Squeak’s Squeals

And now, an update on the continuing saga of Officer Sludge…. (and for those of you who are utterly confused right now, read THIS first)….

I just finished another phone call with our favorite, most obliviously unintelligent city cop, Officer Sludge.

He has informed me that he would like to have a list of wanted criminals posted on the website. Fine. Not a problem. [Note: Had I been talking with anyone OTHER than Sludge, I probably would have recommended setting up a database, but I truly think it would have been a lost effort on a man who can't find Windows on his Compaq.]

He proceeded to tell me that his secretary is currently in the process of piecing together the list in question. [Note: My initial thought: "Good. Cuz Lord knows what you would produce."] He then described to me the methods being used in the list’s creation. My question: is it POSSIBLE to have a negative IQ score? And if so, how is one able to function as the head of a special police task force with such a score? Then again, maybe it depends on your definition of “special.”

He and his secretary, he said, had taken every possible avenue to make the final list as efficient and easy-to-use as possible. He and his secretary, he said, printed - FROM THE COMPUTER - all the images of the criminals for the list. Then, he says, he had his secretary HAND WRITE the details about each person next to their picture. At the moment of our conversation, he said, his secretary was in the process of scanning - BACK INTO THE COMPUTER - the pages with the hand-written text and the images they had JUST printed. The secretary would be emailing me the list ASAP, he said.

Fast forward five minutes: a new message in my inbox. Great! Let’s see the masterful work first hand! Uhh… big negatori there, chief. Seems the secretary emailed me a blank white nothing - no message, no text, no images, no attachments…. just the bleak whiteness of an empty message. I replied to her empty message and let her know she had sent me absolutely nothing. She replied to my message… with nothing. There was blank white nothingness, followed by my original message, followed by her original message of nothingness.

These are the people sworn to uphold justice and protect the people of the land. These are the people we rely on - day in and day out - to provide us all with a sense of safety and security. These are the people who catch the bad guys and give them what they deserve. Is it any wonder the internal functions of the local, state and federal prison systems are FUBAR? THESE are the people responsible for running it! Be afraid! Be VERY afraid!

What could be more terrifying than humor-blogs.com?

The condensed story:

Men suck and I am outraged.

The back story:

Yesterday, I completed a site for a local, high-ranking political figure which included information on a special task police team.  For the site, I was responsible for the full design, full code and full back-end CMS development.  A link to the completed work was forwarded to the officer in charge of said special task police team, we’ll call him “Officer Sludge.”  Officer Sludge called my office this morning.  As luck would have it, I - ironically - answered the phone.

Little known - and apparently surprising - facts:

1. I am 100% female.

2. I write code for a living.

3. Roget’s defines “sludge” as ‘a viscous, usually offensively dirty substance.’

The call:

Sludge: “Hiya, sweetie, I was looking at this website and they asked me to look over the section about my special task team.  I can’t find a link to my team anywhere.”

Me: “At the very top of the screen, there is a menu.  It should say Home, About, Enforcement, Assistance and Education.”

Sludge: “All mine says is Education with a blue box behind it.”

Me: “Is the link on the far right side of the screen?”

Sludge: “No.  It’s the first thing on the left.”

Me: “What internet browser are you using?”

Sludge: “Sweetheart, I’m a cop.  I don’t sit in front of a computer all day.  I have no idea what you just said.”

Me: “If you look at the very top of the window, there should be a little picture.  Does it look like a blue E?  Or is it more of a blue circle with orange around the bottom?  Or is it something else entirely?”

Sludge: “Honey, I don’t know what a ‘window’ is.  Where do I find it?”

Me: “Are you in front of the computer now?”

Sludge: “Yeah.”

Me: “Are you looking at the website?”

Sludge: “Yeah.”

Me: “Okay.  You know the box where you type in the website address you want to go to?”

Sludge: “Yeah.  The one that says ‘http://www….’?”

Me: “That would be the one.  Either just above it or just below it, you should see a line of menu options: File, Edit, History, Tools, Help and so on….”

Sludge: “Yeah.  I see em.”

Me: “Good.  Click on ‘Help’.”

Sludge: “Okay.”

Me: “There should be a little menu that drops down.  What does the LAST line on that menu say?”

Sludge: “It says ‘About Internet Explorer.”

Me: “Great!  Your internet browser is Internet Explorer!  Now, click on the words ‘About Internet Explorer’ for me.”

Sludge: “Okay.  It gave me a little box.”

Me: “Good.  Somewhere in that box, it should give you a version number.  Can you read it off for me?”

Sludge: “It says ‘Version: 5.0. ……..”

Me: “Okay.  That would explain why the site is not displaying properly.  It was designed for use in Internet Explorer 7.”

Sludge: “Look, sweet cheeks, I have no idea what you are rattling on for.  My problem is I can’t see what I need to see on the website.  What I need is to talk to the guy who’s working on it.”

Me: “You got him.”

Sludge: “What!?  You’re a woman!  Jeezus!  [short pause] How about this: I’ll find out how to get my hands on this number 7 you’re talking about, then I’ll call you back.  I don’t want to makes things too hard for you to understand.”

Me: “You do that, sir.  Might I suggest you start your quest for the number 7 at microsoft.com?  Although, I could go back and modify the code to make it compliant with your current version.”

Sludge: “No!  No.  Dont’ do that.  No sense in having a woman go in and screw it up.”

The commentary:

Hmm…. where to begin?  Do I dare begin?  Do I make light of the situation?  Or do I go on a full-fledged feminazi rant about how men need to have their wankers firmly attached to their thighs via heavy-duty carpet staples and undergo involuntary estrogen infusions?

Now, don’t go getting your frilly, lace thongs in a bunch, fellas.  I know full well that not ALL men feel the way Sludge feels.  And I truly, TRULY appreciate those men.  My outrage here comes from the knowledge that men like Sludge STILL exist.

Honestly, WTF!?  Is this 1952?  Am I supposed to be donning a house dress and curlers while baking bread and planning a rummage sale for the PTA?  Give me a freaking break!  The simple fact that I have tits is NOT a reason to treat me like an uneducated, incompetent moron!

My absolute favorite part of the conversation (aside from being called a multitude of pet names)?  “No sense in having a woman go in and screw it up.”  That’s my favorite part.  Cuz, y’know, I’m only the SAME woman who went in and made it work in the first place.  But that was alright because it was assumed I had a nutsack.

Start YOUR search for the number 7 at humor-blogs.com.

Today, JB and Roo went to Pittsburgh with their daycare and spent the day at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. I am now pleased to present to you little known naturally historical facts:

A giant space rock from outer space came flying past the moon and landed in the ocean. When it went in the ocean, it made the waves great big so the volcanoes flew way up in the sky and dumped glowing red water all over the Earth. When the dinosaurs saw the red water, they all laid down and took a nap. Then the people came and made big holes to put them in so we could dig them up and put them together like puzzles. And that’s how the dinosaurs died.

There was a man on a camel and he had a spear. He killed a mommy lion and he tried to kill the daddy lion, but the baby lion got away and it’s still alive. And that’s why there are still lions, but there aren’t any dinosaurs because some man with a spear went and killed all the dinosaur babies and they died.

Once, there was a guy who was very famous and he made a statue out of a woman, but he forgot to put her clothes on and he called it a ‘work of art’. He called it that because he’s still working on it and it won’t be finished until he puts her clothes on. People aren’t supposed to be naked outside a museum where kids can see them. But it might not have been a guy. It was probably a girl because girls like to make pictures of other girls. And you can tell the statue is a girl because it has big boobs and a pee-bug.

When you go to a zoo, all the animals are alive. When you go to a museum, they kill them all first so they’re dead. Then they try to make them look like they’re alive. They should really just close the museum and let the animals live at the zoo.

Here’s hoping it tickled you as much as it did me. Until next time….

...there's more kid crud at humor-blogs.com.

My children. Oh, my children. I love them. I do. Very much. More than life itself, even. But the bottom line: I really don’t like them much at all. Except when they’re sleeping. Then they’re angels.

For those of you who have not yet experienced the joys of child rearing… well…. buyer beware. For those of you that have…. it’s nice to know I’m not alone. I believe Denis Leary said it best, “…immediately, when they hit age five, your life becomes about peace and quiet. You just want the fighting to stop.  Can’t we all just get along!?…” Can I get an ‘Amen!’ for Brother Leary?

I am pretty much convinced at this point that my children are indeed trying to see just how far they can take things before someone dies - them, me, the neighbor, a random groundhog - doesn’t matter who or what… so long as someone or something is dead when it’s over.

It’s as if I tucked them in one night - all cute and sweet and innocent and wonderful - and I awoke the following morning to find my house in the midst of a hostile takeover by a race of bipolar, mutant midgets.

Honestly, how many times should I really have to repeat the line, “No, you can’t have scissors,” before it sinks in?? Two, you might say. Perhaps five. Or ten. Or twenty-five. Oh, nay nay, my friends. It is a line that must be spoken, like a broken record in an abandoned building, one hundred and seventy times - elevating vocal volume every five repeats until finally you start to feel your skull crack (for I firmly believe arguing with children causes your skull to crack, which in turn allows tiny amounts of brain matter to seep out under your skin where it congeals and forms the lumps and lines that society perceives as ‘wrinkles’ while simultaneously making one utterly, ridiculously stupid). At this point, you just scream it, “NO! YOU CAN’T HAVE SCISSORS!” Just a note to those non-parental types out there: If the neighbors couldn’t hear it, you didn’t yell it loud enough.

Oft have my dreams wandered to a magical place in my head where the walls are all covered in massive pads of Velcro… and all children’s clothing is covered in opposing pads… where anytime, anywhere… you can stop, bend down, pick them up, stick them to the wall… and walk away. And they have mute buttons - hidden where they can’t reach them. And when they are whining, crying, kicking, screaming… throwing tantrums enough to make a colicky newborn stop and go, “Damn! What the f*%k’s HER problem!?”….. you can push the magic button and silence prevails. Ah, yes…. to dream…. though fleeting it may be…. And so it goes… that we live in our little dorky, parental bubbles where life is happy and quiet… and children are well-mannered, well-behaved and always clean…..

But alas, the time has come for me to leave the safety and security of my personal kid-free bubble and start the screaming over again…. this time it’s, “No, you can’t use super glue!” Let the fun begin! Whee!

Yeah... they're funnier than me over at humor-blogs.com.