The problem is twofold. Fifty percent of the problem is that I’m busy, and fifty percent of the problem is that it’s a beautiful day on Earth. Hop in my pocket, because we’re going to blog in the car (which we are NOT supposed to do) and then we’re going to be done by the time I get to my desk. That’s it, that’s the blogging window. Steer for me, will you? I have to type.
I will tell you, I forgot how much of a pain in the ass this can be. Blogging when you don’t feel like blogging and instead want to curl up with your blanky and some hot chocolate and watch Family Feud. Don’t be alarmed, I’m just going to bang my face against the steering wheel until it stops whining.
Whoa, that was quick. Can you guess how much the driver of the car ahead of us loves Catholic Radio?
Why is it in black and white? I don’t know, I did it accidentally while blurring out the license plate number, which took me long enough to figure out, so black and white is fine.
And the answer is four, that’s how much the driver of the car loves Catholic Radio. Four Units. Those suckers are straight, someone took a little time and applied those bumper stickers, one at a time until there were four of them on there. This boggles my mind, I’m getting worried about this person up here.
Let’s cut behind Kroger and get across Frantz and park and get inside.
You gotta bring all your crap inside with you, even in the middle of Dublin. They keep sending me emails about stuff getting stolen, people leaving things in clear view. GPS units, files with personal information, we can’t leave anything in here, nothing on the seats, it all goes inside and briefcases are for squares so this is going to be awkward.
This duck is hissing at me. Like, walking toward me, hissing like it thinks it’s a king cobra. Hey, screw you duck, get over here I’ll take your picture. I’m pretty sure I can take this duck if it comes down to it, but cooler heads prevail. Inside we go.
Into the elevator, and this time it’s empty but don’t start screwing around or disco dancing or whatever the kids do these days. In my building, during business hours there is a solid chance some maintenance guys are watching you on a monitor someplace. They tell me there’s an awful lot of male flexing going on in solo elevator rides, so just be aware. They say most dudes are really checking themselves out. Women on the other hand tend to use the time to check their teeth and look at phones and fix what appear to be wedgies.
Me, I just hang out and look for nose hairs, then forget about them when the doors open. Really, if you think about it, nose hairs are kind of everybody else’s problem. Other times I just stand there and try to look as cool as possible so the maintenance guys will be like, “That guy is rad, man.”
There are a lot of things you can do in here when there are people. I was born without a sense of smell (really, it’s called anosmia), so there’s not much more hilarious to me than flatulence in an elevator. I can make a pretty convincing Who Farted face, nobody can prove anything.
One time Fourth Degree Comic Black Belt Mike Rothe and I were in an elevator full of students on campus, and the power went out briefly, maybe six seconds. And when it came back on, Mike clutched at his throat and hollered “my jewels!”
But MIke spent several years in Tibet living among the monks, watching nothing but Looney Toons and old episodes of Police Squad! Legally, he isn’t allowed to crack jokes around people without training anymore, because he can actually kill you.
Most of us have to operate under simpler guidelines. Like farting, for instance. It’s funny, and anyone can do it at home.
Anyway, people really don’t like that. They also don’t like it if you pretend you’re Morpheus and tell them there are Agents coming and that they have to do exactly as you say or they’ll never get out of the building. I mean, man – they don’t like that at ALL. It turns out, there’s sort of a law against that. Live-n-learn, I reckon.
What I don’t like is when people talk on their phones in the elevator. Five people on there, you’re just spewing your conversation all over everybody like barf. (Man, this one’s gross, sorry about that). Anyway, what you do is you get out your own phone, begin having a much louder conversation, and then slowly sync it up to his so you’re answering his questions or asking followups to whatever he’s answering. If you can, fart. (Damn, sorry dudes, seriously, I don’t know what’s going on.)
Come here and look at this. That’s where we came in down there.
Tom. Does Not. Like This.
Okay down this hallway here, past the front desk, tasty coffee, watch the television for a minute while they building a freaking media shrine to the dick who blew people up in Boston. Oh, they’re chasing one of the widows around, for crying out loud. I would like the reporters to put on big, brown bird suits and squawk like crows while they did that if it’s not too much trouble.
Sometimes there are cupcakes in here, but not today.
All right, blog’s over. Time to get to work. Let’s put up our feet and get on Facebook.