Kinda slightly oddish...

For the past few days, I've been sort of short of breath. Totally unrelated to the evil nose monster, I think. And it's not an asthma attack. More of an asthma nagging, or an asthma I'm-not-touching-you.
So when I stopped at the drugstore to replenish my Claritin supply, I got a Primatene inhaler. I haven't used one of those in over a year, though I took the Primatene tablets regularly for a while just to see if they had an effect (they didn't have much of one, by the way).
The inhaler is a whole different animal. The kind of animal that makes you go "Crikey! That's a nasty bugga' roight there! You should neva' make 'im angry, like this: wallawallawallawoo!"

Yeah, I'm feeling kinda goofy. I actually used the word "kosher" a few minutes ago. I never use that word unless I'm talking about food, but I just asked my lead if something was kosher for me to do.

And I'm typing words before I see them on the whiteboard in my brain. Yes, I have a whiteboard in my brain. It contains the words I say and type before I say or type them. It's the reason I win spelling bees.

I really shouldn't use inhalers too often. But I do enjoy breathing.



Special bonus post!

I may say this a lot, but I love my job. One benefit that I haven't talked about much is my desk.
See, I happened to replace the person who worked at the handicapped-accessible desk. It's about 2 feet lower than the other four counters. Lower than my computer desk at home, in fact.
It's designed to be accessible to people in wheelchairs, and possibly also midgets. So occasionally someone gets out of line to specifically come to my desk. I don't mind. Because it's outweighed by the benefits of this desk.
The benefit is rather unique, and I don't talk about it because it's going to make me sound like an ogre. Well, fuck it. I'm a man, and I don't apologize for that fact.

The main benefit of my desk is cleavage.
Lots of it. Every day. Women come in to pay bills, and they use checks or sign credit card receipts, and they bend down to use the desk. Or they come in to sign up for service, and bend down for minutes at a time to fill out forms.
And many of them are quite well-endowed. Lots of college students, newlyweds, MILFs, all shapes and sizes and colors of breasts are attached to women who really enjoy their cable TV.

Yeah, I love my job.

It vexes me. I'm terribly vexed.

One day I will overcome my distaste for doctors and find out what malady has been plaguing my nasal passages for so long.
Whatever it is, it could not be stopped by the combined powers of montelukast, loratadine, diphenhydramine, pseudoephedrine, ephedrine, guaifenesin, dextromethorphan, caffeine, acetylsalicylic acid, paracetamol, levmetamfetamine, cough drops, and saline solution.
I swear to Bob that I'm not making that list up. There was a 14-day period when I was taking all of those on a regular schedule. I still felt like I had a slug in my nose once every few hours.
My personal suspicion is that there's some kind of alien organism living in there. When I go to the doctor, he'll say it's some relatively benign problem like nasal polyps or something. But he'll recommend surgery, and while I'm sedated the Men in Black will come capture the little monster.
I hope they torture it to death for information, or maybe vivisect it.

My right eyelid is twitching.

I don't know why. It's really freaky.
OK, it just stopped. Weird.


So around these parts we have some odd road configurations. One such area is where 64 meets 264 in Virginia Beach. I think the guy who designed it got into road-building after he flunked out of plumber school. It causes stupidity-related backups just by existing.

Yesterday, as I was trying to merge into 264 traffic, a douchebag in a brand new BMW sped up to keep me from getting in front of him.
I quietly slid in behind him, until the road opened up to 4 lanes. Then I pulled out past him and blew him away. I lost sight of him in the rearview after about a mile or so.
I considered it my duty to teach him a valuable lesson: having money doesn't make up for not having balls.


Every so often, my brain gets fixated on a certain song. One time, it was "Voices In My Head" by Denis Leary. That was slightly ironic. Recently, it was "Godzilla" by BOC. Right now, it's "25 or 6 to 4" by Chicago. I actually heard that one in a dream last night. It's a good song, but that's really annoying.


I have odd dreams. Fortunately, I don't remember many of them. The ones I remember most are the ones I wake up in the middle of at 2:30 in the morning.
That happens regularly. I wake up some time between 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning, look at my clock, mumble something to myself that would be unintelligible to normal humans along the lines of "why the fuck am I up right now," roll around a bit, and go back to sleep until my alarm goes off.


Cats are majestic creatures. Intelligent, graceful, deadly to smaller herbivores, and dignified.
Except for my stepmother's cat.
He's a pathetic moron. He's like a puffy throw-rug except whinier and slightly more mobile.
And he's insane. I think he has voices in his head that tell him to do stupid things. The voice says "go outside! go outside! go outside!" until he actually gets outside, and then it goes away. And he thinks, "hey, I didn't actually want to be out here! Why did I go out here?" And then he whines until we let him back in.
Then he'll climb on your lap. Actually, he'll think about it for a few seconds and then climb on your lap. And then the voice will tell him "that hand looks mighty tasty, doesn't it?" And he bites you. Then you smack him on the head, and he stops.
But most of the time he acts like a rug.
We need to find some way to get him to stay in one spot so he can at least serve some decorative function.

History shows again and again how nature points out the folly of man...

GODZILLA!

Tell me, honestly, is anyone on Earth who had heard of Steve Irwin at all surprised that he died young and was killed by a wild animal? Anyone at all?

I didn't think so.

Actually, this post was just an excuse for me to use that BOC lyric.

God's a funny guy.

The oldest man in California just died last Wednesday at the ridiculous age of 112. A doctor quoted by the AP said his diet consisted largely of sausage and waffles.

This makes my dad's plan to live to 114 seem a lot more plausible.