Blender Redux

Is it just me, or does the answer "monkey in a blender" just lead to more questions?

In A Box

If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

In fact, in your case, I'd say that your best bet would be just not to say anything at all, period. Don't worry, though. There's good money to be had in the mime business. Hey, now you're in a box. Try to get out, little mime. Just you try.

Fun With Pouches

Do you know what happens when you try to cross a duck-billed platypus and a kangaroo?

(Pause for effect.)

Nothing but a couple of infuriated marsupials and severe internal bleeding. I would recommend just gluing a duckbill onto the kangaroo and calling it a day. I hope this teaches as all an important lesson: namely, that "The Infuriated Marsupials" would make an awesome band name. Probably a heavy metal klezmer band, or something.

(Oh, and yes, the band-name line was a shameless Dave Barry reference. Whatcha gonna do about it?)

Bending Space-Time

You know how people set their clocks fast on the theory that they'll be on time for classes and meetings? Well, I took that theory to its logical conclusion. To make a long story short, there's a rip in space-time in my closet, some guy with a ray gun is using my bathroom, and I think the apocalypse is next Tuesday.

Lemon Drops

If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops, wouldn't they end up taking someone's eye out? I mean have you seen the speeds a gumdrop can reach in freefall? And don't even ask about the lemon drops.

Now if all the raindrops were cow flops and pig slop, then...well, it wouldn't be much better. In fact, it would likely be worse. But I would laugh at the people outside. And that makes it all worth it.

Stanford Favorite & Damn Communist Space Dogs

I know, I know. A new post was long overdue. So sue me. Not for real.

I suppose I should break this into two posts, but I doubt that most people will realize that there are two new ones at once. So, first is this: My brother Noam is a grad student in English literature at Stanford University, and somehow, he finds me funny. So he showed a post or two to his friends out in Palo Alto, CA. He recently told me:

Noam:everyone i know loved the albert thing Noam: the english department at stanford university now acknowledges you as one of the funniest people they've ever read (These are direct quotes, with only his screenname changed to protect him from stalkers and the Mafia.)

So while I'm not sure what this says about the impending downfall of Western civilization, it does give me a huge ego trip. And when you come right down to it, that's what really matters, right?

And here's post number two: I would like to share a brief snippet of my oh-so-interesting life with you lesser mortals. I hope you can handle it. A couple nights ago, I was talking to my roommate Elie about, um, I actually think it was interior design. Anyway, the conversation went, more or less, like this:

ME: We should put up paper on the walls so we can write on them.

ELIE: No. It's a good idea in theory, but it won't work. Like Communism.

ME: Well, Communism had eighty years before it failed. Can't you give this a chance, too?

ELIE: Communism had eighty years, and look at what happened!

ME: What do you mean? They sent a dog into space. That's one less dog we have to worry about here.

ELIE: I don't like dogs either, but-

ME: Then again, if the space dogs come back and attack, it might be bad. So we aren't putting up the paper, then?

ELIE: Damn Communist space dogs.

Here's Staring At You, Kid

I've been told it's a good idea to look people in the eyes when speaking to them. Surprisingly, though, it's not a good idea to do so when not speaking to them, and when they're a stranger on the elevator. They call that creepy. Go figure.

Chaim

My friend Chaim "He's From Ohio" Schramm took issue with my inclusion of a link to Eliyahu's blog in my last post. I agree, Chaim. That was a severe oversight, and I am deeply sorry. I should be branded a miserable failure. In fact, this omission has me wracked with guilt, guilt that can only be purged through dreadful punishment. So, without futher ado, I present Chaim's accounts of his sad, pathetic life.

Motorcycles

You know how people always say "If my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a wagon?" (Trust me, it's a saying. There are other variations on it, but...yeah , I know. You don't care.)

Well, um, WHAT THE #$&% DOES THAT MEAN? If my grandmother had wheels (which she does not), she would not be a wagon. Maybe one of those once-trendy Razor scooters or something, but most definitely not a wagon.

Whoever came up with that saying should be shot.

Repeatedly.

Albert, you are my hero!

Hey there, to all those out in fan-land,

As many of you may know, I have a job. It's here in beautiful Norwalk (Motto: "Getting stuck on I-95 since 1847.") working at a company, which, for reasons that will soon become clear, shall remain nameless. It's convenient, since it's pretty close to Stamford (Motto: "Hey, at least we're not Norwalk.") Other than that, though, the job doesn't have much going for it. My local taskmasters call it an "internship", from the Latin roots int, meaning "a job," and ernship, meaning "in which you are given a series of mind-numbing tasks, each worse than the last, by cruel, heartless, and balding men, who likely had troubled childhoods and choose to take it out on you rather than on fellow motorists, the way any NORMAL person would, and you are paid next-to-nothing. And circus clowns regularly laugh at you." Believe me, there is nothing on God's green earth that is more humiliating than clowns laughing at you. Nothing. Except maybe turtleneck sweaters laughing at you. So, as the name implies, for my internship, I am paid a grand total of (drumroll please) ten dollars a day. Why do they pay us at all, you ask? Good question. I did some pondering, and came up with this: "Cornhusker's delight." Then I sobered up, and came up with the following scenario. Imagine a boardroom where executives are meeting:

[Note: all names have been changed (to Albert) to protect the guilty]

ALBERT: So, Albert, how's that unpaid internship project coming along? ALBERT: Just swimmingly, sir. (He holds up a report. In one of theose shiny covers that impress executive-type people so much.) ALBERT: Let me see that (Grabs the shiny report, a scans through it, stopping to admire each pie chart for at least 2 seconds. Murmurs to himself.) Hmmm...slavery...troubled childhoods...menial labor... clowns... turtlenecks. (Looks up.) I like it, Johnson. ALBERT: You're supposed to call me Albert in this story, sir. ALBERT: Oh, right. I like it, Albert. ALBERT: Thank you sir. ALBERT: But... ALBERT: But what sir? ALBERT: It's just not humiliating enough. What can we add? ALBERT: Monkeys, sir? ALBERT: How are monkeys going to help us? ALBERT: I don't know sir. I just like monkeys. ALBERT: (Leans back in his chair wistfully.) So do I, son. So do I. But that doesn't make them effective. ALBERT: (Forlorn.) No, I suppose not. ALBERT: (Jumps up from his seat.) I've got it! When you go to a restaurant and the waiter is bad, what do you do to REALLY let him know that you're upset? ALBERT: I rip out a few of his less vital internal organs with a fishhook, strap his ragged still-living body to the underside of my car, drive over really rocky terrain, then tie him to an anthill full of fire-ants to let them finish off the job, sir? ALBERT: No, I mean, what would I do to let him know that I'm angry. ALBERT: Oh, that's simple. You give him a penny as a tip. That way he knows that you haven't forgotten a tip, but that he isn't worth more than a cent. ALBERT: Exactly. Let's give these snot-nosed college interns just enough money so that they know we have calculated their value to us at lower than minimum wage. ALBERT: Brilliant, sir. Just brilliant. ALBERT: Thank you Johnson. ALBERT: Albert, sir. ALBERT: Whatever. (Pours himself a martini.)

So there you have it. I'll just let you ponder that one for a while.