Where's the chicken?

I dropped a piece of chicken,
I know not where it went
The chair, the stairs, the ottoman?
Down the heating vent?
I looked high, low and in between
Then underneath the rugs
Though I guess I needn't worry
'Twill be eaten by the bugs!

The ballad of Old Greasy Thighs

I once worked with a largely unpleasant fellow. He was largely unfriendly, largely unsocial and largely large. He needed a specially designed chair to support him that looked like it was purchased off of a Paramount lot after shutting down one of the multitude Start Trek incarnations.
However, antisocial behavior was not his most off-putting characteristic.
You did NOT want to use a restroom after him.
Not for the usual scatological reasons, but for the unearthly residue.
After he exited the stall, the toilet seat sported a coating of greasy dark fuzz. The fuzz was reminiscent of the cheap coating of "fur" that adorns inexpensive plastic toy animals.
What it was, and how he transferred it, is nothing that I care to know.
Hence, the nickname "Old Greasy Thighs".
If you ever work with him, be sure to carry gloves, a scrub brush and disinfectant.
Or use a neighborhood "Kwik-Kee-Marte" restroom. It is likely to be less offensive.

Little Larry's Limerick

There once was a man name o' Neddy
Who liked to eat lots o' spaghetti
He also ate greens
And occasionally beans
And bread whenever 'twas ready!

Tragedy leads to Treats

Dear Blog Community Members,

It is with heavy heart that I relate the following: Yesterday
afternoon Timmy the Tape-gun was severely injured in a work related
accident. His injury was not a total surprise, as Timmy was getting
up in years and he had lived a hard life. In fact, he had just completed
a 12-step rehabilitation program at the 3M wing of the Betty Ford
Clinic for an adhesive-sniffing addiction.

Nevertheless, Timmy was loved by most, and certainly respected by
all who knew him. He will continue to work, but sadly not to the levels
for which he was legendary.

During his convalescence (and probable retirement) Timmy will be
succeeded by a younger, stronger but hitherto unnamed tape-gun. To
remedy this anonymity, we are offering a contest to name Timmy's
successor.

Please send your ideas for an appropriate name for this strapping young
tape-gun.

The winning entry will receive the following treats:
1) A smile
2) A note of thanks from the Brotherhood of Packing Products
3) Blog bliss 

The winning entry will be based on originality, creativity and clever
use of language (English or otherwise). Off-color, racist, or otherwise
offensive entries will be immediately disqualified, printed out, stomped on,
torn to pieces and unceremoniously flushed.

Judging will be held on Wednesday January 15th, rain or
shine. So enter often!

VOID WHERE PROHIBITED, INHIBITED OR INEBRIATED.

*SPONSORED BY "FRIENDS OF TIMMY MN CHAPTER 9B" AND
"BIG REYNOLD'S FORK TINE ALIGNMENT AND SPOON RE-CONCAVING
SERVICES, Because your flatware needn't be".

Things are looking down

Many have noted that I tend to look down at the ground while I walk. I will not deny it; the truth is the truth. What is the reason for my downcast gaze?
-Am I severely depressed? (Eyore syndrome?)
-Are my shoulders weighed down by problems unfathomable?
-Am I so concerned with the sanctity of all life, that I keep a constant vigil to make sure that nothing living is trodden on?
The answer is - None of the above. I simply find more money that way.

Anchor Shirt dilemma

Many years ago, shortly after High School, my mom bought me a fabulous shirt with an intricate stitched ships anchor design on the front. (I love maritime items - Nautical but nice!)
It quickly became my favorite shirt. However, I have the bad habit of not using the items that I love the most. Out of fear fear of loss or damage due to rampaging thugs, slugs, bugs, pugs etc.
At any rate, I finally decided to wear my prized shirt on an outing - a Vikings football game of all things. Why I thought that the Metrodome, with its bear-swilling, food-tossing atmosphere was the proper venue for my beloved shirt, I will never know.
I will spare you further anxiety by telling you here and now that the shirt did not meet it's demise at the hands of a care-less "Dome-Dog" vendor with bad aim.
What happened was this: I was ascending the stairs in search of over priced nibbly-dibblies, when I came face-to-belly with a disgusting, hideous, slovenly glob of a person wearing....MY SHIRT! Despite the fact that I had never seen anyone wearing this same shirt before, today I was shirt-to-shirt with a creature proudly sporting it. I could almost hear the shirt whimpering in sorrow and shame.
"How" I wondered "could this 'thing' possibly think that it looks good in that splendid piece of clothing?". In as much as the creature was capable of thought, I imagine that he was thinking: "Duh, how come little twerp think he look good in anchor shirt? Him look stoopid! He not pretty like ME in anchor shirt. Maybe I squash him later if I not too drunk. Oops, too late already".
The outing was ruined, as was the charm of the shirt. It went back into the closet, and shortly thereafter it went to the Goodwill.
Did I over react? Should I have continued to love the shirt, despite the unfortuante encounter? Was I really that shallow? The answer would probably be 'yes' on all counts. But, what's done is done. Perhaps some day I will search eBay for a replacement and relive the glory days when my anchor shirt was the apple of my eye, the cream in my coffee and the pride of my closet.

Adult entertainment

Being a kid is fun. Sadly, when you are a kid you can't wait to be an adult. Hence the saying, "Youth is wasted on the young", I suppose.
I suspect that one of the childhood things I miss the most is the 'having of fun'. Entertainment for children consists of cartoons, bright colors, fun games, skipping, jumping and running around like a maniac. That all ends around 13. Then comes the transition to the world of adulthood, and regrettably, "Adult Entertainment". At some point we decide (or society decides for us) that we need to put away the crayons and break out the booze. Adults are supposed to be entertained by heavy drinking and sex. Whether watching it, talking about it or participating in it. All I want to know is: "Why"? Why must so-called "adults" spend all of their time talking about "Goin' drinkin'", bar hopping, clubbing (not baby seals) and one night stands.
If games are played, they must involve "shots" or disrobing. Or both.
That's entertainment?
"Phooey!", Says I. A pox on all that refuse! If I want to watch cartoons, climb on monkey bars and skip instead of walk, then that is what I shall do. Of course, I will more than likely be shunned and/or locked up for my deviant and erratic behavior.
Oh well, please come and visit me during my incarceration. Please bring me chocolate and a game of "Pin the tale on the donkey". The Velcro kind, since I doubt I will be permitted to have sharp objects.

Excerpt from "Moisture"

"No one knew exactly who she was or how she died
But when they opened up her purse, they found a snail inside"

I am full of coffee

Well, nothing earthshaking, earth quaking or mirth making of note has happened yet. So, more coffee please!

Today I thought I saw a small dog sitting on a bookstore counter. It turned out to be a small bundle of decoration. Which makes sense, since dogs are rarely made of prickly green plastic. I say 'rarely' since I have not seen all the dogs in the known world. Perhaps there is a little known breed of prickly plastic pooches out there.