Overheard

Ms. Coworker: Don't freak out or anything, but I had a dream about you last night.

Sir Coworker: A dream about me?

Ms. Coworker: Well, you were in it. You, me and Bob. We were in the telecon room talking with Kansas City and I looked over at you and you had this monstrous bugger [that's 'booger' through a hellacious accent] hanging out your nose.

Sir Coworker: Gross.

Ms. Coworker: Yeah. Totally. I tried to let you know without saying anything so KC wouldn't know but you just looked at me like I was a freak.

Sir Coworker: What about Bob?

Ms. Coworker: Um...I don't know. I guess he was just gone then.

Sir Coworker: Freaky.

Ms. Coworker: Yeah. But then I emailed you about the bugger so you would know about it, only I sent it to the group by accident. All the KC people were going on like "Ewwww! Gross! It's huge!" like they could all of a sudden see it or something.

Sir Coworker: Weird.

Ms. Coworker: Yeah. So you picked it and I was like "Gag", you know? But it wasn't really a bugger. It was your brain coming out your nose.

Sir Coworker: That is fucked up.

Ms. Coworker: Yeah! Then it got weird.

Sir Coworker: That wasn't weird enough?

Ms. Coworker: Okay, it got weirder. Suddenly I was you and you were me looking at me picking the brain bugger. It was me all the time only I was confused or something because my brains were coming out of my nose.

Sir Coworker: That is one seriously weird dream.

Ms. Coworker: Yeah! Oh, my microwave is done. See you later.

Sir Coworker: Later!

Me: [suddenly and conclusively no longer hungry]

Posted by: Jim at 11:02 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 276 words, total size 2 kb.

The Great T-Shirt Caper

Posted at Protomonkey.

Posted by: Jim at 12:51 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 11 words, total size 1 kb.

The Evil Ones

I think it might be possible that our children have been replaced with evil clones. Or perhaps the natural evil aura of the kitten has infected them? Maybe alien implants. Whatever the source, we're talking pint sized packs of evil.

Don't believe me? Ask Bear. He's been warning us for the past couple months, saying "My brothers are evil". He also says that about the kitten, lending credence to the evil infection theory.

They talk in tongues too. It started with Burger and a nonsense phrase he was happily babbling to himself while riding his bike. From out of nowhere we heard "dar dar dar dar dar dar". Of course we thought this was hilarious. Our attempts to learn the source of "dar dar dar" have met a blank wall. We chalked it up to being a Burgerism.

Then it started to spread. At any time you might hear any of our kids or the neighbor's kids doing the "dar dar dar dar" chant. Just an innocent Burgerism? I'm beginning to think it's like the "beep" warning you get when your smoke detector battery is running low. Time for the aliens to recharge the brain implants, or something like that.

Not that the evil quotient seems to be reduced by any measure.

At the dinner table the other night Burger was doing the "dar dar" chant when he hit a clear patch of vocabulary with “I’m the fucking baby around here” followed smoothly by another round of “dar dar dar dar dar”. It was so smooth that Lovely Wife and I couldn’t be sure that we had heard what we thought we heard. So we asked him. And he proudly repeated it with an angelic smile upon his face.

I regret to say that discipline was spotty as both of us had gut aches from laughing so hard.

Evil. Cute, but definitely evil.

Posted by: Jim at 12:55 PM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
Post contains 319 words, total size 2 kb.

I want theme music

UPDATE: The current Blogosphere Theme Soundtrack is in the extended entry. Add your theme music in the comments and I'll add you to the Soundtrack! This post will be stickified for a bit whilst I collect the songs.

---

I was thinking about this on the way into work today. I could really use some theme music. You know what I mean, right? The sound sample that plays whenever the hero walks into the scene. Shaft had that bow-chicka-bow-wow thing and James Bond has that snippet that's been around for 40 years and just says "BOND IS HERE". Theme music. That's what I need.

I was thinking a good one for me would be that part of Won't Get Fooled Again where Townshend Daltrey cuts loose with that "Yeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!" that so inspired Howard Dean. That would be perfect for me. When you walk into the conference room along with an energetic antiestablishmentarianist "Yeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!" along with that kick ass bass line you get people's attention. But then I got to thinking. Who songs are popping all over products these days and I'd hate to end up with my theme music being associated with a Kia wagon or marshmallows some day.

So I tried to think of music that would never have a chance of ever being adopted as a corporate jingle but the sad fact is that anything decent had a decent chance of being sold to pimp toothpaste eventually. I figured I'd have to take a chance that my theme music would eventually be co-opted else I'd end up with something from the B52s or Oasis and we just can't have that.

After much hemming and hawing, deliberation and debate (hey, if you can't debate with yourself then who can you debate with?) I settled on this one.

Now I've just got to find a decent boom box.

more...

Posted by: Jim at 11:55 AM | Comments (45) | Add Comment
Post contains 543 words, total size 7 kb.

See y'all in hell!

'Cause that's where I'm going thanks to our viewing selection on the boob tube last night. It was an HBO documentary on dwarfs. Little people, that is. The vertically challenged. I think it was called "Natural Born Carnies" but I can't be sure.

Damn, there it is again. You saw that? That's at least six years in purgatory for that carnie crack. I was horrific through the entire show. I think I'll get a few pokes with the pointy fork for corrupting Lovely Wife as well. Hmmm...maybe I can earn some time off for good behavior if I apologize.

Okay, let's try that. Let's see if I can remember some of my worst offenses here...

Regarding the dwarf girl who had lengthening surgery I apologize for the "Stretch Armstrong" crack. That was terribly unkind.

Regarding the dwarf pediatric surgeon I fully realize that there is really no great chance of him being mistaken for his own patient and I apologize for making that inference. My observation regarding his height compatibility with his dog was likely over the line as well.

Regarding the little person gal marrying the pixie dude, I'm very sorry that my response to Lovely Wife's observation "I wonder if they'll try to have kids" was "Yeah, they'll have midget dwarfs". I'm equally sorry that my response to her query about their future sex life included a quip along the lines of "Oh yeah, you can do a lot of cool things with a dwarf". I'm especially sorry that I gave Lovely Wife a knowing wink after that one. I also apologize profusely for my quip about the gal not needing any kneepads. Hey, at least I didn't make any "flat head" comments. Do I get any points for that?

In my defense I can only say that I am a materialist and there was just too much material thrown at me to resist. Before anybody casts stones please remember that age old maxim "If making fun of midgets is outlawed, only outlaws will make fun of midgets".

Posted by: Jim at 08:36 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
Post contains 348 words, total size 2 kb.

I would have joined the Army but my ASVAB score was too high

Wishes of a happy Veterans Day to all of the men and women who have protected this great country in past and present. (Lovely wife says thanks too.)

I served in the Navy myself. Eight years as a Hospital Corpsman in the Reserves. A bit over two years of that was spent on active duty.

In the beginning I didn't have a specialty so was basically just a nurse's aide with EMT training. My unit became the foundation for a Mobile Fleet Hospital unit (like M*A*S*H except we didn't have dirt floors) so I was then trained as a Marine. Military logic, don't ask for an explanation please. During Desert Storm I was activated and sent to Oakland (motto: The New Jersey of the west coast) to become an Operating Room Technician. That's the guy who hands the surgeon the sponges and clamps and needles and blades and stuff. After eight years in medicine with some of the most expensive surgical training you could ask for I promptly got into computers.

All of that is a huge non-sequitir to the story I'm going to tell you today: How Jim Ended Up As A Corpsman

Part of the process of joining the military is taking the ASVAB test. That stands for Armed Service Vocational Aptitude Battery. They put you in a field and shoot cannons at you. If you dodge enough of them they let you join.

I jest. It's actually a fill-in-the-oval test like the SATs and is designed to determine what military billet you could eventually fill. Lots of math and geometry, physics principles, word comprehension, mechanical aptitude stuff, and at least ten or eleven questions that amount to "The answer is A. Darken the oval next to the letter A. No, you dumbass! The one next to that!" Being a math wiz who spent his formative years helping Dad fix cars and planes and only rarely being a dumbass this test was pretty much designed for me to make it my bitch.

And I did. It is an hour-plus timed test. I finished it in fifteen minutes or so and was too bored to double check my answers so I took a nap. My score was in the 98th percentile. Pretty awesome, right? I'd have my pick of billets, right? I could go and do just about anything I wanted to, right? more...

Posted by: Jim at 05:45 PM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
Post contains 784 words, total size 5 kb.

I changed my mind

I don't want to be cremated after all. That was my original plan, you see. No muss or fuss, the family gets a nice ceremony, say goodbye with the ol' ash sprinkle picnic, everybody goes home happy. Side benefits include not becoming worm food or the victim in some Frankestinian madman's experiments. You know me - I'd end up as "Abby Normal" for sure. And if you think of it cremation is really the only sure way to limit the necrophiliacs to a few choice days of abuse.

Unfortunately I've uncovered a flaw in my plan. You can duplicate the error very easily. Take the bag out of your vacuum cleaner. Cut off one end. Empty it. Look inside. What do you see?

Dust! There's still dust in there! Dust is fine stuff. It sticks to things. When they dump your ashes there's going to be some of you left inside that urn or Ziploc baggie (the container depends of course on whether your relatives spent actual money on your Shake-N-Bake moment or if they sent you out on the cheap).

And what happens to the leftovers? If you were urn bound you get washed away down the sink and into the sewer system. Oh, yay. Either a one way trip to the sewage reclamation processing plant or you end up in the East River. Depending on where you live.

God forbid your family lives in the boonies. Eternity in the septic tank - how does that grab you?

It's even worse if you were slag in a bag. You're trashcan bound at that point. Oh, you don't think so? Just exactly what do you expect the grieving kin to do with a used plastic baggie with a thin layer of you-dust in it? You're going into the can and from there to the dumpster and then to the land fill. Or the East River.

So dumping the dust proves problematic. The alternative is being cosseted on the mantelpiece of one of your whacked-out aunts or being stuffed in the back of your widow's (or widower's, as appropriate) closet. Oh, come on - do you really think they're going to get laid with a bottle full of your ashes around? Back of the closet (with last year's shoes) is about the best you can realistically hope for.

If they do keep you on display it's just a matter of time before somebody accidentally knocks you down and spreads you all over the floor and cleans you up with the Dustbuster, thereby fulfilling the awful prophesy of doom that says you are going to end up in a landfill. Or the East River.

Nope, none of that for me, thank you very much. I'll go traditional and let my rotting corpse take up some pristine park land for a few decades until they pave me over for the next strip mall. But I'm leaving specific orders for the coroner to implant a razor in my asshole. That'll show the necrophiliacs who's boss.

Posted by: Jim at 11:27 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 509 words, total size 3 kb.

Our Evil Dress Policy

The Scene: Garret and I are on our way into work. He's wearing some new duds and talking about his shopping experience.

Garret: So even though they had a huge display of dress shirts they were all pointed collars.

Me: Maybe there's a reason that you can't find button down collars anywhere. Maybe they're a fashion no-no.

Garret: If you're not wearing a tie then a pointed collar isn't doing you much good.

Me: Or maybe they're just so popular they can't keep them in stock.

Garret: Yeah, right. I'm sure that's the reason.

Me: Or maybe it's because you're only going to factory outlets and they don't need to unload button-downs at those places.

Garret: You could stop now.

Me: But it's probably just because they're a fashion no-no.

The Scene: With Garret, on the way to work. A few minutes later.

Garret: So that was two more white shirts for only $40.

Me: All of your shirts are white?

Garret: Yeah, that's the best color for business shirts.

Me: White - it's the new black. Goes with everything.

Garret: That is such a retarded saying.

Me: What? 'Goes with everything'?

Garret: No, 'the new black'. Nobody in business wears black shirts.

Me: But it does go with everything.

Garret: So what? You might wear a black shirt when you go out but when have you ever seen somebody go to work in one?

Me: Never, I guess. Except for in the movies.

Garret: Exactly.

Me: And even then they only wear black shirts at the evil corporations.

Garret: We're not an evil corporation.

Me: Well, we don't think so anyway.

Garret: Even if we are an evil corporation, only the evil leaders of the corporation wear black shirts. All of the minions are still wearing white shirts.

Me: We're minions?

Garret: Yup.

Me: I always wanted to be a minion. All the evil, none of the guilt.

Posted by: Jim at 09:22 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 327 words, total size 2 kb.

A bit of light conversation

The Scene: Jessie and I are relaxing on the couch on Sunday evening after a long weekend of back-breaking labor.

Me: I'm tired. I wish I had a neck brace.

Jessie: What for?

Me: So I wouldn't have to hold my head up.

Jessie: But then your head would always be up. That's no good.

Me: It would be removable. I'd only need it for times like this when I'm tired but need to keep my head up.

Jessie: You're odd.

Me: Yeah, that's what I need. A removable neck brace. Or somebody to stand behind me and hold my head up.

Jessie: Very odd.

There's also a new conversation with Dopple-G at Protomonkey.

Posted by: Jim at 09:20 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 124 words, total size 1 kb.

At least they have long sleeves

The Scene: Garret and I are driving in to work. Discussion is centered on the new dress policy at work. Garret did some online shopping the night before and was regaling me with how expensive Joseph A Bank shirts are.

Garret: We're talking $65 a shirt!

Me: $65?

Garret: Yeah, and it doesn't come with a blowjob either.

Me: Maybe that's in the pocket.

Garret: Nope.

Me: Damn. For $65 it better stand up by itself.

Garret: And wash and press itself. And then dress you!

Me: Hey, wait a second. Your khakis cost $65. Why is it okay to spend $65 on pants but not on a shirt?

Garret: Because they're pants.

Me: Oh, that just explains everything now doesn't it?

Garret: Pants are more expensive. They cradle, protect and fondle your nads.

Me: Assuming you are wearing your business shirts tucked in, the shirt will be doing that. In fact it will be closer to your nads than the pants.

Garret: [Pauses to give me "the look".]

Me: It's true. Think of the pants as your own hand, holding her hand against your nadular bits.

Garret: [More "look".]

Me: The shirt is her hand.

Garret: Then what are my boxers in this scenario?

Me: They're the chocolate sauce.

I am no longer permitted to discuss shirts while Garret is driving.

Posted by: Jim at 08:04 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 226 words, total size 1 kb.

It's all Ilyka's fault. Again.

She has done it before. Now she's done it again.

To the tune of "O Canada"*.

O Fistula!

A hole within my flesh!

My meat tunnel to my internal gland.

With pencil tip I poke inside,
I probe the hole in me!

From deep and wet,
O Fistula, the smell comes out of thee.

God heal this hole inside of me!
O Fistula, the smell comes out of thee.

O Fistula, the smell comes out of thee.

* Yes, I fully expect a team of elite Canadian assassins to strike at any moment. It's okay though - Michael Moore says they don't have any guns up there.

Posted by: Jim at 12:37 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 117 words, total size 1 kb.

Why do elephants paint their toenails red?

So they can hide in strawberry fields.

A few weeks ago Jen lamented that I was not around to provide my usual witty and bolstering comments to her site. When I read that I was both touched and sympathetic. I know only too well how a website can falter without my constant input. I took pity on Jen and promised her that I would comment the very next day.

That didn't happen of course but no biggie - Jen's a single gal so she's used to guys leading her on.

But I saved a note reminding myself to write that post and today it has passed the threshold of irritation where I've just got to get rid of it for once and all. My fear of Jen's hoodoo powers conscience prevents me from simply discarding the thing so I am now writing my overdue contribution. more...

Posted by: Jim at 12:47 PM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
Post contains 1637 words, total size 9 kb.

My teacher gave me a "D" once. Once!

I was one of those supremely irritating kids who never had to study in order to get A's and B's. I was a knowledge sponge who could absorb and regurgitate in the manner preferred by the US scholastic method and I did it without batting an eye. Whatever I didn't pick up in class was usually pretty easy to figure out or bullshit through. Until second year French anyway.

I didn't get French. It didn't just come to me the way math, science or history did. I didn't understand the rules for genders of words (What do you mean "dog" is female? It's got balls for Chrissake!) and I just didn't care to learn them. Verb tenses, weird spelling, variable pronouns, second person plural possessive¹...I hated it all. Because I was lazy and it didn't sort and file into the brain sponge like everything else did. Who needed French anyway? It would only be a few years until everybody who mattered was speaking English².

Well, as you can imagine I didn't apply myself to French and the results were fairly predictable. When I managed to pay attention in class I might squeak in a B or two but I was generally a C student in the Tongue of Love³. I suppose it was inevitable that the unthinkable would happen. I, Jim Peacock, knowledge sponge, achiever of the effortless A's and B's, I got a D on a test. My world shattered. more...

Posted by: Jim at 01:33 PM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
Post contains 1316 words, total size 7 kb.

Snobberye

So I was over at Ryan's place reading about his Unreal Tournament experiences when an offhand comment about Maude Flanders got me to thinking. What's with the 'e' at the end of 'Maude'? It doesn't serve any real purpose. You don't pronounce it at all and it doesn't modify the other vowels. Why not 'Maud'? Isn't it just a tad pretentious to be adding extra letters onto a name and not even pretending to use them? Maybe I should go by 'Jime' and if people tried to use that 'e' to make a long I-sound I'd get all condescending on them like "Look you plebian, the 'e' is silent" and I'd be all looking down my nose at them (I might have to lean pretty far back to do that because I'm short but that'll just add to the pretentious effect) and I'd be all dismissive and "whatever" towards them.

Jackasses can't even pronounce my damn name? Screw 'em!

Posted by: Jim at 01:35 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 161 words, total size 1 kb.

These dreams in the mist...

I had the weirdest dream last night...

I was falling through the air, the wind ripping at my clothes, blinding me and whipping my hair about. I vaguely remembered a fight on the airplane and sabotaging it so the people on board (terrorists I think) would die. I was falling and perfectly calm, with no parachute. Then I remembered that I had thrown the only parachute out of the plane before the fight. I had to catch up to it now.

I caught a glimpse of it tumbling far below and behind me and I angled myself to catch it, just like James Bond. In my head I was processing my fall: attitude, altitude, trajectory, velocity, overtake, you name it. I was processing the parachute's fall too, especially how it's terminal velocity and relative speed were changing as it tumbled. It made the numbers jiggly to follow but I was running them like my brain was some sort of supercomputer (not that this should surprise any of you).

To reiterate, I wasn't frightened at all. In fact I didn't think about the fall itself at all, just the mathematical construct of the variables and effects of it. An image coalesced in my mind's eye that represented my reaching the parachute in time to secure it and deploy it safely. It was a tesseract and as my chances of survival dropped, the tesseract collapsed on itself.

As I slowly gained on the parachute I saw the ground gaining definition as it rushed up toward me. I watched as the tesseract inexorably drew in upon itself. I caught the tumbling parachute, oriented on it and put my right arm through a strap. I spun around to let the wind carry the parachute into place and put my left arm through. The tesseract was almost flat as I buckled the harness in place and grabbed the rip cord. The tesseract was flat. I pulled the cord.

And an anvil popped out, a la Wiley Coyote, and took up position a few feet above my head. I crossed my arms and got a foul look on my face. I rolled my eyes, said "fuck it" and woke up.

Damned roadrunners.

POINTS: 3 points to the first person to name the group that sang the title to this post. No searching please.

Posted by: Jim at 11:49 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 397 words, total size 2 kb.

Ask Doctor Jim

Q: I stumbled across the original post by Jim while searching "wet dreams" on the internet. I'm 40 years old, and I haven't had any kind of a dream in a very long time, but I'd really love to. Is there any way to force your self to have some kind of a wet dream- either peeing or ejaculating?

-Dry in Denver

A: There sure is, DID. Your best bet would be to drink as much apple juice and water (about a 50/50 mix) as you can (without vomiting, of course) before going to bed. After about 45 minutes have your partner pour tepid (tepid means slightly warmer than you) water over your hand. If you don't start peeing from that then your partner should pour it over your groin. This way even if you never actually piss yourself you can still pretend that you did.

Along the same vein if you can't ever seem to achieve an ejaculatory dream you could simulate the effects of one by having some guy jerk off on you while you sleep.

Posted by: Jim at 03:13 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 184 words, total size 1 kb.

What does it take...

...to get Jim to clench the flow mid-stream and abandon the urinal?

One guy shuffling to the crapper like Eddie Murphy doing his tight-assed white guy impersonation followed by two explosive gaseous anal exhalations. You know the ones with that curiously soft echo that you can only get while seated on the throne. Poof! Poof!. The ones that always precede a torrent of semi-liquid gelatinous feces spraying forth from a burning anus like a garden hose when you hold your thumb over the end that will remain stuck to the back of the bowl regardless of how many times you try to flush.

Yeah, that's what it takes.

Posted by: Jim at 02:35 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 116 words, total size 1 kb.

Queer Eye for the Fundy Guy

The scene: Two bearded men are asleep in bed in the classic spoon position. The morning call to prayer awakens them. They hurriedly jump from bed, pull on robes and kneel on their prayer mats. They are in the midst of prayers when one suddenly sits up as if coming to a realization.

Abdul: Yassir...last night...you got your anus on my external najaset*.

Yassir: No Abdul, you got your external najaset in my anus.

Abdul: You fool! You attempted to make your anus Pak** using a handful of gravel!

Yassir: The Taharat*** allows one to make their anus Pak using stone.

Abdul: But not when an external najasat reaches the anus! In this case only water may make the anus Pak! You are engaged in prayer with a najis**** anus!

Yassir: Um...I...but...

Abdul: Infidel!!

Abdul reaches into his robe and detonates his bomb belt.

The moral of the story: Fundamentalists do not make successful gay lovers.

* As near as I can figure, an 'external najaset' is somebody else's cock.
** 'Pak' means 'acceptably clean'.
*** The 'Taharat' is the list of 83 rules that Islam specifies to take a dump, brush teeth, etc.
**** 'Najis' is 'dirty'. Not in the naughty sex kitten way like "Oh, you are a dirty little girl" but more in the "soiled with bodily fluids" sort of way.

Posted by: Jim at 01:50 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 236 words, total size 1 kb.

Am I a whore, a slut or a capitalist?

The scene: Dopple-G and I are driving into work in the early morning hours. As it often does, our conversation turns weird.

Dopple-G: If you were a chick, what would you do for a living?

Me: I'd screw.

Dopple-G: You'd be a whore?

Me: No, I'd have a lot of sex and make a lot of money.

Dopple-G: That's called being a whore.

Me: Well I'd be having sex because I want to have a lot of sex. The money is just a bonus. more...

Posted by: Jim at 11:23 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
Post contains 446 words, total size 2 kb.

Southern Living - Early signs of stereotype adoption

Click for supah size pictures.

Redneck

Good ol'Boy

(This post is going to come up in therapy sessions when they are teens.)

Posted by: Jim at 09:22 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 38 words, total size 1 kb.