Popups

I was informed several days ago that my blog now had popups. That was news to me; I hadn't seen any damn popups. Anyway, after some digging around and fiddling with Firefox settings, I actually did manage to see one of these popups. So they did exist, buy why, and how? Had to be one of the free services offered to websites that I took advantage of, like those site stats thingies. One of them has popups on their website now, so I deleted that one. Bastards! But I don't know if that helped or not.

I need a nap.

Mr. Happypants answers your questions!

One Mr. Xoloitzquintle (not his real name) has selected me (or someone else named Scott) to answer the questions below. Oh, these accursed memes!

Seven things I plan to do before I kick the can:
1. Go to North Korea.
2. Find humans I can stand to be around and who can stand to be around me.
3. Pet an alligator.
4. Travel to the other side of the North American continent
5. Ride in a airliner. (No, I've never done it.)
6. Write a damn novel.
7. Build a death-ray and conquor the Earth.


Seven things I can do:
1. Sleep
2. Eat
3. Complain
4. Loaf
5. Alienate
6. Scratch
7. Annoy cats

Seven things I can't do:
1. Act like a normal human being.
2. Play the guitar (at least competantly).
3. Eat anything without getting gas. (Yes, ladies, I'm single.)
4. Build a robot.
5. Send morse code.
6. Write music.
7. Levitate.

Seven things that attract me to another person:
1. A sense of humor.
2. Not being a moron.
3. Patience.
4. A sense of direction.
5. Full set of teeth.
6. Not smelly.
7. Knowing that green means go when you're at a stoplight.

Seven things I say most often:
1. I wish I was dead.
2. Sweet mother of god!
3. Uhh...
4. I don't know.
5. Get me out of here.
6. Please kill me.
7. Green means go! Green means go!

I'm supposed to send this damnable thing to seven other unfortunates, but all the other bloggers I read have already been tagged. So instead, I'll post another picture of my sister's frickin' cat. Here he is trying to look adorable:

Leftovers

My sister's started a real blog. Odd for someone who for years has professed to hate blogs. She describes it as, "Vintage needlework mocked mercilessly. Also a place to inflict my own vintage needlework projects on the unsuspecting public."

She should start a blog about her mentally disturbed cat:

I spy

Today at work I found yet another reason to hate my job. The powers that be decided that instead of giving raises they'd install surveilance cameras on the ceiling. Why they felt the need to put these cameras up, I'll never know. Do they want to spy on us to see if we're actually working or do they want to see if we're stealing the shitty merchandise? Anyway, the boss was in the office I work in today and was going on and on about one of the cameras and how well it worked. The camera is really far away from the office, and while playing around with it, he discovered he could zoom in and see through the window of the office, getting so close he could look over one of my shoulders and see clearly what program I was using on my computer. That's exactly what a paranoid freak like me needs to hear. People like me go around wishing and hoping no one's looking at us anyway, so we don't need confirmation that there's hidden cameras hundreds of feet away spying on us through the goddamn windows. I'll never be able to relax at work ever again.

Stinky

If you're curious (and, god, I hope you're not), here's the shaving forum thread I started about my stinky shaving brush. It's interesting because it clearly illustrates the depths of madness into which we shaving guys have descended.

Pura Setola Sterilizzata

Since I haven't been posting much here lately, my new stupid obsession has gone undocumented. I've been buying old razors on Ebay and actually shaving with them. I've been getting old double-edged Gillettes from the 40's-60's mainly. Shaving is fun now for some reason. I read online shaving forums. I even read a shaving blog. Yes, it's gotten that bad.

I've also been using a shaving brush like guys do in old movies. These things are typically made of either badger hair or boar hair. Since I'm a cheap bastard, I use a boar hair brush. The one I have came from a drugstore and sheds a bit, so I decided to go upmarket a little and get an Italian one that cost more than twice what the old one did. It came in the mail Monday. Everything was fine until the brush got wet, then I noticed an aroma. How can I describe it? Let's see... How about pig shit? The box said it had been sterilized, but I saw nothing about it being deoderized.

I'd heard of these stinky brushes before, so I knew it was something that would go away over time. How bad could it be? Well, it was pretty bad. Everytime the brush was near my face it seemed to smell worse. And what was really bad was that the shaving soap on my face seemed to have made some sort of molecular bond with the porcine fecal aroma and now it too stank to high heaven.

I finished my shave and rinsed my face, but I could still smell it. I had the reek on my hands and my face. I smelled like Italian pig shit. (Yes, ladies, I'm single.) It wasn't an overpowering stench, but it was there. It was noticeable by me, so I'm pretty sure it would've been noticed by another normally functioning human being. Thankfully there weren't any of those around, so I got to stink in peace.

What to do? I just rinsed more and slatered on this vile, scented aftershave moisturizer that has such a strong scent it makes my eyes water. So now I just smelled like those guys that leave a trail of cologne when they walk by.

The smell on my hands died down after awhile, but the brush just stank on and on. When I'd walk into the bathroom I could smell it. I tried shampoo on it. Twice. I even tried conditioner, but it still stank a bit. Then I remembered a homemade concoction to use on dogs that have been sprayed by a skunk. It contained 3% hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and a little liquid dishwashing detergent. Oddly, that did the trick and now my brush stinks no more. So I can go back to my weirdly anachronistic grooming hobby.