Rainy days and Fridays always get me down

I got up at 6:30 this morning and it was as dark as Mordor outside and bucketing rain, and I thought to myself (because who else would you think to?), “It should be against the law to have to go to work on a Friday like this.”

Your hear that, President Obama? Screw the health-care reform. You want my vote in 2012, you’ll make this happen.

I got in my car and began the torturous drive to work. As anybody who has driven to work in Atlanta knows, 99 percent of the other drivers act as if they have a closed head injury. This is magnified exponentially when there’s a drop of rain on the road, and today it was like God had out the hosepipe.

I often drive into a work via a route that includes Moreland Avenue, past quaint cute little neighborhoods with names like “Grant Park” and “Kirkwood” and my favorite, “The Ghetto.” There’s not much drainage in this area, perhaps because there are dead bodies clogging the drains, so when it rains hard Moreland Avenue becomes an aqueduct. I thought at any moment I would be sucked into a swirling eddy like Marshall, Will and Holly in “Land of the Lost.” Waves were breaking over the hood of the Impala. Scary stuff.

This marked two days in a row of a testy commute. The day before, I was driving home down a road cleverly named “Boulevard.” (I guess “Street” was taken.) This is a little bit of a shortcut, but it runs right past the federal penitentiary and some housing projects, so you have to know how to navigate this stretch safely. In other words, keep the doors locked, don’t get too close to the car in front of you in case somebody tries to carjack you and you need to make a quick getaway, and avoid making eye contact with the hookers in the parking lot of the convenience store. Do all of that and you’re perfectly safe.

But Thursday, I found the way blocked. I saw police cars and a school bus and flashing lights, so I had to take a detour. I think the street I turned on was called “Crackhouse Lane,” but I was driving too fast to read the signs. I got home and watched the local news and learned that a naked man had climbed on the school bus and some kids had jumped off and finally the bus had run into an empty field. The naked man was subdued, and nobody was hurt or impregnated.

I am hopeful that these misadventures will soon stop. I joined in with about 30 co-workers and we pooled together to buy a bunch of lottery tickets for tonight’s $325 million drawing. The odds of winning this are about 1 in 175 million. We have 150 chances to win, which increases our odds to about 1 in 174.99999 million.

Let me tell you something, if we win, this department will be a ghost town Monday morning, especially in the area of my cube. I’m never coming back. They can keep all my stuff, though I would like the Elvis magnet, for sentimental reasons. Everything else I can replace, and I will never get out of bed on a rainy Friday ever again.

Feet don't fail me now

My company brought in a podiatrist on Thursday to give free foot checkups to employees. I take my excitement where I can get it these days.

I have not traditionally paid much attention to my feet. As long as they don’t smell bad and it doesn’t hurt me to walk, I figure they’re ok.

I know a lot of guys these days go get pedicures, and my wife has told me that I should do so, as well. The answer is no. Why don’t you just buy me a poodle and a cardigan and make me watch Dancing With the Stars, while you’re at it.

I remember, as a kid, what my dad’s feet looked like. He didn’t get pedicures. His toenails looked like the trees in the petrified forest. He used a chainsaw to clip them. There were calluses that could stop a bullet. Those were men’s feet.

I subjected my feet to a lot of abuse when I was young, because I didn’t often wear shoes. I learned the art of walking on gravel (step very lightly and slowly), or across hot asphalt (run like somebody is chasing you). I learned it felt good to squish mud between my toes and walk across cool green grass, and it felt bad to step into a pile of fire ants or on a rusty nail.

Going barefoot led to a lot of stubbed toes, or as we called them, stumped toes. Well, whatever you called them, they hurt like crazy, and you always hoped your mama was nowhere near when you did it, because there is no way to stump your toe without immediately screaming a cuss word, or several.

Then there’s that little toe on the end – I believe the technical term is pinky toe, or the last little piggy – and that thing could find the corner of a piece of furniture like a divining rod. I’ve hit that little toe so hard on things before it, it’s a wonder it didn’t just pop right off.

My feet aren’t that bad, but that’s because I lead a cushy life with a soft desk job. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Nobody sees my feet unless I’m at home or at the beach. I don’t wear sandals.

But I needed to go see the podiatrist because I have these two little knots, one on the bottom of each foot, and about half the time it feels like I’m walking on nails. The podiatrist was a very cheerful fellow who told me, between giggles, that I have a corn on one foot, and a plantars wart on the other. He squeezed them, said “I bet this hurts,” and laughed. He needs to work on his stool-side manner.

I asked him if I could just get a pocket knife and cut them off, but he just laughed a little too loud and said, “It won’t do any good, but it will hurt.” While I’ve done many things in my life that fit that description, I think I’ll take his advice and go by the drugstore and see what Dr. Scholl can do for me.

Stop saying that!

I was in a meeting the other day and several times I heard people say, “I don’t disagree with that.”

I’m going to have to insist that this phrase be stricken from the language. It is pointless and idiotic. Just say, “I agree.” You save two syllables and a bunch of letters and in these tough economic times, I think it’s important to be frugal.

I am going to compile a list of phrases and words that should be stricken from the language, and then I am going to work tirelessly to see these new regulations implemented. The penalty for breaking these regulations will be death. No sense monkeying around.

Also on the list is “teachable moment.” After going 44 years without ever hearing this, I have now heard it 7,569 times in the past month. It was recently used to describe the case of the Harvard professor who got arrested. Well, first, a “moment” can’t be teachable. People can be teachable. Dogs can be teachable, though not mine. But a moment can’t be taught. And here’s what incident taught us: Cops can be jerks, so don’t talk back to them. I learned that the hard way one hot afternoon on the streets of Griffin, Ga.

People are now fond of saying, “It is what it is.” This has to be stopped. Now, while I admire “I yam what I yam” as one of the great quotes of all time, “It is what it is” is nonsense, is what it is.

The word “unbelievable” is used way too much, especially in sports. Sportscasters will deem anything even slightly out of the ordinary as “unbelievable.” I think that word should apply to something that is so extraordinary, we don’t believe it. Therefore, Albert Pujols hitting a grand slam is not “unbelievable.” He does it all the time. Now, Ryan O’Neal hitting on his own daughter at his ex-wife’s funeral – ok, that was pretty close to unbelievable.

Sportscasters also like to say, “You have got to be kidding me!” First, let’s drop the word “got” from all phrases like that. AOL helped popularize the misuse of “got” with its signature “You’ve got mail” sign-on, when it should be, “You have mail.” And second, it’s clear nobody’s kidding them. Now, if I were to walk up to you and say, “I’ve just been asked to play guitar with the E Street Band cause Little Steven is quitting,” you’d say, “You have got to be kidding me!” And then I’d admit that, yes, I was kidding you. But we’d get a good laugh out of it.

Finally, consider the phrase, “He wants to have his cake, and eat it too.” This is a stupid phrase. I guess it’s used to indicate that someone is greedy. But I don’t think it’s really over-reaching to expect to eat cake if you have it. Why else would you have it, anyway? What other purpose can cake possibly serve? Maybe it should be, “He wants to eat his cake, and some ice cream, too.” That would be more appropriate.

There are surely more words and phrases we should eliminate. If you have any suggestions, feel free to let me know. I’ll remember you and appoint you to my staff when Obama makes me “Unnecessary Words and Phrases” czar.