Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Seriously, What Are You?

When we are kids, we are quickly taught what certain things are, so we don't question them, and so we're not afraid of them.  One of the first things we learn about are animals.  That's a cat, that's a dog, that's a bird, so forth and so on.

Had it not been for this indoctrination, we might have found ourselves saying, "What the fuck is that?" more often than not as we lived from year to year.

Well, I find myself saying, "What the fuck is that?" now, even though I know what you supposedly are.  Walk with me people...seriously, what the fuck is a giraffe?  Really take a step back and look at a giraffe.  What is it?  Are you a horse?

Then there's the platypus.  Have you ever seen a platypus?  It looks like a duck mated with a wolverine.  And yet, we point to it and say "There's a platypus" and everyone accepts it.

I'm not even going to get on Octopi.

All I'm saying is that if you weren't told these things as children, we'd be rather freaked out by the world around us.  Chew on that next time you look at a centipede.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Cut Before Dawn

I work with a girl who I am sure is slap-stone crazy.  Her outward appearance says one thing, but the inner workings of that mind are apparent, honey.  I'll pass by her desk often and hear her talking to herself.  A simple "Hello, how are you today?"  turns into a manifesto.  The chick is nuttier than a fruitcake.

But here's the kicker:  she's efficient as hell.  She gets her work done at lightning speed and has energy to spare.  She's there almost everyday, and sometimes works from sun-up to sun-down.  This in mind, she seems to me like the type of crazy bitch that would cut you in the morning, get her son ready for school, drop him off and show up to work on time.  Not a moment is wasted, even when it comes to slicing up your punk-ass.

This is why I keep my general distance from her.  I don't ever want to end up on her list of things-to-do.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

The Seven Year Rule

They say the human body's skin cells completely replace themselves once every seven years or so.  This means that by the end of this time frame, you are essentially a completely new you.  For me, this means that if I slept with you seven years or longer ago, the shit never happened.  My vagina has been completely renovated, and there is no longer any trace of you or the seven minutes of sex we may have had.  I am so serious about this rule that I am pretty sure I could pass a lie detector test if questioned.

So, that questionable encounter from the 90s?  Gone.  That ex you wish you'd never met in the first place?  History.  That wild weekend  in Vegas?  Non-existent.  As long as it was 2006 or prior.