I'm not feeling very teachy today. In fact, I'm feeling more like going home and sleeping through the day, but I have a responsibility to you, the reader, to bring something about blowing something up or whatever. Oh, right, and that whole employer/employee relationship thing, too.
Anyway, you all know that I love me some Dirty Jobs. I don't think I'd like it as much if Mike Rowe wasn't the host. He seems to be a pretty cool guy. He's also a consummate smartass, like me. Unlike me, however, he doesn't pepper every sentence with those sentence enhancers. You know, you just sprinkle them on whatever you want to say and--Wham-O! You've got yourself a spicy sentence sandwich. How the man can wade hip-deep through shit and not say it is beyond my comprehension.
To that end, let's watch Mike blow up a coal mine:
I like that video because you can see the point where Mike wants to piss his pants. I'm sure he was like "Yeah, this is going to be loud. Blah blah blah goofy Pennsylvania mine worker dude. Let's get on with the bang already." And then suddenly he's like 'I just felt my brain reverberating off the inside of my skull!'
Unfortunately, we don't get to see the explosion, just hear it. That's still pretty cool, right? Fine. Whatever.
And, so that I don't get accused of being too phallocentric, what with the obligatory "boys and their explosions" comments that roll around every Tuesday, here's a little something for the the ladies:
One night, while lying in bed, my wife and I were discussing Dirty Jobs, and she sighed and said something wistful about Mike Rowe. There was a prolonged silence, and I finally said, "It's okay, honey. Sometimes, during sex, I close my eyes and pretend that I'm Mike Rowe, too."