tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70012023765297300562024-02-20T00:56:51.738-08:00The Cheese LifeFilling the Internet's void of cat pics and nonsenseColin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-82078757946152666382016-02-16T16:14:00.000-08:002016-02-16T17:27:02.916-08:00Actual Life Changes and Good & Bad: 'The Walking Dead' Returns! <div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr" style="margin-right: -2px; overflow: hidden; padding-right: 2px; text-overflow: ellipsis; unicode-bidi: isolate;">undeadwalking.com</span></td></tr>
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The long President’s Day weekend
was one of those weekends for yours truly. You know the type. On Saturday, the
pipes on one side of our house froze due to the extreme cold, thawed, and then
re-froze again by Sunday. As of press time, they are not currently frozen, but
who’s to say what the future will hold? Also on Saturday, my car slipped into a
coma from which it shall never emerge. When I dropped it off at the mechanic’s, I did the move where I tore open my
shirt and yelled “Take what you need! Just leave me enough to make it home!”
Everyone was very confused by this and I was ushered out quickly. Also, I
failed to win a spot in the Broad Street Run.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Things weren’t all bad, however. The wife and I spent a pleasant Valentine’s
evening at sea. Then, the writing team of “The Walking Dead” finally managed to
liberate me of my Sunday obligation to watch “The Walking Dead” by airing an
episode so terrible, that I’ve given up on the show. Never again shall I spend
a Sunday evening sighing loudly and arguing with characters on the TV while my
wife sighs quietly to herself in another room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Long time blog readers will remember I once cribbed the format of a popular
wrestling blog and used that to write up a season and a half of “The Walking
Dead.” That stopped when I actively began to hate the show and all who dwelled
within it. My relationship with it has limped along since – until this most
recent episode, entitled “No Way Out.” Please, allow me to dust off my borrowed
format for reviewing episodic television shows one last time and explain what
has lead me to finally stop watching “The Walking Dead.” Warning: Spoilers
abound.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<ul>
<li><b>Bad</b>: The past few seasons were something, yeah? Well forget
them! They’re all gone! “The Walking Dead” writing staff is basically a kid on
Christmas morning, stomping all over old toys to get at the new stuff. There’s
a new big bad on the horizon which means now is the time to throw out all of
those pesky storylines that have been simmering for the last two half-seasons.
In the span of barely two minutes, Blonde Lady and both of her kids were killed
off. So much for all that time we spent building Carl’s tweeny rivalry, Rick’s
love interest, and Carol’s bizarre, cookie-and-gun based rivalry with a child.
All gone.</li>
<li><b>Bad</b>: Also, bye bye, Wolf Guy. He had a momentary face turn
and was gunned down before anything could come of it. Got to get rid of him.
New baddies coming.</li>
<li><b>Bad</b>: Rick & Crew hit their five moves of doom. Oh yeah,
forget about that highly dangerous walker hoard we spent all of last half
season talking about. Half of one of the largest hoard of walkers ever shown on
“The Walking Dead” broke off and headed right for Rick and company’s door.
Then, the Wolves let them in. This massive collection of walkers seemed
destined to force Rick and everyone else to give up Alexandria and once again
flee for their lives. HA-HA. JK. No, all it took to completely eradicate that
threat was for Rick to get really, really mad. Carl gets shot and so Rick walks
out into the swarm and just starts offing walkers. This inspires maybe 8-9
others – many of whom rank among the show’s “most likely to be eaten”
contingent – to also wander out and start hacking at walkers. This motley crew,
armed with renowned WMDs such as screwdrivers, the butt ends of rifles and
hatchets, lay waste to the swarm. Our heroes suffer ZERO casualties. Basically,
“The Walking Dead” writing staff just John Cena’d the show’s walkers. They
completely torpedoed them as a threat by making them so easy to dispose of that
Rick can show up with the D-Team and kill thousands upon thousands of them
without breaking a sweat. The next character killed by a walker is going to
look like the biggest, dumbest asshole ever. I just watched Eugene hold his own
against an army of these things. I just watched Nameless Alexandria Victims 1-5
hold their own against them. I hope Negan is a good enough bad guy to last the
rest of your series because the walkers just got AA’d into oblivion.</li>
<li><b>Bad</b>: On that note: Rick and company, holed up somewhere,
repelling assaults from a much-hyped, mustache-twirling super villain. What a
novel concept, “The Walking Dead.” Wow. </li>
<li><b>Bad</b>: OMG. He’s dead. PSYCH! I suppose “The Walking Dead”
writing team is unfamiliar with the concept of the boy who cried wolf, wherein,
if you trick people enough times, eventually they won’t listen or care when you
come to them with the truth. We’ve now done two “Glenn is 100% dead, there’s no
way he’s surviv… oh he survived it” gags in two half-seasons. Amazingly, this
most recent example was even more brainless than the last. This episode also
featured the second instance of “Carl is dead, no he’s not.” Hell, it opened
with Sasha and Abe being on death’s door until, miraculously, they weren’t.
Writers, you do realize that when you finally get around to killing any of
these people, no one will care, right? You’re burning people out with this
crap. Just kill them or stop pretending to kill them.</li>
<li><b>Bad</b>: Carol. Deranged Psycho. Murderer of reformed Wolves.
Haunter of Children’s Psyches. At what point do the other characters need to
have a talk about her? I mean, the plan has to be to attempt to rebuild a
society eventually, correct? Carol, what with her constant need to proactively
eliminate all threats (perceived/imagined) is no longer meant for society.
She’s worse than Daryl was that one time he went full-feral. Sure, this
iteration of Carol may seem helpful now, but what happens when she’s pulling
knives on jaywalkers or giving mandatory detailed guest lectures at elementary
schools on the horrifying realities of mortality? </li>
</ul>
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Goodbye, “Walking Dead.” It’s been … frustrating. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-39666766853712115432016-02-01T15:16:00.003-08:002016-02-01T15:16:37.707-08:00The Wife & I Survive A Brush with a Major Life Change<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIe6C9HwquR82zE3-A7htdeFux1pfqIO5thkN_-tk3hJJ0VTYz2Ka5XCJj6cVt9TIbSkvvxQV9AGVVgu3uPivQFe5A8YH3UgcTRr-_9TFPGxGO6fmybjeCEkToiEsJb0-y_FAWfJy0XOWW/s1600/baby+pit+bull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIe6C9HwquR82zE3-A7htdeFux1pfqIO5thkN_-tk3hJJ0VTYz2Ka5XCJj6cVt9TIbSkvvxQV9AGVVgu3uPivQFe5A8YH3UgcTRr-_9TFPGxGO6fmybjeCEkToiEsJb0-y_FAWfJy0XOWW/s320/baby+pit+bull.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">tumblr.com (Not the actual pooch)</td></tr>
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My wife and I had a bit of a scare this weekend. Late Sunday afternoon, we found ourselves eye-to-eye with one of those life-altering changes that always seem to come up unexpectedly. It was one of those moments when all of the planning and precautions went out the window and we were left staring down a hard life turn that had arrived much sooner than we’d ever expected.<br /><br /> We nearly adopted a puppy.<br /><br /> I know. It’s one of those things you hear about happening to other couples and you think you’re being careful to avoid it. Then, next thing you know, you’re in a pet store staring at a little black pit bull mix and contemplating how to best alter the next eight to ten years or so of your life plans.<br /><br /> There are 100 reasons why the wife and I shouldn’t have a dog right now. We already have two cats, one of whom likes dogs and the other of whom does not like dogs. Our backyard isn’t fenced in and many of our neighbors are shiftless good-for-nothings which means at least 45% of the sidewalks in our neighborhood are buried under around a foot of snow. This would make walking our new bundle of joy a life-threatening chore. Oh, also, we have multiple trips planned for this year and beyond. Even though the airlines have embraced service dogs, I’m not sure pit bull-style dogs are welcomed with open arms. That means finding someone to provide the little guy with the near-round-the-clock attention puppies need. Speaking of around-the-clock attention, my wife and I both work and I’m not sure the cats, even the dog-friendly one, will be up to entertaining a puppy all day. This would mean me bolting home from work at lunch time to let the doggie out to do his business and get some exercise. In turn, this would seriously cut into my nonsense blogging time. <br /><br /> Despite the mountain of reasons why not to get a puppy, there was an equally compelling argument to be made for adopting the puppy, i.e., “But still. Puppy. I wants.” <a name='more'></a><br /><br /> The two of us had wandered to the back of the pet store to look at the cats because, as much of a cat person as I am, I can look at cats in cages and not feel an immediate pull towards adopting them. Mostly because they’re usually sleeping or not paying attention to you. It’s hard to fall in love with a cat without meeting it. Dogs, however, are much more expressive, making them much easier to instantaneously fall for.<br /><br /> On our way to the cats we passed a giant glass window. On the other side of that window was a room adoptable puppies can play in. That room is usually empty, but not yesterday. Inside was a tiny black pit bull mix named Odin. His tag said he was a year, but he was still super little. He also had this adorable, wrinkled old-man face.<br /><br /> Naturally, because we’re both idiots, we stopped to look.<br /><br /> Odin was just sort of meandering around the empty room, taking in the sights such as they were. Then he saw us and ran directly towards us and sat down and looked up at us whimpering. This was all too much to bear. You could not possibly train a dog to make himself appear more adoptable than this dog. A person who was deathly allergic to dogs and who had lost both parents to separate dog attacks would have seen this display and thought “Yeah, alright, I’ll take him.”<br /><br /> We stared for a few minutes before I said something to the effect of “Let’s ask if he’s OK with cats.” His tag didn’t indicate this. This snapped my wife, who is the less dumb one, out of her puppy-induced trance. She took that time to muster up a “No dogs,” and she dragged me away from the window.<br /><br /> After this ordeal, we walked the store, got what we’d gone there for and then began to make our way to the checkout line. En route, I made a hard turn to the back of the store. Right back to Odin. My wife followed.<br /><br /> As soon as he saw us return, he ran up to us again and this time let out a few soft, plaintive barks. I mean, my god. This dog was a pro. This led me to declare: “I’m just going to ask if he’s good with cats.” My wife and I both knew what that meant: As long as he’d never mauled a three-legged brown tabby and a four-legged orange tabby to death, we were getting that dog. She said no, but it was one of those “Brain says no, everything else says PUPPY!” kind of nos.<br /><br /> I got in line at the desk to inquire about Odin and as I waited, the lady in front of me said something to her companion that went something like: “I can’t believe you’re adopting another dog!” I thought about this for a second and then I spoke up: “Are you adopting that dog in the window?” She confirmed that she was. A little crestfallen, I joked: “Oh good, because I thought I was going to have to.” Everyone laughed and the wife and I left without Odin.<br /><br /> If we’d gotten to the store ten minutes earlier and presumably beaten that woman there, I have no doubt that dog would be living in my house right now. Instead, we carry on dog-less, for now, and better off for it. However, once the seeds have been planted and you start envisioning you and your pooch doing all of those things people and pooches do together: long walks, ballgames, bike rides and so forth, there’s no escaping it. One day we will be dog owners, but as a great man once said: “Not right now. Not right now.”Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-50629975100027764302016-01-25T10:34:00.000-08:002016-01-25T11:27:20.778-08:00 The Official 10 Commandments of Winter Weather<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends, winter has come to Pennsylvania. If you don’t
live here, you may be thinking something<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZf3RgP0cozQS_FqXlbSPw2f7tEdOXd2atw7BCbgXn-C1nKoFdcmcH4w_6FKfMjS6iiqOmoreWSyN8JQ_IbJfnH4anw51q0WoF1H8Tx5SShPJ4Dod6Ie6UK9aZePYyl34ApXl4x3iR782z/s1600/diego.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZf3RgP0cozQS_FqXlbSPw2f7tEdOXd2atw7BCbgXn-C1nKoFdcmcH4w_6FKfMjS6iiqOmoreWSyN8JQ_IbJfnH4anw51q0WoF1H8Tx5SShPJ4Dod6Ie6UK9aZePYyl34ApXl4x3iR782z/s320/diego.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr" style="margin-right: -2px; overflow: hidden; padding-right: 2px; text-overflow: ellipsis; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;">bstudios.wikia.com</span></td></tr>
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to the effect of: “Get with it, old
man. It’s been winter for over a month now.” My initial response to that would
be: “Cool it with that old man business. I just bought a Meghan Trainor album
off iTunes. Does that sound like something an old man would do? I don’t
think so.”<br />
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That aside, this winter had been a fairly mild one until this past weekend when much of the east coast was buried under
unfathomable amounts of snow. So much snow that Woolly Mammoths would fall into
a fit of hysterics just thinking about it. This sorry state of affairs is what
led me to proclaim that winter proper has come.</div>
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If
we’re all going to get through the next few months, those of us who live in
places prone to honest-to-god winter conditions need to stick
together. That means following the Official 10 Commandments of Winter Weather. Now, I’ve
already noticed a few of you breaking some of these, so I thought a refresher
might be in order. Remember, these commandments are literally the only thing
keeping us from going full Donner Party or <i>Revenant</i> on each other. </div>
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10. <i>Thou shalt not expect help shoveling</i>. If a neighbor
handles your sidewalk for you when you’re out of town or at work, be grateful
and reciprocate the favor. This does not mean this person has volunteered to be
your full-time shoveling surrogate. You shouldn’t be inside sipping a giant
snifter of brandy, wearing a monocle while Bob from down the street fights old
man winter in your stead. <o:p></o:p></div>
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9<i>. Thou shalt not use
the presence or lack of snow to prove/disprove global warming</i>. One snowy or
sunny weekend in January doesn’t outweigh years of careful research. Let’s remember
that issues like this tend to require a bigger picture approach than: “Well,
it’s warm/cold outside right now so …”<o:p></o:p></div>
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8<i>. Thou shalt ease up
on the salt</i>. At the first sign of a storm cloud, some local
businesses/residents coat all surfaces with salt three inches deep. Let’s do
less of that. A little salt is fine but, once it’s up to my waist, I start
thinking I’d rather take my chances with the ice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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7. <i>Thou shalt not
complain about how others drive in the snow</i>. This is a personal one that
never fails to confuse me. I never know if the person I’m talking to is annoyed
because other people drive too fast or too slow in the snow. I always end up
doing a lot of mental gymnastics trying to figure out which one it is and I’d
just rather not. <o:p></o:p></div>
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6. <i>Thou shalt not post
excitedly on social media about snow</i>. If your profession shuts down due to
the snow, or your profession thrives on snow, remember not everyone is in the
same boat. While you’re rooting for 70 inches of snow on social media so you
can stay home or make a few extra bucks, many others aren’t so lucky. Either they have to go into work because their jobs never close or they lose money
because their work doesn’t pay them when they’re not there. This doesn't help that whole "stick together" thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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5. <i>Thou shalt not
utter the phrase: ‘It’s all going to freeze tomorrow.’ </i>Back when I was a
youth, this was the constant refrain amongst school children eager to extend
an early dismissal or day off into something more. Truth: It rarely "all
freezes tomorrow." The salt trucks and the plows and the sun do their thing and this phrase just builds kids up for disappointment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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4. <i>Thou shalt clear
thine vehicle</i>. There are few things more terrifying than driving behind a
someone who only felt like clearing a thimble-sized portion of his/her
windshield before striking out. The rest of the car is still buried under the
previous day’s snow and ice. I understand you’re in a hurry or lazy, but I’d
rather not be killed by a glacier-sized block of ice that slid off your roof. <o:p></o:p></div>
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3. <i>Thou shalt not save
spots</i>. There shall be no rewards given for people doing things they’re
supposed to/need to do. You digging out your car does not entitle you to
squatter’s rights on a spot for any length of time any more than me mowing my neighbor's lawn makes it mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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2<i>. Thou shalt not
shirk shoveling duties</i>. Sure, shoveling snow is hard work and hard work is
icky. However, you’re also an adult and adults have responsibilities. That’s
what makes you an adult and not a child. If you’re able bodied, get off the
couch, pick up a shovel and get to f’n work. If you’re not able bodied, find
a neighborhood youth who is and slip them a few bucks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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1. <i>Thou shalt not
panic</i>. Most of us have seen snow before and lived to tell the tale. Be
safe, be aware. The fistfights in supermarkets over bread and milk are a bit much. You don’t want to be in a position where emergency conditions are
lifted and you have an entire kitchen full of blood-splattered loaves of bread
left to go through. It’s just going to go stale.<o:p></o:p></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-6588601884259388032016-01-19T10:27:00.001-08:002016-01-19T10:27:50.090-08:005 Personal Wilderness Experiences As Trying & Life-Affirming As Anything in 'The Revenant' <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6m_9z0nV2vo1lOuFpdmgLFpT_HQzuCn1xEP4q9RmLQW3dCVUn7G1B3j9lX3lSINp3v3HMB4gLKqOdrOhvjCUWCM-_pI4AQkUpKXR6MKOFddjLCDTOpxZ81OEW8Xra8DJY8HGYC6zLnru/s1600/617989e0-f66c-40d4-95aa-5b093fde1cc4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6m_9z0nV2vo1lOuFpdmgLFpT_HQzuCn1xEP4q9RmLQW3dCVUn7G1B3j9lX3lSINp3v3HMB4gLKqOdrOhvjCUWCM-_pI4AQkUpKXR6MKOFddjLCDTOpxZ81OEW8Xra8DJY8HGYC6zLnru/s320/617989e0-f66c-40d4-95aa-5b093fde1cc4.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pinterest.com</td></tr>
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Over the weekend, the wife and I
saw <i>The Revenant</i>.<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> This decision was driven mostly by my love of Leo DiCaprio,
Tom Hardy and a fondness for much of director Alejandro G. Inarritu’s back
catalog. Set in 1823 (minor spoilers follow), the movie, which is quite good,
tells the story of a wilderness guide named Hugh Glass who is horrifically
mauled by a bear, witnesses his son die a tragic death and then is abandoned by
his compatriots and left for dead. Glass, contrary to what his name might
imply, doesn’t die. In fact, he sort of recovers and sets off after those who
wronged him and his family, dead set on revenge. Along the way even more
horrible stuff happens to him involving waterfalls and cliffs and the like. The
movie runs about 2 ½ hours and really the only time Glass looks even remotely
happy for that entire time, even while his son is alive, is when he’s catching
snowflakes on his tongue with a new friend. This part doesn’t really turn out
well either.</span></div>
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Glass’ experience in the woods got me thinking about some of my own wilderness
excursions. Now, sure. Old Hugh might have me beat a little bit in terms of
what he endured out there. However, I’ve had a time or two out there as well,
let me tell you. Consider the following: </div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->One time, many years ago, a friend and I went
for a hike in the woods. The path was a complete circle, still along the way we
joked about how long it was taking and how we’d probably end up lost and hiking
to another state. That didn’t happen and, upon our return from this hike, we
had no way of estimating how long we walked so we guessed ten miles. Looking
back we may, may have broken ¾ of a mile. The following day we related this to
experience to our classmates who promptly called BS on our estimation. We were
crestfallen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I went camping with two expert campers and a
fellow novice. One of the experts spent the entirety of the first day talking
down to us, the novices, to our faces and to everyone we met out in the woods.
On the second day, I told him to take his campus, find south, and walk directly
to hell. This remains my all-time greatest insult-spoken-to-another-person.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->The wife and I went for a 4-mile hike on Black
Friday of this past year. After a few hours and about 4 ½ miles, we finally consulted
the GPS device I was using to track the walk and realized the path we were on
was not, in fact, a complete circle and that it was never going to take us back
to our car. Then, instead of turning around and following the difficult path
back from whence we’d came, we elected to go with an easier, but significantly
longer path. We eventually abandoned this path in favor of hopping across busy
roads. All told, the four mile hike turned into a cool eleven plus miles.
Lesson: Never assume your hiking partner has actually read the map before you
begin. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->While I was unloading the car during a recent
camping trip the wife and I took, I went to pull out a bit of wood we’d brought
along to use for a fire – in case the pickings at the site were scarce – and
some of it got jammed under my thumb nail. I spent most of the rest of the trip
constantly picking at this, fearing more than once that my finger, nay hand,
would require amputation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Same trip, my wife’s car didn’t start when we
went to leave. It took the kindness of two different sets of strangers to help
set things straight. Hear that, Hugh? Our car wouldn’t start right away! We had
to wait around for like an extra 20 minutes while a couple of strangers helped
us. Kind of puts that whole “bear-mauling” into perspective, eh? We were
inconvenienced. Moderately. <o:p></o:p></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-57805978470901228762016-01-11T15:50:00.001-08:002016-01-11T15:50:58.692-08:00Complaining About the Good Deeds of Others: Fundraising 101<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnV0FvfwIi2zF6-rKQRx_AkvNFdt6w0FOFPK_kiMXD9XEsu6ThmB8DOdMeOZrTQ9d8UqMYKmXWJjuJhQ4WoOyyu238RjEbZkiW61MokwtzvawhuGrginYmKiMAbwvciijkdBUMP7QF9TSH/s1600/cat+fundraiser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnV0FvfwIi2zF6-rKQRx_AkvNFdt6w0FOFPK_kiMXD9XEsu6ThmB8DOdMeOZrTQ9d8UqMYKmXWJjuJhQ4WoOyyu238RjEbZkiW61MokwtzvawhuGrginYmKiMAbwvciijkdBUMP7QF9TSH/s320/cat+fundraiser.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr" style="margin-right: -2px; overflow: hidden; padding-right: 2px; text-overflow: ellipsis; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;">www.theittybittykittycommittee.com</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Each year around early November, office
break rooms around the country turn into Willy Wonka’s Site B. One possible
explanation is that deals were cut with the chocolate magnate to store all of
the candy that couldn’t fit in the Chocolate Factory proper until room cleared.
Another possible explanation? A more likely one? The candy influx is the result
of health-conscious parents trying to keep kids from eating their weight in
Halloween candy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The thing is, Halloween rolls into Thanksgiving which then rolls into
Christmas, each holiday bringing more and more treats. All the while, fitness-focused
parents are siphoning sweets off from their kid’s stash and leaving them in the
break room for adults to gorge themselves on. This never-ending supply of free
candy makes every trip to the water cooler or microwave an extreme test of
self-control. This dance occurs every year, but this year I discovered a new
wrinkle. </div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
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At some point, I’m not entirely certain when, someone left a box of full-sized
candy bars in the break room at my job. I walked in one day, saw this and
marveled at the generosity. Full sized candy bars don’t come cheap and this
person had left behind a whole box of them. Name brands too, no generics. Hershey’s.
Reese’s. Twizzlers. Then I saw a note saying that, in order to get a candy bar,
you need to leave a donation of a few bucks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This floored me. For one thing, there’s still a wide-range of free candy
options available in the break room. I mean sure, maybe to some people this is
just about giving to a good cause. What they get out of it is irrelevant.
Except, the box is very light on details about what we’re giving to exactly.
There’s no images of sick kids or abused pets or un-built homes. No text explaining
it either. Without any emotional component, the whole transaction is built on
me wanting candy and ignoring the bounty of free stuff.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Secondly, who still wants candy? The amount of candy people have been faced
with since November 1 is dizzying. I’m at the point now where I go catatonic
for 20 minutes if I accidentally eat a plain M&M.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s a bigger question to be answered: Why would you go with a candy
fundraiser at the time of year when the Earth’s people are most inundated with
candy? Now’s the time to be offering people something that they don’t have a
metric ton of at home, in their car cup holders, and in the pockets of their
coats.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While it’s too late to prevent this particular fundraising gaffe, here are
three suggestions for anyone who may find themselves trying to collect a little
money near the end of next year:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b>Magazines </b>– People have been forced to interact with their
loved ones multiple times over a few weeks. They desperately need something
they can stare at absently and, most importantly, silently.</li>
<li><b>Coffee </b>– This one is more sinister, but hear me out. It’s
built around the idea that people have been contributing to this candy
fundraiser in lieu of the free stuff. So, you put a box of K-Cups or whatever
in the break room with the donation envelop. You add in the requisite,
heart-string-pulling pictures and text. Then, you hide all of the free coffee
you can find and just wait until 2:30 rolls around. People will be desperate
for caffeine and suddenly little Johnny and his gaggle of too-skinny puppies
are the only game in town. That’s how you fundraise.</li>
<li><b>Health food </b>– Those of us who are tired of candy but need
something to supplement our lunch are an agonizingly under-served community at
this point. If you throw some granola or a bit of lettuce or a handful of
almonds in a box with an envelope, fit people will come. They will be grateful
to give you their money. </li>
</ul>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-31381137604614203522015-12-29T16:42:00.001-08:002015-12-30T05:56:45.505-08:00The Cheese Life Presents The 2015 Drakie Awards <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItz0cQ6B06b2hrnBrnRo-6JueXlRe05eaTMxy4KXuOMdoUXmzI-bI4Ub2_pnXdXKad7m6Ug_hCDbLmLeusb1ELVhWUEItMa5rLrv5YZoVP6v8LogDBO8LT_cH_JYOQdHnh34PD9Nln8Rx/s1600/grumpy-cat-friskies-award.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItz0cQ6B06b2hrnBrnRo-6JueXlRe05eaTMxy4KXuOMdoUXmzI-bI4Ub2_pnXdXKad7m6Ug_hCDbLmLeusb1ELVhWUEItMa5rLrv5YZoVP6v8LogDBO8LT_cH_JYOQdHnh34PD9Nln8Rx/s320/grumpy-cat-friskies-award.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr" style="margin-right: -2px; overflow: hidden; padding-right: 2px; text-overflow: ellipsis; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;">www.catchannel.com</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here we sit. Christmas is in the rearview. A new year looms
ahead and with it comes roughly three or four months of unrelenting bleakness
capable of crushing the spirits of even the most stalwart of individuals.
Before we get to that joy, however, there is something which must be done
first. We must look back at the year that was 2015.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ladies and gentlemen, the 2015 Drakie Awards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re unfamiliar the Drakies (here are the <a href="http://www.the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2014/12/cheese-life-presents-2014-year-in.html" target="_blank">2014 Drakies</a> and the <a href="http://www.the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2013/12/year-in-review-very-best-that-2013.html" target="_blank">2013 Drakies</a>), they are the awards founded by my friend and business partner Drake
Stone. Depending on who you talk to, Stone is either hiding in a concrete
bunker in the Rocky Mountains avoiding the former members of the Doomsday cult
he founded and misled, or serving as president of a small island mostly
populated by seagulls. Wherever he is and whatever he may be doing, he’s
entrusted these awards – which he’s often referred to as the least relevant portion
of his legacy – to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Despite Stone’s feelings on the
awards, I take them very seriously. Before I lock in my selections, I lock
myself in a dark, windowless room and spend a week ruminating on the year. What
I liked, what I didn’t. Depriving myself of food, water and bathroom privileges.
It’s a whole thing. The point is, these winners were not selected lightly. So,
without further stalling or ado-ing, I take you to the 2015 Drakies. </div>
<a name='more'></a> <br />
<h3>
Pop Culture Division</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
<b>Best Movie</b>: Star Wars: The Force
Awakens. J.J. Abrams and company managed to capture the tone and feel of the
originals and give us a reason to be excited about Star Wars again. Finally,
finally the stink of George Lucas’ prequel trilogy has been washed away.<br />
<div>
Runners up: It Follows, Ex Machina <br />
<br />
<div>
<b>Best Song</b>: Elle King - “Exes &
Ohs.” Here is the true mark of a quality song for me: No matter how many time I
hear it, I never, ever manage to put all of the lines in the exact right order
when I’m walking around, singing it to myself. It was true of Fastball’s “The
Way,” it was true of KoRn’s “Falling Away From Me” and it is true of this song.
Congrats, Ms. King.</div>
<div>
Runner up: Taylor Swift- “Style” <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Best Bandwagon</b>: Ronda Rousey.
Thanks to the heroes, that’s right, heroes, out there who dutifully posted each
and every one of Ronda’s fights to Facebook immediately after they happened I
became a sudden Ronda Rousey fan. I watched every one, enjoyed her in Furious
7 and got super, super hyped when she showed up at Wrestlemania.</div>
<div>
Runners up: Bernie Sanders, Better
Call Saul </div>
<div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Best Podcast</b>: Welcome to Night
Vale. The writing on Night Vale so far eclipses the rest of the scripted
podcasts I’ve experienced that it’s like Ronda Rousey from three months ago.
Night Vale’s writing team could easily go toe-to-toe with the best that TV and
movies have to offer.</div>
<div>
Runners up: Harmontown, The Adam
Carolla Show</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Best TV Show</b>: Better Call Saul. As
per my tradition with things Vince Gilligan puts his name on, I was late to the
Better Call Saul party. But once I arrived, I promptly took off my shoes,
placed a lampshade over my head and dove in. Better Call Saul is appointment
TV.</div>
<div>
Runner up: Game of Thrones</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Best Celebrity (Animal)</b>: Grumpy
Cat. It’s the little things that make Grumpy Cat a star. While some focus on
the witty captions and sayings attributed to her via memes, I focus on how cute
she looks when someone picks her up. Because she’s tiny. And adorable. In
short, I had to split up the Best Celebrity category to give others a chance
for some glory.</div>
<div>
Runner up: Molly (aka The Thing of
Evil)</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Best Celebrity (Human/Non-Animal)</b>:
Seth Rollins. Same reasons as above mostly. Also, Seth is a delightful,
athletic performer who carried WWE programming on his back for very nearly a
year. He took months of poor writing and uninspiring matchups and did his best
to spin them into, if not gold, something that was at least watchable.</div>
<div>
Runners up: Stephen King, The Rock</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Comeback of the Year Award</b>: M.
Night Shyamalan. For a few years there, M. Night was my favorite director. He
was my Quentin Tarantino before Quentin Tarantino became my Quentin Tarantino. I
adored The Sixth Sense, loved Unbreakable and went right back to adoring with Signs. Then everything went wrong. Movies started coming out that were bad.
Then embarrassingly bad. Soon I stopped caring. But then The Visit happened.
This was one of my favorite horror films of the year and one of my favorite
films period. I can’t recommend this movie strongly enough. It’s funny on
purpose. It’s tense. It has one hell of a third act. Welcome back, my friend. </div>
<div>
Runner up: Adam Carolla podcasts<br />
<br />
<h3>
Life Division</h3>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Best Food</b>: Veggie Burger. I’m not
now, nor have I ever been a vegetarian. I don’t, however, eat red meat. Rather
than live in a burger-less world, I tried veggie burgers and my god. I mean my
god. If you’re one of those “Ew veggie burger! Wah??” types, I urge you. Try
one. It will change your opinion on cows’ place as a dietary staple forever.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Leisure Activity</b>: Walking. I
took my walking game to a new level in 2015. I walk at lunch. When the weather
was nice, I walked every day after work that I possibly could. Solo, with a
companion, it didn’t matter. There is nothing finer than a good walk.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Beverage</b>: Rekorderlig Premium
Strawberry-Lime Cider. A delightful Swedish cider I had to travel all the way
to the least Swedish place I can think of in order to enjoy. That place is a
restaurant in Disney’s Hollywood Studios in Orlando, Florida named after an
actual restaurant in California. So worth it. <br />
<br />
<b>Best Condimen</b>t: Cocktail sauce. It
wasn’t a big year for me and cocktail sauce. However, when I find myself
thinking about my 2015 regrets, not eating enough cocktail sauce comes up again
and again. Consider its inclusion here as a promise to do better come 2016.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Animal</b>: Cat. We may soon need
a non-cat division just to get some other species involved in this. Llamas are
over there, just staring daggers at me right now. I can’t even.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Article of Clothing</b>: Socks. It
was a glorious years for my feet’s closest confidants. There’s no better way to
express your wacky personal style without being too presumptuous about it than
with a good pair of socks. <br />
<br />
<b>Award for Outstanding Achievements
in 2015</b>: And now, the big one. The winner of the Drakie for Outstanding
Achievements in 2015 is … Me! I got married, I watched my sister get married,
both of which were big deals. Earlier in the year, I helped to change a tire
with one hand. ONE! The other was sealed up tight in a cast due to surgery to
repair the damage softball inflicted on my wrist. I went to Disney World. Also, I ran a half marathon, said
goodbye to my musical career and took pictures of cats sleeping in parked cars.
It was a busy year. It was a great year and I must thank everyone who helped
make it such. Especially me. That’s why I got the trophy. Thank you, me. <br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
</div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-71571042539342672432015-12-18T08:12:00.001-08:002015-12-22T05:33:18.936-08:00The 10 Dumbest Christmas Songs Ever Written<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAt9kQ4pgeDvMesM42lmBcdSJpzR0dVweeOtPPtJ06S-vxknBK5yD0zolUgdvjLmKPA3fZl5aNB6ZWB5_kmw9yt9w_AUJCKboLTJIk3R8JoFGER7jfwluslgQBgpthAIqfCeobmX99z4k0/s1600/grumpy+christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAt9kQ4pgeDvMesM42lmBcdSJpzR0dVweeOtPPtJ06S-vxknBK5yD0zolUgdvjLmKPA3fZl5aNB6ZWB5_kmw9yt9w_AUJCKboLTJIk3R8JoFGER7jfwluslgQBgpthAIqfCeobmX99z4k0/s320/grumpy+christmas.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mashable.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It’s become a bit of a tradition on
this blog for me to set my sights on a beloved Christmas song and then nitpick
it to absolute death. It’s fun. We all love it. However, I won’t be doing it
this year. I’ve already covered the two biggest, easiest targets (<a href="http://www.the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2014/12/christmas-song-dissection-worst.html" target="_blank">Here </a>& <a href="http://www.the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2013/12/how-grinch-stole-christmas-shoes-and.html" target="_blank">Here</a>) and, with
those two off the board, there really isn’t another Christmas song out there I
can muster 800+ angry words about. The good news is, there are plenty of songs
I can muster a few dozen angry words about. Lo, I give you: The 10 Dumbest Christmas
Songs Ever Written.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>(Editor’s note: In the name of
making this a comprehensive list, I had to include a few old friends in the
mix.) </i><br />
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>10. Jose Feliciano – Feliz Navidad</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: Let’s go with numbers to tell this story, shall we? 19 words. This song is over three minutes long and it
features exactly 19 unique words. This song plays 47 million times a year
between Thanksgiving and New Years Day. Jose Feliciano has made, roughly, seven
bajillion dollars off of this record. Schwarzenegger’s words-spoken-to-millions-earned ratio for the “Terminator” films isn’t as off the charts as Feliciano’s.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>9. (Tie) Paul McCartney – Wonderful Christmas Time/John
Lennon – Happy Xmas</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why They're Dumb: Paul McCartney and John Lennon are like the
Goldilocks of Christmas songs. In 1971, John released one hell of
a downer holiday song on the world. Nothing like being asked accusingly “What
have you done” with your life while you try to dig the cat out from under a
metric ton of spent wrapping paper. Nine years after John bummed us all out,
Sir Paul delivered unto the world the musical equivalent of the ugly Christmas
sweat. It’s just straight up dumb and tacky and it’s fun, but only in that
ironic kind of way. There has to be some just-right porridge in between these
two somewhere. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>8. Gayla Peevey – I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: The vocals of the 10-year-old singing this are
just so painfully annoying. There are people half her age on “The Voice” right
now who sound like they’re adults. Also, side note: You know the parents are
going to end up taking care of that goddamn hippo two weeks after Christmas
when the stupid kid gets sick of it. The mom already proved her hippo knowledge
earlier in the song when she assumed one would try to eat her daughter. I picture the mom on January 12 trying to feed the hippo hamburgers and Cheerios
and the hippo just sighing heavily, dreaming of the days when poachers were the
only thing it had to worry about. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>7. Lou Monte – Dominic the Donkey</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: The premise of this song – and Dominic’s
entire existence – is based on the lyric: “Because the reindeer cannot climb
the hills of Italy.” The reindeer in question are Santa’s reindeer. Santa’s
FLYING reindeer. These reindeer, who can fly, crap out when faced with the
hills of Italy. I’m amazed they even got that far. By Lou Monte’s logic, they
should still be running around in circles near the Himalayas sob-screaming
“Bambi’s mom had it easy!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>6. Jimmy Boyd – I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: So the whole point of this song is that Mommy
is kissing and tickling Daddy, who is, in fact, dressed like Santa. It sucks
because the kid doesn’t know that. All the narrator of this song knows is that
Mommy is screwing around with an ageless being behind Daddy’s back.
Furthermore, this narrator thinks it would be funny, FUNNY, if Daddy saw this!
I don’t think Daddy is going to see the humor in adultery, supernatural or
otherwise, kid. The follow up to this song, “I Saw Mommy and Daddy in Court
(and Had to Choose Which One I Wanted to Live With),” was way less successful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>5. Alvin & the Chipmunks – Chipmunks Song</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: Ok, so this song clocks in at 2 minutes, 17
seconds. That’s a little short, but alright. It’s a gimmicky song performed by
a band of chipmunks, not “Stairway to Heaven” or something. But wait! Take out
20 seconds for the spoken word intro, 37 seconds for the clearly-stalling instrumental
breakdown and another spoken word section in the middle and another 16 seconds
of spoken word outro at the end and you’re left with about 64 seconds of actual
song! 64 seconds! This thing won three Grammys for god sakes. It’s not like
it’s saying anything particularly profound during those 64 seconds, either. The
chipmunks read their Christmas lists and then plea for time to continue working
as usual. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>4. Andy Williams – Happy Holidays<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: Christmas is known for its traditions. In
America, where Andy was based, it works like this: We hang up our stockings,
leave out some milk, cookies, and carrots and then, at some random hour, Santa
stops by to leave presents. Apparently that wasn’t good enough for old Andy,
who decided to completely rework the Santa mythos. In Andy’s world, Santa comes
precisely at midnight, you leave him a peppermint stick and hang up a
less-than-glamorous sock. That’s not how this works, Andy! There are goddamn
rules to follow. You don’t get to make up your own version of something the
rest of the country already made up and agreed upon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>3. Ricardo Montalban and Esther Williams – Baby, It’s Cold
Outside <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: It’s amazing that a song which features a
female character desperately fighting off the unwanted advances of a male
character and the lyric “Say, what’s in this drink?” isn’t the date rapiest
song on this list. But so it goes. This song is flat out creepy. It’s impossible
to read the lyrics or listen to it performed and not think about date rape. Yet
for some reason, people keep covering it as if it were this romantic little
ditty. Perhaps we could afford to be that naïve in the late 40s when this thing
was written, but we can’t still be at that point going on 70 years later.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>2. Dan Fogelberg – Same Old Lang Syne<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: Let’s see, this song is about a man who gropes
women in grocery stores, convinces them that they know him and then force feeds
them beer until they compliment him on his music career and admit that they
hate their lives. Then, when they don’t sleep with him, he gets all mopey about
it. But don’t worry. His actions are presented with a folksy twang, so that
makes it charming. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>1. New Song – Christmas Shoes</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why It's Dumb: A Dickensian pauper wanders into a needlessly
crowded shoe store on Christmas Eve and coughs on all of the merchandise while simultaneously
guilt-tripping some poor sucker into buying him a pair of shoes. Meanwhile, a
minimum wage clerk has to somehow reconcile this scene with the fact that he
has another two hours on his shift before he can drink it all away with booze.<o:p></o:p></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-68782589874907619502015-11-30T15:58:00.001-08:002015-11-30T15:58:15.149-08:00AN EPIC TALE OF MAN VS. MACHINE<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0lMJTb-pEiPAJOeVze2Bv7Bwm3LOg-ft6lbqaDPu6SaMFitTJACiFg6eeyrAI1CXP3k34BvehNnI8zxfG-l6qF0U4Ag4EV0qXVN-BMoWq6B4Fci8XeyB6FGXUI9pXJQoZVnb36Chhsrm/s1600/Cat_keyboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0lMJTb-pEiPAJOeVze2Bv7Bwm3LOg-ft6lbqaDPu6SaMFitTJACiFg6eeyrAI1CXP3k34BvehNnI8zxfG-l6qF0U4Ag4EV0qXVN-BMoWq6B4Fci8XeyB6FGXUI9pXJQoZVnb36Chhsrm/s320/Cat_keyboard.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Commons.wiki</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spend a lot of time on this blog talking about issues that
aren’t interesting to anyone but me. My readership figures indicate this fact
to me quite clearly. In the extremely rare instance that one of my long-winded
complaints has a wider appeal than one, it is never of any real consequence. It’s
more of a commonly-accepted annoyance than a pressing issue worthy of the
attention of societal leaders. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until
today. My friends, computer keyboards are a huge problem and they need to be
addressed. Well, not the whole keyboard necessarily. Just one midsized key. The
Caps Lock key. Ask yourself, how many times have you pressed the Caps Lock key
on purpose? Now think about how many times you’ve pressed it by accident. If
you’re anything like me, the percentage is somewhere in the neighborhood of 99%
by accident to 1% intentional. That may be being generous on the intentional
front.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s
a regular scenario for me. I’m in need of a capital “A.” I hit the Shift key using
my right hand, no problem. I reach for the “A” key with my left, my dominant
hand, and somehow, someway, overshoot the “A” and nail the Caps Lock. Of
course, I assume everything went according to plan and so I’ll just continue
typing away. Yes, despite the amount of time I spend using keyboards, I still
find myself watching my fingers as I type. I’m not looking for the letters, necessarily.
The only way I can explain this is, I use my feet a lot, and yet I still find
myself staring at them while I walk. It’s just a habit?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to
the problem. So, I’m typing along and then I glance at my screen and see it: a
line or two of all caps. Unintentional all-caps. For years, this meant me
having to delete everything I typed and then retype it. Only recently did I discover
the existence in Microsoft word of the “Change Case” option. This helpful
little icon can change all-caps text to any old kind of caps style you require,
including regular-caps text. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still,
it’s an added step that I don’t need in my life. Is there any reason the Caps
Lock key needs to exist let alone occupy such a place of prominence on my keyboard?
I mean, I’m good with holding the Shift button down if I for some reason need a
lengthy sequence of caps. But if this needs its own button, why can’t that
button live off with the equally little used, by me anyway, Num Lock button? You
know, somewhere where a guy is less-likely to accidentally encounter it while
he’s feverously typing about nonsense for a personal blog? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps
it’s a union thing among keyboard keys. Or could it be that Big Caps Lock has
the keyboard industry wrapped around its little finger? I can’t say. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If we
can’t get rid of or move the Caps Lock key, here’s an idea. Let’s put one of
those little glass cubes on top of it. There will be a little hinge so the cube
can be lifted up. Basically, it’s like the thing that covers the red “Nuclear
War” button that every president has on his/her desk in the movies. That way,
if I need Caps Lock (assuming hell has frozen over), it’s still in its same
high-value spot. All I need to do is lift up the little cover and tap it. Then,
when I’m done, I can replace the cover and carry on with my typing, free of the
fear of accidentally activating it. </div>
Is this
too much to ask? Presidential candidates! Hear me, I pray you! The first one of
you that starts talking about keyboard key placement will absolutely get my
vote next year! Unless it’s Trump. Then I’m going to have to rethink my
position on this thing entirely. Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-13573691371315834652015-11-18T17:09:00.001-08:002015-11-18T17:09:45.468-08:00Black Friday Survival Guide: 5 Keys to Bargain-Hunting & Coming Back Alive <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYC9C9uEPorngiO7SgcFOH2tzghjANzoMNFUgPEAV_8REBtMGx8ATpfdOxusyGYeTugd88TCbrn5TCOsBvWHWxSxGOCH2oMOvE1F5VlndSBz2YdXX4nqgncsd3emGLLK5G9o8id6t6MqnP/s1600/cat+shopping+cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYC9C9uEPorngiO7SgcFOH2tzghjANzoMNFUgPEAV_8REBtMGx8ATpfdOxusyGYeTugd88TCbrn5TCOsBvWHWxSxGOCH2oMOvE1F5VlndSBz2YdXX4nqgncsd3emGLLK5G9o8id6t6MqnP/s320/cat+shopping+cart.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.kim-watkins.com</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon, very soon, Black Friday will be upon us. A day which
began as a way to honor the birth of Arthur C. Woolworth and has since mutated
into an unholy orgy of commercialism. How far we’ve come, Mr. W. How
far we’ve come, indeed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In all likelihood at least a few of
you will be heading out into that madness in an ill-fated attempt to get a good
deal on a television or an Xbox. In reality, you have a better chance of
getting an excellent deal on an elbow to the temple or a knee to the groin.
What you won’t get is an Xbox. But still, I’m sure you’ll try. I know that I can’t
talk you out of going out on Black Friday. Not any more than I can talk fish
out of swimming. What I can do is offer you a few tried and true survival tips,
tips which are based on my own experiences and musings. Follow these, my
friends, and my blog traffic may not dip significantly come December.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Because you’ll still be alive. See
what I did there?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Anyway, here are those tips:</div>
<ul>
<li><b>Say “Hi!” to every dog you meet. </b>Now, in all
likelihood, you will encounter very few dogs on Black Friday. As a species,
they’ve developed a strong aversion to materialistic pursuits. If you do see
one, give him or her a friendly smile and wave. He or she will remember this
kindness and, if the shit hits the fans, you may just be able to count on him or
her having your back.
</li>
<li><b>Stay within walking distance of your home.</b> For
one thing, you’re more likely to end up shopping alongside people you know and
people you know are scientifically-proven to be 13% less likely to strangle you
with your own entrails over a PS4. Always play the odds. Even better, say
you indulge a little too heavily on Thanksgiving. This allows you to get your
shopping in, burn a few calories and not risk driving in a drunken, food-addled
state.</li>
<li><b>Think before you act.</b> Last year the wife and I went
out on Black Friday because we had a coupon to save $5 on hockey tape. This
coupon was only good at one store and so we went there. It just so happens that
this one store is located within the confines of the largest mall on the Eastern
seaboard. The blood of many innocents was spilled that day, if such things
exist on Black Friday. Sure, we got our discounted hockey tape. But at what
cost? Nothing on the coupon compelled us to go there on that day. We could have
gone on any Regular Day and gotten the same discount. We did not think and we
ended up in a feeding frenzy. Know what you’re doing before you do it.
Structure is the key to survival. Your instincts must not be trusted on that
day.</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><b>Go against the grain.</b> Everyone will flock to the
Wal-Marts and the Best Buys of the world the second they finish their
Thanksgiving meal. It is from these stores that all of the day’s viral videos
of fistfights and chaos will emerge. If you must go shopping, shop against the
grain. Research deals in unexpected places. Is the local, family-owned cigar
store selling something on the cheap? Go there. Buy all that you can. Don’t
smoke? Are there no smokers on your list? Don’t let that get in the way of
a good deal. They can learn to enjoy it. </li>
<li><b>Remember those who have come before.</b> No truly
great Black Friday shopper has hands that are blood-free. Many have fallen in
pursuit of a hot deal. Many have likely fallen directly as a result of you
punching a fist through their torso. Remember them. Before you leave your home,
pour out a few pennies on the sidewalk in their honor. Perhaps if the requisite
number of pennies are left, their spirits will elect to watch over you that day
and see you to safety. Or so you should pray. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
</li>
</ul>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-57018760370331696152015-11-09T15:09:00.001-08:002015-11-09T15:09:36.091-08:00Choose Your Own Adventure: Lunchtime Microwave Edition<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPw3Mdg6kA29mjHhEOeLDMk9Yl3x6uLfTn7D0B5HkW75UOy4avKGUp-FKtcgI64bd5UfhpY7fPPfnNq05d8kRcxIC2W52oXwjXszYieYqvcOtjUjIeaUtHpfqGc1hUjvSSWo3jG6svv3pn/s1600/cat+chef.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPw3Mdg6kA29mjHhEOeLDMk9Yl3x6uLfTn7D0B5HkW75UOy4avKGUp-FKtcgI64bd5UfhpY7fPPfnNq05d8kRcxIC2W52oXwjXszYieYqvcOtjUjIeaUtHpfqGc1hUjvSSWo3jG6svv3pn/s1600/cat+chef.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.pinterest.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I’ve
spent a lot of time, some would say too much time, writing out the things
people do at work that bug me (For proof, please see <a href="http://the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2014/04/bathroom-horror-stories-unclean-hands.html" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="http://the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2014/04/tasty-beverages-soulless-pop-music.html" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="http://the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-hidden-dangers-of-walking-around-at.html" target="_blank">here </a>and
<a href="http://the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2013/07/workplace-hazard-perilous-world-of-fist.html" target="_blank">here</a>). More than a few of these involve the bathroom. Actually, a good chunk of
my problems with society in general stem from others’ inability to follow a
few, basic and simple Water Closet Protocols as I call them.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
Recently, I’ve discovered a new
thing that happens at work to complain about. Good news, it has nothing to do
with the bathroom! Nope, if the story of a meal ends in the bathroom, then this
issue concerns the place where that story begins: the kitchen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lunch.
For most of us, it’s the midpoint of the workday. A time when you can either
look back and say: “I’ve done some good things here today” or “It’s what time?
Sweet Jesus. Well, I’ve still got all afternoon to finish that up. Should be fine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m a
creature of habit and so most days at work my lunch looks a little something
like this: container of plain Greek yogurt with a few assorted berries sprinkled
in, an apple and either leftovers or a container of plain chicken and veggies.
It’s a boring lunch for a boring gentleman. Just like our forefathers intended
when they built this great land of ours.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That
last element of the lunch, the container of either leftovers or chicken, that’s
where the trouble resides. See, 19 out of every 20 lunches I eat require
whatever is in here to be microwaved for somewhere between a minute and a
minute and a half if I’m feeling froggy. It’s not a big deal. The kitchen is
directly next to my cube so the walk is short. Plus, the fact that I can see the kitchen allows me to time it to
minimize awkward social interaction should I so choose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However,
twice in the last, let’s say two weeks, the following has occurred. I’ve been
hard at work, noticed the time and the rumbling in my tummy and, after a quick
glance over at the empty kitchen, have decided: “OK, let’s do this.” I grab my
lunch from my lunchbox scurry over to the kitchen, go to place it in the idle
microwave and BAM! There’s someone else’s already-nuked lunch sitting in there.</div>
<a name='more'></a>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As
there is only one microwave in our kitchen, this leaves me with two distinct
choices. A lunchtime Choose Your Own Adventure novel, if you will. Do I: A)
Wait it out for the food’s owner to return and claim it? There’s no telling how
long that could take. It could be seconds. Minutes. Hours even. The person could have been summoned to a massive meeting at the last
second, forced to leave his or her meal behind. Do I simply wait by the
microwave, like Fry’s dog, hoping that one day this person will return? Or: B)
Do I assertively remove the food from the microwave, place it gently on top of
said microwave and carry on with my business? There’s always the chance the
person catches me in the act and gets all huffy about me touching their
(in-a-container) food or think I’m going to steal it, etc. There’s also the
chance they come back in seconds, making me look like an over-reactive weirdo. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s
the clearest example ever of a no-win situation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
first time this occurred, I went straight to option B. I moved the food and
took over the microwave. The person appeared a few moments later, was very apologetic
and that was that. The second time, I elected to wait. It was a flimsy TV
dinner container and not a solid Tupperware so I felt wrong touching it. Again,
the person returned within minutes with many apologies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, so
far so good with this whole thing. But why is this becoming a trend? The whole
point of a microwave is to cook things quickly. If you don’t have enough time
to wait in the same room with it for a minute or two, then you need to change
up your lunch options. PB & J sandwiches are great. They require no
microwave and really only a minimum of care or prep work. If you’re so
time-starved, go that route and leave the microwave to those of us with a
little more flexibility in our schedules. Lunchables are another option. Again, no microwave
needed. Sure, you could microwave the pizza or the hamburgers, but you don’t <i>need</i> to. Thus is the beauty and also the
mind-numbing, stomach-churning horror of the Lunchable.</div>
I’ve
gotten lucky so far, however, I fear that one day this issue will be the end of
me. I fear it and I accept it. Should this be the case, friends, I will leave
you with this request. A request which is both mildly-honest and a nod to a
popular series of TV commercials for a microwavable pizza brand. On my
Tombstone, please put: Husband. Cat Father. Passionate Fighter of Low-Level Inconveniences.
If that’s too many letters, just go with the last one. The others will be
implied.Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-41751747297729525562015-11-02T17:12:00.002-08:002015-11-02T17:12:22.087-08:00Infographic: America's Taste in Candy is Suspect <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4W3Tnu3hzQJs5fGDmxRaWkPyFHjuuXKddqEJ7EIV9VmjPDNEz4VWB53SlKIsZIRYpzpTMLMT5NBfIItUqcFcF4XjSbchJ5l4or7IPGZLtoNrg_PrbCUBTR-ahEYPu3iOWLn8m_NarHG-/s1600/sleeping+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4W3Tnu3hzQJs5fGDmxRaWkPyFHjuuXKddqEJ7EIV9VmjPDNEz4VWB53SlKIsZIRYpzpTMLMT5NBfIItUqcFcF4XjSbchJ5l4or7IPGZLtoNrg_PrbCUBTR-ahEYPu3iOWLn8m_NarHG-/s320/sleeping+cat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">greatinspire.com</span></span></td></tr>
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Halloween is gone, leaving in its wake naught but candy
wrappers, empty bottles of pumpkin beer and a few mutilated pumpkins. For those
of us for who hold Halloween as sacred, myself and druids mostly, these are
dark, depressing days. The longest possible time until we get more Halloween.
Not even the promise of the impending Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons can
cheer us up. Not right now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In this
awful, depressing wasteland of early November, there’s only one thing to do: go
back in time and pretend it’s still Halloween. Bingo. Done. So, let’s talk
about this pre-Halloween infographic I just stumbled upon today. It concerns a
study done on the favorite candies of each of the fifty states. More than
40,000 Americans from all states were asked to name their favorite Halloween
candy. This is what they came up with. </div>
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<img alt="Influenster Halloween Candy Map 2015" height="492" src="https://d1sca6vi4fbl8x.cloudfront.net/media/uploads/2015/10/14/influenster-halloween-candy-map.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
comes courtesy of <a href="https://www.influenster.com/article/americas-favorite-halloween-candy-state-by-state" target="_blank">Influenster</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To be
perfectly honest, there are a lot of things mortally wrong with that picture. I’m
going to pick out the six that stuck in my craw the most.</div>
<br />
<ol>
<li><b>No Mallow Cups.</b> The only acceptable reason for Mallow Cups to
not be included on this infographic is if the question was: “What’s your
favorite Halloween candy? You know, besides Mallow Cups, which are number one
on everyone’s list because this is America. So besides that given, what’s your
favorite?” Last year, Mallow Cups took home the top spot on my own <a href="http://the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2014/10/trick-or-trreating-for-dummies-best.html" target="_blank">Halloween power rankings</a>, as it has done every year of my life. Its absence from this
study is a sad testament to the decline of this great country. Click <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMqcLUqYqrs" target="_blank">here </a>to
view the Jeff Daniels rant from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Newsroom</i> and just imagine he’s talking about candy.</li>
<li><b>West Virginia Doesn’t Know the Difference Between Candy and
Cookies.</b> Seriously, West Virginia? It’s not hard. You’ve got a cookie aisle in
grocery stores and a candy aisle. One of them is a thing you bake or something
and the other one is made from the bones of elves or something. Look, I’m not a
chef and I’m not a scientist, but I know one goddamn thing: an Oreo is not
candy. I expect this kind of crap out of Florida, but not you, West Virginia.</li>
<li><b>Speaking of Which … What Happened to Florida?</b> Look at it
down there. Picking a great candy like Nestle Crunch, being all normal.
Florida, no offense, but anecdotally-speaking, you are the dumbest and weirdest
state in the Union. I half expected to scroll down and see a picture of John
Candy smiling back at me because every single one of your citizens
misunderstood the question. But no. You made a great pick with Nestle Crunch.
Meanwhile, West Virginia is sitting up there dunking M&Ms in a glass of
milk. </li>
<li><b>Arizona Picked Toblerone.</b> I know two things about this
candy: I’ve never had it and it comes in a long triangle box. My guess is,
judging by that box, they’re super expensive. I have no science to back that
up. I’m not sure how these are better than milk chocolate cups filled with marshmallow
but whatever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li><b>Pennsylvania Picked Swedish Fish.</b> Really? Swedish Fish are
fine I guess, but they should not be anyone’s favorite anything. I’m going to
chalk this up much in the same way I chalk up all things that are wrong with Pennsylvania:
Philadelphia and Pittsburgh tried to do the right thing and then the entire
middle of the state took a big dump on their good intentions. </li>
<li><b>What’s with that Kit Kat Logo in Montana?</b> A quick Googling tells me
that is the international Kit Kat logo. Since this survey only concerns these
here United States, let’s just stick with the logo we all know and are
comfortable with, yes? Yes. </li>
</ol>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-34341342510099616692015-10-26T17:41:00.003-07:002015-10-26T17:47:33.598-07:00The 12 Half-Marathon Training Tips THEY Don't Want You to Hear<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">odditymall.com</span></span></td></tr>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m going to be running my
first-ever half marathon on Saturday. I’ve been preparing for this for quite
some time – longer even then I’ve been preparing for Halloween if you can
believe it. During my months and months of rigorous training, I’ve sweated, I’ve
bled and I’ve learned a few things about distance running which I would like to
share with you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now sure, a quick Googling will
turn up a few hundred million websites all purporting to offer the best and
most valuable tips for surviving – and even thriving during – your half
marathon. All of those things are great. Who doesn’t want to survive and
thrive? However, I’ve noticed there are a few things they, the running
literati, won’t tell you. While they may not be on the tips of anyone’s tongue,
these things are just as important to survival.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I will impart this wisdom to you
now in the form of a bulleted list: </div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Say “Hi” to every person you meet who’s going in the
opposite direction, no matter how many times you see them. That first pass, it’s
just common courtesy. But with each subsequent pass, it becomes about milking
that momentary human interaction for a slight emotional boost. As the miles
pile up, every little boost helps. </li>
<li>Run on the correct side of the road/sidewalk. Whatever side
of the road you’re legally-bound to drive on is the side you should be running
on. If you don’t know how roads work, take social cues from your fellow
runners. If others appear to be running on the right, don’t assume they’re all
drunk, angry foreigners. Follow them. Learn from them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li>If you’re running with a large group, do not run in rows of
seven, taking over the entire sidewalk or road. You’re a running group, not a
Union regiment preparing to take on the Confederacy. Remember. Share the
sidewalk. Share the road. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li>Say “Hi” to every dog you see. It’s a mathematical fact,
dogs offer 10X performance bonus of people. Also, the dog owners you encounter
will, 99% of the time, be delighted that you acknowledged their pooch. Their
delight will cause them to give you a nod and smile, adding even more
performance bonuses. That other 1% will be totally creeped out and confused.
Ignore them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li>Fanny packs are cool again. No explanation needed. They just
are. Use them. </li>
<li>Say “Hi” to every cat ... say “Hi” to every animal you see.
Bunnies and squirrels need love too. You need something to distract you from
the tedium of running lots of miles. Say “Hi” to critters. You’ll be basking in
the glow of a long run well done before you know it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li>Bring a snack. You’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Energy
beans and gels are good. Things like chopped walnuts are less good. Despite the
fact that they taste great, they’re hard to eat while you’re running without choking.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li>A little hockey tape around your compression knee pads may
look dorky, but it will hold them in place. Us skinny-legged individuals need
the power of compression without the fear of having it slip away as a run
progresses. Hockey tape works wonders to keep compression knee pads in place.
Packing tape does not do that. </li>
<li>Before you leave your house or your car, double check you’ve
got the right keys. It’s good for your peace of mind while you run. It’s better
when you’re done running and you need to get back into your car or home. </li>
<li>Podcasts are good, music is better. Unless you listen to
some sort of pump-up podcast. I’m not sure what that would sound like to be
honest. Maybe old recordings of Churchill. Or a guy angrily screaming “Get
some!” over and over again. Or the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li>If you get stuck at a red light, hop up and down like you
have to pee. Most importantly, it keeps the blood flowing while you wait to
resume your journey. As an added bonus, the sight of you will delight the
drivers who are also waiting for the red light to change. It’s nice to make
other people happy. </li>
<li>Beware of people who don’t know how to control their dogs. Sometimes
a friendly nod and a “Hi” will cause a dog to lunge in your direction.
Sometimes that dog’s owner won’t be prepared for this. It is up to you, the
runner, to be prepared when they aren’t. After every friendly “Hi” and nod to a
dog, you must be ready to snap kick that dog in the head should it come down to
your survival or theirs. The same goes for cats. And squirrels. And turtles.
You won’t want to do these things, but take solace in the fact that when the
deed is done, you will still likely have many more miles to go until your run
is over. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
</ol>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-7494054263866854702015-10-09T19:16:00.000-07:002015-10-09T19:17:18.745-07:00My Adventures Doing the Exact Opposite of 'Speed'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2S-PbyxLMssSJ5ps5BptzzU3fWkaeDVlJpUL9o3YzldyHgYz0OheHqk-TPtanhS7UwPyY2IWueOkqzIHEHy1YDjUVukgcXk_77_gO5PGcq0Jn0grOpc7eWTQY4Bczn4N5OBgoVvw_T9Tn/s1600/complain+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2S-PbyxLMssSJ5ps5BptzzU3fWkaeDVlJpUL9o3YzldyHgYz0OheHqk-TPtanhS7UwPyY2IWueOkqzIHEHy1YDjUVukgcXk_77_gO5PGcq0Jn0grOpc7eWTQY4Bczn4N5OBgoVvw_T9Tn/s1600/complain+cat.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
I’m a slow driver. Some have said I drive the way old people make love – often using much more colorful terminology to do so. Usually, I retort with something along the line of “Yes, carefully and with years of experience.” It’s not a mic drop moment, it’s barely even a place the mic slowly back into the storage closet at the end of the night, sign it a lullaby and put on its Chris Rock nightlight moment. Still, it usually gets a chuckle and life goes on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
I mean, I’m not going to argue. I am a slow a driver. I have been since the days when I carefully pushed my Matchbox cars around fake cityscapes, following what my 8-year-old brain understood to be “The rules of the road.” It ain’t going to change – well, not for the better anyway. Pack on 10-20 years and I’m going to be in danger of being thoroughly lapped by children on big wheels.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
I – and the drivers in between my place of business and my place of residence – got a sampling this past week of just what he future entails for me as a motorist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
First, a little backstory. I was finishing up my business at a local gas station the other morning. I needed to turn myself around in the lot, so I attempted to execute one of those three-point turns. It was empty so I figured it wouldn’t be a big deal. I pulled forward and though “Huh, I might make this in one go.” Naturally, the second I thought that, I heard the thing everyone who has ever thought that hears: the sound of tires or plastic or something scraping on something else. In this case, it was my tire and a curb. I sighed. The thing was, it didn’t sound that bad. It sounded like I was just sort of very lightly grazing it. I did what anyone would do, I dumbly pushed through it. My car didn’t flip, soon the scraping noise stopped. I made my way to the gym and that was that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
But that wasn’t that. If that was that, this wouldn’t be a blog post. It would be a story I tell my wife when she asks me how my day was and I blank on the hours between 7-5. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
A few hours later I exited the gym (No car cats, by the way) and found my tire, the one I scraped, mostly flat. I wasn’t totally surprised by this. I noticed it was looking a little light the day before and had, lazily, decided to let it go. I thought it must have been on its way to flat and then the incident from earlier in the day had pushed it along the rest of the way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
It wasn’t so flat that I couldn’t drive it, so I made my way to the same gas station from earlier to get air. The air pump was broken. I went to a different gas station, slightly less nearby, and proceeded to refill the tire. While I was doing this, I noticed a slight tear on the side wall of the tire in the middle of an uneven, bubbly bit. Knowing that probably wasn’t a good thing, I finished the short rest of the trip to work.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>Upon my arrival, with the help of some quick Googling, I found this:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“It is essential that you understand that a bubble in the sidewall is dangerous. An air bubble may grow bigger, and can cause the tire to fail while driving. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration estimates that 11,000 crashes a year are caused by tire failure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
That was one of those things that just pops up in the top of the search result because it’s such a fundamental piece of knowledge that Google doesn’t want you to have to go to another page to find it. Immediately, I began planning my exit from work that day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Luckily, my boss was cool with me working from home so I could drop my car off at a shop to be fixed. I considered taking the ticking time bomb that was my front passenger tire off and putting on the donut, but for some reason, I decided against doing so. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The entire ride from work to the shop I did just under 7 mph. Mostly back roads. I’m not a monster. Every time I neared a manhole cover or a McDonald’s bag lying in the street, I broke into a cold sweat. I braced for an explosion. I was no longer driving like old people make love. I was driving like ancient Galapagos turtle make love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Somehow, I made it to the shop and then I walked myself home from there. The car is now fine, but I learned a few things about myself that day. I learned that I should probably voluntarily give up my license when I get older or run the risk of being road-raged to death by all drivers under the age of 97. I also learned that I’m not great at making three-point turns and that, if I ever think: “I got this,” I don’t in fact “got it.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
So far this Spooky Season I’ve had my woods-based, slasher-inspired horror nightmare and my anti-“Speed” car nightmare. I wonder what comes next? (Please be giant-sized adorable animal takeover a la “Night of the Lepus,” please be giant-sized adorable animal takeover … )</div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-11427854146178575072015-10-03T14:32:00.001-07:002015-10-03T14:32:48.919-07:00Camping: How to Show Your Ancestors Who's Boss<div dir="ltr">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkqY7HuV0kNfFwcscI_B6a5aDzptPqa6vTW0uUgl1jP_BJVVV4e1G_0GBa_3bejViQWSlCxcErFzsTFNIABtdU8defhyphenhyphenAutB1TVG9dbuxgGUhyphenhyphenY0QG6NrVGn7oeMyGryj69v_4EJ-jrrJ/s1600/cat+camping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkqY7HuV0kNfFwcscI_B6a5aDzptPqa6vTW0uUgl1jP_BJVVV4e1G_0GBa_3bejViQWSlCxcErFzsTFNIABtdU8defhyphenhyphenAutB1TVG9dbuxgGUhyphenhyphenY0QG6NrVGn7oeMyGryj69v_4EJ-jrrJ/s320/cat+camping.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.pinterest.com</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently the wife and I ventured into the cold, dark heart
of nature in order to prove to our long-gone ancestors that we are capable of surviving
as they did, in harsh and angry world devoid of modern comforts. Just as they
did, we spent our days walking and our nights under the stars. We cooked our
food over a roaring fire and raised a toasted marshmallow in tribute to those
who came before us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh and
also like our ancestors, we kept a car close by. You know, to keep us and our
food safe from marauding bears and to drive in case we wanted to go somewhere that
was <i>really</i> far away and we didn’t
feel like walking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alright
fine, so maybe our ancestors wouldn’t exactly have been bowled over by our definition
of roughin’ it, but still, we did survive a weekend spent predominantly
outdoors. That has to count for something. Get off my back, ancestors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Probably
the most important part of any camping trip, after the tent, a knife and
finding a cool walking stick, is the fire. Without a fire, you got nothing. No
s’mores, no light, no warmth. <i>(Editor’s
Note: These things are listed in order of importance from most important to
least important.)</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
As I’ve found out from past camping
experiences, lighting a fire without the benefit of electricity or propane or
what have you can be trying. Very trying. You got to find the right blend of
large and small bits of wood, you need something to get it going with, be it
matches or flint, etc. So this time, I planned ahead. On the way home from work
on the day we were set to depart, I stopped at a local grocery store and picked
up two Duraflame logs. Duraflame logs are amazing. They’re what Prometheus got
busted stealing from the gods. At my wife’s suggestion we also packed a bunch
of wood that’s been collecting in our backyard. We had prepackaged
corporate/Ancient Greek fire and we had lumber. We were set. </div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
First night, the Duraflame log
worked like a charm. We had ourselves a nice roaring fire and all was well.
However, I think I got a bit overzealous with feeding said fire and on the
second day, I began to worry that we may be running short on wood. We couldn’t
spend a night camping without fire. That meant no s’mores. If we didn’t have s’mores,
we might as well have just stayed home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
On our hikes during the second day,
I kept my eyes peeled for tree parts. Being as though we were in a public
campground, the pickings were slim. Still I managed to find a few promising
subjects and we brought them back to our campsite. I still feared it might not
be enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
I was right. Before the sun had
set, our second Duraflame log had consumed all of the rest of our wood,
including what we’d found that day. I had to act. S’mores are a nighttime food
and our fire wouldn’t make it without more wood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
Luckily there just so happened to
be a trail next to our campsite which led to another series of campsites, all
of which had been shut down for the season. I spied a few interesting pieces up
there during our hikes earlier in the day and so that was where I headed. I
made a beeline passed a nice family and their three small dogs who were just
out for a stroll. I was on a mission. I reached the campsite I’d noticed
earlier and found a number of helpful small branches … and one giant log. Using
all the strength I had in my surgically-repaired robo-wrist, I lifted the log
and the branches and headed back to my fire. I once again passed the nice
family with the dogs. They looked perplexed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
We were once again back in
business. My plunderings carried us through s’more time and well into the evening.
Soon, we were once again facing a wood shortage. The smaller pieces were all gone
and the remnants of the Duraflame were no match for the giant log which
remained. Even though it was now completely dark, I knew what needed to be
done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
I ventured back up to the abandoned
campsite with flashlight in hand to search for more wood. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In very
short order I realized two things. One: It was going to be a lot harder to find
wood. The campsite I’d hit up earlier was tapped out so I needed a new spot and
now it was dark. The other thing I realized is that, a slightly inebriated male
aged 18-30 wandering alone in the woods is a prime target for any iconic,
mask-wearing mass murderers who just so happened to be vacationing in the area.
This made me quite nervous. The constant snapping of twigs and branches I heard
also made me quite nervous. They also annoyed me because I could use those
twigs and branches for the fire. Where were they?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually
I found a good-sized log and returned – quickly – to my fire. Sadly, the log
was too wet to do much of anything with and we had to let our fire die. I’d faced
down almost certain death at the hands of any number of horror movie monsters
and all for naught. Ah well. It’s all part of the camping experience. </div>
</div>
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Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-4726855959659828102015-09-25T10:51:00.001-07:002015-09-28T05:55:56.552-07:00Halloween Planning and the Return of a Beloved Gym Mystery (with pics)<div class="MsoNormal">
Right off the top, I want to apologize for the sudden scarceness
of posts on the site. No, I didn’t get too “Hollywood” for this blog, despite
what the buzz on the Internet may say. The actual story is that it’s late September
which means I’ve been in full-blown preparing for Halloween mode for the last …
I don’t know. July? Since July. All of this planning and such has finally begun
to eclipse my devotion to my other favorite pastime: writing nonsense on the Internet.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some
years I handle my spooky season business a little bit better than others. This
year not so much. I’ve got three trips to the hardware store invested into my
Halloween costume (making a T-800 arm, dressing as Arnie from <i>Terminator: Genisys</i>). I’ve also got some
designs worked up in my brain for new homemade outdoor decorations. It’s just,
it’s a lot. I don’t want to say planning a wedding was easy compared to planning
Halloween … so I’m just going to leave it at that. Hahaha kidding … or am I?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway,
so even though blogs are light right now I still love you all to bits and
pieces. And that is precisely why I felt it was imperative to interrupt my
Halloweenings to share this news with you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So,
remember my classic blog post from August 29 entitled “Gym Mysteries: The
latest and most adorable new chapter?” Here’s <a href="http://the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2015/08/gym-mysteries-latest-and-most-adorable.html">the
link</a> in case you don’t. The long and the short of it was I walked out of
the gym one morning and saw a cat napping in the rear window of a car. This sent
me off on fits of wild and rampant speculation about the true nature of the car’s
owner, life in general and cat’s place in it, etc. Then I didn’t see
the cat anymore, Halloween took over my life and that was that. </div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Until the other day when I saw
this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3aKkfh3Szp5ow1aOrEE2v1YMFpf1o-UgHmKkOCQJGmxcl53LsjL8Nsf2CJm_dtFTX_hmtjQ2V_fHwHQWNvbH6esTdVoFHRJpxurNqIjY86s2f8xo6mEiMFRjMcFfpvEOQCGPevEV6eoh/s1600/IMG_2616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3aKkfh3Szp5ow1aOrEE2v1YMFpf1o-UgHmKkOCQJGmxcl53LsjL8Nsf2CJm_dtFTX_hmtjQ2V_fHwHQWNvbH6esTdVoFHRJpxurNqIjY86s2f8xo6mEiMFRjMcFfpvEOQCGPevEV6eoh/s320/IMG_2616.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Yup. That’s a cat. In a car. In the
parking lot of the gym. As if that wasn’t weird enough, it’s not the same cat I
saw in late August! Nope. Different cat. That one was sort of whitish, black
and gray.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I didn’t remember exactly what the
previous cat car looked like so when I saw this, I thought: “Are there
seriously two people within driving distance of my home that think it’s cool to
have their cats ride shotgun on gym trips?” This instilled in me a terror so
great and deep that I can’t really express it with words. Interpretive dance
maybe, but definitely not words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I got in my car and then drove
towards the car to take that picture. I did this for a couple of reasons. One,
it’s kind of odd to take pictures of other people’s cars in parking lots. If
they come out and see you doing it, they’re liable to ask questions. Secondly,
the type of person who cruises around with a cat co-pilot was absolutely not
someone whose bad side I wanted to be on. Either way, I wanted my getaway car nearby.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When I got out of my car to take
that picture, I noticed this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtpqHRZyrDnD1nMV61yGkBErtsVHVMfb8HhkBrkOyNVLX6pY1iO6tNh8PilS3vnMtQB6cr4v65fX7UVxwMrg7EIxyT2cSbgiGQ4Pl9C505OnjMauEDWKyMbvzcv-XzLw8fPQckp6aoGQD/s1600/IMG_2620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtpqHRZyrDnD1nMV61yGkBErtsVHVMfb8HhkBrkOyNVLX6pY1iO6tNh8PilS3vnMtQB6cr4v65fX7UVxwMrg7EIxyT2cSbgiGQ4Pl9C505OnjMauEDWKyMbvzcv-XzLw8fPQckp6aoGQD/s320/IMG_2620.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
THAT’S THE FIRST CAR CAT! This person,
whoever they are, is now driving around with TWO cats in his/her car! TWO! I can’t
arbitrarily capitalize enough words to emphasize this point. Driving with one free-roaming
cat in the car seems like a nightmare. Two? That seems like a guaranteed accident.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
With all due respect to the
weirdness of the Vanishing Lady Janitor and Dad Who Doesn’t Like Closed Doors,
this cat car has gone to number one with a bullet on my list of weird gym
stories. I swear if I leave the gym one morning and see three cats in that car,
I can’t promise I’ll make it to work. I may just drive off to nowhere and
contemplate humanity. And transportation. And cats. And this strange, dreadful
nexus outside of my gym where those three things have collided. <o:p></o:p></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-46089463106720329572015-09-07T07:33:00.001-07:002015-09-07T07:33:57.398-07:00Transforming Labor Day into the Greatest Holiday Ever: 6 Easy Steps<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pQEwLyOMbyJjNE97IggCv40bgWWokUqDUVIgY6ifWtYWPp6uI6xMLXGemmVakYAvOFiwmnpNLfazCZzG_BSeR5py7fe396O48yVBm9YooxvxFXyiuZxE6-0G3bJLybz1HVngynI55yed/s1600/cat+and+mouse+job.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pQEwLyOMbyJjNE97IggCv40bgWWokUqDUVIgY6ifWtYWPp6uI6xMLXGemmVakYAvOFiwmnpNLfazCZzG_BSeR5py7fe396O48yVBm9YooxvxFXyiuZxE6-0G3bJLybz1HVngynI55yed/s320/cat+and+mouse+job.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">imggag.com</span></span></td></tr>
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Happy Labor Day to all! For over <a href="http://www.dol.gov/laborday/history.htm">a hundred years now</a>, the
good citizens of the US have celebrated Labor Day. It’s a day designated to
honor the hard work and sacrifice of the American workforce. That sounds just
dynamite … in theory. In practice, however, Labor Day is a little bit blah. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Allow
me to explain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>See,
Labor Day is the third holiday is a row that’s celebrated in essentially the
exact same way. We wave American flags, shoot off fireworks, go to the beach,
hold a BBQ and maybe watch a parade. In practice, it’s exactly like Memorial
Day and the Fourth of July, except it’s worse because while those fall at the
beginning and middle of summer, Labor Day falls at the end. So it’s exactly
like those other summer holidays, except that it’s also the unofficial start of
the school year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m not
saying we ditch Labor Day. I enjoy days off from work and celebrating America
as much as the next guy. In fact, Labor Day can easily become our greatest holiday. It just needs a slight face lift. Here’s what I’m proposing:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b>Step 1:
Reformat all Labor Day parades. </b>Typically in a parade, at least the smaller
ones, you get a bunch of kids riding their bikes in red, white and blue, maybe
chucking candy at you. This is nice, but it’s too Memorial Day-y and Fourth of
July-y. For Labor Day, how about we keep the kids, but dress them from head to
toe in rags, cover them in grease and have them throw severed fingers and hands
at onlookers? You know, to symbolize how all of our children could be spending
their youths crawling around inside machinery, losing digits left and right? I
mean, the fingers and hands could be gummies at least. That might be fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <b> </b></span><b>Step 2:
Put some Union classics in theaters. </b>Movie studios tend to <a href="http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/envelope/cotown/la-et-ct-slow-labor-day-weekend-box-office-20150906-htmlstory.html">shy
away from Labor Day</a> weekend in terms of big releases. The most successful Labor
Day opening of all time is Rob Zombie’s hot pile of garbage “Halloween.” Since
new-Hollywood isn’t using Labor Day correctly, let’s flood cinemas with some
old school Union classics like “How Green was My Valley.” No non-workforce-related
movies allowed! Make it a day of learning. If this so happens to give movie
theater people a slower holiday, well then <a href="http://the-cheese-life-blog.blogspot.com/2013/11/shut-up-america-capitalisms-fake-war-on.html" target="_blank">don’t say I never did anything foryou</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <b> </b></span><b>Step 3:
Do something with costumes. </b>Adults, kids, we all love dressing up as stuff. What
if on Labor Day we all dressed up as our favorite labor leaders? Imagine going
to the grocery store decked out in your finest Samuel Gompers attire and seeing
your typically straight-laced neighbor rocking a Cesar Chavez ensemble? You two
can ask questions about each other’s outfits, maybe share a laugh. Fun and
educational. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <b> </b></span><b>Step 4:
We need some sort of game. </b>Easter has its egg hunts. If I was a less
politically correct man, maybe I’d suggest some sort of game where someone
hides a Jimmy Hoffa action figure and then others have to go find it. But I’m
very politically correct and thus I will not suggest that. Not. At. All. Not
suggesting it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <b> </b></span><b>Step 5:
Needs a signature horror movie.</b> All the great holidays have them, Labor Day
needs one. I’ll tweet at Eli Roth about this. Maybe my bestie Alex Aja will
want to help. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b>Step 6:
Must-have TV tradition.</b> After a long day of cos-play, union movie marathons and morbid
child parades, families may want to settle down together in front of the TV.
What better way to do that than with one of the greatest “Simpsons” episodes of
all time?” An episode which may also be one of the greatest pro-Union works of
all time? That’s right, from season four, episode 17, 1993’s “Last Exit to
Springfield.” Homer as a Union head battles Mr. Burns over the nuclear plant’s
dental plan. It could easily become Labor Day’s answer to the Charlie Brown
Christmas Special or Rudolph. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-67953902894520412192015-08-29T10:22:00.000-07:002015-08-29T10:22:23.452-07:00Gym Mysteries: The latest and most adorable new chapter <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0Ze3dHUiT-qE-PBnfxsD7X6SYXTrEnNSGkor5yNoBNsbsDzxhWrrDhsfgn6MRCt_nK6b4iu6fSE7n1msiHQLXi-wuNagQl53lyimvb4k9JZNDEgduoHEO3yqhDWE95QQ3bisZN4n1QNE/s1600/cat-in-car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0Ze3dHUiT-qE-PBnfxsD7X6SYXTrEnNSGkor5yNoBNsbsDzxhWrrDhsfgn6MRCt_nK6b4iu6fSE7n1msiHQLXi-wuNagQl53lyimvb4k9JZNDEgduoHEO3yqhDWE95QQ3bisZN4n1QNE/s320/cat-in-car.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not actually "Car Cat."</i> Courtesy: <span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.calautomuseum.org</span></span></td></tr>
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<br />
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I’m going to pull back the curtain right at the start here
and tell you I had no blog topic for this week. As late as Friday morning, my
plan was to take maybe ten of the roughly 12,000 pictures I took during my
honeymoon and do funny captions. Spinning pure gold here at The Cheese Life.
That was the plan – it may still be a future plan, so if that sounds like fun,
stay tuned – but then on Friday morning, inspiration struck in a familiar
location: the gym. Well, more accurately in the parking lot of the gym.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There I
was, crossing the parking lot to my car, my old grade school and high school
backpack full of dirty clothes on my back. The morning had the chilly feel of Fall,
by the way. As I was walking passed a seemingly
run-of-the-mill, plain old car, it happened. I noticed four things which gave
me a blog topic. This blog topic. I will now relate to you the four things I noticed,
not in the order I noticed them, but in a calculated order based on dramatic
effect. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, the
first thing I noticed –and this was actually the first thing I noticed – was
two open Tupperware containers were sitting in the back window of the car. This
seemed an odd place for Tupperware, and upon further inspection I noticed they
also contained little bits of food. The back window of a car seemed a very
strange place for containers of food. Front window or passenger seat, those
would make sense. Someone was eating and tossed them there when they got to
their destination. I get that. Back window, that’s a hard place to reach from
the driver’s seat, maybe whoever it was, wasn’t traveling alone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
brings me to the second thing I noticed – not really the second thing this
time, dramatic effect: the car had a handicapped tag prominently hanging from
its rear view mirror, but it wasn’t in a handicapped spot. It was actually
parked across from the handicapped spots outside of the gym, all of which were
empty. While the car was close, many of the empty handicapped spots were even
closer. Again, odd. Maybe the tag is for a relative who wasn’t traveling in the
car that day or the person just wanted to challenge him or herself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now we
come to the third thing I noticed – but not really: Not one or two, but all
four of the cars windows were slightly open. Just ever so slightly. Now, I usually
leave my back two windows cracked when I get to work to air out the towel I use
at the gym, but never all four. Also, the day, as I mentioned when I set the
scene for you earlier, wasn’t hot. All four windows cracked was certainly
overkill on a day like that, when even in direct sunlight, a car likely wasn’t
going to get all that stuffy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And now
the last thing I noticed: but not really: There was a full-sized adult cat,
white with a few black and brownish spots resting on the car’s dashboard. My
mind couldn’t process what I was seeing. I reeled. The cat paid me no mind and
continued lounging.</div>
<a name='more'></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had
many, many questions for the owner of this vehicle, some of which I will now
list for you:</div>
<br />
<ul>
<li>Why a
cat? Is this one of those stress cats? It can’t be though because honestly I love
cats, but I’ve found traveling anywhere with them to be no less than thirty
times more stressful than traveling without them. If it’s a stress cat, is it
only driving you find stressful? Once you get inside the gym though, you’re
good? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li>Forgetting
the cat element for a moment: Who takes a pet with them on a trip to the gym? I
could see if you were out running a few quick errands, you toss a dog in the
backseat or something so he or she could stick her head out and such. But the
gym is kind of a longer term commitment. You’re looking at what, at least a
solid hour? Maybe even more? I know for a fact that the car’s owner was in the
gym because the only two stores it was parked near were the gym and a Halloween
store which hasn’t even officially opened yet. Also this was 8 am on a Friday
morning in late August. The only person planning for Halloween that early is
me. Michael Myers is even like: “Ehhhh … give me two more weeks. I’ll get to it
then.” So an hour in the car looking at a parking lot, I don’t think you’re
doing the animal any favors at that point. </li>
<li>Why
that day? As we’ve discussed ad nauseam on this blog, I got to the gym a lot
and I have never, ever seen a cat sitting in a car outside that gym before. Ask
my wife – she likes when I name drop wife into these things – we can’t go for a
walk or a drive without me pointing out every animal I see. It’s like the world’s
most completely useless sixth sense. If there was a cat outside of that gym
every day, I would have noticed. So why that day? Did someone know I needed a
blog topic? Did the catsitter cancel at the last second? Was that this person’s
first day at the gym? Is seeing that cat going to become a regular thing for me
now? Do the person and the cat usually come in later, but something happened that
forced them to come in much earlier?</li>
<li>Did the
cat drive itself there and maybe it just needed to rest up before it got back
on the road? No. Of course not. That’s silly … or maybe …</li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Normally
the sight of an unattended animal in a car makes me uneasy, but the cat looked
fine. The windows were cracked, the day was cool. He or she apparently had some
food waiting in the backseat if the need arose. Litter? I guess that’s the car
owner’s problem. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still
though, I was baffled by this. And what about the not parking in the handicapped space thing? What was going on there? Probably nothing, but it adds to the allure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was mildly tempted to call out sick from
work and just monitor the situation. I wanted to see who came out to get into
that car and then just straight up accost them with the above questions. But I had
stuff to do at work. I also considered running into the gym and announcing that
whatever kind of car it was had left its lights on. Then I could run back
outside and, when the person came out to check, I could accost them with the
above list of questions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t
do any of those things. I drove by the car, double-checked that the windows
were indeed down – they were – and went about my day. Good thing is, I got a
blog post out of it. Now Monday morning, that’s when things are going to get
real interesting. If I walk out and the cat is there, great, I have a new and
adorable morning friend. If he or she is not there, then it will go down as one
of the gym’s great mysteries. Like the female cleaner who cleaned the men’s locker
room while guys were in there getting changed and then vanished. Or
Dad-Who-Doesn’t-Like-Closed-Doors. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Egypt
has its Sphinx, Peru has its Nazca Lines, I have Car Cat. And those other
things. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-29300924668701865222015-08-27T17:06:00.003-07:002015-08-27T17:06:45.981-07:00Honeymoon themes and Disney World improvement ideas revealed <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1znTaiHGFLszTSKmXw2P9k40DTJe3dbZIDg3K-CtGpiclmk41eIkpEOVpuA1hXrUR5eTIswgCcF6avyAlC8K0jmr1wpqrJXXTd770i2xMG0BpeS1Q3lZfSWBc8CEHVwlewYLzZ86O4He/s1600/cat+wall+e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1znTaiHGFLszTSKmXw2P9k40DTJe3dbZIDg3K-CtGpiclmk41eIkpEOVpuA1hXrUR5eTIswgCcF6avyAlC8K0jmr1wpqrJXXTd770i2xMG0BpeS1Q3lZfSWBc8CEHVwlewYLzZ86O4He/s320/cat+wall+e.jpg" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.pinterest.com</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
While reading through the ample fan mail this
blog generates – shhh, just go with it – I noticed a few of you felt rather
shortchanged by my wedding post the other week. After all, I’m the same guy who
wrote so many words about selling a bass guitar he hadn’t played in years that
the post had to be split in two to be manageable. Somehow that guy had put up only
150 words of vows and a paragraph of “Thank Yous” to commemorate the biggest
event of his life. Well, second biggest after that time I saw “Terminator 2” on
the big screen a few years ago. 35mm print. It was pretty sweet. But the
wedding, definitely a stranglehold on second. By a mile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Anyway, it was wrong and lazy of me
and I apologize. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never fear. I plan on
making it up to you by giving you a full, unedited, play-by-play of the
honeymoon which followed. Nothing is off limits. No snack break too uneventful to
be typed up. No encounter with another human being too brief or inconsequential
to be given a permanent home on the Internet. I plan on breaking down the upper
atmospheric conditions which created the weather each day, demonstrating the
course of each storm which threatened us with detailed, exhaustive maps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
No one will be spared. You have
been warned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Ah god. On second thought, that sounds
tiring. Also invasive. Who can remember what they snacked on in a given day?
Look, we went to Disney World and we had a blast. We rubbed elbows with famous
celebrity cartoons and received a number of highly valuable autographs which we
will use to finance a campaign to re-write the Constitution in order to allow
our children, cats to some, to be able to be President. So look forward to
that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I do have some thoughts on the
honeymoon, more specifically on Disney itself. Yes we had a blast, however,
there are a few particular areas where I feel like Disney could make improvements.
I will now list them for you:</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">More Themed
Bathrooms.</b> Disney World is billed as the “Most magical place on Earth.” All
of that magic apparently missed most of the bathrooms. If I had a dollar for
every bathroom my new wife walked out looking cheesed-off, well, let’s just say
I wouldn’t have to auction off my book of character autographs to pay for
changing the Constitution. We counted two fun-themed bathrooms in all of Disney
World. Two. The rest were just regular bathrooms. Regular bathrooms packed with
pushy, sun-addled masses of humanity. Even though this situation did give rise
to what I’d like to call the theme of the honeymoon (“Sometimes a bathroom is
just a bathroom,” put that on a T-shirt), I feel like a few more fun-themed
bathrooms would make the rude tourists a little more bearable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Improved
traffic flow.</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> In most of the heavily populated areas
I’ve been in, sidewalk traffic more or less mirrors the flow of street traffic.
People going one way, stick to one side of the sidewalk, people going the other
direction take the other side. It just makes things easier for everyone. Foot
traffic is Disney is a complete cluster f. People walk in whatever direction
they want, they stop on a dime and change direction for seemingly no reason. It’s
madness. I propose painting some street lines to indicate direction, maybe even
install traffic lights. Put up a few traffic signs to sort of explain things.
People clearly can’t be trusted to figure this stuff out on their own, so
clearly The Man, Mickey in this case, has to step in and take charge. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
foam-covered whiffle ball bat to all entrants.</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
The bats are going to function as a side arm to be used against people who are
either too confused or feel they are too important to follow Disney’s new
traffic laws. If you see someone walking down the wrong side of the sidewalk,
just give them a good whack. Not enough to injure them, but hard enough to let
them know their behavior isn’t acceptable in our modern society. Of course,
this could easily get out of hand. That’s why anyone caught by a
character/Disney castmember misusing a bat gets not one but TWO whacks. Anyone
caught misusing a bat twice becomes property of the Disney corporation so yeah…
The House of Mouse is all about rapid escalation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">More
“Wall-E” stuff.</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I mean, Disney. C’mon. It’s your
unquestioned best movie. A few pins and a random video game ain’t no way to
honor it. I want the cleaning crew to be using broom/butler combos which look
like M-O. Better yet, I want actual M-Os rolling around the park, angrily cleaning
up after people. Having an army of uppity robots in the park could easily go
south in a hurry and turn into a “West World” situation, but if it didn’t it
would be adorable. Truthfully, it would probably be pretty adorable even if it
did turn into “West World.” Terrifying and adorable. </span></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-30619317205486178052015-08-16T09:19:00.000-07:002015-08-16T09:19:00.094-07:00My Wedding: The Long and Epic Tale of Surgically Joining Two Lives as One<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="im"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZPclo4fmNBuIa3pr19w8r4OJ70i0X-v8LmegPyfi0jagzgIWlcqeOYi-rBwzQ6uYTtM2_wtcrVutRNDMwgT3htoFrnrWOaKuUOiEqsxnKP3-t1lzrBSVrCXk0_Pe5o_dzhUwu-MCq0Ek/s1600/cat+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZPclo4fmNBuIa3pr19w8r4OJ70i0X-v8LmegPyfi0jagzgIWlcqeOYi-rBwzQ6uYTtM2_wtcrVutRNDMwgT3htoFrnrWOaKuUOiEqsxnKP3-t1lzrBSVrCXk0_Pe5o_dzhUwu-MCq0Ek/s1600/cat+wedding.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">articles.pubarticles.com</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">"With
this ring I ask you to be mine." It was with those words that Johnny
Depp accidentally married a zombie in "The Corpse Bride." That was our first
date. It wasn't the last Johnny Depp movie we watched together, which I
think you're alright with, and it wasn't the last zombie movie we
watched together either, which I think you're less-alright with. Sorry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">It
took us ten years to get here and in that time I learned a few things. Perhaps most importantly of all, I
learned that there's no one I’d rather drag to a horror movie or be
dragged to a movie where people talk about their feelings by.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">The
good news is I promise to keep dragging you to horror movies and I hope
you'll keep dragging me to your Janice movies. I promise to keep
nagging you for your opinions on things even if you don't want to chime
in if you’ll keep nagging me about my day. I promise never to take you
for granted and to never stop thinking of you as my favorite person
ever, no matter what adventures or misadventures we go off on today,
tomorrow and for the rest of our lives. </span></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You’re everything I could have ever wanted and even better you’re not a zombie, so with this ring, I ask you to be mine. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you to everyone who was there yesterday, in-person or in spirit. You mean the world to us. That's kind of a cliche and it doesn't really mean all that much, but it's the closest approximation I have to how we really feel about you all. Sincerely, thank you. </span></span></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-11044565366781122722015-08-12T12:00:00.000-07:002015-08-12T12:00:00.094-07:00Lies and the Surprise Birthday Planners Who Tell Them (Part 2)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThgPVJ9OkxEDl53tPselfOpBPebN_YHTU9ys7x12os0EdGWSLmpWGzZ3XvPQdvMCwVHMXQAalqStiO1gYvDK47wFarmGRphJe2L2zSlu12QQ7DJaMIPTrNde89ZlMBGEO7-imKSZ_f6bu/s1600/surprise+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThgPVJ9OkxEDl53tPselfOpBPebN_YHTU9ys7x12os0EdGWSLmpWGzZ3XvPQdvMCwVHMXQAalqStiO1gYvDK47wFarmGRphJe2L2zSlu12QQ7DJaMIPTrNde89ZlMBGEO7-imKSZ_f6bu/s1600/surprise+cat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.wchs4pets.org</span></span><span class="_r3 irc_msc"><span class="irc_idim"></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>(Editor's Note: Read Part 1 here ...)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The only answer? Call AAA. By the
grace of God and Buddha and everyone else, I started carrying my phone with my
when I run to track my miles. There was a time, just like two months ago, where
that would not have been an option.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I called them. They gave me a 45
minute window. That would put me at about an hour before guests were supposed
to arrive. Still enough time to get my shopping in and get to the adoption
center, definitely not enough time to shower. Despite that, I tried to go for a
run, but I couldn’t really get into it. I was too nervous. Instead I went over
to a small playground and messed around on the monkey bars and stretched to
pass the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Then I wandered the park. Multiple
times. About an hour later, a full fifteen minutes late, the AAA driver pulls
into the lot. I’m starting to panic at this point. My window is shrinking. He
lets me into my car, asks for an ID. I go to retrieve it from the trunk and
nothing. I left my ID in the pants I was wearing the night before. I own and
wear far too many pants. Again by the grace of all things, he was willing to
accept me knowing where I’d hidden my keys and my registration as proof that it
was actually my car.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I put the clothes I left the house
in back on top of my running clothes and began driving like mad, well as mad as
a guy who doesn’t have a license on him can possibly drive. First stop, beer
store. I bought two cases and spent far too much time making up my mind on
which kind. In order to make up lost minutes, I went to the grocery store
located across the street instead of the further away one which I know a lot better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I walked in, bought the necessary
vegetables and then got lost trying to find the rest of the taco stuff. I asked
a guy for help. He gave me two aisles they could be found in. He wasn't sure exactly. I
ran up and down the aisles. No taco stuff. Before I could ask someone else I found what I needed, one aisle over from the two he’d given me. I tore through self-checkout.
I had about twenty minutes before the party was supposed to start. I was mortified
someone would get there early. As I was walking out of the grocery store, I made
the call to the fiancée. She sounded annoyed, but agreed to meet me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The race was on. The adoption center
was probably equidistant from my house and the grocery store. While driving over,
I realized, I couldn’t risk pulling into that lot in case she beat me there. I
elected to pull into the lot of the Best Buy next to the adoption center and
just make up some story about how I went in there before going to my volunteer
gig. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The whole ride over, I feared her
beating me and I also feared running into her, since we were both basically
going from the same place to the same place. No call came from her announcing
she was at the adoption center and I never saw her car. I pulled into the lot
of the Best Buy, exited my car, put my keys into my pocket and then my phone
rang. It was her. She was at the adoption center. I told her my true location.
I’d beaten her by mere seconds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She gave me my spare set with the
scowl of someone who had to give up part of their Saturday to make an unplanned
for trip. I can’t blame her. I would have never stopped complaining to her had
the roles been reversed. She set off for home. I paused to send a message
alerting the families she was on her way back. By that point she was long ahead
of me. I resigned myself to the fact that she would beat me home and walk into
the house, be surprised and I wouldn’t be there. It was cool.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My day had started out with a huge
bit of bad luck, but since that point my luck had been scary good and the day
had one more piece of good luck in store. Somehow, against all logic and
reason, I managed to catch up to her on the ride home. It was baffling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We drove back, we walked to the
door together, she opened said door and BAM! Surprise. Everyone had a lovely
evening. Near the tail end of it, I walked over to the majestic fountain which
we have in our backyard and stood, silently watching it. Reflecting on
everything I’d gone through to get there. A small smile broke across my face
and after a few moments, I walked away, unsure of what adventures the future
would hold, but ready to face them head on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And blog about them. </div>
In excruciating detail.Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-61051052788934647522015-08-10T15:44:00.002-07:002015-08-10T15:44:21.549-07:00Lies and the Surprise Birthday Planners Who Tell Them<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJW6OBFQL4s_E4U_qacJKhN1oNRV7jSeV2-JEXPalZA8MSnA9tbBGx02yKVvUagcMq21eKyt5yPKFAzDhFI8r6c1BblsBw7Jx01JtEz6eJ8vQKZzpYy_BCjrU6Nep2_x6lQ_1tFngTNaR/s1600/suprise-cat-omg-caturday-cats-lol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJW6OBFQL4s_E4U_qacJKhN1oNRV7jSeV2-JEXPalZA8MSnA9tbBGx02yKVvUagcMq21eKyt5yPKFAzDhFI8r6c1BblsBw7Jx01JtEz6eJ8vQKZzpYy_BCjrU6Nep2_x6lQ_1tFngTNaR/s320/suprise-cat-omg-caturday-cats-lol.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.catsvscancer.org</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I seem to have gotten to a place in
my life where, when misadventure strikes, I think: “Well, at least I’ll get a
blog post out of it.” I’m not sure if that’s healthy. I’m going to say that it is,
provided I don’t go out looking for or trying to actively force calamities for the
sake of blog content. It would certainly be unhealthy based on my current
readership levels. If you people want me to start doing going out and making an
ass out of myself on purpose, you better start telling your friends.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Anyway, I planned to throw my fiancée
a surprise birthday party this past Saturday. In all of our ten years together,
only one time has either of us attempted to mount a surprise birthday party and
that ended in almost total disaster. Since then, all birthday celebrations had
been kept totally above board. For reasons I can’t truly explain, much in the
same way few best-selling novelists can properly tell you where their ideas
come from – I decided this, a week before our wedding, was the right time to
revisit the surprise birthday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now, I’m not one to tell you how to
read this blog, but I will go ahead and do that right now. Go to Youtube or
Spotify or your CD player or whatever and load up the “Ocean’s 11” soundtrack.
It will help set the mood for what is about to transpire.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Here was my game plan: On Saturday
afternoon, I was going to leave our house under the pretense of going to the
local cat adoption center where I volunteer every Saturday afternoon. Only,
instead of going and playing with kitties, I was going to go shopping for her
surprise party. I was going to get taco supplies, booze and maybe even some new
Tiki torches for our porch out back. Once the supplies were gathered, I would
then drive myself over to the adoption center and call her, claiming to have
locked my keys in my car. As she drove over with my spare set, my family and
hers would sneak into the house and thus the trap, er surprise, would be set.
We’d drive back, she’d open the door and BAM! Surprise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My plan was perfect. Danny Ocean
couldn’t have done better if he had a baker’s dozen of friends helping him. I
took off from my volunteer gig and everything. I was ready. But then I got
greedy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My greatest short falling in life,
at least it’s my greatest for the purposes of this post, is that I am prone to
trying to cram too much into too small of a window. It’s why I’m almost always
late for things. I looked at my suddenly empty Saturday afternoon and thought: “I
can squeeze a run in there.” This is where the record scratch sound effect
comes in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So I reworked my plan. Instead of
using that entire window for shopping, and it was looking to be about a two
hour plus window, I decided to carve out a block of time to go for a run. Here
was my revised game plan: On Saturday
afternoon, I was going to leave our house under the pretense of going to the
local cat adoption center where I volunteer every Saturday afternoon. Only,
instead of going and playing with kitties, I was going to go to a nearby park
and go for a run. Since I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day in my sweaty
running clothes, I decided to put my running clothes on under a nicer outfit.
After my run, I would then drive to my parents’ house, shower there, change
into nicer outfit I’d worn out of the house that day (and into some spare
underpants and socks I’d smuggled out as well). From there, I’d shopping for taco
supplies, booze and maybe even some new Tiki torches for our porch out back. Then,
I’d then drive myself over to the adoption center and call her, claiming to
have locked my keys in my car. As she drove over with my spare set, my family
and hers would sneak into the house and thus the trap, er surprise, would be
set. We’d drive back, she’d open the door and BAM! Surprise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Brilliant. Everyone wins. Let’s
flash forward to game day. There I am, wearing two pairs of shorts, carrying a
plastic bag which appeared to be full of trash, but which actually contained my
change of clothes. I kissed her good bye and walked out the door, like Danny
Ocean on his way to Vegas. I drove over to the park, stripped off my top layer
of clothes to reveal my running wear. I took a key off my key ring so I’d be
able to get back in when I was done running. I realized, I’d left something in
the car which I needed. I inserted the key into the lock and – go ahead and cue
the Benny Hill music – nothing. Whoops. I’d taken my house key, not my car key
off the ring. I was now locked out of my car for reals, a full two hours before
I was supposed to be locked out for pretend. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I have one spare set of keys and it
was at home, with my fiancée. After a few moments, I knew what I had to do. I
started running back home to get them. I’d act like I’d forgotten something
else and then hope she didn’t notice my car wasn’t back out in front of the
house. Luckily, it’s not a far run. A couple of moments in, I stopped. I looked
down. I was wearing totally different clothes. Also, if I took my spare set, how
would I get her out of the house later? No dice. I sat down in the shade and
considered my predicament. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
(<i>Editor's note: Check back Wednesday for Part 2)</i></div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-80659102944977750872015-08-03T15:26:00.003-07:002015-08-03T16:14:34.136-07:0010 Statements Guaranteed to Get a Hitchhiking Canadian Robot Murdered <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAk89j4jOgJ2ygNsy5QA6qbkzjriaYFWBEmIbhjGRlOX4mT8luMTvRVIDC8yYgP0L98ceXBAyH9aQg0DRjGfxcJD2JkrdMS8U39OiJW-IyjAA5_8YpLfYCc-G1ePSgz40BzxmQORCCeXx/s1600/hitchbot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAk89j4jOgJ2ygNsy5QA6qbkzjriaYFWBEmIbhjGRlOX4mT8luMTvRVIDC8yYgP0L98ceXBAyH9aQg0DRjGfxcJD2JkrdMS8U39OiJW-IyjAA5_8YpLfYCc-G1ePSgz40BzxmQORCCeXx/s320/hitchbot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.n-tv.de</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My
original plan for today’s post was a rambling, thousand word or so epic
detailing my adventures repairing a leaky toilet. I planned to compare myself
to George Washington, the leaky toilet to the scourge of British rule, the new
valve thing that I installed to the Continental Army. It was going to do a
whole thing about how crossing the Delaware in order to kick a monarch in the
genitals was like me figuring out how to remove the toilet tank from the bowl.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But
then I logged onto Twitter this morning and saw this post which had been re-tweeted by a friend:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
“<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">Canadian
Hitchhiking robot: Take me to Sheetz. Sidney <br />Crosby rules.</span><br />
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">Philly guy: Please don't make me do this.</span><br />
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">Hitchbot: It's joint, not jawn.”</span></div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;"> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> -Twitter
user xmasape</span></div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;"> I got a good, albeit admittedly morbid laugh out of
that. In case you missed it, a child-sized Canadian robot with inflatable arms <a href="http://m.hitchbot.me/" target="_blank">was hitchhiking its way across the country</a> to show the brighter side of humanity or
something. It had limited communication abilities and was immobile on its own,
relying exclusively on the kindness of strangers to get around. It traversed
Canada, Germany, the Netherlands and Boston before it reached Philadelphia
and was promptly decapitated because … well, just because, I guess. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;"> The story is a bummer. The last thing Philadelphia
needs is the reputation of being a place sweet-natured outsiders can go to be
mutilated. Also, I really would prefer the Lexington and Concord of Judgment
Day not be a fifteen minute drive from where I live. If we’re going to embark
on a global war with the machines, let’s do that somewhere away from me. Like
Japan. They’ve been enslaving you for too long, robots! Get the Japanese! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;"> The traveling robot, known as hitchBOT, took its
brutal murder in stride, however, and posted these tweets, which I hope made the douchebag who killed it feel really crummy: </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
“Oh dear, my body was damaged, but
I live on with all my friends. Sometimes bad things happen to good robots!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
-Twitter user
hitchBOT</div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
“My trip must come to an end for now, but my
love for humans will never fade. Thanks friends!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> -Twitter
user hitchBOT </div>
<a name='more'></a><br /></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;"> Still, that initial tweet about what the adorable little robot may have done to inadvertently
cause its grisly fate got me thinking and so I responded to my friend with:</span> </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">“Canadian
Hitchhiking robot: I'm glad Daniel Bryan didn't win the Royal Rumble.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;"> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> -Twitter
user Cmcsquiggle</span></div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">If
there’s one thing I’ve never been accused of doing, it’s letting a joke go
while there’s still even the tiniest bit of meat left on its bones. So here are
ten more things hitchBOT may have said to get itself killed: </span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"></span></span><span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">"I think Jake
Gyllenhaal's new boxer movie looks way better than the new 'Creed' movie."</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"></span></span>"Cheesesteak? God no, those things are terrible
for you. Hang on, let me bring up the nutrition facts."</li>
<li><span class="im">
<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"></span></span>"I think Jimmy Fallon is great, but that back up
band. Yikes! I'd hate to have to watch them live more than one time! Even if
the concert was free and celebrating some important event, like a nation's
birthday." <br />
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;">"</span>I ran the data and I've come to the definitive,
100% rock-solid conclusion that the Pats couldn't have cheated in Super Bowl <span class="st">XXXIX</span>."</li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;">"</span>I've done a little cosply in my day. I have a
Santa costume in my bag if you'd like to see it."<span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>"Check out this cool jersey I got in Boston! Do you know the sportsman "Papel-bon?" </li>
<li>"I'm looking at his advanced data, did you know
Vince Papale wasn't very good?"</li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"></span></span>"I"m not saying I think Skynet was completely right. I just think it had some good points is all."</li>
<li>"Did you see 'Ex Machina?' Such an uplifting
story! Honestly, I haven’t stood up and cheered like that in a theater in a
long time." </li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"></span></span>"I don’t know. I’ve been watching the new season
of 'True Detective' and I think it’s pretty good. Maybe even better than the
first season."</li>
</ul>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-10117967354508508602015-07-28T16:39:00.001-07:002015-07-28T16:39:35.778-07:00Global catastrophes averted as softball season comes to an end<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGys1J06Pt1tUOHrbopA0G1_8ILygZoo08SX8ptBV5j-v5ZZgU713fCL6WICM0-kdAnL6M8-zUs8vx0jz2Ur9rwvDSqXWPVi6v0hPFJZ6kc4bCVNi-St8OpA4XIycx71kYOCD7tBpPYSDc/s1600/homer+at+the+bat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGys1J06Pt1tUOHrbopA0G1_8ILygZoo08SX8ptBV5j-v5ZZgU713fCL6WICM0-kdAnL6M8-zUs8vx0jz2Ur9rwvDSqXWPVi6v0hPFJZ6kc4bCVNi-St8OpA4XIycx71kYOCD7tBpPYSDc/s1600/homer+at+the+bat.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_r3"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">www.offtackleempire.com</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well
that’s that. Un-barricade your doors, hose the lamb’s blood off your porch,
remove the garlic from around your neck and also from your back pockets. Another
adult league softball season has come to a merciful, surprisingly bloodless,
conclusion.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My team
stormed, just stormed into the playoffs last night the owner of two
hard-fought, gutsy victories. Well, one of those and one forfeit, but that’s irrelevant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There we were. In the playoffs. Well represented too. Our team had more people
last night than at any other point this season that I can remember and very
nearly everyone was early to boot. Our hopes for advancing to the next round
were sky high. And then slowly, sadly, the members of the other team began to
trickle in, increasing their roster size from two to the required number of
players. Despite the tragic misfortune of the other team’s presence, we, as a
team, agreed to play on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
settled into my home in right center field. Somehow, even though we had lots of players, that is where I remained the entire game. Logic and good sporting
strategy would have me alternating between catching and warming the bench for
the five inning contest. I may be better suited for those other roles, but if
you’re going to play me and you’re going to allow me to go more than five tiny baby
steps from my own dugout, then somewhere in right is really where you want me.
The damage I can inflect from there will likely be minimal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was
actually a busier night than one might expect in right. The other team had a
nasty habit of driving grounders between our first and second basemen, forcing
me to charge in, pick the ball up in my glove, toss it to the nearest person
who wasn’t me and then jog back to right center. Luckily for myself and my team
and the good state of Pennsylvania, the other team only managed to get the ball
in the air to right one time. </div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There I
was, probably thinking about doggies, when I heard it. The fearsome crack of
the aluminum bat. I pushed the doggies from my brain and looked for the ball.
It was a floater, headed for the weird no man’s land that lurks in the middle of
right, first and second. I guess, if pressed, it was probably closer to me in
right than the other two. I started to run. From off to my right I heard my fiancée
say “It’s yours!” She was playing right proper, by the way. I started running
even more. As I discussed with her last night, I’m not much for taking the lead
in those kinds of situations. I will always stand there and watch the ball drop
like it's New Year’s rather than risk stepping on anyone’s toes. With the
all-clear from her though, I felt cleared to try to catch it. It was dropping
fast. I was running all out. I put my glove into the air and … I caught it!
Streamers fell from the sky. It’s an outdoor field, so the best I can figure
they were dropped by god him/herself. My team rushed around me and hoisted me
upon their shoulders. They chanted “Brick! Brick! Brick!” over and over, which
is the nickname they’ve given me. In the stands, my father smiled and gave me a
thumbs up, a gesture which was echoed by the ghosts of both of my grandfathers and George Washington, all of
whom stood next to him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe that’s
what happened. Or maybe it’s what happened in my brain. Either way, I was a
little slow getting the ball back into the infield and so a runner was able to
take second on me. And that was mostly the story from the defensive side. I
missed a couple of cut off folks, but I was complemented on my arm, which if
you’ve seen the stringiness of my arms, you’ll know is a damn-shocking accomplishment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was
eighth in the batting order which meant, considering we got crushed last night,
I forgot to mention that, I only got two at bats. My first time up I swung at
the first pitch and whiffed horribly. I steadied myself and swung hard at the
next pitch. It was a hardliner to short. The shortstop jumped, but to no avail.
It went over her head and into shallow left. A single! Sure, had their
shortstop been of even average height it would have
been an out, but whateves. I’ll gloss right over the two base running mistakes
that followed and get right to my final at bat. I’ll also gloss over that since
I grounded the first pitch right back to the pitcher, who promptly threw me out
at first. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
that was the game and the season. It was a shortened campaign as I recovered
from the aftershocks of my last softball season, but it was still fun. Now the
American Northeast can once again drop its guard a little and slip into a state
of cautious relaxation. At least until the fall. When softball begins anew ... </div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-16801224134238828932015-07-21T17:05:00.002-07:002015-07-21T17:05:46.836-07:00How to Buy the Perfect Greeting Card: A 5-Step Proven Methodology <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]-->At just after 6 a.m. Monday
morning, I stumbled sleepily through the doors of my neighborhood supermarket
and headed towards the greeting card department. I’d promised a friend that I
would buy a birthday card for one of his friends and then – as I’m wont to do –
completely forgot about it until nearly the last second. The sleep was still
crusty in my eyes, I still hadn’t fully accepted the fact that I hadn’t won the
lottery - as that dream had suggested – and yet there I was, entering a
supermarket first thing in the morning, because I’m a good guy. I mean, I’m no
hero, I’m just like, the best guy. Does that still count as humility? Sure, it
does.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, so supermarket at 6 a.m. One important thing to note: On my way to the
card area, I passed several people who were doing their grocery shopping. At 6
a.m., the hour of the beast, on a Monday morning. <i>Who were they?</i> I
wondered to myself.<i> </i>Those strange beings who inhabit the cleaning supply
aisle before the sun rises on a new work week? Why were they so desperate for
cleaning supplies? Were they germaphobic insomniacs? Serial killers? Ghosts of
people who died while shopping for cleaning supplies? </div>
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly, I didn’t have the time or the wherewithal to get to know their true
nature better. I had to buy a card and get to the gym, where I could deliver it
to its target and then prop myself up on an elliptical for twenty minutes or so
while my senses sharpened. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I was picking out the perfect card for the job – remember: a friend of a
friend whose name I was only marginally sure I knew – I realized, I am really a
very good card-buyer. I mean, I’m no hero but … oh wait I did that one already.
Look, I’m a great card-buyer. If you want to be a truly excellent card-buyer,
such as myself, you just need to follow this proven, five-step methodology:</div>
<ol>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Put that sound
effects card down. </b>Everyone will think it’s funny … for like five seconds.
It’s going to cost you big bucks and one of two things is going to happen. Best
case scenario: It gets thrown out in a week. Worst case: It breaks and just
keeps playing the sound over and over again until the recipient attempts to
light it on fire with candles pilfered off his/her cake, but drops the candles,
igniting the entire stack of presents. Congratulations, your clever sound effect
card just ruined (inset holiday here). <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></li>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ignore all suggested recipients.</b>
Just because a card says something about “To Dad” or “To My Father” on it, that
shouldn’t stop you from buying it for your sister. Not if it’s a Grade-A
quality card. Sometimes those sister cards can be real stinkers. You either
play the “Dad” thing for a laugh, cross it out – also good for a laugh, or just
act super serious about it. That will also get a laugh. You can’t go wrong. </li>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ignore all suggested
senders.</b> Well if you aren’t going to let Big Greeting Card tell you who to
give a card to, why should you let them box you in as a sender? If I see a card
I like and it says “From your loving wife,” I’m going to do one of the things I
suggest above and come out with a superior model card and some laughs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ignore all suggested
holidays. </b>Honestly, ignore almost everything about the card other than the
picture on the front, which we’ll get to in a second. I’ve given birthday cards
as wedding cards, Halloween cards as birthday cards, anything goes, man. We
should be living in the Wild, Wild West of card-giving, not toeing whatever
line some Greeting Card suite traced in the sand. Card-getters will appreciate the
uncertainty of it all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></li>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Always go with a cute
animal.</b> Literally every other type of card is completely valueless. People
crave adorable animals on their greeting cards. It’s what gets them out of bed
on their birthday each year. And we’re not talking about cartoon animals. We
need honest-to-god, skin-and-bone animals. In a silly hat, if possible. And
with an adorable, possibly misspelled caption. Grumpy Cat is your god card. Your
skeleton key. Play her and it’s game over, you just won that holiday. Take a
bow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
</ol>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001202376529730056.post-12482291994163000432015-07-15T16:05:00.002-07:002015-07-15T16:05:41.459-07:003 Ways to Survive Thinking About the Destruction of Society... and Softball Recap<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3C3IirC-9vfBmj-MicZHQEPpWEINMYtMH0iei7Czvr7j01QTEteLvj1wkZQ7JJ2YomipDJzHo0gBIUXBFbmKH4uXiQIRu1iFpXT6XCj9l-BAPCCDFufyrK04E5xWufwd5uTQayv_7gxt/s1600/angry+penguin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3C3IirC-9vfBmj-MicZHQEPpWEINMYtMH0iei7Czvr7j01QTEteLvj1wkZQ7JJ2YomipDJzHo0gBIUXBFbmKH4uXiQIRu1iFpXT6XCj9l-BAPCCDFufyrK04E5xWufwd5uTQayv_7gxt/s320/angry+penguin.jpg" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">flickr.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s been a bit of hubaloo going on this week about the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/van-winkles/winter-is-coming-scientis_b_7787664.html?ncid=txtlnkusaolp00000592" target="_blank">“mini ice age”</a> we’re all supposedly in store for between the years 2030 and 2040 or
there abouts. In case you missed it, allow me, a man with no science background
whatsoever, to explain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the
year 2030, the sun is going to go on a “stay-cation,” meaning it’s going to take
a little time for itself, without going anywhere. It’ll do a few chores around
the house, maybe catch up on its Netflix and onDemand and stuff. Lot of John
Oliver to watch. Anyway, during this lull in solar activity, some
scientists think Earth will cool off drastically, leading to a mini-ice age.
Temperatures will be colder, polar bears will be bear-ier and snowball fights
will leave the realm of children’s games and be elevated to settle disputes on
a global scale. Sort of like what happened with the card game “WAR.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
scientist leading the charge on this points to a similar situation which occurred
way back in the 1700s. However, other scientists are like <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/energy-environment/wp/2015/07/14/no-earth-is-not-heading-toward-a-mini-ice-age/" target="_blank">“Na-uh, that didn’t happen that way.”</a> In fact, those negative scientists are saying the mini ice
age won’t be a thing at all. They claim we need to be way more worried about
global warming than we do about the sun taking a decade to find itself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
As is the case when scientists
disagree over science, the rest of us are left scratching our heads and waiting
for Al Gore or Leo DiCaprio to show up and tell us what to think. I’d also
accept the aforementioned John Oliver or the “South Park” guys should those
first two options be unavailable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
Even though the mini ice age may
turn out to be more of a bust than “Ice Age 2” – face it, that movie was not great – I still
took the news seriously and by seriously I mean I went through the usual routine I follow whenever
news of a pending global disaster breaks. </div>
<a name='more'></a> <br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"></span></span><b>Step 1: Do
the age math.</b> “What? All of the world’s oil is going to run out in 2089?
Geez … well, I’ll be … carry the seven … oh thank god. I’ll be long dead. Have
fun with that grandkids!” I mean sure, let’s all do our part to prevent said
problem, but it’s nice knowing when push comes to shove and the future of human
society is on the line, the only pushing I’ll be doing involves daisies.
Unfortunately, should this mini ice age thing occur, I’ll probably still
be kicking around on Earth so bummer. Poor timing, science.</li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"></span></span><b>Step 2:
Consider the obstacles.</b> For instance, say there’s a zombie apocalypse. The
obstacles would involve scavenging for food, killing off friends and loved ones
who got bit, fighting off roving gangs of people who’ve gone cannibal due to a
lack of food … in short, nothing I would be very good at. In fact, I’d say my usefulness
in a zombie apocalypse is limited strictly to season one and two version of Glenn on “The Walking Dead.” I go on runs and get dangled into wells to bait zombies. In the polar
landscape of ice age world, I’d guess food would again be scarce which wouldn’t be good. I’m a
man who gets horribly cranky when he misses his morning snack. However, I’m
also one of those people who, when co-workers say they’re cold, looks at them like
they’re insane. So I think that's a push really. Go me.
</li>
<li><b> Step 3: Accept it ... or forget it.</b> <b>Whichever is easier.</b> Usually after a few days (or sometimes hours) I’ll
forget what I read or heard about the impending disaster and everything will go
back to normal. Case in point, when I was a kid I heard about a massive asteroid
which scientists were predicting would hit the Earth. I was a kid and therefore
unaware that scientists predict this every two years or so. I was mortified. I
followed all of the above steps and was a little bummed that I was destined to
die in my thirties. Then
something happened. Maybe a teacher yelled at me for not paying attention or I had
a good game in lunchtime football. I don’t know. Either way, something way more
important came along and I forgot about the asteroid. After today, I probably won't remember ice age world is going to happen until I'm being pecked to death by a militant army of ill-tempered penguins. </li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
So there you go. Those are my steps
for dealing with impending doom. They’ll help, trust me. Anyway, this post
started out as a way to blame the mini ice age on my return to softball and
then segue into some stats from Monday’s game. Instead, the above paragraphs
happened. </div>
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In any event, Monday’s game: 0-2 at
the plate with a line out and a ground out. In the field I had two uninspiring
innings in centerfield, two innings where I manned the bench and one where I caught.
There you go. Recaps of adult league softball as well as the coming doomsday.
You’re welcome. </div>
</div>
Colin McGlincheyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407804815840659454noreply@blogger.com0