Ahhhhh, time to relax. Christmas is over for another 364 days. The out of town company and relatives coming to visit have (finally) left, and as I slowly wind down from an exciting day, I can't help but be reminded of my favorite Christmas cartoon special, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
I think you probably know how the story goes. Evil Grinch sneaks down into who-ville on Christmas eve while all the Who's are asleep (and screw proper punctuation, we're talking Dr. Seuss stories here, not Chaucer), and steals all the things that dress up christmas. The food, the presents, the decorations, etc, and runs off with them, then has a change of heart at hearing the singing of the who's anyway, and brings everything back and is welcomed by the who village.
Now, I certainly don't consider myself a Grinch, despite how much I love the character. But I certainly identify with him. I mean, all he wanted was a little peace and quiet really, and while I don't agree with his method of trying to bring it about, I know most of us can get a little tired of all the hustle and bustle that goes on around this time of year. I love Christmas, but some years, it's just hard to get into the proper spirit. I know we've all been there. Rushing to get shopping done, dread at seeing the relatives, hurrying to get all the decorations and food ready on time, and some of us might even have to work the holiday away, it just kind of wears down any boisterious good feelings that might well up within you, you know? Most years, I usually end up trying to listen to Christmas music after the holiday is over, thinking that Christmas just came up on me too fast, that I wasn't ready for it, and despite most of my christmases being generally good, I get to feeling sort of left out. A bit Charlie Brown of me I suppose, to mention another christmas special, but I've always felt a bit sad when I am still listening to christmas music a week after christmas has ended. I guess I was just looking for something that I missed out on, and then finally, christmas music stops being played, and people get back to their lives, and I have to reluctantly put it aside for another year and vow to prepare better for Christmas next time.
I expected this christmas to be one of the worst. We had company staying with us right after thanksgiving, when we generally get started on the decorating, and then with everything going on we fell so far behind that almost none of the decorations went up. We finished decorating the tree 3 days before Christmas, and I finally managed to get a single, solitary string of lights up on the front window. I usually decorate my room as well, with blinking window lights, and all I managed this year was a little red-lit commercial tree made of wire, lights and garland. Being a guy and a gamer, I usually get a half dozen computer games to play, but this year, nothing good was coming out, and it's the first year since I was a child that I didn't ask for games for xmas, just clothes. ME, asking for CLOTHES? A truly sad xmas indeed.
And then, something strange happened. I got up this morning, and went through the motions. I opened my packages of clothes, just 5 little packages. I opened my single tin of cashews, my solitary bag of kitkats. I noted the books that "santa" had brought me, that I had already read perhaps 20 years previous. I'd impulsively purchased some extremely cheap older games on xmas eve, hoping that I'd find something to play, at least, that I'd have a new game on Christmas to enjoy. But though they downloaded all night to my computer, none of them seemed worth the $5. And yet, as the day went on, and company arrived, I realized I wasn't just going through the motions anymore. In the immortal words of Boris Karloff, who narrated the Grinch cartoon, Christmas still came. It came, just the same.
As it turns out, all the games I purchased have promise. I even found a new game to buy and download that my nephews had recommended. It cost me $60, but it does look like fun. My mother, who never has much to open on christmas, only had 3 boxes of sweaters to open this morning, but somehow, once all the relatives had arrived, she had so many gifts that she ended up still opening them after midnight. The food was excellent, and we had more of it than usual. My nephews and friends, who usually have little to do over here but watch me play my games and wait impatiently until they can leave to go home and play their own, brought over a nintendo Wii, and amused themselves for hours, where usually they are bored out of their minds. Note to self, purchase a console to keep the kiddies amused so I can play my new PC games in peace next xmas.
And finally, after everyone has gone and I decide to turn on my TV and wind down a bit before bed, my TV comes on tuned to seasonal music, and a christmas song starts playing... and for the first time in years, I'm not missing Christmas. I had it. Christmas was here. I didn't miss out on anything. My relatives came, and everyone had fun, and nobody was bored, and I'm completely satisfied. And I realize, I've had my fill of christmas music this year. I can let it go and move on. So now I am watching the end of War of the Worlds. The original, not that crappy remake with tom cruise. Much like the Grinch, I feel as if my heart, which had been two sizes too small, has grown three sizes this day, three sizes in all.
So it was either the Christmas spirit, or the fact that I have the next week off of work. I'm on vacation! I don't go back until January 4th! WOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Oh, she's psichick
Man, my stomach is grumpy. Probably has a lot to do with the gas. Hey, flatulence is nothing to be sneezed at, you know. You could cause an accident, or have one, or something.
So it's like 3 am. Okay, I'm at work and it's almost 11 am, but it's a holiday week and it FEELS like 3 am. I began my celebrating early and I can barely type. Stop judging me. Let he who has the glass balls, cast the first stones, I always say.
So there's this blonde next to me at work, I may have mentioned her before at times, who believes in psychics. And, let me first say to my naysayers, NAY, i say! It's not that I don't believe in psychic phenomena. I myself have been involved in several incidents of paranormal tomfoolery, including, but not limited to, demonic possession, astral projection, and frequent and uncontrollable urination caused by a painful swelling of the prostate. So it's not that I don't believe there's nothing to it, it's just that I think people who try to capitalize on the emotional vulnerabilities of others should be shot in the tenders.
Not that I haven't done my fair share of taking advantage of emotional vulnerabilities, mind you, but it's never been for money. I have my standards, low and feeble as they are.
Sweet jesus I can barely type, bear with me, not all my parts are working this morning. If I wasn't at work I'd watch sheep porn for a few hours until my brain was functional but they frown on that kind of thing here. Not that it's against company policy or anything, but if my addiction to sheep porn was to come to light, I'd have to switch fetishes, which involves submitting a lengthy form to the fetish subcommittee, and then I'd have to choose what new fetish I'd want, and then have it be approved, and frankly, they are only approving midget fetishes lately, and I really don't like midgets. Oh great, now having said that, I'm going to get midgets flaming me. Better than flaming midgets I suppose. That can be taken two ways. Not sure which would be worse, gay midgets mad at me or actual midgets on fire. Mmmm midget bbq. With the right condiments that could be AWESOME!!
So anyway, some months past, the crazy aunt of this blonde went to a psychic. And she'd probably be mad at me for using her life as the subject of a blog, but eh, if she kicks my ass it's all just foreplay anyway. So the crazy aunt visits this psychic, who, mind you, isn't some flea-bitten crystal-ball gazing gypsy in a carnival side show. Ooohhhhh nooooo, this is a certified $100 an hour psychic consultant we're talking about here. So she's 100% reliable! YEA BABY!!!!! I don't even think death and taxes are as reliable as this psychic.
So the psychic tells this crazy aunt some loopy shit, and claims to have been kept up all night by the dead relatives. Of course, if all her clients dead relatives were keeping her up all night, she'd probably be dead by now of exhaustion. But does this enter into anyone's heads? of course not, she makes $100 an hour, she HAS to be worth it, right? To me, that's like saying, "I READ IT ON THE INTERNET, IT MUST BE TRUE!!!" Holy crap man, I am making typos like crazy. Fingers and digits failing miserably. Anyway, I digress. So the aunt buys this and tells the blonde next to me, who is now springing for this psychic for a $100 session, and I'm trying to tell her this lady is just using the information gleaned from other clients and private detectives (or however they do it, you don't have to be an expert in how to con someone to know they are conning someone) to bone her out of her $100. But, alas, my logic is falling on deaf ears.
So you'd think if this lady was that psychic, the government would have hired her to, i don't know, prevent terrorist plots, or let us know where life exists in the universe, I mean, let's be serious now, it's probably a LOT easier to pay a lady $100 an hour to tell us where to look for life on other planets rather than send a five hundred million dollar probe into space to find out, right? And if her information was that spot-on, you'd think life would be TONS better around here on earth. They'd know how to cure cancer, how to prevent war and hunger, and more importantly, the answer to life's greatest mysteries, like why DO blonde believe in psychics?
What's that? I wouldn't doubt her ability if i'd ever actually met a real psychic? Doesn't that pretty much answer your own question? I've never even heard of a real psychic, let alone met one. I've watched sylvia brown (someone who half my family says knows what she's talking about) on TV, and seen half a dozen psychic shows, and haven't believed a one of them. There's a reason they say FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. And it's not just for reason of bias, either, although I must admit, I think psychics are a crock. I am pretty sure that, not only were the psychics lying through their teeth, but they KNEW they were lying, which means that not even they buy their own bullshit.
But hey, I HAVE actually experienced some psychic phenomena. When I was watching TV late once, during a particularly scary part of a movie, I heard a rattling in my house. Have you ever been so engrossed in a movie or book or something, that when someone says something to you, it doesn't register right away, and you look up a minute later and ask them "What?" or respond to their question as if it had just registered on your brain? Well, that happened to me this time. Whatever I was watching (can't remember what it was), it was so engrossing that despite being the only one awake in the house and despite it being the dead of night (like 2 am), a rattling noise in the very same room as me did NOT immediately garner my attention. Oh no. It took a moment for my mind to go HEY DICKHEAD THERE'S A NOISE IN THE ROOM YOU ARE ALONE IN!!!! LOOK NOW!!!! So, perhaps belatedly, I turn my head to locate the source of the noise. Which turns out to be a picture of flowers on the wall. Which i notice is rattling against the wall, and as soon as I rest eyes on this picture, it promptly drops off it's nail and shatters on the floor. Yes, I know, creepy, huh? So i immediately notified my mom that there was some glass she needed to clean up off the living room rug. As in, I ran from the room wetting myself and crying like a girl and told her the picture had thrown itself off the wall to shatter violently on the floor, and she cleaned up the glass and that was that. Whether she believed me or not is another matter, but since she trusts sylvia brown, I assume she at least had the inclination to do so. I can't remember how old I was at the time, judging from the amount of crying and wetting, I was probably 35 or so.
I'm not going into the account of demonic possession, because quite frankly, this is the only pair of pants I brought into work and if I end up jumping into the blonde's lap and hugging her for comfort while I cry my eyes out, WITH urine-soaked pants, I may ruin my chances of sleeping with her. Possibly.
But there you have it, an in depth look at WHY BLONDES BELIEVE IN PSYCHICS, this week on the PSYCHIC NETWORK. I don't even think there is such a thing as the psychic network. Not on TV, at least. I mean, what would be the point, you could just broadcast it to the minds of everyone worldwide and anyone who wanted to focus in and pay attention, would, right? Then again, it may already exist, those stupid Geico commercials are stuck in my head. Psychic advertising, perhaps? Could be worse, I guess. If they start sending me viagra ads via pop-up, I am in big trouble.
So it's like 3 am. Okay, I'm at work and it's almost 11 am, but it's a holiday week and it FEELS like 3 am. I began my celebrating early and I can barely type. Stop judging me. Let he who has the glass balls, cast the first stones, I always say.
So there's this blonde next to me at work, I may have mentioned her before at times, who believes in psychics. And, let me first say to my naysayers, NAY, i say! It's not that I don't believe in psychic phenomena. I myself have been involved in several incidents of paranormal tomfoolery, including, but not limited to, demonic possession, astral projection, and frequent and uncontrollable urination caused by a painful swelling of the prostate. So it's not that I don't believe there's nothing to it, it's just that I think people who try to capitalize on the emotional vulnerabilities of others should be shot in the tenders.
Not that I haven't done my fair share of taking advantage of emotional vulnerabilities, mind you, but it's never been for money. I have my standards, low and feeble as they are.
Sweet jesus I can barely type, bear with me, not all my parts are working this morning. If I wasn't at work I'd watch sheep porn for a few hours until my brain was functional but they frown on that kind of thing here. Not that it's against company policy or anything, but if my addiction to sheep porn was to come to light, I'd have to switch fetishes, which involves submitting a lengthy form to the fetish subcommittee, and then I'd have to choose what new fetish I'd want, and then have it be approved, and frankly, they are only approving midget fetishes lately, and I really don't like midgets. Oh great, now having said that, I'm going to get midgets flaming me. Better than flaming midgets I suppose. That can be taken two ways. Not sure which would be worse, gay midgets mad at me or actual midgets on fire. Mmmm midget bbq. With the right condiments that could be AWESOME!!
So anyway, some months past, the crazy aunt of this blonde went to a psychic. And she'd probably be mad at me for using her life as the subject of a blog, but eh, if she kicks my ass it's all just foreplay anyway. So the crazy aunt visits this psychic, who, mind you, isn't some flea-bitten crystal-ball gazing gypsy in a carnival side show. Ooohhhhh nooooo, this is a certified $100 an hour psychic consultant we're talking about here. So she's 100% reliable! YEA BABY!!!!! I don't even think death and taxes are as reliable as this psychic.
So the psychic tells this crazy aunt some loopy shit, and claims to have been kept up all night by the dead relatives. Of course, if all her clients dead relatives were keeping her up all night, she'd probably be dead by now of exhaustion. But does this enter into anyone's heads? of course not, she makes $100 an hour, she HAS to be worth it, right? To me, that's like saying, "I READ IT ON THE INTERNET, IT MUST BE TRUE!!!" Holy crap man, I am making typos like crazy. Fingers and digits failing miserably. Anyway, I digress. So the aunt buys this and tells the blonde next to me, who is now springing for this psychic for a $100 session, and I'm trying to tell her this lady is just using the information gleaned from other clients and private detectives (or however they do it, you don't have to be an expert in how to con someone to know they are conning someone) to bone her out of her $100. But, alas, my logic is falling on deaf ears.
So you'd think if this lady was that psychic, the government would have hired her to, i don't know, prevent terrorist plots, or let us know where life exists in the universe, I mean, let's be serious now, it's probably a LOT easier to pay a lady $100 an hour to tell us where to look for life on other planets rather than send a five hundred million dollar probe into space to find out, right? And if her information was that spot-on, you'd think life would be TONS better around here on earth. They'd know how to cure cancer, how to prevent war and hunger, and more importantly, the answer to life's greatest mysteries, like why DO blonde believe in psychics?
What's that? I wouldn't doubt her ability if i'd ever actually met a real psychic? Doesn't that pretty much answer your own question? I've never even heard of a real psychic, let alone met one. I've watched sylvia brown (someone who half my family says knows what she's talking about) on TV, and seen half a dozen psychic shows, and haven't believed a one of them. There's a reason they say FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. And it's not just for reason of bias, either, although I must admit, I think psychics are a crock. I am pretty sure that, not only were the psychics lying through their teeth, but they KNEW they were lying, which means that not even they buy their own bullshit.
But hey, I HAVE actually experienced some psychic phenomena. When I was watching TV late once, during a particularly scary part of a movie, I heard a rattling in my house. Have you ever been so engrossed in a movie or book or something, that when someone says something to you, it doesn't register right away, and you look up a minute later and ask them "What?" or respond to their question as if it had just registered on your brain? Well, that happened to me this time. Whatever I was watching (can't remember what it was), it was so engrossing that despite being the only one awake in the house and despite it being the dead of night (like 2 am), a rattling noise in the very same room as me did NOT immediately garner my attention. Oh no. It took a moment for my mind to go HEY DICKHEAD THERE'S A NOISE IN THE ROOM YOU ARE ALONE IN!!!! LOOK NOW!!!! So, perhaps belatedly, I turn my head to locate the source of the noise. Which turns out to be a picture of flowers on the wall. Which i notice is rattling against the wall, and as soon as I rest eyes on this picture, it promptly drops off it's nail and shatters on the floor. Yes, I know, creepy, huh? So i immediately notified my mom that there was some glass she needed to clean up off the living room rug. As in, I ran from the room wetting myself and crying like a girl and told her the picture had thrown itself off the wall to shatter violently on the floor, and she cleaned up the glass and that was that. Whether she believed me or not is another matter, but since she trusts sylvia brown, I assume she at least had the inclination to do so. I can't remember how old I was at the time, judging from the amount of crying and wetting, I was probably 35 or so.
I'm not going into the account of demonic possession, because quite frankly, this is the only pair of pants I brought into work and if I end up jumping into the blonde's lap and hugging her for comfort while I cry my eyes out, WITH urine-soaked pants, I may ruin my chances of sleeping with her. Possibly.
But there you have it, an in depth look at WHY BLONDES BELIEVE IN PSYCHICS, this week on the PSYCHIC NETWORK. I don't even think there is such a thing as the psychic network. Not on TV, at least. I mean, what would be the point, you could just broadcast it to the minds of everyone worldwide and anyone who wanted to focus in and pay attention, would, right? Then again, it may already exist, those stupid Geico commercials are stuck in my head. Psychic advertising, perhaps? Could be worse, I guess. If they start sending me viagra ads via pop-up, I am in big trouble.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
My internet's down? Oh noes!
As an older man (lordy lordy, I'm almost 40!), I can't help but notice how much the internet has changed our lives. Sure, we've all emailed each other, and we've all surfed the net at work when we should have been working, but how many of us really pay attention to how much we are using the internet?
Not me, that's for sure. But my internet went down last night, and great googly moogly, I sure missed it. I admit, the game I was playing was not an online game. I mean, I was playing it for hours before I realized my net was down. But dammit, the trainer I was using to cheat WAS connected to the net, and when the trainer was unable to reach the internet, it died. Leaving me defenseless against the darkspawn horde. And I thought, isn't that really what the net does for us? Protect us from the darkspawn horde?
What's the darkspawn horde, you ask? Why, it's from Dragon Age: Origins. A Role-Playing Game I picked up last month. What's that you say? I've just identified myself as a big hairy geek who lives with his mother? What of it? I'm proud to be a big hairy geek. And I wouldn't go saying anything like that to mom, she's a big hairy beast, and would doubtless eat you for breakfast and save your giblets for hors d'ouvres. We're a hungry family, you see, and times are tough. Err, in any case, the darkspawn horde are a vast army of bloodthirsty, evil beings who were once dwarves, humans and elves, i think, but have been corrupted and warped into skinless, savage versions of themselves. Much like Jehovah's Witnesses.
Now, I know what you are thinking. No, not that I am insane, you're thinking "Oh Great Wandering Scribe, how does the internet protect us from the darkspawn horde?" I am so glad you asked that. It's a very good question. You are smarter than you look. Give me a moment to scratch my balls, and I'll tell you.
I often think of the darkspawn horde as an allegory on the ignorance in today's society. It seems everywhere you go, you are assaulted with the ignorant shouting their worldview at you. "The earth is boiling!" "We're all getting fat!" "Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten!" "You MUST stop at stop signs!" We've all heard it. If any of it were true, there would be no cats left.
The internet helps to stop that. The internet keeps you enlightened in an age of darkness. Why, if the Vikings had the internet back in the dark ages, no one would know who the Vikings are, because they'd all have stayed at home and played Everquest. You can look up anything you want. Anything at all. If you want to know what nymphomania is, you can look it up. If you are unsure how to spell gonorrhea, it's right there. If you want to know where the nearest whorehouse is, check Google maps. You can even get high-resolution, detailed pictures of Pamela Anderson's breasts, back when she was hot. Yes, the internet can even look through time.
I myself am sometimes worried that I am not armored enough against the horde. I mean, there I am at work, playing a game against my supervisor on my work computer, and he's sitting beside me playing his side of the game from his... what? I don't even know what it was. It was like a cell-phone / keyboard / mini-computer thingy with a touch screen, that's all I can tell you. And the pages loaded faster on his google-pad, or whatever it was, faster than on my desktop. I don't even own a cell phone. How can I possibly defend myself against the ravenous bloodthirsty hordes of the ignorant darkspawn?
What? Why don't I own a cell phone? What's wrong with me? I'm insane and I don't have any friends. Didn't I just tell you I live with my mom? Duh. Stop interrupting me.
To my naysayers, I say to thee, NAY! It doesn't take a full suit of armor and shield, and a broadsword the size of florida to hold back the scourges of the darkness. A single solitary weapon of intellect can hold off legions of the darkspawn, if you know how to use it. I've got my internet connection, and though it may be the size of Mr Tiny, I strike with the fierceness of a man who gives himself brushburns when he masturbates! Woe to the ignorant who dareth say unto me, THOU SHALT NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOR'S WIFE!!! I say to them, BUT SHE HAS BOOBIES THE SIZE OF WATERMELONS!!! Though hordes of the ignorant darkspawn surround me, and reproduce with the speed of Agent Smith in the third installment of the Matrix trilogy, as long as I draw breath I shall use my internet connection to look at sheep porn, and NO ONE SHALL STOP ME!!!!
MUA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But if you take my net connection away, I cry like a hungry, angry baby.
Not me, that's for sure. But my internet went down last night, and great googly moogly, I sure missed it. I admit, the game I was playing was not an online game. I mean, I was playing it for hours before I realized my net was down. But dammit, the trainer I was using to cheat WAS connected to the net, and when the trainer was unable to reach the internet, it died. Leaving me defenseless against the darkspawn horde. And I thought, isn't that really what the net does for us? Protect us from the darkspawn horde?
What's the darkspawn horde, you ask? Why, it's from Dragon Age: Origins. A Role-Playing Game I picked up last month. What's that you say? I've just identified myself as a big hairy geek who lives with his mother? What of it? I'm proud to be a big hairy geek. And I wouldn't go saying anything like that to mom, she's a big hairy beast, and would doubtless eat you for breakfast and save your giblets for hors d'ouvres. We're a hungry family, you see, and times are tough. Err, in any case, the darkspawn horde are a vast army of bloodthirsty, evil beings who were once dwarves, humans and elves, i think, but have been corrupted and warped into skinless, savage versions of themselves. Much like Jehovah's Witnesses.
Now, I know what you are thinking. No, not that I am insane, you're thinking "Oh Great Wandering Scribe, how does the internet protect us from the darkspawn horde?" I am so glad you asked that. It's a very good question. You are smarter than you look. Give me a moment to scratch my balls, and I'll tell you.
I often think of the darkspawn horde as an allegory on the ignorance in today's society. It seems everywhere you go, you are assaulted with the ignorant shouting their worldview at you. "The earth is boiling!" "We're all getting fat!" "Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten!" "You MUST stop at stop signs!" We've all heard it. If any of it were true, there would be no cats left.
The internet helps to stop that. The internet keeps you enlightened in an age of darkness. Why, if the Vikings had the internet back in the dark ages, no one would know who the Vikings are, because they'd all have stayed at home and played Everquest. You can look up anything you want. Anything at all. If you want to know what nymphomania is, you can look it up. If you are unsure how to spell gonorrhea, it's right there. If you want to know where the nearest whorehouse is, check Google maps. You can even get high-resolution, detailed pictures of Pamela Anderson's breasts, back when she was hot. Yes, the internet can even look through time.
I myself am sometimes worried that I am not armored enough against the horde. I mean, there I am at work, playing a game against my supervisor on my work computer, and he's sitting beside me playing his side of the game from his... what? I don't even know what it was. It was like a cell-phone / keyboard / mini-computer thingy with a touch screen, that's all I can tell you. And the pages loaded faster on his google-pad, or whatever it was, faster than on my desktop. I don't even own a cell phone. How can I possibly defend myself against the ravenous bloodthirsty hordes of the ignorant darkspawn?
What? Why don't I own a cell phone? What's wrong with me? I'm insane and I don't have any friends. Didn't I just tell you I live with my mom? Duh. Stop interrupting me.
To my naysayers, I say to thee, NAY! It doesn't take a full suit of armor and shield, and a broadsword the size of florida to hold back the scourges of the darkness. A single solitary weapon of intellect can hold off legions of the darkspawn, if you know how to use it. I've got my internet connection, and though it may be the size of Mr Tiny, I strike with the fierceness of a man who gives himself brushburns when he masturbates! Woe to the ignorant who dareth say unto me, THOU SHALT NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOR'S WIFE!!! I say to them, BUT SHE HAS BOOBIES THE SIZE OF WATERMELONS!!! Though hordes of the ignorant darkspawn surround me, and reproduce with the speed of Agent Smith in the third installment of the Matrix trilogy, as long as I draw breath I shall use my internet connection to look at sheep porn, and NO ONE SHALL STOP ME!!!!
MUA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But if you take my net connection away, I cry like a hungry, angry baby.
Friday, December 18, 2009
You want me to paint what?
So I am driving into work yesterday and I am listening to the radio playing Christmas music. Now, I love christmas music. I love Christmas. I'm not a particularly religious fellow, but my panties get wet at the thought of all the presents and goodies and stuff people bring me. Yea, i'm a selfish bastard, and thank you for ruining my cheerful mood.
Next thing I know, they interrupt my music to TALK about something. Now, I understand if you want to squeeze in a quick traffic report or an update on when the 14 feet of snow is coming in, I get that. I'd even be moderately interested to know if there's a 17 mile long traffic jam on the road I am driving on, BEFORE I am stuck in it. But those bastards, those VICIOUS HEARTLESS BASTARDS interrupted my falalalalaaaaas to talk about something called a paintbox program.
At least, I think that was the name. I don't know if you know what that is any more than I do, but as I understand it, it's to raise money for cancer research. Some of you are thinking "Well, they interrupted the Insane One's Christmas music for a good cause, he should be okay with that." WELL I'M NOT. And before you get all uppity and start telling me about how your grandmother died of cancer in front of you suddenly when you were 2, let me explain. The paintbox program raises money by selling artwork done by kids with cancer. I believe their frequently quoted phrase was something about "The healing power of art raising money for cancer research." Isn't that the most demonic thing you've ever heard? What? What do you mean, it doesn't sound demonic at all? And they say I am insane. Sigh. Okay, let me spell it out for you.
Let's say you're a kid. Instead of picking your nose in math class, bored out of your skull and waiting for the interminable droning of the 150 year old man at the front of the class to cease so you can flee the prison of your "learning," go outside and run and play with your friends, you have an INCURABLE FATAL ILLNESS. You're stuck in the most miserable place imaginable, with alcohol-smelling halls, dead people laying in half the rooms waiting for nurses to discover them, and the quiet creepy sound of machines keeping the other half of the people alive. You're nauseated and vomiting from the chemo-radiation-gene therapy they have you on to prevent your eyeballs from being forced out of their sockets by the alien tumor-baby gestating inside your skull. You're wearing a gown that's open in the back because all your clothes were made to fit someone who hasn't lost 50 pounds in the last 10 weeks, and what food they bring you would make you vomit if you were healthy and starving. They won't give you marijuana because you're under age and you're scared to leave your bed because you keep seeing DEATH walk down the hall in black robes with a very sharp looking scythe, reading names off a scroll, whispering "Benny... Benny... Where's Benny's room, damn this hospital, I am so lost..." AND YOUR NAME IS BENNY.
And then, this angel of mercy comes into your room. She's sweet, she's pretty, if you were a few years older you'd ask her to marry you. What's this she's bringing you? A nice juicy cheeseburger? Good painkillers? A Playstation 3 with all the best games so you can forget about your onrushing death for a few moments? No, it's a fucking paintbrush. The heartless whore of babylon just told you to go paint something to make yourself feel better, something that would be sold to raise money. "Money for my hospital bills?" you ask in a tear-strained voice, knowing your family just mortgaged their house and some of your brothers and sisters to pay for your hospital care. "No." says the She-Demon Without A Soul, "Money for the researchers so they can come up with more vomit-inducing drugs to pump you full of." and she laughs, her black eyes flaming as she saunters out of the room, high-fiving Death on the way by.
Now, I'm no expert on this stuff, and maybe I'm completely wrong (it's happened at least once before, I think), but don't they have laws against this kind of thing? Don't we have some expansive uncovering of a bunch of kids over in Siam every few years or so, stitching together sneakers in a dimly lit, shit-stained warehouse for like a penny a day? Isn't there like a national outcry or something over it? I wouldn't know, I mean, I don't give a rat's ass HOW Nike keeps my sneakers cheap, but you'd think someone would go "Hmmmmm, maybe the idea of making dying kids paint stick figures for us while we irradiate them with vomit-inducing chemicals and then sell their proceeds for a profit is a BAD idea." But, no. No. You'd be WRONG.
What got me most I guess, is that the radio announcer, who is in my opinion the most illiterate jackass this side of Simon Cowell, kept saying how these paintings may have been painted ten years ago and how the kids must be so happy their artwork is finally giving back. First off, you witless dingleberry, those kids are probably DEAD NOW. Second off (shut your whore mouth, I said second off, I did), what kind of heartless fucktard would give air time to the satanic bitch who is duct-taping a paintbrush to the shaking hand of a crying, dying 6 year old and screaming at them to PAINT YOU LITTLE MAGGOT, PAINT LIKE DEATH IS COMING FOR YOU AND THE ONLY WAY TO STAY THE RAZOR EDGE OF HIS BLADE IS TO DRAW BLOODY STICK FIGURES!!!! And third off (don't even start your shit), why do they make this a CHRISTMAS TIME THING????
Yea, I know, I may have got a little excited, and maybe I need to change my underwear, but dammit, I CARE. Merry Fucking Christmas.
DISCLAIMER: The alleged soulless she-bitch who may or may not have been on the radio talking about this program, may or may not actually be responsible for it. She may instead simply be an anal-stuffed sock puppet for the sadistic pricks who came up with the idea for the program. Either way, this post is simply my insanely opinionated response to the thought of some poor kid slaving away over hot canvas in a poorly fitting gown while vomiting, and should in no way be taken seriously. BECAUSE I AM NEVER SERIOUS. SERIOUSLY. Happy New Year.
Next thing I know, they interrupt my music to TALK about something. Now, I understand if you want to squeeze in a quick traffic report or an update on when the 14 feet of snow is coming in, I get that. I'd even be moderately interested to know if there's a 17 mile long traffic jam on the road I am driving on, BEFORE I am stuck in it. But those bastards, those VICIOUS HEARTLESS BASTARDS interrupted my falalalalaaaaas to talk about something called a paintbox program.
At least, I think that was the name. I don't know if you know what that is any more than I do, but as I understand it, it's to raise money for cancer research. Some of you are thinking "Well, they interrupted the Insane One's Christmas music for a good cause, he should be okay with that." WELL I'M NOT. And before you get all uppity and start telling me about how your grandmother died of cancer in front of you suddenly when you were 2, let me explain. The paintbox program raises money by selling artwork done by kids with cancer. I believe their frequently quoted phrase was something about "The healing power of art raising money for cancer research." Isn't that the most demonic thing you've ever heard? What? What do you mean, it doesn't sound demonic at all? And they say I am insane. Sigh. Okay, let me spell it out for you.
Let's say you're a kid. Instead of picking your nose in math class, bored out of your skull and waiting for the interminable droning of the 150 year old man at the front of the class to cease so you can flee the prison of your "learning," go outside and run and play with your friends, you have an INCURABLE FATAL ILLNESS. You're stuck in the most miserable place imaginable, with alcohol-smelling halls, dead people laying in half the rooms waiting for nurses to discover them, and the quiet creepy sound of machines keeping the other half of the people alive. You're nauseated and vomiting from the chemo-radiation-gene therapy they have you on to prevent your eyeballs from being forced out of their sockets by the alien tumor-baby gestating inside your skull. You're wearing a gown that's open in the back because all your clothes were made to fit someone who hasn't lost 50 pounds in the last 10 weeks, and what food they bring you would make you vomit if you were healthy and starving. They won't give you marijuana because you're under age and you're scared to leave your bed because you keep seeing DEATH walk down the hall in black robes with a very sharp looking scythe, reading names off a scroll, whispering "Benny... Benny... Where's Benny's room, damn this hospital, I am so lost..." AND YOUR NAME IS BENNY.
And then, this angel of mercy comes into your room. She's sweet, she's pretty, if you were a few years older you'd ask her to marry you. What's this she's bringing you? A nice juicy cheeseburger? Good painkillers? A Playstation 3 with all the best games so you can forget about your onrushing death for a few moments? No, it's a fucking paintbrush. The heartless whore of babylon just told you to go paint something to make yourself feel better, something that would be sold to raise money. "Money for my hospital bills?" you ask in a tear-strained voice, knowing your family just mortgaged their house and some of your brothers and sisters to pay for your hospital care. "No." says the She-Demon Without A Soul, "Money for the researchers so they can come up with more vomit-inducing drugs to pump you full of." and she laughs, her black eyes flaming as she saunters out of the room, high-fiving Death on the way by.
Now, I'm no expert on this stuff, and maybe I'm completely wrong (it's happened at least once before, I think), but don't they have laws against this kind of thing? Don't we have some expansive uncovering of a bunch of kids over in Siam every few years or so, stitching together sneakers in a dimly lit, shit-stained warehouse for like a penny a day? Isn't there like a national outcry or something over it? I wouldn't know, I mean, I don't give a rat's ass HOW Nike keeps my sneakers cheap, but you'd think someone would go "Hmmmmm, maybe the idea of making dying kids paint stick figures for us while we irradiate them with vomit-inducing chemicals and then sell their proceeds for a profit is a BAD idea." But, no. No. You'd be WRONG.
What got me most I guess, is that the radio announcer, who is in my opinion the most illiterate jackass this side of Simon Cowell, kept saying how these paintings may have been painted ten years ago and how the kids must be so happy their artwork is finally giving back. First off, you witless dingleberry, those kids are probably DEAD NOW. Second off (shut your whore mouth, I said second off, I did), what kind of heartless fucktard would give air time to the satanic bitch who is duct-taping a paintbrush to the shaking hand of a crying, dying 6 year old and screaming at them to PAINT YOU LITTLE MAGGOT, PAINT LIKE DEATH IS COMING FOR YOU AND THE ONLY WAY TO STAY THE RAZOR EDGE OF HIS BLADE IS TO DRAW BLOODY STICK FIGURES!!!! And third off (don't even start your shit), why do they make this a CHRISTMAS TIME THING????
Yea, I know, I may have got a little excited, and maybe I need to change my underwear, but dammit, I CARE. Merry Fucking Christmas.
DISCLAIMER: The alleged soulless she-bitch who may or may not have been on the radio talking about this program, may or may not actually be responsible for it. She may instead simply be an anal-stuffed sock puppet for the sadistic pricks who came up with the idea for the program. Either way, this post is simply my insanely opinionated response to the thought of some poor kid slaving away over hot canvas in a poorly fitting gown while vomiting, and should in no way be taken seriously. BECAUSE I AM NEVER SERIOUS. SERIOUSLY. Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Oh look, I have a blog!
So I'm chatting on Yahoo the other day. Yes, people still use yahoo, stop looking at me like that. And my buddy says "Hey, where's your blog gone off to?" Other than scripting an elaborate tale of my blog (which used to be on myspace) having gone off to the islands of the south pacific and currently living off coconuts and sleeping naked on the beach, I wasn't sure what to tell him. I mean, I killed my myspace page like, FOREVER ago. Or a year. Whichever is longer in internet time. So I told him I had been thinking of starting it up again and I'd tell him the new address.
So I'm wandering about looking at different blog sites and I notice one that uses my gmail login to post with. Since I already have a gmail address, I got all excited and wet myself. Twice. So as it turns out, about 11 months ago, I already found this blog site, created a theme and posted twice... and then COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT IT. Yes. Apparently, my schedule of eat-sleep-game-watch tv is SO intense that I just forgot all about my blog. Crazy, huh?
The answer to that question is, of course, YES. I am crazy. If you read my previous blog, you know this. I mean, the open letter to my colon should be ample evidence. Craziest thing EVAR. I mean, colons don't even have eyes to read letters with. Or hands. Or brains. I mean, how weird would it be to have a pair of arms shoot out of your arse and starting reading letters? Then again, I suppose it would save time. But, that'd be like stealing your mail, wouldn't it, if your colon started reading mail addressed to you? And who addresses mail to your colon? But I suppose, in that one instance, while your colon was reading the letter addressed to it, you could read another letter. Or do something else entirely. Like screaming OHMYFUCKINGGOD THERE'S A PAIR OF HANDS AND EYES COMING OUT OF MY COLON!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Which, I mean, I know I don't speak for everyone, but it would unnerve me just a smidgen.
Anyway, my point, I'm not the only crazy person here. YOU TOO are insane. It's a fact. While I may be unable to look at a woman's elbow without getting wood, you may enjoy molesting women's stiletto heels. Steve down at the diner likes sheep. Each to his own, I suppose. Come to think of it, I don't even eat at a diner. And Steve is probably just one of the voices in my head. But dammit, he told me he likes sheep, and there's nothing wrong with that in some countries. BAAA means yes in Irish, and probably New Zealandereanese, too.
So here I am at work, and I just went over with my review with my supervisor. He thought the idea of a beer keg in every cubicle was a good one, but it would be against company policy to allow actual beer in them. Good thing they haven't checked my "water bottle" lately, wink wink nudge nudge say no more. Apparently I am getting a whopping 60 cents more an hour next year. My nephew, who was crazy enough to get a job here sitting in the cube next to me, remarked how that wasn't really a lot, but then, i broke it down for him so he could understand. 60 cents extra, working part time as I am, is an extra 15 computer games per year! :-D You have to break these numbers down into meaningful things, otherwise, they sound completely trivial. Especially at my job. Well, look at that, time to go home and molest Steve.
So I'm wandering about looking at different blog sites and I notice one that uses my gmail login to post with. Since I already have a gmail address, I got all excited and wet myself. Twice. So as it turns out, about 11 months ago, I already found this blog site, created a theme and posted twice... and then COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT IT. Yes. Apparently, my schedule of eat-sleep-game-watch tv is SO intense that I just forgot all about my blog. Crazy, huh?
The answer to that question is, of course, YES. I am crazy. If you read my previous blog, you know this. I mean, the open letter to my colon should be ample evidence. Craziest thing EVAR. I mean, colons don't even have eyes to read letters with. Or hands. Or brains. I mean, how weird would it be to have a pair of arms shoot out of your arse and starting reading letters? Then again, I suppose it would save time. But, that'd be like stealing your mail, wouldn't it, if your colon started reading mail addressed to you? And who addresses mail to your colon? But I suppose, in that one instance, while your colon was reading the letter addressed to it, you could read another letter. Or do something else entirely. Like screaming OHMYFUCKINGGOD THERE'S A PAIR OF HANDS AND EYES COMING OUT OF MY COLON!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Which, I mean, I know I don't speak for everyone, but it would unnerve me just a smidgen.
Anyway, my point, I'm not the only crazy person here. YOU TOO are insane. It's a fact. While I may be unable to look at a woman's elbow without getting wood, you may enjoy molesting women's stiletto heels. Steve down at the diner likes sheep. Each to his own, I suppose. Come to think of it, I don't even eat at a diner. And Steve is probably just one of the voices in my head. But dammit, he told me he likes sheep, and there's nothing wrong with that in some countries. BAAA means yes in Irish, and probably New Zealandereanese, too.
So here I am at work, and I just went over with my review with my supervisor. He thought the idea of a beer keg in every cubicle was a good one, but it would be against company policy to allow actual beer in them. Good thing they haven't checked my "water bottle" lately, wink wink nudge nudge say no more. Apparently I am getting a whopping 60 cents more an hour next year. My nephew, who was crazy enough to get a job here sitting in the cube next to me, remarked how that wasn't really a lot, but then, i broke it down for him so he could understand. 60 cents extra, working part time as I am, is an extra 15 computer games per year! :-D You have to break these numbers down into meaningful things, otherwise, they sound completely trivial. Especially at my job. Well, look at that, time to go home and molest Steve.
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