Froehliche Weihnachten faithful readers! Many of you have requested I divulge information regarding the Schrute familyâ€™s annual Christmas traditions. Initially I thought, what my family does in the privacy of our compound does not concern you, but then I had a change of heart after watching a special Christmas television program with Mose. In the program, a skinny green monster impersonated Santa Claus, broke into the homes of an entire village, and repeatedly committed felony burglary. I realized that this sort of lawless behavior is lauded by our society as exemplifying the â€śChristmas spiritâ€ť and it made me sick. So rather than stand by idly and watch mankind continue to emulate the skinny green Christmas monster, Iâ€™ve decided to share my familyâ€™s Christmas customs in the hopes that they may serve to exemplify the true meaning of the â€śChristmas spirit.â€ť
Christmas Eve is a particularly holy night for my family. An Austrian priest, Joseph Mohr, penned a poem exploiting my familyâ€™s tradition of the â€śSilent Night.â€ť As the title suggests, no one is allowed to speak or make any noise, without facing the bitter taste of the switch. The satisfaction we all got when someone accidentally spoke and was switched is still one of the greatest memories of my childhood.
Our Christmas day traditions are pretty mainstream. We wake up early to exchange small, handmade wooden presents and to slaughter our dinnerâ€”the Christmas goat. And of course, if a Schrute has been particularly good that year, then Kris Von Kindl fills his stockings with coal, a highly desired source of fuel during long, cold Pennsylvania winters.
And since our Christmas festivities are so much fun, we carry them on for another day, which we call, â€śBoxing Day.â€ť In between feasting and personal meditation, the day is spent engaging in fierce hand-to-hand combat with our loved ones. Unresolved familial issues that have crept up over the course of the year get settled once and for.
Thus, after three gruelingly delightful days spent internalizing the Christmas virtues (love, obedience, and endurance), our family is ready to ring in the New Year with the true Christmas spirit etched into the musculature of our hearts.
May you and yours have the best of battles this holiday season,
Dwight K. Schrute.
Surrounding us are networks of undercover agents that go undetected by the average citizen. I, however, am not the average citizen. I have the rare ability to detect spies using a finely honed sense of paranoia. This gift never fails me, as demonstrated a couple weeks ago when Mose and I came across some spy equipment.
We were completing our weekly militia training (which we see as fulfilling an American duty) in the woods. While doing our usual rife drills, I instinctively missed the target (a scarecrow dressed as Sean Penn). My bullet ricocheted off a tree in the woods with an alarming â€śding.â€ť In an instant Mose and I were on the ground with our rifles pointed. We cautiously crawled toward the tree for inspection. It looked like this:
Initially we thought it was a camouflaged nuclear anthrax rocket, or anthrax rocket with a conventional warhead, or, perhaps, most disturbingly, an actual metal tree. But after hours of poking it with a stick and throwing rocks at it, it became obvious that it was a device used to spy on me. Clearly the work of the Russians, Russian Separatists, Al Qaeda, Jim, We Got the Beets (a rival beet supplier), or some combination thereof.
Ever since I checked out Harriet the Spy from the library for Mose, Iâ€™ve suspected that I was under surveillance. After dark, Mose and I crept into the woods and took down the tree. Breaking through the surrounding wires and cement was not an easy task, in part because Mose digs with his hands and teeth.
The following day, the police blotter of the local paper listed a report that someone had vandalized an artificial tree that served as a cellular phone company antenna. Since wireless providers have 128,000 antennas made to look like trees across the country, this seemed plausible. A little too plausible if you ask me. Thus further investigation will continue.
A month ago, my lazy sloth of a Great Uncle, Stoffel, invaded my home. Schrutes are obligated to provide lodging for family members, so long as theyâ€™re willing to hunt, slaughter, and/or cure meat in exchange for their room and board. Stoffel refuses to do any work of any kind. He just sits around on our wolverine-skinned couch, drinking tea, reading books, and shivering. The man is truly a 104 year-old menace to society and an example of what happens when a Rumspringa lasts from the Roaring Twenties through the Swinging Sixties.
Stoffelâ€™s continued hedonistic lifestyle is a symptom of a pandemic sweeping the globe: with the spread of modern medicine, the elderly continue to live longer and longer, surviving despite their deteriorating bodies and minds, and burdening society with their â€śneedsâ€ť (Note: insulin is a privilege not a right). A person should only exist as long as he proves beneficial to his community. Schrute children adhere to this rule by the age of 6 or else theyâ€™re permanently reassigned to a weaker, more tolerant family. So why canâ€™t old people abide?
Unfortunately, humanity seems to lack the backbone to demand that the elderly continue to contribute until they terminate. Instead we both indulge their laziness and demean them, locking them away in retirement homes while they slowly rot in a medicated stupor. The thought seems to be, the elderly, like most minority groups, enjoy being grouped together in a designated living area. But what if we stripped them of their pills and deprived them of their Rascal scooters, perhaps the elderly would stand up and face death like a man: head on, in a battle royal. Win or lose, theyâ€™d be more alive than they are now, even if the exertion caused them to cease living.
Iâ€™m proposing we take all the seemingly washed-up old geezers sucking at societyâ€™s teat like wrinkled old leaches and put them on some remote island. There, they would compete for survival in a format not un-like the popular television program Survivor, only there would be no challenge rewards, medical assistance, or immunity. Just old men and women working together to battle time and Mother Nature, reliving their glory days in some treacherous tropical paradise.
Some would surely die, many immediately, but at least they would die with dignity. Plus there would be those that rise to the occasionâ€”that fight and triumph against the odds. They would of course be welcomed back to our youthful society as conquering heroes, free to live out their days however they see fit. I only pray that if my body ever shows any signs of corrosion, that Iâ€™m given such an opportunity. Thereâ€™s no way Iâ€™m going out like old Stoffel, annoying my relatives as I slowly expire. Better to die living my life with honor: sabotaging my opponents, crushing my competition, and surviving no matter what the costs.
Although I may not agree with all polices made by the government, I still try to respect them. I oppose bans on AK47s, but I abide (even though they would come in handy when Wilson Farms inevitably attacks). I begrudgingly pay my income taxes. I try to tolerate a womanâ€™s right to vote. But restrictions on oneâ€™s property rights are something I cannot accept. I believe it is every Americanâ€™s right to do with their land what they please. That is what our forefathers believed. That is what Davy Crockett believed. I believe thatâ€™s what Clint Eastwood believes. I wish Dale Hegarty, the Wayne County zoning officer, honored this view, but he does not. Instead of respecting an Americanâ€™s property rights, Mr. Hegarty chooses to stifle our freedoms by requiring us to get ridiculous permits. Did Gutzon Borglum need a permit before he carved Mount Rushmore? Probably not.
I want to build a moat around Schrute farm for 6 reasons. 1) It would discourage trespassers (Iâ€™ve had it with the pilgrims that mistake our farm for a satellite of the Yearning for Zion Ranch). 2) Adding a moat would drive the local agrotourism community wild. Then I can add a â€śPrivate Beachâ€ť to our list of amenities. 3) The farmâ€™s waste needs to go somewhere else. 4) My piranhas are out growing their tank and need to learn how to hunt for themselves. 5) Mose has the habit of chasing butterflies into the woods and getting lost. A moat surrounding the farm should keep him from wandering as he developed aquaphobia last summer when he tried to play with his reflection in the pond down the road and nearly drowned. 6) The last and most obvious reason for a moat would be to protect the farmhouse. Without it weâ€™re vulnerable to invaders, be it the beet weevil, Wilson Farms or the French. Despite the apparent need for a moat, the zoning officer prohibited me from filling my hole up with water. That idiot deemed the soft earth surrounding the house as â€śunstable quicksand,â€ť and â€śgeologically unfitâ€ť for a moat. Hogwash.
What the zoning officer fails to understand is that I come from a long line of moat diggers. It was my ancestors that constructed the moat surrounding Heinzburg Castle, which was the toast of Bavaria until the castle sank with the queen in it. And it was my uncle, Barnabas Schrute, that dug the first moat in Honesdale. Iâ€™m proud to say four trespassers have died in it and counting. Moat digging is in my blood, so it troubles me that a zoning officer with no history of moat engineering can decide whether or not I am allowed to build a moat. What does he care anyway? Should anyone drown in the moat Iâ€™ll be the one held accountable. Mose knows how to perform CPR and, if need be, how to embalm a body. If something happens to any of the guests staying at the bed & breakfast weâ€™re legally covered; at check-in theyâ€™re required to sign a 33 page waiver. I am a responsible land owner and moat digger, so I take great offense to a system that allows a loser like Mr. Hegarty to compromise my property rights by telling me what I can and cannot build. If the house collapses into the moat and we all die itâ€™s my problem not Daleâ€™s - and itâ€™s my right to have that problem. I think the zoning officer is just jealous because he doesnâ€™t even own the land his house is on. Well, screw you Dale! Your wifeâ€™s fat and your barn sucks!
Every summer since before I was even a young Schrute, my family has dug out an area in the Northwest fields to use as a swimming hole. We fill it with water and a variety of unmarketable beets (to use as flotation devices) and then all of the Schrute children are allowed to visit the pool once a week. Swimming in Schrute Hole is purely for instructional purposes. Since the loss of poor Great Cousin Cordula to a horrific drowning accident in Lake Wallenpaupack back in the early Sixties, it is a family requirement that all Schrute children learn how to swim. Unfortunately for me, I hate swimming.
My swimming lessons were simultaneously extensive and short-lived. I was eight years old, which is the age all Schrutes begin their aqua-training. From the very moment I was thrown into the center of the swimming hole, I knew that I was not meant to be a swimmer. As with all things for Schrute children, however, I had no choice in the matter. My father took on the role of swim instructor and began teaching me. I hated every second of it except for the fact that it was the first occasion I had ever spent time alone with Father.
After the first day, I had to hide in the barn because I didnâ€™t want anyone to see me crying. Crying leads to shunning and at that point, I had already had all the shunning a young boy needs. The process of swim instruction usually takes three full months of weekly three-hour sessions at Schrute Hole. During my second lesson, I was having such a miserable time that I decided to defy my father. Instead of treading water, I sank to the bottom of the swimming hole and dug my heels into the mud. Faced with the choice of letting his strongest son drown or teaching me a lesson for defying him, Father made an incredibly wise decision. He allowed me to stay down there long enough to pass out, but then jumped in and brought me back to consciousness once back on dry ground. When the shock of almost dying wore off, I offered my father a compromise. I would complete the entire Schrute Swimming Course if he could condense it into a weekâ€™s worth of lessons. Much to my surprise, he agreed. For the next week, before and after the farm work was completed, I took the full battery of swimming lessons. At the end of the week, not only was I a proficient swimmer, I was an incredible swimmer. And I hated every second of it.
Ever since then, I have not stepped foot in a swimming area of any sort â€“ be it pool, hole, or anything else. Yes, I was accidentally driven into a lake once, but that was not my choice. Being a hero that day was also not my choice, but I accept it for what it is.
I donâ€™t know exactly what it is about swimming that I dislike so much. I believe it has something to do with the fact that I was often left in the bathtub in my youth and forgotten about. The terrible memories of my skin wrinkling until it could wrinkle no more are enough to make me avoid any large collection of water. Other than that, I think there are more issues at play. For most of my life, family members have told me that I quite resemble Great Cousin Cordula, especially in the mouth area. Her lips were apparently very admirable. Sometimes, Grandmutter would say that she can sense a little bit of Cordula in me and I think Iâ€™ve always been afraid that she was right. If Cordulaâ€™s spirit is in me, I have subconsciously believed that I could befall the same fate as her. This is all a stupid psycho-babble way of saying that I donâ€™t swim because I donâ€™t want to die.
So now, the only time I spend at Schrute Hole is when Mose wants to go swimming. I dutifully stand by as his lifeguard, because, in truth, Mose is my favorite companion at home and I would hate to see him die a terrible soggy death. It is the image of Mose drowning in that murky water that makes me such a vigilant, amazing lifeguard.
Today you have seen into the darkest places of my heart. Donâ€™t think that this will become a regular occurrence.
Yours in Text,
Dwight K. Schrute
Attention readers: this web log will be doubling as a public service announcement because people are literally DYING out there.
We are in the thick of summer, people. The sun, while a huge ally of the Earth, also serves as one of our biggest enemies. It provides light that we use to see, but it can also scorch your skin into a red blistering mess. There are so many heat-related illnesses that itâ€™s almost impossible to name them all: heatstroke, heat rash, heat cramps, heat exhaustion, heat edema, heat tetany, heat syncope, heat mumps. The list goes on and on. The sun lurks silently in the sky, waiting to claim its next human victim and itâ€™s up to us to stop it.
In the wintertime, nobody bothers to care about the sun at all. Thatâ€™s because itâ€™s busy resting. Just like bears, the sun hibernates in the sky during the winter. Sure, it still provides sunshine â€“ but just enough to get us through the day. When the sun wakes up, usually around mid-April, it begins a program of solar destruction that takes so many lives each year that it should be at the top of every Most Wanted list in the world.
I feel that it is my duty to combat the sunâ€™s evil efforts by providing you with this list of helpful sun-fighting tips.
â€˘ The sun can only hurt you if you leave your skin exposed. Wearing a neoprene wetsuit will cover up most of your vulnerable skin. Youâ€™ll also look like a superhero, so thatâ€™s a double bonus.
â€˘ Sunscreen is sold by the pro-sun lobby. They want to create a market based on your fear of the sun. While your fear is very real and legitimate, their products are essentially a creamy snake oil. Youâ€™re much better off using a solvent made of beet juice reduction and white wine vinegar. It may smell delicious to you, and if youâ€™re ever making salad dressing these are two ingredients you donâ€™t want to leave out, but in reality the combination is like kryptonite to the stupid sun. It sends those dangerous rays right back where they came from and sends a message to that big yolk in the sky. It says â€śHey Sun, not on MY watch!â€ť So donâ€™t waste your money on sunscreen, it just gets funneled back to pro-sun activities.
â€˘ Wear a floppy hat. They might look goofy, but so will you when your face is the color of my childhood wagon/portable beet showroom.
â€˘ Never leave your house without at least a gallon of potable drinking water. Drinking water makes you more resistant to the dangerous intrusion of the sun. The sunâ€™s goal is to actually deprive you of water. If you drink water, youâ€™re replacing the very substance that the sun is trying to steal from you. Plus, our bodies are comprised mainly of water. The sun is made up of zero percent water. So remind me, who invented all of the technology on Earth? Humans or the sun? It was humans. The sun never invented anything. Thatâ€™s why Iâ€™ll not only trust humans over the sun, Iâ€™ll do everything I can to set myself apart from the sun. Number one on the list of ways to set yourself apart: drinking water.
â€˘ Stay indoors between the hours of 9am and 6pm. This will prevent contact with the sun when it is most vindictive.
I donâ€™t know what the sun has against us. What I do know is that the sun is a killer. People die from sun-related problems every single day during the summer and even though I am only one man, I feel the need to do my part. Donâ€™t let the sun catch you off-guard. Be prepared. One day, we will tame the sun and make it do our bidding. Until then, we must always be vigilant.
In Anti-Solar Solidarity,
Good June to you, or as we say on Schrute Farms: Guttenjuni!
There is a topic Iâ€™ve been meaning to bring up and this appears to be the appropriate time. I have noticed many more people taking photographs of things now that the true start of summer is nearly upon us. Photography is an â€śartâ€ť that I do not endorse. If youâ€™d like to see how something looks, go see it with your own eyes. If you want to see a representation of something, then go look at a drawing or painting. Grandma Mannheim was especially adept at illustrating Strullpeter stories, so donâ€™t try and tell me that photographs are better than drawings. Photographs merely replicate the human visual experience as a frozen moment in time and that insults the eyes and the memory.
When I was a tyke, my family did not have a camera. The general belief was that if a camera were introduced into our lives, our eyes would revolt, leaving us all blind and unable to operate our farm. Now that Iâ€™m an adult, I realize that this is unlikely. The eyes are very rational and I think they would adjust to sharing their optical duties with a camera, if a person chose to use such a device. I, however, still refuse to use a camera out of pure ocular respect.
The rise in popularity of so-called â€śdigital camerasâ€ť is a direct affront to human biology and it angers me to no end. Traditional film cameras at least have a built-in limit. You can only take photos as long as you have film. When the film is used up, youâ€™re out of luck. On top of that, film is fairly expensive, as is photo development. These costs made liberal camera use cost-prohibitive. Not the case with digital cameras.
Digital cameras allow the amateur photographer the freedom and ability to take six thousand pictures of a baby. Babies should not be photographed in the first place. They never grow up to look anything like they did as a baby, so whatâ€™s the point in having a picture of them? You might as well take photos of a small pony because thatâ€™s about as close a resemblance as babies have to their future selves and ponies are at least attractive creatures. But I digress. Digital cameras have all the negatives of traditional film cameras with none of the limitations. Theyâ€™re like a mutated virus â€“ attacking humanity without an antidote.
The biggest problem that I see with digital cameras is that they cause people to place so much less significance on a single image. If Leonardo Da Vinci finished the Mona Lisa and decided he didnâ€™t like her barely detectable smile, would he have just thrown away the entire painting? Of course not. If the Mona Lisa was a digital picture, however, he easily could just pressed a button and the masterpiece would be lost forever. This is the plague of digital cameras. What once was permanent is now digitally expendable.
This is all to say that, even though I savor the taste of victory, I have interest in keeping the digital camera that I won by calling into Froggy 101. If you want to buy this worthless device, go ahead and make me an offer.
That. Is all.
Dwight Kurt Schrute
Salutations, weblog reader. I hope you are reading this at home and not during working hours because this weblog entry has nothing to do with your job, unless you are an anime scholar, sexual education expert, cultural examiner with a focus on bizarre sexual matters, or a marine biologist. If you do not hold one of these jobs, please stop reading and continue in the privacy of your home where your time belongs to you. You may also proceed to read this if you are self-employed, but that is a slippery slope.
As you are well aware, I am interested in the representational arts of Japan, most specifically manga or, as itâ€™s more commonly known in America, anime. While purchasing some new reading material recently, my manga got mixed up with another customerâ€™s items and I ended up with several titles that I did not originally select. At first I was incredibly upset at the idiot behind the counter who let that happen. It makes sense that heâ€™s working retail. Real salesmen donâ€™t mess up orders. After fuming for a while, however, I was reminded of something Grandpa Mannheim used to say: â€śWhen life gives you lemons, find a way to turn those lemons into a profit, even if it means donating the lemons to charity in order to get a tax write-off.â€ť I decided to use the misplaced manga to enrich my knowledge in general and discover some new artists and writers. This turned out to be a mistake.
The comic books that the other gentleman was purchasing were of the â€śhentaiâ€ť sub-genre. Hentai is disgusting. It is Japanese comic pornography and it is completely inappropriate. What disturbed me most about this manâ€™s choices were that they were exclusively of the shokushu goukan variety. For those not familiar, shokushu goukan is the Japanese term for tentacle rape. These comics feature Japanese women getting taken advantage of by octopi. I truly do not understand their appeal. Octopi are, by their very nature, non-sexual creatures. After they reproduce, both the mother and father octopus die within a matter of months. Whatâ€™s sexy about that? To chronicle the sexual nature of an octopus is as pointless as trying to find a beet weevil in December â€“ itâ€™s just a waste of time.
As I was perusing the contents of the various shokushu goukan comics, I kept happening on the same plot. Woman loves sailor. Sailor goes out to sea. Sailor is killed by giant octopus. Giant octopus rapes woman with its tentacles. This plot doesnâ€™t make any sense. It paints giant octopi as if theyâ€™re these terribly vindictive creatures, not content to just kill sailors, but also to seek out and infiltrate their women. What do the Japanese have against octopi? What did octopi ever do to the Japanese besides providing a tremendous amount of nourishment in the form of tako sushi? It baffles me. It angers me. It saddens me.
The mighty octopus should be respected, not depicted as some horrible marine rapist. If you need to demonize a sea creature, make it the horrendous jellyfish, which provides not jelly but dangerous stings. I found out firsthand when I was taken to a beach on the shores of North Carolina in my youth. I have yet to return to an ocean beach.
Over the weekend, I will be returning to the shop where this terrible comic literature entered my possession. I will be exchanging it for my favorite manga: Ranma 1/2, the story of a teenaged boy trained from a young age to be a martial arts master, who is cursed to become a girl when splashed with cold water, but returns to male form when touched with cold water. Currently, the reason that itâ€™s my favorite manga series is that there are no horny vindictive creatures with tentacles in Ranma 1/2 and thatâ€™s good enough for me.
This marks the end of todayâ€™s weblog. Fight Octopi Misrepresentation!
Dwight Kurt Schrute
Many agrarians will tell you that there are certain signs that spring has arrived. Most of those signs are false and based solely on superstition. Iâ€™m tired of common people using these untruths to determine when it is springtime. For example, groundhogs have no true supernatural value. Despite what the idiots in Punxsutawney may believe, the shadow of a groundhog neither confirms nor denies the arrival of spring. It merely asserts the position of the sun in relation to a certain groundhog on a certain day. Additionally, when you see a red-breasted robin, it does not mean that spring is upon us. It means that food has disappeared from its previous location and now the robin is searching for new viands. Finally, â€śloveâ€ť is never â€śin the air.â€ť Yes, spring happens to coincide with the mating seasons of many animals. That does not mean that some unquantifiable substance called â€śloveâ€ť is floating around in the atmosphere. Much the opposite. An increase in airborne animal pheromones has absolutely zero effect on the amount of pheromones that humans produce because pheromones from other species do not act as a pheromone-stimulant in humans. Humans can reproduce at any time during the year and only human pheromones can stimulate other human pheromones. Believing that spring has anything to do with â€śloveâ€ť is just stupid and ignorant.
On Schrute Farms, there are five telltale signs that spring has arrived. These signs are easy to validate and require no belief in anything but solid fact.
1. The date is between March 21st and June 21st. If the date falls within this period of time, then it is a sign that spring has occurred or is occurring. It is indisputable. Seasons are demarcated by certain days in order to clearly define when a season is taking place.
2. The dirt is not frozen. In wintertime, the soil becomes frozen and unable to support crop growth. This changes when spring comes around because the temperature is warmer and the ground is thawed. If the ground is frozen, you can successfully determine that it is not yet spring.
3. There have been no major federal holidays for a month and there will be none for the next two months. At the beginning of spring, you do not have to worry about workers missing work thanks to federally mandated days off. If a worker attempts to miss a day of work based on a holiday of his own observance at the beginning of spring, that worker should be fired. The only holiday in the entirety of spring is Memorial Day and that doesnâ€™t occur until the end of May.
4. My cousin Mose begins to talk about his birthday. Mose was born in late October and his birthday has always been a huge event in his life. He begins to start mentioning his birthday at the beginning of spring each year, giving him a full eight-month head start on the actual day of celebration. If Mose isnâ€™t mentioning his birthday, it isnâ€™t spring yet.
5. You can smell a faint stale manure smell when you walk outside. Manure does not give off an odor in the wintertime. The cold temperature neutralizes the smell and restricts the odor to the immediate vicinity of the excrement itself. In the spring, the rising temperature activates the smell of the manure and the longer it sits around, the more present the smell becomes. This scent becomes nearly unbearable to some people in summertime because it is too pungent. In the spring, however, the odor of manure hangs in the air like a gentle air freshener of defecation and that is how you know which season it is.
Please do not accept the unnatural indicators of spring as valid. They are merely childrenâ€™s stories that have become accepted through years of negligence by an oral tradition that does not bother to check facts. The Schrute Farms Signs of Spring ring true each year and can be counted upon with the certainty of science. These are the only real ways to determine whether or not spring has truly sprung. Donâ€™t believe the hype, people. Just stick to the facts.
We, as a society, have gone backwards when it comes to interpersonal communication. Neanderthals communicated using only grunts and gestures. As time passed on, humans began to overcomplicate language to the point where it is now difficult to accomplish anything because there are too many stupid people and they use too many stupid words. This is why I am proposing the use of a basic universal language for all human beings regardless of race, culture, or physical location.
This language will not take the place of conversation between people you know and trust. It will merely be used for the casual daily interactions with strangers that can become so difficult when words are introduced. If I sneeze, I donâ€™t need to have a conversation about it. Thank you for your blessings, but please stop wasting my time. Also, itâ€™s more polite to say gesundheit. My new language will take the place of these time-wasters and bring interpersonal communication back to its purest form.
My language, known as â€śSchrutaneseâ€ť (named after its founder), will be comprised of grunts, claps, numbers, and two English words: yes and no. Each grunt will have several definitions and the meaning of a clap will be based on how many claps a person uses. Numbers and â€śyesâ€ť and â€śnoâ€ť will retain their traditional meanings. Below you will find an excerpt from the very first edition of my Schrutanese dictionary.
Three claps: â€śStop.â€ť
Three short firm grunts: â€śHave an enjoyable dayâ€ť and â€śThis weather is lovely.â€ť
One clap + quick low-pitch grunt: â€śIâ€™m sorry.â€ť [Only used rarely in Schrutenese]
Short nasal grunt: â€śThank you for your helpâ€ť and â€śgo away.â€ť
Long groaning robotic grunt: â€śOut of my wayâ€ť and â€śtake cover.â€ť
Short slide-whistle grunt: â€śMore,â€ť â€śplease,â€ť and â€śreally?â€ť
Succession of rapid claps: â€śGood job,â€ť â€śBravo,â€ť or â€śCongratulations.â€ť [This is currently in use by most people.]
Two claps + howl-like grunt + four slow claps: â€śOw.â€ť
I do not expect to make any money off of this new language, so please do not think that Iâ€™m a huckster of some sort. Iâ€™m just a man. A man who wants to change the world through grunts, claps, traditional numerals, and two English words. If you are interested in receiving a copy of the Schrutanese dictionary when it becomes a completed resource material, please continue to search the internet as this will be the location of its publication. Thank you for your interest.
(Three short firm grunts),
Dwight K. Schrute
Most people are unfamiliar with the powers of dehydration as a cooking tool for meat. These people think that all meat must be cooked in an oven or on a stove or using a grill. This notion is ridiculous. These people are clearly dummies. This weblog entry is specifically written to dispel their closed-minded ideals.
What good is a freshly grilled steak to me if Iâ€™m not sitting at a table? If Iâ€™m hiding in an elevated perch during a paintball battle, that steak becomes nothing less than a burden. When combatants from the other squad smell the steak, it could lead them right to me. If the steak sits out too long in the sun, thereâ€™s a strong likelihood that it will turn rancid. Shortly after that point it becomes a silent but deadly killer waiting for my hunger to unwittingly lead me into the meatâ€™s treacherous clutches. â€śTraditional Meat Cookersâ€ť would probably want that to happen to me. They would like to see me die. Well guess what, enemies? Dehydrated meat leaves me vulnerable to NONE of the situations I described previously. It can be eaten discreetly and in any location. It is delicious without being messy. Best of all, it is highly nutritious.
Dehydrated meat is commonly referred to as â€śjerky.â€ť I do not know who came up with this name, so donâ€™t bother asking me. Jerky can be made from almost any type of meat. Most people are familiar with beef jerky. This is the most pedestrian of jerkies. I much prefer venison jerky -- be it deer or bear. The nutty flavor of the meat works surprisingly well when all moisture is removed from it. Venison jerky, like all jerky, is incredibly chewy in a very pleasing way. I have also seen jerky made from rabbit, badger, vole, raccoon, squirrel, trout, and salmon. This is by no means a complete list; itâ€™s just what Iâ€™ve tasted personally.
To make jerky, you donâ€™t need any fancy cooking equipment. Iâ€™ve seen television advertisements for professional â€śfood dehydrators,â€ť but these are made for morons (a category you may fit into if you still deny the awesome power of jerky). All you really need to make jerky is a knife and the sun. The knife is for cutting your meat into long, thin strips. The sun is for drying the meat. This all happens thanks to a little scientific process I like to call evaporation. If you so desire, you may also choose to season the meat. I donâ€™t do this. Itâ€™s a frivolous task and a waste of spices. There is nothing wrong with unadorned meat and donâ€™t let anyone else tell you otherwise. Salting the meat is a different story, however, and you should use salt liberally in order to remove as much moisture from the meat as possible. Once youâ€™ve cut your meat into strips, find a clean area to hang the strips in the sun. Within a few days, your jerky will be ready for consumption, and when it is, the world is your oyster [NOTE: I have never seen or heard of oyster jerky].
Enjoy your newfound freedom as you travel the globe without worrying about where youâ€™ll find a fresh source of protein. Your jerky will serve as a nutritional passport as you set your mind to other more important things, like how you will avoid the pickpockets that ruin most travel experiences both here in America and abroad.
Take heed, readers. Jerky will change your lives. All you have to do is open your mind.
This Entry Has Been Completed.
Dwight Kurt Schrute
I wish a pleasant January to you all. January is usually the month where Schrute Farms undergoes many of its reconstruction projects. During our recent transition into an eco-tourist destination, we opened our farm and its themed-rooms to tourists of all types. This has led to problems. While dealing with the needs of our varied guests, I no longer have time to begin the reconstruction efforts the farm so badly needs. My cousin Mose doesnâ€™t have the initiative to start the projects on his own (although he is quite a diligent worker when told exactly what to do), so until I can get some free time, the farm will remain unkempt.
Additionally, the guests that we have hosted have not treated our belongings with the respect that we Schrutes give to our possessions. The night table constructed by my Great Uncle Gernot has been chipped and scratched as if it were a common scratching post. My familiar dining table has had beet jelly spilled upon it several times and, as everyone knows, beet jelly leaves stains that are entirely irremovable. After discussing the situation with various co-workers, it was suggested that I visit the massive furniture store run by Swedish people (In an effort to not slander nor promote any corporations in this weblog, I will refrain from naming with Swedish furniture store I patronized. Letâ€™s just say that it was a bad â€śIDEAâ€ť that I shopped there).
After driving quite a ways to get there, I found the enormous monstrosity of a store. At first, I was worried that I had mistakenly driven to some massive indoor stadium. Unfortunately, this turned out to be my destination. Once inside, I was comforted by the abundance of umlauts in the signage but thatâ€™s where my comfort ended. The store was filled with shoddy items constructed of shoddy materials. Of course the prices are low â€“ how much could they really charge for compressed sawdust?
While sampling their meatballs (surprisingly delicious, but not worthy of comparison to Grandma Mannheimâ€™s fleischklops), I persuaded myself to buy one of the Swedeâ€™s night tables as a replacement for Great Uncle Gernotâ€™s fine oak table. I just couldnâ€™t imagine letting that table endure one more night of abuse by irresponsible travelers. The replacement table cost twenty-five dollars. It was made out of pine. Pine. For twenty-five dollars, I expect a lease for a small plot of land in a pine forest. Instead, I received eleven pieces of unfinished wood. Perhaps they would have liked to spit in my face as well.
When I got the table home, I set Mose to work assembling it. He completed the assembly in just under three minutes. I remember Mose making a similar table out of forest lumber when he was seven â€“ as a joke. While we all laughed heartily then, except for Mose who was shunned for a week for participating in humor, nobody at Schrute Farms was laughing this time. Mose cried when he finished the construction. I donâ€™t know if it was because of the poor materials and ridiculous tool he had to use or the memory of his long-forgotten forest lumber joke, but either way there were tears running down his bearded face and it breaks my heart to see that. It equally breaks my heart to have a piece of furniture in my home that is made of such a quality as that Swedish bedside table.
I smashed that table to pieces immediately. I couldnâ€™t stand looking at it for one more second. From that day forward, I swore that I would never allow another piece of second-rate Swedish furniture into my home ever again.
Anything that makes Mose cry will henceforth be banished from Schrute Farms. Do not trifle with a Schrute. Ever.
That is all.
D. K. Schrute
Please take a moment to ask yourself this question before reading this web log: â€śAm I a stupid person that canâ€™t spell?â€ť If yes, then answer this question: â€śWill I be offended if somebody, namely Dwight K. Schrute, makes fun of people that canâ€™t spell?â€ť If yes, then please visit another destination on the World Wide Web. I suggest http://www.dundermifflinpaper.biz. Also, take solace in the fact that you know how to read at all, despite your shortcomings in the spelling department.
For those of you who remain: welcome. Youâ€™re among decent spellers. It feels good to get rid of the poor-spelling moon-faces. Good riddance.
I was at a gas station this weekend and heard a little girl ask her mother a question. This question might as well have been â€śWhy am I so dumb?â€ť but in actuality, it was â€śDo reindeer fly better when itâ€™s raining?â€ť Obviously, the girl thought that reindeer was spelled â€śrain deer.â€ť Children are stupid. What sense is there in naming an animal after a weather condition? There is no such thing as a hail bear. Nor is there a sleet squirrel. The only exception to this rule is the snow leopard, which is named more for its coloring than its preference for cold weather. Iâ€™m also aware of ThunderCats, but they donâ€™t count because theyâ€™re alien creatures.
The point is, this girl didnâ€™t know how to spell and her mother didnâ€™t bother to correct her. Thatâ€™s why I had to step in. I politely explained to the little girl that she was stupidly spelling the word incorrectly in her head. I went on to say that the rein in reindeer is spelled like that not because it refers to the reins that man uses to domesticate these animals, but because of the wordâ€™s etymological roots in the Norse languages. Additionally, I told her that reindeer are also known as caribou. The girl started crying and needless to say, I wonâ€™t be returning to fill up at Bewickâ€™s anytime soon. Iâ€™m in the process of refining biobutanol from this yearâ€™s beet harvest anyway, so I wonâ€™t need gasoline at all from now on.
Spelling has always been important to me, as well as the Schrutes in general. Considering that the name Schrute is not the easiest name to spell, we decided that, as a clan, we needed to make spelling a priority. As a result, our home schooling emphasized spelling at the expense of other subjects that were deemed to be less important, like geometry and AP U.S. History. While I can easily spell â€śrhombus,â€ť I sadly have no idea how to identify one.
Happy Holidays and a merry â€śThat is allâ€ť to everyone.
With Utmost Sincerity,
Dwight Kurt Schrute
A lot of people have asked me how the Schrutes enjoy the traditional holiday of â€śThanksgiving.â€ť The answer is simple. We do not. Celebrating a holiday that encourages blind appreciation for everything and anything in a personâ€™s life diminishes the rare instances that a person is truly thankful for something, i.e. when that person is pulled from a well they may have fallen into. Giving thanks is also a sign of weakness. It shows that you are placing yourself in situations in which you cannot depend on yourself and, thus, must rely on others to do things for you. At Schrute Farms, we choose instead to celebrate our own holiday called â€śResourcefulnacht,â€ť which is a Germlish hybrid word that roughly translates to â€śNight of Resourcefulnessâ€ť in English.
Resourcefulnacht is both a holiday and a small series of challenges for children. You can think of it as a dinner theatre with the theatre element being replaced by a string of events that include: knot-tying, beet loading and unloading, hand-to-hand combat using common household cleaning items, juggling, and a cooking challenge not unlike televisionâ€™s â€śTop Chefâ€ť program*. In my teenage years, I was the knot-tying champion of Resourcefulnacht six years in a row. It remains one of my proudest achievements and also led to my inheritance of Schrute Farms.
Dinner on Resourcefulnacht is quite similar to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. We eat turkey, as most Americans do, but unlike Thanksgiving celebrants, we actually earn our keep. Two weeks before Resourcefulnacht, the Schrute men are dispatched into the forest where they hunt for wild turkeys. Once the largest winged beast is found, it is then dispatched with a bow and arrow and returned to the farm for preparation. After the turkey is cleaned and ready to cook, it is placed in a smoking pit two feet into the ground and buried there until Resourcefulnacht. This ensures that the turkey will be deliciously moist for all to enjoy. The children may only eat on Resourcefulnacht if they win one of the events, which adds an extra layer of pressure to the proceedings. Schrutes also enjoy a sweet potato casserole topped with marshmallows.
The Schrute children look forward to Resourcefulnacht all year as a way to prove themselves to the elder Schrutes. It is on this night that a Schrute child can go from anonymous teat-sucker to worthy contributor in the family. My second cousin, Ehrlich, proved himself to be so useful during Resourcefulnacht festivities that he was placed in charge of the familyâ€™s international beet distribution operations. Sadly, Resourcefulnacht does not test for mathematical skills and it was soon discovered that Ehrlich had quickly run the entire international venture into the ground.
Whether you celebrate Thanksgiving or Resourcefulnacht, I commend you on controlling the turkey population in America. Should they be allowed to reproduce unchecked, this nation would be overrun by turkeys.
That is all.
Dwight K. Schrute
*NOTE: The Schrutes created this event long before â€śTop Chefâ€ť was ever invented. Iâ€™m not accusing them of stealing the idea, I just want all of my readers to know that the Schrutes are the progenitors of this style of culinary competition.
Seeing as itâ€™s the second to last week in October, it seems fitting to discuss the major event that will soon be upon us: the full moon. This cannot taken lightly, as it only happens once every 29 and a half days when the synodic month is reset. It is also not to be taken lightly because of the havoc it creates around the world. FACT: more crime occurs during full moons than all of the other partial moons combined [source: imagination]. Makes you think, doesnâ€™t it?
The full moon is also the time when the mythical lycanthrope, or â€śwerewolf,â€ť emerges. I do not believe in lycanthropes. I put no credence in the theory that a human can change into anything other than a decomposing human. Some of my relatives, however, fully trust that lycanthropes exist. Some have even claimed that they have seen them with their own eyes. They are obviously liars. They would have been devoured and unable to report the sighting. They also say that lycanthropes are especially attracted to Schrute Farm. False. The claw marks that we find the morning after full moons are from real wolves that enjoy the bounty of our farm. They are not from werewolves, no matter what you may have heard. Please do not let these rumors keep you away from the farm â€“ it is beautiful this time of year. If you are seriously concerned, merely stay away from Schrute Farm during the full moon period and return as soon as the lunar cycle has advanced.
Also, do not believe the rumor that a member of my family was injured by one of these â€śshapeshifters.â€ť What you may be referring to is an unfortunate accident in which my cousin Heindl was mauled by a small sheepdog that was working for my family. The Schrutes have long employed the help of canines as a means of scaring off small vermin. Heindl was very rude in his dealings with the dog and was unable to sense that this animal was about to violently attack him. He is an idiot.
No matter how callous this may sound, Heindl deserved the bites and infections that he received. He also learned a very important lesson that day. Yes, he did have to spend a week in the hospital because of the blood loss and the ruined eye, but no, he was not attacked by a so-called â€śMan Wolf.â€ť I hope this sets your mind at ease. All are welcome at our farm!
That is all.
Dwight K. Schrute
Post Script: Please do not come to Schrute Farm attempting to â€śtrick or treat.â€ť There will be no treats available for you. Also, if you plan to â€śtrick,â€ť be advised that Schrute Farm is private property and any actions with bad intentions will be dealt with as an immediate threat to farm security. You will be maced or bludgeoned and you will be delivered to the doorstep of the Lackawanna County Sheriffâ€™s Office. See how much you like getting your treats in jail, kids.
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