Of All the Days I Hate Most, Monday is My Favorite.

There will be no real 'blog' today for several reasons:

1.  I slept through two alarms this morning.   .38 Special's gonna have to step it up a notch.

2.  Both dogs crapped on the floor while I was in the shower. (Yes, I let them out to do their 'business' beforehand.  I may be paranoid, but I think they're in cahoots. I've heard them giggling behind my back.)  

3.  While making my lunch, a bottle of V.O. fell out of the cabinet and shattered on the kitchen floor.  (On a positive note, the dogs will probably sleep really well all day.)

4.   Monday morning traffic sucks ass.   Late Monday morning traffic sucks ass and then French kisses you.

5.   It's month-end close here at work.  If more information is necessary, you don't work in Finance.

6.   It's Halloween.   'Nuf said.

7.   I forgot to take my meds.  THOSE meds.
      In this case, it means Monday's going to be FUBAR'd for everyone who works for me, too.  

Hey.  Maybe things are looking up after all....

Happy Fucking Monday.

Outness, y'all,Save as Draft
Ach

“Are You Being Sarcastic?” “Well No, Duh!”

I don't know about you, but I've found that the first conversation of the morning is usually a good barometer of how the day's gonna go.  Here is this morning's.....

Me (laying in bed at 8:00 this morning. listening to the upstairs neighbor's Weimaraner bark it's fool head off):   Wow, the people living upstairs sure have a noisy-ass dog.

Him:   You don't hear ours out there whining and barking?

Me:   Yeah, but I don't think the people upstairs can hear them like we can hear theirs.

Him (with that look of impending mordancy on his face):  Right.  Because sound waves are cold and they fall.  It's science.

Me:    Hmph.   






Yup.  It was one of those days.  (Love you, Baby!)

Outness, y'all,
Ach

WTF Friday: It's Raining Cats and Dogs. Watch Out for the Poodles.

Due to a lack of material and a lack of imagination, WTF Fridays have been missing the last couple of weeks.  To those who have been waiting patiently, thank you.  The rest of you can bite me.  Get it?  

So without further ado, I give you WTF Friday...Extreme Poodling:

Bet mom and dad are thrilled with what you're doing with that Masters in Art History....

He ain't nothin' but a hound dog....(Yeah, too easy.  I know)

Pirates of the Cari-bone-ean.

Cock-a-Poodle-Doo.  

Quit eq-whining about it.  It'll grow out.

 Why they'd do this to a dog just buffaloes me.

Steel Curtain....with lace sheers....

No poodle-toe jokes, please.

Isn't that just duckin' adorable?  (I quack myself up)

Looks like Sara Jessica Parker's gone blonde again. (Did I type that outloud?)

Ahhh...the rare and elusive Poocock...

The cubed poodle.  Great for stacking.

As they say, it's no wonder dogs bite.

Happy Friday!!

Outness, y'all,

Ach

It's Freesing in Heaven and There are Shellfish in Hell. I Know. I've Been There.

What a night!  Like a rollercoaster ride between a metaphoric Heaven and Hell.

The ride started in HEAVEN:   I had dinner at Chili's with Kid 1.  Love their fajitas.  I paid because he's a good guy and I figure that someday he'll be picking out my nursing home. (I'd sure like to have a garden view.)   It was good to catch up because sadly, as some of you may already know, 20-year-olds have whole entire lives outside of their mom's.  Yeah, I don't get it either.   I sure love that kid man.

I rushed home to where Him, batching it alone, decided to eat some shrimp for dinner.  Not sure what I was thinking when I offered to help him clean up.   Decending into HELL:

Did I mention that I'm terribly allergic to shellfish?  And this was BEFORE the itching and swelling set in.  This morning, I'm seeing the world  as through the swollen, oozing eyes of Sugar Ray Leonard's sparring partner and it sure ain't pretty.

Back to HEAVEN:   Baseball Heaven, that is.  Game 6 of the World Series.  Here in St. Louis.  

Then HELL:  A comedy of errors leave things looking bad for the good-guys.  The score is 9-9.  Bottom of the 11th, two outs, full count on David Freese.  Down to the last pitch.  

The real Hell part?  It's after 11:00 and my alarm will be going off at 4 freakin 30.

HEAVEN:    A walk-off home run to win the game 10-9 and force a game 7 (tonight). 

While I was in Heaven, I didn't get to see the pearly gates, but if there is a God, this is proof positive that he's a Cardinal fan.

BIRDS!!

Outness, ya'll!
Ach

We Interrupt This Blog to Bring You an Important Commentary...

  I sometimes ask for advice and like most people, I like to think I take constructive criticism quite well.  Then again, I also occasionally like to think that I'm Lady Godiva and ride around the neighborhood naked on a horse.  (Shaddup!  Didn't your mom ever tell you it's not nice to point and stare?)   

However, on my list of people from whom I WOULD NEVER consider taking advice (especially unsolicited advice on my love life), first place would be a toss-up between the guy who owns the comic book store in the mini-mall down the street and any given TSA agent from any airport.  Anywhere.  On.  Earth.  

Unless you've been living in a cave since 9/11/01, you're aware that the TSA’s security process has become only slightly less intrusive than a routine body cavity search on an episode of COPS - Tijuana. The days of quick security checkpoints and simple metal detectors are long gone, and their replacements are virginity-taking searches that your gyno would be embarrassed to do, a list of prohibited items as necessary long as my leg, and an army of questionable, quasi-trained lackeys on their individual, self-initiated power trips.

Unfortunately a woman who recently checked her bag on a flight from Newark to Dublin Ireland learned this the hard way.  By all appearances it was going to be a normal trip.  She packed all the things she needed.  Checked in and checked her bag.  Normal protocol, right?   

Well apparently this particular woman, had also packed her battery operated boyfriend for the trip.  Unknowingly, she was earmarked for a random search of her checked baggage and when she opened the bag in Dublin found this helpful little note from the TSA douchebag agent who rifled through searched her bag.    

The good news is that the offending TSA deviant (is that redundant?) has since been identified and reassigned.  My guess was he was promoted to the groping station, but I have no proof.  Perhaps we can just follow the eardrum piercing shrieks from Concourse B to confirm.

Oh.  Did I forget to mention?  This woman is an attorney who also happens to be a blogger at feministe.us.  Almost makes me feel sorry for the poor bastard.  Almost.

Just goes to show, you should never fuck with people who serve you food or who might have a law degree.

What do you all think?  I'd LOVE to hear what you have to say.

Outness, y'all.

Ach

It's all Ronald Reagan's fault

Yesterday, I played hooky.  Sure, I could have hauled my loafin ass out of bed and gone in, but the essence of hooky is that you could/should/would have gone to work had it not been for a better offer.  And for me, that offer, as usual, had a Serta tag on the end of it.   But as a bonus,  I got to do the first real honest-to-goodness test of my fancy schmancy new clock radio/iPod docking station/apple peeler/thermonuclear reactor.  Well, at least the alarm part.  Still screwin with Amazon.com and that stupid back ordered Uranium.   Not eligible for free shipping.  WTF??

The first alarm went off at 4:30 (yes, AM) as set.  Snooze engaged.

Fifteen minutes later, it went off again.  Bastard!

The second alarm went off at 5:00.  Like clockwork. (he he).

This called for the use of a secondary, and as yet unneeded snooze button.

What seemed like just seconds later, at 5:15, the godforsaken thing blared .38 Special yet another, and mercifully, final time.   I vaguely remember rolling over to turn it off, ever secure in the fact that I could just close my eyes for a couple of seconds and I'd be ready to jump out of bed and face the crack of that bitch, Dawn (someone really needs to tell Dawn to lay off the sauerkraut at night...her mornings are brutal).

Well, I think we all know how this story ends.  At 7:44 I pried my right eyelid open, saw the sun streaming through the window and just then the crystal clear reality that there was no way in this freakin world that I was going into work bitch slapped me.   Now stop looking at me like that!  You've all done it!  Dammit! Don't make me check with your HR department.

At this point it was time for a decision.  I have an entire repertoire of excuses that range from benign to the downright blatant. Shall I color you surprised?  My current favorite is based loosely upon the trickle down theory of economics (and by loosely, I mean I have no idea what trickle down economics is and by trickle down, I mean like when you've waited too long to get to the bathroom and you sound like Secretariat pissing):  "On my salary, with gas prices as high as they are, the 35 mile drive into work for just a few hours isn't cost effective."

Sure, I could take public transportation, but after a train, two bus transfers, and a rickshaw, it's just way too much work to get to work.  So I drive.  But I don't drive what you'd call a particularly fuel-efficient vehicle.  I know what you're thinking....get something more economical, right?  But you see, this heap of tin beautiful example of Japanese design and engineering is perd near paid off.  And since math isn't my strong suit (and by not being my strong suit I mean I'm too lazy to figure it out), I'm going with the assumption that an impending lack of a car payment will offset any potential fuel cost savings over the life of said new vehicle.  

So there you have it.  It's economics.  Pretty sure I'm saving money by staying home.  Now will someone help me explain that to my boss?

Outness, y'all.
Ach

Quick! I Need a Word That Rhymes With Goober.

It's Monday and the inside of my head is like so much unflavored Jello...Squishy and fun to play with, but not worth diddly otherwise.  Therefore,  I thought I'd share with you a little something from my Facebook wall.  

As we are prone to do, Him and I tend to bogart each other's FB posts.  Not intentionally, mind you.  We just get a little carried away at times.  The following interchange took place between Him and me not too long ago, when I was dealing with yet another episode of cell phone signal strength (or lack thereof) inside this building. 

As for the content, I don't recommend asking questions.  There are no answers. 

It's just THAT kind of relationship.     XOXO

___________

My original status update:

                 My cell phone suddenly died.

                The signal dropped off in stages.

                Without it, I feel

                Like I'm in the Middle Ages.

Him:         I'm awful sad to hear that, Jayne.
                I hate to see you try in vain.
                I think that I would go insane.
                I'll stop before I strain my brain...

 Me:          Don't want to come across

                As apathetic,

                But neither of us

                Should wax poetic.

Him:         I'm not a poet, I'm just a minion,
                But I'm still hurt by your opinion.
                Next time speak for yourself.
                Ouch, I bumped this fucking shelf!

Me:           If I say that I'm sorry, 

                Would that be enough?

                Otherwise I'm afraid 

                You'd leave in a huff.

                No one else is joining in, 

                They've got nothing to say.

                But if you want to continue,

                I can go on all day.

 Him:        Their absence here 

                Is sure not a crime.
                They simply know

                That they just can't rhyme.


                 I'm going nowhere
                I'm here til the end Hon.
                You see, if I stop,

                You'll think that you won.

Me:          No need to win by default.

                I can deliver with my talent.

                When I kick your poetic ass,

                Will you still be so gallant?

Him:        When it comes to poetry,

                My ass will please ya.
                Just so happens I drank

                Poetic Milk of Magnesia.

Me:          LOL, Sweetie. 

               You're the king of iambic pentameter.

               With talent like that,

               You could work as a janitor.

Him:        I'll bust some rhymes, 

               When I get the itch.
               Now go back to work,

               At being a bitch.

Me:          I'm holding back. 

                Yes, I'm showing control.          

                I might be a bitch,

                But you're an asshole. (kisses, baby)

Him:        When this post started,

                For you I felt sorrow.
                Now I hope it's broken

                Until tomorrow...

Me:          We'll stop for now.

                My cell phone's finally got bars.

                Thanks for the fun rhyming,

                Hope it didn't leave scars.

Him:         Hey! No problem!

                Hell, I think it was fun.
                I have the last poem 

                So haha, I won!

Me:           LOL! Aw, that's cute,

                But the game's not forsaken.

                If you think that you've won, 

                You're sadly mistaken.

Him:         Wrong there, my darlin.

                The song of victory I sing.
                You lost the game.

                You already left the ring. (I am cute though)

Me:           I'm not giving in 

                And not being a snob,

                But if I go much further,

                I'll be needing a job.

                This fight isn't over, 

                On that please rely.

                I gotta go now,

                My boss is giving the stink eye.

Him:         You know you lost          

                But what's not in dispute
                Is the undeniable fact,

                That I'm very cute.

Me:           On that I won't fight,

                Still here there'll be a firing.

                 I should probably ask

                 Is your company hiring?

Him:        In answer to that,

                I just don't know.
                I do have a job for you

                but only if you can blow...

Me:          I'm giving that thought,

                There's just one thing to say.

                I may need a job.

                What does it pay?’

Him:        The benefits suck and 

                The pay's kinda crappy,
                But one things for sure...

                You'll make your boss happy!   (that's me)

Me:          The benefits suck. 

                Haha! Great innuendo.

                This poem, it seems,

                Has hit a crescendo.

                I'll keep it in mind, 

                See if things go as planned.

                In the meantime today,

                It's just you and your hand.

Him:         Just me and my hand? 

                I think I follow.
                Did you find my offer

                Difficult to swallow?

Me:          Opportunities like that 

                Don't pop up every day.

                One thing's for sure,

                You're certainly not gay.

                Wish I could continue,

                But some meetings await.

                By the time I get back, 

                It might be very late.

                It's been so much fun,

                Your wit is renown.

                 Hopefully real soon,

                That swelling will go down. ; )

Him:         You too have great wit, 

                And your poetry's prolific.
                I'm swelled in two spots. 

                Can you be more specific?

Me:          Wow! Really? Two places?

                That is quite a feat.

                My curiosity is aroused.

                Where can we meet?

Him:        Took your "hand" advice, 

                Now ones gotten thinner.
               We can still meet though. 

                What about dinner?

Me:           Been thinkin 'bout dinner...

                I had just started lookin.

                I'm definitely game.

                What are you cookin?

Him:        I was thinking of meat

                That one could slip **ck in.
                So I went to the store
                And got a big chicken.  (never go to the grocery store swollen)

Me:         Dinner sounds yummy, 

               Tell me what time.

               Oh by the way

               Do cock in / chicken really rhyme?
  

               I'm really tired but 

               I'll follow your lead.

               People probably hate us,

               We blew up their news feed.

Him:         Dinners at 7,

                Still needs to be plucked.
                If people don't like us 

                then they can get fucked!

No, it's not Frost and Dickinson, but it works for us.  

Happy Monday!

Outness, y'all,

Ach


P.S.    At the time, the only thing I could think of to fill in the blanks on "**ck in" was cock.   Duh!
Sometimes I amaze myself with my density....

That Quatrain has Left the Station

As you know, my beloved St. Louis Cardinals are playing game 3 of the World Series tonight.  I present to you a conversation that took place in our living room tonight, just before the first pitch, and with the VO barely tapped.....


Him:   I was just thinking how crucial Allen Craig has been in the postseason.  Craigslist.  Let's add another winning run to it.

(Shortly after, like he really knew what he was talking about, Craig gets a clutch hit.)

Me:   That's amazing. You're like some kinda freakin' prophet.

Him:   Thanks!  Some people call me Nostradumbass.




Get your own blog, Him.

BIRDS!!!!


Outness, y'all!
Ach

You're Not The Boss of Me or Do You Think Nietzsche Wore a Hoody?

Like most people who work 40+ hours a week, have kids, pets and significant others, downtime is an exceedingly rare commodity.  Which is why, when I DO have downtime, I prefer not to think.  And if I can't avoid thinking, I prefer not to think about anything even slightly abstract or obscure.  I know.  I'm blonde.  Shouldn't be a problem. 

It's not like I fancy myself some 21st century Socrates or anything, but occasionally, despite my best grunting, I tend to wax philosophical.  And now that I have a blog, you, dear reader, get to share these maniacal thought-provoking musings....Bwwwaahahahahaha!!!!

One of the subjects of my deep thoughts of late are 'facts'. What about 'em, you say?  They seem kinda...well, factual, 'ight?  But did you ever stop to think where they started?  I mean, somebody somewhere had to come up with the idea first, right? Someone's opinion.  And that person's BFFs, having no better explanation, agreed.  Over time, that first person's opinion came to be the prevailing train of thought.  Thus, I present for your consideration that facts are nothing more than PERPETUATED OPINIONS. (I'm not going to go into the details of my theory.  You'll just have to wait until it's peer-reviewed and published.)  

If I was you, I'd make a note of exactly where I am and what I'm doing right this very minute.  You're gonna want to remember, cause this is some heavy shit.  Someday your great-grandkids will learn about this stuff and you'll be able to say "Hey!  I know her.  She used to have a blog!"  And your grandkids will say "What's a blog?"  and you'll say back "Aw, that was a way for people to avoid doing any work at work, way back when we only had the internet." (And then they'll hit you with a warning shot from their infra-laser pulse rifles just 'cause old people can be annoying as hell...even in the future.)

Now, I'm full of opinions and ideas. Virtually overflowing, some would say.  And very little makes me happier than imposing them on sharing them with unsuspecting recipients loved ones, so who would I go to first but my soul mate and BFF?  The one who loves and appreciates me more than anything in the world, right?.  Oh, the effect this philosophical epiphany will have on his life!  I mentally prepared myself for the onslaught of lauding and congratulatory laurels.  Gifts of sparkly baubles, small domesticated animals and homemade baked goods.  Bring it on!

"Meh."  

I'll bet Albert Camus never had to deal with this kinda ennui shit.  

Obviously, my genius won't be fully appreciated until I'm gone.  And that's probably for the best.

  

Happy Weekend!

Outness, y'all!

Ach

So a blonde walks into Starbucks....

"Yes, I'll have a grande Venti, sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla soy, double shot, decaf, no foam, extra hot, Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha with light whip and extra syrup....oh, and make it ME, please!"

Starbucks new Blonde Roast.   That's just dumb.

My momma always told me, "I'm gonna belt you".....

I like to pride myself in my appearance.  Very rarely will you find me schlepping to the grocery store sans makeup with my hair a tangled mess.  Not that I'm above doing that.  Believe me, when it's Saturday morning and I'm out of Diet Pepsi, ain't no lack of mascara gonna keep me and my baseball cap from a 11:00 am an 8:00 am caffeine fix.

And when it comes to work attire, I'm old school.  I work in an office, you see. I miss the days when people dressed up. (In a minute, I think you'll see why.)   Not full-on-pantyhose-dressed-up, but some level not bordering on miasmic  I mean seriously. If you saw some of the people walking around here, you'd think that everyday was the company softball game.  Where it's 95 degrees outside.  And they got caught in a rundown between first and second.  And they had to slide.  Twice.  I know you can smell what I'm cookin here.

So anyway, I got up this morning, pumped that it's finally cool enough to wear the boots I got on sale at the end of last season for like $14.00.  Honestly.  You just don't pass up that shit.  Am I right?

So I'm rockin the boots, grey skirt and and fabulous dove grey sweater, looking in the mirror, channeling Nancy Sinatra circa 1966 (Via lip-sync, natch. Him doesn't fully appreciate sharing in my 60's vocal stylings at 5 am for some ridiculous reason.  Whatever.).  Back when she was hot and the boots she referred to were made for walking, not for comfort.

So, I'm feeling pretty good about this outfit, despite running late because I just spent 20 minutes staring at a closet full of clothes in which I have NOT A FUCKING THING TO WEAR!!!! 

I finally get to work...I don't want to tell you how many traffic laws and ethical codes I broke to get here on time...and I'm still feeling pretty good.  Despite the stumble out of the blocks, it's a good clothing day.  Then I realize.  I don't have a belt on.  

SCCRRREEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHH.   In case you can't identify it, that's the sound of my fantastic fashion day coming to a halt.   60 to zero in .25376 seconds flat.  What do you mean, you don't get it?  I guess that in order to fully appreciate the gravity of this problem, you need to know a little something about my mom and my history as it relates to proper dressing.

**Cue the harp-like, dreamy flashback sound byte...

 I was born when my mom was 35, back in the 60's.  Many of you are not quite as...ah-hem...mature as I am, but this was the the beginning of the sexual revolution, a revolution for which my parents were too old to be drafted. They grew up in the 40's and early 50's.  A very formal fashion period.  Consequently when I was in school she was one of the oldest moms of any of my classmates. What difference would that make?  Don't feel bad.  I never really understood it myself until that fateful day in October of 1971.

Exhibit A:  Parent's Day.  3rd grade.  (I hear you all doing the math in your heads. I see you trying to avoid eye contact.)  Parents Day was a function at Freeburg Elementary whereby parents were allowed, nay INVITED, to spend the day in class with their spawn darlings watching them do really boring impressive schooly stuff.  My stuff must have been super-duper impressive because while the other (young) moms showed up dressed in jeans or slacks, my mom entered the room in a burgundy wool crepe suit, 3 inch black peau de soie pumps, and a triple strand of pearls that would have made Barbara Billingsly weep crocodile tears. It was my special spectacularity that she was celebrating, right?  I mean, what other logical explanation could there be for my mom being dressed to the nines?  Duh!  Then I realized that my awesomeness notwithstanding, my mom was simply an.....(curses)...over-dresser.  Oh sweet baby Jesus, anything but THAT!!!   What's worse as a preteen than a parent that doesn't fade into the wallpaper?  (Bear in mind that I realize it wasn't my mom's fault.  She was raised in a proper time.  As a matter of fact, I still remember how amazing she looked.  All classy and Grace Kelly-ish.  Too bad me and a bunch of snot-nosed 3rd graders couldn't appreciate it.  It's said we women eventually become our mothers?To this day, I subconsciously try to emulate her.  I know.  My therapist told me so.)

**Reverse that dreamy harp-like music** (Wait...Is that Led Zeppelin?   "Here's to my sweet Satan"?  What the....???)

That day in my 11 year old life sticks in my mind like corn in a pig's ass.  One of those moments that defines you as a person, ya know?  I fully acknowledge that I my reaction could've gone either way.   I could have allowed that humiliation to dig into my psyche and at 21 said, "Fuck the man!" and worn a macrame halter top and hip huggers to my first job interview, but as luck would have it, the fashion pendulum swung to the right.  I entered Finance and the rest, as they say, is history. 

 But I ramble.  

So back to my fashion day.  Having realized that I had tucked my top into my skirt it occurred to me that one of the first fashion rules my mom taught me was never, I repeat, NEVER wear a top tucked into a bottom without some kind of belt.  Sure, I could have untucked the top, but being the conformist that I am, the panic set in.  What would my mom say?  Moreover, where the hell was I going to find a spare belt here at Acme Accounting and Live Bait??  

Then it hit me.  Where else, but in the back seat of my car, of course!  My grey belt with the sassy silver studs was there.  And as luck would have it, it went with the outfit perfectly. 

 Now, I just have to make sure my mom never finds out how I'm keeping the tail down....

Here's hoping the gods of dernier cri take pity on me tomorrow.

Outness, y'all.

Ach

P.S.  BIRDS!!!!    World Series Game 1!!   

Huck you, Guinness, and the dog you rode in on.

Back in the day, I had a copy of the Guinness Book of World Records.  1980. I spent many hours perusing the pages of that magic book (yes, I was in the band, too.  Why?).  Inside was a veritable treasure trove of useful information.  The longest fingernails on a human.  The worlds heaviest cow.  The oldest living Siamese twins. Stuff you can use in everyday life, ya know?  

Being the animal lover that I am, among my favs were those about dogs.  Biggest.  Smallest. Oldest.  Most steps walked down by a dog facing backwards balancing a glass of water.  Rudd-Weatherwax-say-what?

Yup.  That's a real, honest-to-goodness record in the 2012 Guinness World Records.  So is Fastest time to pop 100 balloons by a dog (44.49 sec, in case you were wondering).   And in case you didn't think that the Guinness staff had too much time on their collective hands, there's the ever popular, Most rotations by a dog around a human neck in 30 seconds.  You don't have to say it.  I know.   

Never let it be said that I'm not open minded (yes, I realize it's a double negative.  We're goin' with it).  I have no beef against a Jack Russell who was, as my dad would say, 'hopped up on the ghanga' or a Border Collie with a Velcro head, so when I read the other day that the world's record for the dog with the longest ears is a Coonhound named Harbor, I let my curiosity loose.  Here's a pic of Harbor:

Yup.  25.75 inches.  Pretty stinkin impressive.

Now, my Huck's no slouch in the ear department.   Not counting his knobby little noggin, his earspan is a whopping 18.5 inches and he's ADORABLE, to boot:

I love the little brontosaurus-legged, floppy-eared freak, record holder or not, but am seriously honked off that any ol' Rover, Spot, or Mitzi can create a new, obscure category in which to spend the allotted 105 minutes of fame. (We're talking dog minutes here. Stay with me.) 

I think I'm going to sit down and write a strongly worded email to Mr. Guinness.  Right after I get out my flute and see if I've still got it.  You can take the girl out of the band, but....

Outness, y'all,

Ach

P.S.  By the way, the bitch with the water glass did ten steps.  La-dee-freakin-da.  Nobody likes a show-off.

Why do we be an asshole?

I can be a Grade A spaz.

 Sure.  I'll be happy to give you a minute to compose yourself after that revelation.

I'm a fairly simple person and can occasionally get overwhelmed. Especially when confronted by what appear to be waaaaay too many choices.  No.  Shut up!   It's NOT the blonde hair...  

Chocolate, strawberry, or vanilla ice cream.  See?  Easy.

Unleaded or Super unleaded.  Fine.  

Paper or plastic.  I got this.

On Blogger, it's not quite that cut and dried.  There are 435 different backgrounds provided (not to mention the infinite number of personal photos that can be uploaded). Not sure why people don't want to see that pic of my drunk aunt Verna humping the Thanksgiving turkey every time they come here, but perhaps I digress.  

Anyway, then there are the fonts.  86 to choose from in 15 different sizes.  Really?  Arial, Times New Roman, and for those "I don't feel like wearing any underwear days", Comic sans MS. What more could we need?   

Right....16 meellion colors to choose from for each of the 13 different areas of the blog.  

So let's get the ol' abacus out and see what we've got....By the way, for those of you keeping score, we're going to ignore the whole infinity photo thing for right now, cause I may or may not have been paying that much attention in my college calc class...and cause it's just really hard.

86 x 15 = 1290 font types

16,000,000 x 13 = 208,000,000 color choices

208,000,000 x 1290 (don't forget to carry the two) = 268,320,000,000 font choices

PLUS the 435 backgrounds = 268,320,000,435

 Now, I'm no math whiz (see the disclaimer above....they can't take my grade away now, can they?), but seems to me that  requiring 268 BILLION decisions on a blog that doesn't make a shitload of sense on even the best days might be overkill.  After all,  I know you'd read me even if I was writing left handed with a stick in the dirt, right?  I said, RIGHT??   Oh.  Sorry.  I did say left, didn't I.  My bad.

Oh the mental calisthenics I do for you all....

Outness, y'all,

Ach

P.S.   Consider this fair warning that until the stars align in the cosmic blog design universe, expect changes within...Oh, but it's gonna be soooo worth it when we're done....


BIRDS!!!!   WS11!!!!!!

Could this be the epitome of awesomeness?

Not sure this is real.  But if it is, it is, perchance the most significant achievement in breakfast spectacularity that civilization has ever seen.

Happy Saturday!

Outness, y'all.
Ach

WTF Friday - Tattoo Edition

Aaaaaaaand here we are again.  The end of yet another mind numbing week.

It being Friday and all, of course I've been thinking about stuff.  Unfortunately, nothing blog-worthy at this point, so you'll take what I give you, and by God, you'll like it!

Today we're gonna deviate a bit and focus on one area that really exemplifies the term WTF.   Tattoos.

Dude!  I'm sure that Greenday concert was totally mind blowing, but ever consider framing the ticket stub?

I have to admit that on the surface, this one makes me smile, but I can't help but bring up that one day in the very near future, texting will go the way of the 8-track tape and our youth will be forced to learn how to actually spell again.  Or else we'll communicate telepathically.  Either way, someone dropped the ball by not telling this guy to go with something timeless and classic.   Like this one:

Seriously.  It's Willy Freakin Wonka.  And who DOESN'T want a coupla
 Oompa-Loompas on their arm for eternity.  Stay classy, baby.

Honey, Crafty and Good Taste are not synonyms.

As if the winged bicycles, and hellish-colored background smoke weren't disturbing
enough, the guy on the right is wearing a fanny pack.  'Nuf said.

I hope this guy is a podiatry student trying to cheat on an exam.  Otherwise, my kudos
 for thinking outside the box are irrelevant.

Meat?  Cleaver?   It's all I got.

  Like you know what it means....

Now, either this guy was somebody's bitch in prison or he seriously needs to take
 a Women's Studies class.  And don't even get me started on the penmanship....

The moral of this blog?  You just can't legislate stupid....Well, I guess you can.  It's just a bitch to enforce.

Have a rockin weekend and remember...Think twice, ink once.

Outness, y'all,
Ach