me: (opening a pack of Fig Newtons found deep in the back of the cabinet) What flavor are these?
bunks: They’re just regular fig flavored.
me: What?
bunks: They taste like fig.
me: So like huckleberry?
bunks: Did I say huckleberry?
me: Did I say fig?

Have you ever read a book of quotes? Or perhaps searched a quote website? Reading a bunch of quotes together is like being in the car with someone that won’t stop touching the radio. Their hands have no idea what to do except beat off or hit a preset. Anyway, books of quotes are worthless in my opinion…my hypothesis is based on the fact that so-called quotemakers are generally people that have gained great wealth and therefore are able to sit around, have trays of grapes brought to them, and be posing for a portrait all at once. Thinking back on the last time I glanced at the Robert Fulghum quote book, it left me missing being around my southern cousin. The last message he left me in his drawl was “Hey Lou this is your cousin Jay, just calling to shoot the shit. Call me back.” I don’t see Mr. Everything I Learned in Kindergarten Was How to Make Butter Out of Cream adding that his book of quotations.

On the other hand, the weak point I might be making is that if a quote is meaningful to you, then it’s a good quote. And that Fulghum book is stuff that inspired him, so I tip my hat to him, even if I do think way too many people bought the Prayer of Jabez or whatever else he’s written. The worst quote books by far are the “famous quotes by actors and musicians” series. Let’s just say when I was twelve my grandma put the wheels of this post in motion.

Lee Greenwood - “Love is a fragile rose that withers without attention.”

Give me a break. You know this war resurrected your career. Happy Easter, by the way.

There must have been something special about yesterday. After reading the post by MrFildo, I was obliged to look back at my own journal (or “blog” if you are really such a worthless hoosier that you would actually call it that) to note a related post. On April 15, the very same day as the post that appears below, I recorded the following:

“Something just happened to me, after I arrived here at work. This event broke many laws of physics and biology, and has caused me to consider the possibility that I might not be human.”

Specifically, the physical law I’m referring to would be the one that says that something that weighs 194 lbs (or 6.981 picoliters per megacentigrade for you canadians) cannot come out of a person who weighs 160 lbs., especially if the person still weighs 160 after “the event.”

On another note, and I’m saying this only because I think we should talk about something other than poop for a minute, a word you should add to your vocabulary is dysnomia, which refers to difficulty coming up with the word you are seeking. You know the feeling: “uh… you know, that thing….”

Today, I told a friend of mine about this lovely word. She said “great, now I can forget it and say ‘what’s that word for when you can’t remember what a word is?’”

I apologize for the lack of graphics in this post.

Ok, now ya’ll are gonna think my material is real limited, but hey, it works for Drew Carey. Besides, I come up with my best shit while taking one.

Today I became that guy I hate. Boss-man took us out to Famous Dave’s for lunch. It was spectacular. Really was. I would say that the BBQ’d goodness started a chain reaction, but there was no time for that. Pulled chicken sandwich went through me like a laser beam. I was back at my desk less then 45 seconds before the perkelating increased (exponentially) from a mild, comforting deglutition to a Mt St Helen’s magma vent. A quick dash to that place I’ve described once before and that is where all hell broke loose. I thought an Alien was going to burst out of my chest. I was visited by an extra terrestrial, but it didn’t come out of my chest. My diet has been, para usual, pizza, hot dogs and double cheeseburgers. The evidence would lead one to presume that I had instead ingested raw ground beef, stroganoff, Vaseline, and pop rocks.

Of course, right after lunch is the busiest time of the day for the indoor-outhouse. 3 or 4 fella’s at the urinals started laughing at the anal orchestra I was conducting.

I followed with a second barrage.

They stopped laughing.

I wanted to cry: More from the realization that it was me being that foul person I so loath, than from the childbirth-like pains. After the burning and churning subsided, I was at least a little relieved to find I still had a wet-nap in my pocket from Famous Dave’s. I still had the shameful walk back to my desk, thinking only how some poor fellow man was going to go try to wash his hands, and curse me for being such a disgusting co-worker, who ought be admitted into a doctor’s care.

There have been a few things going on around the office lately (besides the two excruciating attempts to make shelfball fun) that have me all a-twitter. Basically, I’m working with a bunch of dolts. And I say that with the least bit of sarcasm or any spite or anything like that. I’ve reached a point where I can call stupid by its first name. Lenny.

I haven’t a clue as to how these assorted fruits and nuts got their positions in this company. Are there job fairs in Virden, Illinois? A junior high scholastic bowl team could run this place. Even with the jerk kid who is only on the team because he knows a lot about hockey. I no longer have the will to describe it all. I submit to you truth in its most potent form: the diorama. Here, verbatim:

Click each diorama for an e-mail between the my company’s network admin and legal director (who works directly under the CEO):

Ugh. He could have just said, “No, you aren’t doing something wrong. Just try not to delete your sent items if you’ve copied them to one of your folders.” But that would be too RIGHT. The last diorama I made was for Island of the Blue Dolphins. Hmm.

You understand that the person was not yelling specifically AT you, but hey, manhood is manhood, and if someone yells in your general direction, you are obligated to defend yourself. I mean, can you imagine what type of place the world would be if people could raise their voices and use foul language at 2:30 a.m. in bars? I shudder to think.

Meanwhile, if you’re a hot girl, evidently you should throw yourself at a certain emotive friend of mine. He should politely decline, and you should go home with a man whose face is as wide as his trailer. I know you’re disappointed, but in all honesty, can you blame the guy? Who KNOWS what kinda disease you’re carrying.

But you did miss out on a couple of things. Yeah, just check out the picture.