Now how did this happen?

In the past I've written about my love of weird foreign toothpaste that I find in dollar stores. (I'm too lazy to look up the posts to link here, but trust me, I've written about it before.) Every tube's an adventure. Well, kinda. Anyway, a few days ago I finished up my tube of Mexican Colgate and went to get another tube of whatever I had in that drawer where I keep random junk like weird foreign toothpaste that I find in dollar stores. Guess what? There wasn't any toothpaste at all in that drawer. I even dug around in there to make sure that I wasn't missing anything. Nope. No toothpaste. (On the other hand, there were various over the counter medications, a roll of elastic bandage, old letters from my sister, a View Master, an unmarked VHS tape filled with porn, a couple of watch boxes, etc.) So, basically I had no toothpaste at all except a couple of sample tubes I got at the dentist. I hate sample tubes. I ended up picking up some tube at Walmart yesterday. Yeah, regular toothpaste. I'm as disappointed in me as you are.

Geese vs. Cheetos

Saturday at Sam's Club I bought a big bag of Cheetos and ate them until I felt like I wanted to barf. What to do with the rest? I certainly wasn't going to eat them. In fact, I don't think I'll be eating Cheetos ever again. Anyway, this morning I decided to take them down to the river and fed them to the geese. Here's the video:

Another tiresome anniversary

Earlier today I remembered this blog has an anniversary this month. I started it November 10, 2002, which, in blog terms, was like 50 years ago. So, the old blog is seven years old. How, you may ask, does one manage to keep a blog for seven years? Easy, just write a post every month or two so that people can tell it hasn't been completely abandoned. Also, it helps not to have a life.

And for absolutely no reason, I present to you, my loyal blog-readers, How is babby formed.

Ten things on a Thursday

Apparently, I've been chosen for some kinda meme thing. I never liked these meme thingies, too much like work. Anyway, I'm required, if I understand the premise, to list ten things I do on a Thursday, despite the fact that it's not even close to Thursday.

1. Good gravy. Everything I do on Thursday is pretty much what I do on the other days of the week, especially the weekdays. I lead a dull and depressing life that doesn't hold up to analysis.

That was one wasn't it? No? Damn.

1. Wallow in abject misery.

Now I know that's one.

2. Wish it were Friday. Specifically I wish that it's Friday after 3:30PM, which means I can wash the machine shop filth off of me and begin vegetating in front of the computer in a much more intensive way than I had been doing over the previous workdays.

Why can't it be Friday right now instead of crappy, useless Tuesday. Nothing good ever happens on Tuesday.

I'm losing track of the meme. Thursday. Things I do on Thursday.

O.K.

4. Shit. I haven't written a three yet.

3. Most people would list something about watching some TV show that comes on Thursdays, but I don't even turn the damn TV on on Thursday. If my life depended on it I don't think I could tell you anything that came on Thursday with the exception of Top Gear, which I don't watch on Thursdays; I watch it on Mondays.

I still haven't written a three yet.

3. Put on socks.

4. Cut myself at work. I cut myself pretty much every day at work, so this counts.

5. Check behind the bathroom door for snakes. I didn't write about this on my blog, but I found a small snake behind my bathroom door in September and then I found a second one in the same place exactly a month later. They were non-poisonous and about as deadly as earthworms, but now I'm traumatized for life.

God, I have five more to go. This is never going to end.

6. Digest the food I've consumed.

Lame, I know, but I'm desperate man.

7. Go through a few celebrity blogs in hopes that some actress or singer I think is hot wore a see-through dress. Sad, I know, but it keeps me off the streets.

8. I take a shower. Not that I only shower on Thursdays, no that would be nasty. I shower most days because my job's filthy.

God, this is so boring. It would've been far more interesting if I really did only shower once a week. My labored justification for such a nasty habit would've at least been amusing. Well, maybe.

9. Practice my old professional ballet dancer routines.

No, that's a bald-faced lie.

9. Roll over, look at the clock, and hope that it's at least an hour or more before I have to get up and face another day of tedium.

10. Get out of bed and groan at the thought of another boring, filthy day at work.

There, I did it. That's ten. Deal with it.

I think I'm supposed to pick ten other folk and foist this abomination upon them, but I don't even read regular folks' blogs that much anymore. I think this one has maybe three or four regular readers and I don't even read their blogs most of the time because I'm too busy doing something boring. So, I'll make you a deal. If you want to write a blog entry, but can't think of anything to write about, then do this ten things on a Thursday thing. Or don't do it. I don't really care.

"He's on ice skates! We don't have a chance!"

Believe it or not, I actually have things to post about, but I'm having trouble trying to whip myself into writing mode. These days I'm in full on moping mode. That's moping and not mopping. I've never been in mopping mode, but if I was, rest assured, I'd write about it.

Anyway, Friday there was an article on CNN's webpage that caught my eye. The opening sentence was perhaps one of the most bizarre, horrifying, but yet hysterically funny things I've read in a while:

A bear on ice skates attacked two people during rehearsals at a circus in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, killing one of them, Kyrgyz officials said Friday.

Yeah! A bear on ice skates was attacking people. I don't want to make light of someone's tragic death, but if I ever get killed by an ice skating bear, I hope headstone reads, "Killed by a fucking bear on ice skates. Top that!"

It's a post about nothing

I've done nothing at all since I last wrote a post; I don't really have anything to write about. Seriously. Nothing. But, as I've been summoned from my pit of squalor to once again save the world, I'll see what I can do.

What have I done recently? (Besides wanking.) I watched some movies, something I haven't done in a long time. OK, I'll write a few short reviews of the movies I've seen over the past week. (The emphasis is on short.) Roger Ebert has nothing to worry about.

The 40 Year Old Virgin: I think I'm the last person on earth who hadn't seen this. I liked it. It wasn't ass-slappingly hysterical like most people seem to think, but it's a decent movie. You won't be seeing this review quoted on the DVD box any time soon.

I Am Legend: I don't think I've watched a Will Smith movie before. He makes big block-buster shoot'em up stuff and I usually avoid those kinds of movies because I'm a Liberal Elitist Snob. Anyway, this movie is a remake of Last Man on Earth, a swell mid 60's Vincent Price flick that you can watch free online since it's in the public domain. Did I like the modern remake? Yes. I didn't love it, but I liked it well enough I suppose. My only real complaint besides the CGI stuff (which I always hate because it looks fake) was that Will Smith's character was too nice. I don't want to spoil it for those planning on comparing the Will Smith version to the Vincent Price version, so I won't explain what the hell I mean other than to say that Vincent Price wasn't very nice all.

Mean Girls: There was a sale at Wal-Mart on DVDs and I bought this and the next two movies down the page. I liked it, but I didn't love it. I was really hoping it would be funnier, but it was a little light-weight, almost like an edgy Disney Channel movie. Also, it was depressing seeing Lindsey Lohan not looking like a emaciated coke zombie. They should probably show her this movie at the intervention.

Prom Night: Dreck. I didn't really like 80's slasher movies in the 80's, so I don't know why I thought I would like this. It was a lifeless ripoff of the much, much better Halloween. On the upside, it does have a young Jamie Lee Curtis, but on the downside, she keeps all her clothes on.

The Descent: I'd never heard of this one, but for some reason it looked interesting. I'm glad I got it because it may have been the best of the lot. I don't typically like modern horror and science fiction movies. I'd rather see a plastic spaceship hanging by a string than see a meticulously detailed CGI spaceship. But this movie doesn't have spaceships in it, so I don't know what the hell I'm going on about. It's about a group of macho women who go exploring some deep cave and find it inhabited by these fucking nasty mutant naked humanoids who eat them. Also, it's British. You know the British always make good stuff.

Black Sabbath: No, not the band. This is the movie the band probably got their name from. It's currently being shown on Hulu, so have a look. It's not great, but if you like bosomy Italian women in cat's eye makeup, you'll probably like it. Also, it's got Boris Karloff. You know Boris Karloff always makes good stuff.

Since I mentioned Black Sabbath, here's a clip of them circa 1970 playing "War Pigs":



And, since I mentioned cat's eye makeup, here's a clip showing how to apply cat's eye makeup:

Awesome!

The above image may in fact be the greatest single panel ever to appear in a comic strip.

Imagine the thrill those young boys must have felt as they discovered their mutual desire to dress up in women's underwear.

[Killjoys can read the rest of the comic here.]

Wherein An Old Man Complains About Things He Doesn't Understand

There's this rather mild-mannered woman at work. She's middle-aged, quiet, hard-working, and in no way does she draw attention to herself. The only visible evidence that she might have a few quirks is the fact that she smokes. Her car is even dull and ordinary, or rather it was until she suddenly started driving a pickup truck. This truck can't possibly be hers, it must be her husband's, or maybe her son's, but not hers. Why? Because hanging underneath it in that dead zone between the rear axle and the bumper is a set of BumperNuts.

When I first saw these twin abominations pendulously hanging under the truck I wondered what ham-fisted douchebag could possibly be driving this ridiculous contraption? Was it one of my co-workers? Was it a temp? Clearly this was a vehicle driven by either someone very young or someone having one hell of a midlife crisis. But who? And then one morning I saw the mild-mannered woman drive by me in the truck sporting a nutsack.

Yes, a nutsack. Why? And why did the company that makes these things go in to so much realistic detail? It's got folds and wrinkles, for crying out loud. I'm surprised they didn't go the extra mile and put scraggly hair on it. If you go and look at the selection at the website I linked to above, you'll see it comes in a variety of colors: blue, black, red, chrome, and even "flesh", which is a gross beige putty sort of color and it's what the mild-mannered woman brandishes on her vehicle. If she'd simply had chrome ones it wouldn't be so bad, but that beige color is for some mysterious reason about ten times more repulsive than all of the other colors combined.

I'm really at a loss to explain the appeal of things like BumperNuts. What does it mean to put testicles on your vehicle? Does it say, "My vehicle has balls!" Or, "I have balls!" Or maybe, "Look, I just cut someone's balls off and now I'm hanging them on my truck like a trophy!"

A couple of days ago I saw a car with a pair of chrome ones that were attached in such a way that they would swing back and forth. I gave them a few extra points for that, but I deducted even more points for having those huge wheels and stupid big chrome rims. Damn kids, get off my lawn with your big rims and chrome nutsacks!

Since I don't understand the appeal of the nuts, I'm going to suggest some alternatives. Why not a penis? It could be mounted like a hood ornament. And since we live in very high tech times, why not make it so that it can go from small and wiggly to large and stiff at the press of a button? That would beat the hell out of some lousy aluminum nutsack any day. Or why not a vagina? On first glance it would simply look like a logo on your car, but on closer inspection--EEK! Since I'm all for movement, why not some large jiggling breasts to mount on your rear bumper? Or just put nipples on various spots on your car or truck. I know my old Buick would spiffed up more than a little with a sporty row of erect nipples.

Yes, one day our cars will have penises.

Of Great Importance!

Quickly, everyone go here to await further orders from the Chosen One. And make sure your speakers are on.

One day I'll be able to explain why I posted this

My life won't be complete without one of these

Do a search at YouTube for lokuloku for more videos of these things.

What's French for "Creepy cookie"?

Lately I've been going to a local discount department store to poke through the junk, but I think I mainly go to buy French cookies called Le Petit Écolier (The Little Schoolboy). It's a sort of tea biscuit with a chocolate slab on it that contains pralined hazelnuts. They're delicious and cheap, but also a bit creepy if you insist on studying the embossed image instead of just cramming them into your mouth like a normal person.

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The kid sort reminds me of Han Solo in carbonite, despite the fact that I'm not a Star Wars nerd (I'm an entirely different species of nerd).

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Here's a close up so you can see his eyes, which are his worst feature.

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His eyes in natural light are even worse.

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His eyes in negative are a bit different, sort of like how the Shroud of Turin is different in negative.



And, for my own amusement, here's the little bastard in duotone. Sweet dreams.

Note: I have no idea why that alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID crap is under all but one photo. I posted today's photos like I've posted all the other ones and I'm not doing it over. I mean really, I have to draw the line somewhere. I do have a life. Kinda.

Food Feh

I wasn't planning on posting anything because my brain's vacant what with my leprosy and all, but while perusing someone else's blog, I saw something that's always kind of annoyed me. Why do people take pictures of their restaurant food and post it on their blog? A picture of food is boring.

I used to read this blog a few years ago that was fairly entertaining, but the woman who wrote it had this bad habit of posting pictures of what she'd had in some damn restaurant in New York. I don't care about your damn paneer tikka masala or whatever. I'm going to start taking pictures of my ramen and grilled cheese sandwiches.

Maybe I should've kept this to myself. This post is like something I would've done back in 2003.

From when I used to be funny

While digging through some crap, I found some work I did several years ago in a desktop publishing class.

Trees and Things

Because some of you (who shall remain nameless) insist on turning my creepy tree into a filthy tree, filthy trees have been on my mind. Now, I don't want filthy trees on my mind, but on my mind they are. The situation is out my hands really. Anyway, while perusing some photos I've taken in the past few months, I came across a photo of what I can only call a tree anus. (Also, it's kind of a big photo. Sorry dialup folks. Heh-heh.)



Hot stuff, huh?

And, for no other reason than my love of the purely random, here's a video of the late, great Mr. Sammy Davis, Jr. singing the theme song to Chico and the Man:

At the Junction

For some bizarre reason my malfunctioning brain has recently been playing the theme song to the 60's sitcom Petticoat Junction while I'm at work. I haven't watched this program in thirty years or more.



While this inane song kept playing in my head, what bothered me was the title of the program itself. Petticoat Junction? What does that even mean? Is it some kind of sexual double-entendre? The theme song mentions that there's "Lotsa curves, you bet. Even more when you get/To the junction, Petticoat Junction". These lines are sung right as you see the women swimming in the water tower.

Also, Petticoat Junction was located in Hooterville.

Creepy tree is creepy

Creepy tree is creepy
Originally uploaded by Cropshy

For lack of anything else, here's a random photo of a creepy-ass tree in the backyard.

Hiatus of the Gods

I've been poked and prodded by some of you for a new post. I don't really know what you want, blogging doesn't hold that much interest in me these days. I'm not even reading blogs that much anymore, which is why comments by me aren't popping up in places they traditionally have popped up.

So what have I been doing? Writing, reading, working my horrible job, and, when I have some extra time, wallowing in misery. I've started writing a journal again, except this time instead of keeping it in a notebook I've been doing it on my computer. Since I've started doing it back in mid-March I've accumulated just over 40,000 words. It's nice to be able to write without having to worry if anyone will actually like it.

Anything else to report? Ah, yes, now I remember... Hobby Lobby sells 11/16 inch wide rare earth magnets! Also, Target (which otherwise is a vortex of suffering) sells sarsaparilla soda under the brand name Archer Farms. Good stuff.

No, I'm not back from hiatus

I was poking through some old files on my external hard drive and found the (for lack of a better word) poem below. I think I wrote it, or maybe not. Maybe it was generated by some online thing that I entered some text into. I don't know. But however it was written, I thought I would share its spectacular awfulness with the world.


my toenails ache
with the thoughts of a thousand
salads I see
meat upon meat
I stand above your grandma
licking the air with glee
the cinderblocks explode
and we are at play
many tired orphans wound us
as the parade melts away

my balls hurt, grandma
take my nub
I walk in the bean patch
stuffing the chub


OK, back to being on hiatus. And what am I doing on hiatus? I'm stuffing the chub mostly.

Blogging is stupid and boring

Blogging has become quite dull for me. These days I'm more interested in reading dead tree books and writing stuff that no one will see.

I'm taking a break.

Jewelry for Weirdos

My sister's having a sort of sale at her Etsy store, so go buy some of her jewelry so she'll stop pissing and moaning to me about how everyone loves her work but is too damn cheap to actually buy the creepy-ass stuff.

She needs money to get her cat a sex change operation.

Menu

This is a detail from a menu I had to do for a desktop publishing class several years ago. I found it recently in a stack of paper I was going to reuse in my printer. The only thing about this class I really liked was that sometimes I could write strange stuff in the assignments. Although one time the teacher took points off because I did that. Killjoy.

That's Not Quite Relaxing

Last night I dreamed about a place where you could interact with birds of prey by lying down on a flat rock with food on your face and the birds would swoop down and snatch it off with their talons. I remember one person with fried eggs over her eyes and other food over her nose and mouth. I couldn't imagine just lying there while a big bird with sharp claws and beak would take food right off your eyes.

Spiderman?

Yesterday morning while perusing the Aldi sale paper, I was startled to see a photo of a black kid wearing what at first looked like a KKK Imperial Wizard robe.



Then I got a closer look and saw it was some bizarre garment called a "Hooded Character Towel". Don't the companies that make this kind of stuff ever think about how about it looks? You'd think that someone in the company would have taken one look at the design and said, "Heh. Looks like a Klan robe."

It'll Grow Back, Don't Worry

It's been a week since I ripped open my right ring finger and it's healing nicely. I posted a picture on my mostly unused Flickr page. I decided to link to it instead of posting it here since the gross photo I posted last week elicited an "Ew, gross!" from Cindy and derision from my sister.

It didn't fester at all; I'm kinda disappointed.

Also, it's nice to not have a bandage the size of a corndog.

Update: I was just informed by Cindy in the comments that you have to log in to see my gross knuckle photo on Flickr. Crap. OK, here's a direct link where you shouldn't have to log in.

End of the Toothpaste Rainbow?

A while back, I posted something about Pepsodent. Something about whether or not the American stuff has formaldehyde in it like the Indonesian version. Or something. I dunno. Anyway, I finally got a response to my query from the company. Well, I got the response last Thursday, but that was the day I cut the ever-loving monkey nuts out of my right ring finger. So I'm using that as an excuse for my tardiness.

Dear Mr. M:

Thank you for visiting our web site. We appreciate your interest in our company and our Pepsodent® Toothpaste products.

We are proud to say all Church & Dwight toothpaste products are made in the United States and we do not use any ingredients produced in Indonesia. Thorough safety assessments are made of all ingredients and finished formulations before our products are introduced into the marketplace.

None of our dental care products including Pepsodent contain formaldehyde.

Legitimate products must indicate “Distributed by: Church & Dwight Co., Inc., Princeton, NJ”. If the product in your possession does not have this notation, we suggest that you return it to the store where you purchased it.

At Church & Dwight Co., Inc., we strive to manufacture products of high quality and performance that meet genuine consumer needs. It is gratifying to learn from you that our efforts are recognized and appreciated.

We hope you will visit our web site again at: WWW.CHURCHDWIGHT.COM for information about our company, products, history, and financial information.


Thomas B. McCann
Consumer Relations Specialist

Well, there you have it. American Pepsodent doesn't have formaldehyde in it. Also, that Indonesian stuff probably shouldn't even be sold here. But is that going to stop me from using the Indonesian stuff? Nope. I still have half a tube left.

One Handed

Not being able to use my right hand that much sucks. I'll be glad when this finger heals up.

Ever try to take a shower with one hand? I think I'm half-clean. Anyone want to come over and give me a good scrub?

Today's Inconvenient Accident Can Suck It (WARNING: Gross Photo Below)

That's my right ring finger as of midday. At work I sliced the knuckle down to the bone and now I can't really do anything easily (especially type). I have three stitches, and since the cut's on the knuckle, I guess they didn't want the finger moving.

When I went to punch out at work, my giant finger wouldn't even fit in the hand scanner.

I can't even scrub the machine shop filth off my hand.

At least I got a nice big bottle of Darvocet for my troubles.

Update 2/20/09: Here's a photo of the stitches. Gross, huh? The bandage fell off sometime last night, and when I woke up, naturally I decided to take a picture of it.

Microcosm?

A few weeks ago at Wal-Mart I found myself buying a two-pound carton of goldfish crackers. Why? I don't know. I blame the madness that seems to possess most everyone who dares enter a Wal-Mart.

So, I ate two pounds of goldfish crackers. But something was bothering me. (Besides having a colon filled to the brim with partially digested goldfish crackers.)



The goldfish on the package is apparently alive and quite happy. But yet his sole purpose in life is to be eaten. Also, he's riding a bicycle, but yet has no feet to pedal it, nor does he have any arms with which to steer it. At least he has on a helmet because with no way to control the bike, it's almost certain that the hapless goldfish cracker will be having a serious accident. The bicycle seems to be traveling at a high rate of speed, and the tires are coated with a thick layer of cheese that will make any effort at control all the more difficult.

The truly sad part in all of this is that the goldfish cracker seems completely unaware of his fate.

Waiting

Still no word from the toothpaste people about the formaldehyde question.

Pepsodud?

I know all of your are on pins and needles about the toothpaste stuff from a couple of days ago.

Recap for the impatient: Does American-made Pepsodent have formaldehyde in it like Indonesian Pepsodent? Why aren't the ingredients listed on the tube? Inquiring minds want to know. Or at least a guy in Virginia with absolutely no life wants to know. And what's up with this guy anyway? Has he suffered some kind of severe head injury?

OK, here's the big letdown. I really should've noticed it Saturday, but I didn't. The damn box the tube of Pepsodent came in has the ingredients listed on it. No formaldehyde. I plead stupidity, your Honor.



So all of your suggestions that I call the number on the tube or go to their website and see if they have a question form are all for naught. But I went to the Church & Dwight oral care page anyway and ended up asking them about the formaldehyde, despite the fact that it's not listed in the ingredients and despite the fact that Unilever makes Indonesian Pepsodent and Church & Dwight (a totally different company) makes Pepsodent here in the US. I'm hopeful the answer will be interesting enough for a blog post. Oh, who am I kidding, you all know damn good and well that despite how mind-numbingly dull the answer will be I'll still find a way to get a blog post out of it.

Incidentally, the Wikipedia article on Pepsodent is pretty good.

Also, cocks.

More Adventures in Toothpaste

Last month I wrote about my experiences with dollar store Indonesian Pepsodent that ended up having formaldehyde in it. (Incidentally, I'm still brushing my teeth with the stuff daily despite the fact that it has formaldehyde in it.) I'd planned on buying an American tube of Pepsodent for comparison, but kept forgetting. Well, yesterday at Dollar Tree I finally remembered.



I expected to find an ingredients list that didn't contain formaldehyde. But what I found instead was no list at all, which is more disturbing than just a regular ingredients list. Damn, American Pepsodent may just have formaldehyde in it. And for all I know it could have ground glass, foot fungus, and sulfuric acid in it as well.



On the upside, it's wintergreen flavor, which, depending on your experience, either reminds you of root beer or Pepto Bismal. I love wintergreen.

Wouldn't there be a short circuit?

I'm not trying to compete with the mighty Comics Curmudgeon, but this Frank & Ernest strip from yesterday caught my eye.



Robots don't go to the toilet.

Also, after 25 years or more of being aware of Frank & Ernest, I just realized the name of the strip is a pun.

Plugging Along

Does it mean I'm a Plugger if I kind of want to try the above "recipe"? Well, I might put something else in other than Spam. Leftover baked chicken or something. Well, I might try Spam.

I see my life stretched out before me and I don't like the looks of it.

Four of Them?

Yesterday I dreamed that some women had four breasts. I don't mean that on rare occasions some women had extra mammary glands; I mean that while most women have two breasts, a smaller (but still significant) amount of women had four.

At one point in the dream I wondered what kind bras they wore. Did they wear one strapped one and then a strapless one below? Or maybe they wore some kind of four-cupped garment. Also, I tried to recall seeing four-boobed women in girlie magazines, but couldn't. Then I woke up. Thankfully.

For the record, I think two are enough.

Ain't Pretty No More

Yesterday I mentioned that I was worried about my favorite dollar store after a fire burned up some of the stores near it. Today I went over and had a look. The dollar store lives!



It was separated from the fire by one large store and was unharmed. They were even open for business and I bought some crap. Too bad I can't say the same for the utterly destroyed Beauty Land and the check cashing place.

With all those hair care products and stuff, Beauty Land must've went up like an ammo dump.

Update 1/31/09: I know this is of interest to absolutely no one, but here's a new article and a pretty cool slideshow.

Oh, crap!

The dollar store where I buy my dodgy foreign toothpaste may have been damaged by a fire.

It's a couple of stores down from the two mentioned in the article I linked to above. (There's also a video on the site which I tried to embed, but it didn't work because life sucks a huge donkey dick.) I'll have to stop by tomorrow and have a look. And I'll have to remember to bring my camera.

Chanting Thingy

I got this in the mail today from Hong Kong. It cost all of four bucks with shipping.

In a world gone mad, random crap is my only source of comfort

The photo below shows my latest Ebay purchase. Seriously. After I got home from work today there was a package waiting for me containing a used tube of Chapstick, two Vick's DayQuil capsules (with pseudoephedrine, which is a pain to find now that the Feds think everyone has a meth lab in their backyard), a .45 caliber bullet, and a spent .45 caliber shell casing.



OK, I didn't specifically buy this stuff. (It'd have been funny if I had though. Take that, logic!) No, I bought an old camera and this stuff was in the camera bag the seller tossed in free. But I have one question, what kind of photographer carries ammo in their camera bag? The Chapstick and cold medication I can understand, but bullets?

The thing that really gets to me is that I'm going to have to toss out those two DayQuil capsules. I love pseudoephedrine. That's the good stuff, dammit! It's the only thing that really makes me feel halfway decent when I have a cold and now it's such a pain the ass to get. I'd keep them, but who knows how old they are. On the other hand, I have no qualms about tossing out the used tube of Chapstick.

Adventures in Toothpaste

Yes, adventures in toothpaste. If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you should know by now that I have "adventures" with things like toothpaste, old magazines, toenail clippers, and other boring crap I can't think of right now. Never will you read an entry where I talk about how stoked I was to climb up a 1,000 foot rock face with no safety line, or how cool it was it jump on stage at the Radiohead concert and run around taking my clothes off before the security guys beat the snot out of me. Nope. Not going to happen. I lead an extraordinarily dull life.

Anyway, toothpaste. A week or two back I mentioned a dollar store I shop in that sells all kinds of weird crap that's probably not intended to be sold in this country. Things like toothpaste from Indonesia.



Yes, I bought the toothpaste from Indonesia. And, believe it or not, I've actually been brushing my teeth with it for a week or more. It's pretty nice-tasting toothpaste. If you look at the back of the tube, you'll see it's also Halal. I don't know why I find that interesting, but I do.



Also, much to my horror, I've just noticed that one of the ingredients of this toothpaste is formaldehyde. What the fucking fuck, Indonesia? I've been putting this in my mouth for over a week. None of the other four tubes of toothpaste in my cabinet have formaldehyde in them, not even the Mexican Colgate.

[Long pause while I frantically search the internet to see if I've been poisoning myself.]

Here's a statement from Pepsodent's maker, Unilever of Indonesia, that deals with formaldehyde. So maybe I'm safe. Or maybe I'VE BEEN HORRIBLY POISONED!!!

Blowpens, pt. II

Yesterday I posted about the weird pack of Blowpens I'd bought at a dollar store. I couldn't muster up enough energy or enthusiasm to demonstrate how these things work yesterday, but now I can. Unfortunately, Blowpens kind of suck and half of them don't even work, but three of the colors did work. And so I present to you an original work of art I did using a custom stencil I made rather than using one of the boring stencils that came in the package.



This artwork is available for purchase. Interesting trades considered.

Ugh... First post of 2009

Doing stuff is too much trouble. [Long uncomfortable pause.] Anyway, here's the post I was supposed to write a few days ago. Last year, actually. Meh.

One of my favorite places to shop is a strange dollar store run by Middle Eastern folks. The merchandise is compromised of a bizarre mix of foreign stuff and typical low grade dollar store crap. Once I saw some plastic bags of Tide detergent where all of the writing was in Chinese. They have Pepsodent from Indonesia. (I'm not brave enought to try it. Yet.) Occasionally I'll stumble across something so peculiar I just have to buy it.



I have no idea where this was originally supposed to be sold, but it was made in China, the text uses the Cyrillic alphabet, but there's also some English. (The Cyrillic alphabet is used in the former Soviet Union and in Mongolia. See, learning is fun!)

I like how the instructions have the words "BLOWPENS INSTRUCTIONS" in English, but all of the rest is in Russian, Bulgarian, Mongolian, or whatever the hell language this is.



I was going to make a picture using the blow pens (which are actually kind of fun), but I just couldn't work up enough enthusiasm to bother.

Finally, my collection is finished!

Today, in the mail I got my copy of Nell Marr Dean's Circus Nurse and now I'm finally, after so many years, the proud owner of both novels called Circus Nurse. Right now I'm savoring the wonderful bacony flavor of victory.

Now what?

"Oh, crap! I'm gonna get it now!"

I guess it's time for a post despite the fact that nothing at all is going on in my life worth posting about. It's all really quite tiresome.

The image shown below is the front cover of a religious pamphlet I picked up when I was leaving the dentist's office. (Why are religious types always leaving these pamphlets everywhere? I once bought a camera bag at Big Lots only to find a pamphlet inside telling me I was going to hell.) I love the look on the guy's face. He's thinking, "Why did I have to look at all that porn? God's gonna kick my ass!"

A Survey

English lesson

The fun starts around 0:49. Maybe I'd be able to speak a second language if they had taught us this way.

Gobbleh

Turkey is a fairly bland and dull form of meat. There, I said it.

Six Long Years

On this date six tedious years ago, I started this tiresome blog. I don't even remember why I started it, I just started it. I guess I needed a hobby that didn't involve porn. Or something. I dunno. Anyway, six years on teh interwebs is positively ancient. The average blog supposedly lasts only six months. It's rare for them to last a couple of years. Mine is six years old, so you'd think that would entitle me to something, but I don't think it does.



I'm kind of tired of this specific blog. When I started it, Google didn't even own Blogger and it didn't have all the neato wizzbang features it has now. Also, if you go back and look at a lot of my old posts (and please don't do that), you'll see lots and lots and lots of dead links. I'd have a post that went something like Hey look at this. It's stoopit! And the word this would be a link. Naturally, that link is now dead and I don't have the slightest idea what I was referring to. And since it wasn't easy (or free) to post photos on Blogger back then (and because I was on dial-up), I didn't post pictures, I'd just link to them. Some of the photos are there and some of them aren't. Much of this blog's archive is basically a bloated wasteland of dead links and typos.

I'm thinking of starting a new blog, so I can take advantage of the spiffy features Blogger offers these days. I haven't decided if I'm actually going to start a new blog yet. Or even when. It's not like I have tons of amusing things to write about.

It’s almost over!

This tiresome election is almost over. Finally. Tomorrow after work I’ll go and vote. Hopefully, I won’t have to stand in line for three hours. Or longer. Also, I sincerely, desperately hope that when I wake up Wednesday morning, there will be a clear winner and the loser accepts that he lost and goes the fuck away. We don’t need a replay of the 2000 presidential election. If there’s no clear winner by Wednesday, then flip a coin. Draw straws. Wrestle. Something. Anything. I don’t care, just end this national nightmare.

Piggies

Today I noticed a full page Piggly Wiggly ad in the paper. (Yesterday's paper, actually.) At the top of the page were the words, "Savings So Low It's Scary!" And scattered across the rest of the ad were several instances of the beloved Piggly Wiggly cartoon pig in various "scary" Halloween costumes. My favorite (a skeleton suit) is shown below.



But far scarier than a happy cartoon pig in a skeleton suit is a slab of meat from a butchered pig.



I like to imagine the happy cartoon pig in his little paper hat and butcher apron selling chunks of own kind to humans to eat.

No humping zoo animals here

Really, I should just keep reposting that picture of the giraffe fucking the donkey just annoy everyone, but I won’t. Let’s move on from interspecies boinking, shall we?

I have nothing at all to add to any of this except that I’m using Windows Live Writer to write this post. Excellent free tool, if I must say. Anyway, when I was typing the above, the word boinking was flagged by the spell checker. I right-clicked on the word and looked at the list of correctly spelled suggestions. On the list was banking, and I almost chose that because the phrase interspecies banking was suddenly very appealing to me.

I’ll bet you’re sorry you even bothered to read this, aren’t you?

I really need to post something

I really need to post something, but I have nothing to post. So, I'm posting the photo shown below.

Hail Satan?

This morning I was at the Salvation Army looking for crap I don’t need. When I went into the cramped room with the books, the first thing I saw was a wheezing, disheveled old man who, upon seeing me inter the room, gave me a hand sign that was either sign language for I love you or the heavy metal devil horn sign. Either would strange, to put it mildly. Thankfully, he left, so I didn’t have to deal with him.

What about per joint?

The insurance people came to work yesterday, and one of the things handed out was a strange list. On it, body parts were listed by price; so, if you lose a finger, you get $750. But, if you lose two or more fingers, you only get $1,500. Are they penalizing you for losing more than one finger? It should be $750 per finger and toe. Or maybe less for toes, since they aren't quite prehensile. How about $200 a toe? That sounds reasonable. Even the pinkie toe has to be worth something.

A reasoned response to current events

OH MAH GAWD!!! AAAAHHHH!!! WE'RE DOOOOOMMMMMED!!! [Jumps through window.]

Strange scam spam

I know this should go on my old, unused scam spam blog, but I'd rather post it here because I'm funny that way. The bizarre language is a welcome relief from the usual scam spam stuff. All I want from spam is a little entertainment, is that too much to ask?

Madam Grace Wilson,

Here writes Madam Grace Wilson, suffering from cancerous ailment. I am married to Sir David Wilson an Englishman who is dead. My husband was into private practice all his life before his death. Our life together as man and wife lasted for three decades without child. My husband died after a protracted illness. My husband and I made a vow to uplift the down-trodden and the less-privileged individuals as he had passion for persons who can not help themselves due to physical disability or financial predicament.

I can adduce this to the fact that he needed a Child from this relationship, which never came. When my late husband was alive he dposited the sum of 2.45 Million (2.45 Million Great Britain Pounds Sterling which were derived from his vast estates and investment in capital market with his bank here in UK.Presently, this money is still with the Bank. Recently, my Doctor told me that I have limited days to live due to the cancerous problems I am suffering from.

Though what bothers me most is the stroke that I have in addition to the cancer. With this hard reality that has befallen my family, and me I have decided to donate this fund to you and want you to use this gift which comes from my husbands effort to fund the upkeep of widows, widowers, orphans, destitute, the down-trodden,physically challenged children, barren-women and persons who prove to be genuinely handicapped financially.

I took this decision because I do not have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are bourgeois and very wealthy persons and I do not want my husband's hard earned money to be misused or invested into ill perceived ventures. I do not want this money to be misused hence the reason for taking this bold decision.

I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going. I do not need any telephone communication in this regard due to my deteriorating health and because of the presence of my husband's relatives around me.I do not want them to know about this development. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank in uk.

I will also issue you a Letter of Authority that will empower you as the original beneficiary of this fund. My happiness is that I lived a life worthy of emulation. Please assure me that you will act just as I have stated Hope to hear from you as soon as possible through my private email madamgracewilson1@hotmail.com

This week's lackluster blog-post

Yesterday I was in CVS and saw Bill Clinton rubber masks on sale. I didn't notice any Bush masks.

"I graduated from the police academy, not art school!"

I think the above illustration is easily the worst police composite sketch I've ever seen.

Horror of horrors

Earlier today I was installing XP and, before I loaded the display driver, I got to see the horror that is the Windows XP desktop in 4 bit color. Imagine having to use the computer all the time with it looking like that. Sure fire way to cure you of your internet addiction.

Why morons shouldn't be allowed on the internet

I've been known to bid on stuff listed on Ebay. Sometimes I end up bidding on stuff that I don't really want. Almost always I end up winning the auctions of stuff I really don't want but bid on anyway because I'm insane.



The photo above is my latest dumbass Ebay acquisition. It's a Dell PowerEdge 2450 server. You know, one of those things the internet runs on. I don't need one, but for some reason, about a week and a half ago, I became vaguely obsessed with the idea of owning one. So I began looking on Ebay for a cheap, older one. I bid on one, not thinking I'd actually get it. Also, I totally overlooked just how frickin' HUGE a rack-mount server is. It's over a yard long. It's as loud as a vacuum-cleaner. It's ugly. But it runs. In the above photo I have the thing running a Linux live CD and actually got it online and was looking at some jerk's lame blog.

I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

Let this be a lesson! Or something. I don't care.

Huh?

WTF? I have a blog? Since when? 2002? Really? Can I go back to sleep now?

Kaboom

Man, I really hope that Large Hadron Collider blows up the universe when they crank it up on Wednesday. Stupid universe. Enough already.

Leave Tina out of it

Every time I see a mention of hurricane Ike in the news, the first thing I think of is Ike Turner.

Hair

This afternoon at Wal-Mart I saw a little kid with a mohawk. It was growing out quite a bit, but it was still a mohawk. Nothing else about him or his family seemed the least bit out of the ordinary, but I couldn't help but wonder how a little six or seven year old kid ended up with a mohawk.

Sometimes I get bored

Mystery Bulges

Sometimes when I walk across the carpet, there are disconcerting little bulges that feel quite strange under my bare feet. The bulges come from the ancient carpet coming unglued from the floor. Every time I step on one I think briefly that I've just stepped on a hamster or some other kind of little furry thing.

I think there's some good stuff down in the bottom

There's several big recycling dumpsters near my bank. This morning I dumped off some glass bottles and aluminum cans after hitting the ATM machine. The mixed paper dumpster caught my eye as I went past. I stood and looked down into it at all the various bits of paper, strangely desperate to see something interesting. I wondered how much porn was in there. The closest thing to porn I saw was a couple of Adam and Eve catalogs. I didn't touch any of it. Pulling a crusty porno mag out of a dumpster isn't really something anyone should in their right mind should ever do.

Antithesis of funky

The second in command of the machine shop said to me yesterday, "It's Friday! Going to get funky?"

"Yeah, I'm going to get funky," I deadpanned.

Laptop Redux

After too long a wait, I finally took delivery of my replacement laptop. So far, it hasn't died once. Yippee. I was even able to watch streaming porn on the couch like a real American!

So, what's my take on Vista Home Premium? (Or whatever the hell it's called.) Well, it works. The main annoyance I have is with the nagging. I know it's a security feature, but it's still annoying. The other thing that annoys me is that Microsoft went and renamed stuff that's been the same for many years. I don't like having to dig around for things that are suddenly called something else or have been placed in some other mysterious location. So my take on Vista? It works. But my main complaint isn't with Microsoft at all, it's with Hewlett-Packard for loading all that crapware on the system. Bite me, HP.

Tiny House

I want a tiny house. Of course I could never successfully live in one of these things for very long because of my pathological urge to accumulate useless junk, but I'd still like to try.



Also, I could just see the tiny house ending up on its side after I went berserk because I bumped my head on a cabinet door or something. Or someone would steal it while I was out shopping. Bastards.

Of course, my tiny house wouldn't be like the one below.

Horror of horrors

nice shoes!, originally uploaded by Veronica Belmont.

Just when you thought footwear couldn't get any more freakish. I don't know how the photographer was able to resist the urge to stomp on this guy's feet.

The website's even worse. ARRGH!

"Having eliminated the Nazis threat, Rita now faces the prosaic dilemma of earning a living."

Ah, spam. Mostly it's an annoyance, but on occasion it can be a genuine treat. Granted, it's a weird treat, but a treat still.

I used to keep a webmail account just for scam emails, but I got so much of that it overwhelmed me and I quit even logging in. Eventually, the account went dormant and I lost all the email in it. No big deal. I recently began checking the account once again and the scam email and other weird stuff is once more coming in at a regular pace.

My favorite subject line for an email ever is shown below:



Yes, it's just a quote from Futurama, but it's still funny. Sadly, the email was just the typical boner pill nonsense.

Even stranger are the emails that use random text to foil spam filters. Sometime this text comes from actual works of literature and other times it's just produced by a markov generator. The non-markov stuff interests me because I simply want to know where the hell it comes from. Mostly it seems to be public domain books from Project Gutenberg, but sometimes it's from someplace else. I often find myself pasting swathes of text into Google to find its origin. (What I'm trying to say here is that I have no life.)

An email I got today had a truly bizarre chunk of text in it about Hitler:

Hitler gasped for air. His left handheld a glass jar over the head
of his penis. Hisbody suddenly spasmed againstthe plush of the
soft leather couch. A primeval screampartially suppressed
through clenched teeth resounded through the room. The sound
was deadened by the rich tapestries that coveredthe walls of
the semi-dark office.

Still breathing heavily, theleader of the ThirdReich held the jar
up to a light and studied the sticky substance slowly sliding down
the insides of the container. He stood, screwedthe cap into
place and set the jar on his desknext to the untouched
photographs of nude women in various provocative poses. He
forced his still semi-erect penis into his pants andbuttoned
his fly.

He looked down to see if his clothes were in proper array.
Satisfied, he bent over and picked up the picture of his mother
that had fallen from his lap during the final moment ofecstasy.
He slid the pictureinto the insidebreast pocket of histunic
making sure it was deeply seated. He then presseda buzzer
and left the room.

Moments later, Colonel Ludwig Schmidt, wearing the uniform
of the elite SS guard, enteredand gathered the photographs.
He placed them in an envelopethat had been lying onthe desk.
The envelope was marked "TOP SECRET"in bold red letters
across its front and back. The Colonel then took the jar and
placed it in an insulated steel cased boxpacked with dry ice.
He closed the cover andsecured it with a heavy brasslock.

From his pocket he removed a smallcandle and cigarette lighter.
After lighting the candle he held it so that the hot wax dripped
into the keyhole and the surrounding area of the lock. He then
pressed the face of a signet ring he was wearingagainst the still
soft wax. He then left the room taking the envelope and the box
with him.

THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE, ONEYEAR LATER

The submarine's periscope cleaved thewarm waters of the
CaribbeanSea exposing no more than two feet ofcamouflaged
metal above the lapping waves. It slowly rotated, scanning the
horizon through the splash caused by the mildtropical winds.
The bright moonlight made the lonefreighter on the horizon
stand out in bold silhouette.
 
"Down periscope," the Captain said,smartly folding the handle
bars. He turned to the young blondmilitarily erect >man dressed
in ordinary seaman's clothes and said,"Come Colonel Schmidt,
let us go to my quarters and go overthe plans for transferring
the personnel to the freighter."

Sitting at thesteel planning desk in the cramped quarters the
Captain faced the Colonel and said, "It is no secretthe war is
going badly. The Allies are dominating the sealanes and I have
grave doubts about myability to get this sub and its crewback
to the Fatherland. It is one thing to die for the Fuhrer inbattle;
it is quite another to play nursemaid to a dozenpregnant women.
Can you not tell me as officer toofficer what this is all about?

I promise you the informationwill go no further than within this
room. It would make our fate more bearable if I knew the
sacrifice was ofconsequential importance." The Colonelstudied
the submarine's Captain across the desk beforeanswering.
"The twelve women are pregnant with theFuhrer's children."


The Captain sat dumbfounded. Finally he said,"Gottimhimmel!
How is it possible? All twelve? Why arethey on this U-boat?
What is this all about?" As he startedto speak, the Colonel's
voice rose from low key to a hysterical crescendo."As you
observed, Captain, the war is going badly. OurFuhrer is a
brilliant man. He sees far beyond the immediacy of today's
battles—won or lost.

He plans only for the ultimate domination of this globe by pure
Aryans. The twelve women represent thebest of German
womanhood, each the purest Aryan. Each selected forbreeding
qualities of health and intelligence. Eachfrom families that bore
predominantly male offspring.
 
“Through the use of eugenic selection and artificialinsemination
it is the Fuhrer's plan to father achild in his own image.
A child who would possess his genius and determination.
That child will be raisedin America and ultimately rise to a
position of power. InAmerica he will plant the seeds that will
mature into the Fourth Reich. He will become—The American Fuhrer.

You ask, what the hell kind of crap is this? Well, it's a novel called The Jewess by someone named Jerome Parks. He has a website. It's quite something.

I know I've just quoted a ridiculously long piece of prose, but at the risk of angering Mr. Parks, I'm going to quote his insane synopsis of his novel:

Rita Adler, (The Jewess) working as a typist, develops Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. She enters a Worker’s Compensation Program and is re-trained to be a systems computer analyst.

She obtains a job in an optometrist office as the computerized records manager. Located in Washington, DC, the optometrist has senators and Supreme Court judges as patients.

During the course of her employment, the optometry office installs a high-tech eyesight testing device. Rita studies the workings of the device and realizes it simply combines the technology used by most cameras to measure distance with a computer that analyzes the physical change of the eyeball shape when focusing at different distances.

Rita finds a computer program that lets you act as your own psychiatrist. She gets the idea of combining it with the eye measuring device so that the eye’s reaction to various scenes used by the device can be interpreted as a psychological reaction.

Werner Schmidt, the leader of the neo-Nazi movement in America, is one of the optometrist’s patients. Rita tests Werner’s eyesight using the new testing device. She adds in a series of scenes to determine his psychological profile. She does this to satisfy her curiosity about Werner whom she finds physically attractive.

Werner and Rita go on a date. They both have deep-rooted sexual aberrations. Rita had a trauma as a child that left her unable to have sex—she's still a virgin. Werner also had a childhood trauma that left him unable to have sex with other than a virgin. Rita knows about Werner's sexual aberration having seen it in his psychological profile. This knowledge enables Rita to totally captivate Werner to the point where he obsesses over her.

Colonel Ludwig Schmidt, is Werner Schmidt’s foster-father. He had been commissioned by Adolph Hitler, to raise the infant Werner, in the United States for the purpose of Werner becoming the American Fuhrer. The Colonel is shocked when he learns of Werner's infatuation with a Jewess. He probes the acts that Werner had in Rita’s presence and figures out that somehow Rita learned of Werner’s sexual hang-ups through the use of the eye tester device. When Werner realizes that Rita had exploited his sexual hang-ups, he becomes infuriated and vows vengeance.

Werner embarks on a vendetta against Rita. He trashes her apartment smearing racial hate slogans in red paint over her walls and furniture. Terrified, Rita goes underground. The Colonel locates her in a motel where she's hiding and subjects her to an erotic lesbian experience that frees her from her sexual hang-ups. He does this so that Rita will become sexually promiscuous and no longer attractive to Werner.

The Colonel and Werner need the password to Rita's computer so that they can get the psychological profile of the senators and judges who had their eyes examined by the eye tester device. They plan on using the information for political gain. Believing that Dr. Schulman, Rita's boss, has the password they need to access the eye tester files, they viciously torture leaving him blind.

When Rita learns of this she feels an emotion that she’s never experienced before—an urge for revenge. Using the information from Werner's psychological profile, she creates a plan that will make him experience the most horrible terror imaginable. The result is that Werner is reduced to a vegetable state.

The Colonel, now seeking revenge against Rita, for what she's done to Werner embarks on a cat and mouse game to locate her. Rita sets up a counter plan to entrap the Colonel. It succeeds and the Colonel's entire neo-Nazi network is destroyed.

Having eliminated the Nazis threat, Rita now faces the prosaic dilemma of earning a living.

Rita contacts the CEO of the corporation that manufactured the eye testing device and induces him to give her a contract to service the eye testing machines being used by optometrists throughout the country.

Rita reunites with an old friend, Muriel who worked with her when she was a typist. Between the two of them they set up a service organization that nets them enough money to live a luxurious life.

Rita uses the files from the devices she services to gather information about people's opinions. She starts a corporation whose purpose is to take polls. Because she has access to the computer-generated opinions she is able to do marketing predictions faster, cheaper and more accurately than any of the existing companies.

Rita meets with the CEO of the giant corporation that dominates the poll taking industry. They become sexually and romantically involved. Then they become competitors during the presidential elections.

The CEO of the corporation that manufactures the eye testers cancels the contract with Rita, essentially putting her at a business. She is forced into bankruptcy.

Rita and Muriel have to live in a one-room dump and take jobs as waitresses to make ends meet. Rita goes into a state of depression. Muriel comes up with the idea to sell to their former adversary in the poll taking business, the secret of how she was able to outperform them. Rita takes the proceeds from the sale and plays the stock market. By leaking information anonymously she's able to control the value of the stock she has purchased. Once again she is wealthy.

Rita induces the manufacturers of the eye testing machines to sell franchises. She buys the franchise for Europe. She and Muriel now live in an exotic condominium on the French Riviera. Now experiencing all the material things that life offers, they contemplate; what is the meaning of life? Why are we here? Together they come to a surprising conclusion.

This is only a 60,000 word novel? That's short. How in the hell can someone cram so much convoluted lunacy into 60,000 words. I'm actually debating whether or not to actually buy this book. Hell, there's even a Kindle version available on Amazon.

This post is long enough, I guess. Bite my shiny metal ass.

Award-winning food

Today at work I got dragged to an out-of-the-way BBQ joint at lunchtime. While we were sitting there waiting for our food, one guy said, "You can tell a restaurant's gonna have good food when they have trophies."

I turned around and saw a display of a half dozen or more trophies each with a gold pig or chicken on top.

Strange jingoism

Today at work I noticed an odd t-shirt someone was wearing. It featured the word America in Germanic letters over a mounted deer's head with a stars and stripes motif. I guess whoever this shirt would appeal to would quickly understand and appreciate the dual hunting/patriotism message, but to me the design looked like someone had shot America and mounted its head on a wall.

Advertising

I found the above $20 bill last week. I know the Miccosukee are an Indian tribe, but I didn't know where. For some reason I wasn't expecting them to be in Florida.

Exciting, no? No.

ARRGH!

Why are the two new temps at work making fifty cents an hour more than I currently make? And I'm not even a temp anymore.

Please kill me

My computer's over four and a half years old. It works, but it's a bit long in the tooth and I wanted to get a new one. Some of you have been around long enough to remember what happened the last time I tried to buy a computer. Surely, nothing bad would happen if I bought a computer now.



I searched over a period of several months for a suitable replacement machine. For a while there I planned on buying my first Mac, but then decided against it because Macs are just too expensive. Even their cheapest model is too damn expensive. $400 and you don't even a get a keyboard or mouse? Bite me, Steve Jobs. Apple's clearly only interested in selling to yuppies. So decided to get another crappy Windows system (that I could run Linux on).

But do I get a Vista system or an XP system? Since I'd been using XP for over four and a half years, I wanted something new, but Vista had a lot of bad press. And do I get a desktop system or a laptop?

But enough of this palaver. Last week I ordered a refurbished HP laptop with Vista on it for $550. Yesterday, much to my surprise, the thing was waiting for me after I got home from work. My first new laptop!

Vista was kind of annoying, but I could use it just fine. Quickly I was wireless on the couch! Watching streaming video! And it wasn't even porn! Then the fucking thing conked out.

After a reboot I was informed by a very irate Vista that I'd shut the computer down wrong. Later it conked out again. And again. It didn't matter if it was running off batter power or plugged into the wall; the thing would just die. So I bought a lemon.

Right now it's in the hands of UPS. I sincerely hope they back a truck over it or something. Or accidentally fling it into a wood-chipper.

Who knows how long I'm going to have to wait for a replacement. Or even if I'll get a replacement. My luck they'll check it out and it will work perfectly. Then they'll just send it back.

The lesson I learned? Don't get out of bed. Ever. Better yet, go live in a cave and reject society altogether.

Why was this ad in the sidebar of my Gmail account?

Hooter Hiders? I thought the ads were supposed to at least be vaguely associated with the content of the specific emails? This ad appeared beside an email from Amazon about the two Joy Division CDs I'd just ordered.

Hey, get your own name!

I was playing with the new (somewhat crummy) search engine, Cuil, and found this while looking for my own blog. Grrr!