Recently in Humor Category
Unusual snippet of conversation between a father and a son en route back to York College after a short fall break:
He: I think tigers are way fiercer than lions.
Me: Yeah... I think they're the largest cats.
He: It would be cool if you could ride them.
Me: Ride them? I don't think they'd like that.
He: Maybe not, but it would be really intimidating going into battle. It would look really cool.
Me: And parades. Think how cool it would look if the Macy's parade had bunches of tiger-riders coming down Broadway. That would be something to see.
He: Yeah.
Not unlike Athena bursting forth from the forehead of Zeus.
K-
He: I think tigers are way fiercer than lions.
Me: Yeah... I think they're the largest cats.
He: It would be cool if you could ride them.
Me: Ride them? I don't think they'd like that.
He: Maybe not, but it would be really intimidating going into battle. It would look really cool.
Me: And parades. Think how cool it would look if the Macy's parade had bunches of tiger-riders coming down Broadway. That would be something to see.
He: Yeah.
Not unlike Athena bursting forth from the forehead of Zeus.
K-
Springfield has its horseshoe. New Orleans has its po' boy. San Francisco has whatever it has. So what toothsome delight is in Maryland?
Beaten biscuits? Nope.
Soft shell crabs? Guess again.
Pit beef? Close but no cigar.
What's the best thing about Maryland cuisine? Why, fried chicken 'n' snowballs, of course. And Howard County is home to the world's best.
Let me tell you, there's nothing better than fresh, hot, crispy fired chicken served along side mounds of shaved ice soaked in artificially flavored sugar syrup. Now them's good eats.
So next time you're traveling the Baltimore National Pike, stop on by Ellicott City's own Forest Diner. Ask Gert, Dotty, or Mable to serve you up a heapin' serving of that Maryland state classic: fried chicken 'n' snowballs.
You'll be glad you did.
K-
PS. And while you're there, be sure to ask about the missing 's'. It's a hoot.
Sometimes I annoy me so much. You'd think after all these years I'd have learned how to slough off detritus, adopt more efficient habits, toss aside all those stupid notions that cling to me like wool socks on a cat. Especially so after a period of reflection. When I can objectively look at myself, identify a quirk, and say "You know you're really holding yourself back behaving like that."
Take gaps and levels, for instance. When most people hang pictures, they just eyeball things, pound a few nails in the wall, slap the pictures up there, and are back on the couch in under 5 minutes.
Not me boy. I have to measure, painstakingly do the math, make sure the bottom of a picture is precisely halfway up from the picture next to it, perfectly center isolated pictures above the table, make sure gaps between pictures are even both horizontally and vertically, and most important by far, assure that everything is perfectly, precisely, level.
Every time I go to hang pictures I think "I should just do what other people do. It'll save time. It'll be easier. No one will notice. Everything will be fine." But then that devil on my shoulder whispers: "But the gaps might not be even."
*Shudder*
I've even been known to walk around the house with a carpenter's level checking pictures for plumb. For no other reason than to know that everything in my little corner of the world is orthogonal, straight, and true.
Of course Pisa is out of the question.
K-
Take gaps and levels, for instance. When most people hang pictures, they just eyeball things, pound a few nails in the wall, slap the pictures up there, and are back on the couch in under 5 minutes.
Not me boy. I have to measure, painstakingly do the math, make sure the bottom of a picture is precisely halfway up from the picture next to it, perfectly center isolated pictures above the table, make sure gaps between pictures are even both horizontally and vertically, and most important by far, assure that everything is perfectly, precisely, level.
Every time I go to hang pictures I think "I should just do what other people do. It'll save time. It'll be easier. No one will notice. Everything will be fine." But then that devil on my shoulder whispers: "But the gaps might not be even."
*Shudder*
I've even been known to walk around the house with a carpenter's level checking pictures for plumb. For no other reason than to know that everything in my little corner of the world is orthogonal, straight, and true.
Of course Pisa is out of the question.
K-
Let this be a warning. Don't do what I did. Trust me on this. I made this mistake for you.
A colleague came into my office this morning and asked: "Kem, do you like garlic?" She proffered a box of what appeared to be milk chocolate candies.
"Are those chocolate-covered garlic cloves? Raw garlic?" I asked.
"Yeah, a friend gave them to me."
She wasn't being mischievous. I think she was genuinely trying to get rid of something she simply didn't want. I'm usually game for the exotic especially if it comes covered in chocolate.
I picked one. The candy didn't appear to be a joke like the pepper gum you buy from joke stores. The box looked nice, the milk chocolate appealing. I couldn't detect any strong odor. But the bonbon was alarmingly big. The garlic clove inside must be fairly large. I decided to go for it. Popping it into my mouth I bit down.
Blech.
It was just as she said... a chocolate-covered garlic clove. And it was really strong. Far, far worse than anything I was expecting. I spit out most of the clove but some went down the gullet.
Now I'm a big fan of garlic. I always add a little more than what's called for in a recipe. But this was just too much. Way too much. Since then, I've eaten a dozen Altoids, brushed my teeth, and consumed two cups of coffee. I'm still tasting that garlic. Talk about leaving a bad taste in your mouth. I can't imagine who would like those things. The residual taste seems to be lasting forever.
I'm thinking sardines and Limburger for lunch.
K-
A colleague came into my office this morning and asked: "Kem, do you like garlic?" She proffered a box of what appeared to be milk chocolate candies.
"Are those chocolate-covered garlic cloves? Raw garlic?" I asked.
"Yeah, a friend gave them to me."
She wasn't being mischievous. I think she was genuinely trying to get rid of something she simply didn't want. I'm usually game for the exotic especially if it comes covered in chocolate.
I picked one. The candy didn't appear to be a joke like the pepper gum you buy from joke stores. The box looked nice, the milk chocolate appealing. I couldn't detect any strong odor. But the bonbon was alarmingly big. The garlic clove inside must be fairly large. I decided to go for it. Popping it into my mouth I bit down.
Blech.
It was just as she said... a chocolate-covered garlic clove. And it was really strong. Far, far worse than anything I was expecting. I spit out most of the clove but some went down the gullet.
Now I'm a big fan of garlic. I always add a little more than what's called for in a recipe. But this was just too much. Way too much. Since then, I've eaten a dozen Altoids, brushed my teeth, and consumed two cups of coffee. I'm still tasting that garlic. Talk about leaving a bad taste in your mouth. I can't imagine who would like those things. The residual taste seems to be lasting forever.
I'm thinking sardines and Limburger for lunch.
K-
Has this ever happened to you?
No, of course it hasn't. This only happens to boneheads, of which I am one.
Let me explain.
I was sitting in a meeting last week. Not one of those soccer-scouts-church-neighborhood-band-PTA-unimportant evening meetings, but a real meeting, a professional meeting, a meeting full of hard-nosed engineers, a meeting during the day, a meeting where I had to be on the ball, pay attention, demonstrate acumen, show insight, and articulate vision. This was an adult meeting, a significant meeting, a meeting of utmost moment.
It was a meeting I was getting paid to be at.
We were gathered in a beautiful conference room on the 12th floor of a Washington office building. We sat at a large table, our laptops arrayed around us. I was positioned strategically at the table's head. It was mid-morning. A colleague stood to my right briefing upcoming plans. He was intent, serious. His message was important. My trusty green 1-quart Stanley thermos sat nearby on the table. As the planning session droned on, I picked up my thermos, curious whether I had any coffee left. I was fairly certain I had finished my daily allotment, but I wanted to make sure. I knew I had just drained the last of my home brew from the thermos top that served as my cup. But if there was more coffee in the thermos, I would take it. My thermos seemed empty. I shook it vigorously to confirm. Nope. No coffee. I gave a small, inaudible sigh. A bit more coffee sure would have made the morning go faster.
As I held the thermos upright in my lap, I looked ruefully at the thermos top sitting on the table, picked it up with absolute, unequivocal, 100 percent moral certainty it was empty, inverted it, and went to screw it in place.
Sploosh!
An inch of coffee dumped in my lap. Not only that... it was hot. I jumped up, interrupting the proceedings. Of course this was the day I chose to wear khakis rather than dark suit pants so it was immediately obvious to everyone in the room that something unpleasant involving a liquid had just happened to me. Paper napkins flew in my general direction to assist, but the cotton cloth of my pants had already soaked up everything.
If I had peed my pants I could not have made a stain that looked more like I peed my pants than this stain did. I made my way to the men's room out in the corridor praying with all the fervor I could muster that no one was present in the usually busy hallway. But, no, as always, it was filled with professionals. There might as well have been a big, glowing, neon arrow pointing directly at my crotch.
See? What did I tell you?
Bonehead.
K-
No, of course it hasn't. This only happens to boneheads, of which I am one.
Let me explain.
I was sitting in a meeting last week. Not one of those soccer-scouts-church-neighborhood-band-PTA-unimportant evening meetings, but a real meeting, a professional meeting, a meeting full of hard-nosed engineers, a meeting during the day, a meeting where I had to be on the ball, pay attention, demonstrate acumen, show insight, and articulate vision. This was an adult meeting, a significant meeting, a meeting of utmost moment.
It was a meeting I was getting paid to be at.
We were gathered in a beautiful conference room on the 12th floor of a Washington office building. We sat at a large table, our laptops arrayed around us. I was positioned strategically at the table's head. It was mid-morning. A colleague stood to my right briefing upcoming plans. He was intent, serious. His message was important. My trusty green 1-quart Stanley thermos sat nearby on the table. As the planning session droned on, I picked up my thermos, curious whether I had any coffee left. I was fairly certain I had finished my daily allotment, but I wanted to make sure. I knew I had just drained the last of my home brew from the thermos top that served as my cup. But if there was more coffee in the thermos, I would take it. My thermos seemed empty. I shook it vigorously to confirm. Nope. No coffee. I gave a small, inaudible sigh. A bit more coffee sure would have made the morning go faster.
As I held the thermos upright in my lap, I looked ruefully at the thermos top sitting on the table, picked it up with absolute, unequivocal, 100 percent moral certainty it was empty, inverted it, and went to screw it in place.
Sploosh!
An inch of coffee dumped in my lap. Not only that... it was hot. I jumped up, interrupting the proceedings. Of course this was the day I chose to wear khakis rather than dark suit pants so it was immediately obvious to everyone in the room that something unpleasant involving a liquid had just happened to me. Paper napkins flew in my general direction to assist, but the cotton cloth of my pants had already soaked up everything.
If I had peed my pants I could not have made a stain that looked more like I peed my pants than this stain did. I made my way to the men's room out in the corridor praying with all the fervor I could muster that no one was present in the usually busy hallway. But, no, as always, it was filled with professionals. There might as well have been a big, glowing, neon arrow pointing directly at my crotch.
See? What did I tell you?
Bonehead.
K-
When Christmas dinner consists of homemade chicken pot pie, and you loudly announce to the house that you had better start cooking, the statement: "The first thing I've got to do is go bone the chicken." generates a lot of laughter.
(bone tr.v. - to remove the bones from.)
K-
(bone tr.v. - to remove the bones from.)
K-
Snippet of conversation between my younger son and me on the way home from York College last night:
"Can I get a haircut tomorrow? It's been a while. I really need a haircut."
"Sure. But your hair looks OK to me."
"But I've got this mullet-thing going in the back. It's starting to annoy me."
I suppose he could always take up hockey.
K-
"Can I get a haircut tomorrow? It's been a while. I really need a haircut."
"Sure. But your hair looks OK to me."
"But I've got this mullet-thing going in the back. It's starting to annoy me."
I suppose he could always take up hockey.
K-
Yesterday one of my favorite computer programs stopped working for no apparent reason. I've used Eudora as my email client for as long as I can remember. Probably 10 years, likely more. I've never had any problem with it either at home or at work. It gets mail. It sends mail. Eudora isn't flashy. It does exactly what it needs to without doing anything superfluous.
I love it. It's just like me.
But for reasons still unclear to me, Eudora on my work PC decided it would no longer send messages. It would retrieve them, it would queue them, but it wouldn't send them. Eudora kept giving me a "550 Authentication Required" error whenever I hit the "send" button. I don't know if it was my ISP or me that changed, but sending email from work was dead in the water.
I did the usual computer repairman thing. I tried this; I tried that; poked this; poked that, blindly hoping some random change would fix things. Nothing worked. I went as far as installing Thunderbird, which worked fine, just to prove an email client still worked for me.
Late today, after what I figured to be a few, final, probably futile, rounds of Googling help for Eudora, a forum on some obscure website suggested I add this one statement to my eudora.ini file that I did not need before:
SMTPAuthBanished=CRAM-MD5
I didn't know what it meant. I was grasping at straws. I cut. I pasted. I saved. I hit send.
Badda-boom, badda-bing, all my queued email went sailing on its way, all of them, maybe a hundred, each titled something like "Test", "Another Test", "Yet Another Test", "Still Yet Another Test", "Still Yet One More Test", and "This is Absolutely the Last Test." Changing that one setting caused Eudora to spew forth test email like projectile vomit to everyone I knew. You'll probably get one.
No need to reply.
K-
I love it. It's just like me.
But for reasons still unclear to me, Eudora on my work PC decided it would no longer send messages. It would retrieve them, it would queue them, but it wouldn't send them. Eudora kept giving me a "550 Authentication Required" error whenever I hit the "send" button. I don't know if it was my ISP or me that changed, but sending email from work was dead in the water.
I did the usual computer repairman thing. I tried this; I tried that; poked this; poked that, blindly hoping some random change would fix things. Nothing worked. I went as far as installing Thunderbird, which worked fine, just to prove an email client still worked for me.
Late today, after what I figured to be a few, final, probably futile, rounds of Googling help for Eudora, a forum on some obscure website suggested I add this one statement to my eudora.ini file that I did not need before:
SMTPAuthBanished=CRAM-MD5
I didn't know what it meant. I was grasping at straws. I cut. I pasted. I saved. I hit send.
Badda-boom, badda-bing, all my queued email went sailing on its way, all of them, maybe a hundred, each titled something like "Test", "Another Test", "Yet Another Test", "Still Yet Another Test", "Still Yet One More Test", and "This is Absolutely the Last Test." Changing that one setting caused Eudora to spew forth test email like projectile vomit to everyone I knew. You'll probably get one.
No need to reply.
K-
