Thursday, October 27, 2005
Yes folks that is Exxon CEO Lee Raymond cackling evilly at a news conference back in May. Exxon today announced a revenue figure for the third quarter of $100.72 billion (yes, with a "b"). This compared to the $76.38 billion they raked in last year in the same quarter. Profits were $9.92 billion. For the quarter.
Doesn't this guy look like every political cartoon representation of "Big Oil Companies" you've ever seen? Beady little eyes, evil lopsided grin, big belly. It's almost like the oil companies created him in a lab somewhere to be the front man for their entire group.
Like many people of my generation, I toyed with the concept of internet dating from time to time. For the most part, it didn’t ever work out the way that I had planned. I emailed with a few women, and even went on dates with several of them – a few more than once. But for the most part I found that the product never measured up to the hype. This is because it is much easier to market yourself as an interesting person through text than it is to do it face to face. When assembling your profile for one of these sites, it’s easy to go through draft after draft, endlessly refining what you say about yourself. Eliciting second, third and fourth opinions from all your friends and family as to whether your profile makes you look interesting, well-adjusted, and fun instead of smelly, covered in back hair and prone to fits of drunken violence.
So after having learned this I pretty much gave up on internet dating sites. But the one thing that I do miss about them was reading the profiles of the people who really had no idea what they were doing and no idea how to interact with other humans. These are the people who spend all their time playing Everquest in the basement of their mom’s house and expect that to get all the single women within a 60 mile radius eager to tear off their clothes and reveal the chain-mail bras that they all wear 365 days of the year (except to the airport, of course – it might be awkward).
And now I don’t even have to go look for them anymore. Some guy has set up a website specifically devoted to collecting the weirdest of the weirdos. Sure, it may be viewed as cruel, but I see it it’s a way for everyone else on those sites to feel that much better about themselves and their profiles. Heck, after viewing some of these, I suddenly was not surprised at all that my old profiles actually got women to write. Compared to them I’m a text-based Brad Pitt.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
I’ve always considered Scientology to be a lot like Trekkies or Alien abduction victims – a small group of weirdos who gather periodically to discuss how aliens are among us and we just don’t realize the effects they have on human life. Also, I assumed that the only people who were Scientologists were Tom Cruise, John Travolta, and all the women that have dated Tom Cruise or John Travolta (e.g. Mimi Rogers, Kelly Preston, Katie Holmes). This is why Scientologists built John Travolta, and later Tom Cruise – to increase the number of believers by seducing human women. Both of them are actually androids and made of a combination of titanium and silly-putty. This is why you never see Tom Cruise reading a newspaper – it would imprint on his hands and people would start asking questions.
But I just found a list of Scientologists and worlds fail me. I am shocked. I mean, Nancy Cartwright is a scientologist? Isaac Hayes? How could both Bart Simpson and Chef fall for this? Jason Lee both Masterson brothers? I guess this disproves my theory about high levels of sarcasm serving as a way to immunize yourself against being indoctrinated by the alienphiles. Sure, Sharon Stone I can totally believe. The woman stars in one film and then suddenly starts acting like she’s a serious actress a la Katherine Hepburn – obviously, she’s just the sort of crazy person to be drawn to Scientology (just like Manson and Juliette Lewis).I guess this just goes to show that just because you see someone on television every week for thirty minutes doesn’t mean that you actually know them. They may look like a 1970’s pot-smoking slacker wiseacre, but they might believe they are immortal otherworldly beings…or president of the United States.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
They all have the same basic design – a red “OPEN” sign surrounded by a blue border. The most common one is the Neon Oval design, which looks like this:
That is followed by the Neon Square:
So why would these same three signs suddenly be everywhere? Why is it that in the last six months or so everyone has bought one for their business? The answer was obvious – underpants gnomes.
For those of you unfamiliar with underpants gnomes, they are master businessmen. However, their business plan was somewhat flawed:
Step 1: Collect underpants
Step 2: ??
Step 3: Profit!
Because the underpants gnomes couldn’t remember what Step 2 was, they had remained in their underground lair collecting huge mountains of underpants for use as raw material. Well, now it appears that step two involves installing their specially-designed “Open” signs in every small business in the United States.
Obviously, I don’t know how the gnomes plan to use their Open signs and massive stockpiles of underpants to profit. But considering how many underpants they must have by now, I don’t plan on sticking around to find out. I’m considering moving to Canada. Keep your eyes peeled as you move about your communities! How many Underpants Gnome “Open” signs are in your neighborhood? They may already be controlling your dry cleaner, your children’s day care! Yes, even your church…
Oh, the horror. I only hope my warning is not too late…
Monday, October 24, 2005
We knew it was going to happen eventually. Drugs have cut across a vast swath of our society, affecting people of every class, every race, every location in the United States and, some would say, the world. If Nancy Reagan is to be believed, the eventual downfall of society is due not to terrorism, but instead to the powerful effects of drugs.
Yet the vast majority of us go about our lives as if drugs don’t exist. We go to work, we go home, we watch reality television, none of which expose us to the horrific effects of drugs. Well, maybe reality television does, but they don’t tell us that those people are crazy because of drugs. We just assume that they are crazy because they volunteered to be on a reality television show.
Well no longer can we sit ensconced in our safe little drug-free lives. Mother nature has taken matters into her own hands and forced drugs into everyone’s lives using squirrels. Yes, squirrels in big cities are uncovering drug dealer’s buried stashes of crack and becoming nature’s littlest crack fiends. Sure, it’s funny to imagine drug dealers returning to “work” to find all their inventory has been dug up and thrown around the yard, but imagine where it’s going to end?
Will gangs of squirrel junkies eventually go toe-to-toe against the Crips and the Vice Lords battling for turf? What will this do to inter-species violence? How will the police crack down on this latest wave of drug-induced terror when they lack squirrel-sized handcuffs? Will they have to train monkeys as a sort of “vice squad” since humans can’t climb trees as well as squirrels? Will those monkeys wear suits with t-shirts, shoes without socks and drive a monkey-sized Ferarri Testarossa? What happens if flying squirrels get hooked and start dive-bombing innocent civilians on the street in a drug-crazed frenzy?
Nothing good can come of this. Somebody call Hazleden – they better start developing a squirrel-centric detox program ASAP.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Who in their right mind would buy this costume to wear to a halloween party?
Seriously? Okay, if you're an adult let's assume there are three kinds of halloween parties that you can go to: kids parties, work parties, and parties out in public that typically involve a lot of alchohol where one is surrounded by women in skanky outfits looking to score.
Imagine you wear this to a kids party. You not only lose all respect of the kids (estimated time until first brat mimes pooping on you = approximately 10 minutes) but even the other adults there would look at you suspiciously. Sure you could claim you were trying to be all ironic and say "I'm the big scary toilet you kids were soooo scared of when you were potty training! I make scaaary flushing sounds that make you poop your pants! Booga-booga-booga!". But that might cause some of the kids who *did* have PTSD from toilet training to have an episode and then you're the evil monster who gets sent all the therapy bills.
Next, consider the work party. Surrounded by friends and colleagues, is this the message you want to send to your boss? "Hi sir, I know that you spend all day giving me sh*t, so for halloween I thought I'd make a witty comment on that aspect of our work relationship! Isn't that funny? Sir? Hello? Why are you walking away? Who are you guys? Those sure are convincing security guard uniforms, where'd you get them?".
Finally, the regular going out with friends public party. Yeah, *this* is the costume you want to put on to draw in the hotties. Nothing gets a women hotter than the thought of going home with indoor plumbing. Although, Ralph Macchio did get Elisabeth Shue to fall for him when he dressed up as a shower in Karate Kid, so maybe it could work. On second thought, showers evoke images of people naked and lathered up with nice-smelling bubbles. Toilets evoke images of absolutely nothing that anyone wants to see - ever. The thought of Elsabeth Shue lathered up in the shower = hot. The thought of her on the john = not so much.
Suffice to say that I will not be using this costume for halloween this year. Being a ginormous halloween geek, the GF had our costumes picked out and assembled about two weeks ago. I love never having to pick outfits anymore, it's the best thing about a relationship. Well, okay maybe not the best but definitely in the top seven.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
If you continue maintaining healthy habits, you'll want to plan for a maximum life expectancy of 93 years or more.
Your "ideal" weight for maximum longevity is: 158 lbs.
The three biggest positive factors that you have going for you are:
1. Cholesterol level
2. Age of grandparents
3. Personality type
The one biggest negative factor that you have going for you is:
So apparently, the one thing standing between me and attending my great-great-great-great-great-great-great granddaughter's wedding is my penis.
The worst thing about this "estimator" is that it gives no explanation for *why* my gender is the problem. This sort of casual factlessness is everywhere these days, and left me with no choice but to devise my own ultra-unscientific reasons why being a guy is going to kill me in a mere 63 years.
The most logical explanation is that I would be killed off by someone what did not share similar characteristics - therefore one could hypothesize that one of three things was trying to kill me: a woman, a hermaphrodite, or something completly genderless (e.g. amoebas, rocks, or ham sandwiches).
It didn't take long to rule out hermaphrodites because like unicorns, compassionate conservatism, and mesothelioma they don't actually exist. Rather, they are a construct designed to lure people into believing they can be found in the real world when in actuality they exist only on the less reputable portions of the internet.
As for the third group, I'm not concerned. I'm much too large for an amoeba to turn into a food vacuole. Rocks pose no problems here in the midwest because there are no cliffs or mountains for them to plummet from. This is not to say they couldn't hire some sketchy pilot to take them up to altitude but it's unlikely because they are all unemployed and therefore can't afford plane tickets. As for ham sandwiches, well, they may be quick enough to take down Mama Cass, but I'm a lot quicker and more elusive than she was.
So this leaves women as the only possible suspects in my early death. This just proves that all that research they're doing to replace sperm has an evil purpose. My only hope is to preserve my preternatural ability to open jars, fix things, and pick up heavy things. Which probably explains why I'll die at 93. By the time I get that old my back will be shot, jars will open themselves, and everything I know how to fix will be museum pieces.
Unless, of course, I become a cyborg.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
That said, I feel that it’s required for me to discuss the whole “White Sox in the World Series” topic (and not because I have any love for the Sox, mind you). The fascinating thing about this is how it has taken over the town so fast. Even two weeks ago, this city didn’t give a whoot for the Sox. This is because by and large, Chicago is a Cubs town. And not because the Cubs are a better team, being a Cubs fan is just easier. Lots of people who move here from out of town settle on the north side (whereas the South-Siders usually have grown up here). Once moved into town, the newbies hear a lot about the Cubs, and will go to see a few games because of the atmosphere around Wrigley Field. After the game (and before the game, who are we kidding) it’s easy to hop from the Cubbie Bear to Murphy’s to all the other bars in the neighborhood enjoying the festive atmosphere. After they go to a few games, the new kids become “sorta fans”. They may have loyalty to their hometown teams, but they love going to Cubs games because it’s fun.
Meanwhile, the south-siders look up at the Cubs fans and accuse them of "not knowing anything about the game", "not being real fans", and "throwing away perfectly good homerun balls". This is because they are bitter, shriveled little creatures who are angry that they have nothing to do outside the park after the game and that they play in a boring stadium. Picture a stadium full of drunk Gollums - attacking visiting team coaches, attacking umpires, attacking disco, and opposing God's chosen team. Granted, the food is better at the Cell than at Wrigley, but it’s still “U.S. Sell-your-Soul” field. Between that stadium moniker, beating the Angels, and picking fights with anyone on the field who's not as drunk as they are - it's likely that being a Sox fan will immediately result in St. Peter (or his gang of Mormon bouncers) throwing you downstairs after you die.
Myself, I consider myself slightly more than “sorta fan” of the Cubs. My grandpa was a Cubs fan in Iowa, and when I’d go visit in the summer we’d watch games on WGN. But I was from Minnesota, so I paid more attention to Twins games. This is why I hate the Sox – not because they are the Sox, but because they were the division rivals of my hometown team. It wasn’t until I moved here that my love for the Cubs was formed, and that was because I went to a few games. Granted, I don’t know anything about team history (other than who Ernie Banks, Ryne Sandberg, and Ron Santo are). But I don’t need to either.
So now I face the dilemma of who to root for in the World Series. I hate the Sox, but I love Chicago. Plus, the two teams vying for the NL pennant are Houston (loses points for being from Texas – all Minnesotans are required to hate Texas because they stole the North Stars, screwed us in the Herschel Walker trade, and because they claim to have more lakes than us) and St. Louis (Cubs archrival). Finally, throw in the fact that the Sox have the second-longest World Series drought in baseball I pretty much will have to root for the Sox once the Series starts.
And besides, it’s not like I stand a chance in hell of scoring Clay Aiken tickets
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Anyway, this particular magazine was designed to serve as an outlet for student writers, where they would research topics suggested by alumni. They were also soliciting alumni writers for occasional work. This got me thinking about what makes a person a writer as opposed to "some guy who types stuff occasionally". I write pretty regularly for this blog, trying to come up with enough new material to publish something new at least every day. But I don't consider myself to be "a writer" in the strict sense of the word. The GF is a real writer - she's had plays produced and won awards for screenplays and stuff. I can't wait until I get to go to the oscars when she's nominated, so I can get nice and tipsy and mock all the scientologists ("Hey Tom! If the Raelians come and take you away before you can accept the award, won't you be *pissed*?"). But a few weeks ago she told me she thinks I'm a better writer than her because I'm "writing stuff almost every day".
This *shocked* me. Me? A Writer? But I'm not moody enough! I don't wear berets and unusual artistic ponchos! I don't chain smoke long, thin, bitter-smelling cigarettes! I don't get in arguments about post-modernism and deconstructing Hemingway! I like composing long essays on boobs and discussing the finer distinctions between a Christian God and Japanese movie-monsters. That's not what writers write about... Moreover, I *certainly* haven't realized any sort of financial reward from this endeavor. It's just an outlet; a way to throw out some silly anecdotes and observations and hope that something sticks to the funny bone of those random folks that stumble across this particular corner of the great internet corn maze. It's pure ego. I like the feeling of putting together something that I find hysterically funny (Editor's note: the author of this blog fully realizes not all of his posts fit this description, but sometimes time is short and the Daily Show is starting soon so standards must be compromised) and seeing which posts people respond to and which ones people gloss over. Sometimes I totally think I've figured out something that will get giggles, and other times I'll throw something up to the sound of the proverbial e-crickets. Just proves the point that I am typically not the next coming of Mark Twain or Will Rogers. Or even Carrot Top, for that matter.
Ever since the GF brought this up I've occasionally revisited this idea of whether I'm a legitimate "writer". And I waffle about whether or not I consider myself to be one. Then I think about how much I like waffles. Then I think about where the nearest place is where one could acquire waffles in the event of an emergency. If it's a long way away I ponder whether pancakes would serve as a suitable replacement, and at what stage of a waffle emergency would one be so desperate that just about any breakfast griddle-construct would serve (e.g. french toast, crepes, etc). By that time I'll have forgotten about the issue entirely. It's the great advantage of having the attention span of a gnat.
Monday, October 17, 2005
The worst thing about being a hot guy judge poser is that sometimes my set of rules for estimating male hotness fails miserably, and then I spend a week or so trying to figure out where I went wrong. For example, the new Bond was just announced last week as a british actor by the name of Daniel Craig. I am not in any way familiar with his work, but he scores points for being actually british. Had the producers picked Hugh Jackman (australian) or god forbid Goran Vinsjic (croatian) they would have lost the whole british essence of the franchise.
That said, my biggest surprise was actually that this Craig guy seems to lack any sort of sex appeal. I mean to expect the ladies to go from Pierce Brosnan to this guy?
I understand what they are trying to do with it though. I blame Kevin James, Ray Romano and that Jerry Seinfeld. Those three guys are single-handedly responsible for the artificial raising of expectations througout guy-land with respect to the hotness factor of ladies that they can actually get. Does anyone actually believe that Kevin James could get with Leah Remini*? Or that Jerry Seinfeld could score Teri Hatcher, Courtney Cox, Jane Leeves, and Debra Messing? Yeah, I thought not.
So now here comes the "Dumpy 007" here to reassure a nation of wife-beater-wearing, High-Life swilling, Dallas Cowboys-cheering, spray-cheese eating meatheads that even guys who look like them can score bond girls. It's ridiculous. Just when we finally start replacing all the "fat ignorant guy married to the hot smart funny woman" sitcoms with CSI and Law & Order derivatives and "throw enough hot people in a room and see who starts making out" reality television programs, we get another dose of delusional behavior reinforcement. Remember the MAD TV skit for the "Lowered Expectations" dating service? Yeah, we need to actually make that work, and enforce mandatory membership to those who need it. That way, everyone's happy. The meatheads stop bothering women who want to be left alone, and everyone is only hit on by people who they actually might be interested in.
*Note - *not* Lisa Rinna who is also *not* "Lisa Rinni"
Friday, October 14, 2005
(Thanks to sam burns for the tip and the link)
|You are a |
You are best described as a:
Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid
Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test
To think, all of the jokes I cracked about my friends "being the milkman’s kids" over the years could actually be true! An recent scientific study has theorized that one in 25 children is not the product of their alleged father, but instead is the progeny of a different guy. They didn’t go into much detail about where the actual fathers were, but this is shocking. Think of how many of you know 25 guys with kids. If we are to believe these numbers then odds are at least one of them is raising someone else’s kids as their own. Think of how many kids you went to school with who don’t actually know their real dads. Think of how many people you work with who don’t know theirs.
In light of this new research, let's consider the bright side. It is now fairly likely that Tom Cruise is not actually the father of Katie Holmes' baby - even if they think it is! I don't know about you but this belief, as unlikely as it may be, provides me with just the right amount of necessary inner peace to proceed to ignore the whole thing entirely. Yup. I'm done. I've been just as aghast as the rest of America with respect to what has happened to America's latest sweetheart. But now that I know that the alleged child she is carrying is even remotely not hers I can finally sleep through the night. Hopefully, someone will pass this information along to Katie's dad, who is apparently none too pleased with an alien worshipper boinking his formerly Catholic little angel. Yes, Mr. Holmes, *none* of us think he's any good. But he's not the father of your grandchild...
Take your prozac and try to get some sleep Papa Holmes. Hopefully the Raelians will come and take him away before morning. Or he'll be distracted by something sparkly long enough for SWAT teams to move in and rescue her*. If worse comes to worst, just keep telling yourself that Tome Cruise is gay.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Who among you thinks this woman is insane? Let's look at the math, shall we? She is 39 years old and has 18 kids. Four of those kids are twins (two sets) and if their ages are to be believed, she has gone at 12 months without being pregnant four out of the last 18 years. Yes, even after two sets of twins this crazy woman rolled over to her husband (appropriately named Joe Bob) and said "I want another one! The thought of tending to 3 am feedings and diaper changes every two hours is not complete unless I'm also battling morning sickness! GIVE ME YOUR SEED!!!".
Now the easy diagnosis would be to claim insanity or nymphomania. But I would like to put forth an alternative hypothesis - the woman hates her period. A lot. She hates it more than being elbow-deep in poopy diapers, more than bed rest for months on end thanks to her overly stretched lady bits, more than the idea of watching some Barney variant every day until she dies. As a man, I have no idea what it's like to have a period (thanks for the Y chromosome, dad!) but all of my female friends seem to have gotten used to it. Sure, you get a little cranky every few weeks, but most every woman I know has come to terms with her little friend. Not this one though.
But still, something about the whole story seems a bit incredulous, don't you think? Doesn't it seem weird that a father named joe bob sells real estate in Arkansas? And that he's actually making enough money to afford to feed two baseball teams' worth of people? A likely story. I suspect that something's up, and it's one of two possibilities:
First, Joe Bob is not actually selling real estate - he's into trafficing in healthy white babies. all those kids are nothing more than his "showroom" where he shows off the latest models. He was doing really well, too until Katrina hit and the economy of the area started to go bad. Suddenly, his normal stream of clients dried up, and inventory started building up on the lot. Now he's got a lot full of last year's models and "They's ALL gotta go! Come on down to Joe Bob's Used Kid lot today!".
Second, those kids aren't human. They aren't even alive - they're puppets. Evil puppets heck-bent on world domination. Sure, they look cute now, and they probably obey the commands that mom and joe bob give them without hesitation. Just wait...we all know what's going to happen. We've seen "Child's Play" and that one episode of Twilight Zone with the ventriloquist dummy. And all those who think they move too naturally to be puppets? Four words: "Team America - World Police". Yeah...those were puppets too. I know, I know, it's hard to believe but it's completely true. Puppets are everywhere. The white house (obviously), Trump Tower, Yankee Stadium, and even...oh god no... Get out of your house! THE CALLS ARE COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE!!! AIEEEEEE!!!
Either way, somebody get this woman's tubes tied before she runs out of eggs.
I'm a monkey! Beware my prehensile tail and flying feces!
You Are A: Monkey!
Monkeys are intelligent and agile, well-adapted for jungle life as they swing happily from tree to tree. As a monkey, you are a social animal who is quick to learn new things, loves to climb and is known to show off. A monkey's tiny primate features are irresistable, as is his gregarious personality!
You were almost a: Squirrel or a Parakeet
You are least like a: Duckling or a Groundhog
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Ah, Halloween. My third favorite holiday as a child. Not only because of the candy but because of it’s role in ringing in the season of “holidays where Grrrbear gets stuff!”. After Halloween came thanksgiving (food), xmas (presents), my birthday (presents), valentines day (faked tokens of affection from classmates and more candy), and easter (candy!). My mom was way into decorating for each one so I was always terribly excited when she broke out the pumpkins and mini-ears of corn. We have a picture of me (at age three) at the annual Grrrbear household pumpkin carving day – I’m trying to eat a piece of pumpkin and obviously having the best time ever.
When I was a kid though, it was recognized that Halloween was a kid’s holiday, and people who went out trick-or-treating after the age of 12 were considered wierdos. I went out with a bang, with my 5th grade costume being a homemade Optimus Prime costume (designed by yours truly) that would allow me to actually transform into a somewhat semi-like shape that was remarkably recognizeable as a vehicle. These days however, Halloween is slowly being co-opted by adults of my age who refuse to let kids have all the fun. And it’s also starting to serve as a pseudo-mardi-gras for those of us who don’t live in New Orleans. Complete with boobage.
Seriously, when did a celebration of the spooky become about porno? I recently received a flyer promoting a “5th Annual Pimp and Ho Halloween Party” at a local club. Looking at the pictures inside, it was easy to see why guys would want to go – all the women were hot and were wearing costumes constructed of dental floss and corks. The guys in the pictures however, were wearing full pimp suits and big floppy hats. They looked pretty silly, whereas the women looked hot, but a little skanky.
And then, as if the promise of pseudo-skanky ladies wasn’t enough by itself the party was going to be hosted by three pornstars (“Stormy”, “Shane”, and “Nina Hartley”) with big prize giveaways to include trips for 2 to the AVN awards in Las Vegas. In addition, there were going to be "100+" of the "sexiest adult dancers in Chicago" in attendance.
By this time, I was really confused. I am a guy; I have friends that are guys. It’s easy to see why we would all want to go to this. My question falls on my significantly female population of readers – why would you ladies want to go to this? Is it all about being allowed to dress like a ‘ho for one evening and not have your “street cred” (as a lawyer, investment banker, or nun) ruined forever? Or is it more evidence of the “enough alcohol will make us crazy” phenomenon so often practiced by the Girls Gone Wild crowd? Is a trip to the AVN awards something that would interest most women? Are you just looking for a place to bring your crappy boyfriend so you can "pass him off" to some stripper and go find someone better without going through his breakup whineyness?
Help a brother out ladies, I don’t get it…
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Translation: "Hey all you coveted young 19-40 year old free-spending male moviegoers out there! Come see my movie and you'll get to see my boobs! Isn't that awesome? Totally! Woo!!! Where's my beads?"
This move is so routine for this woman that she's not even looking at her feet. It's like she doesn't bother to keep track of them anymore; just like those mothers at the grocery store that sit reading the backs of cereal boxes while their unholy children run around vandalizing various store displays, taunting the lobsters in the tank with descriptions of their imminent death, and robbing the in-store bank at gunpoint.
Ah yes, perhaps the most famous apparatus - the silly ribbon-thingy. I believe that the intended use is to hypnotize all viewers in to watching the entire competition. Works for me. And yes ladies - that is her knee behind her head.
Ever wondered if you had something stuck to the bottom of your shoe, but didn't have the time to bend your foot up to your face? Never again! Just have your vertebrae replaced with a slinky and you too can bend over backwards to bring your face to the bottom of your foot!
I don't know about you all, but the sight of my left foot perched on my right shoulder would totally freak me out. I'd be all "Dammit Daniel Day-Lewis, get off of there!". Not this chick - such complete focus. Wowsers. But then again, maybe she sees her foot there all the time. Maybe the left foot and the right foot had a falling out and are using a trial separation to work things out or see other appendages. I hope they can work it out and get back together. In any divorce, it's the children who suffer...
You make the call:
- "Rita the Rhythmic Gymnast" Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon slowly being deflated
- Footage of the horrific crash of Air Gymnast flight 215
- Attempted the "club-wielding inverse double backflip"; only got one and a half
Monday, October 10, 2005
(Sigh)...society can't even make it to Columbus day anymore?
Like most people in my job, I receive lots of junk mail at work. Even more than I do at home. Part of this has to do with the nature of my work. I interact with lots of manufacturers and they all have my address to send me their latest mailers and catalogs and whatnot. The other part is because I’ve worked in a variety of departments companies I no longer need to work with continue to send me stuff I don’t need. The postal service, for example, came up with the crappiest excuse for a magazine I’ve ever seen last year. Allegedly, the point of the magazine is to show the latest in mailing technology, but it ends up being a monthly ad for the USPS. If I didn’t have personal experience (from previous positions) knowing just how horrible they were at sending stuff, I might find it interesting, but as it is it’s a glossy lie sent to my desk every month or so.
By now I’ve gotten pretty good at weeding out the chaff, but last week I received a plain envelope with limited markings on it. Upon opening it, I found a survey from some trade association and a crisp, new dollar bill. This is a fairly recent development in surveys (we studied it in my marketing research class in b-school) and the point is to try and guilt you into filling out the survey. The “Well, they gave me a buck, the least I could do is fill out a quick survey” method of response-encouragement – for lack of a better term.
I showed this to the other folks in by group, and then promptly threw out the survey. My neighbor looked at me in shock, saying “Aren’t you going to fill it out?”. I assured her I most certainly was not. By then I had rationalized that since the survey was in no way related to anything I did or anything my company does my response would only make their data worse than it would be otherwise. In fact, they were better off paying me not to take the survey. If only I can get more companies to send me surveys that they are better off not getting answers to. And think of what this will eventually lead to? Someday, our grandchildren will be offered brand new cars or a million yuan for 15 minutes on a survey.But for now, if they offered me cheesecake or some Chubby Hubby they might be onto something. I’m sure that’ll be the cover story in the USPS pseudo-mag next month.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
n. the reply you must give to the question that every prospective lover will casually pose after you first have sex. (So, how many people have you slept with before me)?
n. the worst kind of foreplay, which rarely, if ever, leads to intercourse.
v. to regularly and repeatedly have drunken intercourse (never sober) with the same person. (If my liver could take it, I’d inebridate John for at least another couple of months).
n. a relationship based solely on proximity, such as with your neighbour.
adj. a quality in a man by which his behavior, sexual and otherwise, raises question about his sexual orientation.
n. a proposition via text message; received, generally speaking, quite late in the evening. Similar to a textual advance, only far more annoying.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Well, we knew it would happen eventually. The effervescent charm and devilishly handsome good looks radiating from my friendster profile have resulted in complete strangers messaging me to confess their deepest attractions. Compelled to contact me, they type without knowing how to approach someone of my uber-geekboy sex-godliness. Let’s examine, shall we?
Hey sweet thang, how are ya doin? Just saw ur1 profile on friendster and id2 really like to get to know you.. Im3 Julie, 18/F4 just lookin for a cute guy to chat with..5 maybe even more.. ;)6 Got n-e more pictures? I have a bunch of pix on my homepage here at [yaddayaddayadda]7 ... I also left a personal message for you at my homepage8. Lets talk soon... unless my beuty intimidates you9.. HehEh10
1. UR? You saw a profile of the ancient Babylonian city of Ur on Friendster? How did you get my name from it? I’ve never been east of Paris...
2. AAUUGGH!!! I loathe people who don’t use apostrophes!!!!
3. AAAUUUGGGHHH!!! DITTO!!!!!
4. 18 divided by F? Hmmm…obviously some sort of secret code, like that Divinci guy is always talking about. How do I get to the Louvre again…
5. And abuse punctuation, obviously. Quick!, Somebody stop her before she makes another possessive or declarative statement!
6. More than one guy to chat with? I’m confused, do you want to chat more than once?
7. URL removed for everyone’s safety. God knows what sorts of spyware in automatically downloaded when I was…umm..researching for this post. As we speak my PC has probably been jyhacked and is frantically emailing offers for free porn and penis enlargement to everyone in my address book (Hi mom!).
8. Wait, so, this is an “impersonal” message? Didn’t you just solicit me? I feel so used and dirty…
9. Not really, it’s the inability to spell that scared me the most. Where’d you go to high school? In case I ever have kids I want to not send them there.
10. "Heh-Eh"? What is that - a chortle…then mild indifference? Boy you sure run hot and cold…um...security? [taps alarm button under desk frantically] SECURITY!!!
11. What the heck is this? Is it supposed to be boobs? Did I just get flashed? Do I have to give her e-beads? Okay, here you go crazy-woman:
Yay e-beads! Wheeeee!!!! OMG you're sooooooooo drunk!!!It’s things like this that make me appreciate the GF even more. All the bars in Lincoln Park are full of trixies like this. But she’s the perfect storm – smart, funny, and sexy as hell. She’s my rain in the desert, my third encore, my concience-provoker, my biggest fan, my intellectual foil, and my true, true friend. “Julie”, you got no chance.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
So about this doctor in Oregon, the guy’s obviously a freak-o. But my question is why did it take a year for this woman to file the suit? Did her back get better, but only temporarily? Is this new miracle cure being hushed up by the moral majority?
Think of it, if we could prove that sex provides relief from back pain, imagine the changes that would instantly occur in society:
- All the listings in the yellow pages under “Escort Services” would immediately re-list themselves under “Chiropractors”
- The phrase “Honey, I’ve got a backache” would become the hot new pick-up line; alternatively, “Boy, my back is killing me” if you want to be more subtle about it
- All EMT’s would need to be replaced with sexy swimsuit models (both genders, to be fair), so as to provide the best treatment. Calls to 911 would skyrocket so much that they would need to create a new number – 969 – specifically for back pain "emergencies". William Shatner would be tapped to host "Rescue 969" on the Spice Network.
- Hugh Hefner’s unnaturally healthy spine-of-a-25-year-old would finally be explained by medical science
- Lawsuits complaining of pain and suffering due to back injuries would all be thrown out, with the judges telling the plaintiffs “Get out of my courtroom you lucky bastard!”
Awesome! All right everyone, I’m off to go pick up heavy things without bending my knees…
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Obviously, hysterical. But then I noticed that the disasters are listed in alphabetical order! So the timeline for all Shrubbie’s disasters is following a pattern, eh? Hmmm…
But then I noticed that it was missing a disaster for “G”. Perhaps this was the joke later on in the segment, but I started thinking up possible “G” disasters of my own just in case it had been overlooked. Here are my top 5:
5. Gas Shortages
4. George (one of the biggest disasters of his own administration)
3. Garden gnome revolution
2. Giant Mecha-Streisand
1. Gays convert Cheney
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
There was a mention of transubstantiation in this week’s ALP that got me thinking yesterday. Okay, so we know the catholic church teaches that in the eucharist the bread and wine actually transforms into the body and blood of Christ (side note: interesting that Microsoft Word will automatically capitalize “Christ” and “Buddha” but not “allah” or “bill gates”…hmmmmm…). We also know that there are about 1.2 billion members of the catholic church. For the purposes of this thought experiment let’s assume that your average catholic receives one ounce of wine and one ounce of bread with each serving of communion. This translates into about 75 million pounds of Christ and 9.375 million gallons of his blood consumed by the faithful every week. And this has been happening for almost 2000 years. This would imply one of the following is true:
- Jesus is morbidly obese. Not Star Jones obese, not Eric Cartman obese, not “Those Two Fat Guys on the motorcycles from the Guinness Book” obese. We’re talking Jabba the Hut inter-bred with a blue whale and an Ob mouse*. We can assume this because if he wasn’t this big, he would have been entirely consumed by his faithful by this point.
- Alternatively, Jesus has superpowers like Wolverine, which causes his body to quickly regenerate when it is damaged (e.g. when Pope Benedict takes a bite out of his shoulder). This makes him a bigger force for good, and no doubt puts the fear of god into the forces of evil pondering strategies for armageddon. And think, what if Jesus has the retractable claws and adamantium skeleton, too?
- Jesus has secretly been replacing his genuine body and blood with Folgers crystals for the last 1500 years or so. And nobody has noticed!
Frankly, I like the thought of Jesus as the superhero. Of course, "Jesus Christ" would be his secret identity. His superhero name would be something like “Captain Humble” or “The Cheekturner”. Look out infidels, now there’s something “meek-ier”!
*A little biology humor for the scientists out there…you know who you are.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Saturday I went out to dinner with the GF and her parents (who are in town visiting for a few weeks). I suggested a little restaurant that opened in my neighborhood recently that has the greatest desserts ever made by man, beast, deity, or petite-sized Deborah. They don’t take reservations, and we were going to get there relatively early – before the clubbers were out. But upon our arrival I knew instantly that we were in trouble due to a head chef’s worst nightmare: the all-girl birthday party. It was pretty sizeable – nine women all of whom were in their mid to late 20’s, dressed in varying levels of trendiness. From stereotypically trashy to “Clinton and Stacey* would beat you with a corset for wearing that” horrid.
Before I get too much into the details of what happened, let me explain a little about why every girl’s birthday party (as an adult at least) should have at least one guy in attendance. Whenever there is a gathering of more than two women, it becomes a “bonding experience”. They talk to each other for no other reason than to talk, a trait which continues to mystify men to this very day. I mean, if you’re not going to come to a decision, or make a conclusion what’s the point of talking at all? When you get a big group of women together and let them talk-for-no-reason, then each of them feels an obligation to talk with every other woman at the event so that everyon feels equally bonded-with. And they refuse (or - to be fair - forget) to do anything or go anywhere else until that is accomplished.
And that was exactly what happened with the birthday group in question. It was just talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.
For over two hours…While the bar and lounge area filled to bursting with people waiting for tables.
Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk SQUEAL giggle talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.
Ladies, this is why having a guy along helps the world. Because guys are so focused on making progress towards a goal, we don’t stand much for endless chatter. We usually have things to get to after dinner, so we shepherd the group from dinner to cocktails to dancing. If there’s more than one of us it’s easier (plus, it gives us someone to talk logistics with about how we’re going to get 11 people into 2 cabs to make it to the concert before the main act starts). Plus, guys usually will notice when all 30 people standing in the lounge are glaring at us with eyes that say “You’ve had the bill for 45 minutes, pay it and get out or we will gladly pay the valet to slash your tires.” It doesn’t matter if he’s the husband you’ve never met or your gay buddy at work who always compliments your shoes – he’ll notice these things, so bring him along.
But sadly, this group was sitting in the restaurant all night, occupying about 10-15% of all seats in the restaurant. They probably had a great time. But by the time the head chef was coming out to apologize to those of us still waiting in the lounge, I was pretty sure that all their desserts had been horribly violated. Or, at least I enjoyed thinking so to myself.
*From TLC’s version of What not to Wear