Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Breast man

Thank God I don’t have breasts. I mean, besides the fact that they would look extremely odd, no one would ever take me seriously (not that they do now anyway). I feel for you women and your breasts (no pun intended). How difficult it must be to constantly be judged on the size of your tits. Whether you have them or not, they seem to be a hindrance to your endeavors, and to the healthy development of your self esteem. (How vain we are). Unfortunately, they also play an integral part of a man’s initial impression of you. Naturally, we were born with an insuppressible desire to impregnate anything with breasts. (Another reason I’m glad I don’t have them). Consequently, our boob-centric minds are already in conflict between conforming to proper social etiquette and primitive physiological desires before we even engage in conversation with you, putting us at an immediate disadvantage. (It’s difficult to think with a hard on, or pee, of course. Unless you’re in the woods, then it’s not so hard. Ahem.)

We must constantly fight every thing that comes naturally to us, evolutionary behavior that has been ingrained in our brains since the beginning of human existence as a means of survival. On top of that, from the day we’re born, we are taught that they are the source of our nourishment. And for another 9 months or so, the ritual of breastfeeding will serve to reinforce and solidify this instinctual obsession. It is through this maternal bond that we are drawn to the tits, they are our life force.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Cyclone

“You need to turn that fan off”, said Manhater. “Why?” I replied. “Because it’s sucking all of the air from my side.” She snapped back. “Sucking the air from your side of the room?” I asked sarcastically. Are you fucking serious? (I didn’t really say that, but my face surely did). Because I wanted to be absolutely sure that I heard correctly, (and I wanted everyone else to hear as well), I asked one more time, but in a slightly louder voice, “You want me to turn the fan off because it is sucking the air from your area?” “Yes”, she steamed. I could not believe the words that had come out of her mouth. She claims that my piddly little table fan, was actually drawing air from her side of the room, and leaving her with what exactly? No oxygen? Dumb ass. Instead of getting into the dynamics of exactly how electric fans were designed to function (by their uniquely shaped blades generating a flow of air as they rotate, and not by sucking in air,) I decided that this is one of those moments where you simply bite your tongue and allow the inevitable fruition of stupidity to momentarily triumph. This particular battle was not necessarily lost it just wasn’t worth beginning at all. So, I turned the 16” supersonic, dual propeller, gas turbine, 5500 horsepower jet engine, house fan off and returned her fragile oxygen deprived ecosystem to its original state of homeostasis. Because apparently, on it’s lowest setting, the Cyclone (as it’s been dubbed) has enough power to create a suffocating vortex of death in its wake, as opposed to moving air around and creating a cooling effect like it was intended. I really wish that I had made this shit up. Seriously.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Candy Crack

Some genius at work decided it would be fun to purchase an economy size bucket of Twizzlers. What possessed her to buy an over sized container of chewing rubber I’ll never know, but damn they’re tasty. I was practically forced to have one (I don’t eat junk food, so my co-workers find it amusing to tempt me as often as possible,) and as you probably know, you can’t have just one. So, inevitably, one leads to two, then two to three, and then BAM! You’re fat. Twizzlers are the marijuana of the candy world people, the “gateway” candy if you will. You eat them until they’ve pacified your sweet tooth for a while, but as time passes they no longer satisfy the “itch” that needs scratched. Eventually, you’ll move on to cookies, candy bars, donuts, and cake. Like a candy crack head, you’ll gorge your face until your life is ruined. You’ll lose the feeling in your lower lip and your first child will be born with a third testicle. Damn you Twizzlers. Damn you.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Stupid is as stupid does

I usually pride myself at being smart. (Well, at least not stupid). And not the “I can do the Rubik’s cube blind folded with one hand tied behind my back kind of smart”, or the “I just created the Polio vaccine”, kind of smart either. I mean the more every day, practical “not entirely oblivious to how the world works kind of not stupid”. In some small, inconvenienced way, I don’t mind being the “go to guy” sometimes. (I require a little attention every now and again anyway). People are always asking me for the correct spelling of words, to proof read something, or to program some electronic gadgetry. And because of my savant-like ability to remember trivia, I’m often recruited as a free agent for “game nights”. (Yeah, two hundred and forty two toothpicks, definitely two hundred and forty two). Unless Jeopardy calls, I couldn’t really tell you how knowing things like; giraffes have a two foot long, 24 lb heart to generate enough blood pressure to supply their brain with blood, will ever prove useful. (It has to fight gravity, duh!) (They also only have seven cervical vertebrae, but everybody knows that. Right?) I’m like a sponge. I can remember entire monologues, countless poems, the 209 bones and 620 plus muscles the body has, (and its nerves,) or unfathomable amounts of meaningless trivia. However, even with all these useless super powers, I still have a tendency to find myself in situations that totally negate the aforementioned statement of not being a complete idiot. Case in point. I was in the copy room today, which for the record, rarely ever happens, but I was there nonetheless. I needed to prepare quite a few copies of a pamphlet, and have the copier collate and staple the finished replicas. After a few quick finger strokes, I had programmed the machine, and it began its task with the familiar whizzing and shifting of mechanical components. Knowing that this archaic junk was the first of its kind, and that it would undoubtedly take forever, I decided to do something useful while I waited. Upon my return, I noticed all of the copies neatly bundled, stapled, and awaiting distribution. When I picked up the stacks of copies from the trays, I noticed something a little odd about the first pamphlet . . . . . . . . it was blank. And not just the first page, but the entire damn pamphlet. And guess what? You got it! So were all the others. Nothing but stacks of white, blank, stapled papers. Apparently I had placed the originals face down in the feeder. The same thing you do with the fax machine, the scanner, and even the copier by the way. (Except of course when you’re feeding multiple documents. Obviously). Stupid machine.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Give me hurricanes . . . .

It finally snowed, albeit just a few measly inches. Amazingly, it was this year’s first snowfall (ozone depletion anyone?). Even though I am from the tropics, I actually like the snow. It’s the dumb asses that can’t drive in it that piss me off. Oh, and those other crazies deserve honorable mention as well. You know, the ones that on the first sight of a snowflake rush to the grocery store and buy enough canned food to feed the entire Mid Atlantic. You'll be lucky to find any toilet paper either. How much do you think you'll have to wipe your ass in a time of crisis? I wonder how that thought process works . . . . . Oh my God, it's snowing! Wow, it hasn't done that in a while, it's very pretty . . . It seems to be sticking. Oh shit, we could get snowed in! There will be accidents, chaos, destruction! The end of the . . . . I should get supplies . . . what should I . . . toilet paper! I NEED TOILET PAPER!!! Weirdos.


Unfortunately however, when it snows in a bustling metropolis, ice, mud, slush, and salt inevitably follow. What’s worse is when the snow is followed by a glaciating encore of freezing rain coating everything like the thick icing on a Krispy Kreme donut. (Mmmmm, donuts). For those naive to exactly what freezing rain is, I shall explain. (You’re on your own with the donuts). It’s ingenious really. Basically, its falling snow high in the atmosphere that hits warm air during its decent melting into rain, then it freezes when coming in contact with sub zero temperatures again. It usually freezes on contact and because it’s now a liquid, it conforms to whatever it sticks to. It causes major power outages by making power lines too heavy for the poles to sustain their weight. Plants and tree branches break, windshield wipers and car doors become glued, and roads become covered in a transparent layer of slippery death ice. (More commonly known as black ice). Lovely. This is exactly what fell last night, mixing with the day’s earlier accumulation of snow, creating a winter wonderland of booby traps, icy pitfalls, and slippery slopes of death. I can’t wait to drive in it later. I’m giddy.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Fortune Cookies, part two

On my way in to work this morning, I passed the “gate keeper” and procurer of dental cavities, aka the vending machine. I noticed another package of Milano cookies holding on to their metallic coil for dear life, as though a dangling rock climber a few chalky phalanges away from plummeting to his death. It appears the machine had the upper hand once again (apparently someone’s arch nemesis), and triumphed in the latest duel for these much desired treats. I gave the mechanical beast a few forceful shoves (do not try this at home), and viola’, a perfect accompaniment to some coffee on this chilly morning. I walked off with smile. It seems the New Year has brought a change in fortune after all. Amateurs.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Papau's got a brand new bag

I might take a little flak for this one, [deep breath] but that’s what separates the men from the boys. (Take a seat ‘lil man.) So, I ran into a friend of mine at the gym last night. For the purpose of partially hiding his true identity, but not really, we shall call him Red. (Yes, he is a redhead, but not a slut, contrary to popular belief.) He looked like half the man he used to be. He was indeed the same person, but from what I could tell, just a much smaller version. Red looks like a regular kind of a guy really, with a goofy demeanor. Short and pudgy with bright, closely cut red hair, and pale skin fraught with freckles. I noticed him sitting at the bench press, intently staring at his shiny black IPod. I thought it a perfect opportunity for a salutation. As I approached him, I observed that his pale neck was adorned with a hand made wooden necklace that seemed indigenous to tribes from the pacific islands. His right wrist also bore a similar trinket. He looked up at me and flashed his familiar warm smile. We exchanged greetings and proceeded to engage in small talk. As he spoke, I noticed something much different. (not pertaining to his weight.) He had a calmness about him, like that of a Buddhist monk. The conversation immediately gravitated towards the explanation of the two most obvious things about his materialization. Where had he been for the past year and why was he so skinny? “Man, I had the most amazing experience of my life,” he said in a quiet voice. “Well, spill it dude. Where the hell have you been?” I asked with childlike excitement. In his deep but tranquil voice he says, “I’ve been living in Papua New Guinea for the past year, and this was my tribe.” He turns his IPod towards my face to show me actual pictures of New Guinea natives, wearing the same type of jewelry he was! Now, for those of you geographically handicap, New Guinea is just north of Australia and is the world’s second largest Island. (Australia being the largest.) It is a tropical paradise with a high percentage of its species found nowhere else on earth, thousands of which are still unknown to Western science! (So I’m a nerd, shutup) He then shows me pictures of where he lived, a straw and bamboo dwelling standing high above the ground, and the beautiful surrounding jungles. (I’m from a tropical paradise myself, but these pictures were truly amazing!) I was completely dumbfounded. Noticing my obvious bewilderment, he says, “I lost 40 lbs, while I was there.” “No shit,” was all I could muster. “We ate nothing but rice, vegetables, and some meat (well that explains things.) And I’m going back in six months,” he says, now taking a certain enjoyment at my astonishment. Red proceeds to tell me about how his job sent him there for humanitarian work, how he learned the language (one of almost a thousand dialects,) and how he was the only white man in the whole tribe. (shocker.) It was a wonderful story, and a rather surreal encounter really. Red isn’t the type of guy you envision going to a place like that to begin with, much less to return with an aura of enlightenment. (they probably ran out of key chains.) In that moment, I realized I was jealous. (And not at losing 40 lbs. either. Believe me, I couldn’t afford to.) How fitting for someone other than myself to visit a remote place on earth far from Western civilization, live amongst a native people completely immersed in their culture, and achieve a peace with life that I have so intently sought in futility since my existence. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to settle for obtaining the knowledge of this revolutionary new secret diet plan, that I call “Big Papau’s Diet Enlightenment”. I’ll have a cook book as well, “Come to Papau”, and maybe even an exercise video, “You down with Papau?” That’s right ladies. Go ahead, count your calories, tally up your points. We’ll see who has the last laugh.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Survivor Man

Okay, so I happen to carry a survival kit in trunk of my car. Big Deal. Doesn’t everybody? (Well at least they should.) I was helping a friend move some things last night and he needed the extra carrying space my car provides. When I opened the back, he noticed my survival kit neatly tucked away in a corner. Among its contents is the usual stuff: A gallon of water, blankets, a poncho, flashlight, rope, a change of clothes, chemlights (or more affectionately known by club goers as glowsticks,) fix-a-flat, and a first aid kit. And then . . . there are the cones. Yes, instead of flares (which you should definitely have on hand,) I have cones. Everyone always makes fun of them! They laugh, scoff, and chortle (yes apparently people chortle,) at seeing those bright orange little pyramids stacked securely in the trunk, right next to the camouflage sleeping bag (Hey, you never know.) They really do come in handy though. Whether you have a flat tire, pull over to assist a fellow motorist, or need to secure a parking space (which I’ve never done. Okay, maybe once,) the cones, like little soldiers, are unquestionably ready for combat. These valiant and dauntless daredevils have never let me down. As a matter of fact, in a battle not long ago, one was lost in the line of duty. I remember that night well. The rain fell hard and stung my face. I found him flattened and mangled by the enemy while on patrol. He must have anticipated the ambush coming, but did not waver nor surrender his position (brave lad.) Sorrowfully, I carried his disfigured body away from enemy lines and back to the extraction point. He unselfishly gave his life that fateful night so that others would not have to [sniff.] Upon noticing the funnel-shaped traffic accessories, he asked in high tone of disbelief, “You have cones in your car?” He started to chuckle. I pretended to close the back door and said, “Hey man. If you’d prefer . . . . .” “No, no it’s cool dude, I appreciate the help,” he reassured me. That’s what I thought you insensitive buffoon. Don’t ever laugh at my cones. Now, if I can only find a use for those poles.

Tuesday, January 9, 2007

Game On

Being a Playstation fan, I was extremely skeptical to the emergence of the new Nintendo Wii, and even its predecessor, the Gamecube. However, after spending some time with my family over the Holidays, I have developed a new found fondness for both. I know, I know, that’s practically game console blasphemy, but I must say it was pretty fun, and you can even have 4 people play. Trust me, girls are much more likely to play if the controls aren’t as complicated, as they are for Madden or Grand theft auto. Don’t get me wrong, a girl who will jack your ride, shoot and rob you, then take a flame thrower to an unsuspecting crowd on the beach, will always have my heart, but teaching her how can be as hard as getting an elephant to ice skate (not pretty.)

Gentlemen, the key to getting your lady not to ride you so much about playing video games is to get them to play too. I’ve conducted multiple field studies on the subject, and have concluded with scientific certainty, that once an emotional and psychological attachment has been established with a game console, future observations of you secretly attempting to retrieve documents from a foreign government outlining plans for obtaining nuclear chemicals, will be viewed without hostility and even met with compassion, granting you a couple more hours of uninterrupted play. Furthermore, my tests have shown that within the gaming world women can be as competitive as men, and with certain games have even shown to excel to higher levels than their male counterparts (like Tetris for example.) In conclusion, I highly stress to allow a certain level of “controlled participation”, and you will even notice that time spent in this fashion is not only considered by females to fall into the “spending time with me” category, but will also be the key to having many successful repeat sessions. Undoubtedly allowing you even more time to infiltrate German bunkers, obliterate zombies, and throw endless amounts of touchdowns, or grenades (Just be wary to complete chores as necessary and it is also advised to allow them to win from time to time.)

Monday, January 8, 2007

Fortune Cookies

Normally I'm not that lucky of a person. I usually don't win raffles, door prizes, business card drawings, or even bingo. And I sure as shit don't win the lottery (Well, I suppose you do have to play to win though.) Consequently, I don't ever gamble either. Over the years I've also learned to stay away from poker, black jack, roulette, horse races, and even slot machines. I probably know sports well enough to make decent money gambling (the last two years in Fantasy Football were lost to absolute flukes!) However, I'm sure that my lack of fortune would seriously outweigh any chances I would have at being successful enough to pay my bills. As unfortunate as I am, it certainly does not go unnoticed when the Gods throw me a bone. This morning for instance, I trekked down to the vending machine for something sweet (I'm usually not one to eat out of vending machines, but this one does have an assortment of nuts, granola bars, and a few other selections, offering at least a fragment of nutritional value.) To my amazement I noticed a shiny package of Pepperidge Farm's coveted Milano cookies that didn't quite make their descent into the retrieval basin of the machine. After purchasing my Nutra-Grain bar, I gave the machine a quick push from the top, as a Sumo wrestler might do to his opponent to gain momentum. As I rocked it back, the front end of the mammoth appliance easily lifted off the ground, creaking as it leaned. When I let go, its weight came forward and it landed on its metal legs with a loud resonating thump (apparently four people die every year getting crushed this way.) As if I had inserted money and pressed the button, my cookies fell on cue and oddly, I was presented with an unforeseen moral dilemma. Should I tape them to the outside with a note, so that whoever didn't get what they came for could be reunited with this ever so tasty treat? Maybe I should search for its rightful owner? "Nah, it's not a wallet," I thought. This is my moment. Survival of the fittest my friend. To the victor go the spoils. The gods are pleased, and so is my sweet tooth. Perhaps the New Year will bring a change in fortune.