idiotprufs

Read by four out five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

Archive for the tag “comedy”

Don’t Say it to Your Boss

The people have spoken, and Don’t Say it to Your Boss has edged out Bad Idea Fireman. You asked for it.

office spaceMonster.com has compiled a list of things not to say to your boss. Let’s take a look at their list:

  1. I need a raise.
  2. That just isn’t possible.
  3. I can’t stand working with__.
  4. I partied too hard last night–I’m so hung over.
  5. But I emailed you about that last week.
  6. It’s not my fault.
  7. I don’t know.
  8. But we’ve always done it this way.
  9. Let me set you up with__.

I know–this list is ridiculous and useless.

I’ve made some subtle changes to the entries. Here’s what you really can’t say:

  1. I need a raise; I can barely steal enough from the office to keep up with the rising cost of cocaine and hookers.
  2. That just isn’t possible. I need to take two hours for lunch; it difficult to get properly drunk in one hour.
  3. I can’t stand working with these voices in my head; they keep telling me to kill again.
  4. I Partied too hard last night–I was almost too drunk to have sex with your wife.
  5. But I emailed you about that last week; I directly indicated to you that a reactor core meltdown was imminent, it’s not my fault if you don’t check your email.
  6. It’s not my fault; how was I supposed to know bringing my pet chimpanzees to work would be frowned upon…I’m sure that feces will wash out of you hair.
  7. I don’t know. I would be better at my job if your woefully inadequate leadership skills didn’t fail to inspire me on a daily basis.
  8. But we’ve always done it this way…you galactically incompetent prick.
  9. Let me set you up with my cousin; she’s one of those genuinely well manner Neo-Nazi skinheads.

Do see how much better this list is?

As prime example of what not to say to your boss, here’s an event that actually happened at a place where I worked, involving my supervisor, a coworker named Bill and myself.

Supervisor: I think I should go on a diet and shed a few pounds before summer.

Bill: You don’t need to lose weight; you’re pleasantly plump.

(Several moments of painfully awkward silence.)

Supervisor (her face turning a shade of crimson): I’m what?

Bill: you’re pleasantly plump.

Supervisor: I’m plump am I? Plump is what I am? I’m plump?

Bill: no, you’re pleasantly plump.

Supervisor: so my plumpness is pleasant to you?

Bill: I like a girl with meat on her bones.

Me: wow, I can’t believe you thought the word meat would make this better.

Supervisor: so I’m plump and meaty. (turning to address me) Do I look pleasantly plump to you?

Me: (frightened): pleasant is not a word I use to describe you at the moment.

Supervisor: but am I plump?

Me: no.

Bill: There’s nothing wrong with having some junk in your trunk.

(She literally became so angry she couldn’t speak.)

Me: you really need to stop the words from coming out of your mouth, Bill.

She tortured Bill for weeks, screaming “watch out, there’s fat coming through,” every time she walked by him. It was funny.

You can now go to work secure in the knowledge you won’t say the wrong thing to your boss.

Christmas turkey

Remember: plump and a meaty is fine when describing your Christmas Turkey, but not when describing your boss.

Help Me Pick My Next Post Topic

Wile E. Coyote

Wile E. and I are kindred spirits.

Several months ago I was having a dream.

In this dream my uncle was trying to chop my face off with an ax. He was chasing me through the woods and he seemed very determined in his efforts. He seemed to be enjoying himself a great deal. He was reminiscent of Jack Torrance from The Shining, but much more disheveled and maniacal. As ax wielding maniacs go–he was good at it.

Why would my uncle be chasing me through the woods with an ax? He has issues…and an ax.

Note: if my uncle were to chase me through the woods with an ax, it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s done to me. He’s a miserable backstabbing rat-bastard of a human being, and I’m sugar-coating it.

Jack Nicholson

Here’s Miserable Backstabbing Rat-Bastard.

Anyway, I awoke from the dream and had a brilliant idea for a blog post, it would be the single funniest blog post ever written.

I quickly jotted the idea down, lest I should forget, and went back to sleep.

The next morning I looked at what I had written: Bad Idea Fireman.

I had absolutely no clue what it meant. I had absolutely no clue what I was thinking when I wrote it down. I had nothing.

Was it a bad idea to become a fireman?

Was it a bad idea a fireman had?

Were firemen a bad idea in general? That seems unlikely unless I was alluding to the firemen in Ray Bradbury’s dystopic tale, Fahrenheit 451. A great book, but not really full of laughs.

It’ll come to me I thought.

It didn’t.

It still hasn’t months later, and I had forgotten about it until I stumbled upon it today in my drafts section.

Then I had a thought (it happens): my drafts section has become cluttered with half-written posts and neglected ideas; it’s time to change that.

Here’s a short list of some of the unfinished posts:

Why do Hillbillies Have Weird Faces?

This search term popped up on my stats page. It’s a compelling questioned that deserves an answer.

Why Sea-Monkeys are Better Than Your Cousins.

I’m not certain why this one wasn’t finished, it practically writes itself.

Don’t Say it to Your Boss.

I found a list of things not to say to your boss at a work relations website. The list was woefully inadequate; I could immediately think of a half dozen ill-advised things I’ve said to bosses, that weren’t on the list.

Where is Bigfoot and Why is He so Damned Hard to Find?

Answering this question would wipe out half of the programming on Animal Planet.

Bad Idea Fireman.

Your guess is as good as mine.

Vote for the post you want to see, or leave a comment, or do both.

Dear Overbearing Parents of Talentless Brats

brat

Isn’t this precious?

Please stop showing me pictures of your baby.

The first fifty pictures of your little bundle of joy were all pretty much the same. If you’re going to inundate me with this barrage of maternal pride, at least mix it up a little. Dress the kid up like a gladiator or a pirate; give me a reason to at least feign interest.

I know you believe every human on the planet desires to see endless streams of photos of your child. You believe we have an innate need to gush over your child, and shower him with flowery praise.

We do not.

What people say: what a beautiful baby you have.

What people are actually thinking: holy crap your baby looks like a lizard. His skin is weird and his face is all smushed. Is his father a sleestack?

sleestack

Daddy?

 

I know it’s popular to refer to your child as a miracle, but your getting pregnant because your half-wit boyfriend doesn’t like to use a condom–not exactly the Virgin birth.

The ugly truth: children grow up to be people, and people are jerks. In fact, I know your kid’s father, and he’s a jackass. That poor kid’s wading out of a gene pool that’s shallow, stagnant and filled with parasites.

And stop acting like everything your child does is precious.

Your child dumped mustard in the fish tank: not precious.

Your child shaved the dog: not precious.

Your child painted clowns on your living room wall: honestly, this one’s funny.

Once on a flight from Buffalo to Syracuse, I sat in front of child who sang the Alphabet Song at the top of his lungs for the entire trip. Unfortunately he didn’t know the alphabet, so he just shouted random letters and kicked the back of my seat.

His mother thought this was precious; I did not. It would have been preferable to be chained to the back of a jeep and dragged over broken glass from Buffalo to Syracuse.

Forget water-boarding, if we had this kid at Gitmo, we would have had Osama Bin Laden years earlier.

Note: do you think the parents of future terrorists think it’s precious when their children make toy bombs from Play-Doh and pretend to blow-up infidels?

It’s advantageous to never discipline your child; who doesn’t love a good “my child did the cutest thing in juvenile court today” story.

Maybe if Jeffrey Dahmer’s parents had made him eat his vegetables, things would have turned out differently.

Let’s all get together and stop praising our children for things that are clearly not praiseworthy.

Parent: isn’t this picture my child drew wonderful?

Friend: it’s beautiful.

Friend #2: your child is so talented.

Me: really, I think it’s crap. The colors are horrible, the lines are all wrong, and you can’t tell what it is. Is it a dog or a horse or a Volkswagen; there’s no way to distinguish. She’s also put the sun and the shadow on the same side of what ever that thing is. She clearly has no aptitude for art or science.

Do you know what happens when you constantly praise your child for things she’s bad at? She wastes three years at college majoring in art, when in reality she’s crap at it. Then she comes home with a giant face tattoo, and informs you she’s dropped out of school to focus on her poetry, which she’s also crap at. Then when she tries to find a real job, and the following happens:

Interviewer: Your application seems fine, and we’d like to hire you, but there’s the issue of your face tattoo.

Her: What do mean? This tattoo is an expression of me, and who I am.

Interviewer: I’m not saying it’s not a brilliant tattoo of a dragon’s penis, but here at Chuck E. Cheese, I’m not sure it would fit our image.

Her: My mother says this tattoo is precious. She says everything I’ve ever done is precious. She even refers to me as “her precious.”

Interviewer: it also bothers me that your mother is Gollum.

gollum

Mommy?

 

Let me be clear, I don’t think you should squelch the dreams and aspirations of children. You should squelch the delusions of talentless brats with overbearing parents.

And we should probably do something about the parents.

Thanksgiving With the Family: The Aftermath

breaking bad Thanksgiving.

That seems about right.

Did you have a good Thanksgiving with the family?

Of course you didn’t; you had it with the family.

The phrase “with the family” is equivalent to the phrase “while being tortured sadistically.”

Let’s try it out: Did you have a good Thanksgiving while being tortured sadistically? See how the words are different, but their meaning hasn’t changed.

Are you nursing a headache today because getting through Thanksgiving with the family means more Wild Turkey than actual turkey?

Wild Turkey

Wild Turkey: helping you survive family get-togethers since 1869.

Did your crazy uncle pull out his pictures of what he claims to be a Bigfoot, but what looks suspiciously like the stump in his backyard.

Did your vegan cousin punctuate the Thanksgiving Day prayer by loudly proclaiming that meat is murder?

Did your aunt then correct your vegan cousin by informing her that this year’s Thanksgiving dinner was roadkill, and therefore its death was clearly an accident. (It may have been opossum, nobody was quite sure. Your uncle was really drunk when he hit it.)

Wild Turkey

Wild Turkey: helping provide your Thanksgiving dinner since 1869.

Did your crazy uncle once again regale you with story of how he once shot a unicorn, but by the time he got to it, it had turned back into his neighbor’s goat?

Did you cousin, the serial dater, arrive with a man who was a definite upgrade from previous years: he did have a face tattoo and prosthetic fangs, but at least he didn’t have a hook for a hand?

Did an argument break out over whether the term inbred is pejorative?

Did the argument rapidly escalate when somebody looked up the word pejorative?

Did the argument result in multiple stabbings, limited gun-play, and one injury from a crossbow?

Do you now have a wound on your forehead that you will describe in the future as the scar of Thanksgiving 2014?

Did your aunt, the mean one, bring her infamous three bean salad?

Did the three bean salad taste like a monkey peed on a pile of death?

Did everyone suffer through the three bean salad because they’re too afraid of her to comment?

Note: Among your aunts, being labeled as “the mean one” is a bit like being labeled as “the racist Nazi.”

Did your drunken uncle attempt to carve the turkey (or opossum, groundhog, warthog, whatever) and sever his pinky finger…again?

Did your uncle, the volunteer fireman who thinks he’s a doctor because he’s had first aid training, attempt to reattach the finger using liquor as an antiseptic and fishing line as sutures?

Was the phrase, “I’ve never seen so much blood” uttered multiple times during the procedure?

Wild Turkey

Wild Turkey: aiding your family with ill-advised medical procedures since 1869.

Did you promise yourself that you would never again step into this unholy cacophony?

At least not until Christmas, or you’ve procured holy water and a crucifix.

Seriously, I Don’t Want to Dance

the office dancing

Do you really want David Brent as a role model?

Why is this world polluted with people who are determined to make me dance? Loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative, overlords of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable. People who won’t take no for an answer. People who believe they have a better grasp of what’s in my brain than I do.

What I say: I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: I pretend I don’t want to dance, but secretly, it’s my deepest yearning. If it weren’t for debilitating fear and self-loathing, I’d be out on the dance floor right now, living the dream.

What I say: seriously, I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: if only there were some loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative, overlord of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable, to goad and badger me into doing what I’ve secretly always wanted to do anyway.

What I say: get away from me you drooling half-wit.

What they hear: grab my arm like a slack-jawed oaf, and physically drag me onto the dance floor.

I am not responsible for anything that happens from that moment forward. I am certain the person who coined the phrase, “justifiable homicide” was just some poor fellow who earnestly didn’t want to dance.

Note: I’m sure when his jaw is unwired, the person described in the scenario above, will apologize to me.

Let’s make one thing clear: just because you like a certain thing, it doesn’t follow that every other human should also like that thing. Loads of different people like loads of different things.

Jeffrey Dahmer quite enjoyed killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in his freezer. I can write with a relative degree of certainty, most human beings wouldn’t much care for that.

I have never once thought to myself: killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in my freezer, seems like a horrific and frankly, evil thing to do…but, Jeffrey thought it was lovely, perhaps I’m looking at this all backwards. I’ve got plenty of room in my freezer, and several acquaintances in my sphere of influence I could readily live without. If only the local learning annex offered some course on beginner cannibalism. It’s all scrapbooking this and scrapbooking that, down at that place.

I don’t need to be the center of attention to enjoy myself. In fact, it’s preferable.

Just because I’m not standing on a chair, singing Love Shack at the top of my lungs, juggling shot-glasses, while I wildly thrust my hips into the air in a suggestive manner, doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying myself.

I don’t see life through the same self-absorbed prism as you.

You imagine I’m thinking: if only I could summon the courage, that would be me on that chair.

When I’m really thinking: if only I could summon the courage, I would kick that chair from under that jackasses feet. That would make me smile.

Also, don’t tell me to smile.

I smile plenty. I smile when it’s appropriate: I smile when I’m happy. I smile when I’m with my friends. I smile when something good happens. I smile when a jackass falls from his chair and shot-glasses cascade across his face.

Note: sometimes I summon the courage.

People who go around smiling for no apparent reason are mental. I am not mental (fingers crossed).

crazy smile

This is how you appear to the rest of the world.

Being a naturally quiet person or an introvert is not a problem that needs to be fixed–just leave me be.

 Addendum

And stop trying to make me eat guacamole–I just don’t like it. Also, telling me I don’t like guacamole because I’ve never had ‘your guacamole’ isn’t helpful, unless by ‘your guacamole’ what you really mean is bean dip.

 

avacado

I just don’t like it.

My Top Ten Previous Lives and Other Nonsense

Napolean

I may have been Napoleon in a previous life.

I’ve noticed when people talk about reincarnation or previous lives, they’ve always been someone famous or influential or important. They’re always Napoleon or George Washington or the guy who invented the ShamWow.

Why is it that no one has ever been a fifth century banana slug or Igor the twelfth century serf who mucked out stables, and was killed by a runaway manure cart?

After much deliberation I’ve come up with my top ten previous lives:

TEN

Big stupid dinosaur–Jurassic Period.

NINE

Small clever dinosaur, eaten by a big stupid dinosaur–Jurassic Period.

EIGHT

Big stupid dodo bird that jumped from a cliff in a fruitless attempt to fly–whenever the hell we lived.

dodo bird

Look at those tiny ineffectual wings, no wonder we’re extinct.

SEVEN

Mayan who first met Francisco Hernandez de Cordoba, and thought to himself: these Spaniards seem nice, I’ll introduce them to my people, nothing bad could come from that–sixteenth century, near the time of the fall of the Mayan Empire.

SIX

Wendall Newton, Sir Isaac Newton’s stupid cousin who laughed when the apple fell on Isaac’s head. Later ate the apple and choked, it had a worm in it–seventeenth century.

FIVE

Pierre, Marie Antoinette’s advisor and later headless corpse. He advised her: just tell them to eat cake–eighteenth century.

FOUR

Adolph Hitler, but not the infamous one; just another boy born in Germany with a very unfortunate name–early twentieth century.

THREE

Raccoon who was shot, but later gained fame as Fess Parker’s hat–mid twentieth century.

TWO

Big stupid tuna fish caught in a net. Later became part of a casserole that Edwina Fornwaller took to a pot-luck dinner. It was dry and not well received–late twentieth century.

ONE

Bigfoot. Spent time lurking just out of sight, and being captured in grainy indistinguishable photographs–whenever.

fess parker

Here I am on Fess Parker’s head. Don’t I look awesome?

Deliverance: Not the Only River Tale to End Badly.

Photo source: Travel France Rafting

“Don’t worry, it’ll be refreshing,” my friend assured me. I had strong doubts as I stood on the shore and watched the river’s water heave and surge past. My trepidation fueled less by the tenacity of the water, more by the fact that what I did in the water could be described less as swimming and more as a labored attempt to avoid drowning. In pit of my stomach, I could feel that this rafting trip was about to turn ugly.

Rivers that are used for rafting are separated into five classifications. Class one rivers are basically flat, smooth waters that can be easily navigated. Class five rivers are rapidly descending, treacherous waters that require considerable experience to navigate.

Class one rivers are for tiny little girls and wimps. Class five rivers are for studly men who like to the laugh in the face of the Grim Reaper. We chose a class three river, we were average men who like the laugh in the face of the Grim Reaper but only when the Grim Reaper is at a distance and busy with somebody else at the time.

The trip was going well, we had successfully navigated our way through several sets of rapids without major incident. It was then that the guide told us to bring our rafts to shore where he informed us that this was the part of the trip where we could walk back upstream and go back through the last set of rapids.

“What,” I asked casually, attempting to mask the alarm in my voice, “do you mean without the raft?”

“That’s right, you’re just going to jump in the water and go,” the guide said with an annoying amount of confidence.

“Are you certain that’s safe?”

“Absolutely, these are very deep rapids.”

“It’s safe because deep water is harder to drown in?”

“Yes…I mean, no. When it comes to rapids, deeper is safer.” I could detect a timbre of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Okay, I understand…I’m curious, what are your thoughts concerning skydiving without the parachute?”

I could tell by the dagger filled stare that was shooting my way, that is was time to stop asking questions. This was the man whom I would depend upon to pull semiconscious body from the water should the need arise.

One by one, like lemmings, we climbed onto the top of a small boulder and leapt into the river.

I made through the first two mini-rapids without a problem. It was the third set of rapids where a sudden surge of water lifted my body for a moment then pulled me under the surface. Murky river water shot up my nose at approximately 2000 mph, ricocheted off the bottom of my brain, then poured into my lungs.

Not wanting to be filled with murky river water, my lungs immediately expelled the water back through my mouth and nose with considerable force. My eyes, feeling left out, began to water profusely. I was now spinning out of control and my arms were flailing around like a crazed marionette.

This was the moment I chose to invent a new game. I call the game “Whack your face against the rock.” I invented this game approximately two seconds after the guide yelled, “Hey, don’t whack your face against the rock.”

“Are you okay?” the guide chortled, unable to mask his amusement. I signaled to him with a thumbs up…well, it was a single digit.

As I slowly spun out of the rapids and crawled to shore, gasping for air and coughing simultaneously (something that I had previously thought to be physically impossible) my friend asked, “Are you going to go again?”

“No,” I replied. “I think that I’m refreshed enough.”

river raft

The IOC is considering whack-your-face-against-the-rock for the 2016 Olympics.

Just to Reiterate: Get the Hell Out of the Way

waiting in line

Is she talking about her gout again? Kill me now.

I know I’ve touched on the subject of checkout line etiquette on more than one occasion.

And I know what you’re thinking: why are you beating a dead horse?

It’s dead.

It’s been dead.

Just stop it.

You’re embarrassing yourself.

Would you beat Seabiscuit?

Seabiscuit’s a dead horse.

Seabiscuit was an underdog that overcame adversity.

Seabiscuit’s story was inspirational and heartwarming.

How dare you.

I’d wager that you didn’t even cry at the end of the Old Yeller.

Are you made of stone?

Old Yeller was a faithful and trusted companion.

Monster.

Anyway, recent events have led me to believe that I need to revisit the subject of checkout line etiquette. First generally and then specifically.

Just a few thing you shouldn’t do in a check-out line, generally:

  • Haggle over the validity of a ten cent coupon for meatless vegan sausage. I mean what’s the point, it’s just awful. Go put it back on the shelf and calmly leave the store.
  • Suddenly realize, moments after the cashier has rung up your total, that you’ve forgotten something vital; something that you absolutely mustn’t leave the store without or your wife will give you that “how useless are you” speech. Retreat to the back of the store to retrieve the overlooked item. Take an eternity because you have trouble locating the item. Return fifteen minutes later with your item and an apologetic grin. (If the item you return with is meatless vegan sausage, you will be beaten sadistically.)
  • Try to pay with a personal check if don’t have any identification. How long have you been alive on this planet?
  • Try to pay with cash only to find you’re a little bit short. Then instead of putting something back (because everything you’re getting is absolutely vital, even the meatless vegan sausage) you rummage through all your jacket pockets to find that all you have are some loose Tic Tacs and an assortment of Canadian coins. (Obviously if you’re in Canada this is not a problem; Tic Tacs are widely used as currency there.)
  • Juggle running chain saws.
  • Lick the face of the person next to you and scream, “I have Ebola.”
  • Get in the express line with a cart full of items. Then lick the face of the person next to you and scream, “I have Ebola.”
  • Mime. (Miming should never be done anywhere for any reason.)
  • Loudly sing Justin Bieber songs.
  • Quietly sing Justin Bieber songs.
  • Be Justin Bieber.
  • Punch a mime in the face. (Sorry. This one’s acceptable and sometimes necessary.)

And now, something you shouldn’t do in a check-out line, specifically:

Don’t wait until you’ve been completely checked out, and all your items bagged, to start a personal conversation with the cashier.

We don’t care that your gout has been acting up.

We don’t care that your child’s soccer coach won’t put him in the game. Your kid sucks-deal with it.

We don’t care that your niece is in a loveless marriage. She shouldn’t have married her second cousin; we know it’s legal, but still.

We don’t care that your gynecologist was arrested. He should have never been in that opium den to begin with. Do you really want a gynecologist who frequents opium dens anyway.

But mostly, we couldn’t give a rodent’s behind who you think should have been eliminated from Dancing With The Stars. There was a brief fleeting moment when we cared, but that was just a mass hallucination, and it passed.

If you believe the people in your general sphere of being, so desperately need to know your opinion, then call them later. Text them. Instant message them. Hell, open up your kitchen window and scream as loudly as you can in their general direction-I don’t care. Just get the hell out of the way.

Thank you.

Addendum:

If you’re upset because you’ve never seen Old Yeller, and now I’ve ruined it for you, I have only one thing to say: Rosebud was a sled.

rosebud

At least I didn’t reveal that Bruce Willis’ character in Sixth Sense was dead the entire time.

Smoking: What are You Waiting For?

Recently I jokingly asked someone if they could recommend a brand of cigarettes, because I needed a hobby, and I planned to take up smoking. This was met with a glassy-eyed stare, and an earnest lecture against the evils of smoking.

I felt it was time to revisit an old post extolling the many reasons people should start smoking.

Note: so many of my jokes are met with glassy-eyed stares, I could use them to hypnotize people.    

smoking face

See how happy you could be.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

The plight of tobacco executives in our country.

With the combination of class action lawsuits and the implementation of restrictive legislation, the poor tobacco executives in our country have taken a terrible beating over the past several years. It has resulted in a precipitous tumble in their social standing; they have gone from being filthy stinking rich, to being only extremely well off. If we don’t take immediate action, where will it end?

The fate of our tobacco executives if we don't take immediate action.image source: andertoons.com

The fate of our tobacco executives if we don’t take immediate action.
(image source: andertoons.com)

The word emphysema is really fun to say.

It’s a word that just rolls off your tongue.  Em-phy-se-ma: one syllable just flows into the next. Try saying it once. Try saying it several times in a row. Try saying it quickly. Try saying it quickly several times in a row (unless you have emphysema: you might pass out).

The great thing about emphysema is that once you have it, it never goes away. And emphysema will affect nearly every aspect of your life; so you will have no trouble working it into daily conversation:

  • The doctor diagnosed me with emphysema.
  • I’m taking this medicine for my emphysema.
  • I’d love to play with my grandchildren more, but I can’t because of my emphysema.
  • I climbed two flights of stairs and collapsed in a sweaty quivering mass due to my emphysema.
  • I won at scrabble when I played the word emphysema. Thank goodness I can still play board games.

Not only will you have fun with the word emphysema, but so will your friends and family, long after you’re gone:

  • What a nice funeral. I guess the doctor said he would have survived the pneumonia if hadn’t been for the emphysema.
  • He certainly died young, but his quality of life wasn’t very good with the emphysema.
  • Remember that time he coughed up a piece of lung and we all laughed for hours; crazy thing that emphysema.
In a twist of irony, you win a scrabble tournament playing the words healthy alveola.image source: snapdesign.com

In a twist of irony, you won a scrabble tournament playing the words, healthy alveoli.
(image source: snapdesign.com)

You need to know what they’re talking about.

You’ve seen them huddled together, enjoying their cigarettes, with their furtive glances and secretive whispers.

They’re outside of the bar, the restaurant, the bank. They’re outside any and every place of business. They assemble in the wind, the rain, and the snow. They assemble regardless of scorching heat or an F5 tornado. Nothing deters them.

What can they be talking about? It must be of incredible importance. They must be solving the puzzles of the universe.

You’ve tried approaching them, but without a cigarette in your hand, they just regard you with disdain and disgust.

It’s been eating at you; you need to know what they’re talking about.

Note: It’s a little known fact that Albert Einstein developed both special and general relativity, while huddled with a bunch of coworkers outside of a patent office, in a brutal German snowstorm.

Get lost, we're doing something important. We're developing a cure for cancer or emphysema. Hey, emphysema, that's fun to say.image source: sodahead.com

“Get lost, we’re discussing important things. We’re discussing a possible cure for cancer or emphysema. Hey, emphysema, that’s fun to say.”
(image source: sodahead.com)

To stick it to that know-it-all the Surgeon General

You’re a rebel and you don’t appreciate anybody telling you how to live your life. You certainly don’t need some preachy Surgeon General constantly yapping at you about lung cancer, heart disease, or 32 known carcinogens.

There are tons of dangerous activities out there that the Surgeon General has said absolutely nothing about:

  • Poking yourself in the eye with a stick.
  • Dropping a brick on your toes.
  • Insulting the wife of a tattoo laden biker dude.
  • Juggling knives.
  • Attempting to re-attach your fingers with a sewing needle and some thread following some ill-advised knife juggling.
  • Hitting yourself repeatedly in the face with a hammer.

Why don’t hammers come with an explicate warning from the Surgeon General; you don’t have to hit yourself in the face more than five or six times with a hammer, to do some real damage.

If we’re going to make any real changes, it’s up to all of you out there to light up and start puffing away.

I’d start smoking today if my jaw wasn’t wired shut.

I'm launching a law suit; those irresponsible executives at Black & Decker, need to learn.image source: wpclipart.com

I’m launching a lawsuit; those irresponsible executives at Black & Decker, need to learn.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

Woefully Inadequate Preparation

 

pythagorean theorem

Useless knowledge when you’re about to be cut.

This occurred while I was working as a quality control inspector at a steel coating plant near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was sitting at my desk filling out paperwork–paperwork that I’m sure was vital to the daily functioning of the plant, and not be interrupted–when the crane operator, Jim, burst into the office.

“We have a problem,” he barked.

Jim tended to have problems more days than not. Urgent problems. Urgent problems of all varieties. (I could tell it was urgent because Jim was using his urgent voice. His urgent voice was similar to his whiny voice, but an octave higher.)

I looked around the office to discover I was the only one there. Crap.

“Houston,” I said to him.

“What?”

“When you burst into a room to exclaim that you have a problem, you’re supposed to say, ‘Houston, we have a problem.'”

“But we’re not in Houston.”

Note: nobody gets me.

“Never mind. What’s the problem?” I asked with genuinely feigned interest.

“Look at this,” he said as he shoved his phone at me. It was a picture of some temp workers standing outside on a smoke break.

“It’s a picture of some temp workers standing outside on a smoke break.” I said.

“You don’t see the problem?” He was incredulous.

“The threat of emphysema?”

“Look closer.” He shoved the phone at me again.

“Okay. They’re all smoking cigarettes, except for that little guy who seems to be holding…a crack pipe.”

“So you understand the problem now?”

“He’s not sharing with the others?”

“This is serious,” he snapped.

“Selfishness is a serious problem, Jim,” I admonished him.

“I can’t be operating a crane out there with people running around all hopped up on drugs.”

“Do people still use the phrase hopped up?”

“Are you going to do something or not?”

“Where’s Rick?” I asked. “He’s loud and obnoxious and loves to yell at people.”

Rick was the foreman, he was loud and obnoxious and loved to yell at people.

“He called off today,” Jim told me.

Note: It’s so rare that you’re in want of a person who is loud and obnoxious and loves to yell at people, but one time that you are, he’s not around. I once asked the owner why he made Rick the foreman. He told me that Rick was too stupid to do anything useful, but he was good at yelling at people, so he made him the foreman. Just another reason the Pittsburgh steel industry is thriving, in Japan.

I got on the radio and called the paint supervisor, to inform him of the situation.

“Deal with it, I’m in the truck yard,” he said tersely.

I reminded him that I mainly dealt with readings, measurements, recording data and that type of thing. What I didn’t deal with were problems that could lead to me being stabbed in the side of head.

“Deal with it, I’m in the truck yard,” He said again. My abilities of persuasion were obviously lacking.

I approached the person in question. He was a little guy with glasses. He looked like Mr. Peabody, if Mr. Peabody were a crackhead and not a cartoon dog. He was sweating profusely and his eyes were darting back and forth.

Mr. Peabody (probably not on crack)

“We won’t be needing you for the rest of the day, so you can go home now,” I told him, hoping that he would just acquiesce and leave.

“Why?” He demanded.

“We just don’t need you.”

He leaned into me, and growled in a slow deep voice, “is it because of the leprechauns?”

I gaped like an idiot.

“It’s the leprechauns isn’t it?” He persisted.

“No. It has nothing to do with the leprechauns.” I spoke slowly. “It’s more that you smoked crack on your break.” I felt at that point that honesty wasn’t going to make the situation any worse.

“Is that what the leprechauns told you?” He screamed. “The leprechauns lie!” Then he produced a razor blade from his pocket.

Evidently honesty could make things much worse.

He then gave me a very strange look and asked in a near whisper, “are you a leprechaun?”

You’re never really prepared for the first time someone asks you if you’re leprechaun. The public schools are woefully inadequate in such preparation. Knowing how to diagram a sentence or use the Pythagorean theorem, are useless abilities when you’re about to be cut.

So I said the only thing my agile brain could produce: “I’m not even wearing green.”

Luckily for me, by this time attention had been drawn to the situation, and there were several guys that had gathered around to help.

The police arrived shortly and took the guy away without incident.

But the next time someone asks me if I’m a leprechaun, I’ll be prepared.

My true identity.

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