King of the Dinosaurs

A frequent commenter on my blogs who shall remain nameless (Rahel Sewell) suggested in a sideways fashion that I recount how I became King of the Dinosaurs.

She said, and I quote “You should totally find a way to use that. XD”

So I did.

In truth, the story is not that grand. I realized that there was no current King of the Dinosaurs and basically nominated myself to the position. As there were no objections, I took the crown for my own.

And wore it, as one does.

That’s really it. My kingdom is small, to say the least, as most of my people are entombed under hundreds of tons of rock and the rest are standing very still in archaeological exhibits. I tried to free some of them by walking into the local museum and announcing in a firm, loud voice “Curator! Let my people go!”

Things went downhill from there. After being released from jail, I was told in no uncertain terms not to return to the museum. This makes the third museum I’ve been barred from in the state of Oregon, which might be a record.

Anyway, being a ruler without any subjects is rather boring. I can make all the decrees I want, but with no one to force them upon, I might as well be some nutcase in a tin-foil crown.

NOTE: It’s a Burger King crown. They usually don’t give them to adults, but I cried.

So, I’m now trying to create a new race of dinosaurs. I’ve heard that birds are descendents of dinosaurs, so I’m trying to cross-breed one with an iguana.  Neither seemed particularly interested. I even tried to get them excited by googling ‘dinosaur porn’ and showing it to them.

DO NOT DO THIS!  Seriously. You've been warned.

After abandoning the chicken/iguana thing, I’ve now devoted my time to trying to explain to the alligators at the zoo that as their sovereign lord, they should do my bidding. The results have been mixed. They’re pretty good at ‘stay’ and ‘eat stuff,’ but they seemed confused by ‘annihilate my enemies.’

And their trigger discipline sucks.

Yet, I will continue to try and build a mighty dinosaur army. If you hear reports of T-Rex’s taking over Oregon, rest assured that I was successful.

Cheers,

-Jason

A Frightening Thought

I gave blood last weekend and it was the usual cavalcade of tears, hyperventilating, shrieking, and hysterics that the good people of the Lane Blood Center put up with every time I appear. I even get the ‘special room’ all to myself. This is a private, but small suite that a more suspicious person might think was an empty closet.

I however, am not that suspicious. Or smart.

So, as I finally got situated with the needle in my arm leading to the standard five-gallon bucket, the attending phlebotomist double-checked everything, making sure the straps were tight enough and all that, then she said the words.

 “Thank you,” she said. “You’re helping to save lives.”

NOTE: I got ‘phlebotomist’ right on the first try. Go me!

Now, this might seem strange to you, but it had never really occurred to me that my blood would actually go into another person. It was, as the title suggests, a frightening thought.

I mean, I’m a fort-mumble-something hairy white guy with delusions of fighting ninjas who is inordinately pleased when he can spell ‘phlebotomist’ right on the first try. Should they really be distributing my blood willy-nilly throughout the land like Halloween candy? I mean, if Halloween was all the time and not just once a year. Otherwise the analogy would just be dumb.

Er.

Anyway, if you think you might actually have some of my blood in you, here are some pointers to help you through the experience.

• Don’t panic. Panic leads to fear. Fear leads to something else (I can’t remember).  Just don’t panic.
• The hair growth is permanent, but if you can find a good electrologist (nope, had to look that one up), it can be checked.
• If you start talking to yourself, just get a Bluetooth ear-thingy. People will assume you’re on the phone.
• You will crave 3-Musketeers bars and Coca-Cola. This is okay in moderation.
• If you encounter a ninja, it’s okay to punch them. Seriously.
• If you are a ninja and are alone, immediately remove any weapons you might have on your person. You don’t want to inflict a fatal injury on yourself. If there are other ninjas around, feel free to punch them (tell them its training).
• Lastly, immediately invest in a large quantity of industrial strength deodorant.

And just so we’re clear, I’m not responsible for anything that might happen while my blood is coursing through your veins. This is not because I’m mean, it’s because I can barely take care of myself, much less someone else.

Cheers,

-Jason

Adult-ish

I had an epiphany the other day, a startling moment of clarity that laid bare the secrets of the cosmos, like a giant, space turkey on Thanksgiving Day. A turkey made out of knowledge with the stuffing of wisdom and mashed potatoes of . . . uh . . . smartness.

Yet, before I could write it all down, I promptly forgot. And in all honesty, my handwriting is terrible, so even if I could have written it down, I probably wouldn’t be able to read it later.

‘And the secret of life is . . . ques . . . wait, is that an ‘s?’ Squash? The secret of life is squash? But there’s a ‘t’ in there. I think.’

So, yes. Mostly useless.

Anyway, my other, smaller epiphany was that I might, in fact, be an adult.

I’m not sure why this suddenly occurred to me. It might have been when our newest dev came into the office and I thought it was ‘bring your kid’ to work day. I almost asked him if he was looking for his dad. Seriously, he’s just out of college and he looks 12. I have dice that are older than him.

It then occurred to me that I might be an actual, honest-to-god old per- adult. I quickly made a list of the adult things that I do.

• I live on my own and pay my own bills. The Spiderman checks are optional, but well worth it.
• I can feed myself. Yes, a bowl of Captain Crunch counts, though my mother might object.
• I have an interest in politics and have strong opinions that I will share on the subject. Hint: they’re all wankers.
• I (begrudgingly) pay my taxes.
• I buy my own groceries (see the Captain Crunch above), do my own laundry, and clean (more or less) on my own.
• I own a fully-paid for vehicle that people keep insisting on rear-ending (five times and I was not moving any of those times).
• I go to the dentist of my own free will.
• Sometimes, things hurt for no apparent reason.
• I complain bitterly about the youth of today and their terrible music.
• The girl at the Baja Fresh calls me ‘sir.’
• When purchasing a product, I compare and contrast it with others of a like nature and then make a rationale and informed decision. Meaning I buy the blue one.
• When I quote ‘Airplane’ at work, only 4 or so people get it and it was made before two of them were born.

So, yeah. I think I might be an adult. Though, I did shout ‘Damn you, Red Skull!’ when reading a comic the other day.

Let’s just call it ‘adult-ish.’

Cheers,

-Jason

Credenza

I have a splitting headache. It’s not a migraine. Those have very specific symptoms for me (light sensitivity, head pain, the tendency to speak in a bad German accent). My head just . . .hurts.

Supposedly, there’s medicine one takes for headaches, but I don’t actually know what it is. I have some random stuff in the medicine cabinet, which I stuck up my nose, but that doesn’t appear to have done anything. I have heard that caffeine helps with a headache, so I drank a six-pack of Coke. My headache is still there, but now I’m very, very awake.

And I have to pee.

The odd thing about this headache, though, is that it’s not centered on my forehead as usual, but rather near the top my skull, at roughly 4 o’clock (assuming my nose is 12). Also, when I put my hand there, I can’t help but notice there’s an odd protrusion, like the head of a 16-penny sinker nail (they’re about 3.5 inches long, FYI), a type often used in framing houses.

This is odd because it feels like it’s been there a long time, but I don’t recall ever noticing it before. One would think that one would notice such a thing, but I am amazingly clueless, as regular readers can attest.

I did try to remove it with a claw hammer, but now I can’t remember the word for the thing that you get in to go to work. I think it’s ‘credenza,’ but that’s probably not right. Credenza’s are a type of shoe

 I think.

Anyway, I may actually go to the doctor-place and have someone look at it.

Assuming I can remember how to make the credenza go.

Cheers,

-Jason

NOTE: I’m kidding. I don’t have a nail in my head and I know what a car is. Occasionally, I do a blog like this and I get an email from a friend asking if I’m actually okay. Yes. I have friends. So, just to forestall any concern: no, I don’t have a nail in my head. I do have rocks in there, but that’s a different story.