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From the pointless researcher department…
Did you know Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer was a girl? It’s true because I saw it in print. I’m not sure if I blame the journalist or the “experts” who debated this topic, but overthinking like this really sucks the fun out of Christmas.
Last week at work we had our annual white elephant gift exchange. At this point, I’m sure everyone is familiar with the concept (if not, Wikipedia it). Since I’m blessed with the unique combination of being extremely lazy and remarkably cheap, I decided to put zero time, money, and effort into a gift. Instead of trying to give a good/funny gift, I decided to give the lamest piece of crap that came to my mind. I reached this conclusion while reading an old newspaper…which prompted the idea to GIVE an old newspaper.
The Wife quickly protested the idea. “That’s an awful gift,” she said. “You can’t give that.”
“It’s supposed to be an awful gift,” I pleaded. “The only people who give anything good or nice are newbies–suckers who are too afraid to give junk.”
Despite much–uh, persistence–on her part, I stuck to my guns and wrapped up a week-old . . . . .
I was listening to the Raider game over the weekend. During the broadcast, I heard a promo encouraging fans to vote. Yeah, that’s what American needs: Raider fans determining how the country is run. Not every uneducated illiterate with a criminal record deserves a voice. It’s this sorta propaganda that pisses me off. I hate voting season.
I’ve been so busy with other things I haven’t spent much time writing lately. There are so many things I wanted to share. Like last month when I went to get gas for the company Tahoe. Fueling that beast is a concrete reminder why I drive the Almighty Honda: it cost more to fill-up than the gross domestic product of Paraguay. If it wasn’t for the company credit card, I wouldn’t be able to fill it up because no one cares around that much cash.
I think the worst part of having to fill up a 26-gallon tank is the time it takes to do so. My car has a tiny tank–I’m rarely at a gas station long enough to squeegee off the front windshield. The Tahoe is always below E (’cause no one ever wants to take the time to get gas) . . . . .
A coworker was telling me about his experience meeting Fergie (who–thanks to The Girlfriend–I recently learned is a musician and not an English aristocrat). He talked about her bodyguards, fancy cars, and massive, obviously expensive jewelry. “That girl is rolling in cash,” he said.
I’m tired of making other people rich. Actors, singers, sports stars, CEOs–all of them are getting rich on our dime. Every movie we see and every CD we buy makes the rich richer. We don’t think about it when we go shopping–we just buy stuff because as Americans we love buying stuff. But the entertainers we make rich are already loaded. They have more money than they could every possibly spend (well, except MC Hammer). Imagine what it’s like being Fergie. She doesn’t hafta worry about $4-a-gallon gas. She doesn’t complain about rising food costs or worry about whether or not her boss will give her a raise. That girl is rolling in cash.
Must be nice.
Meanwhile the rest of us–people who live in the real world–struggle to make ends meet. I don’t wanna get all communist here, but it’s a load of garbage. At some point is there ever enough? No one needs that . . . . .
The Olympics start this week…but does anyone really care? Do you know anybody who actually gets excited about the Olympics? I don’t know anyone who watches. Outside the big-name events (men’s basketball and Michael Phelps) I don’t know anyone who cares. I certainly don’t care. There’s no fun in watching someone run around a track. There’s only so many times I can watch a person swim in a pool (zero). There are very few mainstream events in our society that are as past their prime as the Olympics. I truly believe no one gives a crud…other than the athletes involved. If the world were to somehow skip an Olympics, do you think anyone would even notice? I don’t.
Recently I was sitting outside a very rich and classy hotel. It was one of those expensive joints–the kinda place where two nights cost more than I pay in month for rent. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead near such an establishment, but an assignment for work put me at the hotel’s entrance for a few hours. Since my job isn’t challenging, I had little to do other than watch numerous cars come to the valet and wait to get parked. It . . . . .
The gravitational pull that is my giant head pulled in a new object the other day while playing softball. I was walking back to the dugout when someone chucked a bat in my general direction. I didn’t see it–but I heard screams to look out. Instinctively, I crouched down and covered my head with my arms. The bat narrowly missed me, falling in between my legs, ricocheted off the ground, and hit me square in the manhood. I wish I could boast about the benefits of wearing a cup…unfortunately, I’ve never been the athletic support type.
Now the skeptic would say this is proof that my head isn’t that large and it doesn’t have its own gravitational pull. Instead of hitting me in the cranium, the bat fell short. But a softball bat is a heavy object. I believe the gravitational field of my head pulled the bat closer to me–but wasn’t strong enough to fully pull that bat into my head. Kinda like the way comets circle around the sun. Gravity is strong enough to alter the orbit–but not enough to pull the object in.
And that’s what it’s come down to: I’m comparing my head to celestial objects. . . . . .
I saw a commercial the other day for pharmaceutical school. What sorta education is required to be a pharmacist? You gotta be able to find the medicine prescribed by the doctor–on your shelf–and you gotta be able to count out the number of pills he prescribes. As far as I can tell, all you need is basic reading and counting skills. Your average sixth grader oughta be able to do that. Pharmaceutical college? Yeah, it’s called grade school.
On November 7, 1991 Magic Johnson announced to the world he was HIV positive and retiring from the NBA. I remember that date (for some reason, I’m really good at remember the dates of bad things) and I’ll never forget the day. I was in school when rumors started running wild. I didn’t believe it until I got home and saw the news. Like every kid of that age, I idolized Magic and Bird–the two greatest basketball players to live (of course, that was before Jordan got good and started winning rings–but that’s neither here nor there).
November 7, 1991–more than 15 years ago. While it seemed like a death since back then, Magic certainly appears to be alive and well today. . . . . .
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