Encore post: Ass scratching' nomad

Before I tell you how "ass scratchin' nomad" became my new favorite saying, let's talk about the picture.

If you're a regular reader—and if you are you should get out more often—you know each post usually has a large, relevant photo centered at the top.

But I felt, and I believe you will too, that no one needed to see this particular picture any larger than it is.

Just so you know, the photo isn't of the person I'll be talking about. Butt the action is (see what I did there?).

Because our agency has grown so fast, there are now more people than there is space for them all (still waiting for them to ask me for recommendations about who to tie the can to-don't get me started). Anyway, an individual at my agency, who doesn't have an actual desk or workspace to call his own, wanders around from desk to desk and person to person doing whatever the fuck it is he does there.

So get this: apparently while he was discussing business with someone at the agency, he was leaning on the end of their desk, with his elbows in front of him, and his low-riding blue-jeaned derriere sticking out in the aisle between desks.

And while that may have been a comfortable position for him to discuss business, it wasn't exactly the best view for the individual sitting at the desk directly behind him.

Little did they know the view was about to get a lot worse.

Apparently Mr. No Office had an itch to scratch. So, being cultured and part of polite society, he quickly excused himself, went to find some privacy in the men's room, and discreetly attended to the need.

I'm just messin' with you. He crammed his hand down his pants, under the waistband, and scratched his sweaty, unwashed ass for longer than anyone wanted to watch.

It's the kind of slick move legends are made of. It's also the kind of story that spreads like wildfire through an agency.

I share an office just down the way from where the ass-scratching incident occurred. With me in our one-window, no-view office are three roommates. One of them happens to be an extremely funny writer. Wait, I meant another extremely funny writer.

When the story of the ass scratching eventually made its way to our office, my fellow writer was mortified. She couldn't believe someone would do that kind of thing out in the open for everyone to see. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something to the effect of, "As if the job isn't hard enough, now I have to worry about seeing some ass-scratchin' nomad when I'm walking in the office."

BAM! My new favorite phrase was born.

If you know anything about me, you know I'll often take a phrase or joke I like, hang on to it like a rodeo rider and run it into the ground until people know I'm going to say it before I do. If you think I'm kidding, go back through my posts and see if you can count how many times you see the words "high school girlfriend."

True to form, every day since I heard it, I've been trying to work "ass scratchin' nomad" into my office conversation at least once a day.

So thank you to my writer roommate for a line I'm having immense fun with, and that cracks me up every time I think about it.

When we were discussing the event, someone said the moral of the story is if you're going to scratch an itch like that, maybe you ought to find a more discreet place to do it. But I think that's all wrong.

The moral of the story is don't shake hands with him.

Ass scratchin' nomad

Before I tell you how "ass scratchin' nomad" became my new favorite saying, let's talk about the picture.

If you're a regular reader—and if you are you should get out more often—you know each post usually has a large, relevant photo centered at the top.

But I felt, and I believe you will too, that no one needed to see this particular picture any larger than it is.

Just so you know, the photo isn't of the person I'll be talking about. Butt the action is (see what I did there?).

Because our agency has grown so fast, there are now more people than there is space for them all (still waiting for them to ask me for recommendations about who to tie the can to-don't get me started). Anyway, an individual at my agency, who doesn't have an actual desk or workspace to call his own, wanders around from desk to desk and person to person doing whatever the fuck it is he does there.

So get this: apparently while he was discussing business with someone at the agency, he was leaning on the end of their desk, with his elbows in front of him, and his low-riding blue-jeaned derriere sticking out in the aisle between desks.

And while that may have been a comfortable position for him to discuss business, it wasn't exactly the best view for the individual sitting at the desk directly behind him.

Little did they know the view was about to get a lot worse.

Apparently Mr. No Office had an itch to scratch. So, being cultured and part of polite society, he quickly excused himself, went to find some privacy in the men's room, and discreetly attended to the need.

I'm just messin' with you. He crammed his hand down his pants, under the waistband, and scratched his sweaty, unwashed ass for longer than anyone wanted to watch.

It's the kind of slick move legends are made of. It's also the kind of story that spreads like wildfire through an agency.

I share an office just down the way from where the ass-scratching incident occurred. With me in our one-window, no-view office are three roommates. One of them happens to be an extremely funny writer. Wait, I meant another extremely funny writer.

When the story of the ass scratching eventually made its way to our office, my fellow writer was mortified. She couldn't believe someone would do that kind of thing out in the open for everyone to see. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something to the effect of, "As if the job isn't hard enough, now I have to worry about seeing some ass-scratchin' nomad when I'm walking in the office."

BAM! My new favorite phrase was born.

If you know anything about me, you know I'll often take a phrase or joke I like, hang on to it like a rodeo rider and run it into the ground until people know I'm going to say it before I do. If you think I'm kidding, go back through my posts and see if you can count how many times you see the words "high school girlfriend."

True to form, every day since I heard it, I've been trying to work "ass scratchin' nomad" into my office conversation at least once a day.

So thank you to my writer roommate for a line I'm having immense fun with, and that cracks me up every time I think about it.

When we were discussing the event, someone said the moral of the story is if you're going to scratch an itch like that, maybe you ought to find a more discreet place to do it. But I think that's all wrong.

The moral of the story is don't shake hands with him.

Bad advice

So the wife and I are at a dog show a few years ago, looking around, deciding what breeds we might be interested in. Obviously this was before we knew how awesome German Shepherds are.

Since we're both fans of the larger breeds, we found ourselves talking to this short, extremely buff guy who bred Mastiffs. Now, large is an understatement when it comes to describing the Mastiff. They're gentle giants, and the one he happened to be holding on a thin show leash weighed 240 lbs. If the Mastiff had stood up on his rear legs, with his front paws on the guy's shoulders, the dog would've towered over him.

He asked me if I'd like to hold onto the leash and I took it. Then he started to walk away from us. At that point, the dog decided to follow his owner. I pulled back on the leash with almost all my strength, and that's when I saw the thought bubble appear over the dog's head. I believe it said, "Weak, puny man. Do you really think you can control me?"

Which if I'm not mistaken is also what my high school girlfriend told me. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, the dog didn't skip a step or break a sweat in dragging me back over to his owner.

I asked the breeder when the last time was that he locked a door at his house. He said, "Well, we have nine of the boys in the house. I don't think I've locked a door in twenty-five years. Don't even have a car alarm on the van. When the Mrs. has to go to the store, she always just takes one of the boys with her."

Then, just out of curiosity, I asked him how he'd get the dog to let go if he was biting someone. And I think it's safe to say I got an answer I never would've expected.

He pulled an unsharpened #2 Ticonderoga pencil I hadn't noticed before out of his pocket, and he said, "If he's biting someone, you just take one of these, lift up his tail and put it up his butt. That'll get his attention."

Well, yeah.

I've done a lot of things I never thought I'd do in my life. We had a cat that I had to give subcutaneous IV fluids to every day of her life for a kidney disease. Then, as she got older and more infirm, I actually had to give her daily enemas because she was constipated.

Clearly I'm not skittish about caring for my animals.

But I'm here to tell you, of all the things I never need to experience, I'm pretty sure it's being the guy sticking a pencil up the butt of a 240 lb. Mastiff who's already pissed off.

For a lot of reasons, the wife and I wound up not getting a Mastiff. I'm sure they're great, loyal, sweet dogs. But then most dogs are.

Right up until you reach for the pencil.

Things I was wrong about: Butt heaters

This time, I think I've stumbled on to a series that, as my wife would be the first to point out (can I get an "Amen" from the husbands), will give me a limitless supply of material to drone on about.

Joining the already wildly popular series on this site like Don't Ask, Guilty Pleasures, Things I Love About Costco and What Took So Long is now Things I Was Wrong About.

First up, car butt heaters.

I used to laugh at people who raved about butt heaters in their car seats. After all, it's not like we live in Minnesota. It just seemed like a useless option no one needed, a waste of money and a car fire just waiting to happen.

That is, it seemed like that until I finally got a car that had them.

Suddenly, magically, I couldn't get enough of those frigid Southern California nights, you know, where the temperature plummets to around 58 degrees. With my driver's seat butt heater set on high, driving on chilly nights became a comfy, cozy ride that I wanted to go on for as long as possible. Especially since on my car, the heat also extends to the mid and lower back. Which, if you've never experienced it, is just a little bit of heaven on wheels.

As the seat warms up, so does my attitude behind the wheel. The asshats who text while they drive, the people not signaling when they turn or change lanes, drivers with the eternal turn signal or just plain slow drivers seem to bother me a little less when my butt is warm.

I'm pretty sure Einstein had a theory about that. Look it up.

So I'll just say it. I was wrong about butt heaters. It's one of those things, like remote controls and GPS navigation systems (by the way, watch for those items in future installments), I didn't know I couldn't live without.

Until I didn't have to.