A Story Too Awesome Not To Steal, I Mean Share

Stories about penises are hardly rare, but they're rarely awesome. That's why I'm elevating this one to a full post on my own blog even though I had nothing to do with this story. A tip o' the penis hat to my buddy Pete for the link to the goods.

The original can be found here, surrounded by a whole lot more awesome in a thread about a book that looks just as awesome. To give it a little context, this is a story told by someone who has worked in an HR department about a confrontation they were expecting to go very differently.

“Is this your penis?” I asked, as I pushed the printout of the e-mail over to him. I think I was expecting him to break into a sweat or try to jump through the window out of embarrassment, because apparently I’d forgotten about the fact that this was the same man who thought it would be perfectly fine to take a picture of his penis in the office bathroom to send it to a shocked coworker. Instead he grinned cockily (no pun intended), saying, “I think the better question is, Exactly how did you get a picture of my penis?”

“It was caught in the e-mail filter. The picture, I mean. Not your penis. If, in fact, that is your penis, I mean.” I was flustered, but tried to gain control of the situation again with a deep, calming breath. “Did you mail a picture of your penis?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would it make it better if I said I was mailing pictures of someone else’s penis?”

I’ve thought about that question for fifteen years and I still don’t have a good answer. Instead I said, “Not really. Giving a coworker a picture of a penis is sort of universally frowned on. It’s in the employee hand book. Sort of. It’s between the lines.”

“Is there anything in the handbook about someone in HR handing you a penis picture and asking you whether it’s yours?”

Well-played, penis man. Well played. Awful and awesome should mean the same thing, and now they do.

The Bouncing Ball

The bouncing ball in the middle of the road was misdirection. I mean, it was so obviously an inanimate object - even before I recognized it - that it allayed my fear. Then I glanced over at the larger object and saw it was a beautiful little dog that, once it slid to a stop, would never be moving again.

That car in front of me - now stopped and well behind me - must be filled with adrenaline and remorse. I get to keep driving with guilty relief. And that bouncing ball is now a haunting symbol of sorrow, lonely and un-caught, bouncing still. The dog's master will forever be chasing the moment that never happened: the one where the ball didn't go onto the road.

Ease my shaken soul, Neil.

Weekend Diversion

I found the first video on a site called Manboobz which listed it as a Steely Dan cover band. So you can be sure it's quality stuff. Yup.

Just one more practice and they would have nailed it.

See?

On a more serious note: I firmly believe that not everyone should have the right to buy a musical instrument.

Okay. Palate cleanser. Santana shreds!

World's Greatest Mystery, Solved!

I once heard tale of a young woman from Japan wandering the halls of a Canadian mall, looking for a taste of home to to fill the hole in her homesick soul. "Excuse me," she'd say to passers-by. "Where can I find shoe cream?" They'd point her to the nearby Footlocker store with a bemused smile. She walked dutifully to the shoe store, but never entered. She simply looked in with sad eyes.

She didn't want shoe cream. So what did she want?

Think Tanks

It's not that I don't get why think tanks exist. I do. They exist for the same reason lobbyists and serial killers exist: some people have uncontrollable urges to do the wrong thing. No, what I don't get is why anyone listens to them without either laughing or replying with their bum parts.

And that's all I have to say about think tanks. What I have to say to think tanks involves my anus.

Well, There Go My Followers

Gone are the days you could merely cull the eggs. Now the eggs have hatched, revealing the gooey but familiar image they contained, making a sound not unlike a random profile generator. It's a lot like someone describing themselves, but lacking any real sense. You can tell it's not real because, while people make mistakes, these mistakes are the wrong sort.

They come across as nonsensical rather than stupid.

It had been a while since I checked my list of followers on twitter, largely because I don't care. I only started on twitter as a way of making fun of it but it manged to out-wit me. My intention was to periodically baa like a sheep. Twitter doesn't let you make the same post over and over again. I gave in. I started to make real comments. Frustratingly short ones, but still real ones.

Should I be sad that a spammy spambot sometimes generates more interesting and amusing profiles than a real human? As I was going through the list, blocking eleven apparently fake followers in a row, I felt a strange sense of loss mingling with the usual hatred. Sure, most of it was just obvious gibberish. (eg. "Favorite movie - Woman in the Window, The" or claims to be 230 years old.) But other parts have a decided ring of Engrish to them. Who doesn't love Engrish?