Category: Uncategorized

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Carrie:

“You want a Skittle?”

Me:

“A ‘Skittle‘?”

“Uh, yeah…a Skittle…”

“But Skittles aren’t one Skittle. They’re Skittles, not ‘Skittle’. They weren’t meant to be alone like that…”

“Uh, yeah they can…you can have one Skittle…”

“No, no you can’t. You can either have some, or you can have none. You can’t just have one…it’s like Reese’s Pieces.”

“Reese’s Pie-“

“You know, you can’t just have one piece. You have to have Reese’s Pieces.”

“You can have just one. You can say, ‘Can I have a Reese’s Pieces?'”

“Now you’re obscenely gramatically incorrect.”

“Say what you like. My opinion remains.”

I decided to call for reinforcements.

“David…what dou you call one Reese’s Pieces?”

“Just one? As in, “a Piece”? That’s just wierd…”

“Yeah, I know. So what do you call it?”

“You don’t call it anything, you can’t have just one Reese’s Piece…”

“That was my argument as well…”

“She doesn’t know this? You didn’t tell her?”

“She is a stubborn one…I did warn her however…”

“Does she realize the risk – wait, we shouldn’t even be discussing this…”

“I know…terrible things are afoot. If we don’t stop now, we could possibly create a paradox that could create a fissure in the space-time continuum thereby negating all human existence!!!”

“Oh, my God! What are we doing??”

Carrie, o’ harbinger of death, chimes in, smiling,

“What about M&M’s?”

…and retracts her Skittle(s) offer.

voulez-voulez-vous you can’t eat just one.

>If I knew then what I know now I would definitely know more than I did tomorrow.

So, yes…the free.
The free is for everyone, please, help yourself to some of the free.

“The Free” is not actually what ‘it’ is. What It is, is ‘It That Shall Not Be Named’.

So sayeth the shepherd…
So sayeth the flock.

Well, not necessarilly. I’d love to be a shepherd, but then I’d have to worry about dealing with all of those damn I-9’s for all my wooly followers and I just don’t feel like messing with it.

“It That Shall Not Be Named” has been on my desk for a few hours now. Motivated by the many “uh…is that _____???”-s I received sitting at my desk I decided to take some pictures and conduct a survey.

“Is that calamari??”
“they look like potstickers…or some kind of mushroom…”
“Ew…it looks like a bacterial colony.”
“Uh huh. Now you’ve got little foreskins on your desk. Typical.”
“Puppy anus. Yup, it’s got to be puppy anus.”
“I’d have to guess pig noses. Or maybe lotus root…”

and

“The dissected and mummified remains of the lysergically contaminated progeny of arthritic mugwump meatstraws?”

Zactly.

Thoughts?

voulez-voulez-vous yes, we have none.

>”what does your blog have that I don’t have??”

>”Hi, everyone, my name is Niff.”

“Hi, Niff!”

“It’s been 36 hours since my last act of complete and senseless stupidity…”

(applause…)

“It’s been a challenge, not succumbing to fits of daft-ishness over the last two days, but I believe with enough determination and support from my family I can get through this and emerge victorious and not lose control over the dark little imps trying to seize control of the logic centers of my brain thereby permitting me to epitomize the definition of insanity.”

(looks of pity intermingled with fleeting hints of abject horror…)

So, yeah…stupidity hangover.

Stupidity hangovers are usually a result of a whole night’s – and even as far back as the entire day’s – indulgence in acts and behaviors of complete and total irrationality and stupidity which, despite your very best efforts to curtail, you feel a compulsion to act upon and in doing so, cause yourself to awaken the next morning and with a hand to your head mumble, “why the fuck did I do that??

Stupidity hangovers commonly involve a Turret’s-style stampede of apologies the following day to those who were subject to the default system error in your head. For those who know you best (the poor bastards), this enthusiastic barrage of apologies will be nothing new. They will be accustomed to your maniacal rantings, and because they are true friends will just pet you on the head and say, “That’s okay, sweetie…we still love you.” The rookies to the game of cerebral vomit will, though slightly unsettled, regard you with the comfortable delusion that this was all just a result of PMS and as such, you are not truly committable and therefore safe.

The problem with the behaviors that incur the stupidity hangover is that they are not attributable to any consciousness-altering substances, i.e. alcohol, weed, LSD, Oreos…

The problem with the stupidity hangover is that it’s all you, baby. Every single morsel of word salad spewed forth from your lips was conjured, nursed, encouraged, and delivered by you and only you, with nothing but an “oops, my bad…” to offer as validation. No passing the buck here, you bubbling cauldron of common sense. You’re on your own.

So with the hangover in full swing, you spend the following day in agonizing remorse over the whole ordeal, promising yourself that this will never happen again, that you have the mental fortitude to shuffle all of your verbal waste into the little closet behind your parietal lobe. You are a changed person. You are the epitome of refinement and manners. You are in control. Invincible! GOD!

…and then…

**** says **** about **** and you can’t stop yourself from interjecting with **** and you just-couldn’t-keep-your-mouth-shut-could-you!!!!

sigh.

Did I mention something earlier about the definition of insanity?

So, boys and girls, what have we learned?
The conclusion I have come to is this:
If you feel yourself entering a place that is giving you the slightest inkling that you may indeed begin to have thoughts of…
(wait, it is the complete lack of thought which causes the problem in the first place, so nevermind…)
Let’s just say if the potential for stupidity is imminent, get completely shit-faced immediately. No hesitation. Whatever you have to do to get there, just do it. I’m talking MGD-esque moments of desperation here, people. My reasoning (yeah, nice…now I’m able to reason…) is simple: you now have an alibi. An excuse. Exemption.

So go fucking ape-shit with your stupidity. Use it. Spread it like wildfire. Piss people off. If it’s your thing, run at the mouth with as many sexist jokes and ethnic slurs you can come up with. Drop-kick a poodle. Slash the tires of those who think the “Baby on Board” signs are still a pretty nifty idea. Do a bit of research and throw in some classic ‘Yo Mama’ smack for good measure. Enjoy your hebetude*. Live!

* ‘ts coo…I had to look it up, too.

voulez-voulez-vous hebetude.

>It’s Carrie’s birthday. Everyone, say, “Happy Birthday Carrie!!”

“uh, happy birthday, Carrie…”

Ugh. That was weak. Y’all are SO not going to Hooters with me for the start of the NBA finals next week.

Carrie is finally 31. It’s about damn time. I’m sick of hanging out here all by myself.

voulez-voulez-vous 31!

>
you definitely know you spend too much time at the computer when your theories about the human mind can be explored by the acknowledgment of a couple of shortcut keys.

allow me to explain.

(sidenote: this concept relies heavily upon the “if you could be anywhere in the world right now…” cliche, so bear that in mind.)

So I’m at my desk at work, and my coworker/partner-in-crime Carrie is still visiting her sister in Chicago (yeah, as if her sister is more important than me. Even if it is her birthday) and since Carrie and I are pretty much the only ones who occupy that particular space in the office, when she is not present, it gets pretty damn lonely. And boring.

One can learn a lot about themselves in prolonged fits of loneliness. Like, the five different types of loose-leaf teas i have in Ziploc baggies in my desk drawer look completely similar to something not even remotely resembling tea in its purpose of consumption. (Non-sequitur, I realize, but hey, welcome to my life.)

Loneliness breeds boredom which in turn can foster some pretty radical thinking. As I sat there, lost in a sea of emails and medical charts, flipping back and forth (Alt+Tab) between my Outlook window and my Firefox browser (say it with me: Wikipedia is my friend), something (Alt+Tab) occurred to me.

I’m at work.

Alone. Don’t wanna be here. Hell, I’m bored. Kinda sleepy, too…tea is definitely not supplying my caffeine needs…no one to talk to…nodding off…fighting heavy eyelids…

*yawn*…

(Alt+Tab)

Dude…what? Damn it’s bright…uh, sweet! I’m not at work, but where…oh, wait…it worked! Brilliant! Uh, dude…that ain’t right, I mean, are you serious…whaddahell??? Shit…look out…that’s a whole lotta not-goodness over there…how many Alpacas is that, anyway?? Are they supposed to be stampeding animals? Oh, this is gonna be BAD…this is – this will only end in tears, I just know it. What the bloody hell am I supposed –

(Alt+Tab)

Umph…huh? *snort* huh. Where was I? Oh, yeah…

((thud))

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Of course the possibilities are endless with this theory, and does not necessarily have to involve a mass influx of hooved animals, unless you’re into that sort of thing, and if you are…uh…damn.

voulez-voulez-vous you kinky perv.

>so, i’ve noticed that there are dozens upon hundreds upon tens of thousands of people doing all kinds of stuff which just happens to coincide with me doing various types, sorts, varieties of my stuff on a rather regular basis.

Who the hell are these bastards and just what is this stuff they’re doing, anyway? Bloody hell.

And it’s not so much the stuff they’re doing is the problem, it’s how they go about conducting their stuff that presents itself as the challenge. Efficiency is key, people. If there is to be stuff, the stuff must be carried out in a way that is least intrusive and imposing upon others.

Example.

People who make unecessary complete STOPS at yield signs. Caution is one thing. I understand this. You can never be too careful, ounce of prevention, look both ways, blah fucking blah. But when there is a line of three or four cars behind you and you sit, pointlessly, when the road has been clear for an appropriate amount of time and it is evident that a collision is no longer imminent? You are thereby preventing the line of three or four cars behind you from conducting their stuff, i.e. getting to wherever the hell it is they’re going in a timely manner because you are – HA! – instufficient!

(Wrong word usage, I realize, but funny, no?)

It’s interesting to notice people and their stuff. What the stuff is that they’re doing, why they’re doing the stuff, why they’re doing their stuff that way, et cetera. Everyone thinks that they can do everyone else’s stuff better than everyone can do their stuff themselves.

More on this stuff later.

voulez-voulez-vous work in progress

>http://widgets.clearspring.com/o/460996bb56eedc8d/465dd19437d505fd

>Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…for your enlightenment and pleasure, I present to you the Jennifer Lankenau’s official Guide to Blogging:

Submit a blog.

Wait…a while.

Wait some more.

Kinda wait some more until you forget you have a blog.

In a conversation with friends the topic of LiveJournal (ugh)comes up.

In a moment of panic you realize, “holy shit! I have a blog!”

Next day at work, you sweep the dust and cobwebs off and make a pathetic attempt to write something, anything, to reassure yourself that yes, you are still a blogger. Albeit a neglectful one.

Share and enjoy.

So, Monday, raining, Tuo Cha tea, Tori Amos (yes, I confess to a fondness for whiny chick music. It’s my thing. Let it go.), three-alarm fires at the north end of the street I work on, raining, beaucoup de charts to check in, raining, avoiding the chocolate chip cookies in my boss’ office, and, well, raining.

the moving out process is nearly complete. All that remains is to paint one of the upstairs bedrooms and all of D’s crap in the basement. Wait, I’m sorry…not crap. All of D’s belongings. And, well, stuff. Anyway, that’s it.

This is Roger. Everyone, say, “Hi, Roger!”

“Hi, Roger!!!”

Excellent. Roger is a 6 month old Pit Bull Terrier. Roger likes to play tug of war, dig in the trash, drink from the toilet and attack the ocean. Roger is a great catcher and was offered a tryout on the Mariners farm team but he chose to stay with me so that he can spend his time loafing about on the sofa upstairs and emitting large quantities of gaseousness which I suspect are a side effect of his constant need to eat the cat’s food. And the cat’s, well, uh…(insert faux gagging sound here -> _____)
For some reason D&T don’t want kisses from Roger. Nor do they want kisses from me after I’ve been kissed by Roger. You’d think the parents of a now 5-year old would be able to stand a little Kitty-Roca breath. I’ve seen that kid do some pretty sick things myself. 5 year-old boys, man. Ew.

>Dear God. It’s Opening Day. I’m never leaving work today.

Allow me to explain.

I work in Pioneer Square. Right across from Qwest Field. And Safeco Field.

The Opening Day game is at 3:35 pm. I am off from work at 4:00 pm.

Like I said, I’m never leaving work today.

Not that I mind baseball, at all. If I was going to the game perhaps I wouldn’t be harboring such resentment. But getting tickets now, on opening day? Heh. Besides, I have to watch the big NCAA game tonight…I’m in first place in the bracket my workplace has going. I’m already committed.

voulez-voulez-vous IIIIIIII-chirooooooo…..

postscript: This blog has landed me a supreme spot on the Google search engine under Qwest Field Parking: