Cheeze Squeezins

If blogging was easy, anyone could do it. Oh, wait…

Happiness is…

Realizing that you were smart enough, and showed enough self-restraint, to leave a couple of donut holes in the box this morning, so that this afternoon, when you are really jonesing for a carb fix, and start rifling through the snack cubbie, shazam, there they are, three golden brown spheres of fattening, carbtastic wonder.

Yeah, sorry, but that’s really kinda been the high point of my day so far.


Now, with new, updated “About” Page!

Can something be both “new” AND “updated?”

Anyway, here’s what I did instead of work this afternoon. Shhh…don’t tell my boss.

Pull Pin For Service

Today, I do here-by verily dub and proclaim this day to be…

“Go Hug A Grenade” Day.

As in, my life is entirely too full of people to whom I’d like to just up and say, “Go hug a grenade, you mendacious twatwaffle.”

I’m thinking Hallmark could make a killing on the cards.

Get it?  A KILLING?!  HAH! 

Seriously, though.  It’s one of those days.

The Post That Almost Was

I’m almost tempted to post something pithy, insightful, and quietly charming.


Michelle Obama is unemployed! But you knew that.

Don’t know if you heard, but Dear Leader is apparently all a-twist that the First Lady doesn’t get paid.  And it’s just….just…just…SUCH a tough job.  {{sobbing, dabs at single tear dramatically}}


Yes, the sacrifices she has to make to shoulder the heavy burden we placed on her when we elected her First Lady.  Oh, wait, what?  What’s that you say?  She wasn’t elected to help run the country?  She’s just along for the RIDE?!  She’s not a government employee?  And….we aren’t paying her?!  Hmmm. Must be racism.

But still, she’s been thrown into the breach, so to speak, thrust to the forefront of American politics, forced to battle through days filled with nothing but responsibility and toil with no one to help her but her 22 full time staffers.

Forced to endure long hours aboard Air Force one on her way to vacations in Africa, Rio, Spain ($467,585), France, New Orleans, Aspen, Martha’s Vinyard, Vail and New York. 

Forced to {{gulp}} shop at TARGET like one of the working class!!   {{keening wail of despair}}

Oh. The. HORROR.

‘Course, the question arises, if she’s so under-compensated, so destitute and forlorn, how is she affording a $6,800 designer jacket, a $2,400 dress, or $540 tennis shoes?

Methinks that ol’ Michelle isn’t exactly missing any meals these days.  And if B.O. has such a problem with it, why doesn’t he just appoint her as a cabinet member?  He’s done it for all his other friends and flunkies.

There’s profiling, and then there’s PROFILING

In case you missed it, that oxygen thief Harry Reid (D) is all afluff and in high dudgeon, insisting that “he heard from this guy who knows this girl who’s friends with my hairdresser’s dog’s pedicurist that Mitt Romney hasn’t paid taxes, in like, you know, 4evah!

And thus firmly ensconsed on his soap box, is insisting, nay, dare I say DEMANDING that Romney prove him wrong.  Otherwise know as guilty until proven innocent.  Also known as “profiling.”

Which I guess is okay if you are a rich, white politician, but not if you a swarthy skinned middle-easterner or your first name is Juan Valdez Ramirez Himinez and you are crammed into a minivan with 17 of your close personal friends.  But I digress.

This kind of cheap shot, tawdry politics fall into the same category as a reporter asking, “Mr. Romney, have you stopped beating your wife yet?”  It assume facts not in evidence, immediately puts the target on the defensive, at the same time framing the narrative such that the target (if they fall for it) now has the burden of proof laid on them, rather than the accuser.

If Harry Reid has evidence that Mitt Romney is a tax evader, and thus a felon, he damn well better pony up the dope.  And I personally think that every politician who has been so adamant about seeing Romney personal tax returns ought to be right out there putting theirs up for comparison.  Yes, that includes Ms. Pelosi, and the Hon. Mr. Obama.

Come on, I thought this was the most transparent administration ever! {{snicker}} Yeah, right.

You wanna know what’s wrong with the Internet?!

THIS!  THIS is what’s wrong with the Internet!

Laura over at Fetch My Flying Monkeys posts a moderately entertaining (yet, really, let’s be honest, hardly a scathing, snarky expose’ of societal ills by any means) post about her nifty new house, and like, 122 comments!

That…there…that..there’s just something really kind of wrong with that.

Not that, you know, I’m all hung up on comment counts or anything.  Having blogged for a total of about two weeks. But….wull….still.

Just not right.

Wait…is it the pictures?! She has pictures!  “D’oh!” {{slaps forehead, immediately transitions to facepalm signifying great, yet humbling epiphany}}

I need pictures!  Hmmmm…..maybe LolCats.  YEAH THAT’S IT!


AH HAAAAAH!  I see what she’s doing.  I see her little tricksies.  She responds to people.  As in, actually has conversations with them, and THAT pumps up her comment count.

Hmmm. Damn, this is going to be harder than I thought….

The Office Mates From HELLLLL!

Yes, we all have them. Well, no, okay, not ALL of us, because, like, 10% unemployment, but……….anyway.

After far too many years squandered in various office jobs in various environments, I’ve come to discover that most office denizens can be classed into a few basic categories.  True, I may just have a karmatically unique ability to land amongst wierdos and social outcasts, but overall my observations have supported the theory that these creatures are commonly found in most office environments. To wit:

1) The Stealth Nose Picker.  Also known as the, “I’ve managed to convince myself that no one can see me picking my nose as I duck down behind my computer monitor” guy.  Yes, dude, we see you as you tenaciously work that pinky finger in to well past the second knuckle questing for that elusive gold.  And, we’re all pretty sure that you’re the one who flicks them all over the back side of the bathroom stall door, too.

2) Mr. “I’m Too Damn Busy/Important to Make Another Pot” Guy.  Yes, you know and love this person. And by “love” I mean want to stake them out on a fire ant mound covered in nothing but a Honey WheatBerry Jamba Juice smoothie.  You know, the person who drinks five or six cups of coffee a day, but will empty the last drop from the caraf with a bitter sigh of frustrated regret and betrayal that “someone” couldn’t keep the damn thing full for him, and so he has to settle for half a cup.  And, who then jams the pot back in the brewer and walks off, wearily shaking his head, leaving it stone cold empty despite all the colorful signs quoting Terry Tate saying, “IF YOU KILL THE JOE, YOU MAKE SOME MO!”  If you try and corner them about why, just WHY they didn’t make another pot, the answer will invariably be some variant of, “I was in a hurry and didn’t have time“.  Yeah, that’s right, because those YouTube videos aren’t going to watch themselves now are they?

3) The “I Didn’t Drink The Last Of It” Guy.  A close relative of Number 2,  this is the person who, regardless of how much coffee is (or isn’t) left in the pot, will always leave just a liiiiittle bit left in the bottom, even if it’s a whole whopping tablespoon or two.  This helps assuage any potential guilt by ensuring the ability to — with utter integrity and deniability — claim that they DIDN’T, in fact, drink the last of the coffee, because technically there are a good 14 or 15 molecules of it still left in there.  So, nooo, I DON’T have to make another pot (see #2) and get off me.

4) Speaker Phone Guy.  Ah yes, my personal favorite.  Usually a manager or sales rep.  Invariably results from an excessively over-optimistic self-evaluation of the “hip-ness” of the individual . For some reason, these offenders seem to be overwhelmingly male; mostly faux Alpha Males who want everyone to know just how central they are to everything going on by sharing all the intimate details of their phone conversations with everyone around them.  Conversations beginning with some variant of, “Hey Buddy! How they hangin!” followed closely by a hilarious personal anecdote involving “those chicks at that bar last night.”  And for some reason, despite all the advances in modern technology, micro-circuity and audio enhancement widgets that can pick up a fly farting half a mile away, SPG feels it necessary to talk loud enough for the guy in the corporate office in LA to hear him from Memphis…WITHOUT the phone.  Because using a handset it just so…so…”the little people.”

I’m sure there are many more, like “Always Leaves His Print Job On The Printer For Several Hours” Guy, and “Farts and Hope No One Notices Even Though OH MY GAAWD!” Guy.  But that, dear readers, is for another day.

From the “Unfortunate Headlines” Dept.

Also known as the “Editorial Fail” Dept.

3 LA-area homeless people found stabbed with notes

What kind of notes were they stabbed with?  Quarter notes?  Eighth notes?  Dotted half notes??

Or is it just a bunch of really bad paper cuts from PostIt notes?  Or were the notes they found rolled up really tightly so they’d penetrate the skin?

Dudes. Come on. Really?

The Real Reason Facebook Sucks

I just figured it out.  How Facebook is Teh Death of Real Relationships.

Along with my aforementioned Attention Deficit problem, or maybe inextricably tied INTO this problem, is my just generally crappy record of maintaining any kind of decent friendships over an extended period of time.  Part of the problem is that I tend to move around a lot, and so, lacking physical proximity to people who were once good friends, they tend to drift out of consciousness for me.  More importantly, I just flat lose track of how long it’s been since I’ve called/emailed/written/spoken with them.

And Facebook, rather than making things better, makes them all kinds of worse. At least for me.

See, the problem for me is, I’ll troll through Facebook, read the posts, see the pictures, maybe make a quick one or two sentence comment on someone’s “Wall,” and then I roll on to the next post, the next Demotivation poster..and oh, is that my phone?

And in my head, I think that I’ve “connected” with Jim or Tara or Milosh or whoever.  Until it strikes me one day that their kid who I remember being a spastic little 10-year-old has just graduated college and is engaged, with photos of the rehearsal dinner plastered all over Facebook.

Wait…the hell…wha?

So, I sit down, and realize that the last time I actually spoke with this person, on the phone, maybe on Skype, was four years, at least one job, and probably several significant family milestones ago.

Facebook makes us think we are connected, when in reality, it’s less than skin deep.  And, in my moment of epiphany, I realize that I have no real idea what is going on in my so-called “friends” lives.  Other than the quick snippets I get via Facebook. 

The problem is, people don’t usually post the gut-wrenching struggles they are fighting through on Facebook for all the world to see.  We get the fun vacation pictures, the cool sunset, pictures of the new deck or new motorcyle.  We get a false impression of how great everything is going, when if we were in fact really friends, and not just Facebook friends, maybe I’d know about the financial struggles, the job strife, the neighbor from hell or who knows what else.

But I don’t call.  I don’t ask.  I don’t worry.  Because it looks like everything is just groovy…on Facebook.  It gives me a false sense of connection that tricks my brain into thinking that I’m still “in touch” with these people, when in fact the simple reality of it all is that I’m a relationship voyeur.  I just watch, from the outside, as if through a window only really seeing what passes into my field of view.

I don’t come inside, sit on the couch, and share a beer while my friend/brother/cousin spills their guts and shares an actually personal experience. Develops a real bond.

For far too many of my former friends, our friendship is only Facebook-deep.  I’ve come to realize that if Facebook is all you got, you haven’t got much at all…  

…and that maybe, just maybe, the problem isn’t really with Facebook at all.

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