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Fat Donation

November 29th, 2005

Deep FryI got something for my birthday that is both glorious and repulsive.  My parents got me a deep fryer.  I know what your thinking, and yes it it the greatest gift ever.   Unfortunately, there are just as many cons as there are pros in this debate.  Let’s start with the cons.  

One, I’m cooking all my food in fat.  Yep, fat.  I’m no doctor, but from I understand this probably isn’t the healthiest thing in the world.  My poor heart feels like it’s trying to squeeze the last chunk of toothpaste out.  I’ve also noticed that when I cut myself, I don’t bleed anymore.  

Two, I’m cooking all my food in fat.

Three,  I’ve found myself taking deep breaths after every bite.  I never knew that eating could be so strenuous.  I feel like I’ve run a mile, but I’m only pounding down my forth piece of chicken.  I guess I’m just a lightweight, and can no longer hold my grease.  Although my face seams to be picking up the slack.  

Now on to the good.

I cook all my food in fat.  It tastes so good.  There’s nothing better than melting an animal’s wasted energy and using it to cook other stuff.  Basically, some cow was lazy so I could cook with him.  I applaud that.  I only wish that all my laziness could be used.   Maybe when people die we should stop donating to science and start donating to restaurants.  You could be a fat donor.  Besides, figuring out the best place to put a breast implant, what have scientists done for us lately?  Bird Flu is upon us dicks, hop to it.

I’ve also found that you can deep fry anything, and it will taste delicious.  My hamster Betty died while giving birth a week ago, I fried her.  No seriously, and it was delicious.  I just deep fried a steak, some cereal, a copy of TV Guide, and a bath towel.  They all tasted fantastic.  I’ve started trying new batters too.  The TV Guide was coated with hair gel.  It was the perfect deep fried dessert.  

Another plus, I never dirty other pans.  Besides I don’t have time to be taking pans three feet to the dishwasher.  I’m a busy guy and sometimes you have to cut out some of the extraneous activity in your day.  I’ve also stopped bathing, but I can cook while I go tinkle.

I think I like this deep frying thing.  I love the food, even if it may be unhealthy.  You have to live sometimes though.  So what if I put on a couple pounds?  I’m going to recycle my fat and give it to Bennigan’s.  If I can do it while I’m dead, why can’t lipo-suctioned people donate?  Hmm.  I’ll have to ask the doctor about it tonight, when I go in to take care of all these burns.

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Nice Buckle

November 22nd, 2005

Test DummyI recently joined a nonprofit organization called Belts Across America, BAA.  The B Double A, was started by a group of trendy individuals that wanted to make seat belts more enjoyable.  

The group formed after the for profit group lost a boatload of money selling belts to prison inmates, who failed to use them properly.   Who would have thought that the official barter program to encourage prisoners to stop smoking would have ended more lives than it saved?  Actually, I don’t think it saved anyone's life, but it did make Fred in cell block 7’s stay in the clink more comfortable when his pants were properly adjusted.

After the “Buckle Up and Stop Smoking” initiative failed, Ted and Barry Stroman started BAA.  I became involved in the organization a couple of weeks ago when I was kicked off my bowling team.  I guess they wanted someone with a little less flair and a little higher score.  That’s fine, Jerry was a stiff jerk.  “Wife starch the shirt a little too much Jerry!”  Ha Ha… I miss them.

Since I’ve been involved, I’ve helped in the marketing of seat belts.  You know, making them more stylish to wear, in order to increase compliance.  The group had stopped its research for some time after they tried the automatic seat belt.  It was a critical failure.  

Many of the owners were even lazier than they expected and couldn’t take the time to buckle the waist strap.  15% of automatic seat belt owners lost their voices from violently cursing at the mechanism.  The remaining 45% owners choked to death.  It was a huge scandal that was brought to the national arena with the NY Times article, “Black Mazda Lynches White Man:  Payback Sucks!”  

I was brought in to liven up safety belts.  Here’s what I’ve come up with.  A napkin belt, for eaters on the go.  It was rejected.  It made the cars smell like ketchup and even though Bounty said they had “new” stronger paper towels, they couldn’t support a human body.  

Another idea of mine was to make a giant car seat for adults.  I contacted Greco, but we ran into a little snag when we realized that if a guy had to put his wife in an enlarged car seat, he wouldn’t be able to buckle himself in.  It was a vicious cycle with no conclusion.  

Another idea I had was to install roller coaster style restraints into cars.  Due to the increased amount of whiplash it was canceled.  Although I know a lot of people were making good money taking pictures of people while they were driving, and selling them when they got out of the car.  Sometimes people looked scared and others would put their hands in the air to show how brave they were.  Car accidents in the month of November have increased ten fold.

Anyway, I wanted to give you heads up about some of the new seat belts you can expect shortly.  I’m still testing the bathroom belt, but hopefully it will be ready for the holidays.  Now, off for more research!

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Hey, Shut It!

November 18th, 2005

Dog MaskI went on a date last night.  A blind date really.  And although she wasn’t blind she did have a wooden leg.  I think it was pine and it looked beautiful.  The craftsmanship was top notch, and not only was it varnished, it had a clear coat of polyurethane on it.  

She let me touch it, and I made a joke about how smooth it was.  “I bet you don’t have to shave this much!,” I said.  She seemed to like the joke, but then went into this really boring story about this time that she got it wet and it warped.  Apparently, it got water logged and turned into the consistency of a wet graham cracker.  

Everything was going great, and then I started to ask her some questions, “What size shoe do you wear?” “14 Wide,” she replied.   She wasn’t lying.  When my friend Donald set us up he told me she was, “a bit toned.”  It turned out that I had misunderstood Donald.  She was toned, but there seemed to be a lot of extra toning, as Donald clearly meant “big boned.”  I’m not going to explain my confusion when I thought he said, “She’s missing her bag.”  As a goodwill gesture I even went to the police station to see if someone had turned in my future date’s bag.

I left empty handed.  

I then asked her to tell me a little bit about herself.  And she did.  She wouldn’t shut up.  I this, and I that.  She just kept talking about the most trivial things, like her family.  My dad did this, and blah blah blah blah.  I mean seriously,  I didn’t want her whole life story.   She went into this whole spiel about her name, and where she works, where she grew up, and what her hobbies were.  

It was boring, and I think I fell asleep sometime between, “well, my name is,” and “I had a really good time tonight.”  Outside of the leg everything was a blur.   

Seriously though, the conversation did stop dead in it’s tracks when I asked her why people call her the “Capt. Sparrow.”  To the lady I went out with last night.  I apologize.  

She really beat me good with that leg though.  Next week I get the cotton out of my ears!  Anyway, that’s the last blind date I go on.  At least until my hearing comes back and I stopppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp…………. blacking out.  I’m not going to let one bad date spoil my fun.

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The Heart Springs

November 17th, 2005

Chest ExpanderYesterday I bought a little something to help me get in shape.  All is going well so far and I feel invigorated.  I never thought it was possible, but I feel rested and rejuvenated.  I feel like I could go on for hours…..

(Several Hours Later and After a Long Nap)

Anyway, this new “thing” I got is pretty amazing.  I love it.  I bought if from this Asian man with tattoos.  He owned a shop that sold pretty much anything, but they must have had a pretty loose return policy because everything looked like it was three to forty years old and possibly stepped on.  I found him in the Yellow Pages, while looking for someone that would share my love of chess.  I found the Pawn Shop.  Surprisingly, chess never came up, but three guys were rigorously discussing NASCAR.  

I found it in the “Air-O-Bicks” (their spelling, not mine) section.  It was under a couple sweaty jocks and a sweatband.  I think there was some Tenactin in there too.  

Before I found it though, I examined the Thigh Master that was lying next to it.  I tried it out, but after it railed me pretty hard in my "area", I put it back.  

Then I picked up the machine that would change my life.  It was two handles held together by a set of three long springs.  As you can imagine, I was confused at first.  How do I use it?  What is this?  Does it come in other colors, besides brown?  When did we develop the technology to make such a sophisticated machine?  I was at a loss.

I tried several methods of use, and I think one of them gave me tetanus.  Anyway, when I finally learned how it worked, I didn’t stop.  I loved it.

A short time later, the Asian owner told me that I was using it wrong and that, “at no time should that handle be in any part of the body.”  It was a logical conclusion, and had I known about it earlier, I probably wouldn’t be on antibiotics now.  

After he showed me the correct use,  I again loved it.  I couldn’t stop.  In one day my arms are starting to rip my shirts.  Kidding, but they are getting pretty big (imagine two golf balls placed atop one another).  

I’m excited about life, and I think I’m ready for love.  I just hope that the patches of missing arm hair this device has created won’t scare girls away.  I think of those patches as windows to my heart.

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Cut Your Own Meat

November 15th, 2005

SteakWell, it happened.  Mom and Dad have finally forced me to move out.  Yeah, I know, maybe I’m a little bit too old to be doing this, but I think what they're doing is ridiculous.  

Apparently, my dad thinks I’m cramping their relationship.  Well, I told him I could sleep on the outside of the bed and he could have the middle.  It’s just a mess.  They’ve even threatened to take the car seat out.  I mean that’s just rude.  But that just feeds into another complaint that, “they can’t be driving me a round everywhere.”   

I’m pretty sure my parents know this, but money doesn’t make itself.  Then he says to me, “Doug, I think we’re going to have to start getting basic cable.”  And I said.


Three hours later he scooped my fetal body off the floor and rocked me to sleep.  I guess I feel a little under appreciated.  I put those railings on the bed for their protection.  I know how easy it is for old people to bust a hip, I should say shatter a hip.  

Just think of all the things I do around the house:  I eat, I sleep, I watch tv, I go to the bathroom.   I even flush the toilet.  What am I? A triathlete?  I don’t think so.  Yes, sometimes we fight about dresser space, but still doesn’t everyone?  

I mean, how difficult is it really for my arthritic mother to cut up my steak before I eat it?  She even complains about the hot dogs, and that’s soft meat.  I just don’t get it.  After all my years of service they’re letting me go.  Well, I don’t think so.  I don’t want to be an accomplice to their failing marriage.  We’re a family, and families stick together.  

That’s why I checked us all into an assisted living center.  That way, we can stay together and we have some nice lady to cut my meals for me.  Oh, and get this, we don’t even have to get out of bed to go to the bathroom anymore.  They gave us three of these buckets.   Sweet.  Yep, everything turned out for the best.  And we’re all living the high life.

(Since the writing of this statement, my parents have since divorced.  I. on the other hand continue to live assisted and I couldn’t be happier.)

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I Came Out!

November 14th, 2005

ParadeWell, I might as well tell everyone.  I’ve been keeping it in for a while and it’s hurting.  Real bad.   I haven’t told my parents yet, and I’m pretty sure that my brothers don’t know.   

I’ve struggled with it for years, trying to hide it, but it’s been difficult.  I’m sure some people might have suspected something, but I’ve never told anyone flat out, that I’m…. uh…. let’s just say that the amount of awkward positions I’ve been put in because of this is staggering.  

On the whole it’s been rough, but I struggled through it and tried to make the best of it.  I mean, I’ve been through some stuff, but I’m not going down that road.  I’m not always proud of this, but it’s who I am and I can’t change that.  Some people might say that I’m dirty or disgusting, but I just know me as me.  I try to bathe regularly, but that really has nothing to do with this.  Alright,  I’m just going to say it.  

It’s true, I'm a generic brand foods buyer.  

Ok, there, I said it.  I buy Mountain Thunder instead of Mountain Dew.  I drink Bubba Cola instead of Coca Cola.  And yes, I’ve even eaten potato chips from a yellow bag that said “POTATO CHIPS” in black letters.  The bag was so inexpensive that they couldn’t afford to print the nutritional facts on it.  I’ve had breakfast from a cereal BAG that contained no prizes.  

So there you have it.  Judge me if you want.  You can sit there with your Frosted Flakes and think that what you’re doing is right, and that’s fine, just don’t bother me.  I’ll be eating my Frosted Flicks.  
I don’t know maybe it’s genetic or maybe I’m an attention seeker.  I don’t know.  I do know that it feels better to be out.  I could shout it from a mountain top, or any structure that rises above eye level.  I’m happy and relieved.  

I can sleep without fear of another Doritos Nightmare, just because I prefer Nacho Cheese Tortilla Chips (Yellow Bag).  So the next time, you come over I’ll be wearing my bell bottom pants, glitter and we’ll be eating Hydrox cookies.  

I’m sorry Mom and Dad, but this is how God made me.  I’m confident that you’ll still love me, and I hope people don’t start talking back home.  I would hate for this to tarnish your good name.   Anyway, I’m out about it and I’m happy.

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I Was Runnin’

November 9th, 2005

RunningI wanted to get healthy, so I started running everywhere.  I mean everywhere.  I run from my bedroom to the bathroom.   I run from my car into the office.  

Unlike Forrest Gump though, I’ve taken the time to shave and bathe.  People still don’t hang around me though.  I think they’re starting to get annoyed when I say, “race you to the bathroom,” and dart off.

Unfortunately, running is not something I enjoy doing.  Surprisingly it’s a hassle.  I try to set aside some time everyday to run, but I often don’t have the two hours it takes to get into my wind resistant spandex suit.  

There’s no doubt that I look great when I run with my socks on the outside of my spandex and my headband on, but I just don’t enjoy it.  

Of course I broke my leg a little bit ago, so maybe that has something to do with it.  I wasn’t even running when it happened.  I jumped up when I found out about a “Fraggle Rock” marathon.  I leapt into the air with excitement only to watched my tibia burst through my skin as I landed.  I got very weak and the smell of almonds filled the air.  

This constant pain could be part of my distaste for running, but I’m not sure.  

I think it might have something to do with the fact that I could stop at any moment, but don’t.  I’m wheezing along, barely running with my arms flopping to my side, and I keep thinking to myself, “Why am I doing this?”  I could make this pain stop instantly, but I don’t.   Running for any distance is simply a debate within yourself.  

The two angels duke it out, but these angels aren’t the good and bad angels on your shoulder.  These are the lazy and slightly more lazy angel that try to figure out how long you have to run.  

It’s basically a barometer of how much work you need to do to avoid being pulled out of your house with a giant crane that gets in when they rip down a wall in your bedroom.

I just can’t hack it.  I hate running.  Maybe I could do it if I was the Terminator and could analyze life forms as I go, but who knows?

I guess that’s what separates the boys from the women.  So, I’ll continue to forge ahead running, and maybe someday I’ll be able to make it around the block without stopping for a fifteen minute break.

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Lover Boy

November 4th, 2005

Richard SimmonsI recently had another lapse in judgment.  While anxiously awaiting the weekend, I devised a plan to excite my fellow workers. 

The plan consisted of a small boom box and enough sequins to blind Richard Simmons. 

At roughly two o’clock the music began to play, and I emerged from the bathroom dressed in a sparkling jumpsuit constructed the previous night while watching Roker On the Road.  The music blared through the halls, as I danced to Lover Boy. 

Everybody is working for the weekend I thought.  I was wrong. 

Apparently, Gary has to work until five on Saturday and Loraine until six.  Ted, Carol, and Franklin are working on Sunday.  I was disappointed to find out that I too would be working Saturday afternoon, something I could have realized by simply looking at the calendar. 

For the second weekend in a row I would miss my paid programming, fingers crossed they don’t air the Gazelle episode. 

I finished the dance to stay strong for my coworkers, but inside I was a mess. 

After the dance, my boss called me into his splendid office where we spent the next fifty minutes discussing the sexual harassment policy. 

I guess in the midst of my gyrations, unbeknownst to me, a second person became part of the show.  According to my boss, he appeared shy at first, but later gained confidence.  I examined the suit, and the threading had snapped.  Therefore, I am currently entrenched in a legal battle with Sunbeam. 

In the plus column, I finally succeeded in my attempt to spread joy and excitement.  People laughed for the remainder of the day.  I could see them pointing at me, and I can only assume that they were saying, “there he is, that’s the guy that cheered us up that one time!”

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The Chubby Choice

November 3rd, 2005

Black PoloIn an effort to look good, I put on a stylish shirt, a crisp polo.  Its hue was black and from what I’ve heard black is capable of hiding curves. 

I slid into my shirt, only to realize that the fit was a bit snug. 

If you don’t mind, I just need a second to (rustling) take this (more rustling) mother (even more rustling) stupid (loud thump, followed by silence)  and done. 

I apologize.  I was having trouble breathing, much like a fat kid on the second floor straining to reach the ground level. 

While removing my shirt I thought to myself, “Well, I’m never wearing this shirt again.”  In struggle to stay rational, I re- affirm to myself that I will indeed replace my entire wardrobe and recycle a perfectly good shirt, because I’m too lazy to eliminate the five pounds God gave me to keep warm in the upcoming winter months. 

Have I gained and excessive amount of weight?  No.  Do I look like a slob? No.  Do I cry myself to sleep every night? Uh…yes.  Like an alarm clock I start up at 9 o’clock while listening to the song “Feelings”  on repeat. 

The funny thing is, someone told me I should just eat healthier.  Maybe I shouldn’t drink a case of Miller Lite at night.  “Fine!  I’ll drink a case of water every night!”   Suckers, water doesn’t come in cases.  It does?  Where?  Oh, Sam’s Club.  I see. 

Look, I don’t have time to eat healthy and surprisingly I don’t enjoy the rigors of exercising.   I’m not Lance Armstrong. 

So, the fact of the matter is this.  My cotton black polo shirt will no longer be worn, and it’s been forced into an early retirement.  The damage to its seam was extensive and it will probably be replaced with a falsie.  By falsie I mean, a big brown patch placed over the offending area by the family that picks it up from the Salvation Army. 

But before I let him go, I’d like to say a few words.  “It’s true that I haven’t always been there for you, and that I only wore you once or twice a month.  I would rather give you away than sacrifice five minutes of my day or expend any physical energy on your behalf.  I apologize for that.  I want you to be with someone where you’ll be taken care of better than I ever could.  You deserve better than this.  You have dreams, follow those dreams.   Before you go, I ee I ee I will always love you.  Oh, I’m choking up.  Goodnight sweet prince.” 

Black Polo Shirt 2004 – 2005. 

He is survived by a closet of baggier clothes that accentuate weight gain rather than hide it.  He will be remembered for his stainless record, the double header, and his ability to stay unwrinkled.  He will be missed by his partners in crime, Red Boy and The Good Neck Shirt.

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Highway Backed Up To Hell

November 2nd, 2005

Traffic JamIn one hell of a traffic jam, my deepest desires sauntered into my head.   Mostly to look around and to see what I’ve done with the place. 

While my car is pressed ass to ankles on the freeway, I start contemplating my life as a giving being.   After determining that I give very little, I decided to play God.  You heard me, God. 

Who allowed such a burden to be placed on my shoulders?  The Madison Metropolitan Department of Transportation and the various subcontractors who thought that a mere three lanes of traffic would suffice.  So, here I sit. 

You may ask yourself, “How was he playing God?”  Maybe you should be a little patient, what is this twenty questions? 

I first realized that I was in control of life when I glanced down at my white gabardine suit.  Uh… God wears white.  It’s in the Bible, possibly the book of Ruth.  In my suit, on the crowded highway, I now had complete control of who gets on and off. 

Take a number baby!  I’ll let you go lady because you’re are hot.  I will not let you pass lady, because I’m not sure if you are a lady. 

And to the guy on the bike, Who are you kidding?  You may be beating traffic now, but in three weeks you’ll be in the ICU.  Not so brilliant smart guy!  It doesn’t matter how much reflective clothing you wear someone will eventually hunt you down, probably an old white man with cataracts that’s addicted to medicinal alcohol. 

I, alone, am the gatekeeper to the highway.  Are you Gozer? 

I only have two minutes, so I’ve got to act quick.  I let a car in, being the nice guy that I am.  Then, I turn into a complete jerk and refuse to allow others on.  I found myself drunk with power and actually thinking to myself, “Look I’ve done my good deed for the day.  What?  Am I just supposed to let everyone on?  I’ll never get home!” 

Then it hit me, with great power comes great responsibility.  I am no God.  I am the jerk that lets one car in, and thinks he’s done his civic duty.  I’m also the idiot that just rammed into a rusty Volvo.

You’ve won this round God!

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