Look what I found in the vending machine at work.

Big whoop, right?

I haven’t had Rolos in years. I don’t remember the last time. Not that the last time went down in my journal or anything.

When I saw the Rolos in the machine, I immediately thought of my dad. Rolos always make me think of him. I have a strong childhood memory of my dad liking Rolos. I don’t know if memory is the right word, because I don’t remember anything specific. I just have that knowledge from childhood that Dad likes Rolos and used to share them with me.

Of course, only a fat guy would tie his memories to eating. Memories like when we tried to force the neighbor kid to eat dog poop, or when local bully Herky Jerky licked the street in an attempt to intimidate us. Ok, maybe not exactly like those memories. Still… good times.

A little about the picture in the last post.  My daughter, M, on the ATV with me is 3-years-old.  We had taken her older brother and sister out on the ATV’s earlier and they loved it, so M decided she really wanted to go.  I came back with her sister and waited while they got M ready and transfered the gloves and 70’s style, golden flecked, helmet.

M started crying, saying she didn’t want to go and the helmet was too heavy, which it was for a 3-year-old.  We took the helmet off and put her on the ATV, where she was still crying and not wanting to go.

“Okay, we won’t go,” I said. “Just let Mom take your picture.”  Now, I have to confess, I was always planning on going.  The Wife was of the same mind, nodding at me to just go.  So the picture was taken and faster than my mind is usually capable of, I pictured the future of taking her for a ride when I told her I wouldn’t.

What would happen to the trust she has in me?  No doubt it would have been hurt.  Maybe not irreparably, since she is only 3.  Or maybe more since she is only 3. There was no way I wanted my little girl to think Daddy lied.  In the split second these thoughts ran through my mind, my heart almost broke at the mere thought of just hitting the throttle and saying, “See, I knew you would like it.”

I leaned down and asked her again if she would like a ride.  She said no.  “I will go real slow.”

“You won’t go fast?”

“No, just slow.  Do you want to go?”

She nodded nervously.  I crawled up the hill and down the path a bit.  “See, it’s not scary.”

“Just go slow.”

“I promise.”

About 100 feet down the path she said she wanted to go back.  I didn’t argue.  The fact that she was brave enough to do what she already had done was good enough for me.  We returned to cheers from the fam for M’s bravery.

I felt great knowing that I helped her conquer a fear.  I felt even better knowing I had done it while keeping her trust intact.

Can you believe the snow on Memorial Day? Okay, to be fair we were up a mountain at over 8200 feet. It was awesome.

For more pics, click here.

My commute this morning was just lovely.

To the moron in the KIA P.O.S. - Constantly swerving back and forth without warning between the two lanes, trying to figure out which one is moving the fastest for the next few seconds, is not going to get you to your crappy job any sooner. Have you not seen that Seinfeld episode? Oh, and straddling both lanes while trying to decide doesn’t work either.

To the idiots who feel they have to merge right away. Why? Every morning as I merge onto the freeway, the traffic I am merging into is just crawling. Once the on ramp comes level with the freeway there is still a good 100 yards or so before it merges into the next lane and disappears, but this doesn’t stop stupid drivers from forcing their way into the slow moving column as soon as possible. When they pull left, I go around them and take the merge lane as far as I can. I end up 10-15 cars ahead of these losers. What, if you don’t get over right then, no one let you in later? The merge lane is that long for a reason.

As the end of the work day approached so did the old familiar stirring in the guts letting me know of the eminent arrival of the USS Fecal. Then I was forced to ask the age old question: Do I hold it in, thus ensuring I leave on time but risk the possibility of an uncomfortable commute, or do I lay cable now thus ensuring the comfortable commute, but risk having to stay at work later than I want.

After much pondering, I came to this conclusion: Why wouldn’t you drop the kids off at the pool while at work?

First, you’re getting paid for your time on the throne. Making money while splashing the pot has got to be one of the most awesome work activities ever. Possibly, second to only one other activity one can do in the workplace, but that is off topic.

Second, not only are you making money, but saving money at the same time thus maximizing you monetary gain. You’re using free TP, free soap, and free water. This all a win-win, baby.

And at my building, the fates have conspired to add yet a third benefit of the work poo, well at least the end of the work day work poo. The janitorial staff usually completes their duties in the men’s room towards the end of the day. This means I get a clean bowl devoid of other people’s butt cooties.

Bottom line, even without the fresh, clean john, taking a dump at work just makes financial sense. They should teach this crap in business school. See what I did there?

Today’s Post Defecation Commute Provided by a Shuffling iPod

• Paradise City from Appetite for Destruction by Guns N’ Roses: Slash’s flying fingers during the final frantic minutes of this song is still one of the best riffs ever.
• To The End from Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge by My Chemical Romance: These guys just plain rock. They have quickly become one of my favorites, especially after the release of The Black Parade.
• Your Winter from 10 Things I Hate About You Soundtrack by Sister Hazel: Nothing incredibly special about this song, but I like it.
• Looking Back On Today from So Long, Astoria by The Ataris: Nothing really makes this band stand apart from the rest of the punk infused pop bands that are out there, but the title song from the album, which is an ode to the movie Goonies, is a great song.
• WWOZ from Friction Baby by Better Than Ezra: This band is very underrated. The images and stories their songs create in my head are the reasons I love them. Some of their songs have some surprisingly violent images hidden in beautiful music. WWOZ, however, creates lazy, summer images that remind me of family vacations spent visiting relatives in Mississippi and Tennessee.
• Enthused from Dude Ranch by Blink-182: Loves me the blink. If I was creating an all star rock band, Travis Barker would be my drummer, hands down.
• By Starlight from Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness by Smashing Pumpkins: In my all star rock band, Billy Corgan would be one of my song writers and he definitely would by my producer. I mean, this guy made me like a Hole song that he produced. Hole! Hole, people! Freaking Courtney Love. Billy’s got mad skills.

Yesterday, one of the building’s maintenance guys was working on the leaky pipe in the restroom, causing me to go upstairs to drain the main vein. My company has the entire first floor, while the second floor has a few different companies thus making that restroom public domain. Still, whenever I use this restroom, I feel like I am trespassing.

As I entered this upstairs bathroom the other day I heard voices. I almost turned around and walked out. I hate an audience whilst tapping a kidney. Besides, I don’t get to adjust the stream, hitting different areas in the urinal causing different tones. My urine and I make such beautiful music.

The only thing that kept me from turning around and leaving was they probably saw the door open. After all, they were talking. And all men know that you don’t talk in the john. If you absolutely have to talk, the only time you do it is when both parties are washing their hands, or better yet, when they are drying their hands and are on the way out the door. So, putting 2 and 2 together, I figured the talkers were on their way out meaning: 1) they would soon be in the hall and see that it was me who opened the door and 2) if they left I could pee in musical peace. So, I continued in.

Imagine my horror when I walked in to find one guy taking a dump, and the other guy standing right in front of the first guy’s stall door. So many things were wrong with this scene. First of all, the positioning. Who the crap stands right in front of another dude’s stall? The smell alone should be reason enough to stand back. And how can the guy on the throne let anything move on through while some other guy’s toes are crossing the line?

Second, they were talking. Between all the grunts, groans and splashes, THEY WERE TALKING. I’m sorry, didn’t it say Men’s Room on the door? What kind of self respecting, penis owning, testicle scratching man carries on a conversation amidst the plops of poo? This was unbelievable. I literally scurried to a urinal and pushed as hard as I could - without risking striping my shorts - to get the urine out as fast as possible so I could escape this scene.

It was an extremely uncomfortable moment that stretched on through the ages during which I was treated to the following:

Standing Guy: (checking his BlackBerry) Whoa, they got a new flavor of Absolute. [He was surfing the net for liquor, apparently.]

Crapping Guy: Cool.

Standing Guy: Hey and it’s on sale.

Crapping Guy: You remember that girl at the liquor store in St. George?

Standing Guy: Oh, Yeah.

Crapping Guy: She was hot.

Standing Guy: Yeah.

I kid you not. I was afraid I was going to start laughing, and then I realized, “Nope. I’m too scared to laugh.” Still, I shot out of there like my hemorrhoids were on fire.

I am still shaken today.

IT

IS

MAY!!!

While standing in front of the incredibly weak microwave ovens in my break room heating up my tasty Hungry Man meal, I overheard two co-workers discussing the obituaries found in the local paper.

“Wow, she was pretty when she was younger. Look.”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t turn out so good, but she used to be pretty.”

“I don’t think I want my family to put a younger picture of me. I don’t want people saying, ‘What happened to her?’”

“Whoa, her parents are still alive?”

“Really? How old was she?”

“93.”

“And her parents are still alive? How old are they?”

“They gotta be in their hundreds.”

“And they’re still alive?”

“Yeah, listen.” She then reads from the obituary. “[She] was preceded in death by her husband, son-in-law, and parents.”

Where do I start?

That’s weird for an actor to say, right? Let me clarify. I hate an audience at work. I love the audience on stage.

Today while in a client’s office setting up their printer, I had an audience in the form of a phlebotomist. The area I had to work in was very small and cramped and she wouldn’t move to save her life. That game of Solitaire was just too important. Finally, after a while of working around her I said, “I need to get to that computer.” I was hoping she would leave the room. But, no, she just took a seat in the chair the patients sit in when they are getting blood drawn.

And then she just watched.

Now I know my fat butt was real entertaining as I crawled around the disgusting floor, but I hated being watched. Of course, she wasn’t watching the whole time. At one point I turned to ask her something and she was asleep.

I wanted to yell at her, “You’re not working, you’re staring and sleeping and pissing me off. Get out!”

Now granted, said phleb actually worked for a third party who is a competitor of ours and part of my being there was in part to steal some of their business. Maybe she was trying to piss me off on purpose. If so, then bravo. You succeeded.