Maybe I'll get back into this writing thing. The past few years have been...interesting, to say the least. Good in some ways, bad in others.
I forgot I had a blog at all. I forgot I could write. I forgot a lot of things.
Hello, life.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The time is NOW.
...that's what my boss said to me a few days ago. I had a huge backlog of work piling up. I was supposed to be delegating work out, and working on my leadership instead of doing all the grunt work. But no matter how much I delegated, I kept getting more.
So I seized the day, and told everyone on my team to cease and desist IMMEDIATELY. And it worked, no one assigns me work anymore.
This brings me to my next point. The time is STILL now. The time to write is now.
I've just begun getting paid to blog. I'll have the link up here in the next day or two. It's a Seattle dating website, and I'll be blogging about places to go, things to do, and other assorted dating tips and such. It'll be a good time. So keep an eye out! This means I'm going to be blogging a lot more. There will be a link from my professional blog to this one.
That's all for now.
Oh. And my wife is hot. And no, she didn't pay me to write that.
So I seized the day, and told everyone on my team to cease and desist IMMEDIATELY. And it worked, no one assigns me work anymore.
This brings me to my next point. The time is STILL now. The time to write is now.
I've just begun getting paid to blog. I'll have the link up here in the next day or two. It's a Seattle dating website, and I'll be blogging about places to go, things to do, and other assorted dating tips and such. It'll be a good time. So keep an eye out! This means I'm going to be blogging a lot more. There will be a link from my professional blog to this one.
That's all for now.
Oh. And my wife is hot. And no, she didn't pay me to write that.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Boring-size
Dear Mars, Inc.,
Why would you want to point out the deficiencies in your current products by claiming your mini-packages of M&Ms and other candies come in “fun size” packages? I do not understand this. I am a regular consumer of M&M chocolate candies, and often purchase them from the vending machine at work. These are regular-size packages, and I have been happily eating them at work for years. But after eating several packages of “fun size” M&Ms on Halloween, I have noticed the packages I get at work do not claim to be “fun size.” Regular, large packages are never “fun size.”
Even if your full size packages are not fun, I do not appreciate you pointing out their boringness. I do not think I can ever eat a normal size package of M&Ms chocolate candies without wistfully longing for a package that promises “fun” while I eat them. I now think “boring size” every time I look at regular bags of M&Ms.
I have a suggestion on how you can rectify this terrible tragedy.
Microsoft recently came out with a new and cheaper version of their Xbox. This new version of the Xbox sucks really bad. It does not have a hard drive, does not have wireless controllers, and overall is way worse than the original Xbox. The new version costs $150 less than the regular Xbox that has all the amenities. You don’t see Microsoft calling the old Xbox “Awesome Xbox” because that would sadden owners of the new and sucky Xbox, because their Xbox sucks and is not awesome.
Thus, I strongly feel you should follow Microsoft’s example and call all of your M&M packages “fun size M&Ms.” Otherwise I will be sad every time I eat M&Ms that are not fun, because I will know just how inadequate my M&Ms really are. Thank you for your prompt action in this matter.
Sincerely,
Chris
Why would you want to point out the deficiencies in your current products by claiming your mini-packages of M&Ms and other candies come in “fun size” packages? I do not understand this. I am a regular consumer of M&M chocolate candies, and often purchase them from the vending machine at work. These are regular-size packages, and I have been happily eating them at work for years. But after eating several packages of “fun size” M&Ms on Halloween, I have noticed the packages I get at work do not claim to be “fun size.” Regular, large packages are never “fun size.”
Even if your full size packages are not fun, I do not appreciate you pointing out their boringness. I do not think I can ever eat a normal size package of M&Ms chocolate candies without wistfully longing for a package that promises “fun” while I eat them. I now think “boring size” every time I look at regular bags of M&Ms.
I have a suggestion on how you can rectify this terrible tragedy.
Microsoft recently came out with a new and cheaper version of their Xbox. This new version of the Xbox sucks really bad. It does not have a hard drive, does not have wireless controllers, and overall is way worse than the original Xbox. The new version costs $150 less than the regular Xbox that has all the amenities. You don’t see Microsoft calling the old Xbox “Awesome Xbox” because that would sadden owners of the new and sucky Xbox, because their Xbox sucks and is not awesome.
Thus, I strongly feel you should follow Microsoft’s example and call all of your M&M packages “fun size M&Ms.” Otherwise I will be sad every time I eat M&Ms that are not fun, because I will know just how inadequate my M&Ms really are. Thank you for your prompt action in this matter.
Sincerely,
Chris
Saturday, October 18, 2008
I do what I want!
In a man’s life, there are precious few moments when he is truly free. Our great nation may fight for freedom and democracy, fight to let us bear arms and speak freely, and we might fight to uphold our constitution (Patriot Act aside). But we are rarely free. In all honestly, when our founding fathers declared, “All men are created equal!” they weren’t talking about freedom at all. And they were only talking about men, not women.
Now don’t worry, women—before you rise up in arms against me, let me finish. Women are actually vastly superior to all men, and all men are created equal in our subordination to the women in our lives. Let me explain.
Every man has a mother. The most evil, cold-hearted, rough-and-tumble felons in the world have mothers. And when those felons were children, I guarantee that those mothers dominated those kids. A spoon-wielding, finger-waving, scolding mother will tame any future felon. From birth until age 17 (and usually well into adulthood) your mother has all the power. She can send you to your room. She can tell you to wash up before dinner. She can make you eat all your green beans, or heaven-help-her she will make you regret it.
This continues long past the point when we become physically larger than our mothers. The Mother Mystique is so powerful it will floor her NFL Linebacker son.
But ah, yes…at some point, the son moves out of the house and lives on his own. And then, then, begins the time when he begins to experience freedom. He stays up late! He eats waffles for dinner! He even gets a speeding ticket and can choose to pay it or ignore it as he so chooses! Indeed, in this world where anything can happen, the world is his oyster, and only time will tell if he devours it, hocks the pearl he finds within it, or does whatever his grand schemes lead him to do.
Alas… what’s this? Someone else has arrived. A stronger, more permeating force than either himself or his mother has seeped into his dwelling. This female has the same mystique that his mother had. Sly…convincing…powerful…this force is irresistible. His small window of self-governance has closed.
_________________________________________________________
“Don’t eat that Enchilada now—you’ll spoil your appetite.”
Her words ring in my ears as I stand in the kitchen, fridge open, saran-wrapped chicken enchilada sitting on the counter. “But I’m hungry!” I whine. “It looks so good!”
“Well, save it. If you eat it now, you won’t be hungry when we go to Travis’s and I make dinner.” Her response was simple, but powerful. And defeating.
I try to argue in my head. “But… it looks so good! I don’t care, I’m an adult! I can eat it if I want to. Who’s gonna stop me? I’m Chris! I’m a man! You can’t tell me what to do. I’ll eat what I want! I’ll be hungry later, too!”
But I’m just grasping at dust in the wind. Of the 6 billion people in the world, there are only 2 who could tell me not to eat that enchilada, and she is one of them. I sigh, and put the plate back in the fridge, muttering to myself about how independent and strong and great I am. The delicious enchilada will have to wait for another day…my wife has spoken, and she speaks wisely.
Now don’t worry, women—before you rise up in arms against me, let me finish. Women are actually vastly superior to all men, and all men are created equal in our subordination to the women in our lives. Let me explain.
Every man has a mother. The most evil, cold-hearted, rough-and-tumble felons in the world have mothers. And when those felons were children, I guarantee that those mothers dominated those kids. A spoon-wielding, finger-waving, scolding mother will tame any future felon. From birth until age 17 (and usually well into adulthood) your mother has all the power. She can send you to your room. She can tell you to wash up before dinner. She can make you eat all your green beans, or heaven-help-her she will make you regret it.
This continues long past the point when we become physically larger than our mothers. The Mother Mystique is so powerful it will floor her NFL Linebacker son.
But ah, yes…at some point, the son moves out of the house and lives on his own. And then, then, begins the time when he begins to experience freedom. He stays up late! He eats waffles for dinner! He even gets a speeding ticket and can choose to pay it or ignore it as he so chooses! Indeed, in this world where anything can happen, the world is his oyster, and only time will tell if he devours it, hocks the pearl he finds within it, or does whatever his grand schemes lead him to do.
Alas… what’s this? Someone else has arrived. A stronger, more permeating force than either himself or his mother has seeped into his dwelling. This female has the same mystique that his mother had. Sly…convincing…powerful…this force is irresistible. His small window of self-governance has closed.
_________________________________________________________
“Don’t eat that Enchilada now—you’ll spoil your appetite.”
Her words ring in my ears as I stand in the kitchen, fridge open, saran-wrapped chicken enchilada sitting on the counter. “But I’m hungry!” I whine. “It looks so good!”
“Well, save it. If you eat it now, you won’t be hungry when we go to Travis’s and I make dinner.” Her response was simple, but powerful. And defeating.
I try to argue in my head. “But… it looks so good! I don’t care, I’m an adult! I can eat it if I want to. Who’s gonna stop me? I’m Chris! I’m a man! You can’t tell me what to do. I’ll eat what I want! I’ll be hungry later, too!”
But I’m just grasping at dust in the wind. Of the 6 billion people in the world, there are only 2 who could tell me not to eat that enchilada, and she is one of them. I sigh, and put the plate back in the fridge, muttering to myself about how independent and strong and great I am. The delicious enchilada will have to wait for another day…my wife has spoken, and she speaks wisely.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Drill, baby drill!
Rudy Giulani leaned nonchalantly on the podium, one hand on his hip. A pleased smirk graced his lips as the crowd of cowboy-hat donning, overweight moguls continued to chant.
“Drill baby drill! Drill baby drill! Drill baby drill!”
Their mantra echoed throughout the stadium, the words drifting lazily up through an atmosphere made hazy by the fog of shared shortsightedness. A spattering of poorly made signs littered the audience, with phrases such as “F*@% ANWR!” And “WE HEART OIL!” proudly proclaiming their holders’ views.
Rudy was clearly pleased with himself. He continued to smirk, a small chuckle escaping his thin lips, the spotlights glinting off his crisp red tie. He raised his both his arms and tried to shush the crowd, but the audience refused to listen. After a few more moments, their cries of “Drill baby drill!” began to sound labored as their beer-bellies trembled under the exertion of raising their voice. The chanting gradually turned to muttering and heavy breathing, as Rudy began to speak again.
He waved an arm here, there, and mimed shooing the “elite liberal media” off the podium. He winked and pointed at a loyal supporter in the front row. He crooned and he cried out against the tyranny oppressing the billion-dollar corporations in America, he roared about the damned Islamic Terrorists that brought down his beloved towers 8 years earlier, and how victory against an unnamed “ENEMY” was nigh. He showered the GOP’s Vice Presidential nominee with accolades and praised the former Miss Congeniality for her skillful mayoring of Wasilla, AK and for fearlessly letting the Federal Government mobilize her state’s 4,200 national guard troops.
Camera crews panned the crowd, showcasing an audience filled with passionate conservatives pumping fists and snarling aloud their distaste for terrorists and elitists and fiscal irresponsibilitists. Yes, a few in the audience shot nervous glances to their neighbors after obvious falsehoods were spluttered by their fearless orator—Iraq was not responsible for the 9/11 attacks, the economy is not currently “prosperous,” and the VP nominee championed more flagrant pork-barrel spending for Alaskans instead of lobbying against it. And yes, in fact there were sections of conspicuously empty seating in the arena. But the cameras quickly moved away from the nervous fidgeters and cut away from the empty seats to return to the chanting masses.
Rudy gradually wound down his speech, emitting another chuckle as he placed both his hands on the podium and surveyed the crowd’s reaction. It was a good day, a proud day. And on this proud day, standing in front of a projected backdrop of the Twin Cities, the facts weren’t important. Not to Rudy, the sign-wavers, nor the cheering masses. What was important was that today, a dynamic new Vice Presidential candidate would be thrust onto the scene and welcomed with pumping fists, showers of campaign donations, and Google-searches for “hot sarah palin pageant photos.”
The best was yet to come. Rudy knew it, Sarah knew it, and the crowd knew it. And they were going to drill, baby, drill for 8 more years.
“Drill baby drill! Drill baby drill! Drill baby drill!”
Their mantra echoed throughout the stadium, the words drifting lazily up through an atmosphere made hazy by the fog of shared shortsightedness. A spattering of poorly made signs littered the audience, with phrases such as “F*@% ANWR!” And “WE HEART OIL!” proudly proclaiming their holders’ views.
Rudy was clearly pleased with himself. He continued to smirk, a small chuckle escaping his thin lips, the spotlights glinting off his crisp red tie. He raised his both his arms and tried to shush the crowd, but the audience refused to listen. After a few more moments, their cries of “Drill baby drill!” began to sound labored as their beer-bellies trembled under the exertion of raising their voice. The chanting gradually turned to muttering and heavy breathing, as Rudy began to speak again.
He waved an arm here, there, and mimed shooing the “elite liberal media” off the podium. He winked and pointed at a loyal supporter in the front row. He crooned and he cried out against the tyranny oppressing the billion-dollar corporations in America, he roared about the damned Islamic Terrorists that brought down his beloved towers 8 years earlier, and how victory against an unnamed “ENEMY” was nigh. He showered the GOP’s Vice Presidential nominee with accolades and praised the former Miss Congeniality for her skillful mayoring of Wasilla, AK and for fearlessly letting the Federal Government mobilize her state’s 4,200 national guard troops.
Camera crews panned the crowd, showcasing an audience filled with passionate conservatives pumping fists and snarling aloud their distaste for terrorists and elitists and fiscal irresponsibilitists. Yes, a few in the audience shot nervous glances to their neighbors after obvious falsehoods were spluttered by their fearless orator—Iraq was not responsible for the 9/11 attacks, the economy is not currently “prosperous,” and the VP nominee championed more flagrant pork-barrel spending for Alaskans instead of lobbying against it. And yes, in fact there were sections of conspicuously empty seating in the arena. But the cameras quickly moved away from the nervous fidgeters and cut away from the empty seats to return to the chanting masses.
Rudy gradually wound down his speech, emitting another chuckle as he placed both his hands on the podium and surveyed the crowd’s reaction. It was a good day, a proud day. And on this proud day, standing in front of a projected backdrop of the Twin Cities, the facts weren’t important. Not to Rudy, the sign-wavers, nor the cheering masses. What was important was that today, a dynamic new Vice Presidential candidate would be thrust onto the scene and welcomed with pumping fists, showers of campaign donations, and Google-searches for “hot sarah palin pageant photos.”
The best was yet to come. Rudy knew it, Sarah knew it, and the crowd knew it. And they were going to drill, baby, drill for 8 more years.
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