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Posts for the date of Friday, March 08, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 4:00 PM |
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Parenting is a tough job. You have to worry about the health and welfare of your children. Whether it’s outside influences, or illness or safety issues, parenting is a non-stop series of jolts, jumps, fears and issues that you can’t shake.
But since the birth of Gertrude there is only one thing that has me waking up in a cold sweat at night. Only one thing that makes me wonder if this whole parenting thing is worth it. Will she be able to survive this stage of childhood? Will I?
It’s the music on her baby light symphony toy. From Beethoven to “This Old Man” this thing plays music with flashing lights non-stop. Tuneless, joyless, electronic versions of classical and children’s songs blared out at an uncontrollable volume.
It wasn’t so bad when we were in control. But that’s not the case anymore. Gertrude, in her ever-expanding grasp of the world, now understands how to turn the thing on. And once it’s on, there is no turning it off until it decides that the baby is sated or the parents are a pile of drooling goo in the corner.
It starts with a 20 second snippet of Fur Elise. Then it moves on to Frere Jaques, I’m a Little Tea Pot and on and on and on. I tell you . . . I hate that friggin' tea pot.
Gertrude coos with contentment. She smiles and drools and kicks her feet. And when it’s all over . . . she starts it again.
Late at night, when the lights are off and the kids are asleep, I close my eyes. And I see the flashing lights and hear the music over and over and over and over again. I wake up screaming.
And it’ only going to get worse. We have Baby Van Gough, Richard Scarry’s ABCs, Barney and The Wiggles to look forward to.
So today, I’ve strapped Gertrude in her pumpkin seat. She’s facing the stereo with Rubber Soul on repeat. On the television is an endless display of famous scenes from classic films. In her hands is the remote control.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, March 06, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 4:31 PM |
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Before I get into the meat of my ire today, I’d like to point out that I’ve added links to the websites of some of my friends. Visit them and enjoy their weirdness for all that it is. Maybe if you visit Idoru enough Mr. P will actually put something up there.
Yesterday’s blog was the first in the history of Confessions of a Geek that warrants a follow up discussion. No, I will not discuss the further adventures of Tooth Brush Man (who is currently taking on the Paper Towel industry for making rolls that have different counts of sheets). Rather, I think it’s time we uncover the horror that is the Hot Dog and Bun cartels.
Oh yes. Cartel.
Many comics have pointed out in the past that hot dogs and buns are available in different quantiies. One may think this is a ploy by both industries for you to buy high quantities of both products in order to correct the disparity. It would be foolish of you to think such a thing.
No, this is an all out war between the two industries. A war that may never end.
Back in 1904, the two industries worked hand in hand. Together, the bakers and the sausage makers forged two empires across the plains of America. They fed the average American’s hunger for processed, highly sodium injected, cow lips and anuses.
Peace between the two camps reigned for ages. Until 1973. That was when Phineas T. Barker, hot dog bun magnate, introduced the eight bun-per-package product that has become the mainstay of the industry. He dropped the price of each package by a paltry sum and managed to eek out additional profit from the fattened, baseball addled consumers.
(Rumor has it that it was a case of infidelity. In the ultimate irony, Baker’s wife had been found in the arms of hot dog czar, Charlie Freedle.)
The hot dog industry had no recourse. They knew they were backed into a corner. They knew it would take five packages of buns to match their four packages. But, there was no way they could change their dog count without cutting into profits.
In 1986, a tubular engineer at Oscar Meyer made a major structural break through. He found it was possible to increase the length of a hot dog without changing the circumference and still retain structural meat integrity. He called it, “The Bun-Length Hot Dog.” Oscar Meyer paid him greatly for his invention, placed a bas-relief of his face next to that of the man who invented the cheese injection process and he retired to a sunny beach in Florida.
But all would not remain rosy in the world of hot dogs. Soon the bun industry figured out a way to increase the length of their buns without sacrificing net weight. As an added bonus, they created what is known in the industry as the “Bun Mop”. That is the little flap of extra bread that is attached to each bun. With this addition, consumers could easily clean up any condiments that fell outside of the bun “load zone”.
Once again, the bun was longer than the dog. The cart was leading the horse.
It has been a long time since the longer than dog bun was released to the public. And yet, there has been no response from the meat industry. Why? Where are the clever meat engineers? Have they gone the way of the buffalo? Are they no longer working in beef by-products? Have they moved on?
Or is it something worse? Perhaps we have reached the outer limits of hot dog lengthening technology.
I, for one, will be watching these two industries closely. Something must break. It has been nearly two decades since the bun industry fired a shot across the bow of the hot doc industry.
The two cannot remain silent for long.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, March 05, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:48 AM |
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Long time, no blog. Obviously I’ve been mourning the loss of my Fargo snow globe. It was a sad day. Everyone should join me in my sadness. Last night, I was tallying my billable hours for February and it simply exploded. Sadness covers the land.
Good news! The computer is back and moving at lightening speeds! I’ve never been happier. Okay, that’s not true. I’ve never been more suspicious. This was the third time it died. One more and I bring out the shotgun.
So, I’ve been following the news. Escalations in the violence in the Middle East, more American deaths in Afghanistan, rumors of a nuclear threat on New York.
I keep looking at my infant daughter thinking, “Maybe you can fix this some day, huh? Generations have tried, but greed, stupidity and arrogance have gotten the better of us. Maybe your generation can learn how to inhabit this little planet without choking it with smoke, radiation and hatred.” She spit up. Not great art, but great criticism.
I feel guilty for leaving this world to my children. Though it is not of my making, and certainly not what I want, those who are in charge of this planet can’t seem to get it together. Maybe Gertrude will develop a superpower and stop all this crap.
All of this has made me forget the little things I used to worry about. You know the $9.99 adage, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.”
Well . . . Last week I was reading Ann Landers. Or was it Dear Abby? I’m not sure it matters. Anyway, there was a letter from a concerned citizen who wanted to expose a heinous corporate crime far worse than Enron or the fact that Sony still pays Michael Jackson. This crime could have reverberations for generations to come. We should rebel. REBEL! Do not let this capitalistic pig dogs destroy our traditional American way of life!
What is this crime? His brand new toothbrush does not fit into the standard size toothbrush holder in his bathroom. Oh yes, you heard correctly. Modern toothbrush technology has advanced to such a state that it can no longer be held in place by antiquated bathroom technology.
Who, he wondered, is behind this? Who would do such a thing? What was wrong with the original size of the toothbrush? Hell, why did we have to switch to paste? Powder worked just fine.
Okay, so, I can understand this guy getting upset when he brings his brand new toothbrush home. Here he was, trying to obtain the height of dental hygiene while trying to avoid getting carpal tunnel syndrome. He bought the most ergonomic toothbrush that would reach his back teeth without straining his elbow tendons.
Damn! It doesn’t fit in the toothbrush holder!
And that’s where my ire would have ended. It’s possible, to show my anger to the industry, I would have bent the toothbrush a little. To disrespect these bathroom fixture Nazis. Perhaps I would have wondered if the fixture manufacturers and toothbrush manufacturers were in cahoots.
Can you see the meeting? A smoky room filled with fat, pale men. One side with gleaming teeth. They sit down and discuss how they can squeeze the last few cents of disposable income from the unsuspecting American public. Why, of course! Change the size of the toothbrush! Then all the dupes and morons will have to buy new bathroom fixtures! And you can’t just buy one bathroom fixture! No! You have to get a new set! Everything has to match! I’ll bet they even swapped stock under the table.
It’s not the fact that this guy was upset that bothered me. I understand his feelings, actually. However, he was so incensed that he felt the need to ALERT THE MEDIA.
I’m not sure if he’s noticed, but there are plenty of other issues to get passionate about. I’m sure there are issues in his own community that could stand some action on his part. Maybe he could lead a beautification crew. Maybe he could crack down on litter in the streets. Perhaps he could volunteer his time with troubled youth.
Screw that. My toothbrush is too big!
Hmm. I wonder why this world I’m handing off to Gertrude and Kaitlyn is so screwed up?
I don’t think they’ll have a problem handling it, though. With the new size of toothbrushes, their forearms will be powerfully strong. I have ever confidence they can cure the injustice of it all. Maybe they’ll start with the fact that hot dogs come in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight.
Those bastards!
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Posts for the date of Monday, March 04, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:09 PM |
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RIP Fargo Snow Globe
1996-2002
Goodbye old friend. You've sat on every desk I've ever occupied. Now, alas, our time together is over. May you find peace in the tchotchke afterlife.
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