The Buckeyes play Texas tonight. My prediction is Ohio State over Texas, 24 - 21.
On a different note, the over/under was at 14 days as to when I would be able to go out again to get a drink. At 6:18 today, it will be into the 14 day if you play by the Price is Right rules. Purists and people with common sense will tell you that it is still the 13th day.
Either way, at 7:00pm tonight, I will be watching pre-game from outside my home at The Rack with a chilly brew.
Go Buckeyes!
The Ohio University Marching 110 will be playing today in Northern Illinois. The pre-band warm up football game starts at 2:30 and the post-band football game will play for two more quarters after the band plays.
Damn! I hope it ain't skunk
I was looking for an easy way out of writing tonight and did so by sifting through a bunch of old crap in a file called “Comics and Keepers.” Within that horrible file folder I found one small nugget of gold.
This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.
Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.
That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.
That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.
Wow. Turns out I am a real asshole.
This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.
Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.
That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.
That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.
Wow. Turns out I am a real asshole.
Useless
Now that Miss Sally and little Ann are spending a good amount of time together, Greg and I have become dependant upon each other. He used to request Miss Sally 75% of the time to read books before bed and tuck him in. Now he gets daddy 100% of the time. We are both geting used to it.
Children’s books are two pages away from being depressing stories of real life. Happily ever after glosses over therapy necessary to get over seeing a woodsman kill a talking wolf. They never go into that.
So here’s something to depress the shit out of you if you are familiar with the story.
**** *******
Useless
I opened the cigar box and it creaked as the duct tape hinge relented. It smelled of cigars and dust and oddly enough, fabric softener.
I didn’t mean to find the box and it didn’t need me to find it. The objects inside were used up; meant only to be used as fodder for faint memories or dreams that are gone by morning. There was a folded award for attendance. A snail shell filled with wax. There was the base of a trophy for bowling. There was a love note and a photo of a dog named Kid. A ball bearing and a marble, both the same size. A nail and a safety pin. A silver dollar with a bullet hole through it. Three buffalo nickels wrapped with yellowed tape.
These things removed with a shaky hand and set on the carpet of the closet. I am old now and have no use for such memories and I am grumpy that I ever opened the box. I tipped the box sideways to scoop back up the memories when the last something fell out.
The interior of the box was brown and matched the color of the darkish, lumpish thing. It was easy to miss. Held up in the 60 watt light, it looked like a ball of mud that had dried into a stone. It was warm. And then I remembered…
The Truffula seed.
I had always planned on planting it once I found a place. There was no easy place for the Truffula seed. But there were video games and football practice and girls named Stephanie and Angie. There was no time to look for the exact proper place and to spend the time watering and caring. I had apples to pick and houses to build and boats to carve. It was too big a task and easier to forget.
I pocketed the three nickels. Scooped up all the trash and closed the box. Then put the cigar box back up on the shelf behind the slide projector.
Unless. Useless.
Children’s books are two pages away from being depressing stories of real life. Happily ever after glosses over therapy necessary to get over seeing a woodsman kill a talking wolf. They never go into that.
So here’s something to depress the shit out of you if you are familiar with the story.
**** *******
Useless
I opened the cigar box and it creaked as the duct tape hinge relented. It smelled of cigars and dust and oddly enough, fabric softener.
I didn’t mean to find the box and it didn’t need me to find it. The objects inside were used up; meant only to be used as fodder for faint memories or dreams that are gone by morning. There was a folded award for attendance. A snail shell filled with wax. There was the base of a trophy for bowling. There was a love note and a photo of a dog named Kid. A ball bearing and a marble, both the same size. A nail and a safety pin. A silver dollar with a bullet hole through it. Three buffalo nickels wrapped with yellowed tape.
These things removed with a shaky hand and set on the carpet of the closet. I am old now and have no use for such memories and I am grumpy that I ever opened the box. I tipped the box sideways to scoop back up the memories when the last something fell out.
The interior of the box was brown and matched the color of the darkish, lumpish thing. It was easy to miss. Held up in the 60 watt light, it looked like a ball of mud that had dried into a stone. It was warm. And then I remembered…
The Truffula seed.
I had always planned on planting it once I found a place. There was no easy place for the Truffula seed. But there were video games and football practice and girls named Stephanie and Angie. There was no time to look for the exact proper place and to spend the time watering and caring. I had apples to pick and houses to build and boats to carve. It was too big a task and easier to forget.
I pocketed the three nickels. Scooped up all the trash and closed the box. Then put the cigar box back up on the shelf behind the slide projector.
Unless. Useless.
Half Remember
There is something astounding about the human brain that not only allows us to forget, but also lets us half remember.
My buddy Conny was in town for a meeting and we went out after work/meetings, played 18 holes of golf and then had dinner at Hooters. In the good old days, Conny coming in town meant us both skipping out of meetings/work at noon, golfing, hanging out with some of the chicks at a bar who also were in town for meetings and who also bailed at noon to drink margaritas. Later on, we would go to the nudie bar. (If Conny’s wife is reading this, Conny would always go home before the nudie bar. If my wife is reading this, Doug would always go home before the nudie bar.) Either we are wiser now or they keep better attendance at those meetings.
It’s while we were eating wings that I was reminded about mostly forgetting. Or half remembering.
We had a job in Charleston, WV that lasted about six weeks. We’d drive down early Monday, stay for the week, and try to sneak out in the early afternoon on Friday. There were between 5 – 10 people working at a time. In those situations, you all end up waking, working, eating, drinking and sleeping together (not sleeping together, at least in my case.) Eating together is painful. I can eat the same thing at the same place every day. Other people have taste and require a variation in their diet. You also need to be able to eat quickly so that you can run back to work and watch your fabricator drop expensive stuff on other expensive stuff. Where variation and quick crossed paths was at a restaurant called Chef Dan’s. It was close to the jobsite, quick service and had a decent sized menu. Two items on the menu were wings and salad. Wings first and last with salad in the middle.
Wings First
I like chicken wings. There is such a variation in preparation and sauces that almost all wings are different. Most wings are pretty blah. Deep fry and dip in Red Hot. I like Red Hot, but it’s definitely a crutch in the sauce world. Arbuckle’s in Boston had good wings. Someday I’ll make it Duff’s. I’m no wing purist, but there are some “cooks” that think you can take baked chicken and dip it in BBQ sauce and voila!
Unless there is a picture in the menu or some other sucker close to your table who ordered them before you, you’ll never know what you are getting until they drop the plastic basket in front of you (with the bonus five rubbery celery sticks!) It’s a crap shoot.
At Chef Dan’s it was more crap than shoot when it came to wings. I actually asked the waitress if the wings were good. She enthusiastically said yes. I don’t know why I trusted her food knowledge. Especially since the Trevor salad incident.
Salad in the Middle
Trevor is a pacifist vegan with a hidden rage. His leftist political views are only out curdled by his deadly reaction to milk products. Trevor looked a lot like Jesus, spoke a lot like Jesus, but would rip out your trachea if you pissed him off. He would try to rip out your trachea, but mainly you just end up with some resin smears on your neck. Due to his diet of grass and dirt, he wasn’t a brawny lad.
Trevor was with us on the installation in Charleston. He worked with us, but due to his strict diet, he requested a room in another hotel with a kitchenette so that he could prepare his own not meat, not milk, not tasty food. What this meant was that we didn’t see that much of Trevor outside of the job site. He’d wisp in at dawn and fade away at night. At lunch, he would sulk off with his camping mess kit that I assume was filled with green and brown stuff.
On day, Trevor went with us to lunch. Perhaps the Co-op was closed in honor of Howard Lyman’s birthday or maybe Trevor left his Swiss Army Knife with spork attachment in the kitchenette at the hotel. Either way, he joined us for lunch at Chef Dan’s. Trevor grumbled and sighed through the menu. I don’t blame him. Everything was coated or dipped in or wrapped or soaked in a meat or milk product. (I’m not completely insensitive. I think vegans that don’t eat meat or milk for social/political reasons are idiots. If your body can’t process milk or meat, I feel bad for you (as I suck the ice cream out the bottom of a bacon wrapped cone.)) Trevor questioned the waiter about the salad:
“Does this salad have cheese on it?”
“No, sir.”
“No cheese at all?”
“No cheese.”
“Really?”
“Sir. There is no cheese on the salad.”
Fifteen minutes later, Trevor’s salad came out, covered in Parmesan cheese. Trevor was pissed:
“Excuse me. What is this white stuff?”
“That is Parmesan cheese.”
“You said there was no cheese on the salad.”
“Sir, that is dry cheese. It’s not real cheese.”
“Dry cheese?”
“Yes.”
“Is there milk in it?”
“I would guess so.”
“Then it’s fucking cheese!”
“But it’s dry.”
Trevor got a new salad with no wet cheese or dry cheese and he never went out to lunch with us again. The moral of this middle part is never trust the wait staff at Chef Dan’s.
Wings Last
So I trusted the waitress’ judgment about Chef Dan’s wings and ordered six of them to go with a BLT. I ordered the wings to come out first. As the basket dropped in front of me, I knew I was screwed. They were small, scrawny, un-breaded and drenched in some industrial canned version of sickly sweet BBQ sauce. I was disappointed, but starving. I’ll eat anything. Or so I thought.
I took a few bites from the first wing. The sauce was horrible. And the breading had a very odd texture. My brain played connect the dots with my tongue for a few seconds as I chewed the wings and swallowed. My eyes were included in the dot connecting and they were instructed to look at the un-breaded wing for the stuff that was giving it such an odd texture that might trick my mouth into thinking they might be breaded. Partial breading? Burnt outer skin?
Feathers. My half eaten wing had feathers on it.
I’m not talking about A feather or A COUPLE of feathers. IT WAS ALMOST FULLY FEATHERED. The wing sauce had coated it enough to hide the feathers. In an instant, I went from starving to nauseous. I dropped the half eaten wing and spit the remnants in my napkin. I poked around in the basket and saw that the other wings were covered with feathers as well. Deep brown BBQ sauce and feathers. I don’t know how I could have missed them. When the waitress came back we spoke as such:
“Um, Miss? These wings are bad.”
“Oh, what’s wrong?”
“They are covered in feathers.”
“Oh, really.” (She didn’t even look at them.) “Do you want me to get you some others?”
(gag) "No."
I didn’t eat much of the BLT I ordered. I looked on the inside for feathers to amuse my lunchmates and my stomach. It didn’t help.
After that, I didn’t eat wings for about three months. I couldn’t get the texture out of my mind. I also couldn’t eat anything with sweet BBQ sauce. But, after those three months, I only half remembered the incident. I remembered it happening. If I thought about it really hard, I’d feel sick, but when I was eating wings, I would just choose not to not fully remember the feathers. Our brain is a wonderful creature. There are many things in life that if we were forced to fully remember them that we’d never function. Too many heartbreaks and deaths. There are a shitload of injustices and murders and rapes going on right now and if you tried to comprehend it all, you’d never get out of bed. (I guess there are people who don’t get out of bed. Maybe that’s why.)
In the end, we half remember or mostly forget, and get out of bed, get in the shower and go to work.
We then leave work. Meet Conny for golf. Go to Hooters. Order wings.
AND THE WINGS HAVE FEATHERS ON THEM!!!
In three months it will be November and maybe by then I will half forget again. Until then, I’ll be in bed.
My buddy Conny was in town for a meeting and we went out after work/meetings, played 18 holes of golf and then had dinner at Hooters. In the good old days, Conny coming in town meant us both skipping out of meetings/work at noon, golfing, hanging out with some of the chicks at a bar who also were in town for meetings and who also bailed at noon to drink margaritas. Later on, we would go to the nudie bar. (If Conny’s wife is reading this, Conny would always go home before the nudie bar. If my wife is reading this, Doug would always go home before the nudie bar.) Either we are wiser now or they keep better attendance at those meetings.
It’s while we were eating wings that I was reminded about mostly forgetting. Or half remembering.
We had a job in Charleston, WV that lasted about six weeks. We’d drive down early Monday, stay for the week, and try to sneak out in the early afternoon on Friday. There were between 5 – 10 people working at a time. In those situations, you all end up waking, working, eating, drinking and sleeping together (not sleeping together, at least in my case.) Eating together is painful. I can eat the same thing at the same place every day. Other people have taste and require a variation in their diet. You also need to be able to eat quickly so that you can run back to work and watch your fabricator drop expensive stuff on other expensive stuff. Where variation and quick crossed paths was at a restaurant called Chef Dan’s. It was close to the jobsite, quick service and had a decent sized menu. Two items on the menu were wings and salad. Wings first and last with salad in the middle.
Wings First
I like chicken wings. There is such a variation in preparation and sauces that almost all wings are different. Most wings are pretty blah. Deep fry and dip in Red Hot. I like Red Hot, but it’s definitely a crutch in the sauce world. Arbuckle’s in Boston had good wings. Someday I’ll make it Duff’s. I’m no wing purist, but there are some “cooks” that think you can take baked chicken and dip it in BBQ sauce and voila!
Unless there is a picture in the menu or some other sucker close to your table who ordered them before you, you’ll never know what you are getting until they drop the plastic basket in front of you (with the bonus five rubbery celery sticks!) It’s a crap shoot.
At Chef Dan’s it was more crap than shoot when it came to wings. I actually asked the waitress if the wings were good. She enthusiastically said yes. I don’t know why I trusted her food knowledge. Especially since the Trevor salad incident.
Salad in the Middle
Trevor is a pacifist vegan with a hidden rage. His leftist political views are only out curdled by his deadly reaction to milk products. Trevor looked a lot like Jesus, spoke a lot like Jesus, but would rip out your trachea if you pissed him off. He would try to rip out your trachea, but mainly you just end up with some resin smears on your neck. Due to his diet of grass and dirt, he wasn’t a brawny lad.
Trevor was with us on the installation in Charleston. He worked with us, but due to his strict diet, he requested a room in another hotel with a kitchenette so that he could prepare his own not meat, not milk, not tasty food. What this meant was that we didn’t see that much of Trevor outside of the job site. He’d wisp in at dawn and fade away at night. At lunch, he would sulk off with his camping mess kit that I assume was filled with green and brown stuff.
On day, Trevor went with us to lunch. Perhaps the Co-op was closed in honor of Howard Lyman’s birthday or maybe Trevor left his Swiss Army Knife with spork attachment in the kitchenette at the hotel. Either way, he joined us for lunch at Chef Dan’s. Trevor grumbled and sighed through the menu. I don’t blame him. Everything was coated or dipped in or wrapped or soaked in a meat or milk product. (I’m not completely insensitive. I think vegans that don’t eat meat or milk for social/political reasons are idiots. If your body can’t process milk or meat, I feel bad for you (as I suck the ice cream out the bottom of a bacon wrapped cone.)) Trevor questioned the waiter about the salad:
“Does this salad have cheese on it?”
“No, sir.”
“No cheese at all?”
“No cheese.”
“Really?”
“Sir. There is no cheese on the salad.”
Fifteen minutes later, Trevor’s salad came out, covered in Parmesan cheese. Trevor was pissed:
“Excuse me. What is this white stuff?”
“That is Parmesan cheese.”
“You said there was no cheese on the salad.”
“Sir, that is dry cheese. It’s not real cheese.”
“Dry cheese?”
“Yes.”
“Is there milk in it?”
“I would guess so.”
“Then it’s fucking cheese!”
“But it’s dry.”
Trevor got a new salad with no wet cheese or dry cheese and he never went out to lunch with us again. The moral of this middle part is never trust the wait staff at Chef Dan’s.
Wings Last
So I trusted the waitress’ judgment about Chef Dan’s wings and ordered six of them to go with a BLT. I ordered the wings to come out first. As the basket dropped in front of me, I knew I was screwed. They were small, scrawny, un-breaded and drenched in some industrial canned version of sickly sweet BBQ sauce. I was disappointed, but starving. I’ll eat anything. Or so I thought.
I took a few bites from the first wing. The sauce was horrible. And the breading had a very odd texture. My brain played connect the dots with my tongue for a few seconds as I chewed the wings and swallowed. My eyes were included in the dot connecting and they were instructed to look at the un-breaded wing for the stuff that was giving it such an odd texture that might trick my mouth into thinking they might be breaded. Partial breading? Burnt outer skin?
Feathers. My half eaten wing had feathers on it.
I’m not talking about A feather or A COUPLE of feathers. IT WAS ALMOST FULLY FEATHERED. The wing sauce had coated it enough to hide the feathers. In an instant, I went from starving to nauseous. I dropped the half eaten wing and spit the remnants in my napkin. I poked around in the basket and saw that the other wings were covered with feathers as well. Deep brown BBQ sauce and feathers. I don’t know how I could have missed them. When the waitress came back we spoke as such:
“Um, Miss? These wings are bad.”
“Oh, what’s wrong?”
“They are covered in feathers.”
“Oh, really.” (She didn’t even look at them.) “Do you want me to get you some others?”
(gag) "No."
I didn’t eat much of the BLT I ordered. I looked on the inside for feathers to amuse my lunchmates and my stomach. It didn’t help.
After that, I didn’t eat wings for about three months. I couldn’t get the texture out of my mind. I also couldn’t eat anything with sweet BBQ sauce. But, after those three months, I only half remembered the incident. I remembered it happening. If I thought about it really hard, I’d feel sick, but when I was eating wings, I would just choose not to not fully remember the feathers. Our brain is a wonderful creature. There are many things in life that if we were forced to fully remember them that we’d never function. Too many heartbreaks and deaths. There are a shitload of injustices and murders and rapes going on right now and if you tried to comprehend it all, you’d never get out of bed. (I guess there are people who don’t get out of bed. Maybe that’s why.)
In the end, we half remember or mostly forget, and get out of bed, get in the shower and go to work.
We then leave work. Meet Conny for golf. Go to Hooters. Order wings.
AND THE WINGS HAVE FEATHERS ON THEM!!!
In three months it will be November and maybe by then I will half forget again. Until then, I’ll be in bed.
Half right
Tanya and John are in town with their little girl Elle. She is a real cutie.
Miss Sally keeps predicting that she is having a boy. We both would like a girl to complete the set.
It seems that 95% of the people that want to talk about the sex of our upcoming child have some secret knowledge into what the sex of our child will be. Here are the criteria that these child sex experts have brought up:
How low the baby is
If the belly button is in or out
If the mother's butt got fat
If the mother is craving meat
If the mother is craving sweets
If the mother has let a metal object swing above her wrist and if it circles or swings back and forth.
If the belly is sticking out or rounded
If
*********
OK, that's as far with that post as I got. Before I could finish, we had the breaking of water and so on and so forth.
As you know, we had a girl. And as predicted, 50% of the people who guessed were incorrect.
I've always loved the statistic that 50% of American women are below average while half of all American men are above average.
It's good to be half right, 50% of the time. It's better to be half wrong, 100% of the time.
Miss Sally keeps predicting that she is having a boy. We both would like a girl to complete the set.
It seems that 95% of the people that want to talk about the sex of our upcoming child have some secret knowledge into what the sex of our child will be. Here are the criteria that these child sex experts have brought up:
How low the baby is
If the belly button is in or out
If the mother's butt got fat
If the mother is craving meat
If the mother is craving sweets
If the mother has let a metal object swing above her wrist and if it circles or swings back and forth.
If the belly is sticking out or rounded
If
*********
OK, that's as far with that post as I got. Before I could finish, we had the breaking of water and so on and so forth.
As you know, we had a girl. And as predicted, 50% of the people who guessed were incorrect.
I've always loved the statistic that 50% of American women are below average while half of all American men are above average.
It's good to be half right, 50% of the time. It's better to be half wrong, 100% of the time.
We've replaced your regular article with a photo of a gay guy
I got caught up writing about something else and now I don’t like where it went. So instead of reading five pages of drivel, please take a look at the following photo:
I believe this was an attempt by my previous employer to meet and exceed the quota for affirmative action. The guy you see in this photo was:
black
gay
bald
and he stuttered
If he would have been a chick, we would have received an award.
It doesn’t count for affirmative action, but the guy was also not that smart. At least he made some very bad judgment calls. Lucky for us, the guy last strawed, was let go and we hired Lacey.
The other person in the photo is Anne. She is the cat's coffee. She is the corn on the tinternet. She puts the crazy in crazy crazy. And I'm realizing that I miss her.
I believe this was an attempt by my previous employer to meet and exceed the quota for affirmative action. The guy you see in this photo was:
black
gay
bald
and he stuttered
If he would have been a chick, we would have received an award.
It doesn’t count for affirmative action, but the guy was also not that smart. At least he made some very bad judgment calls. Lucky for us, the guy last strawed, was let go and we hired Lacey.
The other person in the photo is Anne. She is the cat's coffee. She is the corn on the tinternet. She puts the crazy in crazy crazy. And I'm realizing that I miss her.
Elevator Terror
My co-worker, Angie, got a phone call from her very distraught mother. Here is her mother’s tale:
Angie’s mom walked into her office building and to the elevator on the first floor. Her mom is in her late 50’s so she is familiar with technologies such as the phone and the elevator. Being familiar with the elevator, she pushed the button and got in. She pushed another button to go up. A second after the doors shut and the elevator started going up, the elevator jerked to a stop.
She waited for a bit. No movement. She did what all normal people do and tried pushing all the buttons that weren’t red. Numbers. Open door. Close door. (I don’t know why she even tried those as they don’t work anyways.) All the normal buttons did nothing so she hit the red EMERGENCY button. It was the type that makes a ringing sound when you press it, but stops making the ringing sound when you stop pressing it. A doorbell for people who think they are going to starve to death. She hit it again and again for longer and longer amounts of time, but no handsome fireman’s voice came through the neatly drilled holes in the stainless steel.
Time passes.
She was getting worried. Then she noticed the phone in the little glass booth. She was familiar with that technology.
There were no numbers to dial, so she put the phone to her ear. It was ringing. A woman answered. Something like, “Otis emergency elevator service. How can I help you?”
What do you say in situation like that? Me? I’d joke around about sending up a pizza or that they’d better hurry because the elevator was filling with water and piranhas. Basically, you give them the address of the building and tell them you are stuck. It would probably make them happy not to get a prank call.
What did Angie’s mom say?
“I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.” And hung up.
After this, she started to get panicky. And what does a woman in her 50s do when she is stuck in an elevator with no food or water and gets panicky? Why, with the strength of 80 drunken men she wedged her fingers in between the elevator doors and ripped them open! She then put her fingers between the outer doors and ripped them open! The elevator was about 18” above the first floor so she got on her hands and knees and climbed out of the elevator and flopped (the ungracious kind of flop) out on to the 1st floor. A co-worker was the solitary witness to the floppage. He had heard the emergency bell and called for help.
Why hadn’t the help arrived?
Because between the button pushing and the emergency button pushing and the phone calling and the panicking, she had been stuck in the elevator for a total of five minutes.
Perhaps elevators distort time. When the doors shut, time speeds up on the inside while remaining constant on the outside. Different elevators have different levels of time distortion based on how stinky the elevator is and who is in it with you. When I had sex in an elevator, it seemed like hours, but when we got out, only a few minutes had passed.
Angie’s mom made it out with nothing more than a bruised psyche. I have not asked Angie how many days her mom took the stairs until she got over her fear of that elevator.
Angie’s mom walked into her office building and to the elevator on the first floor. Her mom is in her late 50’s so she is familiar with technologies such as the phone and the elevator. Being familiar with the elevator, she pushed the button and got in. She pushed another button to go up. A second after the doors shut and the elevator started going up, the elevator jerked to a stop.
She waited for a bit. No movement. She did what all normal people do and tried pushing all the buttons that weren’t red. Numbers. Open door. Close door. (I don’t know why she even tried those as they don’t work anyways.) All the normal buttons did nothing so she hit the red EMERGENCY button. It was the type that makes a ringing sound when you press it, but stops making the ringing sound when you stop pressing it. A doorbell for people who think they are going to starve to death. She hit it again and again for longer and longer amounts of time, but no handsome fireman’s voice came through the neatly drilled holes in the stainless steel.
Time passes.
She was getting worried. Then she noticed the phone in the little glass booth. She was familiar with that technology.
There were no numbers to dial, so she put the phone to her ear. It was ringing. A woman answered. Something like, “Otis emergency elevator service. How can I help you?”
What do you say in situation like that? Me? I’d joke around about sending up a pizza or that they’d better hurry because the elevator was filling with water and piranhas. Basically, you give them the address of the building and tell them you are stuck. It would probably make them happy not to get a prank call.
What did Angie’s mom say?
“I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.” And hung up.
After this, she started to get panicky. And what does a woman in her 50s do when she is stuck in an elevator with no food or water and gets panicky? Why, with the strength of 80 drunken men she wedged her fingers in between the elevator doors and ripped them open! She then put her fingers between the outer doors and ripped them open! The elevator was about 18” above the first floor so she got on her hands and knees and climbed out of the elevator and flopped (the ungracious kind of flop) out on to the 1st floor. A co-worker was the solitary witness to the floppage. He had heard the emergency bell and called for help.
Why hadn’t the help arrived?
Because between the button pushing and the emergency button pushing and the phone calling and the panicking, she had been stuck in the elevator for a total of five minutes.
Perhaps elevators distort time. When the doors shut, time speeds up on the inside while remaining constant on the outside. Different elevators have different levels of time distortion based on how stinky the elevator is and who is in it with you. When I had sex in an elevator, it seemed like hours, but when we got out, only a few minutes had passed.
Angie’s mom made it out with nothing more than a bruised psyche. I have not asked Angie how many days her mom took the stairs until she got over her fear of that elevator.
Shorty.... OUT!
We all knew it. No one wanted to say anything. Finally someone did and then it was a Who concert stampede of agreement. Shorty was, in his secret life, Lance Bass. How a Dayton native could grow to receive so much fame was beyond our reasoning, but yet he did. He kept the media circus to a minimum and some how was able to tour and hold down a design job while spending 12 hours a day at DeFabCo while painting Gaelic designs on refrigerators.
Of course, there were rumors. Questions. Elle magazine subscriptions. We all, once again, began to wonder how the fame would go to his loins. Shorty would spend a lot of time at choir practices and The Columbus Men's Origami functions. We knew the news would break... we just didn't know how big it would break. PEOPLE magazine came out with the story. We still love you Lance/Shorty. Just now it the other 50% of us that are more frightened.
Thanks for breaking the news Meshell
Of course, there were rumors. Questions. Elle magazine subscriptions. We all, once again, began to wonder how the fame would go to his loins. Shorty would spend a lot of time at choir practices and The Columbus Men's Origami functions. We knew the news would break... we just didn't know how big it would break. PEOPLE magazine came out with the story. We still love you Lance/Shorty. Just now it the other 50% of us that are more frightened.
Thanks for breaking the news Meshell
Greg the Psychic Artist
I asked our household psychic to help us find the murderer of JonBenet. He drew the following sketch to assist the Boulder police in locating the murderer.
Clearly you can see the drawing of a one finned porpoise. Inside that animal is a street level map of Leadville, CO. There are also two hieroglyphics representing toilet and forge.
The porpoise is winking.
Our analyses of the drawing are probably the exact same ones that you have derived from the sketch:
1. Porpoises are fish that breathe air
2. Leadville, CO once had the 12th largest Jewish community in Colorado
3. The two symbols together can be roughly translated to John-Smith.
4. Porpoises do not have maps on their insides, but have been known to swallow fish sized globes.
5. Do not trust winking porpoises
Here is what can be surmised from the drawing:
The father did it.
The psychic may also have been influenced by me asking him to draw a picture of mommy with baby in her belly. This is still being investigated.
Clearly you can see the drawing of a one finned porpoise. Inside that animal is a street level map of Leadville, CO. There are also two hieroglyphics representing toilet and forge.
The porpoise is winking.
Our analyses of the drawing are probably the exact same ones that you have derived from the sketch:
1. Porpoises are fish that breathe air
2. Leadville, CO once had the 12th largest Jewish community in Colorado
3. The two symbols together can be roughly translated to John-Smith.
4. Porpoises do not have maps on their insides, but have been known to swallow fish sized globes.
5. Do not trust winking porpoises
Here is what can be surmised from the drawing:
The father did it.
The psychic may also have been influenced by me asking him to draw a picture of mommy with baby in her belly. This is still being investigated.
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