Brian Starts Argument, Passes Time.

The short Thanksgiving week is notoriously slow for most businesses, except, like stores that sell turkeys and stuff. Neither my wife, nor myself, work for a turkey store, so finding things to keep busy with this week has not been easy.

Since we were bored, we started emailing things back and forth to each other that were very boring.

Me: Today is boring and dumb. I'm gonna clean my keyboard. Heh Heh.

Her: I'm bored too, and you are gross.

Me: Flicking a lintball right now, a little busy.

Her: Are you busy the week of March 15th, 2026?

Me: If I had to bet on it, I'd guess my nosehairs would be the first hairs on my body to go gray.

Her: My sister's kids are always sick.

Me: If I peed in an ice cube tray, could I make pee cubes?

Her: I hope Bella's not getting Strep.

Me: Did you throw away all my underpants?

And on and on it went, all the while very boring.

Then she suggested that maybe we should buy lottery tickets. I never buy lottery tickets, considering the simple fact that I have a better chance of having my penis bitten off by a lake monster than I do of winning the jackpot.

I suggested to her that instead of buying lottery tickets that maybe I should just take a few Washington's and fling them into the street, because the same thing would likely happen which was nothing.

She said that at least her idea gave us a chance, albeit a slight one, of winning money. Let me be the first to tell you, I disagreed with her assessment.

My contention is that it was just as likely that after I flung some dollar bills into the street that a burglar would run by, carrying a large sack with a dollar sign on it filled with money (I made the further assumption that the money was untraceable, and that the burglar had been wise enough to discard the exploding die pack). Anyhow, the burglar would run by, slip on the dollar bills and crack his head wide open, just like my mom always worried about me doing. The burglar would be laying there dead, with a cracked-wide-open head, and I would simply walk over and take the bag with the dollar sign on it, and, somehow owing to the spoils of war laws from the first two World Wars, I would be able to keep it and not pay taxes on it either.

This scenario struck me as just as likely to occur as Ed McMahon coming over and presenting me with a big check. Wait, that might be Publishers Clearinghouse and Ed McMahon might be dead, but my point is still well made.

She disagreed and so we argued about it. Women huh? Oh well, at least it passed some time.

My Keyboard

You ever notice how disgusting your keyboard gets after a while? This is really, really gross. I cleaned my keyboard today and I was shocked at how much crap was in there. I don't have a really scientific method for cleaning my keyboard. I just whack it against my desk really hard until somebody from another part of the office comes over to see what the hell all the racket is about.

Person: Brian, what are you doing?

Me: Whacking my keyboard against the desk.

Person: Why?

Me: I'm cleaning it.

Person: I thought you were loudly killing yourself.

Me: Nope, just cleaning my keyboard.

(Side note: My latest euphemism for masturbating is now "Cleaning my keyboard". My euphemisms haven't evolved much since I was a kid. When I was 12 it was referred to as "Strummin' on the Old Banjo". But I digress.)

Anyhow, I'm pretty much amazed at the amount of stuff that flies out when I clean the keyboard. A general list:

-Old food particles
-Dirt
-Fingernails
-Boogers
-Old skin
-Disgusting items of unknown origin
-Little bits of paper
-Insect Poop
-Lots of eyelashes

The last one really surprises me. How come I don't notice when my eyelashes fall out? You'd think you'd see that. It's right by your eyes! It's kind of unnerving to think how often I am unknowingly shedding eyelashes all o'er the land. And when people come over to my house, are they leaving a big pile of eyelashes behind? Yuck!

Keep your eyelashes to yourselves people. In the meantime, I'm gonna turn on some porno and "clean my keyboard."

Brian goes to Bahamas, Things Are Dirty There

I've been meaning to write about this for a while now but I've held off because I didn't want people to get the impression that I didn't have a good time on my Disney Vacation. The vacation itself was a wonderful time. We spent two days at Disney World, and 5 days on a Disney Cruise. The kids had a great time, we had a great time, and uh... it was great. There were two things that bothered me a little.

1.) Walking around for 13 straight hours is hard on your feet. On the second day I found myself sitting in Epcot Center, in the country of Norway, with my shoes off massaging my own feet, totally oblivious to the stares of disapproval from stupid tourists all around me. It was the best foot massage I've ever gotten. So I was sitting there, eating German Cheesecake (which is nothing more than a bunch of Kool-Whip in a pie tin) and rubbing my own feet, and loudly grunting with pleasure about it. I think that about says it all. Oh, and to the fake breasted woman that was gawking at me, worry about yourself and your expensive cha-cha's, or come rub my feet, or keep walking. Ho.

2.) Nassau, Bahamas is a dirty craphole. I started thinking about this because I have a certain Bahamian friend who is being such a pain in the ass that I want to slap him around with my penis and sew his butthole shut. When we got to Nassau, we were immediately inundated by small women carrying beads who wanted to braid my daughter's hair.

Woman: Hey Dada, you want braids for yo' bebe?

Me: No thanks.

Woman: C'mon Dada, yo' bebe want braids huh?

Me: No, you look like you have Syphilis of the hands. I can get somebody on the ship to do it for cheaper, plus I won't have to worry that my daughter will catch the 7 year creepin' Jesus. Eat your Jonny Cake and leave me be.

After being assaulted by about 50 women like this, I started completely ignoring their catcalls and instead staring at my feet or trying to catch small lizards hanging off trees. This tactic was moderately successful.

Finally, after I'd dissed like 3 generations of hair braiders, we got on this bus and headed for a zoo. The zoo turned out to be a ghetto ass zoo. More on that later.

While driving to the zoo, we noticed that all the dwellings seemed to have no windows or roofs or ceilings, and the entire insides were filled with garbage. I didn't see one inhabitable place on the whole drive. 80% of the population of the Bahamas lives in Nassau. I have no idea where.

When we got to the zoo, it became very obvious very quickly that it was a ghetto ass zoo. There were hardly any animals except birds, and it appeared as though it hadn't been painted since 1842. The only thing the zoo had was flamingos, who had been taught to run around in circles. A drill sergeant kept yelling at them and then they'd run around in circles. Then they stopped doing that and began trying to bite us. This terrified my daughter, and enthralled my son, especially when a flamingo ran over to me and tried to bite me in my crotch. You ever see somebody slap a flamingo? You should hang out with me more often.

After we left the ghetto ass zoo, we drove through more garbage until we got to a fort that was falling down. Some random townie with a bizarre voice gave a rambling history lesson and then stood really still like a statue and wouldn't answer any questions. Then he abruptly started moving again and kicked us out of the fort. We were led to an open area that was full of little kiosks that usually would have been filled with peddlers and hair braiders and drug dealers and such. But since we were the only ship that day, nobody had bothered to show up, except one guy who got sleepy, and was sleeping on a table, in a kiosk, with one of his shoes resting next to his head. I wanted to throw some stones at him but Amy wouldn't let me.

Then the tour was over. We drove back down through the garbage, stopping to admire a brightly colored billboard reminding us to "Protect Ya Tings" (apparently there is a high incidence of AIDS in the Bahamas. People must be humpin' in the streets or something). As we got back on the boat, the hair braiding ladies came back in full force and I had to beat them away with a conch.

Really though, where do these people live?