Scott Charles Adams' Blog

I’m a Right-of-Way Agent, now. That means I talk to strangers about tree-trimming rights for new conductors, or new poles on their property, or new anchor guys on their property, or new transformers on their property. I think I managed to find the only Electrical Engineering job that requires talking to dozens of strangers every day. When I tell most EEs about my job, they grimace like I’ve got their wrist in a judo-hold — because the purpose of getting a job in EE is to never speak to anyone again.

Me … I like people. I’m comfortable with strangers. I sold cars. I worked in a call center. This is right in my wheelhouse. And when someone asks me, “What is three-phase power?” I can explain it to them in as excruciating detail as they like. Because EE.

It has been said that Pennsylvania is Philadelphia on one end, Pittsburgh on the other, and Kentucky in the middle. This is true … and for the most part, my job takes me into Pennsyl-tucky. That means coal country and farmland. And it means Trump signs. So I know going-in that politics, as a topic, is absolutely off the table.

Today, I found myself sitting across from an 85 year old woman. I’ve done my due diligence. I already know that she’s signed over three parcels of farmland to her son and his wife as part of a living estate, and that her son’s wife has way too many vowels in her name. Like, way too many. I don’t know where she’s from, but apparently in that country consonants cost money.

“I don’t understand why you need my signature,” she tells me as we sit at her kitchen table. “I’ve already signed the farm over to my sons.”

I’m confused. Did she give one of her sons an ordinary name, and then go all Bohemian for the second one? Did this sweet little Dutch lady adopt a child from Africa, and now both of her sons share a mailing address?

“I’m confused,” I said. Which was accurate. “Based on my research, I thought you’d signed the farm over to your son and his wife.”

“They’re married,” she explained. “That’s my son and his husband.”

Which is when I realized that a really sweet moment had passed me by, and I’d missed it. She’d referred to her son and his husband as “her sons.” Without qualifying. Without awkwardly stammering an explanation. To this farmer’s widow living in Pennsyl-tucky, they were simply her sons.

Suffice to say, there was no Trump sign on this house.

Oh … and the too-many-vowels thing? Turns out he’s Hawaiian.

I’ll be meeting them soon, to get their signatures.

I’ll bet they’re totally hot.

When I went to the liquor store this evening, I discovered that the BIG bottle of Jack Daniels was on sale.

375 ml of Jack Daniels generally costs me $14.00. This was 1.75 L for $40. For many long minutes I attempted to calculate my savings, but was thwarted by the fact that $14.00 does not divide evenly into $40.00 any more than 375 ml divides evenly into 1.75 L.

Eventually, I was forced to admit we do not currently have the technology for such mathematical acrobatics; and I bought the big bottle in the hopes that one day, history would prove it a wise purchase.

It’s hard to lose weight.

Well, let me clarify. It’s actually stupid-easy to lose weight. I joined Weight Watchers two weeks ago. I’m not a spokesperson for Weight Watchers — they don’t send me free T-shirts or keychains (although after this post, who knows!) but I lost 50 lbs on Weight Watchers a few years back and I know it’s easy and it works.

And part of me wants to shout from the rooftops how easy it is — because no one has to be heavy if it makes them unhappy. I joined two weeks ago, and I’m down eight pounds. I’m not some super-disciplined guy. I’m not a gym rat. I’m not working out three times a week (the commute for my new job doesn’t leave me that sort of spare time) (but, by the way, I really should be working out three times a week — more on that in a moment). In fact, I haven’t even approached Weight Watchers with Ordinary Weight Watchers Discipline. Last week, I got an Italian hoagie and an apple fritter from Wawa. The hoagie was a Forgivable Sin under Weight Watchers. I’ve got the points for that. I, in no way, had the points for that colossal fritter. And tonight, I’m drinking a pint of Jack Daniel’s. I’m not saying, “It’s easy, you just have to have some self-control.” I’m saying this is regular-old easy.

The hard part of losing weight is looking at yourself in the mirror. You probably already know that your body will fight your attempts to lose weight. It will go into starvation mode if you’re not careful. Your metabolism will slow, your energy will dwindle, and it will adjust to your new caloric intake to prevent weight loss. But your mind will also fight your attempts to lose weight.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I look gaunt. Stringy. Lanky. I look like I’m dying. Which, I really don’t. I’ve got many pounds to go — but my mind interprets the Me Minus Eight Pounds as ‘gaunt’ relative to two weeks ago, and it’s genuinely frightening. I start to wonder whether I’m still in control. I start to think that maybe I should put two pounds back on, just to prove that the weight loss is indeed due to my efforts and not due to some yet-to-be-diagnosed medical condition.

So, yeah. I’m down eight pounds and it’s a little scary.

Oh! I promised I would mention why it’s important that I work out three times a week: not all of the weight I’m losing is fat. If I continue to lose weight without working out, I’m gonna lose a lot of muscle. The shape of my body will remain the same — I’ll just be a deflated version of the fat-bastard I was when I started. So once I’ve adjusted the length of my commute by moving closer to my job, I’ll definitely go back to working out.

Oh — and I think I’ll post my progress. That way, you can all come on this horrifying journey with me! Won’t that be fun!?!?

3/9/18: 270 lbs
3/16/18: 265 lbs
3/23/18: 262 lbs (maybe less — I took a huge crap after I weighed myself) (like, a bigger crap than you’ve ever crapped) (seriously)

I’ll try to update the weight weekly — not as a boast, but to make me feel accountable for the week.

And because I’m sure the GOP has me in their database under the “Fat Bastard” category, and that situation is just untenable.

Yesterday, while ironing, I dipped the sleeve of my shirt into the cat’s water. It’s a 36″ sleeve. It’s gonna go wherever the hell it wants to go.

It was a little funny.

Today, I tried on a new pair of work boots. It was my second attempt at ordering boots from the Freak Store. First pair was too small, despite being 14 Wide. And this second pair wasn’t quite working either.

I started to wonder whether it was me. Maybe I was too freaky for the Freak Store. Maybe I was taking that next great evolutionary step forward, and human shoes weren’t going to fit me anymore. Maybe I should see a doctor.

Or, maybe I should take the last piece of cardboard out of the shoes.

It was a little funny.

So, I’m thinking tomorrow, I’ll see if I can take a short break from being funny. Because this is getting tiring.

Recreational drinking is tricky business. For example, if you’re drinking outside of your home you should either be a) standing up, or b) talking frequently. The acts of standing or speaking allow you to accurately gauge your condition. If you’re quietly sitting and drinking, it’ll sneak up on you. You’ll find yourself way drunker than you realized and – depending on what kind of friends you have – you risk waking up covered with penises.

If you have nice friends, they’ll only be drawn onto you with magic marker. If you don’t have nice friends …

(Oh! If you don’t have a designated driver, your limit is two. TWO. If you’re out for an entire day, maybe a third is doable. If you’re on two wheels, you may have zero drinks.)

Drinking in the home involves other tricks. If you binge drink in the home, the single most important trick is to only buy as much as you can handle. If you only buy as much as you can handle, you don’t need any other tricks. You will run out before you get to the point of having to clean up vomit or passing out so deeply that your dog can’t wake you up and panics and eats your face which has fucking happened.

When I binge drink, I can handle 375 ml of Jack Daniel’s. That’s about 8.5 shots. That amount of alcohol means no real risk. No risk of vomiting. No risk of the spins. Some risk of calling someone a Mother Fucker on Facebook or Twitter. Some risk at blogging a love letter to John McCain only to have him vote Yes on a bullshit tax bill a few weeks later. More than 375 ml, and I’m the Highway to the Danger Zone.

But I’ve recently changed my drinking habits. Hmm. Maybe not changed. It may or may not be permanent. Let’s go with, “I’m trying something new,” and that new thing is to mix my Jack Daniel’s instead of chasing it. I don’t mix my drinks very strong – to the point where if I stop drinking to eat a sandwich, I’ll lose all interest in drinking. My buzz is insufficient to bridge me over a bowl of pretzels. The upside to this is that the amount of whiskey I buy is no longer limited to what I can drink in one night, which means I can buy whiskey in greater volume for a lower price.

Which is going to become important in the coming years, since John McCain voted Yes on a bullshit tax bill. I don’t hold him solely responsible, but he was supposed to be our Undercover Hero in the Legion of Doom. But I digress.

Tonight, I saved a ton of money on whisky by buying a great, big, bottle. 1.75 liters. I’m covered for weeks, for a little over twice what I would have paid for one night of Twitter wars. And yes, I just made the argument that $50 worth of whiskey is a sound financial investment in my future. I’m just that good.

I live on the second floor, which means there are thirteen stairs between my front door and my living room. It’s 15˚ F outside, so getting into my front door involved wrestling with 8 liters of Diet Pepsi and 1.75 liters of Jack Daniel’s and house keys and a glove hanging out of my mouth. I got inside, locked the door behind me, and climbed thirteen stairs. Anxious to get the glove out of my mouth, I set my Liquid Bliss down at the top of the stairs and … realized too late that I’d missed the top of the stairs.

The Diet Pepsi had achieved the landing – because of-fucking-course it did. The Jack Daniel’s on the other hand, did not achieve the landing. It achieved the 12^th step. Followed quickly by the 11^th step, and the 10^th step.

My first act was to yell, “Noooooo!” like Darth Vader being told Padme didn’t make it.

… 9^th step, 8^th step …

How long does it take to clean up 1.75 ml of whiskey? Will the liquor store still be opened?

… 7^th step, 6^th step …

Should I leave the spilled whiskey on the floor while I make another trip? How long will my foyer smell like whiskey if I do that? Can that smell be avoided at this point?

Oh – I’m still yelling, “Nooooo!” In case that wasn’t clear.

… 5^th step, 4^th step …

It’s in a plastic bag. Maybe the bag will hold most of the whiskey, I reasoned. If it doesn’t, how many paper towels does it take to clean up 1.75 ml of whiskey? If I ask Siri, will she know?

…3^rd step, 2^nd step …

The bag decided to bail on the adventure, and clung desperately to the baseboard – but the bag was now inverted. And, as some of us know all too well, Jack Daniel’s will not be denied the opportunity for adventure.

… 1^st step …

Maybe I should blog this. I’ll bet I could make this funny. I don’t blog nearly enough.

Still yelling, “Noooo!” I have plenty of wind left.

CRACK! as it hits the floor of the foyer. Shit. Exactly the sound I was hoping not to hear. I wasted no time descending the stairs, horrified at what I might find.

The bottle was intact. Jack Daniel’s had survived yet another adventure! Yay, Jack Daniel’s! You are invincible!

Sadly, the same could be said for the linoleum, which now had a shattered spot about an inch across. On an ordinary day, that linoleum tile might have been fine – but it’s 15˚ F outside. The intense cold has been pouring through my mail slot for weeks, making the floor brittle and weak – and in its weakness, it made the ultimate sacrifice.

Thank you, linoleum tile. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

You will not be forgotten.

Remember this?

If you watch just the first few seconds, you see John McCain explaining to a crazy racist white woman that Obama is not an Arab during the presidential campaign for 2008. As Righteous Honkeys, we can say, “Well, he was only doing the right thing. That’s no big deal. Everyone should be expected to do the right thing all the time, in every circumstance.” (And honestly, you’d be sortta right.)

But if you keep watching the video, you’ll see newscasters talking about the political repercussions. The ring-wing nut jobs (yup, we had them back in those days) were already a little weak on McCain. He was having a hard time convincing the Sean Hannity’s and Rush Limbaugh’s that he was right-wing nut-jobby enough, and this move didn’t do him any favors. It’s Politics 101 — Rule 0: Never defend your opponent.

(Just as an aside, I never heard Obama mention this moment. He might have mentioned it and I missed it. It would have meant a lot. It would have added an unprecedented level of civility to the proceedings. But I recognize that he was in the fight of his life in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I recognize that it would have been extremely imprudent. Even while recognizing this — and that it would have violated Rule 0 — it still would have been nice.)

(Just as another aside, I don’t regret my vote for Obama. I loved having him as president. I loved having him as president more than I loved my own cock and balls — and I have considerable affection for my cock and balls. Just ask them. But I’d been married for eight years at that point and they were mostly just for decoration and they weren’t all that fancy …)

(Oh Jesus Christ now I’ve completely forgotten what I was talking about … oh yeah …)

But the political courage of this moment — and others that followed — aren’t what I’m here to address.

Ever spoken in front of a big crowd before? Like, a really big crowd? There’s a rush you get when you’re pleasing a crowd that’s difficult to describe. Just ask Lady Gaga. Or Jerry Seinfeld. Or Cher. Or Nickelback. (Why does everyone hate Nickelback?) It’s intoxicating. It robs you of common sense. It’s the pinnacle of the mob instinct — you’re more than a part of something larger than yourself, you’re at the head. Point at someone in the crowd and command, “He must be destroyed!” and the crowd will rip him to pieces. Hitler allegedly had orgasms during his speeches, and I believe it. When you’re in the groove and you’re telling the crowd what they want to hear and they’re in the palm of your hand, it’s that good.

Which is the reason why Donald Trump peddled racism during his campaign. Shit. That should have been an aside.

(Just as an aside, which is the reason why Donald Trump peddled racism during his campaign — the cheering crowd made his enormous pants get tight in the crotch. Well, maybe not tight. Those are some big pants. I’m not a fan of fat-shaming, but Trump is a fat fat-shamer. That makes it okay.)

(Fat Trump! Fat Trump! Fat Trump! Okay. I’m done now.)

(Fat Trump! Shit, I wasn’t done.)

By this time in the race, many of McCain’s followers were racists whose primary intent was to make sure the Yoo Ess of Murika didn’t put a n****** in charge. Although McCain presented himself well, spoke well, and had experience as both a politician and a war hero, a lot of the serious republican voters were put-off by the extremely off-putting Sarah Palin. They were staying home in droves, and McCain’s town halls were filling up with racists. It would have such an easy thing to say, “Yeah, he might be Arab. We just don’t know, do we?” That would have been enough. The crowd would have gone wild and they would have lifted McCain onto his shoulders and marched to the poor section of town and killed anyone with a darker skin color than mocha with bats and the lid of Hitler’s box would crack with the mighty force of the powerful corpse-gasms.

But John McCain couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in his character. Instead, he did the unthinkable. He not only violated Rule 0, he did it in front of a crowd. They fucking booed him and he didn’t back down — because fuck you, crowd. I’m John McCain. I survived a POW camp, and I crap bigger than you buncha whiney Tea Partying bitches.

I’ll confess I didn’t vote for him. The possibility of “President Palin” saw to that. (Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.) I’ll also confess that I don’t always agree with every single thing he says. But I don’t have to agree with every single thing he says for me to acknowledge him as a hero — as one of my heroes.

Oh, and I didn’t even mention this speech …

… that sealed a deal that didn’t require it.

Watch the entire speech.

You didn’t watch it. Watch. The. Entire. Fucking. Speech.

I would have preferred if this blog had been a touching, dignified tribute to John McCain. But I think I used “shit” and “fuck” a few too many times, and I think I made a reference to my cock and balls somewhere up there. That hardly seems dignified.

Plus, that’s not the sort of shit I would ordinarily fucking do.

And, cock and balls! Just for good measure.

It’s hard for me to watch movies. As a writer, I’m hypercritical of everything. The jokes aren’t funny enough. The plot is contrived. He is not falling in love with her, because she is completely unlovable. Why is he not bleeding out? Et cetera, et cetera. A movie has to be truly exceptional for me to involve myself with the story instead of quietly fixing the plot. With books it’s even worse.

Some things, I’ve trained myself to ignore. A head injury severe enough to cause unconsciousness, for example, is super bad in real life – but someone is knocked unconscious in every movie. Accept it. It’s a movie. A human is assumed to be critically injured after any fall of more than ten feet, but action heroes fall way more than that in every movie. Accept it. It’s a movie.

Space aliens speak English.

This is a tough one.

I get that subtitles suck, as does inventing a new language for each of the four aliens on the screen. It can also get tedious to have two aliens who don’t understand each other learning each other’s language (unless you montage that shit). It’s a great way to stretch a two-hour movie into five hours of, “I don’t understand what you’re saying … thrakka doesn’t mean a hand job? I’ll just put this back in my space-pants, then.”

Okay, that’s a bad example, because that scene would be completely enjoyable and I could watch that for five hours. But most movies aren’t about space-handies.

This puts me in a tough spot. I know why all the aliens speak English – because if they don’t, it’s a logistical nightmare. But it’s glaring. It’s in your face. Star Trek cheats it by pretending the badges can translate anything into anything. Star Wars cheats it by having characters that can only be understood by other characters. Guardians of the Galaxy cheats it by saying, “Fuck it, everyone just speaks English.”

So it’s left to me. I’m forced to solve this on my own.

In the ten thousand year history of galactic trade, language has been an issue. The Tangerites of HIP 50465 are able to trade their orange fruit to the Tomatoinians of LFT 445 because they took the time to learn each other’s language – but the Tomatoinians would turn around and sell that fruit to the Appleturgs at a huge profit because none of the Tangerites who spoke Tomatoinian could also speak Appleturgese. And on and on, times a million. The lack of a universal language cost a lot of space-aliens a lot of space-money, and space-Esperanto never caught on despite many repeated attempts by the Esperantites.

But in the 1950s, Earth began to broadcast television signals to other Earthlings, and some of these signals bled into space. (We actually started radio signals much earlier, but without a visual context these signals were just wa-wa-wa sounds.) These signals were first received and interpreted by a cephalopod race who thought Earthlings were hysterical – not because they were watching The Honeymooners (which they were), but because we were so bland looking. Every other bipedal race looked at least a little like us. Add some gills to an Earthling, and you have a Haquer fish-person. Make the earlobes long and dangly, and you have a Zingity. Our lack of a distinguishing feature gave us the appearance of the crash-test dummies of every other race.

So the cephalopod race recorded our signals and began to distribute them to other races. They were disguised as entertainment, but they were actually a sophisticated insult. “This is what all you bipeds look like to us. See how stupid you look? Hah-hah-hah.”

The bipedal races of the Milky Way missed the insult – but they loved Jackie Gleason. And then they loved Gone with the Wind. And then they loved The Wizard of Oz and Leave it to Beaver and Days of Our Lives. English began to catch on as the galactic dilettantes lauded Earth entertainment as the best in the galaxy – primarily because the cephalopods owned the space-rights and bribed the space-dilettantes.

It wasn’t until the 1970s that the signals from Earth reached the more civilized parts of space, and hardcore fans of Dennis the Menace could find the source of this wonderful entertainment. The cephalopods did what they could to hide the true location of Earth, but to no avail. Their Earthling goose was now shooting its golden eggs into space, where they could be gathered by any Umbrellian with a receiver.

With no more bribes from the cephalopods, the space-dilettantes shifted their attention to other things. But English had already caught on. It was convenient, elegant, and pronounceable by most of the galaxy. Its use didn’t bruise any egos. And as a result, English because the unofficial trade-language of the Milky Way – much to the dismay of the Esperantites, who’ve spent the last 50 years unsuccessfully trying to push their own version of The Honeymooners called The Menacing Monkey People from Dirtworld who are Celebrating their Recent Lifebonding.

So most of the aliens alive today haven’t seen Gilligan’s Island or Footloose. They’ve heard of Earth, but they’re not sure why and they couldn’t pinpoint it on a map of the Milky Way – much like Latvia to a modern American. Or Nigeria. Or Portugal. Heh. I could go on. Modern Americans can point out very few things on a globe. But I digress.

And that, boys and girls, is why aliens speak English.

On a side note, the race of cephalopods are now known as the Squidwardians due to the popularity of Spongebob Squarepants. They don’t care for the name change at all, but fuck those Squidwardians.

Dear God,

Please kill Alex Jones. It doesn’t have to be ass cancer like Fred Phelps. (Thanks for that, by the way!) A regular old heart attack would do nicely. But, you know, feel free to be creative if you like. I’m not here to question Your Mysterious Ways. I just know you’re busy crafting Trump’s final days after my last prayer to You, and I don’t want this to get in the way of that.

I’m confident there’s a fatty deposit lodged in those arteries, just waiting for a little nudge. I’m not asking for a lightening strike or some bizarre accident involving anal penetration. Just a little nudge. Surely you can make time for a little nudge.

In Jesus’ name we pray.

Amen

That is, Hello Again, World.

I originally started this blog in 1998. Back in those days, we didn’t call it a blog. We called it the Self-Indulgent Typing of Funny Shit Because We’re Drunk And Bored And World of Warcraft Hasn’t Been Invented Yet. I worked pretty hard to get that blog just so and get all the links to change color when you covered them with your mouse. But it was pretty ugly even by 1998 standards and the years weren’t kind to it.

So … this.

Honestly, I don’t know what this is yet. The old Self-Indulgent Typing of Funny Shit etc. was anything funny I could think of. Sometimes it was political. Sometimes it was about Star Wars. Once, I wrote a script for a fictional phone call to the president of Doritos, where I was trying to find out if the occasional Black Dorito was actually a bit of the elusive dark matter. I wrote one piece where I talked about paying a prostitute for sex, and lost my nerve and got a very expensive back rub. It was funny stuff. We laughed and laughed.

So what do I write about now?

Well … let’s see here … in the past seven days, Trump has taunted Kim-Jong Un into threatening to fire missiles near Guam, and Trump-inspired Nazis have killed an anti-protester in Charlottesville, VA. Between Nazis and the Apocalypse, I’m not sure there are any other current events. Did any celebrities say or do anything stupid? Probably — but it almost definitely involved either Nazis or the Apocalypse. Have any ordinary citizens done anything hypocritical enough to fill an entire article? Maybe — but it was likely related to Nazis. Or possibly the Apocalypse. Could go either way. But probably Nazis.

I could also write about global warming. Wait, we’re not calling it that anymore. I think we’re calling it climate change. Climate change is bad. And it’s real. And we don’t like it. But honestly, it’s kinda gotta take a back seat to the Apocalypse, doesn’t it? I’m not checking CNN every morning to see if Guam is under water yet. I’m checking CNN every morning to see if lil’ Kimmie has wiped Guam from the map.

So it appears I’m talking about Trump.

In the year before the historic election of 2017, I talked a lot about Trump. I repeatedly said that Trump didn’t know the job, didn’t understand how hard it would be, and wouldn’t be able to get anything done. I said that even if he could get something done, he’d do the wrong thing because he lacks a basic grasp of Right and Wrong. I said the Nazis would be emboldened by his victory and that we’d see a resurgence in their stupidity. And I said that the bullying that worked so well for him in the corporate world would not work in the political one, and we’d all likely die in nuclear fire.

Apparently, I either have the ability to predict the future or I’m shaping reality with the power of my mind and you’re all basically part of my dream.

If it’s the latter, I promise never to eat spicy food again.

Because damn.