Somebody has to speak out against the damn honeybee lobby. All I hear lately (or rather, like 1% of what I hear, which is still a pretty big percentage when you count all the whining and work-related crap), is about how the honeybees are going extinct and we have to save them.

Bullshit! Bees sting. Sure, it's cute for your young children to dress up as honeybees for Halloween - we get it. That still does not excuse the bees' relentless stinging of us, nor does it make it okay. Everyone has this romantic notion of the birds and the bees, and flowers being pollinated, and if there weren't bees then we'd all starve to death. Wrong! If there weren't bees, we'd all get stung to death less, and that's all.

If you're an American, 90% of what we eat is corn, or comes from corn. And I'm pretty sure that's wind-pollinated (I'm not willing to do any research or look at any words that might prove me wrong, so don't even bring it up). So look, no bees are required for us to eat. Honey - we can make that ourselves, it's basically just sugar and water. Who eats much honey in this day and age, anyway? Maybe you put some in your tea. If so, I've got a suggestion for you - something that another animal makes from sugar - it's called rum. Maybe the first cup of tea doesn't taste as good, but the 2nd and 3rd are awesome. As for pollinating flowers - fuck flowers. All they do is look pretty and take up our land.

For all the bleeding-heart horticulturists out there, I'm sure science will invent some sort of robotic bee, if you ask it real nice. Or you could spend your days touching the stamen and pistil of each of your flowers in turn to fertilize them. I'm not sure what a horticulturist does all day anyway - make yourselves useful.

And when you're not spending your time manually jerking off flowers, could you spray some bee-poison?

Disappointed that the entire world hasn't leapt either backwards or forwards in time due to the Large Hadron Collider? Yeah, me too. Even the end of the world might have been interesting, although there's no science that says that's even a remote possibility. The time travel thing seems almost certain, if I am to believe all of the science fiction books and movies I've seen. It's okay though, they've only just turned it on and sent a beam around the ring, they haven't actually collided anything yet. I think they're gonna do that sometime in October. I've got my fingers crossed, hoping that we all travel in time to the year 2112.

And another thing... Who in the hell even eats an English muffin without cutting it in half first? Do we really need the option of pre-cut or non pre-cut English muffins? My wife (and I believe the English muffin industry) calls the usually ones fork-split, so by extension the ones that cause rage when you accidentally grab them at the grocery store are non-fork-split. And they are the worst invention ever. Who out there is thinking, "Man, I'd really like an English muffin, but I wish there was a way I could injure myself at the same time." Because there is no way to cut an English muffin in half evenly and successfully without also cutting your hand. Thomas, of Thomas's English Muffins, if you're listening - fire the lazy sons of bitches on the non-fork-split manufacturing line, and get those muffins pre-cut. Or else.

I hear a lot about how Barack Obama is supposedly "elitist", and that's why people don't want to vote for him. And I wonder, what the hell does that mean? Well, the other day, I finally figured it out. See, in this country, black men are expected to be uneducated thugs, possibly crack heads, and preferred attire should involve a "do rag" of some sort. Therefore, when a white man, particularly of the redneck variety, maybe driving a pickup truck with his baby and a dog riding in back, hears a black man who is obviously well-spoken and intelligent, who dresses well, and has actual ideas, that guy must be "elitist". He thinks he's better than us, he's reaching beyond his station. Really, the word "elitist" is just slang for "uppity", as in, "that uppity negro" (or something similar).

Racism isn't gone in this country, it's just gone underground, to the point where I think a lot of African-Americans are becoming a little paranoid about it. They know that someone isn't going to come up to their face and shout the n-word. It doesn't work that way anymore. The white sheets and torches were a dead giveaway. Racism is more insidious these days, hiding in the shadows, in the secret handshakes, in the words that sound like they're harmless. He's "streetsmart", she's "ethnic", the slum is "urban", rap music is "shit." Oh wait, no, that last one I agree with. But the black man who applies for a job may never know the reason he didn't get it. He's blind if he doesn't at least acknowledge the possibility, but if he claims racism, he's being paranoid, and let's face it, nobody wants to deal with that guy with the persecution complex - everyone's out to get him, and he whines about it non-stop. And really, racism in industry is getting pretty rare these days. The CEO knows that even the possibility of a discrimination scandal could bring his company down, to the point where a lot of companies will tolerate incompetent minority employees rather than risk a lawsuit. But that doesn't mean that there aren't little things. Maybe a longer wait at a restaurant, or not quite as good a price at the used car dealer, more stringent loan criteria... or fewer votes in the presidential election?

So I don't know my point, except that if someone calls Obama an "elitist" one more time, I'm going to fucking puke on his face.

So I installed Ubuntu Linux on Jackie's PC the other day... For anyone reading this, I highly recommend it. Actually, that's not strong enough... Ubuntu is the greatest thing ever! =)

When Jackie's computer crashed (for about the 5th time in as many days), we made the decision to wipe it and reinstall everything. Everything, originally, was to include Windows 2000, MS Office, Adobe Photoshop, etc... The problem with Win 2000, to me, was that it doesn't support wireless encryption, so if there happens to be a hacker within about a mile of our house, we're broadcasting all sorts of personal information, just because Jackie doesn't want me to drill a hole in the wall to run a cable to her computer. That, and the fact that I can't with good conscience say that our copy of 2000 is legal...

Anyway, the first thought was to get a copy of XP - but I certainly wasn't up for paying for it, and I wasn't sure that I could get a copy in some other way. And then I thought, "hey, why not Linux? That'll really screw with her." So that's the way I went. When I first downloaded and burned the installation image, I had visions of sitting up all night at a command prompt typing ls -this and make -that, and occasionally sudo rm -rf *. I figured I'd have to get all sorts of drivers and fight with stuff to finally make it work. Then I installed Ubuntu. And it just worked. *Snap* Just like that. It asked a few questions about what time zone I was in, what format keyboard, whether I would like to manually partition the drive or let Ubuntu do it for me in what it considers an optimized manner... And then the login screen popped up and everything worked. No drivers to install, no "would you like a tour of Ubuntu", no shortcuts to AOL on my desktop like Dell/Gateway/Compaq users are used to whenever they do a reinstall... no problems whatsoever.

Well, I guess I can't lie, I had one problem. Jackie's wireless card didn't work "out-of-the-box". When that happened, I went and downloaded a utility, starting typing make this and make that, and was upset when it didn't work. I tried all sorts of complicated tricks until I finally decided to try it the easy way. Go into the Add/Remove programs dialog and find the program I needed, without having to compile it myself, and Ubuntu installs it for me. Easy as pie. Or cake. Or cake with pie on top and stuffed in the middle is cake-pie. So it was a problem more because I thought it would be, and immediately tried doing things the hard way. Once I made peace with the idea that it should be easy to fix... it was!

Quite possibly the best part... most of the software you need can be installed just by going into the Add/Remove programs dialog box (or Synaptic, which is the same thing but with more options) and looking for what you need. The "repositories" are full of useful software including replacements for most of the windows stuff we used to use. Not that you need to download that much of it, because bundled in Ubuntu (all on 1 CD with the OS!) are Firefox, Open Office, Gimp, and random other useful programs.

So then I installed it on my computer, and I have a lot of what you would call "non-standard hardware". It took me a night to get my video resolution right on my widescreen monitor, and to get drivers for our old-ass printer. And for some reason, the bootloader didn't recognize my Windows partition, but I think that's more a function of how screwed up my Windows partition is than anything else. As is, I'm dual-booting now, but I yearn for the day I can finally get MS off my computer. Sure, I had some minor problems, but that's nothing compared with the problems I've had with Windows over the years. And this is free.

All-in-all, I can't say that Ubuntu Linux is perfect, but it's the best. At least of what I've tried. IMHO. And so on... but I like it. Goooooooooo Linux! =) Yeah, that sounded like a sales pitch, but I swear I'm not on any payroll. Well, I mean, I have a job and all... so I'm on someone's payroll, but we use Windows at work.

So I had a dream last night that I was watching the British version of the Simpsons. In this dream, the British version was the original, and it was live action, maybe even black and white. The father had two sons, and he was a "simp", so that's why they named the show The Simpsons - the show was really about the two kids getting into trouble. It's like a pun, or a palindrome, or something like that. In this episode, Homer puts in a hot tub, even though the family really can't afford it. While he's staring at his hot tub and daydreaming, we see the cartoon version of him flying around the yard in an inner tube and splashing into the hot tub and splooshing water all over his wife and two sons, and oh yeah, I think there was a baby. And then it turned back to live action and Homer's in the hot tub in his clothes and Marge is soaked and furious, and I don't think she had blue hair. Kind of platinum blonde/whitish done up in a beehive.

I think Homer was also really mad at the guys who put in the hot tub, because they didn't tell him that he had to rake all the leaves off his lawn all summer because if he didn't, they might catch fire and damage the heating coils underground or something (not sure why there were so many leaves on the ground in the summer - maybe it's a British thing, obviously the "heating coils" are a mystery as well). So he ends up spending all summer working on the lawn and not enjoying his hot tub, except at night when he has to sleep in it because Marge is still mad at him.

Oh, and I think one of the kids revealed he was gay in this episode. It was a real tear-jerker.

Ugh!

We are painting the house, little by little, and I have just ripped the tape off of the 1/2 of my office that is now painted. First, when people tell you that the "blue" tape won't rip off paint when you take it off, they are fucking liars. My ceiling, near the walls, is now a mottled white, yellow (from the drywall compound under the white paint), and green (from where the roller hit the ceiling in about 3 places, because the blue tape isn't as wide as the brown painter's tape). Second, it's disgusting how jagged the line that I taped is... the green doesn't make an even straight line across the top of the wall, it kind of zig-zags across that straight line like Robert Downey Jr. on the 405 (haha, I got to reuse that joke, and yes, I know it wasn't that funny the first time - suck it, bitches). And third, I am thoroughly depressed at the fact that I have only painted 2 of the 4 walls of the office and still have quite a bit of work to do (actually, it's 3 of the 5 walls that are painted, but one of those walls really doesn't count - it's mostly door.

Painting blows. Why didn't we hire a professional again?

Trying to lose weight? I've got a plan for you. It's called the lazy man's diet. Say you're hungry, but you don't have any food in your hand right now... Not really worth the effort to go get up, find some food, and then move your teeth around and around chewing it up. Why not just skip it and lie on the couch instead? See? It really works.

Okay, now it's later, and you're more hungry. Hungry enough to actually get up and look for food. But here's the brilliant part - on the lazy man's diet, you don't keep any food in the house. So now, in order to eat, you've got to actually leave the house to get food. Also, we've thrown your car keys up on the roof. So are you going to go up on the roof, or walk to the grocery store, or phone your mom to come pick you up and take you to dinner? No, of course not. You're too lazy for that, and you don't want to have to listen to your mom lecture you about getting a job and getting off your big fat lazy ass. So, you just sit around some more.

Eventually, there will come a point where you have to choose between climbing onto the roof, stealing a car, walking to the store, or starving to death. At which point, you'll starve, and the world won't have to put up with you anymore. But at least your casket won't weigh 800 pounds, you big fat fuck.

I've decided to make a game out of saying "gynecology" to Jackie as often as possible. Also, "gyno". See her blog.

You know what's always bugged me? When people (well, women) say they are going to the OB/GYN, it's supposed to be an abbreviation for obstetrician-slash-gynecologist. But they don't shorten it down and say "objin", they still spell out the abbreviation "oh-bee gee-why-en", which isn't that much shorter than just saying gynecologist. It, for some unknown reason, drives me batty.

Jackie wanted to know today why any man would become a gynecologist, and I said that, well, on first consideration it does sound more glamorous than it really is. So maybe some med students figure, hey, if I can't get a date, at least I can look at women's cooters at work - and get paid for it! But then they realize that 90% of women you really, really, really, really don't want to go there. And the 10% (or whatever) that you would want to go there - well, I'm no doctor, but I suppose that you don't want to go there in a clinical environment.

She said she didn't understand how it could sound glamorous. So I asked her, wouldn't it have sounded glamorous to be a "Penis Doctor", back when she was a young wallflower in high-school? She said no, not at all, and she didn't think there was such a thing as a Penis Doctor, but I caught her writing "Dr. Jaclyn, PD" in cursive in her notebook later that night.

So there are these ads for AT&T Yellow Pages, where people are like, "Dex, where can I get lights for my chandelier," and "Dex, how do I get cum-stains out of a prom dress?" The answers aren't, "duh, the hardware store and the cleaner, you cheap whore," but more like, "Dick's Chandelier Light Replacement, 555-1234", and "Patti's No-Tell Dry-Cleaners, 555-5678". And I'm like, "double-yu tee eff, don't these people realize those are fake fucking phone numbers?" Dex is lying to you people. And who needs a book full of fake phone numbers that start with 555?

And it's not that I expect them to give out real phone numbers. But *everyone* knows that numbers that start with 555 are fake. There is no "Klondike 5" extension. So, in essence, they're advertising a phone book, and the implication is that it gives out numbers that don't actually exist. If they wanted to sound more credible, but not give out "real" numbers, then why not use a number that's out of service. Of course, how would they know it's out of service? Well, they *do* have these giant books full of every phone number in the country...

I hate Chase Bank. I really do. I have a feeling that it's not really their fault. They're just afraid because of the recent rash of stolen credit card information, and they're taking it out on me, implementing idiotic half-assed security features that don't work and just lock me out of my fucking account.

You see, everytime I log into my credit card account to pay my bill, they think that I'm using a new, unauthorized computer. Which is odd, because in 3 years, I've only logged onto that account with one goddamn computer. But everytime I log in, it tells me I need an activation code, and gives me the option of sending it to an email address that no longer works or a phone# I no longer use. Now I know, I should have kept my info up-to-date, so after calling customer support and getting into my account and checked my contact info, I found that it *was* up-to-date, however, somewhere, somehow, my old info is saved, and that's where they want to send my activation codes. So, I try to log into my account, sit around waiting for an email that never comes, and then forget to pay my bill. Fucking great.

So, the last time that I had to call customer support, I was trying to tell them to take this Activation Code thingy off my account, and they said that I would have to call them back in an hour because the "system was updating". So, I called back and told them to take off this feature. They told me that it wasn't a feature and that they would just give me a code.

So I sent them some emails asking them to remove it from my account. And they replied back with the standard "we value your business. we apologize for any inconvenience" bullshit. Goddamnit.

This was the last message that I sent them:
" I don't need to be explained how it works. I understand how it works. The fact remains that when someone can call customer support with nothing but my name and mother's maiden name, they can get an Activation Code for my account and can log in without even having to know my password. This doesn't particularly bother me, but it does indicate that this new security feature doesn't add any security at all.

What it *does* is make it harder for me to access my account. Despite the fact that I have cookies enabled, and have never logged onto this account from any other computer in the ~3 years or so that I've had this credit card, your system *still* makes me get an Activation Code *every* time I log on. This is unacceptable. Whether the lag time of a day or more is because of a problem on your end or a problem with my email provider is immaterial. I shouldn't have to wait that long, nor should I have to call customer service every time I want to pay my bill, or have to call back an hour later and go through the same process again because your "system is updating".

I don't see how or why this system would be designed without an option to opt in or out, without giving me any choice but to put up with unreasonable inconvenience in order to use your service. Therefore, it should be simple to just deactivate it for my account. You have records of correspondence from me asking for it to be turned off, therefore, there should be no fear of legal issues stemming from any perceived lack of security.

So just turn it off. Please. Please turn it off now. Don't explain to me how it works or why it's supposed to useful. Just PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE turn it off for my account. "

Of course, the same response, "we apologize for the inconvenice, you are a valued customer". Fuckers.

I'm pretty sure that there's a Great Dental Conspiracy afoot. But I'm not entirely sure what it is.

Here are a few of the facts:

a) Dentists hate popcorn. It's true. When you get braces - it's "no gum or popcorn". Caps? No popcorn. I got a permanent retainer that holds my bottom teeth in place - no popcorn. What, I'm supposed to not eat popcorn again for the rest of my life? That's ridiculous. But wait - that's exactly what THEY want. They won't be happy until no one ever eats popcorn again. But why the vendetta? I have a few ideas about this. Maybe they don't want people to go to the movies. You can't go to the movies and not eat popcorn! But why do they want to stop Americans from seeing movies? Michael Moore hasn't released an anti-dentite movie yet. I mean, I haven't seen "Sicko", but I assume he mainly goes after real doctors, and isn't indicting the orthodontic community for its out-of-control pricing and slow service (I had braces for 4 years!). Is there some other reason for keeping people from going to the movies? Or maybe they're trying to destroy the corn farmers. I do recall corn-on-the-cob being a verboten food as well back in the braces days. But what do dentists have against corn farmers? Need more information on this.

b) Flouride. For some reason, they are trying to dope us up on flouride. Not everyone knows this, but in 1964, the government started flouridating our water supply across the country. And even fewer people know *this*, but a secret council of Elder Dentists was largely behind the push. If you don't believe that, why not go to the dentist sometime, and ask them how many gallons of flouride treatment they have on hand... and ask them how many people they could poison with that much flouride. The answer might surprise you! Also, check out this link about the dangers of water flouridation. Why are they doing this? Simple, to keep people at a low-level of flouride poisoning at all times, so that we are easier to control. But what are they trying to control us to do? Again, I need more information on this.

c) Flossing. I hate flossing. That is all.

You know what else grinds my gears? When people diss the weatherman, saying, "oh, it must be nice to never have to be right" or "if I was only right 30% of the time at my job, I'd be fired." Oh, that makes sense, if your job is to PREDICT THE FUCKING FUTURE.

I admit, if your job were to, say, remember what color Buick a customer ordered 37 seconds ago, then yes, you should probably be right more than 30% of the time. If your job were to read the name of a prescription drug off of a patient's chart, then go over to a machine that dispenses pills, ask for that same prescription drug, check the label to make sure it's the right drug, then administer it to the patient... then yes, your job may be fairly complicated, but a man's life depends on it, and it's a fairly simple algorithm that you're asked to follow, and yes, you should be right pretty close to all of the time.


But if your job is to figure out ahead of time, to within 1 degree (approximately 1%, assuming that normal temperatures range from about 0F to 100F), what the air temperature will be like tomorrow, and the relative humidity to within about 20% (the approximate range, based on random out-my-ass conjecture, required to determine, within 2 standard deviations, if there's going to be precipitation), taking into account a million years of history on atmospheric trends and trying to calculate the aggregate movement of quadrillions of molecules of air, and you have to do this days or weeks in advance, without, mind you, knowing whether or not a butterfly will flap its wings in Hong Kong... If that's your job, then I think 30% accuracy is pretty damned fucking good.

So lay off the goddamn weatherman, people.

Working in a retail environment, I get a lot of annoying phone calls during the day. Usually they're looking for some item that we don't have and isn't imported to the United States, but they somehow expect me to procure it for them. Those ones are okay. Selling things to people is my job - well, part of it anyway. Here's a call from today:

Lady: Hi, I have a recipe that calls for sherry, and I've never had sherry before. What is it, exactly?
Me: It's a dessert wine. It's usually sweet or semi-sweet. What kind of sherry does the recipe call for?
Lady: It doesn't say. Is it red wine or white?
Me: It's usually a kind of tawny or amber color.
Lady: Can I just use red wine instead?
Me: No, not really.
Lady: What about white wine?
Me: No. That won't taste the same at all.
Lady: Well, what can I substitute for it? I'm not about to go out and buy a bottle of sherry.
Me: (thinking, "then what the hell am I even talking to you for? this isn't really what we're here for") I don't know, maybe if you had a tawny port.
Lady: I have White Port. Is that the same.
Me: I don't know, I guess it's the closest you have.
Lady: What about White Zinfandel?
Me: No. Definitely not.

...and it went on like that. See, I get that a lot. "How do you make this drink that I had in a bar once?" "I have a 40-year old bottle of Merlot. Is it worth anything." I don't fucking care! Who the hell posted our phone number in the yellow pages under "Liquor, Wine, and Recipe Help Line"?

If I'm playing Neverwinter Nights and I can't get past a troll or something, I don't call up Gamestop and ask them for cheat codes. If I'm trying to drive to Lake Placid, I don't call up the Pontiac dealership. "Listen, I'm trying to drive somewhere and I need you to tell me how to get there... what do you mean? ... Well, you're the ones that sold me the car!"

Man, sometimes these people really grind my gears.

Okay, I finally migrated my blog over to the new blogger. I don't know what this means, and I'm not entirely sure what powerful new features it will grant me. Increase my killing power, eh?

Anyway, blogger should have it's own comments now, so I'm testing to see if it adds its own comments, and what happens to backblog's comments on a new post...

I had an idea for Jackie's prospective client letter at the bank: "Open a loan with us and we'll pleasure you orally*." Then in small print: "*by 'orally', we mean telling you that you got the loan." Brilliant!

This looks like a hell of a cool roleplaying game: Kill Puppies for Satan.

I'm sure Dax would like it, but I'm not going to tell him about it. He'll have to read about it here. And if he doesn't read my blog, it serves him fucking right. He'll miss out on something that he would have enjoyed. And that's the best revenge of all. Or is that "living well".

Funniest thing I heard all week: "Yahoo Fantasy Baseball Chicken". I don't know if it's a food, for eating while you fantasy baseball. Or maybe an animal that answers your fantasy baseball questions. Or possible a game where you fantasize about throwing baseballs at each others' heads until one person ducks. The phrase has stuck with me, much like the "Taco Espresso" incident of, like 2002, or some year like that. Want to know what "Taco Espresso" means? It's on page 22. Only the pages are out of order and not numbered. Hahahahahahaha! Hahahahahahaha! (Okay, I lied. Looks like it was 2004, and it's further down this page. Or at least it will be until I make enough posts to push it into the archives.)

Okay, I have to get ready for work now.

I heard a commercial on the radio yesterday for a tax preparation company. It was something like, "Here at Pat Jones, our tax preparers are all certified public accounts, and they always give you 150% of their support."

And I'm like, "no thanks, I'll go with an accountant who knows math..."

"Is it too much if I ask, tentatively, that we agree to look upon (the Earth) as a circus, a touring carnival wandering about the sun for a record season of four billion years and producing new monsters and miracles, hoaxes and bloody mishaps, wonders and blunders, but never quite entertaining the customers well enough to prevent them from leaving, one by one, and returning to their homes for a long and bored winter's sleep under the dust? ... Indeed, do many things come to pass." - from the Illuminatus Trilogy, by Robert Anton Wilson & Robert Shea.

The Illuminatus Trilogy is one of my favorite books, and I highly recommend it, if you like reading something that seems like it might be highly complex and deep, but feeling all the while as if the writer is merely throwing random words onto the page. Also, you have to not be offended by a little sex and wanton drug use.

Did you ever wonder why there's an eye in a pyramid on the back of a $1 bill, or why it has 13 vertical divisions, the same as the 13 stripes on a US flag? Did you ever think that maybe George Washington was killed by a German economist who then took his place as the President of the United States? Does it confuse you that no one seems to want war, but somehow wars keep happening? Don't you think that there might be a vast international conspiracy behind it all? Yeah, me neither. But it's good to know that somebody out there has wacky ideas about it and put them down in a book back in the early seventies. Also, the book really makes my brain hurt, but in a good way. The first 20 pages or so are kind of boring and parts are formulaic and almost insulting to the reader. But then it starts to get good.

So, my mother sent me an email today with this image:







Now, I'm a big Bears fan, but this strikes me as a ridiculous example of douchebaggery.
So, I sent her back an email with the following images:

VS.

Notice the alphabet blocks that say "HUGS". Isn't that just the cutest thing?

I went to Baker's Square yesterday for lunch, and I'm pretty sure I'm not willing to eat there again. I think it's because of the smoking ban. See, normally, we sit in the smoking area, and if someone else isn't already filling the area with smoke, we normally do that ourselves. But now, because there's no lingering haze of smoke in the air, the place really smells gross. If you thought old stale cigarette smoke was a bad thing for a restaurant to smell like, try old stale ingrained fryer fat. Also feet, and sweet & sour sauce, and ceasar salad dressing, and honey dijon, and fruit from pies, all mixed together in a grotesque cocktail of stench. I know Jackie already mentioned this, but it was so overwhelming, I had to revisit. I wonder if those corporate fatcats in Springfield really thought through this smoking ban.

There's something that confuses me.

Okay, several things, but this is one of them: Those cell phone plans where you pick 5 people and can make unlimited calls to them.

See, a lot of phone companies allow you free calling to other members of the same service. This makes sense. When you use a Verizon Phone to call someone on Verizon, your call only travels through their network. If you call someone on Cingular, Verizon, as far as I know, would have to pay some sort of fee to Cingular to route the call through their network. So calling within the same network saves the company some money, and they can offer free service within their network to the customer as a perk for joining. In addition, offering free sevice within the network entice's your current customers to try to get their friends to join your service, and that helps business.

Free nights and weekends make sense as well. A phone company has limited infrastructure, and as traffic increases they either have to increase their infrastructure (expensive), or drop calls (pisses off customers). By giving free nights and weekends, they give their customer some time when they don't have to worry about how many minutes they're using up. In return, this moves a lot of traffic from the busy workday time block to the less busy night-and-weekend block. The more they can even out their traffic, the more their expensive infrastructure works for them.

But this "call your five friends for free" thing, doesn't make sense to me. It's somewhat enticing to the customer, in that they know they mostly call the same people all the time, and if those people change, they can always change who their five people are. So, as long as they are calling those people, they can have unlimited minutes, and not worry about how long they're talking.

The thing is, this doesn't make sense for the phone company. Sure, it makes sense in the sense that it's a nice service that can entice customers. But there's no benefit to having them call the same 5 numbers all the time. It's not like, "oh crap, he's calling this girl that he's never called before, now we have to remember a new number, or now we have to build a new cable that goes from his cell phone to hers". Why are they trying to entice customers to call the same 5 people all the time? Why not just offer unlimited minutes entirely? It would have approximately the same effect, but it would sound so much better that the phone company would instantly attract a lot more customers.

I don't know, man, it's just wacky, is all. And I, for one, won't stand for it.

A Superb Example of Customer Service

Okay, so, at work today, a guy called, and the first thing he said was, "I'm sorry I have to even make this call..."

Oh good, I thought, so this will be a fun one. It turns out that he was complaining because the customer in front of him in line asked for anchovy-stuffed olives, and this guy had to wait 30 seconds while JB ran to the back of the store to grab it for him. Now, trust me, I get kind of pissed off myself when a customer gets in line, has us ring up his order, then asks us to go get him something. Whereas the reasonable thing would be to either find someone on the floor, or ask at the service desk for that item *before* you decide to hold up everyone behind you. So JB, as I mentioned, went to get it for him. This is not the superb example of customer service referenced in the title.

This guy that called had to wait an extra 30 seconds, and it was "the worst customer service I've ever received." I calmly apologized, and explained to him that people often get into line and then ask for items and the only thing we can do is try to get it for them as quickly as possible. I mentioned that we tried to call another cashier to the front as quickly as possible for the people waiting in line, but as we weren't expecting a great rush of customers at 2:45 on a weekday, it took a little while for that cashier to put down what he was doing on the floor and make it up to the front. Again, I apologized that he had had to wait. This is also not the superb example of customer service.

At this point in the call, he HUNG UP ON ME. Seriously, he called, to speak to me, I addressed his complaint and apologized to him, and the fucker had the unbelievable gall to hang up on me. So, I did the only thing I could do. I *69'd his ass. Note to self - when calling to complain to a company, remember to hide my number. Also, look up how to hide my number (I think it's *67?). I dialed him up, and he, amazingly, hung up on me again. No hello, no "sorry, we must have gotten disconnected", he didn't even let it run to the machine, which I would have been fine with. He picked up the phone and promptly set it down, hanging up without letting me get in a word.

So, the idea at that point was to take his number and graffiti it in every bathroom in the county, sign him up for free price quotes from all sorts of adult merchandise, and maybe, if possible, do a reverse lookup to get his address. But before we did that, I had to try one more time. That was also not the superb example of customer service.

I gave him a call from my cell phone. He, stupidly, picked up the phone. He had no idea what he was in for. Let the verbal lashing begin.

"Hi," I said, launching right into my speech without giving him a chance to figure out who I was, "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what happened. We must have gotten cut off. I'm really sorry, I just didn't want you to think that I would rude enough to hang up on you like that."

"Who is this?" he asked. I identified myself, then went back into apology mode.

"I was just apologizing about your complaint, and I wanted to be sure that you didn't think I hung up on you. I wouldn't do that. Anyway, was there anything else you wanted to say or anything else I can do for you."

"No," sheepishly, "umm... that's all."

"Oh, okay, just didn't want you to think I hung up on you. Have a nice day. Sorry, again. Bye."

That, my friends, was the superb example of customer service. Because I was polite to a fault, very apologetic, and yet still succeeded in either a) shaming him for hanging up on me like a douchebag, or b) making him incredibly pissed off because he knows that I know he hung up on me but I won't give him the satisfaction of being mad. Either way, score one for me. Mission accomplished.

Try an experiment. Ask a male friend a question, something completely outside his sphere of expertise. Will you get an answer? Chances are, you will. The male friend is exhibiting behavior known as Male Answer Syndrome. It's the compulsion by many individuals (mostly men, but sometimes women) to answer questions readily, regardless of knowledge.
—Jean Godden, "Males Have the Answers, Even if They Don't," The Seattle Times, February 9, 1992

Several years ago, perhaps a dozen, I decided that I didn't like answering a question with "I don't know". People, for some reason, don't appreciate it. About half of the time, when someone asks me a question and I say "I don't know", they look at me like, "how could you not know this thing? I trusted you. What the hell?" So, I vowed never to answer, "I don't know" again. In actual fact, I've wavered from that a little bit, specifically when I know a person really does need an answer and a wrong answer from me could cause them pain, death, or severe financial hardship. Also when I'm too tired to think up an answer. Generally, I try to be bizarre enough that they know it's not true, and they sigh and walk away, and then I don't have to admit I don't know the answer.

"What was the name of the engineer on the first Space Shuttle?"
"Oh him? Uhh... that was the renowned, umm... Tuglass H. Shuttleton. Very famous. Invented the electric spork as well."

Or

"Where is Bahrain?"
"Umm, I think it's the third moon of Neptune. No wait, fourth."

Or

"What the hell is this congealed mass in the fridge?"
"Cow fetus."


Well, you get the point.

Anyway, I never realized I had "Male Answer Syndrome." If someone had asked me what Male Answer Syndrome was, I probably would've said that it was some sort of sexual dysfunction.

...wow, 3 in one day, holy save some ammunition, Batman...

So yesterday, on my way to work, I noticed that my rear defroster had turned off. It always does that after a certain amount of time, so I reached down and hit the button. Immediately, the defroster went on and my radio turned off. That's odd, I thought, so I hit the button a few more times, toggling it on, off, on, off... and toggling the radio off, on, off, on. I turned the defroster off, then turned the radio off, then turned the defroster on, then the radio on. Then I tried it in reverse, inside out, sideways, and then turned off the heater and tried it all again. No matter what I did, I couldn't get my radio and defroster on at the same time.

So, I decided I'd just leave the defroster off - the back window was pretty much defrosted anyway. That's the when the radio started warbling in and out. I'm like, "oh well, now I've fucked it up." I waited a while, hoping the radio would come back, but it kept going in and out, so I hit the defroster button. The radio went off and stayed off, the defroster flashed on and immediately turned off. So I turned off the heater, and the radio came back on for an instant and then turned off. I turned the heater back on, and it wouldn't go on.

Anyway, about this time, I was about 2 blocks away from work and I was just praying that my car would let me make it into the parking lot. I flipped on my right turn signal, and noticed that it only flashed like once every 5 seconds, which is not normal. I gently braked and pulled into the right turn lane, and my car coasted to a stop, kind of diagonally between Roselle Rd. and Valley Lake Dr. I tried to put my hazards on, but my battery was, of course, dead.

I tried to push my car further onto the sidestreet, but the street was kind of sloped and I ended up being dragged a couple of feet further back onto the busier street, Roselle, while trying to dig my feet into the ground and my shoulder into the door.

So, yeah, I need a new alternator. It's mildly expensive. Nothing I can't handle, but nothing I particularly wanted to pay for at this point either.

But really, my point is, next time I say, "funny thing happened to me on the way to work today," just believe me because a) it probably did, and b) it's easier than listening to the entire freakin' story.

"I stand by this man. I stand by this man because he stands for things. Not only for things, he stands on things. Things like aircraft carriers and rubble and recently flooded city squares. And that sends a strong message, that no matter what happens to America, she will always rebound — with the most powerfully staged photo ops in the world." — S. Colbert, 2006

This is the saddest thing I've seen in a while:



It's fake, of course, but still sad.

Eugene Styles is on vacation today. In his absence, please enjoy this encore presentation of a classic Death to the Infidels:

So Jackie's mom has a very strict policy about leaving crayon-written post-it notes around the house. I think the policy goes something along the lines of, "if there isn't a note there, put one there". Notes about what TV shows to watch, reminders to clip coupons and compare prices, incomprehensible instructions to the girls concerning their cell phones, etc... On top of the VCR is one such note, neatly tented into a 'V' so that it will stand up on its own. It says, "do not use VCR", and next to that is another one that says, "ask permission."

But that's really only half the story. Underneath the neatly tented "do not use VCR" note is a stack of other neatly tented notes. The second one down warns the reader to be careful with the buttons, as they seem to be nearly broken. The third one down lists the buttons that are available on the VCR (play, stop, pause, rewind, and all your old favorites), urging the reader not to "rush" the buttons. And finally, underneath all the other notes, presumably the first one written, back in the free and easy days when the VCR was new and no one worried about terrorist attacks on their place of business, is a note that says, "Play VCR." No warnings, admonishments, restrictions, nothing. Just go ahead and play the VCR, no reason to worry about breaking the buttons or "rushing" them or asking permission - everything is fine. There, in just 4 crayon-written notes, tented and stacked, the entire saga unfolds, one woman's brave and courageous battle in the face of a slowly breaking VCR.

Death to the Infidels will return to its regularly scheduled period of inactivity tomorrow.

Backblog, which hosts my comments, has been sold. I think that may have something to do with the fact that my comments don't work. Bah. I like comments.

I'm thinking about writing a book called "Things That Are Funnier Than Other Things."

It's for people who are writing or telling a joke - they can stop and flip through my book and make appropriate substitutions to hilarify their joke by up to 50% (guaranteed, or your money back). For example...

- in Animals: Titmouse is funnier than Mongoose, which is funnier than Anteater. So then Joe walks in, with his freakin' pet Anteater Mongoose Titmouse, on a diamond-studded leash.

- Marmot is funnier than Weasel, which is funnier than Ferret. See above.

- in Body Parts, Genitalia: Dong is funnier than Wang, which is funnier than Penis, which in turn is funnier than Dick. See, profanity isn't always the funniest way to go. That's not my hand! It's my...

- in Food, Breakfast: Bearclaw is funnier than Cruller, which is funnier than Donut. So then Dan walks into the casino clutching a huge donut cruller bearclaw in each hand.

- when implying that someone is young by saying they have homework to do: Diorama is funnier than Bookreport, which is funnier than Algebra. Oh yeah? Well, why don't you just go home and do your algebra homework bookreport diorama on the Telltale Heart.

On second thought, I don't think I could do this for a whole book... maybe with lots of pictures...

Tell your friends. I'm getting the old blog back together. The Cheapass Chef, the Enemies List, random exposition of strange dreams, Deep Thoughts, Sneaky Pete, Weasly Joe, the whole gang. Maybe a few new Featured Spots as well.

Does it make it sound classier when I call my random shit and verbal diarrhea "Features", or does it just sound pretentious? Wait, don't answer that. Also, don't point out that it should be "textual" diarrhea, not verbal. And if the background happens to be a kind of murky brown color when you read the word "diarrhea", it's probably just a coincidence and doesn't have any particular significance. I probably couldn't program my website to guage the speed of your parsing based on your previous web surfing habits. Or could I?

Part I of a new DttI fiction series, Obituaries of Unfamous People.

It's an old picture of my dad. His hair is still a sandy blonde, and it still covers a small purchase at the top of his forehead. Next to him is Lenny - even at the time of the picture they've known each other almost 20 years - wearing a blue pull-over windbreaker and pointing. You can only see his back and arm, and my dad is staring off into the distance down the street. The sky is a kind of pre-dawn grey with stretched-out scraggly clouds.

My dad breaks the silence, "I remember that. Lenny knew everybody on that street. He's saying, 'There's Joe, and that's where he picks up his salaried assignments.'" He says it like "celery", the way Lenny used to.

"No," I pipe up from the back of the room. I was there that day, but you can't see me in the picture because it's from the waist up, and I wasn't that tall yet. "That's not what happened at all."

"Lenny is saying, 'That's Fishman's market. They've got good produce - carrots, bell peppers, salads...'" I say it like "sellids", the way Lenny used to. "'What you do is, you stop by there, then you go over to the Mexican place. Rice and beans, cheese, sour cream, chili relleno - you buy a taco and the rest is free. That's your toppings. You throw out the taco. Keep the tortilla though, to put the other stuff in. Then you go across the street, and there's Hector. He brews coffee in an old sweatsock. If you give him a quarter and a cigarette, you can get free refills all day.'"

"Then you start to say you don't smoke, and Lenny interrupts you and says, 'All you gotta do is catch one of the guys smoking out back when he's supposed to be in the kitchen, and threaten to turn him in unless he gives you a cigarette.'"

Everybody laughs a little, and then settles down into an uncomfortable silence again, and my dad is still smiling as he doesn't try to hide a tear trailing down his face.

a) I'm not really going to California despite any other information you may have heard to the contrary, e.g. the blog entry conveniently located an inch below this one.

b) I got married and went on my honeymoon. Now I'm back, and tired.

I could explain more, but jackie wrote a 6 part expose this afternoon while I played video games. Go over to her blog and enjoy!

Well, it's official... I might be moving to California.

On the plus side, the money's good, the weather is nice, and there's plenty to do within driving distance. Plus, this may be my last chance to get a job in programming. It's been pretty impossible for the last few years, and now that I've been out of the field for so long, there's not much likelihood of my getting hired. I had pretty much resigned myself to being a retail manager, and maybe a salesman with one of the liquor distributors. But Dax has worked with me before, and he knows I'm a good programmer, quick learner, and (usually) a helpful co-worker. I hope his boss doesn't think he's hiring me just due to crony-ism... I can still program the pants off most newly-graduated collegians. You only really get taught to program in sterile test environments and theoretical constructs in college. Software in the real world doesn't work that way.

Anyway, back to moving... on the negative side - it's scary to pick up and move across the country, just when I thought we would be settling down. Sure, the old ball-and-chain and I have discussed moving to Indianapolis, but that's a hell of a lot closer than Santa Clarita. Jackie's scared. Petrified, I think. I know she doesn't want to leave her family behind, but they'll be here - we'll visit, they'll visit... it'll be great. ;) Plus the logistics of it all... we need to break our lease, find a way to move a 2-bedroom apartment full of stuff, plus 2 cars, to LA. It's gonna get expensive. And then we gotta find a place to stay, in a real-estate market every bit as overpriced as where we live now. The woman has to quit her job and find a new one - not that I think she'll have any problem, her skills are very marketable. And even if she doesn't work for a month or two, I'll be making enough more money to keep us afloat.

So, yeah... I think I'm decided. I just need to convince Jackie that this is the best thing for our unborn triplets... heh, gotcha!

We went to the courthouse today to get our marriage license, and I must say... I had no idea it could be such a terrifying process. The lady behind the counter was very officious, and... well, have you ever had someone ask you a question, and just when you're breathing in to answer, they ask you again? And then before you can answer, they clarify the question like you're a 2-year-old, and then they snap their fingers impatiently and say, "Sir? Sir? Please answer..."

This went on for about 10 minutes. "First name? ... First name, sir? Sir, your first name, please... The name your mom puts on your underwear... come on now, anyday sir..." And finally, I blurt out, "I don't know! I... I... just need time to think. First name, first name? Umm? *tears* *sobbing*"

By the end of this little interview, I was a nervous wreck. She handed us the marriage license, repeating instructions 3 times, then smiled broadly (the first time she had not frowned since we walked up to the desk) and said, "Congratulations. Much happiness to both of you."

I said, "Thank you ma'am! We will try to have as much happiness as possible, ma'am!" Then saluted, did a smart about-face, snapped my heels and marched out. I'm still a little shaken.

The other day, I had the opportunity to take a photo with Billy Williams (no, not Billy Dee Williams, also known as Lando Calrissian; the other Billy Williams, Hall of Fame outfielder for the Chicago Cubs). I stood next to him and he put his arm around my shoulder and Jackie snapped a photo with my camera phone. I grabbed the phone from her, looked at the picture while waving absentmindedly back at Billy, said "hey, that looks pretty good", and proceeded to close the phone and delete the picture. I couldn't fucking believe it. I didn't realize it until later, and then I was far too embarassed to ask for another picture. God DAMN IT!

In other news, I've got like some sort of table coming in the mail. Early wedding present from my mom's cousins. I think I registered for this table, but I've completely forgotten what it looks like. I hope I like it. I also hope it comes with lasers, a time machine, and a dead monkey. I mean, not that I really want a dead monkey, but if it came with lasers and a time machine it'd be way too expensive for my mom's cousins to buy, so I figure if a monkey died in it, that'd explain why it's so cheap.

In other, other news, we sent out wedding invitations Tuesday, and Jackie's friend (about 20 zip codes away) received them on Wednesday. What the hell? Apparently the post office has used the extra 2 cents per stamp that we're now paying to hire some sort of supersonic robot delivery drivers. That's Jackie's joke, but now it's in my blog, so I think that means she's screwed. Ha ha, take that, little woman.

Okay, another episode of the mildly retarded chef here. I just made meatloaf stuffed with mushrooms and glazed BBBQ Sauce (the extra B is for bring your own BBBQ sauce). It was freakishly good. Here's how you do it...

Mix up about 1.5 lbs of ground meat (you're supposed to use a mixture of beef and pork, but I went with all beef), with 1 egg, about a cup of plain breadcrumbs, one green onion (diced), a pinch of onion powder, and about a cup of Sweet Baby Ray's BBQ sauce. Then, in a pan, saute some mushrooms (about 10 small white mushrooms, sliced) in butter, olive oil, garlic, and another green onion (also diced). When the mushrooms are done, drain off the excess liquid and mix in about a 1/2 cup of breadcrumbs.

Then, on a sheet pan or cutting board or whatever, lay down a layer of meat, using about half of the meat you have. On top of this, lay down a layer of mushrooms, and on top of that, lay down another layer of meat. Then pick up the meat and try to smooth the sides over so that all of the mushrooms are contained within. It should now look approximately like a football. Do your best Joe Namath pose, but *DON'T* throw it at the wall. It will explode in an orgy of miscellaneous food products, unlike a regulation football.

Then you set your football on a rack on top of a sheet pan. Pour some BBQ sauce on top and spread it around with a spoon to coat the entire top half of the meatloaf. Cook at 350 for 1 hour, then lower to 250 and cook for another 1/2 to 1 hour. Cut into inch-thick slices and eat. Try to keep it from falling apart - it's like a game. The meatloaf might win, but you still get to eat it.

If you were in Vegas, and you remember the Megadog, you should totally buy this. Or at least marvel at its glory.

The soon-to-be-the-old-ball-and-chain and I recently bought Quantum Leap, season 2 on DVD. We already owned season 1. The best part about season 2 is that it has like 26 episodes on it - each an hour long. Season 1 only had like 9.

Now, I'm a huge fan of Quantum Leap. But the thing I never realized was how freakin' funny it is. For example, when Sam leaps into a Mexican immigrant, all the other Mexicans around him speak perfect, nearly-unnaccented English except for very simple words. Like, "Carlos, what are you doing trespassing in mi casa?" Or, "I have an inoperable cyst in my lower lumbar region. The specialist says that it might be malignant. That is no muy bueno."

In another episode, Sam leaps into a mother and needs to keep her son from getting kidnapped. Throughout the episode, they cut to a van driving along the highway. It crosses the state line into Arizona and sees a sign that says, "Tucson - 62 miles". Eventually, they reach Tucson and kidnap this kid. Then Sam beats the crap out of them and saves him. Guess who the guys were... WE HAVE NO IDEA! They never explain who these guys are that drove 100 miles (or more?) to kidnap some random kid that looks like Blossom's oldest brother. I imagine they were sitting around in their bungalow one day and it went something like this:

Kidnapper 1: Hey, Joe, let's kidnap some kid.
Kidnapper 2: How come?
K1: You know, I've just felt a lot like kidnapping lately.
K2: Now that you mention it, so do I. Let me think about it for a bit.

(hours later)
K2: Okay, I've got it all figured out. There's this suburb outside of Tucson, about 125 miles from here.
K1: Tucson? How the hell are we gonna get to Tucson?
K2: Now see, that's the great part. We rent a van.
K1: Well, okay, yeah, you gotta have a van.
K2: And there's this kid who lives at 2115 Westchester Lane.
K1: Why this kid, particularly?
K2: Well, I don't know. I picked him out of the yellow pages. The distraught kidnappable kids yellow pages. Anyway, I've drawn up this map, and I've marked gas stations that we should stop at.
K1: Couldn't we get some kid locally?
K2 (not listening): ...and I've written up a budget for how much we can spend on gas, rope, duct tape, soda, doritos, etc... My accountant says...
K1: YOU HIRED AN ACCOUNTANT?
K2: Well, you know, I know a guy. I had him run some numbers...
K1: Joe?
K2: yeah?
K1: You're an idiot. But I love you, let's roll.

The shower this morning was a blood bath.

That sounds like a good way to start off an entry. I stepped into the shower and turned on the water, and as I looked down, drops of blood started flowing. The usual response to a nose bleed would be to stuff tissue paper in your nose, but that's not really an option when you're soaking wet. So I clamped the bridge of my nose and tried to avoid flicking blood at the walls. Our apartment is obviously way too dry. If you're coming to our wedding and you see that humidifier on our registry - we could use that. I mean, back in college, I might have done something which would have encouraged a nose-bleed, but other than drinking, I don't know what could be causing it other than dry weather. I don't even pick my nose anymore - much.

Yesterday, the Bears lost - that was a huge disappointment. I blame the coach.

Chris: Oh, Lou Rawls died.
Jackie: Yeah.
Chris: I think I know who that is, but I always get Lou Rawls confused with Lou Reed.
Jackie: I always get Lou Reed confused with Donna Reed.
Chris: I get Donna Reed confused with Donna Summers.
Jackie: I always get Donna Summers confused with... summer... the season.
Chris: That's funny, I always confuse summer, the season with the Four Seasons.
Jackie: I always get the Four Seasons confused with the Four Tops.

It's a topsy-turvy, mixed-up, shook-up world we live in.

Yesterday, I had a mild toothache. Today, I have a tooth in a bag and a Wendy's Frosty. See, I had this tooth, it was a wisdom tooth and it came in looking sort of like a pie with a sliver cut out of it. That was about 2 years ago. Little by little, more of the pie was being eaten, by bacteria or stomach acids, or whatever. So two weeks ago, my tooth looked more like a crescent moon, and it was starting to hurt. I got some anbesol and decided to wait until after the holidays when it would be easier to take time off work to see the dentist.

So, last night I got 30 minutes of sleep and about 8 hours of sighing, cringing, and crying. Somehow, don't ask me how, I got a dentist's appointment as a new patient on about 2 hours notice, got my wisdom tooth pulled, and was back at work 4 hours after I left (and it's a half-hour drive from work to the dentist). Jackie think's it's amusing that I got a wisdom tooth pulled on my lunch break. Me... I think it's amusing that I had a 4 hour lunch break, and all it cost me was a couple weeks of slight pain, a night and morning of intense ball-shattering pain, and $120 bucks after insurance.

It was a good Christmas. I think the people we got gifts for were relatively happy with them, and we got some awesome gifts ourselves. Waterford Crystal cake knife - very nice. Set of poker chips - sweet. Pirates of the Carribean, Red Dwarf book, Crowded House CD, Leather Jacket (it says World Poker Tour on it, which keeps it from being a "nice" jacket - meaning that it wouldn't work when getting dressed up or going to a fancy restaurant, but it's still pretty sweet, and hey - a leather jacket). I can't wait to psyche everybody out the next time we play poker.

Oh, also, I got a car full of puke. Neon-orange spaghetti-shaped puke. Awesome.

I got home from work about a half-hour ago. It was the busiest day in the history of our store (going by sales numbers and customer count). I'm a little tired. So I'm going to do something that I don't do often - post a link on my blog. This is something that I stumbled on, and it puts into words something that I believe fairly strongly in. It's sort of a "power of positive" thinking thing, although it's not entirely that. Obviously, if you are missing a leg, telling yourself that you can walk isn't going to help a whole lot, and if you're hideously ugly, with pus-filled dripping wounds on your face and a swollen tongue that won't allow you to talk - well, you won't have much luck with women. But the part about forgetting about yesterday and just forging ahead to tomorrow - that's good advice.

Speaking of tomorrow, I gotta go to sleep to wake up early. Gack.

Here are several hot topics that I will not be covering in depth, mostly because they have already been covered to death in other forums:

• "Happy Holidays" v. "Merry Christmas
• the ongoing War/Insurgency/Funny Hat Party/Whatever in Iraq
• Bush is a dickhead
• Christmas shopping sucks
• that poor boy who was crushed by a 747 and his poor family
• Terrell Owens is a dickhead
• Bluetooth, and how it was "new technology" in 1990's
• the NFL is paying each member of the New Orleans Saints $40k for undergoing hardships; no word yet on how much they are paying every citizen of New Orleans

Thank you, please drive through.

Jackie has gotten it into her head that she would like to move to Indianapolis. Granted, you can get a 3-bedroom single-family home in Indy for half the price of a shitty run-down townhouse in the Chicago suburbs. That's a plus. And granted, I *do* like Indianapolis, though it does have the misfortune of being stuck in the middle of Indiana. And, well... you know, when I think about it, why *not* move to Indy? Mostly because of the job situation. I finally have a job where I get to boss other people around ("go get me some damn coffee! move that box over there! now move it back! my skin is dry - put some lotion on my crotch!"), and there is definite opportunity for advancement. Plus, I mostly like it there.

Looking online at assistant retail manager positions in Indianapolis - the best prospect right now looks to be PetCo. And I'm not a real big fan of animals. I can just see the job interview now... "Oh, and I have excellent organizational skills. Of course, I hate animals. Everytime I see an animal I want to shoot it or strangle it or step on it. That won't be a problem, will it?" Oh well, something else could probably open up by the time we have the wedding and can start seriously thinking about moving.

But still... Indianapolis? Can I really tell my friends that I live in Indiana? Isn't it a red state? Incidentally, I distinctly recall that when I was about 12 years old Republican was blue and Democrat was red. Am I just imagining things, or did they switch the colors without telling me? I'm sure I remember seeing a big blue map of an election with like Minnesota as the only red state. Actually, here it is. So what's the deal with the color switch? Or did that was it just *that* game (which I used to like playing in junior high)? Did President Elect screw up my interpretation of the color system for life?

But anyway, if you have a job for me in Indianapolis, let me know. I have experience in retail, customer service, IT troubleshooting and network setup, web design, cooking, catering, and software engineering. Also some RF equipment testing. And mop-and-bucket experience. Also technical writing. And software debuggery. And some other stuff. Man, I've had a bunch of different jobs.

Okay, new beginning. If you're upset that my blog hasn't been published in a long time, you could, of course, have read the hilarious archives - several years of them, each more something than the next. I've allotted approximately 7 months for you to get tired of the archives. In TV, this is called "reruns". Now that anyone who might have had any interest in reading my blog has gotten pissed off with the same 4 posts waiting on the front page (this is called, "getting sick of the same damn reruns"), I've decided to start back in with the hilarity. This is called "sweeps" or "the season premiere" or "that retarded show is getting re-upped? Goddamn, I can't believe they cancelled Survivor - Michael Jackson's Backyard for this garbage", depending on the timing and how you feel about the show and about Michael Jackson's backyard.

By now, the show's former loyal viewership of well over 1 person, commanding a huge .000001% of the desirable 18-50 market has wandered off, leaving it as simply a venue for the author to talk to himself, mostly incoherently. This is known in TV as "Space Ghost: Coast to Coast".

Today's episode:
The soon-to-be-missus and I went out for dinner to celebrate our anniversary (of our first date). Don't get me wrong, I like expensive, pretentious restaurants as much as the next guy, and I did enjoy the food, but...

Number one, the bourbon-marinated twin medallions in marsala wine sauce were freakin' awesome, but there were like 2 bites of meat in each twin medallion. $20 is not a lot for steak, but it *is* a lot for 4 bites of steak. Of course, they did serve about a pound of garlic-mashed potatoes, so that you have the *illusion* of a large portion, and you do leave full, but potatoes cost about 30 cents a pound.

Number two, they took down my last name when we made our reservation and then continued to call me by my last name for the entire meal. This seems like it might be a nice touch, but really... umm... it isn't. "Mr. Styles, your table is ready, please follow me Mr. Styles. Okay, here's your table, Mr. Styles. Kristen will be your waitress, and she will be right with you, Mr. Styles." Then some broad in a suit stops by, picks up the order pad and says, "Mr. Styles?" I answer in the affirmative and perk up and am about to order when she says, "I'm not your waitress, but I will tell her that I stopped by to say hello." What the crap is that about? First of all, don't address me as anything other than "sir" or "hey asshole", depending on the class of the joint. Second of all, don't speak to me unless you're taking my order, or offering me free shit. If you're gonna drop by just to "say hello", you can save it, because really, I'm not interested.

Number three, sitting at the bar waiting for our table was ridiculous. Some guy interrupted while the waitress was taking our order, and she asked him to hold on. She then took our order and brought me my drink, sans-cherry. I, obviously, asked for a cherry. Then, while we waited 10 minutes for my cherry and my girl's Cosmo, she went and got drinks for the rude guy and like the whole rest of the bar, then poured-out the rude guy's drink and made him another one, and then finally brought over the Cosmo which had been sitting, already made, on the counter the entire time. She apologized brusquely, without even mentioning my cherry! Can you believe that? Of course, I walked down to the waitress station, with several waitresses and our bartender watching, and grabbed my own cherry and stormed defiantly (okay, scampered semi-stealthily) back to my seat. Jesus.

I guess my point is, the service was very polite, yet also very shitty. Don't go there. If I could remember the name of the restaurant, I'd warn you against it, but just don't go to the place with bourbon-marinated medallions where they call you by your last name and never bring you your cherry for your drink. That should be specific enough. If you do go there, tell them Mr. Styles sent you. Or don't, cause that's not my real name.

In the last three days, I have eaten Crabmeat Pesto Ravioli, Orange & Mint Marinated Beef Round, and Broiled Tilapia with Tomato and Feta Cheese. It's crazy. The first two were prepared by myself, and the other by my assistant, the lovely Jaclyn. These meals were, for the most part, accompanied by a nice side dish of veggies, a bottle of wine, and a small healthy dessert. It's all part of an effort to 1) eat better, 2) cook something interesting, and most importantly 3) clear all the old crap out of our fridge before it spoils. So far, mission accomplished. Tomorrow's meal is either garlic stuffed salmon, or microwaved Totino's pizza from the dollar store.

I like green beans, really I do. But the problem is, I like my green beans to be buttery. But butter doesn't really stick to a bean very well, so they usually end up tasting kind of watery and bland. So I've thought of a way to fix this problem. See, if the bean had a little bit of butter on the inside, it would have no choice but to melt when cooked and stay in there so you get a nice mixed bite of green beans and butter. But how would you get the butter in there? Good question. Here's the answer: Through the magic of genetic engineering, you cross-breed a green bean with a cow so that they grow with a little bit of butter in them. I would call it "Green Angus - a butter bean than the beans you've been eating before". Brilliant. If you'd like to invest in Green Angus, please send cash. I'll mail you a receipt or a stock certificate or something.

So, I'm creating a new wedding website. You know, for the whole wedding thing that's happening next April 21st. And I know it sounds like a stupid idea, but suddenly it hit me that I'd rather make one website than have to field a hundred more phone calls asking, "so where is the hall again, and do we have a group rate at any hotel, and how do I get from the hotel to the church, and what if I don't like meat, and who's getting married anyway?" Not to mention how much paper we'll cut down on by just including 2 street addresses and a web address on the invitations, instead of 3 pages of notes and instructions. Since we're printing our own wedding invitations, this is a valid concern.

In other news, I have the mother of all spyware installed on my machine right now. It's probably reading and editing this blog as I type. Actually, I think I've got it licked, after about 3 virus scans and 20 Spybot and AdAware scans. Plus downloading an uninstaller. Thats always kinda dicey, downloading an "uninstaller" from a company that was unreputable enough to install their software on my computer without my knowledge. Even money that the uninstaller was going to "uninstall" my lack of other spyware. But I think it's gone now. Just watch, I'll restart my computer and instantly have 20 link icons on my desktop and pop-ups whenever I move the mouse or breathe.

So I had heard about Blockbuster's "Say Goodbye to Late Fees" policy, and I had also heard some vague mention about a lawsuit being filed by a few people who hadn't read the fine print that if you kept a movie for more than a week past the due date you were considered to have bought it. But today was the first time I had rented from them since that policy went into effect. It turns out that you can still return the movie within 30 days of the "sale" and get a refund, minus a small restocking fee (of like $2.00). That's really a pretty reasonable deal. So reasonable, in fact, that I can't fathom why they would enact this policy. Your movie is still due by the due date, but if you keep it a week, you don't get charged anything extra, and if you keep it a month or less, you only get charged $2.00. Are you kidding me? Nobody assumes they're going to be paying late fees when they rent a movie. Late fees are something you get blindsided by and then have to mortgage your car in order to pay off, thus ensuring that the video-rental places stay in business to service those of us who can successfully watch a movie in one night and bring it back the next day. This... this is just like Blockbuster throwing away free money. Who is the ad wizard who came up with this one?

Ad Wizard: Okay, guys, I've got this great idea. You know how we get, like, 90% of our profits from late fees?
Executive Board: Yeah.
AW: And you know how people hate paying late fees, right?
EB: I'm with you so far.
AW: Well, since we like late fees and people hate them, how about we get rid of them?
EB: Just get rid of them?
AW: Just forget about them completely.
EB: Can we do that?
AW: We already did.
EB: Really? How'd that work out?
AW: Well, we're being sued.
EB: Wow, great. Good job, Ed. So let me get this straight. People now keep our movies longer so we need to have more stock, we no longer make money off of late fees, and we're being sued. How are we making any money at all?
AW: Well, actually, that's a good question. Where does my salary come from?
EB: Funny you bring that up, Ed. You're fired. Get out of this boardroom and clean out your desk, you jackass.

Really, they should put me in charge of marketing at Blockbuster. Here's my new policy: free rentals, exorbitant late fees, incomprehensible policies on due dates.

Employee: Here's your movie, sir. It's due back on the third Friday after the last Sunday, 3 fortnights before the next full moon.
Customer: Wha... when is that?
E: Actually, it's yesterday. You owe us $97.58 in late fees.
C: But I haven't even seen the movie yet.
E: Well, watch it tonight and bring it back tomorrow for only $500. But make sure it's back before Sunday or the fees increase drastically.
C: But couldn't I have just bought the movie for less than that?
E: By that time, you will own the movie.
C: Well, can I bring it back for a refund.
E: Technically, yes, but then you'll be subject to our restocking fee.
C: Well, how much is it?
E: I can't say, exactly. We needed to hire a small team of mathematicians to come up with a formula for estimating the number. Words have not yet been invented in our language to desribe the size and severity of this astronomical fee. Only 7 people in our galaxy truly understand the math involved, and two of them are very ill.
C: w....
E: I don't think they're going to make it through the night.
C: oh, I...
E: Please pray for them.
C: I...
E: And have that movie back tomorrow.

Psh... no late fees...

So, I went back to work yesterday, despite the fact that my belly still looks like this:




It was a little excruciating. For one thing, everybody telling me to take it easy and sit down infuriated me into working a lot. I even lifted a case of beer into someone's cart for them (to be fair, it was only 3/4ths of a case, and I tested to make sure it didn't hurt before picking it all the way up), which I really shouldn't have done. I also put cases of booze on the shelf, although I didn't life the cases. I did, however, push a handcart with a single case on it. But on top of that, my direct boss, the ops manager, didn't come in. Normally, I'm supposed to work 10-7 on Weds, and he closes the store. But since he worked Monday for me, he decided that he wasn't coming in as long as I showed up for work. Which is fine, but I wish he would have told me and I'd have come in later. Sucks working 10-9:30 with a gut that looks like tenderized meat jelly.

I also looked in my bosses desk (I like to snoop through his stuff when he's gone, to make sure he's not gonna fire me or steal my raises), and found the note my doctor faxed over that said no lifting for 6 weeks. Are you f-ing kidding me? 6 weeks? I'm almost ready to lift today. Hell, why not just make it no more lifting ever and I can go into work and sip mocha lattes and do crossword puzzles all day long (okay, okay, so that's what I do anyway... shut up). 1 week, 2 weeks tops. Which is what the doctor told me pre-surgery anyway. I like how he's changing his story, now that there's no question of whether or not he'll get to do the surgery and collect his big stupid paycheck.

If anyone knows how to remove surgical tape easily and without pain, please let me know... quickly. :-*

Freakin' doctor pulled out the tube that was connceted to my abdomen (without anesthesia, let me add - just snipped the stitch and yanked on it while I felt a sickening sliding feeling in my belly), then taped on a piece of gauze to contain any "leaking" that might occur. Then, in order to hold the gauze in place he taped it on with like 35 pieces of surgical tape. 2 of these pieces of tape are placed ontop of the butterfly tape that's holding stitches in place from the operation. So even if I manage to rip all of my belly hair out and get this gauze off, there's a good chance I'll open up a stitch and bleed to death all over my keyboard as I write this.

Okay, wish me luck.

So this guy Zell Miller was on The Daily Show last night. It seems he wrote this book, A Deficit of Decency. I heard the title and I thought, "hey, that sounds right. there is a deficit of decency in America."

People are mean to each other, everybody's always in a big hurry, companies and individuals are always out to make a quick buck rather than help out those less fortunate. Working in a retail job, you really get a feel for the lack of decency among fellow human beings. They're a bunch of damn jerks.

Turns out... that's not what he's talking about at all. Turns out he's talking about more important stuff, like rap music. "Freedom of speech doesn't mean you can shout fire in a crowded theatre," he says, "I think freedom of speech also doesn't apply to rap music." What the f... uh... I'm at a loss for words here. I swear, I wouldn't mind conservatives so much if they weren't all such a bunch of freakin' wack jobs.

So, I'm scheduled for surgery on Tuesday. But I'm not sure I really need to go. See, the doctor gave me this 6-page pamphlet called "The Gall Bladder Surgery Book". I've been studying the diagrams pretty carefully, and I'm pretty sure I can handle it. The book says that gall bladder surgery is one of the most routine kinds of surgery, so how can I go wrong. All I need is a scalpel, one of those tubes to suck out the juices and such, and some general anasthesia. Also a way to stay conscious while under general anasthesia. That's not impossible or anything, is it?

Actually, though, I'm really excited about the surgery. The way I see it, I go to a hospital, kick back in bed for a day, then I get 5 days off work to lay around the apartment and play Warlords Battlecry 3. I can deal with that. I told my boss, it's going to be like a very painful vacation. Like going to Disneyland, but Mickey Mouse has a hacksaw and chops up your intestines with it. Sounds okay to me.

I just hope this doctor knows what he's doing. I brought him my ultrasound tests and he said that he saw the problem, but I swear it looked like a moldy jelly donut. He said there were no stones, but there was a sludge, but I don't see how a sludge would even show up on an ultrasound any more than the liquid that's supposed to be in there. It isn't a motion picture where you can watch it jiggle back and forth. He said, "here's the sludge - you see that grey stuff?", while pointing at the center of the entire grey picture. "No," I said. "Yeah, that stuff. That's what's causing the problem."

Then, after talking to me for 10 minutes, he asked if I would consent to surgery. Didn't say I needed it, didn't do any real tests, didn't ensure me that my life depended on the removal of my faulty wiring, just asked if I wanted to do it. Sure, I said, what the hey. Just let me borrow that book and your scalpel.

This just in, you can now email the Pope. Send him your prayers, blessings, penguin porn spam, and the list of 30 humorous ways that men are different from women (like "women leave the toilet seat down, while men leave the toilet seat up"). But did you also know that the Pope has an AIM handle too? I saw him on last night and gave him a buzz.

EugeneStyles: you there?
EggzB3n3dictus: of course i'm here, i'ma da freakin' pope
EugeneStyles: did you get my email?
EggzB3n3dictus: no, hold on let me check
EggzB3n3dictus: oh wait, is that one from you, the girl sticking her head in the horse?
EugeneStyles: umm... no. weird.
EugeneStyles: could you send it to me?
EggzB3n3dictus: you pervert, I was just kidding. you're totally going to hell for that
EggzB3n3dictus: nah, I'm just kidding, yer alright
EggzB3n3dictus: oh, here's your email. nah, I don't think I'm going to change my title to Intergalactic Supermegapope. but about doing your wedding, I'll have to see if I'm free that weekend
EugeneStyles: March 31st, probably
EggzB3n3dictus: oh no, wait, I forgot, I'm going to be busy - running the biggest religion in the world.
EugeneStyles: what about April 6th?
EggzB3n3dictus: also busy
EugeneStyles: any time in April?
EggzB3n3dictus: umm, busy, busy, busy, and umm... my date with Sister Mary Elizabeth.
EugeneStyles: the Pope is allowed to date?
EggzB3n3dictus: well, we're not allowed to have sex, but we can still, you know... do other things *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge*
EugeneStlyes: oh my god
EggzB3n3dictus: oops, gotta go, altar boy is here for my morning sponge bath. l8r

Ah, that crazy pope.

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Unleash your Giant Battle Monster.

Cockmaster - One who rears game-cocks

An oldie but a goodie: http://www.thefrown.com/wearerobots/angrybot.html

Biliary colic. That's what I have. What seems to be the problem? Well, it "seems" like everything on my insides wants to be on my outsides. How would I rate my pain? Two enthusiastic thumbs up, medical event of the year. Umm... if you're never seen Brian Regan, you have no idea what I'm talking about. Take it from me, he's a funny stand up comic. And he has a nice little bit about emergency rooms. And even though I was doubled over in pain and Jackie was woken up after about 5 hours of sleep to drive me there, we were happily giggling our stupid little heads off shouting lines of it back and forth to each other. She pulls up at the ER dock, "Okay, here you go. I'm gonna go park... Tell 'em you're shot..." Umm... guess you had to be there.

Bad news is, I can't eat any fatty foods. At all. Good news is, they gave me vicodin. I'm not sure which side wins here. Unfortunately, it wasn't a lot of vicodin. Just enough to tide me over if I have any more attacks before I see the gastroenterologist. Who's going to want to remove my gall bladder. Well fuck that guy. I'm gonna see if he'll be happy with just a kidney. What did my kidneys ever do for me anyway?

Allergies, good god, what are they good for? Absolutely nothin'. I'll say it again...

Ugh, I sneezed about 30 times in a row this morning, not to mention filling a toilet with snot (well, that's a lovely image). It's all because flowers and trees get horny this time of year and start spewing around their juices and such, and some of us happen to be allergic to tree sperm in our noses. That's why I'm on a crusade to burn down the forests. Deforestation for a snot-free tomorrow! Just to make it official, consider this a new entry on my enemies list:

• tree sperm
• also flower sperm

Well, that about does it I guess. Maybe I should make some posters or distribute leaflets. Tons and tons of leaflets, urging people to print more leaflets. That would show those damned trees.

Have you ever been doubled over, writhing in pain and you take some medicine and read the back of the box and it says, "usually produces results in 6 to 12 hours". That sucks, man. Really. That's about the time you want to drink the bottle of bleach that says it works in minutes. Removes stains, dissolves your esophagus, whatever.

This weekend the J and I are going up to Door County, Wisconsin. So what do I hear, but there's a winter storm warning. Up to 12 inches of snow. Fuck, man. I guess we're still going. It's the only 3 day weekend I'm gonna have for a few months. I just hope Jackie doesn't hear about the storm and get freaked out. You don't think she reads this, does she?

How many different punctuation marks are there? Like maybe 10, max? Because it strikes me as odd that out of that 10 (give or take), 3 of them make me think of blood: slash, colon, and, of course, period.

Four, if you count the semicolon, cause let's face it, a half of a colon would probably bleed more than a whole one.

Love is... turning the other way when you burp.

I hate people with camera phones. They are annoying, always taking pictures and offering to email them to you. Like you really want a picture of their cat taken with a low-resolution piece of crap phone camera. Well, I am now one of those people. I don't have a cat, so here's a picture of my beer:





That's a Left Hand Imperial Stout. $13 bottle of beer. It was good, I liked it. I liked it so much I took a picture of it and made it my phone background. So, for the next several weeks, I'll be taking pictures of every retarded thing I can get to hold still for long enough for me to point my phone at it. In fact, Monday, I sent pictures to Jackie all day instead of working. These included a picture of the Spanish girl on a margarita mix bottle, and a picture of 5 plastic limes lined up on a shelf (not pictured). If you send me your email address, I may or may not send you a full-color closeup of my ass.

Now to sit back and let the email addresses roll in.

So I built most of jackie's computer yesterday. Then I felt like crap this morning so I called in sick and finished the computer. It's a gem. Some helpful hints if you're ever building a computer:

1) AMD gets you more bang-for-the-buck than Intel, but AMD chips run very hot, so Intel chips are likely to last longer. Since most computers are obsolete before they're broken, I like AMD.

2) Always check newegg and pricewatch before going to someplace like Fry's or *shudder* Best Buy. I thought that Fry's had good prices, but after seeing online prices, I only ended up buying like 4 parts (HDD, CD/DVD, Mouse/Keyboard, and Case) at Fry's and the rest through the mail.

3) As tasty as thermal paste may look, you probably shouldn't eat it. But if you do, at least your tongue will be well insulated while you're dry heaving in the bathroom.

4) Keep bandaids handy. Screwdrivers, screws, and un-sanded parts of the case tend to rip through unprotected skin more easily than you'd expect. I think that this project brings my grand total of computer-construction-related injuries to about 14.

5) It's easy to be mezmerized by that guy that says, "Dude, you're getting a Dell!" But the only reason he's that excited is because they pay him like 4 million bucks and lace his soy lattes with LSD. If you were to go online and order the cheapest parts you could find with no regard for performance or compatibility, then tape them together and shove them inside an ugly plastic box, you would have approximately the same thing that Dell charges $1000 for.

6) If you need a new computer, I'll build you one for $1000. Granted, it may only have $300 worth of parts inside, but that's the price you pay for dealing with an unlicensed, untrustworthy contractor. I also have some junk bonds to sell you, if you're interested.

D to the I Movie Review
Jackie was watching "Chasing Liberty" the other day, so I watched most of it in between looking at GameFAQs for Super Smash Brothers and making myself dinner. And I must say, I was pleasantly suprised. Not by how good the movie was. The movie was crap. I was pleasantly surprised because Mandy Moore takes her clothes of in the movie. Okay, she's got a face like a big red apple, and she's barely 18, and you only see her from the back, but I like to think that the only way a burgeoning actress can get ahead in Hollywood is to show some skin, even if she's already as famous as Mandy Moore.

At one point in the movie, Matthew Goode (the love interest) stops a fat little German kid (the kind of kid who you always imagine with chocolate smeared on his face) on a bike and tries to explain to him that he needs to buy the kid's bike. Then there's this odd cut and Goode is riding on the bicycle, and we're left to wonder what he did to pry it away from the little fat kid. I feel like they totally cut out a scene there where the kid walks away smiling and shouts "auf wiedersehen! danke für der hosen sucken!"

That scene would have been the best part of the movie. So, since I imagined it in my head and feel like I saw it, I give the movie 2 stars.

Today's word of the day: svelte - slender, lithe, having clean lines, sleek; can also mean urbane or suave.

It came to my attention today that I did not know the meaning of this word, hence word of the day. Jackie, on the other hand, didn't know the meaning of melee, so I think I win. And by win, I mean kick her ass at Super Smash Brothers Melee. Which we just got. As a New Years present. From ourselves.

Last night was one of the more calm and laid-back New Year's Eves I've had in a while. Which isn't entirely a bad thing. But there was't a whole lot of drunken rowdiness, which is something I missed. Some of the people that were there don't drink, and most of them don't drink excessively. Which is all fine and good, and I acknowledge their right to their own lifestyle choices, but when in Rome, you know? Is it too much to ask that they at least *act* like a bunch of drunken fratboys stuffing weevils down each others' pants, just one day out of the year? Is it? Well, maybe. And what the fuck is a weevil anyway? Is it some sort of rodent?

Anyway, it was my New Year's resolution to blog at least once a year, so I've now fulfilled that requirement... But really, I'm planning on making some sweeping changes around here, for the benefit of my one reader and her multiple personalities. Probably a new background/layout, some daily features, horoscopes, an advice column, advice column retractions, comics, crossword... Really, I'll probably just scan the newspaper in every morning. Now to get a scanner...

More blogging coming soon, same bat time, same bat channel. Now, stay tuned for the news at eleven.

January 1st, it's blogging as you've never seen before. Or as you've seen just one time before. Okay, well, several times, but only in one place. Here.

Anyway, Death to the Infidels returns, Jan 1.

I would like to blog more often. I would like to be the king of my own little blogging microverse, and spew witty comments like so much spoiled chicken soup. My problem is that I have nothing to say. I have started a new job (again!), this time as a retail manager in a large liquor store (for people who have never been in my liquor store, imagine a grocery store, but instead of an aisle saying something like "cat food, beans, and potty training accessories", it would say, "canadian brandy, cognac, and cherry liquers that are too sweet (the correctly sweeted cherry liquers are in aisle 10)". I think there are something like 30 aisles in the store, although some of those are simply the continuation of other aisles.

Isn't it funny that the words aisle, isle, and I'll are all prounced the same? Also eye'll, as in "your eye'll fall out if you keep sticking that swizzle stick in there."

Update: What the hell kind of word is 'sweeted'?

Have you found Jesus yet? I mean, I know you were looking for him, and how hard could it be to find him? I mean, he's like, a whole person. How do you lose a whole person?

Maybe if you went back to the last place you had him and retrace your steps. That's what I do whenever I lose something. Like that time I lost my brother at the mall, and I had to go back to Baskin Robbins and ask them where my brother was. They didn't know, but I bought myself an ice cream cone, and I didn't feel so bad about losing him. And a few days later he turned up anyway, so it was no big deal.

I realize that I have a very small bladder. I find myself getting up ever 10 minutes at work to use the washroom if I so much as drink half a can of pepsi. It's ri-goddamn-diculous.

That reminds me, for no good reason, of footballs. I think they used to (or still) make them out of pig's bladders. I suppose they could make a ping-pong ball out of my bladder. But it probably wouldn't bounce very well. "15-10, my serve. *woosh* *splat* okay, another service fault. 15-11..."

This just in... My blog (this page that you are now looking at) has a Google PageRank of 4. That's out of 10, and it may not sound very impressive, but Jackie's blog only has a PR of 3. How about some of those apples, baby! Also, www.jimkayassociates.com, where I work, and www.sportyscatering.com, which I designed, only have PR's of 3. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to get those pages up to speed. But first, my mission is to go have a cigarette. This message will self-destruct in 10 seconds.

You may have been wondering where I've been for the past month and a half.  Well, probably not, because the person that reads this blog is in an ideal position to know where I've been for the past month and a half (she sleeps in my room... well, most of the time).  Anyway, the short answer is that I was abducted by aliens.  The long answer involves an explanation of why my posterior hurts so much (why must it always be the anal probes?  haven't they every heard of an oral probe?).

But I'm back now.  Or mostly back.  I think there was something like 18 pounds of impacted intestinal matter that they took out.  God knows what they want to do with that stuff.

So I saw this show on like MTV or something the other day.  It' s called "Extreme Dating".  Now, I wasn't watching all that closely, but I think it went something like this:

Perky Host: Okay!  Welcome back to Extreme Dating, where couples try to find their soulmates in ever more ridiculously contrived first date situations.  Today, Marla, a 31-year-old account executive with all of her own teeth and somebody else's boobs, will try to decide whether or not she wants a second date with John....  while free-falling from our Extreme Dating Helicopter at 30,000 feet. John: ...and I said, "pedophile?  that's an awfully big word for a 7-year-old." Marla: umm.... haha? PH: So, Marla.  You have 10 seconds left until the point of no return.  It's decision time.  If you'd like another date with John, hand him the backpack with the parachute in it.  Otherwise, hand him the backpack full of bricks. Marla: Well, on the one hand, he's got big pecs, and a lot of money.  But I think he's too much of a mama's boy.  (pause) I think I'm gonna let him die. John: (opens up backpack and bricks fly out Ieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! PH: Ooh, John, that's rough.  But try not feel too "crushed" by the rejection.  Marla may have "let you down", but maybe you'll have better luck next time. (whispering off-stage) PH: Oh, I guess that's not possible.  Umm...  Okay, well, let's go on to our next contestants, where Sylvia is swimming in shark-infested waters and Edmund has the last bottle of shark-repellent.

I want to buy a karaoke machine. I thought Jackie was on board with this, but she's fighting me on it. I mean, I'm willing to pay for it myself. Which doesn't mean much since we share a bank account. I guess it has something to do with this thing degenerating to her and I singing retarded love songs back and forth to each other while drinking Jack & Cokes alone in our den and slumping down onto our doesn't-quite-match-the-walls gold floral-print couch. Karaoke machines are for parties and I can count the number of parties we've hosted in the past half year on no hands. And no feet. So what's the point, you ask? Well, I want one.

Then again, the machine probably comes with one CD containing Who Let the Dogs Out, Oops I Did It Again, and 8 different mixes of Material Girl. So this wild dream probably includes a pretty substantial cash layout so that we can actually sing songs that a 12 year-old girl doesn't dance to.

There's a place in Memphis where they serve Burgers cooked in 100 year old grease. Every night, they strain the grease, get rid of all the gook and gristle... everything that's perishable really. It's perfectly safe, really. At least I assume it is. Fryer grease is a hydrocarbon, just like petroleum (in fact, you can run Diesel cars on fryer grease, just ask Djo), and petroleum doesn't break down. It's been in the earth for millions of years before we come along and kill brown people over the rights to use it to drive our cars to the mall to buy the latest spring fashions.

But I digress. Me, I couldn't care less about eating 100 year old grease. Jackie, I think was a bit nauseated by it. That's really the difference between her and I. She's worried that something might hurt her. I don't care if something hurts me as long as it isn't my fault. A semi comes barrelling down on me, I figure either I'll die or get a great insurance settlement. Either way, no skin off my back. If someone serves me poison, I'll probably be able to sue, and for living in this nation of suing people over every little thing, I'm a little upset that I haven't gotten my chance yet.

I put together a little chest of drawers/bedside table from Ikea last night. Jesus christ, this thing was like putting together the space shuttle, only instead of those O-rings, it had tiny little wheels with tiny little screws that had no holes to be screwed into. They expected you to not only screw those little bastards directly into the wood, but they also expected you to put them on straight so that the unit wouldn't be swerving around like Robert Downey Jr. on the 405 Freeway.

And now, this is the kicker... they couldn't expect drawers to be held together by those shitty wooden pegs alone, could they? The first time you yanked one open to grab a condom you'd rip the front right off and you'd have to stop what you're doing, get down on your hands and knees and try to fix a drawer in the dark, naked, with a plastic bag over your head. I mean, umm, well, *you* would have a plastic bag over your head because you're a sick freak, but I wouldn't. No way.

But anyway, back to the drawers. Since the pegs couldn't hold it together on their own, and IKEA has a strange dislike for screws, they give you some wood glue to keep the pegs in place. And this glue, what would be a reasonable thing for it to come in? That's right, a bag. They give you a BAG OF GLUE. Maybe this bag has a spout, or a spigot, or a little elf to help you not spill glue all over your brand new carpet? Nope. Not even a "cut here" label. You just gotta cut it open with scissors and try to drip it in the general direction of where you're aiming, and then try to put down the bag of glue in such a way that it doesn't leak everywhere. Not fun.

My first addition to my enemies list in a long while:

• Bag of Glue

That is all.

Two days until moving day and I'm not even packed. I have a feeling this is going to be a big fiasco. We're gonna end up with stuff in our apartment that we've never seen before, and we're gonna lose all of our stuff. "Honey, where is our couch?" "I think it's behind the waterfall." "No, I already looked there?" "Well ask the hobo." "When the fuck did we get a hobo?"

Yeah, I'm sure that's approximately how it will go. In the meantime, I have a Mount Fugi-sized pile of laundry to get through today. You think I exaggerate, but seriously, if I had to drive this stuff down to a laundromat, I couldn't fit it all in my car. There'd be socks flying out the windows, trunk held shut with a string, or maybe a pair of underwear stretched out and looped through the latch. It's a little overwhelming to think about actually washing all of those clothes? How did I get this much wardrobe volume? I guess it started when I decided to buy new clothes rather than washing the ones I had, back in 'aught-one.

Today we paint, tomorrow we die

3 gallons of paint, 3 painting trays, several rollers, 6 or 7 roller sleeves (3/8" nap), 2 paintbrushes, several tarps borrowed from the old man, and a couple of 47¢ painters caps. It doesn't seem like enough, somehow. Something seems to be missing - oh yeah, a plan. T-minus 50 minutes until we have scheduled ourselves to start painting, and we're not even sure what walls will be what colors. The far wall of the Den will be yellow, this is all we have agreed on so far. I think we've almost decided on the carpet - which will be gray with mottled flecks of whatever paint happens to have seeped through the tarp, or made its away around.

We have a brand new gas stove in our apartment. I love gas stoves, and it's not just so that I can say, "now we're cooking with evil gas." It also has very little to do with the smell of the gas, which I could just as well get from our... fabulous gas fireplace. All the comforts of a crappy ski lodge in one apartment. I mean, without the skiing, of course. I'm not much of a skiier (or is it skier???) anyway.

So I took my dad to go see the Chicago Rush yesterday. Arena football. It was... well... interesting. It reminded me of nothing so much as a game of Baseketball (like the movie from Matt Stone and Trey Parker). In that it was like a madeup sport that combines other sports. They play with 7 guys on the field, there is no out-of-bounds, there's a hell of a lot of scoring, and the penalties include "illegal defense". Arena football is much like basketball in that, every few minutes, they have some idiotic contest like fans dressed up as cheese doodles trying to kick a field goal, or they have the cheerleaders running around the stadium throwing T-shirts into the crowd. It's enough to drive a person batty.

I just have to ask... When did it stop being about the game, man? When did it stop being about the game?

Oh, about the game... the Rush got killed. It was something like 65-38 when we left.

This just in... Columbo is selling stories now. And Dee, whom most of you probably don't know, is getting a PhD. The world is a strange, strange place. I just don't know what to do anymore. I guess having a beer or two would be a good start. But then again, it's 8:30 in the morning... I'm so torn.

Dubuya was on TV today. It was kind of like watching a clown-show, only the clown was being bludgeoned from one side to the other by malicious apes with baseball bats. What struck me most was his claim that the "War on Terror" is a war that can be won. I drifted off a little after that, but I believe he went on to promise an upcoming "War on Sadness", followed by mobilized offensives against Loneliness, Confusion, Shock, and Ignorance. My only problem is, once we're finished with all of the negative emotions, what if he decides to take on Happiness, Love, and Fullfillment? Once he destroys all of our feelings, we'll be sitting around watching Fraiser, staring blankly, bored. Alright, so it's pretty much the same as before, but what if he decides to nuke Boredom? Then we'll all be fucked.

Apparently, Dubuya is also convinced that once everyone in the world can vote, there won't be any more suicide or anymore hatred for America. Maybe it's just me, but last time I checked, the French could vote, and so can people who live in Seattle.

Tonight, I have been drinking in moderation (surprise, surprise! not to excess tonight), and watching TV. Mostly Star Trek TNG reruns. I watched the episode where there are two Rikers, and another one with some "temporal anomalies". Temporal Anomaly is a great term, because it can explain anything.

"Weren't you going to pick me up after class today?"
"Temporal anomaly."

"Didn't I see you at McDonald's, when you said you were going to the dentist?"
"Temporal anomaly"

"Don't you owe me $25?"
"Nope. Must be a temporal anomaly. Hey, look over there!"

You know, I've always been a fan of ST:TNG, but Deep Space Nine... man, that show was the Star Trek holy grail. There was none of this, "let's rig up some armband clocks with super Delta emissions, and then modify our tricorders to play tic-tac-toe with the aliens." Deep Space Nine was ghetto. It's like you were in your garage, only it's out in space, being attacked by aliens, and all you have to defend yourself is a rusty snow shovel. That's hardcore. Voyager, on the other hand, was gay. Mega gay.

And speaking of TV, have you ever watched this show, 'Oblivious'? It's friggin' great. I could describe it, but you should just watch it instead. It's on Spike TV.

Back by poopular demand

One might wonder why I haven't posted in 3 weeks (I say 'one' because it's highly unlikely that two or more persons wondered or cared). One might also wonder why the sky is blue (it isn't, right now... I would probably call it a speckled black, if, of course, I were outside to see it), or why grass grows up. This is as futile as asking the Zen monk, "why is a tree?", although the latter situation could potentially be more painful, if he whacks you with a stick to encourage your enlightenment. The reason I haven't posted in 3 weeks is the same reason that birds sing in the summer, that hotdogs taste better in the summer. The same reason that kids and parents spend time together just relaxing in the sun. That reason, of course, is baseball.

I have spent much of my free time the past 3 weeks in drafting fantasy baseball teams, in pondering trade offers, poring over ranking lists, and pontificating in fantasy forums. This my favorite time of year, followed only by the actual start of the season, and then followed by the time when me and Jackie can go to a Brewer's game up at Miller Park, and I can get one of those great brats they make up there and wash it down with a Leine's Red. I... man, it is freakin' hard to concentrate when you've got a CD on that is playing Pat Boone, singing Judas Priest's "You've Got Another Thing Coming". Just makes me want to get up and dance. Woo!

I'm not usually much for posting links to news stories on my blog. Or links of any kind, really. Not that there's anything wrong with blogging the news. This just isn't that sort of blog. But this one is freakin' great: couchbike. And I guess it's more of a journal than a news story.

The Oscar's are on now. I have three questions:

Is anyone else surprised that Bob Hope is dead? I mean, every year I think he's dead, only to find out that he's celebrating his 100th birthday, or becoming the oldest man to walk on the moon, or dancing the jig with Sophia Loren in some sort of grotesque Mardi Gras reenactment from the 40's. But yeah, he's dead now.

In other Oscar-related news... is it me, or does Rene Zellwiger have the biggest cheeks you've ever seen? It's like they just take over the rest of her face, scrunching up her mouth into this little pout and crushing her eyes into submission and making them all squinty and invisible. She should really get those things drained, or they're going to explode and take out half the cast of Chicago. And wouldn't that be a tragedy for the Western World?

Last one... is it me, or is Ben Kingsley the biggest stud ever? Just wondering.

(sung) Oh, the world don't move to the beat of just one drum. It takes two-oo drums to make the world move. Some other world might take one drum to move, but not this world, this world takes two. It takes, diff'rent strokes to move the world, yes it does. It takes, two drums to move the world.

More in the "Chris is broken" saga... I threw my back out Sunday, getting out of my chair. Yep, that's right. I broke myself by standing up. Sigh. When will it all end?

You know, when I go, I'd like it to be a meteor that kills me. That way, people can ask my grieving widow, "how did he die?", she'll say, "he got struck by a meteor", and then they'll have to stifle an inappropriate laugh, mumble an "I'm sorry to hear that", and run off. I'd like people at my funeral to be somewhere between tears and hilarity the entire time.

"Chris was a good man. Not so good in bed, but you know, good at other things. I mean, not that good at other things, but hey, we loved him anyway. And we're sorry to see him..." wipes tears, suppresses a giggle, "oh this is ridiculous... the man was hit by a goddamn meteor..." whole church starts laughing hysterically. Eulogist mimes two fingers walking down the street and getting plastered by a falling fist, makes an exaggerated suprised face, then falls over laughing.

Last night, my tongue was swollen up to the size of a, well, of something large that could still, barely, fit inside my mouth. It was like a large, useless slab of beef that, on top of everything, also hurt like a motherfucker. Nothing I tried helped much. Cough drops, mouthwash, gargling with salt water, sucking on an ice cube, crying. Nothing. It was horrible. It's still swollen a bit this morning, but it feels a little better. Doesn't seem likely I'll be able to talk on the phone like this. What a world we live in, what a sad, cruel world.

On Saturday night I made lump crab cakes and lobster bisque. Neither turned out perfect, but they weren't too bad. The tartar sauce was nasty. I need to figure out what kind of sauce they use at that french restaurant we like to go to.

Nothing much more from microsoft. The talent scout wrote me back saying that not having a degree wasn't necessarily a problem, and asked for an updated resume. I sent her one and she said that she would forward it on to the hiring team. Now, I believe, is the part where my resume goes into a black hole and I never hear back from anyone again. It would suck to have to leave all of my friends, but I don't see most of them more than once a month anymore, some of them only 2 or 3 times a year. And it would be annoying to leave my new job less than 6 months after I got it, but I don't like it there anyway. All-in-all, I really hope I get this job, even though dan certainly wouldn't be happy with me for taking his jackie even further away. Really, I only give it a 20% chance, but that's something to hold onto at least. And maybe, just maybe, all of my problems will be solved by a move to Seattle.

So I got an email this morning, purportedly from a talent scout at microsoft, asking me if I had considered the earlier email she sent me and if I would like to take a position at microsoft. Right, I thought, this is probably one of those scams where they pretend they're recruiters to get personal information from you, and then try to get your social security number, bank account (for compensation payments), etc... But before I hit delete, I decided to check my deleted folders, and I found the original message from her. It had a long questionaire, and when I checked out the header info on both emails, they both looked legit.

So it turns out I was contacted for a job with microsoft back in january, and meanwhile I've been working like a bitch at this recruiting company. The only thing is... I recently revised my resume to make it a little bit more vague as to whether or not I completed my Bachelor's Degree. The email I got indicates that they require a BS, but I'm hoping to work around that. Hey, who knows, by this time next year I may be in Washington. State, that is.

We did nothing today. Nothing. We watched about 6 hours of friends, I read 4 pages of the book I'm trying to get through, and I did about 30 minutes worth of work searching Monster.com for resumes for a job that I need to send out candidates for tomorrow. I also ate a chicken cordon bleu, a bagel, and some cheezits. I made a pot of coffee, which I drank, along with a can of Pepsi One, 2 glasses of water and a glass of grapefruit juice. See, this is the sort of thing I would be writing if I wrote blog entries every day. Personally, I think this is the sort of thing that my reading public (whom I am assuming are very many, despite all evidence to the contrary) probably do not need to know. If I had, you know, flown to moon, or died in a fiery auto-crash, I would have more interesting stuff to write about. Although it might be harder to type while dead. I've never tried it.

So, jackie, no more complaining about my not writing more blog entries, unless you want to hear my "ode to things I coughed up in the shower".

I have a new computer at work. It's a fast little sumbitch. 2.5 GHz, with a CD RW, 40GB hard drive, and an "IBM Extreme 3D" Graphics card. All that, and only a pitful 256 megs of RAM. My little IBM dinosaur at home has 384 megs RAM, but only because I know what the important things are. I would rate their speeds as "comparable."

I am working right now. Ostensibly, I am searching monster.com for resumes of people who I will call in a few minutes, in order to convince these people to accept a job architecting (in the software sense, not the architect sense) video "solutions". This job pays over $100,000 a year, so when people take a lot of convincing, I tend to get disgusted with them. Then, when I've finally gotten them excited enough about the job to send me their resume, I sit on it for a few days and then delete it. They are unworthy. I'd like to, just once, get a recruiter calling me up to write game software for $30,000. I would pee my pants. So I guess, wardrobe-wise, I'm lucky it hasn't happened yet.

Okay, time to start making calls.

I'm still recovering from my bout with "influjunctivitis" as jackie calls it. It's like the flu mixed with pink eye and smothered in special sauce. If you have a choice, don't catch it. Trust me.

I still haven't found any takers on my Taco Espresso idea. Pure genius! When will the world wake up and realize how smart I am and that it should follow my every whim? Wake me up when you have the answer.

I like beer. I've decided this. If you're undecided on what to get me for Groundhog's Day, either a beer or an AA membership would be nice. Wait, scratch that, I meant triple A. I'm planning a trip to St. Louis. East St. Louis? Is there any other St. Louis?

My new computer at work is almost ready for me, but they can't find software for the video card. So I'm gonna bring in one of my spares (video cards, that is). I'll also need to bring in a Dvorak keyboard so I can type properly. Hell, while I'm at it, I may as well bring in my own computer. So they can change the locks on me and make off with my precious 600 MHz IBM dinosaur with the biohazard sticker (no, not the band biohazard, the biohazard biohazard)? I think not. Those bastards, that's how they get you.

If there's one phrase I would use to describe today, it would be "taco espresso". You see, a Taco Espresso is a coffee drink made with espresso, cream, and powdered chili peppers, served in a tortilla chip shaped like a sombrero, about the size of a shot glass. I imagine them being sold at Starbucks for about $1.50 a shot, and the commercial would go something like this:

Juan Valdez and his donkey crest the top a hil and come to a table. Juan picks up a small hat-shaped tortilla chip.
Juan: "Mmmm... Taco Espresso."
Juan raises the hat shaped tortilla chip to his lips and drinks.
Juan: "¡ Es muy misterioso!"

I could make a mint with some of my great ideas. Man, I bet a Taco Espresso would really wake me up right about now.

I had a dream that I was in a play. I played a well-to-do businessman named Hiram whose fiance had decided to marry another man. I think that I was the villain in the play, and that the other man was truly in love with her and was poor, etc. Anyway, I did alright until the 8th scene, when I started forgetting my lines. At first, I started making up lines, and they were pretty funny. The audience laughed, the cast didn't seem to mind. But then I started forgetting when I was supposed to talk altogether. They started passing me a script and gathering around so no one could tell I was reading it. I didn't think I was in scene 10, and as I read down a script in the back room, I noticed that I did have a few lines at the very end, so I memorized them and ran out toward the stage. Just as I was about to step out and deliver my lines, a tall man with a moustache and a top hat said my lines. I looked at him, he looked at me, I shrugged. Backstage, the other performers felt sorry for me. They said, "you were spectacular, in a spectacular play, but no one's gonna remember that. People are saying you're an idiot, that you were drunk, wondering what you did to your hair." I said, "this is what I'm notorious for." They said, "not finishing plays?" I said, "Not finishing anything."

It was kind of a sad dream, and I woke up feeling embarrassed. I also had a dream that I was in my parents' basement with some friends from school, at least one of whom is dead, and I asked them, "Is this a dream, or are you guys really here?" They seemed to think it was a ridiculous question. Couldn't I tell that I wasn't dreaming? Obviously not.

I have to get my emissions tested today. Really, I was due back in October, and my current notice expires at the end of the month. If I don't get it done by April, I lose my license. That would suck balls. Part of the reason I haven't gone yet is that I have several lights out on my car. My tail-light has been out forever. It's a genetic condition whereby any bulb I put in gets burned out within a day. I paid $80 to get it fixed once, and they replaced all of the visible wires with no luck. To get them to really fix it would cost me probably $200. Recently, though, I lost a headlight, and one-half of my third breaklight (the center-mounted one, which in my car has two bulbs in it) is burned out. I have been told that they wouldn't give you the emissions test if you didn't have all of your lights working, so I haven't bothered to go. Now I have the lights I need and I will spend the next half-hour installing them. Then I will go to Schaumburg, get the testing done, and go to work. That's the plan. Wish me luck.

Here's a different take on the state of the union address. And if you're bored, you should check out the rest of the site. It's amazing how much more time and effort must go into this site than into the real whitehouse.gov site.

Hmm... two state of the union blog entries in the space of a week. This from the same guy who, when Brian asked me if I listened to the state of the union, I asked him which union. He said he knew who I was going to vote for in the next election, and I told him he had no idea. I'm divided right now between the Incredible Hulk and Lee Majors.

I get paid tomorrow. It seems so long since I've actually gotten a paycheck, I might just run out and spend it on whiskey and loose women. Ah, but I kid. Most of my money is going to The Man. The government, the electric company, and my parents. My parents are actually "The Man" and "The Woman", but I just call them "The Man" for short. 3 weeks worth of working, and I'm not going to have anything to show for it except being a little bit less in debt.

The Daily show had a funny segment last night about the state of the union address. They showed last year's address where Bush ranted and raved about the hundreds or thousands of weapons of mass destruction that he was convinced Iraq possessed. Then they showed this year's address where he said, very assertively, that they had been entirely correct, and ended up finding literally dozens of weapons of mass destruction development-related activities. Fucking asshole. Jon Stewart: "Development related activities? If he'd said that in the first place, we never would have gone to... ohhhhhhh! Oh, he's good."

Went to see some bands play at a little coffeehouse full of teenieboppers last night. The first band wasn't very good, but they were covering a lot of good songs, so that was fun. It's good to here high school kids playing Van Morrison, Bon Jovi, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Pearl Jam, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. And speaking of Skynyrd, they really rocked out on Freebird. That was awesome.

Second band was Dan's band. They were incredibly loud. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Dan was saying before the show that the band that played before we got there was a lot of metal, and he can't stand to listen to metal for too long at a time. Most people say this because metal is too loud for them. But he must not like it because it's too soft and slow for his tastes. I would classify "Desert Plenty" as thrash punk. And there was maybe a little too much bass and not enough vocals. But Dan's brother is a crazy drummer, and I didn't know Dan's voice could do that. Mr. Danifesto - I really liked the middle of the set a lot. The Zeppelin cover was rockin', and the two songs before it, I think they were Countdown and Cabin Fever, were pretty sweet.

It's just too bad we couldn't get drunk at the show. Caffeine is a fine drug in it's own right, but you know what they say. Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.