I am Offended by Your Offense

Your love is like  deep fried pickle peanut butter

Porsche and BMW are working on integrating AI into their driving systems.

This project will take much longer than expected, when they discover how hard it is to teach computers to drive like assholes.

Today I identify as  a Tesla driver assist driver: I'm in the trunk

You know, I've been uneasy for years. No, not that way. Uneasy because the whole world is offended by something or other, but very little offends me (except houndstooth). I searched the ends of the earth for something that would sufficiently offend me, but the only thing I came up with is that there's no Left Handed History Month. Unfortunately we cannot generate enough guilt to get anything from it, so I remain unoffended.

Then it hit me: I *am* offended by something. It was so close I couldn't see it. I am offended by your offense! Whenever someone, like SJWs, starts whining and getting offended, I am offended by it! I feel like a true citizen of the world now. The only thing I haven't done is sued anybody. If I don't get on this, I might lose my American citizenship, even though I was born here.

TIME 

Sometimes it's a song by Pink Floyd (a 1920s gay gangster). 

Or a song by the Alan Parsons Project (that could bore you to a slow, lingering death). 

It could be time for a change.

Time for napping.

Time for ice cream.

Time for boom-boom!

Time goes on (or so they say).

When it's feeling way too organized, time marches on.

Time screams when you wake up 5 minutes before the alarm.

Sometimes time stampedes, like a particularly deadly Who concert in Ohio.

If you're waiting for your paycheck or a hot date, time crawls.

If the IRS is involved, there is no time.

But the absolute longest period of time is when you're waiting for quitting time at work.

Honey, I'm feeling frisky - let's go get naked.

I can't.

Why not?

The battery in the phone is low and we won't be able to video ourselves.

Oh. Good night then.

Good night.

I am writing today from the hospital. Don't worry - I have a few posts in the can so no one will miss out.

Why am I in the hospital? Why did you ask? You didn't?

It goes like this: as you know, I was one of the kids who couldn't shut up in class. It did not translate well to (alleged) adulthood, nor did the meds work. So I don't always read the whole sentence. Or even more than a word or 2. It bit me this morning. My coffee creamer has this nice blue container, from which comes the french vanilla goodness that helps the morning get started. As it turns out, Carnation also uses this shade of blue on another flavor: coconut cream. Guess what I did? Guess how long it took the ambulance to arrive? They came faster when I said 'coconut'. 

At first the emergency room docs didn't think I was going to make it. It was the worst case of coconut creamer they had ever seen. I begged them to try harder - ThermionicEmissions must go on!  It turned out some of them are readers, so I lived. It's a good thing I got poisoned when I did... if it happened an hour earlier, I'd have gotten the doctor who tried to read ThermionicEmissions but hated it. I'd have died in the E/R.  So I just have to rest for a few weeks. The doctors told me I am not even to read the word 'coconut' or I could suffer a relapse. Oops.

Know what would be bad?

Being an astronaut and going to Mars, then finding out you've been fired. Or there's no money in the budget to get you back to Earth because NASA administrators bought an island for themselves. It's ok, though; you just found out you could grow Brussels sprouts in the Martian soil.

Headline: First Suicides on Mars

Those telehealth appointments... I don't like them. I don't necessarily need to see my doctor in person - he's not my type, but what's really embarrassing are the rectal exams.

MOW 

If you've read any of this blog, you know I like to mow about as much as Jews like nazis. What's worse is that the fscking grass grows back in a week. Correction: the weeds grow back. Whatever they are, they grow like weeds... well... you get the point. This sets off  my Mowing PTSD, as well as Wife's terror that the neighbors will see the weeds getting so high, they hide the dog. I will not mow weekly and have a doctor's note to that effect. I also have a doctor's note so I don't have to use iDevices at work. but that didn't go so well. So We settled on every 2 weeks. Or rather, SHE settled on every 2 weeks. I fight tooth and nail to avoid it. Then she threatens to withhold things... like cooking and shopping and laundry. So I run out of excuses and have to mow.

She purchased some sort of industrial blue electric mowing thing for me. When I say 'for me,' it  makes me nervous and pissed. I want her to purchase guitars for me, not a fscking mower. Blue is nice, but it does nothing to change the fact that it's a mower. It's electric, so it makes me feel good that I'm not causing a hole above the house, even though the electricity to charge it way offsets the gain from not using gasoline. Regular mowers use those 12v or 24v batteries. Because this is a mower that can do a football field, it uses 48volts.  That's a lot of responsibility, especially for someone who hates mowers like the pope hates the rest of humanity. Oh yeah, it also has a Blue Lever<tm>. Being the curious sort, I pulled the Blue Lever<tm> and the mower SHOT FORWARD on its own, nearly mowing down the shed and a few smaller children. There are so many children around, I figure no one will miss a few. The problem here, aside from me having to use the infernal device, is that it will go, but will not go by itself, so I can sit on the sofa in peace. Or pieces, depending on how much grass I temporarily knock down mow.

There are robo-mowers, like those stupid robo house vacuums, but the yard is so weird, it will burn out its own cpu just thinking about it. So I need to stand behind and move with the fscker. Being smart (the mower, not me) it won't start if it's on tall grass. This caused a bit of Language before I figured it out. The robo feature is actually kinda cool, especially going up hills. Wife was most impressed. Because it is a robo, it undoubtedly cost waaaay more than it should have, but she 'got it on sale.'  I'm only slightly aware of how this works... a plain old mower might be $200. A riding mower would be a few mortgage payments. A robo-mower might have been $500, but she got it on 'sale,' meaning $400. So because of the 'sale,' we spent $400 instead of $200. This is some sort of Shoe Logic<tm>, by which she purchases a lot of shoes because they were 'on sale.' Like all husbands, I try to explain that 'on sale' does not mean 'saving money,' it means paying less (or more, in her case). 

So I mowed.

Ugh.

I remembered something the doctor said, when he was giving me no-iDevice notes: most heart attacks come when (from) shoveling snow, because people overdo it. Mowing is just the summer equivalent of shoveling snow. People who make a life sitting on the couch should not progress directly to shoveling (or, heaven forbid, mowing). There should be some sort of intermediate activity, like standing and walking (to the kitchen for a Yoo Hoo). Or standing, walking out the door, and sitting on the steps. One must approach this carefully, lest a heart attack (or worse, mowing) occur. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I sit. A lot. The couch has actually molded itself around my buttocks. It's comfy - a safe feeling, like Wife sitting on my lap, or a naked Hadid. So for me to actually stand, get the mower, plug in the batteries, only to find they're not charged, and scream a bit is taxing, both physically and mentally. I constantly tell Wife that she's going to be the cause of my heart attack (like most me, I guess) and will have to live with me being a vegetable, something I hate, or dead. Then who will mow the lawn? 

At least I can listen to music.

Oops, no I can't - the headphones keep falling out of the headphone jack, as mentioned earlier, so no music. It was such a small thing, listening to my tunes while doing something I like as much as President Giveaway likes taking down the debt. But I have Unrealistic Expectations, or so I'm told. 

So I mowed.

I have nothing nice to say about the experience, like everyone says after paying taxes. My mother told me "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything," then she was surprised that I did't speak til I was 19.  It's not like I'm getting older, but the mower got heavier and harder to use as I went on. After I shut it off, the drag to its resting place (not its final resting place, unfortunately) was painful and interminable. Only when I turned around did I notice why it was so painful: it had become attached to 8 feet of branches and various species of Yard Flora. If I had had to drag it another foot, Wife would have found my body the next day (or the next week), if she missed me (a real long shot). They say the Walk of Shame is the hardest thing women have to do, but the longest and most painful thing for men is the House Walk, which is the walk from the mower to the house. It may only be 20' (3 grams Canadian), but to us, it's a mile and a half of pain and sweat. It is then that you figure out why people say not to wear black in the summer. But everything I have is black. Once safely back in the house, it's 2 hours of showering with my clothes on. I have to keep my clothes on, because after 10 minutes (3 grams Canadian), the hot water runs out. And because of the shame. If I don't shower immediately, I sit there, praying to the industrial fan (she buys nothing small, but it was on sale) for an hour or two, until I stop dripping and the Yoo Hoo is gone. The whole case. Every now and then I check the heart monitor, to make sure I'm not having a Cardiac Event, as if I were shoveling snow (or mowing). My last Cardiac Event was catered, and people are still talking about it.

So that's it (for another 2 weeks) -(3 grams Canadian).

Apropos of nothing, I finally bought myself a Christmas present. One I could use. Something cheap. A nose hair trimmer. It's the most useful (and fascinating) thing I've gotten in years. It started out as a joke for my BFF, who's older than me. But it actually works. I turn it on, start sawing away, enjoy the noise and smoke, and spend most of my time wondering where the tiny little hairs go after they get reduced in length. I'm very easily amused, if you couldn't tell.

• If you need to feel old for some reason, adult star Gauge is 41.

Ten Years Gone 

My favorite Led Zeppelin song.

Robert Plant said it was written to remind you to love someone because they could be gone at any time.

At this point, it's over 15 years since you left.

We were all shocked beyond belief.

It was your favorite song to try to play on the guitar. You'd play it over and over (and over), annoying the hell out of your friends and anyone who happened to be within range. To your credit, it's not a very easy song to play, and you'd keep at it til you had it down.

We still think of you all the time. I feel terrible I was out of touch- like that would have made any difference. I hope, in whatever way, we meet again.

- Ten Years Gone, Holdin' On, Singing Songs

This burger continues to have no burger

Last week or so, I wrote up yet another Fast Food Screed, after a Fast Food Fsck at Wendy's.

Wife says bacon cheeseburger with nothing but pickles. 

I got a bacon cheeseburger with everything, including MAYONNAISE. Not only does NOTHING BUT PICKLES mean no mayonnaise, but there should NEVER be mayonnaise on my burger (you do whatever you want). To put the cherry on the burger, the pickles were wrong. Every single pickle I have ever had on a burger was the same - a sweet-ish pickle. This particular pickle was sour-ish. Not only do they have different pickles than every other burger joint, they have different pickles than every other Wendy's.

The pickles were symbolic. Really? Yes, symbolic of the service we get everywhere we go.

One of the problems is that you have to hire adults or children with a great work ethic. Neither of these are available in my area, so they hire kids with whatever psychological disorder that makes people screw up everything you tell them. Occam's Razor (the simplest answer is usually the right one) would identify this as stupidity, not a psych disorder. So old Occam knows these stores aren't paying much and are hiring blithering idiots. 

But wait.... we're not done.

She came home with 2 large sodas. Oh dear, they taste like poop - what are they?

Coke is on strike. WHAT?

Yeah, Coke is on strike.

Why?

Because they have unions. They are the cause of all strikes.

Good point.

So they only had the dregs left - the Coke that nobody drinks: cherry and vanilla.

ACK! I love vanilla, but not in my Coke.

I'm starting to wonder if there's any point in going back to Wendy's - the only fast food I can tolerate.

Or any place that sells things.

I suppose I could saunter in with a gun. I wonder if, seeing this, their accuracy would improve. 

Nah.

It's not like I want to rob the place. I just want what I ordered. I know, I know... ridiculously high expectations that could never be met.

Go ahead and ask the question I didn't..... YES, her order was 100% correct. Only mine was out in space, having been hit with the Stupid Ray<tm>.

As we ate the (alleged) burgers, Wife looked at me and said, "You're composing the blog in your head, aren't you?"  She gets me.