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Tyrannosaurus Rex Couldn't Even Pick His Nose

Ever had one of those days where you feel like you were designed to take on absolutely anything other than the task at hand?  If so, like me you are the human embodiment of the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex. At 40 feet long and with a head and jaws powerful enough to eat a Jeep Cherokee with Dave driving, mighty T-rex was one imposing dude. Yet, he also had arms so comedically undersized that he couldn't pick his own nose. You know what? Let's go with scratch. Scratch his own nose. More socially acceptable, and less bizarre nightmare fuel. Still... imagine. Being King Lizard, lord of the dinosaurs and apex predator of apex predators, yet needing to employ the buddy system to put on deodorant or zip up your pants. Yet, T-Rex thrived despite looking like an oversized beach ball with toothpick arms. So, there's probably hope for us, too. Tiny Arms, Big Problems The mental image of a T-Rex trying to perform basic tasks with those woefully tiny arms is hilarious. Imagine those tiny a...
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Superman, Sundaes, and Sunscreen for Albinos

  I've just recently come to terms with the fact that my entire summer personality is just SPF in human form. In summer, some people live for beach trips, barbecues, and taking 87 pictures of their feet in the sand next to someone else's feet in the sand. Caption:  #GuessTheCelebrityToe. Not this guy. I live for the lotion aisle at the drugstore, where I go to compare numbers like I'm negotiating for the best mortgage rate. SPF 30? Weak. SPF 50? Participation trophy for future sunburn. SPF 100? That's the one I'm looking for, but I'm still going to squint at it like the bottle contains the hidden secrets to cracking an ancient mystery about what really happened to the Aztecs. Hint: The sun got 'em. I don't tan. In fact, I only have two different tones to my skin at any time of year. And there's no in-between. I go from "pale winter corpse" to "emergency room lobster boil" in record time. Superman might get his powers from the sun,...
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Rewiring Your Brain to Accept My Advice

  If you're reading this, it's already too late. You've entered the influence zone. Your defenses are lowered and your synapses are soft clay in the hands of a master in delivering unsolicited yet benevolent wisdom.  YES, I'm talking about me!! Sheesh. The very reason I woke up this morning was to begin rewiring your brain to accept my advice. That's right. Not just read it, or scroll past it and nod like it's possibly meaningful. But hear it in Morgan Freeman's deep resonating voice and really take it in. Encompass it in the folds of your grey matter like a sponge soaking up someone else's bathwater. Only the bathwater is a little more sage wisdom and far less visually disgusting.  I could've called this post "Helpful Tips for Self-Improvement" or "How to Change Your Thinking Habits," but those have been done to death. And don't start with 'R'. Besides, everyone and their mindfulness coach has a five-step plan and a c...
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Quantum Procrastination - Schrodinger's To-Do List

  "Because the dishes are both done and not done until you open the dishwasher." - this guy, just now. In a shocking, overpaid for 1263 page study that will surprise nobody with a half-eaten bag of chips beside their laptop and 17 open tabs all titled "How to Start," physicists have once again confirmed what we've known all along: Procrastinators live in a quantum state.  We are the professionally panicked and perpetually avoidant. Also, modern day Schrodingers. To-do lists for us are suggestions, hung in a form of suspended animation. Tasks are both complete or incomplete until somebody or something notices. Usually an employer, a friend, or a spouse. Even a conscience, if you're into that kind of thing.  For those not geeked up enough to know what Schrodinger's original thought experiment involved, here are the basics: It involves a hypothetical cat in a box that is simultaneously alive AND dead until the box is opened.  If that sounds grim, it's ...
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Pajamas Are Just Suits That Quit

  I remember the days when everyone owned pants with zippers. Several pairs of them, in fact. There was tailoring, sharp creases, pleating, and pockets that didn't sag like the jowls of a bulldog. People who wore those pants had their lives in order. Those types of slacks inferred that someone also owned a watch that wasn't digital and they actually ironed things on purpose . And then the world changed. Remote work became the pinnacle. Lockdowns had us in our domiciles so long that elastic waistbands started seducing us with their promises of all-day comfort. Before we could say "pass the banana bread," society began it descent into the abyss of fuzzy footwear and comfy fabrics. Sure, those materials could catch on fire if you stand too close to the TV, but they are comfortable. And for a time, I embraced the new pajama overlords. The Slow Surrender It began innocently enough. A Wednesday morning Zoom call and a sudden realization that nobody could see my legs. That m...
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Only Superfans and Gorilla Glue Stick Around This Long

  So, I'm going to say this right off the top:  If you're still reading my blog at this point, chances are you're either a deeply loyal reader or a delusional paranoid schizophrenic who bookmarked me instead of WebMD by accident. Or maybe you just haven't learned how to unsubscribe. Whatever the real reason is, welcome back, and thanks.  You are now in the rarefied company of the most elite - well, elite- ish -  group of readers to be found on the internet. The Superfans. The kind of people who, like myself, would survive a nuclear meltdown with nothing but sarcastic wit, stubborn curiosity, high-jink hilarity... and a cotton swab. As long as there were cheese puffs. I salute you. Partly because I'm truly appreciative, but mostly because I'm afraid you'll glue yourself to the comments and spam me with question marks and confused emoji faces. And while we're on the subject of glue: A Brief History of Stickiness I read somewhere that in today's impati...
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Never Ask Dr. Google

  Maybe all catastrophes start with a sneeze. Not even a particularly spectacular one, just a mundane, routine, average Tuesday morning type of sneeze.  Mine started like that, but the more I thought about it, the more something about that singular sneeze seemed off. I began asking myself questions: Was it a little too forceful? A little too sudden? It rapidly went from the not think about it variety to the kind that stresses you out because it seems suspiciously like the kind that preceded a characters untimely demise at minute 38 of a Chicago Med episode. I sniffled, paused, and made the first of many poor decisions that morning: I consulted Dr. Google. Okay. For the record, drama was not my intent. I simply searched "random sneeze causes", nothing more. Very calm and casual, a mere inquiry. Just me casually engaging in a little amateur medical detective work. The results popped up faster than a bouncy-castle at a Children's Hospital fundraiser: Allergies. A cold. Dust....
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My Descent Into Madness Only Took 13 Letters

  At least every one of them were spelled correctly. It didn't happen all at once. Like a good cheese or a neglected houseplant, mental necrosis takes time. You don't just wake up and come to the realization that you need a check-up from the neck-up. Madness is inched towards. In my case alphabetically. I didn't set out to unravel. I wanted to take this passion and gift I've always had for writing and turn it into something enjoyable. A blog, some short stories, maybe a recipe that doesn't involve any actual cooking. Or food. Maybe a self help book for other writers. I could call it "Write What Writing Writers Write When Writing for Writers Who Want to Write." Genius. Maybe idiot. But that's literally another story. When I look back, I can see that my journey into madness had 13 very specific steps. The number of posts I've written: 13. Actually, 14 including the introduction bit, but nobody goes mad in the first episode. Ask the Hatter. Tiny, inno...
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