Friday, September 28, 2007

More stuff that can kill you

Amoeba Eats Boy's Brain

Holy crap. I will think about this and obsess over it every time I go swimming/take a bath/drink a glass of water. I think we're all hypochondriacs when it comes to things that eat your brain.

The thing that scares me most is that this isn't even a parasite. It is just regular ol' amoeba swimming around eating algae until you go into his house and stir shit up. Now you got a pissed off amoeba, and apparently when you eat algae all day, a bowl of grey matter looks extra yummy.

It reminds me of that old schoolyard joke:

You (as you are rubbing the victim's scalp): Guess what this is?
Victim: What?
You: A brain-eating amoeba. Guess what it's doing?
Victim: What?
You: Starving
Victim: You butt-face.

Oh well, better dumb than dead, I suppose.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Atlantic City, Day Two

Endowed with an incredible talent that allows me to rise before eight no matter how late I stay up, I awoke on Day Two in the AC long before my buddies had any intention of getting up.

After a rousing Continental breakfast of mini bagels and corn flakes, I sat around and watched Legion of Super Friends while I waited for everyone to get up. The last statement would have embarrassed me, but Superfriends is actually a cartoon with some pretty good production values. I recommend it to any eight-year old.

We spent the day at Caesar's Palace, Bally's, the Tropicana, and the Hilton. I avoided the table games because $15 was the minimum bet, and I watched one guy lose six hands of blackjack in about the time it took him to reach in his wallet and pull out another 100. $15 can buy me two and a half burritos. I guess you have to realize what really makes you happy.

When I wasn't watching crazy Asians dropping $1000 on a table and losing it all, I was wandering around the casinos. At one point I watched a young girl throw a quarter into a fountain. Her mother promptly puller her away and told her not to waste her money. I doubt that little girl had ever heard of irony, but the look on her face said "You have got to be kidding me." The odds of a wishing well has got to be better than an Atlantic City slot machine.

The Happy Dark Side of Cold Medicine

My God, I think I'm drunk at work.

My head is bobbing like a cork, I'm dizzy, and I cannot for the life of me focus on anything that is not exactly 14 inches from my face. A Far Side cartoon I saved from January 15 is giving me the giggles. Hee hee.

How did this happen? Was it the bottle of Jack Daniels in my desk drawer? No, not quite. I have a slight head cold that is not severe enough to keep me home but just mischievous enough to be an incessant pain in the ass. I took some Tylenol this morning before I left for work, then I took some cold/sinus pills when I got in, and I just recently took a liberal swig of some truly excellent Navy Exchange brand coff--coff? my God, my drug-addled brain spells fonetically--cough medicine.

Thank God it is lunch break. I can sit here quietly and pray fervently that no one asks me to do anything thought-intensive, like blinking. I should be worried about this, but, to be honest, nothing really bothers me right now. I could be missing a foot and I wouldn't notice for at least forty-five minutes. Ahh, acetaminophen dreams and menthol wishes... At least I'm not coughing.

I'm going to go now and concentrate on not embarrassing myself over the course of the next hour. I'll be back when I'm sober.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Atlantic City, Day One

Day One of our little excursion to the AC consisted mainly of driving. Fortunately, I didn't have to drive. Unfortunately, I had nothing to do for the six-hour trip. The Northeast is fascinating for its population density of six thousand people per square foot but its total lack of decent roads. We didn't drive on one mile of interstate highway but we drove on three dozen Main Streets, passed seventeen general stores and waited through 4,539 red lights. It is amazing. I can drive from Los Angeles to Louisiana on one road for free, but to drive three hundred miles to Atlantic City costs $18.00 and the speed limit rarely exceeds 50 mph.

Upon our arrival in the AC we checked into our hotel. At the bargain basement rate of $112.00 (including military discount) we got a bed that was only 50% covered in hooker spit. A good deal, according to AAA and most reputable travel magazines. We immediately called a cab and departed for the boardwalk, which, is like The Strip, but...not.

We spent the evening at the Trump Taj Mahal. It was actually a little disappointing. Not your Bellagio. I'm all about the fountain show. And they skimped on free drinks, even though I got an official Trump One card and sat at a slot machine for an hour (winning, by the way, and impressive $13.25). They had one bar where two girls danced on a platform and a domestic beer costs $6.00. No TVs. That is a load of crap.

At about 2:30 (in the morning...groan) we crawled back into a cab and headed back to the hotel. No one was buzzed because we were all too cheap to drink at that price, everyone was tired, but on the plus side, no one was broke quite yet.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Atlantic City

I am going to Atlantic City tomorrow.

Having gambled a total of $17.50 in my life, I am slightly nervous. The five other guys I am going with have probably lost enough money between them to purchase a small Korean-made vehicle. One guy casually lost $500 in the span of an hour. I can't compete with that.

Until I heard this, my entire plan for the weekend was to sit at the slots, drink free beer, and eat buffets. I might watch a football game and put five dollars on the line. I'm not even sure what "the line" means.

So, the night before I let my hair down I am watching poker and playing online poker while writing about poker. And when I say playing online poker, I say so liberally. I play with fake money. I just flopped sixes over threes with a king kicker (am I saying that right?), but a six-year old got a set of nines on the river. Here is the gist of our conversation:

bryman84: nh
wheelieboy98: thx, I got lucky
bryman84: yeah u did, asshole

I admit the last comment was a little harsh, but the kid was being a little bastard with his aggressive betting, and besides, you can't be nice to kids anywhere lest someone think you are one of those To Catch A Predator-type people. Oh, and in case you didn't know, "nh" means "nice hand." Yeah, I know all the lingo now.

Overall, my half hour of poker playing and forty-five minutes of World Poker Tour should more than qualify me to lose money in Atlantic City. I just hope all the nickel slots aren't taken.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Nine Eleven

Today I am spending September 11 at home, partly because today seems like a bad day to spend on any government installation, but mostly because they screwed me out of a day of leave back in July and today is the only day that I don't have meetings or PT or other nonbreakable commitments for the next seven months. So here I am, at home, while the rest of the world is toiling away. Losers.

Sitting here through Seinfeld reruns it dawned on me. What would have happened if the terrorists crashed their planes on July 11th? 7-11 and the entire Slurpee establishment would have been so screwed...

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Professional Sign Spinners

Local news hit its heyday back in the 1970s, back when news channels were still locally owned, civic pride was more than a quaint idea, and the general populace was too naive/stoned to care if the anchors on their favorite channel were blatantly insulting them, as long as they did with a smile and a quirky catch phrase. Think Ron Burgundy.

Nowadays, the local news exists largely in the realm of the obscure, like squirrels outlandishly decked out in this season's patriotic rodent couture or the latest in a series of macaroni sculptures lampooning the most comical-looking, non-minority local political figure.

However, after the nightly Health Watch (pulled directly from msnbc.com) but before the Weather Outlook (also pulled directly from msnbc.com), news outlets, conscious of their affiliation with their multinational parent corporations, attempt to connect with their viewers with a little bit of local color. While this saccharin segment usually features a church play with questionable production values but an identifiable moral theme, every now and then these segments will show a tournament for a minor and until-just-now-unheard-of sport.

Tonight the sport was sign spinning.

You know, those signs people spin on street corners to advertise the latest store liquidation sales? Apparently it has gone competitive. And because these people get paid for spinning signs, it can actually be considered a professional sport.

Until this evening, I sincerely believed that this was a career path generally reserved for, um, the domiciliarily challenged. (Note the Italics. This reflects the sensitivity of the matter. It is akin to the way white people say black people when it is possible that black people could be within the same congressional district at that given moment.)

I don't feel guilty for making this assumption, and you know you have, too. I mean, look at the facts:

1. Stores that advertise with spinning signs, are, often by their own admission, failing. They are going out of business, liquidating inventory, filing for bankruptcy, etc. They obviously don't have that much money to throw around on extra employees. Honestly, what successful business advertises with spinning signs? When have you ever been driving through town and said, "Oh honey! Look at the seductive way that sign is waving. Boy, if an establishment can afford a sign waver that good, they don't even need my business. Adjustable rate mortgages?? With that low introductory rate, how could we lose?!"

2. Homeless people--Italics, for some reason, only apply to the term, domiciliarily challenged. Don't ask me. I don't make the rules--already spend a lot of time outdoors, and already work for the bargain basement rate of one windshield cleaning per Subway coupon. If p, then q....

But, incredulously, sign spinners are professionals (Italics for disbelief, not sensitivity) who get together to compete regularly. And after watching thirty seconds, I am fairly impressed. I kinda want to buy that timeshare in the Shenandoah Valley.

In addition to my new ski lodge (three days a year, nonconsecutive), I came away from the experience with a strong parallel to another "sport" near and dear to my heart: competitive marching band. Because, as every underdeveloped, asthmatic band geek will tell you, the real athletes play at halftime. Right.

But I was in marching band for four years, and sign spinning looks awfully like the band auxiliary. (In band-ese, "auxiliary" is the politically correct term for "flag team," even though, to the astute observer, the "auxiliary" is a team of girls twirling flags. But it is best not to piss off a group of thirty girls because, statistically, there is at least one of them who, on this particular day of the month, will not hesitate to beat you repeatedly and proficiently with an array of blunt objects.)

I am convinced band auxilliaries can do for competitive sign spinning what Jamaican sprinters did for Olympic bobsledding. Namely, generate enormous sponsor revenues and spawn a lucrative Disney movie deal.

However, if that doesn't pan out I know a furniture store looking for some good sign spinners. To qualify, you must be able to manipulate a five-pound laminated, arrow-shaped cardboard sign. Willingness to work for Subway coupons is a plus.