I’m Not Always A Jerk, But Sometimes I Am.

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On the first of two flights today, the conversation that everyone within four rows was forced to hear was between a twenty-something, go-getter woman who has yet to figure out that putting too much of yourself into corporate America will quickly darken your soul and a young ham-and-egger-type-guy who this girl was trying to impress.

Despite bragging about the fact she’s “going for either an MBA or JD at Harvard or Yale,” she couldn’t close the deal. You could just see in his eyes and hear in his voice that he could not have cared less. It was great! Chalk one up for us Joe Schmo’s who don’t give a rat’s ass about strangers who boast about their unrealistic ambitions and unfulfilled goals.

Every once in a while it’s good to see a pretentious young lady eat a spoonful of humility by striking out with an unimpressed man. In fact, sometimes I derive a perverse pleasure from it. Schadenfreude at its finest.

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Where Are They Now?

IMG_1405I’m going to put on some ripped jeans, take my shirt off and walk into the Abercrombie store at the mall today (if I can bring myself to get through that impenetrable cologne barrier they spray around the entrance – a scent that I like to refer to as “Adult Repellent”).

It would be great if I could also get a camera crew to follow me around so we could pretend like we’re doing a ‘Where Are They Now?’ documentary on former Abercrombie models.

I’m sure that if I do this there will be people following me, but it won’t be a documentary film crew – more like the police and maybe a handful of chubby chasers. Look for me on the news tonight.

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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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