I don’t know how many times in my life I’ve used a public urinal; for sure a couple hundred. It’s a nice break from life to be able to get in there and do your business. Well, for the most part… I’m not so good with other people hanging out in there. I mean, it is one of the most private times you have. So it’s not so uncommon to get a stroke of stage fright when you’re in there. I’ll admit it, I’m part of that group that has a spot of trouble “draining my manhood” with another taller guy hanging out next to me, gandering down at my business! It’s none of his damn business what I’m doing down there. They should only have one urinal per fifteen feet. That makes the most sense I’d say.
More happy customers, less people disgruntled about having their pieces ogled while taking care of business. I don’t know what it is that leads to this kind of behavior. Might be something that needs some funding from Duke University or something. Cause I don’t think that it has ANYTHING to do with being bashful or shy. I’m more than outgoing and extroverted, yet still have troubles when it’s one on one versus the “pee drinker” with spectators. I can whoop him good when it’s just me and him, and nobody around. Perhaps I just crack under pressure. Can’t come through in the clutch. Bring in the lefty reserve closer. Fine, no problem.
Anyway, basically, I’m just getting at the fact that people get nervous in the bathroom all the time, mostly because someone is standing there watching them. But what about the people that are behind closed doors? People that are in the stalls? I’ve come to decide that I have NEVER been using one of the urinals and had someone come out of the stalls, EVER!
I just realized this when I was “vacationing” to my local urine depository. I saw ALL the stalls full of people, and I was in there for maybe 45 seconds maybe a minute taking care of my dealings. I didn’t hear a peep out of anyone in there! What gives? How come people get so scared to say or do anything when they’re “dropping the deuce” in a public place? I can see where it relates when some other dude is looking right at you, but I can’t for the life of my understand what drives a person in the stall to be quiet and not move or make a sound whilst “hitting pay dirt.” Granted, I’ve done it too. I’m not gonna lie about it. Everyone has, but I think this is a Darwinian theory. I’m going to step out on a limb and say that shy dumpers (S.D.) are failing in life, and are going to be out of jobs before they know it. Nobody wants a slacker on his or her team. You think jobs are hard to come by now, well the just take your time “feedin’ the fish.” Supervisors and managers are going to start noticing who is making quick trips to the restrooms. They’re going to get the better paying jobs. They’re going to be getting the good salaries. They’re going to be the ones that YOU’RE serving fries and shakes to unless you “force the duck to quack” in a tad more timely manner! Nobody wants that.
I’ve asked around to see if it’s just me that notices this phenomenon and have gotten a few choice replies. One female colleague states:
Sent: Thursday, August 07, 2003 12:36 PM
To: LifeStormer
Subject: poop
No it isn't just a guy thing. Women do it too...probably even more so than men. What I find to be funny is when you are in there and you can see their feet but they aren't poopin’ ,peein' ,wipin' or even rollin' the toilet paper. They just sit there real quiet pretending like you don't know they are there. Ha!
This is a remarkable discovery, which leads to even more heated debate and discussion. I thought this originally was just a propensity for men to have trouble in there, but upon retrospect; I’ve come to realize that women probably go through this too. Tough luck. Guess it just evens it out, and that everyone has this issue that happens in there. It’s funny to think that the person next to you is gonna to rip a huge one just so it’ll give you a little time to squeeze one yourself and the person next to you would therefore, be able to “rip” as well. I guess it’s just somewhat awkward to just be sitting in there and squeak out a “lil’ nasty” while someone is sitting next to you. If this occurs, it’s best to move your feet over as far as you can to the other side of the stall so that the person can’t identify you later by what shoes you’re wearing. I’ve done that before. I’ve seen a dude in there just “toasting up some beef tarts” and he was wearing these penny loafers with one penny the wrong way in the shoe. I busted out of the bathroom and didn’t stop looking at feet the rest of the day. It was like I had a lead weight attached to my head the whole rest of the day. With about 15 minutes left in the day, I found the culprit.
It was this little tiny dude with glasses and a mustache. I looked at him and knew right away that THIS, my friends, was the mystery “stench monster.” I looked up at him, gave him a little wink and went on my way. I’m sure that he had some interesting thoughts running through his head as to what I was doing winking at him and then smirking, but I didn’t care, I found him.
I’m sure a lot of people would get really embarrassed by something like that. Cause if he was on the same page as me, and knew dumping etiquette, he would know that he’s supposed to always look at the shoes of the guy/girl next to you so that you know who to accuse of the “mud blowing” when the accusations start to filter in. I don’t like being accused of such things, and neither does anyone else. That’s why it’s always best to just “hit the can” on your own time. If you need to, take a trip up or down the stairs so that you get into an area where you won’t be seen very easily. Drop an “ambiguity a-bomb” and be on your way.
That is also a slippery slope, pardon the pun, about “launching a corn canoe” at work. What if it overflows! Oh God, help us all! You KNOW you can’t get out of that one if it happens! You can try to run out, but what would be more embarrassing:
1.) You running out of the bathroom while another co-worker is walking in, knowing that there is CLEARLY nobody else in there. I’m SURE he’d be thinking, “Gee, who could have flooded the bathroom with toilet water and poop? I have no idea. Hey, you want to get your other shoe? It’s stuck right next to the toilet that’s overflowing with mystery poo.”
2.) You in there trying to clean it all up before anyone else can see. I can just imagine having to pick up the “poo-pills” before someone got there. I mean, you’d have to for sure. You can’t actually just let them sit there, and let someone walk in and be like, “Hey, what’s up? OH MY GOD!!!! Your “brown roses” are everywhere!
3.) If this happens to me again ever, I’m just gonna lie down on the floor and let the “stew” flow all over me. Poop is a lot less disgusting in time of distress. If you find a person passed out on the pot, or worse yet, on the floor and it’s flooded, there is a lot less chance that you’re gonna be the one to blame for it. At least this way you could make up a lie about how some guy blasted out of the stall and whacked you in the head with the door and you fell down, and then the flooded started. That would at least make the person watching you feel better. And you might even get the day off.
4.) Tell your co-worker that walks in on you that you were “taking a trip to Atlantic Shitty and just hit the slot machine jackpot.” Cleary the correct answer.
No really though, I respect a person that can get in there and just get it done. Though they are few and far between, people can and do bust in “drop the brown hammer” and get out before I’m done unzipping my pants to take a leak, which is braggable. I’ve never actually seen this happen, but I’ve heard urban legends of such occurrences, and I tip my hat to those people. They’ll go far in life…
Friday, November 30, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Most Interesting Tropical Heist
A couple weeks ago my friend went to The Virgin Islands for his brother’s wedding. He had a late night partying one evening, and, being the gentleman that he is, told this young lady that he’d walk her back to her hotel room. Well, he dropped her off at her room about 3 in the morning and proceeded to walk back to his place. Well, that’s about the time that these locals decided to do their “work.” And jumped out and grabbed him with masks on and pointed guns at him and demanded his money. He doesn’t carry his wallet around all the time, and this was one of those times, so he said he didn’t have it. They searched him and agreed, and then decided that they would all go to his hotel room and get what he had there… Now, I don’t understand this part exactly, but apparently they all got up to his room, and he gave away the 100 dollars he had, and the 25 that his little brother, not the one getting married, had in his wallet. The men concluded by telling my friend and his little bro that if they told anyone, they be killed because the masked men “knew where they were staying.”
Although it is a sad and possibly traumatic story that took place in a beautiful place to a good man, it still makes a guy think… Not that I don’t trust my friend; why would someone lie about something like this, but… How did these men get up to his hotel room I wonder? It’s not like you can just walk into a hotel with 3 masks on, and have guns to a guy, and just cruise through the lobby, unless you did it like they do in the movies where 3 scary locals are walking through a hotel which they obviously aren’t staying in with a white person, who is obviously a tourist, and walk up to his room undetected. Perhaps they do this a lot, and know the receptionist at the counter…
“Hello Betsy, nice to see you tonight!”
“Why hello Jimbo, I haven’t seen you in a while. Work hasn’t been so good to you lately?”
“No, since the recent downfall of the American economy, we’ve kinda been on tough times robbing tourists.”
“I can see that happening Jimbo, well have a good night, and hey, nice new mask! They really accentuate your eyes.”
Not too likely, but I guess it’s as likely as 3 locals coming into a nice hotel with a gun to a white guy, going up to his room, and coming back down with guns by their sides and calmly walking out the front door.
I just wish there were some way my friend could have thwarted these criminals that wouldn’t have put his life at risk. I rolled a few ideas back and forth in my head for a while, and came up with this idea for him… Why not, as soon as these guys jumped out at you and stuck guns on you, acted REALLY drunk. Stumbling around, and slobbering all over yourself pronouncing,
“Oh, thank God you cops are here, I have NO idea where I’m at or how to get home! Praise the Lord for you guys!”
And then fall on the ground, and, as he has no wallet, pretend to pass out, and then, even if they frisked him, they wouldn’t get anything, cause he has no money, and even better, I’m certain that they wouldn’t kill him, because he wouldn’t have given them a reason to shoot him, he’s just a drunkard that has lost his way. But if they did get smart with him, and said,
“Oh yea, we’re the cops son, just tell us your hotel and room number, and we’ll take you right there.”
Then maybe he’d be in trouble, cause who is to know, maybe they’re undercover cops just trying out a sting operation, or they really are dastardly robbing professionals. But I guess that’s a risk you’ll have to take if you’re gonna play the slobbering-drunk-guy-act-when-getting-robbed-in-a-tropical-island-paradise-routine…
Although it is a sad and possibly traumatic story that took place in a beautiful place to a good man, it still makes a guy think… Not that I don’t trust my friend; why would someone lie about something like this, but… How did these men get up to his hotel room I wonder? It’s not like you can just walk into a hotel with 3 masks on, and have guns to a guy, and just cruise through the lobby, unless you did it like they do in the movies where 3 scary locals are walking through a hotel which they obviously aren’t staying in with a white person, who is obviously a tourist, and walk up to his room undetected. Perhaps they do this a lot, and know the receptionist at the counter…
“Hello Betsy, nice to see you tonight!”
“Why hello Jimbo, I haven’t seen you in a while. Work hasn’t been so good to you lately?”
“No, since the recent downfall of the American economy, we’ve kinda been on tough times robbing tourists.”
“I can see that happening Jimbo, well have a good night, and hey, nice new mask! They really accentuate your eyes.”
Not too likely, but I guess it’s as likely as 3 locals coming into a nice hotel with a gun to a white guy, going up to his room, and coming back down with guns by their sides and calmly walking out the front door.
I just wish there were some way my friend could have thwarted these criminals that wouldn’t have put his life at risk. I rolled a few ideas back and forth in my head for a while, and came up with this idea for him… Why not, as soon as these guys jumped out at you and stuck guns on you, acted REALLY drunk. Stumbling around, and slobbering all over yourself pronouncing,
“Oh, thank God you cops are here, I have NO idea where I’m at or how to get home! Praise the Lord for you guys!”
And then fall on the ground, and, as he has no wallet, pretend to pass out, and then, even if they frisked him, they wouldn’t get anything, cause he has no money, and even better, I’m certain that they wouldn’t kill him, because he wouldn’t have given them a reason to shoot him, he’s just a drunkard that has lost his way. But if they did get smart with him, and said,
“Oh yea, we’re the cops son, just tell us your hotel and room number, and we’ll take you right there.”
Then maybe he’d be in trouble, cause who is to know, maybe they’re undercover cops just trying out a sting operation, or they really are dastardly robbing professionals. But I guess that’s a risk you’ll have to take if you’re gonna play the slobbering-drunk-guy-act-when-getting-robbed-in-a-tropical-island-paradise-routine…
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Speed checked by radar
Yea, I’m gonna take some time to analyze this sign we see on the roads ALL over every state: “Speed Checked by Radar.” As opposed to…? How else would you track the speed of a car? What kind of idiot decided to make this sign? What a splendid way to waste money in state government. I’ve thought of a couple of other ways to combat this “Speed Checked by Radar” (SCBR) dilemma. I propose, for the sake of taking down all those signs across the nation, to have speed checked by other means.
Option 1: This first option involves having like 326 or 471 frozen goat heads randomly placed in the middle of highways and interstates atop 3-foot tall glass shafts, like atop fluorescent light bulb or something. When the car runs into this goat head, it gets whacked a certain distance. And that’s where the state workers come in. State workers will be placed at 300-foot intervals along every major highway and interstate where the goat heads on light bulb stands are erected. (Don’t worry, they don’t have REAL work to be doing anyway, might as well put them to work doing something useful.) And when the goat head gets hit, a state worker will run out and see how far the goat head flew thus calculating the speed the driver must have been driving to hit it that far. Anyway, put like a good 357+ of them around various locales where these “liar signs” reside. When a perpetrator flies by the sign and thinks to himself/herself,
“Gee self, our speed is being checked by radar. Should we slow down? (2 second pause to think about it.) Hell no! Radars only live on police cars, and there are no police cars within sight, so that sign is a waste of everyone’s money! Boy, I’m sure showing those radar-sign-making people a thing or two.”
And before they know it, WHAM, a goat head is splatted onto their car. And then I bet they’ll be the one’s feeling sheepish…(nudge nudge)
Option 2: Option 2 might make animal activists a little angrier, but it would provide a different means of checking speeds on major roadways. We’re going to need I’d say, a snail, a turtle, a boa constrictor, a mouse, a duck, a 3-legged cat, a dog that just got spun around like 15 or 16 times, an elephant, and a cheetah (might be hard to get a cheetah, so maybe a track with a toy train on it that can go 80 mph, and I could make a suit that looks like a cheetah, or I guess I could just ride the train with my cheetah costume I wore for Halloween. Anyway, we’d line these animals up at random locations along the highway/interstate and as a car would shoot by, start the animals, like a big race, and where ever this car finishes in the, say 100-yard race, that’s a relatively close estimate as to his/her speed. True, the animals may become tired, but it’s all for the sake of sign preservation. And besides, who wouldn’t want to be driving along a highway, and look out your window and see a boa constrictor racing you…
Option 1: This first option involves having like 326 or 471 frozen goat heads randomly placed in the middle of highways and interstates atop 3-foot tall glass shafts, like atop fluorescent light bulb or something. When the car runs into this goat head, it gets whacked a certain distance. And that’s where the state workers come in. State workers will be placed at 300-foot intervals along every major highway and interstate where the goat heads on light bulb stands are erected. (Don’t worry, they don’t have REAL work to be doing anyway, might as well put them to work doing something useful.) And when the goat head gets hit, a state worker will run out and see how far the goat head flew thus calculating the speed the driver must have been driving to hit it that far. Anyway, put like a good 357+ of them around various locales where these “liar signs” reside. When a perpetrator flies by the sign and thinks to himself/herself,
“Gee self, our speed is being checked by radar. Should we slow down? (2 second pause to think about it.) Hell no! Radars only live on police cars, and there are no police cars within sight, so that sign is a waste of everyone’s money! Boy, I’m sure showing those radar-sign-making people a thing or two.”
And before they know it, WHAM, a goat head is splatted onto their car. And then I bet they’ll be the one’s feeling sheepish…(nudge nudge)
Option 2: Option 2 might make animal activists a little angrier, but it would provide a different means of checking speeds on major roadways. We’re going to need I’d say, a snail, a turtle, a boa constrictor, a mouse, a duck, a 3-legged cat, a dog that just got spun around like 15 or 16 times, an elephant, and a cheetah (might be hard to get a cheetah, so maybe a track with a toy train on it that can go 80 mph, and I could make a suit that looks like a cheetah, or I guess I could just ride the train with my cheetah costume I wore for Halloween. Anyway, we’d line these animals up at random locations along the highway/interstate and as a car would shoot by, start the animals, like a big race, and where ever this car finishes in the, say 100-yard race, that’s a relatively close estimate as to his/her speed. True, the animals may become tired, but it’s all for the sake of sign preservation. And besides, who wouldn’t want to be driving along a highway, and look out your window and see a boa constrictor racing you…
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Worse Fates
Can’t think of many worse than being a bearded woman in circus that just got fired… …tough break… Guess you could go to another circus and see if they had any job openings… I can imagine a bearded lady’s resume:
Olga Svonaiieka
822 W. Skiakile Road
East Helena, MT 59602
OBJECTIVE:
Elementary school grad looks to enhance her skills in the bearded lady industry. Looking to contribute to a fast-paced well-organized circus.
SKILLS:
Being a lady with a beard. Once ate an entire pig. Knows car parts.
EXPERIENCE:
January 1989-present
Bearded Lady
Started out just being a mustache lady, pretty dark, thought it looked cool. Turned 14 and started getting some cool sideburns. Didn’t want to shave them. Got teased a bit about it, but I liked chicks anyway. By the time I dropped out of school I had a full-fledged beard! Learned the techniques of combing a beard, and freaking out people. Couldn’t work anywhere, they all thought I was a liar. On the application it’d ask, “M/F”… I’d circle the “F” for female, but nobody would believe me, and NOBODY wanted me to prove it to them. I didn’t understand. Found out about the circus needing bearded ladies. Knew this was the job for me. Since then I’ve been really enhancing my skills. I can walk both to the right, and to the left. I can gross out both men AND women with how strange I look.
December 1988 - January 1989
Lemonade Sales
I got into this industry to pay for my Copenhagen addiction. 3 cans a day is my staple. Learned quickly how to sell, and how not to sell. Well, mostly to myself. Didn’t sell to anyone else, but learned how I enjoyed my lemonade in the middle of winter. Needless to say it didn’t pan out. Got out for personal reasons, and because my parents said I couldn’t go outside of my house. They wanted me to sell it outside the neighbor’s house. I obliged. Neighbors kicked my ass and stole my lemonade.
EDUCATION:
Four Georgians Elementary School
1st through 5th grade
September 1976 – June 1985
Toughest nine years of my life. However, learned more than 13 numbers, and all 24 letters in the alphabet. Learned in 4th grade that I can’t eat Miracle Gro and raw hamburger for lunch anymore. Decided on forgoing my final 10 years of school to attempt professional career.
REFERENCES:
Absolutely none.
Olga Svonaiieka
822 W. Skiakile Road
East Helena, MT 59602
OBJECTIVE:
Elementary school grad looks to enhance her skills in the bearded lady industry. Looking to contribute to a fast-paced well-organized circus.
SKILLS:
Being a lady with a beard. Once ate an entire pig. Knows car parts.
EXPERIENCE:
January 1989-present
Bearded Lady
Started out just being a mustache lady, pretty dark, thought it looked cool. Turned 14 and started getting some cool sideburns. Didn’t want to shave them. Got teased a bit about it, but I liked chicks anyway. By the time I dropped out of school I had a full-fledged beard! Learned the techniques of combing a beard, and freaking out people. Couldn’t work anywhere, they all thought I was a liar. On the application it’d ask, “M/F”… I’d circle the “F” for female, but nobody would believe me, and NOBODY wanted me to prove it to them. I didn’t understand. Found out about the circus needing bearded ladies. Knew this was the job for me. Since then I’ve been really enhancing my skills. I can walk both to the right, and to the left. I can gross out both men AND women with how strange I look.
December 1988 - January 1989
Lemonade Sales
I got into this industry to pay for my Copenhagen addiction. 3 cans a day is my staple. Learned quickly how to sell, and how not to sell. Well, mostly to myself. Didn’t sell to anyone else, but learned how I enjoyed my lemonade in the middle of winter. Needless to say it didn’t pan out. Got out for personal reasons, and because my parents said I couldn’t go outside of my house. They wanted me to sell it outside the neighbor’s house. I obliged. Neighbors kicked my ass and stole my lemonade.
EDUCATION:
Four Georgians Elementary School
1st through 5th grade
September 1976 – June 1985
Toughest nine years of my life. However, learned more than 13 numbers, and all 24 letters in the alphabet. Learned in 4th grade that I can’t eat Miracle Gro and raw hamburger for lunch anymore. Decided on forgoing my final 10 years of school to attempt professional career.
REFERENCES:
Absolutely none.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
3 and 1/2 Lethargic Tub Philosophers
Long ago (2 ½ years), in a land far far away (Walla Walla, WA), 4 geniuses (well, 3 and ½ at least) sat in deep thought in a bubbling tub of water, searching for a solution to time travel. Multiverses, universes, and parallel dimensions were discussed at length; as well as wormholes, space/time continuum, and flux capacitors. Everyone agreed that, indeed, multiverses existed, and that every action made in life gave way to an infinite amount of possibilities therein. But what started as a simple in-depth discussion on time travel, turned into the single most important discovery in human/alien history! Jahmba. Yes, Jahmba.
Jahmba: The number that will reside in between the current numbers of 7 and 8. It will look and smell just like all its other numerical counterparts, but it will be different in the fact that it looks like a work of art instead of just a stupid number. All Jahmba and Jahmba related paraphernalia would ALWAYS be in the color of blue; everything except for the yellow and red eyes of the goat-like character that will be in the middle of the numbers design. This goat will be eating approximately 4 other numbers and 3 letters. These numbers are yet to be decided because I’m not sure which of those remaining alphanumeric characters I hate the most. For sure 56, and 278 will be two (2) of the numbers in the goat’s mouth; and likely the letters “N” and “K”, which are, coincidentally, the worst letter in any language, EVER! It’s also very possible that “threeve” will be one of the alphanumeric digits. Mostly for confusion tactics of people that will try to come up with a number better, and falter at the attempt for lack of knowledge of “threeve.” The image of the goat will also have debris scattered about the ground with numbers and letters representing leftover goat food, once again showing supremacy over these “weaker” and more “inferior” traditional number values. All of this will be tactfully and tastefully done, by blatantly displaying these emblems of dominance to the alphanumeric world just near the top-left portion of the number Jahmba. At no time should anyone build any building higher than Jahmbaty-four-thousand and ninety-jahmba feet, out of pure respect for the number. Similarly, at no time should anyone set the snooze button on an alarm clock to ANYTHING with Jahmba in it (once clocks with Jahmba are invented, of course).
We’re not talking about some fireside chat amongst political advisors or 3rd world countries here! This is real life, genuinely homemade, 120% raw American brainchild at work! Jahmba was invented to not only make money, but to make the number system a LOT harder, and more difficult to teach. Every person in the world would again have to learn to count! Schools would be revamped, rulers remade, computer programs rewritten. Every piece of literature that had ever been printed would have to be burned; or at least scribbled out and re-written with Jahmba in mind. People that wore larger than a size 7 shoe would have to go and buy new shoes, because they would no longer wear a size 10. That SAME size 10 from before would really be a size 11 now! A size 11 shoe on a size 10 person would result in bunions and sores on feet, profiting the foot doctors of the world, who would clearly pay a royalty fee to Jahmba, Inc. for the detriment to the world’s shoe wearing peoples. Also paying royalties would be:
1. Buildings larger than seven (7) feet.
2. Aluminum can companies who’d immediately be in violation of faultily advertising several twelve (12) ounce drinking products.
3. Ninjas for the simple reason that they’d probably find some sly, slick, or stealthy way to get out of paying.
4. Any person who has, or will ever be older than seven (7) from this point forward, at some point, in the next 15 years.
5. Dewey Decimal. IF that is his REAL name!
6. The next Wonder of the Modern World.
7. Whoever reads the next line of this list.
8. You.
It’s kind of like when Da Vinci invented a flying machine. Nobody really believed him, or thought that his invention would work (granted, it probably didn’t work very well, cause everyone knows that he didn’t invent jet fuel, so it was very difficult to get it off the ground), but he had confidence in himself, and in America! Or wherever he was from… …likely bets are:
1. Chile
2. Denmark
3. Mother Russia
4. Detroit (Yes, Amityville will be acceptable)
5. Three Forks, Montana
6. 100-Acre Woods
Da Vinci’s idea was cast by the wayside, ne’er to be heard from for another few centuries! What was the reason for this? It was obviously a malfeasance by his advertising campaign coordinator. How much better would the flying machine have sold with this ad:
Education in metallurgy and craftsmanship for 3 years: $0.19
Un-synthetic silk, reeds, and shafts for wings: $.1.30
Snail milk, eye-of-toad, 4 ladybugs: $0.38
Watching one of your million inventions crash into the ground and not catching fire because we haven’t invented gasoline yet? Priceless.
It would have sold like hotcakes, I’m sure. But I can’t blame it all on his advertising team. He could have taken the initiative himself and posted his idea up with billboard ads and 30 second clips in between halves of Super Bowl –MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMCXVIX. Yea, he was certainly at a disadvantage. Today his idea might have been easier to sell with technology as it is. Nowadays, new information can be passed from culture to culture, in most part, via the Internet and homing pigeons.
Now, I may be going out on a limb, but I’m sure I won’t be the only one once Jahmba starts to receive national recognition, in saying that I am of firm belief that, with timely implementation, and well thought out budget plans, Jahmba could run for President in the 2004 election. Jahmba would have the voice of every American citizen. Each and every person could say with pride and dignity that Jahmba is working for the people, by the people, and through the people! How would a simple “number” be able to do this? Well, it obvious really. Jahmba would proudly exhibit, on the bottom-left portion of the number, near the patented copyright disclaimer, every single country’s flag in the world! Who could argue with that? Representation equals inauguration!
Jahmba was discovered to bring peace to the modern world through mathematics. Now, I know what you’re saying to yourself. You’re saying,
“Jahmba guy, weapons of mass destruction, in some way, use mathematics don’t they?”
And my reply to that would be,
“Well sure they do, but they use it in an “evil” way! A way so evil that Jahmba Inc., has signed documents disallowing anything that is dubbed, by myself, to be “bad” OR “evil”, as the case may be, to be in any way incorporated with Jahmba Inc. or it’s affiliates. Likewise, and oppositely, things that make people happy like flower vases, music, gum, not being at work, and nacho cheese containers are 100% endorsed by Jahmba Inc.”
You see, people from all walks of life can incorporate Jahmba into their every day life! I’m sure it will be a smooth process into the next stage of human evolution. Granted, things will be a bit different, but certainly for the better. Everyone will be able to walk a little taller, live a little longer, and know that it all wouldn’t be possible without the fine efforts of 3 ½ lethargic hot tub philosophers…
Jahmba: The number that will reside in between the current numbers of 7 and 8. It will look and smell just like all its other numerical counterparts, but it will be different in the fact that it looks like a work of art instead of just a stupid number. All Jahmba and Jahmba related paraphernalia would ALWAYS be in the color of blue; everything except for the yellow and red eyes of the goat-like character that will be in the middle of the numbers design. This goat will be eating approximately 4 other numbers and 3 letters. These numbers are yet to be decided because I’m not sure which of those remaining alphanumeric characters I hate the most. For sure 56, and 278 will be two (2) of the numbers in the goat’s mouth; and likely the letters “N” and “K”, which are, coincidentally, the worst letter in any language, EVER! It’s also very possible that “threeve” will be one of the alphanumeric digits. Mostly for confusion tactics of people that will try to come up with a number better, and falter at the attempt for lack of knowledge of “threeve.” The image of the goat will also have debris scattered about the ground with numbers and letters representing leftover goat food, once again showing supremacy over these “weaker” and more “inferior” traditional number values. All of this will be tactfully and tastefully done, by blatantly displaying these emblems of dominance to the alphanumeric world just near the top-left portion of the number Jahmba. At no time should anyone build any building higher than Jahmbaty-four-thousand and ninety-jahmba feet, out of pure respect for the number. Similarly, at no time should anyone set the snooze button on an alarm clock to ANYTHING with Jahmba in it (once clocks with Jahmba are invented, of course).
We’re not talking about some fireside chat amongst political advisors or 3rd world countries here! This is real life, genuinely homemade, 120% raw American brainchild at work! Jahmba was invented to not only make money, but to make the number system a LOT harder, and more difficult to teach. Every person in the world would again have to learn to count! Schools would be revamped, rulers remade, computer programs rewritten. Every piece of literature that had ever been printed would have to be burned; or at least scribbled out and re-written with Jahmba in mind. People that wore larger than a size 7 shoe would have to go and buy new shoes, because they would no longer wear a size 10. That SAME size 10 from before would really be a size 11 now! A size 11 shoe on a size 10 person would result in bunions and sores on feet, profiting the foot doctors of the world, who would clearly pay a royalty fee to Jahmba, Inc. for the detriment to the world’s shoe wearing peoples. Also paying royalties would be:
1. Buildings larger than seven (7) feet.
2. Aluminum can companies who’d immediately be in violation of faultily advertising several twelve (12) ounce drinking products.
3. Ninjas for the simple reason that they’d probably find some sly, slick, or stealthy way to get out of paying.
4. Any person who has, or will ever be older than seven (7) from this point forward, at some point, in the next 15 years.
5. Dewey Decimal. IF that is his REAL name!
6. The next Wonder of the Modern World.
7. Whoever reads the next line of this list.
8. You.
It’s kind of like when Da Vinci invented a flying machine. Nobody really believed him, or thought that his invention would work (granted, it probably didn’t work very well, cause everyone knows that he didn’t invent jet fuel, so it was very difficult to get it off the ground), but he had confidence in himself, and in America! Or wherever he was from… …likely bets are:
1. Chile
2. Denmark
3. Mother Russia
4. Detroit (Yes, Amityville will be acceptable)
5. Three Forks, Montana
6. 100-Acre Woods
Da Vinci’s idea was cast by the wayside, ne’er to be heard from for another few centuries! What was the reason for this? It was obviously a malfeasance by his advertising campaign coordinator. How much better would the flying machine have sold with this ad:
Education in metallurgy and craftsmanship for 3 years: $0.19
Un-synthetic silk, reeds, and shafts for wings: $.1.30
Snail milk, eye-of-toad, 4 ladybugs: $0.38
Watching one of your million inventions crash into the ground and not catching fire because we haven’t invented gasoline yet? Priceless.
It would have sold like hotcakes, I’m sure. But I can’t blame it all on his advertising team. He could have taken the initiative himself and posted his idea up with billboard ads and 30 second clips in between halves of Super Bowl –MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMCXVIX. Yea, he was certainly at a disadvantage. Today his idea might have been easier to sell with technology as it is. Nowadays, new information can be passed from culture to culture, in most part, via the Internet and homing pigeons.
Now, I may be going out on a limb, but I’m sure I won’t be the only one once Jahmba starts to receive national recognition, in saying that I am of firm belief that, with timely implementation, and well thought out budget plans, Jahmba could run for President in the 2004 election. Jahmba would have the voice of every American citizen. Each and every person could say with pride and dignity that Jahmba is working for the people, by the people, and through the people! How would a simple “number” be able to do this? Well, it obvious really. Jahmba would proudly exhibit, on the bottom-left portion of the number, near the patented copyright disclaimer, every single country’s flag in the world! Who could argue with that? Representation equals inauguration!
Jahmba was discovered to bring peace to the modern world through mathematics. Now, I know what you’re saying to yourself. You’re saying,
“Jahmba guy, weapons of mass destruction, in some way, use mathematics don’t they?”
And my reply to that would be,
“Well sure they do, but they use it in an “evil” way! A way so evil that Jahmba Inc., has signed documents disallowing anything that is dubbed, by myself, to be “bad” OR “evil”, as the case may be, to be in any way incorporated with Jahmba Inc. or it’s affiliates. Likewise, and oppositely, things that make people happy like flower vases, music, gum, not being at work, and nacho cheese containers are 100% endorsed by Jahmba Inc.”
You see, people from all walks of life can incorporate Jahmba into their every day life! I’m sure it will be a smooth process into the next stage of human evolution. Granted, things will be a bit different, but certainly for the better. Everyone will be able to walk a little taller, live a little longer, and know that it all wouldn’t be possible without the fine efforts of 3 ½ lethargic hot tub philosophers…
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Nobody likes a liar
Today highway 287 took me from Helena, Montana to Choteau, Montana in a little over 3½ hours. This may not seem too strange if your residence is outside of Montana, or for that matter, if you don’t know your way around Montana. For those in Montana that do know the roads, a trip from Helena to Choteau is less than a hundred miles. That means at very most the trip should take a little over an hour and ½ if you’re going 60. And it’s not a bad road, there was no construction, no deer hopping about, nothing out of the ordinary on the road except for 3 inches of slush and drifting snow. Granted, it is Montana, and some may say that it happens, some might even say they expect it, but it’s still ludicrous in my opinion.
Anywho, I was cruising along the highway at a steady 55, because it was snowing and a little wet on the road, so I was cautious through the canyon, and came out at the halfway mark, Wolf Point, in a little under forty-five minutes. At Wolf Point is the turn to head to Choteau, and where the snow and slush crept ever closer to my car. Not 2 miles into the drive, the snow and slush were blanketing the road making it impossible to drive even 35, let alone the limit of 60. Now, I know how to drive on snowy/icy/crappy Montana roads fairly well, I’ve lived in Montana for almost 20 years, and I’ve learned that one can easily slip off the road going faster than the road allows. So there I was, motoring along at 30 mph, knowing how bad these roads were and this guy comes flying up from behind me going easily 40-50 and had Oregon plates, wouldn’t you know it.
I see him in my rear view start to “attempt” to slow down for me, but instead starts to skid and swerve, and almost hit me, but regain control of the vehicle before it rolled over into me. This made me a little nervous so I slowed down to like 5 mph to let this jerk pass me, which he did gladly, and as I attempted to speed back up to my hyper-speed of 30 mph, my tires decided to hit a patch of slush and start hydroplaning. This isn’t very much fun on the highway, I spun around in a circle and ended up in the other lane. I quickly backed up, adrenaline pumping, and got back into my own lane, and continued on my merry way. “Damn May winter weather in Montana,” I thought. My thoughts continued, what would have happened if there was an 18-wheeler in the other lane, hurling toward me? I would have taken quite a lickin’ I’d say from him, and he would have thought that it was because of my poor driving that ruined his semi, when in actuality, it was that damn foreigner from Oregon that made me slow down in the first place.
My contemplation continued a step further, what if I were lying in the ditch with a steering wheel stuck in my chest, and the truck driver got knocked out as well, and we were the only ones for miles in either direction? He’d probably be ok cause those semi-trucks are pretty tough, but me, I’d be in some trouble. I’d have to lie there until help arrived. At the mercy of a steering wheel that won’t let go it’s grasp of my ribcage.
What would flash though my mind I pondered. Would I think of the times I’d spent in college in Walla Walla? Would I think of the girl I let slip away? Would I think of my family and friends? Or the white-sand beaches I touched in the South Pacific? So many things rush through your head in the time before death people say, but what would rush through MY head? I mean AFTER the windshield… I think that I would probably be thinking, “Gee, I wish that stupid guy from Oregon would learn how to drive, and then I’d probably realize that there was a steering wheel in my chest, and I was wearing a windshield collar. “Gee, I wish this steering wheel would get out of my guts,” I’d say. And then I’d struggle to get out of the car, but by the time I decided to struggle, I’d remember that I have to have my entire life flash in front of me if I’m going to “move on.”
So I’d sit and wonder what might have been with so many things, and what is going to be. But by that time, somebody would hopefully have found me and gotten me out with the Jaws of Life, or a crowbar or something.
The next day in the paper it would have read, Dumb Helena man in gruesome car wreck cause he’s a bad driver! The subhead would read, Mock, ridicule, and tease him if you get a chance to! He is a terrible man! And I would have been the bad driving guy for the rest of eternity, the laughing stock of the country, and I’d have been labeled as the worst driver in America, unbeknownst to that dirty Oregonian who probably wouldn’t even have know there was an accident behind him.
I’d probably tell people that there was this crazy man that passed me from Oregon, and they’d just look at me and nod their heads, and really think deep down that I’m just making it up to sound good, and make Oregonians seem evil. But really, I guess there could be worse fates. (See next chapter.) So perhaps if I were in that situation, I think I’d just blame it on someone that everyone hates alike, and say,
“Yea, it was terrible, I was drugged by terrorists in Wolf Point,” and the cops would say,
“Mister, Wolf Point? Are you kidding us? Nobody lives in Wolf Point except for cattle and some real nice folks; terrorists don’t even know where Wolf Point is. We did a study on it last month.” I’d have to think quickly and probably say something like,
“Who asked you cops anyway, you’re probably terrorists too, I have rights you know!” And they’d say,
”Listen buddy, you’re the one telling us. We didn’t ask you anything.” I’d say,
“Oh, yea, you’ve got a good point, anyway then, back to my story, I mean truth… … so they stuck me back in my car, and my feet were tied with barbed-wire, and I was blinded, and there was a brick on the gas, and I had to steer with my teeth, and it was really hard to see when I was going 80 in the slush, I didn’t know what road to drive on of the three I saw from the drugs, and then I that semi-truck jumped out of nowhere!”
“Man, that’s some real tough luck kid. What about your hands son? Where were they during all of this?”
“Um, they must have cut off my arms completely officer! Yea, they did! It was horrible!”
“Son, your arms are right there, attached to your shoulders where they’ve always been.”
“Oh! Praise God! They’re back! They must have fallen back on to my shoulder joints when I hit the semi! My mistake sirs...” “The nod” would surely follow.
I’d conclude to myself that at least this way they wouldn’t accuse me of being a liar that hates Oregonians, cause some people might like Oregonians, and I’m fairly sure, most people don’t care for terrorists, but boy, I’ll tell you, nobody likes a liar…
Anywho, I was cruising along the highway at a steady 55, because it was snowing and a little wet on the road, so I was cautious through the canyon, and came out at the halfway mark, Wolf Point, in a little under forty-five minutes. At Wolf Point is the turn to head to Choteau, and where the snow and slush crept ever closer to my car. Not 2 miles into the drive, the snow and slush were blanketing the road making it impossible to drive even 35, let alone the limit of 60. Now, I know how to drive on snowy/icy/crappy Montana roads fairly well, I’ve lived in Montana for almost 20 years, and I’ve learned that one can easily slip off the road going faster than the road allows. So there I was, motoring along at 30 mph, knowing how bad these roads were and this guy comes flying up from behind me going easily 40-50 and had Oregon plates, wouldn’t you know it.
I see him in my rear view start to “attempt” to slow down for me, but instead starts to skid and swerve, and almost hit me, but regain control of the vehicle before it rolled over into me. This made me a little nervous so I slowed down to like 5 mph to let this jerk pass me, which he did gladly, and as I attempted to speed back up to my hyper-speed of 30 mph, my tires decided to hit a patch of slush and start hydroplaning. This isn’t very much fun on the highway, I spun around in a circle and ended up in the other lane. I quickly backed up, adrenaline pumping, and got back into my own lane, and continued on my merry way. “Damn May winter weather in Montana,” I thought. My thoughts continued, what would have happened if there was an 18-wheeler in the other lane, hurling toward me? I would have taken quite a lickin’ I’d say from him, and he would have thought that it was because of my poor driving that ruined his semi, when in actuality, it was that damn foreigner from Oregon that made me slow down in the first place.
My contemplation continued a step further, what if I were lying in the ditch with a steering wheel stuck in my chest, and the truck driver got knocked out as well, and we were the only ones for miles in either direction? He’d probably be ok cause those semi-trucks are pretty tough, but me, I’d be in some trouble. I’d have to lie there until help arrived. At the mercy of a steering wheel that won’t let go it’s grasp of my ribcage.
What would flash though my mind I pondered. Would I think of the times I’d spent in college in Walla Walla? Would I think of the girl I let slip away? Would I think of my family and friends? Or the white-sand beaches I touched in the South Pacific? So many things rush through your head in the time before death people say, but what would rush through MY head? I mean AFTER the windshield… I think that I would probably be thinking, “Gee, I wish that stupid guy from Oregon would learn how to drive, and then I’d probably realize that there was a steering wheel in my chest, and I was wearing a windshield collar. “Gee, I wish this steering wheel would get out of my guts,” I’d say. And then I’d struggle to get out of the car, but by the time I decided to struggle, I’d remember that I have to have my entire life flash in front of me if I’m going to “move on.”
So I’d sit and wonder what might have been with so many things, and what is going to be. But by that time, somebody would hopefully have found me and gotten me out with the Jaws of Life, or a crowbar or something.
The next day in the paper it would have read, Dumb Helena man in gruesome car wreck cause he’s a bad driver! The subhead would read, Mock, ridicule, and tease him if you get a chance to! He is a terrible man! And I would have been the bad driving guy for the rest of eternity, the laughing stock of the country, and I’d have been labeled as the worst driver in America, unbeknownst to that dirty Oregonian who probably wouldn’t even have know there was an accident behind him.
I’d probably tell people that there was this crazy man that passed me from Oregon, and they’d just look at me and nod their heads, and really think deep down that I’m just making it up to sound good, and make Oregonians seem evil. But really, I guess there could be worse fates. (See next chapter.) So perhaps if I were in that situation, I think I’d just blame it on someone that everyone hates alike, and say,
“Yea, it was terrible, I was drugged by terrorists in Wolf Point,” and the cops would say,
“Mister, Wolf Point? Are you kidding us? Nobody lives in Wolf Point except for cattle and some real nice folks; terrorists don’t even know where Wolf Point is. We did a study on it last month.” I’d have to think quickly and probably say something like,
“Who asked you cops anyway, you’re probably terrorists too, I have rights you know!” And they’d say,
”Listen buddy, you’re the one telling us. We didn’t ask you anything.” I’d say,
“Oh, yea, you’ve got a good point, anyway then, back to my story, I mean truth… … so they stuck me back in my car, and my feet were tied with barbed-wire, and I was blinded, and there was a brick on the gas, and I had to steer with my teeth, and it was really hard to see when I was going 80 in the slush, I didn’t know what road to drive on of the three I saw from the drugs, and then I that semi-truck jumped out of nowhere!”
“Man, that’s some real tough luck kid. What about your hands son? Where were they during all of this?”
“Um, they must have cut off my arms completely officer! Yea, they did! It was horrible!”
“Son, your arms are right there, attached to your shoulders where they’ve always been.”
“Oh! Praise God! They’re back! They must have fallen back on to my shoulder joints when I hit the semi! My mistake sirs...” “The nod” would surely follow.
I’d conclude to myself that at least this way they wouldn’t accuse me of being a liar that hates Oregonians, cause some people might like Oregonians, and I’m fairly sure, most people don’t care for terrorists, but boy, I’ll tell you, nobody likes a liar…
Friday, November 2, 2007
Frolicking 4 leggers
Animals sure do love to frolic. Every animal I’ve ever noticed likes to bound about without a care in the world it seems. I guess most of them don’t really have any cares in the world though, maybe they have to decide to eat this grass or that grass, and sleep on this patch of grass or that one. That’s about it. But I’ve noticed there are a few that obviously don’t enjoy frolicking around.
1.) Cows.
2.) Pigs.
3.) Alligators.
Have you ever seen a cow frolic? Even a little bit? True, you’ve seen the calves romp around here and there. Ne’er a pig has jumped in the air for joy (except in Charlotte’s web, but that doesn’t count). And alligators, well, they have 4 legs, but nobody has ever claimed an alligator to be a frolicker. But alligators couldn’t frolic anyway, they have Tyrannosaurus Rex arms and legs, so they’re disabled animals I’d say. So they don’t count. But I got to thinking why cows and pigs don’t frolic, except when they are younger, and just for a short time. Granted they do get bigger and fatter, but I’m sure there are plenty of fat people that still like to frolic. If I were a larger man, I would frolic to the park, and other such places where frolickers are welcome. But really now, let’s examine this. Cows and pigs don’t frolic, why?
Well, in all my research on this I’ve come up with a few ideas that I’ve narrowed down. Cows and pigs must both have their own language first of all. And, as with any mammal, they have to grow up a little to understand this language. Human babies can’t talk until like 1 or 2 years. I imagine is the same in the cow and pig world. It’d only seem logical… Anyway, when cows and pigs are born, they jump around here and there, and play with the other animal babies that are around the farm, and they have a good time. But they can’t talk to each other, so they really don’t know what’s going on. Until one day the cow calves learn their language, and the pigs theirs, and before you know it, they’re too old for each other, and they just go about their lives, right? I beg to differ! I think that when them cattle learn to talk to the other cattle, they older cows start talking to the young ones,
“Quit your damn frolicking! That’s a way to an early death sonny! No cattle farmer wants a skinny cow that frolics all over the place. It’s a waste of his money to keep a skinny cow around, so he’s gonna kill you if you keep that crap up! And besides, we’re stuck inside this fence for the most part anyway, and there is all of this delicious grass everywhere, why waste your time romping and bounding about? We only have 2-4 years at best that we’re gonna be on this farm before Farmer Joe hits us in the head with that damn sledgehammer. (I don’t know if they call it a sledgehammer, the cattle term for it might be different, which I’m sure it is, like any language I guess, and furthermore, I guess that none of these words are the ones that the cattle use either, so maybe using the word sledgehammer is ok, cause I don’t speak cow, and I’m sure none of you do either, anyway…) So we might as well make the best of it, and eat all his hay and grass and show him who’s the boss, by eating everything he gives us!”
By this time the baby calves realize,
“Hey, those older cows must know something, and maybe they do have a point, maybe I should quit this frolicking.”
At about 5 or 6 months, you don’t see anymore frolicking, just getting fat, and playing right into Farmer Joe’s hands, that crafty Joe. And same for the pigs, they do the same thing, but I’m sure it’s in pig language, because who has ever heard of a pig speaking cow language, that’s just preposterous…
1.) Cows.
2.) Pigs.
3.) Alligators.
Have you ever seen a cow frolic? Even a little bit? True, you’ve seen the calves romp around here and there. Ne’er a pig has jumped in the air for joy (except in Charlotte’s web, but that doesn’t count). And alligators, well, they have 4 legs, but nobody has ever claimed an alligator to be a frolicker. But alligators couldn’t frolic anyway, they have Tyrannosaurus Rex arms and legs, so they’re disabled animals I’d say. So they don’t count. But I got to thinking why cows and pigs don’t frolic, except when they are younger, and just for a short time. Granted they do get bigger and fatter, but I’m sure there are plenty of fat people that still like to frolic. If I were a larger man, I would frolic to the park, and other such places where frolickers are welcome. But really now, let’s examine this. Cows and pigs don’t frolic, why?
Well, in all my research on this I’ve come up with a few ideas that I’ve narrowed down. Cows and pigs must both have their own language first of all. And, as with any mammal, they have to grow up a little to understand this language. Human babies can’t talk until like 1 or 2 years. I imagine is the same in the cow and pig world. It’d only seem logical… Anyway, when cows and pigs are born, they jump around here and there, and play with the other animal babies that are around the farm, and they have a good time. But they can’t talk to each other, so they really don’t know what’s going on. Until one day the cow calves learn their language, and the pigs theirs, and before you know it, they’re too old for each other, and they just go about their lives, right? I beg to differ! I think that when them cattle learn to talk to the other cattle, they older cows start talking to the young ones,
“Quit your damn frolicking! That’s a way to an early death sonny! No cattle farmer wants a skinny cow that frolics all over the place. It’s a waste of his money to keep a skinny cow around, so he’s gonna kill you if you keep that crap up! And besides, we’re stuck inside this fence for the most part anyway, and there is all of this delicious grass everywhere, why waste your time romping and bounding about? We only have 2-4 years at best that we’re gonna be on this farm before Farmer Joe hits us in the head with that damn sledgehammer. (I don’t know if they call it a sledgehammer, the cattle term for it might be different, which I’m sure it is, like any language I guess, and furthermore, I guess that none of these words are the ones that the cattle use either, so maybe using the word sledgehammer is ok, cause I don’t speak cow, and I’m sure none of you do either, anyway…) So we might as well make the best of it, and eat all his hay and grass and show him who’s the boss, by eating everything he gives us!”
By this time the baby calves realize,
“Hey, those older cows must know something, and maybe they do have a point, maybe I should quit this frolicking.”
At about 5 or 6 months, you don’t see anymore frolicking, just getting fat, and playing right into Farmer Joe’s hands, that crafty Joe. And same for the pigs, they do the same thing, but I’m sure it’s in pig language, because who has ever heard of a pig speaking cow language, that’s just preposterous…
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