Stains!

So I get up this morning and find I don’t have any clean shorts in the drawer.  Not underwear, mind you, but actual shorts.  I’m lucky enough to be able to wear them to work.  No problem.  I pick up yesterday’s cast-offs and decide to recycle them.

It isn’t until I get to work that I notice the cherry Pixie Sticks a coworker gave me yesterday somehow managed to leave three red stains on the front of my shorts, each just slightly smaller in diameter than a penny.  Great.  My attempt to wear the same shorts two days in a row without being noticed has been foiled!

I rush to the bathroom, wet down a paper towel, and try to blot the spots away.  I hear the door to the bathroom opening again behind me.  I don’t want anyone to see me doing anything suspicious to my crotch area in the bathroom at work, so I dart into a stall and shut the door tight.  Luckily there wasn’t someone already in there, because I completely forgot to check before entering.

The blotting doesn’t work.  The stains are still there, mocking me, and I only succeeded in making the problem worse.  Now I have three big wet spots on the front of my shorts in the crotch area.  Crap!  So now I’m trying to decide if there is any way to walk back to my desk without being seen looking like I just pissed all over myself.  I could just hold my hand over the area, but that would look suspicious too.  I’m screwed.

Somehow I made it back, unnoticed.

Can We Get the Election Over With Already?

This election has gone on long enough.  Let’s all vote now.  I’m sick of hearing about it.  At this point, I will vote for anyone just to get it out of the way.  Ross Perot.  Pee Wee Herman.  Whomever.

Old Man Junk

I went to the gym this morning.  That in itself is a major effort on my part.  I thought the gym was supposed to make me more fit, but the more I exercise, the more sore I become.  I actually feel worse.

Also, I hate the locker room.  In the mornings, it’s mostly dominated by older, sagging men.  And they like to talk.  So after you’ve just come out of the shower and you’re standing there completely naked, you sometimes find yourself having a casual conversation with a total stranger about things like the weather and wheat futures.  Old people can’t see.  They probably don’t even realize I don’t have any clothes on.

This morning, I was dressing when this old geezer saunters up to the locker beside mine.  He’s just had a shower and now he intends to dry off right beside me.  Why he can’t do that in the shower, I don’t know.  His back is hairy, I realize.  I sit down on the bench to put my shoes on and casually glance over to see him drying off his old man junk about two feet from my face.  To my horror, one of his feet is up on the bench so I get a good view of it all.  Think:  a tube sock with two hard-boiled eggs down at one end, swaying side to side.

He sees me looking.  “So how about that weather?” I begin.

The World of Beatrix Potter

Today is Beatrix Potter’s birthday.  I thought I would share with you my unforgettable experience at The World of Beatrix Potter attraction in jolly old England.  A few years ago I went on a business trip to England.  I was there for several weeks and on the weekends, I transformed into an obnoxious American tourist.  On one weekend, we went to the Lake Windermere area.  My traveling companion told me his wife would kill him if he did not bring her something from The World of Beatrix Potter attraction nearby.  I was like “Who is Beatrix Potter?”  After he explained she wrote the Peter Rabbit stories, I said okay.

Anyway, on the outside, it looked pretty normal with the occasional Englishman walking by.  On the inside, it was like being transported into this creepy, cartoonish nightmare world where everything is cute and happy.  You might think Disney has the market cornered on cute, but you’d be wrong.  Not surprisingly, there were little screaming kids and crazy Japanese tourists everywhere inside.  They were all in a long line to go into the damn thing.  The line to see the Queen of England is probably much shorter.

I felt like I was being brainwashed into a cult.  Luckily, we only went to the gift store.  My companion purchased his pennance, and we left.  I did not sleep that night.

Renaming the SuperSonics

I don’t know why I’m so interested in news about the SuperSonics basketball team coming to Oklahoma City, but I just am.  I don’t even like sports.

I just read the team’s attorney has filed patent/trademark paperwork with a list of potential new names for the team.  You see, SuperSonics sounds too sophisticated for Oklahomans–most Oklahomans don’t even know what that means.  However, the new list of name is, well, underwhelming.  Most of them don’t really fit any better with Oklahoma than the SuperSonics name.  The Oklahoma City Thunder?  WTF?

So I have come up with my own list:

The Rednecks or The Bubbas – a fitting tribute to the uneducated masses in the state.

The Gamblers – to honor the ever-increasing number of casinos in the state.

The Potholes – to constantly remind us how great our roads are.

The Ham Hocks – we are one of the most obese states, after all.

The English – this name could go hand-in-hand with the new law making English the official language of the state.

The Crusaders – could there be a more-fitting name for a state in the “buckle of the Bible Belt”?  (Has anyone ever noticed how virtually every southern state claims to be in the buckle.)

I think any one of these would be a great name for a new team in Oklahoma.  I make this list available freely to anyone that wants to use it.

Golden Corral

I love Golden Corral. There, I admitted it. My therapist will be so proud.

The food is pretty good, but that’s not why I like it. I go to people watch. It’s like going to a nuclear holocaust survivors’ reunion. It makes me feel so pretty. It’s almost as entertaining as going to the Walmart on Admiral.

Last time I went to the Corral, some boy did something unsanitary to the ice cream machine and was reprimanded by an employee. I think he licked the ice cream dispensing nozzle.

Tonight there was a woman with big hair at the next table that had a big, gaudy diamond ring on each finger of her left hand, all three of them. I’m sure someone mugged her in the parking lot on the way out.

Anyway, if you want a cheap form of entertainment, it’s always worth a laugh.

High-Speed Chase

Tonight on the news there was video of a high speed police chase in Oklahoma City.  The police performed a PIT maneuver (oh yeah, I’m hip to the lingo) on the car to stop it.  They yanked the guy out of his car and threw him on the ground.  And I just have one question.  Why is it that every time this happens the guy has long, greasy blonde hair and he somehow forgot to put a shirt on?

Maybe the police are part of a secret law enforcement branch known as the fashion police.  They drive around pulling people over if the driver has a mullet or you can clearly see his man boobs from the street.  Cover that shit up!

Maybe it’s the same guy being pulled over and over again, and the cops are just toying with the him, similar to the way a cat plays with a mouse.  I have to admit it.  If I were a cop, I’d definitely do that at least once or twice.  Per day.

That’s not very nice, though.  The guy obviously can’t afford a wifebeater like your more upstanding criminals wear.  He really needs our sympathy.

Whatever is going on, it makes for entertaining television.  That’s for sure.

It’s Damn Hot Outside

I wonder how people ever survived before there was air-conditioning.  Yesterday, when I stepped outside to go home, I was instantly sweaty.  The walk to the car further exacerbated the problem by causing my underwear to ride up my crack.  I should just get a thong.  It would really be no different.  Along the way, I wonder if I have enough electrolytes left to make it the whole way to my car.

But I press on, vultures circling above me, hungrily.  Finally, I open the door and get inside the vehicle.  My sweat-drenched legs make a farting sound on the leather seats.  Suddenly, I remember it’s at least twice as hot inside the car as it is outside.  Dammit.

I start the engine and turn the air conditioner up to high, expecting an arctic blast but getting the equivalent of a hairdryer to the face.  I think my eyeballs just dried out and now my eyelids are stuck to them.  I can’t blink!  About the time I make it home, the cabin returns to a sane temperature.  Now I have to get out and run in the house.

I’ve got to find a better way to keep cool.  An air-conditioned space suit is probably out of the question–too expensive.  Maybe I could just stick a bag of ice down the front of my pants.  Whatever I do, I have to figure out something fast:  it’s supposed to be even hotter today.

Trashman

Have you actually ever seen your trashman?  If I see the trash truck coming down the street, I immediately run inside the house and lock the doors tight to avoid getting caught up in a knife fight.  When people are released from prison, they get jobs as trash collectors.  I’m watching him now through blinds separated by trembling fingers.  He better not try to steal my car.  Gasp!  Does his tattoo say “Baby Killer”?

Exercise

Okay, I know I need to exercise.  Over the years I’ve gained way more weight than I want to admit.  I blame Global Warming, but then I blame everything on that.

This morning I was supposed to go to the gym.  It didn’t happen.  I prefer sleeping to exercise.  Anyway, I tossed and turned all night.  I’m sure I burned a lot of calories doing that.  I think I’ll have a Mountain Dew for breakfast.  With a donut.