I Invent a New Game at Work - Day 5 - Game Over!

It's over. Kelly Clarkson completed her second encore and has waddled off to the bottomless buffet. The guy that cleans the men's room has replaced the battered and broken pink thing in the urinal with a brand new one.

Time to begin a new.

Another great thing about the game is that you don't need a ball, you don't even need two balls, you just need a full bladder, focus and good aim. No referees, no timekeepers, no coaches, just the guy that cleans the men's room and you. Speaking of the guy that cleans the men's room I discovered an interesting fact during my extensive research on the internet that took five minutes.

The guy doesn't replace the whole thing in the urinal. He has to remove the crumbling old urinal cake and insert a new cake into the white, netty thing. I find this gross. I'm sure the guy wears gloves and is extra careful but yuck.

Back to the game.  Please feel free to play the game where you work. I put up some flyers and I'm planning to start a young professionals league.  Just imagine the boys in Shipping facing off against the suits in Marketing. Fun times, I'll take plenty of photos.

Remember, never fear the pink splatter.

The George W. Bush Presidential Library

An exclusive, first photo of the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum.

The collection includes the only book George W. Bush ever read, The Pet Goat.

Seriously, a U.S. president that boasted that he didn't like to read, a president that couldn't be bothered to read the Aug. 6, 2011 Presidential Daily Brief entitled bin Ladin Determined to Strike in US, is getting his own library. Only in America.

Wouldn't a sports bar be more appropriate? Welcome to the The George W. Bush Presidential Sports Bar and Lounge. Pull up a chair and let's all watch Fox News and some football. Neck ties and jackets are mandatory, Mr. Senator!

I Invent a New Game at Work - Day 4

It's Day 4 and we're entering the last frame, the final stretch, crunch time. The game has been a nail-biter but believe me, it only gets better. After two visits that included the processing of my morning coffee and a bottle of Diet Pepsi, the pink thing in the urinal looks like this.

I know, yesterday a teeny, tiny breakthrough.

Today, a vast gaping chasm reminiscent of  Kim K's kanyon. Thank you thesaurus.com and thank you Kim Kardashian. Just when you thought it was safe to pee into the little puddle all hell breaks loose (Obviously there's another Kim Kardashian reference there but I'm not going for it).

I've been trying to be careful but I had an awkward moment today in the men's bathroom at work. Some guy caught me taking a picture of the urinal. I have to use the flash because they like to keep it kind of dark in there I guess so it's more romantic.

The guy gave me a "What's up?" as he hesitated to pull down his zipper.

I'm pretty quick on my feet so I ran like hell. Nah, I'm kidding, I just came up with a lighting response, "Just taking a picture of my dick for instagram."

He chuckled and asked if I would take a picture of his dick for his facebook page. Then we took a picture of our dicks together, exchanged @ signs and promised to tag each other.

The game, bringing dicks together since April 2013.

Back to the game. So, did I win? It's a game. There is a winner and a loser. I'm not just competing against the pink thing in the urinal, I'm also competing against all the guys that pee into that other urinal.

The other urinal cake looks all smooth and pink and glistening, untouched by male bodily fluids of any kind, like it was just removed from it's packaging, virginal, if you will allow me to wax poetic.

Winner and still champion, me.

 Later in the afternoon the pink thing in the urinal looked like this.

Where there was only one drainage hole, now there are five. This is when the goal of the game changes drastically. The leaker stops trying to increase the gap and starts trying to break the pink thing up into as many small pieces as possible before the guy that cleans the men's room changes out the pink thing.

Speaking of the guy that cleans the men's room, it appears he made a rare midday appearance and twisted the urinal cake approximately 30 degrees counter clockwise. When this happens I like to imagine my boss' face set at 65% transparency.

It's fun because you can imagine that your boss is spinning in the urinal, perhaps because you tried to flush him down.

More about the new game I invented at work tomorrow!

I Invent a New Game at Work - Day 3

Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal! You know, if a Mexican guy was announcing the new game I invented at work.

While it's not called a goal, in my new game it's just as exciting. It's called the breakthrough and if Tim McCarver were announcing the game he would provide a lengthy explanation riddled with errors that the term breakthrough derives from the mining or tunneling industry.

Breakthrough - that exact moment when the digger breaks through the material and forms a small hole. Sadly, today's tunneling industry prefers the term "hole-through."

So today we have breakthrough, the exact moment in time when the warm stream of piss has dissolved through the urinal cake exposing the slightest glimpse of the beige porcelain hidden below.

Until you have played the game it is hard to appreciate the feeling you get when the mere puddle of pee becomes an actual hole. An equivalent experience in baseball might be when you swing as hard as you can and hear the satisfying crack of Zack Greinke's collarbone when it hits squarely with the ground.

For the record, that is not my pube. While I do not shave my crotch, I do keep my bush high and tight with the same trimmer I use on my sideburns, beard and chest hair. I do not own a pube longer than 3/4 of an inch.

Also for the record that is not my boss. It's ex-hedge fund manager and convicted felon Michael Steinberg. When I'm peeing I sometimes like to mix it up and replace my boss with other despicable characters.

Zack, the guy that sits in the cubicle next to me, was disappointed that I didn't use an actual photo of my boss. He thinks I wussed out.  I explained that I'm pretty sure that posting a photo of my boss in a urinal soaking in piss might get me fired if some anonymous guy named Zack ratted me out. Zack wants my cubicle because it has a window.

I have three plants that will not die for lack of sun. It's two plants more than I am allowed to have based on the size of my cubicle. I'm serious. From a policy document entitled Keeping Workplaces Clean and Safe, "no more than one potted plant for each 100 square feet of floor space and that standard shall be enforced..." Sadly, my workspace is way less than 100 square feet.

Soon after I received that memo, Human Resources did an actual audit. They noticed I was two plants over my limit and told me to give them the plants for redistribution. I said, "I'll give you my plants when you pry them from my cold, dead hands." Surprisingly, they didn't shoot me and I still have my plants.

Back to my boss. My boss is way too stupid to be a hedge fund manager but he's just as evil. He kind of looks like a 50-year old Goober Pyle or Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. A 50-year old man with bangs? That's my boss!

So while you're peeing if you try to imagine Jim Carrey with a lot of wrinkles, a slight mullet, big watery eyes and the ugliest fucking tie worn without irony, you can be just like me.

My boss owns that exact tie and wears it once a week. I found it by googling "ugly tie contest." It's a lame version of the Looney Tunes characters as rappers. I asked him about it once, very delicately. He laughed and blamed his kids but you can tell he really likes it and thinks it makes him look hip and "with it."

Have I mentioned that my job sucks worse than Karl Rove with a mouthful of broken glass?

Back to the game. Now that we have breakthrough the action gets crazy. Can I break up the urinal cake into little pieces before the guy that cleans the men's room replaces it with a new one? Stay tuned. More game info tomorrow.

I Invent a New Game at Work - Day 2

I invented a great new game at work called  Destroy the Pink Thing in the Urinal that Smells Like your Aunt Amy.

"Why is the game so much fun," asked Zack the guy in the cubicle next to me. Simple question with a very complicated answer. First, the pink thing in the urinal is a major part of the game and that pink thing in the urinal is the only colorful thing I see all day long. Work is full of grey and beige and gray and that's just the people.

This is the color of the walls of my cubicle, kind of a grayish beige.

The color of the bulletin board that is built into the cubicle? Beigy gray. The push pin is off-white. I'm sure they pay more to get entire boxes of push pins devoid of color.

The furniture is all gray and full of useless files.

The walls are painted grayish beige. The spackle is an off-white, some would call it beige. The light switches are beige and so is the thermostat, although it is a reddish, brown sort of beige that I'm sure was a huge risk for the designer.

The carpet is gray with hints of steel blue and old coffee.

I thought it would be nice to find out the real name of the pink thing in the urinal since I have, and will, be typing it out a lot. ChaCha.com says that they are called urinal deodorizer blocks, urinal cakes and urinal mints.   Someone asked ChaCha.com if you can eat the pink things in urinals. They do look like they might be minty or bubblegummy, tasty, I mean if they weren't generally sitting in pools of urine. ChaCha.com says that they "are not eatable, nor fit for human consumption."

This is the first time in my entire life I have read the word eatable. I still haven't heard it said out loud. Next time you see me try to slip it into the conversation. I'd appreciate it. Why use edible when you could use eatable?

Back to the game. Only Day 2 and things are begining to get exciting. A puddle is forming on the target. The suspense and action builds over time in this game but there are tangible results after just a short period of play. Another reason why it's so cool.

It's hard to see the puddle in the photo so try to imagine  the face of my boss set at 65% transparency sitting on the urinal cake. While its fun to imagine my boss in the urinal, it doesn't seem to be helping find the puddle. Do you think if I stuck a candle in a urinal cake and gave it to my boss on his birthday he might eat it? He's well-groomed but is stupid.

Try to imagine the face of my boss set at 30% transparency and offset slightly so that the puddle of urine is right on his lying lips. That's better. Those shiny highlights are not my boss' lip gloss, they're the reflection of the camera's flash on the puddle of piss.

Can you see the puddle now? Doesn't seem like much but things are going to heat up quickly. I promise.

More about the game tomorrow. Yesterday's post.

I Invent a New Game at Work

The game is called Destroy the Pink Thing in the Urinal that Smells Like your Aunt Amy. Don't give up yet, I'm better at inventing games than I am at naming them.

Before we begin I'd like to give a shout out to the interior designer that toiled on the men's room at work. The beigy/gray color scheme perfectly captures the nightmarish quality of my job in porcelain, tile and grout. Bravo!

Have I mentioned that my job sucks worse than Karl Rove with a mouthful of broken glass?

Back to the game. The goal is to destroy the pink thing in your favorite urinal before everyone else destroys the pink thing in the other urinal. Simple premise but deceptively deep with respect to strategy.

The key is to pee a lot and to aim for a very specific spot on the pink thing. I call it the target and so should you.

At work I pee a lot. I find it breaks up the monotony and allows me to get out of my chair without pissing off my boss. Funny that pissing on his time doesn't piss him off as much as blogging.

I was concerned about how often I pee until I read on answers.yahoo.com that frequent urination is caused by the uterus pressing on the bladder. I'm pretty sure I don't have a uterus. I know I have a bladder, a massive bladder that is always near capacity.

Back to the game. Imagine there's a clock on top of the pink thing and that it's set on 65% transparency. I like to imagine a Pugg clock available from Ikea for the low price of $14.99. Now imagine that the cleaning guy stuck the pink thing in properly so that it lines up at right angles to your hip bones, or in line with your dick if you'd rather. Aim for the 7:00 o'clock. Aim there everytime you pee.

All the other guys will not pee there. They pee towards the back end of the pink thing or off to the side. Through careful observation and a few angry conversations, I've discovered that these men fear pink splatter on their trousers.  I've also discovered that the size of my penis compares quite favorably to the other men at work and that guys don't like it when the guy at the other urinal looks at their small penises.

Do not fear the pink splatter. It doesn't happen. Those pink things have been carefully engineered and undergone excessive testing.

More about the game tomorrow. I have to pee.

Downton Abbey is Fiddler on the Roof for WASPs

I got to be honest, just like most guys, I watch Downton Abbey. I sit through an hour of fireplace cleanings and bed making and women with broken hearts because it might infinitesimally increase my chances of banging the crumpet with whom I share my couch.

I don't think too much about the show. I don't wonder why a Monty Python bit about trench warfare that cost about  £2 (that's two pounds sterling or about $3 American) can look more realistic than this show because of the judicious use of dirt. I don't think about how fucking big that house is yet we only see four rooms. I don't think about why the chauffeur gets his own house and what does he do all day when nobody ever drives anywhere. I don't wonder what you call the female butler. I gotta believe that she has a cool name like butler or valet but what is it? And what does she do all day?

But once during a particular slow scene (ha, that's quite droll because every scene is slow, oh, so painstakingly slow and British), a synapse fired and I realized that I was watching Fiddler on the Roof. A Fiddler on the Roof for WASPs. Less facial hair, better frocks. Less singing, more eating. Less dancing, more stiff upper lips. Less Jews, more Episcopalians. But it's the same damn story.

They're both about these cranky, old dads that really aren't that bad once you get to know them.  They both have shriveled up shrews for wives that aren't that important and they both have three daughters that are the whole story.

Three daughters that drive their dads crazy. That's entertainment!

For the record, that photo of the Milkman sisters is really, really hot if you're an Orthodox Jew. Back when I was in yeshiva, we would dream of yanking it to a photo of three hot sheyne meydels wearing only their gotkes. Look at those bare arms!  We would dream because if we actually yanked it, the rabbi told us it would fall off and that the Italians would take it and make sausages for their pizza.

But which of these long suffering dads has got the worst daughters? And should the Fiddler on the Roof guy sue the Downton Abbey guy? And maybe I should pitch Downton Abbey: The Musical to Matthew Broderrick (I have an in with Matt).

Mary vs. Tzeidel
The most important daughters with respect to screen time, Tzeidel was played by a young Barbra Streisand in her film debut. Mary is portrayed by a hot, British hat.

Fiddler Dad sets up Tzeidel with a butcher that is fat, old and rich. Tzeidel falls in love with a skinny, wimpy, little shnook named Steven Spielberg. To be fair to her dad, this is before Mr. Spielberg emigrated to America and became famous and rich.

Fiddler Dad has to cancel the wedding to the butcher and reschedule everything, causing all kinds of trouble, including the loss of a significant deposit to the caterer.

The worst thing Mary does is kill a Turk with her vagina. Being a snooty British television show, we don't get to see how, but I'm pretty sure that the Turk died with a smile on his face. Sadly, Mary almost never smiles anymore because killing a Turk with your vagina was frowned upon by the British uppercrust. Personally, if I knew Mary's vagina killed a Turk I'd be first in line to be the next victim. Now that I'm out of yeshiva I dream of dying with a big, mother-effing smile on my face while my schmeckle is buried deep.

Mary and her killer vagina win this battle.

Sybil vs Hodel

The second most important pair of daughters are also the most attractive, unless you have a thing for gingers. Hodel falls in love with the tutor, Starskihutch. The tutor runs off to Moscow to be a cop or
to participate in the revolution and Hodel runs after him.

Sybil falls in love with the chauffeur, Branson. Branson runs off to Ireland to be a writer or to particpate in the revolution and Sybil runs after him. Branson is alarmingly short, like leprechaun short, and is very Irish Catholic, more Irish Catholic than Jackson Heights in the early 80s.  Starsky is Jewish and more or less regular-sized.

Sybil wins, but just by a nose. (The Anti-Defamation League can kiss my ass, it's a horseracing thing.)

Edith vs. Chava

Chava has a thing for White Russians and we're not talking vodka and cream. She does the unthinkable and falls in love with a cossak-loving Christian with a hoe. Dad is rightfully upset and tells her she is dead to him. That's tough love. My dad told me I was dead to him once but then I unexpectantly coughed up the toilet water, kicked him in the nuts and made good my escape.

Edith is homely and bored. She kisses a dairy farmer and tries to marry a rich guy named Anthony with a dodgey arm that is all talk and no trousers. There were a thousand hints that Tony One Arm was a pansy but I chose to ignore them because I don't like to be judgemental.   Upon further reflection, we know Tony's gay because Thomas the Bumsucker, a gay man with the single worse gaydar of any gay man ever in the history of gaydom, never hit on him.

Edith's abhorrent behavior has resulted in a significant amount of sighs, hurumphs, and mutterings.  That doesn't sound biblical but if you're rich and you're British that's the equivalent of spitting on your daughter and dancing on her metaphysical grave.

Edith wins big, big enough to call the match a tie.

Both fathers have shite for daughters and Downton Abbey is Fiddler on the Roof without the Jews. Can Matthew Broderick do a convincing English accent?

The End.