Fine, you guys win. I will graciously lose this round of "The Quiet Game." I haven't been busy at all. There's just been absolutely nothing I've wanted to say. Why do people talk so much? Can't we just sit here quietly and still be comfortable with eachother? Well then, I will talk and you just sit there and listen.
Some kids play video games but this is how my wife discovered our son the other day. She just walked in the room and there he was... attaining enlightenment. I should teach him the family chant: O'whatanassIam. He's probably sitting there with his thoughts about how if he can't have an opposable toe then he should at least be able to have a spur on his heel like an emu (like he complained to me the other day). Or he's thinking about how Santa jipped him out of that parachute and hang-glider that he specifically asked for on two separate Christmas lists.
I finally went snowboarding on the big boy slopes on Friday. It was frostbite temperatures with scattered tree stumps and LOTS of rocks but everyone seems to have agreed that it was the best day to be on the slopes this season. I also went on Snowbird's "Magic Carpet," a 600 ft treadmill through the peak to the backside trails. It's pretty much just what it sounds like. Coffee is available inside.
I came up with a million dollar idea while I was there:
You can usually tell who the poor people or college kids are at the ski resorts. They are the people who look like they got all of their gear at a yard sale. But people with money buy such high tech gadgets and pre-coordinated ensembles that they look like they are up on the slopes fighting crime or something.
I saw such a keenly-garbed warrior under the Baldy Express pressing his crotch against a pine tree. I knew what he was doing, he was peeing on that tree just like the scrappy poor people do. He tried to assure me that there was a terrorist chipmunk in that camouflaging conifer and that he was simply trying to "bring him down" but no... that scuba guy was peeing on that tree.
But the man is one of our affluent elite. He shouldn't have to tolerate me and my ah-ah-ah-ing as he pees into the watershed. He should be able to pee when and where he pleases.
My Invention: Snowpants with a built-in catheter. For the teenaged rebels, we can make a version with a flourescent green, external "bladder." It will look very high tech.
Here's another thing:
It's a nerd. It's so plain. It's.... my alter-ego, mild-mannered Emmett. Able to barf up an example of exemplary customer service in a single heave. All of his weaknesses still sound like strengths.
I got a hair cut to go to a job interview. Here is a picture of me even as I type this. In the middle of the night. After a long night of work. I wasn't staring at the floor to pose for the picture... that's just what I do while I'm awake in the wee hours, trying to stave off another day of awesome responsibility and lame errands. We're out of milk, again?
I feel like punching myself.
When I got to work, my boss freaked out. "Holy cow, Emmett! Your hair doesn't look like Lord Farquaad anymore!" And everybody and their dog always wants to know "Why? Why did you cut it?"
When my bosses asked me why, I said, "So you would give me a promotion." And somebody chimed in, "A haircut won't get you that. You're supposed to bring knee pads if you want a promotion."
After being asked "why" a ton of times I finally started saying things like, "Do the words 'head lice' mean anything to you?" But the biggest laugh of all was when somebody asked me and I said, "I'm just trying to look respectable."
It's not that funny, Muthaf***ers.
My bosses probably suspect that I am looking for another job. I went to a 3 hour interview today. I think it went well. I say that, but when I walked out those managers were probably slapping the table with laughter, "How many times did that guy say Um? Did you see his black socks with his brown shirt?" We'll see how it goes.
And I will miss the mofos if I get it. It's such a stress-free job. No more drag racing the bumper cars. No more guitar with Chad or playing basketball on breaks. When the hours went nuts at Christmas Chad and I stopped bringing our guitars. It was just too much of a hassle. They guys talked me into playing a game of basketball and I've been playing every night ever since.
They call me Kareem Abdul Jabbar. I only make a basket every now and again but my defense is good. I stuff people and block passes all the time. It's a crowd pleaser. There is a huge tongan guy that plays every once in a while. He's like Shaq except he sucks. It takes him three shots from a foot away to get the ball in the hoop. The guys like to make me guard him because I'm one of the taller people at work but the guy outweighs me by at least 60 pounds. All I can do is put my arm against his chest and shove him away from the basket so somebody else can have a chance at a rebound.
The best thing about playing basketball at work is: The big boss plays with us. I respect the guy for that. How many people have the luxury of taking a shot at their boss EVERY DAY? I've seen my boss with two busted lips and a black eye already.
It is a dead end job but I actually enjoy it. But if I can get a better job than I'll have to take it. Such is life, I guess.