you knew without a shadow of a doubt had sat out in the rain for the last month? I'm no electrical genius (or any other kind) but I seem to recall that water is bad for most electrical components. That's why you shouldn't swim with your cellphone.
Yes I do work for an electric company (thanks for asking) but they don't let me get near the electricity. I do however keep a hard hat in my office just in case somebody over at the plant needs someone to come over and plug their printer back in.
That's one of the weird things about being a computer programmer (technically, (snort) I'm a "Senior Systems Analyst"), everyone expects you to be able to solve any problem that is even remotely related to their computer. Just as you wouldn't go to a podiatrist and say, "I had a bird that died 7 years ago. What do you think it was?", you really shouldn't ask a guy that does database programming all day what the best way to get the porn off your computer is. I can drive too. Don't let me near your intake manifold. It will not end well for either of us.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Random thoughts part π
- My rapper name is going to be Master Slushy. I'm not tough enough to have solid ice.
- Jim Morrison is Mr. Mojo Risin. I'm Universal Elm Sky.
- Today is the first day of the rest of your life unless you're dead.
- If it's better to give than to receive, aren't the givers putting the givees at a disadvantage?
- What kind of Christmas were Victorians nostalgic about?
- You'd be cranky too if your name was Ebenezer.
- I'm not 44, I'm 2 score and 4.
- If an angel gets it's wings whenever a bell rings, how do demons get their wings? Whatever it is, we should stop doing it.
- How did angels get their wings before the bronze age?
- The Nutcracker is a terrible name for a ballet unless it's being performed on America's Funniest Home Videos.
- Sleeting sounds a lot more fun than it really is.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Random thoughts: Part II
- Do Venetian castles have dry land around them to keep out invaders?
- Nobody’s school color is brown.
- Cats will eventually eat you if slip and die in the bathtub. That’s why I’m not a cat person. That and the fact that I don’t have long whiskers and a tail.
- Why don’t we use “extraordinary” to describe something that is really really plain?
- Chicken soup wasn’t good for the chicken. That’s why there aren’t any “Chicken Soup for the Chicken’s Soul” books.
- None of my little piggies have ever had roast beef.
- Does red eye reduction work on albinos?
- Nigerians are too trusting.
- If it weren’t for games, no one would own a Palm Pilot.
- Frankenstein’s monster wouldn’t have been as scary if the mad scientist had been named Dr. Jason McFluffy.
Let us bow our heads.
Thanksgiving is next Thursday. It’s the day we set aside to remember that the white man couldn’t grow food on his own in the New World. In honor of this, I’ve come up with a list of things that white men can’t (or shouldn’t) do.
- Jump. Obviously I didn’t come up with this one on my own.
- Sing in a gospel choir. Forrest Gump tried it and you probably shouldn’t try to imitate him.
- Say “biatch”. Actually, I don’t know of anyone that can pull this off without sounding like a complete idiot.
- Remove their shirts in May. The glare off that big white belly is blinding.
- Rap. I know that Eminem is white but he’s also from Detroit. Detroit is the only exception.
- Dance in public. As they said on Scrubs, it’s only OK if you’re gay.
- Wear a bandana. A lot of bikers try it and they all look stupid. Get a hat or wear a helmet.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Lessons learned from watching Star Trek
The good news is that there will be amazing and absolutely scientifically impossible technologies available to you. The bad news is that these amazing technologies have about a 25% failure rate and when they fail, they fail catestrophically. The transporter will either magically transport you to another world or it will create an evil version of you hell-bent on your destruction. The lesson to be learned is that technology can make the most mundane activities into an adventure. Whether it be traveling to work or creating a Word document, technology will always have its dark side. Anyone that bought Microsoft Bob knows what I’m talking about.
Aliens are the Yin/Yang of the universe. By that, I mean that there are only 2 kinds of aliens; those that want to be your best friends and those that are hell-bent on your destruction. There are no in-between aliens that couldn’t care less about you. That means that the lessons that we’ve learned on Earth will not help us much when dealing with aliens because let’s face it, at least 99.999% of the earth’s population are entirely disinterested in your daily activities. Aliens on the other hand will view everything that you do as either an opportunity to get closer to you or an opportunity to vaporize you. That is, if you’re lucky. We all know about aliens’ preference for probing.
There’s an old joke that goes, “If a person that speaks two languages is called bilingual, what is someone that only speaks one called? An American.” As it should so happen, in the future it will be completely unecessary to learn another language because everyone will speak English. Even if it’s a race of creatures that you’ve never met, they’ll speak the Queen’s English as if they graduated from Oxford. If they don’t, that’s a pretty good sign that they’ve got a secret supply of probes nearby.
Diversity apparently isn't a very good ideas as it didn't make it into the 23rd century. Spock was the only alien on the Enterprise. Of course he was also Kirk’s best friend so he was one of the good aliens.
Light bulbs will be at a premium in the future. Whenever one of the hell-bent aliens wants to destroy the ship, the captain orders “Red Alert” and all of the red light bulbs light up. But whenever the aliens just make menacing noises, the captain will order a “Yellow Alert” and there are no yellow lights. Either the yellow bulb making technology will have been lost or people of the future will be very self-conscious about not appearing jaundiced.
I use a computer everyday. I do not want it to talk to me. It can play my MP3’s but that’s it. The last thing that I need is to get into an argument with some Microsoft creation about what font I should be using.
Aliens are the Yin/Yang of the universe. By that, I mean that there are only 2 kinds of aliens; those that want to be your best friends and those that are hell-bent on your destruction. There are no in-between aliens that couldn’t care less about you. That means that the lessons that we’ve learned on Earth will not help us much when dealing with aliens because let’s face it, at least 99.999% of the earth’s population are entirely disinterested in your daily activities. Aliens on the other hand will view everything that you do as either an opportunity to get closer to you or an opportunity to vaporize you. That is, if you’re lucky. We all know about aliens’ preference for probing.
There’s an old joke that goes, “If a person that speaks two languages is called bilingual, what is someone that only speaks one called? An American.” As it should so happen, in the future it will be completely unecessary to learn another language because everyone will speak English. Even if it’s a race of creatures that you’ve never met, they’ll speak the Queen’s English as if they graduated from Oxford. If they don’t, that’s a pretty good sign that they’ve got a secret supply of probes nearby.
Diversity apparently isn't a very good ideas as it didn't make it into the 23rd century. Spock was the only alien on the Enterprise. Of course he was also Kirk’s best friend so he was one of the good aliens.
Light bulbs will be at a premium in the future. Whenever one of the hell-bent aliens wants to destroy the ship, the captain orders “Red Alert” and all of the red light bulbs light up. But whenever the aliens just make menacing noises, the captain will order a “Yellow Alert” and there are no yellow lights. Either the yellow bulb making technology will have been lost or people of the future will be very self-conscious about not appearing jaundiced.
I use a computer everyday. I do not want it to talk to me. It can play my MP3’s but that’s it. The last thing that I need is to get into an argument with some Microsoft creation about what font I should be using.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Random thoughts: Part I
Why aren't Paris and Britney on a box of Pop-Tarts?
Giving 110% puts you in debt. Debt is bad.
It is NOT easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. Begging for forgiveness means that you did something stupid.
I wonder about many things. Bras are not even in the top 10.
Insurance should be called "Giving you your money back minus a fee."
Thanksgiving should be called Givingthanks.
It's ironic that Martin Luther King was named after a racist.
Sometimes I don't have anything good to say and say it anyway. That's how people learn.
Brett Favre spells his name wrong.
You can go 8 weeks without eating, 1 week without drinking but usually only a few minutes without having a bad idea.
Were all Indian kids born in the desert named "____________ by cactus"?
I'm going to start piloting my car. It sounds cooler than driving.
The Declaration of Independence could have stopped at the title and been just as effective. Easier to memorize too.
Giving 110% puts you in debt. Debt is bad.
It is NOT easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. Begging for forgiveness means that you did something stupid.
I wonder about many things. Bras are not even in the top 10.
Insurance should be called "Giving you your money back minus a fee."
Thanksgiving should be called Givingthanks.
It's ironic that Martin Luther King was named after a racist.
Sometimes I don't have anything good to say and say it anyway. That's how people learn.
Brett Favre spells his name wrong.
You can go 8 weeks without eating, 1 week without drinking but usually only a few minutes without having a bad idea.
Were all Indian kids born in the desert named "____________ by cactus"?
I'm going to start piloting my car. It sounds cooler than driving.
The Declaration of Independence could have stopped at the title and been just as effective. Easier to memorize too.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
BREAKING NEWS!! MUST CREDIT DAIRY..
In a worldwide exclusive, an insider with the Barak Obama campaign has confided to the Dairy Report that for the last 8 years, Hillary Clinton has been sleeping with a pillow. Even more startling, the insider states that the pillow is not hypoallergenic and may even contain chicken feathers. Phone calls to the Clinton campaign were not immediately returned.
This has got to be the most boring election cycle ever. You would think that with a black man and a white woman as the two leading candidates of the Democratic party that something interesting would happen. You would be wrong. So far, the most heated topic has been Iraq. This comes as no surprise to anyone. What is surprising is how dull the candidates are making the issue. To recap their positions:
Obama: (to Clinton). You should admit that your vote to authorize the Iraq war was a mistake.
Clinton: No.
Obama: OK.
Meanwhile, John Edwards lurks quietly in the background and ponders his hair.
Who would have thought that the Republicans would be more entertaining than the Democrats? No one, that's who. These people won't be disappointed either. Rudy Giuliani's platform up to this point has been: "Vote for me. I was mayor of New York City in 2001." This does not exactly endear him to his red state Republican base. I understand that his next media blitz will involve him singing "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy." I'm sure that the folks in Atlanta are giddy with anticipation.
Mitt Romney is another candidate that could dull the pants off of Pat Paulsen were he still alive. His most intriguing attribute to date is his religion. He wants to believe that the Republican base will overlook the fact that he's a Mormon. I'm curious Mitt, do you even know any other Republicans? I'm also curious about the name Mitt. About all that you can say about it is that it beats Willard.
Hopefully, things will improve in the near future. The prospect of another year of these candidates is extremely depressing. Who would have thought that we'd miss the Swift Boat Veterans?
This has got to be the most boring election cycle ever. You would think that with a black man and a white woman as the two leading candidates of the Democratic party that something interesting would happen. You would be wrong. So far, the most heated topic has been Iraq. This comes as no surprise to anyone. What is surprising is how dull the candidates are making the issue. To recap their positions:
Obama: (to Clinton). You should admit that your vote to authorize the Iraq war was a mistake.
Clinton: No.
Obama: OK.
Meanwhile, John Edwards lurks quietly in the background and ponders his hair.
Who would have thought that the Republicans would be more entertaining than the Democrats? No one, that's who. These people won't be disappointed either. Rudy Giuliani's platform up to this point has been: "Vote for me. I was mayor of New York City in 2001." This does not exactly endear him to his red state Republican base. I understand that his next media blitz will involve him singing "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy." I'm sure that the folks in Atlanta are giddy with anticipation.
Mitt Romney is another candidate that could dull the pants off of Pat Paulsen were he still alive. His most intriguing attribute to date is his religion. He wants to believe that the Republican base will overlook the fact that he's a Mormon. I'm curious Mitt, do you even know any other Republicans? I'm also curious about the name Mitt. About all that you can say about it is that it beats Willard.
Hopefully, things will improve in the near future. The prospect of another year of these candidates is extremely depressing. Who would have thought that we'd miss the Swift Boat Veterans?
Monday, October 29, 2007
Let's just be friends.
Dear Cadillac Division - General Motors;
I regret to inform you that the answer to your latest inquiry is negative. When I turn my car on, it does not return the favor. This is not entirely its fault. It is missing most of the features associated with arousal. It does not have a good sense of humor. It does not have a killer body. It does not have a nice smile. It may be a good listener but since it never responds to my questions it's hard to tell if it is really listening or just pretending to.
On the positive side, it does not smoke and while I appreciate this very much, it is not enough to really excite me. I also greatly fear that when my Explorer becomes a teenager in a few years, it too will start to smoke. All of the cool cars are doing it.
Yours very insincerely,
John Delorean.
To assist other would-be marketers that believe that their products should turn people on, here is a list of additional household items that do not fill the bill:
I regret to inform you that the answer to your latest inquiry is negative. When I turn my car on, it does not return the favor. This is not entirely its fault. It is missing most of the features associated with arousal. It does not have a good sense of humor. It does not have a killer body. It does not have a nice smile. It may be a good listener but since it never responds to my questions it's hard to tell if it is really listening or just pretending to.
On the positive side, it does not smoke and while I appreciate this very much, it is not enough to really excite me. I also greatly fear that when my Explorer becomes a teenager in a few years, it too will start to smoke. All of the cool cars are doing it.
Yours very insincerely,
John Delorean.
To assist other would-be marketers that believe that their products should turn people on, here is a list of additional household items that do not fill the bill:
- My toaster oven. Even though it is extremely hot, it cannot light my fire.
- My computers. Although they have access to an extremely wide variety of pornography, they are nonetheless "not hot".
- My DVR. It pains me to list this one because I truly love it, just not in that way.
Sauerkraut and you.
I get a weekly newsletter from the good folks at the Food Network. It has a lot of useful information that I will never use if I live to be 130. It also includes a trivia question at the top and an answer at the bottom. Today's is about sauerkraut. Someone wants to know if you should drain and rinse your sauerkraut before you eat it. My personal opinion is you should drain it and rinse it and then throw the entire contents of the can away. Rinsing should dramatically decrease the stench.
The good folks at the Food Network believe that whether or not you rinse it depends on if you bought it or made it yourself. People actually make their own sauerkraut? Isn't this like making your own hotdogs? Or your own Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries? Who would do this? Apparently a lot of people would because there are also USDA regulations about the making of the killer cabbage.
Just say no people. Just say no.
The good folks at the Food Network believe that whether or not you rinse it depends on if you bought it or made it yourself. People actually make their own sauerkraut? Isn't this like making your own hotdogs? Or your own Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries? Who would do this? Apparently a lot of people would because there are also USDA regulations about the making of the killer cabbage.
Just say no people. Just say no.
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