Did you ever notice that...
*When a car is tailgating you, it's because the crazed driver has control issues.
*But when the car in front of you is going too slow, you must get close to show the driver what an incompetent ignoramus he is.
_________________________________________________
*When you trip over a pair of size thirteen shower slides that are parked behind the couch, your son is an insensitive brat.
*But when your husband kicks your red Crocs out of their position where you left them behind the couch, he is blind as an insensitive bat.
_________________________________________________
*When somebody injures his shoulder while wiping down the kitchen counter, he's a fragile, brittle-boned geezer.
*But when you strain something in your shoulder while wiping down the kitchen counter, it's because you are an energetic, Olympic-class counter-wiper.
_________________________________________________
*When the TV is too loud during someone else's favorite show, it's because that person must be senile and deaf.
*But when the TV is too loud during your favorite show, it's because the speakers are made into the back of the set, and someone else hooked up the surround sound speakers wrong.
_________________________________________________
*When a driver pulls out in front of you, making you jam on your brakes, it's because he's a stupid fool who got his driver's license out of a CrackerJack box.
*But when you pull out in front of another driver, it's because you were momentarily blinded by the sun.
_________________________________________________
Yeah. I noticed that, too.
Unbagging the Cats 1
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
To Sleep, Perchance to SLEEP
Most days, I am up by 6:00 a.m., and don't retire until after midnight. Sometimes, I nod off in the recliner while watching TV around nine or ten. I'm not bragging about the amazing amount of time I waste throughout the day. Merely pointing out that if my boys need me for something, I am there. I am accessible. It's not like I run a multimillion dollar corporation, and employ nannies, and require an appointment to command my undivided attention.
This afternoon, I was dragging. All that doing nothing really wore me out. I had arisen early to watch out the window for an impending thunderstorm to blow me away. I woke Genius so he could take pictures of gumball-sized hailstones. Funny thing. Genius said his fancy-shmancy camera would not be able to capture the hailstones. That was news to me, since he had taken excellent raindrop pictures with his OLD camera,
and lightning flashes with both. Odd how those hailstones moved faster than lightning and a splashing raindrop. Besides, it was 9:00 a.m. He'd had enough beauty rest. Yet after one look at those unphotogenic hailstones, Genius crawled back in bed until I made him get up at 11:00.
The Pony and I made a trip to town. Picked up the mail. I saw to it that both boys had lunch. Tossed in a load of laundry. Emptied the dehumidifier. Not exactly an Olympic contender's workout. But I was tired. At 2:00, I laid down for a short nap. At 2:20, Genius waltzed into my boudoir with his laptop, and proceeded to quiz me on which photo would be the best to submit to a contest. Something he could not have done before or after my short nap, of course, because he was sleeping.
I had to wake him for supper at 5:00. I expect him to clomp downstairs around 10:30 p.m. to wake me from my recliner slumber for another vitally important decision.
This afternoon, I was dragging. All that doing nothing really wore me out. I had arisen early to watch out the window for an impending thunderstorm to blow me away. I woke Genius so he could take pictures of gumball-sized hailstones. Funny thing. Genius said his fancy-shmancy camera would not be able to capture the hailstones. That was news to me, since he had taken excellent raindrop pictures with his OLD camera,
and lightning flashes with both. Odd how those hailstones moved faster than lightning and a splashing raindrop. Besides, it was 9:00 a.m. He'd had enough beauty rest. Yet after one look at those unphotogenic hailstones, Genius crawled back in bed until I made him get up at 11:00.
The Pony and I made a trip to town. Picked up the mail. I saw to it that both boys had lunch. Tossed in a load of laundry. Emptied the dehumidifier. Not exactly an Olympic contender's workout. But I was tired. At 2:00, I laid down for a short nap. At 2:20, Genius waltzed into my boudoir with his laptop, and proceeded to quiz me on which photo would be the best to submit to a contest. Something he could not have done before or after my short nap, of course, because he was sleeping.
I had to wake him for supper at 5:00. I expect him to clomp downstairs around 10:30 p.m. to wake me from my recliner slumber for another vitally important decision.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
What Are YOU Lookin' At?
Every now and then, when all creativity leaves my body like so much intermittent rainfall on blacktop pavement at noon on a sunny, 90-degree day, I check my blog stats. I feel so sorry for the readers who came here, all psyched to learn about their pet pecadilloes, and found only my rambling tales of assorted animalia, gray hair, and optometrist appointments. It is to those unfortunate folks, unable to quench their thirst for knowledge, that I offer my sincere apologies.
Mrs. Brady Haircut
It's not here. I don't have one. I can't give one. My hairstylist, aka The Butcher of Seville, does not give them. You are split-ends out of luck.
My Lilac Bush is Sagging
Most of them do, when they are full of blooming lilacs. Mine are not, nor were they, during lilac blooming-in-the-dooryard season. The goats ate them. I have no advice. I hope this is really about lilacs. Not some euphemism for an inappropriate topic.
Backroads of Real Cats
Whatever. Like there are backroads of fake cats. What kind of person wants to know about backroads of real cats? What's to know? Where they drive? Toonces is not real. What's the deal?
Shoes with Toe Holes
Somebody's got a bunion!
I Ripped Off My Blouse
Hey! Winona Rider is found my blog! Or not. Maybe somebody violently removed her lady-shirt, and wants to commiserate, to find a kindred spirit. Which is a bit disturbing, actually. Nobody here needs the blouse off your back. Keep you blouse on, already!
Mrs. Brady Haircut
It's not here. I don't have one. I can't give one. My hairstylist, aka The Butcher of Seville, does not give them. You are split-ends out of luck.
My Lilac Bush is Sagging
Most of them do, when they are full of blooming lilacs. Mine are not, nor were they, during lilac blooming-in-the-dooryard season. The goats ate them. I have no advice. I hope this is really about lilacs. Not some euphemism for an inappropriate topic.
Backroads of Real Cats
Whatever. Like there are backroads of fake cats. What kind of person wants to know about backroads of real cats? What's to know? Where they drive? Toonces is not real. What's the deal?
Shoes with Toe Holes
Somebody's got a bunion!
I Ripped Off My Blouse
Hey! Winona Rider is found my blog! Or not. Maybe somebody violently removed her lady-shirt, and wants to commiserate, to find a kindred spirit. Which is a bit disturbing, actually. Nobody here needs the blouse off your back. Keep you blouse on, already!
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Backroads Miz Manners Explains the Hunter-Gatherer Continuum
Today, Backroads Miz Manners puts on her anthropologist hat in an effort to answer a hypothetical reader's question.
*************************************************
Dear Miz Manners:
Every weekend, as I plan my shopping trip, I ask my husband what he would like from the store. I ask what meals he wishes for me to prepare during the week. What snacks might tempt his tastebuds. Every weekend, he says anything will do. He has no preferences.
I drive to the store alone. I load my cart with groceries. Upon returning home last time, I saw my husband floating in the pool. He was relaxing on a raft, with sunglasses and cap as accessories, soaking up the sun. I know he saw me lugging the boxes of canned goods and frozen foods and perishables into the house. That's because he called out to me and waved. Yet he made no move to help.
Why are my efforts to involve him in the food facet of our life together falling upon selectively-deaf ears?
Signed,
Not Paula Deen
**************************************************
Dear Not-Paula,
I am sure that you learned about Hunter-Gatherers in your social studies classes back in elementary school. Perhaps you were taken on a field trip to Cahokia Mounds (though Miz Manners certainly hopes you averted your eyes from the semi-naked woman).
What many people don't know is that Hunter-Gatherer behavior can be represented by a continuum. Some people may be a Hunter 6 on that continuum, while others fall into the category of Gatherer 0. Most people are somewhere in between.
It appears that your husband is a pure Hunter 6. Where food is concerned, he will try to capture the occasional escaped Pot-Bellied Pig and make bacon before the neighbor knows it's gone. Or he might scoop up a road-kill turkey and try to deep-fry it on a Coleman camp stove, with the aid of a blow torch. That's about the extent of your mate's Gatherer skills. He sounds as if he doesn't have a Gatherer bone in his body. So the gathering tasks fall to you.
Resign yourself to planning, gathering, buying, unloading, preparing, packaging, and saving all food items that enter your home. The Hunter's job is to find the food on his plate, put it in his mouth, and forget about it until the next feeding time. He can accomplish this in 5-10 minutes per meal.
You should allow slightly longer for your part of the task.
**************************************************
*************************************************
Dear Miz Manners:
Every weekend, as I plan my shopping trip, I ask my husband what he would like from the store. I ask what meals he wishes for me to prepare during the week. What snacks might tempt his tastebuds. Every weekend, he says anything will do. He has no preferences.
I drive to the store alone. I load my cart with groceries. Upon returning home last time, I saw my husband floating in the pool. He was relaxing on a raft, with sunglasses and cap as accessories, soaking up the sun. I know he saw me lugging the boxes of canned goods and frozen foods and perishables into the house. That's because he called out to me and waved. Yet he made no move to help.
Why are my efforts to involve him in the food facet of our life together falling upon selectively-deaf ears?
Signed,
Not Paula Deen
**************************************************
Dear Not-Paula,
I am sure that you learned about Hunter-Gatherers in your social studies classes back in elementary school. Perhaps you were taken on a field trip to Cahokia Mounds (though Miz Manners certainly hopes you averted your eyes from the semi-naked woman).
What many people don't know is that Hunter-Gatherer behavior can be represented by a continuum. Some people may be a Hunter 6 on that continuum, while others fall into the category of Gatherer 0. Most people are somewhere in between.
It appears that your husband is a pure Hunter 6. Where food is concerned, he will try to capture the occasional escaped Pot-Bellied Pig and make bacon before the neighbor knows it's gone. Or he might scoop up a road-kill turkey and try to deep-fry it on a Coleman camp stove, with the aid of a blow torch. That's about the extent of your mate's Gatherer skills. He sounds as if he doesn't have a Gatherer bone in his body. So the gathering tasks fall to you.
Resign yourself to planning, gathering, buying, unloading, preparing, packaging, and saving all food items that enter your home. The Hunter's job is to find the food on his plate, put it in his mouth, and forget about it until the next feeding time. He can accomplish this in 5-10 minutes per meal.
You should allow slightly longer for your part of the task.
**************************************************
Friday, June 10, 2011
I Can't Focus
Last week, I had a call from a lady claiming to be soliciting members for a focus group. Normally, I would not have answered the call, but my gatekeeper, my personal assistant, my secretary, my call-screener, aka my thirteen-year-old son, The Pony, was on vacation. In my basement lair, next to my computer, I have an antiquated land line. I don't mean to brag, but my phone would put the shoebox-sized cordless phones from the early Seinfeld episodes to shame.
My phony albatross is ivory and upright, with a gray, six-inch rubber antenna projecting toward the floor. The floor of my bedroom upstairs. Lest you forget that I'm a subterranean dweller when I'm in blogging mode. There is no caller ID, no panel in this phone that displays the number of the caller. Without The Pony shouting, "Grandma!" or "Unknown!" or "It's Dad!" from his couch position near the more modern receiver in the basement proper, I am in the dark when my phone starts ringing. I answered. Because it might have been my mom for the fifth time that day. Or Hick. Or the boys.
The woman identified herself as Marci Gillerman. I give her name, because I figure anybody calling people trying to recruit a focus group is not counting on remaining anonymous. She was very polite. She got her verbal foot in the door of my ear, and forged ahead like there was no tomorrow. My issues are not with Ms. Gillerman specifically. But with her type.
Let me apologize in advance to those of you who dwell in an urban environment. I don't mean to lump you all together under the umbrella of city people. But we simple folk out here in the boonies are tired of being lumped together as well. So if you do not treat people in this manner, don't get your city noses out of joint. I mean you no harm.
Our conversation went a little like this:
I am looking to start a focus group on your area. It will pay $75, plus a free dinner. It is on June 16, in your area. Are you familiar with what a focus group does?
Yes.
What do you do for a living?
I'm a high school teacher.
Oh! I have five teachers already! A retired teacher, a social studies teacher, a special ed teacher...you must have a really good educational system down there!
We have many school districts in this area.
Our focus group is trying to find out your opinion on several issues. If you know how a jury works, people give their individual opinions, and then discuss all options that might have been mentioned.
I have been on a jury.
Oh! That's even better! But you know how a jury can drag out...and this is only three hours.
I'm sorry. I don't think I'm interested.
Again, let me emphasize that Ms. Gillerman was very polite. I'm sure she did not intend to sound condescending, or even realize that her words might have been taken that way. She was only trying to round up people for her focus group. However, the cedar chip on my country shoulder caused me to perceive the exchange differently.
First of all, the town she kept mentioning is a good 15 miles from my town. So it is not my area. (She kept naming that specific town. It has a completely different telephone exchange than my town. So I'm not sure where she got off thinking I lived there.) We are not some Hooterville with Sam Drucker letting us each run a tab at his general store. We have three Walmart Supercenters, by cracky! The county population is over 60,000. We have three state prisons. And there are twelve school districts in our activities association. No wonder she had so many teachers on her list already. Education and the department of corrections are pretty much our main employers. So...don't be thinking we have a really good school system just because it's summer and some teachers are willing to give up three hours for $75. We have several good school systems because people care about their kids and make them go to school and back up the teacher if Johnny isn't performing to his optimum level.
Maybe I'm just touchy about that education thing. It's not like we're all Zekes and Cletuses sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, whittling new corncob pipes in between slicing off hunks of chaw and zinging the spittoon.
Of course I understand how a jury works. I attended a really good school system, you know. (Plus, I was valedictorian!) I managed to disqualify myself from two juries in the jury pool stage, because I had done business with one of the attorneys, and did not know if I could be impartial. They nailed me on the third one, though, and I had to spend two days hearing a case on eminent domain. Even though I told them up front that I was not a fan of eminent domain, because the state took part of my pappy's homestead. I mean, my dad's land, to put a highway through there. Just like the case I would be hearing.
I know what a focus group does, because I do not live under a rock, and I've been on one before. The focus group that lassoed me was the Herbal Essence shampoo conglomerate. They roped me in while I strolled through South County Mall, and forced me to watch four commercials and fill out a checklist about how each one made me feel. I don't remember much of the discussion, but I do remember the wheelbarrow load of free product that was proffered for my time. I suppose I sold myself cheap. I am a now a loyal Herbal Essence customer.
No, I did not wish to join this focus group. The $75 will not even fill the tank of my SUV. I value my time more than the cash. And even more than a free dinner. Besides, that's the night of the next meeting of that local writers group I discovered by accident last month. I'm still thinking about attending.
My phony albatross is ivory and upright, with a gray, six-inch rubber antenna projecting toward the floor. The floor of my bedroom upstairs. Lest you forget that I'm a subterranean dweller when I'm in blogging mode. There is no caller ID, no panel in this phone that displays the number of the caller. Without The Pony shouting, "Grandma!" or "Unknown!" or "It's Dad!" from his couch position near the more modern receiver in the basement proper, I am in the dark when my phone starts ringing. I answered. Because it might have been my mom for the fifth time that day. Or Hick. Or the boys.
The woman identified herself as Marci Gillerman. I give her name, because I figure anybody calling people trying to recruit a focus group is not counting on remaining anonymous. She was very polite. She got her verbal foot in the door of my ear, and forged ahead like there was no tomorrow. My issues are not with Ms. Gillerman specifically. But with her type.
Let me apologize in advance to those of you who dwell in an urban environment. I don't mean to lump you all together under the umbrella of city people. But we simple folk out here in the boonies are tired of being lumped together as well. So if you do not treat people in this manner, don't get your city noses out of joint. I mean you no harm.
Our conversation went a little like this:
I am looking to start a focus group on your area. It will pay $75, plus a free dinner. It is on June 16, in your area. Are you familiar with what a focus group does?
Yes.
What do you do for a living?
I'm a high school teacher.
Oh! I have five teachers already! A retired teacher, a social studies teacher, a special ed teacher...you must have a really good educational system down there!
We have many school districts in this area.
Our focus group is trying to find out your opinion on several issues. If you know how a jury works, people give their individual opinions, and then discuss all options that might have been mentioned.
I have been on a jury.
Oh! That's even better! But you know how a jury can drag out...and this is only three hours.
I'm sorry. I don't think I'm interested.
Again, let me emphasize that Ms. Gillerman was very polite. I'm sure she did not intend to sound condescending, or even realize that her words might have been taken that way. She was only trying to round up people for her focus group. However, the cedar chip on my country shoulder caused me to perceive the exchange differently.
First of all, the town she kept mentioning is a good 15 miles from my town. So it is not my area. (She kept naming that specific town. It has a completely different telephone exchange than my town. So I'm not sure where she got off thinking I lived there.) We are not some Hooterville with Sam Drucker letting us each run a tab at his general store. We have three Walmart Supercenters, by cracky! The county population is over 60,000. We have three state prisons. And there are twelve school districts in our activities association. No wonder she had so many teachers on her list already. Education and the department of corrections are pretty much our main employers. So...don't be thinking we have a really good school system just because it's summer and some teachers are willing to give up three hours for $75. We have several good school systems because people care about their kids and make them go to school and back up the teacher if Johnny isn't performing to his optimum level.
Maybe I'm just touchy about that education thing. It's not like we're all Zekes and Cletuses sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, whittling new corncob pipes in between slicing off hunks of chaw and zinging the spittoon.
Of course I understand how a jury works. I attended a really good school system, you know. (Plus, I was valedictorian!) I managed to disqualify myself from two juries in the jury pool stage, because I had done business with one of the attorneys, and did not know if I could be impartial. They nailed me on the third one, though, and I had to spend two days hearing a case on eminent domain. Even though I told them up front that I was not a fan of eminent domain, because the state took part of my pappy's homestead. I mean, my dad's land, to put a highway through there. Just like the case I would be hearing.
I know what a focus group does, because I do not live under a rock, and I've been on one before. The focus group that lassoed me was the Herbal Essence shampoo conglomerate. They roped me in while I strolled through South County Mall, and forced me to watch four commercials and fill out a checklist about how each one made me feel. I don't remember much of the discussion, but I do remember the wheelbarrow load of free product that was proffered for my time. I suppose I sold myself cheap. I am a now a loyal Herbal Essence customer.
No, I did not wish to join this focus group. The $75 will not even fill the tank of my SUV. I value my time more than the cash. And even more than a free dinner. Besides, that's the night of the next meeting of that local writers group I discovered by accident last month. I'm still thinking about attending.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Case of the Clairvoyant Cashier
Last week, I made my regular stop to pick up some gas station chicken for supper. The unfriendly, toothless woman no longer works there, the good ol' boy who barked, "That's every man's dream," in response to my request for two breasts and two legs was not on the premises, and the chicken bin was well-stocked. You would think such details would bode well for my chicken pick-up.
Or not.
I took every man's dream in a box, a large tub of cole slaw, and the ticket to the cashier. She rang it up, took my money, handed back change...and said, "You be really careful, now." She peered earnestly, deeply, into my eyes as the words left her lips.
Well. I was not sure what to make of that. I hauled my fat- and sodium-laden spread to the car. What did she mean? It sounded like a warning. I was so distracted that I barely noticed the little black pickup truck parked all helter-skelter near the front of the building. I went around it, clutching my chicken. That's not foreshadowing. It was just a bad parking job.
The weather was clear. There's no rush hour in my neck of the woods, unless you count the backup at the traffic light when the prison changes shifts. That time had already passed. It was not a holiday. No sirens sounded, no police or firemen raced by. I did not walk under a ladder, see a black cat, break a mirror, spill salt, or get thirteen cents in change.
Nothing happened on the way home. But I couldn't get the image out of my head. That's just inappropriate, to tell somebody to be really careful after you sell them gas station chicken. Who does that woman think she is, anyway? Johnny Smith in The Dead Zone? Did she mean she could see my future of clogged arteries? Would I choke on that tiny, sharp leg bone? Aspirate a cube of diced carrot from the slaw and die a lingering death due to pneumonia? None of those scenarios came to pass. The chicken was tasty, as always.
I am getting a weird vibe from my petroleum/poultry bistro.
Or not.
I took every man's dream in a box, a large tub of cole slaw, and the ticket to the cashier. She rang it up, took my money, handed back change...and said, "You be really careful, now." She peered earnestly, deeply, into my eyes as the words left her lips.
Well. I was not sure what to make of that. I hauled my fat- and sodium-laden spread to the car. What did she mean? It sounded like a warning. I was so distracted that I barely noticed the little black pickup truck parked all helter-skelter near the front of the building. I went around it, clutching my chicken. That's not foreshadowing. It was just a bad parking job.
The weather was clear. There's no rush hour in my neck of the woods, unless you count the backup at the traffic light when the prison changes shifts. That time had already passed. It was not a holiday. No sirens sounded, no police or firemen raced by. I did not walk under a ladder, see a black cat, break a mirror, spill salt, or get thirteen cents in change.
Nothing happened on the way home. But I couldn't get the image out of my head. That's just inappropriate, to tell somebody to be really careful after you sell them gas station chicken. Who does that woman think she is, anyway? Johnny Smith in The Dead Zone? Did she mean she could see my future of clogged arteries? Would I choke on that tiny, sharp leg bone? Aspirate a cube of diced carrot from the slaw and die a lingering death due to pneumonia? None of those scenarios came to pass. The chicken was tasty, as always.
I am getting a weird vibe from my petroleum/poultry bistro.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Dripping the Light Fantastic
Hot enough for you?
Not for some prisoners on a work detail that I saw yesterday afternoon. It's not like we have the tent-city, pink-underwear, baloney-sandwich, chain-gang prison in our fair hamlet. But we do have three state prisons within a forty-mile radius. Good for jobs, you know. State merit system jobs. And speaking of gainful employment, those prisoners like to have the groundskeeping-crew jobs. It's a privilege. Plus it gives one the opportunity every now and then to run off and be discovered hiding under a boat.
The work detail wears the standard prison garb of gray pants and white T-shirts. If they're working on the road right-of-way, they also wear the flimsy orange don't-run-over-me vests. Some of those dudes yesterday had accessorized by adding...are you ready for this...orange sock caps. Yeah. The knit kind you wear in the winter to hold in your body heat so it is not lost through your scalp. Which is something that, um, most people would like to lose when the temperature is 95 degrees.
But I'm not here to discuss inmates and their fashion statements. I'm here to talk about perspiration. The sum total of my manual labor yesterday was carrying in some groceries. While I don't mean to brag, I would like the record to show that I did my part for the water cycle by contributing scalp rivulets and underboob sweat back to the environment.
My son, Genius, is a world-class water cycle donor. In the Water Cycle Olympics, he would hold the gold medal for every event in the hand and foot division. It's a wonder he doesn't short out his phone while texting. He could coin a new walking on eggshells phrase: walking on banana peels. At times, I think he must be part snail, considering the trail he leaves.
A couple of years ago, he took apart his brother's computer to add a sound card. He perched on the chair with one foot on the floor, and the other foot on the seat, his knee bent up by his chin. A minor industrial accident occurred, perhaps due to his slippery fingers. A small hole was gouged into the flesh of his hand. I applied a Scooby Doo Band-Aid to staunch the flow of his life fluid from the newly-opened spigot. As he was finishing the task and putting the cover back on the computer, he called for my attention.
"See that?" Genius pointed to the floor under the chair. I peered at the tile, expecting to see some crimson drops of blood. "That's a puddle of sweat that dripped off my foot."
World. Record. Holder.
Not for some prisoners on a work detail that I saw yesterday afternoon. It's not like we have the tent-city, pink-underwear, baloney-sandwich, chain-gang prison in our fair hamlet. But we do have three state prisons within a forty-mile radius. Good for jobs, you know. State merit system jobs. And speaking of gainful employment, those prisoners like to have the groundskeeping-crew jobs. It's a privilege. Plus it gives one the opportunity every now and then to run off and be discovered hiding under a boat.
The work detail wears the standard prison garb of gray pants and white T-shirts. If they're working on the road right-of-way, they also wear the flimsy orange don't-run-over-me vests. Some of those dudes yesterday had accessorized by adding...are you ready for this...orange sock caps. Yeah. The knit kind you wear in the winter to hold in your body heat so it is not lost through your scalp. Which is something that, um, most people would like to lose when the temperature is 95 degrees.
But I'm not here to discuss inmates and their fashion statements. I'm here to talk about perspiration. The sum total of my manual labor yesterday was carrying in some groceries. While I don't mean to brag, I would like the record to show that I did my part for the water cycle by contributing scalp rivulets and underboob sweat back to the environment.
My son, Genius, is a world-class water cycle donor. In the Water Cycle Olympics, he would hold the gold medal for every event in the hand and foot division. It's a wonder he doesn't short out his phone while texting. He could coin a new walking on eggshells phrase: walking on banana peels. At times, I think he must be part snail, considering the trail he leaves.
A couple of years ago, he took apart his brother's computer to add a sound card. He perched on the chair with one foot on the floor, and the other foot on the seat, his knee bent up by his chin. A minor industrial accident occurred, perhaps due to his slippery fingers. A small hole was gouged into the flesh of his hand. I applied a Scooby Doo Band-Aid to staunch the flow of his life fluid from the newly-opened spigot. As he was finishing the task and putting the cover back on the computer, he called for my attention.
"See that?" Genius pointed to the floor under the chair. I peered at the tile, expecting to see some crimson drops of blood. "That's a puddle of sweat that dripped off my foot."
World. Record. Holder.
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