Monday, February 27, 2006
My single most favorite fact obtained from The Discovery Channel is that beavers eat their own shit. They eat it only once, and they know the difference. A beaver's diet of wood can be broken down into a nutrient only after passing the section of bowel that is needed to digest said nutrient. So, when a beaver squeezes out a fresh lumber filled poop, he (or apparently a faster, sneakier beaver) will eat the newly made log. The excrement created by eating this is not edible. I imagine this has led to some pretty embarrassing moments for less intelligent beavers, "Oh my God, Jimmy just ate some second shit!" I was enthralling some coworkers this evening with my knowledge of fecal eating beavers when a doctor told me that some Native Americans would have what they referred to as "the second harvest". This involved picking the corn out of their stool to enjoy it a second time. I personally can not verify this from first hand basis (nor from a televised documentary), but I feel this doctor is pretty reliable. When elderly people sit around trying to impress each other with how much harder it used to be in the old days, I bet, "I had to walk ten miles to school in the snow", can not hold a candle to, "I had to pick the corn out of my shit for dinner."
The discussion quickly spiraled down to the fact that some people feel that drinking your own urine has medicinal, as well as, spiritual value. I have actually had a patient, while working in Baltimore, who practiced this belief. She said that many valuable electrolytes are lost in urine. After years of working in the health profession I can safely say that drinking Gatorade also will replace vital electrolytes. NASA has a plan to send a manned mission to Mars within twenty years. It will cost a few hundred billion dollars and the best idea so far for the water supply is to have them drink urine. It will be boiled, then the condensation will be collected, filtered and returned for consumption. I am secretly hoping that they need someone to just go along in order to provide extra urine for the trip. I feel that is the only way I can ever offer anything of value to the space program. Plus, with a captive audience in space for 18 months I will have plenty of time to regale upon them all my knowledge of shit eating beavers.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
I wonder if the obsession with bodies is unique to the human race. Do male cougars have penis envy? Does a Doberman see another bitch that has just given birth and think, "I hope my titties are one day that big!" Does a pig ever think, "Whore," because the sow he is courting has a large (and always exposed) vagina?
Particular body parts seem to get the majority of the attention. You don't hear much talk about elbows. And although sometimes brought up in cases of deformities few people mention ears, backs, thighs, eyebrows, or skin. I thought this fascination might slack off some once I entered my 30's and my generation began to spread, sag and winkle. We're just not as cute as we used to be, but at least we're all in it together. I guess I expected the focus to shift to intellect and humor or kindness and generosity as the beacons of beauty. Instead I think that the fixation on breasts, butts, and penises may be even more pronounced than what I was aware of in my teens.
Maybe it's the mood of the country. I thought the Republicans were suspposed to fix that.
I bring this up because a co-worker of mine told me Friday night that he was hung like a Tic Tac but that he was as big around as a Foster's beer can. That's nasty sounding to me. I can't get this image out of my head. DO YOU KNOW how big around a Foster's can is? They're like little kegs. Do you know how small a Tic Tac is? Itty bitty! I know he was exaggerating, but he said, "I just believe in being honest. You can call my wife and ask her if you don't believe me." I declined.
It's something I didn't want to know about him. It's also an image that when I hear his name 15 years from now will leap into my head and make me throw up a little in my mouth. And if I do throw up a little in my mouth, ironically, I might have to ask someone for a Tic Tac.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Laziness has become my favorite hobby. I joined a gym, but can not get motivated to actually make the treacherous journey five blocks to work out. I guess it was a good effort just to go the first time and sign up. It is not a total loss, I did go a few days that first week. I am in need of a good catalyst to increase my work out potential. Getting increasingly obese does not seem to do the trick. Maybe a minor illness that would require a drastic change in lifestyle. I don't want anything serious. I know that AIDS and Cancer can really bring some major weight loss, but I am not that serious about physical fitness. Maybe if a doctor told me, "if you don't lose 80 pounds we will have to amputate your left leg." That would be pretty motivating, but not quite life threatening. Deep down however, I think I could even sleep through that. I could rationalize to myself that with only one leg I could get one of those Hover Round electronic wheelchairs and be even lazier. Also, if I did lose my left leg, it alone probably weighs about 50 pounds, at least. So, I would have lost fifty pounds without having to do anything. Hell, take both of them I would be at my 100 pound weight loss goal. I am going to pull it together and show a little more gumption for going to the gym. I have grown attached to my legs no matter how heavy they are.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
It is a grand day for the Killer Rants establishment. Soon we will be able to go head to head with such great periodicals like, Ladies Home Journal and Cat Weekly. Liz, who surrendered her own blog faster than the French army, has agreed to continue her irreverent observations here. I would like to think she will be Watson to my Sherlock, but it is more likely she will be Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote.
In another note, I am supposed to give a "shout out" to all my homeys at the hospital who have begun reading this blog. This is a pretty low tech web page so if you do not leave a comment, then I don't know you were here. Please feel free to leave any suggestions, comments or criticisms. Just go easy on the criticisms, I am very sensitive.
Your humble blogger
I have agreed to join my blogging with the blog of another. This union, this merger is epic. No more are we like Martha and the Donald- competing in similar format. We are the hip version of Mary Matlin and James Carville. We are now one.
Killer, I think a tear just fell from my frigid-bitch face.
I would use this introductory post to to tell your family, I mean readers, sorid stories about you from your college and post-college years, but I think they know everything, so that would just be taking up valuable space on your blog. Instead, let's read about ME!
Now- for the story of how I got here.I had, what some considered, my own entertaining venture- spawned and inspired by the very blog I post to tonight- Killer Rants. I was rather candid on my blog and told stories that involved a deck of nude men playing cards, a hairdresser that offered up her man for my pleasure, and a list of things that I think make you an asshole. Unfortunately, news of my blog spread about my work like wildfire and soon HR was reading. Not that I'm a pussy, but I do have aspirations of one day moving up in the company. Once I heard that HR was taking guesses at which co-workers I was referring to in my own rants, I felt it prudent to bail.
I would like to formally thank you, Killer, for allowing me to be the Garfunkel to your Simon. I look forward to being part of this piece of your world. I think we'll make a wonderful team.
By the way, I always post in Verdana font- small. I also use spell check, but if I've misspelled a word so badly it doesn't show as a replacement option, I leave it in.
If you don't like it, I suggest that you get your own damn blog.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Recently on Yahoo news there was a story about a man who was killed by his roommate for using the last of the toilet paper. Most of you might think this sounds rash, but I can feel where he is coming from. I seriously doubt this was the only thing that precipitated the killing. The room mate probably had been drinking his milk and even erasing the messages on the answering machine without telling him who called. I say there had to be more to it because he not only killed him, but he killed him with a combination of a sledgehammer and a claw hammer. You might think that a sledgehammer would be enough, but you have apparently not ever done much work with a sledgehammer. It is strictly a heavy duty tool. It really lacks the knack of getting into hard to reach areas and doing the finer work. If you don't really understand, I recommend you try hammering a small nail into your wall with a sledgehammer. In turn, try smashing someone's head open with a claw hammer sometime. You will be there all day. I think this choice of weapons shows a guy with good problem solving skills. His defense was that they had been arguing about the toilet paper all weekend, and then the guy pulled a rifle on him, so he beat him to death with a pair of hammers. At first glance it would seem rifle beats hammer, but not all weapons follow the simplicity of rock, scissors, paper. There are actually multiple lessons to be learned from this story. 1.) Always keep a secret roll of toilet paper hidden from your roommate. It might someday save your life. 2.) If you do use the last of the toilet paper, run a water hose into the bathroom and tell your roommate you are trying to be more sophisticated and this is a bidet. 3.) If your roommate keeps a sledgehammer and a claw hammer lying around the house avoid any arguments.
I just hope the police allowed this guy to clean his ass before taking him to jail.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
My entire system is thrown out of sorts now that I am living in the South again. I have spent several years living throughout California, which has a progressive stance against second hand smoke. This includes, to my delight, the illegality of smoking inside public buildings. So, smoking in bars and restaurants is not allowed. I have a hearty appetite and an even larger desire to get my drink on, so I frequent many local drinking and eating establishments. Although many states have passed laws outlawing smoking in bars and restaurants, Tennessee is not one of them. That means when I come home from enjoying a few drinks in a bar I smell like an ashtray. I have a few friends who smoke and I have even fewer friends who actually read this blog, so I stand to offend about a fourth of my readership, but damn cigarette smoke stinks, and I am tired of my clothes and abundant body hair soaking up the offensive odor of other peoples bad habits. I have a bad habit of flatulence. I am sure that it would be widely viewed as impolite of me to expel so much flatulence in a closed space as to make everyone in that space smell like my ass.
Now due to this smoke-tastic smell I have obtained, through no fault of my own. I have to take a shower. This might not sound so terrible to many of you, but I took a shower a couple of days ago and I was hoping to hold off until I had to go back to work. It is the small pleasures in life that really matter, and mine just happen to include the freedom of not having to wash myself very often.
I am not actually expecting any empathy from many of you, but a little sympathy might help. It helps that the shower masks my tears caused by having to bathe on a non work day.
Friday, February 17, 2006
If you glance up to the right hand corner of the page here you will see a button that says, "next blog." I really recommend you hit it sometime. It takes you, completely at random, to a strange new blog. It is quite an experience. Many are in foreign languages that I can not read, so I assume they are writing long elaborate blogs about me. This helps me feel more important and paranoid at the same time. A few are pretty cool and appear to be written by people who are living in strange and exotic locales. Some, however are very bizarre and troubling, in my own humble opinion. So, I have begun to wonder what would a person think if they clicked next blog and ended up on this site. Would they find me entertaining? Could they see me as narcissistic and shallow? Or maybe they would not be able to read English and just assume that I am writing about them.
I tend to write this blog in such a way that the three people who read it will find it funny. If you don't know me than I can understand how it would often make me appear psychotic. I assure you, several years of therapy and a daily cocktail of highly powerful pharmaceutical agents can allow me to legally say, "I am not psychotic." I am going to take this moment to welcome any "next blog" button pushers and give them a chance to get to know me a little better.
Killer is not my real name. It is a nickname I acquired when I was very young. I have never actually killed anything. It is only a play on my middle name, Kelly. I am not really sure why my parents decided to name me Kelly, but they did, and I can not change it now. The vast majority of my friends still refer to me by the name Killer, but not at work. It could be disconcerting to a hospital patient if they knew their nurse was going by the moniker, Killer.
I am a smart ass by nature and often can not control it. It is like tourette's syndrome. I frequently will say things that I find funny even when other people feel it is inappropriate. Like wondering aloud, while watching the plane crash coverage for JFK Jr., if he was listening to John Denver when the plane went down.
If you do happen to stumble upon my blog I hope you enjoy it, and please leave a comment, whether good or bad. Also feel free to leave a plug for your own blog. I would love to check it out. It takes a really long time to find good blogs just pushing the next blog button. But I really have nothing better to do.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
My brother (in law, but I will claim him as the real deal), Ray, has left an angry and besmirching comment to my previous blog. He calls me a tree hugger (actually he called me a tree "huger") for making light of our current Vice President's proclivity for shooting old people in the face. I am hurt by this label. I don't think it makes me a tree hugger because I don't like Dick Cheney shooting old people. It makes me an old people hugger, but I don't really endorse that notion either. Old people tend to be squishy and brittle. They are also short. I don't know if old people just shrink with age or maybe people are just getting taller each generation, or maybe there is a correlation with height and the ability to reach the later years, but I usually have to bend over in order to hug them. They also tend to smell like moth balls or bengay. Everyone always talks about the way babies smell, but not the way old people smell. Suprisingly enough, they both frequently smell like poop. The biggest problem with the elderly is their apparent inability to not stand between Dick Cheney's shotgun and quail. But I have digressed from the original topic of this blog, Ray.
Ray implied that I don't enjoy living in a free country. I do, as a matter of fact, enjoy it very much. I especially enjoy how it allows me to mock it, criticize it and even dream of improving it. ( I think that last sentence would be dramatically improved if you read it again, but this time hum the national anthem softly to yourself.) This great and free country even allows for me to go out and hug trees, or old people. I am going to leave work and do both.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Friday, February 10, 2006
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Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The older I get the harder it is to put these needs aside. I have less tolerance for outside views and more bad habits I don't want to change. I just need to find the perfect woman for me. One that likes to sit in the corner quietly while I lounge around the living room in my underwear and watch modern marvels on the history channel. I guess she would not have to sit in the corner, she could stay in the bedroom, or the kitchen. Just as long as she was out of sight and not making any opinions known to me. I don't see how this is too much to ask. I don't have to be alone all the time, just about 50% of the day. Not including sleeping and bathroom time. I guess I could tolerate having a wife around about 2 hours out of the day, but not everyday. Maybe I can start a program where you can do time shares on spouses. I would not be sexist. I would include husbands in this program. There are many female friends of mine who only want a man when there are chores around the house that need tending to, or maybe just somebody to yell at. Maybe they could even show up with a couple of kids for a few hours and then take them away as well. I would enjoy having a wife and kids every once in a while. I could use them to take photos for my mom to hang around the house. It would also give her some grandkids to spoil. A lot of the time this seems to be my only motivation to ever want to have kids. Plus once she gets old and senile I could have my time share family watch her. I could say, "hey, rental (this is what I would call my time share kid) go catch your Grandma, she is out in traffic again." He would probably cry about my lack of desire to learn his real name, but he is just a time share kid and I won't have any real attachment to him. Unless I start the time share family service I don't see any way to remedy my unique family needs. I would just order a bride from Russia or S.E. Asia, but then they would not know anyone here in the State so they would NEVER leave me alone. I could probably make them sit in the corner or the back room a lot easier, but subconsciously I would keep wondering what they were up to and not be able to really enjoy watching modern marvels on the history channel, and deep down that is all I really want.