Wise Words:
When life gives you lemons -- PUCKER UP!
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Saturday, December 28, 2002
Wouldn't you love to have a professor like this?
From Jane Maher's Seeing Language in Sign: the Work of William C. Stokoe:
Robbin Battison remembers an instance when Bill Stokoe "took on" one of the administrators. A number of new administrators had been appointed on campus, and Stokoe was making up titles for them, such as Dean of Parking Lots, Dean of Office Supplies, Dean of Enchiladas
-- and it got a lot sillier than that. One of the deans brought a small delegation to the office to show them the lab [ie, the Linguistics Research Laboratory that Stokoe founded at Gallaudet University], and there was a coffee cup sitting on the secretary's desk with the word "Bullshit" on it. This dean came back later and chewed Bill out for having a coffee cup that said "Bullshit" on it. Bill wasn't embarrassed at all. He just stood up to him and said, "Of course I have a right to have a coffee cup that says 'Bullshit' on it. Bullshit is the level of most of what goes on here at Gallaudet College." (113)
I sure as hell know that none of my profs would be clever enough to even consider saying something like that. Not to mention that they'd get fired (as if they deserved their paychecks anyhow).
17:20
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
Reasons I love the holidays:
- I get to see people I don't care about.
- I get to be around people I don't care about.
- On the other hand, there's the food...
- and listening to my brother speak fluent Chinglish...
- and there's also the occasion of posting stupid fwds like this one:
* * * * *
Santa's New Contract for the South
A new contract for Santa has finally been negotiated....
Please read the following carefully.....
I regret to inform you that, effective immediately, I will no longer be able to serve the southern United States on Christmas Eve. Due to the overwhelming current population of the earth, my contract has been renegotiated by North American Fairies and Elves Local 209. I now serve only certain areas of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan. As part of the new and better contract I also get longer breaks for milk and cookies so keep that in mind. However, I'm certain that your children will be in good hands with your local replacement who happens to be my third cousin, Bubba Claus. His side of the family is from the South Pole. He shares my goal of delivering toys to all the good boys and girls; however, there are a few differences between us.
Differences such as:
1. There is no danger of a Grinch stealing your presents from Bubba Claus. He has a gun rack on his sleigh and a bumper sticker that reads: “These toys insured by Smith and Wesson.”
2. Instead of milk and cookies, Bubba Claus prefers that children leave an RC cola and pork rinds [or a moon pie] on the fireplace. And Bubba doesn't smoke a pipe. He dips a little snuff though, so please have an empty spit can handy.
3. Bubba Claus' sleigh is pulled by floppy-eared, flyin' coon dogs instead of reindeer. I made the mistake of loaning him a couple of my reindeer one time, and Blitzen's head now overlooks Bubba's fireplace.
4. You won't hear "On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen ..." when Bubba Claus arrives. Instead, you'll hear, "On Earnhardt, on Wallace, on Martin and Labonte; on Rudd, on Jarrett, on Elliott and Petty."
5. "Ho, ho, ho!" has been replaced by "Yee Haw!"
6. As required by Southern highway laws, Bubba > Claus' sleigh does have a Yosemite Sam safety triangle on the back with the words "Back off". The last I heard it also had other decorations on the sleigh back as well. One is Ford or Chevy logo with lights that race through the letters and the other is a caricature of me (Santa Claus) peeing on the Tooth Fairy.
7. The usual Christmas movie classics such as "Miracle on 34th > Street" and "It's a Wonderful Life" will not be shown in your negotiated viewing area. Instead, you'll see "Boss Hogg Saves Christmas" and "Smokey and the Bandit IV" featuring Burt Reynolds as Bubba Claus and dozens of state patrol cars crashing into each other.
8. Bubba Claus doesn't wear a belt. If I were you, I'd make sure you, the wife, and the kids turn the other way when he bends over to put presents under the tree.
9. And finally, lovely Christmas songs have been sung about me like "Rudolph The Red-nosed Reindeer" and Bing Crosby's "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." This year songs about Bubba Claus will be played on all the AM radio stations in the South. Those song titles will be Mark Chesnutt's "Bubba Claus Shot the Jukebox"; Cledus T. Judd's “All I Want for Christmas Is My Woman and a Six Pack", and Hank Williams Jr.'s "If You Don't Like Bubba Claus, You Shove It.”
Sincerely Yours,
Santa Claus
member, North American Fairies and Elves Local 209
* * * * *
Have a very grouchy Christmas, dear WHoBbers!
(Now if you'll excuse me, it seems we're having a family viewing of It's a Wonderful Life.)
21:50
Sunday, December 22, 2002
Let me R.I.P. Please.
Those of you who know me certainly know that food is a big deal for me. So is "me time," ie time reserved for me to spend alone. Thus you know that if someone bothers me while eating breakfast (my preferred "me time" of the day), it can get downright ugly. Not to mention that I can be particularly grouchy during breakfast, since, obviously, I just woke up.
Worse yet is someone who orders me in the middle of my me-time breakfast: "I need you to log on to your computer and get online in 30 minutes."
- How about a please?
- You have your own account on the freakin computer -- an adminstrative account, to boot -- so why the hell are you bothering me?
- Thirty minutes eh? Not twenty-nine minutes, twenty-seven seconds later? You can't wait thirty-two minutes and six millisecs, huh? If we need be anal retentive, I would've pulled out my stopwatch...
He wants to check his email. Fine enough, but why not do it at the library, where the Internet access is both FREE and FAST? "I don't want people checking into my account," he says.
- Do you really think your email is such a high-n-mighty priority that everyone wants to read it?
- Logging out and closing a browser usually helps in preventing people from accessing an email account, dontcha think?
- Having been a visitor to the library for, oh, three months straight now, I can feel pretty confident in saying that the folk who frequent the lab -- without much computer experience or typing skills; hell, without much of a home, either -- likely have no idea whatsoever how to access your freakin email account, and if they did do you really think you're so interesting as to prompt them to do that?
- Most importantly: is your email really so important as to interrupt my breakfast?
I feel like a fugitive using this computer. Once it was completely mine, and now it seems that I have access to it on an "on loan" basis. If fighting for freedom and property makes one an American, then drape me in the ol' Stars and Stripes.
My only comfort: knowing that it's only for ten (10) nine (9) days. Fortunately.
20:19
Saturday, December 21, 2002
Herald the return of His Analness!
First and foremost, the WHoB most graciously welcomes home those Weenie Queenes who have been busily slamming (and trying to kill themselves with their cars, apparently).
Now then: you, dear reader, might recall that His Hineyness was to come home soon... yes, the day arrived. Today. For His Royal Pain's return to the palace, yours truly and Airhead (aka dearest father) had the privilege (heh) of executing the preparations. (Refer to earlier post to inform yourself of the escapades concerning the bathroom.) I had a few errands to run yesterday; during my absence Miss Wonderbrain (aka dearest mother) suggested that Airhead clean up the room a bit.
That Airhead cleaned up the room is certainly not a bad thing in itself (better him than me, no?)... it's what he did in consequence of cleaning that room that pisses me off.
For when I came back home, I found a picture of His Hineyness on the wall. NEXT TO MY DOOR. Airhead apparently found it on top of the cabinet, where it belongs. Daddy dearest enjoys hanging pictures of his family, his dearest children on the wall -- but sometimes he goes too far. WAY too far. He's the type of person who does what he wants to do without consulting others, even if it affects those others. (Example re photo hanging: one recent summer we had found a framed picture of my first-grade class somewhere. Of course I had to feign possession of it but had no place for it, so I just left it on my desk. I went to school, and upon return the following break I found the picture hanging from the wall -- and I hadn't asked for it to be hung. Hell, I don't even like the picture.)
It's bad enough that I have to see His Anality once a year -- but EVERY TIME I WALK INTO MY ROOM? You're asking for too much there, bubba. I immediately took the photo down, then gestured him over to the wall. "You see here," I said as I flung my arms about the frame of my room's door, "this is my area." Airhead isn't too dense, thankfully. He got the idea.
The photo has since been restored to its rightful place on The Butt King's cabinet, in His Royal Chamber.
There is MUCH more complaining I could do, but alas, I must end the post soon. This, my most worthy electronic contraption occupies a portion of His Territory, over which The Butt holds complete sovereignty. Again, it's the tourist visa issue.
And I think I need to renew my passport.
22:00
Monday, December 16, 2002
This is way too hilarious for me not to post:
I'm a Sex on the Beach,  discover your ALcoHoLiC personality!
I honestly thought I would've been something tamer, like a cool bourbon or whiskey. Or maybe a straight shot of tequila. Or even something hundred-proof.
Link courtesy of the recently defunct but now revived "fee fi fo fum" (that was the name the last time I checked).
And another shout-out is in order for the BBs, who always know when to pamper me (every day). ' Tis the season to receive!
23:12
Saturday, December 14, 2002
more bitching about being brotherly
No, not the drunk and over-partied kind of brothers -- we're talking blood brothers.
(Okay, so maybe we are talking about drunks after all.)
Earlier this week Mother Dearest ordered that I clean His Hineyness's bathroom. You see, when we moved into this home some 15-20 years ago, His Royal Spoiled Butt staked the room in the near corner of the house (for the record, one of the larger rooms) and with it, the adjacent bathroom. Yes, that's one big room and one full bath. A mighty large chunk of territory, if I say so myself. I'm sure that the bathroom was meant to be shared between the occupants of the rooms sandwiching it, but try using the word "share" to His Hineyness -- it's not in the Royal Dictionary.
And so I have a particular unease when I enter this section of the house, a feeling of... entering the Twilight Zone, if you will. In a world of border treaties and diplomacy, the bathroom would be nominally his, even if the other members of the household got to soak their weary boldies in the tub once in their lifetimes. (With a tourist visa, you could say.) I recall bathing in the tub as a child, but there are neither fond memories nor definite ones of actually using it.
With an emotion that one can only call apprehension (some may name it disdain), I uncovered the various scum / tile / porcelain / toilet bowl cleaners we have throughout the house, plastic jugs of myriad sizes housing liquids of colors ethereal and eerie. I grabbed the scrubber.
And I cleaned, starting with the mirror, moving on to the counter and sink, then to the shelves, the window, the toilet bowl... ending with a swift swipe to the bathtub and a quick vacuum of the room.
Enter bitching here: seeing as I'm gonna be the one doing this each time that bastard comes home, perhaps I too should move out so that I don't get pinned with the responsibility of doing it again
and again
and again.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll have someone clean my bathroom for me. Or maybe I'll clean it myself -- is that too much to ask?
THIS AIN'T NO GODDAMN FIVE-STAR HOTEL. You learn to take your own damn trash out or it sits there for 365 days and sulks, thinking of you and its buddies in the landfill. Or maybe it just thinks of you as a landfill. I know I do.
And it would make a LOT more sense if someone (not me) cleaned the bathroom after his visit, not before, so that the scum wouldn't sit for a full year and get covered in dust, making it harder to get out. No, instead it should be scrubbed in January so that by December the tiles can welcome him home with said dust.
(Confetti, anyone?)
And this really, really blows: I decided to be an extra-good person (one can try) and mop the floor. I get out the bucket, I fill it with water and soap, and what happens when I pick up the mop? It doesn't work. Mother Dearest doesn't bother to tell me this until AFTER I got the bucket ready. With my super-sized big mouth, I told her that I had already filled the bucket -- so Miss Wonderbrain told me to scrub the floor with a paper towel.
In other words, I wiped the fucking floor ON MY HANDS AND KNEES.
All I need now is a pair of glass slippers, two nasty, spoiled siblings and a really nasty mother.
Just give me the damn slippers.
23:32
Friday, December 13, 2002
being brotherly to brothers
shall continue post about the liberry later. Here, I want to talk about something: frats in service. Ya see, just this half hour ago I was pleasantly eating dinner when I was startled by the doorbell. Both my dad and I got up to answer it, but when el papo saw through the window that it was two sketchy-looking men, he backed away.
Enter me, who as you all know is very cordial with people who piss me off, or just appear in front of my doorstep. I open the door and it passes that these two "men" actually turn out to be students. They're preppy-looking, the typical J Crew model types, except perhaps a bit chubbier. And more redneckish. Oh yes, and without the good looks too. The one with auburn hair, vaguely and frighteningly reminding me of some certain spoiled Griffin alumns, begins speed-mumbling with a very slight touch of a drawl: "Hey, uh, we're students at a nearby college and we're part of such-and-such fraternity--"
Which school? "Wofford."
Which fraternity? "Mumble-mumble-mumble" (I think I made out Phi Kappa Alpha -- but do the letters really matter? It's all Greek to me!)
And what the fuck are you doing at my doorstep? "We're here looking for donations as part of this program--" (the silent partner, evidently uninterested with what he does, returns my inspective glance with a nonplussed stare; holding a cylinder reminiscent of a peanut jar, he now turns this jar -- and beholds a lovely photocopied flyer taped to its side. I notice an apparent acronym, "P.U.S.H.", in bold capital letters) "Ya see, we visit the Charles Lea Center and help out the multi-handicapped there. . ."
[pause]
And this isn't in reality for, I don't know, a party or anything?
"Um..." (obviously flustered, the auburn one literally cocks his head back -- then gasps) "No!"
[pause]
I ended up giving them some 43 cents (they said they were looking for "spare change," so I made sure to give them at least 3 pennies); holding the coins in my right hand, I opened the door and thrust my arm into the cold. " 'Tis the season to give, anyway," I remark, hiding my desire to hurt them behind my facade of holly-wreathed happiness.
My question to you all is: does PiKA - or, really, any frat - truly bother to spend time with the multi-handicapped? And appear to be helping them?
Alas, since I did sneak into the olin building and watch La ville est tranquille without paying the $2 non-student fee, I felt compelled to give.
Besides, I can feel Santa's breath on my back. Or maybe it's the strokes of his pen.
19:12
OK, I'm going to post about the liberry NOW because if I don't I'll never do it.
And besides, I want to complain about the absent-minded fat guy sitting across from me who talks to himself and makes really strange and OBNOXIOUS noises (popping his cheeks, sucking his teeth, etc) for no apparent reason. WHY must the world be populated with so many freaking lunatics???
I also wanted to remind everyone how much pleasure I get from flicking people off on the road. LEARN TO FUCKING SIGNAL, IDIOTS!
But alas, I must continue this post later because this mofo is really, SERIOUSLY, getting on my nerves. Aw, ain't that cute -- it seems that he knows the entire library staff by name. Geez I better go before I bash his head in.
14:20
Monday, December 09, 2002
I had a meeting with an employment agency today.
Yes, I'm that sad.
If finding a job is this difficult now, I fear for the future. A lot.
I was planning on posting about the public library (aka my 4th home) today, but I'll get around to that. Some day. Maybe later this week, even. And I've been wanting to write about the SCSDB but haven't had a chance. So there's a bit of a preview of what's to come.
On the upside for today: I saw a bumper sticker that read: SAVE THE MALES. Here's a big chauvinist *oink* to that!
13:37
Friday, December 06, 2002
This is very, very strange: my ARYAN post of a while back ain't showing up in the archives. I wonder if I've pushed some buttons, pulled some triggers...
01:32
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Anybody got food stamps?
still on hiatus
still unemployed
... but the WHoB still has stockpiled some shit to complain about these last few weeks. This is the first of a series of installments to catch y'all up on what's been going on, so stop by for the next few days. Happy clicking:
the road | the job scene | the birthday
* * *
Let's see: having no job and no money sure does make one grouchy, doesn't it? As much as I love the fucking rednecks that wander the streets of Sparkle City (yes, even those with their ARYAN license plates), I have found the need to flick people off in disgust more often than normal lately. If you knew how often I do it usually, you'd know that my middle finger is quite the celebrity nowadays.
Some advice you might like to know the next time you see me on the road:
- NEVER cut in front of me. EVER.
- NEVER change lanes without signalling -- that is a BIG pet peeve of mine. We're not all paying attention to your car, buddy, so give us a FUCKING SIGNAL that you intend to change lanes.
- One word: PATIENCE. It pretty much boils down to that. Just because you've got a fucking job...
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* * *
And what about the contemporary job scene? Resumes, cover letters... Cover letters???? what the FUCK is all that for? Why the hell do we have to write someone to let them know that we're interested in the position they're advertising? "No, you genius, I'm interested in taking your job." And if they want a freaking writing sample -- Why the FUCKING SHIT do we go to college? Isn't 4 years and ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS enough to show that we can read? Write? Do a job, so long as you show us whatever the fuck you want us to do? We can't really fulfill our job duties if we don't know what they are, right? And you know what else: you may require someone to know Microsoft Word, but somebody can learn to use that, um, if they can type -- and if you ask them to do something really difficult, there are likely books about it. For crying out loud.
A friend of mine mentioned once how he thought that the wrong people are going to college. In a way, 'tis true -- but it's also the fault of the American dream, that everyone can have or be whatever he or she wants, be it a Bentley or a college education. A college degree really doesn't mean as much as it used to be, say, 30 years ago. Sure, there are some people who are going or have gone to college and shouldn't have attended (ask me if I name a few -- I can name approximately 1,600) -- but I also feel that there are too many colleges and hence too many college opportunities. Even if people aren't truly qualified to receive a Bachelor's degree, those institutions of higher education need people to occupy dorm space and fill desks, no?
Enough on the subject. I'm pissed and let's leave it at that.
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* * *
Today (technically, yesterday) was my dad's birthday. Of course, I didn't get him anything, ya know, since I don't quite have a job or MONEY. What I love about my dad's age and mine is that we're 40 years apart. 39 ½, to be exact. I love to joke and say that my dad waited an eternity to have me -- get it?
Here's to you, Pops!
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00:49
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