In light of all the talk résumés about Bitter emails this:
“Résumé,” by the way, is a French word with both “Es” accented, and literally means “summary.” In English one often sees it without the accents, or with only the second accent, neither of which is a serious error. But if you’re trying to show how multilingual you are, remember the first accent.
Apparently, I should be clear what I meant about résumés. I find it is acceptable to have a multi-page résumé depending on the position you’re applying for and your level of experience. However, entry level folks, not so much.
Light blogging. Crap to do. Like go through 35 résumés. Keep running folks off. A few of my peeves about résumés:
It’s spelled résumé (that é can be created by either hitting alt+0233 or using the character map). It’s not spelled resume or resume’.
Leave off the funky fonts and graphics (ETA: Bold, italics don’t fax legibly)
Learn the difference between ensure and insure.
Unless you’re applying for a management job, UN Ambassador, or professorship, your résumé should be one page and one cover letter.
I’m not a fan of putting personal stuff on résumés (like which church you attend, number of kids, married, etc.). I personally hold none of that stuff against folks but some people do. Don’t risk it.
Use an email address that indicates your name, such as firstname.lastname@suchandsuch.com. Not hobbies or sexual innuendo, like darklordofthesyth@suchandsuch.com, hotmom@suchandsuch.com, or ratherbefishing@suchandsuch.com.
Use action verbs. Don’t say Responsible for . . ., say Managed . . . or Administered . . . or something indicating action.
Speaking of verbs, past jobs should be in past tense. Current job, present tense. And be consistent in verb usage.
Less is more: Don’t say due to the fact when because will do. Don’t say in order to when to will do. This is helpful in getting it down to one page.
Focus on accomplishments, not duties.
I know you may have downloaded a template for your letter or résumé and that’s fine. But change the titles. Don’t address me as Dear Hiring Executive or Dear [click here]. Just sayin’.
I will google your name, after the first interview.
Spell check is your friend. In fact, get another friend to read it. S/he may find something you missed.
If you were unemployed, just explain the gap in the interview. If you were unemployed to stay home with children, explain that in the interview too. Don’t say you ran private daycare. It’s not that funny.
I’m not sure how I’d word web-savviness either, but the phrase Proficient in the Internet just doesn’t sound right.
And, really, are you qualified for the job you’re applying for? Just asking.
Update: There is some disagreement over spelling résumé. I blame the French. It’s also a problem for web browsers and email readers, as I noted here.
The kind of man who wants the government to adopt and enforce his ideas is always the kind of man whose ideas are idiotic.
I worked in a prison for a few years. I never met him either but I’m familiar with his work.
Feewings. Nothing more than feewings:
I am absolutely sick and tired of the very phrase “Self Esteem”; embodying as it does the concept that one should have warm fuzzy feelings about one’s self for no adequately explained reason whatsoever, as though by simply existing, one was doing something inherently good rather than merely converting oxygen into greenhouse gas.
My wife on our spending habits:
Ya know, I can go blow over $1,000 on stuff over the course of a month. And that doesn’t bother me. But you will blow $1,000 all at once.
True. She tends to buy little things here and there (clothes, kids’ stuff, and knickknacks) whereas I’ll come home with, say, a new gun or a table saw or grill.
Update: I should note that my reply was Yeah, but I only do that about once every three to five months.
My brother in law on his six foot eight, 300 pound friend:
It’s the damnedest thing. That big ol’ boy has phobias of clowns, midgets, and spiders. Seriously, that dude would totally loose his mind if an eight-legged clown midget said boo. Not me, though. I fear the things you’re supposed to fear. Like my daughter one day becoming a stripper.
Alrighty, then.
Seriously? One’s always there. I have several. But I also always have a cell phone to keep me abreast of the time. My office has a clock and a computer to let me know the time. I’m always in view of a clock at my house. My car has one. Any place I go has one.
So, why do I wear one?
The latest victims of global warming.
And, yeah, I know weather does not equal climate. I just like saying that to annoy people.
Update: See what I mean?
Update 2: Now that’s funny.
At one of the local blogger get togethers, I told Dr. Helen (who, by the way, doesn’t like to be called Dr. Helen) that I often had to fight the urge to comment at her site. Here’s one such post. Nothing I wanted to say was OK in polite company. As you were.
So, this weekend, me and the Mrs. planted roughly 300,000 plants and trees. That wasn’t enough so she’s off today to buy roughly 300,000 more. Egad.
And I wish all the trees would stop their massive orgy already. There’s tree-sperm everywhere and my truck looks like the star of some tree bukkake movie. And my allergies are beating me senseless.
Dr. Helen is talking about bumper stickers:
Do you ever wonder at the bumper stickers people have on their cars and feel thankful that you have been warned about their thinking processes in advance?
Yes. I don’t do bumper stickers. Any thing I have to say would be offensive to somebody. And I don’t want to risk annoying someone to the point that they feel inclined to damage my truck. I do like Kevin’s bumper sticker.
* That’s actually a lie. In my vehicle right now is 45 rounds of Remington Golden Saber 230g 45ACP (about $20 per 50) and 25 rounds of Remington Golden Saber 102g 380 (about $13 per 50). That’s about $24.50 plus tax.
A holiday of my people, the Irish. Sigmund Freud once said of the Irish:
This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever
Indeed. Others should be thankful for beer. It’s the only reason the Irish don’t rule the wolrd.
Of course, there’s also the sad fact that my people, left to their own devices, will create a shithole like Boston.
Update: Made it green so you can’t pinch my blog
See here. I actually know three ways. I used to work in a prison and, when bored, we’d sit around and figure this stuff out. Of the three ways, one is the method in that video; one involves possibly breaking your wrist and it only works on S&W handcuffs; and the third is, well, I carry a key with me.
I can also start a fire using a commercial dryer; make a nasty alcoholic beverage out of fruit juice; light a smoke using an outlet and a pencil; and make a tattoo gun out of a Sony Walkman motor.
You never know.
Sheets have one side that is the good side and one side that is the bad side. The good side is the one that looks nicer and the bad side is the one that looks like the fabric was turned inside-out that also has tags on it. When you make the bed, do you put the good side up so that, well, the good side is up? Or do you put the good side down so that when you flip over all the covers the good side is showing?
This is what married folks argue about, btw.
I’m wasteful. It’s true. If a household product gets to the point where it’s a pain in the ass for me to get any more of it out of the container, I’m done with it. For example, if the toothpaste tube requires more than a gentle squeeze to get some toothpaste out, it’s not worth the time and I open a new one.
Not my wife. She will fight the household products in an epic battle to extract as much product as possible. To me, that’s just not worth it. I got better things to do than fight a bottle of lotion. Not her. She’ll take the cap off, turn it upside down and beat the bottle like it owes her money.
When I last saw her, she had a razor blade and was cutting the toothpaste open.
Stealing from Les Jones, today’s word is trousering. It came to me in a spam mail and I thought it was a cool word. It’s one of those words that sounds dirty but isn’t:
any fabric used to make trousers
Other word that sound dirty but aren’t:
Morass
Assize
Cock-paddle
Analgesic
Assuage
Cock-master
Cumin
Titmouse
Penal
Back-hoe
Kumquat
Exacerbate
Assonance
Paradiddle
Turn in your Southern Boy card. An ass-whippin’ is what your momma gave you for misbehavin’, followed by another when your daddy got home. An ass-whuppin’ is what you get in a fight if you come out the loser.
Carnaby. Whoops. You’d think I’d know better since I have multiple bloggers here. Stickwick Stapers:
I don’t understand how atheists face death, either that of loved ones or their own. Do they put off thinking about it until the inevitableness and finalness of death is around the corner?
I’m not an atheist. But I’m rather unsure about this whole eternal life business. Heaven or Valhalla or even Hell seem quite unlikely to me, as described. I’m sure a particularly religious person would tell me that said descriptions are likely metaphorical for something we cannot comprehend.
I said here:
About once every few years, I go through this phase wherein I ponder the nature of the universe. As opposed to the rest of the time, when I could apparently give a fuck less because I got shit to do.
And that’s how it is. I don’t sit around and ponder death because it’s depressing and, of course, the result is uncertain. And I’m certain atheists don’t ponder it because it would be quite depressing.
That said, if there’s an afterlife, that’s cool. If there’s not one, no big deal. I didn’t exist 100 years ago and it didn’t bother me then. If I don’t exist 100 years from now, it won’t bother me then either.
Oh, and to atheists everywhere: What’s the deal with the atheists who try to convert? Not all of you do but there are some of you who do. Why do you do it? It makes little sense to me. I understand why religious people try to convert atheists. They don’t want you to go to Hell and they want you to have eternal life instead of oblivion. But I see no motivation for converting a believer to non-belief. When you try to convert the religious, are you just trying to prove something or are you just being a dick?
I hate it. I hate dealing with the sales guys. I hate dealing with finance guys. Can’t stand it. But we grabbed a Honda Pilot (4WD just in time for the non-snow) mentioned here. We went by to finish up some paperwork and all that. This is the part where my wife became annoyed because my credit score blew hers out of the water. Hers is still great, mind you, but mine is a few points shy of the max. So, the finance guy said we’d get a better rate if I was the applicant.
I don’t know why they call him the Finance Manager since he’s really the Sell You Extended Warranties and Other Shit You Don’t Need Manager. We were, no shit, in this guy’s office for an hour and every few minutes he’d get up and go check on something (his words) while we were left to discuss some piece of junk package he wanted to sell us. The third time he left to go check on something, I looked at the wife and said This guy has 20 minutes to get us out the door or this deal is off. This is taking way too long. I’ve closed on houses faster than this. He came back and was most expeditious this time. I figure they have a microphone in the Sell You Extended Warranties and Other Shit You Don’t Need Manager’s office and he heard me.
Any way, we got the car. And dig it. But one other bit of bad ju-ju: They detailed and cleaned the car for us last night and had it looking quite spiffy. But, in case you haven’t heard, we were supposed to have a blizzard today. So, the Mrs. had the misfortune of being stuck behind a salt truck on her way home after having her brand new car detailed. So, it looks like she’s been off-roading at the beach. Bummer. And, of course, the blizzard never came. Stupid global warming
When you’re in your car, you are not invisible. I could clearly see that you were about two-knuckles-deep in your nostril.
1) Car payment – they suck. But lately, you’re better off financing through the car manufacturer since they give really good rates. I mean, hell, if your liquid accounts pay a better rate than you’re being charged for a car, then it’s a no-brainer.
2) A Honda – This one, specifically. We borrowed it for a day and Junior really digs the DVD player. I always viewed them as, well, cheap little cars. Apparently, that has changed in the last decade or so. Consumer Reports and just about every other online resource says The Pilot rocks and is a good damn deal.
Upward Basketball. Some friends’ kids are in it. Not sure if you’re aware of it but it’s a religious group that does sports. They play basketball but do not keep score. I think that’s stupid because it is important that children learn there are winners and losers at athletic contests. A child should learn about the thrill they get from winning and the sorrow they get from losing. But that’s not what makes Upward Basketball stupid. See, they do man-on-man coverage and each man on the team is assigned a skill level and is given a corresponding colored waistband. People on the other team have corresponding waistbands assigned by skill level. And you are paired against the man with the same color waistband on the other team for man-on-man coverage. So, if you totally suck at basketball, then you will be paired with someone else who totally sucks at basketball. If you’re a little Michael Jordon, you’ll be paired with another little Michael Jordan. So, we don’t keep score because we don’t want to focus on winning and losing. But if you suck, we’ll put a waistband on you letting everyone know that you suck.
Update: From comments, Sailorcourt says it’s socialist basketball. Because It’s great for the players that suck. heh.
While ripping some of my CDs this weekend, I became depressed. See, there’s this one particular CD that kicks ass. I still listen to it a whole lot. I realized, when Windows Media Player put the album info out there, that this album will turn 13 years old this year.
The how-to and why-for of preparation for conflict (AKA rivrdog) tells us how to get AC power from DC.
Sig file seen at online poker:
Don’t take life so seriously. It isn’t permanent.
Heh.
Via HL.
|
You Are 24% Republican |
 You’re a bit Republican, and probably more conservative than you realize. If you’re still voting Democrat, maybe it’s time that you stop. |
|
You Are 24% Democrat |
 You’re a bit Democrat, and probably more liberal than you realize. If you’re still voting Republican, maybe it’s time that you stop. |
And I partied like it was 1999. So, see you tomorrow.
Via an ad I clicked somewhere, Jillian Michaels is both 1) hot and 2) capable of kicking my ass. Not sure which of those I like better.
I’m trying to understand why a guy with two masters degrees (one in engineering and a MBA in finance) has spent the last hour and a half trying to figure out how to ship something via UPS.com. Actually, I’m trying to figure out why he keeps updating me on the status of trying to figure out UPS.com because I can 1) do it in about 15 seconds and 2) give a fuck less. And I only have one masters degree.
To Nintendo: Seriously, guys, make more Wiis. I want one but I’m not standing in a line or calling Wal-Mart every day to get one. I got money. Get me a Wii.
To Illness: Go away. I swear, ’tis the season for sick kids with winter and daycare. Can we get at least a week’s break? I’d like to sleep for more than two hours at a stretch.
Sweaters: They’re scratchy and fit too snuggly for me. I hate them. But, every year, the wife buys me one. Stop.
The dude up the street: get on the Scott’s lawn-care program or something. Your lawn looks like a cross between a desert and the jungle. Some parts of it are solid dirt and other parts are bushier that Madonna’s pits from her 1980s Playboy spread.
To hypersensitive, politically-correct twits: Don’t you have better shit to do?
To Sanford: Do you just not make erasers for my 0.9MM mechanical pencil anymore?
To Windows Rescue & Recovery: You’re useless. Backing up my hard drive on, err, my hard drive is real fucking smart.
Went to the dentist this morning. Told you before how I get the gas ’cause my girly teeth are all sensitive. Anyhoo, had the MP3 player and it was kind of cool to listen to Five Minutes Alone and The Color of Money with a huge gas buzz.
Oh, and the title of this post is a combination of the title of Pantera’s album and the brand of light I stared at for 30 minutes.
The point: I dig the MP3 player.
The whole survival/emergency kick hits the blogosphere (usually the gun blogs) about once every few months. This time, there’s a new twist in that it’s from Knoxviews and it’s about a vehicle emergency kit. Well, I’m prepared for stuff generally so here’s what I keep in the ride:
2 flashlights (I could just carry extra batteries but if it’s an emergency, I don’t want to bother changing them)
jumper cables
gloves
toboggan
Firearm
3 to 4 magazines for the firearm, depending on which one it is
Thermal blanket (the kind that wraps up in a small pack)
A Gerber multi-tool
Jacket/coat
An easily accessible knife that has serrated edges (it’s only purpose is to cut seat-belts in the event I am stuck)
Bungee chords
Flares
First aid kit
A towel
Tire gauge
Tape
Scraper
Pen and paper
I don’t keep any food in there but it’s probably not a bad idea. Well, other than the no less than 400 Cheerios, Goldfish, and other assorted snacks Junior has dropped on the seats. Could probably live off that for a day or two.
Also, read this at Edmund’s. It gave me some ideas, such as Fix-a-flat, a bag to put this stuff in since it’s all in my console/glove box, water, food, help sign, and I need to update my first aid kit.
Update: And my new phone has a GPS in it.
Update 2: And make sure you read the comments over at Knoxviews.
Whenever your husband is looking for something, he will invariably ask you where it is. When he does this and you tell him, please observe the following rule: Start big, work small. That is to say, start with room first then place in the room. Examples follow:
Husband: Honey, have you seen my watchamacallit?
Wrong way: It’s in the box, in the drawer, under the toaster oven in the kitchen.
See, the problem with that way is when you say box, I’m thinking of all the boxes I have. I have no idea which box or which drawer you’re talking about until you get to toaster oven. Then, when I finally figure out you were talking about the kitchen, I’ve forgotten the whole thing about the box and the drawer.
Right Way: In the kitchen, in the drawer under the toaster oven, there’s a box.
See, I can visualize it. You say kitchen, I visualize my kitchen instead of all the boxes I have. Then, I know where the drawers are.
If I have a 50% chance of getting something right by accident that I would not have otherwise known about, there is a 99% chance that I will get it wrong.
Two examples from this weekend:
1 – I was changing out a door knob. Our new door knobs are the handle kind and not the knob kind. It just didn’t occur to me that the handles only matched the mount one way. So, I installed the mount upside down.
2 – I’m pretty handy with woodworking. While building Junior a chalkboard, I was going to put some trim on it. But I’d never done any trim before. I didn’t realize that one side of the trim was fatter than the other side. So, I cut two pieces to mate together and the mated perfectly, other than the fact I mated the fat side with the skinny side.
In both cases, I didn’t know either would be an issue. In both cases, I had a 50% chance of getting it right through no fault of my own. But I didn’t.
After quitting smoking, I took up Hot Tamales. Like two packs a day. I’ve now gone over a week without them. Withdrawals include no more sugary film over my teeth and people stop coming by the office to steal a handful.
Another installment of vomit from my mind.
No, Mr. Spam Man, the number one rule of investing is Don’t buy stocks based on tips you get from spammers via email.
Fucking windows. No, not that kind but same to them. New house has a lot of windows. Blinds and window treatments cost a small fortune.
The wife wants to put up Christmas decorations this weekend. God help me. She’s cool with the rule and I told her any decorations not going out will go to the trash.
A particular company that processes data with whom I deal with regularly sends me so much mail that I cannot possibly read all of it. They charge fees per task. Each particular task results in a bill. They send me a bill, for example, for $4. They’re called statements, guys. Get with the 1990s.
To the annoyed lady in the Buick at the 4 way stop: Yes, I know it was my turn to go. You were impatient and angry with me as I did not go but instead motioned you go go. You see, you’re driving a Buick, which is nature’s way of warning other drivers that you’re a danger to them. That and the blue hair. So, I did realize it was my turn. I did not let you go first because I was nice; rather, I let you because I assumed you couldn’t drive.
Speaking of 4 way stops, let’s just dispatch with the real legal rule about right of way and incorporate the way it really is into law: shittiest car goes first.
Plasma TeeVees: Despite being thinner than regular TeeVees, they sure do seem to weigh a lot more. And, despite being thinner, the manufacturers put them in boxes about four times the size of the TeeVee.
Never, ever pull someone’s finger. No good can come of it.
I am no longer amazed by statistical improbability in poker games. You’ll recall my bad beat here. I had two more at the GBR in Reno that cost me about $600. But, last week, I was dealt pocket kings three hands in a row (won one, lost two but still came out ahead). Tuesday night, I was dealt 7/4 three times in a row. Each is probably as likely (though, I’d say two kings is slightly less likely due the fact that up to 8 cards make 7/4 but only four make KK – I could calculate it but that’s no fun) but only one amazed me.
Last night, I was playing cards with some friends. One of those friends’ wife is a professional photographer. She does some damn good work too. My friend told me that his wife was hired to be in the delivery room to photograph the arrival of a baby who was going to die after birth. According to him, there is simply no saving the child and the child will die within hours of birth. The couple wants to capture their brief time with the child on film.
It’s a heartbreaking tale. My eyes teared up and I’ve thought about it all morning. So, to a couple I’ve never met and a child I never will meet, you’re in my thoughts and prayers.
Since I’m no longer smoking, I’m experiencing Dysgeusia, which means that my sense of taste is changing. Dysgeusia can be caused as a side effect of the medication Chantix (which I am taking and recommend for quitting smoking) and as a result of quitting smoking in general.
I used to drink my coffee strong, black and with sugar. Now, I take it a bit weaker and with cream. Odd. I had a beer earlier this week and it wasn’t that good. Of course, that was likely because it was shitty beer and not due to Dysgeusia. Still, I’ve had no urge to drink a beer since, even the good ones.
And, suddenly, I love the cinnamon. Seriously. Red Hots, Hot Tamales, and those cinnamon gummy bears rule.
A minced oath is an expression based on a profanity which has been altered to reduce or remove the disagreeable or objectionable characteristics of the original expression; for example, “gosh” used instead of “God”
I still think it’s fudging stupid.
Today, I received a fax from an employee. They went to a webpage, printed it, and faxed it to me. All this, as opposed to emailing a link. I guess we see why some folks can’t operate voting machines.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve smoked. Apparently, this is the magical point where the nicotine is supposed to be out of the system (or so they say).
I highly recommend Chantix. I don’t know what it does because whenever you click on info about medication, you have to read 300 pages of side-effects before the pamphlet tells you what it does. And by page 6 of side-effects, I’m bored or asleep. I’m not a doctor but my doctor says that it levels off the highs and lows of smoking. Apparently, you have nerves in your brain that are receptive to nicotine (they love the stuff!). Well, this makes them not receptive. So, after taking the pills, you get nothing from smoking except that cool refreshing flavor. By the way, once you take the pills for about a week, you realize that there is no cool refreshing flavor and that it’s just associated with the little high you get from smoking. You realize that the cigarettes kinda taste like ass, when they’re not giving you a little spike.
And I’ve made it this far before. The difference this time is that, unlike past attempts, I’m not thinking about smoking all the time because the last three days I smoked, I got nothing from it and they tasted like ass.
A few things, Chantix is pretty pricey (just over $100 for a month’s worth – but it’ll eventually cost less than those cigarettes). And insurance doesn’t cover it. When the directions say ‘Take after a meal and with a full glass of water’, they mean it. It’s pretty hard on your stomach.
It also says to take it for a week then try to quit and, in some cases, wait longer. I waited longer. I decided that (given my past), I’d wait two weeks. Well, about a week and a half and I was just smoking less without trying and when I did smoke (seemed I forced myself too), it just didn’t do anything for me.
I’m supposed to take it for another month, maybe two.
Today’s spam message came from a person calling themselves: J J Mc Anally. Ok, then.
On Halloween, why do you think it’s a good idea to drive your kids trick or treating? Because let me tell you that, as a family who did it the old-fashioned way by walking, you’re a pain in our ass. Your vehicles are always in the way. Would it kill you to cut the lights so that you’re not blinding a 5 month old in a stroller?
I mean, I realize your lazy and all but, man, that’s just inconvenient to other people who are walking on a narrow road in a subdivision. And let’s be honest, you (and your kids) could probably use the walk. I know walking the whopping 100 feet from one house to the next may be strenuous but it might be good for you.
As you were.
Update: Sarah feels my pain.
Update 2: And Tom does too.
G = Guns
We got some snakes. Our new lot lines up to a field and a creek. So, it’s not surprising we’d have some legless lotmates. The Mrs. hates snakes. I step outside on the back-porch with The Second this Sunday to see Politically Incorrect Dog engaged in an epic battle with what is probably the biggest black snake I’ve ever seen (I’m guessing it was a good four feet long). And by epic battle, I mean Politically Incorrect Dog is playing with it as though it were some sort of self-propelled stick to be fetched and released and fetched again. I call the dog in, put The Second down, alert the Mrs., and get the Walther P22. I don’t mind black snakes as they eat vermin (including other snakes) and are not venomous. But at the time I was not 100% sure that’s what it was. And I’m not risking a 0.01% that I am wrong. I get back out and he’s gone. Not a trace. I was almost convinced he was gone never to return and then it occurred to me he might be in the dog house. Crap. Well, I’m not crawling in there looking for him. So, I get a garden hoe and attach a mirror to it so I can look around the corner (yes, the dog house I built has rooms – gotta keep the wind out, ya know). No snake. And no snake killed. It’s win-win.
The second snake wasn’t so lucky. Yesterday, I was at work and the Mrs. called to tell me she just hacked a brown spotted snake (her description – I have not yet examined the carcass to determine what kind it is but I’m guessing copperhead) to death with a hoe. Again, with the hoes. She said she was out in the yard checking something and noticed the gnarly, 2 feet long beastie and wasn’t taking any chances. So, she went to the garage, grabbed the hoe, and hacked him into bits. She said she was wearing shorts and flip-flops and, in between hacks, was dodging an understandably annoyed snake.
I say to her: I’ve gotta get you to the range. The old Walther P22 would have dispatched the alleged copperhead with minimal fuss and risk.
35. Officially, middle-aged.
A while back, I bought the Mrs. some, err, underthingies online from Victoria’s Secret. It was win-win, she gets new stuff and I get stuff like this emailed to me.
Each time you move from one domicile to another, your volume of stuff will double.
As evidence:
In 2000ish, the Mrs. moved with me into my condo. To get her stuff, we rented a U-haul (smallish) and got all her stuff there.
In 2002, the Mrs. and I decided bought a house and moved from our condo. We decided that moving yourself sucks so we hired movers. This move required two men and one truck and they made one trip.
In 2003, we bought a bigger house (babies will do that). We hired two men and one truck. It took two trips. We doubled our stuff.
This weekend, we moved to a bigger house (last time I’m moving for at least a decade). We hired four men and two trucks since we figured we’d want to avoid two trips. Well, it took four men and two trucks two trips. We doubled our stuff again.
Other stuff:
I was organizing the basement and realized how many boxes of Christmas decorations we had (Seriously, the boxes take up an entire wall of my basement and that’s just Christmas – not the other holidays). New rule: The Mrs. is free to buy any Christmas decorations she wants. But for everyone one she buys, she must throw two away.
Also, the new pad has a rec/bonus/playroom for the kids. It was the first time we had all of the kids’ toys in one spot. It was ridiculous. Same rule: For every new toy bought, throw two toys away.
Ammo is heavy.
Gun safes are heavier.
Watching these guys move my stuff, I was thankful to have a Master’s Degree. Remember kids, guys with Masters Degrees don’t move big screen TeeVees.
I use the phrases retard, retarded, passengers on the little bus, Timmah, and a host of other similar insults all the time. In writing and in the real world. I thought, at first, it was unavoidable since (by my guess as affirmed by South Park), roughly 25% of the population is retarded. And, honestly, have you seen yourself drive?
But no more. I’m going to make an effort not to use such language any more since it apparently offends retards.
Update: And for people who need to be told that sort of thing, I don’t mean the physically/mentally disabled. I mean clueless, blathering morons. Of course, if you had to be told that sort of thing, you’re probably the type of retard I mean. And, yes, I know I’ve already used the word again. Sorry ’bout that.
People have pointed out that I haven’t fessed up to my age in this post. So, I’m not the youngest. But I think she is.
Or a post about life, the universe, and everything. But mostly the universe.
This post will be rambling in nature, you’ve been warned.
About once every few years, I go through this phase wherein I ponder the nature of the universe. As opposed to the rest of the time, when I could apparently give a fuck less because I got shit to do. Since this is the first time where I’ve gone through that phase while having a blog, I figured I’d bore the shit out of you err entertain you with it. Now, it’s been a while since I’ve read any Hawking or Sagan, so a lot of this crap is from memory, and mine is usually faulty. If I’m wrong about something, let me know as it may make my pondering easier. So, a few notes on my understanding of the universe based on crap I read many years ago:
1 – At one point in time, there was this big ass thing. Well, we don’t know really if it was big ass but it was massive. And they don’t really know what this thing was but take their word for it, it was massive. This thing may not have actually been a thing either as it currently is viewed as a mathematical concept. Apparently, it was so massive that all the stuff that is currently in the universe comprised this big ass thing, which seems to indicate it was a big ass thing and not a big ass mathematical concept. So, it was probably at least as massive as a 1965 Buick Wildcat. At some point, the big ass thing got so big ass that, instead of crushing itself under its own big assness, it exploded, which makes no sense. But that’s what they say. This explosion (called either The Big Bang or Let there be light, depending on who you talk to) created the universe as we know it. All that stuff in the big ass thing turned into a bunch of small ass things that were immediately hurled out into space – and don’t even get me started on space. Nevermind, I’ll get started on space. That’s the other thing about the universe: sure there’s a lot of stuff in it but there’s more lack of stuff than anything else. They call this lack of stuff space.
2 – At some point all that stuff created will get as far as it can get and then it will turn around and head back to the middle to rejoin the big ass thing that it was once a part of, kind of like a paddle ball. This is referred to (by me, anyway) as a collapse but people who study this crap call it The Big Crunch or Armageddon, depending on who you talk to. This happens due to gravity or invisible men in the sky, again depending on who you talk to. We’re apparently still in the exploding phase of this process as (they say) the universe is getting bigger. Which is good news, I suppose. I mean it beats knowing that we’re collapsing. That’d be depressing. So, at some point, all things will rejoin the big ass thing and we’ll all die at the hands of a mathematical concept.
3 – This process perpetuates, which is to say that this big ass thing explodes, collapses, explodes again, and collapses again. Seemingly, forever.
4 – The universe is definitely finite. Or definitely infinite. There’s some disagreement on that. Regardless, it’s pretty fucking big. It has to be since it holds all our stuff. But I think most people seem to think it’s finite.
5 – The universe is really, really old. It’s so old that we (well, I) can’t even begin to fathom how old it is. It’s been around an estimated 13.7 billion years (± 200 million years).
6 – The universe (and I’m not making this up, I swear I read it in a Hawking’s book) is shaped roughly like a banana. It’s not important to the discussion but I thought you’d like to know. And, of course, it implies that the universe is finite.
So, this leads me to my pondering:
In the life of the universe, I am (heck, the whole of human existence for that matter is) totally insignificant. This, of course, leads me to wonder about my own insignificance. Am I insignificant in the way that feminists are insignificant in elections? Which is to say, I serve no greater purpose? Or am I insignificant in the way a red blood cell is insignificant? Which is to say, that while an individual red blood cell is in fact insignificant, the totality of all red blood cells is quite significant. Or, put another way, am I a cog in well-oiled machine? Or just a byproduct of the machine’s production.
If the universe is, in fact, finite, where the hell is it? If we assume it’s not everything, well, it has to be somewhere. And if it is finite, are there more? And where are they? And will we ever run into another one? And if it is finite, where the hell did all the space come from. And where exactly is it?
If the universe is infinite, then there has to be infinite me’s. Which makes me not insignificant, after all there are an infinite number of me’s out there. Spooky. Also, if it is infinite (which I don’t really buy, by the way), well, I can’t comprehend that as it would still have to be somewhere as far as I’m concerned. And, of course, if it is infinite, the big bang seems to imply that while it is infinite in terms of space, it’s probably not infinite in terms of the stuff in it, which means there likely aren’t infinite me’s out there. ETA: And, if infinite, it may just be a bunch of space with an inifinite number of big ass things exploding and collapsing all the time.
Since it’s really, really old, what was around before it was? You know, what was here, say, 15 billion years ago? Just a big ass thing and some space?
This leads me to my conclusion, which is that the existence of the universe [which seems to be perfectly aligned to create itself, create life, and create cool things (like Double Stuf Peanut Butter Oreos and Buick Wildcats)] indicates the existence of a higher power. Or that everything (including Oreos and Buick Wildcats) is a remarkable series of coincidences. Either seems likely to me.
If there is a higher power, where did it come from? Does God have a God? Does God’s God have a God? And we start the pondering infinite and perpetual loops again. Not only does the universe perpetuate itself, it perpetuates the pondering of itself.
Tam:
The fringe elements that propagate those theories seem to forget that they are accusing the same government that can’t get a letter across town in a week (or even keep a presidential blowjob a secret) of orchestrating a machiavellian plot worthy of the next Dan Brown novel.
Sometimes, you can’t be a nice guy to one person without being an asshole to another.
Pulled up to the stop light I always do on the way home. I, who am apparently one of the only 1% people on the Earth who as the ability to look more than one car ahead of myself in traffic, was the fourth car at the light waiting to turn left. I notice the first car at the light was having engine trouble and couldn’t move. They appeared to have fixing it taken care of. So, the two people in front of me were stuck. Being the nice guy I am, I backed up so the two cars between me and the first guy could get in the other lane. As I was backing up, one of you other 99% comes barreling down on me not noticing that the first car was stalled. So, the two cars in front of me were sort of stuck halfway in the right lane. And I was stuck blocking the exit from a parking lot as one of the guys I was nice to was in front and the 99%er was behind me. I couldn’t go forward or back. I was trying to be a nice guy. After all, I could have just gotten in the right lane and left these two other people stuck where they were.
And, right on cue, a person is trying to exit the parking lot. And I’m blocking them in. While trying to be nice to one group of people, I was inadvertently an asshole to another person. They were pretty pissed. Started honking at me and pulling up really close to the side of my truck as if to intimidate me and let me know I was an asshole. The were in a conversion van so they were literally only about 5 feet from me. I gave them the I’m-sorry-wave-and-shrug. They kept honking, cussing at me from the window, and inching up on my truck. I thought to myself: Self, you could try to explain to these people that you were just trying to help the two people in front of you. They kept honking, cussing at me from the window, and inching up on my truck. I could have told them the perfectly reasonable explanation I had for being in their way and costing them 2 minutes of their life. They kept honking, cussing at me from the window, and inching up on my truck. I could have explained that I was actually a nice guy and sorry to have inconvenienced them but if I didn’t do what I did, this traffic light would back up forever and they’d never get out. They kept honking, cussing at me from the window, and inching up on my truck. Instead, I told them to fuck off.
I haven’t been myself for a couple of weeks. You may have noticed. I went from irrationally harsh (I think the point stands, but I was a dick about it) to all linky, no thinky on the blog. And the reason why is quitting smoking. I tried. I tried again. I stopped blogging about it because I didn’t want to feel pressured to blog about it. Quitting became too much and I was often faced with a dilemma. I could either:
1) Kill someone
Or
2)Smoke
Mind you, I cut down considerably but just could not get to the point where I laid them down completely. Something had to be done. So, I went to a new doc. He put me on Wellbutrin. I started taking it on September 12. I was to take it for one month, then attempt to quit. No problem. Wellbutrin doesn’t actually combat the urge to smoke. It’s an anti-depressant and basically ensures that while you’re trying to quit that you’re not an asshole and you don’t kill anyone.
This brings us to Tuesday. On Tuesday, I have various rashes all over my body. I also have the worst heartburn I’ve ever had in my life. Once the heartburn subsided, I had constant pain in my esophagus. And one time, I hiccuped and it felt like my insides were going to come out. I went back to the doc. He tells me I’m allergic to Wellbutrin. I’ve never been allergic to anything in my life. It was odd. He explains to me that the allergy is causing the rash and that my throat and esophagus are swollen (hence, what I thought was heartburn). He tells me to quit taking it and, at our next appointment (after the Wellbutrin is out of my system), we’ll work on plan B. Whatever that is. I found it odd that it took near ten days for the allergy to show up.
A few things on being on an anti-depressant:
I was only in it for the short-term (6 months tops) to quit smoking.
My wife said it made me less of an asshole.
It made me feel like I was more of an observer of my own life than an actual participant. Sure, I’d interact with folks and stay focused, but it seemed like the interaction just happened without me really being involved. Not sure how to describe it, really, other than the real me seemed buried underneath the doped up me.
My morning, err, friend stop showing up.
In short, I didn’t like it. I’m not sure how people can take these things for years and years.
So, back to the drawing board.
Physical today. All fine, perfectly healthy. New doctor for me, seemed to be sharp. I had trouble looking him in the eye and having a conversation with him. I mean, how do you look a man in the eye who just took a long hard look at your pooper?
What’s the cheapest place to get airline tickets? Trying to get to the Gun Blogger Rendezvous for as little as possible.
Note to the gentleman in the blue Ford pickup:
Sir,
I respect and appreciate your love for our lord and saviour and the fact you’ve chosen to let me and others know of said love with the use of a bumper sticker that says: I Love Jesus.However, I would also ask that you consider loving your gas pedal too.
People ponder often What would Jesus do? I contend that he would get out of the way and allow others to pass instead of holding up traffic on Alcoa Highway.
Sincerely,
SayUncle
My wife frequently calls me lazy. It’s not because I won’t do stuff but because of how I do stuff. For example, when charged with sweeping, I’ll use the large pushbroom instead of the small one. It covers more surface area and is more efficient. Or, if it’s outside, I use the leaf blower. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing with power tools. Not sure why she says it’s lazy as it takes more effort to get the blower out and all that. And the blower does a better job.
So, what kind of person wipes their own feces* on the stall of a public restroom? Sick bastard.
* I assume it was their own. I mean, they could have wiped someone else’s feces on the wall, which would only make it slightly more disgusting.
Within reason, I’ve often felt it better to regret something I have done as opposed to something I haven’t done. Turns out, it’s a good philosophy:
The older we get, the more we regret choosing virtue over vice, new research shows.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some hobos to kill and your wife to sleep with.
I’ve mentioned before that I love conspiracy theories because they’re entertaining. Seriously, Hollywood should make some of them into movies.
Well, via whoever is blogging at insty’s place, comes a whole slew of 9/11 conspiracy theories.
Tom is talking energy efficiency:
So this weekend, I was looking for information on how to replace the thermostat on my attic fan. My googling took me to this energy efficiency website, which says that attic fans actually do more harm than good. The site seemed quite credible, and I started looking around at other sections, and learning about all kinds of stuff I was doing wrong.
He has some good info. I commented:
My tips: Ceiling fan in the garage; insulate your garage (and garage door); It’s amazing how much heat from the garage comes in the house.
Vinyl windows.
The spray on insulation (like a foam) and not the pink kind.
Use 2X6s instead of 2X4s for exterior walls in the house. An extra 2 inches of insulation makes a big difference.
But then, I’m building so i make these choices as I go. kinda tough if you’re house already exists.
Yeah, I know. I change houses more than I change cars.
Also, on the super nifty scale, is I’m getting perpetual hot water. Basically, the piping is heated so when you turn hot water on anywhere it is instantly hot. No waiting on it to travel from the hot water heater to the kitchen.
Kim is looking to move and he has criteria that are important to him. Go help him out. A commenter there noted a website called Find Your Spot. You enter your info (including political, weather, economic) and it tells you a place that fits the bill. Turns out, it recommended to me the town that I already live in. The city (my the city) of Maryville, TN. Cool.
I can’t help but notice, if you work at a bank and you’re not a teller, you must be a vice president.
In comments here, ben recommended fasting to aid in quitting smoking. I’ve now been fasting for a week and a half (with the exception of Friday, when I tried the other smoking). You could say I stopped this weekend and restarted on Monday. My diet has consisted entirely of all the water I can drink, 12 ounces of carrot juice for lunch, and about five spoonfuls of plain brown rice for dinner (except for Friday). I did some research on it and figured that was the best fast for me. Some notes:
First day, you hardly notice. The second day, you get a bit cranky. And the third day, it’s as though you’re mind becomes clearer. That, according to some hippie-tree-hugging theory that I don’t necessarily believe, is because the toxins are being cleansed from my body. I have lost about 11.5 pounds (though this is not the reason for the fast, it’s not uncommon). I plan on breaking the fast tomorrow during a meal that is coincidentally called breakfast.
So, night before last at about 9:30 I sit down to watch Deadwood on the TiVo (anyone know what Dan was rubbing on his body before the fight?) when the doorbell rang. The dog starts barking. I quiet the dog. I grabbed the Glock 30 and headed to answer the door. I made no effort to hide said Glock on my person and merely kept it behind the door as I opened it. Anytime your doorbell rings at an odd hour and you’re not expecting anyone, you should answer the door with a weapon. I open the door. There’s an Orkin man standing there. He starts his speech about how houses in the neighborhood are going in on group rates and I cut him off.
I say to him Dude, it’s 9:30 at night. I just put my kids to bed and here you are ring my doorbell. You’ve riled up my dog. What is your problem? Do you always knock on people’s doors this late?
He starts with some sort of explanation and continues his sales pitch.
I say Stop now and leave. I’m not interested.
He says I’ll come back at another time.
I say You will not come back. Leave now.
Yes, this man knocked on my door at an odd hour to solicit a sale. Not to say there’s an emergency, call the police. Or my car broke down, can I use a phone or will you jump start my car. All of which, I’d have been happy to do. You never knock on people’s doors at odd hours unless 1) they know you’re coming or 2) you’re in need of help. Period. Idiot.
And, no, at no point did I threaten him with a weapon nor did I even make him aware that I had it.
One of the cool things about the new job is the dress code. It’s a jeans company. This means that I, being the business casual-professional sort, had to go by more jeans. I am apparently shrinking. I always bought pants and jeans in size 34×34. I bought a couple of pair this past week in that size and they were too long. So, I had to switch to 34X32. Notice, it’s the length getting shorter and not the waste size getting smaller.
Either I am shrinking or the folks who make jeans are cutting them differently now.
I have used Verizon as my cell phone provider about 4 years now. Never really had an issue until recently. When I left my last job, I was no longer on their cell plan and transferred my phone to the wife’s plan. This will be important later. Anyway, a few weeks ago, I noticed my voice-mail stopped working. If you called, it’d just ring forever. And my battery stopped holding a charge. After a night of charging, it’d show low battery by lunch time. So, I needed to get the phone fixed.
I called the Verizon rep I used to work with and she said to take it by a Verizon location that had a service tech. Apparently, some stores are just set up for sales and have no service folks. So, I look up the Verizon locations in the phone book and start calling. I call and get a message about contacting customer service, hit some key, etc. I just wanted to know two things:
1) Does this location have a service tech?
2) Directions there.
So, I looked the number up in the phone book and gave the local office a call. But guess what! I found no way through the phone system to actually contact a person who was at the Knoxville Verizon. The local phone number just kept me in the corporation’s telephone limbo. I tried four times. I had to call a customer service 800 number. The person we finally reached was not local and couldn’t answer either question. Seems to me a local office should be reachable by the number in the phone book to answer such questions as mine and hours of operation. I decide to go to the office anyway. I get there, and there is a young lady who is pointing people who walk in to register at the computer screen for service. Yes, there is a person who tells you to use a computer to get service at the Verizon service center. Why this person, who I have no idea why they’re even there since the computer system automates anything you want to do and she can be replaced with a sign, can’t also answer a fucking phone is beyond me.
So, undeterred, I get my shit fixed and decide to look at new phones since mine is many years old and there are fancier models out there. They have a few good deals where you commit to a service plan and get a phone at a particularly low rate (or even free). But, again, guess what! I, as an existing customer, am ineligible until some arbitrary date in the future for any of their specials. You see, Verizon would rather piss on existing customers instead of taking a bit of a ding on the price of an overpriced telephone. The thing that really pissed me off is that the arbitrary date in the future is based on when I transferred my phone from my former company’s plan to my wife’s plan. At that time, I did not get a new phone or any new service. Just transferred. As of that date, I am apparently a new customer despite having used them for four years. So, the time I had with them prior to the transfer meant nothing.
Yes, some folks will say I should have read the contract (and I know that and I did). I just assumed that they’d actually, you know, take care of an existing, long-time customer. When that arbitrary date hits in the future, I’m dumping Verizon. I’d do it now but then I’d be hit with cancellation fees.
Never has there been such an upsurge in crime since they confiscated all your weapons. Why don’t you arm yourselves? You Limeys have a zipper that’s locked in the closed position, because you don’t have a constitution. You’re rewarded for shutting the fuck up.
You may recall my SUV Bleg from a bit back. Well, it looks as though we’re tentatively going to go with the Volvo XC90. Anyone have experience with them?
Since some readers (including one who is going through the same thing) have asked:
No smoking since Monday morning at roughly 6:30a.m. Kind of jittery, chewing lots of gum and eating the shit out of candy and, well, anything else I can get my hands on. If I start turning into a fat ass, maybe smoking isn’t so bad. Kind of a toss up in terms of what’s worse for you, I suppose.
Also, I’ve made it this far and not killed anyone. It’s a good thing.
I was once a heavy smoker. Then I became one of those drinker-smokers (who smokes when drinking) for a long time. Then, in the last couple of months, I kind of started doing it more and more again. That was mostly due to the lack of a job and more free time than in the past. The occasional smoke with a beer became one with morning coffee. Then one after lunch, etc. until I was smoking more. A lot more.
So, I’ve decided it’s time to just plain quit entirely. That means no more occasional smokes or I’m just one stressful situation from taking it up again. The issue is that, even though I can cut down, I can’t just plain stop completely, mostly because I fucking love to smoke. I basically want to quit because Junior is old enough to start figuring out what I’m doing on the back porch after dinner. And, let’s face it, it’s bad for you.
And, of course, as I type this I’m sitting on said screened in porch at 10:16 on Sunday (kids and wife in bed) enjoying a glass of Knob Creek bourbon and smoking. Said quitting should commence tomorrow.
I have a friend who quit for three months. I went by his house for poker one night and he had started again. I said Dude, you quit for months. Why’d you start again? I thought you had it beat. He said Because smoking was all I thought about. I can’t spend the rest of my life wanting something so bad I can’t stand it. That’s sort of what I fear. See, with the occasional smoking thing, I’d not worry about it because I knew when I got home, I’d pop open a frosty cold Sam Adams, sit on the screened-in porch and smoke. I would smoke eventually, just not all the time. And there are so many activities that are associated with smoking, such as morning coffee and this glass of Knob Creek. Maybe I’ll take up the occasional cigar. Or chew gum. Or, you now, crack.
I went to the doctor and asked about Zyban since others recommend it so highly for quitting smoking. My doctor (and this is why I love my doctor, who is a good ol’ country boy with an MD) said: You just need to cowboy up and quit. You can do anything for two weeks and after that, it’s gone. He’s not a fan of Zyban, I suppose. He also explained that cigarettes give you a fairly intense rush (you don’t notice it but your body does) and said a good way to quit is to level that rush. He said the patch was good for that and to avoid the gum because it mimics the rush. The patch gives a steady dose of nicotine throughout the day and, basically, you get over the habit part first and that is followed by getting over the nicotine addiction part. I think getting over the habit is more important than getting over the drug addiction part.
So, I bought the patch. One problem is I can’t get them to roll up tight enough to light. Any ideas?
It’s been six weeks since the second was born. Those of you with kids will know what this means. Those without will not. It’s also a time when women tend to be extra, err, fertile. So, and I shit you not, we have the pill, spermicide, condoms and plan on acting Catholic (you know, worshippers of Cathol?) for a while.
Been doing a lot of the job interview thing lately. One thing I’ve noticed is that I don’t feel like I do well when the interviewer is a woman. Seems to me (and this is all anecdotal, of course) that, whereas men interviewers focus on what you have done and what you can do, women seem to focus on what you would like to do and how that made you feel. For example, every woman I’ve interviewed with asked the question:
What is your dream job?
Thoughts running through my head were professional beer-taster, rock star would be cool, and owning my own gun company. But none of those are answers that are particularly appealing to a potential employer. So, I struggle with that question and don’t really perform that well.
Also, a popular question asked by interviewers of both genders involves assessing how you react to pressure or stress. The question has many forms but usually goes like this:
Describe a time when you faced a great challenge and how did you react to it.
Now, the real answer is to pick any situation as I tend to work under pressure a lot. And as for my reaction, it has always been to cowboy the fuck up and get the job done. Now, that answer tends to work on men (minus the cowboy the fuck up part) but for women, they follow up with asking me how that made me feel or how did that strain my work environment.
I’m not the touchy-feely sort and struggle with that sort of stuff.
Have you ever noticed how frightened people are of confrontation–even if it just means the slightest bit of displeasure from another person? Normally, these non-confronters think of themselves as “very good and moral people” and believe the reason they do not confront is to save another’s feelings. But in truth, they are so afraid of causing themselves a moment’s displeasure, that they will do anything to get out of being direct with another person.
Yes. But she and I (and very likely you) are probably more confrontational than most because of a group of people we belong to. See, we’re bloggers and blog readers. I’d say this activity would intentionally draw confrontation and disagreement. And we do this sort of thing for that, at least on some level.
Brittney rightfully calls someone a tool for taking off their wedding band. The dude’s definitely a tool but I’ve found wedding rings make da women pay more attention to men. This guy has his game all wrong. In fact, I’ve found four specific things that happened to me that made women more attracted to me. Unfortunately, only the first one happened before I got hitched so I didn’t get the full benefit. They are:
1 – First job after grad school: Almost overnight, I went from some poor-as-Hell student renting a room in a friend’s basement who drove a 1989 Nissan Sentra (this was 1999) to a guy with a nice condo in a good part of town who drove a snazzy new convertible. I got rid of the old couch I found on the side of the road somewhere and got some hip furniture and a solid oak dining room set, which apparently the women like – seriously, more women commented on the dining room than the leather recliner, loveseat and couch. I was single and had some bling to buy drinks. The women liked that.
I also upgraded the wardrobe from jeans and T-shirts that were as old as the Nissan to attire more attuned to the business professional/casual world. Bought Rockports instead of no-name brands. The women seemed to like that style as opposed to the dude who bought his threads at K-Mart.
Had that not happened, I probably wouldn’t be married to Mrs. Uncle.
2 – Got married: Not sure why, but more women talk to me now that I’m hitched. I’m not sure if it’s because the ring makes me less threatening or if it indicates that I’ve been domesticated but it happened.
3 – Got a dog: Me and the Mrs. used to take the dog to the local park for a stroll. One week, the Mrs. went out of town and one day I loaded up Politically Incorrect Dog and went to the park. In the mild spring, all the jogging hotties with their jiggly bits barely covered by sports bras would stop to pet the dog. Why not? He’s cute and darn sociable. And they’d strike up a conversation (with me, not the dog). Seriously, that one walk, I chatted it up with about 7 different women who ordinarily wouldn’t have stopped to talk to me. Alas, I was a married man. This never happened when the Mrs. and I went. I should have got the dog when I was single.
4 – Had a baby: Take an adorable little girl to the mall and baby talk with her, hold her hand, and be the caring father you are, then the women line up to talk to you so long as mom isn’t around.
It’s all true. Your mileage may vary.
Michael is recovering and has his work cut out for him. He can do it and I wish him the best.
I always wondered what would happen if you put regular gas into something like a leaf blower that needs two-cycle oil/gas mixture. Now I know.
Given my experience with worthless headhunters, I was glad to see Recruting.com has a blog and they mentioned my post.
Actually I don’t, but I’m thinking about starting
Me and the Mrs. headed to Wal-Mart a bit ago. The Mrs. (who is 8 months pregnant) and I were driving through the parking lot. Wal-Mart has those parking spaces that are right near the handicap parking spaces labeled Expectant/New Mothers. These are for folks like my wife who shouldn’t have to walk far distances. We pulled up to one and there was a car in it. The car had a handicap sticker. Right next to the empty handicap spaces. Ponder it for a bit. This person could have parked in the handicap space and even been closer than they were. But they parked in the spot for hormonal women, who may kill you for looking at them funny or implying that maybe their ankles are kind of puffy.
I think that was the first time in the history of the universe that someone was pissed because a handicapped person was in their spot.
My brain is turning to mush. It’s true. If you don’t have exposure to an activity that requires attention, you sort of lose focus. At home with Junior, I spend my day watching Noggin’ and having great philosophical discussions that consist of:
So, during the day the only thing remotely mentally stimulating is surfing Al Gore’s Internets. Because of this lack of mental stimulation, I’ve even gone on some job interviews for jobs I’m not really interested in just to interact with the occasional adult other than my wife. I think this mental mushiness from lack of adult interaction is common. After all how many times do you hear of some business sort who retires only to go insane or die shortly thereafter? I think the reason is they lack a challenge.
Also, recruiters and headhunters are almost completely useless human beings. Of the several interviews I’ve been on, only one was arranged by a headhunter. And these recruiting firms make shit up. They post jobs they don’t have in an effort to get you to send them your résumé. I’ve even confirmed this with a headhunter friend of mine. I have basically written off one local firm because they have nothing but made up jobs. Seriously. I contact a local firm and tell them I saw a particular ad they had in the paper and express my interest. Should be no problem setting me up since they have my info. But they don’t have a job. I ask about the ad and they tell me it’s already been filled. Really? You filled it in 20 fucking minutes? I should have figured that out since they probably wouldn’t run ads if they already have candidates who were qualified.
Also, a special note to headhunters: When I send you my résumé, that’s what you should work with (and maybe a list of references). Do not call me into your office when you have my résumé and ask me to waste a couple of hours (counting driving time) filling out your proprietary paperwork that is a complete duplicate of information that is already contained on my résumé. Don’t ask me to take some proficiency exam either, particularly when said proficiency exam is targeted towards, say, a clerk and I’m there on the premise that you have a director level, upper management job. Then, don’t act all surprised and patronizing when I score in the 99th percentile on said exam. Of course, a CPA is going to score high on an exam that targets clerks. And why are you asking me to fill out tax info when you don’t have a job for me.
I’ve even had a couple that have called me in on the pretense that they have a job I may be interested in and they want to discuss it with me. So, I arrange babysitting, put on a monkey suit, drive the 40 minutes to their office, fill out their paperwork, take some stupid test, then finally meet the recruiter, who promptly implies (without actually coming out and saying) that they don’t have anything for me now but I’m on file while making vague references to jobs I know they don’t have orders for.
I graduated high school in 1989. It what I can safely describe as a joke by the entirety of my graduating class or a twisted statement we smart-assed Gen Xers would make, our homecoming queen was pregnant. IIRC, she was quite visibly pregnant during the ceremony. Today, I realized that her child is probably driving, registering soon for selective service, a junior in high school, can enlist in the army, and can see R-Rated movies without an adult. Time sneaks up on you.
But I loves the similes too
Bruce called me out in comments:
I’m afraid I have to issue you a HARP citation (Humorous Analogy Repetition Penalty). Only 16 days separate this post from your most recent use of the the “cock-flavored lollipop” analogy. As good as it may be – the analogy, that it is, not the confection – Blogging Etiquette guideline #241.5/e calls for a full 30-day cool-down period between such posts.
Well, when you get up to over 8,000 posts, you’re bound to repeat yourself. Plus, there are plenty of similes, analogies and other lame sayings that I like to use. Such as (and, no, they’re not all similes):
Like a monkey fucking a football – something odd looking or a task performed with great ineptitude
Dumber than a soup sandwich – self explanatory
You can’t polish a turd – to describe putting positive spin on bad news
Bonus: From the Bloodhound Gang and hard to use in conversation: Like a Kenny Loggins’ record no one’s ever gonna to hear you and Like the Jim Jones Cult, I’ll take you out with a punch.
So, what are your favorites?
Yesterday morning, I was taking the trash to the curb. After our evening rain, there were a lot of earthworms squirming around on the driveway. On my way back, one such earthworm was in the garage. I decided to help the little fella (err, actually, I seem to recall from high school biology that earthworms aren’t exactly fellas but are sort of gender neutral) out and picked him up and tossed him into the grass. I figured it’d help the earthworm out and keep me from later having a dried earthworm carcass in my garage. About 2 seconds after the worm hit the ground, a bird landed, snatched it up and took off. Kinda sucks for the earthworm but I guess getting eaten is better than shriveling up in my garage.
Nashville is Talking seems to always be broken. The main page seems to work but comments are often screwed up and permalinks to individual posts are often broken. Anyway, if this link works, Brittney’s asking what do you want done with your body when you die.
I figure, I could care less. Told the wife she could just put me in a Hefty Cinch Sack and put me on the curb. I figure I’ll either be busy not existing, trying to figure out how they made a road out of gold, or tagging virgin number 12 by the time my funeral comes around. In short, not real concerned.
But, at my funeral, I’d rather have a party. No crying, no sobbing. Heck, get a keg. Better yet, have a life size cardboard cut out of me holding an ice cold beer so people can have their picture taken with the dead guy.
Remember, I do this to entertain me, not you.
Uncle Pays the Bills
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