I stole these from my friend Paula's blog. You can also visit the Chuck Norris website of pure awesomeness. Enjoy!
If you have five dollars and Chuck Norris has five dollars, Chuck Norris has more money than you.
There is no 'ctrl' button on Chuck Norris's computer. Chuck Norris is always in control.
Apple pays Chuck Norris 99 cents every time he listens to a song.
Chuck Norris can sneeze with his eyes open.
Chuck Norris can eat just one Lay's potato chip.
Chuck Norris is suing Myspace for taking the name of what he calls everything around you.
Chuck Norris destroyed the periodic table, because he only recognizes the element of surprise.
Chuck Norris can kill two stones with one bird.
When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.
Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live.
Outer space exists because it's afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck Norris.
Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.
Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.
Chuck Norris is the reason why Waldo is hiding.
Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice.
There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.
When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn’t lifting himself up, he’s pushing the Earth down.
Chuck Norris is so fast, he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head.
Chuck Norris’ hand is the only hand that can beat a Royal Flush.
Chuck Norris can lead a horse to water AND make it drink.
Chuck Norris doesn’t wear a watch, HE decides what time it is.
Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.
Chuck Norris does not get frostbite. Chuck Norris bites frost
Remember the Soviet Union? They decided to quit after watching a DeltaForce marathon on Satellite TV.
Contrary to popular belief, America is not a democracy, it is a Chucktatorship.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Dad's Business Advice
(I sent this as an e-mail to my family a long time ago, but I thought it was worth re-printing here.)
I was rummaging through my old papers, and I found a profile I wrote of dad my sophomore year of college. I asked him what his one piece of advice would be for an up-and-coming person in the business world. "When you're in your office," he said, "someone will always walk in five seconds after you fart. It's good to have a fish aquarium nearby that you can blame the smell on."
What a blessing it is to have a Harvard Alum with thirty years of experience at our disposal. You can't buy wisdom like that.
I was rummaging through my old papers, and I found a profile I wrote of dad my sophomore year of college. I asked him what his one piece of advice would be for an up-and-coming person in the business world. "When you're in your office," he said, "someone will always walk in five seconds after you fart. It's good to have a fish aquarium nearby that you can blame the smell on."
What a blessing it is to have a Harvard Alum with thirty years of experience at our disposal. You can't buy wisdom like that.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Now or Never
As I drove to school yesterday, I was listening to Josh Groban the only way I know how: at the top of my lungs. I usually hunch down in my seat to avoid witnesses, but I was in fine spirits, so I rolled down the windows for all to enjoy. I was in the middle of a moving rendition of “Now or Never” (from Groban’s third album, Awake, available at Barnes and Noble and other fine retailers), when I saw something rather intriguing.
In front of me, there was a young Asian man with a huge backpack running along the shoulder of the road with his hands in his pockets. A hundred yards ahead, there was an overweight curly-headed guy in cut-offs running toward the Asian man. I thought I saw a spark between them as they ran toward each other. I belted out, “Oh, darling can’t you see, it’s now or never. It’s now or never,” as they picked up speed and approached what I hoped would be a monumental embrace.
But, for reasons I will never know, the embrace never happened. The Asian guy, hands still in his pockets, ran right past the fat guy, eyes on the horizon. I’m not going to lie: I was disappointed. How cool would that hug have been, with me serenading them as I drove by?
I continued singing, but the song had lost all meaning. In my rear-view mirror I could see the fat guy picking a wedgy as he ran, impervious to the opportunity he had just missed. “And it’s no one’s fault; there’s no black and white…it’s now or never. It’s now or never.”
Maybe they didn’t realize it was now or never. Perhaps they never will.
In front of me, there was a young Asian man with a huge backpack running along the shoulder of the road with his hands in his pockets. A hundred yards ahead, there was an overweight curly-headed guy in cut-offs running toward the Asian man. I thought I saw a spark between them as they ran toward each other. I belted out, “Oh, darling can’t you see, it’s now or never. It’s now or never,” as they picked up speed and approached what I hoped would be a monumental embrace.
But, for reasons I will never know, the embrace never happened. The Asian guy, hands still in his pockets, ran right past the fat guy, eyes on the horizon. I’m not going to lie: I was disappointed. How cool would that hug have been, with me serenading them as I drove by?
I continued singing, but the song had lost all meaning. In my rear-view mirror I could see the fat guy picking a wedgy as he ran, impervious to the opportunity he had just missed. “And it’s no one’s fault; there’s no black and white…it’s now or never. It’s now or never.”
Maybe they didn’t realize it was now or never. Perhaps they never will.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
A Memory
When I was young, we had a baby grand piano in our front room. My father had a small repertoire of songs he could play: the Irish Reel, On Top of the World, and a handful of Christmas Carols. There were a few more that I’m sure he made up. One in particular stands out. It was a succession of chords similar to Heart and Souls, where my father would start humming along softly, and soon he would be in a roar of yodeling and bellowing. There were no words, but none were needed. It filled the house with joy.
One evening, when I was seven, my dad sat down to play the piano. I curled up on the upholstered chair nearby to listen. He was playing a sweet little melody I hadn’t heard before. “This is the story of your grandfather, Blaine,” he said. He continued to play, and after a while, he hit a sour sounding note. I thought he had made a mistake, but then he hit another, and another. The melody became increasingly scrambled with sharps and flats thrown in haphazardly. The cacophony continued for some time, making me a little uncomfortable, and then it abruptly ended. My father looked at the keys for a moment, and then continued with the original, peaceful melody, only this time a little quieter.
He didn’t need to explain what this meant. Even at seven I understood.
A few months later, my father knelt down in front of me, put his hands on my shoulders, and told me Grandpa had passed away. For as sad as I wanted to be, I kept hearing those sweet sounding notes that followed the discordant ones. I knew my grandfather was no longer wrestling with Alzheimer’s. His melody was now the way it was supposed to be.
I’ve often thought of this simple yet powerful lesson my father taught me about mortality. In the funerals I’ve attended over the years, no speeches, eulogies or remembrances have been as true as the notes my father played for me that evening on our piano.
One evening, when I was seven, my dad sat down to play the piano. I curled up on the upholstered chair nearby to listen. He was playing a sweet little melody I hadn’t heard before. “This is the story of your grandfather, Blaine,” he said. He continued to play, and after a while, he hit a sour sounding note. I thought he had made a mistake, but then he hit another, and another. The melody became increasingly scrambled with sharps and flats thrown in haphazardly. The cacophony continued for some time, making me a little uncomfortable, and then it abruptly ended. My father looked at the keys for a moment, and then continued with the original, peaceful melody, only this time a little quieter.
He didn’t need to explain what this meant. Even at seven I understood.
A few months later, my father knelt down in front of me, put his hands on my shoulders, and told me Grandpa had passed away. For as sad as I wanted to be, I kept hearing those sweet sounding notes that followed the discordant ones. I knew my grandfather was no longer wrestling with Alzheimer’s. His melody was now the way it was supposed to be.
I’ve often thought of this simple yet powerful lesson my father taught me about mortality. In the funerals I’ve attended over the years, no speeches, eulogies or remembrances have been as true as the notes my father played for me that evening on our piano.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Potty Humor
Yesterday, in a teaching seminar, there were fourteen of us cramped around a tiny, wooden table while my professor stood by the chalkboard lecturing about something.
I was trying to stifle a yawn when I heard her say, “One thing we do do as instructors is…”
I chuckled and turned to Henry, my office partner from Kenya, and said, “She said doo-doo.”
Henry picked up his pen and held it to his notebook with a look of great concern. “What was it she said?”
I felt embarrassed for making a potty joke to someone who really had no way of understanding it. “Never mind,” I said.
A graduate student sitting across the table shook her head disapprovingly. I must have said it louder than I thought. Henry turned to the student on the other side of him. “What was it she said?”
I’m a 31 year old PhD student who laughs when his teacher says doo-doo. Does this make me a bad person?
Miles doesn’t think so.
I was trying to stifle a yawn when I heard her say, “One thing we do do as instructors is…”
I chuckled and turned to Henry, my office partner from Kenya, and said, “She said doo-doo.”
Henry picked up his pen and held it to his notebook with a look of great concern. “What was it she said?”
I felt embarrassed for making a potty joke to someone who really had no way of understanding it. “Never mind,” I said.
A graduate student sitting across the table shook her head disapprovingly. I must have said it louder than I thought. Henry turned to the student on the other side of him. “What was it she said?”
I’m a 31 year old PhD student who laughs when his teacher says doo-doo. Does this make me a bad person?
Miles doesn’t think so.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Mystery Phone
Despite the fact that I don’t have a telephone in my office, or even a phone jack, there’s a phone number listed by my name in the faculty directory. I put this number on my syllabus and told my students to call me with any problems they might have, day or night.
About an hour before class on Wednesday, I got an e-mail from a student saying she had tried calling me all weekend because the bookstore was out of books and she had no way to do the assignment. This made me wonder: Who exactly was she calling all weekend? As I sat in my office, feet perched on my desk, corduroy blazer folded across my lap, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the mystery number. It rang a few times, and for a brief moment I got nervous about who might answer the phone.
To my surprise, a female answered. “Hello,” she said.
“Uh, yes, I’m looking for Mike.”
“Mike who?”
“Mike Peterson.”
“Is he an instructor here?”
“I believe so.”
“Hold on, let me see if he’s here.”
There was some shuffling on the other end, what sounded like whispering, a hiccup and a belch, and then silence. I picked lint off my shirt and waited, half expecting someone to peek their head around the corner and tell me I was on the phone asking for myself. After thirty seconds or so the woman came back on the line. “He’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”
“He’s not? Did you check his office?”
“Yeah, he’s not in.”
“OK,” I said. “That's weird. Can you tell him Mike called?”
She assured me she would.
I finished reading over some student papers (and by student papers, I mean a copy of US Weekly I found in the trash), put on my blazer and walked to the English office. A woman of indeterminable age with a pencil behind her ear sat at the main desk. When she asked what she could do for me, I was pretty certain she was the woman answering my phone. I introduced myself and asked if there were any messages. She looked around her desk, lifted up a pile of manila folders, half opened a drawer and then shut it quickly, and then said, “I’m not really sure.” She then downsized a spreadsheet and stared at a picture of a cat sleeping in a rocking chair for a few seconds. “Nope, nope…I’m not seeing anything here.”
“OK,” I said. “I was expecting a call from a guy named Mike.”
“Hmmm. Did you check your mailbox?”
I stepped into the broom-closet slash mailroom adjoining the office where I found a neon-pink coupon for Wildcat Pizza in my mail tray. “Got it!” I said, and held it up for her to see. “You’re a life saver.”
She smiled and reinserted the pencil behind her ear.
I later told my students to be patient with my secretary if they ever try to call me. But as I write this, I can't help wondering if she really wasn't the lady who took my message. I plan to wait until a quiet evening when everyone's gone, dial my mystery number and wander the building until I hear a phone ring.
Or maybe not. That sounds too much like the start of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
About an hour before class on Wednesday, I got an e-mail from a student saying she had tried calling me all weekend because the bookstore was out of books and she had no way to do the assignment. This made me wonder: Who exactly was she calling all weekend? As I sat in my office, feet perched on my desk, corduroy blazer folded across my lap, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the mystery number. It rang a few times, and for a brief moment I got nervous about who might answer the phone.
To my surprise, a female answered. “Hello,” she said.
“Uh, yes, I’m looking for Mike.”
“Mike who?”
“Mike Peterson.”
“Is he an instructor here?”
“I believe so.”
“Hold on, let me see if he’s here.”
There was some shuffling on the other end, what sounded like whispering, a hiccup and a belch, and then silence. I picked lint off my shirt and waited, half expecting someone to peek their head around the corner and tell me I was on the phone asking for myself. After thirty seconds or so the woman came back on the line. “He’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”
“He’s not? Did you check his office?”
“Yeah, he’s not in.”
“OK,” I said. “That's weird. Can you tell him Mike called?”
She assured me she would.
I finished reading over some student papers (and by student papers, I mean a copy of US Weekly I found in the trash), put on my blazer and walked to the English office. A woman of indeterminable age with a pencil behind her ear sat at the main desk. When she asked what she could do for me, I was pretty certain she was the woman answering my phone. I introduced myself and asked if there were any messages. She looked around her desk, lifted up a pile of manila folders, half opened a drawer and then shut it quickly, and then said, “I’m not really sure.” She then downsized a spreadsheet and stared at a picture of a cat sleeping in a rocking chair for a few seconds. “Nope, nope…I’m not seeing anything here.”
“OK,” I said. “I was expecting a call from a guy named Mike.”
“Hmmm. Did you check your mailbox?”
I stepped into the broom-closet slash mailroom adjoining the office where I found a neon-pink coupon for Wildcat Pizza in my mail tray. “Got it!” I said, and held it up for her to see. “You’re a life saver.”
She smiled and reinserted the pencil behind her ear.
I later told my students to be patient with my secretary if they ever try to call me. But as I write this, I can't help wondering if she really wasn't the lady who took my message. I plan to wait until a quiet evening when everyone's gone, dial my mystery number and wander the building until I hear a phone ring.
Or maybe not. That sounds too much like the start of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
My New Office
I started my pre-semester workshops yesterday at UNH. I was hoping to take some pictures of what I'm up against, but my camera just beeps and flips me off when I try to use it. It's still mad that I dropped it in the sand.
Teaching at UNH is truly an old-school experience. My office is at the top of a narrow, four-story staircase, and conveniently located next to a drinking fountain that broke late in the Carter administration. We're not supplied with computers like at BSU. In fact, we don't even get phones. My office, which I share with a nice young man who arrived from Kenya 3 days ago, has two wooden desks, two wooden chairs, two wooden book cases, and 48-layers of peeling paint, the most recent of which I call "psychedelic puke train." It's a shade of neon green that can only be achieved through high levels of lead.
When I inquired about whether or not we would be getting modern conveniences, I was told that if I stand on my desk and lean toward the window, I can get half a bar on my cell phone. There's also Wi-Fi in the building, but it doesn't work beyond the second floor.
My office partner reassured me that this was good: no distractions while we study our books. He then excused himself to the bathroom. I haven't seen him since.
Teaching at UNH is truly an old-school experience. My office is at the top of a narrow, four-story staircase, and conveniently located next to a drinking fountain that broke late in the Carter administration. We're not supplied with computers like at BSU. In fact, we don't even get phones. My office, which I share with a nice young man who arrived from Kenya 3 days ago, has two wooden desks, two wooden chairs, two wooden book cases, and 48-layers of peeling paint, the most recent of which I call "psychedelic puke train." It's a shade of neon green that can only be achieved through high levels of lead.
When I inquired about whether or not we would be getting modern conveniences, I was told that if I stand on my desk and lean toward the window, I can get half a bar on my cell phone. There's also Wi-Fi in the building, but it doesn't work beyond the second floor.
My office partner reassured me that this was good: no distractions while we study our books. He then excused himself to the bathroom. I haven't seen him since.
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