SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. — Danica Patrick paid a $196 fine to settle a speeding ticket after the star racecar driver was caught going 54 mph in a 35-mph zone last month.
Was she in a hurry to obtain oral sex? Because that would be hot . . .
I had an office visit with my doctor, who is also my wife’s doctor . . .
We always spend a few minutes talking about my wife, who, to use the medical terminology, is “really crazy.”
“She is really crazy,” the doctor says. “I don’t know how you keep your sanity. You always seem so calm. I bow to you.” And she stretches both arms out and actually bows.
I’m glad someone is able to get a laugh out of it.
Then she refills my Paxil prescription so I can make it through the next six months . . .
So instead of “The Lakers didn’t play very well last night but they still won the game,” they’ll say “We didn’t play very well last night but we still won the game.”
We?! What position do you play?
I went to get my hair cut at lunch. There was one guy waiting ahead of me and two stylists — a woman, and a gay Mexican guy with a Mohawk.
Am I a bad person for praying that Mohawk would finish first (he did) and take the other guy?
My son says when he was in Washington, D.C., he saw shops where all the hair cutters were men.
“That’s different,” I explain. “Those are barbers. Barbers don’t mess around with you like stylists. I don’t want a gay guy with a Mohawk running his fingers through my hair. Note the fact that he’s a Mexican doesn’t matter at all. I mean, I’m not a racist or anything.”
I don’t mind if you want to cut across the middle of the road. I do that myself.
But when I do it, I take a straight line perpendicular to the street and I walk briskly, maybe even jog a little bit. I don’t take a diagonal path into oncoming traffic and refuse to speed up when I see a car coming.
Why do I not do it that way, you ask?
Two reasons:
Think about that the next time you try to walk in front of my car.
If you look like Larry Fine with one day to live, do not get your hair colored. You’re wasting your time and money and holding up the other patrons.
It would be like Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, but the twist is that instead of fixing people’s homes, we’d sneak around under cover of darkness and give homes an extreme makeover by burning them down, blowing them up, felling large trees on top of them, etc.
For added poignancy, the victims will be cripples, retards, members of minority groups, impoverished people with way too many kids, or some combination of the above.
Now that’s great television!
October is Sudden Cardiac Arrest (SCA) Awareness Month.
Were you aware of that? I wasn’t.
Now that I am, I’ve got one thing to say to the SCA people: WHO IS ADVISING YOU?! October is Breast Awareness Month! You can’t compete against breasts! Pick another month!
As for cardiac arrest, fuck that noise! I’M A VERY BUSY PERSON! I don’t have time . . . (gasp) . . . I don’t have time . . . for a . . . a herat attardhuhjbzsvggggggggggggggggggggggggg
On Nov. 4, my fellow Californians and I will vote on Proposition 8, an initiative to ban same-sex marriages, which were made legal by a state Supreme Court ruling in May.
I know a guy — let’s call him Trog . . . Trog seems to have emerged from the mists of time untouched by human evolution.
Not surprisingly, Trog supports Proposition 8 and he feels strongly enough about it that if you stop by his office, you’ll see a fair amount of Yes on 8 campaign material.
Now I have to say that the idea of two people of the same sex getting married and making out with each other — provided they’re female and hot — does far less to tarnish my view on the sanctity of marriage than does the thought of some woman allowing this mouth-breathing ape to clamber on top of her and deposit his seed.
The fact that same-sex couples even want to get married is a stunning triumph of hope over experience. I honestly can’t think of a single heterosexual couple I’d describe as happily married — not one!
In fact, I’ve come to think of marriage as having very little to do with love, which I no longer believe in, and a lot to do with having someone other than yourself to blame for everything that’s wrong with your life.
To couples — gay or otherwise — I say don’t confuse “I love you” with “I want to marry you.”
We took Lightning to the Huntington Dog Beach this morning . . .
As we were parking the car, my wife asked, “Do they have bathrooms here?”
“They have portables,” I said, pointing them out.
“OK, you guys go ahead and I’ll meet you down at the beach.”
Later, when we got back to the car, I asked, “Where’s my coffee?”
“It’s all gone,” she said.
“It may be all gone now but it wasn’t all gone when I left it here.”
“I had to pee in it.”
“You peed in my coffee cup?”
“I can’t use those portables.”
“Why couldn’t you pee in your own coffee?”
“I had to make a judgment call.”
“Well . . . thanks for not setting it back and letting me drink out of it.”
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month . . .
Were you aware of that? Not to make light of breast cancer, but what a waste of a month. I mean, who is not aware of breast cancer? Being unaware of breast cancer is like being unaware of breasts.
Hmmmm . . .
How about this: Breast Awareness Month! More of a fun, celebratory thing instead of the whole downer vibe around cancer . . .
As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,
I’ve got a little list–I’ve got a little list
Of society offenders who might well be underground,
And who never would be missed–who never would be missed!
People who say “pitcher” when they mean “picture” . . .
My son and I are watching Monday Night Football when an ad comes on in which every somber, sallow-faced environmentalist in the state is telling me to vote No on Proposition 7.
I say to the boy, “You know, I don’t even know what Proposition 7 is, but if all of these sanctimonious pricks are against it, then I’m for it. GO HUMP A TREE, YOU PUSSIES!”
The dog, who, unlike other members of the family, loves to hear the sound of my voice, jumps up on the sofa and starts licking my face.
“That’s right, pup. Lightning says he doesn’t care about trees either, except that he likes to pee on them.”
My son sighs and says, “We need trees” — very slowly, like he’s talking to an idiot.
“Oh . . . well in that case, put me down as Undecided.”
When Gallant has a question for someone, he walks down the hall and asks it.
Goofus keeps fruitless email threads going for weeks.
Here’s an excerpt from the comment thread on a trouble ticket regarding a database record with an incorrect status code.
comment 7563 posted by goofus on 2008-09-10 8:53 AM
I did change the status code in test and this did fix the problem. However, we need to speak with JS regarding this issue as to how this will be affected in production.comment 7611 posted by me on 2008-09-12 9:15 AM
Let’s get JS’s response so we can close this.comment 7621 posted by goofus on 2008-09-12 9:52 AM
Emailed JS regarding this issue. Waiting on a response.comment 7637 posted by goofus on 2008-09-12 2:49 PM
JS is out of the office until Tuesday, 9/16.comment 7773 posted by goofus on 2008-09-18 2:05 PM
Sent another email to JS regarding this issue.comment 7794 posted by me on 2008-09-18 3:30 PM
You may want to consider walking over and talking to her.comment 7800 posted by goofus on 2008-09-18 3:47 PM
Received a return email from JS and now will be working with MS on this issue. Sent her an email for her input.
Come to the office on a weekend — when you’re not allowed to be there — not to work, but to store some of your personal belongings. Fall down a flight of stairs. Then file a worker’s comp claim.
I’m not saying I know someone who actually did this . . .
The Ashley Harkleroad Playboy photos, while tastefully done by modern standards, are more daring (think pubic hair) than the recent Amanda Beard Playboy photos, which were so tastefully done they were actually boring . . .
Brick walls are there for a reason: they let us prove how badly we want things.
If I could only give three words of advice, they would be, ‘Tell the truth.’ If I got three more words, I’d add, ‘All the time.’
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
Randy Pausch was lucky in that, thanks to the worldwide fame he achieved from his lecture and book, he died knowing that things he did and said would not be forgotten after he was gone.
Without the pancreatic cancer, he couldn’t have achieved that. Let’s face it, you can’t peddle the kind of pabulum cited above as “wisdom” in the absence of a terminal illness.
We own this book because my mom sent it to my son for his birthday. He hasn’t read it yet and probably won’t, but I read it.
I feel bad saying it, but it’s a tiresome collection of warmed-over platitudes. It’s like being cornered by your most annoying advice-giving relative at a family reunion.
Pausch was also lucky in being able to make an early departure from his famously self-absorbed wife, Jai (pronounced Jay), who didn’t want him to give the lecture in the first place because it would mean taking time away from her.
From a Wall Street Journal story last May:
A friend suggested to Jai that she keep a daily journal. She writes in there things that get on her nerves about Randy.
My wife would totally do that, but I bet there are some women would use the journal to record things they cherish about their terminally ill husbands.
“Randy didn’t put his plate in the dishwasher tonight,” she wrote one night. “He just left it there on the table and went to his computer.” She knew he was preoccupied, heading to the Internet to research medical treatments. Still, the dish bothered her. She wrote about it, felt better, and they didn’t need to argue over it.
Hey honey, just put the goddamn plate in the goddamn dishwasher, will ya? It’s part of living with other people. God knows what sort of minutiae this man would be having soul-crushing arguments about over the course of a normal lifespan.
I mean, I’m no saint, but I’ve put other people’s plates in dishwashers hundreds of times, and they were all in perfect health.
R.I.P., Randy Pausch.
I tell my son, “When you call grandma to thank her for the book, tell her you really liked the part about brick walls letting us prove how badly we want things.”
We went to Souplantation for dinner tonight. I was really hungry but when we got there, there was already a line of people at the salad bar.
I hate when that happens.
Let me tell you what I did: I grabbed a tray and came in swinging, cracked a few people in the cranium, then finished them off with a serrated-edge knife from the silverware station.
It’s a crude plan, but let me tell you why it works: the element of surprise. No one goes to Souplantation expecting to be knocked over the head and stabbed . . .
It was a sickness: this great interest in a medium that relentlessly and consistently failed to produce anything at all. People became so used to seeing shit on film that they no longer realized it was shit.
Haven’t seen it. Might see it . . . not sure yet. I’ve seen the trailer though and I’ll tell you something: Heath Ledger is TERRIBLE!
That’s not acting! Put the same makeup on somebody else, give ‘em a script, let ‘em read the same lines . . . there’s a million people who could do the same thing.
You don’t think so? You don’t think Heath Ledger knew that? Why do you think he’s dead of an overdose?
