Ever notice how it's the little things in life that amuse us so much? More to the point, ever notice how it's the silly little idiocies in life that amuse us more than anything else? Well, this is not as much ''the little blog that could'' as it is ''the blog that enjoys going up the down escalator in your local mall.'' Will it have anything of real importance? No, probably not. But enjoy the ride never the less!

 
"And Brace Yourself, Because This Is Really Going To Hurt..." (Take 2)

When there’s a lull in your work shift when barely anyone stops in to peruse you merchandise, it can be a welcomed change from the usual madcap rush of a retail store. When there’s a longer than usual lull in your work shift, it can be a wonderful chance for you to tackle a number of tasks that could otherwise never get finished since you’d be always interrupted by customers. And when that lull reaches out to encompass, oh, most of the whole day, you quickly discover how easily your brain can be entertained.

Entertaining brains even in a shallow fashion is preferred over having your brain get so bored that it decides to vacate your cranium and take a tour of the wolf just to get some stimulation. So with that said, prepare for an extraordinary exhibition of the silly and sad antics of those we call: the bored-bored-bored-bored kiosk employee!

The horrible ailment know as “Boredomus Non-Compus Stimulus” (which in all likelihood can be found in the textbook, “False Medical Conditions and Diseases”) first began to set in the later hours of my shift. And by that I mean 11am...which is rather sad considering how the 8-hour shift began at 9:30am. As the boredom set in, it caused me to contemplate giving a discarded Bob The Builder keychain doll a frontal lobotomy. It was a discarded keychain doll to begin with, so I probably could have gotten away with it too.

This subsequently led me to consider a brain transplant between Bob and a Winnie-the-Pooh knapsack doll. After all, it is widely known that Pooh has fuzz for brains, and I was wiling to bet that Bob would make for a compatible donor despite his apparent skills in construction.

For such precision surgery, I decided the best course of action as using one of the company’s matknives in lieu of a scalpel. In the end, though, I decided against this radical if not brilliant experimental surgery. First off, I had no anesthetic. Second, I had no malpractice insurance. And after that admittedly misguided attempt involving a grafting of Mr. Potato Head’s facial features onto Barbie’s head, better safe than sorry.

This is not by any means an indication that it ended there.

Hours passed by with all the speed of a bonsai tree. Desperation swelled like an overripe goiter. Pathetic analogies were constructed with all the respect and class of the Batman & Robin movie.

But then I was rescued by something most unexpected: a change of places. Yes indeed, I was switched over to the kiosk. Surely a change of scenery would do me good! And it did. However, the complete lack of anyone stopping to check out the kiosk’s merchandise, was not so good. Yet once again I was rescued by something even more unexpected: cardboard!

Yes indeed, cardboard. A number of smallish cardboard boxes had been collapsed and were sitting in a pile in the kiosk, just waiting to be sent to the recycling bin. But I had other plans for them in the meantime, oh yes...

At first I set two of the small, collapsed boxes down on the shiny mall floor, and used them as skis. I happily glided about inside that narrow walking strip in my kiosk, thinking that if it was winter outside, I could pretend I was out skiing. Though knowing my luck, I’d manage to clock myself into an imaginary tree and have the paramedics take me to the hospital for a strange concussion.

Then when the ski trip was over and I could no longer hole up in the chalet drinking hot chocolate, I took these same collapsed boxes and randomly set them down on the floor of the kiosk’s little walkway. For the next hour, I only stepped on the collapsed boxes, going so far as to delude suddenly-six-year-old myself into thinking that the mall floor within the kiosk might be some terrible, horrible, no-good-very-bad stream of oatmeal. Evil oatmeal. Evil undead oatmeal.

Today’s Disclaimer: not all oatmeal is evil or undead, and the views expressed in this particular bit of nowhere are by no means derisive or definitive. Oatmeal advocates and lovers need not start protesting this Little Bit of Nowhere.


posted by Phillip at 7:21 PM

 
"And Brace Yourself, Because This Is Really Going To Hurt...."

When there’s a lull in your work shift when barely anyone stops in to peruse you merchandise, it can be a welcomed change from the usual madcap rush of a retail store. When there’s a longer than usual lull in your work shift, it can be a wonderful chance for you to tackle a number of tasks that could otherwise never get finished since you’d be always interrupted by customers. And when that lull reaches out to encompass, oh, most of the whole day, you quickly discover how easily your brain can be entertained.

Entertaining brains even in a shallow fashion is preferred over having your brain get so bored that it decides to vacate your cranium and take a tour of the wolf just to get some stimulation. So with that said, prepare for an extraordinary exhibition of the silly and sad antics of those we call: the bored-bored-bored-bored kiosk employee!

The horrible ailment know as "Boredomus Non-Compus Stimulus" (which in all likelihood can be found in the textbook, "False Medical Conditions and Diseases") first began to set in the later hours of my shift. And by that I mean 11am...which is rather sad considering how the 8-hour shift began at 9:30am. As the boredom set in, it caused me to contemplate giving a discarded Bob The Builder keychain doll a frontal lobotomy. It was a discarded keychain doll to begin with, so I probably could have gotten away with it too.

This subsequently led me to consider a brain transplant between Bob and a Winnie-the-Pooh knapsack doll. After all, it is widely known that Pooh has fuzz for brains, and I was wiling to bet that Bob would make for a compatible donor despite his apparent skills in construction.

For such precision surgery, I decided the best course of action as using one of the company’s matknives in lieu of a scalpel. In the end, though, I decided against this radical if not brilliant experimental surgery. First off, I had no anesthetic. Second, I had no malpractice insurance. And after that admittedly misguided attempt involving a grafting of Mr. Potato Head’s facial features onto Barbie’s head, better safe than sorry.

This is not by any means an indication that it ended there.

Hours passed by with all the speed of a bonsai tree. Desperation swelled like an overripe goiter. Pathetic analogies were constructed with all the respect and class of the Batman & Robin movie.

But then I was rescued by something most unexpected: a change of places. Yes indeed, I was switched over to the kiosk. Surely a change of scenery would do me good! And it did. However, the complete lack of anyone stopping to check out the kiosk’s merchandise, was not so good. Yet once again I was rescued by something even more unexpected: cardboard!

Yes indeed, cardboard. A number of smallish cardboard boxes had been collapsed and were sitting in a pile in the kiosk, just waiting to be sent to the recycling bin. But I had other plans for them in the meantime, oh yes...

At first I set two of the small, collapsed boxes down on the shiny mall floor, and used them as skis. I happily glided about inside that narrow walking strip in my kiosk, thinking that if it was winter outside, I could pretend I was out skiing. Though knowing my luck, I’d manage to clock myself into an imaginary tree and have the paramedics take me to the hospital for a strange concussion.

Then when the ski trip was over and I could no longer hole up in the chalet drinking hot chocolate, I took these same collapsed boxes and randomly set them down on the floor of the kiosk’s little walkway. For the next hour, I only stepped on the collapsed boxes, going so far as to delude suddenly-six-year-old myself into thinking that the mall floor within the kiosk might be some terrible, horrible, no-good-very-bad stream of oatmeal. Evil oatmeal. Evil undead oatmeal.

Today’s Disclaimer: not all oatmeal is evil or undead, and the views expressed in this particular bit of nowhere are by no means derisive or definitive. Oatmeal advocates and lovers need not start protesting this Little Bit of Nowhere.


posted by Phillip at 7:54 AM

 
A Lemony Snickett State-Of-Mind

What’s this? Suddenly this little of nowhere has an occupant again? Doest your eyes deceive you? Well, they’re only deceiving you if you somehow see the image of a giant commando carrot somewhere on this page. But other than that, yes indeed, there is life yet in this little bit of nowhere.

So where have I been, you ask? And furthermore, you still ask, where’s Waldo? While I cannot answer the latter question, I can say that a series of unpleasant if not unfortunate events has been dogging me the last few days, and where my philosophy is concerned it’s good to stay silent when you’d as soon not talk to people.

Certainly the last few days have by no means been wonderful, but I’m not about to dwell on them and rant and whine and complain. That will really accomplish nothing, and besides, I have already set my resolve to move past them. Winston Churchill was indeed right when he once said, "When you’re marching through hell, keep marching."

And besides, that’s not to say that nothing of the peculiarly ridiculous has crossed my paths in the last few days either. Why, just the other day I discovered that my sex appeal extends to more than mere elevator doors: I was goosed by a laptop carrier bag. I had placed it atop the cash counter and was filling it with the usual crumpled paper so as to let customers see how much the bag can hold. Well, I turned my back on it for but a brief second to grab another handful of stuffing…and the next thing I know, my ass had been smacked.

Some of you may argue that the bag was just sitting off-balance, and just happened to smack my ass by sheer accident when it toppled over. But I’m pretty sure this whole incident was pre-meditated on the laptop carrier’s part. I’m suddenly concerned to turn my back on the large 29' luggage carriers we have in the store….

I should also add that nothing is so amusing in the morning as coming into the mall and seeing a kindly old lady with a flyswatter, racing madly across the foodcourt in an ultimately futile attempt to swat an offending fly. She almost managed a kill over the course of five different swats on five different foodcourt tables before giving up.

In other news, I note that Fox Kids is adding a new TV Anime series to their Saturday morning line-up: Shaman King. For those unawares, the series is about a bunch of people (most of then in high school) who are shamans and can communicate with the spirits of the dead. In fact, these shamans are so good that they can use these spirits in actual combat, and the one destined to be the ultimate Shaman (or, the Shaman King, for those of you not paying attention to the title of the series) has to contend with a lot of very nasty shamans who want that mantle and power for themselves.

Oddly enough, when I first learned about this being picked up for, of all things, a Saturday morning slot, my first thought was not to cringe and say, "I hope they don’t botch up the series when they dub it." Nor did I think, "Well, one more series to help Anime become more accepted as not-just-for-kids."

Knowing full well the shamanic nature of the series, my first thought was this: the betting pool is open as to how fast overreactive parents and religious groups panic about the series and start protesting.

Today’s Lesson: even if life hands you lemons, you still need sugar and an outdoor stand before cashing in on any sort of lemonade.


posted by Phillip at 8:25 AM

 
"Bad Coke, No Biscuit!"

And the calvalcade of catastrophes continues! That colourful bit of alliteration aside, yesterday saw more incidents involving inanimate objects trying to usurp my authority on this planet. Now I'm not overly paranoid or anything; I don't live in fear of being subjected to an alien rectal probe, nor do I believe that the second shooter on the grassy knoll was in fact a squirrel trained by the CIA as a sniper. However, yesterday's events give me reason to be suspicious that my bike is nursing some lingering homicidal tendencies.

There I am, biking to work, when I cross over a bridge. It's right about then that the chain on my bike decides it no longer wants to be dragged back and forth along all those gears. It tries to break free, and discovers that, like chickens, it can't fly away to freedom. This proved rather troublesome for me, since the chain is somewhat needed to keep both forward momentum and balance. I'm sure that amidst all the panicked "I-think-I-just-wet-myself!" expressions on my face in those few seconds, I looked very unimpressed.

More than likely, that sort of look occurred when I realized I had to choose between two options as my bike careened wildly in its Jenny-Craig-thin bike lane. I could crash into the curb of the sidewalk, which is higher than most other curbs since it's on a newly-renovated bridge. Or I could crash into the cars driving along next to me. For as tempted as I was to snag that lovely little BMW hood ornament as my hapless body bounced over the bumper, I chose the sidewalk.

The bike manages to do some sort of potentially physics-defying move by sliding sideways with the front and back tires parallel to each other, and both of the bike tires hit the curb at the same time. This is followed by the rest of the bike hitting the sidewalk. That, of course, is followed by the rest of me hitting the sidewalk. Happily, all my gymnastics skills saved my face from going all Phantom of the Opera-ish, and I was able to put my hands out and stop my head from cracking against the concrete with a few inches to spare.

And yes, I am well aware that could have also given way to a substancial hairline fracture of the wrists.

In the end, the chain was scolded severely and rethreaded onto the teeth of the gear, and I managed to make it to work on time, albeit with a slight limp. It's nothing to worry and go, "Oh, does it hurt?", because quite frankly, yes it hurts. It's not a horrible pain, but when you manage to connect the top of your kneecap with the edge of the curb, then hurt will come of it. It's more of an annoyance than anything, and most of that is directed at the bike for letting the chain get so uppity.

Later on that evening, as John & I sat around outside drinking our respective caffeine-enriched draughts, we tried to teach a Coke can to sit/stay. It only listened half the time, but it really seemed to know how to "roll over...and over and over", which does make me optimistic about teaching the Coke can to fetch my a newspaper and slippers in the mornings.

Life-Affirming Link of the Day: http://www.8legged.com/


posted by Phillip at 4:02 PM