Friday, December 16, 2005


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Since many of you reading this are vegetarians, I would like to ask an important question:

Why do so many people say that poultry and fish are not meat?

I heard some coworkers talking the other day about being vegetarian. One stated that she was a vegetarian, but still ate fish. When asked why, she responded "Fish is poultry." Now you and I both know that fish is clearly not poultry, but why is it that fish aren't meat? Is it because they're cold-blooded? That at least has a fair amount of logic to it, but I don't understand the chicken argument. Is an animal not an animal unless it's a mammal?

Please discuss, especially if you're NOT a vegetarian. I want to understand this misconception, so that I know exactly WHY I'm punching people in the face.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Thanksgiving & All That Holiday Rot

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And so comes Thanksgiving, the day where we slaughter and eat the majestic bird that is the turkey in obscene quantities. I have little to say on the subject, being a vegetarian myself, so let me instead share this enlightening conversation I had with my workplace janitor about a week ago. Feel free to reenact this scene with a trusted friend or neighbor.

Me: (sitting at my desk, quietly reading)
Janitor: So, you read those Harry Potter books?
Me: Yes, I guess I do.
Janitor: Those book are LONG! Like a thousand pages or so, right?
Me: (flipping through book) Erm, this one is about 700 I think.
Janitor: Wow! That little dude must be pretty rich!
Me: (astounded) I suppose he must be...?
Janitor: There are 12 books now right?
Me: There are 6 out right now.
Janitor: But there will be 12?
Me: Seven. One for each year he is in school.
Janitor: (knowledgeably)He retains all the rights to those books, doesn't he?
Me: (confused)Who?
Janitor: Harry Potter!
Me: (slyly)Um, no I don't think so. I'm fairly certain he's a fictional wizard.
Janitor: (confidently)No, I'm pretty sure he wrote those books.
Me: (kindly)Well, it says on the cover here J.K. Rowling. If my memory serves me correctly, that's a woman.
Janitor: A woman wrote those books? Hmm. I don't know about that.
Me: (not wanting to sound like a know-it-all) I could be wrong, I guess.
Janitor: Doesn't matter. I'll never read them anyway. (walks away)

End Scene.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Friday, November 11, 2005


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My cat Gabe has a bladder infection. My cat Gabe requires two pills per day. Here are the reasons that THIS is stupid and does not help me at all:

  1. "Sammie" volunteered to take a pill...Gabe did not. When he took his D.A.R.E. pledge, those words were meowed from the heart.
  2. "Sammie" is a chocolate point Siamese...Gabe is a blue point. Apparently, cooperation can only be achieved with chocolate point Siamese cats. Blue points are, historically speaking, outspoken Scientologists.
  3. Ghastly orange nail polish or not, cats will not freely let you hold them down without making at least 10,000 furious attempts to slip like some sort of eel out of your grasp.
  4. It is physically impossible to open a cat's mouth and hold it down all at the same time, unless you have extra-large boobs helping you out as clearly depicted.
  5. Cats are not crocodiles, despite the evidence presented. If you open their mouth, they still have the ability to close it and bite you accordingly. Perhaps they mixed up their species; the cat/crocodile connection can often be confusing.
  6. No cat, unless properly sedated, would let you put your entire palm over its head while you wrench its mouth open at an obtuse angle.
  7. No person, unless properly sedated, would open up a cat's mouth after a pill has been impossibly administered to check if the pill had been swallowed. If the pill is not on the floor, that's close enough.
  8. Spraying a jet of water into a cat's mouth to aid in swallowing a pill is an exercise in idiocy. Cats cannot be sprayed with water, in the mouth or otherwise, without serious retribution on the part of the feline.
  9. It is irrelevant if a pill temporarily lodged in the throat is at an "unfriendly" pH level for kitty. Giving a pill to cats exists at an "unfriendly" pH level to humans, and therefore these facts cancel each other out.
  10. "If the pill is still present in the mouth when you check, just reach a finger in and tip the pill further back on the tongue or allow the cat to spit the pill out and begin again. "<---this was written with the sole intent to confuse and bewilder cat owners, making them feel useless and vulnerable as they are unable to even administer a pill even once, let alone several times in succession.

Gabey-baby, please get better. I'm sick of having to hurt you. Don't make me take you to a kill shelter.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Oy, melon!

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I have really noisy neighbors at work. They often talk loudly and pointlessly directly outside my cubicle. It has gotten to the point where I placed a sign on the outside of my cubicle asking them to take their conversation elsewhere, with a nice clip-art graphic of business people talking with a big red "X" over the top of it. It worked for a while, but not so much anymore.

Today my "neighbors" were talking loudly in the cubicle right next to mine. What you must understand is that I have brought headphones to work to drown out their banter, but I can STILL here them over my music. Unbelievable. I decided to ditch the headphones today and give their conversation a listen. Yeah, I'm nosy--what's it to you?

Anyway, their topic of discussion was pets. They were discussing the woes of caring for a dog, the sorrows of living in an apartment with pets. One woman was saying that her landlord was complaining about her cats being too noisy. "My neighbor is deaf, so I know that he wasn't the one complaining!" she angrily exclaimed. Another conversational participant asked her, "Well, they're cats. How loud can they be?" The cat-owner quickly responded, "You know how cats get, they get in those moods sometimes where they just chase each other around. They sound like a herd of cantaloupe running up and down the stairs!"

A herd of cantaloupe. Seriously.

My day suddenly seems worthwhile.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

The dream.

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This is the sort of thing you should be posting, the husband says. If you don't post it I'm going to have to, he says. Without further ado, here is the dream I had last weekend:

My old band Mediocre at Best was playing a reunion show of sorts. From the looks of it, we were playing in that Youth Center we played at a few times in Plymouth, WI, only the layout was the opposite of the way it is in reality and the stage was on the other side of the room.

The boys were on stage twiddling with the instruments and getting them in tune. Luckily, one of the nice chaps had taken my bass up on stage for me and set it up, as I was in the back of the room desperately trying to find which wig I wanted to wear! First I tried on a big, yellow, foam wig...that was a no go. Then I put on a long, black Elvira wig...that just wasn't working either. Then I realized that the problem was I needed to take off my aviator glasses! Once I did that, I looked just fine.

It was at that point that I noticed the boys were taking their places on stage and were obviously getting ready to play! I ran through the "crowd" and jumped up on the stage. I was just in time to join the others in playing a new song that Aaron wrote and was also singing. It sounded really really good from what I remember; then again, the last time I thought a song sounded great in a dream it was a song by the Ataris, so apparently my slumbering mind does not hold itself to high standards.

So the first song is done, and the crowd likes it. Then Ben decides we're going to play Dead As Disco. (As some of you know, that was the last song we ever wrote together. We has played it at our last show and it was a disaster--we had to stop halfway through the song!) I tried to convince Ben that we didn't know that song and it would be awful if we tried to play it. He reluctantly agrees and then busts into Eight Ball by the Impossibles. Seeing as how we hadn't practiced any cover songs, I did not know the bass part! All the others knew how to play it and were rocking out, so I decided to just play along. Unfortunately, this meant me plucking a few random notes and looking like an idiot onstage. I would have got away with it, but there was a bass solo and I more or less made a total ass of myself by attempting to improvise a solo.

The song was done (phew!) and everyone claps...except one kid. He proceeds to yell out to me, "You're as bad as this guy I saw on TV last night!" Not knowing what he was talking about, I questioned, "Who???" He replied, "Peter Cetera!"

Being that Peter Cetera wrote some of the worst songs in musical history, I went OFF! I proceeded to punch the kid in the face relentlessly. This would have been okay under normal circumstances, but these were not NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES--the kid was in a wheelchair! The others tried to yank me back as I punched the kid in the face and screamed, "What the hell do you know, you fat cripple?" and various other insults that I would never, ever say to anyone under any circumstance, ever!

The dream ended with them still trying to hold back my flailing arms from beating the living crap out of the kid in the wheelchair.

If dreams are just tools for helping the mind make sense of a problem or events during the day (as I believe they are), what the heck was my brain trying to figure out that it came up with THAT?

Friday, October 07, 2005

Update, brother!

I apologize to no one in particular. I am officially the worst blogger in the history of bloggers. Oh well!

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Here's the scoop, kiddos. Apparently, retribution (or karma as some little lovelies like to call it) is a very real thing. This guy of which I speak in Section 3 is now dead. Apparently, this particular client died of a sudden heart attack at the age of 43.

I was talking to the daughter of my co-worker about this client and his seemingly premature death. Here is how the conversation went:

Me: "That's kind of scary to think of dropping over dead from a heart attack at 45--I mean, that's pretty young when you think about it."

Her: "Well, I guess that's a good example of why you shouldn't eat fatty foods."

Me: "No, that's an example of why you shouldn't smoke crack."

Her: "Oh yeah, that too."

He was in to pick up his homeless mail the day before he died. As it seems, he just dropped over dead without any possibility of revival. His wife and very pregnant 16-year-old daughter came in the next day to fill out for a county funded burial. They didn't seem very upset, but why would they? The county will pay for him to have a $250 cremation done at a nearby funeral home.

I wonder if he wanted better for himself?

Friday, August 19, 2005

Harry Potter is making me crazy.

If you don't care about Harry Potter, I suggest you turn back now. This post will only annoy you and expose the fact that I am a total nerd. Thank you for your understanding. I understand that your morbid curiosity will make you read this no matter what disclaimer I give you, so YOU can thank me for that. Proceed!

It is a sad day when a children's book makes you question your sanity. This "sad day" has actually turned into more of a "sad last few months" for me.

I dont know why it has hit me so hard all of the sudden. The first 5 books had little to no effect on me. Don't get me wrong...I enjoyed them immensely. They didn't, however, make me write an odd and unsettling blog entry about how they are slowly causing my mental demise. That honor has been left for "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince."

Was HBP better than any of the other books? No, not really. I don't personally consider any book in the series to be superior to the others. I think this book just came at a bad time for me...a time when my job was/is leaving me much to be desired and my mental state is very little clearer than a pile of mud. My brain is vulnerable. My brain wants to be filled with anything but reality. Oy, Harry Potter!

I have read nothing but Harry Potter books since HBP came out. I can't read anything else! It has been suggested to me that I find another series to interest myself with, but that simply will not do. I have placed my fragile psyche solely on the written words of J.K. Rowling, and I'm afraid that is where it must stay. It has to stay there.

The fourth movie will be out in November, just in time for my birthday. What a gift! My sanity delivered to me in 2 hours and 20 minutes of CGI and sub-par acting. I am nothing short of elated at this thought. I wish I could say that was meant to be sarcastic, but it most certainly was not.

The husband put my books away on the bookshelf the other day...I almost had a heart attack. The thought of them being stuffed away where I couldn't see them was almost unbearable. What the hell is wrong with me?

Maybe a day will come when my dependency is severed...I'm sure that day will come, in fact. But for now, I must resign myself to the fact that I am slowly going crazy and there is nothing I can do to hault the inevitable but read the same 6 books over and over again. Oh happy day!

On a much more disturbing note, this is what kind of shipper ("ship" is short for relationship--shippers are people who support a particular "ship") a quiz (very accurate, I presume...) has found me to be:
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Oh my....

I have problems.

Friday, August 12, 2005

This is nothing fancy.

Welcome to the welfare office!
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(I don't actually work in this particular office. In my office, we don't have the luxury of being behind glass.)

This is why my job sucks THIS WEEK:

1. One of my coworkers has been out for 5 days. No one knows why. My supervisor has been trying to reach her at home all week, but no one has answered. Rumor has it, this coworker likes to call in sick and then visit her sister in California. I'm not going to make assumptions, but I think that this coworker is making an "ass" out of "u" and "me."

2. Because this coworker is gone, I had to cover for her on Wednesday. I had to sit in the lobby and hand out mail to the homeless people--this is not the bad part. The bad part is, I had to witness a five year old girl vomit all over our lobby. She was the friend of one of our client's daughter. The client came up to me and said, "She ate an entire can of vienna sausages before she came here." Lovely. It looked like the ham dip my husband used to be fond of, and it was 5 feet away from me. The little girl was vomiting as she walked, leaving a trail of pink goo everywhere she went. She couldn't even tell anyone her name because she would throw up whenever she opened her mouth.

3. One of our LTE's had to hand out the homeless mail yesterday. A client came up to her and demanded to have his mail; he did not have his ID with him. The LTE informed him that EVERYONE must have a photo ID to pick up mail. He turned his neck to her and showed her a tattoo of his name on his neck. "This is my ID," he said. This all ocurred while my supervisor was standing mere inches away. The LTE said, "I don't care what you have on your neck. Without a photo ID, you're not getting any mail." He mumbled something about never having to show anyone ELSE his ID and walked out. My supervisor didn't say a word--she's really not very useful.

4. Yesterday, the LTE and I had to deliver paper to the numerous printers in our building. This responsibility used to belong to an employee that is no longer working with us. My supervisor forgot to assign this duty to anyone else; she did not notice until every printer was completely out of paper. Each box weighs over 50 pounds. There were 60 boxes. My back is very sore today.

5. In the back room, we have two baskets that people put documentation in that needs to be scanned. One is labeled "New Intakes", the other "Additional Documentation." These are two very different things. The LTE found in the Additional Documentation basket about 20 folders that were clearly supposed to be in the New Intake basket. When confronted, the worker who put the folders in the basket remarked, "The Intake basket was full, so I put them in the other basket." Who tells people they can just make up their own procedures?

The good news is, I have a job interview on Tuesday. Perhaps the gods will smile on me.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

That is what I'd truly like to beeeeeee....

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Today is a dark, rain day and the air is alive with the smell of hotdogs. You see, I work next to a meat rendering plant. No more than a chain link fence separates me from one of the few things I have ever bothered to care about. You know what? Youthful idealism has long since been replaced by apathy...the show must go on! Hot dogs must be made! The masses must be fed!

I first became aware of what stood next to my workplace two winters ago. A coworker and I were walking out to our cars together when I stopped dead in my tracks.

"What is it?" my coworker asked, obviously frightened by my abrupt halt in movement.

"It smells like a giant cookout around this place!" I exclaimed. "How could someone be throwing a barbecue? It's the middle of winter!"

My coworker looked at me with an astonished look on her face. I knew that look. It's the kind of look you only get when you've just said something ridiculously stupid. Trying hard not to make me feel like a total retard, my coworker said casually, "Well, it's probably the Oscar Mayer plant. It's right over there, you know."

Actually, I didn't know. But now I do. And there you have it.

So why does any of this matter? I doesn't, quite frankly. Did you catch the pun? Of course you didn't. When I was walking into work this morning, it really did smell like hotdogs. That's when I thought to myself "the air is alive with the smell of hotdogs." I wanted to repeat my clever Sound of Music-style quote to someone, but my better judgment told me it wasn't that funny. But I had to tell someone! Then I remembered: blogging. That open-air, worthless invention that allows you to say things that you think are funny but no one else does and pretend that someone is listening! The perfect medium in which to tell my joke. The perfect place to concoct a pseudo-story in which to place the one, miniscule thing I wanted to say.

Unfortunately for me, my blog has been dead for some time. Fortunately for me, I can restart it whenever the hell I feel like. Looks like I just did. I realize now that I need this lame-ass outlet or I might explode, finally brimming over with all the moronic things that I want to say but never do. In reality I have nothing to say, no good stories to tell, but yet I need to have that place to air it all out so that the real, living people in my life don't have to pretend to care when they're standing in front of me.

Jubilation! A whoop of approval!

Don't expect much from this, because I don't expect much from it either. I'm warning you right now...but feel free to check in from time to time, and if you're lucky I might actually type something worth reading.

End communication.