I am diabetic. I have been for 25 years. I have never been very good at it. For a couple decades I generally ate and drank what I wanted. I did my best to crank up the insulin to compensate, but I certainly wasn’t willing to change my lifestyle. These horrible decisions eventually resulted in stage-IV kidney failure, gastroparesis, and a host of other complications. The worst among them is retinopathy. A little over a year ago, I went blind in my left eye. Don’t feel too bad, I did it to myself. It has, however, changed a few things about how I go through life. For example:

Juggling

I taught myself to juggle one summer when I was 10.  I was living as a latchkey kid in the suburbs of Des Moines. I was alone and had nothing better to do. I learned with some magazine article (I think it was Boy’s Life) and pool balls. I just sat on the ugliest lime green carpet I have ever seen and straight practiced until I could do it without thinking. I never learned how to juggle more than three balls because there’s no point. If you can juggle four, people aren’t generally all that more impressed…and they inevitably ask, “Well, can you juggle five?” So, I was happy with three.

I have no idea why, but when people see me juggle, it makes them smile. Making people smile is my favorite thing to do in the world. Whenever I saw three things that were close to the same weight, I just got in the habit of picking them up and juggling. It was always worth a laugh, and I may have even gotten a date of two out of the deal.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago: my wife and I were taking my mother-in-law grocery shopping at her local Walmart. It was filled with frustrated, pandemic-weary shoppers who just wanted to get out of there. My mother-in-law was being a handful, zooming around in the little electric scooter and generally driving my poor wife nuts. I saw a giant display of limes and recognized an opportunity to distract my wife from her frustration and catch a glimpse of her pretty smile. I grabbed the three items as I’d done thousands of times before and started throwing them in the air. I have no idea what happened. The three-dimensional juggling world that I had know for 34 years had suddenly transformed into flatness. Without the benefit of depth perception, I was no longer a juggler. I was a mental patient indiscriminately chucking citrus fruit at Arizona hillbillies.  Nobody cared…because, Walmart…but still, I had to cross juggling of the list of stuff I could do when I needed to get a smile. Stupid blindness.

Catching Anything

Similar to the juggling incident, this one involves timing and the ability to judge distance. Due to partial blindness, I no longer have either of these attributes. Imagine a scenario when I have to go somewhere, but I can’t remember where I put my keys. I look at my family and say, “Hey, has anyone seen my keys?”

My son responds by grabbing them from the coffee table next to him, saying, “Here you go, Dad!” And throwing them across the room to me. For the first 17 years of the boy’s life I would say, “Thanks!” while simultaneously catching the keys while turning toward the door. Now that I am half blind, I freeze in terror as I realize the keys are flying toward me. I take my left hand and stab helplessly at the air in the hopes that I will make a one-in-a-million, half-blind grab. I wince in shame as I whiff with my empty hand and the keys clink into my face. I briefly consider crying as the keys crash to the floor.

Sadly, that’s just the tip of that particular iceberg. I now dream of enjoying a backyard Norman Rockwell moment with my kids where we have a game of catch while grilling dogs and burgers. Instead, this dream now quickly disintegrates into a game of, “Let’s repeatedly bean Dad with a horsehide-covered projectile.” Frankly, it may be more fun for them this way.

Handing Me Things

I wasn’t writing last week because I was canvassing for a political cause that I care about. The whole process is as follows: I go somewhere public and ask complete strangers to sign a petition in the hope that I will get enough signatures to qualify for a referendum on next year’s ballot. They ask what it’s about. I give them my version of the situation and invite them to read the Senate bill behind the petition. If they say no, I thank them and go on to the next person.

If they say they’ll sign, I extend my pen to them. They take the pen and my clipboard. After they are done signing, I begin to tremble with fear. They are going to hand the pen back to me. Now that I am a little more than half blind, I have no idea how close or far away the pen is. Sometimes I just extend my hand and they mercifully insert the pend into my grasp. Other times they just stand there, waiting for Jesus to come back or whatever, and I find myself forced to reach out and find the pen with my fingers. So far it has worked out okay. I might grasp at air once or twice before I get it, but I eventually get there as I exhale in relief. I take my pen back and start the process all over again.

However, I am terrified that one of these days things will go terribly, terribly wrong. They are going to be done signing and just standing there holding the pen in front of them. I am going to attempt to grab it back. With absolutely no depth perception, I will end up reaching forward and squeezing my hand, hoping it closes around the pen. In this worst-case scenario I will miss the pen and end up with a handful of right breast.

The moral of the story is that if you end up with diabetes, check your sugar often and live accordingly, otherwise you’ll end up explaining to the police, “I am sorry Officer. I thought that stranger’s right breast was my ink pen…”

The post Apologies, I Thought Your Breast Was an Ink Pen first appeared on mockable.org.

My first go round in ATL (2002-05) I was in a bitter, doomed marriage. I really had the inspiration daily to transition from a functional alcoholic to a non-functioning drunk. But I wasn’t there just yet. I had to be patient, and gradually increase my intake. (I got there eventually)

Remarkably, our kids from that time (7 & 2 yo) have turned out remarkably as high functioning Millennials. Multiplying two negatives makes a positive. You can’t argue with math. 

So it goes.

So now I’m older numerically, married to a woman who loves me loves me loves me for who I am instead of begrudging me for what I’m not. Things are looking up. But I still suck magnificently if the occasion calls for it. Ask her about it.

Speaking of assholes in Georgia, look at this shit I saw walking home from the Marta station, plastered in the window of one of those hi-rise gentrification monstrosities:

Look at those names…

LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING NAMES!!!!

They sound like the most pretentious neo-yuppie douchebags you could ever be so unfortunate to get stuck behind in line at Starbucks when he makes a pistachio Frappuccino order that goes on for over a minute until you just wish Flanders was dead.

Seriously…you know that one dude pronounces his last name rih-shard and drinks single malt scotch out of a hand chiseled crystal tumbler with one giant ice cube, when he’s not out with Tosh, Biff, and Lunden quaffing overhopped microbrews made with real local spring water, rooting for their favorite Euroleague soccer team loudly. They each have the crest of their team tattooed on the underside of their forearms, because that’s how they roll. Oh they roll HARD, like a golf ball on the unwatered fairway of a 5 par on Thursday afternoon at the  newly opened country club in Alpharetta of which they are all members, where they take viagra and enjoy a warm sauna afterwards, and when they’re sufficiently dry, they sniff coke off of each other’s dicks before racing back to Midtown in their German sportscars. I ran out of ideas of what a group of horribly pretentious doucheclods might do. (Comments please)

I know nothing about these men except for their name, and I think I hate them for it.

Yeah, I reckon I’m still rather bitter, judgemental, and hate myself in an unhealthy manner, but at least I’m directing my anger at those most deserving.

Thanks for the rant.

XOXO-LF

(look forward to the tale of a giant tree crashing into my bedroom…ATL is the gift that keeps on giving!)

The post LAKR RETURNS!!! first appeared on mockable.org.

“Look at the kitchen!” She exclaimed.

My dad shot her a puzzled look, tilted his head like a border collie at a whistling contest, and repeated, “Mookah mah heekah?!”

For some reason, the absurdity of the idea that my sister might suddenly proclaim something so strange during a family meal struck us as funny. So funny, in fact, that I am telling you about it over 30 years later and 13 years after the man’s death. I don’t expect it to be funny to you. There was just something about the timing, the moment, and the level of absurdity that made it hilarious. My point here is that ANYTHING can be funny.

By contrast, please consider this entirely fake scenario intended to illustrate a type of “joke” that people tell that is almost NEVER funny:

One day I came home from work after busting my ass for twelve hours straight without any sort of break. I was sore, tired, and ready to be unconscious. I gaze into my wife’s beautiful eyes, and with a weary sigh, I proclaim, “Wow. I hard a really hard day.”

In response, she cups her hand to her ear and says, “WHAT?! YOU WENT SWIMMING IN FART BAY?! DID YOU VISIT TURD ISLAND OR SOMETHING?! HAHAHAHAHA!”

Now, my wife is an amazing human, and would never tell such a “joke” in real life. For the sake of the example, let’s unpack this “humor”.

First, she is pretending to be deaf. She is not deaf. Many people think that this effort meets the definition of a joke. It does not. Lying does not qualify as a joke in any way. Have you ever heard someone say something that is ridiculously incorrect and unreasonable, only to be called on their bullshit? Then then realize what they have said is stupid, so they try to save themselves the embarrassment by saying, “Just kidding…that was a joke”? Yeah…that’s a lie. It’s not a joke.

Second, farts and poop are inherently funny, but just saying the word fart or turd is just lazy. Seinfeld’s career would have been decidedly shorter if his act consisted of getting up on stage, lying, and then just saying the word fart over and over.

The closest thing to a technical term that I can think of to explain this brand of “humor” is the half-pun. By definition, a pun is a joke that exploits the different possible meanings of a word. For example, this is a pun that was submitted to Facebook by my friend Erika:

Now, this pun is so horrible that it throws me into a fit of cringe-rage and makes me never want to speak to Erika again…but it is, most certainly, a joke.

In contrast, here is a half-pun “joke”:

I do not wish to debate whether or not the duly elected president of the united States is a piece of shit. No good could come of such an exercise and I don’t care about your politics. I will, however, point out how this “joke” could only be funny to the hackiest losers known to man.

1. Get it? People who grew up speaking some language other than English say English words with an accent! I am too stupid to learn to speak another language. I won’t even try. I can, however, make myself feel a tiny bit better by making fun of other people who are doing their best to communicate. My pathetic defenses are hilarious!
2. Roughly half of the voting public believes that President Biden is not a good president. Instant relatability! Goddamn, you’re lazy. I know, put the man in a sombrero and draw a fake mustache on him. The stereotypes will have them rolling in the aisles! Comedy genius!
3. Folks walk around calling others a pizza sheet all the time! I have taken a common everyday saying like pizza sheet, pretended like someone with an accent is saying it, and secretly called a political figure a piece of shit! How terribly witty am I? The fellas down at the rally shall surely enjoy a thunderous guffaw upon deciphering my hilarious secret message!

Yes, “pizza” might sort of sound like “piece of” when said by someone with an accent. “Sheet” kind of sounds like ”shit” if one imagines really hard. None of this is a joke. I once had the job title of “pizza chef”. This is an oxymoron and a silly title – but despite being around pizza for 60 hours a week, I never once said pizza sheet. This is not a common saying in any language that I know of . Your “joke” is not a pun. You are a terrible, insecure human for even making the attempt.

Therefore, I do hereby declare the “half-pun smack” a thing. When you are out in the world, simply trying to live your life, and someone breaks out a “half-pun” joke, yell out the phrase, “half-pun!” and smack them in the reproductive organs. Tell them metten sent you. And if you happen to see Erika, feel free to smack her for that Momoa joke, just for good measure.

The post A Half-Pun is Not a Joke first appeared on mockable.org.

We’ve all been there a million times. You’re sitting in your living room in the dark. You’ve got your popcorn in your left hand, and your penis in your right. You are masturbating furiously to Edward Norton’s performance in 1998’s “American History X”. You’re so into it, you forget to check the front door cameras for a full 15 seconds.

You had it all timed perfectly so that you could climax while Ed curb-stomped that one dude. It was going to be so perfect. Instead, a metal battering ram blasted through all six deadbolts, splinters went everywhere, and the door flew off the frame. That dirtbag Biden’s federal agents are on top of you before you can put down your literal manhood and grab the Glock version of your manhood. This would have never happened if you’d rented the movie from Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut.

Sure, you have three firewalls and a double VPN protecting your network. To the average dude, it looked like you were streaming your favorite movie from Laos. Sadly, the liberals have more than just the average dude on their payroll. Some commie from the liberal college system clearly hacked into your system and saw everything you were up to. Hell, they probably knew the perfect moment to bash in the door. Next time, keep those liberal bastards out by using Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut.

At Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut, we rent untraceable old-school DVDs and VHS cassettes to folks for all sorts of reasons that we don’t care to know. We also rent DVD players and VCRs for the patriot that was dragged against his will into the year 2008. We only keep records of who has rented what for as long as the movie is out, then the records are shredded like an illegal immigrant’s fake work documents right before we send them back over the wall to Mexico!

Miss the days when you celebrated finishing a great movie by listening to the high-speed rewind function of the VCR? Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut has you covered. Sometimes we’ll rent you a movie that hasn’t been rewound just so that you can rewind it twice for nostalgia’s sake!

Do you miss opening the DVD player, gingerly taking the DVD out with the sides of your fingers, blowing on the disc, and then closing it back into the machine again, praying that the machine can read it this time? Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut has an in-store display where you can do this just for fun! Come on in and show your commie grandkids how it was done back in your day! Rest assured, when you’re blowing on a disc, there will be no masks allowed, because we here at Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut know that if God had intended for you to wear a mask while you blow on late 20^th-century technology in a public place, you would have been born with one on!

Tired of liberal Hollywood shoving their homosexual propaganda down your throat? Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut has 114 copies of John Wayne drunkenly beating the shit out of a little person for 90 minutes…for no apparent reason! We have endless copies of some film where Ronald Reagan has to get rough with a female underling…take that commies! In fact, if you find yourself under federal arrest as a result of something you rented at Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut, your next rental is on us! That’s the Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut guarantee!

The post Mockable’s New 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut first appeared on mockable.org.

Generally speaking, my first effort to solve any and all of my problems is to whine about it on Facebook. As such, I was recently whining on Facebook about how the phrase “tomato ketchup” is redundant. If I am at the store, and I see a bottle of ketchup, and I am in the United States of America, I am going to assume that it is tomato ketchup. There is no need for clarification. Save your ink; it isn’t necessary.

Instead of agreeing with me and perhaps chuckling softly to themselves at my weak attempt at observational humor, the pedantic fuckers that are my Facebook friends jumped on this like a hobo on a sammich:

“Nu-uh!! I’ve seen all sorts of ketchup! Here’s a link to a company that sells banana ketchup! I’ve also seen mango ketchup! Not all ketchup is tomato ketchup, you ignoramus! Besides, who are you to point out redundancy? Your name on Facebook is metten metten. Your name is redundant, you hypocrite!”

First of all, I love my Facebook friends. Their tendency towards pedantry is part of why they are my friends. I very much appreciate the attention paid to fine details. I don’t like being wrong, but I am used to it. I would always rather be called out as incorrect than to live my life dispensing false information. So thank you.

Second, go fuck yourselves. There may be other types of ketchup on the planet, but tomato ketchup is so prevalent in contemporary American society that I would be willing to wager all the money in my wallet (currently $2) that if one went to 1000 random grocery stores in the United States and blindly grabbed a bottle of ketchup from each store, at least 999 of the randomly-selected bottles of ketchup would be tomato ketchup. Even if I am correct, my Facebook friends are smart people…and they need the world to know that they are smart people. They need to right the wrongs. They need to make the correct argument. Just one single, “Oh yes…I guess you’re correct.” Will sustain my Facebook friends for a week. So yes, my asshole Facebook friends, I concede that there are many different kinds of ketchup in the world. I continue to maintain that writing, “tomato ketchup” pn the label is redundant.

Third, on the subjects of redundancy: there is nothing redundant about using the same sequence of letters for one’s first and last name. In linguistics, redundancy refers to information that is expressed more than once(https://g.co/kgs/3MjFbc). I will grant you repetitive. I will even give you unoriginal. I will not admit to redundancy in this instance. While they are the same spelling and pronunciation, the first series of letters is my first name. The second, entirely different piece of information is my last name. None of this begins to meet the definition of redundant.

Fourth, on the subject of hypocrisy: it is not the automatic, argument-winning smoking gun that you believe it is. I do my best to avoid hypocrisy. I do not find joy in being a hypocrite. Yet I can be proven to be a hypocrite at any given time with regard to a myriad of different subjects. Still, my hypocrisy does not make you right by default. I honestly believe that this is part of the problem that the United States is currently facing. For example, consider the current leadership of the entire state of Texas. They believe that government entities mandating the wearing of masks in response to a public health crisis is a violation of civil liberties, and therefore wrong. They simultaneously believe that government entities mandating what a person should do with their personal reproductive systems is a violation of civil liberties, and therefore right. I cannot think of a clearer example of hypocrisy. Many people are calling the state of Texas out at the top of their lungs. Maybe one day screaming, “Hypocrisy!” will be enough to sway voters and elect different leadership. Until that day, the status quo remains status quo and the people pointing out the hypocrisy are out of breath with a face as red as tomato ketchup.

This got me wondering, what specific qualities causes a condiment to meet the definition of “ketchup”? So, I looked it up: Merriam-Webster says, “: a seasoned pureed condiment usually made from tomatoes”. Oxford Languages defines ketchup as, “a smooth sauce made chiefly from tomatoes and vinegar, used as a condiment.” I suppose then, in order for a condiment to qualify as a ketchup, it has to be smooth and sauce-like in consistency rather than chunky, and it has to be used as a compliment to enhance the flavor of a dish rather than becoming the dish itself. Now that we know that, guess what the definition of “relish” is…” a condiment eaten with plain food to add flavor,” and “: something adding a zestful flavor”.

After that ketchup journey, I know three things to be true: 1) I both love and hate my Facebook Friends; 2) learning the English language is ridiculously and unnecessarily difficult because of things like this, and 3) you will likely be forced to read 1000 words about the redundancy of the phrase “pickle relish” in the very near future.

The post What is a Ketchup? first appeared on mockable.org.

Dear Denisse,

Life inside this diner is difficult enough, Denisse. Most of us get here between 3 and 4 in the morning. The music is on the same candle switch that the lights are on, so the minute we groggily stumble into the place and flip on the lights, Buddy Holly and the goddamned Crickets start in with their schtick. I often wonder on those cold, dark mornings as I prepare to cover myself in flour and grease for yet another day, if one might get booted from heaven for beating the shit out of Buddy Holly. I’ve worked hard my whole life. I have taken care of my family. I have been kind to my fellow man. I deserve admittance into whatever heavenly realm comes next. As far as I know, Buddy Holly was a polite Texas kid who was kind to everyone he met, and better than most at guitar. There’s a chance we might bump into each other in heaven. Still, after 23 years of “Peggy Sue”…if I run into that guy somewhere in the hereafter, I am going to punch him in the throat.

See Denisse, I was once like you, except better. I was young, nubile, and excited for what the world had to offer. Like you, I was an attractive, generally happy person. I wasn’t nearly as fake and annoying about everything, but we’ll get to that in a minute. I cared about the people that came into this diner. I wanted to be the start to their great day. I believed the little things were the most important part of giving someone such a pleasant experience that they couldn’t help but go into the world feeling healthy, happy, cared for, and safe. I listened to their stories. I got to know them. I gave them genuine attention and feedback. I made sure their coffee was topped off. I got their orders right the first time. When I screwed up, I apologized, and I made things right. When they were finished, I meticulously cleaned up after them and reset the whole process for the next person. Sure. I was usually given a small gratuity for my effort, but that wasn’t the point. I did what I did because I was a genuinely nice person, and this was my way of helping my fellow humans.

Over the years, Denisse, my philosophy has changed. You see, working here is no picnic. I will never be able to remove the onion smell from underneath my fingernails. I am, in general, tired, and downright weary from 23 years of the daily process of prepping, cooking, and serving hundreds of greasy breakfasts and lunches for generally unappreciative folk in exchange for $28,000 a year. To put it bluntly, I am entirely worn out. My efforts to be a consistent bright spot in folks’ day did not pan out like I hoped it would, and society just got more divided and angrier with each other. I am exhausted. I am nearing the end. The breaking point is in sight. As the years rolled by, and my remaining time on Earth growths shorter, I’ve begun to care less and less about consequences.

This brings us to you, Denisse, and the reason that I am writing this letter. This job is not important to you. It is a means to some other means, to some other means, which might eventually lead to some unintentional end. I can’t tell what your goals are. I have no idea what you are working toward, or why. You stomp in here ten minutes before the breakfast rush and throw your counterfeit designer bag up on the wall by the time clock. Mark, the owner, never says anything about your tardy, unprepared entrance because you are young and attractive, and you keep the filthy old men coming back.

The “Denisse, the plastic girl” show begins as you strut onto the diner floor and start taking tables. Someone else has chipped the old syrup off the table and wiped it down. Someone else has rolled the setups. I realize you never think about these things, but that someone is always me. You use this sing-song voice that is nowhere near the vicinity of genuine. It reminds me of a series of bird calls.

I think of the Band-tailed Hornero’s alarm call as you greet old men and attempt to lure them into your section, regardless of whose turn it is. The song of the Bare-faced Curassow comes to mind as you ask if “we’re” doing anything special today. Who the hell is “we”? You’re not part of the group. You’re not leaving with them, you disingenuous tart.

I think of the Yellow-crowned Gonolek’s mating song as you hurl terms of endearment at complete strangers. “Honey”, “Baby”, and “Sugar” would not accurately describe any of these people. Yet you use these terms constantly. For all you know, that customer kidnapped a handcart full of nuns and keeps them chained in his basement…and he’s your “baby”?! Fuck you Denisse.

No matter where I go in the tiny diner, I can hear your fake bird calls. I shake my head in disgust as I consider the fact that the birds are trying to attract a mate. Your pathetic calls are designed to attract 25% gratuity from a biscuit and gravy order. Even the little message you write on every ticket makes me want to vomit. “Love, Denisse,” with a little heart dotting the “I”.

In summary, Denisse, I have endured this place too long. I have worked too hard. I have put too much of my heart, soul, and very existence into this diner to have to put up with your act. You are a whore. Instead of sex, your tricks consist of pancakes and birdcalls. I’m not going to take it anymore. I am officially threatening you, Denisse. Consider me the greasy spoon vigilante. Use your normal voice, do some actual work, refer to the customers by their names or prepare to be severely burned. Literally.

Sincerely,

Alice from the diner

The post An Open Letter to Denisse the Plastic Waitress first appeared on mockable.org.

Due to the high cost of intergalactic surveillance, and hard times everywhere, we here at Mockable dot org have decided to aid our alien friends by serving as field agents.

The observation of human activity must surely be an expensive proposition, and we are interested in helping defray some of those costs.  Therefore, we will be offering a series of reports, explaining in simple terms what must be completely baffling to visitors from other galaxies.

Our goal is to be a fully integrated planet Earth solution, and an indispensable resource for the alien on a budget!

Relatively speaking, humans are an extremely primitive species. When they wish to inspect, move, or otherwise manipulate a tangible Earth object, they find that they lack even the most basic technology required for telekinesis. Should they wish to interact with each other, they also discover themselves unable to enjoy the benefits of astral projection…or any sort of esotericism, for that matter. For any and all of these activities, the poor humans must rely on a concept that alien societies would find both grotesque and unthinkable: the concept of physical touch.

As unpleasant a message as it is to relay, it is the truth. Human beings make use of a pair of hook-like appendages which they refer to as “arms” that protrude from the base of their primary tenement, these “arms” come complete with a set of phalanges affixed to the end of the hook that the humans refer to as “hands and fingers”. By manipulating a series of muscular and skeletal pullies and levers, the humans are able to use these “arms”, “hands”, and “fingers” to procure and manipulate objects, as well as interact with each other.  Regardless of what disgusting foreign substance or living microscopic organism might be slathering the object of the human’s desire, they generally do not hesitate to “reach out” with their “hands” and “grab” the object. Almost immediately after physically interacting with the object, a human is known to “accidentally” rub the microscopic foreign substances around, on, and into their nasal cavity, thereby introducing the foreign substance into their central nervous system. To use a phrase that is as blunt as it is arcane, these fuckers are gross.

Throughout the history of this young species, countless humans have accidentally killed themselves and others by the very method of “touching” things and then immediately “touching” themselves or others. I was once on a reconnaissance mission to a human establishment known as “Buffalo Wild Wings” within which these humans were seen devouring several small chicken carcasses that were covered in sugar, puréed tomato, and fecal matter from the “hands” of a seventeen-year-old line cook named “Tristan”. It is unclear just how many humans perished that day.

A further example of the primitive nature of human “touching” is the 1847 account of Hungarian physician, Ignaz Semmelweis. Before Semmelweis’s intervention, his colleagues at the Vienna Hospital were performing autopsies with their bare “hands” and then immediately assisting women with childbirth…also with their bare “hands”. I have little doubt that the physicians didn’t think twice about taking an enormous dump in between. They would then don their most confused look and wonder aloud, “Why are these postpartum women dead from massive infection from puerperal fever?!” Again, this is a very naive species. Semmelweis eventually dictated that all physicians would “wash” their “hands” in a chloride and water solution. As if by magic, humans had a greater chance of surviving a trip to the Vienna Hospital.  For his efforts, Semmelweis was not reappointed to the obstetrics unit…and he eventually died unknown and unappreciated from injuries sustained in a Viennese insane asylum. Still, humans owe Semmelweis a debt of gratitude for inventing a concept that is now commonly known by humans as, “washing your goddamned hands”.

Today, “washing your goddamned hands” is accomplished via a handy contraption that humans refer to as a “sink” (pictured below). This device delivers hot water and a cleaning solution referred to as “soap” at the human’s demand. The “sink” is an innovation that will undoubtedly save the greatest number of human lives possible until they can finally develop appropriate telekinetic technology and rid their species of the need for “arms” forever.

There is, however, one thing that I cannot figure out. Nearly all human experts recommend the species “wash their goddamned hands” for at least 20 Earth seconds. Due to concerns surrounding the amount of energy required to heat and deliver water to these “sinks”, this particular model of “sink” delivers approximately 3 seconds of hot water per button push. Therefore, in order to properly “wash” one’s “hands”, a human must push the button four times, all while their “hands” are covered with any number of germs, microbes, and Buffalo wing sauces. Attempting to “wash one’s goddamn hands” using this type of “sink” is an exercise in madness.

Finally, despite the fact that the practice of “washing your goddamned hands” is centuries old, many humans don’t seem to understand the proper method of going about it. If they elect to wash their goddamned hands at all, the primitive fools tend to jam their “hands” under the water, get them thoroughly soaked, and then conduct some sort of excited, spastic,  imaginary symphony with both hands and fingers flailing about. By the time they are finished, they have turned the Buffalo Wild Wings bathroom into some sort of bastardized water park with bad Muzak and the sports page tacked up above the urinal. Sometimes I hate this assignment.

I hope this report proves helpful.   I will be standing in line to get a hot dog in case you should have follow-up questions.   This concludes today’s broadcast by Agent 8675309.

The post Explanations for Aliens: Human Hands and Human Hand Washing first appeared on mockable.org.

Now, I have no quarrel with the poppy, non-threatening early 90s rap trio known as Fu Schnickens…but I do wish that we, as a society, would stop screaming out words just because they rhyme.  The mental progression that brought me to this wish goes like this: I was talking to our cat. He’s a pretty good guy that goes by the name of Tofu. Like a lot of mockable assholes, I pet him and cycle through a bunch of nicknames while using a voice that illustrates exactly how little shame and dignity I have onboard at that particular moment. I called him “Tofutti” as he rubbed his face on me and arched his butt in the air. We were near the end of the petting session, that part right before he bites me for no reason, when I called him “Fu Schnickens“. This made me think, “Oh yeah…Fu Schnickens…whatever happened to that poppy, non-threatening rap trio from the early 90s?”

This question prompted a nostalgic stroll down memory lane, complete with a visit to Fu Schnickens’ Wikipedia page (that refused to tell me what happened to them) and the playing of a few tracks for my poor unsuspecting wife. Unpredictably, Tofu did not care for Fu Schnickens. He ran away and hid. This would have been the end of this particular mental progression, except that YouTube decided to play the group’s big hit, 1993’s “What’s Up Doc? (Can We Rock)”.

This track took advantage of Shaquille O’Neal’s popularity to propel Fu Schnickens into the mainstream and made BMG Records a bunch of money. The beat is quality, and there’s no doubt that everyone involved (except O’Neill) is a talented MC. For me, the problem is the hook. If you really think about it, “What’s up Doc (can we rock)” is a really weird thing to yell. I know they’re making use of the famous Bugs Bunny line…but still…the idea of approaching a person who has earned a doctorate of some kind from an accredited, degree-granting institution and proceeding to request their permission to “rock” strikes me as odd.

Also, I watched the video. There’s basketball, a great deal of posing and flexing for the camera, and early-90s rapping Brooklynites. Nobody is rocking. So…I guess no PhD was able to give them permission to rock…so they just kept asking at an elevated volume whilst gyrating rhythmically. I think it would be a much better video if the whole group quietly sat at a table playing cards or something, just waiting for a young messenger boy in a newsy cap to bolt into the room and excitedly hand them all a prescription that officially gives them permission to rock. But no, no one actually wants to rock. They are simply yelling this phrase because it rhymes and the rhyme might be catchy enough to sell some records. So that’s what’s up, Doc.

Once I had given up on the unfinished and unsatisfying quest of learning the fate of Fu Schnickens, my asshole brain jumped to my #1 least favorite thing that people yell for no reason just because the words rhyme – The dreaded University of Kansas fan screaming, “ROCK, CHALK, JAYHAWK!!!” I lived in Kansas City for many years and I genuinely love the place, but it’s full of Kansas fans. I have asked many of them why they continually scream this nonsense to no one in particular during a sporting event.

They always say one of two things: they either give me an infuriating, “I dunno. It’s just something we scream.” Or they bust out the story of Chemistry professor E.H.S. Bailey’s 1886 quest to create a rousing yell to help motivate University of Kansas sports teams. They started out with, “Rah, Rah, Jayhawk, Go KU”, which is silly and meaningless, but so is college sports…so yeah…go, or whatever.

But then, something extraordinarily stupid happened. The two “rahs” were replaced by “Rock Chalk” which, I guess is a transposition of chalk rock, a type of limestone, that exists in the Cretaceous-age bedrocks of central and western parts of Kansas. In fact, The University itself is located on top of Mount Oread, a ridge of flinty Carboniferous limestone.

Can you imagine thinking to yourself, “I really want our team to win. I want to help motivate them somehow to give them the strength to play harder. I know…I will yell some encouraging words! I shall cup my hands around my mouth and bellow the greatest words of encouragement that I can possibly conjure at the highest possible volume. What should those words be? What precise selection of words will renew the strength and energy of my university-mates and fill them with athletic prowess? I know! I will yell a transposition of the general geological makeup of this geographical area! Yes! I will scream, ‘STONE LIME, ALL THE TIME!!!’ to no one in particular! That shall rouse the lads!”

Please stop it. I am asking you nicely. Or, to put my request in a form of communication you can understand, “I NEED YOU TO QUIT, YELLING NONSENSE BULLSHIT!!!”

The post Yes…Words Rhyme. Please Stop Yelling first appeared on mockable.org.

In a fit of wishful thinking, my parents often left a list of chores that my sister and I were supposed to complete while they worked. The choring rarely happened, and if it did, it was done quickly and half-assed at the end of the day, right before they got home. In fact, we used to play an unspoken game called, how-much-does-one-need-to-run-the-vacuum-in-order-to-get-Mom-to-believe-we-actually-vacuumed. I don’t think I ever won once. As an adult who has vacuumed a thousand times, I am still not entirely sure how to tell a properly vacuumed room from one that just has random vacuum lines.

The only chore I didn’t mind was watering the houseplants. Don’t get me wrong – I hate houseplants. In fact, other than the fact that I am grateful for the oxygen they make, I have never given a shit about a plant…much less my mother’s houseplants. Still, it wasn’t a bad job. I mean, all we had to do was quickly unlock the door, go outside, get water from the hose, bring it back in, lock the door, and sprinkle some water on Mom’s plants. It wasn’t a bad gig. I just didn’t understand why we had to go outside. We had 2.5 bathrooms and a kitchen. As a young teenager, I eventually figured it out. The water in Des Moines is super hard. My parents rented a water softener from Sears or some place like that for over 30 years. They often made me carry the rock salt into the basement and pour it into the softener. Finally one day it clicked. The spigot outside was the only water source that wasn’t connected to the water softener. Apparently salt water is “bad” for houseplants. Wimps.

I even remember the Zest commercial that helped me put two and two together. Here it is…except instead of a picture of Chicago, it had a “Des Moines” graphic of a couple of smiling cows and a corn silo. I sort of find this offensive today, but whatever. The point is that a lot of people in Des Moines have water softeners.

I eventually grew up and moved away. As an adult, none of my homes had a water softener…until now. In our house in “the Valley” (which is a stupid nickname I will address later), we have a water softener in the garage. It has been filled with the same salt pellets since long before I moved here in late March. Everything works because the bypass is on. The power is on to the water softener. It should just be a matter of opening a valve and directing the water into the softener. However, dumbass that I am, I do not know how to turn off the bypass and run water into the softener. I have watched YouTube videos. I have read the online owner’s manual. I cannot figure it out. Every month I scrub hard water stains out of sinks and showers as penance for my stupidity. So there you go. If you’re butthurt because you wear goofy socks…or you’re mustard water…or you have an “In loving memory” sticker on the back of your car – just remember you’re being mocked by a dude that can’t figure out how to run water into a softener.

The post Self-Mock #4: Hard Water Town first appeared on mockable.org.

Hey mustard water. It’s been a while since you have infuriated me to the point that I would address you directly. You are an inanimate object, after all. I am aware that no amount of verbal beration will change your behavior or penetrate your universally applicable defense of “not being a living thing”. Still, this has gone on way too long, and I feel I must say something, mustard water.

Have you ever been forced to walk an old, gross, disobedient dog that nobody likes? While on the walk, did the dog ever stop and take a gigantic shit that you had to clean up? While you were dry-heaving and cleaning up the horrible dog shit from this terrible dog that nobody likes, did you ever look at the shit and notice indigestible items contained within the shit? Perhaps there was hair, a bit of a chew toy, or even an old tampon in there? Something that looks like dog shit, smells like dog shit, and is literally surrounded on all sides by dog shit…but isn’t quite good enough to be dog shit? That’s you, mustard water.

I’m not even a big mustard guy, mustard water. I once sat in the bleachers at Wrigley Field, eating a hot dog slathered with tomato ketchup. My idiot friends made fun of me between their giant gulps of Old Style, screaming that what I was doing was an abomination and a direct kick to the stones of William Wrigley, Jr. himself. Apparently, no matter what you do, you’re not allowed to put tomato ketchup on hot dogs. I don’t hate mustard, but I just didn’t feel like putting it on my hot dog that day. My point is that I am not a huge mustard guy, mustard water.

For example, if I was whisked away to 13^th century France and magically transformed into Pope John XXll of Avignon, I would not have created the position of “Grand Moustardier du Pape” because I liked mustard so goddamned much. I would have put it on the occasional sammich when I couldn’t afford the calories for mayonnaise…or maybe put a few drops on a corn dog here and there for a little zing. That’s it. I am not a mustard-crazy dude, mustard water.

That said, yellow mustard in a squeeze bottle has its place in the world, mustard water. Actual mustard has value and contributes to the meal at large. Sometimes, a few drops of mustard carefully squeezed out of a chilled yellow bottle is just the thing needed to complete a dish. I would venture to say that once or twice a month over the last 40 years, I could be seen judiciously applying a tiny bit of mustard to my food. In short, mustard can be a very good thing. You, mustard water, contribute nothing to the world.

On exactly 25% of those mustard-applying occasions, I have remembered the simple act of shaking the plastic yellow bottle and mixing you in with the general mustard population of the bottle. On those occasions, all is right with the world. The other 75% of the time, I grab the plastic yellow bottle, turn it upside-down and squeeze it like an asshole. You come tumbling out, mustard water, and soak whatever I am trying to mustard with old, nasty wetness…like so much excrement from a dog everyone hates. My buns are wet, my corn dog is limp and soggy, and my lunchmeat can never be restored to the proper mouth feel. You ruin everything, mustard water.

Still, despite being one of the most vile substances on the planet, you have my respect, mustard water. When my kids were little, I eventually learned to look at the bottom of the stairs for loose legos. After being burned a few times, I learned to smell the milk before drinking out of the carton in the middle of the night. It’s been 40 years, mustard water…and you still get me. I cannot think of an adversary that I have had in my life that has tricked me nearly every time. So, mustard water, I despise you, but I raise my ruined, soggy buns to you in a gesture of respect. I hate you. You are below dogshit; but, I know I can never defeat you.

With Respectful Hatred,

The Mockers

The post An Open Letter to Mustard Water first appeared on mockable.org.