Next Door Neighbor Update

Someone just peed on the other side of our fence. Thanks, buddy. Nothing like the sound of a stream of urine hitting wood, then concrete, to liven up my private living room experience.

I'm probably just a picky American.

I can't be the only person to ever have thought of this. Why do bathrooms have to be so user unfriendly? And if you think I'm about to toe the typical girly "germs are icky" party line, think again. I'm talking about that thing you do, wherein you make as little noise of any kind as possible, in the fervent hopes that whoever else is sharing the bathroom will do likewise. I find this just about everywhere I go (pardon the pun). Girls will shuffle their feet, rattle superfluous cowboy hats*, and violently unroll yards of toilet paper in an effort to disguise the fact that they are making noises that 6 billion other people on Earth also make, most likely repeatedly in one day.

Anyway, I want our bathrooms to be more like they are in other places. In the airport in Brussels, each stall is its own little room, with a full sized wood door. You are closed in. You do not have to listen to anyone else. You do not have to strew crinkly paper products all over the place to keep other people from hearing you. It's kind of cozy. You're claustrophobic, you say? You can hold it until later, I say. We make enough compromises for you people.

Another great way to improve the overall bathroom ambience and, at the same time, reduce bodily noises, is to pipe in the sound of a burbling brook or ocean waves. They do it in Japan (because they're weird, but it ends up working out in this case).

So. I've singlehandedly fixed the noise problem. But what about that godawful smell? How come bathrooms are never adequately ventilated? The only air vent I can see at my office is a small rectangle over the second of three stalls, and its chief purpose seems to be piping in the jocular conversations from the men's room. Hell, if I could pee whilst standing next to a couple of friends, I'd be gabbing too. Instead, I'm relegated to stifling silence. In addition to the aforementioned individual stalls, how about vent hoods, just like over your stove at home? Even better, how about one big industrial sized one, like at McDonald's? I'm sure it would do worlds more good than the little automated spray can of air freshener in my office bathroom that is mounted just tauntingly high enough that I can't rip it out of its little holster and throw it away.

So get right up on that, if you would. I'm getting tired of this.


*Cowboy hats are what seat covers clearly look like when you put them on your head with the flap facing forward. Yes, you have too heard of it before. Whoever photoshops one onto Gee Dub wins a huge prize, including but not limited to the photo's immediate publication on Funundrum.

Quote Of The Day

Brian, on the advertising industry in general:

"Pinocchio in reverse - the more lies you tell, the closer you get to your dreams coming true."

Amen, brother.

Mormons. Excellent cooks, or crazy as hell?

Funundrum reports; you decide.

Every day when I drive home past the Mormon Temple (originally debuted at the 1964 World's Fair), a wave of tasty BBQ goodness washes over me and fills the confines of the Blue Arrow of Death like a delectable, slow-roasted ghost. Made of beef. I always thought it was a nearby Outback Steakhouse or similar, gearing up for the dinner rush. Then, it occurred to me: could the old folk tales be true? Is it the Mormons cooking and eating their young? If so, good on them for embracing some seriously enticing cooking techniques.

I'm probably wrong. But I do know that they're from Mars. This is true, it's been checked out. If you, skeptical reader, need proof, here it is, for the first time ever, exclusive on Funundrum:

Sudoku: Coolest Game Ever?

Funundrum Reports; You Decide

So Sudoku is this really cool game that has caught on big, both in Britain and Australia (Motto: "We do everything Britain does, just more attractively."). It involves numbers, but if this poses a problem for you, worry not -- there's no math involved. It's just a grid of 9 squares, each of which is further divided into 9 squares. All you have to do is fill in each box with a number from 1 to 9. The object is to have every row, column, and 3x3 grid end up with one of each number in it. It's easy to get the hang of, and they always give you some numbers to start with. My favorite sudoku site is here. You should go try it. But not at work. Because you won't be able to stop.

Next-door neighbor update.

Cap'n Craig was repeatedly saying the word "Woof." to a dog, before he switched priorities and began repeatedly crushing beer cans.

Bad copy of the day award.

I have an astonishing three entries today for bad copy of the day award. Not surprisingly, they were all culled from the same day spa website. I have ranked them within their own unique categories.

Second Runner-Up:
"Toner Tea is very tonifying."

Whaaa? Factor: 5
Ebonics Factor: 8

First Runner-Up:
"It's aromatherapy oils and cucumber base provides a pick me up following workouts at the gym, or as an anecdote for a hot or stressful day."

Whaaa? Factor: 4
Double-Take Factor: 7

First Prize for Worst Copy of the Day:
"One drop for each eye will reduce lines, puffiness and creepy looking skin while you sleep."

Whaaa? Factor: 11
Fun fact: 5 out of 6 co-workers peed a little when they heard this copy read out loud.

Liposuction Elves

It's time for another installment of ICQ Madness, complete with timestamps to indicate a sense of urgency. Names have been changed for no particular reason.

[14:55] Wack-a-mole: what's up with this liposelect by vaser madness?
[14:55] Ring Ding: I think it's a certain kind of liposuction. basically, she wants to emphasise that this is the kind of liposuction that she does.
[14:56] Ring Ding: I hadn't researched it or anything.
[14:56] Ring Ding: I assume it involves magic.
[14:56] Wack-a-mole: elves and shit.
[14:56] Ring Ding: fuckin a
[14:57] Wack-a-mole: elves be all suckin fat through straws and shit. They be all like, man I'm full, bitch, but look at that Ass!
[14:58] Ring Ding: and after they're all done, they coat you in chocolate and boot you out of their treetop clinic.
[15:00] Wack-a-mole: well they have to sing you a little song first
[15:01] Ring Ding: "oompa loompa doopity doo, I've got some brand new titties for you."
[15:01] Wack-a-mole: nice emoticon usage.

Tammy Faye and Ringo.

No, this is true. I was just enjoying a gullet-stuffing meal at Panda Express, when I overheard people arguing about Jesus. As you do. I turned around, and it was a trashy version of Tammy Faye (I know what you're thinking, and no. I mean really trashy) and Ringo Starr.

I'm not actually sure it was Ringo, because he didn't have an English accent, and he had put on some weight. I would let myself go, too, if I wan't exactly the odds-on favorite for last Beatle standing. But anyway, if it wasn't Ringo, then I'd put money on him being the evil guy from Superman, who always looked to me like a cross between a hairdresser and a lost member of Fleetwood Mac.

The story doesn't really go anywhere from here, other than Evil Ringo making such sparkling points as "But anyone who says 'that the only way to heaven is through me' isn't much of a teacher." Obviously this man never went to college -- I'm pretty sure that at least 3 of my professors made that exact claim.

Hola, amigos.

I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but things have been pretty crazy since Ron got me fired from that sweet job at the plant. I'm low on weed and my ride's been crapping out ever since I tried to fix the tranny with parts I stole from the junkyard.

....this is all very funny, by the way, if you are a regular reader of "The Cruise" by Jim Anchower. I just got shouted at because I haven't blogged anything in several days. Look, even MY life isn't that scintillating all the time. I've also heard that certain giant companies who clearly do not fight for their employees' right to party are blocking access to the comment feature of this blog. All I can say to them is: try to muzzle the Celtic Tiger, guys, and you're just asking for trouble. Or at least several decades of unrest and drunken infighting. They're good at that.

Moving forward, I will make every attempt to be more entertaining. I may have a small fan base, but they're rabid as all hell. For this I thank you.

The first rule of Fight Club is...

...you don't talk about Fight Club. And here's why.

We were in Blockbuster, looking for Mystery Men because, well, it's a great flick and Chris thinks that I'm Janeane Garofalo on the inside. Blockbuster didn't have it because they're a bunch of corporate assholes who are more interested in stocking 13 copies of Barber Shop 2 because that way they're represen'in, innit. But anyway, we were cruising the comedy aisle, trying to find something other than Uncle Buck and My Girl 3, when we heard the standard PB pod of stoners come in. Chris stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes and said, "Just wait for it. Just wait." So we stood there until one of them started talking.

"Yeah? So Fight Club? It really made me, like, think? That one, and um? The other one? Clockwork Orange? Yeah, Fight Club and Clockwork Orange, after I watched them? They made me smarter?"

For a moment, in my head, it was like that part in High Fidelity where I go through all the possible ways I could beat the living shit out of this girl. My favorite is still the one where I rip the window-mounted air conditioner out of the wall and drop it on her head. They say that living at the beach is supposed to be peaceful, but I don't know what the hell they're talking about.

Economic Darwinism

Or: "Stupidity Costs Money"

I just watched a girl wander into the break room and wonder aloud to no one in particular, "Does this thing give change?" I kept my mouth shut in accordance with the Prime Directive. Sho' nuff, she stuck money into the vending machine, and was pouty when nothing came out (if you stick a dollar bill in, you have to buy something because it's not hooked up to the coin return). Finally, she just got a candy bar, which I hope she'll enjoy for at least five minutes before she brings it back up again.

Now, I'm wondering -- when she wanted change, did she mean for, like, a fiver? I should go back in there to see if there's still $4.25 available on the machine. I feel for some Twizzlers. Then again, I think I would be exploiting a lesser life form, which is just bad karma.

Mom and Mrs. C.

Hey, everybody, remember "Happy Days"? Sure you do. Remember Mrs. C? Sure you do. Apparently she's my mom's new best friend. In what was probably a very surreal gathering, my dad was doing the PR for an event that brought together a bunch of TV Land moms on Catalina Island, including Mrs. C. Who is now my mom's new best friend.

I didn't know it was this easy.

It didn't take a Magic 8 Ball. I didn't need a palm reader. It doesn't matter what the midichlorian count in my blood is.

I can find my destiny on the internet. It just happens to be on an Argentinian motorcoach company's website. Take a look for yourself. You tell it where you're coming from, and then choose your own destiny. I suddenly feel a great sense of peace, knowing that my destiny is attainable via comfortable, clean, and relaxing mass transit.

What I do.

This is actually actual copy that actually got sent to me by an actual medical doctor, who allegedly went all the way through an actual university:

As with any surgery, sometimes events take place that are not planned. The standard risks with surgery are infection, bleeding, and blood clots. Blood clots, if they shoot off to the lungs, can be a lift threatening problem [ed. note: apparently only dangerous in an elevator]. More specific to skin removal surgery, there are three issues to be aware of. The first is fluid collections. Your body will make fluid to heal after any surgery, sometimes, your body will not drink the fluid back up, so it would need to be drained in the office. The second is the possibility that the skin pulls apart. The doctor will remove as much as skin as possible, sometimes, when you feeling better, your increased activity can pull the skin apart through the stitches. Though this sounds like a big problem, it is not. It will heal fine on its own; it will just take about 3 – 4 months. Thighs are very notorious for this, because everyone’s legs are so powerful. Also, in general, the recovery from the thighs can be prolonged. Finally, rarely, there is a chance that the skin that is operated on, will not get enough blood to live, so that it would turn into a scab and then heal from the inside out.

P.S.-- "We are the Notorious Thighs! Give it up for our special guests, the Fluid Collections! NOW.... ARE YOU READY TO ROCK, L.A.????!!!!??" For those of you who have not heard me do the "great name for a rock band" spiel (credit goes to Dave Barry), I always say it in my very best Spinal Tap bad English accent. So that's how you should read it out loud. Go ahead, I'll wait.

O, how I hate you, Bell South

There are only two people employed by BellSouth, Tanequa and Tyrone. Oh, sure, there may be more bodies than that, but the only two people you ever get to talk to are Tanequa and Tyrone. I'm sure that some day, in the future, I'll be talking to Sid, short for Siddhartha Nahasapemapetilan, and I'll look back on the halcyon days of BellSouth, when I could talk to good old Tanequa and Tyrone.

But for today, I had no such glorious visions. I printed out my last bill from them, steeled myself, and dialed the phone. After, of course, warning Jesse that if I started stabbing things at random, he should call for help, as I would have entered a murderous rage by then.

"Good afternoon, this is Tyrone. How can I help you today?"

Long story short: This service got cancelled on April 11th. Yesterday I got an inexplicable bill for $32ish. Tyrone was able to amend this bill from an inexplicable $32ish to an inexplicable $8.92. I instinctively knew that I would never get him to dismiss this last $8.92, so I pushed forward in the "repeat and clarify" fashion that had gotten me this far: "So, what you're telling me is that if I pay you $8.92, we'll be done?" I was assured that this was the case, and promptly sent over to the payment department.

"Good afternoon, my name is Tanequa. Can I have your account number and secret code?"

After what I assure you was a very entertaining exchange involving my lack of a secret code, I offered to pay my bill.

"You are aware that there is a $2.50 charge for paying by phone?"

YOU GODDAMN PHONE MONKEY. TO HELL WITH YOUR GODDAMN PHONE CHARGE. I was still in control of my emotions at this point, so I was able to pull it together, tell her that I was not necessarily interested in paying $2.50 for the privilege of giving Bell South $8.92, and asked if I could pay online.

"You may certainly pay your phone bill on bellsouth dot net," Tanequa parroted, in an astonishingly human-like fashion. "However, in the case of this account you will not be able to pay online because the account is closed."

Urge to kill at this point was up to 11.

So I'm mailing them a check in exchange for never having to speak to them again.