Insectisauce
An obsequious guru seeks some sauce in kitchen stadium. ALLEZ CUISINE!!!
As I write this I have butterflies in my stomach…
It is time to regale a simple tale born hatched of humble beginnings. A tale years in the making. It’s a tale that will turn your stomach. And it is one that must never, ever be told. So keep reading. You’ll be glad you did.
Two drosophila walk into a bar. The bartender asks, “What’ll you have?” One points at the other and says, “Ask him. He’s supposed to be the genus.”
–Tom B. Taker
For once I will set aside petty narcissism and histrionics. The tale is too damn important. It must not be tarnished by cheap tricks or overt grabs at drama. So the telling will be without hyperbole. It will be simply told. I want this post to stand the test of time so future generations thousands of years from now will truly appreciate the moment and say things like, “That shit is fucked up. Can this even be real?”
Come. Let us retire to the Puparium and I will tell the tale anon.
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Pain Man
I’m sitting here writing this post in my Kmart underwear … and nothing else. Yes, even though Kmart sucks. Maybe because of it. I gotta be me. We all know how much I enjoy humiliation.
I don’t know much and what I do know seems to be shrinking on an almost daily basis. My existence is increasingly consumed by thoughts regarding my sanity.
For those keeping track the opening paragraph was “underwear” and the follow-up paragraph was “shrinkage.” This is known as a progression of ideas. I’m building up to something. You are wise to still be reading this.
Aside from all that, there seems to be something else going on.
My rate of “Rain Man” moments seems to be on the rise. There’s been an uptick in momentia, if you will.
No, we decidedly do not refer to them as “senior moments.” Despite being a grumpy grandpa and standing on my lawn and yelling at kids, I’m not ready for that schtick just yet. Not while I’m still young and in my prime.
Besides, I’m an excellent driver.
Then I was responsible for a car accident after going to the pharmacy to pick up my “meds.” Oh, shit. Did I just use the word “meds?” This is the end.
So yeah, that happened.
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Lard Fail
Out in the street in front of our drive was a sawhorse festooned with a garish sign and, get this, a festive baby blue helium balloon dancing playfully in the air.
My wife knows how to throw a party.
“A balloon,” I said. “Where the hell did you get a helium balloon?”
“At the dollar store.”
“Huh. How much did it cost?”
Dripping with more sweat than Mike Rowe driving a Ford Truck, I had just muscled tons of our most useless crap out on the front lawn. My normally well-oiled brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.
Weird how it was that moment the heavens decided to deluge our asses and stuff. I welled up with despair as I watched the rain beating down against that little helium balloon. I’m proud to say it didn’t fight back much. Soon it lay there, on the ground, like a fresh chunk of roadkill.
It wasn’t a winner, but I knew how to handle that. I dashed out in the rain and pinned it with a “participant” ribbon taken from my trophy collection. It popped and was gone for good.
Our “yard sale” was officially underway.
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Survivor: Abyss Island – Finality and First Meal
This is where tree mail happens. Look! A fresh serving of Survivor poetry awaits.
Day 39 is here! Just in time, too, to help me ring in a new rash. No one can ever accuse me of not doing all that is required. By this same time tomorrow I’ll be on my way back to civilization. So sorry. I lived.
Tonight looms my final immunity challenge and, win or lose, the final tribal council. What horrors, disappointments and further humiliations await? Tune in tomorrow for the recap post.
So it’s the wee hours of the early morn on Day 39 and I’ve just been awakened by my host. There’s bonus tree mail.
Last and Final Tree Mail
Congratulations, you’ve made it to Day 39.
Pack your camp up and get ready to go. Your hostest with the mostest is taking you to a celebratory breakfast this morning at 7 a.m. During breakfast you will honor your fallen teammates … wait … there were no teammates. Well whatever, enjoy your breakfast cause you’ll need your energy for the last and final challenge of Survivor Abyss Island.
May you be crowned the Sole Survivor.
That last sentence almost sounds, dare I say it? Encouraging? Suddenly I’m very afraid.
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A night to dismember
Can I get you something to nibble on? Some pizza shooters, shrimp poppers, or extreme fajitas? / No, just one of everything on the drink menu. / Oh. Sounds like someone has a case of the weekdays.
One time I was given some really good advice from another blogger. “Don’t make it about yourself.”
“Ah,” I responded. “Blogging tips. I love those.”
“What? No! This is no tip. I’m just trying to do the world a favor.”
Ahhhh. Well played!
I’m here to tell you that the truth hurts. And that I’m about to break that rule and talk about myself, perhaps for the first time ever. (What are the odds?)
If you’ve eaten in the last two hours this is your chance to get away. You would be well-advised to not make the jump.
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Technology Commandments
Props to wsnaccad for the image
Welcome to part one of a new intermittently recurring series I’m going to be doodling with from now on. I’m calling the series the “Technology Commandments.” In short these are things you should be doing (or not doing) with technology. So sayeth the most holy Pentium chip. Or something like that.
I. Thou shall knowest and verily verify thou intended recipient when thousest dost forward emails. This dost include religiously employing your powers of observation when thine keyboard is suddenly possessed with the heavenly spirit of “auto-complete.”
Ctrl-F. That’s oh-so-easy. A little too easy. Of course when you forward an email the computer still asks you to specify a recipient. That’s probably the most important task of the humble human when forwarding emails. Who do you have in mind, eh? That space is intentionally left blank. So you tap out a character or two on your keyboard. Cue the sound of heavenly angels – that field just magically completed itself with the computer’s best guess of what you actually wanted.
Wowee!
You had better be paying attention! In that thar field thar be dragons!
The auto-complete feature in your email client just guessed the email address of someone you’ve written to in the past. That’s how someone’s email shows up in that recipient box in the first place. Presumably this is someone you probably know.
Are you watching? Are you paying attention? Or are you about to click SEND and pass along your private thoughts to the wrong person. That can have disastrous results. This isn’t like driving. For once you had better stay focused.
Thus sayeth the Pentium.
How about YOU? Do you have any stories of forwarding something inappropriate to the wrong person? Be open and honest about it and share with us in the Comments section below. Don’t worry – we promise to point and laugh.
In the next reading: Thou shall covet many passwords.
Shouts from the Abyss 
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