Styrofoam Kills. Or It Just Looks Really Nasty When It Is Decomposing

My "environmentally conscious" company released this statement the other day about the containers we get at lunch that contain an absurd amount of zucchini and summer squash:

Please Help Our Environment!
Let's try and do our part and use the available "china" and "silverware" in our cafeterias rather than the "to go" containers and "plastic" utensils. These containers are what they call "environmentally friendly," but not using them at all is the best solution! Obviously, if you are taking your lunch back to your desk, you need it in the proper container. If you're utilizing our seating in the cafeterias, however, please use our available trays, china, and silverware. When you've finished, don't forget to return all items to the proper washing areas. If you have any questions, please contact the chef in your particular building. Thanks!

OK, can me we have more unneccessary "quotation marks"? Is it not really "china"? Is it not "silverware"? Wait...is it not really "plastic"?! What else are you lying to me about??

Anyway, my main problem isn't with the plethora of dumb-ass quotation marks. My problem is that this message, originally sent out electronically, has appeared, thanks to some staunch environmentalist no doubt, printed off on paper and piled in inch-high stacks all over the cafeteria.

Oh, and we don't recycle paper here.

How classic is that! Here! Please sign my seal pelt to stop Arctic drilling.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to chop down some trees so I can erect a billboard telling people to save the rainforest.

- Dim.

**Note: It is entirely possible that this thing was driven by the catering company that doles out the meals for the company. They are two independent organizations. For the record, I have no issues with my place of employment. And yes, I'm scared of them.**

My Favorite Driver

Ok, pardon the horrible pun, but I feel like I am getting lapped by my buds Rusty and B. when it comes to NASCAR drivers.

So, I've spent the last week (have you missed me??) or so doing an incredible amount of research to try and determine who was going to be MY driver. The driver I put my faith and emotion in every time they get behind the wheel. Forget for a minute I don't watch car racing, would you?

I looked at all of the drivers' ethics. Their sponsors. Their sponsors' ethics. The cars they drive. The races they've won. The beers they drank. And I finally, after much deliberation, came up with MY driver. The one who is worthy to have DIM emblazoned on their skin-tight fire suit.

So, now, gentle readers, I give you MY driver.

I don't even know if my driver drives stock cars, NASCAR cars, or those weird Evel Kneivel cars that have fire coming out of their ass and parachutes to slow them down. But my driver has one thing that is most important. And that's why my driver is...

Danica Patrick.

She has boobs.

Getting in the pole position,

- Dim.

...And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor - Revisited

OK, so me and Xteen were watching TV tonight, enjoying the fact that no commercials were bastardizing any popular music songs for their own selfish gain. Then, a commercial for Papa John's pizza comes on the tube. Apparent, Papa John is proud of his meat (hey, who isn't?) because they are laying it pretty thick on their pizza: ham, hamburger, pepperoni, and, of course, sausage. And nothing says, "Hey, we're proud of our meat" like a butchered 80s pop song.

The song? The Go Go's tune, "We Got the Beat".

The bastardized version? Oh yes. You guessed it. "We Got the Meat." Sung by a some woman group probably called the No No Go Go's.

Once I stopped giggling because it sounded dirty, I became outraged. Come on..."We Got the Meat"?!?! Sounds like it should the theme song to a transvestite musical, not a pizza commercial.

So, go screw, Papa John.

And take the Universities of Iowa and Kansas with you.

Can you tell my NCAA Basketball pool isn't going the way I wanted?

"Playstation's all I ever wanted...",

- Dim.

Things I Hate Today

These aren't things that I just hate today. I hate these things all the time. But today, I decided to write about them. Maybe I should re-title it: Today: Things I Hate. Or Things Today I Hate. or I Hate These Things Today (and Everyday). Whatever.

Things I Hate:

1. Coming up with titles for my blog entry.
2. Hey, cafeteria guys...I still hate zucchini and summer squash. Thanks for ignoring me.
3. Work. And I was only there for four hours today. I managed to drum up full-time hate on a part-time schedule. And who says I'm not an overachiever?
4. Sore throats. I have one. And not the "Hmmm...my throat feels a tad bit scratchy today" sore throat. I have the "every friggin time I swallow, it's like some welder turns on a blowtorch in my esophagus" sore throat. And I'm swallowing so much garbage (sorry for the graphic part here) that my stomach has bloated so much that I now resemble a Vanilla Biz Markie. And stop telling me, "you have to drink water! You need fluids!" Have you ever had a ice cold glass of water when you have a sore throat? Yeah, that feels good. The only "fluids" that soothe it is Christian Brothers, thank you very much.
5. Peanut dust. And I don't mean this in a dirty way (unlike Rusty's double entendre-laden post from today). But I was enjoying some peanuts in a shell today and looked down to find about 3 inches of peanut dust coating my counter, floor, and clothes. What the hell is this all about? I love my peanuts (again, NOT dirty), but any treat that causes me to have to bust out the vacuum AND shake my clothes off outside is just too labor-intensive for me. Now, I know why people like to eat them at ball games. That shit's gonna end up on the ground anyhow. At least there, it's expected to be there. I don't think Xteen would like it too much if she came home and was ankle-deep in peanut shells. Oh, and if you're gonna say smarmily, "Hey Dim, they have this cool new invention: SHELLED peanuts. Sans dust. You should try them out sometime", well, thanks very much for being on the cutting edge of agricultural phenomena. Now, frig off.
6. The RMV. I had to go the RMV in a rather large city in my area. Now, I frighten easily and being in this city's downtown was no exception. I've noticed that a lot of people who hang out on Main Street (not just this town's Main Street, but ANY town's Main Street) tend to a) not have an obvious employment, b) walk with a gait that appears to be caused by either the lack of a digit or digits on one or more feet, or by the actual presence of a hoof, c) smell like cough syrup, and d) thoroughly enjoy having an expletive-filled conversation aloud with...NOBODY. Anyway, I went to the DMV because I got in an accident last year (hold your tears, I am fine and my visage was uninjured) as I was blinded by the sun and rammed into the behind (again, not dirty) of a car driven by some un-American. I don't mean that patriotically. I mean that literally. Anyway, within 8 nanoseconds of the impact, she is on her cell phone and makes numerous phone calls (while shooing me away with her arms). Then, within minutes, the following people arrive: the police, the fire department, the EMTs, 3 Marines, the Cavalry, her husband, 6 nuns and a Mohel (in the same shuttle bus), a Med-Flight Helicopter, and Tyra Banks. That chick really is everywhere. Anyway, that accident resulted in me being declared guilty until innocent and my insurance company levying a surcharge that, if it were a vegetable, would be zucchini and summer squash. Additionally, they decide to tack on "points" to my driver rating, which despite its allusion, is actually a bad thing. High points bad, low point good. That's just back asswards. No wonder I crash into things. OK, so I go to this slum today to challenge their ruling on this accident (which literally took place almost a full calendar year ago). I get called into the room, where the dude deciding my case is sitting with a very hard-ass look on his face. And then I notice. He's in a wheelchair. I think that is already 2 1/2 strikes against me right there. Here I am, fully ambulatory, 10 toes and no hoofs, and this guy is going to judge me while trying to get out of paying insurance of all things. It would just be my luck that this guy got his ride by being rear-ended by someone who was blinded by the sun. He then proceeds to ask me questions that makes me think, on top of it all, that he is brain-damaged. Him: "The other car sustained a lot of financial damage. How did that happen?" Me: "uhhhh...". Him: "The other car was pulled over the side of the road. Why was that?" Me: "uhhhh...". Apparently, in my report, I put my occupation down as "body jumper" because this guy wanted me to channel the un-American chick, her auto-body guy, and probably Tyra Banks, the dirty bastard. I left and the guy told me that they will have the decision against me in three to four weeks. Well, he didn't exactly say that they would be ruling against me, but I think I picked up that extra 1/2 strike against me when I asked him if he wanted me to find out "where Forrest's magic shoes were while I was at it." Alright, that didn't happen.
7. American Idol. Now I admit that some of this has grown on me, but I really don't like the singing all that much. I like hearing the judges comment on performances I didn't even see and playing in-games like, "Is Randy speaking English?", "Guess Paula's blood/alcohol level", and "How many chest hairs can you spy thanks to Simon's v-neck?" But the one thing that absolutely cracks me up about that show is when they vote someone off. Some schlep gets voted off and they have that person come down for one final performance. And what do they sing? The same friggin song they sang that got them kicked off in the first place! "Hey, America thinks you suck. Come up here and sing the song that they hated so much last night that they actualy decided to vote for the prematurely grey-haired guy with Tourettes over you!" No thanks. Could you be less dignified? Might as well give them floppy ears, a tail, a swift kick in the ass and tell them to go down on all fours and yell out, "Hee haw!!" That's like failing a true or false test in school, having your teacher tell you that they are failing you and there is nothing you can do to stop it, but you can take the test again. The catch is that you have to answer everything the exact same as you did before. That makes sense.
8. Tyra Banks. Man, you could show a movie on her fivehead.

Well, that's been my day.

Don't be hatin',

- Dim.

Pics Galore

OK, so JG was friggin' ultra-cool enough to post her pic here and Rusty (also friggin' ultra-cool) has done so on a few occasions (most recently here), I, needing to be friggin' ultra cool as well, have felt obligated to do so as well. Not to mention, I haven't posted anything in a week, so I am stalling until I can come up with something even mildly entertaining. I totally suck. This, I know.

So, here is me and Xteen on New Year's Eve. Do not adjust your television...that is a soul patch on my face.

If you want something a little less blurry, here you go. I can't vouch for the authenticity. This was after many beers for the both of us. Take note of my kick-ass Elvis shirt as referenced in my January post about the Black Crowes concert. Yeah...blogger sucks and I can't seem to get the URL to link to, but use your imagination.

And Rusty...today is your lucky day. Here's your long-awaited photo of Dim...shirtless...

My Paint skillz rule!

- Dim.

P.C.U. II

Can I use Roman numerals? Does that offend anyone?

Talk about timely, my blog posting about POOP-CRAP came slightly before this ridiculous story.

First of all, the Houston franchise should have renamed the team from 1836, not because it is offensive, but because the name is HORRIBLE. What the hell kind of cheer can you do when you have to crank out "Eighteen thirty-six". Have some more syllables. Why not name your team the Supercalifragilisticexpialodociouses while you are at it. You're name is stupid, but rather than changing your name because it is the stupidest nickname in the history of Earth, you change it because it is supposedly offensive? It's the year the friggin city was founded.

Changing it for that reason is even doubly stupid. Not to mention that they managed to have the team name a whopping three months before someone got their serape all twisted.

They say things are larger in Texas. That must go for the POOP-CRAP too.

This is the same professional sports league that has the (Great) Chicago Fire, by the by.

And on top of it all, this Houston franchise used to be the San Jose Earthquakes.

That's not bad karma or anything,

- Dim.

P.C.U.

I went to this college.

Not a bad little Catholic school.

But little did I know, after four years and many, many thousands of dollars later, that my campus, nestled in a woodsy and hilly eastern Massachusetts town, is apparently world-renowned for its vast population of "skyhawks". Much more rare than their popular relative, the "groundhawk", no doubt.

You see, when I went there many moons ago, Stonehill College was known for its Chieftains. Chieftains being the name of the school mascot. Well, until the Police Of Overt Political Correctness Reacting Absolutely Preposterously (POOP-CRAP) decided that the name was offensive to Native Americans, who were apparently, natively American and never called each other a "chieftain".

So, last year, I got a thing in the mail from Stonehill and my first thought was, "I am not sending you money-grubbing bastards another cent!" But when I opened it, I found that it was a ballot. A democratic vote asking alumns such as myself what I would like the NEW team mascot to be, as they were laboring under NO mascot for years now. No mascot?! When the hell did that happen? We were the Stonehill Nothings for a few years? Way to psych out your opponent.

Apparently, "chieftain", is offensive despite its rather innocuous definition of: The leader or head of a group, especially of a clan or tribe. Not sure why a bunch of people got their panties in a bunch over this, but that is probably why I toil away in a non-gratifying profession, while other graduates decide to change mascot names for a living.

So, among the brilliant suggestions for Stonehill's new moniker were: the Shovelmakers (please, temper your fear. You are our opponent. You must be quaking in your moccasins, I mean, boots, at the mere infancy of a thought of going head-to-head against...The Shovelmakers. Be careful, or we'll bust out our JV team...the Hoes). Also making the finals was the Mission. The Stonehill Mission. What the fuck is that? The only less imposing nickname would be the Stonehill Myopic Ballerinas. Or countless others. Try coming up with your own! Fun!

At least they didn't take the easy way out and call themselves the Stonehill Hills. Don't laugh. My high school was Cardinal Spellman. They called themselves...the Cardinals. I give them an F- for originality. It must be some Catholic thing, though, because our rivals were the Bishop Fenwick Bishops. I should just be grateful that there was no Catholic school in the area inexplicably named after Dick Van Dyke. That would have been dicey.

So, needless to say, I am less than aroused about any of these choices. This being America and all, I decided to exercise my free speech right to write in a candidate. I don't have to tell you that my suggestion of the Stonehill Woo-Woo-Woo Paleface Scalpin' Rain Dancers didn't win.

But the Skyhawks did! Is that offensive? Please say it is so. Here's our logo. I'm offended.



I'm offended, because my Stonehill education should have taught me that the Skyhawk was not a bird, but merely a propeller. And the Stonehill Propellers sounds dumb like a box of hair.

Don't get me wrong. Some team's logos are a little offensive. Take the Cleveland Indians' mascot, Chief Wahoo:

OK, that's a little offensive. But look how they overcompensate with offensiveness by giving Wahoo such impeccable dental work!

The Chicago Blackhawks as a NAME in and of itself is OK. The logo...a little offensive:

But some teams went a little crazy when influenced by the POOP-CRAP. Take St. John's University. They used to be called the Redmen. Maybe a tad offensive. But they change it to...the Red Storm. What the friggin frack is a Red Storm? It sounds Russian. And we should not offend them either. They have nukes. I doubt the Native Americans do.

Next up, the Syracuse Orangemen. This must have royally pissed off all of the innumerable citrus growers in upstate New York, because they done went and changed their name to the Orange. I guess, as in the fruit. Again, not very imposing...unless they are playing the Yellowbeard University Scurvy Dogs.

That's why the University of Northern Colorado's intramural basketball team got this right. For those who don't know, "intramural" is POOP-CRAP speak for players who have no talent, but like to go out for pizza and beer after the game. I only know this because of I was a member of the Stonehill College (then) Chieftain intramural Floor Hockey team. Anyway, these guys just decided to be in-your-face offensive with their nickname: The Fightin' Whities. And the best part...their logo:

If you're gonna be offensive, and let's face it...this definitely is, you might as well go the full nine.

Look, I'm not an insensitive prick. Personally, I think that what happened to the Native American people here many years ago is nothing less that despicably shameful and reprehensible. One of the worst atrocities every committed by man on man. But is calling a team the Atlanta Braves really that bad a sin? Isn't the term "Brave" complimentary?

Some things cross the always-moving line. Personally, I'm not a big fan of a team named the Redskins and their logo is pretty bad as well:

But it has been like that since the dawn of time and it ain't ever gonna change. Battles need to be picked. Real issues need to be prioritized.

I personally don't like when people do the chanting and the pantomiming of the "tomahawk chop" at games. But I'm Italian. If you named a team the Goombahs and instead of the acted out a tomahawk chop we pretended to kiss you on both cheeks and then shoot you in the back of the head when you turned around, I would think it was pretty damn funny. Let's not kid ourselves. Some stereotypes are TRUE. They wouldn't have gotten to be stereotypes if they weren't.

I guess my rant is partly based on me being bent that my alma mater succumbed to the POOP-CRAP and did away with a nickname that, in my humble opinion, wasn't all that offensive at all. I guess we all just need to to use our collective head. We shouldn't let the POOP-CRAP get us down, but we should also be sensitive to the majority. If a lot of people are pissed off about it, maybe we need to look at it with a more discerning eye. But one person complaining about the University of Southern California calling themselves the Trojans because it condones artificial birth control shouldn't be enough for them to change their name to the USC Rhythm Method.

There. I've had my say. Smokem peace pipe?

- Dim.

Jackasses

There's no shortage of them.

Yet, there is one person here at work, who absolutely drives me up a friggin wall EVERY morning. I don't know who this person is as I have yet to witness their jackassness in person, but here is why:

I get into work usually between 7:30 and 7:45 each day. I pull into one of my building's Siamese twin garages and park in the same area (ground floor) every single day. In case you are wondering, I pick the Chang Bunker Memorial Garage as opposed to the Eng Bunker Memorial Garage. And no, that's not really what they are called, goofball.

I get into the garage and by now, I am already in a bad mood for the following reasons (these are constant, every day, in the wintertime especially):

• I didn't get my requisite 13 hours of sleep in order for me to function properly
• While in my apartment, because of the arid, cold air, I have received innumerable and potent electric shocks when I even THINK about touching anything metal
• (as of today), my fucking kitchen sink is dripping uncontrollably and sounding like the tell-tale friggin heart and it is driving me to brick a raven alive in a wine cask. Wait, I'm getting my Poe stories mixed up...
• My ponytail is still dripping wet and freezes to the nape of my neck in some sort of weird haircicle
• My commute to work is roughly 10 minutes (poor baby, I know), which doesn't allow my car to warm up suffiently enough to "feel my heat" (as Dirk Diggler and Chest Rockwell would sing).

So, on top of all of these travesties, I arrive to work, every morning, to find this absolute LUNATIC parked in a spot without "driving through".

You know, it is a law that if you have the opportunity to drive through a space, you must do it, or you can be placed under citizen's arrest for being a complete jackass.

But this idiot consistently gets in earlier than me and has their veritable pick of the litter of parking spaces. So, what do they do? Pull into a space that has an open space DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF IT and stop half-way through.

I'm not sure why this bothers me so much since it has absolutely no bearing at all about what space I get and whether or not I can "drive through". But every morning, I see this car and I say, out loud, to the unpresent driver of said car: "YOU are a JACKASS!"

And if you don't think I really do this, I'll have to find the dude who looked at me today when I said it, causing me to have to mouth the words, "not you" to him (even though I'm sure I could find something that he is a jackass about as well).

Why would you not drive through? Do you like backing out of a spot that much? Or do you really like just going into something half-way? It would be like...like...like...OK, every analogy I can come up with is dirty, so I won't say it.

So, if you are reading this, Jackass who parks in the Chang Bunker garage, do me a favor. Drive through. Or next time, I might get all Masque of the Red Death on your ass. Whatever that means.

"Nevermore",

- Dim.