BraiN

From The Brain of The Giant Head

Why Can’t I Just Email It To You?

"I hate you!

"You suck!

"I’m going to rip your heart out and stomp on it a zillion times until you decide to stop screwing with me!"

The fax machine is the last great technological frontier that I have yet to figure out. Other technologies are easy to fix when you have problems. When the copier breaks down, I add more toner and it works. When my computer breaks down, I unplug it and move it to a coworker’s office so it can sit next to her computer, Loretta, and get its jollies throughout the night -- cause everyone works harder after a good night of jollies. But when the fax machine breaks, my only recourse is to stare at it angrily for three hours, while waving my finger and yelling "Why won’t you work right!?!" It gives me more headaches than My Sister Jennie, my 21-year old younger sibling, who screams bloody murder when I spell her name with a Y instead of an IE.

I got a call from a client of ours that needed important papers faxed over right away, and by important I mean the updated leaderboard list from our NCAA College basketball pool. He could have called anyone in the office and asked for help, but out of all the cubes in the entire world he had my number on speed-dial, much like everyone else on the planet with any type of complaint.

So I grabbed the bracket sheet and ‘skipped to My Lou (My Darlin)’ over to the fax machine station, a cubical where many coworkers enter and then vanish, never being heard from again. As sad as that is, I’ve found the station to be useful for disposing of irritating interns and "Sing-O-Gram" clowns. If I could only get Ted Nugent in there.

The lighting in the cube was dim, creating some instant drama, as the LCD screen on our fax machine was the only source of light and glowed as bright as a full moon. (Editor’s Note: quit mooning me, Kevin). I approached the machine, quietly, hoping not to disturb its peaceful rest. I assumed the less aggravation I caused, the more likely the machine will grant my request.

Once in front of the faxing device, I acted quickly, much like an artist that is instantaneously hit by inspiration and has a pen and paper close enough to jot down the lyrics in order to remember them. (Without that inspiration we wouldn’t have such great tunes as "Let It Be" or ‘Um Bop.") I punched in the numbers of my client’s extension, like a pianist tickling the ivory. If you don’t do it fast, the machine may wake up prematurely and kill all hope of having a successful fax.

After hitting the final number, I shoved the NCAA sheet in the fax machine’s mouth, making sure it’s tongue grabbed the edge and began swallowing it. It was working! Sometimes I think life is wonderful.

Then it woke up.

Sirens began going off as the machine started spitting papers out at me, which read "HA HA HA." I’m not quite sure how to react when a mechanical device insults me because 1) It’s a machine and shouldn’t have feelings and 2) I’ve already been reprimanded twice for screaming at the Pop Machine.

So after careful thought and consideration, I grabbed the fax machine, smacking it, punching it, setting it on the ground and doing the leg-drop on it. At one point I climbed to the top of one corner in the cube and actually jumped down on it, giving it what we wrestling fans like to call a "Flying Elbow." The machine was in pieces, in shambles, in hell where it belonged.

I can’t tell you how invigorating it felt to destroy my Archenemy. I was relieved, ecstatic, overjoyed, and hungry. It was my own personal catharsis.

And I smiled knowing that somewhere, someplace, sometime, my office manager is smiling too -- especially while reading the nice anonymous note I left explaining how I saw the new Intern knock over and beat up the Fax Machine.

Posted 3:31 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

You’ve Got One Nice Ash

This past Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, an important day on the Catholic calendar. Since I was born and raised Catholic, I figured it was best if I abided by God’s rules for a day. The two main rules on this, of all holy days are:

1) Don’t eat meat and
2) Go to church.

The church thing I don’t mind, as I figure one hour a week isn’t really that big of a deal when it comes to protecting my soul from eternal damnation, but the no meat part of the rule is as devastating to me as finding out the Tooth Fairy gave my sister $1 per tooth compared to the nickel I got. In retrospect maybe I should have taken the money I invested in Dot.coms and put it toward teeth. More importantly, did you ever wonder how the Tooth Fairy has a bottomless pit of money? But I digress.

So I woke up that morning and had to replace my usual sausage, bacon, ham, goetta, burger, steak and cow omelet with a bowl of Fruit Rings, the generic version of the more expensive version. While my arteries thanked me, my stomach complained for about 2 hours. And on my drive to work I experienced the lack-of-meat-shakes, not to be confused with angry-road-rage-shakes.

As my day moseyed on, my body began to adjust. And for lunch I had pizza, though not my usual meat-lovers-heart-stoppers pizza. I got a veggie pizza, which to a meat lover like me is like decaf to a coffee drinker. I survived the day and headed home to get the LGB to go to church.

As we got to church, we sat in a pew in the back. This church must have held about a gillion people, and it made me stop and think that if this many people are holy and live by the "Do unto other as you want them to do unto you" theory, then why do they all bring their dogs to poop in my yard?

We enjoyed the usual hymns and psalms and other funny spelled things you can only find in church. The priest rose and said, "Come forth now to receive your ashes."

I exited my pew and walked down the center aisle. Now at my old church in Cincinnati, I remember there being an orderly fashion of following the row in front of you. Not so in Chicago. Getting ashes or communion is similar to highway traffic -- you get in line as fast as possible and if you're caught leaving even the slightest of room between you and the person in front of you, another church-goer will cut you off. And unfortunately, you realize you are in church and have to put that middle finger back in your pocket.

When I finally arrived up at the alter to receive my ashes, the priest stared at me for a few moments. He was staring at my crotch, which was an extreme concern of mine with all these priest allegations of crotch-staring in the news. I slowly waddled up to him. He placed his thumb in a bowl of ashes (ever wonder where they get those ashes?) and moved his thumb to my enormous forehead.

Then, the priest makes the sign of the cross and says, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."Then came that incredibly awkward moment where I have no idea what to say. It’s not like communion where you give the ever-important word, "Amen." No, this is a special situation that required a special response. Unfortunately I’m not that quick on my feet and blurted out the first thing that came to mind in a loud voice that I’m sure everyone in a 50-mile radius could here:

"SWEET JESUS!"

A deafening silence came over the congregation, as they didn’t know whether or not any of the commandments frown on laughter inside the building of worship. Hanging my head, I began to walk away until the priest grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

"Yes, Father?" I said.

"Son," he said, "Your fly is down."

I looked down and saw my underwear hanging out the place in between my legs where my zipper usually is. I zipped up, shook my head in embarrassment, and headed directly for the exit of the church.

So that’s my story for Ash Wednesday. And after church we did what any good and holy Catholics would do. We hit the bars.