I'll get right on it (that's what she said)...

There're soooo many important things that I should be doing right now.  I wonder what it is like to be a responsible person, who sees due dates for what they are....  You see, my neurological software goes through a series of algorithms when anticipating deadlines.  I hate to drag everyone through the details but I think that it's important for people to know before they ask me to do something.  It's actually a pretty simple equation, pay attention:  (deadline) minus - (amount of time to complete task) equa
Image via Wikipedials = (product delivered on time to smiling faces).  That's the theory anyways.  My OS doesn't take into account a certain contingency or padding, if you will, for possible road blocks.  What my OS does instead, is quite impressive.  Like two dudes at Home Depot my brain literally starts to argue with itself about certain items such as: agility, quickness, efficiency, ability to open eyes under salt water, personal records for competing various rungs up the ladder of the Ninja order, the list goes on like this....   So each new argument shaves off anywhere from 5 minutes to 24 hours (depending on the task).  Eventually a completely subjective, unproven hypothesis becomes doctrine and time has been cut in half.  This is where the clever adjustment comes to the playground.  Rather than agree that I will be done early (not in my vocab, I had to look that word up--its implications exhausted my entire mental apparatus), my brain subtracts that extra time that will be saved, because it says it can be done.  Thus we have:

(Specific Deadline) - (readjusted finish time--after hours of arguing, bragging, then folding) =
(Thanks for screwing me over brain, you gave me worse odds to meet this deadline than the chance of a "good" decision in Las Vegas)

Image via Wikipedia

OK, so it is complicated.  That's why I've been caught walking around talking to myself.  It's hard to just sit back while all that debate is going on up there, and I can't participate.  Sure, I could sit back listen to some distracting angry music and let the unconscious battle it out with the sub-conscious, but I'd get restless after about 14.5 seconds (on average I've only been able to sit still long enough to time myself on 2 occasions).  So I engage.  Sure everybody make fun of the crazy guy talking to himself.  Don't think for a minute that he doesn't notice and you haven't been added to his list of "silly fools who've crossed me... I'll save the last laugh for me".  What's that?  Now you want to be friends?

My wife is well aware of this--my ability to get sidetracked and postpone (I don't like the stigma attached to the word procrastination)--which is why I'm looking over my shoulder every time I'm gettin' my blog on.  She's like my productivity coach, always trying to get me "back on track".  Some people just don't understand the importance of the underground education.

There, I've gone and done it again.  I completely forgot what all those important things were, that needed to get done.

And that's why I have peace over anxiety...

because you have faith...

Dear solid fan base,

There has to be at least 4 or so of you, that are still die hard.  For that I commend you.  You are the people that make this world a better place for all, in fact it is getting just downright wasteful sparing oxygen molecules for the rest of the earthly population.  Do you get as exited about world domination and class separation as I do at this point?  Of course you do, you've probably found yourself speeding and flipping people off a lot more than usual.  Don't be ashamed, you're only human.

A lot of people think that I've been too neglectful towards my supremely important blog.  I just want to clear the air, by reporting that although school has been a challenge, it is not the reason for my decrease in writing activity.  I have my priorities straight.  The real reason for the cut back, has more to do with budgeting and government grants, that I have yet to receive for providing such a quality education.  You see, at times I experience what some people refer to as "passion" or "overzealous-behavior".  Yes, it is true, I have been caught sitting on the couch cursing at the laptop from time to time.  Occasionally, I tense up so much while I'm typing, that I literally press the keys straight through the keyboard.  Exit wound and all.  This is a type of situation, that can't be undone.  When such passion provokes this sort of destruction it becomes very expensive (Especially if you have a laptop and the keyboard, now needing replacement is directly attached to the computer.).

So in order to save product, I've taken to using a keyboard with a 20 foot range.  This way I also avoid punching the screen.  The sad ending here is while trying to reduce destruction to my computer, I've also lowered my level of anger and blood pressure.  I still use up the same untapped energy, only I take it out on a 5 lb. bag of cinnamon bears, or Red Vines.  Not having that anger, to constantly stir up the voices of irrational thought and chaos, leaves me a little short for words in times that they are most needed.  Any psychologist would probably refer to this as a positive outlet.  But how could any of this be positive, when at least 4 people are relying on me?  I've said it before, I'm no martyr or savior, but I am here to offer the best of me.

So I thought about going back to close-range typing.  Once Wifey caught wind of this, it was immediately vetoed.  And because I choose not to type in a dark closet, in order to avoid her all-seeing eyes, I know I need some form of controversy.  So I've devised a plan.  This is going to involve some help from my fans, but I'm sure it will work.  The cure I ask for, to fuel me up is hate mail.  I know my most faithful fans couldn't find it in them to even set their minds in a state of anger or contempt for me, but I'm sure you have friends who could.  So I need you to seek out the people in your lives, that truly detest people like me (You probably don't even have to leave the house to do this.).  Invite these haters to visit my site and comment.  I'm sure that some angry words will really bump up my game.  It will also bump up your game, when you find yourself delivering personal jabs in attempt to defend the website that makes all things clear to you.

It's either hate mail or I skip my meds for a week, but I'm pretty sure that society is not ready for that.

Chase 'em down...

Wait til I'm down, before you start kicking...

It's pretty embarrassing when you walk up to the cashier at Walmart and you ask about a payment plan for a $10 pack of highlighters.  If you're not getting the horrible sensation of this experience, let me rephrase it--You're pretty pathetic if you get embarrassed inside of a Walmart.  Have you ever seen the freak-show that is peopleofwalmart.com?  Outside the store is a different thing.  You don't ever want people to see you walking into Walmart.  That is like publicly admitting that you are mentally and socially off track (kind of like someone who was home-schooled).  Now you're with me.  That's why I always have a "pissed off" look when I enter the store.  Then, people will think I'm going against my will.  It becomes more of a mission, like I'm supporting a cause greater than me.  Always look down at the floor, these people are looking for someone to cling to.  You'll be hangin' with your friends, and they'll approach you saying, "hey dude, I saw you at Walmart this weekend."
You reply,"Like hell you did."  Closed fist aim for his head, the concousion is for his own good.

You can't truly hate the man, when you support the largest non-military pillaging corporation on earth.  Well, you can claim to, but no one will believe you.

The worst part about Walmart for me, is the convenience.  I had the terrible luck to work as a contractor for the big W, remodeling their stores.  So just by looking at the front of the store, my mind automatically drafts an extremely accurate floor plan.  That's very necessary, because finding an associate to show you around is quite a hunt.   The real blow is that when you work for them, that's the only place that you can afford to shop.  Ask any child of an employee about the embarrassment.

Walmart Employee: (Speaking to kids) Get ready to go school shopping...

Kids: (Having already lost hope for destinations such as the mall, in their heads they chant in unison [pleas say Target, Please say Target...]).
Image by Getty Images via @daylife
I haven't been around the rough teenage crowd in a while but I'm pretty sure that when you're hoping for clothes from Target, you my friend are not sitting at the cool table.  Tough luck buddy, don't blame your parents and don't feel like you have to resort to the tight pants wearing, socially-familiarly-mentally repressed kids.  They think they've got something solid, but when you walk around like a duck showing of your polka dot boxers, you look like a clown.  Not the funny clowns, but the creepy ones that little kids are afraid of.

I hate shopping for clothes.  I always feel like I'm being judge.  What, men are not mature enough to share changing rooms with women?  It's not like we shop at Victoria's Secret (although it probably would happen a lot more if men were allowed in the dressing rooms.  That's a pretty solid marketing strategy, Victoria's Secret people, do with it what you will.).  I thought women were all about equal rights anyways.  So, why do we have to part ways at the changing room?  Ask anyone who was involved in the Civil Rights Movement, if separate but equal met their needs.  This is why I'm proud of women trying to make a statement, by taking up such issues about the oppression of making women cover the upper portion of their bodies in public.  Unfortunately, such laws are upheld because the only women actively protesting, look much better with a turtleneck on.

I guess that equal rights is just a bunch of idealistic crap...

Stic to the fun-duh-mentals...-

Please, someone explain to me the thought process encouraging the formulation of a word like fundamental.  Given the erroneous claim of the prefix fun-, I can't help but question--what political mastermind had such need to deceive his people?  You don't follow? Try this: show me just one fundamentalist who actually knows what fun is.  Sure, you'll find someone who claims they have fun, but I guarantee that their explanation will fill you with the same type of confidence that you felt every time George Bush said he would address the public.  Don't you dare tell yourself--maybe I'm the crazy one.
Image via Wikipedia
We need to focus on the cleverly placed suffix, which should actually be the root of the word: -mental.  There now, did that word happen to chime through your head when you heard the latest (or oldest) fundamentalist's definition of fun?  They've distorted so much.  Don't fall for any of it either, it's a mind game that they like to play.  They adhere to ignorance and good old fashioned blah, (with pride--I say) before they'll ever evolve.  In fact the word evolve is synonymous with devil to these people.  Maybe you're uncomfortable with such talk, but I'm only getting started.  You think I'm referring to hyper-gun-toting conspiracy theorists?  I don't need to tell you about them, their story is self-narrated.  In fact I recommend befriending a few of these NRA members, just as an insurance policy.  I'm talking about the people who ban together to ostracize you, for using a drill with a buffer on the end, to wash your kitchen table, walls, chairs, etc.

Fundamentals--they tell you.  "Nothing gets that out like a good old rag and elbow grease. " Nothing makes me want to never clean the table again like elbow grease.  I'm not wasting precious elbow cartilage on this unworthy cause.  You want to judge me and call me lazy, just because I've evolved?  Because I refuse to scrub away while I inhale cleaning fluid, that could send my neurons in some kind of fray?  Well, I'm ready to bring the demons out.  If you have OCD this will now doubt cause you to twitch a little.

Pay attention: I use a sander with a rag on the bottom to wash the table.  I let the tub overflow to wash the bathroom floor, soak for 10 minutes, then remove moisture with a shop-vac.  I'm pretty sure that bleach and 104 degrees Fahrenheit water will reduce the terrorist threat level, to what ever lies below level orange.  If I'm caught kneeling on a hard surface, it's because I'm looking for something really important that my magnetic wand and metal detector failed to locate.  I send my truck through the car wash with the windows open, so I don't have to get Armor All, all up in my pores.  What about vacuuming, you say?  That's why you put in that extra buck for the air dry.  No need for a pine tree here.

So spare me with your curmudgeon rants.  Next time you see me sitting on my front porch with a remote control in my hand, as I watch my lawnmower do everything I tell it to, why not say- "that could save me a lot of time."  If you want to be proud of that sweat pouring down your face as you slave away, move to Houston.  All you have to do is walk to your car to work up a sweat.  The hardest part is finding a close spot, while there are five other people driving around looking for a spot 20 feet closer to the entrance.

All I'm saying is quit demonizing evolution.  No one cares how hard you work anymore, you're probably fudging the facts anyways.  Embrace change...

Yes, you...

pump your fist and resist...

Image by Robert Goodwin via Flickr

Redemption has been a long time and running.  There is no excuses for last place, ever!  The embarrassment I speak of is a pinewood derby race.  I've been helping my wife's cousin prepare for the pinewood derby, last year we had some scheduling issues, and let's just say it did not go well.  It also doesn't help that current cub scout politics are modeled after the girl scout organization.

Talk about red tape.  They've got this race so locked up these days, either there is an underground conspiracy or it has been determined that critical thinking/engineering skills are no longer important in the Cub Scouts of America.  You have to turn in your car three days before the race, you can't touch it from then til after the race, no tweaking, no adjustments, no scientific process, and no trial and error.  My only question--Cub Scouts of what America?  This is a direct threat against the competitive nature, that drives social dynamics in our country.

When I was a cub scout, we started sanding, painting, sanding, painting, over and over weeks prior to the event.  We each made five cars.  Body style was where autonomy was permitted by Dad.  When it came to frictionless axles and wheels that could fly straight down the track, parental supervision was required.  Dad had us polish those axles with him for about an hour each.  We set up the track days in advance, and ran trials till the early AM.  In private my brother and I would plot strategies, to destroy other cars that might present a threat.  We couldn't just win, we had to make sure that there wasn't a shadow of doubt that we won.  We stayed up all night before the race, so that our eyes would be blood shot all day.  We dropped by the drama club before leaving school, so they could accent our jaw bones and make our eyes look deeper and more mysterious.  We showed up to the race like 2 vampires, unwilling to leave without drawing blood.  You better not be picturing that pasty guy from twilight.  We'd race our own car to the end of the track.  There was no timing, it was car vs. car.  Tourney style elimination.  We brought it.

At the end of the day victory was ours.  But like I said, times have changed, boys are supposed to be more interested in tea parties now, or something...

By the way bro, happy b-day...

break time...

After four and one half hours of microbiology on Friday morning, I sensed that my brain reached and surpassed its maximum stimulus limit.  All those worms that make up the structure of the brain were probably inflamed and irritated.  You'd think hermaphrodites would never get bored or overstimularted.  The truth is they're all tensed up sexually.  They're so confused and frustrated, it's not good.  This is why our brain should just be a big round blob, rather than being made up of high strung, emotional worms.  They work like lazy, deviant roadside construction workers and they're constantly sending my neurons on unnecessary detours.  This only creates collisions that lead to uncontrollable expletives, finding there way out of my mouth.  Sailor, you can me?

So, as you could imagine, I was in great need of an outlet.  Unfortunately, getting rest or free time in my house is more of a second job, than a luxury.  Much to my dismay, I wasn't blessed with the commanding power to walk in the door, lay down the law, make three demands, and then go unwind.  I think that there are plenty of modern fathers, who experience a similar powerless environment.  It's as if women are trying to avenge us for the sins of our fathers, and the tribulations of their mothers.  They say equality, but what they mean is: we want the good things that our mom's had, and better things than you have.  Freud knew about this long ago.  We're taking about textbook penis envy, but it is spiraling out of control...  Anyways my point is, if I want to get any R&R, I have to play crazy when I get home.  I really have to sell it too.  The best method is pretending to have tourettes, which happens to be a natural skill.  Ok... I have no control over it, but after microbiology it's all ticks and cellular words.
Image via Wikipedia
I managed to step into an empty home.  So, I went into my room and stood in anatomical position--palms forward.  My chi found center, and I began to float.  I was on my way to a happy place.  The clouds were made from the cream that they put in the middle of Twinkies.  I choose for the ingredients of said cream to remain mystery to me.  What if I really found out?  That could ruin Twinkies for me for life, and I'm not willing to take that risk.

So anyways, I was standing there pondering... and it came.  Oh yeah, like a ton of bricks!  The meaning of life.  I was so stoked.  I wanted to write it down, but I knew I'd remember.  After two victorious fist pumps in the air, my mind went blank and the knowledge was gone.  Just like that!  I woke up in my room growling at my reflection in the mirror and chewing on the drywall.  Very awkward.  Never let go of that anatomical threshold...

I'm not crazy, you just have a skewed understanding of reality...

I hear them, I hear them...

Cover of Survival Story

What could be better than running from voices, all through the night?  It's rare that I ask questions that aren't rhetorical, unless I'm challenging someone, but seriously I don't have an answer for this.  I've tried everything, but sometimes it gets overwhelming.  The key is to man up, face the mirror, and say there is a dialogue in my head, and things are getting really out of control.  That's the sliver of humility required to overcome.  It's kind of like a twelve step program.  You mock me for it, but my ego is what's saved me from these voices.  If it is just your voice, spewing a never ending monologue in your head, you probably feel OK.  I'm here to tell you: You probably aren't  However, if there is more than one voice, you definitely have a problem.  The difference between me and the poor haunted individuals in the psych unit, is that I claim the voices.  No one notices you're crazy, until you honestly have no other excuse but the truth: the voices made me do it.   You're thrown out, or sent to the corner indefinitely. That's when authoritative figures say, "Really..? hmmm... ok then... follow me please (let me speak louder than all voices in your head: IT'S A TRAP! [my now current english teacher says: more than one exclamation point is obnoxious]).

Image via Wikipedia

So I made a bold and brave decision.  I called the bluff, declaring that all these different voices were really my inner-acting talent producing foreign accents (mostly European, because lets just face it the only socio-rebellion that they encourage anymore, is for teenage boys to wear tight girl pants and use their hands to iron their hair perfectly to the left and slightly down.  If only the emo world could be understood!).  Where was I?  Oh yeah... I don't have the blessing of hallucinations, so I have to imagine that I talk trash to 5 different cobras every morning in the mirror.  This is actually quite more effective than flexing muscles to feel tough.  One of them sounds like Austin Powers, one like Ron Burgandy, one like Richard (from Tommy Boy), one like Eric Cartman, and the most intimidating sounds like Chuck Norris.
Image via Wikipedia
It's OK, because I've conquered here, I'm in control, and those voices are really my inner-self running out of energy to fully exercise the daily demons.  So occansionally, the fight becomes so exhausting, that I have to run from it.  I wear noise isolation earbuds to silence the chatter.  After 2 hours of Tool, Rage, Flobots,  Eminem, or some other star with mommy and daddy issues, I'm free.  Not only that, but I return home with a Ph. D in marketing, emphasis on political propaganda.

And that's why I have a leg up, 5 associates, and a cutting edge understanding of mind control.  People click away from this blog so disoriented, that they don't know which way is up.

I guess you can add Martyr to my mainy titles.  How many of you would take on the voices in your head for me?

Chew it 50 times before you swallow...

It hurts so good...

Image via WikipediaSo there I am modern-day slave.  My mother-in-law tells me, "build me a deck, NOW!  And it better be done before you start school, or else..."
I reply, "Yes'm, I go build deck.  Please don't beat me, Mama."

So I'm out at Home Depot with Mom's American Express.  I'm doing all I can to give that magnetic strip a frictionless surface (I'm used to getting my credit card declined when I try to purchase something for like $8.  So I have to split the transaction between 3 cards, some pocket changes, and a counterfeit baseball card [silly cashiers will believe anything].  So, imagine what it's like for me to walk around with the AmEx.).  So, I get some wood to build scaffolding.  Ol' man gets home and tells me the scaffolding is a P.O.S..  Then, he about blows his top to learn that I spent $20 on wood to build it.  He says it "DOLL ERRS", rather than twenty bucks.  You know how I feel about money talk (If you know my in-laws, you know they're loaded.  All that money and stingy as could be.  They love making me build a deck that has more square feet than my home.  Just rub that money in my face.)  So when I ask Ol' man to rent some scaffolding, he just laughs at me.  Than he tells me to move my truck full of wood and tools off of their 100 foot drive, and to re-park his Lexus.  Excuse me!  I'm sorry I wasn't raised in a state that values potatoes and patriotism over safety and education!  Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about Ol' man.

So there I am, working away on my home-made, definitely NOT OSHA compliant, scaffolding.  I did my best to build it to last.  As I had about 4 more joist to place, I could tell that the structural integrity of the scaffolding was definitely in question.  I planned to add reinforcement, but fearing the belt, I kept working away.  Mom's glaring at me through the window, shaking her head in shame, every 20 minutes.  I'm running out of excuses for why it's taking me sooo long.

Second to last joist to put up, and gravity seems to be accelerating.  Had I only added that extra reinforcement.  I don't want the joist to land on me, and if I throw it the scaffolding will collapse even quicker.  So I stand there, like and idiot, as the scaffolding crumbles below me.

The Ol' man declines the worker's comp claim.  To stick it further in my face, he pays off the judge.  The case is thrown out.  GAME OVER.  I lost.

The details are all sketchy at this point (probably amnesia from the fall).  So I may have exaggerated the story a little for effect (Ol' man will be proud of me there, cuz that's how he tells stories.  Details are only as important, as the reaction they provoke.  His people will probably have this blog censored before it even posts).

The point is, I got a boo-boo and people need to feel sorry for me.

Be careful out there, a lot of disfunctional wood at Home Depot.

That's what she said (but not to me)...

Drop it like it's hot...

Humble followers,

I'm not sure if I should continue to call you all followers, or upgrade your status to worshipers.  Look, it's all good, I don't freak out about people who might have a shrine dedicated to me in their house.  We've been through a lot together at this point, and we can skip all this coy none-sense.  Although, if that shrine happens to be in the master bedroom, we might have a problem.  If I'm in there, we've entered a whole new level of obsession, and that's awkward.  Speaking of awkward, some moron on TV is showing of his iPad.  He caught my attention, because it was just white noise at first.  It went like this- "blah, blah... I'll tap that...".  Ok, you've got my attention, what is being tapped?  That's when I realized he was talking about some Comcast app for iPad.  I was angry for the deceiving rhetoric.

Anyways, why would you want to hide that shrine in your room?  I've got plenty of love to spread around, don't hoard me away with your dusty doll collection.  I want to be out where the cleaners have to use special chemicals, so they don't destroy the imported materials.  I need to know that kids are being properly swatted and sent to bed hungry, just for breathing around your shrine.  I'm not going to tell you how to run your house, but I am going to tell you how I run mine, and I expect you to emulate me.  Hoarders are so inconsiderate with their weird obsessions.

Well now that I've gone so far off track, I fear that I've worn out the opener for my anouncement.  I was just rummaging through some former blog posts, and I realized that March 15, will be the 2nd monthiversery since I began to freely share my ramblings (I didn't throw a bash for the one month, but I am toying with the idea of letting you take out your significant other on that night).  Of course you will have to talk about my blog all night, and remember who told you to go on that date.  Yes, I think I deserve credit for the success of other people's relationship.  I get a direct deposit into my relationship, sort of like a "get out of the doghouse free!" card.

I'm fighting the eyelids now, so I guess I'll give in.

These stories can't tell...

Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to be an explorer.  I'm talking about some serious Indiana Jones stuff here.  I never knew that I would live the dream.  So my latest expedition involved the hunt for a Blackberry Curve 9330 (left on vibrate, if only we knew it was about to be lost!).  Said Blackberry, is a tracking device used by my wife.  The #1 purpose, for said phone, is to call me at least every hour to make sure that I remember my name, ask if I'm driving on the correct side of the road, warn me not to run into things while driving, and lovingly tell me to get on task.  I am to respond to each question clearly, using words like "yes dear".  If the slightest tone of sarcasm is detected, the interrogation restarts from the top.  If that phone isn't functioning we don't function.  Every moment it's away, I'm left to question- why I haven't heard from the wife for over 10 minutes?  Pretty soon I start twitching and I'm filled with guilt.  "But you've done nothing wrong," says the angel on my shoulder.
"You're right," I respond, "I didn't loose the phone."
People are looking at me, so I pretend that I'm talking on my bluetooth earpiece.  Thus we come across another problem... I don't have one of those stupid earpieces (I don't pretend to be the type of person who's so busy, that my hands must be available at all times.)... abort mission.

So, later that evening we continue the expedition.  We flip the couches over, children are staring.  Wifey and I both laugh at the silly hide-a-bed, that's never been used in its young 3 years of life.  We joke about how much it would suck to have to sleep on it.  The kids on the other hand are thrilled to know that there is a bed in the couch.

My children have been conditioned by my sarcasm.  They know that when I say something, I'm not to be trusted.  So child #2 is spinning around in my room at nap time.  It takes her hours to shutdown the projector in her head.  So she's prancing around our room, and decides to pour water all over our bed.  I'm not sure how much water she poured on the bed.  One thing I do know, is that there aren't enough layers of towels to absorb all the water.

Quick ending- Wifey and I are the clowns on the hide-a-bed.  My back now hurts like I gave your mom a piggy-back ride around the cul-de-sac last night.

Where's the phone?!?!

Press 1 if you want to sit on hold for 3 hours, while your hands are free to slap yourself all over the place.

oh for sure...

I didn't get my usual Sunday dinner material last night, because I didn't go over to the crackheads' house.  "Crackheads" is the nickname I give to in-law's residence.  It sounds harsh, but it's actually sugar coated quite heavily.  On any given Sunday evening, there's enough mental disorders in that home to keep a dozen psycho-therapists busy for a year (that doesn't including sleeping, bathroom breaks, and mealtime).  Surely any therapist would appreciate the value, but would inevitably leave the place dizzy and disoriented.  Unfortunately, the English language does not provide a means whereby I could properly describe the fray.  I would need a stage (at least 600 sqft), a microphone (with about 20 different distortion modes), 200mg of adderall and 10 interpreters to give it mediocre small town type of justice.  Don't harp on me, this isn't me on a soap box pointing a finger.  I have contemplated the possibility that I may be a contributor to the brain stew, but I prefer to think of myself as a mediator.  I try to maintain order and encourage bad behavior, in order to help the wandering sheep see their mistakes before they make them.  It almost always results in encouragement to actually live the mistake.  Either way it serves as priceless entertainment and valuable conversational points when my wife and I argue why our children act the way they do.  Let me some it up- if they do something awesome, it's because of me; if they do something that makes you cringe, pick a crackhead (any crackhead).

Instead, this week, we went to my family's house for din din.  This not only gave me little to no material, but it led to talks of censorship.  This is opportunity time for wifey, sure is.  I'm out searching for material and I'm sitting on one side of the table with my eyeballs rolling in a steady constant circle.  You can't censor this.  All I can do is try hard to convince my Mom that she somehow blew it with me, and that's why I'm so messed up.  Even then, she doesn't get defensive, she just turns her brain to auto-pilot and starts repeating- "sure Lee, we messed you up".  That women is certainly vulnerable to guilt, but she's too smart to take credit for any of my lack of accomplishments.  She also stands a little taller, with wifey by her side, egging her on.

So here you have it, not much new material.

Milk it for every drop...

I'm extremely exhausted and very frustrated.  I was for sure that I had nailed it.  I knew that I had a very promising niche.  That's what they always tell you too- find your niche.  Basically your niche is either non-competitive, because you're one of the few or the only one that has access or knowledge of whatever idea you're trying to sell; or you have an advantage over your competitors (in my case a massive brain filled with knowledge, keen sarcasm and a modus operandi, that even I don't fully understand yet).  Here's an example for a niche- if you have a third testicle you could be a circus freak (probably in Amsterdam).  I always like to choose niches with virtually no competition, basically because I'm lazy and it allows me to pretend that I'm competing against everyone (great for the ego).  That's why I only race off the line at stop lights, when I'm next to a Subaru, Hybrid, Some idiot sexting away or a rusted piece of crap vehicle.  It is absolutely crucial to not let the person know that you're racing them, just look forward and hold on to that poker face.  You'll win every time guaranteed, unless that Subaru has to cut across 2 lanes to save a stranded cat with a sad look on its face.

So anyways, I was positive that there was little to no competition in my niche:  world domination.  All these idiots these days are so obsessed with terrorism, which clearly has no specific goal other than chaos.  So I decided I'd try out the abandoned art of world domination.  What I've realized is that it's a lot of work, and simply can not be performed from the couch.  So I'm getting ready to throw in the towel.

Finding a niche these days is so difficult, and I can tell the big conglomerates are struggling with it too.  Case in point- I was just deodorant shopping and one of the deodorants advertised that it had 3-D power.  WTF?  How does deodorant have 3-D power?  I didn't see any special glasses included.  So they just make crap up?  I get that you've got a product that is saturated with competitors, but do you really need to make such bold claims that leave us wondering what 3-D power is?  I didn't buy that brand even though I wanted to, mainly cuz I was scared.  You see, I purchase deodorant to deter eye and nose traffic from my armpits, not to start some sick new fetish.  Without a doubt I could produce 20 names (male and female) willing to testify in court that I have, hands down, the sexiest under arms around (rasta hair included).  My wife's been in countless discussions, with gay men, trying to pin down my most masculine features that make me a hot piece of tail.  I think they always get caught up on how I should style my hair.  Eventually they agree to disagree on the hair, but agree on everything else.  Two women could never have that conversation, it would always end up in the wife hiring a P.I. to keep an eye on the other lady, who's so interested in her man.  I think we're missing the point here.  My pits are not my greatest asset, and I don't believe that broadcasting some freakish Avatar production up there is going to change a thing.  Whatever, I guess in search of a niche companies will try to get you to believe anything.

So I show up for the orientation to my next niche.  That's right I'm starting nursing school next week.  That means I'll probably have to change my blog title.  I thought about "the quiet ramblings of a male nurse", but I think I'm going to stick with something more suiting and classy like- "Incoherent Bitchings from an RN".  So anyways I did my research.  First off, nurses are in high demand, which means competition is naturally lower.  Second I speak spanish, which is a necessity in many hospitals here in Colorado.   However the clincher (the golden egg) has to be... roll the drums... gender.  You see, male nurses are in extra need for 2 main reasons.  We can lift more weight and we don't suffer from tourettes and/or other mental and emotional episodes once a month, enabling us to form logical coherent sentences.  To my dismay, other men have caught on too.  So instead of a female to male ratio like 6:1 (as I expected) it looks more like 2.5:1 or 3:1 at best.  So I'll have to niche in even further.  Maybe I'll be a lactation nurse, there can't be that many male lactation nurses.  Besides, when our first child was born I actually listened in the prenatal classes.  So when it came time for breast feeding, I had to push the lactation nurse and my wife's hands out of the way so that I could grab a hold and show them both how it's done.  I have way more experience operating that type of machinery.

Image via Wikipedia

All I'm saying is if you have a gift, why not use it?

So, numerous fans, please discourage any and all of your male counterparts and friends from going into nursing.  Tell them it's gay or anything, to keep this niche for me.

Milk it...

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Subaru...

Dear Subaru Drivers,

I realize that there is a certain image you are trying to uphold.  I just want you to know I get it, you're cautious.  You love to drive slow.  In theory, your vehicle should be among the top performers for driving in the snow.  I'm a bit of a skeptic here, because I've yet to see you come anywhere near a velocity that would necessitate all wheel drive.  The normal person sees the speed limit as a minimum speed.  We adhere to that minimum speed, because it lowers our blood pressure and keeps our mouths clean enough to speak to God each night.  Can't you see when you not only choose to see the speed limit as a max speed, but when you make a point of not even approaching that max it is bad for everyone's health?  Yes, I'm sure you have 10 cats at home, that understand you better than any human, so you don't need us or our wasteful usage of plastic grocery bags.  

Just know that I'm on to you.  I see you walking around in your fleece vest, as if a sleeveless "jacket" provides the perfect climate control, no matter the weather.  You think you look so rugged with your hiking boots, who's biggest excursion comes when you find the furthest parking space from the store.  I guess we can thank you for that.  I know you're trying to be this super righteous human, but for the love please turn on your hazards and just drive in the emergency lane.  I don't know if you never have anywhere to get to in a hurry, or if you're one of those freaks that leaves an hour early to make sure you arrive first.  Just know, the rest of the world is in a rush so if you're not going to join in, get the frick out of the way!

Dear Subaru corporation or some communist country,

I just wanted to right you to offer a proposal that could double you're revenue.  I believe that by simply reducing the size of your brake pedal and increasing the size of your gas pedal, it will redevelop your image by reaching an entirely new market.  If sales don't increase immediately, be patient, because this should at least remove Subaru from the list of substitute curse words.  Then I can stop telling my friends I'm about to go take a subaru, which really means I gotta go #2.

Sincerely,

A concerned citizen