Nothing New Here

So, last week I was feeling under the weather and didn't blog. This week, my brain appears to have completely deserted me, so this short missive is going to be it.

Basically, I have a simple rule: if I work on something for more than thirty minutes without any result, I stop and do something else. Thirty minutes have passed and the only thing I've come up with for the blog is that there should be decapitations in Solitaire. Why I don't know, but there you go.

Anyway, I will get a full blog up next week. In the meantime, count your socks.

Cheers,
-Jason

A Theory

I have a theory. Yes, you know the drill. I was doing something mundane like house training an ocelot, when I had a sudden epiphany that had nothing to do with the ocelot savaging my arm.

It’s kinda funny how that keeps happening.

Anyway, here’s the theory: do you know how you always lose one sock? You do your laundry, fold your socks, and for no readily apparent reason, you’re short one sock. You look everywhere: in the washer and dryer, behind the sofa, in the cobra cage, in your secret hiding place where you keep the books you don’t want your mother to find, and under the ocelot litter box, but you can’t find it. So, with a sigh, you throw it in your sock drawer and wait for the fateful day when you lose yet another sock so you can have an even number again.

Now, here’s my theory:

Wait, you may want to sit down, because this will blow your mind.

What if instead of LOSING a sock, you’re actually GAINING a sock?

I mean how many of us know how many socks we actually have? All we know is that sometimes the number doesn’t match. We make the assumption that we’ve lost a sock, but it fact, we may have gained one.

Staggering, ain’t it? I’ll let that one sink in before I continue.

Doodeedoo, checkin’my mail. Doodeedoo, listenin’ to the radio. Doodeedoo.

Okay, I’m back. Now that you’ve properly digested my theory, here come the implications: sock sex.

Yes, that’s right. While they’re being cleaned your socks are bumpin’ uglies and having fully grown, sock babies. Maybe they’re getting it on in the washer and then the new sock gets born in the dryer. I dunno. It’s a mystery. One I’m fully prepared to investigate, assuming the government gives me a lab, several female, lingerie model/scientists as lab assistants and a whole lot of money.

NOTE: This is probably the 18^th time I’ve suggested that the government give me a lot of money and access to lingerie models / scientists to investigate some dubious claim. I will continue to do so, on the idea that someday, they might actually do it. It’s the same reason I keep going on dates. Statistically speaking, there has to be a woman out there that I don’t repulse.

Just think of the possibilities! We may discover that socks have feelings and yearn for a greater understanding of the universe, just as we do. We may learn that they’re totally evil and bent on our destruction, which seeing as we put them on our feet is understandable. We may also learn where socks have their naughty bits. And how, y’know, they do it.

Anyway, there’s food for thought. Your socks, when you’re not looking, are having fantastic (or dirty, depending on their condition) sock sex.

Which begs the question of what your underwear is up to?

Cheers,

-Jason

New Year’s Resolutions

It’s 2013 now and everyone keeps asking me if I’ve made a New Year’s Resolution. My default answer is ‘no’ because of severe childhood trauma. Let’s just say it involved a bag of large marshmallows, a bayonet, a BBQ grill, an old Halloween mask, a truly staggering supply of lighter fluid, and eventually, the loss of a lot of body hair.

When I went back to school, I told everyone a baboon stole my hair. It more or less worked, as first graders are pretty gullible. Plus, I’m not really sure anyone knew what a ‘baboon’ was. I didn’t. I thought it was some sort of bird, which made perfect sense.

This led to my first New Year’s Resolution, supplied by my mother, which was ‘don’t be an idiot.’ It had to be amended a few days later to ‘don’t be a total idiot’ because, honestly, that was about the best she could hope for.

So from then on, I decided that I would not do New Year’s Resolutions anymore. There are always a few people who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer, so I use ‘not serving time in a Russian Gulag’ as a backup. Which, surprisingly, I’ve managed to keep (more or less).

However, this year, I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to create and keep a New Year’s Resolution.

So here it is: I, Jason Janicki, do resolve to not hate ninjas. As much.

This is obviously a tough one for me, but the other night when I was chasing a ninja down the street at three in the morning wearing a pair of sweat pants, bunny slippers, and carrying a gun that shoots pitchforks (the Pitchforkerator), I started to question the wisdom of it all.

I mean, they’re just guys like me. They’re just doing a job like I do. They may not want to spend hours in the freezing Oregon night waiting for just the right moment to stab me in the ass with a ninjato, just like I really don’t want to spend half my nights fighting them on rooftops in my underwear.

NOTE: They love rooftops. I have no idea why. It’s cold, slippery, and birds poop on them.

Therefore, I decided not to hate them quite so much. In practical terms, this doesn’t mean a whole lot. I mean, I’ll still happily shoot, punch, kick, stab, and bludgeon them, I just will try to refrain from cackling the whole time.

Who knows, maybe next year I’ll resolve to not fire farming implements at them.

Cheers,

-Jason

Holiday Harmony

Well, it’s 2013 and the holidays are officially over. I went to visit my mom and family out in California and there was the usual assortment of stabbing, shooting, slugging, sandpapering, and other ‘s’ words that make up one of our family reunions.

Oh, we hardly ever do any permanent damage, though my brother’s jaw still makes a clicking noise after I kicked him in the face when I was 12. And, quite honestly, I don’t hear as well out of my left ear after the infamous ‘things that rhyme with frying pan’ incident.

NOTE: Nothing rhymes with frying pan. It was a trap.

Something extraordinary did occur. No, there was no ‘Christmas Truce,’ though we did mutually agree to a ‘nothing powered with gas’ exception for Christmas eve. Hint: don’t agree to this when a sibling has an electric chainsaw and you don’t.

No, the extraordinary event was that my mother had her 80^th birthday. We surprised her with dinner out via limo on her birthday with all her children and most of her grandchildren. Then, on Saturday, we had the ‘official’ party with 70 friends and family from all over the country. We saw people we hadn’t seen in 20 years and for three hours, ate, drank and caught up.

And, in a sentence you might never read from me again, it was all quite lovely.

So, happy birthday, Mom. Now we start planning for the 90^th.

Now, I just need to get the stitches removed and I’ll be ready for the next holiday.

Cheers,

-Jason