Alright … let’s see if I can get my writing mojo back. It seems to have wandered off somewhere. I passed a greasy spot in the middle of the road on the way to work this morning, but I was afraid to look at it too closely for fear that it might be the remnants […]
In August of 1976, Tom Miller of the United States, spent 4 days, 23 hours, 47 minutes, and 3 seconds, pushing a peanut to the summit of Pike’s Peak, with his nose.
“Tom Miller can bite me.”
Monster.com has compiled a list of things not to say to your boss. Let’s take a look at their list:
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:
Do see how much more helpful this list is?
Ours is a nation whose shores are teeming with experts. They are vital to our existence. We could barely function on daily basis if not for these titans of knowledge, and purveyors of wisdom. We know these things because it’s what they tell us.
We expect much of our experts and they tell us much:
If not for the tireless work of experts, how many of us would still be living under the dark veil of happiness.
It must be exhausting being an expert..
If should happen to see an expert on the street today, stop and be sure to give him a heartfelt thank you. If you don’t know how to do that: ask him, I’m sure he’ll tell you how it should be done.
Bullwinkle, appreciating the hell out some poetry.
Every now and again, when I’m feeling intellectually illiterate or a bit lowbrow, (anyone who has read this blog to any extent can understand how frequently that may be) I will resolve the feeling by appreciating poetry.
I just head to my closet, yank out my poetry sack, pull out a big wad of poetry, and appreciate the hell out of it.
Note: my poetry sack also serves as a repository for random unmatched socks.
When appreciating poetry in a right and proper way, there are a few things that are key:
Comprehension
If you can even remotely understand the meaning of a poem, it isn’t a proper poem. Poems tend to be vague or nebulous. Poets like to throw around a dizzying menagerie of random imagery, designed to confuse and disorient. If you’ve just finished reading a poem and you haven’t vomited in your mouth a bit, it isn’t proper poetry.
Symbolism
When a poet writes a poem about a leaf being blown from a tree, falling to the ground, and being trampled underfoot, he’s not actually writing about a leaf being blown from a tree, falling to the ground, and being trampled underfoot.
The leaf represents hopelessness, and the futility of a life marred by series of tragic events. The leaf being blown from the tree represents a life spiralling into an alcohol fueled abyss of despair. The leaf being trampled underfoot represents the crushing weight of an uncaring world and inevitable grip of death.
A morbid bunch–poets.
Emotional Response
Poems are written to evoke an emotional response from its readers. Once after reading a collection of poems by Sylvia Plath, I spent hours curled-up on the floor in the fetal position as I sobbed uncontrollably.
An excerpt from Daddy, one of Sylvia Plath’s best known poems:
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——The vampire who said he was youAnd drank my blood for a year,Seven years, if you want to know.Daddy, you can lie back now.There’s a stake in your fat black heartAnd the villagers never liked you.They are dancing and stamping on you.They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
Holy Crap! Right?
Note: I don’t want to paint the picture that all poets are emotionally distressed alcoholics with father issues– but the really good ones are.
Be sure that you know the difference. You don’t want to be chatting up a girl who is gushing over her love of Emily Dickinson when you say, “I know, she was smoking hot in Big Bad Mama.” Seriously– it ends badly.
This is not Emily Dickinson.
“Paddle faster you idiots.”
“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.”
The IOC is considering whack-your-face-against-the-rock for the 2020 Olympics.
Big creepy frog.
If you been through Erie, Pennsylvania, you may have noticed a big creepy frog along the side of the road. You may have noticed several big creepy frogs along the side of the road. In fact, you may have noticed big creepy frogs everywhere.
There are, in fact, about 100 eight feet tall frog sculptures littered about Erie and the surrounding area.
The frogs are part of the Lake Erie Art Project.
“Art isn’t meant to be beautiful; it’s meant to drive us and open us up to our fears and vulnerabilities…and if we can make small children wet themselves, so much the better,” one official said of the frogs. “We took that core philosophy and we ran with it; we ran like Forrest Gump.”
The small one hasn’t stopped crying.
“You see,” the official went on to explain, “we felt there just wasn’t enough creepy shit in Erie. Don’t get me wrong, Erie is creepy: we have Bigfoot sighting on Presque Isle, haunted cemeteries, and roving bands of inbred cannibals, but we needed something extra.”
Another victim of the Erie frogs.
“And the rumor that the frogs come to life and devour people has been an unexpected bonus. If we can leave visitors of Erie scarred for life–we’ve done our job.”
Another poor soul who got a little bit too close.
“So come to Erie and see our frogs,” the official said, “not everybody gets eaten.”
“Welcome to Erie. You look delicious.”
Things you should not wear to a job interview:
It’s hysterical, but don’t.
Things not to do on a job interview:
Things not to put on your resume:
Under other interests:
Note: hunting mimes and shrinking their heads is acceptable, and if you should happen to scrapbook about it…whatever.
Under accomplishments:
Final and key piece of advice:
Don’t do this.
