Honking at Other Cars

Hello again faithful readers. Its been awhile. How are you? We should totally meet up in the city sometime soon.

Ok, now that I've made you feel like Facebook friends from college I never really talk to, we can get down to business. In the last six months of not blogging, I've been doing a lot observing. Lets call it research for my blog. I've observed everything in my world: people, the media, food (lots of food), style and fashion, technology, government, and of course space (its huge!).
One of the most poignant parts of life I observed was transportation. In the last six months I've traveled by car, bicycle, train, plane, and hydrojet. All can be highly enjoyable, but since I travel so often, by now only the really bad experiences are memorable. When it comes to driving, even the bad experiences are becoming so commonplace that the details are starting to get fuzzy.

Now you may be wondering what I'm getting at here with all of this. Recently I've began to notice drivers exhibit some of the strangest behavior of all travelers. One behavior in particular is the act of honking at the cars in front of yours. I don't mean the car immediately in front of yours, but those two, three or four cars in front of you at a traffic light. I'm guilty of this myself.
To get to the bottom of this, I must deconstruct this behavior a little more. Let's start by setting the scene. You're driving anywhere, and you come to a red light and stop. In front of you are three other cars. You stare with judgment through the back window of the car directly in front of you. Perhaps you comment on the school they attended as proclaimed by their window decal. Perhaps you boil with inexplainable rage because they are displaying paraphernalia of the sports team that is the arch enemy of yours. Personally, I lean forward in my seat and try to lock eyes with the driver in their rear view mirror, giving them the "I'm watching you" look.
Suddenly, the light turns green and... nothing happens. The light has changed, but the line is not moving! The driver of the first or second car has failed to notice the only reason we are all stopped here at this time together is now gone. Perhaps they are looking at their cell phone, comforting a child that is vomiting uncontrollably, or desperately attempting to avoid spontaneous combustion. Whatever their reason may be, it is totally inexcusable. How dare they make you wait a few extra seconds just because they are trying with all their might to not explode? You may not even be in a hurry, but you'll be damned if you're going to sit here and stare at bumper stickers any longer. So then you do the only thing you can do, honk the horn.  Now, I know your intent is to alert the lazy/preoccupied driver three cars in front of you that the light has changed,but of course it does nothing of the sort. All it does is to alert the driver immediately in front of you that you don't like something. Most likely you'll get a strange hand gesture in return. And alas, there is no way to communicate to your fellow driver that you were actually talking to the other car. How awkward.
That is the worst part of this whole experience. The sound of a horn has no clear and particular meaning. Sure there are some ways to honk that have generally accepted meanings, but for the most part all horns sound the same. Its like when you hear two dogs barking at each other; the sounds seem similar to each other and you can only guess at their meanings. If aliens were observing our planet with no concept of our language, they would most likely think, "Awwwww! It sounds like their trying to communicate with each other. I don't have the foggiest notion of what their saying, but golly is it cute!"

In conclusion, it is practically pointless to honk at cars that aren't right in front of you. If the driver hears it at all, they certainly won't think it's directed at them. Why would anyone try to project their car horn any further? This vehicular ventriloquism is just silly and confusing. 

Another Great Idea

Hey there readers, its your old pal Tumbly here with another groundbreaking idea for the masses. One night while blogging I happened upon a product that just screamed for my help. It is called the Back Joy and you can see all about it right here. Basically, its a ergonomically designed seat cushion intended to properly align the back while seated so as to relieve back pain caused by misalignment. There are literally hundreds of similar products out there all claiming to be a miracle back saver. For some reason, I suddenly had taken a liking to the Backjoy and wanted to lend a hand with my marketing proficiency.
What the Backjoy needed to do was take their product to the next level. They needed to offer something that no other product offered. So I looked closely at the commercial. It seemed that the target audience was mainly made up of elderly gentlemen. They were shown having trouble standing up from a chair, getting in and out of vehicles, and experiencing general to severe discomfort throughout the day. The Backjoy seemed to fix all of that. So I began to think about what other situations the elderly may have trouble with. And then it dropped on me like a giant load of stinking..... genius.
Old folks have trouble with doing their business in the bathroom! Many can't even make it to the bathroom, and those who can often have trouble getting up from the toilet. The toilet is the one place you have to sit where the Backjoy just can't help you. To save them the embarrassment, some people of the geriatric persuasion turn to adult diapers for their incontinence needs. The most popular brand of these adult diapers is Depends, a leader in the diaper business. My plan is successfully combine Depends Adult Diapers with the Backjoy to create the ultimate in bathroom comfort: fix your back while you empty your bowels. No need to worry about not being able to get up from the toilet any more. Relieve yourself in comfort and style. Take your Backjoy with you wherever you go and never sit with pain again. Also on sale, specially made pants to hide the now rather impressive bulge on your backside!

Deep Fried Bundle of Joy

Readers, I've just had a brilliant idea! It will revolutionize the practice of bathing your baby. I just can't quite think of a name. Perhaps you can help me with it. But before I start going through the names that just didn't make the cut, first let me tell you what it is.
It all started with my girlfriend. She was bathing her nephew and began complaining that he was too heavy for her to lift out of the tub. Being of a scientific and silly mind, I began to envision ways to make this process easier. The first thing that came to mind was an elaborate and inconceivable system of pulleys attached to a hammock. This was like an Escher drawing in my head and really just turned the bathroom into a maze of ropes. I couldn't even see the baby in all of this. Not gonna happen.
The next idea was some sort of water slide that could work both for getting the baby into the bath and out. Getting him in was easy, just slide the little one down the ramp and into the waiting water. It was while getting him out that the ideas started to get weird. It just wouldn't do to try and pull the baby up the slide. Just imagine the squeaking sound as he went up. Hilarious. So then I started thinking about a motorized chair of sorts, kind of like old people use to get up and down the stairs. This was even more ridiculous. Think of how hard it would be to get a squirming and wet little baby into a seat that then moves up and down.
I realize that by now you must think that I am completely out of my mind. You're probably right, but it was in this moment of insanity that I was finally struck with a solution to the made up problem in my head. There was already a workable model for this! It was the one and only deep fryer. I'm talking about the kind the fast food restaurants use. Some call it the Fryalator. Many customers call it the Gateway to Heaven. I call it inspiration.
Here is what I came up with. The baby goes into a padded wire basket, just like the frozen french fries at your favorite fast food joint. You then lower the basket into the warm water and turn on the jets (bubbles optional). Its like an assisted jacuzzi for your infant!
I was reveling at the genius of the idea when it started getting weird again. I mean REALLY weird. If you cannot handle this level of weird, I suggest you stop reading now.
So here's where the strangeness went: If you were to add just a few drops of bronzer into the bathwater, you'll know the bath is over when your baby reaches a nice golden brown. When he's all done, sprinkle some crystallized talcum powder (looks like salt) and wrap him in a special towel (sold separately) that looks just like the fries container from Burger King. Then you can dress him up in a nice jumper that looks just like a Burger King employee uniform. And you thought I was crazy before. 

Driving a Windowless Van

I recently got a job, sort of. I won't go into too many details, mostly for indemnification purposes, but also because I don't want to be spotted in public. It is a sales jobs. A travelling sales job. The kind where a sales team travels to another state, sets up in the middle of a shopping mall, and pitches their wares to the unsuspecting passerby.

For my "training weekend" I was taken to New Hampshire. I think. The mall we were at was so close to the Massachusetts border, that I honestly had no idea what state we were in at any given time. Our motel was literally on the border street. It was so close that I nearly went insane from hearing all the locals say things like "that's wicked cool!" or "lets go get some chowda." It was nauseating.
Anyway, my part in this weekend was to sit and observe the sales team as they did they're thing. They were all dressed alike in khaki shirts, cargo pants, and beige Timberland style boots. There they were, all holding their product, reciting a pre-written script; the same script that I was now attempting to memorize. That was my mission for this weekend. Read the script and try to learn it before you begin work. The only thing was that the script was 14 pages long and sounded as if it was written by a drunken 6-year old doing a book report. There were grammatical errors, odd pauses and spacing, and made up words. Reading it made me feel stupid. Yet these young men were standing in a large crowd of mall shoppers acting like this is the way they normally talked! This of course was met with a great deal of skepticism and amusement.
Nonetheless, I gave my best effort to this endeavor. I read the damn script. I agonized over the damned script. I mentally edited the script in my head. I cursed whoever had come up with the script both in my head and out loud. But I still tried to memorize it and as a testament to my determination, I was able to get the first four pages word for word by the end of the weekend.

I realize that while this might be an enthralling story in itself, you probably don't want to read about my trials and successes with the script. The real story happened that Sunday. During the middle of the day, the team leader, a tall blonde haired, blue eyed Captain America looking man, called me over and said he had a special mission for me. Apparently, the team was selling so much that they had almost run out of product at their booth and they needed me, the intrepid trainee, to go and pick up some more from the hotel.
Now, I am not one to shy away from a task that is asked of me. No matter how large or small, I am always ready to lend a helping hand. But this task gave me pause.
The reason why I hesitated in accepting this mission was because the only way for me to get back to the hotel was to drive "the van". The van was an old Ford Econoline that was painted the same white color as all of the other big commercial vans. It was windowless, the same type favored by immigrant smugglers and child abductors. It got approximately 7 miles to the gallon, an homage to the late nineties when gas was cheaper than milk. To help with that, the van was also attached to a 12-foot-long trailer. The trailer was full of all the other supplies that went with the show, but not the products themselves. I had never driven anything like this before in my life. This is just the beginning of what I was faced with. To compound the situation, my mission was to take place at 4PM on Sunday afternoon, the day before Valentine's Day. This was the absolute busiest hour of the whole weekend. The parking lot was completely packed. To top it all off, everywhere I looked there was a six-foot-tall pile of snow. Perfect.
In spite of all the challenges that faced me, I was determined to make the mission a success. So I bundled up in all of the winter accouterments that I could gather and sauntered out to the parking lot. Through a sheer power of will, I managed to pull the van out of the parking space without hitting anything. After entering the address for the Motel 6 where we were staying, I cautiously edged my way into street traffic. Where, of course, I was confronted immediately by a heavy traffic jam.
This brought on simultaneous feelings of panic and relief. I was concerned that I wouldn't get to the products back to the mall in time and also overjoyed that I wouldn't have to maneuver this trailer into speedy traffic. Both feelings were momentarily forgotten when I spied the license plate of the pickup truck in front of me. It read simply, "GUTBMBI". This scared the hair right off my back. It also made me feel calm because I now had even more motivation to not get in an accident. I knew that if I did, there would be no exchange of insurance information. Rather, I would be killed, quartered, and strapped to the hood of a truck.
So I drove carefully, following the nice British lady in the gps and keeping some nice distance between the van and the cars in front of me, feeling pretty good about myself. When I approached the motel, the gps told me it was on the right. so I got into the right lane, only to see the motel across the street- on the left. I felt so betrayed; the gps had lied to me! Now I had to find some way to turn around, but first I had to cross three lanes of traffic. I get over to the left lave at the next intersection only to find that a u-turn was illegal at this crossing. So I keep driving until I find one where I can do this. when I finally found one about a mile down the road, I waited for all the cars to pass. Then, with all of my courage, I attempted the worst turnaround of my life.
First, I didn't widen the radius enough, so I was unable to complete the turn due to the giant pile of snow in front of me. Next, I tried to reverse the van to make it into a three-point turn. This looked to be a good solution to my problem, The van moved backwards in the middle of the intersection until I heard a loud "Thump." Sheer panic ensued. I thought I had just gotten into an accident in a foreign state, driving a van that belongs to a company that I do not yet work for, with the potential of being stuffed and mounted on the wall of a New Hampshire hunting lodge. This was not a good day. After saying some prayers, I cautiously opened the door and stepped out, nervously ready to face the oncoming redneck mob that no doubt awaited me. Instead I saw that my fear was misplaced. All that had happened was that the van had backed up into the trailer and bumped it into an almost jackknife position. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I climbed back into the van and tried a few more unsuccessful times to complete the turn. It didn't work
My next move was to turn the whole contraption into the apartment complex that was facing me. So in I drove. The idea was to find a parking lot with enough space for me to turn around in. Unfortunately, due to the snow, such a place did not exist. My only move however, was to pull into the first lot that looked to have that much room and give it my best shot. It took me about 15 minutes of careful driving and reversing to turn that thing around, but I finally accomplished it by driving the whole thing over a low snow bank. It must have been quite a sight for any residents of the apartment complex watching from their windows. Oh me.
Once I was turned around, I was able to make it to the motel and retrieve the product and drive back to the mall. There was only one problem, my parking spot was gone. Like I mentioned earlier, Sunday afternoon was the busiest time of the whole weekend and so there was no space to be had to a large van and it's unwieldy trailer. As I drove around, I was now just plain annoyed with this whole mission that I had been sent on. This is not the kind of ordeal you put a trainee through. Thinking about my other possible employment leads (of which there were none) I spied a small side parking lot that looked like it may have some space for little old me and my trailer of doom. Not thinking straight at all, I drove straight through the single entry point into the lot and was directly struck with the realization that not only was there no space for me, but there was also no other way for me to get out. Simply reversing the trailer proved to be an insufficient method. Driving further into the lot, while it sounded like a stupid idea, was my only option. So drive I did, and with all the practice I had just recently acquired, I was once again able to turn the trailer around and get my ass out of there. This time it only took me 10 minutes.
Fed up with this whole mess, I parked the van and trailer in the service lot, loaded the products onto a hand cart and brought them into the mall where upon delivery, I nearly threw the van keys at the team leader, told him where the van was parked, and promptly bought my self an Auntie Anne's pretzel. Fin.

My Dream Job

So while walking through the mall today I inadvertently ran into my ideal occupation. My job should be to EAT ALL THE FOOD IN THE MALL.

It all started with the popcorn. While hurrying to the restroom on an urgent mission, I was nearly floored by the sweet aroma of buttery kernels exploding in superheated air. My mission nearly forgotten, I had to pause and gaze into the classic old time popping machine at the golden nuggets of happiness that lay just beyond my grasp. As I contemplated buying a box or bag or bushel or metric ton of joy from the wizened old man behind the counter (who to me looked to like Sir Ian McKellen with a shining halo circling his head), I was suddenly reminded of my now very urgent mission to the restroom. But I really wanted the popcorn! As the battle of wills raged between my taste buds and GI tract a light sheen of sweat began to break out on my forehead. My brain had no choice but to step in and scold the rest of my body.
I reminded my tongue that food would not be possible while I was still at work.  This was only a short break, more suited to a powerbar or fruit snack. Popcorn just would not do. If I was to buy a whole bag, not only would I not be able to finish it by the time it got cold, but I would most likely have to share it with my co-workers. That was certainly not going to happen.

So onward I went to successfully complete my mission. Yet all through the strenuous journey I kept thinking about how good I would be at EATING ALL THE FOOD IN THE MALL. I began to ponder the massive variety of vitals available at the mall. Cinnabon, Subway, Auntie Anne's, Orange Julius, Sbarro, and The Cookie Shop- just to name a few. To me they are all palaces of wonder and serendipity. And rest assured my good readers, I can eat all of their food. The saintly grandfather selling popcorn would have died of a heart attack from watching me inhale his entire supply of popcorn, candy and nuts. The Cinnabon would have imploded after I decimated their shelves and ovens, then licked the walls clean of the sugar that inevitably accumulated there over the years. Subway would have nothing left to serve except for meat and mayonnaise after I move myself down their assembly line stuffing food into my face while wearing clear plastic gloves. Auntie Anne's would have to apply for welfare after I ravaged all of her pretzels and dipping sauces and then impregnated her behind the store. I think you get the idea. I like the food at the mall. I want to eat it.

Alas, this is not my job. Perhaps someday fair readers, I shall use this medium to explain to you all what it is I do during my lucid hours, but not today. For now, if you want to know what I do, we can perhaps discuss it over a hot pretzel or maybe a cool smoothie. 

It's a Real Blog!

Readers, I have had a revelation. If this blog is going to go anywhere, I'm going to have to step up my game. From hence forth, I will be publishing a new post to this blog every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. You may think I'm crazy, and you are entitled to your opinion. However, this means that you voluntarily read the blatherings of a crazy man. The problem here, my friend, lies with you.

Be that as it may, I find it hard to describe my reasons for deciding to write a regular blog. What I shall do instead is write a list of possible reasons from which you, my faithful readers, may choose the ones that tickle your fancy.

Reasons For Writing A Blog Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday:


1) I am hoping somebody will start paying me for this.
2) My fans have been scratching and clawing for me to put up new posts. (yes, some of my fans are cats)
3) I am the six-fingered man, and this blog is the only thing keeping the Spaniard at bay.
4) In life, regularity is a good thing, and I'm hoping that having a regular blog will help encourage other aspects of my life to follow a more regular schedule.
5) Monday, Wednesday and Friday are all days that end in "y", which is also the first letter of "yes". Positive energy all around!
6) Every other day, Italian mobsters with no necks come by my house and demand payment in the form of a blog post. They say its for protection, but who are they protecting me from? Trolls?
7) Each time I post a blog, I am automatically granted an entry into the Gemini Croquet Contest to win an all inclusive luxury cruise aboard Flostan Paradise.
8) It helps me remember when I'm supposed to take my medication.
9) After every blog post, I pluck a hair from between my eyebrows. I'm hoping they'll be fully separated by beach season.
10) I want my mom to think I'm cool.
11) I've hired a dominatrix to whip me for 30 minutes straight each time I don't get a post in on time. For your sakes, let's hope I'm not into it.
12) The Governor of Pennsylvania has promised me that if I can keep this up for six months straight that he will put a live squirrel down his pants.

Well, there you have it folks. If you can glean my reasons from that puzzlebox of a list, then you've earned yourself a cookie. Remember to check back on Friday for another post. If not, I promise to post a live feed of my whipping on Saturday.

Slap Happier- The Sequel

Hi there. You might not remember me. I'm the guy who used to write a blog- you know, one of those things on the internet where people try to express themselves with some meaning. That was me. I even had a name. It was Tumbly, a name which not many people really understood (but which I thought it was rather clever). Not that it mattered; I only had a handful of readers. Sigh. This is what a blogger's pity party looks like.

Ok, now that we're done with that, you might be looking at the title of this posting and thinking to yourself, "Is he seriously writing another blog post on slapping?" Why yes I am faithful reader. It was way too much fun the first time around, and really, I have nothing interesting to talk about.

So on to the slapping. You may be wondering why there is no disclaimer at the top of this post like there was on the last one. The reason for that, dear friend, is that I shall not be talking about any controversial subjects tonight. Just plain old adults getting slapped because they deserved it. To you, oh intrepid internet surfing champion, sitting at your gilded computer with all of your web browsing trophies arranged in a nerdy pyramid behind you, videos of people getting slapped must be a commoners dish, best left to be devoured by the sheep-like masses and trolls. Nonetheless, I Tumbly, your humble bloggist, do hereby present you with my absolute favorite. Enjoy:
     (click on the image to see video)