Tipsy Haircut

Liquid Courage... because barber shops can be so intimidating

My wife got a show with her haircut last week.

It was early in the afternoon, but one of the other customers had already started his evening merrymaking. "Jus' a little (hic!) off tha top," he slurred. He was grinning manically.

The haircut began. His cell phone rang. "Can't talk! M' gettin' a haircut!", he shouted. "Me n' aaaaaall myyyyy friends!" He gestured expansively and gave everyone a huge open-mouthed smile. The fumes from his breath made a nearby conditioner burst into flame.

"Sir," said the barber. "They didn't hear you. You have to answer your phone first."

"Oh... (hic!) Thanks!"

Whoa. Seriously. Stop that.

He answered his phone and repeated the routine. The barber began her work again. A calm moment passed, and then the drunk shouted, "Who wants ta sing wif me?"

There was a horrified pause, followed by "I've got friiieeeeeeeeends, in loooooooow (urp), PLAAACESSSSS...."

Mercifully, his phone rang again. He tried to answer, but dropped it in the cup where used combs were soaking. As the phone gently sizzled, he plucked a comb out of the slightly-green solution and put it up to his ear.

"Hullo? Can't talk, m' gettin' a haircut!"

I love you guys (hic!)

This pattern continued for some time. When my wife left the shop, he was trying to set a campfire in the middle of the chairs. He kept slipping on piles of cut hair while grinning madly and shouting about how happy he was to spend quality time with so many friends.

I'm jealous I missed it. :)

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My June Ailment

So, I've hurt myself again. It just keeps getting better and better.

It started with my foot. After years of limping and poor posture, I managed to hurt my back. My chiropractor recommended some stretches and exercises I can do to make sure things stay healthy. He failed to mention that the stretches would also kill me.

I don't like being so familiar with medical diagrams

I stuck my right leg out to do a hamstring stretch. Apparently there's a wrong way to do this, because something went "ow" and my hip said, "Hey... I just realized that I hate you."

I strained a muscle in my hip. There's also a small tear. There's also likely some inflammation of the Bursae.

Walking hurts. Climbing stairs hurts *bad*. When I sit, it hurts. When I lay down, it hurts worse. I think this is really gonna hurt my chances as a contestant on Wipeout.

If you ever get a chance to exist as a fragile nerd, don't bother. It's not as transcendent as you might think.

So, anybody want to guess which body part I'll hurt next while rehabbing this one?

This will end badly

The doc gave me a stretchy exercise band that I'm supposed to use as part of my rehab routine. It's tough and durable, so I fully expect it to break on me. It'll pop up and smack me in the head. I may even lose an eye.

Then, before I'm used to walking around with no depth perception, I'll trip on something and break a foot. Then, the "pathetic injury" parade will have come full circle.

Wish me luck.

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Doormats With A Message

From the email archive...

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The Apathetic Checker

My wife and I were at Target the other day. We bought a few odds n' ends, including a large bottle of laundry detergent.

The lady at the checkout counter mumbled something and starting scanning items without even looking at us. My wife interrupted her to ask, "Did that laundry detergent scan?"

Whatever, dippy

The checker-lady looked up, eyes rolled back in annoyance. She looked like she couldn't possibly care less. She waved a hand dismissively and mumbled "Scanned."

When our total rang up, it was obviously at least 10 dollars short. "This didn't scan," we insisted. The checker-lady just shrugged. She was so apathetic about it, she couldn't even be bothered to verbalize.

"Look, I get that you don't care," I said. "But I kinda don't want to be a shoplifter, even if I get away with it. Re-scan this."

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the bottle. I decided to test the limits of her apathy. "Look," I said, pointing behind her. "There's a guy stealing an armload of toilet brushes." "Meh," she replied.

"He's sharpened the end of one and he's pointing it like a sword." "Feh," she elaborated.

"If he takes out your manager, you could be in line for a promotion."

Yeah, I've got issues

Still nothing. I waved my arms in the air. "Hey! My hinder is on fire!" "Whatever."

"Actually," my wife said, "Your hinder really is on fire."

I jumped and yelled and did a groping little "hiney-dance." There was no fire.

So, we never did hit the limits of our checker's apathy, but we confirmed that my gullibility is at standard levels.

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Pillow Talk

I think the statute of limitations is up on this one. Even so, I'll write vaguely so as to obscure my alleged guilt.

I made this pillow from two "Soundblaster Live!" fabric banners that hung at a CES-style trade show some 13 years ago.



Here's how I made it happen:

1) Acquire the necessary materials (*cough* *legitimately!* *cough*)

2) Hide them in the back of your closet for 4 years.

3) Using needle and thread, spend an hour sewing one edge of the two banners together. Jagged lines preferred. Poke yourself with the needle several times.

4) Hide your progress in the back of a closet for a couple of years.

5) Again with only needle and thread, spend another hour sewing a second edge of the two banners together. More jagged lines. Break a needle, gash your hand. Cry a little.

6) Hide your progress in the back of a closet for 6 years.

7) Obtain a sewing machine.

8) Undo all previous stitching, re-sew the whole thing in minutes with the sewing machine.

9) Gash open an old pillow. Spew pillow innards all over the living room. Breathe deeply, inhale the pillow fibers. Gag, cough. Cry a little.

10) Stuff the new pillow, sew up the last opening.

11) Party.



See, with just a few (*cough* *legitimately obtained* *cough*) materials, occasional determination and a complete lack of competence, you too can make your own pillow in just over a decade. An existing pillow must be sacrificed for the cause. Be prepared to bleed.

It's *totally* worth it.

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Christmas In July In June

Father's day is coming up. My Father-in-Law (FIL) has decided to have all us kiddos over this weekend to celebrate.

This should do for the appetizer...

Since it's *his* big day, he gets to pick the menu. In years past, he's chosen to have a cookout, in which he'll grill enough steaks to feed an army. Seriously... one year, for 6 of us, he grilled 10 steaks and baked 14 potatoes. Add in a couple of pies, a cake, enough salad to fill a bathtub and a broccoli-cheese casserole, and there wasn't enough room in the kitchen for all the "wind" that the broccoli caused.

Amazingly, he acted surprised when half the baked potatoes went untouched.

This year, he wants something different. He wants turkey and dressing.

I hope you made enough potatoes...

"It'll be Christmas in July!", he happily shouted. "It's June," somebody pointed out. "Eh. Whatever." FIL didn't seem too concerned with the details.

"So, Christmas in July in June," I pondered. "Wouldn't that like Thanksgiving? Are we going to hang the Christmas lights and watch football? Should I bring a jacket? Do we have to do this again in November?"

It took some time to sort out the details, but I now know that Thanksgiving is still on the schedule for November. I'm not invited.

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HD

Welcome to the Flower Channel... all flowers, all
the time.

My wife and I recently discovered HD. You see, we only have basic cable. We only want basic cable. We don't watch a lot of TV generally, so we just let the squarish picture expand across the widescreen TV and call it good.

But one day I got curious (bored) and started browsing the mysterious upper channels that had started appearing. Up in the 700+ range, I found HD versions of our local channels! Wow!

The picture was beautiful! The detail was magnificent. I flipped back to one of the standard channels and shouted to my wife. "Come see this!"

When she walked in, I showed off the standard picture. "See how it's all stretched?", I said. "Now look at this! This is beautiful!

I flipped over to one of the HD channels. They were showing a bra commercial.

Awkward.

"Huge Tracts Of Land"

Now, I wouldn't say that the bra in question was large. I'd say it was frickin' HUGE. Nicely framed, too. I think that if the dear lady's assets had been any bigger, they would have jumped out and punched me in the face.

"So," my wife said. "That's beautiful, is it?"

"Well," I confessed. "You have to admit, they aren't pixelated at all."

I'm not allowed to use the TV remote anymore.

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