In my industry, it is a rare and cherished gift for a salesperson to find themselves sitting in front of a customer, alone, with no other competitors in the room. I had one of these last week and left at the end of the meeting feeling the way I always do under the circumstances... like I nailed it to the wall and then hit it with darts, lit it on fire and shot it to the moon.
But in most cases, my appointments are more like cattle calls, a bunch of us herded into a small space being treated like a commodity gets treated... which is to say with the barest of minimum respect.
And it's really worse for a lot of my colleagues who don't have it as cushy as I do... all I do is sales, which means I have few late nights before early mornings. Many of my colleague at these meetings were up all night the night before and had to be at an early appointment after getting the kids off to school and all that stuff, only to be treated like shit by a prospective customer.
The building services, Security, Janitorial, Light Maintenance, are actually called "lesser trades." There's an esteem builder.
I would like these contract administrators, purchasers, cube dwellers and snooty receptionists to go a few days without us picking up after them, wiping KFC grease off their desks, emptying the rotting food from their refrigerators, scrubbing their toilets (only to have them do the most wicked and unspeakable things... I can't... you don't... let's just drop it), keeping the entries safe from people who want to come in and cut people in half with an AK, or making sure the AC and heat works.
It is unfortunate how we are often looked down upon, even though it would be almost immediately apparent if we weren't there. Imagine a city with no garbage collection... actually, don't imagine it, go to Florence, Italy, which has been under the thumb of the trash collectors union for almost 3 years. Litter is in some places FEET THICK on the city streets. "You want garbage on that pizza?" Only a few years ago the city of Hamtramck (yes, that's the way it's spelled, it's a Polish enclave. Polaks don't like vowels.), near Detroit was broke and could no longer afford to haul the trash. So, for over a month of a hot summer, trash littered the entire town... which wasn't much to look at or smell before all that happened.
Bus drivers, cops, fire fighters, janitors, security guards, gardeners... what would the world be like without these critical and perennially low paid people? Chaos.
And for this bid this morning, they aren't happy with their current service. The current service was not present to re-bid. I bet I know why-Even if they had the opportunity to keep the business, they would be better off without it.
Did the client want proposals? Capabilities presentations? Interviews? Financial statements proving we'll be around next year? did they want anything that proved we could do the job better than the outgoing contractor? Nope.
"Just put the number at the bottom of the page. Don't burden us, we're busy." That is a formal quote... I wrote it in my notes.
"And what if you go low bid and the new contractor can't do it for what they quoted? Aren't you considering that?" asked one of my colleagues who drove all the way from Flint, (nearly 3 hours), to be treated like shit on the bottom of a shoe.
"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it and you'll all probably be back to bid it again, soon."
No wonder they're so busy. They don't take the time to do their job effectively in the first place and have to do it over and over and over, again; never learning from the previous failure.
Contractors will keep showing up, too, although the best thing we could do it just put up our middle fingers and tell them where they can sit and spin. If we want to pay a living wage to our employee, that's up to us, but if one of the 16 contractors there bids it at minimum wage, they will be chosen. That contractor may even put in an illegal worker who is not insured, not paying taxes and essentially has no recourse or rights as a worker. This person will likely remain disenfranchised, unable to get out of their situation, until they get hurt and dumped on the street or found by the cops and deported.
If this sounds a little maudlin, I assure you, it is the truth. It happens over and again like the tides. 18 months ago in my city, a building services contractor was busted. The owner was illegal, as was a majority of his workforce. The big embarrassment was that this guy, the owner, was on the city commission for Hispanic relations and his company cleaned many or most of the city/county buildings. And even after that debacle, there is no language in the city/county bid requests that requires proof of citizenship for a contractor's employees.
Translation? "We didn't see nothin'."
So, moo... You got me. Out of bed at 6 on a Monday to shower and shave and dress and preen, only to be led through a gated labrynth, over a sluice floor and eventually shot in the head and processed like so much meat.
And that's what life is like at the bottom of the food chain.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Sunday Stuff
I was nice enough to try and start the Vette yesterday. I completed the taxes and so needed a little palette cleanser. It was dead... The battery, that is. After seeking out the date code on the battery, I found it was produced in June, 2000. Not a bad run for a car battery.
Beware writing a blog post on the iPad, the typos are enough to make your wife bother you endlessly.
Now it's one more $100.00 chore to do before I can get rolling in spring. I also need to spend the money I committed to having the old steel wheels shot and powder coated. I already have new tires.
So, it will be a lot like me when I buy new shoes. The shoes sure look good, but it's the same old crap up top.
_____________________________________________________________
This of course means I am starting to feel the first small pangs of Spring Fever. Which is O.K., considering I finally got over Saturday Night Fever. I have been inoculated against Disco Fever, Jungle Fever and Pac Man Fever, but I am susceptible to both the Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu.
Of these, Spring Fever is the least worrisome. In fact, I rather like it.
_____________________________________________________________
Bad hockey games are difficult to watch. Last night was no exception. It was the very first game I have ever attended or seen where neither team was penalized, though both deserved to be, and a goal was called a non-goal apparently just because.
Oh, we'll. The crowd was big, we had great seats, good companions and the beer was cold. All in all, not a total loss.
_____________________________________________________________
Beware writing a blog post on the iPad, the typos are enough to make your wife bother you endlessly.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Why I Feel Badly About Burger King
I worked at BK all through high school, achieving the lofty title of "Assistant Manager II" at my store. That title was bestowed upon me shortly after my 16th birthday, when in one of my teen angst-fueled rants I began to spout off about how much better things would run if I ruled the world.
Our store manager, a feisty chain-smoking petite named Jill unwisely called my bluff. I didn't know what I was doing, and she didn't care. I was essentially slave labor, and I didn't care. The sacrifices of working while others went to the beach were realized in college when the scholarship money I had earned, ($1.00 per hour for every hour I worked toward room and board or classes where I earned above a 'C' grade) kept me rolling in clover while my friends were broke. At least for three semesters, when the money ran out.
It served me well in that respect. Of course, like a large item you buy on credit, you pay for it for a long time after. For instance, my employment and therefore ready access to fast food happened right about the same time my fat cells woke up. That sucked. And, my blood pressure is still perennially high requiring I be under constant care of a doctor to make sure I don't die from it. That also sucks and I am sure my diet had something to do with that, too.
Over the years, BK has sort of fallen out of favor with me. I will only eat there if they have a wicked sale, or I get some coupons. It's like the "friend" you don't want to hang out with, but sometimes comes up with the best tickets to a game or concert. He calls you up and your desire to see that band overcomes your greater sensibilities and you acquiesce.
I mean, it could be worse for my old buddy, BK. He could be like Taco Bell, (whose name is Isabella, thank you very much). She gives all she can give, and yet I only call on her after a long night at the bar, soaked to the bone with booze, slurring sweet nothings into my soft taco supreme while my designated drivers tries not to kill me. Taco Bell was born to be objectified and abused. Sorry, Isabella ( I'll call you!). Of course, I always wish I hadn't called her the next day, as she typically exacts a particularly unfriendly revenge.
My friend, a fellow "fast foodie", (fat foodie?), and I were in Wendy's not too long ago, discussing the relative merits of McDonald's v. Burger King. More specifically we were dissecting why BK took such a precipitous dive over the last decade. The answer of course, is consistency, or lack of it.
Like that friend you used to hang out with all the time, you had a lot of laughs and good memories, but these days, that level of immaturity just doesn't cut it. In college, it's fine to start out at a bar down the street and end up in Tijuana... that's what great stories are made of. But now, you're older, you drive a nice car, you have a family... you just want to go out to a wine bar, have a couple laughs, and be home by 10.
It isn't funny to work hard and spend your money on crap food of bad quality. You want crap food of good quality! I can't remember the last time I got a bad meal at McDonald's... and by that I mean the last time I didn't get exactly what I expected. On the opposite side of the coin, I can't remember the last time I didn't hold my breath at the BK, wondering just how bad it was going to be.
I love the idea of BK. I love that I can order my burgers without ketchup, (or catsup), without bringing the entire drive-through system down to its knees, ruining it for everyone behind me. I like the meat. I like the menu.
Wendy's is amazing to me. Their big burgers are some of the very best at any price. I would rather eat at Wendy's for 7 bucks that at Red Robin for 15... in fact I would rather eat at Wendy's for 15! Don't tell her that. That little red-headed strumpet will go and gouge up the prices again. You can't trust a ginger kid with pig-tails! I've seen Children of the Corn! But you can't eat Wendy's on the road, and I have a closet full of shirts with dribbles of many and varied protein infused origin right down the middle to prove it!
I don't like McDonald's. But their food is easiest to eat while driving. Their bathrooms are, on balance the cleanest. Their drive thrus, (while poorly spelled), are brilliantly operated and you can't swing a dead mouse without hitting one. In short, they win.
And poor old BK, my buddy from all those years ago... We'll always have that day with the Quopper with Douquecheese (that's 4 patties of meat with 8 pieces of cheese), minus ketchup (and catsup), minus tomato, plus mustard, plus heavy mayo and pickle, a basket of fries and a 64 oz. Mellow Yellow.
Kinda makes me want to call him up once more, for old time's sake.
Our store manager, a feisty chain-smoking petite named Jill unwisely called my bluff. I didn't know what I was doing, and she didn't care. I was essentially slave labor, and I didn't care. The sacrifices of working while others went to the beach were realized in college when the scholarship money I had earned, ($1.00 per hour for every hour I worked toward room and board or classes where I earned above a 'C' grade) kept me rolling in clover while my friends were broke. At least for three semesters, when the money ran out.
It served me well in that respect. Of course, like a large item you buy on credit, you pay for it for a long time after. For instance, my employment and therefore ready access to fast food happened right about the same time my fat cells woke up. That sucked. And, my blood pressure is still perennially high requiring I be under constant care of a doctor to make sure I don't die from it. That also sucks and I am sure my diet had something to do with that, too.
Over the years, BK has sort of fallen out of favor with me. I will only eat there if they have a wicked sale, or I get some coupons. It's like the "friend" you don't want to hang out with, but sometimes comes up with the best tickets to a game or concert. He calls you up and your desire to see that band overcomes your greater sensibilities and you acquiesce.
I mean, it could be worse for my old buddy, BK. He could be like Taco Bell, (whose name is Isabella, thank you very much). She gives all she can give, and yet I only call on her after a long night at the bar, soaked to the bone with booze, slurring sweet nothings into my soft taco supreme while my designated drivers tries not to kill me. Taco Bell was born to be objectified and abused. Sorry, Isabella (
My friend, a fellow "fast foodie", (fat foodie?), and I were in Wendy's not too long ago, discussing the relative merits of McDonald's v. Burger King. More specifically we were dissecting why BK took such a precipitous dive over the last decade. The answer of course, is consistency, or lack of it.
Like that friend you used to hang out with all the time, you had a lot of laughs and good memories, but these days, that level of immaturity just doesn't cut it. In college, it's fine to start out at a bar down the street and end up in Tijuana... that's what great stories are made of. But now, you're older, you drive a nice car, you have a family... you just want to go out to a wine bar, have a couple laughs, and be home by 10.
It isn't funny to work hard and spend your money on crap food of bad quality. You want crap food of good quality! I can't remember the last time I got a bad meal at McDonald's... and by that I mean the last time I didn't get exactly what I expected. On the opposite side of the coin, I can't remember the last time I didn't hold my breath at the BK, wondering just how bad it was going to be.
I love the idea of BK. I love that I can order my burgers without ketchup, (or catsup), without bringing the entire drive-through system down to its knees, ruining it for everyone behind me. I like the meat. I like the menu.
Wendy's is amazing to me. Their big burgers are some of the very best at any price. I would rather eat at Wendy's for 7 bucks that at Red Robin for 15... in fact I would rather eat at Wendy's for 15! Don't tell her that. That little red-headed strumpet will go and gouge up the prices again. You can't trust a ginger kid with pig-tails! I've seen Children of the Corn! But you can't eat Wendy's on the road, and I have a closet full of shirts with dribbles of many and varied protein infused origin right down the middle to prove it!
I don't like McDonald's. But their food is easiest to eat while driving. Their bathrooms are, on balance the cleanest. Their drive thrus, (while poorly spelled), are brilliantly operated and you can't swing a dead mouse without hitting one. In short, they win.
And poor old BK, my buddy from all those years ago... We'll always have that day with the Quopper with Douquecheese (that's 4 patties of meat with 8 pieces of cheese), minus ketchup (and catsup), minus tomato, plus mustard, plus heavy mayo and pickle, a basket of fries and a 64 oz. Mellow Yellow.
Kinda makes me want to call him up once more, for old time's sake.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Just a Little Pin Prick
My cat, Atticus has sharp claws-Principally because he is an indoor/outdoor cat and we want him to be able to defend himself. He gets in scuffles all the time. So far, I think he's undefeated. There have been occasional chunks of fur missing from the top of his head, but never from his hind quarters which leads me to believe he doesn't turn tail too often.
That's all well and good, but the real reason he has sharp claws is that he is a gigantic wuss. He cries and wriggles and generally acts like he's having a grand mal seizure every time we clip him. The noises he makes are actually really disconcerting. We have to wonder if we're hurting him. And then Juliette comes up, puts he paw in Emily's palm and sits there like she's at the spa.
With Atty, it really is a huge, dramatic thing. It doesn't have to be, of course, but he makes it so. And, we are therefore loath to do it and don't do it often. Until we have to.
We have to.
My right arm looks like I have a love affair with the needle. Atticus, like all good house cats, thinks he's people. And as such, when he decides he wants a spot somewhere, he just takes it, regardless of whether there is an actual spot there.
And so it has been the last couple nights, Atticus apparently reasoned that if we are sleeping on the bed, oriented like people are, than so should he be. Why curl up in a little ball at the feet of your master, when you can stretch out all the way down the center of the bed? Except that Emily and I have arms, of course, and those arms occupy the space that, in his head anyway, belongs to Atticus.
And so he fits as best as he can and then alternates bothering Emily and I to see which one will roll to their side, thus affording him the space he deserves for being such a productive member of the family. This bothering typically takes the form of kneading our arms with the aforementioned talons of terror. I sleep in short sleeves, always. I am not a fan of long sleeves, ever, but I put up with them by day. I have never been cold enough that I wished for long sleeves in bed. A couple times, back in the day when I wasn't sure who I was, I put on a long sleeved tee-shirt at bed time only to find myself changing shirts midway through the night.
Anyway, Atticus did a number on my right arm last night, just as he did a number on Emily's left arm. We look like Sid and Nancy Vicious. Well, I am way too fat to be a smack fiend, but if you look at the punctures and scrapes on my arms you could be forgiven for momentarily thinking otherwise.
Right now, it is the end of my work day, and Atticus is on one of the guest beds, curled up in a little ball the way a cat is supposed to sleep. But tonight, like every night, he will no doubt come crawling up again, using his claws to get what he wants. There is another reason to eagerly anticipate the coming of the warmer months... that stupid cat can sleep outside under the stars and I can sleep the way God intended it... being encroached upon by my wife instead of my cat.
That's all well and good, but the real reason he has sharp claws is that he is a gigantic wuss. He cries and wriggles and generally acts like he's having a grand mal seizure every time we clip him. The noises he makes are actually really disconcerting. We have to wonder if we're hurting him. And then Juliette comes up, puts he paw in Emily's palm and sits there like she's at the spa.
With Atty, it really is a huge, dramatic thing. It doesn't have to be, of course, but he makes it so. And, we are therefore loath to do it and don't do it often. Until we have to.
We have to.
My right arm looks like I have a love affair with the needle. Atticus, like all good house cats, thinks he's people. And as such, when he decides he wants a spot somewhere, he just takes it, regardless of whether there is an actual spot there.
And so it has been the last couple nights, Atticus apparently reasoned that if we are sleeping on the bed, oriented like people are, than so should he be. Why curl up in a little ball at the feet of your master, when you can stretch out all the way down the center of the bed? Except that Emily and I have arms, of course, and those arms occupy the space that, in his head anyway, belongs to Atticus.
And so he fits as best as he can and then alternates bothering Emily and I to see which one will roll to their side, thus affording him the space he deserves for being such a productive member of the family. This bothering typically takes the form of kneading our arms with the aforementioned talons of terror. I sleep in short sleeves, always. I am not a fan of long sleeves, ever, but I put up with them by day. I have never been cold enough that I wished for long sleeves in bed. A couple times, back in the day when I wasn't sure who I was, I put on a long sleeved tee-shirt at bed time only to find myself changing shirts midway through the night.
Anyway, Atticus did a number on my right arm last night, just as he did a number on Emily's left arm. We look like Sid and Nancy Vicious. Well, I am way too fat to be a smack fiend, but if you look at the punctures and scrapes on my arms you could be forgiven for momentarily thinking otherwise.
Right now, it is the end of my work day, and Atticus is on one of the guest beds, curled up in a little ball the way a cat is supposed to sleep. But tonight, like every night, he will no doubt come crawling up again, using his claws to get what he wants. There is another reason to eagerly anticipate the coming of the warmer months... that stupid cat can sleep outside under the stars and I can sleep the way God intended it... being encroached upon by my wife instead of my cat.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Epitaphs
While I wish not to hasten my demise, I do recognize that it is forthcoming and inevitable. In that regard, it is therefore useless to try and hide from it, or bide my remaining time, be it minutes or decades, being concerned about it.
I have a pretty strong set of beliefs that come with them a great calm and even a certain sense of longing for the end. This is no suicide note. I'm a happy camper. But some days I do think, "Dead people don't have to work..."
Beside all that, I love a good mystery, and as mysteries go, death is a good one. The closest we can come is the "near death" experience. These firsthand accounts seem to have a number of common elements, but I don't regard these with any real accuracy. These stories and their similarities can be too easily explained away in a number of ways from "common brain chemistry" to "birds (weirdos) of a feather". And who is to say "near death" is any more like actual death than a "near collision" of two airplanes is like two planes actually colliding. Right up to the end they're pretty similar, but then, they couldn't be more different. At most, near death experiences are a simple whetting of our collective appetites.
See? Mysterious. I love it. I have this great curiosity about things and try to have at least a rudimentary understanding of all I can. You never know when you will meet a vulcanologist at his mother's wake who needs to talk about anything other than his mom in the box up front, surrounded by flowers. That actually happened to me. So happy was he to talk to someone about his work, and I could actually hold a conversation.
Knowing stuff comes in handy.
Why am I getting into this? I don't know. Seriously, I sit down and let my fingers do the walking. The last week has been a lot of blank pages with a cursor blinking malevolently at me. Failed attempts to commit something to the page. Yesterday, I hit upon it accidentally. I said that I wanted my epitaph to read as follows:
In life, like a hotdog.
Adored by many.
Reviled by some.
A mystery to all.
Maybe in Latin it sounds classier:
In vitae a farcimen.
Adoraverunt multis.
Maledicimur aliqua.
A mysterium ad omnes.
I had to substitute hotdog for sausage, as I am reminded that hotdogs are more or less a 20th century invention. Thank you, Polish and German immigrants! My waistline, and indeed the waistline of all the world owes you a swift kick in the ass!
Of course, I've taken you around the block, (assuming you are still reading, I know I'm not, I gave up 3 paragraphs ago), for nothing, since my epitaph doesn't matter. I am gonna be cremated, so unless someone wants an urn filled with "ash of Bill" and this charming little phrase engraved into it, then you can be my guest. Do they sell urns at Things Remembered? Do really want to be in an urn? So dour. How about a genie lamp? That would be awesome. I'd probably get rubbed more in death than in life.
Zing!
So, what would be a good epitaph for you? What two or three lines would distill your essence for the ages? It isn't so easy to figure out; and in trying, you may find you don't like what you come up with.
I have a pretty strong set of beliefs that come with them a great calm and even a certain sense of longing for the end. This is no suicide note. I'm a happy camper. But some days I do think, "Dead people don't have to work..."
Beside all that, I love a good mystery, and as mysteries go, death is a good one. The closest we can come is the "near death" experience. These firsthand accounts seem to have a number of common elements, but I don't regard these with any real accuracy. These stories and their similarities can be too easily explained away in a number of ways from "common brain chemistry" to "birds (weirdos) of a feather". And who is to say "near death" is any more like actual death than a "near collision" of two airplanes is like two planes actually colliding. Right up to the end they're pretty similar, but then, they couldn't be more different. At most, near death experiences are a simple whetting of our collective appetites.
See? Mysterious. I love it. I have this great curiosity about things and try to have at least a rudimentary understanding of all I can. You never know when you will meet a vulcanologist at his mother's wake who needs to talk about anything other than his mom in the box up front, surrounded by flowers. That actually happened to me. So happy was he to talk to someone about his work, and I could actually hold a conversation.
Knowing stuff comes in handy.
Why am I getting into this? I don't know. Seriously, I sit down and let my fingers do the walking. The last week has been a lot of blank pages with a cursor blinking malevolently at me. Failed attempts to commit something to the page. Yesterday, I hit upon it accidentally. I said that I wanted my epitaph to read as follows:
In life, like a hotdog.
Adored by many.
Reviled by some.
A mystery to all.
Maybe in Latin it sounds classier:
In vitae a farcimen.
Adoraverunt multis.
Maledicimur aliqua.
A mysterium ad omnes.
I had to substitute hotdog for sausage, as I am reminded that hotdogs are more or less a 20th century invention. Thank you, Polish and German immigrants! My waistline, and indeed the waistline of all the world owes you a swift kick in the ass!
Of course, I've taken you around the block, (assuming you are still reading, I know I'm not, I gave up 3 paragraphs ago), for nothing, since my epitaph doesn't matter. I am gonna be cremated, so unless someone wants an urn filled with "ash of Bill" and this charming little phrase engraved into it, then you can be my guest. Do they sell urns at Things Remembered? Do really want to be in an urn? So dour. How about a genie lamp? That would be awesome. I'd probably get rubbed more in death than in life.
Zing!
So, what would be a good epitaph for you? What two or three lines would distill your essence for the ages? It isn't so easy to figure out; and in trying, you may find you don't like what you come up with.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
...For Us All to CAPTCHA
"Prove you're not a robot." Said Google to me while updating or signing up for something the other day. "Type the "word" in the field below." Well, Google... first, I don't like pith or ersatz wit coming from my computer, unless it is in the form of Siri getting snippy for asking her why the chicken crossed the road, and second... I don't have a second, I just really feel strongly about the first.
And so, I squint to see what the "word" is that is obfuscated by LSD trip induced font behind a field of different shades and textures and attempt to replicate it in the little box. All to prove to Google that I am not a robot.
"On April 19, 2001 at 8:11 pm, Skynet became self-aware..."
Three of you will find that funny, two more still will correct me for quoting it wrong and that leaves my mother, who has no idea what I am talking about.
Setting aside the fact that we have subrogated our natural intelligence to all things microchip, I find the words that aren't really words in those boxes to be filled with possibilities. Since I have nothing else about which to write and since I have the attention span of a sparrow on meth, here I shall take a few that I have chronicled and create for them, definitions.
Cralsist- (n) A mass formed in the buttocks region as a result of sitting for hours on the computer, perhaps cruising Craig's List
Dultne- (Pl. n) The formal term for candy factory workers; the plural of Dult
Flirc- (n) The tracks that are made in the median of divided roads or highways by cars who have slipped off the road
Glince- (n) The special effect used in many dental product commercials to accentuate the brilliance of teeth or smile.
Hoponihi- (n) The particular gate adopted by a Pacific Islander walking on still-hot lava.
Plicrom- (n) A word that is not well known outside of a specific region, but has at least one commonly understood application within its region of origin
Sonated- (Pt. v adj) To put a large group of people to sleep during a lecture or speech; Past-tense form of Sonate
Trapperb- Usually attributed to a woman in the act of catching a man in a lie regarding his whereabouts by singling out an incongruity in his excuse and repeating it three times in successively higher volume, (See also unnendou)
Unbachar- A member of an Anti-Baroque chamber music society which eschews lyrical elements commonly found in music, of the era, such as that by J.S. Bach
Vadite- A slang term given to managers who exercise power over their staff in a tyrannical way, like Darth Vader
Here is the fun part... I only made up one of those CAPTCHA codes (That's the what the actual codes are called). Care to guess which one? Also, the title of today's post follows a certain pattern. If you can tell me what the reference is, I'll give you a reward. Of my regular readers, I have only one in mind, (maybe two) who could possibly come up with the answer. If you have more fun CAPTCHA codes, send them to me and I will endeavor to come up with fun, or at least somewhat plausible definitions for them.
And so, I squint to see what the "word" is that is obfuscated by LSD trip induced font behind a field of different shades and textures and attempt to replicate it in the little box. All to prove to Google that I am not a robot.
"On April 19, 2001 at 8:11 pm, Skynet became self-aware..."
Three of you will find that funny, two more still will correct me for quoting it wrong and that leaves my mother, who has no idea what I am talking about.
Setting aside the fact that we have subrogated our natural intelligence to all things microchip, I find the words that aren't really words in those boxes to be filled with possibilities. Since I have nothing else about which to write and since I have the attention span of a sparrow on meth, here I shall take a few that I have chronicled and create for them, definitions.
Cralsist- (n) A mass formed in the buttocks region as a result of sitting for hours on the computer, perhaps cruising Craig's List
Dultne- (Pl. n) The formal term for candy factory workers; the plural of Dult
Flirc- (n) The tracks that are made in the median of divided roads or highways by cars who have slipped off the road
Glince- (n) The special effect used in many dental product commercials to accentuate the brilliance of teeth or smile.
Hoponihi- (n) The particular gate adopted by a Pacific Islander walking on still-hot lava.
Plicrom- (n) A word that is not well known outside of a specific region, but has at least one commonly understood application within its region of origin
Sonated- (Pt. v adj) To put a large group of people to sleep during a lecture or speech; Past-tense form of Sonate
Trapperb- Usually attributed to a woman in the act of catching a man in a lie regarding his whereabouts by singling out an incongruity in his excuse and repeating it three times in successively higher volume, (See also unnendou)
Unbachar- A member of an Anti-Baroque chamber music society which eschews lyrical elements commonly found in music, of the era, such as that by J.S. Bach
Vadite- A slang term given to managers who exercise power over their staff in a tyrannical way, like Darth Vader
Here is the fun part... I only made up one of those CAPTCHA codes (That's the what the actual codes are called). Care to guess which one? Also, the title of today's post follows a certain pattern. If you can tell me what the reference is, I'll give you a reward. Of my regular readers, I have only one in mind, (maybe two) who could possibly come up with the answer. If you have more fun CAPTCHA codes, send them to me and I will endeavor to come up with fun, or at least somewhat plausible definitions for them.
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