My Cashier Was From Mars There I was in the checkout line at a local grocery store. The cashier, a gangly "Revenge of the Nerds" teen with oversized glasses, began sliding my items across the scanner while I established the usual "Nice weather we're having" type of patron banter with him.
"So how's it going today?" I began affably enough. I swear that's how this particular conversation began. Boy Scout's honor.
The Nerd Checker (you know, I think I actually found 'Waldo') answered that he was ready to get off work, and then stated that he was ready for a career. "Oh yeah? What are you wanting to do?" I pressed. "Well, I like building things and blowing things up," replied the now-suspicious Geek Squad member. My eyebrows slightly raised, I cautiously answered, "Oookay." At this point I was cursing myself for even beginning any sort of conversation with this kid, but it was too late to turn back now. I was committed to talking to him until he handed me my receipt and bid me a "nice day."
"So you like building things and blowing things up, huh?" I started again, hoping that maybe I misunderstood him, and what he really liked doing was playing "EverQuest," reciting the Klingon dictionary by heart, or even collecting trading cards featuring Bill Gates and Stephen Hawking. Sure, that's what he must have said.
"Yeah. If I could have a job building things that would be great, but I like demolishing things too."
Damn. "Huh. So maybe you could be in a demolition squad, or an explosives expert in the army."
"Yeah, I could. I think it would be cool to blow up a star."
At this point there was a customer in line behind me, and the customer and I exchanged a nervous glance and a quick smirk with each other.
I shot back, "I don't think it would be possible to 'blow up' a star."
Not one to be outdone, Mini Kaczynski responded as he handed me my receipt, "if I could stop the fusion process of the star I could blow it up."
With that I exchanged another furtive glance with the customer behind me and I said, "You know, I think I'll just wait for the movie." The customer laughed, and I strode away (very briskly) with my laden shopping cart, thankful to leave that odd conversation behind.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
My Cashier Was From Mars
My Cashier Was From Mars There I was in the checkout line at a local grocery store. The cashier, a gangly "Revenge of the Nerds" teen with oversized glasses, began sliding my items across the scanner while I established the usual "Nice weather we're having" type of patron banter with him.
"So how's it going today?" I began affably enough. I swear that's how this particular conversation began. Boy Scout's honor.
The Nerd Checker (you know, I think I actually found 'Waldo') answered that he was ready to get off work, and then stated that he was ready for a career. "Oh yeah? What are you wanting to do?" I pressed. "Well, I like building things and blowing things up," replied the now-suspicious Geek Squad member. My eyebrows slightly raised, I cautiously answered, "Oookay." At this point I was cursing myself for even beginning any sort of conversation with this kid, but it was too late to turn back now. I was committed to talking to him until he handed me my receipt and bid me a "nice day."
"So you like building things and blowing things up, huh?" I started again, hoping that maybe I misunderstood him, and what he really liked doing was playing "EverQuest," reciting the Klingon dictionary by heart, or even collecting trading cards featuring Bill Gates and Stephen Hawking. Sure, that's what he must have said.
"Yeah. If I could have a job building things that would be great, but I like demolishing things too."
Damn. "Huh. So maybe you could be in a demolition squad, or an explosives expert in the army."
"Yeah, I could. I think it would be cool to blow up a star."
At this point there was a customer in line behind me, and the customer and I exchanged a nervous glance and a quick smirk with each other.
I shot back, "I don't think it would be possible to 'blow up' a star."
Not one to be outdone, Mini Kaczynski responded as he handed me my receipt, "if I could stop the fusion process of the star I could blow it up."
With that I exchanged another furtive glance with the customer behind me and I said, "You know, I think I'll just wait for the movie." The customer laughed, and I strode away (very briskly) with my laden shopping cart, thankful to leave that odd conversation behind.
"So how's it going today?" I began affably enough. I swear that's how this particular conversation began. Boy Scout's honor.
The Nerd Checker (you know, I think I actually found 'Waldo') answered that he was ready to get off work, and then stated that he was ready for a career. "Oh yeah? What are you wanting to do?" I pressed. "Well, I like building things and blowing things up," replied the now-suspicious Geek Squad member. My eyebrows slightly raised, I cautiously answered, "Oookay." At this point I was cursing myself for even beginning any sort of conversation with this kid, but it was too late to turn back now. I was committed to talking to him until he handed me my receipt and bid me a "nice day."
"So you like building things and blowing things up, huh?" I started again, hoping that maybe I misunderstood him, and what he really liked doing was playing "EverQuest," reciting the Klingon dictionary by heart, or even collecting trading cards featuring Bill Gates and Stephen Hawking. Sure, that's what he must have said.
"Yeah. If I could have a job building things that would be great, but I like demolishing things too."
Damn. "Huh. So maybe you could be in a demolition squad, or an explosives expert in the army."
"Yeah, I could. I think it would be cool to blow up a star."
At this point there was a customer in line behind me, and the customer and I exchanged a nervous glance and a quick smirk with each other.
I shot back, "I don't think it would be possible to 'blow up' a star."
Not one to be outdone, Mini Kaczynski responded as he handed me my receipt, "if I could stop the fusion process of the star I could blow it up."
With that I exchanged another furtive glance with the customer behind me and I said, "You know, I think I'll just wait for the movie." The customer laughed, and I strode away (very briskly) with my laden shopping cart, thankful to leave that odd conversation behind.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Crashing Miss Daisy
Written by David M. Muench
Automobile accidents aren't fun, especially when they happen to you or a loved one. But it's a common part of life. It's like taking your first compulsory Official Tumble from your bicycle promptly after your father removed the training wheels because he thought it would "build character". Heck, I've had a couple of fender benders
in the past. But my mishaps pale in comparison to the collision experienced by my mother; Sharon Kenievel.
"I think I'll go visit my daughter," fancied my Mom on a particularly nice summer day. She ambled into her Wally Wagon and proceeded to drive the short distance to her daughter Julie's house. Everything was going fine, until she reached Julie's neighborhood. Mom turned from the main street and onto a residential road. To this day it's still unclear what had averted "Ms. Kenievel's" attention from the road. It was either the radio or the climate controls. As the road began to curve, my mother's car, well, didn't. It stayed true to its course. In the path was a curb. Immediately beyond that; a large, brick mailbox.
The impact of the front wheels striking the curb caused her station wagon to vault into the air. It was comparable to the General Lee, an orange blur defying gravity with a rebel yell and a horn blaring the "Dixie" ditty. But it wasn't a '69 Dodge Charger, it was a brown '85 Dodge Aries station wagon. No mischievous Duke boy behind the wheel either, but my wide-eyed, aging mother. And the "rebel yell" was probably more of a guttural noise and a string of expletives that would have made Ozzy Osbourne blush.
Unfortunately for my mother, she didn't clear any obstacles and land safely on the other side like a scripted 80's television show. She struck the behemoth brick mailbox with a tremendous force - smashing the stanchion and sending the fragments skyward. The car came to a grinding halt in that resident's driveway, lying parallel to the street. The entire front end was ruined, the windshield had more cracks than a plumbers convention, and fluids poured inexorably from the irreparable vehicle.
Amazingly, amid the dust and debris, Mom suffered only a few bruises. Sure, I was terrified after learning about the accident, but my worry was quickly allayed when I found out her injuries were minor. Although her intense chagrin was the one scar that didn't quickly fade. And when that shame finally did wane, we all had a big laugh. Everything from "Dukes of Hazzard" to "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" was mentioned.
And let me tell you this, if "Fear Factor" ever does a special "geriatric" show, my Mom will be there.
Written by David M. Muench
Automobile accidents aren't fun, especially when they happen to you or a loved one. But it's a common part of life. It's like taking your first compulsory Official Tumble from your bicycle promptly after your father removed the training wheels because he thought it would "build character". Heck, I've had a couple of fender benders
in the past. But my mishaps pale in comparison to the collision experienced by my mother; Sharon Kenievel.
"I think I'll go visit my daughter," fancied my Mom on a particularly nice summer day. She ambled into her Wally Wagon and proceeded to drive the short distance to her daughter Julie's house. Everything was going fine, until she reached Julie's neighborhood. Mom turned from the main street and onto a residential road. To this day it's still unclear what had averted "Ms. Kenievel's" attention from the road. It was either the radio or the climate controls. As the road began to curve, my mother's car, well, didn't. It stayed true to its course. In the path was a curb. Immediately beyond that; a large, brick mailbox.
The impact of the front wheels striking the curb caused her station wagon to vault into the air. It was comparable to the General Lee, an orange blur defying gravity with a rebel yell and a horn blaring the "Dixie" ditty. But it wasn't a '69 Dodge Charger, it was a brown '85 Dodge Aries station wagon. No mischievous Duke boy behind the wheel either, but my wide-eyed, aging mother. And the "rebel yell" was probably more of a guttural noise and a string of expletives that would have made Ozzy Osbourne blush.
Unfortunately for my mother, she didn't clear any obstacles and land safely on the other side like a scripted 80's television show. She struck the behemoth brick mailbox with a tremendous force - smashing the stanchion and sending the fragments skyward. The car came to a grinding halt in that resident's driveway, lying parallel to the street. The entire front end was ruined, the windshield had more cracks than a plumbers convention, and fluids poured inexorably from the irreparable vehicle.
Amazingly, amid the dust and debris, Mom suffered only a few bruises. Sure, I was terrified after learning about the accident, but my worry was quickly allayed when I found out her injuries were minor. Although her intense chagrin was the one scar that didn't quickly fade. And when that shame finally did wane, we all had a big laugh. Everything from "Dukes of Hazzard" to "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" was mentioned.
And let me tell you this, if "Fear Factor" ever does a special "geriatric" show, my Mom will be there.
Crashing Miss Daisy
Crashing Miss Daisy
Written by David M. Muench
Automobile accidents aren't fun, especially when they happen to you or a loved one. But it's a common part of life. It's like taking your first compulsory Official Tumble from your bicycle promptly after your father removed the training wheels because he thought it would "build character." Heck, I've had a couple of fender benders
in the past. But my mishaps pale in comparison to the collision experienced by my mother; Sharon Kenievel.
"I think I'll go visit my daughter," fancied my Mom on a particularly nice summer day. She ambled into her Wally Wagon and proceeded to drive the short distance to her daughter Julie's house. Everything was going fine, until she reached Julie's neighborhood. Mom turned from the main street and onto a residential road. To this day it's still unclear what had averted "Ms. Kenievel's" attention from the road. It was either the radio or the climate controls. As the road began to curve, my mother's car, well, didn't. It stayed true to its course. In the path was a curb. Immediately beyond that; a large, brick mailbox.
The impact of the front wheels striking the curb caused her station wagon to vault into the air. It was comparable to the General Lee, an orange blur defying gravity with a rebel yell and a horn blaring the "Dixie" ditty. But it wasn't a '69 Dodge Charger, it was a brown '85 Dodge Aries station wagon. No mischievous Duke boy behind the wheel either, but my wide-eyed, aging mother. And the "rebel yell" was probably more of a guttural noise and a string of expletives that would have made Ozzy Osbourne blush.
Unfortunately for my mother, she didn't clear any obstacles and land safely on the other side like a scripted 80's television show. She struck the behemoth brick mailbox with a tremendous force - smashing the stanchion and sending the fragments skyward. The car came to a grinding halt in that resident's driveway, lying parallel to the street. The entire front end was ruined, the windshield had more cracks than a plumbers convention, and fluids poured inexorably from the irreparable vehicle.
Amazingly, amid the dust and debris, Mom suffered only a few bruises. Sure, I was terrified after learning about the accident, but my worry was quickly allayed when I found out her injuries were minor. Although her intense chagrin was the one scar that didn't quickly fade. And when that shame finally did wane, we all had a big laugh. Everything from "Dukes of Hazzard" to "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" was mentioned.
And let me tell you this, if "Fear Factor" ever does a special "geriatric" show, my Mom will be there.
Written by David M. Muench
Automobile accidents aren't fun, especially when they happen to you or a loved one. But it's a common part of life. It's like taking your first compulsory Official Tumble from your bicycle promptly after your father removed the training wheels because he thought it would "build character." Heck, I've had a couple of fender benders
in the past. But my mishaps pale in comparison to the collision experienced by my mother; Sharon Kenievel.
"I think I'll go visit my daughter," fancied my Mom on a particularly nice summer day. She ambled into her Wally Wagon and proceeded to drive the short distance to her daughter Julie's house. Everything was going fine, until she reached Julie's neighborhood. Mom turned from the main street and onto a residential road. To this day it's still unclear what had averted "Ms. Kenievel's" attention from the road. It was either the radio or the climate controls. As the road began to curve, my mother's car, well, didn't. It stayed true to its course. In the path was a curb. Immediately beyond that; a large, brick mailbox.
The impact of the front wheels striking the curb caused her station wagon to vault into the air. It was comparable to the General Lee, an orange blur defying gravity with a rebel yell and a horn blaring the "Dixie" ditty. But it wasn't a '69 Dodge Charger, it was a brown '85 Dodge Aries station wagon. No mischievous Duke boy behind the wheel either, but my wide-eyed, aging mother. And the "rebel yell" was probably more of a guttural noise and a string of expletives that would have made Ozzy Osbourne blush.
Unfortunately for my mother, she didn't clear any obstacles and land safely on the other side like a scripted 80's television show. She struck the behemoth brick mailbox with a tremendous force - smashing the stanchion and sending the fragments skyward. The car came to a grinding halt in that resident's driveway, lying parallel to the street. The entire front end was ruined, the windshield had more cracks than a plumbers convention, and fluids poured inexorably from the irreparable vehicle.
Amazingly, amid the dust and debris, Mom suffered only a few bruises. Sure, I was terrified after learning about the accident, but my worry was quickly allayed when I found out her injuries were minor. Although her intense chagrin was the one scar that didn't quickly fade. And when that shame finally did wane, we all had a big laugh. Everything from "Dukes of Hazzard" to "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" was mentioned.
And let me tell you this, if "Fear Factor" ever does a special "geriatric" show, my Mom will be there.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
A Not So Privy Privy
Written by David M. Muench
An online friend recently sent me these pictures with the following text:
Here's a picture of a public toilet in Switzerland that's made entirely out of one-way glass. No one can see you in there, but when you are inside, it looks like you're sitting in a clear glass box.
A few years ago I too experienced an over-exposed facility. But this one was in a local deli called "City Bites". After locating the bathroom sign I strode briskly (I reeeally had to go) to the door, noticing the large bank of mirrors covering the outside wall.
I stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and immediately discovered that the bank of mirrors was the wall. Eyes wide, I froze in my tracks. "What the hell kind of freaky exhibitionist bathroom is this?" I muttered to myself. I could see every single patron in the dining area. Never in my adult life have I had to experience urinating in front of complete strangers that didn't involve alcohol and strippers. It didn't matter that they couldn't see me. What did matter is that I could see them.
Trying to quell the uneasiness, I approached the toilet while eyeing a young woman walking perilously close to the mirrored wall. I nearly blurted out, "Hey, I'm trying to pee here!" I knew that nobody could actually see me, but that didn't stop me from bending my knees down as far as I could go without urinating on my legs. In my pitifully contorted state I couldn't help but think of the comically physical antics of Mr. Bean. Although I've never seen an episode called "Mr. Bean Urinates In a One-Way Mirrored Bathroom."
By the time I had finally assuaged myself that it's safe to let loose I resembled some sort of odd, cubist sculpture rendered by an artist on acid. No matter how uncomfortable you are, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
So I went.
After completing this unecessarily arduous task I exited the bathroom posthaste and left the deli - never to return again. Mind you, I still use public facilities, but the only damned mirrors I see better be on the inside, without a view.
Written by David M. Muench
An online friend recently sent me these pictures with the following text:
Here's a picture of a public toilet in Switzerland that's made entirely out of one-way glass. No one can see you in there, but when you are inside, it looks like you're sitting in a clear glass box.
A few years ago I too experienced an over-exposed facility. But this one was in a local deli called "City Bites". After locating the bathroom sign I strode briskly (I reeeally had to go) to the door, noticing the large bank of mirrors covering the outside wall.
I stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and immediately discovered that the bank of mirrors was the wall. Eyes wide, I froze in my tracks. "What the hell kind of freaky exhibitionist bathroom is this?" I muttered to myself. I could see every single patron in the dining area. Never in my adult life have I had to experience urinating in front of complete strangers that didn't involve alcohol and strippers. It didn't matter that they couldn't see me. What did matter is that I could see them.
Trying to quell the uneasiness, I approached the toilet while eyeing a young woman walking perilously close to the mirrored wall. I nearly blurted out, "Hey, I'm trying to pee here!" I knew that nobody could actually see me, but that didn't stop me from bending my knees down as far as I could go without urinating on my legs. In my pitifully contorted state I couldn't help but think of the comically physical antics of Mr. Bean. Although I've never seen an episode called "Mr. Bean Urinates In a One-Way Mirrored Bathroom."
By the time I had finally assuaged myself that it's safe to let loose I resembled some sort of odd, cubist sculpture rendered by an artist on acid. No matter how uncomfortable you are, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
So I went.
After completing this unecessarily arduous task I exited the bathroom posthaste and left the deli - never to return again. Mind you, I still use public facilities, but the only damned mirrors I see better be on the inside, without a view.
The Enamel Ranger
Written by David M. Muench
I bought a Colgate toothbrush the other day, and I'm astounded by the deluge of dental products that now exist. The toothbrush I purchased is a multi-colored ergonomic model that indubitably has the same drag coefficients as an F-16. It's like I'm brushing my teeth with a Power Ranger.
And the toothbrush package has a number in the corner. The one I bought has "57." I looked at all the packages at the store, and they all had different numbers. What the hell is that? Lottery numbers? Being the inquisitive guy I am, I went to Colgate.com to see if I could locate the answer to my mind-boggling query.
What I discovered is that they have eight different kinds of "manual" toothbrushes. They actually have one called the Colgate Navigator. Navigator? What are you going to do, get lost going to your mouth? "Damn it, I shoved the toothbrush up my ass again. I knew I should have bought the Colgate Navigator!"
And there's a Colgate Total Professional, which is good, because I don't want to put something that's not a total professional in my mouth. To cover all bases, they should sell a brush called Colgate Complete Idiot, ideal for those who put toothbrushes up their asses.
The Colgate Extra Clean toothbrush contrives the idea that the other models are lacking in the clean department. But with this new "Extra Clean" toothbrush you can get that extra special level of clean.
There are a few more, but I digress. I did find out that I have an "Active Angle" brush (I think the inactive angle brush just sits on the couch watching television all day).
And I never ascertained the meaning behind that freakin' number.
Written by David M. Muench
I bought a Colgate toothbrush the other day, and I'm astounded by the deluge of dental products that now exist. The toothbrush I purchased is a multi-colored ergonomic model that indubitably has the same drag coefficients as an F-16. It's like I'm brushing my teeth with a Power Ranger.
And the toothbrush package has a number in the corner. The one I bought has "57." I looked at all the packages at the store, and they all had different numbers. What the hell is that? Lottery numbers? Being the inquisitive guy I am, I went to Colgate.com to see if I could locate the answer to my mind-boggling query.
What I discovered is that they have eight different kinds of "manual" toothbrushes. They actually have one called the Colgate Navigator. Navigator? What are you going to do, get lost going to your mouth? "Damn it, I shoved the toothbrush up my ass again. I knew I should have bought the Colgate Navigator!"
And there's a Colgate Total Professional, which is good, because I don't want to put something that's not a total professional in my mouth. To cover all bases, they should sell a brush called Colgate Complete Idiot, ideal for those who put toothbrushes up their asses.
The Colgate Extra Clean toothbrush contrives the idea that the other models are lacking in the clean department. But with this new "Extra Clean" toothbrush you can get that extra special level of clean.
There are a few more, but I digress. I did find out that I have an "Active Angle" brush (I think the inactive angle brush just sits on the couch watching television all day).
And I never ascertained the meaning behind that freakin' number.
A Not So Privy Privy
A Not So Privy Privy
Written by David M. Muench
An online friend recently sent me these pictures with the following text:
Here's a picture of a public toilet in Switzerland that's made entirely out of one-way glass. No one can see you in there, but when you are inside, it looks like you're sitting in a clear glass box.
A few years ago I too experienced an over-exposed facility. But this one was in a local deli called "City Bites." After locating the bathroom sign I strode briskly (I reeeally had to go) to the door, noticing the large bank of mirrors covering the outside wall.
I stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and immediately discovered that the bank of mirrors was the wall. Eyes wide, I froze in my tracks. "What the hell kind of freaky exhibitionist bathroom is this?" I muttered to myself. I could see every single patron in the dining area. Never in my adult life have I had to experience peeing in front of complete strangers that didn't involve alcohol and strippers. It didn't matter that they couldn't see me. What did matter is that I could see them.
Trying to quell the uneasiness, I approached the toilet while eyeing a young woman walking perilously close to the mirrored wall. I nearly blurted out, "Hey, I'm trying to pee here!" I knew that nobody could actually see me, but that didn't stop me from bending my knees down as far as I could go without urinating on my legs. In my pitifully contorted state I couldn't help but think of the comically physical antics of Mr. Bean. Although I've never seen an episode called "Mr. Bean Urinates In a One-Way Mirrored Bathroom."
By the time I had finally assuaged myself that it's safe to let loose I resembled some sort of odd, cubist sculpture rendered by an artist on acid. No matter how uncomfortable you are, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
So I went.
After completing this unecessarily arduous task I exited the bathroom posthaste and left the deli - never to return again. Mind you, I still use public facilities, but the only damned mirrors I see better be on the inside, without a view.
Written by David M. Muench
An online friend recently sent me these pictures with the following text:
Here's a picture of a public toilet in Switzerland that's made entirely out of one-way glass. No one can see you in there, but when you are inside, it looks like you're sitting in a clear glass box.
A few years ago I too experienced an over-exposed facility. But this one was in a local deli called "City Bites." After locating the bathroom sign I strode briskly (I reeeally had to go) to the door, noticing the large bank of mirrors covering the outside wall.
I stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and immediately discovered that the bank of mirrors was the wall. Eyes wide, I froze in my tracks. "What the hell kind of freaky exhibitionist bathroom is this?" I muttered to myself. I could see every single patron in the dining area. Never in my adult life have I had to experience peeing in front of complete strangers that didn't involve alcohol and strippers. It didn't matter that they couldn't see me. What did matter is that I could see them.
Trying to quell the uneasiness, I approached the toilet while eyeing a young woman walking perilously close to the mirrored wall. I nearly blurted out, "Hey, I'm trying to pee here!" I knew that nobody could actually see me, but that didn't stop me from bending my knees down as far as I could go without urinating on my legs. In my pitifully contorted state I couldn't help but think of the comically physical antics of Mr. Bean. Although I've never seen an episode called "Mr. Bean Urinates In a One-Way Mirrored Bathroom."
By the time I had finally assuaged myself that it's safe to let loose I resembled some sort of odd, cubist sculpture rendered by an artist on acid. No matter how uncomfortable you are, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
So I went.
After completing this unecessarily arduous task I exited the bathroom posthaste and left the deli - never to return again. Mind you, I still use public facilities, but the only damned mirrors I see better be on the inside, without a view.
The Enamel Ranger
The Enamel Ranger
Written by David M. Muench
I bought a Colgate toothbrush the other day, and I'm astounded by the deluge of dental products that now exist. The toothbrush I purchased is a multi-colored ergonomic model that indubitably has the same drag coefficients as an F-16. It's like I'm brushing my teeth with a Power Ranger.
And the toothbrush package has a number in the corner. The one I bought has "57." I looked at all the packages at the store, and they all had different numbers. What the hell is that? Lottery numbers? Being the inquisitive guy I am, I went to Colgate.com to see if I could locate the answer to my mind-boggling query.
What I discovered is that they have eight different kinds of "manual" toothbrushes. They actually have one called the Colgate Navigator. Navigator? What are you going to do, get lost going to your mouth? "Damn it, I shoved the toothbrush up my ass again. I knew I should have bought the Colgate Navigator!"
And there's a Colgate Total Professional, which is good, because I don't want to put something that's not a total professional in my mouth. To cover all bases, they should sell a brush called Colgate Complete Idiot, ideal for those who put toothbrushes up their asses.
The Colgate Extra Clean toothbrush contrives the idea that the other models are lacking in the clean department. But with this new "Extra Clean" toothbrush you can get that extra special level of clean.
There are a few more, but I digress. I did find out that I have an "Active Angle" brush (I think the inactive angle brush just sits on the couch watching television all day).
And I never ascertained the meaning behind that freakin' number.
Written by David M. Muench
I bought a Colgate toothbrush the other day, and I'm astounded by the deluge of dental products that now exist. The toothbrush I purchased is a multi-colored ergonomic model that indubitably has the same drag coefficients as an F-16. It's like I'm brushing my teeth with a Power Ranger.
And the toothbrush package has a number in the corner. The one I bought has "57." I looked at all the packages at the store, and they all had different numbers. What the hell is that? Lottery numbers? Being the inquisitive guy I am, I went to Colgate.com to see if I could locate the answer to my mind-boggling query.
What I discovered is that they have eight different kinds of "manual" toothbrushes. They actually have one called the Colgate Navigator. Navigator? What are you going to do, get lost going to your mouth? "Damn it, I shoved the toothbrush up my ass again. I knew I should have bought the Colgate Navigator!"
And there's a Colgate Total Professional, which is good, because I don't want to put something that's not a total professional in my mouth. To cover all bases, they should sell a brush called Colgate Complete Idiot, ideal for those who put toothbrushes up their asses.
The Colgate Extra Clean toothbrush contrives the idea that the other models are lacking in the clean department. But with this new "Extra Clean" toothbrush you can get that extra special level of clean.
There are a few more, but I digress. I did find out that I have an "Active Angle" brush (I think the inactive angle brush just sits on the couch watching television all day).
And I never ascertained the meaning behind that freakin' number.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
The Creature Under the Trailer
Written by David M. Muench
Ah, summer. The gentle kiss of summer's sun - yeah, right - more like the fiery tongue scorching the dry, cracked Oklahoma earth. Summer days are best for swimming, working on your sunburn, and lazing indoors while sipping iced tea in front of the comforting glow of the television with the air conditioning on "Arctic." Summer nights, however, are filled with catching fireflies, taking long walks, and scaring small children.
August, 2001. It was to be a week of fun in the (blazing) sun at the lake home of Julie and Leath; my sister and brother-in-law. And by "home" I mean trailer, at a private trailer park. It's a nearly new trailer, with all of the amenities. TV, DVD player, stereo, recliners, sleeper sofa, refrigerator, air conditioning - the works. We're talkin' the 'burbs version of "camping out." My nephew and niece - Bryan and Meaghan - were there as well.
It was an ideal week: During the day we were boating out to the beach, frolicking in the water; and by night we sat on the covered porch listening to chirrups and hoots of the nocturnal creatures; playing card or dice games. Boredom got the best of my sister and I, so we fabricated a "ghost story" to entertain ourselves and to unnerve our skittish 13-year-old nephew. Meaghan, 11, seemed rather apathetic with this whole "ghost" business.
Bryan and I slept in the two beds in the back bedroom that faced the wooded area. As he lay in the bed closest to the window, I surreptitiously scratched the wall, and lightly rapped my knuckle against the faux wood paneling as I feigned sleep. I could hear him shifting restlessly in bed, and it was all I could do to suppress a laugh.
The next morning Bryan's bed was empty. It seems he heard "strange noises" coming from outside and he promptly sprinted to the living room and slept in one of the recliners. "Hmm," I muttered curiously. "I wonder if it had anything to do with that ghost."
That night my sister and I conspired together - we could do more damage that way. She and I set out to walk her dogs, which was something we were going to do anyway. Bryan and Meaghan were left alone in the trailer playing with their toys and watching television. Upon returning I raced around to the back of the trailer with a few pieces of gravel in hand and tossed them on the roof.
Then Julie and I pretended to be "running from something" as we crashed into the door breathlessly, slamming and locking it behind us. I peered wide-eyed out the small window in the door, scanning the inky night for a nonexistent threat. Curious, Bryan and Meaghan asked what was wrong. My sister and I glanced nervously at each other and said shakily, "nothing." We were evil, I know. Julie and I then grabbed the flashlight and reluctantly stated that "we saw something out there," and coaxed Bryan and Meaghan to join us.
Once outside, I splashed the flashlight's beam across the ground in an erratic, haphazard manner. I aimed the beam around the trailer's skirting and muttered, "I think there's something in there." While smiling to myself I heard a distinct "thump" against the skirting. I furrowed my brows in a perplexed look and thought "damn, I'm starting to freak myself out now." In a hushed voice I inquired, "Did you hear that?" A couple grunts of acknowledgement.
Shining the flashlight in the area where I heard the noise, I began to wonder if I really did want to find out what bumped against the trailer skirting. That's when it happened. Without warning - some hideous, fanged creature leapt into the flashlight's beam capturing it's abominable horns, glaring eyes and long, clawed legs. I let out a gasp and jerked back, knowing I was in imminent danger of becoming frog food.
Yes, it was a small frog about the size of my thumb. No claws, horns, or fangs. But I just know that thing was glaring at me. Feeling foolish, I chuckled and tried to regain my aloof masculinity while my heart was still doing aerobics. Our devious "scare tactic" backfired, with me as the hapless victim.
The remaining days at the lake I dispensed with the talk of ghosts and goblins, and instead enjoyed the languid days sharing laughs and recreation with Bryan and Meaghan. You know, it's amazing how a brush with death can put things into perspective and make you appreciate life.
Even if that "brush" was just a small frog.
Written by David M. Muench
Ah, summer. The gentle kiss of summer's sun - yeah, right - more like the fiery tongue scorching the dry, cracked Oklahoma earth. Summer days are best for swimming, working on your sunburn, and lazing indoors while sipping iced tea in front of the comforting glow of the television with the air conditioning on "Arctic." Summer nights, however, are filled with catching fireflies, taking long walks, and scaring small children.
August, 2001. It was to be a week of fun in the (blazing) sun at the lake home of Julie and Leath; my sister and brother-in-law. And by "home" I mean trailer, at a private trailer park. It's a nearly new trailer, with all of the amenities. TV, DVD player, stereo, recliners, sleeper sofa, refrigerator, air conditioning - the works. We're talkin' the 'burbs version of "camping out." My nephew and niece - Bryan and Meaghan - were there as well.
It was an ideal week: During the day we were boating out to the beach, frolicking in the water; and by night we sat on the covered porch listening to chirrups and hoots of the nocturnal creatures; playing card or dice games. Boredom got the best of my sister and I, so we fabricated a "ghost story" to entertain ourselves and to unnerve our skittish 13-year-old nephew. Meaghan, 11, seemed rather apathetic with this whole "ghost" business.
Bryan and I slept in the two beds in the back bedroom that faced the wooded area. As he lay in the bed closest to the window, I surreptitiously scratched the wall, and lightly rapped my knuckle against the faux wood paneling as I feigned sleep. I could hear him shifting restlessly in bed, and it was all I could do to suppress a laugh.
The next morning Bryan's bed was empty. It seems he heard "strange noises" coming from outside and he promptly sprinted to the living room and slept in one of the recliners. "Hmm," I muttered curiously. "I wonder if it had anything to do with that ghost."
That night my sister and I conspired together - we could do more damage that way. She and I set out to walk her dogs, which was something we were going to do anyway. Bryan and Meaghan were left alone in the trailer playing with their toys and watching television. Upon returning I raced around to the back of the trailer with a few pieces of gravel in hand and tossed them on the roof.
Then Julie and I pretended to be "running from something" as we crashed into the door breathlessly, slamming and locking it behind us. I peered wide-eyed out the small window in the door, scanning the inky night for a nonexistent threat. Curious, Bryan and Meaghan asked what was wrong. My sister and I glanced nervously at each other and said shakily, "nothing." We were evil, I know. Julie and I then grabbed the flashlight and reluctantly stated that "we saw something out there," and coaxed Bryan and Meaghan to join us.
Once outside, I splashed the flashlight's beam across the ground in an erratic, haphazard manner. I aimed the beam around the trailer's skirting and muttered, "I think there's something in there." While smiling to myself I heard a distinct "thump" against the skirting. I furrowed my brows in a perplexed look and thought "damn, I'm starting to freak myself out now." In a hushed voice I inquired, "Did you hear that?" A couple grunts of acknowledgement.
Shining the flashlight in the area where I heard the noise, I began to wonder if I really did want to find out what bumped against the trailer skirting. That's when it happened. Without warning - some hideous, fanged creature leapt into the flashlight's beam capturing it's abominable horns, glaring eyes and long, clawed legs. I let out a gasp and jerked back, knowing I was in imminent danger of becoming frog food.
Yes, it was a small frog about the size of my thumb. No claws, horns, or fangs. But I just know that thing was glaring at me. Feeling foolish, I chuckled and tried to regain my aloof masculinity while my heart was still doing aerobics. Our devious "scare tactic" backfired, with me as the hapless victim.
The remaining days at the lake I dispensed with the talk of ghosts and goblins, and instead enjoyed the languid days sharing laughs and recreation with Bryan and Meaghan. You know, it's amazing how a brush with death can put things into perspective and make you appreciate life.
Even if that "brush" was just a small frog.
The Creature Under the Trailer
The Creature Under the Trailer
Written by David M. Muench
Ah, summer. The gentle kiss of summer's sun - yeah, right - more like the fiery tongue scorching the dry, cracked Oklahoma earth. Summer days are best for swimming, working on your sunburn, and lazing indoors while sipping iced tea in front of the comforting glow of the television with the air conditioning set to "Arctic." Summer nights, however, are filled with catching fireflies, taking long walks, aaand scaring small children.
August, 2001. It was to be a week of fun in the (blazing) sun at the lake home of Julie and Leath; my sister and brother-in-law. And by "home" I mean trailer, at a private trailer park. It's a nearly new trailer, with all of the amenities. TV, DVD player, stereo, recliners, sleeper sofa, refrigerator, air conditioning - the works. We're talkin' the 'burbs version of "camping out." My nephew and niece - Bryan and Meaghan - were there as well.
It was an ideal week: During the day we were boating out to the beach, frolicking in the water; and by night we sat on the covered porch listening to chirrups and hoots of the nocturnal creatures; playing card or dice games. Boredom got the best of my sister and I, so we fabricated a "ghost story" to entertain ourselves and to unnerve our skittish 13-year-old nephew. Meaghan, 11, seemed rather apathetic with this whole "ghost" business.
Bryan and I slept in the two beds in the back bedroom that faced the wooded area. As he lay in the bed closest to the window, I surreptitiously scratched the wall, and lightly rapped my knuckle against the faux wood paneling as I feigned sleep. I could hear him shifting restlessly in bed, and it was all I could do to suppress a laugh.
The next morning Bryan's bed was empty. It seems he heard "strange noises" coming from outside and he promptly sprinted to the living room and slept in one of the recliners. "Hmm," I muttered curiously. "I wonder if it had anything to do with that ghost."
That night my sister and I conspired together - we could do more damage that way. She and I set out to walk her dogs, which was something we were going to do anyway. Bryan and Meaghan were left alone in the trailer playing with their toys and watching television. Upon returning I raced around to the back of the trailer with a few pieces of gravel in hand and tossed them on the roof.
Then Julie and I pretended to be "running from something" as we crashed into the door breathlessly, slamming and locking it behind us. I peered wide-eyed out the small window in the door, scanning the inky night for a nonexistent threat. Curious, Bryan and Meaghan asked what was wrong. My sister and I glanced nervously at each other and said shakily, "nothing." We were evil, I know. Julie and I then grabbed the flashlight and reluctantly stated that "we saw something out there," and coaxed Bryan and Meaghan to join us.
Once outside, I splashed the flashlight's beam across the ground in an erratic, haphazard manner. I aimed the beam around the trailer's skirting and muttered, "I think there's something in there." While smiling to myself I heard a distinct "thump" against the skirting. I furrowed my brows in a perplexed look and thought "damn, I'm starting to freak myself out now." In a hushed voice I inquired, "Did you hear that?" A couple grunts of acknowledgement.
Shining the flashlight in the area where I heard the noise, I began to wonder if I really did want to find out what bumped against the trailer skirting. That's when it happened. Without warning - some hideous, fanged creature leapt into the flashlight's beam capturing it's abominable horns, glaring eyes and long, clawed legs. I let out a gasp and jerked back, knowing I was in imminent danger of becoming frog food.
Yes, it was a small frog about the size of my thumb. No claws, horns, or fangs. But I just know that thing was glaring at me. Feeling foolish, I chuckled and tried to regain my aloof masculinity while my heart was still doing aerobics. Our devious "scare tactic" backfired, with me as the hapless victim.
The remaining days at the lake I dispensed with the talk of ghosts and goblins, and instead enjoyed the languid days sharing laughs and recreation with Bryan and Meaghan. You know, it's amazing how a brush with death can put things into perspective and make you appreciate life.
Even if that "brush" was just a small frog.
Written by David M. Muench
Ah, summer. The gentle kiss of summer's sun - yeah, right - more like the fiery tongue scorching the dry, cracked Oklahoma earth. Summer days are best for swimming, working on your sunburn, and lazing indoors while sipping iced tea in front of the comforting glow of the television with the air conditioning set to "Arctic." Summer nights, however, are filled with catching fireflies, taking long walks, aaand scaring small children.
August, 2001. It was to be a week of fun in the (blazing) sun at the lake home of Julie and Leath; my sister and brother-in-law. And by "home" I mean trailer, at a private trailer park. It's a nearly new trailer, with all of the amenities. TV, DVD player, stereo, recliners, sleeper sofa, refrigerator, air conditioning - the works. We're talkin' the 'burbs version of "camping out." My nephew and niece - Bryan and Meaghan - were there as well.
It was an ideal week: During the day we were boating out to the beach, frolicking in the water; and by night we sat on the covered porch listening to chirrups and hoots of the nocturnal creatures; playing card or dice games. Boredom got the best of my sister and I, so we fabricated a "ghost story" to entertain ourselves and to unnerve our skittish 13-year-old nephew. Meaghan, 11, seemed rather apathetic with this whole "ghost" business.
Bryan and I slept in the two beds in the back bedroom that faced the wooded area. As he lay in the bed closest to the window, I surreptitiously scratched the wall, and lightly rapped my knuckle against the faux wood paneling as I feigned sleep. I could hear him shifting restlessly in bed, and it was all I could do to suppress a laugh.
The next morning Bryan's bed was empty. It seems he heard "strange noises" coming from outside and he promptly sprinted to the living room and slept in one of the recliners. "Hmm," I muttered curiously. "I wonder if it had anything to do with that ghost."
That night my sister and I conspired together - we could do more damage that way. She and I set out to walk her dogs, which was something we were going to do anyway. Bryan and Meaghan were left alone in the trailer playing with their toys and watching television. Upon returning I raced around to the back of the trailer with a few pieces of gravel in hand and tossed them on the roof.
Then Julie and I pretended to be "running from something" as we crashed into the door breathlessly, slamming and locking it behind us. I peered wide-eyed out the small window in the door, scanning the inky night for a nonexistent threat. Curious, Bryan and Meaghan asked what was wrong. My sister and I glanced nervously at each other and said shakily, "nothing." We were evil, I know. Julie and I then grabbed the flashlight and reluctantly stated that "we saw something out there," and coaxed Bryan and Meaghan to join us.
Once outside, I splashed the flashlight's beam across the ground in an erratic, haphazard manner. I aimed the beam around the trailer's skirting and muttered, "I think there's something in there." While smiling to myself I heard a distinct "thump" against the skirting. I furrowed my brows in a perplexed look and thought "damn, I'm starting to freak myself out now." In a hushed voice I inquired, "Did you hear that?" A couple grunts of acknowledgement.
Shining the flashlight in the area where I heard the noise, I began to wonder if I really did want to find out what bumped against the trailer skirting. That's when it happened. Without warning - some hideous, fanged creature leapt into the flashlight's beam capturing it's abominable horns, glaring eyes and long, clawed legs. I let out a gasp and jerked back, knowing I was in imminent danger of becoming frog food.
Yes, it was a small frog about the size of my thumb. No claws, horns, or fangs. But I just know that thing was glaring at me. Feeling foolish, I chuckled and tried to regain my aloof masculinity while my heart was still doing aerobics. Our devious "scare tactic" backfired, with me as the hapless victim.
The remaining days at the lake I dispensed with the talk of ghosts and goblins, and instead enjoyed the languid days sharing laughs and recreation with Bryan and Meaghan. You know, it's amazing how a brush with death can put things into perspective and make you appreciate life.
Even if that "brush" was just a small frog.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
It's Showtime!
Written by David M. Muench
Joan of Arcadia no longer rules Friday nights. Sorry, God, but you've been ousted by an acerbic young woman who communicates with inanimate objects and a quirky cop with an extraordinary ability of deduction and to shamelessly make a fool out of himself in public.
Wonderfalls features the attractive Caroline Dhavernas (Out Cold) as Jaye Tyler, a "pathological narcissist" who has developed a preternatural ability to communicate with inanimate objects - everything from a deformed wax lion to a bronze monkey statuette. Naturally only Jaye can hear and see these anthropomorphized items talk, so it stands to reason that she might in fact be losing her mind. But it's the uncanny advice and instructions given by these objects (much like "God" on Joan of Arcadia) for Jaye to follow accordingly that lends a bit of credibility and invites us into her world.
Wonderfalls is definitely geared for adults, as the language and context is a bit on the risqué side. The humor, however, is scathingly witty; and a full cast of equally funny and dysfunctional characters makes this new show a winner in my book. Look for it on Fox, Friday's at 9/8 central.
Touching Evil is USA Network's new show starring Jeffrey Donovan as David Creegan.
After a near-fatal gunshot wound to the head and year-long pyschological care, Creegan returns to the new OSC (Organized and Serial Crime) Unit, a rapid-response, elite crime investigation squad. Unfortunately the accident left him virtually shameless, easily agitated, and stubborn. On the plus side, he has a heightened ability of deduction.
Touching Evil is a bit of a misnomer given the circumstances, as this is a deliciously funny and intense ride into a mind of an anomalous headcase. Look for it on the USA network, Friday nights at 10/9 central.
Written by David M. Muench
Joan of Arcadia no longer rules Friday nights. Sorry, God, but you've been ousted by an acerbic young woman who communicates with inanimate objects and a quirky cop with an extraordinary ability of deduction and to shamelessly make a fool out of himself in public.
Wonderfalls features the attractive Caroline Dhavernas (Out Cold) as Jaye Tyler, a "pathological narcissist" who has developed a preternatural ability to communicate with inanimate objects - everything from a deformed wax lion to a bronze monkey statuette. Naturally only Jaye can hear and see these anthropomorphized items talk, so it stands to reason that she might in fact be losing her mind. But it's the uncanny advice and instructions given by these objects (much like "God" on Joan of Arcadia) for Jaye to follow accordingly that lends a bit of credibility and invites us into her world.
Wonderfalls is definitely geared for adults, as the language and context is a bit on the risqué side. The humor, however, is scathingly witty; and a full cast of equally funny and dysfunctional characters makes this new show a winner in my book. Look for it on Fox, Friday's at 9/8 central.
Touching Evil is USA Network's new show starring Jeffrey Donovan as David Creegan.
After a near-fatal gunshot wound to the head and year-long pyschological care, Creegan returns to the new OSC (Organized and Serial Crime) Unit, a rapid-response, elite crime investigation squad. Unfortunately the accident left him virtually shameless, easily agitated, and stubborn. On the plus side, he has a heightened ability of deduction.
Touching Evil is a bit of a misnomer given the circumstances, as this is a deliciously funny and intense ride into a mind of an anomalous headcase. Look for it on the USA network, Friday nights at 10/9 central.
It's Showtime!
It's Showtime!
Written by David M. Muench
Joan of Arcadia no longer rules Friday nights. Sorry, God, but you've been ousted by an acerbic young woman who communicates with inanimate objects and a quirky cop with an extraordinary ability of deduction and to shamelessly make a fool out of himself in public.
Wonderfalls features the attractive Caroline Dhavernas (Out Cold) as Jaye Tyler, a "pathological narcissist" who has developed a preternatural ability to communicate with inanimate objects - everything from a deformed wax lion to a bronze monkey statuette. Naturally only Jaye can hear and see these anthropomorphized items talk, so it stands to reason that she might in fact be losing her mind. But it's the uncanny advice and instructions given by these objects (much like "God" on Joan of Arcadia) for Jaye to follow accordingly that lends a bit of credibility and invites us into her world.
Wonderfalls is definitely geared for adults, as the language and context is a bit on the risqué side. The humor, however, is scathingly witty; and a full cast of equally funny and dysfunctional characters makes this new show a winner in my book. Look for it on Fox, Friday's at 9/8 central.
Touching Evil is USA Network's new show starring Jeffrey Donovan as David Creegan.
After a near-fatal gunshot wound to the head and year-long pyschological care, Creegan returns to the new OSC (Organized and Serial Crime) Unit, a rapid-response, elite crime investigation squad. Unfortunately the accident left him virtually shameless, easily agitated, and stubborn. On the plus side, he has a heightened ability of deduction.
Touching Evil is a bit of a misnomer given the circumstances, as this is a deliciously funny and intense ride into a mind of an anomalous headcase. Look for it on the USA network, Friday nights at 10/9 central.
Written by David M. Muench
Joan of Arcadia no longer rules Friday nights. Sorry, God, but you've been ousted by an acerbic young woman who communicates with inanimate objects and a quirky cop with an extraordinary ability of deduction and to shamelessly make a fool out of himself in public.
Wonderfalls features the attractive Caroline Dhavernas (Out Cold) as Jaye Tyler, a "pathological narcissist" who has developed a preternatural ability to communicate with inanimate objects - everything from a deformed wax lion to a bronze monkey statuette. Naturally only Jaye can hear and see these anthropomorphized items talk, so it stands to reason that she might in fact be losing her mind. But it's the uncanny advice and instructions given by these objects (much like "God" on Joan of Arcadia) for Jaye to follow accordingly that lends a bit of credibility and invites us into her world.
Wonderfalls is definitely geared for adults, as the language and context is a bit on the risqué side. The humor, however, is scathingly witty; and a full cast of equally funny and dysfunctional characters makes this new show a winner in my book. Look for it on Fox, Friday's at 9/8 central.
Touching Evil is USA Network's new show starring Jeffrey Donovan as David Creegan.
After a near-fatal gunshot wound to the head and year-long pyschological care, Creegan returns to the new OSC (Organized and Serial Crime) Unit, a rapid-response, elite crime investigation squad. Unfortunately the accident left him virtually shameless, easily agitated, and stubborn. On the plus side, he has a heightened ability of deduction.
Touching Evil is a bit of a misnomer given the circumstances, as this is a deliciously funny and intense ride into a mind of an anomalous headcase. Look for it on the USA network, Friday nights at 10/9 central.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
A Reader's Halloween Story After reading my "Halloween Hi-Jinx" story, Anne shared her own ghoulishly hilarious experience celebrating All Hallow's Eve while at work. I'm sure you'll enjoy it as much as I did; as she's a great writer! Here's her story:
Dear Shiny David,
I was reading your blog and came upon the post where you described your past dressing-up-for-Halloween experiences. Well, I figured that I would mildly amuse you with one of my own similar experiences...here we go:
About 7-8 years ago, I was working for a small trade magazine publishing company. The entire company had about 40 employees total with a manic depressive company president. The company president (let's just call him "Humpty Dumpty," shall we?) Mr. Dumpty fancied himself the twin of Hunter S. Thompson, but would more accurately be compared to the janitor who empties the trash every evening. Yes, he took himself waaay too seriously, without any smarts or experience to back it up (his wife's parents bought him the business to keep him busy and away from them). And there we have the background for the story.
During that time, the company had a great editorial staff who got along quite well. We all decided to come to work on Halloween dressed in costumes. At the time, my pre-adolescent son (12 years old at the time) was very into Marilyn Manson's music. I decided to gain a few "cool" brownie points with him by dressing as Marilyn for work. It worked well with my son. He loaned me his "Dead Puppies" rock concert T-shirt (wth a stylized picture of a disembowled dog nailed to a cross) and helped me spray black hair coloring on my long brown hair (it's very long, down to my waist). I painted my stubby fingernails (yes, I bite them) black and used black eye makeup to surround my eyes in blackness. Black lipstick, black jeans, black combat boots and black studded bracelets and a collar completed my look. Yes, my son was quite impressed. Did I cause any accidents while driving to work? Possibly, I was too preoccupied with watching out for cops to notice. ("You're going to work, ma'am? Yeah, sure you are. Please step out of the car.")
So, I get to work. My co-workers are dressed as an elf, Dilbert, Pat (from SNL) and other more innocuous costumes than my Mr. Manson get-up. After lunch, Humpty decides to have a serious meeting with my magazine group. Of all days to choose. Because I'm the only editorial person in the magazine group, I'm also the only person in the meeting who is dressed up. H. Dumpty begins the meeting and is talking along until he gets a glance at me. He stops talking momentarily, gives me a long look and then tries to continue the meeting. Every so often, he glances at me while trying to conduct business.
Finally, he says, "Listen, let's continue this meeting next week. Anne, I can't concentrate with you like this. I just can't do it." He tries to laugh, but it all comes out strained and frustrated. Great. Just great. I feel like an ass, while feeling guilty and worried about my job. It was a bad thing to get any negative attention from the Big H.D. During his depressive phases, he's fired people for less reason. Luckily, he needed my magazine to make money for the company (while he was pissing it away buying unsuccessful new magazines), so I didn't get fired then. He needed me too much at the time, costume or not. I left voluntarily a few years later for greener pastures. And there you have it. My story. Hope you enjoyed it.
Your (newly devoted) reader,
Anne
Dear Shiny David,
I was reading your blog and came upon the post where you described your past dressing-up-for-Halloween experiences. Well, I figured that I would mildly amuse you with one of my own similar experiences...here we go:
About 7-8 years ago, I was working for a small trade magazine publishing company. The entire company had about 40 employees total with a manic depressive company president. The company president (let's just call him "Humpty Dumpty," shall we?) Mr. Dumpty fancied himself the twin of Hunter S. Thompson, but would more accurately be compared to the janitor who empties the trash every evening. Yes, he took himself waaay too seriously, without any smarts or experience to back it up (his wife's parents bought him the business to keep him busy and away from them). And there we have the background for the story.
During that time, the company had a great editorial staff who got along quite well. We all decided to come to work on Halloween dressed in costumes. At the time, my pre-adolescent son (12 years old at the time) was very into Marilyn Manson's music. I decided to gain a few "cool" brownie points with him by dressing as Marilyn for work. It worked well with my son. He loaned me his "Dead Puppies" rock concert T-shirt (wth a stylized picture of a disembowled dog nailed to a cross) and helped me spray black hair coloring on my long brown hair (it's very long, down to my waist). I painted my stubby fingernails (yes, I bite them) black and used black eye makeup to surround my eyes in blackness. Black lipstick, black jeans, black combat boots and black studded bracelets and a collar completed my look. Yes, my son was quite impressed. Did I cause any accidents while driving to work? Possibly, I was too preoccupied with watching out for cops to notice. ("You're going to work, ma'am? Yeah, sure you are. Please step out of the car.")
So, I get to work. My co-workers are dressed as an elf, Dilbert, Pat (from SNL) and other more innocuous costumes than my Mr. Manson get-up. After lunch, Humpty decides to have a serious meeting with my magazine group. Of all days to choose. Because I'm the only editorial person in the magazine group, I'm also the only person in the meeting who is dressed up. H. Dumpty begins the meeting and is talking along until he gets a glance at me. He stops talking momentarily, gives me a long look and then tries to continue the meeting. Every so often, he glances at me while trying to conduct business.
Finally, he says, "Listen, let's continue this meeting next week. Anne, I can't concentrate with you like this. I just can't do it." He tries to laugh, but it all comes out strained and frustrated. Great. Just great. I feel like an ass, while feeling guilty and worried about my job. It was a bad thing to get any negative attention from the Big H.D. During his depressive phases, he's fired people for less reason. Luckily, he needed my magazine to make money for the company (while he was pissing it away buying unsuccessful new magazines), so I didn't get fired then. He needed me too much at the time, costume or not. I left voluntarily a few years later for greener pastures. And there you have it. My story. Hope you enjoyed it.
Your (newly devoted) reader,
Anne
A Reader's Halloween Story
A Reader's Halloween Story After reading my "Halloween Hijinx" story, Anne shared her own ghoulishly hilarious experience celebrating All Hallow's Eve while at work. I'm sure you'll enjoy it as much as I did; as she's a great writer! Here's her story:
Dear Shiny David,
I was reading your blog and came upon the post where you described your past dressing-up-for-Halloween experiences. Well, I figured that I would mildly amuse you with one of my own similar experiences...here we go:
About 7-8 years ago, I was working for a small trade magazine publishing company. The entire company had about 40 employees total with a manic depressive company president. The company president (let's just call him "Humpty Dumpty," shall we?) Mr. Dumpty fancied himself the twin of Hunter S. Thompson, but would more accurately be compared to the janitor who empties the trash every evening. Yes, he took himself waaay too seriously, without any smarts or experience to back it up (his wife's parents bought him the business to keep him busy and away from them). And there we have the background for the story.
During that time, the company had a great editorial staff who got along quite well. We all decided to come to work on Halloween dressed in costumes. At the time, my pre-adolescent son (12 years old at the time) was very into Marilyn Manson's music. I decided to gain a few "cool" brownie points with him by dressing as Marilyn for work. It worked well with my son. He loaned me his "Dead Puppies" rock concert T-shirt (wth a stylized picture of a disembowled dog nailed to a cross) and helped me spray black hair coloring on my long brown hair (it's very long, down to my waist). I painted my stubby fingernails (yes, I bite them) black and used black eye makeup to surround my eyes in blackness. Black lipstick, black jeans, black combat boots and black studded bracelets and a collar completed my look. Yes, my son was quite impressed. Did I cause any accidents while driving to work? Possibly, I was too preoccupied with watching out for cops to notice. ("You're going to work, ma'am? Yeah, sure you are. Please step out of the car.")
So, I get to work. My co-workers are dressed as an elf, Dilbert, Pat (from SNL) and other more innocuous costumes than my Mr. Manson get-up. After lunch, Humpty decides to have a serious meeting with my magazine group. Of all days to choose. Because I'm the only editorial person in the magazine group, I'm also the only person in the meeting who is dressed up. H. Dumpty begins the meeting and is talking along until he gets a glance at me. He stops talking momentarily, gives me a long look and then tries to continue the meeting. Every so often, he glances at me while trying to conduct business.
Finally, he says, "Listen, let's continue this meeting next week. Anne, I can't concentrate with you like this. I just can't do it." He tries to laugh, but it all comes out strained and frustrated. Great. Just great. I feel like an ass, while feeling guilty and worried about my job. It was a bad thing to get any negative attention from the Big H.D. During his depressive phases, he's fired people for less reason. Luckily, he needed my magazine to make money for the company (while he was pissing it away buying unsuccessful new magazines), so I didn't get fired then. He needed me too much at the time, costume or not. I left voluntarily a few years later for greener pastures. And there you have it. My story. Hope you enjoyed it.
Your (newly devoted) reader,
Anne
Dear Shiny David,
I was reading your blog and came upon the post where you described your past dressing-up-for-Halloween experiences. Well, I figured that I would mildly amuse you with one of my own similar experiences...here we go:
About 7-8 years ago, I was working for a small trade magazine publishing company. The entire company had about 40 employees total with a manic depressive company president. The company president (let's just call him "Humpty Dumpty," shall we?) Mr. Dumpty fancied himself the twin of Hunter S. Thompson, but would more accurately be compared to the janitor who empties the trash every evening. Yes, he took himself waaay too seriously, without any smarts or experience to back it up (his wife's parents bought him the business to keep him busy and away from them). And there we have the background for the story.
During that time, the company had a great editorial staff who got along quite well. We all decided to come to work on Halloween dressed in costumes. At the time, my pre-adolescent son (12 years old at the time) was very into Marilyn Manson's music. I decided to gain a few "cool" brownie points with him by dressing as Marilyn for work. It worked well with my son. He loaned me his "Dead Puppies" rock concert T-shirt (wth a stylized picture of a disembowled dog nailed to a cross) and helped me spray black hair coloring on my long brown hair (it's very long, down to my waist). I painted my stubby fingernails (yes, I bite them) black and used black eye makeup to surround my eyes in blackness. Black lipstick, black jeans, black combat boots and black studded bracelets and a collar completed my look. Yes, my son was quite impressed. Did I cause any accidents while driving to work? Possibly, I was too preoccupied with watching out for cops to notice. ("You're going to work, ma'am? Yeah, sure you are. Please step out of the car.")
So, I get to work. My co-workers are dressed as an elf, Dilbert, Pat (from SNL) and other more innocuous costumes than my Mr. Manson get-up. After lunch, Humpty decides to have a serious meeting with my magazine group. Of all days to choose. Because I'm the only editorial person in the magazine group, I'm also the only person in the meeting who is dressed up. H. Dumpty begins the meeting and is talking along until he gets a glance at me. He stops talking momentarily, gives me a long look and then tries to continue the meeting. Every so often, he glances at me while trying to conduct business.
Finally, he says, "Listen, let's continue this meeting next week. Anne, I can't concentrate with you like this. I just can't do it." He tries to laugh, but it all comes out strained and frustrated. Great. Just great. I feel like an ass, while feeling guilty and worried about my job. It was a bad thing to get any negative attention from the Big H.D. During his depressive phases, he's fired people for less reason. Luckily, he needed my magazine to make money for the company (while he was pissing it away buying unsuccessful new magazines), so I didn't get fired then. He needed me too much at the time, costume or not. I left voluntarily a few years later for greener pastures. And there you have it. My story. Hope you enjoyed it.
Your (newly devoted) reader,
Anne
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Friday the 13th
Written by David M. Muench
I'm not usually a superstitious guy. I can walk under ladders without an iota of unease, if I spill salt I don't throw it over my shoulder (I just unscrew the lid and leave it for the next person), and if it seems that I'm avoiding a black cat out of superstitious absurdity, I'm not. I'm allergic to those feline fiends.
Needless to say I went into work yesterday with my usual "It's Payday Friday Mood;" totally oblivious that it was also the "Thirteenth." It just didn't click. Until a coworker confided to me, "dude, watch yourself today. It's Friday the 13th." I smirked and mocked, "what could possibly go wrong today?" while theatrically ducking an unseen threat; "Final Destination" style.
Thirty minutes later I noticed we were out of coffee, so I began to make more. I rinsed out the pot and the filter cup, popped in a new filter, put more water in the pot, put the filter cup back in place and poured the water into the machine. Did you notice a crucial step missing? Yep, yours truly had neglected to include the key ingredient: Coffee. Talk about extreme decaf. I playfully chided myself for my inattentiveness and blamed it on "Friday the 13th."
Later that day I also succeeded in bruising the ever-loving bejeezus out of my thigh; again placing full blame on the fact that it was "Friday the 13th."
The question I pose to myself is simple: "Would I have still done those things if I remained unaware that it was 'Friday the 13th'?" Did I subconsciously create those situations because of superstitious tomfoolery?
Or am I just a bumbling idiot that thinks too much.
I may never know.
Written by David M. Muench
I'm not usually a superstitious guy. I can walk under ladders without an iota of unease, if I spill salt I don't throw it over my shoulder (I just unscrew the lid and leave it for the next person), and if it seems that I'm avoiding a black cat out of superstitious absurdity, I'm not. I'm allergic to those feline fiends.
Needless to say I went into work yesterday with my usual "It's Payday Friday Mood;" totally oblivious that it was also the "Thirteenth." It just didn't click. Until a coworker confided to me, "dude, watch yourself today. It's Friday the 13th." I smirked and mocked, "what could possibly go wrong today?" while theatrically ducking an unseen threat; "Final Destination" style.
Thirty minutes later I noticed we were out of coffee, so I began to make more. I rinsed out the pot and the filter cup, popped in a new filter, put more water in the pot, put the filter cup back in place and poured the water into the machine. Did you notice a crucial step missing? Yep, yours truly had neglected to include the key ingredient: Coffee. Talk about extreme decaf. I playfully chided myself for my inattentiveness and blamed it on "Friday the 13th."
Later that day I also succeeded in bruising the ever-loving bejeezus out of my thigh; again placing full blame on the fact that it was "Friday the 13th."
The question I pose to myself is simple: "Would I have still done those things if I remained unaware that it was 'Friday the 13th'?" Did I subconsciously create those situations because of superstitious tomfoolery?
Or am I just a bumbling idiot that thinks too much.
I may never know.
Friday the 13th
Friday the 13th
Written by David M. Muench
I'm not usually a superstitious guy. I can walk under ladders without an iota of unease, if I spill salt I don't throw it over my shoulder (I just unscrew the lid and leave it for the next person), and if it seems that I'm avoiding a black cat out of superstitious absurdity, I'm not. I'm allergic to those feline fiends.
Needless to say I went into work yesterday with my usual "It's Payday Friday Mood;" totally oblivious that it was also the "Thirteenth." It just didn't click. Until a coworker confided to me, "dude, watch yourself today. It's Friday the 13th." I smirked and mocked, "what could possibly go wrong today?" while theatrically ducking an unseen threat; "Final Destination" style.
Thirty minutes later I noticed we were out of coffee, so I began to make more. I rinsed out the pot and the filter cup, popped in a new filter, put more water in the pot, put the filter cup back in place and poured the water into the machine. Did you notice a crucial step missing? Yep, yours truly had neglected to include the key ingredient: Coffee. Talk about extreme decaf. I playfully chided myself for my inattentiveness and blamed it on "Friday the 13th."
Later that day I also succeeded in bruising the ever-loving bejeezus out of my thigh; again placing full blame on the fact that it was "Friday the 13th."
The question I pose to myself is simple: "Would I have still done those things if I remained unaware that it was 'Friday the 13th'?" Did I subconsciously create those situations because of superstitious tomfoolery?
Or am I just a bumbling idiot that thinks too much?
I may never know.
Written by David M. Muench
I'm not usually a superstitious guy. I can walk under ladders without an iota of unease, if I spill salt I don't throw it over my shoulder (I just unscrew the lid and leave it for the next person), and if it seems that I'm avoiding a black cat out of superstitious absurdity, I'm not. I'm allergic to those feline fiends.
Needless to say I went into work yesterday with my usual "It's Payday Friday Mood;" totally oblivious that it was also the "Thirteenth." It just didn't click. Until a coworker confided to me, "dude, watch yourself today. It's Friday the 13th." I smirked and mocked, "what could possibly go wrong today?" while theatrically ducking an unseen threat; "Final Destination" style.
Thirty minutes later I noticed we were out of coffee, so I began to make more. I rinsed out the pot and the filter cup, popped in a new filter, put more water in the pot, put the filter cup back in place and poured the water into the machine. Did you notice a crucial step missing? Yep, yours truly had neglected to include the key ingredient: Coffee. Talk about extreme decaf. I playfully chided myself for my inattentiveness and blamed it on "Friday the 13th."
Later that day I also succeeded in bruising the ever-loving bejeezus out of my thigh; again placing full blame on the fact that it was "Friday the 13th."
The question I pose to myself is simple: "Would I have still done those things if I remained unaware that it was 'Friday the 13th'?" Did I subconsciously create those situations because of superstitious tomfoolery?
Or am I just a bumbling idiot that thinks too much?
I may never know.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Snow Job
Written by David M. Muench
New Yorkers should laugh at us. Pennsylvanians should guffaw. For those of you who have been besieged by more than a foot of snow during this winter, I apologize for the superfluous "snow reports" of Oklahoma's news stations.
Today, Northern Oklahoma received six, maybe seven inches of snow. Here in Central Oklahoma where I reside we almost got a whole two inches of the cold white stuff. Since the temperature remained above freezing the roads were mostly clear around my town. Regardless, school and church closings flashed on the screen as early as 9am this morning.
But what really irks me is that each local news station has a kajillion reporters out in different areas of the state, regaling the viewers of the massive amounts of snow and the treacherous highways.
"Reporting from Enid, Oklahoma, we have Staci. Staci, how is the traveling in your area?"
"It isn't too bad right now as traffic is moving along nicely. And hey look, we made a snowman. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks, Staci. That's a great looking snowman. She's been doing a great job being out there all day. And now we have Bob in El Reno. What's it like there, Bob?"
"Well Kelly, there's currently about an inch-and-a-half to two inches of snow on the ground here in El Reno. Travel doesn't seem to be hampered as the roadways are for the most part wet, but there are some slick spots. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks for that report, Bob. And now we have Ron in Kingfisher. What do you have for us, Ron?"
"Thank you, Kelly. Well as you can see the roads are mostly wet as the temperature hasn't dipped below the freezing mark. Traffic is moving along without any problems. There only seems to be about a couple of inches of snow on the ground. Back to you, Kelly."
"That was Ron in Kingfisher. Thanks Ron....."
Two inches of snow for the love of GOD! Does that warrant sending six reporters on location to different parts of the state? "Well hey, six inches of snow here, better declare a state of emergency! Break out the snow plows and close down the entire northern part of Oklahoma! Bring in the National Guard! Bring in the Red Cross! Call the President!"
Why can't you just call somebody living in El Reno, Enid, or Kingfisher?
"Hey, Fred, what's it like up there where you are?"
"Oh, we got a little snow on the ground. Nothin' big."
"How's the driving?"
"What, are you kiddin'? There's like six inches of snow out there. I'm not getting out in this stuff!"
Sometimes I think I should be a reporter. An edgy, no punches pulled, "Tell-It-Like-It-Is" kind of reporter.
"And now we have Shiny, reporting in Central Oklahoma. What do you have for us, Shiny?"
"Well Kelly, it's pathetic, really. There's maybe an inch-and-a-half of snow on the ground. But I'm just guessing, really, since I don't go around with a freakin' ruler in my freakin' pocket. People are driving around like maniacs, which tells me that the roads aren't bad. Or that they're just damned idiots. And since I have your attention, I would like to thank all of you for sending me out here to freeze my ass off in the cold just so I can tell you that we have almost two whole inches of snow on the damn ground. I want a raise. Back to you in the warm newsroom, Kelly."
So go ahead and laugh, New Englanders; chortle until your eyes water and stomach hurts. We deserve it.
Written by David M. Muench
New Yorkers should laugh at us. Pennsylvanians should guffaw. For those of you who have been besieged by more than a foot of snow during this winter, I apologize for the superfluous "snow reports" of Oklahoma's news stations.
Today, Northern Oklahoma received six, maybe seven inches of snow. Here in Central Oklahoma where I reside we almost got a whole two inches of the cold white stuff. Since the temperature remained above freezing the roads were mostly clear around my town. Regardless, school and church closings flashed on the screen as early as 9am this morning.
But what really irks me is that each local news station has a kajillion reporters out in different areas of the state, regaling the viewers of the massive amounts of snow and the treacherous highways.
"Reporting from Enid, Oklahoma, we have Staci. Staci, how is the traveling in your area?"
"It isn't too bad right now as traffic is moving along nicely. And hey look, we made a snowman. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks, Staci. That's a great looking snowman. She's been doing a great job being out there all day. And now we have Bob in El Reno. What's it like there, Bob?"
"Well Kelly, there's currently about an inch-and-a-half to two inches of snow on the ground here in El Reno. Travel doesn't seem to be hampered as the roadways are for the most part wet, but there are some slick spots. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks for that report, Bob. And now we have Ron in Kingfisher. What do you have for us, Ron?"
"Thank you, Kelly. Well as you can see the roads are mostly wet as the temperature hasn't dipped below the freezing mark. Traffic is moving along without any problems. There only seems to be about a couple of inches of snow on the ground. Back to you, Kelly."
"That was Ron in Kingfisher. Thanks Ron....."
Two inches of snow for the love of GOD! Does that warrant sending six reporters on location to different parts of the state? "Well hey, six inches of snow here, better declare a state of emergency! Break out the snow plows and close down the entire northern part of Oklahoma! Bring in the National Guard! Bring in the Red Cross! Call the President!"
Why can't you just call somebody living in El Reno, Enid, or Kingfisher?
"Hey, Fred, what's it like up there where you are?"
"Oh, we got a little snow on the ground. Nothin' big."
"How's the driving?"
"What, are you kiddin'? There's like six inches of snow out there. I'm not getting out in this stuff!"
Sometimes I think I should be a reporter. An edgy, no punches pulled, "Tell-It-Like-It-Is" kind of reporter.
"And now we have Shiny, reporting in Central Oklahoma. What do you have for us, Shiny?"
"Well Kelly, it's pathetic, really. There's maybe an inch-and-a-half of snow on the ground. But I'm just guessing, really, since I don't go around with a freakin' ruler in my freakin' pocket. People are driving around like maniacs, which tells me that the roads aren't bad. Or that they're just damned idiots. And since I have your attention, I would like to thank all of you for sending me out here to freeze my ass off in the cold just so I can tell you that we have almost two whole inches of snow on the damn ground. I want a raise. Back to you in the warm newsroom, Kelly."
So go ahead and laugh, New Englanders; chortle until your eyes water and stomach hurts. We deserve it.
Snow Job
Snow Job
Written by David M. Muench
New Yorkers should laugh at us. Pennsylvanians should guffaw. For those of you who have been besieged by more than a foot of snow during this winter, I apologize for the superfluous "snow reports" of Oklahoma's news stations.
Today, Northern Oklahoma received six, maybe seven inches of snow. Here in Central Oklahoma where I reside we almost got a whole two inches of the cold white stuff. Since the temperature remained above freezing the roads were mostly clear around my town. Regardless, school and church closings flashed on the screen as early as 9am this morning.
But what really irks me is that each local news station has a kajillion reporters out in different areas of the state, regaling the viewers of the massive amounts of snow and the treacherous highways.
"Reporting from Enid, Oklahoma, we have Staci. Staci, how is the traveling in your area?"
"It isn't too bad right now as traffic is moving along nicely. And hey look, we made a snowman. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks, Staci. That's a great looking snowman. She's been doing a great job being out there all day. And now we have Bob in El Reno. What's it like there, Bob?"
"Well Kelly, there's currently about an inch-and-a-half to two inches of snow on the ground here in El Reno. Travel doesn't seem to be hampered as the roadways are for the most part wet, but there are some slick spots. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks for that report, Bob. And now we have Ron in Kingfisher. What do you have for us, Ron?"
"Thank you, Kelly. Well as you can see the roads are mostly wet as the temperature hasn't dipped below the freezing mark. Traffic is moving along without any problems. There only seems to be about a couple of inches of snow on the ground. Back to you, Kelly."
"That was Ron in Kingfisher. Thanks Ron....."
Two inches of snow for the love of GOD! Does that warrant sending six reporters on location to different parts of the state? "Well hey, six inches of snow here, better declare a state of emergency! Break out the snow plows and close down the entire northern part of Oklahoma! Bring in the National Guard! Bring in the Red Cross! Call the President!"
Why can't you just call somebody living in El Reno, Enid, or Kingfisher?
"Hey, Fred, what's it like up there where you are?"
"Oh, we got a little snow on the ground. Nothin' big."
"How's the driving?"
"What, are you kiddin'? There's like six inches of snow out there. I'm not getting out in this stuff!"
Sometimes I think I should be a reporter. An edgy, no punches pulled, "Tell-It-Like-It-Is" kind of reporter.
"And now we have Shiny, reporting in Central Oklahoma. What do you have for us, Shiny?"
"Well Kelly, it's pathetic, really. There's maybe an inch-and-a-half of snow on the ground. But I'm just guessing, really, since I don't go around with a freakin' ruler in my freakin' pocket. People are driving around like maniacs, which tells me that the roads aren't bad. Or that they're just damned idiots. And since I have your attention, I would like to thank all of you for sending me out here to freeze my ass off in the cold just so I can tell you that we have almost two whole inches of snow on the damn ground. I want a raise. Back to you in the warm newsroom, Kelly."
So go ahead and laugh, New Englanders; chortle until your eyes water and stomach hurts. We deserve it.
Written by David M. Muench
New Yorkers should laugh at us. Pennsylvanians should guffaw. For those of you who have been besieged by more than a foot of snow during this winter, I apologize for the superfluous "snow reports" of Oklahoma's news stations.
Today, Northern Oklahoma received six, maybe seven inches of snow. Here in Central Oklahoma where I reside we almost got a whole two inches of the cold white stuff. Since the temperature remained above freezing the roads were mostly clear around my town. Regardless, school and church closings flashed on the screen as early as 9am this morning.
But what really irks me is that each local news station has a kajillion reporters out in different areas of the state, regaling the viewers of the massive amounts of snow and the treacherous highways.
"Reporting from Enid, Oklahoma, we have Staci. Staci, how is the traveling in your area?"
"It isn't too bad right now as traffic is moving along nicely. And hey look, we made a snowman. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks, Staci. That's a great looking snowman. She's been doing a great job being out there all day. And now we have Bob in El Reno. What's it like there, Bob?"
"Well Kelly, there's currently about an inch-and-a-half to two inches of snow on the ground here in El Reno. Travel doesn't seem to be hampered as the roadways are for the most part wet, but there are some slick spots. Back to you, Kelly."
"Thanks for that report, Bob. And now we have Ron in Kingfisher. What do you have for us, Ron?"
"Thank you, Kelly. Well as you can see the roads are mostly wet as the temperature hasn't dipped below the freezing mark. Traffic is moving along without any problems. There only seems to be about a couple of inches of snow on the ground. Back to you, Kelly."
"That was Ron in Kingfisher. Thanks Ron....."
Two inches of snow for the love of GOD! Does that warrant sending six reporters on location to different parts of the state? "Well hey, six inches of snow here, better declare a state of emergency! Break out the snow plows and close down the entire northern part of Oklahoma! Bring in the National Guard! Bring in the Red Cross! Call the President!"
Why can't you just call somebody living in El Reno, Enid, or Kingfisher?
"Hey, Fred, what's it like up there where you are?"
"Oh, we got a little snow on the ground. Nothin' big."
"How's the driving?"
"What, are you kiddin'? There's like six inches of snow out there. I'm not getting out in this stuff!"
Sometimes I think I should be a reporter. An edgy, no punches pulled, "Tell-It-Like-It-Is" kind of reporter.
"And now we have Shiny, reporting in Central Oklahoma. What do you have for us, Shiny?"
"Well Kelly, it's pathetic, really. There's maybe an inch-and-a-half of snow on the ground. But I'm just guessing, really, since I don't go around with a freakin' ruler in my freakin' pocket. People are driving around like maniacs, which tells me that the roads aren't bad. Or that they're just damned idiots. And since I have your attention, I would like to thank all of you for sending me out here to freeze my ass off in the cold just so I can tell you that we have almost two whole inches of snow on the damn ground. I want a raise. Back to you in the warm newsroom, Kelly."
So go ahead and laugh, New Englanders; chortle until your eyes water and stomach hurts. We deserve it.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Ushering In the Love
Written by David M. Muench
It was my first time actively participating in the union of two happy (terrified) people. I'm not talking about the traditional hauling wedding gifts to the designated Gift Mobile, or putting Oreos, toilet paper, shoe polish, and dead animals on the happy couple's car. I'm talking about the esteemed duty of the Usher.
I had only a vague knowledge regarding an usher's charge. Leading guests to the proper bride/groom sections of the pews and forcing them with a half-nelson and a headlock to sign the guest register while attempting to look reposed.
The wedding lady - who much to my dismay looked nothing like J. Lo - drilled me about my regal responsibilities.
"Have the guests sign the guest register and then lead them to their seat."
"Got it."
"Make sure that the family members get the first two pews, then friends fill in the third and so on."
"Okay."
"Wow, how easy is this?" I thought to myself. "Hey, sign that, and follow me." Piece of cake, right?
I failed on my first run, because I was completely unaware that I had to "escort" the female guests with the crook of my arm. I learned that when Miss J. Lo was explaining the responsibilities in detail to the other usher, a kid half my age and twice my height. I don't know why she neglected to fill me in on the whole "crook-of-the-arm" thing. Like it's some kind of dormant, intrinsic element embedded deep into the Male Psyche that awakens when a man hits his thirties. Riiight. Don't get me wrong, I'm a gentlemen, but I don't go grabbing strange women at weddings. They may get the wrong impression.
My second attempt was more successful as I properly "escorted" my brother-in-law's lovely daughter down to her seat. Although I guess you should subtract ten points as I bellowed, "Walk this way!" and proceeded to kick my knees up high as we walked.
If those duties weren't enough, we then had to direct people from the outside who were going into the wrong building. Never mind that it was a cloudy, blustery day with the wind chill dipping into the twenties.
"Yo, Einstein! That's the Reception Hall! Jog your ass over here!" I yelled in my mind to wayward guests as I graciously waved them in.
All-in-all it was a good time. I was finally able to seat myself and enjoy a beautiful wedding. My niece has never looked lovelier, the groom a handsome gentleman and I was quite the Dapper Dan with my black Perry Ellis suit, matching tie and handkerchief. And a good 35 pounds lighter. Nothing says "dapper" than a lot of lost weight.
I have earned my Usher wings now, and I am confident that I will be more than ready for the next big wedding.
God help me if it's mine.
Written by David M. Muench
It was my first time actively participating in the union of two happy (terrified) people. I'm not talking about the traditional hauling wedding gifts to the designated Gift Mobile, or putting Oreos, toilet paper, shoe polish, and dead animals on the happy couple's car. I'm talking about the esteemed duty of the Usher.
I had only a vague knowledge regarding an usher's charge. Leading guests to the proper bride/groom sections of the pews and forcing them with a half-nelson and a headlock to sign the guest register while attempting to look reposed.
The wedding lady - who much to my dismay looked nothing like J. Lo - drilled me about my regal responsibilities.
"Have the guests sign the guest register and then lead them to their seat."
"Got it."
"Make sure that the family members get the first two pews, then friends fill in the third and so on."
"Okay."
"Wow, how easy is this?" I thought to myself. "Hey, sign that, and follow me." Piece of cake, right?
I failed on my first run, because I was completely unaware that I had to "escort" the female guests with the crook of my arm. I learned that when Miss J. Lo was explaining the responsibilities in detail to the other usher, a kid half my age and twice my height. I don't know why she neglected to fill me in on the whole "crook-of-the-arm" thing. Like it's some kind of dormant, intrinsic element embedded deep into the Male Psyche that awakens when a man hits his thirties. Riiight. Don't get me wrong, I'm a gentlemen, but I don't go grabbing strange women at weddings. They may get the wrong impression.
My second attempt was more successful as I properly "escorted" my brother-in-law's lovely daughter down to her seat. Although I guess you should subtract ten points as I bellowed, "Walk this way!" and proceeded to kick my knees up high as we walked.
If those duties weren't enough, we then had to direct people from the outside who were going into the wrong building. Never mind that it was a cloudy, blustery day with the wind chill dipping into the twenties.
"Yo, Einstein! That's the Reception Hall! Jog your ass over here!" I yelled in my mind to wayward guests as I graciously waved them in.
All-in-all it was a good time. I was finally able to seat myself and enjoy a beautiful wedding. My niece has never looked lovelier, the groom a handsome gentleman and I was quite the Dapper Dan with my black Perry Ellis suit, matching tie and handkerchief. And a good 35 pounds lighter. Nothing says "dapper" than a lot of lost weight.
I have earned my Usher wings now, and I am confident that I will be more than ready for the next big wedding.
God help me if it's mine.
Ushering In the Love
Ushering In the Love
Written by David M. Muench
It was my first time actively participating in the union of two happy (terrified) people. I'm not talking about the traditional hauling wedding gifts to the designated Gift Mobile, or putting Oreos, toilet paper, shoe polish, and dead animals on the happy couple's car. I'm talking about the esteemed duty of the Usher.
I had only a vague knowledge regarding an usher's charge. Leading guests to the proper bride/groom sections of the pews and forcing them with a half-nelson and a headlock to sign the guest register while attempting to look reposed.
The wedding lady - who much to my dismay looked nothing like J. Lo - drilled me about my regal responsibilities.
"Have the guests sign the guest register and then lead them to their seat."
"Got it."
"Make sure that the family members get the first two pews, then friends fill in the third and so on."
"Kay."
"Wow, how easy is this?" I thought to myself. "Hey, sign that, and follow me." Piece of cake, right?
I failed on my first run, because I was completely unaware that I had to "escort" the female guests with the crook of my arm. I learned that when Miss J. Lo was explaining the responsibilities in detail to the other usher, a kid half my age and twice my height. I don't know why she neglected to fill me in on the whole "crook-of-the-arm" thing. Like it's some kind of dormant, intrinsic element embedded deep into the Male Psyche that awakens when a man hits his thirties. Riiight. Don't get me wrong, I'm a gentlemen, but I don't go grabbing strange women at weddings. They may get the wrong impression.
My second attempt was more successful as I properly "escorted" my brother-in-law's lovely daughter down to her seat. Although I guess you should subtract ten points as I bellowed, "Walk this way!" and proceeded to kick my knees up high as we walked.
If those duties weren't enough, we then had to direct people from the outside who were going into the wrong building. Never mind that it was a cloudy, blustery day with the wind chill dipping into the twenties.
"Yo, Einstein! That's the Reception Hall! Jog your ass over here!" I yelled in my mind to wayward guests as I graciously waved them in.
All-in-all it was a good time. I was finally able to seat myself and enjoy a beautiful wedding. My niece has never looked lovelier, the groom a handsome gentleman and I was quite the Dapper Dan with my black Perry Ellis suit, matching tie and handkerchief. And a good 35 pounds lighter. Nothing says "dapper" than a lot of lost weight.
I have earned my Usher wings now, and I am confident that I will be more than ready for the next big wedding.
God help me if it's mine.
Written by David M. Muench
It was my first time actively participating in the union of two happy (terrified) people. I'm not talking about the traditional hauling wedding gifts to the designated Gift Mobile, or putting Oreos, toilet paper, shoe polish, and dead animals on the happy couple's car. I'm talking about the esteemed duty of the Usher.
I had only a vague knowledge regarding an usher's charge. Leading guests to the proper bride/groom sections of the pews and forcing them with a half-nelson and a headlock to sign the guest register while attempting to look reposed.
The wedding lady - who much to my dismay looked nothing like J. Lo - drilled me about my regal responsibilities.
"Have the guests sign the guest register and then lead them to their seat."
"Got it."
"Make sure that the family members get the first two pews, then friends fill in the third and so on."
"Kay."
"Wow, how easy is this?" I thought to myself. "Hey, sign that, and follow me." Piece of cake, right?
I failed on my first run, because I was completely unaware that I had to "escort" the female guests with the crook of my arm. I learned that when Miss J. Lo was explaining the responsibilities in detail to the other usher, a kid half my age and twice my height. I don't know why she neglected to fill me in on the whole "crook-of-the-arm" thing. Like it's some kind of dormant, intrinsic element embedded deep into the Male Psyche that awakens when a man hits his thirties. Riiight. Don't get me wrong, I'm a gentlemen, but I don't go grabbing strange women at weddings. They may get the wrong impression.
My second attempt was more successful as I properly "escorted" my brother-in-law's lovely daughter down to her seat. Although I guess you should subtract ten points as I bellowed, "Walk this way!" and proceeded to kick my knees up high as we walked.
If those duties weren't enough, we then had to direct people from the outside who were going into the wrong building. Never mind that it was a cloudy, blustery day with the wind chill dipping into the twenties.
"Yo, Einstein! That's the Reception Hall! Jog your ass over here!" I yelled in my mind to wayward guests as I graciously waved them in.
All-in-all it was a good time. I was finally able to seat myself and enjoy a beautiful wedding. My niece has never looked lovelier, the groom a handsome gentleman and I was quite the Dapper Dan with my black Perry Ellis suit, matching tie and handkerchief. And a good 35 pounds lighter. Nothing says "dapper" than a lot of lost weight.
I have earned my Usher wings now, and I am confident that I will be more than ready for the next big wedding.
God help me if it's mine.
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