So it looks like the Annoyed Librarian is just sitting on her ass this summer. She's probably in love, taking long walks at sunset, having picnics in the rain, feeding her love dill pickles and listening to Fergie on the Victrola. But checking her site, I saw something that has me posting some old crap I wrote a year or so ago.
She mentions the life expectancy of librarians. I've mentioned this before, but before I wrote this blog, I wrote for another site, which you can see here. All my posts began with, "Get Off Your Ass and..." Eventually, the editor of Game Couch sent me a tee-shirt for my labors. And you know how I feel about tee-shirts (buy one of mine! I still haven't seen one picture of one person or animal wearing one. Look, my email address is right over there; send me something).
When I last checked his site, not one of my articles had a comment on it. For me this means that they haven't been read. Meaning, if I see a comment, I'm done with that item. No comment, and I'll keep pushing that crap until we're both sick of it.
Note: story is old; links are dead.
Get off Your Ass and Get off Your Ass
Like most people, I enjoy sitting on my ass and I need a really good reason to get off it. Between recreational and non-recreational activities, I'm on my ass about eleven hours a day. I'm on my ass a lot at work, and I make a pretty good salary. If I go out drinking, my ass gets a big thumbs up for keeping me on my barstool (not a literal "thumb up my ass," it's not that kind of a bar).
And sometimes I'm just on my ass driving around in my car listening to the groovy band, Thelonious Monster.
Let's face it, on my ass is a good place to be.
The problem with being on my ass is that being on my ass is associated with some of the most common ways I can die. You know that my lifetime odds of dying from falling off a bed, chair or other furniture (like a couch) is 1 in 4,473? That's worse than death from an accidental firearms discharge: 1 in 5,134. I'm safer playing with a loaded gun than just sitting on my ass.
And I'm almost 200 times more likely to get killed from an assault with a firearm than the criminal is likely to be executed. Here's a link to a very attractive graphic on my (and your) odds of dying under various circumstances.
We have a 1 in 7 chance of dying from cancer. The estimated number of deaths from colon & rectal cancer (yes, ass cancer) for 2006 is 55,170: that's more than every other cancer except lung cancer.
Based on these odds, I have to visit the ass doctor and have him poke around my ass to make sure it's okay. This is non-recreational poking. Unless I'm feeling lonely. Then lines get crossed.
However, the odds of death from a foreign body entering through a natural orifice are 1 in 170,367, so my doctor's foreign digit manipulating my fragile posterior could, ironically, do me in. (I wonder if Christopher Walken's Captain Koons knew that when he carried a watch up his ass, "this uncomfortable piece of metal," in Pulp Fiction.)
I like my ass. It's been good to me. My ass keeps my pants from falling down. Like most of my good friends, my ass isn't particularly attractive, but it usually shows up on time. And my ass likes to party.
But I need to do something to get off my ass.
I was thinking about going to Halloween Horror Nights, you know, the big haunted house at Universal Studios. I figured that a bunch of scary monsters running around would keep me on my feet unless I fainted in terror and flopped back down on my ass (death from tripping or stumbling, 1 in 6,278).
But as long as I'm on my ass, I should get back to playing the mini-game, "Car Bomb," in my old copy of Sam and Max Hit the Road (death from explosion of pressurized devices, 1 in 124,936).
