15 - Love

The lovely wife sometimes gets migraines. I have been fortunate enough to have never experienced a migraine headache. However, I do have an extreme weakness for Blue Bell ice cream, particularly the "Cookies & Cream" variety. I have been known to consume this ice cream voraciously, with wanton disregard for the consequences. Yeah, sometimes my chest hurts a little, but I'm thinking of the immediate consequence of the blindingly shrill pain know as the "ice pick" headache. The lovely wife tells me that migraines are much like that - but instead of going away in a merciful 30 or 40 seconds, migraines just keep going and going until you think your skull will explode or perhaps you'll take a life. On the upside, you don't gain weight or get diabetes from migraines.

Fortunately the lovely wife has discovered Imitrex. Imitrex really takes the edge off of the headache, shortens the duration of the pain, and significantly decreases the odds that the theoretical migraine sufferer will choke the life from a family member when they're careless enough to make a horrendous racket - like when turning the page of a book, or breathing in and out. The drug works - but it takes a few minutes to take effect.

One of our neighbors (neighbor from Hell #6) discovered this the hard way a couple of weeks ago. It was a little after 9 pm, my lovely wife was in the throes of a migraine, and was growing more and more irritated from the noise coming from the community tennis court next to our house. There are three important facts to consider at this time.

1). No one is supposed to use the tennis courts after 9 pm (straight from the HOA manifesto)

2). The people on the court were being especially loud

3). The Imitrex hadn't kicked in just yet.

So my lovely wife, as courteous as you can be when it feels like a white-hot knitting needle is being repeatedly jabbed into your gray matter, twice went over to ask the neighbors to leave the tennis court. Not surprisingly, her courtesy gauge was pegged on "empty" on her third trip to the tennis court.

The lovely wife again asked them to leave, since the court closes at 9 pm, not some random time of your choosing after nine. When they again chose not to do anything resembling neighborly, my lovely wife walked over to the power box for the floodlights and shut them off, leaving everyone in total darkness. The indignant neighbor from Hell #6 then said

I can't believe you did that!

And then my lovely wife came home, and her migraine got better. Perhaps you're thinking that the lovely wife was a little rude. She did give fair warning. And there was that migraine thing, too. Also consider that the son of neighbor from Hell #6 was on the tennis court - riding his bike.

No, not an 8 year old on a bike with training wheels* riding around the tennis court while a cautious and adoring parent watches on. No, this was a teenager (who has his own car) who for some reason thought that it would be exquisitely amusing to ride his bike on a tennis court. And his entitlement-laden mother thought that it was ok for him to do so. Dickwads.

God only knows why this teenager wasn't doing the normal teenage things, like binge drinking, being awkward at sex, or telling us how awesome and profound they are via their MySpace page. And God only knows why his mother wanted to watch him ride his bike on a tennis court. And I couldn't believe that my lovely wife shut the lights off on them too - but I was impressed. God I love this woman.

Maybe next time they'll wait until my lovely wife's Imitrex has kicked in.




* I don't care what those idiot child development experts say, training wheels at 8 years old is perfectly normal. I bet.

Over at Humor-blogs.com, they roller skate around the swimming pool.

Cubicle Countdown

If you'll recall from this post, my lovely wife has a co-worker* who is currently a seventh-degree neurotic. I'm pretty sure she's going to qualify for the 2012 Neuroses Olympics. Look for her to medal, too. Her name is Haley. Well, actually her name is Leah, but I still like the name Haley better so that's what I'm going to call her here.

I don't work with Haley, but I'm well aware that she hates her job, hates her life, and has some sort of Viking fetish. I know this because my lovely wife knows this**. My lovely wife knows this because Haley has no filter between her every waking thought and what comes out of her piehole.

My lovely wife and Haley are both account managers who deal with clients over the phone. Because Haley's brain filter is severely damaged or atrophied, she has been overheard to say inappropriate things on almost a daily basis. It's like she's the governor of Illinois or something, just not as likable. Today for example, the following exchange was overheard :


"Haley, there's an agent on the phone for you."

"Is he being a dick today? Because if he is I'm not going to talk to him!"


Sure, there are certain jobs where you can say the word "dick" rather loudly and it not be considered inappropriate. Porno director, standup comedian, and investment banker come to mind. But at a cubicle farm where there are suits, copying machines and speaker phones, using the word "dick" in reference to a client is bad form.

You would think that with the economy entering another year of Zimbabwe-like suckitude, and with unemployment rates creeping toward Andy Dick's (note the appropriate use of the word "Dick") blood alcohol level, those fortunate enough to have jobs would consider themselves fortunate just to be gainfully employed. Even if you hated your job. Because the only thing worse that a crummy economy is being unemployed in a crummy economy. Or being Andy Dick.

A few weeks ago Haley applied for a job as a director of a children's day care. Fortunately for a couple of dozen unnamed children in the greater Austin area, Haley didn't get the job. If you had a toddler and needed day care for you child, and your options were a). day care where Haley was the director, or b). leaving your toddler alone in a home with "A Clockwork Orange" playing on the HDTV, a bathtub full of water, and a meth lab in the dining room, you'd say -

"How much is the day care again?"

It would be nice if Haley was able to find a job that she truly loves. It would also be nice if I was able to find a talking unicorn that crapped out Krugerrands on an hourly basis. Sadly, Haley will probably lose the job she hates so much. If the whining and complaining lobe of her brain ever takes a break, she might just introspect enough to realize that a job that you're unhappy with is better than no job at all.

Haley is certainly a reliable resource for blogging material, but I'd have to admit that it would make my lovely wife's workday exponentially more pleasant if they let Haley go (play in traffic blindfolded).

If they do let her go, just remember that I've got February 14th in the pool. And let's all hope that she doesn't have a cache of ammo and automatic weapons in that closet with all of her Viking paraphernalia.


* I'm using the word "worker" very loosely here.

** With apologies to Chuck Palahniuk




Over at Humor-blogs.com, they automatically forward my calls to voice mail.

Grab Bag - January 26

Moose called tonight and asked if we wanted to get together for lunch on Sunday. With Moose and Tiffany. Perhaps in public. "Sure!" we said, because we're trying real hard Ringo to be the good shepherd, and to not be judgmental. Ahem. The lovely wife tells me that we're probably going to Matt's, a Tex-Mex restaurant, which is good as they serve alcohol. Nice....cold...alcohol.

Hold on. Let me check my list. Yeah, here it is on Doug's Big List of Awkward Things That Could Conceivably Happen To Me During My Lifetime, coming in at # 864 :


Have lunch with my son and his new stripper girlfriend.


Great. I'll be able to cross that off my list now. I was worried.

It's amazing how one's blog hit count skyrockets when you include words like "stripper" and "exotic dancer" in your post. Regardless, we here at the Taunt Vortex are committed to maintaining our high standards, which keep us from mentioning strippers and showgirls and dancers and exotic dancers and lap dancing in a wanton and irresponsible manner. Unless, of course, it's done tastefully and it's integral to the plot.

Topic change (hence the "Grab Bag" title) : Real estate.

Yes, the house is still for sale. We had some lookers last week, but still no offers. Interestingly, about two weeks ago I checked the mail to find one of those little St. Joseph figurines in a plain brown envelope. This is one of those figurines that you bury in your yard, and it's supposed to aid you in your search for a home-buyer. This was quite mysterious, as I hadn't ordered the figurine. For a few moments I was concerned that there might be a Tyler Durden version of me, ordering religious figurines and making napalm without my knowledge. No such luck.

After a thorough and intensive investigation (consisting of asking my lovely wife "Did you order this?") I discovered that my lovely wife had purchased it. So I replaced the St. Joseph aspirin bottle buried in the yard with the St. Joseph figurine. It might not help sell the house, but it will definitely get me a better seat in Hell.

The good news is that instead of having to sell the house by the end of the year, we actually have until the Summer of 2010. Certainly the economy will be better by then, right? If not it won't really matter, as we'll all be surviving in our real life Mad Max post-apocalyptic thriller. Which just sucks, because I don't look good in black leather.

We found this out from Ashley, when we went to the condo sales office to pick out the interior stuff for the condo. Ashley was very nice and helpful, but used the word "definitely" like I use the word "the".

I'm glad the lovely wife and I could stop by during lunch to make these selections.

"Definitely"

I think we like the lighter toned hardwood better than the darker one.

"Definitely"

I'm fairly certain that our current refrigerator it too tall for that space, so I'm thinking we'll just stack four or five ice coolers in that space instead.

"Definitely"

And when I'm confronted with people who have mindless pat responses to each and every statement someone makes, I usually want to throw them in the trunk, drive to Matamoros, and sell them as drug cartel labor for $ 80 a head.

"Definitely"

And finally, Ashley, because you seem like a nice girl with a good head on your shoulders - would you find it a little awkward if your son happened to be dating a stripper?

"Definitely"

Thanks for your help Ashley. I think we'll definitely go with the lighter hardwoods.


Over at Humor-blogs.com, they're still convinced that we should have gone with the darker flooring.

Parental Sighs

All 3 of our children are now over 18 years of age. If you do the math, that's a collective total of over 60 years of active child-raising. As a result of this vast experience, you would think that there's not much left that our children could do to seriously upset us.

If you were to think that, you'd pretty much be right. We've almost reached a Zen Buddhism level of calm and acceptance regarding the behavior of our children. By the way, my lovely wife looks great in brightly colored robes, but the shaved-head thing doesn't really flatter her. "It'll grow back," I reassure her.

Gone are the days of time-outs, taking away privileges, arguments, removing doors from hinges, and the withholding of food and continuous oxygen. Just kidding. We've never withheld food. That's just wrong. As most parents do, we love our children dearly. But when raising them, it's always a struggle to discipline them appropriately, to guide the development of their values and judgment without being overbearing and creating more distance and rebelliousness.

To use the lamest analogy I can possibly think of, it's like building a rocket ship. You carefully attempt to build the rocket to your plan, use the correct propellant, reject parts from Morton-Thiokol, select a talented crew, and then start the countdown.



With a bit of luck, the liftoff is successful, and your child has an incredible adventure on this journey called life (ok, sorry, yeah that even made me gag a little). However, if things go awry, then the entire operation can blow up in an instant, in full public view, with friends and neighbors pointing and saying "oooohhh" and "ahhhhh".

To help foster a sense of good judgment and critical thinking in our children, we would often say "Make good choices" when they would leave to go to school, to parties and other social events, or to Taco Bell. ( Seriously, stay away from those bean burritos.) I think the lovely wife and I did at least an above average job raising our 3 children. They're kind, hard working, have a good sense of humor, and (so far) have avoided any sort of drug addictions. Still, there are times when one of them will say or do something that really makes us question our parenting. But as I said earlier, we don't get too upset anymore, or yell or argue or slam doors. We just sigh.

A big Parental Sigh.

This week our oldest son, Moose, made us produce one of those Parental Sighs. It was a rather loud one, created by me and my lovely wife simultaneously, made with such volume and exasperation that it showed up on the local Doppler radar. Moose informed us that he'd been in a good mood lately because he was dating someone.

Ok, that's cool. Dating someone isn't to be discouraged. Good for him.

"Just so she's not a stripper or something..." my lovely wife joked, because she has a wonderful sense of humor. Well, at least she did for a few more seconds.

Long pause on Moose's part. Then Moose gets a funny look on his face, much like the face we remember from when Moose was occupied with filling his diaper roughly two decades ago.

Moose says he's dating a dancer. No, not a competitive ballroom dancer. No, not a ballerina*. He's seeing a stripper. Although these days they prefer to be called "exotic dancers" or just "dancers". So I'm told.

SIGH

Of course as a father, part of me was compelled to sigh, because a). my wife was with me and b). dancers tend to have more issues than celebrities and politicians, combined. So I'm told. Of course, as a father, another part of me was thinking "My son is dating a stripper? Pretty awesome." Of course this line of thinking was quickly suppressed, since (as already mentioned) my lovely wife was with me.

Her name is Tiffany. That's a common name for strippers. So I'm told. And she's divorced, with two young children.

SIGH

I just hope that's she's a good mother. And I hope she doesn't have any addiction issues. And I hope she doesn't hurt our little boy - even though he's over 21 now.

Lastly, I'm relieved that I've avoided hanging out at gentlemen's clubs. For one thing, once glitter sticks to you, it's there forever. Second, it would have been way awkward upon meeting Tiffany if she were to say :

Don't I know you from somewhere?


SIGH.


* Not good either. They're uppity and walk funny.


Over at Humor-blogs.com, some are thinking I made all of this up. I wish.

Wuthering Heights

When I was in the eighth grade I was enrolled in an accelerated English class. It's not entirely clear to me how that happened. I think it's because my seventh grade English teacher thought I needed a challenge. And by "challenge" I mean punishment, because for the entirety of seventh grade English I was hormonally distracted by Lisa Odom's jeans, the tops of which came to about four inches below her navel. That made diagramming sentences seem both extremely difficult and totally irrelevant.

For eighth grade English our teacher wanted us to read a Gothic novel, and then produce a book report. I had no idea what a Gothic novel was*, but fortunately the teacher provided a list of appropriate novels. I chose Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, and quickly concluded that "Gothic" meant boring and unreadable. And that Emily should have been shot, if it wasn't for the fact that she was already dead.

As best as I could tell, Gothic novels have plots that revolve around men and women who stand outdoors under gray and gloomy skies, staring off into the distance with a sort of pensive look on their faces. (See photo above). Throw in a ghost or two, a castle, death, and an oxcart full of sadness and you've got the elements of a Gothic novel. It's obvious that these were all written long ago - before the advent of potent anti-depressant pharmaceuticals.

I tried to read Wuthering Heights. It was the most mind-numbingly dull prose I had ever attempted to read. I would read a page, or two, and then nod off to sleep. Seriously. I spent my Christmas break slogging through the paperback version of Ambien. By the time I got to the last page, I was bored, confused and frustrated. Sleeping through a book does a number on your reading comprehension, and when I finished the book I was convinced that I knew less about the story than before I started. Then I was supposed to write a book report about it. I was in the throes of the biggest "Oh Crap" moment that I'd ever had in my young academic life.

So what did I do? Well, kiddoes, this was decades before the internet, so there was no Google, or Wikipedia, or an online version of Spark Notes that would have clarified the novel for me in a matter of minutes. And even though my older sister was in high school, she was way too busy with teenage angst to clue me into that miracle of American eduction, Cliff Notes. So basically, I winged it. I guesstimated. I bullshitted. I gave it my best shot. I wrote what I thought the novel was about, and prayed for divine intervention.

Now it wouldn't have been so bad if we had just been required to write a report and turn it in. I was pretty sure that I'd get a paper handed back to me with a bright red "D" on top, or a "C-" if I was lucky. I'd quickly stuff it into my Partridge Family binder**, and that would be the end of it. But no. Our eighth grade teacher wanted us to present an oral report as well. In front of the class. Hence my current male pattern baldness.

For roughly five minutes, I attempted to give a book report on a book that I basically slept through. When I finally finished, the following thoughts entered my head :

Jeesus, I finally finished this assignment from Hell. Hey, nobody else was assigned Wuthering Heights, so they really have no idea if I was totally bullshitting or not! And the teacher didn't stop me or correct me. I may actually do ok here!

There was a pause. A rather long pause. The teacher had been sitting in the back of the room, listening quietly. Finally she said:


"You really had no idea what that was about, did you?"


"Uh, no, not really."

I don't remember much after that. It was pretty much like in the movies, where the background starts to spin slowly, then faster and faster until the protagonist wakes up in a prison or a mental hospital. I somehow made it back to my desk, and finished the school year without further humiliation at the hands of any of the Bronte sisters.

I actually didn't fail the written book report. I think I got a "C". But to this day I remember more details about Lisa Odom's bell bottoms than any details about Wuthering Heights.



* I still don't. Obviously.

** Just kidding. It was an Emergency! binder. As far as you know.


Emily Bronte only wrote one novel. She never would have made it at Humor-blogs.com

My Name is George

For this episode of the Taunt Vortex, we'll need to employ the Time Tunnel to transport ourselves roughly 4 months into the future. Don't forget to make the appropriate time travel sound effects as we travel to the well-appointed office of an NBC executive in Hollywood, California.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

NBC Exec : Welcome, George. I'm Jeff Zucker, President of NBC.

George : Heh, heh, ya know, I'm President too - of the United States. Even after you're out of office everyone is supposed to call ya "President", even though you can't buzz Clinton's house with Air Force One anymore. Or launch nucular missiles. Man, if I'd a had just a couple of more months...

NBC Exec : That's good to know, George...

George : That's President George. Sorry, thought I made that clear already.

NBC Exec : Ok, sorry. Well, President George. I wanted to talk to you about a tentative project for you here at NBC.

George : Heh, heh, well, tell me what you've got. To be honest with ya, I sort of miss being in the public eye already. I'm worried that my popularity might slip if I don't keep a high profile. That's why I thought this NBC idea of gettin' me in a TV show was great.

NBC Exec : Well, I'm pleased that you're on board with the concept, Geor...President George. But starring in a regular prime time television series can be very demanding on your time.

George : Heh, well, heh...well I've got a lot of time on my hands now. Honestly, I've had a lot of time on my hands for the last ten years! No, seriously, Laura's gone shopping all the time, and the uppity new neighbors in Dallas won't even open their security gates for me.

NBC Exec : No shit? Seriously, what does Mark Cuban have to be snobby about? Or Dallas for that matter. Anyway, about the project.

George : Yeah, about that show. I sort of had this idea about a prime time version of "The View", but just with guys. See, it'd be me instead of Barbara Walters. And instead of Joy Behar, you get Charlton Heston. And instead of Whoopi Steinberg, you get Larry the Cable Guy. Instead of Elisabeth Hasselbeck you could - well, maybe we could keep her. I think she likes me. I bet we'd have some....chemistry.

NBC Exec : Uh, Mr. Heston died about a year ago, President George. But really, "The View" isn't really the direction we wanted to go. President George, have you ever seen "My Name is Earl" ?

George : I thought you said your name was Jeff.

NBC Exec : No, sir. "My Name is Earl" is a sitcom that's currently on NBC. Have you ever seen it? It usually airs on Thursday evenings.

George : No, sorry. That's "Ugly Betty" night for me and Laura.


NBC Exec : Well, in a nutshell, "My Name is Earl" is about a character named Earl Hickey. He'd done a lot of not-so-good things in his life, when he happened upon the concept of Karma. He then decided to change his life, and make a list of all those he'd wronged in the past. Earl's goal is to try to make up for all the wrongs he did in the past to each and every individual that he hurt.

George : I get it. Sort of like Jimmy Carter building houses for all of those poor folks. Whaddyacallit, Habitrail for Humanity?

NBC Exec : Um, sort of. But instead of Earl trying to make amends for all the loss, pain and suffering that he caused in his pre-Karma life, it would be you - President George W. Bush. Our creative people say that there's a virtual endless supply of plot lines. Of course we'd call the new series "My Name is George". I mean "President George".

George : So how long's this list that Earl has?

NBC Exec : It has 139 things on it.

George : How long would my list be?

NBC Exec : Well, in theory , probably well over 300 million. Perhaps even a billion.

George : Wow. That's huge. That's gotta be at least ten seasons worth of shows. Say, do I get to pick my co-stars? I sort of promised Karl Rove and Karen Hughes a job. Things have been pretty slow for them lately, you understand.

NBC Exec : No, I'm sorry President George. Our casting directors prefer professional actors.

George : Sucks for them. Okay, well I think I'm up for this deal, heh. Karl and Karen said I needed to work on my legacy. So it's either this, or write a book. And I've heard it's even harder to write a book than to read one. So count me in.

NBC Exec : That's great, President George. I think we've got a hit on our hands here. I'll have my people draw up the contract and send it to your people.

George : Well, heh, I don't really have any people anymore.

NBC Exec : Well then check your mailbox. So "My Name is President George", any questions?

George : Yeah. They'll let me use a Teleprompter, right? Heh.

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Welcome back to January 19, 2009. The last full day of the Bush presidency.


At Humor-blogs.com, they liked Land of the Giants better than the Time Tunnel. Idiots.

Karma Visits the Post Office

I'm not a practitioner of the Hindu or Buddhist religions, although I did purchase my fair share of George Harrison solo albums as a teenager. Despite this fact (or perhaps because of it), I happen to think that there may be something to the concept of Karma.

To put it succinctly, Karma comes down to "If you do good things, good things will happen to you - if you do bad things, bad things will happen to you." That's straight from Wikipedia, so who could argue? Several years ago there was a book called When Bad Things Happen to Good People. That title sort of flies in the face of the concept of Karma. If a Hindu had written When Bad Things Happen to Good People you'd open up the book, and on page one it would say:

"Well, perhaps those 'good' people weren't really as good as they thought they were. Face it, they had what was coming to them. Now stop eating cows!"

That would have been a very short book, and probably would not have sold nearly as well as the original version did. But I imagine the original author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People had a lot of bad things happen to him after writing that. He basically just kicked sand in Karma's face, cut Karma off in traffic, and told Karma that she looked fat in those pants.

My only problem with Karma is that Karma works on its own schedule. We all know someone who's basically evil, mean and nasty to everything that breathes (and even a lot of things that don't), yet nothing bad ever seems to happen to them. Karma doesn't always work as quickly and decisively as it did with the guys at Enron. We try to wait patiently, knowing full well that eventually Karma will attend to those evil, mean and nasty individuals. I'm sometimes tempted to give Karma an "assist", just to move things along. But then I figure that that itself would be a bad thing, and then Karma would have to take time out of its busy schedule to deal with me, further delaying the onslaught of awfulness that is due the truly bad people, like general contractors and airline executives.

Why the lengthy intro about Karma? Well, not too long ago I posted about my dissatisfaction with the U.S. Postal Service destroying my mail. Karma must have a pretty light schedule this week. Before you view the following photo, I'm compelled to assure you that I had absolutely nothing to do with this!




That's the front of the Post Office where I usually drop off my mail. Apparently within the last couple of days some driver was due some bad Karma, and crashed into the front of the Post Office where I usually drop off my mail. In fact, we saw this as we went to the post office to re-mail the bill that the post office had destroyed a few days earlier.

You've got to admire Karma's efficiency. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. Or perhaps even more, if you count those who had their P.O. boxes* destroyed in the "accident".


* Seriously, aren't the only people who use post office boxes either terrorists, drug dealers or porn collectors?


I think the bloggers at Humor-blogs.com spread some laughs throughout the blogosphere, so they're probably due scads of good Karma.

Brick v. City of San Antonio

Brick is our 20 year old son. He's not an attorney, nor am I, though I often make a point to watch Boston Legal. So, in some third world countries (and Oklahoma), I'm probably qualified to practice law. If America has learned anything from darned-close-to-ex-President Bush's farewell speech this last Thursday, it's 1). Civil Liberties are trending "in" again, and 2). Dick Cheney's naptime is apparently around 8:00 p.m. Eastern time.







The reason I bring this up is that Brick visited the fair city of San Antonio on Friday to take care of some legal matters. I made that sound sort of vague, to pique your interest, but really it was just over a couple of parking tickets. No high speed chases. No bodies in trunks. No missing bank notes. Sorry, maybe next time.

You might think that Brick would have just driven down to San Antonio, pleaded nolo contendere* , paid his fine and returned to Austin. I'm sure that in some parallel universe there's a version (a much more cooperative, conformist, and non-tattooed version) of Brick that would have done just that. But not in this universe. The court reporter refused his request for a copy of the court transcript, so what you get here is rough paraphrasing, after my hearing of the events second hand. But you'll get the idea:

City Attorney : You can plead "no contest" and pay the fine for your two parking tickets.

Brick : No thank you. The parking spaces weren't properly demarcated, so I don't feel that I should have to pay the fine.

City Attorney: It's your responsibility to pay for parking and to pay the fines if you park illegally.

Brick: Yes, but according to the City of San Antonio's own city ordinances, the city has a responsibility to properly paint the parking spaces to delimit the boundaries. This wasn't done, so I don't think I should pay the fine.

City Attorney (By now getting a little exasperated) : Okay, how about we plea bargain it down to ten dollars per ticket if you plead "no contest". And it won't go on your record.

Brick : I think I'd like a jury trial.

City Attorney: This Court has too many cases to take this case to a jury trial.

Brick : Then maybe you shouldn't issue so many tickets. I'd like a jury trial.

City Attorney (Now thinking "Oh God, why me? Why today?") : Do you really want to take that chance? If you lose, it could result in an increase in your auto insurance.

Taunt Vortex note: I can't believe he said this. That's total bullshit, as non-moving violations have no impact whatsoever on your auto insurance rates. Brick knew this too, and called his bluff.

Brick : Have you heard of the Sixth Amendment?

City Attorney (Now questioning his decision to go into law) : Yes I have.

Brick : Do you know what it says?

City Attorney (Now thinking he should have paid more attention during that Constitutional law class.) : Well, not off the top of my head.

Brick: Well, I'd still like a jury trial.

City Attorney (Losing the will to live): Okay, okay. We'll throw out these tickets, just this once. The next time we'll expect you to pay your fines.

So Brick walked out of court without having to pay any parking fines, just the cost of gasoline to get him to San Antonio and back. Although I didn't ask him what he did about parking when he went to court. I'm very proud of Brick, that he represented himself in court, stood up to the City Attorney, and avoided any contempt of court charges.

The only thing that would have made me more proud, is if he would have turned around, just before he exited the courtroom, and said :

Denny Crane !


* Literally "Let's get this over with"


Rumor has it that David Souter consults Humor-blogs.com before each and every decision.

Hatin' on the Postal Service (Strong Language, Again)

I had sort of made a New Year's resolution to be all zen, to take things as they come, to be more patient and not let things get to me this year. As you may have already noticed, my office accountant and my bank have so far made it extremely difficult for me to find inner peace and harmony with the universe. Then today I come home from work to find a letter from the U.S. Postal Service.

Now, when I say a letter "from the U.S. Postal Service", I don't mean that they just delivered something sent from a third party. No, the letter itself was from the Postal Service. I can't imagine any sort of scenario where a letter from the Postal Service is a good thing. The last correspondence I had with the post office (albeit unofficial) was a note from the planet's worst letter carrier giving us her bank account number so that we could tip her at Christmas for consistently delivering our mail to a random selection of our neighbors. And for not closing the door of our mailbox when it's raining.

With some degree of trepidation, I opened the letter. This is what I found inside :




Yeah, that's the payment I sent to Valero to pay my gasoline bill for December. And, yes, that's Timmy from South Park peering over the date on the check. I'm in my 40s and I have South Park checks. So sue me.

Call me paranoid, but I'm starting to think that there's some sort of conspiracy to keep me from paying my bills this month. First my employer sends my paycheck to another office, then Compass bank puts a hold on my check. Now the Postal Service has apparently decided to test out their brand-spanking new Destroyit 4107SC industrial shredder on my personal mail. Fuckers.

That's not all that was in the letter from the Postal Service. They enclosed a little note, which wasn't so much of an apology, but more like a shitty excuse. Check it out :



I'm not sure the Postal Service was striving for irony, but you can't help notice that the note they sent about my damaged mail had a corner torn off. I love the way they say my mail was damaged "in the Postal Service". Not "by the Postal Service" or "because of the Postal Service", just "in". That's taking responsibility. It's like they want me to think that there's some rogue mail terrorist wandering about the post office who randomly selects envelopes to rip in half. Or quarters. Or one-sixty fourths.

In keeping with the time-tested American defense mechanism of the 2000s, they then turn the blame onto the victim/customer.

Damage can occur if mail is insecurely enveloped or bulky contents are enclosed.

Apparently by enclosing the check in the envelope with the statement, it just resulted in too much bulk. I'll know better next time I pay my bills, and will just send the statements back without that hulking cumbersome South Park check. Oh, and perhaps I'll simply lick the envelope to seal it, instead of using staples, half a roll of duct tape and superglue.

Fucking bastards.

They do manage to eke out a lame apology at the very end (The part that's torn, with irony). Do they offer any sort of compensation for the possible late charges I might incur, or the time I'll spend writing and mailing another check, or even 42 cents for another stamp? No. They fucked up, they're sort of sorry, but tough luck on your part.

Can you imagine getting this sort of letter from your dry cleaner?

Dear Dry Cleaner Customer,

The enclosed Armani suit coat was found engulfed in flames at our dry cleaning facility. We make every effort to properly handle all of the dry cleaning entrusted to us, but hey, we handle hundreds of garments. So you pretty much have to expect that one may go up in flames every now and then. This can occur if flammable contents are left in the pockets, so please try to avoid doing that again, ok? We sincerely regret any inconvenience this has caused you. Oh, that will be $ 5.99 for the dry cleaning.

This is probably all a sign from God. I should get another bank (or credit union) and start paying my bills online, electronically, like most of you have been doing for a decade now. But I'll miss my South Park checks. But I'll also miss leaving notes in the memo section on my checks, like telling Chevron "Congratulation on last quarter's ginormous ungodly profits!", or the memo to Citigroup saying "Just a drop compared to the bailout you're getting, but I hope it helps!".

So I'm going to reset my personal New Year for February 1. Starting then, I'll be more Zen.


At Humor-blogs.com they like the taste of stamps.


Finally, I'd like to credit Brick for his technical assistance in taking these digital photos and loading them onto the PC. Without him, you'd be looking at pencil sketches of my mail.

Hatin' on my Bank (Warning: Strong Language)

I should have seen this one coming. That once-a-month paycheck I mentioned a couple of posts ago? I had a bad feeling about that from the beginning, which was borne out by the company accountant sending it to the wrong office. Even after I deposited the check on Friday, I was uneasy, because we all know that banks can't be trusted with money any more than accountants can be trusted with money.

I check my account online on Monday, and sure enough my bank (which will remain unnamed, for a few sentences anyway) put a hold on my paycheck. Fuckers. Sure, we usually do direct deposit, but this check was a check from the same employer I've had for almost ten years. And we've deposited other checks in the past (some even larger than this one) without a hold being placed on the check.

I was pissed. Since I get paid once a month (Have I mentioned that already? Sorry.) I don't really have the luxury of time to sit around and wait an extra week to make sure my paycheck clears to start paying the bills. You see where this is going, right? Yeah, I had already mailed the house payment, car payments, etc. on Saturday. I could just see those NSF charges start racking up, followed by my commandeering a Caterpillar bulldozer and levelling this particular bank branch office to the ground as I laugh hysterically with glee, shouting Hold this!. That just wouldn't work out, because you have to commandeer major construction equipment late at night, and I really need my sleep or I get especially grumpy.

So my lovely wife volunteers to visit the fine people at the unnamed bank (It rhymes with "pompous") at 7:00 a.m. Monday morning. I would have done it, but there was at least a 40% chance that the police would have been called, and we don't need that.

Sure enough, they sort of hmmmed and hwwwed, saying something like "Yes, we really shouldn't have put a hold on this check." But then the bank employee said something that just confirmed what an idiot fucktard institution Compass Bank* really is.

"We tried to call you to tell you, but the phone numbers you provided weren't good numbers."

Oh sweet baby Jesus. Okay, one, you could have told me that you were going to put a hold on this check at the time I deposited it, so I could have reached through those pneumatic tubes and choked the drive-thru teller into submission on Friday. That would have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Two, the two phone numbers they had on file were :

1). Our home number, that we've had for over 7 years, that hasn't been disconnected. Yet.

2). My main office number, which I know for a fact from those dozens of annoying calls I get everyday is still a working number.

So either the bank employees wear mittens when they use the phone, hence making mis-dailing a not unexpected outcome. Or they are just lying idiot fucktards. For the record, I'll just say that my lovely wife made no mention of the bank employees wearing mittens during her visit.

They did promptly take the hold off of that check, just as those withdrawals here starting to hit. This isn't the first sucky episode we've had with Compass Bank. But I think it's the final straw. This weekend I'm going looking for a new bank. And you can bet I'll be checking the employees for mittens.

Again, in the end, everything worked out. I think it was Nietzsche who said

That which doesn't kill me, makes me want to commandeer large yellow construction equipment.

Or something like that.


* Compass Bank, so named because its policies and practices are as mysterious as that invisible force of magnetism.


Stop by Humor-blogs.com, where they have free checking.

The Birth of Lobster Boy

Moose, our oldest child, got hurt at work last Friday. My lovely wife called me Friday morning with that panicky sound in her voice that's usually reserved for when there's a plumbing disaster or a global Ebola pandemic.

"Have you heard from Moose? He's had an accident!" she said in that panicky voice that I already mentioned, for those of you not really paying attention. I heard the word "accident" and I immediately thought motor vehicle accident because: 1). Moose is a male 2). Moose is between the ages of 16 - 28 3). Moose has a car that has more horsepower than my first three cars combined.

Turns out Moose got hurt at work, apparently in an effort to maintain full employment numbers at OSHA. He was working on a running car, and got sprayed in the face with extremely hot water. Fortunately he was wearing glasses, so we're not in the market for white canes and German Shepherds. Unfortunately he got some pretty nasty burns on his face. I'm thinking of re-nicknaming him "Lobster Boy" once he's no longer in pain.

He's been prescribed rest (i.e., living on our sofa), antibiotic ointment, and Vicodin (which he doesn't seem to mind so much). Moose had a follow-up appointment with a plastic surgeon on Monday. Apparently Moose, er, I mean Lobster Boy, won't have any permanent scarring or disfigurement. The plastic surgeon told Moose that he didn't need to come back to see him again, because Moose would just be taking up a valuable appointment spot. Heaven knows there are still hundreds of breasts out there that are still un-augmented.

Even though it just looks like a very bad sunburn on his face, I told Moose that when he goes back to work, he should wear one of these and freak everybody out :

Yeah, Phantom of the Auto Shop. Except he should lose the rose - that's just a little too gay. When I told Moose that he should wear the mask, it made him laugh a little, which isn't a good thing since any facial movement induces severe pain.

I'm pretty sure Moose will be back to normal in a few days. And we'll get our sofa back. This is just another example of everything working out in the end. I think it was Nietzsche who said :

"That which doesn't kill me, reminds me not to unclamp hot-water hoses close to my face," or something like that.

At Humor-blogs.com, they've gone over 45 minutes without an accident.

I'm Baaack

After not blogging for about two weeks, the hardest part is just getting that first sentence written. There.

There has been ample speculation regarding my absence from the blogosphere, and as usual the speculation itself has probably been much more interesting than the reality. Just to set things straight, let me start off my clearing the air, and itemizing the interesting things that didn't happen to me in the last couple of weeks :

1). I was not fitted for a white canvas jacket that has sleeves that tie in the back.
2). I was not in self-exile on an otherwise deserted small island in the Florida keys because of my failure to make the top 3 of the last Mattress Police caption contest that I participated in. (Are they still doing those?).
3) . I did not win the lottery (i.e., my house didn't sell and I haven't moved, yet). Saint Joseph my ass.
4). I am not a pending member of the new Obama cabinet
5). I was not placed into custody after attempting to "use my stimulus package" at the local mall.

"So just what the hell was Doug doing all of this time?" you're saying to yourself, because you're curious and you hate the way I drag things out like I'm getting paid by the letter*. Since you asked, there's a list for that too. (Remember, it's startlingly less interesting.)

1). Working. Despite this award-winning blog**, I have yet to be offered an advance for a book or movie deal. So I've still been schlepping it at my day gig.

2). Holiday stuff. Despite that fact that some of my neighbors suspect that we're Pagans (or worse, Lutherans) we celebrated Christmas and New Years' in the typical American fashion, but without any domestic violence. Although we did have our annual water leak. It's January 10th, and we've already taken the Christmas tree down. It's laying in the driveway next to the garage door, if any of you Sierra Club types want to pick it up to make mulch or something. We still have a few indoor lights that we haven't taken down yet. I think they look sort of cool, so I may try to talk my lovely wife into leaving them up until the house sells (or even longer).

3). Reading. For the last few years, most of my reading has been non-fiction and work-related material. That sort of implies that work-related material is fiction. I'll let you be the judge. Anywhozits, for some reason I've got it in my head that I'd like to read some of the "classics" of fiction, perhaps one a week. My wonderful family got me some books for Christmas, so I've got a good start. Of course my reading list so far looks just like your middle school English curriculum, with Brave New World, Slaughterhouse Five, All Quiet on the Western Front, Rabbit Run, Lord of the Flies, and The Hobbit.

Ok, shut the fuck up. I liked The Hobbit. I'd read it just before I'd go to sleep, and have these really wicked wild dreams. Besides, you have to work up to The Brothers Karamazov.

4). Scrabble. I got a new Scrabble board for Christmas, got interested in it, and found an online Scrabble club. Again, shut the fuck up. Being addicted to Scrabble is a lot less harmful to one's family life than, say, being addicted to meth or crack. Probably.

By the way, did you know that there are 101 acceptable 2-letter words in Scrabble, but none that use the letters "C" or "V" ? I can already envision people rolling their eyes and slowly walking away from me at parties....

Okay, so that's basically it. I'm back to blogging now, though perhaps not on a daily basis. Gone are the heady days of being in the Humor-blogs.com top five, but I'll probably sleep better. As for the reading, I'm currently on The Sun Also Rises. Hemingway is a pretty quick read, so I'll probably get some blogging done this week.

Oh, and do you know any five letter words that start with "K" and end in "Y". Thanks!


* I'm not

** Well, maybe someday