My Super Power? I’m Able To Secrete Nearly Three Gallons of Sweat Just By Standing In Line At The Airport Security Checkpoint. What Can You Do?

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For as many flights as I’ve taken in the post-9/11 era, one might think that I’d be relatively comfortable with the TSA (which incidentally stands for Touching Scrotums Assiduously) process. You’d be wrong though.

My process usually begins with packing left to do the morning of my flight and a hasty drive to the airport so that I’m already in “rush” mode. That is where the dew on my brow begins – with the pace of getting there. Once I get in the TSA line, the slight dew on my melon gradually evolves into a sweat of medical emergency levels.

After much time to reflect on this unwelcome phenomenon, I have come to the conclusion that it is due to a series of irrational thoughts that plague me every time I get in line. Some of these thoughts – almost in order of the way that I think them – are as follows:

“This sweat on my brow is making me look suspicious.”

<sweat increases>

“If I know that I do this, why didn’t I bring a folded up piece of paper towel to deal with it?”

<sweat increases>

“What is wrong with me and does the guy behind me think I have an active case of malaria?”

<sweat increases>

“If not malaria or typhoid, do I look like I have sinister intentions and are people becoming nervous around me?”

<sweat increases>

“Is it unusually hot in here? SOMEBODY NEEDS TO TURN THE AIR ON UP IN HERE!”

<sweat is now at biblical proportions>

“I hope they don’t need to touch me because I’m a biohazard at this point.”

<sweat stabilizes at free flow/drip level>

“Exactly how detailed is the image of my private parts on that X-ray and exactly where is the guy/gal who is enjoying the show?”

<sweat begins to taper off as I exit the screening process>

On a positive note, few can tackle me when I’m on the Skins team in a Shirts vs. Skins football game; so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

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A Filthy Expression

 

IMG_1359I just took Our dog to the vet for his shots and a routine “juicing” of his anus.

The receipt showed $30 for “anal expression”. I wanted to say, “What kind of $30 expression did his anus make because every time I see it, it’s making this same face <makes face like I just ate a lemon>.”

Instead, I kept that thought to myself, bid them adieu, and went about my business.

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You Say Menards, I Say Mynads

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I think we’re supposed to be getting one of those Menards hardware stores near us. This makes me anxious – but not in a good way.

Some of you hate the word “moist” and others of you cringe at the word “poop”; neither of those bother me. For me, it’s the name Menards that makes me bristle.

Try as I might, every time I hear that word, I think of a crude Irishman scratching himself and mumbling, “Menards itch.” Gross. I wonder if there’s a store in Ireland called Mynads and an Irishman over there who bristles when someone says that name because it sounds like something that a crude American  might say?

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“Don’t Worry, I’m Not Contagious,” Says The Contagious Lady All Up In My Grill.

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The boys and I went to get haircuts this evening and I got stuck with the beauty operator who is, in my opinion, the least skilled of the 10 or so employees on the payroll. She’s not horrible but I have had to go home and touch-up my own hair a couple of times after she’s busted my wig in the past. Not only are her trade skills a bit lacking, but her brand of small talk is just kind of off-putting to me. It’s like we don’t really get each other but instead of just being comfortable in the silence, she forces me in to having inane conversation with her each time I’m in her chair.

Today’s session started off about as well as it could with her apologizing in advance for not being too conversational today. Five seconds of silence didn’t pass before she felt compelled to tell me about her fresh head cold and pesky chest congestion as she put her hands all over my head. Hands that have surely wiped fresh mucus from her diseased nose. Hands that have surely received the yield of a chesty cough.

I don’t know most of what she said after that because I was so irritated and worried by her decision to come to work sick today and lay her hands on me, but I can tell you that the apology for not being conversational was unnecessary – she was more conversational today than she has ever been.

Anyway, I can’t wait to see how long it will take for my summer cold to incubate in my system before it hatches into a fully grown and highly active virus. Or maybe I won’t catch it? Because when I shot her a nervous look when she first told me she had a nasty cold, she assured me that she wasn’t contagious. Thanks for the good news, Dr. Oz, whatever you say.

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Disaster Preparedness: The Eclipse

I don’t mean to sound like an alarmist, but do we have a disaster plan in place for how to safely evacuate the legions of people who plan to stare at the sun with a pair of $4 paper sunglasses on their faces and, as a result, are left newly blind and standing helplessly in that giant swath of premium eclipse-viewing area that stretches across the country? How will we get them all safely back home? Who’s going to teach them Braille? Has production for dark, wraparound sunglasses and red and white canes been ramped-up yet? I mean, I think we have enough trouble in this country as it is.

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The Yeti Cooler: Proving Anything Can Be Trendy With The Right Marketing

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Steve Martin joked that he’d like to hire the person who is in charge of PR for the eclipse. If they weren’t available, I think the next best person might be the PR person for Yeti coolers.

I don’t have a Yeti cooler and I don’t care if I ever have one. I have that attitude because it’s a cooler. A cooler either works to keep my ice cold overnight or it doesn’t. At this point in my life, I’m not willing to pay a premium for a couple of hours of extended life for my ice cubes. It’s weird to me how people now want to advertise that they use this brand of cooler. I see hats, shirts, bumper stickers, mugs and the like every time I venture out into public that suggests that owners of Yeti coolers are a proud bunch. I don’t get it.

Maybe I’ll try something along those lines though to see what all of the fuss is about? Marissa and I received a blender nearly 22 years ago for our wedding. She makes smoothies with it today and it still seems to serve its purpose well. I think it might be a Kitchen-Aid brand. If I get some time this afternoon, I may contact the folks at Kitchen-Aid to see if I can get some swag for my car and to spice up my wardrobe? If that doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll do some promotion of those styrofoam disposable coolers you can buy at convenient stores – as I’m sure they could use a little random and spontaneous product love and appreciation, too.

The possibilities seem endless here. Anyway, continue to enjoy the heck out of your Yeti coolers, people! While you’re doing that, I’ll be over here mocking you behind your backs.

(Disclaimer: if you are reading this and you’re my friend who owns a Yeti cooler with matching outfit and bumper stickers, I’m not talking about you. You are cool and it’s the other people who are ridiculously enthusiastic about everyday household items that I’m making fun of here.)

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Crazy Eyes

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Sitting in the gate area across from a thin man of approximately 50 years of age wearing a blazer and sporting that Michael McDonald-esque silvery feather cut. Resting upon his nose, were a pair of plastic black glasses that looked like he may have received in 2009 at the New Years Eve shindig at Times Square (subsequently breaking off the 2 and 9, leaving a very ridiculous looking set of Mr. Potato Head glasses).

I thought to myself that this guy either runs his own business OR (more likely) he has earned himself a town pass for good behavior at the asylum where they issue glasses without sharp edges so the residents are less likely to fashion a shank from their eyewear to attack staff.

You just don’t see many working stiff, middle-management types sporting drastic, edgy eyewear like that. It’s hard for me to comprehend how someone could pull those from the sea of glasses at LensCrafters, put them on, look in the mirror and say, “Yeah, these’ll do.”

Those glasses say that “I own a chain of successful record stores in the Pacific Northwest” OR “I smear my own feces in my hair” – it’s one or the other and nowhere in between.

The mystery was solved when I noticed that he was sipping on a martini by the time I filed past his first-class seat on my way back to my seat near the toilet in the back of the plane. I guess it’s a look that works well for him. Maybe if I start dressing like Harlan Sanders for work, people will start to notice that I’m wicked-smart, eccentric and therefore deserving of some sort of high-level executive gig? I’m going out to buy a white suit and shoes when I get home.

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