Nasal Bones and Tequila Worms

    

   As anyone who has ever met me will readily attest, I have, among many other equally annoying personality quirks, a rather large number of pet peeves. Oooh! There's one right there! Why 'pet' peeve? If they were pets, one well placed 'Free to good home' ad would quickly rid us of all those little irritants that clutter up our daily lives, keeping us away from seriously important things. Like finding tiny little things that annoy us and writing about them. Like I'm doing. Now.

    Let's get back to the top of the page. Nestled smack dead-center in my ever increasing collection of peeves, pet or other, are those two … those TWO … massive assaults against logic and reason, cold blooded murderers of common sense and rational thought, and the two peeves that disturb me beyond all others. Why do they vex me so? Allow me to explain. These two, found in the 'everybody knows' category of common knowledge, (as everybody should already know), are the two that have been blown into my face, with accompanying sour booze breath, by every single loud mouthed know-it-all drunken brain-dead mouth-breather genetic anomaly I have ever met, at any party I have ever been to, in my entire life. Ever. And what I find so offensive about these two is not the fetal alcohol poster boy spewing them, nor is it the fact that they are members of the 'everybody knows' family of pseudo information. No, the intense disgust and contempt these two pieces of 'information' generate within me result from this: if one takes the time to think one or two words past their file names – Nasal Bones and Tequila Worms – these tales, usually told with such certainty and unwavering authority, will actually prove themselves wrong to anyone capable of even base-level cognitive processing. Let's brutally dissect them, one by one, shall we? Oh, yes! Let's do!!

Our first bit of 'knowledge' runs thus:

If you slam someone in the nose with the heel of your hand, it will drive the nasal bones into the brain, killing them instantly.

Now, there's a couple of things of a physiological nature that I feel compelled to point out, but first, look at this for a minute:

    See, here's the thing, folks; the sphenoid, parietal, occipital, temporal and nasal bones are all far thinner than the frontal bone. The frontal bone is the thickest part of the human skull, and is also the area that thin, eggshell-like nasal bones are said to be punched through. The greater likelihood, however, is that the entire situation would play itself out in the other direction, resulting in a very small piece of the victim's nasal bone becoming imbedded in the assailant's hand.

    Before you come after me with documented evidence, let me say this: Yes, it is entirely possible to kill someone with the smack to the beak maneuver, but you have to realize that the person is killed by transfer shock (look it up) to the brain, and not a spontaneous nasal bone assisted pre-frontal lobotomy. In truth, a blow of the same force, delivered to ANY area of the skull, would have ended the same way - an early grave for one guy, and a great 'Hands of Death' story for another.      Also, if some part of the nasal bone (the nose is actually mostly cartilage) did, by fluke, manage to find itself driven into the brain, it would be far too short to cause any appreciable damage, let alone death. Plus, consider the area of the brain that would be pierced by said nasal bone – the frontal lobes. Possible result? Well, a somewhat calmer, more zombie-like victim springs to mind, having been the lucky recipient of a free pre-frontal lobotomy.

    Right. Enough about the nasal bone method of terminating one's foes, let's get on to the Tequila Worm. This is another one that gets me steaming, screaming stung, again due to the lack of just enough common sense to go one step further when thinking this one through. Our 'everybody knows' item:

If you drink a bottle of Tequila, and you eat the worm at the bottom, you get completely fucked up.

   I have even heard people likening the worm experience to Acid or Mescaline in intensity and hallucinogenic properties, but here's the real deal. The worm, which is not found in all Tequila, is an Agave worm. The Agave worm lives only in … the Agave cactus. The Agave cactus is used in the manufacture of certain types of … Tequila. Starting to see where I'm headed with this? The worm is included in the bottle merely as proof that the Tequila was made using the Agave. That's it. It does NOT have a mescaline content, as claimed by some, nor does it somehow “concentrate the alcohol”, an assertion made by others. The only thing the worm does, apart from it's intended function as proof, is this: NOTHING!

    So why do you get so wasted? Think about it. You've just drunk a bottle of Tequila, you're already wasted. In fact, you are already so shitfaced that you're about to eat a fucking WORM. Not only are you about to eat a fucking worm, you're trashed enough to think it's a good idea! The next time you are treated to some drunken buffoon gassing on about the 'hallucinogenic, almost spiritual experience' of dining on the pickled cadaver of some poor little Agave worm, you can do what I do – call bullshit on the story, then offer to eat the worm without drinking any Tequila, as I have MANY times (love to prove a point). I have eaten untold Agave worms, and the only sensation I have ever experienced is a mild, sort of queasy, disgust at having just put a maggot in my mouth without even the dubious benefit of being ratted on a nice bottle of Mescal. Stick with me, kiddies, you won't be popular with the 'everybody knows' crowd, but then again, who wants to be, huh?

Until next time, as always, be safe.

TRS

Two Things That Completely Amaze Me.

     I'm not amazed by much anymore, but every now and then, something squeaks in just under the radar and, BAM! I'm amazed. And I think you will be too. If you actually think about these two.

In order for this to work, I have two seemingly odd requests for you. Two things you need to do:

A) Flick a piece of snot at anything, and,

B) Fart in the shower.

    I realize that many people claim they never actually perform either activity themselves, and rather than wasting time convincing them that, yeah, you do, I'll simply ask them to do it just this once. In the interest of scientific inquiry. To further the sphere of human knowledge and make the world that one little bit better. You know who you are, and before you dismiss this entire exercise, just read it over. I'm sure you will find that these two questions that burn through my very core are actually based on some seriously sound and valid reasoning, and not just vulgar bathroom humor. That having been said, we'll start with the farts.

Shower farts, it seems, follow a completely different set of rules than do all other flatulent events in that, as far as my associates and I can tell, they all smell the same. I'm saying that your own shower farts all smell the same, not that any fart, dropped in any shower, anywhere adheres to this rule. A longitudinal study spanning several decades has yielded the following data: no matter what you eat, where you eat it, who prepared it for you, even if you've never eaten it before, any resulting flatulence that occurs in the shower (ANY shower) will smell the same. Try it. No matter where you are in the world, no matter what your diet consists of, POW! Same smell every time! HOW?!? How does this happen? What is it about cascading water that alters our flatulent physiology? I'm dead serious, here! Try it, test it, make an attempt at proving my theory wrong, for as most of us know, the only legitimate, recognized way to prove a theory is to try and disprove it – if you can't, then you're sitting on a good, solid theory.

   So. Eat a burger and fries in Washington State, check in at the nearest 'Comfort Inn' or perhaps a 'Big 6', throw your suitcase on the cinder-block double bed, hop right into the shower, and squeeze one off. And don't (if you're one of those types) try to squeak it all sneaky-like, either. As a sort of bonus, it was also discovered that no matter how hard you try, you just can't squeak a fart when your bum is wet. Can't play trumpet when the orchestra pit is damp. Now, take careful note of the aroma. Next, you could maybe have a nice piece of cheesecake at Lindie's in Manhattan, sashay over to the Marriott Essex House on Time Square, drop the eight or nine-hundred dollars for one night's stay (and before you go off about the price, the brunch makes it all worth while, trust me), amble up to your luxurious, spacious and ever so comfortable suite (no mere 'rooms' here), drift into the massive, glassed-in shower and, once again, fart. Repeat the aroma noticing thing that you did in Washington, and be astounded. The two odors, although created on opposite sides of the continent, will have no discernible difference. Also, you'll get the pleasure of baffling and confusing the staff when you walk out saying “Fuck me with a cheese grater, The RobScenity was right!” because they haven't seen me in years, but they remember the 'cheese grater' line.

    And now, the snot. I wonder why this has never been noticed before? Why did it fall to me to make what is possibly the single greatest discovery in the field of mathematics? I want you to think very hard about this one, ok? Generally, when one flicks a snot, the eyes and the nasal projectile both reach the point of impact at exactly the same time! Do you have any idea to what extent higher calculus, vector plotting, knowledge of trajectories, flow dynamics, to name but a few, come into play during this scenario? The multiple, instantaneous and then constantly revised calculations involved in plotting the route of the snot to its eventual landing site in the split seconds it takes to arrive there is nowhere short of miraculous. For one thing, there are no true constants when dealing with snot, are there? Viscosity, surface tension, density, weight, aerodynamic features, these are all just the start of a massive pile of unknown and unquantifiable variables. We can't even count on a consistent snot-to-fingernail adhesion factor, so even something as simple as determining the exact second of release is out of our realm. Yet, somehow, we are able to do all the calculations, make all the adjustments, and account for all the unknowable variables and still arrive at the exact point on the wall/window/sibling that the snot has also arrived at, at precisely the same time! HOW?????  

Now that I’ve given you your research materials, I shall bail. My head is pounding just thinking about this again, and I think I will go do something illegal. As always, be safe.

TRS

13 Years with the Man I love..

Words can never express how much I love and adore Rob..and I can only hope you have found someone in your lifetime that means as much to you as he does to me. He is intelligent, quick witted, funny, talented, sweet, thoughtful, perverted, cuddly, loyal, protective, strong, and the most beautiful looking man I have ever seen. I love his parents, his upbringing, his musical talents, his cool employment background which includes burning dead people, a stand-up comic, musician, published author, tour guide, his educational feats, and I love his heart, his stories, and his outstanding talents in the bedroom. I ADORE this man, and I will love him forever...

It Begins (Again)

   Well, it seems I was just too busy to notice, or perhaps I just didn't think it could possibly be that time already. I guess there are definitely some benefits to setting an alarm or learning how the calendar feature on my phone works after all. No matter how I managed to let this slip past, slip past it certainly has. I saw the first sign last night and nearly went into shock, so ill-prepared was I for the event. And today, I have seen no less than 7 occurrences, and I have yet to venture farther than the balcony. I'm not altogether certain I even want to venture farther than the balcony, if spotting 7 of these most atrocious of sights is any indication of what may lurk beyond the confines of my room. I shudder, even though the temperature is quite agreeable. In fact, it is precisely that agreeable temperature that has caused my shivering, as it is also the very thing which has brought out one of my most hated of all things, my peeve-est of pet peeves, one of the few things that ruins two otherwise extremely pleasant seasons. And I find myself contemplating venturing out into the world, and into the very midst of this yearly atrocity. I must be mad.

    What the fuck am I babbling on about, you ask? Find anyone who has known me for more than three hours, and ask them what I hate almost more than anything else in life. What they will say, is this, “Grown Men in Short Pants”. Short pants are for little boys, and there are few things on this planet (or any other, I would imagine) that look as ridiculous, ludicrous, preposterous, as a full-grown adult male kitted out in a pair of these goofy little half-trousers. Knobby knees, puffy, almost luminously white legs, do not belong out in plain view, where just anyone at all could accidentally happen to see them. No, they belong hidden, under a sensible pair of full-length men's pants. Think about it for a second – it's the whole reason fully legged pants were invented in the first place – so the general population would not be forced to gaze upon that which the pants so cleverly conceal!

    To make matters even more difficult, some GMISP's hold the opinion that their short pants make them appear boyish, youthful, and even 'adorable'! They DO NOT! The most cursory glance at the wearer cannot help but yield the following observation: You are an adult male, dressed in the trappings of a pre-teen in some vain hope of appearing less advanced in years than you, quite obviously, are. You're not fooling anyone, other than yourself. As for looking adorable, the only one who thinks that is you. And maybe your wife or girlfriend. Their opinion, however, along with their taste, is not to be trusted – just look who they picked as a mate.

Untill next time, as always, be safe.

TRS

I feel that I'm long past due for a full-out frontal attack on one of the most reprehensible things in the music business – the 'Family Band'. You know, like the Partridge Family, and even worse, the Brady Kids, to name the two best known examples of this horrid pseudo-musical phenomenon. I'll even go over the really obvious reasons, just in case some of you aren't in tune with the World of Music, but only a quick look at those as they are too painfully obvious to the rest of us.

First off, you live with your family, see them every single day, and the time you get to actually spend alone (the 'me' time) is not a plentiful commodity. A working band spends a ridiculous amount of time together, writing, rehearsing, and generally tightening up all aspects of The Show. It gets worse when the group is on tour, as all that together time is often spent crammed in a tour bus, or worse, a couple of old vans.

Families also don't always see eye to eye, which can lead to frequent fighting and tense situations. Many working band find that the only time they don't fight is on stage, the rest of the tour time can be quite the nightmare. So, the question arises, why on earth would anyone want to take those two situations and mash them together into one huge, volatile mess just waiting to explode in a maelstrom of potential fratricide, infanticide and suicide? I have no answers for you as to who would want this (inbred Ozark Mountain clans excluded) as a long term lifestyle.

Those, however, are not my reason for disliking the 'Family Band' format. My reason is simply this: not every person in every family is musically inclined or even remotely talented, so we always end up with one or two useless tits who just stand on stage wiggling, shaking a bloody tambourine, pinging away on a triangle or rattling those god-awful fucking maracas. Really, who the fuck, when faced with the decision to play an instrument, goes with the 'triangle' option? When I was a kid, the only triangle players in the school band were the three kids from the 'special ed' class. Mind you, if memory serves, one of them was pretty damn good at it – I often wonder if he went on to play triangle professionally with some Philharmonic Orchestra or other. Yah! Right! I lost a lot of sleep wondering about that one!! But back to that family member who is busy shaking, pinging or rattling their way through everyone else's hard work. They're a waste of space, a source of complete crap noise, but they have to be included because “They're a part of this family, too!”. If the same reasoning were used by surgeons or nuclear power plant workers … well, you see where I'm going with this. That's all I can say without getting angry right now, so as always, be safe.

TRS