Irrelevant Cheetah

We had just finished dinner, and I was getting ready to throw away the bag of rice, when I noticed the labeling on the back. (Click to embiggen.)

If you can’t read that, it says “Best before 01/09. Made in Canada.” However, just below that, it says, “Uncle Ben’s Ready Rice uses premium rice grains grown in the USA.”

Now, I did some research, and the primary rice-producing states are Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Missouri and California. That means that the rice in this bag was produced in the southern part of the U.S.

And that’s where it gets ridiculous. The rice was apparently then shipped north to Canada, where it was packaged. Then it was shipped south again to the U.S. to be distributed and sold.

Am I the only one to whom this makes no sense whatsoever? Isn’t it a little bit insane to grow and harvest the rice here, and sell it here, but ship it thousands of miles north to be packaged between harvesting and selling? Even if the labor and materials are cheaper in Canada, it seems to me that the fuel costs of getting it there and back again are being transferred to us in some way, especially nowadays.

I plan to follow up on this story. This…  This is what Pulitzers are made of.

She had been studying my face intently for at least thirty seconds, so I finally shot her a sidelong glance. “Yes?”

She leaned forward. “Have you been plucking your eyebrows?”

“No. What? No! You know I haven’t used tweezers since the Salted Pork Incident. And besides, no guy tweezes his eyebrows. It’s not in the Code.”

She reached out. “Well, then you’re thinning. Here and here.”

This took me completely by surprise. I’m thinning a bit on top, but not enough to panic. However, eyebrow loss is something I wasn’t prepared for. It’s not common, after all; most men’s eyebrows just keep growing. I’m pretty sure my dad could have hidden small rodents in his.

“Great. Just great,” I sighed. “So what do I do now?”

“What do you mean? So you’re thinning a little.”

“In the eyebrows? We can’t have that! I’m supposed to keep getting bushier and bushier until you chase me around with a weed whacker!” I took a deep breath. “The way I see it, I have two options. First: I can look around for an eyebrow toupee. It’s going to be hard to match my color, and the glue will hurt, but it’s an option.”

“And the second choice?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? The comb-over.”

She recoiled as if I had offered to let her French-kiss a scorpion. “No. Absolutely not. No comb-overs in this house.” Then curiosity started to get the best of her. “How would that work, anyway? No, no, no… don’t answer that… oh, crap.”

Too late, of course – that train of thought was already puffing down the tracks. “Well, I would start training my left one to grow towards the right, and after a few months, I could just brush it this way” – I was gesturing wildly to illustrate – “and see? Nobody would know the difference! Brilliant!”

After some head-shaking and serious inquiries into my mental state, she switched topics. “You know, I’d be afraid of losing the little hairs inside my nose.”

“Really? But nobody likes nose hair. That’s why we’re always trimming and tweezing and pulling and …”

She shook her head. “But it’s a filter. Without nose hair, you inhale dust and germs and who-knows-what-else. I don’t want it to get too sparse.”

I patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, dear. If that happens, there’s an easy fix.”

“And that would be?” She spoke bravely, but I knew she was cringing inside. She knows all about asking me to expound on my ideas.

“You can just snort Rogaine, of course,” I told her. “We’ll empty the bottle of Afrin and fill it with Rogaine, and you’re set. If it works like it should, you’ll have fine, luxurious nose hair inside of six months. In fact, I might try it too. That way, if my mustache starts thinning nobody will notice.” I started muttering. “Wonder if we’ll have to buy extra conditioner…”

I really don’t think we’ll ever run out of things to talk about.

It’s Monday, and I have a song going through my head.

Oh? And what song is that? you ask. Perhaps we’ll get a glimpse into wolf’s musical tastes. Was it Madonna? Barry Manilow? Five for Fighting? Angels and Airwaves? Lifehouse?

None of the above, though all of them have at one time or another made their musical way through my synapses.

No, I woke up with freecreditreport.com running through my brain.

You know that one?

For my international readers, as well as my domestic ones who either don’t watch TV or have been lucky enough to avoid seeing these commercials, I direct you here.

Did you watch it?

Now, I ask you: is that not the most annoying, irritating, #%^&ing catchy jingle you’ve ever heard?

I swear, it works its way into your brain and insinuates itself into your daily life. You’ll be doing the dishes and find yourself humming it. And I know I’m not the only one, because doing a search for “free credit report” on YouTube brings up no less than 1,070 results. That’s over 1000 people that cared enough about the song to either upload it, or create their own version and upload that.

Jingles are supposed to be catchy; if that’s the case, I think the person who wrote freecreditreport.com should get a bonus.

Then he/she should be shot.

And if you find yourself humming it now, you’re welcome.

It’s been said that one way to increase your readership is to improve your posts. You know, give people something substantial to read – life tips and advice, quality, substantive writing, that sort of thing.
However, I’m having none of that. I’m going to use the following to boost my audience: a full-on, gratuitous booby pic. Enjoy!

What? What’s wrong?

Oh. It’s the feet, isn’t it?

You know, some people are into that.

When I was looking for a picture of Secret Squirrel for my last post, I discovered that wikipedia has an entire category titled “Fictional Squirrels.” Who knew there were that many (37) and that they needed a category? Do you think there’s a category of “Fictional Walruses?”

I haven’t written an entire, start-to-finish story since I finished my novel. I’ve started three, and another novel, but I’ve been banging my head against a wall on all of them. Makes me wonder if I can still call myself an “aspiring author.” Perhaps I should stick to writing greeting cards and warning labels. I suppose I could still call myself a writer then, eh?

Because of the 50+ spam comments I’m now getting on this-here blog, I installed a new anti-spam plugin. I don’t know if it’s working yet, but it seems to me that page loading is now slower. So I ask you, my readers: could all three of you leave a comment and let me know if it’s loading more slowly for you as well?

I’m listed on alltop.com now, though I didn’t submit myself. It’s nice to know that somebody thought well enough of this blog to submit me. What’s funny, though, is that I was originally listed in the “twentysomething” category. I had to email them and ask to be moved to the “humor” section, since not only have I not seen twenty in a few years, but all of the other “twentysomething” blogs seem to be written by disaffected young women, and I am not a young woman, disaffected though I might be. Wonder if I belong in the “humor” section, though…

I didn’t have to collect the poo. My wife did it for me.

You may remember my dog, Friday. He’s garnered some internet fame, what with a MySpace page and a published manifesto.

Well, in a fit of temporary insanity, it was decided he needed a playmate/sibling (one with fur, as opposed to the Offspring.) We don’t want him to get lonely when he’s by himself, and we figured another dog would keep him company and help him stay young, as he’s about eight years old and starting to enter his ‘senior’ years.

Enter Chloe, a really cute boxer mix, nine months old. She was a Craigslist find, and she’s been with us for a day or so, and she seems to be fitting in nicely. With the exception of having gas that could drop a rhino at fifty paces, she seems much more ladylike than Friday. Very quiet, unassuming, and obviously convinced that her looks should be enough to let her get away with anything, including jumping on all of the furniture.

But anyway, she’s a new dog, still fertile, and in need of shot records, etc. So, like all responsible pet owners, we made an appointment to get her spayed, all of her shots, an exam, the works. And one of the things the vet needs is a stool sample so they can check for parasites. The vet needs Chloe-poo.

Guess who gets to collect said poo?

Yeah, his name starts with a ‘w’ and it isn’t William Wallace or Winnie the Pooh.

And of course, now that we have two dogs, I can’t simply scout the backyard, find a candidate, and bag it. No, I have to follow the new dog around with a Ziploc bag at the ready. (For some reason, the image that comes to mind of me doing this is Secret Squirrel looking for footprints.) You see, not only do I have to make sure that it’s Chloe-poo, but it also has to be fresh.

Yes, it has to be warm and steaming.

I’ll let you digest that image for a bit.

Still with me? Good.

Not only does it need to be fresh and squishy, but the poo needs to get to the vet within twenty-four hours of… ‘deposit,’ or – get this – it needs to be refrigerated.

Yeah, I’m keeping that in my fridge.

Her appointment is Wednesday at 3:00, so if anybody needs me Wednesday morning, I’ll be in the backyard, on poo-patrol. Refrigerated samples are not available.

As I was leaving work last night, I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands. I looked into the mirror and glimpsed something out of place in my hair. With a little digging, I managed to dislodge and identify it. It was a pine needle – one that had definitely not been there before.

When I discovered it and began wondering about its origins, I first thought what any normal person would think: “Hmm. I must have been abducted by aliens, taken to an area rich in coniferous growth, probed, had my memory altered, and then brought back to the office.”

There are a few flaws in this hypothesis, however, not the least of which was that, upon further reflection, I determined that I did not have any episodes of ‘missing time.’ I had a twenty-minute span that was sort of fuzzy, but that also coincided with my boss talking to me about third quarter projections and so forth, so that could be explained away.

So, after more serious thought, I think I have discovered the only reasonable explanation for the pine needle in my hair:

I’m obviously turning into a tree.

There have been, as yet, no further symptoms, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before bark starts to grow on my fingers and I start losing the will (and ability) to move from a certain spot. I can only hope that I choose a spot that has a nice Southern exposure and decent wireless access.

I’m aware that it’s not going to be comfortable. It’s going to be hard to type, and it probably won’t be long before I start developing an irrational fear of axes and Christmas tree lights. Nevertheless, I intend to chronicle faithfully my transformation into Pinus Monticola for your amusement and edification. Please excuse any typos that will inevitably be cropping up, as I lose feeling in my limbs (ha! I said limbs!) and start dropping pinecones onto the keyboard.

And please, before you buy a Christmas tree this year, find out where it came from, would you?

So what is it about a sore eyebrow hair? Why can’t I just leave it alone? If I don’t touch it, and think about something else, it quits bothering me. So you think I’d make an extra effort to think about chimpanzees, or whipped cream, or Homer Simpson in a skirt, or something. But no, my internal dialogue goes something like this:

So which hair is sore again?

Is it this one? Or this one? Nope! There it is! OUCH! Yup, still hurts!

Now, is it this one? Or maybe this one?

…ad infinitum…

Yeah, that’s all I got. Pretty sad, I know. Good thing I’m not paid for this shit, eh?

Lynn Viehl at Paperback Writer posted this, and I just had to share. Isn’t this the most awesome example of world-building you’ve ever seen? If you’re a writer, doesn’t it just get your creative juices flowing?

Now I want to read a story or a book set there. Wonder if there are any. If there aren’t, I wonder if the artist would let me write one.

Oh, and by the way: Paperback Writer is an excellent blog by a working, hugely prolific writer. Worth checking out.

I was thinking about Superman’s origins the other day.

Specifically, I was thinking about his father. Tall…compassionate…genius…bearing a striking resemblance to Marlon Brando… As a leading scientist of Krypton, he must have been aware of the existence of hundreds – if not thousands – of alien races. He had access to technology that could store the Library of Congress on a postage stamp.

So what the hell made him choose Earth as a foster planet for his son?

I imagine it went something like this:

Lara: Oh, no, Jor-El! The planet is exploding! We have to save our son from certain doom!

Jor-El: That’s all right. I know just where to send little Kal-El. There’s this place called “Earth.”

Lara: Wait a minute. You told me about Earth. Didn’t they just crawl down from the trees? Like, less than a million years ago?

Kal-El: Well, yes, but –

Lara: And didn’t they just nail some poor guy to two sticks of wood because – and correct me if I’m wrong, here – he had the audacity to suggest that his species should quit killing each other?

Kal-El: Well, yes, but –

Lara: That’s what I thought. He’s not going. How about Beta Reticulus Prime, instead?

Kal-El: No, that’s no good. They’re a plant-based intelligence, and Kal-El is allergic to spinach.

Lara: So Epsilon Six, then.

Kal-El: Nope. The average size of an adult Epsilonian is six inches tall. He won’t fit in. Listen, Earth would be okay. It’s got a yellow sun.

Lara: Meaning?

Kal-El: He’ll be able to fly. He’ll be invulnerable. He’ll be like a god.

Lara: Didn’t the guy they nailed to a cross have some special powers, too? Fat lot of good it did him, didn’t it?

Kal-El: Look, Lara, Krypton is going to blow up any minute. We have to send him. Don’t worry – nothing will be able to harm him.

Lara: You’re sure?

Kal-El: The only thing that could possibly harm him would be if some pieces of Krypton became radioactive and managed to find their way to Earth, which is 56 gajillion miles away from here. What are the chances of that?

Lara: All right. Let’s send him. What are we going to send him in?

Kal-El: That’s the best part. See, I modified the dog’s travel carrier. He’ll hibernate the whole way there, not aging, and he’ll have enough water when he gets there!

You know, it probably wasn’t anything like that at all. Forget I said anything.