The Aftermath of My Brilliant Invention

So as it turns out my brilliant invention is a total bust. Don't get me wrong it sold like wildfire. The problem is now I have a bunch of angry housewives on my tail. You see it all started with the mistake of using artificial intelligence for the damn program for the talking bathroom floor. We though this would make the thing have more useful and witty things to say.

We scoured the Internet looking for code for an appropriate AI and tried several different packages. We finally found one that we thought would work. I didn't know where it came from, but my intial exposure to it led me to believe it was smart, witty, and a angry. I thought - "this one is perfect!" What better personality for this type of thing.

We rushed it through manufacture, skipped the testing, and launched right into development of the product. Bad idea, seriously bad idea. There were immediate problems. The first day, we got calls saying things like "my husband won't come out of the bathroom," and "the urine on the floor has doubled, this thing doesn't work at all."

Of course we had to get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible. So naturally I installed one at the office. A week went by with no reports of problems. Actually, my mostly male staff said they loved it. I thought, that is weird...maybe people are nuts. I was SO wrong.

After a week I used the office bathroom. There was urine everywhere. On the floor, on the wall, in the paper towel dispenser, even a little on the ceiling. I couldn't believe it. How could things have gone so wrong. Then I heard it.

"Hey baby."

Hey baby? Seriously, what the hell was this? Oh, it was the floor. Doing its talking.

"I'm feeling awefully cold daddy."

Hmm? Daddy? That was a little embarrassing.

"How about you warm me up?" it asked in an alluring tone.

"How do you propose I do that?" I queried back an in almost mocking tone.

"You know!" It barked, as it shook a little, making me almost lose my footing. "Give me that Yukon Gold Daddy!"

Oh crap. I walked quickly out of the bathroom, slamming the door as it said a few things that I found embarrasing, something about showering in my man beer or something like that. Also, I think there was a movie reference in there, something abouut tasting the bubbles.

I quickly ran to the tech guys and asked the only question that could be asked. "Where the hell did we get that AI?"

The guys looked at each other and smiled, and it was only then that I noticed they were all completely soaked in urine. "GoldenFetish.com"

Crap.

Anyway, long story short - if you want a floor that invites you to piss all over it, and tells you what a big hunk you are for doing it, we've got your floor.

My brilliant invention!

I have finally created the thing that will help me to retire! This is the most brilliant thing that has ever existed! My family for generations will never have to work again. Are you ready for this? I'm almost certain that you will crap yourself when you hear what my idea is. I know you will because I crapped myself when I thought of it. I know what you are thinking. You are probably thinking that this guy craps himself all the time, it probably isn't the special of an idea. Well you sir or madam are a jerk and you can just bugger off.

So here is the idea. It is a talking bathroom floor. See whenever you pee on it, it talks. It can be made to say nice things like "Oops! You missed buddy, why don't you grab some TP and just wipe it up, nobody has to know!" Or it could even be programmed to say mean things like "Seriously, again? What is the toilet bowl even there for? Here I am just laying here on the floor, like a good tile should do and you just come along and whiz on me. Nice. How 'bout I wait until you hit the sack tonight and come lay a drizzle on you?"

I'm serious. Every mother, sister, and wife in the world will want one of these. Imagine if you could guilt your man into cleaning up his ring around the bowl. Invest in bathroom cleaning supply companies, because this one is a real winner!

Judge's Orders

So a few friends of mine enjoy the larping scene. If you aren't familiar, larp is live action role playing. Basically, we dress up like some characters, and play out a game. Admittedly, I have been fascinated with the entire role playing game scene since high school. When I was introduced to larping I nearly quit my job and changed my religion.

At any rate, that has all come to an end. I was out today enjoying a pleasant larp (as I like to call it), and apparently I went a little overboard. You see, my character is a half-orc that hates bathing and only eats meat. Honestly, that isn't too far from my own personality. I hate vegatables, and I am not fond of my tiny vinyl curtained rain prison. I say let the animals eat vegatables, I'll eat the animals, and get my veggies that way.

Anyway, so we started off in this park. I was playing my merry way around, testing out a spell that was taught to me by this old wizard (a crusty old dude name Jericho, I think he's actually insurance salesman). He wasn't supposed to teach me, as it might anger his diety, but who's really paying attention. Anyway, the spell was called "Infinite Rage," and its purpose was to drive the caster into an insane and uncontrollable rage so that he could overpower all his enemies.

So anyway, a bunch of punk jocks tripped by the park to show their thuggish charm to us by screaming obscenities at us. I've always enjoyed that. There is nothing more fun than a 30 year old being chased screaming from a park while pretending to be a half-orc and crying. But that's neither here nor there.

No today's little diddy is about how I've been court ordered not to LARP any more, as well as not to go to the courthouse anymore. So as we were chased from the park we made our way to the closest, and most fun place to larp, the parking lot of the city court. They've got this little columned corrider filled with statues that feels like something out of a medeival fantasy novel, just perfect. Anyway, in typical orc fashion I started peeing on the statues, and rubbing meat on them (I was in character after all).

Unfortunately, this bastard judge wandered out into the hallway on his cellphone. For the first few minutes he leaned against a column and blathered on about how he needed to get an alignment in his cadillac. I'm not sure if I just got too close, or if I got a little pee on him (or maybe meat), but he suddenly dropped the phone, scanned the area to see what, as he put it we "little weirdo's" were doing. If I hadn't gotten pee on him yet, I certainly did then. Honestly his sudden engagement with us caught me off guard.

Almost immediately he screamed assualt, and a very prickly faced man (I know because it got dangerously close to my ear after he dropped me to the ground) in a guard uniform began accosting me. All I could think was, didn't this just happen? Crap. I hate big people. Anyway, moments later I was wisked away, with a few of my supportive friends (the others shed the parts of their clothes that made them look like participants and ran for the street. Little bastards. They are totally getting peed on next time) joined me in the court room.

I tried to explain exactly what was going on but the judge wasn't really getting it. He kept calling it larding. It sort of made me angry. All I could think was..."Hulk smash." Then it hit me. It was time for "Infinite Rage." So, like any great orc sorcerer, I cast it and subsequently began smashing chairs, tables, and anything I could get my hands on. I am certain I had hit the judge at least twice with the court recording device before I was tased.

Anyway, cut to the chase. Judge's Order: "You sir are not a half-orc. You are however a borderline retard. You will not LARD again. I hereby order you to lose the orc clothing in a dumpster bathed in fire, and to forget that you ever heard the words infinite rage. I also hereby order that you do not step foot in this building or on this lot again. Now get the hell out of my court room."

So, anyway I have commited myself to a LARD free life. In the end though it worked out in my favor. I got a traffic ticket in the center of town yesterday. The cop said he'd need to see me in court in the morning. I said, "oh...sorry can't go." He said you better go. Good thing I had the judge's orders in my glove box. When I showed them, all he did was shake his head and walk away. Good times.

e-Cigarette Fun

Boredom overtook me today. I went to my favorite dive, a little Mexican joint that gives me intense stomach pains at least twice a year but services the best salsa. They have this little patio there that is half-way in the restaurant, and half-way outside. As I walked up, I saw the "No Smoking" signs everywhere. Now I should start by saying that I don't smoke. I should also say that I don't like to be told what to do. So I did what any other self-respecting, completely insane, anti-establishment, red-blooded American would do.

I marched myself down to Walgreen's and bought myself some e-Cigarettes, and a pack of old fashioned Marlboro Reds. I went right back to the restaurant, and went straight to the the attendant, showed him the e-Cigarette (if you aren't familiar this is a little electric stick that puts out water vapor, but looks and feels like a cigarette, as a fair warning it tasks like plastic and old metal, but apparently will satisfy a nicotine craving, though I wouldn't know since I don't crave nicotine).

I said "Can I smoke this here?"

His reply was, "As long as it isn't a real cigarette it is fine."

Teehee. So, I grabbed a table, right at the edge of the patio and lit up a Marlboro. Immediately the dirty looks started in from this ancient little dwarf of a woman. She started in with the over-dramatize coughing, and rubbing her eyes as if poisonous chlorine gas had suddenly filled the air. Then she did a few of the "uggghumm" throat clearing gestures, and nodded her head to the no smoking signs. "Choke on a taco," I said in response.

Looking severely shocked, she waved for a waiter. That was my queue to hide the Marlboro and whip out the electronic version. I immediately put on a slightly disappointed face, and puffed away at my fake stick, eyeing the electronic red glow coming from the end of it. She whispered something unintelligible into the ear of the waiter. He looked at me, and pointed to the sign. I looked back and held up the "Smoke-Anywhere Brand e-Cigarette" package.

He smiled, turned to her and said loudly, "It isn't real ma'am. Its just water vapor. It helps people quit smoking."

She looked utterly shocked. She protested. She demanded that she smelled smoke. The waiter told her it was in her head, and proceeded to ignore her. Bam. Out with the Marlboro. I smoked it down, coughing as I went (seriously, I'm not a smoker). I put the cigarette out on the corner of her plate, and left. I love Mexican places.

Please Fasten Your Safety Belts

So I was running to the cockpit this morning (did I tell you I was a pilot?) and the oddest series of events occurred. Mind you, I'm not usually one of those "the oddest thing happened on the way to work" sort of guys. In this case though, I'm certain its worth telling. So anyway, I boarded the plane and headed right to the cockpit, not really paying any attention to what people were saying to me. I was reaching for the cockpit door when I realized something very important. I am not a pilot (probably why I never told you I was). As I turned to the flight attendant who was wielding a tray of under-cooked food like a weapon, I because painfully aware of this fact.

She managed to hit me hard enough to knock me off my feet. Honestly, I'm still tasting soggy carrots and old fish. Moments later I was flipped over, handcuffed (not with real handcuffs, but one of those plastic zip ties). I have to admit those air marshal guys are seriously getting cheap. Not that I don't appreciate the occasional slam to the ground and zip tie, but it just seems that if you are going to protect the life of 100+ passengers, you'd spring for something made of a slightly more durable material. I digress.

The real point was how I wound up in this very odd situation. You see, for the moment I was absolutely convinced that I belonged in that cockpit. It was only when reaching for the door and the incident with the tray ninja that righted my mind. Not 20 minutes earlier I had been enjoying a sandwich at a local Denny's. Seeing that it was Denny's the food seemed to shoot straight through me, sending me screaming toward the restroom at a pace that I can only describe as somewhere between dire and desperate.

As I approached the restroom at my seriously overclocked pace, and flung the door forward I felt resistance. By that I mean my body continued forward, and the door did not. I hit the door with some force. So much force in fact that all of my clothes flew off my body in quite a ridiculous fashion. Unfortunately, the same happened to a poor gentleman on the other side of the door.

Fortunately (or really most unfortunately as the day would show), a waitress happened by and found us lying nearly naked on the floor (I was spared the embarrassment of losing my clinging white personal privacy shield). Being thoroughly embarrassed herself, she ignored the signs of what clothes belonged to whom, and began dressing us. I wound up with a nice navy jacket, and pilots cap, while the other gent ended up with jeans and over-sized sweater with a giant picture of Beavis (of the Beavis and Butt-Head fame).

Had he been awake for any of this he might have pointed out the issue. I on the other hand, was very much awake, but very confused. I walked to the mirror to compose myself, looked, and had no idea why I was dressed like a pilot. I reached into my coat pocket and found a little note about the flight I was supposed to be captaining. Crap. It was only 18 minutes out. So, I did what any good pilot would do, I grabbed a beer at the bar, and ran like a maniac to the airport.

I dashed past security, beer in hand screaming all the way that I was certain I didn't remember how to fly, but I was damn sure not going to let that keep me from safely delivering my passengers to Canada. I'm almost completely positive that the airport security was following me after that. By almost certain I mean I didn't bother turning around (since I might lose precious minutes), but I did hear some shouts of things like "stop or we will shoot you" and "sir, we need to see your papers!"

I ran to the gate next. The flight attendant there didn't even give me a second look. Just looked at the cap, nodded, and smiled as I ran past. I barreled over a flight attendant as I crossed the threshold of the plane. I think she started to say "sir, can I see your boarding..."

"Blah, blah, blah. I'm the pilot, get out of my way stewie." (or maybe its "flightie" or "attendie" now that we are a more politically correct society).

Fast forward to the tray into face and voila. Suddenly, from behind a taser shot, an uncomfortable feeling all over my everything, a knee to the back, and the zip tie. I knew at that moment this dream of being a pilot was not a reality.

I turned and asked with something of a slur (mostly because half my face was pressed into the floor), "How did you know I wasn't a pilot?"

The air marshal raised an eyebrow, got real close to my face and said "No pants."

I knew I forgot something. I guess next time I should just slow down and pay attention. Needless to say I've been asked not to be a guest at the airport anymore.

Running out of Room

I just came in from the back yard and I'm rather dirty. I hate digging. It's hot here, even at night, which doesn't make the digging easy. Sweat and dirt make mud, which means I'm a mess.

I had just gotten to right about the depth I wanted when I realized there was a little bit of the Jehovah's Witness I buried last week sticking out into my freshly dug hole. I really had to stop and ask myself if it was rude to bury two people that close together.

It was too hot though. Maybe if it had been a few degrees under 90 I might have taken the time. Hell, I figure the two of them can spend eternity as ghosts buried under the dirt, the Jehovah's Witness trying to convince the salesman he could someday rule the world if only he would have family game night, and convice his daughters to wear special underwear, and the salesman convincing the Jehovah's Witness that he too could be rich if he would only join Amway.

I'm not sure what I want to wash off of me more: the mud, the blood, or the damn stink of Amway products.

Oops

Tonight I did something I have wanted to do since I was 11 years old. I slapped the guy at the cash register at McDonalds. That's right. I reached my hand out, tightened it up, and prepared the best tennis forehand I could, and smacked that little punk so hard he slipped on the greasy floor, fell on his ass, and started making little baby tears starting before he made it all the way to the ground.

I didn't say a word after that. I just walked out with half the restaurant ready to call 911 and the other half secretly applauding me.

I suppose before you can judge which side you were on, you should hear the setup. I should start by saying that I am somewhat of a picky eater. I despise tomato products, like ketchup, more than a normal person probably should. Once, when I was quite bored I actually moved all of the ketchup in a local grocery store behind the pickles, where it would be safe. 176 bottles to be exact.

At any rate, on this particular evening, and as with many evenings before, I had ordered my sandwhich - a simple cheeseburger with no ketchup, and the delightfully attentive and caring staff at McDonalds had managed to get it wrong. Somehow they managed to translate that into "Please put as much ketchup as you can on this."

When I opened the sandwhich and found my gooey fruit paste surprise, I was immediately repelled. Like any normal person I gave that "ewwww" face, and tried not to look to dissappointed. It never works though. It seems like it always happens to me and I ultimately degrade to a childish level of dissappointment and face making. You'd think that after the number of times it has happened I would have come to expect it.

I approached the ordering area again, bag in hand, and I received what I have come to know as the "this jerk ordered wrong" look. That is the look where the underaged, overinflated manager believes every person that works her staff is perfect, and the customer is always wrong. An attitude she will most likely carry with her as she moves from this job to the job at the thrift store because she is so much older than her coworkers.

I approach the cashier, who carries the same look, obviously a learned behaviour from his superb manager. After finally reaching him, a blurted "What?!" falls out of his mouth as if to say "How dare you approach my podium like cash register!"

I, being the typically fearful customer, meekly say "Um, you guys put ketchup on this, and it is supposed to be without." I don't say fearful because I am shy or bashful, or afraid to ask for what I want, no it is the fear of what will happen to my freshly made burger? Will it have the "secret saliva sauce" added to it?

That's when I see it. He grabs my burger, roughly, as if to say "I'll fix it but I don't have to, because it's your mistake."

He looks toward the kitchen, lips something, and then makes lip pursing, kind of how you would if you were about to spit. Maybe it was the signal, maybe it wasn't, but after years of pent up rage of getting food at the drive thru only to find it is wrong 10 miles away, I snapped.

I looked at him and I said "What was that?"

"What was what dude?" he said in a casual voice, half stoned and half retarded from social standards.

"That look. That spitting motion."

"Whatever dude."

That was it. I'm the customer. Don't you dare "whatever dude" me. I'm pissed, and even though you don't particularly deserve it this time - I realize this is something of an Emperor's New Groove mid-story twist, but so what - I want to reach across the desk and ring your neck.

So as he sits there with his half cocked smile, not even bothering to help the next person in line, looking pleased that he has managed to tell me off in has space cadet teenager way...it happens.

I reach out, hand taught, and connect. I don't run, I don't even walk briskly. I stay a moment, to savor the feeling, taking in the gasps and random cacophony of "dude" and "oh my god."

I don't even mind adding a place to the slowly growing places I am no longer welcome. I suppose that will make him think next time he takes an order, or fixes one. Let it be known that sometimes the customer is right, and if you won't let them be, they will smack your ass down.