Brian Touches Pee, Learns Nothing.

A few days ago, I was peeing at work (in the toilet of course, not just behind the fax machine or something), when my keys fell into the toilet. Initially, when I told my wife this, she was fairly incredulous.

Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet honey.

Her: What?

Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet sugarplum.

Her: You dropped your keys in the toilet???

Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet Cuddle butt.

Her: Why?

And the conversation went on like that for a while, with her growing more and more suspicious that she'd married a man who was born with an extra chromosome, and me trying to reassure her by calling her pet names like babycakes, pooh bear, and hooker lips.

Let me explain how this happened. I originally had my keys in my pocket like a normal person, but the pants I was wearing were obviously made by retarded monkeys in the dark. Somehow my pants are too loose in the waist and too tight in the thighs, which makes no sense because I have normal sized thighs and my fat accumulates mostly as side fat. (I also enjoy clouds, tabby kittens, and long walks by the fireplace.)

Anyhow, since I was wearing oddly configured pants, my keys kept poking me in the groinal area every time I did anything at all. I have sharp keys too. Ouch! It felt like getting bit on the crotch by a parrot. (That's a whole other story.)

So since I was wearing a hoodie, I took my keys out of my pocket and put them in that little kangaroo pouch thing that many hoodies come equipped with. (Side note: I have a skate key on my key chain and I have no idea what it's for.)

Then when I went to pee, I lifted up the pouch so I wouldn't pee on my own clothes and in doing so my keys fell into the uriney toilet. And not just into the toilet either, into that hole at the bottom of the toilet where the wild things go after you flush them. The keys were barely visible, and I didn't have any spares. This was horrible! I walked back out to the office kitchen and I was looking for some salad tongs or something, all the while keeping my eye out for anybody nearby that I could shoo away if they tried to get in the bathroom.

I found a big long knife and figured maybe I could stab out the keys. Of course right as I'm doing this, the UPS guy walks in with some certified mail for me to sign. I'm sure he felt really comfortable engaging some guy who was about to walk into the bathroom with a big knife and I could tell he was not unhappy to get back to his truck.

The story ends like this. I didn't stick the knife into the toilet because... well it's a knife and people cut food with it, and that's a little too weird, even for me. We've somehow managed to retain the pot my wife threw up in as a kid, but she won't cook stuff in it. It's the same basic concept. I did however, stick my entire right arm into a toilet filled with my own pee and retrieve my keys. Then I did some swearing and washed my arm for about 2 hours, and went back to work. All in all, it was pretty gross.

(Post-Script to this story: You'd think I would have learned some sort of lesson from car key/toilet mishap, but today I dropped my keys in the toilet again. Maybe I do have that extra chromosome after all...)

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?

The Things I Hate.

A lot of people who read this frequently ask me why I have such a strong hatred for various things. Well, faithful readers, I figured I would explain to you.

1.) Hornets-Hornets suck for so many reasons. First they fly around in your face, which is pretty inconsiderate, all things considered. Maybe in France people think it's great to have little insects flying around your eyeballs all the time, but here in America we have personal boundaries and space. Human beings respect each others personal space, is it so much to ask that hornets could do the same. (Side note: My grandmother used to let hornets walk all over her glasses and eyes. It was horrible. I never understand why so many hornets would flock to her face like that. Maybe her eyes smelled like flowers, I don't know)

Secondly, and more importantly, hornets are JERKS!! Hornets will just fly over and sting you on the arm if they think you're looking at them funny, or hanging out too close to their nest or something. Sometimes I think they sting me just for practice.

Hornet (Looking at me): Look there's a big thing.

Other Hornet: Let's sting the shit out of it.

Hornet: Good thinking Ed.

I know people who have been stung like 2 times in their life. How is this possible? I've been stung like 400 times. And they can just keep stinging indiscriminately forever. I hate them. I watched this show one time where this guy named Billy sprayed a bunch of crud into the cracks of this dilapidated shack, and hornets were falling out everywhere dying. My eyes had an orgasm watching this.

2.) Roundabouts-When did this country turn into England? Everywhere I go nowadays, a stupid roundabout is popping up. The powers that be apparently believe that we are born with an inherent understanding of what to do when faced with a large circle in the middle of flowing traffic. Well people are dumb and treat roundabouts like a very small scale Indy 500, so I am constantly in fear of getting in an accident. I'm also in fear of being trapped inside the roundabout like Clark Griswold, driving in circles for hours. "Look kids, there's Big Ben, Parliament." My children think it's funny and cheer loudly when we approach roundabouts. This angers me. People who need someone else to wipe their butts for them shouldn't be making fun of me. If you want me to stop hating roundabouts, you should send me to roundabout camp for a week, at the taxpayers expense of course.

3.) Heelys-I've mentioned before why I hate these stupid shoes, but let me reiterate. The only kids you see with Heelys are fat, weird looking kids with even fatter parents. The kids skate around shopping centers, and crash into people and don't say "sorry" and then skate off to crash into different people, and their fat ass parents can't keep up with them because they're driving around in those motorized wheelchairs with baskets on them for groceries provided by the store, and they've stopped paying attention to the havoc their ugly children are wreaking because they're too busy yanking preprocessed, cholesterol laden items with their canes off of high shelves in an obvious subconscious attempt to bring around that next coronary sooner rather than later.

4.) Dog the Bounty Hunter- I hate him because he has a gay mullet. I hate him because he has a dumb voice. I hate him because he has a 5th grade vocabulary. I hate him because his wife looks like a cross between a super high class prostitute and Grimace from McDonalds. I hate him because he makes idiots believe it's really possible to aggressively chase after criminals without a gun for years and never get shot. Really though, just look at him. How could you not hate somebody like that? Even if he was really nice and all he did was save puppies and babies from buildings on fire all day long I'd still hate him.

I think everything else I have a real hatred for I've covered in earlier posts. For more information, refer back to those.

My Dog is Crazier Than Me

Let me preface this by saying that I love my dog Jasper. He is a sweet, friendly animal, very good with the children, and I'm happy he's mine. He's also, on occasion, a raving lunatic.

I suppose you can trace most of this behavior back to when he was a puppy. He was apparently abused at a very young age, and then set free in Duluth in the winter, ostensibly left to freeze to death. Instead, Homeward Bound got a hold of him, and while I was still in college my wife adopted him. He had really severe kennel cough, and dog pneumonia, and he sneezed big green boogers all over his feet every 30 seconds or so. My wife spent a good majority of her day cleaning snot out of his paws.

Jasper has never really been able to let go of his upsetting childhood, and since I'm not paying for a dog whisperer to come in and help him express his feelings, or his anal glands, or whatever a dog whisperer does, he has a tendency to act really strangely at times. Throughout his life he has done the following

-Ran upstairs and hid under the bed for 2 days after I fell down the stairs and landed on him early in the morning while still half asleep going to let him out.

-Escaped from us at a park where the snow was 4 feet deep but he didn't sink since he was too little, and proceeded to chase a flock of canada geese, that were flying 500 feet above him in a "V", for about a mile, including across a busy road where he almost got hit by like 8 cars, but was totally oblivious to this fact because he was staring at the sky and barking the whole time.

-Chewed off and ate his long plumage of tail fur along with a considerable amount of stuffing from his kennel mat (which he then chewed to pieces) and then loudly vomited it all up in the night on our new carpet because he was angst ridden since I had started a new job and screwed up his daily routine. This caused a fairly uncomfortable Q&A with my mom since when I returned home from work I couldn't figure out what happened to my doggie's tail.

Me: Uh mom?

Mom: Yes?

Me: Did you do something to Jasper?

Mom: What?

Me: Ummmm, did you uh, come over and cut off all his tail fur for some reason?

Mom: What? No. Why would I do that?

Me: I don't know, to make a bed for a small animal you found?

-Ferociously barked at invisible ninjas for an hour at 3 in the morning until I had to get up and threaten him with euthanasia. He's done this repeatedly.

-Got bitten on the snout by a fly which causes him to be either really scared of flies, or really aggressive towards them depending on the day. When he's really aggressive towards them he runs around barking and snarling at them and tries to leap up and bite them to death. I don't believe he has ever been successful in this. When he's really scared of them, he repeatedly slithers around the house squeaking like a big pussy and tries to wedge himself under furniture and furnace crawlspaces that he has no business trying to fit into. This usually causes chaos and broken furniture.... and threats of immediate euthanasia

-Stands and barks at a random wall for long periods of time, until I come snap him out of his trance by threatening complete and utter euthanasia. (Side note: We learned from our vet that this may be a sign of early onset dog dementia. I don't know how a being with no concept of time can have dementia, but whatever.)

-Pees on people at the dog park. I never apologize for this, instead I choose to say clever things like, "Gee your pants must smell bad" or "I guess that leg belongs to him now". People always appreciate humor when they are being urinated on.

-Lets our other much larger and bouncier dog chew on him until his head is soaking wet from slobber, and sneezes numerous times while playing. We call this phenomenon "Sneezefighting."

His latest, most confounding problem though, is that when he runs out of water he goes absolutely bonkers, but only when nobody is home to correct his behavior/threaten euthanasia. I forgot to give him water yesterday before I left for work. Let me correct myself. Never in the 10 years since I got a dog has it crossed my mind that the dog may need water at some point. I have some sort of mental block.

So my wife forgot to give him water. When I got home, the entire downstairs was in shambles. The rug was all askew, there were pretzels all over the floor, a glass candle holder had been broken, there were magazines and newspapers bitten into tiny pieces, the clothes hamper was laying on it's side, the cable box was in an odd position, there was a plate on the floor, a chair was leaning precariously against the entertainment center, and somebody had eaten a large piece of styrofoam. My first thought was really rowdy burglars. After I went and got a baseball bat and secured the house, I walked in the bathroom and noticed that there was no water in the water dishes. Uh oh. I checked the bathtub. It was full of dirty paw prints because when he gets desperate Jasper hops in the tub to try to drink residual bath water. So I got him some water and proceeded to tidy up the downstairs, sweep up the glass, and throw away the rest of the styrofoam, all the while loudly cursing the heavens for my bad fortune.

I'll say this. Having a crazy dog makes me a lot more empathetic towards the plight of my wife, who has to put up with a crazy human everyday. But still, she should remember to get the dog some water...

Weird People and the Batmobile

People are weird, I tell ya. Some people are ridiculously fat. Some people are anorexically skinny. Some people look like their spouses. Some look like their pets. Some look like other people's pets. Some people look like combinations of famous people (i.e. Colin Cowherd looks like a combination of Alice Cooper and a guy who stuck his penis in an electrical socket). Some people look like they're dead and don't know it.

Mostly though, people are weird because they say weird things. I count myself as one of these people in this not particularly prestigious group. But it seems as though everywhere I go, I have a certain knack for accidentally avoiding the normal people, and only dealing with the really weird ones. I'm sort of a magnet like that. Today was no different.

I decide to break down and go get an oil change, even though I enjoy getting an oil change in the same fashion that I enjoy french kissing hornets on their stingers after I inject them with meth and Red Bull.

So I go to the oil change place. There are 3 people working there. All 3 look at me. I look back. Then two of them walk back into the office and one begins motioning me in. The two that walked away were normal. The one left over was a full blown wackaloon. The law of averages never applies to me in situations like this.

I can tell that this fellow is most likely crazy because he looks like my brother-in-law Josh, if Josh's mom and dad were also brother and sister who smoked tainted crack during the pregnancy. To be quite honest, this guy looked like a combination of Josh, and one of those people that turns into a Super Villain/Monstrous Freak after he falls into a vat of toxic sewage. He is also chewing on his bandana, which is still attached to his head somehow.

So either he steers me poorly, or I drive poorly, because he begins to gesticulate wildly with his hands, trying to get my car back to the proper position within the little oil change area. Then he puts both hands out really hard, signaling stop, and also stomps his foot like a 7 year old having a tantrum.

I stop. He comes over.

Him: Dude, what are you trying to do? Drive into fuckin' the hole?

Me (Flustered): Dude, you were waving your arms around like a man on fire. Settle down a little.

Him: Trust me, fuckin' you don't want to drive into the hole. That would suck for everyone.

I notice that he is using the "F" word at odd times in his sentences. Further confirms my suspicions that I am dealing with a crazy person.

So I tell him I need an oil change, and the normal people go down into the little basement under my car and begin changing the oil. Then he comes over to my car.

Him: This will take a bit. You can go wait in the lobby.

I get out and begin walking over there. He gets right in my way and smiles at me.

Him: Or you can just stand over here.

I'm not sure what to do. There's only a tiny path in between the front of my car and the garage door, which is now shut. He is standing in the tiny path, smiling at me. I feel like I may get raped. I stand there.

Him: You fuckin' gotta house?

Me: Uh, yeah.

Him: Does it have a pole barn?

Me: No, it just has a garage.

(Really sure he's crazy by now. As I do whenever I get into situations like this, I begin plotting my escape route. He is talking. I am plotting.)

Him: Hey, pay fuckin' attention. Would you build a pole barn?

Me: What? Where?

Him: Behind your garage of course.

Me: I don't know. I guess so, if I had some wood or something.

(This conversation has devolved and gotten me nervous, and when I'm nervous I start saying stupid things, like that I would build a pole barn behind my garage if I had some wood.)

Him: Yeah, I need to get some land.

Me: You ain't no kind of man if you ain't got land.

(I'm quoting movies without realizing it now)

Him: When I get me some land, I'mma build a house, a garage, detached fuckin' of course, and a pole barn.

Me: That's ambitious.

Him: Huh?

Me: I said "Good Thinking"

Him: Yup. Then I'mma go out in my pole barn and build fuckin' the Batmobile.

(I want to run away)

Him: But not fuckin' that Batmobile from the 90's. That thing was shitty. I checked the specs on it, and it could only go 35. 40 tops.

(How did he check the specs on a car from a movie from 20 years ago?)

Him: Naw, I'mma build that one from Dark Knight, that shit can can go zero to 60 in 5 flat. And it can shoot rockets at shit. All that shit was fuckin' fully functional.

(He's getting really excited talking about this bizarre dream of his)

Me: That'd be awesome. I'd drive that.

Him: Shit yeah. And my girl would come looking for me and I'd be like, "Don't bother me, I'm in the pole barn working on the Batmobile, and she'd bring me beer and shit."

After another 10 minutes or so of listening to him ramble on about Batmobile specs, and pole barns, and land and such, the normal people finished changing the oil, and so I paid and left. As I'm driving out, totally bewildered the last half hour of my life, the dude runs up next to the car and shouts, "FUCKIN' BATMOBILLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEE!!!!" I drive away.

This is my life...