So one of my minions at work was telling me this morning how the CEO was hovering over his shoulder while he was working. The minion was trying to print some stuff for CEO's big board meeting today. Join me as I reenact this magic moment in Blank Stare Theatre:
Minion: "He was hovering over my shoulder the whole time."
Kafkaesque: "You know who Carlos Castaneda is?"
Minion: blank stare
Kafkaesque; "He wrote these books about Don Juan and the Yaqui Indians?"
Minion: blank stare
Kafkaesque: "They thought that death was constantly hovering at your left shoulder, just waiting for you to see him."
Minion: blank stare
Kafkaesque: "So, you see, He's kind of like death, hovering at your left shoulder."
Minion: blank stare
Kafkaesque: "Ha ha ha! Get it?"
Minion (edging away): "Oh...uh. Yeah. Ha ha. Yaqui Indians. Right."
Kafkaesque: "Oh, the times we have."
This kind of thing happens to me a lot. I can't decide which Baldwin should play Minion in the movie version. My role will, of course, be played by Jet Li, master funnyman.
Thursday, January 31, 2002
Wednesday, January 30, 2002
Here's another Shaggie picture that doesn't take forever to load. Because I care about you and want you to have fast-loading shaggies.
Sorry about the whole alliteration thing happening in the last post.
Also, just wanted to mention that I got a fax spam today for Grandfather Clocks. Chances are not real good that I'm going to be strumming along on the ol' gueetar or playing Quake, and suddenly look down at the fax machine, when all of a sudden it'll hit me: That's what my life has been missing all this time! A Grandfather Clock!
And not a good Grandfather Clock either. I want an incredibly cheap Grandfather Clock for oh, say, 300 bucks. One that's going to break in the first month I have it and then gather dust and wait for me to hurt myself by walking into it late at night.
Another exciting feature of the GRANDFATHER CLOCK NEW YEAR BLOWOUT fax spam is that they promise delivery by Christmas. That's right. In just eleven short months, these speed demons of the timepiece world will have that baby on your doorstep, ready to start keeping time adequately until the one year warranty runs out. I'm guessing after eleven months most people would have forgotten they ordered a 300 dollar Grandfather Clock and might be more than a little puzzled when one showed up. Just imagine if you got liquored up one night and went ahead and placed your order. What a surprise on Christmas morning!
But eleven months! That's like the gestation period of an elephant for god's sake.
And 300 dollars? For a Grandfather Clock? I don't want it to be made out of balsa wood. I want some quality in my needlessly grandiose chronometer!
It's the same principle as a $1.99 Vegas buffet. Things just should not be that cheap. At least after you eat a $1.99 Vegas buffet, you don't have to wait eleven months for the result.
Also, just wanted to mention that I got a fax spam today for Grandfather Clocks. Chances are not real good that I'm going to be strumming along on the ol' gueetar or playing Quake, and suddenly look down at the fax machine, when all of a sudden it'll hit me: That's what my life has been missing all this time! A Grandfather Clock!
And not a good Grandfather Clock either. I want an incredibly cheap Grandfather Clock for oh, say, 300 bucks. One that's going to break in the first month I have it and then gather dust and wait for me to hurt myself by walking into it late at night.
Another exciting feature of the GRANDFATHER CLOCK NEW YEAR BLOWOUT fax spam is that they promise delivery by Christmas. That's right. In just eleven short months, these speed demons of the timepiece world will have that baby on your doorstep, ready to start keeping time adequately until the one year warranty runs out. I'm guessing after eleven months most people would have forgotten they ordered a 300 dollar Grandfather Clock and might be more than a little puzzled when one showed up. Just imagine if you got liquored up one night and went ahead and placed your order. What a surprise on Christmas morning!
But eleven months! That's like the gestation period of an elephant for god's sake.
And 300 dollars? For a Grandfather Clock? I don't want it to be made out of balsa wood. I want some quality in my needlessly grandiose chronometer!
It's the same principle as a $1.99 Vegas buffet. Things just should not be that cheap. At least after you eat a $1.99 Vegas buffet, you don't have to wait eleven months for the result.
An oldie but goodie: Shaggies
Just in case you feel an urge to shamble around in the forest looking like a pile of animated cole slaw. And who doesn't now and again?
Just in case you feel an urge to shamble around in the forest looking like a pile of animated cole slaw. And who doesn't now and again?
True color of the universe revealed.
It's minty green. Kind of looks like a Mentos or something. Alternately, it resembles the innards of one of those avocados that aren't quite as good as the Haas avocados but are much cheaper. Hence, the universe is an inferior avocado.
Just thought you should know.
It's minty green. Kind of looks like a Mentos or something. Alternately, it resembles the innards of one of those avocados that aren't quite as good as the Haas avocados but are much cheaper. Hence, the universe is an inferior avocado.
Just thought you should know.
Tuesday, January 29, 2002
Monday, January 28, 2002
The Elves and The Sportbike
Teaches valuable lessons for any child considering becoming a motorcyclist as an adult: don't steal motorcycles, keep your motorcycle right side up, don't hire elves to take care of your kids
If there's one thing I tell people time and time again, it's "Don't hire elves to take care of your kids!"
How hard is that? I know they look all cuddly and stuff, but they're just waiting to get on that sportbike and cause some grievous mayhem. I know what you're thinking: "Wouldn't it be alright if I just let the elves watch the kids for a little while, like for an hour every other Sunday?"
NO!
Teaches valuable lessons for any child considering becoming a motorcyclist as an adult: don't steal motorcycles, keep your motorcycle right side up, don't hire elves to take care of your kids
If there's one thing I tell people time and time again, it's "Don't hire elves to take care of your kids!"
How hard is that? I know they look all cuddly and stuff, but they're just waiting to get on that sportbike and cause some grievous mayhem. I know what you're thinking: "Wouldn't it be alright if I just let the elves watch the kids for a little while, like for an hour every other Sunday?"
NO!
Report a Celebrity Brush with Jurgen Prochnow:
"Jurgen was sitting 4 seats down the row I was in, and yes I did sneak peeks at him occasionally, and no, unfortunately, I don't know what he smelled like. I was recovering from a cold I couldn't smell a thing. But he did look like he came to the premiere fresh from the shower ;) "
I feel confident that within the decade, there will be at least ten Jurgen Prochnow Celebrity Brushes. We just have to want it, people.
Also: Find out just how many times Jurgen will be on TV this month.
The Jesus Filmography, which is kind of Jurgen related since he's on the list for having been kinda Jesusy in The Seventh Sign.
Even more tangential: This incredibly annoying page that's kind of about Dune but which somehow finds an excuse to talk about Kung Fu a little bit. Nice to see Kwai Chang getting a mention there. Waaaay down at the bottom there's mention of Jurgen getting burning glass dropped on his noggin.
"Jurgen was sitting 4 seats down the row I was in, and yes I did sneak peeks at him occasionally, and no, unfortunately, I don't know what he smelled like. I was recovering from a cold I couldn't smell a thing. But he did look like he came to the premiere fresh from the shower ;) "
I feel confident that within the decade, there will be at least ten Jurgen Prochnow Celebrity Brushes. We just have to want it, people.
Also: Find out just how many times Jurgen will be on TV this month.
The Jesus Filmography, which is kind of Jurgen related since he's on the list for having been kinda Jesusy in The Seventh Sign.
Even more tangential: This incredibly annoying page that's kind of about Dune but which somehow finds an excuse to talk about Kung Fu a little bit. Nice to see Kwai Chang getting a mention there. Waaaay down at the bottom there's mention of Jurgen getting burning glass dropped on his noggin.
Friday, January 25, 2002
Here are some diseases that are probably really horrible and I hope I never contract, but which nevertheless sound sort of quaint and amusing:
Shingles - Can anyone hear the name of this affliction without a mental image of a picturesque little disease-infested cottage, roof thatched with the advanced form of Chicken Pox? I sure can't.
Rickets - I have no idea what this is. It sounds like it has to do with two of my favorite things though: 1. Robots and B. frogs. Hence, Robot Frogs! or Frog Robots I guess would work too. I'll have to contact the FDA to see if any of the treatment for Rickets involves Robot Frogs.
The Gout - This one sounds like it should be said by a pirate. As in "Arr! Ye've got The Gout, Jim-Boy! Nothin a quick trip round the keel won't fix, though, eh me lubbin finey?" (Note: "Me lubbin finey" is not widely accepted as real pirate talk. Some of your more advanced pirates would try this sort of phrase, in hopes that it would catch on amongst their pirate colleagues, with little success. Every once in a while, a gem would crop up though, and a mellifluous turn of phrase like "newt-booty" would be born.)
(Note: previous note totally untrue. I just got carried away.)
Scurvy - Another pirate disease! Pirates seem a fun-loving bunch when you picture them lashing people to the mast, having feisty cutlass duels and counting their captive's teeth, all the while sucking on half a lime, which would protrude from their mouths, and give the impression that they had a green beak.
Shingles - Can anyone hear the name of this affliction without a mental image of a picturesque little disease-infested cottage, roof thatched with the advanced form of Chicken Pox? I sure can't.
Rickets - I have no idea what this is. It sounds like it has to do with two of my favorite things though: 1. Robots and B. frogs. Hence, Robot Frogs! or Frog Robots I guess would work too. I'll have to contact the FDA to see if any of the treatment for Rickets involves Robot Frogs.
The Gout - This one sounds like it should be said by a pirate. As in "Arr! Ye've got The Gout, Jim-Boy! Nothin a quick trip round the keel won't fix, though, eh me lubbin finey?" (Note: "Me lubbin finey" is not widely accepted as real pirate talk. Some of your more advanced pirates would try this sort of phrase, in hopes that it would catch on amongst their pirate colleagues, with little success. Every once in a while, a gem would crop up though, and a mellifluous turn of phrase like "newt-booty" would be born.)
(Note: previous note totally untrue. I just got carried away.)
Scurvy - Another pirate disease! Pirates seem a fun-loving bunch when you picture them lashing people to the mast, having feisty cutlass duels and counting their captive's teeth, all the while sucking on half a lime, which would protrude from their mouths, and give the impression that they had a green beak.
Thursday, January 24, 2002
From the good folks at Despair, Inc:
Bittersweets: Valentine's candy with such heartwarming messages as "Luv 2 Stalk U" and "See Other People".
Come to think of it...my wife sent me that link. Wait just a cotton-pickin minute here!
Bittersweets: Valentine's candy with such heartwarming messages as "Luv 2 Stalk U" and "See Other People".
Come to think of it...my wife sent me that link. Wait just a cotton-pickin minute here!
HEY!
I just added this crazy whacked-out BlogSnob Ad Thing to this here hootenanny. As a result, waaaaay down on the bottom left, underneath the links, next to the giant dust bunny, just this side of Over The Hills and Far Away, you'll (hopefully) see TextAds for other sites. Don't let them scare you. But also, let it be known that anybody could be randomly advertising on them. So if you click-thru (high tech there, eh?) and get sent to the blog of a pale friendless virgin who's into staying up late of a Saturday and painting his D&D miniature collection, don't say I didn't warn you.
Not that there's anything wrong with having a D&D miniature collection, you understand.
I just added this crazy whacked-out BlogSnob Ad Thing to this here hootenanny. As a result, waaaaay down on the bottom left, underneath the links, next to the giant dust bunny, just this side of Over The Hills and Far Away, you'll (hopefully) see TextAds for other sites. Don't let them scare you. But also, let it be known that anybody could be randomly advertising on them. So if you click-thru (high tech there, eh?) and get sent to the blog of a pale friendless virgin who's into staying up late of a Saturday and painting his D&D miniature collection, don't say I didn't warn you.
Not that there's anything wrong with having a D&D miniature collection, you understand.
"Cream Puff Caspar Milquetoast"
You know, from The Piano Has Been Drinking by Tom Waits. Maybe you don't know. You should know. Inevitably, the moment will come in your life where you will be quizzed about this song. Maybe someone will make a comment about Foster Brooks or Dudley Moore or some other drunk-guy-shtick person, and then The Piano Has Been Drinking will come up. It's not something you can avoid, so get used to the idea. And be prepared. Impress your friends with your extensive knowledge of Tom Waits minutiae.
Anyway, Here's the lowdown on Milquetoast, via pracowity, who certainly seems to be all up in arms about this language thing. I bet I made him mad just by saying "up in arms". Somewhere, a dart is being thrown at my picture this very moment.
You know, from The Piano Has Been Drinking by Tom Waits. Maybe you don't know. You should know. Inevitably, the moment will come in your life where you will be quizzed about this song. Maybe someone will make a comment about Foster Brooks or Dudley Moore or some other drunk-guy-shtick person, and then The Piano Has Been Drinking will come up. It's not something you can avoid, so get used to the idea. And be prepared. Impress your friends with your extensive knowledge of Tom Waits minutiae.
Anyway, Here's the lowdown on Milquetoast, via pracowity, who certainly seems to be all up in arms about this language thing. I bet I made him mad just by saying "up in arms". Somewhere, a dart is being thrown at my picture this very moment.
Tuesday, January 22, 2002
Now I know how to spice up my next cocktail party: Lifesize Standups!
I'll put Newt Gingrich over by the potato salad. Dr. McCoy over by the Little Smokies.
Now...where do you put the 5'5" Talking Gorilla Standup? I think by the dessert tray sounds just right. Right next to 6 Foot Uncle Sam.
Yep. Gonna be the best party ever.
I'll put Newt Gingrich over by the potato salad. Dr. McCoy over by the Little Smokies.
Now...where do you put the 5'5" Talking Gorilla Standup? I think by the dessert tray sounds just right. Right next to 6 Foot Uncle Sam.
Yep. Gonna be the best party ever.
Monday, January 21, 2002
Quick! Call a DeskJet Printer exorcist!
My printer is, quite possibly, possessed by the hoary host of the netherworld. At random times, and for no good reason at all, it will spit out a page of paper. It is not, as was suggested to me, printing in tongues, but I feel that eventuality is pretty much a foregone conclusion at this point. I think the random nature of these paper outbursts may not be random at all, and may be indicative of a larger and much more sinister scheme at work behind the scenes. My fear is that the printer is only trying to lull me into a false sense of security with the seemingly random paper spew.
I think it's trying to kill me.
Think about it. All that has to happen is that I fall asleep in front of my printer (a prospect which is frighteningly possible, in my fast-paced world of shirking), and happen to expose my tender neck...next thing you know, it's a paper-cut laceration to the jugular! They'll find me lurching around back here, slamming against the cubical walls as the blood spurts in slow motion, the Matte Finish Great White Imaging and Photo Paper still protruding from the angry wound as the choral music swells to a fever soprano pitch, which would maybe even include a theramin or glockenspiel.
And then it'll all be over. But at least I won't have to worry about memos anymore. So there's that.
I do wish Captain Howdy or whoever it is that's possessing my InkJet would keep things little quieter though. It's hard enough to sleep, much less have a meeting with the company president, while your printer is yelling out things like "You're all gonna die up there!" and "La plume de ma tante!"
So it goes.
My printer is, quite possibly, possessed by the hoary host of the netherworld. At random times, and for no good reason at all, it will spit out a page of paper. It is not, as was suggested to me, printing in tongues, but I feel that eventuality is pretty much a foregone conclusion at this point. I think the random nature of these paper outbursts may not be random at all, and may be indicative of a larger and much more sinister scheme at work behind the scenes. My fear is that the printer is only trying to lull me into a false sense of security with the seemingly random paper spew.
I think it's trying to kill me.
Think about it. All that has to happen is that I fall asleep in front of my printer (a prospect which is frighteningly possible, in my fast-paced world of shirking), and happen to expose my tender neck...next thing you know, it's a paper-cut laceration to the jugular! They'll find me lurching around back here, slamming against the cubical walls as the blood spurts in slow motion, the Matte Finish Great White Imaging and Photo Paper still protruding from the angry wound as the choral music swells to a fever soprano pitch, which would maybe even include a theramin or glockenspiel.
And then it'll all be over. But at least I won't have to worry about memos anymore. So there's that.
I do wish Captain Howdy or whoever it is that's possessing my InkJet would keep things little quieter though. It's hard enough to sleep, much less have a meeting with the company president, while your printer is yelling out things like "You're all gonna die up there!" and "La plume de ma tante!"
So it goes.
Saturday, January 19, 2002
So I am back, after a week in Atlantic City. Actually let me capitalize that. A WEEK in Atlantic City. If you ever want to dump a body, Atlantic City is the place for you.
I like Las Vegas. I like gambling. I like glitz and chintz and cheese (particularly a good camembert or Port Salut), but I draw the line. In Vegas, you have casinos with carpet that look like someone vomited Play-Doh, you have row upon row of slot machines slowly sucking the souls out of the dead-eyed button-pushers in front of them, but you also have other things to do, like Siegfried and Roy statues and the Liberace Museum. Atlantic City has casinos. Period.
And a lot of people wearing gold chains.
You leave the casino in Atlantic City and there's just nothing else going on. Unless you get mugged and beaten so badly you have to be identified by your dental records. Actually, they check you at the airport to make sure that you have your dental records along, so they can identify you later. Nice of them. When I say "airport", I mean Philadelphia airport. I flew into Philly and had to take a shuttle for an hour and a half to get to Atlantic City. On the way back, though, I did get filmed by some local Philadelphia news station, so if you saw someone glaring at the camera on your local Philadelphia news, you may have gotten a glimpse into the depths of my admiration of Atlantic City. They filmed my face, then my bags (which I made sure to pack as heavy as possible for added fun), then my face again. I never understand these people who just lose it when they are on camera and start jumping around and waving. My look told the cameraman pretty much instantly that I was considering some Sean Penn-like action if he didn't stop filming me.
Anyway. One humorous thing that happened while I was there was that I had flowers sent to me accidentally. I had a message in my room that there was a delivery for me, so I went down to the concierge, and it turned out to be a dozen yellow and red roses in a big vase. They were addressed to my wife's name care of me. I thought this rather peculiar, but figured my wife had sent me flowers, just for generally being a great husband and all, and because she wanted the mental image of me staggering through a casino to the elevator with a giant bouquet of roses. I did the aforementioned staggering and made it back to my room, a task made even more enjoyable by the fact that the elevators in the tower my room was in were out of service, so I had to hike quite a ways, constantly assaulted by groups of old women screeching "Oh! They're gooooorgeous!" and a housekeeping woman who indignantly demanded that I give her the flowers.
I made it up to my room and called my wife, who decried any knowledge of the flowers. So I called back down to the desk and it became apparent that they were not for me. The concierge had seen the name, and matched it to mine, in a fit of what can only be called non-brilliant decision making. I also discovered that I am a pushover. I asked if I could leave them outside my door for pickup, to which the concierge replied "Oh no! Those are really valuable!"
If I had any sort of a spine, I would have demanded they come and pick them up. Instead I meekly said "OK" and brought them back down, under yet another hail of abuse from lonely octogenarian women.
*sigh*
Anyway, I'm back and I promise to not be bitter like this in the future.
~~~~~~~~~
As far as the "In The Elevator" feature is concerned, I had unsubstantiated reports that there were little bits of scrambled egg in the elevator in my absence, but I can't really be sure. I did, however, catch the lingering aroma of Vicks Vapo-Rub in there today, so I'll add that.
I like Las Vegas. I like gambling. I like glitz and chintz and cheese (particularly a good camembert or Port Salut), but I draw the line. In Vegas, you have casinos with carpet that look like someone vomited Play-Doh, you have row upon row of slot machines slowly sucking the souls out of the dead-eyed button-pushers in front of them, but you also have other things to do, like Siegfried and Roy statues and the Liberace Museum. Atlantic City has casinos. Period.
And a lot of people wearing gold chains.
You leave the casino in Atlantic City and there's just nothing else going on. Unless you get mugged and beaten so badly you have to be identified by your dental records. Actually, they check you at the airport to make sure that you have your dental records along, so they can identify you later. Nice of them. When I say "airport", I mean Philadelphia airport. I flew into Philly and had to take a shuttle for an hour and a half to get to Atlantic City. On the way back, though, I did get filmed by some local Philadelphia news station, so if you saw someone glaring at the camera on your local Philadelphia news, you may have gotten a glimpse into the depths of my admiration of Atlantic City. They filmed my face, then my bags (which I made sure to pack as heavy as possible for added fun), then my face again. I never understand these people who just lose it when they are on camera and start jumping around and waving. My look told the cameraman pretty much instantly that I was considering some Sean Penn-like action if he didn't stop filming me.
Anyway. One humorous thing that happened while I was there was that I had flowers sent to me accidentally. I had a message in my room that there was a delivery for me, so I went down to the concierge, and it turned out to be a dozen yellow and red roses in a big vase. They were addressed to my wife's name care of me. I thought this rather peculiar, but figured my wife had sent me flowers, just for generally being a great husband and all, and because she wanted the mental image of me staggering through a casino to the elevator with a giant bouquet of roses. I did the aforementioned staggering and made it back to my room, a task made even more enjoyable by the fact that the elevators in the tower my room was in were out of service, so I had to hike quite a ways, constantly assaulted by groups of old women screeching "Oh! They're gooooorgeous!" and a housekeeping woman who indignantly demanded that I give her the flowers.
I made it up to my room and called my wife, who decried any knowledge of the flowers. So I called back down to the desk and it became apparent that they were not for me. The concierge had seen the name, and matched it to mine, in a fit of what can only be called non-brilliant decision making. I also discovered that I am a pushover. I asked if I could leave them outside my door for pickup, to which the concierge replied "Oh no! Those are really valuable!"
If I had any sort of a spine, I would have demanded they come and pick them up. Instead I meekly said "OK" and brought them back down, under yet another hail of abuse from lonely octogenarian women.
*sigh*
Anyway, I'm back and I promise to not be bitter like this in the future.
~~~~~~~~~
As far as the "In The Elevator" feature is concerned, I had unsubstantiated reports that there were little bits of scrambled egg in the elevator in my absence, but I can't really be sure. I did, however, catch the lingering aroma of Vicks Vapo-Rub in there today, so I'll add that.
Thursday, January 10, 2002
I don't know how many of you wash your own car. I do. By that, I mean that I wash my own car. Not your car. So when you saw me out there the other day rubbing your car vigorously, it was not for any purpose that included cleanliness. I can tell you that much.
I wash my little car at one of those do-it-yourself car wash places, where you get your tokens and pile them on into the machine, then perform the wash with an ever-increasing anxiety that you haven't put enough money in and the time will run out, leaving you with a sudsy ride for all eternity. That kind of place.
Anyway, my usual program at the car wash is to put my 87 quarters in the little machine, and set the selector to "Rinse" which usually results in a startlingly strong spray of water out of the hose. I learned it was startlingly strong when I attempted to rinse some suds off my hand in the stream of water and lost about 3 layers of skin. The hand-rinsing resembled that old Civil Rights Protest footage you always see with the protesters having firehoses turned on them, or perhaps a prison atrocities movie.
After the rinse, I move straight to the "Foaming Brush" portion of the ritual. The Foaming Brush is connected by a hose to the ceiling of your little car-washing alcove and rotates to allow you to easily circumnavigate your car. Theoretically. I don't seen to be able to accomplish the Foam Brushing without some sort of minorly embarrassing or life-threatening episode. At some point in the circuit around the car, I always manage to get tangled up in the hose, or have to execute a dainty pirouette to stop the hose wrapping around my neck anaconda-style. If you've ever seen Conan The Barabarian, where he has to fight a giant snake puppet thing, you get the idea of me battling the Foaming Brush.
Conan, of course, was only dealing with a puppet. I, on the other hand, have an adversary which not only threatens to cut off the vital supply of oxygen to my brain, but also continually spits out foam (unless of course it's one of the innumerable occasions where the Foaming Brush has somehow been rendered impotent and can summon only the feeblest of sud-streams. This is roughly every other time I wash my car.)
So, here I am trying to deal with the Herculean task of taming the Foaming Brush, in public I might add, so everyone else at the car wash can watch my bumbling exploits. This is too much for someone as uncoordinated as myself to deal with. The floor is slick with suds, I have to suds up the car before the machine begins to beep that it's running out of time, and I have to keep the Brush in contact with the car without either getting choked to death or slipping and falling on my butt.
Do you begin to appreciate how tough my life is?
That's about all I have to say about the Foaming Brush actually. I know you probably don't care, but think of my travails the next time you do something even moderately coordinated. Maybe you can donate some coordination my way. I could sure use it.
I'll be out of town for a week or so, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to update for a while. Please find all your non-sequiturs and rambling elsewhere for the time being. But don't let me catch you wandering off to someone else's blog while I'm gone! There'll be hell to pay.
I wash my little car at one of those do-it-yourself car wash places, where you get your tokens and pile them on into the machine, then perform the wash with an ever-increasing anxiety that you haven't put enough money in and the time will run out, leaving you with a sudsy ride for all eternity. That kind of place.
Anyway, my usual program at the car wash is to put my 87 quarters in the little machine, and set the selector to "Rinse" which usually results in a startlingly strong spray of water out of the hose. I learned it was startlingly strong when I attempted to rinse some suds off my hand in the stream of water and lost about 3 layers of skin. The hand-rinsing resembled that old Civil Rights Protest footage you always see with the protesters having firehoses turned on them, or perhaps a prison atrocities movie.
After the rinse, I move straight to the "Foaming Brush" portion of the ritual. The Foaming Brush is connected by a hose to the ceiling of your little car-washing alcove and rotates to allow you to easily circumnavigate your car. Theoretically. I don't seen to be able to accomplish the Foam Brushing without some sort of minorly embarrassing or life-threatening episode. At some point in the circuit around the car, I always manage to get tangled up in the hose, or have to execute a dainty pirouette to stop the hose wrapping around my neck anaconda-style. If you've ever seen Conan The Barabarian, where he has to fight a giant snake puppet thing, you get the idea of me battling the Foaming Brush.
Conan, of course, was only dealing with a puppet. I, on the other hand, have an adversary which not only threatens to cut off the vital supply of oxygen to my brain, but also continually spits out foam (unless of course it's one of the innumerable occasions where the Foaming Brush has somehow been rendered impotent and can summon only the feeblest of sud-streams. This is roughly every other time I wash my car.)
So, here I am trying to deal with the Herculean task of taming the Foaming Brush, in public I might add, so everyone else at the car wash can watch my bumbling exploits. This is too much for someone as uncoordinated as myself to deal with. The floor is slick with suds, I have to suds up the car before the machine begins to beep that it's running out of time, and I have to keep the Brush in contact with the car without either getting choked to death or slipping and falling on my butt.
Do you begin to appreciate how tough my life is?
That's about all I have to say about the Foaming Brush actually. I know you probably don't care, but think of my travails the next time you do something even moderately coordinated. Maybe you can donate some coordination my way. I could sure use it.
I'll be out of town for a week or so, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to update for a while. Please find all your non-sequiturs and rambling elsewhere for the time being. But don't let me catch you wandering off to someone else's blog while I'm gone! There'll be hell to pay.
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