They call me Dr. Factoid

KIDZOOKIE: (referring to a Happy Meal toy) He's an insect, right?

TACO: Yep. You know what an insect is, right?

KIDZOOKIE: Yeah, like a bug.

TACO: Well, yeah, some bugs are insects, but not all of them. See, to be an insect...

KIDZOOKIE: Like ants?

TACO: Yeah, like ants. There's a few rules about insects.

KIDZOOKIE: Bugs have rules?

TACO: No, not that kind of rule. Criteria. How you know it's an insect. Insects have six legs...

KIDZOOKIE: Nuh-uh. Spiders don't have six legs.

TACO: Well, spiders aren't insects. They're arachnids. So are ticks and scorpions.

KIDZOOKIE: They're not insects?

TACO: No. Like I was saying, insects have six legs, and a body made of three sections...

KIDZOOKIE: Oh, the head, thorax and... uh... oh, abdomen!

TACO: ... how the crap did you know that?

KIDZOOKIE: I just did.

TACO: Okay, well, anyway, so you see how spiders aren't insects then.

KIDZOOKIE: How about worms?

TACO: What about worms?

KIDZOOKIE: They don't have any legs.

TACO: Well yeah. They're not insects.

KIDZOOKIE: My teacher says they're insects.

TACO: I think you must have misunderstood her.

KIDZOOKIE: No, she says they're insects.

TACO: She probably meant bugs. Some people call them bugs. 'Bug' is an imprecise term that encompasses...

KIDZOOKIE: Okay, Dr. Factoid.

Taco's other tree is... rabid?

It would seem that I collect odd trees.

This weekend I noticed that the oak tree in my front yard seemed off somehow. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I thought it might have something to do with the fact that the bottom of the tree was actively fizzing. So I went and googled the symptoms.

It turns out that my oak tree has slime flux. End result? The sap inside the tree is fermenting. This builds up pressure inside the tree, and it fizzes out, looking for all the world like my tree is foaming at the mouth. And the yard smells like cheap ass beer. Or maybe sour wine going to vinegar.

If we have to cut it down, I think I'm going to pay the tree guy extra to act out the ending of Old Yeller.

Best. Shopping. Trip. Ever.

My wife was out of town all last week, so our normal routine's way off. We wound up having to do the week's grocery run last night instead of our usual Saturday. Burn Notice hit the shelves this week, so I went over to electronics to pick up a copy while we were in the store.

There was a retarded guy over in electronics. Poor dude looked pretty sick. He was hooked up to an oxygen tank. But they were playing Stevie Ray on the demo stereos and dude was seriously into it. He was dancing around behind the cart, completely unself-conscious. I shot him a grin, because fuck, we should all enjoy music that much.

Dude danced over and gave me a high five.

In typical Taco fashion, I had no idea how to respond on the spot, and blurted out the first thing that popped into my head: "Rock the fuck on, man."

I panicked for a moment and wondered, irrationally, how much trouble you got for dropping the F-bomb on a retarded kid. But he just threw me a thumbs up and danced back over to his cart.

Best. Shopping. Trip. Ever.

Where There's Smoke...

My wife and kids are out of town right now, visiting with my father-in-law. I've been living the bachelor life for the past week (translation: too much beer, too many video games, too little sex).

My wife called this evening so that I could talk to the kids. My three year old daughter had a lot of questions about the new dog, and I was so caught up in how adorable her excitement over the new pet is that I failed to notice I'd tapped an extra zero in on the microwave.

So I told the microwave to cook my dinner for 30 minutes instead of 3.

I didn't notice this until there was thick, black smoke fucking POURING out of the microwave.

I slapped the microwave off, opened every window in the house, and turned on every fan in the house. I finally pulled the charcoal briquette that remained of my dinner from the microwave and hucked it still smoking into the trash. Amazingly, the fire alarm hasn't gone off. Yet. Perhaps that should concern me.

The smoke outside was already dense enough to make my eyes burn because of a wildfire in the eastern part of the state. At this point, I'll have to go outside into that poison to get some fresh air.

It stinks like death in here. And now it's hotter than hell because I'm not running the AC and cooling the outdoors. Damn it, I turned into my dad.

I find that I'm not a fan of Logitech

I bought a new mouse back in January... needed one to go with the new laptop. The most comfortable mouse I could find at the time was the Logitech MX Revolution.

What a piece of shit.

I dropped a hundred bucks on this damn thing because it was comfortable, ergonomic, and actually large enough for my damn hand.

Plus, it was a Logitech, and they make good stuff, right?

Right?

Bleh.

They used cheap ass rubber on the scroll wheel. Within a month, the stupid thing wasn't scrolling properly because the rubber had stretched out and was interfering with its operation. I contacted tech support, and they gave me the runaround for a few weeks. I finally gave up and just tore the damn rubber off.

This week, while I was setting the computer down, I caught it on the end table and snapped the RF receiver clean off. Totally my fault. I'm a dumbass.

So I hit Logitech's site to order a replacement. The replacement dongle is $10. Sweet.

Shipping for the damn thing?

$7.

For a receiver dongle about 2 inches long.

Last fucking Logitech product I ever buy.

Dear Logitech:

Fuck you.

Hate,
-Taco

Overheard at McDonald's

I forgot to bring my lunch yesterday, so I had to go out to get lunch. I didn't feel like going far, so I hit the McDonald's they have right here in the same shopping center where they (bizarrely) decided to plunk the office park where we work.

I generally eat my lunch at 11am because I hate people, and don't have to see many at that hour. Yesterday, though, I got involved in the work I was doing, and my usual lunch hour slipped away from me. I found myself at McDonald's around 12:15. The drive-through line wrapped around the building alarmingly, so I decided to go inside.

Inside was even worse, so my not-so-clever ploy was even less clever than I'd believed. Defeated, I consoled myself that at least I got to wait in the air-conditioned indoors. And didn't have to try to operate the trick window of my beat up car.

I passed the time by eavesdropping on the two ladies in front of me in line. One of them was clearly not from this country, but I couldn't begin to guess where she was from: she spoke British english, but not with a British accent. I couldn't place her accent, but that's not surprising, given that I am a provincial and ignorant American. The accent was lovely, and rather charming, so I continued to listen to the two friends chatting. Wherever she was from, 1) McDonald's (or perhaps American McDonald's) was a novel experience, and 2) they seem to have a problem with the French.

AMERICAN LADY: Okay, we'll get you a medium drink. You don't have to pay for refills here.

FOREIGN LADY WITH THE CHARMING ACCENT: Okay.

AL: Do you want french fries with your lunch?

FLWTCA: I don't want any French rubbish.

AL: No... they're not... we usually just call them 'fries.'

FLWTCA: I don't want any French rubbish.

AL: Do you like chips?

FLWTCA: [lights up] Oh, I love chips.

AL: Well, they're chips. Sorta.

FLWTCA: Oh. Okay, then.