On the eve of 2007, with Christmas slightly behind us, millions of people worldwide are toying with trinkets and doo-dads purchased for them with love to enjoy over the holidays. Among these trinkets are such fine dandies as iPods, dvd's, stereos, televisions, and of course (these being modern ages and all) cell phones. Over the next few days and weeks these toys with be tinkered and mussed with until reaching the utmost user perfection possible. Thus, it is during this time that I, being for the most part cellphoneless, begin to discover the annoying attributes of cellphones and how they indeed speak volumes about their users.
Firstly, let us discuss the ringtone, that popular little device which allows one to display in tinny, discordant, and often too loud tones the hottest clear channel favorites, and polyphonic oldies. Normally, I am not opposed to the personalized ringtone as it allows one to escape from the presets (which themselves say an awful lot about the possessor of the phone).
For example, the standard Cingular ring. This tells one that the user is not hung up on the superficial and material that often go along with cellphone obsessionals. By using the standard ring one is saying, "Yes! You may call me whenever you like, and, if I can be bothered to learn how to use this damn thing, I might even pick up."
(note: the user of the standard ring tone most likely has a surplus of unheard voice-mails and unread SMS's)
Then there are those who resort to the secondary standard ringtones; the sambas, crescendos, cats meowing and children laughing which both amuse and terrify many a listener.
-The Samba, says efficiantly, "Yes, I like to be happy, yet I shan't be bothered to purchase a happy tune".
-The Crescendos, shrill and astute, announce the presence of the user and shout, "Look at me!"
-The Cats and Children, however, define a far different creature. Reserved for the Hollister girls, Soccer Moms and
Grandmothers crocheting away, the Cats and Children terrify those of a sane countenance nationwide. They say
simply, "Oh my GOD did you see her shoes?"
And then, we have the purchased ringtones, used merely to show off ones knowledge of the newest "artiste" (see usage of Kanye, Akon, or Green Day) or of the golden oldies (much preferable to the former).
What really tells one much of the user is their method of tone assignation and, indeed, usage. For example, some people set their phone at a conversationally appropriate level so that when it jingles, it does disrupt the flow of speech, but does let itself be known. This is what we refer to as the "appropriate level". Below this is the person who has their phone continually on vibrate or silent. This is what we call the "denial level", as one is obviously denying usage of the cellular technology they have at their fingertips. We may also refer to this as the "freedom level" as this person is free from the reins of the cell phone. Lastly we have the person who insists on having his volume pushed to the extreme as this person is (or believes himelf to be) very, very important. Thus, his phone and the messages it bears must be able to reach him at all times and, if necessary, tell all others of its import. Those who employ this "significant level" often chose to use ringtones as SMS announcers thus allowing what is normally a small "beep" to be transformed to a blatant announcement of ones own sense of self-importance. The art of taciturnity is foreign to the user of the "significant level".
That being said, I am pleased to announce my continuing absence of a cell phone, thus removing me from the hordes trinket tinkerers and cellphone possessional obsessionals.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Saturday, September 30, 2006
You've Got To Be Smurfing Kidding Me.
This week has been an interesting one. Interviews, job offers, declinations of said offers, and coming to terms with truths I'd rather not recognize. Such as the beast known as Paris Hilton/Travis Barker. Since when does white trash get to date rich trash? My world is turned upside down.
Aside from that, my own financial shortcomings have slapped me brisquely 'cross the face, as has my own intelligence. That's right, intelligence. In highscool I was in the top 50 of my class, and in college I pulled down a mighty 2.97 (nothing to stellar there), and yet I seem to be, when compared to my coworkers at Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, to be considered a genius. That's right, genius. Today, not one, but two people asked me, bewilderment on their faces, "How do you know so many words?" (to which my response was, "I'm an English major. I know words 'n' stuff,")
I need not tell you how stunned I was at this confession of naivete. Especially since the words they referred to were nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, I refer to our cheese collection as a "medley of dairy delights," and a "smorgasborgical carnival of cheese," but this is nothing a John Cleese fanatic would find out of the ordinary. It is true, also, that roast beef is, in Brittaspeak, referred to as "roasted beast", but again, any singular being who has viewed Jon Stewart's delightful pontifications will find this nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, to the employees of Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, this seems to be an anomaly.
Since when did owning a thesaurus become a rarity? Or watching the Daily Show? The Colbert Report (silent "t")? Or having an encyclopediac knowledge of Monty Python a talent to be rivaled with? Indeed, the amazement which crosses the faces of my coworkers when I merely state, "You've got to be smurfing kidding me," is a sight to behold.
Yes, I have two degrees and speak mutliple languages, but this shouldn't set me too far apart from those pursuing their AA's, should it? Or perhaps it is in instances such as these that one truly recognizes how much they have learned at their institution of higher knowledge. Zot.
Good lord get me out of this valley.
Aside from that, my own financial shortcomings have slapped me brisquely 'cross the face, as has my own intelligence. That's right, intelligence. In highscool I was in the top 50 of my class, and in college I pulled down a mighty 2.97 (nothing to stellar there), and yet I seem to be, when compared to my coworkers at Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, to be considered a genius. That's right, genius. Today, not one, but two people asked me, bewilderment on their faces, "How do you know so many words?" (to which my response was, "I'm an English major. I know words 'n' stuff,")
I need not tell you how stunned I was at this confession of naivete. Especially since the words they referred to were nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, I refer to our cheese collection as a "medley of dairy delights," and a "smorgasborgical carnival of cheese," but this is nothing a John Cleese fanatic would find out of the ordinary. It is true, also, that roast beef is, in Brittaspeak, referred to as "roasted beast", but again, any singular being who has viewed Jon Stewart's delightful pontifications will find this nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, to the employees of Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, this seems to be an anomaly.
Since when did owning a thesaurus become a rarity? Or watching the Daily Show? The Colbert Report (silent "t")? Or having an encyclopediac knowledge of Monty Python a talent to be rivaled with? Indeed, the amazement which crosses the faces of my coworkers when I merely state, "You've got to be smurfing kidding me," is a sight to behold.
Yes, I have two degrees and speak mutliple languages, but this shouldn't set me too far apart from those pursuing their AA's, should it? Or perhaps it is in instances such as these that one truly recognizes how much they have learned at their institution of higher knowledge. Zot.
Good lord get me out of this valley.
You've Got To Be Smurfing Kidding Me.
This week has been an interesting one. Interviews, job offers, declinations of said offers, and coming to terms with truths I'd rather not recognize. Such as the beast known as Paris Hilton/Travis Barker. Since when does white trash get to date rich trash? My world is turned upside down.
Aside from that, my own financial shortcomings have slapped me brisquely 'cross the face, as has my own intelligence. That's right, intelligence. In highscool I was in the top 50 of my class, and in college I pulled down a mighty 2.97 (nothing to stellar there), and yet I seem to be, when compared to my coworkers at Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, to be considered a genius. That's right, genius. Today, not one, but two people asked me, bewilderment on their faces, "How do you know so many words?" (to which my response was, "I'm an English major. I know words 'n' stuff,")
I need not tell you how stunned I was at this confession of naivete. Especially since the words they referred to were nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, I refer to our cheese collection as a "medley of dairy delights," and a "smorgasborgical carnival of cheese," but this is nothing a John Cleese fanatic would find out of the ordinary. It is true, also, that roast beef is, in Brittaspeak, referred to as "roasted beast", but again, any singular being who has viewed Jon Stewart's delightful pontifications will find this nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, to the employees of Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, this seems to be an anomaly.
Since when did owning a thesaurus become a rarity? Or watching the Daily Show? The Colbert Report (silent "t")? Or having an encyclopediac knowledge of Monty Python a talent to be rivaled with? Indeed, the amazement which crosses the faces of my coworkers when I merely state, "You've got to be smurfing kidding me," is a sight to behold.
Yes, I have two degrees and speak mutliple languages, but this shouldn't set me too far apart from those pursuing their AA's, should it? Or perhaps it is in instances such as these that one truly recognizes how much they have learned at their institution of higher knowledge. Zot.
Good lord get me out of this valley.
Aside from that, my own financial shortcomings have slapped me brisquely 'cross the face, as has my own intelligence. That's right, intelligence. In highscool I was in the top 50 of my class, and in college I pulled down a mighty 2.97 (nothing to stellar there), and yet I seem to be, when compared to my coworkers at Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, to be considered a genius. That's right, genius. Today, not one, but two people asked me, bewilderment on their faces, "How do you know so many words?" (to which my response was, "I'm an English major. I know words 'n' stuff,")
I need not tell you how stunned I was at this confession of naivete. Especially since the words they referred to were nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, I refer to our cheese collection as a "medley of dairy delights," and a "smorgasborgical carnival of cheese," but this is nothing a John Cleese fanatic would find out of the ordinary. It is true, also, that roast beef is, in Brittaspeak, referred to as "roasted beast", but again, any singular being who has viewed Jon Stewart's delightful pontifications will find this nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, to the employees of Togo's/Baskin Robbins, purveyors of fine sandwiches and iced creams, this seems to be an anomaly.
Since when did owning a thesaurus become a rarity? Or watching the Daily Show? The Colbert Report (silent "t")? Or having an encyclopediac knowledge of Monty Python a talent to be rivaled with? Indeed, the amazement which crosses the faces of my coworkers when I merely state, "You've got to be smurfing kidding me," is a sight to behold.
Yes, I have two degrees and speak mutliple languages, but this shouldn't set me too far apart from those pursuing their AA's, should it? Or perhaps it is in instances such as these that one truly recognizes how much they have learned at their institution of higher knowledge. Zot.
Good lord get me out of this valley.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
High School Drama
I woke up this morning with a sense of foreboding. After a fun weekend, and job-tastic search accomplishments (or somewhat) something about this Tuesday morning seemed amiss... and then I received this email from my Mom:
"I officially work in the GHETTO.
arrived at school just now, 6:50 am and the entire perimeter (good math word) of the outside of the school is majorly tagged. purple graffitti everywhere, tagged all the school vans, broke out the van windows, burned the snack bar out on the football field......i am sure there is more.
Perfect day for it too! ALL the VP's in the district are meeting here for visitation. This friday, 2 of our graduates, who are now pro-ball for the Giants and the Detroit Lions, are coming to dedicate the scoreboard they gave the school.
Welcome to the GHETTO!"
There was a time when Highland Highschool attracted the smartest teenagers and most gifted athlete's in the Antelope Valley. A time when teachers fought one another to teach here, when the houses surrounding the area were a worth a few more thousand dollars than houses a mile away. And now, we have a school full of taggers, miscreants, ruffians, gangsters, felons, and coke-heads. Nestled comfortably in this crowd stands the last refuge of hope for Palmdale's future. Amongst the I.B. and AP kids you find those working jobs afterschool, volunteering their hours, participating in sports, and NOT tagging school grounds and torching symbols of hard work.
What symbols of hard work? How about the Snack Shack that has apparently been burnt? It hasn't been there that long. In fact, it was brand new my junior year. The ASB class worked hard for that Snack Shack so that we might better serve the patrons of sporting events with nachos, hot dogs, sodas, candy, chili and team spirit paraphenelia as they cheer on our athletes.
MY hard work went into that place. MY blood, sweat and tears (and those of thousands of others) went into that school. I ran, swam, sprinted, studied, laughed, acted, sang, postered, orientated, and graduated at this school. And all it takes for my hard work to seem in vain is a ragtag group of cocky little assholes who have something against the institution.
What happened boys? Did you fail that math test? Get sent to S.O.S.? Not make the football team? Get blamed for being nothing more than a one dimensional gang member intent of hating "the man"? Well guess what, your actions against this school have proven you to be nothing more than that. Congratulations on holding up a time tested and proven stereotype. Go fuck yourselves.
One more thing, I'm no fan of "the man" and no fan of Palmdale, but in a world where some people have very little to be proud of, their alma mater is a tried and true monument to some form of success in their lives. And then some little assholes come screw it up. As for "the man", he sucks, but to succeed in life, some give and take is needed. And, as far as I'm concerned, the powers that be in the high school world can HARDLY be considered "the man". He's higher up than a high school VP.
"I officially work in the GHETTO.
arrived at school just now, 6:50 am and the entire perimeter (good math word) of the outside of the school is majorly tagged. purple graffitti everywhere, tagged all the school vans, broke out the van windows, burned the snack bar out on the football field......i am sure there is more.
Perfect day for it too! ALL the VP's in the district are meeting here for visitation. This friday, 2 of our graduates, who are now pro-ball for the Giants and the Detroit Lions, are coming to dedicate the scoreboard they gave the school.
Welcome to the GHETTO!"
There was a time when Highland Highschool attracted the smartest teenagers and most gifted athlete's in the Antelope Valley. A time when teachers fought one another to teach here, when the houses surrounding the area were a worth a few more thousand dollars than houses a mile away. And now, we have a school full of taggers, miscreants, ruffians, gangsters, felons, and coke-heads. Nestled comfortably in this crowd stands the last refuge of hope for Palmdale's future. Amongst the I.B. and AP kids you find those working jobs afterschool, volunteering their hours, participating in sports, and NOT tagging school grounds and torching symbols of hard work.
What symbols of hard work? How about the Snack Shack that has apparently been burnt? It hasn't been there that long. In fact, it was brand new my junior year. The ASB class worked hard for that Snack Shack so that we might better serve the patrons of sporting events with nachos, hot dogs, sodas, candy, chili and team spirit paraphenelia as they cheer on our athletes.
MY hard work went into that place. MY blood, sweat and tears (and those of thousands of others) went into that school. I ran, swam, sprinted, studied, laughed, acted, sang, postered, orientated, and graduated at this school. And all it takes for my hard work to seem in vain is a ragtag group of cocky little assholes who have something against the institution.
What happened boys? Did you fail that math test? Get sent to S.O.S.? Not make the football team? Get blamed for being nothing more than a one dimensional gang member intent of hating "the man"? Well guess what, your actions against this school have proven you to be nothing more than that. Congratulations on holding up a time tested and proven stereotype. Go fuck yourselves.
One more thing, I'm no fan of "the man" and no fan of Palmdale, but in a world where some people have very little to be proud of, their alma mater is a tried and true monument to some form of success in their lives. And then some little assholes come screw it up. As for "the man", he sucks, but to succeed in life, some give and take is needed. And, as far as I'm concerned, the powers that be in the high school world can HARDLY be considered "the man". He's higher up than a high school VP.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Roller Disco or Bowling Disco? You Decide!!
It's that time again!
That time of year when the sweatbands and tubesocks get pulled out of the drawers. That time of year when fresh goldfishies get placed into platformed footwear, and wide collars become all the rage!
That's right kids! It's time to start arranging your wardrobe, because this year it's a 70's Birthday for yours truly. Really, I just want an excuse to wear rollerskates, but who can blame me?
So cast your vote now: Bowling or Roller Disco?
Eiher way, we'll be drinking and having a good time, so choose wisely!
More details to follow, but here's the story so far:
October 27th (Friday)
Orange County
Nighttime
70's Gear, and not limited to bell bottoms and tie-dye. Bonus points for primo creativity... like this guy:
Leave me a message and let me know what you think: Bowling or Rollerskating!
Thursday, September 21, 2006
In Which Insult is Added To Injury
In the previous blog I took you on a journey of a few of the insults paid to me over the last year. There are many more, some even more infuriating than what was mentioned, yet in the face of this most horrible insult even the anger caused by Johannes' Dublin wave eem trite and fickle. Instead of recap the details, I'll post the e-mail I was sent:
Sept. 11
Katja,
It's the 11th!!! Is there a new little brother in the house? Did you and Johannes decide on a name? I hope everything went (or goes) well!
Best wishes!!
Sept. 15
Britta,
Nick Aljoscha was born on september 4th. It is a very intense time right now, with Ben having started school, Julius being jealous of that (!) and the baby here. But everything went perfect, I could go home two hours after having had the baby. Photo attached - he looks just like Ben and Juli :)
Don't take me wrong when asking: Mrs. Spahn said you took 150.- Euro before leaving - did you have a money problem here? you could have asked, we would have gladly helped out!
Hope everything is fine for you and you are glad to be back with your friends!
Katja
Now, read that second one again...do you see it? The accusation of me being a petty thief... as accused by the Cleaning Lady, and not just any cleaning lady, but the one who was hired two weeks before I left. Hmm... could this be a case of, perhaps, the butler did it? And then pointed the finger 9,000 miles away towards the previously employed Au Pair, the person Katja trusted with what should be her most precious possessions, day and night for an entire year?
Now, just like Dane Cook, I've always wanted to be in a heist; a sexy, cool, slic heist involving people that look, act and talk like Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Matt Damon, Don Cheadle, Scott Caan, and Casey Affleck. Do you think such denizes of deviousness peddle around with 150.- euro? NO! They knock over casinos and get away with it, they get their spouses to pose as pregnant movie stars, and they're all ridiculously good looking. They don't get the babysitter to nip cash from a carelssly laid about wallet.
What. the. fuck.
Oh, and the kicker: Katja left town a day before I did, remember? So even if I HAD taken 150.- euro, how the hell would I have gotten it from her wallet... in France?! Unless of course I tapped into the speed force, ran to Les Issambres, stole the money, ran back to Frankfurt to pack my things and subsequently fly to Los Angeles. Yeah, that's it. I tapped into the speed force, made Wally West proud, and giggled in glee at my increased fortune of 150.- euro. No. Sorry. Didn't happen.
Even the fact that Katja has apologized, and informed me:
"I am more than happy to hear about the money. I never thought you were capable of it. This reconfirms our decision to say goodbye to Mrs. Spahn - we have terminated her contract because nothing worked out the way we wanted it. Can't believe she accused you of this. And she just stated it as a fact, not even a suspicion..."
Hardly makes up for this. I mean, when you're already having problems with the new Putzfrau and then she accuses your old Au Pair of theft, well then Ms. Professor of Law and Mr. Corporate Lawyer, let's do a little simple math here...2+2 = 4 you dumbshits. Christ.
So that's that. I, Britta Brown, Previously Employed Au Pair Extraordinaire, am no better than a common thief. Thanks for making me look back upon my time with your family with fond memories Katja.
Sept. 11
Katja,
It's the 11th!!! Is there a new little brother in the house? Did you and Johannes decide on a name? I hope everything went (or goes) well!
Best wishes!!
Sept. 15
Britta,
Nick Aljoscha was born on september 4th. It is a very intense time right now, with Ben having started school, Julius being jealous of that (!) and the baby here. But everything went perfect, I could go home two hours after having had the baby. Photo attached - he looks just like Ben and Juli :)
Don't take me wrong when asking: Mrs. Spahn said you took 150.- Euro before leaving - did you have a money problem here? you could have asked, we would have gladly helped out!
Hope everything is fine for you and you are glad to be back with your friends!
Katja
Now, read that second one again...do you see it? The accusation of me being a petty thief... as accused by the Cleaning Lady, and not just any cleaning lady, but the one who was hired two weeks before I left. Hmm... could this be a case of, perhaps, the butler did it? And then pointed the finger 9,000 miles away towards the previously employed Au Pair, the person Katja trusted with what should be her most precious possessions, day and night for an entire year?
Now, just like Dane Cook, I've always wanted to be in a heist; a sexy, cool, slic heist involving people that look, act and talk like Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Matt Damon, Don Cheadle, Scott Caan, and Casey Affleck. Do you think such denizes of deviousness peddle around with 150.- euro? NO! They knock over casinos and get away with it, they get their spouses to pose as pregnant movie stars, and they're all ridiculously good looking. They don't get the babysitter to nip cash from a carelssly laid about wallet.
What. the. fuck.
Oh, and the kicker: Katja left town a day before I did, remember? So even if I HAD taken 150.- euro, how the hell would I have gotten it from her wallet... in France?! Unless of course I tapped into the speed force, ran to Les Issambres, stole the money, ran back to Frankfurt to pack my things and subsequently fly to Los Angeles. Yeah, that's it. I tapped into the speed force, made Wally West proud, and giggled in glee at my increased fortune of 150.- euro. No. Sorry. Didn't happen.
Even the fact that Katja has apologized, and informed me:
"I am more than happy to hear about the money. I never thought you were capable of it. This reconfirms our decision to say goodbye to Mrs. Spahn - we have terminated her contract because nothing worked out the way we wanted it. Can't believe she accused you of this. And she just stated it as a fact, not even a suspicion..."
Hardly makes up for this. I mean, when you're already having problems with the new Putzfrau and then she accuses your old Au Pair of theft, well then Ms. Professor of Law and Mr. Corporate Lawyer, let's do a little simple math here...2+2 = 4 you dumbshits. Christ.
So that's that. I, Britta Brown, Previously Employed Au Pair Extraordinaire, am no better than a common thief. Thanks for making me look back upon my time with your family with fond memories Katja.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
In Which I Recap Previous Injuries and Eventually Add Insult.
Adding insult to injury: favored past time of vengeful types worldwide. Riotous French revolutionaires? Check. Viking raiders off the coast of Nova Scotia? Check. Hitler versus the Jews? Double Check. Katja and Johannes towards previously employed Au pair (Me)? Well, let's review the injuries, step by step, day by day, before discussing this most recent of insults (also, this gives me time to craft a vicious blog directed towards these most delusional Deutsch).
To recap:
November 9, 2005
"I Quiver with FEAR"
In our lifetimes we tend to come across phrases which can send a shiver down our spines. As children it is simply the yelling of our full name, "Michael Jonathon Thurgood Jr., get your butt over here!". In adolescence, in the midst of love, the phrase "We need to talk" puts dread into our very hearts, and as we reach the real world and become responsible adults the fear lies within the utterance of, "Can I see you in my office?" Yet somewhere between adolescence and the business world there lies the Au pair whose very existence and somewhat momentary happiness can be shattered by one simple sentence; “Britta, liebe Britta.”
Immediately the Au Pair begins to ponder what in the world could justify such terms of endearment. In most cases, something very very bad. She responds, “Ja?” and then the bomb drops, like a watermelon falling from two miles up, and shatters at her feet; “I volunteered you to help out at a birthday party this Friday. Is that OK?,”
OK! OK? It’s wonderful! I simply thrill at the very idea of being able to chase fifteen five-year-old boys and girls around a gymnasium filled with Bounce Houses! Nothing could give me more pleasure than to play Mommy to children I’ve never seen before in my life who will most likely thank me for nursing their bumps and bruises with a kick in the face and by pulling on my hair. This is so great in fact, that it’s the VERY way I had hoped to spend my Friday afternoon. Thank you Frau L for bestowing upon me such a great way to spend my time! Who would want to watch her charges play at the park when they had the opportunity to exercise their Mother Theresa-esque, patron saint of patience skills at a birthday party? Good gracious this makes me happy.
You realize, of course, that I jest. But let us get beyond that. It is one thing to be bothered, nay, vaguely annoyed by being volunteered without even the slightest frage* in your direction, but another to realize that you are obligated to smile and say, "Yes, of course! That sounds like fun!" All the while you are screaming and burning down small medieval villages on the inside. Oh the curse of being an indentured servant to the kings and queens of Frankfurt.
*frage (fragen)- to question, ask
December 3, 2005
"I kill you...I kill you with my spoon!"
Today has been a day of moderate reflection... reflection on Those Things Which I Find To Be Most Irritating. This list of course is quite extensive and on it may be found the usual suspects: The Meanderers, The Stop In the Middle of the Hallway-ers, The Meticulously Count Out All Their Changers, and the PDA-ers. Yet today I will focus my energies on two very specific members of the irritating things list: The Invaders and The Pisser Off-ers.
The Invaders
An invader, according to dictionary.com, is one who "enters by force in order to conquer or pillage," thus bringing to mind some of history’s more illustrious invaders such as William the Conqueror, Attila the Hun, and of course, Darth Vader. The particular invader to be examined here goes by the name of Johannes Adolff, Corporate Lawyer to the max. As an invader he has been found guilty of the following:
- Failure to remember which door is his and barging in upon a half dressed au pair whilst on vacation.
- Failure to knock on a closed bathroom door thus invading the toiletry privacy of said au pair.
- Been caught “looking for light bulbs” when in fact he was perusing the au pairs bag o’ birth control.
- Made several bodily excretions of a most massive and pungent sort in the au pairs bathroom followed by the failure to open a window, warn others of the stench, and replace the emptied roll of toilet paper.
- Urinated on various occasions with failure to close the door whilst within earshot of the au pair in question followed by the failure to flush and wash his hands.
The Pisser Off-ers
This group consists exclusively of those who revel in the simple agitation of others and includes the following: Pranksters, Makers of Flat Tires, Practical Jokers and Hackers. Today it is the Hackers who have garnered my attention and earned their spotlight on the list of irritating things by doing the following:
- Caused undue stress, fear, anger and worry by hacking into orbitz.com and sending an email stating the cancellation of several thousand holiday flights, thus sending the au pair in question and her fiancé into an irritable frenzy.
- Posed as lonely Moroccan men who spend their hours propositioning unsuspecting girls through myspace.com into fulfilling their sexual fantasies and perverse pornographic reveries.
Thus ends my reflection on Those Things Which I Find To Be Most Irritating, but never fear my little ones for there will indeed be more to come. But until then faithful followers, I bid you…adieu.
Stay tuned for more Insult to Injury posts, until then, jeers.
To recap:
November 9, 2005
"I Quiver with FEAR"
In our lifetimes we tend to come across phrases which can send a shiver down our spines. As children it is simply the yelling of our full name, "Michael Jonathon Thurgood Jr., get your butt over here!". In adolescence, in the midst of love, the phrase "We need to talk" puts dread into our very hearts, and as we reach the real world and become responsible adults the fear lies within the utterance of, "Can I see you in my office?" Yet somewhere between adolescence and the business world there lies the Au pair whose very existence and somewhat momentary happiness can be shattered by one simple sentence; “Britta, liebe Britta.”
Immediately the Au Pair begins to ponder what in the world could justify such terms of endearment. In most cases, something very very bad. She responds, “Ja?” and then the bomb drops, like a watermelon falling from two miles up, and shatters at her feet; “I volunteered you to help out at a birthday party this Friday. Is that OK?,”
OK! OK? It’s wonderful! I simply thrill at the very idea of being able to chase fifteen five-year-old boys and girls around a gymnasium filled with Bounce Houses! Nothing could give me more pleasure than to play Mommy to children I’ve never seen before in my life who will most likely thank me for nursing their bumps and bruises with a kick in the face and by pulling on my hair. This is so great in fact, that it’s the VERY way I had hoped to spend my Friday afternoon. Thank you Frau L for bestowing upon me such a great way to spend my time! Who would want to watch her charges play at the park when they had the opportunity to exercise their Mother Theresa-esque, patron saint of patience skills at a birthday party? Good gracious this makes me happy.
You realize, of course, that I jest. But let us get beyond that. It is one thing to be bothered, nay, vaguely annoyed by being volunteered without even the slightest frage* in your direction, but another to realize that you are obligated to smile and say, "Yes, of course! That sounds like fun!" All the while you are screaming and burning down small medieval villages on the inside. Oh the curse of being an indentured servant to the kings and queens of Frankfurt.
*frage (fragen)- to question, ask
December 3, 2005
"I kill you...I kill you with my spoon!"
Today has been a day of moderate reflection... reflection on Those Things Which I Find To Be Most Irritating. This list of course is quite extensive and on it may be found the usual suspects: The Meanderers, The Stop In the Middle of the Hallway-ers, The Meticulously Count Out All Their Changers, and the PDA-ers. Yet today I will focus my energies on two very specific members of the irritating things list: The Invaders and The Pisser Off-ers.
The Invaders
An invader, according to dictionary.com, is one who "enters by force in order to conquer or pillage," thus bringing to mind some of history’s more illustrious invaders such as William the Conqueror, Attila the Hun, and of course, Darth Vader. The particular invader to be examined here goes by the name of Johannes Adolff, Corporate Lawyer to the max. As an invader he has been found guilty of the following:
- Failure to remember which door is his and barging in upon a half dressed au pair whilst on vacation.
- Failure to knock on a closed bathroom door thus invading the toiletry privacy of said au pair.
- Been caught “looking for light bulbs” when in fact he was perusing the au pairs bag o’ birth control.
- Made several bodily excretions of a most massive and pungent sort in the au pairs bathroom followed by the failure to open a window, warn others of the stench, and replace the emptied roll of toilet paper.
- Urinated on various occasions with failure to close the door whilst within earshot of the au pair in question followed by the failure to flush and wash his hands.
The Pisser Off-ers
This group consists exclusively of those who revel in the simple agitation of others and includes the following: Pranksters, Makers of Flat Tires, Practical Jokers and Hackers. Today it is the Hackers who have garnered my attention and earned their spotlight on the list of irritating things by doing the following:
- Caused undue stress, fear, anger and worry by hacking into orbitz.com and sending an email stating the cancellation of several thousand holiday flights, thus sending the au pair in question and her fiancé into an irritable frenzy.
- Posed as lonely Moroccan men who spend their hours propositioning unsuspecting girls through myspace.com into fulfilling their sexual fantasies and perverse pornographic reveries.
Thus ends my reflection on Those Things Which I Find To Be Most Irritating, but never fear my little ones for there will indeed be more to come. But until then faithful followers, I bid you…adieu.
Stay tuned for more Insult to Injury posts, until then, jeers.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Blog of Inane and Useless Star Wars References Weakly Disguised Under the Pretense of Being a Blog About the World Cup.
As you all know, I'm not one to be turned astray when a dare of the silly and inane type crosses my path. In the past I have emerged victorious from such gambles as, "Can you fit your fist in your mouf?" and "Will you eat this?". Well, one day a dare so archetypically "me" crossed my path. The dare was, "How many Star Wars references do you think you can fit into a blog?"
The response, my friends, was as follows..
"I dunno...10?"
And then, said gambler uttered the four most poisonous words to my ears. The only four words that ignite my soul and send through my being waves of electricity that ignite my initiative, and spurn my will "to do". Those words were:
"I bet you can't,"
Oh, bring it.
So here you have it, ladies and gentlemen of the blogging world. The "Blog of Inane and Useless Star Wars References Weakly Disguised Under the Pretense of Being a Blog About the World Cup".
Enjoy.
July 1, 2009
(T-19 Days and counting)
Berlin
As World Cup fever ages across Deutschland with a force deadlier that a storm on Camino Real, I find myself with the urge to write the obligatory novel of a blog to update all you faithful readers as to my current goings on. First, let us back track to a long, long time ago in a city far, far away called Berlin. It was there that this wayward traveller once again found herself in the company of the inequable Frau, returned from the far reaches of Europe, and back once more in Germany. Padawan and Master of all thing Deutsch were once again reunited. May the force be with Germany as these lovers of offense towards historical cities wreak havoc on the Empire's former stomping grounds.
Screen wipe left as we find our travellers at the Berlin Fan Fest mere minutes before the England v. Costa Rica kickoff. The normally auto-trafficked avenue is now a teaming sea of Pinewood cast-offs. St. George's cross flies from almost every surface, fleshy and solid alike. Rebel yells of, "Eng-er-land! Eng-er-land!" can be heard a far away as Berlin's Mos Eisley of a train station, so large that a more wretched hive of scum and villainy would indeed be hard to find. The kickoff occurs as Rooney and his curiously named Wookie of a teammate, Peter Crouch (clocked at an astounding 6'7") charge the field. Our heroes turn to one another and smile. It's going to be a good month in the ol' DE.
Dresden/Leipzig
We rejoin our wayward traveller on a Friday as she sits aboard an ICE capable of doing the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs headed towards Dresden and Leipzig for the next England game.
Boasting architechture that could put any medieval city to shame, Britta, Lisa and Big Jim wandered their way through a Coruscantian metropolis devoid of all things World Cup. Enduring a humidity rivalled only by Dagobah's sweltering climate, they steamed along the river and dined like royalty before parting ways; Lisa and Big Jim to question the physics of space and time en route to New York, and I to travel towards Leipzig and follow the footsteps of Faust, bathe in the beauty of Bach, marvel the magnificence of Mozart, and take part in several other highly alliterated activities before heading to Augustus Platz for the England v. Ecuador game.
Now, having been witness to a Fan Fest that could rival celebrations of the fall of the Empire, it must be noted that I was at first disappointed at the miniscule nature of what lay before me: empty chairs at empty tables, the few lucky enough to have a warm body in them occupied by generally grievous characters.
Five minutes to kickoff and Leipzig's Fan Fest was as desolate as the theatres after Episode II was released.
(Editor's note: This is where I ended my writings in "Britta's Book of Secret's" having acheived the goal of 10 references. The clever readers, however, will note that there are, ipso facto, MORE than 10 cleverly embedded references. Gotta catch 'em all, gotta catch 'em all.)
The response, my friends, was as follows..
"I dunno...10?"
And then, said gambler uttered the four most poisonous words to my ears. The only four words that ignite my soul and send through my being waves of electricity that ignite my initiative, and spurn my will "to do". Those words were:
"I bet you can't,"
Oh, bring it.
So here you have it, ladies and gentlemen of the blogging world. The "Blog of Inane and Useless Star Wars References Weakly Disguised Under the Pretense of Being a Blog About the World Cup".
Enjoy.
July 1, 2009
(T-19 Days and counting)
Berlin
As World Cup fever ages across Deutschland with a force deadlier that a storm on Camino Real, I find myself with the urge to write the obligatory novel of a blog to update all you faithful readers as to my current goings on. First, let us back track to a long, long time ago in a city far, far away called Berlin. It was there that this wayward traveller once again found herself in the company of the inequable Frau, returned from the far reaches of Europe, and back once more in Germany. Padawan and Master of all thing Deutsch were once again reunited. May the force be with Germany as these lovers of offense towards historical cities wreak havoc on the Empire's former stomping grounds.
Screen wipe left as we find our travellers at the Berlin Fan Fest mere minutes before the England v. Costa Rica kickoff. The normally auto-trafficked avenue is now a teaming sea of Pinewood cast-offs. St. George's cross flies from almost every surface, fleshy and solid alike. Rebel yells of, "Eng-er-land! Eng-er-land!" can be heard a far away as Berlin's Mos Eisley of a train station, so large that a more wretched hive of scum and villainy would indeed be hard to find. The kickoff occurs as Rooney and his curiously named Wookie of a teammate, Peter Crouch (clocked at an astounding 6'7") charge the field. Our heroes turn to one another and smile. It's going to be a good month in the ol' DE.
Dresden/Leipzig
We rejoin our wayward traveller on a Friday as she sits aboard an ICE capable of doing the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs headed towards Dresden and Leipzig for the next England game.
Boasting architechture that could put any medieval city to shame, Britta, Lisa and Big Jim wandered their way through a Coruscantian metropolis devoid of all things World Cup. Enduring a humidity rivalled only by Dagobah's sweltering climate, they steamed along the river and dined like royalty before parting ways; Lisa and Big Jim to question the physics of space and time en route to New York, and I to travel towards Leipzig and follow the footsteps of Faust, bathe in the beauty of Bach, marvel the magnificence of Mozart, and take part in several other highly alliterated activities before heading to Augustus Platz for the England v. Ecuador game.
Now, having been witness to a Fan Fest that could rival celebrations of the fall of the Empire, it must be noted that I was at first disappointed at the miniscule nature of what lay before me: empty chairs at empty tables, the few lucky enough to have a warm body in them occupied by generally grievous characters.
Five minutes to kickoff and Leipzig's Fan Fest was as desolate as the theatres after Episode II was released.
(Editor's note: This is where I ended my writings in "Britta's Book of Secret's" having acheived the goal of 10 references. The clever readers, however, will note that there are, ipso facto, MORE than 10 cleverly embedded references. Gotta catch 'em all, gotta catch 'em all.)
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Flashdance...err...back...flashback...
So, blog attempt #42 by yours truly. Considering the amazing luck of #42 itself, this one may work. So let's start things off with a flashback to the grand old year of 1992, shall we?
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