Cereal (name) Killer

I have a packet of Weetabix on my desk which is drawing a lot of interest from my work colleagues, mostly because it’s not every colour of the rainbow, caked in sugar and more sugar, and isn’t represented by a cartoon tiger, captain, or fucking leprechaun.

What cereal ACTUALLY looks like

I’ve had comments like, “What the hell is THAT?”, “It looks like hay!”, “Is that rabbit food?”, and “It’s so weird!”; you know, all the encouraging and open minded thinking I’ve come to expect.

But my favourite was about 20 minutes ago when someone walking past my desk stopped, looked at the box, and read the name of it out loud to himself in the form of a question.

Naturally.

Now, us Brits know it’s pronounced ‘WEE-tabix’, with the emphasis on the ‘WEE’

(He he).

But he pronounced it with the emphasis on the ‘TA’ part, and dropped the ‘Wee’ to a ‘W’, so he said:

“wTA-bix?”

I nearly spat my cereal all over my laptop.

What a wn-KER

 

Innuendos, Double Entendres and Puns, Oh My! – Part 3

This morning at work, whilst making my morning coffee in our kitchen/break area, I was greeted by one of my colleagues.

“Good morning!” she said, as she strolled over to the collection of free fruit provided by the company.

“Good morning to you!”, I replied with the type of gusto I only reserve for Fridays, “And how are you this fine morning?”

“I’m great!”, she said innocently as she picked up a piece of fruit, “Just looking forward to my banana”.

Yeah she was.

 

Never say never.

Innuendos, Double Entendres and Puns, Oh My! – Part 2

This one is so funny to me, yet not one of my American friends ‘got’ it, even after I awkwardly explained it to them….or at least attempted to.

However, I mentioned it to my parents and they got it immediately, so it’s not just me!

(Phew!)

I laughed so hard and for so long, that people around me started meerkatting (prairie-dogging) to see if I was OK. I literally had to leave my desk and take a walk to calm down.

Here’s a little background info first.

At work we have internal communication software called ‘Slack’. It’s a great tool for keeping the entire business up to date with information through direct messaging or the use of departmental ‘channels’. So, for example, a department like I.T. or Marketing would have a channel that provides updates, information and answers questions and issues from anyone from around the business.

It’s pretty cool.

So, with this in mind….

My colleague had been involved in a long and convoluted email thread about something or other and, after much back and forth, decided to send this beautifully succinct email out to an entire department.

‘I’m going to hop in your slack channel’

Innuendos, Double Entendres and Puns, Oh My! – Part 1

One of the joys of living in America is the overabundance of rude and amusing things that are innocently said by well meaning people, that don’t mean the same thing as they do back in Britain.

Rather than simply smiling to myself and then telling my wife about it later, I’ve decided to put them in a series called ‘Innuendos, Double Entendres and Puns, Oh My!’.

This is the first entry (smirk) of many….I hope. I have another to share, which I will post shortly.

So, without further ado, let’s crack on:

(clears throat)

……

I just walked past a female work colleague in the kitchen area, microwaving something that smelt [smelled] amazing.

Me: “Something smells good.”

Her: “It’s my hot pocket.”

Aaaaahthankyou.

If it wasn’t for us, you’d all be speaking [insert language here].

I’ve seen so many stupid and idiotic car stickers since living in Las Vegas, and whenever I see them I judge the driver, hate them through the windscreen [windshield], and move on with my life.

However, I recently saw a car sticker that annoyed me on so many levels, I just had to share it with you.

Or, maybe it’s because the sticker was printed in English?

Just a thought.

In fact, if I WAS reading it in another language, that would be another reason to thank a teacher, wouldn’t it?

Surely?

(shrugs)

Now, I’m not arrogant enough to misunderstand the sentiment of supporting the troops; I’m all for it. In fact, one of my best friends has three children in the Navy, but the jingoism of this sticker made my bum twitch.

However, as I was sat in traffic behind this numpty, and waiting 3 hours for the lights to turn any colour other than red, my mind wandered and I started thinking…

Maybe people don’t realise that even if the USA loses every single conflict they’re engaged in, we will STILL be speaking English. This is because – and prepare yourself for a massive revelation that will change your life – no-one is invading and occupying America.

At least, not yet.

Although, all joking aside, Maybe it really is believed, by many, that if the USA is forced out of the Middle East, everyone in America has to start speaking Pashto or Dari.

If that’s the case….زه بیرته انګلستان ته ځم

(Oh yeah, this guy knows how to use Google Translate)

It should’ve been plane and simple…

A few months ago my wife and I flew to the Spanish island of Majorca [or ‘Mallorca’] to attend my brother’s wedding. Well, it was also because we felt we had too much money in our bank account and a few grand just needed to go.

Majorca was such a close destination when I lived in the UK, and would entail a 3 hour flight and about 150 quid1 per person. From Las Vegas it was a 26 hour relay race of flights and fuckwits that cost around 2000 bucks2 per person.

Not the same.

Not even close.

Anyway, we couldn’t NOT go, so off we went. However, it wasn’t a journey we are ever likely to forget because so much went wrong.

(Whispers) SO much!

So come with me as I walk you through the levels of hell that Dante forgot about, and see just how undivine this comedy was.

Before I continue, I feel the need to introduce you to the concept of the ‘airport zombie’. These infuriating creatures are not dissimilar to the train zombies I used to write about so much, except these ones are dumber, slower and are found exclusively at airports.

Obviously.

These are people who choose to suddenly stop dead in their tracks so you have to do a weird little dance to avoid walking straight into the back of them. They turn in random directions without warning, shuffle around at the speed of stop, and generally show no sense of urgency as they meander about with their gaping faceholes open, sucking up all the oxygen and joy in the world.

So, back to our comedy.

It all started with our flight from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. This flight was very important because we would only have about 90 minutes at Los Angeles airport to connect with the crucial long haul international flight to Madrid.

So, naturally, it was delayed.

By 50 fucking minutes.

Oh, wait, no it was 30 minutes.

Wait, wait, my mistake…..45 minutes.

Nope, 1 hour and 20 minutes.

Hang on, hang on…..50 minutes.

Sigh, I love airports.

This wasn’t a stressful start to the trip at all. In addition, there was NOWHERE airside at Las Vegas airport to change our currency from Dollars to Euros in the 50/30/45/80/50 minutes we suddenly had available to us. I mean, why would there be? After all, who needs to change currencies at an airport, of all places?

I later discovered there is a teeny tiny Bureau De Change by the arrivals gate…..landside! So you can change money when you fly into Las Vegas, but not when you fly out.

Regardless, once we arrived in Los Angeles we had to get to Tom Bradley International Terminal. The problem was, Tom Brady International Terminal was a clear 30 minutes away, and we had 20 minutes before our connecting flight departed.

Needless to say, we had to run.

Actually, it was more like a slalom because of all the fucking airport zombies.

I think my wife decapitated one of them with her handbag [purse]. She denies it to this day, but I know what I saw.

So proud of her.

So much blood.

Anyway, we finally made it – panting and sweating – to Ted Bundy International Terminal and joined the queue of shuffling airport zombies boarding the flight; we’d made it!

Still nowhere to change our money though. Just thought i’d mention that.

It was at this point that a couple with two young children had a ‘moment’ where one of their little darlings fell off her pushchair [stroller], hit her head on the floor, and then decided to scream blue bloody murder until the paramedics arrived on bicycles, halting the boarding of our flight.

I’m still not sure why boarding was stopped. They weren’t even in the queue for our flight!

Anyway, after putting an ice pack on the little cherub’s head and calming down her parents (who were being SO dramatic and somehow blaming everything BUT their child to the point where you’d have thought she had been shot3), we were allowed to continue boarding our flight.

Despite the failed acrobatics of the pint-sized twat of a banshee, our flight departed on time and I settled into my seat to read Ernest Cline’s bestseller, ‘Ready Player One’. I was excited because I LOVE the movie and was looking forward to finding out how much it differed from the book.

(Side note: It was a LOT different to the movie but I love them both for different reasons. Anyway, this isn’t a book review site, so I shall continue…)

No sooner had I opened the book, than the guy in front of me put his seat right back and put an end to it. Thankfully it was an 11 hour flight and our seats didn’t recline because we were in the last row at the back of the plane section.

We arrived in Madrid almost an hour late and we had about 30 minutes to reach our connecting flight. The word ‘run’ became very commonplace with my wife and I by the end of this journey.

So did the words ‘Get out of the way’, and ‘Fuck’.

We managed to FINALLY get off the plane after about 6 hours of waiting for more zombies to s-l-o-w-l-y pull their bags out of the overhead bins, and began the next leg of our run along the skybridge to the terminal. This was accompanied by shouts of ‘EXCUSE ME!’ and ‘SORRY, COMING THROUGH!’ from my wife and I, which parted most passengers, er, I mean zombies, like the red sea as we bolted along the narrow, enclosed walkway like a pair of deranged Moseses (Mosi?).

(shrugs)

Anyway, halfway along the skybridge we encountered two guys who were shuffling along at the speed of backwards, side by side and reluctant to move out of our way.

We KNOW they knew we were approaching because there was NO way they couldn’t hear us running up behind them, Moses-ing our way through the other considerate passengers who appreciated the stress and urgency of having to make a connecting flight.

My wife was able to get around them but, being a bigger guy, I lightly brushed one of these bell ends’ arm as I slipped past.

I didn’t think anything of it and continued running, until I heard one of them mutter something behind me.

Now, regular readers of my blog will know that I tend to internalise rage and frustration and then vent it all on here, instead of unleashing a verbal tirade at the person in the moment…but not this time; not after the flight we’d just had with 11 hours of non-reclining seats, no legroom and the inability to read my book.

I stopped in my tracks, whipped around and shouted “Well fucking MOVE then!” to the twat who was pointing to his arm and saying something in Spanish. I had literally brushed his arm with the lightest of lightest touches.

Being English, I would’ve normally apologised, but this time I wish i’d ripped his arm off so I had something to beat him with.

He tried to argue back, but a) I was bigger than him, and b)…..actually, a) was enough.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s a poo head. Let’s move on.

Passport control at Madrid was a joke, with no discernible queues [lines] and no decent signage. Thankfully we weren’t all sweaty, irritable and hot. I asked one of the employees (I use the term VERY loosely) if she could get us to the front because we now had 20 minutes to catch our flight, and there were around 150 people in front of us.

She looked at me with her dead eyes and uttered the one word that soon became synonymous with Spain; “No”.

I pleaded with her, but she just looked at me deadpan and repeated that word again and again. Annoyingly, while we were ‘talking’, two guys pushed past us, ducked under the multitude of ropes holding back the zombies and went straight to the front and through passport control.

I pointed at the guys who had the sense to ask forgiveness than permission and said, “Hey, look! They just did it!”, but this prize winning jobsworth just looked at them, then back at me, shrugged, and said….

Well, you know what she said.

So we waited….and we waited….and finally made it through passport control.

This was followed by more running.

So much running.

We had about 8 minutes left.

We made it to the domestic departure terminal and…..no screens. We couldn’t find anything displaying flights, times, gates or anything. Plenty of stores and zombies, but no screens. With no airport staff available to shrug and tell us ‘No’, we asked the closest store clerk where the departure information was, and she pointed to the ceiling, showing a huge 50ft wide screen with flight information.

OK, so this isn’t the EXACT one, but it gives you an idea of how it looked…

‘What a great idea!’ I thought, until I realised that they were only using 30% of the screen, and they had important, time sensitive flight information displayed on a slow….rotating….basis….

Screen 1 of 5…..
Screen 2 of 5…..
Screen 3 of 5…..

OH COME ON!!!!!

Screen 4 of 5….

Yes, that’s our informa…

Screen 5 of 5…..

Wait, what? The screen info was on there for literally 3 seconds!

This was so frustrating because the remaining 70% of screen real estate was taken up with stupid animations of paper aeroplanes and fish in a pond. It was the biggest waste of space I’ve ever seen. Up until then, the record had been held by that prick on the skybridge.

After the departure information had scrolled through another 10 screens, we were able to glimpse our flight and gate number and continue our run.

There was STILL nowhere to change our currency by the way.

We finally made it onto our final flight, coughing and wheezing like a fat guy in a gym, and arrived in Majorca a couple of hours later.

But the adventure didn’t end there. Oh, no it didn’t….

While we waited for our baggage, I decided to try and find somewhere to change up our money because, weirdly, Spain doesn’t tend to accept US Dollars.

I found a currency exchange booth and, luckily, there was no-one in it. It looked open for business, but the person was either out to lunch, on a break or maybe they had gone home? Who knows?

After 10 minutes of over-the-top neck craning and other movements that suggested I was keen to change money, a young woman appeared with a coffee in her hand and a uniform that matched the booth. Awesome.

She looked over at me standing there and shot me a knowing wink as she slowly moseyed over to the booth and entering through the unlocked door. I should’ve done that myself.

She put down her coffee, calmly sat herself down behind the desk, and then smiled and asked if she could help me.

No apology, you’ll notice.

I wanted to sarcastically ask her for a Big Mac, fries and a large drink…but I didn’t want to risk pissing off the ONE and ONLY currency exchange employee I’d seen in the last 5800 miles.

As we were staying with family, we only took $700 with us, so I handed it over and she told me that all she could do was give me a 500 Euro note (as that was “all they had”) and some loose change; she didn’t have anything smaller, apparently.

What if I’d wanted to change a smaller amount of money?

Anyway, being fatigued and not wanting to argue, I agreed and went back to my wife who was waiting for our luggage.

But she wasn’t there…..because neither was our luggage. It was lost.

Great.

She’d been told to check a different baggage carousel, but guess what? Yep, it wasn’t there either.

Perfect.

I went over to the Iberia airline desk and told them the exciting news. They didn’t appear to be surprised at all as they handed me a form to fill out. They told me that IF it turns up, they will deliver it the next day.

We’ll see.

Thankfully that suitcase didn’t have all of our clothing (including wedding attire), toiletries, swimwear, and gifts for our nieces because that would’ve been disastrous.

However, at this point we had been travelling for almost 24 hours, so I just wanted to pick up our car hire and get through the one hour drive to the villa where our family was waiting for us.

So we took the vague instructions given to us by the car hire company and went looking for them. They were going to be at a small desk at the entrance to the car park [parking lot] on the 4th floor. Easy.

It took us about 30 minutes to find the area, and when we did…there was no sign of them or their small desk.

Now what?

Then I had a thought, ‘My family who had come from the UK had used the same car hire company, so why not use the airport wifi to call them and see if they can give us better directions?’

Genius.

No signal in the car park, naturally.

So, it was a 10 minute walk back to the airport to get a signal.

As soon as we had the vaguest of signals, we called our family and they gave us completely different directions. We followed those and another 10 minutes later we were at a completely different place with no car hire company representative, or desk, or anything.

We went BACK to the airport to try and call them again, but the wifi was so ropey that it was virtually impossible to talk to them.

Bear in mind, it was about the temperature of the sun with over 300% humidity and we had been awake for almost 24hrs, so we were feeling pretty good about all this.

Finally we asked an airport trolley attendant and he pointed us in the right direction…which was the same fucking place we went to in the first place; the 4th floor of the parking lot. However, this time we had the added bonus of being told to “look for a blue shirt”.

We saw the representative in a blue shirt – who had been waiting for us the whole time – and made a bee line for their desk. Well, actually, it was more of a shelf than a desk. I can’t fathom how we missed it before! Maybe their fucking instructions should fucking include to ‘look for a blue (fucking) shirt’?

Or, maybe assume the couple standing there, looking around like idiots, are your customers and maybe ask if they’re picking up a car?

No?

Common sense not on the agenda?

Maybe it was the lack of suitcase that confused them.

Anyway, by this time we’d been running around for an hour and exhaustion was slowly starting to seep in, so we filled in the paperwork, were handed the keys to the car, and given the parking ticket to exit the airport.

Yes, we were responsible for paying the parking charges.

Sigh, fine. Can we just go?

So we went down the escalators to the 3rd floor where the car was located, and found the car park ticket machine. I put the ticket in the slot followed by my credit card.

The machine didn’t accept my credit card.

I tried it again. Same result.

I tried a different credit card. Same result.

So we went back up the escalators to the 4th floor, and back to the car hire desk, er, I mean shelf.

We were told to use a different machine on another floor which took change. Thankfully we had a little bit of change because I suspected the machine wouldn’t take a 500 Euro note.

We paid the ticket fee and took the escalators back to the 3rd floor to locate our car. Luckily the row numbers were painted in a very light, translucent yellow paint on the white walls of the car park, so it was really challenging to find our car. What fun!

But, after about 15 minutes, we found it.

So far it had been an hour and a half since we exited the airport.

We loaded up the car with, oh, wait…that’s right, no luggage.

We got in the car, I inserted the key in the ignition and turned it.

Nothing happened.

The car wouldn’t start.

I tried again…..nothing.

So, with rage in my heart, I left my wife in the car and headed back to the 3rd floor shelf. Apparently you need to hold the clutch down WHILE you turn the key. This is a new thing for cars in Europe and maybe, just maybe it would’ve been nice to TELL US THIS….along with ‘look for a blue shirt’.

So I headed back to the car, started it and drove to the villa…26 hours after checking in at Las Vegas airport. Ironically, the part of the journey I thought would be a challenge, wasn’t.

The next morning, as you can imagine, we had to buy some temporary clothes while we waited for our luggage to arrive, so we headed into the tourist area of town to find something cheap and cheerful. But guess what? Yes, that’s right, nowhere would accept a 500 Euro note, so it turned out we had too much money to shop there.

Not to worry, a local bank will change our money.

Nope. They wouldn’t change our money either as it was 11:38am when we got to the bank and they only perform banking transactions between 8am and 11am. At least, I think that’s what the woman in the bank was tersely barking at me in Spanish.

Then why…..THE FUCK…..were they still open? We would’ve offered to go back the next day, but it was the weekend and they would be closed.

Woo hoo!

So we had to borrow money from family, who had less money on them than we did! Worryingly, we couldn’t even put fuel in the car!

We did eventually get the money changed at a local hotel the next day, and I shed a small tear.

But there is a silver lining to this tale (well, more of a brown one); our suitcase finally arrived….the day after the wedding.

So that was nice.

1 – Slang for Pounds, like ‘Bucks’
2 – Slang for Dollars, like ‘Quid’
3 – It can be arranged

Jamaican me too hot

During a recent work trip to Jamaica, I was faced with an issue I’ve struggled with in the USA, but in reverse.

Allow me to explain….

In the US, temperature is measured in Fahrenheit, whereas in the UK (and the rest of the known world) it’s measured in Celsius. This has been a pain in the arse [ass] over the last 4 years trying to manually figure out the temperature by removing 30 and then halving it.

No, really!

For example, if the temperature is 100 degrees Fahrenheit, I deduct 30 (making it 70 degrees), then I halve it, leaving me with 35(ish) degrees Celsius.

It’s not an exact science, but it gives me something to reference quickly so i’m not a clueless twat almost every day; I leave that to everyone else around me.

So what does this have to do with my trip to Jamaica?

Well, in my hotel room the air conditioning unit was in Celsius. You’d think this would be easy for a Brit, but I have only ever used A/C in the USA and therefore only ever adjusted temperatures in Fahrenheit because England is cold enough to adequately retract a scrotum. As a result, there has never been a need to have air conditioning in the UK. If you want to cool down your gaff [house], you simply open a window, or a door, or turn off the heating.

So with this in mind, you can imagine the irony of having to reverse engineer the mathematics so I could figure out the temperature in Fahrenheit so I knew which temperature to select in Celsius to cool the room down.

Seriously, I couldn’t make this up.

Being a Brit in America can still be a ballsache at times, retracted or otherwise.

It’s a little too big for her hand, yet she won’t stop playing with it…

I’m sitting at my desk whilst two of my colleagues are having a conversation next to me.

Her – “It’s so big”
Him – “You’ll get used to it”

Her new phone had arrived and they were talking about the size of the screen.

But still…

The Eyelets Of The Tiger

This morning, as I was lacing my shoes for work, the song ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ came on the radio.

I won’t lie….In that moment I felt a rush of self confidence and awesomeness. I felt like I was in an 80’s ‘getting ready for the thing’ montage and actually tied those laces with more intensity and purpose than ever before.

It was a little bit like that scene from ‘Commando’.

let’s go to work

I should feel embarrassed that I actually did that, but I don’t. To be honest, we should all be able to do stuff with more vigor and intensity when that song comes on.

“Dun………dun, dun, dun………dun, dun, dun………dun dun DUUUUUUUUUN!”

 

 

Actually…..my shoes are a little bit too tight now.

Jesus saves…and he’s managed to save enough for a deposit on a billboard.

I know I try and stay away from any religious content because, well, America. But sometimes they poke the bear a few too many times and I have to at least growl a bit.

So, this billboard is a real thing over here.

What do you think; a little preachy?

Hmm, I’m not sure these pillocks know how procreation works. Without lust, no-one would be having sex and then we wouldn’t have babies to continue the species.

Oh wait, these twats also put these up.

So much facepalm.

Well, at least Jesus saves. I mean, as long as you don’t count cancer, AIDS, cot death, famine, poverty or any disputes, conflicts or wars in his name.

So……….

Us Brits don’t necessarily say what we mean…keep up, America!

If you’re an avid reader of my blog (and why wouldn’t you be?), then you’ll know that the last 3 years or so has mostly been content around the cultural differences between the UK and the US…and a plethora of fart and dick jokes too.

Anyway, I’ve noticed a few other small cultural differences; one of which I wanted to share with you.

This difference revolves around the phrase,“We really should get together soon and catch up”

 

In the UK

Me: “We really should get together soon and catch up”

(Translation: “I’m saying this to let you know I like you enough that the mere idea of us getting together socially is something I would enjoy IF we were to do it. But we both know that we’re unlikely to arrange it anytime soon, or EVER, because neither of us really feel like socialising with anyone to be honest. However, please know that if I WERE to socialise with anyone, the thought of doing it with you is tolerable and I wanted you to know that I value you THAT MUCH as a friend to suggest it in the first place”)

Brit: “We really should!”

(Translation: “I am subscribing to this social dance we’re doing. I like you too, but let’s not have this social anytime soon…or ever…unless we absolutely have to, but thank you for asking”)

Me: “Great!”

(Translation: “Phew!”)

 

In the US:

Me: “We really should get together soon and catch up”
(Translation: See above)

Yank: “I’m free this Saturday”
(Translation: “I’m free this Saturday”)

Me: “Shit”
(Translation: “Shit”)

Fancy another? (to be sure, so it is…)

St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner, so naturally everyone at work is starting to wear green, drink green beer, and eat Lucky Charms (or whatever it is that Americans think the Irish actually do). In fact, some people have been wearing kilts and playing traditional Irish music including ‘Scotland The Brave’.

I shit you not.

I don’t think they realise that Scotland and Ireland aren’t the same place.

Anyway, during this morning’s drive into work, I had the radio on as usual and I was listening to a show called ‘Mercedes in the morning’ in which Mercedes – a woman, not a car – and her co-host, JC (not jeebus christ, just a metro-male called….well….JC) were talking about St. Patrick’s Day and all the fun and frivolity that goes with it.

Hey, by the way, did you know the mascot of Ireland is the Leprechaun? I didn’t! I wrongly thought it was a type of hat wearing fairy from Irish folklore and NOT something used to sell god awful cereal to sugar addicted snowflakes! In fact, I was so taken aback that they called it a mascot that I contemplated calling into their show and correcting them, but then I realised that profanity – an ACTUAL Irish tradition – isn’t really tolerated in the US, let alone live on air. So instead I decided to smile, shake my head disapprovingly and mutter lots of Irish traditions under my breath.

And by ‘under my breath‘, I meant ‘out loud, with the windows down, scaring other drivers‘.

But I digress.

Mercedes said there was a recent study regarding the number of drink-related injuries on St. Partick’s Day.

Really, a study?

She then went on to say that the maximum amount of drinks typically imbibed before some sort of injury occurs is 8 drinks for men and 6 drinks for women.

‘Fair enough’, I thought to myself.

It was at this point that Mercedes exclaimed, “8 drinks?? Who can drink 8 drinks?? I get to 3 drinks and I’m feeling all woozy!“. Then JC said proudly that he would occasionally knock back 8 drinks in his younger ‘party‘ days.

Fuck me, 8 drinks is what you consume at home BEFORE you head out on the piss!

In fact, my friend and I used to polish off a 12 pack of beers EACH on the sofa, and then get all miserable when we ran out.

Maybe if the US reduced their drinking age back down to 18 (yes, it was once 18), they could build up their tolerance sooner and keep up with us expats who are desperate for drinking buddies who can go the distance.

And get a fucking round in, from time to time.

Cheers!

Related image

Sick of commuting

On the drive into work this morning, I was stopped at a red light. This was unusual because, oh…wait…no it wasn’t.

I hate red lights.

There were three or four cars in front of me as we all sat there for around half an hour waiting for the fucking lights to go green. After a few minutes the driver in front of me opened their1 car door and appeared to vomit directly onto the tarmac.

Classy.

Then again, this is Las Vegas during the days between Christmas and New Year, so I suppose it’s not that unusual, right? There is a lot of drinking going on around this time.

What concerned me the most was that I was worried more about rolling my tyres [tires] through their previous evening’s poor fast food choices than the fact the driver might still be drunk.

Then it occurred to me that maybe the driver hadn’t been sick at all, but had simply dumped out their coffee cup.

That made more sense as I could see there was a little bit of steam rising from the dark puddle of questionable fluid slowly spreading out across the road.

Then the lights turned green and the traffic started to move.

As I approached the puddle of coffee I decided to drive around it, no longer concerned about the level of inebriation of the driver, but by the fact the ‘coffee’ appeared to have some lumps of – I want to say – carrot?

So, not fast food then.

Which is it? You be the judge….

1 – I didn’t see the driver, so let’s play the pronoun game!

‘Tis the season to be careful what you say…Fa la la la la

So, today I would like to talk about a massively contradictory double standard here in the US.

As you may know, in the US it’s a cultural ‘no-no’ to say something that omits or discriminates a particular race, religion, sex (or sexes, depending on which one (or ones) you identify with), or if it discriminates based on fashion, wealth, political leaning, car, shoes, hair, ….actually I think i’m making some of this up, but you get my point.

In a nutshell, we should all be talking like this….apparently:

So with this in mind, it’s fashionable to say “Happy Holidays” in the US rather than “Merry Christmas” because it’s considered offensive to wish someone a ‘Merry Christmas’ if they’re not a Christian/Catholic/Mormon etc.

But is that really true, or are we implying that other cultures aren’t tolerant?

Who knows?1

But I can tell you one thing, I am NOT touching a religious debate with a barge pole. Oh, wait, that’s probably offensive to people who aren’t familiar with that saying…or to people who drive barges, or to those who don’t.

Wait, do you drive a barge? Or do you sail one?

(Awkward pause)

Either way, I’m not touching this with a barge pole / Christmas tree / Driedel / Kinara.

Is…is that better? Seems a bit of a mouthful. (Insert penis joke here…..and also insert ‘insert penis’ joke here too)

I suppose it’s the same as people wishing me a “Happy Thanksgiving” or “Happy 4th of July” when I’m English and don’t celebrate them. Oh, I get SO offended! I can’t believe that people have the audacity to….nah, i’m fucking with you, I don’t care.

I recognise that Thanksgiving is a thing at the end of November, like Christmas and Kwanzaa is a thing at the end of December and Hanukkah is a thing around the same time as the other things I just mentioned; it’s all a bit confusing if i’m honest. But just because I don’t celebrate these holidays, that doesn’t mean others can’t wish me good tidings at their belief’s time of year; good for them! I appreciate the gesture because it’s NOT ABOUT ME!

Anyway….

This post wasn’t intended to be a rant at the ‘I’m offended’ culture (as much fun as that is), but more of an observation of a massively contradictory double standard around this time of year, hence the opening sentence.

So, we say “Happy Holidays” to avoid offending those who don’t celebrate Christmas, but apparently we’re OK with:

  • Christmas decorations in the shops (stores).
  • Christmas decorations adorning homes everywhere.
  • Christmas trees for sale.
  • Christmas music on the radio.
  • Christmas imagery2 EVERYWHERE, including lots of pictures of Santa, Reindeer, Elves, Snowmen (sorry, SnowPEOPLE), snow, Christmas trees, holly, mistletoe, and all that stuff directly linked and relevant to the birth of Jesus.
  • Christmas foods.
  • Ugly Christmas jumpers (sweaters).
  • Christmas lights, inside and outside.
  • Christmas hats with antlers, Christmas trees, holly and all the same Christian imagery from before.

It’s all a load of bull……dog

And, above all, a lot of workers get the day off on Christmas Day! Although i’m sure the non-Christmas folk out there insist on going into work that day instead of taking a paid day off with their families.

But that’s OK, because it’s our right to celebrate Christmas as long as we don’t do it openly.

What a farce.

By the way, if you go to somewhere like Greenland and see a reindeer, is that considered offensive?

Food for thought.

Unless you’re offended by food.

Merry Christmahanakwanzika everyone! (I really wish I’d made that word up….sigh)

1 – We know

2 – Not a single image of the Holiday Armadillo I’ve noticed. Sorry Ross.

Stick it to me, baby.

I get stuck in traffic a lot, especially when commuting to and from work because, well, there are more idiots on the road at those times (myself included1). As a result, I get the joyous and underwhelming opportunity to read the various stickers people adorn their cars with.

And they use them a lot in America!

From the Jesus fish…

Jesus, would you look at these!?

…and the ‘My offspring is serving in the Army/Navy/Air Force’…

Everyone gets a participation trophy

…to the various forms of ‘Coexist’ I’ve seen.

Holy Idealism, Batman!

But nothing sums up ignorance like the two stickers I have seen a lot of recently.

And no, it’s not a collection of pointlessly stupid stick figures of family members.

Get ’em Darth! GET ‘EM!

No, these stickers are as follows:

If you don’t have the same views as me, I will shoot you

And this one:

Be nice to each other, or so help me I will kill you.

I get the feeling these stickers are supposed to portray pride and like-minded thinking in this fine country, but they’re pretty aggressive if you ask me (and this is a statement from a thick skinned Brit living in the land of the thin skinned…so that’s saying something!)

For me, it boils down to this:

“If y’all ain’t gon’ be wit’ us, then we’s gon’ shoot y’all….so help me God”

(I’m sure he won’t).

These stickers aren’t a display of Patriotism; they’re Jingoism at it’s most prevalent.

Maybe this would be more appropriate?

Seems about right

So remember, if you won’t share this post with all your friends and family, then feel free to…erm….feel free to….er….not?

 

1 – Not true.

Yule not believe it, but….

I just told a work colleague that I don’t really like Christmas. I mean, it’s not that I hate it, but i’m just a bit ‘meh’ about it.

From her reaction (and those around me) I may as well have stood on her desk, dropped my trousers and dipped my own Santa’s sack in her coffee.

Note to self: Don’t tell ANYONE here that you’re not a fan of Disney!

I’m eggsasperated!

Dear America,

Please learn how to cook fried eggs.

Yours sincerely,

People who like fried eggs.

Now, who do I send this letter to? Who is responsible for the sad state of affairs when it comes to correctly frying a bloody egg?

Probably someone by the name or Sam, or Nella.

(get it?)

Anyway, bad puns aside, when it comes to the simplicity of frying an egg, there seems to be 4 choices available:

Sunny side up – 90% raw white, mostly cooked yolk (although who knows; raw and cooked yolks look pretty much the same)
Over easy – 50% raw white, cooked yolk (but the yolk is never as good as sunny side up).
Over medium – See ‘over easy’.. It’s the fucking same. Don’t tell me it’s not.
Over hard – 110% cooked (rubbery) white with a dry, overcooked yolk.

Mmmm, delicious. Oh, wait, no they aren’t.

Frying an egg is simple, Dennys/IHOP/any breakfast diner in America!

All you’ve got to do is NOT be in a rush to get it out to the customer and let the white of the egg actually COOK. We can wait an extra 45 seconds; just cook the bloody whites will ya! Then you wouldn’t need to add a disclaimer at the bottom of your menus telling us that eating raw eggs can be harmful.

It beggars belief that this is a thing, and that it’s completely acceptable! Are you telling me I could be POISONED by your eggs?

Imagine getting your tyres [tires1] replaced, but the mechanic only half bolts your wheels back onto your car, and then hands you a disclaimer telling you it can be dangerous to drive with unsecured wheels?

Dangerous? It’s practically lethal!

Just put the wheels on properly, I mean….you’re RIGHT there! Just bolt them on fully!

My wife is in her thirties and has never liked fried eggs. I couldn’t understand why and I pleaded with her to let me cook her a proper fried egg. She finally agreed, and I fried her an egg the right way. I watched as her pupils dilated while her brain rewired her feelings about fried eggs. She had a look on her face that was somewhere between confusion, disbelief and utter joy; she loved it! And now, three decades into her life, she’s finally enjoying fried eggs, as long as they’re cooked by me.

So please, America, learn how to cook eggs! I’m sick and tired of sending them back to be finished, or having to order scrambled eggs when I don’t want them.

Sincerely,

Patient 319,
ICU – Poisoning ward,
Las Vegas County Hospital.

1 – It’s ‘tyres’, not ‘tires’. The latter is a verb.

Bone Appétit

Today at work I saw another opportunity to ‘edit’ something I saw on a colleagues desk.

And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, see:

https://headinablender.com/2018/05/03/a-sign-of-things-to-comma/

…and…

https://headinablender.com/2018/07/18/my-brain-filter-may-need-some-work/

Anyway, no fancy story here today.

No deep, insightful musings.

Just this.

Fully roosted coffee

At work, we have a dedicated private Facebook page in which employees can sell stuff.

It’s pretty good if you want baby clothes, a kitchen gadget they’ve ‘only used a couple [of] times’, and other shit and detritus they don’t want anymore.

Well, I decided to have a peruse through today’s offerings over my morning coffee, and happened upon this item.

You know this is going to be fowl

Usually stuff like this wouldn’t make it onto my blog, but I couldn’t resist with a description like this:

Extra large Cock – FREE to a good home

My first instinct was to look up from my desk and check around me to make sure I wasn’t having my leg pulled.

No, she really wrote that…and it was intended to be sincere.1

What made it even better is that someone commented:

That is a turkey.

To which she replied:

It’s a rooster. A huge cock

Ah, I love the smell of innuendos in the morning.

(slurps coffee)

 

1 – I know this because a) it’s on a public work Facebook channel, and b) innuendos aren’t her thing….believe me!

My brain filter may need some work.

Being a Brit living in America is, mostly, pretty easy.

The main issue I have (other than the stupid way they format their dates, their driving, their TV, their….well, you get my point) is filtering my disgusting and yet hilarious brain from reacting when I find something funny that others REALLY won’t.

After all, offending someone over here is as difficult as fist fighting a baby.

These moments of internal hilarity involve things like growlers, double-fisting and, more recently, this sign I saw on a colleagues desk that was clearly meant to be heartwarming…

You know what’s coming…

It took all my willpower not to put a note on it that reads:

“So are your wife’s tits”.

Does that make me a bad person?