From The Thinkpad 2

The Whistler
Sometimes I like to whistle. I do it pretty well. Not that well. Actually I'm pretty fucking terrible at it. I rarely hit the right note. However, I will keep whistling until I find it. I have that kind of desire and determination--the kind that may or may not annoy someone. I must admit, I am a little sloppy with my whistling--much like Jimi Hendrix was with his guitar. He could bend any string and find the right note. His guitar was an extension of his body much like my lips are like an extension of my body--some might say they are an extension of my body. So yeah, I'm pretty much the Jimi Hendrix of whistling.

I have this phobia of whistling outside. I'm afraid if I whistle outside, all of the neighborhood dogs are going to chase me. I don't like whistling in public places either. If I whistle in a certain way, people might think I'm trying to hit on them. But really, I'm just trying to prevent them from getting hit, by a car--which I guess could distract them from actually seeing the car. I am a bathroom whistler though. I'll admit to that. Bathrooms usually have great acoustics. It just seems to be a natural reflex to whistle whilst taking a leak--whistling with your lips that is. But, it's not normal to whistle with your fingers while taking a leak. That would look a little weird. You know the form, thumb meets pointer finger or middle finger and you blow--which I can't successfully perform by the way. Then there's the pinkie meets pinkie form, which would look even weirder whilst peeing at a urinal. Why anyone would have to whistle like that at a urinal is beyond me, but it's just an example for you to see the distinction.

Keep It On Your Face
If you're a performer of any kind, I think it's important to express most of your emotion through your face. It's crucial to look as though you're angry--borderline confused, or just angry by the fact that you are indeed confused. It makes you appear to be a pretty complex individual. However, in actuality you're probably concerned with whether or not you turned off your stove or something like that. But remember, art is pain, art is suffering, art is love--and as we've learned from Nazareth, love certainly does hurt.

Small Concerns
Is miniature golf technically just called golf if midgets are playing it? Or do you call it something different like eenie golf? Can golf get any more miniature at that point? I don’t think so. Also, if a midget is brief and isn't divulging crucial information, is it inappropriate to accuse them of being short with you?

Roles
We all do our part in our relationships. We all have certain skills and attributes. For instance, my wife handles most of the financial matters and...pretty much everything else. I guess you could say she wears the slacks in the relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I do my fair share of things. Take for example, ironing. I do all of the ironing. It’s actually pretty amazing how terrible my wife is at ironing clothes. I always had to step in and smooth things out, so to speak. It’s fine though. That’s just part of what makes our union so strong. Sure, she wears the slacks. But...I iron them. So…

Preference
My wife likes her shower water pressure to be that of a fire hose. But, I can't handle that. Further more, my balls can't handle that. "What did you say dear? You would like to have more kids? Well, I'm sorry, but your precious Super Dee Duper shower head destroyed my precious balls. Call a plumber because the drain is probably clogged. I have big balls is all I'm trying to say. What's that? Oh, you took them away a long time ago? Okay,well, your boobies are my boobies--always have been...Yeah, you're right, it doesn't sound as harsh. What about your ovaries? Can I at least pretend, figuratively, that I possess them. Yes, it will help me sleep at night. And don't use all of the hot water please, because that affects my balls too. Let's just assume that everything could potentially harm my balls. Thank you."

The Dancing Guy
Sometimes it's weird seeing people out of their element. Take for instance the dancing guy at your local bar. He's always there cutting a rug. Well, not too many bars have rugs, which is probably a good thing. So we'll say, he's always there cutting up some linoleum--without fail, and he doesn't even look good doing it. You start to take comfort in the fact that he's always going to be there cutting loose, foot loose. Then one day you see him in a Walmart. The conditions are just right: a freshly waxed linoleum floor, some sweet ass 1990s R&B song playing in the background, and a Red Bull in hand, minus the vodka--but it's all good. However, this motherfucker isn't dancing--he isn't even bobbing his head. Hell, you don't even know how to address him because you don't even know his real fucking name. An awkward conversation ensues and next thing you know, you're agreeing to meet up with him for sushi next week. You run off and tell your friends with real names that you sighted the dancing guy at your local Walmart. And the first words uttered by them are, "Was he dancing? Tell me that motherfucker was dancing. Dancing right through the check out line I bet." Then sadly, you have to explain to them that, "The conditions were just right: a freshly waxed linoleum floor, some sweet ass 1990s R&B song playing in the background, and a Red Bull in hand minus the vodka." And one friend exclaims, "But, it's all good!" Then you say in a somber tone, "No...no. It wasn't all good. It wasn't even some good or partially good. Not even a smidgen of good, dog. I couldn't even mistake his movements for a jig. He had no bounce in his step. Anyway, his real name is Gerald. And he'll be joining us for sushi next week."

O.C.D. Apparently
I realized recently that I have a minor case of O.C.D. Actually, I just might have some serious pet peeves. I don't know. Anyway, it bothers me when time is left on the microwave, especially if it's blinking. Just clear it out, return it to zero or back to the clock. Also, it bothers me when I tear off a paper towel from the roll and expect it to tear where it's perforated. But it rips through the paper towel, leaving a little strand of paper towel stuck to the roll. Then I get mad and try to tear off that little piece and end up tearing off more. Next thing I know I'm drying my hands with thirty pieces of paper towel.

Church Chimes
I don't know if it's just me, but I think church chimes are eerie. They always sound just a little bit out of tune. There's a church right across from where I work. The chimes are always ringing when I walk out for lunch. There's nothing I can do but listen. So, one day I decided to rap along to the tune--spitting out inappropriate obscenities. It's an odd little justification but hey, I'll try to explain. There are enough things in this world to fear. And church chimes should not be one of them. Make them sound more pleasant and I'll stop rapping. Okay God? Deal?

G To the Love
Whenever I put on a pair of leather gloves I feel like I'm about to conduct some handy work which involves not leaving any fingerprints behind--if you know what I mean. What if a hit-man goes to a guy's house, whacks him, suddenly realizes that he has to take a dump and pops a squat right in his bathroom? Does he still wear his gloves whilst wiping his ass? Because if he takes off his gloves briefly, there's a good chance he's going to leave fingerprints somewhere. And does he cover the seat with toilet paper? Because what if the cops dust for ass prints? 

Sometimes I get the urge to slap people in the face with a leather glove. And they definitely don't have to deserve it. I think most people would be shocked, appalled and quite speechless if it happened to them. You couldn't get away with slapping someone in the face bare-handed. But, for some reason whipping out a glove and swinging it at someone's face seems more reasonable. Most people would question that pretty hard like, "Wait. Did this guy just slap me in the face with a glove? What did I do to deserve this? I probably said or did something dickish." And they would probably end up apologizing for God knows what reason. But who knows, maybe they would read into it too much like, "Did he just slap me, with a glove? I wonder what brand it is. Is it even real leather? He swung with his left hand. I wonder if it was actually the left glove. Does he have both gloves? Or does he walk around with just the one glove?"

Driving Me To Drive Like A Crazy Person
I really wish there was a way to remove all terrible senile drivers from the road. It would be great if someone could invent something similar to a proton pack and a ghost trap like from Ghostbusters, but instead it would be for old farts that don't know how to drive. I could stand on the side of the road and blast them with my proton pack. Of course the trap would have to be big enough to fit a Lincoln or a Cadillac Wagon into. But, it's definitely something that could be worked out. If anything it would create jobs--real jobs that might boost the economy. We'd be called the Fogey-busters or Almost Ghostbusters or They're So Old They're Almost Ghosts-Busters. I'll figure out a real name later. Anyway. "Oh there goes another one. Buick, 12 o'clock." Zap! (Or whatever sound it'll make).