Friday, January 12, 2007

Choosing the Right Excuse

So, I realized today at about 1:30pm that my fly was open.

I hadn't been to the restroom since I'd arrived at work. Now I'm a little paranoid and trying to figure out two things.

One - How long has my fly been open?

Two - Who has seen me today?

I haven't noticed a large number of stares toward my penial region which is both comforting and at the same time a bit of an ego burst.

At this point I can only sit back and wait for a plethora of phone calls inquiring about my knowledge of MIT's sexual harrassment policies or about two dozen snickering faces aimed in my general direction for the next week or so.

In order to console myself over this matter I've decided to come up with a few simple fall-backs, both for myself and for the prosecuting attorney while I'm attempting to retain my employment status in the state of Massachusetts.

The scientific anomaly approach:

"Well, I suppose it slipped down with the force of gravity."

The common-sense approach:

"I must have caught it on something..."

The pig-headed male approach:

"I figured it was a Friday, the ladies in the library deserved a treat." *cheesy wink*

The I didn't know any better approach:

"I'm from Iowa...we just got pants, zippers are so confusing."

The it could have been worse approach:

"Come on, at least I didn't wander in with a machine gun and start popping off rounds!!"

The logical approach:

"Whoops, my bad."

Any suggestions and/or comments regarding my quandry would be greatly appreciated. And remember if you, or anyone you love is caught with their fly down, it's important to have a plan to make sure everyone makes it out safely....wait, that's a fire escape plan. Nevermind.

I guess the real moral here has nothing to do with your loved ones and everything to do with keeping your junk hidden from the elements....and, most importantly, your coworkers.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Game Over

It’s officially over.

My torrid obsession with Britney Spears is finally over with for good.

As many of you know, I once had a thing for Ms. Spears that could best be defined as “psychotic and delusional.” But those days are officially over.

I was willing to look past the whole marriage to trailer trash thing and the whole two babies thing and the entire reality TV debacle, but now…now Britney you’ve gone too far.

Sure Britney managed to bounce back to her once super-hottie form following the divorce from K-Fed (I feel shamed even giving him a “celebrity” nickname). Her surprise appearance on the Late Show with David Letterman gave a slim ray of hope to all of those who have followed Britney’s saga the past three years. She appeared all hottied out and made it appear that she was back to her jubilant, bouncy, Southern-fried self.

Then came her evening on the town with Paris and Lindsey.


Honestly, Britney what the hell were you thinking? Stage one of any “Image Recovery Plan” is stay the hell away from Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan. The only thing that could have made the night worse would have been a surprise appearance from Carrot Top to reveal he was actually the father of Britney’s future therapy cases.

The second I saw the tabloid photos of Britney rolling with the reigning queens of Skandom, I knew that was it. Now I’ve claimed for years (ie: since K-Fed) that I was done with Britney, but come on…every man was still pining for her. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard this conversation in a bar, even post K-Fed.

“Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much, you?”
“So you think Britney will pose for Playboy to get some cash?”
“God…I hope so!”
“Yeah, I’ll have to keep that one from my wife!”
“Hell, I’d have to divorce my wife.”
“Yeah…hahahahahahaha…how ‘bout them Pats?”
“Fuck the Yankees!”

If I had a nickel for every time I’d heard this conversation I’d be sitting behind home plate at Fenway this season.

So I know what you’re asking yourself. How could you still have a thing—albeit minuscule—for Britney during the entire K-Fed/babies fiasco, but now that she’s rolling with a couple of late-night bar rats she’s not good enough?

It’s this simple—I hate Paris Hilton. If I could wipe three people off the earth Ms. Hilton would come in a close second behind Carrot Top and the third spot would probably be reserved for whichever athlete has most recently hurt my fantasy team—or—Carrot Top a second time, just for the sport of it.

Back in the day Britney essentially was Paris Hilton, but not with all of the bullshit that accompanies it. Britney was hot, bubbly and offered miniscule talent and that was about it. Her real claim to fame was that she was a tease and men from age twelve to 112 fawned over her, all begging for the day when she’d “turn legal.” (You may recall this same excitement for the Olson Twins 18th birthday—I know every male remembers the ensuing disappointment.)

I liked Britney as a hot tease, but now…now she’s rolling with Paris and don’t get me wrong Paris is also a tease, the difference is…she’s not hot, not at all. I’m not normally one to pounce on someone for something like this but come on folks, how is she hot at all? She can’t open her eyes all the way and her beak makes Owen Wilson’s nose look straight as an arrow. She doesn’t even have any sort of feigned talent and I can’t avoid her no matter how hard I try. I turn on my computer—Paris. I open a magazine—Paris. I flip on the news—Paris.

Paris already ruined Lindsey Lohan. I thought Lindsey Lohan was pretty hot and a decent actress given the movies she was in. Heck, I loved Mean Girls…yeah, I went there. Then Ms. Lohan went on one of those, “I don’t want to be a teeny-bopper” rampages that ended with a crash course in the night life via Paris and look what happened to her. The same bullshit that happened to Tara Reid before her and anyone who remembers American Pie or Van Wilder can remember when Tara Reid wasn’t deemed a sluttamusmaximus.

Basically here’s how it is. Paris Hilton is ruining hotties left and right. I don’t know if maybe she’s some sort of super villain sent in to destroy the images of all women hotter than her or if she’s just a walking virus (think about that one, it works on two levels) to every late night buddy she brings into the fold…either way she’s already ruined two hotties and now she’s taken Britney to the dark-side as well.

Paris Hilton needs to be stopped before she ruins another perfectly good hottie, marginally talented hottie.*

* Mischa Barton, Jessica Biel, Hilary Duff and Jessica Alba…this means you!!

Hungry, Hungry Hippo...

So there I was.

I was sitting in my cube at work and it was about 3:26…maybe 3:28 but I don’t want to make this sound too outlandish, so we’ll stick with 3:26. Anywho, there I am thinking about how flippin’ hungry I am, right. We’ve all been there. You’re just hanging out staring blankly off into space with low gurgling noises coming from your somewhere deep in your guttural region.

Well that was me. Imagine me in some sort of haze staring at a picture of a sailboat I have taped to my computer. Are you picturing it? I know I am. Anyway…so there I am staring at the sailboat and it hits me like a dead-beat foster parent…right across the face with a frozen lamb-chop and three little words come trickling into my head like water from a stream in the spring…or urine from an old man’s prostate.

It was slow, steady, deliberate and with purpose…




That’s right, Mickey-D’s baby! I don’t know why. I don’t know what brought it up.

Maybe somewhere deep in the back of my subconscious I was associating Johnny Depp’s “Pirates” franchise with one of the many companies that will undoubtedly prostitute itself for the rights to plaster his mascara covered face all over cups, bags, burger wrappers and everything in between later this summer. Yeah, that makes sense or perhaps I just pictured our ancestors floating across the Atlantic (or Pacific depending on who’s reading this) and arriving in America full of vigor and enthusiasm for a new life, only to find themselves flipping burgers at Ye’ Old Mickey-D’s for the rich Puritan mofos who had enslaved them.

Either way, there it was deep in my carnal desire…McRib. McRib. McRib. McRib. McRib. McRib…it was some sort of creepy cult-like chant within me and it began drawing stares from the other cubes. So I tried to calm it by thinking of things that rob my appetite like Carrot Top, Paris Hilton or Jerry Klein’s Christmas decorations. For a few moments there was peace, both in my guts and in the shared, clandestine work space that is the library support staff offices.

I immediately went online with a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe McDonald’s had chosen today January 9, 2007 to be the day the McRib returns to the menu full-time. No such luck. Instead as it turns out there are numerous websites all eerily dedicated to the McRib, which honestly, frightened me enough to close Google and proceed directly to the McDonald’s online menu, on the way, however, I ran into an option which allows a person to check the nutrition facts of a meal at McDonald’s.

This is where I should have turned off the computer and left, but I thought to myself. “This could be interesting…I wonder what my meal would look.”

This…this right here is what it looked like…

I don’t know about you, but I think I just had a McStroke. I was waiting for Ronald to give me a direct phone call and be like “Come on brother, you’ve got so much to live for…just lay off this shit!” But there was no call from my red-haired friend. Instead, for some ungodly reason, there was an overwhelming desire to go to McDonalds and eat the entire gluttonous meal that I’d just learned could kill an adult camel in one sitting.

It was the same McUrge I felt running through my body at the end of Super-Size me when I turned to Tricia and Grace and said…“Man, I could really go for a double-cheeseburger!”

I logged off my computer, grabbed my coat and bolted for the door and let my stomach lead me to the dirty, dirty McSinful Bliss.

I ate it. I ate all of it.

…I think I hate myself.

So does my gallbladder