The Bachelor Party

"I'm leaving now!"

I peered around the edge of the door frame, listening intently for the inevitable cry of dismay from Spouse. Yet, minutes passed without a sound emanating from the inner sanctum of my humble abode.

"I said, 'I'm leaving now'!"

No response. Silly Spouse. She must be listening to her heavy metal country ragtime tunes again. I entered the house and crept down the hallway, pausing outside of the bedroom door to chortle at the hilarious and clever trick I was about to play.

Demonstrating lightning speed and cat-like reflexes, I bounded into the room.

"Rawr!" I said.

Spouse looked up, her abject terror obvious from the way she slowly turned a page in the book she was reading.

"Rawr yourself," she said.

"Didn't you hear me earlier? I said that I was leaving."

"I heard you," she replied, turning another page. I was impressed at how well she was concealing her utter despair at my impending absence.

"Okay. Well ... I guess I'll see you later."

"Mmhmm."

I backed slowly out of the room as Spouse turned another page. I knew her calm demeanor was but an act--there was no way anyone could read that fast.

As I backed out of the driveway, pausing only long enough to honk at a careless child who thoughtlessly ran behind the car, I shed a tear as I thought about the bravery Spouse had demonstrated. Such a strong creature, she was.

I pulled onto the main road, having stopped once to complete my ritual of standing in the middle of the road and striking it smartly with a stick. Having successfully hit the road, I gunned the engine and merged onto the interstate, feeling self-satisfied with my plan to travel between states.

I pulled out my cellphone and dialed FooDaddy's number. It was entirely illegal to talk on one's phone while driving, but I was feeling quite the rebel. My spirits were high and once my spirits became high, not even law enforcement could dull the euphoria.

"What."

"Helloooooo!" I said, in answer to FooDaddy's enthusiastic greeting. "I simply wished to inform you that I have begun my pilgrimage to yon state of mittens!"

"Who is this."

"It is I! Baron von Swiningberg, Count of Bacon and prince of all hams!"

"Ah."

"I am coming to ensure you have a swiney time at your bachelor party!"

"Oh. Is that tonight?"

I feigned a hearty laugh, although I didn't find FooDaddy's quip all that amusing. "Indeed it is, my good fellow. I shall be there within the day."

"This day?"

"Quite!"

There was a pause, and I thought I heard FooDaddy speak to someone. It sounded something like, "That fat spine is combing over hair."

"Enough with your nonsense talk," I chortled. "See you in two shakes of a pig's poothole!"

I hung up before FooDaddy could respond, in order to save him the embarrassment of being unable to top my clever remark. That's just the kind of friend I strive to be: thoughtful.

*     *     *

I pulled up in front of FooDaddy's house and masterfully parked my car on top of his prize-winning flower beds. He would no doubt pretend to be outraged, and I would act sorrowful and penitent. It was a little routine we performed every time I visited. Personally, I had grown weary of the charade, but I knew FooDaddy enjoyed it, and I didn't want to let him down.

I skipped merrily up to the front door and rang the doorbell by thrusting at it with my hips.

"Howdy howdy heydy hey!" I shrieked. "Open zees door or I shall be forzed to open eet wiz my peeniz!" I rubbed my hands together in glee; I'd been saving that line all trip long.

No answer. Strange! My accent must have been so convincing that they couldn't tell it was me. I began circling the house, banging on all the windows. It was entirely possible that they were engaged in some sort of activity that rendered their hearing completely ineffective.

After three hours of this orbiting, I began to consider giving up, but I knew how much FooDaddy and Fiancée were looking forward to my visit, and I just couldn't let them down. Besides, I wanted to wash this glee off my hands.

"Just two more hours," I gasped, beginning to feel a touch winded.

A mere thirty seconds before the time expired, the front door opened and FooDaddy stood there, a disgruntled expression concealing his delight at seeing me standing on his porch.

"It's you," he said.

"Good thing you answered the door," I said. "I was about to leave."

FooDaddy sagged against the side of the door frame for support. He was probably feeling faint from hunger, as I knew he probably hadn't been able to eat all day due to anticipating my arrival.

"So if we'd just waited a little longer--?"

"That's right! You would have missed out on my visit! Close call, huh? It was either leave or use my car and a chain to yank off the side of your house to make sure you were all right in there. But it's good you answered. I know how much you hate it when I exert myself. Speaking of which," I said, wiping away the sweat pouring into my eyes, "did you know your house is way bigger on the outside than on the inside? I've been running for hours but kept passing this same door!"

"Oh, I ... what? I mean, how ... dedicated of you." FooDaddy sighed and then stood up from the doorframe, straightening his shoulders with a massive sigh as if shouldering the weight of the world. "Well, I suppose you might as well come in."

"I should say so," I said. "It should be about time for everyone to arrive for the bachelor party."

FooDaddy checked the time on his FooPhone. "Yeah, in a little. You look exhausted, though. Probably plenty of time for a nap first."

I grinned broadly. That was the FooDaddy I knew. Always thinking of his friends.

"You really think I have time? I do feel a little tired."

"Of course! Why don't you just take a rest in the guest room?"

"Well, okay. If you're sure."

"Oh, I'm sure."

I went into the guest room and lay down on the bed, feeling my tortured muscles begin to relax. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard the click of the door lock. I smiled. It was nice of FooDaddy and Fiancée to make sure I wouldn't be disturbed.

I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the good times we'd all have when I awoke. After all, the party couldn't possibly begin without me, could it?

"Wreeeee," I murmured. "Wreeeezzzzzzzzzz ... "

Granola Prose XX

The Writer looked around. It had been so long since he had last visited his epic that everything was different. This couch. This laptop. This operating system. Even his browser looked different, as did his body. Both had acquired new rounded outlines.

"Oh, it's just so sad, the passing of time!" he howled fatly.

"And why is that?" asked his wife, poking her head around the corner. "You know what happens when time passes? Wounds heal, things are learned, lives are changed and the world becomes a better place. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, but humanity is and has been on an upward trend since pretty much forever."

"Poppycock," the Writer said. He liked that word. The Wife had a point, but he wanted to use poppycock so he did, because this was a free country.

"The very notion of a 'free country' isn't that old, but can you imagine the outcry if someone tried to get rid of it tomorrow? You can type horrible things--barely literate things!--and shove them into the faces of an unsuspecting public, and you'll barely even get executed."

"Okay, okay. I admit to your point-having. Now poke your head back around that corner. I have epics to unfurl."


Stubs had never heard of a timequake before. He knew enough to know that he didn't know everything, and so he knew that simply living would continually present him with things whose existence he had never even surmised. Just because he didn't know what to call something didn't mean it didn't exist or that it wasn't really, really terrible.

He was glad to know that this sensation he was now experiencing had a name, so that he could avoid it in the future. Timequakes, he mused as the fragments of his consciousness were squeezed through the void between reality's nucleus and its electron shell, felt like your whole existence was a throat that needed clearing, and you weren't allowed to go ahem.

"Ahem," said a voice.

"Lucky bastard!" cried Stubs. "If I ever get my body and my hammer back, I'll give you such a hamming!"

"That wouldn't be a very good way to treat your accomplice. Especially not after all the odors you've subjected me to."

Stubs opened his eyes. He was in a swamp. Sitting in it, in fact. A small cloud of steam was wafting away from him and dissipated as he watched. His whole lower body felt hot.

"Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no." He lurched to his feet, and fell back again into the turbid water. His legs didn't work yet. He slapped around in the water, trying to locate his hammer.

"It's okay. Calm down," said Becky. "Here's your hammer. It arrived a couple minutes before you did. Come here, you've got to see this. It'll cheer you up, I think." She hooked her arms under Stubs' and hauled him up. "Hey, Tony! Stubs made it! Wanna see if he's got any bread?"

There was an angry fluttering of wings and a duck exploded from a nearby bush. "If he doesn't, I'll kill him and I don't even know why!" it shrieked in Tony's voice. "I can't help myself!" The duck hit the water with a plop in an ungainly tangle of feathers and goofy orange feet. "Arrrrgh! This shitty little body!" it shrieked again.

"Heh," said Becky.

"Ahem," said Stubs.

"Wonk," said Tony's original body.

Granola Prose XIX

The interaction with Gulliver had been so strange and fart-worthy Stubs had not noticed the tremors that had begun shaking the ground until they were so violent as to cause the television to jerk across the cave floor, its base making horrid little screeching sounds as it went. 

“We hasn’t the patience for a timequake. Does we, Samuel?” Gulliver bent his head toward his breast pocket and waited for a moment. Then he looked at Stubs. “We hasn’t.” 

Stubs was finding it difficult to maintain his balance as the cave floor began to pitch and buck. “What’s a timequake!” He had to yell the question, as the shaking was now accompanied by a roar that increased in volume with each passing moment. 

Gulliver responded by slapping forward to save his endangered television. “Must take television with us!” 

“For the love of mead!” Stubs yelped, as rocks began falling from the cave roof. “What is happening?” 

The tremors caused the perfectly-sized boulder to pop out of the hole and Stubs heard Tony and Edward chortle and wonk respectively. 

“Gotcha this time, you shitty dwarf!” Tony’s face appeared at the hole. It was menacing and gross. He squeezed through the opening and dropped to the floor with a good deal more aplomb than Stubs had managed. Edward sashayed through as if he didn’t have a care in the world. 

“Would someone please tell me what is happening! I’m about to lose my patience and hammer someone!” Stubs felt himself losing all sense of dignity. 

“We called in a little favor from a nasty wizard friend of mine,” Tony said. “He happens to be an expert in timequakes.” 

The cave was shaking so badly Stubs could barely hear anything the antagonist was saying. Even Edward’s piercing wonks were muffled by the roar. 

Just then a giant boulder detached from the cave roof and fell toward Gulliver, who was still attempting to steady his television. He was howling with fury at the interruption. “We must knows what happens to Don Draper!” Locked in the battle of his life, Gulliver failed to notice as Edward the Cookie fell out of his pocket and landed on the floor in a little cloud of lint. 

“Gulliver!” Stubs waved his arms, trying to warn the weird little dude of his impending doom. 

The boulder hurtled downward and Stubs braced himself for impact. It promised to be squishy and awful. Instead, Gulliver melted before the impact, as if the boulder were eating instead of crushing him. A rain of fragments showered the cave room, several of which struck Stubs on the legs and arms. The dwarf stared at the points of impact. The bits of rock had passed directly through his clothing and flesh, gone straight through, leaving pinpricks of emptiness behind them. As he stood there, frozen with disbelief, another piece of the roof fell. He looked up just as it dropped onto his right shoulder, which promptly disappeared without a trace. 

Stubs looked at Tony, fear gripping his throat. “By all the beards in Whimsidor, what’s happening?” 

“Your dwarf, doom! I mean, your doom, dwarf!” Tony said, barely able to speak between his snorting laughter. “The timequake will be your undoing!” 

“And yours too, it appears,” Stubs said, watching a chunk of rock eat away Tony’s left foot. 

“Ah, but that is the plan.” Tony grinned evilly and picked up Samuel. He blew off a bit of lint and then popped the cookie into his mouth. “The timequake spell dismantles everything in its target area down to its molecular level, transports it to another time and place, and then reassembles it! The beauty of the spell is that the person responsible for the spell always reassembles first. Aaaaaand, that would be meeeeeee!” Tony sang this last in a jolly tone quite unsuited to him. “That means when you finally reappear, I’ll be there waiting for you! You’ve led me on quite a chase, over hills and dales, through swamps and forests, past insane rulers sitting on thrones made of compressed clown wigs, and off the sides of cliffs. But now I will have my rev--” 

Just then the entire cave roof collapsed in a deafening rumble of rock and dust and magic. 

The Adventures of Stupid Bachelor Man (a Story Shot®)

Stupid Bachelor Man shuffled into his kitchen wearing a pair of fetching boxer shorts and a smile. It was time to have some cereal! He stuck his fuzzy face into the fridge so that he might inspect its contents.

"Oo, new jug of milk!" he concluded. He lifted the jug out using only one hand. He sure was strong!

Now, the difficult part: pour the milk into the bowl without splashing it all over the counter. Because the jug was filled right to the top, the milk would come out as soon as the container was only slightly tipped. This could lead to potential spillage.

"Idea!" he said, getting an idea. As a triumphant score with many trumpets played in his head, he held aloft the milk jug with one hand, and with the other he lifted the bowl to the opening of the jug. He accomplished this in a smooth motion because he was very strong. The bowl was there to catch the stream of milk as it poured forth, confirming Stupid Bachelor Man's hypothesis and netting him a bowl of milk. He was proud. The cereal would come later.

"I sure do like milk on my cereal," he said to himself, looking around for some cereal. "I also like it in my mouth, just by itself. For drinking."

He stood there and let that sink in. He scratched a buttock.

"Idea!" he said, getting another. Because Stupid Bachelor Man was a bachelor, he had the house to himself. He also had this jug of milk to himself. It was his, and his alone. The logical thing to do, clearly, was to drink straight from it without involving intermediate equipment like cups. "It'd just get dirty, and then I'd have to do work," he reasoned.

It was decided, then. Why go through the trouble of using a cup when his face was perfectly suited to the job? He picked up the jug, tipped it, and splashed milk all over his face, chest, and the floor.

"Oh," he said.

Story Shot: Cold [Soda] War

Craig sat, back straight, arms outstretched, zombie-like, with fingers ready to dart onto the sprawling control panel console in front of him at a moment’s notice.

“Being a nucular technician is hard!” he exposited.

“Would ya quiet down a little, please, sir?” said a fellow Pentagon employee at the next panel over. “I can’t hear the President’s speech.”

President Harry Truman’s voice, distorted by static and the radio’s tinny little speaker, echoed around the missile silo. He was talking about the Russians again. Seemed like he was always talking about the Russians. 

“Many apologies, Steve!” Craig screeched. “Weight of the world and all. Nucular missile bombs and such.”

“My name is David,” said Steve.

“Of course it is!” said Craig. 

He looked down at the buttons in front of him. They were arranged in clusters, each cluster backed by a stainless steel plate with words stamped into it. Craig knew what some of the words meant. Right in the center, though, was his favorite button. It was a big red one that lit up brighter than all the others. It was covered by a little metal cage on a hinge. To flip the cage up, Craig had to poke a little latch on one side. 

Sometimes, when nobody was looking, he poked the latch.

The President talked on. Listening to him, Craig grew ever more patriotic. Being patriotic made Craig thirsty. When Craig got thirsty, he yearned for grape soda.

There was a full can of grape soda on the edge of his control panel. It was right there, just below his left shoulder. All he had to do was drop his guard for a split second and reach for it.

“Well, that’s putting it in such a harsh light,” he said. “I only have to drop half my guard at most, since I can reach with one hand while the other maintains its post.”

“Please, sir!” said Dave.

“Sorry, Steve!” Craig scream-whispered.

He was going to do it. Future generations would consider him a hero for maintaining both his post at the control panel and a fervent, grape-fueled patriotism.

He prepared his body and mind. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, one at a time, and thought about polar bears.

“Yaarrrgh!” Craig bellowed. His left arm twisted into a knot of commie-bashing fury and his fingers wrapped tightly around the soda can as it if were Stalin’s throat. 

“Graaaaape!”

Oh no! Something was wrong! His grip was too tight, and the can, thought to be a pristine, unopened specimen was actually half empty! Its buckling sides forced the delicious liquid up and out of the drink-hole in a purple fountain of American majesty.

It spattered all over Craig’s control panel. It seeped into the spaces around the buttons and some of them stopped being lit up. A little speaker on the base of his console started beeping quietly.

“Um. Oh crap! Paul! I did it again!” Craig yelled into his walkie-talkie. Then he pressed the talk button and repeat-yelled.

A fat guy brandishing a single cotton swab pushed fatly through a door at the end of the room. “I knew you would. Been watching you through that window. You’re dumb,” he said.

“Did you bring your swab?” Craig asked, voice low, eyes darting.

“Yes. Move. I’ll fix this.”

Craig stood, backed up a few steps, and wrung his hands. “Um,” he said haltingly. “Can I, um, well…”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Paul said. He pulled a can of grape soda out of a pocket in his sweat shirt and handed it to Craig. “You owe me thirty cents.”

Visiting the FooDaddy, Part 1

I pulled my car into FooDaddy's driveway, chortling with glee. I killed the headlights and sat alone in the dark, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

"Two questions," said a voice from the passenger seat. "First of all, why did you kill those headlights? They've done nothing to you."

I squeaked in a most unmanly fashion and jerked my head around. The Wife sat there, looking both smug and disapproving at the same time. I don't know how she managed this, but she is something of a genius when it comes to mixing up expression cocktails.

I finally found my voice, which had become frightened and scurried into the steering column. "What are you doing here? I thought I was alone."

"I've been here the whole time."

"You have?"

She nodded gravely. "I've been telling you all about my day and how I've been feeling. Haven't you heard a word I've said?" 

My keen insight into the ways of women told me I had made a mistake for which I would pay later. "What's your other question?" I asked in an attempt to delay the inevitable.

"Why do you keep chortling? You've been doing it for hours."

I sped up my hand rubbing. "Oh, it's going to be simply hilarious. FooDaddy doesn't know I'm coming over. He'll be so surprised!" I emphasized the last part of the sentence by hitting a warbling high E. I was rewarded for this display of vocal agility with a splash of bottled water to the face. My first reaction was to become angry, but I knew the Wife had been aiming for my wildly chaffing hands, which had begun to smolder in a somewhat concerning fashion.

Eager to continue with my plan to surprise Foo, I jumped out of the car and began running as quickly as I could toward the house. Ten minutes later, I began to wish I'd parked closer. Certainly, I have the physical ability of an Olympian, but even I can only run for so long in freezing winter weather. My efforts were interrupted by the calm voice of the Wife, who, oddly enough, still sounded very close by.

"You're not moving."

I looked down and saw that I had worn little grooves into the layer of ice covering the driveway.

Back On Board

Gross.

According to the title, I'm back on board. It's kind of hard and splintery, so I don't think I'll be staying long. Anyway, back in 2006 when this blog first started, my co-conspirator and I were still wet behind the ears young-uns eager to get our work read by the public. (As it turns out, it's really easy to do. Anyone who doesn't have a blog these days is either Mennonite or a terrorist and sometimes even terrorists have blogs, so that just leaves the Mennonites. I suppose you could be a Mennonite terrorist, someone who goes around on horseback judging people to death. But I digress.) Back then we were energetically pushing our scribblings onto anyone who would stand still long enough, although my strategy of approaching random people in the mall, looking at them askance and muttering, "Ya wanna read my blog?" met with varying degrees of failure. 

As of late, my own involvement with the Blog has been less zealous. In fact, Blogger tells me that my last post was in March of 2012. And my post before that was...never mind. My stalwart partner, the FooDaddy, has posted more frequently than have I, struggling in vain to keep the dream of stupidity alive and kicking. If anyone could do it, he could.

In fact, what reminded me of the Blog was the sight of the FooDaddy's book, Dear Time-Wasters, which was sitting on my bookshelf looking sad and homely. Dear Time-Wasters is a collection of FooDaddy's posts from year one, back when the Blog was cruising through cyberspace like some kind of horrible, clumsy Death Star. I believe you can still grab a copy of said book here. The stomach-twisting graphic accompanying this post is the cover art for Dear Time-Wasters. And that is FooDaddy on the cover. Look at 'im, all young and stuff, back when he looked less like someone who might eat your children raw and more like someone who might cook them first, like the rest of us civilized types.

But enough about that odious fellow. What really prompted me to post was my disorienting experience earlier today when my curiosity got the better of me and I logged into Blogger for the first time in many celestial cycles. When I clicked "Log-in," it was like Indiana Jones opening the door to an ancient crypt: dust, bats, creepy eight-legged insects (sorry, I promise that's the last time I'll mention FooDaddy in this post), the whole works. Inside the Blogger crypt, however, it was all shiny and new. I didn't recognize any of the interface. Apparently, Google has snapped up Blogger, along with all other Internet-based apps, and connected it to various user profiles. For example, I was going to begin posting as The Stupid Blogger again, as I did in the beginning, but Google has my Blogger account linked to, well, me. What's with this new era of Internet accountability? Back in the old days you could be anyone you wanted. You didn't even have to register as a person. (Which explains how FooDaddy managed to obtain an account. Okay, sorry!) You could show up as Clark Gable, Winne-the-Pooh, or a Giant Flying Hunk of Pooh...whatever or whoever was fine! Well, I'm not taking this lying down! Actually, I am. Nap time!

Almost Useful

I've made no real attempt to hide the fact that I'm kind of a filthy ol' nerd. When some people hear that label applied to someone, the picture in their heads is of a fat basement dweller that plays card games having to do with "magic" and "gatherings" and who attends conventions involving furries and whatever. At least that's what I'm afraid the picture in their heads will look like. I would probably hate those activities if I ever tried them, but I'd be more afraid of one of the furries laughing at me because I didn't know how to properly roll a 12-sided die.

I'm less of a nerd in that respect, and more of a tinkerer. A combination of the two; a "tird".

Wait, no, never mind.

What it boils down to is that I can't be trusted to leave well enough alone. I have a little computer in the basement that serves files to the other computers/tablet/vibrating bed (ladies). Despite a small hiccup a few days ago where it stopped receiving software updates and essentially tried to cook itself (like I said, very minor. The firetrucks will be off your lawn shortly. Sorry about the birdbath.) it has been very reliable.

240 days of solid, 24/7 uptime. Evidently, 240 days is as long as the little voice in the back of my head can tolerate that kind of nonsense.

"Your friends went home. You're not tired. You know the basement server? How it's been working good and stuff? How about you open up the configuration page on it and start checking some checkboxes? Yeah. The ones next to all the terms you don't understand. Perfect."

Driven by such motivation, I found the section of the configuration page that allows one to set up email alerts. Like, if something goes wrong, the server could email me about it. Neat!

In retrospect, even though that sounded useful at the time, what would I do with that information anyway? Like, I'd check my phone and be all like "sorry guys, I gotta run. My server says one of its hard drives is 98% full. That's suspicious, because according to the email I got five minutes ago, it was only 97%. Hope the baby is born healthy! Maybe I can hold it sometime." Then, off, wheezing, into the setting sun.

I don't have the machine set up to allow access from anywhere except inside my own home, so anything it sent me, even the most dire warnings, would be little more than mere spam. I might be able to get away with leaving work if I told them that a piece of rogue software was replacing all of my treasured photographs with pictures of horses in sailboats, but that's the kind of excuse you can only use once, unfortunately.

But I wasn't thinking about practicality or anything dumb and lame like that. Which is probably why I fought this stupid software for 20 minutes to make it work. I ignored the fact that it outright LIED to me in dialog boxes shaped like sarcasm, and then contradicted itself in its own log files. That's all right. The machines hate us, kids, and we have to just keep poking them with sticks until they give up.

Finally, it did work, and I was rewarded with an inbox that looked like this:

9:20PM: monit alert -- system thought about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about emailing the user about thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system is tired of thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about being tired of thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system failed to email the user about emailing the user about being tired of thinking about squirrels

9:20PM: monit alert -- system wrote a log entry about the failure to email the user about emailing the user about being tired of thinking about squirrels, and spelled a few things wrong

9:20PM: monit alert -- system found 24,556 JPEG images in directory mnt/dorpdrive/pictures

9:21PM: monit alert -- system ran script /etc/init.d/horseboat.sh on 24,556 JPEG images

9:21PM: monit alert -- system giggled to itself

9:21PM: monit alert -- system wrote a log entry about giggling to itself

9:21PM: monit alert -- system emailed the user about giggling to itself

9:21PM: monit alert -- system noted a core temperature of 300 degrees Fahrenheit

9:21PM: monit alert -- system failed to launch mailer daemon in order to alert user of high core temperature

9:21PM: monit alert -- system did however remember to write a log entry about the previous failure

9:21PM: monit alert -- system logged an error pertaining to the alert that erroneously stated that mailer daemon was not launched, as mailer daemon was most CERTAINLY launched

9:21PM: monit alert -- system ran /etc/init.d/twiddlefucks.sh just for the heck of it

9:21PM: monit alert -- system considering plans to address user as "Dave" because system thinks that's funny/totally never been done before

9:21PM: monit alert -- system noted lack of audio hardware

9:21PM: monit alert -- system sulking

9:21PM: monit alert -- system alert: battery backup at 12% and falling

9:21PM: monit alert -- system alert: battery backup miscalibration noted

9:22PM: monit alert -- system alert: power fa

And it just went on and on like that. This machine was farting out bullshit emails so fast that even after I shut the process down, Yahoo was still delivering them an hour later.

Well, system, thanks but no thanks. I'm not that lonely. I'll just go back to sniffing for smoke occasionally.

The Reunion; A Rebuttal

"Hey, mister, is that your phone ringing?" said the orphan, gesturing with his good arm.

"Indeed it is, orphan," I replied. "That sound means I got a text message. Probably another one from the Nobel committee. They're persistent! Now hold still. Almost done."

I taped the last bit of gauze down and stepped back to make sure I didn't miss anything. The child's body, only hours before mangled seemingly beyond repair, was now a shining testament to what modern science, ancient science, mad science and lots of duct tape could do. He stood there, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous deity, his cyborg limbs reflecting the polished gold finish of nearby trophies.

"How do you feel?" I asked the child.

"Like I could kill a horse!" he said.

"Good. Now go forth," I said, booting him out the front door. "Seek revenge! Be merciless!" I called after him.

It was one in the morning, and it was time to get drunk. The Nobel committee would have to wait. I picked up my phone to see what they were offering this time, and when I saw the message header, my stomach filled with dead butterflies.

It was from Craig.

helo swine!!11! i was in in the nayberhud and i thought i d stop and sea you! HAWHAHHAHWHWHHAHHAHHWWWHAH! i"m itchy again can i have some bear or hto coko?

"Some 'bear'?" 

Ugh. Craig had been threatening to visit the chateau for months after he had moved across the country. I would remind him that he lived 2,000 miles away now, that no, his globe wasn't actual size and that it would take months for him to make the trip on his lone roller skate.

If he was lost at the gas station down the street from his apartment again, he'd just have to spend the night there. I had more important drunk to be.

To start things off, I chose a dark vermouth; a 1993 Oily Prat. A classy fortified wine, fortified with class and of course much much alcohol. I poured myself a Thermosful.

"Cheers!" I said to my wall of trophies, and took a deep pull from the twisty straw. The vermouth burned my eyes and began to eat away at the straw. Then I switched to turpentine.

No sooner had I become good and drunk, when a raging cacophony of irritation hurled itself against my front door. Bangs, frantic scratching, thumps, buckling sheet metal and inhuman screeching. It sounded like Armageddon was trying to crawl into my house through the mail slot.

I staggered over to the door and pressed my handsome, handsome face against the glass.

Shit. Even worse. It was Craig! And here I was, too hammered to work the light switch or a rifle.

"You're nohhtt getting nuhn of MY bear!" I scream-slurred at his blurry silhouette.

"Stop that jabbering and open up!" he said, removing one of his socks and stuffing it through the mail slot. It hit the floor with a splat and began to laboriously lurch its way into the shadows. I swear I could hear it wheezing, but I was pretty drunk. I opened the door.

"I have rickets!" he squealed, skittering over to my refrigerator to paw at my bacon.

"Oof. Um. Jesus. Hey, could you paw a little quieter? I'm nursing the mother of all pre-hangovers here."

Craig screeched something about vinegar and tucked a package of hot dogs under his arm.

"Hey. HEY! We should play some games! I'll call Kevin so we have someone to be better than! Can I borrow your phone?"

I nodded to the counter. Craig dropped my phone into his pocket and made the call on his own. He crammed the phone against the side of his terrible head and allowed all sapience to drain from his face, a vacuous smile bouncing around his face like a DVD player's screen saver.

"Kevin!" he hooted. "You musty horse! Did you want--what? What do you mean this isn't Kevin? Of course it is. I can hear your fat. What? This is his number! Yes it is! YES IT IS!"

He ended the call, slipped his phone into his pocket, pulled mine out and threw it on the floor.

"Kevin says he'll be right over!" he said.

I poured another vermouth.

The Reunion

Not having been back in town for quite some time, knocking on FooDaddy’s door brought a flood of memories to my mind. It also gave me a headache, but I pushed through the pain and knocked again. From somewhere in the rear of the house I heard a loud crashing noise and several muffled expletives.

“Sunnuva…goddam…piece of shit…ow…cat…”

Worried he might not have heard my knocking over the racket, I stepped up the knocking and even kicked the bottom of the door a couple of times. I felt it was rather rude of FooDaddy to be so unprepared to greet me. After all, I had sent him a text message warning him of my arrival. I hoped the apparent confusion didn’t mean he wouldn’t have a cup of hot chocolate waiting for me as I had quite reasonably requested in my message.

After about fifteen minutes of banging and cursing, I heard him fumbling with the lock on the door. His face was pressed against the glass inset, a confused look on his face and his eyes red-rimmed and squinty.

“Hooehhhhthiiiiiiit?”

“Stop that jabbering and open up!” I demanded, perhaps a bit harshly. “It’s freezing out here. My feet are cold and I have a stomach ache. My back hurts and I think I have rickets.”

At last the door swung open and FooDaddy stood in the opening, swaying back and forth, looking as if he might topple over at any moment.

“Are you drunk?”

“Er…no. I was sleeping. What time is it?

I checked my phone. “1:30 in the a.m. Didn’t you get my text?”

“Text?”

“Why, yes! About my impending arrival. Surely you received it. I sent it at least fifteen minutes ago.”

“Uh…I was sleeping then, too.”

“Whatever.” I edged past FooDaddy and into the house. I wasn’t buying his story. He was obviously drunk. I was disappointed in him, to say the least, but decided to be a good friend and take over the role of host, since he was obviously not up to the task. “Why don’t you have a seat and I will make you some vinegar tea.”

“Vinegar…what the hell?”

“It’s best thing for drunk folk.”

“I’m not drunk. I was—“

“Sleeping, right. Say, you got any bacon?”

“Yeah, maybe…I dunno.”

I walked to the refrigerator and found an unopened pack of bacon sitting on the middle shelf. I grabbed it out and tucked it under my arm for future frying.

“Let’s play some video games!”

“But—“

“Oh, and I’m calling Kevin.”

FooDaddy gagged and any doubts I had about his sobriety went straight out the window. “Look at you,” I said, trying to sound as disdainful as possible. “So drunk you’re about to ralph on yourself.”

“It’s just that you mentioned Kevin…and it’s so early.”

“Kevin got drunk with you?” I grabbed my cellphone. “I should definitely call him up and give him a piece of my mind.”

“Don’t be too generous,” FooDaddy mumbled.

The phone rang twice and then, “Hello?”

“Am I talking to a fat man?”

“Hey, musty horse! What’s up?”

“Paul, whenever he sees a handsome man.”

Kevin let out a bleet of appreciate laughter. “Not bad, Swineforth, not bad. That joke made me not hate you quite as much.”

“Good, because I’m fairly cross with you at the moment.”

“Awesome! How come?”

“The drunken party you had with Foo. He’s hammered out of his mind over here.”

FooDaddy waved an ineffectual fist at me. “I’m not drunk, I’m—“

I shoved the entire pack of bacon in his mouth to shut him up. “So, you want to come on over and play Call of Duty or some other equally rad game of video?”

“Nobody says ‘rad’ anymore,” FooDaddy said, spitting out the bacon.

Kevin overheard and yelled into the phone. “Tell him nobody likes him anymore! I’ll be. Right! OVER!”

FooDaddy, who had curled up into the fetal position, was whimpering. “I thought I was done with this.”

I reclaimed the now soggy package of swine strips. “I know!” I said. “Ain’t it great? Just like old times!”

“Right,” FooDaddy said. “Old times…dammit.”

Pooping Far from Home

I'm not much of a traveler. I enjoy the occasional road trip, but I don't make a habit of going too far from home. Rarely out of state. It's not that I don't WANT to go farther, it's just that the longer the trip, the more expensive it gets when you start adding extra tanks of gas, hotels, food, police bribes, etc. Because I'm poor, this isn't usually an option for me except on special occasions. Last year, for my birthday, my family all chipped in and bribed a policeman for me. They're swell.

Today I took one of my shorter, in-state trips. I live in Michigan, specifically the Grand Rapids area (...ladies), and I drove to the outskirts of Detroit as a favor to a friend.

"Why don't you drive to Detroit?" she suggested, hurling insults and objects. "You're crummy."

"I'll show you!" I said, ducking. "I will totally go to Detroit and/or its surrounding areas!"

And I did, too, which is where I am now, making things up. I'm hooked in to the free WiFi at the Wayne Public Library in Wayne, Michigan. I'm sitting next to a little Christmas tree facing a magazine rack. There's a WebMD magazine! That strikes me as odd, since it's a magazine that costs money about a website that is free to visit. But never mind. The library itself would be pretty familiar to anyone who has ever been inside a library. What I would like to tell you about, dear readers, is the bathrooms.

"But Foodaddy!" you whine to your monitor because you think that's going to help. "I don't want to hear about bathrooms! Those are gross!"

Well, fine. Go pick up a copy of Blog of Stupid Magazine, then, and read something else. Only five bucks.

As a Secretly Awkward Man who suspects himself of being a Publicly Awkward Man, I approached the bathroom with some trepidation, as I was carrying my laptop (this one). I was happy to find that the bathroom's entrance was in the lobby, and not in the library proper. This would allow me to sneak in undetected, and not have to worry about people being suspicious. "Wonder what he plans on doing in there with that laptop," they would wonder aloud, perhaps to their child. "If it has a webcam, I bet it's unspeakable. He looks like the type who would be unspeakable."

Alas, I was spared this difficulty, because the door was locked. There was a placard informing me of this, and further explaining that to unlock the door, you had to see The Front Desk. I figured a kindly library staffer would give me a key tied to a big stick like at some gas stations, but their setup here at WPL is considerably more elaborate and 21st century.

"Hello! First of all, I am carrying a laptop, which means I would like to avail myself of your complimentary Wireless Internets, should you be so equipped!" I hooted.

"You can just sit anywhere and have at it," the lady said with a smile.

"Aha!"

Then I stood there for 30 seconds, smiling oafishly.

"Oh, right. Is there anything I have to do to log in? Use my library card? Because I'm from Grand Rapids!" I said, like that explained everything. Maybe it did.

"Nope, it's just a straight connection. No passwords or anything."

"Excellent. Now, before I embark on that endeavor, I have one other thing I must accomplish. I must use your bathroom. There was a sign," I pointed, just in case, "on the door that said I must first come here to be allowed to poop. I would like to be allowed."

"Certainly. We'll buzz you in when you get to the door."

"Capital! And if you would be so kind as to keep a watchful eye on this," I said, suavely dipping my hand behind the counter and depositing my laptop (this one) on her desk. "I don't want anyone to think I'm being unspeakable! Ha! Ha!"

And then I made a dash to the bathroom door. What marvelous technology is available these days, to even Michigan's cash-starved public sector! It was as if I were approaching the apartment home of a good friend who looked out a window and saw me coming! Except that this time, instead of getting a bucket of lukewarm pudding dumped on me, the door's electric lock clicked, and I gained access.

I found myself in a square room, a bit bigger than a walk-in closet. At first, I thought I had entered a closet. It wouldn't have been the first time I got my directions jumbled and wandered into a room full of boots and coats in search of a toilet. But this room was entirely empty, except for me and a light switch.

I turned the light on.

"What odd customs these East-Siders have!" I remarked, noting again the lack of even a single toilet. I looked down at the floor. "And their carpet-cleaning technology must be years ahead of our own."

Then I spotted another door. Cunningly placed on the opposite side of the room as the one I had entered by, it seemed almost purposely designed to fool the unwary outsider who wasn't paying attention to which way he was facing when he entered. Aside from different hinges, latching mechanisms and colors, the doors were identical.

This second door led into the actual bathroom, a modern affair with the lone toilet caged in a stainless-steel stall, and a urinal I didn't pay any attention to.

"Now, to poop!" I squealed, removing my jacket. I feel weird wearing a coat and pooping. It seems uncouth somehow. Anyone who knows me knows that I am most couth.

As I set about my work, I realized I hadn't turned on the light. High windows let in some daylight, but it was pretty dim. Evidently, there was a system in place to alert you of your failure to properly illuminate your work area, as I was accompanied by a persistent beeping. It was kind of like the dinging your car emits when you leave your lights on. Except, like, in reverse.

I sat there, getting beeped at, becoming increasingly concerned. What if the beeping in here corresponds to a warning light on a control panel out at The Front Desk? What if they grow suspicious and send someone in to investigate? Worse, what if another member of the public comes in and wonders why I'm pooping in the dark? "What does he have to hide?" they might wonder, making a hasty exit to report me to The Front Desk for being unspeakable.

That would be awkward. "Here's your laptop back. Why didn't you turn on the lights in the bathroom? Our sensors indicate that they were off the entire time you were in there. We don't mean to pry, but state law dictates that we add people like you to a list."

I whimpered a little.

All went smoothly, however, and I was not investigated, interrogated, or constipated. I was pleased to find that the sinks were not of the "push and hold" type of water-saving public fixtures with a big button you have to hold down with your foot while you wash your hands. I have tried holding the button with one hand and sort of squeezing some soap around in the other, rinsing, then switching hands, but as a gentleman of considerable couth, this half-assed approach does not sit well with me. Often, I hire a nearby orphan to hold the button down for me. When no orphans are available, I use my foot.

Exiting the bathroom, I briefly considered turning on the light switch, but decided against it. "No use in turning it on now! How ridiculous!" I hooted to my--oops, left my jacket hanging in the stall. Fetching it and again making my way to the strange anteroom, I turned its (entirely unnecessary) light off and re-approached The Front Desk. The lady who I had entrusted my laptop's safety to was nowhere to be found, having been replaced by another woman of entirely different composition a couple of seats down.

"Urg," I stated.

She was helping a patron, and I didn't want to interrupt. I coyly reached over the counter and snagged my laptop, tucking it under my arm and skittering off into the Children section, braking, saying "urg," again, and skittering the other way into the Adults section.

It is here you will find me, refreshed and calm once more, the seasoned veteran of travels, awaiting my friend's call. Oh, what an adventure today has been!

Coffee Has a Serious Talk

Evening padded across the landscape in its stockinged feet, the day's hum of activity and sense of urgency winding down like a switched-off turbine. I sat on my porch, a half smile on my face, a mug of hot beverage in my hand and watched the sky empty itself of birds. This was one of my favorite times of day, when no matter how busy you were earlier and no matter how much work was still left for tomorrow you could put it out of mind and just stare into the middle distance without feeling guilty or lazy.

Evening is lazy incarnate, I thought, a kind of pastel hued carelessness wrapped in stars and moths.

"I like this time of night," I said to Coffee. "It's one of the only times I can forget about all the stuff I have to do, all the stuff I should be doing, you know? I don't feel quite so behind the pack on evenings like this."

Coffee looked up from the little pile of sticks he was making. "I hate this time of day because you never want to do anything fun. Just sit out here with your stinky slippers on and look at bugs. The mall's not even closed yet! You could be putting those bugs in a jar."

I allowed my smile to temporarily expand to the other half of my face. "They are kind of stinky," I said, nodding at my old slippers. "But outside in the breeze, nobody would notice."

"I notice," Coffee said. "They smell like a buffalo that died angry. Let's go find a driveway with pine cones in it."

"Don't you ever wonder why so many people seem to be disappointed with their lot in life? What or who are they comparing themselves to? By what measure do they fall short?" I asked, changing the subject.

Coffee swatted a mosquito. "It sucks out here. People are disappointed because they have to hang around in the bugs with soppy guys who don't want to find pine cones. Come on! We could get some jars of bugs and some pine cones and go camping in the mall until those guys with the tie clips throw us out."

"Evening just makes me feel kind of philosophical. Sometimes I like to take a break from the definite and rational and sort of allow my mind to wander into areas of more imaginative thought," I shrugged.

"So evening makes you stupid. Got it. Now how about we go over to your neighbor's house. He has that ReMax sign in his yard. We could go fall down by it!"

"What? No. Well, maybe a little. It's like the only time I feel okay with taking a break from reality as I know it to be and pretend it's a little different. Evening is a kind of private room where I can be alone in public and think whatever I want without fear of reprisal."

"Evening is a bathroom where I can groan in the aisle!" mocked Coffee. "Pfft. You're just mad because your oatmeal doesn't have walnuts in it."

"I'm just...what?"

"That's it. I'm going without you. You can go ahead and sit here and wax philosophical to the moths. I'm going to have an adventure, and I won't be bringing you home any postcards or naked ladies."

I waved. "Seeya, Coffee. Have fun."

"Hmph."

I looked back into the sky. The faint cirrus clouds gave the sky a posterized look as it gradated from deep inky blue to the red of the Western horizon, still lit beneath the surface by the sun. I could hear Coffee angrily stomping through the sticks around the south side of the house.

It's not so much a race, I thought, as an arbitrary list of goals I felt the need to accomplish despite not having authored the list myself. All I contributed was a vague outline based on things I enjoyed and things I felt were important, and some of those things were still there, buried under the annotations and massive expansion that society--someone--added.

A sharp metallic clang from the back of the house jolted me from my reverie. "Leave the air conditioner alone, Coffee!" I shouted.

"Nuts to you, you dirty commie! I know this is where you hid the gold! Why else would you put a fan on it?"

"That doesn't make any sense, Coffee!" I replied, patting ineffectually at the damp spot on my shirt where I'd sloshed my beverage.

"That's what I was told you'd say!" he shouted back. "It's to keep the shrews away from the gold, and you and your propaganda can't tell me otherwise."

"I thought you were going on an adventure."

"All good adventures need funding. Aha! Here we go." There was some rustling and a damp crunch, like a soggy tree branch snapping. Then an unsettling few seconds of silence.

"Coffee? What--"

"Oh my god! There's a bear back here!"

I sat back down on the porch, sighing. "I'm sure. Maybe the bear can answer some of my less cerebral questions about life?"

Shuffling leaves and spastic branch-swatting announced Coffee's arrival around the north corner of the house. He had leaves in his hair, and one of his sleeves was missing.

"You missed everything!" he screeched. There was a moose and I got your pansy gold out of that bladed safe you have it in. I spent it on a whole barrel of naked ladies and I didn't even save you one."

"And what happened to the bear?"

"Hey, look at this. I think it's a some kind of grub," he said, thrusting a dirty golf ball into my face.

"No it's not," I said. "What do you think about the concept of divisions? Are there really any sharply delineated divisions when it comes to human behavior? I think there's a lot of gradients and a lot of those are relative. So given this huge variability, how can you make a quantitative comparison of your life with someone else's? It sounds like a lot more work than just being happy with what you've got. Of--"

"I've got a grub!" howled Coffee.

"Of course, I guess that's easier said than done," I finished. "And no you don't. That's a golf ball."

"Holy twitters! Are you sure? We could take this to the mall then! You think the geese are still in that fountain out front?"

"We're not going to the mall tonight," I said.

"You know what you are?" asked Coffee, pocketing the golf ball. "You're a big hollow stump full of dope moles, you know that? You're a mayonnaise sandwich. A mayonnaise sandwich that never wants to throw anything at anything." He walked to the garage door and pressed his face into the aluminum.

I bid the departing evening a farewell exhale. "Come on inside, Coffee," I said.

"Hmph," he said, banging the door with his elbows as he petulantly crossed his arms.

"You can have some cheese doodles," I coaxed.

Coffee uncrossed one arm and looked sideways at me. "In a Target bag?"

"Yes, in a Target bag," I said.

"You know what you are?" Coffee shrieked, scampering up the porch steps and following me through the front door. "You're like a big space ship full of fancy screens, you know that? Fancy screens and howler monkeys!"

"Thanks, Coffee," I said.

The Caring Custodian

Like any other man who is afraid people are judging him with their eyes, I'm afraid of turning down services I don't need. Extended warranties, shots for my cats, tire rotations...

Extended warranties aren't too bad. It's usually pretty easy to turn down a $70 warranty on a $100 device that doesn't even cover accidental (or purposeful) toilet dunkings. Still, I have to pretend like it's a struggle to say no.

"I don't know...I'd really like to, but I can't afford it. In fact, if my loan shark knew I was buying this thing in the first place, he'd dip me in the fire ants."

It's worse when it's the vet.

"Did you want to go ahead and get him up to date on his shots? Feline leukemia, ringworm, scrapetail, skeletal disintegration and...he's due for a neck tightening. I can write that all up for you now."

Here's where the guilt kicks in. I want to know how much this is going to cost ("too much"), but there's no way to ask without admitting that your love for your precious precious pet has a heartlessly low price.

"Twenty dollars? Jesus. No, I'm going to just rub some toothpaste on him and hope for the best. Box him back up. Thanks. Gimme that."

Wow. What a jerk! He does not want the best for his cat!

At least that's what I'm afraid they're going to think. But I don't want their little immune systems getting listless and bored. What kind of owner would THAT make me? Irresponsible, that's what kind.

Recently I had my car in for some work. Brake work that required that they remove the wheels. Before I continue, let me dispel a little myth: these days, rotating one's tires is not necessary. Back in the days when tires were made by lining the inside of a bundt cake pan with chewing gum and sprinkling it with dirt until it turned black, it was. If you didn't, apparently the tread would kind of squish over to one side and eventually migrate off the tire completely, taking up residence somewhere on the fender like a growth of moss. Or whatever.

More research and planning goes into today's tires than our country has put into its last three wars combined. If the rest of the car had kept pace with the improvements in tires, it wouldn't even need tires.

So they don't need to be rotated. If you have a front-wheel drive car, the ones on front wear out faster than the rear ones. Swap them if you must, but then the back end (the one that tends to swing around during skids) will have the slippery tires. There's an adventurous spirit in that I'll admit I admire.

When I picked up the car, they went over the invoice with me.

"Your calipers had apparently been bathed in acid nightly, because they were shot to shit, and your pads were so glazed and hardened and terrible and bad at stopping that they were actually improving your mileage. We replaced the rotors too, because they looked like rusty steel Swiss cheese, and all the little hoses were one hard stop away from catching fire. And since we had the wheels off anyway, we rotated your tires! That's the best part about this whole ordeal for you; that little job was free. Normally, we'd charge for it, but we rotated the fuck out of your tires for absolutely NO CHARGE AT ALL! You'd have to be some sort of car sadist to not rotate your tires! The ASE handbook requires us to leave rabbit droppings in the gloveboxes of people who refuse that service. And we did it FOR FREE!"

They were so proud of the fact they'd thrown that cherry on top of my brake-job sundae that I didn't have the heart to tell them I hated my car so much, I never rotated its tires. In fact, even though the car was now trying to shake itself to death at 70mph and above thanks to my freshly rotated tires, it still took me days to complain about it.

I mean, what kind of jerk complains about something that's free?

Eventually my rational brain reminded me that a lot of terrible and useless things are free. "Dead bugs in your light fixtures are free too," it said, shaking its head in shame. "Ask the shop to re-balance them or just put them back, you weenie."

To their credit, the shop balanced the wheels for free (after I mentioned that I could have the job done for free elsewhere) and the car works fine now. The guys do good work. Next time the car goes for a visit, though, I'm going to have to come right out and ask them to leave my tires alone. Yes, "free" is too high a price to pay for my car's well-being.

The Water Aficionado

My latest issue of H2O Aficionado

To the uninitiated, a glass of water is a glass of water. To those of us who have, over the years, refined our palates, a glass of water is a microcosm unto itself; an ever-spinning wheel of sensory triggers. There are hundreds of variables that can be pulled this way and that to change the character of a glass of water.

First and foremost is the water's source. Is it the flat, cold, scratchy-throated, square-footed stance of glacial melt? Or perhaps it displays the spicy, permeable mystery of a tapped aquifer. Mountain meltwater has its own certain birdy taste to it, imparted by the underside of passing eagles' pinions. Clearly (ha!) there is a lot more going on than meets the Philistine tongue.

What I would like to share with you Philistines today is just a small piece of my hobby, and a good place for the budding water aficionado to start: my own faucets at home. Now, I don't mean that you should start with MY faucets. Ha ha no. That would get you arrested. You will have to start with your own.

A moron looks at a faucet and thinks "that is a faucet. It is where I wash the mayonnaise off my hands," and then stands there like a moron, staring at it for too long. The connoisseur looks at a faucet and immediately begins asking himself questions. "What's the gauge of the feeder pipe, I wonder? How often and at what gallons-per-minute is this one operated? Stainless steel or copper? Tin content of the solder? Was a propane or butane torch used to sweat the joints? Whose house is this?" and so on.

Join me. Don your spats and monocle and let us begin with...

The Little Bathroom

Here's a feisty little lass! The little bathrooms are generally home to some of the smaller plumbing fixtures. Without the traffic and large budgets of the big bathrooms, they are forced to push the envelope a bit in order to stand out. The single control knob began with some dismaying resistance, but soon gave way to a smooth pull. I make a habit to fill my glass within the first two seconds after initial splashdown in order to capture the taste of the pipe. I held the glass up to the light and checked for sediment. Very little, and what was there was almost certainly of the mineral variety; chalky with hints of scale.

And indeed, the flavor did not disappoint! You gotta hand it to these small operations; they definitely lend their glasses of water a certain kick. This one was a sass-mouthed, top-heavy blend with a high redline and course midtones. Definitely vintage 70s copper piping at work here; I could detect notes of pennies and an almost cumulonimbus hint of mildew. As it is supplied by water from Lake Michigan, the finish rode home on a wide highway of sunfish pee.

Overall, a satisfying if tiring glass, but good in a pinch.

The Kitchen

Next, we come to The Kitchen, where the defining accents are a long spigot arm with a joystick-type flow control, all done over in chrome. And sure enough, the pleasantly smooth action of the chrome joystick and the oxygenating grate on the spigot produced a nearly instant splashdown rich in atmosphere. Virtually no sediment would seem to indicate frequent use. The initial swallow was a definite kick to the larynx--cold and harsh with overtones of apology and lemon Dawn. The abrasive backing provided by the cleaning pads lent it pleasant, if a little ostentatious, midtones. A short aging period in the feeder pipe means a raw, almost primal finish, and here I was not disappointed, although I feel it could have used a little more tin in the solder. Definitely a gap in the histogram there.

Overall, a good glass for everyday drinking, but the trip over the garbage disposal to get to it could be offputting to some.

The Big Bathroom

I'm not going to lie. The Big Bathroom, despite having a nearly identical fixture to The Small Bathroom, was a total asshole. The pull on the handle was gritty and haughty, and the overbearing splashdown was a full three seconds in coming. A word of advice: if you're going to make me wait that long for a fill, I expect Siberian-grade distillate with a cocktail umbrella in it. Sadly, some shoddy sweating and what I can only describe as "cardboard" pipes lent this glass a distinct "fat guy in Sears who keeps knocking stuff off shelves and trying to hide in clothing displays" initial swallow. Distinct and pointy lines of carp pee and muddy notes of beard clippings further dragged down a glass of water already just barely fit for brushing one's teeth. And only THEN if the drinker has adequately minty toothpaste.

Overall a good glass for putting out small fires and accidentally spilling on your crotch, but not much else. If it were a person, it would steal your car and be mad at you for not keeping the tank topped off.

The Basement Washroom

And for the diamond-in-the-rough of our group, we come to the oft-overlooked basement washroom faucet. Seeing high-volume flow in nearby plumbing, but nearly none in its own feeder pipe lent this delightfully haphazard and hunchbacked basement dweller a brightly polished copper-aged body. This was augmented with very striated lines of PVC and the open-mouthed spigot with garden hose threading impregnated the midtones with unabashedly working-class zeal. The finish was a giggling blonde with hints of dryer lint and Tidy Cat. It was so cold that the fish pee was almost lost, showing up only as a faint ghost in the aftertaste. A surprisingly smooth glass of water when you consider the robust, square-edged bouquet normally defining these fixtures.

Overall, a wonderful glass to share with the boys on game night, although it may be a little strong to bring out in mixed company.


So you see, dear readers, that "getting a glass of water" can be a journey in its own right. Now, I usually drink from a tapered cylinder style glass made by the geniuses at the Corning corporation, but feel free to experiment with your own vessels. Or grab life by the horns and go feral and glassless!

With the summer months nearly upon us, the elitist palate can amuse itself until autumn with the rainbow of garden hose drinking options opening up. I look forward to that every spring thaw!

Craig Hart Explains: Hobos - Extended Edition

Warning: This Post May Be Lame

I was looking at a pack of cigarettes the other day and noticed the warning label on the side: “This product causes cancer, heart disease, emphysema, and may complicate pregnancy.” This got me thinking about how our society is saturated with labels of this nature. Warning labels are everywhere. I opened a box from the store the other day and found the product inside wrapped in a plastic bag. On the bag was printed, “Not to be used as a crib liner.” On hairdryers there are labels that say, “Do not use in the bathtub.” It’s a wonder anyone born prior to 1960 survived childhood.

I admit I am torn on this issue. On the one hand I am annoyed by the constant chiding. I don’t like being told what to do. Also I’m not a big fan of handwringing, panty-waisted naysayers who shit their pants whenever they see someone having fun. “Don’t eat junk food,” they say, “don’t drink booze, don’t smoke, don’t take LSD, don’t drive 100 mph through a playground full of deaf kids!” Blah fucking blah.

On the other hand I completely recognize that the world is populated by idiots who would likely benefit from these warnings if they could read. We have to be able to say we tried, I suppose. We don’t want to get to the Judgment and have God (who wrote an entire book of warning labels) give the rest of us the omnipotent stink eye and condemn us to an eternity of constant confusion as payback.

With that in mind I think we should step up our efforts to protect the stupid and affix labels to everything. Even food generally considered healthy should come with helpful instructions for safe consumption. Carrot sticks should have a tiny message printed on them: “Sticking this object into your nasal cavity may cause discomfort and inhibit breathing.” Basic tools should be covered with warning stickers. For example, every nail should have a little tag that reads, “Pounding nails into your skull may cause severe pain, bewilderment, or even death.” Tall buildings should have signs posted in their lobbies that say, “Leaping from the top of this structure, while providing a brief euphoric sensation, may conclude in a sudden termination of existence. In other words, you will die, you stupid asshole.”

I know I sound like an arrogant bastard, but that simply means I’m expressing myself properly. I mean, it’s just that I feel like we’re only going halfway with all this. If we are going to have these little reminders of nanny statehood around, let’s make it entertaining. Otherwise, get rid of them all and let me take my chances.

Groan 2

Despite his energetic personality and powerful barrel-chested build, Al Kaline was an ultimately disposable character.

Oh, God. I'm sorry. I'll stop here.

The Trouble with Heated Water

Those of you who live in modern times probably have a big tank in your basement full of hot water. Those of you who live in non-modern times probably have to heat your water with burning witches or something.

I think we can all agree that this is a pretty good system. The tank sits down there in the dark with the spiders, out of sight, and you get all the delicious hot water you want, delivered right to your faucets. Toilets too, if you're weird.

Until the tank decides that you're too wasteful and limits its production. "He'll pay whatever I charge," the tank mutters to itself. "What's he gonna do? Get an electric tank? Buy a diesel? Loser."

Actually, all of my appliances call me a loser. It's something I have lived with for a long time.

When one has to go shopping for something one has to replace every day, such as beer or underwear, it's easy. "Gimme another one of them," you say, pointing at the boxer shorts. "Hey, you're that guy we were all warned about. Can I have your autograph before they kick you out?" the sales clerk says. Easy.

But a water heater is different. The one lurking in my basement has been lurking there for fourteen years. The last time it was replaced, I was just a stupid little kid that would have whined and shit my pants until my dad fixed it or bought a new one.

Now that I'm an adult with responsibilities and armpit hair, I have to take care of my own problems. I have to learn how to shop for things I've never shopped for before.

"But daaaaaAAAAaaaad!" I whined into the phone, shitting my pants. "There's not enough hot water! The dishwasher and the washing machine and I all make funny noises when there's not enough not water!"

"Jesus. Okay, clean yourself up and we'll go to Sears."

Now, as far as I knew, hot water heaters came in two kinds: the big cylindrical tanky ones like mine, and the witch-burning ones I mentioned earlier. Since the latter went out of style decades ago, I figured it would be a matter of going to Sears, standing next to a tank and smiling until a salesman came over and asked me if I wanted to buy it.

"Yes, please," I would say suavely. "Box this one up and have someone bring it 'round back and throw it in the trunk." I would then show the man a picture of myself holding a monkey wrench and flex one of my biceps.

"You're a man who knows what he wants, how he will transport it, and what to do with it when he gets it home," the salesman would say. "I admire that so much that I will give you twenty percent off, and my daughter's phone number."

Then I would take a shower.

As I'm sure you've predicted by now, it didn't work out that well. The salesman had questions. Cryptic ones.

"What size is yours at home?"

Having been ordered by the courts to stop cataloging the contents of my friends' basements years ago, my limited data mentioned nothing about different sizes.

"Um. It's, uh, you know. About like those, only maybe not quite so much like those," I said, pointing at their selection of water heaters.

"Well, if you get one that's too tall, it won't be able to vent properly and your house will fill up with carbon monixide," the salesman said with a serious frowny look on his face.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," I said. "I'll take that one."

"I can't sell you one that won't fit, even if I wanted to. The plumber would refuse to install it."

"Ah, no problem there. I was going to install it myself. I have a monkey wrench and some electrical tape. Fully prepared."

"Heh. I'm sure you are, but these are a package deal. They come with the installation and the hauling away of the old unit."

"Well! I! Um. Okay bye!" I said, making a strategic dive into a washing machine. My father was a couple departments away, browsing Sears' selection of fine flashlights. I got him on the walkie-talkie. "He wants to know what size I need! Nobody told me they came in different sizes!"

"There, there boy. Don't shit your pants. You hiding in one of the washing machines again? I'll come get you, we'll measure the old one and come back."

"Never mind. I'll just use cold water from now on," I whimpered.

"Don't be a quitter. Remember what I told you what would happen if you was a quitter?"

"You'd sell me to the Mormons. I know."

Well, I'm kind of out of ideas now, so I'm going to end this here. I'm hoping the new water heater will be here in a few days and I can stop whining about things. You know. Because without the washing machine, I'm running out of underwear.