Category Archives: Humor

Buy vs. Lease

Posted on Craig’s List:

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I’m tired of beating around the bush. I’m a beautiful 25 year old girl. I’m articulate and classy. I’m not from New York. I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don’t think I’m overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 – 250. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock. $250,000 won’t get me to Central Park West. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she’s not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics — bars, restaurants, gyms
What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won’t hurt my feelings
Is there an age range I should be targeting (I’m 25)?
Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side so plain? I’ve seen really ‘plain jane’ boring types who have nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I’ve seen drop dead gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What’s the story there?
Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows – lawyer, investment banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?
How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults — I’m putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I’m being up front about it. I wouldn’t be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn’t able to match them — in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

THE ANSWER

Dear Ms. Pretty,

I have read your post with great interest. Guess there are lots of girls out there who have similar questions like yours. Please allow me to analyze your situation as a professional investor. My annual income is more than $500k, which meets your requirement, so I hope everyone believes that I’m not wasting time here.

From the standpoint of a business person, it is a bad decision to marry you. The answer is very simple, so let me explain. Put the details aside, what you’re trying to do is an exchange of “beauty” and “money”: Person A provides beauty, and Person B pays for it, fair and square. However, there’s a deadly problem here, your beauty will fade, but my money will not be gone without any good reason. The fact is, my income might increase from year to year, but you won’t be prettier year after year. Hence from the viewpoint of economics, I am an appreciation asset, and you are a depreciation asset. It’s not just normal depreciation, but exponential depreciation. If beauty is your only asset, your value will be much worse ten years later.

By the terms we use in Wall Street, every trading has a position, dating with you is also a “trading position”. If the trade value dropped we will sell it and it is not a good idea to keep it for long term – same goes with the marriage that you wanted. It might be cruel to say this, but in order to make a wiser decision any assets with great depreciation value will be sold or “leased”. Anyone with over $500k annual income is not a fool; we would only date you, but will not marry you. I would advise that you forget looking for any clues to marry a rich guy. And by the way, you could make yourself to become a rich person with $500k annual income. This has better chance of success than finding a rich fool.

Hope this reply helps. If you are interested in “leasing” services, do contact me…

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Quick Hits

I’m Better Than You!

When I was a kid, “He knows martial arts” was impressive. When I was a teen I wasn’t impressed unless it was, “He’s a black belt in Okidoki.” I still have no real grasp of what the belt system is, but having a black belt must be impressive by the way people talked about it. Then somewhere along the line “degrees” were added. I’m no longer impressed by someone just having a black belt in Déja Fu*, but now they have to be a “fifteenth degree black belt” in order to be impressive. Again, I have no idea what the degrees really mean, but throughout my life the numbers I hear seem to be getting larger, so bigger must be better.

This trend seems to be happening in almost all aspects of life… We (and by “we” I mean “me”) demand to be impressed, awed by everything. I can’t just be impressed by a car, it has to have words like, “454” and “big block” and “hemi’ attached to it – as if I know what those words mean… (Well, I do, but you know what I’m getting at.)

The speedlight I bought for my camera is a YN565EX. Seriously, why the numbers? They’re made up – they don’t MEAN anything. And “EX?” There’s only one version of the 565, so why put the EX on the back? I guess to make it sound impressive…

*The martial arts Okidoki and Déja Fu belong to Terry Pratchett’s “Diskworld” series. Okidoki was described as “nothing really but a bunch of bunny hops,” and Déja Fu as “The feeling you’ve been kicked in the head before.”

I kinda feel bad for them…

…but it is kinda funny.

Can someone tell me…

…why we need to interfere with Crimea’s decision to merge with Russia? It’s not like Vladimir Putin sent in 500,000 troops to take over Crimea – the Crimeans themselves held an election and opted to break away from Ukraine. This really isn’t our business.

Look at it this way. Pretend the US got embroiled in a political upheaval. Congress has been dissolved, people kicked the President out of office, there is no government, but there is economic chaos happening throughout the land. The Maine state legislature gets together and decides, “Hey, we really have more in common with Canada than we do with the US. Most of us have family there, we all speak Canadian already, and we generally identify more with New Brunswick than New Hampshire. Let’s let the US have its revolution, we’ll just quietly join Canada if they want us.” The people of Maine voted 95% to join Canada, the Canadian Prime Minister said, “Sure, sound good, eh.” If that scenario would play out – how would we feel if, say, Russia were to step in and say, “No, you can’t do that, and if you do, we’ll invade.” Seriously…

I like these people

This could change disaster relief for the better!

What am I doing here…

My wife tells me I don’t make bad coffee. I make coffee very well. I’m just poor at choosing what coffee to make… (I like generic stuff, to be honest. I’m not picky.)

Hippie’s Hint of the Day:

Take three pieces of leftover frozen cheese pizza, stack them together, microwave for two and a half minutes – LASAGNA!

One of Life’s Disappointments

I always assumed that by now I’d understand what the song “Judy in Disguise with Glasses” means. But it still makes zero sense to me. Disappointing.

Ow!

I just bit my tongue. It seems like a silly design to me, putting the tongue right there by the teeth. There’s gotta be a better way of doing this…

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Blah blah blah yadda yadda etc.

Motivation = Zero

I have somewhere in the neighborhood of six or six and a half million things that ABSOLUTELY positively NEED to be done RIGHT NOW! And all I want to do is overeat and take a nap, preferably at the same time. (It can be done. Trust me.)

George

I love indoor plants. I absolutely love seeing how people can transform a room into an indoor garden, bringing the feeling of summer indoors year-round. Feeling the tranquility and calmness of a summer’s day in a person’s living room in the middle of winter is a wondrous thing.

Us? We have one plant. His name is George.

Sadly, I tend to over-love plants and kill them. I love them so much I want to pinch their little cheeks and water them six times a day and move them constantly so they’re always in a patch of light…

So far George has avoided this fate. I’ve forced myself to be very hands-off with George, letting him find his own way in the world. (I assume Beloved Wifey is watering him. I hope.) We got George in Sioux Falls last summer after one of Wifey’s myriad doctor’s appointments. He looked so happy sitting there in the entryway of a health food store (I bought some organic popcorn) that we just had to have him. He rode merrily home in the back seat of the car, looking out the window at the passing scenery.

I hope he’s happy.

Le Sigh

I’ve only gotten three small projects finished so far this morning. None of them are for paying customers. No wonder we’re broke.

I just don’t feel well today.

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Woes

It makes me sad. I’ll think of something funny and will write a quick Facebook post about it, then I’ll delete it before pushing the button. Invariably I can think of how someone could turn it into a conflict of some kind, or misunderstand my words and take something personally. I hate conflict. I truly do.

I’d be more apt to go to a gym if their commercials showed fat, middle-aged, sweaty folks like myself struggling through an exercise rather than peppy, 120-pound teenagers bouncing off the walls, grinning the whole time.

Also, if they’d move the gym closer to my house, that would help. Like, in my living room. I get winded if I have to walk much farther than that.

Oh, and none of this matters as I’ll never go to a gym anyway, ever.

If you’re selling puppies for two hundred dollars each on facebook for the fourth time in less than a year because “it was an accident the mom got pregnant again before i could get her spaded,” expect to get some flack from people who, you know, love dogs. And can spell “spayed.”

You can’t keep that poor mother pregnant forever, you’re killing her. You know how this happens. Give your dog a break!

Beyond Random

Dear Disapproving Neighbor

If you don’t want to see me wandering around in my undershorts, you should give me some warning before coming over. A person should be afforded a modicum of privacy, I mean, It’s my yard and I’ll rake it how I like. Sheesh.

Thoughts on Omaha

I read an interesting blog post on Omaha this morning and opted to leave the following comment:

This will make me seem exceedingly backwoods, but Omaha scares me. Close to half a million people? Ye cats! When people ask me where I’m from, I always say, “Sioux City, a town of 60,000 just north of Omaha,” because no one knows where Sioux City is. But I’m not really from Sioux City, I just say that. I’m from Le Mars, a town of 8,000 people just north of Sioux City. Except I’m not really from Le Mars either, I’m from Brunsville, a town of 120 just west of Le Mars. Well, actually, I’m closer to Ruble, just west of Brunsville, which had a population of two until Bill passed away a few years back…

I don’t get off the farm much.

So for me, going to Sioux City is spooky big, and Omaha is HUGE! Whenever we go to Omaha the traffic spooks me (I’m really not used to anything with more than two lanes) and I want to put a big sign on the back of my car that says, “Please Don’t Scare Me, I Poop Easily.”

Dejittering

About six months ago or so I switched to half-caff coffee. A few weeks ago I started mixing the half-caff in with decaffeinated, so I’m at about a quarter-caff. My stomach doesn’t hurt nearly as much now, and I find I’m able to concentrate better in the three hours a day I’m awake.

Le Sigh

I’ve talked to about twelve or fifteen different people about getting estimates to finish my basement. (Cash is scarce now, but I really do want to get the basement done sometime so I can set up a photography studio down there. Walls are up, paint is done, need a false ceiling, lights, floor of some kind, doors hung, that sort of thing.) But so far no one’s actually come out to our place to even look at it.

Meanwhile our garage door opener pooped out on us again. It’s worked maybe six months in the three years we’ve lived here, so I called a pro. He took my money, said he’d order a new unit, and told me he’d call me first thing Monday morning to set up a time either Monday or Tuesday to install the thing. It’s Tuesday, and I haven’t heard a word from him yet. I’m wondering if he took my money and ran.

Late yesterday afternoon I had occasion to use the water spigot on the side of our house (I was filling buckets of water to dump on some baby trees I got in the mail a few weeks ago from the Arbor Day people). After a bit I noticed water coming out from under our siding, leaking down the foundation. That’s NOT good. A quick trip to the basement revealed a nifty puddle of water along that wall. So I called the plumber. He said they’d be out today or tomorrow to fix it. I hope they follow through.

I worry. It feels like our little paradise is slowly falling apart, but I can’t seem to get people to come out and fix it, and if they do I’m not real sure how to pay them. It makes me feel helpless.

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Quickies

They say you dream so your brain can revisit and process the day’s events. What do my dogs dream about? Their last nap? All they do is sleep…

We don’t sleep ALL the time, sometimes we just nap.

I haven’t been able to fit my hand in a Pringle’s can in 35 years, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. Every. Single. Time.

The world needs fewer songs about sex, violence, and cars, and more songs about dogs. Doggies are nice.

Often I’m more intrigued by an object’s shadow than I am with the object itself. The shadow changes, minute by minute, season by season, while the object stays the same.

There is a certain amount of shame that comes with eating an entire can of Pringles in one day. But after you’ve done it a few times you get over it.

We’ve been getting a nasty, blasty south wind pretty consistently the past few years, which is no fun as we have no windbreak to the south other than the neighbor’s hog confinement (did you know that turkey bacon tastes just as good as “normal” bacon?) – the wind just whips through here. I’ve planted some trees to the south, and will plant more trees when the opportunity presents itself, but I’ve been wondering lately if I shouldn’t just build a big wall around my acreage. But then I’d have to start referring to it as “The Compound” and I’d probably end up on some government watch list for kooks. Kooks in Kompounds.

First World Problems

4:32 a.m.

I have to go to the doctor today for a routine checkup. I have to fast for eight hours prior. I hate fasting. Not only did I eat a huge meal at 9:30 last night, but I lay awake all night eating popcorn, Honey Nut Scooters, and bacon, but I got up at 4:30 in the morning to have my Last Meal (which Beloved Wifey cooked for me) so I won’t starve to death by 1:30 in the afternoon. Eggs and ham! I ate so much I could barely waddle. I hate fasting.

8:04 a.m.

I’ve survived thus far on naught but weak black decaffeinated coffee. This sucks. I find myself weak with hunger, and snappish of attitude. I hate fasting.

8:37 a.m.

I’m not sure, but I think I just blacked out for a minute there. It’s been three and a half hours since my last meal. I hate fasting.

10:12 a.m.

Having difficulty concen… Concentr… Finishing a thought. I will now eat half a stick of sugar-free chewing gum. I’ve been saving it all morning. I hate fasting.

11:40 a.m.

It has now been over six hours since my last meal. My stomach is gnawing on my liver, asking me for onions. For the last forty-five minutes I’ve been seeing visions, hallucinations. They all involve hamburgers for some reason. Hamburgers. Wonderful, wondrous hamburgers. I hate fasting.

12:42 p.m.

Time to head to the doctor. I’ve asked my Beloved Wifey to drive me. I have tunnel-vision, and lost feeling in my extremities quite some time ago. The ravages of extreme hunger are cruel indeed. I feel numb to the world. I can do naught but stare, constantly aware of the nagging hole in my soul. I hate fasting.

1:30 p.m.

I’m sure the doctor will hospitalize me. He’ll take one look at me and will realize what he’s done to me. “Oh my gosh,” he’ll say, “you’re wasting away! You’re but a shadow of the fine man I saw just a few months ago! No, please don’t try to walk – we’ll get a wheelchair for you, you’re much too weak to walk on your own!” He’ll then pat my fevered brow and will write a prescription for two steaks a day, with potatoes. I’m sure of it. That’s what will happen. I hate fasting.

1:31 p.m.

They’ve called my name, and I’ve managed to drag myself into the little examination closet. No one seems to have noticed the ravages the fasting has caused me. I’ll try not to pass out as I sit here, waiting, endlessly waiting… Doctors always make you wait. In my enfeebled state I find that to be an atrocity.

1:32 p.m.

“So how are we today,” the doctor said as he came in the door, eyes focused on his iPad, paying no attention to my emaciated, withering frame. “I see you’re here for some blood tests. Have you been fasting?”

“Yes,” I whimpered. “Yes, I have.”

He glanced up from his iPad, looked at my belly, then, “Good. Looks like you could use it, you’ve got a few extra pounds there.” Eyes back on his notes, “Everything here looks good. Just go down the hall to your left and they’ll get your blood…”

1:42 p.m.

Back in the car with Beloved Wifey. “It’s okay, Honey, I can drive,” I said. “I’m glad that’s over!”

“Oh, okay. Where do you want to go for lunch?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m okay,” I replied. “I’m not hungry yet. I had a big breakfast…”

1 Reply

Deep Thoughts, by Me

If I ever see that gecko…

…I’m gonna strangle him. I often fall asleep with one hand in the popcorn bowl, the TV flickering merrily away in the corner. But invariably, at some time during the night, that stupid dumb rotten miserable Geico gecko will start hollering about his stupid dumb rotten miserable flat tire, and it’ll startle me and I’ll jerk and spill popcorn all over the place. The rest of the night I have merry dreams of feasting on roasted gecko for breakfast.

Honestly, since the CALM Law went into effect last year, I don’t know how Geico gets away with it. (The CALM Law is an example of what good Congress can do if they can cooperate for twelve seconds. Advertisers can’t have their commercials blaringly loud any more. That’s a good thing!) But if I ever catch that damned gecko, I’m going to holler at him. Loudly. And I shan’t buy their stupid dumb rotten lousy insurance, either.

Math Is Important

Fourteen Pringles chips = Joy

Fifteen Pringles chips = Upset Tummy

Harumph

Dear Disapproving Neighbor,

If you don’t want to see me wandering around in my undershorts, you shouldn’t drive by when I’m gardening.

Sincerely,
Me

Credibility Lost

I don’t often get time to watch the local news, but I’ll peek at our local stations’ web sites every now and then to try to keep up. I’m consistently appalled at the atrocious spelling and grammar mistakes. The last article I read consistently called the Taylor family “the tailors.”

Yes, you’re in a hurry to fine your story, but take the minute and a half necessary to glance over it. You’re losing credibility. *shakes fist feebly in the air*

Well, Shoot

I was going to watch football this afternoon, but it looks like I’ll have to watch a Vikings game instead. Ah well.

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So THAT’S What They Think

I found my dog’s diary on the computer this afternoon. Kinda interesting.

Jantober 93, 1527

Hallo! My name is Zoey and I’m 927 years old. Or three. It’s hard to tell – I’m a dog. Time is a monkey invention. I just guess. I have two monkeys and a pet Goldy Treever puppy and there are two Feline Overlords in charge of the place. We used to live in a stinky town, but now we live in the stinky country. There are piggies just over the hill in a big building. I can smell 4,287 of them. I used to go there to visit and eat nummies every once in a while before Papa Monkey thought it would be a good idea to “put a stop to all that nonsense.” Now I don’t go very far any more. It’s okay, I like my yard.

My yard is a nice yard. It’s sixty-three miles long and fourteen inches wide, I’d guess. (What do I know about distances, I’m a doggie.) When I barks at the squirrel by the deck he has six trees to hide in before he gets to the woods. That’s how big my yard is! I can poop in a different spot every day!

Mama Monkey is nice to us, but we can’t nap in her kennel. Papa lets us sleep in his kennel, though. I sleep at the bottom of the bed where I can watch the funny TV better. My Goldy Treever puppy, she sleeps up by Papa Monkey. I laughs because sometimes she sticks her front paws in Papa Monkey’s face when he’s sleeping and he says a bad word.

Marvember 192, 3527 (or whatever)

Today was a good day! My pet Goldy Treever, Buttercup, woke me and Papa Monkey up. We all went outside to do pees except Papa Monkey and Mama Monkey and the Feline Overlords, so I guess it was just just Buttercup and me, but we peed. Then Papa Monkey gived us food and we ate it all. Then we took a nap in our little kennels because Papa Monkey said our feet were wet and we couldn’t go and nap in his big kennel with the TV.

When we woke up we went outside and peed, then Papa gave us more food and we ate it all, then we took a nap. When Mama Monkey came home from “work,” wherever that is, we woke up and gived her hugs, then we went to bed. What a good day!

Stardate 2972.5 (or whatever)

Today Papa Monkey told me and Stinky Buttercup to go outside and play, and he kicked us outside. I peed, then I got bored and so I barked at a tree for ten minutes and Papa let us back in again. I think he was upset – when he opened the door he said very sternly, “Goddam it, unless there’s a Bigfoot on fire running down the lane waving a rocket launcher I want you to shush up, you silly idiot!” Then he patted me on the head and I took a nap.

Quintilis XXVI, MMXIII (or whatever)

I fell asleep in the flower garden today and a flutterbye landed on my nose. It made me crosseyed to look at it, but it had beautiful wings. Then I sneezed and it went away.

Mama quit going to work a long time ago, but she doesn’t play with me or Stinky Buttercup. She just lays in her kennel. She doesn’t even watch her TV or anything. Papa sometimes stands by her door and watches her sleep.

Junuary 37, 1075 (or whatever)

Me and Stinky Buttercup napped for a bit today, then we pretend-fighted for a while, then we napped for a bit, then we barked at a squirrel (he gived us a dirty look). Papa played frisbee with Stinky Buttercup for a while. That’s so stupid – he throws the frisbee then Stinky Buttercup has to run and get it. She keeps bringing it back to Papa, but he just goes off and throws it again, silly monkey. I just watches.

Last Tuesday (or whatever)

Oh happy day! I got to nap with Mama for a bit, then I got to nap with Papa for a bit, and Stinky Buttercup had to stay in her own little kennel. HAHAHAHA! But I missed her and so Mama let her out and then we all hugged on the couch all together and that was nice!

I loves my family! Even the Feline Overlords.

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