Quick show of hands – how many of you completed the title with the line from “Die Hard”? You Did. Good for you. Me too. Today is Blog Roundup (ergo Yippee-Cay-Yay xxxxxx xxxxx) Yep. I have no original ideas today (OK, that’s not true, but I wanted to talk about this today), so I’m going to Robin Hood my friend’s blogs. Look there! I turned Robin Hood into a verb. I Robin Hood Blogs. I steal from the rich and give to…me! It’s very Martha Stuart. Oooo! I adjectived her! And Look! I verbed a noun. Take that! And that! And that! Mrs. English teacher! I smited you. No, I smoted you. No, I deaded you with my grammer. And It’s a good thing.
Chefgracegeorge put up some fun Halloween pictures. It’s that time again, isn’t it? TinyTuna very pointedly remarked on Monday that there were 18 more days until Halloween. Sheesh. Even worse, I had to do some quick counting to find out, Lo and Behold, she’s right. Dang it. She keeps dropping hint anvils about the need to finish her costume. All she has is a pair of fairy wings that she got at a festival this summer. Par usual, she is going to be a princess. In order to placate her weary mother, she isn’t going to be a Disney princess. Nope. She is going to be a “fairy rose princess.” This means finding some sort of skirt thing with a twirl factor of 10, and getting the rose crown and wand from (take a wild guess now) The Disney Store! Someone shoot me now. I have to admit, this is one battle I never have the strength to fight. I try every year to get her to be something – anything – besides a princess. I know it’s a losing proposition, but in the grand scheme of things, there are better battles to fight, so I don't make a huge deal out of this one. It’s just that as a kid, and even today, I never cared two cents about what I was for Halloween. All I needed was the shoulder pads from the basement and an oversized shirt. Voila! Football player. Now give me the candy. After all, wasn't that the point? Give me the candy. I don't care what I wear. Just give me the candy (Today it's replaced by "give me the beer."). As I think about it, maybe TinyTuna and I aren’t so far apart. I require shoulder pads; she requires a super twirly skirt. Now, give us the candy.
LifeonHold talked about diet success and the National Do-Not-Call Register. I’m all about anybody’s diet success. Go team! I should be on the bandwagon myself. Yep. I should. Moving along. The DNC Register? I signed up right away. But I also have caller ID, so if they strike down the register, I still won’t be answering my phone. Screw you guys, I ignore you. Someone mentioned the potential increase of Spam if the DNC Register is enacted. I get plenty o’ Spam right now as it is. I even got a Nigerian Bank Spam-o-gram yesterday. Woot! Unfortunately for my financially strapped friends who still manage to send out billions of emails a day, about all they would get out of my bank account is some lint and a few Canadian pennies. And then, they probably wouldn’t even take the pennies. I was once in a McDonalds in the middle of nowhere Virginia, and was told with great disdain, “We don’t take THAT money.” I looked at my hand, thinking I had mistakenly given this guy the money I forgot to exchange when I was on PLUTO. But no, it was a Canadian penny. “But they’re my neighbors to the South!” I wanted to say. But I didn’t, because I was hungry and feared I wouldn’t receive my deep fried breakfast product.
Opheliagh has been regaling us with stories from her childhood diary. (More stories, please!) I can remember trying to have a diary or a journal several times as a child and as an adult, but somehow, it never worked for me. I felt silly writing to … well, me … about things I already did that day. I can remember writing and writing and then thinking, “I already lived this once today. Why talk about it all over again?” And that, always seemed to be the end of that. Looking at the excess verbiage in this blog, it’s apparent that I’m over my journalistic writers block. Maybe having an audience helps. And TinyTuna certainly does her best to keep me supplied with stories to tell.
Rappy posted an awesome link about Big Dumb Idiots (BDIs). I have a great BDI office story. A systems employee (Systems being the branch within the library who does all things computers – installs, repairs, etc. etc.) was assigned to go to every public computer in the library (we’re talking four floors – a lot!) each morning and make sure that each computer and printer was functioning properly. I’m sitting at the front desk one morning at about 8:05 am. BDI walks in to check the computers. She pounds the button to print a sample page. Nothing happens. She pounds it again. Nothing happens. She looks at me from across the room and says, “This printer doesn’t work.” I calculate the number of years I’d have to spend in prison. I get up, walk over in a very irritated manner, look at the printer and say, “it's unplugged.” I look at her. She stares at me. I finally figure out that she isn't going to do a darn thing about this, and she is waiting for ME to plug it back in. So, I plug the printer back in, while simultaneously attempting to stun her with my “get a clue” death stare. I return to the desk. BDI moves to the next printer. The printer (dot-matrix … it was the olden days) starts whirring: ZZZeeeeeeeet! ZZZeeeeeet! ZZZeeeeeeeeet! ZZzzzerrrrgghghghghghghghghghghghghCLUNG. Silence. (Hee! Here it comes, you know). BDI looks up at me and says from across the room, “This printer is jammed.” I am sure now this situation would be the reason they placed the word “justifiable” in front of homicide. I look up at her. If she were smart, she’d be praying that I stay behind the desk. Lucky for her, I’m not moving. I look up and say, “Well, you work in Systems. Why don’t you FIX IT?” I then shot off a very pointed email to the head of systems. From that day on, BDI was relieved of her duties on the fourth floor.
TeemSpirit shared a story about calves. I have to tell you a fell over laughing. Why? Calves are not particularly funny. Especially when you’re talking muscle cramps. The kind where you go from a dead sleep and then POW you shoot across the room at 150 miles per hours yelling “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!” while you try to return your leg to the upright position. Anyway. So why was it funny? Because I had two this past weekend, and started to write about them myself, and then got distracted and started gabbing about other things. So, TM? It’s not just you. And it better not be a blood clot either.
Urber-Auntie Tuna (Happy Birthday + 1 day) introduces one and all to the EOT (Evil Office Troll). My solution? Put EOT and BDI on a plane, send them to China, and have them be the next team blasted into space. Maybe they’ll Robin Hood me some more Plutonian change so I can bother Goober at that Virginia McDonalds again.
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