Holy Shit, I'm finally back

Wow. April to August. Nothing.

WOW.

I mean, I knew I was super busy, but still. OK, excuses time:

1. I got adult onset chicken pox. I mean, do you know how painful that is? Apart from my beautiful visage being cratered for life, I also had lesions in my throat. Couldn't swallow. Or talk (probably worse). And the fatigue...

2. I almost got knifed in Puerto Rico. This is a LONG story, which I will get to when I carpal-tunneled wrists feel up to it.

3. Work. This would have been lame, except that it isn't. Work has indeed been tight.

4. I moved. Away from the boondocks, closer to civilization, which means I look more like a loser when I sit alone at home and blog.

5. The world cup (which the Germans should have won). I think I saw EVERY group stage match.

Why blog, yogi?

... just got a disapproving comment (that will stay unpublished) asking me about how I can write the way I do, being the person I am. (These people know yogi in real life, and yogi in real life is more normal). If you know me, perhaps you have thought this too. To them, and to you, I say this:

Perhaps my blog is a projection of the parts of me that DOES look at my world as one squalid messed up place. Maybe that is who yogi is - me at my funniest, narcissistic, misogynistic, drunken, outrageous best. Or worst. Perhaps as yogi I look at myself and choose to be whatever part of me I want to be at that point in time, knowing that writing about that me at that time is pure, beautiful and unadulterated joy. No more, no less. No agenda, no planning, no forethought, no afterthought. Just happiness.

That's all there is to it.

Back after a HUGE break

Like you care, pushupreader... Like. You. Care.

But still, I feel like I need to explain the absence. Just so I can get those rusty fingers working...

1. Work after sailing has been bad. Not busy bad. Worse. Not-Working bad. Nothing- Fucking-Works bad.

2. Got a talking to from the boss-man based on work being Nothing-Fucking-Works bad. Boss-man seems to think Nothing-Fucking-Works = Yogi-Ain't-Working.

2a. Getting a talking to from Boss-man is bad. As in, not I'll-cut-off-your-funding bad, but I'm-cutting-off-your-balls-in-front-of-everyone-let's-see-how-smart-you-are-now-asshole bad.

3. Surprisingly though, this hasn't spurred me into working harder. I just get pissed off a lot easier. And stew in my juices, instead of writing.

4. Also, there have been adventures, as always. These have kept me sane. Sure I'm going to blog about the pushy mother, ghetto cabin and broken axle. Of course.

But first, a nice pic from Seneca Aqueduct. it's a great place to go for a hike in Maryland on the banks o the Potomac, even if it's in frigid conditions.

There you have it. OK, enough of all this bearing my heart out bullshit. More writing coming.

A little thing about humor...

You know they all say the most important thing about humor is timing? Sure, that may indeed be the case, but you know something that a lot of people don't talk about, which IS really important to be funny?

You need to know what the lifetime of a joke is.

And you'd be surprised how elusive this little bit of knowledge is. Think about it - how many times have you heard someone say something, then realize that it's moderately funny because people around titter politely, and then MAKE THE SAME DAMN JOKE OVER AND OVER AND OVER? Yeah, it's pretty fucking irritating, isn't it? Like the dude who does the appu accent in your presence. Constantly. Yeah, knock it of dude. It was funny the first seventeen times, and then not really funny. And that's just the one example. I constantly have to deal with people who aren't funny but think they are (these are few; most of the people I work with are sane, and fortunately moderately funny)

So I ask you, pushupreaders: What do you tell someone to make them stop?

Bear f*#%ing Grylls at work

My dearest beloved Pushupyogi readers,

I came in to work this morning, and found this staring right back at me.



For those of you who don't know what this is about, I freaking LOATHE Bear f*#%ing Grylls. There is evidence of this deep-seated hatred in this blog post, and this one. So I find this little gift, strategically placed, first thing on a fine spring morning, especially diabolical.

And for the one amongst you who went through the pains of obtaining a giant autographed poster of Bear f*#%ing Grylls staring right back at me with his mud-spattered mug (strategically placed by make-up artists, no doubt) and his shit-eating grimace, and then steal into my workplace first thing in the morning to adorn my desk with it, I just have one thing to tell you.

Marry me. We are truly kindred spirits. :) :) :)