The meaning of life and rubber chickens

14 07 2007

On Friday, yesterday, I faced a major conundrum: to buy a rubber chicken or not to buy a rubber chicken. (I’m pretty sure Shakespeare had a few situations like this in his day.) I opted not to, and now I regret it.

This happened to me before in Vegas. I was in a magic shop and I came close to buying a rubber chicken but I just couldn’t do it. Every time I get the chance, it’s like I freak out and I can’t go through with it.

In a way, rubber chickens are a metaphor for life. Do you seize the moment and grab that rubber chicken by his spindly neck, or you, uh, chicken out? How many times have you missed out on the rubber chickens of your life because you thought it was too indulgent, too trivial?

Seriously though, one of these days I’ll buy one and walk through the city so that for once, I can be the freekazoid in someone else’s blog.

In other news, the train operator kind of forgot to stop at the station before the one where I get off. Without apologizing, the operator simply said, “Those of you who were going to get off at the last stop can get off at the next stop and catch the train going back in the other direction. It should be coming soon.” Well I should hope so. (I once had an experience where I got to my station and then the doors near me wouldn’t open. By the time I realized what had happened, we were off to the next station and it took me forever to get back. And then I got the same defective train door situation and almost missed getting out *again*… heh. And then there was the time when I got off the train and trudged up the long, broken escalator, only to find that all the doors out of the station were locked. Running up the side stairwells (5 or 6 stories high) was to no avail as they had a grate covering the front of them as well. The only solution was to run back to the platform and wait for a train to come, at which point I asked an operator to buzz for help.)

[WARNING: THIS IS KINDA GROSS] Oh, and to get rid of that thing on my face, that two-in-one tunneling cyst of doom, I’m on (pricey!) antibiotics and the occasional delightful hydrocortisone shot right in the bullseye. Apparently there is a slim-to-none chance that it will go away on its own. So far, so good. It’s already a lot less noticeable and it’s only day 1 of treatment. A funny thing happened on the way out of the doc’s office as I tried to run out before someone saw the bulging, pulsating sack of cortisone on my reddened cheek: A woman approached me and asked, “Are you here for your skin?” Uh, yes. “Is it expensive?” Heh. [END GROSSNESS]





Your general direction

14 07 2007

OK, multiple individuals are coming here looking for an “I fart in your general direction” T-Shirt. Now, this blog isn’t just a platform for me to spew so-called humor and rants and whatnot tidbits of my so-called life. This is a public service that I am performing here. So I thought I would better the world for humanity by doing a little searching myself. (Wouldn’t the world be a better place if everyone wore “I fart in your general direction” T-shirts? Pretty much everyone but the French would be thrilled. Heck, they might like it too. I think it would be difficult to fight wars if everyone was … you know … in each other’s general direction, too.) Anyways. From what I’ve seen, you have a few options:

  • Google searching (recommended)
  • Try some of the merchants from that list. They can sell you the shirt.
  • Actually farting in someone’s general direction, seeing the hilarious results and then using that as the inspiration for drawing your own shirt
  • Going to see the Python show in Vegas at the Wynn, finding someone there wearing the shirt and then farting in their general direction until they’re begging for mercy
  • This is a really ridiculous post