A Few of My Favorite Things...

As you may have picked up on here over the past...how long has it been? Four? Yeah, let's go with four years, is that I love to make fun of how inept weather forecasters are. A lot of my vitriol is directed toward the boobs on the Weather Channel--Jeff Morrow, I'm looking at you. Not really. You have a huge head and it angers me. But the rest of you are on my list.

But not you, Maria LaRosa. I couldn't be angry with you even if you ate live kittens on national television...which might actually be good theater. Admit it. You'd tune in just to see how that went.

Anyway, I was watching the local forecast on Friday to get an idea about how the weekend would shape up since I was planning on doing some outdoorsy type work and putting up Christmas lights. That's when I heard the local forecast say there was a slight chance for some flurries or some light snow on Saturday night during the overnight, but any accumulations would be confined to the areas near the Virginia border.

Oh cool, I thought, A little bit of snow would set a lovely background for the holiday season.

I even told my wife. "They're calling for some flurries on Saturday night. Just to let you know." She had to work, so I thought I would warn her. We both then laughed, because, if they call for snow, it's more likely that it'll be 90 degrees and sunny. Even at night.

Saturday arrived and I took my son with me and we went and got our hair cut, we did some Christmas shopping for my wife, and then we grabbed some lunch--McDonalds, the Lunch of Champions! Well, he's a champ. I'm a tubby white guy hurtling toward middle-age.

On the way home, I noticed some shit flying by the window. "Hey, buddy!" I said, "I think that's snow!"

"It is! It is snow!" he said in his gleeful, charged-up on McDonalds six-year-old voice! "Oh, it's going to be awesome!"

See, told you he's a champ.

I didn't want to crush his little heart, though, by telling him that the few flurries we saw sail past the windshield would probably be it for the snow. It stopped after a few seconds, and he wondered where the snow went. I explained it to him that there's probably some bands of snow moving through the clouds, and he understood.

We made it home with only a few more flurries and got inside. I started up another load of laundry, and saw a few more intermittent flakes float past the window, so I ran into the living room to open the blinds so that the kids could see it. I returned to my domestic chores and looked up to see actual snow falling from the sky. No more of this flurry shit. This was actual snow.

I went back into the living room and pointed it out to the kids. They were enthused and watched it for a few seconds and then I went to make my daughter some lunch (she's a champ, too, but I didn't bring her any lunch because it would have been cold and everyone knows that cold McDonalds only tastes good when you're hungover and ALREADY filled with remorse). The kids were talking about playing in the snow and my heart sank because, well, we weren't getting any kind of measurable snowfall out of this. The weather men had forecasted a few flurries, and, to be honest, I was surprised it snowed at all.

Imagine my further surprise when I dished up a bowl of soup for my daughter and saw that the backyard was white-ish already.

Holy Shit! I thought, This could be for real!

And, it was. We ended up with about two inches of snow on the ground, which the kids got to play in and enjoy. I do feel kind of sad, however, because if I wasn't there for them to pelt with snowballs, I don't think they'd get any enjoyment out of life.

The truly funny thing about the snow shower event was that the local hacks were still on the television, saying that there might be a slight chance of snow, but there shouldn't be any accumulation. The National Weather Service then popped up with a Winter Weather Advisory (because if there's anything that frightens Southerners more than diversity, it's snow), and yet the locals were saying that accumulations would only be significant in the counties bordering Virginia.

Morons.

*sigh* It was fun, however. I had forgotten how great it is to look out the window in the gloaming of nightfall during a solid snow event, when the edges of everything sort of blur into the background and the flakes drift through the picture. It's quite lovely.

Not as lovely as Maria LaRosa wearing a pair of fuck-me boots, but lovely nonetheless.

I Have Not Gone...

...I have simply been busy.

Well, that's not entirely true. It's not like I haven't wedged a lot of midget porn into my daily routine.

However, at home, I'm without the internets. It's a scary and daunting thing, folks, mostly because it's tougher to find midget porn without the Googles to help me. Oh, sure, I can go downtown, but the weather has turned colder and now the street performers are asking for two quarters and a bottle of Thunderbird to service a goat to the cheering approval of onlookers. That, quite frankly, is exactly two bits more than I'm willing to part with.

Of course, this being the modern era and whatnot, harumph harumph, my phone is tied into my internets, so I can't even call each and every one of you and apologize for the lack of posting and/or simply leave some heavy breathing and the occasional grunt and sigh of exaltative release in your voice mail.

What makes this doubly damning is that I had to dedicate a large part of my lunch hour to sitting on the phone being told the merits and greatness of Time Warner Cable's many options that you can't get anywhere else in the world. Oh sure, they forgot to mention "spotty coverage" and "shitty customer service" in their litany of incredible services, but whatever. Since I'm not at home, I couldn't tell the tech service man if the light was blinking on my device (nothing like vagueness in your trouble-shooting questions. Which light? Which device? No, I don't think the vibrator is supposed to light up. Why do you ask?). His advice was to go home, turn it off, turn it back on, and then call advanced customer support if this does not remedy the situation.

Which I, of course, can't do if the internet no longer works as the phone remains dead.

I apologize for any lack of...whatever it is you get from this slice of the FORTRAN pie...but, for the time being, my hands are tied. How? Together. To the bedframe. In a Gordian knot. However you like it. I just thought this blog needed more Toni Braxton pictures.

One of Those Days

Ever have one of those days? Of course you have. Granted, you'd be hard pressed to define what "those" meant, but you know what I'm talking about.

I'm smack in the middle of one, which is why I'm sitting down to eat my lunch at 2:30 in the afternoon. Actually, it started yesterday. Now I'm just slapping that thigh and riding the wave.

Yesterday, while in the midst of purifying my compounds, the HPLC I was using decided to reset itself. This annoyed me only slightly (slightly as in I was simply telling it to go to hell, as opposed to coarser, more physically impossible curses). I reset everything, decided that my compound wasn't completely lost...yet...and so I started it back up. The machine injected my sample and, once again, shut down.

It was at this point, while I was telling the machine to fuck itself, that an angry cloud actually appeared over my head as I grumbled and left. The joys of lab life. This was only a little bit after I burnt my thumb on some steam from my lunch (which, truth be told, wasn't worth getting burned over).

I coasted through the remainder of the afternoon, my anger waning. As I got home, I decided to rest for a moment or two before dinner. I laid my pretty little head down at 5:15, thinking I'd start making dinner in fifteen minutes. A moment later, it was 6:30 and I was panicking because there wasn't enough time to cook, eat, and get the kids in bed at the appropriate time.

I dashed downstairs and asked what they wanted for dinner. My daughter said Mexican; I said good enough, off to Taco Bell we went. I tried to hide the evidence, but the ass concerto that I serenaded my wife with last night gave me away. That, and I totally confessed when she crawled into bed beside me.

This morning, when I got up, I realized we were out of coffee. THAT should have told me how the day would be going. I get to work, pour the stuff that they offer here down my throat, and dash off to my meeting. During the meeting, the coffee runs its coarse, so that by the meeting's end, I gotta toss a major whiz. I make it back to the lab, do some stuff to allow the bathrooms to clear out (they're always packed right after a meeting like that) and then proceed to go and take care of my business.

Only problem is...while I'm standing in front of the urinal...I find it difficult to snake my dick out of my underwear to commence with the pissing. What the hell? Did I shrink? NOOOOOO!!!!

Finally, I was able to unleash my horror upon the urinal. I tucked myself back in and went about my business of preparing for my next meeting. I get a few tasks done and then the coffee and last night's Taco Bell run their course, and I realize I've got to go for a sit-down in the restroom. No problem. I go down, my favorite stall is free, so I drop trou, sit down, and begin to relieve myself.

That's when I look down at my pants and underwear wrapped around my ankles.

I am wearing my underwear inside out.

So, no. No shrinkage. No pencil dick. No turtling.

Just an idiot who can't dress himself.

Totally Blowing Shit Up...Wednesdays?

Last night, we had a situation down here in North By God Carolina. One of the interstates that goes through my shithole fair city was shut down right before rush hour picked up because of a bomb threat. The threat was called in for the bridge that was at the intersection where the interstate passes the big mall on the south side of the city. So, not only is there all the traffic of people trying to get home in the evening, but there was also the combined traffic of mall traffic as well as people going to eat dinner.

In short, things were a mess.

Of course, last night I also needed to get gas before driving home, and I decided I needed to mail my parents' birthday card (Mom's was yesterday, dad's was Monday), which only exacerbated the situation. I could feel the vein throbbing in my head as I studied the rear end of the car in front of me for a good 30 minutes until I could get to my exit. And I don't even use the interstate that was shut down, but everyone else was diverted onto my road for the ride home as means of a detour.

Anyway, while stuck in traffic, I also thought about the guy who called in the threat. Apparently, there was a "mysterious package" in the area of the bridge. Our crack team of law enforcement was on the scene! Or, actually, they were using the DOT cameras on the bridge to look for the package. No bomb-sniffing dogs, no one on the ground, just a guy looking through cameras trying to find the mysterious package. Or the white van. There's always a white van. Apparently, to be a true criminal, you need to drive a van: black for chi-mo's and rapists, white for murderous psychopaths. If you're an ecoterrorist, do you drive a green van? Just a thought.

Eventually, what looked like three paper towel tubes taped together and painted black was found, and the bomb robot went in to retrieve it. There was dramatic footage of the robot shooting some kind of liquid onto the concrete divider on the road, and then robot then gleefully chugged over to another area where it was, presumably, patted on the head and rewarded with a quart of thirty-weight.

In the end, thousands of peoples lives were disrupted because someone didn't get hugged enough as a child and needed to make this desperate cry for attention. It got me to thinking about what the criminal "mastermind" should have done. He should have called in the bomb threat, left his little paper towel tube bomb there for everyone to see. Then when the police rerouted the traffic onto other major thoroughfares to keep everyone safe, he should blow up one of the bridges used for the detour filled with people trying to get home.

This would then immediately be followed by the phone call telling the police that he wanted some grossly large sum of money deposited into his off-shore account, or another bridge goes up. This is, of course, followed by an hour-long stand off in which general panic grips the area, searches are done of other bridges, and finally Batman shows up to save the day.

However, my wife was impressed (terrified?) about my coldly calculated counterstrike to the bomb threat and coming up with a plan for what the mastermind should have done. So, apparently, I'm either a psychopath, or I have a knack for developing particularly evil villains.

Because I'm not friends with one of the Olsen Twins nor do I have a bunch of pills conveniently located in my medicine cabinet, let's hope it's latter and not the former.

What? Too soon?

[EDIT]: Oh man, I just read the full story about the bomb threat. There was, in fact, no bomb threat called in. Someone saw some trash alongside the road, and called 911 telling them that a suspicious package that looks like it could be a bomb was alongside the road.

Nice.

On top of that all, the Keystone Kops Durham Police force suffered an injury when one of the deputies was shot during a "weapons malfunction".

You tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen...

Oxymoronical

In addition to her non sequiturs, updates on the rainfall in places in Indiana that I could care less about, and complete lack of understanding of my likes, dislikes and personality, my mother also likes sending on mass forwards through the email. And they are always oh-so-delightfully hilarious. Not just knee-slappingly funny, but wet-your-pants, I-can't-breathe-make-it-stop Jeff Dunham funny.

As was the case on Friday, when my mother sent me this gem titled "Oxymorons", which was a series of questions that were supposed to make you laugh. More importantly, none of them are oxymora (the proper plural of oxymoron), which are contradicting terms that are somewhat amusing if one thinks about it long enough.

With that in mind, let's check on the funny that she decided to bless my life with:

1. Is it good if a vacuum really sucks?

Yes, otherwise it wouldn't pull dirt out of your carpet, you filthy hippy.

2. Why is the third hand on the watch called the second hand?

Because the "second" is the name given to a division of time that is 1/60th of a minute, the minute being the name given to the division of time that is 1/60th of an hour. Therefore, a "second hand", in this case, counts and records seconds, just as the minute and hour hands count their designated sweeps of time.

3. If a word is misspelled in the dictionary, how would we ever know?

There have been several instances across various dictionaries of misspelled words, but since the dictionaries go through rigorous editorial review before final printings, usually misspellings and grammatical errors are caught. If they aren't, a correction is made in a subsequent edition.

Also, wouldn't this question have been at least somewhat clever if something had been mispelled?

4. If Webster wrote the first dictionary, where did he find the words?

Webster didn't write the first dictionary, dickhead. Samuel Johnson did. Maybe you should have paid attention during English class, that way you'd know that, if you string words together, you can write things like "clauses" and "sentences" and "definitions for words in the dictionary".

As an aside, Webster did write the first American dictionary. He wrote it as a way of thumbing his nose at the British, whom we had just defeated to gain our independence. He's the one who is to blame for dropping the 'u's out of most English spellings, such as labour and colour so that they'd look less British.

5. Why do we say something is out of whack? What is a whack?

If something isn't working properly, we sometimes resort to smacking the instrument or machine in order to get it to work for us (but mostly to vent our frustrations). This is giving it "a whack". If something is "out of whack", then it needs a smack upside the head...like the author of this particular forwarding.

6. Why does "slow down" and "slow up" mean the same thing?

"Slow down" implies a natural deceleration, whereas "slow up" implies a more rapid braking of speed. Also, these sayings rose from regional dialects which, as the population of America has shifted and communications have improved, has caused a mixing of otherwise isolated phrases and speech patterns. This also explains why the girl at my favorite restaurant speaks with the most outrageously offensive New Jersey accent.

7. Why does "fat chance" and "slim chance" mean the same thing?

"Fat chance" means there is no chance. "Slim chance" implies that, while the odds are against you, there is still a chance for you to achieve your goal. Which would you rather hear when you're trying to bang that chick at the end of the bar? Fat chance or that your chances are slim? I'll go with slim chances over no chance at all.

8. Why do "tug" boats push their barges?

While tug boats do sometimes push their vessels around, by-and-large most tugs still pull barges and large vessels through the water.

9. Why do we sing "Take me out to the ball game" when we are already there?

Tradition. Besides, how many other songs about baseball that don't involve John Fogerty are there?

10. Why are they called "stands" when they are made for sitting?

Because the people who originally were "seated" there were forced to stand during the entire match.

11. Why is it called "after dark" when it really is "after light"?

Because it's a shortened form of "after darkness falls".

12. Doesn't "expecting the unexpected" make the unexpected expected?

No, because you're still anticipating something to happen which you are exactly sure of. You know something will happen, but you just don't know what. Therefore, it's still unexpected.

13. Why are a "wise man" and a "wise guy" opposites?

Because "guy" is a somewhat derogatory word, based on Guy Fawkes' fucked up attempt to blow up Parliament. Wise men come up with sage advice; wise guys try to detonate government buildings.

14. Why do "overlook" and "oversee" mean opposite things?

You can look at something, but not truly see it. Therefore, if you overlook something, you are missing it entirely. The word "see" implies a more specific examination, therefore if you are overseeing something, you are focusing your attentions on getting the job done.

15. Why is "phonics" not spelled the way it sounds?

Because the Greeks, from whom we take the word "phonics", didn't have an F as we know it. Their letter that made the /f/ sound was phi. When the Romans adopted various Etruscan letters, they absorbed the letter that would become F and assigned it the sound that phi made (as the Etruscan F made a sort of /w/ sound that the Romans used upsilon for).

The true irony in the question is that the Greeks didn't use C in their words and opted for the use of kappa, which should make the spelling of "phonics" as "phoniks". Apparently, the dumbass who wrote these questions overlooked that tiny little detail. Perhaps he should have had someone oversee his work.

16. If work is so terrific, why do they have to pay you to do it?

I think I'm beginning to see the "moron" part of the title here. In order to achieve work, some bit of force has to be applied to the system. In most cases, work is repaid with the desired or intended change on the system. In others, its reward is monetary.

17. If all the world is a stage, where is the audience sitting?

Anyone who is witness to any of the marvelous mishaps and dramas that unfold in the world around us on a daily basis is the audience. All the world is a stage does not imply that the performance is taking place upon a designated site, but that it is happening in the world around us.

Again, the author of these questions must have failed English class and missed out on metaphor day. Also, you'll note, "metaphor" is a Greek spelling.

18. If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?

Love is blind. Sexual desire is visual in nature, especially for men. A feeling of sexiness is also important for women, which is why lingerie is so popular. I'm guessing, in addition to being a dickhead, the author is uxoriated, sexless or a Dolores Umbridge-like troll of a woman.

19. If you are cross-eyed and have dyslexia, can you read all right?

No, presumably you'd still read left-to-right. Dickhead. This question is so obnoxious and offensive, it begs to have disdain and insults thrown upon it. And, no, you would still have dyslexia and you would still have the unfortunate luck to have your eyes focus on a point not far before your nose. Way to be compassionate for others, assface.

20. Why is bra singular and panties plural?

Is not a brassiere a single piece of clothing? Panties is a shortened form of "pantaloons" (via pants) which comes from Pantaloun, who is a silly old man character who wore tight pants over very skinny legs. Pantaloons then became any sort of tight trousers in the same vein as Pantaloun's pants, and the pluralized form has stuck ever since.

21. Why do you press harder on the buttons of a remote control when you know the batteries are dead?

For the same reason that you whack an instrument that isn't giving you the result you want, mostly out of frustration. We've also been taught that if you do something harder, you will get the result faster, so pushing harder will, apparently, get the remote to work that much faster.

22. Why do we put suits in garment bags and garments in a suitcase?

Because before suitcases were used, most clothing was stored in bags. Therefore, garments would be stored in garment bags. The suitcase comes from the idea that men would carry a briefcase with them to work. As that was a smaller case, therefore "brief", a larger case would need a bigger name, therefore a suit.

23. How come abbreviated is such a long word?

Because it comes from Latin, "ab" meaning "from, of" and "breve" which means "short" (*ahem*). The ending is used to denote an action, which in the case of "abbreviated" means it happened in the past.

Abbreviation's abbreviation is abb.

24. Why do we wash bath towels? Aren't we clean when we use them?

You are clean when you use them. Unfortunately, the towels themselves are not. Tiny spores of mildew and bacteria live on the towels' surfaces and when they are used, the mildew and bacteria take up the water and start growing. We wash the towels to get the stuff that lives on them off.

Of course, after we toss them in the dryer and it cools off, the mildew and bacteria come right back.

25. Why doesn't glue stick to the inside of the bottle?

Because if it's still wet in the bottle, it's not completely adhesive. Once it dries though, it's stuck--whether it's in the bottle or not.

26. Why do they call it a TV set when you only have one?

Because there are a lot of component parts in a television. Also, "set" has the most meanings of any word in the English language, so it doesn't just imply that you've brought together a collection of things. It could almost mean that "this is where you've placed it".

27. Christmas - What other time of the year do you sit in front of a dead tree and eat candy out of your socks?

Christmas - What other time of the year do we celebrate the most famous failure of birth control in the history of humanity?

28. Why do we drive on a parkway and park on a driveway?

Because "driveways" used to take us from the street to our garages, thus it was a way to drive. As garages became more full shit, it became impractical to park your car in them (apparently) and so now we park on our driveways. "Parkways" used to imply that the road went through pastoral settings, hence "parks".

There was, of course, at the end of the mass forwarding something about how God loves us and wants us to be happy and some other feel-good bullshit about friendship. I skipped that here because, if anything is oxymoronical, it's defining Christmas as eating candy from a sock in front of a dead tree and then talking about how buddy-buddy chumly we are with God.

Oh, wait. My mistake. That's not oxymoronical, it's just moronical, like the rest of the forwarding.

The 700 Club

This, my friends, is my 700th post. Which means I've joined the 700 Club, and while this isn't nearly as satisfying as the Mile High Club nor as sure to get me elected to the Hall of Fame someday as the 30-30 club, it's still something I'm strangely proud of.

Of course, the 700 Club also has those connotations that I'm somehow in league with the kook, Pat Robertson.

Let me make it abundantly clear to all, I do not think, nor am I willing to be swayed on this, that the slave revolt of 1803 in anyway lent any cause to the unfortunate earthquake that hit earlier in the year. Also for the record, I don't think that scandalously-dressed nubile women cause earthquakes. In fact, I fully support scandalously-dressed nubile women--plate tectonics be damned!!!

I salute you, women of Boobquake, and applaud you at the same time! This is the finest thing to come out of Purdue since John Wooden.

So, it is with the utmost respect--and joy--that I salute you, women of the world, for wearing your low-plunging tops, your short skirts, and your thigh-high boots. Wait? That's not part of the deal? Shut up and let me dream, alright. *wistful sigh*

Oh, what, you want some sort of conclusion to this post? Fine.

I'm also not so dumb as to believe that global warming has caused this recent spate of earthquakes. I'm more apt to believe that Sigyn is slow getting back with the cup to hold over Loki's head to stop the poison from dribbling onto him than I am to believe any of these previous postulates on why they earth's crust has suddenly become so violently active.

Oh, sure, global warming is a convenient excuse to dredge up when a series of catastrophes hits, especially if you're looking for more funding from a government grant. And the story sounds good, right? The ice sheets are receding, so the Earth's crust is bouncing back and causing all sorts of tremors and quakes? This makes sense for why the land around the Great Lakes is rising, but not for places such as Haiti or Chile or Indonesia getting earthquakes, since they were never covered in glaciers during the last Ice Age (though I will offer that the mountains near Chile probably were more heavily glaciered during the cold period).

The thing is, there are hundreds of earthquakes, everyday, all around the world. Chile, Haiti, Indonesia, China (and Iceland) are all in very active tectonic zones, where two hunks of the Earth's crust are sliding past one another or diving under one another or pulling away from each other. That's the explanation. That's why things are going apeshit. It's plate tectonics, and it would go on, even if the world was still covered in ice.

Although...I guess that global warming could cause nubile young women to dress more scantily. Of course, if it was warmer, more people would go to the beach to enjoy some time with the wind and the surf and the sun. And perhaps, while dumping out the poison, Sigyn went to the beach to check out shirtless guys. Dammit! It all makes sense now!

But Pat Robertson is still a kook.

In Which Our Hero Falls. Hard.

The warmer weather has come to the Carolinas. While this reminds me of two things that I don't like about this area--lack of sidewalks and the need to mow the lawn in April--it also means that I can bust out the grill earlier.

And so it was last night. Pork chops were the carnal delight of the day, and as I fired up the clean-burning, even-heating propane, the gourmand in me was positively aquiver with excitement over the notion of sinking my teeth into some delicious chops.

As the meat was slowly processing through its Maillard reaction, I looked at the basketball goal standing next to the building where I was cooking.

"Come to me," it called.

This might qualify as 'exercise', I thought.

So, I picked up the ball and began shooting hoops. I was firing them in from five, ten, twenty, even thirty feet away. I stepped to the line--or what serves as a free-throw stripe in my back yard--and did the three bounces, spin, shoot. I hit the first two shots, then went back to firing from all over the back yard once more.

Now, the back edge of my property is hemmed in by a line of demarcation known as "the stream." As it burbles and bubbles and murmurs along, it does so along a stretch of my yard that is much higher than the level of the water. It's also a bit of a problem if you badly miss a shot with the basketball, as the ball will careen toward that part of the yard and, if one is not quick enough, one finds his ball in the water.

Such was the case when I stepped back to the free throw line last night. The ball hit the back of the rim in such a way that it flew off to the left. I immediately began running after it, but I wasn't quick enough and, just as I tried to reach for it, the ball went into the stream.

Sonuvabitch, I huffed and puffed internally. Now I'm going to have to get that fucker out of there.

For some strange reason, my kids are fascinated with sweeping the back yard. They take my push broom and sweep the grass. They're young, I'll grant them that, but still. Fucking weirdos. Anyway, the push broom was left in the back yard--it's 100% plastic (Fuck you, Planet!), so leaving it out isn't a problem in my book--so i went over to get it, thinking I could fish the ball out of the stream with the broom and then leave the ball to dry and I'd finish cooking.

As I was trying to matriculate the ball up the side of the bank--which, at the point where the ball fell into the water was nearly seven feet high and a sheer, straight cliff bank--things were not going swimmingly. I then decided that I should try and bat the ball upstream to a place where the bank comes in at a much more shallow angle. So, begin pushing and popping the ball toward such a place. As I was moving along, picking my route carefully, part of the bank crumbled beneath me.

And down goes Frazier.

With a mighty splash, I land in the stream. Fortunately, the waters had receded enough from the previous day's rains that I was in no danger of drowning or any such fate. Unfortunately, I was still soaked from the waist down and on my right side, which landed in the water.

Muttering curse words, I stood up, collected my broom, collected my ball, and started toward the ford, which was still a decent distance upstream. I climbed out, rolled the ball toward my basketball "court", dropped the broom, and squelched my way to the back door.

My shoes, which are two years old and on the cusp of ruination, anyway, were left on the back porch. I went into the house, going straight to the laundry room where I stripped down to my unders. My unders were wet, so I grabbed another pair out of the dryer and headed upstairs where I could wash up and find new clothes.

Upon entry into my bedroom, where my wife was sitting, watching a television show on her computer, I was greeted by stifled laughter.

"Why are you naked? And wet?" she asks.

"Why aren't you?" I wanted to retort. Instead, I went by my old standby: "I don't wanna talk about it."

"No, what happened?" she implored.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Tell me!"

I told the story.

More stifled laughter.

Dignity destroyed, I pulled on a pair of sweat pants, my brown shoes, and a t-shirt. I picked up a book and went back outside.

The worst part? The chops were a little overdone on one side. They were still fucking delicious, but not as moist and juicy as I had once envisioned.

When they were finally done, I took them inside, went back upstairs to tell the wife that the chops were done, and then I stripped again. I decided I wanted to shower before I ate my dinner and while the wife was fixing the rice and making a salad.

Because I got done at the same time as the rice, I ate naked.

The next time the ball goes into the stream--and there will be a next time--I'm going straight for the landing net hanging in the building beside the basketball court. This, sadly, was a solution that occurred to me as I was walking to get the broom.

"You know," I mused aloud, "I should just go get the landing net."

Hind-sight. She's 20/20. And apparently not soaking wet. Nor nearly as sore the next day.

And sore I am, too. Anyone wanna give me a massage?

A Goddamn IQ of 160

Last night, as I was tucking myself into bed and molestering my wife's ass, I flipped through the television, just to see what was on. As luck would have it, I fell upon AMC, which was showing Forrest Gump. I was immediately taken back to my freshman year of college. Oh look! Acne and broken hearts! What a fabulous time to relive!

Again, as luck would have it, I came upon the movie roughly midway through, but since this is a movie that I really, really like, I watched it through the end. AMC, in a flash of marketing brilliance, decided to play an encore presentation, in what they called "Can't Get Enough Gump Week".

"What a terrible name," my wife murmured as she was drifting off to sleep. "It sounds like 'gumpweek' is one word. It's like something you'd weed out of the flower bed. 'Gumpweek'. Ugh."

"They must have a lot of gumption to try something like this," I retorted.

The awkward silence cricket showed up.

Now, as I was tucking myself into bed, I was laughing to myself in my head. "Brain," my mind says, "We sure are smart. Look at us! We're not staying up until 1:00 tonight! We won't wake up tomorrow and be all tired and cranky and stuff. Nope, not us!"

And then my brain proceeded to shit upon my mind and got hooked on watching the China/Canada women curling match, as well as the replay of Forrest Gump, which, I might add, I fucking own (albeit on VHS) and can be viewed without commercial breaks.

"I'll just watch through to the point where I picked up earlier." Which is what I did. Unfortunately, the goddamned Curling match went into extra innings.

Time I turned off the television? 1:15 am.

*sigh*

Being that I was an idiot and stayed up late last night watching a movie about an idiot, I thought I'd tell you a little bit more about my idiot day yesterday.

My wife sent me to the store to pick up victuals for the week. When I left the house, it was around 1:30, and I had not eaten breakfast or lunch, so I decided I couldn't go another moment without sustenance of some kind. I opted for Taco Bell.

Insert the audio clip of the old knight from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade here: "He chose...poorly."

I got my food and continued on my way, horfing delicately eating a beefy burrito as I moseyed on down the road. Finished, and not yet quite sated, I reached into the bag and pulled out my cheesy bean and rice burrito. Things were going wonderfully, until I got toward the butt end of the burrito, which decided to rip asunder and spill its contents onto my shirt front.

Cue the sad trombone here. (Many thanks to Adam L for turning me on to that beauty!).

"Fuck!" I said. "This is..." I scraped the oily, cheesy mess off my chest (and then ate it...I'm classy like that) "...fuck!" There was a huge gray and orange mess where the droppings had hit.

"Fuck!" I said once more, for good measure, "I refuse to walk around Target with this thing on my chest. I will not have everyone looking at me saying, 'Well, what do you know? There's a fat guy with a Taco Bell stain on his shirt. What are the odds?'"

My conversations with myself in the car are fucking awesome.

It was 65 degrees by the time I got to Target, so I didn't have a jacket, which meant that I had to address the situation straight forward. I did what any man on the cusp of middle-age who is facing public humiliation would do: I went running into the store with right arm pressed up against the stain on my shirt, so as to hide it. And, as I dashed to the men's department, I refused to move it, so I'm running around like some kind of twisted moron, desperately searching through the clearance racks for an XL shirt. I canvassed the entire department with the prerequisites that the shirt be XL, long enough to hide my high-riding ass-crack, cheap, and socially acceptable. No "Pussy Inspector" shirts for me.

I finally settled on a green shirt that had a shamrock and an Irish flag and the words "Made in Ireland." It fit my needs (and my paunch) and so I dash back up to the front of the store...still with my right arm over the stain, refusing to budge. I pay for the shirt and--here's another moment of brilliance from yours truly--instead of going to the restroom which is ten feet away, I go running out into the parking lot to my car where I very awkwardly peel off the grease-laden shirt and pull on my "Made in Ireland" shirt.

No one asked me about it, but I was hopeful someone would call attention to my shirt. I was going to respond--in as poorly-crafted an Irish accent as possible--"As far as I can tell, I was made in Indiana, which would explain the fooked-up accent."

Ah well, I guess there's always a chance that will happen the next time I make a run for the border...

Oh, Woeful Allergies!

Prepare yourselves.

We're coming upon that time of year again, when pollen fogs the airs, sinuses swell and fill with mucus and the sneezing--oh, the sneezing. Snuck. Yep, even though there's two feet of snow on the ground in some places, allergy season--like fat people--is lurking. It's right there, in the non-distant future, waiting to punch each and every one of us in the junk and then fuck with our immune systems.

Seems as though poor Robert Pattinson has already begun the suffering.

Woe is poor Cedric Diggory--I mean, aside from that whole Avada kedavra thing and whatnot--because he's suffering from some seriously debilitating afflictions. And not just a severe case of douchebag or bearing a striking resemblance to a Neanderthal.

No, it seems poor Edward Cullen is allergic to vagina.

...

Really?

Well, Bobby--I can call you that, right?--I'm here for support. As it turns out, I'm allergic to vaginas, too! Yep, whenever I'm around one, I break out in a severe case of erections, and I begin oozing a clear, sticky, salty fluid. If I'm exposed to them too much, I emit a thick, white, creamy liquid as well. It's really, really tragic.

But, you know, I'm dealing. It's hard, but I've got a handle (or two) on it.

Apparently, poor woebegone Rob had to sit all day long with his head in a naked woman's crotch while someone took his picture. Yep. Sure is rough for M. Pattinson.

He apparently didn't enjoy himself much during the photo shoot. Fortunately, he was hung over, which made it that much easier to suffer through the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. That's why he thinks he's allergic to vagina. Because he had to do a photo shoot with some of them.

Well, I guess that explains the 108-year-old virgin thing, eh?

Now, the problem is, with that comment about his allergy and, one can assume, his aversion to vagina, he's just crushed the hopes of dreams of 40-year-old women around the entire world. I can hear the gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts now and soiling of panties now. Tis a doleful sound, one unfit for human ears.

Anyway, I'm here for you, Rob. If you need me, I'm good for all that support and counseling and shit. Just, uh, let me know if you need someone to sit in between the thighs of a model or anything. I'm your man! Just call me, and I'll be right over. You can just hide yourself away from all those vaginas and the adverse reactions they give you. *thumbs up*

Dibs on Cho Chang.

Totally Blowing Stuff Up Tuesdays: The Bad Decision

I'm not really here today. I'll be in a conference room all day, doing the quarterly meeting thang. Damn, I am so street. In my stead, I am offering you a video that will hopefully excite and titillate. Or at least satisfy your need for wanton pain and destruction that I normally offer up on a Tuesday.

So...most Tuesdays, I try to bring the glorious celebration of entropy that only an explosion can provide. Today, I'm going outside of the explosive box for a moment...but only because this shit is really funny.

I guess I should call it "Totally Setting Stuff on Fire Tuesday" or maybe "Totally Doing Something Stupid to Your Crotch Tuesday", but it just doesn't have the same feel.

Okay, well, here's the video:

Okay, so, what this dunderhead was trying to do was a neat little trick that you can pull to impress your friends. If you take some low-burning solvent--ethanol, acetone, ether--and douse your clothing in it, you can actually light the solvent on fire without catching the fabric--or yourself--on fire.

Seriously, don't do this at home.

The trick is that, since the alcohol burns at a much lower temperature than does cotton or flesh, you'll get this neat little dancing flame over your jeans or socks or what have you (your hand, if you're really brave and/or a charlatan attempting to hoax a bunch of uneducated medieval peasants). The fire will burn itself out and, since the fire isn't burning hot enough to catch the pants on fire, you should be in the clear.

Seriously, don't even attempt this on your own. Especially not when you're drunk.

What Captain Braintrust up above tried to do was show off for his friends. Unfortunately, he didn't realize that gasoline burns at something like 470-560 degrees C. Cotton's ignition temperature is 450 degrees C (and, of course, paper's is Fahrenheit 451...) The ignition temperature of ethanol is 426 degrees C...so you can see, it still burns pretty hot, but not hot enough to catch the fabric on fire. However, it will still make you nice and toasty and/or singe off your naughty bits.

That's why I'm telling you not to try this at home.

However, if you want to charm the pants off your ladyfriend, you can try showing her that you have "money to burn"...



Wow. That flaming hand trick was pretty cool. But, like the film's producer, I wouldn't recommend it.

Otherwise, someone might have to stomp out your nuts.

Hello, Black Ice, My Old Friend...

For many people in the South, the thing they fear more than education and literacy is black ice. In case you're unaware, black ice is that phenomenon that occurs when you've had some melting of ice and snow on the roadways, but then the water refreezes. It's usually not a very thick layer of ice that refreezes, so it looks black on the surface of the road.

But really, we know that it's "Black Ice", because it's a killer.

It raises up from the surface of the road, axe in one hand, log chain in the other, and either cleaves you into kibble or smashes you into meat paste. Afterward, it hurtles your car into the nearest pine grove. Then, it's bloodlust sated for a few moments, it eases itself back down to the tarmac where it quietly awaits its next hapless victim.

So, for that reason, I'm home today. The kids have a day off school, and my wife had to go to work. But, it's not like I was too torn up over it. I think the conversation went like this:

Wife: The school call--
Me: Oh, I guess I'll have to take a day off work. Oh no!!!!

And then I went dancing running from the room giggling wailing and beating my breast and other things that you're supposed to do when you're so overcome with emotion that you have to express it through actions.

So, here I sit at home, pondering how I'm going to find enough energy to shower, wondering if I have clean unders upstairs, and wondering if it's a social faux pas for one to take a nap if one has slept in until 10:30.

I am hoping, however, that with this weekend's forecast of another round of snow and sleet and winter weather, that we won't have to deal with Jim Cantore anywhere in the Carolinas. The man actually reported that Charlotte was experiencing "Sneezle": that's snow, sleet and freezing drizzle.

Fuck you, Jim Cantore.

He then went on to explain the "dire situation" in the state where 45,000 customers reported power outages. "That's doubled in just the past hour". And...then it never went back up. And power was restored pretty quickly.

Hey, look at that...bitching about the Weather Channel two weeks in a row on Monday...what are the odds? Is that a faux pas, too? Or is that just an internet meme?

I know one thing that's definitely not a faux pas, and that is to hope that the forecasted sleet and freezing rain for tomorrow morning comes just in time to re-ice the roads. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go wail and beat my breast and plan on where my early afternoon nap is going to take place.

Dear Weather Channel

Dear Weather Channel:

Suck it.

Do you know what your main role in life is? Here's a hint: it's in your name, and I'm not talking about the word "channel" nor am I speaking of the word "the". That's right! Weather! Perhaps we can sink through that thick concrete cranium of yours yet.

Now, I understand that, much like every other network in the entire world you focus on New York and Boston all the time. I also understand that you're centered in Atlanta, so we get to see that oh-so-exciting weather prospectus for such exotic locales as Macon and Warner-Robins and Screven possibly more than, you know, we should. And then there's the inexplicable "Hey, Omaha, the sun is coming up! Whee!!!" I'm willing to overlook all this because every ten minutes, you show me the local radar, at what time the sun will rise tomorrow, and what phase the moon will be in for the next four weeks.

Ah, see, here's the rub: you're not showing me those things every ten minutes. Instead, I sit through five minutes of commercials for whatever piece of contrite kitsch that the Late Billy Mays would (or still is...eerie) hock in that delightfully endearing brazen and brash fashion of his. When it's not a commercial for the latest and greatest (and shittiest) piece of detritus that I'm opting not to purchase and to clutter up my home, it's a commercial for one of your other shows, which are only peripherally involved in the weather. Or it's a commercial featuring Al Roker.

Mother.
Fucking.
Al.
Roker.

Do you know when Al Roker was last cool? It's when he was interviewed on Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast. And that might have been because I was drunk and maybe had a bit of a contact high: my year in Merlini Hall seems to just fly by (in hindsight). And I'm pretty sure Al Roker was cool only because Zorak called his ass out and subsequently fried him with whatever energy weapon Zorak wielded with impunity.

And yet, here I am, tuning in to see if I have to grab a jacket on my way out the door, and instead of an extended forecast, I get Al Roker's face on my screen. "Aren't I funny?" he says into the camera. "Laugh with me! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!!!" No, you're not funny. Go back to wherever you escaped and stop ruining my weather channel viewing experience!

While I'm speaking of Al Roker, could you have found perhaps a slightly more annoying co-host to go along with his aw-shucks hokum? Yes, Stephanie Abrams is easy on the eye, is probably a nice person, but damn, is there another person on national television screaming to be featured on "What Not to Wear" more than she? Even I can see that, and I can barely dress myself without looking like a clown--a drunken clown at that.

And seriously, if you're going to continue to feature programs revolving around the Stephanie Abrams experience (*shudder*), can you do us all a favor and turn her fucking microphone off. I've heard dogs with diarrhea that are more engaging in conversation than she. Not that I want to say that she's a touch...insipid...but when I hear the word "vapid", immediately her image comes to mind. I hope you've got a good insurance plan for your employees, because I'm sure Mike Bettes goes home every night and drinks himself to the point where he no longer desires the sweet release that opening his veins would provide.

Okay, okay, I might have gotten a bit off track. I originally began penning this letter so that you would stop with the fucking "specialty" programming. Seriously, I spent way too fucking long today trying to catch a glimpse of the immediate weather forecast, and yet all I got was commercials for your shitty shows embedded within those same shitty shows!

And let's discuss these shows, shall we? You call it "When Weather Changed History", but I can only guess that it's because "When Weather Didn't Really Have Much of an Affect on the Somewhat Historical Events Outlined in Our Programs" doesn't have much of a ring to it. But, that would be what we refer to as "truth in advertising". Besides, the History Channel is where I typically go if I want to see documentaries about historical events.

And then there's "Storm Stories." *sigh* This could be about five minutes worth of a show, to be honest. I realize that it's supposed to be about human hardship, so that we feel sorry for our fellow human beings, but after so many minutes of footage of bemulleted billhillies who try to drive their truck through the raging flood waters of the Chattahoochee, the program becomes a touch...repetitive.

(That means "the same thing over and over again", Stephanie).

We won't even go into the failed experiment of showing us weather-themed movies on Friday night. When did that finally sink in that it was a bad idea? After the second showing of The Perfect Storm or the third replay of March of the Penguins? Somewhere, Morgan Freeman is shaking his head, ashamed that he was involved in such a farcical attempt at garnering an audience.

And now, you're springing more shows on us. Not satisfied with drowning inbreds, you've ratcheted things up a level with "Cantore Stories". Apparently, Jim Cantore, perhaps the least charismatic cast member of the Weather Channel's vast array of meteorologists (barring Greg Forbes), will now be interviewing the wives and mothers of those drowned rednecks. Scintillating! Derivative!!! I can certainly see why the seven-day forecast is being preempted for this!

And then there's Weather Proof, which features our favorite socially-inept Weather Bunny, Stephanie Abrams. From what I can gather in the previews (which are often and typically shown in place of the weather I tune in to learn about), this features someone with a giant fan and a wall with a window in it, and they throw shit at the wall and window. Wow! Look! Glass breaks when hit with a terra cotta pot! That's edge-of-my-seat excitement right there. And then, wow, Stephanie Abrams yells out something about how she didn't expect that! Yes, I'll be sure to stop tuning into Mythbusters for this. Can we get Stephanie Abrams to wear a beret like Jamie Hyneman? Preferably shoved down her throat?

In short, please, stop with the shitty "programming". You are the Weather Channel. Please show us weather.

And, perhaps, the occasional mud wrestling match between Heather Tesch and Jenn Carfagno.

Sincerely,

A Weather Fan

P.S. Bring back Sharon Resultan, like, yesterday. And give her some more really tight leopard-print tops.

You're a Dirty, Dirty Snowman

This could be one of the funniest things I've seen in a long time (a notable exemption for when I got naked this morning for my shower).

I'll admit it: tears came to my eyes when Frosty busts open the refrigerator car and yells "It's my porn collection!" Now that, my friends, is what's known as comedy. At least, that's how I see it.

But, since it's funny, there are some people who want--nay, need--to ruin it for everyone else. If you're one of those people, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that God didn't gift you with a sense of humor or decided to give you a little dick or a stinky snatch or whatever it is that has made you so cranky with life itself.

When dealing with an overblown moral outcry over something that is meant to be funny or humorous, it's always best to turn to the experts. Therefore, I thought I'd give you the FOXNews story. No, really, you should read it.

My favorite part of the story? When this Colleen Raezler person says, "It really drives home the idea that nothing is sacred anymore."

Sacred? Frosty? Oh, silly me. I thought that, at the first Christmas, there was Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, a manger, some donkeys, sheep, camels, a talking dog, a little boy tapping out a beat on his snare drum, some angels and shepherds. I must have somehow lost the Holy and Most Sacred Snowman figurine from the Nativity sets that I own.

I'll let you in on a little secret: Frosty the Snowman sucks. It is awful. Terrible. I would rather watch a hobo taking a shit into his own hat rather than watch Frosty the Snowman. I want to puke whenever I hear that fat fuck yell out "Happy Birthday!" whenever the hat gets placed upon his head. Someone fetch me a hairdryer.

It's sad when you can take a perfectly good song and ruin it with a Christmas special. Of course, Rankin-Bass did the same thing to "Santa Claus is Coming to Town", so it's expected at this point, I believe. I mean, I know a little something about fucking hot redheads named Jessica, and it doesn't make you that fat and bearded overnight. You can trust me on that one.

Inevitably, whenever something like this happens, people will throw themselves in front of whatever media device is before them and bemoan the state of the children. Won't someone please think of the children? Well, here's the thing: the children in the video? All animated. They're not real. They're made up. Figments of someone's imagination (you know, kind of like the evilness of this video).

Real life children? This isn't marketed to them. It's a video for CBS' website. You have to actively seek it out in order for it to be viewed by children. Unlike, say, news on what Tiger Woods has stuck his dick in this time, which is everywhere. I mean, it's fucking ridiculous. I can't go anywhere without being smacked in the face with Tiger coverage or opinions on him or speculations about his future. I'm just waiting for this:

Tonight, on a very special episode of "Spongebob Squarepants": Bahahahahahahahahahaha! Patrick! Can you believe the shit Tiger's pulling? Yeah, Spongebob, did you see some of the pictures of those chicks he was banging? I sure did, Patrick. I think Steve Phillips must have been Tiger's wingman! Bahahahahahahahahaha!

So, anyway, Frosty is coming on Friday night (December 18), if you're interested. If not, I recommend the Phineas and Ferb special, which will, hopefully, make fun of how fucking lame Frosty the Snowman is.

Or maybe you can, you know, bust out your porn collection.

Blargh

You'll excuse me if I'm a little addled. My wife broke the carafe for the coffee pot on Friday night, so I'm starting my third morning without coffee. It's horrible. A million howling voices are in my head, each vying for my attention, all of them demanding a caffeinated release to silence the other 999,999 voices. Fortunately, I'm making due with the muddy ditch water here at work and, even though it's not the finest coffee in the land, it was a dollar well spent.

I came to a sudden realization this weekend that sheds new light on the patheticdom that is my life. Remember a couple of weeks ago, when I was being all clever about telling you how to say "jump the shark" in Latin? I was telling you how I don't really watch any network shows?

Well, I was thinking about that this weekend while freezing my ass off taking my kids to their school carnival. My two favorite shows right now: Dirty Jobs and Phineas and Ferb. That's pretty much it. Now with Monk in its final season and both it and Psych having come to their fall finales, I'm left with a show about rolling around in shit all day and an animated show detailing the formulaic adventures of step brothers and their pet platypus.

Even my regularly-enjoyed shows, The Simpsons and House, fall at an inconvenient time for me. They come on while I'm trying to wrestle the agents of entropy into their rooms for the night put the kids to bed, and I can't afford DVR and I'm loathe to just record them and watch them later. I suppose I could try and catch them online, but...*shrugs*

I guess it's probably better, as I'm trying to push forward with my currents work(s) in progress, but still, even creative genius needs a night or two off to rot his mind with whatever amusements the flickering box in the room can offer me.

Anyway...

Wow...I can feel the coffee slowly suffusing strength and sanity back into my body. Oh, how I've missed you, demon of our modern age.

Apparently, I'm not the only one not watching enough television (that's what we call a ham-fisted segue, kids). These morons in Colorado with the weather-balloon kid would have done themselves a service had they only watched the Mythbusters in which they took, what, 45 weather balloons to lift someone off the ground? Sure, that was a full-grown man, but evens scaling it down, someone should have been like "Hmmm...maybe the math here is off a little bit...". I mean, I have a five-year-old boy, and I sure as fuck hope that I'm not 45 x what he is.

According to the sources I searched, it took over 4500 party balloons filled with helium to achieve lift-off. And that was just for a four-year-old.

A quick check of the math shows that it takes approximately 16 cubic feet of helium to lift one pound. Let's assume that a six year old weighs around 55 pounds, that'd require 880 cubic feet of helium to lift him. And that's just to lift him off the ground, not to shoot him off into the stratosphere like these people were claiming.

And here's the thing: no one called them on this until they found the boy hiding in a box in the attic. No one was like "Yeah, bullshit! There's not enough lift in that thing to take a six-year-old off into the the atmosphere." The media slurped it up like fucking nectar and ambrosia and now we're stuck with these two asshole parents on every fucking news outlet being total asshats.

Then I saw a bunch of comments on various news stories while I was doing the research for how many balloons it took for Mythbusters to lift someone off the ground, and they were predictably asinine, as well. "I'm praying for this family during their tragedy." (typos marking the author as being barely literate corrected) Well, I'm praying for you for being so fucking gullible you'd probably look to see if the word was written on the ceiling.

Okay, now that my hackles have been raised, here's something that might make you feel better. It did me, with a couple of notable exceptions. It's the 20 All-Time Coolest Heroes in Pop Culture, as compiled by Entertainment Weekly. My only complaints are that Batman is way cooler than Spider-Man and Super-Man, and I think Buffy should have been higher, but it's tough to argue with those who ranked above her.

Lowes: Still Useless

So, I've been having some issues with the toilet in the kids' bathroom. It's been wanting to run. A lot. Health kick or something.

The other day I went and bought a different kind of chain--one of those chains made out of bb's, as opposed to the links that were in there before--hoping that it wouldn't get tangled and keep the flapper open just enough for a slow leak of water. It seemed to do the trick. The other night, though, it was running, and I wasn't sure what the problem was. I took the back off the tank and looked in to find the water still running. It was filling, but slowly. I pondered calcium build-ups slowing the flow of water or something.

Then I looked at the bulb/float and how it was connected to the water inlet.

Hmmmm... I pondered, looking at the screw-based mechanism of operation that served as on/off switch. How does this work? I lifted up on the arm that connected the spigot with the bulb.

CRACK!

As I stood there with a bulb-and-arm mechanism in my hand, watching the water flow unchecked into the tank now, my eyes grew to the size of saucers as I silently panicked on the inside. However, ever the cool head, I quickly reached down and shut off the water into the tank. Catastrophe averted; face saved (ish).

The next day, after dinner, I loaded the kids up into the car and we headed to Lowes because, I thought, this will be an easy fix. Bulb, bulb arm, snap a few things together, and we back to flushy paradise.

Not so fast, my friend.

Of course Lowes doesn't do the simple and convenient thing, and supply you with a replacement arm and bulb. Of course you need to replace the entire fucking system. Convenience? That's for pussies. Ease? That's also for pussies. Someone manning the plumbing section of the store, ready to answer your questions with anything other than a blank look? As if.

So, I took the cheap replacement kit, guaranteed to fit my toilet. After wrestling the old mechanism off the toilet (not that it was difficult in and of itself; the problem was just getting the right angle and fitting my fat overly large hands into the small space between the wall, toilet bowl, and vanity cabinet) and successfully not blasting myself in the face with the last bits of tank water, I reinstalled the new mechanism. Everything was good, tight, and, seemingly, ready to go.

Time for the bulb installation and we'd be good to go!

Again, not so fast, my friend.

Seems as though the replacement kit, guaranteed to fit my toilet, features a long, brass rod to connect the bulb with the spigot. So long, in fact, that I can either screw the rod into the spigot mechanism or screw the rod into the bulb, but not both. I muttered a few curses under my breath, wished the people at Lowes to be afflicted by the public lice of a thousand camels, and went to bed, reminding the children to just go ahead and use my toilet for any needs.

The next day, back to Lowes, where I figured they'd have a replacement arm that was shorter. I mean, it is a plumbing supply store, right?

Not so fast--oh fuck it, you get the idea.

In fact, they offered a replacement arm that was the exact same size as the one in the replacement kit I bought. Variety is the spice of life, and these motherfuckers are living it to the blandest.

That meant another trip to Home Depot.

Off we went. Once I finally found the toilet supply aisle (one thing Lowes has over Home Depot is better marked aisles), I found a shorter arm for the set up. It was $1.75 or something like that.

But, here's the kicker: I went through the self-checkout (yet another thing that Home Depot does right and Lowes fails epically at). I paid for my merchandise. I gathered the children and prepared to head off to Target for some groceries. The lady manning the self-checkout lines (you know, the Overseer), called out to me to stop me. She asked if my kids could have some candy, and she produced a little cup filled with Jolly Ranchers and Redvines and such. Are you fucking kidding me? Free candy and exactly what I need for my home repair project! Sold.

But, not only that, but my daughter picked out a piece of candy that had one of the ends ripped off, and the lady stopped her! She was like "Oh, I can't let you have that one, sweetie, it's been opened!" And then...she smiled!

Free candy, the right part, and service with a smile? If Jesus were to go looking for supplies to man the old carpentry shoppe, I'm sure he'd go to Home Depot. And if it's good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me.