oooooo that smell. Can't you smell that smell?

Yesterday was Diane and my anniversary. Nine whole years and it's been absolutely wonderful. Last night to celebrate, Diane and I got ourselves a babysitter and went out to eat at a nice place. Or rather, It seemed like a nice place. Yep the place was nice, but the people had a mean streak in 'em. I thought that the staff members were smiling at us because they were friendly, but they were just holding back the giggles because they were all in on the prank. Diane and I both ordered the rib-eye. Diane ordered it because she felt like having steak. I ordered it because the joint looked kind of fancy and I was hoping that by ordering a steak I wouldn't have to leave hungry. Sometimes I get duped in those fancy type places. I think that I'm going to get a lot of food if I order the most expensive thing. (Eighty bucks?!?! Woo hoo! I can't pronounce it, but they're gonna have to bring it to me on a furniture dolly!) Then the guy comes over with a plate bigger than my torso and smack in the middle is a piece of meat roughly the size of my thumb drizzled with red and yellow stuff with a side of rose petals. So anyway, we order our steak and the waitress comes back and sets it on the table. I was glad to see a lot of food there. Thing is, when the waitress leaned over to put my food on the table she got pretty close to my face and I caught a horrible stench. It was disgusting. How in the world can someone in the food service industry come to work smelling like that? And why in the world wouldn't her co-workers tell her to go home and clean up?
She left the table and I leaned towards Diane, ready to make some comment about the smelly help. The waitress was gone and as I leaned over my plate, I realized that the smell was my food. I could not believe my nose.
oh------my------goodness
My steak smelled like a skunk smothered in saurkraut and served stuffed in the belly of a two day dead hobo.
It was covered with onions. Okay, now if you know me, you realize the magnitude of the statement I am about to make. I wish that they had been regular onions. Normally, I would rather shave with a lawnmower than eat onions but I would have been thrilled to face my old nemesis in this case. These onions were red and slimy. They looked like entrails. They were the source of the smell. I don't really go for stinky food that looks like my guts.
You know what I hate more than stinky food? Sitting in a restaurant with nothing to eat. That's why I thought I would just roll the entrails off my steak and eat it. Actually, the steak itself was pretty good but I could not get that eye-watering stank out of my nostrils and it really tainted the mood. I'm like "Oh yeah! This steak is great! In fact, it's so great that I'm going to eat it in four bites and get the hell out of here as fast as I can." (Chew-gulp-"check please!")
All I left behind was a pile of what looked like ton-ton intestines and ill wishes for the chef.
Other than that it was a wonderful dinner. As we left, the staff was smiling more widely than when we entered. They brightnened up even more when I heard a guy who just sat down say, "I feel like steak."

'twas a bust

The very day that I wrote the last post, Diane comes up to me and says, "So Jason, is there a reason you're throwing that cup away?" Blast her enquiring mind and candor! If my life were a sitcom, it would totally get cancelled. Well, maybe that isn't true. Even though nothing really happened, it's still funnier than anything on "According to Jim". Of course, nine hours of listening to a guy with a prosthetic larynx reading the tax code in monotone is funnier than "According to Jim".

Man, I hope Diane doesn't read this

She reads my blog from time to time but she's pretty busy with friends in town right now so I'm going to take a bit of a chance. Here's the thing. I threw away a plastic cup the other day because it has this tiny little microscopic crack in it near the bottom. You can't even see the crack but the cup leaves huge rings of whatever you're drinking all over whatever you set it on. So...I threw it away. Now, I know I've thrown stuff away before by accident. I'm a little absent minded like that. But this time, she pulled it out of the trash and didn't say anything, so I threw it away once more. Today, I look in the sink and she pulled it out again. Naturally, I threw it away a third time. I would say something, but I think it'll be funner to see how many times I can throw it away and how many times she'll pull it out of the trash before she just comes up and says, "Dude, what's your problem?!". Yep, that's pretty much the sort of thing that makes my world go 'round. That and BRCs from El Pollo Loco. Ever had one? They're burrios with only three ingredients: beans, rice, and cheese. Oh, except for this one time I found some hair in it. I hope it was an accident. Because it was probably either that or the guy making my burriot saw that I'm starting to go bald and he was just rubbing my face in it. "HA! Look at me! I have so much hair that I cook with it!" Bastard. Anyway, I'll let ya know how this cup thing turns out.

This is a test

I'm talking about junk mail. I mean the tangible stuff that you use to start your fireplace. I'm not addressing spam at this time.
Oh, incidentally. People say that the spammers track your internet habits and tailor a list of who gets what spam. Here's a little game. I'll tell you that I get a lot of spam advertising track lighting and portable toilets. Now you tell me where I get my news. The winner gets to use my portable toilet.
Anyway, back to actual junk mail.
It's all about testing you. They don't want to know how smart you are. They want to know how dumb you are. Here's how it works. They send you an urgent announcement with no return address that pleads with you to call United Virtual Housing Homestead Friends of Partnership Consolidation about your overdue mortgage payment.
Correct response: I feel like spaghetti tonight (crumple toss).
The response they're hoping for: HOLY COW! I didn't even know I had another mortgage out there! I better follow up on this just in case my other house is nicer than this one!
Bingo. They got a customer.
Let me be honest here. At this point I was planning to come up with a fictitious phone conversation to a fictitious mortgage company. However, I was unable to come up with anything off the top of my head. Furthermore, thinking is hard and is, for the most, to be avoided so I just called the number to see what would happen. I was expecting this big hilarious conversation where they tried to convince me that I owed them money, or that I was distantly related to an antelope ranch tycoon in Zaire, or something. Anything! Sadly, the conversation went like this.
"Mortgage company": Mortgage and loan department, how can I help you?
Me: Hi, I'm calling because I got a letter from you about my mortgage.
"Mortgage company": Yes, what can I do for you?
Me: I don't have a mortgage with your company.
"Mortgage company": I see, can you hold?
Me: Sure
"Mortgage company": *silence* *click* *buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz* "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, please hang up and dial your operator." (by the way, if you've ever wondered what note on the musical scale a dial tone is, it's "A")
Actually, I kind of suspect that she didn't really hang up. She was probably making that buzz with an electric toothbrush and impersonating a recording while her "old man" scooped stolen credit card numbers and fake social security cards into a nap sack so they could make a quick get away.
They gave it their best shot. I passed their first test and proved to be stupid enough to make the call. Unfortunately for them, I was still not quite dumb enough to talk to. Oh well, I'm sure that they'll find a nice little alley where they can park their pop-up trailer, splice into the electricity of an old widow, and resume their testing.

Is it just me?

Look me in the face and tell me that's not creepy.

You know, I think I'm gonna fill it with vegetable soup and do that in front of my kids next time they get outta line. Oh oh oh, AND I'll give off this high-pitched screech while I do it. They'll start watching their step. Believe you me.
Oh yeah, this is absolutely time better spent than if I were working on the carport like I'm supposed to be.

It's the Charles Bronson of station wagons...but tougher!

There is a new car running around out there. Okay, maybe it's new and maybe it isn't. It takes me a while to notice stuff. You could set me on fire right when I get out of bed and I'd probably figure it out around lunch. But there is a car out there that is beginning to drive me nuts. It's the Dodge Magnum.

I can only imagine the mess inside the heads of the guys who buy this thing. They probably all go on to the car lot with a similar story.
Guy: Hi, I'm already questioning my sexuality but my wife says I can't have a truck. Thing is, I need something to haul around my cigars and baseball bats. (snort...spit)
Salesman: Here you go sir. It's the Magnum.
Guy: That's a station wagon! I can't have people thinking I'm gay, or a soccer mom, or a gay soccer mom.
Salesman: But sir, it has tinted windows and it's named after a gun!
Guy: Can I tell my friends that the Magnum stands for Magnum P.I.?
Salesman: You tell 'em whatever you need to, macho man.
Guy: I'll take it!
I mean, come on. Just buy a minivan, tie a giant fake mustache to the grill, and paint "Shut up! I like girls!" down the side. At least you wouldn't be sending mixed signals. The Magnum is like buying an Easy Bake Oven and plastering it with "Skilsaw" decals.
Now, you'll notice I've said nothing about the women who would buy a Magnum. That's because there aren't any. I've seen roughly four hundred bajillion of these in the last month or so and not one was driven buy a woman. There has been a man behind the wheel of every single Magnum I've seen. Half the time they're driving alone. The other half of the time they have a woman in the passenger seat saying something like, "You don't have to be embarrassed honey. It happens to all men some times."
Oh well, I guess you buy whatever car it takes to keep you from crying into your pillow at night.
What do I drive? Let's just say I know that it takes 82 balls of yarn to make a mustache nine feet wide.

It looked like fun when DJ did it.

Alrighty. Had me one of those graduation things yesterday. It's a little bit anti-climactic because I still have to take two classes this summer. Ah well. But, ya know, I'm glad I had a chance to walk and have my picture taken because it really highlights the fact that I look like a doofus. I hate having my picture taken so much. By the way, here's an interesting little side note. I just checked dictionary.com for the spelling of "doofus". Turns out that the plural for doofus is "doofuses". I would have guessed "doofi". Then I wanted to see if the "I" sound is spelled by just throwing an "I" at the end of the word so I looked up "octopus". Yep, it's just an "I" at the end there. Then I thought, "Why is octopus even on dictionary.com? Who the hell doesn't know what an octopus is?". Anyway, I'll put more pictures up later, but here's one anyway.

I ain't dead or nothin'

Here's what's up. End of quarter. Lots of projects. Finals next week. After that I rejoin the living.
Right now, I have pictures. My camera got busted up on a trip to the zoo but Grandpa came to the rescue and gave me a new one. Well, new to me anyway. It's an awful lot better than the last one. So, I have some pictures from its first outing. On Flickr, I put up some pictures of DJ's graduation from Tiny Tots and then just some miscellaneous play ground stuff from after the ceremony. Tiny Tots is a pretty cool program run by the city. It's preschool that costs like 60 bucks for 5 months or something stupid-cheap like that. Mrs. B. was awesome. I also like that DJ was involved in anything that has "tiny" in the name. He's like seven times bigger than his class mates. Anyway he's done with that and next year he'll be Mr. Kindergarten. So yeah... Gotta run. Oh, here's a teaser: