Month: December 2009

or 101 Ways to Start a Fight With a Broken Bottle in Belgium

Today is the last day of 2009.  Unless you’re in Japan at the moment, in which case 2009 is already gone and it’s 2010.  It’s also possible that the last day 2009 was yesterday if you are, in fact, reading this tomorrow.   If you’re reading this in the year 2378 you’ll need to do the math to determine how long ago 2009 was and also future space reader, thanks for reading my blog.  Althought presumably I’m dead in that scenario so I guess I won’t really care if you read it or not.  I suppose I could still be alive but very old.  Probably so old that I wouldn’t be concerned about a blog.  With my attention span, it’s likely that I’ll not be concerned with this blog in 45 minutes.

Time is a funny thing.  Or a relative thing.  I guess it’s both… it’s a relatively funny thing.  Interestingly enough, it doesn’t exist.  It’s just a sort of social contract between humans to just sort of agree on a unit of measure of our lives.  Some could argue that it’s tangible, like other units of measure because it’s based on the Earth’s rotation and spinning and flying around and such (I’m sure that’s exactly how’d they’d argue it too) but if god (who will be played by Minnesota Fats in this story) were to chalk up his interstellar pool cue and try a bank shot with the Earth spinning it off in a new direction, would a day still be a day if the sun rose and set 362 times a second?  I imagine no one would be alive to ponder such a thing what with life being snuffed out in the name of galatic billiards (it’d have to be a very large table, but god’s got an enormous gameroom… where did you think all that tithing ended up?  He also has a cocktail table version of Ms Pacman.).

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These are tough economical times we live in.  In which we live.  The times in which we live are tough.  Economically.  Economically speaking, the times in which we live are tough.  Now I’ve gone and forgotten what the point of this post was.

Oh yeah!

To all those Holly Helpfuls out there in the world, please stop being helpful.  To all the people that pull in a grocery cart from the parking lot inside with them, to all the people that pre-stack their table’s dishes in a restaurant after finishing a meal, to all the people clean up their own (or kid’s) spills in the food court of MegaMallTown USA… all of you… knock it off.  It is somebody else’s job to do that.  Grocery stores pay people to bring the carts inside.  Restaurants pay people to bus tables.  MegaMallTown USA pays someone to mop the floor when the Super-Gulp-a-Tron 128oz diabetes inducing soda goes asunder.  Those people’s livelihood depend on their ability to clean up after sloppy people.  If you start being helpful and clean up after yourself stores will fire the service folks whose jobs are now obsolete due to conscientious commercialism (let that one simmer for a second).  These people, now jobless, will have to move to welfare to support themselves.  Or perhaps they’ll become drug dealers.  Or pimps.  All because you thought it’d be helpful to bag your own groceries.  All that helpfulness costs Americans jobs.  And that’s just what the Terrorism® wants.

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Today is Christmas. Or secularly, December 25th. Regardless of beliefs, churches, social structures, and power grids, this day of the year motivates (or more importantly allows) people to add a bazillion assorted lights, lawn displays, synchronized musical reviews and production effects rivaling Pink Floyd onto their houses. I think it’s awesome and question the limitation of “super-lighting” to only one holiday or period of the year. Why not go filament crazy 365, baby?

These days, Halloween (the best holiday ever) is now a close 2nd in exterior overdoing it-ness, but beyond Decemberween (the period of time encompassing the entire month of October, the part of November after Thanksgiving, and the entire month of December) there’s nary a fun light to be found. That’s really sad. If people get so excited about crazying up their residences for Decemberween, why not just go year round. You could save yourself a lot of work each year going up and down ladders and potentially shocking yourself when you find out why you can’t daisy chain 14 strings of lights together the hard way.

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How surprising is it that for my first submission to a new web site, I’ve returned to an old favorite of mine for writing?  Probably not very.  Today as I was riding in the elevator, on my 110 foot vertical journey to work land, I had the unpleasant fortune to share the bulk of the trip with a stinky person.

There are two types of stinky people in this world, the naturally stinky (like hippies and the French) and the enhanced stinky (think old ladies drowned in $1.95 perfume that smells of burnt rubber, menthol, and dentist office).  It’s possible that there are naturally stinky people walking among us.  They often use clever ploys such as bathing and hygeine products to fit in with the normals of the world.  It’s quite possible, however, to completely overshoot “normal” and chemically romance your way straight into the enhanced stinky category.  Sadly, there is a sub class of naturally stinky… the super-duper stinky, which cannot ever hope to rid themselves of their offending odor.  Often they attempt to hide behind a toxic veil of Aqua Velva, Old Spice, and gasoline… but to no avail.  They form the hybrid Super-Duper Naturally and Chemically Worsened Stinky classification.  It’s a horrible, horrible thing to witness in the wild.

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