February 2, 2010

Buzzing Madness

I was giddy in the sound of my madness.  

My madness was a constant tone, not overwhelmingly loud, but audible enough to be annoying.  It wasn’t really a buzz so much as it was a long, sustained beeeeeeeeep.  Without the “P” sound at the end.  It reminded me of the sound my 1977 Chevy Malibu made when I left my keys in the ignition and opened the car door, back in the days before cars made pleasant chime noises to delicately remind you that you were an idiot and had left your lights on or your keys in the ignition.

The buzzing started as we sat down for our weekly staff meeting, all of us politely attentive to the project manager’s presentation.  The sound came from the other side of the door across the room from me, maybe ten feet away.  At least, that’s where it seemed to come from.  

And no one else seemed to hear the buzz.  Or maybe it was just that no one else decided to react to the buzz as they continued being politely attentive.  I’m not typically politely attentive.  More like rudely inattentive.

But that was the weird part – the fact that no one else seemed to hear the buzz.  Just me.  And maybe it was only me.  Maybe I’d finally cracked.  Maybe my mind had finally decided to let loose, subjecting me to an annoying buzzing noise as it drove me slowly and steadily towards madness.  Maybe it was my mind’s way of reminding me that I was an idiot and had left both my lights on and my keys in the ignition.

I tried to ignore it.  

I tried to focus on the manager speaking.  I tried to concentrate on the notes I was taking.  I tried to hum "The Hamster Song".  The buzz maintained, sustained, drilling into the space behind my eyes.  I glanced around the table – everyone else still seemed normal and unperturbed.

I wondered if it was only in my right ear, since the sound was coming from off to my right.  I tried turning my head slightly.  The sound remained.  Then I heard it in my left ear.  God, I thought, this is it.  This is the beginning of the end.  I really have cracked.  I’m losing it.  And this is how it starts: small, like an annoying mosquito buzzing in my ear that won’t go away.  

I supposed I’d get used to it, like people who suffer from tinnitus and live with a constant ringing in their ears.  They say it's like living in a virtual bell tower, church bells gonging constantly.  I’d be happy with church bells.  It would be a pleasant change from the “Fasten Your Seatbelt, Idiot” buzz I was now hearing.

And the worst part?  Knowing I was the only one who heard it.

The buzzing continued, the meeting droned on, and I stared at my coffee mug.  Printed on my coffee mug was an explanation of what my problem was, the reason why my brain was buzzing out of my ears.

“Do what you like.  Like what you do,” the mug said to me.  

Actually, my mug didn't really talk to me.  Even if I was crazy I knew coffee mugs couldn't talk.  Except, of course, that one in Disney's "Beauty And The Beast".  I think his name was Chip.  And he even sang!

Wisdom from a coffee cup, a declaration on everything that was wrong in my career.  I’m not doing what I like.  I don’t like what I do.  And it took my coffee mug to show me my problem.  

But maybe the buzzing in my ears was because I drank too much coffee.  Maybe I was too caffeinated.  Maybe my brain was bouncing around my skull like an angry hornet trying to escape.  Maybe I’m not mad, just ultra-hyped.  Wired.  Something very closely resembling madness.  

Then it stopped.

And I heard a car door slam in the garage bay on the other side of the door across from me.

Yeah, some idiot had left their keys in the ignition with the car door open.  




January 27, 2010

Beating Misanthropy!    

I woke up feeling very Misanthropic the other day.  

For no particular reason, mind you.  Just opened my eyes and felt a general hatred for most people, especially the plethora of idiots on the morning rush hour drive.  It quickly devolved into a nagging feeling that there are just too damn many of us on this rock and it’s time to thin the herd.  More space between bodies, that’s all I’m thinking.  And I’m not talking about just moving West.

Now I don’t dislike anyone in particular; at least not to the point that I would name them here in front of God and everyone.  Well, there was that idiot from Ebay, but besides him there’s no one else I’m looking to throw under the bus.  Unless the bus thing is really an option, then I could probably kick out a quick short list.  

Is 103 names a short list?

Misanthropy makes it hard for Misanthropists to overlook the flaws of other people.  I can normally overlook a lot and I consider myself laid back enough that I get along with just about everyone.  But that requires a certain level of patience in overlooking certain annoying faults in others.  I normally have this patience.  

But on Misanthropic Day I do NOT.

The person who says “Um” every fourth word in every conversation – needs to be culled.  The person who never seems to accomplish ANYTHING at work, yet somehow stays gainfully employed AND gets raises when I don’t – needs to be culled.  That idiot who cut me off in traffic – definitely needs to be culled.  If I could just mount machine guns to my car.

But those are a few singular examples.  Contrary to what you are now thinking, I do not really have a long list of people I’d like to see dead.  I’m not that hateful.  I just think there are too many people.  Period.  

Natural Selection is no longer a force in human population regulation, so we now have strange and exotic diseases that Mother Nature has concocted in an effort to kill some of us off.  Think H1N1.  And malaria is a particularly old disease that Mother Nature cooked up eons ago, but it’s still a crowd pleaser in Third World countries.

But Misanthropy is a misunderstood mental ailment, much like it’s hairier cousin Lycanthropy.  And because Misanthropes typically hate or mistrust mankind, which includes doctors, few of them are ever truly diagnosed and treated.  

In extreme cases, some Misanthropes also contracted Lycanthropy, which generally resulted in fur shedding and multiple murders on moonlit nights.  Misanthropy’s bad enough: throw Lycanthropy on top of it and you’ve got one angry hairy person with sharp fangs and sharper claws.  Let the masses beware.

In today’s society drugs are the ultimate solution for all our problems, the prescription for happier life.  Just look at those smiling middle-aged guys in the Viagra commercials.  Or the smiling middle-aged folks using Abilify.  Or the couples sitting in bathtubs in the middle of a field.  They're definitely on drugs!  

So now we have Prozac and Zoloft and Crestor and Levitra and Cialis and Plavix and Lipitor and Singulair.  There’s a drug for just about everything that ails you.  And now there’s a cure for Misanthropy.  It’s called Introversalis.  It’s the fix for what ails those who hate people.  

Except true Misanthropes hate doctors, pharmacies, and generally being around other people, so they'll never get the prescription anyway.




January 20, 2010

Last of the TP!

The last of the toilet paper pet-peeve.

Being the only toilet-using male in the house, I often get stuck replacing the toilet paper roll, as the last user somehow made due with the one and a half small squares of scrap to complete whatever bodily function they were performing.  So I’ve learned to review the toilet paper situation before I begin and sure enough, eight times out of ten, the TP needs replaced.  

So I hurriedly shuffle over to the hall closet where we usually keep four extra packs of TP, pressure beginning to bear down hard, and, sure enough, seven times out of ten there’s only an empty four-pack wrapper lying discarded on the closet floor.

Now I’m frantic as pressure builds and I rush downstairs to where the bulk supply of TP should be stored, hoping to find at least one more four-pack for upstairs.  Since this is a household with – technically – five females (two of which do not use toilet paper, but their female-ness still counts) we tend to buy TP in the large bulk sizes and store it in the basement washroom.  From here an overly complicated distribution method unreliably metes out TP on an emergency, as-remembered basis within our household.  

And if the bulk TP storage is empty?  

Then I raid the other bathroom for whatever is there, facial tissues and washcloths not out of the question.

This same basic human nature gets played out day after miserable day in our workplaces, at the printers instead of the toilets.  The black-and-white printer is empty, so somebody steals a few sheets of paper from the color printer to print their stuff, leaving the color printer empty, much like the empty TP roll next to the toilet in the girl’s bathroom.

So here I sit, listening to a coworker grumble and grouse as their color print job doesn't print.  And the black-and-white printer is still empty.  And they were probably trying to print something for a meeting with the director, too.  

But at least I got my Dilbert cartoons printed.  My bottom's clean!




January 13, 2010

The Importance of Good Dic-tion!

What to talk about?

It's a question I ask myself constantly as I try to mine the minute comings and goings of life for humorous gems to share with you.  It ain't easy, let me tell you.  But inspiration often finds me a subject to talk about, with nary a plot line or linear topic to discuss.

Like today.  

I was listening to the news on public radio as I drove home and the radio host was interviewing some Englishman about an annual skating competition between England and Finland.  This year it was finally cold enough for the fens in England to freeze over, so the English were hosting the competition.

What struck me about the interview was the radio host's voice.  Pretty much all newscasters on the radio have to be well-spoken, but this lady spoke with marked enunciation and clarity.  And what I clearly heard in her voice was her smile, obviously brought on by something humorous in the interview.  It was distinct and clear and audibly shiny.

So this got me thinking about the sound of a smile.  

Yes, smiles have sound.  You can clearly hear someone smile when they speak.  It changes the pitch of their voice, softens and warms it, makes it more inviting.  And I was pondering all of this when I sat down to dinner with my family.

That's when it all went to crap.  Literally.  Again.  Yes, this week's discussion is teetering towards the toilet bowl, the topic of defecation threatening to poke it's ugly head out.  

You see, somebody farted at the dinner table, which is supposed to be a fart-free zone during dinner.  It was my youngest daughter, Hannah, this time.  The oldest daughter and usual suspect was away from the table and the wife just doesn't fart.  If it was mine, I would've laughed.  The dogs fart often and always act surprised when they do it, but it wasn't either of them.  Perhaps I should try that myself - acting surprised.

After the long-winded toot quietly echoed off into the distance, I commented that Hannah might want to consider going to the bathroom, to relieve her load.  She smarmily replied that she'd already been to the bathroom and she had left quote a load.

"What?" I asked, surprised by Hannah's witty potty humor retort.

Now it is here where I must inform you that Hannah has a tendency to stutter sometimes.  It's like her brain gets too far ahead of her mouth, so her mouth forgets what it was supposed to say as it tries to say something.

"I left a surface shi-, a surface shi- ..."  Hannah's head bobbed slightly as she concentrated on what she was trying to say.  The wife and I exchanged startled glances across the kitchen table, eyebrows raised.  What was she trying to say?

"I left a surface shi-, a surface ship!" she finally blurted out.  "You know, like those big long boats in the ocean that float on top of the water.  It was pretty long."

"A surface ship," I echoed, clearly enunciating the crisp -p sound at the end of the word "ship".  "A surface ship, huh?  So it floated."  

"Yeah, a surface ship."  Hannah smiled at her poop joke as she got up from the table.  The wife and I smiled at each other for another reason.  Once Hannah got the -p sound out it was very clear what she was trying to say, but for a second there we weren't too sure. 

Yes, good articulation and diction is important!  Especially when you're a fifth grader discussing poo at the dinner table and saying "surface ship".  Always remember to clearly enunciate the crisp -p sound at the end!  




January 6, 2010

Redacted Anonymous Pooping!    

Originally this piece was going to be a fairly open and frank discussion on pooping.  Or more specifically, my personal take on the world of defecation based on my own observations and peculiarly warped sense of humor.

Then I realized it was probably going to be too much for most of you.

What do I mean by too much, you ask?

I mean it would be partially crossing the line, giving up (part of) my secret identity, relaying systemic vulnerabilities, selling Cold War secrets to the Soviets, exposing too much skin.  In a word, too personal.

Sure, I've already shared with you my peculiarities regarding urination and some of the socially stunting issues I've had to deal with in that act ("Let go, urethra!  Let Go!" from December 2008 Jackson Press Journal).  But pooping is different.  The act of taking a dump, in opposition to the act of peeing, is a more exposed and defenseless action.  In more ways than one.

Consider this: 

When urinating, if a man were attacked he could still fairly easily defend himself, although he would more than likely have a giant wet stain on the front of his trousers.  Still, he would already be standing upright, hands free to grapple with his foe or grab a weapon (no euphemisms for male genitalia here) and defend his life and honor (euphemisms for male genitalia here).  The male act of urinating is, by nature, a fairly open, almost aggressive action.  Male dogs pee on objects to mark their territory.  So do some male humans.  It's the male's way of saying "Here I am!  This is mine!"

Defecation, however, is another thing entirely. 

While defecating, one is naturally in a seated position.  At least one should be.  And defending oneself while seated is a rather difficult action unless you are holding a firearm.  Most people I know do not hold a firearm while defecating (no euphemisms for male genitalia here).  So to be attacked whilst pooping almost guarantees death, dismemberment, or capture.  And were one able to rise up from the act of defecating to defend oneself there's still the matter of clean-up.  Pooping is a messier process than peeing.  And usually smellier, which in and of itself could be a suitable defense for some people I know.  But to fight off attackers while in the midst of freeing one's bowels takes more manliness than I am capable of, without a firearm, suitable time, or toilet paper.

Pooing leaves one vulnerable, whether dog or bear or man.  And one sometimes has to strain to eliminate the waste, thus absorbing one's level of concentration to the point that situational awareness becomes minimalized.  Pooing is the act of opening up a hole within oneself from which the darkest things inside one's body pour out.  That openness is a personal vulnerability on many, many levels. 

And once I realized this I knew I could not so openly share those dark things with you, my faithful reader and friend.  It would be too much for you to handle and I do not wish to strain our relationship with the weight of all those dark things within my person (pooping puns intended!).

So I present to you the Redacted Anonymous Pooping essay.  Rest easy in the comfort that I am looking out for you and you are relatively safe from the darkest things I keep inside.  Unless, of course, you're sitting in the bathroom stall next to me.  

Sitting in a public toilet.

I'm trying to snatch a few minutes of quiet solitude.  But then someone in the stall next to me, who I did not realize was there, suddenly tinkles in their bowl.  I suspect they are asleep and their bladder is unfettered by REM sleep activity, a blaring indicator that they are too relaxed and in danger of toppling off the toilet!

That’s when you know you’re in trouble – when you sneak into the bathroom for a little cat-nap and fall so deeply asleep that you topple forward off the john and right out the stall door, which we all know never fastens as securely as one would like.  I can see the internet video now, me toppling out of my stall, pants around my ankles, a blurred spot over my crotch as I tumble to the floor and wake up with a screaming start!

Now someone just left the stall two down from mine.  Again, I was unaware that anyone else was in here with me.  I usually do a good job of picking up on the fact someone else is here.  The farting and peeing noises are a good indicator.  But these guys (we’re in a men’s room, so they pretty much have to be a guys) are very stealthy, like ninjas taking a poo, silent and deadly!  They leave no noticeable trace, no smell, no noise.  It wasn’t until the second guy quickly wiped (one pull of toilet paper only) and departed that I was even aware of his presence.  Never heard him even breath, much less fart!  

Then suddenly there is a flurry of activity in the men’s room, with multiple folks coming in and out, entering stalls and flushing toilets.  It’s almost as if everyone ate from the same box of donuts that were laced with a laxative like some lame prank from a 1980’s-era Hollywood B movie.  And now it becomes a waiting game as I wait for my neighbors on the left and right to finish their business, or wake up from their cat naps, wipe their bums, and get the hell out!  

I believe we all should leave individually, to help protect our secret poop identities.  I call the concept "Anonymous Pooping".  

I suppose since I was here first the others are waiting on me to leave.  It's kinda like the rules at a four-way stop when everyone stops at the same time: you defer to the person on your right.  Otherwise it’s first come, first go.  But if we all arrived at the same time, to which person's right do we start?  That's when you hope for someone to cede the right-of-way and wave you on through.  And today I am that guy, at the four-way stop, just sitting there waving others on by.  Don't ask why, just wave thank-you and go!

So I sit here safely anonymous as others come and go, waiting for a suitable break in traffic to safely cross that metaphoric intersection!




January 1, 2010

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year from all of us here at Jackson Press!