Turdious Maximus, A Poem

Softly glowing before my sight
David Letterman was laughing with delight
A guest upon his show notoriously wiley
"Gasp!", said I, "That's fuckin' Bill O'Reilly!"

With great discontent did they speak
Especially Dave, who knows Bill is a freak.
"Do you want us to win?"
Asked Bill with a grin.
"Just what does that mean??", queried Dave with vivacity
A blank stare returned - the mark of Bill's opacity

"The highest rated cable news show have I!", he skwaked.
A feather in his cap, or so he thought, until Dave balked,
"Perhaps the best way to win is to get out", he stated.
To which Bill did scoff and harumph and become enflated.
His feathers were ruffled, his voice was shaky
Perhaps in the future, he'll not be so flaky.

An ode to you, dear Bill the bemused
Your words spewed forth leave us utterly confused.

Did I Say That Outloud?

I know we've all had this experience. You know, the one in which you opened your mouth only to have an errant thought fumble out that you didn't necessarily want others to hear?

It was a tired morning. Though I had already risen from my warm cocoon of blankets, taken a shower, walked to the bus and worked on a Sudoku puzzle, I needed some coffee. Standing in line at the Bookstore coffee shop awaiting my turn, I glanced down to see the girl in front of me with a "Tab Energy" drink on the counter.

I had never tasted Tab before this year when one was given to me at Eric and Chandra's house. Eric informed me that it was an all-together nasty experience to drink the Tab, that severe convulsions would follow and drinking the whole thing would probably result in death by Saccharine-overdose. As exaggerated as that may sound, after tasting the Tab and blacking out for three solid minutes, I could understand what he was talking about.

I don't know how Tab became popular, but I do understand why it was resurrected from the dead to bring us an energy drink (CAUTION: Contents under pressure and influence of poison. Do not puncture. Do not ingest. If ingested, consult physician immediately). There is a little-known part of the bible in which Peter predicted a drink that could end the world. Though the images were difficult to comprehend, scholars have finally de-crypted his hallucination. That's right folks - it's a fuckin' Tab energy drink.

Not convinced? Allow me to elaborate further. Think to yourself, what is a Tab? A Tab is something used to mark a category of something. In the office environment, Tabs are used constantly as a way to quickly find a set of files or documents one needs. In the case of Tab soda/energy drink, the mark is that of the beast and the document/file is an executable that will allow the Gates of Hell to open, brining an unholy reign of demonic minions. Still not convinced? That's not a spider you're brushing from your neck, it's a pitchfork.

The girl in front of me patiently waited to have her Visa go through. I pondered how scary her life was about to become. I thought of all the things she wouldn't be able to do anymore. I thought of her family, helpless to stop her from certain demonic posession. I thought of all her friends who also drank Tab energy drink and the Army of Hell that would welcome them with twisted, mutant arms. I then said quite audibly, "That drink'll kill 'ya".

"What?", she asked as she cast her beautifully innocent eyes towards me. I was helpless to tell her of the prophecy as the barista was asking for my order. "Large coffee", I quickly said to him. I turned to grab the Tab energy drink from her grasp, to save her from annihilation, to save the world from destruction. I was too late. She had already disappeard into the crowd, or so I thought. No, she had disappeared all right, but not into a dimension I have the power to traverse... yet...

Run Foley! RUUUUUN!!!

I'm beginning to get annoyed at the cavalcade of excuses Mark Foley is spewing through his own mouth or his lawyer's concerning a few *indescretions* with the Pages.

First he was gay, then he was an alcoholic and then he was molested. Now a priest has come forward of his own accord to back up (heh heh...back up) Mr. Foley. I'm no conspiracy theorist about the priest coming forward with such perfect timing because those who believe in such theories don't know how Catholics are. One of the most sure-fire ways into heaven is to admit your sins, ask forgiveness and do so in a spirit of contrition.But is that what being a good Catholic is all about? Just biding your time until the pearly gates? Of course not. In the mean time, you get to molest hot little boys who are just asking for it with all their hotness.

Suppression of one's sexuality is key in this issue. I don't pretend to be a sexual psychologist and I know that molesting children isn't as simple as "they're just crazy". On the other hand, what I do know of psychology is that when you suppress parts of your core self, nasty little manifestations will pop up (into young boys). Those who try and pretend for years and years that they're not gay run into serious problems; namely, some pretty harsh identity issues. Perhaps the result of Mr. Foley's sexual molestation as a young boy resulted in a broken individual. Perhaps it was the suppression of his sexuality, perhaps a combination of both, or perhaps we should all just get a clue and realize how HOT those pages are.

Why do I have no sympathy? The reason is simple - none of this would be happening if Foley hadn't been caught. He wouldn't be trying to atone for his sins, he wouldn't be asking forgiveness, he wouldn't be resigning from congress.

Members of the gay community have had to face so much adversity to convince others that we're not some sort of abhorration in the genetic spectrum. It's nasty, it's confusing, it's an all together horrific experience to have the courage to come out and live happily. When you liberate yourself from those feelings of guilt, of terror, of embarrassment, you learn something vital about yourself. For each person this experience is vastly different, but we do share in its magnitude.

Mr. Foley, you've got some issues. You need therapy. You need a reality check. I can say this with authority because I have no issues. I've dealt with all mine. There will never be any issues for me to have ever again unless I run into a page. YUM.

Hasselhoff Hilarity

Apparentely, David Hasselhoff passed out on an English talk show, CLICK ME.

His excuse was that he had too many "sleeping pills" because, you know, when you're about to go on a talk show millions of people watch, the first thing you do is take sleeping pills. Hell, I had to take five sleeping pills just to get to work this morning. I think "sleeping pills" is a Hasselism for "vodka with a whiskey back" because that's how he rolls. I wouldn't go so far as to accuse him of Mel Gibson-level drunkenness and at least he didn't use the hackneyed "fatigue" excuse celebrities enjoy so much, but please.

Oh, you don't think that's how the Hasselmeister rolls? Try this on for size.

David Hasselhoff is what I call a "functioning drunk". He doesn't need rehab because that would surely lower all the creative juices he has flowing through his semi-muscular veins. You're not going to get world-class covers of such hits as "I Can't Stop This Feeling/Ooga Chaka, Ooga Ooga Ooga Chaka" without a certain Blood Alcohol Level. My guess is somewhere around .95, give or take .07. In his days before Baywatch, David honed his skills as a functioning drunk which is best illustrated by this picture. See what I mean? You wish you could be that awesome.

So what if the Hoff passed out on t.v.? At least he's got a feeling deep inside of him.

One Down, So Many To Go

On my life's checklist was a goal of one day returning enough bottles and cans to walk away with over $20. I am thrilled to say that today I reached this goal after months and months of painstaking ingestion of alcohol.

Let me break this down for you:

$2.00 in cans = 40 Units
$18.70 in bottles = 76 Units

$20.70 in bottle/can returns = 116 Total Units

Of those cans, almost all were Pabst that friends brought over. Of the bottles, the vast majority were from Widmer in one variety or another. Basically, I should be buying stock in Widmer since I use so much of their product.

Oh, and they had to change the bins twice for me.

Yikes

I was sitting at work today and again it was slow. We've had several patients lately, but the doctors seem to be taking their time getting reports together. After finishing some menial tasks in the chart room, I was left with little to do and even less ahead of me.

I was standing in the main office putting several reports into the outgoing mail bin. I noticed that one of them was not fully closed and as I held it to my moistened tongue, there came an abrupt, "Patrick, STOP." The voice was coming from my boss and when I turned to face her, she had a little grin on her face. "Always use the envelope roller," she ordered. For those of you who aren't familiar with an envelope roller, it's one of those things that wets the sealant on an envelope. I have one in my office and use it often, but this envelope only had 1/3 of it that wasn't sealing. I was puzzled and stated, "But it's only got a little left to seal." Her grin remained and she said, "Then take out the letter and get a new envelope. I'll tell you why this is so important."

My boss is one of those who has worked in the office for umpteen years, but before that, she worked at the Emporium's corporate office. The Emporium is now a defunct department store, bankrupt by upper-level bickering and other conflicts. She worked in the accounting department. There was a time when employers did not have to provide employees with envelope sealers and made them lick all the envelopes of a 500-letter mailing individually. I wasn't alive in 1563, so I don't know what that must have been like, but I imagine it sucked real bad.

One of her co-workers was half-way through her stack of mailings when my boss heard a scream. My boss jumped up to see that her co-worker had quite literally sliced off 3/4 of an inch of her tongue and was clutching her face, hysterical and vomiting from the pain (soon after she passed out). After a considerable time spent in the hospital and therapy, she sued the Emporium and won a lot of cash. It was henceforth forbidden to approach any piece of paper with one's tongue and my boss holds this memory close as a reminder of what can happen if you get too friendly with an envelope.

My tongue cringed and trembled inside my mouth; I was unable to speak other than let out a sympathy moan. "Oh my god" I finally uttered. "Yep", she said still grinning, "so please just use your sealer from now on."

Excuse Me, Sir? You Have A Foot In Your Mouth

I have changed the names of my co-workers in the following story because the FBI reads my blog and they would tattle on me.
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Today is slow at work. I was looking around our waiting room and saw a pictorial organization chart of our office personnel. I am not pictured, for my position changes about every 1-2 years. That's fine with me, I'd be way at the bottom anyway. It was apparent from the clothes and hairstyles that some of the pictures were taken years ago, probably in the mid-90s or earlier. That's not too strange - most of the people who work here have been employed much longer than that. Suffice to say, I found myself basking in retro-pleasure. I turned to Sharon, our front office gal and said, "Wow Sharon, these pictures are pretty old, huh?" (her picture is far more current). She replied, "Yeah, did you see Mary's?" I returned her query with a smirk and walked off to complete some filing for Kristen.

After the filing for Kristen, I went back to her office which she shares with Mary. "All done, Kristen", I said with a crooked smile. "What's the smile for?" Kristen rightly observes. I chortled, "I saw your picture in the main office. Very chic". She affectionately told me to buzz off whereupon I turned to Mary. Thinking she overheard my conversation with Kristen, I give her the same crooked smile. I asked, "What about you Mary?" She looked puzzled and asked, "What about what?" I snickered, "What about your lovely fuscia and olive green ensemble? The 80s called; they want their shoulder pads back."

"I just took that picture last year", she said with a sullen half-smile.

I will conclude with the fact that all my co-workers have a great sense of humor and we've joked on many occasions. I apologized to Mary and she took no observable offense. However, this does not vindicate me from being a complete asshole, but it's what will help me sleep tonight.

Psych 'Em Out

It would appear the Seattle Seahawks have an inventive way to intimidate their opponents; according to The Onion, at least:

Seahawks Asked To Stop Piping Screams Of Terrified Women Into Qwest Field

September 28, 2006 | Onion Sports

SEATTLE—Following multiple complaints from teams who have had to endure both the much-touted, 100-decibel "12th Man" fan noise and the artificially amplified, 135-decibel shrieks of tortured women in pain while playing at Seattle's Qwest Field, the NFL has asked the Seahawks front office to refrain from piping in the sound effects during future home games. "It is unfair not only to the visiting team and their fans, both of whom have a right to expect hospitality and consideration of the Seattle football club, but to the women who must endure such physically insulting treatment in order to make these disturbing recordings," the statement from the NFL's Competition Committee read in part. "Furthermore, if the screams of these women turn out not to be recordings, there may be the matter of fines to consider." NFL officials and Seattle law-enforcement personnel have detained Qwest Field audio engineer Fred Miscera for questioning concerning the recent disappearance of several Seahawks cheerleaders.

Lost in it

If you haven't heard (and I don't know how you couldn't), Lost is the best tension-drama ever to appear on TV. I know this because Eric had us over on Friday to indoctrinate us with Lost's dirty pleasures. Indoctrinate he did and before we knew it, we had watched the first five episodes of season 1 and were headed home with the complete season in hand (shout out to our drug dealer Eric!). Saturday was too busy for adequate Lost viewing, but as a sign of our addiction, we squeezed one in right before people came over for the Duck game and again before we went out for the Oktoberfest at the Bier Stein. Sunday, however, was set aside entirely for Lost. We went to bed lat night at 11:45 with only two to go in the first season. We're ready to go with season 2 and by next week (week two of season 3), we'll have TiVOed the first episode of season 3 and watched it and will be ready for episode 2. I don't care if you have work, school, government obligations or otherwise. None of them matter. Only Lost matters. Crack out on Lost. It'll feel better than any fix Charlie could describe.