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.

An Irish Saint and a Confession

I have already detailed the life and times of St. Patrick (or was it Saint Palladius?), so I won't rehash old posts, merely provide you with the link. However, do remember that today is the feast day of the Patron Saint of Ireland, which means lots of drunken revelry coupled with the phenomenon I like to call "Erin Goes Bra-less" along with countless sad motherfuckers stumbling around bars strapping on fake accents and asking the fair, drunken lasses "Pardon me, dear one, but do ye have any Irish in ye? Would ye care for some more?" God, horny drunks are so creative.

I, however, won't be participating in such activities. Not that I wouldn't mind bedding a fair Irish lass--oh, wait, I already have one...wan, fair complexion, red hair and a filthy mouth all included! No, this whole drinking thing isn't for me, not any more. Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to get all high-and-mighty on your sinners asses, no, not today. The reason for my teetotalism isn't out of some overdevelop sense of higher morals, it's strictly physiological.

It's with a heavy, sober heart that I come before you and admit: I've developed a wicked allergy to hops.

If you know me, you know that I love beer. Not the macro-swill that you pound down at a tailgate in order to be able to stomach the sad state of affairs Bob Davie and Tyrone Willingham have put on the field...no, I love craft brews. I've sampled well over a thousand beers in my day from 37 different states and 17 different countries (if you count Scotland and Wales as their own countries, that is). I even drove way the hell out of my way in order to stop off at a crappy microbrewery in West Virginia so that I could add one more beer and one more state to the list.

That microbrewery trip was the one where I finally had to start facing up to the truth that I had a problem. See, with the merest sip of a beer these days, my throat begins to close, my breathing becomes ragged, and my stomach lurches. The sad thing is, I used to absolutely love my beers with hops. I've had 90 Minute IPA from Dogfish Head shot through Randall the Enamel Animal where the hops was so powerful, it felt like I could pick them from my teeth. I've had a slightly chilled Stone IPA where I thought, "Hmmm...yes, that's about right", despite the fact that Stone's beers are typically offensively hopped (as much as I love hops, some beers are ruined by an overabundance of their oils). Research even says that hops could be good for the heart and most likely they would exhibit positive anti-oxidant levels in your blood (hops are antioxidants for beer, thus their use as preservatives). But none of this is for me. Not any more.

60 Minute IPA is what the Gods themselves drink.
I used to run my own beer blog where I was attempting to review beers, breweries and beer-based books. I even used a picture of a naked woman festooned with strategically-placed hops as the "mascot" of said blog, but as the hop allergy became worse, I had to suspend my work and, with a heavy heart, delete my beloved blog from the blogosphere. Even now, I'm tearing up a little.

So, my friends, while you're out in the bars wearing your plastic green bowlers, pretending to love Guinness and pinching the asses of those ladies who had the bad foresight not to wear green tonight, I ask you to down at least one pint and think of me. I'll be at home sipping on my Diet Dr. Pepper and watching Notre Dame piss away their first-round NIT game.

Regardless of my personal afflictions, let me wish you all a Happy Saint Patrick's Day! Also, happy birthday to my old drinking buddy Pat, aka Dr. Assy. Hopefully, he got a replacement laptop for the one that was stolen from his apartment and can read this once more.

I Need Someone, Not Just Anyone

Okay, I need some help from you happy folk. I don't care if you're not happy, I still need some help. This is dire and, without your assistance, I might not be able to have sex this weekend. Somewhere, a towel just shed a single tear.

Anyway, let me give you the story here.

My wife works for a bookstore that has an ampersand in the middle of the name (and no S on the end, dipshit). People leave shit there all the time, like harmonicas and lipstick tubes and half drunk lattes and little cars and children. All of these things get chucked into a box (except the children; they get sold to witches in the Black Forest of Germany) cleverly called "Lost and Found". Once a month, or so, they go through the box and shitcan things that have been in there for a while--usually something like three months. If it's something grand and glorious (like, say, a quarter), the employees lay claim to it and if, after the three-month grace period is up, no one claims it, the employee with first dibs on it gets to keep the grand and glorious loot.

Well, a few months ago, some nimrod left his iPod at the store. His 30-gig iPod. I think you can see where I'm going with this, but the public schools have left us all drooling, simpering idiots, so I better spell it out for you, just in case.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca is all woman, trust me. I've inspected. Several times. Thoroughly. However, when she saw this sweet 30-gig iPod in the box, she popped a boner. Right there, in the middle of her shift, in the store. Very awkward, as you can imagine, but that's a story for another day. My wife put her name on the 30-gig iPod that Nimrod had left behind while jetting off for some general douchebag activity, I'm sure. Right after Christmas, the three-month period was up, and my wife came home, happy as a clam at high tide, sporting her treasure. I haven't seen her so happy since the doctor told me I shouldn't have sex for about two weeks after my gall bladder surgery.

I can tell that Nimrod was a douchebag because of his musical selections. Plus, the 30-gig iPod had video capability and photo storage, and yet not one hint of pornography could be found. Not that I checked. Several times. Or anything. Anyway, the point here is that Nimrod's musical tastes are pretty...fucking lousy. Who the hell puts Alan Jackson and Snoop on the same iPod? This poor electronic device needed to be purged of the shit that had been thrust upon it.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca had bought adapters and cords to be able to begin the purging of said iPod. We downloaded the iTunes bullshit. We couldn't clean the thing off. I went and bought a different program that was "guaranteed" to fix everything on my iPod. It doesn't work, either.

I spent a good hour and a half last night trying to clean the iPod off and load all of her CDs and some of my CDs that she likes onto her iPod as a Valentine's Day gift. You know like, "Look, I took the time to do something sweet and romantic and kind for you. Doesn't that moisten you right up?" Or something to that effect. The problem was, despite having charged the iPod and connecting it via the cords she bought, the computer would not recognize the device. I kept getting an error message saying that no iPod could be found, despite using every single trick I knew in order to get the computer to talk with the little bastard machine.

Pay attention; this is where you come in. I beseech you, good folks (see, it sounds more dire with the big, fancy word): Is there a trick that I'm missing here? Or could it be that Nimrod left this thing in the store on purpose because it was fucked up? Also, I've heard that you can exchange an iPod if it breaks or malfunctions or joins al-Qaeda or something; I've heard that they'll even exchange it if it's been soaked in a base bath. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this malicious rumor for me?

And, finally, does anyone have any other advice for how to work this device? Or am I doomed to listen to "Summertime Blues" and "Who Am I?" for the remainder of my days?

I realize that this pretty much ruins the surprise I had in mind, so any thoughts of autolubrication that I had fantasized about once I presented her with an iPod loaded with Barenaked Ladies, Harry Connick, Jr., and Ben Folds is pretty much out the window. Still, any help would be appreciated.

The well-being of my towels are at stake here, people. Help a brother out.

So, Here's How It Went

I was out Monday, but I'll write about that later.

I didn't get back to the lab until Tuesday, and then we had a lecture to attend yesterday morning, so I didn't get the poop until yesterday afternoon. As my computer at home (the one built during the Clinton Administration...I shit you not) is slowly but surely gasping it's final breaths, I didn't write this up last night (I did something else on it last night, but I'll write about that later, as well, and no, it wasn't what you're thinking, pervert). This morning was dominated by attending safety meetings followed by a good bout of herding cats rounding up the lunch bunch (I'm a natural born leader), so that's why you're not getting this until now. That's right, I have altered the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further.

Apparently, Friday night went alright. They had dinner and some drinks, generally had a good time, laughed, joked, punched each other in the face...you know, typical first date stuff. Saturday, the guy (henceforth known as Pepe) texted my friend (whom I was going to refer to as "the black cat with the white stripe painted down her back", but felt that was a mouthful), but she had other plans for that night already, so she declined his offer to go out again.

Sunday afternoon, my friend is doing her typical Sunday routine of laundry, sweeping, delousing and crack when she receives a frantic phone call (might have been a text...that was lost in the subsequent gales of laughter that spilled forth from my torso as more of the story was revealed unto me) and the conversation went something like this:

Pepe: You can cook, right? You said you can cook.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Yeah, I can cook.

Pepe: Okay. Good. I need help. I have a friend coming over and I have a turkey I'm trying to cook and, uh...INEEDHELP!!!

TBCWTWSPDHB: What's wrong?

Pepe: Well, the guy at the store said that I needed to thaw the turkey out for a day before I tried to cook it and that I couldn't cook it frozen, but I thought I'd prove him wrong. But...my friend will be here in a while AND the turkey's not looking so good and I need help. Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease with sugar and honey and crushed up almonds on top?

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Fine. But if this is just some lame excuse to lure me over to your place, it won't end well for you.

My friend, who is a very accommodating personality (in case you couldn't tell), went over to help this guy out. She walked in and, sure enough, there were candles everywhere and Barry White was crooning something fabulously sexy. And by candles everywhere, I mean that there was smoke billowing from the oven and by Barry White crooning, I mean that there was a moron running around in the middle of the apartment screaming "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod..." over and over again. So, my friend opens the oven up to assess the situation and finds an 18 pound turkey shoved into a brownie pan sitting in the middle of the oven, the outermost layer of the bird charring and crackling. My friend looks over her shoulder and the following took place:

TBCWTWSPDHB: Have you basted this thing?

Pepe: Uh...what's that mean?

*friend pulls the turkey from the oven and inserts a knife into the carcass; the outermost layer of char peels back instantly and falls away, revealing the frozen inner shell of the turkey*

TBCWTWSPDHB: I'll take that as a 'no.' Hey, where's the pop-up timer?

Pepe: The what now?

TBCWTWSPDHB: The pop-up timer. They put the timer in the turkey so that when it gets done the red button pops up and tells you it's safe to eat.

Pepe: Oh. That thing. I took it out. I didn't know what it was, so I thought I didn't need it.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *vein throbs in forehead; left eye twitches furiously* I...see.

At this point, my friend digs through the remains of the turkey, carefully slicing away the parts that seem salvageable, using the one small knife that Pepe owns to do the cleaning, mangling and slicing of the uncharred remains of the turkey. She then puts whatever pieces make the cut down in the pan and opens the cupboard, hoping to find some broth or some soup or something. Instead, much like the barren wastelands of the tundra, she finds nothing. No food stuffs. No Les Stroud. Not even mammoth bones. Nothing.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Do you have any chicken broth or bouillon or anything like that?

Pepe: Uh, why would I need that?

*my friend spends five minutes bashing her head against the nearest appliance, hoping that one of the blows would end her misery then and there*

She drains what little juice is left in the brownie pan along with the hunks of turkey that haven't been tanned into leather yet and pops them back in the oven.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Okay, how much time do we have?

Pepe: Well, my friend Louis (not his real name, but, shit, why not?) will be here in two hours.

TBCWTWSPDHB: I guess that gives us some time. What else are you having?

Pepe: I have this box of instant mashed potatoes.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Okay. What do you have to cook them in?

Pepe: I have this bowl...

*my friend fights the urge to rip the hair from her scalp and instead decides to help the guy with the presentation of the "dinner", such as it was*

My friend then discovers that Pepe owns all of four plates, and all of his "silverware" is of the camping variety: aluminum, flimsy, holes drilled in the handles. He had a couple of bowls, which she used for whatever side items she had managed to cobble together for Pepe's meal with Louis. Finally, at the end of the ordeal, my friend is trying to excuse herself so that she could get back to her laundry and crack, but Pepe's trying to let my friend know how much he appreciated her help by pouring on the pathetic telling her how he really needs someone because he can't cook. This revolves around the afternoon of her ducking and weaving out of the way of his clumsy attempts to kiss her, because we all know how romantic raw poultry is. I mean, yeah, I understand, some people like to work food into their *ahem* extracurricular activities, and I know that certain parts of the male anatomy have that "last chicken in the shop" look to them. Seriously, though. Raw turkey is not a turn on.

Needless to say, my friend has decided to let this one go. And by "let this one go", I mean that she's decided to run fast and furious for the hills and avoid him like a plague-ridden, diseased rat carcass.

As my boss pointed out, though, she doesn't need to worry because he'll be dead in a few days from poisoned turkey.

So, thanks to everyone who helped out with the fashion advice. I'll call on you all again if needed. And I'll be sure to tell more happy dating stories as they come to me (and I get permission to recount them here).