What starts on Twitter makes it to Facebook and sometimes ends up here.
jagosaurus: Coworker is earnestly saving salt/pepper packets. It’s comforting to know we’ll be ready when the seasoning apocalypse comes to this floor.
c: What’s the CNN breaking news headline for this crisis: Blandgate?
jagosaurus: Heralded by a band of angels called the No Spice Girls.
c: Or Salt N Pepa
m: Is it Iodized Salt? Hafta fight Goiter.
jagosaurus: Fighting Goiter sounds like some Biblical story. Goiter rose up and slew many a fine profile. And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth and hurling of sea salt. And lo, the angel of Morton came unto them and told them to build a monument to Iodine, but it was just a big “I” and it was boring. And they hated it.
c: When did Morton go up to Mt. Cyanide to get the Ten Condiments?
jagosaurus: Around the same time God was deciding what to do about the Tower of Basil.
There used to be a small plastic cow there.
But I decided this had greater potential for pain and distance. I mean, I’m no expert but I think getting hit in the side of the head with a small but dense brain would sting and maybe leave a mark.
Charmingly chubby
jagosaurus: Check this out.
trasherati: HOLY FUCK WOULD YOU WARN SOMEONE FIRST, PLEASE?
jagosaurus: :-D
trasherati: What’s with how he’s cupping/flashing his little package? Ewwww.
jagosaurus: Hahahahaha, I hadn’t even noticed the cuppage.
trasherati: He looks like a little seedy baby hobo in an alleyway.
jagosaurus: One of those cartoon non-babies.
trasherati: A bitty baby drunk in NYC.
jagosaurus: Wearing a bunny hat and a look of disgust casting about for some gin…in a sippy cup.
trasherati: Just peed himself and is soliciting strangers walking by for a blowjob.
jagosaurus: EWWWWWWW. You win.
trasherati: I win everything.
jagosaurus: True.
trasherati: Ooh, better one: he’s a baby derelict who just wandered, drunk, into the free clinic: “Doc, *hic* lookat dis – it keeps spreading.”
jagosaurus: Hahahahahahahahahahaha, and ew.
trasherati: HEAVY DEMAND.
jagosaurus: Enjoy a gallery’s worth of gorgeous baby “portraits” with attitude to spare. EACH DOLL IS ANATOMICALLY CORRECT.
trasherati: This is so disturbing. Not only the images, but the ad copy is just…off.
jagosaurus: You think?
trasherati: “Each blanket is imprinted with a sentiment that is sure to make you smile.” Only if they use my free clinic line.
jagosaurus: CHARMINGLY CHUBBY? Hi, my name is Jane, and I am charmingly chubby.
trasherati: Chuu–uuuu—by.
jagosaurus: LILFAT.
trasherati: Hahahahahhhahahaha! That’s his street name!
Low hanging
Jagosaurus: The “fruit of the discussion?” Ew.
Trasherati: Who said that?
Jagosaurus: [Redacted]
Trasherati: Dude. Seriously.
Jagosaurus: Specifically, he looks forward to “hearing the fruit.” Does he know fruit doesn’t talk?
Jagosaurus: Or sing.
Jagosaurus: Or make clicking sounds.
Trasherati: Maybe it talks to him.
Jagosaurus: That would explain a lot.
Jagosaurus: [Redacted]: The Fruit Whisperer
Trasherati: He hears singing fruit.
Trasherati: He speaks fruity.
Trasherati: Fruit-E.
Jagosaurus: That’s his street name.
Inexplicable, thy name is vanity
I really cannot stand vanity plates. They are almost never as clever as believed by their proud owners, and the contorted spellings kill me. A long-standing favorite of this variety is the one I saw several years ago at an educational institution that said ME TEECH.
The only vanity plate I have ever seen that I have ever liked to any degree is one that somehow made it through the system even though it says OMG WTF.
This weekend I saw one that I just plain do not understand: OBAMA44. Of course I understand what it means, but it wasn’t driven by one of the Obamas, so what, I ask you, the hell? Look, it’s fine to love your president-elect, just don’t looooove your president-elect, okay?
Got what?
The Got Milk? campaign started in 1993. Multiple variations on that theme have been used for many different campaigns and purposes. I thought that perhaps this trend had finally run its course when PETA launched their Got Beer? campaign on college campuses back in 2000, but I was sadly wrong.
Saturday, there was the Walk Now for Autism event in DC and I saw a whole bunch of folks there in their various team shirts. One of these shirts had white letters on black, with the same typeface as the original campaign, and it said…oh, yes it did…Got Autism?
Lonely teardrops
jagosaurus: I wish I’d saved the message I got today from T.
trasherati: About what?
jagosaurus: Today is the Halloween thingy here at the office and–
trasherati: That’s today!? And me without candy.
jagosaurus: Anyway. She asked me if I was available to fill in for her and
draw on the kids faces. She can’t do it because she’s got some appointments
or something.
trasherati: …what?
jagosaurus: Well, she was hoping I’d signed up to help and that I could
step in and do this for her since she’d heard my personality was so much
like yours…
trasherati: (while laughing at the thought of jag being left alone in a
room with face paint and small children) Which means I…like to draw on
kids faces?
jagosaurus: Well, you have kids and you’re good with people. …And you
like to draw on kids faces.
trasherati: Yeah, I’m good with grown people. Not kids. Besides my kids, I
mean.
jagosaurus: Bullshit. You’re personable and sociable with everyone.
trasherati: What made her think I’d want to do this? That YOU’D want to do
this?
jagosaurus: What makes her think I wouldn’t show up with a Sharpie?
trasherati: Yeah, you would. I’d just draw a smiley face and tell ‘em to
run along. I don’t have time for whiskers and shit. Maybe I’d give ‘em all
prison tattoos. “I don’t care if you want to be Tigger, you’re getting a
prison tattoo so shut up.”
jagosaurus: I’d probably just draw little black teardrops.
trasherati: Or write “Tito’s Bitch” on their little foreheads or “LOVE” on
one cheek and “HATE” on the other.
jagosaurus: Don’t forget the teardrops.
trasherati: Definitely teardrops. And then we’d shave their heads.
jagosaurus: What about THUG LIFE?
trasherati: We are going to hell.
Primate behavior: a case study (updated)
Young male primates amuse me. They are, to me, the most entertaining of the primates to observe because they spend so much energy crafting their body language and are so completely not in control of the message it actually sends. When one tries to communicate that he is confident and relaxed, he communicates that he is trying to communicate that he is confident and relaxed.
There are plenty of alpha wannabes swaggering around the workplace trying to assert their faux alpha-ness, but they don’t interest me right now. A coworker on my team at work is my current focus, mainly because I am required to interact with him and he does not want to interact with me. It isn’t personal; he doesn’t dislike me. He just senses (rightly) that I am indifferent to the status he wants to claim. A lifetime of experiences informs me this is intolerable. And guess what? I still don’t care.
He did something today that would be more easily explained with a diagram, but I’m too lazy to provide it so I’ll try to describe the scene. Imagine you are him and you enter a small conference room that is filled mostly with a long oval table. You come into the room and see person #1 siting on your side of the table up at one end. You see two people sitting on the other side, person #2 is at the end across from person #1 and person #3 sitting three seats down from person #2.
1. Where do you decided you need to sit?
Keep the following in mind:
- no one else is joining the meeting
- there are no chairs at the head of the table (I mention this so you can go ahead and throw that option out)
- person #2 is your supervisor
- yours truly is person #3
2. How do you behave (physically) once you’ve picked your seat?
Bonus question: How impressed is person #3 by your behavior? Read more
VP debate analysis
Trasherati: My husband commented that Palin was “feisty.” I threatened divorce if he ever used that term again, anywhere, about anyone.
Jagosaurus: Ew. Yeah.
Trasherati: Fucking “feisty?” Who says that? Honestly.
Jagosaurus: Men say that: “I bet’s she’s feisty in bed too,” they think.
Jagosaurus: (originally typed “fisty” which is completely different)
Trasherati: Tear off the glasses, let down the upsweep…
Jagosaurus: Heh.
Trasherati: FISTY!!!!! SHE’S FISTY.
Jagosaurus: Fisty is her street name.
Trasherati: Her stripper name.
Jagosaurus: Fisty P.
Jagosaurus: I called her “Folksy Lady” on twitter last night but no one got it. Should’ve added more lyrics from the song I guess: “You’ve got to be all mine, all mine. Ooh, folksy lady.”
Jagosaurus: She’s not dumb. I’ll give her that.
Trasherati: I think he had more data but she didn’t come across as an idiot.
Jagosaurus: She is poised. Not articulate, but poised. And shiny!
Trasherati: Fisty!
Jagosaurus: She’s fisty and shiny.
Trasherati: Man, I’m going to enjoy my time in hell with you.
Jagosaurus: Me too.
Trasherati: Squee!
Jagosaurus: Because we’re FISTY.
Trasherati: Hell, yeah.
