Modeling

I could never be a model.

It's not like I've got some kind of moral objection to selling my body to the fashion industry. Nor is it my lack of appeal, or because I've got any extra nipples, or my addiction to sody pop.

It's because I'm too goofy. The agency would never make any money offa me, and I'd annoy them further by stealing doughnuts. During runway shows.

Do male models have anything to do with runways? I'll have to look that up sometime. If I were actually trying to make a point, I'd have done my research before setting out to write this post. But that's not what this Blog is for. It's for buggin' people.

Now, back to my point. Which was something about me being too screwy to make a good model. A typical photoshoot would go something like this:

"Oh, it's my pleasure to meet you, Mr. FooDaddy! Now, if I could have you--"
"Hey! Is that a Canon Rebel?"
"No, this is a Minolta. If you could--"
"Wow, check this out! A robe! And there's a doughnut in the pocket! Score."
"Yes, we had that flown in special for you. Please, sir, if you'd only, uh...FooDaddy? Could you save the doughnut for after the shoot?"
"Mmmph?"
"Never mind. You finished?"
"Yes. What can I do for you, Gerard?"
"My name is Howard. Our client is very serious about their product, and we're going to need you to display the appropriate gravity. Something like a Peter Jennings or Walter Cronkite. But with that twenty-something energy!"
"Newscaster meets skate punk?"
"Exactly!"
"I'll go get my rubber hamsters."
"Your...what? I, uh...what?"
"Seriously, Gerard, you're going to need to work with me, or nobody's going home happy."
"Howard."
"Please. Call me FooDaddy. It's my pseudonym."
"I'm going to have to ask you to put your pants back on, please FooDaddy."
"No."
"And quit chewing on my film stock!"

It'd only get worse from there. There'd be the lawsuits, the offers from the doughnut companies which would help offset all the lawsuits and the eventual descent into obscurity and subsequent sody pop binges. I'd be a horrible model.

Now, if I could get a job being professionally annoying, I'd be all set. Actually, depending on your point of view, there are plenty of jobs out there that offer just such a chance. I could work for a cable television company, or I could be a Blogger.

See how I brought that around full circle? We call that "poetic justice" where I come from. Nobody's terribly bright where I come from.

I'm not exactly sure how to end this post, except to demand that you look at the picture, and think of funny captions for each separate image. Why should you do it? Because I've got work to do. Just got a call from someone in Muskegon who needs to be bugged, and I've got some driving to do!

IM Part Two

Technology is great, ain't it folks? To give you an idea of what kind of brilliant, time-saving things you can do with technology, right now I'm sitting inches away from my girlfriend with my laptop in my...lap..and I'm using the popular AOL Instant Messenger to communicate with her.

Yes. I'm that lame.

But then again, she's putting up with it, so maybe I'm not as far gone as I think.

I'm turning into an old man before my time. I've found that when I recieve text messages on my cell phone, the first thing I think is "what the--?" because the notification sound is a woman's voice saying "new message!" and that voice comes from my pants.

Which is creepy.

The second thought, after the initial confusion wears off, is "what? Why text? Why not just call me up?"

Granted, I'm generally happy to have someone contact me, regardless of method. It just seems a bit silly to be going backwards like that. First, there was the letter, which had to travel by Pony Express to your neighbor in Dirty Butte in the next territory. These letters were handwritten. Text.

Then came the telegraph. Dots and dashes formed words, and were sent across wires. It was very annoying to listen to, because it sounded like demented crickets. I'll bet.

Then we got the telephone, arguably the most important invention of the modern era. You were able to press a sequence of numbers and talk to your friend in Dirty Butte as if you were right there next to their ear, sitting inside a vaguely banana-shaped hunk of plastic. It was amazing.

Now we're back to using our phones to send text. Faster than the Pony Express, but...well, it's got a rustic charm, I guess.

Okay. Old Man out. I'm done whining for tonight.

Important, Laptop Reasons

Pfft. There's a reason I've not been on here for a while.

Actually, there's a few of them. First and foremost is my laptop problems. I broke mine, purchased a new cheap one, and then found out that my old one wasn't busted after all. It evidently just needed a good rest overnight, and was ready to go in the morning.

Needless to say, this little development blew my mind to the point where I was reduced to staring blankly at the screen of my "broken" laptop while it displayed the receipt email for the new one. I think I may have twitched a little too. Also said a couple bad words, like "what the--?" and "crap!".

I'm working on a couple of little stories here, too, and considering getting a t-shirt printed up with some of our Old Man quotes on it. Wouldn't YOU like a stylish, all-cotton t-shirt with the words "Don't gimme nunna yer dill puckery!" written on the front in big, bold letters? Perhaps with a little drawing of an old man on the back? Of course you would.

Disappointment at the turnout of my "contest" was also a deciding factor, but not really. Nobody turned anything in, which was alright since I didn't have to do any work, but I did lose some faith in... Okay, so I'm lazy. That's about as honest an approach as you're going to see outta me today. I'm busy Lying for the Good of the People. Telling my father that Sprocket didn't pee in his speakers. Referring to my "ownership of a Ford Contour" as "I get to fly the Space Shuttle anytime I want!" to strangers.

For their good.

Not to mention, P.W., that I've been busily fighting crime. Crime's been awful scared lately, thanks to me.

Hey, Stupid...don't tell FooDaddy

Hey, Stupid Blogger...

PLEASE don't tell FooDaddy--this is, like, just between you, me and the Old Man here--but I don't think he is pulling his weight.

It's REALLY important that he still thinks I like him, but I really get just so tired of his prima donna attitude. I mean, Foo Daddy thinks he can just swank on in here any time he pleases, make a few snarky comments and then not even show up again for weeks!

He also thinks so much of those brainless little fluff balls of his--I mean the cats. That just goes to show that he must be an atheist. God didn't create cats and doesn't like them. Foo is either an atheist or a Satan worshipper.

So, anyway, we gotta' still act like everything's cool, but first chance we get, I think we need to broom the Foo.

The Old Man and the Zoo

The old van sputtered into the parking lot, jerked to a fumy stop, and groaned ominously as all the doors swung or rolled open as if on cue. Children of all ages began teeming about the general vicinity, apparently seeking out fragile objects. Their parents scurried along behind them, yelling instructions and occasionally glancing beseechingly heavenward.

“I can’t wait to go see the aminals!” one small, slimy child exclaimed, bouncing up and down with excitement. “I love ‘em!”

“Betcha they’d like you, too,” said a gruff, surly voice from inside the van. There was a pause and then another figure stepped from the dark interior. The Old Man stood in the sunlight, stretching and muttering vaguely nasty words to himself. “Zoo. Bah.” He scratched himself.

“You like animals, don’t you, Gramps?” asked one of his grandchildren.

“Hate ‘em. They stink and lay around. Useless.”

One of his daughters rolled her eyes. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“Eh?”

* * *

Filing into the zoo, the children began running around the exhibits, banging on glass, rattling wire fences, tossing large and very gummy candies to the lemurs, and making a general nuisance of themselves. At the sight of an adolescent penguin strolling to and fro along a simulated ice shelf, they danced and shrieked with delight, although their happiness did not last long. Soon they launched into a litany of complaints and demands.

“The aminals are all sleeping!”

“Gotta go potty!”

“Wanna go home!”

“Thirsty!”

“Hungry!”

One little boy stomped his foot angrily. “Why can’t I ride the Siberian Tiger?”

“Let ‘im,” the Old Man suggested uncharitably. He observed the yelling, whining children and turned down his hearing aid.

At the lion cage, the Old Man amused himself by standing near the cage and calling rude insults to the creature.

“King of Beasts, eh?” he yelled. “In my day, we had house cats as big.”

The lion opened one yellow eye and looked at the Old Man intently, as if measuring the drumsticks. Deciding they weren’t worth the effort, the animal closed the eye and went back to sleep.

“Ha, scared him,” the Old Man sneered and then wandered off in search of a shapely zoo attendant.

Thigh Masters and other Stupid Scams

"...so anyway, pick up that phone right now and dial the TOLL FREE number on your screen. For ONLY 4 easy payments of $39.99, the ThighMaster 2000 will be shipped DIRECTLY to your doorstep..."

This amazing offer caused me to break free from the strings of dried drool and peel my face away from the couch where I'd fallen asleep during the Truly Last & Final Goodbye of That 70's Show. I slowly sat up, shook my head a few times (not a good idea, as it turned out) and tried to open my eyes. All three attempts failed, so I collapsed backward and just allowed the wonderful, golden words of the pitchman wash over me.

"...did you know that by only using the ThighMaster 2000 for 5 minutes per month, you can look like Stephanie here?" (I REALLY tried to open my eyes, because I'll bet Stephanie was a stone cold goddess!) "...it's true. In fact, the ThighMaster 2000 is so effective that you can even eat your favorite foods while you use it. Look over here, this is Julie and she's eating a triple bacon Velveeta burger while she just burns the fat away. It's amazing, it's true and you can own it right now..."

I reached down and felt around at my thighs. Turns out, they weren't too bad, but I still wanted the ThighMaster 2000 because both Julie and Stephanie's pictures would probably come on the box. And who wouldn't want to burn fat while eating a triple bacon Velveeta burger?

These scams would be sad if they weren't just so funny. You can readily tell who is a late night TV watcher (and also a heavy credit card user) by trolling garage sales on a Saturday morning. Why, one dear lady I met owned THREE ThighMaster 2000's, two Amazing, Magical Pasta Pots, a MegaSize George Foreman NoFat Grill, two sets of Eversharpe lifetime guaranteed serrated knives, the whole collection of ButtBlasters exercise videos (it appeared that they worked, because she had quite possibly the blasted-est butt I had ever seen--and I don't mean that in a teenage boy's fantasy way, either!), five sets of specially tinted wrap-around FishAssassin sunglasses, porcelain figurines too numerous to count and the whole collection of Love Songs Thru The Ages. I think she was offering the whole sordid, steaming pile for just ONE easy payment of $39.99.