Every day we hear disturbing news of one kind or another, don't we? Well, I have heard the most disturbing news of all time (at least until someone trumps it with something worse). The other day someone told me that the honey bee population is dropping off. Turns out, this is true. Bees left and right are - disappearing. No kidding! There are less and less bees all the time and there are no little bee bodies to be found. I have no idea how anyone knows the bodies are vanishing, but this is what the news articles are saying. I suppose bee experts have instruments similar to metal detectors that they carry around in the meadows and praries to the oceans white with foam trying to detect these little dead bee bodies. And not one blip is ever heard! From what I have read, it doesn't seem to be a possibility that the bees have gone on vacation or maybe just moved to better neighborhoods. No, they have simply GONE AWAY! *ominous music here*
This all reminds me of when I was a kid and we heard all this talk of a promble that was, well, just exactly the opposite of disappearing bees. Back then we heard about these Killer Bees that were coming up from Mexico to do us all in. What these Mexican bees had against us, I really don't know, but I suspect it had something to do with "Honey", that loathesome song by Bobby Goldsboro. That song would cause any living creature to want to react in creating chaos of biblical perportions. Which brings us back to the missing bee problem: I figure it is either 1) the beginning of the end times or b) not.
I'm leaning toward that second option, to be honest. These "end of it all" scares never seem to be the end of it all like they promise. The only things that end are the rumors which go away, to be replaced 3.27 seconds later with some other terrible "end of the world" scare.
Besides, the bees began to disappear somewhere in the 70s and people are just now starting to notice. Anyone remember the Killer Bees that used to be on Saturday Night Live? This was the first attempt on that show to have recurring characters. Basically the entire cast would dress up in bee costumes and wander around doing anything but being funny. The bee sketches were so bad that they drove John Belushi insane, then to do drugs; which ultimately killed him. Less bees in the world, then, could mean less drug abuse, which would make Nancy Reagan's dream finally come true.
Now, let's segue into harsher news than all this bee stuff by bringing up another former Killer Bee / drug addict SNL alumnus Chevy Chase. Chevy Chase, who is best known as Chevy Chase, was a writer for the first season of Saturday Night Live, making a name for himself (the name being Chevy Chase) by being the first anchor of the long-running recurring sketch "Weekend Update" where he would begin the sketch by saying, "I'm Chevy Chase and you're not". See how he did that? Before coining that phrase his name was Myron Broderick but suddenly became Chevy Chase by declaring he was Chevy Chase, forcing the real Chevy Chase to change her name to Gilda Radner.
Chevy was not known as an easy person to work with. He left the show after the first season and returned to host during a later season, nearly getting into a fist fight with Bill Murray, the man that replaced him. Belushi put an end to the fight by setting Chevy on fire and getting high from the fumes. Chevy returned to host a few times, often with so many complaints from the cast that Chevy became the one and only former star to be banned from the show. The mere fact that Gilbert Gotfried was never banned from the show (he was never asked to come back, but not banned) confirms that Chevy is a first class a-hole. After all, Gotfried was banned from ever being the voice of the Aflec duck again. That's some serious banning there.
Chase occassionally surfaces riding his gigantic ego to create havoc in the entertainment world. He has gone so far as to say that "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report" were, basically, his idea because he did a news spoof on Saturday Night Live. Back in 1835 The Sun ran silly news items to boost sales. Mark Twain when he was a reporter used to submit satirical news pieces. Satirical news began to run on TV in Great Britain back in the 1960s in the form of a show called "That Was the Week That Was". When informed of all this, Chase shrugged and said, "I invented Mark Twain, newspapers, Great Britain and the 60s."
Three years ago, Chevy Chase (who should be happy that he's still working at all) began to appear on NBC's cult hit sitcom "Community". I didn't begin to watch "Community" until just a month or two ago, but have rabidly watched via Hulu from the first episode to the latest. His personality aside, I do like Chevy Chase and he was the main reason I decided to try the show. I find it refreshingly funny compaired to most of what makes it on the air these days. And Chase, despite his freakishly enlarged face, can still make me laugh.
But, the story goes that not too long ago Chevy walked off the set when he found something in the script not funny enough for his liking. This has lead to a lot of back and forth bitchiness one would usually only find in a women's prison between Chase and "Community" creator and writer Dan Harmon. During the fued Dan would go play for a live audience a voice mail left by Chevy claiming (in between swear words) that Dan is not funny and that "Community" basically sucks. Chevy in interviews seems to be continuing to assert that the show isn't funny and giving the air that the whole thing is beneath him anyway (this from the man who used to be The Landshark). Chevy is also indicating that he might be quitting the show.
If this is supposed to be a threat, I would like to remind Dan Harmon that Chevy left Saturday Night Live in the first of it's 24,912 seasons. The show continued to be hip and funny for many years without the presence of Chevy Chase. In fact, "Weekend Update" was much funnier in the hands of Jane Curtin and Dan Aykroyd (and years later Dennis Miller).
If you read closely, Chevy Chase doesn't even understand what "Community" is about. He complains that some of the story lines could take place anywhere and the show is not about going to college anymore. He is so first season with those remarks! In the second season it became as obvious as a solar flare knocking over your home that the show wasn't just about going to college. "Community" has a broader meaning - the show is really about the trials and tribulations of a community of friends - friends that just happened to meet at community college. Suppose the show lasts nine years, Chevy. Do you really think these seven people will continue to take college courses for nine years? He also claims to hate sitcoms. Chevy, take a look at some of the films you've been in: The Vacation films? Caddyshack? These were good films, to be sure, but they play like two hour episodes of a sitcom! You could very easily hack up the Vacation series and have a nice little sitcom about a dopey family that is constantly on vacation - sort of like the Partridge Family without pop music.
Will "Community" survive if Chevy Chase does toss in the towel? I can't see why not. Despite my ribbing, I do like Chevy Chase and I do think he has some talent. But, let's face it. Chevy Chase is not "Community". He's another actor playing another character in an ensemble show. His character, Pierce Hawthorne, is not the main character and very seldom do the stories revolve around him. Sitcoms of the same calabre survived just fine when stars left. Look at Cheers and MASH. Both of them went through a total of 37 cast changes (each) and they managed to continue to be hit shows. What is Pierce anyway? An old fart that complains about everything and calls people names, right? Hell, just make Leonard into a main character and no one will notice Pierce is gone.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Stupid Things I Have Been Forced To Say
In a medium such as this, I can be as anonymous as I choose. All you can see of me are my words, these little black shapes on the white field that your brain scrambles about to mean something. You can't see me, can't hear me, can't smell me. This is quite a joy most of the time as I can sit here naked, scraping my nails on a chalkboard while covered in rotten eggs and limburger cheese. But, when it comes to some topics I feel I need to give a description of myself. I am a rotund guy. Right now I am wearing orange and sitting next to a basketball. You could not tell the difference between me and the basketball. That's about all you need to know this time.
Ever so often I think about dieting. I consider cutting down to five square meals a day, but my dear wife LIKES me this way. I suppose I can see why. When she gets mad at me, all she has to do is give me a shove and I roll down the hill into the mudpit outside our hillbilly neighbors' house.
So, to keep her happy, I must overeat and I must overeat often. Today I had the chance to go to Cici's Pizza. I like that place as you can chow down on all the pizza and brownies you want for less than ten dollars. (Please don't tell my wife, but I started the meal with a salad). Upon entering the door I was greeted by Nikki. Now, Nikki has been working at this particular Cici's for at least five years by my count. I recognize her immediately by her bird song voice and her big bright eyes. I have determined that the girl is both very pleasant and very insane. She must be insane as no normal person could be as pleasant as she always is. But, every time I am in there she asks, "have you ever been to Cici's before?" I always tell myself that the next time I visit Cici's I am going to start out by saying, "yes, Nikki, I have been to Cici's before." But, I never do. I don't want to be the one customer that puts an end to her otherwise eternal perkiness.
Besides, I'm sure that she is forced to ask that question. Somewhere in her job description she probably has a quota to meet. She must ask 98.5% of all customers if they have been to Cici's before or she will become part of next week's pepperoni.
And I can relate. I have had jobs in the past where I was forced to say something stupid on a regular basis. A couple of summers ago I worked for one company for the better part of an afternoon. I can't tell you their name, but the initials of the company are "A" "T" and "T". While there, I had to say to every customer, "it's been my pleasure". That's right. Even if the customer was swearing at me, cursiong out his phone plan, his phone, me, my family, my heritage, my religion and making fun of me for wearing black socks and white shoes, I had to tell them that it was my pleasure to talk to them.
I've done a lot of telemarketing in my past and let me tell you, no job in the world has more stupid stuff forced upon the employees to say than in telemarketing. I would go through every single stupid thing I had to say, but I don't have copies of every script I have ever used. That's right: 100% of everything a telemarketer is forced to say is stupid. One of the worst was, "I can certainly understand your hesitation". This was the way to begin a rebuttal when someone was trying to say "no". No matter how adamant, how loud or how direct the no, we would say, "I can certainly understand your hesitation."
CUSTOMER: What? You're calling me in the middle of my mother's funeral to try to sell me something? I have no money and I already have seventeen accidental death and dismemberment policies linked to every one of my 37 credit cards! My poor mother had even more than I have and where are you guys for her? She fell out of a roller coaster and into a dunk tank where a clown fell on her and they both drowned. You guys are saying it's natural causes and you can't pay! How dare you call me about this crap at a time like this!
TELEMARKETER: I can certainly understand your hesitation.
And the above dramatization shows something stupid that telemarketers are not necessarily told to say, but told to believe and that is everyone they call is a customer. Wrong numbers, answering machines, baby sitters, polite burglers answering the phone - it doesn't matter. They're all customers. What if all companies thought like this? Imaging leaving your house early in the morning to go to work and WHAM some guys in blue shirts and khaki pants are dragging you to Walmart to try to sell you something. (Not long ago I worked for Walmart and I'll let you in on a secret: They are currently working on getting legislation passed to do just what I described in the last sentence. Beware!)
Speaking of Walmart, while I was there, they would once in a while, drag me kicking and screaming to the cashier stand to run the registers. The dumbest thing I had to ever do at Walmart was to, after ringing people up, ask, "will that be all?" I always wondered what I was supposed to do or say if someone answered, "why, no. That's only half of it. Wait here while I shop some more."
I think it is due to jobs like this that, for pretty much all my life, I dream of being a writer. There are two major differences between being a writer and the jobs I mentioned above: 1) I no longer have to say stupid things, I put them in writing and 2) at least I get to decide what stupid things I'll be writing instead of letting someone else come up with it for me.
Ever so often I think about dieting. I consider cutting down to five square meals a day, but my dear wife LIKES me this way. I suppose I can see why. When she gets mad at me, all she has to do is give me a shove and I roll down the hill into the mudpit outside our hillbilly neighbors' house.
So, to keep her happy, I must overeat and I must overeat often. Today I had the chance to go to Cici's Pizza. I like that place as you can chow down on all the pizza and brownies you want for less than ten dollars. (Please don't tell my wife, but I started the meal with a salad). Upon entering the door I was greeted by Nikki. Now, Nikki has been working at this particular Cici's for at least five years by my count. I recognize her immediately by her bird song voice and her big bright eyes. I have determined that the girl is both very pleasant and very insane. She must be insane as no normal person could be as pleasant as she always is. But, every time I am in there she asks, "have you ever been to Cici's before?" I always tell myself that the next time I visit Cici's I am going to start out by saying, "yes, Nikki, I have been to Cici's before." But, I never do. I don't want to be the one customer that puts an end to her otherwise eternal perkiness.
Besides, I'm sure that she is forced to ask that question. Somewhere in her job description she probably has a quota to meet. She must ask 98.5% of all customers if they have been to Cici's before or she will become part of next week's pepperoni.
And I can relate. I have had jobs in the past where I was forced to say something stupid on a regular basis. A couple of summers ago I worked for one company for the better part of an afternoon. I can't tell you their name, but the initials of the company are "A" "T" and "T". While there, I had to say to every customer, "it's been my pleasure". That's right. Even if the customer was swearing at me, cursiong out his phone plan, his phone, me, my family, my heritage, my religion and making fun of me for wearing black socks and white shoes, I had to tell them that it was my pleasure to talk to them.
I've done a lot of telemarketing in my past and let me tell you, no job in the world has more stupid stuff forced upon the employees to say than in telemarketing. I would go through every single stupid thing I had to say, but I don't have copies of every script I have ever used. That's right: 100% of everything a telemarketer is forced to say is stupid. One of the worst was, "I can certainly understand your hesitation". This was the way to begin a rebuttal when someone was trying to say "no". No matter how adamant, how loud or how direct the no, we would say, "I can certainly understand your hesitation."
CUSTOMER: What? You're calling me in the middle of my mother's funeral to try to sell me something? I have no money and I already have seventeen accidental death and dismemberment policies linked to every one of my 37 credit cards! My poor mother had even more than I have and where are you guys for her? She fell out of a roller coaster and into a dunk tank where a clown fell on her and they both drowned. You guys are saying it's natural causes and you can't pay! How dare you call me about this crap at a time like this!
TELEMARKETER: I can certainly understand your hesitation.
And the above dramatization shows something stupid that telemarketers are not necessarily told to say, but told to believe and that is everyone they call is a customer. Wrong numbers, answering machines, baby sitters, polite burglers answering the phone - it doesn't matter. They're all customers. What if all companies thought like this? Imaging leaving your house early in the morning to go to work and WHAM some guys in blue shirts and khaki pants are dragging you to Walmart to try to sell you something. (Not long ago I worked for Walmart and I'll let you in on a secret: They are currently working on getting legislation passed to do just what I described in the last sentence. Beware!)
Speaking of Walmart, while I was there, they would once in a while, drag me kicking and screaming to the cashier stand to run the registers. The dumbest thing I had to ever do at Walmart was to, after ringing people up, ask, "will that be all?" I always wondered what I was supposed to do or say if someone answered, "why, no. That's only half of it. Wait here while I shop some more."
I think it is due to jobs like this that, for pretty much all my life, I dream of being a writer. There are two major differences between being a writer and the jobs I mentioned above: 1) I no longer have to say stupid things, I put them in writing and 2) at least I get to decide what stupid things I'll be writing instead of letting someone else come up with it for me.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
PC Student Tests Forbid Big, Bad Words
In a typical case of political correctness becoming the norm, educrats have banned references to "monkeys", "cake", "candles" and dozens of other topics in city-issued tests.
That's because they fear such topics "could evoke an understanding of the world outside of the students' own personal boxes."
Monkeys, for instance, are mentioned in some talks of evolution. This might upset fundamentalists. Cake is eaten on birthdays and birthdays are not celebrated by Jehovah's Witnesses. Also, cake is eaten at weddings and it might upset children that do not have married parents and children that are not married themselves. The word "cake" could also make fat children hungry. Candles suggest paganism. And are used by the Amish. And are put on birthday cakes and we already know that cake is a bad word.
Even "dancing" is taboo, because some children just do not like to dance or are really not very good at it. But, the city did make an exception for the word "taboo".
The forbidden topics were recently [censored] out in a [censored] for proposals provided to [censored] competing to revamp city [censored], math, [censored] social-studies tests given [censored] a [censored] to [censored] [censored] [censored].
“Some topics may be acceptable in other contexts but do not belong in a Nazi regime or any other totalitarian state. Hail Big Brother!” the request reads, just before it was burned by the firemen.
Any word suggtesting wealth or poverty or anything in between is excluded. Educators do not want poor children to be jealous or rich children to be smug. Mathematics is, similarly, being done away with so children will not have any comprehension as to how rich or poor they are in the first place. There will no longer be any reference to divorce or disease as schools do not want children to realize that people sometimes go through bad times. Same-sex marriage is still a safe topic as it would be politically incorrect to avoid it.
Officials say such exclusions are normal procedure in any society that wants to white wash and brainwash their children.
“This standard language allows our students to complete practice exams without distraction,” said a Department of Education spokeswoman, insisting it’s not censorship. The spokeswoman then became incessed with this reporter for calling her a "spokeswoman". "That word evokes thoughts of gender," he or she insisted and the spokesperson then kicked this reporter in the shins a number of times.
Guidelines recently published in the creation of new high-stakes exams have also cautioned against mentioning other words that might distract or excite young children, such as: boogers, paste, recess, summer, butt, reverse mortgage, colonoscopy and ice cream (which goes right out with the dreaded cake).
The city asks test companies to exclude “creatures from outer space,” because if any of the students are really aliens in disguise it might make them uncomfortable. Homes with swimming pools are also unmentionable due to economic sensitivity. The city said nothing against homes with bowling alleys, polo grounds nor against the owners of major league athletic teams or leaders of small island nations.
City officials also asked that test makers refrain from mentioning animals or inanimate objects with human characteristics. For instance, shoes, corn stalks, chairs and clocks cannot be talked about as they have tongues, ears, arms and faces respectively. As for the animals, the Muppets could not be reached for comment.
Terrorism is deemed too scary, as are clowns, principals and girl cooties.
Some big College "professor" said, “If the goal is to assess higher-order thinking skills, controversial topics, for example, ones that are the subject of political debate, are exactly what students should be reasoning about.” The "professor" has been taken to Room 101 for some re-conditioning.
The above article is a direct spoof of this article:
http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/out_of_the_question_YegJJGCOo33j0CQsccdZuL
The author would like to point out, I am not spoofing the article itself as much as I am the topic of the article.
That's because they fear such topics "could evoke an understanding of the world outside of the students' own personal boxes."
Monkeys, for instance, are mentioned in some talks of evolution. This might upset fundamentalists. Cake is eaten on birthdays and birthdays are not celebrated by Jehovah's Witnesses. Also, cake is eaten at weddings and it might upset children that do not have married parents and children that are not married themselves. The word "cake" could also make fat children hungry. Candles suggest paganism. And are used by the Amish. And are put on birthday cakes and we already know that cake is a bad word.
Even "dancing" is taboo, because some children just do not like to dance or are really not very good at it. But, the city did make an exception for the word "taboo".
The forbidden topics were recently [censored] out in a [censored] for proposals provided to [censored] competing to revamp city [censored], math, [censored] social-studies tests given [censored] a [censored] to [censored] [censored] [censored].
“Some topics may be acceptable in other contexts but do not belong in a Nazi regime or any other totalitarian state. Hail Big Brother!” the request reads, just before it was burned by the firemen.
Any word suggtesting wealth or poverty or anything in between is excluded. Educators do not want poor children to be jealous or rich children to be smug. Mathematics is, similarly, being done away with so children will not have any comprehension as to how rich or poor they are in the first place. There will no longer be any reference to divorce or disease as schools do not want children to realize that people sometimes go through bad times. Same-sex marriage is still a safe topic as it would be politically incorrect to avoid it.
Officials say such exclusions are normal procedure in any society that wants to white wash and brainwash their children.
“This standard language allows our students to complete practice exams without distraction,” said a Department of Education spokeswoman, insisting it’s not censorship. The spokeswoman then became incessed with this reporter for calling her a "spokeswoman". "That word evokes thoughts of gender," he or she insisted and the spokesperson then kicked this reporter in the shins a number of times.
Guidelines recently published in the creation of new high-stakes exams have also cautioned against mentioning other words that might distract or excite young children, such as: boogers, paste, recess, summer, butt, reverse mortgage, colonoscopy and ice cream (which goes right out with the dreaded cake).
The city asks test companies to exclude “creatures from outer space,” because if any of the students are really aliens in disguise it might make them uncomfortable. Homes with swimming pools are also unmentionable due to economic sensitivity. The city said nothing against homes with bowling alleys, polo grounds nor against the owners of major league athletic teams or leaders of small island nations.
City officials also asked that test makers refrain from mentioning animals or inanimate objects with human characteristics. For instance, shoes, corn stalks, chairs and clocks cannot be talked about as they have tongues, ears, arms and faces respectively. As for the animals, the Muppets could not be reached for comment.
Terrorism is deemed too scary, as are clowns, principals and girl cooties.
Some big College "professor" said, “If the goal is to assess higher-order thinking skills, controversial topics, for example, ones that are the subject of political debate, are exactly what students should be reasoning about.” The "professor" has been taken to Room 101 for some re-conditioning.
The above article is a direct spoof of this article:
http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/out_of_the_question_YegJJGCOo33j0CQsccdZuL
The author would like to point out, I am not spoofing the article itself as much as I am the topic of the article.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Why We Can't Find Extraterrestrials
I am going to begin this by making an assumption of you. I assume you have a job, go to school, attend religious services, go out bar hopping, go to the grocery store, attend parole hearings or some other thing that drags you away from your computer and your easy chair. When you do go out into the world to do whatever it is you do (and I know what you do, I'm not as naive as you may think) you do not get in your car and drive there only to turn around and come right back, do you? Wherever it is you're going, you stay there for a while. If you work an eight hour day, you're probably at work the full eight hours (maybe working, maybe not, depending on if anyone is paying attention, right?). My point in this is, when people are looking for aliens from outer space, they're generally looking skyward. If aliens were coming to this planet, would they just bounce back and forth between earth and Xyxxllyiann 55? Probably not. No one goes to Hawaii just to hop another plane back home. They hang around a while! Well, I suppose the extraterrestrials would do the same thing.
The best place to find alien life is in science fiction movies. Granted an estimated 87.9% of all science fiction movies are completely made up, but I think science fiction writers have a pretty good idea of what the aliens would be like that would be coming to earth; and there is one thing they all have in common. Some are scaly, some are furry, some are tall, some are squat. Some have big eyes, some have no eyes. But, one thing they all have in common is they are all smart enough to get from there to here. And since the aliens are all smart, why would they come flying in on space ships that look like giant smoke detectors with Christmas lights all over them? If I were an alien and wanted to come to earth to observe, I'd come flying in on something that looks like a commercial jet. I am sure that is exactly what they've done: come in on a jet. What evidence do I have? If they came in on a spaceship, they would draw a lot of attention and have to announce why they are here, just before being dissected by top notch Army surgeons. This has not happened. So, they must have come in secret.
For the record, I don't buy the "government cover-up" theories. If our elected officials were bright enough to cover anything up, they'd cover up the deficit and the unemployment rates and tell us everything is peachy keen. But, they are incapable of covering even their own created messes. How could they possibly be successful in covering up a visit by aliens? Take a look at some of the presidents we've had. Jimmy Carter was not able to cover up his embarrassing family, Ronald Reagan did not cover up his embarrassing film career and George W. Bush did not cover up the fact that he couldn't speak English. Do you really think these guys could hide aliens?
No, the aliens have hidden themselves. Now I am not going to make you suspicious of your next door neighbor or your kid's teacher by saying they're hiding amoung us. They're too clever for that. I know where they are - and I may be about to make you suspicious of your pet.
When I was growing up, I was well aware of many breeds of dogs: beagles, poodles, dalmations, bull dogs, alpacas, dungerees, welterweights and so on. I never once ever heard of a dog called a Shih-Tzu.
I mean, look at those things! They prance around with their hair all done up in ribbons. No real dog would act like that. Dogs are dirty things. They roll in mud, chase squirrels, run through sticker bushes and many other grimy activities. Real dogs do not prance around with bee-hive hairdos that make them look like one of the female singers from the B-52's. Real dogs would also not call themselves something that sounds like a curse word uttered at the point of sneezing like the Shih-Tzu does.
I have a Shih-Tzu at home and I have been studying him carefully. He does things that no normal creature created for this planet would do. For one, when I call the dogs to go to bed, the other two come bounding along all hops and smiles and slobber, not only obedient but giddy about it. Teddy will just sit on the couch and stare. When that doesn't work and I continue to call him, he will close his eyes and turn his head away. Normal earth creatures understand that closing eyes and turning heads will not make someone disappear! This is alien reasoning afoot! And this does not mean that the Shih Tzu is dumb, it just means on their home planet they can vaporize idiots that yell orders to them by mere thought. Teddy doesn't get it yet that his powers are useless on me as earth idiots are not the same as the idiots from his home planet.
The other two dogs will bounce around and yip with glee when we throw balls, sticks, toys, bills we don't feel like paying, grenades or some other thing to them. They will run and retrieve the thing complete with a thick coating of drool (and they get a reward for doing this to the bills we don't feel like paying). Teddy will do one of two things if you throw something for it. He will either watch the thing fly across the room and then look at you like you've lost your mind or he will run and bark at the other dogs while they are trying to get the thing, often times trying to stop them. This is not normal dog behavior! I have heard of dogs fetching slippers, newspapers, pipes and other cartoon items for their cartoon masters. I have yet to hear of a real dog fetching another dog.
So, what is the purpose of their visit? Well, from my observations, Teddy is only good at a few things: he sleeps, he eats, he poops and pees. All of this is normal for dogs. But, he is also extremely good at getting into snack food and junk food. If there is a bag of chips or a half-eaten hamburger anywhere in the house, Teddy will find a way to get to it and he will eat it. We cannot hide anything from him. Teddy doesn't know how to get on the bed by himself (despite the little set of stairs my wife bought him) but if you have a handful or Pringles sealed in a sandwich bag, locked in a safe and dropped to the bottom of the ocean, Teddy will find a way to get to it. I believe, then, that the Shih Tzus are here to do research on how the human race is able to survive on the garbage we consume.
The best place to find alien life is in science fiction movies. Granted an estimated 87.9% of all science fiction movies are completely made up, but I think science fiction writers have a pretty good idea of what the aliens would be like that would be coming to earth; and there is one thing they all have in common. Some are scaly, some are furry, some are tall, some are squat. Some have big eyes, some have no eyes. But, one thing they all have in common is they are all smart enough to get from there to here. And since the aliens are all smart, why would they come flying in on space ships that look like giant smoke detectors with Christmas lights all over them? If I were an alien and wanted to come to earth to observe, I'd come flying in on something that looks like a commercial jet. I am sure that is exactly what they've done: come in on a jet. What evidence do I have? If they came in on a spaceship, they would draw a lot of attention and have to announce why they are here, just before being dissected by top notch Army surgeons. This has not happened. So, they must have come in secret.
For the record, I don't buy the "government cover-up" theories. If our elected officials were bright enough to cover anything up, they'd cover up the deficit and the unemployment rates and tell us everything is peachy keen. But, they are incapable of covering even their own created messes. How could they possibly be successful in covering up a visit by aliens? Take a look at some of the presidents we've had. Jimmy Carter was not able to cover up his embarrassing family, Ronald Reagan did not cover up his embarrassing film career and George W. Bush did not cover up the fact that he couldn't speak English. Do you really think these guys could hide aliens?
No, the aliens have hidden themselves. Now I am not going to make you suspicious of your next door neighbor or your kid's teacher by saying they're hiding amoung us. They're too clever for that. I know where they are - and I may be about to make you suspicious of your pet.
When I was growing up, I was well aware of many breeds of dogs: beagles, poodles, dalmations, bull dogs, alpacas, dungerees, welterweights and so on. I never once ever heard of a dog called a Shih-Tzu.
I mean, look at those things! They prance around with their hair all done up in ribbons. No real dog would act like that. Dogs are dirty things. They roll in mud, chase squirrels, run through sticker bushes and many other grimy activities. Real dogs do not prance around with bee-hive hairdos that make them look like one of the female singers from the B-52's. Real dogs would also not call themselves something that sounds like a curse word uttered at the point of sneezing like the Shih-Tzu does.
I have a Shih-Tzu at home and I have been studying him carefully. He does things that no normal creature created for this planet would do. For one, when I call the dogs to go to bed, the other two come bounding along all hops and smiles and slobber, not only obedient but giddy about it. Teddy will just sit on the couch and stare. When that doesn't work and I continue to call him, he will close his eyes and turn his head away. Normal earth creatures understand that closing eyes and turning heads will not make someone disappear! This is alien reasoning afoot! And this does not mean that the Shih Tzu is dumb, it just means on their home planet they can vaporize idiots that yell orders to them by mere thought. Teddy doesn't get it yet that his powers are useless on me as earth idiots are not the same as the idiots from his home planet.
The other two dogs will bounce around and yip with glee when we throw balls, sticks, toys, bills we don't feel like paying, grenades or some other thing to them. They will run and retrieve the thing complete with a thick coating of drool (and they get a reward for doing this to the bills we don't feel like paying). Teddy will do one of two things if you throw something for it. He will either watch the thing fly across the room and then look at you like you've lost your mind or he will run and bark at the other dogs while they are trying to get the thing, often times trying to stop them. This is not normal dog behavior! I have heard of dogs fetching slippers, newspapers, pipes and other cartoon items for their cartoon masters. I have yet to hear of a real dog fetching another dog.
So, what is the purpose of their visit? Well, from my observations, Teddy is only good at a few things: he sleeps, he eats, he poops and pees. All of this is normal for dogs. But, he is also extremely good at getting into snack food and junk food. If there is a bag of chips or a half-eaten hamburger anywhere in the house, Teddy will find a way to get to it and he will eat it. We cannot hide anything from him. Teddy doesn't know how to get on the bed by himself (despite the little set of stairs my wife bought him) but if you have a handful or Pringles sealed in a sandwich bag, locked in a safe and dropped to the bottom of the ocean, Teddy will find a way to get to it. I believe, then, that the Shih Tzus are here to do research on how the human race is able to survive on the garbage we consume.
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Worst Song of All Time
Where would society be without music? We would be clueless, that's where. Think about it. When you go see a scary film, how would you know when to scream if the music didn't rise to a thunder when the killer jumps on someone? What would be the point of putting money in a juke box if no sound were to come out? How would we understand the premise of a sit com without a chirpy theme song at the beginning to explain it? And wouldn't you feel foolish standing up before a ball game, putting your hand over your heart without a National Anthem to listen to?
I honestly believe the human race would come to a screeching halt if there were no music. After all, music is what gets kids interested and thinking about sex, right? No one would ever think about making love to anyone else if they first didn't hear someone singing about it on the radio. Why do you think there are so many songs about sex? We have to keep making more people or the human race will end and we'll have to leave the planet to the dolphins.
However, with the good comes the bad. In the course of human history exactly 31,298,618,001,926 songs have been written down and that is a fact. You know it is a fact because you just read it on the Internet. And here is another fact: exactly 54.3% of those songs are at least considered good songs. That means 45.7% of all songs are bad songs. And out of those 14,303,468,426,880.182 songs one just has to be the worst song of all time; just as out of the nearly seven billion people on Planet Earth, Jerry Robison of 540 Blanchard St. Buena Vista California is the worst person that ever lived.
Now, everyone probably has their least favorite song. I'm sure many of us cringe when we hear the opening strains of "MacArthur Park", that drippy inane song done back in the 60s by Richard Harris. If you have never heard it, it is worth one listen and only one listen. You just need to hear just how melodramatic a human being can get over cake being rained upon. Some people cannot stomach "Yummy Yummy Yummy", while "Sugar Sugar" gives some a toothache in the ear. Some feel they have died a slow painful death when they hear "Tell Laura I Love Her" - or maybe that's "Leader of the Pack" or maybe it's "Teen Angel". Personally, I will die a sadder man if I ever have to hear "Rockin' Robin", "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini", "My Humps", "Rich Girl" or "Disco Duck" again.
Some people have entire genres they hate. Some hate disco, some hate opera, some hate bluegrass. I can't stand White Gospel myself. And I say this as a Christian - this music should be banned. This stuff is the milky-whitest music ever produced, often only slightly faster than the gloomiest of funeral dirges, often only accompanied by a bounceless piano, sung by a lot of middle-aged white guys with less soul than a cadaver. This music drives more people away from Christianity than any Fred Phelps protest rally, and that is the truth. You know it is because you read it on the Internet.
Are you ready, yet, to know what is the worst song of all time? It is "Happy Birthday To You". There is no debate on this. There is no arguing. It is a fact that "Happy Birthday To You" is the worst song of all time.
If you have any doubt what-so-ever, listen the next time it is being sung. Does anyone ever sound cheerful while singing this? Does anyone even sound remotely happy to be singing it? How can they possibly be wishing someone a happy birthday while sounding like a deflating zombie? And the people being sung to - do they ever truly look happy? Usually they look miserable, embarrassed or annoyed. Thus, there is nothing happy at all about the song. If you truly want someone to have a happy birthday, why impose a song on them that makes no one happy. Never in all of recorded history has anyone ever said, "my birthday wasn't complete until they sang 'Happy Birthday To You' to me. Now it is truly a happy day."
So, the next time the urge strikes you to sing "Happy Birthday To You" to someone, ask if the song would really make their birthday any better. Better yet, ask if they would rather have you sing "Happy Birthday To You" to them or dump banana slugs into their underwear. Have a good supply of banana slugs on hand when you ask.
I honestly believe the human race would come to a screeching halt if there were no music. After all, music is what gets kids interested and thinking about sex, right? No one would ever think about making love to anyone else if they first didn't hear someone singing about it on the radio. Why do you think there are so many songs about sex? We have to keep making more people or the human race will end and we'll have to leave the planet to the dolphins.
However, with the good comes the bad. In the course of human history exactly 31,298,618,001,926 songs have been written down and that is a fact. You know it is a fact because you just read it on the Internet. And here is another fact: exactly 54.3% of those songs are at least considered good songs. That means 45.7% of all songs are bad songs. And out of those 14,303,468,426,880.182 songs one just has to be the worst song of all time; just as out of the nearly seven billion people on Planet Earth, Jerry Robison of 540 Blanchard St. Buena Vista California is the worst person that ever lived.
Now, everyone probably has their least favorite song. I'm sure many of us cringe when we hear the opening strains of "MacArthur Park", that drippy inane song done back in the 60s by Richard Harris. If you have never heard it, it is worth one listen and only one listen. You just need to hear just how melodramatic a human being can get over cake being rained upon. Some people cannot stomach "Yummy Yummy Yummy", while "Sugar Sugar" gives some a toothache in the ear. Some feel they have died a slow painful death when they hear "Tell Laura I Love Her" - or maybe that's "Leader of the Pack" or maybe it's "Teen Angel". Personally, I will die a sadder man if I ever have to hear "Rockin' Robin", "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini", "My Humps", "Rich Girl" or "Disco Duck" again.
Some people have entire genres they hate. Some hate disco, some hate opera, some hate bluegrass. I can't stand White Gospel myself. And I say this as a Christian - this music should be banned. This stuff is the milky-whitest music ever produced, often only slightly faster than the gloomiest of funeral dirges, often only accompanied by a bounceless piano, sung by a lot of middle-aged white guys with less soul than a cadaver. This music drives more people away from Christianity than any Fred Phelps protest rally, and that is the truth. You know it is because you read it on the Internet.
Are you ready, yet, to know what is the worst song of all time? It is "Happy Birthday To You". There is no debate on this. There is no arguing. It is a fact that "Happy Birthday To You" is the worst song of all time.
If you have any doubt what-so-ever, listen the next time it is being sung. Does anyone ever sound cheerful while singing this? Does anyone even sound remotely happy to be singing it? How can they possibly be wishing someone a happy birthday while sounding like a deflating zombie? And the people being sung to - do they ever truly look happy? Usually they look miserable, embarrassed or annoyed. Thus, there is nothing happy at all about the song. If you truly want someone to have a happy birthday, why impose a song on them that makes no one happy. Never in all of recorded history has anyone ever said, "my birthday wasn't complete until they sang 'Happy Birthday To You' to me. Now it is truly a happy day."
So, the next time the urge strikes you to sing "Happy Birthday To You" to someone, ask if the song would really make their birthday any better. Better yet, ask if they would rather have you sing "Happy Birthday To You" to them or dump banana slugs into their underwear. Have a good supply of banana slugs on hand when you ask.
Friday, March 16, 2012
A Review of the River
Remember about 12 years ago when a TV show hit the airwaves called "Survivor"? It quickly became a phenomenon and pretty soon everyone was standing around the water cooler speculating on who would win the show and more often they were discussing who would be voted off next. The next thing you knew, "Survivor" spawned about 17,000 imitators and we saw shows coming along where people were being voted off for everything from not being able to sing well, not being able to cook right and I even saw one the other day where people were voted off for creating crappy looking monster make-up. The worst, of course, was "Big Brother". In that one, people were voted off for, I guess, not being able to live in a house properly.
This was the way the reality TV boom began. Oh, yes, we had reality TV before this but around this time every new show was a reality show. And when the reality show "creators" didn't feel like imitating "Survivor", they came up with wild innovations like "Undercover Boss" which, basically, shows people working. I don't know about you, but the last thing I want to watch on TV after a hard day's work is a show where people are going to work. But, with the unemployment rate what it is, maybe the show goes over well with people that wish they were working.
Now, my wife has me hooked on a show called "The River". "The River" has taken the reality concept to a new level. It is not a reality show, it is a fictional show. However, the premise is a group of people wandering about the jungles of Brazile and making a reality show about their search for the star of another reality show. Two big surprises here in that Steven Spielberg is involved (even though it is not as good as the stuff he usually does) and so is Zach Estrin (even though this show is much, much more interesting than that toilet clog called "Paranormal Activity". At least with "The River" stuff actually happens.
To be honest, plot-wise "The River" isn't all that fresh and new. I often times feel like I'm watching a longer version of "The Blair Witch Project". I mean, really compare the two: in one a group of people heads off into a wilderness in search of something and the story is told by piecing together their "found" footage. I would tell you the plot of the other one, but I don't like cutting and pasting all that much. Besides, I can't tell which one I described first.
It is at this point that I'm going to warn you that if you continue reading this review you will encounter what we call "spoilers" here on the Internet. I have seen the first seven of the eight episodes filmed and I don't see how I can go on explaining the show without talking about what I've seen. So, if you have not seen this show and don't want to be told anything about Dr. Emmet Cole being found in a coccoon in the middle of an old outpost guarded by some kind of zombie-like creatures, this would be the point to stop reading.
If you're still reading, then I will tell you that if you have watched a few horror films in your life, you probably won't see anything in this show that you haven't seen before somewhere. Creepy dolls, Tarot readings that keep coming up with the same card repeatedly, human flesh used for food (or at least it is hinted at), a medical research facility that is conducting unethical experiments, a creepy child that makes drawings of things that later come true. Okay, there hasn't been a creepy child making any sort of drawing. It is one modern horror cliche they haven't tapped, yet. But, it is coming. I know it is, because there is a creepy child right here in my office drawing a picture of it.
In writing this review I had a hard time coming up with a reason I like this show. But, I think I have found the reason. I make little films for YouTube and this is a fantasy of mine: one day my obsession with filming things might lead me to filming something interesting enough for anyone else to watch. And I think that might be the draw for a lot of people: several characters run around carrying cameras in this show - it's a show that you, the audience, could possibly end up filming yourself if you're ever lucky enough to know a reality show host that comes up missing in a mysterious jungle. It could happen!
This was the way the reality TV boom began. Oh, yes, we had reality TV before this but around this time every new show was a reality show. And when the reality show "creators" didn't feel like imitating "Survivor", they came up with wild innovations like "Undercover Boss" which, basically, shows people working. I don't know about you, but the last thing I want to watch on TV after a hard day's work is a show where people are going to work. But, with the unemployment rate what it is, maybe the show goes over well with people that wish they were working.
Now, my wife has me hooked on a show called "The River". "The River" has taken the reality concept to a new level. It is not a reality show, it is a fictional show. However, the premise is a group of people wandering about the jungles of Brazile and making a reality show about their search for the star of another reality show. Two big surprises here in that Steven Spielberg is involved (even though it is not as good as the stuff he usually does) and so is Zach Estrin (even though this show is much, much more interesting than that toilet clog called "Paranormal Activity". At least with "The River" stuff actually happens.
To be honest, plot-wise "The River" isn't all that fresh and new. I often times feel like I'm watching a longer version of "The Blair Witch Project". I mean, really compare the two: in one a group of people heads off into a wilderness in search of something and the story is told by piecing together their "found" footage. I would tell you the plot of the other one, but I don't like cutting and pasting all that much. Besides, I can't tell which one I described first.
It is at this point that I'm going to warn you that if you continue reading this review you will encounter what we call "spoilers" here on the Internet. I have seen the first seven of the eight episodes filmed and I don't see how I can go on explaining the show without talking about what I've seen. So, if you have not seen this show and don't want to be told anything about Dr. Emmet Cole being found in a coccoon in the middle of an old outpost guarded by some kind of zombie-like creatures, this would be the point to stop reading.
If you're still reading, then I will tell you that if you have watched a few horror films in your life, you probably won't see anything in this show that you haven't seen before somewhere. Creepy dolls, Tarot readings that keep coming up with the same card repeatedly, human flesh used for food (or at least it is hinted at), a medical research facility that is conducting unethical experiments, a creepy child that makes drawings of things that later come true. Okay, there hasn't been a creepy child making any sort of drawing. It is one modern horror cliche they haven't tapped, yet. But, it is coming. I know it is, because there is a creepy child right here in my office drawing a picture of it.
In writing this review I had a hard time coming up with a reason I like this show. But, I think I have found the reason. I make little films for YouTube and this is a fantasy of mine: one day my obsession with filming things might lead me to filming something interesting enough for anyone else to watch. And I think that might be the draw for a lot of people: several characters run around carrying cameras in this show - it's a show that you, the audience, could possibly end up filming yourself if you're ever lucky enough to know a reality show host that comes up missing in a mysterious jungle. It could happen!
Thursday, March 15, 2012
How to Win at Slot Machines
I feel before I write this blog, I need to warn you: I very seldom win at Slot Machines. Before you decide to skip reading this, I need to tell you: I don't really try. When I visit the casinos I take as much money as I can afford to lose and then set about making that happen. Nothing will stand in my way of reaching my goal of losing all my money. If I have a "big win" on a machine, I will continue to play that machine until the "big win" becomes a "miniscule remnant". I really only play for fun and there is nothing more fun than watching little cartoon "wheels" spin around and around in a spacious smoke-filled room surrounded by seventeen nursing homes worth of geriatrics. It is the perfect place to go when you're someone like me - someone that likes to emerge themselves in the harsh cess pools of noise. After all, I hate to think and a casino is one place you will not be able to process one thought. If you have never been to a casino, try this. Take any chirpy, slurpy commercial for any toy, happy meal or even the opening credits of any given cartoon show. Now, loop that noise over and over every few seconds. Now add to it twenty five more looped cartoon show themes or childrens' commercials. This will give you an idea of what the average casino sounds like. In fact, I believe that the reason casinos are so popular is that most slot machines sound and look just about like all the cartoon shows I grew up watching. You might wonder why I don't explore the fun of actually winning at slots once in a while myself. The answer is simple: I consume so much free coffee while I am there, I feel like the casino and I have broken even. They keep forty bucks of mine, I slosh home with a bladder full of hot black coffee.
Now, the tips I am going to share are ones that I have observed by actual slot machine players that claim they have won a lot of money. I have not verified if they have, in fact, won anything. If you have ever spent time talking to anyone that frequents a casino you know that slot machine players generally only pay attention to the money they win, not to the money they feed into the machine. You might criticize them for poor math skills or being dishonest with themselves. I credit them for imaginative bookkeeping and optimism. Besides, near as I can figure this is how the United States is run. The government is not that interested in the money going out, only what is coming in. The national debt is now so high no one can calculate it anymore, so it has ceased to exist in their minds. So, before you go criticizing slot machine players, you need to understand you're also criticizing the patriots of the greatest country in the world, you flag burning scum.
Here, then, are the tips:
Tickling the chrome: It is a scientific fact, discovered by Ethan Zeiffenblaser in 1908 that Chromium is actually sensitive to the human touch. Not only that, but it likes to be touched. Zeiffenblaser took a large sheet of chome, propped it up in his lab and began to grin at it and tickle it. He looked closely and found that the chrome plate displayed a face like his own, with a large grin on it. Every experiment done by Zeiffenblaser produced the same resutls: if you touch chome it will imitate your image. Only one man challenged Ethan and that was his arch-enemy Heinrich Dusselmeiser. In 1909 with a grimace he tickled a piece of chome and watched as it grimaced back. Zeiffenblaser did some more research and found that Dusselmeiser was a horrible pain in the butt and no one really liked being around him anyway, so there was no reason to expect the chrome to smile at him. Therefore, if you do not tickle the chrome on your slot machine, do not be surprised if it is indifferent about your winning or not.
Yelling at the Slot Machine: As we all know, the modern slot machine is run by a computer and you might think that yelling at the slot machine would do a lick of sense. But, ask yourself this: who is running the computer? There are actually little people inside every slot machine telling the computer what to do. If you are not yelling, the little man might not know you really mean business. After all, you could be someone like me, someone that is just content to play and would never think of winning.
Poking at the Screen: This one took me a while to understand. I would see people sitting at the machines, jabbing their fingers at the screens as the images went by. I've seen people knocking on the screens, grabbing at the images, rubbing their fingers all over and so on. What they are doing will not necessarily help them win, but it will help disguise their losses. Sitting next to someone like this you can hear them as they occasionally rack up some points. But, with their screen so smudged up with the oils from their hands, you can't see how much they've won. And since most slots do not make noise when you have had an unsuccessful spin, there is no telling what they are losing.
The Angry-Hover Method: This is one that is often observed between 1:30 and 4am. You will notice inebriated persons drifting from one machine to another, hovering over them (usually with an average of 2.3 cigarettes in their mouths) and punching buttons. After nothing happens their drunken half-sleeping mind will pick up a dim memory of once putting money into a slot machine and they will do so. Then they will angrily huff smoke all over as they punch a few bottons and then stomp off. This method does not work at all in actually winning slot games, but that is not the point. The point is if you are so obnoxious that you make other guests feel intimidated, irritated or otherwise uncomfortable, the security guards may ask you to leave. And it is customary to hand over large wads fo cash to people like this, just to make them go away.
Cash Out and Immediately put the money back in: I have been told that this is to fool the machine into thinking you are a new and different person sitting down fresh and new with no history with this machine. I'm sure some of you are thinking, "but what if I cash out with $63.79 and then put that $63.79 back in, won't the machine get suspicous? What are the odds that the next person to sit down would be insert the exact same amount of money?" Looking at it from a purely statistical vantage point, it seems unlikely. But, let's remember that no one in their right minds would expect this trick to actually work, so the machines are told that it will never ever happen and everyone that sits down is to be treated as a brand new customer. This is a prime example of Yakman's Law in action: if something seems too dumb for a human to attempt, some human will attempt it; often in large numbers. Yakman's Law applies to this just as much as it applies to running the Boston Marathon, joining a pyramid scheme and playing slot machines.
Now, the tips I am going to share are ones that I have observed by actual slot machine players that claim they have won a lot of money. I have not verified if they have, in fact, won anything. If you have ever spent time talking to anyone that frequents a casino you know that slot machine players generally only pay attention to the money they win, not to the money they feed into the machine. You might criticize them for poor math skills or being dishonest with themselves. I credit them for imaginative bookkeeping and optimism. Besides, near as I can figure this is how the United States is run. The government is not that interested in the money going out, only what is coming in. The national debt is now so high no one can calculate it anymore, so it has ceased to exist in their minds. So, before you go criticizing slot machine players, you need to understand you're also criticizing the patriots of the greatest country in the world, you flag burning scum.
Here, then, are the tips:
Tickling the chrome: It is a scientific fact, discovered by Ethan Zeiffenblaser in 1908 that Chromium is actually sensitive to the human touch. Not only that, but it likes to be touched. Zeiffenblaser took a large sheet of chome, propped it up in his lab and began to grin at it and tickle it. He looked closely and found that the chrome plate displayed a face like his own, with a large grin on it. Every experiment done by Zeiffenblaser produced the same resutls: if you touch chome it will imitate your image. Only one man challenged Ethan and that was his arch-enemy Heinrich Dusselmeiser. In 1909 with a grimace he tickled a piece of chome and watched as it grimaced back. Zeiffenblaser did some more research and found that Dusselmeiser was a horrible pain in the butt and no one really liked being around him anyway, so there was no reason to expect the chrome to smile at him. Therefore, if you do not tickle the chrome on your slot machine, do not be surprised if it is indifferent about your winning or not.
Yelling at the Slot Machine: As we all know, the modern slot machine is run by a computer and you might think that yelling at the slot machine would do a lick of sense. But, ask yourself this: who is running the computer? There are actually little people inside every slot machine telling the computer what to do. If you are not yelling, the little man might not know you really mean business. After all, you could be someone like me, someone that is just content to play and would never think of winning.
Poking at the Screen: This one took me a while to understand. I would see people sitting at the machines, jabbing their fingers at the screens as the images went by. I've seen people knocking on the screens, grabbing at the images, rubbing their fingers all over and so on. What they are doing will not necessarily help them win, but it will help disguise their losses. Sitting next to someone like this you can hear them as they occasionally rack up some points. But, with their screen so smudged up with the oils from their hands, you can't see how much they've won. And since most slots do not make noise when you have had an unsuccessful spin, there is no telling what they are losing.
The Angry-Hover Method: This is one that is often observed between 1:30 and 4am. You will notice inebriated persons drifting from one machine to another, hovering over them (usually with an average of 2.3 cigarettes in their mouths) and punching buttons. After nothing happens their drunken half-sleeping mind will pick up a dim memory of once putting money into a slot machine and they will do so. Then they will angrily huff smoke all over as they punch a few bottons and then stomp off. This method does not work at all in actually winning slot games, but that is not the point. The point is if you are so obnoxious that you make other guests feel intimidated, irritated or otherwise uncomfortable, the security guards may ask you to leave. And it is customary to hand over large wads fo cash to people like this, just to make them go away.
Cash Out and Immediately put the money back in: I have been told that this is to fool the machine into thinking you are a new and different person sitting down fresh and new with no history with this machine. I'm sure some of you are thinking, "but what if I cash out with $63.79 and then put that $63.79 back in, won't the machine get suspicous? What are the odds that the next person to sit down would be insert the exact same amount of money?" Looking at it from a purely statistical vantage point, it seems unlikely. But, let's remember that no one in their right minds would expect this trick to actually work, so the machines are told that it will never ever happen and everyone that sits down is to be treated as a brand new customer. This is a prime example of Yakman's Law in action: if something seems too dumb for a human to attempt, some human will attempt it; often in large numbers. Yakman's Law applies to this just as much as it applies to running the Boston Marathon, joining a pyramid scheme and playing slot machines.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Curse of Being Tall
I have been living in Cyber-Land for the better part of two decades now. I first took a ride on the Internet Super Highway back around 1994. I can still recall my first experience. I went into a chat room and with all the honesty and sincerity I had, I tried to convince everyone there that my name was Bill Clinton and my wife Hilary and I were trying to find out what was on the minds of common American Youth. Nobody bought it and it is a good thing. I am, in fact, neither Bill or Hilary Clinton. My name is actually Chelsea.
During my long stay here in Hotel Cyberspace, I have done it all: chat rooms, message boards, blogging (what? you think I'm new to this?), YouTube, facebook, facepalm, napalm, Palmolive, Ivory and Ebony. I think I was even on MySpace for about five minutes. One thing people that meet me out here in the vast wasteland of Cyberspace all seem to have in common: they all guess that I am incredibly tall. And they are all incredibly right. I am very tall. I stand at a solid 5 feet 5 inches tall. Every dwarf, midget (and if they are politically correct midgets "little person"), child under 8 and every legless person I meet says that I am extremely tall. Who am I to argue with that lot?
I heard a couple of women talking today and one said to the other, "oh, look at your grandson! Look how tall he is getting!" This has always been a pet peeve of mine. I often wonder how short people feel about this. After all, I never hear a grandmother say, "oh, yes, he's remaining very short. We're so proud of his runty little self." You never hear a parent say, "well, Bill's dad is a shrimp, so we hope little Billy takes after him." People are always wishing their offspring will grow up tall, just as they wish they would grow up handsome, pretty, successful, smart, educated, athletic and completely independent by age 18. Whenever I have asked a short person if this offends them, they become hostile and shout, "you're short, too! You're shorter than me!" and they attempt to punch me in the nose, but their fist goes right over my head. I suppose this might be part of why parents and grandparents are never proud of their short offspring. Short people are usually terrible fighters.
There are many disadvantages to being tall. I have not lived out many of my life's dreams and I'm certain that being overly blessed with vertical inches has a lot to do with it. I have never gotten a job as a jockey. I have never been asked to ride in a clown car. I have never been able to walk through a Dutch door without opening both the top and the bottom. I have never won a limbo contest.
Just as white people stand up for the rights of black people, straight people stand up for the rights of gay people, men stand up for the rights of women, dogs stand up for the rights of cats and Atheists stand up for the rights of Christians, I am going to stand up for the rights of the short people in this country. Join with me, short people. Let us all join hands and sing "Kum By Ya" together. We'll follow that up with "We Shall Overcome" and "I'd Like to Buy The World a Coke". Lastly we need to finish up with "Lollipop Guild" because, quite frankly, you short people's singing voices crack me up. You all sing like you're on helium or something.
During my long stay here in Hotel Cyberspace, I have done it all: chat rooms, message boards, blogging (what? you think I'm new to this?), YouTube, facebook, facepalm, napalm, Palmolive, Ivory and Ebony. I think I was even on MySpace for about five minutes. One thing people that meet me out here in the vast wasteland of Cyberspace all seem to have in common: they all guess that I am incredibly tall. And they are all incredibly right. I am very tall. I stand at a solid 5 feet 5 inches tall. Every dwarf, midget (and if they are politically correct midgets "little person"), child under 8 and every legless person I meet says that I am extremely tall. Who am I to argue with that lot?
I heard a couple of women talking today and one said to the other, "oh, look at your grandson! Look how tall he is getting!" This has always been a pet peeve of mine. I often wonder how short people feel about this. After all, I never hear a grandmother say, "oh, yes, he's remaining very short. We're so proud of his runty little self." You never hear a parent say, "well, Bill's dad is a shrimp, so we hope little Billy takes after him." People are always wishing their offspring will grow up tall, just as they wish they would grow up handsome, pretty, successful, smart, educated, athletic and completely independent by age 18. Whenever I have asked a short person if this offends them, they become hostile and shout, "you're short, too! You're shorter than me!" and they attempt to punch me in the nose, but their fist goes right over my head. I suppose this might be part of why parents and grandparents are never proud of their short offspring. Short people are usually terrible fighters.
There are many disadvantages to being tall. I have not lived out many of my life's dreams and I'm certain that being overly blessed with vertical inches has a lot to do with it. I have never gotten a job as a jockey. I have never been asked to ride in a clown car. I have never been able to walk through a Dutch door without opening both the top and the bottom. I have never won a limbo contest.
Just as white people stand up for the rights of black people, straight people stand up for the rights of gay people, men stand up for the rights of women, dogs stand up for the rights of cats and Atheists stand up for the rights of Christians, I am going to stand up for the rights of the short people in this country. Join with me, short people. Let us all join hands and sing "Kum By Ya" together. We'll follow that up with "We Shall Overcome" and "I'd Like to Buy The World a Coke". Lastly we need to finish up with "Lollipop Guild" because, quite frankly, you short people's singing voices crack me up. You all sing like you're on helium or something.
The Introduction
The Introduction
aka The Prologue
"The Genesis of the Blogger" aka "The Origin of the Species" aka "In the Beginning"
Part I
Chapter 1
Verse 1
Visitors 1
I am exactly one day older than "Star Trek". The day after I was born, the first episode of that classic show was aired. If Buddy Holly were alive today, he and I could celebrate our birthday together. He would be turning 76 just as I was turning 46. If he were alive; And if he were so inclined as to hang out with me. It could happen!
So, I came into the world in the mid-afternoon on a Wednesday, probably the least remarkable and exciting day of the week. Why else would it be given that awful nickname of "hump day"? Everyone knows that Monday is the dreaded "back to work day". Even people like myself who do not work a traditional work week dread Mondays because everyone else will be in a slothful slump. Friday, of course, is the last day of the work week (for the 15% or so that still work a traditional work week) and the day most receive a paycheck. Saturday is party day, Sunday is the day of rest for heathen and holy alike. I've heard tell that Tuesday is the most productive day of the week in most work places and Thursday - well, Thursday is named for Thor, the god of thunder. That alone makes it a cool day. But, Wednesday? Wednesday remains the Zeppo Marx of the week. Wednesday is the Pete Best of the week. It's there, it's part of the show, but it's not anything to get excited about.
About the time I turned six and Buddy Holly had been in the ground for thirteen years, my parents sent me off to school. I already knew how to read and write and numbers weren't a huge problem at first. The main things I learned in elementary school were that adults could be cruel (my PE Coach / principal openly scoffed my inability to excel at kickball), could be liars (everything I learned about George Washington was a lie... except maybe that bit about him being a general and a president) and really weren't as smart as I (my first grade teacher insisted that my parents and I spelled my name wrong).
I honestly didn't get much out of junior high or high school, either. I faked my way through classes that I could and somehow managed to get a C in the ones I couldn't fake my way through. I found that I was lousy at mathematics of all kinds, but there was a sound, logical and damned good reason for this: I simply didn't care about mathematics. I knew how to count, to add, subtract, multiply, divide, etc. I could see practical uses for those skills, but when it came to algebra I simply didn't get it. To this day I have yet to have anyone stop me and ask me the value of X. I have yet to have a job interview that I blow because I can't find the value of Y. To be honest, I should have excelled at algebra. I could always find the answer to the problem. However, I didn't find it the way the teacher wanted me to. My way was far less complicated, yet I was expected to learn and do it her way. I began to suspect that algebra's real purpose is to force children to conform to rules put forth by those in authority, no matter how ridiculous.
In college I found that the only thing I was really good at, or at least the only subject I really enjoyed, was making out with my girlfriend. I enjoyed it far too much and my school work suffered. Worse than that, I didn't bother dating anyone but this girl. In fact, I quit college and married the girl a year after I'd met her. I was now 20.
My wife and I moved into a depressing apartment in a depressing town and I found a depressing job. I did the only sensible thing a young man can do in a situation like this: I got drunk. I stayed drunk for about two years. Somehow putting up with a wino boss that looked like Beaky Buzzard, the cockroaches running amok in my little apartment and the hee-hawing hillbillies that I knew as my in-laws was a lot easier when I was inebriated. My daily schedule looked a lot like this:
midnight to 7 am: work
7 am to noon: crash
noon to 1pm: eat something
1pm to midnight: get drunk
Eventually I crawled out of that town and out of the bottle. I tried going back to school, but after changing my major 57 times in a semester, I decided I should take some time off and figure out what I really want to be when I grow up. By this time Daddy Bush had launched Operation Desert Storm and Buddy Holly had been dead for 32 years. I had decided I was a lot of things around that time. I became a liberal, a feminist, a pacifist, a novelist and was starting to think agnosticism sounded like a good idea. Yes, I was a long way off from being a grown up.
A year after all this, I grew tired of listening to my wife and her lies about me. I was allegedly having an affair with a co-worker of mine. I think what really got to me was that the stories my wife concocted about me and this co-worker were so much more exciting than our actual sex life together that I just had to give her the heave ho. I decided I was going to be a confirmed bachelor.
Later that afternoon I met my second wife. Well, we weren't actually married just yet, but it didn't take long. We got married in secret for reasons that make about as much sense to me today as my reasons for becoming an agnostic. We lived together secretly married for a few months, then had a wedding which was a secretly fake wedding since we were already married. I can't for the life of me explain this to anyone anymore. I chalk incidents like this up to proof that I am human and humans are not known for their intellect (American Idol is still a hit show - need I say more?)
Around the time that the ink dried on our wedding certificate, wife number 2 and I decided to call it quits. A lot of things happened around the time I was with her that I can no longer find any logic in, such as marrying her in secret, marrying her in a ceremony that was secretly fake and marrying her in the first place. Ranking up there among the dumbest things I did around that time was driving 1500 miles to Vermont without a valid drivers license to live with some friends I barely knew instead of driving 100 miles to where my relatives all lived. I lived in Vermont for about long enough to watch the leaves turn and fall and the branches to be covered with snow, then I moved back to Iowa to live with my parents.
I took a job as a telemarketer. I found the job to be pretty challenging at first. It is harder than you might imagine to schedule when to call people, since you want to time the call at precisely the middle of their dinner time. And using scientific research, we also had to determine the one and only thing in the world the customer did not want so we could try to sell it to them. I found that on the scale of unlikable occupations, telemarketer put me a peg or two above used car salesman and just a peg or two below serial killer.
I stayed in telemarketing for a few years until I made a strange discovery. I found an unusual creature living with me that I had only heard existed but had never seen before. This creature, I thought, was more likely to be a hoax or a myth than the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot, but it turned out it was real enough. This creature was called a conscience. And not only was it living with me, it was in me! Due to the sudden appearance of this parasite, I decided being a telemarketer was not the nicest way to make a living. I gave it up and went into customer service where I remained for a few years.
Almost ever since coming back to Iowa I'd been living with a woman that just fit that time of my life. I wasn't really going anywhere and wasn't interested in trying. Neither was she. I was in a rut and liked it, she was in a rut and liked it. We were both far too good at encouraging one another to stay on the bottom of life. I think we both figured that we were at the bottom of the totem pole, which in our minds made us strong. After all, we had to hold up all the others in the totem pole. But, I guess I wasn't directionless enough for her tastes and after a decade of going nowhere with me, she let me go. It was my time to go somewhere in life while she stayed immobile.
The first thing I did for myself is made a pact with myself to be a bachelor for the rest of my life. Romance was tiring, sex was boring, love was meaningless. I no longer saw the need to share my life with anyone else and was quite content with that until Julie bulldozed her way in.
Through Julie I have found the strength and desire to move on with myself and get somewhere. I have had several different jobs, just trying to find a niche in life where I can grow instead of finding a place to bury my head in the sand. I no longer see my jobs as just jobs, but careers. I don't see the paycheck at the end of two weeks as the sole motivating factor. Right now I am a Life Skills Coach, which means I work with mentally ill adults and try to assist them in assimilating back into society. Before this I was a relay operator for the deaf and hard of hearing.
Julie also taught me that love and romance are not stupid things that I could do without. On the contrary, I have learned that I probably never really loved before, I just thought I did. We were married last November. It was a real wedding; no more secrets.
Most importantly, Julie has brought me from the wishy-washiness of agnosticism and I have found myself back in good graces with my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. For this, I will never stop being grateful to Julie.
And I now know what I want to be when I grow up. It took 45 years to figure it out, but I want to run a Bible Camp.
To be continued...
aka The Prologue
"The Genesis of the Blogger" aka "The Origin of the Species" aka "In the Beginning"
Part I
Chapter 1
Verse 1
Visitors 1
I am exactly one day older than "Star Trek". The day after I was born, the first episode of that classic show was aired. If Buddy Holly were alive today, he and I could celebrate our birthday together. He would be turning 76 just as I was turning 46. If he were alive; And if he were so inclined as to hang out with me. It could happen!
So, I came into the world in the mid-afternoon on a Wednesday, probably the least remarkable and exciting day of the week. Why else would it be given that awful nickname of "hump day"? Everyone knows that Monday is the dreaded "back to work day". Even people like myself who do not work a traditional work week dread Mondays because everyone else will be in a slothful slump. Friday, of course, is the last day of the work week (for the 15% or so that still work a traditional work week) and the day most receive a paycheck. Saturday is party day, Sunday is the day of rest for heathen and holy alike. I've heard tell that Tuesday is the most productive day of the week in most work places and Thursday - well, Thursday is named for Thor, the god of thunder. That alone makes it a cool day. But, Wednesday? Wednesday remains the Zeppo Marx of the week. Wednesday is the Pete Best of the week. It's there, it's part of the show, but it's not anything to get excited about.
About the time I turned six and Buddy Holly had been in the ground for thirteen years, my parents sent me off to school. I already knew how to read and write and numbers weren't a huge problem at first. The main things I learned in elementary school were that adults could be cruel (my PE Coach / principal openly scoffed my inability to excel at kickball), could be liars (everything I learned about George Washington was a lie... except maybe that bit about him being a general and a president) and really weren't as smart as I (my first grade teacher insisted that my parents and I spelled my name wrong).
I honestly didn't get much out of junior high or high school, either. I faked my way through classes that I could and somehow managed to get a C in the ones I couldn't fake my way through. I found that I was lousy at mathematics of all kinds, but there was a sound, logical and damned good reason for this: I simply didn't care about mathematics. I knew how to count, to add, subtract, multiply, divide, etc. I could see practical uses for those skills, but when it came to algebra I simply didn't get it. To this day I have yet to have anyone stop me and ask me the value of X. I have yet to have a job interview that I blow because I can't find the value of Y. To be honest, I should have excelled at algebra. I could always find the answer to the problem. However, I didn't find it the way the teacher wanted me to. My way was far less complicated, yet I was expected to learn and do it her way. I began to suspect that algebra's real purpose is to force children to conform to rules put forth by those in authority, no matter how ridiculous.
In college I found that the only thing I was really good at, or at least the only subject I really enjoyed, was making out with my girlfriend. I enjoyed it far too much and my school work suffered. Worse than that, I didn't bother dating anyone but this girl. In fact, I quit college and married the girl a year after I'd met her. I was now 20.
My wife and I moved into a depressing apartment in a depressing town and I found a depressing job. I did the only sensible thing a young man can do in a situation like this: I got drunk. I stayed drunk for about two years. Somehow putting up with a wino boss that looked like Beaky Buzzard, the cockroaches running amok in my little apartment and the hee-hawing hillbillies that I knew as my in-laws was a lot easier when I was inebriated. My daily schedule looked a lot like this:
midnight to 7 am: work
7 am to noon: crash
noon to 1pm: eat something
1pm to midnight: get drunk
Eventually I crawled out of that town and out of the bottle. I tried going back to school, but after changing my major 57 times in a semester, I decided I should take some time off and figure out what I really want to be when I grow up. By this time Daddy Bush had launched Operation Desert Storm and Buddy Holly had been dead for 32 years. I had decided I was a lot of things around that time. I became a liberal, a feminist, a pacifist, a novelist and was starting to think agnosticism sounded like a good idea. Yes, I was a long way off from being a grown up.
A year after all this, I grew tired of listening to my wife and her lies about me. I was allegedly having an affair with a co-worker of mine. I think what really got to me was that the stories my wife concocted about me and this co-worker were so much more exciting than our actual sex life together that I just had to give her the heave ho. I decided I was going to be a confirmed bachelor.
Later that afternoon I met my second wife. Well, we weren't actually married just yet, but it didn't take long. We got married in secret for reasons that make about as much sense to me today as my reasons for becoming an agnostic. We lived together secretly married for a few months, then had a wedding which was a secretly fake wedding since we were already married. I can't for the life of me explain this to anyone anymore. I chalk incidents like this up to proof that I am human and humans are not known for their intellect (American Idol is still a hit show - need I say more?)
Around the time that the ink dried on our wedding certificate, wife number 2 and I decided to call it quits. A lot of things happened around the time I was with her that I can no longer find any logic in, such as marrying her in secret, marrying her in a ceremony that was secretly fake and marrying her in the first place. Ranking up there among the dumbest things I did around that time was driving 1500 miles to Vermont without a valid drivers license to live with some friends I barely knew instead of driving 100 miles to where my relatives all lived. I lived in Vermont for about long enough to watch the leaves turn and fall and the branches to be covered with snow, then I moved back to Iowa to live with my parents.
I took a job as a telemarketer. I found the job to be pretty challenging at first. It is harder than you might imagine to schedule when to call people, since you want to time the call at precisely the middle of their dinner time. And using scientific research, we also had to determine the one and only thing in the world the customer did not want so we could try to sell it to them. I found that on the scale of unlikable occupations, telemarketer put me a peg or two above used car salesman and just a peg or two below serial killer.
I stayed in telemarketing for a few years until I made a strange discovery. I found an unusual creature living with me that I had only heard existed but had never seen before. This creature, I thought, was more likely to be a hoax or a myth than the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot, but it turned out it was real enough. This creature was called a conscience. And not only was it living with me, it was in me! Due to the sudden appearance of this parasite, I decided being a telemarketer was not the nicest way to make a living. I gave it up and went into customer service where I remained for a few years.
Almost ever since coming back to Iowa I'd been living with a woman that just fit that time of my life. I wasn't really going anywhere and wasn't interested in trying. Neither was she. I was in a rut and liked it, she was in a rut and liked it. We were both far too good at encouraging one another to stay on the bottom of life. I think we both figured that we were at the bottom of the totem pole, which in our minds made us strong. After all, we had to hold up all the others in the totem pole. But, I guess I wasn't directionless enough for her tastes and after a decade of going nowhere with me, she let me go. It was my time to go somewhere in life while she stayed immobile.
The first thing I did for myself is made a pact with myself to be a bachelor for the rest of my life. Romance was tiring, sex was boring, love was meaningless. I no longer saw the need to share my life with anyone else and was quite content with that until Julie bulldozed her way in.
Through Julie I have found the strength and desire to move on with myself and get somewhere. I have had several different jobs, just trying to find a niche in life where I can grow instead of finding a place to bury my head in the sand. I no longer see my jobs as just jobs, but careers. I don't see the paycheck at the end of two weeks as the sole motivating factor. Right now I am a Life Skills Coach, which means I work with mentally ill adults and try to assist them in assimilating back into society. Before this I was a relay operator for the deaf and hard of hearing.
Julie also taught me that love and romance are not stupid things that I could do without. On the contrary, I have learned that I probably never really loved before, I just thought I did. We were married last November. It was a real wedding; no more secrets.
Most importantly, Julie has brought me from the wishy-washiness of agnosticism and I have found myself back in good graces with my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. For this, I will never stop being grateful to Julie.
And I now know what I want to be when I grow up. It took 45 years to figure it out, but I want to run a Bible Camp.
To be continued...
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