The Scoop of Poop
Source: Rones. OpenClipArt.org.
Somewhere out there, in the world, is a person I hate. I’ve never met this person, but I hate him or her just the same. I do not allow the fact that I don’t know the person’s identity to slow me down.
I know what they did. That’s enough for me.
It all started and ended (literally) when my wife brought home a cat.
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Fireworks Cleanup Post #photography
We consider ourselves fairly typical Americans. It was a few nights before the Fourth of July, decidedly my least favorite night of the year. We were in our living room, sitting on our asses and watching TV. Like I said, typical.
Suddenly there was a boom. I looked out the front window and billowing smoke rose from our front yard garden. It had begun.
“Those fireworks are close,” I said. “Damn close.” The shit was literally raining down right on top of us.
On July 4th itself I went outside to see what the hell was going on. I saw one of those colorful bursts like you’d see in any major fireworks display except it was directly over my house. It went off about 20-30 feet over our roof. Two things were immediately obvious: Why don’t they do this shit above their own houses? They’re too good for that! And, wow, they are really good shots. We were being targeted.
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Guru Fieldwork: Anthropology
It was a Tuesday
A day like another other day
I left my hermit space
For a nation in decay
I know, I know! I deserve what I get when I leave the house. Stepping out into the world is exactly like asking for it.
I can’t help it. Stuff happens. I guess it’s all my fault for observing it. If I was oblivious then maybe it wouldn’t bother me.
But what has been seen cannot be unseen. Leaving the house is where the empirical process of data collection begins.
Sometimes, rarely, it works in my favor. Like two weeks ago when we went to the movies. I had to pee so I walked into the auditorium-sized men’s room. Along one wall was a line of 20 urinals. I picked my spot and made a beeline. Along the way I spotted the guy. You know, the one asshole who exists in every social situation. He was standing at a urinal, doing his business with one hand, and talking away on the iPhone in the other. Millennials call that multitasking. I call it being a dill hole.
That’s when The Miracle happened in the blink of an eye.
Clackity clack clack clack.
The iPhone got dropped. And there it went! Zoom zoom! Clackity clack all the way across that pee-covered bathroom floor. The guy stood there, still holding his other device, and lamely watched it go.
It just goes to show that – sometimes – good things can happen. It was pure serendipity and, for one brief moment in time, I forgot all about pain. I was in the moment.
Last night I left the house again but the empirical results were decidedly not as fun. Not by a long shot.
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Monday Morning Improv: Undesirable Pilot Litter
Today’s post is brought to you by the Universe (or, as I like to call it, the random number generator). I asked for three random words and was given, in this order: Undesirable, pilot, litter. Yes, this post will be about the undesirable kind. Not the kinder, gentler desirable litter. Now, if you’ll fasten your seat belts this post is about to take off. -Ed.
Undesirable Pilot Litter
by Tom B. Taker
Uneasily I took my seat. At least it was by the window. I wasn’t feeling so good. Flying always makes me nervous and this was my first time in an airplane in a long, long time. It had been so long I literally couldn’t remember when I’d last flown. Perhaps that business trip back when I’d been somebody? Certainly it was before the events of 9/11. I’d never been through TSA security before.
When did airport security start reaching into people’s pants, and what did they hope to find in my underwear? Just because I was ticklish I had to remove my shirt? That was not very pleasant. Sure I cried and yelled, “Stop touching me,” but that only seemed to egg them on.
No sense crying over spilled milk I said to myself. I might as well try to make the best of it. I adjusted in my seat and tried in vain to feel comfortable where the pee dribbles had gone down my leg. The warmth had quickly given way and was now ice cold. Breathe in, breathe out. Relax, dammit.
I heard rather than felt the deep rumbling from my gut. Anxiously I jammed the button for the flight attendant. “Where are the air sick bags?” Surprisingly I was able to get the words out. Things were finally going my way.
The contents of my stomach also came out before she had time to answer. Too late. Moments later I was provided with a garbage bag and towels. The groping would not continue. This time I was on my own.
Drenched in sweat, pee and my own juices, I finally decided to try to occupy my mind. Magazines? Gack, no! They suck. In a desperation move I turned my head and looked out the tiny little smudgy window.
Bowels. Void.
My finger repeatedly jammed the attendent button until she reappeared. She did not look happy. “Sir! Listen to me,” she said sternly. “I have duties. You cannot keep monopolizing my time. Strange as it may seem, you are not the only passenger on this plane.”
I gestured out the window. Reluctantly she looked. The reaction in her eyes was priceless. Suddenly everything was okay.
Forest Grump #photography
Somewhere in the world is a road that winds its way through an incredible forest. We were passing through and my wife knew of a place where there was a single parking spot by a trail that led into that forest. One moment we were in a beautiful sunny day and the next we were in an ancient world of earthy smells where sunlight couldn’t reach the forest floor, cool air tingled our skin, sounds were strangely muted and we were surrounded by a thousand shades of green.
“I think we’re in The Hobbit trilogy,” I muttered wisely.
I’m not saying these are good photographs. They do nothing to communicate the totality of what it was like to be in that truly unique environment. But they’re all I’ve got so I’m still going to share.
The trail leading in.
Burgundy Lexus
In the Abyss spirit of setting aside negativity for Christmas Eve Eve, this post will contain no whining, griping, bitterness, or self-loathing. You have been warned.
There I was, minding my own business, driving to work in the late mid-morning on Christmas Eve Eve. I had forgotten Christmas cookies and fudge at work and I wasn’t going to leave town without them. I also needed kitty litter. (It’s a fun combination. Try it sometime!)
In front of me was a burgundy Lexus. Even though the outside temperature was -75 degrees the driver’s side window was completely rolled down.
That can only mean one thing.
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Two scoops of poop
RoboScoop says, "Here, kitty kitty."
I recently found myself at a Native American gaming facility. (Is that preferable to “Indian Casino” or does it make a difference?) After parking my keister in front of an idiotic machine for a few hours of “entertainment” I walked away with a 10 percent increase in my net worth. (No, I didn’t make a mistake here. I didn’t mean to say “bankroll.” I literally mean my net worth.)
In other words I started with $20 and and ended up with $22. Now that is ROI, baby. Woot.
The penny slot machine I was playing would pay about $1,800 if you hit the “progressive” jackpot while playing at least five lines. That’s five cents a spin. A little rich for my blood but I tried it for a while. And to cut any sense of drama short, no, I did not land a “jackpot” for the first time in my life.
To win the jackpot one must score the special symbol on all three wheels and on the same payline at the same time. I naturally found myself curious about the odds.
That wheel looked big. The don’t tell you exactly how big so I can only guess. I estimated that it might have 20 to 100 locations on it. Yes, the blank spots between the artwork count, too, those snarky bastards.
If the wheels had 20 spots I calculated the odds of a jackpot at one in 8,000. No way. That’s way too low.
How did I calculate that? It’s easy. Just multiply 20 (the estimated number of spots per wheel) by itself three times (the number of wheels). 20 times 20 times 20 equals 8,000. Viola!
If the wheels have 50 spots the odds jumped to 1 in 125,000. Now we’re getting somewhere.
If the wheels have 80 spots the odds are an astronomical 1 in 512,000. That’s approximately one jackpot in every half million spins. In other words, if I visited the casino and did 3,000 spins per day, it would take me, on average, about 170 days to get a jackpot. Since I only go to the casino about four times a year, that works out to be about 42 years at my current rate of play.
I’m not holding my breath. 🙂
By the way, the calculations above assume that the slot machine is “fair.” In other words, that the odds of the special symbol showing up is really the same as every other space on the wheel. I have no idea of knowing if that is true or not. Something tells me that in this era of computer-generated outcomes on gaming machines that the mathematics won’t work out just like that. Shouldn’t the operators of gaming machines be required to tell you the odds?
Here comes the awkward segue…
I have two kitty cats. I’m in charge of scooping doody duty. We initially bought a plastic scoop. It turns out that thing is literally a piece of shit. If I could somehow find the people who made that thing (AKA the people who got my money) I’d have a thing or two to tell them. I imagine I might find them in China.
Anywho, we decided we had gone cheap on the wrong household tool. The plastic scoop was literally falling apart. My wife and I tried, during the span of a few months, to hit the local pet store when we were out on the town. The store was always closed. Nothing ever seemed to work out.
Yesterday, however, we went in our separate ways. Later in the day when we met back in the house, we both had a shiny new metal scooper. After months of wanting one somehow it worked out that we both bought one on the very same day.
Wow.
I found myself thinking, “What in the hell are the odds of that?” Assuming there are 363 days in a year (the pet store is closed on Thanksgiving and Christmas) and there are only two of us, the equation to calculate these odds is: 365 times 365 = 131,769.
Something tells me instead of a damn pooper scooper we should have purchased lotto tickets yesterday.
Shouts from the Abyss 
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