As anyone who reads me regularly knows, I am a very helpful person, so long as I don’t have to expend too much energy in the process. For example, if I have to get up from my desk, that might be asking a bit much. But, if I can help you out from my swivel chair, and you don’t require me to stretch too far in any direction in particular, and I don’t have to type for too long (’cause I don’t want carpal tunnel syndrome), then I’m here for ya, folks.

Who is this Mother Teresa, anyway?

So, when I read that She-Dork is having the same problem with gnats that I’ve been having, I decided to do a quick post on the subject.

A couple of days ago, I read somewhere that, if you put a can of beer and a little dishwashing detergent into a bowl, the concoction will draw gnats and kill them.

Of course, I had to try this on my gnats, because they really need to die. I thought this was probably a fairly humane way to kill them, too, as it’s possible that they get good and soused before they finally drown.

Well, my bowl has been setting out for more than thirty-eight hours now, and the results aren’t promising. There’s just one lonely gnat floating in my beer and dishwashing liquid mixture. As you’ve doubtlessly already surmised, this is far from conclusive evidence as to the effectiveness of the trap. I mean, for all I know, that poor little guy was just clumsy, and through some unfortunate coincidence, he just happened to fall into my bowl of inebriating death.

On the other hand, the stuff hasn’t actually worsened the problem, and I do have one less gnat in my face than I had yesterday, and that sort of feels like success to me.

Hmm.

So, aside from the potential waste of a perfectly good beer and the general grossness of having a bowl of dead gnat(s) lying around your house, it can’t hurt to try this, now can it?

When somebody manages to make fun of Sammy Hagar and George W. Bush in the same sentence, how do you respond to it? I, for one, laugh my ass off and then quickly add that person to my blogroll.

The receptionist at our plumber’s office seems like such a genuinely nice person that I regret not having more to chat with her about than a leaky pipe.

Proving once again that, if you’re klutzy enough, even the simplest things can be hazardous, last night I managed to harm myself while eating hot and sour soup. Somehow I splashed the soup in my eye.

Even if I hadn’t already given up on the possibility of leading a life of crime, that little accident would surely have set me right. I’m not going to be giving anybody a good reason to pepper spray me any time soon.

Having no athletic ability whatsoever can really put a damper on a person’s Olympic dreams, so I’ve sort of resigned myself to the fact that the best I can do for my country on that particular front is to watch the games attentively from my couch while stuffing popcorn in my face. The sacrifices I make in this quest will benefit all of America nobody in particular.

It is in that same spirit, I present to you, these, my

HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE SOFA

The dumbest words ever spoken by an announcer at the Olympic games, and quite possibly, the dumbest thing ever said by anyone – past, present or future.

Not once but twice during the course of the swimming competitions, some moron commented that Inge De Bruijn of The Netherlands swims better at night. Did you catch all the subtle stupidity within stupidity there? Whatever you do, don’t think about that statement for too long – it just might cause aneurysms. All I know is that it definitely gave me a headache.

Now, to be fair, I couldn’t see the man’s face. He might have been joking, but he sure said it like it was a fact. TWICE.

I gotta tell ya, he’s lucky I didn’t have money for both the plane ticket to Athens and the sack of bricks. He might have found himself expounding his crazy shit at the bottom of the pool.

Most pissed I’ve seen my spouse over a game:

Paraphrasing Michael in regard to the U.S. basketball team getting creamed by Puerto Rico: “I can’t believe so many f*ck*n’ NBA stars can’t take a few f*ck*ng months off from their fu*k**g multi-million dollar salaries to compete for their country at The Olympic Games…If all the good players who were invited had gone, we would never have lost… I’m never spending another fuc**ng dollar to support the f*ckin* NBA.”

Please note: The NBA needn’t shake in their boots too much over his threat. To the best of my knowledge, Michael has never once attended a game or bought an NBA t-shirt. For that matter, he never even watches the games on television. But, yeah, so henceforward he will never do those things even more than he never did them before. Watch out, you NBA f**k*rs!

Quickest I’ve ever considered myself an expert in any field:

Fifteen minutes into watching men’s synchronized swimming I was (only half-jokingly) making remarks like, “That’s gonna be a deduction in the execution of the dive for the diver on the right. His body was arched as he entered the water.”

Biggest Olympic disappointments:

#1 Not enough hours in the day to watch all of the events I want to watch.

#2 That Patricia beat me to the punch on the pot joke. I’m hereby calling dibs on the next pot joke right here and right now. Can I get a witness?

Ok, so it’s time to fess up about Friday’s game. Thanks to everyone for playing! Most comments EVER! Woohoo!

*clears throat and regains composure*

Story 1 was true.

It’s a little easier to believe if you know us personally. See, Michael uses the word “bitch” as a term of endearment for me. No, really. I know it’s weird, but he always has.

Apologies to those of you who got thrown off by the “S.” I improvised the letters, because I didn’t remember which letters were guessed already. She probably did know at that age that “bitch” started with a “B”, and if I had thought about that, I wouldn’t have put the “S” in there. Hey, at least I remembered the word she was guessing at was “sweetheart.”

*shoots self in head*

My faulty memory aside, the little tale remains mostly true.

Wouldn’t that story be absolutely perfect as one of those Reader’s Digest cute kid anecdotes? If it weren’t so damn inappropriate?

Story 2 was false with a little truth thrown in.

I did have a nun as my first grade teacher. Her name was really Sister James Albert, and she really was as mean as she was short. But, she never got reprimanded for whacking a kid in the face. She preferred to smack our little hands with a ruler. I used to get that treatment almost daily for holding my pencil incorrectly. The good news is, she never broke my spirit. To this day, I hold my pencil however I please. Fight the power!

As to nuns getting male names, I’m still researching that with no luck at all so far. I may have to resort to using a search engine other than Google. (Gasp!)

Story 3 was true.

What’s more, I hope to use that slightly traumatic experience at the gym as an excuse for any and all of my weight gain over the next twenty years. Do you think I’ll be able to milk it for that long?