Well, it looks like it's that time of year again, and I'm not referring to that time when I shave off all my body hair and run up and down the street in my underwear. Yes, that's exhilirating, and yes, I feel very primal and animalistic when I do that, but it's not the subject of this post, so stop hoping. I said no, so don't ask anymore. Ok, now you just look desperate. Plus, this is a family website, we're trying to limit the off-color topics. We also have limits here on ingenuity, interesting subjects, and things that look like they might at some point become a subject.

Alright, enough horseplay. The topic at hand is that today is the 6 year anniversary of my hire date at my job. My job is like a girlfriend who's really rich, so reality dictates that you can't break up with her, but you still hate her. Except my salary is really low--so I guess my job is more like a homeless girlfriend who has cancer. The hate is equal, though.

I'm sure there are other jobs out there in jobland, but to dwell on that sort of thing is unproductive, and could possibly lead to me finding another job, which is quite obviously out of the question. If I got a different job, what’s next? Being comfortable with who I am as a person? Not being clinically depressed? That's a slippery slope, my friends. My father, who has since passed on (just kidding--he's still alive. Hey Dad.), taught me to list the pros and cons of a situation, in order to figure out the next best step. Despite the fact that finding a new job is not something I want to be involved with, I'll do it out of respect for him. (R.I.P.) <---joke

Pros

affair with female boss going well

wall calendar has pretty nice pictures

relatively high ceiling sometimes gives illusion of job not sucking

wall calendar in the number 4 spot as well

Cons

Job is not Sports Illustrated swimsuit photographer

Open cubicle prohibits having a good cry now and again

All web surfing closely monitored

You know what I'm talking about


At this point, you probably have a question that you're really proud of yourself for thinking of, like, "Rather than make clever little blog posts about your current job, why don't you devote your energy to finding a different one?"

You might even think your query to be incisive and thoughtful, when in reality, it's simply a question that makes no sense. Let me give you an example: "Why does the journey of a destination take the very life abundant?" Can you even begin to decode that? Of course you can’t. As you can see, some questions in life have no answer, and that's the end of that. I think the problem is, you expect everything to be explained from a frame of reference where I have ambition, or a will to live.

In closing, I'd like to bring up autistic people. They don't like it when the furniture is re-arranged, and sometimes they will arbitrarily hate certain colors. Yet many of them have extraordinary mathematical minds. Given this new information, do you still hate autistic people? Would you still yell at them for not having very good social skills? Okay, you probably wouldn't, so I'd appreciate it if you could lay off me for a second. Think of me like you would an autistic person, except for I'm not as picky with colors, and I won't have a seizure if you move the coffee table. Hey, that reminds me of a good tag line for a resumé, if I had one:

Autism: I will do you one better.

Alright, that’s enough job searching for this year. Looking for new work has me totally drained, as usual.

There's a lot of hullabaloo in the health and psychology magazines these days about how to engage in non-acrimonious relationships with other humans, a skill made obsolete by the invention of console video games. While it would be accurate to say I don't actually read those magazines, that's probably what they talk about. I guess the main reason I don't read more of them is that I'm already quite knowledgeable on the subject. Not to be cocky, but the amount of knowledge I possess would probably power the sun, if I could harness it properly.

So here's my concern: What if I my understanding of this topic is so great that decades of research and clinical trials are as tiny anthills compared to my towering mountains of knowledge? To account for this possibility, I'm going to publish some of my best stuff right now. You'll notice that much of what I talk about is standard-industry stuff, but with a few tweaks. The result of this was that most of my concepts are now indistinguishable from something a 5-year-old would come up with. Luckily, that's pretty much par for the course with my material, so there we go and no harm done.

Let's start with the mistaken but widely held belief that you shouldn't hate yourself if you want someone else to love and respect you. Many experts, or morons, I should say, agree with this. Unfortunately, there are more holes in this theory than swiss cheese. Maybe I'll just call it the swiss cheese theory. Who needs both love and respect? No one, really. No respect is fine, because the person would still have love, which is like going 1 for 2 on the basketball court. If I'm shooting 50% on the hardcourts, that's a percentage I can live with as a coach, any day of the week. It's like, oops, you missed the shot at gaining respect in this lifetime, kid. But if there's reincarnation, you could go out there in the game of life and give it another try. Maybe you'll come back as a powerful lion. Name me one person who doesn't respect a lion. I take it by your silence that you are unable to produce such a person. Point made.

Oh look, here's the latest issue of Psychology Today, and there's a section where crazy people write in and ask for advice. I wonder what it says.

Dear Dr. Spankenhauser,

I feel like my girlfriend and I are drifting apart. More accurately, it's like she's in a motor boat, speeding away. She says I don't have any interests of my own, I follow her around the house, and I have no long term goals. The truth is, I don't even have short-term goals. Should I mention this error of hers or let it go? I really want to save this relationship. I also like to call her when she's at work, over and over again. If it makes a difference, she has booty for days. What do you think?

Pathetic and Lonely in Minneapolis

Ok, this one is tricky, I don't think I can trust Dr. Spunkhowzer with it. I'll take over here.


P&L,

Definitely call her at work and explain that if she can't love you for who you are, then you will change everything about yourself in order for that to be possible. Tell her you're open to changing anything, including your rib cage structure, birth order, and personality, even if that was mostly determined by genetics. The core of who you are is simply a distraction which interferes with the larger purpose, which is to get her to love you. Finally, ask her to rescue you and make you feel safe, because women like to care for their boyfriends as they would helpless children.

This should work, but on the off chance she never speaks to you again, there will likely be a grieving process for both of you. For her grieving process, please direct her to my office. Notice my grieving hours of 11 pm to 4 am. This is gonna be hot, I mean, good luck.

So there it is. Yet one more mind and soul, healed. Why does no one pay me to be a counselor, you ask? Seriously, you're asking? Wow.

It's time to change things up a little around here, and no, I don't mean make them funny. If you want to look at something funny, maybe you should look at your face!

See? Not funny at all. Seriously though, you look like you could stand to have a little work done. Just down around the chin area, maybe tighten things up a tad. Hey, I'm kidding! You actually seem like you would be a model. You're probably reading this a few minutes before your photo shoot, but directly after you made love to 5 other models, who were also quite stunning. They were no match for your beauty, but you get the idea. They were pretty hot. Which is a compliment to you, not that you need compliments. Compliments are primarly for ugly people.

Ok, that paragraph was dyslexic even by my standards. That's why I need to revamp things--because sometimes it seems like I can't stay on topic for more than 1 sentence, there's just letters going everywhere hey what's everybody's favorite color? No wait, don't close your browser. I've got it now. I've got the solution, and the solution has this name: The Magnetic Poetry Kit, Original Edition. That's right, the little magnets you put on your refrigerator to make beautiful poems. My guess is that with a random sampling of 8th grade vocab words arranged with no regard for syntax or meaning, I'll be able to express myself more efficiently in my posts. Or at least with equal efficiency. Ok, certainly, the results could be no worse. And I'd like to get started immediately. For example, I had a pretty wild experience the other day, but I won't trust myself with the telling. No, I will let the power of the magnetic poetry kit speak for me. I think you'll find it does a rather eloquent job. This is what happened, more or less:

the languid sky sleeps softly,
eternity and sausage.
death!

Crazy, huh? I can't believe that happened to me, it was truly a unique experience. Alright, I think this is going really well, did you understand the meaning of that last one? I know, it was pretty easy. Which reminds me, one of my friends just had a baby last week. I think my thoughts on that can best be described in the following way:

the puppy is an apparatus, rain falls
the sky is like a whisper. a chocolate garden?
death!

I know, I used 'sky' and 'death' again. But I think I'm really onto something there. Especially with sky. If you talk about the sky in any poem, success is virtually guaranteed. Like this:

sky. shadows fall.
the night sky

That's basically a pulitzer prize winner by default. By the way, the gist of this poem is that we are all very primal beings, yet we are forced to find happiness while imprisoned by the social and cultural mores of modern society. As if that wasn't obvious. I should give you guys more credit. Alright, since it's obvious I'm hitting on all cylinders here, we'll do one more:

a ship is incubated
madly through the sordid picture, a forest
the ing at on in ly
death?

Ok, I have to be honest--I don't know where I was going with that one. It basically looks like a spelling test study sheet from elementary school, with some prepositions thrown in toward the end. Indeed, not representative of my best work. But keep in mind that the main goal of this exercise was to show a sampling of what I'm capable of. If you like it, great. If you don't, well, that means you've read maybe 1 other poem in your entire life, and it happened to be better than all of mine put together. Not surprising.

However, I'm not about to give up. For poems can tell a beautiful story. Not any of mine, but take my word for it. I think the main problem is this dumb kit, it's probably defective or something...

Farewell, Ms. Spears

Dear Britney,

It's taken me quite some time to gather the courage to write this, so I hope you read the whole thing. Because I remember when we were together, you would stop reading when you came across big words like "across". In this context, across means "encountered". Anyway, do you remember when it started? You were a minor in 32 states at the time, and yes, that's kind of creepy now that I think about it. But my love is controlled not by chronological sequences, or by how people have different ages--nay, it is controlled by how earnestly I wanted to get with you. But let's forget about that for a moment. Let's talk about how you promised me forever, and then went on and did other things. Many other things. "Things" means "guys" in this context.

First, there was Justin, which I accepted. But only because I knew you two had been friends on the Mickey Mouse Club, 2 pm weekdays on Nickolodeon. Then your relationship turned into something disgusting and base, like who could do the moonwalk better. Well, I guess we all know what happened with that. Justin is now clearly better at the moonwalk, while you can't even walk across the room without chafing your thighs. I'm not trying to be mean, but recently they have become quite pudgy. I know you’re preggers, but come on.

Now we have your precious Kevin Federline, or simply K-Fed, as I like to call him. I call him that because I harbor no ill will towards him. It is not he who now has porky pig thighs. It is not he who has betrayed my trust and gone a-whoring behind my back. It is not he who looked me straight in the eye and then did the metaphorical equivalent of a surgeon doing a heart transplant on someone, but then not actually finishing the transplant. So the end result is that the person is left with no heart. I agree, that metaphor could use a re-write. But my point remains valid—it’s not Kevin who is the problem here, he is merely a homeless person who's good at breakdancing. Which is why I assumed you were with him only to forget about me, or to drive me nearly out of my mind with jealousy. Well, mission accomplished, my fickle young flower. Mission accomplished.

Britney Spears-Ryan. The name that destiny gave you, and by coincidence, the same name you've rejected like last month's 'smoky eyes' mascara look. Just weeks ago, that look was very popular among promiscuous pop stars such as you, and it's still popular, but not as popular. That's how I feel. Popular, but not as popular as I might feel if you weren't sharing it all over town. The point is, you have destroyed me. And now you're carrying K-Fed's child, a man who looks like a ferris wheel operator with a stylish beanie.

So I'm through living a lie. I can't stick around while you marry, and then become impregnated by, each of your backup dancers in succession. Or maybe one more dancer after this one, but that would be my absolute limit. That’s right, I need to start taking care of me. Speaking of, I believe Hillary Duff is now legal, or close enough. And she may not know of my existence, but notice how I said "may". It's also possible that she does know, and loves me fiercely. More than you ever did. Plus, it becomes obvious that there's no room in your uterus for a second child (mine) at this late stage in the game, not to mention, such a scenario is probably medically impossible. I don't want my child in there competing with Kevin's anyway. It's unhealthy. So stop calling. I have moved on, and I won't let you back into my heart--which is still lying next to the operating table. Remember from earlier, I was talking about that?

New Research Indicates You Are Repulsive

According to a new study, obesity is a problem among affluent Americans. Now that's mind-blowing. People are going to be talking about this one for a long time. In fact, I'm headed to the watercooler right now, to see what my flabby countrymen have to say about it. Yeah, right. Memo to scientists: We're all fat, ok? You don't have to keep doing these studies, we get it. We are gigantic, unrepentant, walking tubs of lard, I'm not sure what's so difficult to understand about that. Whether we make $12,000 a year, or $120,000, we all like cupcakes. Very much so. And if they come fried, we'll take that. In fact, I may have one right now. Yum, that was good, I'll have six. If they came with butter on top, it would be even better. Who gave me this fried hostess cupcake without butter on it? You? Bunch of commie health freaks around here.

Now, I've managed to go behind the scenes at the University of Iowa, where I was able to transcribe a conversation among the lead researchers there, as they tried to determine whether or not to conduct the latest study. Check it out:

Scientist #1: Ok, who are the test subjects?

Scientist #2: Americans.

Scientist #1: What kind?

Scientist #2: The fat kind, what else?

Scientist #1: Good point. We're all pretty disgusting, aren't we? I mean, look at me, I couldn't please a woman if my life depended on it. I need special tools just to find my gear, you know what I'm saying?

Scientist #2: I didn't really want to hear that, but thanks for keeping me up to speed. Anyway, I think it's important we know for sure that other wealthy Americans, aside from you and me, are also enormous human slugs.

Intern Scientist: Hey, you guys. I think it's safe to say none of us are going to be making the cover of Men's Fitness anytime soon. Do you really think we should be using the grant money for this?

Scientist #2: Let me tell you a little story, Junior. We once conducted a study on whether or not violent felons make good day care employees. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they do not. But we might not have known this, had those children not sacrificed their lives accidentally. Do you see now why we must do the work we do?

Intern Scientist: I guess...seems weird, though...

Scientist #2: Silence! We must conduct these tests, it is the only way. You are feeble of mind, and still a mere 10 percentage points over the standard obesity index. You have a long way to go before you will be able to eat 3 pot roasts in one sitting. I'm up to 3 pot roasts for breakfast alone, and I don't even eat breakfast. Or if I did, I already forgot, because I'm starving. Give me your cupcake.

Intern Scientist: Get away, it doesn't even have any butter on it!


I can't remember what happened next, but I made up the majority of that dialogue anyway. So don't worry about that, and concentrate on this next point, which is: Apparently, the results from every study are that something is too fat. If they studied the migratory patterns of Nordic Greylag Geese, they would probably discover the flight patterns to be obese. If they tested American rain, I bet that would be fat, too. How can rain be fat? I don't know, but McDonald's can make one french fry worth 87 fat grams, so anything's possible. I bet even our anorexics could stand to drop a few pounds. It's like the more research we do on this subject, the fatter we get.

Plus, all these studies are doing is hurting people's feelings. Maybe if the scientific community placed more emphasis on the positive things Americans are trying to do, we could build on those small victories, and turn this thing around. Just the other night I ordered a Wendy's salad along with my milkshake and two bacon doubles. Yet, If I told the researchers about my salad purchase, they would probably just do a study on praying mantis populations, and then tell me I was fat. If no one else is going to reward our healthy eating choices, we have no choice but to reward ourselves. And by reward, I'm talking about a big bowl of oreos dipped in warm crisco. Study that, suckers!