Glacial breakneck speed

Here we are again.   You and me.

Yes, you.  You have to be here because you are reading this.

Unless, of course, I am reading it to you.  That would mean that we are likely in the same place. Which in turn means that since I am busy reading this to you, would you be a dear and refill my beer?

Thank you.

My posts are taking quite some time, which means I have graduated from mere "crastinator" to "procrastinator."  I assure you that turning pro won't have an effect on my ego, though.  Or even my Eggo.  I have no idea how typing would in anyway directly affect the quality of a toaster-assisted breakfast offering.

Since we are on breakfast, let's stay there.  At the moment, I am enjoying a bagel.  Ok, ok, you're right:  at the moment, I am typing.  (You're so smart.)  Let me try again.  Super, very, extremely recently, I enjoyed a bagel.  Well half-enjoyed it.  There's a certain unfairness that you get with a toasted bagel.

The bagel of choice for me today was a sesame bagel, toasted, with a plain cream cheese schmear.   In every bite, if one orders such a thing, one might expect 4 things:  sesame, bagel, toasted, cream cheese.  But this is not what happens.  The bagel isn't engineered correctly.  It's a disaster.

Through a complicated process which I shall term "cutting in half," the essence of the product changes to one-half sesame bagel and one-half PLAIN bagel.   Forsooth!  I never ordered a plain bagel.  Not even half of one.

They could put some seeds on the other side.  It can be done.  When there are long-known-of baking marvels like upside-down cake, I am pretty sure that the bagel place knows exactly what they are doing.  And, dear reader, sesame seeds aren't the only ingredient being skimpily applied.  Onion, poppy seed, salt, and even garlic are given the same half-effort.  So brazen is the bagel collusion that they flaunt the limitless "everything" style, too.   But everything is not everywhere.

But Matt, you say:  Pizza has toppings only on one side.

Quiet, you.

Unless you have some ridiculous planar Ginsu skills and uselessly focused spare time in slice re-engineering, you get the whole shebang in each bite.  Until you get to the bready handle; that's the pizza's warning track that alerts you that cheesy, saucy goodness has run out and you must now angle to grab another slice posthaste.

That is unless the largest existing piece is not directly adjacent to any open space, then you wait for someone else to take the smaller piece, and then you make your move posthaste.

That is unless you are eating alone.  Then to heck with posthaste.  That pie is all yours.

Recomposing your argument, you say:  Pizza bagels.

I say:  That's no argument.  That's righting a wrong.

But it still doesn't take care of 'everything.'

Godspeed.

Leia Mais…

Man's Advantage

Men are notorious for keeping their dainty underthings years past
the acceptable shelf life.

This is what gives us the advantage.

Men have always been the subject of scorn by women in many domestic
areas. We simply don't do enough, and they do everything. So you
ladies say. Now I can't go through all of the expected duties that
may arise in the average household, but I at least want to address
one particular chore: doing the laundry. The fact that more women
do laundry more often than men seems to say that women are unfairly
pressed into this chore.

This is simply not correct.

Clean laundry is necessary. I think all people who aren't morons or
who aren't vying to be disgusting would agree. It is nice to put on
clothes that don't smell like they were stitched together from
roadkill that had first knived a dive into hot sewage before
investigating a few spinning Michelins.

Normal people accept clean laundry as a desirable event in their
lives. Before a couple is married, they both did laundry. Pink
undershirts everywhere attest to this very fact for men. No man or
woman had much hope of snaring the other if their clothes made them
smell like they forwent deodorant and instead stuffed a rotting carp
in their shorts.

The difference between husbands and wives is the Laundry Decision
Point. Men never plan their outfits to blend with their mood/face
paint/weather/ozone alerts/etc. Men are never faced with a dilemma
where they absolutely want to wear an adorable set of pumps and need
some pre-ordained outfit to showcase them.

To men, the decision of what to wear comes totally by survey. If it
happens to be clean, it is a wearable option. Socks? Check. Pants?
Check. Shirt? Check. Undies? Check. We may strive to combine
clothes that don't color-clash or that come from the same decade,
but those are just details when you get down to it. Wearing
something more than once typically is not a point of consternation
either. We merely need to have enough clothes on so that we don't
automatically qualify for jail time.

For men, the crux of the Laundry Decision Point comes down to one
question: Do I have clean underwear? As long as we do, ceiling
height is the only other possible limitation when deciding on a
point to quit stacking dirty laundry. Our underwear gives us the
edge. We have loads of underwear. Like counting rings on a stump,
you can make a timeline of our lives by noting the waist-sizes
contained in our undie-arsenal.

It doesn't matter if those boxers you are wearing in May have
snowmen all over them. If they're clean, they get worn. It doesn't
matter if you reach way back into the drawer and pull out a pair
that makes you ask aloud, "Are these mine?" If they're clean, they
get worn. It doesn't matter if your Batman Underoos from fourth
grade make your appendix visible like a nipple on a brisk day. If
they're clean, they get worn. It doesn't matter if your wife hears
you say, "Can't tell if that's a skid mark or chocolate." If
they're clean, they get worn.

And "clean" means that a) it is assumed that a reasonable attempt
was made at applying a soapy water mixture to the material in
question, and b) there is no discernable bad smell. Take note that
I did not say only "smell," I said "bad smell." Good smells are
good, wherever they came from. Naturally, this leads to the remote
chance that an article of clothing that was destined for soapy water
got hung up on an Airwick for a few days. This may just be enough
reason to fold it and put it back it the drawer.

Ha! Just kidding! We men would never do that! "Fold it" is just a
made-up phrase like "Apollo Moon Landing" or "feelings."

So ladies, here's the deal. If you want to get to a point where the
man does the laundry, somehow outlast his stash of Hanes. I'll tell
you now, it'll never be done. There's a better chance that we would
actually say to you, "You look fat in that."

Some things beg to be talked about. It is a good thing that you
stopped by today. Women, you now can quit arguing about doing the
laundry and focus your energy into berating your husband about other
duties. Guys – hurry up and clean something. Quickly.

Guys, if you don't live a woman yet, take heed.

And stock up on some Airwicks, just in case.

Godspeed.

Leia Mais…

Pulling the ripcord

You might say that I have procrastinated plenty since the establishing of the blog.

You would be wrong.

I had every intention of procrastinating, but I kept putting it off.

But now I have returned to the place where I really have never been.  Which is nice.  It looks so clean.  I guess I will commence to mess it up a bit.

Time to get this thing started.  *stretch*

That didn't help much.

What will this blog be?  I'm not sure, so I will keep typing until I find out.

These first entries are hard.  To follow proper convention, I would first have to start with something known to writers as an "idea."  Turns out that these things are really tough to come by.  No matter what I try to come up with, my thoughts get in the way and totally scuttle the ordeal.

Clear your mind?  That's your advice?  Well, I tried that.  The thoughts did indeed disappear, but so did any ideas, notions, inklings, and the address of where I live.  It is so close to mealtime, and now I don't know how to get home.  Puts me in a pickle.  Mmmm... pickles.

I hope someone turns the oven off.

Speaking of ovens, do you know when they were invented?

Neither do I.  But they are great, aren't they?  No, not at all fast, but they sure do take up the space between cabinets smartly.  Fabulous feat of engineering.

(Stay with me here.  It sucks to be lost by yourself.)

I named the blog Matt's Wurld.  And you are thinking, "Clever!"  Or possibly "Huh?"

Both are right.

My intention is simply to never follow convention.  If I do, I promise to step out of line right away and go tangential.  Unless I'm spiraling.  Then I might just stay with it.  If I spin off, I could very well hit something.  We have had a spate of broken coffee mugs here recently, and I wouldn't want to add to the porcelain carnage.  Plus drinking coffee out of anything without a proper handle could invite injury.  And the taste just isn't the same out of a beer glass.  Tastes like it is missing something.  Like it is missing beer.

Whoa! I just looked up at what all I've typed.  And I noticed that all of those words up there have pushed this sentence way down here.  Shazam!  In spite of that weight, it appears that the blog is officially off of the ground.  Somewhat.  But not too high.  I don't like heights.  If you were to walk beneath it, it might be brushed by your hair.  Or a very tall hat.

Nonetheless:  progress.  That's nice.

Just in time for my unplanned nap.

Come back next time when I type about something I have not thought of yet.

Godspeed.

Leia Mais…

Is this thing on?

No.  Not yet.

Soon.

And by "soon," I mean not yet.

(the circle is complete)

Leia Mais…