Porn Stache

Cee Lo Has T Rex Arms

Lopez/Mencia

HOW DARE YOU TURN YOUR NOSE UP AT MY NOSE PICKING.

The other day I was sitting in a meeting with a client when this girl that I work with began bragging about how she is very anal about keeping a clean and organized workspace. Anal, as in the cavity in which feces passes through prior to plopping in a porcelain pot (I’m all about alliteration). I don’t know when this term first poked its head out, but I think people have lost sight of just how gross it is. I for one don’t love the saying, however I’m all for it if it means allowing some other equally foul things into social acceptance. Like nose picking.

Now fast-forward a week. This same girl caught me elbow deep picking a boogie off my medulla oblongata and she shot me a look of utter disgust and horror. How dare she. Let us not forget just a week ago she referred to her organizational skills as being synonymous with a turd tunnel (I can’t help myself). How dare she cast me aside like some leper. Mind you lepers had it rough, what with the exile colonies and loss of digits, but at least they had each other. You know what they say; Misery Enjoys Company (particularly when there are boils on your back that need tending to).

It’s crazy how we can live in a society that embraces the nose with quirky idioms like, keep your nose clean, pay through the nose, and powder your nose, yet an innocent small-town guy puts his pointer finger up his shnoz and the shit hits the fan.

Today’s Side Dish Is Cauliflower Ear.

“I like all types of music.”

There are a number of ways I wish I could respond to this statement. For instance cocking back and cracking the person dead in the forehead, or better yet, boxing in their ears so they can never again hear “all those types of music” Despite wanting to respond with physical action, I usually employ a more socially acceptable response. Verbal abuse.

Is that so, I say. As I proceed on with the inquisition, I ask, “so you must like country then and techno of course, and ooh who can forget polka?” At this point the person begins to pick up on my sarcasm, which is good because even a corpse should be able to taste this thick slice I’m serving up.

Sooner than later the person loses interest in talking to me and walks away saddened that they'll never get those four and a half minutes back.

Ultimately the person was just trying to be polite and make conversation with the one guy at the party who wasn’t talking to anyone. Little do they know that I ‘d rather talk to a pair of tonsils jiggling in a jelly jar than talk to someone who “likes all types of music.”

My Lady Friend Will Have A Beer, I’ll Have A Malibu Bay Breeze, Straight Up, Hold The Umbrella.

Anybody who knows me knows that I hate umbrellas. I don’t hate the collection of materials that make up an umbrella, but rather the act of using an umbrella. Yes they serve a very practical purpose, and yes I like to remain dry when I’m fully clothed, but there is just something very dainty about the way you have to hold those things. Before you even ask the question, yes I am confident in my manhood. And no, I have nothing against gay people. In fact, my dad’s gay. And besides, trust me when I tell you, I do plenty of other things that might lead someone to question my manhood. For instance, I structure my entire shower routine around making sure to leave the conditioner in for at least 90 seconds. And I often adhere to the “rinse and repeat” suggestion. (The mere fact that I have a shower routine and read the back of the shampoo bottle should be an indicator.) So my gripe with the umbrella isn’t that I think I look a little light in my galoshes, but that it is a very unnatural pose for me to hold. My arm at a 90-degree angle, all stiff and uncomfortable, I look like a robot walking down the street.

The few times I’ve had to use an umbrella I’ve realized just how bad I am at operating one. (For a reference on my stupidity please visit the past post, ‘Mensa called, they’d like you to join their janitorial staff.’) I have a habit of concentration on only protecting the front of my body, leaving my whole back exposed to the rain. Or when sharing, I tend to hook myself up with a little dry safe haven while my partner, usually a girl, gets drenched.

My other umbrella issues include inconsiderate umbrella users that threaten the safety of my cornea, those who use umbrellas on sunny days (excluding the elderly and albinos), and people who like to jeopardize my recent string of good luck with an open umbrella indoors. So if you see me sopping wet after a rainstorm you’ll know not to ask why I didn’t use an umbrella. In fact, just look the other way.

Desk Doz’n

Running out of fuel mid-day is a dilemma I run into at least twice a week. I don’t mean slightly lethargic or dragging a bit, I mean if I could some how figure out a way to lock my legs I could sleep standing up. The desk doze is the worst. Sometimes I don’t know how long I’ve been out for and who’s seen me. (I can only imagine, or in this case dream, of how stupid I look.) I know I only doze-off for a hot second really, but when it’s in those little spurts it’s sometimes hard to determine how much time has passed. I look around spaced out to see if anybody is on to me.

Then I proceed to run through the wake-up routine. In response to my first doze-off I get up and get a glass of water. For the second doze-off I take a walk to the bathroom and splash a little water on my face. For the third doze-off, a cup of coffee. For the fourth a little snack. It is when I reach the fifth doze-off that things start getting weird, and I get into this scolding/pep-talk.

I start chastising myself, saying shit like, “Need I remind you (me) of how lucky you are to have this job and how ridiculous you’d feel if the reason why you were fired was for sleeping at your desk. Why the hell are you staying up for the mid-night run of Sports Center anyway? You watch the same damn episode the very next morning. And while we’re at it, your closet looks like it vomited all over your room. Can you maybe take an evening to take care of some laundry? Maybe then you won’t have to throw dirty clothes in the dryer with five dryer sheets and give them a “pseudo-wash” as you so cleverly named it.

[As you can see things get weird. It goes on for a few more minutes but I won’t bore you or freak you out anymore.]

Ultimately after considering and reconsidering going outside and sleeping on a bench or quitting my job, I perk up a bit. Not enough to accomplish much work mind you, but enough to fake working until I can get to grand central and sleep on the train. Though the thought of working at home sounds nice, I would succumb to afternoon naps way to easily. I can just hear myself now, “Come on, a five minute nap is harmless, and besides afterwards you’ll feel rejuvenated and fresh and ready to work.”

The Least The IT Guy Could Do Is Insult Me In Laymen’s Terms.

Though I usually resolve my computer problems with a swift kick and a flip of the on/off button, most people with half a brain know to use the tried and true trifecta control/alt/delete. I’ve seen people break into cold sweats when the simultaneous pushing of the three aforementioned buttons doesn’t work. I can’t blame them; you never want to make a call to the IT guy if you don’t have to.

One would think that the ‘esc’ button would play an integral part in restarting your computer, yet it doesn’t. When I was younger I was convinced that pressing it would create some serious havoc. Sparks would fly, motherboards would fry, and I would undoubtedly be in some serious trouble. I always knew it as the no-no button. The off-limits button. The not-unless-you-fear-the-school-might-blow-up button. I realize that there is of course the possibility that I’ve wrongfully placed the ‘esc’ button on this weird pedestal of destruction. Yet either way, I still think if someone didn’t know any better and knew nothing about computers and only knew that ‘esc’ was short for escape, I’d imagine they would think that was one of the more important buttons on the keyboard.

While we’re on the subject of obsolete keyboard buttons, how about F1-F12? From what I can decipher through thick sarcasm and geek-talk, the IT Guy said you could program these buttons to do any number of things. He added that his seven-year-old autistic nephew had no problem programming his computer. Under my breath I answered, “The poor kid must be just as cool as you.” And besides aren’t those kids supposed to be freakishly good at weird-ass things?

If You’re Looking For A Ride Go To Hunt’s Point Or Coney Island.

It’s never been my choice to stand stationary on an escalator, though occasionally I’ve been forced to. It would be unfair to say that I don’t respect people who don’t walk up escalators, but I certainly don’t have to sit here and say that I respect their shit decision and general lazy demeanor. Listen here folks, if it don’t take a ticket, it aint a fucking ride. Not to mention this might be the only source of exercise these people get, they should be on the hop. I’d much rather increase my heart rate than stand like a drone with my mouth slightly ajar and eyes glazed over.

My real gripe however is when a lazy drone gets in the way of me proceeding up the steps like the go-getter that I am. It’s only then that their fat decision truly affects me. The CPSC (Consumer Product Safety Commission) estimates that there are 6,000 hospital emergency room-treated injuries associated with escalators each year. Keep in mind this figure does not take into account passengers on the escalator that send other passengers to the emergency room. That’s where I come in.

Nuts for Nuts

Have you ever laid eyes on a dead squirrel that wasn’t flattened by a car, mauled by a cat, or chard from electrocution? I haven’t. Presumably squirrels can die from old age, yet I have never seen a dead one without smoke coming off its carcass or bodily fluids oozing from its wounds? Do they prefer the comfort of a hole in a tree to take their last little breaths? And though I’m sure family and friends will visit to mourn and sit vigil, at some point those who shared the den have to get rid of the rotting corpse.

This might seem like a ridiculous notion, however let me drop this little nutly nugget on you. As a squirrel gathers nuts in preparation for the winter frost and subsequent hibernation, do you think he is aware of the last nut that he gathers for the day? Like, “let me make one more run for some nuts and then head back to grab some shut-eye.” Surely they don’t return to their crib with full intensions of going back out to get more nuts only to collapse and wake up the next morning having no idea how they got there. I wouldn’t say they keep a detailed daily planner, but at some point an instinctual thought process can lead to premeditated behaviors. They may be more like us (humans) than we may like to admit.

The Long Arm Of The Law Of Gravity.

Have you ever been walking and suddenly become conscious of the fact that you have arms? Are they swaying too much? Are they not swaying enough? Is gravity pulling them so far down that you resemble that of our primate counterparts?

Once this thought enters your mind, it’s difficult to free it from this self-conscious dilemma. I start observing other people’s arm movement so that I can maybe gauge what normal arm swing is. To no avail, it seems as though everybody else has it down. It’s at this point that I begin crunching some numbers and figuring out how I might be able to budget a rascal scooter or perhaps one of those new-age Segways.

With money tight right now, I ultimately I have to come to grips with the fact that perhaps I just walk a little funny. So big deal, my arms awkwardly move about when I’m walking, at least I don’t walk duck footed. Unless of course I do walk duck footed. Shit, I’ll have to look into that.

Shank Tank

Are convicts really given mirrors in prison? Movies always have that classic shot of all the inmates using their mirrors to see the newbie or “fresh meat’ as I was referred to during my first stint in jeuvy. I can’t help but wonder though, wouldn’t these dudes promptly sharpen that mirror into a shiv and shank the newbie to show him who runs the cellblock?

While we’re on the subject of prisoners and their crafty tendencies, why not put their walnut sized brains to use for something more worth wild then making license plates? Though traditionally think tanks were reserved for intellects and specialists invested in problem solving, I believe it’s worth harnessing the minds of the 25 to lifers. Here are two main reasons why a prison community would lend itself to a successful think tank. 1) They have nowhere to go and nothing to do. 2) Their crafty problem solving methods for creating weapons, masterminding escapes or just scoring some extra peanut butter on their PBJ sandwiches should not go untapped.

Generally the term “think tank” is just a phrase used to describe a collection of intellects, not an actual room or better yet a tank. However, in the case of the prisoners, they really are in a tank. A beautiful marrying of two very different things.

I’d Curl Up With A Book If It Wasn’t For My Pulpuslacerataphobia. (Fear Of Paper Cuts)

I remember before Blockbuster came along new releases consisted of one shelf. Now they take up the entire perimeter of the store. As far as I’m concerned, new releases should be reserved for films that have been released in the past month. Because of this, classic old movies are relegated to the center shelves where more often than not you can only view the binding of the DVD case. I mean seriously, who are they to decide if ‘Police Academy 7’ is worthy of a full cover display or simply a side display? Because of this my perfect movie selection is put in jeopardy.

After pining over which marginal movie to watch by myself on a Friday night I head towards the register. This proves to be more difficult a task than one might think. The line begins somewhere towards the back of the store, mimicking that of the line for Thunder Mountain at Disney’s Frontier Land. This of course is so that Big Bad Blockbuster can tempt your fat ass with treats that could fatten even the fastest of metabolisms. As if that’s not bad enough, they also offer a large selection of trash celebrity news magazines. Magazines at a fucking movie rental store! Am I the only one that finds this ass backwards? Here I am premeditating a two-hour couch potato session and they have the audacity to offer me even more time wasting vehicles. Sadly as I drag my feet through this gauntlet of gluttony I inevitably grab a box of snowcaps and this month’s edition of CosmoGirl (I can never resist all those great quizzes and helpful tips).

Though the aforementioned gripes would be enough to sour any trip to a local movie rental store, the real tragedy happens at check out. It’s here that your pathetic dignity and movie selection is showcased for all to see. Upon the exchange of your moneys, the dult behind the counter hands you three hundred receipts that you ultimately toss in the parking lot and announces, “Ok Mr. Del fagio of 66 South Rd. ‘Dirty Dancing’ is due back here Sunday at noon.” (Yes that’s right, I find Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze’s performance to be magical. Don’t judge me.) Beet red in the face from embarrassment and anger I storm out of the store vowing to never visit Blockbuster again.

Next week I’ll stand on that same line with a box of cookie dough balls, a Teen Vogue, and the epic ‘Titanic’ in my hands.

You Literally Don't Want To Push My Buttons.

Elevators don’t operate faster when the button is pressed more than once. I may go out and buy a building just so that I can install electric shock sensors so that if a button is hit more than once, the impatience person will receive a jolt.

[Incidentally, buying this building will also fulfill another dream I have of becoming a property owner. Not for the sake of making a sound financial investment, but rather so that I can walk around with the deed to the building and bet people ridiculous things with it. For instance I bet you the deed to my building that my grandfather invented the cob salad. Though he hasn’t, who in their right mind would question a man that would be willing to wager such a large kitty.]

As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by myself, I’d like to punish those who push elevator buttons more than once. There are two different instances where this may happen, however it is usually the same people doing both.

Instance number one, I roll up to my office lobby and press the elevator up button. The button is then illuminated, indicating that the elevator has been notified that my dumbass is waiting to be brought up to my sorry cube. At which point I step back and wait for the doors to the sixth circle of hell to open. Then walks in Johnny Come Lately. This fool sees that the button is clearly lit and proceeds to push it anyway, right in front of me no less. I take personal offense to this, as if Johnny over here doesn’t think I’m a good elevator door pusher. Or conversely, that I like to just stand in front of elevators with out pushing the button, simply to wait and see how long it might take for the elevator to realize I’m standing there waiting. Above all, it’s just redundant, he gained nothing from the additional push other than the nastiest stare I can muster at 8:30am.

Instance number two, I’m in the elevator and watch as someone presses their desired floor over and over again until they arrive at said floor. Clearly I can’t haul off and hit them, right? But I would like to bring to their attention how ridiculous and stupid they come across. I don’t expect someone to comprehend the inner workings of a nuclear power plant, but fucking think for a second and realize that an elevator cannot sense your urgency. You’re already late for a meeting, no sense in making yourself look like an incompetent fuck at the same time.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

The Reality Of Movies Reminds Me Why My Reality Sucks.

Movies are supposed to portray real life, right? Well if that’s the case, then I have a bone to pick with the self-absorbed, egocentric, assclowns in Hollywood. Keep in mind; I let the big things slide. Such as an alien invasion that is thwarted not by nuclear missiles and all the armed forces in the entire world, but rather the common cold and in one case the alien’s allergic reaction to water. That’s right, the fucking sniffles and a substance that makes up three-quarters of this planet. Or perhaps when the repercussions for a quirky detective duo’s highway antics involving a twenty-car pile-up result in a mere heated discussion with the “Captain.” Those cheese-dicks always walk into this quintessentially grimy station and get greeted by some dude behind a desk saying, “The ‘Cap’ wants to see you. He looks really pissed this time.”

With that said, there are some things that I just can’t turn a blind eye to. For instance, when was the last time you got a dope parking spot right in front of the building that you were going to? (Of course exemptions go to those who are handicap, they always get the best spots in the joint.) Real reality would be to show some schlep (me) parking five blocks away and having to call the person they were going to see three times during the walk because he (me again) forgot what number the building was and what number he should buzz.

Or how about the spontaneous break-into synchronized dance routine? Not that I frequently watch movies with such ridiculous scenarios, but I’ve seen it enough to beg the question, who the fuck does that? Whether at a dance, or in the middle of the street, none portray life as it is.

Just to mention a few more, carving the Thanksgiving turkey at the table, good cop bad cop, or a young boy catching a foul ball at a Major League baseball game without being groped like an alter boy.

I guess when it comes down to it reality is boring. Unless of course we’re talking about “Reality TV,” where a staff of a hundred drones pour over tens of thousands of casting tapes searching for the most volatile mix of human beings. If that were reality, I’d probably find myself in a cellblock somewhere upstate.

Insect Slaughter Can Be Fun With Friends!

I spotted my first firefly of the summer, which reminds me, I need to smoosh my first firefly of the summer.

My Solution To Social Security Is A Series Of Conveyor Belts And One Gigantic Tar Pit (don't worry they won't feel a thing).

Why is it that old people are so anal about the grocery store conveyor belt? What is the worst that can happen? The worst-case scenario is the cashier will have to remove their can of cat food (which I fear they're eating) from my bill and I will go about my day. But instead they grab for the plastic divider white knuckled and slam it down between their fancy feast and my bag of bananas. I can only surmise that the reason for this behavior stems from a horrible checkout line past. Perhaps when they were my age, there were no conveyor belts and all cashiers had no tolerance for grocery misunderstandings and the penalty for such an infraction was the removal of a digit.

The meticulous fervor of the checkout line antics carries over into the choosing of the perfect cantaloupe. I have witnessed squeezing that could be considered sensual, smacking that could be considered abusive and general indecisiveness that could frustrate even the most patient of people. With all that said, if I thought that would be the last cantaloupe I would ever buy, I would put some time into the selection as well.

What's a rant about geriatrics in the super market without mentioning their habits at the deli counter? Without these people the production of liverwurst would come to a grinding halt. Of course, I've had liverwurst once, but that was because my Grandma gave it to me, and I thought it was bologna (yes I used to eat bologna). But with my one experience, I hadn't realized that there were so many varying thicknesses one could desire. As I wait on line I watch as the woman behind the counter shakes a thin piece, of what appears to be fuzzy meat, over her head. "Just a little thinner," the geriatric replies, as he reaches over the counter to sample what would have been a discarded piece of processed meat.

I know these same people are someone's grandparents and are sweet and thoughtful. But when's the last time you've had to wait for your grandma to count out 97 cents in pennies or remain patient as she argues about a can of discounted yams?

Mensa Called, They'd Like You To Join Their Janitorial Staff.

The sole purpose of an I.Q. test is to measure intelligence. It does not however help to accurately gauge stupidity. Luckily, there are some simple indicators to help identify our brainless constituents. You don't have to be overly observant, a quick spin around can give you a glimpse at a number of examples. For instance, watching somebody struggle as they push a door that is clearly marked "Pull". Or maybe observing a guy spitting out his gum on the sidewalk, only to step in it thirty seconds later. Or perhaps witnessing a guy walking around with a toilet paper tail. Without question, these are some examples of quintessential stupidity. Sad as it may be, I accomplished all of these marvelously stupid feats before I even sat down at my desk this morning. I'd like to think that you could be intelligent and stupid at the same time, but I'm quickly thinking that that is impossible. I sometimes wonder how I find my way back home after every workday; I'm certainly not smart enough to leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

What I Learned In High School.

1. There is no such thing as a permanent record.
2. There IS SUCH thing as a criminal record.
3. The Mitochondria is the powerhouse cell.
4. The "i" before "e" except after "c" rule is bullshit.
5. Ham and cheese sandwiches don't age well in a metal locker.
6. Before you accuse other people of stepping in dog shit, check your own shoes.
7. Be weary of people who offer to do your homework. They may not write so good.
8. Drinking in the woods is better than not drinking at the prom.
9. Teachers have lives outside of school. Some even news worthy, like being featured in the police blotter.
10. The letter "y" is the black sheep of the vowel family.
11. Graduates of the D.A.R.E. program are 100% more likely to try drugs.
12. The "cool kids" either end up in jail, a maternity ward, or a GED program.
13. Shortcuts and cheating trumps hard work.
14. A teenager's fashion sense leaves much to be desired. Z Cavaricci's, need I say more?
15. Mailmen can easily be bribed to withhold any communications from school.

Will You Pick My Nose When I'm In My Straight Jacket?

Recently, while on my way to lunch, I caught myself chanting my order over and over in my head. Turkey, Munster, Mustard, Whole Wheat. Turkey, Munster, Mustard, Whole Wheat. Turkey, Munster, Mustard, Whole Wheat. It freaked me out. I quickly pictured how well I'd fit-in in a Mental Ward circa 1950. As far as I can tell (as if this isn't my brain we're talking about), the rationale for doing this is so that I can choose the most efficient and audibly comprehensible sandwich phrasing. That way I ensure a successful order while avoiding confusion and ridicule from others on line.

Jesus, I really need to loosen up.

I Would Have Shit My Pants If I Weren't Already On The Toilet.

Quirky trick birthday candles, though obnoxious, never present any real danger. Trick toilets however, come with serious consequences. Yesterday I had the displeasure of dropping trough on a bowl that when flushed, first rose before retreating. The sheer horror that ran through my mind is difficult to put into words. It's like when you tip back in your chair and get that quick queasy feeling in your gut a split second before you think you're going over. Unfortunately for me, that feeling was not fleeting; it remained until the ordeal worked itself out.

Instantly, my brain was catapulted into damage control mode. Turn off the water source to the toilet, search for a plunger, think of someone else to blame, turn on the sink so people outside can't hear me struggling. With all the commotion, I forgot two key steps in the "Oh shit the toilet is about to over-flow process." First and foremost, wipe your ass, dumbass. Second, before flipping out and loosing your cool, confirm that the toilet is in fact over-flowing. In this instance, it wasn't. When all was said and done, there was a brief sensation of exhilaration, followed by unwarranted chaos, and an awkward post wipe. For my next mid-day adrenalin rush I hope to keep my pants securely fastened to my waist.

I Feel Like A Lab Monkey When I Use A Vending Machine. Koko Like Kit Kats.

When I punch in the coordinates to a highly anticipated treat, I hold my breath for fear that the coils will not spin my snack free. I have very little to base this anxiety on since as far back as I can remember, I think I've had maybe two or three things get stuck in the mechanical snack czar's grips. Usually if it happens I just shake the shit like a newborn until my goodies are released. I refuse to be one of those suckers who's proactive solution is to continue to feed the machine with money in hopes that eventually the back up of candy will relinquish at least one of their purchased products. I may have flunked most of my business classes in college, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what a sunk cost is.

Even though I stand breathless until my snack is dropped, the sense of accomplishment achieved when my violent shaking yields a well deserved snack is a great feeling. Just the other day I was walking by the kitchen in my office and came across a woman who had a bag of Smart Choice popcorn stuck in the machine. She was passively tapping on the plexiglass in hopes that the bag would succumb to her lackluster attempt. I knew full well that it wouldn't, so I offered my services. First order of business was to patronize her for putting money in not once, not twice, but three times for a bag of cheddar flavored styrofoam puffs. Second, grab hold of the machine and shake the holy hell out of it. Just as people began sticking their heads out from their offices, two of the bags she purchased fell. My reward? One of her bags of popcorn and a look of absolute astonishment at my willingness to violently shake something for a perfect stranger. My social graces may vary slightly from that of a chimpanzee, however our problem solving methods are one in the same.

A Marginal Joke Lives To See Another Marginal Day.

There was a recent attempt by the FBI and local law enforcement in Milford Township, Michigan to uncover the remains of former Labor Union President Jimmy Hoffa. The excavation of a local farm was brought on by the feeble last words of a known mob associate on his deathbed. If that doesn't scream credible, I don’t know what does.

I for one was relieved when officials announced that the dig had concluded with no viable evidence or possible leads. If it were up to me this secret would die with the remaining retired mobsters. That way my marginal one-liners like, "you have a better chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa's body in that desk, then a pen that works," can continue to live on. Let's face it, one man is already dead, there's no sense in killing a playful joke as well.

Though I dodged a bullet this time, I've come to realize that I can't ignore the possibility that one day Jimmy may be found. Who knows, some good jokes might come out of it.

[I can occasionally be an optimist.]

Let me think for a moment of some jokes that could come from the discovery of this decaying corpse…

Ok, so here's a new spin on an old thing… After observing a guy with half his torso in the refrigerator, you promptly say, "Hey buddy, didn't you hear, the search is over, they found Hoffa's body."

Yeah that works, and I like the condescending tone. Yet there is a short life span to a joke like this. Not to mention the one-liner relies heavily on the average schlep being up to date with current events. You don't want this joke to turn into some discussion about the details of the investigation and subsequent exhumation. The purpose is to make the person feel like a jackass and move on. So no, new jokes regarding the unearthing of Jimmy Hoffa's remains will not work. Be sides, why fix what's already broken, shot, mangled and rotting in a shallow grave?

To be fair, I will spend a second to discuss what good might come from finding this crook's body. For one, family, friends, and "associates" might find comfort in knowing that good ole James has settled into his final resting place in some gaudy over the top mausoleum in a mid-west cemetery. In addition, those with a bit of a morbid curiosity might receive more information regarding the cause of death. This point however proves invalid. It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist's trip to the local coroner's office to come to the conclusion that poor Jimmy was either shot in the head execution style or strangled with one of his Egyptian silk ties. Or both.

Now conversely, let's think of what harm will be done if such a finding ever happens. To think unselfishly, as I so often do, finding Jimmy's body would bring an end to the mystique and mystery of his life's story. For all intensive purposes, his disappearance has kept him alive much longer than any proper burial would have. Now to think selfishly, which I do more often, finding his body would rob me of my perceived wittiness and quick thinking. I stress perceived. I have so very little in my comedic repertoire as it is, removing this joke would force me to pull some tasteless JFK assassination lines out of retirement.

For instance, "Hey buddy is that ketchup on your shirt or were you standing a little too close to the motorcade when Lee Harvey splattered JFK's medulla oblongata all over downtown Dallas?"

See, that's not funny or clever, just dumb, tasteless and untimely. Believe me when I say, I don’t want to use my old JFK jokes. For every one laugh I got, I received one hundred nasty looks and the occasional phlegm wad slung my way.

I find that the most perplexing part of this mystery is why the FBI has the money or man-hours to waste looking for the body of a criminal who disappeared over thirty years ago? Or what they look to gain when and if the body is ever found? All I know is that the thin thread of shtick humor that I'm holding onto will be abruptly clipped if his body is ever found. Sad, but true.

"There's Some of That Going Around."

It's always comforting to receive this lovely empty consolation when your skull feels like it's five hat sizes too small for your brain. Sure you can get a cold from someone, but it's not likely that someone that knows someone that has a cold has sneezed on your stapler. Now the Bubonic plague, that goes around, but a stomach virus or the sniffles never present an epidemic.

Ultimately people simply like to offer up their own personal diagnosis. I can't begin to count the ridiculous home remedies I've been "unofficially" prescribed. It was a very sobering moment when I finally stopped subscribing to these words of advice. I found myself sitting in a dark room with a towel over my head and Vic's vapor rub on parts of my body that can only be reached with the help of a baking spatula.

Birthday Wishes Can Wish Others Harm, Right?

I'm not particularly big into my birthday. Sure the presents are nice, but having to watch family and friends awkwardly get through a verse of Happy Birthday isn't worth a button down shirt and an astronaut pen. If anything, it's other people's birthdays that I enjoy. You see, I'm a giver. For instance, I enjoy giving my buddy his seventh birthday shot of tequila full well knowing his limit is six.

Above all, I dread having someone ask me when my birthday is. Immediately following this inquiry I fall silent. I sit wondering if this is going to be the predestined moment when I succumb to the barrage of irrelevant comments and die inside.

Inevitably one of two responses is given upon receipt of my DOB. One, "That's so ironic, my second oldest nephew's birthday is three days before yours." Or two, "Oh a Gemini. Figures." I can extract not one iota of useful information from either of these remarks. If it's small talk you're looking for, maybe you should give your second oldest nephew a ring and nag him for a while. And as for using the alignment of stars to make assumptions about my personality, save it for someone who finds inspiration in fortune cookies.

New Faces Only Add to the Monotony

Today I witnessed a cube migration. Effective last week, an entire department was told they had to move to a new floor. That new floor, that new location, that new area, is my floor, my location, and my area. There was a palpable buzz around my quadrant (said in your best robot voice), with everyone transporting his or her collection of trinkets, knickknacks and bric-a-brac ("they" call it desk flair), from their old desk to a new. A poster with a little kitten titled "Hang in there," a fern named Fred, a quirky statue of a Buddha with an "I heart NYC" t-shirt on. They all made the big trek. Everyone seemed to have a smile on their face as they arrange their belongings, only to notice that despite being on a new floor, everything looked the same.

The Buzzards are Back. And they Come Bearing a Sweet Tooth.

Yesterday brought children of all ages to the work place. No, Congress has not over turned the Child Protection Act of 1932; it was "Take Your Kid to Work Day." The shine from little Mary Jane's and Penny Loafers donned the hallways and brightened up the usually gloomy cubes. The day was filled with office arts n' crafts, interrupted phone calls, and some paste eating. In the final stretch, as a reward for putting their little button noses to the grindstone, Baskin Robbins sponsored an ice cream social.

To their dismay, the children found that before they could cool their little tongues and tummies with two sweet scoops, they had to battle the office buzzards. The little kiddies were no match. A regular David and Goliath. However this time Goliath is an obese cube jockey hopped up on ice cream and rainbow sprinkles, armed with a pink spoon sharpened into a shiv. As I passed the conference room I over heard one over-weight, known diabetic with a five-scoop sundae saying, "These kids just aren't cut out for the corporate world."

Office Lingo I can do without.

Okey-Doke. Just Peachy. What a Kawinkidink. What a Hoot. Cool Beans.

Obviously Gandhi Never Went Club'n.

Being calm, peaceful and stoic is easy when there isn't a jackass trying to hump your leg while waving a glow stick in your face.

If being king of the world means dying a frozen death so that a girl I just met earlier that day could live, I'll pass.

They say loose lips sink ships. I say in the case of the Titanic I believe it was a huge fucking iceberg, dead ahead!

Lost Blog

Has it been virtually swept under my mother board's rug?

Safety in Numbers

An office is a perfect setting to find some no-bit secretary mass emailing everybody in the 1500 person office to try and pool together money for the $350 million power ball. The hope here is to magically change her and her fellow employees miserable lives. This just in, some trucker in Nebraska just crapped on all of their dreams.

Next Friday Consider Dressing Down More Than Just Your Attire.

Free bagels on Friday means a swarming of office buzzards and scavengers snatching up whatever is left of their pathetic lives. "Ray!" Peggy exclaims, "did you see they have a sixth type of cream cheese this week?" No Peggy you miserable wench, I hadn't notice. -RAY D