The Mets really really suck

The Mets make me feel like the father of a marathon runner who is leads the entire race but trips on his own untied shoelace near the beginning of mile 25. He is tired, but has a comfortable cushion between himself and the rest of the pack. At first, I say, "no big deal, you're still leading." But I notice my long-distance offspring doesn't tie his shoes before he gets back up and starts running again. Around the 25.3 mark, he trips again. Blood trickles from a contusion on his knee. I yell "tie your shoes!" He doesn't hear me over the rest of the crowd. I mutter something under my breath about the manufacturer of his overpriced sneakers. At 25.7, it happens again. His hands are partly crimson now. This time, a few other people are yelling with me for him to tie his shoes. He still doesn't hear. He gets up slowly, in pain, and visibly more tired than before. I curse the guy who sold him this wretched footwear. Again, at mile 26 he falls again. He is so tired he cannot slow his tumble; his head hits the ground. Blood of scalp mixes with the sweat of marathon and tears of pain. He gets up much slower this time. He licks the salty pink cocktail as it drips down his face. Nearly the entire crowd yells for my son to tie his shoes. He looks down as he starts to jog, but the sound of approaching runners makes him think twice. Only now does my blame shift the to my moron child who didn't notice his shoes were untied. He looks more determined than before, but is acutely aware of where his feet land, making sure to not step on a shoelace. This slows him down considerably. The pack closes in. At 26.1, he falls again. For a moment, he can hear the individual footsteps of his approaching competitors, until the crowd, nearly unanimously, starts cheering for him to rise, but also swear at him for not tying his shoes when he had the chance. He doesn't get up. The pack is nearly on him now...

Stinky feet

I have decided I no longer care what my car smells like after driving home with my shoes off.

Adolf was evil, dude

There's a bumper sticker on a pick-up that regularly parks near me in the employee lot here at work. It reads, "Hitler was a politician." My first thought was, I wonder if politicians should be insulted, or should Hitler?"

 

Now before someone reads (ha!) this and starts trying to figure out who I am so they can come burn my house down, or leaves "my wife is county clerk in Onlynicepeoplelivehere, WI, and she's wonderful!" messages (again, ha) please note that I do not believe that any US politicians has killed tens of millions of people nor that any of them have tried to take over Europe through military means.

 

My problem is I think they want to. Maybe not so much the extermination of a certain class/ethnicity/race or whatever, but at a certain level of government (not sure what level, but I'm pretty sure it starts around statewide offices), a politician needs to have enough unchecked ambition to get elected. That stuff doesn't just go away.

 

To transmogrify a Dwight Eisenhower quote: "Anyone who wants to president should not be allowed to."

Half a ton, here I come

I eat when I am hungry, when I'm depressed, when I'm angry, when I'm bored. I have no self control when it comes to eating. Being in a state of fullness does not stop my eating. This was not an issue when I worked in a stockroom of a major retail chain, on my feet all day, lifting 25 50 pound bags of dog food in a few minutes, or climbing on top of those giant warehouse shelves because a single package of toilet paper fell and no one can reach it through normal methods.

 

But now, I sit. I answer phones, type occasionally, and stare at a computer monitor. I only have to type after the phone rings, and the phone doesn't ring that often. So mostly it's the staring. Occasionally, I get to switch off to watching my plant grow. To the fill the gaps, I eat. I eat banana chips and pretend they're healthy. I eat Peanut Butter M&Ms, cookies, crackers, and Jolly Ranchers. I bring my lunch back to my desk so I don't have to talk to anyone. Maybe I can keep how miserable I am a secret a little bit longer.

 

But I am grateful to have a job. I am. I got fired from the last one. But I got this job because of who I know, not because of who I am. The position I fill did not exist before I got here, and probably will not after I leave. The sitting would not be so bad if I had something to do. But I don't. So I post moronic things on a blog that no one will ever read. And I eat. And read other people's blogs.

 

Today and yesterday I have been reading Sweet Juniper!, by two parents who go by Dutch (the dad), and Wood (the mom). Its literary style (the parts I have read, anyway) is a mixture of the New Yorker, The Simpsons, Fawning Parent Magazine, and Let's Forget That We Are Adults Once in a While Quarterly. It is well written and self-depreciating without making the authors sound self-loathing. They speak of their child with great frequency (that is what the blog is about) without turning into those parents who won't shut up about their child. In short, I hate them. One gave up on being a lawyer to stay home with their kid-- and there's another on the way; both finished law school in less time it took me to get my bachelor's degree-- oh fuck, I forgot-- that's still on my to do list. Did I forget to mention that they love each other very much and continue to express their undying affection for each other?

 

So here I remain, in a job I hate because I have no other prospects, having no other prospects because I haven't finished my degree, wishing that at the very least my job could be a little closer to home so I could see the frickin' awesome two year old that lives there for more than hour a day while he's awake, reading about other people's lives that I wish I had. And eating.

Dear Mom and Dad please don't kidnap me.

If you're driving me somewhere, and we discover when we get there the event has been canceled, there's a good chance I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYWHERE ELSE. I WANT TO GO HOME. Especially if your backup plan is just driving around aimlessly. This is kidnapping. If you weren't family, I'd press charges.

Mets win, finally

For the first time in nearly a week the Mets' magic number went down. Guess I was wrong about their sucking.

Office plant

This is my office plant. I an growing it from a cutting from someone else's office plant. I have had it in water for nearly two weeks now, but no roots. At least It's not dead yet. The post-it is a sign bearing "CA or Bust," from one of its escape attempts, and the pen is for drawing up other plans for escape. I can't be sure, but I think the note & pen are really the work of my cube-neighbor with an off sense of humor.

Update 25 Sep: Still not dead, still no roots.

By the way...

...my Mets really suck

Lots of meat for a scurvy dog

Arrrrrrrr. I ate one of them thirds last night, and aye, me thought, what's the big deal? Sure it's better than what crawls out of the bungholes in most schools in the new world, but it not be better than some salted meat, limes and rum. So much for making sacrifices.

1st pic

Diet Mountain Dew doesn't suck as much as other diet drinks. It's still not that good, but my new job has me sitting most of the day, so I must make sacrifices.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Tomorrow is International Talk Like a Pirate Day, and for the first time, this disappoints me so. I am now working what one could call a "grown-up" job, an am required to answer a phone in a (sigh) professional manner. I work for a large company, and I work in an IT support department. I've already been told that answering the phone "Ahoy! Thank ye for callin' IT support. What can First Mate Dick" (my pirate name) "be doing for a landlubber like yeself?" would not be good for my future employ here, especially if the CEO's executive assistant calls. I hate being a grown up.

The beginning, again, take 2

I could tell you how many times I've started one of these, but I'd be
making a number up. I used to think I would be a popular blog author.
For reasons that I am unable to explain, people like listening to me.
But I am undisciplined. Here goes nothing, again.

I've decided to leave my failed attempt at first post intact. I find
it amusing. The settings on my work computer don't like Blogspot's
editor.

Oh well.

The beginning, again