'Roid Rage

So unlike most of the human race, I have no thyroid gland. This comes as no shock to me, as I was there for the series of operations in which it was removed. Apparently mah 'roid (as I like to refer to it) had a case of what the doctors like to call "thyroid cancer," or some other medical jargon. It's no big. It's one of those cancers that nobody dies from. Well, except Chief Justice Rhenquist, but he had a different flavor of it, and was 43,000 years old.

Once in a while I miss it. The gland, not Rhenquist. Apparently the gland is butterfly shaped. Or at least most are. Mine was more softball shaped (and sized) which rather necessitated the removal. So when I see butterflies or softballs, I think about it.

I've asked for a new one, but I guess they don't transplant those. It's kind of too bad, because I've already got the scar. They might as well swap a new one in. Or a bionic version! That would be totally bitchin'. I'm not sure what a bionic 'roid would get me, but I bet I could fight crime or something with it.

Anyway, it's been a year since mah 'roid shipped out. I amuse myself by envisioning the adventures that my 'roid goes on.

I like to imagine him skiing the slopes at Zermat. Or maybe partying on the beach in Rio. Or even better, seeking out my enemies and jumping out of air ducts, latching onto their faces and tormenting them. That last one is my favorite.

Maybe Disney could make a movie out of it, or something. Some kid finds my 'roid, thinks it's a dog (or whatever), and they become best friends while seeking vengeance against my enemies. Kind of like "Lilo and Stitch" meets "Chuckie".

So anyway, on the first anniversary of being officially 'roid-less, I hope that wherever you're at, my little butterfly shaped buddy, you're raging old school.

LM

Taking it Personally

When I check my hotmail account, I frequently see ads for various personal matchmaking services. And the ads usually run something like this -

Kandi - 25 - Redondo Beach, FL - Kandi enjoys muscle cars, performing oral sex, and three-ways. She's fabulously wealthy, but not too bright, and has no idea what a prenup is.And there's a picture of some pouting blonde with parted lips looking like she's waiting for some porn film director to shout "Action!"

I think that the men that see these ads are supposed to think "Hey, I should subscribe to that service! Then I can meet women like that. I bet beer guts are a huge turn on for her!" When in reality, you couldn't get "Kandi's" attention with a flare gun and a suitcase full of hundreds.

But I bet some men join the dating service, figuring "It has to be kind of true, right?" Then they find out that the service actually has one female client, who's 40, incredibly bitter over her divorce, and devoted beyond all sanity to her chihuahua, El Fuego Nino.

Instead, I suggest that people do what I did. Hang out in a bar until you find a woman who's drunk enough to respond positively to the patented Lance Manion pickup line - "Hey baby, how 'bout it?"

Of course the current system isn't all bad. I do like being able to look at pouting blondes with parted lips and claiming that I'm researching a blog entry.

LM

My Secret Pants

Today I am happy, for I am wearing my secret pants. My secret pants are jeans. The secret of my pants is that they are lined with flannel. My secret pants are both warm and comfortable, like pajamas.

My coworkers today have noticed my serene smile and asked my why I am so happy. I tell them it is because I am wearing my secret pants. I offer to show them the secret of my pants.
Then they say things like "Um... Yeah... I gotta go be someplace else right now."

This does not bother me. My pants are warm and happy.

I also have ultra-secret pants. They are lined with fleece. They are too warm to wear inside except on the coldest days, though.

Tomorrow I'm going to wear my assless chaps. Ain't nothing secret about them.

LM

PS. In response to inquiries, no you can't have my secret pants OR the assless chaps. But you can buy your own (Secret pants, that is. I had to have the chaps custom made.) from LL Bean. Look under jeans.

Return of the Office Ninja

As I write this, I am home scrubbing myself clean. The office ninja has returned, another mission accomplished.

I have decided to take next week off. Rather than actually request the week and have it denied, I decided to simply sneak out and conceal my departure.

"But that's impossible, even for you, Lance!" you might say. And it's impossible for a lot of people. But not the Office Ninja.

My plan started in the conference room, during the weekly status meeting. I hummed a stale bagel across the room, into the head of the marketing VP. As an Office Ninja, I know the many pressure points of the human body. I know the ones that can render a man unconcious instantly. I also know the one that makes the receptionist slap me and call HR.

Anyway, as the marketing VP folded like a deck chair, I slipped under the conference table in the confusion. As the company drones wondered what had become of me, I drew out my White Out of invisibility. By removing my clothes and painting my body, I became perfectly camouflaged. In case you're curious, it takes 119 little jars of white out to assume perfect Office Ninja invisibility.

I then darted out from under the table and ran for it. How my coworkers will wonder at the source of the strange white footprints that appear magically in the hall.

In my cube I have left a humonculous that bears a striking resemblance to me. It's powered by a steam engine that runs off Diet Coke. Whenever somebody approaches, it screams out "C'mere, ya savage love monkey!" I figure that will keep people from approaching too often. And as the piece de resistance it periodically sends out emails to the entire company asking questions like "Bug 43288 - Should we release note this?"

Hell, it will probably be even more productive than me. None shall be the wiser.

LM

I'm a Bad Person, and That's OK

As I've mentioned before, I'm a bad person. I'm okay with this, and don't really feel a need to change. I like it because it gives me a certain degree of personal freedom and a complete immunity to feelings of guilt.

You know, in the movies, where the morally weak character sells out the hero to the bad guys, and then redeems himself by some act of self-sacrifice? I'm kind of like that, except for the part where he later redeems himself. In my movie, you'd see my character flying first class to Europe while the hero is chased down the street by every bad guy in town.

For example, yesterday I was one of many employees teleconferencing with some remote salepeople. I was looking remotely at this guy's computer screen. On his screen, he had a picture of his son, an unattractive boy of about 4.

Because I'm a bad person, I had no problem saying "Damn! That kid is ugly! We're talking scare-a-dog-off-a-meat-truck-ugly! Get that ugly off my screen!"

Because there were many people, and the connection was poor, I was able to remain safely anonymous in the conference call, while creating tension and strife.

So now there are many people arguing, blaming and finger pointing. Plus HR has asked me to write a policy about "proper inter-employee dialog" I plan on including an exception clause for "cases of severe ugly".

It was a good day.

LM

Dougie and the Mixed Nuts Part 2 - Dougie Style

If you're arriving a little late, you should really reading at Dougie and the Mixed Nuts Part 1 - The Adventure Begins.

So where were we? Ah yes, Dougie was on all fours, on the top bunk of a bunk bed, poised to insert three inches of the wide end of a vaseline-lubed pool cue into his rectum.

The football players broke out cameras to commemorate the moment, shooting frame after frame of film. I can only imagine how proud Dougie's parents would have been of their boy at that moment. All we really needed to complete the moment was the theme from 2001 in the background.

Unfortunately, it was at this point that the whole enterprise hit a snag. Dougie couldn't get the leverage to insert the pool cue. Apparently a lubricated pool cue is difficult to manipulate from behind with one hand. I pray I never share this bit of knowledge and have to explain how I know.

As Dougie patiently explained, it was a matter of angle and leverage and weight. Somebody else would need to... um... drive.

This new development was met with a lengthy silence, followed by a lot of throat clearing and looking around. Rob and paused in our efforts to jimmy the window open. What would happen next?

It was at this point that the football players lost their nerve and backed out of the deal. Nobody was willing to be known as the guy who put Dougie behind the eight ball.

They took their money back and said that they wouldn't pay. Dougie then refused to jam a pool cue up his butt. And everyone was a little embarrassed.

Like many such tales of alcohol-fueled freakiness, the next morning was a touch awkward. Nobody really much wanted to talk about it. No one except, strangely enough, Dougie.

Dougie took great pains to point out that it wasn't his fault that the probing fell through. That he would have jammed that pool cue up is butt, no doubt about it. And that he remained prepared to do so for a price.

I think his logic was that he would make it clear that he didn't wuss out. That he was more of a man than the football players. Unfortunately, the result was that everyone made a mental note to never, ever, ever, be in the same room as Dougie, ever again.

Epilogue: Dougie now teaches elementary school. Really. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

LM

You are cordially invited to the wedding of friend A and friend B. Hash brownies will be provided.

Sorry I've been slow about posting lately. Mrs. Manion has had to be on campus for 9 AM each day this week, and it's killing me. Getting from Ashby to Cambridge means getting up at about 5:30 AM. I am so not a morning person.

But you know, come to think of it, I'm not sorry. Because I'm a bad person and I'm okay with that. And right now I'm a bad person on about 436,000 milligrams of caffeine. I'm not sure what that's going to get me (other than the foaming, twitching, and desire to rip my own head off). I'll keep you posted.

In the mean time, you're probably dying to know what we got up to this weekend. Well, we attended a wedding, along with 50,000 uninvited guests. A friend of Mrs. Manion's got married this weekend. She and her fiance rented a lovely old mansion right on Boston Common. They were fortunate to be able to rent the building on fairly short notice.

So Mrs Manion and I got all dressed up and came into the city. We parked far away and took the subway in. We got out at Boston Common. As we're walking along toward the mansion, we noticed that there seemed to be an unusually large police presence. And they weren't even there for me. Turns out I spent twenty minutes hiding in a dumpster for no reason at all.

There were thousands of people, two stages, bands, incense vendors, and an overwhelming scent of low grade marijuana.

Yes, it turns out that this weekend was indeed Boston HempFest '05. Yes, that was why the mansion was available. So as the vows were exchanged, you could occaisionally hear the lead singer of Saliva Zone scream out "WHO WANTS TO GET HIGH?" or "DON'T LET THE MAN HARSH YOUR BUZZ! LEGALIZE!"

For added entertainment, the reception now also featured hacky-sack circles, hair braiding, drumming, and henna tattoos. Pretty sweet if you asked me. And I think I got a contact high.

The bride, on the other hand, was less amused. But after a few hits, she was cool with it. The wedding favors were personalized bongs. Or at least I think that's how I ended up with a personalized bong. Not sure. It's a little hazy.

Good times, people. Good times...

LM

Texas Toad

So my hit counter tells me that the Texas Attorney General's office has been to my site. They Googled the string "Brazilian Toad". The best part is that I'm not making this up!

I think this is just great. Seriously! Law enforcement is now visiting me. I couldn't be more proud.

Either that or they're investing me. Again.

Sigh. I guess it's time to go move the bodies...

LM

Yeah? Well, release this!

Right now my project is to write a set of release notes. You'd think that was pretty easy. Just write down what's new and what doesn't quite work right. Unfortunately, the Marketing department believes that my document has the magical power to make things go away. So we have conversations like this.

Evil Marketing VP "I see that we can't display reports in Japanese"

LM "Nope."

EMVP "Can you take that note out?"

LM "Sure. But it's going to be a nasty surprise to the Japanese."

EMVP "I see. Yeah, let's take that note out."

LM "You do understand that taking the note out doesn't actually change anything. The reports still won't display in Japanese."

EMVP "I understand that. It's a matter of perception."

So apparently we'd like to give the Japanese the perception that we don't actually test the product. My whacky belief that this might be a bad thing is probably why I make the small bucks.

So for those of you who'd someday like to join the hallowed ranks of the professional technical writer, here's the Lance Manion guide to writing release notes:

There are three types of notes, Broke Things, Things that used to be Broke, and New things that will probably get Broke. In the notes we call them Known Issues, Resolved Issues, and Enhancements.

Let's start from the bottom, shall we?

Enhancements - You want this to be the longest section, so you grab everything you can think of. Is the background a different color? Great! Interface updated for increased readability. Or something. If all else fails, make features up. I'm personally responsible for a set of process control software out in the world that cures herpes. It's not like anybody reads this stuff.

Resolved Issues - These are easy. Generally you're writing something to the effect of "The application is now compatible with 7200 RPM hard drives." What this really means is "Your computer will no longer make a hideous screeching noise before setting your hard drive on fire and shooting it out the window."

Known Issues - These are the toughest to write (or, as hackers would say, These are t3h Suxx0R") What you have to do here is describe everything that doesn't work in the product. Now some people might ask "But Lance, if it doesn't work, why are we releasing the product at all?" Beats the hell out of me. I just bang the words together, you know? Here you write things like "In rare cases, the archiving stored procedure may corrupt the user ID tables. Be sure to backup your database nightly." What this means is this "If you so much as look at the server crosseyed, it's replacing all of your most valuable data with porn."

And in an enterprise level application, you'll have to document about 150 of these bad boys. In a day. And people wonder why I drink 43 liters of Diet Coke a day.

Coming tomorrow "Dougie and the Mixed Nuts part 2 - Provocative Photos!"

LM

"Kaboom!" Or "Rhode Island Teen Attempts to Detonate Handicapped Concert-Goers"

So I'm here at Penetrode listening to "Little T&A" by the Rolling Stones. It's one of their better songs that never gets played on the radio. You can probably guess why.

I'm trying to decide what to tell y'all about today. It was going to be the fine art of writing release notes, but somehow I think I'm the only one interested in that sort of thing.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about the first rock concert I ever attended. The year was 1990. Billy Joel fever was sweeping the nation, along with his Storm Front tour. Yeah!

Unfortunately, at the time Sonny Crockett, my brother and comrade in arms, had just gotten out of the hospital. He was injured while saving a minivan full of Playboy Playmates from a gang of neo-nazi biker pit bulls. At least that's what he tells people. Although he could walk, his doctor advised that he sit in a wheelchair for the concert.

The Providence Civic Center was pretty good about relocating our tickets to the, um, handicapped section. I'll tell you, that was a scary place. I mean, my brother was sitting a little funny, but otherwise looked fine. Some of the other people in this section had entire life support systems strapped under their wheelchairs and looked like they wouldn't make it past "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant". I began to imagine the conversations that led to their concert attendance "Dammit, Doctor! My cancer may be terminal, but I need to see Billy before I go!"

Anyway, we were watching the concert and things were going well. At one point during "Only the Good Die Young" I started to stand, but then I realized that I was pretty much the only one in my section who could, so I sat back down. I would hate for people to be thinking "Oh, yeah, look at him. Thinks he's so cool, all standing and shit..."

The concert continued, and Billy launched into "Goodnight Saigon," his ode to the soldiers who fought in Vietnam. "Well," I thought, "Maybe I can't stand, but I can at least wave my lighter in the air." I don't smoke. Never have. (Except for a cigar or two a year) But I always bring a lighter to concerts. I just like the idea of waving an open flame around in public. I'd bring a propane torch if they'd let me.

So I fire up my lighter and start waving it around with tremendous gusto. And all hell breaks loose. Turns out that a lot of the people in this section have their own oxygen tanks. For those of you who slept through science class, exploding oxygen tanks are what blew up that Valuejet plane in Florida years ago.

So we've got a bunch of handicapped people fleeing the arena as fast as their batteries will carry them. We were the only ones left in our section.

I didn't really understand what had happened until security confiscated my lighter. At least we got to see the rest of concert.

Coming soon - Lance and Sonny go to a David Bowie concert and ask the crucial questions - "What is that stuff they're smoking? And why does it smell so weird?"

LM

Enemies List

When I was in first grade, it was briefly cool to write down a list of your enemies. After a few days, the school forbade us from creating these lists. Then their popularity really took off.

So it's been a couple of decades, but I've decided to create a new enemies list. I publish it now for your reading pleasure.

1. Dharmender, the QA intern

Now, you're probably saying, "Lance, your fury burns with the white hot rage of a thousand suns. Why is only Dharmender singled out for your crushing vengeance?" And the answer is fairly simple. Although my job title is senior technical writer, this is only because the admin misspelled my actual title. In reality my title is somthing like "drone/bottomfeeder"

Thus the only person currently within my somewhat limited grasp is Dharmender. Now there's not much point in having an enemies list unless you can crush the person or persons on it. So I'm kind of sorry that it has to be Dharmender, but such is life.

Or in Dharmender's case such is the hideous random vengeance for no apparent reason, but you know what I mean.

LM

So, What Do You Look Like?

Many of our faitful readers write in asking what I and Mrs. Manion look like. It's an obvious question. I mean, I'm often curious what other bloggers look like. So I went out and rooted around for a photo or two. Here you go.

And before you ask, no, this photo was not taken on the set of a porn film or a cigarette ad. I was just feeling very seventies that day. And yes, Mrs. Manion digs on the big freaky hats. She's strange like that.

What do you mean you don't think I look anything like that? Fine. Be that way. I just like that photo and will be using at the representation of me for the forseable future. It was either that or my mug shot. And due to the pepper spray I'm looking kind of rough in that one.

Dammit people, this is the internet, and it's my god given right as an American to blatantly mispresent myself to others. Just be thankful I'm limiting it to photos and not shilling for donations because of my incredibly rare (and almost certainly fatal in the event of insufficient donations) case of Yohimbe Syndrome. I'm just saying.

LM

You Asked For It!

Nay, you demanded it! So here you go. Part 1 of the harrowing true story of Dougie and the Mixed Nuts. Be sure to stretch before reading.

LM

Dougie and the Mixed Nuts - The Adventure Begins

Once upon a time, when I college, I went abroad to study theater in London. One of my roommates at the time was the beautiful yet deadly Amandarama. She can vouch for the accuracy of the tale you are about to read.

In an effort to show us some of the British countryside, the college sent us all on an overnight trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon. We stayed in a hostel just outside town. All the guys were in one room, and all the girls in another. Now might be a good time to introduce the cast of characters.

Four football players, AKA The Football Quad - Names are kind of unimportant. They were basically four of the same guy, members of the underground Lambda Chi Alpha frat, and only on the theater program because all the other study abroad programs involved languages other than English.

Rob - One of my other roommates. Another theater major, who for reasons unknown, always traveled with a jar of vaseline.

Me - Your host, Lance Manion. Intelligent, sexy, debonair...

Dougie - Short, pudgy, bisexual, and so hairy that he would get stuck in pool filters.

Amandarama - Not really involved in the story, but would be hurt if I didn't include her in the cast of characters.

So we're collectively stranded in Stratford Upon Avon, UK. Stratford, home to William Shakespeare, is not a happening place after dark. So we split into our collective groups and got into some serious pubbing. My friends and I were pretty light duty about it. We'd had a hard couple of days before and took it easy. Dougie and the football quad took the other approach, and pounded hard. They were blasted out of their collective minds by the time they got back to the hostel.

So Rob and I are sitting in this room full of wasted guys. There's nothing left to do but go to sleep. Or is there?

One of them drops his boxers, grabs his scrotum and start screaming "Mixed nuts, Dougie! Mixed nuts! Put 'em in ya mouth!"

Apparently throughout the evening the football players have been asking Dougie what he would charge for various sex acts. In case you're curious, here are the prices:

• Hand job - 40
• Oral - 80
• Playing "Stuff the Dougie" - 200

At first everything seems okay. A little weird, but okay. Rob and I are a little unnerved, but figure, "Hey, at least they're not looking at us."

Haggling ensues. Dougie refuses to budge on his price points. He drives a hard bargain, that Dougie.

Eventually, a football player notices a pool cue in the corner of the room. Not expecting a serious response he asks "How much?" At this point, me and Rob are becoming concerned. Suddenly it dawns on everyone in the room (except Dougie, who already knew) that Dougie is willing to sodomize himself with sporting goods in exchange for cash. As Shakespeare once said, "What brave new world is this that has such creatures in it?"

Dougie raises the following questions:

• Wide end or skinny end?
• Lubed or dry?

Fortunately, Rob brought a jar of vaseline, which he contributed to the effort. When asked later why he volunteered the vaseline, Rob had this to say:

"If it all went to hell and we ended up getting buttfucked by a bunch of football players, I wanted them to at least be lubed."

To this day, I appreciate that Rob took the long view there, and I try to live my life by these words.

After further haggling, Dougie agreed to either three inches of the wide end, or five inches of the skinny end for 60 pounds. Of course, this was the lubed price - dry was 20 pounds extra. The football players assembled the requisite sixty pounds and a jar of vaseline. A deal was struck.

It was about this point that Rob and I decided that it was time to start knotting the sheets together for out escape. My luggage be damned, I didn't want some football player deciding that Dougie wasn't enough.

Coming soon, Dougie Part 2, "Provocative Photos"