If you watch Tosh.0, you know what this post it is about. If you don’t watch Tosh.0, re-evaluate your life, more specifically your Tuesday at 10 PM Eastern Standard Time DVR timeslot.
Anyway, shame for having possibly having friends that miss that happy half hour of my life each week and more importantly the genius life guidance of the one and only Daniel Tosh aside, I will explain to/remind you all what I am talking about.
A month or two ago (or maybe more, given we watch Tosh completely out of order in our apartment, as it is the ONLY show we choose to record both new AND repeat episodes), Tosh went on a hilarious diatribe listing off all of the things in the world he hates. More importantly, he encouraged all of his messed-up fans around the country to make their own videos of them rattling off the random things in life that drive them nuts. A few of them made some pretty stellar points, and if I felt like being unoriginal I would include many on my own list. But, since for once I don’t (I say that while sitting in my cookie cutter corporate cubicle, with my blackberry and ipod touch surrounding me, wearing an Express black pencil skirt and Zara ruffled blouse, nearly wreaking of Burberry Britt perfume…i.e. there is nothing original about me right now, but we’ll let that go), here is a list (definitely incomplete) of things I hate:
• Sauerkraut
• Little white dogs
• When the weather forecast says 100% “Chance” of rain (100% is not a probability – just say it’s going to rain)
• Inefficiency
• Little grey dogs
• Wrinkles in my clothes that are completely unavoidable with a job where you sit at a desk for 8 – 15 hours a day
• Ironing
• Wrinkle-Free clothes you still have to iron
• When you wave someone on at a stop sign and they hesitate, finally go, and then stop in the middle
• Pretty much all little dogs
• Celebrity drama updates
• Babies/little kids, specifically belonging to people I don’t know and whom arguably shouldn’t parent
• TV shows about babies
• TV shows about families with a bazillion kids
• The school busses without noses
• Ohio State
• People from Ohio State who call it “THE” Ohio State
• Air quotations
• When people take the elevator on their way back from the gym in our 5-story building
• Mondays
• Quasi-silent laughter that I know makes the neighborhood dogs cringe
• When people have to act like they forgot something, look at their watch, throw up their hands or something before doing an about face on the street and walking back the way they came
• The DMV
• That canned peaches are considered a fancy dessert in Spain and they act all proud when they serve it to you. Thanks, but I’ve been eating that joke food in school lunches since I was 4. And before that, I ate it as baby food.
• The fact that the Post Uptown Leasing Office/Mail Room has normal business hours
• Working during all normal business hours
• The hiccups
• Channel 14 Carolina and the fact that it is our default channel
• Rain
• Slutty work clothes and when girls are clearly getting away with wearing them
• When people wear multiple sweatbands into the gym and work out for 8-10 minutes
• People who hard-core rep random sports teams for no apparent reason
• Rye bread
• That Christmas stores even exist year-round. Take a hint from Halloween stores, it’s not necessary.
• When people call beer “empty calories”. Unless its referring to the feeling you get the next morning, I’m pretty sure we all know what the purpose of those calories was.
• Couples that sit on the same side of the table during dates
• Smart Cars in the America
• The fact that the Three-Martini Lunch concept died before women were allowed in the workplace
• Tiny bath towels
• Getting countless embossed colored pamphlets from my alma-mater asking for money that arguably cost more to print and send than I can afford to donate
• The fact that unicorns don’t exist
• Really flat pillows
• Arby’s calling its roast beef sandwich a burger
• When I answer “You, too!” to taxi drivers when they tell me to have a nice flight or waitresses when they tell me to enjoy my meal
• Street corner evangelists
• TV evangelists
• Evangelists
• That Groupon sends its emails between 4 and 8 AM
• When you think its Thursday but it’s really Wednesday
• When really, really short men hit on me
• Being an accountant
….and I will quit now before this becomes a short story. I promise I’m not really a hateful person…I think.
If anyone reads this and wants to add their own, the comment button is all yours!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Where do I Sign Up for That??
Sorry readers one and two, I know it has been forever since I updated this blog. This is probably because nothing exciting happens in the life of a public accountant. However, there is one thing I spend a great deal of my time as a public accountant doing: Thinking of what I would rather have as a career other than public accounting. The list is extremely long and includes the whole spectrum from zookeeper (preferably in the penguin-care unit) to accidental princess (a concept I both love and do not currently have the energy to explain in full), however, of late I have started noting some jobs that are not only more interesting than public accounting (not tough to do) but also extremely easy, and probably high-paying.
For example, I was sitting in a cliché American food restaurant a few months ago staring into space, when I realized I was actually making direct eye contact with an enormous alligator. Because I live in America where it is common knowledge that if you walk into a O’Charley’s, Applebee’s, Chili’s, Bennigan’s, Max&Erma’s, TGI Friday’s, or any other restaurant of the like, the walls WILL be covered with random paraphernalia from who-knows-where-and-when, this really didn’t concern me so I simply mentally congratulated the alligator for winning our staring contest (a la Will Farrall as Robert Goulet, of course), and rejoined whatever social setting I was in.
But THEN, I snapped back to the alligator. I understood that the alligator was there because previous to its existence on the wall there had been a gap in the random shit about the size of an alligator, but it struck me that still someone had to be responsible for purchasing it, and deciding to go with an alligator and not a crocodile or even a toboggan for that matter.
Now, THIS was a job that I wanted. There had to be absolutely zero stress associated with being the person who chooses and purchases random shit to put on walls of new American food restaurants. First, you can buy ANYTHING you want – there are no requirements and how would you ever go over budget when all of it is completely junk? I can only assume the everyday trials and tribulations of the job go something like this:
“Oh, they didn’t have a toy tractor for that space over booth seven? It’s ok! I’ll just hang up a roller skate and a picture of someone’s grandpa holding a fish!”
or..
“See what I did there? That’s FOUR horseshoes over the bar. I put up three originally but I really think the little brass one adds a nice touch. It was ten cents extra at the flea market but I thought, ‘What the Hell, right?’”
The fact that there has to be someone that flies around the country prior to the openings of these places and determines that yes, when the lovely citizens of Cedar Falls, Iowa would love to have a canoe suspended over their heads when they enter Bennigan’s Store #418 infuriates me – not because I don’t see the odd purpose to this job, but because I’m angry that it never occurred to me as a possible career path. Is it too late to give back my accounting degree? ‘Cause I’m guessing that, to become a Random Wall Shit Procurer, you don’t have to pass four extremely difficult 3-4 hour exams, pass a bogus ethics course, and work for a year under another certified Random Wall Shit Procurer….
Ok, enough about that. This brings me to the next career I really wish I had considered before sitting through an 8 AM Accounting for Derivatives class for 6 weeks. Last night, I was watching American Idol and drinking a rather delicious 2009 Pinot Gris from Washington State called “BoomTown” with Tiffany, when I realized that the wine was not rather delicious at all, it was EXTREMELY delicious.
Obviously, I had to read the bottle further to figure out more information about this fairy juice. This is word-for-word what was written on BoomTown’s 2009 label:
“Listen and hear the heady rush of rhythm and a passionate back beat sounding loudly from the unique vineyards of Washington State. It’s our calling to capture the distinct movement of quality and pride inside every bottle and deliver an experience to savor. Can you taste it? This is Boomtown.”
WHAT? Last time I checked, grapes didn’t have passionate back beats. Is there a reggae band permanently stationed between vines 16 and 17 creating the “heady rush of rhythm” found in every bottle of Boomtown? Who writes this stuff?!?
The correct answer to that question is: Not me. But believe me, if I could make a living coming up with bull shit about drumming pinot grapes, I’d turn in my KPMG security badge right now.
Moving on…. About three weeks ago I was assigned to do a Q1 review of a corporation that sells colors to clothing and textile companies. They create new hues using a specific formula of dyes and chemicals and then sell both the formula and the dyes to customers. As this was my first time auditing a company such as this, I requested a tour of the facilities. To make a long story short, there was this room filled with racks and racks of little pieces of cloth in every color imaginable (and some I honestly hadn’t ever taken the time to imagine). There must have been at least ten thousand colors, and these were just the ones on hold for just two companies! Most importantly, every single color was NAMED. Someone had to come up with “Galapagos Tortoise Green”. That’s all I’m saying.
So this got me thinking, there must be infinitely many easy jobs that pay about as much and cause a fraction of the stress that my job does out there. So I did some research:
Probation Officers make between $35K and $60K a year and basically just sit around waiting for other people to check in with them. Property managers can make over $70K and in some states only on-the-job training is required to work as one. And by “work” I obviously mean sit in a club house and wait for someone to hand you a rent check. Um, sounds like a good deal to me?
Anyway, I had originally intended to do more research on the matter. however, on the next article that I stumbled upon entitled “25 well-paying jobs that people overlook”, next to the number four was “Accountant”.
Ugh. Fine.
For example, I was sitting in a cliché American food restaurant a few months ago staring into space, when I realized I was actually making direct eye contact with an enormous alligator. Because I live in America where it is common knowledge that if you walk into a O’Charley’s, Applebee’s, Chili’s, Bennigan’s, Max&Erma’s, TGI Friday’s, or any other restaurant of the like, the walls WILL be covered with random paraphernalia from who-knows-where-and-when, this really didn’t concern me so I simply mentally congratulated the alligator for winning our staring contest (a la Will Farrall as Robert Goulet, of course), and rejoined whatever social setting I was in.
But THEN, I snapped back to the alligator. I understood that the alligator was there because previous to its existence on the wall there had been a gap in the random shit about the size of an alligator, but it struck me that still someone had to be responsible for purchasing it, and deciding to go with an alligator and not a crocodile or even a toboggan for that matter.
Now, THIS was a job that I wanted. There had to be absolutely zero stress associated with being the person who chooses and purchases random shit to put on walls of new American food restaurants. First, you can buy ANYTHING you want – there are no requirements and how would you ever go over budget when all of it is completely junk? I can only assume the everyday trials and tribulations of the job go something like this:
“Oh, they didn’t have a toy tractor for that space over booth seven? It’s ok! I’ll just hang up a roller skate and a picture of someone’s grandpa holding a fish!”
or..
“See what I did there? That’s FOUR horseshoes over the bar. I put up three originally but I really think the little brass one adds a nice touch. It was ten cents extra at the flea market but I thought, ‘What the Hell, right?’”
The fact that there has to be someone that flies around the country prior to the openings of these places and determines that yes, when the lovely citizens of Cedar Falls, Iowa would love to have a canoe suspended over their heads when they enter Bennigan’s Store #418 infuriates me – not because I don’t see the odd purpose to this job, but because I’m angry that it never occurred to me as a possible career path. Is it too late to give back my accounting degree? ‘Cause I’m guessing that, to become a Random Wall Shit Procurer, you don’t have to pass four extremely difficult 3-4 hour exams, pass a bogus ethics course, and work for a year under another certified Random Wall Shit Procurer….
Ok, enough about that. This brings me to the next career I really wish I had considered before sitting through an 8 AM Accounting for Derivatives class for 6 weeks. Last night, I was watching American Idol and drinking a rather delicious 2009 Pinot Gris from Washington State called “BoomTown” with Tiffany, when I realized that the wine was not rather delicious at all, it was EXTREMELY delicious.
Obviously, I had to read the bottle further to figure out more information about this fairy juice. This is word-for-word what was written on BoomTown’s 2009 label:
“Listen and hear the heady rush of rhythm and a passionate back beat sounding loudly from the unique vineyards of Washington State. It’s our calling to capture the distinct movement of quality and pride inside every bottle and deliver an experience to savor. Can you taste it? This is Boomtown.”
WHAT? Last time I checked, grapes didn’t have passionate back beats. Is there a reggae band permanently stationed between vines 16 and 17 creating the “heady rush of rhythm” found in every bottle of Boomtown? Who writes this stuff?!?
The correct answer to that question is: Not me. But believe me, if I could make a living coming up with bull shit about drumming pinot grapes, I’d turn in my KPMG security badge right now.
Moving on…. About three weeks ago I was assigned to do a Q1 review of a corporation that sells colors to clothing and textile companies. They create new hues using a specific formula of dyes and chemicals and then sell both the formula and the dyes to customers. As this was my first time auditing a company such as this, I requested a tour of the facilities. To make a long story short, there was this room filled with racks and racks of little pieces of cloth in every color imaginable (and some I honestly hadn’t ever taken the time to imagine). There must have been at least ten thousand colors, and these were just the ones on hold for just two companies! Most importantly, every single color was NAMED. Someone had to come up with “Galapagos Tortoise Green”. That’s all I’m saying.
So this got me thinking, there must be infinitely many easy jobs that pay about as much and cause a fraction of the stress that my job does out there. So I did some research:
Probation Officers make between $35K and $60K a year and basically just sit around waiting for other people to check in with them. Property managers can make over $70K and in some states only on-the-job training is required to work as one. And by “work” I obviously mean sit in a club house and wait for someone to hand you a rent check. Um, sounds like a good deal to me?
Anyway, I had originally intended to do more research on the matter. however, on the next article that I stumbled upon entitled “25 well-paying jobs that people overlook”, next to the number four was “Accountant”.
Ugh. Fine.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Coming Back to Haunt
Growing up my Mom always told me I would make a great teacher because I am so patient with little kids. (WHAT?!) I think this is because I coached volleyball, gave the neighborhood(loose interpretation) kids rides on my pony, and tutored a bit in my spare time. Unfortunately, those of you who REALLY know me (Sorry, Mom, wishful thinking) know that I can't stand children - especially those of people who clearly can't handle them - and only partook in the above activities because I like money and having people in the neighborhood like me. In fact, when a random minivan-load of kids would stop in the driveway with hopes of a ride on Sugar Babe (my pony, may she rest in peace), I often considered whether I would rather lead those precious little idiots around in the hot sun for an hour while they kicked and yelled at poor Shugie or gnaw off my own arm. It was really a toss-up.
This seems like a horrible confession, I realize, but it is needed to fully understand my mindset in the following tale.
It all began this summer when the Dwyer clan met for our yearly reunion in the Samford, CT/New York City area. I spent most of the time at my uncle's house, drink in hand, by the pool, looking out over the ocean as anyone would expect from me. One day, however, I ventured into the City with my uncle, aunt, other uncle, mom, dad, brother, and little cousin to go to the Natural History Museum. Even though the excursion was obviously more geared towards the interests of my ten-year-old cousin, David, it is common knowledge that I love all woodland creatures, so a trip to a gallery of long-dead safari furriness was well worth the 50 min drive into the city.
What I failed to consider, however, was that even I could not stare at wonders such as of a stuffed baby baboon or a delicately placed weasel among the savannah animals for more than 20 minutes or so. This left the whole rest of the day to wander around with the posse and little David.
Let me say before I continue, that I love my cousin. He is absolutely a boy genius and is one of the coolest little kids I know, but as I spend 0% of my life with people his age, I was absolutely ill-equipped for the excitement and question-bombardment that ensued that day.
I am ashamed to say that after a short time of seriously fielding all of his inquiries regarding the various forms of life present in each an every room of the African Animals exhibit, then the Lizards and Snakes displays, then the Dinosaurs, and so on an so on, I could no longer invest any more effort in the field trip. By the time we reached the Under the Sea exhibits, I was answering each "What is that?" or "But why?" with whatever bullshit my little heart desired. It was really quite fun. He was giggling and I was spewing off nonsense for the rest of our visit to the museum.
I had completely forgotten about this experience until two weeks ago.
I was again up in Stamford, CT visiting my uncle, and the smaller version of the Dwyer clan present that weekend was walking into the Kona Grill for a nice dinner. I thought my cousin was leading the way to the table when I realized that he had completely lost the waitress he was following and was almost stopped, wonderstruck, in front of a large aquarium. With some prodding from my aunt, he made it to the table but was still staring at the swimming wildlife when we began to seat ourselves. Finally, he looks at me and the rest of the family, points at the aquarium and says, "Hey look! Its a Giant Sea Squirrel!!"
Busted.
I realized by the look of excitement coming from David's face and the look of confusion coming from my uncle's face that my shenanigans in the museum were coming back to haunt me. Either I am the only marine biologist in the world that knows the true identity of a nurse shark, or I'm a horrible big cousin. Either way, I really wonder how many people David has since educated about Giant Sea Squirrels or the Air Beaver in the months since.
My bad.
Giant Sea Squirrel
This seems like a horrible confession, I realize, but it is needed to fully understand my mindset in the following tale.
It all began this summer when the Dwyer clan met for our yearly reunion in the Samford, CT/New York City area. I spent most of the time at my uncle's house, drink in hand, by the pool, looking out over the ocean as anyone would expect from me. One day, however, I ventured into the City with my uncle, aunt, other uncle, mom, dad, brother, and little cousin to go to the Natural History Museum. Even though the excursion was obviously more geared towards the interests of my ten-year-old cousin, David, it is common knowledge that I love all woodland creatures, so a trip to a gallery of long-dead safari furriness was well worth the 50 min drive into the city.
What I failed to consider, however, was that even I could not stare at wonders such as of a stuffed baby baboon or a delicately placed weasel among the savannah animals for more than 20 minutes or so. This left the whole rest of the day to wander around with the posse and little David.
Let me say before I continue, that I love my cousin. He is absolutely a boy genius and is one of the coolest little kids I know, but as I spend 0% of my life with people his age, I was absolutely ill-equipped for the excitement and question-bombardment that ensued that day.
I am ashamed to say that after a short time of seriously fielding all of his inquiries regarding the various forms of life present in each an every room of the African Animals exhibit, then the Lizards and Snakes displays, then the Dinosaurs, and so on an so on, I could no longer invest any more effort in the field trip. By the time we reached the Under the Sea exhibits, I was answering each "What is that?" or "But why?" with whatever bullshit my little heart desired. It was really quite fun. He was giggling and I was spewing off nonsense for the rest of our visit to the museum.
I had completely forgotten about this experience until two weeks ago.
I was again up in Stamford, CT visiting my uncle, and the smaller version of the Dwyer clan present that weekend was walking into the Kona Grill for a nice dinner. I thought my cousin was leading the way to the table when I realized that he had completely lost the waitress he was following and was almost stopped, wonderstruck, in front of a large aquarium. With some prodding from my aunt, he made it to the table but was still staring at the swimming wildlife when we began to seat ourselves. Finally, he looks at me and the rest of the family, points at the aquarium and says, "Hey look! Its a Giant Sea Squirrel!!"
Busted.
I realized by the look of excitement coming from David's face and the look of confusion coming from my uncle's face that my shenanigans in the museum were coming back to haunt me. Either I am the only marine biologist in the world that knows the true identity of a nurse shark, or I'm a horrible big cousin. Either way, I really wonder how many people David has since educated about Giant Sea Squirrels or the Air Beaver in the months since.
My bad.
Giant Sea Squirrel
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Worthless.
Guinness has spent almost every minute of freedom today sitting in the corner of my room facing the wall. I say almost every minutes, because he did devote a few moments to knocking over my Diet Dr. Pepper and gnawing on my sandwich while I went to the kitchen to get a towel to clean up the spilled Diet Dr. Pepper, but that is pretty much par for the course. Anyway, the point is, he has finally dedicated himself to a normal cat activity. He is guarding my apartment from mice. Unfortunately for him, the mouse he is currently hunting is stuck in the wall. It has been there since at least 4 a.m. this morning when I unhappily awoke to the all-too-familiar desperate scratching sound coming from the corner of my bedroom closest too my face when I sleep. This is the second time this happy event has occurred in the last month.
Here are two things I have learned from the first Mouse-in-the-Wall experience. First, the mouse will never escape. No matter how much the little guy squirms, gnaws, and scratches at the insides of the exterior wall, it will not materialize in my room. Guinness is wasting his time. Not that he has ever partaken in an activity that I wouldn't characterize as a waste-of-time, but I am really concerned about his sanity here. Second, the mouse will die in two or three days. Usually i would be sad for the little whippersnapper, but it is SO ANNOYING. I can no longer sleep in my bedroom and have to spend all my time on the futon in the living room until the sucker dies.
Anyway, personal complaints aside, I must explain why this post is entitled "Worthless". This is the third mouse visit to my apartment. Even Mouse-in-the-Wall, Part I wasn't the first appearance. About five months ago, I returned from my internship in Charlotte to a small household of three mice living under my stove. Because I didn't have much food in the house immediately upon my return, I didn't even notice their presence until a few days into my stay at my apartment. The more disturbing part is that Guinness didn't notice either. His nose is six inches above the level of their happy little home and he didn't notice a thing. He spends at least an hour laying in the kitchen every day and STILL nothing. So of course, when I did realize that bread didn't eat itself I took care of the problem myself.
A few days after identifying the problem, exterminators arrived and placed trays of sticky material under the stove to catch any mouse stragglers, and pushed said trays all the way back towards the kitchen wall in the least accessible areas. And THIS is when my useless ball of black puff decided to involve himself. I entered my kitchen one afternoon after hearing a weird clunking noise to find Guinn hobbling around the stove area stuck to the sticky mouse-trapping device, apparently pleased with his capture...of himself.
What a waste of cat life! He doesn't do a thing when actual mice are loose in my kitchen but he traps himself by aggressively hunting plastic trays. Now, he has devoted his entire day to taking Mouse-in-the-Wall, Part II into his own hands. Worthless.
Here are two things I have learned from the first Mouse-in-the-Wall experience. First, the mouse will never escape. No matter how much the little guy squirms, gnaws, and scratches at the insides of the exterior wall, it will not materialize in my room. Guinness is wasting his time. Not that he has ever partaken in an activity that I wouldn't characterize as a waste-of-time, but I am really concerned about his sanity here. Second, the mouse will die in two or three days. Usually i would be sad for the little whippersnapper, but it is SO ANNOYING. I can no longer sleep in my bedroom and have to spend all my time on the futon in the living room until the sucker dies.
Anyway, personal complaints aside, I must explain why this post is entitled "Worthless". This is the third mouse visit to my apartment. Even Mouse-in-the-Wall, Part I wasn't the first appearance. About five months ago, I returned from my internship in Charlotte to a small household of three mice living under my stove. Because I didn't have much food in the house immediately upon my return, I didn't even notice their presence until a few days into my stay at my apartment. The more disturbing part is that Guinness didn't notice either. His nose is six inches above the level of their happy little home and he didn't notice a thing. He spends at least an hour laying in the kitchen every day and STILL nothing. So of course, when I did realize that bread didn't eat itself I took care of the problem myself.
A few days after identifying the problem, exterminators arrived and placed trays of sticky material under the stove to catch any mouse stragglers, and pushed said trays all the way back towards the kitchen wall in the least accessible areas. And THIS is when my useless ball of black puff decided to involve himself. I entered my kitchen one afternoon after hearing a weird clunking noise to find Guinn hobbling around the stove area stuck to the sticky mouse-trapping device, apparently pleased with his capture...of himself.
What a waste of cat life! He doesn't do a thing when actual mice are loose in my kitchen but he traps himself by aggressively hunting plastic trays. Now, he has devoted his entire day to taking Mouse-in-the-Wall, Part II into his own hands. Worthless.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The World According to...Who Knows
So today in Advanced Auditing we discussed inventory management and the audit procedures undertaken to test the assertions and accounts pertaining to inventory. Of course, most of the examples referred to observing and testing the inventory of "widgets." Samples of purple widgets, a selection of blue widgets, various obsolete yellow widgets. It was all pretty mundane.
After a little while though, maybe because I happened to be staring at that part of projector screen for too long or just because accounting classes take me to such a special place of insanity, I started contemplating the widget and its completely undeserved significance in my life.
Since the dawn of time, or day one of Econ 101(pretty much the same), all I have heard about is this magical little thing called a "widget." They are omnipotent. A widget is a commodity, a luxury item, an inferior good; They are traded in perfectly competitive markets, controlled by monopolies and oligopolies, are price elastic and inelastic. They are produced utilizing economies of scale, traded in every currency, hedged using all types of derivative instruments. Every nation, tribe, village, merchant, and vendor has at one time had a comparative advantage in producing, growing, manufacturing, and selling widgets. Apparently widgets are also stored in warehouses, arranged in their various colors and sizes, and must be audited by CPAs. To someone who didn't understand the strictly anecdotal nature of the classic widget example, it would seem that the little guy was the leading export and import of every country in the world.
I understand story problems and examples must exist for teaching purposes but WHY THE WIDGET?!? Is it too much to ask for textbook authors to replace "widget" with "car" or "apple"? For all we have learned about them, it would seem that a shock in widget prices would decimate the global economy. Unfortunately no one really knows WHAT a widget even IS.
There really is only one way to solve the great mystery of the widget: Google Image Search.
A Widget:
Or maybe this?
How about...
This?
OR...
So...as usual, Google Image searches provide an incredible amount of clarity. Apparently a Widget is either a one-inch white ball, a stop watch, a strange purple man, AFRICA?, or THE SUN?!?!?! Gee thanks, internet world. Good to know that we can all time our widget-throwing skills with a widget while hunting safari widgets on the continent of widget by the ultraviolet light of the great widget. Stellar.
After a little while though, maybe because I happened to be staring at that part of projector screen for too long or just because accounting classes take me to such a special place of insanity, I started contemplating the widget and its completely undeserved significance in my life.
Since the dawn of time, or day one of Econ 101(pretty much the same), all I have heard about is this magical little thing called a "widget." They are omnipotent. A widget is a commodity, a luxury item, an inferior good; They are traded in perfectly competitive markets, controlled by monopolies and oligopolies, are price elastic and inelastic. They are produced utilizing economies of scale, traded in every currency, hedged using all types of derivative instruments. Every nation, tribe, village, merchant, and vendor has at one time had a comparative advantage in producing, growing, manufacturing, and selling widgets. Apparently widgets are also stored in warehouses, arranged in their various colors and sizes, and must be audited by CPAs. To someone who didn't understand the strictly anecdotal nature of the classic widget example, it would seem that the little guy was the leading export and import of every country in the world.
I understand story problems and examples must exist for teaching purposes but WHY THE WIDGET?!? Is it too much to ask for textbook authors to replace "widget" with "car" or "apple"? For all we have learned about them, it would seem that a shock in widget prices would decimate the global economy. Unfortunately no one really knows WHAT a widget even IS.
There really is only one way to solve the great mystery of the widget: Google Image Search.
A Widget:
Or maybe this?
How about...
This?
OR...
So...as usual, Google Image searches provide an incredible amount of clarity. Apparently a Widget is either a one-inch white ball, a stop watch, a strange purple man, AFRICA?, or THE SUN?!?!?! Gee thanks, internet world. Good to know that we can all time our widget-throwing skills with a widget while hunting safari widgets on the continent of widget by the ultraviolet light of the great widget. Stellar.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Ramblings
It is has bee a while since I have touched this blog, mainly because my CPA exam studying is over and I have actually regained some measure of fun in my life. Thus, procrastination in the form of venting has subsided. However, I wouldn't want both of my readers to think I forgot about them, so here are a few insights into the ridiculous life of Alison Dwyer to share with the internet world.
Let the countdown begin!
FIVE Random Thoughts:
- Why does the word "LISP" have an "S" in it? That is just cruel. By the time anyone with a lisp is done saying the word, we already know you have a lisp. Whoever came up with this term needs to go back to the drawing board, or Gary, Indiana.
- I always wonder what people are thinking when I see a purple or pink house. It should be a universal rule that you never paint your house your favorite color. Houses should be earthy tones like tan, sandstone, or brown. And if your favorite color is brown, then you need to reevaluate your tastes and preferences, and possibly your life.
- The saying that situations are only as awkward as you make them to be is crap. Some things are just awkward.
- For some reason salad bars always include some sort of pudding. Pudding is not salad, nor is anywhere near acceptable as the only dessert option.
- I've never understood someone waiting for six rings and then leaving messages just to say they called. 2010. Caller id. Mom.
FOUR Random Talents I Possess that Will NEVER Actually Help Me Achieve Success in the Real World:
- I can find a four leaf clover at will pretty much whenever I want. I have even found multiple five, six, seven, and eight leaf clovers in my day. I used to ride my pony around as a child, look down, hop off, pick the shamrock I found and continue on my way. I even found two four-leaf clovers today. This isn't normal, right?
- I can write a rhyming poem about anything in less than a minute. I once performed my "Ode to a Gopher" at a slam poetry performance in High School. I had written it earlier that day as joke for my friend. Please see Accounting Poems below...written in about five. This talent is so not useful. Well, unless I want to be a rapper. So...so not useful.
- I can solve Wheel of Fortune puzzles ridiculously quickly. I even solved one once without any letters on the board. There were witnesses.
- I can do the splits. But only to the left. Then again, anyone who attended a college party with me already knows this. I apologize to those people.
Three Phrases I LOVE:
- "Just Saying.": This serves as a qualifier for anything and justifies your inclusion of anything into a conversation. I wish Obama wasn't president, just saying.
- "Let's think about what’s really important here…": This is always followed by some really egocentrical concept that has neither anything to do with what your conversation counterpart was talking about nor any significance in their life whatsoever. It is usually either my birthday or Guinness's happiness. And let's be honest...that is really what is important here.
- "I get that a lot.": After any compliment. I'm sure this never gets old.
TWO Phrases I Would Rather Not Hear Again:
- "I'm Not Gonna Lie.": Oh, Goody! I thought you were going to lie. Thank god you are not.
- "But, If you think about it...": A preceding qualifier that's as pointless as it is condescending. Dude, I have a brain. I DID think about it. I just don't agree with you.
ONE Important Tool Everyone Should be Aware of:
- THE REJECTION HOTLINE: Find your state’s given number. Memorize it - Nothing hints that the number you are giving a creeper is not yours like looking it up on your own phone. Oh, and pray they don’t call you on the spot hoping to trade digits.
The website is as a follows: http://www.humorhotlines.com/hh-numbers.asp
And, here is a sample of the epic letdown: "The person who gave you this number did not want you to have their real number. Maybe you suffer from bad breath, body odor or even both. Maybe you just give off that creepy, overbearing, psycho-stalker vibe. Maybe the idea of going out with you just seems as appealing as playing leapfrog with unicorns."
Keep in mind, readers, this is meant for those creepers who either have a stellar sense of humor or just really deserve it. You know who you are.
Let the countdown begin!
FIVE Random Thoughts:
- Why does the word "LISP" have an "S" in it? That is just cruel. By the time anyone with a lisp is done saying the word, we already know you have a lisp. Whoever came up with this term needs to go back to the drawing board, or Gary, Indiana.
- I always wonder what people are thinking when I see a purple or pink house. It should be a universal rule that you never paint your house your favorite color. Houses should be earthy tones like tan, sandstone, or brown. And if your favorite color is brown, then you need to reevaluate your tastes and preferences, and possibly your life.
- The saying that situations are only as awkward as you make them to be is crap. Some things are just awkward.
- For some reason salad bars always include some sort of pudding. Pudding is not salad, nor is anywhere near acceptable as the only dessert option.
- I've never understood someone waiting for six rings and then leaving messages just to say they called. 2010. Caller id. Mom.
FOUR Random Talents I Possess that Will NEVER Actually Help Me Achieve Success in the Real World:
- I can find a four leaf clover at will pretty much whenever I want. I have even found multiple five, six, seven, and eight leaf clovers in my day. I used to ride my pony around as a child, look down, hop off, pick the shamrock I found and continue on my way. I even found two four-leaf clovers today. This isn't normal, right?
- I can write a rhyming poem about anything in less than a minute. I once performed my "Ode to a Gopher" at a slam poetry performance in High School. I had written it earlier that day as joke for my friend. Please see Accounting Poems below...written in about five. This talent is so not useful. Well, unless I want to be a rapper. So...so not useful.
- I can solve Wheel of Fortune puzzles ridiculously quickly. I even solved one once without any letters on the board. There were witnesses.
- I can do the splits. But only to the left. Then again, anyone who attended a college party with me already knows this. I apologize to those people.
Three Phrases I LOVE:
- "Just Saying.": This serves as a qualifier for anything and justifies your inclusion of anything into a conversation. I wish Obama wasn't president, just saying.
- "Let's think about what’s really important here…": This is always followed by some really egocentrical concept that has neither anything to do with what your conversation counterpart was talking about nor any significance in their life whatsoever. It is usually either my birthday or Guinness's happiness. And let's be honest...that is really what is important here.
- "I get that a lot.": After any compliment. I'm sure this never gets old.
TWO Phrases I Would Rather Not Hear Again:
- "I'm Not Gonna Lie.": Oh, Goody! I thought you were going to lie. Thank god you are not.
- "But, If you think about it...": A preceding qualifier that's as pointless as it is condescending. Dude, I have a brain. I DID think about it. I just don't agree with you.
ONE Important Tool Everyone Should be Aware of:
- THE REJECTION HOTLINE: Find your state’s given number. Memorize it - Nothing hints that the number you are giving a creeper is not yours like looking it up on your own phone. Oh, and pray they don’t call you on the spot hoping to trade digits.
The website is as a follows: http://www.humorhotlines.com/hh-numbers.asp
And, here is a sample of the epic letdown: "The person who gave you this number did not want you to have their real number. Maybe you suffer from bad breath, body odor or even both. Maybe you just give off that creepy, overbearing, psycho-stalker vibe. Maybe the idea of going out with you just seems as appealing as playing leapfrog with unicorns."
Keep in mind, readers, this is meant for those creepers who either have a stellar sense of humor or just really deserve it. You know who you are.
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