Nature calls.
I make my way to the nearest restroom in hopes that a urinal will be available. Once inside, I’m greeted with the warm smell of freshly baked brownies and hot ammonia. There are a half a dozen other men waiting in line, and with the close proximity I am fortunate enough to experience for myself what it must be like to not shower in six months.
I eventually get to the front of the line and see something I haven’t seen since first grade: a grown man urinating with his pants around his ankles. This astonishes me, and yet, I am not surprised when, while pulling his pants up, a dingy heroin needle falls out of his pocket and between my feet.
“You mind handing that to me?” the man asks with a sheepish look on his face.
“Yes I do, sir,” I answer cordially. “I do not care to know what hepatitis feels like between my nimble fingers.”
The man stoops, picks up his paraphernalia, then brushes past me with an angry glance, leaving me a faint whiff of fresh cabbage and cheap cologne.
I proceed to the urinal, a three foot wide bowl attached to the wall. It is a waterless “green” facility, no wonder I am getting light headed from the overwhelming fragrance in the room. I unzip my pants and realize that I am standing in a puddle of what does not appear to be fresh spring water. I look at the giant bowl of a urinal and can’t imagine how this man has missed his target. I hope he does not have a gun.
A little phased, I turn around and proceed to a toilet stall being vacated by an older man who must be celebrating something the way he smells of alcohol. I enter into the stall, the door swinging inwards. I am forced to press my body against the wall in order to close the door, and somehow I manage this without falling into the toilet. Good thing too, because there must be some epidemic going through town causing people’s aim to falter. Amazing. From the looks of what I behold, the man before me must’ve had broccoli chicken for lunch and an anus on either side of his legs.
The moment becomes crucial as I sense a deep rumbling down below. Nature is screaming.
I make haste in cleaning up the man’s mess, trying ever so valiantly to not make physical contact with whatever it is that I am wiping up. I assume my place on the throne and make business happen. As I sit there, I notice that the stall door is about three and a half feet off the ground revealing my most personal areas to anyone who just happens to walk by and notice. Thank goodness they can’t see my face though, they’ll never recognize me from this angle.
I read the graffiti on the stall door. Ted must be a friendly guy, he seems to want to have a good time. Maybe I’ll call him and invite him out to lunch some day. Upon time to file paperwork, I find that the rolls in the T.P dispenser have somehow migrated towards each other and don’t want to separate. I find an end and begin to pull, but it comes off in little pieces. I fight with this contraption for a moment before it finally cooperates, giving me twice the amount that I needed.
I flush the toilet, pull my pants up, receive a few funny looks from some interesting looking people, then proceed to the sink. There is no soap in the dispenser, and the water is ice cold. I go to the touch-less automatic hand dryers and put my hands underneath. Nothing happens at first, so I put the closer and closer until my hands are barely touching the machine and it starts to blow. I’m kneading my hands together, and as my hands move away from the dryer it stops, requiring me to maintain a close proximity to the machine. After a few moments, the dryer gets to around a thousand degrees and burns my hand. That’s when I notice the sign: AVOID CONTACT, HOT SURFACE. No kidding.
I turn to leave and realize that nobody else has washed their hands. This wouldn’t be an issue if the door knob didn’t require turning in order to open the door. I question the efficiency of touch-less automatic hand dryers briefly, pull my sleeve over my hand, open the door, exit the bathroom, then vow to never wear this shirt again.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Public Transportation
It's wonderful that we have such an *cough* efficient public transportation here in Seattle. However, there's a few things that just bug the crap out of me. Literally. I have to go to the bathroom after I get off the bus.
Firstly, to all the 500 pound silver backs who find it necessary to sit in the back seat at the end of the bus: The aisles are only 2 feet wide. You are 6 feet wide. Do the math. They have a large front sitting area specifically for the likes of you, and I urge you to use these facilities at all costs. I'm not exactly a thin guy myself, but I can tell if my trying to fit in a small space will intrude on other people's bubble, especially in regards to where my ass and genitals will ultimately end up. I've seen enough of both from several genders to fulfill my ever aching need to have them shoved in my face every time I want to get across town. Seriously people.
Secondly, to all the bag people. You know who you are. Is it necessary to carry everything you own on the city bus? Are you moving in? And why does everything you own have a faint smell of old cheese and wet dog? Are you importing goods for some weird Italian restaurant that I don't know about? Cause most likely it's gone bad between here and Queen Anne. If you feel that everything you have in those bags is SO DAMN IMPORTANT so as to carry them everywhere you go, please exercise courtesy in keeping them in your seat and not in middle of the aisle where the fat guy who wants to sit all the way in back won't squish everything or trip over them causing a chaotic earthquake that'll bring the Columbia Building down.
Lastly, to the pedal-happy bus drivers. I understand you're on a schedule and all, but can you please show some good customer service by not pulling from the curb at 90 mph before anybody can find a seat? Believe it or not, we don't have seat belts like you do, and Newton's law of motion has proven time and time again to still apply, even more so when you slam on the brakes when you realize you almost missed the requested stop. You're the reason I wait until the bus comes to a complete stop before I stand up. Oh how those handrails feel so good when they're lodged halfway down my throat in anticipation of getting off this godforsaken death machine. I promise, by feathering the gas and break pedals, you will not ever have to explain to your boss why the fat gorilla tripped and fell over all the bags of cheesy dog smell treasures in the aisle when you pulled away from the curb at sound breaking speeds.
Thank you, and safe riding.
Firstly, to all the 500 pound silver backs who find it necessary to sit in the back seat at the end of the bus: The aisles are only 2 feet wide. You are 6 feet wide. Do the math. They have a large front sitting area specifically for the likes of you, and I urge you to use these facilities at all costs. I'm not exactly a thin guy myself, but I can tell if my trying to fit in a small space will intrude on other people's bubble, especially in regards to where my ass and genitals will ultimately end up. I've seen enough of both from several genders to fulfill my ever aching need to have them shoved in my face every time I want to get across town. Seriously people.
Secondly, to all the bag people. You know who you are. Is it necessary to carry everything you own on the city bus? Are you moving in? And why does everything you own have a faint smell of old cheese and wet dog? Are you importing goods for some weird Italian restaurant that I don't know about? Cause most likely it's gone bad between here and Queen Anne. If you feel that everything you have in those bags is SO DAMN IMPORTANT so as to carry them everywhere you go, please exercise courtesy in keeping them in your seat and not in middle of the aisle where the fat guy who wants to sit all the way in back won't squish everything or trip over them causing a chaotic earthquake that'll bring the Columbia Building down.
Lastly, to the pedal-happy bus drivers. I understand you're on a schedule and all, but can you please show some good customer service by not pulling from the curb at 90 mph before anybody can find a seat? Believe it or not, we don't have seat belts like you do, and Newton's law of motion has proven time and time again to still apply, even more so when you slam on the brakes when you realize you almost missed the requested stop. You're the reason I wait until the bus comes to a complete stop before I stand up. Oh how those handrails feel so good when they're lodged halfway down my throat in anticipation of getting off this godforsaken death machine. I promise, by feathering the gas and break pedals, you will not ever have to explain to your boss why the fat gorilla tripped and fell over all the bags of cheesy dog smell treasures in the aisle when you pulled away from the curb at sound breaking speeds.
Thank you, and safe riding.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Felix's Lemonade Stand
I learned something today in the way of animal grooming- if a cat is too fat to lick its own back, it turns gross.
My grandma's cat, Abigail, is huge. Like 35 pounds or something huge. And as a fat animal, she cannot for the life of her reach certain places to clean herself, including but not limited to her lower back by the base of her tail. When cats cant clean themselves, their fur gets all matted up, causing the skin underneath to hold in dirt and flake like no other. Oh yeah, and she stank something fierce.
The time came that she NEEDED to be taken to a groomer. So my wonderful father volunteered me to grab the cat (always fun) and WRAP her in a towel (also fun), then CARRY her down to the CAR and HOLD ON to her the entire ride there.
After much fuss and a few back claws in my shirt, i got her situated on my lap and tried my damndest to reassure her and keep her calm. Remember, I'm the evil monster holding her in there, I gotta do something so that she doesnt eat me or my appendages.
Finally we get to the groomer. My dad tells me to HOLD ON and WAIT inside this car with a cat wrapped in a towel who suspiciously smells like urine. So I wait. And wait. 15 minutes goes by, I'm still waiting. The car is getting hotter, cat fur sticking to me, I'm sweaty, cat's panting, and the overwhelming aroma of urine. Just about 20 minutes rolls by, I suddenly become a genius and roll down the damn window, allowing sweet fresh air to waft into my miserable sinuses and cool my drenched, fur matted face and arms. The cat takes this oppurtunity to try and JUMP out the window. I'm a pretty strong guy, but man was it a fight to keep her in the vehicle.
Eventually my dad comes out and tells me to bring her inside. Somehow I manage to get out of the car keeping the cat burrito intact (concerned over those devilish back claws) and bring her into the groomer, a small old lady with gray spaghetti hair. I set the cat down and the groomer asks me, So what are we doing today, just a bath? I'm thinking, what the hell was Dad doing here the last half hour? Playing parcheezy? So I answer with a big, dumb, I dunno.
So she starts to comb out all the dead fur thats matted up on Abigail's back and rear. She's got the cat's head in what I can only describe as a nylon cat noose attached to a metal rod that's mounted on the edge of this table, and this nylon deal is NOT long enough to reach the floor. So when Abigail makes a break for it, all I see is my grandmother's cat hanging by her neck from this thing, and my stupid ass trying to save it, all the while getting the shit scratched out of me. Needless to say, this gave me the willpower to hold on to the cat REAL tight.
Sometime later, she finishes combing out all the dead fur, and it looks like a whole other cat's worth of fur was just pulled out with this magical comb. For a minute my dad started comforting a dead pile of fur before I told him that wasn't Abigail. (Yeah, the devil inside told me to just let him be, but I cant let him lose his sanity yet.)
So we take the cat over to the bathtub, and I ask the groomer, You got it from here? She replies, Well I may need you to hold onto her while I wash her down. I'm thinking, this bitch better give us a discount or something, making ME do an assistant's job...
We wash her down. Soap up with this HORRIBLE smelling stuff, lather her up, then rinse her off, all the while MY job was to keep rubbing her ears to keep her calm. (The cat, not the groomer.) We get her rinsed and the groomer finally takes over complete control and picks this monster of a cat up in a towel to dry her off. I step back to take a look at myself, and there I am: drenched up to the chest in cat-bath water, fur ALL OVER my arms, chest, face, and neck, cat piss all over my lap, I'm sweating my ass off from holding down this animal in a bathtub filling with hot water, it was horrible. I smelled like Steven Tyler after rough sex with an unshaven Lady Gaga. It was THAT bad.
The groomer sets the cat down and pulls out this nozzle attached to what appears to be a mounted vacuum cleaner, and proceeds to dry her off with the hot hair emitting from the nozzle. Of course my job is to hold the cat down again (you know by now the cat has not only figured out all of my physical restraining techniques, but is also tired of having them practiced on her and is figuring out ways to defeat me at this.)
I load the cat up after all is done, I have the wonderful task of HOLDING the cat ALL the way back home (at least SHE doesn't smell like her own piss), and have never been more glad to set a cat down on the kitchen floor in my life.
Did I mention the cat pissed all over me on the ride there?
My grandma's cat, Abigail, is huge. Like 35 pounds or something huge. And as a fat animal, she cannot for the life of her reach certain places to clean herself, including but not limited to her lower back by the base of her tail. When cats cant clean themselves, their fur gets all matted up, causing the skin underneath to hold in dirt and flake like no other. Oh yeah, and she stank something fierce.
The time came that she NEEDED to be taken to a groomer. So my wonderful father volunteered me to grab the cat (always fun) and WRAP her in a towel (also fun), then CARRY her down to the CAR and HOLD ON to her the entire ride there.
After much fuss and a few back claws in my shirt, i got her situated on my lap and tried my damndest to reassure her and keep her calm. Remember, I'm the evil monster holding her in there, I gotta do something so that she doesnt eat me or my appendages.
Finally we get to the groomer. My dad tells me to HOLD ON and WAIT inside this car with a cat wrapped in a towel who suspiciously smells like urine. So I wait. And wait. 15 minutes goes by, I'm still waiting. The car is getting hotter, cat fur sticking to me, I'm sweaty, cat's panting, and the overwhelming aroma of urine. Just about 20 minutes rolls by, I suddenly become a genius and roll down the damn window, allowing sweet fresh air to waft into my miserable sinuses and cool my drenched, fur matted face and arms. The cat takes this oppurtunity to try and JUMP out the window. I'm a pretty strong guy, but man was it a fight to keep her in the vehicle.
Eventually my dad comes out and tells me to bring her inside. Somehow I manage to get out of the car keeping the cat burrito intact (concerned over those devilish back claws) and bring her into the groomer, a small old lady with gray spaghetti hair. I set the cat down and the groomer asks me, So what are we doing today, just a bath? I'm thinking, what the hell was Dad doing here the last half hour? Playing parcheezy? So I answer with a big, dumb, I dunno.
So she starts to comb out all the dead fur thats matted up on Abigail's back and rear. She's got the cat's head in what I can only describe as a nylon cat noose attached to a metal rod that's mounted on the edge of this table, and this nylon deal is NOT long enough to reach the floor. So when Abigail makes a break for it, all I see is my grandmother's cat hanging by her neck from this thing, and my stupid ass trying to save it, all the while getting the shit scratched out of me. Needless to say, this gave me the willpower to hold on to the cat REAL tight.
Sometime later, she finishes combing out all the dead fur, and it looks like a whole other cat's worth of fur was just pulled out with this magical comb. For a minute my dad started comforting a dead pile of fur before I told him that wasn't Abigail. (Yeah, the devil inside told me to just let him be, but I cant let him lose his sanity yet.)
So we take the cat over to the bathtub, and I ask the groomer, You got it from here? She replies, Well I may need you to hold onto her while I wash her down. I'm thinking, this bitch better give us a discount or something, making ME do an assistant's job...
We wash her down. Soap up with this HORRIBLE smelling stuff, lather her up, then rinse her off, all the while MY job was to keep rubbing her ears to keep her calm. (The cat, not the groomer.) We get her rinsed and the groomer finally takes over complete control and picks this monster of a cat up in a towel to dry her off. I step back to take a look at myself, and there I am: drenched up to the chest in cat-bath water, fur ALL OVER my arms, chest, face, and neck, cat piss all over my lap, I'm sweating my ass off from holding down this animal in a bathtub filling with hot water, it was horrible. I smelled like Steven Tyler after rough sex with an unshaven Lady Gaga. It was THAT bad.
The groomer sets the cat down and pulls out this nozzle attached to what appears to be a mounted vacuum cleaner, and proceeds to dry her off with the hot hair emitting from the nozzle. Of course my job is to hold the cat down again (you know by now the cat has not only figured out all of my physical restraining techniques, but is also tired of having them practiced on her and is figuring out ways to defeat me at this.)
I load the cat up after all is done, I have the wonderful task of HOLDING the cat ALL the way back home (at least SHE doesn't smell like her own piss), and have never been more glad to set a cat down on the kitchen floor in my life.
Did I mention the cat pissed all over me on the ride there?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
This Little Piggy Had Half a Roast Beast
Doritos and Mountain Dew rule.
So I made a whole seperate email account for YouTube cause my current one is having problems, and I decide to use Yahoo for it because, well, I like Yahoo. Unfortunately, YouTube likes Google mail. I have a Gmail account, but I hate it. Gmail is slow, annoying, spam friendly, and overall a peice of shit. Go figure, my blog is on a Google website. So I make the email account, set up my new YouTube account, see a funny video, decide to blog about it, go to www.chrisbowlin.blogspot.com, and guess what? It says my blog has been DELETED!!! NOOOOOOOOO! I panic, I hit the roof, I shit my pants. Well, I didn't actually shit my pants, but I sure did get really mad. So I go to sign into Google, it gives me 3 different codes to enter (to make sure I'm not a robot) and I finally realize that all my precious work has not gone anywhere. Phew! That was scary. I decide to turn my adult filter on to my other blog Teh Rabbit cause, quite frankly, I don't want anyone complaining about how raunch it is. I guess it is pretty bad, I was in fact RETARDEDLY fucked up when I wrote all of it, but that was a whole lifetime ago. It still makes for an interesting read though.
Anyhoo, happy that my blog is still okay, I forgot about the video I was going to blog about so I go back to YouTube (the one that I just signed up under a Yahoo mail account), and guess what. I was automatically logged out. Could this be coincidence? I think not.
So I've come to the conclusion that Yahoo and Google hate each other, like a failed marriage and I'm the poor little kid stuck between the two and they're both giving me presents and making me feel all special but everytime I pay any attention to the other one they get all pissed off and make shit hard on me and make me feel like the asshole! You know, I live on the interwebs, but sometimes I just plain fuckin hate it.
I still forgot what video I was going to blog about and why it struck me so funny. Was it about gum? Or an end of the world prophecy? I don't know, somewhere in there.
Speaking of YouTube, I was walking down to Walmart and in the parking lot, apparently there had been a metal sign at some point that had been sawed off at the bottom, so this sharp point of the pole was poking out of the ground and looked invisible at first glance. How does something "look" invisible? The wonders never cease. Anyway, I tripped over this dickhead of scrap metal and stubbed my toe. I wear steel toed shoes, and I've always had faith that my feet were protected properly with the heavy shells covering my precious tosies. And the pain didn't hit all at once, it crept up on me, so about the time I was thanking myself for being so darn smart and safe, I slowly began to realize how oh so wrong I was to put such faith in a peice of metal. What I had actually done was, I trapped my innocent little piggies in a steel box with no escape. Then I took them on a joyride to Wally World, encouraging their devious little ways of spending money on things they don't really need (I bought Ben and Jerry's), and upon reaching said destination, I (unwittingly) slammed their tiny little cage against a protrusion about 3 inches tall (goddam gigantic for little bitty piggies) causing a rattling chain reaction throughout the death trap I've ensnared their delicate beings in, causing severe emotional harm and physical discomfort to all five of them and myself. My big toe got the brunt of the impact, digging my nail into my sensitive flesh, like my hangnails aren't bad enough as it is anyways, and now I walk like an Oompa Loompa. Thank you steel toed shoes! My toes won't be getting crushed anytime soon, but damn if they don't get stubbed before it's all over with.
Why are cats such snobs? Who's really in charge in that relaionship?
So I made a whole seperate email account for YouTube cause my current one is having problems, and I decide to use Yahoo for it because, well, I like Yahoo. Unfortunately, YouTube likes Google mail. I have a Gmail account, but I hate it. Gmail is slow, annoying, spam friendly, and overall a peice of shit. Go figure, my blog is on a Google website. So I make the email account, set up my new YouTube account, see a funny video, decide to blog about it, go to www.chrisbowlin.blogspot.com, and guess what? It says my blog has been DELETED!!! NOOOOOOOOO! I panic, I hit the roof, I shit my pants. Well, I didn't actually shit my pants, but I sure did get really mad. So I go to sign into Google, it gives me 3 different codes to enter (to make sure I'm not a robot) and I finally realize that all my precious work has not gone anywhere. Phew! That was scary. I decide to turn my adult filter on to my other blog Teh Rabbit cause, quite frankly, I don't want anyone complaining about how raunch it is. I guess it is pretty bad, I was in fact RETARDEDLY fucked up when I wrote all of it, but that was a whole lifetime ago. It still makes for an interesting read though.
Anyhoo, happy that my blog is still okay, I forgot about the video I was going to blog about so I go back to YouTube (the one that I just signed up under a Yahoo mail account), and guess what. I was automatically logged out. Could this be coincidence? I think not.
So I've come to the conclusion that Yahoo and Google hate each other, like a failed marriage and I'm the poor little kid stuck between the two and they're both giving me presents and making me feel all special but everytime I pay any attention to the other one they get all pissed off and make shit hard on me and make me feel like the asshole! You know, I live on the interwebs, but sometimes I just plain fuckin hate it.
I still forgot what video I was going to blog about and why it struck me so funny. Was it about gum? Or an end of the world prophecy? I don't know, somewhere in there.
Speaking of YouTube, I was walking down to Walmart and in the parking lot, apparently there had been a metal sign at some point that had been sawed off at the bottom, so this sharp point of the pole was poking out of the ground and looked invisible at first glance. How does something "look" invisible? The wonders never cease. Anyway, I tripped over this dickhead of scrap metal and stubbed my toe. I wear steel toed shoes, and I've always had faith that my feet were protected properly with the heavy shells covering my precious tosies. And the pain didn't hit all at once, it crept up on me, so about the time I was thanking myself for being so darn smart and safe, I slowly began to realize how oh so wrong I was to put such faith in a peice of metal. What I had actually done was, I trapped my innocent little piggies in a steel box with no escape. Then I took them on a joyride to Wally World, encouraging their devious little ways of spending money on things they don't really need (I bought Ben and Jerry's), and upon reaching said destination, I (unwittingly) slammed their tiny little cage against a protrusion about 3 inches tall (goddam gigantic for little bitty piggies) causing a rattling chain reaction throughout the death trap I've ensnared their delicate beings in, causing severe emotional harm and physical discomfort to all five of them and myself. My big toe got the brunt of the impact, digging my nail into my sensitive flesh, like my hangnails aren't bad enough as it is anyways, and now I walk like an Oompa Loompa. Thank you steel toed shoes! My toes won't be getting crushed anytime soon, but damn if they don't get stubbed before it's all over with.
Why are cats such snobs? Who's really in charge in that relaionship?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Damn British
So I was trollin Wikipedia looking for useless information to scratch that brain itch I occasionally get when I'm overly unemployed when I realized, What's up with TV anyways? I mean, I watch it all the time, have been my whole life, it's like an old friend, and yet I have no clue about its origins. Kinda like hanging out with a guy from middle school through college before you find out he's gay and all the signs have been in front of you the whole time, and now you realize why his mother's been so nice to you cause she thinks your his boyfriend and his father beats him regularly for being a damn pansy, so his mother encourages him hanging out with you cause you live in a nice home and he can go there and be safe and have sleep overs, like the time he started whispering a lullaby in your ear while you were going to sleep and it kinda freaked you out a little but you were like, Ah, that's just Joe being his weird old self, and then it turns out he's a fruitcake.
Okay, maybe it's not like that at all. But stay with me:
The original concept of television was the telephonoscope, made by science fiction writers, such as Frenchman Albert Robida, after the telephone was invented. The idea was to send light over the telephone lines to form moving pictures. This is illustrated in an 1890 book called "Le Vingtième siècle. La vie électrique" (The Twentieth Century: The Electrical Life). Balderdash, you may say, but that's why it was science fiction- the concept of TV was up there with space aliens and generic macaroni and cheese. Bollocks!
The first tangible form of television was the pantelegraph, used from 1881 onward. Using a mechanical pendulum operated scanning device, it was the first to venture into sending visual images via telegraph lines using electrical pulses. Then, in 1884, some cool ass dude named Paul Gottlieb Nipkow from Germany integrated a scanning disc into the pantelegraph. The scanning disc is a round cardboard deal with holes punched equally apart in a spiral which allowed light to pass through. As it spun, the wholes formed seperate lines on the screen. The telegraph signal would block certain wholes at certain times, all coordinated with the image it was scanning at the other end of the feed, and an image would roughly appear on the receiving screen. This was still impractical until amplifier tubes were better developed. Then my boy John Baird came along and fucked shit up for good. He revolutionized the concept and expanded it's range to up to 30 lines of resolution, crystal clear as far as they were concerned. Not only that, but he invented a way to record these visual signals onto wax discs using audio recording methods.
Now, since John Baird was Scottish, the British Broadcasting Company reluctantly took on his invention and marketed it. It was a hit until a digital device, which used cathode ray tubes, was invented that eventually replaced Baird's mechanical one, and that's what we've used since until recent technologies changed even that.
Did you hear that? The British lay claim to inventing modern TV. Fantastic, next thing you know they'll claim they created punk rock and colonized America before Americans did! Bollocks!!
How come PeptoBismol tastes like pink?
I hate using the downstairs bathroom. The fuckin toilet sits like 3 feet off the ground, when I sit down my feet dangle off the edge. All I need is my big Curious George book, and the man in the yellow hat will take it from there.
And it smells like old people.
Okay, maybe it's not like that at all. But stay with me:
The original concept of television was the telephonoscope, made by science fiction writers, such as Frenchman Albert Robida, after the telephone was invented. The idea was to send light over the telephone lines to form moving pictures. This is illustrated in an 1890 book called "Le Vingtième siècle. La vie électrique" (The Twentieth Century: The Electrical Life). Balderdash, you may say, but that's why it was science fiction- the concept of TV was up there with space aliens and generic macaroni and cheese. Bollocks!
The first tangible form of television was the pantelegraph, used from 1881 onward. Using a mechanical pendulum operated scanning device, it was the first to venture into sending visual images via telegraph lines using electrical pulses. Then, in 1884, some cool ass dude named Paul Gottlieb Nipkow from Germany integrated a scanning disc into the pantelegraph. The scanning disc is a round cardboard deal with holes punched equally apart in a spiral which allowed light to pass through. As it spun, the wholes formed seperate lines on the screen. The telegraph signal would block certain wholes at certain times, all coordinated with the image it was scanning at the other end of the feed, and an image would roughly appear on the receiving screen. This was still impractical until amplifier tubes were better developed. Then my boy John Baird came along and fucked shit up for good. He revolutionized the concept and expanded it's range to up to 30 lines of resolution, crystal clear as far as they were concerned. Not only that, but he invented a way to record these visual signals onto wax discs using audio recording methods.
Now, since John Baird was Scottish, the British Broadcasting Company reluctantly took on his invention and marketed it. It was a hit until a digital device, which used cathode ray tubes, was invented that eventually replaced Baird's mechanical one, and that's what we've used since until recent technologies changed even that.
Did you hear that? The British lay claim to inventing modern TV. Fantastic, next thing you know they'll claim they created punk rock and colonized America before Americans did! Bollocks!!
How come PeptoBismol tastes like pink?
I hate using the downstairs bathroom. The fuckin toilet sits like 3 feet off the ground, when I sit down my feet dangle off the edge. All I need is my big Curious George book, and the man in the yellow hat will take it from there.
And it smells like old people.
Ghost of Christmas Naked
I don't understand it. I just don't understand it. How do these people get so fucking popular? I'm talking of course about people on the interwebs. Have you seen the Numa Numa kid? More than 100 MILLION hits!!! All he did was record himself dancing and lip syncing to some weird Norweigen song. granted, he looked pretty silly doing it, he's a made man now. Is that all you gotta do? Act like a total ass on a webcam and let people laugh at you? Where is the justification? Well, when I think about it, a couple million bucks you could do whatever you want to me. Whoa, slow down there perv, I didn't mean like that.
Anyhoo, so I can't sleep tonight, which sucks cause I have a major teleconference in the morning. I'm not even kidding about that. I'm not trying to sound all super important, Oh look at me, big business guy making important phone calls, go do this, go do that... No, I'm contacting some super duper people in hopes of finally attaining work. The market sucks for unskilled peoples such as myself, so I have to do whatever I can to survive. Aren't we all though?
I had a Vanilla Coke today, which took me back to when I was 16 and living in a small town called Breckenridge, TX. The new flavor of Coke just came out, and my brother and I were so stoked to try it, we had to walk about 2 miles to the only store that sold it . It was hot as a mofo, but boy when we got those flavorful sodas in our hands, ice cold and sweet... Those were some good times, when life was simpler. And I think about this.
I found my old blog from my MySpace account, which I no longer use because MySpace is slow and unsafe. So I copied and pasted all of the entries worth reading into a new blog that you can access on my blogspot profile called Teh Rabbit's Blog. Pretty crazy shit if you ask me. I don't remember writing most of it, so I assume no real responsibility. If you find yourself offended, email me a complaint, and I will respond with a PDF of the American Constitution.
Have you ever used a really cheap laundry detergent that literally burned all the hairs off of your ankles and the tops of your feet?
There's a ghost that lives in my bathroom. No shit, sometimes when I'm sitting on the can, the cat (who lives in the bathroom, I guess) tracks something that isn't there. It's crazy. There's some kind of presence, but it doesn't seem ominous, just...there. We think it's a residual ghost, like someone died in the bathroom and they weren't sure where to go afterwards, so they hang around and do the same shit everyday. We don't even think it's aware of us, and if it is, it doesn't bother us. I feel sorry for it, it saw all of us naked.
Anyhoo, so I can't sleep tonight, which sucks cause I have a major teleconference in the morning. I'm not even kidding about that. I'm not trying to sound all super important, Oh look at me, big business guy making important phone calls, go do this, go do that... No, I'm contacting some super duper people in hopes of finally attaining work. The market sucks for unskilled peoples such as myself, so I have to do whatever I can to survive. Aren't we all though?
I had a Vanilla Coke today, which took me back to when I was 16 and living in a small town called Breckenridge, TX. The new flavor of Coke just came out, and my brother and I were so stoked to try it, we had to walk about 2 miles to the only store that sold it . It was hot as a mofo, but boy when we got those flavorful sodas in our hands, ice cold and sweet... Those were some good times, when life was simpler. And I think about this.
I found my old blog from my MySpace account, which I no longer use because MySpace is slow and unsafe. So I copied and pasted all of the entries worth reading into a new blog that you can access on my blogspot profile called Teh Rabbit's Blog. Pretty crazy shit if you ask me. I don't remember writing most of it, so I assume no real responsibility. If you find yourself offended, email me a complaint, and I will respond with a PDF of the American Constitution.
Have you ever used a really cheap laundry detergent that literally burned all the hairs off of your ankles and the tops of your feet?
There's a ghost that lives in my bathroom. No shit, sometimes when I'm sitting on the can, the cat (who lives in the bathroom, I guess) tracks something that isn't there. It's crazy. There's some kind of presence, but it doesn't seem ominous, just...there. We think it's a residual ghost, like someone died in the bathroom and they weren't sure where to go afterwards, so they hang around and do the same shit everyday. We don't even think it's aware of us, and if it is, it doesn't bother us. I feel sorry for it, it saw all of us naked.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
PoopSpace
I was walking my Dad's dog the other day and this thought came across my mind: Dogs have been socially networking for centuries right under our noses. Kind of a strange thought, you may conclude, but check this out: You know when you're walking your dog and he seems to be just aimlessly sniffing around for the "perfect" place to pee or poop? You may often get frustruated at your dog for being so damn picky. What's actually taking place is your dog trolling the interweb of pooches, or as I like to call PoopSpace. I would've said ShitBook, but let's keep it professional, people!
See, whenever a dog peese, he marks his territory to let other dogs know, Hey this is mine! When another dog comes along and smells it, he thinks, Aw hell nah, and leaves a comment of his own.
Make sense?
So what about poop, you may ask. Well, what about it? Everybody poops, get over it. Pooping is awesome and it's good for you. When ever a dog comes upon another dog's poop, it's the same as reading another person's blog: It's boring and it stinks, but you either pass over it briefly or get stuck on it and can't stop till you end up dropping a load off of your own somewhere.
My Dad has a female dog (please get your bitch jokes out of the way here), and sometimes when she smells a male dog's urine, she has the overwhelming temptation to roll on that spot, which we highly discourage. What she's doing is adding a friend. You may not realize it when you see it, but it's for real. By rolling around on that spot, she takes some of the scent with her to enjoy for later, at the same time leaving a little behind for him whenever he comes back next, thus making a common meeting point for each other to come back to.
As you can see, dogs really are the superior species. Seeing as how I couldn't possibly poop on a street corner without being self concious (at least while sober) or roll around in someone else's pee for fun (at least while not shrooming), that definitley puts dogs above myself in the awesome gravy train.
Side thoughts: Have you ever been to a Mexican barrio in Southern California? The laundry mats are fuckin poppin on the weekends! Whole families gather together with their BBQ grills and cervezas and just rock the block of its socks! I've never seen so many people excited about doing the laundry, to me it's just another mundane task to accomplish every week. Those guys know how to live!
Whoever invented trash bags is a genius. Making money off a product whose sole purpose is to throw it away again. And we NEED those things! Wish I was around back then to cash in on that deal.
You know what stinks? Dirty people on the bus.
--ChrisBowlin
See, whenever a dog peese, he marks his territory to let other dogs know, Hey this is mine! When another dog comes along and smells it, he thinks, Aw hell nah, and leaves a comment of his own.
Make sense?
So what about poop, you may ask. Well, what about it? Everybody poops, get over it. Pooping is awesome and it's good for you. When ever a dog comes upon another dog's poop, it's the same as reading another person's blog: It's boring and it stinks, but you either pass over it briefly or get stuck on it and can't stop till you end up dropping a load off of your own somewhere.
My Dad has a female dog (please get your bitch jokes out of the way here), and sometimes when she smells a male dog's urine, she has the overwhelming temptation to roll on that spot, which we highly discourage. What she's doing is adding a friend. You may not realize it when you see it, but it's for real. By rolling around on that spot, she takes some of the scent with her to enjoy for later, at the same time leaving a little behind for him whenever he comes back next, thus making a common meeting point for each other to come back to.
As you can see, dogs really are the superior species. Seeing as how I couldn't possibly poop on a street corner without being self concious (at least while sober) or roll around in someone else's pee for fun (at least while not shrooming), that definitley puts dogs above myself in the awesome gravy train.
Side thoughts: Have you ever been to a Mexican barrio in Southern California? The laundry mats are fuckin poppin on the weekends! Whole families gather together with their BBQ grills and cervezas and just rock the block of its socks! I've never seen so many people excited about doing the laundry, to me it's just another mundane task to accomplish every week. Those guys know how to live!
Whoever invented trash bags is a genius. Making money off a product whose sole purpose is to throw it away again. And we NEED those things! Wish I was around back then to cash in on that deal.
You know what stinks? Dirty people on the bus.
--ChrisBowlin
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