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Monday, May. 12, 2003
In a marked change from the previous entry, e-mail is back up and the archives are, well . . .archived once again.

Sort of.

When the only time you have for updates is on weekends, the mindset required for coding and geek-heavy computer thinking is nearly nil.

I messed around with the archive thing for a while this morning and achieved some measure of a fix up. It’s crude but it works. Never let it be said that I won’t accommodate potential readers with some form of helpful hosting and working HTML. But in my hands, it’s like playing the violin with a 2 x 4.

And for whatever reason it brings to mind my latest favorite / stolen funny. It’s entirely possible that I borrowed it from any one of you. I don’t have any idea where this drifted up from, but as a collector of fine wit, and a geriatric of Olympian girth, it seemed to be the perfect sentiment to express while sitting at the Watering Hole with others of similar grumpy and aging nature.

The last woman I was inside of was the Statue of Liberty.

Naturally, this has a lot more effect when told after the consumption of forty-‘leven beers.

The outpost routinely referred to in these missives as “The Watering Hole” is a mid-sized bar tucked into suburbia with the natural complement of regulars, occasionals, bartenders and waitresses. There is food to be had, and a multitude of beverages, but the attraction is what attracts any group to any bar. The bonhomie produced by adults, by routine and the resultant assholery of same.

I think it must have been Chief Mo, he of previous Outfoxed fame and a legend in the Hole, who dreamt up the latest phrase that has been making the rounds for some weeks now. (The ”Chief” referring to a Navy designation, for those who haven’t been paying attention. I have no idea where the Mo part came into play.)

We were all sitting idly there at the bar, toying with wet napkins tucked under frothy libations and half watching the latest sportscast on the bar TV when Mo strode purposefully into his domain at 5 pm, as he does with a fair degree of regularity. He sat next to Stu and I, promptly coming within a hairs breadth of draining the 12 ounce bottle which had been strategically placed at his elbow approximately 1.5 seconds after he hit the door.

“You know, I had a particularly lousy day,” he observed. “Review boards, helicopters that won’t fly, the Admiral up my ass. It never seems to end. And you know what really steams my yardarm? They all want me to un-fuck it all.”

I was stirred to speech. “They want you to what?”

He pondered, Mo did. “To un-fuck this, to un-fuck that. Everything I get has to be un-fucked.” He waved for emphasis, the now nearly empty bottle of Budweiser tapping ominously on the bar. “I’m not the one screwing stuff up in the first place but it all falls to me to get fixed. Why is that?,” he asked in a tone of wonder. Another short pull on the beverage and the beer was gone. “Take this beer for example. Hey! Can I get this beer situation un-fucked over here?”

The long suffering barkeep leaned deep into the icy draft of the cooler and liberated a fresh long neck for the Chief, who beamed with no little satisfaction. “See? This is one of the easier things to fix. You wouldn’t believe what I have to go through in the course of a day. But it’s all the same story.”

It is, at that. And I’ll alleviate the tendency towards repetitive usage of a fine profanity by unfu*king the phrase over the next few paragraphs. It just seems fitting in this *cough* family oriented forum.

Naturally, the use of the term un-fu*ked reached Microsoft heights nearly immediately. Meaning that if I had owned stock in this particular term, it would have borne positive odds toward my oft dreamt-of early retirement.

We soon unfu*cked everything imaginable. It ran the gamut of things as simplistic as a purchase at Wal-Mart (“We need to un-fu*k that charge for the tin of cashews. Seems mighty high to me . . “) to the more obscure motif of Stu pointing vaguely towards the face of a house we are currently working on and murmuring “We need to un-fu*k that” without so much as a clue as to the true meaning of his gesture.

True to form, the words were enhanced by the coming of gestures to accompany the phrase. An enhancement, so to say. Again, Mo was the inpetus for our derangement.

Pointing at large to an unkempt and slightly swampy Watering Hole bartop, Mo was heard to mutter (rather loudly, I thought) “This needs to be un-fu*ked!” with an odd twisting of two wrists, suggesting the breakage of a large outlay of lumber, or perhaps the twisting of a neck not his own. It was sufficient to send the barkeep scurrying to comply, with a flourish of rag and a spray of disinfectant.

It impressed us enough to toss in the wrist twisting action just for emphasis. “Un-fu*k this!” accompanied by the chilling twisting of necks by thick carpenters wrists, emulating the wringing of a wet dishtowel.

And Lord knows, we used it everywhere. Go up to the bank drive-thru? Problems with the deposit slip? A ringing and hearty ”Un-fu*k this!” would come the rejoinder over the intercom. 18 year old sales clerks with a screwed up order of paint first thing in the morning? “Un-fu*k it! And sharply, mind you!” The application seemed to have limitless possibilities. It became almost mundane, amongst the people who we know and love best. My wife became used to it. Lawn getting a bit long? Kids not taking care of it? “Un-fu*k that!” And the mower would be starting in a trice.

It was a revelation to discover a phrase universally understood.

I mean, it takes very little imagination to convey to even the sedentary of beings what the meaning of unfu*cked means. It carries a weighty image of correcting, making right, and doing so by any means immediately available. We’ve recently added it to our company manual as acceptable technical terminology. Because, hey, who would want to listen to someone bray on about “We need to disassemble that staircase and shave a hair from all the risers and use different tensile strength screws because it squeaks” when you could just as easily say “Un-fu*k that!” and get the same message across? Heaven knows you get the same results.

Which, in this upside down world, is having the satisfaction of being able to protest to the one most nearly your superior “But I told him to un-fuc*k that!” in a supercilious and whiny tone.

Works every time.

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