Sheer Genius

The following pictures were forwarded to me today. I wish I had this kind of time.

Better Than Arbor Day

As noted on many of your blogs, yesterday was Talk Like a Pirate Day. I must admit that this internet holiday caught me be surprise, but I think that this is a great institution. Not talking like a pirate, of course, because that's dildolic, but the practice of making up improptu holidays throughout the year. Thus, I have been inspired to declare my own internet holidays. Please mark your calendars accordingly.

Drive Like You're Asian Day
On July 13th, participants will not allow their vehicles to exceed 14 mph and will have their left turn signal blinking perpetually. Moreover, drivers should refrain from using any mirrors before changing lanes and should attempt to travel exclusively in the left lane. If an accident seems unavoidable, cover both eyes with your hands and scream unintelligible gibberish until skidding to your victim.

Do the Wild Thing with an Engineer Day
On September 22nd, participants will spend a romantic evening with either a civil, mechanical, or electrical engineer (I strongly recommend the electrical variety). During the date, the participants will feign interest in mind numbing topics such as failure mode and effects analysis, static load calculations, and boolean algebra. At the conclusion of the date, the participants will partake in copious sweaty monkey-love and then the engineer will calculate things like calories exerted, mattress spring force constants, and whether the crossmembers in the ceiling are capable supporting a trapeze.

Talk Like Art Donovan Day
On December 3rd, participants will start drinking Everclear at dawn while beating on their craniums with a meat mallet. Once complete inebriation has ensued, participants will ask the dumbest questions known to man, preferably on television, while only using a vocabulary of seven words. To truly appreciate the spirit of the day, you should work slurring, drooling, and the occasional bladder control issue into the regimen.

Pump Gas Like a Porn Star Day
On September 27th, participants will proceed to their nearest filling station. They will then begin to fuel their vehicles in the normal manner. Once the tank is full, they keep the pump handle depressed while vigorously squirting gasoline all over the side of the car and yelling, "Who's your daddy, bee-otch?"

I think that I've got some winners here, but this is just a start. For example, I'm still working out the legal ramifications of Wack a Fat and Oddly Dressed Burglar Day on December 24th. Nevertheless, I'm open to suggestions, so feel free to add any legitimate internet holidays that you fell are relevant.

Fear of Change

I have come to a juncture in my life where I am forced to make a major decision. No matter which path I choose, significant change will be involved. For weeks, I have known that I will have to resolve this situation, yet I haven't been able to muster the emotional wherewithal required to do so. Finally, I have reached the point where I can't afford to put this off any longer. If I don't act and act soon, the situation will continue to exacerbate itself until I will be powerless to deal with it all.

Typically, I have little trouble determining what the best course of action is and then executing it. Yet, I have avoided dealing with this situation even though the necessity of its resolution stares me in the face daily. My indecisiveness gave me pause for reflection. Undeniably, resolving the problem will require some major effort on my part and, perhaps even, some pain, but this doesn't explain why I have been unable to act. What I realized was that the reason I have avoided dealing with this problem is due primarily to the magnitude of the change that will be involved.

I believe that everybody fears change, at least on some level. I have to confess that the specter of the unknown can be terrifying, at times. Also, I know that significant change requires significant effort -- the type of effort that can be mentally and even physically draining over the long term. As I enter my 34th year, I am well aware that I simply can't handle change nearly as well as I could in my youth. Regardless, I know that people of all ages must learn to accept change and I'm no different.

To be certain, I have some hard questions to answer. It isn't often that I seek out advice, let alone from perfect strangers, but this is important. What I need to know is: What in the fuck am I supposed to do with all of this change?

Gayness Doesn't Pay

Yesterday, on the Mighty Blog, I read one of the gayest blog posts that has ever been written. And I don't mean the good kind of gay that brings us Fashion Week, track lighting, and hip clothing. I mean the other kind of gay. I'm talking about the I-just-found-out-that-my-newlywed-wife-is-really-a-man-who-is-mighty-skilled-in-the-use
-of-kleenex-duct-tape-and-estrogen kind of gay. In the aforementioned post, Dyckerson tries to use sensitivity in an attempt to lure women into the sack with him. In response to the gayness of it all, I decided to go to the store.

I went to Klein's to get some Beano. The girl (I say girl because, although she looked 75, it was a youthful 75) who checked me out (as in, “the checkout lane”) commented, “I like your crotchless moo-moo.” (Of course, I guess she checked me out as she checked me out).

I’d forgotten which crotchless moo-moo I was wearing so I started to stammer “Oh, thanks,” but then I remembered Dyckerson's post. I thought to myself, "Maybe it's like penicillin--if it can work for Dyckerson maybe it can work for me." So I tried the sensitive approach and said, "Thanks. I'm sorry about the hole in my moo-moo, but I can't afford a new one because I gave all my money to the starving orphans of Poontangia." At that point, my brain contemplated two things: one, what crotchless moo-moo was I wearing? and two, assuming this cute checkout chick still had clean Depends on, would it be possible to parlay her enjoyment of my moo-moo into enjoyment of coming over and cleaning my oven?

As it turns out, I severly underestimated the potency of the Dyckerson approach, because out of nowhere she exclaimed, "That's gayest thing I've ever heard. Take me now, Moo-moo Stud." I was still playing the sensitivity angle, so I replied, "Oh, no. I'm saving myself for marriage." My protestations were in vain, because in one deft motion, she hurdled the counter, put in her dentures, and chewed off the straps of my moo-moo. Next, she slammed me down onto the checkout conveyor, grabbed a bar-b-que fork out of the the next patron's basket, and screamed, "Giddyup." I made good on my chance of escape when she went for the bar-b-que tongs. As I ran out the door, I heard the manager yelling, "Stop, thief. You have to pay for that merchandise."

After getting out of the store, I looked down to see what I was wearing — a new bar-b-que fork stuck in my left buttcheek — and my ass concluded not to listen to Dyckerson anymore.

Tried & True

As I was perusing Blogtimore, I found this post by Malnutured Snay:

When I went to Klein'’s for draino, the girl who checked me out (as in, "“the checkout lane"”) commented, "“I like your shirt."” (Of course, I guess she checked me out as she checked me out).

I'’d forgotten what shirt I was wearing so I just sort of stammered a "“Oh, thanks!"” while my brain contemplated two things: one, what shirt was I fucking wearing? and two, assuming this cute checkout chick was of legal age, would it be possible to parlay her enjoyment of my t-shirt into enjoyment of my penis?

After getting out of the store, I looked down to see what I was wearing — my dark green Monty Python and the Holy Grail — and my brain concluded that liking my shirt alone would probably not get me into her pants.

This reminded me of an icebreaking technique from my utterly wasted youth that was guaranteed to make an impression on members of the opposite sex. Although this potent technique was only tried at parties, I believe it could be easily adapted to the retail environment. It's known as The Pocket Rocket and is conducted as follows:

1. Before a party, remove the front pocket linings from a pair of shorts.
2. Remove boxers and don the newly tailored shorts.
3. Go to party.
4. Locate a female that you are interested in meeting.
5. Put an unlit cigarette in your mouth.
6. Pick up a beer in each hand.
7. Approach female and state, "Excuse me, I'm a little shorthanded. I have a lighter in my front pocket. Could you please get it and light my cigarette?"
8. As you might expect, the young lady will be so overwhelmed by your clever wit, that she will be powerless to resist any of your subsequent suggestions.

Unfortunately, this technique is not so effective with older women. Thus, I'm forced to meet women the old-fashioned way, by inflating them.

Does Playing with Dollhouses Make Me Gay?

Earlier this evening, I was talking on my cell phone when I heard the telltale sounds of a car wreck outside my apartment. Not wanting to miss the chance to gawk at freshly mangled humans, I headed out to the yard to have myself a long look. As soon as I heard my apartment door lock behind me, I realized that I didn't have my keys on me. To compound the situation, I just commenced my semi-annual war with the management of my apartment complex. In this struggle, I used tactics so heinous that I was guaranteed to be waiting a long, long time for lock out service from the maintenance flunky. At this point, it occurred to me that, perhaps, I shouldn't have called the flunky's boss's boss's boss's boss, on his direct line, and suggest that said flunky be fired countless times.

The situation became even bleaker when I realized that I didn't have my wallet or even my pocket knife. This was a particularly unpleasant surprise, since the credit cards in my wallet would have allowed me to jimmy the lock. Having the knife would have, at least, allowed me to stab one of my neighbors and steal some of their credit cards. Of course, my car was locked, eliminating another potential source of lock defeating implements. I was beginning to think that I was entirely screwed rude.

Nevertheless, as many Patterson Park regulars can verify, I am not a proud man. Thus, I headed over to the dumpster and found my salvation:


What you are looking at is the Sweet Streets^TM™ Village Care Time Hospital^TM™ and I give it my wholehearted endorsement. Per Fisher Price:

Time for a celebration-—twins have just arrived! There'’s plenty of nurturing play all through this busy hospital. You can rock the babies to sleep in their double cradle in the nursery, say hello in the reception area or waiting room, cheer up a patient with something from the gift shop, or get a check-up in the examination room, complete with changing X-ray images!

While I did, indeed, find the X-ray area and gift shop nurturing, my favorite part was the fold-out waiting room:


Not only did the waiting room have an intriguing depiction of a woman and child engaged in a mutual grope session, but it also contained plastic thin enough to jimmy my door lock. So, once the novelty of the grope-a-thon had worn off, I commenced the process of beating the living shit out of the toy in the parking lot. This procedure was doubly successful in that not only was I able to cleave a piece of the thin plastic from the assembly, but now many of my neighbors think that I'm deeply disturbed with a marked hatred of dollhouses. A win-win situation, if I've ever seen one.

So, with my makeshift "key" and ample use of the phrase, "Open you filthy bastard," I was able to gain entry to my apartment. The entire process took about 25 minutes, so I was a little disappointed in missing the blood and gore of the car wreck. That's when I noticed that I hadn't missed out after all:


Regardless of the incurred injuries, I was grateful that I found the Sweet Streets Hospital. Otherwise, I'd probably have had to pay Snay to build me a Lego catapult to propel my silly ass up to my third floor balcony.