Helping you understand the siblings you never had.

I get flashes of wisdom, or thought-flashes, from time to time. Today I tried to explain what it was like having sisters, and I summed it up like this:

It's not really a deeper experience in understanding women. Due to the nature and nurture being the same, they are basically unstable, emotionally immature copies of one's mother.

I LOVE my sisters. They are amazing women (read that: amazING, not amazON). They are both better educated than I am and not afraid to correct my punctuation or ignorance of crop rotation. That said, I think I've stumbled onto something, and for once a neighbour's dog didn't leave it in my yard.

It does raise the issue that I am a more unstable, emotionally immature copy of my father, but he keeps telling me the police brought me (and consequently would be imminent to return on my misbehaviour), so that would make me my hometown's version of Ralph Wiggum.

I should just quit while I'm ahead, but I'm sure I'm quite a behind now.

So there you have it, if you want to imagine what siblings would have been like, get your parent of that gender inebriated with alcohol, power, anger, or whathaveyou, and then go camping. Oh, and have someone removed from the situation take pictures and make vague threats whenever you fight. Enjoy!

Clothing so loud you can't hear yourself think.

Today was Hawaiian shirt day for me. It made sense because it's the first day of spring and because I had a videoconference. I like to dress up for those. I've worn a suit, Halloween costumes, and this shirt.

I bought this shirt from a second hand store for $5. It is now in my regular rotation after 2 years. That is because it has the power to divide opinions. It is blue, with pink flowers and yellow thatched huts on it. It's loud enough to be an air-raid siren. I'm a combination lighthouse and foghorn with it on. Foghorn effects depending on diet.

There are 2 general reactions to my shirt:

1. I LOVE your shirt!
2. You are so brave to wear that outside. You are hideous. Hellen Keller would feel the heat of that shirt and be sick. That should be a controlled substance.

So to make matters worse, I'm wearing make-up now.

It's ok, 13 other guys were wearing make-up tonight as well. It was part of a Church drama, so there were 13 grown men, wearing period costume, with make-up on, with their props, misbehaving. Yeah, I could try to recreate the scene, but I'm at a loss for words. And I'd hate people to find out that Church can be fun.

When we were on stage it was all business. It was a powerful, moving, visual feast. An antithesis for my shirt, which is a visual feast moving powerfully.

So this is what I do on my long weekends. Anyone have a topper to that?

I hate all music but the stuff I like

There was a great music service, Pandora, which allowed you to sample music based on the components of other music you liked. It only helped me find one song I actually liked, but it is a really neat idea. Then they turned it off for international use because of the Recording Industry.

So I will use that method to describe music I hate, and the exceptions thereof.

1. There are no good uses for harp, except as a projectile that has a really cool Doppler effect.

2. I don't care who you are, no one can make the steel guitar sound good. Unless you're playing it with the business end of a shotgun.

3. Banjo is heaven. An all harp and steel guitar ensemble can be redeemed by one banjo.

4. The recorder is 2 degrees away from being declared illegal by the Geneva humanitarian council on torture prevention. "Burn them!" I have been tempted with lining them with Asbestos to prevent children from playing them.

5. If it needs to be played slow, it should stop. Slow tempo is fast on the road to total trash.

6. Folk music should be played for other folks.

7. The time between 1949 and 1969 is known as the black hole of music.

8. Indie == crapie.

9. Pop == poop.

10. Rap is just missing a C.

11. Anything I like that contradicts any of the above rules weighs in my favour.

So there you go. I'm the Archie Bunker of music, but at least I know what I like. And generally it's not what you like, so suck it up.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Happy Birthday Dad! Love you!

Weird Musical Tastes

I hinted the other day at my odd musical tastes. I will try to obscufate them further today.

I have eclectic taste in music. By eclectic I mean tantricly eccentric. It's a fine case of reality being weirder than fiction. Here is a menu of Ken's musical tastes:

Rammstein
Mix 'Metallica' with 'the Prodigy and fold in '2 live crew''s lyrics in German. All with the fun of minor key music and a bass lyricist that frightens anything with a high eye to head size ratio.

David Crowder Band*
Progressive rock with poetic Christian lyrics from Texas. Lead singer has a goatee, an affro, and is white. Did someone say "Banjo"?

Bach's Brandenburg Concerto's
Genius melodic work with an ensemble. Totally acoustic, with a nutty flavour. The world's favourite ecclesiastical composer in his secular contract masterpiece.

The Prodigy
Electronic Industrial music with thick guitar. A must for any workout or fragfest. If you're not killing to this, you better be running.

Gordon Lightfoot
Folk music with a beautiful baritone. Simplicity is bliss. I'd cry to his music if I weren't afraid of interrupting it.

ABBA
Fun Fun Fun, two Swedish couples make 70's pop transcendent between generations. More fun than running through Ikea with only an Allen key on.

Hillsong United
No they're not a soccer team. Teenage rock band from Australia's favourite church group, Hillsong. Powerful chords, powerful lyrics, full sound.

Alma Cogan
The voice with a smile. If you're depressed, take 2 cd's and sing until morning. Pop from the 60's with an elegantly fun flair. Like a happy Stepford wife singing.

Dream Theater
Advanced progressive industrial rock. Bleeding edge to the intensive care level. If you make it through the 14 minute songs, you'll have entered a higher consciousness whether or not you lived.

Five Iron Frenzy
Ska music from a rebel band. Play your guitar backwards, toot some horns, yell about Church injustice, and have some laughs while you're at it!

Matrix Soundracks
Electronica, Industrial, Dance, Trance, Ants in your pants. It makes you want to jack in in the worst possible way.

Eric Satie
Idiosyncratic French musician who wrote simple melodies with sublime skill, and then gave them names like "Songs for an automatic dog" and "Dances for Naked Boys". Post-impressionist's Ozzy!

Delirious?
England's Christian 'Beatles'. Hoppin lyrics and music. It'll rock you, move you, and then return you with some peace and a hint of conviction.

So there you go, my musical influences. Maybe that explains more about me than I'd care to admit. Begin your psychoanalysis, but prepare to be afraid. VERY afraid. Tomorrow for your pleasure, and further confusion, I'll list and explain all the music I can't stand. It will be a longer list for sure.

And yes, I'm listening to Rammstein right now. The song is called "Alter Mann". Look it up on www.herzeleid.com, if you dare...

Dinner and music. Ahhhhhhhhhh

Yesterday my beautiful wife and I went out for dinner (as opposed to the ugly wives I keep at home for obvious reasons). I was negative about the prospects of eating out in town. The options to me were:

Fast food
Glorified fast food
Overly priced food
Stay at home.

I didn't want to go out until I remembered my last visit to Naxos. It's a little restaurant that serves Greek food. Nice enough to dress up for, not too uppity to wear jeans to, reasonable price, and the food is transcendent.

My last visit to Naxos was a break in restaurant etiquette. I ordered the wings, "Naxos style", after the server gave the honest advice that the hot wings were not debiltating. If it won't render me speachless due to 3rd degree burns, it's not worth it. So Naxos style it was.
A salt/pepper/Greek spices & lemon juice combination that was so good we finished off the wings, then used the bread to mop up the extra, then used our fingers to lap up anything left. I wasn't above licking the plate, but it was unnessesary. Oh, and this was a business meeting too.

In other news, I learned a bit about music yesterday . I hate cover songs. As a rule they are worse than the original, and worse still because they are unoriginal. It gives credence to the line "you know she's a great singer because she's wearing so few clothes."
Shopping at the liquor store (an exercise in stereotypes, everyone there looked like a binge drinker. There were more cabs there than at the airport),
there was a remake of "walking on sunshine." It was like Enya had lost the will to sing, but was forced to at gunpoint. It took Jedi style mind power not to down a bottle of whatever was in reach to kill the pain of that song.

And that wasn't the worst.

Earlier in the day I was forced to listen to the local "hits of the 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's and today". On it was "If you could read my mind" by Gordon Lightfoot. Gordon Lightfoot can NEVER be covered. NEVER! Again, much will required not to crush a co-worker's radio into atoms.
It sounded like Madonna's trashy little sister and her disco band tried a remake.

So there you go, you know my kryptonite. A mixed tape of Lightfoot covers will have me dislocating my shoulders to plug my ears with my elbows, because we all know you're not allowed to stick anything smaller than your elbow in your ear.

Blogging, it's all about me.

I've noticed that everyone can't communicate properly. They always think when I'm talking about them. This is rarely true, because I have a sad 2:1 ratio of caring. For every thing you say, I care about it half as much as I care about what I have to say. I'm obsessed with myself, this entry evidence thereof.

Hey, I'm a jerk, but to me I'm a criminally captivating one.

As I blog, that being, writing my own comic journal; I consider my audience. And it's funny, my audience consists of people who are either blood relatives or are my closest personal friends.

Why I don't call these people to make them laugh is, again, a selfish endeavor. I blog for me to be liked by you, envied by you, and then at the end, to pretend I don't care what you think.

And I think I'm the typical blogger.

So is there something wrong with me?

That was a rhetorical question. I'll wait for the yelling and laughing to subside.

Waiting.

Comeon.

Ok. So is this narccistic publishing a problem, or just a more open journal? I can't say for anyone else, but for me it's a way to entertain others in a way where there is little censorship and even less reason to write. It's the blank slate, and because I have loved ones, by default I have a captive audience too.

If this is karma, then you've been very naughty to have to read this.

To quote some unfortunately said words at my wedding: “If it weren't for you being here, this would just be a bunch of us drinking and laughing at each other. That would make it a family reunion.”

I'm still amazed no one laughed. But in a sad way it's true, without you reading this, it would be me talking to myself on the computer. That would make it my social life.

Thank you.

You can go home again, but don't ever move back.

This weekend we went to visit my parents. It's a short drive, too long for an afternoon visit, so we end up going the few weekends a year they are actually there and I am actually not at Church and my kids don't have birthday parties and my wife doesn't have pampered chef parties.

This averages out to about 4 weekends out of the year.

I love spending time at my parent's house. More so when they are there at the same time. A fair amount of the reason is spending time with my Dad.

The kids plug into Treehouse on tv like it's drugs for the eyes, which would make "Toopy and Binoo" the visual equivalent to crystal meth. Think "Ren & Stimpy" without the butt jokes. SpongeBob == Shakespeare in comparison.

Kim likes to read, watch TLC programs on bitchy women and gay men fixing unfortunately dressed or tragically housed people, and drinking wine with Mom.

To be honest, Kim worries me more than the kids.

But I do a few things:
1. Work on computers.
2. Watch aircraft documentaries with Dad.
3. Play with the kids so Kim can read.
4. Apprentice under my Father.

When you think of apprenticing, you would normally think carpentry, plumbing, electrical work, car repair. Now my Dad can do all of these well, inso none of those projects has killed him or anyone else yet (we JUST retired his grade 9 woodworking project, so he has skill).

No, I apprentice on how to cook. My Dad is a kitchen snob, and I'm not afraid to admit it. He won't cook on anything other than Paderno, he only uses fresh ground pepper and Kosher salt. He GROWS his own spices.

Dad took over cooking around the same time he retired. I noticed he had too much time on his hands when I started receiving lunches that were the envy of my classmates. They had PB & J and Passion Flakies, I had ham and dijon pita sandwiches with a side of carrots in rose-petal cut. And because I wasn't receiving enough negative attention during my adolescence, my father included in his only son's, his 16 year old son's lunch, pictures of cookies and Junior Juices.

May I make a side note that it makes it remarkably more difficult getting dates when you pull out a dwarfed drink container that has the characters from "Wind in the Willows" on it.

Over the years Dad moved from cooking style to cooking style, progressing in skill, complexity, and flavour. He now is the person I call when I have doubts on any matter of cooking. No one else's opinion counts like his does. I am proud to learn a few of his secrets, which are only secrets because we don't listen closely enough to him.

I love my Dad, and I am proud of his ability to cook. I am happy to learn from him, observing his style and unlearning my plebeian culinary ways.

So I raise a scotch to my Father, master chef of the house. After all, he left the scotch here on his last visit, it only seems right. Thanks Dad.

No respect for Oscar

My job involves answering the phone. That should say enough, but let me explain. No one makes happy business calls (try one sometime, call someone in your organization to talk about how happy you are, see where that goes). The phone is an instrument used to deal with a problem. By the time you touch the touchpad, you are already upset because something is wrong enough for you to interrupt your day interrupting someone else's.

And then my phone rings. I've been cried to. I've been sworn at. I've been flirted with. I wonder how I missed taking social work classes getting into this job.

And yes, I know I'm a jerk. I really don't care enough for the opinions and feelings of others, or at least that is what THEY claim. But I do TRY to empathize with all and sundry who call my phone, trying desperately to understand what stupor they were in to manage to confuse a keyboard as a place mat or to think that ignoring my suggestions/recommendations/orders would be MY fault.

But I will not suffer people who are grouchy.

In Sesame street all the other muppets (puppets with the strings of marionettes and the cold, cold hands of puppeteers. Think of Pinocchio having a permanent prostate exam) try to cheer Oscar the Grouch up. These poor misguided codependent mutant marionettes spend so much energy doing for Oscar what he is too lazy to do for himself. In fact, most children's programs have someone grouchy who just needs "enough love" to win over. This is generally done by the useless runt of the group with the high pitched voice.

Bull.

IMHO they just need a HappyByFour tm to the cranial lobe until they cheer up. Or exile.

Grouchy people are in a state of self perpetuating misery. They are emotional entropy. So I ask myself "What does a doctor do?", and then apply the same level of beside manner to them.

Them: "My computer doesn't work. Again. Can't you people fix these things right?"

Me: "Yes. The problem is you are allowing your belly to rest on your keyboard."

Them: "This is so stupid. I don't know why we are having to use these stupid things anyway."

Me: "Not sure. Bye."

So there you go. The secret to happiness in a job with a phone: Use of the release button. I'd suggest having one made up to rival the "Easy" button by Staples, but an "Easy Release" button gives the wrong message. No matter how happy that would make people.

War and Peace

It seems I like to read literature classics. I do it enough. I am trying to read through some of the great books that were not pushed on me during English class.

The problem is I am a slow reader with them. So slow I think the library will name a new wing in honour of me for my accumulated fines. And during the 3 to 6 months it takes to read these books I go through several phases.

1. This blows.

2. Gah! I can't understand who is who when the names are French/Greek/German/Irish/Russian.

3. Ooooo, I can't put this down!

4. Best book ever.

There have been two exceptions to this list: "The Illiad" and "Catcher in the Rye" both stayed at step 2.

I'm now over half way through War and Peace. This has been since I started in November. I am now somewhere between step 3 and 4, and I have a secret:

It's a soap opera, and I love it.

I know it's a challenge to my masculinity. Kim reminds me of this when she "listens" to me with glassy eyes when I explain how Natasha has kissed Antone and since broken up with Prince Andrew and is shamed except that Pierre is falling in love with her because his *itch wife Helene is messing around with Boris who married Julie for her money. But I hoped Pierre would fall in love with Prince Andrew's sister Mary. GAH!

What is weirder is that I need to disclaim that I am reading the book so when I start cursing the characters I don't like Kim doesn't think I'm mad at her, or am hallucinating about burning leprechauns.

So read this book. It's worth the half year and $20.

Happy Bus Drivers.

I travel to work via city transit. It's efficient enough for me, and it gives the side bonus that my wife has her sanity. You wouldn't believe what a difference that makes in my day.

Some bus drivers clearly have a spring through the middle of the cushion. They are surly to the point of being called the bus-nazi. Oscar the grouch would be proud. I almost want to pull the bell late for a stop just to tweak them.

Others couldn't care. They worry me. Instead of having road rage with 20 passengers, these drivers seem to have compounded muscle relaxant and anti-depressant medications. When I'm with them I'm sure I'll be on the bus that runs over a train. I have the fear that I'll be in an accident on my way to an important meeting. I'll be put out of 3 hours of my day between waiting for the police, filing reports, and then getting another bus. Oh yeah, and there's the possibility someone else could be hurt too.

But today I had Al, the happy bus driver. Al isn't annoyingly happy like he's supressing the dark voices calling him to go on a bus rampage through a mall. Al is genuinely pleased to be where he is in the world. He likes his job (well enough), and shows respect and welcome to all who ride his bus. I can't help but feel like scum for how dispondent I get with my job when I see him smiling while carting around people who missed their weekly shower.

So here is to all the Al's out there. You make our lives better, make us feel guilty, and confound us on your motivations. Don't ever stop. Except at all marked intersections and railway crossings. And in those cases do listen to the screaming people behind the yellow line on the floor.

I'm smarter today. I think.

I enjoy training. I don't mean dogs, I mean being bettered through education. What beauty it is to drink from knowledge's fountain, and when I have quaffed my draught, to cry out "How did I exist before today? I have been an invertibrate's inferior before now!"

Today was nothing like that.

My morning was interupted by some mandatory training. It was only an hour, but I found myself watching the clock as if it held the secret to my escape. I don't like being taught stuff I could more easily have read myself. I don't like sitting in a stuffy, overheated room without a desk to hide behind. I despise poorly aligned powerpoint presentations.

At least it was just an hour.

My problem mostly stems from my empathy. I TRY SO HARD to pay attention and give the instructor the benefit of respect. And then they read from an email and try to sound excited.

I crawled back to my desk, refilled my coffee cup, and had less than an hour before the next session.

This one was much better in a way. The room wasn't stuffy, and it was a teleconference.

For those who haven't had the benefit of a teleconference, imagine your teacher teaching a class via the intercom. I can still make some cool paper airplanes!

But you know me, even with this newfound freedom, I can't help but find fault. This was taught by an instructor who had two teaching faults equivalent to scraping dog whistles against my neck.

1. Repetition. He repeated himself 3 times for each point. I counted. 3 times!

2. Noticing everything, commenting on most, too polite to confront on any.

Teleconference etiquite says you mute your phone. This prevents sound effects like a voiceover track from an obscene phone call, comments like "This is the biggest crock of sh.." and sneezes that sound like you were using your microphone as a q-tip up the nose.

There were a few people on the call who missed that lesson. And the instructor would passively remind us to mute our phones.
"Mute your phones please."
"Keep your phone muted until you need to comment."
"OW, that sneeze was really loud."
"My right ear is bleeding."
"You should see a doctor after you mute your phone. You sound like you have 3 lungs."

Being a spectator to all of this when I could be hitting myself repeatedly with my stapler in the comfort of my own cubicle was exhausting. Oh, and it ran through lunch hour.

This is why I tell my kid's class I'm a fireman.

It's about choice.

I love my freedom. I'm not sure what that means, but I believe it. In order to safeguard it I consider my options. I'm honest about them. One option may be extreme, undesireable, or illegal, but that doesn't negate it as a option, it only sets it's priority.
So everything in my life is a choice. Breathing, eating, living, working, parenting. I *could* choose otherwise, but I like the choices I've made. Knowing that makes me quite content.

You know what's funny? I've found that most people don't share, or enjoy, this vision.

To illustrate, here are a couple of converstations that I have had:

------------------------

Them: "My kids are growing up too fast"

Me: "So you want you're kids to have stunted development?"

Them: "No, I'm saying I'm not ready for them to be so grown up."

Me: "The alternative is that they be slower than their peers. That's a pretty selfish wish. I'm glad I'm not one of your kids. You'd hate me for reaching adulthood."

Them: "You don't understand what I'm saying."

Me: "Try English. I know that fairly well."

------------------------

Them: "I would have been on time, but my boss made me stay late."

Me: "Did you call the police?"

Them: "Why?"

Me: "How did your boss force you to stay? Did he tie you up, handcuff you, what?

Them: "No, hey just said I had to."

Me: "Is your boss a hypnotyst? A Jedi maybe? Gee, I can't get my kids to listen to me, and you're an adult. Maybe he can teach me some things."

------------------------

Them: "I'm getting old"

Me: "There is an alternative. A 100% known cure for aging"

Them: "What?"

Me: "Death."

Them: "You're morbid."

Me: "No, you're close minded."

------------------------

Them: "I'd like to go with you guys, but I have to pay my mortgage this week."

Me: "No you don't."

Them: "No, it's due on Thursday"

Me: "I'm sure the bank would happily keep your house if your forfeit. They're pretty consistent that way. You could go out with us now and start looking at apartments tomorrow.

------------------------

And this one with my wife.

Them: "The kids need me."

Me: "No they don't. They don't drop into comas when you go shopping. They get a bit hungry, but I hardly notice."

Them: "No, they NEED me."

Me: "I'm quite certain they'll outlive you by 2 decades. You dropping dead or leaving won't kill them."

Them: "That's not what I meant."

Me: "But that's what you said."

---------------------------------

And yet for some reason they blame me for their misunderstandings of the issue. I'm only trying to clarify their options so they feel empowered. So I've learned now to choose not to help, people are more grateful that way.

Expensive pets

Last week I read about a woman who is paying $150,000 for a clone of her dead dog.
http://www.theregister.co.uk/2008/02/15/cloned_dog_order/


Let that sink in.

I could get all upset that she could have saved a whole Ghanan village from starvation, but I've learned getting angry doesn't work. When life hands you a loon, make a loonie.

I want to start a competitive business of resurrecting their already dead pet for 1/3 the price. All I need is a taxidermist, a good battery, and a voice actor to play the pet.

I'd get the pet done up in a sleeping position. I'd have the battery installed inside the cavity, and connect a speaker of the voice actor snoring. The person could have the perfect pet, and it would be theirs. It would sit on their lap, never jump on the bed, and you could let young and old alike pet it to their heart's content.

As an added bonus I'd attach a tag with a passkey on it so those people can network with other people on my website. They could play games, dress up their pet's avatar, and even clean up virtually after it. I'll have to see if "Deadkinz" is trademarked already.

Any takers?

Sad Shopping

Shopping. It has differing effects on people. Some use it as an escape, or a euphoric experience. Others see it as a challenge, planning it in ways that would teach swat teams how to co-ordinate on an objective.

I get sad.

I don't know why. Maybe it's the people. Or the lights. Or the miles of food I can't possibly eat. Nonetheless, I tend to find myself lost (amazing seeing as the aisles normally are parallel), aimlessly wandering trying to decide if fruit cups are with the tinned fish, fruit juice, fresh produce, or feminine products section.

I like to bring my pda full of music along and listen to sad songs. Tonight I couldn't do that as I had no earphones. I was stuck with a grocery store's choice in music. And that was worse.

I normally feel the distant, numbing melancholy of existential confusion brought on by the choice of light Miracle Whip versus fat reduced Miracle Whip. Tonight I was listening to the band Simple Plan whine about how awful their lives are and I realized there is good melancholy, and bad melancholy.

Good melancholy is like a good sneeze. It clears out the junk, no one wants to be around you when it happens, and in a twisted way that is hard to describe, it's a great feeling. Not that you would do lines of pepper to get the feeling, but at the right time, in the right place, WOW!

Bad melancholy, like Simple Plan's narcissistic bemoaning, is like picking your nose and eating it. It's just gross, most people outgrow it before their first pimple, and only the already socially inbred would consider it a good experience.

How do you feel when you're shopping?

Scared? Scary?

I have a few sadistic idiosyncrasies. Little things that give me schadenfreude. Scaring people is one of them.

This is either genetic or learned, I can't tell which. Either way I know I'm not alone in this. It is just too funny to scare people to the point where they make a mess.

There are boundaries. If it results in any required visits to any type of physician (cardiologist, psychiatrist, urologist, etc) it is not funny. If any legal intervention (lawyer, police officer, legislative change) is required, it is not funny. Scaring my Mom or my wife, not funny. All else is fair game.

I've now taken it to scare my kids. This is pretty lowbrow stuff: hiding around corners and yelling. Once in the dinosaur exhibit at the Calgary zoo I did this, roaring to put the fear of extinct animals into their little dreams. I misjudged their distance (they can be quite loud you know), and also the fact there was a young couple between me and them. I don't know who was more embarrassed, me, or the guy who jumped up screaming and grabbed onto his girlfriend for defense from the crazy man jumping out from behind rocks.

Being a recipient: VERY unfunny. I'm not a person who feels most alive when they expect to die. Which raises the point of why are there so many scary movies out there?

Most aficionados of horror movies claim they like to laugh at how bad they are. That's amazing. I don't know anyone masochistic enough to listen to awful music just to laugh it. Except Weird Al fans, but they are a category all their own aren't they.

There's something about me.

I just returned from a whirlwind project management course in Sudbury. Wow, I need to take a moment to admire how pathetic that sentence sounds.


Done.

I've discovered two things about me on travel:

1. I am a very clean person.

2. I am an attractive man.

First: I keep an impeccable hotel room. I unpack completely, fold all my clothes, put them in drawers or on hangers. I feel like Mr. Rogers on an OCD binge. I even make the bed. I'm sure that really freaks out the cleaning staff. What sort of twisted perversion would be worth hiding by making the bed? I must catch them between the fear of what they may discover and the hope that this will be the story that gives them something to write about on Facebook.

When I was a bachelor I was Pig Pen's embarrassingly unkempt brother. At home I am the Kitchen Nazi, but my clothes are normally happily folded by gravity wherever the floor stops them.

Second: I am selected "at random" for special "opportunities". At Red Lobster, it was for a telephone survey where I can save $8 on my next meal. At the airport, it was for a "hand search", which despite the name, didn't even look at my eczema. I don't have that level of public display of touching with my wife, no matter how much I give her to drink. It was like a bad phone sex in person. "Now I'll be checking your pockets. Undo your belt". Out of reflex I was turning and coughing.

Did I mention the people picking me out were men?

Everybody's and above average driver!

It's said that everyone is an above average driver. I can see that everyone THINKS they are, but in my experience, most people drive in a bi-polar catatonic/panic state. It would be funny if they weren't wielding tons of steel around me. The fact they assume they are above average shows their mathematical ineptitude as well.

I must stay I am well above average. Inso I'm not good enough to be a race car driver, I'm not dangerous behind the wheel. I like to plan driving several cars ahead, looking through their car windows to see traffic farther up and anticipate the situation. Don't ask about crumpled side panels though, those don't count towards the driving average. Or the swearing.

Consequently I AM a way below average passenger. If I'm not driving, I should be in the back. Preferably the trunk. Slip me some heavy narcotics and I'll be fine. If I am at all aware of the road I act like a threatened primate. Except for the poo flinging. I honestly have trouble sitting in the jumpseat. I'm torn between the social unacceptability of correcting others and my will to live.
Sometimes the only thing keeping me from diving at the brake pedal is the extra awkwardness of the resultant posture. Not only would it be a weird position to die in, but I might be accused incorrectly as the cause of the accident, and cause undue suspicion on the driver too.

Are you an above or below average driver?