W*rk. The Ultimate 4-letter Word.

I received some very disturbing news today. I was at work, just preparing to leave for the day, when FooDaddy came in for his shift. On time. Early, in fact. I was stunned, to say the least, but assumed this startling occurence was due to a faulty clock or some other innocuous explanation. It was not to be so.

"I've decided to become a productive member of society," FooDaddy announced, exhibiting an air of determination and mild grief.

"Well, then," I said, appalled, "this may be a good time to inform you that I can no longer be your friend."

He brightened. "Really? It would be that easy?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Your being productive would put me under a great deal of pressure."

I don't think he took my threat to de-friend him very seriously, though, because his mood was growing merrier by the moment. I tried to impress upon him the gravity of the situation by repeating my ultimatum.

"If you insist on becoming productive, we shall have to part ways. I have principles! A reputation!"

He responded by leaping into the air and clicking his heels together (not easy in sneakers), and then began working with an assiduousness that caused my already lethargic energy level to go AWOL. For those of you who lack a military background, AWOL stands for Absent Without Lemurs, a particularly serious offense on the battlefield where lemurs could make all the difference. (They're whizzes at operating heavy machinery.)

Since FooDaddy was obviously too interested in clowning around to understand the seriousness of the issue at hand, I decided his threat to become a productive human being must be only a witticism, meant to amuse and entertain. Ha! What a nut.

The Ol' Swineskin

In the early days of ye olde Blog, I wrote a post about my dislike of baseball. I do, however, enjoy a little football. Especially the pocket-sized ones, so I can take them onto buses and into restaurants. I also love the game itself and so, exercising my right as a foundin’ member of the Blog, I have decided to post about that love right now.

Football began during the Spanish Inquisition, when one of the more popular pastimes included the cutting off of heathen feet. On any given weekday, and even more on Saturday, there would be dozens of variously attired feet rolling through the streets.

This practice caused no end of problems, not the least of which was the fact that the emergency rooms were full of people with bruises and cuts, caused by falling on the cobblestones after tripping in the dark over a carelessly placed foot. The history books record one such individual, Arch Fungus, whose case is typical. Arch was a heel, a real callused fellow, and it was widely-speculated that he had no sole. Ahem…sorry.

Anyway, Arch walked into a doctor’s office, demanding to see the physician on duty. When the doctor appeared and asked about the problem, Arch informed him it was a twisted ankle.

“Let’s see it,” the doctor said.

Reaching into his pocket, Arch pulled out a badly misshapen ankle and plopped it down on the examining table. “There,” he said. “I tripped over this last night and almost hurt myself. Something has to be done!”

Arch’s sentiment was repeated by the entire population and legislation was soon passed to stop the useless dismemberment. Since the heathen swine were not converting, the procedure itself couldn’t be terminated, so instead, the feet were put to good use. And this is when football made its first appearance.

At first, people just kicked the feet through the streets for fun, but soon teams were created, then leagues and divisions. You can see the pattern, can’t you? Now we have the National Football League, which entertains millions of people the world over, very few of whom know the real story behind their beloved game.

I have to admit that at first glance, the game seems utterly mindless. Here we have tons (literally) of huge, powerful guys charging around a field of fake grass, running into each other at full-tilt and attempting to kill the players of the opposing team. All over an oblong, inflated piece of leather. Actually, on second thought, this is an utterly mindless game. It’s also manly, but I wax redundant.

Last week, there was a game in which a punt returner grabbed the ball and began zipping down the field, breaking tackles and leaping over fallen comrades. He managed to flee down to the one yard line before a 500 pound linebacker, who had been lurking behind the goalpost, tackled him, leaving a punt returner-shaped hole in the turf, but no punt returner. Unable to find him, they dropped air fare down the hole and, sure enough, he was back within the week. He was none the worse for wear, except he now insists on eating everything with chopsticks, which is quite a feat when eating hamburgers and slices of pizza.

Being Nocturnal

I work nights. This has its ups and downs, just like petting cats, but less bitey. What ups and what downs, you might ask? Good question.

Does the ease of capturing spiffy nighttime shots like this cancel out the fact that nobody except deranged lawyers and certain breeds of frog are awake by the time I'm free? If I like frogs, and for the sake of this argument let's assume I do, then yes, the tradeoff is worth it. Granted, a lot of my friends go to bed at more or less "normal" or "reasonable" or "not stupid" hours so I shan't be able to share the frogs with them. Sounds poetic, does it not?

And lo, I am greatly saddened. Oh, but that there could be more hours in the day! I shan't be able to share of my frogs lest the celestial bodies see fit to slow their clockwork!

Yeah, that was worth the interruption. *cough*

So what I've got is frogs and lawyers, avoiding rush hour traffic on the way home (traffic of any kind, really), spiffy night vistas to take pictures of, and of course being witness to my cats going nuts in the dark. They do this every night, my cats. Must be a way of relieving tension they built up during the day and wish to release in secret. Most importantly though, I've also got the opportunity to become a Creepy Night Putz, (CNP) which is good or bad, depending on my veiwpoint.

For the sake of argument, let's assume I'd like it.

One advantage, for example, of being a CNP allows you to do away with "fashion", since (a) the number of people who would see and critique you is drastically reduced and (b) if you're wandering around a 24-hour grocery store at three in the morning, people aren't going to be terribly surprised to see you wearing, oh, say... How about I make you another list? Those seem to be popular on the Blog lately.

Appropriate Attire for the Creepy Night Putz:

• Mismatched socks, worn over the shoes
• A big fuzzy hat with earflaps and some tasteful boxer shorts
  
• Any skirt over a pair of beige corduroy pants
• A big poofy winter coat with squirrels in the pockets
  
• Wooden earrings carved to look like congressmen
• The lower half of a full-body cast and a bowtie
• A white tuxedo with grass stains all over it
• Chainmail pants and a Hawaiian shirt

Feel free to mix 'n' match from that list, time-wasters, to create your own unique look. A look that says to the cashier "I'm here to buy matches and decorative pillows at midnight, and then I'm going to go home and dance in my bathtub. And I've got a coupon for them pillows!" A look that demands respect.

After you've finished your shopping, you can spend some time lurking in the bushes outside the zoo, writing in your Blog, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk by moonlight (which impresses artistic lady-types) or going to Denny's and reading the menu aloud to yourself and chuckling pleasantly. The night is young, and there aren't a lot of people awake to stop you, so let your creativity run away with itself!

So yeah. There's that.

It takes a little bit of time to learn the skill of balancing a normal-ish life during the day with being a Creepy Night Putz, but it can be done.

I was planning to write up a list of disadvantages to being awake most of the night, but... I've got some important bushes to be in, and I can't find my fuzzy hat.

Just My Luck!

Luck, as a concept, has been around since the Middle Ages. Back on Wednesday of 1653, a candlemaker and author of humorous publications targeted at unfortunate-looking children, named Darius the Pleasantly Scented, developed luck. He published his findings with quill and ink and was subsequently taken to court and there defeated by the village jerk, Ernald the Whiny. On his way up to the gallows, Darius was heard to remark that the lousy turn of events was "just his luck". This was written down by the village Blogger, The Guy Who Enjoys Cheese Products, earning its place in history and our modern day language.

This is, of course, complete and utter dill puckery. If I was a more enterprising type, I'd have looked up the word, done some research on its etymology, and perhaps given the world of mythology a quick glance-through. But that sounds like work, and by definition, work is not "fun," and thus gives me gas. So I made some stuff up.

I'm sure by now you've noticed the picture. "What's that?" you've asked yourself out loud for some reason. The others in the library have given you the stink-eye. We at the Blog of Stupid suggest that you keep your stupid questions safely in the realm of the subsonic.

To continue: That is a genuine Lucky Golden Poo. Follow the link, time-wasters, and be presented with the chance to purchase your own! Just think! Your very own, very special, Lucky Golden Poo! On a little rope! That oughta put those lousy librarians in their place, once they see what you've got swinging from your beltloop, or around your neck, or from your nose ring. Or whatever.

This begs the question: Is it die-cast? How do the factory workers feel about using a poo die to make a living? Do they proudly announce this to their relatives? What are their Christmas cards like?

It also clearly illustrates the fact that different cultures define and try to attract luck in different ways. The Lucky Golden Poo is, of course, Japanese. They make nice electronics and reliable automobiles, so it just seems right that they'd think tiny metal poo sculptures are lucky. I guess.

Perhaps you, loyal time-waster, do not have a lucky object. Perhaps you'd like one? Well, for a limited time only (until this post gets scrolled out of view) I'm offering you a list of ways you can snag some luckiness using objects you can find, buy, make or steal all by yourself with only a little bit of time and minor damage to your intelligence.

• Lucky Sack of Dried Up Spiders (from most basements)
• Cat Hair Wad of Luck (got a long-haired cat and a brush?)
• A necklace made from your favorite breakfast cereal and some itchy twine brings luck AND helps you feed the sparrows.
• Lucky Bit of Linty Candy (stays in your pocket forever!)
• Random Burnt-Out Automotive Light Bulb of Happiness (if you own a car, all you have to do is wait)
• Wrap yourself in Christmas lights and tell your friends that you're the Lucky Glowing Spaceman of Glee, and they'll help pay for your treatment out of their own pockets.
• Stop bathing, and develop Lucky Odors®. A big hit with the ladies, who won't be able to get enough of your sweaty love. Very popular with people who buy things from SPAM email.
• Lucky Couch Quarters (their presence between the cushions will comfort you and buy you gumballs if you get desperate)
• Old Running Shoe of Constant Companionship. I don't have an explanation for this one. It's just...yeah.
• Lucky Piddle Patties, the clumpy catbox charms that keep the cruddies away!
• Start a Blog of Luck, and post about all the good luck you've had. Remember to attribute any fortunate happenstance to the vibrations of your crystals (quartz, from your watch, for instance) or the local barometric pressure, or goat observations, or anything for that matter, as long as it's stupid enough.
• Lucky Mummified French Fries. Keep them under your car seat for traditional musty luck in traffic.
• And, of course, Lucky Bench Gum, available in any public park to those who have only to seek.

There ya go! Before you know it, you'll be the luckiest person on your block, and all thanks to the Internet. Bet you didn't think there was anything useful on the Internet, did you? Well, I managed to stumble across the Lucky Golden Poo, and all I was doing was looking at Web cartoons. The things you find in banner ads nowadays is simply amazing.

Guess I got lucky.

Elly-vators

The elevator door opened and I started in, only to stop and step aside when I saw someone exiting. I smiled and nodded, as is my custom, but they did not return my silent salutation. I thought nothing of it and proceeded into the elevator.

When I stepped inside, I realized why the previous traveler had ignored me and also knew it was going to be a long trip to the second floor. The place reeked like a steamy night aboard a fish trawler. The odor was so strong that the varnish had been stripped from the wood interior and sections of the paneling were warping outward, dislodging screws and the remains of ancient spiders.

Glancing down at my arm, I was startled to observe the hair slowly turn a toxic shade of green. Just then, my nostrils closed and my lungs began to constrict. Assuming the fetal position, I dropped to the floor of the elevator in search of a single breath of oxygen.

I heard the “ding” of the floor indicator and rose to anxiously await the rush of fresh air that would accompany the opening of the doors. Open they did and I made a mad dash for freedom, only to pass a woman who was obviously on her way to a modeling session.

I glanced back as the elevator doors closed to see her fixing me with an expression probably reserved for phlegm and the residue found on boots after a hike through a dairy farm. I raised my hands with an attitude of innocence. Unwisely, she sniffed in disdain. And promptly passed out.

* * *

Has this ever happened to you, Blogsters? The preceding story is true, in a general, false sort of way, and it only cemented my aversion to elevators. There is always the danger of what I just mentioned (you already forgot?), but there are many other hazards of elevator travel. With this in mind, I thought it would be wise to go prepared the next time you have occasion to use one and found this list on the Innernet that might help toward that goal.

How to Annoy People on Elevators

• Announce in a demonic voice: “I must find a more suitable host body.”
• Ask each passenger getting on if you can push the button for them. Press the wrong ones.
• Attempt to hypnotize the other passengers.
• Bring a camera, take pictures of everybody in the elevator.
• Bring a chair along.
• Call out, “Group hug!” and enforce it.
• Carry a blanket and clutch it protectively.
• Challenge people to games of hide-and-seek.
• Crack open your briefcase or purse, and while peering inside ask: “Got enough air in there?”
• Draw a little square on the floor with chalk and announce to the other passengers that this is your “personal space.”
• Drop a pen and wait until someone reaches to help pick it up, then scream, “That’s mine!”
• Give each passenger a round of applause as they enter or leave.
• Greet everyone getting on the elevator with a warm handshake and ask them to call you Admiral.
• Guard the button panel so no one can touch it. Growl and bite at anyone’s fingers who attempt to cross you.
• Hug yourself.
• Hum the theme from Mission Impossible with your eyes darting around the elevator.
• If anyone brushes against you, recoil and holler, "Bad touch!"
• Introduce yourself as Ochenga-Wangaa the Great Chief and begin telling stories of your native island.
• Lean over to another passenger and whisper: “Noogie patrol coming!”
• Lick gummy bears and stick them to things (the walls, the buttons, the passengers, etc.)
• Meow occasionally.
• Offer a bite of your fresh tangerine to everyone coming on board.
• Offer hitman services.
• Perform the Hamlet soliloquy. When a new passenger enters, start over again.
• Place police tape (CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS) on the inside of the doors.
• Preach about the end of the world.
• Push the buttons and pretend they give you a shock.
• Read a book upside down.
• Say "Ding!" at each floor.
• Say, while holding a paper with OUT OF ORDER written on it, “I wonder why this was glued on the door when I came in.”
• Scribble furiously on a notepad while looking at each passenger. When they try to look, hide the pad.
• Stand really close to someone, sniffing them occasionally.
• Stand silent and motionless in the corner, facing the wall, without getting off.
• Stare at another passenger for a while, then announce “You’re one of THEM!” and move to the far corner of the elevator.
• Stare at your thumb and say, "I think it's getting larger."
• Stare, grinning, at another passenger for a while, and then announce “I’ve got new socks on!”
• Tell the passengers not to worry. The bomb won't go off for at least another two minutes.
• Try to purchase an article of clothing from the person next to you.
• Walk in circles. Change directions when you hit a passenger.
• Walk on with a cooler that says “human head” on the side.
• Wave hands wildly at invisible flies buzzing around your head.
• Wear a puppet on your hand and talk to other passengers "through" it.
• Wear a ski mask and carry an axe.
• When arriving at your floor, grunt and strain to yank the doors open, then act embarrassed when they open by themselves.
• When the elevator doors close, announce to the others, “It’s okay, don’t panic, they’ll open again.”
• When the elevator is silent, look around and ask, "Is that your beeper?"
• When the elevator reaches another passenger’s floor, scream and collapse in front of the door.
• When there’s only one other person on the elevator, tap them on the shoulder and pretend it wasn’t you.
• While the doors are opening, hurriedly whisper, “hide it...quick!” then whistle innocently.
• Whistle the first seven notes of “It’s a Small World” incessantly.