What Do You Call A Camel That's Missing Its Hump?

For three months I've been bothered by this painting in our office. It's in the hallway outside the bathroom, so I see it everyday. And it's a painting of a cowboy being bucked off a horse. It was painted by some junior high school student back in 1994, and it won some kind of contest. But the thing that bothers me so much about it is that the name of the painting is "Buckin' the Camel's Back."

The horse has no resemblance to a camel. And I would think that a junior high student with talent enough to paint a realistic-looking horse would know what a horse is. So that got me wondering if maybe it was labeled wrong. Maybe some teacher didn't know the difference between the two. But that makes me even more upset.

My Google searches didn't help, and I couldn't stop thinking about how stupid it was that it said it was a camel. But then yesterday, the painting disappeared. The only evidence that it was even there is a small nail hole in the wall and my own memory of it. And now it's bothering me that a painting that's 4 feet long and 3 feet wide just disappeared. Who could have taken it? And why? My theory is that it bothered somebody else in the office so much that they couldn't take it anymore. Or I have a devious alter-ego that snuck in after dark and did it while my current consciousness was asleep. And that actually makes sense. Because I've been extra tired lately. I wonder what else my alter-ego has done.

"You Can Go WIth This, Or You Can Go With That"

If I don't think of something to blog about in the next ten minutes, I won't blog today. Because once I get home, I won't be able to concentrate on funny stuff. My kids will crawl on me like a portable playground and my wife won't stop making out with me (one of those things is not true). So this is it. I have to think of something funny right now.

Okay, I got nothing.

Although, today I rewatched the music video to "Weapon of Choice" by Fatboy Slim. It's the one where Christopher Walken dances around an empty hotel. And I thought of a funny comment I'm gonna use at some point in the future. The next time someone mentions dancing of any kind, I'm gonna say, "I don't know, man. I learned all my dance moves from Christopher Walken." And then I'll sing the song while performing his moves.

Okay, so that's not that funny. But it doesn't matter, because my time's up.

Running For Your Life

Last year at some point I decided it was time to start getting into shape. So I started with a jog in my neighborhood. And since my neighborhood is not an upscale neighborhood and my neighbors are not upscale neighbors, I got chased by a pit bull that wasn't on a leash. I jogged about 200 feet from my house, and then had to sprint all the way back. So that was the last time I went jogging in my neighborhood. And I didn't want to join a gym for three reasons: 1) I don't want to pay for it, 2) I'm not as strong as the guys there who are in shape, and 3) I'm terrified of getting in one of the machines wrong.

So I didn't really do any kind of exercise since the pit bull encounter. But then my wife got a free treadmill from her dad. So I've been trying to get up early a few times (okay, once) a week to run (okay, jog) for about half an hour (okay, 18 minutes). And what I've found is that it is absolutely necessary for me to look at my feet when I'm on a treadmill. Otherwise I find myself losing my footing.

This morning I decided the best way to pass the time was to watch an episode of Community (Thursdays on NBC). I just got the DVDs of season 1, so I watched an episode while I jogged. The problem with that is I wasn't watching my feet. And when you combine a 6-foot-3, out-of-shape man who's not paying attention at 6 in the morning with a cheap, hand-me-down treadmill with the tendency to slip on its track, it's a bad combination. I lost my footing completely while laughing at the hilarious character of Abed, and I nearly died.

Lucky for me, I was able to react pretty quickly. My left foot, which had randomly deviated a good 12 inches off the track found solid ground and I turned my would-be fall into what I'm sure was a hilarious-looking spin move. But I avoided tearing the skin off my legs by falling on the carpet instead of the conveyor belt of death. And no one was around to see me make a fool of myself.

So I've decided to take my chances with the free range pit bulls. My pride couldn't handle explaining a treadmill injury to people. But a dog attack makes for a really good story.

I Put The 'Bear' In 'Beard'

Well, I can't shave any more this year. But it's for good reason. No, it's not because I'm donating my beard to Locks of Love in January (their standards are too high). It's because I finally got a good nickname! The guys I work with said I look like a grizzly bear with my newly-grown beard. So one of them called me "Grizz." And if you watch 30Rock on Thursdays on NBC like I do, then you know that they have a pair of characters named Grizz and Dotcom. And the guy who called me Grizz happens to be a website developer on the side (you can find him here if you're interested in getting your own website). So calling him "Dotcom" works perfectly! So now we're Grizz and Dotcom! It's awesome.

But now I have to keep the beard for a while to ensure that the nickname sticks. And I figure I need it for a good three months before it's guaranteed to stick. So I can't shave until the end of this year.

And if you're wondering about the third guy in our department (it's weird that you know we have three guys) and whether he has a nickname, don't worry. We call him "The Beast" because he told a radio station last month that he wears raccoon thongs. So now we have The Beast, Grizz, and Dotcom. We already modified our name badges.

No YOU'RE Immature!

One of my friends asked me after church last night how I liked the new Halo game. And all I could get out was, "Dude, I love it-" when an eleven-year old girl interrupted me.

She said, "Ugh, all I hear at school is stupid boys talking about how much they love Halo. And I still can't get away from it. And these are grown men!"

Now I'm not in favor of hitting other people's kids, but I see the temptation of it now. And in that moment, I realized why I will never become a teacher. Because I am not equipped to handle that kind of attitude. Call it what you want; sass, backtalk, prosecutor's evidence for my inevitable child abuse trial. But that kind of thing is just too much for me.

And I didn't know how to respond. I felt insulted, belittled, and mocked. And because she was eleven, it was amplified about 20 times. In the three seconds of silence that followed her little comment, I went through all the possible responses I could have used. They ranged from completely ignoring her to getting in a yelling match that ended in both of us crying. And I couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't make me look like more of an idiot.  I wanted to respond like an adult, but I was finding it hard not to make a flatulent noise and call her a doodoo-head.

Because I'm a respectful adult (and since her parents were standing right there), I settled on muted indignation and self-deprecating humor (my old standby). I said, "Who says I'm a grown man? Don't let the beard fool you, young lady. I'm just a giant kid who loves video games."

Everyone laughed and I didn't look like a complete tool. But I still ended up feeling like a loser because of a girl who's younger than my car. It's weird that more than a decade after I leave junior high, the girls there can still make me feel stupid. (But I don't really care. Her feet are too big for her body, and those shoes did not match her top. It's whatevs.)