From EOD:
“The guy in line in front of me at Costco has two things in his cart: a case of beer and a pre-cooked chicken. I remember bachelorhood.”
This reminded me of a time I was doing some late-night grocery shopping back in college. It was about 11 at night or so, and the guy in front of me needed (apparently desperately) a 2-Liter of Coke and 64-slice pack of cheese. Awesome. I wait for the day that I can say, “Damn! I’ll be right back, honey, I need to go get some Coke and cheese.”
Right. So I was in Home Depot this weekend, buying various items for some apartment repairs, and browsing for welding torches (for some ill-planned artistic aspirations). Even though I’m a trained mechanical engineer, I have never learned to weld. So beyond the concept, I know very little about it. Luckily, concern for the people under my balcony tempered my caustion, and, I opted instead to grab the little advertising pamphlet and look it over at home. After learning everything (apparently) I need to learn about welding in about 3 paragraphs, I flipped the pamphlet over and found this advertisement:
Oh. My. God.
scene opens. Middle-aged, balding, overweight man, resplendent in wife-beater, shorts, black socks and loafers toils with a weed-wacker in his front yard.
Voice from stage-right: “Hey Bill, watcha doing?!”
Bill pauses, looks up from his work and hollers back: “Weedin’, watchoo doin’?!”
camera pans right, revealing Dave in an asbestos suit. Behind him, his one-story show home is steadily burning to the ground. Crying wife holding baby is dragging a half-open suitcase full of the nearest available treasured items: photo album, ficus plant, broken blender. Front yard is a scorched wasteland reminiscent of a missile test range. Dave raises his BernzOmatic Model JT850 Trigger Start Outdoor Torch above his head with a wicked smile and replies: “Weedin'”
Do insects experience fear? As I was shaving this morning (ol skool style: water in the sink, shaving cream, and a razor) a lone ant was making its way around the rim of the sink. Reasoning that it was probably a brave Scout surveying for the new cupcake-to-spilled-soda Inter-Room Speedway they were undoubtedly planning, I decided to cut him off at the pass. With one mighty flick, I set the ant plummeting into the sink thereby discouraging any future intrepid explorers.
Then, as I leaned down to dip my razor in the water, I noticed that my cursed enemy was, in fact, still alive, his many legs furiously beating at the water in what looked like abject terror and panic. That’s when my caveman instincts decided that now would be a good time for a little lunch. Seeing the ant struggle appealed to my greater sense of decency, causing me to reach down and fish him out. He immediately grabbed on to me, probably figuring that the giant pink thing from the sky was a hell of a lot better than drowning. I placed him gently on the counter and watched as he shook himself dry and sped off happily. I admonished him to tell his friends to not expect the same kind of clemency, but I think he knew I was fibbing.
I was feeling “bleh” today, so I thought I’d have some soup (seeing as soup, if TV has taught me anything, has amazing restorative powers). I walked through my narrow kitchen lithely retrieving a bowl, spoon, can opener, and the aformentioned can of soup. Then, in one swift motion, I gracefully placed the can on the counter and readied the can opener, flipping it into business-mode like a butterfly knife. I was a man with a goal who knew exactly how to achieve it. I was at peace with the world and all was as it should be�
Until I looked down.
Several seconds passed as my left hand stayed curled around the tin of Campell�s, and the right lamely held the now useless opener. What the Hell was going on here? Did I mistakenly grab a Pepsi by mistake? Quick object-to-definition comparison: Cold? No. �Pepsi� printed on side of can? No. Hmmm, well it�s not a can of Pepsi.
Reconfirm soup: Says �soup� on the side? Yes. Well that�s that, then. Call off the National Guard, food items are not transmutating between food groups.
What then, was this pop-top looking thing on the top of my can of soup?! I thought the fact that we didn�t have to bash these things open with rocks was pretty convenient to begin with. And, seeing as I�d already reduced my cooking-time by opting for the microwave instead of the stove, I thought I was pretty much ahead of the game. Apparently, though, those eggheads at NASA had far loftier goals in mind when pondering soup evolution. Thankfully, they have graciously saved me from myself, and provided me with the means of completely separating the sharp disk of metal from its home, in one easy step, that I usually leave partially attached for safety. And we are all better for it. The question remains, though, what do I do with this cutting doo-hickey?
A funny Girl Scout cookie anecdote from An Entirely Other Day that should inspire us all.
Well that’s weird. While pathetically searching for myself, I found a me that was not me. It’s a bit of a surreal experience to see your name associated with a Life that isn’t yours. It’s as if there’s some sinister doppelganger masquerading as you, and wearing your clothes.
Nothing takes me back to my ol’ skool roots, and helps me hone my mad skilz for increased street cred, like kicking-down some phat beatz. (I’d be lying if I said I didn’t spend like an hour here, thanks to Ben)
I went on a European vacation back in college that included a few stops in Italy, one of which was Rome. Besides buying the required gold St. Christopher medallions to live in my dark, curly chest hair, being overly aggressive towards attractive women, and riding around on a moped, I also filled out my How to be an Italian card by visiting the Vatican (Or Vatican City, as they rather over-zealously call it). While strolling through the promenade (ie piazza) admiring the fountain and the beautiful curving columns, I was shat upon, rather ignominiously, by an obviously devout pigeon. I think that says something. I’m not sure what, but it’s gotta say something.
There should be some kind of rule that Fridays can’t be this stressful…
