I’ve been told that I’m a procrastinator. I would take time to refute this lie, but I’m presently trying to meet a deadline for a writing project, so I’ll have to get back to you about the matter… maybe next week.
In fact, I’m quite the opposite of a procrastinator, and though I don’t know what the opposite of procrastinate is, I will almost certainly look it up sometime.
I have always exhibited a sense of urgency in everything that I do, and I can prove it.
For example, as I’ve been working on my project I’ve noticed that one of my fingernails is getting annoyingly long, which for me is about 1/1024th of an inch. Not being one to dawdle, I stop what I’m doing to attend the problem.
As I proactively snatch the fingernail clippers from my desk drawer, I notice the business card of a man that I’m supposed to call about my furnace. Not wanting to delay the call for another moment I immediately place the call and am told by his wife that he passed away two years ago.
I turn back to my work, a little bothered by the fact that this man had assured me that he would take a look at my furnace as soon as I gave him a call. As I study the three lines that I’ve already written I feel an internal gnawing that reminds me it’s time for lunch.
Wishing to be punctual, as usual, for the little meal that I know my wife is preparing, I promptly move to the kitchen—once I've determined that my help isn't needed.
After lunch, it is straight back to the desk to finish my project. I make some changes to those three lines that I’ve completed, and contemplate where next to take the writing when I realize that I forgot to help my wife with the dishes from lunch. I drop everything and return to the kitchen just as she is drying the last fork.
While in the kitchen it seems to me that the clock must be running slow, so I decide, without delay, to set the clock to the correct time and synchronize the other clocks in the house, as well.
Then, it is straight back to the desk to put my shoulder to the wheel and finish my task.
Arriving at my desk I again notice the time, and the late hour, (it’s already 1 pm!). Always one to do my best to maintain a strict schedule, I waste not a moment as I move to the couch for my nap.
I awaken before I’m fully rested, but there’s work to be done and I’m not one to dilly-dally. As the hour is growing extremely late (it is now 3 pm) I decide the wisest choice would be to adjourn for the day, to start again tomorrow, when I'm refreshed.
Later, when I consider making a list of things that I must do tomorrow, I will place the writing project at the top of my list.
How dare anyone suggest that I’m a procrastinator!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
R.A. Berklesteenk 1964 - 2009
Ranald Armand Berklesteenk lived life in incredibly average fashion. Arriving in this world three weeks late, Ranald never quite managed to catch up. His parents, Opal and Emily, wanted nothing but the best for their child. Due to the teasing that Ranald’s father, Emily, had endured throughout his life, it had been intended that Ranald would have a common name. However, Opal’s poor penmanship caused an error to be entered on Ranald’s birth certificate, and the name stuck.
Ranald’s formative years were spent in an unmemorable part of the Midwest, where Ranald continues to be largely unremembered by classmates and teachers. Having graduated from high school without honors, Ranald went on to earn a degree in dance from Central State Mail Order College where he graduated magna cum mediocris.
Ranald served our country, without distinction, as a Canuck Specialist in the United States Coast Guard, where his primary responsibility was to patrol the waters of Lake Erie for Canadian boat people attempting to make illegal entry into the United States.
Ranald was employed by the Columbus Washboard Company, which has enjoyed a recent surge in business as a result of people’s need to pinch pennies in these difficult economic times. There, after 23 years on the job, Ranald had risen to the position of washboard tuner.
Ranald leaves behind his wife of 45 years—a fact that, perhaps, is the most interesting in Ranald’s life, since he met his end at 45 years of age.
Ranald also leaves behind 2.3 children, two of whom are grown and now enjoy their own obscurity. The remaining child is expected to continue to live with his mother, as it has been suggested that he isn’t all there.
Ranald’s death came as no great surprise to those in the community; since no one here has heard of him, or the news of his passing. A memorial fund was to be established in Ranald’s name, but was quickly forgotten.
Services were attended and interment completed by cemetery staff at Our Lady of Perpetual Gloom.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Weathermen
From urbandictionary.com:
dope slap – A light “whapp” to the back of the head, done with an open palm in an upward motion. The physical equivalent to the phrase, “Whatta you… a moron?!”
Have you dope slapped a weatherman today? Actually, you’re probably too late. Today is National Dope Slap a Weatherman Day—and they all know it.
By now, they’ve sequestered themselves within the secure confines of their respective studios—the studios being secured as a result of the prognosticators having the foresight to include such protection in their contracts. They knew that this day would come. One forecast they got right!
I can just imagine them there, cloistered together and peering at the building’s security monitors while lamenting the day when then-president G.W.Bush signed the legislation that officially proclaimed this national day of public revenge. I believe the president called it “revengification.”
I don’t see how the weathermen can blame us, really. They’ve worked the whole year to mess up our plans and otherwise provoke, taunt, and annoy.
In its simplest form, their subversive tactics are evident whenever you try to catch the weather report while you’re driving. The weather looks iffy, so you turn on the radio and listen intently as you wait to finalize some plan that is dependent on the weather.
You listen first to the traffic reporter, who gives a run down of every fender bender, tire change, and pedestrian strike in the city. This, too, is important, and you note that one of the pedestrian strikes lies ahead on your present route. As you contemplate exactly where the jaywalker lies, why this miscreant picked today to inconvenience you, and how you might maneuver to avoid the nuisance, you hear… “And that’s today’s forecast!” Just like that, the weathermen sneak it in so you can’t hold them to their prediction when it later proves to be wrong.
The weathermen on the television news are every bit as devious. First they give us all the information about record averages, and such, with a near endless dissection of every weather-minute from the past 24 hours—this accompanied by a good deal of excitedly pointing to their “weather radar” and the various (meaningless) colors and fabricated images that sweep across its screen.
Next, you can expect to see a minute-by-minute computer model of conjecture on what to expect for the next several hours—again presented in incomprehensible colors that, along with their time-stamps, flash by quickly enough to qualify as a subliminal message.
Finally, when you’ve been completely stupefied by the glut of information, mesmerized by the ambiguous radar images, and lulled into a semi-conscious dreamlike haze, up flashes the five day forecast (the information you’ve foolishly waited so long to see). This appears just long enough to snap you out of your weather-coma to realize you’ve missed the forecast—again.
So, for this year you’ve missed your chance at a weatherman. My suggestion is you start making plans to get a shot at one next year.
Perhaps it will give you some comfort to know that Ear-Flick a Sportscaster Day is next month. Get up early, but be careful—the sportscasters are much more aggressive than the weathermen, and they might flick back!
dope slap – A light “whapp” to the back of the head, done with an open palm in an upward motion. The physical equivalent to the phrase, “Whatta you… a moron?!”
Have you dope slapped a weatherman today? Actually, you’re probably too late. Today is National Dope Slap a Weatherman Day—and they all know it.
By now, they’ve sequestered themselves within the secure confines of their respective studios—the studios being secured as a result of the prognosticators having the foresight to include such protection in their contracts. They knew that this day would come. One forecast they got right!
I can just imagine them there, cloistered together and peering at the building’s security monitors while lamenting the day when then-president G.W.Bush signed the legislation that officially proclaimed this national day of public revenge. I believe the president called it “revengification.”
I don’t see how the weathermen can blame us, really. They’ve worked the whole year to mess up our plans and otherwise provoke, taunt, and annoy.
In its simplest form, their subversive tactics are evident whenever you try to catch the weather report while you’re driving. The weather looks iffy, so you turn on the radio and listen intently as you wait to finalize some plan that is dependent on the weather.
You listen first to the traffic reporter, who gives a run down of every fender bender, tire change, and pedestrian strike in the city. This, too, is important, and you note that one of the pedestrian strikes lies ahead on your present route. As you contemplate exactly where the jaywalker lies, why this miscreant picked today to inconvenience you, and how you might maneuver to avoid the nuisance, you hear… “And that’s today’s forecast!” Just like that, the weathermen sneak it in so you can’t hold them to their prediction when it later proves to be wrong.
The weathermen on the television news are every bit as devious. First they give us all the information about record averages, and such, with a near endless dissection of every weather-minute from the past 24 hours—this accompanied by a good deal of excitedly pointing to their “weather radar” and the various (meaningless) colors and fabricated images that sweep across its screen.
Next, you can expect to see a minute-by-minute computer model of conjecture on what to expect for the next several hours—again presented in incomprehensible colors that, along with their time-stamps, flash by quickly enough to qualify as a subliminal message.
Finally, when you’ve been completely stupefied by the glut of information, mesmerized by the ambiguous radar images, and lulled into a semi-conscious dreamlike haze, up flashes the five day forecast (the information you’ve foolishly waited so long to see). This appears just long enough to snap you out of your weather-coma to realize you’ve missed the forecast—again.
So, for this year you’ve missed your chance at a weatherman. My suggestion is you start making plans to get a shot at one next year.
Perhaps it will give you some comfort to know that Ear-Flick a Sportscaster Day is next month. Get up early, but be careful—the sportscasters are much more aggressive than the weathermen, and they might flick back!
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
A Grimm Tale
Long ago, deep within a great and enchanted forest, there lived an ancient witch named Hazel. This is a story about a woodcutter who happened into Witch Hazel's forest. Though he never met the old hag, the woodcutter was nonetheless influenced by her conjury.
One day, setting out at an early hour and intent on enjoying a day of quiet toil, a woodcutter wandered into an enchanted forest, whereupon he immediately crossed paths with a giant. The giant, on an errand to gather goats for breakfast, shouted a hearty greeting to the woodcutter, “Good morning stick chopper!” But since the giant is not part of this story, the woodcutter ignored him and tramped on in silence.
Try to pay attention, won’t you?
At length, the woodcutter came to a stream. There, at the edge of the stream, he met a fringe tree and had a brief conversation with the tree as he rested in its shade. In the course of their exchange, the woodsman told the fringe tree of his plan to harvest wood in the still serenity of the forest. The fringe tree offered this warning:
"You’ll have no luck here, woodcutter—not one of these trees is of any use. The spruce is green with envy at the way the Austrian is pining for the fir. The fir, as you may have heard, has gone into hiding since he learned PETA is on another one of their anti-fur crusades. He’s not very bright.
"Of course, everyone knows that the maple is a sap, and the hickory is just nuts! The walnut isn’t the worst of the bunch, but she’s a bit squirrelly
"The dogwood has a nasty disposition, though his bark is worse than his bite. Then too, he has some reason to be upset because the larch is forever needling him.
"That sassafras has some mouth on her! Between her and the crabapple’s sniping, the willow can’t stop weeping.
"It’s plain to see that the bald cypress is past his prime, and the pawpaw is far too old for serious consideration—and cranky, too. He is annoyed by his grandchildren and their refusal to simply call him Grandpa.
"No one can understand a thing the Norway spruce is saying because of that ridiculous accent, though the English oak is just as bad, as far as I’m concerned.
"The cottonwood is a productive fellow but nothing can be weaved from his crop. And speaking of useless crops—everyone knows that a buckeye is nothing more than a worthless nut.
"The slippery elm is a shady character who has made the quaking aspen as nervous as a cat! The yellowwood would like to put a stop to it but he hasn’t the courage.
"The smoke tree has finally ruined his health, and the sycamore hasn’t been well in years."
“What about the tupelo?” the woodcutter asked, as he stood and picked up his ax.
The fringe tree was about to speak, but before she uttered a sound a loud whack resonated throughout the forest. The fringe tree fell silent and the woodcutter continued his journey, once again enjoying the tranquil quiet of the woods.
One day, setting out at an early hour and intent on enjoying a day of quiet toil, a woodcutter wandered into an enchanted forest, whereupon he immediately crossed paths with a giant. The giant, on an errand to gather goats for breakfast, shouted a hearty greeting to the woodcutter, “Good morning stick chopper!” But since the giant is not part of this story, the woodcutter ignored him and tramped on in silence.
Try to pay attention, won’t you?
At length, the woodcutter came to a stream. There, at the edge of the stream, he met a fringe tree and had a brief conversation with the tree as he rested in its shade. In the course of their exchange, the woodsman told the fringe tree of his plan to harvest wood in the still serenity of the forest. The fringe tree offered this warning:
"You’ll have no luck here, woodcutter—not one of these trees is of any use. The spruce is green with envy at the way the Austrian is pining for the fir. The fir, as you may have heard, has gone into hiding since he learned PETA is on another one of their anti-fur crusades. He’s not very bright.
"Of course, everyone knows that the maple is a sap, and the hickory is just nuts! The walnut isn’t the worst of the bunch, but she’s a bit squirrelly
"The dogwood has a nasty disposition, though his bark is worse than his bite. Then too, he has some reason to be upset because the larch is forever needling him.
"That sassafras has some mouth on her! Between her and the crabapple’s sniping, the willow can’t stop weeping.
"It’s plain to see that the bald cypress is past his prime, and the pawpaw is far too old for serious consideration—and cranky, too. He is annoyed by his grandchildren and their refusal to simply call him Grandpa.
"No one can understand a thing the Norway spruce is saying because of that ridiculous accent, though the English oak is just as bad, as far as I’m concerned.
"The cottonwood is a productive fellow but nothing can be weaved from his crop. And speaking of useless crops—everyone knows that a buckeye is nothing more than a worthless nut.
"The slippery elm is a shady character who has made the quaking aspen as nervous as a cat! The yellowwood would like to put a stop to it but he hasn’t the courage.
"The smoke tree has finally ruined his health, and the sycamore hasn’t been well in years."
“What about the tupelo?” the woodcutter asked, as he stood and picked up his ax.
The fringe tree was about to speak, but before she uttered a sound a loud whack resonated throughout the forest. The fringe tree fell silent and the woodcutter continued his journey, once again enjoying the tranquil quiet of the woods.
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