A Ram ... A Lamb ... A Ram ... A Llama ... Ding Dong.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
To pee? Not to pee?
My friend, Nessa, posted a hilarious blog about something that happened to her and invited her readers to share their own embarrassing moments.
Since I never know when to shut up, I rambled on for about a page.
Very few people have ever heard this story. It was not something I really cared to publicize, but now enough time has passed that it doesn't really matter anymore.
So, here you go:
___________
I’ll never forget a particular freelance job I did few years ago for a company out of New York. It was a product launch for Seasonale (Only FOUR Periods a Year! … may cause breakthrough bleeding and spotting).
A few days before the event, I had transitioned from one kind of crazy pill to another and I was still settling in with the new medication. I was a little spacey as my brain juice tried to figure out how to block the betas, soak up the seratonin or whatever it was doing inside my skull.
These meetings usually mean working 12-15 hours a day for four or five days. When we broke for lunch on the second or third day, I was already starting to show some wear. I was worn out. I ate the chow and then took a potty break.
The event was being held in a ballroom in one of the big downtown hotels. The boys’ room was out the ballroom, past the elevators and way across the lobby. I found a nice urinal, deployed, did my business, put everything back in place, washed my hands and headed back to the ballroom.
I looked so nice and so professional walking back through the lobby. All buttoned down and stylin’ with a silk tie – might even have been Italian – and nice, light khakis. I got back and sat down by the New York producer as she conferred with the Director of Production.
Then I looked down at my lap and my pants were soaked. Showed up really good on khaki.
Oh, my God!
What had the new medicine done to me? Did I black out? Did I lose all bladder control? Did I mistakenly zip and flush not realizing I was still mid-stream? Was I that crazy? What should I do?
I hid. I whipped out my cell phone and called a friend of mine.
“I’m on a job! I’ve got new crazy pills! I think I just wet my pants!” Laughter. It’s remarkable how little sympathy incontinence engenders.
Well, I called the producer and asked if she could spare me for 45 minutes and dashed home. I’d already bribed the parking-lot attendant so I could come and go without paying a full day’s rate every time I parked.
I rushed in the house and ripped the soiled pants off and hopped in the shower so I wouldn’t smell like an old man or a homeless person. I put on fresh pants and rushed back downtown to the hotel and apologized to the producer for my untimely absence.
Eventually, I had to make another trip to the accursed men’s room, and as I walked toward the urinal which had so betrayed me earlier, I noticed that the sink was leaking all over the countertop and dripping water down the front of the cabinet right where I had leaned when I washed my hands earlier.
Well, I was humiliated, but the show went on. And I’m sure I made an impression on the people from New York.
Since I never know when to shut up, I rambled on for about a page.
Very few people have ever heard this story. It was not something I really cared to publicize, but now enough time has passed that it doesn't really matter anymore.
So, here you go:
___________
I’ll never forget a particular freelance job I did few years ago for a company out of New York. It was a product launch for Seasonale (Only FOUR Periods a Year! … may cause breakthrough bleeding and spotting).
A few days before the event, I had transitioned from one kind of crazy pill to another and I was still settling in with the new medication. I was a little spacey as my brain juice tried to figure out how to block the betas, soak up the seratonin or whatever it was doing inside my skull.
These meetings usually mean working 12-15 hours a day for four or five days. When we broke for lunch on the second or third day, I was already starting to show some wear. I was worn out. I ate the chow and then took a potty break.
The event was being held in a ballroom in one of the big downtown hotels. The boys’ room was out the ballroom, past the elevators and way across the lobby. I found a nice urinal, deployed, did my business, put everything back in place, washed my hands and headed back to the ballroom.
I looked so nice and so professional walking back through the lobby. All buttoned down and stylin’ with a silk tie – might even have been Italian – and nice, light khakis. I got back and sat down by the New York producer as she conferred with the Director of Production.
Then I looked down at my lap and my pants were soaked. Showed up really good on khaki.
Oh, my God!
What had the new medicine done to me? Did I black out? Did I lose all bladder control? Did I mistakenly zip and flush not realizing I was still mid-stream? Was I that crazy? What should I do?
I hid. I whipped out my cell phone and called a friend of mine.
“I’m on a job! I’ve got new crazy pills! I think I just wet my pants!” Laughter. It’s remarkable how little sympathy incontinence engenders.
Well, I called the producer and asked if she could spare me for 45 minutes and dashed home. I’d already bribed the parking-lot attendant so I could come and go without paying a full day’s rate every time I parked.
I rushed in the house and ripped the soiled pants off and hopped in the shower so I wouldn’t smell like an old man or a homeless person. I put on fresh pants and rushed back downtown to the hotel and apologized to the producer for my untimely absence.
Eventually, I had to make another trip to the accursed men’s room, and as I walked toward the urinal which had so betrayed me earlier, I noticed that the sink was leaking all over the countertop and dripping water down the front of the cabinet right where I had leaned when I washed my hands earlier.
Well, I was humiliated, but the show went on. And I’m sure I made an impression on the people from New York.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Hallows, I Must Be Going!
God! It’s October again. That means Halloween is bearing down on me like freight train full of Candy Corn as I stand on the track like a dumbstruck deer awaiting the inevitable impact. Come October 31, it's going to be deer to eternity.
I’m not going to sit here and type another “The Meaning of Halloween,” because you’ve heard it a million times before. And because, frankly, I don’t care.
I’m just going to ask why, during this time of the year, do people lose all sense of style and class and fill their yards with the most tasteless objects they can buy? They get the 15-foot tall inflatable ghost, the scarecrow, the gigantic Jack-o-Lantern. Then they dust off the inflatable Santa Claus, reindeer, the angels or whatever, because these go up November first. Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Yeah. It’s October now. I get it. Why advertise? So you can read a calendar. So can I. I mean, I’ve got a blow-up doll, too, but I don’t put it out on my lawn!
(Actually, I can see the value of a well-lit, 20-foot long inflatable reindeer to draw fire in case Ms. Palin flies over on her way to another debate.)
And the round-headed ghosts made of bedsheets hanging from trees like some ectoplasmic lynching. What’s that all about? That’s some strange fruit, alright.
Holidays should be happy occasions shared with family. Inside the house. Not an excuse to put your vulgarity on public display. I guess some people feel they must participate in this unpleasant pageantry or they will bear the stigma of being without “holiday spirit.”
Definitely a Kitsch-22.
I’m not going to sit here and type another “The Meaning of Halloween,” because you’ve heard it a million times before. And because, frankly, I don’t care.
I’m just going to ask why, during this time of the year, do people lose all sense of style and class and fill their yards with the most tasteless objects they can buy? They get the 15-foot tall inflatable ghost, the scarecrow, the gigantic Jack-o-Lantern. Then they dust off the inflatable Santa Claus, reindeer, the angels or whatever, because these go up November first. Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Yeah. It’s October now. I get it. Why advertise? So you can read a calendar. So can I. I mean, I’ve got a blow-up doll, too, but I don’t put it out on my lawn!
(Actually, I can see the value of a well-lit, 20-foot long inflatable reindeer to draw fire in case Ms. Palin flies over on her way to another debate.)
And the round-headed ghosts made of bedsheets hanging from trees like some ectoplasmic lynching. What’s that all about? That’s some strange fruit, alright.
Holidays should be happy occasions shared with family. Inside the house. Not an excuse to put your vulgarity on public display. I guess some people feel they must participate in this unpleasant pageantry or they will bear the stigma of being without “holiday spirit.”
Definitely a Kitsch-22.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got That Sting
Well ... I just got stung by a hornet.
This is arguably the most painful thing I have ever experienced from any object penetrating my body to a depth of less than half a centimeter.
I was walking into the powder room, intending no harm to any creature, great or small, when this malevolent insect makes a beeline for my arm and buries his pointy, poison bum right into the soft, white underside of my forearm. "Wha?" I say. "Ow," I say. "That bastard is still stinging me," I say. "Why won't the cursed thing let go of me?" I say. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Get it off me! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Get it off!" I say.
This was a real hornet. A hornet with malice in its heart. This was not some devil-may-care honey bee that could be easily intimidated and shooed back to its lair quaking in fear after nothing more than a stern rebuke. No, this thing went at me with a purpose. This was the Guy-Who-Stabbed-Monica-Seles of the insect world. I had to reach down and manhandle the thing just to get it off my arm.
Even then the blasted stinger stayed behind and kept on stinging me. What do you do in a situation like that? Is it like being impaled by a farm implement and you shouldn't pull it out otherwise it could jostle something vital inside and you could bleed to death? You see it all the time on TV. "Another inch and it would have hit an artery," and "He's lucky you didn't try to remove it. He would have bled to death in minutes."
Well, I've watched enough episodes of "Emergency!" on TVLand to know what to do. I pulled it out. It was a split-second decision. Could have meant the difference between life and death.
But, my ordeal had only just begun. What had started as just a nuisance soon blossomed into searing agony. I would rate this as a 3.0 on the Schmidt Sting Pain Index: "Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut." I'm going to have to write that Schmidt guy a letter. He nailed it.
You should see the thing now. There is Ground Zero, the actual point of penetration, which is an angry red eye surrounded by an areola of swelling, perhaps a centimeter in diameter. This lies in a scarlet circle about as big around as a 50 cent piece. Then there are tendrils of redness radiating from the center, the longest of which reaches a good inch-and-a-half, two inches from the sting as the poison spreads through my body in its relentless effort to cause me harm.
It's been over an hour now and I haven't gone into anaphylactic shock, but I'm not out of the woods yet. You see, the hornet is still alive. He's out there somewhere. Waiting. Waiting.
He'll be back. I know it. But this time I'll be ready.
This is arguably the most painful thing I have ever experienced from any object penetrating my body to a depth of less than half a centimeter.
I was walking into the powder room, intending no harm to any creature, great or small, when this malevolent insect makes a beeline for my arm and buries his pointy, poison bum right into the soft, white underside of my forearm. "Wha?" I say. "Ow," I say. "That bastard is still stinging me," I say. "Why won't the cursed thing let go of me?" I say. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Get it off me! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Get it off!" I say.
This was a real hornet. A hornet with malice in its heart. This was not some devil-may-care honey bee that could be easily intimidated and shooed back to its lair quaking in fear after nothing more than a stern rebuke. No, this thing went at me with a purpose. This was the Guy-Who-Stabbed-Monica-Seles of the insect world. I had to reach down and manhandle the thing just to get it off my arm.
Even then the blasted stinger stayed behind and kept on stinging me. What do you do in a situation like that? Is it like being impaled by a farm implement and you shouldn't pull it out otherwise it could jostle something vital inside and you could bleed to death? You see it all the time on TV. "Another inch and it would have hit an artery," and "He's lucky you didn't try to remove it. He would have bled to death in minutes."
Well, I've watched enough episodes of "Emergency!" on TVLand to know what to do. I pulled it out. It was a split-second decision. Could have meant the difference between life and death.
But, my ordeal had only just begun. What had started as just a nuisance soon blossomed into searing agony. I would rate this as a 3.0 on the Schmidt Sting Pain Index: "Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut." I'm going to have to write that Schmidt guy a letter. He nailed it.
You should see the thing now. There is Ground Zero, the actual point of penetration, which is an angry red eye surrounded by an areola of swelling, perhaps a centimeter in diameter. This lies in a scarlet circle about as big around as a 50 cent piece. Then there are tendrils of redness radiating from the center, the longest of which reaches a good inch-and-a-half, two inches from the sting as the poison spreads through my body in its relentless effort to cause me harm.
It's been over an hour now and I haven't gone into anaphylactic shock, but I'm not out of the woods yet. You see, the hornet is still alive. He's out there somewhere. Waiting. Waiting.
He'll be back. I know it. But this time I'll be ready.
See the video:
Monday, September 22, 2008
Judas Priest!
If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you the story
Of an ill-fated Catholic priest
Who refused to give in to a world full of sin
Or be pushed around by The Beast.
Father Bernardo was always a maverick,
A shepherd who strayed from his flock.
He’d always been waitin’ to sock it to Satan
But, sometimes he went off half-cocked.
O! The world was in a condition
Of moral decline and decay.
He would plead and cajole to save every lost soul
And try to keep evil at bay.
But, his righteous efforts were fruitless.
His supply couldn’t meet the demand.
There were always so many to preach to that when he
Was through, vice was still out of hand.
Then, one day he devised a solution;
A scheme he started to form.
The way to salvation for all God’s creation
Lay in one hell of a storm!
She blew in from off of the ocean.
In a chartered airplane he sought her.
He took to the air and blessed it with prayer,
And for eight days it rained Holy Water.
Seemed like a good idea at the time.
Life was just peachy at first.
But it got out of hand, the pope hit the fan
The priest’s pious plot was now cursed.
It dealt a death blow to the wicked.
Hit politicians especially hard.
And, not just the sinister, but clergy and minister
And rabbi were all caught off guard.
They all washed away in the deluge
Or melted like the Witch of the West.
As they drowned in the gutter, the evil would sputter
How sorry they were they'd transgressed!
Bernardo himself was a victim!
I suppose he wasn’t holy as thou.
He wasn’t immune to his righteous monsoon
Though he thought he would be until now.
Bernardo had sure learned his lesson.
Mere mortals can’t keep folks from Hades.
He lay down to die and with his last sigh,
Knew that was no way to speak to a laity.
He bowed before God for his judgment.
God said, “You didn’t think it all through.
I did it all for a reason, all things in their season.
Man bit the apple, now chew.”
And that is the end of my story
Of the priest who fell out of grace.
He tried to save souls from Hell’s fiery coals
But he ended up flat on his face.
For God made evil on purpose.
It’s part of His holy design.
It seems it is our doom, and to err is human,
And to forgive is surely divine.
Of an ill-fated Catholic priest
Who refused to give in to a world full of sin
Or be pushed around by The Beast.
Father Bernardo was always a maverick,
A shepherd who strayed from his flock.
He’d always been waitin’ to sock it to Satan
But, sometimes he went off half-cocked.
O! The world was in a condition
Of moral decline and decay.
He would plead and cajole to save every lost soul
And try to keep evil at bay.
But, his righteous efforts were fruitless.
His supply couldn’t meet the demand.
There were always so many to preach to that when he
Was through, vice was still out of hand.
Then, one day he devised a solution;
A scheme he started to form.
The way to salvation for all God’s creation
Lay in one hell of a storm!
She blew in from off of the ocean.
In a chartered airplane he sought her.
He took to the air and blessed it with prayer,
And for eight days it rained Holy Water.
Seemed like a good idea at the time.
Life was just peachy at first.
But it got out of hand, the pope hit the fan
The priest’s pious plot was now cursed.
It dealt a death blow to the wicked.
Hit politicians especially hard.
And, not just the sinister, but clergy and minister
And rabbi were all caught off guard.
They all washed away in the deluge
Or melted like the Witch of the West.
As they drowned in the gutter, the evil would sputter
How sorry they were they'd transgressed!
Bernardo himself was a victim!
I suppose he wasn’t holy as thou.
He wasn’t immune to his righteous monsoon
Though he thought he would be until now.
Bernardo had sure learned his lesson.
Mere mortals can’t keep folks from Hades.
He lay down to die and with his last sigh,
Knew that was no way to speak to a laity.
He bowed before God for his judgment.
God said, “You didn’t think it all through.
I did it all for a reason, all things in their season.
Man bit the apple, now chew.”
And that is the end of my story
Of the priest who fell out of grace.
He tried to save souls from Hell’s fiery coals
But he ended up flat on his face.
For God made evil on purpose.
It’s part of His holy design.
It seems it is our doom, and to err is human,
And to forgive is surely divine.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
I'm Going to Burn for This One!
Let's see ... who had the lamb? ... don't forget to add the tip...... look at the price of this wine! ... I told you we should have gotten a pitcher ...
... let's just split it 12 ways ... no! You don't owe anything ... you're the Host!
No ... I think that one looks more like a bunny rabbit.
I've seen this one before. Let's see if we can get Seinfeld.
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