Good things come to those who wait... and wait... and wait....

Last night as I was searching my bed-stand for a pen I knocked a small black box out of my drawer. It is a jewelry box- the paper kind that fits around the clamshell case that finer jewelry comes in. It says the Bon Marche, which dates it a bit since the Bon was bought out by Macy’s (bastards) a while ago.

The box had fallen onto its top and was resting upside down. As I leaned out of bed to pick it up I read small silver writing, that I’d never noticed before. The bottom of the box reads: “Good things come in Bon Marche boxes. Please reuse yours.”

It’s my condom box.

Get off my panda, bitches!

Everyone who lives in the Washington DC area, stop hogging the baby panda. You can take the metro to go see it. I can’t. I HAVE to watch it be fucking ridiculously cute over the internet. It is the only cute thing I see all day and damn it, it’s the NATIONAL zoo. That means it’s my zoo too, so quite taking up all the bandwidth! Bastards.

http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/GiantPandas/

Yay! Now I don’t have to go to federal pound me in the ass prison for your murder!

This morning I emailed Married Man at Work Who Sucks at Adultery a file for a project that we are collaborating on- the lag time was literally 24 hours. His response:

"You’re fast. Thanks. Fast computers and fast wom… I mean bright wom nothing."

Might I mention that while I am not a "fast woman”, I'm not slow kid either and I am going to get your filthy lying cheating ass fired with these harassing emails. Keep typing, bitch. You'll need the practice for revising your resume.

Oh, and for the record: I'm not fast, I’m ambidextrous.

What kind of useless shit do I have to invent to get a little respect around here?

For quite some time I have had this nerdish obsession with the Hoberman Sphere. No seriously, I have. It’s just fucking cool. I mean look at it!!!













You can use it as a child cage! Hurrah!

Anyway, so I am a geek and a few weeks ago I decided to go online and finally buy a replacement for my Mini-Hoberman Sphere that I didn’t want back after my ex boyfriend’s frat brother used it to… well nevermind that. Sufficed to say he kept it…. That is where I found out about why the sphere was actually created: retractable roofs. Fucking Brilliant. Here’s a picture that isn’t that great, but if you go to: http://hoberman.com/fold/assoc/profile.htm there are some awesome pictures of the large scale retractable objects.








Furthermore, according to the website the Hoberman Sphere was featured in Y Tu Mama Tambien; being in soft-porn is sooooo cool!!!!!!!!













Chuck Hoberman, I salute you!

Then, a few days ago, on my jog, I was meditating on the Segway Idiot Mover (I live by a park where you can rent them and apparently run over joggers with them) and I wondered, is it possible that Dean Kamen (inventor of said device) is not a complete ass-hat?

Apparently it is possible(from website):

Dean Kamen holds more than 150 U.S. and foreign patents related to medical devices, climate control systems, and helicopter design. He's an inventor whose rebellion against convention has consistently yielded smart solutions. As a high school student, he developed an audiovisual control system that was used in New York's Hayden Planetarium. While in college, his brother—then a medical student—told him how difficult it was to administer intravenous drugs to cancer patients and diabetics. Dean thought about it and invented the portable infusion pump, enabling these patients to receive their medication without being confined to a hospital bed.
Dean built on this success to form DEKA Research & Development, where he and his team went on to solve a wide range of medical problems. They designed a portable dialysis machine the size of a VCR to replace one larger than a dishwasher. They created a vascular stent that provides arterial support during angioplasty procedures. Then came the IBOT™ Mobility System, a balancing aid for people confined to wheelchairs that gives them new freedom while raising them to eye level with the rest of the world.
All the while, Dean pursued his other great passion—cultivating the next generation of scientists and engineers. He founded For Inspiration and Recognition of Science and Technology (FIRST) to inspire high school students to pursue careers in science. The effort is popular with science teachers, and enjoys wide support from corporate America.

Well Dean, I guess I owe you an apology…
These people are ass hats,















but you are cool.



(Dean, 'I feel the need... the need for speed,' Kamen)










Extra geeking for super nerds.

finders keepers, losers weepers

I ran down to the IT department today. IT is the land of sorrow and murrishness, for within the darkened depths are people to avoid:

1. Ex-boyfriend.
2. Married man at work who sucks at adultery.

Having successfully completed my mission and evaded the ex, I was cruising out of IT feeling VERY smug, when I heard “Hey, stranger.”

Damn.

“So... I saw this girl upstairs and she looked HOT, so I thought I would just go over and introduce myself, but then I realized that I already know you. Bad me- I was checking you out.” Married man who sucks held his hand out to me to be slapped. I stared at it momentarily and walked off without responding.

Well married man who sucks, let this be your first warning. Do not thrust any appendages at me because I guarantee that you will not get said appendages back.

World Penis Survey canceled after local man destroys all will to live

Mostly naked hippie man, why were your friends throwing your accoutrements upon the street? Perhaps they desire you to wear pants? I know I did. Your angry junk waggling went far to communicate your displeasure at this forceful eviction, but why did you run at my friend Monica who was hobbling on her crutches with amazing speed towards the secured lobby of her condo? As you charged her like a deranged bull (well, a very poorly endowed deranged bull), and I began to open up the car-door to jump out and kick the shit out of you, all I could wonder was "why us?" (Well, that and "where did you get that sweet Grateful Dead tie-die shirt?") Monica and I didn't force you to suffer the indignities of partially nude unexpected homelessness, so why should you thrust your penis at us so aggressively?

We are all about the free love endorsed by the hippie crowd, so long is comes after no less than four cocktails (nice ones) purchased for us by an attractive, employed, pleasantly smelling young man at an at least marginally swanky bar. See. We are on your side. But, it was a good thing you turned around at the last minute and ran back to your friends to angerly gesticulate at them with your penis; otherwise they might have thought you had forgotten about them or something.

You must have been surprised when the police showed up. I know I was. Well technically I was taken aback, though I do acknowledge that the other sense is gaining increasing currency through its use. I bet you didn't realize that junk wagging would necessitate 5 cop cars. I didn't either! In my old neighborhood not even one car would show up to respond to violent brawls/gang activity in the street, but one tiny (and I do mean that double-entendre) hippie will summon a veritable flock of cops. I suppose that the white woman in distress clause comes into play in Monica's neighborhood more often than mine. Maybe that's just sour grapes talking; I'll admitt that I am a mite jealous of the all that police attention that Monica received, considering she called about a penis and I called about assults both with and without weapons.

Well, anyway, I hope you're doing ok, pantsless hippie man. Even though I know you should repulse me, I can't help but feel a tiny bit of warmth towards you. It's almost as if you remind me of something...




















Alternate titles:

Local blogger stymied by surplus of pithy titles

Entire SPD responds to hippie-penis emergency crisis

Christmas comes early for local blogger

Alleged similarities to characters entirely coincidental says Disney spokesperson.

Local woman loses childlike innocence/lunch

Ver Clemped

“What do you think he’d like?” my grandma asked me in the floral section of Fred Meyers.
“Uhm…” I said nervously looking at the book of balloon designs. “Well, these are nice,” and I pointed to the balloons in the shape of hearts. All I could think was that this whole situation was utterly absurd.
“What about this one?”
“Uhm, that’s nice too.”
The teenager helping us at Fred Myers stared off into space as we debated the various designs.

Having never bought a balloon for a dog I was unsure of which he would prefer. Dogs are color blind, aren’t they? Anyway, I just picked one that read ‘You’re so Special.’ When you buy a balloon for a sick old dog you can’t buy the same kind of balloon that you would buy a person. Somehow buying Dodger a ‘Get Well Soon’ balloon seemed messed up since we all knew we'd be putting him down the next day.

Normally I am all about mocking the grandparents about their mutt herd, but somehow I didn’t want the balloon guy to look at grandma like she was nuts; I didn’t want her to feel like this loss was any less significant than if it were any other gray haired, wrinkled old man with a penchant for bacon.

When we got home I found grandpa sitting on the floor of the dining room, force feeding broth and water to Dodger with a turkey baster. Grandpa never looked so desperate or sad. He’d bought Dodger to keep him company after he divorced his first wife and Dodger was his only company for a few years.

Over time Dodger had grown to favor me. He pushed me out of bed every night, sat on my feet all the time, and barked at me when I’d get home as if to say, “Bitch, get in the kitchen and bake me a pie.” Having Dodger as a pet was like living being married to a tiny, fat, bad-tempered Jewish man with gray chest hair peeping out of his track suit. When I had arrived at my grandparent’s house yesterday, Dodger heard me in the hallway and tried to come over, but he couldn’t make it and collapsed on the linoleum. I picked him up and set him on his bed and patted his head. He was so weak he couldn’t wag his tail. Tears welled up in my eyes when he wouldn’t take a bit of roast beef off of my fork.

After dinner grandma gave Dodger his balloon, forcing him to hold the string with his little paw while they watched World Championship Poker. But the whole time Dodger watched me, looking at me as if to say, “Oy vey, woman! Get off your tuches and help me! These people are crazy!”

I get paid to do the Wild Thang.

Say what?!

Guys Gone Wild??

Getting a guy naked is easier than breathing, so here’s my question:
Why would anyone want a video of guys whipping out their vacuum cleaner-like genitalia and wagging it on VHS?

I mean who owns a VCR anymore?

Well, besides me.

Apparently a whole fuck-ton of people bought this video because according to the Overstock.com Top One Hundred Movies, this was in the top 50.

Three thoughts:
1. Please Dear God let there not be anyone I know on there.
2. When I was dating Greek, did I really believe that my frat boy boyfriend wasn’t like all those other frat boys?
3. The last time I viewed one of the fine “Gone Wild Videos” it was a spring break one of college girls, one of whom was pulling her pants down to give everyone a view of her merchandise apparently without remembering that she was wearing a tampon, the string of which was hanging out of her thong underwear. Only God knows what frightening things may be lurking in these ‘wild guy’s’ genitals.

Midnight in the Garden of Yuppies and Evil

Once you get what you want, you don’t want it.

The entire duration of my stay in my last apartment I longed to be free of it. Though the building was nice the neighborhood was awful. Sirens, motorcycles, fights, screams, breaking glass, and gunshots punctuated my phone calls with my mother. My proximity to the red-neck bar drove me nuts, adding to my insomniatic ramblings; I need at least 4 hours of sleep for coherent speech.

While I was in Lake City I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of:
“Bitch, where’s my hat, you fucking stupid bitch!”
“Fuck you, asshole, fuck your hat.”
“Fucking cunt, something something unintelligible hat….”
“Well fuck you.”
“You don’t fucking come near me, or I’m gonna mess you up.”
“Fuck you. I’ll fuck you up.”
“Come here, asshole.”
“Fucking, asshole.”
“Where’s my fucking hat, fucker?”

In Green Lake I hear…. NOTHING. Occasionally a car passes and I can dimly hear the hum of the freeway, but primarily the only noises in my new place are coming from my incessant yacking and the TV or stereo. I have no urban lullaby to sleep to. Consequently, I am sleeping even less than usual, which is really quite ridiculous. In fact I was so exhausted last night that I actually considered putting on clothes and going all the way back to my old apartment. But I was too lazy to find pants.

Perhaps like the main character in the movie version of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, I should record the sounds of my old home and play them at night. Imagine my new neighbors’ confusion at the sounds of fat spiral-permed blondes being assaulted, men scuffling for no discernable reason, and my personal favorite, the randomly screaming woman, all pouring from my windows and traveling across the waters of my clean new pool.

Yea I gots plenty of bitches, fool, look at my ride!

Here, take this orally before bed and you'll be asleep in no time at all.

This is a houseplant.






















This is me. (Ok, me dressed as a pirate...)



















The resemblance is pretty poor.

I say this in order to clarify that, in fact, I am not a houseplant, nor do I aspire to become one. Colleagues, friends, aunties, grandma, mom, please stop implying that I need some one to take care of me.

I pretty much raised myself, put myself through college, and support myself at the highest standard of living that I have EVER had with a job that I got… all by myself. (Ok, my job essentially blows, but I’m working on that.) My point is that I never had a Daddy, and I don’t need one now.

So please don’t try to make me feel incomplete without a husband. Don’t try to assert my helplessness to inspire me to desperately search for a man. Don’t use your imaginary M.D. to diagnose that my insomnia would be cured if only I had a strong man to alleviate my anxieties. Sex will not cure my insomnia. Trust me.

Ohhhh Mexico, I’ve never really been, but I’d sure like to go.

The Anti-Defamation League wants you to know that Mexico is not dirty. Apparently they’ve never been to Mexico.


T-shirt said to be offensive to Mexico
Claims ‘New Mexico: Cleaner Than Regular Mexico’

The Anti-Defamation League has asked Urban Outfitters, a Philadelphia-based retailer which targets 18- to 30-year-old shoppers, to stop selling the shirt.


The Associated Press
Updated: 3:28 p.m. ET July 26, 2005
PHILADELPHIA - The Urban Outfitters retail chain is once again upsetting some people with a T-shirt it’s selling. The shirt reads: “New Mexico, Cleaner than Regular Mexico.”
An official with the Anti-Defamation League wants the retailer to stop selling the shirt -- because it suggests that ”Mexico is a dirty place.”
Urban Outfitters has run into similar controversy before. Two years ago, it stopped selling a game called ”Ghettopoly” after black civil rights leaders protested. Last year, it stopped sales of a T-shirt that read, “Everyone Loves a Jewish Girl,” surrounded by dollar signs. The Anti-Defamation League objected to that one, too.
It also angered pro-voting groups with a shirt that said, “Voting is for Old People.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, here goes Quiana and her Anti-Defamation League prejudices. Damn straight. I can’t help but be angry about how, according to the ADL, it’s apparently ok for Falwell and Santorum to vilify homosexuals, but God forbid you pick on Mexico. God forbid you use your right to free expression to offend other people. Good thing being a bitch is illegal in America (I’d better go into hiding). Good thing that the ADL’s right to sue and be little whiners supersedes our rights to obnoxious garb. “Harold that man’s T-shirt is too glib, quick call the ADL!” I feel like the ADL is a bully that can run around telling people that creating funny t-shirts (although a bit outrageous) is wrong—quick accuse the makers of anti-Semitism, racism, sexism, ageism. Tie them up and burn them at the stake!

I know that the ADL is concerned that people will believe that all Mexicans are dirty if they see that t-shirt (not that the shirt is even implying that), but let’s be serious, if I see a lady with a t-shirt with a picture of a beaver on her shirt and an arrow pointing down, I don’t think that there is an actual beaver in her pants, nor will society at large begin to think that all ladies have large flappered mammals in their pants. Likewise I think that people who hate Mexicans are stupid assholes who not only have the right to any stupid t-shirt they want, but who the ADL can’t make not be assholes no matter how many clothing retailers they blackball. It’s every American’s God-given right to be an asshole if they feel like being an asshole and no amount of t-shirt destruction will stop that. So while I can see where the ADL is going with this (even though I think that they are a bunch of liberal art major, bourgeois, ass-clowns) I still stand behind Urban Outfitters. The American government set the precedent for picking on Mexico so why should our retailers take any more care? Mexico’s condition is appalling. Its government is fundamentally corrupt in every fashion, from the president down to the neighborhood police force. Things are so terrible in Mexico that leaving your family, swimming a river and risking death in the desert to come here, live in fear, not be able to communicate, to be the victim of atrocious racism, and pick our fucking berries is the best possible opportunity available for people to improve themselves. This sob story may make you believe that the ADL is right, quit picking on Mexico. Well fah, I say. I think that Americans would do well to remember that Mexico isn’t really Cabo and Mazatlan, Mexico is Tijuana and tiny towns full of desperate dirty people.

About 8 years ago I went to Tijuana to work with orphans and the destitute at the Tijuana dumps. The dump used to be a pile in a valley with mountains all around. They’ve filled the valley, to the point that the mound of refuse is a mountain now. Countless poor live next to this mountain making their living by sorting through the trash. Eating what they can, selling anything worth money. I bathed children for the first time in their lives because water is too precious to waste; I deloused them and gave them the only new clothes they will probably ever own. These are kids with scabies, worms, and appalling health problems and deformities that are so awful that, were your pet to have them, you would have it put down. I didn’t know that there was that much puss in the entire world, and I sat and squished it out of sores on babies so the staff doctors and nurses could figure out what the hell was wrong there.

There is a cemetery at the dump for people who are born in the trash and die in it. The people are so poor that they don’t know what to do with their loved ones when they die, so they bury their dead children, parents, and friends in cardboard boxes or just leave them on the ground knowing that if they buried them someone would just break in and steal their clothes anyway. There are decaying corpses on the ground and the children play on the other side of the road. But don’t worry, the cemetery will probably be swallowed by garbage soon if it hasn’t happened already. At least then they will be buried.

I know that Mexico isn’t even the poorest place in the world, but remembering this experience makes me feel despondent so deep inside I can’t even express it.

ADL, don’t you fucking dare sit in Manhattan in tailored suits drinking Starbucks and tell me that Mexico isn’t dirty. Or that that t-shirt isn’t funny just because it’s true.

Sorry guys, this was going to be knee-slapping funny, but I just got pissed off instead. Don’t fret, more poop and sex entries to come.

And I said, I don't care if they lay me off either, because I told, I told Bill that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I'm, I'm quitting

Below is an ACTUAL email that I received at WORK from a COWORKER. Let me preface this all with the statement that this went out to at least 300 other people who also work with us. Additionally, aside from omitting names (i.e. trying to not get fired) I have made absolutely no changes to the content, punctuation, spelling etc. of this email. Continuing in my preface might I add that this woman is a 45 year old white chick and is also quite large.

Oh and incidentally they just moved my desk and I'm hopping mad. Now people can sneak up behind me and catch me updating this blog. Bastards!

_____________________________________________________


First.... August 11 in the AM I will be unavailable to answer the phone. Additionally, (program she manages) will be unavailable. Here's the scoop-a-rooney, I will be working with (company that makes program that she manages) that morning to beef up a few things and learn a few more tricks to impress you with! One thing that we will be doing is adding more report options for you! Neat Huh? I thought you'd like that!

So in order for me to not loose my little mind trying to answer questions and fix all sorts of other stuff, I need to focus on this so that I can be the best that I can be! I do this out of love for all my peeps! :)

***************************************

Ok... Second......
I am going to give you more power... yep.. you heard me right. More power... but with more power you can cause MORE damage.... so I need to give you a stern lecture, warning, directive, call it what you like..... if you goof it up.. I will have no choice but to remove that power..... got it? Sorry to be such a "parteey peewper" but for the safety of all concened it has to be that way. With that said here's the deal;

After payroll upload tomorrow I will flip a switch on your (program she manages) adminstrator profile that will enable you to make fabulous changes to your employee files. Changes like addresses, phone numbers, job descriptions, work hours and stuff like that. Stuff that will make your job easier. Like the ability to print mailing labels and other fun things. You will no longer have to wait months on end for me to dig through a pile of changes to get to your site. You have the power!!! Wahooooooo!

The problem is that this will give you power to change (certain variety of employee) records as well. This must not be done!!!!! Do not under ANY circumstance change a (certain variety of employee) record. Nadda, Nyet, Nein.... Don't eeeeven think about it! Even if it seems non invasive. There may be a good reason that their name is not spelled the way they write it. Perhaps that's what their social security card has it spelled. You don't know... so don't touch! Don't change their phone number or anything! Call me if you have a question.

Cuz.... if you change it... the change log will reflect YOUR name! That's right! So you can't even do a sneaky! I'll be all over you like mustard on a ball park dog!

Live long and prosper... but keep your hands to your own site information!

Sheesh... I need a nap... being such a dictator is brutal! I'm all tuckered out!

If you don't have your Password and User name to access (program she manages) yet.... let me know.. I'll do it post haste! (or at least after payroll has been uploaded!)

Naptime.... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
:)
Name of Coworker Withheld

you stink

Came into the office this morning and went to wash my coffee mug and there was new soap. That's fine. Whatever, however if you have ever puked Smirnoff twisted orange vodka or Absolut Citron, don't use this shit:
Dawn Direct Foam Citris










I seriously almost snarked into the sink. It gave me the same reaction as smelling tequila after heavy drinking....
Also possibly the fucking freakiest graphic ever:













It's like the resulting baby if Snuffy from Sesame Street was making love to a soap bottle during a radioactive space wind storm.

I'm not with Stupid*

You guys want a post?! Well fine, here's a post, but it ain't gonna be funny. Whiners.

Today I was meditating on Rick Santorum (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rick_Santorum). Guys like him make me embarrassed to admit to being an evangelical Christian, even though I'm a barely practicing, jubilantly sinning, tragically liberal, practically not Christian at all kind of Christian.

I won't rant about what a self-indulgent ass-clown Rick Santorum is, but it suddenly occurred to me that this is one tenth of the embarrassment that my Muslim friends described to me whenever terrorists use the Koran to excuse their sins. When Santorum and other Christian extremists equate being homosexual with being a child molesters it must feel frustrating and ludicrous in the same way as when Muslim extremists claim that their martyrs are treated to some 20 virgins or whatever. (Being that most of my Muslim friends follow Islamic law with the same enthusiasm that I follow Christian law, they are aiming to get their 20 virgins now.)

Shouldn't a common enemy bring us together? I feel like we are all in the same boat. We, as religious groups, are being embarrassed by a disturbingly large portion of our fellows being manipulated in their beliefs by a minority of ass-holes (and in this case, their contents).
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Love)

*Alternate title intended for the entertainment of Steve: "Dude that was so NOT extreme."

Chilled Cheese with a Twist of Limey

Sometimes you hear a story and you think that there is no way that this could possibly be true. If you knew my buddy John Hepburn, you’d understand that with liquor, shrooms, and John, anything is possible. John was from Manchester and acted like it. He was cheap as hell, had an incomrehensible accent, and cursed like a marine. He had NO sense of any kind, common or otherwise.

At the time of this story John is living with my boyfriend of the week, Sam, and their Canadian friend, Tim, in a small three bedroom flat in the outskirts of Tokyo. This was one of the many points in my life where I mostly shopped and partied. (If you can believe it, I am actually much calmer now.) Anyway, a bunch of us expats (5 Brits and myself) decided to go to a nomihodai (a restaurant/bar where you pay a fee to drink all you want) then clubbing. The night progressed much as it normally did, with the exception that John decided to buy shrooms (which are perfectly legal in Japan) off of some skeezy guy (think the weird guy from Big Trouble in Little China) on the street.

We had a good time at the club and left there sometime between 3 and 4. We went to a nice little curry joint to wait for the subway to start running again (it quits at like 2:30 and starts at 4 or so). We are all very very drunk, and nearly all foreigners (though most of us speak nearly fluent or fluent Japanese) so we are attracting tons of warranted attention. Most of the attention was directed at John. This would be because John was white and 6’5,” kneading his curry rice like bread dough, and muttering angrily to no one in particular. Oli, his neighbor, is leaning on the table, focused on pretending he can’t smell curry, when out of nowhere John (who is a good foot taller) hurled his entire plate of steaming hot curry in Oli’s face. John lurched violently from his chair and lumbered out into the street like Frankenstein’s Monster. I ran out after him (who cares if Oli is blinded by a vindaloo, John is loose on the streets of Tokyo!) As we watched in silent horror, John ran across 6 lanes of traffic, jumped the subway turnstile and was gone.

After about thirty seconds we all shrugged, put Oli in a cab and the rest of us went to karaoke. I tried calling John a few times but I couldn’t get a hold of him on his cell phone. When the trains started running again we returned to our neighborhood and I went to my boyfriend’s apartment (Sam hadn't joined us that evening due to a hockey game).

The next morning someone started pounding on the door. Sam looked out the peephole and started laughing hysterically. He opened the door and John stormed in. He declared “Fuck all” in his impenetrable accent and stormed into the shower room. He had been dressed in black sweats and a white t-shirt, except that they were clearly made for a Japanese guy, not a giant Brit. He was also orange.

After his shower he sat down to tell us how this happened. This morning he woke up and it was freezing cold and pitch black. It also smelled terrible. The last thing John could remember was at the club. Suddenly he noticed that he felt very cramped and suffocated. He started to struggle, trying to kick out, only to come tumbling out of a fridge. Having short and long fridges to fit under counters is not completely abnormal.

He lay there for a moment staring at the ceiling of a room he had never seen before. He looked at the floor and noticed that there was food and bottles all over it. It was then he noticed two other things.
1. He was completely naked.
2. He was completely orange.

His first instinct was to get the hell out of this place, except he was orange and naked. He went to the sink and tried to wash some of the orange off. He then crept around the house looking for his clothes, wallet and cell phone. He couldn’t find any of that. He did find a Japanese couple in their early twenties naked, somewhat orange and asleep in one of the bedrooms. On the floor were several containers of squeezy cheese. John panicked grabbing clothes from a pile on the floor and decided to consider his keys, phone, wallet and clothes as a negligible loss.

He got out into the street and had no idea where he was. After wandering around for a few minutes he finally found a train station. He stared at the map realizing that he was in a suburb on the opposite side of Tokyo. In fact he was pretty much at the end of the line. He started walking up to Japanese people and in his best Japanese would say, “I’m sorry to bother you so rudely, but it’s that I have lost my wallet. Would you loan me the money to ride the train to Mitaka. I would mail it back to you.” This of course incited the Japanese housewives he was addressing to run away or at best say in bad English “English no good. I no speak English.” Which of course cause John, who was feeling kinda of crappy at this point to say in a loud and rude voice, “I’m speaking Japanese. Right now. See.” Which if they hadn’t already run away would quite ample inspiration to do so then. Finally a Kiwi came by and John was able to persuade him to give him the money he needed. John offered to pay him back, but apparently these sorts of things simply don’t happen in New Zealand and aside from this one good deed he wanted nothing to do with John.

John rode the train to the end. He looked at the map. He rode the next train till the end and into the heart of the city. Then the next back to Mitaka-Osawa (our neighborhood). As he exited the train station John saw his bike sitting forlornly on the corner. He walked over and realized his bike key was gone. The last of the Kiwi’s monkey was spent on the train ride back and John was not certain that Sam, Tim or I would be home to cover the cost of a cab. To cap it all John walked home (at least 2 miles) that day to cancel his cards, call the bank, get a new resident foreigner card, get new keys made, and finally to return two days later for his bike, to find it was stolen.

John never found his wallet, clothes, keys, or memory of what transpired that night.

Married man at work who sucks at adultery, are you mad because you figured out that it’s never going to happen?

Wow, after almost 3 years of trying to get me to have an adulterous affair, you’ve finally figured out it’s never going to happen. That’s quite the learning curve, pumpkin.

When you sat next to me for today’s all day meeting, I will admit, I wanted to poison you, but didn’t have any poison on my person. The part that I thought was really painful was when you noticed me secretly update my blog and commented that you wish you had enough free time to run a blog at work. I countered with “How’s your golf game coming along?” I’ve got to say that I could have done better than picking on the fact that you regularly dick around with your putting set instead of working. What I wish I could have said was, “Well, it’s funny that you bring up my blog, because my entry about how pathetic you are is one of my funniest so far.”

Oh well. It’s time for a break now and I’m just gonna toddle up to the break room and see if we have any nice pesticides or cleaners to put in your Snoopy mug.

See you in ten, big boy.

I don't need no stinking permission

Reprinted from a response to my email about friends not letting their friends date me (and for good reason) about 2 minutes ago:
Brief theatrical interlude in the stylings of Top Gun:

Loren: "You know why people don't want to date you Quiana? CUZ' YER DANGEROUS!"

Quiana: "That's right! Iceman!...er...LORAN!!!! I AM dangerous"(Quiana emphatically shoves Ice...er.. Loren in the chest and walks quickly towards her awaiting F-14 Tomcat fighter pausing only briefly to flip him the bird)

*fade to black-- next scene

This is not the droid you’re looking for.

A couple years back a friend of mine introduced me to a guy who was getting a divinity degree and was working as a youth pastor. Yes, I know I should know better.

We started hanging out a lot, in what I perceived to be a non-date type fashion. Eventually we were sitting next to each other at the beach and I was blah blah blahing about God knows what when he took my face in his hands and kissed me. I was like, ok I should worry about this, but I’m having such a good time. Yes, I should have known better.

Then we started meeting up and he would play his guitar and we would hang out and one thing would lead to another, as ‘one thing’s always do and we would be making out. Part of the problem was that he was just a damn great kisser. The other part, and probably the larger part was that I am a huge idiot.

Eventually we are sitting on his couch and he decides to have a relationship defining talk. This catches me off guard, mostly because I am a huge idiot. Transcript of conversation:

E-“You know I’ve been thinking.” Twiddling with the guitar.
Q-Panic/ repression of snide comment. “Yes…?”
E-“I really like you, (long pause) and I think I can tell that you really like me, so you know, (twiddling guitar) I think maybe we should be official.”
Q-Blank expression (I hope- more likely an expression of panic) You know I adore you Erik, but (for one thing your 20 and for another you’re the kind of guy who spells Erik with a K) I don’t think you really want me to be your girlfriend. (you really want your stupid truck to be your girlfriend) Maybe you just feel like you should.”
E-“I don’t want you?”
Q-“No, you don’t want me, I think you’d be happier being single.” (I don’t want to be a pastor’s wife, Stupid. God, why are you so hot?!)
E- “I am happy being single.”
Q-“We probably shouldn’t be doing this.” (I would prefer your roommate. I’d date him for sure, he’s got that whole indie kid thing going for him.)
E- I think I don’t really want you to be my girlfriend.
Q- *sigh* you’re probably right. (Yes he totally bought that! I’m a Jedi Master.)

He was married to his ex-girlfriend 6 months later.

global existence of penises continues to threaten feminists

*WARNING* Potentially deadly rant below. Blame NPR, they’ve got me all riled up today.

Bryn Mawr is going to withdraw my diploma for this but, as I listen to news coverage about the recent appointment of a man as the Chair of Women’s Studies at the University of Washington, I can’t help but feel that the whole thing is appallingly fitting. Does everybody actually believe that one must be a woman to study women? Do herpetologists need forked tongues? Well I guess you can never understand the nature of snake-ness without being a snake…?

Women’s Studies is not really about the question “what does it mean to be a woman?” Women’s studies is about learning and documenting things having to do with women, a group historically ignored. Can I write a book illustrating what it is like to be an American, what American-ness is? Of course not. People are different; people have different experiences and different natures. What is it that these people are really implying: that a man can never understand women? No shit. That men and women are different? Yea, I noticed that in Junior High. Nope, they are asserting that no member of the privileged male gender can empathize with the ‘subjugated woman.’ How about a guy who didn’t get a job because he was Mexican, or too old, or gay, or short? Nope, Women’s Studies is a snatch only club. Sorry guys, no willies allowed.

Apparently the possibility that men and women are both capable of doing the same level of work is not part of feminism anymore. The kind of drivel I heard touted as feminism at Bryn Mawr was apparently not the rants of women with senses of entitlement larger than the state of Texas and mouths large enough to swallow a Princess cruise ship, but mainstream feminism today.

These are the same people who believe that only white people are racist. You want to see widespread commonly accepted racism? Be white and move to Japan or any crap neighborhood in Philadelphia. My male friends are more “Feminist” than my female friends and my black relatives are the WORST racists I’ve ever suffered.

I have always believed that the basic premise of feminism is that while men and women are different from each other, that neither gender fits into cookie cutter definitions, and that everyone should be free to do as they believe and desire without gender based constraints.

When women talk about the entitlement of the male patriarchy do they forget the meal they were bought the night before? Do they forget the doors held open for them? How about the being able to act utterly insane and then write it off as hormones?

I guess feminism is about chicks bitching about how men are being treated better while showing a little cleave to get a free beer.

Well, if I’m going to get free beer out of it, “Here’s a toast to our titties ladies.”

Up Next, Real World: Riyadh

I would like to settle once and for all, that "Islamic" and "terrorist" are not interchangeable words. The terrorists who are bombing shit are not part of a Islamic network, they are part of a terrorist network. An Islamic network would show interesting reality TV shows and dubbed Sesame Street, not be made up of criminals who are planning to murder non-combatants.

Rant courtesy of NPR's Morning Edition.