Who wants to see these two things fight?

I know I do.

Missed Opportunities for Inappropriate Behavior

Yesterday, I entered the lobby of the office building in which I come to do my daily work for Dazzling Company of Masterful Success. It was raining pretty hard, and I had my umbrella. I saw that there was a 14-foot stepladder folded open right in the path coming in from the door. It took the full measure of my restraint to refrain from opening my umbrella, right underneath the ladder. How I longed for a mirror, some salt, a black cat or two...

Then today, someone sent me a text announcing that she was "expecting 12-24 inches in my parts" and would therefore likely need to work from home...

All I could say was "yikes."

I tell you, sometimes, it's just not fair that I have to be a grown-up professional type person. My inner Bill Murray wants out. And I'm talking about the Caddy Shack/Home on the Range/Meatballs Bill Murray, not the Razor's Edge one. Yes I know it's the same guy. You know what I mean.

Next on American Chopper, it's a real "hail mary" when Paulie and the boys start work on a bike to commemorate the annunciation of Pope Benedict XVI!

[Paul Jr on screen]

[Paul JR] - "Probbly the toughest thing about doin' the Pope Bike was figurin' out how to attach the bullet-proof plastic bubble. I knew goin' into it that gettin' that thing to stay in place, and still allow enough clearance for the back tire was goin' to be a challenge"

[cut to shop]

[Paul Sr] - "Hey Mikey, what the hell are you doin' just standin' around over there? You was supposed to get that font off the truck so's Paulie can get it on the back behind the seat there!"

[Paul Jr] - "I don' care about the font right now, I need to deal with this bubble, I can't get it to -"

[Paul Sr] - "I don' wanna hear no more crap outta you! If I want anymore crap outta you, I'll squeeze your head! Just get the f[beep]in Pope bike done!

[Paul Jr] - "We're workin' on it, Dad, we'd get -"

[Paul Sr] - "I don' wanna hear it, Paulie! This has to get -"

[Paul Jr] - "we'd- we'd be gettin' it done a lot faster if you'd just shut up about it -"

[Paul Sr] - "This has to get to the Vatican in two weeks so the Pope can ride up to the dais on it to say mass."

[Paul Jr] - "I know, I know it does, and it'll get done, but you just -"

[Paul Sr] - "All's I'm sayin' is that if the Pope's ass ain't in that seat in two weeks, it'll be YOUR ass, Paulie."

[Mikey] - "Aw, crap!"

[Paul Sr] - "Oh, terrific, Mikey just broke the font. Now there's one more thing I gotta ride your ass about, Paulie."

[cut to Paul Jr]

[Paul Jr] - "Well, we ended up scrappin' the bubble idea. After we brazed it to the tank, we realized the exhaust was going to fill the chamber and probbly asphixiate the pope, so we cut it. But after all we went through with that, the scenter-styled handlebar grips, the Holy Water font on the back of the bike, and the pope-hat-styled headlight, the worst was yet to come."

[cut to shop]

[Vinnie] - "Hey, Paulie, we got a problem with this gold leaf over here."

[voiceover; Paul Jr] - "The gold leaf we had Nubbie put on there wasn't stickin' to the powder coat. It was comin' up where it bordered with the chrome, and that just wasn't gonna fly. With just a couple days left to get this bike done for the mass, we had to send it back out to Nub's."

[cut to Paul Jr on Phone] - "Hey, Nubs...Yeah, what's up?...Hey listen, this gold leaf you did for us ain't workin' out...naw, it's comin' up where it meets the chrome...no, I know man...I know gold leaf isn't somethin' you usually work with...no, I know man...yeah...okay."

[Paul Jr] - "He says he can get it done by Tuesday"

[Paul Sr] - "Tuesday? That's not gonna be soon enough Paulie."

[Paul Jr] - "I know, it's - it's -"

[Paul Sr] - "That bike needs to be ready to ship tomorrow, Paulie. You don't P[beep]s off the Holy See, Paulie."

[Paul Jr] - "Nubbie says he can - well, maybe if we was to - "

[Paul Sr] - "No excuses, Paulie! You think they called Cardinal Ratzinger 'God's Rottweiller' for nuttin'!?"

[Paul Jr] - "Look, Nubbie - "

[Paul Sr] - "I don't care what Nubs is doin', I said it was gonna be your ass, now it's your ass! That's it, I'm done. I'm done. It's your problem - "

[Paul Jr] - "I know it's my problem, I - "

[Paul Sr] - "It - It's your problem, you take care of it."

[Paul Jr] - "I - Iam takin' care of it. It's taken care of."

[Paul Sr] - "Yeah, it better be. It better be..."

[Mikey] - "Aw, Crap!"

[Paul Sr] - "Aw. fantastic! Mikey just spilled the holy water down the manifold!! Paulie, I swear, this is the last time..."

[cut to the Vatican]

[Voice-over; Paul Jr] - "After all we went through, it was worth it, 'cause I could tell the pope really liked the bike."

[Pope Benedict XVI] - "Ah, Grazi, bellisimo!!" [sprinkes the bike seat with holy water, crosses it]

[voice-over; Paul Jr] - "I know the pope was happy, and I think when the 1.6 billion or whatever catholics in the world see him ride up on this thing, they're gonna know they're dealin' with a pope who's the real deal. He's gonna save a lotta souls on this bike."

[Fade out on Pope Benedict XVI riding off into the sunset on the bike, his robes furling out behind him. Just before the scene fades, his hat comes off in the wind.]

"Corporate procurement services, how may I direct your call?"

"Yes, Hi, I was asked to participate in a survey about the new procurement application, and I'd like to decline to participate."

"Well, (pause)...Why do you want to do that?"

"Well, I've never actually used the new procurement application, and I think my feedback would be rather irrelevant."

"Everyone's feedback is important."

"Yes, but..."

"It's a very small group that were asked to participate, so we really need everyone's participation."

"I understand, but I've never even seen the new application."

"Besides it's too late to get anyone else. The survey list has already been sent in. That's why you got the email."

"How did I get on that list, exactly?"

"There was a selection process. It's a very short survey, but if you feel that you would rather not participate in evaluating new initiatives, you can talk to your manager about that."

"No, it's not that, I'm happy to participate in this kind of thing, it's just that I really have never even seen the new application at all."

"Well, we need to know why people have chosen not to use it as well, and the survey helps with that too."

"I have nothing to do with procurement, so I'd really have no occasion to choose one way or the other. I don't know the first thing about the procurement process with or without the new application-"

"Procurement is how you get all of your equipment, like your computer, your phone-"

"Yes, I understand that, I'm just not directly involved in it."

"So you're declining to participate."

"Yes...but, I mean...there's no point in my participating in this particular case."

"Well, I'm sorry you think your input is not valued or appreciated."

"That's not...I mean, all I'm saying is that you'd get as much value out of having my next door neighbor participate in the survey as you would from me!"

"Oh, does your neighbor work for Wescott MultiCom too?"

"No, he's a groundskeeper at a Cemetery, actually."

"Well, then, I can't imagine what he would have to contribute..."

"That's exactly my point."

"Okay, I get that you don't want to take the survey. I'm going to put you on the line with my supervisor now..."

"Why?"

"...so that she can explain to you what you need to do to excuse yourself from the survey, and remove yourself from the list of potential survey participants."

"Well, I don't... - Fine."

"Okay, here she is."

"Good afternoon sir, my name is Portia, and I understand you would prefer not to participate in the quality survey process."

"That's right."

"Might I ask why?"

"...No."

Last night, I spared an ant.

It was one of those ubiquitous black kitchen ants, somehow separated from its detachment like a lone T.I.E. Fighter leagues and leagues away from the Death Star. It was crawling in my bathroom sink, and instead of mashing it, poaching it with the faucet turned all the way to hot, or drowning it with a mouthful of toothpaste (all of which I have done with glee in the past), I allowed it to live.

Let's be clear. I hate ants. They are one of the few species on this planet that I would genuinely like to see go extinct. I can't begin to estimate the number of times I have left a dinner plate out for even a couple of hours, and returned to find it and my countertop in a state resembling a TV set tuned to a non-broadcasting channel. They come in force from any breach in the house's hull, no matter how slight. They set up infiltration camps in houseplants and cupboards. They march in wide, brazen phalanxes across the kitchen floor to pillage the garbage can. They mass in huge numbers somewhere under the house, fear neither man nor God, and have no regard for those they torment.

I call them "Little F**kers."

My son, on the other hand, calls them "Little Guys." In truth, he's kind of ambivalent about them; when he notices one crawling on his possessions or person, he gets very distressed. "Oooh, there's a little guy on there!" he'll exclaim, dancing frantically from foot to foot and pointing, waiting for my wife or me to come and "please flip him off!"

He also, however, frequently asserts that a lone enemy scout, caught on a reconnaisance mission to the coffee table or pantry, is "just walking about" or, more often, "looking for his family." "He's funny, Papa!"

See, when it comes to ants, my son epitomizes the kind of Wasp-ish liberal sensibilities described by Jello Biafra and Mojo Nixon - "I love gays and blacks and latinos; as long as they don't move next door." He finds them quaint, cute, and amusing, but doesn't really want them to touch him or his stuff. I, on the other hand, am Lyndon Johnson, Jesse Helms, and the Georges Bush all rolled into one. Kill them all. They're the Axis of Evil. Somebody hand me a can of RAID and a Nuke.

So yesterday, when I was helping him wash his hands in the bathroom sink, he saw a "little guy" on the edge of the basin. "There's a little guy! He's washing his hands!!" he exclaimed, grinning and laughing. "He's so so funny!"

My son, the seditionist, the enemy sympathizer.

So later that night, when I had one of the dirty little guerillas right in my sights, I was moved to mercy. This could be a fatal break. Maybe it's the turning point where the ants finally gain the upper hand, attacking me through the soft heart of my son.

I feel I should say that I didn't actually help the ant out of the sink, thereby aiding the enemy. Instead, I left him (or more likely "her", given the organization of ant colonies) to her own devices. Maybe she got out, maybe she didn't. It doesn't matter - there are so many, many others where she came from, and they are relentless and without remorse.

Little F**kers.

Overheard conversation. The actual names of the participants are not known - I have added fictitious names that I felt reflected their physical presence and aspect. When this did not seem like quite enough, I also added some other details about their lives that may or may not be true.

Delbert Bumfuddle:
Mid-30's, skinny guy.
Works as a stockclerk in a grocery store 10 minutes from his parents' house, where he still lives.
Is a Giants fan, but still likes Sammy Sosa, and is pretty conflicted about it.

Sally "Big Sal" Murtz:
Heavyset blonde woman, late 30's or early 40's.
Owns a "Lark", but has no medical condition that would justify its use. She calls it her "Groshry-Helper".
Enjoys listening to "'skynrd."


Sal: "I do believe though... really, they'll be able to beam us one day. Some day... I mean, that's for sure gonna happen. Technology is too powerful. It has to."

Delbert: "Yeah they can already...see, at IBM they just a little while ago already beamed a molecule. They can do that all the time. But with a person...it's...a person is made up of like, billions or millions of molecules..."

Sal: "Yeah, uh-huh..."

Delbert: "...and there's just not enough computing power...there's no computers that can handle that much information."

Sal: "Yeah, but there will be someday, if Bill Gates has his way."

Delbert: "heh...yeah...but there's this other thing, Einstein came up with called the Hindenberg Principle or something like that that says it's too hard to do it. There's somethin'...like, some really super-crazy mathematics that just can't be done."

Sal: "If there's a big enough computer you could do it."

Delbert: "Yeah, probably, but I think it's a theoretical limit or somethin. Like, you can only know so much information. At least with computers."

Sal: "yeah, that's right."

Delbert: "Einstein was autistic, did you know?"

Sal: "Really?"

Delbert: "Yeah, or maybe it wasn't autistic, maybe it was some other disorder...or disease or whatever...like when you're a savant, that can do all these amazing things and you're really smart, but it's just this condition. Einstein had, like, classic,...like, textbook signs. All of 'em...he had, like, all the signs."

Sal: "No way!"

Delbert: "Yeah. Newton too...Isaac Newton. And Edison. Prolly all those guys."

Sal: "Wow."

Delbert: "Yeah, it's wierd. You know - you think all these people are, like, geniuses and stuff but they're just...it's all just this disease they have."

Sal: "Hmm. It'll sure be cool, though, when they can beam us."

Delbert: "Oh, yeah, cause then they'll be, like, no traffic, or crowds, or any of that stuff...no more waiting in line, or traffic jams, and the roads'll be like, totally empty for everybody...hell, they'll probly tear down the roads and build, like, condos or somethin."

Here's something about which I don't quite know how to feel...

Now, to start with, I never, NEVER dream about famous people. Ever. Actors, musicians, politicians, medical curiosities...oh, wait, when I was in my pre-adolescence, the Elephant Man showed up recurrently in some disturbing ways...I think that's the only exception, though. It certainly hasn't happened in my adult life.

During the night following Tuesday, March 18th, I had this dream.

I, Lee, and our son were waiting to meet someone, I can't remember whom, at the airport, and we found out that President George W. Bush was going to land there in a few minutes. In the dream as in my waking life, I was not a big Bush fan, but I thought "this'll be something [our son] can tell his kids about some day. We should try and meet him." So we went over to the gate where his plane was supposed to land.

Oddly, there were only about a dozen people, mostly reporters, waiting for his arrival, and we got right up to the front. When Pres. Bush arrived, he walked off the plane waiving (like you'd imagine), but then came straight over to us. He picked our son up, and held him in his arms. He said a bunch of things I can't remember to us, and to him - I remember he seemed to think our little boy was very important for some reason. He kept smiling, and holding our son up near his face for pictures. Somehow it seemed like more than just typical political baby-kissing and photo-op'ing - the fact that it was our son was somehow significant.

When it was time for him to go, for some reason we were being escorted along with him - the President was carrying our son, and we were following just behind. At one point, I turned back to get something of our son's - toys, or something like that - that he'd forgotten. When I turned back around to follow them again, my son was running towards me, and I heard the secret service guys shouting "The President is down! The President is down! He was trying to pick up his own hat!!"

When I looked, they were loading Bush onto a gurney. His head was wrapped in bandages. I remember thinking he must've fallen and hit his head during the risky hat-retrieval maneuver. As they loaded him into the ambulance, he waived at us and smiled. The ambulance sped away, and I woke up.

The next evening, U.S. forces launched the first strike against "targets of opportunity" just outside Baghdad.

I have not told Lee about this dream, becaus I had forgotten about it until just now. She would probably be disturbed to learn that I had let George W. Bush hold our child. I myself am a little disturbed by it.

He had seemed nice enough in the dream, though.

Last night, several of us were sitting around talking about how we'd like to be disposed of when we die (I think it came up because we were watching "Ocean's 11" - the original one). We discussed the merits of building your own casket, the rules about embalming, and that episode of Northern Exposure where they catapulted that dead biker into the lake. Lee expressed a fondness for the idea of a pyre over which mourners could toast marshmallows. Rob wants to be blown up (exploded, not inflated).

Now as for me, being a claustrophobe and thus rather averse to the idea of spending forever in a box not big enought to roll over in, standard burial isn't too appealing either. Honestly, I've always kind of liked the idea of being posed and encased in a block of clear Lucite, kind of like a human version of those novelty bug-in-the-ice-cube gags. I could have a clause in my will that whosoever should inheirit my vast fortune would be obligated to prominently, yet tastefully display my smiling, waving corpse on the grounds of my estate. Of course, this would be rather expensive, and it would suck if my estate ended up being a condo by the freeway - exhaust fumes are hell on Lucite.

I've also thought taxidermy would be a nice condition in which to carry out my eternal rest, but I don't know if any reputable artisan would undertake the task, and I don't want any disreputable artisans having unsupervised access to my vacated earthly vessel. Lord knows what kind of satanic tomfoolery my remains would be subjected to by the kind of person who would actually stuff a human. I've watched enough tabloid TV to know better than to fall into that trap.

Of course there's cremation, but that always seemed like a cop-out to me - you either end up dispersed into the air, where you will probably be breathed in by countless jerks and lazy people, dumped in the sea, where fish will eat you and poo you out, or sitting in one of those stupid urns on somebody's mantel, just waiting to be mistaken for coffee grounds or tea by some idiot house guest in a cheesy, farcical sitcom-episode-come-to-life incident.

So what's a body to do?

Then it hit me. I'll combine the convenience of cremation with the class, staying power and affordability of taxidermy.

I've decided to have an animal stuffed with my ashes.

It's brilliant, really. Not only do I become part of my own memorial, but I'm infinitely portable, and there's little or no risk of Desecration By Beverage. And really, if you were a little kid, and someone had to point to something on the mantle and say "That's your Great Grandpa," which would you rather it be - some old dusty urn, or a friendly old badger? Faulknerian metaphors notwithstanding, to me it seems an easy choice.

Only one question remains. Which of God's many creatures would make the best final resting place? With the whole of the animal kingdom to choose from, it's a pretty tough decision. There are so many factors to consider, such as size, personality, endangered species status...the list goes on and on. What if it turns out that reincarnation is for real? Would the animal I go out as influence the results of how I'd come back? What about the many varying religious interpretations associated with various animals? I'd sure hate to be immortalized as a snake if that whole "Fall of Man" thing turned out to be true. And don't even get me started on Aesop's Fables. When you think about it, this decision is as fraught with pitfalls as any of our toughest life choices.

Take, for example, the common city rat. While this might seem an appropriate choice from the standpoint of Chinese Astrology (I was born in the Year of the Rat), the unpleasant associations with the plague and general nasty living conditions tend to rule it out, as does the risk of being nick-named "Ben," "Templeton," or "Chuck E. Cheese."

Now a Lion on the other hand has lots of fantastic qualities and associations - bravery, royalty, the whole apex predator thing - that would tend to recommend it as a worthy choice. Unfortunately, lions tend to be on the large side, and would take up quite a bit of space in the sitting room. Moving the thing around would also present a problem, and kids would always be sitting on it, hanging on its neck, and generally abusing it, so that's kind of out, too.

Really, this tends to eliminate most if not all of your basic large mammals. Birds carry too much easy, trite symbolism. Fish? They've got too much of a victim mentality. Invertebrates are right out. Maybe a whole family of shrews? Might that give people the wrong idea, like maybe I was a multiple-personality case?

Of course, I've always had a soft spot for weasels...

So yesterday at noon, while sitting in the opulent break room in the building where I work as a data-entry chimp, I heard a message come over the intercom...

"Attention, everyone, attention. Oakland Police have given us the all clear and informed us that it is now safe to enter the building."

...What!?

We had all been in the building since 8:15 that morning, and none of us had any idea what they were talking about. No evacuation had occurred, no warning was issued, and nobody knew anything was going on at all until the aforementioned announcement.

Today, we found out that the bomb squad had blown up a suitcase suspected of containing a bomb at the Marriot across the street. At first, I assumed that since it had blown up, there must've been a bomb in it, since socks and underwear are not known for their explosive properties (unless we're talking about those belonging to certain of my familiy circle who shall remain nameless - speculate at will), but it turns out that the bomb squad brings their own bombs to blow up things that are suspected of being bombs.

...What!?

Here's a funny joke.

Sneak into a co-worker's office, steal their desk calendar, and change it to April 1. Then, when they come into work, you can play a trick on them, and yell "April Fool!" They'll look at the calendar and say "Oh, you got me."

Then you can say "HA, Ha, it's not really April Fools' Day!! You're an IDIOT!!!"

This joke works best on days that are close to April Fools' Day, and is least effective actually on April Fools' Day.

God Dammit.

Somebody stole my lunch.

We have a refrigerator here at the office, and this policy where you have to label and date everything you put in there so people know whose it is, since apparently people have trouble recognizing things that aren't theirs.

So, sometime between 9am and noon, some asswipe made off with my clearly labeled and dated burrito.

I have only one consolation. The burrito in question was prepared by my father-in-law on his last visit. Roy is an extraordinary chef, especially where mexican food is concerned.

And he does not mess around.

Roy's burritos are insidiously spicy. They taste really good, and there is definitely some "heat" to them, but they save their most potent weaponry for their journey down the lower ailamentary canal about 12-14 hours after eating.

To anyone who has not yet built up a strong tolerance to capsicum, the spicy element in peppers and chiles, the effect is not unlike having Vick's VapoRub mixed with hydrochloric acid injected into your anus every time you evacuate your bowels, which will be about every 15 minutes over the course of 3 hours or so. Basically, these things employ a slash-and-burn, scorched-earth policy on the diner's colon.

So whoever you are, you burrito-theiving heathen, all I can say to you is I hope you enjoy your evening on the toilet.

Slash and Burn, baby...slash, and, BURN!!!