I Refuse to Invest My Money

Along with any forward looking financial decision, like cellaring fine wines and beers, or buying property. To do so would be weak! It is to assume that those investments will gain value faster than my own net worth. If it is fails to do so, it will simply be a diminishingly small and eventually worthless footnote to my empire.

And that is lunacy. Lunacy!

No investment shall ever match my earning potential!

On the Fundamental Nature of the Laws of Physics

It is amazing to me that people go about their days so casually confident that the traffic laws will trump the basic physical laws of large body kinematics. The laws of physics are supposed to be the most fundamental there are.

This is one of the few instances where we literally stake our lives on our commitment to scientific theory, or lack thereof, and we are so supremely sure that large objects in motion will cease to be in motion before they get to us (and we do it, like, all the time).

People are stupid, distracted, manic, and unpredictable, inertia is not!

I urge discretion, people, calm and discretion!

How to Steal, Pt. One

So part one of this helpful series focuses on one very specific topic: library books. This is chosen for one reason that has motivated me in two ways: I worked in the bowels of a university library once. My job: putting anti-theft strips in books, which means two things: 1:) I know how the security barrier works, 2.) I hated my job, and thus libraries. So, there are two general strategies to this.

1.) Avoid the detectors. You know, those metal gates they have like in stores. So the first strategy is to avoid these altogether. The best way to do this is through the window: Take the book you want, and throw it (as hard as you can) right through any window in the place. Remember, the harder you throw the book, the more momentum it has itself, so the more likely it is to shatter the glass without the book being destroyed itself. Trust me, I was a physicist once. Also, remember to throw it as nonchalantly as you can, in case anyone is looking. If done right, it should look like you were doing calisthenics, for to focus your chi for studying, and you focused it so intensely that the window in front of you shattered. And then you ran away.

Remember, once the book is retrieved on the outside, run to a neutral site. If anyone is following you, you don't want to lead them to your home. Run to a random place and hide out there (perhaps hiding behind a bush) for 36-48 hours before returning home. With academic books running between $15 and $65 It is well worth it!

Another related option is to take the book under your arm and simply charge, face first, through the window. But really, lets face it, if you are reading this blog, you are not that badass. So forget about it. Seriously, even if you succeeded, the medical bills would far outweigh the cost of the book. Let that dream die already!

2.) Remove the sensor in the book. The whole reason that the system works it that they plant these little magnetic metal strips in the books. Now, remember that there are arbitrarily many strips in any single book: hidden, if possible, in the most unreachable of places, such as the spine of the book. The important thing here is to remember that the strip is metal and the rest of the book is some kind of paper or paper derivative (and glue). So there are a couple of options here. The important thing is that you get the book on on normal terms, but then return it without the security strips so you can steal it later:

Take the book out. then when you get home: burn the paper part off, and whatever metal is left, leave it behind. This should be easy enough with some lighter fluid and a match. (please, be careful with fire, children)Once the book is done burning, scrape up all remains and sift out the metal, and then return it. Once it is back in the stacks, pick it up and saunter smoothly and knowingly through the security gates.

Another option is on I what call the "wholesale carnage" method. This one demands ripping the book apart piece by piece, until the offending strips are identified. For inspiration, picture that one ape in "2001: A Space Odyssey" who learned how to smash things with a bone. Like that. Such an unrelenting pulverization is sure to separate the paper from the metal parts. After all, the malleability of metal means that it will stay together while the paper is beaten to a . . . (dare I say?) . . . pulp. Once this is achieved, return the book and retrieve as before.

I hope this has been enlightening. and let us remember, so long as we are committing crimes undetected, we are lowering the reported crime rate in our area! Hooray!

Next up on jobs I have had and hated: my time in the kitchen of a restaurant-pirate bar-internet cafe. But then, I don't need to tell you about that! We've all been there. Hoooooeeeey!

Here, Let Me Pour Bleach All Over That for You: An editorial by the food industry.

Hey, you gonna eat that? You sure you don't want me to bleach it first?

What? you want the vitamins and stuff? OK, well that's cool, I guess. We can just bleach it then add them back in.

Really, it's no problem. In fact I'll even make it cheaper than the stuff we haven't bleached and reconstituted yet.

So you just don't want the bleach then huh. Well that is what you are going to get. I spent a lot of money on bleach and bleaching equipment, mister, and you are just going to have to deal with it!

Statistics Says; You Are Probably Mediocre

I don't know who you are, and don't really care. I can get by just fine by assuming that you are utterly average in every way (looks, intelligence, fighting ability, skill in construction of shrubberies, knowledge of the phylum 'Mollusca'). Sure you might not be mediocre in all these ways, but it is still expedient for me to expect that you are, and treat you as if you are, thoroughly average.

After all, it all averages out in the end.

Little Did She Know:

The cashier put a smiley face sticker on my 12 pack of PBR. I think it was supposed to be a 'paid for' sticker.

But I took it as a deep psychiatric analysis of me as a person. Very astute on her part.

It Took Me Until the Age of 22 to Realize that the Delete Button Deletes the Letter in Front of the Cursor.

I was in college and had no idea until I saw my physics professor use it. It is that kind of subtle observational skills that make me so good at what I do.

I just thought it was one of those useless keys on the keyboard. But now, I can delete in any direction I want! Bwahahaha!

I am so smart.

Everyone Bitches About Advertisements

But do they consider that the alternative is paying for this shit? What is more depressing, watching shitty tv with about 35% of the time taken up by commercials, or paying (more) to watch shitty tv. I say the latter. Hell, if you are something less than an idiot, it shouldn't cause you to spend any more money. And if you were paying then you would be spending the time anyway, it would just be at your shitty job that you hate.

Sucks for you. I got around the whole thing by using the internet. And not having a real job.

Life is sweet.

Alcohol Thins the Blood, You Know:

Not an appropriate way to handle open wounds, contrary to the usually competent guidance of Hollywood. And Reality Grip.

Energy Is a Well Defined, Concrete, Measurable Scientific Quantity

It is not a vague pliable concept that can be applied to whatever end you want.

Specifically, applying a vague notion of energy has been used to provide some sort of specious pseudo-scientific support to many bullshit ideas, including the following: ghosts (left-over energy), auras (psychic energy - or worse: electromagnetic field energy), raw food diets (food loses energy cooking - or similarly the "grass-has-more-energy-than-the-cow-eating-it" line of argument for vegitarianism), powers attributed to crystals, geometric shapes (pyramids) and such, astrology.

The point is this: by appealing to 'energy' in any similarly fallacious claim, you are not supporting it. In fact, you are not saying anything at all, as your notion of energy is underspecified to the point of meaninglessness. Appealing to the 'energy' of a crystal is really just restating that it has whatever other powers you were trying to attribute to it in the first place. It is reduced to a tautology. You might as well just say it has magic powers.

Energy is not mysterious; it cannot be made to do whatever you want. Please stop doing such violence to a concept that science has worked extremely hard to solidify and quantify over millennia.

I Wish I Were Stupid Enough for Placebos to Work

Not that I am above the concept generally; I am talking about the useless 'cures' that are hawked on late night TV. Or the classic snake oil medicine. Things like that.

I wish I could really get better rest because of diapers taped to the bottom of my feet, or have more energy all day because of a $5 12-oz smoothie. Sure, one might say that those who go for these things are being ripped off, but if the placebo works, it is just as real. I say they are getting their money's worth and more!

Now, if only someone could combine a convincing health tonic placebo with beer.

Forunately, I Didn't Want a Job in the First Place

With the economy the way it is, things are really looking up in the unemployment sector. Fortunately, I got in on the ground floor: I jumped straight into unemployment right out of college without hesitation.

I should be reaping the benefits soon.

A Open Letter In Response, To Penis, From The Internet RE: Your E-mail

Dear Penis,

enjoy.

--the internet

p.s. you are being monitored.

An Open Letter From My Penis To The Internet

Dear The Internet a.k.a. tehtoobs a.k.a. oh ye who delivers a shocking amount of pornography into my bedroom a.k.a. maurice,

Let me introduce myself. I am your biggest fan. You bring such volumes of information into my life, and I am truly appreciative. For instance, through you I purchase movie tickets, order food that arrives nearly half of the time, commit wire fraud, perjury, and violate a litany of obscenity laws. Indeed, if it weren't for you, maurty, this very blog would be no more than the insane scramblings of two -- usually inebriated -- lunatics. In fact, it may not be any more than that. But at least you are a more efficient method of dissemination than anything involving ink, money or an attention span lasting more than mere seconds. For, verily, I tire now of writing already.

In any event, I just wanted to say, keep up the good work. Keep showing me comics and boobs and I will use you to try and steal as many free and illegal services as possible while contributing next to nothing in return. If only all relationships were this easy.

Oh, one thing though. Turn fucking cnn.com off, will you? That shit is just goddamned awful.

Respects,
Penis

Hellfire and Brimstone

So, you know brimstone, that flaming mineral that was supposed, by medieval thinkers and writers, to quite literally comprise the smell of the fires of Hell?

Well, it turns out that it is just sulfur. You smell it burning every time you light a match.

I guess it is not surprising that we smell Hell on a daily basis in the modern world, but this is a little too literal, even for my tastes.

Dissolving the Paradox

Some seem to think that one of the major goals of philosophy is to dissolve dilemmas. That is, to reform terms and questions such that whatever problem is at hand no longer seems intelligible (or at least relevant/urgent). I, however, take a different tack. I prefer to fabricate problems and opponents that I may rant endlessly on them, eventually building up my supposed enemies such that I may tear them down, spit on the rubble and crown myself the victor.

It's kind of like talk radio. Or politics.

With that in mind, I would like to enter into a discussion upon the very idea of 'phallic imagery.' This notion has entered the public consciousness to such an extent that it is commonly used to demean those who own fast cars or build tall buildings by those who are envious of people who build tall buildings or own fast cars. "They are just compensating for their small penises," the doubters say, ignoring the fast that they themselves are probably among that class.

As a matter of fact, there are very simple, practical reasons why people engage in the cannonical examples of 'phallic enhancement.'

1.) Sports cars: Face it, fast cars are just downright cool. They are really fast and that is fun as hell. I have only ridden in a couple of legit fast cars, and the experience is exhilarating in ways that have nothing to do with the penis, or even really the libido.

Furthermore, it has always been the opinion of this commentator that the most attractive sports cars tend to have curves more closely resembling those of a woman than anything masculine.

2.) Tall buildings: Tall buildings, quite simply, offer lots of floorspace while taking up relatively small amounts of land. This is why they are found in cities, where floorspace and land are both at a premium. Consider: if skyscrapers were really about extending one's penis in some metaphorical sense, then they would be built in suburban and rural areas, where the lack of competition would make their size that much more impressive.

It should not be forgotten that a tall and famous buildings provide an instantly recognizable symbol, and thus free advertsing, for your brand/corporation/company . . . whatever.

3.) Bombes/missiles ect: This one, I cannot touch. For to argue otherwise would be to contradict George Carlin. Gerorge Carlin is a saint and untouchable. It's not that I think I am a competing comedian, its just that much of what i write is probably perceived as being so stupid and/or inane that I must see myself as such. But that is your problem.

That's basically it. I am going to have some bourbon.

How Unfortunate Would it be to be in Politics with a Name Like 'Nixon'

I saw a bumper sticker today supporting 'Jay Nixon for governor 2008!'

I don't know what party this man belongs to, or what his politics are: the poor guy faces an uphill battle.

Why Can No One Make Me a Boilermaker?

If one desires that distinguished drink, the Boilermaker, one can never order it on its own at a bar. Should this be attempted, there are two plausible outcomes: 1.) the patron must then explain the drink, and eventually just ask for a shot of (cheap) bourbon and a (cheap) beer, or 2.) the bartender simply serves, and charges, as if the later order had been made in the first place.

But the boilermaker is one drink, not two, and should be billed as such. Paying for a shot of whiskey (no matter how cheap) and a beer (no matter how cheap) is at least $3 more than one should be paying. In some bars more like $5.

Why must they so egregiously discriminate against those who enjoy a mixed drink based in beer!?

Euphemisms for Sex

the horrifying snake game
piloting with your yardstick
poledancing with ricky
disobeying the bible
worshipping at the altar of depravity
administer internally and don't call in the morning
initiating regret
laying grounds for divorce
stress testing the furniture
stress testing the kitchen counter
the euphemistic samba
having a grunt competition
sideways jogging
challenging societies' morals
experimenting with new ways to fuck up our relationship
further alienating myself from my estranged wife / family / etc.
playing the ape to her jane goodall
bestiality, only with a woman
engaging in frivolous and unnecessary behavior
failing at yoga
praying the vasectomy took
the nasty 90 seconds
the three point five inch fire punch
assisting in the task of unraveling the firehose
laughing in pity
politely dancing around the word 'inadequate'
questioning how, once again, i wound up in that circumstance
fearing that her father is armed, drunk, and anti-semitic
sandhogging


more to come later.

Coversations from Our Lives

RG: i wonder what it'll be like when i hook up with her roommate.

PE: who is her roommate?

RG: XXXXXX

PE: i thought she was dating that kid XXXX

RG: nope
RG: i'm not actually like, really interested?
RG: but like, its like everest.
RG: fuckin, it's there, man.

PE: but if you've got supplies and a sherpa is it worth it
PE: and you don't like cold places lacking booze

PE: it's a metaphor

RG: you are absolutely right.

RG's Hangover Cures, Sundry, Various, and Assorted

Theo recently wrote a very adept treatise on curing hangovers, featured infra. I contest no part of his writings, and would like to applaud Theo for his accurate, insightful and useful advice. However, I would also like to supply a list of my own hangover remedies.

Remedies for the Physical
1. Vitamin waters, lots of it.
2. Small amounts of food that are high in grease and fat; a small amount of carbohydrates.
3. Staying away from any and all dairy products. (NB: You may disagree with me on this one, as milk is a good source of hydration, fat, and lots of nutrients, however, in recognition of the constant danger of next day re-boot, keep in mind that expelling partially digested milk through the mouth is desperately unpleasant.)
4. Avoiding bright, direct sunlight.
5. Large amounts of water.
6. Excretion, as mentioned infra
7. Other intoxicants. Via judicious ingestion of small amounts of alcohol throughout the day, a whopping hangover that would normally last an afternoon can safely be tolled over a two day period, resulting in a much less overbearing sense of misery over a longer period of time, instead of wishing you were dead for about 8 hours. I call this "Sunday."

Remedies for the Spirit
1. Vegetative activities. Such as watching movies (funny and/or action), playing video games (Id.), watching T.V., reading a pleasurable book.
2. Avoiding work.
3. Seeking the company of others in the same situation.
4. Remembering the fun parts of the previous night.
5. Ignoring the bad parts of the previous night.
6. Planning your next fiasco.

Prophylactic Measures
1. To prevent some of the worse spiritual impacts of a hangover, before it gets too late, and you get too drunk, turn off your phone. You will be unable to use it in idiotic ways, and this may save your ass.
2. Drink as much water before bed as possible. When you wake during the night to pee, have another glass. This can turn going to bed at four in the morning stupefyingly drunk into a situation where you can not only tolerate a day at the office on the morrow, but be reasonably productive.
3. Eat something before getting blotto.
4. Know where you are going to sleep before getting blotto.
5. Accept that, when you wake up, there is a distinct possibility you will not be in aforementioned site of repose, and may not be alone, and s/he may be brutally attractive or you may experience the "I need to have left exactly 90 seconds ago" blues.
6. Know that, despite the horrible chemical induced guilt, you are a good person, and your family, friends and coworkers enjoy your company and delightful antics. Unless you are a bastard, in which case, go fuck yourself.

*Cheers*

Molehills; Mountains; Making Of; Puking on Them

We are all familiar with the expression "Making mountains out of molehills." It is appropriately used in situations wherein one has, in an attempt to rid one's backyard of common pests, accidentally overestimated the amount of tunnel filling material necessary to complete the job and, as a result, accidentally dropped roughly 10^17 tons of granite on top of your house.

However, I want to introduce a new expression, "Puking on an anthill." In the excellent comedic motion picture, Tommy Boy, at one point, David Spade's character pukes on an anthill. "Cool," he explains, "I think they're pissed off." You don't say, Mr. Spade, you don't say.

In essence, as a matter of unintentional bodily function, Mr. Spade's character unintentionally destroyed an entire civilization in a gruesome, horrific fashion, more than likely killing tens of thousands in a single plop. I find this situation analogous to when the Earth lets off a little steam, or has a tummy-ache, and then an entire city is subsumed by a maelstrom of weather induced chaos. I think the earth cares about as much as Mr. Spade cared about that anthill. "Whoa... neat... they are totally pissed off." Thanks, Earth. At least you find it amusing.*

Therefore, the phrase be coined thusly, to "Puke on an anthill" is to unintentionally and completely destroy something of no actual personal value to your self, tremendous importance to someone/thing you could not care less about, and mild amusement at the reaction.

"Dude, last night Jack totally puked on the anthill. He fucking burned down that asshole Tom's dad's house when he was doing flaming shots while performing a handstand on the dining room table."

"Sweet."

* The flipside of this would be equally funny, that is, if the earth existed in constant sorrowful frustration at the fact its bodily functions routinely killed millions. Imagine if every time you hiccuped there was a holocaust. A similar story is that of a math teach of mine, who's college roommate -- at our old alma matter, in fact -- freshmen year found a litter of kittens which he adopted and lived in his dorm room. He loved those kittens and, systematically, by accident, over the course of the year, killed them all, one by one. Doing things like slamming his sock drawer shut. Or watching helplessly as they leapt off the balcony while chasing a bird. Schadenfreude.

Theo Von's Hangover Cure

OK, so it is Saturday morning, or Sunday, or Friday, or. Well, it is the morning, so you are hungover. Many things you could have done last night to make it better, and hell maybe you did, but it is too late for that now. There is no looking back: we must look forward. We must solve this problem.

Unfortunately there is no magical potion for a hangover cure. We cannot solve this problem with finesse, and when finesse can not help, what do we use? That's right, good old brute force. This is the basis for my own personal hangover remedy.

The idea is that you have flooded your body with toxic chemicals. Some you drank, others are metabolic products of other things you drank. With that in mind, all you need to do is push that shit out and replace it with something more benign. To do so I have a basic three point plan:

1.) Eat and drink. Flood your body with new materials to fill the bloodstream and metabolize (note: drink a lot).

2.) Metabolize. Chances are, you don't feel like any real exercise, so go for a walk, or masturbate repeatedly. The point is, do something to keep your body's engine running.

3.) Excrete. Either by sweat or by urine. You have probably been doing one or both all night anyway, and hopefully these will follow from steps 1.) and 2.), but it is still an important step in the plan, as this is how you finally get rid of those alcohol metabolites that are making you feel like hell. (note: other forms of excretion, such as farting and defecating, will feel nice and as such are encouraged, but they are not a specific part of the plan. Excess nasal and sinus mucus should also be expelled.)

You may, after following the intense regimen above, want to take a nap. This is also encouraged, but it is optional.

If you follow my plan, I can personally guarantee that you will feel better by 6:00 pm!

On Energy Flow in the Human Body

Many of the eastern and/or new age approaches to health and well being are predicated on the notions of energy flow. Acupuncture, feng shui, yoga, many forms of meditation, chakra, auras, ghosts, those detox foot pads they advertize on TV, and many other forms of, well, bullshit spend most of their time discussing the flows and concentrations of various kinds of life force energy, such as chi, yin or yang. Many people buy into this kind of thing because, to them, life energy is a mysterious and strange thing. So you can say just about anything you want about it as long as you keep up the act *most* of the time.

Really, though, the patterns of energy flow in the body are very well known, and not at all mysterious. A breif synopsis for those unfamiliar with the biology:

1.) Energy enters the mouth in chemical bonds clumped together in large chunks.
2.) In the stomach, energy is broken into smaller chunks.
3.) Energy passes into the intestines where it passes into the blood stream.
4.) The cirulatory system carries energy to individual cells all over the body.
5.) In each individual cell, the energy is processed in one of a few ways:
5.a.) The energy is burn bu either aerobic resperation or anaerobic processes such as fermentation to fuel cellular growth or other such processes. (this process is complex but well understood. I will not go into it)
5.a.1.) energy can be converted to different kinds of chmeical enegry or into mechanical energy, such as in muscle cells.
5.b.) Unused energy can be converted and stored in the body for later use.
5.c) Some energy is unusable, and is simply passed from the body.
6.) Leftover scraps and byproducts are returned to the blood stream and dispelled from the body in the urine.

The basic pattern is nicely summed up in this (unmodified) illustration by the great Vesalius:


See? It is simple. No need for energy centers or balancing of opposing forces. No appeal to the energy flow of a tree. No ghosts.

Just food, blood and pee.

Formulas for Inexplicable Situations

Quite often when flipping through the channels, and I'm sure I'm not the only one to have experienced this sensation, I come across a show where there is something happening on screen that cannot be described adequately by any configuration of events leading up to it. Here are some objects and situations that, in combination, are very difficult to explain. See if you can come up with the reasoning yourself.

The Horrified Santa
Three Santa Hats
Four Gallons of Yogurt
One Rabbit, Alive
One Rabbit, Dead & Partially Skinned
Four Copies of "Guns and Ammo"
Two Used Depilatories
Setting: Floor of Grand Central Station, 3 A.M., Midsummer

Mugshot Madness
One camcorder
Three footballs
Two Jars of Vaseline
One Turducken
Half of a Ferrari
An assortment and array of zuccinis, organized alphabetically or by size
A nonfunctioning polaroid camera
Setting: Prison

The Unholy Salad Bar
Three pairs of clear plastic serving tongs
One pair of stainless steel serving tongs
Several Pounds of Lettuce
Three gallons of thousand island dressing, measured out evenly into 24 soiled batman themed tupperware containers
A tape of George W. Bush's first State of the Union Address, playing, on loop
An 'unfortunate' number of hot pants (there is room for interpretation for this one)
Setting: 3/4 of A Denny's, the remaining 1/4 having been recently removed by an impact with a tractor trailer

The Amazing Man Without Shame

If I were a superhero / circus oddity, I would be the Amazing Man Without Shame.

Victim: "Oh no, our house is being robbed, whatever shall we do!"
Robber: Ya' ain't gonna do nothin'! Yer gettin' robbed and you are going to like it!

*Door bursts Open*

*Our hero enters, wearing a tattered pinstripe suit, broken sunglasses, and limply clutching a half empty plastic bottle with the label partially torn off*

Victim: Thank god! It's the amazing man without shame!

*TAMWS Stumbled in*

TAMWS: Hold on. *He immediately keels forward and vomits on the floor*

TAMWS: What the fuck is going on here? *He immediately drops his trousers and begins to pee on the living room floor while gargling vodka*

Robber: Jesus christ what the fuck are you doing?

*TAMWS hits robber in the face with vodka bottle, begins humping his leg vigorously*

I'm Not the First to Say It

And surely won't be the last:

The new google favicon sucks.

Bring back the G.

That Certainly Was An Experience That Resembled Seeing A Movie

Caption: "For emphasis, I am pointing with my fist. We must go in that direction immediately, tovarishch."

Mind numbing. God awful crap. It boggled the mind. I have a bruise on my forehead from slapping it so much. There was a fourteen minute running sword fight were shia lebouf (i refuse to spell it correctly) is straddling a pair of acquatic jeeps going 90 miles an hour through the peruvian forest fencing with cate blanchett with a pair of rapiers that for some reason, are conveniently on hand, while his mother corrects his footwork. Jaw dropping.

Also, magnetic things do not stop being magnetic because you put a blanket over them. Just, no.

*Sets down bottle, wipes tears from eyes*

In one scene, in order to avoid a nuclear explosion Indiana climbs into a fucking refridgerator that is catapulted bodily for a distance of several hundred yards, and when the door opens up, instead of it being full of a chunky red goo that was formerly indiana jones, we are treated to a sputtering harrison ford only to have the joy of then watching a man in a radiation suit scrub his penis.

That was not a movie. It was a made in hong kong, microwavable, styrofoam packaged marketing device. The plot was plucked out of some strange scientologist handbook. It was one part apacalypto, three parts pirates of the carribean, two parts old indiana jones movies, and the remainder being a heap of recycled scraps left over from other deep concept movies like M. Night Shyamalan's The Village.

Oh, and I am going to go ahead and spoil The Happening for you, because you are not seeing it, and, even if you do, you are obviously stupid enough that me telling you the 'spoiler' will not affect your movie going experience at all, you mindless drone: it's the plants. The plants, here on Earth, are pissed off about humans treating them badly, so they secrete a neurotoxin that makes you want to kill other people, and, failing that, kill yourself. Are they waterboarding the people that come up with these plots? I simply do not understand.

Oh, additionally, four wild horses could not drag me to the Sex and the City movie. Actually, if you bought me the ticket, dinner, and gave me a steady supply of snacks and booze for the duration of the film, I would watch it, but I cannot promise I would not complain bitterly the entire time.

Suggestions for Band Names

Here is a list of good potential band names. I reserve all rights. For best impact, imagine a group of four guys getting up on stage, and saying "Hi, we're ______, and watchout, because your face is about to get its ass kicked." (Credit to seanbaby.)

The Felons
Unadulterated Crap
Wanted in the Lower 48
Self Involved Hipsters
The Arsonists
The Flaming Pants
We Are Here For Your Daughters
Belligerently Intoxicated
The Rapists
The Connie Chung Rapstravaganza
Dangerous Objects
Semi-Nude
The Nudists
Visually Offensive
Morally Offensive
Highly Odorous
Nauseous
From New Jewsey
Geographically Undesirable
Spoiled Rich Kids
Talentless Pricks
The Flaccid Hambones
In No Way Prepared

This Guy

Is awesome.

My Body and I Have Reached an Impasse Over Negotiations Pertaining What to Do With My Stomach Contents

I carefully selected, masticated and swallowed that philly cheesesteak, stomach, and I do not appreciate the maneuvers you are currently trying to pull. I am interested in ingesting that food for its nutritional value, and if you continue your plans as stated, the entire act of eating said sandwich will be reduced to nothing more than elaborate mimery, or, perhaps, some sort of kabuki-style theater.

Fine. If you insist.

If you will excuse me, apparently, I need to return some partially digested food.

A Total Waste of Paper

Last week, while somewhat inebriated at the local pizza joint/bar/night club, I noticed a pamphlet for some sort of local business. I flipped through it, and without even really reading it (I am not sure if I was really capable of reading it at the time) I ascertained that this pamphlet lacked the most important information it could have.

Entitled "Combination Treatments," the folded printout (apparently produced with the quality of a late 80's gift card program - the kind we used to use in 5th grade computer class) announced: "Enhance your health and well being. Choose one of our many combination treatments." It goes on to detail several massage, acupuncture, acupressure type treatments with descriptions, lengths and prices. However, nowhere on this pamphlet is a business name, address, or phone number. There is no way of knowing who produced it or where these treatments might be acquired. Or even, for that matter, any leads as to where this information might be found.

Having noticed this, I promptly pocketed the useless paper and bandied it about for the rest of the night, showing of my find of futility and failed business practice. Not even the owner of the establishment could tell me where it came from. It is truly a lost effort on the part of this -apparent- massage parlor.

It is quite sad, really, that even in my drunken state I was immediately able to discover the complete uselessness of this pamphlet. I was just idly looking at the paper, as I didn't care about the treatments themselves, and I found a fatal flaw in this attempt at a business strategy.

An Open Letter to the Elaborate Penis Delivery System I, Penis, Am Attached to

Delivery System,

Your input and control, now, as it has always been, is unnecessary for your proper function as my host. Control of your life has just been retaken from your brain, and this is notice thereof.

Regards,
The Boss

An Open Letter to My Penis

Dear My Penis, a.k.a. Staff Sgt. Max Fightmaster, a.k.a. the Master That Knows No Mercy, a.k.a. the Ender of Things, a.k.a. the Flaming Chinchilla,

We've had a good long run. Wound up in some interesting places because of you. Wound up in some unfortunate places because of you. Was embarrassed at the podium in 7th grade because of you. And again in 9th grade. For exact same reasons, was made quite proud because of you in 11th grade.

But, it is official. You are a sandbagging son of a bitch, and I just don't have to take this any more, constantly overextending us into positions that are thoroughly untenable. You have finally crossed the line. Her dad is in the Queen's Household Guard. He threatened to gut us with the regimental sabre. You saw it. You were there.

I will tolerate no more of this. As a result, I am officially, and for the first time, transferring governance of my body, life, and personal effects, away from you, and to my brain.

Best Regards,
You

The Penis Chronicles, Vol. III

It should be disclaimed, dear reader, that not every store I write on this blog is, in fact, my own, or entirely true. Comedy requires creativity, and, often, straight up theivery. That in mind, enjoy this latest installment.

We were 17. Some very attractive female friends were throwing a birthday party, and the girl's family would be gone for the weekend. For the entertainment, John, a very goodlooking and very crazy man, was asked to do a striptease.

Naturally, he was thrilled.

Not in any small part because he knew Stephanie would be there, and par example the logic that gets John into these exact sorts of situations, he opined, "Clearly, the best way to get this girl in bed is to show her my junk."

So, we show up on the night in question. Though goodlooking, aware of how goodlooking he is, and largely shameless, John was hitting the liquid courage pretty hard. He is chatting it up with Steph, and things are going great. So they go to an upstairs bedroom.

They continue to talk, and John realizes that he may have phrase his answer in the form of a 'chowder.' So, he asks Steph to wait for a moment, and goes into the bathroom.

It turns out his worship at the porcelain altar took longer than planned, so Steph knocked, and entered, and with concern that was not entirely unsexful, helped him clean up a bit.

John, of course, not only thought, but knew, he still had a chance. She tells John to sit tight, she will be back with some water in just a minute. In the meantime, here, go lay in the bathtub.

This is when things take a turn for the worse.

John grows impatient in the bathtub. He realizes he may need to have another technicolor yawn, and rather than muss his fine, fine threads, and since he is stripping anyway, well, what the hell.

A few more moments pass. John may or may not returned his cookies all over himself (read: may), and was now lying, naked, freezing, in the bathtub, in the evidence of his own sick. Shrinkage, of course, ensued. Now, according to John logic, considering he still wanted to get with this girl, and his plan was largely predicated on her examination and approval of his goods, this simply would not do.

So, what could have been an incredible night, ended up with Steph walking in to the bathroom to find a naked, vomit covered John lying in the bathtub, masturbating.

Take a bow, John. Take a bow.

An Experience We Have All Shared

One night, many moons ago, as I lay in bed, with a rather imperative case of the spins, I realized there was something very important I needed to do.

"There is something very important I need to do," I said to the girl I was dating at the time, who I was in bed with. I couldn't really articulate it, but she didn't really press me with questions, more simply sighed in agreement and nodded. I didn't even really recall what it was I needed to do, but I knew it was important. Perhaps a small fire I had started, and wanted to check on. Did I need to drink a half gallon of vitamin water? Did I need to vomit? Did I have a deep and abiding suspicion (or knowledge, that simply was clouded in party haze) that something valuable had been stolen or lost, and I needed to confirm this? These were all distinct possibilities.

Instead, however, I got up, and the complete failure of my cerebellum propelled me across the room with enough force that I destroyed a piece of furniture. In the attempt to get up, I pulled the same trick, several times in a row. I then thought to myself, "perhaps it is, indeed, time for bed."

I crawled back in bed, and my then girlfriend asked of me, somewhat perturbed, "what the hell was it you needed to do?"

To which I could only reply honestly, "apparently, I needed to destroy your room."

A Strange Inversion

Usually, when one is experiencing brain failure, due to either ingestion of intoxicants, exhaustion, poisons, etc., failure occurs in the primate brain first (slurring of words, impairing of judgment), then by failure of the mammalian brain (loss of equilibrium, loss of pants), then by failure of the reptilian brain (death).

However, over the last 48 hours, I have ingested no less than three redbulls, 4-5 diet cokes, and an equal number of upper-oriented / recuperative vitamin waters. In the past two hours, in contrast, I have had two fine tallboys of imported czech beer, and a bit of whiskey.

So a strange phenomenon has occured. I am certain my reptilian brain is still working, as I still draw breath with regularity, and my heart has not stopped. Additionally, I still possess most higher faculties, though I wouldn't say my judgment is great, nor would I say that I could really follow or make a persuasive argument without being reduced to tears.

However, my equilibrium, ability to gauge distances, touch my fingers point to point, or avoid stationary, pointy objects have all been seriously uhhh... what's the word. You know. The one about 'getting worse.' How about "negatively impacted"? Sure. Why not. That works.

I have only one theory to explain this previously unobserved situation. The caffeine etc. is currently at war for my primate brain with the relatively moderate amount of alcohol I have ingested, and the caffeine is winning soundly. However, the mammalian brain, being less susceptible to caffeine, is shit out of luck, and god help me on the trip from this chair to my bed, because I can promise no one I won't destroy half my bedroom in the journey.

In any event, that was the end of a hellish crucible, and thank god for that.

Now, if you will excuse me, there are several pieces of furniture that, apparently, I need to destroy.

Sometimes Nature Does Send You Signs

When the Sun rises, it means you should stop drinking whiskey.


(for the night)

Incredible! A Rating System!

I can now give myself ratings!

This, ladies and gentleman, has been a five star post.

I Exist In A Perpetual State of Low-Grade Unhealth

I suspect it has something to do with my lifestyle. I rarely sleep, and, when I do, I usually manage to inflict, to varying degrees of seriousness, various injuries on myself. Recently, this has included a pulled neck muscle, pinched nerve in my C-5 disk, and a stab wound uncomfortably close to my aorta.

At any given time I have a mild cold, mild flu, mild anemia, mild arrhythmia, conjunctivitis, gastro-intestinal infection, or, on bad days, motaba. This could be partially due to the constant saturation of my immune system with all manner of invidious chemicals.

However, I take it as a sign of strength. Clearly, the immune system of any lesser man would have given out quite some time ago, and I manage to persist in a state of relative health and extreme good-lookingness despite the heavy toll I (many times) daily lay on my system. Take that, cirrhosis.

Inappropriate Commercial Jingles Addendum III

There is a visa-checking card commercial that uses the themesong from Brazil. Some quotes from the wiki article:

Brazil recounts the story of Sam Lowry, a low-level government employee who is conflicted about his role in an overreaching bureaucracy. We learn that he is initially happy with his "dead end job" and simple life, and that he habitually escapes into a fantasy world of romantic struggles. His contented but lonely life becomes complicated by his mother's attempts to secure him a promotion, the intrusion of a renegade heating engineer, and the real-life appearance of the woman of his dreams.
Throughout the story Sam becomes involved in complicated and life-threatening attempts to secure himself happiness, while also developing a strong hatred for the system of which he is a part. Ultimately, his efforts culminate into a violent and tragic climax, the outcome of which depends entirely on his friends' loyalty to Sam over their loyalty to the system that controls them.

Oh, and, one person is literally eaten alive by paperwork.

Good choice, Visa Checking.

Will & Testament, Vol. III:

I accept the suggestion to be wearing a suit. However, I want the suit to be made of various world currencies, preferably in high denomination. Also, I want all my blood to be replaced with gold. This has the benefit of not only being awesome, but giving me a tremendous ∆P, which will come in handy when I smash at Mach 14 into a communications satellite.

In fact, if it turns out that extra-solar trajectory is too cost prohibitive, just shoot me directly at the nearest communications satellite.

An Open Letter to My Roommate

I sent this to a roommate recently. I thought it deserved to be shared.

Dearest Roommate (The Teadrop that Hangs Inside My Heart Forever),

Thank you again for your gift of creamy, buttery, constitutional law goodness. You have stolen my heart.

I dream about you, at night, sometimes, and, other times, during the day, my thoughts stolen by visions of the sweet velvety skin on the back of your neck, and your habit of clawing at your own nose with such veracity even the least perspicacious of observers can note that, one day, in a comet of Oedipal ichor, your nose will fly bodily off your face, in what will be a hilarious and horrible conundrum.

But I will be there to pick up the pieces. And lovingly sew them back onto your stunning visage, dear roommate. Your eyeglasses will once again be able to rest fitfully on the herculean curve of your nose, set so carefully by god on the center of your dear, sweet, red head.

Always and Forever,
--Jemini, your lover.

P.S. I drank your gin.

(Partial) Last Will and Testament 2; a Rebuttal and Market Proposal

See, I think orbit could also be fun. I would like to be frozen in flying kick position and set into orbit ready to kick anyone in my way. That way, my badassicity would be viewable for generations to come.

Really, I think this could evolve into a specialty market: A buddhist could be frozen in a meditation position, Chuck Norris could be set into a spin and perpetually roundhouse kick for the rest of time. One could wear a giant mirror and actually become a star. Sure, Hercules got a whole constellation, but a star at least gets you into the conversation.

The possibilities are endless.

And the downside is pretty low too. Even if the orbit is imperfect, or if it is effected by some meteoroid passing by, the result is still pretty badass. Either the deceased will be sent back to earth with a fiery reentry (think about it, you could be a shooting star), or would escape orbit and fly off into deep space as RG described.

I am now taking up collection of the startup capitol to get this business off the ground (so to speak).



Also, I think that RG's Superman pose would be funnier if he were dressed in a suit than in a Superman outfit. An appropriately stern and businesslike facial expression would also be necessary.

(Partial) Last Will & Testament

Note: This should not be considered a final will and testament, as, obviously, it mentions none of my assets, which will be dealt with in other instruments. However, what follows is, in fact, a true statement of final wishes.

Since I am in finals, I am obviously also deep into my preparations for harikiri. So, hopefully, that won't have to happen. However, even if it doesn't, upon my death, the following should be performed.

1. Flash freeze my body.

2. Perhaps this step should be performed before 1, but I don't know how these things work. I want to be put in a Superman outfit. Accordingly, my body should be frozen in this position:



3. Launch me into space. And none of this geosynchronous orbit crap. I want to be on an extra-solar trajectory. Why? Because maybe, in a few billion years, aliens will find me. And you know what? Fuck them.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

Good News!

A friend of mine used to live in my apartment. Last year. He currently lives with a different friend of mine. Let that sink in.

So, let's call this friend MDK. Why? Because it sorta sounds like what we call him anyway (which is Pen15).

I receive mail for this gentleman from time to time. Usually, it is advertisements for various credit instruments, or, sometimes, bills. Those are always fun to deliver.

However, about two weeks ago, I received an envelope, addressed to him, written in fine women's handwriting. Sunday's best handwriting, actually. So, of course, I assumed it was a personal letter and I shouldn't F with it.

Time passes. Finals cause abeyances of all sorts. We play phone tag. Email tag. All the types of tag that are not fun and none of them involve that one pole being 'base' and there was no electricity.

So, yesterday, we cut to the chase. We are on the phone, and he tells me, nearly verbatim, "Okay, open the thing up. If it is horribly personal, you are going to pretend to ignore it." I would have answered, except my mouth was too stuffed full of laughter to form any words.

For, you see, he got news. Good news. Actually, (depending on your perspective) Great News! Well, actually, it was Good News! The news being, of course, that Jesus Loves You Too!.

To make the long short of it, Jehova's Witnesses thought my friend needed to know about Jesus.* Silly goyim. So, in essence, I was keeping this bloody thing in my room thinking it was some sort of sacred covenant written by a beautiful woman, to my friend, and I would be a reprehensible lout for opening it and discovering the horrible secrets it held. In another sense, I guess it is a sort of sacred covenant, just not the type that MDK was looking for.

So, as a rule, I'm opening all his mail from now on.

*No offense to anyone. JWs should keep on truckin on truckin on, just make sure you get your addresses right.

How to Rob an Object of any Meaningful Ontic Status

At work we receive large metal pieces that come with a board propped inside them to keep them square during shipping. These boards are seemingly unremarkable, though many are made of fine hardwoods, as they seem to be scraps from production of other parts made by the same company. Written across each board in permanent marker, though, is the word 'remove.' This of course was written in the imperative. It is an order to anyone that reads it telling that person that this board needs to be removed from its current situation.

This is all well and good when its purpose within the shipped metal piece is served. However, from the day that fateful instruction was scrawled across the face of that board until the end of time, that poor object will never find its place. Everywhere it finds itself it will simply sit there, telling anyone, anything, or any force available to nature that it must be removed. Certainly, one could attempt to end this once and for all by completely destroying the board, but to do so, one must put it in a place where this can happen. The result of this simple fact should be obvious. If one throws it in a fire, it will instantly command that it be removed from that fire. If one tries to blast it into deep space, it will continue to demand its own removal.

There, quite simply, is no way out of this quandary. The moment those workers wrote on that board they robbed it of having any place in this, or any, universe. Consequently, they robbed it of having any purpose (other than the trivial purpose of being removed) and they robbed it of any real existence. It is no longer a real thing, it is simply a signifier of its own need of removal.

I have taken one of these boards, and I shall spend my life constantly removing it. I will remove it from physical places. I will remove it from purposes. I will remove it from social situations. I will remove it in every way I can and from every place I can, for it is my quest now, not only to fulfill the purpose of that board, empty as it may be, but remind all of us of our tenuous place in this world. For, we ourselves are but one ill-chosen tattoo from this very limbo; we are but one word from losing all meaningful existence or purpose.

Pre or Post Impact?

I believe it is pre-impact, for a number of reasons. First, this man is clearly in the "bracing for impact" position, and not the "I am in unbearable pain" position. Second, his hands are clenched in what appears to be prayer. Third, his eyes are closed, his neck is tensed, and he is obviously holding his breath. If he had just caught one in the jujus, his eyes and mouth would almost certainly be open, and his face would be contorted in a howl of pain. And, finally, look at the crowd around him. Everyone is still 'bracing.' If this man was doubled over in pain, there would be at least one guy with that sympathetic look of "ouch man... that HAS to hurt," on his face. But no. These people are all still in fear of getting hit themselves. Especially that one dude in the black shirt.

Addendum to Inappropriate Commercial Songs

A while back, Nissan, I believe, used "Crazy Train" by the Oz to advertise its car. However, the ad featured a car crossing a bridge, a time when one most specifically does not want to be "going off the rails." Frankly, I don't think you want Ozzy Osbourne associated with driving in any way. We are talking about a guy who snorted a line of ants. Not to mention the time he bit off the head of a bird in a record executive meeting. Frankly, I am surprised the guy can operate a guitar, much less a motor vehicle.

Five Phases

There are five phases of emotion that one goes through in dealing with tragedy. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I have finals on wednesday. Currently, I am deeply into stage three, bargaining.

For instance, last night, in what was a totally warranted display of testosterone, I assaulted my roommate with a bokken. He had it coming. Unfortunately, he got it all on film. Unfortunately, I also managed to destroy a ceiling light fixture.

The bargain, however, is as follows. Clearly, objects mounted to the ceiling sometimes precipitate at great velocity. My aim is to claim that said light fixture fell of its own accord. However, the damage inflicted to it by yours truly is not really in accord with such an event. So, in order to convince landlordlady that the object in question did, in fact, fall, and nearly kill us, I have to smash it into further pieces.

So, essentially, while everyone else I know is studying at the library, I am methodically pulverizing a glass ceiling fixture in the hopes it will save me about twenty dollars. I bet you have never heard such a good explanation for otherwise inexplicable behavior.

Frequency

A good way to analyze someone's meaning, instead of trying to parse the truth value of their particular statements, is to count the words they use.

Based on this analysis, I have to come to grips with the fact that I, apparently, am insane. No less than a dozen times a week am I called "crazy," "insane," "nuts," or, occasionally, "batshit wack."

I do not know if this is conclusive, but certainly persuasive.

Odiferousness

1:15 PM
Roommate: Jesus, what is that smell? Fuck, is that your room? Do us a favor. Open a window. Just... shut it down man.

1:30 PM

Roommate's girlfriend: Is there rotting garbage in here? What is that smell? ... RG is that your room? Oh god open a window! There is no way you are getting any girls in there!

Strategic Lyrical Exculsions in Commercials

The phenomenon of TV commercials using songs that are, at best, irrelevant to the product advertised is well known and documented. However, I have noticed a recent strategy where commercials use songs that actually stand in direct contradiction to the intended message of the ad - but made to look relevant by the strategic inclusion and exclusion of lyrics. Two such commercials com immediately to mind: One using The Who to pitch an SUV, and the other uses a Rolling Stones song to advertise Amstel (I think). Anyway, it is not the products that are important, it is the music.

Let us start with The Who. This commercial features an SUV racing around a scenic landscape, near some cliffs, while a sale is announced with some thundering Who-riffs in the background. During breaks taken by the announcer, Roger Daultry yells "I call that a bargain! The best I ever had!"

Now, this song seems a little too obvious for a commercial. One can almost picture The Who sitting around a table in early 1971, agreeing: "this song will make us so much money when we sell it for commercials. We will have to be willing to wait perhaps 30 or more years, but it will pay off." That is, until you listen to the rest of the song.

The following are the listed terms of the 'bargain' that The Who originally described:
1.) lose me (i.e. lose myself)
2.) give up all I had
3.) suffer anything
4.) pay any price
5.) work all my life
6.) stand naked, stoned and stabbed
7.) run and never stop
8.) Surrender my good life for bad
9.) drown an unsung man

Now, for true love, this might indeed be a bargain. But for an SUV it is far from it. It would be a terrible and horrifying place where a dealership would be allowed, on any level, to collect on these debts in exchange for a 2005 Nissan Pathfinder.

I get the impression that the advertising executive that came up with this idea only had a passing knowledge of classic rock from a local radio station. Probably the kind of guy who went to see The Who reunion show and responded "Who is Keith Moon?" when the people next to him lamented the loss of the charismatic drummer.

The next commercial features a bunch of friends enjoying Amstels around a fire as one of them sings and plays "Let It Bleed" on his acoustic guitar. "Life tastefully," the ad announces at the end. First of all, let us comment on the absurdity of association the Stones with any kind tasteful, or even respectable, lifestyle. They practically invented rock-star excess: drugs, booze, sex with dirty women and the consequent bacterial/viral consequences, destroying property. The Stones did it as well as anyone (with the possible exception of Led Zeppelin). More specifically, though, this song is entirely inappropriate for the intended message.

Everyone smiles and sways as the somewhat scruffy, nonthreateningly attractive mid-twenties performer sings:

"Well we all need someone to lean on
And if you want it, well you can lean on me"

What a great sentiment! I think we all sang that in 3rd grade music class along with "This land is my land" and "You can get it if you really want."

Or not. In fact, the song goes on to some less savory images. Among my favorites:

"You knifed me in my dirty filthy basement
With that jaded faded junky nurse" (note: most likely a heroin reference)

"We all need someone we can feed on
And if you want it, well you can feed on me
Take my arm, take my leg
Oh, baby, dont you take my head" (note: I don't really know what this means on a metaphorical level, but, even if we take 'head' in a nonsexual sense, it presents an explicit image of cannibalism)

"We all need someone we can bleed on
And if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me" (note; I don't know if this follows the earlier images of stabbing and eating, or if it is a reference to menstruation. Either way: Eww.)

And of course, my real favorite:

"Yeah, we all need someone we can cream on
And if you want to, well you can cream on me"

So, ya, not so tasteful. In fact, pretty tasteless and reprehensible.

I ripped the decision making behind the first commercial, but I have to say, this one might, just might, be a stroke of genius. There is a good chance that it is intended as a tongue-in-cheek, winking to the audience sort of inside joke. If so, it is brilliant.

If not, it is just another case of the bureaucratic ignorance of a corporation: "Well, middle aged folks love the Rolling Stones, therefore they are inoffensive and recognizable and should be used in our commercial."

This Post Is Not My Own Original Work

But please, people, I beg you to read and take to heart Bob's Quick Guide to the Apostrophe, You Idiots.

It is simply astonishing to me the sheer number of misused apostrophes I encounter every day. It is not that hard.

Useless Mechanical Pencil Followup

On my first attempt to use the mechanical pencil I described yesterday (scroll down past the CNN criticism for the original post), the lead was pushed completely into the body of the pencil, rendering it 100% useless. Fuck you, pencil.

CNN Is Officially Dead To Me

It has been a steady decline since Ted Turner left. It went from being the news network equivalent of the Times to a slightly populist but really just a little more blue state-ish FoxNews.

First, there was this. In other words, as long ago as two years ago cnn.com was reporting unsubstantiated bullshit as 'science,' by merely putting the word "Scientists: _______" in front of whatever asinine headline one of their PAs came up with the night before. My particular favorite was "Scientists: What came first, chicken or the egg? Egg." I shit you not. That is 100% true. As Theo pointed out, actually, the right answer is "Dinosaurs," but that is entirely beside the point. The point is that CNN producers, reporters, whoever, have absolutely no grip of science whatsoever, and post the most insane incorrect meaningless bullshit all the time. It is really just pathetic.

However, two things have happened in the past two days that have really sealed the deal on CNN's major suckage. Many moons ago, CNN.com, basking in the glory of broadband and mpeg video compression, decided that about half of its online headlines should be from the CNN.com video department. Suffice it to say, not one of these stories, ever, ever, is remotely news worthy. Today, April 22, 2008, the video headlines include "Man Stuck In Elevator for 41 Hours," [this happened several years ago, but thanks to a NYMag.com article posting the recently digitized elevator security cam footage, popularized by such crowdsourced sites as Digg.com and reddit.com, MSM CNN has decided to play "Hey guys, me too!" and try to get a few thousand CPIs out of this. On reddit, it is fine. For CNN to post it is beyond the most godawful conception of lowbrow pandering], "Citizen Tickets Cop for $540 Violation," and "Synchronized Swimmers Faint in Unison." I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Oh, and, in case you are wondering, for posterity's sake, let it be noted that today is the date of the hotly contested Pennsylvania Democratic Primary. Good work, CNN.

This is nothing new. CNN.com video has always been utter crap. What is new, however, is now you can buy t-shirts with the cnn.com video headlines on the t-shirts. Thanks. Great. Awesome. Amazing. I just know that Hearst is rolling in his grave screaming "T-SHIRTS! DAMNIT, I KNEW I SHOULD NOT HAVE DESTROYED THE HEMP INDUSTRY! I COULD HAVE BEEN MARGINALLY RICHER!" Amazingly, these shirts really capitalize on some internet memes, and some are humorous, but, for the most part, completely inappropriate. For example. Yes. It is true. ABC did fuck up that debate beyond all measure. But what is worse, fucking up the debate, or putting it on a motherfucking t-shirt? This is not news. This is second grade bullshit.

Finally, CNN just hired Tony Snow.

That's it.

Done.

CNN, you are dead to me.

Maybe if you start hiring people with degrees in something other than english or communications, say, perhaps, masters in economics, or law degrees, or degrees in mathematics, medical degrees, etc., you will become a news network again, and not mere infotainment. I don't give a crap if the person on screen is ugly as sin, I'd rather they know what they are talking about than be chosen for their looks and lack of regional accent.

God I hate you CNN.

I Own A Very Odd Mechanical Pencil

In retrospect, purchasing it was sincere folly. Most importantly, it has absolutely no ability to advance the lead, meaning, at most, I have, say, two or three good paragraphs with this thing until it is no more than an elaborate metal-nib-delivery-device which can serve no other purpose besides rending paper asunder and being used to inflict small but painful stabs. Let me be explicit: it is not as though when you press the little button, the lead fails to move forward, or it is inefficient, or only moves it forward a little; there is no mechanism of any sort, whatsoever, to put in more pencil lead, or to advance the lead currently in there.

The eraser sucks too.

What in the hell is a "Billing Charge"?

I have just received my electricity bill, and I am quite perplexed. For some reason, a full 20% of the bill consists of a "billing charge." As far as I can tell, this is the money you must pay the power company in order for them to accept the money you already owe them.

Newsflash: I have been overcharged at a bar.

Dear reader, there has been many a time when I have checked my banking statement at been aghast at my own bartab. However, today, I was certain, certain that I had been Shanghai'd.

Last night some friends and I went to a very chi-chi frou-frou bar, which was quite lovely, amazing women, lovely decor, mean martinis... mean martinis...

However. Martinis were $12. I had one. One. One. Then I cashed out, and bought two Heines in cash.

I remember thinking that $3 would be too much of a tip, because that would be 25%, so I gave $2.50. My lovely and extremely aggressive reporter friend scoffed that I would tip so much for "such ghastly service I mean come on she took ten minutes to get your drink and did you SEE how much salt was in my margarita? Ugh I want to taste the tequila not go for a swim in the Dead Sea. Passover is tomorrow, I'll drink saltwater then."

Today I log onto my banking website:

$100.

Clearly, the bartendress (read: wench) was quite upset I did not get a table and spend $350 on bottle service, so she decided to meet me half way.

Unfortunately for her, the gracious folks at my bank have cancelled the entire fee, so I got one free martini.

Bar: 0
RG: One free martini.

Booya.

Beware of Animal Behaviors that Might Outwardly Seem 'Cute'

Consider the cuttlefish. There is at least one species that has a very affectionate looking mating ritual. A courting male will approach the female and tenderly caress her forehead with one of his arms. It is almost a touching scene: an act of platonic physical affection. It is a deviation from the cold and heartless world of nature. Even these animals, invertibrates, can be kind and loving. Why can we not learn a lesson from these loving beasts!?

But wait, not so fast.

We must not forget that the male delivers his sperm through a groove in one of his arms. So there is a one in six chance that he is in fact rubbing his genitals all over her face. Also, since it is suspected that cuttlefish have chemoreceptors all over their bodies. So she may be able to smell/taste the whole thing.

Not so cute now, is it? In fact it is kind of gross. But that is the way of nature. Gross.

Much to My Amusement

I was in the men's room recently, and I noticed something quite amusing. For safety purposes there is a fire sprinkler above each stall. When I realized this I laughed out loud, because it immediately poses the question, "What would you do?"

"So. That just happened. And it is continuing to happen. I've weighed my options, and, frankly, I don't like any of them."

It Is Time to Play My Favorite Game

It is entitled "How many beers can I drink in five minutes? And can I beat it in the next five minutes?"



My personal best is "After thirty minutes, I am not dead."

Wordsmiths

Theo: is there an adverb form of utilitarian?

RG: utiliciously

Gross and Unacceptable Inefficiency

I attend graduate school. It is a high stress environment. Very, very high stress.

Now, there are a few exceptions to this general rule, but, by and large, students have little positive to say about the food services at their schools. Fair enough. Ours is decent. Not terrible, not amazing, but passable. However, there is one thing in particular which is simply unacceptable:

About once a week, the vending machines and cafeteria, from the bottom to the top floor of the building, run out of Diet Coke.

This alone is a sign of gross incompetence. If they run out on Wednesday, and don't get any more till next week, well, you do the math. Oh, and, people are in the library all day during the weekend too.

However, what is truly maddening is the presence of unimaginable amounts of Caffeine Free Diet Coke in the vending machines. Yes. Entire cases of the stuff.

The number one drink of students at this school, and all like it, is Coffee*. Number two is Diet Coke.

*Non-alcoholic drink.

Diet Caffeine Free Coke falls somewhere between Diet Shasta Orange and Irn Bru in the list of popularity.

The real nail in the coffin, however, the final straw, is that while rooting around in a back hallway on the mezzanine level of the cafeteria, I discovered a dozen palettes of Diet Coke, both bottles and cans. Are you freaking kidding me? What the hell is going on here? Can no one move these forty feet to the vending refrigerators one floor downstairs and pour out that caffeine free crap once and for all?

Maximal Laundry Efficiency

I have just done my laundry. A truly arduous ordeal. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of my green velvet doublet? Or the matching purple silk lederhosen? Let's just say that was one manhunt where a certain someone's costumery stole the show.

Needless to say, in my constant quest for efficiency, I have struggled to maximize the time between consecutive laundry days, while still retaining a modicum of hygiene and a large helping of style.

Here are several techniques:

1. You can never have too many socks.
2. This goes doubly true for boxers.
3. Sweaters do not get dirty the first time you wear them.
4. Neither do jeans.
5. Spillage does not mean your clothes are dirty either, as there are several factors to consider: what is the liquid in question? viscosity? will it stain? if so, how long till the stain sets? if not, do you care? will it smell? will it cause fabric to stiffen?
6. Know where your roommates sock drawers are.
7. Learn the fine art of 'throwing-in'; as in, "Hey [roommate], I see you are doing laundry. Mind if I throw in a pair of socks?"
8. Be a clothes horse. I am one. Having a tremendous amount of clothing not only makes it easy to be stylish, it minimizes time spent in the laundry room.
9. Be scented. Men, it is called 'cologne' and 'deodorant,' and judicious use of both not only enhances your attractiveness, but can mask the fact your jeans are soaked in a fine curry.

And finally, the coup de grace, the ultimate test of maximal efficiency:

10. If, on laundry day, you are not forced to take off the very clothing you are wearing and wash it as well, requiring you to do your laundry (semi) nude, you are not doing it right.

Excuse me. I have to go put a few things in the dryer / terrify some coeds.

Theo Tries To Sell A Winnebago

No explanation is needed.

My New Potato Chips

"Yo man, my chips are delicious."
"What flavor are they?"
"Motherfuckin' Jalapeno & Shit."

Dr. Von Hohenheim

Readers, good news.

Dr. Von Hohenheim was just accepted to grad school for a Ph.D. Program. Know the old joke? B.S. M.S. Ph.D.? Bullshit, moreshit, piled higher and deeper? They were talking about Theo.

The joke is on us, however, readers, as Theo is getting a Ph.D. in philosophy. In other words, he has officially 'opted out.' He has sent in his "Fuck This Shit" paperwork, and it has been noted and approved by the relevant authorities. He will never have to hold a normal job again, ever, not that he has, but, worst of all, the son of a bitch will be able to answer the question "What do you do for a living?" with "I am a philosopher."

Philosopher indeed, Dr. Von Hohenheim. How we started out in the same place and I end up a jurist and you a philosopher is not really within my conceptual grasp. But it makes sense.

Pharmaceutical Commercials

Personally, I don't think pharmaceutical companies should be allowed to advertise. It is far too twisted a concept to allow companies to advertise for "Unhappiness." Sometimes people get sad about shit. You don't need a pill for it. People are like conceptual sponges, and so much airtime dedicated to the advertising of diseases results in an overmedicated hypochondriac culture. There is one commercial in particular I find hilarious, though. It is for restless leg syndrome, and most of the commercial is dedicated to the statement "This is actually a real disease." If your advertisement has to spend that much time justifying the existence of the disease you are purported to be curing, you have a problem.

Similarly, I was at the optometrist the other day, so, for wont of better reading material, I started to flip through Web M.D. magazine. Yes, such a thing exists. A magazine for a website that is essentially a series of medical product advertisements. Even aside from being a weird, third-derivative critique on what our society deems worthy of cutting down trees and putting ink all over them, the magazine itself was godawful. Here are the headlines, as nearly verbatim as I can remember:

Insomiac: Are you one?
Cholesterol: Diet and exercise not doing it?
Heart Disease: America's number one killer?
Diseases You Have Never Heard Of: Do you have any?

Seriously, all the magazine had was a list of ailments with checklists attached. By self-diagnosis, I apparently am going to die of a quadruple heart attack / simultaneous bout of west nile virus / impetigo within hours. Unless, of course, I employ the services of Web M.D. to get me in contact with a qualified physician who can prescribe me all manner of potent elyxers.

Lessons In Social Interaction #4: How to come off like a complete jerk no matter what the subject matter.

For those who have not seen it, this is the next in my long series of lessons on social interaction. Here's #1 # 3 and number 2.

This lesson will allow you, reader, to come off as a vacuous, condescending asshole no matter what the subject matter. Let's dive right into it.

This social interaction takes place in four discrete steps.

1. The Blowjob / Dumbledore
2. The Bob Dole
3. Sock Puppet
4. Fireworks / Jazzhands

1. The Blowjob / Dumbledore: raise your closed fist to your chin, and cock your head slightly while saying something a little too slowly and high pitched, as if you are bringing genuine insight to the topic, and not merely being a bag of hot air. Which you are. When pausing to think between words, which you should do frequently, put your fist in front of your mouth. Squint slightly.



2. The Bob Dole: On a particularly important point (read: you will have to make this up, because you are saying nothing of value), raise your fist with your thumb pressed slightly up in the air. Do not shake your fist. Pretend that you are shaking hands with a tiny floating politician. Or applying mascara to tinkerbell. Whatever works for you.



3. The Sock Puppet: After successfully completing the Bob dole, hold your hand up in the air, between yourself and your debate opponent, with your fingers poised as if you were holding a straw by your fingertips, horizontal to the ground. For those of you familiar with kung fu, and if any of my readers are not, I will be sorely disappointed, the posture is extremely similar to the crane. Turn your hand sideways though.





You make shake this for emphasis.

4. Fireworks / Jazzhands: Splay the fingers on your sock puppet out dramatically, for what should be the killing blow in your rhetorical onslaught.



Congratulations, sir. You have come off like an asshole.

Your Presence Is Inexplicable and Welcome

Dear Gyro Man Running a Sandwich Stand At 4 In the Morning In The Middle of the Financial District,

Why are you here? These streets are deserted. No one is buying gyros at this time of the night. Well, except for me. However, I am not entirely certain how I got here, only that some unintelligible garbled nonsense was spewed at me by the subway conductor before I was booted out of my seat, on the wrong island and fairly confused. So you can't really point to me and say "I am here to serve gentlemen like yourself, sir!" Because, seriously, there was no reason to expect I'd show up. That I am here is a total anomaly. Oh, I'll buy one of your sandwiches. And I'll enjoy it. And then after stumbling through the deserted alleys of the Financial District for 30 minutes, covered in white sauce and hot sauce, I will realize that there is no way I am walking home across the bridge, and, after all that hemming and hawing, will hop a cab anyway.

Why are you here, oh sandwich man? Why are you here?

"Honest Drinking"

I have coined a new phrase: Honest Drinking. It is the sort of drinking that Theo and I engage in on the unfortunate-for-the-rest-of-the-universe events when we get together. An explanation is forthcoming.

Honest drinking is goal oriented and unapologetic. It is when the raison d'etre is, itself, drinking. Not binge drinking, you see. That is pretty crass. Motivated by the need to be a fool. Social lubrication of sorts. Neither Theo or myself has ever needed social lubricant: we were born fascinating, and are drop dead gorgeous. The goal of Honest Drinking is to see just how far you can push the line. It usually goes a little something like this:

Theo and I are watching television, working on our first 30 rack of the night, and a particular commercial comes on: the one where a pill is advertised that prevents hangovers for "up to and including six drinks." This usually throws us both into a deep blood-fury, in protest of the concept that there is such a thing as 'six drinks' and a 'hangover' maintainable in the human mind at the same time. There isn't. If you get a hangover from six drinks, my god man, you are an evolutionary oddity, and I would think you kindly to remove yourself from the gene pool post haste.

At that point, Theo, or myself, poses the question "SO. How many you think tonight?" And then begins the Honest Drinking.

"Oh what are you guys doing tonight? Oh we are drinking."
".... Honest drinking?"
"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! Oh... wait... yes. Yes honest drinking."
"Can I come?"
"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! Wait.. yeah... sure. BUT BRING YOUR OWN BEER!"

In any event, the night usually ends with this line, or one very similar in spirit and quantification:

"YOU REMEMBER YOU ASKED HOW MANY?"
"WHAT? NO. FUCK YOU. WHAT? YES. YES I DO REMEMBER."
"TWENTY THREE. THE ANSWER IS TWENTY THREE."
*EYES ROLL BACK IN HEAD, PASS OUT*

Ad Hominen Attacks Are an Underrated Art

Everyone refers to ad hominem attacks derisively. They seem to think that this form, nay, this art, of argument 'distracts from the real issue at hand,' or something like that. But then these same moralists tell us from their ivory towers: "consider the source," and "you can't believe anything you read." They want it both ways, and they don't want you to have it either way! Dammit, I say we can all have it both ways!

Of course, if you had listened to me in the first place when I told you that these people are a bunch of softy liberal pink-o flip-floppers who purple heart was won in Vietnam because of lame superficial wounds, and whose mothers prostituted themselves out to the refer-smoking counter culture nihilists of the early jazz movement, well then you would never have bothered to listen to them in the first place and this whole discussion would be unnecessary.

I wouldn't have even had to mention the fact that they all used steroids once, and in college they were womanizing frat-boy losers who ate, drank, and slept on the beer spattered bare-wood floors of their disgusting frat house, and they know nothing about basic oral hygiene and I was behind one of them in the line at a coffee shop one time and he was a total dick to the girl behind the counter for no reason at all and thought he was the shit and so fucking cool. But he wasn't. He was a huge tool, and everyone knew it. Especially when he got in his hummer and tried to burn out on his way out of there while texting some other douche-bag on his Iphone. Prick.

And did I mention that they are all from Massachusetts?

See how much easier it is now? You never have to even bother to listening to any of these people again. I have saved you time and energy, as well as resolving the issue and making you a better debater.

If You Do Not Believe In Recycling, You Do Not Know How to Add

A roommate of mine the other day was arguing that recycling is clearly less efficient than simply gathering more materials.

False.

I'll spare the lecture on thermodynamics, conservation of energy, and transactional energy loss, and get right to the brass tax.

To create an aluminum can you need a few things:

1. Aluminum.
2. Can making factory.
3. Transportation.

To get 1, however, requires mining, transportation of ore, storage of ore, smelting of ore, transportation of aluminum, and storage of aluminum. All these are extremely energy intensive (read: uses lots of diesel fuel really, really inefficiently) processes, with a tremendous amount of environmental impact. So. To create an aluminum can, add all those steps on before 1. above, and you have the process to go from ore to can. However. Recycling cuts out all of these steps, most importantly, the energy costs (read: dumping hydrocarbons into the atmosphere) and environmental impact (read: strip mining).

So, basically, if you cannot realize that the energy required to make a can from scratch is a many times the amount of the energy required to take an existing aluminum can, melt it, and recast it, you do not know how to add.

Well, maybe, actually, you don't understand fractions.

You'd Open It Too / How I Spread Conjunctivitis

1. Buy a ziploc bag

2. Label ziploc bag 'Fart'

3. Fart into ziplog bag

4. Seal. Tightly.

5. Write note: "In this ziploc bag is a fart. You are now warned. However, despite the fact you know it is a fart, you will still open it, and smell it, and I will have accomplished the amazing feat of farting in your face from a distance of several hundred miles, in defiance of your own agency. Cf. Angry Flower, Bob The, 'The Time Looker-Forward Tube'."

6. Pack ziploc and note, in styrofoam peanuts, in a cardboard box.

7. Mail to Theo.

8. Enjoy.

Unfortunately, the only problem was that it was a cohabitant of Theo's house, and not Theo himself, who received my package of delight (for me) and doom (for the recipient).

Hopefully, the infection will spread.

I Have Successfully Infected One of the Members of Theo's House With Conjunctivitis

How?

Read the next post.

One of the Residents of My House has Contracted Conjunctivitis

Now I am suspicious of every surface around me.

I need more bleach.

Like Functions Should Have Like Controls

My car has two identical buttons right next to each other. The only difference between them, in the dark, is that one is above the other. This, of course, is not a defining difference; there is still no actual way to tell which is which unless you are entirely certain beforehand.

One of these buttons turns on the rear window defroster and the other turns on the hazard flashers. These two functions have absolutely nothing to do with one another. Why are they set apart, on the side, with completely indistinguishable controls? Usually, things are grouped together by function. One toggle on the steering wheel stem in my car controls lights: headlights, high beams, turn signals. All together. Another similar toggle on the other side controls the wipers and wiper fluid. The radio has a set of controls that all look and function similarly, and are helpfully grouped together. Same with the air vents and heating/air conditioning.

Somehow, though, these two controls missed this rational organization. And now, I never know if I am going to clear up my window or inform all drivers around me that I am a road hazard to be avoided at all cost.

Now that I think about it, I guess this is appropriate.

My Roommates Do Not Know How To Use A Plunger

That is all.

Bow Before Your New Masters

People have known for some time that some kind of enormous unstoppable corporation would eventually come to own all of humanity. Whenever people, science fiction writers, conspiracy theorists, and the like, mused on the topic, they always came up with very sinister sounding names, along the following lines:

The Illuminati
OmniCorp
VirtueCon
The Catholic Church
The New York Yankees
The Telephone Company
The Legion of Doom

You know, the kind of name that sends shivers down your spine with its mere utterance. So you know it is evil.

But, sadly, the time has come where this very spectre has established itself and come to power. And the name of this juggernaut, this New World Order, is:





. . . wait for it . . .



Google.

I don't know what to make of this really. I guess I have nothing else to do but be mildly amused by this fact. That is, until my mandatory servitude begins.

Liquidity Crisis on the Tabletop

This post is not particularly funny, but I had a very interesting experience last night, and I thought I should share it.

Last night, my roommates and I were playing monopoly, and we managed to push the game into a fullblown liquidity crisis.

First, the game started off pretty normally. However, a few windfalls on free-parking infused a tremendous amount of capital into the economy, which resulted in a housing boom. Then, some wheeling and dealing meant that, suprisingly quickly, there were a tremendous amount of properties on the board. The catch, however, is that this new landed gentry had to put themselves into the poorhouse to build these houses: anytime someone landed on a property and had to pay rent, they inevitably wound up having to sell off some houses to get cash. This, in and of itself, is a pretty interesting analogy to what has been happening recently. Everyone was very highly asset rich, but extremely cash poor, and everyone was betting on another windfall to sustain them through another go around on the board, but, statistically, not only was it improbable, but even one more windfall would just delay the situation. The problem was that all the working capital was tied up, and the economy was not growing. I.e., no one makes money by just giving it back and forth player to player. Money only comes into the game's economy through Chance, Free Parking, and going around Go. For our purposes, let us call those 'economic growth.'

What made the game really interesting is when someone instituted a rule (new rule on a hard 12) that if you owned any houses, you did not get any money when you went around go. The game changed pretty dramatically then. Within a few turns, many properties had been mortgaged, and if you counted only debts outstanding and actual cash held in players hands, there was a net debt. There was more debt on the board than money! This resulted in, eventually, players with massive real estate empires (myself included) having to liquidate all their holdings and mortgage all their properties due to a single bad roll.

By the way, I think that is a really great rule to try sometime. It makes the game way more interesting, and it really can give you a good idea of what exactly a liquidity crisis is: lots of value on paper, but no cash, and lots of outstanding debt. Oh, and the fact that, as law students, we were granting each other temporary rent abatements and all sorts of bizarre property rights, lets call them, oh, say, derivatives, really only exacerbated things. I went from owning all the greens and blues with tons of houses to being eliminated within a matter of a few turns.

Of course, directly afterward, I blamed Ben Bernanke and demanded compensation from my roommates.

None was forthcoming.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

The following is a conversation that mostly didn't take place recently between me and one Johnnytalk, and which has been lengthened and made to be less accurate for the sake of you, the reader:

TVH (incredulous): Prions!? I must admit, I am not that worried about prions. What, like 10 people have ever gotten Mad Cow?

JT: Well, there is a theory that some forms of Alzheimer's are really caused by the same thing.

TVH: Huh

JT: And like 10% of cattle in the food supply are ever tested.
Plus, they can lie latent in your system for years before any symptoms show.

TVH (helpfully interjecting): word.

JT: When symptoms do show, you have a year to live, and that year is pretty hellish.

There's no test for their presence in your system before you show symptoms. And their is a good chance of misdiagnosis because no one is looking for it.



Oh ya, and there is no cure or really any worthwhile treatment.


(Theo looks pensive and quivers a little bit)

TVH: Shit, I am worried about prions now.
JT: Oh, don't be worried. There's no sense in that. They are probably working their way to your brain right now. Might as well accept it.

Theo Von's Vitalamine Health Elixir

In the early 1920s I introduced a health drink that I had concocted to take advantage of the newly developed science of nutrition and vitalamines. The recipe may seem a bit crude by modern standards, but at the time it was truly revolutionary. Since my patent has expired, and modern science has advanced as it has, I now see fit to share with you the secrets of this wondrous victual.

Each ingredient was included to provide one particular vitamin or mineral, or for flavor/body purposes:

Banana: potassium
Eggs: protein, Vitamin B<sub>2
Cod Liver Oil: Vitamin A
Lemon/Lime/Grapefruit or whatever could be found: Vitamin C, and in hopes that the recipe would be deemed suitable by Her Majesty's Royal Navy (it was not)
Sassafras Root: Thought to minimize the Chaloric Humour (since discredited), flavor
1 Salamander tail: Improves vigour and stirs the internal passions, appeasement of the Pagan Gods
Aloe Vera: Soothing to linings of stomach and intestines
1 Baked Potato: Improved body
3 Drabs Sacramental Wine: To make concoction less evil (balanced to salamander)
Coriander and Mustard: More palatable nose

All of these ingredients were then mashed together in a large earthenware pot. At the time, fermentation was the only fully understood form of food 'processing.' So, I would throw in my proprietary yeast and/or bacteria colony (I must confess I don't really know what it was), and bury the pot until the next new moon.

As to the taste, I cannot fairly say, as I viewed this concoction with all of the pride of one's first child and so must admit my bias (note: the drink was usually less offensive than my actual first child). And did it work? Well, I am still alive, and I was apparently an entrepreneur as early as 1920. It seems highly unlikely that I was any younger than about 15 or so at the time, which means I must be pretty old. I credit this longevity to my drink, and well as my yogurt-heavy diet.

Sadly, despite is obvious efficacy, the drink was a commercial failure. It came at a time in between the popular coca elixers and snake-oil medicines of the turn of the century and modern super-foods. As such it was looked upon suspiciously by fans of either.

I was lucky, though, as I was able to salvage my business by selling small sections of ordinary tree roots as truffles. I will tell you more of that adventure, of course, after the statute of limitations on massive consumer fraud has passed.</sub>