1. It's a hamster.
2. It runs in a wheel. All night long. It doesn't have a metal wheel, but a plastic one attached to the side of its cage. You would think that might be better, but it's not. Instead of SQUEEEEK SQUEEKA SCREECH SQUEEEEK all night, you hear THUMP THUMP WHUMP THUMP THU-THUMP. All night.
3. It refuses to learn to do any tricks.
4. The guy who sat with me to "learn the company's computer system" but who I was really "training to replace me" at my old job gave me the hamster (from his own personal hamster stash I'm guessing). Brought it to me. At work. On the day I was fired.
My boss called me into his office and was all like "We don't need your services anymore" and I was all like "Okay. I'll just stop by my desk and get my hamster and be on my way."
5. It openly mocks my non-pet-lover status by being a pet.
6. I got it for the kids. It is nocturnal. The kids are not. (Yes, I was aware of this fact when I got it.)
7. It is a constant reminder of my decision-making skills. (see reason number 6)
8. When I take it out of its cage and hold it for the kids to pet/poke it, the thing shoves its rodent face so far forward it looks like its eyeballs are going to pop out of its head. That's just creepy. And I have no idea what the protocol would be if ever tiny eyeballs suddenly fell on my floor.
9. It bites me when I feed it. That's just bad form.
10. It has chewed nearly all the way through one of the bars on its cage. Metal bars. I fear animals that can both eat metal and hide in a shoe. The potential for some sort of horrifying attack/embarrassing death is simply too high for my comfort level.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
A question possibly not worth this much thought
This weekend I walked into the bathroom after the youngest got done using it and immediately yelled for him.
"Get back in here and put the toilet seat down!" I was exasperated. I know I have said these instructions before. I know it's not a hard task to accomplish. To be fair, he is only five, but still....
He came wandering into the bathroom, drawn by my tone rather than the actual instructions I had given. He said "What?" and sounded just as exasperated as I had. "Put the seat down," I told him. He looked at me funny, but complied. And in that look I saw the thought that had hit my brain as I was repeating my command.
Why?
My only real answer could have been "Because I said so." Because seriously, why? Why do girls get to have everything all ready for us to (ahem) go? When did girls get so complacent that they cannot look before they sit? One wet derriere and I guarantee it will be lesson learned. And do we do this in other places- just sit all willy-nilly, never looking to see if there is something already parked in our potential butt-space or that will possibly hinder our enjoyment of the whole sitting experience? I know for a fact that at the park, or the movies, or hell, even on my own couch, I definitely check my landing zone.
The truth is that I have a hard time telling my kids to do things for the "I told you so" reason. Unless it's an emergency or dangerous situation. And I can't put a toilet seat in either of those categories. I have a hard time telling them to do things just because that's the way it's always been- some sort of weird tradition. And I wonder if seat-position injuries are really the epidemic we make it out to be.
The only accident I ever remember having happened when I was about five years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night and desperately needed a drink. So I wandered, jammied and sock-footed, into the bathroom and reached for the cup on the counter. And being the dinky person I am, couldn't reach. So I did the logical thing. I used the toilet seat for a step stool. Only the lid was up. And I was bleary-eyed and five. And so I slipped in. In my socks. But I am almost 62.3% sure that the problem there had nothing to do with seat up or seat down, but more to do with the fact that five year old feet are smaller (in general) than the opening of the bowl. And I wasn't injured except for maybe my pride. Just really soggy.
Maybe it just boils down to simple politeness. A be-nice-to-ladies mentality. But honestly....if this is what chivalry has come to, kill it. Kill it, now.
"Get back in here and put the toilet seat down!" I was exasperated. I know I have said these instructions before. I know it's not a hard task to accomplish. To be fair, he is only five, but still....
He came wandering into the bathroom, drawn by my tone rather than the actual instructions I had given. He said "What?" and sounded just as exasperated as I had. "Put the seat down," I told him. He looked at me funny, but complied. And in that look I saw the thought that had hit my brain as I was repeating my command.
Why?
My only real answer could have been "Because I said so." Because seriously, why? Why do girls get to have everything all ready for us to (ahem) go? When did girls get so complacent that they cannot look before they sit? One wet derriere and I guarantee it will be lesson learned. And do we do this in other places- just sit all willy-nilly, never looking to see if there is something already parked in our potential butt-space or that will possibly hinder our enjoyment of the whole sitting experience? I know for a fact that at the park, or the movies, or hell, even on my own couch, I definitely check my landing zone.
The truth is that I have a hard time telling my kids to do things for the "I told you so" reason. Unless it's an emergency or dangerous situation. And I can't put a toilet seat in either of those categories. I have a hard time telling them to do things just because that's the way it's always been- some sort of weird tradition. And I wonder if seat-position injuries are really the epidemic we make it out to be.
The only accident I ever remember having happened when I was about five years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night and desperately needed a drink. So I wandered, jammied and sock-footed, into the bathroom and reached for the cup on the counter. And being the dinky person I am, couldn't reach. So I did the logical thing. I used the toilet seat for a step stool. Only the lid was up. And I was bleary-eyed and five. And so I slipped in. In my socks. But I am almost 62.3% sure that the problem there had nothing to do with seat up or seat down, but more to do with the fact that five year old feet are smaller (in general) than the opening of the bowl. And I wasn't injured except for maybe my pride. Just really soggy.
Maybe it just boils down to simple politeness. A be-nice-to-ladies mentality. But honestly....if this is what chivalry has come to, kill it. Kill it, now.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
My best argument for why Ohio trumps California
Okay. So I am in the grocery store last week buying a stash of personal-use Halloween candy. I have the youngest Monkey with me, which means that I am spending about a bajillion dollars over my fun-sized budget. It also means that I have spent the entire trip to the store saying things like "don't touch that" and "you don't need a toy" and "quit poking me in the butt." On Repeat. To Infinity.
Needless to say, my conversational skills (and my nerves) are slightly frazzled.
So I get in line to check out.
I totally should have done the self checkout thing. There is some unwritten code in the self checkout part of the store. It goes a little like:
1. Customers shall not speak to one another. Not even if they have to walk in front of one another to grab a Coke from one of those mini-fridge things. Only mumbles and half-nods in the displaced person's general direction will be tolerated.
2. Customers will not acknowledge that fellow customers are purchasing actual items. Even if said items are awesomely awkward together or would possibly create the best binge eating session ever.
But I didn't. I went to a regular line and proceeded to occupy myself with arranging my candy bounty on the belt-thing and corralling my child. I was doing pretty good when I noticed a hand reverently caressing my bag of Kit Kats. It wasn't mine. Mine were occupied in a frantic search for that little card thingy that gives you three cents off your purchase. It wasn't the kid's. His were busy poking all of my body parts he could reach. I turned around and saw what could only be described as Mrs. Troll. What hair she had left on her head was stringy and probably hadn't been washed since her pet dinosaur died. She was wearing about three coats and a pair of sweatpants that were a Pollock painting of everything she had eaten in the past month. She had a tooth. I think.
I gave her what I thought was a scathing look, but what she thought was an invitation for conversation.
"I just moved to Ohio from California," she said. As if this explained her fondling behavior. "I haven't seen my brother in 25 years and he lives in Ohio so I decided to move here. I just had a hysterectomy and I needed a job."
This is the part where I am supposed to ignore her. I am supposed to turn to the cashier and pay and get the hell out of there. I made some grunting noise. Did the half-nod thing. A vague smile. And I tried. I swear I tried to just hand over my cash and leave. But there were questions swirling in my head. Like "Why is your estranged brother the person you turn to for job help?" and "Do they let you keep your uterus? You know. In a jar or something."
She is still talking as the cashier bags my stuff and I am vaguely listening and nodding. And then she says something that totally catches my attention.
"They don't sell Kit Kats in California. There are commercials for them, but they just don't sell them in stores."
NUH. UH. I cannot believe the cruelty of California. It is horrendous to taunt people with commercials of chocolaty-wafery goodness and then not provide. It is unconstitutional to allow people to think they can gain all forms of candy and then snatch away their dreams. California, I weep for thee.
VIVA LA OHIO!!!*
There was nothing I could do at this point but attempt to ease this Troll's pain. I opened the Kit Kats and gave her one. I couldn't help it. It was my civic duty. And I'm all about that. But then I got the hell out of there before I had to possibly compliment her jarred organs. Cuz really, what do you say about a uterus?
*I have no idea what language that might be or if it is foreign-language grammatically correct. I don't care. You get the point.
Needless to say, my conversational skills (and my nerves) are slightly frazzled.
So I get in line to check out.
I totally should have done the self checkout thing. There is some unwritten code in the self checkout part of the store. It goes a little like:
1. Customers shall not speak to one another. Not even if they have to walk in front of one another to grab a Coke from one of those mini-fridge things. Only mumbles and half-nods in the displaced person's general direction will be tolerated.
2. Customers will not acknowledge that fellow customers are purchasing actual items. Even if said items are awesomely awkward together or would possibly create the best binge eating session ever.
But I didn't. I went to a regular line and proceeded to occupy myself with arranging my candy bounty on the belt-thing and corralling my child. I was doing pretty good when I noticed a hand reverently caressing my bag of Kit Kats. It wasn't mine. Mine were occupied in a frantic search for that little card thingy that gives you three cents off your purchase. It wasn't the kid's. His were busy poking all of my body parts he could reach. I turned around and saw what could only be described as Mrs. Troll. What hair she had left on her head was stringy and probably hadn't been washed since her pet dinosaur died. She was wearing about three coats and a pair of sweatpants that were a Pollock painting of everything she had eaten in the past month. She had a tooth. I think.
I gave her what I thought was a scathing look, but what she thought was an invitation for conversation.
"I just moved to Ohio from California," she said. As if this explained her fondling behavior. "I haven't seen my brother in 25 years and he lives in Ohio so I decided to move here. I just had a hysterectomy and I needed a job."
This is the part where I am supposed to ignore her. I am supposed to turn to the cashier and pay and get the hell out of there. I made some grunting noise. Did the half-nod thing. A vague smile. And I tried. I swear I tried to just hand over my cash and leave. But there were questions swirling in my head. Like "Why is your estranged brother the person you turn to for job help?" and "Do they let you keep your uterus? You know. In a jar or something."
She is still talking as the cashier bags my stuff and I am vaguely listening and nodding. And then she says something that totally catches my attention.
"They don't sell Kit Kats in California. There are commercials for them, but they just don't sell them in stores."
NUH. UH. I cannot believe the cruelty of California. It is horrendous to taunt people with commercials of chocolaty-wafery goodness and then not provide. It is unconstitutional to allow people to think they can gain all forms of candy and then snatch away their dreams. California, I weep for thee.
VIVA LA OHIO!!!*
There was nothing I could do at this point but attempt to ease this Troll's pain. I opened the Kit Kats and gave her one. I couldn't help it. It was my civic duty. And I'm all about that. But then I got the hell out of there before I had to possibly compliment her jarred organs. Cuz really, what do you say about a uterus?
*I have no idea what language that might be or if it is foreign-language grammatically correct. I don't care. You get the point.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Worst. Job-Seeker. Ever.
"Do you have a high school diploma?! Do you want to be trained not to kill people?!"
Why yes!! That is me! I definitely would like to not kill people and I for sure have a high school diploma. In fact, that is the only diploma I have because that was the last time people weren't all like "Eh, we don't care if you come to class or not..." (Turns out they care enough to do things like "not accept late work" or "fail you." They are all like "You are an adult now." and you are all like "No way! I still think 10 a.m. is early and my mom still buys my shampoo." But whatever.)
So that's kinda how it went when I decided to take my summer program to become a Pharmacy Technician. And after a summer of finding answers to questions like.....
"If a doctor orders a 12.6% solution of dextrose to be administered to a patient by baby spider fangs at a rate of 900 drops per second and all you have on hand in the pharmacy is 700 mL of a 32% solution, how much sterile water and unicorn sweat will you have to add to fill the required prescription?"
(And, by the way, the answer is NOT "Punch the doctor in the throat and then bitch incessantly because your pharmacy does not carry unicorn sweat.")
....I figured I would have a job by now. But I don't. I have applied and applied and applied- for all kinds of positions, including ones called Pharmacy Technician Trainees. But I haven't even gotten those, which really does nothing for my self-esteem. In fact, I may take to wearing a big sign that says "Untrainable" on it. Maybe. But what is really happening is that I am becoming a Human Resource Department Stalker. I get the idea in my head that instead of checking my application status online (again) I will call and maybe get to talk to a live human being and then maybe they will take pity on me or really like my go-getter attitude.
And so I call.
And they tell me to check my application status online.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back and pretend I don't have internet access.
And so they say that if I haven't been called then they aren't ready to talk to anyone regarding the job.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back. Only this time I get a little panicked because I figure they can recognize my voice. So I use a fake accent.
And they say that they haven't gotten through all the applications yet.
And so I say thank you and hang up. Only it sounds more like "theeenk yuh." (Yeah- I don't know what that accent is either.)
And so I call back. Only this time I panic because what if they have caller ID and know its me calling back and are just going to answer the phone to see what kind of other crappy voice I am going to do this time and then totally laugh at me over their lunch break......
I think my next step is to actually go to these establishments and hang out with my face pressed against their windows and shout out drug names like some sort of Pharmaceutical Tourette's. I think it will totally work.
Why yes!! That is me! I definitely would like to not kill people and I for sure have a high school diploma. In fact, that is the only diploma I have because that was the last time people weren't all like "Eh, we don't care if you come to class or not..." (Turns out they care enough to do things like "not accept late work" or "fail you." They are all like "You are an adult now." and you are all like "No way! I still think 10 a.m. is early and my mom still buys my shampoo." But whatever.)
So that's kinda how it went when I decided to take my summer program to become a Pharmacy Technician. And after a summer of finding answers to questions like.....
"If a doctor orders a 12.6% solution of dextrose to be administered to a patient by baby spider fangs at a rate of 900 drops per second and all you have on hand in the pharmacy is 700 mL of a 32% solution, how much sterile water and unicorn sweat will you have to add to fill the required prescription?"
(And, by the way, the answer is NOT "Punch the doctor in the throat and then bitch incessantly because your pharmacy does not carry unicorn sweat.")
....I figured I would have a job by now. But I don't. I have applied and applied and applied- for all kinds of positions, including ones called Pharmacy Technician Trainees. But I haven't even gotten those, which really does nothing for my self-esteem. In fact, I may take to wearing a big sign that says "Untrainable" on it. Maybe. But what is really happening is that I am becoming a Human Resource Department Stalker. I get the idea in my head that instead of checking my application status online (again) I will call and maybe get to talk to a live human being and then maybe they will take pity on me or really like my go-getter attitude.
And so I call.
And they tell me to check my application status online.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back and pretend I don't have internet access.
And so they say that if I haven't been called then they aren't ready to talk to anyone regarding the job.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back. Only this time I get a little panicked because I figure they can recognize my voice. So I use a fake accent.
And they say that they haven't gotten through all the applications yet.
And so I say thank you and hang up. Only it sounds more like "theeenk yuh." (Yeah- I don't know what that accent is either.)
And so I call back. Only this time I panic because what if they have caller ID and know its me calling back and are just going to answer the phone to see what kind of other crappy voice I am going to do this time and then totally laugh at me over their lunch break......
I think my next step is to actually go to these establishments and hang out with my face pressed against their windows and shout out drug names like some sort of Pharmaceutical Tourette's. I think it will totally work.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
My Inner Dork is showing
Random thought today (As I was listening to a bunch of music I have been introduced to over the past year...so maybe not so random.):
It takes a lot of experimenting and transitioning before you really find your niche.
I know this well because I used to listen to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQcsNDqcyuw
P.S. Secretly, this still brings me delerious happiness to listen to.
P.S.S. This was my gateway music into R.E.M., The Cure, INXS, The Lemonheads......(???????)
P.S.S.S. My first concert was The Monkees (reunion) when I was in the sixth grade. Beat that.
It takes a lot of experimenting and transitioning before you really find your niche.
I know this well because I used to listen to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQcsNDqcyuw
P.S. Secretly, this still brings me delerious happiness to listen to.
P.S.S. This was my gateway music into R.E.M., The Cure, INXS, The Lemonheads......(???????)
P.S.S.S. My first concert was The Monkees (reunion) when I was in the sixth grade. Beat that.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
I know its superficial....and there is nothing wrong with that
This morning I stood outside in my pajamas with my ever-present and absolutely necessary cup of coffee watching the bus stop until my eight-year-old was safely on his way to school. I was watching from a distance of course, having long ago been banished from actually going within a hundred feet of the bus stop. A bus stop restraining order, if you will. Not that I can blame the boy. I am pretty sure the only thing that will kill your third grade cool-quotient faster than bed-head-mom-in-holey-pajama-pants is eating your boogers. While I stood out in the early morning cold I saw something that made me smile and made me think a little.
There were two neighborhood girls having a chat. They were older than the bus stop kids- probably about seventh grade. One was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and the other girl was dressed in a bright blue well-fitting t-shirt and shorty pink and blue plaid shorts (no shoes yet....). Keep in mind it was about 50 degrees outside this morning. My first thought was "Oh that girl is crazy! Its too cold for shorts!" (Yup. Mom-me totally got the best of me.) And then I saw the explanation for the craziness. Tennis shoe girl pulled out two pairs of earrings and the girls started holding them up with the pink and blue outfit and giggling and talking in that mile-a-minute way that only girls can do. Speech peppered with "Ohmygod's" and quick smiles and tripping breathlessness. My mom-shock at the inappropriateness of the outfit for the weather gave way to womanly familiarity with such girly preening.
I knew that woven into their laughter was the name of the boy that all of this preparation was for. I knew that they were devising scenarios to place shorts-girl in the boy's line of vision. I knew that there was nervousness and exhilarated excitement in abundance in that female twosome.
I remembered being the same age and doing the same thing. I remembered some of my very favorite outfits. There was the blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons that I wore with a blue butterfly clip (for just one side of my hair) and about five strands of beads that were some sort of fad at the time- you wore them all twisted up and with various clips to hold them together. I remembered my very favorite jeans in the seventh grade- blue with a pink flower pattern on them and zippers and bows at the ankles. I remembered what I wore to my first boy/girl party and my very favorite Homecoming dress (black velvet with silver straps). I saw the simple truth in the tableau in front of me. Most women won't say it. We say we dress for ourselves or for other women. And yes, there is an element of that, but to leave it at just that is like saying that a peacock has its feathers because they make him feel special.
Gentlemen, we dress for you.
We dress for you, not because we expect you to remember our specific purple shirt or that our earrings complimented the tones of our shoes, but rather because we want to be a vision in your minds that lasts beyond the latest Black Keys song or the taco you had for lunch. We wear our feathers (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally) and our glitter and our perfume because we want to capture your attention and imagination. We want to become a part of your memory, whether you end up knowing us in a real way or just as a misty aura of a woman.
And that, to my mind, is beautifully feminine.
There were two neighborhood girls having a chat. They were older than the bus stop kids- probably about seventh grade. One was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and the other girl was dressed in a bright blue well-fitting t-shirt and shorty pink and blue plaid shorts (no shoes yet....). Keep in mind it was about 50 degrees outside this morning. My first thought was "Oh that girl is crazy! Its too cold for shorts!" (Yup. Mom-me totally got the best of me.) And then I saw the explanation for the craziness. Tennis shoe girl pulled out two pairs of earrings and the girls started holding them up with the pink and blue outfit and giggling and talking in that mile-a-minute way that only girls can do. Speech peppered with "Ohmygod's" and quick smiles and tripping breathlessness. My mom-shock at the inappropriateness of the outfit for the weather gave way to womanly familiarity with such girly preening.
I knew that woven into their laughter was the name of the boy that all of this preparation was for. I knew that they were devising scenarios to place shorts-girl in the boy's line of vision. I knew that there was nervousness and exhilarated excitement in abundance in that female twosome.
I remembered being the same age and doing the same thing. I remembered some of my very favorite outfits. There was the blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons that I wore with a blue butterfly clip (for just one side of my hair) and about five strands of beads that were some sort of fad at the time- you wore them all twisted up and with various clips to hold them together. I remembered my very favorite jeans in the seventh grade- blue with a pink flower pattern on them and zippers and bows at the ankles. I remembered what I wore to my first boy/girl party and my very favorite Homecoming dress (black velvet with silver straps). I saw the simple truth in the tableau in front of me. Most women won't say it. We say we dress for ourselves or for other women. And yes, there is an element of that, but to leave it at just that is like saying that a peacock has its feathers because they make him feel special.
Gentlemen, we dress for you.
We dress for you, not because we expect you to remember our specific purple shirt or that our earrings complimented the tones of our shoes, but rather because we want to be a vision in your minds that lasts beyond the latest Black Keys song or the taco you had for lunch. We wear our feathers (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally) and our glitter and our perfume because we want to capture your attention and imagination. We want to become a part of your memory, whether you end up knowing us in a real way or just as a misty aura of a woman.
And that, to my mind, is beautifully feminine.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Soapbox city (days after everyone else got here)
Okay. So I know I am way behind the bandwagon here, but I can't help it. Bandwagons have never been my favorite mode of transportation and news bores me. Maybe if they had a mime or something instead of that annoying scroll bar thing on news stations I could totally get on board. *
I just read an article on the Gulf oil spill. Yup. Just now.
The spill started on April 20th and we just now got a cap on it? And the "long term plan" includes the words "jam it with dirt and cement."
I have this image in my head of the control room at BP (yes, in my head its this big room that is a cross between the command center of the Starship Enterprise and the control area of Houston in the movie Apollo 13) on the day of the explosion. It goes a little something like this:
*BOOM*
(Everyone stares at the giant IMAX-like screen that shows some live feed of the oil well that, up to that second, was doing absolutely nothing.)
"Holy shit! Did you see that?!"
"Oh my god! This is awful! What are we gonna do?!
"Run!"
"Pretend like we didn't see it!"
"Cover it with something!"
"Jam it with dirt and cement!"
That suggestion has to have been one of the first things said in the initial pandemonium. It is too stupid/simple/brilliant not to have been.
Some senator got BP to release live feed video of the spill, which has to be the environmental equivalent of watching paint dry. And nope, I can't be bothered to figure out exactly which one did because frankly, I don't care. You know the dude who did it is the same kind of dude who calls attention to his own farts just to have something to brag about. And I looked for the video of it online while I was writing this post. I found one that had a big headline "NOW WITH MUSIC". What???!!! It has some vaguely techno-ish Arabian-ish music and I swear I almost wet my pants I was laughing so hard. Here it is for your listening pleasure:
Right here.
See. You can't stop laughing either can you?
It makes me kinda sad that with all of the technology and "brilliant minds" that are supposed to be working on this it has taken this long to a) cap it, and b) decide that the best course of action is to plug it up. (I know, I know- its at the bottom of the ocean. Blah, blah, blah.)
I am kinda happy that there is a video feed of this though. I will admit that when they get done with all the testing and finally get around to "jamming it with dirt and cement" I plan on grabbing a snack and watching. Cuz that is gonna be one sweet-ass cement truck.
*disclaimer: If you think that this blog is supposed to be informative or even factually accurate, you may want to have your head examined.
I just read an article on the Gulf oil spill. Yup. Just now.
The spill started on April 20th and we just now got a cap on it? And the "long term plan" includes the words "jam it with dirt and cement."
I have this image in my head of the control room at BP (yes, in my head its this big room that is a cross between the command center of the Starship Enterprise and the control area of Houston in the movie Apollo 13) on the day of the explosion. It goes a little something like this:
*BOOM*
(Everyone stares at the giant IMAX-like screen that shows some live feed of the oil well that, up to that second, was doing absolutely nothing.)
"Holy shit! Did you see that?!"
"Oh my god! This is awful! What are we gonna do?!
"Run!"
"Pretend like we didn't see it!"
"Cover it with something!"
"Jam it with dirt and cement!"
That suggestion has to have been one of the first things said in the initial pandemonium. It is too stupid/simple/brilliant not to have been.
Some senator got BP to release live feed video of the spill, which has to be the environmental equivalent of watching paint dry. And nope, I can't be bothered to figure out exactly which one did because frankly, I don't care. You know the dude who did it is the same kind of dude who calls attention to his own farts just to have something to brag about. And I looked for the video of it online while I was writing this post. I found one that had a big headline "NOW WITH MUSIC". What???!!! It has some vaguely techno-ish Arabian-ish music and I swear I almost wet my pants I was laughing so hard. Here it is for your listening pleasure:
Right here.
See. You can't stop laughing either can you?
It makes me kinda sad that with all of the technology and "brilliant minds" that are supposed to be working on this it has taken this long to a) cap it, and b) decide that the best course of action is to plug it up. (I know, I know- its at the bottom of the ocean. Blah, blah, blah.)
I am kinda happy that there is a video feed of this though. I will admit that when they get done with all the testing and finally get around to "jamming it with dirt and cement" I plan on grabbing a snack and watching. Cuz that is gonna be one sweet-ass cement truck.
*disclaimer: If you think that this blog is supposed to be informative or even factually accurate, you may want to have your head examined.
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