Breaking: Summer Has Arrived

Ladies and gentlemen, could I please have your attention.

The Captain has turned off the "It's Not Summer Yet" sign.

You may now feel free to move about the season.

Thank you for choosing U.S. (h)Air.



... till next we meet.

Put My Nuts In Your Mouth

Hi there. My name is Monkey Joe.

I've got nuts.

Big nuts.

And I want you to pay money to buy them.

And then put them in your mouth.

Stop asking questions.

Just do it.

Put them in your mouth.



FOOD ALLERGY WARNING: We cannot guarantee "100%" that Monkey Joe's Nuts do not contain monkey. Those with monkey-based food allergies should avoid consuming this product.



Till next we meet ...

Dog Having In Three Easy Steps!

Ever wanted to have a dog?

Well this is your lucky day!

STEP 1: UNFOLD YOUR DOG.

STEP 2: ASSEMBLE YOUR DOG.

STEP 3: NOW YOU HAVE A DOG!

Congratulations!



Till next we meet ...

Edward Skewer Fingers

Yes, it's true that the movies Big Eyes, Frankenweenie and Dark Shadows failed to catch on at the box office.

And it's also true that Mars Attacks, Sleepy Hollow and Planet of the Apes were not adored by critics.

But COME ON!

You're better than this, Tim Burton!

And why the hell do you have a cuckoo clock over your batch?!

What are we expecting to come popping out of---OH MY GOD!!





Till next we meet ...

Yup. That's It. We're Done. Pack It Up, Everybody.

Every once in a while it's nice to get a little reminder of where you are in the Universe. A reality check, as it were.

It's just helpful to know exactly where you -- and society as a whole -- actually stand in the Grand Scheme of Things.

A little perspective.

For instance, it might interest you to know that right this very minute we are no longer teetering on the precipice between order and chaos, between stability and utter bedlam.

Nope!

We have already plunged headlong into the muck and mire of the End of All Things!

The End Times have arrived, my friends, and everything you've held dear has crumbled to dust!

All bets are off! Tear up those rule books, they don't apply anymore!

Time to start flinging your poop, everybody!

Because apparently nothing goddamn matters anymore!

Yup. That happened.

(And actually continued to happen for several minutes.)

And by the by, this wasn't a kid who didn't know any better. This was a woman in her late 50s to early 60s.

Somebody's mom or grandma.

And there were several employees literally a few yards away! Employees who I'm sure would have been delighted to help her not step all over the damn hot dogs.


It may not be raining hellfire and brimstone just yet, but I think this is pretty solid proof that we are, in fact, living in a Pre-Apocalyptic Wasteland.

So good luck, everybody! And remember, babies have the tenderest meat!



It's my own fault, though. I shouldn't be shopping at Thunderdome.

Two men enter! One man leaves ... with savings!



Till next we meet ...

(Animal) Protection Racket

THE SCENARIO:

It's two in the morning. You're sprawled on the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. An episode of Forensic Files flickers unwatched across the TV screen ... the oddly comforting white noise of a grisly tale of murder and depravity easing you into slumber.

And then you hear it.

The slow plinking of a very sad piano filters through your haze.

Instantly your eyes SNAP open!

NOOO!!!

With all the grace of a pile of lumber tumbling down a flight of stairs, you lurch up from your repose, scrambling madly for the remote!

You mash all the buttons in blind panic ... desperate to avoid what's coming ...!

But it's too late.

"They call me 'The Night-Ruiner'!"

Before your fumbly, sleep-palsied thumb can find the GO-AWAY button ... you've seen them.

The filthy, the emaciated, the scabrous. Quivering in rusty cages. Their terrified, imploring eyes boring holes straight into your soul.

Like a pitchfork twisting through your guts, reminding you what you already knew ... humans, whether by action or neglect, can be goddamn monsters.


And yup. It's official. Your night is ruined.

Thanks a LOT, Sarah.

(And not only that, you used to like that song! Can you ever hear it again without having a Pavlovian tear-gush response?)

But I have a humble suggestion for Ms. McLachlan and her various cohorts whose seemingly feature-length misery-paloozas haunt my late-night cable box.

I WILL PAY YOU TO STOP.

I mean it.

My proposal:


The ASPCA, Humane Society and other such organizations should band together and launch Kickstarter campaigns in each of the major media markets.

The purpose of the campaign? To raise the funding needed to run their good and vital operations in those regions, of course.

But what do we get if they reach their goal?


They promise NOT to play their horribly upsetting ads in that area.


I suspect I'm like a lot of people out there when I say I would pay cash money to ensure those deeply troubling and tear-inducing ads do not show up on my television. Ever.

The thing is though, their current ads just can't be working very well. Because logically, people who love animals don't want to see soul-searing footage of animals being abused. They're going to change the channel.

In fact, I personally have NEVER seen the end of one of those commercials. Like a lot of people, I've changed the channel long before they've had a chance to make their donation pitch. I wouldn't know where to send the money even if I wanted to.

So why not make a promise that if folks donate enough cash, they'll withhold the thing that so many of us find so horrifying?

If that sounds familiar, it should. That's precisely how a protection racket works.

"Some nice tear ducts you got there. Be a shame if something happened to 'em."

Now I realize this is a dangerous precedent to set. If it worked, other less scrupulous advertisers would surely try to exploit this same tactic to try squeezing money out of a beleaguered public by crafting the most irritating and grating commercials possible. (To be honest, I can't say for sure the people at Intel aren't already setting us up for this right now with those execrable and profoundly unfunny Jim Parsons ads.)

But I'm willing to take that chance.



Now, if the anti-animal cruelty folks wanted to sweeten the deal and really make us love them, they could replace their existing ads with ones featuring cute, hilarious and heart-warming animal footage.

After all, if the Internet has taught us anything (I mean, other than: "never read the comments"), it's that people LOVE LOVE LOVE looking at pictures and videos of adorable cats and dogs.

If they really want people to watch their ads all the way to the end, they need to make it possible for us to watch them all the way to the end.

Because I can say with absolute certainty that you're MUCH more likely to get money out of me by just showing me pictures of, say, this guy for sixty straight seconds:

"You can't look away, can you. And you know what? You don't have to! Yay!"

Seriously, where do I send the check?





Till next we meet ...

Everybody At The Garage Learned To Rue The Day Bill Got His Word-Of-The-Day Calendar

"I mean, can a person ever really know what is or isn't broken on your car? Heck, what does 'broken' even mean?"

"And what's a 'car', anyhow?"

"How could any of us ever possibly know?"





"Those new struts are gonna run you about a grand, though."




Till next we meet ...

Flour Pouer

I don't pay a LOT of attention to stuff.

Sometimes it takes me a while to notice things that everybody else spotted ages ago.

(Did you know there are DRUG references in Scooby Doo!? I know! Crazy, right!?)

So it wasn't terribly surprising that the bag of flour The Missus sent me to fetch sat on the counter for a couple of days before I finally took a good look at it.

Day 1:

Went to the store with a list. Came back with everything on it.

Including this bag of flour. Yessir. Right there.

My work here is done.



Day 2:

Bag of flour. Right where I left it.

Boom.

Everything still A-OK with The Universe.



Day 3:

Yessir. That sure is a bag of flour all ri---WHAT THE SHIT?!

SWEET MOTHER OF FUCK!

THAT'S A GODDAMN BABY WITH A GODDAMN KNIFE!!

Look, I'm not entirely sure how flour is made -- I have a vague notion there's a fair amount of sifting involved -- but I'm almost 100% certain that it isn't made by buttery cherubs carving up phone books with hunting knives!

"Heckers: Tastes so good, you'll swear it was dangerously manufactured by children!"

And while we're on the subject, if you MUST carve up a phone book with a hunting knife -- and I'm not altogether convinced you must -- never cut TOWARDS yourself! That's just tempting fate. You're practically begging to lop off a minimum of three of those stubby little sausage fingers.

Pretty sure it was Henry Ford who said that.




Till next we meet ...

Sorry, Drew Barrymore.

"IF YOU CAN START FIRES WITH YOUR MIND, PLEASE DO NOT USE THE WASHING MACHINE"

Thank you,
--The Management




Till next we meet ...

Balloon Boy? Is That You?

It really is a tricky being me sometimes.

Not "hard" per se ... just tricky.

I'm not sure if your brain works like this, but there are times when mine seems to be powered almost entirely by a cartoon hamster riding a merry-go-round that honks and squeaks calliope music as it spins.

This morning, for instance, I noticed this fellow on the train platform.

Just a guy doing his job. Just a guy making a living. Just a guy keeping his fellow crew members safe.

Sure.

Nothing weird about that at all.

No sir.

But it didn't matter how many times I looked directly at him ... (heck, we even made eye contact and exchanged polite nods at one point) ...

It didn't matter how much empirical, logical, unambiguous, verifiable, scientific proof that this was, in fact, a grown man holding a sign ...

It just didn't matter ...

Because every single time I looked away and caught him out of the corner of my eye ... my brain kept insisting that I was seeing this:

EVERY.

SINGLE.

TIME.

I would look down at my phone for a fraction of a second, catch just a fleeting glimpse of red ... and my mind would immediately shout: "CHILD WITH BALLOON! THREE O'CLOCK!!"

And then I'd look up and notice: "No, it's just a guy with a sign."

Then I'd glance back at my phone before catching another glimpse. Whereupon my brain would immediately shout: "CHILD WITH BALLOON!! THREE O'CLOCK!!"

And I'd look up again and realize that, no, still just a guy with a sign.

So I'd go back to my phone and the whole ridiculous pageant would play itself out again and again. Probably six or seven times in the course of just a couple of minutes.

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"No."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"It isn't."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"Come on now."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"Please stop."

There are two particularly puzzling and/or troubling aspects to this incident. First is the question of why the hell was my brain so reflexively insistent on papering over that poor guy with the cartoon shorthand image of a kid with a balloon?

It's certainly not wishful thinking. I'm not overly fond of kids ... they're fine, I guess. The people who make them seem to like them well enough. But they're not really for me. And, while I do on occasion enjoy balloons (I mean, who doesn't? They're balloons!), it's not like I spend every waking minute pining for there to be more balloons in the world.

And it's also not like my brain is substituting a familiar thing for an unfamiliar one. Since I am neither employed by, nor do I regularly attend the circus, I don't encounter a lot of kids with balloons in my daily life. In fact, as a regular commuter for the better part of the last fifteen years, I'm far more likely to see a railway worker with a sign than a kid with a balloon.

It's a head-scratcher, no doubt.

The second aspect that troubles/puzzles (truzzles?) me is, of course, the fact that my short-term memory and cognition skills have apparently eroded away to nothing.

"OH LOOK! A CASTLE!"

(sigh)

Like I said ... it's not "hard" being me exactly. Just a smidge tricky.






I just hope that when that guy finished his shift, he got to keep that balloon.




Till next we meet ...

Eat Me!

It's that time again, everybody. It's time to call bullshit!

And who or what has drawn my ire today? On whom shall said bullshit be called?

Why, food marketing, of course!

Specifically, I call bullshit on the convention of creating sentient, talking mascots THAT ARE MADE OF THE VERY SAME FOOD YOU'RE TRYING TO GET PEOPLE TO EAT.

Because eww.

"We were going to get married and start a family. But nevermind. You're snacky."

Don't get me wrong. I totally understand why this seems like a no-brainer. "Hey, we sell chicken, let's make our mascot a cartoon chicken!" Boom. Done.

At first blush, it makes perfect sense. You want your customers to associate your brand with a particular item ... so you make your mascot a cartoon version of that item. Sure! Everybody does it. Hey, if it works for the Michelin Man, why not us? Easy-peasy!

But it just gets weird when it's food.

Because it's way creepy to have a character effusively encouraging you to devour him and others of his kind.

"Oh yeah! Guzzle my lifeblood after soccer practice!"

The list of these masochistic quisling pitch-men is long. Here are just a few from the top of my head ... Twinkie the Kid, the M&M guys, the Pillsbury Dough Boy, Mayor McCheese, Mister Peanut, the Taco Bell Chihuahua ... and on and on and on ...

(Yes, I know technically Taco Bell is made from blanched wood pulp and ground horse faces, but that's close enough to dog meat for my purposes.)

The point is, this creepy convention is pervasive in the food industry and it's been around for years and years.

At least this guy has it figured out. "Sulf-prezurvashun, bichezz."

There are, of course, companies that neatly sidestep the moral quagmire. The Quaker Oats guy, Tony the Tiger, Burger King, Chester Cheetah, Colonel Sanders, Toucan Sam, Ronald McDonald ... none of these characters are pedaling products rendered from their own flesh.

(I have a theory McDonald's cheeseburgers are at least 30% elderly clown meat, but I can't prove it.)

That said, there are other companies who dive face-first into that quagmire and splash about with gleeful abandon.

Don't even get me started on these cannibalistic sociopaths.

But if you like your psychological fucked-up-edness served with a heaping side of crippling emotional trauma then the guy you want to talk to is one Charles T. "Charlie" Tuna.

With Charlie, Starkist really amps up the creepy by giving him a very strong point of view on the subject.

Is he horrified at the prospect of being killed? Guilt-ridden that he is leading his brethren to the slaughter? Nervous? Scared? Skittish in the least?

Nope.

Charlie is eager ... no enthusiastic ... no ... flat-out desperate to be hooked, gutted, steamed, flaked, canned and eventually chewed to a fine paste by humans.

"Pleeease! Murder me with your teeth! Even though I talk! Have deep-seated feelings of inadequacy! Shop for personalized embroidered hats! And apparently go to an ophthalmologist!"

In fact, his life's dream -- his entire sense of self worth -- hinges upon whether he is good enough to die by the fork and teeth of humanity. Anything less is crushing failure.

For Charlie, there is no higher calling than being sluiced through the human alimentary canal. (Such madness, presumably, mercury-induced.)

Just Google some old Starkist commercials and you'll see. For over fifty years, despite all his yearning and all his wishing ... at every turn he is rebuffed and rejected. Every day fills him with new hope and every day the hook descends from the heavens with his answer ... "Sorry Charlie."

Every.

Day.

His wheel of pain keeps coming round and round to crush his soul afresh. He yearns, but he will never be good enough. He is Prometheus, forever chained to his rock, reliving his torment every day for eternity. And every day the eagles come. And every day they decide his liver isn't good enough to peck out. So they just hit the drive-thru and make him watch.

Charlie's true punishment? That he must go on living.

Samuel Becket would have looked at this ad campaign and said: "Whoa. Guys. Little bleak, isn't it?"

Dude, are there even words for all the shit that's wrong with you?

Now, I really want to believe that Charlie's constant suicidal ideation creeped people out over the years. I want to believe that this produced a feeling of unease in the American eater. I want to believe it hurt sales on some level.

Sure, maybe it's on a level that conventional math has never been able to measure, but I desperately want to believe that with the judicious application of some that Nate-Silver-Super-Math -- that maybe we can find some proof that the idea of stuffing a walking, talking being into your mouth and brutally tooth-murdering him kinda turns people off.

I really do want to believe that.




But I don't.




Because we humans will eat anything. Regardless of any feelings that thing might evoke in us. Guilt, sadness, pity, terror, disgust ...

Doesn't matter. Down it goes.

We'll eat anything.

Any. Goddamn. Thing.

Need proof?

Okay.


We know what lobster tastes like.

Hell, we even have a chain of mid-level family restaurants dedicated specifically to that very activity.

"But lobster is delicious," you say. "How is that proof? People love eating delicious things."

Sure, but at first we didn't know lobster was delicious. But at some point in history, there was that first guy who looked at a lobster and said to his buddy:

"See that giant, terrifying ocean roach with the nightmarish snapping claws?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna put that in my mouth."

"Seems reasonable."

"I hope it's delicious."

"Sure."

"But you know what would make it better?"

"If it begged and pleaded to be eaten?"

"Exactly."

"We could pretend it did."

"With cartoons?"

"Of course."

"Done."

"I'll get the butter."

So resigned.
So very resigned.

Till next we meet ...

So Thirsty. So Very Thirsty.

(It has been three straight weeks that the cafeteria at the office building where I work in mid-town Manhattan has been out of Diet Pepsi. As someone who consumes a great deal of this beverage, this condition has rapidly become untenable for me.)

EXPEDITION DIARY

DAY 1: After a thorough accounting of the provisions in our stores, it has come to my attention that the last resupply mission from Base did not seem to include Diet Pepsi. This is extremely vexing.

DAY 2: It has been just 48 hours, but the lack of Diet Pepsi is already having an effect on the crew. The general lack of vim is clear. Even to the untrained eye.

DAY 3: Instructed First Officer Billings to send message to Base via the Marconi. I eagerly await their reply.

DAY 4: Still no reply from Base. The crew's pep has visibly begun to flag.

DAY 5: Instructed Billings to send numerous urgent messages to Base. We receive no answer but static.

DAY 6: Have begun hearing strange sounds in the night. Inhuman sounds. I shall double the watch.

DAY 7: Desperation can do things to a man. Terrible things.

DAY 8: In the quiet moments I find that I cannot quite recall the taste of Diet Pepsi. I must keep this to myself. Mustn't panic the men. Must keep up a brave face.

DAY 9: Morale among the crew is low. Billings tried to fabricate some Diet Pepsi from some carbonated water, caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid and some natural flavorings that he managed to find. It ended in tears, of course. Bitter bitter tears.

DAY 10: Deprivation. Such wanton deprivation.

DAY 11: We are so alone on this remote, deserted island. Cut off from everything and everyone. The rest of the world is but a half remembered dream. So alone. So utterly, utterly alone. The silence, it is deafening.

DAY 12: Someday I can envision a Manhattan where goods can be easily transported over roads and bridges. Where commerce can thrive. This place could be overflowing with invigorating and delicious diet beverages. Someday. Someday.

DAY 13: There is no logic in this place.

DAY 14: Billings has suggested maybe bringing Diet Pepsi from home. "Home." I don't even know what the word means anymore.

DAY 15: All is madness.

We live. Yet surely, without our beverage of choice, this cannot be called "living."

DAY 16: Some of the more desperate men have taken to drinking diet Dr Pepper for succor. I will not bend. I cannot bend. I am not an animal.

DAY 17: The diet Dr Pepper tastes just like regular Dr Pepper, which tastes just like shame. Desperation makes monsters of men.

DAY 18: I don't know how much longer we can endure. I can feel my soul breaking, about to shatter. If this is to be my last entry, please tell my family that my last thoughts were of them. Except that Diet-Coke-swilling reprobate cousin of mine. (He knows who he is.) He is already dead to me.

DAY 19: This must be exactly how Shackelton felt.

DAY 20: Billings suggested we drink the plentiful, plentiful Diet Coke. I will miss him. He was delicious.

DAY 21: The horror. The horror.




Till next we meet ...

Flush Life

Gentlemen:

I can't believe this post has become necessary.

But sadly ... it has.

We need to brush up a little on a few matters of men's room etiquette because ... well, you know how things can get in there.

As you know, or as you should have been taught as a youngster ... there is a time and a place for everything.

One of the items on that "everything" list?

The making of sounds.

The place?

The Men's Room.

The time?

Well, that's what I'd like to talk to you about ...

Now I don't mean the disgusting sounds our bodies naturally make in that room. These sounds, while often regrettable and always revolting, are largely unavoidable. And as such, the Men's Room is really the only socially acceptable place for you to make those sounds in the presence of others.

For instance, it's generally permissible to pass gas at the urinal.

But DON'T stare fixedly into the eyes of the guy next to you and moan with pleasure while you do it.
Trust me on this. Adult teeth do not grow back.

WHEN YOU SHOULD MAKE NOISE

Okay, here are a couple basic rules of thumb ...

Here's the situation: You're in a stall and you hear someone come into the restroom.

Even if this scenario fills you with blind, white-knuckle panic that said person might be your boss, a serial killer, a fire-pissing Hell-Spawn from the Demon Pit or a co-worker who might accidentally open your stall door ... it is your responsibility to make some goddamn noise.

I don't mean you need to make with the plop-plop-wiz-wiz on command. Or that you need to announce yourself like a town crier, hollering the old classic: "Somebody's in here!"

But you really do need to let that person know, in some subtle way, that they should maybe not try to fling open the door to that stall.

Just clear your throat, shuffle your feet, fumble with the toilet paper roll, jingle your belt buckle, or my personal go-to ... give a nice, innocuous courtesy flush.

You can keep it subtle and still get the point across.

But do not ... and I can't stress this enough ... do NOT cower silently, unmoving, unblinking and unbreathing, like you're hiding Anne Frank from the Nazis.

This helps exactly no one.

Seriously. Who do you think is out there?

"Dad?"

Because falling utterly silent is pretty much the creepiest thing you can do.

This tells me you want that person to think there's nobody in that stall.

Which tells me you want them to yank that door open.

Which then tells me you want them to see you sitting there with your tender nethers all splayed akimbo.

Which ultimately tells me you're totally hoping they're into that.

But come on. Even if that's actually is your deal ... your creepy, creepy, probably diagnosable deal ... the odds of it being former Senator Larry Craig or 80s pop icon George Michael on the other side of the door are fairly slim.

"Wake me up before you ... you know ... "go-go" ..."

And don't overdo it. Just be subtle. Don't make it weird. Don't whistle a tune, do a little tap dance number, or -- (and this is a 100% real example that I have personally encountered) -- sing opera.

(Seriously, man. If you find yourself itching to perform an aria while a rope of effluent snakes its way out of your underself ... I'm not even sure Science has a word for what's wrong with you. Just knock it off.)

WHEN YOU SHOULD NOT MAKE NOISE

Don't talk to me.

It's not that I'm surly and unfriendly. (I mean, I often am, but that's not the point.) If I'm at a urinal, I'm not there to chat. About work, about the game, about the family ... about anything.

I have filthy business to conduct and I don't care to be distracted.

This is the chief reason that talk shows have couches instead of a bank of urinals. True story.

Rule of thumb: If my genitals are in my hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

If your genitals are in your hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Basically, if anybody's genitals are in anybody's hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Even if you desperately want to compliment me on my genitals or my hands.
Don't. Just don't.

And if I'm in a stall, it's super not appropriate to speak to me. Once that door closes, it is a sacred space. Inviolable. Where solemn, private business is conducted between a man and his shameful voidings.

Respect that.

Now, if we're at the sink ... that's a different story. It is perfectly permissible to hold a short conversation whilst washing up.

But keep it brief. This isn't the proper venue for a staff meeting.

I mean, Jesus ... people shit in this room.



Till next we meet ...



(Note: The preceding applies only to Men's Rooms. I cannot speak to the vagaries of decorum as they pertain to Ladies' Rooms. These are mystical and unknowable places.)

(Once you add couches and conversation areas to the pooping room, well, all rules of human interaction go right out the window.)

How To Summer

How To Summer: In Three Easy Steps.

A public service announcement.

(AKA: From Fat Aragorn to Emmet Otter in ten easy minutes.)

Step 1:

Step 2:

Step 3:

It is now Summer.

Please enjoy responsibly.



Till next we meet ...

"Who Ya Gonna Call?" A Para-Urologist, Maybe?

A while back, The Missus brought home one of those mysterious, vaguely medicinal-looking items that I assumed would go live in our second medicine cabinet.

That's the cabinet that's none of my business. It's the one that's crammed chock-a-block with dozens of enigmatic items which -- one assumes -- are all emblazoned with the text: "LADY-ON! APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE LADY PARTS!"



But it turns out, I'm dumb.

I know. Big surprise, right?

Apparently this mysterious new item was called a "neti pot."


Ah.

I see.



Okay, I didn't see, actually. Not even a little.

It's a what now?

She sat me down and patiently explained ... speaking slowly and using small words ... that a "neti pot" is basically a thing you use to blast hot, salty water up your nose.

If ... you know ... you're into that.

(Which, I guess enough people are, since "neti pots" are actually a thing.)

(However, because I'm not entirely convinced of their thingness, I'm going to keep putting quotation marks around "neti pot" until further proof presents itself. Just saying.)

No really, it's an actual thing.

Anyhow ... as I puzzled over the series of wildly convoluted and astronomically unlikely events that would need to occur before I would ever consider using such a product myself, I got to looking at the box.

And I found my attention drawn to a little cartoon doodle at the top of the package.

Clearly this image is meant to be an antrhopomorphic water droplet with a big, friendly nose and a ready smile.

Sure. That's reasonable. Lots of products have cartoon mascots. That's one of the oldest tricks in the advertising book. You want to put as friendly a face on your product as possible.

And your mascot had better be friendly if what you're selling is as weird and off-putting as a salt water nose bidet.

Sure. Made perfect sense.

Intellectually, I knew that's what I had to be looking at: Friendly Little Water Droplet Guy.

Yup.

"Hi! A wet nose means you're healthy! Also, it's going to feel like you're drowning in hot, watery snot! Hooray!"

But for some reason, my brain just refused to accept that.

When I looked at this image, all I could/can see is an overhead shot looking down over a guy's shoulder as he sadly contemplates his ghost penis.

WHO IS LOOKING BACK AT HIM!

"Hellllooooooooo!"

Right?



And that's why I will never put one of these in my nose.

Ever.

Also, I'm pretty sure Pac Man has been ruined for me, too.




Till next we meet ...

The Ran in Span Falls Manly on the Plan ...

PIZZA PLACE OWNER

What I need is a sign to hang outside the shop. Something to let people know about our specials.

GRAFFICK DEZINNER

Know problem! Peace of cake!

GRAFFICK DEZINNER

I love it when a plain comes together! Am eye write?

(PIZZA PLACE OWNER looks at banner. Blinks. Looks back at GRAFFICK DEZINNER, who beams proudly.)

GRAFFICK DEZINNER

A Main, a Plain, a Cainal! Woo-WHO!




Till next we meet ...

Whoa.

I don't even see the Matrix code anymore. All I see is blonde, brunette, redhead, subway car window ...

I am The One.

Apparently.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go kick Hugo Weaving repeatedly in the face.



Till next we meet ...

Nap Or Crime Scene: Criminally Minded

HOTCHNER (sternly)

The Un-Sub covered the body.

PRENTISS

A clear sign of remorse.

HOTCHNER (sternly)

He may have known the victim.

MORGAN (handsomely)

Have I mentioned that I'm very handsome?

HOTCHNER (sternly)

Yes, Morgan.

JOE MANTEGNA

MANGIA ITALIANO!

HOTCHNER (sternly)

Joe, we're supposed to be in character now.

JOE MANTEGNA

MOLTO BENE!

(JOE MANTEGNA ties on a red and white checkered bib, produces a bowl of pasta and dances gleefully away, eating.)

(HOTCHNER sighs and shakes his head sternly.)

REED

Did you know frogs have teeth, but toads have a bony ridge?

HOTCHNER (sternly)

The Un-Sub is not a frog.

REED

But he may have a bony ridge.

HOTCHNER (sternly)

He doesn't.

REED

I've never eaten a single thing ever.

(MORGAN'S phone rings.)

MORGAN (answering handsomely)

You're on speaker, Baby Girl.

GARCIA (over speaker phone)

Inappropriate sexual innuendo!

(Everyone smiles and pretends this is acceptable workplace behavior.)

JJ

Does it help if I bat my eyelashes?

HOTCHNER (sternly)

It doesn't.

JJ

Then my work here is done.

PRENTISS

Did you guys happen to notice that the body is lightly snoring?

HOTCHNER (sternly)

Tell the Sheriff we're ready to give the profile.




Till next we meet ...

Ham On Wry

A short time ago, an ebullient co-worker returned from fetching lunch with a breathlessly delighted proclamation:

Her: "I just saw Clint Howard!"

Me: "Where?"

Her: "At the sandwich place around the corner!"

Me: "Was he working there?"

Sammich?

Her: "It was great!"

Me: "So you're happy about it?"

Her: "Yes! Who wouldn't be?!

Me: "I don't know. Probably lots of people. He is a little hard on the eyes."

Her: "True. But he's never on screen for very long!"

Check and mate. I could find no fault in her logic.

Her enthusiasm undimmed, she then flounced happily into her office.

I must admit, I admire anybody who can find joy in the little things. Even if those little things are kinda homely.



Till next we meet ...