A few months back I did an interview where I was asked where I get my images for blog posts.  I was honest and said that I swipe them from Google Images.  Technically, this is stealing.  But… tons of bloggers do it, and I’m not really using it for financial gain.  You could make the argument I have advertisers and that I sort of benefit from theft, but it’s reaching.

Since that interview I found a solution where I can still use great images online and give the proper attribution making this all above board.

But, I still had a few hundred images out there that were not properly attributed, nor did I have permission to post them.

Some German dick found one of his!

—-

I act on behalf of Mr. F—— Knieper, Schlachte, 2—- Bremen, Germany (the “Owner”), who is responsible for the website located at xxxxx.

1. The Owner is the exclusive owner of the copyrights to respective photographs that are made available to the public without his – the Owner’s – authorization.
2. Please immediately remove the infringing material from the website and also from your  server.
3. I have a good faith belief that the use of the infringing material is not authorized by the Owner, its agents or the law. I assure you that the information in this Notice of Copyright Infringement is accurate, and under penalty of perjury, that I am authorized to act on behalf of the Owner.

Should you require any further information regarding this matter, please contact me:
T—– Knieper

—-

Okay, fine.  I went to take down the image.  And then I started laughing.  You have to see this.

Click here for the offending photo since I can’t post it on my site anymore due to the German dick.

Yes.  Oh God, yes.

By the way, I’m pretty sure that site isn’t supposed to have it up either.  I wonder if Knieper is busting their balls, too.

I nearly wrote back and said, “Sir, that is my weenie.  I grinded it, encased it, and just had to film the shit out of it.  Those are my snaps.  How dare you accuse me of  treachery?  I hope you choke on your next kielbasa!”

It’s stuff like this that keeps me writing every day.  God I love it.

photo credit: Express Monorail via photo pin cc

Then, “Well, Fran Drescher is probably just a thing where she follows a lot of random people, but Larry the Cable guy only follows like 1k!  Isn’t that funny?”

Translation : Please think I’m cool because a couple of celebrities follow me – even if it a fluke, aren’t I so much cooler because of it?  I need you to recognize how awesome I am that they obviously think I’m so incredible funny.

I caught myself halfway through this insanity and said, “I’m actually bragging about this.  I am looking for your approval.”

Which is a strange thing to say to a friend.

I have had this “please think I’m cool!” thing as long as I can remember.  It stems from having low self-esteem, of course.  I’m so much better now and rarely try to brag about accomplishments to get attention.

Now that I think about it, some might say that this blog is a constant bid for approval and attention.  The people can take a long walk off a short pier!

Goddamn if that isn’t an amazing phrase not used since the 1960s.  Let’s all make a concerted effort to bring it back.  Also, “golly.”  Let’s work hard on “golly.”

I rarely ask you directly for stuff, but if you can find an instance of bragging about something to get attention, I would love to read it.  And then I will judge you as being more pathetic than I.  (that’s how I self-validate)

Oh, another way I’ve been bragging recently is about this project I’ve been working on set to go live in a day or two.  I can’t wait to tell my friends all about it – and it’s really not a huge deal.  I just want them to think I’m up to something awesome.

Now, there is nothing wrong with bragging.  We all need validation from others.  It’s healthy.  Don’t listen to the new-age bozos who tell you otherwise.  Think of someone you know that doesn’t need anyone’s approval – that person is no fun to be around and probably has a personality disorder.

It’s okay to be needy.  Just own your neediness.  I need you to think I’m cool.  There.  I said it.

Oh, and I need you to stick around.  If you leave then I’ll have to find other people to tell me I”m cool.  And that’s a lot of work.  You don’t want me to have to do more work, right?

Golly!

photo credit: aye_shamus via photo pin cc

She was staring at the side of my head and giggling.  Then she reached over (without asking) and started digging around the hair just above my ear.  Since I have written about how I love pulling out her white head hairs, I assumed she just found my first white hair.  Like a neurosurgeon she delicately and masterfully  maneuvered  her fingers in position for about thirty seconds before pulling.  Well, not like a surgeon at all.  She wasn’t going inside my head, wearing scrubs, or had even washed her hands before touching me.

She yanked, and I was nervous.  To see a white head hair was going to be painful.  I know it’s sounds like I’m vain, but I’m really not.  But I am blonde.  I sort of have that thing, and it’s not something I want to go away.  Okay, I guess I am vain.  It’s like a girl with Ds realizing they’re starting to sag.  It’s a depressing moment.

But what she pulled out was not white.  It was black.  Midnight black, more accurately.  (not sure if that’s a real color, just thought it sounded cool)

I was super excited.  I had no idea my head had the ability to produce a black hair.  It was really long, longer than the other hairs, like it had mutated because of it’s color and grown faster than normal.  Jessica placed it in my hand and I couldn’t look away.  I made her promise to dig around and see if I had any others.  She couldn’t find any.

She got excited, however, and started pulling on another one.  This one came out stark white.

My fear was realized.  I officially had a white hair on my head.  Also, a black one.  I held the black and the white one in my palm and marveled at the juxtaposition.  Here were two hairs I had never seen growing from my skull.  Both were fascinating, but had different properties.  One was the absence of color, one contained all the colors.  Either way, these were two non-blondes.

Now, I’m sure I have others, and I am about ready to turn 36.  I’m not going to be blonde forever.

But I do have someone who gets as excited as me to see my physical changes.  I wonder what change will happen next – hopefully some extra fat will just start melting away every time I hang out at the beach.  That works, I’m pretty sure.  Read it in Marie Claire.

photo credit: Thompson Chan via photo pin cc

You have to really hunt to find either.

There are a billion crappy Mexican restaurants, a McDonald’s down the street, and 37 Subways within city proper.  Yet, to find a shop that will make you a deli sandwich with pretzel bread is impossible.  Here’s how difficult it is to get pretzel bread.  Even Auntie Anne’s doesn’t sell them and they’re the only pretzel game in down.

Go around the office (or, for those of you who just stay at home, talk to the pets) and ask if others like pretzel bread.  You won’t hear a “no”.  If you do that person is clearly a zero and probably thinks those shortbread Girl Scouts cookies are the best of the bunch.  (Samoas are the right answer, by the way).

How is chicken shawarma not in every Denny’s and TGIF restaurant?  They both serve crappy steak and tons of fried food that all tastes the same.  Why not just add a new menu item and call it…

The Most Delicious Chicken You’ll Ever Have – Trust Us, It’s So Good This Long Name Should Be Even Longer To Discuss How It’s Perfectly Seasoned, Served on a Bed of  Delicious  Yellow Rice That Nobody Quite Knows The Name of and Also Some Hummus With Red Dusty Shit On Top and a Cucumber Salad of Sorts.  This Is The Official Name Until Our Marketing Team Comes Up With Something Better.  Don’t Worry – They Coined The Awesome Blossom.

By the way, you know how you’ve been eating the same crap at Subway for 15 years?  On the taste scale is a 5.5.  But it’s reliable.  Except those rare times where they accidentally get a sliver of red onion that hijacks its way in with a tomato.  You can throw that onion into a coworkers hair and still taste it on 60% of  the sub.  If they really want to re-energize the brand, come out with a pretzel role.  It won’t be in the “6 Grams of Fat or Less” club, but those subs suck anyway.

You would buy a pretzel sub from Subway.  You would order chicken shawarma at The Olive Garden.  Write to the Pretzel Growers Association and tell them to bump up the marketing budget.  We have all those terrible pistachio ads – which is stupid because everyone already knows pistachios are the best nut in town.  It’s shawarma and pretzel bread’s year.

Shame your deli counter manager when he says he doesn’t have pretzel bread as an option.  At Chipotle, laugh loudly at the guy working the pinto beans and say, “What do you mean that you don’t have a pretzel tortilla?  Lame!”

You now know what must be done.  Accept the mission.

photo credit: yummyporky via photo pin cc  |  photo credit: migrashgrutot via photo pincc

Truth is, I’m feeling a bit sad.  After nearly three weeks of being here, Jessica is heading back to Atlanta in a few days with her cat and dog.  It’s been over two years since my wife moved out, and to have somebody at home has been wonderful.

I found myself criticizing her quite a bit while she was here.  Now, she does basically nothing that a sane person would find annoying.  She’s great.  But I still found things to pick on.

This trip, however, about halfway through going off on a rant about something she should be doing differently, I would think, “I’m trying to control this person.  Why?”

Because I feel that often I don’t control my own life well.

So, about a dozen times these past weeks, in the middle of some point I was trying to make to her, I would just stop and say, “You know what?  I’m trying to change your behavior, and control you.  That is about me – not you.  I’m sorry.”

Now, before you hail me as a hero (too late – you did), realize I had already abused her by trying to make her feel stupid.  I would apologize, but the damage had been done.

This really is a big step forward because eventually I’ll feel the feeling that prompts me to be controlling and critical and realize that I really need something else and I’m lashing out to get it.  Then I’ll learn how to cope with that feeling, and won’t need to be harsh to people.

I waxed on for thirty minutes yesterday trying to tell her she should feel like shit for a nasty thing she said to an ex-boyfriend.  She didn’t feel bad about it whatsoever.  I told her she should be ashamed.  On minute twenty-nine I stopped and said out loud, “I’m totally nuts.  Why do I need to make you wrong?  Forget anything I said.”  Plus, I realized I didn’t have any problem with what she said to the boyfriend.

So, I guess yelling at somebody and then at the end saying, “You know what?  I’m trying to control and shame you. Let’s forget this conversation ever took place,” is sort of funny.  Not funny for her as much.

Oh, this is funny.  She wraps her toothbrush in toilet paper and puts it on the counter.  When asked why she says that you flush the toilet after a hearty two that doody particles fly through the air and land on your bristles.  I use mine to brush my dog’s teeth as well as my own.

I am going to try to not criticize her for this crazy doody theory.  But I want to.  I want to so bad.  Please, just this once.  I have to.

photo credit: amanky via photo pin cc

I poked my girlfriend (not that way) as we’re lying here in bed because I forgot to post today and I need to keep up my streak of no misses in 2012.  We had just watched We Need To Talk About Kevin which was fantastic but also one of the most depressing movies I’ve seen.  I have absolutely no funny in me.  And for some reason I’m terrified.  I had to ask Jessica to hold me.  Then I asked her what to write about.

She said, “Poop.”

Ah, that’s right!  My cat who is now on day 45 of not peeing on my bed (there is an Allah) decided, for the first time yesterday, to poop in the guest bathroom.  In the bathtub.  I should have taken a photo, but I didn’t see it.  The girlfriend cleaned it up.

Then, her dog Dirk decided to poop on the neighbor’s doormat.  We share a back deck and earlier I saw Dirk head over to her side.  He stopped at the mat, lifted his leg, and peed right on it.  I applauded his moxie.  I’m not sure why, but I loved it.  Sure, I’m not a great neighbor, but I have other decent qualities.

Well, later today, he headed over there and pooped right on the same spot.  Again, I didn’t really have a problem with this.  I mean, we cleaned it up and they’re leaving to go back to the ATL on Tuesday.  So this won’t be a serial thing, at least until she moves up here.  That neighbor’s mat is going to be only 60% nylon when Dirk’s done with it.  The rest will be comprised of his back and front nonsense.  I guess dogs don’t really have “back and front” nonsense like we do.  Oh well, I’m not changing it.

Oh!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’d be remiss (lame corporate phrase that needs to go away) to mention that I accidentally stumbled on The Shit Fountain in the East Village here in Chicago.  We parked right next to it.  I love this.

I, myself, subscribe to the “Too long!” camp.

My dog, who just turned four is seven pounds.  I live on the top floor (4) of my condo building, and there is no elevator.  When my ex-wife and I got the dog we bought a PetLoo.  Nowadays there are many copycat products, but the original was developed by an Aussie woman.

I have a large back deck that opens from the kitchen.  Quickly we trained the dog to go out and do her ones and twosies on the PetLoo.  There are little holes in the astroturf that allows urine to flow through and into a cup.  For plops, you just have to grab them off the top.

It’s recommended each day to run hot water over the fake-grass as this will keep the urine from binding to the astroturf.  But seriously, who is going to do that?  Not this guy.  I don’t even pick up her poop if we go for a walk.  I mean, I probably have picked up poop about twelve times total.  In four years.

Once a year I have to buy a new thing of grass.  It’s like $60 and it’s a must.  The stench is so bad you can smell it from six feet away on any day should the wind pick up.

In between new grass purchases, I remember to clean it a few times.  Tonight was one of those times.

What I do is clear everything out of the dishwasher and load up the PetLoo, face-down on the top rack.  I put a large amount of soap and flip it on.  Within five minutes the jets are doing the heavy lifting.

When I first bought this I asked the company if the dishwasher was a good idea.  They told me it would ruin the fake grass.  This turned out not to be true.  What was true, and what they didn’t tell me was that the kitchen would smell like a public beach bathroom.  If you’re into piss, you’ll love it.

At the end of the forty-five minute cycle it’s like the National Asparagus Growers Council is partying in my kitchen.  But imagine they’re hanging out in a sauna at the time.  Hot dog peeps is what comes and punches you in the face when you open the dishwasher door.

I then run it through again.  Once done, I pull it out (still reeks of the yella) and put it back on the Pet Loo.  I then run a third full cycle totally empty with a lot of soap.  After that, the dishwasher is ready for primetime.  The smell is gone and in goes the silverware and plates.

So, to recap – I wash the dog bathroom in the dishwasher two consecutive cycles.  Then I run it a third time empty.  Maybe that’s a water waster.  I don’t know.  I don’t seem to care.

The photo below was just taken.  I had to fold one half of it up so you could see.  It covers the whole entire top area.

PetLoo photo credit: PETaPOTTY via photo pin cc

Have any of your readers become weird and obsessive?

I laughed because my self-esteem is not that high.  The thought that somebody would be so fascinated by me that they decided to cross boundaries is absurd.  I mean, I suppose it could happen.  But it hasn’t.  And I’m guessing probably won’t.

She then added, “You’re a big deal!”  Mary C obviously knows nothing about the cache of being a self-reflexive humor blogger and the fame and money that come with it.

But then I did think about it.  True, I’m not exactly a household name, and most people who visit my website for the first time think it’s about douchey French people.

Regardless, I have hundreds of people that come here every day, many of who visit regularly.  I even get some funky fan email now and then.  Great stalker possibilities!  One, most famously, wrote about how she read everything I ever had written in an eight hour stint.  Surely she would send me a lock of her v hair in a Priority envelope!

Actually, I never heard from her again. Which means she either up and died (great expression), or moved on to another blogger.

Once we had a little war going on in the comments where some woman was making semi-inappropriate flirting jokes to me while she was married and her husband was overseas fighting.  I never thought the woman  meant  anything by it other than just cracking jokes, but a few of my other readers starting taking her to task (another great expression).  She left and never returned.

Now, lots of Catholic comedians do a version of a lame bit where they say, “Nope – never got molested.  What, I was too ugly for the priests?”

I’m not going to do that here with you.  My  suspicion  is that most of you are not nuts.  You’re just normal men and women who like to read blogs.  Or at least this blog.

And if you do want to go nuts, do it in the way where you never send me anything other than really awesome gift cards.  Like to that high end kitchen retail place so I can get a new stainless-steel mixer.  The ex-wife took the one we had.  I’d never use it, but we all need one on the  counter-top  to look cool.

I am sad to announce that I decided to not move forward with the project.  Since it’s scrapped, I’ll tell you what was in the works.

I had a few companies that were willing to build me my own iPhone and Android app.  This was worked on for a long time and was exciting to me as I couldn’t find any other bloggers who had their own mobile app.

We tried building in some additional functionality; stuff you couldn’t get just by browsing around on the website.  And, to be frank, it was looking very cool.

I had a simple mockup done, which would had been similar to the final app release.  I then reached out to my readers to get their input.

What the feedback ultimately told me was…

• Readers would prefer to visit my site on the mobile web page (which works very well) than click through an app.
• While the app was neat, it didn’t really justify spending $.99 to purchase (or making it free with ads).
• All I am is really a writer and video blogger, so the app isn’t absolutely necessary.

If you are on a  mobile phone or tablet, do this…

• Click here – this will launch the mobile version of the site

If you are on a  computer, do this…

• Visit  http://testiphone.com/
• Delete “http://www.google.com” in the iPhone address bar.
• Paste this into the iPhone address bar and hit enter ->  http://mob.conduit.com/e80afe76-0066-4088-bef9-dd91c4f397e6
• Scroll by holding down a mouse click and flicking upward or down (just like your finger would on a phone)

I do have another  project that is about 80% done, and I’m hoping to go live by the end of the weekend.  While not as shiny and cool as an app, it’s still something I’m proud of and I think you’ll appreciate.  Stay tuned!

Thankfully I’m in a relationship, and my girlfriend seems to accept this body defect.  I also have really big feet that she keeps talking about.  Not sure what the deal is there.

See what I did?  I’m a stinker.

Anyway, I had completely forgot that there is a solution to this problem.  In fact, I had already solved it a year ago.  And then promptly forgot.

Towards the end of last year, when it was still warm enough to do stuff outside, this girl I was dating encouraged me to run a 5k.  They gave this godawful shirt as a tchotchke.  The one nice this about it is made out of the fabric that whisks away the sweat and somehow drips it into the air or something.  I’m no engineer.  Anyway, it somehow makes it so that the sweat disappears into the ether.

I went online and bought three of these shirts from Champion (which I pronounce Cham-peen to sound like a New Yorker).  Then I put them in a drawer and never pulled them out.

Cut to this year where I wore my normal cotton tees like every prior year.  I’m sweating like crazy each day and then my dad says…

“Why don’t you get those shirts that breathe easy?”

Don’t follow.  Explain.

I have these golf shirts made out of something so that I don’t sweat?

No kidding!  How does that work?

I don’t know, but it does.

Wait – is that the same thing that runners wear?  Oh, wait, I bought like three of those.

—

Not the most exciting conversation, but this is how out of it I am.  Now, I don’t sweat while I’m on my bike jamming out to Kid Rock.  I just went out on a big limb admitting that to all you.  I hope you can appreciate the vulnerability there.