Departmental Memoranda

Wherein our intrepid reporter wastes time with his coworkers.

R: Accidents on paseo and east bound I-40, been on the road an hour already.

E: West Siiiiiiiiiiiiiide!

R: Lol! Yup

E: Did two donkey carriages crash into each other blocking the dirt road passage through the alfalfa field?

Me: South Valley people kinda nod their head in embarrassment and say, “Yeah. Again.”
Corrales people get jealous.
NE Heights folks ask “Whats an alfalfa?”
SE Heights people steal the donkeys and turn the carts into taco trucks.

My boss has threatened to create a departmental blog and make this the first post.

Blow you to Smithereenies

Last night as Hannah and I were just falling asleep came a horrible squawking from the chicken coop. Unusual enough by itself, but it happened again. And again. “Shall I go check it out?” “Yes, please, right now.” Hannah replied. I grabbed the flashlight from my desk and held it to the back window, sweeping the yard. Just at the corner of the coop two amber eyes gleamed back at me. LARGE eyes.

“Hannah? I need a robe and my keys. Now please.”

Pulled on pants, robe, grabbed what turned out to be a cobweb duster, and ran barefoot to the back yard. The racoon had already mounted the wall and was ambling north. I waved blue bristles in his direction and made noises like a bear with bad diarrhea. He stared at me in what appeared to be contempt, either for the ridiculous noises I was making or for my lack of adequate armament I couldn’t be sure. Nevertheless I continued to push forward and he continued to avoid me. Eventually he threw me a final dirty look over his shoulder and disappeared into my neighbors yard.

This morning, I went and bought two things that I’d never had reason to own: A high-power BB rifle and slip-on boots.

I got no small amount of shade walking through the mall with my purchases. One older woman in overalls eyeballed me and sucked her teeth in disapproval. I made sure to give her a sunny smile and a V for victory. Now that I’m home and I have this strange thing next to my bed do I realize that I’ve one more trapping of being a farmer:

20160924_160330
A varmint gun.

The Fish, the Barrel, the Smoking Gun

Recently I listed some furniture for sale on craigslist, including my address and the amount desired. This afternoon I got the following email:

Am still interested in the item, but the only delay i am having now is your mailing address so that i can be able to mail out the payment to you, please kindly get back to me with the following information such as….

Full Name
The Mailing Address including your Zip code
Your cell Phone number as well.
Last Asking Price:

Please kindly get back to me as soon as possible so i will be able to forward the information to my secretary so the payment can be mail out to you.

I will be looking to read from you quickly.

Best regard

My response:

Haha sure why not.

Gristle McThornbody
2600 Marble Ave NE
Albuquerque, NM, USA
87106
No cell.
$500

I suspected that would be the end of it, until:

Your real name is

David Taggart

Delighted, I responded:

NO! Gosh, I always thought I was adopted! How did you know?!?

They weren’t so amused:

You will die i will stangel you with your mothers intestines fuck you

But I’m not letting them get away so easily.

YOU KNOW MY MOTHER?! This is the better news than I could’ve ever hoped for!

Is she pretty? Does she miss me? Does she need furniture too??

Stay tuned boys and girls on this developing family reunion!

Process Documentation as Performance Art

A small excerpt from a guide I wrote this morning:

Setting Session-level credentials in a Browser Driven Script..
Doesn’t work. I opened a case with Vendor A, 12345, in which they said “Talk to Vendor B.” I opened a case with Vendor B, 54321, in which they said, “Talk to Vendor A.”
So don’t ask.

I’m a firm believer that documentation should reflect the character and attitudes of those who write it. I’m still trying to find a way to include “Pipe Wrench” in this morning’s work.

Gawdammit

Microwave: [DIES]

Dave: Welp.

Hannah: We were thinking about buying a new one.

Dave: Maybe it’s got a breaker on the back.

Microwave: “TERRIBLE DEATH IF YOU EVEN POINT A SCREWDRIVER AT ME!”

Dave: Yeah, not gonna risk a cap that could weld my finger to my thumb.

Hannah: You can totally go pick up another one on Thursday.

iFixit.com: Didja replace the fuse?

Dave: It has a fuse?

eBay: Here’s a guide! Did I mention I’ve got aftermarket parts?

Dave: Sooooo I should just disregard the warnings?

Hannah: What’s the worst that can happen? Dead microwave right?

Dave: And little bits of dave scattered all over the house.

Hannah: Just think of the satisfaction you’ll have when you fix it!

Dave: I do enjoy fixing things…

Scooter: DID YOU SAY YOU WANTED SOMETHING TO FIX?!

Scooter: [DIES]

School Spirit

Kid comes to the door: “Ya wanna buy chocolate for a dollar?”
No ‘Hi my name is’, no ‘I’m doing bla for school’, no warmup at all. Just ‘Buy my candy, bitch.’

OK sure I’ll play along. I’ll buy one of your shitty candybars kid. What’s this for?
“Jazz band.”
Nice. Whadya play?
“Bass.”
BASS! Hell yes! You know who Les Claypool is?
“Uh… no?”
WHAAAAAT?!
[QUEUE DAVE HARRASSING A POOR MIDDLESCHOOLER WITH PRIMUS VIDEOS FOR 15 MINUTES]

Weaponized Snacking

So I did a thing where I took a simple recipe and adapted it with a few changes and… aw hell.

I have been teaching myself to bake. First it was biscuits, then it was Focaccia, and now it’s this weird West Virginian thing called a “Pepperoni Roll.” I’m goaded into it by That Girl I Know, so blame her. It’s comin’ on the Holidays, and as the newly minted baker in the Taggart family it’s up to me to keep the table supplied with tasty shiznit. So today being a day off for me, I decided to do some experimentation.

This recipe is dangerous. (more…)

Farmer semantics

“Son, go get me some eatin’ cheese.”

I craned my neck backwards of the armrest of the couch and fixed one eye on my father. “What’d you call it?”

“Eatin’ cheese. I want some cheese to gnaw on, an’ I know your mother went to the store jus’ yestiday.”

“Yeah, that. What the hell is eatin’ cheese, dad? All cheese is meant to be ‘et.”

“No that ain’t true, there’s eatin’ cheese and then there’s cookin’ cheese.”

“Cookin… you mean shredded cheese, pop?”

“Yeah, that’s cheese you cook with.”

“Pop that’s ridiculous, I’ve seen you eat shredded cheese outta the package with both hands. All cheese is meant to be eaten. You wouldn’t say ‘Bring me some welding-cheese’ would you?”

My father sighed, and pointed to the Kitchen. Grumbling, I pulled myself out of the Dave-sized imprint in the couch and padded to the kitchen to fix a nosh plate.

“Bring some pickles and a couple beers while yer up!” he hollered from the living room.