Ya Think?

I just now attempted to open the mailbox at my office with the key to the mailbox at my apartment building.

I think I may be short on sleep.

A couple of weeks ago, I was websurfing and happened upon the Wikipedia page for Domo-kun, a Japanese TV station mascot. I was thinking to myself, "That little guy looks like a talking poop", when the phone rang at my desk.

I am supposed to answer the phone like so: "Thank you for calling Company Name! This is Paul, how can I help you?"

But because of the evil influence of the internet upon my brain, on this occasion I answered the phone thusly:

"Thank you for calling Poop!"

I instantly realized what I had said, and I froze solid for at least four seconds, which is an eternity of dead air when you're on the phone with a stranger. Then I rallied and said "guh, Company Name! This is Paul, how can I help you?"

Rare indeed are the moments when I drop to my knees and thank God-I-Don't-Believe-In for our puritanically polite society. This was one of those moments. Like a pastor breaking wind mid-funeral, or a bird shitting in the coffin, this was a moment of such breaktaking embarrassment that the only possible course of action was for everyone involved to pretend that nothing whatever had happened. And that's exactly what we did, and the rest of the phone call went swimmingly.

When I used the wrong mailbox key just now, I was not nearly as mortified as I was by the "Poop" incident. I wasn't mortified at all, actually; just annoyed with myself. I merely pair these stories together to illustrate a point: that I am very tired, and don't have the energy to make every little thing in a blog entry make sense next to every other little damn thing.

Souvenez-Vous Bien

I ate so much this weekend that I've essentially given myself the opposite of the Star Jones operation; instead of stapling most of my stomach shut, I've actually opened areas of my stomach that were never intended for heavy usage. Or maybe I've just grown extra tummies, like a cow.

The appetizer menu at the Saddle Ranch restaurant has given me a new nickname for my dong. I now call it my Hot'n'Spicy Pulled Pork Slider.

I went an entire 4th of July weekend without looking directly at a single fireworks explosion. Coulda seen some from one of the yards we partied in, but I wasn't about to brave the dark, dog-poo-dotted lawn for a better vantage point. Nothing kills the childlike wonderment of a pyrotechnical display faster than having to garden-hose used Alpo off your Skechers.

At one of the ID4 parties we attended, I went swimming in the same pool as at least one pre-potty-training baby. I didn't realize until just now how not-cool that is. Next time I have a long weekend, I shall try not to have quite so many Brushes With Shit.

We hung out with a whooooole lot of People With Babies. I don't think my girlfriend and I will be leaping into that particular relationship ravine anytime soon. They tell us, "you think you don't want one now, but having a baby changes you", and my girlfriend responds, "but what if I don't WANT to change?"

I have to agree.

In closing, I hope you'll all take this July 4th Week to remember the contributions of the French to our revolutionary struggle against the British. The French gave the rebel colonists money, supplies, generals and troops; if it wasn't for them, we'd all be speaking English.