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Expensive Water
The other day I was doing some grocery shopping and picked up a case of bottled water. A woman who evidently works for a competing bottled water company noticed my choice and insisted on knowing why I wasn't picking her lower priced water instead. The clear inference was that I'm not too bright. Water is water, she noted.
The first defense that came to mind went unsaid, but it would have gone something like this "If I'm dumb enough to buy water, I'm certainly dumb enough to pay too much for it!"
But that didn't feel right. My second impulse was to say something along the lines of "Do you know who I am??? I'm the creator of the world famous Dilbert comic strip that runs in 2,000 newspapers in 65 countries. I buy overpriced water because I CAN. And by the way, this is just the water for my cat."
That didn't feel right either.
My third option was just as wrong, and it would have gone like this "Well, since you asked, I assign an economic value to the use of my mind for price shopping versus the alternative use of imagining you naked right now."
Too risky.
After I left, I thought I should have said something like "As any bottled water professional should know, research has shown that the color of a container influences the perceived taste. Your company's bottles send the subliminal suggestion of day old puddle water with a hint of excrement."
But I didn't say any of those clever things. Instead, I mumbled something about being in a hurry and shuffled away.
I still drink overpriced water, but I no longer enjoy it.
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Robert Blake Verdict
Well, it's official. A jury decided that actor Robert Blake "kinda killed" his wife and ordered him to pay the family 30 million dollars. This is eight months after another jury decided that he "didn't definitely kill" his wife and so the state shouldn't "probably kill blake" in return.
Blake took the verdict like a true gentleman. In fact, I heard that he invited all of his in-laws to dinner at a nice Italian restaurant.
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How Certain is Certain?
I'd better reduce the font for this entry because it's about the guy sitting next to me on the flight to Chicago.
Before takeoff, we both sat here tapping away on our Blackberries, sending last-minute messages. But where I interpreted the flight attendant's instruction to turn off all electronics as just that, the high powered executive next to me had a different view. He interpreted it to mean hide your Blackberry when the Flight Attendant is looking. Otherwise, keep working all the way through takeoff.
On one hand, I'm almost totally certain that a Blackberry can't bring down an airline. If it could, even in the most unlikely scenario, it surely would have happened a dozen times already. If you consider all of the flights in the world and all of the cell phones and Blackberries and laptops and PDAs that have traveled on them, it seems impossible that they could be a threat.
But still. There he was, tapping away, and maybe, just maybe killing me. I thought about doing something, like informing the flight attendant. But I need to rely on this passenger to move for me at some time during this flight so I can use the rest room. It could be a tense, uncomfortable flight if I get him angry. I had to weigh a 20% chance of not getting a timely wiz versus a .00000001% chance of a fireball-related death.
So I just sat there staring at the rule-breaker thumbing his little death machine while the pilot gunned the engines and headed skyward. Could this be the one time when a Blackberry causes a jet to plunge into the Rockies? How certain was I that this was safe? Can you ever be sure enough in these situations?
My only solace is that if this puppy goes down, the headlines will read "Plane Crashes. Dilbert Cartoonist is turned into Charcoal." That's called Top Billing, baby. Take that, rule breaker! I hope he's not the new Chairman of the Fed or something. That would really suck.
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Fear of Birds
Well, it's official: I'm afraid of birds.
I was already afraid of sunshine, under the theory that a day without sunshine is like a day without melanoma. And I'm uneasy around those plastic things that hold six-packs together, always worried I might get my head stuck in one. I'm afraid of a lot of things.
Now this bird flu business has me worried. I already circle the parking lot twelve times to find a space that isn't under a tree and directly in the crapping zone. If birds start getting the flu, they'll be firing from both ends. There aren't enough squeegees in the world.
I've got my fingers crossed that global warming will kill all of the birds before they start hurling on me. With any luck, someday the birds will just burst into flames in mid flight. Problem solved. But until that happy day, I'm thinking of moving to Florida. I'm no ornithologist/meteorologist, but I'm pretty sure birds don't like hurricanes.
The media always focuses on the negative aspects of hurricanes. They never mention how it helps clear out the birds for a while. Just once I would like to hear a news report with an upbeat take:
"Thanks to hurricane Wilma, nothing has crapped on our Eyewitness News van for hours. Back to you, Bob."
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Mad About the Wrong Things
Maybe it's the way I was raised, but I find that I get mad about all the wrong things. For example, when I hear a news report about some serial killer who buried 43 victims in an underground bunker that he constructed beneath his shed, my first reaction is Wow. He built an underground bunker under a shed! I find myself admiring his industriousness and passion in the pursuit of his dreams. That's clearly wrong.
Then today I read in the November 2005 Reader's Digest about Marine engineer Richard James who invented the Slinky in 1943 after a tension spring from a meter used to test battleship horsepower fell off his desk and "walked" end-over-end. I hate that guy. I don't know the full story (that's why they call it the Reader's Digest) but it sure seems like he was rewarded for being clumsy. I can't respect that.
I've met several people who made fortunes by founding and then selling dotcom companies that soon went out of business. They aren't just rich – they're crazy rich. And all of their heirs will be crazy rich too, until they drive their Ferraris over embankments and restore my faith in Karma.
Well, now that that rant is over, I can get back to reading Laughter, the Best Medicine, and see how many people got paid $300 for submitting a funny story they read in the Dilbert Newsletter and claimed it happened to them.
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About My Grammar and Spelling
My blog is the only writing you'll see from me that doesn't first go through a professional editor. That means plenty of grammar and punctuation wrecks for you to enjoy. I blame the public education system.
The only reason I dare writing this blog is because I have absolutely no sense of embarrassment. Most people would be horrified at the prospect of proving their ignorance to thousands of readers. My attitude is more along the lines of I have thousands of readers? Cool.
If you notice a grammar, punctuation, or spelling error in my blog, and you absolutely can't control your urge to tell me, please follow this process:
Research the Native American method for sending smoke signals.
Set your couch on fire.
Stand on the roof and use your "good shirt" to control the signal as it comes out of the chimney.
Or if you prefer, just enjoy the blog as if it were an e-mail from your friend who thinks he's clever but isn't as clever as he thinks.
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Getting Away With Murder
Did you see the story about the convicted murderer who escaped prison by using a fake ID and a set of civilian clothes? The guards just opened the door and let him out.
The authorities described the escapee as narcissistic. That's the fancy way of saying he thinks he's better than other people.
I hate to take sides, but if I made a fake ID using nothing but a pack of Marlboros and a spoon, and made a set of civilian clothes out of pillowcases, then walked out of jail, I'd be feeling pretty good about myself too. I know for sure that I'd feel superior to the idiot who let me out. And that's not even counting the part about getting away with murder.
I feel sorry for the guard who checked the ID, saw the picture of Joe Camel and thought looks good to me. Plus, you'd think one of the guards would notice the skort* made from a pillowcase.
The murderer won't last long on the outside. The fun of being a narcissist is telling other people how wonderful you are. The media is all over this story, so now he's a famous narcissist, and that's no prescription for a cure. He'll probably start out slowly, just bragging to people he plans to whack anyway. But eventually he's going to tell someone who can outrun him. Or he'll forget to tie someone securely. I just hope he gets sloppy before he comes after the people who mock him in blogs.
* For the benefit of the men reading this, a skort is a cross between a skirt and shorts. It's the perfect clothing for people who are indecisive and/or narcissistic murderers.
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Writer's Block
One of the most common questions I get is "Do you ever get writer's block?"
The thing I love about that question is that it reveals a wonderful optimism in the person who is asking. I suspect that the people who ask this question believe they possess deep wells of creativity and talent that are inexplicably blocked. All they need is the secret unblocking spell from a cartoonist and then a geyser of bestselling books will spray forth.
I wish I had that kind of attitude. I imagine myself asking an NBA player how he deals with Jumper's Block, under the theory that if I can learn how to unblock my jumping skills, I will no longer need a car. I'll just jump wherever I want to go, like the Hulk, but less angry.
Unfortunately I'm too literal to answer the writer's block question in some useful way. I can't get past the common sense that I always have writer's block up until the moment I have an idea. It's sort of a binary situation.
The better question would be how I get past writer's block. The quick answer – and maybe the only legitimate one – is that I'm just wired that way. There's a fine line between creative and goofy, and believe me, you wouldn't want to spend time in my head. Let me give you some real time examples, except not real time. I'm on a plane as I write this. Allow me to write down my thoughts as they happen, just so you get a sense of it. I haven't planned this:
I wonder if you could make gigantic noise-cancellation headphones to put on the outside of the plane so all the passengers don't need them on the inside?
Damn, this was a stupid idea to write down my thoughts. Now I don't have any, except for my thoughts about not having any thoughts. Oh, God, I'm stuck in some sort of loop.
Wait, now I have a thought about the drunken lady's glass of wine on the seat divider next to me. It's rocking wildly from the turbulence. It's going to land on my keyboard. Oh, God, I know it is. Uh-oh, I think she looked over here and read that I called her a drunken lady. My hands hurt from typing. I have to pee again but the seatbelt sign is on. If she dozes off, I might have to top off her chardonnay.
Okay, that's enough of that. Just be glad you're not me
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Max Walkers official TA fan club chapter president
| quote: | Originally posted by DJMD123
Great googliemoogly!  |
Last edited by alec on Nov-21-2005 at 16:47
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