If you don't feed it for a month it can die.
Hopefully, like a real baby, it doesn't need much food. I mean they eat those stupid, tiny bottles of mashed peas and smile, right?
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Question...
Is Regis rooting for or against this Slumdog Millionaire movie?
Ah, ah...see its not that easy once you think about it, is it?
Ah, ah...see its not that easy once you think about it, is it?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
O-Bama and A-Rod
Last night was the new El Predsidente's first press conference. He had to talk about his stimulus package. He had to address the faults of his plan, and the arguments of others that it is short sighted. He had to discuss the wars we are in and could be in. He had to field questions on how he has lost the whole "we're not red states, we're not blue states, we're the United States of America" rallying cry just short of a month in office. And then...well then he had to answer about good old A-Rod.
Yep, amidst talk of national crisis a journalist asked the president what he thought about the recent reveal that the high priced Yankees third baseman had taken performance enhancing drugs.
He answered...and he said what you would say about such a thing, but lets put this in perspective.
Picture it (Sophia on the Golden Girls style): You are at work in the middle of an insanely complex task. You are in charge (please note: if you are not in charge at your job, pretend for now you are in charge) and as you go over questions on your project someone comes in and says, "Hey, did you see the piss poor job they did plowing out there!"
Now, perhaps Obama planted this reporter like a woman schedules a friend to call her in the middle of a blind date. "Listen, if I start getting questions about how I only turned over three republican votes on my stimulus package its time to launch Project Q-Rod." Maybe he did, I don't know.
What I do know is that Alex Rodriguez simply does not matter. Not when we are at war, not when people are losing their jobs, and not when we are in the midst of a historic recession.
Honestly, what could he have said there short of...it's bad. It was a lay-up, a meatball, a drop of rain into his outstretch arms (to use three superb sports metaphors). And it had no place in this press conference.
If I were Obama, and I fielded that question I would have said, "I don't think about Alex Rodriguez. I'm too busy trying to balance the economy, get us out of a war safely while maintaining relative peace in the area, introduce new energy policies so we have a world to take steroids in and, well, Valentine's Day is coming up and I am plum out of ideas on what I should give Michelle."
Then you flash one of those loony Dubbya grins he was infamous for, call immediately on someone else after giving them an odd nickname (i.e. Stilts) and go about your day.
Yep, amidst talk of national crisis a journalist asked the president what he thought about the recent reveal that the high priced Yankees third baseman had taken performance enhancing drugs.
He answered...and he said what you would say about such a thing, but lets put this in perspective.
Picture it (Sophia on the Golden Girls style): You are at work in the middle of an insanely complex task. You are in charge (please note: if you are not in charge at your job, pretend for now you are in charge) and as you go over questions on your project someone comes in and says, "Hey, did you see the piss poor job they did plowing out there!"
Now, perhaps Obama planted this reporter like a woman schedules a friend to call her in the middle of a blind date. "Listen, if I start getting questions about how I only turned over three republican votes on my stimulus package its time to launch Project Q-Rod." Maybe he did, I don't know.
What I do know is that Alex Rodriguez simply does not matter. Not when we are at war, not when people are losing their jobs, and not when we are in the midst of a historic recession.
Honestly, what could he have said there short of...it's bad. It was a lay-up, a meatball, a drop of rain into his outstretch arms (to use three superb sports metaphors). And it had no place in this press conference.
If I were Obama, and I fielded that question I would have said, "I don't think about Alex Rodriguez. I'm too busy trying to balance the economy, get us out of a war safely while maintaining relative peace in the area, introduce new energy policies so we have a world to take steroids in and, well, Valentine's Day is coming up and I am plum out of ideas on what I should give Michelle."
Then you flash one of those loony Dubbya grins he was infamous for, call immediately on someone else after giving them an odd nickname (i.e. Stilts) and go about your day.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Submitting info to my college publication
I have begged my dad for years to submit something to my college magazine that comes out...gosh...I don't know. Monthly, quarterly, ummm....
Anywho, we have one of those alumni sections, but I have always aimed higher. And while I don't think I could get the cover, I do think I could get a nice little write-up.
And still he relents.
Sigh.
So, since I will never be immortalized in the pages of my college alumni publication I can always get the word out here at STFASM. So, without any further adieu:
Dear Publisher of Alumni Magazine of College My Beloved Son Attended,
I am writing to let you know of my son's untimely passing. While it is still hard to even think about the events that led to his demise, his story is one that deserves to be told, and his courage deserves to be commended.
My son was passing an orphanage late one night last week after his regular session of reading to the blind when he picked up the slightest whiff of smoke. He looked around to see a tiny white towel being waved from Our Lady of the Bastard Child Orphanage. Without thinking he stormed into the orphanage just as the flames were about to reach their peak. Unfortunately the stairs were engulfed in flames so he used his swiss army knife to carve out grips for himself in the wall.
Once at the top he fashioned a large slide out of pillows and sheets and started to get the children out. He then went around to each room and made sure that every child was accounted for. When he finally got out one of the children asked him with teary eyes, "What about Bernie and the puppies she just had?"
My son put a hand on his shoulder and told the boy that he would get them. He suffered serious burns as he got the children's dog and all of her puppies, but he smiled brightly as the children gathered around the dogs and sang his name. As he helped to nurse the puppies he heard a tiny sobbing. The sobbing of young Sally Lincoln "What's wrong, dear?" he asked her. She looked up, eyes awash in tears. "My mommy. She died and I only have one picture of her in my room, and now its gone!"
My son looked down at her and said, "Its as gone as this building is fire-proof." Ten minutes later something flew from a window on the top floor. Sally raced forward eagerly and found her cherished picture with a small post-it note on it that read, "stay in school, and always remember to floss." With that the building exploded taking my insanely brave son with it. As they say, the lord only takes the best.
Again, I just wanted to related this little story so that you might update his fellow alumni. His services are being held this weekend. We had to wait as the Vatican has asked to send representatives. Thank you for taking the time to read this letter.
Kindly yours,
Father of BDF
BDF
Anywho, we have one of those alumni sections, but I have always aimed higher. And while I don't think I could get the cover, I do think I could get a nice little write-up.
And still he relents.
Sigh.
So, since I will never be immortalized in the pages of my college alumni publication I can always get the word out here at STFASM. So, without any further adieu:
Dear Publisher of Alumni Magazine of College My Beloved Son Attended,
I am writing to let you know of my son's untimely passing. While it is still hard to even think about the events that led to his demise, his story is one that deserves to be told, and his courage deserves to be commended.
My son was passing an orphanage late one night last week after his regular session of reading to the blind when he picked up the slightest whiff of smoke. He looked around to see a tiny white towel being waved from Our Lady of the Bastard Child Orphanage. Without thinking he stormed into the orphanage just as the flames were about to reach their peak. Unfortunately the stairs were engulfed in flames so he used his swiss army knife to carve out grips for himself in the wall.
Once at the top he fashioned a large slide out of pillows and sheets and started to get the children out. He then went around to each room and made sure that every child was accounted for. When he finally got out one of the children asked him with teary eyes, "What about Bernie and the puppies she just had?"
My son put a hand on his shoulder and told the boy that he would get them. He suffered serious burns as he got the children's dog and all of her puppies, but he smiled brightly as the children gathered around the dogs and sang his name. As he helped to nurse the puppies he heard a tiny sobbing. The sobbing of young Sally Lincoln "What's wrong, dear?" he asked her. She looked up, eyes awash in tears. "My mommy. She died and I only have one picture of her in my room, and now its gone!"
My son looked down at her and said, "Its as gone as this building is fire-proof." Ten minutes later something flew from a window on the top floor. Sally raced forward eagerly and found her cherished picture with a small post-it note on it that read, "stay in school, and always remember to floss." With that the building exploded taking my insanely brave son with it. As they say, the lord only takes the best.
Again, I just wanted to related this little story so that you might update his fellow alumni. His services are being held this weekend. We had to wait as the Vatican has asked to send representatives. Thank you for taking the time to read this letter.
Kindly yours,
Father of BDF
BDF
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
That's one bad haircut
I have a lot of hair. Not a lot of hair like Bon Jovi, a lot of hair like Buckwheat. It's incredibly thick and I hate it more than I hate terrorism (extreme heat is third). So one of my few pet-peeves is when this thick mane of mine has sprouted like a mushroom cloud of bad styling, and I have to walk around looking like Mr. Kotter (sans mustache, which would make the whole thing OK.)
I share all of this to set the framework for how desperate times can get. A few years ago I had planned to get it cut on a weekend. Three weekends later I couldn't use a pillow anymore and I was in dire straits. Finally, finally, I decided that I could wait no longer. So on a Sunday I hunted down a barber.
Problem with that is the fact that barbers are like God in that they kinda lay low on Sundays. But no need to worry, dear reader, for a bright shining salon was in fact open. And as I saw the inviting neon "Best Cuts" sign I knew I was going to be OK. They offered the best cuts!
So I sat down as my large female barber finished a spirited conversation with a colleague. They were apparently talking about the woman's financial advisor because all I could make out was, "And if he thinks I'm gonna put up with that #$@% forever he is out of his mother *$%^&#$ mind! Taking my money!"
So for starters the woman was giving me a "hate cut."
Things started off badly as she moved my head around as if there were a cord somewhere she could pull to make different sounds come out of me. My only salvation was that she seemingly would not be brining scissors into the equation (a wise decision on my part when I said, "oh just use a number three all over...just take it all off")
As she turned me in the chair I was literally face deep into her considerable stomach as she started a new dialouge with her co-worker on that gosh darn financial investor. Grappling for air I leaned back, only for her to lean in to emphasize a point.
And then...well then it happened. Freed from the girth of my buxom barber I was able to breath again, this turned out to be a mixed blessing. As she worked on my side burns I...well there is no other way to put this than to say I learned in no uncertain terms that my barber had recently used the ladies room and that she must have been in a hurry as she did not allot the proper time for handwashing.
At this point I was frozen. The only thing that moved were my little hands which trembled as my mind wrapped its way around what was going on here.
The horrible thing ended in a few minutes and I walked to my car in silence. As I got in the car I said, "I don't want to talk about it.." to no one at all. I was in shock and I literally wanted to remove my head and put it in a dish washer.
Upon arriving home I walked past two roommates and went directly to the bathroom. I took what I can only describe from the movies as a "rape shower" where I sat with my legs folded up to my chest letting the boiling water try to cleanse me.
I cried myself to sleep that night. And for two weeks after that. Have I gotten over what I consider my worst haircut, you ask? I don't know, do Vietnam veterans ever truly get over the horrors they saw? Yea, I don't think so either.
BDF
I share all of this to set the framework for how desperate times can get. A few years ago I had planned to get it cut on a weekend. Three weekends later I couldn't use a pillow anymore and I was in dire straits. Finally, finally, I decided that I could wait no longer. So on a Sunday I hunted down a barber.
Problem with that is the fact that barbers are like God in that they kinda lay low on Sundays. But no need to worry, dear reader, for a bright shining salon was in fact open. And as I saw the inviting neon "Best Cuts" sign I knew I was going to be OK. They offered the best cuts!
So I sat down as my large female barber finished a spirited conversation with a colleague. They were apparently talking about the woman's financial advisor because all I could make out was, "And if he thinks I'm gonna put up with that #$@% forever he is out of his mother *$%^&#$ mind! Taking my money!"
So for starters the woman was giving me a "hate cut."
Things started off badly as she moved my head around as if there were a cord somewhere she could pull to make different sounds come out of me. My only salvation was that she seemingly would not be brining scissors into the equation (a wise decision on my part when I said, "oh just use a number three all over...just take it all off")
As she turned me in the chair I was literally face deep into her considerable stomach as she started a new dialouge with her co-worker on that gosh darn financial investor. Grappling for air I leaned back, only for her to lean in to emphasize a point.
And then...well then it happened. Freed from the girth of my buxom barber I was able to breath again, this turned out to be a mixed blessing. As she worked on my side burns I...well there is no other way to put this than to say I learned in no uncertain terms that my barber had recently used the ladies room and that she must have been in a hurry as she did not allot the proper time for handwashing.
At this point I was frozen. The only thing that moved were my little hands which trembled as my mind wrapped its way around what was going on here.
The horrible thing ended in a few minutes and I walked to my car in silence. As I got in the car I said, "I don't want to talk about it.." to no one at all. I was in shock and I literally wanted to remove my head and put it in a dish washer.
Upon arriving home I walked past two roommates and went directly to the bathroom. I took what I can only describe from the movies as a "rape shower" where I sat with my legs folded up to my chest letting the boiling water try to cleanse me.
I cried myself to sleep that night. And for two weeks after that. Have I gotten over what I consider my worst haircut, you ask? I don't know, do Vietnam veterans ever truly get over the horrors they saw? Yea, I don't think so either.
BDF
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Did I miss something? Are we really a nation that embraces the "Snuggie?"
Has it really come to this, America? Are we now a country so lazy and so dedicated to personal comfort that we will gladly wear something that makes us look like an extra in "Eyes Wide Shut?"
I could only be talking about one thing: the unholy union of gothic robe and gluttonous fabric monster that has become a national sensation...Snuggies.
Really? Honestly? Come on, your pulling my leg with your arm that never has to leave the warm comfort of that outrageously large blankie.
Really, USA Today? You, too? My God they've gotten to the media already!
http://www.usatoday.com/life/lifestyle/2009-01-27-snuggie_N.htm
The Snuggie offers this (from what I can tell, and please correct me wherever you may see an error): A giant blanket with holes for your head and arms.
In short, its a huge blanket with holes in it. And people are forking over money with huge grins as they dream of being able to take a sip of coffee while not having any of their bare arm exposed to the cold....of their homes.
Now I know the promise of two giant blankets filled with holes AND a nighlight for the bargain basement price of $19.95 sounds great, but think about what this means. What this means, gentle reader, is that someday, someday soon, one unemployed fellow will rise with the noon news, opt not to shower and look at his Snuggie and say, "I could wear that thing outside! It can be a coat, too!"
And that's when the world as we know it will end, my friends. Those donning sweatpants every day will take over, and the rational people, like you and I, will end up living in caves (dressed in smart attire and covered in reasonably sized blankets) banished from the world we once knew. Now don't get me wrong, we'll take over later that afternoon when all the Snugg-sters take a little nap in their full body suit of comfort, but it will be hell for at least a few hours.
Be warned. And when you see someone sporting one of these blanket demons as they wheel around a grocery cart, their beedy eyes fixed on the 10,000 varieties of Doritos that are now available, don't say I didn't tell you.
BDF
I could only be talking about one thing: the unholy union of gothic robe and gluttonous fabric monster that has become a national sensation...Snuggies.
Really? Honestly? Come on, your pulling my leg with your arm that never has to leave the warm comfort of that outrageously large blankie.
Really, USA Today? You, too? My God they've gotten to the media already!
http://www.usatoday.com/life/lifestyle/2009-01-27-snuggie_N.htm
The Snuggie offers this (from what I can tell, and please correct me wherever you may see an error): A giant blanket with holes for your head and arms.
In short, its a huge blanket with holes in it. And people are forking over money with huge grins as they dream of being able to take a sip of coffee while not having any of their bare arm exposed to the cold....of their homes.
Now I know the promise of two giant blankets filled with holes AND a nighlight for the bargain basement price of $19.95 sounds great, but think about what this means. What this means, gentle reader, is that someday, someday soon, one unemployed fellow will rise with the noon news, opt not to shower and look at his Snuggie and say, "I could wear that thing outside! It can be a coat, too!"
And that's when the world as we know it will end, my friends. Those donning sweatpants every day will take over, and the rational people, like you and I, will end up living in caves (dressed in smart attire and covered in reasonably sized blankets) banished from the world we once knew. Now don't get me wrong, we'll take over later that afternoon when all the Snugg-sters take a little nap in their full body suit of comfort, but it will be hell for at least a few hours.
Be warned. And when you see someone sporting one of these blanket demons as they wheel around a grocery cart, their beedy eyes fixed on the 10,000 varieties of Doritos that are now available, don't say I didn't tell you.
BDF
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Musings on a cold...brutally cold (this will make sense in a moment) winter day
I love my car. It is the first nice car I have ever had. The first car I ever owned I won (long story) and my worst ever automobile had no clock or radio so I rode around with a watch on the wheel and a boom box on the passenger seat (true story). Anywho, I now have a very nice car (an SUV) that I love more than I could love a human baby. Problem is that in my neck of the woods today turned into an ugly giant white mess. This is a problem because...
I live with my girlfriend, and she has a real vintage ride herself....a 1989 Grand Prix. So, teddy bear that I am, I gladly offer to swap cars. After wiping a tear away as I watch her drive off in my pride and joy, I set forth riding to work in the death box. How bad is it you ask? At one point, as we labored going up a small hill I heard a voice that seemed to have a Mexican accent say to me, "You sure about this boss? Why don't we call in sick?"
Riding in white knuckle terror as I sloshed around the road like a fat man struggling with the soft serve machine at Old Country Buffet, I thought to myself, "this really isn't that bad." And it wasn't...I would learn.
As I joyfully waddled my way to the old car at the end of work, I looked at the little Grand Prix, covered in snow, and wondered if that brush my girlfriend had in her car (the one that looks a little like the toothbrush a basketball player would use, and has nothing in the way of a scraper) was the only one she had. Well I was in luck, dear reader, because it was in fact the only one she had! I whistled and sang as I used a combination of my arm and the NBA toothbrush to wipe off the snow, and then, pulling my best MacGyver (if MacGyver were a short slow witted man), I figured I could try the windows to see if I could coax the ice off of them. I had no scraper, what else was there to do? Do not answer that.
The first window on the passenger side went down and up and worked like a charm. Then I punched the button for the drivers side...Now, I can only guess but I think there are three times in one's life when they know they have fucked up.
1. When you are lying in a dumpster just after a great second hand meal.
2. When you write an essay next to the box in the application that reads, "High School."
And...
3. When the car window won't seem to go up as you watch in horror while a woman who can't get into her car quick enough decides to kill herself rather than deal with the cold for one more second.
Thus far I have only experienced number three, but I would gladly trade it in for either of the other two options. As I drove around and did my best impression of a human ice cube, I stopped but once to have someone look at the car. The mechanic uttered that wonderful phrase any driver wants to hear, "uh-oh," and I knew that I was jolly well fucked. It was almost heartening as I saw people flash me different looks. There was pity, there was confusion and one person even made a gesture that I should put my window up. I made a gesture of thanks myself....He must not have understood it because he seemed angry.
But there was a happy end to the story. Really!
I am not, if you hadn't already guessed it, what you would call a handy man. But armed with the task of ensuring protection for the wide open window I created what can only be described as the Sistine Chapel of garbage bag tape jobs. It was so beautiful that I almost asked a random neighbor to look at it. But I never like to brag.
And as I sit here now and use this sad tale as my first ever blog post I realize that it sets the stage for all that will follow. I can say for sure that it isn't always a picnic living this life, but it does seem to entertain others when they hear about it. I hope you become one of them.
BDF
I live with my girlfriend, and she has a real vintage ride herself....a 1989 Grand Prix. So, teddy bear that I am, I gladly offer to swap cars. After wiping a tear away as I watch her drive off in my pride and joy, I set forth riding to work in the death box. How bad is it you ask? At one point, as we labored going up a small hill I heard a voice that seemed to have a Mexican accent say to me, "You sure about this boss? Why don't we call in sick?"
Riding in white knuckle terror as I sloshed around the road like a fat man struggling with the soft serve machine at Old Country Buffet, I thought to myself, "this really isn't that bad." And it wasn't...I would learn.
As I joyfully waddled my way to the old car at the end of work, I looked at the little Grand Prix, covered in snow, and wondered if that brush my girlfriend had in her car (the one that looks a little like the toothbrush a basketball player would use, and has nothing in the way of a scraper) was the only one she had. Well I was in luck, dear reader, because it was in fact the only one she had! I whistled and sang as I used a combination of my arm and the NBA toothbrush to wipe off the snow, and then, pulling my best MacGyver (if MacGyver were a short slow witted man), I figured I could try the windows to see if I could coax the ice off of them. I had no scraper, what else was there to do? Do not answer that.
The first window on the passenger side went down and up and worked like a charm. Then I punched the button for the drivers side...Now, I can only guess but I think there are three times in one's life when they know they have fucked up.
1. When you are lying in a dumpster just after a great second hand meal.
2. When you write an essay next to the box in the application that reads, "High School."
And...
3. When the car window won't seem to go up as you watch in horror while a woman who can't get into her car quick enough decides to kill herself rather than deal with the cold for one more second.
Thus far I have only experienced number three, but I would gladly trade it in for either of the other two options. As I drove around and did my best impression of a human ice cube, I stopped but once to have someone look at the car. The mechanic uttered that wonderful phrase any driver wants to hear, "uh-oh," and I knew that I was jolly well fucked. It was almost heartening as I saw people flash me different looks. There was pity, there was confusion and one person even made a gesture that I should put my window up. I made a gesture of thanks myself....He must not have understood it because he seemed angry.
But there was a happy end to the story. Really!
I am not, if you hadn't already guessed it, what you would call a handy man. But armed with the task of ensuring protection for the wide open window I created what can only be described as the Sistine Chapel of garbage bag tape jobs. It was so beautiful that I almost asked a random neighbor to look at it. But I never like to brag.
And as I sit here now and use this sad tale as my first ever blog post I realize that it sets the stage for all that will follow. I can say for sure that it isn't always a picnic living this life, but it does seem to entertain others when they hear about it. I hope you become one of them.
BDF
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