Me: This is gonna be more fun than shooting monkeys.
Erin: Do you mean fish in a barrel?
Me: I meant to say "more fun than a barrel of monkeys."
Erin: Well, you didn't.
I didn't want to tell her, but I've shot monkeys in the past. Hella fun!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Yes we can!
So, the president elect is biracial, crazy white people are buying up guns like its the end of days, football games are ending in ties. Shit has just been crazy lately! You know what's NOT crazy? Well, hopefully the prez elect. But also, Wiis. Not only are Wiis not crazy, Wiis are just about the most fun you can have standing up.
I don't know how many of you folks own a Wii or have ever played a Wii, or have ever looked lustfully on as others played their Wii, but it really is the best way to spend 250 greenbacks without orgasming or feeling the shame of paying a prostitute (definitely NOT a good use of $250).
The only thing better than buying a Wii is getting one for free. And now YOU can get a free Wii. Well, not for you, per se... But you can help a friend get a free Wii. My friend Xtina is apparently in a contest where the winner gets a Wii. I think the plan is to give it to her husband, cuz he deserves it. I mean, if you know Xtina, then you definitely know he deserves the bestest console in the universe!
So, let's do a gal a solid and click here to make the world a bit of a better place. Vote for Christina Gainor! Oh, and if you need a reason why you should help, when Xtina was 16, she hit Coach Brooks with her parents' truck (don't worry, he was in a car. It was really more of a love tap). Anyway, he was kind of an ass. That one act alone made the world SUCH a better place!
A vote for Xtina is a vote for America. Yes we can... Change... Hope... Um, apple pie... Just vote, dammit!
I don't know how many of you folks own a Wii or have ever played a Wii, or have ever looked lustfully on as others played their Wii, but it really is the best way to spend 250 greenbacks without orgasming or feeling the shame of paying a prostitute (definitely NOT a good use of $250).
The only thing better than buying a Wii is getting one for free. And now YOU can get a free Wii. Well, not for you, per se... But you can help a friend get a free Wii. My friend Xtina is apparently in a contest where the winner gets a Wii. I think the plan is to give it to her husband, cuz he deserves it. I mean, if you know Xtina, then you definitely know he deserves the bestest console in the universe!
So, let's do a gal a solid and click here to make the world a bit of a better place. Vote for Christina Gainor! Oh, and if you need a reason why you should help, when Xtina was 16, she hit Coach Brooks with her parents' truck (don't worry, he was in a car. It was really more of a love tap). Anyway, he was kind of an ass. That one act alone made the world SUCH a better place!
A vote for Xtina is a vote for America. Yes we can... Change... Hope... Um, apple pie... Just vote, dammit!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
My girlfriend can tell you which comes first...
I think a Good Idea for marriage would be for people to only marry those who have the same view on critical issues to get together. Sounds a bit complicated, I know. That’s why there should also be a social networking website to help. Now, when I say “critical issues” I mean those big hulking questions that have been plaguing mankind for eons.
For example, are you a chicken person or an egg person? The question of course being, “what came first, the chicken or the egg?” Duh. The chicken. It says so. Reread the sentence… Pretty obvious, right??? But for some reason people tend to disagree. That’s where the website comes into play. All the egg people will form an egg network and all the chicken people will form a chicken network and they’ll start to pair up.
Now, this isn’t even the best part of my Good Idea. After pairing up and getting married, or socially unioned, or what ever it is your particular state or province will allow the couples will have two kids (or adopt… or get a dingo as a pet and let it do its thing). Now here’s where the genius comes into play. If you’re a chicken couple, you name your first kid Chicken and your second kid Egg. If you’re an egg person, you name your first kid Egg and your second kid Chicken. This way you solidify your union, have concrete proof of what came first, and as a kicker it’s a nice reminder to your kids that in the grand scheme of things they are insignificant and really just the butt of some cosmic joke. It builds character.
Another good coupling would be people who don’t believe in the theory of evolution. I think they could all get together and maybe create communities where they shut out the rest of world, except maybe to share their wares and possilbly teach us how to make barrels and such. And I think we’ll call them Amish.
You know who else should have an exclusive social networking site for people who only believe the same thing? People who want to see Sarah Palin naked. Now, I know I’m not the only one. In fact, I’ve read blogs and overheard conversations in bars, so I know I’m not the only one. Now, don’t get it twisted, I’m not saying anyone wants to actually sleep with her, but there’s just something about a crazy-gun totin’-no foreign policy havin’-vengeful-shot gun marriage forcin’-I shouln’t have rights to my own body-govna that makes me want to see her better assets. Or maybe it’s just me. I’ve always had a thing for women with power (or in her case, potential power… I cringed after I typed that). I mean, I wouldn’t mind having a peek at that queen lady across the pond either. Hot. Stuff. More than likely, it has something to do with the fact that she looks like so many famous to moderately famous women that I’m thinking if I saw her naked I could just sort of cross all the others off my list. It’s efficient. I like efficiency. Except that crappy apartment I had for a year. $575 for a box with a bathroom that’s just a step up from a chamber pot??? Where do I sign!
Oh, I’m rambling again. I should stop that. Where’s my Ritalin? But seriously, let’s make this chicken-egg thing happen!
For example, are you a chicken person or an egg person? The question of course being, “what came first, the chicken or the egg?” Duh. The chicken. It says so. Reread the sentence… Pretty obvious, right??? But for some reason people tend to disagree. That’s where the website comes into play. All the egg people will form an egg network and all the chicken people will form a chicken network and they’ll start to pair up.
Now, this isn’t even the best part of my Good Idea. After pairing up and getting married, or socially unioned, or what ever it is your particular state or province will allow the couples will have two kids (or adopt… or get a dingo as a pet and let it do its thing). Now here’s where the genius comes into play. If you’re a chicken couple, you name your first kid Chicken and your second kid Egg. If you’re an egg person, you name your first kid Egg and your second kid Chicken. This way you solidify your union, have concrete proof of what came first, and as a kicker it’s a nice reminder to your kids that in the grand scheme of things they are insignificant and really just the butt of some cosmic joke. It builds character.
Another good coupling would be people who don’t believe in the theory of evolution. I think they could all get together and maybe create communities where they shut out the rest of world, except maybe to share their wares and possilbly teach us how to make barrels and such. And I think we’ll call them Amish.
You know who else should have an exclusive social networking site for people who only believe the same thing? People who want to see Sarah Palin naked. Now, I know I’m not the only one. In fact, I’ve read blogs and overheard conversations in bars, so I know I’m not the only one. Now, don’t get it twisted, I’m not saying anyone wants to actually sleep with her, but there’s just something about a crazy-gun totin’-no foreign policy havin’-vengeful-shot gun marriage forcin’-I shouln’t have rights to my own body-govna that makes me want to see her better assets. Or maybe it’s just me. I’ve always had a thing for women with power (or in her case, potential power… I cringed after I typed that). I mean, I wouldn’t mind having a peek at that queen lady across the pond either. Hot. Stuff. More than likely, it has something to do with the fact that she looks like so many famous to moderately famous women that I’m thinking if I saw her naked I could just sort of cross all the others off my list. It’s efficient. I like efficiency. Except that crappy apartment I had for a year. $575 for a box with a bathroom that’s just a step up from a chamber pot??? Where do I sign!
Oh, I’m rambling again. I should stop that. Where’s my Ritalin? But seriously, let’s make this chicken-egg thing happen!
Monday, June 23, 2008
Oh, it's pronounced "jim"
So, I’m thinking about joining a gym. Now, I don’t know if I’m actually going to join a gym, but I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. I know what people are probably thinking: “Achan, you don’t need to join a gym. You’re like an African Adonis. We’re kinda amazed that you don’t spend all day in front of a full length mirror gazing at the magnificence that is you.” And to that I say, don’t be silly. I don’t even own a full length mirror… oh, but if I did. My, the gazing I would do.
Sorry. Got side tracked. But I’m back now. So, I’ve been thinking about joining a gym. Even though you can’t tell (at least that’s what I like to tell myself) I’m getting a bit soft in the middle. Every few nights I wake up covered in sweat and breathing hard. Those are usually the nights Erin slips me a blue pill and has her way with me while I’m sleeping… but other nights I wake up sweating and breathing hard because of The Dream.
You know The Dream. Everyone knows The Dream. One second you’re sprightly and vernal, frolicking in the hallowed halls of high school with nary a care in the world. The next second you blink and you’re a rounding, graying, sore joint, back pain having old ass twenty-seven year old. We’ve all had that dream. And if you say you haven’t I’m gonna come over and kick you. Right in the baby maker. I know you know what I’m talking about. So, yeah, I’m thinking about joining a gym.
But you see, the trouble with gyms, or rather gym memberships, is that they cost money. I wouldn’t have so much of a problem with this if I felt like I would actually be a member of something… or if I had money. I mean, who came up with THAT scheme??? Seriously, what are the benefits? “You give us you’re money, and in return we won’t make sure you come at least 3 times a week (or even once), we won’t invite you to our house for drinks and/or dinner (but mostly drinks), and in ten years saying you are a member of this gym won’t exactly give you the extra umph you need to hobnob with the rich and famous. We’ll be taking your money now. Or, if you’d rather, we can take it right out of your bank account. Little by little, month by month.” Wow, I guess when it’s put THAT way why wouldn’t I want to join a gym???
Okay, so truthfully, I’m not thinking about joining a gym. I just thought all that shit would be fun to say. That WAS fun! I feel much better now. Oh, but seriously I’m looking for a gym.
Apparently there are only three kinds of gyms in Philly. Type 1: Your Bally’s and Bally’s-like gyms. The place where pretty people go to see and be scene. Clearly, I don’t fit the bill for this. No, it’s not because I’m hideous, but thanks for asking. It’s mostly because I don’t want to deal with avoiding strangers that are eye fucking. If there’s one lesson I’ve taken from college it’s this: the only thing more awkward than pretending the be asleep while your roommate is fucking, is being in a room where complete strangers are eye fucking. It’s like there’s a party in the room, but you weren’t invited. And that’s just plain sad. So, Bally’s is probably out of the picture. Did I mention you might just have to take out a second mortgage to pay for the membership?
Type 2: Your Mighty Mick’s type gym. If you’ve ever seen Rocky, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t seen Rocky, stop reading this… wait, not yet. Read to the end of this sentence then stop reading this, go rent or buy Rocky, watch it, and then discuss. It’s ok. I’ll wait…
See it was good, wasn’t it? Maybe you decided you liked it so much you want to watch all six of the Rocky movies. Well, don’t. Stop after IV. Once he takes down Drago the whole series just goes to pot. Right. Down. The. Crapper.
So Mighty Mick’s is basically a cave with a naked bulb swinging on a frayed wire and dingy windows that barely let any light into the place. The owner will be about seven hundred years old and call everyone a bum, and the equipment will typically look like it was made by the owner’s father. Pretty sweet, I know. And surprisingly membership goes for only about $20 a month. Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried one of these.
Type 3: Your happy medium. Something like your Young Men’s Christian Association-type gyms. I hear they’re even letting the non-Christians join these days. SCORE! No matter where you go there’s gotta be some kind of guideline as to how crappy or nice these places can be. You can be sure that you won’t have to wait two hours for a machine because the person using it is really just checking him/her self out in the wall to wall mirror. But at the same time, you don’t have to worry about getting an STD from the equipment. It’s pretty much a win-win situation.
The only problem I’m having with the YMCA is that they charge you extra for tons of shit you’ll never use. They’re like your local cable provider. I mean, I know I could save so much money if I could go a la carte. Seriously, how much of my $44 a month will go towards aquatics? AQUATICS??? Really? Me? I don’t think so. How about we knock it down to $40 a month and I stay out of the pool? Sounds fair to me.
Alright. Now I guess I just have to make my decision. If anyone out there reading this has extensive gym experience, you’re advice would actually be welcomed. Seriously. I want to pump. Me. Up.
Sorry. Got side tracked. But I’m back now. So, I’ve been thinking about joining a gym. Even though you can’t tell (at least that’s what I like to tell myself) I’m getting a bit soft in the middle. Every few nights I wake up covered in sweat and breathing hard. Those are usually the nights Erin slips me a blue pill and has her way with me while I’m sleeping… but other nights I wake up sweating and breathing hard because of The Dream.
You know The Dream. Everyone knows The Dream. One second you’re sprightly and vernal, frolicking in the hallowed halls of high school with nary a care in the world. The next second you blink and you’re a rounding, graying, sore joint, back pain having old ass twenty-seven year old. We’ve all had that dream. And if you say you haven’t I’m gonna come over and kick you. Right in the baby maker. I know you know what I’m talking about. So, yeah, I’m thinking about joining a gym.
But you see, the trouble with gyms, or rather gym memberships, is that they cost money. I wouldn’t have so much of a problem with this if I felt like I would actually be a member of something… or if I had money. I mean, who came up with THAT scheme??? Seriously, what are the benefits? “You give us you’re money, and in return we won’t make sure you come at least 3 times a week (or even once), we won’t invite you to our house for drinks and/or dinner (but mostly drinks), and in ten years saying you are a member of this gym won’t exactly give you the extra umph you need to hobnob with the rich and famous. We’ll be taking your money now. Or, if you’d rather, we can take it right out of your bank account. Little by little, month by month.” Wow, I guess when it’s put THAT way why wouldn’t I want to join a gym???
Okay, so truthfully, I’m not thinking about joining a gym. I just thought all that shit would be fun to say. That WAS fun! I feel much better now. Oh, but seriously I’m looking for a gym.
Apparently there are only three kinds of gyms in Philly. Type 1: Your Bally’s and Bally’s-like gyms. The place where pretty people go to see and be scene. Clearly, I don’t fit the bill for this. No, it’s not because I’m hideous, but thanks for asking. It’s mostly because I don’t want to deal with avoiding strangers that are eye fucking. If there’s one lesson I’ve taken from college it’s this: the only thing more awkward than pretending the be asleep while your roommate is fucking, is being in a room where complete strangers are eye fucking. It’s like there’s a party in the room, but you weren’t invited. And that’s just plain sad. So, Bally’s is probably out of the picture. Did I mention you might just have to take out a second mortgage to pay for the membership?
Type 2: Your Mighty Mick’s type gym. If you’ve ever seen Rocky, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t seen Rocky, stop reading this… wait, not yet. Read to the end of this sentence then stop reading this, go rent or buy Rocky, watch it, and then discuss. It’s ok. I’ll wait…
See it was good, wasn’t it? Maybe you decided you liked it so much you want to watch all six of the Rocky movies. Well, don’t. Stop after IV. Once he takes down Drago the whole series just goes to pot. Right. Down. The. Crapper.
So Mighty Mick’s is basically a cave with a naked bulb swinging on a frayed wire and dingy windows that barely let any light into the place. The owner will be about seven hundred years old and call everyone a bum, and the equipment will typically look like it was made by the owner’s father. Pretty sweet, I know. And surprisingly membership goes for only about $20 a month. Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried one of these.
Type 3: Your happy medium. Something like your Young Men’s Christian Association-type gyms. I hear they’re even letting the non-Christians join these days. SCORE! No matter where you go there’s gotta be some kind of guideline as to how crappy or nice these places can be. You can be sure that you won’t have to wait two hours for a machine because the person using it is really just checking him/her self out in the wall to wall mirror. But at the same time, you don’t have to worry about getting an STD from the equipment. It’s pretty much a win-win situation.
The only problem I’m having with the YMCA is that they charge you extra for tons of shit you’ll never use. They’re like your local cable provider. I mean, I know I could save so much money if I could go a la carte. Seriously, how much of my $44 a month will go towards aquatics? AQUATICS??? Really? Me? I don’t think so. How about we knock it down to $40 a month and I stay out of the pool? Sounds fair to me.
Alright. Now I guess I just have to make my decision. If anyone out there reading this has extensive gym experience, you’re advice would actually be welcomed. Seriously. I want to pump. Me. Up.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Monday sLAUGHTER
I hate Mondays. I hate people who come into work on Mondays all chipper like it's Friday. I guess that means I hate Ms. Young... Well, I don't (not really), but she's probably on something. And if she isn't, well, she should be.
This is how my day started today:
On my way out from The Room That Controls My Destiny (otherwise known as the "that place where we keep the copier that's supposed to be a teacher's lounge but isn't because certain people use it at random times and make it totally uncomfortable for teachers to lounge in, and oh by the way did I mention that it's got a huge glass wall and everyone can see inside so you don't have any privacy anyway" room. TRTCMD pretty much dictates whether or not I'll have a good or bad day. Get copies done = good day... Crazy copier on the fritz = should have stayed in bed and practiced self love, or what ever it is that people do when they take sick days. I mean, I wouldn't know, since I only get 5. Plus, I'm pretty sure they'd send someone to my apartment to run some tests and make sure I was actually sick in the event that a sick day was used. But then again, that could just be me being paranoid and bitter, but dear me, I digress, and yes, this is another run on sentence, but it doesn't matter because I have a master's degree.
I didn't get much sleep last night, so my brain's pretty much as useful as a bowl of cold oatmeal. That being the case, I'll get to the point: As I was leaving TRTCMD none other then Ms. Young, aka Sworn Enemy Number Two, came waltzing in on a sun beam as a golden shower of light radiated from her hundred watt smile. That last sentence was kind of funny, because I thought of golden showers, the R Kelly type. THAT would be an interesting day at work if I was greeted with a golden shower first thing in the morning, or any time of the day for that matter. I'd probably have to talk to legal about that. I think our conversation went something like this:
Ms. Young: Hi, Achan!
Me: *incoherent mumbling*
Ms. Young: High Five!
Now, I'd just like to take this time to say that I am perhaps the world's biggest high five fan. It's like a weird applaud you do with a friend that says, good job world. We did it. God bless the high five. Anyway, I gave her the high five before I realized what what happening.
Me: What was that about?
Ms. Young: Its Monday!
Me: I hate you...
Man, I love my co-workers. G'night.
This is how my day started today:
On my way out from The Room That Controls My Destiny (otherwise known as the "that place where we keep the copier that's supposed to be a teacher's lounge but isn't because certain people use it at random times and make it totally uncomfortable for teachers to lounge in, and oh by the way did I mention that it's got a huge glass wall and everyone can see inside so you don't have any privacy anyway" room. TRTCMD pretty much dictates whether or not I'll have a good or bad day. Get copies done = good day... Crazy copier on the fritz = should have stayed in bed and practiced self love, or what ever it is that people do when they take sick days. I mean, I wouldn't know, since I only get 5. Plus, I'm pretty sure they'd send someone to my apartment to run some tests and make sure I was actually sick in the event that a sick day was used. But then again, that could just be me being paranoid and bitter, but dear me, I digress, and yes, this is another run on sentence, but it doesn't matter because I have a master's degree.
I didn't get much sleep last night, so my brain's pretty much as useful as a bowl of cold oatmeal. That being the case, I'll get to the point: As I was leaving TRTCMD none other then Ms. Young, aka Sworn Enemy Number Two, came waltzing in on a sun beam as a golden shower of light radiated from her hundred watt smile. That last sentence was kind of funny, because I thought of golden showers, the R Kelly type. THAT would be an interesting day at work if I was greeted with a golden shower first thing in the morning, or any time of the day for that matter. I'd probably have to talk to legal about that. I think our conversation went something like this:
Ms. Young: Hi, Achan!
Me: *incoherent mumbling*
Ms. Young: High Five!
Now, I'd just like to take this time to say that I am perhaps the world's biggest high five fan. It's like a weird applaud you do with a friend that says, good job world. We did it. God bless the high five. Anyway, I gave her the high five before I realized what what happening.
Me: What was that about?
Ms. Young: Its Monday!
Me: I hate you...
Man, I love my co-workers. G'night.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
House 1, Achan 0.
I just came back from hauling a coupla boxes to my house. Yeah, house. Mine. It makes me feel grown up to say that. Well, as grown up as a 27 year old who still reads comic books, plays Wii, thinks a bowl of cereal and cartoons are a fine way to spend a Saturday morning, and often replies to students with "your face" when he doesn't agree with what they think can feel. A pseudo grown up. I even called my contractor to complain about a few things. I mean, we're only like, what, a month behind schedule. I guess he figures, "heck what's a little more time between friends!" Well, I don't think we're friends, I have like 3 friends and last time I checked, sir, none of them are named Larry. Maybe he thinks he's getting paid by the hour. Or better yet, maybe it's like the crazy Winchester lady. My contractor probably thinks that if he stops building, he will die. That guy's got problems. But I digress.
While I was at my house I got my hands a little dirty, so I did what any normal person would do: I washed my hands. Or, rather, I attempted to wash my hands. I turned on the hot water, let it run for a few seconds, put my hand in the water, and then marveled at the smell of delicious boiling dark meat. Turns out that oh-so-alluring-aroma was coming from my hand. I didn't get any third degree burns, but it kinda smarted a bit. And I might have cried a little. But I'm not ashamed to admit that. I'm secure enough in my masculinity. To cry. Just not in front of people. That would be a pansy thing to do. I'm a pansy. So, after getting almost burned I decided to go check out the hot water heater. I don't know how many of you have experience with heaters, so I'll describe mine.
My gas heater is the prettiest gas heater on the block. She's big and cylindrical and enjoys long walks on warm beaches. Those things aren't really that important. What is important is that there is a dial on the heater with notches that stand for various temperatures. It would be super duper awesome if someone was smart enough to label each notch with its temperature setting, but I guess that's not going to happen until we perfect the flying car and meal in a pill. Bigger fish to fry, right? After a few minutes of fishing around, I found the heater's manual where there was a lovely diagram of the temperature setting for each dial. My water heater was set to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. 140 F may not sound so bad (at least it didn't to me). That is, it didn't sound so bad until I read the half page opposite from the diagram.
It went something like this: Warning families with small children or the elderly may want to use lower settings to avoid burns blah, blah, blah. This was followed by a brief description of how many seconds it would take for skin to burn at each temperature. It goes a little something like this:
120 F - 10 minutes
125 F - 2 minutes
140 F - 6 seconds
150 F - 2 seconds
160 F - 0.5 seconds
170 F - 0.25 seconds
180 F - There wasn't a time given, just a skull and bones with the eyes x'd out. Damn that's hot!
Ok, so I made the last part up. However, my heater goes up to 160 F. I mean, I guess I could see why you would want 160 F temperature water coming out of your faucet. Maybe you wanted a boiled potato, like, right now... at this very moment. You just pick it up and hold it under the faucet for a minute or so and PRESTO! Ready to mash! And before anyone say anything, yes, I know that water boils at 212 F and you'd probably have to hold that potato for quite some time under your hundred sixty degree water, but I can guarantee you that somewhere in America someone is attempting to do this at this very moment. So, that's how it goes. Apparently someone saw it fit to have hot water that could take your skin off in six seconds. For those of you who are big fans of hot water, but not so much of skin. Between 120 and 125 degrees if what the manufacturer recommends the heater is set to, in case you were wondering. 125 degrees is significantly less than 140, give or take a few degrees.
I just thought this was a fucking weird thing that my tiny boy brain just happened to latch on to. Yeah, I know, kinda weak for my first post in about a kajillion years, but fuck it, it's my blog, and if you don't like it, go to hell.
Oh, and if you started reading this thinking it had anything to do with that time Hugh Laurie beat me at tennis, well I apologize. Maybe some other time.
While I was at my house I got my hands a little dirty, so I did what any normal person would do: I washed my hands. Or, rather, I attempted to wash my hands. I turned on the hot water, let it run for a few seconds, put my hand in the water, and then marveled at the smell of delicious boiling dark meat. Turns out that oh-so-alluring-aroma was coming from my hand. I didn't get any third degree burns, but it kinda smarted a bit. And I might have cried a little. But I'm not ashamed to admit that. I'm secure enough in my masculinity. To cry. Just not in front of people. That would be a pansy thing to do. I'm a pansy. So, after getting almost burned I decided to go check out the hot water heater. I don't know how many of you have experience with heaters, so I'll describe mine.
My gas heater is the prettiest gas heater on the block. She's big and cylindrical and enjoys long walks on warm beaches. Those things aren't really that important. What is important is that there is a dial on the heater with notches that stand for various temperatures. It would be super duper awesome if someone was smart enough to label each notch with its temperature setting, but I guess that's not going to happen until we perfect the flying car and meal in a pill. Bigger fish to fry, right? After a few minutes of fishing around, I found the heater's manual where there was a lovely diagram of the temperature setting for each dial. My water heater was set to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. 140 F may not sound so bad (at least it didn't to me). That is, it didn't sound so bad until I read the half page opposite from the diagram.
It went something like this: Warning families with small children or the elderly may want to use lower settings to avoid burns blah, blah, blah. This was followed by a brief description of how many seconds it would take for skin to burn at each temperature. It goes a little something like this:
120 F - 10 minutes
125 F - 2 minutes
140 F - 6 seconds
150 F - 2 seconds
160 F - 0.5 seconds
170 F - 0.25 seconds
180 F - There wasn't a time given, just a skull and bones with the eyes x'd out. Damn that's hot!
Ok, so I made the last part up. However, my heater goes up to 160 F. I mean, I guess I could see why you would want 160 F temperature water coming out of your faucet. Maybe you wanted a boiled potato, like, right now... at this very moment. You just pick it up and hold it under the faucet for a minute or so and PRESTO! Ready to mash! And before anyone say anything, yes, I know that water boils at 212 F and you'd probably have to hold that potato for quite some time under your hundred sixty degree water, but I can guarantee you that somewhere in America someone is attempting to do this at this very moment. So, that's how it goes. Apparently someone saw it fit to have hot water that could take your skin off in six seconds. For those of you who are big fans of hot water, but not so much of skin. Between 120 and 125 degrees if what the manufacturer recommends the heater is set to, in case you were wondering. 125 degrees is significantly less than 140, give or take a few degrees.
I just thought this was a fucking weird thing that my tiny boy brain just happened to latch on to. Yeah, I know, kinda weak for my first post in about a kajillion years, but fuck it, it's my blog, and if you don't like it, go to hell.
Oh, and if you started reading this thinking it had anything to do with that time Hugh Laurie beat me at tennis, well I apologize. Maybe some other time.
Friday, December 28, 2007
I smell like shit, but that's ok.
Anyway.
I got up this morning and went on my morning constitutional. Now, for most people “morning constitutional” means the little bit of walking-slash-exercise they squeeze into their waking hours to fool themselves that they are promoting good health. My morning constitutional, however, consists of me walking over to my bathroom and squeezing some thing out of my bum. Taking a twosies. Dropping a deuce… Bombs over Baghdad. Depositing a Mr. Hanky and what not.
Where am I going with this? Excellent question. In my bathroom I keep a can of air freshener, it’s vanilla, I think. Aerosol. It makes my bathroom smell like, um… vanilla, while causing minute damage to the ozone layer, so I guess win-win situation, huh? But I’ve had this thing for, like, four years. Literally four years. I’m not even shitting you. I’ve had this one can of air freshener (which by the way kills me. They call it “air freshener” but does it really freshen the air? I think not. They should just call it shit odor mixer upper, because, let’s face it, all it does is mix whatever smell comes out of the bottle with the smell of shit. They should have fragrances like Lilac and Pooh or Cinnamon Poop or Fill-in-the-blank-and-ass. I have never in all my lives gone into a bathroom after someone had two’d it up and then used half a bottle of air freshener and just inhaled deeply thinking, “wow, this place smells great! The canned air really disguises the fact that someone just took a massive DUMP in here.” Nope, never happened. Probably not once in the history of poopdom). I think I’m going to name my vanilla shit cover upper. Might as well, I’ve had it longer than I’ve had some friends. Hell, I’ve had it longer than Britney Spears has had custody of her kids, and they let her name them, right?
Why do single people even have air freshener? Since when did that make sense? Like, I don’t sit around my apartment after using the bathroom thinking, “geez, what the hell is that smell? I smell really bad… I should cover that up, or maybe mix it in with fresh jasmine or some other nice smelling flower…” It just doesn’t happen. Hell, I could take a bath in my own pooh and then sit around all day and not mind, and you know why? Because it’s my pooh and dammit,I love myself… especially late at night… when I’m lonely. But I digress.
If it were up to me I’d just say fuck it, let the whole world know about my lovely poopie creation. I guess most of society doesn’t share the same outlook as I do on this subject. Four years. At this rate I’m thinking of buying little miniature air fresheners and starting up a family, but every time I go to the store to pick them up, I just get the feeling that my vanilla doesn’t want to raise a family in the city and would much rather prefer to wait until it had a house in the burbs where it could raise a family. Some place with a nice school and maybe a scout troop for the little ones. Definitely a good public library. That damn aerosol can and his aerosol family are gonna be living la vida dulce while I’m stuck here in the city. You know what? Never mind. Fuck my aerosol can’s happiness.
Just as an aside, there was a fairly interesting introduction to the original post, but I’m apparently being censored by Big Sister. She’s watching me right now. Probably making sure I don’t reference anyone as a douche.
I got up this morning and went on my morning constitutional. Now, for most people “morning constitutional” means the little bit of walking-slash-exercise they squeeze into their waking hours to fool themselves that they are promoting good health. My morning constitutional, however, consists of me walking over to my bathroom and squeezing some thing out of my bum. Taking a twosies. Dropping a deuce… Bombs over Baghdad. Depositing a Mr. Hanky and what not.
Where am I going with this? Excellent question. In my bathroom I keep a can of air freshener, it’s vanilla, I think. Aerosol. It makes my bathroom smell like, um… vanilla, while causing minute damage to the ozone layer, so I guess win-win situation, huh? But I’ve had this thing for, like, four years. Literally four years. I’m not even shitting you. I’ve had this one can of air freshener (which by the way kills me. They call it “air freshener” but does it really freshen the air? I think not. They should just call it shit odor mixer upper, because, let’s face it, all it does is mix whatever smell comes out of the bottle with the smell of shit. They should have fragrances like Lilac and Pooh or Cinnamon Poop or Fill-in-the-blank-and-ass. I have never in all my lives gone into a bathroom after someone had two’d it up and then used half a bottle of air freshener and just inhaled deeply thinking, “wow, this place smells great! The canned air really disguises the fact that someone just took a massive DUMP in here.” Nope, never happened. Probably not once in the history of poopdom). I think I’m going to name my vanilla shit cover upper. Might as well, I’ve had it longer than I’ve had some friends. Hell, I’ve had it longer than Britney Spears has had custody of her kids, and they let her name them, right?
Why do single people even have air freshener? Since when did that make sense? Like, I don’t sit around my apartment after using the bathroom thinking, “geez, what the hell is that smell? I smell really bad… I should cover that up, or maybe mix it in with fresh jasmine or some other nice smelling flower…” It just doesn’t happen. Hell, I could take a bath in my own pooh and then sit around all day and not mind, and you know why? Because it’s my pooh and dammit,I love myself… especially late at night… when I’m lonely. But I digress.
If it were up to me I’d just say fuck it, let the whole world know about my lovely poopie creation. I guess most of society doesn’t share the same outlook as I do on this subject. Four years. At this rate I’m thinking of buying little miniature air fresheners and starting up a family, but every time I go to the store to pick them up, I just get the feeling that my vanilla doesn’t want to raise a family in the city and would much rather prefer to wait until it had a house in the burbs where it could raise a family. Some place with a nice school and maybe a scout troop for the little ones. Definitely a good public library. That damn aerosol can and his aerosol family are gonna be living la vida dulce while I’m stuck here in the city. You know what? Never mind. Fuck my aerosol can’s happiness.
Just as an aside, there was a fairly interesting introduction to the original post, but I’m apparently being censored by Big Sister. She’s watching me right now. Probably making sure I don’t reference anyone as a douche.
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