This year continues my streak of great Cincos de Mayo.  Last year's included a party, a pig, a keg - and then we broke out the Tequila.  This year's was much more sedate, not to mention sober, but nonetheless a great Cinco de Mayo.

The day began in an office, where I was managed.  Then I drove to a second office, where I did some managing.  Next, I drove to still a third office, where there was mutual managing.  (And yes, we still manage to respect each other in the morning.)  Then I came home to wonderful dinner.  

At the second office, however, I was discussing business with a colleague when I noticed that there was a bowl on her shelf.  I noticed this not so much for the small clear glass bowl itself as for the sheer bewildering number of fresh green limes that it held.  In fact, in your standard factory-grade office with typical boring decor, any number of decorative fresh limes above zero is likely to cause comment.  Said colleague claimed feng shui, though the comments may have been the real reason.

But not my comments.  Oh, no.

If you are like me - and I am not for one minute suggesting that you are - you may have, rattling around in that steel trap of your brain, some highly esoteric humor lined up, just waiting for the right moment.   It's not every day you get to pull these out, in context; in fact, it's not even every decade.

BUMD:  "Oh, so those limes are in there keeping the moisture away from the inside of the glass bowl?"
Innocent Colleague:  "Um, huh?"
BUMD, removing one of the limes and holding it up:  "Ah yes, you see:  These are the limes that dry men's bowls."

Yep.  Not every day you get to whip that one out and wave it around.  To give you an idea how excited I was to get to pull out something that crusty, note the attribution:  

To Wolfman Jack, thanks for the tunes and crazy one-liners!  Rest in peace.

And to all, a wonderful Cinco de Mayo to youo!

current mood: excited

I think it's time for me to come forward with this.  I was emotionally traumatized by Jamie Gibson, Jessica Gibson's half-sister, before she started working for Rob Lowe. 

This was a difficult time in my past, but I need people to know the truth: The Gibson girls played me for a sucker, and now they're doing it to Rob.  Their uncle, Mel, has always been jealous of Rob's good looks - Mel got better roles, but Rob got all the babes. 

Of course, since Rob Lowe's uncle is none other than US Senator Larry Craig, those family events could get testy, particularly when the Lowes had the Craigs over and the Gibson girls were working.  I was passing out towels left and right! 

But yes, sadly, little Jamie emotionally traumatized me by words and deeds, deeds to terrible to tell - I would not shock your virgin ears, nor sear your virgin eyes, dear reader, by describing the lurid and titillating details of my debasement at her hands - and feet, among other appendages.  Suffice it to say that I was, at a tender age, emotionally traumatized. 

Darn those Gibson girls!

No point, really, but here goes:

My lover wears a white shirt / My lover wears a white hat
My lover’s wearing tight black jeans / And I’m alright with that

My lover likes a tight fit / My lover likes a slow hand
My lover likes an old-fashioned man / And I’m alright with that

I’m alright / (She wears a white hat)
I’m alright / (She likes a slow hand)
I’m alright / She’s wearing fuzzy pink pajamas
And I’m alright with that

My love is like the North Star / My lover likes the North Pole
My love is getting red hot, baby / And I’m alright with that

I’m alright / (She wears a white hat)
I’m alright / (She likes the North Pole)
I’m alright / She’s wearing fuzzy pink pajamas
And I’m alright with that

White hat
Red hot
Alright
Alright
Well alright


You needed a song just now anyway, and you can probably figure out the tune.  Hum it until you hear it on the radio. 

First, we doff our propeller beanie hats at the passing of one of the greats, perhaps the last of the dinosaurs.  Hard core science fiction has known giants, and Arthur C. Clarke, who died on Wednesday at the age of 90, was one of the last of the greats, upon whose shoulders I am not worthy to stand.  Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and Frank Herbert were the other three of the four pillars supporting all who came after and will come heretofore.  The stars take no notice, but every satellite in geosynchronous orbit is hanging just a little lower in the sky this week.  “Absolutely no religious rites of any kind, relating to any religious faith, should be associated with my funeral” were the instructions he left, so it's a shame that (the also late and lamented) Kurt Vonnegut isn't still here to inject some levity with a line like he used to eulogize Asimov: "Well, Arthur is up in Heaven now." 

Next, a recent CDC report stated that just over one in four teenage girls has an STD.  If you're a girl between the ages of 13 and 19, talk to your three best friends.  If they're all clean, you just might be a skanky ho.  Talk to your doctor.

Finally, a new statement attributed to al Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden condemns European countries for a change.  The strident condemnation was for siding with the US in Afghanistan and for allowing the publication of cartoons considered insulting to Islam's prophet, Mohammed.  The net effect was to ensure that bin Laden's death will precipitate a new EU holiday as well as a national holiday in the United States.

Stay tuned for more news: as it happens, when it happens, whatever happened, and pass the beer nuts.

current mood: sad

You don't steal me flowers / You don't filk me love songs
You hardly talk to me anymore / When you pick up the phone
On the other side of the glass









And baby, I remember
All the things you bought me / All the lessons that you taught me
Well I learned how to phish / And I learned how to lie
You'd think I could learn / How to tell you goodbye
'Cause you don't steal me flowers
Anymore

• _Punk Rock Girl_ is playing on the XM (“We hopped into her car and then we started rollin / I asked how much you pay for this she said nothin man it’s stolen").  Note make of vehicle.
• Notice if your date seems inclined to spend money on you beyond their obvious means, or beyond what you know you’re really worth.
• Ask who’s footing the bill for the evening, and take special note if they respond with something like, “Oh, just some big, ugly man doll.”

You are authorized to use waterboarding if necessary.

current mood: annoyed

It was 7:45 on a sunny Sunday morning, and Don Henley had to die.  By the time the coffee was ready, Debbie Gibson was pregnant with my two-headed love child.  By 8:30, breakfast was on the table, my girlfriend was in a coma, and we were doing Jello shots with Jesus. 

Life is good.

current mood: hopeful

The other day I found myself contemplating Number One Son's IEP, which (for those who may not know) is an Individual Education Plan.  These plans are set up collaboratively with the public education system and the parents of children who may need, ahem, an individual education plan.  Number One Son is doing really well with his, for a number of reasons, not least of which is that he has a fantastic teacher and strong support from the school. 

But that's not what I was thinking about.  I was thinking about the terminology of the IEP, and about how we measure progress against the plan.  As a project manager, I'm always looking for good ways of measuring progress, and the nomenclature of the IEP, it seems to me, could be used for many aspects of life...

It occurs to me, for example, that were someone to ask SOBUMD (Spouse of a BigUglyManDoll) how I was doing, she might very well use "cleaning out the damn cat litter box" as a metric unit and tell them that I had performed non-preferred tasks 6 out of 9 opportunities last month, five times with 'prompting' and once without...

I try to counter with the fact that I have a much better average with cooking, but she reminds me that cooking is not actually a "non-preferred" task...  

Heck.  Whatever happened to "two outta three ain't bad?"  I know where this is going.  I'm going to have my very own IHCP, which - naturally - will be the BUMD's Individual Household Chore Plan.  (Techies insert Dynamic Host Control Protocol jokes here.)

Happy St. Valentine's Day to you - yes, you!  

YOU are my special valentine today.  You know, for the next 3 minutes. 

Here's a shoutout to all my amateur psychoanalyst readers, and you know you all are, deep in your hearts, amateur psychoanalysts, otherwise you wouldn't be trolling the depths of the Internet to nibble on the ramblings of the Big Ugly Man Doll.  So here's the setup:  First, I'm actually a pretty liberal guy, about as liberal as you can get while still doing business as the BUMD.  Second, Number One Son (mentioned in dispatches) has a Game Cube, and with or without  his sisters he plays SIMS on a regular basis. 

Here's the question I put to you, my amateur psychoanalyst friend:  Should I be worried that all his SIMS characters are skinny Goth chicks with tattoos?  Why does he name most of them Sadie?  (Those who aren't Sadie are named Padmé, after his - very understandable - crush on Padmé Naberrie Amidala, of Star Wars fame.  This I get.)

Thoughts?  All responses become property of the BUMD; however, all names will be changed to protect the guilty, on account of that's the kind of guy I am. 

current mood: curious

My feet need gauze.
I've aching jaws.

I cannot pee
unless I pause.

My fortune grows.
My conscience gnaws.

My fortune grows.
My conscience gnaws.

I cannot pee
unless I pause.

My feet need gauze.
I've aching jaws.

And soon
my blog is
breaking laws.