Languages are a lot like fighting ninja werewolves, just when you think you're getting good at one you find that your skills are severely lacking when you need them the most.
I've been studying Chinese for over seven years. For the most part I do OK and on the occasions when I need to say a word or phrase that I don't know like “archaeologist” or “Decepticon” I have my lovely wife there by my side to bail me out (just like with the ninj-wolves).
This week however, I ran into a situation where both my leet sino-skills and lovely sino-wife both failed me.
I was still in China, doing some last minute shopping, which for me means shopping for Chinese DVDs. Chinese DVD salesmen are unintentionally hilarious. When every they see whitey they a circle with their fingers (commonly recognized as the universal sign of a DVD) and say one of the few English words they know “DVD” (which actually doesn't count because that's also how you say DVD in Chinese).
Normally I then blow them away by chatting with them about Chinese movies and movie stars, prove my linguistics manhood and move on. I'm fairly comfortable in these situations so I went to pick up a couple Chinese Television series to last us until our next trip while my wife took care of her parents' computer needs.
This is when I discovered a major chink in my Chinese armor (that phrase has never sounded more racist, I should have thought of a better way to say that). Since the last time I was in China many of the bootleg DVD vendors have moved much of the stock into the back rooms that used to be reserved for adult programming. Also the vendors seemed a lot more convinced that a white guy wondering around could only be interesting in dirty DVD was were making different commonly recognized universal signs with their fingers
I just wish I knew how to say “I don't want to go to your porn room” in Chinese.
I'm hoping for the second kind
I saw a sea monster yesterday.
I'm not really sure if it was one of the cool kinds with the lots of arms, the horns and the teeth and the ship wrecking powers like the Kraken or if it was the really cool kind with the tits and the boobs and the seashell bikini like a mermaid, but it was definitely a sea monster.
It was on my flight home from LA.
Even though the flight from LA to SLC requires passing over absolutely zero water, the plane made a small detour over the ocean. I think they were kinda hoping we would crash there. They seemed really proud of the fact that their seats could be used a a flotation device (all thought I would have felt a lot safer if the seats could be used as a parachute).
I saw something big in the water. I don't know what it was, but my world needs more magic. There fore, I'm decided in was a sea monster.
You can't change my mind.
I'm not really sure if it was one of the cool kinds with the lots of arms, the horns and the teeth and the ship wrecking powers like the Kraken or if it was the really cool kind with the tits and the boobs and the seashell bikini like a mermaid, but it was definitely a sea monster.
It was on my flight home from LA.
Even though the flight from LA to SLC requires passing over absolutely zero water, the plane made a small detour over the ocean. I think they were kinda hoping we would crash there. They seemed really proud of the fact that their seats could be used a a flotation device (all thought I would have felt a lot safer if the seats could be used as a parachute).
I saw something big in the water. I don't know what it was, but my world needs more magic. There fore, I'm decided in was a sea monster.
You can't change my mind.
I'll Eat Something With a Face, So Long as it's Not Smiling at the Time
Because I have a mental problem that prevents me from not buying something that's really cheap and I never pass up the opportunity to eat like a five year old, I recent purchased a whole bunch of goldfish crackers.
It's been a while since I've eaten goldfish crackers. I don't know why, I love pretty much all food that comes in the shape of a fish: goldfish crackers, Swedish fish, actual fish.
Well whatever the reason for the long separation, it over and me and one of my favorite childhood treats are back together again.
I was looking at a back for goldfish crackers for probably the first time since I learned how to read, and I noticed that they have a mascot now. A whole school of mascots actually.
Now on the side of every small bag of goldfish crackers are four goldfish crackers with eyes and a mouth.
I'm all for my snack foods having cute cartoon mascots. There's a part of me that gets a perverse thrill from the thought of a tree full of little, well-dressed elves who's sole purpose in life is to bake me delicious cookies. There's just something creepy about the lovable, happy character that's suppose to make me want to each a particular snack food being one of those particular snack foods.
It's kinda like how I've always had a problem with Mayor McCheese trying to sell me his head.
It's been a while since I've eaten goldfish crackers. I don't know why, I love pretty much all food that comes in the shape of a fish: goldfish crackers, Swedish fish, actual fish.
Well whatever the reason for the long separation, it over and me and one of my favorite childhood treats are back together again.
I was looking at a back for goldfish crackers for probably the first time since I learned how to read, and I noticed that they have a mascot now. A whole school of mascots actually.
Now on the side of every small bag of goldfish crackers are four goldfish crackers with eyes and a mouth.
I'm all for my snack foods having cute cartoon mascots. There's a part of me that gets a perverse thrill from the thought of a tree full of little, well-dressed elves who's sole purpose in life is to bake me delicious cookies. There's just something creepy about the lovable, happy character that's suppose to make me want to each a particular snack food being one of those particular snack foods.
It's kinda like how I've always had a problem with Mayor McCheese trying to sell me his head.
No tooth puns
My tooth hurts. It's not a constant demanding pain that demands attention like stubbing your toe or taking a mail box to the crotch. It's more of a slow annoying pain, the kind that never goes away, but never gets bad enough that you can complain about it without sounding like a total wienie.
It's kinda like working in an office.
I'm no stranger to mouth pain. I went through the torture of having braces in Jr High which was basically two years of constant mouth pain and soft food. Then in my freshman year at college, I had my wisdom teeth taken out by a man that I once watched cut a tick out of my friend's butt with a scalpel. So I can handle a little moral ache.
I'm pretty sure it's just simple cavity and a simple trip to the dentist would have the whole filled with metal and me filled with pain killer and happy gas and my problems would be solved.
However, just like my issues with body oder, knowing how to fix a problem doesn't mean I want to do it.
Now before you go accusing me of having such a common and down right boring neurosis like a fear dentists let me explain myself. Unlike the millions of Americans who fear dentists and all their needles, drills and long, pointy metal tooth pointers for absolutely no good reason, I have three firm, realistic and sane reasons to not want to got to fix this problem.
First: Dentists are doctors. Doctors are for wusses.
Despite 25 years of evidence to the contrary, I have still managed to convince myself that I am a strong and manly individual. I could have been a crusader, marching across the known world to face death at the hands of heathens, blistering sun and sand in uncomfortable places. I could have been a mountain man, living alone in the woods for years with nothing but my gun and my beard for companionship.
Instead, I am a software developer.
I think the most dangerous thing I did this week was tell a coworker the break room soda machine was out of diet Mountain Dew.
Since I was cursed to be born in the 20th century, I have to find other things in my life, bare them with patience and tell myself that makes me tough.
Right now, I'm wearing this toothache as a badge of pride.
Second: I cannot shame my family.
My grandfather was a dentist. He was more then a dentist though, he was like a dentist character in a cartoon. Everything at his house revolved around teeth. I grew up reading dental propaganda in the form of children's books. I played with a Play-doh set where you made teeth, stuck them into this creepy plastic head and then yanked them out. They had me so brain washed, I really though that an apple was as good as a candy bar.
We were a family who brushed. We were a family who used mouth wash. We were not a family that flossed, but we always told grandpa we did when we went for a visit. Seriously, nobody flosses.
I still remember when I got my first cavity. I was in high school so I had driven myself to and from the dentists office (this was in Idaho, where apparently you're allowed to drive under the influence of medical painkillers). I still remember the look of disappointment I saw in my mother's face when I explained why I was drooling out of the left side of my mouth.
I never want to see that look again.
Third: Popcorn is awesome right now.
The cavity is right in between my two back teeth, which is normally the kind of place that popcorn kernels like to hang out for weeks, making me consider suicide. Now, the whole is big enough that any remains of the delicious movie treat can be easily removed.
It seriously a dream come true for me.
Fortunately for me, I'm married and my wife is used to me. She's got me an appointment for next week to get this taken care of, so I guess that's that.
Geek on.
It's kinda like working in an office.
I'm no stranger to mouth pain. I went through the torture of having braces in Jr High which was basically two years of constant mouth pain and soft food. Then in my freshman year at college, I had my wisdom teeth taken out by a man that I once watched cut a tick out of my friend's butt with a scalpel. So I can handle a little moral ache.
I'm pretty sure it's just simple cavity and a simple trip to the dentist would have the whole filled with metal and me filled with pain killer and happy gas and my problems would be solved.
However, just like my issues with body oder, knowing how to fix a problem doesn't mean I want to do it.
Now before you go accusing me of having such a common and down right boring neurosis like a fear dentists let me explain myself. Unlike the millions of Americans who fear dentists and all their needles, drills and long, pointy metal tooth pointers for absolutely no good reason, I have three firm, realistic and sane reasons to not want to got to fix this problem.
First: Dentists are doctors. Doctors are for wusses.
Despite 25 years of evidence to the contrary, I have still managed to convince myself that I am a strong and manly individual. I could have been a crusader, marching across the known world to face death at the hands of heathens, blistering sun and sand in uncomfortable places. I could have been a mountain man, living alone in the woods for years with nothing but my gun and my beard for companionship.
Instead, I am a software developer.
I think the most dangerous thing I did this week was tell a coworker the break room soda machine was out of diet Mountain Dew.
Since I was cursed to be born in the 20th century, I have to find other things in my life, bare them with patience and tell myself that makes me tough.
Right now, I'm wearing this toothache as a badge of pride.
Second: I cannot shame my family.
My grandfather was a dentist. He was more then a dentist though, he was like a dentist character in a cartoon. Everything at his house revolved around teeth. I grew up reading dental propaganda in the form of children's books. I played with a Play-doh set where you made teeth, stuck them into this creepy plastic head and then yanked them out. They had me so brain washed, I really though that an apple was as good as a candy bar.
We were a family who brushed. We were a family who used mouth wash. We were not a family that flossed, but we always told grandpa we did when we went for a visit. Seriously, nobody flosses.
I still remember when I got my first cavity. I was in high school so I had driven myself to and from the dentists office (this was in Idaho, where apparently you're allowed to drive under the influence of medical painkillers). I still remember the look of disappointment I saw in my mother's face when I explained why I was drooling out of the left side of my mouth.
I never want to see that look again.
Third: Popcorn is awesome right now.
The cavity is right in between my two back teeth, which is normally the kind of place that popcorn kernels like to hang out for weeks, making me consider suicide. Now, the whole is big enough that any remains of the delicious movie treat can be easily removed.
It seriously a dream come true for me.
Fortunately for me, I'm married and my wife is used to me. She's got me an appointment for next week to get this taken care of, so I guess that's that.
Geek on.
They're like really flat vampires
I had a good night.
I slept tight.
I should have known I was forgetting something.
I was very disappointed to learn that bed bugs really exist. I was even more disappointed to learn that they really do bite.
What really got me upset though, was when I learned that they bite me.
My wife and I recently discovered that we have a colony of bed bugs living in our mattress. To my wife, this was a disgusting and extremely annoying inconvenience. To me it was just plain shocking.
I don't think I would have been anymore surprised to wake up and find a unicorn chewing on my foot.
I probably wouldn't have been anymore shocked if I had found a small family of tooth fairies living in our closet.
Before the moment of actually seeing the bed bug crawling around our bed and the 45 minutes on Wikipedia doing bug related research (did you know that there's an entry for wet T-shirt contests) I would be more likely to believe that the strange bite marks we had been finding all over our bodies were from the Utah Chupacabra (much rarer than the Mexican variety).
I think the reason I would be more ready to accept on of these other supernatural possibilities over the prefect natural bed bugs is that until I smashed one with my own bare hands, I had no idea that bed bugs were perfectly natural.
Until the job people of the Internet gave me the low down, the only source I'd even heard of bed bugs from was my mom. Now my mother may make the best meatloaf on the planet. She, however, is no entomologist.
Ever since I've been legally able to ignore everything my mom told me, I've been operating under the assumption that everything my mother told me was wrong. I retroactively applied this theory to all the things she had told me in the past.
Since from the time I was in feety pajamas my mother warned me of two things, bed bugs and the witch that would come out of the kitchen closest after my bed time (my mother was an expert at child manipulation).
Now I have to accept that fact that my mom, the same women who told me that if ate all my vegetables I'd grow up big and strong like Superman (four hundred pounds of broccoli later I'm still only 5 foot 5 and get beat up by fifth graders on a regular basis), was actually right about something.
This changes everything, I literally have to rethink the way I view the whole world.
If there really are bed bugs, then maybe some of the other crap my mom told me was right too.
Maybe the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus really are watching me all the time, judging whether I got candy or underwear each year.
Maybe fat kids really do have feelings.
Wow, maybe some day I really will regret hitting my sister in the face with my yellow wiffle bat.
Nah, probably not that one.
That's it for me, I'm off to kill more bed bugs, that's what I do now.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is an former super gullible six-year-old who, once he got used the idea of his mom's competence is really enjoying having a whole new species to squish.
I slept tight.
I should have known I was forgetting something.
I was very disappointed to learn that bed bugs really exist. I was even more disappointed to learn that they really do bite.
What really got me upset though, was when I learned that they bite me.
My wife and I recently discovered that we have a colony of bed bugs living in our mattress. To my wife, this was a disgusting and extremely annoying inconvenience. To me it was just plain shocking.
I don't think I would have been anymore surprised to wake up and find a unicorn chewing on my foot.
I probably wouldn't have been anymore shocked if I had found a small family of tooth fairies living in our closet.
Before the moment of actually seeing the bed bug crawling around our bed and the 45 minutes on Wikipedia doing bug related research (did you know that there's an entry for wet T-shirt contests) I would be more likely to believe that the strange bite marks we had been finding all over our bodies were from the Utah Chupacabra (much rarer than the Mexican variety).
I think the reason I would be more ready to accept on of these other supernatural possibilities over the prefect natural bed bugs is that until I smashed one with my own bare hands, I had no idea that bed bugs were perfectly natural.
Until the job people of the Internet gave me the low down, the only source I'd even heard of bed bugs from was my mom. Now my mother may make the best meatloaf on the planet. She, however, is no entomologist.
Ever since I've been legally able to ignore everything my mom told me, I've been operating under the assumption that everything my mother told me was wrong. I retroactively applied this theory to all the things she had told me in the past.
Since from the time I was in feety pajamas my mother warned me of two things, bed bugs and the witch that would come out of the kitchen closest after my bed time (my mother was an expert at child manipulation).
Now I have to accept that fact that my mom, the same women who told me that if ate all my vegetables I'd grow up big and strong like Superman (four hundred pounds of broccoli later I'm still only 5 foot 5 and get beat up by fifth graders on a regular basis), was actually right about something.
This changes everything, I literally have to rethink the way I view the whole world.
If there really are bed bugs, then maybe some of the other crap my mom told me was right too.
Maybe the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus really are watching me all the time, judging whether I got candy or underwear each year.
Maybe fat kids really do have feelings.
Wow, maybe some day I really will regret hitting my sister in the face with my yellow wiffle bat.
Nah, probably not that one.
That's it for me, I'm off to kill more bed bugs, that's what I do now.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is an former super gullible six-year-old who, once he got used the idea of his mom's competence is really enjoying having a whole new species to squish.
Oh Thank Heaven, For Mouthwash
A fictional short story based on true events. This is version one, will see many rewrites
In Jack's defense, it was really hot that day.
Heat will make people do things they'd rather not. A health nut will buy ice cream. A serious business man will frolic in the sprinklers in his best suit. A middle aged woman will think that wearing a bikini is OK, even though she's let her body go in recent years.
Throughout human history, heat has lead to all kinds of horrible things, none any worse than what my best friend for life, Jack Pattywack, did that hot summer afternoon.
It was mid-August, which is the only month in Idaho when the asphalt actually melts enough you can write dirty words into it. Me, Jack and our other best friend Brian Batowski had been out mowing widow McGrady's lawn and trimming the edging.
We had tried to out smart the heat by starting really early in the morning before the sun had a chance to warm up and really start convincing people to do crazy things like play strip lawn darts.
There's only one real problem with this plan, no matter how early you start you have to actually finish quickly or the sun comes back. We'd been at it most of the day because we only actually worked when she'd come to the back door and holler at us.
It was a system that had served both parties well over the ten years since her husband died and we started doing her yard work. It gave us motivation to keep working and it got her off the couch once in a while after she cracked her hip.
Finally, by the time the heat was making swimming in a public pool sound hygienic, we decided to call it a day. We'd been at it for hours and old ladies don't play baseball or anything in their backyard anyway so it didn't have to be done anywhere she couldn't see from the house.
Being extremely financially responsible for three high schoolers, we decided that the way the ten dollars we'd earned would best serve us in the future was by buying Slurpees to keep us from dying from heat stroke.
We had to go halfway across town to find a Seven and/or Eleven that didn't have our pictures behind the counter. Once we found one that were our money was considered good the three of us when up to the Slurpee machine to make our selections.
“What ya gonna get gentlemen?” I asked.
“I'm gonna get the frozen Coke,” Brian told me.
“Don't you always get that?” I asked even though I knew full well that he did. Sometimes it's best to give the neurotic a chance to explain themselves.
“Well yeah, but why not?” he asked in that know-it-all tone that always accompanies a rhetorical question.
“Because you should really expand your horizons my friend.”
“I don't think so,” he responded. “It not like I've never tried the other kinds, I have and I like Coke best, it's a classic flavor and and American original.”
“What do they sponsor you now?”
“No but they should,” he grinned. “Besides, even if I hadn't, it's not like there's a lot of other horizons available to me. This is a four color Slurpee machine: red, blue, my brown and gree– Jack get your mouth off of that!”
I turned around a saw Jack suckling from the green Slurpee nozel like a baby calf.
“Dude, this is why Burger King doesn't have a soda fountain in the lobby anymore,” I reminded him pulling him back.
“I just wanted to know what flavor it was,” he muttered, as if it justified his lack of tact and candor.
“What do you mean you wanted to know what flavor it was?” I whispered harshly, trying to to draw the attention of the attendant who obviously didn't see what happened in the big round mirror they use to make sure no one shop lifts or takes the latest edition of “Shiny Cars and Skanky Women” out of it's protective plastic bag. “You know what flavor it is; it's green.”
“Green's a color not a flavor,” he said.
“Green is so a flavor,” I retorted.
“No it's not,” he said sounding a little to high and mighty for a guy who was just caught red-handed sucking on a public beverage dispenser. “It could be lime, green apple, watermelon or something entirely new and yet they just have it label as green. They're practically requiring I taste it. They probably want me to to try it so I can tell everyone else what it is.”
I sighed. “Everyone else already knows what it is. We're in Idaho, it's either lime, lime or lime. No fancy flavors here.”
Brian and I decided to delay our serious philosophical discussion until later and hurried out of there before Jack decided to put another part of the store in his mouth. I got a cup of red cherry, Brian filled up with his precious brown frozen Coke and Jack decided to stick with his green flavored one.
We payed and made our way outside to enjoy our spoils.
I squinted as I stepped out into the light. I stared up smugly at the sun, grinning that I had beaten him at his own game.
We took shelter under a large tree, full of leaves and home to several birds who treated us to a victory song. If you've never heard “Eye of the Tiger” performed by robins, you're missing out.
We sat down to discuss our big plans for the rest of the day.
“I say we go fishing down in the river,” Brian suggested.
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head “I lost my pole while we were running from the bees last time, remember.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You could just throw rocks at the fish,” Jack suggested. “You just throw sticks in the river most of the time anyway.”
I shrugged. I had to admit he had me there. I did think throwing sticks was more fun than holding one for a long time.
“I mean honestly Skippy, why do you even bother coming fishing with us?” Jack continued waving his Slurpee hand enthusiastically. “Do you truly understand the simple joy of the struggle between man and fish or are you jus–” he was interrupted by subtle plopping sound.
We all looked down and saw a sticky green fluid on his shoe.
Jack chuckled. “I must have split some Slurpee on my shoes,” he said. He bent down, wiped it off and licked his fingers clean.
In the matter of about a second and a half, I watched Jacks face changed from confusion to disgust and finally to horror.
“That's not Slurpee!” he yelled in terror. He dropped to his knees, looked up at the heavens and cried out “Nooooooooo!” just like in the movies.
His yelling scared the birds out the tree.
In Jack's defense, it was really hot that day.
Heat will make people do things they'd rather not. A health nut will buy ice cream. A serious business man will frolic in the sprinklers in his best suit. A middle aged woman will think that wearing a bikini is OK, even though she's let her body go in recent years.
Throughout human history, heat has lead to all kinds of horrible things, none any worse than what my best friend for life, Jack Pattywack, did that hot summer afternoon.
It was mid-August, which is the only month in Idaho when the asphalt actually melts enough you can write dirty words into it. Me, Jack and our other best friend Brian Batowski had been out mowing widow McGrady's lawn and trimming the edging.
We had tried to out smart the heat by starting really early in the morning before the sun had a chance to warm up and really start convincing people to do crazy things like play strip lawn darts.
There's only one real problem with this plan, no matter how early you start you have to actually finish quickly or the sun comes back. We'd been at it most of the day because we only actually worked when she'd come to the back door and holler at us.
It was a system that had served both parties well over the ten years since her husband died and we started doing her yard work. It gave us motivation to keep working and it got her off the couch once in a while after she cracked her hip.
Finally, by the time the heat was making swimming in a public pool sound hygienic, we decided to call it a day. We'd been at it for hours and old ladies don't play baseball or anything in their backyard anyway so it didn't have to be done anywhere she couldn't see from the house.
Being extremely financially responsible for three high schoolers, we decided that the way the ten dollars we'd earned would best serve us in the future was by buying Slurpees to keep us from dying from heat stroke.
We had to go halfway across town to find a Seven and/or Eleven that didn't have our pictures behind the counter. Once we found one that were our money was considered good the three of us when up to the Slurpee machine to make our selections.
“What ya gonna get gentlemen?” I asked.
“I'm gonna get the frozen Coke,” Brian told me.
“Don't you always get that?” I asked even though I knew full well that he did. Sometimes it's best to give the neurotic a chance to explain themselves.
“Well yeah, but why not?” he asked in that know-it-all tone that always accompanies a rhetorical question.
“Because you should really expand your horizons my friend.”
“I don't think so,” he responded. “It not like I've never tried the other kinds, I have and I like Coke best, it's a classic flavor and and American original.”
“What do they sponsor you now?”
“No but they should,” he grinned. “Besides, even if I hadn't, it's not like there's a lot of other horizons available to me. This is a four color Slurpee machine: red, blue, my brown and gree– Jack get your mouth off of that!”
I turned around a saw Jack suckling from the green Slurpee nozel like a baby calf.
“Dude, this is why Burger King doesn't have a soda fountain in the lobby anymore,” I reminded him pulling him back.
“I just wanted to know what flavor it was,” he muttered, as if it justified his lack of tact and candor.
“What do you mean you wanted to know what flavor it was?” I whispered harshly, trying to to draw the attention of the attendant who obviously didn't see what happened in the big round mirror they use to make sure no one shop lifts or takes the latest edition of “Shiny Cars and Skanky Women” out of it's protective plastic bag. “You know what flavor it is; it's green.”
“Green's a color not a flavor,” he said.
“Green is so a flavor,” I retorted.
“No it's not,” he said sounding a little to high and mighty for a guy who was just caught red-handed sucking on a public beverage dispenser. “It could be lime, green apple, watermelon or something entirely new and yet they just have it label as green. They're practically requiring I taste it. They probably want me to to try it so I can tell everyone else what it is.”
I sighed. “Everyone else already knows what it is. We're in Idaho, it's either lime, lime or lime. No fancy flavors here.”
Brian and I decided to delay our serious philosophical discussion until later and hurried out of there before Jack decided to put another part of the store in his mouth. I got a cup of red cherry, Brian filled up with his precious brown frozen Coke and Jack decided to stick with his green flavored one.
We payed and made our way outside to enjoy our spoils.
I squinted as I stepped out into the light. I stared up smugly at the sun, grinning that I had beaten him at his own game.
We took shelter under a large tree, full of leaves and home to several birds who treated us to a victory song. If you've never heard “Eye of the Tiger” performed by robins, you're missing out.
We sat down to discuss our big plans for the rest of the day.
“I say we go fishing down in the river,” Brian suggested.
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head “I lost my pole while we were running from the bees last time, remember.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You could just throw rocks at the fish,” Jack suggested. “You just throw sticks in the river most of the time anyway.”
I shrugged. I had to admit he had me there. I did think throwing sticks was more fun than holding one for a long time.
“I mean honestly Skippy, why do you even bother coming fishing with us?” Jack continued waving his Slurpee hand enthusiastically. “Do you truly understand the simple joy of the struggle between man and fish or are you jus–” he was interrupted by subtle plopping sound.
We all looked down and saw a sticky green fluid on his shoe.
Jack chuckled. “I must have split some Slurpee on my shoes,” he said. He bent down, wiped it off and licked his fingers clean.
In the matter of about a second and a half, I watched Jacks face changed from confusion to disgust and finally to horror.
“That's not Slurpee!” he yelled in terror. He dropped to his knees, looked up at the heavens and cried out “Nooooooooo!” just like in the movies.
His yelling scared the birds out the tree.
I like to take that whole "One man's trash" thing to an unhealthy level
I used to think when I graduated college and got a really job that wasn't as a janitor, I'd finally be able to stop eating donuts from the garbage.
I was wrong.
As I look back at my life, I'm a little concerned to discover that most of my difficult moral questions have come from deciding when eating food out of a garbage can in an office somewhere was stealing and when I was morally justified in taking it.
You would probably be really concerned to discover how rarely I've considered whether or not eating such food was sanitary.
I'm not exaggerating though, I really used to spend a lot of time staring into garbage cans wondering if I was allowed – morally – to eat that last couple pieces of cake with so much frosting that no one wanted them.
I even looked to the Bible for guidance, but it didn't help. For a book supposed to have all the answers, it was strangely vague on the moral standing of dumpster divers.
I'm not one hundred percent sure on that though, I didn't check in the front part. I never read those chapters because I'm always afraid I'll find something I really like will send me to Hell.
If it turns out that double dipping in the salsa is a sin, I want to be able to plead ignorance.
These quandaries were pretty common for me too. Until my wife forbade me, I earned most of my income from various positions as a janitor. I enjoyed it. It was honest work, but simple and the only one that rewarded me for not being squeamish at the site of vomit.
The best part about being a janitor was those special occasion when I would find a treat, stashed away somewhere just for me.
I used to wonder if the people who worked in the office new what I was up to. I think some of them thought it was interesting, and would set up mazed of garbage for me to dig through like a lab rat through a maze, only instead of cheese, I got a slice of cold pizza.
Other employees, however, considered be a pest and would tied their food up in the tree, to keep me out.
Some times I have to team up with a bear to get at it.
Don't think I would just root around in the break room garbage like some kind of raccoon with a mop (the best stuff was always in the conference rooms), I did have standards: I'd only eat stuff that was separated from the “real” garbage by a box or bag.
Or if I was really hungry, a memo.
When I stopped janitating (the verb form of janitor for those of you still learning English) and got a real job in the other side of an office (the side that doesn't clean the toilet) I thought that the good times were over and I'd have to start paying for all my meals.
In truth however, things have gotten better, because now, as a full-time employee, I have access to the garbage long before the janitor even get there. It's like a dream come true.
I no longer wish I could be invited to meetings where they have donuts – one of which there was today – I just wait until the meeting finishes, the table is cleared and the lights are turned off. Then it's mine time to shine.
Or steal.
I really don't care anymore, it's a free donut.
Geek On
I was wrong.
As I look back at my life, I'm a little concerned to discover that most of my difficult moral questions have come from deciding when eating food out of a garbage can in an office somewhere was stealing and when I was morally justified in taking it.
You would probably be really concerned to discover how rarely I've considered whether or not eating such food was sanitary.
I'm not exaggerating though, I really used to spend a lot of time staring into garbage cans wondering if I was allowed – morally – to eat that last couple pieces of cake with so much frosting that no one wanted them.
I even looked to the Bible for guidance, but it didn't help. For a book supposed to have all the answers, it was strangely vague on the moral standing of dumpster divers.
I'm not one hundred percent sure on that though, I didn't check in the front part. I never read those chapters because I'm always afraid I'll find something I really like will send me to Hell.
If it turns out that double dipping in the salsa is a sin, I want to be able to plead ignorance.
These quandaries were pretty common for me too. Until my wife forbade me, I earned most of my income from various positions as a janitor. I enjoyed it. It was honest work, but simple and the only one that rewarded me for not being squeamish at the site of vomit.
The best part about being a janitor was those special occasion when I would find a treat, stashed away somewhere just for me.
I used to wonder if the people who worked in the office new what I was up to. I think some of them thought it was interesting, and would set up mazed of garbage for me to dig through like a lab rat through a maze, only instead of cheese, I got a slice of cold pizza.
Other employees, however, considered be a pest and would tied their food up in the tree, to keep me out.
Some times I have to team up with a bear to get at it.
Don't think I would just root around in the break room garbage like some kind of raccoon with a mop (the best stuff was always in the conference rooms), I did have standards: I'd only eat stuff that was separated from the “real” garbage by a box or bag.
Or if I was really hungry, a memo.
When I stopped janitating (the verb form of janitor for those of you still learning English) and got a real job in the other side of an office (the side that doesn't clean the toilet) I thought that the good times were over and I'd have to start paying for all my meals.
In truth however, things have gotten better, because now, as a full-time employee, I have access to the garbage long before the janitor even get there. It's like a dream come true.
I no longer wish I could be invited to meetings where they have donuts – one of which there was today – I just wait until the meeting finishes, the table is cleared and the lights are turned off. Then it's mine time to shine.
Or steal.
I really don't care anymore, it's a free donut.
Geek On
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