fyi

In person, Roger is an even bigger idiot. Out.

the caligula of blogging

I think if you post a lot in one day (which *ahem* I have today - at least for me), it should be called an orgy of posts or something similarly cool. I mean, I don't want to go to a party tonight and be like, "I had a lot of posts today." That's sounds totally lame and is not the least bit clever. They will wonder how many is "a lot" and what a blog is and what smells like vinegar. Whereas "orgy of posts" implies a whole lot of posts and maybe some of them are about sex. What better way to get people to read your blog?

There is no end to the fun a clumsy of dorks can have coming up with these things. A debacle of hyenas? A swoon of puppies? A barrel of monkeys?

Oh collective plural nouns, is there no end to your joy?

:(

It is with great sadness that I write this post today from my lonely cubicle. Why great sadness? Well, because I’m HERE for one, this the prime week for missing work. In addition, did you hear that Nick and Jessica split up? For serious . . . and it doesn’t sound like they're trying to make it work out. WTF NJ? I thought your love was true.

I’m also a little sad because I’m not feeling well. I think due to chronic coughing I’ve started expectorating actual pieces of lung. If it gets any worse, I might have to start retrieving (for potential reattachment) that which I expel. I’m a little sad because if we still had “sick days” proper (and not a common pool of vacation/sick/personal days) I would totally not be here and probably wouldn’t be awake (and therefore) hungover.

I’m sad that my cube neighbor is not yet here. Not because I miss him (though if he NEVER showed-up I’m sure I would). But because it’s omelet bar day. Sometimes when I’m sitting here on Friday wondering where he is, hungering for my omelet, I wonder, “Why? Why am I waiting?” Then I remember that omelet bar is like war and you can leave no man behind. You don’t want to wait in omelet line by yourself and have to endure Laughing Chef’s inaudible jokes without a wing man. You see, after he tells one of his inaudible jokes he starts laughing uncontrollably and you are therefore forced to laugh as well, wanting to avoid the awkwardness of not laughing and not wanting to interrupt his joy with the impertinence of, “WTF did you say?” Laughing Chef is the funniest person he knows. Laughing Chef is like the 4,529th funniest person I know. I only know like 4600 people.

I’m a little sad that whenever I send an email today I will be bombarded with out-of-office messages. How about a bombardment of hugs? Ever think about that? That would be much nicer.

I’m a little sad that I’ll have to eat all the candies and cookies on the community food cabinet. I won’t be sad at first, but gradually, after the guilt and fat sets in.

One thing I’m NOT sad about is that it’s Friday . . . woot! And that I have a three-day weekend . . . double woot! And that Saturday is New Year’s Eve . . . triple woot! And that Sunday morning will come down . . . quad woots! Oh wait, no, that might be a little rough, but at least it’ll be for a good cause.

Ok, I’m actually not sad at all. Since I have all you fine folks here. God bless and here's to 2006!

Happy Birthdays

To LeBron James (21) and Tiger Woods (30). I'm like 5000 points and four Masters behind these guys. Time to get cracking. Hey, free cookie!

I love you Netflix

You can just come right out and say the price is going up. I'm man enough to take it, with a slight misting of the eyes.



The price is the same, but I'm paying more, got it.

blog update

A buddy of mine, Brian, has agreed to spruce up the site a little bit. While I like the spartan layout, it does look like it was created by an eight year-old. I guess I could be some super-smart eight year-old and I sneeringly read your comments thinking, "I wrote this when I was four, simpleton." But unfortunately, I am not, eight years-old or super-smart. I'm just a guy with a dream of a better looking blog. I mean, doesn't it look like white threw up all over here? I know I don't have the skills to fix it though. The blog used to be all goth and when I changed it to white, theMonica and Alan (2/3rds of the blog's readership - yah 2/3rds, you can't spell proof-read without READ) both commented, revealing their approval. Or at least that's what I figured. But after that, lazy settled in and I haven't touched it since.

Enter knowledgeable friend. I told him I didn't want anything too crazy, maybe like a lazer light show and some dancing hamsters, just to give it a little more "pop" - but don't go overboard, just really a lot of stuff that blinks. He agrees. Oh and the best part is that he works for beer and wings. Shit, could you imagine a beer and wings based economy. I'd be fucking secretary of the treasury. Or secretary of the hot sauce or something.

Anyway, he's got access to be all up-in my blog and whatnot. So if the posts start getting way better and funnier, with better graphics where people's faces and thumbs have remotely the same skin tone, try not to to be too disappointed when it's me posting again. I mean, I've got feelings, you know?

off the hook

I am like the 87th least-decisive person in the world. Apparently the Norton people don't know this or they'd never give me this option:


None of you are involved in an elaborate plot to give me a computer virus right? If so, I've revealed too much.

orange you glad

Not since Joseph Mengele have such hideous experiments in science been conducted as those which routinely occur in the office refrigerator. Mold infestations are common, even encouraged by the vast amounts of perishable food left lying about, untouched for months at a time. Today I had a troubling encounter with carrot water. This is not to be confused with carrot juice, which is a real-life beverage. Rather, carrot water is the accumulation of condensation that tapes place during your regular refrigerating cycle. Normally, said process is short-circuited when the food is eaten or thrown out. Carrots are a highly-perishable food. They will not keep long. So, when I picked-up the bag containing carrots and saw the water-based mold which was infesting the carrot water, I had to wonder. "How could one so quickly forget about their bag of carrots?"

After some thought, I came up with the following thesis, which you are free to try and prove on your own: The probability of a person forgetting an item left in the refrigerator is directly proportional to the speed with which it rots.

Thesis notwithstanding, I had yet to solve my carrot problem. You see, the laws of the office refrigerator are vague. Who controls what? When is it safe to throw something out? Do initials in permanent marker on the packaging bear any significant weight? Are they to be respected? Generally my guidelines in these matters are based on two overarching factors: mold and stank. If a mold city is growing around a food item, threatening to infest the other, innocent, food items, I'm throwing it out. If I'm opening the refrigerator door and a waft of fresh stank penetrates my nostrils (and my sense of smell ain't all that), I will then attempt to identify the source of said stank and remove it post haste. Usually you can not find the source of the stank because at some point the mold becomes mobiles and develops a keen fungal intelligence of its own which beggars locating. But if I can find it, it's gone.

Carrots in hand and the mold now beginning to mock me, "You don't have the balls to throw me out. What if I'm your boss's carrots? You won't take that chance!" I delicately throw out the carrots, so as not to upset the sentient being inside. As an added bonus, it was by then time to go home.

All this thinking about the refrigerator reminded me I had cookie dough inside it. I had bought the dough so some co-worker's kid could learn how to read or something - the exact fundraising cause escaping me. I went inside the fridge, grabbed the plastic bag containing the box of cookie dough and noticed the bag had a watery film on it. Great. It smelled of vinegar. Double great. What could it be? What smells like vinegar? Well, vinegar for one. My feet for two. Basically any kind of spoiled juice can smell like vinegar. I threw the bag away and didn't notice any holes where the "vinegar" may have penetrated my cookie dough. You win this time refrigerator, but I'll be back.

i confess

Since I've been on SNL's case lately, here's something they did that I find funny! I can't remember where I saw it, but it's been all over and you've probably seen it already.

But if you can get it on the internet, why watch the show?

KONG!

It’s all fun and games until the giant ape wants some alone time.

I saw the King Kong movie with theMonica.

I can’t help but thinking that 20 years from now, the progeny of my blog and other blogs which like to take screencaps of bad special effects from old-time movies will have a field day with this flick. The technology is simply not yet capable of rendering some of the things they're trying to film. Admittedly, the close-up gorilla shots are impressive, but some of the action sequences left something to be desired.

Maybe it was just me, but Fay Wray and the King had an uncomfortable (for viewers) relationship. Sure, she should have sympathy for the guy, as he was captured and held captive against his will and he had those enormous, emotive brown eyes. And he did spare her life even though she was his sacrificial offering from the (very frightening) locals. And he did save her from a trio of angry dinosaurs and some ungodly large bats. But, praytell, what is her motive for climbing the Empire State building? You have to kill the humongous rampaging ape. Why become collateral damage? What was she trying to do? Have him imprisoned in Rikers Island and maybe released in 10 years on good behavior? Really? What about when he discovers conjugal visits? Ever think of that lady? Probably not.

All-in-all it was worth a watching, probably in the theater. It's three hours though. By the way, whatever happened to intermissions for very long movies? Back in olden times this was a common and welcome break, but that practice seems to have disappeared entirely.

Merry Christmas!

So, maybe it's a little late, but I gave you Santa Roger like a month ago and that should have been enough to let you know how much I care. Ok, I know I don't say it enough, but you KNOW how I feel. Can't you tell by the way I treat you? By the fact that I try to post as much as humanly possible (well, this human). By the fact that some of my posts are timed at 1 AM on school nights and I have a job to go to in the morning. Point taken. You're right. I'll try to be more considerate.

The very best to you and yours.

Except for the person who got to my blog by searching on "huge mommies who want to show off their bodies." Sadly, I was 93rd on that search result. I need to work on that. Somebody is desperate for huge mommies.

things to say

To your little sister when she's complaining about you embarrassing her in a not-very crowded theater. "We're blood. And there's nothing you can ever do about that." Use a southern accent for added effect.

together in perfect harmony

White socks and dress shoes are a recipe for the boss needing to discuss an important project with me. Some of you may talk to your boss all the time - me, not so much. But on the day I'm wearing white socks with dress shoes, she, of course, had "pressing business matters" to discuss with me. She had probably heard the snickering about my wearing white socks with dress shoes and wanted to get a closer look. Surely she has noticed my penchant for crossing my legs, ankle to knee, while discussing "pressing business matters" in her office. She is also likely to know that I lose focus occassionally and try as I might to try and remember NOT to reveal my white socks, I would slip up and publicly display my shame. And she could laugh heartily on the inside.

Unfortunately for you, I can not reveal the reason I was wearing white socks with dress shoes. Disclosing such information may implicate me in a separate criminal case. We must never speak of the bad thing again.

i ate the whole box . . .

In one night. And it was glorious!

if ever our paths shall meet . . .

Under no circumstances should you ask me for directions, seriously.

Some poor soul did last week. (I hope he's not reading this and finds out where I live and comes here to beat me senseless. Unless of course he asks me how to get here - sucker!) He asked me where the Halle Building was. Now, the Halle Building has/had a food court (most of the food court has been drywalled over for some mysterious reason) and I have been inside the Halle Building hundreds upon hundreds of times. I know how to get to the Halle Building. If you placed me in the middle of a forest, I would instinctively start walking towards the Halle Building in homing pigeon fashion.

This particular Thursday morning I had just parked my car and was looking through heavy snow down at the ground in an effort not to fall on my ass and possibly give me brain damage. Fine Gentleman comes up to me and asks politely, "Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to the Halle Building?" "Sure," I say, happy in the knowledge that I had taken Friday off and was well on my way toward weekend boozing. Then I started to think. Ok, Halle, Halle, that's the whitish one, you ate lunch there every day for a couple of years. It's on the Drew Carey show. Jesus, focus man, this guy definitely thinks you're running on brain stem power only at this point. Halle - right, right. I countiue, "You see such-and-such landmark right there? Well, it's the building right next door. Can't miss it." Fine Gentleman thanks me, clicks his heals, and heads off in the direction I had sent him. Good thing I hadn't dropped acid that morning or I would have had a hard time telling him the way.

I head in the opposite direction, towards my office and start thinking again. Wait, that doesn't seem right . . . OH SHIT. I just sent him to the Halle Building parking garage. Where is he? Oh, man, he's too far away to catch. Oh well. Granted, the parking garage is across the street from the building - across the street on the other side of the parking garage. For whatever reason whenever a stranger asks me directions, I always panic. I want to be a good ambassador for my city. I don't want to fuck up. But, I start talking, and while I send them towards the proper vicinity, I invariably leave out some minor detail like which way to turn at an intersection.

Here's to hoping he found a crackhead hobo to show him the proper way.

p.s. The bolded words denote possible excuses for my stupidity.

Holiday Buying Guide

It's time for my annual Holiday buying guide! Wherein, I suggest a number of great gifts that you can get your loved ones, because really, we all know you haven’t been paying attention to anything they’ve said they liked over the past year. You vaguely remember a trip to a store somewhere when they were like, "This is really cool, but kind of expensive." Uh-huh. Where and what, who knows? But they did have a sweet plasma tv on sale – you remember that, you selfish jerk.

With no more intro, here we go:

• Netflix. I have convinced about four people to take the plunge and join Netflix and NONE of them have attempted to murder me. If this isn’t the strongest endorsement possible, I don’t know what is. Seriously, you have doubted me for too long. Sign up . . . now . . . I’ll wait. Netflix is the gift that keeps on giving. Herpes is a gift that keeps on giving too, but it usually doesn’t make for a well-received Christmas gift.


• Trimspa, because really, we all know someone who could stand to lose a few pounds. And anytime you can tell someone that you think of them in the same light as Anna Nicole Smith, you're winning friends.


• Arch card – have you seen it? It’s like a freakin’ McDonalds' credit card. Put five bucks on one and give it to the same person you gave the Trimspa - just to ease the hurt a little.


• germ-X antibacterial hand sanitizer. Because the germs are everywhere and they can not be stopped. The germ-X stuff you can get at Wal-Mart in 55 gallon drums for 87 cents.


• DVR. Digital Video Recorder. Ok, this is like the sweetest thing ever. It’s all the convenience of a VCR with none of the inconvenience or clunky, self-contained reels of film. Despite how cool it is, the commercials for it are terrible. Like the one with the kid and he goes to ask his dad to read him a book and says, "Football again?" And then he starts playing with the pause button. They made that poor little kid look so effeminate. He wants to READ instead of watch football? "Daddy, turn it on Inside the Actors Studio! Nathan Lane is on today!" Yes, you can pause live tv and it is glorious. Generally, for sporting events, I don’t start watching until an hour in, thereby allowing me to fast forward through all commercials. Anyway, it’s amazing how spoiled you get by these features. When you’re away from your home tv and watching tv in the cave-like technological surroundings of a room without a DVR, you frequently catch yourself thinking, "What was that? Hey rewind it." Oh, right, no DVR . . . we might as well bash this table with rocks and grunt and spit at each other.


• Socks. You know how something sucks for a real long time and then makes a comeback and is really cool again, all the sudden (like 80’s clothes with the kids right now)? Well, I think that’s what’s about to happen with socks.


• Furbies. I recommend Furbies every year. You can not go wrong with Furbies.

Go forth and purchase. Only eight shopping days left.

Netflix: Greatest Show On Earth (1952)

Sometimes the great thing about old movies is not the well-developed storylines or the superior acting or the attention to detail. All these things are true, but often the best part about watching an old movie is the wicked-sweet special effects. I know what you're thinking, "But Roger, special effects are nowhere near as good in olden times as they are now." Well, you're right. For the most part, special effects now, used properly and in moderation, can be stunning. We are rapidly approaching the day when CGI will be indistinguishable from live-action footage.

Fifty years ago it was a different story. Miniatures ruled the day. And boy do we have some miniatures from this movie, The Greatest Show On Earth.

There's a huge circus train wreck. The guy in this car is trying to stop a train from running into another train further down the track.

Here he is, apparently waving to the crowd:


In the left frame, looks like he's in trouble. In the right frame, talk about thighs of steel, he's STILL sitting in the car! Maybe it's Jack La Lanne:


And finally, the train wreck in progress. As you'll notice by the bottom-right photo, no animals were harmed in the filming of this toy train wreck.


For my last Netflix post on Wimbledon, I borrowed the Netflix, 5 star rating system. Well, in Netflix, you're only able to specify whole stars and you can't give a movie a zero star rating. This is too limiting. So, I've devised the Star Search Movie Rating System, featuring Ed McMahon's White Thumb of Critical Justice.

Ed, the results please . . .

we need to talk

Why haven't I blogged in a day? Well, did you think that maybe after hand-crafting three quality (of varying degrees) posts on Monday that I could just sustain that kind of prolificacy ad infinitum (or nauseum depending on your perspective)? Well, I can't. After that third, painfully inciteful "thought," which apparently the genius of which eveyone read in a stunned silence, unable to comment, I collapsed to the floor, sweating, in a lifeless heap, so strained were my dozens of remaining crainial neurons. It was blogging OD.

And then I thought, where's the payoff? I take on so much stress and pressure. What's my angle? What am I getting out of this? Not much really, other than carpal tunnel . . . thanks. You know, this isn't working out for me. Maybe we should see other people.

Oh, you know I'm kidding. I'm totally hooked on this blogging thing. Look at all the fame and riches that are showering down on me! I've been busy, you know? Besides, if I were really going to break up with you, I would change me URL and not return any of your calls and kind of pretend like you didn't exist. Then like three months from now, I'd drunk dial you and tell you how much I missed you. By then you would be over me, but you would still have the capacity to pity me. You wouldn't be totally mean, letting me cry on the phone, but hanging up when I invite you back. I would act like I didn't remember making the call. Six months later I would write you a letter apologizing for what a jerk I was. You would read it and smile, wondering, "What did I ever see in that blog?"

So, let's forget about all that and stay friends, ok?

thought . . .

Ignorance is no crime, but indifference is a shame.

probably because she doesn't want to talk to you

I get this call from "Private Number," which is usually one of my buddies, so I answer.

me: Hello.
Lady: May I speak with Susie Whatshertree?
me: She doesn't live here anymore.
suspiciousLady: Really? When did she move out?
me-Biographer: Oh, I don't know 9 months ago.
testyLady: Oh, is that right? Well, she left this number with us a couple of weeks ago as a contact number.
meAnnoyed: Well, ok, but she lived beneath me in a double house and she's gone now.
startingToGetSarcasticLady: Is that so? Well, let me give you our number so she can call us. And this call may be monitored for quality assurance.
mePatient: But she doesn't live here.
angeredLady: Why would she give us this number if she couldn't be reached here?
meThinking: I don't know.
feelingSmartLady: Well, let me know when you get that pen so you can take down our number.
meFearfulofLady;GrabbingPen: Ok. [It now makes me laugh that I agreed here.] But I should tell you that I don't talk to her.
seethingLady: Uh-huh and what is your name?
meSuspiciousButWTF: Roger ____.
surrenderingLady: Well, thank you Roger for your time.

This explains why I sometimes get calls for Susie Whatshertree. Some of them sound important too. Why can't she give out a 216-KL5-FAKE number like the rest of us?

CSI: The Milky Way

I guess this was an alien investigation:


FYI1: I originally found this here. Sure, it's old news, but I was looking for something else and saw it.

FYI2: "investigated" is six letters longer than "probed".

first post

This is my new blog. It is going to rock! Hi Mom.

blog update

Now that my blog has been around the block a time or two (you know who you are), I find myself thinking of blog posts that I have already written or wondering if I've already written something while I'm writing it. I'm reasonable certain this is the first time I've written this. If I get really confused, there's always the google to tell me if I've already explored the eccentricities of Michael Jackson in a certain, newly subtle way.

Then I thought, "Why fight it?" Why not embrace my mental redundancies. So, the new plan is to start reposting my earliest posts and just keep recycling through the archives, in perpetuity. Because one, if I can't remember whether or not I've blogged something, it's highly unlikely anyone else will. And overall, the blog won't be any less entertaining. Just ask Garfield. He's been doing the same thing for like 20 years.

It's a Laugh

Everybody pick up their copy of The Essential Daryl Hall & John Oates yet? Well, when you do, you'll notice something that I have yet to see on a cd . . . an FBI Anti-Piracy Warning.

Last night, just to prove how fearless I am, I copied the CD. When the morning comes, the Hall & Oates Division of the FBI is knocking on my door with the intention of seizing my computer. They are a vigilant staff. Maneaters really. In this day and age, I guess you can't forget that private eyes are watching you. I was so close to getting out of it, but I made a few choice comments to the authories. Use your imagination. They then booked me and took me to jail.

My cellmate was named, Camellia, a surprising name for someone so large and formidable. Camellia seemed to grow kind of fond of me, but some things are better left unsaid. Fortunately, I was able to resist him despite his entreaties. He said, "I may be a family man, but your kiss is on my list." Whoah. I said, "I can't go for that; no can do." He seemed to understand. You may say it isn't so, but it is and boy was I scared. After posting bond, I was released and do I hope I don't get back together again with my old cellmate.

Now I'm home, somewhat out of touch. I know my absence has been tough, but I'm glad you all were able to wait for me. For the most part, I'm no worse for the wear - expect for my computer . . . she's gone.

caroling

Falling and hurting myself is very near and dear to my heart. You see, one of the first emails I sent to theMonica detailed how, whilst making the long trek from parking lot to office, I slipped in an icy alley and went crashing to my knees . . . really hard. However, hearing there was someone approaching me from behind, I didn't want to look hurt (ok, I did want this lady to see me crying) so I quickly jumped up and hobbled off as if no worse for the wear. theMonica's reply was, essentially, "ROTFLMAO!" Apparently this combination of clumsy hilarity was just the right mix to win her over. And the rest, as they say, is history.

In honor of the event and the icy alley season that is now upon us northern types, he is a couple of verses sung to the tune of "Deck the Halls":

Tis the season to be fallin'
whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch
Hardened asphalt comes a-callin'
whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch
Down we go our limbs asunder
whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch
Bodies hit, bones crack like thunder

Lot looks plowed this should be so nice
whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch
Here we go; Look out! It's black ice!
whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch
Bought new shoes but still I'm slippin'
whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch
Can't seem to miss my daily trippin'
whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch

whoah-a-whoah-a-whoah-a-ouch-ouch-ouch

Open Memo Department

TO: Dominion East Ohio Gas
RE: Natural Gas Prices

More of a question really . . . what's the lowest temperature I can keep my thermostat at before my mouse hand freezes and/or hypothermia sets in? Thanks.

apple and oranges

I use the iTunes.

I am listening to them right now. You would be hard-pressed to guess what. Real-life friend and commenter Alan (I'm convinced the majority of you are witty commenting bots; let's be honest, I'm entertaining like once every two weeks only robots can endure the interludes) can attest to the fact that I have decent taste in music - at least according to the two of us. But in matters of purchasing, I'm mostly old school. I like buying the album along with the art and hopefully the lyrics. I prefer it on wax cylinder, but with the exception of the Stones, you can't get those commercially anymore. As of yet, I haven't purchased a whole album on iTunes.

Naturally, you wonder, what do I purchase on the iTunes? Well, I used the iTunes for random songs. Stuff I find catchy, fun and otherwise lame. Stuff that I wouldn't want to put on display with the rest of my collection. How would the rest of the collection react? Surely not well. It would stare scornfully at the new stuff. "What are YOU doing here?" it would ask. No, my iTunes stuff shall remained locked inside my computer behind 128-bit encrypted password technology. These are songs that when I admit (to myself) that I like, I feel the white-hot burning shame of poor taste. It is bitter indeed.

Now you can see the appeal of iTunes to someone like me. I can anonymously buy all the cheesy music I want without the mocking sneers of human retailers.

Sing on Gordon Lightfoot, sing on.

deck the halls

So, what if my subject sucks? All right, new profile pic! These are exciting events, to be sure. Pilgrim Roger is being retired for the year. He and that turkey leg are the best of friends. I now give to you, Santa Roger:



'Tis the season, eh? I, for one, am done with my Christmas shopping, at least mentally. All that's left is traveling around (the internet) and forking over my cash . . . delightful! Have a Merry Christmas and all the rest!

dichotomy

The blank page - exciting, full of possibility, literally limitless in its capacity for containing creativity. Its only bounds are margins which conveniently wrap the manifold ideas spilling out onto the next line.

The blank page - cold, alone, desolate. The sheer whiteness staring back, mocking. Can I see my reflection weeping back at me?

meta-humor

Blog post "spoiler" alert! If you're going to read this, make sure you've read this first along with the comments.

+5 for Ky. Via the comments, Ky cleared up the fog I had created during my most recent post. That moves Ky into 5th place in my commenter rankings, but she hasn't been around for that long! Look out! I will never reveal the super-secret spreadsheet where I keep score. Anyway, I was going to comment in the comments, but then I thought I could pad it a little with tildes and printing control characters and make an entire post of it, so here goes. ~~~~™~~ÒÛ~~~~

The general confusion is understandable. I'll admit it's not the clearest of my work. It's sometimes tough to write for people whom you don't know personally, but you assume have senses of humor similar to yours. It is also demonstrative of a larger theory I have about humor. I've always thought that in comedy the "baser" the material, the more people you have the potential to appeal to. I've done a few open mic nights in my day. Rarely did the sets of my fellow performers extend beyond pot and sex jokes. Pot and sex are the two stock comedic topics that pretty much anyone can get a laugh out of. I mean, we've all laughed at pot and sex jokes and essentially all pot and sex jokes are the same; it's tough to fuck it up. I avoid these topics because I like the challenge of trying to make my Netflix account seem funny. It's not like I don't write about these things because of a lack of experience. I've bedded 33,000 women and I smoke 6 to 8 pounds of pot a week. But I like to leave the low-lying fruit on the tree. While the appreciation of such material may be widespread, there's no sense for the joke's recipient of being "in the know," of having that bit of cleverness that makes a joke really funny and sometimes memorable.

Sure anybody can get a huge belly laugh out of bathroom humor, but I go for the subtle, "golf laugh" if you will. Maybe no audible noise is made, instead a short snort and a nod of the head in approval. Is that a smile I see on the corners of your lips? That's sophisticated joke telling my friends (surely never confused with unfunny joke telling).

Yesterday I'm writing my post and I think to use the phrase "college try." And then I think, "Why don't I personalize it and make it Roger's college try?" I then write a short paragraph encapsulating my collegiate experience. Now I think, "Ok. Nobody's going to get this." So I add the bit about "I can't do that at this very minute . . . " and I still think, "Yah, no help there. Still gonna come up empty." Then I think I could add, "At least that's how I tried things in college." But, to be true to how I tried things in college would require me to put absolutely no effort into the thing I was trying; hence, no follow-up of any kind.
I posted fully knowing it was bound to perplex. Inside jokes don't imply inside "your own head." But then I thought if anybody does get it, they'll probably think it's really funny. I take that and combine it with everybody else thinking it's not funny at all and I end up with the exact same average "humor generated" of all of my posts - marginally clever! And that is what this blog is all about.

That is all. I promise not to explain any more of my jokes, no matter how crappy.