History History

1. 

I guess I was truly blessed throughout my public school education. Looking back, I can't recall having any teachers that I really despised. There were those few teachers who had the gift to not only educate, but to inspire and uplift his or her students. Just kidding! Remember, I said I attended public schools.

Seriously, there were a few exceptional teachers. Most of my teachers were about average (because I just happened to attend Bell Curve High School), but there were a handful that stood out because of their highly advanced awfulness. That would be the far left end of that bell curve we're talking about. One of those was my high school history teacher, Mrs. Weaver. I'm reluctant to use her real name (although "Weaver" rhymes with it). It's been about thirty years, so you never know - she could still be alive, or have litigious relatives.

You might be thinking that Mrs. Weaver was an awful teacher because she was difficult, or cruel, or because she took every opportunity to humiliate her students in a manner that might inspire a Pink Floyd album. She wasn't really any of those things. She just couldn't, or didn't, teach.

Here is Mrs. Weaver's lesson plan in a nutshell : sit behind desk, pick at hair. So quickly we've established that a). she doesn't fancy getting up and moving, which precludes other associated activities like writing on the chalk board, or helping an individual student, and b). she had some scalp or hair issues that weren't being properly addressed. So she would sit behind her desk, dig her fingernails into various regions of her scalp for a few seconds, then stop and examine her fingernails. Repeat until bell rings. If you've ever been to the zoo, you've seen this exact kind of behavior. Of course the girls thought it was nasty, and the boys thought it was hilarious. But no one could ignore it.

I considered buying her some Kwell or Scalpicin, leaving it anonymously on her desk. But then I thought better of it. What if it worked? She'd stop picking at her hair, freeing up her time to give us more work. I'd be the pariah of my World History class faster than you could say "fertile crescent".

So you're thinking "With her busy schedule of sitting and picking, how did she manage to teach a classroom full of hormone addled teenagers thirsting for knowledge of 'The Cradle of Civilization'? And just who was going to get up and feed Civilization when it wakes up crying in the middle of the night, not to mention those diapers? " Her teaching method was pretty straightforward. See, we had these history books. We would walk into class each day, and written on the chalk board behind Mrs. Weaver was our reading assignment for that day.

We would copy down the assignment, then sit and read. For the entire class. Monday through Friday. Sometimes Mrs. Weaver actually spoke, but only to clarify what the reading assignment was. I know that right now you're thinking "Wow! She's like the real life version of Dead Poets Society, or Mr. Holland's Opus!" And of course you'd be right, except for the conspicuous absence of learning, inspiration, and non-hair picking.

Of course, after we read the assignment, there were questions at the end of each chapter to be answered. We would dutifully write down our answers, turning in sheaves of papers at the end of class. In a few days, we'd get the paper back with a red check mark at the top of the page. After a few weeks in class, some of my friends put two and two together, and figured out that Mrs. Weaver couldn't possibly be reading all of our answers. She apparently didn't read them in class, and there just didn't seem to be enough time for her to read these papers at home, with the time consuming hair picking and all.

The bolder of my friends started turning in papers with answers that weren't really answers. They would just write down random words and sentences that had nothing to do with the questions at the end of the chapter. But the papers they turned in were filled with handwriting, and apparently that's all that Mrs. Weaver was looking for. My friends got big red checkmarks on their papers just like I did. Bastards. Admittedly, there were some days when I just didn't feel like doing the work, and I too would turn in answers like :

The Hittites were an ancient Anatolian people who never heard of Foghat. But Foghat is a supremely awesome rock band. I especially like "Fool for the City". I think they're touring now, and I hope I can catch the concert when they come here. With their great songs and blazing hot guitar solos, it's my opinion that Foghat is one of the greatest rock bands ever, and that we can look forward to decades of great music from this fine band. In fact, I'm sure I'll still be talking about Foghat thirty years from now.

"Check"

This paints a picture of a teacher who was either 1). slow or 2). lazy. It could have also been "all of the above". I won't judge here, but the indisputable fact is that a parking lot attendant could have done her job. Heck, even a rather clever alpaca could have probably pulled it off too.

I can't leave without mentioning Mrs. Weaver's World History tests. Probably only because the State of Texas mandated it, Mrs. Weaver would occasionally test her students. These were written, true-false tests. I suspect that she used the same tests year over year, but since there weren't any fraternities in high school, there was no way to use that to my advantage. After we had taken a couple of these tests, the brighter of my friends noticed something interesting*. When the test question was stated in a positive manner, the answer was always "true". When the question was stated in a negative manner, the answer was always "false". Some examples:

Napoleon was exiled to Saint Helena. True.

Napoleon was not married to Josephine. False.

Just by being aware of the sentence structure, we could ace one of these tests with absolutely no knowledge of world history whatsoever. And we did.

For some historical perspective on humor blogging, visit Humor-blogs.

* So some of you have noticed that I had friends who were both bolder and brighter than I was. Don't rub it in.

It's Ok, I Wasn't Sleeping Anyway

1. 
   

I was in bed, awake, at about 5 a.m. this morning when I heard a somewhat unsettling noise. It was sort of a constant, low- pitched sonorous hum, that would vary in volume ever so slightly.

It was the kind of noise you hear in the movies right before the deadly pods start to open, or as a prelude to deadly rays shooting out from the invading saucers. I was halfway looking forward to a close encounter and/or probing, when I realized what the sound was. It was my neighbor's wind chimes. I figured that that decreased the odds of an alien probing by at least 44%. What a buzzkill.

Our neighbor behind us has wind chimes on her back porch. Much like the actually neighbor herself, I usually don't hear or notice them. But this morning due to the confluence of a few rare circumstances, our bedroom was invaded by a noise reminiscent of a cat wandering onto the keys of a cathedral pipe organ, then falling asleep somewhere on the far left side. What were these rare circumstances? ( Because you have that innate curiosity not required for public office). In no particular order, they were :

A. It was extremely windy this morning. Much like a tornado. But with straight-line wind, and no rain or hail, and no interviews on the TV news with former mobile home owners.

B. Our TV was off. Yeah, I know you're not supposed to sleep with a TV on in the room, but we usually sleep with the TV on. We've discovered that the one redeeming factor of both "Home Improvement" and "Full House" is that they can usually drown out background noise. Like wind chimes. And alien invasions.

C. I was awake. I'm usually not awake at the time of day when the 5 has an "a.m." after it, but I was today. I don't blame the wind chimes. Along with this blog, I've decided to take up insomnia as a hobby.

I guess I can't really claim to have insomnia. I mean I am getting sleep. It's just that it's at times that others might consider inappropriate, like when I'm at my desk, or at a 4-way stop. But I get to hang out in the early a.m. with Billy Mays and that "Free and Clear" guy. That's not the only awesome upside to not sleeping. It's sort of like being addicted to Quaaludes, but without the expense, and without the embarrassment of using a drug that hasn't been popular since Disco. Ask around. No one you talk to will admit to taking 'ludes, or worse, actively participating in the 70s disco craze.

So look forward to subtle changes here at the Taunt Vortex. Like new posts at 3 a.m., or rambling run-on sentences that make little sense, and yet go on and on about the importance of niacin to the health of a growing third-world economy that can't stand up to the threats of an embittered starlet who thinks that pork and beans should really have an 'n' in the middle instead of the "and", no matter what the Maitre De says about motorcycle sidecars being a threat to a civilized Zimbabwe that just can't escape the shadow of Brian Boitano's bid for kayaking, like everwhere, and such as, also.

Oh dear. It's 7:40 a.m. Naptime!


I've checked, and Humor-blogs is available at all hours.

Screw You, Carly Simon

All I wanted to do was enjoy my over-easy eggs, bacon, sausage links and hash browns. I was having breakfast for dinner tonight at the IHOP, trying to forget the fact that it had been a sucky day, in a particularly craptastic week, in a year (well, not calendar year, but the last 12 months) that's definitely in the bottom 10% of its class.

Things were just tickety-boo. The eggs were just right. It was pretty quiet at this particular IHOP, because I was about the only one in Austin who decided that jacking up my triglycerides was more critical than watching the #1 college football team play*. IHOP was playing the usual auditory pablum on the overhead speakers, but that's to be expected. I do remember that they played a Barbara Streisand song, but it was so bland that I can't even recall what song it was 5 hours after the fact. Sometimes my brain actually works to protect itself.

Then it happened. Overhead, on the speakers, they played Carly Simon's "Anticipation". Yeah, it may make you smile a little, because you associate this cute little song with that clever ketchup commercial. But I've been having a turdfest of a week (see above), and had Carly been sitting across the table from me, I would have de-forked my hash browns and gouged out her eye!

And tomorrow we might not be together. I'm no prophet and I don't know nature's way.

So I'll try to see into your eyes right now. And stay right here 'cause these are the good old days.

These are the good old days...

These are the good old days...

These are the good old days...

Swear to god she kept saying it over and over about 600 times. Arrrrrggghhhhh! Screw You, Carly Simon! If these are the good old days, then apparently I can only look forward to a swirling infinite black abyss of existential crappiness and despair where hope not only goes to die, but it has its funeral and autopsy there too.

So Screw You Carly Simon!!! Again!!! For emphasis!!!

These are...

OKAY!! Enough already!

I'm off to bed. I've decided that no matter what happens tomorrow, if I don't hear this song again, then I will consider it a good day. But I still like "You're So Vain", so if I hear that, it's all good.

Despite everything, I still found a couple of good laughs over at Humor-blogs today.

* They won. Had I been watching the game, they most certainly would have lost.

Where I Perpetrate More Usage Errors

I recall sitting in my senior English class in high school and my teacher (who was always as serious as two librarians at a funeral, but nowhere near as sexy) said something like "Every writer has a particular style, and you should develop your own style when you write". After about three seconds, she shot me one of her most severe looks, because a). I was sitting about 4 feet from her desk, and b). instead of only thinking "My style is no style" I must have actually said it.

Recently, there have been several blogs in the Humor Blogs community (which reminds me, I need to write to Diesel about a zoning violation) that have dealt with the spelling and grammar issues that arise when bloggers put pixel to monitor. The general consensus is, naturally, you want to try, to adhere to generally accepted rules, of style, like not having incorrectly placed, commas, and such as. But at the end of the day, you want to avoid cliches as well. No, what I'm trying to say is although these are essentially personal blogs, we should strive to write clearly and properly so that our intended meanings are expressed in an unambiguous fashion. But you can usually accomplish this without getting all "Church Lady"* about spelling and grammar.

When writing the Taunt Vortex, I know that I'm going to make usage errors. Some of these "mistakes" are on purpose. No, it's not like when I'm at work being a passive-aggressive dick. It's just that this is a humor blog (humor me), and I attempt structure words and sentences (and sentence fragments) to develop a certain sense of comedic timing when the reader "hears" the words in his or her head. And I'm not just talking about my schizophrenic readers, or those having a bad trip (you know who you are). So when I use a preposition to end a sentence with, or when I punctuate with dashes or ellipses, or when I use sentence fragments, or words like "duh" and "stoopid", it's not that I'm being stoopid - duh! - but it's for a specific effect that I'm trying to create.

On the other hand, sometimes (ok, frequently) I do make unintended mistakes. I've seen a copy of "The Elements of Style" on one of my bookcases at one time or another, but I didn't buy it, I'm not sure how it got there, and it gets less attention than one of those Dennis Miller rant books that sits on the same bookcase. I'm not a professional writer. I did minor in Philosophy in college, which means that I'm unable to pull off a ten minute discussion of Kantian metaphysics, but I've heard of most of the philosophers in that Monty Python's Philosophers Song. So, years ago, I wrote some papers...but not so much anymore. I do think that I do a fairly decent job of getting my ideas across without the reader getting too distracted by my errors. (And when I do want to distract the reader, I find that a large photo of a scantily clad ingenue will usually suffice.) Besides, even writers make mistakes.

After reading several great blogs about this subject, I hadn't really planned on trying to add to what's already been said. Then I read the following from a Conservative Republican Right-Wing blog (With New and Improved Racists Overtones!) :

And why is it that it almost always (not always, but nearly always) is pepretrated by black people? Large groups of white looters? Just not something you ever see.

And it happens so often, that it makes me wonder if it's a cultural thing. It's almost as if it's culturallly exceptable to break into and steel from other people during times of distress or extreme celebration.

Someone correct me if I'm wrong (yeah, yeah, yeah...I know the mere act of pointing out facts makes me a racist).

Let me say right off of the bat that I'm not a Conservative Right-winger (with racist overtones). I read that particular blog for the same reason I go to drag queen contests. It's because they're interesting, and sometimes they make me laugh out loud. But if you can read those sentences and get past the content, you're sure to notice several grammatical and spelling errors.

I'm thinking that if you "break into...other people", that it's not just "steeling", but would probably at least be deadly assault, if not murder. Now you may be tempted to say "Doug, cut the Right-winger some slack. Maybe the guy just forgot to "spell-check" when he was done. Or perhaps he was blogging while drunk." Ok, those are valid arguments. But this is what made me laugh myself into a seizure : according to his blog, the writer has a degree in Professional Writing, and works as a technical writer. Yikes!

For the record, I've never witnessed looting first-hand. So in my experience, it's less common (and less of a problem) than getting ripped off by a major publicly-held company that rhymes with general selectric. And I'm not quite clear as to what extreme celebration is, but I suspect that it may involve flaming bungee cords and rocket assisted skateboards.

I suppose we should just be thankful that this particular writer became a writer, instead a bus driver, a pilot, or a director of Human Resources.

* "Church Lady" was used in order to avoid using the word "Nazi" in this post. Damn, did it anyway.

I bet if Strunk & White had visited Humor-blogs before they wrote "The Elements of Style" they would have had a movie deal by now.

The South Will Rise Again...And Walk Out Without Paying

The Taunt Vortex real news story for the day comes to you from Bossier City, Louisiana. Bossier City is best known for being across the Red River from Shreveport, Louisiana. Shreveport is best known for being across the river from Bossier City. Oh, and Elvis played in Shreveport about 50 years ago, and Terry Bradshaw was named "Native Son Most Likely to Use Adverbs".


I can speak with some authority here, because I lived in Shreveport* for about 3 years in my distant past. This was part of my Wretched Tour of the South, which included stints in Shreveport, Birmingham Alabama, Durham North Carolina, and three months in Monroe, Louisiana (which probably hasn't even made it onto Garmin databases yet). On to the story.


Last Wednesday, the Bossier City Police arrested Lindsey Evans after Ms. Evans and three of her friends walked out of Posados Cafe without paying for their meal. This would have gone completely unnoticed by the other 300 million people in the U.S., except that Ms. Evans just happens to be Miss Teen Louisiana.


...Bossier City police were called to a Posados Cafe restaurant Saturday evening because a group had left without paying $ 46.07. The manager had found a pocketbook at the table, and police found Evans' driver's license and about 2 grams of suspected marijuana in it Natale said.


He said officers recognized Evans from the photo when the group returned for the pocketbook.



That was some pretty impressive work by the Bossier City police : Open purse. Look at driver's license. Match photo to face when the perpetrator returns to retrieve pocketbook. Oh, look! There's some suspected marijuana in her purse too! Some lucky police officer in Bossier City is going to get the "Columbo" award for October.

Here's a photo of Ms. Evans stealing a tiara from an unsuspecting child who was sedated about 20 minutes ago. Cha-ching!

I'm not going to admit to anything (even though the statute of limitations has probably expired)but if you're going to "dine & dash", there are a few basic principles you need to follow. Please feel free to take notes or make copies to take with you next time you go out. Especially to my former Southern brethren - heads up! This could save some of you guys bail money that you could better use for that upcoming public intoxication arrest, or for when uncle Joel decides that the farm animals look fetching to him, again.


Rule #1 - Maintain a low profile. If you're enjoying your meal, and you realize that you don't have any money (or you just planned on not paying to begin with), don't be loud, don't be conspicuous, don't be showy, and don't be Miss Teen Louisiana. Or at least remove the tiara.

Rule #2 - if you're smoking suspected marijuana, you may find yourself with a wicked case of the suspected munchies. I recommend staying in, and hitting those Fritos, frozen pizza bagels, that grape jelly, bean dip, Cap 'N' Crunch, Funyuns, leftover Swedish meatballs and Rocky Road ice cream hard. If you must dine out, look for a buffet. What's most important is that you leave the suspected marijuana at home, and take some cash or a credit card with you.

Rule #3 - Once you've completed the "dash" part of the dine & dash, don't go back! At least not for a few months. See, it's "dine & dash". Not "dine & dash & go back and get busted".


Unfortunately, Ms. Evans violated all three of these rules, and got busted. Here's what she should have done (had she not been stoned out of her mind) once she realized that she'd left her pocketbook at the restaurant : she should have immediately called the police, and reported that she was mugged, and that her mugger mentioned something about wanting to grab some Mexican food as he was making off with her pocketbook. She should then deny ever having set foot in the Posados Cafe, even if there is surveillance film that shows otherwise. Who are you gonna believe? Some video footage, or a pretty blond teary-eyed Miss Teen Louisiana??

If Lindsey had done that, she would have performed the public relations jujitsu that would have made her the smart, sympathetic, pretty victim, instead of the embarrassed, stupid, petty criminal. Lastly, I think Lindsey should be given the award for Creepiest Smile in a Mug Shot, 2008. Compare to the 2005 winner, Tom DeLay. DeLay probably wasn't stoned at the time - just bat shit crazy.







I think that before long, we'll see that photo on her MySpace page. I'm guessing that she won't really see this incident as a bad thing, just a career move on her way to bigger and better things. Like mayor of Blanchard, Louisiana. Then Governor of Louisiana. Then...

Lindsey had to give up her Miss Teen Louisiana crown 11 days early, since a new Miss Teen Louisiana will be crowned on November 1. I should send the winner a copy of those rules.



After you've skipped out without paying, catch some free comedy at Humor-blogs.







* also known as "Shrevepatch" for those that have successfully escaped.

Awesome Laundry Day for Me. Not So Good for the Pinscher.

My wife and I did laundry at the washateria again on Sunday. It turned out to be sort of a remarkable laundry day.

My wife loves the large front loading washers, but usually the place is so busy we're lucky to get one or two. This particular Sunday, we walked in, and none of the front load washers in the first row were being used!* She likes them because you can stuff them with an ungodly amount of clothes, and they cycle faster too. I like them because the doors look like the hatches to torpedo tubes, and I can play "Hunt for Red October" at the washateria. Don't judge. She won't give me quarters to play pinball, so it's all I got.

So we load up 4 of these front load washers. Did I mention they were all together? We didn't have to resort to map-drawing or mnemonic devices to remember where the various washers we were using were located. ("Load of dark clothes, next to the skanky hos.") The timing was near perfect, too. Each washer finished about 1 minute after the next. When one stopped, I filled the hamper, passed it off to my wife who loaded up a dryer, simultaneously passing me another empty hamper to unload the next washer, and so on.

Our timing, coordination, and movement must have looked balletic. Except that we weren't really dancing. And we weren't on a stage. And I wasn't wearing an ecru tutu, this time. But other than that, I'm sure it looked just like ballet.

Not only were our favorite washers available, but we were able to use our favorite dryers too. The dryers are stacked one on top of the other. We prefer the top ones that are at about eye level. Bending over is for losers. Or short young people with good backs. And of course we prefer using dryers that are next to one another so we can watch them. There's nothing Gypsies would like more than to steal my R.E.M. T shirt and my South Park boxers, especially after they're clean. So we watch the dryers like hawks. Of course, I've never actually seen Gypsies at the washateria - but you turn your back for a second, and that's when they make their move.

We were just about the only ones there when we started. That's ok with me. The more people that are there, the more likely it is that some Rosie O'Donnell look-alike with an indifference to personal boundaries will hold up her 4-foot wide panties and say "Do these look clean to you?" to me. I don't need that. In summary, I'd have to give this trip to the washateria a 9 on a scale of 1- 10. It would have been perfect, except that 1). we were one clothes hanger short, and 2). at no time did a Maria Sharapova look-alike with an indifference to personal boundaries hold up her 3 inch wide panties and say "Do these look clean to you?" to me.

A few weeks ago I wrote about the posted rules at the washateria. One of the rules was (and still is) no animals, and no alcohol. These reasons for pairing these two rules together became painfully obvious when I read the following story from the San Marcos Record:

"A very disturbing incident." That's how San Marcos Police Sgt. Dave Waugh described the investigation into the death of a dog found in a clothes dryer Wednesday morning.

Waugh said the dog (a miniature Pinscher) belonged to one of four male roommates who share an apartment and laundry facilities.

He said the person that found the dog said he looked in the dryer because he smelled something funny.

I'm guessing one of two things happened. Either these guys live at the "Sick Sadistic Bastards Apartments", or at least one of these guys got so insanely drunk that the "dog in dryer = funny" thought completely overwhelmed the "dog in dryer = really bad idea" thought.

Either way, the guilty party will probably try to convince the authorities that the Pinscher had been despondent over a break up, saw the dryer running, and decided to end it all by climbing inside and closing the door.

It probably won't happen, but if they figure out who the guilty party is, my sentencing recommendation would be to put him in a large tumble dryer set on high until he started to "smell funny".

Stop by Humor-blogs, where I'm now a supporting blogger. Sounds impressive, but it just means that I'm helping Diesel make his monthly cable payments.

* I know, it's sort of pathetic that I was excited about that.

My Most Horrendously Boring Job

My most horrendously boring job was, fortunately, many years ago when I was in high school. At the time I had a Firebird, which was considered a "muscle car". This was in the 70s, and at the time there was a federal law that mandated that any car certified as a muscle car could get no more than 18 miles to the gallon. When I actually tried to drive slowly and efficiently (that one week in March) I actually eeked out about 20 mpg. But usually I averaged about 14 to 16 mpg. Good times.

I failed to mention that gasoline had skyrocketed to about 75 cents a gallon. (Amazing, huh? Gas prices in double digits. I should have stocked up.) So, I needed the income that attending high school, going to the movies, and driving around aimlessly listening to "Some Girls" just didn't provide. Some friends told me about a job that sounded promising for a couple of reasons. One, it paid above minimum wage. (Finally, someone with the ability to recognize my true worth!). Two, it required working only on Saturdays and Sundays, and usually I'd be finished with work by the early afternoon. This seemed ideal. A job that wouldn't interfere with my after-school 3 hour naps (hey, I was a growing boy), and I'd still have Friday and Saturday nights off to go to the movies, or drive around aimlessly listening to "Some Girls"*.

And just where was this dream job? It was at my local newspaper, the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. If you've read some of my other job related posts, you know I have a penchant for nicknames for the places I work. My friends and I called it the "Startlegram". Still do.

One minor downside to the job is that I had to be there very early on those Saturday and Sunday mornings. No, I don't mean the conventional teenager definition of "early in the morning", which is about 10:30 or 11. I had to be there about 4:30 or 5 in the morning. The newspaper was downtown, and I lived in the 'burbs, but since I was driving before even God was up, there wasn't really much traffic. And because the donut shops were just opening, I could drive pretty fast too.

Once there, I would enter some side door, and wind my around, taking an elevator to the floor where I worked. And just what did I do once I got there? I would take a stack of newspapers that had just been dropped onto a conveyor belt, pick it up, then stack it onto a pallet with the other stacks of papers. Then repeat. Over and over. For hours. Occasionally the monotony would be broken when the pallet was full (and if I was lucky the stacks of papers hadn't fallen over like Lindsey Lohan at the HTZ club) and another worker would remove it, leaving another pallet to be filled. Then back to stacking papers. Over and over. For hours.

"That's not so hard" you're saying, because you're sort of an argumentative ass like that, aren't you? Yeah, you're right, it wasn't physically demanding. But after about 4 minutes, it just got mind numbingly dull. It was much too loud to carry on any sort of meaningful conversation. The stacks of papers moved too quickly to be able to read anything other than the headlines. You soon learn that reading the same headline 65 or 70 times contributes to the boredom rather than helping relieve it.

Sometimes one of the machines in the printing room would break down, halting the flow of newspaper stacks. The horrendous boredom of stacking papers was now exponentially increased by having to wait for the horrendous boredom of stacking papers. Sometimes it was just a few minutes, sometimes it was much longer, but it always seemed as long as one of those geologic eras they always talk about on the History channel. I was pretty sure that at some point I was going to witness one of the other workers evolve before my eyes. Perhaps into a shift manager, or even a supervisor.

The room was quieter when the machines were down. It soon became disturbingly evident to me that trying to have a conversation with my fellow paper-stackers was just as intellectually stimulating as sitting and waiting for the machines to start back up. I thought about the "cause and effect" of this situation. Did these guys become, uh, let's say "slow" and "dull" because they had been stacking newspapers for so long? Or conversely, were they slow and dull to begin with, and gravitated to this particular job because it was actually exciting for them?

For me, the boredom was overwhelming. I became increasingly concerned that working there would make me intellectual equivalent of Terry Bradshaw. When working I'd start to fantasize about doing something more interesting and exciting, like sharpening pencils, saying "la la la" over and over, or becoming a ham radio operator. I realized I was losing my edge, and I had to quit before I got to that point of no return - where personal hygiene is optional, and people act surprised when you form a complete sentence.

After about 2 months or so, I finally quit. We'll I didn't actually "quit". I just didn't show up for work anymore. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened there in years.

* Some Girls was probably the last of the Rolling Stones' great albums. And Respectable rocked. But don't take my word for it. (Just ignore the homo erotic ending) :






As usual, I implore you to stop by Humor-blogs. I'll be shattered if you don't.

Joe Day

1. 

6:23 a.m. - I'm getting ready for work. Joe Sports Announcer says the Phillies have taken the series from the Dodgers. My mind drifts...I think "If the team from Philadelphia is called the Phillies, the team from Los Angeles should be called the Lollies".

7:04 - I stop by Starbucks. I ask 19 year old Joe Barista for a hot cup o' joe. "We only serve, coffee, espresso, lattes" he said. So I get the coffee.

7:17 - I spill half of my coffee when Joe Asswipe cuts me off in his Escalade. Wouldn't have been so bad, but I spilled onto my Havana Joe Oxfords.

7:46 - Joe Administrative Assistant drops off my schedule for the day. Doesn't look too bad, except for that 11 o'clock meeting. Joe Marketing usually runs pretty tight meetings, but Joe Whiner and Joe Obstreperous will both be there. God they get on my nerves.

9:44 - Joe Maintenance Guy comes into my office to replace the air filter. I suddenly remember that I'm supposed to meet Joe Plumber back at the house at 12:15. Nice. I'll have a good excuse to get out of that meeting.

11:00 - Joe Marketing starts the meeting, on time as usual. Explains that Joe Infomercial at the ad agency is having problems developing an angle for our new product. It's sort of a blanket with sleeves*. We're getting this info secondhand, but apparently Joe Informercial thinks that when people in the ad wear this product, they look like Joe Monk. Or worse, Joe Disturbed Cult Member.

11:24 - Joe Late as Usual walks into the meeting. Only seat left if next to Joe Whiner. There is some justice in this world.

11:44 - Joe Accountant chimes in. Says yet another focus group study will put the marketing budget over for the quarter. "Geez, we never get the resources they get over in R&D," Joe Whiner says to no ones surprise.

11:58 - "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING?" Joe Obstreperous bellowed. I was halfway out the door and decided just to ignore him. I had told Joe Marketing that I had to leave by noon to meet Joe Plumber, but I'm sure Joe Rumormonger will have me dealing pot at the middle school during my lunch hour.

12:24 p.m. - Joe Plumber checks out the leaky pipe connecting to our hot water heater. He says I'm lucky it's in our garage. Claims he knew a guy a few blocks over, Joe Shitforluck, who had the same problem but with a hot water heater located in the attic. It caused the ceiling to collapse, crushing his sleeping wife, Josephine Whatawaytogo.

1:12 - Driving back to the office, I'm listening to the radio. Joe Birkenstock on NPR starts to get a little too dry, so I channel surf. Finally, Joe DJ plays a decent Hendrix song. I rock out to "Hey Joe" until I pull into the parking lot.

1:44 - Joe Weaseloutofwork stops by, asks if I ever got lunch. I realized I hadn't, so we take off to Joe's Diner for some artery punishing burgers. I counteract the effect of the unhealthy food by walking the 2 blocks back to the office.

3:22 - Finally back in the office. Joe IT stops by (ironically interrupting my WoW play) to ask if I've finished the TPS reports. Told him I don't do those anymore - I delegated that to Joe Getsdumpedonalot.

4:52 - Quittin' time. Close enough, anways. On the way out I pass Joe Ambiguous Gender in the hall, give him/her a wink as a joke. I'll probably hear from Joe Uptight in HR tomorrow.

5:22 - Just fucking great. Apparently Joe Six Pack rolled his white F-150 on the loop, and now traffic is backed up for as far as I can see. Up ahead Joe Cop is directing traffic into one lane. I'm trying to merge, but Joe Inconsiderate Scrotebreath cuts me off.

5:48 - Finally get home. Wife and I talk over dinner. I relate the traffic hassles Joe Six Pack caused, and tell her what Joe Plumber said. She tells me about her workday, which wasn't too bad because was able to avoid one of the barely competent managers, Joe Burnout, for most of the day.

6:12 - We kick back to watch "My Cousin Vinny". Joe Pesci rocks, but we realize that we've seen this about seven times. Head for Blockbuster.

6:49 - By some freak occurance, the only 2 videos they have are a documentary about Joe Namath, and "Joe Dirt". Joe Justateen Employee said he thought it might have had something to do with the presidential debates. As an homage to Joe Six Pack who screwed my commute home today, we opt for Joe Dirt.

7:46 - Doorbell rings. Pause Joe Dirt. It's Joe Ostentatious. He's our across the street neighbor, wants to know if we'd like to come over to check out the $ 4,000 vibrating massage chair he got from The Sharper Image. I lied, told him I had seen Joe Gastroenterologist for a colonscopy today, and didn't feel like sitting on anything that vibrates.

10:12 - Watching the local news, Joe Anchorman eventually gets to the Joe Six Pack story. Apparently he was more like Joe Eight-or-Nine Pack today, hence the rollover. Anyway, before they get to sports, Joe Anchorman expresses his deep abiding love for Jo Shallow Anchorwoman, and says they go together "like traffic and weather". He proposes, then they segue to Joe Distantjockdreams Sports Reporter. I eventually drift off to sleep, thinking about that report I forgot to forward to Joe Wallflower in sales.

* We're gonna sell a million of these things when we finally roll it out. But this information is all confidential, so don't tell anyone. Thanks.


Joe Diesel has put together a great website of humor blogs at Humor-blogs.

Ringo: Thanks, But No Thanks

It's sort of awkward to start a post about the Beatles. Your first instinct is to write something painfully obvious like "If you've ever heard of the Beatles..." or "The Beatles were a pop band in the 60s...". It's sort of like going up to Nelson Mandela and saying "Life isn't fair", or telling Mick Jagger "You know, sometimes those rock fans can get a little unruly!".

So the Beatles were a pop band in the 60s (oh crap! ) Uh, okay there was Paul McCartney (the cute one), John Lennon (the smart one), George Harrison (the quiet one) and Ringo (the incrediblyluckytohavethatjobdespitehismodesttalent one). John and George are no longer with us. Paul has kept a fairly high profile due to his regular output of music, and also because of his relationship that batshit crazy peg-leg succubus, Hateher Mills. Ringo, on the other hand, has kept a rather low profile due to his regular output of music. His most recent work, "Liverpool 8", managed to reach a surprisingly high rank of #2456 in the Amazon music category.

Despite his dizzying schedule of eating, being 68, and putting out a CD every 3 or 4 years, Ringo has issued a statement (by video, on his website), that he no longer wants fans to send letters or objects to be autographed.

I'm warning you with peace and love I have too much to do. So no more fan mail. And no objects to be signed. Nothing.

Those are pretty strong words from Ringo. He does try to take some of the edge off by flashing a "peace" sign, but I know that some will be hurt. But I support Ringo's decision, and as a service to Ringo, I'll restate his message :

Darla, from Cincinnati - no more letters.
Craig, from Fresno - no more letters.
Susan, from London - no more letters.
Holly, from Atlanta - no more letters. But if you'd like to keep sending panties, he's ok with that.
Gary, from Durham N.C. - no more letters. And stop with the panties, too.

There. That should take care of it. Please don't get me wrong, I like Ringo. It's just he's disappointed me over the last few years. He really acts more like that grandfather who used to play the zither in a western swing band, and will still occasionally drag it out and play it solo right after ever one's finished their Thanksgiving dinner. You're too stuffed to fall asleep and too tired to leave, so you just tolerate it until he's finished playing "San Antonio Rose" eight times in a row. Ringo should really take a cue from Ron Wood of the Rolling Stones. Go on week long drinking binges with women 1/3 of your age, divorce your wife, go through rehab. That way we'll still think of you as a rock star, instead of some grumpy old drummer.

In an unrelated story, former Beatles drummer Pete Best has issued a statement saying he still welcomes any and all fan mail :

Really. Something. Anything at all. Letters, post cards, junk mail, maybe you've written a letter to Ringo and can't very well send it now. Well, send it to me! I'll be more than happy to read it and get back to you. Peace, Pete.

I'm holding up my cigarette lighter for Humor-blogs. It rocks.

My Mexican Restaurant Job - The Lime Incident

I really hate to sound like your sophomore year Sociology prof., but I highly recommend that you read Part I of this series for background (My Mexican Restaurant Job - Intro). It will only take three or four minutes. Besides, it's healthier than obsessing over your last quarterly 401(k)* report.

When we last left our Hero, he was working as a 16 year old busy busboy** in a Mexican restaurant, serving glasses of water to the customers, and occasionally cutting and squeezing limes for the oh-so-delicious frozen Margaritas (so I was told). At the busboy station, when it was slow we'd prepare dozens of cups of water and place them on serving trays. The cups were made of sturdy red plastic, which was sort of hard to see through, especially in a dimly lit restaurant. We would also store the uncut limes on a shelf above the counter top where the filled glasses were. This seemed like a pretty good system, which had apparently worked for many years before the infamous "Lime Incident".

I feel like I can't go any further without some background about my manager, Jerry. Great name for a Mexican restaurant manager, right? Not Jose, or Javier... Jerry. Jerry was a middle aged very white guy with thinning blond hair and a cheezy blond mustache. Some might have called it a "porn star" style of mustache, but to think of Jerry and porn at the same time makes me vomit a little. Sorry. Anyways, he sort of had that sort of physique that said "Yeah, I like to work out lifting weights, and drink beer to excess!" You know the type.

I don't think Jerry had been there long when he hired me. After I'd worked there for a while, one of the other busboys told me that Jerry hadn't really managed anything before. Supposedly he was an ex-middle or high school football coach, who happened to be friends with the wife of the restaurant owner. I suppose that the transition from the glamour and glory of high school football made it easy for him to transition to the glamour and glory of managing a Mexican restaurant***. I never attended business school, but if there is a theory of management called the "Dickishness School" to managing a business, I think Jerry would have been a devout adherent to that theory of management.

So one very busy night we're all busy cleaning tables, serving water, etc., when one of the other busboys tells me that Jerry wanted to see me at a table. I track down Jerry standing next to a table of about 6 customers. When I get there, he looks at me with his most dickish face of disapproval, and holds up one of the red cups of water. It took me a couple of seconds to see - as I mentioned, the lights were rather dim - but I could see a rather large lime floating near the top of the cup.

My first thought was something like "This is pretty fucking funny. But I'm not supposed to think that it's fucking funny. So I'd better not laugh." Then Jerry asks some inane question like "Why did you serve the water like this?" Well, obviously it was a mistake. Obviously one of the limes rolled off the top shelf into one of the cups of water. Obviously I was so fucking busy cleaning tables and sweeping the floors and serving water and squeezing limes and cleaning the restrooms and driving the shuttle van that I didn't take the precious time to hold up a Maglite to inspect each and every cup of water before I served it. Obviously, I didn't say all of that. I think I just said something like "sorry".

So Jerry just stood there for a second, and I start to think "Should I just pluck the lime out and leave?" After all, Jerry didn't really need to try to humiliate the busboy in front of customers. He could have easily apologized, switched out the water cups, and then raked me and the other busboys over the coals in private. But because of his training (or lack thereof) he decided to do the "dickish" thing. Finally I took the cup he was holding, and brought another cup of water. Problem solved. That should have been my first clue that I was management material, and he wasn't.

In retrospect, I realize that the "Lime Incident" wasn't really that big of a deal. Sure, perhaps the customer was a little upset. But there wasn't a roach in the water, no one got food poisoning or set ablaze, no one was physically assaulted, or failed a drug test, or had their civil rights violated, or died in a car wreck. It was just a stupid fucking citrus fruit in a cup of water. These days you actually pay extra for that. But this was 1978. Apparently the move from Coach to restaurant manager was so emasculating for Jerry, he couldn't help but function in "dick" mode whenver a major problem (lime in water, running out of lettuce, candy missing from front counter) cropped up. And no, I didn't take any of the candy.

I only lasted there about 3 months. Because it was my first job and I didn't really know better, I worked a lot harder than I should have. A friend of mine happened to work at a fast food restaurant called Wendy's, and he convinced me that it would be fun for both of us to work there. So I started working at Wendy's, where we had a supervisor that, similar to Jerry, got his M.B.A. at the "Dickishness School of Business". But at least he wasn't there every day. And apparently the food at Wendy's doesn't have the same effect on the female menstrual cycle that the food at Dos Gringos did.

* (k) stands for kkkrasshhh.

** You can't spell busboy without "busy". Or "bouy", or "sub", or "bub", or "oy".

*** Dos Gringos was the name of the restaurant. Which you would have known, had you read part I you lazy ingrate.

If you vote for me over at Humor-blogs I'll bring you extra chips - and no foreign objects in your drink!

My Mexican Restaurant Job - Intro

My very first "real" job was as a busboy at a Mexican restaurant when I was 16. The name of the restaurant was "Dos Gringos", but before long I started to refer to it as "Gross Dingos". That always got a laugh out of everyone there who wasn't management. Even though that was over 30 years ago, that restaurant is still in business*.



I know what you're thinking. "Wow. Busboy at a Mexican restaurant? What an easy and glamorous and well-paying position you lucked into!" Being 16 years old, that's what I thought when I was told I had the job. It turns out that there was a lot more to the position than just cleaning off a few tables for the occasional customer I thought might actually eat there. I quickly discovered that this place was very busy at times, and that a disturbingly large percentage of my species are ungodly disgusting and sloppy. In addition to cleaning off tables, I also had to set up high chairs for the little ones, and then clean off the trays after they left. Seriously, about half of those high chair trays looked like the kids were auditioning for The Exorcist. Just nasty.



There were other enviable tasks on that busboy job description. There was vacuuming the carpet at night (sweeping up that pasty blend of crackers and baby spit that they also use in drywall production), sweeping the patio at intervals, and cleaning the restrooms. Conventional wisdom holds that cleaning the men's room would be the worst. But I dreaded cleaning the ladies' room. I naively thought that I could avoid direct exposure to tampons and sanitary napkins until perhaps I'd been married for a few years or so. I was easily a decade off.



In each stall in the ladies' room was a small plastic container, much like a trash canister, with a lid. This was meant to contain the used feminine products. I was astounded at how quickly those containers filled up. For years I was convinced that perhaps salsa or Margaritas accelerated the process of menstruation. Or that by some freak statistical aberration, roughly 84% of the women that ate at Gross Dingos just happened to be on their period. I was also convinced that before most of these women disposed of the unwanted nastiness, they would first down 3 or 4 Margaritas at the table, then once in the restroom stall they would stand up, close their eyes, spin around 6 or 7 times before randomly dropping the sanitary napkin or tampon. To this day, I have an uncontrollable reflex where my eyes roll into the back of my head whenever I hear a woman complain about how sloppy and careless men are when peeing into a toilet. Or almost peeing into a toilet, as the case may be. Either way, my eyes roll.



Oh, another part of the job was to cut and squeeze limes (to make lime juice for the frozen Margaritas) and to serve water to each and every customer. Don't worry. I almost always washed my hands after cleaning the ladies' room. This part of the job - serving water and squeezing limes - is prelude to the second part of this story, "The Lime Incident".



The service is always great (though the chips are sometimes stale) at Humor-blogs.





* although it's at a different location, maybe 1 1/2 miles from the original.

Super Horny Goat Weed

Super Horny Goat Weed. That's an actual product, sitting right there in your grocery store along with the other wholesome necessities like bread, milk, and Mike's hard lemonade.

I just happened to see this product as I was walking through the supplement aisle in the grocery store. I usually don't mess with nutritional supplements, although I'll occasionally take a multivitamin if I want to upset my stomach a little and have fluorescent urine for a day or two. But on this occasion I used the supplement aisle as a shortcut between the store entrance and the ridged barbecue potato chips that I was Jonesin' for.

One recent fact that I read about nutritional supplements in the Journal of Facts about Nutritional Supplements and Small Appliance Repair is that in most U.S. grocery stores, the number of available supplements is greater than the vole population of Michigan. And unplug the toaster before you try to fix it. So there are a ton of nutritional supplements out there.

The bottle of Super Horny Goat Weed was on the shelf at about eye level (well, for a man anyway, big surprise) and with the word "horny" on the label it sort of caught my attention. Needless to say it piqued my curiosity, because it's not often you see the word "horny" in the grocery store. Or the hardware store. Or the electronics store. Or the video - oh, wait, there's that one section in the back. Never mind.

Despite my curiosity, I didn't stop to read the label. I really wanted those barbecue chips, and after the last grocery store incident involving the bottle of squeezable mayonnaise and the blood pressure machine by the pharmacy, I thought it best to maintain a low profile. But when I got home, I did some internet research. It took a long time, because I made the mistake of Googling just the word "horny". After about 3 hours I figured out that it would be best to narrow the search down to "Super Horny Goat Weed".

According to my research, this product is "a synergistic blend of ingredients designed to increase power and performance and help support normal sexual functioning." It actually has the root of the horny goat weed in it. Obviously, some sad and lonely rancher happened to watch a couple of goats eat this particular weed, after which they made wild goat love - that he watched, because he was sad and lonely. Afterwards, because this particular rancher had an analytically tuned scientific mind, surmised that the weed was responsible for the increased goat frisky factor. And if there's one thing all scientists know, what works for goats works for humans.

I actually found a customer review about this product, from a Mr. Anonymous in Portland, OR.

Although I had no problems in the sex drive area before taking Super Horny Goat Weed, I definitely noticed a difference!

Right. You had no problems. So you decided to spend money for a product to correct a problem you didn't have. We're convinced.

I am taking it primarily as a supplement to boost my testosterone levels for athletic training purposes.

Kids, we call that a "rationalization".

It's too early to tell if it's been effective in that area yet. I'll try to remember to post again!

So, a word of warning. This product may help your sexual performance, but it seems to have an adverse effect on your short term memory.

In summary, this product may work if you don't have a problem to begin with. But it may cause brain damage. Personally, I think I'll stick with the Mike's Hard Lemonade. It pretty much does the same thing, but goes better with those ridged barbecue chips.

Check out Humor-blogs. It will make you young and vital. And you won't smell like a goat.

Mother of the Week

1. 
   

When I was in the early years of elementary school, about once a week we'd have "show and tell" presentations at school. Typically, the student would take something like a fossil rock, or a cool new toy, or photos of a recent trip to show to classmates. One of my more popular presentations involved a large scab that was oh-so-close to falling off.

Recently, a mother from Stevensville, Montana thought that the typical school "show and tell" was getting a little tired and overdone. She decided to ramp up the show and tell intensity factor by bringing a bat to school.

So right now you must be thinking, "Oh, that's cool, maybe she like works at a zoo or a nature center. So she got a captive bat, put it in a sealed container, and let the children see it from a safe distance. Way more interesting than sucky fossil rocks."

The flaw in your thinking is that (despite using "like" like you did in that sentence) you probably have a fair amount of common sense and good judgment. Apparently, this mother of two is so seriously lacking in both of these qualities that it's simply mind boggling that she's lived long enough to reproduce. Darwin be damned.

No, this mother took a dead bat to school. A random dead bat that she found, and thought "This will be soooo Animal-Planety if I take this to school to show all the kids! This will sooo bump me up a couple of notches on the cool-mother list, and I will soooo be a shoe-in for PTA president next year!"

As a thinking, rational adult, you understand that bats carry rabies, and die from rabies, and if you find a dead bat that means that there is a finite chance that said bat has rabies. Just as sure as this mother is a Sarah Palin fan, the bat that she brought to show and tell had rabies.

We're not done yet. She let the kids touch the bat. The dead rabid bat. About 90 children came into contact with this bat. Keep in mind that these are elementary school age children, many of whom are not averse to eating boogers, using their hand as a Kleenex, sucking their thumb, and not bothering to wash their hands after # 2. It's easy to guess what the next show and tell presentation will be. Physicians from the local hospital will demonstrate the series of six anti-rabies vaccinations on each child. Attendance is mandatory. Maybe they can throw in a colonoscopy for mom while she's there. A two or three hour colonoscopy - with coffee breaks for the staff.

School officials said that it might cost up to $ 150,000 to treat all of the children. They have taken decisive action to prevent future fuck ups by making a policy that anyone visiting the school obtain a visitor's pass. Brilliant. I can see it now. "Oh, you'd like a visitor's pass? First a couple of questions. Are you carrying any firearms, explosives, drugs, or diseased animals? No? Super! Here's your visitor's pass! Feel free to wander about the building unsupervised."

We have some other suggestions. How about an IQ test for parents before they're allowed in the building? If you're a Stevensville parent, and your IQ is under 90, then you can just drop your kiddoes off at the door. Even better, let's not risk lives by having you on the road, too. So you can just walk them to the bus stop and make sure they get on that bright yellow vehicle that's filled with children.

One more suggestion, this one regarding the teachers. How about you get them to read a middle school science textbook before starting to work for your school system? Highlight the section about rabies. Then, you might encourage the teachers to actually hang out in the classroom, instead of the teacher's lounge. We here at the Taunt Vortex won't accept the soft bigotry of low expectations. So buck up, Montana! Crosby, Still, Nash & Young said it best:

Teach your parents well.
The children's hell will slowly go by.


If you vote for me at Humor-blogs, I'll drop any plans to run for PTA president.

Dispatches from Egoland

Spinner.com has a piece out called "Shockingly Cocky Quotes", essentially cataloging self-centered spewings from some well known (and some lesser known) individuals in the entertainment industry.

These are cocky quotes, but I wouldn't really call them shocking. I mean really, we sort of expect vacuous narcissists to think (and talk) highly of themselves. Shocking would be a Britney Spears delivering a thoughtful and compelling discourse about the weaknesses of string theory. Anyhooo, we here at the Taunt Vortex thought that it would be entertaining to look at the entertainers.

I won't be happy until I'm as famous as God. - Madonna

We won't be happy until you're as invisible as God.

I'm an ocean, because I'm really deep. If you search deep enough you can find rare exotic treasures. - Christina Aguilera

She's not talking about her intellect or spirituality. She's talking about her va-jay-jay.

I have a look that girls want to copy. - Avril Lavigne

Copy. Then shred. Then recycle.

I am the most well-known homosexual in the world. - Elton John

Apparently the career as "famous homosexual" is working out quite well for you. Almost as good as that career you had about 25 years ago, where you would make listenable music.

I won't be a rock star. I will be a legend. - Freddie Mercury

It's a good thing that rock star gig worked out. Because Elton is claiming the most famous gay title.

I'm tired of people calling me a Devil worshipper. Because if the devil did exist, he'd be worshipping me. - Marilyn Manson

We were all sort of thinking that if the devil did exist, you could have sold your soul for some musical talent.

I'm not a woman. I'm a force of nature. - Courtney Love

Yeah, so is a mudslide.

I've outdone anyone you can name - Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Strauss. Irving Berlin, he wrote 1001 songs. I wrote 5,500. - James Brown

Okay, anybody (without using Wikipedia or Google), name 3 James Brown songs. Besides, they don't hand out Pulitzers to the author that wrote the most words.

In this world, I call the shots and I think I know best. - Mariah Carey

Well, I think we now know who to blame for the recent financial and economic crisis.

I am the innovator. I am the originator. I am the emancipator. I am the architect of rock 'n' roll! - Little Richard

Hey, don't sell yourself short. You're pretty good in those Geico commercials too. Almost as good as the gecko. And Peter Graves.

I'm gonna go down in history as being one of the best music men and businessmen in entertainment. The people that I'm going to be greater than are Steven Spielberg, David Geffen, and Clive Davis. - Diddy

I do see some similarities. Spielberg made E.T., which made us cry. You make music, which makes us cry.

Every other band should be wiping my ass. The line forms over there to the left. - Gene Simmons

Yeah, sometimes that happens as you get older. But most people just buy Depends. Eating more fiber might help, too.

I'm the No. 1 artist in the world right now. I am the No. 1 human being in music. - Kanye West

Well, if you define No. 1 like my kids defined no. 1 when they were toddlers....

We're not arrogant. We just believe we're the best band in the world. Noel Gallagher of Oasis.

Delusions can be pretty powerful, can't they? And I hate to tell you this, but when you say "Gallagher", most people think of the stand-up who smashes watermelons.


Entertainers can be entertaining on so many levels. That's just one of the things that makes this country great. That, and the clever people you'll find over at Humor-blogs.

Fun with Dead Skin

My wife got me a Ped Egg a few months ago. If you're familiar with the device they call "television", then you've seen the infomercial for the Ped Egg.

It's basically a cheese-grater type device with a handy little egg-shaped holder, that's used to gently remove the dead skin and callouses from your feet. If you've ever tried to use a cheese grater to remove that stuff from your feet, then you've discovered that it can be awkward and painful. And afterwards your lasagna tastes funny, too. So the Ped Egg has been a real godsend.

A little background about skin. The epidermis is your outer layer of skin. Since scientists like to divide things into smaller and smaller units until they get to "quarks", your skin is divided into 5 layers. The outermost layer is called the stratum corneum, which is basically a layer of dead cells. Yuk, right? But everyone has it, so chill. Humans are constantly shedding (no, I said shedding) dead cells from this layer. I've been told that 90% of house dust is dead skin cells. If that's really true, there must be a family of 9 living in my attic.

That loss of cells is called "exfoliation". Women can spend hundreds of dollars for exfoliating products, which explains why you almost never see a woman with dead skin and callous build-up on her face. In men, it seems that exfoliation occurs naturally, with the exception of the feet. In fact, so much dead skin can build up on a man's feet, that your average 6' man would be 5'9" if this was removed. That may explain the resistance most men have to pedicures.

The Ped Egg does what it says : gently removes dead skin and callouses from the feet. It's like a little skin file, with an ergonomic egg-shaped holder. The Ped Egg's shape was really a blessing for the guys in marketing. It doesn't take a marketing genius to realize that calling it the "Ped-O-File" would have probably hurt sales. It's really a great product, but I think they could improve upon it by putting it on the end of a 3 foot stick. That way you could sit in your recliner, watch the Redskins-Eagles game, eat Doritos, and remove unsightly callouses all at the same time. Remind me to send a letter to the Ped Egg company.

Taunt Vortex warning : the squeamish should avoid reading further.

I've used the Ped Egg, and it really works great. One of the added benefits is that when you're done, you've got this handy little container of finely powdered dead skin at your disposal :

There's got to be some practical use for this stuff. I just haven't figured it out yet. The more sketchy of my readers might appreciate that the dead skin in the photo looks like a couple of fat lines of coke. Those of you who are into sick practical jokes are thinking, "Hey, it looks sort of like powdered sugar, or Parmesan cheese, or salt, or...". Even though I endorse the Ped Egg*, I'll take no responsibility for what others may do with the end result of Ped Egg usage.

There's always someone making fun of someone else's personal hygiene (or lack thereof) at Humor-blogs.


* I'd like to thank the TeleBrands Corp. for making my car payment this month.

Dear Neighbor : Your Kitty is Dead

I'm pretty certain that one of my neighbor's cats is dead. I don't know how to break the news to them, or if I even should at this point.

Our neighborhood has an HOA that maintains a message board on Yahoo. I know, lucky me, right? Anyways, the neighbor left a message regarding the cat in question :

Our 1 year old black cat, Jett, did not come home last night!

A black cat. Named Jett. We get it. I guess "Midnightt" would have been too cliche. Perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe the cat's name has nothing to do with its color. Maybe she just farts excessively. But Jett is missing, and we're all concerned. Hence the exclamation point. A million questions come to mind: Was Jett with a friend? Did Jett have her cell phone? Was Jett driving, a la Toonces? Did Jett leave a note? Has Jett done this sort of thing before? Does Jett have a boyfriend with control issues? Is Jett a crack kitty?

She was last seen at our house at XXXXX around 10 pm last night.

Well, that's very different, isn't it? I mean, you made it sound like Jett was out running around somewhere, and failed to return at some agreed upon time. As it turns out, Jett was at your house at 10 pm. I don't want to play "blame the victim" here, but it sounds like you lost track of your little kitty. And outdoor cats may work in some neighborhoods, but in this neighborhood (see details below) keeping your little kitty outside, especially after dark, is just foolhardy. I wouldn't be surprised if Nancy Grace approaches you for an interrogation. I mean interview.

Her collar fell off, so her identifying marks would be her color and small spot of white hair on her chest.

If you've ever really paid attention, our neighborhood is basically surrounded on 3 of 4 sides by a greenbelt. "Greenbelt" is actually another word for "nature" or "wilderness", but when real estate agents are trying to sell homes, they desperately want to avoid scaring the poo out of the soccer moms. So they call it a "greenbelt", making it sound more like a park than someplace that you could be brutally and savagely killed by wild animals. Or drunken hunters.

And there are wild animals. Deer, buzzards, rattlesnakes, raccoons, possums, and coyotes. I've actually seen a coyote at the side of the road as I was driving to work in the early morning hours.

It's really sort of sad, you saying that Jett's collar "fell off". Unless Jett had issues with anorexia, I'm having trouble imagining how a collar would just fall off. I don't mean to be harsh, but a much more likely explanation is that Jett met one of our local coyotes, and that coyote didn't really think that the collar was digestible. So, maybe the coyote ate your kitty!



If you've seen her, please let us know - we miss her! Thanks !

I'm sorry. Your kitty is dead. Perhaps I'll send a sympathy card. I'd almost bet that Hallmark has a specialty card for just such an occasion : "Our thoughts are with you at the loss of your domesticated pet in the bloodied jaws of a brutal and untamed beast". Or perhaps one less graphic : "Sorry about your dead cat".


While you're out looking for your "lost" pet, stop by Humor-blogs

My Remarkable Cure for Snoring

This photo seems to depict a married couple, with the wife showing signs of being very frustrated and upset at her husband's ongoing snoring problem. What it actually shows is a husband who had a longstanding snoring issue until about 3 minutes ago, and now the wife is simply wondering where to hide the murder weapon. Crazy bitch.

I won't deny that I snore. I don't think I snore every night, so for the record we'll say that I'm an "occasional" snorer. Admittedly my snoring has been much much worse over the last few days, most likely due to a wicked combination of seasonal allergies and an upper respiratory infection.

I've been trying to get some rest, and I've been taking Advil for the fever, sore throat and headaches. For the allergy symptoms of sneezing, congestion, etc., I was fortunate enough to find some generic Claritin in the medicine cabinet. It was in a bottle labeled "Lortab", and it's really helped me get through the week.

Unfortunately, because of the horrendous congestion in my throat and nasal passages, my snoring has been exponentially louder and more frequent this week. At least that's what my lovely and usually tolerant wife tells me. Usually, for my more routine snoring, she'll apply the "cruise ship" treatment, where she'll rock the bed until I wake up just enough to stop snoring. This usually works, as I don't really remember waking up, and she can usually get back to sleep before I start snoring again. But for some reason I have a recurring dream featuring the cast from "The Poseidon Adventure".

Apparently the cruise ship treatment hasn't worked this week. In the past my wife has threatened to move to stage 2 if the cruise ship treatment wasn't effective. Stage 2 involves holding a pillow over my head until the snoring and/or breathing stops. Luckily for me, she decided just to go sleep in another room to avoid my snoring. Of course I'd wake up, see that she was gone, hope that she wasn't kidnapped by a serial killer or abducted by aliens, then drift off back to sleep. I've asked her to leave a note, stating something to the effect of "you were snoring like a drugged water buffalo, so I'm in another room sleeping." But apparently she just doesn't mind that I'm worrying that she's been kidnapped or abducted before I drift off back to sleep. Generic Claritin is pretty strong, by the way.

My snoring problem had been gradually improving as my allergies and respiratory infection were gradually resolving, but on Friday morning I made a miraculous discovery. A cure for excessive snoring, if I may be so bold. My wife and I both slept through the night on Thursday. She didn't recall hearing me snore at all. And I didn't wake myself with the sound of my own snoring, which has happened before.

I racked my brains, trying to figure out what was different that night. Then I looked over at the nightstand on my wife's side of the bed, and saw two empty bottles of Michelob Ultra Lime Cactus Beer.


Physiology and psychology are complex and wonderful subjects, and I know that when a couple is very close, things happen between them that can't be readily explained. But somehow, when my wife drinks 2 bottles of this Michelob "wonder drug", it keeps me from snoring at night !!

My first thought was "How the hell can I make obscene amounts of money from this miraculous discovery?" But then I got to thinking about all of the people out there who snore, and how I could pass on this valuable information that could prevent immeasurable unhappiness and frustration, and perhaps even a few murders.

So if you if you snore, and have a spouse or significant other, simply have them drink a couple of bottles of Michelob Ultra Lime Cactus Beer*. If you're single, my advice would be to just enjoy your snoring while you can. But if for some reason you want to stop, I'd try buying a medium-to-large dog (German Shepard, Great Dane) and giving it a couple of the Michelobs when you go to bed.

The Taunt Vortex readers are fortunate enough to have this information for the snoring cure today. But look for an article authored by Doug at the Taunt Vortex in an upcoming issue of The New England Journal of Medicine. I'm thinking Nobel Prize in Medicine.

Before you retire for the evening, visit Humor-blogs. It cures leprosy and bedwetting.


* I'd like to thank the Michelob Brewing Company for making my mortgage payment this month.

Speech Therapy for Politicians, Lesson I

I'm not a licensed speech therapist. Seriously, you slap one kid who keeps lisping and they yank it away before you can file an appeal. But ever since I heard the phrase "...cuz my mamma learnt me to talk good" uttered in public, by and adult, I've taken up the mission of at least improving, if not perfecting, the communication skills* of my fellow English language talkers.

Apparently I'm not the only one who is concerned about the current state of the spoken English language. Yesterday I performed a Google search for "hot search trends", and the following could be found in the top 20 results :

#2. Nucular
#5. Nuclear
#13. nucular vs nuclear
#14. nuclear pronunciation

I'm guessing that because Sarah Palin has adopted not just the ideology of George W. Bush, but his word pronunciation as well, that "nuclear" seems to be such a hot** topic. Granted, most people don't use this word on a daily basis. But it's an important distinction to understand. If your home gets its energy from a nuclear power plant, you flip a switch and the light comes on. (Assuming you pay those bastards every single month. Geez.) If your power comes from the nucular power plant, you flip a switch and you're still in the dark. In more ways than one.

Another good example might be our military strength. If North Korea threatens to invade Hawaii, after we get through laughing (and hoarding surf boards and Don Ho albums) we could simply threaten Kim Jong Not Feeling So Well with nuclear annihilation and he would probably back down. If we threatened him with nucular annihilation, well, we'd probably be back down to 49 states.

Even if you're not part of a nuclear family, or have a job at a nuclear power facility, you'll be thought of as the smart guy on the bowling team if you know how to pronounce "nuclear". It's even more vital for politicians, especially those who aspire to the highest office. As President you've got your hand on the "football", the "nuclear codes", the "button", the "intern", and you'll garner much more respect if you can actually pronounce the word. So I've thrown together a brief but effective lesson :

Step 1. Say "new". There, that was easy, right? Practice it in a sentence. "I bought Laura a new dress at Lane Bryant." New, new, new. Perfect.

Step 2. Say "clear". Again, pretty easy, right? Practice "clear" in a sentence. "I could have had a clear shot at that moose if the kids weren't in the way." Clear, clear, clear. Perfect.

Step 3. Put these two easy words together. Slowly at first. New. Clear. New. Clear. Now a little faster. NewClear. Awesome. Guess what? You just said "nuclear" properly! Gold stars for everyone!

One final note : the Taunt Vortex gives permission for you to copy and use this speech therapy plan, so that you can teach or "correct" friends and acquaintances. However, you may want to "mail it in". It seems that many people who say "nukular" are somewhat resistant to change, but are not at all resistant to the idea of another assault charge on their rap sheet.

Look for our upcoming Lesson II, "America".

* "skillz" is also acceptable

** Aren't you glad we didn't say "radioactive"? Hah!

I encourage my fellow murkins to visit Humor-blogs.

150 Things To Do in Cedar Rapids

I realize that we're straining the credibility of the Taunt Vortex with this title, probably more so than if we'd said "Janis Joplin Alive, Working as Republican Block Captain in Topeka". But the "150 Things" title is one we actually came across as we were researching other stories.

So trust us, we were just as skeptical as you are now. And for good reason. I've been to most of the major cities in the U.S. : Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Phoenix, Houston, Dallas, St. Louis, Chicago, Miami, Atlanta, New York City, Boston, Washington D.C.. That's not all inclusive, but it was starting to sound like a Huey Lewis song. But the point is, even in these major metropolitan cities, you'd be hard pressed to come up with 150 things to do. And yet, Cedar Rapids* has the Obamian audacity to make such a claim. How did this happen? We'll explore.

I think that when most of us read "X Things to Do in Such-and-Such Place", we have in mind that certain qualifiers should apply to the "Things to Do". For starters the "things" should be fun and/or interesting. Skydiving might be a good example. Shopping for life insurance or circumcision would not. The "things" should also be sort of unique to that particular place. "Come to South Dakota to see Mt. Rushmore" would be a good example. "Come to South Dakota to see smelly brown cattle" would not. Also, the "things" should be readily available and accessible to most people most of the time. "Visit Seattle, see the Space Needle" is a good example. "Visit Seattle, perform Heimlich maneuver on a choking Bill Gates, retire in luxury" is not. Lastly, the "things" should be legal. "Shooting up black tar heroin on the uptown subway" might be fun, unique to NYC, and easily doable. But we're pretty sure it's against the law.

So, let's summarize those 4 qualifiers (because the Hell that was 9th grade English is still with me) : fun and/or interesting, unique to that place, available, and legal. Now I'm not going to go over all "150 Things" on the Cedar Rapids list, since no American adult has that sort of attention span, thank-you-very-much-internet-and-cable-TV. We used a random number generator (courtesy of aforementioned internet) to come up with 5 random choices to analyze from the Cedar Rapids list : 28, 33, 81, 83, and 142. Each "thing" can be assigned up to four points based on each qualifier.

# 28 Stroll the Streets of Yesteryear at Usher's Ferry : Honestly, strolling just doesn't sound that fun to us. It's just a notch above loitering. But it does sound legal, fairly accessible, and sort of unique to Cedar Rapids because they threw in that "Usher's Ferry" part. So 3 out of 4 points.

# 33 Rapid Eights square and round dancing at Time Check Recreation Center : Ok, "rec centers" are where middle school kids and high school kids without driver's licenses hang out and play table tennis or Foosball. And I can speak from an unfortunate family situation where I can tell you that square dancing can be done just about anywhere. We have no idea what round dancing is. Perhaps just square dancing with the edges sanded off a bit. Just 2 of 4 points here.

# 81 Attend the All Things Scottish Celtic Fest in September at Usher's Ferry : Eh, might be fun if there's alcohol available and you can avoid any and all bagpipes. So half a point there. It's probably legal, and relatively unique. But it loses availability points if you can only do it in September. Only 2.5 of 4 points.

# 83 Go Round Dancing : I suppose they thought that if they snuck in "round dancing" twice but separated it by 50 places, no one would notice. Well we noticed. And it's not really a list of "150 Things to Do" if you have to duplicate "things". Automatic disqualification. Zero points.

# 142 Attend a Playtime Poppy play with your kids : Well, we're not so sure that we can give any points here. Not everyone has children, and if you go to the children's theater alone, you're automatically placed on the "community perv" list. Even those who do have children - well, let's just say that spending time with them isn't a guarantee of "fun". But, this playhouse is unique to Cedar Rapids, and legal and accessible. So 3 of 4 points.

So out of a possible 20 points, we can only award 10.5. Let's extrapolate. No, that's not something you'd see in a Mapplethorpe print. It means we'll apply our results to the entire list. The "true" list of 150 things to do in Cedar Rapids is more like "78.75 Things To Do in Cedar Rapids". Still sounds a bit high to us.

Some final considerations. The "150 Things" were provided by residents of Cedar Rapids, so there's some obvious statistical bias there. We're pretty certain that if you were to abduct a resident of Denver, throw him into the trunk of your car and drive him to Cedar Rapids, he would only be able to come up with 4 or 5 "Things to do", one of them being "getting the hell out of your trunk". And to be fair, whenever a city publishes a list of "X Things to Do", they should also publish a list of "X Reasons to Avoid Such-and-Such Place" and let visitors from out-of-town assist with that particular list. We strongly suspect that for some cities, the "Things to Do" and the "Reasons to Avoid" lists would be virtually identical.

Ok, well, we've got to go let someone out of the trunk.


Visit Humor-blogs . You'll love the apple pie eating contests and riverboat rides.



* City Motto : Pretty much the same latitude as Chicago.