Random Thoughts

Natasha dreams of having an imaginary maid. The funny thing is, I actually grew up with an imaginary maid. Her name was Theresa. Let me tell you, Natasha, imaginary maids don’t do a very good job of cleaning. That was our family joke. Dishes piled up in the sink? Time to have a chat with Theresa. Clothes need washing? We’d call out for Theresa, but she never answered.

Was my family crazy? Well, yeah. But we were also the children of a struggling single mom. When you don’t have much, it makes you creative. My mom also had a talking crooked eye tooth named Charlie. But we couldn’t pin the dirty dishes on Charlie, so he didn’t get nearly as much attention.

I see this sign whenever I drive down Fell street.  I find it about as helpful as my paranoid Jewish Italian mother who always asks me if anything I’m planning on doing is safe or a good idea.  Beware of seesaw!?  When did the seesaw become such a threat to drivers everywhere?  My mother would tell me not to worry why but just be very careful on that stretch of road and maybe avoid it altogether.

I don’t think seesaws are even around any more. 

Do you work in an office building and get roped into co-worker lunch parties? You know, someone says “Hey, it’s Larry’s birthday so we’re going to take him out to lunch to celebrate!” So you and a rag-tag band of 15 office mates all go to some really mediocre restaurant like Chevy’s that accomodates ridiculously large groups in search of sombreros and bland and over-priced Fresh Mex.

Do you then order something humble, so as not to rudely make your fellow diners subsidize your meal? Of course you do. You order bread and tap water. Then the bill comes. Your bread and water costs $30. That’s because a few happy go lucky folks in the crowd decided to go to town with their lunch, knowing full well this bill would be split evenly.

Do you know what happened to you? You just got mealjacked, my friend. It happens where groups gather to eat together and split the bill. Someone in the gang decides to live it up and you shoulder the cost. Mealjacked.

Have you ever been happily chatting away on your cell phone, only to realize the other person isn’t there, and probably hasn’t been for a little while? I’m starting to get that feeling about my blog. Today I was going to write about my idea for the shower bed. But then I saw the gradually decreasing curve of comments to my posts and began to wonder if anybody would read what I write. OK, so maybe my last posting wasn’t nearly as fun as reading about the bathroom bonus or how people think I’m gay. Come on, they can’t all be winners.

Am I writing on the internet to myself!? Man, that’s really bad. Really bad.

Sometimes the little guy wins. And let me tell you, it’s extremely intoxicating when you’re the little guy that wins.

I built a web site for what turned out to be a really bad client. They weren’t paying. After 3 months of being polite and getting almost no reply from them, I realized it was time to pull up my sleeves and get serious. I finally started to get some reaction from them, but they were nasty. They basically told me to knock off a bunch of money from my bill, or take them to court. It takes 3 months to get that kind of response!? Sheesh. I made a compromise offer which I was told probably wouldn’t fly. I don’t like to be bullied. Especially when I’m in the right and the bully is in the wrong.

So I researched my rights and managed to use copyright law to get the website taken down. That morning I got a call from the bully, who was now suddenly very willing to accept the offer that, last time I checked, they told me “probably wouldn’t fly”. Their attitude quickly changed once the lights went out, so to speak.

Let me tell you, it’s an awesome feeling to fight for what’s right and win.

There’s a force to be feared roaming the streets near me. 
Oh kind elderly woman, what harm could you be? 
With a sweet gentle smile and grandmotherly looks,
you’ll imagine the goods a grandmother cooks. 
But soon you’ll feel pain from deep in your head —
TRAPPED by lips going flippity flap instead!

Such was my fate one warm sunny day. 
In her sundress and hat, I was drawn her way. 
I realized, too late, the mistake I had made. 
This was all an elaborate trap she had laid. 
She opened her mouth and words flowed without end,
in a rambling conversation I could not comprehend.

She had no intention of letting me get away.
I dozed off standing up and began to sway.
I look pleadingly around for a helping hand. 
But I was alone, this was my last stand. 
Somehow, some way, I managed to flee. 
I think the old lady was done with me.

Now I tread on tippy toes with a suspicious eye,
lest this talkative grandma again I should spy. 
Oh look, someone’s caught in her verbal embrace. 
As they assess the situation, fear spreads through their face.
Beware faithful reader, lest my fate befall you
This story I’m telling is 100% true.

I have a controversial theory about kissing. Read on, oh brave exporer of the blogosphere, and you will be exposed to the crazy firings of my neurons in a way that may change the way you look at happy couples everywhere. Are you ready for the mirror of reality to crack apart in a shower of shiny shards and have the harsh reality of truth thrust before you? Then please, continue…

There’s no such thing as a good kisser. That’s right. You read it here first. THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A GOOD KISSER.

Here’s the deal. Kissing is a team sport. That means there is “KISSING CHEMISTRY”. Two people kiss well TOGETHER. One person’s crappy kisser is another person’s great kisser.

So now you want to know how I arrived at this theory. What was the virtual apple that bonked me on the head and made me the Newton of kissing? I tell you, I’ve seen some really scary kissing going down and the couple seemed to be enjoying it tremendously. I couldn’t understand how they could be enjoying that sloppy mess. But there they were, happy as can be. Then it hit me. There are all kinds of things that are a matter of taste. Some people like vanilla, some people like chocolate. Some people like class, others like crass. Why should kissing be any different?

So kiss on, my friends. Kiss on with that certain someone that you have that magical kissing chemistry with.

Today I offer you a gift. The gift of gab. Sort of. Today you will have one new word to gab with. See, this blog is educational. Tell that to your boss or nosey coworker next time you get caught surfing here.

Question: Have you ever had stuff that you had to do, but you didn’t really want to do it? If you answered “no” to this question then you probably have the sideburns of the future; you come from a time where conquering aliens dominate the earth. The aliens made us more efficient slaves by genetically engineering us to not procrastinate. However, those of you not from the alien slave future know what I’m talking about.

My friend Stephanie told me that she had a habit of cleaning up around the house when she’s trying to avoid work. She then told me she calls this “procrasticleaning”. I think this is a freelancer phenomenon. Who else is at home trying to avoid work? If you’re cleaning up around the office when trying to avoid work, your co-workers will think you’ve gone insane. What does the janitor do when s/he needs to procrastinate? Does s/he sit in a cubicle and write up a few memos?

That’s all for now. Stop procrastireadingmyblog and get back to work. Or take a few minutes more to procrasticontributeacomment…

I don’t understand why most guys find big boobs so appealing. Massive mamaries are like the SUV of the boob world. Come on, do we really need all that boob? No, we don’t. We can’t handle all that boob. When they’re big, they’re just all over the place. It’s like herding cats.

So what’s my point? What am I saying? Am I saying big boobs are like a herd of cats? No. But women do tend to like cats.

I’m saying the world’s gone crazy. The women with the most unappealingly huge chest have everyone convinced they’ve got the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow inside their bra. And the women with the superior small to medium sized chest don’t seem to understand how much better it is. So I’m here to shout it from the rooftops! Or at least the top of this page. Down with big and up with small!

I’m certain I’ve detected a stranded time traveler roaming my neighborhood. How can I tell? Well, there are three clues:

1) He keeps to himself quite a bit. This is almost certainly because he doesn’t want to cause some kind of catastrophic change in the future by accident.

2) He has the sideburns of the future. How do I know they’re the sideburns of the future? Well, let’s look at what’s happened with sideburns over time. They have fluctuated up and down. But has anyone ever made an inverse sideburn? I don’t think so. It’s the only place left for sideburns to go. He trims up into his regular hairline. It looks kind of like he wants you to think he’s wearing a wig, but he’s not.

3) After making sporadic appearances, he has completely disappeared. I think he was rescued by fellow time travelers, or fixed his time travel device. Maybe he fixed it using the sideburn hair he was shaving away.