15. February 2008 by Steven.

I want to brag about my new job…but will probably do so on Woojew Episode 17. Make sure you come and listen and get all the details why my job is better than yours.

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30. January 2008 by Steven.

It has officially been told to everyone else so now I can share it with the Woojew audience. I put in my two week notice today and start the first NEW job I’ve had since I was 17.

 Also, Episode 14 should be up soon.

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25. January 2008 by Steven.

There’s really nothing else I can say…

Click here

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19. January 2008 by Steven.

1) Answer the questions below
2) Take each answer and type it into Photobucket
3) Take a picture from the first page of results and post.
4) You can’t copy the persons answers who posted this before you!
Age at next birthday: I don’t know what this photo has to do with the number 23 but whatever.

Place you want to visit: Ireland

Favorite Place: Home

Favorite object: Xbox 360

Favorite food: Pizza

Favorite animal: Gnu

Favorite color: Yellow

City you were born in: Arlington…kind of ironic

City you’d like to live in: St. Paul

Former pet’s name: Mister, the family dog

What you desire most: Job

OR

Your nickname: Kirby

Your middle name: Aaron

Your last name: Kirby, I know we did one already, doing another

Your worst habit: Procrastination

Your first job: Kroger, it was this or the logo??

Your grandmother’s name: Monette

Celebrity crush: Jessica Alba

Favorite Drink: Coke Zero

Guilty Pleasure: Wrestling

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17. January 2008 by Steven.

I can’t explain why…yet. But there are reasons for Steven to have an extra bound in his step (at least temporarily). As more details become available I will share them with the Woojew audience.

For now however, everyone just kind of keep their fingers crossed for me. Maybe it will bring me some luck finally.

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10. January 2008 by Steven.

The human body is really an amazing thing…

My dad, at 53 years old or so, had hip replacement surgery on Wednesday morning. He is doing well and the surgery was a success but of course there will be a lot of rehab.

What amazes me is that twice today, a little more than 24 hours after surgery he was up and walking around (6 steps but still).

The human body (not to mention the minds that come up with these kinds of things) is really amazing.

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27. December 2007 by Matt.

So for the next God knows how many days, I have to go to work at the ass crack of the butt crack of dawn… Today and tomorrow I have to appear at 4 a.m. to set what we call “sales planners”.  Basically, these are the displays at the ends of aisles. Then, Tuesday-Friday next week I have to be there at 3 a.m. to be there while my department transitions from Christmas to post-Christmas. Exciting!

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25. December 2007 by Steven.

Found on Fark, not my original work.  

‘It was your dad that answered all those letters that the kids wrote to Santa every year’

Background: Tim Russert’s Wisdom of Our Fathers has hundreds of stories men and women tell about their fathers, including the one below. It’s a remarkable book–to learn more, see my co-authored column America’s Father Hunger (World Net Daily, 10/13/06).

The story below is “The Mail” from John Mooy, of Interlochen, Michigan, about his father mailman Nat Mooy (1905-1985).

“As a young boy, I sometimes traveled the country roads with my dad. He was a rural mail carrier in southwestern Michigan, and on Saturdays he would often ask me to go on the route with him. I loved it. Driving through the countryside was always an adventure. There were animals to see, people to visit, and freshly-baked chocolate-chip cookies if you knew where to stop, and Dad did. We made more stops than usual when I was on the route because I always got carsick, but stopping for me never seemed to bother Dad.

“In the spring, Dad delivered boxes full of baby chicks. Their continuous peeping could drive you crazy, but Dad loved it. When the peeping became too loud to bear, you could quiet them down by trilling your tongue and making the sounds of a hawk. When I was a boy it was fun to stick your fingers through one of the holes in the side of the cardboard boxes and let the baby birds peck on your finger. Such bravery!

“On Dad’s final day of work on a beautiful summer day, it took him well into the evening to complete his rounds because at least one member of each family was waiting at their mailbox to thank him for his friendship and his years of service. ‘Two hundred and nineteen mailboxes on my route,’ he used to say, ‘and a story at every one.’ One lady had no mailbox, so Dad took the mail in to her every day because she was nearly blind. Once inside, he read her mail and helped her pay her bills. And every Thursday he read her the local newspaper.

“Mailboxes were sometimes used for things other than mail. One note left in a mailbox read, ‘Nat, take these eggs to Marian; She’s baking a cake and doesn’t have any eggs, and don’t stop to talk to Archie!’ Mailboxes might be buried in the snow, or broken, or lying on the ground, but the mail was always delivered. On cold days Dad might find one of his customers waiting for him by the mailbox with a cup of hot chocolate. A young girl wrote letters but had no stamps, so she left a few buttons on the envelope in the mailbox; Dad paid for the stamps. One busy merchant used to leave large amounts of cash in his mailbox in a paper bag for Dad to take to the bank. On one occasion, the amount came to $32,000. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true.

“A dozen years ago, when I traveled back to my hometown on the sad occasion of Dad’s death, the mailboxes along the way reminded me of some of his stories. I thought I knew them all, but that wasn’t quite the case.

“As I drove through Marcellus, I noticed to aluminum lamp poles, one on each side of the street, reflecting the light of the late-afternoon summer sun. When my dad was around, those poles supported wooden boxes that were roughly four feet off the ground. One box was painted green, and the other was red, and each had a slot at the top with white lettering: SANTA CLAUS, NORTH POLE. For years children had dropped letters to Santa through those slots.

“I made a left turn at the corner and drove past the post office and across the railroad tracks to our house. Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table when I heard footsteps on our porch. There, at the door, stood Frank Townsend, who had been Dad’s postmaster and great friend for many years. So of course we all sat down at the table and began to tell stories.

“At one point Frank looked at me across the table with tears in his eyes. ‘What are we going to do about the letters this Christmas?’ he asked.

“The letters?”

“I guess you never knew.”

“Knew what?”

“‘Remember, when you were a kid and you used to put your letters to Santa in green and red boxes on Main Street? It was your dad that answered all those letters that the kids wrote every year.’

“I just sat there with tears in my eyes. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine Dad sitting at the old oak table in our basement reading those letters and answering each one. I have since spoken with several of the people who received Christmas letters during their childhood, and they told me how amazed they were that Santa had know so much about their homes and families.

“For me, just knowing that story about my father was the gift of a lifetime.”

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22. December 2007 by Steven.

not mine, but cool

Click for a bigger and easier to read version

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17. December 2007 by Steven.

So there is a website called Fark. And on this website they do contests using Photoshop. Basically a bunch of people take one picture and try to make it funnier. In the event of these there have been a lot of what becomes Fark cliches. There is even a Wikipedia entry on it to explain more if you are interested.

So today I go there and they have a contest where the entrants are supposed to put forth a campaign poster for one of the many Fark cliches.

I almost died laughing when I saw this.

It helps to go back and look at previous entries (eventually it turns into a few guys/girls going back and forth with one another attacking other candidates and stuff, really funny). This is not meant to be in bad taste but merely mocks the media (the essential idea behind Fark).

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