Another Year Older (A Classic ShinySpeak from the jokelist on 8/11/00)
Written by David M. Muench
My birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks, and this shiny-headed freak will turn the big "31". Okay, so it's not quite that big (Oh, yeah. I'll never get tired of hearing that one), but it's one year older than "30". Come to think of it, "31" is a really lame age. Nothing really changes. It's not like turning "21", the age I could go out to different clubs (Including those of the "strip" variety) and experience the wonders of legal inebriation and real live breasteses bouncing to and fro. I'm not kidding, I was like a kid lost in Toys R' Us. I felt like I had received the Gold Ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. It was Euphoria. "21" was good. "31"; nothing.
"Hey Shiny, how old are you now?"
"Why, I am 31 years-old."
"Oh."
No enthusiasm there. Just blatant ennui. It's like showing your friends a slide show of your vacation to a small town famous for its Custard Pies and the Nation's largest ear wax ball. Not that spectacular.
With a birthday comes the famous question that arises prior to said birthday:
"What do you want for your birthday?"
"Ten billion dollars, a supermodel wife, twelve beach homes across the world, a -- "
"...that we can reasonably afford without bringing unwanted attention from every law enforcement agency in North America."
"Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything."
When does that start? One day we're happily composing three-page essays of various gift ideas, and then one year we say "Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything." I don't remember when it even happened. It was like I experienced a memory lapse or coma -- no recollection of the entire gift transformation. Then they will reply: "Well, you better tell me or else you might get something you don't want." It's like they're threatening me on my birthday. Are they gonna have Cousin Luigi fit me for a pair of cement shoes and a nice swim in a nearby lake if I don't tell them what I want?
Granted, there is some veracity to them "getting me something I don't want." One Christmas my mother felt it was absolutely necessary to give me a classic black western shirt covered with several mulit-colored neon cacti. I have yet to wear it.
Cousin Luigi couldn't even force me to wear it.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Animal House (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 7/10/00. Episode 144)
Written by David M. Muench
"G'day mates! I'm gonna jump on this here croc, 'cause she's gorgeous!" Steve Irwin; Crocodile Humper. Oops, I mean "Hunter".
If you would call jumping on and abrading the crocodiles hunting. There's also Manny from the show "Extreme Contact"; a Deadhead grey-haired hippie that also enjoys wrestling with large reptilia, grabbing the dorsal fin of a hammerhead and going for a ride, or hand-feeding baracudas. What happened to shows such as "Wild Kingdom", when all they did was film the animals?
What I would like to see is for the animals to jump on Manny and Steve and go for a ride:
In the ocean.....
Hammerhead: Hey Jaws, you know that dumbass hippie human that's into bestiality; riding on us all the time?
Jaws: Yeah, what about him?
Hammerhead: Well, as he was turning away from me to swim up to his boat I jumped on him! Hahaha, you should have seen the look on his face! Scared the hell outta him! I said "Hey human, how do you like it now?!" He just made some weird noise and flailed around a lot.
Jaws: So then what did you do?
Hammerhead: Let's just say that he won't be jumping on us anymore without any arms! Bwahahahahaha!
Jaws: Hahahahaha!
Hammerhead: You know, they taste like chicken.
Jaws: What's chicken?
Hammerhead: I really don't know. I've just always wanted to say that.
Back in Australia.........
Croc 1: Hey, is that a human leg you're chewing on?
Croc 2: Mmmpffff [crunch crunch crunch] mmm-yeah......
Croc 1: That shoe looks familiar. Is it....?
Croc 2: Hell yeah it is. I got tired of that bloke Steve jumping on my arse all the time and pissin' me off. So today while he wasn't looking, I jumped on his back, grabbed his ears and said "Giddy-UP, chook!" He tried to run but I was too heavy for him. He just fell down and screamed, "Crikey!" I tell you it made my day.
Croc 1: Hahahaha! That should teach those humans to leave us alone. Say, are those slippers you're wearing?
Croc 2: Yep. 100% Steve Irwin skin.
Croc 1: You da croc!
Now that would make some great television, mate.
Morbidly gruesome, but great.
Written by David M. Muench
"G'day mates! I'm gonna jump on this here croc, 'cause she's gorgeous!" Steve Irwin; Crocodile Humper. Oops, I mean "Hunter".
If you would call jumping on and abrading the crocodiles hunting. There's also Manny from the show "Extreme Contact"; a Deadhead grey-haired hippie that also enjoys wrestling with large reptilia, grabbing the dorsal fin of a hammerhead and going for a ride, or hand-feeding baracudas. What happened to shows such as "Wild Kingdom", when all they did was film the animals?
What I would like to see is for the animals to jump on Manny and Steve and go for a ride:
In the ocean.....
Hammerhead: Hey Jaws, you know that dumbass hippie human that's into bestiality; riding on us all the time?
Jaws: Yeah, what about him?
Hammerhead: Well, as he was turning away from me to swim up to his boat I jumped on him! Hahaha, you should have seen the look on his face! Scared the hell outta him! I said "Hey human, how do you like it now?!" He just made some weird noise and flailed around a lot.
Jaws: So then what did you do?
Hammerhead: Let's just say that he won't be jumping on us anymore without any arms! Bwahahahahaha!
Jaws: Hahahahaha!
Hammerhead: You know, they taste like chicken.
Jaws: What's chicken?
Hammerhead: I really don't know. I've just always wanted to say that.
Back in Australia.........
Croc 1: Hey, is that a human leg you're chewing on?
Croc 2: Mmmpffff [crunch crunch crunch] mmm-yeah......
Croc 1: That shoe looks familiar. Is it....?
Croc 2: Hell yeah it is. I got tired of that bloke Steve jumping on my arse all the time and pissin' me off. So today while he wasn't looking, I jumped on his back, grabbed his ears and said "Giddy-UP, chook!" He tried to run but I was too heavy for him. He just fell down and screamed, "Crikey!" I tell you it made my day.
Croc 1: Hahahaha! That should teach those humans to leave us alone. Say, are those slippers you're wearing?
Croc 2: Yep. 100% Steve Irwin skin.
Croc 1: You da croc!
Now that would make some great television, mate.
Morbidly gruesome, but great.
Another Year Older
Another Year Older (A Classic ShinySpeak from the jokelist on 8/11/00)
Written by David M. Muench
My birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks, and this shiny-headed freak will turn the big "31". Okay, so it's not quite that big (Oh, yeah. I'll never get tired of hearing that one), but it's one year older than "30". Come to think of it, "31" is a really lame age. Nothing really changes. It's not like turning "21", the age I could go out to different clubs (Including those of the "strip" variety) and experience the wonders of legal inebriation and real live breasteses bouncing to and fro. I'm not kidding, I was like a kid lost in Toys R' Us. I felt like I had received the Gold Ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. It was Euphoria. "21" was good. "31"; nothing.
"Hey Shiny, how old are you now?"
"Why, I am 31 years-old."
"Oh."
No enthusiasm there. Just blatant ennui. It's like showing your friends a slide show of your vacation to a small town famous for its Custard Pies and the Nation's largest ear wax ball. Not that spectacular.
With a birthday comes the famous question that arises prior to said birthday:
"What do you want for your birthday?"
"Ten billion dollars, a supermodel wife, twelve beach homes across the world, a -- "
"...that we can reasonably afford without bringing unwanted attention from every law enforcement agency in North America."
"Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything."
When does that start? One day we're happily composing three-page essays of various gift ideas, and then one year we say "Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything." I don't remember when it even happened. It was like I experienced a memory lapse or coma -- no recollection of the entire gift transformation. Then they will reply: "Well, you better tell me or else you might get something you don't want." It's like they're threatening me on my birthday. Are they gonna have Cousin Luigi fit me for a pair of cement shoes and a nice swim in a nearby lake if I don't tell them what I want?
Granted, there is some veracity to them "getting me something I don't want." One Christmas my mother felt it was absolutely necessary to give me a classic black western shirt covered with several mulit-colored neon cacti. I have yet to wear it.
Cousin Luigi couldn't even force me to wear it.
Written by David M. Muench
My birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks, and this shiny-headed freak will turn the big "31". Okay, so it's not quite that big (Oh, yeah. I'll never get tired of hearing that one), but it's one year older than "30". Come to think of it, "31" is a really lame age. Nothing really changes. It's not like turning "21", the age I could go out to different clubs (Including those of the "strip" variety) and experience the wonders of legal inebriation and real live breasteses bouncing to and fro. I'm not kidding, I was like a kid lost in Toys R' Us. I felt like I had received the Gold Ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. It was Euphoria. "21" was good. "31"; nothing.
"Hey Shiny, how old are you now?"
"Why, I am 31 years-old."
"Oh."
No enthusiasm there. Just blatant ennui. It's like showing your friends a slide show of your vacation to a small town famous for its Custard Pies and the Nation's largest ear wax ball. Not that spectacular.
With a birthday comes the famous question that arises prior to said birthday:
"What do you want for your birthday?"
"Ten billion dollars, a supermodel wife, twelve beach homes across the world, a -- "
"...that we can reasonably afford without bringing unwanted attention from every law enforcement agency in North America."
"Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything."
When does that start? One day we're happily composing three-page essays of various gift ideas, and then one year we say "Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything." I don't remember when it even happened. It was like I experienced a memory lapse or coma -- no recollection of the entire gift transformation. Then they will reply: "Well, you better tell me or else you might get something you don't want." It's like they're threatening me on my birthday. Are they gonna have Cousin Luigi fit me for a pair of cement shoes and a nice swim in a nearby lake if I don't tell them what I want?
Granted, there is some veracity to them "getting me something I don't want." One Christmas my mother felt it was absolutely necessary to give me a classic black western shirt covered with several mulit-colored neon cacti. I have yet to wear it.
Cousin Luigi couldn't even force me to wear it.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Commercial Break (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 8/9/00 )
Written by David M. Muench
There are some commercials that just unnerve me. Hey, don't get me wrong, I know it's a natural course of a woman's life. Men do understand (The way all men understand: Through many days and nights of abject trepidation and hiding the sharp, pointy objects.) and sympathize with the Nature of Women. But I think from the beginning of each commercial, they should tell the viewers -- either by a large, flashing sign -- or even a small icon in the corner that reads "Feminine Product." The commercial starts, and you see beautiful cheerleaders jumping and gyrating about, and the guys are going "Hey, now this is a really nice, wholesome commercial. They really should have more commercials exactly like this one. Every half-hour at least."
Now us guys should have a pretty good Fantasy-type visual at this point; complete with latex bed sheets and a slide. Then all of a sudden.....TAMPAX WAS THERE.
"Whoa, hey, where are you going? I've got the butter-flavored Crisco ready!"
"Sorry fantasizing freak, it's Not a Good Time."
"What? Is there a dreaming dolt in Newark you have to go see?"
"No, I mean it's 'Not a Good Time'."
"Oohhh. Okay, fine." My fantasy is destroyed by Nature. Now I'm just sitting there thinking about what I'm going to do with the slide, rubber sheets and Crisco -- completely frustrated.
I think they should make commercials about Men products.... Here comes Sven, a blonde Swedish Adonis with a bronze tan, sparkling blue eyes, glimmering white teeth, jogging down a beach with rippling muscles thrashing under his skin -- and we're talking a rippling fest here. His nostrils are even rippling. Now the women (And some men) are looking at this living cover of a Harlequin novel, developing their own fantasy (I don't ask, so I don't know), when suddenly...BLUE STAR JOCK ITCH OINTMENT WAS THERE.
"Mmmm, the site of you with that smelly cream on your hoo-ha just drives me wild....."
No, I don't think that phrase will ever be uttered in this universe. Don't even get me going with the Tucks Medicated Pads commercials.
Written by David M. Muench
There are some commercials that just unnerve me. Hey, don't get me wrong, I know it's a natural course of a woman's life. Men do understand (The way all men understand: Through many days and nights of abject trepidation and hiding the sharp, pointy objects.) and sympathize with the Nature of Women. But I think from the beginning of each commercial, they should tell the viewers -- either by a large, flashing sign -- or even a small icon in the corner that reads "Feminine Product." The commercial starts, and you see beautiful cheerleaders jumping and gyrating about, and the guys are going "Hey, now this is a really nice, wholesome commercial. They really should have more commercials exactly like this one. Every half-hour at least."
Now us guys should have a pretty good Fantasy-type visual at this point; complete with latex bed sheets and a slide. Then all of a sudden.....TAMPAX WAS THERE.
"Whoa, hey, where are you going? I've got the butter-flavored Crisco ready!"
"Sorry fantasizing freak, it's Not a Good Time."
"What? Is there a dreaming dolt in Newark you have to go see?"
"No, I mean it's 'Not a Good Time'."
"Oohhh. Okay, fine." My fantasy is destroyed by Nature. Now I'm just sitting there thinking about what I'm going to do with the slide, rubber sheets and Crisco -- completely frustrated.
I think they should make commercials about Men products.... Here comes Sven, a blonde Swedish Adonis with a bronze tan, sparkling blue eyes, glimmering white teeth, jogging down a beach with rippling muscles thrashing under his skin -- and we're talking a rippling fest here. His nostrils are even rippling. Now the women (And some men) are looking at this living cover of a Harlequin novel, developing their own fantasy (I don't ask, so I don't know), when suddenly...BLUE STAR JOCK ITCH OINTMENT WAS THERE.
"Mmmm, the site of you with that smelly cream on your hoo-ha just drives me wild....."
No, I don't think that phrase will ever be uttered in this universe. Don't even get me going with the Tucks Medicated Pads commercials.
Body Language (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 2/16/01)
Written by David M. Muench
When two people walk past each other; different things can occur. If they're strangers, they may smile at one another and say "hi", or do a quick head-jerk upwards as if to say "What's up". Sometimes one may quickly turn to look at a trash can off to the side with rapt attention to avoid any kind of exchange with the oncoming stranger.
The latter two usually being a Guy Thing.
Other body language I've noticed, and it's an involuntary response, is when you walk past a coworker and just raise your eyebrows. After the initial "good morning" or "what's up" or even "hey dumbass, you're late" of the day, there's nothing more salutatious to say. Afterwards when you pass by each other, you raise your eyebrows and twist your mouth as if to say with exaggerated exasperation, "Oh well." At least that's how I seem to translate the facial contortion.
The next time you're at work, see if you don't habitually do that. Then try to make the passing-by interchange more interesting. Lick your lips seductively, and run your fingers across your apparel-covered nipples. Do your best impression of Chris Farley and sing "Fat guy in little coooooaat." Glare maniacally and mutter something about "They'll all pay in their own blood for what they did to me..." Grab your crotch and squeal like Michael Jackson. Grab their crotch and squeal like a pig.
Now excuse me while I go look intently at this garbage can over here.
Written by David M. Muench
When two people walk past each other; different things can occur. If they're strangers, they may smile at one another and say "hi", or do a quick head-jerk upwards as if to say "What's up". Sometimes one may quickly turn to look at a trash can off to the side with rapt attention to avoid any kind of exchange with the oncoming stranger.
The latter two usually being a Guy Thing.
Other body language I've noticed, and it's an involuntary response, is when you walk past a coworker and just raise your eyebrows. After the initial "good morning" or "what's up" or even "hey dumbass, you're late" of the day, there's nothing more salutatious to say. Afterwards when you pass by each other, you raise your eyebrows and twist your mouth as if to say with exaggerated exasperation, "Oh well." At least that's how I seem to translate the facial contortion.
The next time you're at work, see if you don't habitually do that. Then try to make the passing-by interchange more interesting. Lick your lips seductively, and run your fingers across your apparel-covered nipples. Do your best impression of Chris Farley and sing "Fat guy in little coooooaat." Glare maniacally and mutter something about "They'll all pay in their own blood for what they did to me..." Grab your crotch and squeal like Michael Jackson. Grab their crotch and squeal like a pig.
Now excuse me while I go look intently at this garbage can over here.
Luv is a Many Censored Thing (A ShinySpeak classic lovingly embraced from the jokelist on - 12/8/00 )
Written by David M. Muench
I've realized that when we end our e-mails, some of us make a conscious effort to choose the appopriate closing"endearment", and spelling can mean the difference between platonic ennui and "you're stalking me, aren't you." I'm going to use the word "Love" for this observation.
Some of us might actually sign the e-mail: "Love; [your name here]". It's pretty much a basic e-mail close. It can delineate a closeness to the recipient, or it could perhaps be just "your thing". Sometimes that "L" word can be overwhelming, so we use "Luv" as a substitute; just so it seems frivolous and not at all serious. The following is what I think the meanings are behind some of the "L-Word" combinations:
L: One single letter to replace "love". It could also possibly be"Later" or "Loser", depending on who the recipient is. This closing endearment is a popular one for guys, as to use any combination of the whole "L" word might create an uncomfortable, commitable feeling. Like tight underwear chaffing you on a hot day.
Luv ya: A popular closing endearment. The mere fact that it's not spelled correctly automatically means it's meant as a friendly farewell. Unless the person has a secret crush. It can be used between girl and a guy, or even a girl and a girl. It's a very, very rare thing for two heterosexual guys to exchange that particular endearment.
Love ya: A little more friendlier, but making that "conscious effort" to misspell "you" is another attempt at employing a playful "Hey, you're my friend...and that's it" endearment. Again, on a deeper level it could mean stronger feelings, as the word "love" is spelled correctly.
Luv you: Like "Love ya", except "love" is spelled wrong, maybe signifying an innate fear of the actual "L" word, or that person just couldn't commit to a more intimate farewell. Or they really can't spell "love".
Love you: You are definitely pushing the platonic envelope with this one. This closing phrase is just one letter ( "i" ) shy of exposing your true feelings with those "three-little-words". Unless of course you're family.
I Love you: Defcon 5, baby. If you're not e-mailing a family member, you've got some strong feelings rising to the surface about your "buddy". If you deny it, then I'm Brad Pitt. The next time you write an e-mail, think about how you close it with any given person and how you feel about them. Does it change the way you spell?
Written by David M. Muench
I've realized that when we end our e-mails, some of us make a conscious effort to choose the appopriate closing"endearment", and spelling can mean the difference between platonic ennui and "you're stalking me, aren't you." I'm going to use the word "Love" for this observation.
Some of us might actually sign the e-mail: "Love; [your name here]". It's pretty much a basic e-mail close. It can delineate a closeness to the recipient, or it could perhaps be just "your thing". Sometimes that "L" word can be overwhelming, so we use "Luv" as a substitute; just so it seems frivolous and not at all serious. The following is what I think the meanings are behind some of the "L-Word" combinations:
L: One single letter to replace "love". It could also possibly be"Later" or "Loser", depending on who the recipient is. This closing endearment is a popular one for guys, as to use any combination of the whole "L" word might create an uncomfortable, commitable feeling. Like tight underwear chaffing you on a hot day.
Luv ya: A popular closing endearment. The mere fact that it's not spelled correctly automatically means it's meant as a friendly farewell. Unless the person has a secret crush. It can be used between girl and a guy, or even a girl and a girl. It's a very, very rare thing for two heterosexual guys to exchange that particular endearment.
Love ya: A little more friendlier, but making that "conscious effort" to misspell "you" is another attempt at employing a playful "Hey, you're my friend...and that's it" endearment. Again, on a deeper level it could mean stronger feelings, as the word "love" is spelled correctly.
Luv you: Like "Love ya", except "love" is spelled wrong, maybe signifying an innate fear of the actual "L" word, or that person just couldn't commit to a more intimate farewell. Or they really can't spell "love".
Love you: You are definitely pushing the platonic envelope with this one. This closing phrase is just one letter ( "i" ) shy of exposing your true feelings with those "three-little-words". Unless of course you're family.
I Love you: Defcon 5, baby. If you're not e-mailing a family member, you've got some strong feelings rising to the surface about your "buddy". If you deny it, then I'm Brad Pitt. The next time you write an e-mail, think about how you close it with any given person and how you feel about them. Does it change the way you spell?
Twister and Shout (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 5/18/01 )
Written by David M. Muench
Have you seen the movie "Twister?" Well, Oklahomans see it every time a tornado or five develops in Central Oklahoma. We don't get a brief weather break informing us of the impending tornadic weather. It's a major "news break" event for Oklahoma.
Whatever you were watching prior to the weather bulletin, you can pretty much forget about it as the weather gurus are going to be on for awhile, with no commercial break.
There could be a program interruption by the EBS alerting the citizens of the United States that World War III has begun; or an asteroid the size of Canada (Or Mimi Bobek's undergarments)will be colliding with Earth in five minutes, but by golly if there just happens to be tornadoes in central Oklahoma at the same time the local news stations will break in those last remaining minutes;right up until the planet gets vaporized.
Not only do the local stations have meteorological technology like NexRad, Doppler, Viper, Sneezy and Grumpy, but also each television station has about twelve storm-spotting teams chasing the storms and reporting their every movement; rotation or otherwise. It's kinda like "Big Brother" for tornadoes. If it were possible for a wall cloud to take a crap, the storm spotters would notice it, capture it on video and send it via microwave to the station for all of us to see.
There are also news helicopters that fly around the tornadoes with live video feed. You know, for the viewers at home that just don't appreciate the lower angle of live feed from the ground units. So now we have all this excessive information from radars, ground units, air units, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, and a representative from the Psychic Friends Networkholding on line three at Channel 9.
I'm thinking to myself, "Is this really necessary? Is it not possible to just tell us where the tornado is currently and where it's headed without creating a major theatrical production which results in freaking out my mother?"
"Hey, you people in Milkytitty and Chippi-poopoo counties, a tornado is coming your way. Take cover."
With that terse sentence, I know what to do. I also know that there are no counties in Oklahoma by those names, but that's beside the point. The next time a tornado ventures close enough to make the local news stations begin their "weather show," I'll pop in the movie "Twister." Sure, that movie is humorously idiotic, but at least I can look at Helen Hunt in a tight, soaked white tank top.
And if a cow happens to fly through my window, I'll know it's time to take cover.
Written by David M. Muench
Have you seen the movie "Twister?" Well, Oklahomans see it every time a tornado or five develops in Central Oklahoma. We don't get a brief weather break informing us of the impending tornadic weather. It's a major "news break" event for Oklahoma.
Whatever you were watching prior to the weather bulletin, you can pretty much forget about it as the weather gurus are going to be on for awhile, with no commercial break.
There could be a program interruption by the EBS alerting the citizens of the United States that World War III has begun; or an asteroid the size of Canada (Or Mimi Bobek's undergarments)will be colliding with Earth in five minutes, but by golly if there just happens to be tornadoes in central Oklahoma at the same time the local news stations will break in those last remaining minutes;right up until the planet gets vaporized.
Not only do the local stations have meteorological technology like NexRad, Doppler, Viper, Sneezy and Grumpy, but also each television station has about twelve storm-spotting teams chasing the storms and reporting their every movement; rotation or otherwise. It's kinda like "Big Brother" for tornadoes. If it were possible for a wall cloud to take a crap, the storm spotters would notice it, capture it on video and send it via microwave to the station for all of us to see.
There are also news helicopters that fly around the tornadoes with live video feed. You know, for the viewers at home that just don't appreciate the lower angle of live feed from the ground units. So now we have all this excessive information from radars, ground units, air units, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, and a representative from the Psychic Friends Networkholding on line three at Channel 9.
I'm thinking to myself, "Is this really necessary? Is it not possible to just tell us where the tornado is currently and where it's headed without creating a major theatrical production which results in freaking out my mother?"
"Hey, you people in Milkytitty and Chippi-poopoo counties, a tornado is coming your way. Take cover."
With that terse sentence, I know what to do. I also know that there are no counties in Oklahoma by those names, but that's beside the point. The next time a tornado ventures close enough to make the local news stations begin their "weather show," I'll pop in the movie "Twister." Sure, that movie is humorously idiotic, but at least I can look at Helen Hunt in a tight, soaked white tank top.
And if a cow happens to fly through my window, I'll know it's time to take cover.
MedSpeak (A ShinySpeak classic taken from the jokelist on 4/13/01 )
Written by David M. Muench
Have you ever engaged in a conversation with a friend concerning their job, say, in the medical field? Do you even understand what the hell they're talking about? It's like trying to understand a foreigner struggling with broken English. You just have to smile and nod. Unless it's a serious subject, then looking grim and nodding will do just fine.
For example, this would be a conversation between my roommate Ken and I:
Ken: I had this patient today that was going into severe FTD. It was really bad.We had to call in an SUV tech to ovulate his dilithium trombone.
Shiny: Wow. Sounds serious. [Nodding and looking grim]
Ken: It was. Fortunately we had a knick-knack paddy-whack available and were able to stabilize his esphyloxzrplo-m-o-u-s-e.
Shiny: Well give the dog a bone.
Ken: Huh?
Shiny: Uh, nothing.
I don't have a clue. The fun-filled gory stories are interesting too, such as when he harvested a heart from a cadaver (At what point does the corpse/dead body graduate to "cadaver?" Is there a ceremony or review involved?) and told me about it. Do they think using agricultural terms like "harvested" lessens the gruesomeness of the procedure? And Ken actually tries to coax me into going into the medical field. Yeah, sure thing Skippy.
If I were meant to look inside somebody, I would have been born with x-ray vision.
The medical "what in the hell are you saying?" terminology stuff doesn't stop with mere conversations concerning his days at work. It extends to evening television, too.
If we watch a movie or a television show that has even a nanosecond clip of a scene involving something medically related, Ken has to point out what they're doing wrong.
It begins with Ken chuckling complacently, and I'm lost, wondering what it was I missed that was remotely humorous. All I see is a dying man is hooked up to a kajillion tubes, wires, and a wood lathe; being consoled by a hot, busty nurse named Sheila. He then informs me that he was amused because "they're doing it wrong." Now comes what I think is really the funny part.
He'll ask me, "What's wrong with this picture?" The only thing I could adequately surmise is, "Um, the hot nurse isn't naked yet?"
"No. The roaming deflatulator should only be used when his testicular marsupials are at a 45-degree angle."
Then he'll laugh again like it's the most ludicrous thing he's ever seen. And I'm still just wondering when that hot, busty nurse is going to get naked.
What if I were a sex therapist? We could be sitting around watching a pornographic video (Not like we, uh, do that) and I suddenly emit a smug guffaw, and claim they're doing it wrong. Then I'd ask, "What's wrong with this picture, Ken?"
"Um, one of the twelve naked hot nurses hasn't spread enough lime Jell-O on her body?"
"No. That guy's left hand needs to be two inches below her left buttock, and look at her leg. It should be at a 45-degree angle. Ha-ha-ha.That's just ludicrous."
And Ken is just wondering if he has enough lime Jell-O.
Written by David M. Muench
Have you ever engaged in a conversation with a friend concerning their job, say, in the medical field? Do you even understand what the hell they're talking about? It's like trying to understand a foreigner struggling with broken English. You just have to smile and nod. Unless it's a serious subject, then looking grim and nodding will do just fine.
For example, this would be a conversation between my roommate Ken and I:
Ken: I had this patient today that was going into severe FTD. It was really bad.We had to call in an SUV tech to ovulate his dilithium trombone.
Shiny: Wow. Sounds serious. [Nodding and looking grim]
Ken: It was. Fortunately we had a knick-knack paddy-whack available and were able to stabilize his esphyloxzrplo-m-o-u-s-e.
Shiny: Well give the dog a bone.
Ken: Huh?
Shiny: Uh, nothing.
I don't have a clue. The fun-filled gory stories are interesting too, such as when he harvested a heart from a cadaver (At what point does the corpse/dead body graduate to "cadaver?" Is there a ceremony or review involved?) and told me about it. Do they think using agricultural terms like "harvested" lessens the gruesomeness of the procedure? And Ken actually tries to coax me into going into the medical field. Yeah, sure thing Skippy.
If I were meant to look inside somebody, I would have been born with x-ray vision.
The medical "what in the hell are you saying?" terminology stuff doesn't stop with mere conversations concerning his days at work. It extends to evening television, too.
If we watch a movie or a television show that has even a nanosecond clip of a scene involving something medically related, Ken has to point out what they're doing wrong.
It begins with Ken chuckling complacently, and I'm lost, wondering what it was I missed that was remotely humorous. All I see is a dying man is hooked up to a kajillion tubes, wires, and a wood lathe; being consoled by a hot, busty nurse named Sheila. He then informs me that he was amused because "they're doing it wrong." Now comes what I think is really the funny part.
He'll ask me, "What's wrong with this picture?" The only thing I could adequately surmise is, "Um, the hot nurse isn't naked yet?"
"No. The roaming deflatulator should only be used when his testicular marsupials are at a 45-degree angle."
Then he'll laugh again like it's the most ludicrous thing he's ever seen. And I'm still just wondering when that hot, busty nurse is going to get naked.
What if I were a sex therapist? We could be sitting around watching a pornographic video (Not like we, uh, do that) and I suddenly emit a smug guffaw, and claim they're doing it wrong. Then I'd ask, "What's wrong with this picture, Ken?"
"Um, one of the twelve naked hot nurses hasn't spread enough lime Jell-O on her body?"
"No. That guy's left hand needs to be two inches below her left buttock, and look at her leg. It should be at a 45-degree angle. Ha-ha-ha.That's just ludicrous."
And Ken is just wondering if he has enough lime Jell-O.
Nothin' But the Tooth (A ShinySpeak classic "extracted" from the jokelist on 3/23/01 )
Written by David M. Muench
Many people aren't too crazy about visiting the dentist. As a child I wasn't any different. They even had to give me Valium prior to going. Oh, sure, the"goofy gas" was kinda cool; and one time while under the nitrous oxide I felt as if I were wearing only underwear and sinking into the chair.Valium and nitrous. There's nothing like a child having an acid trip. It's been many years since my last visit, but last week I found myself needing to get a tooth repaired, and so I reluctantly made the appointment.
Now that I'm older, more mature and sensible, I can now go to the dentist's office with an inordinate amount of bravado and saunter in exuding ennui and confidence. And then I hear the drill. I think going to the dentist would be more appealing if the drills didn't give the feeling of walking into a body shop. I almost expect the dentist to be sporting coveralls emblazoned with a gaudy name patch, wiping tooth debris and blood from his hands on a shop rag, grabbing a clipboard from a hook in the wall, calling my name and promptly washing his hands with a petroleum hand cleaner before starting on another "job". At least the drills could emit a sort of laughing noise, or sound like a Smurf singing for crying out loud.
Once I was in The Chair (Not unlike "Ole Sparky") I listened to the dentist prattle with a regular patient in the adjoining room, wondering how dentists understand them while working on the patient's teeth. I bet they could even understand Charlie Brown's parents.
The Orthodontal Torture Master finally started on me after a few injections of Novocain; telling me that if I felt any pain to raise my left hand. I told him I'd raise the dead if I had to. He just narrowed his eyes and said "If you only knew." I'm not sure what he meant, but I prayed for my soul anyway.
First he used a Disemboweling Scraper of Doom to rip away tooth decay, or to remove my mandible, I couldn't tell which. After the Torture Master cursed my large tongue (He dubbed it "Beast") he had to call in the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to help hold aside this large slab of Beast. Then he applied the Super Sonic Diamond-Tipped Brain Tissue Collecting Drill to the damaged tooth, which resulted in pain and my left hand shooting up. I almost took the armrest with me.
I received another shot of Novocain Light (The crap just wasn't working), and he switched to his slower speed Bone Rattling Brain Damage Drill to inflict yet more abuse and cause me to wet myself. I'm sure that was on purpose. I wanted another shot, but the Torture Master proceeded to tell me about how my endorphins were rushing through my body because of my apprehension, rendering the painkiller useless. I thought to myself "Screw your excuses, Lucifer, and give me some more damn painkiller."
I said "Oh. I see."
After enduring the harrowing procedure of getting a simple filling put in, I returned to the counter to pay. The Torture Master made it a point to tell the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to write "Nitrous Oxide" on my file for the next time because of the Beast tongue and endorphin-whatever problems. Then with a glimmer of manic glee in his eyes, the Torture Master said "See you soon, my hapless minion."
I'm not sure what he meant by that either, but I haven't stopped praying.
Written by David M. Muench
Many people aren't too crazy about visiting the dentist. As a child I wasn't any different. They even had to give me Valium prior to going. Oh, sure, the"goofy gas" was kinda cool; and one time while under the nitrous oxide I felt as if I were wearing only underwear and sinking into the chair.Valium and nitrous. There's nothing like a child having an acid trip. It's been many years since my last visit, but last week I found myself needing to get a tooth repaired, and so I reluctantly made the appointment.
Now that I'm older, more mature and sensible, I can now go to the dentist's office with an inordinate amount of bravado and saunter in exuding ennui and confidence. And then I hear the drill. I think going to the dentist would be more appealing if the drills didn't give the feeling of walking into a body shop. I almost expect the dentist to be sporting coveralls emblazoned with a gaudy name patch, wiping tooth debris and blood from his hands on a shop rag, grabbing a clipboard from a hook in the wall, calling my name and promptly washing his hands with a petroleum hand cleaner before starting on another "job". At least the drills could emit a sort of laughing noise, or sound like a Smurf singing for crying out loud.
Once I was in The Chair (Not unlike "Ole Sparky") I listened to the dentist prattle with a regular patient in the adjoining room, wondering how dentists understand them while working on the patient's teeth. I bet they could even understand Charlie Brown's parents.
The Orthodontal Torture Master finally started on me after a few injections of Novocain; telling me that if I felt any pain to raise my left hand. I told him I'd raise the dead if I had to. He just narrowed his eyes and said "If you only knew." I'm not sure what he meant, but I prayed for my soul anyway.
First he used a Disemboweling Scraper of Doom to rip away tooth decay, or to remove my mandible, I couldn't tell which. After the Torture Master cursed my large tongue (He dubbed it "Beast") he had to call in the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to help hold aside this large slab of Beast. Then he applied the Super Sonic Diamond-Tipped Brain Tissue Collecting Drill to the damaged tooth, which resulted in pain and my left hand shooting up. I almost took the armrest with me.
I received another shot of Novocain Light (The crap just wasn't working), and he switched to his slower speed Bone Rattling Brain Damage Drill to inflict yet more abuse and cause me to wet myself. I'm sure that was on purpose. I wanted another shot, but the Torture Master proceeded to tell me about how my endorphins were rushing through my body because of my apprehension, rendering the painkiller useless. I thought to myself "Screw your excuses, Lucifer, and give me some more damn painkiller."
I said "Oh. I see."
After enduring the harrowing procedure of getting a simple filling put in, I returned to the counter to pay. The Torture Master made it a point to tell the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to write "Nitrous Oxide" on my file for the next time because of the Beast tongue and endorphin-whatever problems. Then with a glimmer of manic glee in his eyes, the Torture Master said "See you soon, my hapless minion."
I'm not sure what he meant by that either, but I haven't stopped praying.
Halloween Hijinx Strikes Back (A ShinySpeak classic lifted from the jokelist on 10/26/01)
Written by David M. Muench
Ah Halloween. Earlier in my life I've found that Halloween was one of the most bountiful holidays ever, aside from Christmas and Easter. Heck, even with those two we had to count on a judgmental fat guy flying around in a sleigh and some mutant rabbit to deliver our goods. Both holidays requiring non-casual "C'mon Mooooommm, this tie is choking me!" clothing. But with Halloween, we are the masters of our own destiny. We don't have to wear uncomfortably strange pastel jackets with matching pants and a tie wide enough to park a bus.
Granted, the wolfman mask didn't have adequate eye holes causing us to bump into things, and was also a bit warm - steaming hot really - but good golly we looked cool wearing 'em!
"Grrrrr! OUCH! Damn tree."
It got to the point when we would only put the masks on when we were actually at the porch of each house.
We were like the postal carriers: Rain nor snow nor gloom of night did not deter us from getting free candy by going to the homes of complete strangers and saying the magic phrase:
"Trick-or-Treat!"
A neighborhood boy even went as far as changing costumes and visited the same houses
to get even more candy, something we considered to be a brilliant move, wondering why we haven't thought of it.
Then after pounding the pavement for what seemed like miles (Which in fact were miles) we returned home and spread out our loot, sorting out the good stuff (Chocolate "anything"), and grimacing at the bad stuff (A neighborhood dentist had the audacity to give out toothbrushes! The nerve! ). Unfortunately a few years went by and some sicko-freaks had to go and spoil one of the greatest holidays a kid could ever have and put needles and razor blades in the candy. So from then on our parents insisted that we had to inspect our candy before we crammed it into our mouths, which takes away some of the unadulterated bliss of the whole thoughtless cramming thing.
For kids, the fun doesn't stop with eating the chocolate. After repeated chocolate-eating we had discovered that for every action, there's an opposite and equal reaction. Well, at that time we had no idea what that meant, but we did discover that chocolate made us fart. Big time. I recall one night after a Halloween Neighborhood Candy Expedition my brother, some neighborhood kid, and I had a "farting contest." Yes, as kids we were easily amused and tell me, what can be more amusing than a bunch of kids farting incessantly in an enclosed area? It's like a Kodak Moment. But really smelly.
But then as fast as the trick-or-treating started, it was over. We were suddenly "too old" to even think the words "trick-or-treat." Chocolate-powered flatulence has lost its luster (however beer-powered flatulence still provides hours of entertainment) and it was time to move on to the next level of Halloween: The desecration of jack-o'-lanterns, flaming bags of dog poop on porches, toilet paper in the trees, and scaring the hell out of the little kids.
Soon those mean-spirited pranks seem menial, and suddenly we're old enough to go to costume parties while watching underaged drinkers puke their guts out. And that stage can continue far into your twenties, afterwards you get married, have your own family and continue the Halloween tradition with your own kids. Then another Halloween cycle begins.
So enjoy Halloween with yourselves, and embrace the wholesome trick-or-treating with your kids. Just make sure you open some windows when they get back.
Written by David M. Muench
Ah Halloween. Earlier in my life I've found that Halloween was one of the most bountiful holidays ever, aside from Christmas and Easter. Heck, even with those two we had to count on a judgmental fat guy flying around in a sleigh and some mutant rabbit to deliver our goods. Both holidays requiring non-casual "C'mon Mooooommm, this tie is choking me!" clothing. But with Halloween, we are the masters of our own destiny. We don't have to wear uncomfortably strange pastel jackets with matching pants and a tie wide enough to park a bus.
Granted, the wolfman mask didn't have adequate eye holes causing us to bump into things, and was also a bit warm - steaming hot really - but good golly we looked cool wearing 'em!
"Grrrrr! OUCH! Damn tree."
It got to the point when we would only put the masks on when we were actually at the porch of each house.
We were like the postal carriers: Rain nor snow nor gloom of night did not deter us from getting free candy by going to the homes of complete strangers and saying the magic phrase:
"Trick-or-Treat!"
A neighborhood boy even went as far as changing costumes and visited the same houses
to get even more candy, something we considered to be a brilliant move, wondering why we haven't thought of it.
Then after pounding the pavement for what seemed like miles (Which in fact were miles) we returned home and spread out our loot, sorting out the good stuff (Chocolate "anything"), and grimacing at the bad stuff (A neighborhood dentist had the audacity to give out toothbrushes! The nerve! ). Unfortunately a few years went by and some sicko-freaks had to go and spoil one of the greatest holidays a kid could ever have and put needles and razor blades in the candy. So from then on our parents insisted that we had to inspect our candy before we crammed it into our mouths, which takes away some of the unadulterated bliss of the whole thoughtless cramming thing.
For kids, the fun doesn't stop with eating the chocolate. After repeated chocolate-eating we had discovered that for every action, there's an opposite and equal reaction. Well, at that time we had no idea what that meant, but we did discover that chocolate made us fart. Big time. I recall one night after a Halloween Neighborhood Candy Expedition my brother, some neighborhood kid, and I had a "farting contest." Yes, as kids we were easily amused and tell me, what can be more amusing than a bunch of kids farting incessantly in an enclosed area? It's like a Kodak Moment. But really smelly.
But then as fast as the trick-or-treating started, it was over. We were suddenly "too old" to even think the words "trick-or-treat." Chocolate-powered flatulence has lost its luster (however beer-powered flatulence still provides hours of entertainment) and it was time to move on to the next level of Halloween: The desecration of jack-o'-lanterns, flaming bags of dog poop on porches, toilet paper in the trees, and scaring the hell out of the little kids.
Soon those mean-spirited pranks seem menial, and suddenly we're old enough to go to costume parties while watching underaged drinkers puke their guts out. And that stage can continue far into your twenties, afterwards you get married, have your own family and continue the Halloween tradition with your own kids. Then another Halloween cycle begins.
So enjoy Halloween with yourselves, and embrace the wholesome trick-or-treating with your kids. Just make sure you open some windows when they get back.
Unmentionable Shopping (A ShinySpeak classic from jokelist Episode 231, 2/21/02)
Written by David M. Muench
When the bungee cord begins to draw blood around my waist (that darn elastic band
broke five years ago) I decide it's due time for some new underwear.
For most men it's a simple act that is marked with remarkable brevity. Look at the package (no pun intended). If it looks like what we want, the size is right, and the colors aren't too weird, we'll get them.
My girlfriend and I spent a few hours at the mall last Saturday, and she decided she needed some new "sexy" underwear. I'm guessing that takes considerable more time than grabbin' a bag of "Hanes Her Way", because we circled the "Sexy Underwear Round Table" for fifteen minutes. Naturally I was elected to hold her previously selected Sexy Bra and Sexy Shirt. There's not a manly enough way to hold Sexy Women's stuff, so I held the Sexy Bra to my chest and inquired to Kate, "How does it look?" Unfortunately another woman overheard me and stated, "It looks fabulous on you!" Not one to be outdone, I retorted, "Well it's too bad I don't wear underwear," leaving Kate red-faced and gasping for breath. After the twentieth orbit around the Sexy Underwear Round Table and asking me my preference (they don't sell edible pizza-flavored thongs), we were finally done.
Written by David M. Muench
When the bungee cord begins to draw blood around my waist (that darn elastic band
broke five years ago) I decide it's due time for some new underwear.
For most men it's a simple act that is marked with remarkable brevity. Look at the package (no pun intended). If it looks like what we want, the size is right, and the colors aren't too weird, we'll get them.
My girlfriend and I spent a few hours at the mall last Saturday, and she decided she needed some new "sexy" underwear. I'm guessing that takes considerable more time than grabbin' a bag of "Hanes Her Way", because we circled the "Sexy Underwear Round Table" for fifteen minutes. Naturally I was elected to hold her previously selected Sexy Bra and Sexy Shirt. There's not a manly enough way to hold Sexy Women's stuff, so I held the Sexy Bra to my chest and inquired to Kate, "How does it look?" Unfortunately another woman overheard me and stated, "It looks fabulous on you!" Not one to be outdone, I retorted, "Well it's too bad I don't wear underwear," leaving Kate red-faced and gasping for breath. After the twentieth orbit around the Sexy Underwear Round Table and asking me my preference (they don't sell edible pizza-flavored thongs), we were finally done.
Put a Sock In It! (A ShinySpeak classic from my jokelist; Episode 124, 6/14/02)
Written by David M. Muench
Have any of you done something embarrassing and tried to "play it off," like jogging after tripping over a curb, or pretend to be rubbing your nose when somebody catches you "diggin' for fool's gold?"
While I was at Blockbuster Video one day I had walked around for five minutes when stepped back on something. I looked down at my foot to see what exactly I was stepping on and was puzzled to see some black cloth lump under my foot.It didn't help my bewilderment when I saw that this black thing seemed to be coming out of the leg of my pants.
With mounting horror I knew what had happened to my missing black sock. It was attempting to abandon my pants. I don't know why I was so mortified about a sock coming out of my pants. I've had fabric softener sheets appear out of my pant leg like a cheap magician many times. Maybe I didn't want anybody to think I was, um, "enhancing the package." No, I wasn't.
So I casually swept my foot over the sock and just stood there, pretending to be extremely interested in a DVD of which I don't even remember the name.
Fortunately the store wasn't too busy, and when nobody was looking I reached down casually and pulled the damn thing out of my pant leg and shoved it in my pocket. It's amazing how much damage could be done to your Cool Factor when you have a black sock hanging out of your pants.
Damn that static cling.
Written by David M. Muench
Have any of you done something embarrassing and tried to "play it off," like jogging after tripping over a curb, or pretend to be rubbing your nose when somebody catches you "diggin' for fool's gold?"
While I was at Blockbuster Video one day I had walked around for five minutes when stepped back on something. I looked down at my foot to see what exactly I was stepping on and was puzzled to see some black cloth lump under my foot.It didn't help my bewilderment when I saw that this black thing seemed to be coming out of the leg of my pants.
With mounting horror I knew what had happened to my missing black sock. It was attempting to abandon my pants. I don't know why I was so mortified about a sock coming out of my pants. I've had fabric softener sheets appear out of my pant leg like a cheap magician many times. Maybe I didn't want anybody to think I was, um, "enhancing the package." No, I wasn't.
So I casually swept my foot over the sock and just stood there, pretending to be extremely interested in a DVD of which I don't even remember the name.
Fortunately the store wasn't too busy, and when nobody was looking I reached down casually and pulled the damn thing out of my pant leg and shoved it in my pocket. It's amazing how much damage could be done to your Cool Factor when you have a black sock hanging out of your pants.
Damn that static cling.
Commercial Break
Commercial Break (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 8/9/00 )
Written by David M. Muench
There are some commercials that just unnerve me. Hey, don't get me wrong, I know it's a natural course of a woman's life. Men do understand (The way all men understand: Through many days and nights of abject trepidation and hiding the sharp, pointy objects.) and sympathize with the Nature of Women. But I think from the beginning of each commercial, they should tell the viewers -- either by a large, flashing sign -- or even a small icon in the corner that reads "Feminine Product." The commercial starts, and you see beautiful cheerleaders jumping and gyrating about, and the guys are going "Hey, now this is a really nice, wholesome commercial. They really should have more commercials exactly like this one. Every half-hour at least."
Now us guys should have a pretty good Fantasy-type visual at this point; complete with latex bed sheets and a slide. Then all of a sudden.....TAMPAX WAS THERE.
"Whoa, hey, where are you going? I've got the butter-flavored Crisco ready!"
"Sorry fantasizing freak, it's Not a Good Time."
"What? Is there a dreaming dolt in Newark you have to go see?"
"No, I mean it's 'Not a Good Time'."
"Oohhh. Okay, fine." My fantasy is destroyed by Nature. Now I'm just sitting there thinking about what I'm going to do with the slide, rubber sheets and Crisco -- completely frustrated.
I think they should make commercials about Men products.... Here comes Sven, a blonde Swedish Adonis with a bronze tan, sparkling blue eyes, glimmering white teeth, jogging down a beach with rippling muscles thrashing under his skin -- and we're talking a rippling fest here. His nostrils are even rippling. Now the women (And some men) are looking at this living cover of a Harlequin novel, developing their own fantasy (I don't ask, so I don't know), when suddenly...BLUE STAR JOCK ITCH OINTMENT WAS THERE.
"Mmmm, the site of you with that smelly cream on your hoo-ha just drives me wild....."
No, I don't think that phrase will ever be uttered in this universe. Don't even get me going with the Tucks Medicated Pads commercials.
Written by David M. Muench
There are some commercials that just unnerve me. Hey, don't get me wrong, I know it's a natural course of a woman's life. Men do understand (The way all men understand: Through many days and nights of abject trepidation and hiding the sharp, pointy objects.) and sympathize with the Nature of Women. But I think from the beginning of each commercial, they should tell the viewers -- either by a large, flashing sign -- or even a small icon in the corner that reads "Feminine Product." The commercial starts, and you see beautiful cheerleaders jumping and gyrating about, and the guys are going "Hey, now this is a really nice, wholesome commercial. They really should have more commercials exactly like this one. Every half-hour at least."
Now us guys should have a pretty good Fantasy-type visual at this point; complete with latex bed sheets and a slide. Then all of a sudden.....TAMPAX WAS THERE.
"Whoa, hey, where are you going? I've got the butter-flavored Crisco ready!"
"Sorry fantasizing freak, it's Not a Good Time."
"What? Is there a dreaming dolt in Newark you have to go see?"
"No, I mean it's 'Not a Good Time'."
"Oohhh. Okay, fine." My fantasy is destroyed by Nature. Now I'm just sitting there thinking about what I'm going to do with the slide, rubber sheets and Crisco -- completely frustrated.
I think they should make commercials about Men products.... Here comes Sven, a blonde Swedish Adonis with a bronze tan, sparkling blue eyes, glimmering white teeth, jogging down a beach with rippling muscles thrashing under his skin -- and we're talking a rippling fest here. His nostrils are even rippling. Now the women (And some men) are looking at this living cover of a Harlequin novel, developing their own fantasy (I don't ask, so I don't know), when suddenly...BLUE STAR JOCK ITCH OINTMENT WAS THERE.
"Mmmm, the site of you with that smelly cream on your hoo-ha just drives me wild....."
No, I don't think that phrase will ever be uttered in this universe. Don't even get me going with the Tucks Medicated Pads commercials.
Body Cleansing Thingies (ShinySpeak classic lifted straight from the jokelist, Thu Jan 24, 2002)
Written by David M. Muench
My girlfriend gave me a body cleanser thingy, what most people may call exfoliating cleansing pads. I think. It's my first experience with this showering apparatus, and initially I was curious. I turned it over, poked at it, squeezed it, pulled it, and smelled it. I was like early man discovering fire. I even grunted a few times and bellowed a guttural howl in case a rival clan member wandered into the shower attempting to steal it from me.
Satisfied, I squeezed some liquid soap specially made for Body Cleanser Thingies and started "cleansing" myself. At once I felt sympathetic to the thousands of dishes I've washed over the years with a scrubbing pad. For eons my body has been conditioned to using a soft wash cloth, and suddenly I shocked my epidermal system by using a pot scrubber.
I should have gradually eased into it, like nicotine patches. Start with maybe sandpaper, work through steel wool and then finally to barbed wire. I think the alternate definition for "exfoliate" is "will need emergency skin grafting soon."
But people say it's good for the skin, so I guess I'll keep using it. Although I'm not sure how much use it'll be if the skin in question is shredded and lying around the shower drain.
Then the other day Kate and I went to Wally World and happened upon other such exfoliating pads, though they wanted to call them "Poufs." I thought, "Who the hell are they kidding?"Surprisingly, they were actually softer than mine.
I tried to pickout a nice, masculine "pouf," which is rather difficult, since they're all so darn, um, pouffy. To be pleasing to men, the Pouf should be attached to a case of beer and/or be in the shape of a breast.
Every heterosexual male would keep about a dozen in the shower at one time. Devoid of such choices, I opted for a manly hunter green color; even has the word "hunter" in it.
Written by David M. Muench
My girlfriend gave me a body cleanser thingy, what most people may call exfoliating cleansing pads. I think. It's my first experience with this showering apparatus, and initially I was curious. I turned it over, poked at it, squeezed it, pulled it, and smelled it. I was like early man discovering fire. I even grunted a few times and bellowed a guttural howl in case a rival clan member wandered into the shower attempting to steal it from me.
Satisfied, I squeezed some liquid soap specially made for Body Cleanser Thingies and started "cleansing" myself. At once I felt sympathetic to the thousands of dishes I've washed over the years with a scrubbing pad. For eons my body has been conditioned to using a soft wash cloth, and suddenly I shocked my epidermal system by using a pot scrubber.
I should have gradually eased into it, like nicotine patches. Start with maybe sandpaper, work through steel wool and then finally to barbed wire. I think the alternate definition for "exfoliate" is "will need emergency skin grafting soon."
But people say it's good for the skin, so I guess I'll keep using it. Although I'm not sure how much use it'll be if the skin in question is shredded and lying around the shower drain.
Then the other day Kate and I went to Wally World and happened upon other such exfoliating pads, though they wanted to call them "Poufs." I thought, "Who the hell are they kidding?"Surprisingly, they were actually softer than mine.
I tried to pickout a nice, masculine "pouf," which is rather difficult, since they're all so darn, um, pouffy. To be pleasing to men, the Pouf should be attached to a case of beer and/or be in the shape of a breast.
Every heterosexual male would keep about a dozen in the shower at one time. Devoid of such choices, I opted for a manly hunter green color; even has the word "hunter" in it.
Body Language
Body Language (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 2/16/01)
Written by David M. Muench
When two people walk past each other; different things can occur. If they're strangers, they may smile at one another and say "hi," or do a quick head-jerk upwards as if to say "What's up." Sometimes one may quickly turn to look at a trash can off to the side with rapt attention to avoid any kind of exchange with the oncoming stranger.
The latter two usually being a Guy Thing.
Other body language I've noticed, and it's an involuntary response, is when you walk past a coworker and just raise your eyebrows. After the initial "good morning" or "what's up" or even "hey dumbass, you're late" of the day, there's nothing more salutatious to say. Afterwards when you pass by each other, you raise your eyebrows and twist your mouth as if to say with exaggerated exasperation, "Oh well." At least that's how I seem to translate the facial contortion.
The next time you're at work, see if you don't habitually do that. Then try to make the passing-by interchange more interesting. Lick your lips seductively, and run your fingers across your apparel-covered nipples. Do your best impression of Chris Farley and sing "Fat guy in little coooooaat." Glare maniacally and mutter something about "They'll all pay in their own blood for what they did to me..." Grab your crotch and squeal like Michael Jackson. Grab their crotch and squeal like a pig.
Now excuse me while I go look intently at this garbage can over here.
Written by David M. Muench
When two people walk past each other; different things can occur. If they're strangers, they may smile at one another and say "hi," or do a quick head-jerk upwards as if to say "What's up." Sometimes one may quickly turn to look at a trash can off to the side with rapt attention to avoid any kind of exchange with the oncoming stranger.
The latter two usually being a Guy Thing.
Other body language I've noticed, and it's an involuntary response, is when you walk past a coworker and just raise your eyebrows. After the initial "good morning" or "what's up" or even "hey dumbass, you're late" of the day, there's nothing more salutatious to say. Afterwards when you pass by each other, you raise your eyebrows and twist your mouth as if to say with exaggerated exasperation, "Oh well." At least that's how I seem to translate the facial contortion.
The next time you're at work, see if you don't habitually do that. Then try to make the passing-by interchange more interesting. Lick your lips seductively, and run your fingers across your apparel-covered nipples. Do your best impression of Chris Farley and sing "Fat guy in little coooooaat." Glare maniacally and mutter something about "They'll all pay in their own blood for what they did to me..." Grab your crotch and squeal like Michael Jackson. Grab their crotch and squeal like a pig.
Now excuse me while I go look intently at this garbage can over here.
Luv is a Many Censored Thing
Luv is a Many Censored Thing (A ShinySpeak classic lovingly embraced from the jokelist on - 12/8/00 )
Written by David M. Muench
I've realized that when we end our e-mails, some of us make a conscious effort to choose the appropriate closing"endearment," and spelling can mean the difference between platonic ennui and "you're stalking me, aren't you."
I'm going to use the word "Love" for this observation.
Some of us might actually sign the e-mail: "Love; [your name here]." It's pretty much a basic e-mail close. It can delineate a closeness to the recipient, or it could perhaps be just "your thing". Sometimes that "L" word can be overwhelming, so we use "Luv" as a substitute; just so it seems frivolous and not at all serious. The following is what I think the meanings are behind some of the "L-Word" combinations:
L: One single letter to replace "love". It could also possibly be"Later" or "Loser", depending on who the recipient is. This closing endearment is a popular one for guys, as to use any combination of the whole "L" word might create an uncomfortable, committable feeling. Like tight underwear chaffing you on a hot day.
Luv ya: A popular closing endearment. The mere fact that it's not spelled correctly automatically means it's meant as a friendly farewell. Unless the person has a secret crush. It can be used between girl and a guy, or even a girl and a girl. It's a very, very rare thing for two heterosexual guys to exchange that particular endearment.
Love ya: A little more friendlier, but making that "conscious effort" to misspell "you" is another attempt at employing a playful "Hey, you're my friend...and that's it" endearment. Again, on a deeper level it could mean stronger feelings, as the word "love" is spelled correctly.
Luv you: Like "Love ya," except "love" is spelled wrong, maybe signifying an innate fear of the actual "L" word, or that person just couldn't commit to a more intimate farewell. Or they really can't spell "love."
Love you: You are definitely pushing the platonic envelope with this one. This closing phrase is just one letter ( "i" ) shy of exposing your true feelings with those "three-little-words." Unless of course you're family.
I Love you: Defcon 5, baby. If you're not e-mailing a family member, you've got some strong feelings rising to the surface about your "buddy." If you deny it, then I'm Brad Pitt. The next time you write an e-mail, think about how you close it with any given person and how you feel about them. Does it change the way you spell?
Written by David M. Muench
I've realized that when we end our e-mails, some of us make a conscious effort to choose the appropriate closing"endearment," and spelling can mean the difference between platonic ennui and "you're stalking me, aren't you."
I'm going to use the word "Love" for this observation.
Some of us might actually sign the e-mail: "Love; [your name here]." It's pretty much a basic e-mail close. It can delineate a closeness to the recipient, or it could perhaps be just "your thing". Sometimes that "L" word can be overwhelming, so we use "Luv" as a substitute; just so it seems frivolous and not at all serious. The following is what I think the meanings are behind some of the "L-Word" combinations:
L: One single letter to replace "love". It could also possibly be"Later" or "Loser", depending on who the recipient is. This closing endearment is a popular one for guys, as to use any combination of the whole "L" word might create an uncomfortable, committable feeling. Like tight underwear chaffing you on a hot day.
Luv ya: A popular closing endearment. The mere fact that it's not spelled correctly automatically means it's meant as a friendly farewell. Unless the person has a secret crush. It can be used between girl and a guy, or even a girl and a girl. It's a very, very rare thing for two heterosexual guys to exchange that particular endearment.
Love ya: A little more friendlier, but making that "conscious effort" to misspell "you" is another attempt at employing a playful "Hey, you're my friend...and that's it" endearment. Again, on a deeper level it could mean stronger feelings, as the word "love" is spelled correctly.
Luv you: Like "Love ya," except "love" is spelled wrong, maybe signifying an innate fear of the actual "L" word, or that person just couldn't commit to a more intimate farewell. Or they really can't spell "love."
Love you: You are definitely pushing the platonic envelope with this one. This closing phrase is just one letter ( "i" ) shy of exposing your true feelings with those "three-little-words." Unless of course you're family.
I Love you: Defcon 5, baby. If you're not e-mailing a family member, you've got some strong feelings rising to the surface about your "buddy." If you deny it, then I'm Brad Pitt. The next time you write an e-mail, think about how you close it with any given person and how you feel about them. Does it change the way you spell?
Twister and Shout
Twister and Shout (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 5/18/01 )
Written by David M. Muench
Have you seen the movie "Twister?" Well, Oklahomans see it every time a tornado or five develops in Central Oklahoma. We don't get a brief weather break informing us of the impending tornadic weather. It's a major "news break" event for Oklahoma.
Whatever you were watching prior to the weather bulletin, you can pretty much forget about it as the weather gurus are going to be on for awhile, with no commercial break.
There could be a program interruption by the EBS alerting the citizens of the United States that World War III has begun; or an asteroid the size of Canada (Or Mimi Bobek's undergarments) will be colliding with Earth in five minutes, but by golly if there just happens to be tornadoes in central Oklahoma at the same time the local news stations will break in those last remaining minutes;right up until the planet gets vaporized.
Not only do the local stations have meteorological technology like NexRad, Doppler, Viper, Sneezy and Grumpy, but also each television station has about twelve storm-spotting teams chasing the storms and reporting their every movement; rotation or otherwise. It's kinda like "Big Brother" for tornadoes. If it were possible for a wall cloud to take a crap, the storm spotters would notice it, capture it on video and send it via microwave to the station for all of us to see.
There are also news helicopters that fly around the tornadoes with live video feed. You know, for the viewers at home that just don't appreciate the lower angle of live feed from the ground units. So now we have all this excessive information from radars, ground units, air units, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, and a representative from the Psychic Friends Network holding on line three at Channel 9.
I'm thinking to myself, "Is this really necessary? Is it not possible to just tell us where the tornado is currently and where it's headed without creating a major theatrical production which results in freaking out my mother?"
"Hey, you people in Milkytitty and Chippi-poopoo counties, a tornado is coming your way. Take cover."
With that terse sentence, I know what to do. I also know that there are no counties in Oklahoma by those names, but that's beside the point. The next time a tornado ventures close enough to make the local news stations begin their "weather show," I'll pop in the movie "Twister." Sure, that movie is humorously idiotic, but at least I can look at Helen Hunt in a tight, soaked white tank top.
And if a cow happens to fly through my window, I'll know it's time to take cover.
Written by David M. Muench
Have you seen the movie "Twister?" Well, Oklahomans see it every time a tornado or five develops in Central Oklahoma. We don't get a brief weather break informing us of the impending tornadic weather. It's a major "news break" event for Oklahoma.
Whatever you were watching prior to the weather bulletin, you can pretty much forget about it as the weather gurus are going to be on for awhile, with no commercial break.
There could be a program interruption by the EBS alerting the citizens of the United States that World War III has begun; or an asteroid the size of Canada (Or Mimi Bobek's undergarments) will be colliding with Earth in five minutes, but by golly if there just happens to be tornadoes in central Oklahoma at the same time the local news stations will break in those last remaining minutes;right up until the planet gets vaporized.
Not only do the local stations have meteorological technology like NexRad, Doppler, Viper, Sneezy and Grumpy, but also each television station has about twelve storm-spotting teams chasing the storms and reporting their every movement; rotation or otherwise. It's kinda like "Big Brother" for tornadoes. If it were possible for a wall cloud to take a crap, the storm spotters would notice it, capture it on video and send it via microwave to the station for all of us to see.
There are also news helicopters that fly around the tornadoes with live video feed. You know, for the viewers at home that just don't appreciate the lower angle of live feed from the ground units. So now we have all this excessive information from radars, ground units, air units, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, and a representative from the Psychic Friends Network holding on line three at Channel 9.
I'm thinking to myself, "Is this really necessary? Is it not possible to just tell us where the tornado is currently and where it's headed without creating a major theatrical production which results in freaking out my mother?"
"Hey, you people in Milkytitty and Chippi-poopoo counties, a tornado is coming your way. Take cover."
With that terse sentence, I know what to do. I also know that there are no counties in Oklahoma by those names, but that's beside the point. The next time a tornado ventures close enough to make the local news stations begin their "weather show," I'll pop in the movie "Twister." Sure, that movie is humorously idiotic, but at least I can look at Helen Hunt in a tight, soaked white tank top.
And if a cow happens to fly through my window, I'll know it's time to take cover.
MedSpeak
MedSpeak (A ShinySpeak classic taken from the jokelist on 4/13/01 )
Written by David M. Muench
Have you ever engaged in a conversation with a friend concerning their job, say, in the medical field? Do you even understand what the hell they're talking about? It's like trying to understand a foreigner struggling with broken English. You just have to smile and nod. Unless it's a serious subject, then looking grim and nodding will do just fine.
For example, this would be a conversation between my roommate Ken and I:
Ken: I had this patient today that was going into severe FTD. It was really bad.We had to call in an SUV tech to ovulate his dilithium trombone.
Shiny: Wow. Sounds serious. [Nodding and looking grim]
Ken: It was. Fortunately we had a knick-knack paddy-whack available and were able to stabilize his esphyloxzrplo-m-o-u-s-e.
Shiny: Well give the dog a bone.
Ken: Huh?
Shiny: Uh, nothing.
I don't have a clue. The fun-filled gory stories are interesting too, such as when he harvested a heart from a cadaver (At what point does the corpse/dead body graduate to "cadaver?" Is there a ceremony or review involved?) and told me about it. Do they think using agricultural terms like "harvested" lessens the gruesomeness of the procedure? And Ken actually tries to coax me into going into the medical field. Yeah, sure thing Skippy.
If I were meant to look inside somebody, I would have been born with x-ray vision.
The medical "what in the hell are you saying?" terminology stuff doesn't stop with mere conversations concerning his days at work. It extends to evening television, too.
If we watch a movie or a television show that has even a nanosecond clip of a scene involving something medically related, Ken has to point out what they're doing wrong.
It begins with Ken chuckling complacently, and I'm lost, wondering what it was I missed that was remotely humorous. All I see is a dying man is hooked up to a kajillion tubes, wires, and a wood lathe; being consoled by a hot, busty nurse named Sheila. He then informs me that he was amused because "they're doing it wrong." Now comes what I think is really the funny part.
He'll ask me, "What's wrong with this picture?" The only thing I could adequately surmise is, "Um, the hot nurse isn't naked yet?"
"No. The roaming deflatulator should only be used when his testicular marsupials are at a 45-degree angle."
Then he'll laugh again like it's the most ludicrous thing he's ever seen. And I'm still just wondering when that hot, busty nurse is going to get naked.
What if I were a sex therapist? We could be sitting around watching a pornographic video (Not like we, uh, do that) and I suddenly emit a smug guffaw, and claim they're doing it wrong. Then I'd ask, "What's wrong with this picture, Ken?"
"Um, one of the twelve naked hot nurses hasn't spread enough lime Jell-O on her body?"
"No. That guy's left hand needs to be two inches below her left buttock, and look at her leg. It should be at a 45-degree angle. Ha-ha-ha.That's just ludicrous."
And Ken is just wondering if he has enough lime Jell-O.
Written by David M. Muench
Have you ever engaged in a conversation with a friend concerning their job, say, in the medical field? Do you even understand what the hell they're talking about? It's like trying to understand a foreigner struggling with broken English. You just have to smile and nod. Unless it's a serious subject, then looking grim and nodding will do just fine.
For example, this would be a conversation between my roommate Ken and I:
Ken: I had this patient today that was going into severe FTD. It was really bad.We had to call in an SUV tech to ovulate his dilithium trombone.
Shiny: Wow. Sounds serious. [Nodding and looking grim]
Ken: It was. Fortunately we had a knick-knack paddy-whack available and were able to stabilize his esphyloxzrplo-m-o-u-s-e.
Shiny: Well give the dog a bone.
Ken: Huh?
Shiny: Uh, nothing.
I don't have a clue. The fun-filled gory stories are interesting too, such as when he harvested a heart from a cadaver (At what point does the corpse/dead body graduate to "cadaver?" Is there a ceremony or review involved?) and told me about it. Do they think using agricultural terms like "harvested" lessens the gruesomeness of the procedure? And Ken actually tries to coax me into going into the medical field. Yeah, sure thing Skippy.
If I were meant to look inside somebody, I would have been born with x-ray vision.
The medical "what in the hell are you saying?" terminology stuff doesn't stop with mere conversations concerning his days at work. It extends to evening television, too.
If we watch a movie or a television show that has even a nanosecond clip of a scene involving something medically related, Ken has to point out what they're doing wrong.
It begins with Ken chuckling complacently, and I'm lost, wondering what it was I missed that was remotely humorous. All I see is a dying man is hooked up to a kajillion tubes, wires, and a wood lathe; being consoled by a hot, busty nurse named Sheila. He then informs me that he was amused because "they're doing it wrong." Now comes what I think is really the funny part.
He'll ask me, "What's wrong with this picture?" The only thing I could adequately surmise is, "Um, the hot nurse isn't naked yet?"
"No. The roaming deflatulator should only be used when his testicular marsupials are at a 45-degree angle."
Then he'll laugh again like it's the most ludicrous thing he's ever seen. And I'm still just wondering when that hot, busty nurse is going to get naked.
What if I were a sex therapist? We could be sitting around watching a pornographic video (Not like we, uh, do that) and I suddenly emit a smug guffaw, and claim they're doing it wrong. Then I'd ask, "What's wrong with this picture, Ken?"
"Um, one of the twelve naked hot nurses hasn't spread enough lime Jell-O on her body?"
"No. That guy's left hand needs to be two inches below her left buttock, and look at her leg. It should be at a 45-degree angle. Ha-ha-ha.That's just ludicrous."
And Ken is just wondering if he has enough lime Jell-O.
Nothin' But the Tooth
Nothin' But the Tooth (A ShinySpeak classic "extracted" from the jokelist on 3/23/01 )
Written by David M. Muench
Many people aren't too crazy about visiting the dentist. As a child I wasn't any different. They even had to give me Valium prior to going. Oh, sure, the"goofy gas" was kinda cool; and one time while under the nitrous oxide I felt as if I were wearing only underwear and sinking into the chair.Valium and nitrous. There's nothing like a child having an acid trip. It's been many years since my last visit, but last week I found myself needing to get a tooth repaired, and so I reluctantly made the appointment.
Now that I'm older, more mature and sensible, I can now go to the dentist's office with an inordinate amount of bravado and saunter in exuding ennui and confidence. And then I hear the drill. I think going to the dentist would be more appealing if the drills didn't give the feeling of walking into a body shop. I almost expect the dentist to be sporting coveralls emblazoned with a gaudy name patch, wiping tooth debris and blood from his hands on a shop rag, grabbing a clipboard from a hook in the wall, calling my name and promptly washing his hands with a petroleum hand cleaner before starting on another "job". At least the drills could emit a sort of laughing noise, or sound like a Smurf singing for crying out loud.
Once I was in The Chair (Not unlike "Ole Sparky") I listened to the dentist prattle with a regular patient in the adjoining room, wondering how dentists understand them while working on the patient's teeth. I bet they could even understand Charlie Brown's parents.
The Orthodontic Torture Master finally started on me after a few injections of Novocain; telling me that if I felt any pain to raise my left hand. I told him I'd raise the dead if I had to. He just narrowed his eyes and said "If you only knew." I'm not sure what he meant, but I prayed for my soul anyway.
First he used a Disemboweling Scraper of Doom to rip away tooth decay, or to remove my mandible, I couldn't tell which. After the Torture Master cursed my large tongue (He dubbed it "Beast") he had to call in the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to help hold aside this large slab of Beast. Then he applied the Super Sonic Diamond-Tipped Brain Tissue Collecting Drill to the damaged tooth, which resulted in pain and my left hand shooting up. I almost took the armrest with me.
I received another shot of Novocain Light (The crap just wasn't working), and he switched to his slower speed Bone Rattling Brain Damage Drill to inflict yet more abuse and cause me to wet myself. I'm sure that was on purpose. I wanted another shot, but the Torture Master proceeded to tell me about how my endorphins were rushing through my body because of my apprehension, rendering the painkiller useless. I thought to myself "Screw your excuses, Lucifer, and give me some more damn painkiller."
I said "Oh. I see."
After enduring the harrowing procedure of getting a simple filling put in, I returned to the counter to pay. The Torture Master made it a point to tell the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to write "Nitrous Oxide" on my file for the next time because of the Beast tongue and endorphin-whatever problems. Then with a glimmer of manic glee in his eyes, the Torture Master said "See you soon, my hapless minion."
I'm not sure what he meant by that either, but I haven't stopped praying.
Written by David M. Muench
Many people aren't too crazy about visiting the dentist. As a child I wasn't any different. They even had to give me Valium prior to going. Oh, sure, the"goofy gas" was kinda cool; and one time while under the nitrous oxide I felt as if I were wearing only underwear and sinking into the chair.Valium and nitrous. There's nothing like a child having an acid trip. It's been many years since my last visit, but last week I found myself needing to get a tooth repaired, and so I reluctantly made the appointment.
Now that I'm older, more mature and sensible, I can now go to the dentist's office with an inordinate amount of bravado and saunter in exuding ennui and confidence. And then I hear the drill. I think going to the dentist would be more appealing if the drills didn't give the feeling of walking into a body shop. I almost expect the dentist to be sporting coveralls emblazoned with a gaudy name patch, wiping tooth debris and blood from his hands on a shop rag, grabbing a clipboard from a hook in the wall, calling my name and promptly washing his hands with a petroleum hand cleaner before starting on another "job". At least the drills could emit a sort of laughing noise, or sound like a Smurf singing for crying out loud.
Once I was in The Chair (Not unlike "Ole Sparky") I listened to the dentist prattle with a regular patient in the adjoining room, wondering how dentists understand them while working on the patient's teeth. I bet they could even understand Charlie Brown's parents.
The Orthodontic Torture Master finally started on me after a few injections of Novocain; telling me that if I felt any pain to raise my left hand. I told him I'd raise the dead if I had to. He just narrowed his eyes and said "If you only knew." I'm not sure what he meant, but I prayed for my soul anyway.
First he used a Disemboweling Scraper of Doom to rip away tooth decay, or to remove my mandible, I couldn't tell which. After the Torture Master cursed my large tongue (He dubbed it "Beast") he had to call in the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to help hold aside this large slab of Beast. Then he applied the Super Sonic Diamond-Tipped Brain Tissue Collecting Drill to the damaged tooth, which resulted in pain and my left hand shooting up. I almost took the armrest with me.
I received another shot of Novocain Light (The crap just wasn't working), and he switched to his slower speed Bone Rattling Brain Damage Drill to inflict yet more abuse and cause me to wet myself. I'm sure that was on purpose. I wanted another shot, but the Torture Master proceeded to tell me about how my endorphins were rushing through my body because of my apprehension, rendering the painkiller useless. I thought to myself "Screw your excuses, Lucifer, and give me some more damn painkiller."
I said "Oh. I see."
After enduring the harrowing procedure of getting a simple filling put in, I returned to the counter to pay. The Torture Master made it a point to tell the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to write "Nitrous Oxide" on my file for the next time because of the Beast tongue and endorphin-whatever problems. Then with a glimmer of manic glee in his eyes, the Torture Master said "See you soon, my hapless minion."
I'm not sure what he meant by that either, but I haven't stopped praying.
Halloween Hijinx Strikes Back (A ShinySpeak classic lifted from the jokelist on 10/26/01)
Written by David M. Muench read the first Halloween Hijinx story here.
Ah Halloween. Earlier in my life I've found that Halloween was one of the most bountiful holidays ever, aside from Christmas and Easter. Heck, even with those two we had to count on a judgmental fat guy flying around in a sleigh and some mutant rabbit to deliver our goods. Both holidays requiring non-casual "C'mon Mooooommm, this tie is choking me!" clothing. But with Halloween, we are the masters of our own destiny. We don't have to wear uncomfortably strange pastel jackets with matching pants and a tie wide enough to park a bus.
Granted, the wolfman mask didn't have adequate eye holes causing us to bump into things, and was also a bit warm - steaming hot really - but good golly we looked cool wearing 'em!
"Grrrrr! OUCH! Damn tree."
It got to the point when we would only put the masks on when we were actually at the porch of each house.
We were like the postal carriers: Rain nor snow nor gloom of night did not deter us from getting free candy by going to the homes of complete strangers and saying the magic phrase:
"Trick-or-Treat!"
A neighborhood boy even went as far as changing costumes and visited the same houses
to get even more candy, something we considered to be a brilliant move, wondering why we haven't thought of it.
Then after pounding the pavement for what seemed like miles (Which in fact were miles) we returned home and spread out our loot, sorting out the good stuff (Chocolate "anything"), and grimacing at the bad stuff (A neighborhood dentist had the audacity to give out toothbrushes! The nerve! ). Unfortunately a few years went by and some sicko-freaks had to go and spoil one of the greatest holidays a kid could ever have and put needles and razor blades in the candy. So from then on our parents insisted that we had to inspect our candy before we crammed it into our mouths, which takes away some of the unadulterated bliss of the whole thoughtless cramming thing.
For kids, the fun doesn't stop with eating the chocolate. After repeated chocolate-eating we had discovered that for every action, there's an opposite and equal reaction. Well, at that time we had no idea what that meant, but we did discover that chocolate made us fart. Big time. I recall one night after a Halloween Neighborhood Candy Expedition my brother, some neighborhood kid, and I had a "farting contest." Yes, as kids we were easily amused and tell me, what can be more amusing than a bunch of kids farting incessantly in an enclosed area? It's like a Kodak Moment. But really smelly.
But then as fast as the trick-or-treating started, it was over. We were suddenly "too old" to even think the words "trick-or-treat." Chocolate-powered flatulence has lost its luster (however beer-powered flatulence still provides hours of entertainment) and it was time to move on to the next level of Halloween: The desecration of jack-o'-lanterns, flaming bags of dog poop on porches, toilet paper in the trees, and scaring the hell out of the little kids.
Soon those mean-spirited pranks seem menial, and suddenly we're old enough to go to costume parties while watching underaged drinkers puke their guts out. And that stage can continue far into your twenties, afterwards you get married, have your own family and continue the Halloween tradition with your own kids. Then another Halloween cycle begins.
So enjoy Halloween with yourselves, and embrace the wholesome trick-or-treating with your kids. Just make sure you open some windows when they get back.
Written by David M. Muench read the first Halloween Hijinx story here.
Ah Halloween. Earlier in my life I've found that Halloween was one of the most bountiful holidays ever, aside from Christmas and Easter. Heck, even with those two we had to count on a judgmental fat guy flying around in a sleigh and some mutant rabbit to deliver our goods. Both holidays requiring non-casual "C'mon Mooooommm, this tie is choking me!" clothing. But with Halloween, we are the masters of our own destiny. We don't have to wear uncomfortably strange pastel jackets with matching pants and a tie wide enough to park a bus.
Granted, the wolfman mask didn't have adequate eye holes causing us to bump into things, and was also a bit warm - steaming hot really - but good golly we looked cool wearing 'em!
"Grrrrr! OUCH! Damn tree."
It got to the point when we would only put the masks on when we were actually at the porch of each house.
We were like the postal carriers: Rain nor snow nor gloom of night did not deter us from getting free candy by going to the homes of complete strangers and saying the magic phrase:
"Trick-or-Treat!"
A neighborhood boy even went as far as changing costumes and visited the same houses
to get even more candy, something we considered to be a brilliant move, wondering why we haven't thought of it.
Then after pounding the pavement for what seemed like miles (Which in fact were miles) we returned home and spread out our loot, sorting out the good stuff (Chocolate "anything"), and grimacing at the bad stuff (A neighborhood dentist had the audacity to give out toothbrushes! The nerve! ). Unfortunately a few years went by and some sicko-freaks had to go and spoil one of the greatest holidays a kid could ever have and put needles and razor blades in the candy. So from then on our parents insisted that we had to inspect our candy before we crammed it into our mouths, which takes away some of the unadulterated bliss of the whole thoughtless cramming thing.
For kids, the fun doesn't stop with eating the chocolate. After repeated chocolate-eating we had discovered that for every action, there's an opposite and equal reaction. Well, at that time we had no idea what that meant, but we did discover that chocolate made us fart. Big time. I recall one night after a Halloween Neighborhood Candy Expedition my brother, some neighborhood kid, and I had a "farting contest." Yes, as kids we were easily amused and tell me, what can be more amusing than a bunch of kids farting incessantly in an enclosed area? It's like a Kodak Moment. But really smelly.
But then as fast as the trick-or-treating started, it was over. We were suddenly "too old" to even think the words "trick-or-treat." Chocolate-powered flatulence has lost its luster (however beer-powered flatulence still provides hours of entertainment) and it was time to move on to the next level of Halloween: The desecration of jack-o'-lanterns, flaming bags of dog poop on porches, toilet paper in the trees, and scaring the hell out of the little kids.
Soon those mean-spirited pranks seem menial, and suddenly we're old enough to go to costume parties while watching underaged drinkers puke their guts out. And that stage can continue far into your twenties, afterwards you get married, have your own family and continue the Halloween tradition with your own kids. Then another Halloween cycle begins.
So enjoy Halloween with yourselves, and embrace the wholesome trick-or-treating with your kids. Just make sure you open some windows when they get back.
Unmentionable Shopping
Unmentionable Shopping (A ShinySpeak classic from jokelist Episode 231, 2/21/02)
Written by David M. Muench
When the bungee cord begins to draw blood around my waist (that darn elastic band
broke five years ago) I decide it's due time for some new underwear.
For most men it's a simple act that is marked with remarkable brevity. Look at the package (no pun intended). If it looks like what we want, the size is right, and the colors aren't too weird, we'll get them.
My girlfriend and I spent a few hours at the mall last Saturday, and she decided she needed some new "sexy" underwear. I'm guessing that takes considerable more time than grabbin' a bag of "Hanes Her Way," because we circled the "Sexy Underwear Round Table" for fifteen minutes. Naturally I was elected to hold her previously selected Sexy Bra and Sexy Shirt. There's not a manly enough way to hold Sexy Women's stuff, so I held the Sexy Bra to my chest and inquired to Kate, "How does it look?" Unfortunately another woman overheard me and stated, "It looks fabulous on you!" Not one to be outdone, I retorted, "Well it's too bad I don't wear underwear," leaving Kate red-faced and gasping for breath.
After the twentieth orbit around the Sexy Underwear Round Table and asking me my preference (they don't sell edible pizza-flavored thongs), we were finally done. Oddly enough she never took me unmentionable shopping again.
Written by David M. Muench
When the bungee cord begins to draw blood around my waist (that darn elastic band
broke five years ago) I decide it's due time for some new underwear.
For most men it's a simple act that is marked with remarkable brevity. Look at the package (no pun intended). If it looks like what we want, the size is right, and the colors aren't too weird, we'll get them.
My girlfriend and I spent a few hours at the mall last Saturday, and she decided she needed some new "sexy" underwear. I'm guessing that takes considerable more time than grabbin' a bag of "Hanes Her Way," because we circled the "Sexy Underwear Round Table" for fifteen minutes. Naturally I was elected to hold her previously selected Sexy Bra and Sexy Shirt. There's not a manly enough way to hold Sexy Women's stuff, so I held the Sexy Bra to my chest and inquired to Kate, "How does it look?" Unfortunately another woman overheard me and stated, "It looks fabulous on you!" Not one to be outdone, I retorted, "Well it's too bad I don't wear underwear," leaving Kate red-faced and gasping for breath.
After the twentieth orbit around the Sexy Underwear Round Table and asking me my preference (they don't sell edible pizza-flavored thongs), we were finally done. Oddly enough she never took me unmentionable shopping again.
Put a Sock In It!
Put a Sock In It! (A ShinySpeak classic from my jokelist; Episode 124, 6/14/02)
Written by David M. Muench
Have any of you done something embarrassing and tried to "play it off," like jogging after tripping over a curb, or pretend to be rubbing your nose when somebody catches you "diggin' for fool's gold?"
Soo I was at Blockbuster Video the other day looking for a couple of flicks to watch (Really? Movies? At a Blockbuster?). I had walked around for five minutes when stepped back on something. I looked down at my foot to see what exactly I was stepping on and was puzzled to see some black cloth lump under my foot. It didn't help my bewilderment when I saw that this black thing seemed to be coming out of the leg of my pants.
With mounting horror I knew what had happened to my missing black sock. It was attempting to abandon my pants. I don't know why I was so mortified about a sock coming out of my pants. I've had fabric softener sheets appear out of my pant leg like a cheap magician many times. Maybe I didn't want anybody to think I was, um, "enhancing the package." No, no I wasn't.
So I casually swept my foot over the sock and just stood there, pretending to be extremely interested in a DVD of which I don't even remember the name.
Fortunately the store wasn't too busy, and when nobody was looking I reached down casually and pulled the damn thing out of my pant leg and shoved it in my pocket. It's amazing how much damage could be done to your Cool Factor when you have a black sock hanging out of your pants.
Damn that static cling.
Written by David M. Muench
Have any of you done something embarrassing and tried to "play it off," like jogging after tripping over a curb, or pretend to be rubbing your nose when somebody catches you "diggin' for fool's gold?"
Soo I was at Blockbuster Video the other day looking for a couple of flicks to watch (Really? Movies? At a Blockbuster?). I had walked around for five minutes when stepped back on something. I looked down at my foot to see what exactly I was stepping on and was puzzled to see some black cloth lump under my foot. It didn't help my bewilderment when I saw that this black thing seemed to be coming out of the leg of my pants.
With mounting horror I knew what had happened to my missing black sock. It was attempting to abandon my pants. I don't know why I was so mortified about a sock coming out of my pants. I've had fabric softener sheets appear out of my pant leg like a cheap magician many times. Maybe I didn't want anybody to think I was, um, "enhancing the package." No, no I wasn't.
So I casually swept my foot over the sock and just stood there, pretending to be extremely interested in a DVD of which I don't even remember the name.
Fortunately the store wasn't too busy, and when nobody was looking I reached down casually and pulled the damn thing out of my pant leg and shoved it in my pocket. It's amazing how much damage could be done to your Cool Factor when you have a black sock hanging out of your pants.
Damn that static cling.
Body Cleansing Thingies
Body Cleansing Thingies (ShinySpeak classic lifted straight from the jokelist, Thu Jan 24, 2002)
Written by David M. Muench
My girlfriend gave me a body cleanser thingy, what most people may call exfoliating cleansing pads. I think. It's my first experience with this showering apparatus, and initially I was curious. I turned it over, poked at it, squeezed it, pulled it, and smelled it. I was like early man discovering fire. I even grunted a few times and bellowed a guttural howl in case a rival clan member wandered into the shower attempting to steal it from me.
Satisfied, I squeezed some liquid soap specially made for Body Cleanser Thingies and started "cleansing" myself. At once I felt sympathetic to the thousands of dishes I've washed over the years with a scrubbing pad. For eons my body has been conditioned to using a soft wash cloth, and suddenly I shocked my epidermal system by using a pot scrubber.
I should have gradually eased into it, like nicotine patches. Start with maybe sandpaper, work through steel wool and then finally to barbed wire. I think the alternate definition for "exfoliate" is "will need emergency skin grafting soon."
But people say it's good for the skin, so I guess I'll keep using it. Although I'm not sure how much use it'll be if the skin in question is shredded and lying around the shower drain.
Then the other day Kate and I went to Wally World and happened upon other such exfoliating pads, though they wanted to call them "Poufs." I thought, "Who the hell are they kidding?"Surprisingly, they were actually softer than mine.
I tried to pickout a nice, masculine "pouf," which is rather difficult, since they're all so darn, um, pouffy. To be pleasing to men, the Pouf should be attached to a case of beer and/or be in the shape of a breast.
Every heterosexual male would keep about a dozen in the shower at one time. Devoid of such choices, I opted for a manly hunter green color; even has the word "hunter" in it.
Written by David M. Muench
My girlfriend gave me a body cleanser thingy, what most people may call exfoliating cleansing pads. I think. It's my first experience with this showering apparatus, and initially I was curious. I turned it over, poked at it, squeezed it, pulled it, and smelled it. I was like early man discovering fire. I even grunted a few times and bellowed a guttural howl in case a rival clan member wandered into the shower attempting to steal it from me.
Satisfied, I squeezed some liquid soap specially made for Body Cleanser Thingies and started "cleansing" myself. At once I felt sympathetic to the thousands of dishes I've washed over the years with a scrubbing pad. For eons my body has been conditioned to using a soft wash cloth, and suddenly I shocked my epidermal system by using a pot scrubber.
I should have gradually eased into it, like nicotine patches. Start with maybe sandpaper, work through steel wool and then finally to barbed wire. I think the alternate definition for "exfoliate" is "will need emergency skin grafting soon."
But people say it's good for the skin, so I guess I'll keep using it. Although I'm not sure how much use it'll be if the skin in question is shredded and lying around the shower drain.
Then the other day Kate and I went to Wally World and happened upon other such exfoliating pads, though they wanted to call them "Poufs." I thought, "Who the hell are they kidding?"Surprisingly, they were actually softer than mine.
I tried to pickout a nice, masculine "pouf," which is rather difficult, since they're all so darn, um, pouffy. To be pleasing to men, the Pouf should be attached to a case of beer and/or be in the shape of a breast.
Every heterosexual male would keep about a dozen in the shower at one time. Devoid of such choices, I opted for a manly hunter green color; even has the word "hunter" in it.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Whoa, Horsey!
Written by David M. Muench
I have absolutely nothing against animals. Most of them I love. Especially with a little seasoning and barbecue sauce. There is one animal, though, that holds a special place in my heart. I am speaking of course of the horse. Equus caballus. Death on four hooves.
It was a warm, spring morning in '95. My girlfriend and I enjoyed a wild, inebriated night of camping with some friends at a local lake in which I had learned a harsh lesson in mixing beer with the "Hard Stuff." I evacuated the contents of my stomach before turning in, and the morning light brought with it a hangover from the bowels of Hell.
Later on that day my girlfriend thought it would be "fun" to ride horses at the lake. My head was still punishing me from my lack in judgement the prior evening, but I still acquiesced to her idea.
We drove to the stables where they had the horse rides. The cowboys asked what our level of equestrian expertise was. My girlfirend had been around horses before, so she was an old hand. Me? The last time I was on a horse was with my sister in '76 - and that horse had gastrointestinal issues.
The cowboys then chose the horses that are comparable to your skill level. My girlfriend had a spirited beast who was named Flash, or Lightning. You know, something really cool.
I had an old horse with one hoof in the glue factory door who went by the name of "Okie". I even think that the hoof in question may have been prosthetic.
After a brief "driving" lesson we were off on the trail with the other "concrete cowpokes".
I admit, about five minutes into the ride I was actually enjoying the loping gait of Ol' Okie. My mind conjured up images of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, lumbering on the trails; a six-shooter on my hip and my steely eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the sun (or in this case, last night's hangover). Since my girlfriend had a "steed for speed" she frequently bursted ahead, while me and Okie plodded along the trail. A few times Okie was feeling his oats and started to break into a trot, but fearing his demise (and mine as well) I pulled back on the reigns a bit to slow the old codger down.
Along the trails were signs emblazoned with arrows directing the flow of traffic, which kind of killed the fantasy of the Old West. I assume those arrows were meant for us as I wouldn't imagine the horses could discern an arrow from an apple.
My girlfriend and I came to a fork in the road; and in the 1800's I'm sure we would rely on instinct to know which trail to take. Fortunately it was the 1990's and there was a sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Pulling the reigns to the right I then realized that the old horse may also be afflicted with a mild case of Alzheimer's, because he started to turn left. If that wasn't bad enough, there was some sort of motorized vehicle coming down that left path. I was thinking "Great, Okie is going to get spooked and either have a heart attack and collapse on me or throw my city boy ass off onto the ground."
Normally in the old Westerns it's the guy that gallops in on the horse to save the damsel in distress. Nope, not this day. With the grace and speed of a jockey my girlfriend races in front of Okie and successfully turns him in the right direction. If that wasn't bad enough, that motorized vehicle was a four-wheeler driven by one of the cowboys, and he witnessed this heroic "rescue" of a man and horse gone astray.
All I could do is smile sheepishly and say, "thanks, honey." I no longer fantasized about being that old rough and tumble cowboy of the West as I continued the rest of the ride with my head hung a little lower, but still keeping my humor as I joked "Gee, it's kinda bad when the woman has to rescue the man."
Damn horse.
Written by David M. Muench
I have absolutely nothing against animals. Most of them I love. Especially with a little seasoning and barbecue sauce. There is one animal, though, that holds a special place in my heart. I am speaking of course of the horse. Equus caballus. Death on four hooves.
It was a warm, spring morning in '95. My girlfriend and I enjoyed a wild, inebriated night of camping with some friends at a local lake in which I had learned a harsh lesson in mixing beer with the "Hard Stuff." I evacuated the contents of my stomach before turning in, and the morning light brought with it a hangover from the bowels of Hell.
Later on that day my girlfriend thought it would be "fun" to ride horses at the lake. My head was still punishing me from my lack in judgement the prior evening, but I still acquiesced to her idea.
We drove to the stables where they had the horse rides. The cowboys asked what our level of equestrian expertise was. My girlfirend had been around horses before, so she was an old hand. Me? The last time I was on a horse was with my sister in '76 - and that horse had gastrointestinal issues.
The cowboys then chose the horses that are comparable to your skill level. My girlfriend had a spirited beast who was named Flash, or Lightning. You know, something really cool.
I had an old horse with one hoof in the glue factory door who went by the name of "Okie". I even think that the hoof in question may have been prosthetic.
After a brief "driving" lesson we were off on the trail with the other "concrete cowpokes".
I admit, about five minutes into the ride I was actually enjoying the loping gait of Ol' Okie. My mind conjured up images of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, lumbering on the trails; a six-shooter on my hip and my steely eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the sun (or in this case, last night's hangover). Since my girlfriend had a "steed for speed" she frequently bursted ahead, while me and Okie plodded along the trail. A few times Okie was feeling his oats and started to break into a trot, but fearing his demise (and mine as well) I pulled back on the reigns a bit to slow the old codger down.
Along the trails were signs emblazoned with arrows directing the flow of traffic, which kind of killed the fantasy of the Old West. I assume those arrows were meant for us as I wouldn't imagine the horses could discern an arrow from an apple.
My girlfriend and I came to a fork in the road; and in the 1800's I'm sure we would rely on instinct to know which trail to take. Fortunately it was the 1990's and there was a sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Pulling the reigns to the right I then realized that the old horse may also be afflicted with a mild case of Alzheimer's, because he started to turn left. If that wasn't bad enough, there was some sort of motorized vehicle coming down that left path. I was thinking "Great, Okie is going to get spooked and either have a heart attack and collapse on me or throw my city boy ass off onto the ground."
Normally in the old Westerns it's the guy that gallops in on the horse to save the damsel in distress. Nope, not this day. With the grace and speed of a jockey my girlfriend races in front of Okie and successfully turns him in the right direction. If that wasn't bad enough, that motorized vehicle was a four-wheeler driven by one of the cowboys, and he witnessed this heroic "rescue" of a man and horse gone astray.
All I could do is smile sheepishly and say, "thanks, honey." I no longer fantasized about being that old rough and tumble cowboy of the West as I continued the rest of the ride with my head hung a little lower, but still keeping my humor as I joked "Gee, it's kinda bad when the woman has to rescue the man."
Damn horse.
Whoa, Horsey!
Whoa, Horsey!
Written by David M. Muench
I have absolutely nothing against animals. Most of them I love. Especially with a little seasoning and barbecue sauce. There is one animal, though, that holds a special place in my heart. I am speaking of course of the horse. Equus caballus. Death on four hooves.
It was a warm, spring morning in '95. My girlfriend and I enjoyed a wild, inebriated night of camping with some friends at a local lake in which I had learned a harsh lesson in mixing beer with the "Hard Stuff." I evacuated the contents of my stomach before turning in, and the morning light brought with it a hangover from the bowels of Hell.
Later on that day my girlfriend thought it would be "fun" to ride horses at the lake. My head was still punishing me from my lack of judgment the prior evening, but I still acquiesced to her idea.
We drove to the stables where they had the horse rides. The cowboys asked what our level of equestrian expertise was. My girlfriend had been around horses before, so she was an old hand. Me? The last time I was on a horse was with my sister in '76 - and that horse had gastrointestinal issues.
The cowboys then chose the horses that are comparable to your skill level. My girlfriend had a spirited beast who was named Flash, or Lightning. You know, something really cool.
I had an old horse with one hoof in the glue factory door who went by the name of "Okie." I even think that the hoof in question may have been prosthetic.
After a brief "driving" lesson we were off on the trail with the other "concrete cowpokes."
I admit, about five minutes into the ride I was actually enjoying the loping gait of Ol' Okie. My mind conjured up images of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, lumbering on the trails; a six-shooter on my hip and my steely eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the sun (or in this case, last night's hangover). Since my girlfriend had a "steed for speed" she frequently burst ahead, while me and Okie plodded along the trail. A few times Okie was feeling his oats and started to break into a trot, but fearing his demise (and mine as well) I pulled back on the reigns a bit to slow the old codger down.
Along the trails were signs emblazoned with arrows directing the flow of traffic, which kind of killed the fantasy of the Old West. I assume those arrows were meant for us as I wouldn't imagine the horses could discern an arrow from an apple.
My girlfriend and I came to a fork in the road; and in the 1800's I'm sure we would rely on instinct to know which trail to take. Fortunately it was the 1990's and there was a sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Pulling the reigns to the right I then realized that the old horse may also be afflicted with a mild case of Alzheimer's, because he started to turn left. If that wasn't bad enough, there was some sort of motorized vehicle coming down that left path. I was thinking "Great, Okie is going to get spooked and either have a heart attack and collapse on me or throw my city boy ass off onto the ground."
Normally in the old Westerns it's the guy that gallops in on the horse to save the damsel in distress. Nope, not this day. With the grace and speed of a jockey my girlfriend races in front of Okie and successfully turns him in the right direction. If that wasn't bad enough, that motorized vehicle was a four-wheeler driven by one of the cowboys, and he witnessed this heroic "rescue" of a man and horse gone astray.
All I could do is smile sheepishly and say, "thanks, honey." I no longer fantasized about being that old rough and tumble cowboy of the West as I continued the rest of the ride with my head hung a little lower, but still keeping my humor as I joked "Gee, it's kinda bad when the woman has to rescue the man."
Damn horse.
Written by David M. Muench
I have absolutely nothing against animals. Most of them I love. Especially with a little seasoning and barbecue sauce. There is one animal, though, that holds a special place in my heart. I am speaking of course of the horse. Equus caballus. Death on four hooves.
It was a warm, spring morning in '95. My girlfriend and I enjoyed a wild, inebriated night of camping with some friends at a local lake in which I had learned a harsh lesson in mixing beer with the "Hard Stuff." I evacuated the contents of my stomach before turning in, and the morning light brought with it a hangover from the bowels of Hell.
Later on that day my girlfriend thought it would be "fun" to ride horses at the lake. My head was still punishing me from my lack of judgment the prior evening, but I still acquiesced to her idea.
We drove to the stables where they had the horse rides. The cowboys asked what our level of equestrian expertise was. My girlfriend had been around horses before, so she was an old hand. Me? The last time I was on a horse was with my sister in '76 - and that horse had gastrointestinal issues.
The cowboys then chose the horses that are comparable to your skill level. My girlfriend had a spirited beast who was named Flash, or Lightning. You know, something really cool.
I had an old horse with one hoof in the glue factory door who went by the name of "Okie." I even think that the hoof in question may have been prosthetic.
After a brief "driving" lesson we were off on the trail with the other "concrete cowpokes."
I admit, about five minutes into the ride I was actually enjoying the loping gait of Ol' Okie. My mind conjured up images of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, lumbering on the trails; a six-shooter on my hip and my steely eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the sun (or in this case, last night's hangover). Since my girlfriend had a "steed for speed" she frequently burst ahead, while me and Okie plodded along the trail. A few times Okie was feeling his oats and started to break into a trot, but fearing his demise (and mine as well) I pulled back on the reigns a bit to slow the old codger down.
Along the trails were signs emblazoned with arrows directing the flow of traffic, which kind of killed the fantasy of the Old West. I assume those arrows were meant for us as I wouldn't imagine the horses could discern an arrow from an apple.
My girlfriend and I came to a fork in the road; and in the 1800's I'm sure we would rely on instinct to know which trail to take. Fortunately it was the 1990's and there was a sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Pulling the reigns to the right I then realized that the old horse may also be afflicted with a mild case of Alzheimer's, because he started to turn left. If that wasn't bad enough, there was some sort of motorized vehicle coming down that left path. I was thinking "Great, Okie is going to get spooked and either have a heart attack and collapse on me or throw my city boy ass off onto the ground."
Normally in the old Westerns it's the guy that gallops in on the horse to save the damsel in distress. Nope, not this day. With the grace and speed of a jockey my girlfriend races in front of Okie and successfully turns him in the right direction. If that wasn't bad enough, that motorized vehicle was a four-wheeler driven by one of the cowboys, and he witnessed this heroic "rescue" of a man and horse gone astray.
All I could do is smile sheepishly and say, "thanks, honey." I no longer fantasized about being that old rough and tumble cowboy of the West as I continued the rest of the ride with my head hung a little lower, but still keeping my humor as I joked "Gee, it's kinda bad when the woman has to rescue the man."
Damn horse.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Attack of the Killer Wasps!
Written by David M. Muench
Okay, admit it. You've all done your share of "Man I Hope Nobody Was Watching Me Be Stupid" moments. Being an equally fallible human being with an overactive imagination I too have done things that defy the laws of common sense.
I was returning from yet another bromidic day at work. As I was walking up to the porch I warily eyed a particularly large mud-built wasp nest anchored next to a window overlooking the porch. I counted approximately five wasps flitting to and from their home - some pulsating angrily (they might have actually been quite content, but I wasn't about to get close enough to see if any of them were grinning) in and out of their nest.
As I stood there transfixed by that spectacle I was reminded of a time some years back when I was stung by a couple of equally "angry" wasps. I don't have any severe allergic reactions to their sting, but I would prefer to avoid the painful sting and itching afterward.
Coming out of my nostalgic reverie I finally mounted the first porch step - never breaking eye contact with that nest nor its residents. Suddenly I felt a strong buzzing sensation on my hip, and I did what any sane-minded individual would do in that situation. I completely "wigged out" and flailed wildly at my hip, trying to annihilate the enormous Amazonian Killer Wasp that had attacked me.
It wasn't until after the fourth or fifth slap did I register my hand contacting a hard object, causing my hip slight discomfort with each panicked swing of my arm. Puzzled, I allowed myself a quick glance down at the besieged area I realized with growing humiliation that I had violently assaulted my pager, which was unfortunately set on "vibrate."
Cursing myself I shook my head with chagrined disbelief and looked around to see if my Departure From Sanity had been witnessed by bemused neighbors. Fortunately for me, it wasn't. I then assessed the damage inflicted on my defenseless pager, checked to see who the bastard was that paged me, and then immediately set the pager to an audible beep.
Yes indeed, after that day I had found yet another reason to abhor wasps.
Attack of the Killer Wasps!
Attack of the Killer Wasps!
Written by David M. Muench
Okay, admit it. You've all done your share of "Man I Hope Nobody Was Watching Me Be Stupid" moments. Being an equally fallible human being with an overactive imagination I too have done things that defy the laws of common sense.
I was returning from yet another bromidic day at work. As I was walking up to the porch I warily eyed a particularly large mud-built wasp nest anchored next to a window overlooking the porch. I counted approximately five wasps flitting to and from their home - some pulsating angrily (they might have actually been quite content, but I wasn't about to get close enough to see if any of them were grinning) in and out of their nest.
As I stood there transfixed by that spectacle I was reminded of a time some years back when I was stung by a couple of equally "angry" wasps. I don't have any severe allergic reactions to their sting, but I would prefer to avoid the painful sting and itching afterward.
Coming out of my nostalgic reverie I finally mounted the first porch step - never breaking eye contact with that nest nor its residents. Suddenly I felt a strong buzzing sensation on my hip, and I did what any sane-minded individual would do in that situation. I completely "wigged out" and flailed wildly at my hip, trying to annihilate the enormous Amazonian Killer Wasp that had attacked me.
It wasn't until after the fourth or fifth slap did I register my hand contacting a hard object, causing my hip slight discomfort with each panicked swing of my arm. Puzzled, I allowed myself a quick glance down at the besieged area I realized with growing humiliation that I had violently assaulted my pager, which was unfortunately set on "vibrate."
Cursing myself I shook my head with chagrined disbelief and looked around to see if my Departure From Sanity had been witnessed by bemused neighbors. Fortunately for me, it wasn't. I then assessed the damage inflicted on my defenseless pager, checked to see who the bastard was that paged me, and then immediately set the pager to an audible beep.
Yes indeed, after that day I had found yet another reason to abhor wasps.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Enter Sandman
Written by David M. Muench
picture from "the buckets"
I've had many "night terrors" similar to that; happening soon after I nod off - when I'm
on the razor-thin precipice between sleep and consciousness.
In my dreaming mind's eye, I've seen huge Spider Things drop down from the ceiling or a large, black snakes straight from Hades that have surreptitiously slinked its way to my jugular.
Naturally I don't wake up in a start, quickly realizing it was my imagination on methamphetamines, and gracefully fall back into peaceful slumber.
Noooo.
I have grabbed, swatted, kicked, and pummeled these "threats" that are -
in some primordial portion of my brain - as real as the nose on my face.
Sometimes I can make it as far as the floor beside the bed, gasping for breath with my
heart pounding against my ribcage after a tumultuous tussle with an evil nemesis in the form
of a giant python. A few other times I have even ventured to my bedroom light switch;
defiantly slamming it upward to flood the dastardly demons with a cleansing, holy light that only a 60 watt light bulb can bring.
Amusingly, the light also has a cleansing effect on my brain as well; and as I stand there
in my boxers, squinting against the harsh light while poised in a clumsy Tae Kwon Do
iron horse stance ready to defend myself, I realize that there really wasn't a dastardly demon.
Just a demented dumbass opening up a can of whoop ass on his comforter.
I shake my head in disbelief, flick the light back off, climb back into bed, and try to forget
that ever happened.
Written by David M. Muench
picture from "the buckets"
I've had many "night terrors" similar to that; happening soon after I nod off - when I'm
on the razor-thin precipice between sleep and consciousness.
In my dreaming mind's eye, I've seen huge Spider Things drop down from the ceiling or a large, black snakes straight from Hades that have surreptitiously slinked its way to my jugular.
Naturally I don't wake up in a start, quickly realizing it was my imagination on methamphetamines, and gracefully fall back into peaceful slumber.
Noooo.
I have grabbed, swatted, kicked, and pummeled these "threats" that are -
in some primordial portion of my brain - as real as the nose on my face.
Sometimes I can make it as far as the floor beside the bed, gasping for breath with my
heart pounding against my ribcage after a tumultuous tussle with an evil nemesis in the form
of a giant python. A few other times I have even ventured to my bedroom light switch;
defiantly slamming it upward to flood the dastardly demons with a cleansing, holy light that only a 60 watt light bulb can bring.
Amusingly, the light also has a cleansing effect on my brain as well; and as I stand there
in my boxers, squinting against the harsh light while poised in a clumsy Tae Kwon Do
iron horse stance ready to defend myself, I realize that there really wasn't a dastardly demon.
Just a demented dumbass opening up a can of whoop ass on his comforter.
I shake my head in disbelief, flick the light back off, climb back into bed, and try to forget
that ever happened.
Enter Sandman
Enter Sandman
Written by David M. Muench
I've had similar "night terrors," happening soon after I nod off - when I'm
on the razor-thin precipice between sleep and consciousness.
In my dreaming mind's eye, I've seen huge Spider Things drop down from the ceiling or a large, black snakes straight from Hades that have surreptitiously slinked its way to my jugular.
Naturally I don't wake up in a start, quickly realizing it was my imagination on methamphetamines, and gracefully fall back into peaceful slumber.
Noooo.
I have grabbed, swatted, kicked, and pummeled these "threats" that are - in some primordial portion of my brain - as real as the nose on my face.
Sometimes I can make it as far as the floor beside the bed, gasping for breath with my heart pounding against my ribcage after a tumultuous tussle with an evil nemesis in the form of a giant python. A few other times I have even ventured to my bedroom light switch; defiantly slamming it upward to flood the dastardly demons with a cleansing, holy light that only a 60 watt light bulb can bring.
Amusingly, the light also has a cleansing effect on my brain as well; and as I stand there in my boxers, squinting against the harsh light while poised in a clumsy Tae Kwon Do iron horse stance ready to defend myself, I realize that there really wasn't a dastardly demon.
Just a demented dumbass opening up a can of whoop ass on his comforter.
I shake my head in disbelief, flick the light back off, climb back into bed, and try to forget
that ever happened. Until the next time it happens.
Written by David M. Muench
I've had similar "night terrors," happening soon after I nod off - when I'm
on the razor-thin precipice between sleep and consciousness.
In my dreaming mind's eye, I've seen huge Spider Things drop down from the ceiling or a large, black snakes straight from Hades that have surreptitiously slinked its way to my jugular.
Naturally I don't wake up in a start, quickly realizing it was my imagination on methamphetamines, and gracefully fall back into peaceful slumber.
Noooo.
I have grabbed, swatted, kicked, and pummeled these "threats" that are - in some primordial portion of my brain - as real as the nose on my face.
Sometimes I can make it as far as the floor beside the bed, gasping for breath with my heart pounding against my ribcage after a tumultuous tussle with an evil nemesis in the form of a giant python. A few other times I have even ventured to my bedroom light switch; defiantly slamming it upward to flood the dastardly demons with a cleansing, holy light that only a 60 watt light bulb can bring.
Amusingly, the light also has a cleansing effect on my brain as well; and as I stand there in my boxers, squinting against the harsh light while poised in a clumsy Tae Kwon Do iron horse stance ready to defend myself, I realize that there really wasn't a dastardly demon.
Just a demented dumbass opening up a can of whoop ass on his comforter.
I shake my head in disbelief, flick the light back off, climb back into bed, and try to forget
that ever happened. Until the next time it happens.
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