Leap Year

I was almost going to let this month get away without another post.  And then I looked at the calendar this afternoon as I was about to turn to a new month, and realized that there was one more day in it. Yes.  Leap Day.  I started this blog in 2009, and since the year before was a leap year, I certainly didn't want to wait  until 2016 to take this opportunity again.

Leap Day.  When we catch up to all of the hours that were won and lost between daylight and central time changes.  Ha, Ha ... not really.  Actually, it's to make up for the earth's natural tendency to be too late or too early for everything in it's yearly orbit around the planet of Uranus.

Being naturally curious about human society, I spent some time on the internets this afternoon to see if hu-mans had any special way that they celebrated the day.  I found that more than a lot of people who were born on this day firmly believe they are 25 just because they were born on the 29th of February, even though they are actually 100 years old.  They're also pissed because they only get birthday presents every four years.

But, that wasn't really all that interesting.  What is interesting ... is that once upon a time way back when in the turn of the last, last century ... about 1900 or so, Leap Day was the one time where a woman could ask a man to marry them and not be faced with being stoned to death by a crowd of over-excited Flappers.

And I actually found some Leap Day Cards from that era.  Seems that most men at that time DID NOT want to get married.  And that most women from that era DID WANT to get married.

What a silly time.

The Leap Day/Women Proposing to Men thing kind of reminded of me of when I was in high school and we were supposed to have a Sadie Hawkins Day Dance, where the girls ask the boys out ... but we didn't because the local paper had canceled the newspaper comic Lil' Abner before we could read and we didn't realize there WAS such a thing as Sadie Hawkins Day, and missed the chance to have a really cool dance where the girls asked the boys out.

Such is life.

Anyway, I ran across some greeting cards that celebrate a woman's quest for a man's hand in marriage on Leap Day.  I don't know exactly WHO would have sent these to WHO, but supposedly, they were second in sales only to the most popular sympathy card of the day that featured a burning barn and the message inside read "So sorry you're barn burned down during the night and incinerated your horse, two cows and 15 chickens".  And here they are:

Rather Nice

She Kind of Looks Like Teddy Roosevelt

Yes, A Gauntlet of Beautiful Ladies in Low Cut Dresses.

Poor Guy.

Wow.  Just Wow.

Hmmmm.

No Comment.

But ... This Guy Actually Looks Pleased At Being Wooed.

And ... This Doesn't Have A Damn Thing To Do With Leap Year

I Just Liked It

See you next month.

Very Random Monday Thoughts

There are times when I either don't have any stories, or I don't have the desire to tell them.  This is one of those times ...

I'm one of the few people on earth who never watched "The Office" on prime time television when it was "big".  I don't know why.  I either forgot, or everyone was gushing so much about it that I just refused to be pulled in.  I know it's still on prime time, but I also know that Steven Carell left.  And I'm not very interested to find out who took his place, but I'm sure they can't be any good.  Anyway, I started watching it in syndication, and find that it isn't really that funny.  In fact it makes me uncomfortable.  Am I the only one who thinks that the Steve Carell character is retarded?

About a year and a half ago, I went out to the mailbox and found a Maxim magazine there.  Believe me or not, I didn't order it.  Fifteen months later, it still arrives every month.  At first I thought that someone ordered it for me as a joke, but now I don't think so.  I think that there are certain publishing companies that just send their magazines to people to boost their circulation numbers.  I think this may have happened in my case.  I'd write them and tell them to stop sending me their rag, but it's too much trouble.  You may ask "Hey Rob, how is Maxim magazine anyway?"  Well, it's okay.  If you're twenty-six or something.  But I really can't get in to it.  Last month was kind of disgusting because they featured "JWoW" from that Jersey Shore thing.  She was really gross looking.

I went to the dentist this past Saturday to have my teeth cleaned.  I hadn't gone in a while and TMI, it was pretty disgusting.  The hygienist used something on me called a "cavitator ultrasonic cleaner", which is an exact version of what they use in heavy industry to cut steel.  It was pretty painful, especially when she missed the teeth.  The hygienist was very friendly and told me that I looked like that guy on "House".  I don't know if she was coming on to me or not, but I'm too old to care.  She didn't know what House's name was, so I told her it was Hugh Laurie.  She was very impressed at my "House" knowledge.  I didn't know whether or not to be flattered.  Maybe not.  Oh, and I need a crown.  Bummer.

Jan needs a new car.  The last time we bought one was in October, 2001.  I remember it specifically because people were still freaked out about 9/11.  In fact, while we were going through the experience of sitting around waiting for the financing to go through, a Muslim family came in and wanted to buy a car.  No one would wait on them.  In fact the woman salesperson told me that no one was going to wait on them.  I thought that was kind of weird, but I guess that's what fear and distrust is all about.  I hope things changed at the dealership.  It kind of had to.

One of the blogs I read is by a young lady who is trying to make blogging her business.  She tries hard, but I noticed tonight that she did another post about Freddy Mercury and how she dressed up at Halloween as him, complete with a mustache and chest hair.  She even has a picture.  This is about the 10th time she's done the Freddy Mercury thing.  I'm too nice to write her a note telling her she's went to the well once to often, but I don't do that kind of thing.  I don't think she reads this blog, but if she does ... well, sorry ... but you've went to the Freddy Mercury well once to often.  Also ... slow down on the Jeff Goldblum stuff.  Freddy's dead and Jeff is about 80 years old now.

And then there's the WhatABurger story.  But I'll leave that for a real post.

Next Post:  A Real Post!

Raising A Stink

I've been back at work for about two months now.  And I really like it this time through.  The commute is short, the office is nice, my cube is nice ... and the people are nice.

But people are people.  I ought to know.  I'm one of them.  And people do stupid things.

Like all work habitats in the 21st century, people eat lunch.  There's a cafeteria on the first floor of my building.  And some people eat lunch there ... especially on quesidilla day.  Other people bring their lunches to work and eat at their desks.  If you're me, which I am, you bring a sandwich, some chippie things and a Rum & Coke.  If you're not like me ... and you're a woman ... you bring in things that say "Lean" and "Low Calorie" and "Popcorn".  And at lunchtime, you find one of the four thousand microwaves that sit in my building and you heat these things up.

And sometimes ... welllllll ... you leave them in there a little too long.

In the two months I've been in this building ... on this floor, I've been lucky.  Nobody (woman) has cracked open a can of tuna, or homemade casserole, or some other stinky thing and polluted the atmosphere.

Until today.  Today was the perfect storm.  Right after noon, I noticed the air getting a little smokey. Then the smell started.  I was sure someone had set their soiled underwear on fire.  It got worse, and people started to notice.  It sounded kind of like this:

"HububhububhububsmellslikeshithububhububhububGAAAAAAAAGGGGGGwhatthefuck?"

Somebody suggested opening the windows, but surprise!  There are windows, but you'd have to throw a chair through them to get them "open".  Gradually the smoke and smell dissipated somewhat, and the search for the culprit started.  Turned out ... it was Denise, who had accidentally put her Lean Cuisine in the microwave and mistakenly set it to INCINERATE.  Denise, it was told, was very embarrassed.

By 2:00, my stomach had settled, a vigilante flash mob had stripped Denise naked, thrown her outside into a snow bank and shoved the tainted microwave up her ass.  All was right with the world.

And then Tammy put a sack of Orville Redenbacher in a microwave and set it on high for 15 minutes.

State Pride

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon here in the upper midwest.  There's not much to do because it's approximately 1 degree above zero outside (fucking Winter), so I've been trolling around the intertubes.  And look what I found on the Library of Congress site ...

NICKNAMES OF THE STATES (circa 1840's or so)

You'll have to click the picture to enlarge it, otherwise, it just looks like a blob.  Most kids know that their state has a nickname.  I grew up in the hillbilly mountains of Missouri, so I knew early on that it was called "The Show-Me State".  I wasn't really sure why, but it appears that Missourians are a stubborn bunch and want to be shown something before they believe it.  No theoretical shit for them. The state I've lived in for the last 30 years or so, Illinois, has become my adopted state.  And of course, Illinois is "The Land of Lincoln" because he used to own some land here I guess.

But the map I found was created by some iron company who made rings to be inserted into the noses of cattle and swine.  I suppose that was popular back then.  It was some promotional device and you'll notice that a pig is the star in each state.  You'll also notice that the nicknames are a little different than they are here in the 21st century.  People weren't so politically correct back then.  And although some of the nicknames are the same now as they were back then (Massachusetts is the Bay State, Indiana is the Hoosier State), some of them aren't.

Take the state of my birth, Missouri.  "Pukes".  That's kind of harsh, but I lived in Iowa for a few years and I knew a few people who would agree with that assessment whole heartedly.  Especially that one douchebag at the Purina plant where I worked who called me a "Goddamned Missouri Asshole" out of the blue one day.  Compared to that, I guess "pukes" is rather mild.

Illinois isn't much better.  "Suckers".  I guess that fits.  The politicians make suckers of us every day. We continue to elect Governors who regularly make prison their next stop after leaving office and most people wish that Indiana would annex Chicago by military force so we could be rid of it.

There are some other good ones.  Nebraskans are "Bug Eaters", New Mexico residents are "Greasers" and people who hail from Maryland are "Crab Thumpers".  The reason that last sentence was partially awkward is because I actually don't know what to call people who are from New Mexico and Maryland (New Mexicoians?, Marylandites?)  Shit ... you've got me.

So, if you're a resident of one of the states with questionable nicknames, you still have to feel better than the residents of Utah.  According to the map, they're so overwhelmingly boring that they don't even RATE a nickname.  I know they have one now, but I don't recall what it is off-hand.  "The Beehive State"?  Or is that Idaho?  If it turns out they don't have one, I've got an idea.  "Depraved Weirdos".

Haha!  Just kidding ... seriously.

Anyway, what do I know?  I'm a pukesucker.

The Big Ball

I don't usually post on Friday night, because it's no doubt been a long week and I'm tired and ... if tradition stands, I have a couple of glasses of wine in my belly and I'm feeling mellow.

But today, I ran across a really beautiful picture of OUR HOME.  No, I don't mean that split ranch that you've had for 20 or so years now, but mankind's home.

Mother Earth.

And it looked very nice ... very inviting.  Here's a picture of the Western Hemisphere taken by some satellite or the other ... maybe Sputnik:

And of course, instead of just admiring the beauty of our earth, I started thinking.  What if ET was really out there and had just spent a thousand or so years bouncing around in space after having escaped his exploding planet ... let's call it Krypton ... by the skin of his balls, and was looking for a new place to live.

And he runs across this.

From this distance, he thinks to himself  "Holy Shit!  I've hit the motherlode!  Hit the retro thingies!

But ... he can't see it close enough yet.  And it's too fucking late.  He's augering in.  And as he gets closer, he notices things.  Centers of population.  "Hmmm", he thinks to himself.

It's too late.  He's about to touch down in the land of the craziest motherfuckers this side of Alpha Centari.

He should have slowed down at Mars.

Our home looks great from a distance ... sort of like Los Angeles on a summer night five miles away.

Looks can be deceiving.