I'm sure FedEx is a good shipping company. I'm sure they are fast and accurate and careful with their deliveries. But their slogan definitely needs some rethinking, especially for the store in Tustin where, well, I'll let the slightly altered slogan I've come up with speak for itself.
FedEx - "Our service is so bad, you absolutely positively have to stay overnight."
Erica and I went to FedEx with the express purpose of laminating some small index cards, as well as a larger sheet of paper for her school project. Little did we know it would end up being close to an hour long experience.
First of all, the person "helping" us didn't know what in the world he was doing. Personally, I assume that most people are trained to do their job before setting foot on the floor, but I guess that isn't always a fair assumption. It took him over 20 minutes just to figure out how much it was going to cost. At first, he was scanning barcodes tentatively, trying to mask the fact that he had no idea how to charge us for laminating something - as if it was an archaic service that no one ever requests - like ordering a Filet o' Fish sandwich at McDonald's.
"Hi, I'd like one Filet o' Fish please."
"AAAIIIEEEEE! UN PESCADO!!!! VAMANOS AMIGOS!!!"
*frantic scrambling is heard through the microphone as several of the employees search for their fishing rods*
"Uh, it's gonna be like 3 days for that to be ready sir, could you please park around on the other side and wait?"
Then the FedEx guy asks some qualifying questions to make it seem like he knows what he's doing.
"Do you want the cold or hot laminate?"
"Do you want the glossy or non-glossy?"
"Do you want the gold plating or the platinum plating?"
To all of which we replied, "Whichever is cheapest."
Finally, the FedEx guy finds a barcode that seems to satisfy him, though he still appears to be utterly confused. He tells us that it is going to cost $53.
Of course, the first question out of my mouth is, "Why is it so much?"
I am answered with some disjointed babbling as he trails off in mid-sentence, leaving me wondering once again what in the world is so difficult to understand about the process of lamination. You stick a piece of paper in, and voila!, it comes out all shiny and purdy-lookin' - at which point you don't pay $53 for it. What's so hard to figure out?
Eventually, through the combined efforts of three other crack staff members, they realize that $53 is, get ready for this, not the correct price!!! Amazing! How did they figure that brain stumper out? They decide that the real price is actually just under $20 for all of it, which still seems to be a relatively high price to charge for sticking a piece of paper in a machine.
OH! And the clincher was that the big piece of paper that Erica needed laminated was about 4 inches too wide to fit in their machine. Get this:
They offered to cut it to size for $1.75...PER CUT! What in the whole entire universe could possibly justify them charging $1.75 per cut? Do they hire God himself to cut it? Using diamond-edged scissors made from the divine wings of angels? Frankly, I'm surprised they didn't make us put a deposit down when I borrowed their scissors to cut it myself.
So, almost an hour after arriving, and a quarter short of twenty dollars later, we left, tired and annoyed at the blatant incompetence we were subjected to, just to get something laminated for a school project. Hey, at least FedEx doesn't serve fish sandwiches, yet.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Saturday, September 09, 2006
The Zipper
Since I didn't get in my first choice (Creative Writing Non-Fiction), I petitioned for and got in Creative Writing Poetry. This is the first poem I have written for the class so far this semester. Let's just say I had some inspiration to write this which was based "loosely" from a real life experience.
The Zipper
My zipper broke, it was so sad
I felt so helpless, so open
The timing of it all was bad
Standing in front of a toilet,
The zipper stuck, it would not budge
I forced it open, with a fret
No longer would the teeth line up
As much as I tried, no avail
It simply refused to go up
I jerked, I yanked, no luck
In came fellow eager pee-ers
Maybe their zippers won’t be stuck
While I squirm and pull, I can see
them staring at me, wondering
maybe There’s Something About Me
Little do they know, it’s not caught
like that, and to be honest, I
would prefer it to be open
for business than stuck in escrow
The Zipper
My zipper broke, it was so sad
I felt so helpless, so open
The timing of it all was bad
Standing in front of a toilet,
The zipper stuck, it would not budge
I forced it open, with a fret
No longer would the teeth line up
As much as I tried, no avail
It simply refused to go up
I jerked, I yanked, no luck
In came fellow eager pee-ers
Maybe their zippers won’t be stuck
While I squirm and pull, I can see
them staring at me, wondering
maybe There’s Something About Me
Little do they know, it’s not caught
like that, and to be honest, I
would prefer it to be open
for business than stuck in escrow
Saturday, August 19, 2006
WPE! I Can Write!
Hooray! On July 8th, 2006, after over an hour of standardized testing, on a Saturday nonetheless, I participated in and satisfactorily passed the Writing Proficiency Exam which all students at CSULB are required to take at some point or another. Personally, I didn't take it until I had reached the "or another" period in time, i.e. until they put a hold on my account and prevented me from registering for my classes.
Of course, it's one of those things that's mentioned in the long and arduous orientation marathon that I attended a year or so ago when I first started CSULB. They try and freak you out by telling you all these important things to remember and dates to keep track of and tests to take and where to shovel money into their pockets. Naturally, this was one of those dronings I must have misplaced (disregarded) in my mind.
So when I got the threatening e-mail saying that I have to take the WPE or I'll be dragged out of my house in chains and forced to watch them burn all of my academic records, my future diploma, and my underwear, I finally got motivated.
After I had waded through enough red tape to make a bull keel over in a heap of enmity and overstimulation, I finally got the hold lifted from my account so I could register again, and secured a test date.
On the morning of my test, I arrived at my school, waited to be admitted into the room, had my ID checked to make sure I was me (sure don't want imposters faking someone's proficiency at writing...it's not like their teachers won't find out next semester anyway), and sat down in a room with many other students upset at the waste of their precious Saturday.
The test wasn't any sweat. I was given a topic and had to write an essay about the dangers of misinformation and having too much info localized in one spot, i.e. the internet. The hardest part was keeping from laughing at my two crack test administrators.
They were two black people, a guy and a girl. The girl was the ultimate showcase in spoken monotonism. Her sacred duty was to read the instructions of the test. The sole duty of the guy was, well, I don't really know. All I know is he sat in the front of the room in a desk which was facing us, with his back to the wall, and once the test had begun, he put on a pair of sunglasses and fell asleep.
At one point, I looked up from my furious scribbling to see him, resting his head against the wall, with his mouth totally agape. We were just lucky he didn't have Stuffed Nasal Orifices Resonating in Ears syndrome, or SNORE.
Against all odds, however, I managed to write an essay that I was happy with and with which I felt confident that I would pass without a problem.
Sure enough, a few days ago, I got a letter in the mail verifying that exact thought. I needed an 11 to pass, and I got a 14 out of a possible 18 points.
I'm now officially proficient enough in writing to meet the requirements and expectations of CSULB. Whoopee! I can write, and it's all thanks to this mandatory state examination. Now I've sufficiently proven myself to be worthy of continuing in my studies as an ENGLISH major who already has taken six English classes in two semesters at CSULB, two of them being creative writing classes and five of them being upper division.
I'm sure glad I have the security and confidence of this standardized test under my proverbial belt, so if I ever have any doubts about whether or not I am a good writer, I can just reference my score of 14 on the WPE and be instantly self-assured again. Whew.
Of course, it's one of those things that's mentioned in the long and arduous orientation marathon that I attended a year or so ago when I first started CSULB. They try and freak you out by telling you all these important things to remember and dates to keep track of and tests to take and where to shovel money into their pockets. Naturally, this was one of those dronings I must have misplaced (disregarded) in my mind.
So when I got the threatening e-mail saying that I have to take the WPE or I'll be dragged out of my house in chains and forced to watch them burn all of my academic records, my future diploma, and my underwear, I finally got motivated.
After I had waded through enough red tape to make a bull keel over in a heap of enmity and overstimulation, I finally got the hold lifted from my account so I could register again, and secured a test date.
On the morning of my test, I arrived at my school, waited to be admitted into the room, had my ID checked to make sure I was me (sure don't want imposters faking someone's proficiency at writing...it's not like their teachers won't find out next semester anyway), and sat down in a room with many other students upset at the waste of their precious Saturday.
The test wasn't any sweat. I was given a topic and had to write an essay about the dangers of misinformation and having too much info localized in one spot, i.e. the internet. The hardest part was keeping from laughing at my two crack test administrators.
They were two black people, a guy and a girl. The girl was the ultimate showcase in spoken monotonism. Her sacred duty was to read the instructions of the test. The sole duty of the guy was, well, I don't really know. All I know is he sat in the front of the room in a desk which was facing us, with his back to the wall, and once the test had begun, he put on a pair of sunglasses and fell asleep.
At one point, I looked up from my furious scribbling to see him, resting his head against the wall, with his mouth totally agape. We were just lucky he didn't have Stuffed Nasal Orifices Resonating in Ears syndrome, or SNORE.
Against all odds, however, I managed to write an essay that I was happy with and with which I felt confident that I would pass without a problem.
Sure enough, a few days ago, I got a letter in the mail verifying that exact thought. I needed an 11 to pass, and I got a 14 out of a possible 18 points.
I'm now officially proficient enough in writing to meet the requirements and expectations of CSULB. Whoopee! I can write, and it's all thanks to this mandatory state examination. Now I've sufficiently proven myself to be worthy of continuing in my studies as an ENGLISH major who already has taken six English classes in two semesters at CSULB, two of them being creative writing classes and five of them being upper division.
I'm sure glad I have the security and confidence of this standardized test under my proverbial belt, so if I ever have any doubts about whether or not I am a good writer, I can just reference my score of 14 on the WPE and be instantly self-assured again. Whew.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Simon Says Yar!
I had one of those moments.
One of those experiences in life where something happens and you either find it incredibly funny or strangely bizarre and you just have write it down to clear your thoughts and also, of course, to share it with others.
I had just finished putting in my 8 hours at the Home Despot. I had clocked out, and was walking out of the employee break room (the one place in the whole store that the bigshots will actually splurge to have air conditioning in) when I came across a fellow employee who works in plumbing.
His name is Jonathan, and I just discovered a few days ago that his last name is Ray, and that he is a cousin to the Rays at St. Barnabas. He just turned 22 years old, is going into the Navy soon, and goes to church (Calvary Chapel).
So anyway, I run into him, and he begins telling me what he got for his birthday. He shows me a silver necklace holding a kite shield with a cross on the front and a Bible verse on the back, and a brand new camera which he has apparently been carrying in a hip case all day so he can "take pictures of his friends".
Noticing that he didn't take advantage of the incredibly convenient segue presented here, I politely took the hint and withstood the urge to go "afk crying", as he went on to tell me that the third and final thing he got for his birthday was a Sailor's Bible.
Maybe it's my natural seclusion from anything Evangelical that was the root cause of my ignorance, or maybe it's the fact that the difference between a regular Bible and a Sailor's Bible is obscure enough that I wouldn't automatically know how they are different - which prompted my immediate question:
"What, does it have a bunch of swearing in it or something?"
I mean really, how much different can a Bible be translated to merit the title of "The Sailor's Bible". Are the Lo's and the Behold's replaced with Yar's or something?
"Yar, and Jesus said to his disciples, 'Yar, I am with you always, even to the end of the age, Yarmen.'"
Or maybe each Bible comes with a complimentary bottle of holy rum to aid in further contemplating the higher meanings of such verses as:
"And Jesus said to them, 'Yar, follow me, and I will make you fishers of seamen.'"
Or maybe instead of the black silk page marker that comes standard in so many other Bibles, it comes with a little chain and weighted anchor to keep your place.
Another possibility is perhaps the Sailor's Bible makes minor alterations on some of Jesus' parables to make them more meaningful for sailors. For example, the one concerning the traveling man and his three servants:
"Unto one of them he gave five talents, to another two talents, and to the last, who was a sailor, he gave a boat. After this, the master went off on his journey. The first took the five talents and traded with the same, and made five talents more from them. Yar, likewise he who had received two also gained two. But he who was given the boat sailed around the world, claiming priceless treasures as well as several wenches and a solid gold compass for himself. Yar, upon the master's return, he was pleased with the success of the first two servants, but was completely overjoyed at the amazing talents of the third, making him king of the land and giving him all the rum he could possibly drink. The End."
Lastly, maybe the Sailor's Bible elaborates slightly in places where nautical information can be expanded upon.
"Yar, and Jesus got into the boat and crossed over to the other side, traveling three knots per hour, in light crosswinds, with fair sea conditions and waves reaching up to two feet. It was a majestic craft, made from pure cedar. She was easy to steer and she seemed to practically glide across the water. The decks were freshly swabbed and the air was ripe with fish."
Meh, I don't know what the difference is. Do sailors even say Yar? Or is that just pirates? I bet Pontius Pirate would know the answer.
One of those experiences in life where something happens and you either find it incredibly funny or strangely bizarre and you just have write it down to clear your thoughts and also, of course, to share it with others.
I had just finished putting in my 8 hours at the Home Despot. I had clocked out, and was walking out of the employee break room (the one place in the whole store that the bigshots will actually splurge to have air conditioning in) when I came across a fellow employee who works in plumbing.
His name is Jonathan, and I just discovered a few days ago that his last name is Ray, and that he is a cousin to the Rays at St. Barnabas. He just turned 22 years old, is going into the Navy soon, and goes to church (Calvary Chapel).
So anyway, I run into him, and he begins telling me what he got for his birthday. He shows me a silver necklace holding a kite shield with a cross on the front and a Bible verse on the back, and a brand new camera which he has apparently been carrying in a hip case all day so he can "take pictures of his friends".
Noticing that he didn't take advantage of the incredibly convenient segue presented here, I politely took the hint and withstood the urge to go "afk crying", as he went on to tell me that the third and final thing he got for his birthday was a Sailor's Bible.
Maybe it's my natural seclusion from anything Evangelical that was the root cause of my ignorance, or maybe it's the fact that the difference between a regular Bible and a Sailor's Bible is obscure enough that I wouldn't automatically know how they are different - which prompted my immediate question:
"What, does it have a bunch of swearing in it or something?"
I mean really, how much different can a Bible be translated to merit the title of "The Sailor's Bible". Are the Lo's and the Behold's replaced with Yar's or something?
"Yar, and Jesus said to his disciples, 'Yar, I am with you always, even to the end of the age, Yarmen.'"
Or maybe each Bible comes with a complimentary bottle of holy rum to aid in further contemplating the higher meanings of such verses as:
"And Jesus said to them, 'Yar, follow me, and I will make you fishers of seamen.'"
Or maybe instead of the black silk page marker that comes standard in so many other Bibles, it comes with a little chain and weighted anchor to keep your place.
Another possibility is perhaps the Sailor's Bible makes minor alterations on some of Jesus' parables to make them more meaningful for sailors. For example, the one concerning the traveling man and his three servants:
"Unto one of them he gave five talents, to another two talents, and to the last, who was a sailor, he gave a boat. After this, the master went off on his journey. The first took the five talents and traded with the same, and made five talents more from them. Yar, likewise he who had received two also gained two. But he who was given the boat sailed around the world, claiming priceless treasures as well as several wenches and a solid gold compass for himself. Yar, upon the master's return, he was pleased with the success of the first two servants, but was completely overjoyed at the amazing talents of the third, making him king of the land and giving him all the rum he could possibly drink. The End."
Lastly, maybe the Sailor's Bible elaborates slightly in places where nautical information can be expanded upon.
"Yar, and Jesus got into the boat and crossed over to the other side, traveling three knots per hour, in light crosswinds, with fair sea conditions and waves reaching up to two feet. It was a majestic craft, made from pure cedar. She was easy to steer and she seemed to practically glide across the water. The decks were freshly swabbed and the air was ripe with fish."
Meh, I don't know what the difference is. Do sailors even say Yar? Or is that just pirates? I bet Pontius Pirate would know the answer.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Some Pictures From Hume Lake
Erica taking a picture in the car on the way home:
Me taking a couple pictures in the car on the way home:
Miss Erica and Goofy, err, I mean Ivan:
Me and 'Ca:
Teri and Ivan:
The Add-Ults:
Joey Thatcher:
Me with my beard!:
Friday, June 16, 2006
How To Answer A Phone
I enjoy doing this at work when someone calls my phone. I work at Home Depot as a cashier, and each cashier station has its own phone. So I entertain myself by answering the phone with strange greetings intended to throw the person who is calling me off, such as "Ahoy ahoy", "Hi, may I take your order?", and so on.
Another such greeting I have been known to do in the past is to answer the phone and pretend to be answering the phone for another place of business. I have grown fond of one of these types of greetings after a while. This leads me to the original point of my post.
I have thought of a great name and slogan for a restaurant. Ideally, it would be a small diner situated next to a thriving truckstop where all the road warriors go to stop and peel the squirrels off their tires from their long trip.
When you enter the establishment, you would hear this friendly slogan of greeting, issued by one of the employees, preferably delivered in a thick southern drawl.
"Larry's Roadside Diner: You kill 'em, we grill 'em! How can I be of service?"
Another such greeting I have been known to do in the past is to answer the phone and pretend to be answering the phone for another place of business. I have grown fond of one of these types of greetings after a while. This leads me to the original point of my post.
I have thought of a great name and slogan for a restaurant. Ideally, it would be a small diner situated next to a thriving truckstop where all the road warriors go to stop and peel the squirrels off their tires from their long trip.
When you enter the establishment, you would hear this friendly slogan of greeting, issued by one of the employees, preferably delivered in a thick southern drawl.
"Larry's Roadside Diner: You kill 'em, we grill 'em! How can I be of service?"
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
No Title.
A few weeks ago, Erica and I were driving somewhere in Tustin. Being the constant observer that I am - meaning that I look at everything that interests me, and if I have time, I'll keep an eye on the road too - I saw an interesting sign.
It was one of those large electronic black signs (see picture below) that sits on the center divider or on the side of the road, and notifies drivers of different alerts, such as "Caution, Reduced Speed Ahead", "Construction: Expect Delays from 5/1/2006 until 1/18/2009", "Open Sewer Lids Ahead. Good luck", and "Danger: You Are Now Entering Little Saigon. Anyone Traveling Over 2 MPH Will Be Fined for Speeding".
The function of these signs is to display important information essential for drivers to know as they progress down the streets which these signs occupy. And usually, when there are no alerts, the signs are turned off and left blank.
This particular sign, however, as I passed it, was on. It had two words which were lit up in the middle of the sign, alerting drivers like myself to pay close attention to it.
Expecting an important announcement, I read the sign. It said, "No Data."
I proceeded to go on a loud ranting diatribe to Erica, who was in the seat next to me, about how preposterous this situation was. This happened about a month ago, and I never got around to blogging it until now, so I don't remember it all, but it was something like this...
-Thank you for wasting electricity to bring us this highly important message. We would be at a severe disadvantage if this convenience was not bestowed upon us. We appreciate you taking the time and energy to let us know that you have NOTHING IMPORTANT TO TELL US, when you could have just turned the darn thing off!
I guess the fact that they actually left the screen on without any information and that they were blatantly wasting electricity for no reason whatsoever struck me as bait for ridicule. Either that, or Erica was laughing so hard during my diatribe that I just kept going and her laughter made the entire situation more memorable and humorous. Take your pick.
It was one of those large electronic black signs (see picture below) that sits on the center divider or on the side of the road, and notifies drivers of different alerts, such as "Caution, Reduced Speed Ahead", "Construction: Expect Delays from 5/1/2006 until 1/18/2009", "Open Sewer Lids Ahead. Good luck", and "Danger: You Are Now Entering Little Saigon. Anyone Traveling Over 2 MPH Will Be Fined for Speeding".
The function of these signs is to display important information essential for drivers to know as they progress down the streets which these signs occupy. And usually, when there are no alerts, the signs are turned off and left blank.
This particular sign, however, as I passed it, was on. It had two words which were lit up in the middle of the sign, alerting drivers like myself to pay close attention to it.
Expecting an important announcement, I read the sign. It said, "No Data."
I proceeded to go on a loud ranting diatribe to Erica, who was in the seat next to me, about how preposterous this situation was. This happened about a month ago, and I never got around to blogging it until now, so I don't remember it all, but it was something like this...
-Thank you for wasting electricity to bring us this highly important message. We would be at a severe disadvantage if this convenience was not bestowed upon us. We appreciate you taking the time and energy to let us know that you have NOTHING IMPORTANT TO TELL US, when you could have just turned the darn thing off!
I guess the fact that they actually left the screen on without any information and that they were blatantly wasting electricity for no reason whatsoever struck me as bait for ridicule. Either that, or Erica was laughing so hard during my diatribe that I just kept going and her laughter made the entire situation more memorable and humorous. Take your pick.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Hypothetical Question
I cannot believe all the illegal immigration ruckus going on now - illegals demanding rights they are not entitled to - upset that they don't get the same benefits and privileges as U.S. citizens do, when U.S. citizens would be laughed at if they tried to do the same thing in Mexico as what illegal immigrants are doing here right now.
And we'd be lucky to just get laughed at if we tried this kind of stuff in Mexico - we'd be lucky to evade being locked in prison.
Illegals are trying to get the Star Spangled Banner to be sung in Spanish, they are trying to get free amnesty so they don't have to make a genuine effort to go through the legal process of becoming a U.S. citizen, and they expect the U.S. to cater to their every demand, as if our denying their "right" to have a political voice is an infringment on the entire race of Mexicans. And they actually have the guile to march in our streets, waving the Mexican flag, insisting that we give in to their demands.
You are illegal. You do not have a political voice in our country. Go back to your own country and exercise your rights and your political voice there, and reform Mexico so you can actually be proud to live in your country, and not have to sneak off and expect the U.S. to babysit you while you live off of our tax money, crowd our freeways, schools, and emergency rooms, and expect a mint on your pillow too.
Boy, do I feel better after that rant.
So my question is...
How long will it be until illegal immigrants demand that the U.S. start accepting pesos and other Mexican currency as legal tender?
I thought of this during work today. After witnessing all the absurd political madness currently going on with the illegal immigrant infestation and the subsequent demanding of rights, and the fact that there are actually people in the U.S. sympathetic to their asinine requests, from the liberal media to politicians to who knows who else, and since the state or federal government doesn't seem to be doing much of anything to stop any of this, I would not be a bit surprised.
And we'd be lucky to just get laughed at if we tried this kind of stuff in Mexico - we'd be lucky to evade being locked in prison.
Illegals are trying to get the Star Spangled Banner to be sung in Spanish, they are trying to get free amnesty so they don't have to make a genuine effort to go through the legal process of becoming a U.S. citizen, and they expect the U.S. to cater to their every demand, as if our denying their "right" to have a political voice is an infringment on the entire race of Mexicans. And they actually have the guile to march in our streets, waving the Mexican flag, insisting that we give in to their demands.
You are illegal. You do not have a political voice in our country. Go back to your own country and exercise your rights and your political voice there, and reform Mexico so you can actually be proud to live in your country, and not have to sneak off and expect the U.S. to babysit you while you live off of our tax money, crowd our freeways, schools, and emergency rooms, and expect a mint on your pillow too.
Boy, do I feel better after that rant.
So my question is...
How long will it be until illegal immigrants demand that the U.S. start accepting pesos and other Mexican currency as legal tender?
I thought of this during work today. After witnessing all the absurd political madness currently going on with the illegal immigrant infestation and the subsequent demanding of rights, and the fact that there are actually people in the U.S. sympathetic to their asinine requests, from the liberal media to politicians to who knows who else, and since the state or federal government doesn't seem to be doing much of anything to stop any of this, I would not be a bit surprised.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Interesting E-mail
So I got an email from amazon.com yesterday...
I open it, and I see that it is an ad from their Health and Personal Care department. The border of the email is light purple, and the text is written in teal. So I assume they are trying to push some new beauty product or weight loss program designed to help me lose weight - like I need that.
So I scroll down, and what do I see?
Dear Amazon.com Customer,
Since you have purchased extreme sports gear or beef snacks in the past, we thought you might like to know that Slim Jim, Original, Case of 12 15-Ounce Canisters is now available for ordering. Order yours by following the link below.
Okay, I'm sorry. What did I miss here? Amazon's Health and Personal Care department is recommending that I try Slim Jims?!? Why? So I'll be in need of their other products to nurse me back to full health after eating AN ENTIRE CASE OF SLIM JIMS?
And I'm sorry, but I don't believe I have ever purchased extreme sports gear or beef snacks from amazon.com. I prefer to purchase my cliff diving nose plugs and my cow testicles from more local establishments, thank you very much.
Of course, we can't forget the product description.
Product Description:
Slim Jim, the number one brand of meat sticks, is a convenient, one-of-a-kind snack with the intense flavor and snap that people love. It’s a unique combination of spice and attitude, made from beef and real smoke flavoring.
I took the liberty to mark with bold, and in one place of heightened dictional emergency - italics, words or phrases which cause an English major great distress and alarm that something like this actually gets passed off as acceptable advertisement material, or acceptable writing in general.
Let me explain why.
1. "Meat sticks". When a product like dried beef inherently defies a more dignified name, is this really the best they can do to market the product? "Here, try this. It's brown, we got it from a cow, and it's in the shape of a stick. What's that? Oh, yeah, I think there's meat in there, somewhere."
2. "Snap". People love it when their food snaps at them? Do meat sticks snap?
I did some more research on this, and found an excerpt from a product description of the Hot Beef and Cheese Slim Jims: "A "Snap" moment occurs when you reach a physical or personal milestone, even if you don't know if you can do it."
Gee, what better product to keep at your side in order to reach your physical and personal milestones than the incredible meat stick.
Disclaimer: Meat sticks' meat content may exceed fat content. Proceed at your own risk.
3. "Attitude". I'd imagine that it would have to be essential for an obviously poorly marketed product to have some sort of moxie or attitude to avoid the ever-looming depression I'm sure meat sticks everywhere are faced with. "If only I had tried a little harder, maybe I could have been a steak" is a sentence which I'm sure is heard reverberating around the Slim Jim Play-Doh Extruder Factory. (Hey, how else do you think they make them into those little tube-stick shapes, anyhow?)
4. "...made from beef and real smoke flavoring."
WOW! It's made from the real smoke flavoring? That's amazing! If that's the case, where are the "Slim Jim Real Smoke Flavoring Sticks?"
Anyway, here's to your health...
I open it, and I see that it is an ad from their Health and Personal Care department. The border of the email is light purple, and the text is written in teal. So I assume they are trying to push some new beauty product or weight loss program designed to help me lose weight - like I need that.
So I scroll down, and what do I see?
Dear Amazon.com Customer,
Since you have purchased extreme sports gear or beef snacks in the past, we thought you might like to know that Slim Jim, Original, Case of 12 15-Ounce Canisters is now available for ordering. Order yours by following the link below.
Okay, I'm sorry. What did I miss here? Amazon's Health and Personal Care department is recommending that I try Slim Jims?!? Why? So I'll be in need of their other products to nurse me back to full health after eating AN ENTIRE CASE OF SLIM JIMS?
And I'm sorry, but I don't believe I have ever purchased extreme sports gear or beef snacks from amazon.com. I prefer to purchase my cliff diving nose plugs and my cow testicles from more local establishments, thank you very much.
Of course, we can't forget the product description.
Product Description:
Slim Jim, the number one brand of meat sticks, is a convenient, one-of-a-kind snack with the intense flavor and snap that people love. It’s a unique combination of spice and attitude, made from beef and real smoke flavoring.
I took the liberty to mark with bold, and in one place of heightened dictional emergency - italics, words or phrases which cause an English major great distress and alarm that something like this actually gets passed off as acceptable advertisement material, or acceptable writing in general.
Let me explain why.
1. "Meat sticks". When a product like dried beef inherently defies a more dignified name, is this really the best they can do to market the product? "Here, try this. It's brown, we got it from a cow, and it's in the shape of a stick. What's that? Oh, yeah, I think there's meat in there, somewhere."
2. "Snap". People love it when their food snaps at them? Do meat sticks snap?
I did some more research on this, and found an excerpt from a product description of the Hot Beef and Cheese Slim Jims: "A "Snap" moment occurs when you reach a physical or personal milestone, even if you don't know if you can do it."
Gee, what better product to keep at your side in order to reach your physical and personal milestones than the incredible meat stick.
Disclaimer: Meat sticks' meat content may exceed fat content. Proceed at your own risk.
3. "Attitude". I'd imagine that it would have to be essential for an obviously poorly marketed product to have some sort of moxie or attitude to avoid the ever-looming depression I'm sure meat sticks everywhere are faced with. "If only I had tried a little harder, maybe I could have been a steak" is a sentence which I'm sure is heard reverberating around the Slim Jim Play-Doh Extruder Factory. (Hey, how else do you think they make them into those little tube-stick shapes, anyhow?)
4. "...made from beef and real smoke flavoring."
WOW! It's made from the real smoke flavoring? That's amazing! If that's the case, where are the "Slim Jim Real Smoke Flavoring Sticks?"
Anyway, here's to your health...
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Finally!
A Home Depot story worth blogging about!
Sunday night, I was working at a register that was adjacent to a soda cooler with various drinks for sale - coke, diet coke, sprite, lemonade, energy drinks, and so on.
As I'm working through my line of customers, the next customer turns out to be an Asian lady with no merchandise in plain view. I greet her expectantly.
Me: "How're you doing, ma'am?"
Her: (In a thick Asian accent) "Hi, I'd like to buy some lemonade."
Me: "Lemonade?"
Her: (nodding) Yes.
I'm trying to think this through in my head. Lemonade. Surely she couldn't be so oblivious as to not see the huge soda cooler behind her, in plain view of the line she was standing in a minute ago. So why is she asking for lemonade? Does she want a whole bunch of it, even more than what's in the cooler?
These types of thoughts were going through my head, as I visibly contorted my face in an attempt to figure it all out.
I continued:
Me: Lemonade???
Her: (still nodding)
Wondering if I'm misunderstanding her, and reluctant to make a fool of myself by saying that there was some behind her, I tried to think what Home Depot could possibly sell that sounded like "lemonade".
I decided to make a fool of myself.
I pointed towards the cooler behind her, and began to say:
"We have some over there..."
But before I was able to finish my semi-coherent thought, a customer behind the lady had a brilliant thought.
"Laminate?" he suggested.
Her: Yes, "lamonade".
(My proverbial language-barrier light finally goes on...)
Me: Ohhh, laminate flooring?
Her: (nodding vigorously now) Yes!
Sigh. I hope there's an equally prestigious place in Heaven next to those who give food to the hungry and give drink to the thirsty for those who give a clue to the clueless. I'm a natural at that.
Sunday night, I was working at a register that was adjacent to a soda cooler with various drinks for sale - coke, diet coke, sprite, lemonade, energy drinks, and so on.
As I'm working through my line of customers, the next customer turns out to be an Asian lady with no merchandise in plain view. I greet her expectantly.
Me: "How're you doing, ma'am?"
Her: (In a thick Asian accent) "Hi, I'd like to buy some lemonade."
Me: "Lemonade?"
Her: (nodding) Yes.
I'm trying to think this through in my head. Lemonade. Surely she couldn't be so oblivious as to not see the huge soda cooler behind her, in plain view of the line she was standing in a minute ago. So why is she asking for lemonade? Does she want a whole bunch of it, even more than what's in the cooler?
These types of thoughts were going through my head, as I visibly contorted my face in an attempt to figure it all out.
I continued:
Me: Lemonade???
Her: (still nodding)
Wondering if I'm misunderstanding her, and reluctant to make a fool of myself by saying that there was some behind her, I tried to think what Home Depot could possibly sell that sounded like "lemonade".
I decided to make a fool of myself.
I pointed towards the cooler behind her, and began to say:
"We have some over there..."
But before I was able to finish my semi-coherent thought, a customer behind the lady had a brilliant thought.
"Laminate?" he suggested.
Her: Yes, "lamonade".
(My proverbial language-barrier light finally goes on...)
Me: Ohhh, laminate flooring?
Her: (nodding vigorously now) Yes!
Sigh. I hope there's an equally prestigious place in Heaven next to those who give food to the hungry and give drink to the thirsty for those who give a clue to the clueless. I'm a natural at that.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
A Special Night
My latest assignment: To write a 1 page story containing a flashback. I had to start in present tense, shift to past tense, and revert back to present tense at the end.
Too tired to write anything else about it. Enjo...zzzzzzzzzzzzz...
A Special Night
“Ughhhhhh…” The struggle to open my eyelids seems extraordinarily difficult this morning. They feel as if they are encrusted with some sort of hardened film, or as I like to call them, “eye boogers”. I force my eyelids open and attempt to ascertain my surroundings while rubbing off the gunk that is hanging from my eyelashes.
What is that smell? As I turn over and look at where I am laying, I see piles of large plastic bags, empty cans of food, boxes, a few banana peels, and what appears to be the remains of some long deceased rodent. Suppressing a sudden wave of nausea, I peer over the side of what appears to be a large blue container, about seven feet long and four feet wide. The cement ground is about three feet below my current elevation, and is covered in a large pile of vomit. On the side of the container, I see the words “Rainbow Disposal”. As I attempt to get out of the refuse bin, I become all too aware of the intense pain in my stomach.
How did I get here? Where is here? Why does it feel like my stomach is being pierced with sharp knives wielded by indigestion goblins? These thoughts pervade my brain as I try and remember what could have possibly happened last night to grant me an experience of such agonizing woe.
Let’s see. I was walking down the street, going to my favorite little delicatessen for a late dinner. It was past 10 pm already, and I was quite hungry after my two hour workout at the gym. I stepped inside, and the place was uncharacteristically crowded for this time of the night. As I meandered my way through a crowd on my way towards the bar, I was intercepted by an old friend of mine whom I hadn’t seen for a while -intentionally - the guy’s a tactless schmuck.
“Jake! How’s it hanging man?”
“Shut up Ricky. You know it hasn’t since the ‘squirrel incident,’” spat Jake.
“Hey man, just joking with you. I thought you were okay with it since you got your prosthetic Italian dinner,” smirked Ricky.
“My what?” demanded Jake.
“Your spaghetti and meatballs,” said Ricky, laughing.
“Yeah, real funny, jerk.”
“Hey, come on man. Take a joke. Here, I’ll buy you something,” offered Ricky.
Looking forward to this dinner about as much as a toilet looks forward to its dinner, I tentatively took a stool at the bar next to Ricky.
“Hey, I dare you to get the Special,” said Ricky nonchalantly.
The Special was the least ordered item on the menu, and for good reason. No one really knew what was in it, not even the locals. Even the chefs and waitresses were bewildered and intimidated enough by it to dissuade anyone who wasn’t wearing a full body radiation suit from ordering it. Rumor has it that a curious customer managed to sneak in the back one day, and reported seeing five burlap sacks in the back, which were dated “1856”, and had the words “Special”, and “May Contain Traces of Nuts or Other Genitalia” marked on them.
Against my better judgment, and even against my worst judgment, for some reason, I order the Special. What it looks like, I don’t know. What’s in it, I don’t remember. Whether or not I’ll ever be able to eat again, time will tell.
“BLARRRRRGGGHHHH,” I retch.
Too tired to write anything else about it. Enjo...zzzzzzzzzzzzz...
A Special Night
“Ughhhhhh…” The struggle to open my eyelids seems extraordinarily difficult this morning. They feel as if they are encrusted with some sort of hardened film, or as I like to call them, “eye boogers”. I force my eyelids open and attempt to ascertain my surroundings while rubbing off the gunk that is hanging from my eyelashes.
What is that smell? As I turn over and look at where I am laying, I see piles of large plastic bags, empty cans of food, boxes, a few banana peels, and what appears to be the remains of some long deceased rodent. Suppressing a sudden wave of nausea, I peer over the side of what appears to be a large blue container, about seven feet long and four feet wide. The cement ground is about three feet below my current elevation, and is covered in a large pile of vomit. On the side of the container, I see the words “Rainbow Disposal”. As I attempt to get out of the refuse bin, I become all too aware of the intense pain in my stomach.
How did I get here? Where is here? Why does it feel like my stomach is being pierced with sharp knives wielded by indigestion goblins? These thoughts pervade my brain as I try and remember what could have possibly happened last night to grant me an experience of such agonizing woe.
Let’s see. I was walking down the street, going to my favorite little delicatessen for a late dinner. It was past 10 pm already, and I was quite hungry after my two hour workout at the gym. I stepped inside, and the place was uncharacteristically crowded for this time of the night. As I meandered my way through a crowd on my way towards the bar, I was intercepted by an old friend of mine whom I hadn’t seen for a while -intentionally - the guy’s a tactless schmuck.
“Jake! How’s it hanging man?”
“Shut up Ricky. You know it hasn’t since the ‘squirrel incident,’” spat Jake.
“Hey man, just joking with you. I thought you were okay with it since you got your prosthetic Italian dinner,” smirked Ricky.
“My what?” demanded Jake.
“Your spaghetti and meatballs,” said Ricky, laughing.
“Yeah, real funny, jerk.”
“Hey, come on man. Take a joke. Here, I’ll buy you something,” offered Ricky.
Looking forward to this dinner about as much as a toilet looks forward to its dinner, I tentatively took a stool at the bar next to Ricky.
“Hey, I dare you to get the Special,” said Ricky nonchalantly.
The Special was the least ordered item on the menu, and for good reason. No one really knew what was in it, not even the locals. Even the chefs and waitresses were bewildered and intimidated enough by it to dissuade anyone who wasn’t wearing a full body radiation suit from ordering it. Rumor has it that a curious customer managed to sneak in the back one day, and reported seeing five burlap sacks in the back, which were dated “1856”, and had the words “Special”, and “May Contain Traces of Nuts or Other Genitalia” marked on them.
Against my better judgment, and even against my worst judgment, for some reason, I order the Special. What it looks like, I don’t know. What’s in it, I don’t remember. Whether or not I’ll ever be able to eat again, time will tell.
“BLARRRRRGGGHHHH,” I retch.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
A Fair Fight
Here's another one pager I wrote, this time for my Creative Writing: Fiction class. I basically made it up off the top of my head as I was writing. My original thought for it was that I would start it off with some guy wrestling a buffalo, and somehow make it into an interesting story, but that was a little too far-fetched even for me. I nearly scrapped the whole story, but I was able to work it into this. It's not terribly funny, in my humble opinion, but it was a fun story for me at least. Enjoy.
A Fair Fight
Jeremy was an extremely talented fighter. He had spent many hours sparring with his best friend, Dave, who had two left fists, but who served as a decent punching bag. After each practice match, which usually resulted in Dave lying on the ground, bleeding, Jeremy would always stand tall and exclaim, “No problem.”
So one night, they were sitting in their apartment together, in El Paso, Texas, wondering what to do with the money they had just stolen from the 1st National Bank, about 30 minutes away. They had escaped with over $25,000 before the police arrived at the scene. Unfortunately, Dave had slipped up during the robbery and called Jeremy by his real name, instead of his alibi, which happened to be Snickers - for his affinity towards the candy bar, not for his cheerful laughing. And Jeremy, furious at Dave for blowing his cover, proceeded to tackle him and, amidst the scuffle, dropped his wallet, though that was unbeknownst to him at the time. After thoroughly pummeling Dave, he rose to his feet and exclaimed, “No problem.”
So, realizing that the police could perfectly identify one person in the crime, and could probably put the pieces together and identify the other member without too much effort, they decided it would be in their best interest to migrate down to Chihuahua, Mexico, because it was within driving distance, and it had the funniest name.
During their stay in Chihuahua, they encountered a rather large and dilapidated building with an eccentric-looking yellow neon sign which read “Extreme Mexican Fighting”. The name alone intrigued their criminal minds, and at Jeremy’s suggestion, they decided to go in. He figured that whoever he faced in that building, it would be “No problem.”
Inside, Jeremy expected to see a boxing ring or some sort of barbed wire cage. Instead, all he saw was a large empty room, save for a loud boom box in one corner which was blasting mariachi music, and three Mexicans at the far end of the building, next to what looked to be an enormous steel storage vault.
As soon as they had entered the building, the three men at the far end of the building approached them. The leader, a short yet burly man, spoke first.
“You gringos lookin’ for a fight?” asked the leader.
Stepping up, Jeremy said, “I’ll fight your best guy. Heck, I’ll fight all three of you. No problem.”
The leader laughed. “Yo homes, we ain’t fighting you. Chill man.”
Confused, Jeremy asked, “Well, who am I fighting?”
“You be fighting our luchador numero uno – his name is ‘No Problemo’.”
And with that, the leader pulled out a remote device, pressed a button, and ran out the door with his two comrades. Surprised, Jeremy and his two buddies turned to see what that button did.
The door to the vault had opened, to reveal a huge, angry, seething, and advancing bull. This was not just any bull though. This bull was named “No Problemo”, and for good reason. Mounted on its head was a double barreled shotgun, which was controlled by an apparatus attached to its neck which fired the gun whenever it jerked its neck back.
“N-n-nooo…” stuttered Jeremy.
“BANG!!!” said the shotgun.
A Fair Fight
Jeremy was an extremely talented fighter. He had spent many hours sparring with his best friend, Dave, who had two left fists, but who served as a decent punching bag. After each practice match, which usually resulted in Dave lying on the ground, bleeding, Jeremy would always stand tall and exclaim, “No problem.”
So one night, they were sitting in their apartment together, in El Paso, Texas, wondering what to do with the money they had just stolen from the 1st National Bank, about 30 minutes away. They had escaped with over $25,000 before the police arrived at the scene. Unfortunately, Dave had slipped up during the robbery and called Jeremy by his real name, instead of his alibi, which happened to be Snickers - for his affinity towards the candy bar, not for his cheerful laughing. And Jeremy, furious at Dave for blowing his cover, proceeded to tackle him and, amidst the scuffle, dropped his wallet, though that was unbeknownst to him at the time. After thoroughly pummeling Dave, he rose to his feet and exclaimed, “No problem.”
So, realizing that the police could perfectly identify one person in the crime, and could probably put the pieces together and identify the other member without too much effort, they decided it would be in their best interest to migrate down to Chihuahua, Mexico, because it was within driving distance, and it had the funniest name.
During their stay in Chihuahua, they encountered a rather large and dilapidated building with an eccentric-looking yellow neon sign which read “Extreme Mexican Fighting”. The name alone intrigued their criminal minds, and at Jeremy’s suggestion, they decided to go in. He figured that whoever he faced in that building, it would be “No problem.”
Inside, Jeremy expected to see a boxing ring or some sort of barbed wire cage. Instead, all he saw was a large empty room, save for a loud boom box in one corner which was blasting mariachi music, and three Mexicans at the far end of the building, next to what looked to be an enormous steel storage vault.
As soon as they had entered the building, the three men at the far end of the building approached them. The leader, a short yet burly man, spoke first.
“You gringos lookin’ for a fight?” asked the leader.
Stepping up, Jeremy said, “I’ll fight your best guy. Heck, I’ll fight all three of you. No problem.”
The leader laughed. “Yo homes, we ain’t fighting you. Chill man.”
Confused, Jeremy asked, “Well, who am I fighting?”
“You be fighting our luchador numero uno – his name is ‘No Problemo’.”
And with that, the leader pulled out a remote device, pressed a button, and ran out the door with his two comrades. Surprised, Jeremy and his two buddies turned to see what that button did.
The door to the vault had opened, to reveal a huge, angry, seething, and advancing bull. This was not just any bull though. This bull was named “No Problemo”, and for good reason. Mounted on its head was a double barreled shotgun, which was controlled by an apparatus attached to its neck which fired the gun whenever it jerked its neck back.
“N-n-nooo…” stuttered Jeremy.
“BANG!!!” said the shotgun.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Assorted Hodge-Podge
I've made up these little tidbits over time, but never had a chance to work them in a blog, so I figured I'd just give them a short blog of their own.
A Self-Help Book That Will Never Be Written:
A Self-Help Book That Will Never Be Written:
10 Habits of Highly Effective Migratory Vegetation - by Lettuce Leaf
A Book of Modern Innovations That Will Never Be Written:
Yellow Bait - by P. Fischer
Two Random Jokes I came up with:
Q. What did the leprous pimp say to his feet?
A. Yo, where my toes at?
Q. What do you call a Web Browser for those with especially profane mouths?
A. Intourette Explorer.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Cloudy Words
Wow, mine is pretty stupid, methinks.
After reading Aaron and Sara's blogs, I thought I'd do one to see which words are used most in my blog. It seems it mostly takes into account my more recent posts, but I may be mistaken.
After reading Aaron and Sara's blogs, I thought I'd do one to see which words are used most in my blog. It seems it mostly takes into account my more recent posts, but I may be mistaken.
Yeah, so basically, like, one cup of books, in time, doesn't read like two phones in school. My turtle went pee.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Back in School, Back in Blogging
I hope at least.
I am taking four English classes this semester, three of which are creative writing classes. Therefore, I hope to blog most of my stories and such, as I'm sure many of them will end up being funny.
About myself: I am no longer working at Taco Bell. I now work at Home Depot, and have been for the last 3 months. And yes, I know I need to change my title description...
Unfortunately, there have not been many funny stories of the same caliber as my Taco Bell stories. The only two that even come remotely close I will relate to you.
The first was when an older lady came to my register to purchase a few things. I rung up her stuff, and told her the total. She proceeded to write a check. When she handed me the check, this is what I saw:
The check was made out to "Builders Hardware"
The check was dated "January 14th, 2005"
The problem with the date was the fact that it was actually the 18th, and in the year 2006.
So I informed her where she was shopping and that today wasn't the 14th. She then said, "Oh, the 15th?" I kindly corrected her by saying, "No, actually, it's the 18th. And it's the year 2006."
"Oh", she said. "I guess I'm behind a little."
O RLY?
The second funny thing I came across was when someone was purchasing a sledgehammer. The funny thing about it was the sticker which was located on the handle of the sledgehammer. I actually just finished writing a one-page story for a homework assignment, and I based my original idea for the story solely around what that sticker said. Here is the story:
Hank, a rather portly and uncivilized fellow, whose personal life motto happened to be “More Pork, Less Fork”, never was the type of person who, when presented with a question, answered it in a socially acceptable manner. Hank was what some would call a cerebral sadist. When faced with a question that caused him great mental anguish in obtaining a suitable answer, he tended to strike himself repeatedly in the cranial area until such a response stumbled, slipped, and spilled from somewhere inside the shadowy depths of his pebble-sized brain out through his mouth and whichever nostril had been blown within the last month. Of course, this was contingent on how often he cleaned his cat, Snuffles, between his mucus migrations.
As he made his way through a local hardware store, he stumbled upon a large and rather colorful display. It advertised the sale of several rather hefty and heavy sledgehammers. Each one consisted of a three-foot long yellow fiberglass handle, with the typical black mass of metal formed in an optimally “wrecktangular” shape at the end, which constituted the head, or the thing that breaks stuff.
He picked one up to inspect it closer, and something caught his eye on the handle. It was a promotional-looking sticker, like the ones which are typically found in other retail stores, which read, “Buy One, Get One Free”, “Financing Available”, or “Hands Off You Scum!” This one, despite the inherent logical contradictions, simply read, “Try Me.” Hank, lost in the intricacies of the irony, simply stood there, staring off into space.
“OWWW!!!!!!! SON OF A…TURNIP” said Hank, as a few of his brain synapses failed to connect in order to remind his arms about the heavy instrument which they had just dropped on his feet. After having experienced that initial burst of podiatric pain, several other synapses disconnected, just in time to make Hank forget which expletive he was about to yelp, only to have it replaced with some vegetable-related tangent long forgotten within the depths of his brain.
Not being a huge fan of pain in other areas of the body besides the head, Hank became understandably enraged and unexplainably constipated, possibly adding to his indignation. He proceeded to pick up the sledgehammer and smash everything in sight. Displays of power tools and designer wrenches, cash registers, contractors, hicks, hick contractors, and in a fantastic display of acrobatic ability – the twenty-foot tall drywall ceiling, causing a downpour of gypsum to rain all over the now demolished store.
The next thing Hank noticed after coming out of his savage trance was that his beefy hands were being thrust behind his back in a vain attempt to have them meet closely enough for handcuffs to be effective. Unfortunately for the police, Hank was an average American male, meaning he was an exceedingly large man, whose unnatural girth defied the standard size of handcuffs. Once properly detained, with the aid of 3 consecutively linking pairs of handcuffs, and several rolls of duct tape, Hank was placed in the police cruiser, and approached by two police officers. The first, Officer Jurks, asked, “What’s your name, son?”
Feeling the first premonitions of a head-bashing urge coming, Hank replied, “Steve.”
“How come your license says Hank Banks, then?" asked Officer Suie.
Twitching slightly, Hank answered, “I lied.”
“Oh weeeellll then. We got a scallawag on our hands, don’t we now?” presumed Officer Jurks.
“Seems to be the case. We’ll have to ask you lots of questions to be sure you’re telling the truth once we get back to the station, Steve.” said Officer Suie.
Veins nearly popping out in his head, Hank’s only prevailing thought as they drove out onto the sun-drenched streets was, “If only I still had that sledgehammer…”
I am taking four English classes this semester, three of which are creative writing classes. Therefore, I hope to blog most of my stories and such, as I'm sure many of them will end up being funny.
About myself: I am no longer working at Taco Bell. I now work at Home Depot, and have been for the last 3 months. And yes, I know I need to change my title description...
Unfortunately, there have not been many funny stories of the same caliber as my Taco Bell stories. The only two that even come remotely close I will relate to you.
The first was when an older lady came to my register to purchase a few things. I rung up her stuff, and told her the total. She proceeded to write a check. When she handed me the check, this is what I saw:
The check was made out to "Builders Hardware"
The check was dated "January 14th, 2005"
The problem with the date was the fact that it was actually the 18th, and in the year 2006.
So I informed her where she was shopping and that today wasn't the 14th. She then said, "Oh, the 15th?" I kindly corrected her by saying, "No, actually, it's the 18th. And it's the year 2006."
"Oh", she said. "I guess I'm behind a little."
O RLY?
The second funny thing I came across was when someone was purchasing a sledgehammer. The funny thing about it was the sticker which was located on the handle of the sledgehammer. I actually just finished writing a one-page story for a homework assignment, and I based my original idea for the story solely around what that sticker said. Here is the story:
Hank, a rather portly and uncivilized fellow, whose personal life motto happened to be “More Pork, Less Fork”, never was the type of person who, when presented with a question, answered it in a socially acceptable manner. Hank was what some would call a cerebral sadist. When faced with a question that caused him great mental anguish in obtaining a suitable answer, he tended to strike himself repeatedly in the cranial area until such a response stumbled, slipped, and spilled from somewhere inside the shadowy depths of his pebble-sized brain out through his mouth and whichever nostril had been blown within the last month. Of course, this was contingent on how often he cleaned his cat, Snuffles, between his mucus migrations.
As he made his way through a local hardware store, he stumbled upon a large and rather colorful display. It advertised the sale of several rather hefty and heavy sledgehammers. Each one consisted of a three-foot long yellow fiberglass handle, with the typical black mass of metal formed in an optimally “wrecktangular” shape at the end, which constituted the head, or the thing that breaks stuff.
He picked one up to inspect it closer, and something caught his eye on the handle. It was a promotional-looking sticker, like the ones which are typically found in other retail stores, which read, “Buy One, Get One Free”, “Financing Available”, or “Hands Off You Scum!” This one, despite the inherent logical contradictions, simply read, “Try Me.” Hank, lost in the intricacies of the irony, simply stood there, staring off into space.
“OWWW!!!!!!! SON OF A…TURNIP” said Hank, as a few of his brain synapses failed to connect in order to remind his arms about the heavy instrument which they had just dropped on his feet. After having experienced that initial burst of podiatric pain, several other synapses disconnected, just in time to make Hank forget which expletive he was about to yelp, only to have it replaced with some vegetable-related tangent long forgotten within the depths of his brain.
Not being a huge fan of pain in other areas of the body besides the head, Hank became understandably enraged and unexplainably constipated, possibly adding to his indignation. He proceeded to pick up the sledgehammer and smash everything in sight. Displays of power tools and designer wrenches, cash registers, contractors, hicks, hick contractors, and in a fantastic display of acrobatic ability – the twenty-foot tall drywall ceiling, causing a downpour of gypsum to rain all over the now demolished store.
The next thing Hank noticed after coming out of his savage trance was that his beefy hands were being thrust behind his back in a vain attempt to have them meet closely enough for handcuffs to be effective. Unfortunately for the police, Hank was an average American male, meaning he was an exceedingly large man, whose unnatural girth defied the standard size of handcuffs. Once properly detained, with the aid of 3 consecutively linking pairs of handcuffs, and several rolls of duct tape, Hank was placed in the police cruiser, and approached by two police officers. The first, Officer Jurks, asked, “What’s your name, son?”
Feeling the first premonitions of a head-bashing urge coming, Hank replied, “Steve.”
“How come your license says Hank Banks, then?" asked Officer Suie.
Twitching slightly, Hank answered, “I lied.”
“Oh weeeellll then. We got a scallawag on our hands, don’t we now?” presumed Officer Jurks.
“Seems to be the case. We’ll have to ask you lots of questions to be sure you’re telling the truth once we get back to the station, Steve.” said Officer Suie.
Veins nearly popping out in his head, Hank’s only prevailing thought as they drove out onto the sun-drenched streets was, “If only I still had that sledgehammer…”
Thursday, December 22, 2005
CSU Schools Scam Their Students
Catchy headline, isn't it?
I have absolutely no sympathy anymore for educational activists, politicians, and college teachers who whine about how crappy their schools are and how the government is hindering sufficient funding. All the liberal loudmouths and the students and voters they infect with the mindset that the conservative government is neglecting education are supporting a blatant lie fabricated to mislead the impressionable masses who blindly accept what they are told is correct by these biased and uninformed sources.
If CSU schools are indeed suffering, it is because of poor financial management and spending within the school, not because of a lack of funding.
For those of you who do not know, I am currently attending CSULB, and majoring in English: Creative Writing. And I just sold my books back today. These books, which originally cost me more than $300, were only able to be exchanged for a comparatively meager $53 when sold back to the campus bookstore.
$53 for over $300 worth of books. That's 1/6 of what I paid. Three particularly underbid books were ones which I had bought for the same class, which is going to be identically offered by the same instructor again at CSULB next semester. One book, which originally cost $25, was bought back for $1. Another, which was originally $50, was bought back for $2. Yet another, originally costing $70, was bought back for $4. Seems fair, right?
And what's the lame excuse the guy gave me for offering such a low price? When I asked, he said that basically no one else in the country is using these books except for my professor at this school.
A problem I see with this excuse:
Why would the price go down if the only people using them are the ones taking this specific teacher's class at CSULB? The price wasn't $1 when I bought it, so obviously they aren't having any trouble selling them. Why not be honest and just tell me what they're really going to do? They're going to sell them back at this same bookstore next semester, for an approximate 2500% profit on each book, to each new student taking the exact same class with the exact same teacher.
Now, let's speculate about this.
There are approximately 33,500 students attending CSULB. Each student needs books. How many books depends on the number of classes being taken and how many books are required in each class. From what I understand, $300 is a pretty standard if not moderate cost for textbooks in a typical semester. So let's just assume that each student is going to pay approximately $300 in books, as some students will pay less, and some students will pay more.
Let's do some math.
(And again, this is purely speculative, as there are factors which will affect these numbers, such as those who buy and sell their books via a third party like an off-campus bookstore or from other students. So this serves to show how staggering of a profit college campuses can make through textbook and other sales.)
33,500 students x $300 in books = $10,050,000. 10 million dollars in textbooks each semester.
1/6 of $10,050,000 = $1,675,000. $1,675,000 dollars being given back to the students in exchange for their books.
$10,050,000 - $1,675,000 = $8,375,000. $8,375,000 dollars being earned by the school each semester by selling books at high prices and buying them back at cheap prices.
Of course, this number varies as some people get more than 1/6 of their money back. And then again, the school won't even buy back some books, so who knows what the exact amount is.
Now, we cannot possibly forget other such exorbitant fees being charged to students who attend CSU schools, such as tuition and parking. Tuition at CSULB costs each full-time student $1,432 dollars, and a parking pass costs about $95.
Not everyone drives to school, so for our analysis, I'll be conservative and say that 1/2 of the students will buy a parking pass.
16,750 students x $95 = $1,591,250. That's not including those students who use the metered parking and who buy day parking passes.
Now, for the big money.
33,500 full-time students x $1,432 dollars = $47,972,000.
Of course, this is not totally correct because not everyone is a full time student. Part-timers pay $904 per semester in tuition. So let's say 1/4 of the students are part-time, which would yield 7,571,000 for those students, leaving the 3/4 of the full-timers (25,125 students) remaining to pay $35,979,000.
And what about those in more expensive graduate programs, and those living on campus? Even more revenue for the school. But I won't even speculate on those.
So according to my very crude and very incomplete calculations, CSULB makes around $40 million dollars each semester from tuition alone. Add the $1.5 million from parking, and the $8 million from book profits, they get around $50 million dollars every semester to throw around.
Don't even tell me CSU schools are poor and need funding. It's simply not true. Not with the prices they charge. And especially not with the current wages being paid to teachers. So where is all that money going, anyway?
I have absolutely no sympathy anymore for educational activists, politicians, and college teachers who whine about how crappy their schools are and how the government is hindering sufficient funding. All the liberal loudmouths and the students and voters they infect with the mindset that the conservative government is neglecting education are supporting a blatant lie fabricated to mislead the impressionable masses who blindly accept what they are told is correct by these biased and uninformed sources.
If CSU schools are indeed suffering, it is because of poor financial management and spending within the school, not because of a lack of funding.
For those of you who do not know, I am currently attending CSULB, and majoring in English: Creative Writing. And I just sold my books back today. These books, which originally cost me more than $300, were only able to be exchanged for a comparatively meager $53 when sold back to the campus bookstore.
$53 for over $300 worth of books. That's 1/6 of what I paid. Three particularly underbid books were ones which I had bought for the same class, which is going to be identically offered by the same instructor again at CSULB next semester. One book, which originally cost $25, was bought back for $1. Another, which was originally $50, was bought back for $2. Yet another, originally costing $70, was bought back for $4. Seems fair, right?
And what's the lame excuse the guy gave me for offering such a low price? When I asked, he said that basically no one else in the country is using these books except for my professor at this school.
A problem I see with this excuse:
Why would the price go down if the only people using them are the ones taking this specific teacher's class at CSULB? The price wasn't $1 when I bought it, so obviously they aren't having any trouble selling them. Why not be honest and just tell me what they're really going to do? They're going to sell them back at this same bookstore next semester, for an approximate 2500% profit on each book, to each new student taking the exact same class with the exact same teacher.
Now, let's speculate about this.
There are approximately 33,500 students attending CSULB. Each student needs books. How many books depends on the number of classes being taken and how many books are required in each class. From what I understand, $300 is a pretty standard if not moderate cost for textbooks in a typical semester. So let's just assume that each student is going to pay approximately $300 in books, as some students will pay less, and some students will pay more.
Let's do some math.
(And again, this is purely speculative, as there are factors which will affect these numbers, such as those who buy and sell their books via a third party like an off-campus bookstore or from other students. So this serves to show how staggering of a profit college campuses can make through textbook and other sales.)
33,500 students x $300 in books = $10,050,000. 10 million dollars in textbooks each semester.
1/6 of $10,050,000 = $1,675,000. $1,675,000 dollars being given back to the students in exchange for their books.
$10,050,000 - $1,675,000 = $8,375,000. $8,375,000 dollars being earned by the school each semester by selling books at high prices and buying them back at cheap prices.
Of course, this number varies as some people get more than 1/6 of their money back. And then again, the school won't even buy back some books, so who knows what the exact amount is.
Now, we cannot possibly forget other such exorbitant fees being charged to students who attend CSU schools, such as tuition and parking. Tuition at CSULB costs each full-time student $1,432 dollars, and a parking pass costs about $95.
Not everyone drives to school, so for our analysis, I'll be conservative and say that 1/2 of the students will buy a parking pass.
16,750 students x $95 = $1,591,250. That's not including those students who use the metered parking and who buy day parking passes.
Now, for the big money.
33,500 full-time students x $1,432 dollars = $47,972,000.
Of course, this is not totally correct because not everyone is a full time student. Part-timers pay $904 per semester in tuition. So let's say 1/4 of the students are part-time, which would yield 7,571,000 for those students, leaving the 3/4 of the full-timers (25,125 students) remaining to pay $35,979,000.
And what about those in more expensive graduate programs, and those living on campus? Even more revenue for the school. But I won't even speculate on those.
So according to my very crude and very incomplete calculations, CSULB makes around $40 million dollars each semester from tuition alone. Add the $1.5 million from parking, and the $8 million from book profits, they get around $50 million dollars every semester to throw around.
Don't even tell me CSU schools are poor and need funding. It's simply not true. Not with the prices they charge. And especially not with the current wages being paid to teachers. So where is all that money going, anyway?
Friday, October 28, 2005
Do Not Read This Blog On Your Computer. It May Cause Explosions.
I recently bought a new phone a little more than a month ago, when I switched from Verizon to Cingular.
Now, as you look at this phone, you'll probably notice that it seems pretty normal and harmless right? Wrong! If you happen to read the novel which is the instruction manual, you'll quickly find out this innocent-looking phone could very easily qualify as the most intricate, complicated, high-maintenance, and potentially dangerous object in your entire house, and quite possibly the entire world. And yes, I'm holding it up to my ear, pressed against my head, every single day. Yippee.
What makes this phone such a fright you ask? Well, allow me to quote numerous safety guidelines taken directly from the LG C2000 User Guide, and you can make your own decision on whether or not my life is in immediate danger by owning this phone, or if the technical writer(s) who wrote this booklet were being overly melodramatic.
Safety Instructions
- Never store your phone in settings that may expose it to temperatures less than 32°F or greater than 104°F. Exposure to excessive cold or heat will result in malfunction, damage and/or catastrophic failure.
Catastrophic failure? As if malfunctioning and damage wasn't enough? Now you have to subject my fears to the possibility of such an intimidating and vague term like a catastrophic failure? I associate a word like catastrophic to something like the engine of a plane exploding or all four stomachs of a cow ceasing to function...not my cell phone failing to work. "My phone doesn't work! Help! The world is coming to an end!"
- Be careful when using your phone near other electronic devices. Never place your phone in a microwave oven as this will cause the battery to explode.
Explode? Explode?!? First of all, who in their right mind would ever put their cell phone in a microwave in the first place? And is this such a common problem that it is necessary to include in the user guide? Do people often confuse their TV dinners or Tupperware products with their cell phones because they look so similar? Maybe some distracted person might put the phone down to warm up a leftover meal and in his ineptitude place the phone in the microwave while sticking last night's pasta in his ear, prompting a completely different canelloni-related (or should I say Canaloni?) problem aside from the recently exploded cell phone in his microwave.
- Never place your phone in a microwave oven as it will cause the battery to explode.
What, again? Is it really necessary to tell people this twice? I think we get the point by now. Microwaves + Cell Phones = Things Go Boom.
- Do not dispose of your battery by fire or with hazardous or flammable materials.
Oh wonderful. Not only will it explode, or so I'm guessing as that seems to be the common theme so far, but this means I can't make my famous battery acid, gasoline, and dry brush bonfires anymore. I don't think the people who wrote this book ever have any fun.
- Make sure that no sharp-edged items such as animal's teeth, nails, come into contact with the battery. There is a risk of this causing a fire.
Fire? From biting and scratching? Hmm, sounds like an obvious case of severe animal-related explosion fires to me. Possibly quite catastrophic.
- Store the battery in a place out of reach of children.
Wait. So I have to disassemble the phone and store the battery separately from it in a child-proof, and more importantly, explosion-proof place? That's practical.
- Be careful that children do not swallow any parts such as rubber plugs (earphone, connection parts of the phone, etc.) This could cause asphyxiation or suffocation.
(Or explosion.)
- In a car, do not leave your phone or set up the hands-free kit near to the air bag. If wireless equipment is improperly installed and the air bag is activated, you may be seriously injured.
Yeah, the one thing that actually can potentially blow up: the air bag. Yet ironically, it only gets two measly sentences of mentioning, though its chance of "exploding" and deploying is infinitely greater than any of these other ridiculous situations.
- Do not use a hand-held phone while driving.
No cell phone while driving? Yeah, that could happen. Shya, and exploding cell phone batteries might fly out of my butt.
- Do not use the phone in areas where its use is prohibited.
Duh?
- Never store your phone in temperatures less than -4°F or greater than 122°F.
Yet, as previously mentioned, I thought the acceptable range was 32°F to 104°F. But I doubt this is really a problem, unless you're either an Eskimo or an extremely sociable sand dune.
- Do not use harsh chemicals (such as alcohol) or detergents to clean your phone. There is a risk of this causing a fire.
You're supposed to clean your phone? I guess this just means that if you actually want to clean it some day, you can't ask Jack Daniels to help you.
- Do not use your phone in high explosive areas as the phone may generate sparks.
In other words, no using your phone in your local TNT factory or land mine emporium.
- Do not disassemble the phone.
I guess if we can't be trusted not to stick our phones in the microwave or clean them with a six-pack, then this disclaimer really is necessary because we obviously can't be trusted to resist the urge to take them apart and see how the infernal devices work...because heaven knows if we can't tell the difference between a plate of food and a phone, we'll never rebuild it into any semblance of what it used to look like without somehow blowing ourselves up in the process.
- Only use the batteries, antennas, and chargers provided by LG.
Translation: We want more money.
- Only authorized personnel should service the phone and its accessories. Faulty installation or service may result in accidents...
...Yeah, accidents. I.E. Explosions.
- Do not hold or let the antenna come in contact with your body during a call.
Why? Will I explode?!?
- An emergency call can be made only within a service area. For an emergency call, make sure that you are within a service area and that the phone is turned on.
I give up. If anyone is so utterly ignorant to the fact that your phone has to be on in order to make a call, no user guide on the face of this earth is going to save them now. And you have to be in a service area? You mean there has to be a signal too? My goodness, how complicated these devices are!
- Using a damaged battery or placing a battery in your mouth may cause serious injury.
NO KIDDING!!!!!!!!
And then, last but not least, there's my personal favorite:
- Do not paint your phone.
Do people actually do this? "My phone is boring. I think I'll paint it red and give it racing stripes so it'll go faster! I...hey, why can't I open my phone?"
So basically, what I've learned from all this is:
You can't do anything right as the owner of a cell phone. Anything you do can and will cause your phone to spark, spontaneously burst into flames, and explode without warning...several times over.
Ah, the joys of technology.
If technology had a motto, it would be: "Live longer. Die faster."
Monday, October 10, 2005
The BIG Change
The time has come. My days at Taco Bell are coming to a close. Just tonight, I told my manager, Thaddus, that I was quitting, and he was very supportive and said that he would miss having me around.
Why am I quitting, you ask? Taco Insurrection? Bad Gas? Finally had your fill of stupid people?
Not yet. Often. Yes.
Actually, the main reason I am quitting Taco Bell is because I have been offered a job at Home Depot. It pays $8.75 an hour to start, goes up to $9.25 an hour after 90 days, while at the same time, my benefits will kick in. My benefits include full life, dental, medical, animal, vegetable, mineral, not to mention lots of others which I probably will never need. However, the most significant is something called "Tuition Reimbursement". Basically, Home Depot will pay for 50% of my school tuition/fees/books as long as I am working for them and going to school and am in a major which can potentially help my job skills. And, as an English major, I qualify because it is such a broad and versatile major that covers so many different aspects of learning.
So it all seems very exciting. I have to wait for my background check to be finished before I can start training. Also, I had to go take a drug test today, which was interesting. For those of you who haven't taken a drug test before, what it basically consists of is you going into a medical facility, them handing you a plastic cup, and you going into the bathroom and attempting to pee into the seemingly undersized and uncomfortably thin layered cup. It is a very uncomfortable and unnatural situation, because essentially, you no longer have a large porcelain bowl to pee into. Instead, it is replaced with a plastic "toilet" which has seemingly shrunk to minuscule size.
So I go to the pee place, fill out a small form unrelated to pee, and sit down and wait in the lobby. Eventually, an Asian man calls me in. He has me sign something not dissimilar to a specimen-permission-slip, basically allowing them to take my urine on a field trip to see the Space Needle in Peattle, Washington, or possibly to see the capital in Washington P.C.
He then hands me the proverbial cup, and directs my attention to the side of the cup where there are increments in milliliters, and instructs me to fill the cup to the 50 ML line. He says that I can fill it more if I want, but that it needs to be at least 50 ML. I look at the side of the cup, and determine how much of the cup I'd need to fill in order to get 50 ML of urine. The line looks to only be about an 1/8 of the way up the cup.
So I proceed to the bathroom with a purpose in mind: To pee into this cup to the best of my masculine ability.
As I enter the bathroom and lock the door, my self-confidence flies out the window. All of a sudden, my head begins to be filled with question after question of things that could go wrong.
Do I set it down? Do I pee directly into the cup while holding it? Will it splash? What if the stream is so powerful that it knocks the cup out of my hands and it gets all over? What if I pee on my hand? What if I get the sudden urge to pee really badly and I fill the cup up so much that it begins to spill over the edge? What if I drop it on the way back? What if...what if I get thirsty...?
And these questions were coming from someone who many years ago as a lovable yet ignorant child had to do a urine test for some reason or another. I remember back then thinking that peeing into the tiny cup was ridiculous, so I thought of another method. Basically, I ended up peeing into the toilet and scooping out the urine from the toilet into the cup, thinking that I was doing it the correct way. Needless to say, I got the results back as being heavily diluted. So I knew that today, I was going to have to conquer my fears and pee directly into the cup.
It is a very humbling feeling to know that you are holding a cup filled with your urine and the only thing separating it from you is a mere thin layer of plastic.
It didn't take me long to realize that it wouldn't be hard to get the required 50 ML of urine. So I did what any guy would do: Fill it up as far as I could. Most guys are not overachievers in anything. However, all guys are overachievers at peeing. (Case In Point: I used to sleep over at my friend David's house when I was younger, and every day when I'd wake up, I'd go to the bathroom and pee for the better part of the morning. And every time, David would be amazed at my endurance and thought it was so cool that I could pee for longer than he could). Anyway, if a guy is asked to pee in a container that holds 16 ounces, yet he is only required to provide 1 ounce, your typical guy sees it as a challenge to fill up all 16 ounces. Most likely he won't fill it all the way, but as long as he surpasses the measly requirement, he can rest easy at night knowing that he has surpassed the requirements necessary to maintain his manhood. Either that, or guys are just afraid to try and make the difficult transfer in midstream back to the toilet. Guys can't aim. Ask any guy. He'll tell you. And for that reason, I was frightened to trust myself to pee in this little cup and ONLY in this little cup.
However, all turned out well. I managed to return back to the Asian man without falling and/or spilling. I greeted him with a big overachieving smile on my face as if expecting a friendly male congratulation, like, "Hey, nice effort", or "It's so warm!" He took it from me rather nonchalantly, and told me that he was going to pour it into a vial and seal it in front of me, I guess to ensure that he wasn't going to swap it with his own pee or something...or to prove that he really wasn't as thirsty as he looked. Once he finished that, he told me that the test would be completed in 2-3 days, and then he bid me adieu.
So I walked back to my car, thinking about how much of a goof I must have looked like earlier, carrying a cup of my own pee around. In retrospect, it would have been funny to try and offer a complimentary glass of warm lemonade to unsuspecting people in the lobby area.
So yeah, I made P-Dripple proud today. I peed in a cup successfully, without turning my shorts into Wet Side Slacks.
Why am I quitting, you ask? Taco Insurrection? Bad Gas? Finally had your fill of stupid people?
Not yet. Often. Yes.
Actually, the main reason I am quitting Taco Bell is because I have been offered a job at Home Depot. It pays $8.75 an hour to start, goes up to $9.25 an hour after 90 days, while at the same time, my benefits will kick in. My benefits include full life, dental, medical, animal, vegetable, mineral, not to mention lots of others which I probably will never need. However, the most significant is something called "Tuition Reimbursement". Basically, Home Depot will pay for 50% of my school tuition/fees/books as long as I am working for them and going to school and am in a major which can potentially help my job skills. And, as an English major, I qualify because it is such a broad and versatile major that covers so many different aspects of learning.
So it all seems very exciting. I have to wait for my background check to be finished before I can start training. Also, I had to go take a drug test today, which was interesting. For those of you who haven't taken a drug test before, what it basically consists of is you going into a medical facility, them handing you a plastic cup, and you going into the bathroom and attempting to pee into the seemingly undersized and uncomfortably thin layered cup. It is a very uncomfortable and unnatural situation, because essentially, you no longer have a large porcelain bowl to pee into. Instead, it is replaced with a plastic "toilet" which has seemingly shrunk to minuscule size.
So I go to the pee place, fill out a small form unrelated to pee, and sit down and wait in the lobby. Eventually, an Asian man calls me in. He has me sign something not dissimilar to a specimen-permission-slip, basically allowing them to take my urine on a field trip to see the Space Needle in Peattle, Washington, or possibly to see the capital in Washington P.C.
He then hands me the proverbial cup, and directs my attention to the side of the cup where there are increments in milliliters, and instructs me to fill the cup to the 50 ML line. He says that I can fill it more if I want, but that it needs to be at least 50 ML. I look at the side of the cup, and determine how much of the cup I'd need to fill in order to get 50 ML of urine. The line looks to only be about an 1/8 of the way up the cup.
So I proceed to the bathroom with a purpose in mind: To pee into this cup to the best of my masculine ability.
As I enter the bathroom and lock the door, my self-confidence flies out the window. All of a sudden, my head begins to be filled with question after question of things that could go wrong.
Do I set it down? Do I pee directly into the cup while holding it? Will it splash? What if the stream is so powerful that it knocks the cup out of my hands and it gets all over? What if I pee on my hand? What if I get the sudden urge to pee really badly and I fill the cup up so much that it begins to spill over the edge? What if I drop it on the way back? What if...what if I get thirsty...?
And these questions were coming from someone who many years ago as a lovable yet ignorant child had to do a urine test for some reason or another. I remember back then thinking that peeing into the tiny cup was ridiculous, so I thought of another method. Basically, I ended up peeing into the toilet and scooping out the urine from the toilet into the cup, thinking that I was doing it the correct way. Needless to say, I got the results back as being heavily diluted. So I knew that today, I was going to have to conquer my fears and pee directly into the cup.
It is a very humbling feeling to know that you are holding a cup filled with your urine and the only thing separating it from you is a mere thin layer of plastic.
It didn't take me long to realize that it wouldn't be hard to get the required 50 ML of urine. So I did what any guy would do: Fill it up as far as I could. Most guys are not overachievers in anything. However, all guys are overachievers at peeing. (Case In Point: I used to sleep over at my friend David's house when I was younger, and every day when I'd wake up, I'd go to the bathroom and pee for the better part of the morning. And every time, David would be amazed at my endurance and thought it was so cool that I could pee for longer than he could). Anyway, if a guy is asked to pee in a container that holds 16 ounces, yet he is only required to provide 1 ounce, your typical guy sees it as a challenge to fill up all 16 ounces. Most likely he won't fill it all the way, but as long as he surpasses the measly requirement, he can rest easy at night knowing that he has surpassed the requirements necessary to maintain his manhood. Either that, or guys are just afraid to try and make the difficult transfer in midstream back to the toilet. Guys can't aim. Ask any guy. He'll tell you. And for that reason, I was frightened to trust myself to pee in this little cup and ONLY in this little cup.
However, all turned out well. I managed to return back to the Asian man without falling and/or spilling. I greeted him with a big overachieving smile on my face as if expecting a friendly male congratulation, like, "Hey, nice effort", or "It's so warm!" He took it from me rather nonchalantly, and told me that he was going to pour it into a vial and seal it in front of me, I guess to ensure that he wasn't going to swap it with his own pee or something...or to prove that he really wasn't as thirsty as he looked. Once he finished that, he told me that the test would be completed in 2-3 days, and then he bid me adieu.
So I walked back to my car, thinking about how much of a goof I must have looked like earlier, carrying a cup of my own pee around. In retrospect, it would have been funny to try and offer a complimentary glass of warm lemonade to unsuspecting people in the lobby area.
So yeah, I made P-Dripple proud today. I peed in a cup successfully, without turning my shorts into Wet Side Slacks.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Essay? What Essay?
Yeah, so, as always, I leave things to the last minute.
I've known I had a 3 page essay due today (It's past 1 AM right now, Thursday morning) for several days now.
So I figured I had better take a look at the prompt and get around to writing it pretty soon, seeing as how it's due in 10 hours, and I'll need to sleep for at least 6 of those hours, and spend a few more of those hours driving and vainly attempting to find a parking spot in the "parking" (And I use the term loosely) lot at CSULB.
So lo and behold, I crank out a three-page essay which takes me a grand total of about 30 minutes. This is surprising for me at least because I had no idea what I was supposed to write about until I looked up the prompt online, and I even spent some of that time looking up quotes for a movie we had to write about. (The movie is entitled, "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum", which is a hilarious movie made in 1966, which also happens to be quite sexual and dirty, unfortuntately. But besides that fact, the dialogue and characters are brilliant and it was a lot of fun.) The essay was about how the movie and also a play which I mentioned in my last blog, "The Braggart Soldier", are self-referential, among other things. I dunno, I wrote it in 30 minutes, I didn't have a lot of time to memorize the prompt.
Yeah, so being an English major at CSULB rocks, as long as you a) get there before the cars in the parking lot are so tightly packed together that they are stacked on top of each other, and b) you don't get stuck in traffic.
Today, a drive to school that normally takes about 25 minutes took 55 minutes because there was a completely isolated accident in the carpool lane on the northbound 405 freeway, the side I was on. Not only was our traffic stop-and-go, but the other southbound lane was slowing down and becoming bumper-to-bumper, even though the accident wasn't even on their side! So basically, thanks to everyone killing their cats, traffic was completely slowed down so these curious *coughnosycough* people could absentmindedly gawk at an accident that didn't appear to be more than a fender bender.
And of course, as soon as I passed the accident, traffic speed went from 15 MPH-30 MPH to 65+ MPH. It's amazing what idiotic gawking can do to a perfectly good freeway.
Reminds me of people who don't have the multi-tasking skills necessary to drive and maintain their speed and stay at or slightly above the speed limit while yakking on their cell phones about who cares what. I honestly don't understand how some people cannot have the basic foot-mouth coordination necessary to keep their lead foot pressed on the gas while at the same time talk about how Aunt Sally's cookies don't taste as good since she moved next to the pet cemetery. I don't care. Seriously. Are they so caught up in listening to their own voice that all other bodily tasks cease to function? I really don't get it. If you can't handle talking and driving at the same time, if idle chatter takes up such a substantial portion of your mind that you can't pay attention to what is going on around you, do us all a favor and either hang up your phone and throw it out the window or sell your car and burn your license.
Yeah, I'm tired and I spent too much time on the road today. I'm going to bed. More sarcastic blogs on the way...
I've known I had a 3 page essay due today (It's past 1 AM right now, Thursday morning) for several days now.
So I figured I had better take a look at the prompt and get around to writing it pretty soon, seeing as how it's due in 10 hours, and I'll need to sleep for at least 6 of those hours, and spend a few more of those hours driving and vainly attempting to find a parking spot in the "parking" (And I use the term loosely) lot at CSULB.
So lo and behold, I crank out a three-page essay which takes me a grand total of about 30 minutes. This is surprising for me at least because I had no idea what I was supposed to write about until I looked up the prompt online, and I even spent some of that time looking up quotes for a movie we had to write about. (The movie is entitled, "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum", which is a hilarious movie made in 1966, which also happens to be quite sexual and dirty, unfortuntately. But besides that fact, the dialogue and characters are brilliant and it was a lot of fun.) The essay was about how the movie and also a play which I mentioned in my last blog, "The Braggart Soldier", are self-referential, among other things. I dunno, I wrote it in 30 minutes, I didn't have a lot of time to memorize the prompt.
Yeah, so being an English major at CSULB rocks, as long as you a) get there before the cars in the parking lot are so tightly packed together that they are stacked on top of each other, and b) you don't get stuck in traffic.
Today, a drive to school that normally takes about 25 minutes took 55 minutes because there was a completely isolated accident in the carpool lane on the northbound 405 freeway, the side I was on. Not only was our traffic stop-and-go, but the other southbound lane was slowing down and becoming bumper-to-bumper, even though the accident wasn't even on their side! So basically, thanks to everyone killing their cats, traffic was completely slowed down so these curious *coughnosycough* people could absentmindedly gawk at an accident that didn't appear to be more than a fender bender.
And of course, as soon as I passed the accident, traffic speed went from 15 MPH-30 MPH to 65+ MPH. It's amazing what idiotic gawking can do to a perfectly good freeway.
Reminds me of people who don't have the multi-tasking skills necessary to drive and maintain their speed and stay at or slightly above the speed limit while yakking on their cell phones about who cares what. I honestly don't understand how some people cannot have the basic foot-mouth coordination necessary to keep their lead foot pressed on the gas while at the same time talk about how Aunt Sally's cookies don't taste as good since she moved next to the pet cemetery. I don't care. Seriously. Are they so caught up in listening to their own voice that all other bodily tasks cease to function? I really don't get it. If you can't handle talking and driving at the same time, if idle chatter takes up such a substantial portion of your mind that you can't pay attention to what is going on around you, do us all a favor and either hang up your phone and throw it out the window or sell your car and burn your license.
Yeah, I'm tired and I spent too much time on the road today. I'm going to bed. More sarcastic blogs on the way...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
