I’m one of those people who believes that a brain can only hold so much information, so I find it necessary to remove extraneous flotsam from time to time to make room for the really important stuff. Today is such a day. Ain’t you lucky?
I live in a perpetual concern, since I married the Contrarian, that I will have a brain closure–that means that it seizes up after having absorbed the last morsel of factoid it can accommodate. There is no antidote as I understand it, once closure has occurred, you have to live the rest of your days with what has been so far accumulated. This is a sorry state of affairs as you can surmise and thus I feel the necessity to purge regularly lest I reach that dangerous threshold.
You may ask why I became suddenly aware of this once I married the Contrarian low these nearly nine years ago? Well, because said male is the author of more useless information than any male I have ever or will ever no doubt meet. A mere sample will alert you to the danger and you too can beware when he offers something here. Last night, while I am in the grips of an eye headache, he wants me to answer this little pondered thought: Why are some track and field events in the Olympics measured in meters and others in feet? Now how in the HEEELLLLLLLL am I supposed to know? Do I look like an expert in weights and measures I ask you?
Being around the Contrarian is always feeling a bit like Dorothy Parker, well known sayer of all things cool and irreverent who once, upon hearing the phone ring, queried, “What fresh hell is this?” She also coined the phrase, “Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses,” but that is not germane to this subject. That is not useless information by the way in case you were thinking it might be. I don’t specialize in that subset of knowledge.
In any event, I thought it time to dust out the sticky gluey tidbits of crap that I am constantly subject to in this household so as to be sure I have room for very important stuff. But in order not to bore you, I’ll include some really important stuff as well, so as you can learn to tell the difference. Feel free to empty your own dustbin of useless brain matter at any time, but please step outside, I just vacuumed ironically the carpet in here.
Important facts or not so important stuff:
I am pleased as punch (See here the Contrarian would interrupt and ask, “Where did that come from and what exactly does it mean to be pleased as punch?”). Anyway, I am happy to announce that I was RIGHT about the Obama VEEP. I called it, hhhmmm, like four days in advance when only about 75% of all the journalists had, so I am in rarefied air up here in the super Obama airspace. He no doubt was reading my blog, and said, “yep, that settles it, Sherry thinks it should be Biden, and I trust her opinion.”
This leads me to a new idea actually. I’m thinking that seeing as how my opinions and all around political savvy is now documented, that perhaps I should seek to reap some monetary benefit from all this. So do you think I should offer this blog as a subscription at say $10 per month or just do the tacky but still permissible “Paypal” sidebar link? Since you will be paying, just let me know which. In the meantime, a subtle nudge, nudge, wink, wink, on a comment will be enough to let me know you are the paying type and my kind of all around friend!
After only three years of symptoms, the Contrarian has finally come to the mind-boggling conclusion that he has allergies. Yes indeed, this is a major, major fall for the brain heavy man. He has steadfastly denied that sneezing, stuffy nose, itchy eyes and such means anything at all for three long whiny years. Finally when he was wondering how he might do as a blind man since he was about to remove his eyeballs, he confessed, literally in teary, admission. “I may have an allergy,” he whispered.
Now, you may be asking yourself, check and see if you are, why anyone would suffer for three years before admitting said affliction? Simple. Joan Lunden has allergies. Oh, still don’t get it? Well, Joan, you see is a “poser” and the Contrarian hates posers. What is that you may ask? A poser, according to my copy of “The Definitive Contrarian Dictionary of Words, Incorrectly Spelled But Never Incorrectly Defined,” is a person who acts like they know they are being recorded and so moves and “poses” accordingly. Like the ladies who sell cars and refrigerators and make sweeping gestures with their arms and hands signally you should look at this or that feature. Get it?
So you ask, what is wrong with this? Beats me, and I have been married to him for nearly nine years as I said, but it’s bad somehow. Apparently I don’t show symptoms or I’d be toast as they say. I also have an acceptable nose, though Heather Locklear does not. Or maybe it’s the other one who looks a lot like here. I get them mixed up constantly. Anyway, noses are verrrrry important to the Contrarian. Just in case you are planning on paying us a visit. Better to hide yours if you are not sure. That was a digression and a sudden vacuum cough of knowledge lint. Sorry about that.
On another subject all together, the Contrarian has decided after nearly two weeks of watching the Olympics, that he rather would like to be one himself. Being 58, this presents a slight problem. Being the most lazy person on the planet presents a slightly bigger problem. He has carefully examined several events, trying to figure out where he might fit in best.
He quickly discarded most because, well, as you might suspect, they require just too much energy and effort. All running events for sure. Anything that is remotely dangerous is also not a good candidate. He thought he might have found an answer in men’s water polo. As the goalie of course. That doesn’t require much swimming. But he turned it down when he found out the goalie didn’t get to stand on a raised platform but was actually expected to tread water during the match. WAYYYYYYYYY to much work there. Actually, I canned that one myself. No husband of mine is going to to publicly go around wearing a baby bonnet and looking like a dork while I’m still alive.
He thought he had made the perfect choice when he saw the rowing. No of course he is not going to row. That would be exercise and not a Contrarian pursuit. No, he figured he could be a coxman. Or is that cocksman? I’m not sure. Meaning no sexual thingie at all, I assure you. Anyway, he watched that event intently and was pretty sure he could offer some good advice to the rowers. I heard him only yesterday in the garden practicing. “Stroke, Stroke, Stroke,” he yelled at the top of his lungs, in even and masculine tones. Now you see it does pay to live away from everyone in the meadow don’t you think? I would hate to think what the neighbors might have thought he was doing had they heard.
That plan seemed to fall, when we saw the American women’s team. There little coxgirl or cocksgirl (now that definitely is sounding prurient there) was like half the size of the rowers. So the Contrarian is most afraid you have to be a midget to get the job. He’s back to pondering what sports might be left. If you have any suggestions he’d be happy to hear. He really wants a medal in 2012 and besides, I want to see London.
Okay, well I can hear the wind whistling between my ears again, so I think there is again plenty of room to file away more miraculous minutia. So until I feel the need to vacuum again, happy Saturday, and remember those donations now. I’ll be checking the mail!
Like this:
Like Loading...
Existential Ennui 