Wa wa waaaaa

My 2-year-old son is being potty trained. 

Today his mom noticed he'd let loose in his pull ups and asked him what happened. He got a real sad face and said "Wa, waaa, waaaaa."

You know, that trombone sound that you hear when a joke doesn't fly? Yes, that "waa, waa, waaaaa." Where does he get this stuff?

I personally think you shouldn't be that cool until after you've learned not to pee yourself.

The Mike S. shuffle

My chair at work does not face the door. Yes, I'm saying that when someone enters the room, I must swivel around to see who it is. 

I realize not only is this poor feng shui, but it also makes me very nervous ever since reading The Autobiography of Malcom X: As Told To Alex Haley in high school (wouldn't Mr. Root's authorship of the book technically make it a biography? Shrug.)

I have worked at my current place of employment long enough, however, that I now recognize who is approaching my desk by the sound of his or her shuffle. It's true. Each person's legs, arms and clothing rub against each other in such a distinct rhythmic pattern that long before someone darkens my door, I know if it's Jared or Josh, James or Jim.

Now if I could just determine a way to keep the whole damn lot of them from ever coming into my office, I'd be set.

No, I don't remember my home phone number

Is that so strange? I don't ever have to dial it (that's what speed dial's for, fool).

And I'm only slightly embarrassed when someone asks me for it and I tell them I'm going to have to look it up. So it looks like the situation isn't going to change anytime soon.

On a side note, I do have my street address memorized.

More ketchup please

My car has made its way through many a fast drive-thru over the years. My expanding double chin is a fleshy testament to this fact.

Despite this, it was only a year ago I recognized a pattern I had encountered many times before. What can I say? Something clicked in my head. I still to this day don't know why this happens, it simply does. Try it for yourself and see.

You'll note that the phenomenon transcends any one eatery. You, like me, have probably had it happen to you, perhaps without thinking about it. It goes a little something like this:

1. Order and pay for food.
2. Pick up food.
3. Ask for ketchup.
4. Window technician (let's call him Jimmy) forks over a measly 2-3 packets.
5. Ask for more ketchup.

It is at this point that some conservation switch flips to the off position in Jimmy's mind. No longer will he follow the directive of his manager to dole out the ketchup packs like they were World War II ration stamps. No, it is time to get down to business ... the business of giving you what he should have given you all along and then some.

Jimmy now offers you more ketchup packets than his hands can accommodate; inevitably a packet or two falls on the ground.

All you wanted was maybe a couple packs more. Just enough to get to the bottom of that bucket of french fries you ordered. But now you have enough ketchup for your fries and any other sick, perverted thing you've always wanted to do with ketchup but couldn't because of a lack thereof.

Like I said Hot Rod, this is something that has happened at Wendy's, McDonalds, Burger King, Carl's Jr., etc.

Why do you do this to me Jimmy? Why? I just don't need that much ketchup. What am I supposed to do with the excess? Save it? Throw it away? And most of all, why won't you just give me a couple more packets to begin with?

Beatles v. Wings

So I got some iTunes gift certificates for Christmas and promptly used every last one of them on my latest aural endeavor - to listen to every Paul McCartney/Wings album ever recorded.

This is a somewhat monumental task. There are 30-plus albums.

Previously, all I've known of McCartney's post-Beatles output was a Wings greatest hits tape my Dad would play in the car during family vacations and PM's latest releases, from Flaming Pie onward.

My logic for doing this is as follows: I love the Beatles, they are the prototype for good rock music. McCartney was one of the four Beatles. In fact, he is one of the two Beatles whose songs I tend like (sorry Ringo and George, you just didn't bring it like Paul and John). It stands to reason that I will enjoy at least some of McCartney's solo/second band output.

As of this moment, I have listened to the first 6 PM/Wings albums. My general impression is that I liked the first two (which still feel Beatleseque to me) the others have been hit or miss. Mostly miss. Man, Paul could sure write some crappy/sappy/schlappy songs. Every once in a while he'll amaze with a "Live and Let Die," but more often than not he delivers a different kind of flaming pie.

My conclusion falls in line with one of my general life maxims - everybody needs an editor. People who think they don't are in sore need of a reality check. These are the same people who must like smelling their own farts in the shower. Sure, passing gassssss thusly gets everything out there, but, like the gentle correction of the editor's pen, there's a lot to be said for proper blue-jean filtration.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

With more than 5 billion scurrying around on Earth, I have always suspected that somewhere out there is another me. He either 1.) sounds just like me or 2.) looks just like me (lucky bastard).

Now I know it's true. And I rest my argument entirely upon the following two pieces of evidence:

1. A certain hawk-nosed ex-Journey front man can forget about ever doing a reunion tour (that is, if he wants to, which he probably doesn't; but that's neither here nor there.) Nevertheless, Steve Perry's voice somehow jumped across the Pacific Ocean and got stuck in Arnel Pineda's throat. Arnel's a 40-year old Philipino (football anyone?) Pineda has been hired to be the band's new vocalist.




2. This is a picture of me kicking it with my brother:

Except, that's NOT my brother! Holy crap! It's some random dude who walked into the Stockton-to-Malone car dealership where I was purchasing a new auto a few months back. And if you know my brother, you know that this dude looks exactly like him, right down to the goatee. It's freaking uncanny!

It is because of these two examples that I now, more firmly than ever, believe that a man is innocent until proven guilty.

Officer, it was my body double that jacked that 7-11, I swear!

Gaaaarfield!

That crazy Garfield has gone and done it again! Now Google is selling ads for him on my blog. Stupid Garfield.

The Mystery That Is Garfield

When I was but a wee lad, I adored Jim Davis' comic strip Garfield. Something about a lazy, overweight cat who loves lasagna just killed me - go figure! I vividly remember one day visiting the WVC library and feeling like I'd hit the mother lode upon discovering a multitude of Garfield strips compiled into a single volume.

Fast forward 20 or so years. DUDE! Somebody needs to tell Jim Davis it's time to put his pencil down. I mean, how many lasagna jokes are there? We get it. Garfield loves the stuff and he'll do just about anything for it. Jon is a loser. Odie is stupid. Ha ha. Enough already.

My question is who is reading this stuff anymore? I mean, besides this chick. Despite my boyhood love of the strip, I freaking grew up. Kids today certainly can't find it entertaining, what with all the video games, cartoons and Internet sites out there.

Again, hang it up Davis. Take a cue from Gary Larson and Bill Watterson and stop already.

Has it really been that long?

The Cheeth has astutely pointed out that it's been a while since my last post. And who am I to argue with the Cheeth?

Although I doubt anyone (well, with the exception of the aforementioned Cheeth) will ever read this post having long ceased all visitation to this site, it's certainly worth my time to posty posty in an attempt to please the Cheeth.

Has anyone noticed that I've used the word Cheeth five times already? Probably just the Cheeth (not to be confused with the Cheat, pictured), my lone visitor.