Things Not to Do in an Elevator

The building where I work is 7 stories tall.  My office is on the 7th floor.  Though I’ve done it before, I’m not climbing the stairs every day to get to my office.  That’s why some brilliant man invented the elevator.

The elevators in our office building are weird.  They do a number of uncanny things; things that often result in me praying every time I step in one of them, things like:

  • The doors often open before the elevator has reached the floor it’s going to.  Like seriously, the door will open, and the darn car is still moving
  • The doors refuse to open on certain floors, especially the 5th floor.  I cringe when people get in and press the “5” button because I know that the car is going to go to the 5th floor, stop, ding, and the doors will never open
  • It shakes every time it gets to a floor, like the cables are ready to let loose

Because the elevators are possessed, the office management has finally decided to fix them.  Now, there are only two elevators that service the entire office building.  Which means, when they shut one down to repair it, there is only one left.  So it takes forever to get where you’re going because you usually have to stop at every single floor to pick up/drop someone off.

Why, knowing that there is only one elevator going, and the likelihood that it will have people in it is pretty high, do people insist on rushing in the moment it opens?

Ok, ok, I get it on the higher floors, but seriously, if you are on the ground level, waiting for the elevator to come down, and you’ve already been waiting ten minutes, how much common sense does it take to figure out that the reason you are waiting so long is probably because people are getting on to come down, and once the doors open, they’re going to want out?  It gets crowded in there…people be claustrophobic and stuff!  (Dear 1st grade grammar teacher, I know, I know, this paragraph is loaded with run ons, wrong comma usage, and slang.  No, I’m not changing it)

95% of the time, when I go down to the ground floor, as soon as the doors open, I nearly get knocked to the ground by people rushing in.  I’m sorry you’ve had to wait, but seriously people, common courtesy, let the people OUT before you fight your way in!  It’s much easier that way.

Anyways, because of my elevator rantings, I thought I’d put together an etiquette list of things one should never do in an elevator:

  1. Pick at your scabs…seriously…that’s gross
  2. Carry on conversations in a non native language….that’s just rude
  3. Sing at the top of your lungs…no one wants to hear it
  4. Sell candy bars for your kids fundraiser….It’s awkward enough to tell you no when I CAN get away
  5. Propose…I get it, some of us lack in romanticism, so just heed my warning now, don’t do it in an elevator
  6. Hold the door open to continue a conversation with someone not getting on the elevator
  7. Hit your floor button repeatedly thinking there is a secret turbo button installed
  8. Practice your interpretive dance routine
Don't...just don't Source:
Don’t…just don’t

A Little Bitter, Are We?

It’s no secret that social media is full of drama.  A lot of people use it specifically for that reason.  I think that’s why I avoided it for a long time, I think I always knew what to expect.

I’m the type of person who TRIES to be positive about most things.  I understand, we all have bad days, I get it, I really do.  Today has honestly been one of those days for me.  But I’m sorry, if every day is a bad day, you need to rethink your life.  I hate to tell you this but, it’s not the people in your life making you miserable…it’s you.

Anyways, with the high abundance of negative posts I see constantly on social media, I’ve decided that I’m proposing a new website.

The site will be called “Bitter”.  It’s a place for all of the miserable people in the world to congregate and try to out do each other.  Instead of “tweeting” they can send out “beatings”.  Instead of “blogging” there will be “flogging”.  And everyone’s profile picture will be one of those mean spirited e-cards that you constantly see posted…you know what I’m talking about.


There will be a special portion of the page called “Troll Polls”.  This will be a spot where everyone can congregate to weigh in on important issues that the rest of the world could care less about.  Things like:

-Which is the best screen name?  Yousuck4062 or Ihateyourguts1023_9901?

-What’s your favorite food?  Anger or Misery?

-Who’s life is worse? Mine or Yours?  (the obvious answer to this one is “mine”)

-OMG, my friends haven’t responded to any of my suicidal Facebook posts, what do I do?

-Which one do you hate the most?  Work, Home, School, Car, Family, Spouse, Money(lack thereof), Clothes, Sports, TV, Shoes, Shopping, Food, Pets, People, The World, Politicians, Computers, Technology, Music, Tables, Refrigerators, Monkeys, or All of the the Above and then some?

And finally, instead of built in “apps” they will play “craps” such as:

-Sadville – Where they will be responsible for trying to kill out a thriving farm environment by neglecting it.  This is harder than you may think, neglect is NOT something these people are adapt to.

-Misery Birds – The point is to fling a sad little bird looking creature into a brick wall and see how many attempts it takes before he becomes suicidal.

-Words with Fiends – Kinda like scrabble, but only words like “sadness”, “sorrow”, and “contempt” are allowed. Bonus points are awarded if you can spell out “I hate life”

Based on the amount of people I’ve had to delete or hide from my Facebook in the past few years, I can’t see this site being anything BUT a hit!

Thieving Mongrels!

Apparently, it’s a rule in society to shower on a regular basis.  Considering my mild, let’s go unnoticed, don’t draw attention to yourself, stay away from drama, personality, I choose to try my best to conform to society and shower, at least once a month or so (that was a joke for those of you who haven’t figured me out yet)  However, lately, I’ve been having trouble with showers.  Well, not the actual shower itself, my issue occurs after the shower.

My bathroom is rather small, so when I shower, I place the clothes I plan to change into, whether it be pajamas, or just a fresh shirt and jeans, on the floor next to the bathroom door.  There’s really no place to hang them, and I’ve found that placing them on the toilet, next to the shower only yields in them getting sprayed by the water. (I’m a messy shower-er..what can I say?)  The bathroom floor is clean, it’s no big deal really and its not like they are clean clothes…I have SOME decency ya know.

The last few showers I’ve taken though, when I get out to put on the new clothes, it always seems that half of them have mysteriously disappeared.  I usually go to grab the clothes and all that exists is a pair of jeans, no shirt, no underwear, just jeans.  I was perplexed by this, where the heck are my clothes going?  Do I smell THAT bad?

So, last night, as I was getting ready for my shower, I decided to do a little experiment.  I turned the shower on, took my clothes off, and placed them in the floor, just like I do every night.  Only this time, I didn’t get in the shower right away.  It didn’t take long to figure out what was happening to my clothes.

First off, let me introduce you all to my moms dog, Rowdy.


Sweet innocent little face huh?  Don’t let it fool you, this dog is the DEVIL!  Which is why I wasn’t shocked when, sitting on the toilet, I witnessed a tiny little brown paw reaching under the bathroom door.  The paw continued to stretch, and shortly behind it, peeking out from under the crack in the door I saw a long brown snout with a wiggling, sniffing, nose.

He persisted until finally, he had managed to grab my clothes, squeeze them under the door, and scatter them all over the house.


What the heck does a wiener dog need with clothes anyways?

Poodle-Hoppers, Anyone?

A few years ago, people thought it would be a cute idea to start mixing different breeds of dogs and labeling them designer dogs.  You know the ones I’m talking about, you’ve got your malti-poos, yorki-poos, labradoodles…apparently mixing anything with a poodle makes for an amusing combination.

I’ve never been a big fan of the idea, in my mind, these mixed breeds have existed by themselves without human influence.  They live on the streets and in shelters, just waiting to die.

Well that sounded a little morbid now didn’t it?

Honestly though, I’ve always been a strong advocate for adopting rescue dogs.  Two of mine are rescues, and the only reason I have Winston, a pure breed, is because he was a Christmas present from my parents.  I don’t know for sure what Piper and Mama Sue are, but I can make an educated guess.

So, following in the form of the designer “breeds”, I have Piper, a schipperke/dachshund mix, otherwise known to no one but me as a “skipping weenie” and Mama Sue, a corgi/basset hound, or “bassorgi” or maybe a “corget”?

Anyways, I was bored last night (which usually means trouble) and I was perusing ads on Craigslist.  One ad, in particular, caught my eye.

“I am looking for a miniature teacup chihuahua.  Not just a miniature chihuahua, and not just a teacup chihuahua, these are smaller.  A friend of mine has one but the breeder she got hers from no longer breeds.  Does anyone know where I can find one of these cute little dogs?”

Yes, I admit it, it's cute...but still.... Source:
Yes, I admit it, it’s cute…but still….

A miniature teacup chihuahua?  Umm, hello!  We already have those, they’re called rats!

Hey!  I'm cute too! Source:
Hey! I’m cute too!

Seriously though, how small do we have to breed these things before you accidentally inhale one while eating your breakfast cereal?  Is there any reason that a regular sized chihuahua isn’t already small enough?  I used to see those things at the dog park and would have to consciously tell myself they weren’t ants, and I shouldn’t stomp on them.

There’s an over abundance of grasshoppers running around my house, maybe I should catch them and market them as micro mini teeny tiny itty bitty teacup hairless chihuahuas.

Oh wait…I forgot to add the poodle in there, it’s nothing without the poodle.

Oh Fortune Cookie, You’re Far Too Kind

I wrote awhile back about how I had managed to overcome my irrational fear of doing something, like going to a restaurant by myself.  The restaurant I referred to in that blog was a Chinese buffet.

I love Chinese food, what is there not to love?  How many other nationalities do you know have invented twenty thousand different chicken dishes that are, essentially, the exact same thing, just a different sauce?  And who would name an entire dish after a historical figure?

The Chinese, that’s who!  They were brazen enough to name an entire dish after a man who led troops into a bloody battle against their own countrymen.  I’ve yet to see Robert E. Lee’s Fricasseed Duck on the menu of any restaurant I’ve visited.

Without a doubt, though, the best part of Chinese food comes at the very end of the meal.  After you are finished stuffing your face with sesame chicken, pepper chicken, jalapeno chicken, orange chicken, and General Tso’s chicken, a bouncy little waiter will bring your check to the table.  In most restaurants, I don’t get excited about receiving my check, but I find myself exuberantly awaiting the arrival of my bill because I know that placed gingerly on top of that piece of paper, I will find an inevitably stale, oddly shaped cookie, with a mysterious message inside.


The other night, after finishing my meal and waving off the waiter for attempting to fill up my water glass for the fifteenth time, I hurriedly cracked open my fortune cookie.  There inside, on the tiny little piece of paper, was the sweetest thing anyone, or anything rather, has ever said to me.

“Everyone admires you for your talent and ability”

Now, I have had complimentary fortune cookies before. They usually show a great deal of faith in me, saying that my kindness will lead to great wealth or that success is inevitable. These little baked treats really believe in me, it seems, and constantly are urging me forward towards some sort of world domination.

This is a far cry from the end of most other meals. If I were to enjoy a nice burger at Jack in the Box, my food wouldn’t tell me anything nice at the end of the meal. In fact, I get the feeling it is just saying, “Way to go, tubbo! You just ate an entire day’s worth of food in one sitting. I hope you enjoy hardened arteries!”

There is no judgment from a fortune cookie, though. Just blind faith in me.

If someone were smart, they would create a type of fortune cookie for everyday life. Whenever someone is feeling down at work, a waiter would walk by, hand you a cookie and within seconds you would feel great due to a tiny baked good telling you that “a happy life is just in front of you.” It would be a great motivator for a company to have around.

Of course, this fortune seems a bit off. I mean EVERYONE? What are we talking about here? Do we mean everyone I know, everyone in the restaurant, everyone working at the fortune cookie factory? Surely we don’t mean everyone in the world admires me for my talents and abilities.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a lot of talents and abilities. I’m very good at tying my shoes, having done it every day for at least the past 20 years.  I can run a microwave like a pro, and I have the uncanny ability to find the bathroom in the middle of the night.

These just don’t seem like admirable talents to me.

Who am I to question a fortune cookie, though? They are (I assume) created by magic men who can see into the future. Surely they know something I don’t.

I just hope that knowing about this admiration that everyone has for me doesn’t go to my head. It would be very easy to start feeling overly confident and cocky knowing that everyone feels this way about me. I don’t want to become one of those inaccessible geniuses that spends their life alone because no one believes that they can measure up to their brilliance.

I guess I could just go to Jack in the Box if my ego gets too out of control. That burger will knock me down a peg or two.

Umm..You Didn’t See That Did You?

Work this morning was pretty peaceful.  No one was around, just me and the horses.  I’m not saying I mind having people around, but there’s something to be said for the peace you can get only from early mornings alone in the barn.

As I was making my rounds, minding my own business, I heard someone call out.


I looked around in shock, I knew that I hadn’t seen anyone, and now someone was obviously in some sort of trouble.

“Help!”  It called again.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Help!” Came the response.

I walked all over the barns, trying to find the source of the sound.  There was no one there.

“Help! Help! Help!”

“Where are you?”


This person has a limited vocabulary, I thought to myself.  “Where are you?  I can’t help you if I don’t know where you are!”


I started getting a little worried at this point.  Who was in my barn calling out for help?  Had some kidnapper thought this a clever place to stash their hostage, knowing that horses can’t talk? Was someone crying out in pain from a rogue snakebite?

“Help!” It called, over and over again, until finally, I found her, or them rather.

For the love of God, someone help the chickens!!!
For the love of God, someone help the chickens!!!

Now, in my defense, I am not the first person to admit that, when the chickens squawk, their cries sound uncannily like that of a human.  Some people have claimed to hear someone calling a dog, others have said it sounds like “hey!”, while others just think it’s a person chanting just to make a silly noise.  I heard “help!”

Even though I had searched the barn a million times over by this point, and knew that no one was around, I immediately found myself looking around to make sure that no one had witnessed me desperately trying to calm the chicken damsels in distress.

Phew, no one saw that little embarrassment!

This isn’t the first time I’ve done something silly like this.  A few months ago, a black cat strayed up and started prowling around the barn for mice and other tasty critters.  While I knew he was a stray, I was still determined to catch him and try to make him a friendly barn cat.

One morning, I saw my opportunity and decided to seize it.  The little black cat was hiding in the hay barn, beneath a metal pipe.  I could just barely see him as he inched forward under the tiny space.

I crept forward slowly, so as not to startle him and called softly “Here kitty, kitty.”

He didn’t move.  I moved in a little closer.  “Here kitty, kitty.”

Since he didn’t seem to be too distressed, I decided to work up the nerve to reach out and try to pet him(because that’s a brilliant idea!), the way he was situated under the pipe, he couldn’t turn too quickly to bite….or so I thought.

“Here kitty, kitty.”  I slowly reached my arm out.

It was at this point that the “kitty” turned to face me and see what the heck it was I wanted.  It was also at this point that I noticed the “kitty” had a white stripe going down his tail.  “Oh!  You’re not a kitty!”  I shrieked as I pulled my hand back.

I’m really glad no one was around that day to see me calling “Here kitty, kitty.” to a skunk.

It’s nice when you do embarrassing things and no one is around to actually witness them, however; I suppose by admitting all this to you, I’ve just completely made that point null en void, huh?

Zombie Mice

The other day I walked out of my house to see a dead mouse lying on the porch.

dead mouse

I didn’t think much of it, other than the fact that I was glad it was outside the house rather than inside, so I just kicked it off the porch and went on with what I was doing.

bye bye

The next day, I walked out to find, what I presumed was a different dead mouse, laying in the same place.

deja vu

I was a little worried by now because I haven’t really had any trouble with mice, there’s enough snakes and other wild creatures around to keep them from entering the house.  I kicked this mouse off the porch as I did the day before.

The next day, I walked out of the house and what did I see?  A dead mouse, in the same place.  By now I was growing deeply concerned.  A quick inspection of the mouse showed that it had started to decay, leading me to believe that it was the very same mouse.

Now, I’m not one to believe in the zombie apocalypse but I have to say, I’m quickly becoming a believer.  How else does the same dead mouse end up in the exact same spot three days in a row?  It has to be zombies, that’s the only logical explanation.

Fortunately, there’s millions of believers out there, just waiting for skeptics like me to come along so they can persuade them that zombies are real.  So it really wasn’t all that hard for me to figure out what I needed to obtain in order to prepare myself for the impending attack of the “undead”.

I’ve packed my:




knife knife

Medical kit

medical kit

Duct tape

duct tape



And Chainsaw


I’m ready…are you?


A Fool Proof Way to End Bad Habits…Or Start New Ones

Hi.  My name is Sam, and I have a bad habit.

I don’t know when this problem started but I often find myself rudely awaken in the middle of the night by an insatiating thirst.  When this evil beast attacks, I tend to crawl out of bed and stumble towards the kitchen, merely hoping my foot won’t find a stray dog snoring peacefully.

Now, let me quickly add that I’m pretty darn blind.  Without my contacts, I can only see about 3 inches in front of my nose, but since I know my way around the house, I don’t really see it necessary to put them back in, or even grab for my glasses at 3 am because it just would take more time that I’m willing to allot.

Once I blindly, and quite clumsily, find my way to the kitchen, I usually fish a can of coke out of the ice box (I told you it was a bad habit) and take a couple sips and put the can back and worry about it in the morning.

So, last night, as I lazily plodded my way from the bedroom to the kitchen, I had the same intentions.  I opened the fridge door, grabbed a can, popped the top open, and took a big swig.

MEE MAW MEE MAW MEE MAW MEE MAW (That’s the sound of an alarm for those of you who haven’t seen Despicable Me 2)

Something’s not right!  The coke tasted HORRIBLE!  And when I say horrible, I mean, straight up spit it back out, who cares if it goes all over the floor because if you swallow it, you’re going to throw up, horrible.

I stumbled around for a few minutes, trying to figure out what the heck just happened.  I’m sure I don’t have to explain the grogginess one feels after just waking up, nor the fact that your brain isn’t really functioning properly yet and it takes some time to work your way through such horrid events.

Once I regained composure, I dashed to turn on the lights.

And everything became so very clear.

It seems that what I had drank was, in fact, not coke, but I nice, cold, can of beer.

Now, I’m really not a huge beer drinker in the first place.  In fact, before meeting the boy three years ago, I wouldn’t even touch the stuff.  But he managed to convince me that some of the “better” (that loosely translates to expensive) beers actually aren’t half bad.  A few weeks ago he sent a couple cans of some new stuff home with me and since it takes me awhile to actually want to drink one, I still had one can left.

Have you ever taken a sip of something, thinking it was something else?  I do this occassionally, maybe I’m going somewhere with my mom and we both have drinks and I accidentally grab her coke thinking it is tea.  While I generally like the taste of coke, if you are not expecting it, it can be quite surprising, and even unpleasant.

Now, think of that feeling, and multiply it by about 33.  I’m glad my dogs can’t talk because I know they got a show last night.  After I spit it out all over the place, I felt it necessary to dance around the kitchen, jumping up and down with my mouth open, as if I thought this would shake all memories of the event out of my head.

Blind, sleepy, and beer sick.  There’s three words that should NEVER be used in the same sentence.

Perhaps I should secretly fill my fridge with beer in an attempt to break this habit.  It could be a goofy form of Russian Roulette, mix the beer and the coke cans together and when I get up in the middle of the night for a quick sip of coke, I’m taking a huge risk that I might not grab a coke can.

Surely that would assist in breaking bad habits right?  Meh, I’ll just remember to grab my glasses next time.

I Just Want My Change

Note from Sam:  The following post might be rough grammatically.  I read through it just now and saw several mistakes but, to be honest, I’m tired, I have a head ache, and I want to go to bed…so deal with it!


Excerpt from McDonald’s job application*

Please choose the best answer for the following question:

Sam orders two breakfast burritos and one large drink.  Her order comes to $3.25.  She hands you a $20 bill and a quarter ($20.25 for my friends in other countries that use currency other than the mighty USD)  How much change should you give her?

A. $16.75

B. $17.00

C. $17.25

D. $16.25

My answer: B

Computed Response:  We are sorry to inform you that your selection is incorrect and therefore are not qualified for the position in which you have applied.  While we understand that $3.25 deducted from $20.25 is, in fact $17.00 however; we do not expect our employees to be able to perform simple math functions and anyone who is able to do so is obviously a Communist. Please re-apply in three months after you have de-commified yourself and gone through proper “dumbing down” procedures.

Three times now, I have tried the above scenario of adding a quarter to my twenty to pay for my meal.  I do this to make things simpler.  Obviously this plan has backfired because each of the three times, I’ve received everything BUT $17.00 back as change.

Now, don’t misunderstand, I’m not saying that all people who work at McDonald’s or fast food places are stupid.  And I’m not saying that if you work at one of these places you are below me.  In fact, I thank you for not being one of the people standing in the Welfare line expecting everyone else to give you free hand outs. I also thank you for making me breakfast burritos every once in a while.

What I am getting at is, how hard is it to do simple math?  Furthermore, they don’t even have to DO the math, the register does it for them.  They punch in my order, it tells them how much I owe, I give them money, they punch in how much I gave and the super smart, magical register announces to the world exactly how much change to give me.  So that obviously can’t be the problem now can it?

Maybe people just don’t know how to count money?  I know our American money can be tricky with the faces of all those old dudes on them.  I get nervous sometimes when I count money too.  I feel like George Washington is watching me, judging every move I make.  Contrary to everything you’ve ever read in history books, Georgey poo was a judgmental old guy.

Perhaps smelling french fries all day has something to do with it.  I’m sure if you were to research the life cycle of a fry, from potato seed to deep fryer, you would find some anomaly in its making that would provide ample explanation as to why it is difficult to give people the correct change.

Maybe they meant to give me the correct change but they lost it in the ball pit while chasing down some snotty nosed pygmy teenager that is harassing all the four-year olds in the playground.

Maybe it was the aliens.  Yes!  It was the aliens!  It all makes sense now.  Why else would super intelligent beings from a planet far, far away come down to our measly little hole-in-the-wall rock if there wasn’t some sort of hilarious entertainment involved.

Think about it – how much fun is it to mess with an ant hill?  Don’t turn your head and raise your eyebrow at me, I know that at least once in your lifetime you have stepped on an ant hill merely for the pleasure of making the little drones scramble to the surface as fast as they possibly can and run around like a battle scene from Braveheart….No?  Really?  Just me?  Oh well then.

Back to aliens.

Just an alien abducting a horse...nothing to see here
Just an alien abducting a horse…nothing to see here

They are the only reasonable explanation, because I fail to believe that our education system has failed us so far to the point that we can no longer read $17.00 and interpret how to transform that into cold hard cash.

*Not really an excerpt from a McDonald’s application but seriously, if you thought it was before reading this disclaimer, send me a message, I need to examine your brain for proof of alien dust.