Friday, June 29, 2007

Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Dog

Remember the movie “Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom”? One of the plot points of the movie was that Indy, the title character played by Harrison Ford, discovers a powerful stone called a “Sankara Stone” that, when put in close proximity with another Sankara Stone, magically creates a golden glowing light. We’ve made a similar discovery in my family. My dad and I each have a normal, well-behaved, housebroken dog that, when put in close proximity with the other’s dog, magically creates a golden glowing pee stain on my carpet.

I have no idea why these two normally well-behaved dogs, that almost never make mistakes when they are in their own homes, suddenly become four-legged urine spigots when they are put together in my house. To make matters worse, when we discover a new pee stain, we never know which damn dog is the perpetrator. Neither Fred, my dad’s dog, nor Smudge, my own, has ever been caught in the act.

So, when a new puddle is found, My father and I usually get into this weird dynamic where we start defending our own dogs, like a parent might defend his or her child:

Dad: “Well, it looks like your damn dog peed in your house again.”

Me: “MY dog? My dog is housebroken! How do you know it’s not yours?”

Dad: “This stain is way too big for Fred. He couldn’t have done this.”

Me: “Oh bull crap. Fred has easily done that much before. Besides, Smudge was too far away. And Fred is male, so he’s probably trying to mark his territory.”

Dad: “Well, this doesn’t look like Fred’s pee.”

Me: “You’re kidding me, right? It’s pee. All dogs pee yellow!”

Dad: “This definitely looks more like Smudge’s pee.”

This will go on and on it until we become like attorneys for our respective dogs, arguing our case using evidence such as:

1. Alibis

2. Character witnesses

3. Which dog was let out most recently

4. Analysis of the Crime Scene, and

5. Motives

After our closing statements, the result is always the same: Hung Jury. Tied 1-1. So we just grumble and eventually forget about it. Until the next pee stain is discovered.

I really think this is the dogs’ idea of a joke. They know if they pee in their own homes while they are by themselves, they’ll get into Big Trouble. But if they are together and no one gets caught in the act, neither one can get convicted later when it is discovered. They probably discuss the plot in some dog-sniffing language:

Fred: “Smudge, do you feel a pee coming on?”

Smudge: “Yup. Just drank a gallon of water.”

Fred: “Heh heh! Good. Okay, wait a second until I tell you the coast is clear. Try and get it in the walkway so one of them steps in it.”

Smudge: “Are we a go?”

Fred: “Wait…wait…wait…NOW NOW NOW!!”

Smudge: “Ahhhh…”

They then walk off to their hiding places, waiting to watch the show. Later on they’ll share the stories of what they saw and laugh so hard they'll be on their backs with drool coming out of their mouths.

“Did you see the look on his face?” One of them will say. “HAHAHAHA!!”

Sneaky damn dogs. Next time I'll get Sankara Stones instead.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Evolution, Creation, Or Oil of Olay?

The origin of mankind has been debated for as long as humans have had intelligent thought. While there have been many different theories as to how we came to exist, the two most popular are evolution and creationism. Evolution is the scientific theory, originally postulated by Charles Darwin, that all life started millions of years ago as simple unicellular beings and slowly evolved into different species, and that humans actually evolved from an ape-like creature. Creationism, of course, is the religious theory that a supreme being created all life only a few thousand years ago.

So which theory makes the most sense? Which theory “holds the most water”? Which theory should be the one we teach our young so they can lead our future generations as informed and educated as possible?

If you think you are about to get the answer here, then you are, no offense, not the brightest light in the harbor. Yours truly got a “C” in Philosophy at Edison Community College, and was happy to get it, considering my eyes glazed over during every lecture. The reason I am writing about evolution versus creationism now is because it brings me to my absolute favorite subject: me.

I don’t wish to brag, but I am told constantly that I look very young for my age. Being a humble writer, I am almost embarrassed to disclose this, but it is necessary to the story inasmuch as I look quite youthful for my age. So, this begs the question: why is it that I, Joe Simmons, look so very young for my age?

Well, one theory (as to why people think I look amazingly young for my age) could be that evolution is the correct explanation of life. You see, I am the current eight-time Defending World Champion Procrastinator. I put off doing laundry until the stack is taller than my actual house. I put off graduating college until I was 26. I put off maturing until, well, it is debatable whether I have actually done any of that. And, at thirty-six years old, I still have yet to get married. The thing is, my DNA would know this. I come from a long line of procrastinators. If all species evolve in order to give themselves the best chance to survive, then obviously my DNA knows that I have to stay young and good-looking long after my similarly-aged friends have become bald, fat slobs if I want to have any chance to procreate.

However, the creation theory could work as well (in case you forgot: we are trying to figure out why people think I look so fabulously young for my age). Maybe God is up in Heaven right now discussing me with St. Peter:

God: “You know, I think I may have really screwed up with this Simmons guy. I never intended for ANY human to be that damn lazy. I ought to smite him. However, I am a kind and loving God. I’ll write in my notebook to give him three more years of youthful looks so that he will at least have a chance to procreate.”

St. Peter: “God, we just got word that he’s been publishing blogs where his penis actually talks.”

God: (Erasing and scribbling furiously) “Me dammit…better make it seven more years.”

Clearly, either one of these explanations is very plausible. So, after discussing both the religious and scientific hypotheses about one of the biggest questions in life, what have we learned today?

1. Basically, nothing.

2. Except that this blog is not a place to come to for answers.

3. And, I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but people think I look incredibly young and handsome for my age.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Self-Help Books Certainly Don't Help Me

For the most part, I try to keep my social life out of my blogs. This is because I have a lot of good friends, and I’d like to keep (most of) them. However, I have decided to implement a new Statute of Limitations. From now on, I will post funny stories from my social life as long as:

1. It’s been at least 12 calendar months since the event occurred.

2. The story is not hurtful in any way to anyone I know.

3. Unless it’s REALLY funny.

4. Then I’ll just change the names of all concerned.

So, on to my first story.

A few years ago I met this girl, let’s call her Maria, through a friend. Maria was attractive, very nice, and—aren’t they all—seemed to be “into me”. I liked her well enough, but for whatever reason was not really into her. So I rarely called her and mostly only saw her when we were partying in a group of mutual friends. I did, however, drunk-dial her occasionally, and those parties would sometimes end with us making out.

One night I was dropped off at a buddy’s apartment where my car was. I knew I was probably too buzzed to drive, plus I knew Maria lived in the same apartment complex. So I called her and told her I was coming over. She told me she’d prefer I didn’t, as her place was a mess. I basically said that I live in a mess, it didn’t matter, and regardless I was already outside her door.

She wasn’t happy.

Anyway, she let me in and we sat down on her couch. I’m pretty sure I was trying to act flirtatious and all, but she wasn’t having any of it. In my buzzed state, I grabbed a book that was sitting on the coffee table that she had obviously been reading.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” Maria said.

“Let me see about that,” I laughed.

I then opened the book to a completely random page somewhere in the middle, and read out loud:

“If a guy rarely ever picks up the phone to call you, and only visits late at night when he’s drunk, he’s just not that into you.”

My voice actually kind of trailed off during the last four of five words. I could feel my face turning red. I closed the book and looked at the cover. The title, as I’m sure you’ve probably guessed, was the best-selling book “He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys”. Needless to say, the rest of that visit was pretty damn uneventful. I went home.

It took me about a year to forgive Greg Behrendt.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Monday, June 18, 2007

The Wasp Exterminator

Due to the embarrassing nature of this story, I have to keep the person featured in it completely anonymous. So, no matter how many times you Loyal Readers ask, I absolutely will not reveal that it was my sister Lori.

Whoops. I guess there goes that. Anyway, she called me today to tell me there had been a slight emergency in her household. It seems two wasps were flying around in the large upstairs bedroom where my niece and nephew were playing. They screamed for their mother’s help.

No big deal. Lori is a veteran “home engineer” and was prepared. She had never had to use it before, but she kept on hand a can of special insecticide spray made especially for wasps. It kills nearly on contact, and you can shoot it from as far as 20 feet away.

“Of course, the tricky part was aiming it,” she said.

Makes sense. A wasp isn’t very big, so hitting two of them from 20 feet away would be no small feat. And missing could be very dangerous, as the wasps might get angry and come after her. However, this was no time for fear; she had her children’s safety to think about. So, she waited until the wasps settled in one place, aimed, and fired.

Unfortunately, her aim was slightly off, inasmuch as she shot herself directly in the face.

“AAAUGH!” Lori exclaimed, dropping the can. “I’M THE STUPIDEST PERSON I KNOW!” *

She then blindly stumbled downstairs until she could get to a sink to rinse out her eyes. Luckily, she was okay; nothing a little cold water couldn’t take care of. She climbed back upstairs just in time to duck from almost getting sprayed again, this time by her son. Apparently, Bo picked up the can and started shooting at the wasps himself. Only he decided he didn’t need any namby-pamby sissy aiming method such as waiting for them to settle on a surface. He was going guns-a-blazin’ wherever they flew.

“There was insecticide everywhere,” said Lori.

Finally, having secured the can back from her son, she successfully killed the two wasps by shooting them when they landed near the window.

“The wasps were dead,” she said. “But when I told my husband about the whole ordeal later, he took my can of mace away.”

*Her words, not mine. I promise.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Take Me Out To the Ballgame

For those that are new to this blog, your loyal loving blogger has a younger sister with a similar smart-ass sense of humor. A lot of our conversations spontaneously become “contests” to see who can either:

1. Persevere the longest, or

2. Irritate the other the most

Actually, it is usually a combination of the two. Anyway, what follows is a near-verbatim conversation we had on the phone about a year and a half ago:

Lori: “Joe, don’t forget that you promised to come with me and my son to the baseball game next week.”

Me: “Of course. Can you do me a favor and send me an e-mail so I can put it on my calendar?”

Lori: “No problem. Can you do me a favor?”

Me: “Sure, anything.”

Lori: “Can you give me a call to remind me to send you an e-mail reminding you about the baseball game?”

Me: “Of course, I’ll do anything for my sister. Would you mind doing something for me?”

Lori: “Sure.”

Me: “Would you leave me a voicemail reminding me to call you to remind you to send me an e-mail reminding me about the baseball game?”

Lori: “Of course. But, um, would you mind doing me a favor?”

Me: “You name it.”

Lori: “Could you send me a fax reminding me to leave you a voicemail to remind you to call me to remind me to send you an e-mail reminding you about the baseball game?”

Me: “Of course I will! You know I’d do anything for you, Lori. But would you mind doing me a favor?”

Lori: “Yes, of course.”

Me: “Could you send me a text message to remind me to send you a fax to remind you to leave me a voicemail reminding me to call you to remind you to send me an e-mail reminding me about the baseball game?”

Lori: “Sure. But would you mind doing me a favor?”

This went on and on and on and on. I cannot remember who “won” this conversation, but since she is not here to argue, I will go on record as saying that it was I that came out victorious and she that embarrassingly lost track of who had to do what.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Cash Only, Please

True story: When I turned 20, my grandma gave me a check for ten dollars. I worked full time and didn't have an ATM card, so the only time I could deposit the damn thing was between 5:30pm and 6pm on Friday, or get up early and deposit it on Saturday morning.


  • The only branch of my bank anywhere near my office was a few miles in the wrong direction in rush hour traffic
  • I hate rush hour traffic
  • The chances are, I had forgotten the check at home that morning anyway
  • I could never get up before 1pm on a Saturday, and
  • Let’s face it—it was a lousy ten bucks.

So I didn't deposit it for months. Every six months or so, my grandma would call my mom asking politely about it, and then my mom would pester me about depositing it.

“All right, I’ll do it this week.” I knew it was a lie.

Finally, no kidding, about TWO YEARS later, I deposited it. I must have been on vacation or something. It cleared.

I never received money from Grandma again. That’s okay; the only thing I want from her is her love.

Unless it’s a hundred bucks or more.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

The New Blog

Welcome to the improved humor blog! Let me say right off the bat: The new design of this blog is not something I created. I had to use a template. I have no clue how to design a website. I asked my sister, who has designed a few in her time, how I could make my own. However, as is usually the case when she answers one of my questions, I tuned her out and fantasized about Keira Knightley. So I was stuck with picking the best of the available templates.

It sucks because I know somewhere on the Internet there is probably a blog that looks exactly like this where some bratty 16-year-old emo chick is bitching about the Homecoming Queen. I think that will severely affect my coolness factor. Though, let’s face it: my blog has polka dots. Coolness is probably not something I have to worry about any longer.

(Note to emo chick: She’ll be fat and married to a loser in five years. Trust me.)

Anyway, this blog is undergoing a change of direction. I actually have two humor blogs: this one and my MySpace one. MySpace is now where I do my craziest, zaniest stuff. However, I only update that blog like twice a week. THIS blog I will absolutely update every single day.* The updates will most likely be one of the following:

1. A funny paragraph or two.

2. A humorous conversation I had

3. A short story, or

4. A link to my most recent MySpace blog.

What this means is, if you like the crap I write, and you know of both my blogs, you can’t go wrong by adding this blog to your “favorites”.**

So do it. I’ll hold my breath until you do.

*Except for some days.

**Unless, of course, the attempt to revive this blog is a complete and utter failure.

Monday, June 11, 2007

My Apologies For the Lack of Blogging and an Update

I am in the process of overhauling this blog. New layout, new format, new everything. Soon, there will be a new post almost every single day! I hope to have this completed by Friday, June 15th. Until then, please check out my other humor blog on MySpace. I have been blogging on there like a mother.

Um...I assume doing something "like a mother" is a good thing.