No, I will not support your charity. Charities that fall into either of these categories will not get my time or money: helping children or fighting disease.
I will not buy candy or cookies or candles or magazine subscriptions or whatever ridiculously overpriced crap it is this week to support your kid’s extra-curricular activity. It’s not my job. Children should be put in metal desks, given information via computer monitor, and then questioned about that information. Incorrect answers will result in a mild electric shock. The information could be presented again and the student tested again until all information had been retained. “All information” will include how to be of value to society.
Why do I love this plan, because it would be inexpensive and effective and it would crush the teacher’s union. Now I’m sure that there are some teachers who really believe that they are performing a noble service that we, as society, shun. Sure cops and fire fighters and soldiers get all the glory, but if everyone was just retaining more information we probably wouldn’t need any of them.
The problem no one wants to acknowledge is: some kids will never get out of the desk. I have no objection to you feeding and watering those kids. I think these kids should be ground up and fed to the kids that can learn but since I am a reasonable man you can keep the dumb ones as pets.
The metal chairs would fold up allowing the student to run on a treadmill, presenting the physical activity necessary for proper health. This would also not interrupt the presentation of information on the aforementioned monitor.
Oh yeah, we were crushing the teacher’s union. The union is just a bunch of people who get paid to whine and complain. Now they would really have something to complain about and no one would pay them. The only thing funnier than that kind of biting wit is a kid stuck down a well. Man, I love wells.
Why am I not the Secretary of Education?
Let’s get back to why I’m not supporting your charity. I don’t like children. I especially don’t like your children. I told you not to have them. Don’t come crying to me when you can’t afford to care for them. Your noisy germ bags are your problem end of discussion.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Thursday, March 24, 2005
A true and personal entry.
So I'm back at my job after my heart attack and my co-worker asked how my family reacted to the news.
"I don't really talk to my family", I said.
"Really, why not?", she asked.
"We don't really get along. They call me butt juice."
"I think you're just making that up for attention", she speculated.
"It might have something to do with the fact that I tried lighting the house on fire, several times, with them in it."
"That's horrible", she exclaimed, "Why would you do something like that?"
"Because they call me butt juice." Why do I have to work with such stupid people?
"I don't really talk to my family", I said.
"Really, why not?", she asked.
"We don't really get along. They call me butt juice."
"I think you're just making that up for attention", she speculated.
"It might have something to do with the fact that I tried lighting the house on fire, several times, with them in it."
"That's horrible", she exclaimed, "Why would you do something like that?"
"Because they call me butt juice." Why do I have to work with such stupid people?
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The rage has felled me.
Please excuse my absence of the past two weeks. I have encountered the amazing power of rage. I have faced it, been knocked down, and righted myself to carry on.
It was a typical day of giving tours in the candy factory. I had to listen to boring stories from old ladies about the sweets they used to get during the Civil War, morons asking about low-carb candy, and idiots who saw us on any one of hundreds of television appearances acting like they were in on some secret. So 90 minutes into my day I'd had more than should have had to take. Enter screaming baby.
I'm trying to explain the process of candy making to the mental deficients who can't understand, "See that? That's how they make candy." But the baby won't stop screaming and crying. I don't know why. I don't care. It's not my brat. So I tell its 600 pound mustachioed mother, "You shut that thing up or I will bury a claw hammer in its squishy little skull". Now I have the noise and poop machine and its progenitors' blathering to deal with.
Since I am a man of my word I head into the warehouse to find the tool box. That's where the hammer is. As I reach into said box with my tingly left arm I discover a pain greater than a kick to the groin. Gentlemen, did you ever notice that a strong blow to the gonads often causes nausea? That's because your body is trying to disperse the pain throughout your entire torso. Not so with the heart attack. Imagine if you will several strikes to the family jewels, all concentrated in an area of your chest the size of your fist. Go ahead, look at your fist. It's not a lot of space.
The next few parts of the story are gathered from witness reports and are hard to verify. It appears that another tour guide followed me into the warehouse to talk me out of dispensing justice on the spawn of hell and found me lying on the floor. It seems that CPR was administered or jumper cables were hooked up to my chest and the tow motor.
I awoke in the hospital. If I could for a second, a shout out to St. Anthony's in Denver, if they found out I wasn't a practicing Catholic they would have thrown me out on the street but when they thought I was just indigent they gladly switched the ticker from off to on.
So what have I learned from the experience you ask? First, coffee and cigarettes, despite being made exclusively from vegetable matter do not constitute a well balanced breakfast. Secondly, butter should not be eaten out of the tub with a spoon like ice cream, nor should mayonnaise or sour cream. I think they said something about peanut butter, any way I'll be washing fewer spoons from now on. Lastly, just squish the little head right then and there.
It was a typical day of giving tours in the candy factory. I had to listen to boring stories from old ladies about the sweets they used to get during the Civil War, morons asking about low-carb candy, and idiots who saw us on any one of hundreds of television appearances acting like they were in on some secret. So 90 minutes into my day I'd had more than should have had to take. Enter screaming baby.
I'm trying to explain the process of candy making to the mental deficients who can't understand, "See that? That's how they make candy." But the baby won't stop screaming and crying. I don't know why. I don't care. It's not my brat. So I tell its 600 pound mustachioed mother, "You shut that thing up or I will bury a claw hammer in its squishy little skull". Now I have the noise and poop machine and its progenitors' blathering to deal with.
Since I am a man of my word I head into the warehouse to find the tool box. That's where the hammer is. As I reach into said box with my tingly left arm I discover a pain greater than a kick to the groin. Gentlemen, did you ever notice that a strong blow to the gonads often causes nausea? That's because your body is trying to disperse the pain throughout your entire torso. Not so with the heart attack. Imagine if you will several strikes to the family jewels, all concentrated in an area of your chest the size of your fist. Go ahead, look at your fist. It's not a lot of space.
The next few parts of the story are gathered from witness reports and are hard to verify. It appears that another tour guide followed me into the warehouse to talk me out of dispensing justice on the spawn of hell and found me lying on the floor. It seems that CPR was administered or jumper cables were hooked up to my chest and the tow motor.
I awoke in the hospital. If I could for a second, a shout out to St. Anthony's in Denver, if they found out I wasn't a practicing Catholic they would have thrown me out on the street but when they thought I was just indigent they gladly switched the ticker from off to on.
So what have I learned from the experience you ask? First, coffee and cigarettes, despite being made exclusively from vegetable matter do not constitute a well balanced breakfast. Secondly, butter should not be eaten out of the tub with a spoon like ice cream, nor should mayonnaise or sour cream. I think they said something about peanut butter, any way I'll be washing fewer spoons from now on. Lastly, just squish the little head right then and there.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
My dog, controlling the pet population
I know some people don’t like dogs, and some people don’t like people who have dogs. I’m not one to make enemies. So I did quite a bit of research and planning before I got my dog.
I adopted my dog from the city pound. As best as can be guessed he is part husky, part German shepherd and part something really, really large.
I purchased my house with the intention of getting a dog. It has a big yard with a privacy fence. I make sure the dog is walked in the morning and evening every day; yes I do pick up his droppings. Most evenings we also play fetch. Watching him guess which way the ball will bounce off the fence is tremendously amusing. He eats quality dog food, per the manufacturer and veterinarian’s recommendations, and always has access to clean water. He has a large collection of toys that keep him occupied when I am not home. He is fixed, a graduate of obedience school, good with children and old people, vaccinated and gets annual check ups, which is more often than his owner.
The dog, however, has bloodlust. When he was a puppy and he killed Miller moths, I believed he was sent from heaven. Then I would come home from work to find a dead bird in the yard. After that it was squirrels. Once, I found a rabbit. Yes, Virginia there is a progression. Now it’s cats. I figure he catches them and shakes them until he breaks their necks, because the carcasses are not really damaged.
I put the bodies in trash bags and throw them in the dumpster behind my house. If I see a sign in the neighborhood for a lost cat that matches one I’ve disposed of, I call and tell them, “Your cat’s not coming back.” Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they curse. I hang up and say to my self, “That wouldn’t have happened if they took care of their cat the way I take care of my dog”.
I adopted my dog from the city pound. As best as can be guessed he is part husky, part German shepherd and part something really, really large.
I purchased my house with the intention of getting a dog. It has a big yard with a privacy fence. I make sure the dog is walked in the morning and evening every day; yes I do pick up his droppings. Most evenings we also play fetch. Watching him guess which way the ball will bounce off the fence is tremendously amusing. He eats quality dog food, per the manufacturer and veterinarian’s recommendations, and always has access to clean water. He has a large collection of toys that keep him occupied when I am not home. He is fixed, a graduate of obedience school, good with children and old people, vaccinated and gets annual check ups, which is more often than his owner.
The dog, however, has bloodlust. When he was a puppy and he killed Miller moths, I believed he was sent from heaven. Then I would come home from work to find a dead bird in the yard. After that it was squirrels. Once, I found a rabbit. Yes, Virginia there is a progression. Now it’s cats. I figure he catches them and shakes them until he breaks their necks, because the carcasses are not really damaged.
I put the bodies in trash bags and throw them in the dumpster behind my house. If I see a sign in the neighborhood for a lost cat that matches one I’ve disposed of, I call and tell them, “Your cat’s not coming back.” Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they curse. I hang up and say to my self, “That wouldn’t have happened if they took care of their cat the way I take care of my dog”.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Dial-a-Song 20 Years of They Might Be Giants
Dial-a-Song 20 Years of They Might Be Giants
Holy fucking shit I love this stuff. Music with rules is for suckers. This is a killer collection from a killer band. If you disagree you are wrong, like racism and littering, just plain wrong.
All I’m saying is the live version of “Why Does the Sun Shine?” made me get up and dance in my living room. Now I don’t dance. I don’t dance like Muslims don’t eat pork or girls don’t pee standing up. But I got up and shook my body around the room like an epileptic getting electrocuted.
In fact I would have posted this a couple of minutes ago, but I had to go listen to it again.
I know, I know, if I had taken Composition 201 instead of Ceramics I would use fewer similes. However I wouldn’t have any where near as many ashtrays.
Just listen to the discs and feel good, dammit! Did your favorite band write a song about James K Polk or metabolisms and four chambered hearts? Holy fucking shit I love this stuff.
Holy fucking shit I love this stuff. Music with rules is for suckers. This is a killer collection from a killer band. If you disagree you are wrong, like racism and littering, just plain wrong.
All I’m saying is the live version of “Why Does the Sun Shine?” made me get up and dance in my living room. Now I don’t dance. I don’t dance like Muslims don’t eat pork or girls don’t pee standing up. But I got up and shook my body around the room like an epileptic getting electrocuted.
In fact I would have posted this a couple of minutes ago, but I had to go listen to it again.
I know, I know, if I had taken Composition 201 instead of Ceramics I would use fewer similes. However I wouldn’t have any where near as many ashtrays.
Just listen to the discs and feel good, dammit! Did your favorite band write a song about James K Polk or metabolisms and four chambered hearts? Holy fucking shit I love this stuff.
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